Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A lot had changed in the summer before fifth year.

Draco had grown like a weed, for one. His limbs stretched outside the bounds of his wardrobe, which he’d then replaced entirely. He’d given up pasting his hair down to his head after Blaise Zabini had commented that it made him resemble a hard boiled egg, and his white-blond locks now fell freely over his forehead. Unlike his newfound height, which had quickly become a point of pride, Draco’s skin had been mangled by the scourge of adolescence. He’d thrown a fit of epic proportions over it before his mother swooped in to fix the issue, leaving him religiously dedicated to his regiment of skin potions – a fact not a single soul at Hogwarts could ever find out, of course.

The dynamic in the Manor had changed too. Lucius Malfoy had always been a rather busy man, but Draco had hardly seen his father at all that summer and was still feeling rather bitter that the man had missed his birthday. Sure, he’d organized a portkey for Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle to attend a Portugal vs Germany Quidditch Match and reserved them box seats as well as a suite stay in Portugal’s most luxurious wizarding hotel and bought him the yet-to-be-released Nimbus 2002 – which was faster than a Firebolt, dammit! – and about a dozen other presents on top of that, but would it have killed him to at least include a card?

Draco, of course, had some notion of what his father was so busy with, but he hadn’t dared mention it by name. Even Crabbe and Goyle, who were usually about as subtle as a rock to the face, had been careful and quiet about their fathers’ business, offering only the occasional sly smirk or wink when the topic of the Dark Lord was hinted at. 

But there was a bubbling excitement beneath everything that summer. Draco spent the early half of July in Paris with his mother and was surprised to find upon his return that Pureblood society had become a coiled spring, ready to bounce back to a golden age Draco had only ever heard about. One where they were entirely on top. Draco definitely liked the sound of it. Power and glory and the return of Pureblood aristocracy.

But there were also things he felt a bit strange about. His father had been dreadfully overworked between his responsibilities at the ministry and his responsibilities in…other matters, and though Draco would never admit it, he found himself looking sideways at his father’s graying hair and rapidly wrinkling face. He’d just always assumed the rise to absolute glory would look a bit more glorious. Nonetheless, Draco did his part, smirking and sneering alongside his fellow Slytherin friends as they gallivanted through the summer’s events and soirees, bragging endlessly about his father and his fortune and his future.

There was one such reception in mid-August. The afternoon had given way to a honey-gold haze, pooling across the sun-warmed Wiltshire lawn, manicured and sprawling. Draco was draped across a chaise lounge as he and the other soon-to-be fifth year Slytherins sipped on champagne they’d nicked from a house elf’s silver tray. All day, he and Pansy had been taking great joy in waving their brand new prefect badges in their friends’ faces.

“Who do you think made Prefect for the other Houses?” Daphne Greengrass asked Pansy, her eyes squinting against the sun and lips stained strawberry pink.  

“Hmm,” Pansy said, “For Ravenclaw, Patil. With Boot or maybe Goldstein.”

“Abbott for Hufflepuff,” Blaise said confidently, “with, who do you think, Finch-Fletchley?”

“The mudblood?” Draco opened one eye to ask, shaking his head. “No, it’ll be Macmillan.”

“And we all know for the dreaded lion’s den, it’ll be Granger and Potter.” Pansy sneered. They all performed the obligatory gagging ritual at the mere mention of the Gryffindors.

“Potter would be a horrible prefect,” Daphne said. “He’s always getting in trouble.”

“That hardly matters,” Draco tutted. “Not for Saint Potter. The wanker could blow up the castle, and they’d throw him a parade.”

The others laughed, but Daphne pushed on, seriously, “It’s true though, isn’t it? I mean, he’s gone barmy, and he probably killed Cedric Diggory.”

“How do you figure that?” Pansy asked with an intrigued glint in her eye. 

“Well, he’s peddling that ridiculous story about the Dark Lord returning,” Daphne explained. Draco exchanged subtle glances with Theo Nott, who had been sitting quietly the whole afternoon, before returning his gaze back to Daphne. Crabbe and Goyle thankfully had the good sense to keep quiet. “ The Prophet has only said Diggory’s death was an accident, but never what kind of accident. It makes sense if Potter snapped and killed him. Dumbledore’s probably protecting him.”

“Come off it! Potter couldn’t have killed Diggory. Not with the way he was crying over his body,” Blaise laughed, turning to Crabbe with a mischievous smirk. “It was quite sweet how emotional he got, wasn’t it? Sentimental. They must have been lovers.”

Crabbe snorted, collapsing into a guffawing Goyle, as Zabini leaned back on his elbows with a devilish smile. Draco let his head fall back, staring up at the sky, where the heat had bleached it bone white. He was getting bored.

That night, Draco had a strange dream.

He was back at the Yule Ball, and it was progressing as it had in his memory. He, Crabbe and Goyle were planning to plant laxative potion in some Hufflepuffs’ punch, but Pansy kept nagging at him to ask her to dance. Eventually, the doors to the Great Hall opened, and the Triwizard Champions and their dates proceeded into the room for their formal dance. In reality, Draco had spent the whole time pointing and laughing at Potter’s awkward waltzing, but now, in the dream, he looked over to see Potter, not with Patil as he should have been, but with Diggory.

Potter looked ridiculous, bending his neck back to look up into Diggory’s eyes. Their hands gripped each other’s dress robes tightly, and every other dancer vanished into mist. As Draco watched the pair of them twirling under the snowflakes, his stomach clenched uncomfortably, but he couldn’t look away. Suddenly, something slithered up his leg and tied him in place.

Lightning struck overhead, and when Draco looked up, the enchanted ceiling of the great hall was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the night sky rumbled threateningly, lightning dancing between the dark clouds, packs of dementors roaming in droves. The castle walls turned to dust before the wind whisked them away. Draco watched the rain fall from the sky but couldn’t feel it touch his skin. It passed right through his suddenly translucent hand. A ghost’s hand. 

Potter’s scream pierced the night exactly as it had when Draco heard it from the stands on the last night of the Triwizard Tournament. Still in his dress robes, Potter struggled to hold up the dead weight of Diggory’s body, which stared, pale and unforgiving, at Draco. Potter fell to his knees, cradling Diggory’s head gently in his lap. Rain and tears fell down his dirt-streaked face as Draco watched, an ache in his throat as if he’d been screaming, but he was silent.

“Draco.” His father’s voice called from behind him, but when Draco turned, he saw not his father but something else. More man than creature but not quite human. The face shifted impossibly from demonic to beautiful and back again. Draco had no idea what the Dark Lord looked like, but he knew this was him. He smiled, and it was all fangs.

Draco woke with a stuttering heart. He laid his hand on his chest; willed the traitorous thing to calm itself, feeling it slow beneath his fingertips; and he thought about Potter.

That was the other thing that changed that summer. 

Without cause or reason, Draco sometimes found himself thinking vaguely about Potter. Of course, he’d thought about Potter before, in the sense of how much he hated him or how to hurt him or get under his skin. But now he just…thought about him. Just small things. His eyelashes, the way he’d looked in his dress robes. Naturally, Draco spoke of this to absolutely no one.

By morning, the ponderings had been set on fire and the ashes swept away. He sat at the dining table with his mother, and together, they quietly picked at a breakfast far too big for two people. His father’s place at the head of the table remained empty.

Afterward, Draco spent the remainder of the morning in the library. Not the grand one, which took up most of the east wing, but his father’s – the blackwood shelves filled with his intriguing books and off-limits artefacts. Draco wasn’t technically allowed in it, but Mother spent all day in her gardens, Father wasn’t around to know anyway, and the house-elves had long ago realized that tattling on Draco would not go well for them.

That morning, though, Draco paused on his way to the library when he saw Theodore Nott sitting politely in the corridor, a book open in his lap. 

“Theo?” Draco approached the other boy like he would a wild deer. “What are you doing here?”

Theo didn’t look up. “My father’s meeting with your father.”

Eyebrows pulled together, Draco let his gaze wander down the corridor, toward his father’s study. “Father is home?”

“It seems,” Theo replied, turning a page.

Draco narrowed his eyes and kicked lightly at Theo’s shoe until the other boy lifted his gaze. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

“Didn’t think to,” Theo replied, lifting his book to reveal the cover of their fifth year Charms textbook. “Reading.”

“Swotty Nott-y,” Draco teased with a roll of his eyes. “You are aware school hasn’t started yet?”

When Theo just shrugged, Draco sighed, lowering himself to sit beside him. The silence stretched on, and with Theo unwilling to provide a proper distraction, Draco’s mind circled his father’s study. “Our fathers. What are they discussing?”

“Not sure,” Theo said with a wry smirk. “I’m out here in the hallway, you see.” 

Draco rolled his eyes again. “You’re not funny.”

Theo grinned then cleared his throat. “I expect they’re discussing plans for the creatures.”

“Creatures?” Draco asked. 

“Werewolves, vampires, and the like.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

“They’re on our side,” Theo answered, “or most are, I think. Father only told me that Dumbledore’s trying to sway the giants back over. They even sent the half-breed gameskeeper as some sort of ambassador. Good news for you – he won’t be at Hogwarts this term.” 

“Really?” Draco brightened. “Well, good. That overgrown waste of hair has always had it out for me.”

Theo shot him a look. 

“What?” Draco argued, “It was his beast that attacked me. All I did was suggest students be protected from dangerous animals. Quite reasonably, might I add. Would the world truly stop spinning if that oaf followed an approved curriculum?”

Theo made a noncommittal noise. “Well, he’s likely to be eaten for Giant Supper by Christmas. Father says most of the giants support the Dark Lord.”

Draco leaned in to mutter, “Your father told you that?”

Theo nodded, and Draco couldn’t help looking down and away from him. His father hardly told him anything at all since the Dark Lord’s return. How was he expected to be a part of the revolution when he was kept so utterly in the dark about it?

Abruptly, Draco stood. “Come on.”

Theo watched him with a brow raised. 

Draco tilted his head toward his father’s study. “I’d like to know what they’re talking about.”

“You want to…what?” Theo asked, “Spy on our fathers?”

Draco shrugged lightly. “Just a simple eavesdrop.”

Theo shook his head incredulously.

“Come on, Nott,” Draco urged. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Course,” Theo said, “but I’m patient.”

“You mean boring?” 

“That too, I suppose.” Theo said. When he got to his feet anyway, Draco couldn’t help but grin. Peer pressure was a beautiful thing.

Together, the pair of them crept down the hall, careful to keep their footsteps quiet, and Draco pressed his ear to the door. The conversation inside was low and muffled, but stray words slipped through. They hadn’t cast a silencing charm – Draco smirked at Theo, who leaned in beside him, curious despite himself. Draco only heard a few things, scattered and meaningless: Black. Ministry. Capture. Trelawney. 

Draco pulled his brows together, mouthing to Theo, “The divination professor?”

Theo shrugged, looking just as bewildered as Draco felt. What would Father want with that old bat? He pushed closer, trying to somehow angle himself to hear better.

Instead, the door swung suddenly open, and both he and Theo collapsed onto the dark, veined marble, a group of Death Eaters hovering above them. There were five men in total – Mr. Nott, red-faced and frowning at his son; two of father’s ministry connections; an unfamiliar, roguish man with too many teeth; and of course, Lucius Malfoy, who looked like he might set fire to his son with only a blink. His face hardly changed as he said, “Out.”

Draco and Theo both scrambled to their feet, Theo disappearing like he’d been Vanished. Draco opened his mouth, but before an excuse or apology could form, his father barked, “Now!”

Theo and Draco stood silently in the corridor, unwilling to speak of the punishments they both knew awaited them. Mr. Nott appeared soon after to usher Theo through the Floo. The other boy shot Draco a final, sympathetic glance before the green flames whisked him away. Draco lingered by his father’s study, clenching and unclenching his fists nervously.

One by one, the other voices disappeared, and when the rough growl of his father’s final guest finally disappeared, Draco didn’t even have time to flinch before his father sent a stinging hex to his cheek.

“Ouch!” Draco complained, rubbing at his face, but his father dragged him unsympathetically into the study.

The fire lit Lucius’s pale complexion a warning red as he narrowed his eyes at his son. “You make a pathetic spy.”

“Father, I wasn’t–”

Lucius interrupted, “You will never pull a ridiculous stunt like that again.”

“I only wanted to know what was going on,” Draco complained. “So I can help.”

“What do you presume you could help with, Draco?” His father replied, his voice cold. “You’re a child.”

“Theo’s father tells him things!” Draco argued. “I can keep secrets. I have done. I’m not like Vince or Greg. I’m smart.”

“You’re right. You’re not like them. They follow their fathers’ orders!” Lucius snapped. He ran a hand over his face, the motion draining his fury like water down a sink, leaving only annoyed exhaustion behind. When he raised his head, his pale eyes were deadly serious. “You run your mouth incessantly. You have an inflated sense of your own importance, and you lack all sense of restraint. Among the men I confer with, if you put your foot in your mouth at the wrong moment, you may end up choking on it.”

Lucius reached for a glass decanter, pouring the amber drink into a glass for himself. Draco watched, an enraptured audience, as his father lifted the glass to his lips, the firelight turning it to liquid sunlight. Lucius exhaled softly, and when he spoke again, it was pensive. “Did you see my new…acquaintance? Mr. Greyback?”

Draco swallowed. “The one with the teeth?”

“That’s the one.” Lucius nodded, turning to the fire. “You are never to be alone with him. Understand?”

“Yes, Father,” Draco answered, not wanting to know the reason. 

When Lucius dismissed him with a flippant hand, Draco rushed to his bedroom and spent the rest of the day behind his locked door. He found himself uniquely relieved when his father, once again, was not at breakfast the following morning.

***

September 1st crept up quietly then pounced.

As they climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express, Pansy clung to Draco’s side, holding his hand in her constricting, manicured grasp. She’d gotten clingier over the summer, but Draco really didn’t have the energy to care much. It was easier to let her cling and purr and fuss with his tie than to deal with the drama that would follow if he put a stop to it. He didn’t mind that much. She laughed too loudly in his ear and her perfume gave him a headache, but he supposed they looked good together. Appropriate.

After they’d completed their prefect duties, Pansy went off to find Daphne and Blaise. Draco found Crabbe and Goyle right where he expected they’d be – at the candy trolley. They planned to meet Nott after, but on the way back, Draco heard Potter’s voice, growly and frustrated, coming from a nearby compartment. Draco lit up again at the reminder that Potter hadn’t been made a prefect after all. Amazing, Draco thought. Time to ruin the prat’s day.

A group of rowdy second-years blocking the corridor withered beneath the shine of Draco’s prefect badge, and he, Crabbe, and Goyle quickly pounced on Potter’s compartment.  At the sight of Potter glaring at him, irritated and unsurprised, Draco felt something in him lurch. A missed step on a staircase.

“What?” Potter barked at him impatiently. His voice was deeper, his skin tanner, and hair longer. Fuse shorter.

Draco’s mouth curled into a smirk before he could stop it. “Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you a detention.”

On either side of Draco, Crabbe and Goyle laughed, and annoyance flickered across Potter’s face. It felt good, familiar.

“You see, I, unlike you , have been made a prefect,” Draco continued, “which means that I, unlike you , have the power to hand out punishments.”

“Yeah,” Potter replied, “but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.”

The other Gryffindor nonentities laughed like they’d heard something particularly clever, and the little blonde thing in the corner behaved like she’d been hit with a nasty tickling charm. Draco wrinkled his nose at them. “Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Granger interrupted. Draco spared her a glance before his eyes settled back on Potter, who was glowering back with pure loathing. Like he might curse Draco with nothing but his look. Draco felt it like a hand around his throat. His smirk widened.

“I seem to have touched a nerve,” he drawled. “Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because I’ll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line.”

Granger yelled at them to leave again, pushing forward to slam the door on them. Draco allowed himself a final look before he turned away, the heat draining from his cheeks the further down the train he went.

***

Two weeks into the term, Draco was sitting in the library, concocting elaborate schemes to fake his own death. His prefect duties had already gone dull. There was a lot of patrolling the halls and line leading younger students, and the novelty of doling out punishments had worn off after McGonagall told him off for “abusing his authority.” Apparently levitating a third year’s bag into the lake wasn’t a fit punishment for tardiness. Additionally, classes were a headache and a half. The professors had all conspired to torture the fifth years, it seemed, with a ludicrous amount of work and persistent reminders that if they didn’t take their O.W.L.s seriously, their lives would be essentially ruined forever. His mother’s letters only reinforced the sentiment. Still, somewhere between the foot he’d written on moonstones and the third chapter he’d read on the goblin wars, Draco found himself face-down on the table, dreaming about fleeing the country. Perhaps to Portugal. The beaches were nice. 

The only joy Draco truly gleaned in those first weeks was from Quidditch practice or, more aptly, from crashing the Gryffindor Quidditch practice. Weasley flew with all the grace of an airbound octopus, and he only got redder and clumsier the more Draco and his cohort laughed. It had to be the best entertainment in all of Scotland. The opportunity to watch Potter also couldn’t be discounted. The git somehow got even faster on a broom after last year’s break from the sport, and his moves in the air were anything but clumsy. He was hypnotizing – and infuriating. Draco had gotten rusty, having only flown casually in the last year, but now, his concerns narrowed in on a foreseeable tragedy: Potter beating him to the snitch yet again. With an envious fire burning in his stomach, Draco heckled throughout the practice, but unlike Weasley, Potter hardly seemed to hear his taunts at all. The tosser.

Not even the common room offered relief. Pansy’s clinging was a nightly ordeal. He could be playing chess with Blaise, studying with Theo, or threatening first years with Crabbe and Goyle – and always, there she was. Clinging. Always touching him with cold hands and laughing just a little too loudly at his jokes. The other boys smirked and made their implications. He should be pleased; Pansy was a pretty girl, objectively. Her nose was a bit upturned, but she had big brown eyes, plump lips, and… other assets, if Blaise’s comments were to be believed. Draco should ask her to Hogsmeade; he should want to, but it felt like a chore.

He needed a distraction – or a target. Care of Magical Creatures with the Gryffindors was an excellent archery range. Theo had been right about Hagrid’s departure, thank Merlin, so the class had become much more bearable. Especially because it was such a prime opportunity to piss off Potter. Draco’s Granger impression had become a genuine artform. Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle were in stitches when he gave himself buck-teeth, and he had all three members of the Golden Trio turning red in record time.

When Professor Grubbly-Plank instructed one person from each group to grab a bowtruckle, Draco sprang up to follow Potter to the pile. He leaned across him, stealing the bigger bowtruckle right from under Potter’s hand. For a second, he imagined it was a snitch.

Draco lingered, pausing beside Potter. It suddenly struck him how close their faces were, close enough that Potter had to look up at him. Draco felt the insane urge to lean closer. Instead, he reached for the nearest cruel thing to justify the closeness. Hagrid’s whereabouts. “Maybe your stupid great oaf’s got himself badly injured.”

Potter’s brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. “Maybe you will if you don’t shut up.” 

“Maybe…” Draco leaned closer, his body moving without his permission. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “He’s been messing with stuff that’s too big for him, if you get my drift.”

Potter’s ears turned pink, and he looked close to punching Draco in the face. But he didn’t move. And Draco–

Draco felt a strange fluttering in his chest. 

Why was he whispering in Harry Potter’s ear? 

Why was Potter letting him? 

Still, witnessing that slow-burn fury up close was a magnificent thing, especially knowing he was the one who put it there. Draco smirked, the slow, smarmy one he knew drove Potter mad, before pulling away. 

Later that night, Draco dreamt he was on his broom, flying through a mighty thunderstorm, but when the wind whipped past his ears, it was warm. When he woke, he couldn’t decide if it had been a nightmare. He was still pondering at breakfast when Artemis, his orange-eyed eagle owl, swooped down to deliver the post – package of sweets from his mother, which Draco immediately handed off to Crabbe and Goyle, and a letter. He tore open the envelope.

My darling Draco,

I trust that the beginning of your term has gone well and that you remain focused on your studies. I ran into Dolores Umbridge at a Ministry event this past weekend, and she had many complimentary words for you, which I was very pleased to hear. Do continue to stay in her good graces. She will be a very useful connection to us in the coming months. 

In regards to your last letter, I have nothing to report regarding your father, but he does wish to remind you to always exercise caution, in both your life and your letters. At this time, your priority is your education. We expect no fewer than nine O.W.L.s from you, so you do not have time to be fretting over your father’s business.

Finally, I am very pleased to hear that you and Pansy have been getting closer. As such, I have invited the Parkinsons to join us for Yule this year. It will be lovely for our families to spend the holiday together. Remember, you must always be a gentleman.

All my love,

Your mother

Draco read the letter twice – once quickly, then again slowly, hunting for anything to grab onto – before folding it with clean corners and sliding it into his pocket. He looked down at his breakfast, suddenly without an appetite.

He felt, at once, like a ghost possessing the body of Draco Malfoy. He could just as easily be swapped out with some other ghost boy, and his mother wouldn’t know the difference – so long as he continued merrily down the path toward pureblood marriage and schmoozed with enough annoying toads in pink lipstick.

He couldn’t even pinpoint what exactly upset him about the letter; there was nothing really, and maybe that was the issue. A tangible sense of lack. It lodged in the back of his head and festered all day long, so by the time he was back in the common room that evening, he was twitchy and agitated. Blaise managed to beat him at chess. The introduction he wrote for his Charms essay looked like something Goyle could have written. He balled up the parchment and dropped his head back against the leather couch. When Pansy came over to talk, he pretended to be asleep.

“I’m calling it,” Blaise announced later, rising from the chessboard he and Theo had been tied to for the last two hours. He stretched with a yawn.

Theo stood too. “Coming, Draco?”

Draco hummed, turning just his eyes. “In a bit.”

Theo looked like he might say something but then thought better of it. With an uncertain nod, he followed Blaise to the boys dormitories.

Too warm by the fire, Draco moved from the leather couches he and his friends usually crowded around and settled, instead, into his favourite green armchair. It was tucked behind a bookshelf, the corner lit only by a single candle – tall, carved wax in a silver holder, enchanted to burn ice-cold. It produced no smoke yet managed to make the air around it smell of mint. Draco curled up in the armchair and picked up his quill again. But when he placed it upon the parchment, he found himself writing, not an essay about counterjinxes, but something else entirely.

His quill bled, words spilling, unbidden – straight from his skull to the page without first passing through his sense of self-preservation. His cursive grew loopier, messier. When he finished, he inhaled sharply, like crashing down in the grass after an intense broom ride. He read what he’d written – once, twice. A letter to no one in particular; a purging of all his sharp, stained thoughts.

It was cathartic. And embarrassing. 

Draco held the corner of the parchment to the candle and watched as the evidence burned, smokeless. Not a single ash left behind. 

Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t sleep. 

He hadn’t been able to since June, not well at least. Even when he managed to drift off, his dreams were packed full of all the worries he spent his waking hours ignoring. But tonight, after another torturous detention with Umbridge, the back of Harry’s hand stung too badly to even get to the bad dreams. After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, Harry gave up and tiptoed down to the common room. 

Figuring he might as well study, Harry huddled into the corner of the couch with his Herbology homework, but his eyes snagged on the same sentence, over and over, like a shoelace that kept tripping him. Eventually, his gaze drifted from the notes entirely, staring out the window where the sky was a smeared charcoal black and clouds blotted out the moon.

A strange smell filled his head in a sudden rush. His nose wrinkled automatically, but it smelled nice. Smokey and warm, cinnamon and clove. Harry stood, following the smell to a bookshelf across the room where a thin thread of smoke curled upward toward the ceiling. If Harry stood on his tiptoes, he could just make out the tip of the candle on the top of the shelf, nestled out of reach. He raised his wand.

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

The candle floated down and gently landed on the nearest end table. Harry perched over the armrest of the couch, studying the candle. Thick, white smoke floated up from a cold, unlit wick. If Harry had been more awake, he might have found this stranger – he hadn’t had the best luck with random, enchanted objects, after all. But as it was, he merely blinked at the flameless candle, watching with half-lucid interest as the smoke pooled and coalesced into a small but dense cloud.

Gently, Harry reached out. His fingertip brushed the cloud – it folded in on itself, hardening into parchment between his fingers. Harry stared. He rubbed his eyes, looking between the letter and the suddenly-smokeless candle like they were playing a prank on him. With a resigned exhale, he unfolded the letter, thick parchment between calloused fingers, to reveal a full page covered edge to edge in a looping, silver script.

Dear No One, it started.

I remembered the other day that I liked playing in the gardens as a child. It’s like I remembered it all at the same time. The rose petal breeze, that lovely lung-ache from running, how my face always got so burned, my knees skinned. I couldn’t fly yet, so I climbed trees. I always wanted to climb the highest, be taller than everyone else, touch the sky and other such nonsense. Today, I was laying by the lake, and I was looking down at the grass and wishing it would swallow me whole. I imagined becoming so small I could slip between the blades and just fall right into the earth. I imagined it longingly. And it almost made me laugh, because when did I become this person? This bitter, exhausted cretin who dreams of being like a bug in the dirt? Have I fallen so low?

I think what I realized is that I miss being seven. But also that I still feel seven. 

Like I wish so badly to throw tantrums and stamp my feet and pound my fists against the wall. I want to screamcry just TELL ME LITERALLY ANYTHING SO I KNOW YOU TRUST ME MERLIN WHY CANT YOU JUST

The other thing pissing me off is this dreaded sweet tooth I have. Sometimes I want to pull it right out. I tried to drink black coffee at breakfast yesterday, and it tasted like garbage. So I had to add sugar and cream, but then I was angry at the damned coffee for infantilizing me like everyone else does.

Also, my dreams feel like they’re drowning me lately. Sometimes it’s like a wave holding me under, but other times, like when I dream about-  I just want to swim to the bottom and lie there forever. From melodious lay to muddy death. Or whatever the quote is.

It’s like a lake froze over me, and I got trapped under the ice. And part of me thinks, when the lake unfreezes, I’m going to melt right along with it. Like I’m just this boy made of ice now. Remember at the Yule Ball when Jordan fell into the ice sculpture and it shattered across the floor? I just keep thinking about that.

When did I start speaking in nothing but bullshit metaphors? The truth of it all is I think something’s wrong with my head lately. I’m always feeling things I shouldn’t.

Love,

No one. 

It didn’t seem like the kind of thing Harry should be reading. It was personal. And God, did it feel personal. Harry saw himself in every line. 

Most days, he felt like he was being eaten alive.

People treated him like a disease. Dumbledore hadn’t so much as looked at him since school started, his dreams were haunted, and his reputation was fouler than ever. Everything set him off, like he was petrol-soaked. If someone looked at him the wrong way, he felt he could burst into flames. And people were always looking at him the wrong way. 

Harry wanted to lean on Ron and Hermione, but try as he might to let go, his resentment lingered like a troublesome stain. His best friends had left him alone all summer, festering. And fester he had. 

Sometimes he felt like he’d died with Cedric in the graveyard, only to be resurrected with his limbs screwed on wrong. That night had changed him. He’d emerged with fragile skin, only to be abandoned with the Dursleys, who proceeded to kick him all summer. Now everyone was pushing on his bruises and looking at him with worried, pitying eyes if he so much as flinched. 

Harry had never been one for poetry, never really understood it much, but this letter…it spoke to him. The words looked him in the eyes. They said, “I see you, and I get it.” 

He read it again – then a few times more, eyes roaming the page like he might find more thoughts hidden. Finally, he folded it carefully and brought both it and the strange, little candle back up to his dorm, where he stored them safely in his trunk.

As the days passed, Harry found himself remembering the letter, its words, like a song stuck in his head. It helped to calm him when the day got bad – as it often seemed to.

A week later, another letter arrived. 

Harry was lying in bed, trying to sleep and failing, when he smelled the telltale, sweet smoke. He practically leaped out of bed, scrambling to get his trunk open. When he did, the smoke spiraled upward, a signal just for him, before merging into the thick, white cloud. Harry reached forward eagerly, strangely nervous that the smoke might remain smoke this time. When it hardened into paper under his grasp, Harry exhaled gratefully. 

It had not been the greatest week. The Prophet published another heap of lies; everyone, even his housemates, thought he was a nutter; Quidditch had been suspended indefinitely; and the detentions from Umbrige were weighing on him, dragging down his shoulders and cutting up his hand. He felt a strange surge of fondness for No One. It was like they knew he needed their words. He pulled his curtain hangings closed and cast a hurried lumos before opening the letter. 

Dear No One, it read again.

My mother took me to the sea this one time. I’m not sure where exactly; I was young. It seemed like the middle of nowhere. All I remember, really, was this statue. Standing atop a cliff, one hand reaching out, the statue stared out at the open ocean with wide, stone eyes. It was a haunting thing. Rain-damaged rock in the shape of a man once called Selion Griefborne. 

My mother told me his story. 

As a child, Selion was cursed to only speak in falsehoods, to never reveal the truth of his heart. He was the ultimate boy who cried werewolf. People pointed at him and said “liar, liar, liar!” He had a false laugh and crocodile tears. “I miss you” became “I hate you.” and “I’m lonely” turned to “go away.” As an adult, he became a fisherman but couldn’t sell his own fish at the market, lest he tell the customers his fresh tuna was rotten cod. He lived this lonely, liar life where no one trusted him, and no one knew him. 

Then came the sailor. 

He was a storm brought to life. Needing to patch up a hole in his hull, the sailor stopped in Selion’s village. He planned to stay for a week, which became a month, which became longer still. He got a job with Selion, fishing. They spent mornings and evenings, midnights and sunrises, together on the sea. Selion never spoke to the sailor. Something about him – Selion couldn’t bear to lie to him. So he let the sailor believe he was mute.

The sailor didn’t mind. They spoke in gesture, in shared glances, in soft touches. In the lapping of waves on the boat. In the way the setting sun held both of their faces. Love’s hum filled the silence.

One day, the sailor went into town, and the people warned him about Selion. “Liar, liar, liar!” they called him. 

The sailor returned, storms brewing in his eyes, and asked, “Selion, why did you lie?” 

Selion shook his head, kept his lips shut tight, but the sailor asked again. And again. Finally, Selion smiled because he wished to cry, and he said, “Because I hate you.”

And the sailor nodded, heartbroken, and walked out the door. His boat had been patched up a long while ago, after all; it was time for the sailor to return to the sea.

But Selion ran from the house and chased him. He called the sailor’s name and yelled into the night, begging him to wait without words.

“Why should I?” The sailor called back. “All this time, all the things I’ve told you. You’ve never said a thing. How can I trust you? How can I know you?”

He begged Selion to speak, to say something, anything, to ask him to stay.

But Selion could not. He did not know how. He stood frozen on the cliffside, the truth stuck in his throat. The sailor turned away, toward the sea, and Selion felt the shards of his broken heart, cutting him open from within.

“Wait!” He reached forward, toward his love. The confession forced its way out, demanding to be known. “I love you.”

The sailor turned and watched as the curse took its price. With a final, honest breath, Selion looked upon his sailor and turned entirely to stone.

The sailor tried, of course, to break the curse. He bargained with the sea, he denied the fates, and he waged war against his own grief. But the curse would not be reversed. Each morning and night, the hours he and Selion used to set off in their boat, the sailor would leave a flower at Selion’s feet. And he did so for many years more, until the day he died.

Still, to this day, flowers appear at the base of the statue. There were flowers when we visited.

I’m not sure what got me thinking about this. I think I just miss the sea. 

Love,

No One

Harry let out a shaky exhale. He felt nervous, for the first time, that the letter writer – No One, as he had started calling him in his head – might somehow know things about him. The letters seemed to understand him too well, their content too relevant. Harry flexed his hand under the glow of his lumos, i must not tell lies etched across his skin. Did that make him the opposite of Selion? He wasn’t sure. He felt parallel to him though – how many times had people looked at Harry and thought liar, liar, liar ? 

Then there was the sailor. Selion and the sailor. Lovers. Men. 

It was something Harry had trouble looking at too closely. Everything he’d learned thus far about No One was so relatable, like he was writing about Harry. This part, though…Well, it wasn’t not relatable, but…Well, it was–

Harry fancied Cho Chang, so maybe that was why the romance got to him.

But mostly, he found himself wondering about the writer. About No One.

Unless the first letter had been completely metaphorical, Harry was fairly certain that No One was a boy. But now Harry wondered…was he a boy like Selion? 

Harry lay back in bed, eyes tracing the folds of his bed curtains, wondering about No One. He reread the letters and lined up the clues. 

No One went to Hogwarts, that much was clear. But what year was he in? Fifth or older, Harry reasoned, since he had been to the Yule Ball. What house? Ravenclaw, Harry guessed. He probably liked poetry and literature. He had a sweet tooth. And a mother.

What did he look like? Why was he so sad? 

Because – Harry knew – if No One felt anything like Harry did most days, he had to be. 

Over the next two weeks, Harry got more letters  – one rambling and irritated, another poetic and solemn, and a third that just said FUCK O.W.L.S over and over again. That one got a laugh out of Harry. And a twinge of intrigue – No One was a fifth year, confirmed. Harry found himself thinking about No One a lot, drafting responses he’d never send. He re-read the letters when he couldn’t sleep, playing auror, imaging the words through the voices of his yearmates to no avail. When he wasn’t dreaming of strange hallways, he was dreaming of obscured silhouettes and ink-stained hands.

“Harry?” 

Harry blinked awake to see Hermione staring at him with concerned eyes from across the table. It took a second to get his bearings. His head had been resting in his hands, his elbows on the table, where his breakfast sat untouched in front of him. Ron, apparently, had no such problem – seeing Harry was only half-conscious, he reached over and stole the toast right off his plate.  

“Hmm?” Harry mumbled, pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was just asking if you’re ready…for the thing…” Hermione lowered her voice to a whisper. “The DA meeting tonight.”

“Oh!” Harry sat up straight to force himself awake. “Yeah, ‘course!”

Hermione sighed. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“A bit,” said Harry with a shrug.

“You were up all night!” Ron said through a mouthful of egg. “I could see the lumos leaking out from your curtains every time I turned over.”

“Sorry.” Harry said. “I was reading.”

“Reading?” Hermione furrowed her brow.

“What?” Harry said indignantly. “I can read!” 

“No, of course, you can! It’s just…” Hermione shook her head. “Nevermind. What were you reading?”

“Oh, just…” Harry blew his fringe off his forehead, muttering, “these, like…poems.”

“Poems?!” Ron burst out laughing. “Come off it, mate!”

“Ronald!” Hermione scolded. “If Harry wants to read poetry, he’s perfectly within his right, and I, for one, find it refreshing that at least one of you boys is in touch with his emotions.”

Ron gaped, and Harry winced, an embarrassed flush creeping up the back of his neck. “Er…thanks, Hermione…” 

He hadn’t really planned to mention the letters to anyone, but…it couldn’t be denied that Hermione was cleverer than him. He wondered: if she had the clues, could she solve the mystery of No One? The idea was tempting enough that Harry almost unloaded everything right there on the table. But a twinge of guilt held him back. 

The letters weren’t just from No One; they were addressed to No One too. As in, no one should be reading them. Each one filled Harry with both a sense of uncontained wonder but also the sinking acknowledgement that he was invading someone’s privacy. That feeling was easily outmatched by curiosity when Harry was alone, but showing the letters to more people just felt wrong.

But, Merlin, he really wanted to figure it out. 

He settled on a partial truth, gaze scanning over the Ravenclaw table. “Hermione, do you know the Ravenclaws in our year well?”

“I suppose.” She shrugged. “They all take Arithmancy with me.”

“Do you know if any of them are, like, into literature?”

“Yes, Harry…” Hermione blinked at him. “They all are…”

Ron snorted. “They’re Ravenclaws, mate.”

“Right, sure,” Harry said, “but what about writing it? Are any of them writers?”

“I think so, probably. Why? What is this about?” Hermione’s expression shifted at once, the face she made when she realized she already knew the answer to her own question. She leaned forward, a slight smile on her face. “Has this got to do with Cho?”

“Ohhhh!” Ron said, suddenly delighted. “Now it all makes sense. You’re trying to impress her. Never took you for such a romantic, Harry.”

“I think it’s sweet.” Hermione glared at Ron, then smiled at Harry. “But you know she already likes you. Just be yourself.”

“It’s not…” Harry started to argue but then let it go. His face was already going pink at the mention of Cho, and something told him if he corrected them, that he was actually curious about a Ravenclaw boy , he’d catch on fire entirely. So he shut his mouth.

If he kept talking, Hermione would pick up that there was something he wasn’t saying, because she always did, and then he’d have to admit to the letters and where he’d gotten them, and he could already hear that lecture – Harry, you’re communicating with a mysterious, enchanted object?! Did you learn nothing from second year?! 

But Harry had already had that argument with himself. Multiple times. He was being careful – it wasn’t like he was responding to the letters, just reading them. If anything suspicious cropped up, he'd tell Ron and Hermione about it. He swore he would. But for now, he sort of liked having No One be just his.

***

“Can you learn things about someone by examining their handwriting?” Harry turned to ask Hermione.

They leaned up against the cold dungeon wall, waiting outside Snape’s classroom. Harry hadn’t received a new letter in days, and he’d taken to somewhat obsessively re-reading the old ones, searching for anything he might have missed. At some point, he’d resorted to studying the slant of No One’s quillstrokes. 

“Yes, graphology,” Hermione answered at once. “It’s the study of handwriting. You can tell all sorts of things. Like if someone’s left-handed, their writing will often smear to the left. Or how they form their letters – some people are taught specific regional scripts, like looping their g’s, so you might be able to deduce where they learned to write. Or – wait, why?”

“Oh, er, well, I was just thinking about if Ron and I become Aurors, like we’ve talked about,” Harry said, pulling an answer out of the air, “we’ll need to know how to investigate.”

“Yeah – future Auror partners!” Ron grinned, thumping Harry on the shoulder. “But I think they have spells for that. Identifying handwriting.”

“Really?” Harry asked.

“But why are you interested in handwriting?” Hermione asked, her face puzzled and suspicious.

“Just, uh, something I read about,” Harry said with a shrug. “Muggle book. About a detective?”

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Mhm, that one.” Harry smiled innocently. 

Hermione opened her mouth to push further, but her words were drowned out by the grating sound of Draco Malfoy.

Leaning beside the Potions classroom door, Malfoy forcibly regaled the entire corridor with his latest sermon, speaking louder than was really necessary for just the handful of Slytherins surrounding him. Ron groaned aloud, and Malfoy’s quicksilver eyes briefly flickered over to the Gryffindor trio against the opposite wall.

“Yeah,” Malfoy spoke even louder, a sick amusement settling on his pointy face. “Umbridge gave the Slytherin Quidditch team permission to continue playing straight away. It’ll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor is allowed to keep playing, won’t it?”

“Don’t rise,” Hermione muttered, grabbing Ron’s and Harry’s wrists to keep them still. “It’s what he wants.”

“From what my father says, they’ve been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years…” Malfoy rambled on. He stared straight at Harry as he spoke, flashing white teeth. A snake about to strike. “And as for Potter…My father says it’s a matter of time before the Ministry has him carted off to St. Mungo’s. Apparently they’ve got a special ward for people whose brains have been addled by magic.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes back, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. The other Slytherins laughed, especially Parkinson who shrieked with glee. And Malfoy – he looked right back at Harry. To check that he’d seen, to make sure it stung. 

Harry saw red. Blood boiled in his veins, reddening his cheeks. He stepped forward, out of Hermione’s grasp, hand going to his wand automatically.

But Neville beat him to it, rushing forward with a closed fist in the air. It was such a strange sight that Harry’s anger drained right out of him, replaced by bewilderment and the sudden recollection that Snape would open the classroom door any moment now. 

He grabbed Neville by the shoulders and with the help of Ron, who rushed forward to grab Neville’s other side, pulled him back. 

“It’s not worth it, mate!” Ron urged as Neville tried to fight them off, rushing forward to swing at Malfoy.

The Slytherin, in question, had dropped his act, and now stood wide-eyed and slack-jawed, the sneer wiped off his face. For a moment, he was a cracked egg, yolk leaking out; he looked shockingly vulnerable, like he had as an eleven year old in the Forbidden Forest. Then, Malfoy blinked, and the expression was gone, like the ocean washing away drawings in the sand. Harry shuddered; it was almost creepy – watching the Malfoy mask slip back into place.

“He…can’t just…” Neville panted, finally giving up his fight and sagging back. “Shouldn’t…talk about St…Mungos.”

Harry pat Neville on the shoulder. “He’s a prick, Nev.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, “we’ll get him back.”

“What is this?” Snape’s voice cut through the tension, rigid as a ruler across their knuckles. His dark eyes swept the corridor, taking in the scene and Neville’s pink, guilty face. “Ten points from Gryffindor, for disruptive behaviour. Inside, now.”

The Slytherins swept quickly into the classroom with the Gryffindors dragging their feet behind. Harry and Ron slumped in their seats, at the table behind Malfoy and Nott. Harry spent the first ten minutes of class watching the blush slowly fade from the back of Malfoy’s neck. 

***

As the DA meeting came to a close, Harry beamed, genuine and rare.

For all the horrors unfolding, Dumbledore’s Army gave him a space to breathe again. It was strange. One would think that running an underground Defense Against the Dark Arts class, under the explicit threat of a Dark Lord’s rise, would be stressful, but teaching covered Harry in a blanket of calm. He felt, for once, a glimmer of hope again. Hope for himself and the kids in the room, but also for what school, as an institution, could be: a space to learn, without restraint or judgement.

Mostly, it made him nostalgic for Lupin’s class. Third-year DADA had been the first, and only, time Harry truly understood Hermione’s affinity for academia. Lupin made learning feel good. Fun but challenging. He never coddled his students, but neither did he ever make them feel unsafe. The same couldn’t be said for a lot of other teachers Harry’d had.

Besides the nostalgia, there was a surprising pride too. Harry never really felt proud of himself when he learned something new. It rarely felt like an accomplishment, rather just another tick off his neverending to-do list. But when Ginny successfully disarmed Fred or when Parvati and Lavender held their own in a duel, he felt proud. Genuinely, embarrassed-grin proud. They could defend themselves a bit better because of him, and that knowledge was almost worth dealing with Umbridge’s reign of terror. 

Almost, he thought, as the DA members took caution to evacuate in small groups in an effort to evade the Toad herself. 

“Good work today.” Harry waved goodbye to Luna, who had managed a truly menacing Bombarda earlier. She grinned as she skipped from the Room of Requirement with another fourth year.

Harry’s gaze fell on Cho Chang, the last Ravenclaw, hovering by the door. She smiled at him, soft and warm, as she tucked a strand of ink-black hair behind her ear.

Suddenly, Ron shoved Harry in the back, muttering, “Go talk to her!”

Harry stumbled a step, then quickly righted himself, crossing to where she waited, self conscious of his gait through every step.

“Hi, Cho.” Harry’s voice somehow managed to crack on both syllables. 

Still, her smile widened. “Hi, Harry. That was a really good lesson. You’re a good teacher.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied. He felt, simultaneously, on top of the world and embarrassed to even exist. “You, er, did a great job. Your protego’s really strong.”

“Thanks,” Cho replied. The moment dragged on, thick and crackling like static. Harry felt a strange pressure, like a wand to the back of the head – he was supposed to do something. Say something charming, ask her to hang out, or… something . But his mind was blank.

After a moment, Cho said, “I should go. I’ll see you around, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a dazed sort of smile. “See you.”

He swallowed, unsure, a swooshing in his stomach.

He was startled by Ron clapping him on the back. “How did it go? Did you finally ask her out?”

Harry sighed. “No, I–” 

Ron and Dean interrupted with synchronized groans.

“She obviously likes you,” Ron said. “Lavender says she’s positive about it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, does she now?”

“What’s the problem, Harry?” Dean asked, his face sympathetic. “Is it because of Cedric?”

“A little, maybe. I dunno.” Harry sighed. “Cho is great. I just don’t know if I…”

“What? Is there someone else, then?” Dean asked. 

“What?” Harry said. “No!” But his face was already flushing again.

Ron let out a surprised laugh, clearly reading the lie in Harry’s face. “Bloody liar! You totally do! Who is it?”

“Yeah, Harry, who?” Dean goaded.

“No one!” Harry insisted, then flushed at the hidden meaning. “No, I do like Cho–”

“So you like two girls, then?” Dean whistled, shaking his head. “Who knew Potter’s a player, eh?”

Ron grinned. “The Boy Who Lived to Break Hearts?”

Harry shoved them both playfully, his ears still burning. “Shut it, both of you!”

Their laughter echoed around the Room of Requirement, a reminder they were the last ones there. As soon as the coast was clear, the three of them made their way back to the Gryffindor common room, slipping through the portrait hole just shy of curfew.

Harry found that, despite his efforts, the conversation kept rattling around in his head. 

He lay in his four-poster, contemplating in the dark. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Cho – he did. He thought he did.

He definitely thought she was pretty. His gaze always caught on her; he liked watching her play Quidditch, liked how shiny her hair was. Since third year, she’d always made him feel strange – a bit nervous, a sweet sort of pleasant. 

But things were complicated this year. It made a sick sort of sense that even something as simple as Harry’s first crush would be twisted by Voldemort. Another casualty of the night in the graveyard. Cho seemed fragile this year, haunted, not as confident. Harry couldn’t blame her; he felt the same way. 

But sometimes it seemed like his feelings for Cho were borrowed from the past. Like he was playing the part of himself from six months ago. Harry now – the angry insomniac who was one bad day away from committing arson in the DADA classroom – was an unknown. What could possibly make that guy happy?

Cinnamon smoke.

Harry’s eyes flew open. He shot up, rushing to open his trunk, his hand in the smoke without a second thought. When the parchment met his fingertips, relief seeped in through his skin. He opened the letter, and at first, was disappointed by its brevity, but he still read on, hungrily.

Dear No One, the letter read.

It shouldn’t be this hard. Will you go to Hogsmeade with me? See, easy! But I just stood there, like a pillock, watching her smile fall, until she was just staring at me with these big, disappointed eyes. Cause I know I keep getting her hopes up, and I feel bad, but I just feel like

The ice is frozen over again. Little boys and girls ice skate over my frozen body, and they don’t even notice me down here.

There’s this boy, though, who’s made of fire. He could melt me out, but I’d likely burn to death. He’d probably be happy with it. I probably would be too. 

Love, 

No One

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He wondered, for the hundredth time, if No One was somehow living inside of his brain with him. He ran a soft finger over the final sentences, tracing the ink smudges, dragging to the left. He smiled to himself – it seemed No One was left-handed.

Chapter Text

“–and then Tracy cast a tripping jink, and Longbottom fell all the way down the stairs, right into Padma Patil’s bosom,” Blaise laughed as he recounted, “and she, of course, started screaming and then smacked him across the head with her Charms textbook. It was fantastic. I can’t believe you lot missed it.”

Draco traded glances with Vince and Greg, who were leaning back on their beds, chewing at the insides of their cheeks impatiently. In the mirror, Draco fixed his hair, examined his skin, met eyes with Theo’s reflection – the other boy adjusted the knot of his tie, looked at Blaise, then back again.

Finally, Blaise said, “Alright, well, I’m going to meet Daphne in the library before 
breakfast. Anyone want to come?”

The rest of them shook their heads, oozing nonchalance. With an indifferent shrug, Blaise grabbed his bag and left. The four remaining boys released a collective exhale when the door shut behind him. It was arduous to hold their tongues all the time, especially in the same room where they slept.

“Thank God he’s gone. I thought he’d blather all day,” Greg said the moment he could, sitting up eagerly. “Are all our fathers away?”

Draco nodded. Beside him, Theo did too. 

“Does anyone know where?” Greg asked. “Father only said somewhere cold.”

“Mother told me that Father would be away for weeks,” Draco confided, turning back to the mirror to fuss with his hair. “What about you Theo? Did your father tell you anything before they left?”

Theo shrugged, leaning against the wall. “Just little things. They’re still recruiting. I think that’s what they’re off doing – looking for allies.”

“You didn’t know that, Draco?” Greg asked, dark brows furrowed

“Of course, I did.” Draco said, pushing the lie contemptuously through his teeth. “My father is in the Dark Lord’s inner circle. But, obviously, he’s had to be very careful about what he says in letters.”

In truth, Lucius had yet to write once. Draco had only heard from him through his mother’s quill, and each of her letters said something like Your father says…your father wants…you father tells me… followed by the vaguest, non-information known to man. Draco had crushed the last one into a ball upon reading it. In the mirror’s reflection, he caught Theo’s side-eye, but the other boy’s gaze quickly flicked away.

“In fact…” Draco continued, speaking with a firmer voice than necessary, “I’ve been told to focus this year on improving my skills. In Dark Arts, and the like. It’ll be important, of course, for when we’ve graduated. The Dark Lord only invites powerful wizards into his leagues.”

Vince and Greg looked between each other, and then back to Draco with curious smiles.

“Dark Arts?” Vince grinned. “Like what?”

Draco shrugged coolly. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

It wasn’t much later that Vince and Greg started getting antsy for breakfast, so they all made their way out of the dormitory. As they passed through the door, though, Theo caught Draco by the wrist, holding him back. He spoke quietly, leaning close, his blue eyes probing. “Are you actually practicing Dark Arts?”

“I…” Draco hesitated. Theo was more observant than Vince and Greg, harder to lie to. “Maybe not in a practical sense. Yet.”

Theo smiled softly, his hand like a warm cuff where it still gripped Draco’s wrist. He looked left and right, even though they were surely alone, whispering in the empty corridor outside their dormitory. “It was a good idea, though. We should be learning Dark Arts. If for nothing else, to defend ourselves. Has your father taught you anything?”

“No,” Draco admitted quietly. “He always said he would, when I’m of age, but…that seems like too far away now.”

“Same,” Theo said. “Would you be interested? In taking matters into our own hands?”

Slowly, Draco nodded. 

“I think I might know where we can get some…reading material,” Theo said with a sly smile. 

Draco raised a brow. “My, my, Theo. Have I been underestimating you?”

“I like to read.” Theo shrugged shyly. “Come on, let’s get to breakfast before Vince and Greg eat the whole spread.”

***

As it had unfolded nearly every day that term, when Pansy spotted Draco approaching the Slytherin table, she slid away from Daphne and Millicent to sidle up beside him, pressing against him in a straight line from shoulder to foot. Draco swallowed his sigh. “Good morning, Pansy.”

“You, as well, darling,” she replied, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. Draco felt his body stiffen at the feeling of her lips – sticky with lip gloss that he’d have to counteract with skin potions later. Still, he forced himself to relax and smile at her. Not a second later, Pansy’s cold fingers brushed against Draco’s forehead as she started fussing with his hair. Draco grit his teeth – his hair was already immaculate; he’d made sure of that before leaving the dorm.

“Pansy,” Daphne Greengrass leaned over to ask, “are you coming with us to Hogsmeade next weekend? I want to go dress shopping.”

“Oh, well, I’ll have to see if I have other plans…” Pansy chewed her lip, glancing hopefully at Draco, who quickly averted his eyes, turning to hastily pull Vince and Greg into a conversation about Quidditch. From across the table, Theo raised a brow. Draco threw a tomato at him, grinning when it slapped across his face.

When the topic turned to mind tactics for the match against Gryffindor (Draco’s area of expertise) he threw himself wholeheartedly into brainstorming ways to torture the Weasel, so he hardly noticed when Pansy unstuck herself from his side. It wasn’t until the Slytherins began their trek to History of Magic that Draco noticed Pansy walking ahead of him, arms looped with Daphne and Millicent, instead of clinging to him like usual. In Binns’s class, Draco slid into his regular seat beside Pansy – only for her to stand with a huff and sit beside Blaise instead, dropping her books roughly onto the desk, rage unvoiced yet still loud.

It progressed in this fashion for the rest of the day. In classes, Pansy sat as far away from Draco as possible and glared at him any time he spoke. At meals, she put as many people between them on the bench as would fit. By evening, the girls were all huddled together on one end of the common room, looking over at Draco like he’d bought them all crups only to line them up and kick them one by one. Draco lounged on a black leather couch with the other Slytherin boys, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he struggled to finish his Potions essay – all while the girls’ eyes burned holes in his skin.

Finally, he smacked Blaise’s arm, interrupting him mid-story, to ask, “What’s got Pansy in such a snit?”

Everyone rolled their eyes. Even Vince and Greg, tragically.

“What?!” Draco snapped.

 Blaise narrowed his eyes. “Are you actually stupid?”

Draco hit him again.

“Ow! It’s a reasonable question!” Blaise rubbed at his shoulder. “She wants you to court her, officially, you idiot.”

“ Court her?” Draco wrinkled his nose. “We’re fifteen.”

“And Pureblood,” Blaise added. “She’s not expecting an official proposal, but you’ve got to give her something. I mean, what are you to each other? You can’t blame her for being confused when you lead her on all the time.”

“I don’t lead her on–”

“You let her fuss all over you, and you parade her around in public,” Blaise argued, “but you won’t ask her to be your girlfriend or even to go to Hogsmeade.”

Draco let his head fall in his hands. “I never promised her that I’d–”

“Is it true you kissed her at the Yule Ball last year?” Blaise asked pointedly. When Draco looked up with a pale face, Blaise smiled evilly. “You did, didn’t you, you slag! She’s been coy about it, but I could tell–”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Draco whined. 

From where he sat beside Draco, dutifully reading his textbook as if he wasn’t listening, Theo muttered, “How do you kiss someone by accident?”

“It just…happened…” Truthfully, Draco hardly remembered it. He turned back to Blaise with a sneer. “Why are you off gossiping with the girls anyway?”

Blaise shrugged, unembarrassed. “Intel is currency.”

Draco groaned, sinking into the sofa in defeat, the memory of the dreaded Yule Ball swirling in his head. It had been a strange evening in a lot of ways. Pansy got angry with him very early on, and in hindsight, even Draco had to admit that it made sense why. He’d decided she was taking too long to get ready, so instead of waiting for her in the common room, he’d gone with Vince and Greg to loiter in the Entrance Hall and trip people coming down the stairs.

When she finally did arrive, Pansy had stared at Draco meaningfully for many long minutes before finally asking, “Draco, how do I look?”

He’d blinked at her, taking in the mass of pink frills adorning her body. “You look…nice.”

She had glowered, dark eyes sparkling with malice. “ Nice? ” 

“Very nice?” Draco replied, offering her his arm, which she took with a roll of her eyes. 

In Draco’s defense, he did dance with her. For a few songs. Well, two. But he never much liked the Weird Sisters. After Draco turned her down for three songs in a row, Pansy went off dancing with Blaise, which suited Draco just fine – it gave him more time to wander around abusing Hufflepuffs with Vince and Greg.

It wasn’t as if Draco was the only boy who had been a disappointing Yule Ball date. He remembered the Patil twins moaning to anyone who would listen that Wealey and Potter were downright dreadful. They’d danced even less than Draco had! And Draco would know because the three minutes spent watching Potter waltz had been the best part of the whole evening. His body had moved stiffly and without rhythm, his face red and screwed up. Potter had faced a Hungarian Horntail with no sweat, but as he awkwardly shuffled around the dance floor, he looked ready to drop dead. It was a sight to behold. Draco had asked Pansy to dance right afterward, just to show off that he knew how.

But as they danced, he kept glancing over Pansy’s shoulder, to where Potter sat slumped in his chair beside the Weasel, both of them pouting like first years. Then, after the dance had ended, Draco kept looking. For whatever reason, he forgot how to look away. He kept up his usual string of jabs – mocking the Weasel’s dress robes and Potter’s hair, how funny it was that Potter had been rejected by Cho Chang and now his date was off dancing with a Beauxbatons’ boy.

Then Potter took a sip of his drink. Draco noticed his neck, the shape of his throat. And just that. He waited for a barb to arrive in his mind, but nothing came. Just the thought of Potter swallowing, repeating in his head as heat crept up his face.

That was the beginning of Potter’s mind-invasion, the first seed planted.

Draco handled it by abruptly standing and inviting Pansy to take a walk in the courtyard. As they wandered between the rose bushes, Pansy kept batting her eyelashes and going on about how it was such a perfect night (even though she'd been angry for most of it), but Draco kept thinking about stupid Potter’s stupid neck and forgot how to hold a conversation, which led to a silence so awkward it made his skin itch, at which point Draco panicked, leaned in, and kissed her. It lasted all of three seconds. They hadn’t spoken of it since.

Now, as Draco willed himself to disappear between the couch cushions, Pansy’s anger like a cold burn, he knew one thing – this was all Potter’s fault. 

***

“He’ll be here.” Theo said.

“When?” Draco snapped, his head tilted back against the corridor’s wall, willing the blood to stay in his nose. They’d used the Weasley twins Skeeving Snackboxes to get out of Charms early. The effects were wearing off fairly quickly, but Draco found the whole act of clutching his nose and bleeding onto his robes degrading. And on top of that, the ginger menaces had charged them double.

“Cause we don’t usually sell to Slytherins,” Thing One had explained. “Call it a Snake Tax.”

“That’s not fair,” Theo had argued. “You can’t discriminate against our entire house.”

“Fine.” Thing Two laughed. “A Twat Tax, then.”

They couldn’t really argue with that.

Now, patience short and noses stuffy, Draco and Theo waited in the Slytherin dorms, in the hall outside the seventh year boys room. Finally, they heard footsteps and turned to see Cassius Warrington, long-limbed and lumbering down the hall. 

“About time,” Draco muttered under his breath, to which Theo kicked him in the shin. 

Cassius quickly ushered them into the dorm room, casting a Colloportus and Muffliato at the door before turning back to the younger boys. “Right, let’s make this fast. What are you two looking for?”

Draco looked to Theo who cleared his throat. “Instructional material.”

Cassius snorted and turned to unlock his school trunk. Outfitted with an Extending Charm, the trunk was like its own shopping district. Draco saw that the inside was separated into compartments. Some with bags of weird powders and herbs, another containing little bottles of potions, and stacked in the back – books. Cassius pulled about a dozen from the trunk, one after the other. Draco and Theo kneeled on the floor, looking over the titles: The Forbidden Magicks Vol. I, The Pureblood’s Guide to Blood Curses, A Study of Infernal Rituals, and on and on.

“Quite the collection,” Draco said to Cassius with a raised brow. 

Cassius simply shrugged, leaning against the post of his bed as the younger two made their selections. Draco reached for a book called The Unraveling Mind: A Treatise on Emotional Dominion . He looked down the chapter list, names like Your Mind is a Vault, Taming Your Urges, and How to Charm Friends and Subjugate People . Grabbing that and An Intro to Dark Spellwork , he looked up to Cassius. “What’s your price?”

Cassius shrugged. “I could part with them for seventy galleons. Per book.”

Feeling Theo stiffen beside him, Draco laughed aloud. “Funny. I’ll pay seventy for the lot. Mine and Theo’s.”

“You’re trying to rob me blind, Malfoy!” Cassius argued. “Sixty each?”

“Ten.” Draco put on a bored expression, biting back a smirk when Cassius groaned. Thank Merlin his father had taught him to haggle: start obscenely low, make them fight for each sickle, and don't let them know what their product is worth. 

“I can’t believe you got him down to thirty galleons!” Theo said in a thrilled rush when they got back to their own dorm. 

“I know!” Draco laughed. “I would have paid the seventy if he’d really insisted.”

“You didn’t have to buy mine, you know,” said Theo. 

Draco shrugged. “It’s not like I’ll miss the money. I just wasn’t keen to let Warrington extort us.”

After putting one of the books in his trunk, Draco crossed the room to sit beside Theo on his bed, opening up The Unraveling Mind. Theo held out his hand with a curious expression, taking the book to skim through.

“This is interesting,” Theo said quietly, flipping to the end. His eyes widened. “And intense.”

Draco snatched the book back. “Intense how?”

“Well, it’s all mind magic,” Theo said, “Everything from Legilimency to the Imperius Curse. Look in the back – there’s Soul Spells.”

“Woah,” Draco breathed, skipping to the back chapters.

Suddenly, they were interrupted by footsteps. Draco lunged forward to shove the book in Theo’s trunk, slamming it closed just before Blaise came barging in.

The evening hours dragged on, Draco suffering restlessly through them, until finally he could hide behind his bed curtains and open up An Intro to Dark Spellwork. The first couple chapters were rather rudimentary, more Overcast than Dark, but still, there were some neat little tricks – a pricking jinx, a bewilderment charm, the fire-ant hex. What a great time to learn these new spells, Draco thought with a smile: they had double potions with the Gryffindors the very next day.

In the morning, Draco tucked the book into his bag before leaving, eager to give the jinxes a proper go in front of Vince and Greg. As he walked down the hall between the larger boys, Draco felt his mouth curl up when he spotted bright red hair a few feet ahead.

“Hey,” he said softly to Vince and Greg, “Would anyone like to see Weasley with his pants full of fire ants?”

Vince chuckled eagerly as Greg said, “Only every day of my life.”

Draco slipped his wand from his pocket and, with a charged excitement, pointed it at the Weasel’s back. “Formicario!”

The effect was instant. Weasley unleashed a girlish shriek, dropping his things and swatting at his robes. “Get ‘em off! Get ‘em off!”

Granger and Potter held their hands out helplessly, eyes wide as they tried to understand what had set their friend off. 

Beside him, Vince and Greg erupted into laughter, collapsing onto each other as Weasley’s face went redder than his hair, hands moving to rip off his robes in a desperate panic.

“Ron!” Granger stilled his hand. “There are no ants – not really. It’s a spell – calm down!”

Potter’s head swiveled, locking immediately onto Draco, who watched his face shift from bewildered to furious the way most watch a shooting star.

“Malfoy!” Potter shouted, pushing through the hall to get to him. With a laugh, Draco backed up, ready to take off running, but he didn’t turn fast enough, transfixed as he was on the seething green eyes that hunted him. Potter quickly cast a tripping jinx that sent Malfoy to the ground, the contents of his bag spilling out in front of him. He watched from the floor as the face-down copy of Intro to Dark Spellwork slid across the stone and came to a stop in front of Severus Snape’s black leather shoe.

The man bent down, dark eyes meeting Draco’s for a single, warning moment, before vanishing the book entirely. Draco gaped, too preoccupied even feel embarrassed by how undignified it was to be sprawled out on the floor. Defeated, he got to his feet. 

“Potter!” Snape beckoned. “Assaulting a fellow student? I’d say I’m shocked and appalled, but from you, it can only be appalling. Twenty points from Gryffindor.”

Potter scoffed. “But I was only–” 

“Make it thirty,” Snape snarled.

“But he hexed Ron–!” Potter cried indignantly.

“Enough!” Snape snapped, ushering Potter away like he was a gnat. Potter lowered his gaze to glower at Draco, who flashed a smirk from behind Snape’s back.

“You two,” Snape turned on Vince and Greg, who were watching the encounter like it was a riveting stage play. “Clear the hall. Draco, you will be coming with me.”

“But I–” was all Draco got out before Snape’s pale hand was curling around his collar and dragging him back toward the dungeons. Draco could only follow along with his hands gripped into fists, hoping the punishment wouldn't be too severe. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Snape demanded the moment the door to his office slammed shut. He held the Dark Arts book in hand, gripped tight like one would the neck of a snake. 

“Education?” Draco said weakly.

Snape rolled his eyes with surprising fervor. “Have you any idea how idiotic it is to be carrying this around?”

“I didn’t do anything so horrible with it,” Draco argued. “Just messed with Weasley. And he’s fine–”

“It doesn’t matter! The subject is banned entirely. Headmaster Dumbledore has no tolerance for Dark Magic,” Snape lectured. “If anyone but me found this, you would be expelled – where did you get this from?”

Draco pressed his lips together tightly, crossing his arms. Snape blinked at him impatiently, but he was a Slytherin too, so he knew it was futile: Draco wouldn’t snitch on a housemate. With a tortured sigh, Snape crossed the room and threw the book into the fireplace. Draco’s jaw dropped as he watched his thirty galleon book set ablaze. “Detention with me, every night this week.”

Draco tried not to pout, but it was difficult – Snape’s detentions were notoriously foul. He’d probably be stuck de-veining flobberworms or scraping burned pig’s blood out of cauldrons.

“Come with me,” Snape ordered, opening the door for Draco.

“Where, Sir?”

“To your room,” Snape said simply. 

With a sinking feeling, Draco put one foot in front of the other, Snape’s shadow looming over him, leading him to the Slytherin dormitories. The common room went silent when they entered, the handful of students inside turning to stare at the pair like they would a prisoner with his executioner.

Snape let himself into the dormitory, walking in a straight line to Draco’s belongings where he wordlessly unlocked the trunk and began searching its contents. Draco’s spirit sank as he waited for Snape to uncover The Unraveling Mind. That is, until he remembered with a surge of relief that he’d stuffed the book into Theo’s trunk the day before. Snape searched to the bottom of the trunk, then under the bed and in the bedside drawers before turning to Draco with untrusting eyes. “Do you swear there is nothing else?”

When Draco nodded, Snape gave a final glare. “Do not be so foolish again. Come – my class is about to begin.”

When they entered the classroom, the Potions Master caught Draco by the shoulder and forced him into an empty desk, away from the other Slytherins. Draco furrowed his brow, trying to ask a silent question, but Snape did not even look his way before striding to the front of the room, robes billowing behind him like thunderstorm clouds.

The next potion project, Snape explained, was to brew an Everlasting Elixir.

Draco’s mind turned over – was this part of his punishment, to complete the project on his own? Hardly a punishment, Draco thought with interest – more like a good challenge. But then Snape finally met his gaze, an evil smile ghosting across his face.

“Potter!” Snape snapped. Across the room, Potter looked up from the desk where he sat with Weasley, face already filled with dread. Snape gestured for him. “You’ll be partnering with Draco on this project.”

 Draco objected, “Sir!”

“What?!” Potter whined at the same time. “Why?”

“Because I’ve said so!” Snape said impatiently, looking down his nose at Potter. “I daresay, Potter, you should be thanking me. Surely, you’ll get a much better grade without your pet Weasley’s influence.”

Potter opened his mouth to argue, but Snape was already striding away, gone like a puff of black smoke. Potter’s complaint became a groan as he turned to Draco with a look of disgust he didn’t bother to veil. Draco grimaced right back at him, willfully ignoring the traitorous flickers of excitement in his stomach at the thought of sitting beside Potter all week. The other boy slumped in the seat, crossing his arms over the desk and glaring ahead.

As they began to brew, Draco forced himself to focus on the potion – he needed an O on his Potions O.W.L after all – and ignore Potter, but it was hard. The git kept tapping his fingers against the desk, humming and staring off into space with a wistful look on his face. 

“Potter!” Draco snapped when he saw the idiot roughly chopping their strangler fig into uneven chunks. Draco elbowed him in the side, ripping the knife from the other boy's hand as he pushed him out of the way. “Are you illiterate? It says zest and then slice, not chop into it like a half-blind troll.”

Harry tutted. “Fine, then you do it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Draco rolled his eyes, “Why don’t I just do the entire project for us then? Do you need me to wipe your arse too?”

Potter scoffed, his face going red, and Draco felt his annoyance disappear at once. Potter’s gaping, angry face was a powerful draught, soothing and addictive. When Potter licked his lips, gearing up for a comeback, Draco felt his mouth go dry as his eyes tracked the movement. Entirely of their own accord, of course.

“Why, Malfoy? Interested?” Harry retorted. 

At once, Draco yanked his gaze up, scared Potter had caught him staring at his mouth, but Potter wasn’t looking at Draco at all. That was almost worse. Instead, he was glaring at his Potion’s textbook, muttering, “Not like you don’t have your nose in my business enough.”

Still without looking at him, Potter grabbed the knife back from Draco, warm skin brushing Draco’s hand, soft but searing.

“Whatever,” Draco mumbled back, rushing to busy himself with adding seven drops of witch hazel into the simmering cauldron.

***

The slash of a pink tongue across pink lips. Black eyelashes, fluttering over a forest of green. Furrowed brows, the angry set of a jaw. Tan skin on calloused hands, fists clenched. The pillar of his throat, moving as he swallowed his words. Eyes that seemed to glow in their fury, like those of a cat in the dark.

These images plagued Draco’s mind – a tornado through his house, a swarm of locusts set upon his fields. Logically, he knew that Potter was the same as he always had been – an annoying git – but he couldn’t stop having these…thoughts about him. These reactions. Like symptoms of an illness. 

At dinner, he barely touched his plate and kept his head resolutely down, lest he accidentally lay eyes on Potter across the Hall and start the storm of thoughts again. In detention with Snape, flashes of Potter struck him like lightning – bright, brilliant terror. He needed to do something about the situation. His mind was a wild hippogriff, and it was liable to start bucking soon. Thank Merlin, he thought, that Snape hadn’t found the Mind Magic book. He would surely be needing it soon.

Late that night, after subtly retrieving his book from Theo’s trunk, Draco snuck out to the common room, sinking into the corner arm chair. He lit the smokeless candle, the only light in the room besides the green glow from the windows and the occasional flash of scales outside. He inhaled deeply, cold mint in his lungs like a salve.

In the flickering candlelight, Draco opened The Unraveling Mind and jumped to the chapter about Occlumency. Controlling the mind, defending it against invaders. Draco nodded to himself. That’s what he needed. As he read about Legilimency, a shiver ran up his spine–

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you!” His father often snapped during a lecture. Draco’s blood chilled, as he pictured his horrible Potter-filled thoughts spread out on a table like evidence, his father picking through them with a disgusted grimace. He read faster, finger tracing down the paragraphs, desperate to save himself from that fate.

Clear your mind of all thoughts and feelings , the book instructed. Draco wished to throttle it and shout – how?!

Many wizards employ visualization techniques , the book continued calmly, unmoved by Draco’s threats.

Draco took an impatient breath, closing his eyes and picturing his scattered thoughts as things he could control. He imagined them as shells on the beach, picking them up one by one. They just dissolved into sand in his hands. He pictured them as doors he locked shut, but a cold, ferocious wind blew them right open. As tulip flowers he cut from the stem – they grew back at once, taller and brighter. Filling a bathtub – he pulled the drain, but the liquid still ran over, leaking onto the bathroom tiles.

It was just the fact that there were several screaming voices in his head.

Snape thought him foolish, like a little boy messing with things beyond his ability. His father was worse, hadn’t even bothered to warn him about the dangers of Dark Arts, like Draco was too dim to figure out how in the first place. Draco’s relationship with his father had never been entirely perfect, always a bit sharp, but in recent years, it was bordering on perfunctory. An afterthought.

Draco had this fear that was too much to bear; he couldn’t put it into words, but it hovered like a ghost over his mind at all hours of the day. He thought of his father’s strict voice and cold eyes–

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you!”

What if he already knew? What if he’d seen behind Draco’s eyes, where Potter had planted a flag in the ground? Had he seen into his dreams – dark eyelashes, perfect scowl, tan hands on a broom handle – or did he sense it some other way? In the rhythm of Draco’s walk, the whine in his voice, or turn of his wrist?

 Frustrated, Draco slammed the book shut and grabbed for the journal he’d hidden under the chair. If his thoughts insisted on overflowing, he had to let them spill somewhere. The letter writing was something Draco didn’t like to think about, just something he did. A purge at the end of the day. An exorcism. And the moment the letter burned, he pretended it never existed at all.

Dear No One, he wrote now.

I love the sound of grand pianos. 

My mother plays. When I was little, I would lie on the sofa while listening and stare into the fireplace. It always seemed to me like the flames were dancing, which made sense where my mother’s concerned. She has a knack for bringing life to the deadly.

I love my mother. I do, but the older I get, the more I realize that I do not know her well. She doesn’t tell me things. Father doesn’t either, but he’s never pretended to. Mother, though, will sit with me for hours, share meals, tea, walks in the garden. All the while, saying nothing. 

I know why I’m frozen now – I grew up in a glacier, raised by ice people. 

But when my mother plays piano, I can hear her thoughts. She speaks through the scales. My soul leaves my body and holds hands with hers. And the unsaid things, I understand.

She didn’t play once this summer. I’m scared it's because she knows that I’m–

I just need to grow up. Get my mask in the place. Glue it down if I have to. I need to buy some bloody flowers to start these stupid bloody courting rituals, I need to get a new bloody spellbook, and I need to get Harry bloody Potter OUT OF MY HEAD

Love,

No One

Draco dipped the edge of the paper into the flame and watched his words disappear into nothing.

Chapter Text

Harry traced the familiar script with his thumb, reading that final line over and over– 

I need to get Harry bloody Potter OUT OF MY HEAD

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Mad-Eye Moody shouted from the back of Harry’s mind – constant vigilance! 

That Harry would happen to stumble upon these letters that spoke directly to his soul was one thing, but for the writer of those letters to know him, to be thinking about him – it was too much of a coincidence, right? He should be suspicious. Worried, even. Voldemort was back, and enchanted, alluring objects were familiar territory for him.

And yet…

Harry’s thumping heart was louder than his rational thoughts. He looked down in wonder at his own name in No One’s clean cursive, and he had to bite his cheeks to keep from smiling. 

Why was he in No One’s head?

Despite his greatest wishes, Harry was rather famous; he had to concede to that fact. Ron had always teased him about his admirers – usually younger girls who giggled and whispered when he walked down the hall. But it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility that there was a boy or two interested…

Harry swallowed. Just the possibility made his brain feel like a muggle pinball cabinet. Flashing lights, whirring noises, thoughts banging around in his head faster than could be logically followed. All he knew was that it made him feel a bit dizzy, like a steep dive on his broom. He took a breath, trying to tamp down the giddy feelings. After all, he may have been in No One’s mind, but he also was not wanted there.

Desperate curiosity hit him like a cramp. No One was probably someone he knew, had shared classes with at least. Would Harry talk to him the very next day and not even know? The idea drove him mad.

In the morning, Harry scanned the Great Hall, half-expecting No One to stand out from the crowd. Like he’d light up or something. But no, it looked the same as every other morning. As he ate breakfast, though, Harry found himself staring over at the Ravenclaw table, specifically at Michael Corner. The other boy was bent over a journal, scribbling at hyper-speed. Writing with his left hand. Harry narrowed his eyes, watching with keen interest as Michael lifted spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his tea.

Harry’s palms went sweaty.

Michael was– well, Harry assumed some people would find him handsome. Girls, or boys like No One. He had thick, dark hair and hooded eyes that gave him a mysterious air. Suddenly, Michael looked up from his breakfast, frowning when he noticed Harry staring. Harry looked away as fast as if he’d met eyes with a Basilisk.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione asked from across the table, brown eyes probing.

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice.

Ron leaned close, lowering his head and brushing shoulders with Harry to see from his level. He laughed. “He's just drooling over Cho again.”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t even noticed Cho sitting there beside Michael. He flushed, aiming his eyes down at the scuffed wood of the Gryffindor table.

***

“You guys go ahead,” Harry told Ron and Hermione as they stood to leave Transfiguration. “I’ll meet you in the Great Hall. I’ve gotta talk to McGonagall.”

“Everything okay?” Ron asked with a furrowed brow. 

Harry kept his head down, pretending to be exorbitantly focused on packing up his bag. “Yeah, ‘course. Just had a question about the essay.”

“What’s your question?” Hermione asked with a curious tilt of her head. Harry scolded himself. Of course, she was already suspicious. If he really had a question about homework, he’d just ask her.

“Oh, just about the length,” Harry mumbled noncommittally.

Hermione answered promptly, “A foot and a half–”

“But,” Harry fumbled for a different excuse, “Angelina also asked me to ask about having extra Quidditch practice this week.”

“Seriously?” Ron groaned. “But we already practice constantly! My arms still hurt from last week.”

“It’s just for the match against Slytherin,” Harry lied. “She’ll probably say no, anyway. Pitch is probably booked up. But I said I’d ask. You guys go to lunch – I’ll catch up.”

Ron shrugged, mostly concerned about the possibility of extra Quidditch drills, but Hermione stared back with her bushy brows raised. She knew he was lying. Of course, she knew. He just hoped she wouldn’t call him out on it yet. 

Even though a small fire had been burning in his stomach since reading last night’s letter, Harry couldn’t ignore the unease he still felt. While he’d been called oblivious more times than he’d have liked, Harry wasn’t stupid, and his worries about the strange, flameless candle couldn’t be so easily brushed aside. 

But, still, he didn’t want to give the candle up. 

All day, he’d weighed his options. He couldn’t tell Hermione, not yet. She would blow things out of proportion, steal away the candle, and demand to sift through the letters with a fine-tooth comb. Telling Ron wasn’t an option, either, because he’d just crack and tell Hermione. Harry considered Sirius, who he felt would offer help, but given that the man spent his days hiding in a cave disguised as a dog, Harry wasn’t sure how helpful he’d be. Besides, Sirius would ask the exact kinds of personal questions that Harry didn’t want to answer yet. Once upon a time, Dumbledore would have been the obvious choice. Now Harry couldn’t hardly imagine Dumbledore opening the door for him, let alone offering aid.

Finally, Harry had landed on someone – someone knowledgeable and fair, someone who wouldn’t pry.

“Professor?” Harry approached McGonagall where she sat grading papers at her desk. 

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall peered at Harry from over the rims of her glasses. 

“I, um…” Harry scuffed his shoe against the floor, double-checking over his shoulder that Hermione and Ron had truly left. “I wanted to ask about some of the stuff in the Gryffindor common room. Like the furniture, portraits, books…candles, that sort of thing. Where do they come from?”

McGonagall’s thin lips twitched with interest. “Each common room contains its own special touches from the previous generations.”

“So they’re all things that once belonged to Gryffindors?” Harry asked. 

“Many of them, yes.” McGonagall nodded. “Some were donations from alumni. We replace the couches every few decades. Spells to repair the upholstery don’t work indefinitely, and…well, Gryffindors are not always gentle with them.”

“That tracks.” Harry gave a half-smile. “Is there, like…an inventory of all the items and where they came from?”

“Oh, I wish,” McGonagall replied wryly, “but many of them are a few centuries old, and their stories have faded with time. Some more of the many mysteries this castle offers.”

Harry hesitated. “Could there be anything…dangerous? Or that shouldn’t be there?”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Are you reporting something?”

“No, no, just…hypothetically.” Harry winced as he said it.

McGonagall gave him a long look. It seemed like she wanted to roll her eyes, but instead, she offered Harry a patient smile. “Each common room is cleared out and inspected over the summer. If anything dangerous was inside, it would have been removed.”

“Even Dark objects?” 

Now both her eyebrows shot up.  “Mr. Potter, if you suspect–”

“I don’t, Professor, not really.” Harry sighed. “I think I’m just…a bit paranoid, I guess. With everything going on.”

McGonagall’s expression softened. She reached forward and patted Harry’s arm gently, albeit a bit awkwardly. “No one could blame you for that. But rest assured, Potter, you are safe at Hogwarts.”

Harry managed a tired smile. “I know.”

***

It was a strange feeling for Harry to miss someone he’d never met. Two days had gone by without a new letter from No One, and Harry was burning with questions. It felt like a trick No One was playing – dropping Harry’s name so casually, driving him mad with it. It was almost cruel. Harry imagined writing him back, giving him a piece of his mind, but just the thought left him flustered.

At the DA meeting that night, Harry threw himself into teaching, pairing everyone up to practice blocking, offense, and disarming. They all took to it well, disarming with glee. Wands flew left and right as spells crashed against shield charms like fireworks. It was a welcome distraction – until Harry found himself watching Michael Corner again. Michael’s dark eyebrows were drawn in concentration as he struggled to cast a shield fast enough to block Ginny’s Expelliarmus.

Harry wandered over with his hands in his pockets, observing as Ginny began to cast. Like clockwork, Michael’s wand went flying, and Harry quickly reached out to catch it. Taking a step forward, Harry placed the wand back in Michael’s hand, their fingers brushing. Harry looked down at Michael’s hands with a sharp inhale. Ink-stained fingers.

Harry drew his hand back, tucking it quickly into his pocket, as he cleared his throat. “Michael, you, uh, should try casting faster.”

“Faster?” Michael asked. 

“Like, erm,” Harry began, scratching at the back of his neck, “Expelliarmus is five syllables, yeah? That’s a mouthful, and time you should be using to your advantage. Don’t wait. Cast as quickly as possible.”

Michael nodded thoughtfully, brushing dark hair from his face. “Yeah, I’d never thought of it that way.”

Harry gestured for him to step forward and try again. A few paces away, Ginny grinned, hopping between her feet like a boxer preparing for a fight. She lifted her wand and before she’d so much as opened her mouth, Michael was slashing his wand through the air. “Protego!”

The disarming spell bounced off Michael’s shield, deflecting back at Ginny and sending her wand up in the air. Dean Thomas dove to catch it, then held it over his head, forcing Ginny to jump for it. 

Michael turned back to Harry with a grin. “Thanks, Harry.”

“Yeah, er, ‘course.” Harry swallowed, his mouth a desert. Michael nodded, and something suddenly came over Harry – a desire to reach for Michael’s hand, to ask him about pianos and his mother and Selion Griefborne. How could he ask without asking? He opened his mouth and what tumbled out was, “Do you ever miss the sea?”

Michael tilted his head, bemused. “Sorry?”

“Oh, um,” Harry laughed nervously. “Sorry, I know that’s random. I was just thinking about, erm, the sea. How I’d like to go.”

“Oh…” Michael blinked then shrugged. “Not a fan myself.”

“Really?” Harry asked, deflating. 

“Nah.” Michael shook his head. “Too much sand.”

Harry felt his face fall, the flush receding from his cheeks. Ginny finally wrestled her wand back from Dean and squared up to duel with Michael again. Harry stood back, leaning against the wall like he was observing everyone at once, but really, his mind had wandered back to his room, to the smell of clove that was starting to linger in his sheets.

When the meeting came to an end, Harry watched as Ginny ran up to Michael, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him. Something twisted uncomfortably in Harry’s gut, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was something to the left of jealousy, not a clawing beast but a black hole. Consuming, leaving him empty. Michael brushed one of his ink-stained hands through Ginny’s hair. Ginny grabbed the back of Michael’s neck, pulling his face to hers. Harry picked at the skin of his own bottom lip, uneasy. He tried to picture himself in both of their positions, but he could only let himself imagine kissing Michael for half a second before his brain rejected the image, shoving it to the side as a ludicrous idea. He couldn’t picture it. Kissing a boy. Though, he couldn’t quite imagine kissing a girl either.

This strange, nameless sensation tugged at him, giving way to several conflicting feelings at once. Annoyed at Ginny for kissing Michael, unsettled at Michael for kissing Ginny, disappointed that Michael probably wasn’t No One, and frustrated that No One wasn’t here, in front of him. Harry felt that one thing with total clarity – he wanted him there. 

As Michael and Ginny finally pulled apart, Harry must have been grimacing from his place against the wall because Ron leaned up beside him and said, “Ugh, I know. It’s just wrong, right? The two of them? I mean, what does she see in him?” 

Harry shrugged, averting his eyes to examine the floor tiles. “Couldn’t say.”

Ron laughed then, giving Harry a friendly nudge. “Cho is looking at you, though.”

Harry’s head snapped up to see Cho was indeed looking at him from across the room. When they met eyes, she smiled shyly, offering him a small wave. 

Harry smiled, waving back automatically. 

“Honestly,” Ron chuckled again, “this is getting ridiculous. I dunno what you’re waiting for at this point, mate.”

Quillstrokes scribbled across Harry’s mind the way some would remember a loved one’s laugh. Harry sighed. “Me neither.”

***

Harry’s heart fluttered in his chest as he reached into the white smoke and pulled out a letter. Anticipation dripped like water down his skin. Tonight's letter looked lengthy. Words sprawled across the entire parchment, perfect cursive from edge to edge. Harry curled up between the soft glow of his Lumos and began reading.

Dear No One,

I’ve been thinking a lot about myths and legends. Heroes, villains, that sort of thing. There’s so much we don’t learn in History of Magic. It’s all dreary eighteenth century shite. I mean, seriously, how many bloody rebellions can the goblins have? At some point, they must realize they’re not very good at them. They’re still second class citizens, but hey, at least Urg the Unclean’s got himself on a Chocolate Frog Card.

Wizarding history is actually quite interesting, though. If one prioritizes the interesting parts. Like Wizarding Ancient Greece. My mother has a book of legends that I always asked her to read to me before bed as a child, which is kind of funny, in hindsight, because it can be quite gruesome in places. But she always did if I asked. My favourite story was about the Garden of Hesperides. 

It was the most beautiful garden in existence, planted at the very edge of the Earth. It was a perfect place, all shimmering sunlight and unreal horizons. From its cliffs, one could see the curve of the world, the barely-there gap between land and sky. This was the home of the Hesperides, the first true coven of witches.

In the center of the garden was an immaculate tree that bore golden apples. The fruit was not only beautiful but also magical. One bite would give eternal life. (Some believe this is where Nicholas Flammel got his idea for the Philosopher’s Stone!) Now, this tree was not there by mere chance. It was created as a wedding gift for the goddess Hera and had been planted strategically for its protection, for only the Hesperides knew how to enter the Garden.

But Hera did not trust the Hesperides, not entirely. For they were clever, cunning witches, and Hera feared they might eat all the fruit themselves. So what’s a goddess to do? Hera needed a guardian, a protector for her precious tree who was dedicated to nothing but that duty. She found this guardian in the form of a dragon called Ladon. He crawled from the earth at her command, a serpentine body and one hundred heads, each with its own set of watchful eyes, its own rows of sharp, deadly teeth, and its own whispering voice. Ladon crawled on his stomach through the Garden and coiled himself so tightly around the Golden Fruit Tree that he might have been a part of its trunk.

I get how he felt sometimes, tasked to protect that tree for all of eternity. He wasn’t alone, really; the Hesperides were there, but he must have been alone in his burden. The witches could leave, could feel and think for themselves. Ladon had only one purpose, one reason for existing. A hundred faces, a hundred voices – which one was real? Were any of them? Did Ladon even know? 

There’s no answer. Because the story of Ladon isn’t actually about Ladon. It’s about this tosser called Heracles. He was sent on a journey to complete these trials – it doesn’t matter why, really. Some stupid hero tripe. But one of his tasks, his Labours, was to steal an apple from Hera’s tree. And so he did, because he was the Hero. And Ladon was an obstacle in his way, just another monster. 

The Hersperides ran off, but Ladon stayed. He fought. Ladon defended the Tree with everything he had, even as his heads were chopped off. He kept fighting until he was slain, and Heracles marched off to his next labour, the next step in his Hero's Journey. But Ladon lay in the Garden, curled around the Tree he’d failed to defend, and he watched the sun set as his blood painted the perfect grass red and ugly.

Hera took pity on her beast, at least. She raised his soul into the stars where he lives to this day. Was that his reward for such fierce loyalty and dedication? The glory of the stars? Or was it the oblivion of space? I often wonder.

Love,

No One

This was Harry’s favourite kind of letter. He liked them all – the poems, the ramblings, the rants. But the stories were something else. He pictured No One at a mahogany desk, writing with a huge, elaborate quill, the ancient wisdom of many century’s worth of storytellers wrapping around his shoulders like a cloak. These were the letters he re-read, again and again, like bedtime stories. 

As always, the story felt too poignant, like its author was hiding in the cracks of Harry's walls and peeking into his brain at night. After reading the letter over twice, Harry lifted his candle, with its white, unlit wick, and turned it over in his hands. The wax was cream-coloured with a red base, very Gryffindor. He understood why no one in the common room ever looked twice at it. The image of a sword was carved in the front, a small, simple etching. Harry gently traced his finger over it, wondering if he even could send a reply to No One. Perhaps the candle was a one-way delivery system. 

Tempted, Harry grabbed his wand and pointed it delicately to the wick before whispering, “Incendio. ”

The wick lit, casting a soft glow across the closed-in circle of Harry’s four-poster. He held the candle upright, careful to not set his bed curtains ablaze, as he examined it curiously. Contrary to his expectations, Harry’s bed was not flooded with a wave of cinnamon-clove smoke. Though the smell was still present, the smoke was not, as if it had been sent somewhere else instead. Harry's heart picked up speed in his chest.

The urge to write back was almost overwhelming. Harry went so far as to grab a piece of parchment from his trunk, but his thoughts were wordless, more like a swarm of butterflies flapping wildly about than a string of coherent phrases he could put in order. Instead, he closed his eyes and felt the heat of the candle like a caress across his face.

That night, Harry’s dreams were filled with dragons, stars, blood-soaked flowers, and a soft voice whispering in his ear, just quiet enough to be unrecognizable. He woke up feeling strange, empty and full at the same time. He looked at Michael at breakfast with a hollow sort of dissatisfaction. It seemed silly now, how sure he'd felt just the day before. He wandered around the rest of the day like his head was stuffed with cotton balls until he was roused from his head by the grating shout of “Potter! Are you deaf?”

“What?” Harry snapped back, begrudgingly lifting his head from the Potions desk.

“Quit daydreaming and get the rest of the ingredients from the storeroom,” Malfoy barked rudely, pulling Harry viciously from his thoughts of No One.

Harry blinked up at Malfoy’s snarling face with impatience. “I already did.”

“Wrong,” Malfoy said. “You got a stag beetle instead of a scarab, turmeric powder instead of ginger, and these are certainly not snake fangs.” Malfoy inspected the clear phial with a scowl. “They’re bat teeth. Are you trying to ruin our potion on purpose, Potter?” 

Malfoy exaggerated the alliteration – our potion on purpose, Potter? – smacking his lips together on each P like he was delivering a punch. Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t muster the energy for a proper comeback. Malfoy furrowed his thin, blond brows, looking almost put-out, as Harry went off to retrieve the right ingredients.

When he returned, Malfoy yanked the ingredients from him with a snarl, shoving Harry away from the potion. “You’ll do the written part while I brew.”

“Oh, will I?” Harry muttered. 

“Yes,” Malfoy said. He grabbed their potion vial from the previous class, removed the stasis charm, and gently poured the liquid into the cauldron. “This is the most complicated part of the process. You’d just muck it up.”

Harry grabbed his ink and quill with a huff, rolling up his sleeves to begrudgingly document each step of Malfoy’s brewing. It was mostly tossing things in the pot and stirring, but Malfoy wore a look of concentration usually reserved for professional curse-breaking – or Ron’s Annual Gryffindor Wizard Chess Tournament. Harry could only be pleased that the boy’s focus kept him too busy to spend the entire hour snapping orders and insults like usual.

Toward the end of class, Malfoy reached over to grab the last ingredient – a vial of pixie tears – from Harry’s side of the desk just as Harry stretch his arm out. Malfoy’s hand grazed against Harry’s elbow, but one would think he’d come into contact with a Blast-Ended Skrewt by how quickly he pulled his hand away, sneering like Harry had pushed him into a vat of lava. Harry felt his eyes roll of their own accord. “I know you’re used to brushing elbows with your fellow posh twats, but I’m not actually diseased or anything.”

“As far as you know.” Malfoy grimaced back. 

Harry grumbled to himself, returning to finish up the last section of their written assignment as Malfoy turned back to brewing. Finally, mercifully, Malfoy stirred the last ingredient into the potion, bringing their Everlasting Elixir to a gentle simmer. After poking his wand beneath the cauldron to lower the heat, Malfoy exhaled slowly, grey eyes scanning the table to check if he’d missed anything.

Harry felt the exact moment Malfoy’s gaze landed on the paper beneath his arms because the temperature seemed to rise ten degrees at once. 

“Potter!” Malfoy said through gritted teeth, like Harry’s name was a curse. He pointed incredulously to the parchment. “Is this a joke?”

Harry sighed. “What now?”

Malfoy snatched the paper from Harry’s grasp with a grip like he planned to rip it right up. “We can’t turn this in. Your handwriting is atrocious.”

“It’s not that bad!”

Malfoy ran his finger across a line of truly challenging chicken scratch. “What does this say then, hm?”

“Er…” Harry leaned in, squinting at his own messy handwriting. He would guess it probably said add scarab beetle wing and stir counter clock wise , but it looked a lot more like odd scabby giggle wine can sour couture clown wives.

“Exactly my point,” Malfoy said with an exaggerated sigh, “and now I have to re-do the whole thing, which was probably your plan all along.”

“That would require me to be thinking about you, Malfoy, which is something I actively avoid,” Harry snipped back as the blond boy bent over the desk, his own parchment laid next to the report Harry had written as he worked to decode and copy Harry’s atrocious handwriting.

Malfoy’s face went red with irritation, but he was otherwise too worried about finishing their project in time to respond, which suited Harry just fine. After a week of potion prison with Malfoy, Harry would be glad to never hear his whiny, posh voice again. Even if their potion did look a lot better than whatever bubbling monstrosity Ron and Seamus were struggling to keep contained in their cauldron. Harry felt a prick of satisfaction at the sight – he’d been silently annoyed at Ron for pairing up with Seamus in the first place, since Seamus had been publicly calling Harry a lying nutter all term. At least some level of karmic justice was still in action.

The smirk hadn’t yet faded from Harry’s face when his gaze fell upon Malfoy’s scribbling quill. His body seemed to understand before his brain did, the blood draining from his face in a rushed exodus. Taking a step closer, Harry stood beside Malfoy, blinking down uncomprehendingly at the perfect cursive. 

No One’s cursive.

No One’s perfect cursive.

It was like a bad dream. Surreal and confusing. Harry wondered in a rush how Malfoy had managed to steal No One’s handwriting because– 

He had to have stolen it because–

It couldn’t be that–

Harry tried to swallow, but his throat felt lined with sand. 

Malfoy moved his hand – his left hand – to start a new sentence, smudging the ink just so. Harry thought he might puke. He stumbled back, away from the gruesome scene like Malfoy was writing in No One’s blood, parading his corpse around like a trophy.

“Oi, Potter!” Malfoy spat, not taking his eyes away from his task. “You need to bottle the potion.”

Harry didn’t move or respond. He merely stood still, his hands gripping the empty desk behind him like it might save him from drowning.

Malfoy looked up, took in Harry’s pale face, and wrinkled his nose. “What’s your problem?”

Harry swallowed. “What?”

“Class is almost over,” Malfoy said pointedly, drawing his words out slowly like Harry couldn’t speak English, “so you need to bottle the potion.”

“Oh…” Harry mumbled, making no effort to move. He was too busy trying to stay upright, breathing through his nose. “Right…”

Malfoy groaned and threw his quill down with a roll of his eyes. “Can’t you at least wait until class is over to go all loony?”

Harry couldn’t respond. Approaching the parchment Malfoy abandoned, his eyes traveled over Malfoy’s handwriting, the miles of familiar looping letters that Harry knew more intimately than he knew most people. He peeked at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye – pointy, pale face wrinkled as he scooped up ladles full of potion – and Harry's thoughts exploded into a chorus of chaos, until all he could hear was his heart pounding to the sound of fuckfuckfuckfuck. 

Chapter Text

“Will you go to Hogsmeade with me tomorrow?”

Draco stood tall, projecting confidence. In his extended hand was a bouquet of pansies, all white and plum-purple. Pansy stood with her arms crossed and her lips pursed, glancing toward the Slytherin table where their housemates watched curiously. 

“You really waited until the day before to ask me?” Pansy raised a brow. “What if I already have plans?”

Draco forced an apologetic smile. “Cancel them?”

Pansy bit at her cheek, making a show of contemplation, but Draco could see the corners of her lips turning up. Finally, she sighed and snatched the bouquet with both hands. “I want to go to Madam Puddifoot’s in the morning. And you’ll buy me something at the jewelers afterward.”

“Whatever you want.” Draco sighed through his teeth.

Pansy smiled, wide and bright, pulling him down onto the Slytherin bench. They ate breakfast side by side, Pansy chatting happily the whole time. Draco expected to feel relief at having fixed things with her, but instead, he just felt odd. Out of breath, hands a bit shaky. Like he was on the wrong end of a wand, waiting for a hex to hit. The feeling followed him around all day like a rumbling raincloud overhead. Pansy, once again glued to him, offered no relief. Draco tried to listen as she yapped on about all the things she hadn’t told him during her Week of Silence, but his head was full of static.

He was glad to have Quidditch practice that afternoon. The cold wind in his hair and sunlight on his face marginally cleared his head, but nothing so much as seeing Harry Potter in the stands. Draco felt awake for the first time all day, his lips pulling into a wicked smirk. Beside Potter, the redheaded weasel watched the Slytherin Chasers practice with his head in his hands. But Potter's face was upturned, already looking in Draco’s direction. When their eyes met, the other boy swung his head away, as if he’d been scanning the air rather than watching Draco.

Abandoning his search for the snitch without a thought, Draco swooped down to hover above the Gryffindor pair. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

He let his eyes flit between them, sizing them up like prey. Weasley was going green in the face, but Potter looked…more interested in examining his ratty muggle trainers than giving Draco the time of day. Dropping off his broom, Draco landed onto the steps in front of them with a loud stomp that forced Potter’s head to snap up. 

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to eavesdrop?” Draco snarled, feeling the electric zing of accomplishment when Potter’s gaze finally met his. His eyes flashed, an angry glow deep below the green surface. Draco wanted to dive in and swim to the bottom, reach into the depths and hold that anger in his palms. With a knowing smirk, he added, “Oh, right. Guess not.”

Draco braced for the explosion – the reddening face, the furrowed brows, the clenched jaw. Eager like a masochist, awaiting the lashing from Potter’s scorching tongue. Instead, the boy’s mouth hung open limply. His upset expression was laced with something like bemusement, like hurt. Draco felt his nose wrinkle, the static in his head returning in full force.

“Why don’t you shut up, Malfoy?!” Weasley shouted then. Draco unwillingly pulled his gaze away from Potter to squint at the ginger buffoon.

“You know what, Weasley, you’re right,” Draco drawled, “You need all the help you can get, and I am a charitable man, so I won’t make you leave.” Draco turned over his shoulder to point at Adrian Pucey and Cassius Warrington as they flew in formation, passing the ball. 

“See, Weasley, that’s called a Quaffle,” he said, his voice sticky with condescension. Just then, Warrington threw the Quaffle toward the lower right goal, and Miles Bletchley, Slytherin’s Keeper, dove to punch it out of its path. Draco smirked, turning back to Weasley, “See how he kept it out of the rings? That’s the part you’re not grasping.”

Weasley let out an indignant scoff. “Maybe you should focus on catching the Snitch! Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before! Do you even know what it looks like?”

“Weasley, I’m wounded. Is that any way to treat your biggest fan?” Draco feigned offense, then summoned a cruel smile. “In fact, I have a surprise for you on game day.”

Weasley’s face blanched at that, but before he could fire back with anything intelligible, Potter was standing and pulling his friend up, muttering, “Let’s just go.”

Draco felt his patience snap – he couldn’t take Potter’s defeated, almost demure, responses. His lowered eyes and quiet voice. It was wrong. Draco found himself reaching forward, grabbing Potter’s arm, stilling him and forcing him back around. “Don’t be like that, Scarhead! You’re depriving your Weasel of a much-needed education.”

Potter just yanked his arm away, urging Ron toward the steps. Draco blinked, lit from within by indignant frustration.

“What? Is your brain too broken to respond to me now?” Draco growled, shouting after them, “Somebody call The Prophet ! The Boy Wonder has taken on a vow of silence!”

Weasley turned back – maybe he’d finally thought up a comeback – but Potter nudged his shoulder, pushing him back to the castle. Potter didn’t look back, leaving Draco alone in the stands, gripping his broom handle, feeling foolish and unsatisfied.

“MALFOY!” Montague’s voice called out from above. “GET BACK IN THE AIR!”

Draco rolled his eyes as he kicked off, soaring up and continuing his search for the gold glint of the snitch, but the interest was lost. If he wasn’t racing against Potter for it, what was the point?

***

The wooden leg of Draco’s four-poster bed was hard beneath his skull. He leaned against it, sat on the floor with his knees pulled up. Across from him, Theodore Nott stared into his soul with wide-eyed focus.

“I can’t tell if you’re fantastic at Occlumency," Theo said eventually, “or if I’m just awful at Legilimency.”

Draco felt around inside his own brain, like grasping at wind. He’d given up on trying to gather his thoughts cleanly. His mind, he realized, was more like the Forbidden Forest, teeming with unnatural, bloodthirsty creatures that refused to be controlled. So, instead, he lit the Forest on fire. Burned down all the trees and filled the air with thick, black smoke, impossible to see through. Now, in the back of his head, he sensed a shy intrusion. “I think…I think I feel you…your presence, or whatever.”

But then he blinked, and the feeling disappeared.

Theo sighed and rubbed at his eyes. 

“Do you want to stop?” Draco asked, fighting against the prickle of pain in his temple, both hoping and fearing that Theo would say yes. He wanted to learn Occlumency by Christmas, but the feeling of the other boy in his brain was unsettling as breath on the back of his neck.

“Not yet,” Theo muttered, The Unraveling Mind balanced on his knee. He chewed on his thumbnail as he flipped through the pages. “There’s something I want to try. This time, show me a specific memory.”

Draco furrowed his brow. “Why? Isn’t the point of Occlumency to block you out?”

“I think you’re already doing that,” said Theo with a shrug.

“Or you’re a shite Legilimens.”

Theo laughed, conceding. “Shall we find out for sure?”

Draco groaned, an ache rippling across the back of his head. He was starting to regret his choice to stay behind when the others went to dinner early. 

Theo rolled his eyes, still flipping through the book. “How much of this have you read? Or have you just been digging for spells to use on First Years?”

Draco let his head fall back against the wood again. “I’ve skimmed.”

“Look, Occlumency is a type of magic, not just one skill,” Theo explained, voice shifting into the lecture-y drawl he used when he tutored Greg. Draco let out an unimpressed sigh, but Theo pushed on valiantly. “Directing me towards a memory will exercise the same muscle as blocking me out. Plus, if someone ever does break through your Occlumency walls, you have a second line of defense, guiding them toward what you want them to see.”

Draco lifted his gaze back to Theo curiously. With two months still to Christmas, Draco was already dreading the holiday, increasingly sure that his father would take one look in his eyes and see all the horrible, lightning-scarred thoughts that had run through his head recently. He thought suddenly of his upcoming date with Pansy. Perhaps, he thought, it would be beneficial to make some memories to distract his father with. With a defeated sigh, he forced his headache into the corner. “Alright. Let’s try it.”

Theo blinked hard in preparation. “Ready?”

Draco swallowed, casting Incendio upon his own mind, hiding in the smoke. When he looked up, he was gripped by Theo’s unflinching blue gaze. The other boy took a fortifying breath. “Legilimens. ”

That shy presence reappeared, poking around in the back of his head. Draco flinched, instinctively shoving him into a black cloud. Theo’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing like a book he was reading had been slammed closed mid-sentence.

Reaching deep into the past, Draco yanked forward a memory, shielding it from the smoke and projecting it across the sky. He could feel the presence – Theo – beside him, brushing up against him, despite the space between their bodies. Together, they remembered:

One spring afternoon, before any of them had stepped foot in Hogwarts, Theo, Vince, and Greg had all come over to Malfoy Manor. Their parents had lunched on the terrace while the boys ran about the gardens. Draco, Vince, and Greg had played multiple rowdy games of fly-tag together, buzzing around on their child-size training brooms, trying to catch one another. It was Draco’s favourite game because he always won. Theo, though, had refused to join in.

“I don’t have a broom,” he’d said at first, but when Draco had offered one of his – he had four – Theo shrugged and looked at the sky without interest. “I don’t feel like it.”

“You never feel like it!” Greg had complained, but Theo just shrugged again, sprawling in the grass with a book he’d brought. 

Draco hadn’t minded at first, but Vince and Greg had never been the fastest fliers, and he quickly grew bored of beating them so easily. He found himself flying above Theo like a bird circling prey.

“Theeeee-ohhhhh,” Draco whined from the air, leaning over his broom handle with a pout. “I’m bored.”

The other boy peeked out from behind his book, squinting up. “And?”

With a put-upon nonchalance, Draco had leaned back on his broom and dangled from his knees, staring at Theo upside. “Entertain me.”

“How?” Theo huffed amused laugh.

“Come fly with us!”

Theo groaned. “I don’t want to.”

“How come?” Draco guided his broom to the ground where he raised a challenging brow to the boy. In hindsight, Draco recognized the gesture as quite evil. Despite his innocent posturing, he had known why Theo refused – the boy was so transparently afraid of heights he still got pale in the face when he had to ascend the Astronomy Tower for class.

Still, young Theo had huffed and picked at a blade of grass. “I just don’t.”

“You can sit on the back of my broom,” Draco proposed. “I won’t go up high at all. Promise.”

“Yeah, come on, Theo!” Greg had called from above. Vince, too, urged him to get on the broom. 

With a long sigh and grim look, Theo got to his feet and said, “Fine. But just for a minute.”

Begrudgingly, Theo swung his leg over the broom and placed shaking hands onto Draco’s shoulders. When their feet had lifted slowly out of the grass, Theo squeaked like a frightened mouse. Draco looked over his shoulder and saw that his eyes were already squeezed tightly shut. With a wicked grin toward Vince and Greg, Draco pulled his broom up, racing into the air as quickly as he could. 

Theo let out a shriek at once, tightening one fist into Draco’s robes and banging the other against his back. “You filthy liar!”

Draco howled with laughted as he flew as high as the broom would go, flanked by Vince and Greg. In a chorus of cruel cackling, punctuated by Theo’s panicked, wobbling shouts, the three boys flew in a tight circle, until they were dizzy and windswept.

They couldn’t have been that high in the air – training brooms had fairly limited height capabilities – but in Draco’s memory, they were soaring above the earth, grazing the sky itself. 

When Draco came back to the present, blinking the memory away, Theo was glaring, unimpressed but lacking heat. “You were all arseholes.”

Draco laughed, though he didn’t disagree.

“Still are sometimes,” Theo said, unfolding his legs and stretching them out, so his feet rested beside Draco’s hip. With a shrug, he added. “But I don’t know. You’re a bit different this year. Less of a monster, at least.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, extending his legs in a matching position, crossing his arms. “I’ll have you know there are plenty of people who can still attest to my monsterous-ness.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Theo rolled his eyes. “You’ve just been quieter is all.”

Draco shrugged. “A lot to think about this year.”

“Yeah, I understand that.” Letting out a sigh, Theo sat up straighter, stretching his neck from side to side. “Speaking of which, do you want to try in reverse now?”

Draco agreed with a nod. Legilimency was the more appealing magic, truthfully, and though he hadn’t had much luck getting into Theo’s mind yet, he much preferred invading to being invaded. When Theo gave the signal, Draco looked into his eyes and cast. “ Legilimens. ”

He found himself almost immediately in the candle-lit drawing room of the Nott Family Manor. Outside the windows, it was midnight-dark, and though the room was crackling with the warmth from the fireplace, Draco somehow knew it was winter in the memory.

Theo was sitting on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his ancient kneazle, his deceased mother’s pet, curled up on his lap. Mr. Nott, meanwhile, paced around the room with a brandy glass, filled to the brim. The man’s other hand was clenching and unclenching, over and over like a heartbeat. Below, his sleeves were rolled up, the Dark Mark black against the reddening skin of his right forearm. 

Theo rubbed at his eyes, as if he’d recently woken up. “Are you alright, Father?”

“I…” Mr. Nott stammered, staring down at his arm, then back up at Theo. Stumbling forward, he shoved the limb in his son's face. The kneazle hissed and jumped as he approached, scurrying under the couch. “Son, does this look darker to you?”

Theo blinked at his father’s Mark, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I think so.”

Mr. Nott swallowed, nodded. “I do, as well.”

“Father,” Theo asked quietly, “isn’t that…good? Doesn’t it mean that the Dark Lord could be–”

“Yes, yes…” Mr. Nott interrupted in a hurried slur, pulling his sleeve back down. He nodded, taking a fortifying gulp of his drink. “Of course.”

Apprehension rolled off Theo in waves, seeping into Draco’s skin by proxy, and when they blinked back into the dorm room a moment later, they both let out shaking exhales. Theo studied his face, waiting for something, a reaction. But Draco could only blink at him, clenching his own fists to push out the anxiety he’d absorbed from the memory.

“That was last winter?” Draco asked eventually.

“Boxing Day,” Theo confirmed. “I went home after the Yule Ball, remember.”

Draco nodded, but his face remained a question. The two boys sat in silence, the memory swirling thickly in the air between them, until Theo quietly asked, “Do you ever get scared?”

Chewing at his lip, Draco asked quietly, “Of what?”

“There’s going to be another war.” Something flickered across his face as he said it, a sad sort of desperation, but it disappeared in the next blink, before Draco could make sense of it.

“Yeah, but…” Draco said, “It’ll be a good thing, right? In the end? Father says it’s regrettable, but necessary. For the greater good.”

“Yeah, I know.” Then, softer still as if sharing a secret, he whispered, “but people die in wars.”

Hands clasped in front of him, Draco couldn’t tell if the tremor in his hand was borrowed from Theo’s memory or something entirely his own.

***

The next morning, Draco woke with a dread usually reserved for Azkaban inmates. The mirror peppered him with compliments as he styled his hair, but his face in the reflection was somehow even paler than usual.

Noticing Draco’s solemnity, Blaise reached over to muss up his hair, laughing uproariously when Draco swatted at him, huffing, “Quit it!”

“Awe, is Ickle Draco nervous for his big date?” Blaise gave an exaggerated pout, eliciting quiet chuckles from Greg and Vince, that Draco quieted with a glare. 

“Don’t be nervous, Draco,” Greg said in a gruff but supportive voice. “Pansy’s mad over you.”

“Too much,” Vince agreed quietly with a shake of his head. “She was going on and on about you at dinner last night. She’s mental.”

“That’s the problem,” Draco muttered as he buttoned up the front of his robes with pointed focus. He was nervous for the date, but not that it might go poorly. His thoughts were wider in scope, more existential. Everything was just happening quite quickly. After this date, he’d officially be courting Pansy. Her family was coming to the Manor for Yule Dinner, and he supposed that meant they’d attend the Greengrass Family’s Winter Gala together. And that’d be it then. They’d be together. They’d get married at eighteen. Have the next Malfoy heir. Raise him in the Manor. Ministry job, Death Eater. Bish bash bosh. Draco exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. 

“Not a bad problem, then,” Blaise laughed, lounging back on his own bed. “If she gets too much, just meet us at the Three Broomsticks. Maybe she’ll even let you book a room for the afternoon, if you catch my drift.”

At the salacious wink that followed, Draco turned back to the mirror only for his gaze to land on Theo, who was already watching him. The other boy gave an eye roll in solidarity.

Draco left early to meet Pansy in the entrance hall, and when she appeared in expensive, new robes with her hair braided back, he made sure to wear a charming smile as he said, “You look lovely.”

Autumn leaves coated the ground on the walk to Hogsmeade, but the air felt unseasonably warm. Draco’s palm felt sweaty where Pansy held it, but she didn’t seem to notice because she only grabbed on tighter as they trekked downhill. Draco had been mildly worried that the day would be awkward – packed as it was with heavy expectations – but Pansy launched into a dramatic play-by-play about the fight that had occurred in the girls’ dorm the previous night, and Draco found himself laughing and making snide comments along with her like he always did.

At Madame Puttifoot’s, they sat next to the window and went through their usual roster of gossip and shit-talking over mini-sandwiches. This isn't so bad, Draco thought as he sipped on cinnamon tea, but then Pansy slid her foot up the back of his calf, and the room suddenly felt stuffy and loud.

True to his word, Draco took Pansy to the jeweler’s afterward and bought her a ruby pendant on a silver chain. With a broad smile, she turned around, parting her hair for Draco to secure the clasp. They went through the shops together, impulse-buying to their hearts content. Continuously, though, the very second Draco began to enjoy himself, Pansy gripped his hand or touched his hair or kissed his cheek. Every time, he winced without meaning to. After the fifth time, she asked if he had stomach cramps.

“I’m fine,” Draco snapped, checking his reflection in a shop window to make sure Pansy’s lipstick had stayed on her lips. When he turned back, she was pouting, brows creased together almost petulantly.

Down the road, a group of Slytherins entered the Three Broomsticks. Draco turned back to Pansy. “Do you want to get a Butterbeer?”

When she nodded, relief settled across Draco, welcome as the autumn breeze. Still holding hands, they walked across the street and ducked into the warm glow of the pub just in time for the lunch rush.

Draco had only taken one step toward the Slytherins when Pansy stopped him, pointing to a cozy booth in the corner. She gave him a shy smile. “Can we sit there?”

“I, er…” Draco swallowed, rubbing a resigned hand across his face. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get us drinks and meet you there.”

He ordered their Butterbeers, then leaned up against the bar to wait, tracing a finger over decades of scuffs and initials carved into the wood.

“Three Butterbeers, please.”

Draco’s eyes flicked up of their own accord, drawn to Potter’s voice like moths to candlelight. The other boy lifted a hand to adjust his glasses, fingers then pushing into his hair, flattening it, pulling strands over his scar. Draco chewed on his lip, watching, wondering if it was worth it to mess with him right then. Head full of nothing but wind noises, he hadn’t yet thought of a jibe when Potter looked up and across the bar, meeting his gaze. He flinched, like Draco had blasted a Lumos in his eyes.

Two pints of butterbeer slammed down on the bar, reclaiming Draco’s attention for a moment as warm foam splashed over the lip and onto his wrist. He muttered a thanks to the barkeep, only to look back up and find Potter staring him down, wearing an uneasy expression. On instinct, Draco grimaced back, feeling a prickle of dissatisfaction when the other boy merely deflated and turned away. Draco shook his head to himself, baffled by Potter’s recent bout of weirdness. Even weirder than normal. Even at his lowest in the past, Potter had always been able to muster up a scowl where Draco was concerned. Had he been Confunded?

Despite his wishes, Draco had no time to sit and ponder about Potter because Pansy was waving an impatient hand at him from across the pub. With a swallowed sigh, he plastered a fresh smile on his face and found his place beside her.

Tucked into the shadowy corner booth, they were cut off from the bustle, the raucous noise around them almost like a sheet, offering the illusion of privacy in the packed room. Pansy must have chosen that strategically because the moment Draco placed their drinks down, she practically swung her legs over him, onto his lap.

“Draco…” she said softly, biting her lip. “Thank you for making time for me today. I’ve wanted to talk to you about…us, you know.”

Draco’s stomach swirled at the words, like he’d taken a Draught of Ipecac. He choked on his Butterbeer mid-sip, sputtering into his fist. “I, uh…Yeah, about what?”

She smiled coyly, and he almost had to admire her tenacity, entirely unperturbed as she was by the coughing fit he was still struggling to suppress.

“Well, we've never actually talked about it.” She shrugged, subtly bringing their bodies closer in the process. Her hand came up to play with the collar of his shirt, an absent-minded looking gesture that he was sure she’d meticulously planned. He stiffened as her dark eyes flicked down to his lips, back up, then down again. Her voice came out in a whisper. “But we’re a bit older now, so I thought…”

Draco swallowed, facing her closing eyes and parting lips like they were his casket, and before he knew it, he was being tugged by the collar, her mouth finding his. True to nature, his body froze beneath her cold hands. They were both holding their breath, faces pressed together, and then just as suddenly, it was over. She pulled back just so, still somehow preening as she stared at him with blinking eyes as if waiting to be graded.

Instinctively, he offered a placid smile, fully intending to pull back and hopefully shove a few more inches between them. If he played it right, he could pass his aversion off as being gentlemanly. Something he was doing for her benefit. But then he glanced over his shoulder and found wide green eyes burning a hole into his forehead.

Granger and Weasley were engaged in some sort of argument, completely oblivious to Potter’s rigid form between them. He watched Draco openly, fifteen different expressions warring for claim over his face. Curiosity surging in his veins, Draco leaned forward without thinking, capturing Pansy’s lips once more with his own. Eyes still open, he watched Potter watch him. As he lifted his hand to Pansy’s neck. As he opened his mouth to welcome her tongue.

The kissing was…fine. It wasn’t as gross as he’d expected. It was just– Nothing. A bit wet. Skin, breath, the shared taste of Butterbeer. Pansy kept poking her tongue in and out of his mouth, and it reminded him of having the hiccups – annoying, arrhythmic intrusions.

When Pansy finally pulled away, her lips were shiny and her face was flushed. It was an intriguing sight, if only because Pansy so rarely blushed. His attention drifting back to the Gryffindor trio’s table, Draco felt his chest clench when he saw Potter was gone, his friends still bickering as if there wasn’t an empty space between them.

When Draco excused himself, Pansy flashed a knowing look that made him want to roll his eyes, but he begrudgingly allowed her to overestimate her effect on him. Correcting her was probably not the best way to keep this date successful.

Scrambling out of the booth and toward the washroom, Draco pushed open the door to find Potter at the farthest sink, scrubbing his hands with enough force to strip his own skin. He jumped at the sound of the door, blinking at Draco like he was the damn Bloody Baron, then glared back down at the basin. Brows furrowed and intrigue pumping, Draco approached the adjacent sink, walking like the swing of his hips could brag.

In the mirror, Draco was surprised to see himself looking somewhat bedraggled – hair sticking up at the back, collar pulled crooked, and the skin on his chin splotched with red. He tutted at himself, wetting his hands to comb his hair back into place. All the while, Potter’s gaze rested heavy on him. Draco listened intently to the running water from both their sinks, but even when Potter’s stopped flowing, the git stayed planted, body turned toward Draco. Watching. His attention burned, direct sun on pale skin, sizzling.

“What?” Draco snapped when the heat of Potter’s eyes became unbearable.

Alarm crossed Potter’s features, but he buried it quickly, gesturing ambiguously to his own mouth. “You’ve got lipstick on your face.”

In the mirror, Draco turned to see pink smeared on the corner of his mouth, pulling up toward his cheek. His face grew warm as he wiped it off, but a rush of indignation followed. “What’s wrong, Potter? Jealous?”

Unease flicked across Potter’s face, so fast Draco might have imagined it, before he scoffed. “More like nauseated.”

“Sure,” Draco drawled, talking more to his reflection than the boy next to him. Looking Potter in the eyes would only make the sloshing feeling in his stomach worse. “It must be hard to be you. Wealthy, famous, and still can’t get a girl to go near you? Tough life, Potter.”

Potter shook his head as he dried his hands, and Draco recognized the slow movements for barely contained rage. He smirked to himself. If he pushed just a little more, he might finally elicit one of the classic Potter-explosions he’d been so craving. The other boy muttered something under his breath, and Draco nearly laughed, anticipation flooding his brain.

Instead though, Potter looked up, stone-faced, and calmly said, “Careful, Malfoy. With you parading Parkinson about like that, people might think you’re…over-compensating for something.”

The blood went cold in Draco’s veins, freezing him solid like the very air was made of ice. The only thing to break it was Potter’s brow, raised in challenge. Draco pushed forward, shoving him against the wall, crowding close to lord his height over the other boy. But Potter looked back defiantly, chin-raised. Draco glowered. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Potter opened his mouth as if to shout, but when Draco’s eyes locked on the movement, the words seemed to get caught in his throat. Something warm and strange prickled across the back of Draco’s neck. Ice melting, dripping chills down his back. Potter searched his face – once, twice – but whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find. Again, he opened his mouth, and Draco could almost taste the question on his tongue, but then he shook his head and pushed away, marching straight out the door.

Draco, though, stood in place for several long moments, trying to make sense of the interaction. Why was Potter behaving so strangely? What had he been implying with his comment? These were important questions, but Draco had no answers, stuck as he was on the image of Potter’s open mouth. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s head had been aching for the last three days – three torturous days spent fervently avoiding He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (and Harry didn’t mean Voldemort.) 

It was like someone – No One – had died. A piece of Harry’s already wounded spirit had been tortured and killed right there in the Potions classroom, bled out under Malfoy’s quill. But it also felt mortifyingly clear now that his relationship with No One had been…nothing. Just a one-sided secret he had to pretend he wasn’t grieving.

Grief was greedy too. It dug its fingers into the dirt, unearthing everything Harry had worked so hard to bury. When he closed his eyes at night, he saw not only his precious letters covered in blood but also Cedric’s lifeless eyes. His parents’ distant spirits. The Dursleys’ shrieking faces. Then he woke up feeling completely stupid for getting so worked up over a stack of letters in the first place.

Yet the bloody blond bastard continued on, stalking the halls and being a horrible bother, as if he hadn’t completely flipped Harry’s world upside down. 

Harry was of two minds – part of him hoped to never see the grey-eyed demon again. They only had two and a half years left at Hogwarts after all. Perhaps, if Harry tried really hard he could avoid ever seeing him again. He could chuck the blasted candle in the Black Lake and forget the whole thing ever happened. But the other part of him was wading in perilous waters, thinking dangerous thoughts. Despite himself, Harry started to consider Malfoy differently – as a gilded cage, a porcelain body with No One trapped inside. If Harry smashed him open like a haunted doll, would the spirit of some other boy be released – the boy Harry couldn’t stop thinking about?

When Ron had suggested they stake out the Slytherin Quidditch Practice, Harry could hardly put up a fight without giving himself away. Ron was so nervous for the upcoming match, one would think the losing team got executed. Harry tried to be reassuring, to point out the Slytherin Chasers weak spots, but he found himself unable to focus on much of anything besides Malfoy in the air above them. 

All things considered, Malfoy wasn’t a bad Seeker, though Harry would be loath to admit it. He was distractible and impatient, though. Never took the time to truly look for the Snitch, always waited for Harry to spot it first. But he was quite fast when he put his mind to it, and like Harry, he was never afraid to go there. He’d smash headfirst into the ground if it meant winning the game. Harry certainly wouldn’t elbow Cho in the face while racing for the Snitch, but with Malfoy, he did without a second thought. It felt primal, like animals fighting with teeth and claws. As he watched the other boy lazily circle the sky, completely unaware of the Snitch fluttering a few feet above his head, Harry felt suddenly eager for the upcoming match.

But, of course, the git had to ruin that too, flying down to flash that awful, smarmy smirk and make some tired quip about Harry’s dead parents. And Harry felt his faint glimmer of curiosity blink out and die, the grief washing over him like cold rain.

So the following morning, when Harry was reminded that it was a Hogsmeade weekend, he was far from keen. Halloween was two days away, and the older Harry got, the more he dreaded the day. For most, it was a day of fun – tricks and treats. A Grand Feast and fun ghost stories. But for Harry, it was the day his life was smashed apart. Parents dead, forehead scarred, the promise of a happy childhood ripped away forever. Most of the time, he could cope with it well enough. But everything had felt a bit heavy lately. He only begrudgingly pulled himself out of bed because he knew Sirius was waiting to see him. 

Ron and Hermione got in a row sometime during breakfast. Bickering was a part of their standard morning routine as far as Harry was concerned, and today started no differently: Hermione accused Ron of not taking their O.W.L. year seriously, then Ron told Hermione to pull the stick out of her arse. At some point, though, the intensity rose, Ron started going on about Viktor Krum, and Harry lost track of the argument entirely. By the time they were done eating, Ron was red in the face and Hermione was muttering under her breath, but even though Harry said he could go to Hogsmeade alone, they both insisted on coming. As they walked down the hill towards town, they were back at each other’s throats, and Harry’s head was aching with twice the ferocity.

Visiting Sirius was nice, but it came with an inevitable wave of guilt. The fact that his godfather was living as a dog in a cold, dirty cave solely to be close to him was always on Harry’s mind, and it didn’t help that Harry could only visit every couple of weeks. Couldn’t write letters with any real substance lest they got intercepted. Sirius was the only real family Harry had, and he couldn't even be there for him properly. He only got through it by reminding himself that one day – hopefully soon – Sirius’s name would be cleared, and they could live together, happy and healthy in a real house. That promise had gotten Harry through two summers with the Dursleys, and it would get him through one more year, one more Halloween.

Once safely inside the cave, though, Sirius abandoned his Animagus form to reveal dirty skin, visible bones, and matted hair. Harry couldn’t look away, like his mind was set on cataloguing the image, determined to recreate it perfectly in his next nightmare.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Sirius asked four separate times over the course of the hour.

Harry felt his chin wobble and his breath catch. Sirius understood betrayal more than most – would he understand why Harry felt so crushed by No One’s identity? If Ron and Hermione hadn’t been there, Harry might have cracked and unloaded everything onto the cold cave floor. But then he remembered that Sirius probably hated the Malfoys more than even Ron did, so he cleared his throat and replied, “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

By late afternoon, Harry wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and sleep the weekend away, but Ron shot him a hopeful smile and asked, “Up for a butterbeer?”

Still submerged in guilt over Sirius's state, Harry agreed but quickly regretted it when he had the misfortune of laying eyes on Malfoy’s pointy face at the bar. Instantly, he felt a wave of fury so intense he could hardly speak, but beneath that was an undercurrent of shame too. How had he let himself get so invested in the scribblings of a stranger? He chastised himself all the way back to the table where Ron and Hermione were – of course – rehashing their argument anew.

“–it’s rich of you to say I’m going on and on about homework,” Hermione was arguing, “which is actually important , by the way, when you spend all your time for weeks harping on about this stupid Quidditch match!” 

“You didn’t think Quidditch was so stupid last year, though, did you,” Ron fought back, “when you were busy mooning over Krum?”

“I was not mooning–”

“So you’re only interested in Quidditch players who have giant muscles and a trillion galleons, is that it?”

Hermione balked. “I cannot believe you would even imply–!”

Harry’s head fell into his hands as he took a fortifying sip of butterbeer, hoping the other two would follow his lead. The faster they drank, the sooner they could leave. 

Of course, he lifted his head just in time to watch Malfoy swap spit with Pansy Parkinson. 

Hot fury licked up Harry’s throat, flashing red across his eyes.

What. A. Bloody. SNAKE!

Malfoy had written many times, late into the night, about a girl he didn’t want to date. By his own admission, he didn’t want to take Parkinson to Hogsmeade. He’d called it a chore. He didn’t even like her at all! In fact, Harry thought ruefully, he had a pretty good idea who Malfoy did like, but he couldn’t let his mind so much as glance down that route.

That wasn’t the issue anyway.

The issue was that Malfoy was a horrible, rotten liar. A complete fake, a fabricated person. And Harry was the only one who knew the extent of it.

Yet here the git was, making out with Parkinson like it was all he wanted to be doing in the world. It made Harry feel sick.

He excused himself to the bathroom, though Ron and Hermione were too deep in their argument to acknowledge his disappearance.

He didn’t mean to confront Malfoy in the bathroom. Didn't mean to imply what he had – that Malfoy was in the closet – even if he suspected it was true. He didn't mean to say it like he had, like an insult, but...

Harry just couldn’t take looking at him. His stupid, smug face or the lipstick on his cheek. All of it added pressure on his hairpin trigger of a temper. 

So he pushed. 

And when the other boy shoved him against the wall and stood above him with eyes that might have been furious but might have been scared, Harry knew only one thing:

Malfoy was nothing but a collection of lies, stacked on top of each other. If Harry pulled on the end and unravelled them all, what would he find in the center? Probably nothing. Just empty air, without anything real underneath.

Harry pushed away, stamped out the pub, and walked back to the castle alone.

***

“What do you reckon Malfoy meant with that I’m your biggest fan nonsense?” Ron worried at breakfast, chewing at his thumbnail like it was an appetizer. “He said he’ll have a surprise for me at the Gryffindor-Slytherin Match. I don’t want a surprise from him. A surprise from Malfoy is like a birthday present from the devil.”

“Yeah…” Harry muttered, only half paying attention as he glared at the blond head across the Great Hall. “He’s evil.”

“Merlin, way to make a bloke feel better!” Ron groaned. “You and ‘Mione better throw me a good funeral, at least. I’m talking solid gold coffin.”

As Ron catastrophized about all the awful pranks Malfoy might pull on him, a new thought occurred to Harry. What if everything with the candle had been intentional? After all, this was the same boy who challenged Harry to a fake duel in first year, just to get him caught by Filch. Could Malfoy have somehow planted the candle, expecting Harry to find it? Maybe the plan was to get Harry invested in someone seemingly-perfect, just to expose him in The Prophet? Or maybe, Harry thought, it was a legitimate Death Eater plot. Lucius Malfoy had been in that graveyard last June. His son could easily be a little Death-Eater-in-Training, tasked to get into Harry’s head and poison his brain with confusing nonsense.

Harry felt himself spiralling in what-ifs, but he had to admit his wild theories didn’t make much sense. It was pure chance that Harry had found the candle in the Gryffindor common room; it could have ended up with anyone. And if the goal was to expose or embarrass, Harry had far more dirt on No One than vice versa – pages upon pages of private confessions. Harry’s longing was unvoiced and unprovable.

These realizations should have eased Harry’s anxiety, but they only wound him tighter. Because if the letters weren’t a joke or a ploy, then they had to be real…

No. No!  

Harry couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t even fathom the concept. Draco Malfoy simply couldn’t have written the things Harry had read in those letters, under any circumstances. He wasn’t capable of it. No One was sensitive and thoughtful, creative and earnest and just sarcastic enough to be compelling. Malfoy, on the other hand, was a poisonous snake, a mound of rotting garbage in the shape of a boy. He couldn’t write the words No One had written, couldn’t feel the kinds of things he felt. It was an impossibility, as far as Harry was concerned.

Braced for No One's next letter, Harry had spent his recent nights somehow more sleepless than usual, waiting up in abject terror for its arrival. He wasn’t even sure what he would do if a letter did arrive – analyze it under a magnifying glass or rip it into pieces or maybe just pray it said something like just so you know, I’m not a Slytherin arsehole, I just have identical handwriting to one.

For better or worse, though, no letters came. Neither did sleep as Harry found himself caught up on a new theory – what if Malfoy hadn’t written the letters at all? 

Spreading his stockpile across his bedding, Harry reread each letter – captivated anew – and suddenly remembered something Hermione had said about penmanship being like regional dialects. He sat up quickly, blinking into the darkness. Both Malfoy and No One had careful, precise cursive. But most Purebloods grew up with fancy tutors, right? What if they were all taught to write the same way, to follow a similar style?

Besides, Harry reasoned, he hadn’t even gotten that good of a look at Malfoy’s handwriting. What if they weren’t the same – just similar? He nodded to himself, grabbing at the excuse like an antidote, chugging it down.

But he had to be sure.

***

As Snape droned on in Potions, Harry couldn’t sit still. His leg bounced up and down under the desk with such velocity he might have worn a hole in the stone floor. With their Everlasting Elixir project completed, Harry was back with Ron, while Malfoy was on the other side of the room entirely, partnered with Theodore Nott. Harry stared at the blond with enough fervor to set his hair on fire, pointedly ignoring Ron’s questioning looks.

When class finally ended, the Slytherins moved like a fog, flocking together as they pushed into the corridor. Harry shot out of his seat, chasing after them. “Malfoy!”

The Slytherins paused as a unit, freezing in the chilled dungeon hall. Malfoy turned, head tilted, eyes narrowed curiously. “What do you want, Scarhead?”

“I, er…” Harry cleared his throat. “Can I borrow your Potions notes?”

Draco blinked uncomprehendingly as his Housemates broke out in a chorus of confused laughter. “Why in Salazar’s name would I give you my notes?”

So I can compare your handwriting to that of my secret admirer, Harry couldn’t say. Instead, he shrugged. “We did well on the last project.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” Malfoy said rudely. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle cackled, as if they’d ever made a potion that didn’t turn out looking like moldy porridge. Malfoy smirked, emboldened by the laughter, absorbing it like a dementor consumed souls. “Besides, isn’t that what your Mudblood is for?”

Before the boy could take another breath, Harry had his wand against his throat. “Don’t.”

Harry felt his blood pressure rise, his face flush in anger, but Malfoy looked…almost pleased. Silver eyes glittered, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, like his favourite place to be was at the end of Harry’s wand.

A shiver ran up Harry’s spine. Stumbling back with a shake of the head, he abandoned the horde of chuckling Slytherins to find Ron and Hermione standing by the Potions classroom, staring at him as if he were covered in blood.

“Erm, mate?” Ron asked. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Harry’s tone ended their line of questioning, though he felt Hermione’s curiosity trail after him as he strode past and down the hall.

All through lunch, Harry scolded himself, scowling down at his food with enough vigor to frighten the cutlery. When Hermione cleared her throat, Harry’s eyes snapped up.

“Harry…?” she asked gently.

“What?” he barked.

Hermione seemed to reconsider her question, smoothing her expression to ask, “Would you like to come to the library with us?”

With a sigh, Harry rubbed under his glasses, guilt prickling at his eyes. He nodded. “Sure, ‘Mione.”

They were only settled at their usual library table for a blessed five minutes before Malfoy, Nott, and Zabini strutted in and camped out a few tables over. Harry suddenly understood Dobby’s propensity to smash his head into hard surfaces. Any chance of a successful study session flew right out the window as Harry found his gaze glued to Malfoy’s lowered head, the quick scrawl of his left hand across parchment.

As the light from the windows slowly darkened, Harry’s anger ebbed and flowed like the ocean tides. Fury crashed against his shores, familiar and targeted, each time he glanced up at Malfoy’s sharp-featured face. As the day’s exhaustion seeped in, though, his thoughts wandered, lingering on things he’d never really noticed before. Like the way Malfoy bit his lips while writing, then mouthed his own words as he proofread them. When Zabini muttered something, Malfoy flashed a grin – a genuine one, unguarded. Just as the setting sun flashed through the window, Malfoy raked a hand through his hair, and for a moment, he seemed to glow, golden sunlight gleaming across the soft, pale planes of his skin. And Harry lost his breath – for only a second.

Until the fury came crashing back, a tidal wave against the shore.

Because this was MALFOY! Evil, slimy Malfoy. What did it matter if he was attractive? Not that Harry thought he was attractive. Because he wasn’t. He was ugly – hideous! – on the inside. It made no difference how soft his hair looked or how glowy his skin was or how white his teeth were–

“You alright, mate?”

“Huh?” Harry blinked to attention, and Ron’s worried expression came into focus. “Oh, yeah, fine.”

Harry looked down to find he’d pressed his quill so hard into his parchment, there was a great blob of ink across his essay’s introduction. “Bugger…”

Blinking hard, Harry forced his attention back to his essay, angling his textbook as a blockade against vile, glowy, posh boys. Beside him, Hermione had already written two pages while Ron had given up on working entirely and was doodling in the margins of his half-finished outline.

Six sentences later, a chair scraped, and Harry peeked over the top of his Charms book to see Malfoy stand and stretch. After muttering something to Nott and Zabini, he wandered between the bookshelves.

Harry had no time to hesitate. He needed to rid himself of this confusing mess, shove the scourge of Malfoy away from the purity of No One. If he proved they were separate, then maybe he’d stop noticing the git's stupid, shiny hair. 

Beneath the table, he pointed his wand, willing the remaining Slytherins to look away. The moment they did, he whispered, “Accio.”

Whizzing away from Malfoy’s stack of papers, a single piece of parchment flew straight into Harry’s waiting hand. In one smooth motion, he folded and pocketed it. 

Hermione’s quill paused. Her head turned toward him, assessing. She raised a brow, just so, but Harry forced his eyes down as if he didn’t notice. As if he were actually writing his essay, though they both knew he wasn’t.

Harry managed to avoid Hermione’s questions until well after dinner. Naively, he almost thought he got away with it. But of course, Hermione was smarter than that, waiting until Ron was deep in a chess match with Dean to pull him aside. 

“What’s going on with Malfoy?” She asked quietly, eyebrows drawn in concern. 

“What? Nothing.” Harry said in a rush. Hermione simply blinked at him until he sighed, “Nothing really.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem like nothing…” she said. “You’ve been preoccupied with him all day. In class, in the library, at dinner…”

“I’ve not been preoccupied,” Harry replied. “I’ve been a very normal amount of occupied.”

“Why though?” Hermione asked, hushing her voice. “Do you think he’s up to something?”

“I dunno, maybe!”

She crossed her arms. “And you’re going to find out by stealing his class notes?”

“I dunno, Hermione,” Harry groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. He felt his anger spark – this ever-present thing, waiting just below the surface of his skin. “Maybe I’m just paranoid because, oh yeah, his father wants me dead!”

Hermione sighed, a soft pitying sound that made Harry grit his teeth. “Of course, you are, Harry. That’s completely normal, but you’re not alone in any of this. Do you want me to keep an eye on him too?”

“No, no!” said Harry. “It’s fine. I mean…I doubt he really is up to anything. I mean, it’s Malfoy. He’s all talk.”

Hermione nodded, her brows drawn, eyes swimming with sympathy.

Harry sighed. “I think I’m just gonna go to bed.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assured her. “Just tired. Beat Ron in chess for me, okay?”

Hermione chuckled. “Sure, and tomorrow, I’ll beat you in Quidditch.”

***

As soon as his bed curtains were shut, Harry pulled out the paper he’d nicked from Malfoy. Turns out, he'd stolen his Charms essay, Harry realized with a wince. It was good, too. Much better than Harry’s – surely, he deserved to plagiarize it after all the shit Malfoy had put him through.

Harry grabbed the longest No One letter from his trunk and held it up next to Malfoy’s essay, shining his Lumos across the two. Letter-by-letter, he compared them, but by the second sentence, Harry knew he was doomed.

They were exactly the same. 

Sharp c’s and s’s, looping y’s and g’s, the o’s in Draco Malfoy identical to those in No One. Even the ink was the same colour.

Hands shaking, Harry let the papers flutter to the bed. He cast a Muffliato and screamed into his pillow until his lungs burned.

Angry and tired, Harry lay there, staring hopelessly at the stack of letters he’d cherished. Should he rip them to shreds? Burn them? That was a more poetic end, perhaps. Or better yet, he could send them back through the candle. Let Malfoy be driven mad by them for once.

Harry was ready to do it. Rid himself of the whole affair, but then–

Cinnamon clove smoke swirled up around his head. Harry felt his patience twist and then snap. 

Fucking Malfoy…!

He couldn’t even let Harry bury the corpse of his imagined friend in peace.

Harry had a half a mind to march down to the dungeons and throw the candle right at the git’s head. Staring at the smoke, Harry shook his head, as if rejecting the candle itself. He would not keep doing this, involving himself in Malfoy’s bizarre, emotional ranting. He was done! He’d washed his hands of it!

The smoke curled and thinned, slowly fading away…

Harry threw his hand forward at the last second, catching the smoke just before it disappeared. The parchment formed between his fingers, solid as a handshake, and Harry cursed himself as he opened it and read–

Dear No One,

When I was a small child, I had this recurring dream that I was lost in my mother’s gardens. It always started very lovely. The rose bushes were as tall as castle walls, their flowers in perfect bloom. Jasmine petals blew in the wind, and the air smelled of lavender. In the dream, I just wandered around, for what felt like hours, days even.

But then, at random times, in the blink of an eye, the sun would go out, night dropping down like a blanket over my head. And in the dark, the wind smelled rancid, like dead fish, and snakes slithered in the bushes. And my father’s blasted peacocks chased after me with their horrid, red eyes. 

Then I’d turn a corner, and the sun was back. The flowers, the fresh breeze. Only happy finches flittering about. And, suddenly, I could hardly remember what I’d been scared of in the first place. Until it happened again.

I’m not sure why I remembered that, but it’s been a bizarre day today. I got a letter from Father this morning informing me that he’ll be at the next Quidditch match. Which is exciting but also confusing. He’s never come to a Quidditch match before. I’m a bit cross that he’s coming to this particular match. Why couldn’t he come see us wipe the pitch with the Hufflepuffs? No, of course, he has to come when we’re against Gryffindor. I’ll just have to practice harder for this one and hope Weasley is as pathetic as we expect he’ll be. Nevertheless, I’m eager for Father to be there. Just not sure why exactly…Perhaps he feels bad for ignoring me all bloody summer.

Don’t get me started on Potter. He’s been such a freak. Why can’t I stop thinking about his mouth? I’m going to go live on the bottom of the ocean where I won’t have to deal with him anymore. 

Given the approach of Samhain, I suppose strangeness is to be expected. Ever since Grandfather passed, Mother has taken the Old Holidays quite seriously. Father thinks they’re a bit barmy, but I don’t mind, truly. I enjoy the stories.

During Samhain, the veil between our world and the next is said to be delicate as silk, thin enough to hear the whispers from beyond. Mother and I used to visit Grandfather’s resting place then walk through the fields of Wiltshire, where she would tell me the story of her long-gone ancestor, Caoimhe Black.

Both Caoimhe and her twin sister Orla were talented young witches. Alike in nearly every way, they were perhaps one soul, split between two bodies. The twins lived on a beautiful riverbank, and each morning and night, they crossed the stream. One morning, they traversed it for the final time, neither knowing they’d never be home together again.

That evening, a horrible storm rolled in, and the river flooded, flowing fiercely and hungrily. When the girls attempted their journey home, the current swept young Orla away. In a single flash of lightning, half of Caoimhe’s soul was ripped away, flushed downstream, never to be seen again. The girl refused to leave the riverside as she begged her sister to emerge from its waters. Her tears swelled the current, and her howling strengthened the wind. But there was nothing to be done. Orla was truly gone.

Family and friends came to the river and pleaded with Caoimhe to leave, to come inside and grieve properly, but Caoimhe could not. To grieve was to accept, to understand that her sister was gone. So she sat in the grass as the summer passed, as the autumn rolled in, and the air grew chill. She sat still as a stone until Samhain arrived. 

The dark spirits of the forest, of the river and the storms, they’d spent months listening eagerly to Caoimhe’s pleading tears. They knew she would do anything to get her sister back, and they were greedy for another living soul. When the witching hour came and the sky grew midnight black, an old spirit rose from the stream. She appeared as a woman, with a beautiful face and kind, open eyes, but inside, she was a coiled serpent with fangs bared to strike.

“Come, young one,” she called to Caoimhe. “Come lie in the river, and you’ll be with your sister once more.”

Caoimhe’s grief had grown heavy. Her shoulders ached with it. The promise of sleep, of dreams with Orla, was too sweet to bear. For the first time in months, the girl stumbled to her feet and walked into the stream. The current was strong and teeming with hungry spirits, reaching up to grab at her ankles. She approached the woman, wading to her knees, then deeper still, reaching for the woman with hope in her heart.

Nothing could stop her. Nothing but the sound of her own voice. Of Orla’s voice. Begging. “Please, Caoimhe. Please turn around.”

But Caoimhe could only cry, “I wish to be with you again. I’m meant to be with you.”

As her fingers brushed those of the old spirit, the mask of the woman collapsed, revealing the demon within. The river pulled her into its depths, with a strength she couldn’t think to fight.

But Orla would not allow her twin to drown. The little ghost girl pushed through the veil, fingernails deep in her living sister’s arm, and she pulled young Caoimhe back to shore. 

As she breathed life back into Caoimhe’s lungs, Orla said, “Please, my sister. You must live for us both. I can’t bear to watch your spirit decay.”

What could Caoimhe say besides, “But I wish to be with you.”

“I am with you every moment. I am with you every day. My soul is your soul, and I walk each step with you,” Orla replied. “One day, you may join me beyond the veil, but if you wish to hear my voice, you need only come back to this river on Samhain. But try as you might to leave this Earth early, I will always be here to save you.”

Mother always cried when she told that story. I think she still misses her sisters. 

Love,

No One.

Harry collapsed back onto his bed, eyes wet with reluctant tears.

God, he was truly fucked. 

Chapter Text

“Oi, Potter!” Draco shouted as he made his way down the grassy hill, a trail of Slytherins behind him like the body of a serpent, himself the head. He grinned with venom as he approached the Gryffindors. “Are you looking forward to the match tomorrow? I certainly am.”

Draco anticipated the retort: Looking forward to losing? That’s what Potter should have said – what he had said in the past! Draco would have taken anything at this point, even a lukewarm Sod off, Malfoy. But Potter couldn’t even manage that. Not even an eyeroll! The prat just turned away and rushed faster toward the Groundskeeper’s hut. 

“How about you, Weasel?” Draco followed after them. He felt like a beggar, chasing after Potter with cupped palms, yearning for an ounce of his bloody attention.

“Sod off, Malfoy,” said Weasley, and Draco grimaced. It wasn’t satisfying coming from him.

“I’m serious, Weasel,” Draco drawled as Vince, Greg, and Pansy took up their places beside him. “We’ve all been terribly excited for your inaugural match.”

“Absolutely.” Pansy laughed, sweet on the surface, sinister beneath. “You’re our favourite player, Weasley. Our King, really.”

They all chuckled. Most of Slytherin House had spent the previous night learning the lyrics he and Pansy had put together.

“What are you on about?” Weasley muttered defensively, but before Draco could respond, Potter was grabbing his friend by the shoulder and dragging him away. 

“Oh, come on, Potty!” Draco called after them. “Are you scared Weasel’s gonna get more famous than you?”

Potter turned over his shoulder with a scowl, and Draco felt his chest flutter in anticipation. But the boy only shook his head, his face more perplexed than angry, and continued on to Care of Magical Creatures without a word. Beside him, Vince and Greg were still laughing as Pansy started humming out the melody of Weasley is Our King, but Draco only huffed and kicked at the grass, a dull pressure forming in his chest.

“Oh, Salazar,” Pansy muttered under her breath as they approached the bottom of the hill to see Umbridge waiting there.

Draco chuckled and leaned into Pansy’s ear, pitching up his voice. “Hem, hem. Miss Parkinson, are you aware that your skirt is two centimeters shorter than Ministry standards? ”

Pansy groaned, tugging at the hem of her skirt. “It’s not funny!”

“What?” Draco laughed. “That you’re a ministry-certified slag?”

She smacked Draco across the arm. “I still can’t believe she pulled out a measuring tape and everything! It was mortifying.”

“Don’t fret, Pans,” said Draco, allowing her to take his hand. “She’s a half-blood hag on a power-trip. You probably remind her of her old bullies.”

“You think Umbridge was bullied in school?” Greg asked, eyeing the human toad on the forest’s edge. She wore pink and green frills, her clipboard clutched like a shield to her chest.

“Of course, she was,” Pansy sneered. “Look at her wardrobe.”

Vince squinted. “She’s dressed like a watermelon…” 

“A moldy, rotten one,” snarled Pansy.

Draco shushed them as they got closer because, while they all loathed the woman and her ridiculous attire, they also knew the best place to be was on her good side. Besides, watching her observe Hagrid’s class was sure to be a delight. 

As predicted, she derailed Hagrid’s lesson on thestrals almost immediately. She only spoke to him in a slow, condescending voice, resorting to crude gestures as if she were communicating with a gorilla. Pansy and Draco were practically falling on top of one another in silent laughter. When Umbridge interviewed the Slytherins about Hagrid’s teaching methods, Draco made sure his voice carried, regaling the class with all of Hagrid’s Worst Hits, horribly exaggerated though they may have been. Infuriatingly, Potter continued to act as if Draco were invisible, failing to shoot his usual dirty looks when Draco performed his nastiest imitations of their brainless professor. Instead, all of Potter’s ire was aimed at Umbridge, which only served as another reason for Draco to hate her.

Potter stood with his hands in his robe pockets, shaking his head to himself as he stared into the forest, toward nothing as far as Draco could tell. Suddenly, though, the tree branches rustled, and Draco realized he must be watching one of the thestrals. Draco quickly dropped his gaze to his shoes in the grass. Leave it to Potter to wallow in dramatics during such an entertaining class period. Of course, Draco suddenly noticed, Theo was doing the exact same thing, standing slightly away from their Housemates, face painted in melancholy as he watched the invisible creatures graze.

Theo’s voice from the other day bobbed to the surface of Draco’s mind – people die in wars – but Draco quickly shoved it back under. He turned to Pansy instead, who was still chuckling at Hagrid’s sad attempts to regain order as Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown cried that the thestrals were omens of their impending death. Draco snorted; if only we could be so lucky. 

***

By the time Quidditch practice came to an end, Draco’s lungs were on fire. He’d never put so much effort into a practice before – usually, he half-arsed the team drills then did broom-tricks in the air until the snitch made itself known. These past two weeks, though, he’d been serious as an Unforgivable, training like he was getting paid for it. It was a bit of a sore spot, that he’d never beaten Potter to the snitch, and he couldn’t let it happen for another bloody year, especially not with his father in attendance.

After practice, as he collapsed onto a sofa in the common room, freshly showered and muscles sore, he felt hesitantly confident. The entirety of Slytherin House was prepared to serenade Weasley – Pansy had made sure of it – so if all went well, Potter would hopefully be so concerned for his floundering sidekick that he’d lose focus.

Then Draco would win. 

He exhaled, letting his head rest on the back of the couch. 

“Draco, darling!” Pansy appeared beside him, curling next to him, folding her legs over his thigh and grabbing at his face to kiss him.

“Hi, Pans.” He gave her a tight smile, as she fixed his collar and launched into a recap of her day.

It was strange to be dating her so officially. Mostly, things were normal. Talking to her was normal, still bantering and mocking and making each other laugh. In front of their housemates, Draco sometimes felt like a trophy in her hands, and there was a part of him that liked that. To be treated like something shiny and golden. But it was also a bit tiresome, a song and dance he didn’t always have the energy to put on. Tonight, he just wanted to sink into the couch.

“Er, Draco?” Theo’s voice interrupted Pansy’s monologue. She looked up at him like he was an intruding house-elf, but he continued on. “Sorry to interrupt, but didn’t you say you need to redo your Charms essay tonight?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah.” Draco blinked at the reminder. “Blaise is such a bastard. He obviously stole it.”

“Do you want to come to the library with me?” asked Theo.

“Yeah, probably should.” Draco sat up, removing Pansy’s legs from his lap. Relief flowed through him at the loss, and based on the twinkle in Theo’s eye, he had offered this escape on purpose. “Pans, I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”

“Oh, okay.” She sighed, slumping into the cushions with a pout.

Following Theo out into the corridor, Draco exhaled a sigh as he escaped the common room. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“No problem.” Theo answered but didn’t question him, for which Draco was grateful. “Actually, I was hoping you’d want to practice Occlumency some more.”

Draco considered it, biting his lip. “I do still need to do my Charms essay though.”

Theo chuckled. “Now who’s the swot?”

In the library, they found a secluded table in the back, hidden behind a shelf of dusty biographies. As they sat across from each other, Theo leaned forward, gazing intently into Draco’s eyes. Draco suppressed a nervous shiver, the eye contact making him feel like a bug pinned to a board.

Finally, Theo whispered, “Legilimens.”

Draco’s mind was a flaming forest, thick plumes of smoke snaking around his thoughts and memories, obscuring. Theo was a shadow in the back of his head, a cold spot in the water. Draco stalked his presence like Theo was merely prey in his woods, but as he approached, the presence blinked away, only to appear in a different, less protected area of the forest. He felt Theo reaching, parting the smoke-clouds and peering between the trees. Draco felt the memory just as Theo’s cold hands skimmed it – Christmas Hols, First Year. When break came to an end, Draco had cried like a baby, clinging to his mother’s arm before they left for King’s Cross. Nope, he thought now, rushing to rip the memory from Theo’s grasp, dunking him in black soot, too thick to see through.

“Good job,” Theo muttered softly, his eyes searching Draco’s as he dissipated like mist, reappearing in another part of Draco’s mind. 

This time, he reached not for a memory, but for a dream Draco’d had once. He was at the Yule Ball, his hair a disastrous plume atop his head and his dress robes neon orange and frilly like an elderly woman’s.

“Are you looking for embarrassing shit on purpose?”

“Maybe.” Theo snickered. “Good motivation, though, right?”

Draco groaned but focused on setting more fires, pushing smoke to the edges of his mind, blocking out the sun. Sweat prickled at Draco’s hairline, his breath growing weaker. He noted idly how strange it was to grow fatigued while hardly moving an inch. Theo made a frustrated sound and narrowed his eyes, racing around like a ghost in Draco’s head before fading entirely into the shadows. It was like a game of hide and seek.

Theo took so long to resurface that Draco thought he must have retreated entirely. Draco scratched his fingernails into the soft wood of the table, forcing his hands to stop their jittering, as he searched the darkness of his head. The smoke in his lungs felt real, burning. The moment he stilled to catch his breath, Theo dove from above like a falcon, piercing headfirst and relentlessly into a memory. 

Draco recognized the memory by feeling alone. It was drenched in both worry and admiration. He felt the stands beneath him, heard the cheering around him, as Potter flew his broom above that monstrous dragon, lifting up, up, up – daring the beast to follow. 

Draco-of-last-year's mouth had been desert-dry, his hands anxious and fidgeting. When the dragon blew a billow of heat at the dark-haired boy on the broom, the memory itself seemed to hold its breath. Fear blurred the edges, sharp prickles across the surface, but then Potter swooped down and stole the golden egg in one easy maneuver. Flying up above the stands, Potter held the egg up, like the show off he was, and the crowd exploded. The memory buzzed – irritation and envy, of course, but more than anything, there was hunger. He looked up at Potter like he was a five-course meal. Everything else in the memory was colorless, faded and blurry, sounds from underwater, but Potter was as clear and bright as if the moment were happening now.

In the present, Draco felt shame like a snake wrapping around his neck. He filled his mind with pitch black smoke, but somehow, Potter’s blazing eyes and sparkling smile shined right through, glittering beacons in the dark.

Across the table, Theo only raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but Draco felt panic shaking in his veins, burning up, turning into fury. Two could play that game. Draco leaned forward, elbows on the table, and with a cry of protest, pushed back against the cold shadow of Theo, shoved it with his nails dug in, and he fell forward into Theo’s head, breaking the surface of him like a calm, still lake.

He was vaguely aware of Theo’s alarm, unprepared as he was to Occlude, but running off the fumes of his embarrassed panic, Draco pushed forward mercilessly–

Suddenly, he was in a dark room, in a much smaller body.

“That’s a good boy, Theo,” a woman’s voice croaked from a canopy bed across the room. “Come over here.”

Young Theo’s palms were sweaty, his eyes misty, and his heart was pounding against his ribcage. Slippered feet eased into the room, and a small voice asked, “Mother?”

“Yes, darling. It’s me,” Theo’s mother said from the bed. “Come here, please.”

“Father said not to talk to you…” Theo whimpered. Uncertainty and fear dominated the memory, but yearning thrummed steadily too. Young Theo wanted nothing more than to run to his mother’s bed and throw himself into her arms. 

Draco knew that Mrs. Nott had passed away from an illness when Theo was young, but he never spoke of her. Curiosity pushed Draco further into the memory as Theo finally crossed the frigid room and climbed atop the plush bed top. 

“My darling…” Theo’s mother smiled, and Draco felt a recoiling – both Theo’s in the memory and his own. The woman in the bed was pale as white marble, her face gaunt, skeletal. But her eyes sparkled, red and menacing, and sharp fangs dominated her smile.

Theo whimpered, “Mum…” 

Mrs. Nott, or whatever undead creature was currently occupying the body of Mrs. Nott, cooed at Theo, rubbed his arms with cold hands, before pulling his small, delicate wrist to her lips and biting down–

“Flipendo!”

Draco tumbled backward, falling out of his chair and onto the hard library floor. He sat up, rubbing at his head, to see Theo glaring down at him, terror and fury warring on his face. Draco swallowed. He’d never seen Theo quite so expressive; it was disarming. Draco opened his mouth but a hundred questions sat on his tongue, blocking his airway entirely.

“Fuck you.” Theo spit the words, voice still quiet. With a shake of his head, he stormed out, leaving Draco on the floor.

***

A tentative smile made its way onto Draco’s face when he saw his father standing beside the Quidditch stands with Snape and one of the other school governors.

“Father!” He strode toward them, Quidditch gear in tow, pasting a confident smile on his face. 

“Son,” Lucius Malfoy returned his smile, clapping him on the shoulder in fond greeting, and Draco felt a surge of warmth flood into his muscles. “Are you ready for the match?”

“Of course.” Draco preened. “Slytherin’s going to get the Cup this year.”

Lucius and the governor laughed, as Snape fought off an eye-roll. 

“Good to hear it, Draco,” said Lucius. “Best get on the pitch. We’ll talk after.”

With a nod, Draco ran out onto the field zoning out through Montague’s drivel of a pep talk. As the respective team captains, Montague and Johnson, strode forward to shake hands, Draco stared down Potter where he stood on the opposite end of the pitch. For the first time in nearly two weeks, Potter met him head on, meeting his gaze, and sending it back tenfold. The air seemed to crackle, like the beginning of a storm, and Draco drank it in like a man dying of thirst. At the sound of Madam Hooch’s whistle, both boys shot into the sky like fireworks, and the hunt for the snitch was on.

Draco circled the pitch at a steady pace, eyes scanning but keeping Potter in his line of view. The Slytherin Chasers scored their first three goals easily, and based on the shade of Weasley’s face as he wobbled nervously between the hoops, a fourth wasn’t far off. On perfect cue, gleeful singing rose from the Slytherin stands, perfectly synchronized for their message to spread to all listening ears.

Draco cackled in the air, joining in the singing as he flew over the stands. “Weasley cannot save a thing…He cannot block a single ring…”

He saw Potter freeze in the air, his head on a swivel between Weasley, the Slytherin stands, and Draco, who felt himself preening, raising his chin as he sang along. As Potter sat still on his broom, stressed and dumbfounded, Draco took the opportunity to look for the snitch, lifting himself even higher into the sky to scan from above. Low-hanging clouds brushed his face, cooling his warm cheeks, and Draco grit his teeth, searching, searching…

A sudden flash of red drew his attention – Potter was diving.

Dammit! How had he still managed to spot the snitch first?

Drawn to Potter like the other boy had Accio’d him, Draco folded his body along his broom, stretching himself low to the wood as he dove, steep and fast, falling like a meteor toward Potter.

Finally, he spotted the snitch himself, a fluttering bit of gold cutting across the air toward the Slytherin goals, away from Potter. A smile stretched across Draco’s face as he pulled his broom to the left, racing to cut Potter off. The other boy soared, pulling low and curving around, coming parallel to Draco’s path.

Jaw clenched, Draco pushed himself forward, closing in on that elusive glint of gold. He stretched out his hand, peeking to the side to see Potter cutting closer, like he planned for them to collide. Their arms met, side by side as they raced forward, elbows jamming into one another roughly. Potter let out a feral grunt, banging his thigh into Draco’s, leaning further on his own broom. Wind rushed in Draco's ears, hair in his eyes and Potter's clawing hand at his wrist.

Growling, Draco stretched further still, long arms offering him the extra bit of leverage as he surpassed Potter’s grasp, middle finger skirting along the snitch, its wings batting against his skin. He almost had it – it was right there! Just a bit closer…

Potter yelled, throwing himself forward, batting his elbow into Draco's arm. Gripping, grabbing, Draco tightened his fist – and felt his fingernails digging into the back of Potter’s hand as it closed around the snitch.

An angry whine ripped out of Draco’s chest, his disappointment like a bludger to the chest. Even watching Potter get actually smashed to the ground by a bludger didn’t ease the feeling. It was visceral; it burned.

Draco crashed to the ground and threw his broom to the dirt like an angry child. Blinking up at the Slytherin stands, he saw a hundred disappointed faces, some frowning, some merely yawning. Above them, his father was engaged with Snape, hardly paying Draco any mind. Did he even think for a second that Draco might catch the snitch? Had he been watching the game at all? 

The kind of indignant fury that ruled Draco’s childhood tantrums built up behind his eyelids.

“Potter!” He found himself marching right up to the boy, nearly blind with outrage. “Saved Weasley’s neck, haven’t you? I’ve never seen a worse Keeper…but then he was born in a bin…Did you like my lyrics, Potter?”

Potter only stared at him for a moment, entirely stone-faced, before turning back to his teammates. 

Something inside Draco snapped. It wasn’t like he ever had much of a filter, but whatever flimsy dam was in place broke apart, and a rough current of anger flowed directly out his mouth.

He hardly knew what he was saying, his brain nothing but a red river and the sound of it churning. He spit the Weasley name like it was a curse, disparaged their matriarch in the rudest way he could, reaching blindly for cruel and offensive words. When he’d said all he could about the Weasley mother, he repeated all the worst things he’d heard about the father.

He vaguely noticed the Twin Weasels getting riled up, the way their teammates were holding them back, but it did nothing to slow his tirade, throwing insults like wood logs on a fire. And at that moment, he wanted to burn everything down.

It was only a matter of time before he reached for the grenade pin that would set Potter off. Dead mother. It was so predictable. Draco had used the line a hundred times. He didn’t hesitate for even a moment to spit it out, mouth full of venom–

Then Potter’s fist crashed suddenly into Draco’s stomach.

His breath left him in a gasp, and before Draco could get any of it back, Potter tackled him right into the ground, his head smacking against the packed dirt with a crack. Straddling him, Potter’s fists rained down like a storm. Stars sparked behind Draco’s eyes; copper painted his mouth slippery. Pain erupted everywhere Potter touched – Draco’s face, his chest, his stomach.

It felt like relief.

Awful crying sounds echoed around Draco’s head, and he realized somewhat obliquely that he was the one making them. That was sure to be mortifying later, but at the moment, he felt detached. Floating like a ghost above his body, Draco gazed at Potter, eyes on fire as he beat Draco into the earth.

Distantly, Draco was aware of chaos – shouting, swearing, whistles blowing, but he could hardly hear it over the ringing in his ears. Pain spread across his head like ink in water, darkness blotting out his vision. A pathetic, last thought crossed his mind – remember this . He wanted to memorize it, the feeling of Potter’s thighs around his body, his knuckles on his jaw. Another punch to the head – and the darkness swallowed him whole.

***

The harsh sting of antiseptic filled Draco’s nose, his mouth thick with the taste of pain relief potion. Madam Pomfrey had easily healed most of his scrapes and bruises. Only a light bruise beneath his left eye remained, but considering the eye had just been swollen shut, Draco figured it could be worse. Still, his face ached, tingling with phantom punches.

“–an absolute disgrace, Severus!” Draco winced as the sound of his father’s voice poured over his head like ice water. “My son was attacked by three students in front of a hundred witnesses , and the Headmaster is nowhere to be found? Does he always let that Potter boy run about like a feral beast? Is this a school or a circus?!”

Embarrassed but also fervently relieved by his father’s fierce protection, Draco let his head fall back on the mountain of stiff pillows behind him.

When the door to the hospital wing creaked open, the sickly simpering voice of Umbridge followed, seeping into the room like a bad stench. “Oh, young Mr. Malfoy, you poor dear!” She looked to Lucius with an eager, sycophantic smile. “I assure you that justice will be swiftly served. All three of those Gryffindor hooligans will be serving detention with me for the remainder of the term, and they are all banned from Quidditch permanently. I have sent Mr. Filch to confiscate their brooms.”

A sting of disappointment flared in Draco’s chest, his sore ribs protesting the feeling. Of course, he’d be rubbing this in Potter’s face post-haste, but in the moment, he felt hollow. There was no competition if Gryffindor lost its star player – why keep the season going at all?

“Well,” Lucius said, eyeing Snape, “at least someone in this place values law and order.”

“I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. Malfoy,” Umbridge said. “I offer my apologies for the Headmaster’s absence. Incredibly unprofessional, of course. Rest assured, the Ministry will be made aware of this.”

“As they should be.” Lucius smirked. “Thank you, Dolores. That will be all.”

With a twitchy sort of smile, Umbridge tottered away, Snape slinking out behind her. 

As soon as the door clicked shut, Draco’s father turned on him, hair flipping over his shoulder like a blade through the air. His voice was calm on the surface, but Draco could hear the cold anger beneath. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Startled, Draco blinked up at his father. “What?”

“That tragic display of yours?” Lucius tutted. “You looked ridiculous!”

“Father, I was–” Heat rushed to Draco’s cheeks. “I was just putting the blood traitors in their place!”

Lucius rolled his eyes. “Oh, really? You put them in their place? That’s what that was?” As he stepped closer, his silver eyes were hard as ice, unfeeling, delivering a cold burn as he narrowed them. “And did you feel quite dignified, crying in the dirt while they beat you?”

The words slapped Draco across the face, bruising his still-sensitive skin. His throat tightened, cutting off any defense he might have mustered. When his eyes prickled, Draco bit at his cheeks, but one traitorous tear still snuck down his cheek.

“You will wipe those tears off your face.” Lucius ordered as Draco lifted a hand delicately to his cheek. His father's voice was a needle, sharp and pointed. “You will walk back into that common room with your head held high. Luckily, everyone already thinks the Potter boy is a lunatic, so your dignity may still be intact.”

“Yes, Father.” Draco murmured, barely trusting his voice. 

“You cannot continue behaving like a child, Draco,” his father said. “It makes you look weak. If you don’t learn to control yourself, you will never be taken seriously by anyone. Least of all me.”

Draco’s lip betrayed him by trembling, and he wished vaguely that Potter would come punch him again. He swallowed. “Yes, Father.”

***

Draco did as he was told. 

After the final round of bruise-healing from Madam Pomfrey, he strode to the dungeons with his chin up. He lounged in the common room, letting Pansy fuss over him as he blathered on about Potter. Mental, violent freakshow Potter. But he couldn’t shake the strange sensation that he was floating above himself, looking down upon his body, and even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow.

After dinner, Draco feigned exhaustion and laid in bed until the early hours of the morning, waiting impatiently for his roommates to fall asleep. Finally, when all was quiet, he tip-toed out of his dormitory and into the empty common room. He’d been standing on a precipice all day, hands in the air each time his balance wavered, and now – curled up in his favourite green armchair, the steady flicker of the smokeless candle on his face – he let himself fall, tears pouring openly down his face.

His mind swirled, a vicious storm of conflicting emotions. He was at once caught in a riptide, flung from thought to thought too quickly to cling to any of them, while also hovering above himself, watching his own breakdown with disdain.

Finally, he gave in to the only thing he knew might help him make sense of his own head–

Dear No One, he scribbled bitterly.

I haven’t the time nor the energy to wax poetic about my miserable existence, so let’s just cut the shit, shall we?

I fuck up everything. 

Quidditch is pointless now. 

Theo knows too much AND he’s pissed at me.

I failed in front of Father, embarrassed him in front of everyone. Embarrassed myself.

This entire day has been mortifying. And horrible. And infuriating.

And I’m not blind to the irony that Father was demanding I grow up and act like a man while lecturing me like I'm a little boy. Why is everything so fucking difficult? I feel like I’m always on the edge of exploding, like I’m this tidal wave gathering strength before destroying the city – but the city is my own bloody life.

God, Potter has possessed me. It’s sick; it’s maddening. I should be hexing him, not– Merlin, I can’t even finish that sentence. He makes me pathetic, like this lovesick puppy. He kicks me, and I want to lick him, say thank you. But fuck, I can’t stop thinking about the way it felt when

I can’t do this anymore. Writing in my stupid little diary like an emotional little girl.

I’m just wallowing in these weird, fucked up feelings. I won’t disgrace my family like this anymore. I thought writing like this would help me control it all, but it’s just making it worse. I suppose the pipes can’t freeze if the water is still flowing. I need to become ice cold. 

Goodbye,

No One

He looked over the letter with his jaw clenched, self-loathing scraping up the inside of his body as he saw the tear-stains across the parchment, the smudged, rushed ink. He ripped the letter in half, like the paper itself offended him, before feeding it to the candle.

It couldn’t burn fast enough.

Chapter Text

Harry had been almost-murdered by a Dark Lord no fewer than three times, yet here he sat in relative safety, heart pounding, fight or flight triggered by the smell of cinnamon. 

He’d been seething in the dark, flexing his sore hands. Too worried that he’d run into Malfoy in the hospital wing, Harry hadn’t gone to Madam Pomfrey at all, leaving his knuckles painted in dark red bruises. Proof of an afternoon he’d rather forget. 

At just past three in the morning, spicy-sweet smoke seeped into the air, rising from the candle that had taken residence atop Harry’s headboard. He stared at it, veins full of dread, before reaching forward like he had no choice in the matter.

In his hands, the smoke split in half, forming two sides of a ripped page. Harry pressed his wand gently against the parchment. “Reparo.”

The two sides merged, fibers entwining like hands, to become one letter again.

Harry felt the familiar ease that the words Dear No One brought, but the anger radiating off the page was the first time a letter felt like Malfoy. Frustration rippled off the shiny black ink, like hot air off pavement. As the writing continued down the page, the quill strokes grew frantic, words smearing, tear stains forming constellations.

Harry clenched his jaw, and his first thought – serves him right – came from a petulant, bitter corner of his soul. The same part of him that threw fists at Malfoy’s face.

And in a way, it was deserved. Malfoy was an arsehole, and because of him, Harry wasn’t allowed to play Quidditch anymore! Besides that, he’d said those awful things about the Weasleys, about Harry’s mum. Cruel, bigoted things. He was practically begging to get punched.

Another part of Harry, though, was gritting his teeth against a wave of guilt, rising up in his throat like bile. His eyes got stuck on the tear stains, hardly able to wrap his head around them – evidence that Malfoy had been crying. It was hard to even picture it.

But, of course, Harry didn’t need to picture it. Malfoy had been crying just that afternoon. His back in the grass, his face nothing but a target under Harry’s fists, the twins kicking into his sides. At the time, the tears were obscured, mixed with blood, or maybe Harry had just been seeing red. He’d wanted to make him bleed, to make him hurt.

Now, with hindsight and even breathing, Harry felt a bit sick about it all. 

He hadn’t enjoyed hurting Malfoy. Delivering pain was neither fun nor cathartic. Not a want, but a need. He wished he could say it came from a noble place – a responsibility toward justice, to defend his family. But he hadn’t been thinking that hard about it. Truthfully, his anger had simply exploded out of him. It seized his limbs and puppetted his fists. His head turned into a beehive, buzzing with fury, too loud for thoughts. The guilt had only seeped in as he, Fred, and George trudged back to Gryffindor Tower in defeated silence.

Harry read the letter, once in defensive anger, then again in perplexed curiosity. He’d expected fury, finger pointing, deflecting of blame. But instead…

I fuck up everything, the letter proclaimed.

Harry didn’t know how to handle a self-loathing Malfoy. From No One, it wasn’t shocking, but…it was still difficult to reconcile them as one and the same. The Malfoy that Harry knew would never accept blame or admit to any fault. But somewhere inside of him, in the deep down part where No One lived, Malfoy understood that he was wrong. This was proof of that, and it softened Malfoy’s edges, just a bit.

Then, of course, there was the other part.

He makes me pathetic, like this lovesick puppy. He kicks me, and I want to lick him, say thank you.

Harry let out a quiet, incredulous laugh into the late night silence. A helpless puppy was certainly not how he saw Malfoy. He was more like a wasp, an incubus, gleeful and malicious as he sucked power from Harry one insult at a time. 

As for the other implications…

They were unfathomable, unseeable as the sun. Harry couldn’t look at them directly, even if reading the words made his chest tighten. Without thinking about it, he dragged this thumb across one of Malfoy’s tear stains, almost reverently.

As he read on, unease bled into the moment. 

Because the words were frenzied but also final. He’d signed the letter goodbye. What did he mean by that? Harry thought of the stories in the letters – Selion Griefborne and Ladon the Dragon and Caoimhe Black. Melancholy stories, all colored by death, and he felt suddenly stricken with worry.

Harry peeked out of his bedcurtains to dig in his trunk until he found the thick, worn paper of the Marauder’s Map. By the time Harry was back in bed with the map unfolded, he’d already started to work himself into a panic. What would he do if he didn’t see Malfoy’s name?

When his gaze locked on that black dot, on the name Draco Malfoy, his breath escaped him in a rush of relief.

Harry tried to picture Malfoy as the map showed him, sitting alone in the corner of the Slytherin common room. Writing and crying and ripping up his own words. His grey eyes were probably red-lined, pink splotches crawling up his neck. He was probably chewing his lip, like he did when he wrote in class. Maybe he still had bruises too. 

As he had many nights before, Harry imagined No One, but the boy’s hands no longer bore ink stains. Now, he wrote precisely, posture perfect. As he bent over his desk, quill in hand, blond hair fell across his forehead, and the cloak on his shoulders turned Slytherin-green. Harry shook the image from his head, swallowed, and looked back at the candle, a stab of longing in his chest.

I can’t do this anymore. Writing in my stupid little diary.

Harry worried his lip. He wasn’t ready for this to be over yet. He needed the letters – needed to understand them, to understand him.

He forced himself to take a breath as he stowed the newest letter away with the others. Malfoy was just being dramatic, Harry told himself. He would write again.

***

But Malfoy did not write again.

Two weeks passed, and Malfoy did not write again. 

Harry, meanwhile, felt like he was unravelling. Fiending. Each night, he waited for the silence to break, left feeling impatient and stupid when no letter came. He spent his sleepless nights smelling phantom smoke and rereading old letters to stave off the craving for new ones. It was ritualistic, like some muggles read the Bible.

Worst of all, Malfoy’s voice began to bleed into No One’s words. The sarcastic quips, the drawling melancholy, the penchant for dramatics – it became harder to tell where Malfoy ended and No One began. Harry couldn’t help imagining his precious letters in that stupid, posh voice, all sharp diction and lilting vowels. Sometimes the voice clashed with the words. Sometimes it fit too well. 

He told himself the obsession was merely curiosity. A locked door he wished to force open. A Malfoy-shaped mystery and nothing more.

As the days stacked on top of each other, Harry watched Malfoy, eyes keen for flashes of No One. But Malfoy seemed his usual insufferable self. He walked the halls surrounded by cronies, abused his prefect privileges to torture first years, and sneered each time he met Harry’s gaze. Those quicksilver eyes pierced Harry like an arrow, and his mind whirled with confessions like Potter has possessed me and there’s this boy who’s made of fire. 

Harry averted his eyes each time, incapable of reckoning with this forbidden knowledge, that this boy who looked at him with such disdain could feel anything but hatred toward him. It was such a maddening oxymoron – seeing the hard Malfoy mask by day and reading the soft No One musings by night. Where was this side of him hidden? Did anyone else know it existed? 

Over breakfast, Harry watched Malfoy drop spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, sharing a quiet conversation with Pansy Parkinson. Harry tried to imagine Malfoy’s voice in her ear, speaking gently. What did it mean that he hardly mentioned her in his letters? Was that drawling voice capable of saying anything kind? Did he whisper sweet nothings into his girlfriend’s ear? Did the sharp edges of his voice go soft? Harry couldn’t picture it.

When Parkinson leaned over and kissed Malfoy on the cheek, Harry gripped his fork so tightly that it shrieked across his plate.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione’s concerned voice wrenched Harry out of his stupor, his jaw aching with how tight he’d been clenching it. 

Across the table, Ron followed his gaze to the Slytherin table, just as Parkinson brought her mouth to Malfoy’s, fingers twirling the white-blond ends of his hair. 

“Blech. They’re disgusting.” Ron looked back with a wince. “I swear, their kids are gonna be born scowling.”

Harry forced a laugh, burying his attention into his plate, stuffing toast in his mouth even though his appetite had already died. He shut his eyes, wishing he’d never touched that blasted candle. Life was complicated enough without the promise of a secret boy hiding in the shell of Draco sodding Malfoy. Harry’s mind was as confused as a sunshower, both bright and dreary, hot and cold.

After three letterless weeks, he began to wonder if it had all been an elaborate fantasy. A bizarre invention of his sleep-deprived brain. Only the stack of letters and the long-cold candle hiding in his truck proved it had been real. Between O.W.L classes, running the DA, and nightly battles with insomnia, Harry was almost able to pretend it had all been a dream. But then he’d hear Malfoy laugh across the hall or hear his stupid voice rising like smoke in the air – all stretched vowels and harsh edges – and he was flung right back to his desperate clawing. For the first time in years, Harry felt like the little boy in the cupboard, desperate for a bedtime story.

One Thursday in November, Malfoy missed double Potions. Later, he skipped Care of Magical Creatures too. At dinner, Parkinson stormed into the Great Hall, eyes pink and hair mussed. Harry sat up immediately, watching as she rushed to the Slytherin table, huddling between Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. He watched the girls gasp and gossip with narrowed eyes, but he couldn’t make out anything besides the shape of Draco on Parkinson’s red lips. His stomach clenched uncomfortably.

“Have you seen Malfoy today?” Harry asked suddenly, the question spilling out, his attention still on the Slytherin girls. Suspicion crawled across his skin, biting and drawing blood. Beneath that, though, there was something else too. Something like worry.

“Hmm?” Ron said thoughtfully from the other side of the table. He perked up, smiling. “You know what, I haven’t. No wonder it’s been a good day!”

“Why do you ask?” Hermione raised a brow.

Harry shrugged. “He’s just been odd lately, don’t you think?”

“I suppose…” Hermione said, chewing.

Ron snorted. “He’s probably just scared you’ll punch him again.”

Harry couldn’t be bothered to fake a laugh as he tried in vain to read Pansy’s lips.

***

According to the Marauder’s Map, Malfoy was in the library, and he wasn’t alone. Harry scowled at the familiar, worn paper, its ink shifting in his hands. No One’s last letter had said Theodore Nott was angry with him, so why was his name side-by-side, nearly overlapping, with Draco’s Malfoy’s?

Before Harry could think through the reasons for his actions, he was throwing on his invisibility cloak. The pair of Slytherins were seemingly tucked deep in the stacks, and as he made his way to the library, Harry felt a dull anxiety forming. He wasn't so naive as to not know what people sometimes did in the back stacks. What if he found them in some sort of compromising position? Perhaps that’s what Parkinson had been upset about. But with a fortifying breath, Harry crept between shelves to find Nott and Malfoy sitting across from one another, in the midst of a quiet but tense conversation.

“–but, really, I am sorry,” Malfoy was in the middle of saying, which left Harry feeling like he’d stumbled right into another dimension. Malfoy – apologising? 

“I…” Nott scratched at his head, letting out a harsh breath. Malfoy leaned forward like he was waiting for the verdict of a judge. Finally, Nott gave a begrudging shrug. “I’m still irritated at you, to be honest. It was invasive, what you did, but I…I can't say I don't understand.”

Hunched under the cloak, Harry tiptoed into the aisle, shifting his weight inch by inch so as not to creak the floorboards. When Malfoy’s face came fully into view, Harry noticed the calculating squint of his eyes. “Would you still want to practice Occlumency with me?”

“Seriously?” Nott let out a soft, surprised laugh. “I’m surprised you’d even want to…after what happened.”

Malfoy shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but his teeth worried his lip, nails digging into the wood tabletop like it was clay.

“I…I hope you know I wasn’t intending to pry,” said Nott. “I had no idea you were secretly–”

“Let's not talk about it.” Malfoy’s voice came out sharp as a steel blade.

Nott leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly. Harry didn’t like the way his eyes roamed over Malfoy, a million questions within their blue depths. Malfoy seemed to shrink under the attention, though Harry could tell he was trying to appear calm, nonchalant. His hands betrayed his nerves, though, fidgeting on the table. Finally, Nott said, “I suppose I’d be willing to keep helping, but if I’m going to let you in my head again, I’ll need some sort of insurance.”

Malfoy raised a pale brow. “Don’t you trust me?”

Nott just laughed in response. Harry squinted through the foggy haze of the cloak, wishing he could make heads or tales of their conversation. 

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Malfoy asked, “What sort of insurance?”

“Unbreakable Vow,” said Nott.

Malfoy scoffed. “You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” Nott said. “Right now we’re even since we each have something on the other. But if it gets too unbalanced…I can’t freely hand you all my secrets, Draco.”

“I know. It’s just–” Malfoy took a steadying breath, eyes flashing to the ceiling as if praying for strength. “I need to be a capable Occlumens. As soon as possible. There’s this spell in the mind magic book that I want to try.”

Harry had to fight to keep his breathing even, imperceptible. Mind Magic? He certainly didn’t like the sound of Draco Malfoy performing mind curses.

“What’s the spell?” Nott asked.

“It’s called Lucerna Obscura,” Malfoy replied quietly. “Basically an… emotional repression enchantment. But it has its basis in Occlumency.”

“Ah. Okay.” Nott said knowingly. “I think I get it now.”

Malfoy nodded solemnly, and Harry wanted to grab him by the hair and demand he explain. Out loud, in detail! He felt itchy all over – what was Malfoy planning?

“You must be desperate,” Nott said, though not unkindly, “if you’re willing to let me take another peek.”

Malfoy swallowed, his voice oddly small. “I am.”

“Enough to take a Vow?”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed, molten silver. “I think so.”

Nott exhaled, a slow release as gears turned behind his eyes. “Then I’ll think about who might act as our Bounder.”

Malfoy nodded, gaze coming to rest on his own hands, now balled into fists on the tabletop. A war waged behind his eyes, but his face remained entirely neutral – unblemished ice. He and Nott lapsed into a weighty silence, eventually pulling out their Potions books and quietly working across from one another. 

Harry waited, body locked in place, hoping their conversation would reignite. Maybe circle back around with some added context this time. But after a while, when his muscles grew stiff and his optimism had dimmed considerably, Harry snuck slowly away before rushing out of the library completely. 

He couldn’t go back to Gryffindor Tower, though. His head was too fuzzy; Hermione would immediately sense his overflowing thoughts. They’d spill out his mouth and reveal too much. So, instead, he wandered the corridors invisibly, trying to make sense of what he’d heard. The terms – Unbreakable Vow. Occlumency. Lucerna Obscura. Mind Magic. It was like he’d stumbled into a N.E.W.T level class. The only thing he knew for certain was that Malfoy was in some sort of trouble, and Nott knew about it. Both Slytherins had secrets, and though they may have been friends, they didn’t trust each other. Not implicitly, not like Harry trusted his friends.

Guilt stabbed at Harry’s gut, the secrets he was currently keeping from Ron and Hermione scratching at his insides, threatening to claw their way out. Eventually, Harry made his way to the owlery, hoping that a chat with Hedwig might clear his head. She was a good listener: she couldn’t pass his secrets on, and she wouldn’t judge him –  too harshly, at least.

“Come on, don’t be like that!”

Harry froze when he heard Malfoy’s drawl, feet stilling on the steps. He’d only kept the cloak on to avoid being bothered while his thoughts were so chaotic, but as long as Malfoy continued being easy to spy on, Harry couldn’t help but oblige. Creeping forward, he poked his head into the owlery to see Malfoy resting against a stone ledge, his hulking eagle owl on his shoulder, nipping at his hair.

“I know it’s late, Artemis,” Malfoy was saying to the bird as he pulled a bag of treats from his robes pocket with a smirk, “but I’m willing to make it worth your while.”

The owl narrowed its big, orange eyes – like two harvest moons – before begrudgingly taking one of the offered treats into its sharp beak.

“I’ll give you half the treats now,” Malfoy said, “and when you come back tomorrow, I’ll give you the rest. And I’ll have a mouse for you.”

The owl blinked, unimpressed.

“A rabbit?” Malfoy offered instead.

The eagle owl seemed to consider, huffing a little breath before sticking out her talon. Malfoy grinned at the bird, reaching out to tie a letter to her leg. Harry, meanwhile, leaned against the stone wall, watching the scene unfold in curious incredulity. It was such a strangely endearing sight – Malfoy haggling with the enormous bird.

“Now, remember,” Malfoy stroked softly at her feathers as she ate from his palm, “deliver this to Mother, not Father. And don’t let her send you back without a response, alright?”

Malfoy was so uncharacteristically affectionate with the bird, Harry had the brief, wild thought that he might be some stranger under Polyjuice. His haughty voice softened to something fond as he prattled on to his owl, his words looser, freer than they’d been with Nott.

“And if you do see Father,” Malfoy added conspiratorially, “give him at least one good peck for me.”

Harry huffed a laugh without meaning to, then quickly slapped a hand over his own face, covering his nose and mouth. Malfoy glanced over his shoulder, eyes searching the empty owlery, but he must have assumed it was the wind because he looked back to his owl a moment later, without suspicion. He continued to stroke the bird’s feathers, impossibly patient as she ate the treats out of his hand. Harry blinked like the image might turn to smoke and swirl away, disappearing into the night air. But when the eagle owl finally took off into the dark, Malfoy remained, solid and wistful and more confounding than ever.

***

Harry lay in bed, the candle beside him more out of habit than anything else – he’d stopped expecting new letters, though he couldn’t help but hope. Now, though, as he reread the old ones for what felt like the hundredth time, desire mixed with terror to create a strange cocktail.

The stories, the poems, the musings – Harry could hear them fully in Malfoy’s voice now. The soft one he’d used with his owl. A tone reserved for silent evenings under cloudy skies, alone in the cold night. Did anyone human hear him talk like that? For whatever reason, Harry hoped not. Where the knowledge of Malfoy’s hidden inner-self usually made Harry burn with anger, now he felt…defensive. Protective of No One, the secret soul only Harry knew existed.

But even that was a lie. How much of No One was real? How much was a figment formed in Harry’s head? Talking sweetly to an owl didn’t make up for years of bullying, and when Harry thought of the Malfoy he’d always known, the familiar, indignant annoyance was still there, hand in hand with this new, addicting intrigue.

Harry reread the Goodbye letter again, then groaned into his pillow. 

None of it mattered anyway, if Malfoy never sent another letter. Time would push on, and these last two months of written companionship would be nothing but a strange, forbidden knowledge he had. Could Harry just move on and pretend he didn’t know any better? Next time Malfoy tried to torture him and his friends – and without a doubt, he would – could Harry just act like everything was as it used to be? Could he even finish the school year without prying his hands in Malfoy’s hard shell and ripping him open in search of someone better?

Godric, why had he stopped writing? Harry craved the peek through the window, the small drops of insight.

The Marauder’s Map showed Malfoy, alone in the Slytherin common room. Tucked in the same late-night corner. 

In the library, Malfoy had said something about an emotional repression spell. Coming from him, Harry would assume it was nefarious, meant to be cast on an unwilling victim. But from No One…

Harry traced self-loathing words, calloused fingers on tear stains. How deep was No One buried, and could Malfoy truly snuff him out completely? Dread swooped in Harry’s stomach as he considered the prospect of losing No One for good.

With shaking hands, Harry ripped a shred of parchment from a scroll. With excruciating precision he dipped his quill in ink, balancing the paper on his knees as he wrote – in as plain penmanship as he could muster: are you still there?

He didn’t give himself time to think about it before lighting the candle’s wick and dipping the note in its flame. It disappeared into nothing, not even smoke.

Harry stared at the Marauder’s Map, eyes fixed on the black dot that was Draco Malfoy. Burning the paper had been an educated guess, but as the minutes dragged on, Harry began to question himself. Had he done it correctly, or had he just sent the note into the ether? He blew out the smokeless flame and watched the map under the dull glow of his wand.

Finally, though, the Malfoy dot moved. Across the common room. Then back again. Side to side, back and forth. Pacing. It went on and on, like a pendulum. A hypnotist’s watch swinging before his eyes. Eventually, Harry was lulled to sleep by it.

He woke in the wee hours of the morning, his inkpot spilled on his sheets and the map still clutched in his hand. He cast Lumos again to find Malfoy – still in the same spot in his common room. Now still. Merlin, did the boy ever sleep?

Harry felt at his candle, its wick ice-cold. 

Maybe, his sleep-addled brain pondered, his four words had been insufficient. All that Slytherin self-preservation had to be kicking in, wondering who had replied and how. 

Harry scrubbed his eyes. There was no use for it; he’d read countless long-winded confessions, meant for no one, and there was no take without some give. It had always been like that with Malfoy, anyway. An eye for an eye. A heart for a heart.

With a fresh sheet of parchment, Harry reached for his quill and let his confessions bleed out on the page.

Chapter Text

Are you still there?

The message hit Draco like a hostage note. 

What a wicked string of letters. An infuriating little sentence, giving nothing but erupting into thousands of horrible questions. Draco had paced a trail in the Slytherin-green rug, the little paper gripped in his fist as he panicked, thinking – whowhatwhenwherewhy?!

The smokeless candle was supposed to vanish his writing, not deliver it to a mystery recipient! Or was the candle itself reading his words? Draco took some solace in that theory – at least a candle couldn’t spread around his business.

But then the second letter arrived.

Hi,

First of all, I’m sorry if that last note freaked you out. I wasn’t thinking about how weird it would be to randomly get that. The truth is that I’ve been reading your letters all year. I’m sorry cos I know they were meant to be private. But I'm also not sorry cos I've really needed them.

To be honest, this year has been awful so far. Summer holiday was hell, worse than it's ever been. A lot happened, but what it boils down to is that all of the people who are supposed to love me either resent me, ignore me, lie to me, or some combination of all three. Even my best friends.

I’ve changed a lot, I guess. But even though all this fucked up stuff happened, everyone expects me to be fine. And I’m really not, but no one gets it. No one but you.

I really didn’t mean to be invasive. I found this candle that lets off smoke sometimes, even unlit. When I touch the smoke, it turns to paper. If you’re reading this, I assume you’ve seen it yourself. 

But anyway, your words made me feel understood, and that’s a really rare feeling lately. So thank you. It’s cool to know I’m not the only one who feels too much or in the wrong way. 

I guess I’m reaching out because you should know that you’re a good writer. You’ve impacted me and sort of changed my view on some things. All that to say, I hope you’ll keep writing. It might be a selfish request, but I’m still asking. I know I don’t know you for real, but I feel like I know this version of you (the one that lives in these letters) pretty well, and it would be a shame for him to disappear completely.

So anyway, thank you, and I’m sorry.

Knees tucked under his chin, Draco sat in his armchair, biting his nails down to the quick as he read, and read, and read again.

It was late enough – early enough? – that the air had a liminal quality to it. Outside the windows, the creatures in the Great Lake began to stir. In maybe an hour, the night would give way to morning and the early risers would shuffle in, but for now, Draco felt utterly alone. The only soul on earth. Well, him – and whoever sent this letter. 

Draco sat for a long time, analyzing it. The penmanship was straight, scrupulus. Letters written in a purposefully neutral voice, stripped of accent and cadence. But the words themselves were sweet, which was a surprise. The idea that someone could read Draco’s emotional blathering and enjoy it was hard to stomach. Those scribbles were nothing but a muddy stream of consciousness, certainly not meant for consumption, but now this stranger came along and said it tasted good. Draco was equal parts flattered and suspicious, intrigued and panicked.

He ran through his options–

Ignoring it entirely was the simplest plan. Leave the poor sod hanging, never give him another scrap of knowledge.

But, Draco fretted, he had such little memory of what he’d put in those blasted letters. They’d all been written in the middle of the night, half-delirious with overflowing frustrations. How much identifying or completely damning information had he sent through this mystery portal? What if, by blowing off this confession, Draco upset his dear reader enough to send them into a scorned tailwind of blackmail? 

Heinous possibilities stacked up, blocking out Draco’s vision to everything except the impending doom he’d face if all that rubbish he’d written got out. With a shaking hand, he took out a sheet parchment and wrote neatly at the top:

Who are you?

He burned the paper in the heat of the candle, which somehow had lost no wax in these recent months. Hesitantly, Draco leaned forward and blew out the flame, blanketing his little corner in shadow. Considering the hour, Draco didn’t expect a prompt response, but in a flat minute, minty, white smoke poured from the unlit wick. Reaching forward for the third time that night, Draco pulled a letter from the smoke. It was the same piece of paper he’d just burned, his own words still scribbled on one side. On the other, a different script said: 

No One

Draco rolled his eyes, hoping the action would translate through his quill.

Ha. Ha. 

The next response took a minute longer.

I’m glad you wrote back.

I’ve missed your notes.

Draco swallowed hard, his heart slamming against his ribs like a caged animal. It was an off-putting mode of communication. Unnatural, somehow. Like trying to read tea leaves or commune with the dead. Draco squinted at the careful, little letters like they might reveal themselves under intimidation. 

Chewing at his cheek, he wrote out the next most pertinent question–

You promise you don’t know who I am?

The reply came slowly. Slow enough that Draco had devolved to pacing around the shadowed alcove, running nervous fingers through his hair. When the minty smoke reappeared, he nearly crumbled in relief at the words.

I can confidently say I have no idea who you really are.

Draco nodded to himself. That was the most important thing, after all. With that fact established, he hardly even needed to write back. But still, he had to be sure…

So this can’t be blackmail. Why are you doing this then?

Seconds stretched into minutes. Salazar, Draco thought to himself, this person was a slow writer. Finally, a reply came through.

Curiosity mostly. Who wouldn’t want to be pen-pals with their favourite writer?

Draco blushed, teeth digging into the meat of his cheeks. He’d never thought of himself as a writer. Sure, he enjoyed the act of writing. He’d always been a scribbler, a doodler. At one point, he’d even had a diary, but when Crabbe and Goyle found it in second year, he'd thrown it into the fire without hesitation. Better it burn than they read the horrible things inside. His words were not for others’ eyes. But the idea of himself as someone’s favourite writer…he felt his ego preen and purr.

I’m your favourite writer? Really?

You must not read much.

Maybe not enough, but still.

I re-read your letters a lot. The Selion Griefborne story was my favourite.

Did you make it up?

Merlin, no.

Are you muggleborn?

Why? Would it matter if I was?

Draco paused to consider. His automatic response was yes, it did matter. Of course, blood mattered. But, in this case, did it? Befriending mudbloods was obviously against his parents' rules, but he wasn’t actually interacting with this person. No one would see them together and gossip about it. If one’s existence was relegated to words on a page, what did their lineage really matter?

Finally, Draco answered,

No, not really. Just wondering because you didn’t know the story.

It’s an old wizarding folktale.

Oh. Well, I liked the way you told it.

It made me wonder a lot.

About?

You.

Myself.

I feel like a liar sometimes.

When his mother first told him the myth of Selion, Draco had been very young. He’d taken the story at face value – a cursed man and his tragic love. But recalling it now, as he aged and made more sense of his own mind, he couldn’t help but wonder at his mother’s motive. If the act of telling Draco that particular story held a warning.

“A pity,” she had said as they looked upon Selion’s seaside statue. “If he’d just kept those feelings inside, he would have lived.”

“But then he would have lost his love,” Draco had replied. 

“He did anyway,” his mother replied. “Besides, which is worse, do you think?”

Now, reminded of the story, Draco sighed, trying to squash down thoughts of his mother. Instead, he looked at the parchment. Their correspondence trailed down the length of it, back and forth – the left side dedicated to his cursive loops, the right side to the stranger's straight, clean lines. Draco wrote in the final blank space:

Me too. 

Draco stared out the window, watching it lighten shade by shade as the first glimmers of sunrise cut through the water, leaking green light into the common room.

He expected the other writer had gone to bed. Until he was roused by the smell of mint.

Greedy, he grabbed at the smoke. Their same covered page materialized in his palm. Turning it over, he found a single question written at the top.

Do you like blokes?

Draco nearly swallowed his tongue. 

Acidic shame boiled in his gut, licking up his throat. If someone asked him that face to face, Draco would have already spit out a cruel retort, offense at the mere insinuation. He scribbled out the word NO and held it up to the fire. Before it met the flame, though, he hesitated. Turned to stone.

He really did feel like a liar sometimes. It was instinct. The word – liar, liar, liar – echoed around in his head. Achingly, he thought of Potter’s hands. Then, small and smudging, he amended his message:

Nosy of you

He hadn’t even admitted to anything, not really; still, his teeth began to chatter, his breath shallow with nerves as he awaited judgement. What he got instead left him chewing at his lip–

Sorry, it’s just that I think I might

Honestly, your letters made me think I might

What did that mean? Was Draco really so obvious? Was he hiding in a closet of glass? Did something about his handwriting scream shirtlifter?

Draco rushed his response.

What? How does that work?

Not sure really

But I think about you a lot

And you’re a boy right?

I am…

Same. So…that’s that then

This stranger, whoever he was – he…thought about Draco a lot. So much, in fact, that he’d had some sort of awakening because of it. For all his self-aggrandizing, Draco couldn’t understand why.

He replied–

But I could be anyone

For all you know, a girl or a centaur or a house-elf is writing this 

Well, then I guess I’ve got some more self-discovery ahead of me

A laugh – a tired, nearly delirious giggle – burst from Draco’s lips. As soon as he registered the sound, he froze. Then cast muffliato around himself, just in case. He felt a little ridiculous, huddled in the corner, messaging with this stranger who made him laugh and confessed to life-ruining secrets like it was nothing. The ridiculousness of it all went straight to his head, filling him with unearned bravery. 

I do. Like blokes, that is. 

Draco stared at the words, heart beating painfully, before sending the parchment through the flame. He’d hardly been able to admit this fact to himself, but now, there it was. Spelled out in ink. Definitive.

It didn’t feel good – all the reasons for that still heavy in his mind – but there was a sense of relief in the admittance. A light flicked on in his brain: an understanding that this thing he’d been running from, now acknowledged, could not be unacknowledged.

The response came quickly:

One in particular?

Draco groaned. Of course, this stranger knew about his tragic fixation on Potter. How many horrible confessions had he made? Embarrassment rushed through his ears like wind as replied,

If you’ve read my other letters, you probably already know the answer

Well, yeah. But I've been curious about it.

Why don’t you go for it?

The idea was laughable, entirely nonsensical. Himself and Saint Potter. Of course, the boy in the candle had no way of knowing just how ridiculous. And it wasn’t even that Draco particularly liked Potter. He certainly didn’t. Most of the time, he loathed him. He was more so haunted by Potter, cursed with some affliction that made him want.

Draco rolled his eyes as he tried to explain.

If you knew who I was, you’d know that’s not an option. I write about things I want out of my head. I don’t want to want him.

And why is that?

Use your brain. 

He’s a famous, perfect, not-gay prat

I’ve mostly heard he’s unhinged

At that, Draco laughed. Much of Potter’s unfortunate reputation had come straight from his own mouth, after all. Since Potter had cursed him with this infatuation, the least Draco could do was taint the git’s fame with accusations of lunacy. It was only fair. Not like it mattered anyway – Potter always recovered from unsavory rumors. Draco had no doubt he would again: crawling back to glory like the little cockroach he was. A stupid, powerful, life-ruining, offensively fit cockroach…

Fuck, this was untenable. Draco scratched at his face and wrote,

Still, he wouldn’t be interested.

Besides, I’m not supposed to be either.

Says who?

The way the candle boy talked was disarming. 

Too many questions – and for whatever reason, Draco kept answering them. 

Everyone.

You don’t exactly get respect by being a poof.

Just before the message burned, Draco yanked it away from the flame, itchy with sudden guilt. Ugh, guilt was the worst feeling – he normally didn’t make allowances for it. But this boy had just come out to him, and here Draco was, telling him how pathetic he was for it. It was the truth, as far as Draco was concerned, but still. He added on to his message,

I’m not trying to make you feel bad.

It’s not something we can help, obviously, but I’d choose the easier route if I could.

It’s okay. I get it. 

I feel that way about a lot of things. Wishing stuff could just be easier.

But you can’t change who you are

Not on the inside, no

But you can choose what you show

But isn’t that miserable?

Eyes heavy, instinct weighed down by his sleeplessness, Draco let himself write down a far greater truth, one he wasn’t sure he’d ever recognized before.

Yeah. It is.

***

At breakfast, Draco was practically dead on the table. Sleeplessness was no stranger, but this morning was particularly challenging. His shuffling feet brought him to the table where mindless hands shoved flavourless food into his mouth. Draco didn't even notice Artemis's arrival until she landed on his shoulder and pecked at his cheek, dropping a letter and parcel right on top of his plate. Candies from his mother and a letter, filled with her usual drivel. No news about Father but three paragraphs detailing the tea she'd had with Mrs. Parkinson, stuffed with heavy handed commentary about how lovely it was that their families were getting closer. Draco hated that the words filled him with dread. He also hated that when he brought the perfumed envelope to his nose, the scent of his mother still comforted him as it always had.

Where was Pansy? Draco suddenly wondered. She'd not spoken to him in three days – though Draco hardly knew why. She seemed to get cross with him if the wind blew the wrong way. When he spotted her at the end of the table, she was already glaring at him. Draco sighed, suppressing an eye roll, and stood.

Draco approached the trio of Slytherin girls at the end of the table, all of whom had hateful glares turned on him. Pansy sat in the middle, a haughty look on her face, which she aimed at the cileing to avoid his gaze. A fresh bout of exhaustion hit; it was a living thing, gnawing on his ribs. He sighed through his nose. "Pansy."

"She's not talking to you, Draco," Daphne Greengrass informed him, her elbows on the table.

"Are you her secretary now?"

Daphne scoffed at the mere notion of being working class. With a roll of her eyes, Pansy whispered in Millicent Bulstrode's ear.

"Pansy says she's still very angry with you," said Millicent.

"I didn't even do anything!"

Pansy scoffed, turning to furiously whisper to Daphne.

"Pansy says–"

Draco groaned. "Pans, you're being ridiculous!"

"Oh!" Pansy snapped, turning to him with a fiery glare. "If I'm so ridiculous, why do you even want to talk to me!? Why don't you go hang out with Theo?"

"What are you talking about?"

"It's like you don't want to spend time with me at all!" Pansy argued. "You're always ditching me for Theo. Am I your girlfriend or is he?"

Defensive anger flared in his chest. Draco exhaled through clenched teeth, lowering himself to the bench carefully, like he was handling an explosive. His eyes flicked to Daphne, to Millicent. In a low voice, he said, "Pansy, Theo and I have been…fulfilling important duties for our fathers."

Pansy's anger faltered, curiosity flashing in her eyes. "What kinds of duties?"

"Well, our fathers have a very important…associate," Draco said, "and we'll…likely be in business with him soon enough."

Slowly, Pansy nodded. "Oh."

"Yeah," said Draco, forcing his eyes to go round, pleading. "Of course, I wish I could spend all my time with you. But I need to be practical. For…" Draco swallowed, forced the words out, "our future."

Pansy pursed her lips, fighting to keep the smile off of them. Knowing he'd won, Draco slid the box of sweets his mother had sent across the table, toward her. "Would you please forgive me?"

Beneath his gaze, Pansy softened. She leaned across the table to peck his lips. When Draco leaned back, his eyes fell, as if pulled by gravity, right on Potter. Across the hall, the Gryffindor scowled then looked away.

Potter looked…admittedly exhausted. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, magnifying the dark circles around his eyes, visible across the room. His hair was somehow more unruly than usual, a magical feat in its own right. But still, Draco felt his mouth go dry, his heart stumble on a beat, his gaze anchored, bound.

All the things he'd confessed last night…all those now-acknowledged things. That evil boy in the candle had ruined him, forced open a can of worms that Draco had successfully held shut for who knew how long, and now, he was liable to overflow with Potter.

He was already acting ridiculous, staring at him across the Great Hall the way a parched man drinks water. He wrenched his gaze away, back to Pansy, who was dismissing Daphne and Millicent and asking Draco to walk her to class. Dazedly, Draco nodded.

Liar, liar, liar. The words blew through his head like wind.

Chapter Text

Friday nights were rowdy in the Gryffindor common room, and tonight was no exception. Laughter overlapped with the bangs of Exploding Snap, carrying up the stairs and into the dormitory where Harry lay in bed, alone and far from tired. Earlier in the term, he’d tried joining in, but half the house thought he was a lying lunatic, and the rest were still angry he couldn’t win them any more Quidditch matches. Isolation was preferable to the glares and whispers that followed whenever he left his dormitory – or even up to bed, since Seamus was still giving him the silent treatment.

Harry let his eyes drift from the candle on his side table, to the clock beside it, willing time to pass faster, for the hands to reach midnight, for smoke to fill the room.

According to the Marauders Map, Malfoy was still in his dormitory, surrounded by his roommates. Harry blew air through his lips and slumped against his pillow, waiting for the Draco Malfoy dot to slip into the nearly empty Slytherin common room. Ever impatient, Harry usually initiated their conversations the moment Malfoy was alone. 

For the last week, his nights had been spent wide awake, scribbling notes back and forth with No One…with Malfoy.

Harry still struggled to wrap his head around that part, and mostly, it was easier to keep them separate. He liked talking to No One, and he wanted to keep this…thing between them safe. This sense of connection, a canary’s song in the darkness, that provided a respite from grief and fear and never-ending hallways. He needed the letters. So, he decided, it didn’t matter who wrote them. 

He could pretend he didn’t know. After all, No One and Malfoy were so unalike. Malfoy was still Malfoy – all sour sneers and bitter jabs whenever they passed in the corridors. But No One was almost sweet. Acerbic, sure, words drenched in sarcasm, dripping with pretension. But there was a tenderness beneath it all. Now that he knew someone was reading, the letters were less forthcoming, his emotions pulled back and tucked behind glass. But in the quiet hours before morning, the words softened – warming, like the chocolate chip cookies Malfoy always reached for at dinner. And if Harry found himself noticing Malfoy’s little habits more and more…well, that didn’t have to mean anything.

Harry must have zoned out staring at the ceiling because he was surprised to be pulled from his thoughts by cinnamon-clove smoke. 

Dear Someone, tonight’s letter began. 

God, this week is trying to drown me. When I die, my gravestone shall read “here lies [name redacted], crushed to death by his textbooks.” I sincerely hope there is an immediate warrant out for the arrests of McGonnagall and Snape because they have been absolute tyrants. Nay – child abusers! SIX COMBINED FEET of essays between the two of them?? It’s madness. Madness, I say!

But nevertheless, we must persist. 

In a bid to ease my brain a bit, I went flying earlier today, and honestly, I couldn’t help wondering about you while I was up there. (I should probably be more secretive about my identity, but I'm sure I've mentioned playing Quidditch before, so it seems I've already lost that piece of anonymity.) 

I like to play this game with myself where I see how high up I can fly. When I was younger, it was a test of magical ability. Lately, it’s more so a test of nerve. Today, I flew higher than possibly ever before. The air started to thin and chill and smell like ozone a bit. Then I looked down, and Hogwarts (the all-encompassing, all-enclosing, larger than life Hogwarts!) was just this little blip beneath me. Reduced to a miniature, like a play thing. The Great Lake was a mere puddle. All my classmates and professors like little dolls in a dollhouse. It’s sort of paradoxical in a way because things like the castle, which seem so Incredibly Important, shrink to nearly nothing but the grass, the trees, the sky (all stuff I never really think about) – they stretch on and on, limitless. Makes one think.

Then, I had the thought that you were down there, somewhere. One of the tiny, little specks below me. It’s funny to think you’re a real person who goes to this school with me.

Anyway, if I go flying tomorrow, I’ll try to go even higher, I think. I’d like to find the place where the sky turns into heavens. Like when you’ve got one foot across the border, halfway in Scotland. It’d be nice to just sit in the in-between for a bit. If I manage, maybe I'll bring down a star for you or something. 

From,

No One

P.S. I know you said you like longer letters, but it’s so bloody hard to think of what to write now that I know you’re reading them. Hope this suffices.

Harry smiled to himself as he read, belly to the mattress, feet kicking behind him. As soon as he realized the picture he must make, he tugged his bed curtains shut, lest his roommates stumble upon him twirling his hair. Harry dug in his bedside drawer for the new quill he’d been using: charmed to improve his handwriting. Well, it wasn’t new, per se. Hermione had gifted it to him two Christmasses ago, at which point it promptly took up permanent residence at the bottom of his trunk. He’d never worried much about his horrible penmanship, but for the purposes of keeping his identity a secret, it was a godsend. He could write much faster when he wasn’t concerned with keeping each letter perfectly straight and legible. Now, his words came freer, more relaxed, slipping from his quill like conversation after a few butterbeers.

He flipped No One’s parchment and wrote on the back. 

Dear No One,

What a shame, we were murdered the same week! Although, I died of boredom – a combined effort from Binns and Umbridge. It was a slow, tortuous death. I’m glad we can still exchange letters in the afterlife though.

I also love to fly, but I’ve always been more fixated on speed. My drug of choice is flying on a windy day. It drags you like a current. There’s no better mind-wiper. It’s really the only time I feel like my head isn’t stuffed with stress and responsibilities and everything. It’s like gravity just sort of forgets about you. The broom becomes part of your body. You’re completely weightless, like leaves in the wind, like you’re nothing at all. It’s the best feeling.

Harry sent the message through the candle, settling in for what he hoped would be a steady back and forth. The reply came much quicker than expected. 

So you do play Quidditch then?

Harry rolled his eyes.

Wouldn't you like to know?

Yes, I would. That's why I asked, you twat

Are you trying to figure out who I am?

Yes, and you're making it rather difficult.

I aim to displease :)

Harry laughed to himself, picturing the sneer that would appear on Malfoy’s face–

He froze, Malfoy and No One smashing against one another, ringing in his ears like dissonant notes. Don’t think about Malfoy, he admonished himself. It shouldn't be so hard – wasn’t there sand he could bury his head in somewhere?

Chewing thoughtfully on his quill, Harry turned back to the parchment, wondering how truthful he should be. If No One knew Harry was on a House Quidditch team, the suspect pool would narrow considerably, and the nameless blond git was no doubt fishing for incriminating evidence.

Finally, Harry wrote,

I like Quidditch, but I don’t play. I just fly for fun.

He wasn’t lying. Technically. He didn’t play Quidditch anymore. 

Aww, didn’t make your house team?

Are you horribly uncoordinated or something?

Something like that

I wish we could go flying

Harry wrote it without thinking, surprised by the pang in his chest upon reading the words back. He missed Quidditch – so much – and an integral part of Quidditch was, and had always been, flying against Malfoy. Harry’s first time on a broom was flying against Malfoy. As far as Harry was concerned, beating Malfoy was a foundational element of the game. 

That would be nice.

You’ve ruined me, by the way

Brow furrowed, Harry replied,

What? How?

You got your fingers under my mask and wrenched it off

Now it doesn’t fit right anymore

Harry liked when No One talked in metaphor. Somehow, everything made more sense like that. He could picture it: pulling at Malfoy’s porcelain face until No One was all that was left. 

Oh. Good.

I’m sure you look better without it

I don’t.

I look like a weird stalker who can’t stop staring at Potter.

He’s caught me looking like a thousand times this week.

He probably thinks I’m poisoning his breakfast.

Harry smiled behind his hand, covering his face like he was scared the bed curtains might see him grinning.

He had noticed Malfoy staring at him. A few times. In classes or from across the Great Hall. When he entered a room, his eyes would swivel, only to find silver ones already looking in his direction. For one moment, their eyes would lock, and Harry’s head would empty right out – but then Malfoy’s lashes would flutter, his pale face flushing as his gaze darted away. After, Harry would spend the next several minutes fighting the pull to peek over his shoulder, just to check if Malfoy was looking again.

It wasn’t so strange. After all, he’d been watching Malfoy since first year, observing, categorizing every different way his eyes lit up. In malice or delight, in scheming or fury. The moment Malfoy had so much as a suspicious thought, Harry could tell from the curl of his lips. Instinctively, he scanned each room he entered for white-blond hair. This realization hit Harry like a bludger to the head.

With a trembling hand, he penned his response–

Has it occurred to you that for him to catch you looking that often he must also be looking at you?

It…had not. 

But still. 

He’s only looking cause he thinks I’m up to something.

Why do you think that?

Well, in his defense, I usually am up to something.

And that was the problem with all of this, wasn’t it? 

***

White clouds rolled across the enchanted ceiling in waves, sunlight flickering across the wooden tables. Harry yawned into his tea, while beside him, Ron scarfed down crepes at a frankly disturbing rate. Hermione was seven uninterrupted minutes into a manic rant on her calendar system in a fruitless bid to convert her friends to the religion of color-coding. Across the Hall, Malfoy was stealing berries off Parkinson’s plate – not that it mattered.

“Wait–” Ron interrupted Hermione, “if I come to the library with you, can you help me with my Potions essay?”

Hermione huffed, blowing the hair off her forehead. “I mean, fine, but then we’ll have to go now.”

“What? Why now?” Ron started shoveling the remainder of his food into his mouth, like Hermione had threatened to steal it.

“Because of the study schedule I was just telling you about! You’re throwing off my entire itinerary.” Hermione said shrilly. “So are we going?”

“I mean, yeah, it’s due tomorrow.” Ron rushed to gulp down the last of his tea, but spluttered when the heat hit his tongue. Hermione tutted while Dean paused his conversation with Seamus to laugh at Ron’s wincing face.

In the middle of the commotion, a flash of blue seeped into the sea of Gryffindor red. Cho Chang stood across the table, smiling warmly at Harry. “Hi, Harry.”

“Hey, Cho.” Harry cleared his throat, carding his hands through his hair in a fruitless attempt to flatten it. “What’s up?”

Cho twirled a strand of her ink-black hair. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry you’re not playing Quidditch anymore.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed at the reminder, “me too.”

With a sympathetic look, Cho asked, “Do you think you’ll still come watch our match against Hufflepuff next weekend?”

Harry could feel the weight of Ron grinning at him, but he kept his eyes straight on Cho, smiling despite the flash of nerves he felt. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Cool.” Cho smiled. “I was also thinking…maybe we can have a seekers’ match sometime?”

“Yeah, definitely.” Harry tried to sound confident, but he could feel his face flushing. “I’d like that.”

“Me too.” Cho nodded, biting at her lip. “Well, I’ll see you.”

“Yeah…” Harry mumbled after her, “See you…”

Ron and Dean burst into laughter the moment she was gone, jumping at Harry to shake at his shoulders. “Well done, mate!”

“We knew you had it in you!” Ron chuckled.

“Piss off,” Harry grumbled, pushing them off. “The both of you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly as she stood, grey morning light haloing her bushy hair. “Okay, Ron, let’s go. Are you coming, Harry?”

“Er…” Harry’s gaze drifted, as if pulled by a magnet – across the Hall, Malfoy stood from his table, Parkinson grabbing his hand to join him. Harry’s breath stuttered, as if it tripped on the way to his lungs. He glanced over to the Ravenclaw table where Cho was now sitting with a red-headed girl, chatting amicably. Cho tilted her head back to laugh, flashing white teeth. Hands still sweaty from talking to her, Harry wiped his palms on his trousers. He felt unable to make any sense of his own body, the way it reacted – hands that held steady in a duel but shook when talking to pretty girls, eyes that couldn’t help searching for flashes of blond. How was anybody meant to sort out the pattern? To not only recognize one’s own feelings but track them to a logical conclusion? Was this what people had fathers for?

Harry blinked, cleared his throat, and yanked his focus back to his friends. “Actually, I…I think I’m going to visit Padfoot today.”

The idea appeared in Harry’s mind just before he said it out loud, but he felt lighter at once. This festering uncertainty he’d been carrying around was surely weighing him down, but now that he had a plan, he sprang into action. Sorting through the remaining foods at the table, Harry packed up whatever he could, then ran back to his dormitory to get the invisibility cloak. Within the hour, he was off down the secret passage to Honeydukes, sneaking off to Hogsmeade.

Harry did his due diligence, casually scanning the area around the cave, and when the coast was clear, he cast Lumos and entered.

“Sirius?” Harry whispered into the shadows, pointing the faint glow of his wand around the interior as he tiptoed through. In the corner, a mass of matted black fur was huddled on the ground, chin resting on an old bone as he snored lightly. Harry cleared his throat, speaking up. “Sirius!”

The dog woke with a start, jumping to his feet while a growl ripped through his chest.

“Wait! It’s me!” Harry called out, pointing his Lumos back at himself. “It’s Harry!”

Padfoot stilled at once, his growl melting into a whine, followed by a series of excited barks. He threw himself at Harry, paws pushing against the boy’s chest, as his black tail whipped back and forth. Harry laughed. “Yeah, yeah, good to see you too! The entrance to the cave is clear; I already checked. You can change back.”

Padfoot dropped to all four paws with an affirmative bark, shifting to his hind legs. His limbs elongated, stretching until he stood at the full height of Sirius Black, whose thin lips were stretched into a wide smile. “It’s good to see you, Harry!”

“You too.” Harry sighed in relief. “I, er, brought you breakfast.” Harry pulled the bag of food from his backpack and handed it to Sirius. “Sorry if it’s cold.”

Sirius laughed like that was a joke and dug right into a slice of cold toast like it was fine dining. “So what brings you to my, er, cave?” 

“Well, I…” Harry shrugged and scratched at his head, suddenly nervous. Talking to Sirius seemed like such a good idea until he realized he had to do the talking. “I guess I hoped I could…talk to you about something.”

“Is, er…” a look of worry crossed across Sirius’s face, “Is everything alright, or–”

“Yeah, everything’s fine!” Harry assured his godfather. “I just…need some advice, I s’pose.”

“Oh, well…” A dazed sort of smile dawned on Sirius’s face. “Of course, we can…talk.”

Sirius took a seat on a large boulder, gesturing for Harry to join him. “What’s, er, on your mind, Harry?”

“Er, well,” Harry swallowed, breathing through his lips. Merlin, this would be a long conversation if they both kept up er-ing every sentence. “I was wondering…how do you know if you…like someone?”

“Oh, um, I mean…” Sirius furrowed his brow. “Well, you mean…like someone, or–”

“I don’t know.” Harry groaned. The boulder was hard beneath his legs, and even jammed in his pockets, his fingers felt like icicles in the late autumn air. This suddenly felt like a silly idea.

“Okay, fair enough,” Sirius chuckled. “It’s, well, it’s just something you feel.”

Harry held his head in his hands – partly to hide his flushing face and partly to breathe hot air onto his frozen fingers. “But what am I supposed to be feeling?”

“It’s something brand new. Like no other feeling.” Sirius said, “I s’pose it’s sort of like…it’s like…if fear felt good.”

Harry blinked, looking his godfather in the eye for the first time during this conversation. “...What?”

“I dunno, maybe it’s just one of those things that can’t be explained.” Sirius chuckled. “You know it when you feel it.” He shrugged. "Who’s got my godson’s head all screwed up?”

“Well…” Harry debated what to say, finally landing on, “there is this one girl…”

Sirius hummed knowingly. “There always is.”

“She’s really cool, yanno? Like, she plays Quidditch and she’s really friendly…” Harry sighed, “and…I don’t know. Sometimes, I think I like her, and all my friends seem to think I like her…”

Sirius nodded slowly. “Okay…”

“But then…” Harry tried to swallow through the cold coating his throat. “There’s this…other person I know.”

Sirius raised a brow but continued nodding.

“And sometimes, they’re a complete prat,” Harry continued, looking determinedly down at his shoe as he spoke, “but then there’s other times, I think…maybe they’re not.”

Harry only looked up when Sirius let out a sudden laugh. 

“What’s funny?”

 “Nothing really,” Sirius waved a hand, still chuckling. “You just reminded me of your mum a bit.”

“My mum?” Harry asked softly.

“Yeah, how she used to talk about James,” Sirius said with a shrug. “Complete prat…until he wasn’t.”

Harry gave a stiff nod, not trusting his voice. 

“In her vows, I remember, she said something like you drive me crazy in every possible way. I guess it's a bit like that. Me? I always felt it right here.” Sirius pointed a long finger at his own throat. “Like a great, big lump. The first crush I ever had was this Hufflepuff girl in third year, and I couldn’t bloody get a word out in front of her.”

“Really?” Harry asked, “You?”

“Hard to picture me tongue tied?” Sirius laughed, his face growing wistful and warm. “Then when I was older there was…another person. When we were together, it felt like I swallowed my own heart.”

“That doesn’t really sound pleasant,” said Harry.

“It can be.” Sirius’s face fell, softly like snow, and Harry knew better than to ask what happened to the person. 

“So if my dad was such a prat,” Harry asked instead, “how did he and my mum…?”

“Well, he wasn’t ever just a prat,” Sirius said, humor painting his voice again. “There were a lot of sides to James. But Lily was only seeing the…prattish one – mostly because he liked messing with her. Eventually, though, she saw more of him. That, and he did mellow after sixth year.”

“Right…” Harry nodded. “So I should…?”

Sirius shrugged. “Get to know this person more...if you want. Take each moment as it comes, and do what feels right. That’s all anyone can do, really.”

***

Later that evening, after an early dinner, Harry meandered the corridors alone. Hermione was still in the library, Ron was playing chess with Seamus, and Malfoy, according to the Map, was gathered in Umbridge’s office with a gaggle of other Slytherin students, which seemed like a bad omen.

The cooing of owls echoed from above as Harry approached the owlery, a letter he’d written to Lupin in his hand. One of the best parts of running the DA was that it gave Harry an excuse to keep up regular correspondence with his former Defense professor. Lupin’s letters were pragmatic – lists of defensive spells, lesson plans for Harry to use, and kind yet understated motivation for Harry to continue. Whenever Harry asked about the happenings with the Order, Lupin replied with something like continuing to prepare your classmates for what’s to come is the best thing you can do right now. It didn’t feel like enough, but regardless, he penned his response, thanking Lupin for the lesson on detection spells that Harry would be using next week.

As Harry supplied Hedwig with treats before her flight, the soft sounds of the owlery were punctured by footsteps. Harry turned over his shoulder to see Malfoy ascending the stairs with a letter in his hand. When he saw Harry, the blond froze in wide-eyed surprise for just a moment before swapping the expression for a look of disdain. “What are you doing here, Potter? Not like you have a family to write to.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “What a clever and original joke, Malfoy. You’ve only told it a thousand times before.”

Malfoy glared, crossing the owlery to where his giant eagle owl was perched. 

Eyes narrowed, Harry watched as Malfoy tied his letter to his owl’s leg with nimble fingers. With Malfoy’s back turned, Harry drank his fill, eyes traveling up the boy’s straight back to his bowed head, the back of his neck bared. A dark mole was just barely visible amidst the pillar of pale skin. Harry was struck with a sudden, inexplicable anger. An urge to bite. To pull off the smug Malfoy mask and smash it to pieces. “What are you doing, Malfoy? Letter home?” Malfoy shot a frown over his shoulder, but when he failed to respond, Harry added, “Tell Lucius I say hi.”

Malfoy whipped around like a tornado, advancing on Harry at once. “Don’t ever speak about my family, Potter!”

“Or what?” 

“Or…” A malicious light filled Malfoy’s eyes, an evil smirk touching his lips. “Five points from Gryffindor for being nosy and disrespectful.”

Harry scoffed. “You can’t take House points, Malfoy. You’re a prefect, not a professor.”

“Prefects can’t take House points; that’s true,” Malfoy said, “but members of the Inquisitorial Squad can.”

Harry squinted, searching for lies in Malfoy’s pointed face. “The what?”

“The Inquisitorial Squad.” Malfoy’s smirk stretched into a malicious grin. “A select group of students who are supportive of the Ministry of Magic, handpicked by Professor Umbridge.”

Harry barked a laugh. “Well, congratulations, Malfoy. Tell me – do Umbridge’s boots taste good?”

“Shut it, Potter. That’s another five points.”

But Harry was quite suddenly fuming, his face growing warm, his words loose. At the same time, he felt a prickle of curiosity. What would No One’s letter say tonight? Would it be about him – about this moment? “But it’s not exactly the group you want to be in, is it? Has Daddy let you sit in on any Death Eater meetings yet?”

“Ten points!” Malfoy snapped. “For insolence. And your shirt’s untucked – that’s another ten. And ten more because I don’t like you–”

“You don’t?” Harry asked rudely, too annoyed to handle the irony with grace. “Could have fooled me.”

Malfoy's jaw clenched. “Fuck you, Potter.”

Harry couldn’t help it – a manic sort of laugh burst through his lips. It took all the strength he had left not to say something stupid like I bet you’d like to. Still, laughter in the face of Malfoy’s intimidation attempts only sent the blond into a fury. His eyes flashed, molten silver in the moonlight, and he brought up a finger to poke Harry roughly in the sternum. “You think this is funny, do you, Potter? Don’t care about losing your House points? Fine, how about another detention with Umbridge!?”

All humor vanished, like water down a drain. The back of Harry’s hand suddenly stung, little bits of scab still clinging to the bright red scar Umbridge put there. Harry shoved Malfoy into the wall, pinning him to the stone. “Don’t, Malfoy. Don’t you dare.”

Malfoy’s pale face went whiter somehow, wincing, like he anticipated Harry’s fist to come smashing into him any second. Harry took a shaky breath, hand gripping tightly onto Malfoy’s shoulder, nails digging into his robes. Conflicting emotions swirled together, like a potion, in his brain. When Malfoy swallowed nervously, Harry followed the bob of his throat, abruptly aware of their proximity. 

“I'm serious, Malfoy,” Harry said, his right hand twitching. Silver eyes stared Harry down, pale brows furrowed. Harry's voice softened as he spoke directly to the boy he spent each night writing to. “I can’t do another detention with her. Please.”

“O-okay…” Malfoy said, the word merely a breath, coasting across Harry’s face. The simplicity of the response – the ease of it, the speed – hit Harry like a slap. He swallowed, suddenly unsure of what either of them were doing. Or why.

Malfoy’s eyes dropped, glancing at Harry’s mouth then back up. A blush spread slowly across his pale face, like blood in water. An electric shock jolted through Harry at the sight of it. He stumbled backward, releasing Malfoy’s shoulder. Without another word, he turned and left, rushing back to Gryffindor tower with his heart in his throat. 

Chapter Text

“How about Warrington?” Theo asked quietly. His fingers hovered over his bishop, skimming the top as his eyes scanned over Draco’s black pieces.

“Definitely not.” Draco yawned over his words. Leaning back in his chair, he watched the board lazily, wondering if Theo would make his next move within the hour. His eyes drifted to the clock on the wall— nearly midnight. Despite himself, Draco’s stomach fluttered at the sight, an eager impatience building in his chest. With a huff, he forced his gaze back to the board.

“Why not?” Theo reached for his knight then hesitated, eyeing Draco’s rook with suspicion. “He knows Dark Arts better than anyone.”

“He’s also a scammer. I wouldn’t let him near my homework, let alone an Unbreakable Vow.” Draco shuddered at the thought. “He’d try to trick us into something, like vowing to be his slaves. And anyway, the Vow isn’t even Dark.” 

Theo sighed, scratching his head. “What about Bletchley?”

“No way,” Draco whined. “He’d tell everyone about it. And besides, do you think he could actually cast the spell? I don’t even know if he’s literate.”

“Who would you be okay with then?” Theo groaned, face in his hands as he squinted at his chess pieces.

“I dunno—could you make your bloody move already?” Draco looked up at the ceiling, running through the students of Slytherin House in search of someone discreet and competent. “Pucey?”

“Hmm….” Theo glanced up with narrowed his eyes. “Why Pucey? I don’t know him well.”

“He’s in NEWT-level Potions, and Snape loves him, so he must be smart,” Draco reasoned, “and I’ve never heard him gossip. Plus, my father gave his father a loan last year, so he’ll feel obligated.”

Theo bit his lip, deliberating. “I’m not sure.”

“I mean, we don’t have to do any of this at all,” complained Draco. “We don’t need a Vow, for Salazar’s sake. I won’t tell anybody about your mother, Theo–”

“Fine. Pucey will do,” Theo interrupted; then, in a swift motion, he grabbed his own rook and moved it across the chess board. “There. Your turn.”

Draco rolled his eyes, leaning forward, eyes sweeping the board. His attention quickly hooked on his bishop, which he promptly danced across the board, all the way to Theo’s now undefended king. He looked up with a grin. “Checkmate.”

Theo blinked at the board, jaw twitching like the tradition of chess insulted him personally. With a deep sigh, he stood. “Fuck this game. I’m headed to bed.”

Draco nodded, looking around at the nearly empty common room. In the corner, his armchair sat in shadow, the smokeless candle unlit on the shelf beside it. “I’ll be up later. I’m going to read a bit.”

Theo grumbled, “Do you ever sleep anymore?”

Draco shrugged off the question, bidding Theo goodnight with his back turned. While waiting for the final pair of students to pack up and head to bed, Draco sunk into his armchair, thumbing idly through The Unraveling Mind. He got halfway through the chapter titled “Intro to Legilimency” before the smell of mint seized his attention, swirling around his wrist and pulling it toward the pillar of smoke rising from the cold candle beside him. Somehow, the boy in the candle always knew exactly when Draco was alone. In Draco’s mind, his pen pal swung wildly between a benevolent, watchful angel and a terrifying surveillance machine.

Either way, Draco grabbed greedily at the smoke and unfolded the parchment quickly, ready to drink the words like water—like a man freed from the desert, mouth open in the rain.

Dear No One, the letter began.

I wish I could write like you. Like…explain things in a way that also sort of kept them secret. Because, honestly, sometimes it’s like I need to tie my hands to stop from just telling you everything about me. But if I could tell it through a metaphor or fable or something… 

Like once upon a time, there was a boy who was pissed off all the time and couldn’t trust anybody. He shared a dorm with this other guy who used to be his friend but now was a horrible git to him. Despite this, the boy’s friends still hung out with said git, and the boy doesn’t know how to tell them that it drives him insane without sounding like a whiny loon. Additionally, the boy used to have this professor he adored, but now said professor seems to have forgotten his existence entirely. AND the boy has a brand new professor who is Evil Incarnate. AND the boy’s only real family member is homeless and in danger basically all the time because of the boy. And to top it all off, the boy is going through some kind of gay crisis! 

But I guess that’d be a pretty shite story. 

Anyway, how are you?

From,

Your Desperate Pen Pal

Draco blinked at the paper, at the rage baked into it. The quill marks were sharp, carved into the parchment. It nicked at Draco’s skin a little, the fact that the boy was so troubled. Thoughtfully, Draco bit his lip, then set his quill to the page.

Dear Candle Boy,

Well, good evening to you too.

I wouldn’t call your story shite; on the contrary, it has potential. High-stakes conflict, surely, but what of the ending? Don't stress the prose—it can be worked on.

In all seriousness, I’m sorry for your misfortunes. They sound upsetting. Concerning the git, I’d confront your friends about it. They shouldn’t associate with anyone who would disparage you. What’s the point of a friend who would? If you’re concerned about seeming like a whiny loon, simply don’t whine and don’t be a loon about it.

I, too, have experienced a fair-weather professor, so I will impart the lesson I learned: our professors are only human, and it’s entirely possible that this professor is just preoccupied with other things rather than ignoring you specifically. Now, for the professor you hate, I think I can guess which one, and she might be the one professor who is not, in fact, human. More likely, some sort of demonic entity. But the extent of her evils seems to extend to a grating voice, mind-numbing curriculum, and a hideous wardrobe, so we must be strong. She’ll be gone by next year anyway. Bless the Curse of DADA.

On the topic of your troubled family member, I am genuinely sorry. I don’t have much family. Just my parents, really. And I can’t even stand the idea of anything happening to them. You’ve read a lot of my maudlin venting about them, of course, but without them, I’d be nothing. Like we’re made from the same ribbon—pull one end, and we’d all unravel. So, I understand that when they hurt, it hurts you. But I can’t help but wonder how a teenager living in a secluded, tuition-free castle in Scotland could possibly be at fault for someone being homeless and in constant danger. On an entirely unrelated note, I read recently that when one is lacking control over their life, the feeling often manifests as guilt. Food for thought.

As for your final conundrum, I’m not sure if the affliction has a cure, but perhaps try snogging a boy sometime. I presume it would clear things up.

From,

No One

The response came slowly, and when it did, Draco scoffed at the brevity.

I’ve actually never kissed anyone.

The words were smaller than usual, rushed, like the letters themselves were embarrassed. Draco wasn’t exactly an expert himself, having only ever kissed Pansy. Well, and Blaise once over the summer, during a very undignified, champagne-fueled game of Truth or Dare. For some reason, Draco found the boy's admission was oddly endearing; he smirked while responding—

First of all, I write you a goddamn novel, and this is how you repay me?

Five meager words? I’m offended.

Sorry. I am grateful for all the advice, really. 

I will be using…some of it. The snogging bit just caught me off guard.

I don’t actually know if I’ve ever wanted to kiss anyone before.

…if you’ve never wanted to kiss anyone, why do you think you’re gay?

I don’t. I mean I could like both.

I thought I liked neither for a while. 

I never even had a crush until last year, and even then, 

it didn’t feel the way other people describe theirs. 

Like I liked her, but I didn’t feel crazy with it. 

How do you know you’re gay? Maybe you like girls too?

I don’t. I’ve tried.

I sort of have a girlfriend.

But you don’t like her?

That question was prickly. Draco twirled his quill between his fingers, wrestling with his answer. 

I do like her, as a person. 

We’ve been friends for ages.

I keep trying to make it feel like more, but that just makes me like her less. 

So why are you with her? Isn’t that sort of cruel?

It wasn’t really my idea.

She’s expected us to get together since second year.

All our friends kept pushing about it. 

My mother is over the moon about the whole thing.

She asked me the girl’s ring size last week.

Ring size? Like for an engagement ring? 

That’s ridiculous. You’re a fifth year.

Draco froze, suspicious. All the little things he’d let slip to this perfect stranger loomed like glowing eyes in the shadows.

How do you know that?

You mentioned OWLS once

Don’t change the subject—engaged??

It’s customary for Pure

Not officially, but that’s all I can say.

You know too much about me already.

I’m sorry.

I’m also a fifth year - if that helps to know.

Well…that narrowed the possibilities, certainly. Was that a good thing? Draco swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, as he wrote—

I suppose a bit.

Soooo…you’re definitely gay then?

Unfortunately

I dunno if it’s unfortunate.

I’m a bit chuffed about it to be honest.

Draco paused, regarding the response with an incredulous laugh.

Why ??

I’ve basically already said I like you, you prat

And what exactly was Draco meant to do with that?

Other than bite his cheeks and ignore the fluttering in his stomach. 

Despite his best efforts, Draco couldn’t picture a person on the other end of the candle. Couldn’t conjure an image out of the faceless words. But in the quiet of the common room, the shadows pressed in. They asked, what if he had a face? If he and Draco traded names and voices? What then?

But it was ridiculous, Draco told himself, because the candle boy was merely filling a mold with Draco’s words, sealing the gaps with his own assumptions. He was probably imagining that Draco was a good person, and while Draco was many enviable things – clever, confident, richer than god – good was never one of them.

Draco tried to imagine meeting the candle boy. Holding the hands that wrote those impassioned letters. Hearing his words out loud, in an actual voice. The idea made Draco itchy.

What if the boy was ugly?

What if he was a Hufflepuff?

Draco wouldn’t be able to stop himself from wrinkling his nose, and then the boy on the other end of the candle would think he was a slimy, horrible villain and never write to him again. Draco shook his head, shooing the thought, as he replied–

You like an idea you have. You don’t even know me.

Have you ever liked any other boy?

I mean, not really

So maybe you just like my words or the fantasy or whatever.

That’s not the same as actually being interested in another bloke.

It’s a whole different thing.

Okay, what’s it like then?

That boy you like, how do you know you like him?

Ugh 

Can’t

Why not?

It makes me feel stupid

Think of it as you doing me a favor

Helping me figure myself out

Just explain what you feel

Draco sneered at the paper, palms sweaty. He wanted to refuse, to assert that he had no obligation to bear his soul for a random interloper. The candle boy had a horrible habit of digging his hands deep in the ground and unearthing things that were never meant to see the light of day. Worse, he seemed to delight in it, to enjoy the dirt left beneath his nails. He just kept asking these awful questions. Something, though, about the barefaced curiosity poked holes in Draco’s defenses, so he was left doing the strangest things. Like answering the questions.

He sets me on fire.

I get so immature around him, it’s crazy like 

I’m perpetually my eleven year old self in his presence. 

I just say insane shit because I want to see how he’ll react to it.

Why?? Don’t you want him to like you?

I’m so far past that it’s not even funny

I just want him to look at me most of the time

Plus he goes all red and glaring when he’s mad 

And it’s so cute there’s something a bit intoxicating about it

On the page, the confession seemed gory, like a bloody thing Draco had cut out of himself. The ink seemed to drip off the page, drenching his hands in black, staining—evidence of everything he spent daylight hours burying.

Do you ever think about him when you…you know?

The reply smacked Draco across the face, barreling right through whatever impending panic had been building in his chest.

Merlin’s beard, you’re shameless

A bit.

I’m curious.

Maybe I'm jealous.

Draco rolled his eyes, pointedly ignoring the warmth flooding his face.

Don’t be. 

I’m closer with you than I’ll ever be with him

And to answer your question (because apparently you’re the

human equivalent of Veritaserum), no. 

But mostly because I haven’t let myself.

Damn…now I'm sort of disappointed.

I was hoping you’d describe that too.

A breathless, almost scandalized, laugh passed through Draco’s body, scattering his mind like fallen leaves in the wind. He shook his head, eternally grateful that his handwriting couldn’t look flustered.

You’re mad.

GOODNIGHT CANDLE FREAK

HAHA that’s me :)

Goodnight x

***

The bedsheets were stifling, Draco’s skin felt feverish, and his thoughts were both loud and singleminded. Though he'd been running on fumes for days, sleep fluttered around him like a bothersome moth, impossible to catch.

Sighing frustratedly, he tossed and turned, flipping onto his back to glare up at the ceiling. His hand – traitorous, ink-stained thing – hovered by his own hip, inching under his waistband uncertainly until his sense of self-preservation gave out, beat to submission by restlessness and the growing heat under his skin. 

Draco hadn’t been lying—he’d never let himself think about Potter in this state. Usually, he tried to keep his mind completely empty, a blank void that did nothing but process sensation. Sometimes, if he was feeling desperate, he let his mind drift to Quidditch, picturing vague silhouettes of a few choice pro players.

Tonight, though, he didn’t stand a chance. From the moment he took himself in hand, Draco was a house on fire, Potter filling him like smoke, burning the drapes, the foundations. Greedy, he inhaled lungfuls—Potter’s rough hands, his mouth, the way his throat moved and his eyebrows furrowed, the way he laughed from across the hall and the way he scowled close up. His legs tight around his broom, wind in his hair, fire in his eyes. He rifled through memories until he was left biting his lips and breathing hard through his nose, lost to the heat.

Then, abruptly, he thought of words—teasing and blunt and brutal in their honesty. Dark ink, the sharp pressure of the quill like nails down his back. 

Draco came with a gasp, thinking of candle boy, of the little x he’d scrawled after goodnight.

Chapter Text

Owls swooped down from the ceiling, dropping post, paper, and copies of Witch Weekly onto the breakfast table. To Harry’s left, Ron received a long letter from home. To his right, Hermione opened her copy of The Daily Prophet. Across the Hall, Malfoy dug into a care package while his fearsome owl stole a sausage from his plate. Harry scanned the air for snowy white feathers, hoping for a letter from Lupin, but Hedwig was nowhere to be seen. It was just as well — DA meetings were getting harder to schedule with Umbridge’s crackdown on student groups.

Harry turned tired eyes back to his breakfast, tuning out the rumble of student voices, excited to get letters and packages from home. As he yawned into his pumpkin juice, Harry had to admit the lack of sleep he’d had lately was weighing on him. When he did manage to fall asleep, he was consistently thrown into that infuriating corridor and woke up frustrated and confused, as he had this morning. Of course, writing to No One until the wee hours of the morning wasn’t exactly helping the sleeplessness, but at least that part of the night was pleasant.

When he blinked up at Malfoy again, Harry found the other boy already gazing back with equally tired eyes. Harry felt his lips upturning automatically, but he quickly bit at his cheeks to snuff the smile out. Unlike recent mornings, Malfoy’s eyes didn’t flit away like he’d been caught something and his cheeks didn’t flush pink — no, today, Malfoy smirked back, a familiar evil glint in his eyes. The air seemed to chill. Harry swallowed.

“Look, here,” Seamus’s brogue made itself known a few seats down as he read from The Prophet, “it says, our source reports that Potter has his own guild of students whom he trains. Disciples, perhaps? It is well-known that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named began recruiting his own group, known as the Death Eaters, during his time at Hogwarts– Hey!”

Seamus’s voice was abruptly cut off when Ron reached across the table and snatched the paper from his hands. “Cut it out, Seamus. It’s all bollocks.”

“Let me see.” Harry turned to Hermione, who winced as she clutched The Prophet in her hands, headline hidden.

“It’s drivel, Harry; you know that,” Hermione argued. “Why even read it? It’s just going to upset you.”

“I’m already upset. Just give it here.” 

With a sigh, Hermione begrudgingly released her hold on the paper. 

The Boy Who Snapped, read the headline. The paper trembled as Harry’s hands shook, but he grit his teeth and read the article, which painted a devastatingly detailed picture of Harry Potter, raging lunatic. Anonymous sources described his fainting spells — or disturbing fits as they called them. A so-called concerned professor gave three separate quotes about Harry’s disruptive temper, gargantuan delusions, and pathological lies. It took all of Harry’s effort not to lunge at the Head Table and show Umbridge just how disruptive his temper could be. The article went on to accuse Dumbledore of grooming Harry, and Harry, in turn, of grooming his fellow students, for all sorts of nefarious purposes — an accusation only made more infuriating by the reality that Dumbledore had hardly spared him a glance all term.

Harry’s mounting wrath reached a boiling point when his eyes tripped on the words Draco Malfoy. 

Potter’s latest victim – the article said – was fellow Quidditch player and heir to the illustrious Malfoy lineage, Draco Malfoy, whom Potter physically attacked last month during a school Quidditch match. “It was entirely unprovoked. He went completely mad,” the young Malfoy stated, looking pale and shaken as he recalled the incident. “It was like being mauled by a savage animal. I was only lucky that he didn’t have his wand on him, or I might not have lived to tell the tale.”

Yet, despite the Malfoy family’s urging, Potter has yet to receive any consequences for this brutal assault. A trail of unchecked violence seems to follow Potter like a shadow, raising alarm among those who have children at Hogwarts. As Cedric Diggory’s tragic death remains unsolved, this writer must point out that Potter was the last known person to see young Cedric alive.

The paper crushed in Harry’s grip, the words disappearing in a sea of red hot rage. He looked up to find Malfoy still staring at him, a smarmy grin plastered onto his pointy face. Beside the blond, Parkinson’s eyes glittered savagely as she read the article aloud to the Slytherin table.

“I’m gonna kill him.” Harry was a live wire, practically vibrating as he glared at Malfoy, their gazes locked — predator and prey, though Harry couldn’t tell who was which. 

“That’s just playing into their game, Harry.” Hermione worried her lip, brown eyes swimming with concern. “The Ministry wants you to make impulsive decisions, so they can smear you. Malfoy wants to rile you up and make you do something stupid. You can’t let him get to you!”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but the memory of No One’s words silenced him: he goes all red and glaring when he’s mad, and there’s something a bit intoxicating about it. Cute, he’d written, then crossed it out. But Harry still made out the indentation in the parchment. Cute. Was that what Malfoy saw right now? Harry blinked, his anger cooling at the edges, curiosity seeping through the cracks.

What was Malfoy thinking now, as he watched Harry’s reddening face? Was he high on it — Harry’s scowl, his anger? Malfoy was cruel; Harry knew that. He’d often wondered how someone could take such pleasure in his pain. Only when he saw the blush crawl up Malfoy’s neck did Harry realize that, perhaps, the boy wasn’t seeking his pain at all…

A shiver ran up Harry’s spine, cutting right through the fire in his chest. 

I just want him to look at me most of the time, Malfoy had written. 

Well. Harry was looking now.

He let his anger cool then harden into a rock: something he could hold in his hands, break open, and examine. As the week went on, he kept looking. At meals, in the corridors, during class. It became exceedingly hard to stop looking.

Most of the time, Malfoy was Malfoy — bragging, lording, sneering, jeering Malfoy. But in random, bright flashes, if Harry watched close enough, No One shone through Malfoy’s eyes like light through darkened windows. Malfoy would bend over his parchment in the library, tongue between his teeth, and he became No One. Then he’d blink, give his chin a haughty lift, and the shutters closed. Malfoy again. He bullied First Years, and he was Malfoy. But then he doted on his owl, and he was No One. He spent Care of Magical Creatures mocking Hagrid’s voice. Malfoy. He gave an answer in potions that was long-winded and pompous, but mostly enthusiastic — and quite frankly dorky. It was endearing; it was No One. Harry catalogued these moments, unable to tear his eyes away from Malfoy’s face. He wondered if he might ever approach him, say something, tear these masks off their faces. But then Malfoy noticed his gaze and snarled back, dashing the fantasy, leaving Harry to watch. To search the black sky for shooting stars.

“Hello? Harry!” 

“Wha–” Harry jumped, pulled from his reverie like one yanked from calm waters. He rubbed his eyes, grounding himself in the present, in the quiet library. He yanked his attention away from its anchor — the back of Malfoy’s head — and aimed it across his own table, where Hermione gazed at him, brown eyes round with concern. Sheepish, he murmured, “Erm, sorry, what did you say?”

“Just…” A debate took place on Hermione’s face before she sighed. “Nevermind. How's your essay coming along?”

“Oh, it’s er…” Harry looked down at his parchment, nothing but a half-finished sentence written at the top.

“You know what, I actually think I’m done studying,” said Hermione gently. “Perhaps we should call it here for the evening?”

Harry laughed despite himself. “What have you done with Hermione?” 

With a soft laugh, Hermione stood and gathered up her textbooks. Harry followed her out the library, shooting a last glance over his shoulder — Malfoy was glaring at his textbook like he might start arguing with it — only to find Hermione watching him warily. Impressively, she held her questions as they made their way through the empty corridors, but Harry could almost hear the sounds of her brain whirring. 

Finally, he sighed. “What, ‘Mione?”

“I’m just worried,” she said quietly. “The way you’ve been fixating on Malfoy…” Panic rippled through Harry’s veins, but before it could manifest in outright denial, Hermione continued, “I know you can’t stand him. I feel the same way. But if you do anything to get back at him, the punishment is sure to be a lot stricter than a Quidditch ban.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“Oh, I know. I just…” Hermione shrugged, looking helpless as they approached the portrait of the Fat Lady. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Harry nodded as he followed her through the portrait hole. Of course, he knew he could talk to her, but he was a bit lost on the how — or the why, for that matter. As long as his conversations with No One remained within the anonymous sanctity of their candles, Harry couldn’t see why he’d need to tell anyone. 

“I understand why you’re upset, but that article was completely ridiculous, Harry.” Hermione assured him. “I promise, everyone knows The Prophet is rubbish.”

As they entered the common room, Harry’s eyes locked on Ron and Dean playing chess in the corner — with Seamus, who looked up at Harry with a glower. 

A sour taste rose in Harry’s throat. “Are you sure about that?”

Harry had every intention of hauling his feet right up the stairs and dropping into bed, but somehow the action got lost in translation and his legs brought him to Ron instead, who kept his eyes trained on the chessboard, his thumbnail between his teeth as he muttered, “Hey, mate–”

“Why are you hanging out with him?” Harry asked plainly, unyielding even as Seamus scoffed. 

Ron blinked up. “What? No, me and Dean were just—”

“Playing chess, yeah,” said Harry, “with Seamus sat beside you. You’re my best mate, but you’re playing chess with someone who believes I, what, murdered Cedric Diggory?”

Harry could feel eyes on his back, the chatter in the common room dying as their attention refocused on Harry’s outburst. Ron, for his part, looked like he’d been slapped. “No, Harry, it’s not–”

“What?” Seamus interrupted, standing with his shoulders squared. “They can’t talk to me cause I’m not part of your little cult, is that it?”

“Seamus!” Dean said in warning, but Harry was already rounding on Seamus with weeks’ worth of pent up anger.

“Do you genuinely believe that barmy paper over me, Seamus? You’ve shared a bedroom with me for five bloody years,” Harry said, his words hot in his mouth, “but I can’t even be angry with you because, really, it’s all just a bit pathetic, isn’t it? You’d just rather call me a liar than admit that Voldemort is back. So much for Gryffindor bravery, huh?”

Seamus sputtered and geared up to respond, but Harry turned on his heel and made for the dormitory. Ron called out for him, but Hermione must have stopped him from following up the stairs, for which Harry was glad. He wasn’t mad at Ron, not truly, but he’d needed to speak up. So much of his life had become rolling over and accepting the boots on his back. Ever since he’d read that Prophet article, a storm had been raging in Harry’s chest, one that had likely been brewing far before that. Now, he felt it settling.

Harry sprawled in bed, watching the Marauder’s Map. The moment Malfoy was alone in the Slytherin common room, he grabbed his quill and ink. He didn’t have the energy to say much, so he merely wrote—

Tell me a story

Hello to you too.

Quite demanding this evening 

I followed your advice.

Told my friends off for hanging out with the git

Oh? How did it go?

It felt good, I think. 

And so now you deserve a story?

I’d like one

The quick pace of their messages stalled, and Harry settled back into his pillow with a sleepy grin. As he waited for the reply, he stared at the stars out the window. The sky was hardly ever this clear, and Harry had the sudden urge to run outside, lie in the grass, and feel the stars stretched over him like a blanket.

My Dearest Candle Boy, the letter said when it finally appeared.

I deliver you a tale of utmost woe. 

Long ago, in an ancient land, lived a charming young wizard named Orpheus, who was born without sight. His blindness, though, only aided his hearing. Even as a child, he was sensitive to every little noise — the rustle of the trees, the chirps of the birds, the brush of a butterfly’s wings. He gained fame as a musician. In his capable hands, all instruments sang beautifully, their songs softening the hardest hearts and stitching up the most broken ones. He traveled from village to village, playing music for all those who needed it.

In one such village, he met a woman named Eurydice, who had the blood of a Veela and the face of an angel. Of course, as he could see neither, Orpheus was not wooed by these. It was her laugh that intrigued him first. The soft burst of air through her nose, rarely at an appropriate time. It was the language she used, the particularity of her vocabulary. The way she always needed to say precisely what she meant. It was the decisiveness of her footfalls when they walked in the forest and the absentminded way she hummed along to his songs. It was the depth of her breaths when she slept at night and the sense of safety he felt in her arms.

The pair married in the spring under a flowering willow. Love gave them shelter in the summer months and kept them warm in the chill of autumn. True love, they believed, would act as a shield against all that sought to do harm. But then winter arrived, cold as ice, to seep the warmth from the land. 

In the dead of December, the village was infiltrated by a deadly basilisk. It slithered through the woods, yellow eyes wide in search of prey. As they did each evening, Orpheus and Eurydice took their walk in the forest, and while he played his guitar, she hummed along, collecting wildflowers and threading them into her hair. But as Orpheus strummed the final notes of his song, Eurydice’s voice disappeared. He called to her again and again and again, walking circles through the trees with only her name on his tongue. He felt the sun set and then rise again as he searched. But she had died the moment she met eyes with the beast, her soul snatched before she could make a single sound.

Orpheus’s grief was all-consuming. He could not sleep, he could not eat, he could not play his instruments. He could do nothing but sit below the willow tree and call into the darkness for his darling wife. The silence that followed was a knife. But even Orpheus’s sorrow became perfect music, his cries a lament that brought despair to all who heard it. The grass withered; the sky wept. And after a month of this, the willow tree said to Orpheus,“Please, dear Orpheus, you must stop this. Your song, it withers the grass. Your sadness kills all the flowers and cracks open the earth.”

Orpheus could feel it too, the cold air seeping from the trunk of the tree, the soft whispers within that called him to pass beyond that dark, cold veil. But then he heard her voice — Eurydice’s voice — and he could do nothing but reach for her. He tumbled face-first into the cold, falling past the world of the living and landing right at the feet of Hades, King of the Dead.

“I heard your song,” the Dark God said, His voice a rumbling in Orpheus’s bones. “I must admit I was moved, but, alas, if grief was enough to win back a soul, I would hardly have any left.”

Orpheus felt the deathly chill on his face, but he did not look away. “All of us mortals must come to you in time. I know this is our eventual fate, but my wife was taken far too soon, a flower plucked before its bloom.” The cold seemed to flare, and Orpheus remembered with whom he spoke. “If you allow me to rescue my dear Eurydice, we shall return to you in time, having lived our lives in your honor.”

The God of the Dead was not fully swayed. “What use is this to me?”

“I will do whatever you wish, my Lord.” Orpheus said desperately. “Please. We did not even say goodbye.”

“I have a wife,” Hades said softly. The wind shifted as the God considered, cold waves washing over Orpheus’s trembling form. “She lives on the surface for much of the year. I do miss her quite profoundly. I will allow you to retrieve the soul of your love, but there are stipulations. You will travel with her through the tunnel of silence and lead her back to the light. The Underworld is not meant for coming and going; this trip may only be attempted once.”

Orpheus pondered over the tunnel of silence, worried. “But my hearing is all that I have.”

“I will gift you sight for the duration of your journey,” said Hades, “but be warned — a mortal may never gaze upon a pure soul. You cannot look at your beloved until you’ve both passed into the light. If your gaze falls upon her while still in the dark, her soul shall be returned to me.”

Orpheus blinked and the darkness before his eyes shifted, defined shadows appearing before him. He gasped at the strange sensation, at the sight of his own hands, their silhouettes in the dark. Ahead, the blackness stretched on endlessly.

“Do not turn around.” The voice of Hades whispered across the back of Orpheus’s neck. “Take your step forward and walk towards the light. Your wife’s soul will follow behind you.”

Orpheus stepped forward, and the quiet filled his ears. The lack of sound was suffocating; he’d felt he’d lost a limb, left only with his fuzzy eyes that struggled to comprehend both shadow and light. The walk through the tunnel was agonizing, each step uncertain. His hands trembled, and his mind spun. 

The God of the Dead was many things, but forthright and kind were surely not two of them. Orpheus had faith in the power of Love, that he and Eurydice’s union was protected and treasured, only to have her ripped from the world so cruelly, as if she didn’t matter at all. How was Orpheus to trust this higher power, this cold, shadowy God? How could he trust Eurydice was behind him when he couldn’t hear her footsteps, when there was no gentle hum? He’d never known such silence apart from the moment of her death. 

Ahead, the Earth’s light began to twinkle, slicing right through the surrounding shadows, but Orpheus could hardly appreciate the brand new sight. With each step he took out of the Dark, Orpheus became more certain he was alone. That he’d been tricked and could never return while Eurydice remained Below, not even knowing he’d come for her. That fear pulsed under his skin as the shadows receded, and he stepped toward the light…

Orpheus turned as if wrenched, his body seeking proof before he left the Dark completely.

And there stood Eurydice, just two steps behind, golden light holding her face but shadows still gripping her wrists. She was beautiful, and beyond that, she was her. 

“My love…” Orpheus whispered, reaching toward her.

A goodbye passed between them, a transfer of breath.

Eurydice smiled, then vanished back into the dark.

Orpheus fell to the grass as the chirping of birds broke through the silence and his vision faded to black.

Goodnight x

No One

***

Christmastime fell upon Hogwarts like a soft snow. While the days outside grew darker and colder, inside, the castle steamed up. There seemed to be an invasion of mistletoe. Perhaps this happened every Christmas, and Harry had just never noticed before, but it seemed that at every turn, he was dodging couples, their entangled frames blocking doorways and occupying precious corridor space.

Harry found the whole mating ritual quite bizarre and increasingly uncomfortable. He almost ran right into Ginny when she stopped in the middle of the hallway to stick her tongue down Michael Corner’s throat. Later, when Harry passed under an archway alongside Parvati Patil, he nearly fell on his arse with how quickly he threw himself out from under the mistletoe sprouting above them. When he stumbled upon Malfoy and Parkinson in the courtyard, though, Harry’s feet stuck right to the floor like he’d been glued there.

The mistletoe bloomed above their heads, and within a second, Parkinson had her claws in Malfoy’s neck, pulling his face down to meet hers. His hands hovered at her waist, like he didn’t quite know where to put them. But, Harry couldn’t help noticing, the boy’s mouth seemed to know what it was doing.

Something boiled in Harry’s blood, letting off toxic fumes that made his head swirl and his stomach turn. He stumbled back and, thankfully, managed to duck into the castle before either of the Slytherins noticed him lurking.

The feelings conjured in Harry were harder to push aside, though. The standard discomfort was present, a persistent awkwardness he felt whenever he thought about romance or sex. Everyone else seemed so fascinated by it all, excited and intrigued, but Harry always found himself cringing, or wincing, or wrinkling his nose when confronted by the idea of tongues and saliva and wandering hands. He felt like an alien distantly observing the peculiar behavior of another species. At least, that’s how he felt when he saw Ginny kiss Michael or Fred kiss Angelina — momentarily uncomfortable, nothing more. But when he thought of Malfoy kissing Parkinson, Harry was nearly overwhelmed by two dueling beasts within him. One threatened to burst through his chest, all claws, and rip right into Parkinson’s smug face. The other was more concerning. It blew heat through his veins, lighting fires across his skin that could only be put out by Malfoy’s cold hands—

Harry tried to shake out the thought. He yearned for his Firebolt, wanting nothing more than to fly circles around the castle until the wind cleared out his head, which only reminded him of the reason he could no longer fly — bloody Malfoy. The git haunted his thoughts and possessed his attention, taking up space in his brain like a boggart in a spare cupboard. As December pressed on, Harry couldn’t stop looking at Malfoy’s mouth — the way he chewed on his lip while he wrote, the way he licked a bit of chocolate off his lower lip at dinner, the way his smile stretched wide and vicious right before he laughed — and remembering the way his lips had moved against Parkinson’s. But Harry couldn’t let himself want anything because he would never touch Malfoy, and he could never touch No One. So he tried to grit his teeth and shake his head and avert his eyes, all while inside, he burned, burned, burned. 

Late one night, when his patience was weak and his curiosity wired, Harry wrote:

What’s kissing like?

Well, I’ve only kissed my sort of girlfriend.

And that has been…fine, I guess.

Sticky.

Sticky??

She wears a lot of lip gloss.

I imagine it’s better with someone you’re attracted to.

It always seemed sort of weird to me.

Mashing your mouth against someone else's.

Such a romantic you are, candle freak

Harry laughed, some of his anger draining. His quill found the paper and he wrote without thinking—

I think maybe I’d like kissing you though

Harry stared at his own words, left breathless by them. The confession was not something he could admit — not out loud, not in the safety of his own head — but No One summoned it easily. The power he had almost worried Harry, but wasn’t that what made these conversations so worthwhile? The veil between them stripped them of identity but left behind the things that mattered, casting Revelio on them both. Harry swallowed, then burned the message.

The response came slowly for something so brief.

You don’t know that. I could be hideous. 

Harry snorted to himself.

I doubt that

Well, you’re right. I’m gorgeous, but I could be hideous

The same goes for you. Sorry to sound shallow but it’s true.

Okay well imagine I look like your dream boy

Do you think you could ever like me?

I might already, a bit

But it’s hard to feel like you’re an actual person

You can’t fall for words on a page

I think I have

You’re too sweet for your own good

You’ll get your heart broken like that

I’m tough, I can take it.

Would you ever want to meet me?

Harry wasn't sure why he asked. It couldn’t happen, but…would No One want it to? He liked Harry Potter — someone he watched from a distance and fought with on the Quidditch pitch and made fun of in the paper — but did he like the soul that lived inside him?

I don’t know.

Yes, but also no.

I’m too cowardly, I think.

I like talking to you. A lot.

I think our meeting would ruin it.

Why? Cause you won’t like me in real life?

Other way around.

The words knocked Harry off balance. He thought about Malfoy — always so arrogant, so sure of himself, confident enough to behave like a complete tosser and still expect people to be on his side anyway. Harry thought of No One, picturing him as a lost soul, placed in an enchanted sleep by an evil father, hypnotized to behave just like him. It occurred to Harry suddenly that maybe he could wake up.

On the second Tuesday of December, Harry sat in the library, conceivably studying with Hermione but truthfully watching Malfoy for flashes of No One. At the Slytherin table, Zabini made a comment, and Malfoy rolled his eyes, but then No One’s smile touched his lips just as the gold light of sunset glimmered through the window, shining against his hair. The moon and the sun eclipsed, right there in the Hogwarts library, and for a bizarre, breathless second, Harry could only think — Draco. 

Chapter Text

Potter was staring again. 

He’d been doing that lately — surveying with narrowed, suspicious eyes like he was trying to decode an arithmancy equation scrawled on Draco’s forehead. Draco wiped a sleeve across his warming face: a product of the thick steam that rose from his potion, and absolutely not the green gaze searing into his skin.

The other Slytherins muttered back and forth, discussing their assignments, but Draco was entirely distracted by the figure in his periphery. Merlin, Potter had been acting so odd lately — and he was a total loon on a good day. Draco had been sure the quotes he’d given to The Prophet would send the Wonder Boy into an almighty rage, but he’d hardly reacted at all. No heated confrontation, no hexes thrown in the hallway. Just this endless staring. Like Potter was waiting to catch him at something, glaring at him like an overbearing Auror. Draco couldn’t tell if he should be preening or watching his back.

What had he done to displease the Saviour this time? Draco wondered as he chopped into his gurdyroot. Potter must have noticed him lingering in the storeroom earlier, he reasoned as he fidgeted with the vial of tormentil tincture stowed in his pocket. It was a useful ingredient but would react quite explosively with the lacewings in their assigned potion. It was too bad for Longbottom that he’d bumped into Draco that morning. Perhaps a hefty helping of Snape’s shouting would teach the prat to watch where he was going. 

If only the boy would leave his potion unattended. 

If only Draco could get Potter off his back. 

Draco aimed a vicious scowl Potter’s way, and the boy had enough shame to shift his gaze to his own hands on the desktop.

“Draco?” 

“Huh?” Draco blinked to attention, only to find his gurdyroot chopped down to a powder. “Shit…”

Beside him, Theo sighed, unimpressed. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

Draco disposed of the powder and reached for a fresh gurdyroot. “Well…” 

Theo’s answering sigh was long-suffering. “I said, I talked to Pucey this morning. He’s said he’ll do it.” 

“Do what?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “The Vow.”

“Oh, right, of course.” As Draco cut into the replacement gurdyroot, the stars aligned: Longbottom abandoned his cauldron to grab a forgotten something from the storeroom. When Draco reached for the stolen tincture with a grin, Potter’s glare flashed up at him again, a warning in the set of his brow. How did he manage to know the exact moment Draco was up to something? It was uncanny. He considered going for it anyway — if Potter hexed him, Draco could say it was unprovoked. Snape would, of course, believe him. But Draco's hesitation cost him his chance; Longbottom returned to his desk. Re-pocketing the vial with a huff, Draco muttered under his breath, “Why in Salazar’s name can’t Potter mind his own damn business?”

Theo snickered. “I was under the impression you rather wanted him in your business.”

Face paling, Draco grabbed his knife and stabbed it right into the desktop, a mere inch from Theo’s hand. He hissed, “Keep your voice down.”

The other boy pulled the blade from the wood with steady fingers and laid it gently on the table, sighing, “I’ve already told you — you should take this Vow more seriously. I’m not the only one with a secret.”

Draco bristled. “Are you threatening me, Nott?”

Theo only rolled his eyes. “It’s the principle of the matter. We’re doing the Vow tomorrow night, alright?”

Draco swallowed, his eyes flicking up to Potter instinctively — the tosser was still staring. “Yeah, alright.”

***

Draco laid in his armchair, curled under a blanket and fighting the sleep that colored the edges of his vision. His eyes traced over the letter he’d just read, caressing the words with his gaze. The candle boy had written him a story — a daft one about a horrible old man being visited by strange time-traveling ghosts. Ridiculous. The writing was quite literal and lacked much of the nuanced prose Draco strived for in his letters, but he enjoyed the tale nonetheless. He skimmed over the middle section again, when the Ghost of Christmas Present brought the ancient bastard to his nephew’s party, only to hear everyone talking about how shite he was.

With a tired chuckle, Draco penned his reply.

Did you make that up?

No, it’s a muggle story

no wonder it’s barmy then

I always liked it growing up.

I have an uncle who reminds me a lot of Scrooge.

I think I liked the idea of him waking up one morning

And being kind all of the sudden. 

Anyway, I thought I owed you a story since you’ve sent me so many.

I liked it. 

Thank you.

If at the beginning of term, someone had told Draco that in four months' time, he’d be smiling over a dumb muggle story (let alone thanking the mudblood who wrote it), he would have punched them square in the face. Yet here he sat, unable to wipe the soft smile off his face. Not even trying to.

Will you write to me over Christmas?

Yes. Will you write back?

Of course.

I hope you don’t have to spend the holiday with your horrible uncle

Thankfully no

I’m visiting with different family. 

Much nicer, these ones.

Draco chewed at his lip, struggling to piece together an image of the candle boy’s life based only on the crumbs he was fed. When he tried to picture him, all he could conjure was a fireplace. He thought of touching him and felt only the heat of flame on his skin. He enjoyed huddling by the fire, loved that each night, he could warm his hands by it. But as the nightly conversations went on, Draco couldn’t help longing for a face, a voice, a name. But it was silly. Just a dumb idea, a fantasy.

Still, his curiosity spilled over, and he found himself breaking his own rule by asking a personal question.

What’s the rest of your family like?

Absent.

Yours?

Draco’s eyes rolled of their own accord. Dodgy twat. Luckily, Draco was an expert at getting what he wanted.

Same. Recently, at least.

Did something happen?

If you’re going to be annoyingly vague, then I will be too.

Although, I’m not opposed to going tit for tat.

For example, you’ve read countless detailings of my personal information,

(which, might I remind you, were written in utter ignorance of your readership.) 

So, by my arithmancy, you owe me about ten letters of nauseating honesty 

in which you divulge your every fear and desire.

And that’s fair, is it?

Now you're getting it.

You can start now.

Is it weird that I like how bossy you are?

Draco bit down on the grin that threatened to make an appearance.

Yes, freak. Don’t change the subject.

The response came slowly, achingly so. As he waited, Draco stared into the fireplace’s glowing embers, the only light in the midnight-darkened common room. He felt a pleasant sort of nervous, like when, as a child, he’d been naughty but hadn’t been caught yet. What would the candle boy divulge to him? After minutes that felt like hours, a response arrived.

I have a lot of fears, I guess. 

Tight spaces get me tetchy. Not a huge fan of the dark, but the too-quiet is worse. 

Being lied to or manipulated or betrayed. I’m scared of losing myself. 

That I’ll do something bad or hurt someone, that I’ll get turned into something I’m not.

Mostly, I’m scared of losing people. Being alone or left behind. 

As for desires…

Honestly, I have trouble naming things I want.

Never made a Christmas list or any of that.

But I think of you, and I want. 

What, exactly, I’m not sure. Maybe whatever I can get.

How’s that for nauseating honesty?

Something settled, hot and uncertain, in Draco’s chest — like the sparks he felt across his skin when he thought of Potter, but more deeply rooted, warming his bones. He felt the wanting too. He wanted to thank the boy, for being honest, for indulging his whims. Wanted to talk to him until the sun came up. Wanted to tuck his words into his pocket and carry them around all day, wanted to swallow his sentences whole and feel them break down into his body. Wanted, wanted, wanted, until his chest ached.

 ***

“Salazar, that’s audacious…” Pansy muttered. 

“Hmm?” Draco looked up from his dinner.

“Chang. Chatting up Potter,” said Pansy. 

Draco followed her gaze across the Great Hall where Cho Chang had clearly intercepted Potter on his way to the Gryffindor table. He watched in mild disgust as she twirled her hair and batted her lashes. “Eugh, what a slag.”

“I know, right?” Pansy tutted. “Her boyfriend’s been dead, what, five minutes? And she’s already flirting with the boy who probably murdered him?”

Draco rolled his eyes, muttering, “Potter didn’t kill him. Be serious.”

Pansy raised a sharp brow. “How do you know?”

“Because he wouldn’t have?” Draco replied, unable to tear his glare away from Potter and the faint blush that was creeping across his face. “He’s Saint Potter. I doubt he could kill a butterfly.”

“Well, how did Diggory die then?”

“Dunno,” said Draco. “He was a Hufflepuff. They’ve the survival instincts of pygmy puffs. Maybe he stumbled across a chimera and tried to pet it.”

Pansy snorted at that and was soon distracted by a new topic, blathering on about her outfit plans for the various winter events they’d attend over the impending holiday. Something about a new dress she’d bought and how Draco should buy a matching tie, though he didn’t catch which colour. He didn’t want to think about the Greengrasses’ Christmas Gala or the fact that he’d be attending with Pansy on his arm. It depressed him, the sham of it all.

Listlessly, he blinked at the girl beside him, watching her red lips stretch over pearl-white teeth. His eyes cut across the hall, settling once more on Potter’s face, the nervous grin he gave to Chang.

All at once, his heart cracked like ice — only just, a hairline fracture. Not true grief, for he couldn’t grieve what he’d never had. It wasn’t hard to push away, just the ghost of a feeling. But nonetheless, for a moment, he mourned that he would never get to be in love.

***

The common room was quiet. All but the older students had gone to bed. Theo and Draco sat at a chess board, though they’d both given up playing seriously, as they waited for the clock to strike eleven. Theo bounced his leg up and down, but Draco felt strangely calm. If anything, he was simply annoyed that this Vow nonsense might cut into his time with the candle boy.

Finally, the clock above the fireplace gave a soft chime, signaling the hour. Theo’s swallow was audible. “Shall we go?”

“I suppose so.” Draco scanned the room, counting heads. All of the seventh year boys were seated around a coffee table, revising for their NEWTs. All but Adrian Pucey. Motioning for Theo to follow, Draco made for the staircase to the dormitories. He could hear Theo’s teeth grinding behind him. “Why are you so nervous?”

Theo scoffed, muttering as they climbed the steps, “You’re right, silly me. It’s only a binding contract that can kill us. Whatever should I be nervous about?”

“This was your idea…” Draco complained for the hundredth time. 

“It’s the smart thing to do, for us both,” Theo said with a huff. “Doesn’t mean I’m eager about it.”

For a Terribly Serious Suicide Vow, the ambience was rather benign. Pucey let them into his empty dormitory and locked the door behind them, extending his palm to accept a pouch of galleons from Theo.

“Cheers,” Pucey said, looking between Theo and Draco with pursed lips. “Do I want to know the reason for all this?”

“No,” Theo said simply, pulling a folded sheet of parchment from his robe’s pocket and handing it forward.

Pucey sighed. “Fair enough.”

A minute later, the boys stood in the center of the room, facing one another, Draco’s right hand clasped in Theo’s. Draco narrowed his eyes at Pucey, who was reading over the parchment carefully. “You’re sure you know how to do this properly?”

“Quite.” Pucey replied. “Ready?”

When they both nodded, Pucey placed the tip of his wand upon their linked hands, clearing his throat softly. “Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott…Do you both swear to protect each other’s secrets to the best of your ability?”

“Yes,” they said together. 

A string of magic, glowing like fire, slithered from the tip of Pucey’s wand and coiled around their hands. Draco felt Theo’s hand shaking in his grasp. He prepared to pull away, the Vow having been cast, but Theo gripped him tighter. 

“Do you swear loyalty to one another?”

Draco gaped; they’d only agreed to the first Vow. Theo stared back at him with hardened eyes, shamelessly. “Yes.”

Merlin, Draco thought, Theo was a paranoid nutter. He scoffed but relented. “Okay, yes.”

Another band of magic circled their wrists.

“Do you swear to place this loyalty above all other magical oaths?”

“Yes,” Theo said immediately, brows furrowed, imploring with his look. 

All other magical oaths…Draco thought of the Mark on his father’s arm, the one on Mr. Nott’s. Surely, Theo couldn’t mean…? Draco swallowed. “...Yes.”

The string of flame circled, tightening like a cuff. When Pucey pulled his wand away, the light faded, but Draco could still feel it, pressing against his pulse point.

The door had hardly closed behind them when Draco shoved Theo against the nearest wall, hissing, “What exactly are you playing at? Are you that worried I’ll betray you somehow?”

Theo pushed him off easily yet refused to meet Draco’s intensity. He merely placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, eyes blue and calm as the sea. “You might not understand it now, Draco, but I’ve done us both a favour.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the fifth year dormitory. Draco clenched his jaw, breathing through his teeth. He had half a mind to storm after him and hex the git, their dormmates be damned, but the call of the empty common room was too loud to ignore. The candle boy would be waiting. 

Confused and annoyed as he was, Draco was glad when a message arrived promptly, but that swiftly drained when he read it. 

I had my first kiss today. 

Heat prickled in Draco’s chest. Not the comfortable warmth that usually came alongside the candle boy’s words. This was stinging, almost nauseating. A stifling room on a hot summer’s day. A rug burn, a pinch to the skin. Draco tried to swallow it and write out a neutral response but even his handwriting was suffused with bitterness.

Oh? And how was that?

Not great.

Draco nodded to himself, the heat ebbing a bit, but he still felt unnerved. It was stupid to be jealous, turned inside out by words on a page. But he couldn’t help the sour curiosity that spilled into the ink of his quill.

With whom?

This girl. I thought I liked her.

But now I think probably not

Am I welcoming you to the bent club?

Not sure.

I think I did actually like her last year.

So what happened?

I dunno. I’ve changed, I s’pose.

I think I like you too much now

Draco took a breath, rubbing at his eyes. Feeling pleased. Feeling silly that he felt pleased.

We’ve been over this

You like an idea of me

No. I like you.

I really do. I feel mad, but I do.

Simultaneous yet contradictory waves of emotion hit Draco. A deadly cross-current. He ached to reach out but couldn’t tell if he meant to pull the boy closer or push him away. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry.

You wouldn’t if you really knew me

I have to tell you something. 

But you’re going to be angry.

What is it?

I do really know you.

The words didn’t seem comprehensible at first, or maybe Draco’s brain simply refused to process them. 

What do you mean?

I know who you are.

I’m sorry. 

When he did make sense of the words, all his stupid, silly thoughts vanished. The hot jealousy and the warm fondness and the dripping condensation from his ice cold heart — all of it washed away entirely in a downpour of panic. His mind raced, indignant (and yes, angry) as he rifled through every word he’d written to the boy. He’d given stuff away, of course, but it surely hadn’t been enough to unmask him entirely. Right?

You’re lying.

I’m not. I figured it out a while ago.

I should have told you, but I wanted you to keep talking to me.

Okay, sure, who am I then?

You’re Draco Malfoy.

He blinked at it. His name in the candle boy’s handwriting. It was perfect. It was awful. His hands trembled as he looked at it, unable to tear his gaze away. Unable to think much of anything at all. Slowly, though, questions surfaced, floating like bodies. How had the boy found him out? When had he found out? How long had he been scribbling sweet nothings, knowing whose eyes would read them? Eventually, the unlit candle beside him gave off smoke again, another message coming through.

Please don’t be scared.

I haven’t told anyone anything, and I won’t. Promise.

Draco pressed the shaking tip of his quill to the parchment.

Who are you?

You have to tell me. It's only fair.

Can I show you instead?

Had breathing always been so laborious? Draco wasn’t sure. 

How?

Come meet me.

In ten minutes, sneak out, go to the seventh floor.

Across from the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy, there’s an empty hall. 

Walk past three times.

Think of me while you do it.

Chapter Text

It had been a strange day. 

In Herbology, Harry and Ron were partnered with Seamus and Neville to re-pot a batch of Fanged Ferns. Ever since their confrontation in the common room, Seamus had been acting moody and sheepish in equal turn, only made worse by the fact that since that night, Ron had been atoning for his sins by constantly proclaiming his unflinching loyalty to Harry. This resulted in a class period of Ron making passive aggressive jabs at Seamus, Seamus communicating through surly mumbles, Harry taking on a vow of silence for the entire lesson, and Neville simply trying his best to keep the plants from biting anyone.

That night, Dumbledore’s Army had its final meeting before the holiday break, and Harry was left beaming. Looking around the room, it struck him just how much everyone had improved throughout the semester. Just a few months ago, many of them had been timid and somewhat awkward in their use of defense spells, now they cast with confidence, sending stunners and jinxes across the room and shielding them in equal measure. By the end of the meeting, Harry felt pride flowing into his fingertips.

Then, he ended up under the mistletoe with Cho Chang, and everything went sideways. 

After the DA meeting concluded, there was a moment when Harry noticed Cho lingering, and he felt a brush of excitement. He thought it would be nice to talk to her — discuss their holiday plans, say Merry Christmas, and spend a few minutes basking in the pleasant nervousness he always felt around her. The feelings he had for Cho were nice, uncomplicated. Like he was just a normal boy with a normal crush.

But then Cho started crying and talking about Cedric, and all the stormclouds came rolling back in. Memories of the graveyard and Voldemort and the daily lies in The Prophet — all the things that made sure Harry would never feel normal. As awful as it was, annoyance prickled under Harry’s skin. Why was she bringing all this up?

And then, uncomprehendingly, she was leaning into his orbit and kissing him. Her lips on his felt like an ill-fitting sweater: scratchy, uncomfortable, and tight in the wrong places. Afterward, Harry shuffled back to his common room on numb legs, and when asked, he couldn’t think of a single description for the kiss other than “wet.” Now, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling with furrowed brows. Wet? That was all he could say for his one and only first kiss? It was stupid to care, Harry told himself; he couldn’t imagine most people had spectacular first kisses. But…he’d hoped for something better than wet. 

Draco’s words floated to his mind — he’d described kissing Parkinson as sticky. Harry’s melancholy was overtaken by a sudden sense of urgency when, all at once, it occurred to him how little he knew Cho. When he really thought about it, they had barely spoken. Just small talk and Quidditch chats. She was pretty and sweet, of course, and Harry wanted to want her. But he didn’t spend every night talking to her. He didn’t spend all day looking for her in crowds or watching her expressions shift, cataloguing them. He didn’t love her. 

The thought pulled Harry up short, like it came from outside of himself. Did he love No One? He recoiled from the word on instinct — too intense. Harry could hardly say he knew Malfoy either. Couldn’t settle on what to call the git in his own brain. But when he couldn’t sleep, Harry read No One’s old letters, from months ago or from the night before, until he felt a presence beside him, a warmth that chased away his late-night loneliness. When he watched Draco laugh from across a crowded room, he felt something stir in his stomach and flutter up his throat. Was that love? What, then, of the way his fists still clenched when he heard Malfoy mocking people, the way his eyes still rolled at the boy’s Slytherin Prince routine? No, he couldn’t say he was in love. But he felt—

God, he felt. 

When Harry saw Malfoy’s dot on the map, alone in the Slytherin common room at last, his quill started moving of its own accord, mixed emotions spilling out on the parchment. 

I like you, he wrote. 

Why was he saying this? A small voice hollered in the back of his mind, telling him that this was stupid and ridiculous; it sounded a lot like Ron. But Harry felt not only that day but all the preceding ones like a giant boulder on his back, and his body was begging for someone to help him shoulder the weight of it all. Somehow, at some point, that someone had become No One. 

I really do. I feel mad, but I do.

But then Draco replied—

You wouldn’t if you really knew me

And wasn’t that the whole problem? That Harry did know him — really know him? That in spite of everything he knew, he still wanted? It was maddening. The way just thinking about Draco sodding Malfoy could make him feel breathless and dizzy. Like he was drunk on the twat. He must’ve been, because he started writing all kinds of stupid things like I have to tell you something and I figured it out a while ago and You’re Draco Malfoy.

Now, here Harry was, frantically pacing an empty corridor while thinking I require a room to meet someone who might shout at me or might snog me or maybe also might try to murder me. 

The Room of Requirement must have been confused — and who could blame it — because it conjured up what could only be described as a Cathedral of Stuff. Like an antique store exploded. Harry entered the absolute silence of the Room, his palms itchy and his steps unsure. He forced himself to breathe and sink into the shadows being cast by the mountains of books and random stacks of furniture.

Time slowed to a crawl as he waited, leaning against an old dresser with his heart in his throat. He imagined Malfoy pacing the hall, thinking of his own faceless version of Harry. He wondered — what would he expect to find inside? Would he even come at all?

Harry had just convinced himself he was waiting for nothing when finally — mercifully, terrifyingly — the door cracked open. 

A blond head poked through it, and Harry watched from his shadowed place as Malfoy stepped hesitantly through the door then closed it with a soft click. The boy’s posture was stiff, his face pinched in apprehension. He clutched his wand in his left hand as his eyes scanned the room, taking in the piles of strange things before stopping abruptly when they reached Harry. Malfoy blinked, taking a careful step forward.

Harry knew the exact moment Malfoy recognized him because the unsure expression on the boy’s pale face hardened right into a sneer, his wand hand lifting immediately, aimed at Harry like a weapon. “What are you doing here, Potter?” Malfoy spit his name like always. 

Harry winced, slowly and clearly lowering his wand. His voice came out in a croak. “Erm…meeting you.”

Some expression flickered across the boy’s face, then blinked away before Harry could make sense of it. Apart from the slight shake of his exhale, he betrayed nothing. An ice boy, as he’d once called himself.

“So all this was a joke, then?” He finally said, his voice almost bored, like he didn’t care one way or the other. 

“What?” Harry asked, his feet frozen where he stood. 

“I bet you and Weasley had a good laugh over it…” Malfoy said, almost absentmindedly. 

“What?” Harry repeated dumbly. “No, Malfoy, I—”

He stumbled a step forward, trying to rid himself of the clinging shadows, but stopped when the other boy jabbed his wand threateningly in Harry’s direction. “So what do you want, Potter?”

“What—”

“Stop saying that!” Malfoy huffed, his eyes flashing angrily. He ran a hand down his face, as if wiping something away. But when he spoke again, his nonchalance had cracks. “You went through all the effort of getting blackmail material. So what’s it for? What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything like that. I–” Harry kept one palm out in a show of surrender as he reached into his pocket for the bundle of parchment he’d brought. “Look, I brought all the letters. You can take them. Have them; then I’ll have no proof of anything.”

Harry held out the stack of letters cautiously, like one handing food to a dragon. He could just make out the clench of Malfoy’s jaw, the barely-there twitch of his eyes. In quick strides, Malfoy closed the distance between them, snatching the letters from Harry’s hand before stepping back again. He looked them over with a sick expression. All the while, Harry tried his best not to make any sudden movements.

Finally, Malfoy shoved the letters into his own pocket before leveling Harry with a suspicious glare. “How do I know you don’t have copies?”

“I don’t.”

“But how do I know?”

“I guess you’ll have to trust me.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, bemused. Slowly, he lowered his wand and dropped it into his pocket, so they both stood, hands empty. In the shadows, separated by only a strip of light across the floor. When Malfoy spoke again, his voice was soft, uncertain. “Fine. What do you want then?”

Harry breathed a laugh. “Are you serious?”

Malfoy only shrugged, his eyes dropping to study his own feet. Harry took a slow step forward. Closer, Harry could see pink splotches rising on Malfoy’s cheeks and hear the just-so quickening of his breath. Whatever mask Malfoy donned when he came through the door had slipped off his face, and Harry was left standing in front of a heartcrushingly beautiful boy, who looked so painfully embarrassed, so nervous. 

Harry couldn’t help stepping closer.  “Everything I wrote…I meant it.”

Draco blinked rapidly, as if he’d looked into a bright light, but he stayed still as Harry took one last step, bringing them face to face. It struck Harry that every other time they’d been this close, they’d been about to come to blows, or already swinging. Unthinkingly, Harry’s fingers reached for Draco’s tie where he slowly ran a thumb over the silk. The green and silver next to his skin brought the flash of another world, if things had been different. If Draco himself hadn’t been so foul the day they’d met. Now, Draco looked back at Harry with wide eyes. Then, as if a rope had been released, the silver gaze dropped to his mouth. 

The dense stillness in the Room pushed in from every direction as time slowed right to a stop. Sound vanished — sucked into Nothingness with other pointless things like thoughts and fears and hesitance — so all Harry could hear was his own breathing in his ears, like wind. 

The tie in his hand like a life preserver, Harry leaned up and pressed his lips softly to Draco’s. The other boy inhaled sharply, frozen in place. When Harry pulled back a hair’s breadth, Draco’s breath stuttered out. Neither moved, noses touching as they blinked at each other. Harry felt his heart beating in his mouth. He was a moment from retreating when Draco’s hand reached suddenly for his face and pulled them back together.

It was like being plunged into a frozen lake, being kissed by Draco. Like pummelling through layers of ice to expose the surprising strength of the current beneath. Cold fingers pressed into the skin of Harry’s neck, and Harry gasped into the other boy’s mouth, his body lighting up with the sudden cold. His logical thoughts flickered once, twice, then sank to the bottom.

To steady himself, Harry fumbled a hand to Draco’s shoulder, but the move only made Draco kiss him more fervently. When Draco brushed his tongue across Harry’s lip, Harry could only grip the boy’s tie and pull him closer. He had the abrupt, feverish thought that this should have been his first kiss. But thoughts were as hard to hold onto as sand, and Harry’s head swam, so breathless he felt lightheaded. Everything was everywhere; Harry’s heartbeat in his fingertips, rushing blood in his ears, Draco’s tongue in his mouth.

Without planning to, Harry found his fingers twisting into silk soft hair. Merlin, it was better than he’d imagined. All the times he’d seen this head of hair gleaming from across the Great Hall or the Quidditch pitch or the potions classroom—how was it even possible to gleam in the literal dungeons? Harry was hit with a sudden memory of Malfoy up in the sky, hovering above the Quidditch pitch, throwing Neville’s remembrall, his face smug and his hair shining. 

And all at once, his brain shouted at him that he was kissing DRACO FUCKING MALFOY. 

Harry pulled away, blinking into Draco’s somewhat hazy eyes, the color of an overcast sky, pupils wide in the middle.  

Malfoy’s tie slipped from his fingers as Harry stumbled back and ran out the door.

Chapter Text

Draco’s brain was floating somewhere outside his head. He moved like a creature just thawed from ice, blinking into the empty space where Potter had been standing. Sometime during his shuffle back to the dungeons, Draco’s thoughts returned to him slowly — or just one thought, really. 

Potter kissed me.

What a ridiculous sentence. Utter nonsense. Yet somehow, true.

And, sure, Potter ran away in horror afterward, but that didn’t negate the fact that Potter kissed him. The thought bounced around Draco’s head like a ball in an empty room, refusing to be made sense of. What barmy universe had Draco stumbled into? Hours passed as he laid in bed trailing his fingertips over his own lips. Remembering. His mind played through the memory, each perfect moment of it — Potter’s nervous breaths, his grip on Draco’s hair, the shy way he granted Draco entrance to his mouth. At some point, the memory slipped into a dream where everything was the same, except Potter didn’t run. Instead, he whispered sweet words into Draco’s mouth and kissed along his face, his neck, down his chest…

Draco woke with a start, yanked from the warmth of sleep by Greg and Vince arguing over a Quidditch bet. Normally, he would have broken their spat up, but today, he merely rolled over and groaned into his pillow. 

The fugue state brought on by Potter’s kiss began to dissipate as Draco listened to the clatter of his roommates getting ready for the day. His own stomach clenched painfully at the thought of seeing Potter at breakfast. How was Draco meant to behave? Would Potter avoid him or seek him out? Both ideas repelled him, for different reasons. What if Potter came up to him, spoke to him? What would Draco say? What if he did something horrible like blushed or stuttered? What if Pansy was there, doing her awful petting routine? What would Potter think if he saw that? And — Draco winced, as if slapped — oh Salazar, he’d completely forgotten about Pansy. 

As in, his girlfriend Pansy. The one he’d forgotten existed. The one he’d cheated on. Sure, their relationship was a complete lie, but Pansy didn’t know that, and she wasn’t exactly known for her cool head — Merlin in Heaven, Draco didn’t want to think about how she’d react if she found out. Homicidally, obviously.

More likely — Draco realized suddenly — what if Potter didn’t look at him at all? What if he acted like none of it happened? Draco glanced at the candle balanced on his headboard. He’d taken it from the common room last night, snuck it into the cocoon of his bed curtains under the idiotic notion that Potter might reach out and explain himself. But no smoke came.

Irritation prickled under Draco’s brow — what was the speccy git playing at, anyway? Potter was the one who’d figured out Draco’s identity and kept writing (flirting!) with him anyway. Potter was the one who asked to meet in person. Potter was the one who had bloody kissed him! And then he just ran away? Draco chewed the skin off his bottom lip — had the kiss been earth-shattering for him alone? 

Fuck — was Draco just a horrid kisser? Pansy didn’t seem to think so, but she’d been practicing signing Pansy Malfoy since third year, so perhaps she was biased.

Draco laid in bed, going insane, for what felt like a century when he heard Greg call out, “Draco? Are you coming to breakfast?”

“Don’t feel well,” Draco croaked out; his voice, dry in his throat, sold the act.

When the door finally closed with his dorm-mates' voices on the other side, Draco grabbed frantically for the stack of letters he’d taken from Potter. He let his eyes trail over the blend of penmanship, his own right next to the crisp, clean lines he’d come to associate with his mysterious candle boy. Draco scoffed to himself, dragging his thumb over the dry ink. He knew Potter’s handwriting; it had never been so legible.

“Tosser was using a charmed quill…” he muttered to himself. Huh. Clever.

 A rule had established itself early on in their correspondence — he who got the last word forfeited ownership of the parchment itself. Oh, how Draco loved getting the last word. Accordingly, he’d only held onto two of their conversations. The final one with Potter’s request that they meet. And one from the previous month, where the candle boy had drawn a little x next to the word goodnight. Draco could hardly look at it now, knowing who’d penned it, which hand had gripped the quill.

Draco added his two sheets of parchment to the stack of letters. His heart beat too fast for someone still in bed, but with a fortifying breath, he started reading, working his way backward in time. The newer letters were unsurprising, burned into his memory as they were. Bright spots in an otherwise grey winter. He felt his stomach fluttering as he reread his own words, all the embarrassing things he’d said about Potter — to Potter. But the other boy hadn’t shied away, Draco was reminded as he read. No, Potter had prodded; he’d asked questions and demanded answers with his own brazen shamelessness. He’d talked about his feelings, how he liked Draco. 

But even with the words right there in front of him, Draco couldn’t imagine Potter saying any of those things to him under any circumstances. As Draco read, a thousand questions filled his head and poured out his ears; tragically, his first thought was to write them all down and send them through the candle. But he still had his dignity, and he obstinately refused to make the first move after being abandoned with Potter’s saliva still wet on his lips.

When Draco reached the bottom of the stack, the letters addressed to no one that were never meant to be read, he couldn’t help cringing. Salazar, some of it was mortifying. He’d said so much — about his father’s frustration with him, his mother’s disappointment, his own ineptitude, and worst of all, he’d revealed in no uncertain terms just how often Potter was on his mind, how desperate he was for his attention. Some of the letters were so blatantly personal, he thought he might as well have signed and notarized them. It made his skin itch so badly he considered skipping classes altogether and running away into the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps he’d meet a centaur who’d do him a kindness and drive an arrow through his chest. That would no doubt be preferable to facing the humiliating ordeal of looking Harry Potter in the eyes. 

But it was the final week of term. Draco had an essay due in History of Magic and an exam in Charms. So, with the sound of his mother’s tutting in his head, he dragged himself out of bed, dressed with shaking hands, and forced himself to go to class. Each step down the corridor felt like a death march, his heart buzzing like a pixie in his chest. Breath held, he slipped into the Potion’s classroom, eyes locking immediately on Potter’s desk…only to find it empty. 

No Potter. 

No Weasel either. 

Granger was there, a desk ahead, partnered with another Gryffindor girl Draco had never bothered to learn the name of. Granger looked back then, meeting Draco’s gaze with a hardened expression. His lip curled entirely on instinct, and she shot him a glare before quickly dropping her eyes back to her desk.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Snape’s drawl yanked Draco’s attention to the front of the room where the professor loomed, clearly ready to begin his lecture. “Do you plan on taking your seat sometime today?”

Draco blinked. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Alright?” Theo asked in a whisper when Draco sat beside him.

Draco nodded numbly but found his mouth mumbling, “Where’s Potter?”

Theo shrugged. “How should I know?”

Snape’s voice began to drone in the pretentious tone he took while talking about deadly potions, and as much as Draco knew he should pay attention, he forgot how. Ordinarily, if Potter and Weasley were late, Snape would kick up a fuss, interrogating Granger and Longbottom with increasing viciousness until Dumb and Dumber came stumbling in. Draco blinked at the empty desk again, indignation flaring in the pit of his stomach. Where the hell had the git gone?

Draco stewed in a strange sick feeling all throughout his morning classes, forcing poor Greg to run interference when Pansy tried to talk to him in the corridors. There was no sign of Potter at lunch nor did he make an appearance in Care of Magical Creatures afterward. As the hours pushed on, the stupid, fluttering feelings in Draco’s gut died one by one before rotting into something putrid. By the time evening rolled around, he had once again convinced himself that Potter was either pulling an elaborate prank or very dedicated to retrieving blackmail material. Either way, he kept his wand gripped like a weapon in his left palm.

When dinner remained Potterless, Draco glared at his plate and ate without tasting. 

“Why are you pouting?” Blaise asked, amused.

“I’m not pouting,” Draco replied petulantly.

“Leave him alone! Draco doesn’t feel well today!” Pansy defended him. When she reached over the table to grab his hand, Draco’s whole body seized up at her touch. He thought of Potter’s fingertips against his jaw and felt suddenly nauseous. He dropped his head and focused on unclenching his muscles one by one.

“It’s lovely though, isn’t it?” He vaguely caught Blaise saying. “Can you believe how much quieter it is without them?”

“I know!” Daphne Greengrass responded. “They’re loud even by Gryffindor standards.”

Draco looked up on instinct, and suddenly noticed that the Gryffindor table was, indeed, much more subdued than usual. And much less garish. There was a significant lack of ginger. It wasn’t just Potter and his sidekick who were missing, no; the entire Weasley clan had vanished.

The sharp anger under Draco’s skin slowly drained, drop by drop pushed out by something worse, something harder to make sense of — worry.

***

Granger looked stressed even from behind, sat in the library with her shoulders up to her ears. Finding her was no challenge. Obviously, she would be in the library. Though Draco had always vaguely thought of the back corner by the window as Potter’s preferred library spot (Draco’s was a few tables down in direct view, for reasons better left unexamined), in hindsight, it was clearly Granger’s spot. Potter and Weasley were simply her hanger-ons. Which is why Draco had gone to great lengths to ditch Greg, Vince, and Pansy after dinner and track Granger down.

Draco lingered in between two shelves, searching his brain for how on earth to approach her. The idea of conversing with her generally made him feel a bit ill, but desperate times called for desperate measures and Draco was so out of sorts he worried he might break out in hives if he didn’t get some answers soon. So with his chin lifted and his face blank, he strode up to Granger’s desk. “Oi! Granger!”

His words came out shriller than he’d hoped. The bushy-headed girl jumped at the sound, and Madam Pince shushed loudly from somewhere. Granger blinked, her thick brows pulling together in suspicion. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Where have your pet idiots gone?” Draco tried for nonchalance, but it was hard to feign disinterest when he’d clearly sought her out, and despite his best efforts, he sneered on instinct, like the muscles in his face just couldn’t bear looking at her. 

“Hilarious.” Granger spat the word. He could practically hear the clench of her jaw as she pointedly looked back to her book. “Go away now please.”

With a huff, Draco stepped closer, lowered his voice. “No, but seriously, Granger…where are they?”

Granger’s head snapped up like a rubber band, and she glared, a heat in her eyes that could melt metal. Her voice shook with emotion, which Draco usually regarded as weakness, but something sharp stuck out of her tone and nicked his skin. “I’m surprised your father hasn’t already bragged to you about it—”

“What are you implying?” Draco snarled, heat climbing up his neck at the mere mention of his father, but Granger had already stood and furiously stuffed her book into her bag.

“In case it’s somehow not abundantly clear, Malfoy, allow me to spell it out in no uncertain terms: I don’t wish to speak to you. Ever.” With that, the girl turned on her heel and stomped right out of the library without a backward glance. 

Anger flashed briefly in Draco’s mind but then quickly settled back into the unholy potion of strange that had been brewing in his stomach since the previous night. The thought of his father somehow involved in the disappearance of Potter and the Weasley Bunch had Draco shuffling back to his common room on numb legs. The only times his father ever mentioned Potter was while telling Draco to stop prattling on about him. His father had no interest in Potter. He never had! In the back of his mind, though, Draco realized that couldn’t be true.

In regard to the Dark Lord’s resurrection, his father had said very little. Only that it had been magnificent to witness the dawn of the next Great Age. But Draco had heard Potter’s side of things. Mostly lunatic ramblings, he’d thought. After all, Potter’s story made no sense. Why would the Dark Lord have killed an innocent Pureblood like Diggory, for no reason? And how could one possibly believe that Potter dueled the Dark Lord and lived to tell the tale? As if the greatest Dark wizard of all time would stoop to dueling a fourteen year old in the first place? It was ridiculous. Draco had dueled Potter before, and the tosser had some talent, but he obviously wasn’t that good. No, Diggory had probably done something stupid, and Potter hid in that graveyard like the little sneak he was, eavesdropping on the Dark Lord’s resurrection, then retelling the story to paint himself as a hero. That is what Draco had thought.

But now…Draco had spent weeks of his life feeding bits of his soul to that blasted candle. He had pored over the responses, considering the boy who’d written them, and he knew a few things: the boy he’d been writing to was sensitive but far from arrogant. He was stupidly brave, and above all, he was grotesquely honest.

Fuck. 

Draco rushed to his dormitory, walking right into bed and pulling the curtains tight. Quill in hand, he struggled with what to say to Potter. All his words crumbled like unstable sand castles before they could form sentences. In the end, he wrote the only thing he really seemed to care about in the moment—

Are you okay?

He waited by the candle all night, listening as his roommates’ chatter turned to tired shuffling turned to muffled snoring. But no response came. 

***

Snow fell outside the train window, icing up the glass. The chocolate frog in Draco’s mouth had no taste. Pansy’s nails were sharp on the back of his hand. He found himself thinking about Potter’s eyelashes, blinking slowly over wide green eyes like the flashing of a lighthouse. His chest hurt. 

His mother picked him up from the train station. When she gave his arm a squeeze, Draco wished briefly that she would hug him, like she had during first and second year, before brushing the feeling off. Draco spent his first day home in the library, basking in his despondence, unread book open in his lap. Everything felt strange, his skin tender like a peach. His mind kept drifting to the memory of Potter’s retreating back, running from him. He’d never felt like this before: upset to have upset him. Normally, upsetting Potter would have been an excellent start to the holiday. 

He was up most of the night, anxious, fingers twitching like his body forgot how to find sleep without writing out every thought in his brain first. 

When he woke the next morning, the table was set with just one plate. Draco called for a house-elf, asking the whereabouts of his parents. 

“Master Malfoy is still being traveling, Young Master,” squeaked the wrinkly little thing (What was her name? It was something like Dimply. Maybe Blimpy. Pimply?) “and Mistress Malfoy is being shopping for Christmas. She tells Mimsy” — Mimsy?? Draco scoffed; he much preferred Blimpy. Maybe he could convince her to change it — “she will be back in the afternoon.”

Draco dropped into his chair and picked at a scone, remembering how, when he was young, his mother always took him Christmas shopping. They’d walk through Diagon Alley, and Draco would point at all the things he wanted while his mother pursed her lips, feigning like she didn’t have plans to come back later and buy each and every one of them. They’d get lunch together afterward. His mother always ordered the soup du jour, so Draco did too, even if it was some French goop that looked like it’d been scraped out of Neville Longbottom’s cauldron. After, they’d walk slowly through the street and look at the Christmas lights, adorning roofs and wrapped around trees. They hadn’t done that since third year. Draco huffed and lay his head on the table, a heavy feeling in his chest.

By the next evening, as he lay between Blaise and Pansy in Daphne Greengrass’s empty bathtub — his bowtie undone and gulping the champagne they’d pilfered — Draco was furious. At Potter, for being a cruel, arrogant, horribly-dressed wanker with perfect lips. But also at himself, for letting Potter get the upper hand. For being dumb enough to show up to that room and weak enough to start writing down his bloody feelings in the first place.

“Give it.”

“Hmm?” He grunted, blinking back to awareness. His fingers were gripping the neck of the champagne bottle as Blaise tried to yank it away. He took another gulp then handed it off, wiping his chin on the back of his hand.

After the formal dinner and an appropriate amount of mingling, the Slytherins had abandoned their parents and the party downstairs to, instead, take up residence in Daphne’s bathroom. Daphne, herself, was sitting barefoot on the white tile floor, her back against a cabinet. With a smirk, she leaned forward, grasped the empty glass bottle lying sideways on the floor, and spun it. Her smirk quickly fell when it landed on Greg, who seemed chuffed even still. With a sniff, Daphne shuffled forward, squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and pulled Greg to her by the tie. Draco’s mind tipped sideways, remembering Potter gripping his tie, pulling him close. Had it been like that for him – just something to get through?

“Draco.” 

“What?” Draco startled again. 

“Your turn,” Daphne informed him. Draco blinked. At some point, she had returned to her spot on the floor and now wore a slightly nauseous expression. Across the circle, Greg was smiling dazedly. With a sigh, Draco forced himself to clamber out of the bathtub, his body objecting to every second, and spin the bottle, unable to make himself care who it landed on. Behind him, Pansy muttered something under her breath — a spell, he realized when the bottle landed on her. But he didn’t care about that either, glad for the opportunity to crawl back into the tub immediately. He leaned over to kiss her, and though he’d intended to keep it chaste, a moment later Pansy’s tongue was in his mouth. She tasted like champagne and the strawberry pastries they’d had at dinner. Potter had tasted like mint toothpaste, he thought distantly. How plebian. And yet…

When Draco pulled back from the kiss, he clapped Blaise on the shoulder. “You next.”

He watched the champagne longingly as it traveled across the other side of the room, making the long pilgrimage home to Draco’s hands. Blaise stayed sprawled in the tub, pulling out his wand and shooting a lazy spell at the bottle, sending it spinning. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Draco whined. He peered up just enough to watch the bottle land on Theo, who was perched awkwardly on the toilet. 

Blaise let out a drunk laugh as the red blush spread across Theo’s cheeks. He extended a long arm, gesturing for Theo. “C’m’ere, loverboy.”

Greg and Vince wore disgusted faces, like someone had dared Blaise to drink centaur urine, but the girls in the room all giggled and whistled as Theo shuffled across the room and bent over the tub.  

Blaise leaned up, grabbing Theo’s face and pulling it down, so the two of them were kissing mere inches above Draco. While Draco was normally exceedingly talented at keeping a straight face, that skill had abandoned him many gulps of champagne ago, so now he sat with his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched as he was forced to watch Blaise Zabini bite and tug on Theo’s bottom lip. Blaise broke into giggles, falling backward as if he’d pulled some fantastic prank, while Theo merely rolled his eyes and returned to the toilet. Pansy’s grasp on his hand clenched, but Draco pretended he didn’t notice.

***

Draco always loved his house. 

He loved his bedroom, huge and comforting. He loved his bed, the silk sheets and soft mattress that seemed to envelope him. He loved the libraries, the dark wood in the corridors. The white marble, black granite. He loved eating breakfast across from his mother at the long, perfectly set table. That there were always grapes — green, never purple — set in front of his plate. That his tea was always loaded with sugar and milk without him ever having to ask. He loved the fields behind the Manor, stretching out into forests. He loved his mother’s rose bushes and his back garden, where he flew his broom in the summer and pelted Greg and Vince with snowballs in the winter. 

He, especially, loved his house at Christmas. Green garland wrapped around the columns; twinkling lights adorned the crown molding. The evergreen in the sitting room glowed softly at all hours, like a comforting lantern, and filled the ground floor with the smell of pine. As the days crawled closer to Christmas, presents appeared beneath its thick branches with Draco’s name on them.

Every Christmas prior, Draco took stock of the present pile on the hour, noting each gift that spawned into existence. Today, he blinked at it, large as ever, and felt oddly numb. Where was his father? What was he doing? Draco knew, distantly, that it was Death Eater business. Who besides the Dark Lord himself could make Lucius Malfoy work on Christmas Eve?

“Darling! You should be getting ready,” his mother called out as she rushed from room to room, overseeing the house-elves' final wave of decor. “Your father will be home any minute, and our guests are arriving in just a few hours.”

“Yes, mother…” Draco muttered, dragging his feet to the stairs.

When Father did arrive home, he looked exhausted, his skin sallow and his hair dull. Draco frowned, then wiped his face when his father scowled in return. When Draco used to imagine his father’s business trips, he pictured serious meetings: his father on a lifted platform, giving orders and looking important. He assumed there were plush thrones around a table, goblets of wine, and powerful magic buzzing in the air. Now, he took one look at his father’s pale face and saw, for just a moment, Potter splayed out on the table, a sacrifice to the Dark Lord. The image sent such a shiver down Draco’s spine that he yelped at the buzz of the wards. 

“It’s just the Parkinsons, love,” his mother mumbled, raising her wand to let them in. 

Dinner with the Parkinsons was the standard affair. Father talked business with Mr. Parkinson, Mother talked society with Mrs. Parkinson, and both Draco and Pansy dropped in with charming tidbits at the all the right times. Draco had never been so bored. Still, he ate his ham and smiled an appropriate amount. He even made Mr. Parkinson laugh.

After dinner, Father invited Mr. Parkinson to his study for brandy, and Mother asked Mrs. Parkinson to the parlor for tea. Pansy, with all the subtlety of a tap-dancing acromantula, turned to Draco to ask, “Could you give me a tour of the Manor, Draco?”

“Why?” he asked with a mice pie in his mouth. “You’ve been here a hundred times.”

“Darling,” his mother intercepted. “We added a new wing to the library over the summer, remember? You should show Pansy. It’ll allow her mother and I to discuss some things.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her son’s ear, her eye twinkling with a hidden meaning. 

Draco swallowed, standing from his seat to offer Pansy his hand. 

“You’ll be a gentleman, of course. Won’t you, Draco?” His mother asked pointedly. Draco blinked at her humorless expression, the slight raise of her eyebrow. He wasn’t sure how he could tell, but Draco somehow knew that his mother was only saying this for Mrs. Parkinson’s benefit. To keep up appearances. Not because she was actually concerned about Draco behaving with impropriety. Her tone was a performance, lilting like the noncommittal hum she gave when others spoke of politics, and Draco felt a sudden rush of indignance that she would just assume he had no ulterior motives of getting Pansy alone. He was a spoiled, red-blooded teenaged boy who’d had a glass of wine with dinner. She should expect him to sneak his girlfriend into his bedroom, to forget his manners and go looking for a Christmas present under her skirt. But she didn’t, he realized like a bludger to the head, because she knew. 

She knew and was matchmaking them anyway. 

Draco didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved at that, but the unnamable feeling burrowed like a splinter under his skin, lodging somewhere between his ribs, as he grabbed Pansy’s hand and pulled her toward the staircase.

They meandered the new library wing for all of five minutes before Pansy crowded Draco against the nearest bookshelf, coming up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “Can we go to your room?”

“Well, I–” Draco started to protest, but Pansy was already dragging him down the hall. She marched him through the door of his bedroom, and without preamble, pushed him towards his bed and cast a colloportus on the door. When she turned back, her eyes were bright and her cheeks were red. As Draco sat on the edge of his bed, Pansy came to stand before him with a shy smile.

“I wanted to give you your Christmas present…” She said, reaching behind her back. Draco hoped for a desperate second that she would pull out a box of chocolates or a new snitch or even one of those awful His and Hers scarves she’d been trying to get him to buy all winter. But no, she was reaching for the zipper of her dress, a knee-length emerald one that looked quite lovely on her, though Draco hadn’t noticed at all until she started taking it off. It fell to the ground around Pansy’s heeled feet, leaving her in only a black lace slip. Draco felt his eyes go obligatorily to her chest, ample and tightly cupped in lace. 

Draco swallowed heavily, which Pansy must have misinterpreted by the way her grin widened. She quickly crossed the three steps between them to straddle Draco’s lap while his mind scrambled for some excuse to get out of this situation. He was just about to claim that his parents cast surveillance charms on his room, and also he had a headache, and gosh, now that he thought about it, wasn’t waiting til marriage such a lovely idea?

But as Pansy’s mouth attached to his and her nails dug into his scalp, a wave of apathy passed through Draco’s mind. Would it be so awful to let something happen? It would make Pansy more secure, and they were, in all likelihood, going to get married at some point anyway. Their parents were probably downstairs negotiating the terms at that very moment. Did it matter so much if Draco felt nothing? It certainly didn’t feel horrible to be kissed, to be touched and adored. And it wasn't like Potter was waiting around for him. 

But just the concept of Potter was enough to bring the thought of his kiss surging forward, a memory with perpetual motion. Draco felt more from the mere recollection than he did the reality of the girl on top of him. 

Pulling back gingerly, Draco said, “Pans…maybe this isn’t a good idea with our parents downstairs?”

“It’s fine,” Pansy whispered. “I already cast a silencing charm.”

“But I…” She silenced him with another kiss, grabbing at his hand and guiding it up her torso to cup her breast. Draco’s hand froze like it was wrapped in Devil’s snare until she prompted him to squeeze. It felt like a bag of pudding.

Draco recoiled. “Pansy, really—”

“Draco, it’s so sweet of you to try to be a gentleman and everything, but you don’t have to. I want this.”

“Right, but—” She cut him off with another kiss, and by this point, Draco’s patience was brittle. He leaned back, falling to his elbows and looking up at her. “It’ll be rushed if we do it now. Let’s just wait, yeah?”

 “If you’re sure…” Pansy’s face fell, but finally, mercifully, she climbed off his lap. Before Draco could hop off the bed and pat himself on the back for a job well done, though, a coy look crossed Pansy’s face. With a wink, she gripped each of his thighs and lowered herself to her knees. Kneeling on the floor between his legs, smiling up at him with those bright eyes, Draco could acknowledge that she made a lovely image. Like a beautiful painting he had no desire to put on his wall.

“Pansy…” Draco sat up. 

She intercepted, reaching for his belt. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

“I don’t thi–”

His words were cut off — again! — by Pansy dragging his face down to hers. As she nipped roughly at his lip, her hands undid his belt deftly. He groaned in frustration, which she misconstrued as permission to reach for his fly. 

“Pansy, stop—” He grabbed her hand in his. 

“Draco, I said I want to—” When she tried to pull him into yet another kiss, Draco grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and pushed her off.

“Merlin’s balls, Pansy! Can you read a goddamn social cue!?” He exploded. “I don’t want to! I don’t bloody want you!”

Her hand smacked across his face with a swift crack. 

The pain was minimal, but the warmth of it stung, like she’d chipped right into him, dinged his armor. Draco turned his face back to regard Pansy, who had quickly gotten to her feet and now stood with her face red and her hands shaking. “You’re an arsehole, Draco Malfoy! What the fuck has all of this been then? You don’t want me? But you parade me around school and brag to all your mates about me — I know Blaise thinks we’re already having sex, so don’t even pretend you don’t! God, do you even like me at all?”

Draco suddenly felt very tired. “Of course, I like you—”

“But not as much as someone else, right?” A single tear spilled down Pansy’s cheek, but she wiped it away quickly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t pretend there’s not. It’s so obvious. You’re always somewhere else, but I just didn’t think you were so despicable that you’d drag me around all while you have some other girl—”

“Pansy, I’m gay.”

He wasn’t sure what compelled him to say it. Perhaps the watering of her eyes made him too uncomfortable. Maybe he wished to exonerate himself from her words, all of them just a bit too real, too sharp. But he cast the confession, a protego against her accusations and a revelio at himself. It left the room still and frigid. 

Pansy blinked at him, her harsh breathing the only sound as it slowly evened. Draco watched as she bit her lip and uncrossed her arms, entire threads of thought forming and unravelling right there on her face. Eventually, she sat down on the bed beside him. Draco was afraid to speak, like he might shatter her calm and start her yelling again. 

Finally, she said, “You’re sure?”

Draco nodded, staring at the spiraling grain in the wood floor. “I’m sorry.” His voice came out quieter than he meant it to, his breath unsteadier than expected.

“It’s…” Pansy trailed off, her voice distant like it went in Divination when she pondered her future too hard. “It’s fine. I think.”

Draco turned his head to look at her. “It’s fine? Two seconds ago you were screaming at me.”

“You deserved it a bit,” she muttered, still thinking. She reached for his hand, twining their fingers loosely together, and stared at the picture they made, turning her head to analyze it. “So it’s not because you think I’m ugly?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “No one thinks you’re ugly.”

“Weasley called me pugface once.”

“Weasley’s family throw bricks at each other for fun.”

Pansy chuckled softly, regarding him. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know.” Draco said, “A while, I think.”

“The whole time we’ve been…?”

Draco gave a small, embarrassed nod. “I think I was trying…not to be.”

Pansy’s eyebrows pinched together, her eyes pooling with pity that made Draco’s skin crawl. “Is it Theo? The boy that you—”

“Merlin, Pans,” Draco rubbed at his eyes, “could we have this conversation when your tits aren’t out?”

Pansy looked down at herself, at her pale skin shining through her very transparent slip, and let out a surprised laugh. At once, she stood and retrieved her dress from the floor, cracking the tension like ice. When she struggled to reach the zipper, her arm turned awkwardly at the elbow, Draco rolled his eyes and moved to zip it for her. 

Noncommittal, she asked, “Are you going to tell your family?”

Draco shook his head. “I think Mother already knows. Father never can.”

The pity flooded her gaze again, and Draco shrunk under it. Pansy must have noticed because she moved to examine herself in the mirror, cleaning up her smudged lipstick and running fingers through her hair. 

“Pansy…” Draco said, still frozen in the middle of the room, “You can’t tell anyone. Ever.”

Pansy turned around, fixing Draco with a calculated look. “Do you think I would?”

Draco swallowed and eventually shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She huffed, turning back to the mirror with a roll of her eyes. “I suppose it’s good we’re breaking up then. You clearly don’t think very highly of me.”

“Are you dumping me then?” Draco asked, only half-joking. Their relationship was good for appearances, and he was a Slytherin after all.

Pansy must have thought the same because she turned to him with a smirk. “Well, I don’t know. As long as you’re stuck in the closet, would you still want to marry me?”

Draco snorted. “Surely the question is, would you still want to marry me?”

An uncharacteristic look of contemplation crossed Pansy’s face as she stepped forward and lightly brushed her fingertips across his cheek, like he was a delicate glass doll. “Of course.”

***

After the Parkinsons left, Draco hovered in the foyer for a while, watching the snow fall out the window until the house elves brought out the hot chocolate. He, his mother, and father sat on separate sofas by the ornate tree, sipping their cocoa in silence. Except his father, who opted for more brandy.

When Draco was younger, he spent the final hours of Christmas Eve just like this, guessing what was in each box beneath the tree. His father always said if he stayed up late enough, he could open one present when the clock ticked over to midnight, but Draco rarely could, having exhausted himself with the Eve’s festivities. He’d fall asleep on the couch, with hot chocolate on his lips and the fire’s warmth on his face, only to wake up bundled in his own bed in the morning. Last year, though, he’d been awake at midnight and chose a small, silver-wrapped package to open. It had held a silver timepiece, emeralds encrusting the watchface, that Draco spent the next three months waving in the faces of anyone who asked for the time. Tonight, he’d been eyeing a long red box behind the tree, but in the end, his parents’ silence proved particularly suffocating — or perhaps, in light of the night he’d had, Draco was simply more sensitive to it than usual. Regardless, he found himself feigning a headache at a quarter past eleven and quickly fled back to his room, which felt colder without Pansy in it. 

He crawled right into bed, still in his dress pants, and buried his face into his bedding. Deep in his chest, he felt the desire to cry, but it never grew past that. He held it there, weighing it, wondering how much space it took up.

Sleep came for Draco in a hazy mist, seeping through the cracks in his door and wafting around him like a mint-fresh breeze.

Mint—

Draco bolted up at the smell of the smoke, scrambling for the trunk under his bed. When he flung it open, a plume of minty smoke was unleashed, the unlit candle lying sideways atop Draco’s school books. He reached for it without thinking, breath caught and burning somewhere between his lungs and his mouth, and nearly cried when a letter formed in his hand. 

Malfoy, it started. 

Draco gasped at the sight of his name in Potter’s shaky, unmistakable handwriting. As he read on, he was forced to squint at the page and occasionally decode strange symbols pretending to be letters, but seeing the proof, there on the page, somehow felt more real than the burning memory of their last meeting.

I’m sorry for everything. Running away and all of that. It was messed up to just leave you like that, especially when you were already thinking the worst. I just got really overwhelmed with everything. I mean, I knew you were you, but sort of distantly. Once we were actually together like that, it became really real all of the sudden. I got scared, I guess. I promise, I felt like an idiot the second I got back to my room. I planned to talk to you in the morning, once my head had cleared. But then everything went to shit. 

I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but Mr. Weasley was attacked that night. It’s not really public knowledge yet and I can’t really explain everything, but I sort of had to help. It was scary for a while, but it looks like he’s going to be okay.

Anyway, I’m sorry I left you in the dark. My head hasn’t been right with everything. I understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore.

Happy Christmas, Malfoy

–HJP x 

Draco’s mind reeled, wondering if his father’s extended business was related to this attack. Somehow, he knew they were connected and couldn’t stand thinking about it a second longer. Distraction was easily obtained, as Draco’s eyes scoured the page again, eating up morsels of Happy Christmas, Malfoy and I planned to talk to you in the morning and HJP x like they were candy. 

A not-altogether-inconsequential part of Draco wished desperately to be petty. He wanted very badly to ignore Potter. For at least the amount of time Potter had ignored him. Maybe even double. After all, that’s how Draco would have treated anyone else in this situation. But, as it were, an even more desperate part of him had been thinking of nothing but Potter’s lips for the last week.

He grabbed his quill—

I still want to talk to you. 

Pleasure pulsed in his chest when a reply came back almost immediately. 

I was really hoping you’d say that.

Are you busy on Sunday?

I don’t think so?

Do you think you could get to Diagon Alley?

I want to see you. 

Draco’s heart thumped erratically in his chest. He took a moment to gaze at that sentence in wonder before responding–

Diagon’s a bit public, isn’t it?

Yeah, we won’t stay there. Just somewhere to meet.

I was thinking, isn’t there a public Quidditch pitch in London?

We’ve been playing Quidditch like three times a day at the Burrow,

but it’s not quite the same as beating you to the Snitch. 

In your dreams, Potter.

But yes, the London pitch is nice, 

And it’ll probably be empty since it’s winter.

We could meet at the Leaky at noon, then walk there together?

God help Draco if he was about to agree to one of Harry Potter’s plans…

Okay. I’ll be there. 

Good. I can't wait.

Okay, I’ve got to go. 

I’m hiding in the Weasley’s bathroom right now.

Do they really only have one bathroom??

Shut it, poncy fuck

I’ll see you Sunday

Merry Christmas, Potter x

Draco drifted to sleep, smiling at the ceiling. 

Chapter Text

Time at the Burrow had been cut short. The absence of Mr. Weasley was like a black hole right there in the living room, and everyone’s eyes kept darting to the clock to check that the hand labelled Arthur hadn’t moved back to MORTAL PERIL. So they accepted Sirius’s invitation. Grimmauld Place wasn’t much better — grim and old as it was — but Hermione had joined them at least.

It was good to have other, non-Weasleys around. Harry tried his best to be supportive, but the guilt in his stomach had been growing in size since the night Mr. Weasley was attacked. Ron kept brooding, glaring at walls and biting his nails. Ginny kept rushing out of rooms, breaking into tears at random times. Harry kept remembering the taste of Mr. Weasley’s blood, the feel of his fangs in the other man’s flesh. They played Quidditch three times a day, everyone desperate for distraction, but the games got progressively less fun with each day Mr. Weasley was still in St. Mungo’s.

Harry spent a lot of time thinking about how he’d felt that night, with his belly slithering across the floor of the Department of Mysteries. He thought of the rage that flashed behind his eyes when he looked at Dumbledore, the urge to bite into his Headmaster, to break his skin. But, even more so, he thought about what happened earlier that night. How it’d felt to be with Malfoy. To kiss him, fingers twining in the impossible softness of his hair. Harry couldn’t exactly name what he felt — it was too singular, too unlike anything else — but he couldn’t deny it either. Every cell in his body felt desperate, tingling with a fire that could only be quelled by pale hands and a biting voice. But what did it mean that he felt this way about Draco Malfoy of all people? It made no sense. Defied all logic. But Harry’s thoughts felt heavier than usual and tangled together, like he could only make sense of his own head if Malfoy was there to bear witness. The realization was somehow both simple and profound — Harry missed him.

He was excited to see him, albeit nervous. Would Malfoy be angry at him for running away after their kiss? It hadn’t been his finest hour; he had to admit. But Malfoy had written back, Harry reminded himself. I still want to talk to you, he had said.

But between Ron, Hermione, all the additional Weasleys, Sirius, Lupin, and the rotation of Order members who kept popping in, Harry had no idea how he would escape Grimmauld unnoticed. Meeting up had seemed like such a simple idea until the light of day reminded Harry that a madman intent on his murder was on the loose, and someone would surely notice if he vanished for an entire day. He spent the days after Christmas pacing, trying to think up a plan, but Mrs. Weasley would go into a panic if he tried to leave the house alone and he surely couldn’t get Ron and Hermione to cover for him without telling them why he needed to leave. And he couldn’t do that, for obvious reasons.

It was strange keeping it all from them though. When Cho had kissed him, Harry went to his best friends immediately, needing their input and advice. In the days following Christmas Eve, Hermione kept giving him odd looks, like there was a sign over his head that said he had a secret, but every time, Harry turned away as if he hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t tell her. Either of them. Couldn’t even imagine the words forming.

On the surface, there was the fact that Malfoy was a bloke, and Harry still wasn’t sure what to make of that. He couldn’t imagine Ron or Hermione being mean about it or judging him for it, but he worried that it would make things weird, that they would treat him differently. Ron especially. What if he felt uncomfortable sharing his bedroom, his locker room, with Harry? What if he thought Harry was interested in him? The thought sent an uncomfortable shiver down Harry’s spine. Besides, he didn’t want to come out as anything until he was sure. He’d never felt like this about any other boy. Maybe it was just something about Malfoy that made him crazy. In the back of Harry’s mind, though, he recalled that his interest in Cedric had been a little more than friendly, but he couldn’t look too closely at that without ushering in the melancholia that clung to Cedric’s memory. Still, when Harry remembered asking Cho to the Yule Ball, his sweaty hands wiping against his trousers, he thought those feelings were real too. At the time. He went back and forth for several hours each night, trying and failing to pack himself into a box, before collapsing in frustration. None of it mattered anyway. The question mark next to his sexuality was such a minor issue compared to everything stacked up next to it. Even if he could tell his friends he liked a boy, he certainly couldn’t tell them which boy.

They wouldn’t understand. Harry knew they wouldn't because if he went back in time to the start of term and told himself, he wouldn’t understand either. Maybe no one would, not unless they went through the ritual Harry had: transformed, night after night, by the equalizers of ink and darkness. But, still, all of this brought Harry up short because if his best friends wouldn’t approve of what he was doing, should he really be doing it? As days passed, Harry worried he’d never get the chance to decide because he would never get out of Grimmauld Place, and he’d have to cancel his meeting with Malfoy, who would surely take offense and never speak nor write to him again.

As he paced an empty corridor, trying to accept this fate, Harry overheard voices in a nearby room, leaking from the crack under the door. Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks, he identified. There had been an Order meeting that morning, which, as always, left Harry irritated to be kept out of the loop. Now, he flattened himself to the wall to listen.

“—called into the Auror office with the tip, but the Ministry doesn’t want us investigating anything about You-Know-Who,” Tonks was saying. “They say it’s all a hoax, prank tips and such. But I think someone should be on the lookout.”

“I can stake out Knockturn tomorrow,” said Sirius.

Lupin sighed; Harry could tell it was him by the wariness in his tone. “Are you sure? It could be dangerous.”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll go in dog form. Worst thing, someone chases me away from their shop with a broom.”

At once, a plan formed in Harry’s mind. He crept out of the hallway, hiding until Lupin and Tonks departed. The moment his godfather was alone, he pounced.

“You’re going to Knockturn tomorrow?” 

Sirius, who had only made it one step out of the room, raised a brow. “Did you know it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

“Can I come?” Harry asked. 

“What? No,” said Sirius at once. 

When he tried to leave, Harry stepped in the way, blocking him. “Please?”

“I’m not sure how much you overhead, Harry, but I need to stay under the radar,” Sirius winced, “and you tend to draw a crowd.”

“I can use my invisibility cloak.”

“What would be the point? Then I couldn’t keep an eye on you.”

All those times Sirius looked at him and seemed to see James — of course, he chose now to act as a responsible adult figure. Harry sighed through his nose, pushing past Sirius and into the room he’d just been in, frustration bubbling under his skin. Sirius followed, closing the door gingerly behind them.

He observed Harry with a furrowed brow. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“I need to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow,” answered Harry, irritated. 

“Okay, well, I’m sure Molly can—”

“No, I…” Harry crossed his arms, huffing at the ground. He half-heartedly reached for some lie, an excuse that would unlock this door in his way. But lying was exhausting, and he had the feeling Sirius would see through him anyway. “Do you remember a few months ago when we talked about that…person I liked?”

The concern in Sirius’s face broke open, amusement glowing through the cracks. “Yes?”

“Well, I…” Harry couldn't seem to look up from his shoes. “We’ve been talking and stuff.”

“Ah, now I get it.” Sirius laughed. “You need help sneaking out for a date?”

“No!” Harry argued instinctively, then sighed. Because that was exactly what he wanted. Oh God, he’d asked Malfoy on a date, hadn’t he? It was strange to think about it in those terms. “Well, I mean…it’s just…I still don’t know how I feel about it yet.”

“But you want to find out?” Sirius guessed. Harry nodded, trying not to shrink under the weight of Sirius’s gaze. He got the sense that his godfather had more questions, but he, thankfully, didn’t voice them. Instead, he paced the room, conflict painting his face. “I can’t just let you wander around Diagon, though, Harry. I don’t want those Prophet fanatics pouncing on you.”

“We aren’t even going to stay in Diagon. We just want to play Quidditch.”

“A Quidditch player, huh?” Sirius winked, laughing at Harry’s answering grimace before sighing. “Molly and Remus would give me hell for taking you out of the house…”

“But you’re my godfather,” Harry argued, “so it’s not really up to them.”

He looked Harry up and down, his expression softening. “We all just want to keep you safe, Harry, but I get that it’s not fair on you. This war’s taken too much from you as is. A kid your age should spend their hols going out, having fun.”

Harry held his breath, watching the war play out on Sirius’s face. Finally, the man groaned. “You’ll bring your invisibility cloak and wear a glamour. Carry your mirror shard so I can reach you. Stay away from crowds, meet me back at the Leaky at six on the dot, and you have to promise you’ll be careful, yeah?”

Harry wasn’t sure what came over him, but his body acted of its own accord, throwing himself into his godfather’s arms.

***

The Leaky Cauldron was packed, large groups crowded in with their post-holiday shopping bags, trying to escape the cold. Harry was able to blend in easily, finding a spot by a window overlooking the street. He watched through the icy glass as Sirius’s dog body loped down the street, weaving between people unnoticed, and disappeared around a corner. At the next table, a man read the Daily Prophet, but Harry quickly looked away when he saw his own picture on the front page. He didn’t bother reading the headline — he didn’t want to know. There was already enough to be nervous about. As he watched out the window, he chewed at his cheek and picked at the wood grain of the table. Excitement and fear battled in his chest all the while, the memory of Malfoy’s face a mere inch from his flashing in his head. What would it be like between them now? He’d never had a civil conversation with Malfoy before. At least not out loud. He considered all their worst interactions — harsh words, rising tempers, flying fists — and wondered if this was all a disasterous idea. Perhaps Malfoy had changed his mind and wouldn’t come at all. This fear had just taken root in Harry’s mind when a blond head passed the window.

Harry watched with his heart in his throat as Malfoy entered the Leaky, snow flurries sticking to his hair. He hovered by the door, an apprehensive pinch to his brows, as he scanned the pub. Only when grey eyes passed right over him without recognition did Harry remember that he didn’t look like himself. Malfoy flicked his gaze to the door, like he was thinking of leaving, and Harry hopped up from his chair at once and approached.

“Hi,” Harry greeted, his voice coming out more breathless than he would’ve liked. 

Malfoy sneered, looking him up and down, annoyed. “Do I know you?”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry!” Harry lowered his voice. “Malfoy, it’s me.”

“Potter?” he whispered back. “Why are you wearing a glamour?”

“Didn’t want to, er, draw attention.”

“You’re ginger…” Malfoy said morosely, as if diagnosing him with a terminal illness.

“Erm, yeah…” Harry ran a shy hand through his hair. It still felt like his, but the strands he saw in his periphery were, indeed, bright red.

Malfoy eyed him, almost suspicious. “Did Granger cast it? It’s quite good. You look…not like yourself.”

Harry felt an odd warmth in his stomach. Had Malfoy just complimented Hermione? Indirectly, maybe, but still… He tamped down the smile that threatened to make an appearance. “No, it was my, erm, godfather, actually…”

“Oh…” Malfoy still looked somewhat disconcerted as he cleared his throat. “So, shall we, er…”

“Yeah!” Harry said awkwardly. “Erm, do you know the way?”

Malfoy nodded and made for the door, surprising Harry by holding it open for him. Outside, snow fell lightly, and though the air was frigid, sunlight streamed through the thin clouds. Malfoy led them away from the crowds of shoppers and down a mostly deserted side street, where the buildings shrunk and the noise faded. A brief jolt of paranoia shot through Harry — walking down an isolated corridor with the Slytherin went against years of hard-won survival instincts — but it quickly abated with one glance at Malfoy. He was gnawing on his bottom lip, gloveless hands fidgeting with the ends of his scarf. A pink blush stained his cheeks, and though it was probably from the cold, Harry sort of hoped it was something else. A sign that Malfoy felt as nervous as Harry did.

“How was your Christmas?” Harry asked, just for something to say. 

“Fine,” said Malfoy, his voice oddly stilted. His gaze flitted around the empty street, looking anywhere but at Harry. “Boring mostly. How was yours?”

Harry was about to say it was fine, but then he remembered the reason he liked writing to Malfoy in the first place: he could be honest. So instead, he said, “It was sort of depressing.” 

“Yes, right. Weasley’s father.” Malfoy nodded to himself. “How is he?”

“Still in the hospital, but he should come home any day now.”

“That’s…good.” 

“Yeah, I’d say so.” Harry laughed. He’d seen Malfoy schmooze plenty over the years, charming everyone from professors to reporters. Hell, just last year, he’d managed to dazzle half the students at Beauxbatons — in French, no less. But it seemed making small talk with Harry Potter was his limit. It was almost cute.

Malfoy rolled his eyes but managed not to retort, and they continued their walk, the silence only somewhat awkward. When they passed a glass window, Harry felt a pang of disappointment to see Malfoy’s reflection walking beside a stranger. Sirius had kept his height and build the same, but his scar was gone, the proportions of his face were off, and his hair could stop traffic. He tried to imagine his real self there, side by side with Malfoy, but he had trouble picturing it.

Finally, they arrived at a large patch of open ground, covered in a thin layer of untouched snow. On either side of the field, large, metal Quidditch hoops rose into the air.

“Wow…” Harry murmured to himself as he arrived, “I never even knew this was here.”

“It gets busy over the summer,” said Malfoy. “Youth teams and the like. Father told me some of the Ministry departments do their own Quidditch Cup bracket in the spring. But most aren’t masochistic enough to play in the winter.”

“Except us,” said Harry, reaching to grab his broom, which he’d shrunk and fit into his pocket. 

“What is that?”

“It’s a Cleansweep. I think it’s either Ginny’s or Fred’s.” When Malfoy wrinkled his nose at the old broom, Harry continued, “It’s all I’ve got since Umbridge took my Firebolt. Which was your fault, by the way.”

“My fault? I forced you to attack me, did I?”

“Basically, with all the rubbish you were talking!” Harry argued. He had to bite his tongue not to point out that Malfoy seemed to have secretly liked being straddled and punched by him, at least if his letter afterward was anything to go by.

“I can’t recall the specifics.” Malfoy shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Wordlessly, he pulled two shrunken brooms from his bag, quickly expanding them and handing one to Harry. 

“Woah…” Harry ogled the Nimbus 2001, its handle freshly polished and glinting in the sunlight. “You brought this for me?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I didn’t know if you had one, and you’ll hardly be an engaging opponent if you’re bobbing around on a glorified mop.”

Harry couldn’t help staring at Malfoy for a moment. He was squinting across the field, clearly avoiding looking at Harry, an indentation forming between his brows. Harry wondered if it would feel awkward between them all day, but ultimately, he was just glad no one had insulted anyone yet. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

The other boy’s gaze flickered in his direction before diverting away. “I gave you the lesser broom. Mine’s a 2002.”

“Doesn’t matter to me. I’ll still outfly you.” Harry grinned when that earned him a scoff. “Did you bring a snitch too? I would’ve, but the Weasley’s only have one, and it’s got a bum wing.”

Malfoy pulled a snitch from his bag, managing to hold back the slew of poverty jokes no doubt flooding his mind. The fact that he did so at all was a good sign. They took flight, and up in the air, a comforting familiarity settled between them. They circled the pitch, searching for gold. When Harry saw a flash to his left, hovering above the tallest goalpost, he raced toward it. The Nimbus 2001 wasn’t quite as responsive as his Firebolt, but it was leagues better than the Cleansweep. Still, Malfoy was on his tail at once, elbowing him out of the way, sabotaging both of their chances in an attempt to keep the snitch out of Harry’s hand. Harry laughed into the cold air. 

When did Harry catch the snitch twenty minutes later, Malfoy was right behind him, growling in frustration. They jumped immediately into another round, and Malfoy’s competitiveness finally eclipsed his awkwardness: he started heckling, shouting out comments anytime Harry was in ear shot. 

“Did you inherit your Weasel’s Quidditch skills along with his hair?!” He shouted out as he pulled up beside Harry, flattening himself onto his broom to keep up. At one point, they both slowed down to search the empty sky, and Draco pulled his broom up close, so Harry could hear him humming Weasley Is Our King. A few weeks ago, it would have made Harry furious. Now, he just laughed.

After two rounds (both of which Harry won, both of which Malfoy accused him of cheating), they ended up high in the sky, above a layer of clouds, the snitch forgotten as they sat on their brooms, out of breath. The Thames flowed beneath them, London stretched out like a blanket on the ground. Malfoy still wouldn’t look at him for longer than a few seconds. Harry had the opposite problem. Malfoy chewed on his lip, steering his broom in lazy circles, and Harry’s eyes were stuck on him, as if he’d vanish the moment Harry blinked.

“What?” Malfoy asked finally, impatiently.

“Nothing. Sorry.” Harry said quickly, looking away. “Just…trying to get used to it.”

That made Malfoy look, confusion on his face. “Used to what?”

“You, I guess.” Harry swallowed. “Us. Hanging out. It’s weird.”

“Yeah…” Malfoy said, lip between his teeth again. His whole face was red from the cold wind, his hair loose and windswept. Harry tightened his grip on his broom, ignoring the sudden, inexplicable desire to touch. It looked like Malfoy was about to say something when a noise beneath them snagged their attention. “Shit…” Malfoy murmured instead.

Harry squinted down. Between the clouds, he could make out a few figures making their way onto the pitch. “Is that…”

“Vince,” Malfoy answered, “And I think that’s one of his cousins. And Mr. Crabbe. Fuck…if he sees me, he’ll tell Father—”

“Right, erm…” said Harry, looking around for an escape. He pointed to the far end of the pitch where they’d left their stuff in a heap on the ground. They both quickly dove down, scooping up their stuff and hiding behind a nearby fence. Malfoy had his head ducked, trying to hide the signal light that was his hair.

“I thought you said no one comes here in the winter?” Harry asked quietly. 

“Usually!” said Malfoy, his face a mask of panic, his words an angry mutter, “But Greg and I have been giving Vince a hard time about being a slow flier. I guess he wanted to get some practice in over hols. His back garden is huge, though; why would he come here, for Salazar’s sake?!”

Harry peeked over the fencing, but no one was looking their way. Crabbe and his cousin were already flying lowly in the middle of the field. Mr. Crabbe stood on the opposite site of the pitch, looking uninterested.

“I don’t think they even saw us,” Harry assured, lowering himself back to the ground beside Malfoy, who had his eyes squeezed tight, his head shaking minutely. “Malfoy?”

Malfoy muttered, mostly to himself, “This was such a stupid idea.”

“It was?” Harry couldn’t help the disappointment in his tone. 

“I lied to my father to meet you — I told him I was with Vince — and now we can’t play Quidditch, and we can’t go back into Diagon, and you don’t even look like you—”

“Do you want me to look like me?” Harry asked. Malfoy turned his head, and Harry became very suddenly aware of their proximity, shoulders and knees touching. Malfoy noticed too, his eyes searching the planes of Harry’s not-right face. He swallowed — Harry’s gaze tracked the movement — and nodded.

“I have an idea…” Harry said, “but you’ll probably hate it.”

***

When Harry removed the glamour, Malfoy relaxed a bit. Then they stepped out into Muggle London, and he tensed right back up.

They walked down the sidewalk, brick buildings on either side, both residential and businesses. Handfuls of people trickled in and out of the shoppes, but the streets were rather calm, too cold for joggers or cyclists. Yet Malfoy moved with every muscle clenched, his eyes darting back and forth as if waiting for an attacker to strike. When a red bus turned the corner, he audibly gasped. Harry couldn’t help snickering, which earned him a withering glare.

Harry was glad he’d dressed in Muggle clothes, and though Malfoy was in Wizarding attire, he’d dressed for Quidditch — plain trousers with his robes worn over, like a coat —  so he didn’t stand out too much. 

They passed a sweets shop on their right, and Harry pointed to it. “D’you want to go in?”

Malfoy stared into the window with wide eyes. The store was pretty busy, little kids running around the aisles, parents and grandparents half-heartedly trying to wrangle them.

“You don’t have to talk to anyone,” Harry assured him.

Malfoy looked like he wanted to run straight back to Diagon Alley, but instead, he looked at Harry. Really looked at him, for the first time all day. His grey eyes, the same colour as the cloudy sky, were hesitant but unyielding. Harry didn’t know how to look away, and by the time Malfoy gave a tentative nod, he almost forgot what they were discussing in the first place.

This time, Harry led the way, striding toward the door and holding it open for Malfoy, who entered like one might a haunted crypt. Funnily, it reminded Harry of their first year at Hogwarts, when they’d been forced into the Forbidden Forest together. Malfoy wore the same look of fear now.

Harry placed a hesitant hand on the other boy’s shoulder to steer him away from the giggling children who were playing with the display teddies. Instead, they took to the chocolate aisle, and though it took a moment, Malfoy slowly relaxed his shoulders. Really, the shop wasn’t much different from Honeydukes, only it was smaller and nothing was exploding. He watched quietly as Harry reached for a selection of sweets, oddly excited by the idea of making Malfoy try them all.

“Why is this man trapped in chocolate?”

Harry turned to see Malfoy holding up a molded chocolate. “It’s Santa Claus.”

“Who?”

“Father Christmas,” Harry corrected.

“Like the folktale character?” The furrow of Malfoy’s thin brows was unfathomably cute, and Harry couldn’t help laughing. 

“Yeah, muggles believe that he brings them presents on Christmas.”

“That makes no sense. He died like a thousand years ago.”

“They think he’s immortal.”

Malfoy looked this way and that to make sure the aisle was clear before asking, “I thought they didn’t know about magic?”

“They don’t,” Harry said simply. “It’s just a story, for fun.”

Malfoy’s eye twitched as he placed Santa back on the shelf.

Harry bought them a small spread, Malfoy standing still and silent as Harry handed the Muggle notes to the cashier. Though Malfoy grumbled continuously that the sweets were stupid — “the chocolates don’t move, all the jellies taste the same, and why would you shape a chocolate into an orange? That’s like molding clay into the shape of a rock” — he kept reaching for more Maltesers as they walked.

They passed by a clothing shop next, and Malfoy was oddly delighted by the array of hats on display. He grabbed a woman’s hat, purple with gaudy lace flowers on top, and plopped it onto Harry’s head, smirking. “Much improved, Scarhead.”

He was less than enthused when Harry retaliated by shoving a novelty Union Jack bucket hat onto his pale head. They continued like that until Harry had on a cheetah print peacoat and fingerless gloves while Malfoy donned a sparkly, silver scarf and a pair of aviator sunglasses, the latter of which actually looked pretty good on him. Malfoy seemed to think so too, if the way he kept shooting himself glances in the little mirror was anything to go by.

“Those, erm, suit you,” said Harry shyly.

“You think so?” Malfoy asked, looking back in the mirror. He messed with his fringe, the way it fell on his forehead, angling his face this way and that. Had his jawline always been sharp like that?

“I could, er, buy them for you…if you’d like,” offered Harry, suddenly wanting him to wear those glasses forever.

Malfoy seemed to consider it for the briefest moment before fumbling them off his face. “No, that’s alright. What would I do with Muggle glasses?”

“I dunno. Wear them?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, placing them firmly back on the shelf. “As if.”

Though he wanted to argue, Harry bit his tongue and set about removing his strange granny costume. Next, they ended up in a tiny music shop, the walls lined with old guitars and shelves stuffed with yellowing books of sheet music. Malfoy immediately drifted toward the back of the store where a beautiful piano, its wood dark and shiny, sat against the wall.

“You play, right?” Harry asked.

The ghost of a scowl haunted Malfoy’s face, like he couldn’t quite help it. “How did you know that?”

“You wrote about it once.”

Malfoy flushed, and if the heat he felt in his cheeks was any indication, Harry did too. Neither of them had mentioned the letters yet. They were this invisible thing between them. An unaddressed elephant they were walking on a leash. Harry felt like he’d put his foot in his mouth by acknowledging the reason they were together in a random shop in Twickenham. It was weird. Ridiculous. They’d kissed, for Merlin’s sake. 

“You should play something,” said Harry in a desperate bid to tear down the walls between them.

Malfoy glanced around the store, which was empty apart from the middle-aged woman behind the counter. “Right now?”

Harry nodded, stepping forward to sit on the piano bench, patting the empty space beside him. Malfoy’s eyes widened, but however stiffly, he obliged, lowering himself next to Harry. No less than four layers separated them. Thick ones at that, clothes made for winter. But Harry still felt his skin heat beneath as they pressed together on the bench, shoulder to foot. At once, they turned their faces toward each other, and the space between them shrunk to fit only their breath. Malfoy’s face flushed a deeper pink, and Harry had to squeeze his fists in his lap to keep from reaching out and tracing across his cheekbone. He watched, enraptured, as Malfoy’s eyelashes fluttered and his gaze dropped to the keys. Tentatively, he lifted a hand, and pressed. The opening notes were a slow trail up and down, as if he were reminding himself of the melody. Then, his other hand joined the first, brushing against Harry’s arm on the way to the black keys. Harry held his breath as the notes wove together: soft, dreamy trills that dropped into moments of haunting dissonance before evening out again. Harry hadn’t known what to expect — Malfoy wasn’t exactly known for his humble nature, and Harry wouldn’t put it past him to exaggerate his talents. But not this time.

Long, pale fingers traveled up and down the keys. His hand stretched to create a chord, thumb to pinky, wide like the wingspan of a bird. The image reminded Harry of a photograph he’d seen in a book once: the Statue of David, the detailed veins of his marble hand. At the time, he hadn’t understood how the back of a hand could be beautiful. Now he did. When he finally tore his eyes away from Malfoy’s hands to glance at his face, Harry’s stomach swooped with the music. The other boy’s brow was furrowed, his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes closed. It seemed to Harry like he was finding the music rather than creating it. 

Oh, Harry thought abruptly, there you are. No One. Draco. 

The song came to a soft end, and though Harry had hardly moved in the last five minutes, he felt out of breath. He was a second away from doing something insane like grabbing Draco’s hands and kissing them when a smattering of applause broke the reverie. The shopkeeper stood at a nearby shelf, a wide smile on her face as she clapped.

Malfoy stood suddenly, adding the space back between their bodies and doubling it. He looked mortified, like he’d been caught at something. “Sorry, I—”

“No, no!” The woman interrupted immediately. “It was lovely. I adore Debussy.”

“You know of him?” Malfoy asked. 

“I should hope! I do own a music store.” The woman laughed good-naturedly. “That was Rêverie, yes?”

Malfoy nodded, bemused, like he was shocked they could speak the same language.

“How long have you been playing?” The woman asked.

“Forever, I suppose,” answered Malfoy with a shrug. “My mother taught me.”

She smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “Mine taught me as well. I used to be quite good before the arthritis hit!” She leafed through a stack of sheet music in search of something; when she found it, she brought it over, handing it to Malfoy with a wink. “Give that one a try.”

Malfoy took the paper hesitantly, sitting down next to Harry again. Trying to give him room, Harry sat back as much as he could, content to watch as Malfoy examined the sheet music then began to play. At first, the notes were a little clumsy, not second-nature like the previous song, but the melody grew steady as Malfoy grew confident. This song, though a bit simpler, was brighter, reminding Harry of springtime. By the time he finished, Malfoy wore a small smile, and the muggle woman had tears in her eyes, the shelf she was stocking forgotten.

“That was beautiful,” Malfoy said earnestly. “Who’s the composer?”

“My mother,” said the woman.

Malfoy’s face transformed, shifting through surprise, then confusion, then something oddly sentimental. As he and the woman, who introduced herself as Jane, began discussing the technicalities of the composition, Harry lost the plot of the conversation, but that was fine by him. It was fun to just watch Malfoy. To witness his apprehensive shell crack and reveal the earnest enthusiasm beneath.

They talked for nearly twenty minutes, about music and composers and local artists. Jane recommended open mics in the area, and Malfoy nodded politely like he knew what that meant. Eventually, Jane bid them goodbye, handing the page of sheet music to Malfoy. “A parting gift!”

“Oh, I couldn’t.” Malfoy shook his head. “It was your mother’s.”

“Don’t be silly! I have others. It’s a photocopy!” Jane insisted.

“What’s a—?” Malfoy began, but Harry interrupted, clapping a hand on his shoulder to shut him up. In the end, Malfoy took the paper with a somewhat confused thanks. When Jane asked him to come again, he said he'd try, and though Harry knew it was a lie, Malfoy seemed like he wanted it to be truthful.

Once they left, they walked side by side, elbows brushing and boots crunching in the snow, and Harry felt a wave of euphoria crash over him. Because Draco Malfoy was walking around a Muggle suburb. Just because Harry had asked him to. He’d played piano with his perfect hands and engaged in polite conversation with a middle-aged, middle-class Muggle. And he’d been kind! Even if it was all a manipulative ploy to win his favour, Harry felt giddy because it meant Malfoy could be good if he wanted to be. Now Harry just needed to make him want it. 

“Why are you grinning?” Malfoy complained, pulling Harry from his thoughts. 

“It’s just funny.” Harry shrugged, letting his smile run free.

“What’s funny?” Malfoy snapped defensively, but it just made Harry more amused. 

“You.” He laughed. “You act like this diehard pureblood supremacist, then you meet your first Muggle, and you’re instant best friends.”

“I’ve met a Muggle before, Potter. I don’t live under a rock. We were both at the bloody World Cup, for fuck’s sake,” Malfoy argued, “and she’s not my friend. It was just a conversation about piano. What did you expect me to do, hex her?”

“Some people would. Like you said, we were both at the World Cup. Remember what happened there?” Harry pointed out, his tongue suddenly loose. “But, honestly? I didn’t expect you’d talk to a Muggle at all. I would’ve thought you’d treat them like dirt. Like you’re so much better than them.” 

“Well, I am better than them,” Malfoy sniffed, “but I didn’t have any particular reason to be rude is all.”

“What about how you treat Hermione? You don’t have any reason to be rude to her.”

“I have plenty of reasons.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “She’s insufferable.”

Most times, Harry wouldn’t let Malfoy, or anyone, talk poorly of his friends. However, he was walking a thin line with Malfoy, and he was enjoying his peek through the curtains too much to let them close just yet. So instead of arguing, he said, “I think maybe you put it on a bit.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To seem tough in front of all your Slytherin friends.” Harry turned to Malfoy, wondering how far he could push him. “Maybe you want to show that you’re a big bad Death Eater just like Daddy.”

Malfoy froze mid-step, his face stuck between outrage and shock. For one tense second, Harry was sure he’d gotten too comfortable, that Malfoy was about to lash out. Then, instead, he wrinkled his nose. “Please never say daddy again.”

A laugh burst its way through Harry’s lips. He knew he’d have to deal with all of the darkness eventually, but if they only had today, he wanted to spend the rest of it in the present. Together, they let the solemnity fall away, leaving it behind in the snow. They walked around aimlessly; Malfoy pointed out “weird Muggle things” and Harry explained them, only making things up about ten percent of the time.

“So the metal birds run on helium too?” Malfoy asked, staring up in horror at the aeroplane flying above them.

“Yup,” Harry agreed, working to suppress his smile. “Same as balloons.”

When their pathway led through a park, Harry was delighted to see an ice skating rink had been constructed for the holiday season. Families, kids, and couples glided across the ice, their laughter floating up into the air. Christmas trees marked each corner of the rink, lit up and glittering.

“Do you know what ice skating is?” Harry asked. 

“I’m not an idiot, Potter,” replied Malfoy.

“I thought it was a Muggle thing.”

“Well…” Malfoy squinted at the rink, “the way they’re doing it is. Merlin, are those knives on their feet?”

“How do wizards do it?”

Malfoy blinked at him like he’d said something truly stupid. “Gliding charms on our shoes, of course.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, I’d ask you to go skating with me, but I suppose if it’s too scary for you…”

“I never said that.”

“Didn’t you?” Harry raised a brow and tried not to cheer when Malfoy glared at him and strode angrily toward the rink.

Malfoy on ice was as graceful as a cat on rollerskates. At first, he clung to the railing, his feet slipping and sliding beneath him, eyes wide and jaw clenched. Harry wasn’t much better — he’d only gone skating once in his life, and he’d spent most of it getting thrown to the ice by Dudley — but he was less scared, and within a few minutes, he was skating circles around the other boy. Literally. Malfoy moved his feet back and forth, scraping grooves into the ice yet hardly managing to move an inch.

“You have to lift your foot up, see?” Harry clumsily demonstrated how to move forward, extending a hand. “Let go of the rail, Malfoy. I won’t let you fall.”

Malfoy looked like Harry’d suggested he try a backflip, but nonetheless, he grit his teeth and took a big step forward, only to immediately slip. True to his word, Harry rushed forward to catch him, their hands grasping each others’ forearms. Harry couldn’t help but laugh at the terror on Malfoy’s face. The look immediately shifted into a scowl, which only made Harry laugh harder.

With Malfoy clinging to Harry instead of the wall, they were able to actually complete a rotation of the rink, albeit a remarkably slow one, but as he got more comfortable on his skates, Malfoy relaxed his body, standing taller. His hand slowly eased its death grip on Harry’s elbow, dropping to grasp his hand instead. Malfoy’s fingers were freezing; it was a wonder they had any blood in them at all, but Harry didn’t let go. As he looked down at their linked hands, Harry’s stomach flopped around inside his body. While he might have normally felt self-conscious holding a boy’s hand in public, the excuse of skating eased the fear, giving them an excuse. Without thinking, Harry shifted his grasp, moving to entwine their fingers. Malfoy, who was still looking down at his feet, smiled at the ice, biting the insides of his cheeks.

Eventually, Malfoy gained enough confidence to let go and challenge Harry to a race. They skated as fast as they could, which was still slower than the little kids in sparkly dresses passing them at a breakneck speed, and when Harry almost fell, Malfoy actually caught him. They skated until their faces were numb from the cold, their ankles aching, and their stomachs hurting from laughing so hard.

Harry tried to stay in the present. He didn’t want to think about the day ending or going back to Hogwarts or how things would be between them once they did. But still, Harry couldn’t help lamenting all the years they’d wasted fighting, when they could have been like this instead.

***

“So, Potter,” Malfoy asked between bites of ice cream, “how long did you know it was me?”

He tried to sound casual, Harry could tell, but it was clear he’d been wondering, holding the question in all day. It only burst out now, on the walk back to Diagon. They’d been lazily retracing their steps, moving slowly, stopping for ice cream, prolonging the time.

“What was you?” asked Harry, desperate to avoid the question. 

“Writing to you, you dolt,” Malfoy responded, the accompanying eye roll nearly audible.

Harry sighed, struggling to meet Malfoy’s gaze. “A while.”

“How long is a while?”

Harry shrugged and squinted up at the sky. “October, maybe?”

“OCTOBER?!” Malfoy spluttered. “But you didn’t even write back until end of November; that’s—”

Harry braced himself, ready for Malfoy’s rage to hit him at full force. He was shocked when, instead, the other boy burst into laughter.

“Potter, are you seriously telling me you knew the whole time!?”

“Not the whole time, just—"

"—the whole time we were writing back and forth!"

"I needed to make sure it was real! That it wasn’t some trick or—

“Merlin, you took your bloody time!” Malfoy’s words were punctuated by laughter, his face frozen in shocked delight. “And, oh my God, you were really talking yourself up, weren’t you, Potter? Asking me all those questions about my bloody crush—”

“Fuck off,” grumbled Harry.

But Malfoy did not. He playfully pushed Harry’s shoulder, putting on the slightly dumb, exaggerated Londoner voice he’d used to imitate Harry over the years. “Oh, please, tell me some more about that boy you like! For completely educational purposes, of course!”

Harry’s face was surely on fire. He pushed back against Malfoy, who had broken down in giggles. “Shut up!”

"Tell me every detail!” Malfoy continued anyway, “What exactly do you like about him? Do you want to kiss him? Do you think about him when you wank yourse—”

Harry slapped a hand over Malfoy’s mouth before he could finish that sentence, before any more mortifying words could escape. The humor drained from Malfoy’s face at once, their laughter fading until there was nothing between them but the expectant, radiating silence and Harry’s palm over Draco’s mouth. He could feel the boy’s lips on his palm, the small puffs of his warm breath. His pulse seemed to beat against Harry's fingertips, like he had Draco’s heart right there in his grasp.

Slowly, he lowered his hand; at the same time, Draco gripped his coat, walking Harry backwards until his back hit brick. Harry was fairly sure the alleyway was deserted, but he couldn’t be bothered to check, his eyes locked on Draco's. When the other boy’s gaze dropped to his mouth, Harry thought his heart might explode if Draco didn’t kiss him soon.

He said the only thing he knew would make it happen. “Scared, Malfoy?”

As he hoped, the silver eyes before him flashed with the challenge, Draco’s tongue darting out to wet his lips. Then, mercifully, he leaned in.

Draco tasted like vanilla ice cream, his nose cold and his hands shaking slightly. The kiss was slow, intentional, like Draco had something to prove, and Harry melted into it, his mind leaving him entirely. He thought feverishly that he must have lost it a long time ago.

When Draco pulled back, he didn’t go far, leaning his forehead against Harry’s to whisper, “This is madness, Potter.”

“I know,” Harry whispered back. “Trust me, I know.”

Like he couldn’t help it, Draco kissed him again. Softer, sweeter. 

“I had fun today,” Harry confessed, leaning his head back against the wall to blink up at Draco. He’d never really noticed before that Draco was taller than him. With Ron as a best mate, Harry was used to looking up, and Malfoy looking down at him was nothing new, but now, with their faces this close, Harry found he liked it, oddly enough.

“I did too,” said Draco, with a sigh. “So what now?”

“Well…” Harry considered, “We could just keep doing this. I mean, nobody needs to know about us.”

“Us?” Draco chewed his lip. Harry wanted to take over the job, but they needed to have this conversation first.

Harry nodded. “I want us to keep…you know, talking and stuff. So whatever happens between us… it’s nobody’s business, right?”

Slowly, Draco nodded, his eyes searching Harry’s face. He must have found what he was looking for because he pulled Harry into another kiss, more forceful this time, verging on desperate. Harry touched Draco’s face, his neck, fingertips over his pulse point.

“Your heart’s beating really fast, did you know?” he whispered, unable to keep the smile off his face.

Draco laughed, shoving Harry lightly. “Shut up.”

The sky above them was darkening, the afternoon slipping away. They had to go back soon. Back to Diagon Alley, to Hogwarts, to Gryffindor and Slytherin, to Potter and Malfoy. But, for at least a few more minutes, they were somewhere else, just two boys walking down the street, hands brushing with each step.

Chapter Text

Had Draco been alive before today?

His heart had never beat so fast; his ribs felt bruised from the force of it. He’d also never felt so…bright. Lit from within, like Harry’s touch had planted something glowy beneath his skin. It was an effort to keep the smile off his face as he and Harry walked back to the Leaky. They’d already said their goodbyes, but the occasional brush of an unseen hand against his confirmed that Harry was still beside him. There was a final squeeze to his wrist as he entered the pub, and Draco couldn’t help staring at the empty space where he knew Harry’s retreating back should be. 

Just a few hours ago, Draco had been standing in the exact same spot, terrified. Hands shaking, nearly positive that Harry wouldn’t show. But somehow, the day had been utterly, unbelievably perfect. Like he’d stepped outside of his life, outside of the universe itself, and stumbled into a dreamworld where Harry Potter smiled at him. He’d never known how badly he wanted that before. He wondered when he’d wake up.

A small voice in the back of his mind — a grating, disgusted tone that sounded a lot like his father — chastised Draco for acting like a third year girl on love potion. But he could hardly pay the voice any mind, too preoccupied with the nearly-overwhelming euphoria flooding his veins. If he looked in the mirror, he wondered if he’d see little cartoon hearts in his eyes. Draco floated across the pub, catching his reflection in the glass above the bar. Merlin, he looked drunk. Cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He forced his face into a more neutral expression as he grabbed a fistful of Floo Powder, stepped into the fireplace, and called out “Malfoy Manor.”

“Darling!” His mother’s voice, just a touch too high, greeted him. He had hardly stepped off the hearth when she tightly gripped his arm, eyes flitting around the room fretfully. “You’re home already. I thought you would stay with the Crabbes for dinner?”

“No, just Quidditch,” replied Draco off-handedly. He glanced around the empty room but found nothing amiss. “Mother, is everything alright?”

“Of course, darling,” she replied unconvincingly, rushing him toward the staircase. “Your father simply has some guests in his study, so we mustn't disturb him.”

“Okay….But I was going to return my broom to the—”

“It’s best if you stay in your bedroom for now,” she interrupted, walking him all the way down the corridor, right to his door. “We’ll summon you when it’s time for dinner. Just stay here until then, alright?”

“But Mother—”

She closed the door before he’d finished, leaving Draco confused and conflicted. His father had people over all the time: politicians, businessmen, and all manner of men with tattooed forearms. While Draco certainly wasn’t invited to the meetings, he’d never been told to hide away before. Suspicion ate at the butterflies that had been swarming Draco’s stomach mere minutes ago. He couldn't help feeling irritated. That he’d been whisked away by his mother, like he was a little boy incapable of providing his father with anything but a headache. But also that his Potter-fueled dreamstate had been so rudely interrupted. And he felt doubly displeased with the clashing dissonance between the two feelings.

Draco crossed his room and slumped into the window seat, forehead pressed against the cold glass. As he replayed the day in his head, trying to recall each and every way Harry had looked at him, a movement caught his eye. Two figures left the Manor, walking side by side up the drive before passing, like smoke, through the front gates. The shorter of the two was Snape, Draco knew immediately. He could tell by the way his cloak billowed. Before Draco could identify the other one, though, they disapparated. 

Draco couldn’t help wondering what his father was doing. Who else was in the Manor at that very moment? What were they discussing, planning? The idea used to excite Draco. Now it left him prickly. Cold, off-center.

Quite suddenly, fear gripped Draco around the throat. If his father found out about Potter, he would be disowned. It was bad enough when he had merely harbored secret feelings, but a secret relationship was another thing entirely. Draco swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. He’d never really lied to his parents before. Omitted things, sure. Little fibs here and there, perhaps. But nothing as significant as dating the blood-traitor messiah. His parents would never forgive him if they found out. 

Nobody needs to know about us, Harry had said. And Draco knew that was naive, that nothing good could come from fooling around with the Boy Who Lived to Cause Problems. But Draco also knew that as far as Harry Potter was concerned, he’d never learned to leave well enough alone. More compulsion than choice. Draco had considered on more than one occasion that he’d been hit with a curse, a fatal affliction which left him hypnotized and stupid in the face of bottle-green eyes. And so despite the mountain of reasons to grab the thing between them and cut off its wings, Draco knew he couldn’t help it — as long as Harry reached out, he would answer.

***

Dinner was strange that night. His mother’s nervous energy had dissipated entirely, and his father was in unusually high spirits, prattling on about his latest business investment. It was weird; Draco was usually the one who prattled.

“Did your meeting today go well then, Father?” Draco asked, keeping his head down and his tone casual.

His father narrowed his eyes briefly but conceded with a nod. “It did, actually. There is a…project I’ve been tasked with, and everything is coming together quite well.”

“That’s excellent, my dear,” said Draco’s mother.

Draco thought suddenly of Mr. Weasley in St. Mungos. He glanced at his mother’s smile and pasted a matching one on his face. 

“Draco,” his mother said suddenly. Her tone made him instinctively sit up straighter. “Your father and I have been discussing your future.”

Draco looked between the two, searching for warning signs but finding only benign gazes. “Oh?” 

“Regarding the Parkinson girl…” His father began. “How serious are the pair of you?”

“What do you mean?” Draco started sweating. He still felt the ghost of Harry’s lips on his. Could they tell somehow? “We’re courting. I thought you approved of—”

“We do, of course.” His mother interrupted. “Pansy is a lovely girl. She gets good marks in school and comes from an excellent family. She is a very good connection to keep. However, we’ve discussed it, and we don’t wish for you to rush into formalizing your attachment.”

“Times are different than they were when we were young,” his father took over, their sentences trading back and forth, like they’d rehearsed this. “Etiquette evolves. Given the circumstances, it hardly seems necessary to commit yourself the moment you finish your schooling.”

“You’ve done very well in school, Draco,” complimented his mother. “Top marks, if we don’t count that Muggleborn girl.”

“Which, of course, we don’t.”

“Your father and I should like you to continue your education at a wizarding university. Perhaps abroad.” His mother’s face was calm as still water on the surface, but Draco could see something rumbling beneath, a tinge of desperation hidden in dark water. 

“You’ve always excelled in Potions,” said his father. “I’m quite sure Severus would write you a recommendation.”

“In fact, there are some wonderful schools in France that we should look through together,” said his mother. “We could get you a flat in Paris. Make use of our Saint-Tropez villa for the holidays. What do you think, darling?”

“That sounds…” Draco blinked, flicking confused eyes between his parents. Where had this come from? His father had always talked of mentoring him after graduation, of helping him make investments and establish Ministry connections. What use was a degree in potions? It wasn’t as if he would ever need a job. Still, his parents looked at him hopefully, so he smiled back. “That sounds like an excellent plan.”

His mother beamed, and his father nodded as if he’d accomplished something. They quickly turned the conversation back to their upcoming social calendar, leaving Draco to stew in confusion. He had the distinct feeling that he was being manipulated, nudged in a direction without any understanding of why, exactly, his parents sought to banish him from England. 

After twenty more minutes of pushing his dinner around on his plate, Draco was excused. Finally allowed to wander his own home again, Draco returned his quidditch brooms to the shed. His head was so stuffed with questions and concerns, he stepped out into the frigid evening with nothing but a thin shirt and trousers on, but the cold felt good, sharpening. As he trudged through the gardens, the smell of roses blanketed over the clean scent of snow, Draco’s head cleared for perhaps the first time all day, and he recalled something: Harry knew his father was a Death Eater. He’d seen him in that Graveyard; Father had said. Draco blinked into the dark. 

Why would Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, ever kiss the son of a Death Eater? Why, in fact, was Potter doing anything with him at all? It didn’t make a bit of sense. 

He ran a hand over the polished wood of the Nimbus 2001, which he’d begged and begged his father for throughout First Year all because he had to have what Potter had. Could Potter be trying to spy? Draco wondered vaguely as he hung his brooms with numb hands — maybe it was all an elaborate act. The idea stung but failed to stick. Harry had seemed so different today — glancing at Draco when he thought he wasn’t looking, biting back smiles, and kissing him shyly. Draco wasn’t convinced Harry could perform that well. The boy always wore his emotions on his face, an open book, splayed out for all and sundry. It was equal parts shameful and endearing. Somehow worse was the thought that followed: perhaps Harry’s feelings were true. For the boy he’d met through the candle. But soon enough, he’d remember that Draco was, in fact, the same Malfoy he’d hated for years and he’d come to his senses. That thought immediately burrowed; Draco felt it growing roots. By the time he was back in his room, lying flat on the bed and in a staring contest with the ceiling, Draco felt like he might start crying. How had he let everything get so out of hand? How had he let himself be so weak?

His self-pity was suddenly interrupted when Draco smelled mint. He sprung up from his bed and grabbed, with greedy hands, at the candle by his bedside. 

It read only—

Just wanted to say goodnight and thank you for today x

This thing with Potter wouldn’t last long — it couldn’t, by every measurement and metric in existence — but right now, Draco was the person receiving Harry’s time and affection, his thank yous and his goodnights. For this moment in time, they were something. Maybe that could be enough.

***

The next two weeks crawled at a maddening pace, the final days of the year holding on with white knuckles and the first days of 1996 stumbling around clumsily like a newborn fawn. Draco felt mad — he’d never wanted a holiday to end so badly. By all accounts, he should have been enjoying himself. Mornings listening to his mother play piano, afternoons in his favorite wing of the library, elves bringing him whatever treats he wanted at any hour of the day. And yet, Draco cursed each moment, thinking longingly of the train ride back to Hogwarts, imagining sneaking away to a private compartment where he could kiss Harry into the seat. Of course, that was just a fantasy — too risky, they’d get caught — but it was loads more compelling than another day at the Manor with the same rotation of comforts and luxuries he’d always had. He didn’t want comfort; he wanted heat. Every time he thought about Harry, Draco could feel something burning just out of reach, its sparks biting his skin but never warming him completely. It felt like torture. Lovely, euphoric, torture that kept him up late at night with his hand down his pants.

Finally, after what felt like a thousand years in Christmastime purgatory, Draco made it to King's Cross. He said goodbye to his parents as quickly as was socially acceptable before rushing onto the train, hoping to get a glimpse of Harry before starting his prefect duties. As he helped usher students into compartments, he kept an eye out for wild raven hair but found none. Eventually, Draco had to accept that he wouldn’t find Harry unless he started going door to door, and he refused to look that desperate after only one date. No, he told himself, he’d just have to find him before the start of term feast. 

But when, hours later, he departed the Hogwarts Express, Harry was nowhere to be found. Not among the students hopping into carriages. Not at the Gryffindor table. Not in the wave of red robes leaving the Great Hall after the feast. Not in the corridors, which Draco patrolled after dinner, pacing, trying to ignore the tremor in his hands. As he sat by his candle, the night slipping away, Draco’s worry transformed into a cold, sharp thing scraping at his insides. But his indignance was brighter; he could hold it in his hands and feel the burn against his palms. So he decided to focus on that pain, the easier one, thinking about how he should punish Potter for this. Shouldn’t it be his turn to be left hanging? See how the prick liked it then. While trying to decide how long to give Potter the silent treatment, Draco drifted into a fitful sleep right there in the arm chair.

At around three in the morning, though, Draco was awoken by the smell of mint and reached immediately for the smoke.

I dunno if you’re going to get this. You’re probably asleep. We just got back to the castle a little while ago. Missed the train, had to catch the Knight Bus. It was kind of awful. I’m still motion sick. But I’m excited to see you tomorrow. I’ve been thinking about you, like, a lot. 

Draco scribbled out a response. Bleary down to his handwriting, he kept it simple. 

Meet me after breakfast in that room on the seventh floor. 

***

To his right, Vince and Greg were bickering over something. To his left, Pansy was blathering about something else. Between them, Draco had no mind for any of it. Because Harry Potter was staring at him from across the Great Hall. Their day together in Muggle London had felt hazy and dreamlike, a brief lapse in reality. But now, their eyes locked across the Hall — as they had been many times before but never quite like this — everything felt so real. Draco could hear nothing. Could see nothing but green eyes, so bright they seemed to glow from across the room, his gaze so intense it seemed to burn holes right into Draco’s chest.

“Draco? Draco? Oi, Draco!”

“What?” Draco finally snapped, begrudgingly ripping his gaze away from the object of his attention. Across the table, Theo blinked at him, unimpressed before gesturing to Artemis, who was eating the food off Draco’s plate.

“Oh…” Draco looked up to see a flock of owls entering the Great Hall. Copies of the Daily Prophet dropped from the sky, smacking down upon the wooden tables. Merlin, how had he not noticed such a ruckus? He rubbed at his eyes then reached for the letter tied to Artemis’s leg — a wax-sealed letter on his mother’s stationary. 

Dearest Draco, it began. 

I hope your return to school was swift and that the start of this term goes well for you. It was lovely to see you over Christmas, and I am already missing you greatly. We have just received news that we will have some family staying with us at the Manor for the next several weeks. They are very excited to see you. Perhaps we could arrange for you to come home for a weekend visit.

In the meantime, I have enclosed pamphlets for some of those French schools we discussed. Please take a look at them and let me know what you think. 

Love,

Mother

Draco re-read the letter with a furrowed brow. Family? Who could she possibly mean? All of Draco’s grandparents were dead. His father came from a long line of only children. And his mother’s sisters were—

He looked up to find Bellatrix Lestrange’s wild eyes — identical to his mother’s in shape, completely unlike his mother’s in every other capacity — bugging out from the front page of the Prophet. MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN, the headline read. Behind the paper, Theo read the article with narrowed eyes, his worry only betrayed by the slight wrinkle between his eyebrows. The Great Hall, however, was in uproar. Younger students cried in fear while the older ones sat in a mix of outrage and shock. The Gryffindor table, especially, was reacting poorly to the news: arguments broke out almost immediately, and from the teachers’ table, Umbridge seemed ready to curse the whole house for their collective outburst. Harry, though, sat worryingly still, eyes now glued to the Prophet’s front page, and Draco felt achingly, embarrassingly jealous of the paper.

When Harry blinked up again, his expression was unreadable. Draco braced for the anger and disgust that would appear any moment — the Slytherin table was quiet, half of the house looking almost pleased, the other half unaffected. Instead, though, Harry just looked tired. He turned and said something to Granger and Weasley, both of whom were in a heated discussion with Finnegan for whatever reason. Hardly anyone seemed to notice when Harry stood and slinked away from the table, pausing for just a moment to shoot Draco a meaningful glance before disappearing through the doors.

Draco had to force his limbs to move slowly. His hands traveled — nonchalant as he could manage — across the table, packing his mother’s letter, the university pamphlets, and the Prophet into his satchel. He took a final, deliberate sip of his lukewarm tea, checked his watch and watched the second hand tick at a snail’s pace. One, two, three, four seconds seemed long enough. He made a show of standing, stretching, and muttering something about going for a walk before class. Only Theo took notice, lowering his newspaper to raise a judgmental brow, but Draco couldn’t be bothered to care. He strode oh-so-casually out of the Great Hall, then broke into a near-jog the moment he cleared the doors.

By the time he arrived in the seventh floor corridor, Draco was slightly out of breath and radiating with nerves. Would Harry expect him to answer for the Azkaban breakout? He was struck again by the image that had been plaguing his dreams — Harry, tied up in a graveyard, while his own father watched on gleefully. He stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, forcing his breathing to slow, fingers smoothing out his hair. 

When he entered the room, he was taken aback, his worries punched out of him by sheer confusion. Had he entered the right room? Yes, he must have — he’d entered the right door. But it had not led to the room he expected. This was different from where they’d met before, with the shadowed corners and the endless maze of junk. This room was small, cozy. A single leather couch sat before a crackling fire, a muted silk rug spread out on the floor. Harry, who had been pacing before the fireplace, paused at the sound of the door. 

“Hi…” he breathed out. 

“Hi…” Draco repeated, letting the door fall closed behind him, his feet glued to the floor. He swallowed, blinking around at the strange little common room. “Sorry, where are we?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s uh—” Harry started to step forward before aborting the movement and shrugging instead, “it's called the Room of Requirement. It changes into whatever you need it to be.”

“Oh…” Draco replied, nodding, folding his arms across himself. “How did you find it?”

“Just stumbled upon it, really.” Draco could tell he was lying — Harry chewed on his cheek when he lied — but he didn’t bother calling him out. It didn’t matter, not when he looked so weary. 

“Are you alright?” Draco asked quietly. “With the news and all—”

“Yeah, I, erm…I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about that right now.”

“Okay…” Draco trailed off. The distance between them felt thick, pressing against Draco’s chest. “What do you want to talk about?”

Harry exhaled a sound of frustration, combing fingers through his hair. He seemed to make a decision, standing suddenly straight, pinning Draco with his stare. “You should come here.”

Draco blinked, his foot obeying without his permission even as his petulant mouth said, “No, you come here.”

Harry smirked, stepped forward. “No, you come here.”

“No, you—”

They met in the middle, lips colliding, hands finding purchase wherever they could. Gripping hair, necks, shoulders. Holding hands, faces. Pressed together until there was nothing in the room but them, there.

***

The beginning of that term was, perhaps, the oddest collection of days in Draco’s life. Some hours seemed to stretch on for months at a time; others were simply blinked away. Draco couldn’t seem to hold a conversation with any of his friends, his mind a lake of murky water where his thoughts all sunk to the bottom. With Harry, though, his focus was razor sharp, set on cataloguing every way the other boy smiled or sighed, the way his eyes wrinkled at the corners and his lips chapped. Draco looked at his own face in the mirror and felt unsettled by the reflection: his eyes unfocused, circled by shadows. He needed to get better sleep, especially with the OWLs coming up, but Potter always kept him up past midnight. 

One night, Draco sent four feet of parchment through the candle: a fairytale about a beautiful princess and her faithful knight, though Draco changed it to a white-haired prince and his scar-headed knight. The next day, as he walked to the library after lunch, Harry yanked him into an alcove, angling their bodies so they were hidden behind a suit of armor, and snogged him nearly senseless. Draco quickly recognized the reciprocal relationship between the length of his letters and the ferocity of Harry’s kisses. So Draco started sending bedtime stories nearly every night. Long, meandering ones with all the prettiest words he could think of. He’d retold half of Beedle the Bard’s tales and was steadily working through the myths of the Greek pantheon. Harry liked stories with a bit of melancholy, a touch of romance. He liked when Draco went on tangents in the middle but let the endings speak for themselves. 

About two weeks into term, Draco was in Potions, wracking his brain for a story to write that night and trying his hardest to avoid looking up at Harry, who was sitting at the desk ahead of him and kept shooting torturous little glances over his shoulder when Weasley wasn’t looking. 

“Oi! Potter!”

Draco’s quill froze on his parchment, halfway through the second o in boomslang, at the sound of Vince’s voice, barely trying to be a whisper.

“Potter!” Vince jeered again, leaning over the desk to lob bits of their potion ingredients at Potter’s head. Draco grit his teeth; he was singlehandedly keeping Vince’s potions grade afloat, and this was the thanks he got. 

“Piss off,” Weasley turned around to hiss through his teeth.

“This potion requires no talking, Weasley,” Snape droned from across the classroom. “Five points from Gryffindor.”

“But Crabbe—!”

“That’s five more.” Snape sneered. “Back to work.”

Harry grabbed Weasley’s shoulder, forcing the other boy to turn back to their potion. After about three seconds of silence, Vince started up again. 

“Potter! Oi!” Another handful of boomslang skin went flying, landing in the rat’s nest of hair on Harry’s head. Draco sighed through his nose, muttering, “Nice one, Vince. Not like I’d portioned out those ingredients or anything.”

Vince merely chuckled and tossed another bit at Harry.

But Harry was quicker, whipping around to throw up a shield charm just in time. The boomslang skin went shooting back at Vince and smacked him in the face. Weasley let out a laugh; Draco had to cough to hide his. 

Vince, though, clenched his fists on the desk. “Watch yourself, Potter. Bet you won’t feel so tough when those escaped Death Eaters get a hold of you! D’you reckon they’ll break into Hogwarts or just wait for summer hols to kill you?”

The air briefly froze in Draco’s lung, his panic like a cold burn, but he quickly pushed the feeling away, down into the deep layers of himself. Because Harry was scowling beautifully, and Draco was briefly distracted by the cut of his clenched jaw, so much sharper than it had been just at the start of the year. Across the room, Snape started berating Longbottom for both the consistency of his potion and the strength of his character. 

“Fuck off, you psycho!” Weasley growled at Vince, loudly as he could without re-drawing Snape’s ire. 

“Such dreadful language, Weasel.” Draco tutted, lazily tapping the Inquisitorial Squad badge on his robes. “That’s ten points from Gryffindor.”

“And I’ll take another ten, I reckon,” said Vince with a cruel smirk, “for disparaging my character.”

“Disparaging?” said Harry. “Big word for you, Crabbe. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Look who’s talking.” Draco raised an eyebrow, his gaze locked on the tendon in Harry’s neck — pulled taught, his skin reddening like a spell building its charge — and imagined laving his tongue over it. His green eyes flashed to Draco briefly, angrily, but Draco could only smirk in response.

After class, he was promptly shoved into a broom cupboard then pushed up against the door, Harry’s forearm across his collar.

“What the fuck was that, Malfoy?!” Harry glared. Anger radiated off his skin, but as they were still in the cupboard, he kept his voice low, breathing the words, hot and angry, across Draco’s face.

“Oh, come on,” Draco said, “that’s hardly the worst thing I’ve ever said to you.”

“But that was before we were—” Harry cut himself off, not putting a name to what they were. 

Draco felt the slightest sting but covered it up with a roll of his eyes. “It would’ve been suspicious if I’d said nothing. When have I ever passed on the chance to piss you off?”

“Never,” grumbled Harry. 

“Exactly. We can’t start randomly acting differently around each other. Don’t you want this to stay a secret?”

“Obviously.”

The sting returned, but Draco swallowed it, letting it join the heat in his belly instead. Harry was slowly relaxing, so he was less shoving Draco and more leaning his weight against him. Gently, Draco raised his hands, letting them find purchase on Harry’s hips. “Besides, you know I think you’re cute when you’re angry.”

Harry sighed. “Do you have to be such a git though?”

“Could be fun.” Draco smirked. “Like a game.”

Harry held back his smile, but Draco could see it in the corners of his mouth. “A game?”

“Mhm.” Their faces came closer, Draco hovering with his lips over Harry’s. He’d lost count of the kisses they’d shared, but each one felt just as ridiculous as the first. Sometimes Draco wondered if his brain hadn't been damaged when Harry punched him on the Quidditch field, leaving him stuck in a never-ending coma dream. If that was the case, he hoped he'd stay asleep. Trailing his lips across Harry’s cheek, he whispered, “You wanna punish me, Potter?”

Draco could feel the shiver ripple across Harry’s skin as he kissed his way down to his throat. He felt more than heard his breathless laugh. “It’s something to think about.”

***

January pushed forward, and Draco felt himself drowning, submerged in infatuation. He’d always spent too much energy on Potter — Draco could admit that now — but it was hastily becoming a full-blown obsession. He fell asleep each night thinking of his laugh and woke up each morning thinking of his mouth. In class, he sent him performative sneers, then gleefully awaited the backlash of Harry shoving him into an alcove and biting at his lips. On the days when they couldn’t sneak off together, Draco’s mood sank to the floor, like he was possessed by the spirit of Moaning Myrtle. The worst part was that he knew he was being ridiculous — he could go one bloody day without kissing the git, surely! — but he was still powerless to stop it. The only cure to his malady was the contagion himself.

Over the course of three weeks, Draco studied Harry like a book and learned a lot in the process. Holding his face and kissing him slowly earned Draco a smile. And if he scraped his teeth on Harry’s neck, just below his ear, the boy’s breathing got enticingly shallow. To Draco’s surprise and delight, Harry was quite shy in this respect. He mostly let Draco lead, offering mostly stuttered whispers and flushed cheeks. It wasn’t what Draco would’ve expected. Before, he’d assumed Potter would take charge and assert control of Draco’s body. That idea was still appealing, but nothing got Draco quite as worked up as watching the Boy who Lived melt like clay in his hands.

The only hiccup was when Harry tried to talk.

“Have you heard anything?” He asked one afternoon as they sat together in the Room of Requirement. It had returned to them in its common room form, the fire crackling comfortably. As they sprawled on the sofa, Harry played with Draco's fingers, eyes cast downward as he asked the question. “About the Death Eaters?”

Draco tried to keep his hand relaxed in Harry’s grasp but felt his fingers twitch. “What do you mean?”

“Well, like, Bellatrix Lestrange…” Harry spoke almost absent-mindedly, but his tension was clear in his shoulders, “she’s your aunt, right?”

“Yes…”

“So, like…have you heard anything about where she might be, or—”

“Sorry—Are you seriously asking me if my mother is harboring a criminal right now?” Though he tried to keep his tone calm, Draco felt anger leaking into his words. Potter was right, of course. In fact, Draco was almost positive his parents were doing much more than harboring one criminal, but nevertheless, Draco was offended that Harry had the gall to come out and ask. 

“I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t know that woman, Potter,” Draco said sternly. That, at least, was the truth. “I’ve never met her in my life.”

“Okay, whatever,” Harry sighed, dropping both the topic and Draco’s hand.

But that wasn’t enough. Draco wanted him to never bring it up again. “And what happened to not wanting to talk about this stuff? You’re the one who said that!”

“I meant just then!” Harry crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the armrest, guarded. “But you’re right—we probably shouldn’t talk about any of it.”

Draco exhaled through his nose. They felt dangerously close to a precipice, but the night was dark and Draco couldn’t see the edge. He sighed and reached back for Harry’s hand, his heart singing in his chest when the other boy let him grab it. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

“That’s new,” Harry grumbled, still looking put out. 

“That was before.” Gently, Draco pulled at Harry’s arms, uncrossing them and urging him to lean over. He tucked a strand of hair behind Harry’s ear, letting his fingers trail down the curve of his neck. “Now, there’s other things I’d much rather be doing with you.”

All the dreadful talk ceased, their mouths too busy with each other. It was easy to get lost in, but even still, behind the bliss, Draco felt the cold twinge of fear. Because every moment with Harry felt like borrowed time, just waiting for something to push them over the edge and send them falling down the cliffside. He kept bracing for it. Fingers twining in Harry’s hair, his lips desperate. It would all disappear soon; it was only a matter of time.

But Draco was prepared to put up a fight, to dig up every second he could. It occurred to Draco — not all at once but as a slow trickle of realization — that he no longer wanted the things he used to want. His father’s life, his praise. Truthfully, his father’s life seemed unappealing. Just last year, when the Dark Lord was still a myth, something dead in the ground, Draco had been impressed by his father’s past as a Death Eater. He’d found it noble, gallant. He’d pictured a league of powerful men. But since the Dark’s Lord’s resurrection, his father had not seemed powerful. He seemed tired. Weak. The kind of man who let his wife feel unsafe in her own home. In her letters, Draco’s mother seemed progressively anxious. Surely, housing escaped convicts was not conducive to her peace of mind, and it seemed, distantly, like things would get worse before they got better. Draco had always admired his parents. Worshipped them, really. But they were not behaving like Gods anymore; they seemed caged. 

But he would always love them because they had his best interests at heart — he was coming to understand this. Their offer to send him to Paris was not banishment. It was a gift. He wouldn’t have to be involved in the war at all; instead, he could go to France and bypass the whole affair.

Their kiss turned slow, heavy with things they couldn't say. Draco traced a finger across the scarred plane of Harry’s forehead. Vaguely, he imagined asking Harry to run away with him. He didn’t like to think about it, but obviously, Harry was in danger. But what if he just disappeared one day? Maybe You-Know-Who would let him vanish. Surely the Dark Lord had better things to do than chase a teenage boy across the continent. For a moment, Draco let himself imagine it — a world with no blood-purity nor any of the light side dark side tosh, just him and Harry and endless baskets of Parisian pastries. Somewhere deep in Draco’s chest, hope flapped its wings.

Chapter Text

It was some sort of strange magic — the way three totally different people seemed to fit into the body of Draco Malfoy.

Most mornings, Harry woke with a smile on his face, even when he’d spent the night tossing and turning and dreaming anxiously of hallways. Because whatever words Draco had written the night before would bubble up in Harry’s tired brain and wash all the worries away. This version of Draco — the writer formerly known as No One — was still a marvel to Harry. A salve, a calming presence in the darkest hours. His words the perfect blend of sweet and sarcastic, clever and candid.

But then the day would continue and confront Harry with Malfoy. Smirking, sneering Malfoy. Familiar, infuriating, and disappointing. Some days, Harry would enter a corridor to see Malfoy leaning against the wall, laughing while Crabbe and Goyle pushed some poor Hufflepuff between them like a Quaffle. In Potions, he’d still sling insults at the Gryffindors; he still proudly displayed that stupid Inquisitorial Squad pin on his robes, like he took pride in doing Umbridge’s bidding. When he’d catch Harry watching, his face hot and his jaw clenched, the git would just grin. Once, he even shot a wink in Harry’s direction. Like it was all just a game between them. 

Each time, Harry told himself that he’d confront Malfoy about his behavior, that he’d twist his arms and force him to change. But when they were alone, that third version of Draco took hold, and Harry’s brain stopped working completely. Because in those moments, Draco was no longer the pensive writer nor the snobbish bully. He became something else, something powerful yet still delicate. A vampire, his teeth scraping Harry’s neck, searching for blood. A fresh pomegranate, begging to be ripped open, juice coating Harry’s hands. He was both at the same time, leaving Harry feeling like the predator and the prey. Any lingering anger he felt for Malfoy was taken out on Draco, biting at his lips, his throat, until the fury gave way to need. Harry’d never experienced this feeling before — this bone-deep desire to turn his thoughts off, to submerge himself in water, sink right to the bottom, and let the current drag him wherever it pleased. But in Draco’s arms, their lips moving in tandem, Harry’s mind left him completely. And it felt ridiculously good. Heady and primal and simple. 

This was a problem, though, because Harry knew things were not simple at all. They were, perhaps, more complicated than ever before. At all times, these heavy, jagged things surrounded them, but Draco seemed content to ignore it all, push everything aside and snog endlessly instead. When they were pressed together in shadowed alcoves, Harry couldn’t help but agree. But once he was alone, with fewer distractions and his head less fuzzy, he wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind. 

At breakfast one morning, The Prophet rained down their usual shite: a front page article about Dumbledore’s corruption and Harry’s mental instability, then another article, tucked into the middle of the paper, with an update on the Death Eater manhunt. According to the Ministry, the Aurors were hard at work investigating the escaped Death Eaters and had found solid leads that they were smuggled out of the country by a foreign entity. While the convicts are still at large, wizards of Britain needn’t fret, the article assured its readers, as the Death Eaters are reliably assumed to be hiding out in America. The DMLE is working closely with MACUSA to locate and apprehend them. The article then went on to describe the escapees as aging, feeble, and simple-minded, quoting an Azkaban guard who described how the Death Eaters usually sat in the corners of their cells, muttering to themselves, too damaged by dementor-exposure to be a danger to anyone. Before Harry had even finished the article Hermione snatched the paper, crumbled it up, and promptly set it on fire. 

“This is ridiculous!” Hermione declared. “They can’t keep acting like everything is perfectly fine! Misleading people like this — it’s just irresponsible! People are going to get hurt!”

To the Slytherins though, the propaganda was a well good laugh. That afternoon, in Care of Magical Creatures, they took turns quoting the front page article at Harry when Hagrid was distracted.

“Ew, don’t let Potter get too close to me!” Parkinson sneered as they walked by. She clung to Malfoy’s arm, pressing her cheek against his shoulder like a shield. “His insanity may very well be contagious!”

“Oh, I’m sure. His whole House is infected with it.” Malfoy laughed, shooting a vicious smirk Harry’s way, but his expression slipped when they locked eyes. Because while Malfoy’s cruelty usually conjured anger, this time, Harry just felt sad. The words hit somewhere tender, and Parkinson pushed down on the bruise. Harry watched in disgust as she twined her fingers with Draco’s, and a possessive feeling took hold of Harry’s throat, so forceful it made him feel sick. He felt territorial, like she’d grabbed something that was his. Draco shook off Parkinson’s hand and, for a moment, almost looked ashamed, but then he ran the hand through his hair and sauntered off toward the Forest’s edge, leaving Harry to wonder if he’d imagined it. 

As class ended, though, Draco slipped him a note, asking to meet in the Room of Requirement after dinner. Briefly, Harry considered standing him up. Malfoy was a git all day long, Harry reasoned — why shouldn’t he be on the receiving end for once? But knowing Malfoy, he’d probably take Harry’s anger, double it, and pass it back. Still, Harry dragged his feet, pulling the door open ten minutes late. 

“There you are…” Draco stood in the center of the room, looking pale and worried. Harry tried to only savor it a little bit. “I almost thought you wouldn’t come.”

Harry shrugged, letting the distance between them linger where usually, they were both rushing to close it. “I almost didn’t.”

“Look, I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to actually…hurt your feelings or anything.” The apology seemed to claw its way out of Draco. He chewed at his lip, ran a nervous hand through his hair, eyes darting around the room like he was too scared to see Harry’s reaction. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize before,” replied Harry. “Was it painful?”

Draco rolled his eyes but breathed a laugh. “Yes, it’s awful.”

Harry cleared his throat and looked at his shoes. “So are you and Parkinson still…”

“No!” Draco insisted, stepping closer gingerly like he was approaching a skittish animal. “No, we broke up at Christmas. Honestly. She’s just…touchy.”

Harry thought that should make him feel better, but it didn’t. It wasn’t fair that Parkinson got to be touchy with him when Harry couldn’t. Harry pictured it for a moment: holding Draco’s hand in the corridor or kissing his cheek to say goodbye after class. But it felt like a dream, a silly fantasy, something impossible in real life.

He looked up to see Draco smirking. “Why? Were you jealous, Potter?”

Harry just shrugged, unable to rise to the bait. 

Draco sighed, taking another step closer. He let his hand brush Harry’s, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. “That’s kind of sweet, actually.”

Harry didn’t know how to answer. He wanted to reach for him, to pull him closer and make use of their limited time, hidden away together, but his limbs felt frozen and numb. Cold melancholy had seeped into his bones. He looked at Draco’s face, his expression open and gentle, if still a little worried. He must have sensed that Harry couldn’t find words because he stopped waiting for them. Instead, Draco tugged his hand, lightly pulling him over to the couch where he positioned Harry on the floor between his legs, facing away. His hands grabbed for Harry’s shoulders and began to massage. He tutted softly, mumbling. “Merlin, you’re tense.”

“Yeah, wonder why.” Harry had come into the Room anticipating a fight. He’d stored his upset, letting it build up and inflame, only to be met with apologies and gentle hands. Part of him still wanted to be angry, to expel all the complaints he’d carried around all week, but instead, he let out a long sigh. His head fell forward, and he allowed himself to enjoy the motion of Draco’s hands as they pressed into his muscles.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked, his touch travelling up and down the chords of Harry’s neck.

 “I’m tired of it,” Harry said eventually. He kept his eyes closed, talking into the dark, picturing the long, pale fingers that travelled up his neck and into his hair, dispelling the headache at the base of his skull. “Tired of all of it. The ministry and the press. Tired of everyone thinking I’m crazy.”

Draco pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck, and now that he’d started talking, Harry suddenly couldn’t stop. “And I can’t stop thinking about the Death Eaters that escaped. Where they are, what they’re doing. But the Ministry is just letting them escape, basically, and I feel like…responsible. Like they’re out there, hurting people, and it’s my fault.”

“Why would it be your fault?” Draco asked quietly. 

“Because I— I’m the reason he’s back. I— I was part of the ritual, and if I hadn’t gotten to the Cup—” He shouldn’t have been telling Draco any of this, but the words had a mind of their own. And, Harry suddenly remembered, maybe Draco knew all about it already. The thought brought him up short. “Did your father tell you? About what happened in the graveyard?”

The following pause was bloated and heavy. Draco’s hands froze for a fraction of a second before they started to move again, as if nothing happened. “What graveyard?”

Harry sighed, slow and unsure. He thought maybe he should argue. Push and press until confessions came out but then Draco’s thumbs rubbed between his shoulder blades, and it felt so good, he nearly moaned. Maybe Draco was telling the truth, he hoped. It was possible that his father told him nothing. It wasn’t smart, after all, to tell a teenager something so sensitive, especially a teenager like Draco, who ran his mouth and bragged so incessantly. Just last year, Harry would have thought Draco entirely incapable of keeping a secret, but he knew differently now, of course. Draco had a lot of secrets. Harry was one of them. He sighed. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

He swallowed down the worry and let his stress ooze out of him, forced away by Draco’s touch. He couldn’t be arsed to worry about the noises he was making, though he knew, distantly, they were sort of embarrassing. Draco, maybe, thought otherwise because his lips found their way back to Harry’s neck, nuzzling and kissing as he continued massaging. When at last, Harry’s muscles felt like soft clay, he turned and pulled Draco’s mouth to his own. Draco pulled him up to the couch, and a moment later, Harry was straddling his lap, kissing him slowly, trying to ask questions and read the answers in the slide of his tongue.

He didn’t find the assurance he wanted — no proof of loyalty, no promises that they could be together, that Draco would change — but he did feel something. Something in the fervor of Draco’s lips, the way he kissed Harry like he may never get to again. It felt good to be wanted, and he hoped Draco felt even a fraction of what he did. Because it was overwhelming how much he wanted Draco, all the time. It probably wasn’t healthy, but it was easier to give in, to let himself be consumed by it.

He held Draco’s head in his hands, angling his face upward, fingers sliding up into his hair and tangling. He confessed into Draco’s mouth, “I love your hair.”

“Yeah?” Draco smirked up at him, reaching to play with a tuft of hair by Harry’s ear. “I guess I would too, if mine looked like yours.”

“Fuck off,” laughed Harry. He started to lean away, but Draco pulled him back, kissing him with a smile, and Harry melted back into it. 

Draco whispered between kisses, “I love your mouth.” 

The word love bounced around Harry’s head without ever finding a place to land.

Later that night, after he’d fallen asleep and into a dream, Harry found himself back in the Room of Requirement, back in Draco’s lap. But this time, Draco pushed him down onto the sofa, pressing their bodies together. In real life, when Draco grinded against him or skimmed his fingers across Harry’s belt buckle, Harry froze up, nerves eclipsing desire, but in his dream, Harry didn’t feel shy; he just wanted. The dream shifted, their shirts vanishing, leaving just the warm skin of their chests, pressed together. Harry ran his hands up Draco’s arms, across his shoulders, needing to touch him everywhere. His heart fluttered in his chest, like hummingbird wings, too quickly to count the beats. He pushed Draco back, meaning to reach for the flies on his trousers, when he stopped short. Draco looked down at him with a blank face, no sign that he was affected by any of it. His bare chest seemed blurry, so all Harry could focus on was the black, hissing Dark Mark branded onto Draco’s forearm. 

Harry sat up in bed, chest heaving.

***

“So how are things going with you and Cho?” 

“What?” Harry yanked his attention away from the blond head across the library to focus on Hermione’s inquisitive look. “What do you mean?”

She blinked at him. “Well, you kissed right before Christmas…”

“Right. Of course,” muttered Harry. Merlin, he’d forgotten all about it, too preoccupied with the other first kiss he’d had that night. 

Ron snorted, leveling Harry a knowing look. “And you’ve been sneaking off with her ever since we got back.”

“What?” Harry said again. “No, I haven’t.”

“You’re an awful liar, mate.”

“Maybe Harry wasn’t ready to tell us yet, Ron!” Hermione chastised quietly. 

“Well then he should stop disappearing all the time only to turn up with that dopey look on his face,” said Ron. 

“I don’t….” Harry started to object but let himself trail off. He’d thought he was being subtle, but if they knew he was out with someone, maybe it was for the best if they thought that someone was Cho. He was confident they’d never guess who was really occupying his time, but it was still for the best if they didn’t pry into it. Ron was right though. He wasn’t a very good liar, at least not to those he cared about, so instead, he just shook his head, murmuring, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right, sure,” laughed Ron, earning a loud shush from Madam Pince.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, examining Harry with that all-knowing look that made him sweat. But luckily they had about a hundred essays due that week, and Hermione ultimately cared more about those than prying into Harry’s love life. With a dissatisfied sigh, she returned to her reading.

***

Malfoy was being an obnoxious git. 

Hagrid stood at the front of the class, bruised and bloody, trying his best to make flobberworms seem interesting while Umbridge tutted at him from the sidelines, clipboard in hand. Earlier that day, Hagrid had told Harry, Ron, and Hermione that he was officially on probation, and his nervousness was clear as he delivered a stuttered lecture about the flobberworms’ diet. It was heartbreaking to witness, yet Malfoy spent the entire class making snide, mocking comments. With each interruption, Hagrid’s confidence noticeably shrunk, which only prompted more rude comments. The Slytherins snickered wickedly, and Umbridge pretended she heard nothing. Harry felt his blood boiling, but his anger was nothing compared to that of Hermione, who stood beside him, vibrating with rage. She was able to contain it until the end of class, but the moment Umbridge was gone, she exploded, rushing toward Malfoy with her wand out.

“Draco Malfoy, you are a miserable, pathetic monster! Is your life truly so heinous that you must ruin everyone else’s as well?!”

Fear flashed in Malfoy’s eyes, probably remembering the time Hermione punched him in the face, but he quickly concealed it behind a sneer. “I’m not sure what you’re screeching about, Granger. It’s hardly my fault that our oaf of a professor can’t string together a coherent lecture.”

Seemingly without thinking, Hermione lunged forward, her fist clenching. “How dare you–”

Malfoy shoved her arm away quickly. “Get your filthy hands away from me, Mudblood!”

The word had hardly left his mouth before Harry raised his wand. Ron had the same idea. 

The next moment, Harry’s flippendo sent Malfoy flying back into the soggy grass while Ron’s bat-bogey hex hit him straight in the face. Malfoy cried out, sitting up with mud in his hair. His wide-eyed look met Harry for one second before a winged glob of snot shot out of his nose and began attacking his face.

Hermione acted quickly, dragging Harry and Ron back to the castle by their wrists. “That was stupid — of all of us.” She chastised as they made their way up to Gryffindor Tower. “If Malfoy tells Umbridge, we’ll all get in big trouble.”

“Worth it, I think,” Ron grumbled. “Someone needed to put that prick in his place.”

“Yeah…” Harry agreed, but he was having trouble removing his gaze from the floor. He felt oddly guilty. Not that he’d defended Hermione, of course. Malfoy deserved worse for his behavior, if he was being honest. But Harry was fairly sure it was bad form to hex someone you snogged on a regular basis. He knew some people hurt their spouses, their partners. Was that the kind of person Harry was? A cold nausea swept through his stomach at the thought. 

As he laid in bed that night, Harry couldn’t help remembering second year. How gleeful Malfoy had been during the Basilisk attacks. His awful laugh as he’d shouted “You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” It felt like a long time ago to Harry, but in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t really. Just a few years. And in all the time since then, Draco hadn’t been much better. He’d always been a bully. A cruel, entitled pureblood supremacist whose family supported Voldemort. Between the lovely letters he wrote almost nightly and the sweet kisses they shared during the day, Harry had thought he changed. He must have, right? Because Harry couldn’t feel so pulled to someone like that. It wasn’t possible. But as he laid there, searching his mind for evidence that Draco had improved, he found nothing but his own hopes.

When the space between his bed curtains filled with cinnamon-clove smoke, Harry wasn’t surprised but, for the first time ever, he was annoyed. He reached for the letter begrudgingly, and only grew more irritated by the words written there.

Potter,

Meet me in the Room.

Demanding, to the point. Not even the common courtesy to include a please or a sorry. Harry shook his head, as if the paper could understand his frustration. He wanted to say no, to force Malfoy to sit with his guilt all night long and then fight to get Harry’s attention the next day. But he also wanted to shout and rage and demand apologies. Instead of either, he laced up his trainers as quietly as possible and tip-toed out of his dorm. 

Draco was already in the room, sitting on the sofa with his arms crossed tightly. He didn’t turn when Harry entered, just stared into the fire with a blank expression, waiting for Harry to start the conversation. It only annoyed Harry more.

“You can’t just keep being horrible and expect me to accept your apology every time.”

Draco turned his head, slow and eerie like his eagle-owl, and narrowed his eyes at Harry. “You think I’m the one who should apologize?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry crossed his arms, “after what you said.”

Draco scoffed, rising to his feet in protest. “Granger is the one who started it! All I did was respond — you and Weasley hexed me!”

“You know you started it with what you did to Hagrid,” argued Harry, “and you deserved to get hexed for what you called Hermione!”

“It’s just a word, Potter!” Draco groaned in frustration.

“It is not just a word! It says something about you and what kind of person you are!”

“Oh, yeah, and what kind of person am I?!” Draco shouted suddenly, sounding half-mad. “Since that’s up to you to decide, apparently!?”

“You’re a bigot!” Harry shouted back. “You act like you’re so far above everyone different from you. It’s sick! If you weren’t gay yourself, I bet you’d bully people like us too!”

Draco's face went red. “That is not the same thing—!”

“How is it any different?!”

“It just is!” Draco ripped at his hair in frustration. “Being gay is — it’s improper, of course. And we’d be shamed for it; I know that! But it’s not like we’re doing anything wrong. We’re not taking anything from anyone! But magic belongs to Purebloods. The only reason it’s spread all around is because of interbreeding with muggles. It’s diluting magic—”

“Oh my god, you actually believe all that rubbish?” Against reason, Harry had hoped that Draco knew better. That their stupid date in Muggle London had shown him the light. That he was just repeating his father’s awful opinions for attention. But no. They were his awful opinions too. Harry felt a fresh wave of hot indignation lick up his throat. “You do realize I’m a half-blood, right?”

Draco's eyes rolled nearly into the back of his head. “Maybe no one gave you the talk yet, Potter, but the two of us certainly won’t be breeding.”

“You’re missing the point, Malfoy!” yelled Harry. “Purebloods are not better than any other type of wizard. In fact, wizards are not better than Muggles at all!”

“Of course, we are!” Draco scoffed. “We’re more evolved in every way! We have abilities they can only dream of. They could never do the things we do!”

“And you could do the things they do?” Harry snapped. “Could you solve maths equations or build a machine that could take you to the moon?”

“Why would I want to go to the moon?!”

“I dunno, but muggles know how to!” Flames seemed to jump from the fireplace, coating the room in a stifling blanket of red, setting Harry’s face alight as he argued. “They know all this stuff about science and medicine and how the world works that we never even bother to learn about! Not having magic doesn’t make them lesser — it makes them creative and inventive.”

Draco sneered. “If you’re so horny for muggles, why don’t you go marry one?”

“Really mature, Malfoy.” Harry rolled his eyes. “All I’m saying is—they’re people, just like us! They have hopes and dreams and fears—”

“That’s all well and good, but muggles have tried to kill wizards! They want to burn us! And they’ve had all those terrible wars. They’re violent—!”

Harry laughed—a sharp, cruel sound that didn’t seem to belong to him. “Oh, like you don’t know any violent wizards?”

Draco pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, looking equal parts exhausted and furious. “Potter, why do you care what I think about stupid muggles?”

“Because what you think is evil!” Harry exploded. “Those beliefs are evil! They’re the reason people like your father go about hurting and killing innocent people. It’s the reason you abuse Hermione and other muggleborns. It’s wrong! And I can’t just sit back while you’re—”

“Okay, fine, I get it, Potter!” Draco huffed suddenly, his face and neck bright red. “I’m a terrible person, and you don’t want anything to do with me—”

Draco pushed past him, their shoulders colliding as he made for the door, but Harry grabbed his forearm, halting him. “You’re not getting out of this that easy, Malfoy!”

The other boy whipped around, his eyes glassy and desperate. “I don’t know what you want me to say!”

“I want you to bloody apologize! For terrorizing my friends, for being awful to me for years!” Harry felt like he was begging. He felt the sudden need to cut himself open and bleed at Draco’s feet, anything to show how much he cared, how much he wished for Draco to care for him in return. “You spend all this time with me, and all the while, your father is out there, helping Voldemort,” Draco winced at the name, but Harry pushed on, “who — if you’ve somehow forgotten — killed my parents and wants me dead! But every time I bring it up, you go quiet or try to distract me or act like I’m unreasonable for trying to talk about it. For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy, do you even give a fuck if I live or die?!”

“Of course, that’s how you think of me!” Draco seemed to suddenly grow taller, his anger flaring, taking up space. “Because you’re so goddamn perfect all the time! St. Fucking Potter. The all-mighty bearer of judgment! Look upon my soul and condemn!”

Harry rolled his eyes at the dramatics. 

“But, you know, you’re not very good either, are you, Potter?” Draco accused. “I remember back in First Year — you and Weasel made fun of Granger just as much as me. And you’ve said loads of mean shit to the Slytherins. You’ve called Pansy a pugface and Greg a fat-arse. You’ve bloody beat me to a pulp — three against one! But Merlin forbid, I hurt your friend’s feelings—”

“You know it’s about more than that,” Harry felt close to tears, but he forced his voice to stay hard and sharp, “and I am sorry. Okay? I really am sorry! It was wrong of me. All of it! I never said I was perfect. I get too angry sometimes; I know that! And I’m not too stubborn to admit it because I, unlike you, don’t delight in making people miserable!”

Harry watched his words slap Draco across the face. He flinched, his mouth wobbling, and then all at once, he hardened like stone. He stood taller, stepped forward, crowding against Harry just to look down at him as his voice dropped dangerously low. “You know what, Potter? You knew who I was from the beginning. You could have thrown that candle away at any time. But you pursued me anyway. You wanted me. So if you think I’m so horrible, what does that say about you?”

The Room pressed at them from all angles, the heat reaching a fever pitch. For one endless second, they stared into each other’s eyes, angry and unblinking. Harry wondered if Draco actually wanted an answer, if one even existed. He could do nothing but stand there and burn as Draco shook his head and rushed out the door. 

***

Harry spent the next two days stewing in anger, letting it fester and pop in nasty bursts that caused his friends to walk on eggshells in his presence. Hermione asked him if he was okay approximately thirty times in one day, and Harry almost bit her head off.

“That wasn’t cool.” Ron scolded him afterward. “She’s just trying to help.”

Harry shrunk in on himself in shame. For a moment, he’d felt irritated at Hermione, like she was the reason everything had fallen apart, but it wasn’t her fault. As much as Harry wanted to blame Draco, it wasn’t really his fault either. Because he was right: Harry had known exactly what he was getting into, and he’d done it anyway. 

Days passed. The candle wick in Harry’s room remained cold, Draco’s fleeting glances from across the Great Hall even colder. Harry didn’t know how to feel. He was simultaneously scared Draco would reach out and hurt that he hadn’t yet. Logically, he knew that it was only a matter of time before they killed whatever had grown between them. The rose-tinted glass, which had obscured them from each other, was now shattered, revealing the bare truth: he and Draco Malfoy could never work out. It had been ludicrous from the beginning, and Harry should have known better than to mess around with someone who had only ever been cruel.

But as his anger waned, a cold pain settled in Harry’s chest. The kind of pain that kept him up at night, wishing into the darkness that things were different. His mind replayed the last time Draco kissed him — a fleeting thing while hidden behind a suit of armor, stolen in passing expecting another would come later.

He watched Draco; he couldn’t help it. In the Great Hall, he ate with Pansy Parkinson, whose greedy hands were always on him like he was an accessory she liked showing off. In the library, he and Theodore Nott sat across from one another, whispering too low for Harry to eavesdrop. In the corridors, he laughed with Crabbe and Goyle, like absolutely nothing in his life had shifted. Harry wondered if The Prophet was right after all — maybe he had gone barmy. 

“Hi, Harry!” 

Harry nearly tripped over his feet, pulled out of his stupor by Cho’s cheerful greeting. He smiled awkwardly at the girl as she passed him in the hall. She smiled back, amused by his clumsiness. She gave a little wave and continued walking, though she glanced back over her shoulder, smiling again when she saw Harry was still looking.

“So everything’s all right with you two then?” Ron asked.

“Huh?”

“Mate, you’ve been in such a strop,” Ron complained. “I assumed you’d had a fight, but it looks like she still likes you.”

“Yeah…” Harry mumbled, watching her go.

Why couldn’t he like someone like her? Someone nice and normal, with a functioning moral compass. Someone who he wouldn’t have to hide from his friends, who would be on his side without question. Who didn’t leave his heart bruised and yearning for things that would never happen. 

It was always going to end like this, Harry reminded himself. The next time he passed Malfoy, he kept his head down.