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For some people, it’s a slow process of self-discovery. For others, it’s a part of their identity that they knew all along. For Harry Potter, it was the moment Percy stood up in front of everyone with a new haircut and said, flashcards in hand, that his name was Percival and his pronouns were he/him.
Harry can’t remember his exact reaction, but he remembers just staring at Percy and thinking, Oh, fuck.
Harry didn’t know that there was a name for what he was feeling all those years. He just thought it was normal--that every girl felt this way. But here was Percy, putting words to the feelings Harry had struggled with for so long.
“Anyway, I’m trans,” Harry says over ice cream, one month, two haircuts, and one binder later.
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stare at him, unblinking, for a few seconds. Ron recovers first.
“Dope,” Ron says, offering his fist for Harry to bump. Harry gladly accepts.
“Name?” Hermione asks.
“Harry.” Harry frowns for a moment, his brow furrowed. “He/they pronouns, I think. For now, anyway. I’m still trying to figure stuff out.”
“Harry’s a nice name,” Hermione says. Ron nods in agreement, his mouth full of ice cream.
And that’s that.
Ginny is uncharacteristically quiet, but Harry doesn’t think much of it. After all, it’s a lot to take in—who wouldn’t feel a little shocked?
Then a week later, Ginny sits across from Harry on the couch, her hands twisting in her lap.
“I really love you, Harry,” she says, then starts to cry.
And fuck. In retrospect, Harry really should have seen this coming.
On instinct, Harry wraps their arms around Ginny’s shoulders, stroking her hair.
“It’s okay,” they say.
“It’s just,” Ginny says, sniffling, “I feel so bad because you just came out, and I want to support you, and I worry that I’m just being transphobic—“
Harry resists the urge to start laughing hysterically.
“Ginny,” they say gently, “you’re not transphobic; you’re a lesbian. It’d be more transphobic if you didn’t break up with me.”
Which is probably the weirdest thing Harry has ever said to their girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?), but the point stands.
Ginny pulls away from Harry and smiles at them, her eyes watering.
“Someday you’re going to find someone that can give you everything you want,” Ginny says.
“Same to you,” Harry says.
Ginny rests her head on Harry’s shoulder for a moment, her hair cascading down their chest. Harry swallows, the very action making it difficult to breathe.
And just like that, Harry’s single.
.
After that, Harry decides it’s well within his rights to throw a pity party. It’s raining outside, and Harry thinks it presents an appropriately morose picture to the world as he wanders through puddles, their socks like plaster on their skin and their hair flat against their skull.
It’s not that Harry is too sad about this. They should probably have broken up with Ginny right away, after all, instead of putting the responsibility on her.
Anyway. What’s done is done, and Harry figures he can muddle around in the rain until he catches their death of cold.
“Potter? What are you doing, you melodramatic prat?”
Harry’s head darts up. Malfoy sits in a black truck, the window rolled down, giving Harry the most judgmental stare he has received in a long time. And maybe Harry should be more focused on the judgment or the shady Death Eater past, but their brain is a little stuck on Malfoy being in a truck.
Since when did Malfoy know how to drive? And since when did she own a truck?
“Potter,” Malfoy says impatiently. “Have you forgotten how to speak? What are you doing?”
“Having a pity party,” Harry says. “You?”
Malfoy makes a sound of disgust. Harry hears a click, and then Malfoy is pushing the passenger door open.
“Get in,” Malfoy says curtly.
Harry stares blankly. Is this how they’re going to die? Is death looming in front of them in the form of Malfoy in a truck?
“Why?” Harry asks.
“Because if you die in the rain, your Gryffindor friends will have my head,” Malfoy snaps.
Harry considers pointing out that he knows how to Apparate, but he’s touched that Malfoy is evidently so scared of his friends’ wrath. Ron and Hermione will be chuffed when Harry tells them. He climbs into the truck.
“Where to, driver?”
Malfoy rolls her eyes.
“I’m getting waffles,” Malfoy says shortly. “You can tag along, I suppose.”
Harry wants to say something petty and mean so much that it burns at the corners of his lips, but something stops him. Malfoy’s eyes are a little too wide to be called calm, and she is clutching the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles strain white under her skin. And it’s not that Harry feels sorry for her because Malfoy doesn’t need anyone’s sympathy, let alone Harry’s—it’s just that . . .
Well. She looks lonely. And she didn’t want to let Harry mope alone in the rain. And she likes waffles now, apparently.
How bad could one late night waffle run be?
Malfoy slides into a parking spot at Wafflemeister, then turns to look at Harry, cocking her eyebrow.
“Why the long face, Potter?” she asks breezily. “It’s not every day the savior of the Wizarding World gets to have pity party waffles with their arch nemesis. You ought to call yourself blessed.”
Harry is surprised into a laugh in spite of himself. “Get over yourself, Malfoy,” he says, jumping out of the truck.
Malfoy steps down from the truck, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her suit jacket. She locks the truck, then sneers at Harry, her even white teeth flashing in the night. Harry thinks, Ah.
Back on their familiar ground, then. That’s probably a good thing—it wouldn’t do to become too comfortable.
Still. A part of Harry wonders when Malfoy’s rough edges began to soften, when being comfortable became an option.
They don’t really talk for the first half hour. Malfoy studiously works through her first plate of waffles without a word, and Harry follows her example. Then, halfway through her second plate of waffles which have fucking salmon on them of all things, Malfoy lays her fork down on the table and says, “My father kicked me out.”
Harry’s mouth opens and closes. “Oh,” he says, like the idiot they are.
Harry is bad at social cues, true, but he’s pretty sure oh isn’t the appropriate response to finding out someone got kicked out. But hey, it’s Malfoy—surely Harry can excuse his various societal . . . deficits when it comes to talking to the guy who tormented him and his friends all throughout his time at Hogwarts.
“Hence the truck,” says Malfoy. “Pansy gave it to me. It was going to be a congratulations gift, but now it’s more of a ‘sorry your father is terrible’ gift. I think I’m going to send them some flowers.”
“That’s nice of you,” Harry says lamely.
“No, it’s not,” Malfoy says. Waspishly. As if she has something to prove, as if being called nice is the same as being called diseased. “Anyway, that explains why I’m eating waffles as I commiserate with my archnemesis. What brings you here?”
“We’re actually not archnemeses anymore,” Harry says. “I mean, I think we would both ignore screams of pain and torture from the other if we were having a bad day, but we’re not—” Malfoy sneers at Harry the second time this night, and Harry remembers why they felt like knocking her teeth out their entire time at school together. “Fine. You’re my archnemesis, we would kill each other given the chance, and blah blah blah. Happy now?”
“Why were you in the rain?” Malfoy asks, her voice deceptively soft.
“What do you care?”
“Because I have had a frankly terrible day, and hearing about your terrible day will make me feel better,” Malfoy snaps.
Harry feels his entire face twitch. As far as coping mechanisms go, this isn’t the worst, he supposes. They would just rather Malfoy find someone else to project onto.
Malfoy inhales shakily, smoothing out her slacks. Harry’s beginning to wonder if that’s a nervous tic—there are never any wrinkles.
“That was rude of me,” Malfoy says. “I apologize.”
Harry tries to think of something snippy to say. He doesn’t like apologies. They make him feel uncomfortable, even when they aren’t coming from the likes of Malfoy. They’re too . . . soft and normal and polite, and Harry has wasted so much time in war being the Hero of the Universe that wasting more time with meaningless niceties is unappealing.
“My girlfriend broke up with me,” Harry says.
“Why?” Malfoy asks. “I mean, granted, she is much more attractive than you, but—“
“She’s a lesbian.”
Malfoy stares at Harry blankly. Harry remembers that while he is currently on T, wearing a binder, and sporting a fresh haircut, he’s not exactly out, per se.
Harry should probably stay closeted around the likes of Malfoy—if anyone were likely to be transphobic, she would be the one. But Harry feels the urge to be reckless tonight. At any rate, it’s not like anyone will be upset with him if they end up murdering Malfoy in a fit of blind rage. Except Pansy and Blaise, but Harry is pretty sure he could take them.
“I’m trans,” Harry says cheerfully.
Malfoy’s mouth opens before clamping shut. She eyes Harry suspiciously.
“You,” she says accusingly, almost dubiously. “You’re trans?”
“Does that bother you?” Harry asks, more curious than angry.
Malfoy starts to laugh. It’s a helpless sound that carries hints of humor, but it verges closer to hysterical than genuinely amused.
“Oh, God,” she gasps. “Oh, sweet fucking Merlin. Pansy’s going to go mad when they find out. They’ll probably give you a pin, maybe even a T-shirt.”
“Percy already gave me one. Well, technically, Molly’s the one who knit it, but she had Percy gift it because she thought it would be more poetic or something.”
Malfoy loses it at that. She’s laughing so hard that tears are running down her face, and then all of a sudden her head is buried in her arms, and she’s sobbing for real.
“Um.” Harry pokes her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Fuck off, Potter,” Malfoy says tearfully.
Harry shouldn’t be surprised—it’s not like they’re friends. Pretty much the opposite, from all objective standpoints.
Harry stands, pressing a package of tissues he keeps on hand (Luna’s idea, everyone he knows ends up crying at the most inopportune times, so they might as well be prepared) into Malfoy’s hand. Surprisingly, Malfoy takes it.
.
Harry assumes that the next time he sees Malfoy, she’ll be back to her delightful self (in other words, the bitch who reduced Neville to tears multiple times). Better yet, that he’ll never see her again at all. Because fate is even more of a bitch than Malfoy is, such is not the case.
It begins with Harry having to buy a shirt. They’re pretty sure that all disasters have roots in clothing and fashion and have occasionally toyed with the idea of shucking off his clothes and moving to a cottage in the woods where clothing could be a thing of the past. Unfortunately, Harry finds himself rather fond of his friends, which makes a life of solitude somewhat less appealing.
Harry surveys the red shirt they just tried on with a sour expression. Percy is to blame for this. Luna wouldn’t mind if Harry showed up to their weekly Fuck Around and Find Out dinner (such named because that’s how they all figured out their genders) in a pair of sweats, but Percy fucking Weasley just had to choose a nice restaurant.
“Prat,” Harry mutters, stepping out of the dressing room to see if the shirt meets Percy’s approval.
Instead of Percy, he finds Malfoy, examining her reflection in the mirror, carefully smoothing out a knee-length green dress.
“Hi,” Harry says.
Malfoy starts, meeting Harry’s eye in the mirror.
“Fuck,” she hisses.
Interesting new way of greeting someone, but Harry can’t say he’s surprised.
Harry thinks about asking why Malfoy is in the men’s dressing room, but he’s pretty sure asking that would somehow end in disaster. He instead settles on saying, “Nice braid.”
Malfoy cautiously touches her pale hair, as if she were afraid mere touch might burn it away.
“You never used to wear dresses,” Harry says. “Back at Hogwarts, I mean—although wizard robes are kind of like dresses. But I mean, even when you could wear dresses, it was always trousers. Nice trousers, obviously. But, um . . .” Harry opens and closes his mouth abruptly, then lets out a huffy laugh. “I don’t know where I was going with this.”
Malfoy’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile.
“Nice shirt, Potter,” says Malfoy. “Just as hideous as the rest of your closet.”
As far as peace offerings go, this is an odd one, but Harry isn’t going to be picky.
“Special occasion?” Harry asks.
Harry doesn’t know silk from polyester, despite Percy’s many exasperated attempts to teach him. But it looks like an expensive dress—the fabric is filmy and shifts colors under the light, like the way a forest blurs into different shades of green from far away.
Before Malfoy can answer, Pansy bursts through, saying, “Sorry, Draco, I can’t find the other one in your size, but honestly it’s twice as ugly as this one, and—“
Pansy catches sight of Harry and freezes, their eyes wide.
Harry offers a weak little wave. “Hi, Pansy,” they say. He looks at Malfoy, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Do you go by Draco now?”
“Ah, fuck me,” Pansy mutters.
Malfoy sneers at them. “Brilliant job, Pansy.”
“I didn’t know he was in here! It’s a Muggle store! That’s why we came here because there are only Muggles— at least, there are supposed to be,” Pansy adds, giving Harry a nasty look.
“Am I not supposed to know you go by Draco?” Harry asks blankly.
Malfoy gives Harry a look of pure scorn, and Harry belatedly remembers that this is the men’s dressing room and that, even if Malfoy couldn’t tell the difference due to elitist idiocy, Pansy would surely know.
“Would it be incredibly awkward of me to ask for your pronouns?” Harry asks. Awkwardly. As one does. “Or would you rather I just pretend this never happened?”
Malfoy groans. “He/him, and Pansy, this is all your fault.”
“Again! I didn’t know they were here!”
There are bundles of different emotions currently knotted up in Harry’s mind, and trying to sort through them all is almost impossible.
“Thanks for telling me,” Harry says. “I’ll . . . Do you want me to call you Draco? Around other people?”
Draco looks at Harry, his brow furrowed.
“You talk about me?” Draco asks.
“Only to complain,” Harry says automatically.
“Our interactions affect you that much?” Draco asks sweetly. “Potter, I’m flattered— I didn’t know I left that much of an impression.”
“Get a room, you fucking weirdos,” Pansy sneers.
Harry takes back every nice thought they ever had about either of them. The list of said nice things is unsurprisingly small.
He flees the dressing room, mumbling something about having to find Percy.
.
So. Draco Malfoy is trans.
He’s still a dick. This changes nothing.
But as Harry lies awake at night, his covers twisted around his ankles and pooling at his feet, they think of Draco, the silky folds of the green dress draped across Draco’s pale skin and his fine blonde hair slipping through Harry’s fingers.
Harry should have known the second Draco pulled up in a truck. Ron is going to kill Harry. Bad enough that Harry obsessed over Draco at Hogwarts—childhood rivalries are one thing, but . . . this, whatever it can be called (Harry can’t bring himself to call it a crush), is something else.
Fuck Draco Malfoy. Harry never should have eaten waffles with him. He shouldn’t have even gotten in the truck, and they definitely shouldn’t have let their gaze linger on the way Draco’s hair framed his face and spilled over his shoulders.
“I’m doomed,” Harry tells their ceiling.
The ceiling offers no response like the mannerless inanimate object it is.
.
When Draco was younger, he didn’t know.
He remembers Luna Lovegood switching from the boys’ dorms to the girls’ halfway through their third year. He didn’t know Luna, but it caused enough of a stir for everyone to talk about it. He remembers thinking, People can do that?
In their fifth year, Pansy told him that they didn’t feel like anything, like they looked in their mirror and saw someone else.
“In all honesty,” Pansy said, lying flat on their back on the couch, “I feel a little trapped. Like, I don’t feel like a guy, but I don’t feel like a girl, and I would honestly love to just not, you know?”
Draco, who had felt the urge to chop his breasts off ever since they began developing, said dismissively, “Everyone feels that way.”
Pansy sat up and grasped Draco’s hands.
“No,” they said gently, “they don’t.”
Draco hadn’t thought much of it, not even when Pansy started going by they/them pronouns exclusively. Because, well, that was Pansy, and they had nothing in common with Draco, other than shitty parents and Slytherin pride.
Then after the war, Percy Weasley came out as trans.
Draco stared at the first article he had seen about Percy longer than he likes to admit. The reporter had interviewed Percy, who described realizing he was actually, well . . . he.
The next article Draco read was far less complimentary, frequently misgendering and deadnaming Percy and prominently displaying a photo of him hexing a reporter who got too close to him and his family. Something uncomfortable twisted inside Draco’s stomach as he read, and he eventually had to just put it aside.
Draco kept looking at articles. He read about Luna and Percy and people he didn’t even know, some of them Muggles. He asked Pansy question after question, to the point that he was worried they knew.
Draco never had been good at keeping his cards close to his chest.
He didn’t know what was wrong with him. And at the time, he thought there had to be something wrong because of this persistent ache that wouldn’t leave him alone. Something was missing.
“Can we try something?” Pansy asked one day, sitting beside Draco on his bed, holding his hand tightly.
Draco nodded because he was desperate, because answers were not forthcoming, because Pansy always looked so damn sure of themself.
“I met this prat named Malfoy the other day,” Pansy said. “He was a bit of a wanker, but I have to say he had a good taste in clothes. I think I’ll kill him and steal his wardrobe for my personal use. What do you say, friend?”
Draco stared at Pansy, his mouth falling open slightly.
“Oh, God,” Draco said, his voice high. “Oh, sweet fucking Merlin.”
He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
Pansy wrapped their arms around Draco’s shoulders and pulled him close, their fingers gently combing through his hair.
So then, Draco Malfoy is trans. This changes nothing. He is still a former Death Eater. He is still a blood traitor in the eyes of his father, still something vile and disgusting that his father will never understand.
“Consorting with blood traitors is bad enough,” Lucius had spat out the day Draco tried to tell him, the day Draco truly felt like he had lost everything. “But this?”
Good to know his father would be willing to forgive Draco for not being an anti-Muggle terrorist anymore if he hadn’t come out as trans.
Draco is trans, and he can’t help but feel like everything is falling away because of it. He can’t help but wonder how Percy and Luna and Pansy are able to be proud of it, as if confidence in their identities is as easy as breathing.
It’s not easy for Draco. He wants it to be, but there’s so much to be unsure about. Slytherins are not known for their boldness or courage, and Draco is a Slytherin to his core.
But then there’s Harry fucking Potter, who seems to have developed the delusion that Draco cares about what other people think about him. (He does. Fuck Potter for noticing.) Pansy has taken to chanting, “Gay gay homosexual gay,” whenever Draco receives a letter from Potter. Blaise is prone to cheering, “Homophobia wins!” whenever Draco fails to write a coherent response.
Draco hesitates to say that he hates his friends, but also he really hates his friends.
“I’m not in love with Potter,” Draco snaps. “And they’re not in love with me, so fuck off, Pansy.”
“They invited you to dinner with the parents,” Pansy says gleefully.
“He invited me to the ‘Fuck Around and Find Out’ dinner with Luna and Percy.”
“You hoe, don’t you get it? Potter’s an orphan—his friends are his parents. Potter will probably get down on one knee next time they see you.”
Draco briefly considers the ramifications of murdering his best friend. He has a feeling Crabbe would return from the dead and murder him instead if he so much as planned it.
“I’m going to go to their Fuck Around and Find Out dinner,” Draco says with great dignity. “And I am going to behave with utmost decorum and become best friends with Percy Weasley, and you’ll be left to scramble for a new best friend.”
This does not have the devastating impact Draco had hoped for. Instead, Pansy howls with laughter, apparently so overcome with the hilarity of Draco becoming friends with a redhead.
“Stop laughing, Pansy. Ow! Don’t hit me! It could happen, you know— ow, stop slapping me while you make fun! We have a lot in common— ow!”
.
“—so you see,” Potter says, “you two have a lot in common!”
Draco and Percy eye each other warily.
“I’m sorry,” Percy says, “you think we should be friends because we both think your fashion sense is deplorable?”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Luna says serenely. “Percy, you always complain that no one wants to make fun of Harry with you.”
“I do not!” Percy sputters.
“He does,” Potter whispers to Draco, as if letting him in on some deep secret.
The night ends with Percy joining Draco in making fun of Potter’s new shirt, so Draco is inclined to believe Luna and Potter over Percy. After everyone stands to leave, Draco finds Potter sending the oddest look of open warmth his way, which is frankly . . . unnerving. Draco would rather be hexed and bleeding out on the bathroom floor any day.
“Is it okay if I send owls?” Potter asks.
Pansy’s voice flits unbidden across Draco’s mind: Gay gay homosexual gay—
“Sure,” Draco croaks.
Potter grins and claps Draco’s shoulder. “Great. I’ll see you later. Try not to get murdered before then.”
What do you know? something uncomfortably close to Blaise’s smug voice asks. Turns out homophobia doesn’t win after all.
Draco hates, hates, hates his friends.
.
That should have been the end of it.
The only problem is, Potter doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. They keep sending owls, full of inane chatter and random gossip. He keeps inviting Draco to go places, and the Fuck Around and Find Out dinners make sense, because that pretty much defines Draco’s “journey of self-realization,” as Pansy likes to call it. But Potter invites Draco for waffles, for awful karaoke nights at the Weasleys, and sometimes just to talk.
“He’s in love with you,” Pansy says smugly, over a bottle of wine in Goyle’s shitty, one-room flat.
“And you’re in love with them,” Goyle chimes in because Pansy is a terrible influence.
“Lies,” Draco hisses. “We’re not even friends—“
“Dear Draco,” Blaise reads out loud, lounging in the corner like he’s sitting for a portrait, “thanks for coming to dinner last night—“
Draco makes a wild grab to snatch the letter back, but Goyle pins him down. Traitor.
“Your taste in music is trash,” Blaise continues, beginning to strut around the room and imitate Potter’s voice. “I’ll attempt to give it a go, though, because I have nothing better to do. Kidding. It’s actually quite nice—it reminds me of when we were at Hogwarts and some of the students would do choir and whatnot. Peaceful, if a bit pretentious.”
“Shut up,” Draco hisses. “I showed you that letter in strict confidence, and it’s not flirting, Pansy; he’s insulting me. Stop wiggling your eyebrows!”
Blaise leans in, his eyes glinting.
“By the way,” Blaise quotes, because apparently he memorized the letter like the worthless friend he is, “I quite liked that dress you wore. I was going to tell you at the time, but I was worried it would come across wrong. Ginny made fun of me when I told her that, though, so I suppose I’ll tell you now. You look good in blue. To be honest, you look good in any color—“
“I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!”
Laughing wildly, Blaise falls back onto the dusty mattress Goyle uses as a bed, letting the letter flutter to the ground.
“They’re in love,” Blaise says. “Madly, obsessively, and honestly, why shouldn’t he be? You’re gorgeous.”
“I’m a former Death Eater,” Draco hisses.
“You’re a blood traitor,” Goyle says dismissively.
“You’re sexy,” Pansy says cheerfully. “You should wear red next time you go on a ‘not a date’ with Potter.”
“Plunging neckline,” Blaise whispers. “Show off that top surgery, darling.”
“You should wear heels,” Goyle says helpfully. “I bet Potter likes that you’re so tall. It’s probably a turn on.”
Draco fights the urge to strangle all of them.
.
In the end, it doesn’t matter what Draco wears. He finds Harry sitting at the booth, a plate of untouched waffles shoved away, as they stare at a newspaper with knit eyebrows.
“Luna and Ginny are dating,” Harry says abruptly.
“I know.”
Harry looks up sharply. “They told you?” he asks incredulously.
“I read it in the paper.”
“So did I,” Harry says grimly.
Draco’s brow furrows, and he stares at Harry, who looks utterly miserable.
“Are you upset they’re dating?”
“Of course not!” Harry snaps. “They deserve to be happy—I want them to be happy. I just—why didn’t they tell me?”
Draco hesitates, then eases into the booth next to Harry.
“They probably meant to,” he says. “They just . . . kept putting it off.” Harry’s left hand is on the table, and Draco gingerly rests his hand on top, half expecting Harry to yank his away. Instead, Harry turns their hand palm-up, enteining his fingers with Draco’s. Draco inhales shakily. “Feelings are messy. They’re complicated and difficult, and it’s hard enough as it is to love someone and be loved back, let alone tell another person about that love.” Draco nudges Harry’s shoulder gently. “Especially if they’re an ex.”
Harry is silent for a while. Draco keeps waiting for Harry to pull his hand away, but they never do.
“Do you think I’m damaged?” Harry asks.
Harry fucking Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, is asking Draco if they’re damaged?
Merlin, how insecure can one man be?
“I don’t,” Harry starts to say, then stops. He’s looking everywhere and nowhere and at nothing at all. “I’m not the person people think I am, and I’m just—bad at it, I guess? At making people feel loved. I don’t know how—“
Draco places his hands along the curves of Harry’s face and kisses him.
Before Harry can respond, Draco pulls back abruptly, anxiety clawing its way up his chest.
“Sorry,” Draco blurts out.
Harry stares at him blankly. They laugh nervously.
“Um,” Harry says. “Why?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Harry gives Draco a funny look. “Okay. Well, my answer is yes.”
Draco swallows. There are too many things fluttering in his mind right now, and he can’t pin them down. All he can think of is Harry’s skin, his hair, their eyes, the way they’re all but sitting in Draco’s lap in a public restaurant.
Harry gently pulls the pins out from Draco’s hair, and it falls around his face.
“I like your hair like this,” Harry whispers. “You always pin it up or tie it back or put it in a braid. I never get to see it loose.”
“I’m not—I’m not Ginny,” Draco says weakly.
“I would hope not because I’m pretty sure Luna would kill me.”
“No, I mean—“ Draco shakes his head, and the clinging thoughts like cobwebs in his mind scatter around him. “I’m not good.”
Harry looks at Draco, his eyebrow raised, and then laughs.
Draco swallows thickly. “I don’t understand.”
“Draco Malfoy.”
Harry rests their hands on Draco’s thighs, the warmth of his weight grounding Draco. They’re so sure, so Hero of the Universe right now, and all of it is directed Draco’s way. Draco understands now why Ron and Hermione followed him everywhere, heedless of the danger.
“You,” Harry says, gently kissing Draco’s lips, “are beautiful.” He punctuates the space between each word with another kiss. “Lovely.” Their hands slip through Draco’s hair, resting at the nape of his neck. “Handsome. Ridiculous. Kind.”
Draco’s breath hitches.
“I’m not,” Draco says tearfully. “I’m—“
Harry squeezes Draco’s hands, looking him in the eye.
“I love you,” Harry says. “All of you, no matter how much you drive me mad.”
Never let it be said Draco lets a compliment go unpaid.
Draco surges forward, his arms wrapping around Harry’s body, and kisses them again. Harry stills for one moment, then kisses back. They’re soft and warm under Draco’s hands, on top of Draco’s thighs, against Draco’s lips, and Draco has been cold for so long.
Draco wants this. He has wanted it too long for him to fully understand, and Harry is just giving it to him.
It occurs to Draco that Pansy, Blaise, and Goyle are going to be incurable smug.
Whatever. Draco can always strangle them tomorrow.