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Harry sighs.
Since the the beginning of term, he and Malfoy have been back to their usual and ridiculous antics. It’s just about the only thing that hasn’t changed at Hogwarts during his eighth and final year. There’s almost a familiarity to their once hostile shenanigans that brings Harry a strange and inexplicable sort of comfort that he can’t find the words to describe.
He never would’ve thought that Malfoy being his obnoxious self would make him feel so satisfied, but here Harry is, sitting in Transfiguration with his arm stinging from a hex Malfoy threw at him while McGonagall’s back was turned, and a grin threatening to make its way onto his face.
Of course, over the summer he did meet with Malfoy at the Ministry. It was all very official. They shook hands and offered apologies, although Harry doesn’t exactly understand what he had to apologize for - he saved Malfoy’s arse, didn’t he? He did, however, offer Malfoy a much more genuine thanks for his actions in the Manor that prevented Voldemort from showing up and killing Harry. It was a rather decent thing to do, and Harry realizes this and is grateful for it.
As soon as they returned to Hogwarts in September, Malfoy wasted no time in showing Harry that just because they exchanged pleasantries under the watchful eye of Ministry officials doesn’t mean they are all of a sudden going to be the best of chums. Obviously, Harry didn’t expect them to be suddenly friends, but he certainly didn’t expect Malfoy to be so openly antagonistic towards the Saviour, as the wizarding world has taken to calling him.
It’s refreshing and relieving. He never would’ve expected Malfoy to treat him like a celebrity like the majority of his other peers continue to do, but he was certainly shocked when, on the Hogwarts Express, Malfoy shoved into Harry’s compartment where he was sitting with Ron and Hermione, and tossed in a dungbomb.
“Have a nice ride, Potter and company,” Malfoy hollered, snickering as he darted away from the compartment, pulling the door shut behind him. Shouting and choking on the stench, the trio grabbed their bags, exiting the compartment as quickly as they could and closing the sliding door to trap the smell. Harry had been furious to find that all of the other compartments had been filled, leaving them to wander the hall in search of somewhere to sit that wouldn’t lead to them being requested to sign a thousand autographs.
Eventually, at the end of the train, they found Malfoy sitting with Neville, Luna, Parkinson, and Zabini, peacefully playing a game of wizard’s chess. Harry just about broke the sliding door when he yanked it open, shoving his way into the compartment in a similar fashion to what Malfoy had done ten minutes prior, and sat down so close to Malfoy that their thighs were touching.
“How nice of you to join us,” Malfoy said, looking terrible pleased with himself. Harry had spent the rest of the ride with an uncomfortable mixture of fury and something unnameable churning in his stomach.
The pranks had only continued from there. Harry once transfigured Malfoy’s wand into a garden snake, and in turn Malfoy charmed a dozen singing roses to float around Harry during all of his lessons that afternoon. Harry skillfully snuck a spoonful of salt into Malfoy’s morning oatmeal, which resulted in said oatmeal being cast across the Great Hall at his head. Flitwick had scolded them both, but Harry thinks he was secretly impressed at the accuracy of Malfoy’s levitation charm.
Harry can’t count the amount of times they’ve thrown jinxes at each other in the hallways or on the quidditch pitch. One drizzly day in October, they had simultaneously fired a Broom Jinx at each other during a match, which caused them both to tumble off of their broomsticks. He would’ve been a lot angrier at Malfoy if they both weren’t covered in mud, slipping and crashing into each other in hysterics in their desperate attempts to mount their brooms and rejoin the match. Of course, he caught the snitch in the end, so it was all worth it, despite the joint detention McGonagall served them with.
Which leaves him here, two weeks into November and somehow a mild stinging hex from Malfoy is enough to get him smiling. He hides his mouth behind his hand. Malfoy will think he’s an absolute nutter for grinning like this after being hexed, which he supposes isn’t too far from the truth. He’s felt unseated since being back in the old castle. Since spending the last year hiding from a megalomaniac trying to murder him and take over the world, it doesn’t seem right to be back in lessons, following the childish rules set out for him by professors and having to set a good example for the younger students who look up to him as a hero. It makes him feel sick.
Besides Ron and Hermione, and a select few Gryffindors, Malfoy is the only one who still treats Harry the same. Even the professors aren’t as hard on him as they used to be - McGonagall, for all her no nonsense rules, is rather careful in her private interactions with Harry, as though he’s suddenly made of glass. Malfoy, though, taunts and pranks and laughs at Harry’s expense on a daily basis. It shouldn’t make Harry glad, but it does.
He’s not actually angry when he spins around in his seat and fires a silent Jelly-Legs jinx at Malfoy without looking to see where McGonagall was. Malfoy’s face promptly falls as his legs collapse and he slides onto the floor in an unceremonious heap. Harry laughs, and Malfoy hisses “Flipendo!” causing Harry to topple over onto the floor as well.
“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall snaps. “Mr. Malfoy. What, exactly, do you think you’re doing? You are interrupting my lesson, not to mention breaking several school rules.” Her face is tight, and there’s no mistaking the disappointment in her eyes.
“Er,” Harry stutters. His eyes dart sideways to Malfoy. They’re both still on the floor, and part of Malfoy’s body is blocked from Harry’s view by the legs of the desk and their stools that separate them from each other. McGonagall towers over them, awaiting a response while the rest of the class remains deathly quiet. One does not interrupt Minerva McGonagall’s lesson and expect to get away scot-free.
“Care to elaborate, either of you?” She says, her foot tapping impatiently.
“He started it,” Harry blurts, flushing when he realizes how immature he must sound. He knows McGonagall isn’t impressed with his response.
“Oh, honestly, Potter,” Malfoy drawls. “I wouldn’t have cast it if you didn’t steal my favourite quill.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry lies.
“Accio Draco’s quill,” Malfoy says. The pocket of Harry’s robe immediately begins twitching, and within seconds the handsome emerald quill is flying towards Malfoy’s outstretched hand.
“Potter,” McGonagall growls.
“Well, alright, so I lied about the quill,” Harry tries to amend. “I only took that because he keeps drawing me getting attacked by Hippogriffs.”
“And who spilled his ink all over my Potions essay?” Malfoy counters, raising an eyebrow at Harry in challenge. They both still lay sprawled out on the cold stone floor.
“That was an accident,” Harry insists, and he is telling the truth this time. They had both been in the library after supper last week, and the last rays of sunlight were floating through the old windows and filtering in softly through the dusty library air. Malfoy was sitting at a table directly below one of the ceiling windows, and the golden rays shone down on his hair and made it gleam in a way that Harry hadn’t noticed before. Even Malfoy’s eyelashes were illuminated by the light as they fluttered closed in a blink. Although Harry won’t ever admit it, in his distraction he had tripped over a chair that hadn’t been pushed in, and his inkwell had gone flying, landing with a smash atop Malfoy’s scroll. Malfoy had been furious, of course, and Harry was left stammering for any excuse that didn’t include him being enraptured by the sight of Malfoy bathed in sunlight.
“Of course it was. The great Harry Potter would never do something so awful on purpose, would he?” Malfoy simpers mockingly.
“You know what, Malfoy? Why don’t you go and f-”
“That is enough!” McGonagall roars. “Enough. This is unacceptable behaviour, and I expect more from the pair of you.”
Harry lowers his head, embarrassed and angry at Malfoy for starting something during the lesson in the first place. “Sorry, Professor,” he says quietly.
“Sorry,” Malfoy echoes, sounding more sincere than Harry expected him to be.
“Unfortunately, that’s not going to cut it. I expect you both to wait to speak with me after class to discuss your punishment. And for Merlin’s sake, get up.”
_____
Harry should’ve expected their punishment to be something like this. He bades a grim farewell to Hermione and Ron, who merely roll their eyes at him as he exits the Gryffindor common room. He and Malfoy are to patrol the corridors, acting as stand-in prefects to give some of the actual prefects a well deserved night off. Ron and Hermione are happy about it, of course. They reclaimed their roles as prefects when the term started, stating it was an easy way to set a good example for younger students without having to actually spend any time dealing with their expressions of admiration and foolish questions.
Malfoy declined the offer to resume his position as a prefect, and Harry understands why - it’s terribly boring work. He half suspects that one of the reasons that Ron and Hermione said yes was so that they could snog in secluded corridors while no other students were roaming the halls. He’s supposed to meet Malfoy at the entrance to McGonagall’s office at ten o’clock so they can begin their patrol.
To Harry’s dismay, because Malfoy has previous experience with being a prefect, McGonagall orders that Harry listen to Malfoy’s directions as they fulfilled their detention, and to “Try and behave yourselves, for once.”
“Hear that, Potter?” Malfoy says as the descend down the spiral staircase to begin their patrol. “I’m in charge.”
“You’re not in charge,” Harry argues. “All she said was that you know the route and that I should follow you.”
“Exactly. Which, if you read between the lines, you’ll find means that you’re to do what I say,” Malfoy says.
Harry snorts. “So egoistic.”
“I’m surprised you know that word. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be, seeing as it’s been used to describe you by so many articles in the Prophet.”
“Are you really sinking so low as to use the Prophet as the voice of reason?” Harry scoffs as they round the corner to another hallway. It’s dim, with only the lights from their wands and the distant glow of a candle to brighten the way.
Malfoy doesn’t grace him with a response, he only lengthens his stride, causing Harry to rush to keep up with him.
“Any reason why we’re basically jogging down the hallway? You know this won’t make the night go any faster,” Harry points out.
“Oh, shut it, will you? I heard something,” Malfoy whispers, thrusting out a hand to hold Harry back from advancing. His fingers span across Harry’s stomach, warmth leaching into his skin through his robes. Harry grabs at Malfoy’s arm to steady himself. His heart thuds in his ears - despite all of their scuffling and tussling throughout the years, they’ve never touched like this before. It’s not a punch, or a slap, or the forced handshake at the Ministry. It’s not like the heat of Malfoy at his back when they escaped from the Room of Requirement. This is automatic, knee-jerk and sudden, and comfortable. He hears Malfoy breathing heavily next to him, and he strains his ears to try and listen for whatever noise that made Malfoy stop moving like this.
After a minute of intense silence, Mrs. Norris saunters out of the doorway ahead of them. She opens her mouth to meow for Filch, but her yellow eyes flash over their temporary prefect badges, and she ambles away without a further sound.
“You were scared of a cat,” Harry whispers moments later, biting back a smirk. Malfoy rounds on him, and Harry is just now realizing exactly how closely they’ve been standing. He could count the sandy freckles that dust Malfoy’s cheeks if he wanted to - which he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t step back, or join Malfoy’s freckles up like they’re constellations spanning across his face, or punch Malfoy in the gut and run away - he just stands there, and waits.
“I was not scared, Potter,” he snaps. “I’m doing our job, we aren’t just supposed to wander around all night, we have to actually do the job for the detention to count.”
“Well, obviously,” Harry says, furrowing his brow. “I didn’t say we didn’t.”
“Besides, you’re the one still holding onto my arm like a scared child,” Malfoy says, but makes no move to shove Harry off of him. Harry hadn’t realized he was still touching Malfoy’s arm. His fingers are bunching the heavy fabric of Malfoy’s robe between them from where his palm circles Malfoy’s bicep in a tight grip. He doesn’t want to let go, and as soon as he realizes this, he rips his hand away rapidly.
“Whatever,” he says and begins to walk down the hallway again. “Are you coming, or what?” he turns and says when he doesn’t hear Malfoy following him. Malfoy is standing where Harry left him, eyes unfocused and legs unmoving. “Malfoy?” Harry prompts.
Malfoy snaps out of whatever weird trance he was in, and catches up to Harry, his face unreadable. “Let’s get this over with, Potter.”
_____
After that detention, things cooled down between them for a few weeks.
December brought colourful baubles lining the halls and a light dusting of cotton white snow across the expansive grounds. Harry likes watching the footprints of his classmates create well-worn paths across the courtyard, likes the way the Whomping Willow shakes piles of snow from it’s mighty branches and spews it in all directions like an impromptu snowstorm. He wonders what it would be like to stand underneath it while it happens, but he figures he’d probably get clobbered over the head first, which would make the whole thing a lot less magical.
December, as always, is a time that never fails to make him slightly emotional, although he loathes to admit it. This time last year, he, Ron, and Hermione had been traipsing around the Forest of Dean, searching for Horcruxes and almost going mad in their solitude. Harry had finally gotten to visit Godric’s Hollow, and see for himself the dilapidated remains of the childhood home and a life he can’t even remember.
Just about midway through the month, he finds himself staring out the window next to his four-poster bed while the rest of his dormitory snoozes away, save for Ron, who’s on prefect duty tonight. It’s late, but the brightness of the snow makes it easier to see through the darkness of the night. There’s a star, twinkling far above the tops of the Forbidden Forest, that Harry focuses on as he’s lost in thought. All of a sudden, Harry spies movement on the grounds. Someone is walking the well worn path towards Hagrid’s hut. They’re wearing a thick winter cloak, and Harry can’t make out their face in the dark, but he’d recognize that strut anywhere. Just to be sure, he fishes the Marauder's Map out from under his pillow, using a hastily cast Lumos to confirm that the cloaked figure is none other than Draco Malfoy.
Within moments, Harry slips on his sneakers, grabs a jumper of his own, and sneaks out of the Gryffindor common room. He takes the map with him, just incase Malfoy sneaks off somewhere else. The castle is deserted at this hour, and the only people around are a handful of prefects roaming the halls. Using the map, it’s no problem for Harry to avoid confrontation on his way out of the castle and onto the quiet grounds.
It’s colder than expected, and Harry shivers when the cold wind blows over his face. He casts a quick warming charm, which isn’t enough to keep the cold out completely, but it does enough that he’s no longer shivering in just his pyjama bottoms and the jumper that Mrs. Weasley gave him before he boarded the Hogwarts Express in September. He looks at the map again, only to find that Malfoy has veered off path. He isn’t headed towards Hagrid’s hut, which is just about what Harry had expected. Instead, he seems to be at a standstill near the edge of the forest.
Harry feels like he’s been transported back to sixth year again - obsessing over Malfoy’s whereabouts, uncaring of the consequences. He continues down the path, snow soaking into the fabric of his sneakers, dampening his socks unpleasantly.
He’s almost to the treeline, when Malfoy spins around and seems to spot him. This close, Harry can see the outrage on his stupid face.
“What are you doing?” Malfoy hisses, stomping towards Harry angrily. He whips his wand out of his robes. “Here to attack me while McGonagall can’t see you? Is that it?”
“What? Er, no,” Harry insists, freezing in place, too surprised to draw his own wand. He hopes Malfoy doesn’t hex him - then it really would be like they were back in sixth year. “I just noticed you were out here,” he says.
Malfoy’s face does a funny thing as it flashes through a few different emotions. Confusion, annoyance, and something that’s not quite hatred, but that Harry can’t put a name on. “You just noticed?” Malfoy questions disbelievingly, but he lowers his wand and Harry lets out a sigh of relief.
“I was looking out the window,” says Harry in explanation. “And you were there, and I was curious.” He stands defensively, crossing his arms and trying to shove the map into his pocket inconspicuously. He doesn’t want Malfoy to know about it, he’d probably steal it if he did.
“I don’t believe you, but fine,” Malfoy sighs. He turns around and walks back to the tree stump he had been sitting on before Harry arrived. “So, can you go now? Or have you come down here to save me from some monster, so you can get another article about your heroism in the papers tomorrow? It’s been, what, nearly three days since they’ve written about you, you know.”
“Shove off, Malfoy,” says Harry, a laugh bubbling in his throat. It’s been four days, actually, and Harry’s hoping he’ll make it to a week, this time around.
Malfoy’s lip quirks, much to Harry’s surprise.
“So,” Harry says, emboldened by the fact that he hasn’t been hexed yet. “What are you doing down here, anyways?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Malfoy responds, looking away.
“No, I guess not,” Harry agrees. He steps forward, lowering himself onto the stump alongside Malfoy. It’s surprisingly dry and warm, and he turns to Malfoy in askance.
“Heating charm,” he explains. “I’m rather good at them.”
“I can tell,” Harry says, and Malfoy looks surprised by Harry’s acknowledgement.
“Harry Potter approves of my spellwork. I’m flattered, I must write about this in my next letter to my mother, she’ll be so happy -”
“Oh, fuck off,” Harry says good naturedly, shoving into Malfoy with his shoulder. Malfoy just shoves him back, and they do that back and forth a few more times before they settle down. An owl hoots from the depths of the forest, and Harry looks up in time to see the bird spread its wings and soar away into the night. He lowers his gaze and looks across at Malfoy, who is still watching the owl’s silhouette against the stars. Their shimmering lights reflect in his eyes, and his mouth is parted slightly, his lips pink and chapped. Harry wonders abstractedly what they’d feel like against his own.
Eventually, the owl disappears and Malfoy turns to meet his gaze. He pauses momentarily before opening his mouth to speak.
“If you must know, Potter, I came out here because I like how peaceful it is under the stars.”
“Oh,” Harry says in surprise. He isn’t sure what else to say, so Malfoy continues on.
“Mother taught me all the constellations the summer before I started Hogwarts. Looking at them reminds me of her,” Malfoy cuts himself off, looking slightly embarrassed at disclosing that to Harry. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that,” he says.
“I won’t,” says Harry, and he means it. He tilts his head, looking back up at the stars. Malfoy does the same, and they sit there in what Harry would almost call a companionable silence until Malfoy stands up and dusts away the snow that had accumulated on his cloak.
“I’m going back inside, now,” he tells Harry simply.
“Alright, I’ll, er, come in with you,” Harry says while rising to his feet.
The walk back to the castle is cold, and quiet, and Harry listens to the crunching of snow under Malfoy’s feet as they trudge back to the front gate and slip inside silently.
They’ve just turned into another hallway when Harry hears muffled voices nearby. Startled, he pulls Malfoy into an alcove partially hidden by a tapestry near a couple of dozing portraits.
“Potter,” Malfoy hisses loudly. “What are you doing?”
The nook is cramped, and they’re standing with their fronts almost pressed up against one another. Harry can barely make out the contours of Malfoy’s face in the dark, but he has a general idea of where his mouth is as he slams his hand over it, silencing him.
“Be quiet,” Harry whispers so quietly that he’s sure Malfoy wouldn’t have been able to hear him if not for the way that his mouth is nearly touching Malfoy’s ear. “I hear voices.”
“Alarming, but that doesn’t surprise me,” Malfoy whispers back just as quietly, after yanking Harry’s fingers away from his mouth. “I always knew you were mad.”
“Fuck. Off. That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Harry mutters. “If we’re caught out of bed after hours, McGonagall’s gonna kill us.”
“She can’t get that mad,” Malfoy says, but his eyes flicker with worry.
“She’ll think we’re fighting in secret, or something,” Harry tells him, before holding up a finger to stop any response. The voices seem to be getting closer, but they’re garbled and dull from the protective stone walls of the alcove where he and Malfoy are hiding.
“It’s probably just prefects,” Malfoy says, but he sounds unsure.
“Yeah, and they’ll report us to her,” Harry insists, struggling to keep his voice quiet while panic swirls in his gut. “We’re supposed to be examples of inter-house unity, or whatever. She’s going to be furious.”
The voices are even closer now, and Harry can tell that they’ve almost reached the hallway that he and Malfoy are in.
“What if we can prove that this is inter-house unity?” Malfoy says hurriedly, a gleam in his eye.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Harry seethes, his heart rate skyrocketing when Malfoy surges forward, his body gently pressing Harry’s into the cold stone behind him. Malfoy’s face looks like it did a couple weeks ago during their detention when he stopped moving in the hallway. Harry doesn’t know what to think, he barely can with Malfoy’s steady weight crowding against him.
The voices raise in volume, and Malfoy whispers, “Kiss me, Potter.”
Before Harry can understand what’s happening, Malfoy’s chapped lips are on his own, surprisingly soft and warm. Harry freezes in shock, but his brain roars to life when Malfoy’s hand cups his jaw, spurring his mouth into action. Kissing Malfoy is nothing like kissing Ginny, or Cho. It’s intense, and scarier, and better. Malfoy’s a good kisser, to Harry’s chagrin, although it’s certainly working in his favour now. Harry keeps his eyes closed and fists his hands in Malfoy’s robes, drawing him closer and sucking on his lower lip. The kiss is heavy, and arousal pools in Harry’s stomach. Malfoy is even closer to him now, his thigh pressing between Harry’s legs, and Harry is warm all over.
The voices are upon them, but Harry can’t bring himself to care. All he can think about is Malfoy’s mouth on his and the way his body feels from where it holds Harry in place. In the back of his mind, he knows that the kiss is their solution to getting in trouble for fighting - no one can misconstrue a kiss for a fight, can they? - but Malfoy is holding him so tenderly that Harry can only focus on the movement of his mouth.
“Alright, break it up,” an all too familiar voice whiddles it’s way into Harry’s consciousness, and he opens his eyes before the tapestry concealing them is peeled back to reveal Ron and Hermione standing there, prefect badges shining under the candlelight. Harry’s lips are still moving against Malfoy’s before his brain catches up to what’s going on and he rips himself away.
Hermione gasps, Ron looks like he’s just witnessed a murder, and Harry turns crimson. He feels the urge to hide his face in Malfoy’s chest, but decides against it as that will probably only make things worse.
“Uh,” Harry says, eyes darting around, trying to avoid making eye contact with everybody. Malfoy’s hand is still hovering over Harry’s neck, and the two of them stare at Ron and Hermione like deer in the headlights. Harry struggles with finding the words to provide any sort of explanation, and Malfoy seems to be in the same boat. Eventually, Malfoy retreats from his position between Harry’s legs and takes the warmth Harry’s been feeling away with him.
“Granger, Weasley,” he nods, schooling his voice to sound composed, but Harry can see the the flush on his cheekbones. Ron and Hermione don’t seem to know what to say, and they move aside to let Malfoy flee the scene, leaving Harry standing alone in the alcove with his two best friends looking at him as though he’s suddenly grown an extra head. He’s embarrassed enough as it is, having just realized that kissing Malfoy is something he wants, without being subjected to a lecture from the people who feel they know what’s best for him.
“Don’t,” Harry warns, holding up a hand when it looks like they’re about to start in on him. He doesn’t owe them or anyone else an explanation.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione breathes, her hand covering her mouth. Ron comes forward and claps him on the shoulder, squeezing briefly before letting go. Harry lets them follow him back to the Gryffindor common room. He’s afraid to look at their faces and see what they’re thinking. Harry had completely forgotten that they were on prefect duty tonight, and his and Malfoy’s spur of the moment plan had backfired tremendously.
He can feel the curious looks Ron and Hermione are shooting in his direction, but he’s not even sure how to answer their unvoiced questions. He could say that he and Malfoy only did it so they wouldn’t be framed for fighting and get expelled, which is partially true, but Harry saw the way Malfoy’s eyes looked the second before their lips met, and he knows the way his own body responded to the kiss.
Besides, who suggests kissing their enemy as the only and best solution to a problem? A few years ago, he would’ve shoved Malfoy away without a thought, but tonight he found himself kissing Malfoy with a foreign buzzing of excitement thrumming inside of him. The idea of kissing Malfoy would’ve been laughable to his past self, let alone to Malfoy, who would’ve never suggested such a thing before. This year, though, through the escalation of their pranks, the shared looks across crowded classrooms, and the silly but harmless teasing, Harry had felt a fondness for Malfoy developing in his heart that he refused to acknowledge, until tonight.
It’s not something he expects Ron or Hermione to understand. Despite it being Harry who’s been most affected by Malfoy’s wrongdoings in the past, he’s always been quicker to forgive than they have. He mutters the password to the Fat Lady, and lets the entrance swing shut behind him without a glance back in his friends’ direction.
He lays awake on his bed, thinking of the way Malfoy’s body felt, the touch of his hand, and the way his lips moved against Harry’s. His mind swims with confusion as he recalls the night’s events. Unconsciously, he brings a hand up and touches his lips gently. Just then, the door to to dormitory swings open and Ron walks in, treading quietly so as to not wake anyone. He glances over at Harry, who has closed his eyes and is feigning sleep. He’s not in the mood to answer questions he has no answers to.
_____
Entering the Great Hall the following morning, Harry is nervous. He hasn’t said anything to Ron or Hermione about the kiss, and he certainly hasn’t had the time to say anything to Malfoy, which is all he really wants to do, but he isn’t sure he knows what to say.
Malfoy is already seated at the Slytherin table, a spoon dangling from his slim fingers when Harry walks into the hall. He tries not to stare as he makes his way to the Gryffindor table. He finds a seat across from Neville, who smiles at him welcomingly.
“Morning, Harry,” he says with a smile. He’s got a pile of books on the table next to him, along with a tiny cactus that is seemingly turning from green to blue in curious splotches. Harry’s learned not to comment on the peculiar plants Neville carries with him if he doesn’t want to be dragged into an hour long conversation about them, so he merely nods and takes a bite of the toast that’s materialized on the plate in front of him. From where he’s sitting, he can’t see Malfoy, which he supposes is probably for the best.
Ron and Hermione join him a few minutes later, engaging him in a conversation about Charms and treacle tarts - safe topics, Harry thinks to himself.
The morning rush of owls sweep into the hall, carrying with them letters and parcels, dropping them on the laps of the intended recipients. Harry hasn’t bought an owl since Hedwig, preferring to use the school owls from the owlery instead. He’s surprised when an unfamiliar looking owl drops a letter onto the table in front of him, not pausing for a scratch or waiting for a response, it seems.
Surprised, Harry thumbs open the envelope, leaning protectively over the letter when he recognizes the familiar handwriting.
After Transfiguration, meet me outside - the place from last night.
That’s all it said, but Harry knew who it was from and where it meant. He folds the letter up hastily, shrugging at Ron and Hermione, who are looking at him curiously.
“It’s nothing, just Hagrid,” he lies.
He can’t tell whether or not they believe him, but they don’t press for any more information, so Harry counts it as a success. As he stands up to leave the Great Hall and head towards his first class of the day, he makes eye contact with Malfoy, who nods at him before turning away. Harry heads to Charms with a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth.
_____
Transfiguration seems to drag on for even longer with usual, and the promise of seeing Malfoy makes Harry antsy. It’s a warm day, at least, so Harry won’t be freezing his arse off like he did yesterday.
McGonagall seems to notice that he’s distracted, but doesn’t say anything about it. He guesses she’s just glad that he and Malfoy are no longer attacking one another while she’s trying to teach.
He doesn’t have to worry about making an excuse to Ron and Hermione about where he’s going. Ron has plans to help Seamus with his Defense homework, and Hermione has her Advanced Wizard and Muggle Relations class, so they both head off on their own, leaving Harry to his own devices.
Malfoy must’ve left the classroom awfully quickly, because Harry doesn’t even see him on his way down to the treeline. The warmth of the sun on his cheeks is welcomed in contrast to the bite of the cold air, and Harry puffs out a breath and rubs his hands together as he jogs down the path.
Malfoy is already there, waiting with his back leaning against the bark of a tall evergreen. He looks up when he hears Harry coming closer, and he pushes himself away from tree trunk so that he’s standing up straight.
“Malfoy,” Harry says in greeting. He’s not sure what to expect of this meeting, if he’s honest. Is Malfoy going to tell him to keep his mouth shut about the kiss? Maybe he thinks Harry is going to tell people.
“Potter,” Malfoy says. “About last night …”
“Er, yeah?” Harry replies. He feels his heart lurch in his chest. He’s not ready for Malfoy to tell him to forget about the kiss - he aches for more, but he doesn’t know how to tell him.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Malfoy says. His face is flushed again, and Harry thinks it looks rather good on him. “I didn’t give you a chance to suggest anything else, it was stupid.”
“I mean, yeah, it was pretty stupid,” Harry agrees. There are a thousand other solutions they could have came up with, but he’s not complaining.
“Like I said, I’m sorry,” Malfoy says with embarrassment.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” says Harry, stepping closer to Malfoy.
“I rather think I do, actually, Potter,” Malfoy brushes him off. “Just because I wanted to, doesn’t mean-”
“Wait,” Harry interrupts, hope blossoming in his chest. “You wanted to kiss me?”
“I thought that was quite obvious, seeing as how I suggested it and all,” Malfoy bristles. “There’s no need to goad.”
“I’m not goading,” Harry protests. “I’m just surprised. You really wanted to?”
“Yes, alright? Merlin, I shouldn’t be feeding your ego like this,” says Malfoy. He pushes forward, trying to get past Harry to return to the castle.
“I’m not trying to get you to say it to, to feed my ego, for fuck’s sake,” Harry blocks his path. “It’s just, I had hoped …” he trails off, not sure how to articulate what he had hoped.
“Cat got your tongue, Potter? Spit it out, would you?” Malfoy says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robe. Harry doesn’t miss the way they shake.
“I hoped that you did,” he admits. “Because I wanted to, too.”
“Now you’re really taking the piss. Fuck off,” Malfoy rolls his eyes.
“You are insufferable, has anyone ever told you that? I’m sure I have, a couple times at least,” Harry stops Malfoy from running off again. “But apparently despite that, I like you anyways.”
“You like me?” Malfoy repeats, frozen to the spot.
“Yeah, I’ve said it twice now, has it gotten through your thick head yet?”
“I don’t think it has,” Malfoy mutters, looking around in incredulity as if at any moment Luna will dawdle out of the forest and declare that wrackspurts have meddled with his brain.
“Well,” Harry says, stepping forward bravely despite the way his throat feels numb with nerves. He keeps moving forward, and Malfoy is rooted to the spot, his hair blowing in the breeze, his lips parted in disbelief. He only stops when they’re standing toe to toe, their chests rising and falling in unison as they breathe heavily. “I want to kiss you,” Harry whispers, his voice masked by a sudden howl of wind.
“What?” Malfoy says. “I couldn’t hear what you said.”
“I said,” Harry starts, working up the courage to say it again - once was scary enough. “That I want to-” Another gust of wind rips past them.
“What?” Malfoy says again.
“For Merlin’s sake,” Harry groans, before surging forward and capturing Malfoy’s lips with his own. The kiss doesn’t last as long as the one they shared in the alcove the night before, and it’s much more chaste in comparison, but Harry’s heart soars at the gentle touch. He detaches himself, giving Malfoy a chance to catch up.
“Oh,” Malfoy says. They’re still standing close, and Harry is mesmerized by the swirls of emotion in Maloy’s grey eyes. He’s even more handsome up close.
“Yeah,” Harry replies, a grin forming on his face. He’s sure he’s blushing, he can feel it, but so is Malfoy, which in and of itself is a reaction that Harry is pleased to have caused.
They stand there, gazing at each other, until Malfoy speaks.
“What do you think McGonagall is going to think about this?” he asks mirthfully.
Harry chokes on his laughter.
“As long as we keep it out of her classroom, I don’t think she’ll have any complaints.”
Harry certainly doesn’t have any.