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Oh, what love we find
When we aren’t even looking
It started small – unnoticeable. It happened by chance, one day, after class when Harry found a small piece of crumpled paper on the floor. He picked it up and made to throw it in the bin, but was curious as to what someone would throw away, and he opened it. Beautiful cursive lettering stood out to him.
Oh, I guess I’m not the type of person someone falls in love with.
And upon reading that, Harry had felt so heart broken, he had slipped the little note in his pants pocket.
~
It happened again, a different class, a different room. But it happened. This time, the note was left folded – forgotten – on the edge of the desk. Harry picked it up, the same letters stood in lead.
You are allowed to
Grieve
Over the child you could have been
And Harry had to hold back a sob.
~
When heading back from Hagrid’s class of magical creatures, Harry heard a crumple under his foot. Another note – a letter, poem – tossed on the floor. It called to him.
Then write a poem about the fact
That you’ve never been faithful to anyone,
Always kept one hand feeling along the walls
For a knob, a hinge, a latch
To release the pressure in the chamber
Harry felt a twinge in his heart, and looked up at Ginny.
~
The fourth time was in the common room; the Eighth-year common room was empty, only a few people lingered by the fire. Harry stood to go to bed and his eye was drawn to the paper on the table. He walked over and picked it up, tracing his fingers lightly over the cursive writing.
Am I supposed to be grateful
To have survived this?
And Harry exhaled a shaky breath.
~
It was after the fourth that Harry brought this up with Hermione one peaceful afternoon, studying in the library.
“Write back,” Had been her response.
“Write what?”
“Whatever you desire.”
And so, he did.
What I sometimes mistake for ecstasy is simply the absence of grief.
And he left it on common room table.
~
The next day it was gone, but no new note took its place.
~
It had been a few days for the next letter to appear – by chance? By design. Does it even matter anymore? – but it appeared. It was hidden underneath a book in Potions. This one seemed a little more crumpled – the ink had slightly smudged, but the letters stood tall.
Why do my eyes wander and try to search for yours
In every room I enter, like they expect you
To look back at me.
And Harry yearned. He replied back.
Tell me every terrible thing you ever did,
And let me love you anyway
~
“Do you like poetry?” Malfoy asked, one quiet evening in the common room. No-one was around, everyone having left to go study, or go to Hogsmeade, or stay in their rooms.
“I’ve been enjoying it recently,” Harry replied, slightly confused by the sudden question.
Malfoy Hmm’d in reply.
“Do you enjoy poetry?”
“Yes,” Malfoy whispered, “Yes, I do.”
And it ate at Harry.
~
“I wonder,” Harry thought aloud to Ron and Hermione, “What sort of poetry Malfoy likes.”
“I’m not sure,” Hermione spoke. And after a moment, “Why don’t you ask him?”
Harry could only nod in response.
“Maybe something sappy? Or sad,” Ron tried to add helpfully.
Harry laughed, “Definitely sappy.”
~
Harry found the next note on the windowsill in a hallway. It was a particularly hot day – the sun beaming down upon him. The letter was kept in the shade – the cool shadow giving Harry a respite from the suns sweltering heat. He opened the letter.
I wanted to be loved so desperately that my fingers shook with it
I am not beautiful
But I could be.
And a little further down, smudged and nearly unintelligible:
You are my sun – my guiding light. I wish to be your moon.
And Harry felt as if he could cry.
He took a piece of parchment from his bag, and wrote quickly, helplessly;
When you’re born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire.
But it’s not.
It’s not.
~
“May I sit here?” Harry asked, motioning to the empty chair next to Malfoy.
Malfoy blinked blankly for a few seconds before shrugging. Harry took it as a yes.
A few moments of silence had gone by before Malfoy spoke up, “Why are you here – with me?”
“I wanted to ask you what poetry you liked.” Harry responded, turning to look at him.
“What?”
“What poetry do you like? Ron think’s it’s the sappy kind. Or the sad kind.”
Malfoy hardly knew what to make of this, “You talk to them about me?”
“Yes,” Harry replied swiftly, “I ask them what kind of poetry they think you like.”
“The sappy kind,” Malfoy paused, before adding, “And the sad kind.”
“So, Ron was right.”
Malfoy nodded in reply, and turned back to his work. Harry followed suit.
~
“Why did you sit with Malfoy in the library?” Ron asked curiously, lounging on Harry’s bed.
“I’m tired of holding grudges. I want to move on,” Harry replied earnestly.
“We are too young,” Hermione began, as if she was reciting it from somewhere, “To be this kind of tired.”
“Where’s that from?” Harry asked, curiously.
“The note,” And Hermione handed him the note, the same familiar cursive printed on the parchment. He traced it with his fingers.
“Is that what you’ve been finding?” Hermione wondered.
“Yes,” Harry whispered.
~
“Malfoy,” Harry whispered during a study session in the library, “Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me?”
Malfoy’s head shot up, “What? And do what, Potter?”
“I don’t know. Hang out?”
“Hanging out? With you? In Hogsmeade?” Malfoy made a face – one that would suggest the utter ridiculousness of the idea – but stopped, and instead said, “That sounds acceptable.” And turned back to his work.
~
It was already snowing when they went out, the path was covered in a layer of new snow, white and glistening under the sunlight. Malfoy was bundled up in a coat and scarf and a ‘stylish’ beanie atop his head – ‘I don’t know about you, Potter, but I’m not going to ruin my impeccable fashion sense because it’s a bit chilly’ – and Harry had just rolled his eyes.
“Are you sure you’re not cold?” Harry asked him again.
“Yes, Potter. For Merlin’s sake, I’m perfectly fine. I am a wizard after all, I do know how to use a warming spell.” And Harry had to hold in a laugh as Malfoy’s teeth chattered quietly.
They arrived at Hogsmeade and headed straight for Honeydukes, per Harry’s request.
“You’ll rot your teeth with that much sugar,” Malfoy spoke, staring at the pile of chocolate in Harry’s bag.
“Well, I can always get new ones. I am a wizard after all, I can grow back a few teeth,” Harry replied, a smirk on his face, and Malfoy laughed.
They warmed up in The Three Broomsticks, butterbeer in hand and the fireplace next to them. Lively chatter expelled from all corners of the pub – it’s customers a rather lively bunch.
“Anywhere you wanted to go?” Harry asked in between sips of butterbeer.
“Not particularly,” Malfoy replied.
“Shall we just go back then? After this?” Harry asked.
“Sure,” Malfoy replied.
They stayed for an hour.
~
“What was it like, spending time with Malfoy?” Hermione asked.
“It was okay.”
“Just ‘okay’?” Ron asked.
“Yeah, it was … nice. Not having to yell at him. Or get upset.”
Hermione nodded in response.
~
Some days later, Hermione was seen trying to start a tentative conversation with Malfoy. It lasted 4 sentences – maybe 5? – but both parties seemed relatively happy with that outcome.
It was then that Harry found the next letter.
I hope my dying breath is a sigh of relief.
“Another note?” Hermione asked.
“Yes,” Harry replied.
“What does it say?” Ron asked.
“Too much.” Harry felt the world shift.
~
Malfoy didn’t show up for breakfast. His usual spot at the Slytherin table was empty. When asked, Hermione and Ron just shrugged.
He didn’t show up for first lesson either.
Or the second.
His eyes kept looking – searching, hoping – to catch a glimpse of blonde hair and blue eyes.
On the third – Harry left, and headed back to the Eighth-year dorms. To Malfoy’s dorm.
He knocked once. Twice. And on the third he heard a low grumble, a mutter or a mumble, and then the door slid open.
“Hello,” Harry said, and looked at Malfoy, he was half wrapped in his silk robe and his nose was a light red. “Are you sick?” And then he felt rather stupid for asking that.
“Yes,” Malfoy replied, voice hoarse, “Is that all that you came for?”
“Well,” And Harry stopped short, and felt a blush threaten to climb up his neck, and stain his cheeks pink, “Well, yes. I didn’t see you, and I was wondering where you were…”
“Ah, well, I’ve been sick.” And he seemed to emphasis this with a sniff.
“Do you want me to get you something from Madame Pomfrey?”
“No, I visited her before, I’ll be fine.”
“Ah, alright,” And Harry stood in the doorway dumbly, before Malfoy spoke.
“Thank you, Harry. That was very kind of you,” And if he knew what he said, then he didn’t show it, because it was swiftly followed with, “And I’ll be heading back to bed, if you don’t mind.” And a gentle thud of the door closing.
~
“He’s ill?” Hermione asked when Harry joined them in the library.
“Yes,” Harry replied, twirling his quill in his hand.
“Has he gone to see Madam Pomfrey?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Malfoy looks like the type to catch a cold by opening a freezer,” Ron chuckled.
“Ron,” Hermione giggled, “How awful.”
Harry smiled, “Yeah, he does seem pretty delicate.”
“How about you bring him some food? He hasn’t eaten all day, has he?” Hermione pondered.
“Yes,” Harry thought, then lit up at the notion, “Yes, I should. I’ll see you later.”
~~
Harry tickled the pear and turned the knob to enter the kitchens.
“Mr Potter shouldn’t be down here,” Kreacher spoke as soon as Harry stepped his toe into the room.
“Yes, I know, and I apologise – sincerely – but Draco is sick, and I would like to bring him some food.”
“Mr Malfoy has fallen ill?” Kreacher spoke with – Dear Merlin, worry? – in his voice.
Harry rolled his eyes, “Yes.” Kreacher always liked Draco more like Harry. Must be something to do with the purebloodness of it all.
“I’ll prepare something right away,” and Kreacher vanished. Pots and pans could be heard clanking further into the kitchen.
Harry stood there lamely waiting for the food to be prepared, and felt the need to do something. He pulled out his quill and parchment and thought, waited, and then wrote.
You are always ticking inside me
And I dream of you
More often, then I don’t
He folded it up and put it down before he could take it back. Before he could understand. Before he could…
“Here. The food for Mr Malfoy is finished. Chicken soup, bread, and tea.” Kreacher handed Harry the food in a small basket.
“A basket?” Harry questioned, slipping his note inside, “Why a basket?”
“How else would Mr Potter carry such things?”
“I don’t know… Magic?”
“Mr Potter can leave.”
Harry had to hold in a laugh, “Alright Kreacher, bye.” And he left the kitchens.
~~
“Malfoy?” Harry asked, knocking on his door.
Another set of grumbles, and the door opened, “Hello Potter, how can I help you?”
“Um, I’ve uh, I’ve brought you food,” Harry spoke, emphasising his point by lifting up the basket of food, “Uh, I got it from the kitchens. Kreacher made it.”
Malfoy stood slightly surprised, but let out a small smile, “Thank you, do you want to come in?”
“Uh, yes, sure.” And Harry awkwardly walked into Malfoy’s room. It was decorated exactly like how he thought it would – and he tried not to think what he imagined Malfoy’s room looking like. A double size four poster bed, mahogany desk, a small table with chairs, and tons of green décor.
Harry placed the basket on the small table. Malfoy took a seat, and motioned for Harry to do the same.
“So, what did Kreacher give me?” Malfoy smiled.
“Chicken soup, bread and tea. I don’t think he would have let me choose anything anyway,” Harry returned the smile.
“You do have a rather … peculiar taste,” Malfoy took out the bowl of soup and bread, and began to eat.
Even eating, Malfoy looked elegant, “Uh, well, I have a normal taste. You were raised eating, I don’t know, caviar? What are other posh and pretentious foods?”
Malfoy nearly choked in his soup, “Posh and pretentious? Harry, don’t make me laugh. I’ll choke on my soup.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Harry smiled, “But I appreciate you laughing at my jokes at the expense of your own health.”
“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself. Nothing is more important than my health.”
“Except, maybe, posh and pretentious foods.”
“Harry,” Malfoy couldn’t help the laugh that escaped with Harry’s name. The grin that split across his face.
“That’s the third time,” Harry whispered.
“The third what?” Draco spoke, blowing on his soup.
“The third time you’ve said my name.”
Draco stuttered for a moment, “Uh, well, I’m delirious and with fever. I’m not aware of what I’m doing. I laughed at your joke remember?”
“I don’t mind it. Draco,” Harry spoke, “It would be nice to, uh, call each other by our first names.”
“Alright,” Draco ate another spoon of his soup, “Harry.”
“You have a fever?”
“I did, yes. That’s the whole thing about ‘being sick’. You get fevers.”
“You don’t have to be such an ass,” Harry spoke, reaching over and placed the back of his hand on Draco’s forehead, “You don’t feel like you have one now. Would you like me to fetch anything from Madame Pomfrey?”
“Um, no, no, that’s ok.”
“Are you sure? Your face looks a bit red?”
“Yes, well, nothing out of ordinary then, being sick, ya know?”
Harry touched the back of his hand, “Ah – sorry, if that made you uncomfortable. Hermione does that to me when I feel sick, it’s just … instinct?” Harry mumbled the end.
“My mother does that to me too.” Draco tore a piece of his bread to eat, “Didn’t your aunt?”
“Uh, well, she did to my cousin. She wasn’t the very warm and cuddly type to me,” Harry spoke quietly, remembering their last conversation. Right before they left Privet Drive.
“It’s good you have Granger then.”
“Yes, I’m very grateful to have Hermione and Ron in my life,” And Harry couldn’t help the warm smile that spread across his face.
“We’ve been chatting – Her and I,” Draco spoke.
“Yes, she’s told me.”
“I wanted to apologise to her – about my past actions – would she want that? I just don’t want to get off in the wrong foot.”
“I think she would be grateful, but Hermione has already forgiven you.”
“How peculiar,” Draco mumbled, “Thank you.”
“Ron might need a little convincing though,” Herry teased.
“Yes, I need to apologise to him too.” Draco smiled.
A few minutes passed in silence, Draco enjoying his soup and bread, before Harry spoke, “I should leave you alone now, I’ve bothered you for long enough.”
“You’re not a bother,” Draco spoke, making eye contact. “Thank you, for the food, that was wonderfully thoughtful of you. I would’ve starved to death if wasn’t for you.”
“Ah, yeah, no worries. My pleasure.” Harry felt that same blush threaten to creep onto his face. He stood up and Draco followed suit, opening the door for Harry.
Harry gave a slight nod and made to walk out the door when Draco stopped him, “Um, we should, uh, do this again?”
“Give you food while you’re sick?”
Draco sighed exasperatedly, “No – I mean, we should go out, sometime … or something.” His voice trailing off at the end.
“Are you asking me out?”
“If you say yes, then I am. If you say no, then I’m not.”
“Yes.”
“Well then, I’m asking you out.”
Harry chuckled, “Yeah, I’d like that. Leave me a note.”
“I’ll wait your response.”
And Harry didn’t know what else to do, but hold Draco’s hand and lightly squeeze and give in to the bright pink blush spreading its way across his face, “Um, get better soon then.”
Draco squeezed back. “I will.”
“See you, Draco.”
“Later, Harry.”
And Harry left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him. Harry brought his hands to cover his face. A Date? With Draco? His heart felt like he could explode. He hurried to his dorm so nobody would see him lingering around Draco’s room.
~~
Draco clicked the door shut and sat down at his chair; his face felt hot – from the fever? The touch? – he was delirious. Giddy. Excited. He reached into the basket to grab his tea, but his hand touched a piece of parchment instead.
You are always ticking inside me
And I dream of you
More often, then I don’t
Draco held the note tightly to his chest, and sighed.