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Spell
(Spell – Blue Magic)
Harry keeps having the strangest dreams.
He doesn’t always remember them, but when he does, he cringes. Because Draco Malfoy is there, when he definitely shouldn’t be. But no, there’s Malfoy. Right there. Dining next to him in the Great Hall, sitting right next to Harry at the Eighth-Year table – nearly in his lap, he’s so close.
There’s Malfoy, Giving Harry a look he really shouldn’t be, sat in front of each other, hand on Harry’s arm, on the shore of the Black Lake.
There’s Malfoy, on the back of Harry’s broom, only it’s not a nightmare in the Room of Requirement, rather, the most pleasant of days, just the two of them on the quidditch pitch. What is that about?
Harry isn’t really sure he even understands why he’s dreaming of Malfoy. It doesn’t make sense that he sees him in his dreams, in all of these situations, some compromising, even. It’s not as if he’s interested in Malfoy in that way. He isn’t even sure he’s interested in blokes like that… Though… Now that he thinks back, he wonders if that might’ve explained his… ogling… of Oliver, in prior years.
And Cedric.
And Charlie, once.
Well, he’d think on that later.
What was more important was the fact that Malfoy had somehow wormed his way into Harry’s dreams. He wasn’t sure how, yet, but he was going to find out. They’re mostly innocuous, so it’s not the worst, he guesses.
ł ł ł
Harry keeps getting tongue tied. But the thing is – it almost seems like it’s only when Malfoy is around. But that couldn’t be right.
Harry thinks back to morning, at breakfast. Malfoy had just passed by, on the way to the opposite end of the table. Harry had asked Hermione to pass him a rasher of juice. He’d meant to say the juice and a rasher of bacon, but it hadn’t come out right. She’d looked at him and patted his shoulder, saying he should work on getting more sleep. He rather thought he would get more sleep if Malfoy would quit invading his dreams.
He thinks back to the time he’d been speaking to Hermione in the common room, and accidentally caught Draco’s eye as he approached, angling for the door, only for Harry to blurt out in response, “That’s terristic!” That earned him a few laughs, to his embarrassment. He groaned aloud at the memory.
He thinks back to all the times the words to some inane conversation would die in his throat whenever he passed Malfoy in the halls. Or whenever Malfoy entered a classroom. Or the eighth-year common room. Anywhere, really. Harry’s tongue apparently wasn’t fussy about where it would fail, only when.
He leaves his thoughts behind and returns to the present, where, in response to Slughorn’s question about whether Harry could give him one of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, he’s just said it could be used as a “cure for oven.”
He’d only halfway been paying attention, because he’d been staring at Malfoy again.
Classmates still sniggering at his answer, Harry sighs. He doesn’t notice that Malfoy isn’t laughing and is actually quite subdued.
He leaves Potions in a daze, and heads back to the common room. He sits for a while, lost in his thoughts, and doesn’t notice when Zabini and Parkinson come in. Parkinson is droning on in a tone that bars Harry from even considering eavesdropping, but he takes a moment to appraise Zabini’s face. He’s got a narrow one, but high cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and a faint yet even dusting of hair about his jawline. Harry’s eyes drift downward to take in his neck, and chest, through his open robes, displaying an elegant shirt – Harry would call it a button up if it had buttons instead of a simply lacing up at the top, like a medieval tunic, or something – that wasn’t too form fitting but still gave Harry a bit of an idea of what lie underneath. He turned to follow Pansy to a corner where two armchairs sat, and Harry was provided with a glimpse of his backside.
All right, Zabini was definitely attractive. Harry could admit that. He wasn’t sure he’d ever fully considered it before, but he wouldn’t say no to seeing what was underneath. Shame he doesn’t play quidditch, he thought offhandedly.
Concerned at that line of thought – Merlin, it was Zabini – and, fearing he’d be caught ogling, Harry cast his eyes about the room. They landed on Neville.
Against his better judgment – Neville was his mate, after all – Harry took in Neville’s seated form from top to bottom – first, he noticed the crease in his brow, but then his eyes traveled downward to Neville’s deep, brown eyes, focused in concentration on a book. His eyes travelled lower to Neville’s lips – they were full, and as Harry watched, Neville drew his bottom lip in with his teeth as his brow creased further. Harry suddenly felt hot. His eyes travelled down to Neville’s chest – when exactly had he gotten so broad and muscular, and what was it doing to Harry – Harry looked away quickly, which was just as well, as Hannah Abbot was quickly approaching.
His eyes fell on Michael Corner. There was a bit of an odd history there he supposed – seeing as they’d had the same girlfriend, once. He could acknowledge that Corner was attractive, but as his eyes roved over Corner’s face, and form, nothing stood out to him. He guessed Corner didn’t really do anything for him.
Malfoy chose to stride into the common room at that moment with Theodore Nott. Harry tried to observe Nott, but his eyes couldn’t help but stray to Malfoy. Harry’s breath caught in his throat, he felt hot, and he couldn’t stop staring at Malfoy’s lips. He lifted his hand to run his fingers through his hair, and noticed his hand shook a bit. He looked away, hoping he hadn’t been caught staring, and tried to subtly catch his breath that had so suddenly left him at the sight of Malfoy. The effects of his shameless ogling of Neville were tripled nearly at the sight of Malfoy.
Well. That’s settled. Hermione probably already knew, even.
ł ł ł
Harry swears he’s been potioned.
It’s the only logical explanation, really.
It’s the only way he could explain all of this – His eyes lingering on the back of Malfoy’s neck in the Potions classroom – he’d thought about moving many times so he could no longer take advantage of the view his seat – Malfoy, graceful neck arched to peer down over the roots he was cutting, unassuming stance as he stood to bend over his potion, long, thin fingers clasped around an ostentatious quill as he scribbled a note into his potions book (not that Malfoys scribbled.)
Definitely a potion. He was sure he wouldn’t notice things like that if he weren’t under the influence of some potion.
Nevermind that Hermione swears Malfoy’s up to absolutely nothing. Just trying to get his NEWTs, like the rest of them… And something about a future Potions mastery… Well. A likely story, Harry thinks.
He makes up his mind to go to Hermione. He finds her after lunch in the library.
“Hermione… I need a favor.” He says in a rush, peering around the stacks to make sure he isn’t overheard.
“Anything, Harry!” She responds automatically, though narrows her eyes as though she’s regretting such an open offer.
“I think – I think I’ve been slipped a love potion.” He gets out. Hermione rolls her eyes and sticks a quill between the pages of her open book, nearly slamming it shut.
“Harry, don’t be absurd! If you’d been slipped a love potion, you’d know. You’d be right uncontrollable by now, Merlin knows what you’d be-”
“Well I’ve been slipped – something!” He cries in frustration. “Isn’t there a potion or spell or something, that could clear my system?”
“Yes of course, there’s the Purging Potion, Madam Pomfrey always has-”
“I can’t go to Madam Pomfrey! Half the potions she’s got, he’s made with Slughorn!” He nearly shouts, interrupting her. Her eyebrows raise, her lips purse.
“This is about Draco again?” She looks like she’s trying quite hard not to roll her eyes.
“Yes,” he grinds out, tone going quite nasty, “About Draco. Look, maybe it’s silly, but I don’t trust what she’s got stored up. But you, I trust you… Could you…”
“Yes, well, if you’d ask a bit more nicely and stop shouting, I’d be glad to make it for you if you’re so insistent. It’s not that difficult a potion, and all of the ingredients will be in the student stores.”
Harry sighs and rubs his forehead. “Hermione, would you help me make a purging potion?”
And this is how Harry winds up in Hermione’s shared room with Millicent Bulstrode, windows open wide as they’ll go, avoiding the Potions lab in deference to Harry’s paranoia.
ł ł ł
It’s not a potion – Hermione’s immaculate Purging Potion seems to have no effect on his… Feelings, and she’s cross with him for questioning if there was anything wrong with it – but he knew there wasn’t, really. Just didn’t want to admit it to himself, but – he stops that thought in its tracks.
Whatever it is, seems to be getting worse. Not only has Malfoy invaded his dreams, but he’s invaded his vision too. Harry can be looking down at his breakfast, staring down at a book, watching a quidditch match, and all the sudden he’s seeing visions of Malfoy… Alarmingly, and (mentally and physically) uncomfortably, he’s seeing Malfoy in various states of undress – clad only in quidditch trousers and gloves (jersey, cape, shin, knee and arm guards suspiciously missing – why would he be out on the quidditch pitch in such a state); in only a towel, drying off in the dormitory showers; or in his dressing gown as he returns to his room, legs bare as if he hasn’t got on his pyjamas underneath; alone in his room, eyes lidded, covered in a sheet but not much else, as far as Harry can tell - and he did… Look, that is.
Harry shakes his head to clear his thoughts.
What’s even worse than that, is that they don’t stop when he sees Draco – rather, they grow in volume.
He’s taken to discussing his plight with Luna, knowing Ron and Hermione are simply tired of hearing about it. Luna says they’re called fantasies. Harry chokes on air.
ł ł ł
Maybe it’s some type of spell.
Harry can’t sleep. Can’t sleep for thoughts of Draco, and he wonders what his life has become. He snorts at himself for being so melodramatic.
But is he really being melodramatic if he finds he can’t even think? Every errant thought seems to lead back to Draco, and it seems sillier and sillier to Harry as time goes on.
Seeing a glimpse of blond hair turning a corner – Oh, that was just Luna…
Playing chess with Ron – Harry’s thoughts wandered to how Draco must look at this very moment. He didn’t dare look, because Ron had already caught him twice and was giving him dirty looks. He knew Draco was engrossed in a book, and he wanted to know which. He could almost see Draco’s soft lips moving softly, soundlessly, as he had just seen moments ago.
Eating dessert - Hmm, pudding’s all right tonight… I think Draco likes custard tarts, there’s the last one, but he’s still eating, should I save him one?
Reading a text book - …often difficult to perform, and could have unexpected or volatile results if… Harry’s thoughts strayed to how Draco looked in Defense that morning. His hair was unruly – well, unruly for Draco, that is. Harry had a passing desire to run his fingers through it.
Scratching away at a potions essay – You add the murtlap tentacle to balance out the ashwinder eggs, but the occamy eggshell is quite volatile in its reaction with the… What was it again... so you’ve got to add… hmm, I bet Draco would know…
He looked across the library to where he knew Draco was sitting, and debated asking him. Ultimately he decided against it. He sighed, rolling up his scroll of parchment and packing away his things, feeling like he needed air.
Turning left out of the library, he thinks Draco might have followed him out. He knows he saw a green scarf trailing behind him. He turns but it’s only a Slytherin from a lower year, with dark hair and decidedly not grey eyes.
He makes his way across the castle and heads out the doors, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he opens them again, he notices a cluster of fifth year girls. A few are giggling. He turns on his heel and heads back inside.
He wanders the halls and his thoughts stray back to Draco. He thinks of going back to the library - he thinks there might be an alcove he could just pop into, close to where Draco’s sitting. Shocked at his own thoughts, he trudges very determinedly back to the common room.
In the common room, he takes a seat on the small loveseat, trying not to think about what he might do if instead of observing Draco from the alcove, he pulled him into it.
He finds he’s having trouble focusing on anything and everything, from schoolwork, to dinner, to time with his friends…
Yeah, maybe it’s a spell.
ł ł ł
“Mister Potter, there is nothing wrong with you! You are very much in absolute control of your faculties!”
Madam Pomfrey shoos him out of her hospital wing, after his third request for a diagnostic has no negative results.
Harry frets to himself as he heads down to the quidditch pitch, interested in only trying to distract himself as thoughts of Draco whirl around tauntingly in his head. He knows there should be a seventh and eighth year pickup game going on, and if he remembers this month’s roster correctly, along with Malfoy’s schedule – not that he’s keeping track – he should be able to avoid Draco.
Harry wonders how long he’s been calling Malfoy “Draco” in his head.
Harry’s not sure where he went wrong, but as he approaches the pitch, he sees Draco hurtling around as he warms up, looking more attractive than he has a right to, a look of pure joy on his face. Harry almost turns around, but ultimately decides to take a seat in the stands. He lays down on the bench for a moment, staring up at the clouds.
He knows that he’s not really under the influence of anything. Hermione and Madam Pomfrey alike have guaranteed it. He’s not sure that he’s ready to accept that these feelings are entirely his own – He can’t imagine feeling this way about someone he despised so much, and for so long.
But as his thoughts wander, he realizes he’s not really the person he was when he felt that way, and that Draco isn’t the person he despised so much, anymore. Throughout this strange eighth year, he’s seen a completely different side of Draco. He’s seen Draco remorseful, contrite, unassuming, repentant, humbled, and joyful. He thinks he likes the joy the best. That’s when he knows.
As the game begins, he sits up and starts to take notice of his surroundings. The teams are playing well, and he finds he wishes it was his turn to play this month.
Draco is flying quite well, playing chaser this time, avoiding bludgers, and has scored two goals. Draco’s team, the Thestrals, made up of five eighth years and two seventh years, is up by thirty points so far. The trailing Hippogriffs, with only three eighth years and four seventh years, haven’t been doing as well, but they are still in the game.
He watches a bludger narrowly miss Morag McDougal as she attempts to score another point for the Thestrals. Draco is in her wake. She’s blocked by Keeper Zacharias Smith. Smith tosses the quaffle as far as he can, but it’s intercepted by a blur of a Chaser that is Megan Jones - Harry swears she must be related to Gwenog Jones. Jones tosses the quaffle to Draco who dodges a bludger, opposing beater close behind, righting himself near the hoops, and scores a goal on a bewildered Smith. Smith swears loudly.
Harry is staring into space after the goal is scored, but is startled, his eyes sliding into focus. He watches the incident in slow motion – Zacharias Smith has grabbed the beater’s bat, and, perhaps in a show of anger, bat the bludger at Draco, who is already hurtling away.
Harry gasps and calls out. Draco’s eyes lock on his, and he sees the moment Draco hears the telltale whistling of the quickly approaching bludger, and it’s all just too fast. The bludger has collided with Draco’s head, and Draco is falling, and he’s so high up– Harry doesn’t think anymore, can’t think anymore, just reaches his hand out to Draco, reaching with everything he has. And then, it’s as if an invisible net is slowly lowering Draco to the ground.
Belatedly, he realizes he’s never even tried that spell, and that he didn’t even use his wand.
Draco is completely unharmed – well, unharmed aside from the bludger to the head. Harry can’t stop the loop of the image of Draco falling limply from such a height behind his eyes.
He pulls out his wand, this time, conjures a stretcher, and levitates Draco to the hospital wing.
ł ł ł
All Harry knows is waiting. He floats through the week in a daze of classes, the occasional meal, and vigils in the hospital wing. He doesn’t notice the strange looks from Zabini, nor the knowing ones from Parkinson and Hermione, nor the incredulous ones from Ron.
Four nights into his vigil, Harry wakes slowly and quietly to the hushed tones of Madam Pomfrey, but she isn’t talking to him – he appears to have found himself in the middle of the conversation. His back is killing him but his arms and head are on something soft.
“…Stopped your fall, and brought you into the hospital wing.” Madam Pomfrey whispers.
“How long…” Draco’s voice is hoarse. Harry wonders if she has gotten him any water. Draco clears his throat. “How long has he been here?”
“Well,” Harry can hear the reproach in her tone, “He arrived long before dinner, and hasn’t left since. I’m not too sure when he fell asleep. I can tell you he’s been spending most of his time here.”
“Do you know why?” Draco asks, voice raspy with disuse, and Harry wonders again whether he’s had anything to drink.
“I should think that would be obvious. It’s clear he must care for you a great deal. Now, take this.” Harry hears her bustling about near Draco’s bed. He feels the bed shift a bit under his arms.
He strains his ears for more, hearing nothing. He’s wishing he could open his eyes, but he’s turned toward Draco and presumably, Madam Pomfrey, and he doesn’t want to give himself away if she’s not thought to wake him. A few moments pass and he thinks he might be able to drift off again.
“I know you’re awake.” Draco’s voice is low, and still raspy. Harry’s eyes snap open and land on Draco’s. He looks to the end table next to the bed and finds it empty. He thinks about getting Draco some water.
“What gave me away?” Harry whispers. Draco just stares pensively.
“Why are you here?” Draco asks without preamble.
“I… Dunno. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Head injuries are dangerous – anything could have happened. What if you hadn’t woken up? I was waiting for you to wake up.” Harry thought that was a pretty good answer. Draco went silent for a few moments, seeming to absorb Harry’s explanation.
Harry takes this time to conjure a goblet and charm it full of water. He holds it up to Draco’s lips. Draco is a little surprised, and something else Harry can’t identify, but he drinks deeply.
“Pomfrey says you stopped me from falling and transported me here. Why?” Draco asks.
Harry is affronted. “What kind of question is that? How could I not?”
“Didn’t know you cared.” Draco says, a slight sourness to his tone.
“Well of course I–” Harry stops himself. Draco’s eyebrows raise.
“Go on,” Draco smirks. It’s a look so reminiscent of Draco’s younger self that Harry realizes he hasn’t seen in quite some time, though Harry’s response to it doesn’t really feel anything like it did when he was younger.
“I… Care, I do. All I could think when that bludger hit you in the head, when you lost consciousness and started to fall, was ‘Not him.’ Not from some ridiculous need to save people, not from needing to be a hero, it was just… You. Because I care about you.”
Draco is silent for a long time. Or at least, that’s how it feels to Harry.
“I suppose I might care about you too.” Draco admits grudgingly.
Harry stares down his nose at him. “Oh, is that all?”
Draco sniffs haughtily. “Yes.”
Harry is full of courage when he tells Draco that’s not enough, and leans down to press their lips together. He smiles when Draco pulls him closer.