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Harry’s not quite sure when it happened.
He tosses back the dregs of a spiked cider, cool now from the autumn air, and summons another from the basket Hermione and Theo brought to the beach. Hermione and Theo. He cuts his eyes to the pair, sitting across the bonfire. Theo watches Hermione talk and laugh with her fellow Mediwizards-in-training, his smile goofy, his adoration undisguised.
In the crowd huddled by the fire leaping out of an oil drum, Ron and Pansy aim flirtatious barbs and playful arm punches. Harry rolls his eyes and catches sight of Ginny, Luna and Blaise seated nearby on a large piece of driftwood, pouring whiskey into their cider, holding court with a group of 7th years.
One by one, the Slytherins had infiltrated Harry’s life post-war. Theo, Pansy, Blaise… Harry allows himself a quick peek at the Slytherin he most wants to see, the one occupying his thoughts. Malfoy moves through the crowd alone — tall, lanky, awkward. Gorgeous. He catches Harry staring. Harry’s stomach swoops, and he looks quickly away.
Harry’s not quite sure how it happened.
It had been impossible to avoid Malfoy that post-war summer. They were often assigned to restore the same parts of Hogwarts, and worked alone in close proximity. Malfoy kept his head down and worked hard. He was, in fact, quite skilled with complex restoration charms. He would get this look about him, fierce and focused and glowing from the sweat of his exertion, and Harry would become an absolute flustered idiot, all awkward limbs and twitchy brain.
Twitterpated, Luna called it.
Harry sips his cider and peers over his cup, searching for white blonde hair. He scans the crowd again, seeking out long fringe and an undercut painted golden by the bonfire’s glow.
“Are you looking for someone?” Draco asks, stepping up next to Harry from behind.
“No,” Harry lies. Draco’s wearing a fucking jean jacket over his hoodie. The collar crowds the hood up around his ears, half covering the beauty mark exposed in the shorn hair at the base of his skull. Harry often wonders what it would feel like on his tongue, short hair tickling his lips.
Draco presses his mouth closed and nods his head. “I like this,” he offers. “The beach. The bonfire.”
“Yes,” Harry says, nodding like a buffoon. “I like the cider.” He cringes and drops his hand to his side, shaking out the embarrassment prickling his fingertips. His knuckles brush against Draco’s, and tingles erupt on the backs of his knees.
Draco drags his pinky gently against Harry’s — tentatively, questioningly. The tingle in Harry’s knees spreads up his legs. He stretches his finger to slide between Draco’s, and Draco hooks it with his own. His skin is cold and dry, and the bonfire crackles.
“I like the cider, too.” Draco reaches across and plucks Harry’s drink out of his hand, taking a long swig.
Harry drops his gaze to Draco’s slender feet in Old Skool checkerboard Vans. Draco has colored in the white squares with the red, green, blue, and yellow of Hogwarts. He had let Harry color in the red ones.
Draco shifts his hand to press his palm against Harry’s, curling his fingers to scratch the tops of his nails down Harry’s skin. Heat shunts down Harry's spine as sparks rise from the fire, ascending into the darkening sky. Harry’s heart soars with them.
“I lied,” he confesses on an exhale. “I was looking for you.”
He laces his fingers with Draco’s, stealing a glance at his profile. A small smile graces Draco’s lips, and a blush blooms where his sharp jaw meets his ear.
Harry's not sure when, how, or why it happened.
But for the first time in his life, his path forward has no predetermined destination, no evil to conquer, no sacrifice to offer. He’s toeing the precipice of his future, ready to leap into the great unknown, buoyed by hope and a sizable amount of fear.
He tightens his grip on Draco’s hand.
And he won’t be leaping alone.