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The light is blinding behind Draco’s closed eyelids. Awareness slowly seeps into his conscious mind. A hand gently toys with his hair, pausing only to massage his scalp as if trying to stave away the incessant pounding in his head.
Draco groans, leaning into the touch. Everything feels wrong; his skin feels too tight, and his pyjamas too big. The texture of the pillowcase rubs unnaturally across his cheek, causing an odd crawling sensation to flow through his body, pausing only when all of his nerves are alight in discomfort.
“Draco, darling?” a voice rings out through the haze. Pansy, he guesses based on her lilted murmur, is taking too much satisfaction in his unfortunate predicament.
He grunts in response, rolling over to get as far away from the offending noise as he can. With great effort, he manages to peel open his eyes and throw a sluggish arm across his face to block out the gleam.
“Water,” Draco gripes, his voice hoarse. His mouth and throat feel bone-dry, and his tongue feels like sandpaper.
Pansy’s fingers pause, and the bed shifts as she reaches across him for the bottle at his bedside. She jostles him in the process, and Draco whimpers as the pounding in his head becomes more pronounced.
“Merlin, Pans, make my headache worse, won’t you? A sucker punch to the face would assuredly do less damage to my poor head than whatever the fuck you’re doing.”
She sits back down with a vengeful huff that causes the mattress to shake.
“Welcome back to the world of the living, then,” Pansy says, chuckling. “I see all the alcohol has not managed to dampen your spirits.”
Draco feels a cold bottle nudging at his arm and slowly uncoils himself from underneath the bed sheets. With great effort, he downs the glass, wincing once his taste buds are assaulted by the putrid taste of dandelion root. He clamps his eyes shut as the world around him spins, and his stomach gives a few sickening lurches before settling once again.
“Fuck. Pansy, that wasn’t water.”
“No, it wasn’t. I am yet again astounded by your powers of observation. Surely as an up-and-coming Potions Master, you would be able to tell water from a Hangover Potion,” Pansy laughs, bright and beautiful. It is times like these when he marvels at how his best friend’s sharp and sarcastic personality managed to overcome all the hostility from the war and mend bridges with the most unlikely of people. “How about a ‘Thank you, Pansy’ instead? Your headache must have abated by now, no?”
Draco sighs, trying his best to sit up and ignore the foul aftertaste of the potion. Once his back rests on the headboard, he opens his eyes to stare at the canopy of his bed.
“Thank you, darling. You’ve managed to save me from another day’s worth of pain, suffering, and utter humiliation. Yet again.”
Pansy harrumphs, pushing Draco over on the bed to sit next to him. She rests her head on his shoulder, twining her arm through his. “Pain and suffering, perhaps. Humiliation, unfortunately not. You’re in for quite a day, dear.”
Draco whips his head around, dislodging her head causing her to almost topple off the bed. “What?”
“Salazar, Draco! Have some class,” she laughs, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she stands up. “Always the drama queen. I must say, you never could keep secrets very well, could you? I truly don’t know how you kept this one for that long!”
When Pansy meets his sceptical stare, her grin fades, a bemused expression clouding her features. “You do remember last night, don’t you?” Her brows furrow and her brown eyes narrow. “Oh, love. Please tell me you weren’t that far gone?”
Draco shakes his head, chuckling uncomfortably. Sure, he had secrets—well, one secret—but no amount of Galleons would persuade him to reveal it no matter how intoxicated he was.
“Merlin and Morgana, Pans. Please tell me I didn’t tell all of Eighth Year about the Quidditch mags under my bed.” It’s meant to be humorous, but when his joke is met with unamused silence, he relents.
“Fine. I recall having a couple of drinks; perhaps a few too many, judging by this morning's situation. There must have been some party games involved with the others, and I—I think I went to bed after.” He settles with his back to the headboard, glancing back at Pansy, who is now back on top of his bed. “Alone, if I recall correctly. How did you even get in here?”
“Oh, Draco,” she sighs, moving to grasp his hand in her own. She hesitates before gesturing around the room, grasping the red—wait, red?—bed curtains before drawing them closed. “I think the question you're looking for is how did you get in here?”
Draco feels his heart drop as he takes a closer look around the room. The bed that he is sitting on is a far cry from his own silk-clad mattress. An obnoxious maroon burns his vision.
There is only one Gryffindor who was not able to let go of their house colours despite being placed into the Eight Year dormitories.
Draco opens his mouth, then shuts it. Then, utilising every ounce of elegant grace this mother bestowed upon him, he calmly lifts his chin and responds.
“Oh. Well, fuck.”
“You might want to slow down there, O Fearful Dragon. Have a sip of water, mayhaps?”
Draco raises his head and blinks at the slightly blurry shape in front of him. He thinks it might be Blaise, but he can’t be sure. He’s not entirely positive he cares either.
Draco waves Blaise’s offering away. “Psh, water. I don’t need water, Blaise. I really don’t! I’ve evolved beyond the human need for liquid hydration. Water is for the weak, and I assure you, I am not weak.”
The shape that could be Blaise sits down next to Draco and throws an arm around him. “That you are not, old man,” Blaise chuckles, which only proves to infuriate him. “Any reason why you’ve got a stick up your arse so early into this lovely party? You know I’d be glad to remove it for you. Just like old times.”
A burst of annoyance bubbles inside of him and Draco scoffs at the offer. Blaise was not allowed to put anything up Draco’s arse, not when Potter— Harry —was right there.
But really, what is the harm, he thinks. Potter is clearly preoccupied and engaging in a lively conversation with Zacharias Smith, the stupid fucking idiot, of all people.
Potter must be extra brainless when sloshed, Draco muses, trying not to growl when Smith’s wandering hand slowly trails up Potter’s arm.
Judging by Blaise’s laugh, the noise escapes anyway.
“Oi, well, what is it then? Did Hermione get a better score on our Transfigurations paper than you did? Oh! Or maybe it’s the absence of a stick in your arse, if you get my drift.”
“For the love of Merlin, Blaise, you’ve got some sick obsession with my arse, don’t you? I’m sure the Prophet would love to hear all about it,” Draco says, perhaps a bit too loudly.
Multiple heads turn their way and Draco takes minute satisfaction in the disgruntled expression that crosses Potter’s face. When Potter turns back to Smith, Draco slumps down on the couch, crossing his arms like a spurned child, ignoring whatever nonsense Blaise was currently sprouting in response.
Blaise’s blatant flirting is a frequent topic of conversation between Potter and him, especially in the middle of snogging, much to Draco’s dismay. That’s not to say that Draco doesn’t enjoy Potter’s possessiveness, but really, he would rather Potter put his mouth to better use.
But in this situation, Potter’s jealousy of Blaise is rich. What right does Potter have to be jealous when Smith was practically performing a mating dance in the middle of a party, all while caressing Potter’s stupidly muscular arms?
It’s horrifying, and Draco decides he must put a stop to it. Immediately.
“Do you think Smith has a stupid, ugly face?”
Blaise pauses his rant.“I—Draco, what?”
“Look at the fool,” Draco said, pointing at the idiot with the spout of his beer bottle. The liquid sloshes over the rim and splatters on his trousers, but he can’t be arsed to care. “He’s practically snogging Potter. Snogging! In the middle of the common room, a space shared by all. I gallivant around this room daily! It’s indecent, truly indecent. I’ll never be able to enter this room again without Smith’s pathetic attempt at seduction invading my mind!”
“Salazar, how you manage to sound so posh while sloshed is something I’ll never understand.” Blaise rolls his eyes and leans back into the couch, absently nursing his glass of Firewhiskey. “Besides, I thought we agreed that your reputation cannot possibly take any more hits. No more Potter talk, remember?”
Draco does remember, not that he’ll ever admit to it. Snogging Potter in alcoves and behind tapestries is much more satisfying than abiding by his friends stupid, uninformed rules.
“Besides,” Blaise continues, “Smith is just feeling him up. Doesn’t look like Potter’s all that much into it though. I wonder if he still holds a flame for the Girl Weasley.”
Draco drags his eyes away from Smith and Potter.
“They’re not together, you imbecile. Luna finally finding a Wrackspurt has a higher probability than Har—Potter getting back together with Ginevra.”
Blaise raises a sceptical eyebrow. “And you would know that how?”
“Oh, do be silent. I don’t have time for your foolishness, Blaise,” Draco manages. He takes another hearty swig of his beer, nearly spitting it out when he remembers he hates the taste. Draco glares at the offending bottle full of vile Muggle liquid.
Blaise laughs. “Alright there, mate?”
He certainly is not. This is all stupid Potter’s fault. The beer, the party, Smith.
It wasn’t his fault that Potter had taken advantage of Draco’s blissed out, post shag high to convince him to come to Hermione’s insane Unity, Tranquility, and Integration party, more commonly known amongst Eighth Years as U.T.I.. He had no culpability for Potter, who had taken one look at Draco, smiled all sweet and soppy and pressed a quick peck to his cheek before placing a beer into his hands. And it was certainly, most definitely not his fault that Smith was practically humping Draco’s boyfriend in the middle of the Eighth Year common room.
Annoyed, Draco knows he must set everything to rights. “Well, this simply cannot go on any longer. I have been a coward for too long.” He lifts the bottle to his lips and finishes it off, only coughing once before righting himself. “I must take matters into my own hands.”
Blaise looks up, startled. “Oh, Draco, that's a horrible idea—”
Glancing at the empty beer bottle in his hand only strengthens his resolve. By the end of tonight, he will have either smashed the bottle against Smith’s stupid head, hopefully killing him in the process, or put it to a more socially acceptable use.
Draco stumbles to the low rising table in the middle of the common room, drunkenly climbs on top of it, and exclaims, “Let us go forth and allow this Muggle bottle to tell us who to kiss!”
Draco clamps a hand over his mouth, his mind racing. “No, no, no. Please tell me I didn’t suggest…”
Pansy Summons a bag full of brown shards of glass, looking at him as though this is an answer.
His brows knit in confusion. “And I somehow thought this would help?”
Pansy digs her nails into his arm, and leans forward, cackling. “Oh, darling, you did.”
Draco paces in the middle of the circle, a fresh glass of Firewhiskey that he swiped from Blaise in one hand and the empty bottle in the other.
“The rules of pin the bottle are simple, really,” he declares, gesticulating wildly.
“I think it's spin the bottle, actually,” Hermione quips to his left.
“Spin the bottle. That’s what I said. I said it correctly. The first time, I said it right. Didn’t I?” When his inquiry is met with amused glances and utter silence, he continues, “Great heavens, Hermione! You’re such a goofy little know-it-all. Plus, it’s wha’ever I want it to be. I created the game, not you.”
“You didn’t, actually. Spin the bottle has been a widely known and documented game since the 1920s, when—”
Her know-it-all face is alight due to the chance to impart wisdom among their peers. Usually, he would encourage her in order to build off of her brilliant ideas until they formulated a near perfect solution to whatever problem they were presented with.
However, tonight the look is quickly quelled by Draco’s sneer.
“Be silent,” he slurs, pointing his finger as if it was a wand. She must think him a fool when she mimes zipping her lips. Draco frowns, barely able to control the urge to stomp his foot.
“My apologies, Dragon.” She huffs and settles back into the circle, a small smile playing on her lips. “Go ahead.”
Horrified, he turns to Blaise, who is nearly toppling over in silent laughter. The rest of his classmates do not possess the decency to control their amusement.
“I told you not to tell anyone about that, Blaise! Just—just ‘cause I asked you to refer to me as Dragon during our second year does not mean I wish to be called that stupid nickname now.”
“He really did insist,” Pansy pipes up from beside Greg. It feels like betrayal and Draco feels like he might cry. “The whole year. It was quite humorous.” When Draco turns to glare at her, she just tips her glass and winks.
“I am a changed man and I no longer abide by my younger self’s ideals. And, as a valued and esteemed member of functioning society, I have the right to sue you for tearing apart my good name—”
“Alright, Draco,” someone interrupts, still laughing. He thinks it might be Weasley, but Draco’s entirely too focused on not bursting into sudden, humiliated tears to care. “Let’s just get the game that you insisted we play started.”
A calloused hand grabs Draco’s wrist and carefully tugs him down. Draco is about to firmly object by pitching a minor tantrum when stupidly shining green eyes meet his. An amused smile graces Harry’s lips, and Draco wants to kiss it off him. He leans forward, but Harry turns his head.
“Sit down, love,” Harry says out of the corner of his mouth, too quiet for anyone else to hear. Wordlessly, he Summons a cup and mutters a quick Aguamenti. “Drink this. You’re alright.”
Draco smiles, all feelings of disgruntlement dissipating as he basks in the warm glow that is Harry. He doesn’t mind that nickname. In fact, he thinks he rather likes it.
Accepting the glass of water, Draco downs it in one go. He feels stronger already.
Harry’s hand is still on his wrist when everyone finally settles. One of the Patil sisters spins and lands on Theresa Boot, much to everyone’s amusement. No one is surprised when she straddles Theresa and proceeds to snog the living daylights out of her.
Absently, Draco smiles. His classmates deserve nice things, he decides. He wonders if he deserves them, too.
“Those two have been circling each other all bloody year,” Draco laughs. “And I was too sloshed to remember it!”
Pansy pats him on the knee, rolling her eyes. “It seems like they weren’t the only two circling each other, hm? They had the decency to alert others, at least.”
Draco folds his arms to his chest, snorting. “They told you nothing. With the help of my brilliant game, they might have given you an eyeful, perhaps…”
“Draco.” Pansy’s tone books no argument. For it being midmorning after a lively party, she looks put together and stern. He never could hold up against her, not even if he tried.
He tries anyway. He tilts his nose in the air and turns his head slightly, away from her wasp-like gaze.
He takes a deep breath, blowing air between his clenched teeth. “I kissed him after the Welcoming Ceremony during an argument,” Draco confesses. “Cliché, I know. I insulted his hair, he called me an arsehole. I bet he underestimated how much he would like my arsehole.”
“Draco,” she says, softer. She reaches out to him, gripping his arm as if he’s fragile.
Maybe he is.
Draco laughs, then sobers. “No one was supposed to know. It wasn’t meant to be as serious as it turned out to be.”
The game eventually fades into the background as his classmates continue to find joy within the little game he has created. A sweet peacefulness has overtaken him, leaving Draco stupidly happy and at ease. Everything seems so simple. He turns to look at Harry.
His eyes rake over the hollows of Harry’s face and the dip of his nose. His mouth is curled as he absently bites his bottom lip, grinning at the game of chaos that is unfolding in front of him. His hair is in absolute disarray, as always, but Draco has to tamp down the urge to smooth his unruly curls away from his forehead. Harry is a captivating picture of nonchalance with one leg outstretched in front of him, and Draco falls a bit more in love.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, shifting a bit closer, uncaring of the people around him and what they might think.
“Hmm, you think so?”
“Mhm. Harry, I think…” he falters for a second, blinking intently through the haze as he rotates the nearly empty glass in his palms. “I think your hair is not as stupid as I said it was last night. I think I might fancy your hair, in fact.”
Harry huffs quietly beside him. He releases his lip from in between his teeth. “You fancy my hair?”
Draco feels a spark of giddiness ripple through his body as weightlessness overcomes him. The words, once carefully buried, drift past his lips unbidden. He nods. “I love it. And you,” he says. “I love you.”
There is a fleeting moment of silence in the recesses of Draco’s mind where his heart soars. He feels the shackles of centuries worth of expectations waver and fall away. His father’s admonishing voice and his mother’s mutterings of displeasure fade into the haze. For the first time since the start of the war, he feels unburdened.
However, when he focuses on Harry again, he catches the way Harry’s eyes are still fixed ahead, and his body is rigid. Harry’s smile drops, and his face crumples as the glow of delight darkens into uneasiness. “You don’t.”
“I do,” Draco garbles, willing him to understand.
When Harry does turn, his lips are pinched. Draco wants to take the pad of his thumb and smooth the lines between his brows.
“You’re drunk, Draco. You don’t mean it.” When Draco opens his mouth to protest, Harry interrupts. “Please don’t repeat it. I don’t think I can—”
“Harry?” an unwelcome, rude, snotty voice interrupts. Without looking, he can tell the awful voice belongs to Smith.
Reluctantly, Draco’s eyes survey their surroundings, and sure enough, all eyes are focused on Harry, periodically darting toward Smith. The bottle, which Smith must have spun, is pointing straight at Harry.
His Harry.
Agitation swells within him as Harry remains tightlipped, all while Smith grins in a way that he must consider alluring. Draco believes he looks somewhat like a constipated radish.
“It seems that fate has chosen us, Chosen One,” Smith says, biting his lip. Draco wants to vomit.
As Smith gets to his knees and crawls across the circle, Harry seems to have snapped out of his stupor and his eyes widen comically. Draco would laugh if the situation wasn’t so dire. “Ah,” Harry stammers, hands raised in front of him. “Y’know, I don’t think I—”
Smith doesn’t stop, occasionally shaking his hips as he wriggles across the floor. “Why?” he asks. “Scared, Potter?”
And that is way too far, Draco thinks, as he audibly gasps, inadvertently bringing attention to himself. In most cases, Draco would bask in it, artfully enchanting his onlookers with clever quips and jokes. Now, however, he is mortified.
“No,” he whispers, dropping the pretence of staying silent. Shaking his finger in a threatening manner, he continues, “No, no, Smith. You go away now.”
Smith narrows his eyes in challenge, diverting his gaze from Harry to Draco. Thankfully, however, he pauses his stupid wiggle crawl. “And why would I listen to you?”
Draco sputters and brings his hand to his chest, wounded. Setting down his drink, he carefully rises to his feet, only stumbling thrice, and takes a menacing, albeit wobbling, step forward.
“Because,” he answers simply. There was a time where many would take that as an answer. Smith doesn’t and Draco curses his father for ruining the family name.
“Draco,” Harry says from behind him, tugging on Draco’s shirt sleeve. It feels like both a warning and an admission. Draco smiles.
Smith scrambles to his feet finally, though significantly less gracefully, in an attempt to level the playing field. Draco scoffs; he still has a few inches on Smith. “Oh, yeah? Because why?”
“Draco,” Harry says a bit louder. “Sit. Please.”
“Because,” Draco emphasises, dismissing Harry's ridiculous pleas. When Smith looks like he’s about to deliver a pitiful retort, Draco turns on his heel, flops down in Harry’s lap, and settles there. Floundering in the utter shock of his classmates, he turns his head to pull Harry into a filthy kiss, tongue and all, and turns back to a gaping Smith.
“Oi, what the fuck, mate,” Weasley calls out, breaking the silence that has fallen over the group. “Here I was trying to find you a nice and acceptable bloke and you were banging Malfoy ?”
Half of the circle nods in agreement, some more fervently than others.
Draco growls. “He’s mine! Mine, I say! You—you get your stupid, no good Gryffindor suitors away from him.”
Weasley gapes and Smith snickers.
“And you!” Draco snaps, pivoting. “You look like a stupid fucking constipated radish. Put your hands on him one more time, and see what happens, Smith. Be gone!”
Smith’s hands ball up into fists. “This game fucking sucks!” he yells.
Draco flashes a stricken Smith a triumphant smirk, sticking his tongue out to rub his victory in.
“For fucks sake, love.” Harry’s tone is admonishing, but nevertheless, strong arms wrap around him and pull him in. Draco wiggles his hips, and leans back into his boyfriend’s chest. He can feel Harry’s smile in the crook of his neck.
At the sight, Smith’s face hardens, eyes narrowing as approaches the centre of the circle. He seizes the bottle in his hand, an irate red flush spreading across his stupid face. He pauses, then smiles. Before Draco can comprehend Smith’s nefarious intentions, he sees the precious bottle soar through the air and hit the wall with a resounding crash. The sound echoes through the room as Smith stomps away to his dorm.
Sudden anguish surges within him and moisture collects in his eyes before he can stop it. The enchanting auburn bottle lays in fragments on the floor, the sharp edges of each shard flickering in the faint candlelight of the common room.
A drop of beer slides off of a glass piece, pooling on the floor. “He’s crying,” Draco murmurs, dismayed. “My bottle is crying. Smith killed him.”
Recollections of the time they spent together, short as it had been, flash before Draco’s eyes. A whole five hours of memories are gone in a second. Draco clutches his chest.
“It’s just a bottle, love. You’ve got a glass full of Firewhiskey right over there.”
Heart in his throat, he shakes his head. Casting a baleful look to his broken bottle, he whispers, “I love that bottle. You gave me it.”
“Gave it to me,” Harry corrects. “Merlin knows sober-you would throw a strop if he talked so utterly plebeian in public.” Draco makes a strangled noise. Harry hugs him tighter, chuckling. “Besides, nothing a quick Reparo won’t fix. Come on, now. I’ll take you to bed.”
The bottle instantly forgotten, Draco smiles and turns his head. “To ravish me?”
“What the fuck,” Weasley exclaims again, and Hermione slaps his arm. No one dares make a noise.
Harry casts the horrible ginger Weasel a look of warning before turning back to Draco. “No, not to ravish you. Not tonight.”
Draco pouts, eyes downcast and bottom lip out. If he plays this right, he thinks he can get what he wants. Harry is stupidly weak to his charms. “Tomorrow?” he asks hopefully.
A beat of silence. Then, “Tomorrow.”
When they’re both back on their feet, one a bit more steady than the other, Harry tries to lead Draco back to his room with a firm arm around his waist. When that method proves difficult, Harry sighs and simply plucks him off his feet. Draco automatically wraps his arms and legs around him and lays his head on his shoulder, sighing contently.
As they leave the room, heading up the narrow staircase to the boys dorms, Draco is met with his classmates’ wide eyes.
“You forgot the—the Cloak,” Draco says unhurriedly, suddenly drowsy. “They’ll see us. Everyone will know I’m in love with you.”
“I don’t think we’ll be needing the Cloak after the show you put on.” Harry slows his gait, readjusting Draco in his arms. “Is that a problem?”
Draco thinks, scrunching his face, willing his brain to form complete thoughts. There are so many, maybe a million and one, and he can’t make sense of them all.
He settles on, “No.”
“No?” Harry asks.
“No.” Draco nibbles on Harry’s neck for good measure.
Harry seems to accept that answer, hugging him tighter and kissing his temple, resuming his original pace towards his dorm.
What might be a few seconds or a thousand years later, Draco is being laid onto soft, red sheets while a hand moves a stray lock hair off his forehead. Turning, Draco’s bleary eyes meet green ones and he pushes into the proffered hand.
“You’re like a cat, you know,” Harry says. He looks fond.
“I used to pretend to be a cat when I was younger. I used to climb on Father’s nightstand and knock his cufflinks to the floor.”
Harry’s laugh is like the sound of the sun and Draco feels the words slip out once again. “I do love you.”
Harry smiles, all traces of doubt now gone. “Tell me tomorrow,” he says. “Tell me tomorrow and I’ll say it back.”
Satisfied, Draco nods, his eyes drooping as he falls into a peaceful sleep.
“Everyone knows,” he says, tasting the words for the first time. He can’t help the small smile that blossoms on his lips, shy and radiant.
“Oh, Merlin, you are positively smitten. You are simply adorable, darling.” Pansy cackles, pinching his cheek. When she meets his eyes, she cocks her head. “You don’t regret it, do you?”
Draco thinks of all the consequences he could encounter if this gets out, primarily to his father. Everything—disgust, scolding, and possible disowning—all seem insignificant when compared to the love he feels for Harry.
“No,” he answers, and it feels right.
Pansy stands up, brushing the imaginary wrinkles from her skirt, adjusting her boobs in her shirt so they appear larger.
“Well, go tell Potter, then.” She gestures towards the door, all traces of amusement gone from her face. “Because he clearly thinks you regret it. He got himself into quite a fit this morning. Pacing, muttering. Salazar’s balls, Draco, he looked like a madman!”
“He thinks I regret what happened last night?”
Pansy looks annoyed. “Well, have you given him any reason to believe otherwise? He told us—well, Blaise and I—the things you insisted on doing to keep your relationship a secret. The Cloak, the alcoves, the rules? I thought I raised you better than that! You treated him like he was worth nothing.”
“I—”
“Do not interrupt me, Draco Malfoy! You told the poor boy he could only look at you three times a day so no one would get suspicious. You made a written list of the things you could do in public to keep your meetings secret! Now, I’m not Harry Potter’s biggest fan, but he did not deserve that.”
Draco feels the rush of shame creep up the back of his neck. She’s always been frighteningly honest and more compassionate towards others than she cares to show outwardly. He feels remorseful and so very grateful to have her. He blinks, allowing the words to seep and settle. “I know.”
Satisfied, Pansy grabs his arms, hauls him to his feet, and pushes him towards the door. “Well, up you get, then. Go on, I don’t have all day.”
When he reaches for the doorknob, he pauses and turns around. “Thank you, Pans.”
She smiles encouragingly and goodnaturedly shoos him away. He turns the handle.
* * *
Low murmurs echo through the hallway as he leaves the dorm. Draco strains his ears in an attempt to hear. Rhythmic footsteps are intermixed with murmured groans of displeasure and annoyance as Draco reaches the doorway leading to the common room, quickly ducking behind a pillar before anyone can spot him. Hesitantly, he hugs the pillar and peeks around it.
Harry paces around the room, managing to annoy several of their classmates while running a hand intermittently through his hair, which makes it stand on end. While it is an adorable image, something is not right and Draco’s stomach drops. Harry, the man so full of life and who always has something to say, is silent. Which can only mean that he is doing one unlikely and dangerous thing: he’s thinking.
Harry Potter jumps into things without thinking, Draco knows. He firmly believes Harry does not put an ounce of thought in most decisions he makes. Usually, this method yields positive results for him, no matter the circumstances, but Draco can’t help but worry.
There was one time in the beginning of Eighth Year, Draco thinks with fondness, that Harry dove headfirst into the Great Lake to save a fish that was, according to him, drowning. He successfully retrieved the fish, conjured a fishbowl, and deposited the fish in its new home. Everyone had laughed, and Hermione had angrily reprimanded him for jeopardising a poor animal’s life. However, after Harry forced the whole class on a quick trip to the Great Oaf’s hut to prove he was right, it was confirmed that the Great Lake had subnormal levels of dissolved oxygen due to sudden algae growth caused by phosphorus in the lake. While the fish wasn’t necessarily drowning, it was suffocating and Harry had just saved its life.
Weasley was gobsmacked, Hermione was astonished, and Harry was entirely too smug for the rest of the day. He, in turn, jokingly reprimanded Hermione for not caring about the poor fish’s life.
Later that night, when he and Harry were in the privacy of Harry’s dorm, Draco had asked what the actual bloody fuck he was thinking. Harry merely shrugged and continued kissing a line down the side of his neck.
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” Harry had said, bracketing Draco’s face between his forearms before leaning down to kiss him on the lips sweetly. “I knew something was wrong, so I just acted.”
Which is why Harry thinking, silent, is very, very unnatural.
“Mate, sit down. You’re giving me a headache,” Weasley says sarcastically, but Draco can sense the silent worry from his taut shoulders. “I won’t hesitate to throttle you, you know. Your new beau might have a problem with that, but at least I’ll get some peace and quiet.”
Some of their classmates snigger, and Hermione throws a deadly glare at the Weasel. Harry doesn’t stop or acknowledge Weasley’s plea. Weasley braces himself to stand up and presumably make due on his threat and Draco knows he must remove his poor boyfriend from this situation lest he become witness to a heinous crime.
Draco steps out from behind the pillar, taking a couple steps into the room.
“Harry?” Draco calls, wringing his hands. A sudden hush befalls the common room and he takes a deep breath, unable to meet Harry’s eyes. Shame burns deep in his gut. “Can I talk to you?” Draco glances around the room and meets the eyes of curious onlookers. “Alone?”
Harry pauses his pacing and stands in place looking like a lost puppy. Draco, the coward that he is, looks at a point past Harry’s head. He looks hesitant and uneasy, but walks towards Draco with the confidence of a man who had willingly walked to his death.
“Are you sure you don't want to talk here?” Smith pipes up from the little corner where he’s been hiding. His eyes are a little puffy and red-rimmed. He looks worse for wear and clearly has not had a Hangover Potion, much to Draco’s satisfaction. “Y’know, where we can all hear about how the Great Boy Who Lived has bedded a Death Eater.”
“Oi, only I get to make fun of my best mate,” Weasley—no, Ron calls. “Shove off, Smith.”
Hermione nods her head in agreement and throws a quill at Smith, hitting him square on the forehead. Ink splatters all over, coating his face and ending up in his eyes. Smith squeals.
“Oh, do shut up, Smith. You’re a—what was it, Draco? Ah, yes, now I remember. A constipated radish!” Hermione claps her hands in delight, then pauses and glances at an ink-stained Smith, assessing him. “Hmm, it was a very astute observation you made last night, Draco. There is a striking resemblance between the two.”
The common room dissolves into laughter, and Smith into genuine tears.
Draco shoots Hermione a grateful smile and she winks in return.
“Well, come on, now,” Draco whispers, gripping Harry’s hand in his own—a once forbidden act—and dragging him in the direction of the staircase. Draco sees Harry smile softly out of the corner of his eye as they make their quick escape and his heart feels a little better.
Somehow, along the way, Draco finds himself being led to his own dorm by Harry. As soon as the door shuts softly, Harry starts speaking before Draco can take a deep breath to calm himself.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says quickly, looking every bit the noble, self-sacrificing man he is.
Draco shakes his head. “No, Harry, you—”
“I shouldn’t have given you that beer last night. Or I should have cut you off when I saw you were drinking the Firewhiskey. That damn Blaise, always flirting and talking and—and giving you alcohol! You’ve been friends for years, doesn’t he know you can’t handle your liquor?”
“Harry, I—”
“Or maybe I should have stopped you when I realised that you were going to reveal our relationship—”
“ Harry —”
“—because I know what could happen if your father found out. It was just so amazing to finally have your undivided attention in front of everyone. It was inconsiderate of me to—”
“Harry!” Draco yells, clutching his boyfriend’s shoulders and jostling him slightly. He takes a moment to appreciate Harry’s muscles, moving his hands down to grasp his biceps before continuing. “I don’t regret telling everyone.”
Harry stops, looking confused. “You don’t?”
Throwing his hands into the air, he pushes the mountain of decorative pillows to the floor and flops onto his bed. The sheets are silky and smooth against his face, but he longs for Harry’s scruffy red ones. Something about them feels like home. “I don’t. I thought it would be too much to handle, but it’s not. There’s something about it that feels freeing.”
“Freeing?”
Draco lifts his head and raises his eyebrows. “Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“No.” Harry huffs and kneels on the floor, propping his chin on the side of the bed. “It’s just… The other day you were going off about how I glanced at you five times during class instead of the allowed three. You wrote out a list of rules that I hated, for Godric’s sake, so I may find your rash change of heart hard to believe. Not that I mind it!” he rushes to add.
Draco nods, covering his eyes with his arm. He understands, but hearing the confirmation of how much turmoil he has caused Harry still hurts. “You know, I never liked D.I.C.K. in the first place. I regret making it, but all of my father’s expectations hit me as soon as we kissed and I panicked. All of the rules and the hiding,” Draco sighs, “Harry, you didn’t deserve that.”
There’s a lull in the conversation and Harry doesn’t say anything for a while. Draco fears he might have broken him with this admission.
“You’re not gay?” Harry asks, his voice dripping with sadness. “Draco, what the actual fuck?”
Confused at the subject change, Draco sits up, knocking a few more pillows off his bed and to the floor.
“What?” he asks, looking at Harry who’s usually joyous, gorgeous face has transformed into absolute dismay. Jokingly, Draco continues, “Why the fuck would you think that? Is your hearing as bad as your eyesight?”
The utter look of despair turns affronted at being contested, despite the joking lilt in Draco’s voice. Harry never did like being questioned.
“You just said so, you arsehole!”
There have been many times where Draco has been certain Harry had lost the plot. Commanding a snake to attack poor Justin in Second Year and claiming that a dead homicidal maniac had returned in Fourth Year had been on the top for a bit, before quickly being replaced by the entirety of Sixth Year. In fact, Draco is certain Harry had lost the plot in Sixth Year. But this moment here really takes the proverbial cake.
Draco Malfoy, not gay? Draco has never been so confused in his life.
“You said you hated dick,” Harry repeats, his voice insistent.
“I do hate D.I.C.K! You just said you hated D.I.C.K., too!”
“I like dick, Draco. You know I love dick,” Harry scoffs, crossing his arms.
“Is this my punishment for keeping you a secret?” Draco asks. “You plan to drive me crazy using psychological torture? Twist my mind by talking in circles? We both hate D.I.C.K. and that is a fact.”
Harry looks angry now, and Draco is just a little bit afraid and a lot turned on.
“You certainly went down on my dick often enough for someone who is suddenly claiming to be straight.”
“Great Godric’s Gonads, Harry James Potter, I am not claiming to be straight! How do you even get these deluded ideas into your ginormous, thick head? Surely your abhorrent hair would offer some protection from these irrational delusions. D.I.C.K is—oh.”
His words taper off as a thin veil of understanding settles over him. He cannot stop the loud laugh that bursts from his mouth, resonating off the vaulted ceiling of his dorm without abandon. He clutches his sides and rolls back on the bed, knocking the rest of his pillows off.
“I love dick! The list is D.I.C.K, you idiot,” he cackles, tears beginning to form at the corner of his eyes. Try as he might, he is incapable of containing his laughter. “The list—oh, Merlin.!”
“Draco? Are you okay?” Harry looks worried now, standing awkwardly as if he doesn’t know whether to run for Pomfrey or his life.
“The list is D.I.C.K!” Draco wheezes. “Oh, Merlin’s saggy balls. Harry, my love, you are an absolute riot. I truly do adore you.”
Sitting up, Draco retrieves his wand from his pocket, still struggling to catch his breath. “Oh, Merlin, stay there. Let me show you. Accio D.I.C.K..”
Harry quickly covers his crotch and starts to protest, but sure enough, a small piece of parchment flies into Draco’s awaiting hands. He shoves it in Harry’s face, a satisfied smile firmly in place.
“Draco’s Index for Covert Kisses?” Harry reads slowly. He looks up to a grinning Draco, a small smile now slowly creeping onto his stupid face. “You titled the rules Draco’s Index for Covert Kisses? D.I.C.K.?”
Draco nods.
“What the actual fuck.”
With that, Harry launches himself onto Draco, knocking him on his back. For a second, he thinks Harry is trying to strangle him to death. Instead, Harry straddles him, warm and comforting. He leans down and places his forearms on either side of Draco’s head and brushes their noses together.
“You’re insane,” Harry laughs, each gentle word sending soft puffs of air that caress Draco’s lips. “Totally, absolutely, certifiably insane.”
Draco smiles and throws his arms around Harry’s neck. Draco raises his eyebrows and shifts his hips, a satisfied smirk pulling at his lips when he notices Harry’s eyes darken.
“Insane?” he asks teasingly.
“Insane,” Harry confirms. “Batty, dramatic, and daft as well. With charms like yours, it’s certainly no mystery as to why I fell in love with you.”
Draco’s world stops, tilts, crashes, then resettles. His vision tunnels and the rest of the world falls away until there is only Harry. Those three words, short as they may be, echo in his head.
“You do?” he asks.
Harry hums in assent.
Draco can feel his lips stretch into a wide grin and he pulls Harry down for a kiss.
“I love you, too.”