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Sixteen months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco returned to school for his Eighth Year.
Terrified though he was, he convinced himself he'd push through. He just needed to keep his head down, let everyone and everything pass him by.
His efforts to go unnoticed lasted all of two weeks.
“Malfoy,” said a voice behind him in the hall. A deep voice—one he'd recognise anywhere despite its recent change.
He turned slowly.
“...Potter.”
They hadn't talked since his trial. Draco glanced up and realised—startled—that Potter had stubble now.
“We're playing a friendly Quidditch game. If you want to join.”
Potter didn't hide—didn't need to. He exuded the same easy confidence Draco had always resented. Envied.
He shook his head, but Potter said, “Malfoy…Draco, please.”
“Why?” he asked, tired. Why are you bothering with me?
“Because you deserve joy, too,” Potter said, so simply Draco's breath hitched.
Hesitantly, he nodded.
*
They'd been playing for hours, both chasing for the same team for a change.
“Draco!” Potter shouted.
He whirled around, but all thoughts of the Quaffle vanished as he took in Potter's flat, shirtless chest, muscles flexing as he stretched an arm forward. His smile was bright—his demeanour effortless and more confident than Draco'd ever seen.
Potter had always stood out. But, Draco realised, Harry shone, his every hue washing Draco's darkness away.
He didn't think he could ever look away.
