Work Text:
The Goddamn Renaissance
o O o
He looked so like a painting, Draco mused, leaning back into the cushioning of his regular lounge. Ever since he had returned for his eighth year at Hogwarts Draco had claimed the chaise by the window. Not only did the position provide him the best view over the grounds and the forest, but he could also watch (covertly of course), the goings on of the common room. And Harry Potter. Who, apparently also a creature of habit, had quickly appropriated the high-backed arm-chair by the fire. It was slytherin green, which had afforded Draco some sick sense of perverted joy until he realised how fetching Potter looked in it, how well the upholstery complemented his emerald eyes and pale skin. He had known in that moment that the chair existed only to torment him.
Still. Very much like a painting was Potter. If Draco were an artist the high cheekbones, aristocratic nose, sharp jawline, dark brows, byronic curls and intense stare would have sent him all a swoon, probably he would have needed the smelly salts and whatnot, possibly a fan. As it were, Draco did not need any of those things. Mostly. Draco simply sat. And admired. Covertly. “Ogling pretty Potty again are we?”
Perhaps not so covertly.
Pansy Parkinson laughed as she sat down, splaying her legs ridiculously across his lap. No sense of propriety that one. “No. Of course not.” he replied.
Pansy ignored him, “I do so love change. After all, variety is the spice of life, is it not Draco?” she asked sarcastically.
“Shut up.” he replied, wittily.
Across the room Potter turned the page of his book; The Complete Poetry of Lord Byron. Even the way he turned pages was attractive, if a little gross. He licked the tip of his finger surreptitiously, pink tongue darting out when he thought no one was looking, then he used that finger to lift and turn the page.
If Draco were a poet he would most likely keep on keeping on with the painting metaphor; Draco would start a movement for Potter, he would dedicate a thousand years to creating a masterpiece if it meant Potter would look at him for just one second. Potter was a masterpiece actually. David had nothing on him, The Birth of Aphrodite became hideous in comparison, even the image of Adele Bloch Bauer, blessed enough to be captured in the most perfect, the most ideal picture of nouveau beauty, paled when stood next to the complete and utter exquisiteness that was Harry Potter. Who, in Draco’s good opinion (and Draco prided himself on his good opinions), was the most perfect life-form ever to walk the face of the planet. The whole goddamn renaissance was stuck in his smile. “Merlins bleeding minge-hole, are you even hearing a word I say?” Pansy sounded, put out and pouting.
“What?” he said. “Of course I am” Draco sputtered, zoning back into the conversation.
Pansy threw him her most level gaze, “Alright then Malfoy, what did I say?”
“What? Now Pansy this is silly-”
“Stop talking out of your arse, what did I say?”
Ruthless wench.
“Eerm. It was about...” He struggled for a moment trying to come up with something. “Boys. You were talking about a boy. You’re obsessed Darling, but he's not worth your suffering.” he finished triumphantly, boys were mostly the only thing Pansy spoke about with him, all her evil plans in regards to other subjects were kept locked away in her devious mind.
Pansy rolled her eyes.
“I’m not the one obsessed Draco. You won’t even talk to him. How do you expect anything to happen if you won’t just talk to him?”
“He doesn’t like me Pansy, and I’m scared he wouldn’t even if we did get to know each other.” Draco admitted slowly in a rare show of vulnerability.
Pansy’s gaze softened minutely.
Then it hardened.
Damn.
“Bullshit. You’re lovable as hell and you know it you monumental toss-pot. You just don’t have the bollocks.”
It was a challenge. Draco knew this, and mentally, rationally, he recognised it for the weak, manipulative ploy that it was. Then Pansy smirked. And that was a red flag at a bull no matter how irrational. “Damn you to buggery Parkinson,” he said, acid in his tone, before calling out, “Oii, Potter!”
A few people glanced up at him, but for the most part no one seemed very interested in the fact that Draco was yelling at across the common room like a wanker. Which was a shame. He remembered the good old days, when he could sigh and every one in his immediate vicinity would turn their heads his direction, he was just that interesting (fascinating, scintillating, incredible, all the adjectives). Now though, it was just Granger, who looked up from a beaten copy of Advanced Arithmancer’s Guide to Charmed Integers and stared at him consideringly with little to no amusement, the second-camera-toting Creevey boy (how did he even get in the common room???), and Potter himself, who was staring, and apparently waiting for him to speak. Yes. Speech was good.
“EUUUUUGH WHAT ARE YOU READING?” Draco yelled. Too loud.
Brilliant. He had said words. Or yelled them. Maybe.
Potter looked quite confused, his eyes widening slightly. Draco could think of a few other things that would have made his eyes- moving on.
“The poetry of Lord Byron,” Potter answered, somewhat tartly, seeming to recover from the minor shock of having Draco dare speak to him, and holding up the cover for all the room to see like the secret smart ass he truly was. Draco changed his mind. Harry Potter was utterly repulsive.
"Oh, well that's... that's actually quite erudite Potter, colour me impressed."
“You can have it if you’re interested.”
Draco changed his mind again, Harry Potter was completely wonderful, his perfection absolute. An excellent specimen.
“Oh, well if you’re sure” he demurred.
Somewhere inside of him, a maniacal demon laughed with glee and merrily prepared to tear any interlopers from the book if they dared intercede. A gift! A gift from Harry Potter! Oh happy day!
The man in question stood up and crossed the room, Draco tried quickly to look appealing, and took a moment to damn his genetics. How did someone with two such glamorous parents end up as wonky looking as he did? It pained him every time he saw a mirror. His only saving graces were a certain tenacity for skilled personal grooming and perhaps an agreeable bone structure. Sometimes he looked at Zacharias Smith and questioned the cruel will of the universe, for there was a boy who looked like he could be the son of Lucius and Narcissa, and yet young Smith was also a boy who was so unpleasant and bitter that he did not deserve his dumb pretty face.
Draco deserved a dumb pretty face.
But alas. Fate had other designs and instead Draco came out looking somewhat reminiscent of an albino thestral. One that had had an awkward growth-spurt and hadn’t quite figured out how far it’s limbs could reach.
Potter was standing before him, holding the book out somewhat awkwardly, and there was a lengthy pause as Draco mentally wrote a sonnet about Potter’s peepers, which were, in that moment looking out at him from under sooty lashes and framed by adorable pinkish cheeks. Pinkish cheeks that were growing all the rosier in the social inelegance of the situation. Draco quickly grabbed the book. Triumph! Victory! Take that Ginny Weasley you man-stealing trollop! Not that Potter was ever his man to be stolen, maybe Potter was his mental man. Mental Crush-ship over Potter, who he had liked for quite a bit longer than Ginny 'Dumb Girlfriend' Weasley had liked him, and since quite a while before. As in, since the robe shop days. Not that it mattered, those two had broken up, but let it be said that if in some obscure alternate dimension he were a dog and Potter a fire hydrant, Ginny Weasley would never have gone near him on account of- “Okay well, see you around Malfoy-”
Potter was leaving. Had he said something? No, probably more to the point; had he forgotten to say something? Absent Mindedness thy name is Draco. “Wait, Potter.”
He grabbed at Potters hand kind of desperately, and bemoaned the loss of his dignity. Somewhere in Azkaban Lucius Malfoy felt shivers run down his spine.
“Err, yes?” Potter asked, his eyebrows drawn down slightly, there was a little line between them, if he were a painting right this moment, it would have been titled ‘Brooding Hero’.
“Why don’t you sit, tell me something about this little muggle book.” Draco was the smoothest.
He pretended not to hear Pansy snort. Potter sat across from him, on the wooden chair that no one apart from Luna Lovegood could tolerate, (not even the Hufflepuffs). He was quite a bit shorter than Draco this way. But Draco also knew that if they were both to stand up that the top of Potters head would only just reach his chin. Great Merlin he had a crush on a short-arse.
"How can you tell that it's muggle?" Potter asks him picking at a thread in his sleeve. Draco would have bought him a jumper had they been closer.
"Please Potter, only a muggle would manufacture something that looked so cheap."
Potter looked offended.
"Well you don't have to have it Malfoy, if it's so distasteful to your delicate sensibilities then I'll just take it right on back." he said indignantly, reaching out a hand to snatch the book from Draco's grasp. The maniacal demon growled and snapped it's jaw.
NOooooooo.
"NOoooooo!" he cried.
There was silence. The whole common room was very suddenly, very awkwardly, silent. Where before no one had any extra shits to give about Draco and his conversation, the whole common room now paused to stare at him. He supposed that he may have sounded a mite dramatic.
"Err right then." Potter said.
"I meant cheap in a good way." Draco replied quickly, scrambling.
"In a good way?"
Potter looked supremely unimpressed, one of his dark eyebrows was arched high and looking all... disbelievy.
"Yes of course, don't repeat me." Draco snapped.
"Is there even such a thing?"
"Of course there is Potter, don't be so classist."
That time Potter and Pansy snorted simultaneously and it was all very off-putting and Draco did not like either of them, at all.
"Explain then, Draco Malfoy, defender of the cheap." Potter snarked, basically because he was a terrible shit.
"Well," Draco began. "If the books are cheap, then, lot's of plebeian people can afford them. It's the joy of reading and learning and all that rot, except, accessible. To everyone, without much money."
Harry Potter actually nodded at him.
"I suppose so." is all he said.
"Of course you do, I am brilliant. Now tell me about this book."
And to Draco's pleasant surprise, he did just that.
o O o
"You're pining darling."
"I am not. I would never pine. I am a Malfoy, I am pined after, or, I desire, reciprocally."
"Yes dear." she replied.
It had been a week since Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had talked poetry in the eighth year common room. Since then Draco's love had only intensified. Before, his love was like a spark. It felt all-consuming at the time, and it had been very passionate, but now. Now he knew better. Now he knew what it felt like for Harry to smile at him when he said something funny. Now he knew what it felt like to chat quietly about fancy poetry. Now his love was like a bush-fire, raging out of control and so big that it had wholly swallowed the spark from before. That pitiful spark from before, how small it seemed now. A week ago he knew nothing of love. This week he knows it intimately.
He had tried writing his own poetry even. It had not gone as well as he had hoped but;
Potter, you are so very beautiful. I want to punch you in the face and then kiss it better.
Also your personality is mostly okay too.
-DM
It was not really a poem. Although Draco thought that what it lacked in structure it made up for in eloquence.
He looked over at Potter only to see that the idiot was already staring at him. Intently. Draco was probably about to burst into flame.
There came a sharp pain in the ribs, one that he recognised as Pansy's elbow, and he was reminded that even though he was probably in love with Harry Potter, he didn't have to make it so obvious to the git.
He quickly returned his interest to breakfast and promptly planted his elbow into his toast with strawberry jam. Admittedly, it was not the most auspicious of daily beginnings, but it was also not the worst thing he had done since he developed his dumb crush. That title went to the time he was practicing laps around the quidditch pitch and literally fell off of his broom when a swarm of gryffindor boys began an augmenti fight on the ground below. Potter had been among them. And Potter had been wearing a shirt. Until he hadn't been. One augmenti to the chest and the shirt was gone. So gone, that Draco could see his nipples all the way from up-
CRASH.
Shirtless Potter had, gloriously, rushed over to help, even going so far as to walk him to the hospital wing. Less glorious had been Madam Pomfrey's disapproving glare as she fixed up his sprained wrist and lectured him on the dangers of flying. Nasty shrew had never liked him.
In any case, a simple cleaning charm and his shirt sleeve was de-jammed.
Draco was again turning his attention to breakfast when the post owls came through. Not that Draco would have admitted it if pressed, but this feathered morning ritual was one of his favourite things about Hogwarts. He liked watching the younger children light up about getting something from home, and he was always amused by the older students pretending to be adult as they perused the prophet. Suddenly, a large tawny owl parked itself in front of Draco.
He knew better than to think it was for someone else, owls were intelligent creatures and rarely made an error when it came to any kind of postal delivery, but he could not fathom who would be sending a message to him outside of his Mother. The owl was not a Malfoy owl and the parcel attached to it's leg did not bear the Malfoy crest. Moste Mysterious.
He quickly cut some bacon and fed it to the owl, untying the parcel from its ankle as it ate. The packaging was brown and tied together with what looked like some kind of coarse farmers wool, but it was wrapped neatly and some care had obviously gone into folding the paper at the corners. A dark thought crossed his mind and he quickly dropped the parcel. Could it be cursed? If he opened the package would something jump out and kill him? Would he die never having admitted his love? He was too young! Forsooth!
He waved his wand over the parcel, casting several common curse detectors, a few more advanced ones, and a number of more obscure ones. The Malfoys were paranoid folks. It was in his blood. Besides, politics being as they were at the minute, his name was worth less than horse manure.
Still, nothing appeared. It seemed, that for all intents and purposes that the package was harmless.
He levitated the card first rather than touching it.
Then he saw the initials HP, and clutched it to his chest like a twelve year old girl receiving her first valentine. Get a grip Draco, he muttered. He looked over at the Gryffindor table, but Potter had already left.
Draco lowered his eyes to the note, still keeping it turned away from prying eyes.
Draco (I hope I can call you that?),
Seeing as you liked Byron I figured you might enjoy Yeats.
I think you may have been surprised that I like reading the other night so I will be honest with you,
I'm not really one for novels or anything that means sitting down for more than a few hour's I don't have the time and I can't be bothered. Nothing worth saying can't be said in few words, so poetry is ideal.
Hermione put me onto all this stuff so I suppose if you want it directly from the source you can ask her, but I really think this might be up your alley.
Happy Reading,
HP
Draco carefully unpicked the parcel, wary of the shiny stripes he knew the muggleborns called 'sticky-tape', then he reached in a hand and pulled the book out.
The book itself was in good condition. But Draco could see little strips of coloured paper poking out the top of the pages, and upon closer inspection realised that they marked Potter's favourites. Further to this he could see neat cursive (that he knew to be Grangers) lining the margins, and the tiny scrawl he knew to be Potter lining the bottoms of the pages. Potter's handwriting was the funniest thing honestly, Draco would have expected very large messy hand-writing if he hadn't seen it, the kind of hand-writing that indicated a brash sort of person, a 'look at me' person. Instead, when he had caught sight of Potters handwriting in his fourth year whilst helping Severus to mark some first year paper's he had been surprised, though it looked rushed it was very neat and compact. The letters were uniform and tiny, as though their writer were trying to take up as little space as possible. It had clashed with his perception of Potter at the time, but seeing him older, seeing him shy away from attention and just plain growing up had shown him that the tiny script was well suited.
In any case he was almost certain Potter hadn't sent him this gift (a second gift!), for Draco to conduct an in depth analysis of his hand-writing and Grangers, so he instead carefully inspected the cover. This one was of a higher quality than the Byron, it's title was embossed and surrounded by a little pattern of climber leaves and flowers. Draco couldn't wait to read it, and he couldn't wait to try and have another conversation with Potter. For surely this indicated a desire to continue their discussion? He hoped.
"What have you got there Malfoy?" Theo Nott Jr. crowed from the other end of the table.
The dumb swine thought himself a wonderful imitation of Draco's golden years. Truthfully he was sub-standard and lacked the appropriate theatric flair that was required for true villainy.
"Shut up Nott, no one wants to hear your voice." He said tiredly. Honestly who could even be bothered?
"Oooooh, someone's feisty!" Theo jeered. "Almost... defensive one could say. Why's that Malfoy? It's not as though anyone's writing you any love letters."
Draco had felt his ears turn immediately red in dread. That was true. No one would write him any love letters. No one would want him enough.
Theo, like a true slytherin, noticed the reaction, but, like an idiot unworthy of the house of snakes, interpreted it incorrectly. So Draco watched with dawning horror as Nott quickly charmed the book and the note into his possession. He held it up for all of the table to see.
"So, maybe high and mighty Malfoy is getting love letters! Can't imagine who from! I'd rather die than do anything so... personally humiliating. Imagine! A Malfoy!"
By now half the table was jeering, and those who weren't jeering were whispering,. Everyone was watching. The Ravenclaw's, who were closest to them had also turned to see what was going on. Theo, enamoured of the spotlight, jumped up and stood on the table. Draco was beginning to regret his little thought about Theo lacking any theatric flair. This was ridiculously flamboyant. Pansy was yelling at Nott like a maniac, but Draco sat still. There was simply no avoiding this fate, and deep down, he supposed he deserved it.
Theo had strutted his way down the table until he was standing just a metre away from Draco, and really? Where were the Professors at a time like this?
Theo was looking very proud of himself and he was asking the table in a very loud voice, "Who do we suppose it's from? Perhaps a troll? Perhaps his Mother? Perhaps he has written to himself in a desperate attempt to feel less like an abject inbred? No?"
It was all insulting. All of it. Draco had never felt so degraded, or so sorry for the way he had treated Longbottom in the past. Longbottom who never did anything to provoke an attack or fight back. Not like Draco had, Draco couldn't get the little voice in the back of his mind, the one saying he deserved it all, to shut up.
Nott was opening the message gleefully, he was one moment away from destroying any chance Draco had of friendship with Potter by reading it out and making a mockery of it. Draco hated himself a little. He watched as Notts eyes widened in surprise, and felt a little vindictive satisfaction just in knowing that Nott had been proven wrong. Even if Nott didn't understand that there was nothing romantic about the letter. Draco just wished there was. The letter, and their assumptions made it seem like Draco had bagged the biggest fish of them all. But it wasn't true no matter how much Draco longed for it. Still, he could see from the malice in Nott's face that Nott was aware the irreparable damage he could wreak, just with that letter and baseless rumours alone. It was all hopeless, and that was why Draco sat still and did nothing as Notts lips began to wrap around the letter 'P' only to be stopped by the large chunk of table in his mouth. Someone screamed.
Ron Weasley was standing behind Nott looking panicked but not really too apologetic. Violent Bugger. Draco felt a little bad about how much trouble Weasley was probably going to get in over this. You're not really supposed to pull your classmates off of their house table by the ankle and stand by as they face-plant the furniture. But then again, it is a Ministerial Offence to read another Magical Beings mail too. Suddenly, or finally depending on how you view it, the professors had wised up to the commotion being caused, and Slughorn began thundering down the gap between the tables like a righteous old racehorse. He had Weasley and Nott by the scruffs of their neck before anyone could even say blink and he scowled down the slytherin table with anger.
"The least you could do," he says, chin quivering. "Is think about the image this gives of slytherin to the rest of the school. 20 Points from slytherin, and five from gryffindor."
Weasley looked sheepish, Nott looked disgusting, blood was gushing from his nose and his top lip had split down the centre and started leaking crimson all over his robes. Everything had turned out a lot more vicious than what Draco had expected, everything was out of hand.
Then again, you couldn't really throw a group of people who not three months ago were warring against each other into the same place and not expect a little savagery.
Slughorn quickly removed the two from the room and Draco turned around to look at Pansy, Pansy, who was staring with open admiration at Weasley's retreating form.
"I think I understand it now." She said.
"Understand what?' he asked.
"The whole gryffindor crush thing. That was so primal. Do you think he'd be good in the-"
"Pansy no."
"But-"
"Just no. Any other boy you want to talk about. Fine. But Weasel is off limits. And also taken." he added as he looked over at Granger. She was calmly eating her breakfast and reading a text book as though this kind of brutality was the norm. It probably was in the den of the lions. Since rooming with the Gryffindors Draco had born witness to several ruthless arm-wrestles and fights that were apparently all 'in good fun' and 'just for a laugh'. Draco had formulated a theory that the love of a Gryffindor was wholly cave-man-esque, and that their less evolved brains couldn't handle showing their affection in any other form except aggression and meat-headed ferocity. Such as what they had just witnessed. Draco did not know what it said about his theory that Ronald 'slug spew' Weasley had just *shudder* tried to protect him from harm.
Then again, he might have known that the parcel was from Harry and been trying to spare his good friend's noble reputation. You simply never knew with those of the red and gold ties.
o O o
Harry Potter considered himself a simple man. He liked simple things and simple people, therefore it was a matter of great complexity to him that he liked Draco Malfoy so much. Draco Malfoy, who was probably the most complicated, convoluted labyrinth of a person he had ever had the terrible pleasure of meeting. Confusing didn't begin to cover it.
At first, he had thought that his feelings would never be returned, that he was being sentimental and naive, that how he felt about Draco would never, ever, ever be reciprocated. But then, Malfoy had started up with the staring.
He always sat in the same chair, the chaise by the window that faced Harry's chair directly. At first he thought he had been imagining it, the way Draco's eyes flickered guiltily back down to his page whenever Harry looked up. The way his ears turned pink if he thought that Harry was looking at him. The way he had fallen off his broom that one time.
Hermione had always thought that Harry was obtuse, probably because she was so smart and thought of everyone that way. But Harry considered himself quite perceptive when it came to people, he wasn't good at interacting with them, or really helping in any kind of emotional situation, but usually he could understand. He watched, and he understood. As a child watching had been the closest he could get to real companionship, and so he had learned to read people. Draco Malfoy however, was a special case. This was not Harry's usual level of nosy half-stalking, the kind he applied to almost everyone else (he couldn't help it, he was too curious), this was (and he wasn't proud), more of a fully fledged stalking. It was true enough that he may have watched everyone else, but he had seen Draco. Seen how he had been vindictive and mean in the beginning, seen how he was frightened but ultimately good later. And now he saw how Draco looked at Harry. The same way that Romilda Vane looked at Harry to be honest, but that was beside the point. After confiding in Hermione, and after approximately a week of waxing poetic about the lustrousness of Draco's eyes and cadence of his voice (something Harry was of the opinion he did not hear nearly enough of), she had grown weary of his woebegone preachings and handed him a book of love poetry. She had said that he wasn't the only person to feel this way and that plenty of other sad people had feelings, not just Harry; so he should stop moping, or just not do it in front of her when she was busy.
Hermione was busy all of the time. And so, in the end, he had read the book. And liked it. Even asked for another. And then came the moment that Harry realised his friend Hermione Granger was a true genius, and vowed never to doubt her intellect again, because Draco Malfoy had showed some interest in that blessed second book. Clearly Hermione was a bonafide goddess of wisdom.
They had had a wonderful conversation, if a little terse, but Harry had felt more at ease than he had in months. Trading barbed criticisms over the use of alliteration, onomatopoeia and metaphor had been a thousand times more comforting to him than any of the counselling sessions he had had with the ministry assigned mind healers after the war. And that wasn't something Harry took lightly. Where before the knowledge of his crush had only inspired lazy half-pursual (hallway smiles, attractive chair repose, unnecessary removal of shirt). Now, some knowledge of Draco as a person had inspired his full attention. Harry intended to woo him properly. Harry intended to begin right away.
This decided, he did what he always did when he had focused his sole attention to a specific goal. He consulted with Hermione; Hermione who was a veritable fount of knowledge and would hopefully be able to get him through this with his dignity intact.
"Hermione," he had started, after he came to stand by her. She was sat in her regular dumpy red couch, with a stack of books beside her taking up Ron's usual spot.
She did not even look up. She raised a hand in a gesture that Harry knew from years of experience meant 'wait, I am reading something very much more important that whatever you need, please sit down I will be with you shortly.'
Harry sat down in his regular seat and began picking absent-mindedly at the inky green stitches of the upholstery. He stared into the fire and contemplated the best course of action. Obviously, Hermione would have some advice, but he didn't know how quickly that advice would work. Hermione liked to make long plans, which did not sit well with him. Harry was many things, but patient probably wasn't one of them, he wouldn't be able to play a long game like Hermione had with Ron. Six years of careful seduction. He'd be 24 before they even got to kiss if Hermione gave him the same advice she used for her own love life.
"Okay Harry Potter," Hermione began, Harry turned and pulled out his parchment and quill. "I can tell by the way you were gazing into that fire last night that you are seeking counsel on the state of your love life. That scuff mark on your left sneaker indicates that you have been kicking the wall in the fifth floor corridor again; something you only do when you feel tormented, and you're wearing that pair of jeans you like that everyone else thinks look hideous which means you're trying to impress someone. Who, one may ask? Well, basing my judgement on your previous obsession with Draco Malfoy, an obsession genuinely doused in homoerotic tension, and your current behaviour which includes but is not limited to; hallway grimaces, very attractive chair repose and completely necessary shirt removal, I deduce that you are asking for my help in how best to court one Draco Malfoy?" Hermione finishes smugly.
"Hermione you literally helped me wrap a present for him this morning, you knew all that already. I told you most of that."
"Yes," she agreed, blushing slightly. "But one should never turn down an opportunity to flex ones observatory muscles."
"One should not refer to oneself as one unless they want to come off like a complete and utter swot," Harry replied, grinning. "So what do I do?"
"I took the liberty of borrowing this from the library, I've put sticky notes in the pages that will be of particular interest to you." she replied, handing over a book, the cover was made of a purple fabric that looked a lot like felt and the title was silver and glittery; The Homosexual Halfblood's Guide to Courting the Pureblood Wizard.
"Thanks Hermione," he said, "Also where's Ron?" he asked.
"Ronald is on a scavenger hunt."
"What? Why?"
"Well, if you really want to know, he said he needed practice for the aurors, so he asked me if I could read the course-work and then give him some basic training in preparation."
"That is.... actually the most proactive thing I think Ron has ever done."
"I know!" said Hermione excitedly. "And he's doing so well! According to my calculations, if he continues on at a consistent rate he will achieve around 92% in his real auror exams, and you only need 70% to finish the training officially."
"That's fantastic Hermione." Harry said with a smile. He stood, quickly leaning forward to give her a hug and then waved good bye, he had some reading to do, also he needed some new jeans.
o O o
To begin the courting process the woo-er must gift a token of their affection on the woo-ee. Tokens of a floral nature are acceptable. Monogrammed handkerchiefs, are not. Any edibles to the woo-ee's taste are held in high esteem. Any edibles not to the woo-ee's taste, will be binned. All tokens must be wrapped delicately and tied by a length of white ribbon (approximately 1m), to indicate purity of affection and the beginning/invitation to a formal courtship.
o O o
"Look, someone's got a white ribbon!" called a young hufflepuff, pointing excitedly up at the owls.
The attention of the student body immediately went to spying the white ribbon. White ribbon gifts were not exactly rare in wizarding society, they were certainly common enough for most to recognise what they meant, but in an increasingly muggle-born friendly culture, traditional courting practices were slowly being shunned in favour of more casual court-ships. Draco of course, had always held on to a secret hope that he would one day receive a white ribbon gift, and tried not to feel too jealous as he watched the two owls, struggling as they were, with a gigantic bouquet of white lilies and floret's slowly make their way down to the slytherin table, the white ribbon was wrapped around their stems and dangled almost a metre underneath the flowers.
Then they landed in front of him.
And suddenly Draco felt quite flustered. He checked the name tag just in case, but there it was in fancy script, words he had wanted to read addressed to him since he was old enough to understand romance; 'This token of affection has been sent to make clear both my regard and respect for Draco Malfoy'.
Interesting choice of words, Draco thought. Regard and respect. Traditionally the letter was more romantic, more frivolous. Draco found himself pleased anyway, he would much rather be given truthful sentiment over false platitudes. Seeing as most pure-bloods wouldn't deign to change the sacred words he supposed it was a half-blood or a muggle-born who had sent it to him. The fact that the mystery sender had put thought into something that would please him even if it wasn't a part of their own cultural practice made him feel warm. He tried not to look like too much of a sap even as he gripped the massive bouquet in his hands.
The hall had mostly gone back to talking, and ignoring him completely, but way down the end of the table he could see Theo Nott sending him a foul look over the top of his now crooked nose, in a moment of good-spiritedness Draco poked his tongue out at him cheekily. Theo looked furious but Draco didn't care, he had a white ribbon gift!
He looked over at Pansy who had chosen to sit up by Greg that day and she grinned back at him, throwing him a thumbs up, honestly, he mused, fond exasperation colouring his thoughts, the girl should have been in Gryffindor.
He finished his toast quickly, only having a thin layer of strawberry jam since he was in such a rush. He scooped up the flowers and the note, wound the white ribbon around his arm because he didn't want to trip, and made his way out of the great hall.
He took the secret passage behind Drogani the Devourer and walked quickly to the eighth year common room. The common room was located in the west tower. Previously the tower had gone unused because the rooms were too small for any proper classes, and the tower itself was too small to board an entire house. Luckily it had just enough room for the small returning eighth year cohort and most of them had made the Spindly Tower their home, (What a name! Spindly Tower indeed!), Draco even, found the tower a comfort. It didn't resemble any of the previous house dormitories or affiliations they may have had so it was perfect for their particular year level, Spindly didn't stir up as many memories as other places in the castle might have. He walked down to hall until he reached the large purple curtain that signposted Spindly, pulling it back, he stepped inside a fake fireplace and shot a magical spark up the chimney.
Then he waited as the floor and walls spun in an 180 degree rotation and he stepped out into the common room. Alone at last! Draco had a spare period, and he intended to spend it daydreaming about who could have sent him a white ribbon gift. A part of him felt a little bad, slightly guilty. How could he love another truly if he still had a silly little true love thing going on for Harry Potter. Maybe they could share him, he could start a harem of all the people who loved him and- well, Draco probably didn't want that anyway, he'd never been very caught up in relationships or fancies of the flesh, he wanted the kind of steady affair that had been modelled to him by his parents. He would have to reject the white ribbon gift, send it back broken with the magic words to the mystery admirer, so that they knew that his heart lay with someone else.
If only Harry Potter liked him. If only it had been Harry Potter who had sent him a courting token. Alack, twas not meant to be. He remembered briefly a line he'd read somewhere in a play; 'my only love sprung from my only hate...', now that was literature he could relate to. He sighed. Most people who had spares in this session were ravenclaws, no doubt they were all in the library. Which meant that Draco had the whole common room to himself. He looked over at his chair longingly and ready to prostrate himself across it like a supine odalisque when a mischievous thought crossed his mind, no one was here... no one would know...
So he did it, he walked quickly over to the fire-place as though he were committing a felony and thought that if it were done quickly no one would notice, and then he sat in Harry Potter's chair.
Technically, Potter didn't own the chair. Just as Draco didn't own the blue chaise by the window. But most of the eighth years had claimed a space at the beginning of their introduction to the common room, and the seating arrangement had been pretty much set in stone from that day forward.
For example, the lumpy red love seat in front of Draco now was often filled with Granger and Weasel, who spent their time doing revolting things like reading together and snogging, the beanbags over by Longbottom's plant collection (and really, who had let him keep those in the common room?), had been claimed by the hufflepuffs, who liked to chat with each other in a kind of communal, water-hole type fashion. He and Pansy liked the chaise, obviously, which he had a very good view of from here. The Ravenclaw's were often (surprise, surprise), over by the book case, where there were little tables they could use to do their homework. Zabini, the solo wolf, favoured the lone black chair by the fake fireplace, and most of the popular Slytherins liked the pit in the middle of the room. No one liked the rickety wooden chair near his chaise except for Luna Lovegood, who visited them often and talked to him for too long. Actually if Draco were honest with himself they were probably friends by now.
She'd forced him into it by means of prolonged exposure. Suddenly he heard a throat clearing. He looked up.
Oh.
Potter then.
Potter who should have been in advanced charms theory with the hufflepuffs, not in the common room wearing those muggle skinny jeans. They were black. And sinful. Not that Draco cared to pay attention to the state of Harry Potters pants, or his class schedule for that matter.
"I was just-" Draco began before he realised how stupid he sounded, how silly it was for him to feel like he was in the wrong, he had as much right to sit in this chair as anyone, even if he was a little embarrassed he had been caught, even if Potter had sat in this spot so very much that Draco could faintly smell his soap. Coconut. Mmmm.
"It's fine," Potter said, sitting down in the lumpy love seat. "What are you up to?" he asked, taking his glasses off and cleaning them with his sleeve.
What a muggle.
"Nothing, Potter. Go away I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
"Nothing, I literally just said that, weren't you listening?!" Draco snapped, before realising he sounded exactly like a crazy person. That's fine. He was a crazy person, Potter should have known that by now anyway. To hell with normal.
"I'm crazy Potter." Draco said.
Potter nodded like that was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, instead of the words of a deluded lunatic.
"Didn't you hear me Potter. I'm crazy, I'm wild. Off the rails, anything could set me off at any given moment. If I snap, that'll be it. Poof. Sanity. Erased. Probably it already is."
"Okay," said Potter.
"Okay!?" repeated Draco, incredulous. So maybe Potter had a few screws loose. Draco would like to screw him loose. Shut up Draco.
"I already knew you were weird. I still like you." said Potter. He looked all sweet and earnest about it too. Goddamn renaissance.
"Potter you don't know me at all. I'm utterly insane. Loopy. Deranged." Draco said, really trying to drive the message home.
"May I ask why you think this?" Potter countered.
After some thought Draco replied, "Yes, you may."
A beat of silence.
"Right," said Potter. "Why do you think this?"
"Because Potter," Draco replied moodily, crossing his arms. "I am going to reject this perfectly thoughtful white ribbon."
"What!?" came Potters startled cry, he sounded aghast, probably disappointed that Draco would still on the market to bother him.
"You heard me Potter, I can't attach myself romantically right now. The cold, black cockles of my heart belong to another." he said.
A wounded look Draco couldn't interpret flittered over Potter's face before being replaced by a frown. "You don't always have to call me Potter you know."
"Potter. You will be Potter until the day you die."
Potter looked grumpy. Draco smirked in glee. No matter how old he got, Potter baiting was always a ludicrously fruitful source of entertainment.
"I'm going to start calling you Draco wether you like it or not. Draco." Potter riposted, victoriously.
What a twat, why did Draco even like him? Probably just the fabulous packaging. Those lean arm muscles. Yum.
o O o
What a twat. Why did Harry even like him? He wasn't even good looking. Actually he looked kind of like an awkward bird. His bone structure was birdlike. He was all pointy and sharp angled. Harry probably could stab himself on those hip-bones. To be honest, he could see them now, little dents poking the fabric of Draco's trousers out. He felt his mouth go dry and tried to swallow. There was no point to his infatuation, the cold, black cockles of Draco's heart belonged to another. Harry was a little gutted. But there was no way he was going to show it. He was going to be a good friend first and foremost.
"Potter, you cannot call me Draco, it goes against everything we've worked so hard to build as sworn rivals." Draco exclaimed, sounding outraged.
"I'm going to call you Draco, Draco." Harry said.
Draco grumbled something under his breath. Harry ignored it, mostly because Draco was a massive miser and as such well known for grumbling under his breath.
"Well," Harry said, intending to be supportive. "I'm sure whoever you're heart belongs to is very appreciative. They're very lucky to have you."
He doesn't mention that he kind of wants to remove that persons eyeballs with a fork. It's not the right time he thinks.
Draco snorted. "Yeah right Potter. They don't like me one bit."
Harry was appalled. This person should be ashamed of themselves. It's true, Draco was a crazy person; he stared and he said the weirdest things and he sometimes went completely blank in the middle of conversations, like he was having lengthy discussions with himself, but ultimately he was pretty great. Pretty wonderful. Harry would appreciate that, if he were them. Would cherish it, and love it. But that's fine. Briefly Harry had entertained the notion that Draco's staring had meant that Harry was the person Draco liked. Now Harry was theorising that Draco had a facial twitch or something. In any case, he was not the person Draco liked.
"Well, that sounds like a pretty dumb person to me, Draco. You should like someone who adores you and wants to be with you and stuff. Or whatever." Harry said.
Someone like me, he didn't.
Draco sighed. "Potter, you really don't understand this one. There's nothing you can do to make this person see me like that. In fact, I'm going to cut this ribbon up right now, and banish it back to the admirer."
"No!" Harry appealed, panicked. "You can't do that Draco, you maybe should think about it or-"
It was no use. The second Harry had uttered the phrase 'you can't', Draco's eyes had hardened with something a lot like determination and he had cut the ribbon clean in half with a quick snipping charm.
"Don't you start telling me what to do Potter. Just because everyone else does everything you say like you're so wonderful doesn't mean that I-" he cut himself off while Harry's panic grew. Draco was going to know. Draco was going to know. "In any case, I do what I want." He said stubbornly.
Draco stood up, holding the ribbon, now in two pitiful pieces, in one hand.
"I Draco Malfoy of House Malfoy, banish this token to it's rightful owner. So mote it be."
As soon as the old words were spoken the white ribbon began to spin around very quickly in the air. Draco let go in shock.
Harry began to plan his funeral. Humiliation was imminent.
The ribbon spun faster and faster until it was a blur in the air, and finally with a pop it disappeared, Draco and he were left staring at each other, tension filling the air until;
Pop!
The ribbon reappeared, draping itself over Harry's shoulders. The shock and residual anger on Draco's face however, was enough to direct Harry on to his next course of action; he turned on his heel, clutching the broken ribbon in both hands, and ran. He tried not to let the embarrassment or the heavy rejection weight him down as he sprinted through the corridors and out the door onto the grounds.
o O o
Draco was in shock. Harry Potter was beautiful and also had apparently sent him a white ribbon gift. Which was like. The most wonderful token of affection he could ever have dreamed of receiving. He was not sure that Potter was fully aware of the implications, but knew the man must have understood enough if he knew what to send Draco in the first place. Goddamn renaissance.
One problem. Harry Potter was no longer in the common room.
Draco had spent so long in shock that he had allowed Potter to escape his clutches.
Which was not acceptable. Not now that he knew Potter had wanted to woo him.
Wooing is not something Potter would really have to do, but something Draco would enjoy immensely. To be honest Draco feels that he would probably be quite adept at wooing Potter straight back. Well, maybe not straight back. He's thinking Hogsmeade dates, and butterbeer late at night in the kitchen, and sneaking into the prefects bathroom like teenie-boppers and every other nonsense thing they might dream up. Of course, first things first. He's got to go wrangle him a Potter.
As it turns out, wrangling him a Potter is not quite as easy as it seems. Hogwarts was a big place, and the grounds were bigger, But, he was sorted into Slytherin for a reason. Draco sees no point in traipsing all over the castle when he knows perfectly well the Potter has his fingers in pies all over the place and probably hundreds of hide-outs. No, Draco was smart. He was going to wait Potter out. That's why instead of running all about the place like a chicken with it's head cut off, he strolled calmly on his way to the library, and only sprinted when there was no one in the hall. He made it there in record time and went straight to the back, to a dark cavernous nook where he knew from hushed whispers that Granger lurked, her red-headed henchman guarding her as fiercely as Cerberus guarded the pits of the underworld.
Weasley half growled at him as he approached. Luckily for Draco however, Weasel's bark was worse than his bite.
"What do you want Malfoy?" Weasley asked, lowly, in a way Draco knew he intended to be menacing. Instead, knowing that Weasel was still doing detention for defending his honour in front of Nott, he kind of wants to pat Weasel on the head, which is the most disgusting urge he has ever felt in his seventeen and a half years of existence.
"I need the password to Potter's dorm room, he asked me if I could drop him some potions notes for a project we have together but didn't tell me how to get in, I can't find him so approaching you minion lot is my next best guess."
Weasley looked at him with piercing eyes, and Draco was struck by the revolting possibility that perhaps Weasley was smarter than he let on. Merlin.
Luckily, Grangers voice sounded at that very moment from the dark, cavernous void of the stacks.
"The password is liquid silver," she said as she emerged carrying an enormous pile of books. Weasley immediately took some of them. So. Whipped. Draco snickered internally. Until he caught Granger looking him dead in the eyes. Then he remembered what it felt like to break his nose. She stepped closer to him. Danger in every motion, all of Draco's instincts for self-preservation screamed at him to run, his dignity kept him still, but all that happened was Granger stopping in front of him, looking very serious and saying; "Don't fuck it up."
Then she turned away, dismissing him, Weasley smiled and shrugged like 'what can you do eh?', and once again Draco was forced into re-assessing his position in life on account of relating to Ronald Weasley.
Still. Liquid Silver. It was a bit of weird password, but Draco would take it, he didn't think Granger would send him off on a lark, but if that's what this was, he had a whole stash of itching powder he was not afraid to get rid of somehow.
He made his way back up to Spindly quickly, his robes flying behind him in what he supposed was a rather dashing manner. He moved quickly because he didn't want to give himself time to question, time to back out, or time to be a coward. Draco Malfoy had been raised on a black and white knowledge of what was strong and what was weak. And yet, contradictorily, he had been spoon-fed ideals that would make him so. He had never felt more cowardly, or more weak, than when he was at the beck and call of the Dark Lord's wishes, than when he had been following the plans laid out for him by his Father. He loved his Father, very much. But it was time for him to change those plans. He rushed through the common room like a man possessed and huffed up the thin spiral staircase, passing door six (DM), and heading straight up to door seventeen (HP), the initials were carved into the wood exactly as his own were in his door. He looked at the silver knocker, a small animated crocodile and said the words "liquid silver."
The crocodile ran across the surface of the door, fit it's tail into the lock and the door swung open. Draco walked in.
The room was like Potter's handwriting; unexpected. The bed was made, the floor was tidy, the desk was covered in parchment and other school work, on the bedside table was a small pile of thin looking paperbacks, upon closer inspection Draco realised that almost all of them were poetry. Next to the pile was what looked like a photo album. He sat down on the side of the bed. So this was Potter's room. Draco decided that he found it rather ironic that he, reared on sophisticated ideals and upper class snobbery, should be so much messier than Potter. Potter, who looked like he could create a mess simply by breathing, always with the wild curls and the untucked shirt. Still Draco didn't really have an excuse for the way his floor was covered in silk shirts and chocolate wrappers and bits of parchment with potions ideas, and his bed was never made, and he had to tiptoe around his room because he didn't know where the stone tiles ended and his floor-drobe began. Probably it was because he had never had to pick up after himself as a child, it now seemed tiresome simply because he had always had elves to do it for him. At least he was fastidious in grooming and hygiene, and also he had nothing on Weasel. Whose room he had heard horror stories about.
Draco stood again and decided to do some snooping. If they were going to be courting Potter wouldn't have secrets anyway. He leaned in and inspected all the titles Potter had collected; Apocrypha by Cathrynne M Valente (tres artistique!), Hunting Season by Beau Taplin (Potter you angsty thing!), The Complete Lyrics of Celestina Warbeck (terrible form Potter!). One in particular grabbed his attention, the only play in the pile; Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. Was that? He flicked through the pages until his eyes landed on a slew of highlighted words;
'My only love sprung from my only hate.'
Potter was such a girl. Really. Complete tit. Utter drama queen with a capital D. Draco laughed at his own internal diatribe, he could probably be a professional comedy wizard if he wanted, honestly. The sound of the door creaking pulled him abruptly from that line of thought.
Potter walked in. He had the broken white ribbon clenched in a bundle in his left hand, and a bit of old parchment in the other.
Potter sighed. "Alright Malfoy, what do you want?"
Draco briefly mourned that brief time in which Potter had referred to him as Draco. Briefly, because the situation was salvageable, Draco had faith.
It was because Draco had faith that he stood up in that moment and stepped closer to Potter. He dropped the book on the bed and thought with some gumption that it couldn't turn out as badly as all that rot with the suicide and the poison.
"Okay Potter. I am going to tell you it like it is. You're very nice and I like your chest and I like how you sent me a ribbon even though I didn't know it was you," he took a breath. "And I like that you like poetry and I like that you sit in the same chair always and I like that you frustrate me all the time and I'm so far gone on you that I even like it when you ignore me, and I banished a courting ribbon because I thought it wouldn't be fair to the stranger to accept when I had my heart set on your dumb face and," he took another breathe but didn't get too far, because Harry Potter was giving him the hug of his lifetime and he was very warm and his hair was tickling Draco's nose and was that a curl in his nostril? For real, Harry Potter was totally shorter than he looked in his photo's. Harry stepped back and looked up at him a bit. He was smiling kind of shy and he had a dimple Draco wanted to poke. So he did. And Harry Potter laughed and Draco thought it was all going to be fine.
"Those are some bold declarations Draco," Potter said with a smirk.
"Yeah well, don't get used to it." He replied, but even as he spoke he was sending some covert reparation charms at that white ribbon.
"You are not sneaky at all Malfoy. It's actually pathetic," Potter quipped. "There is no way I wasn't going to notice-"
Draco cut him off with his mouth. He hadn't really kissed anyone before so it was a bit off-centre, a bit toothy, and Draco definitely had his neck at a bad angle, when they do this again it's going to be horizontal so he doesn't have to worry about height related issues.
Potter bit his lip.
"Mmmph" Draco replied succinctly.
Then they kind of fell accidentally, pleasantly, down onto the bed and didn't speak again for a while.
Afterwards, they looked through some of Potter's anthologies and between pages, and poetry, and sheets, Draco remarked quietly, "And you, I like you."
Potter simply turned to look at him and grinned, "I like you too, you massive git."
o O o
2 Months Later...
Of all the things that had changed in the last eight weeks, Draco had to admit that he was particularly fond of the new seating arrangements. Where before Harry Potter sat on the opposite side of the room in between the real fire-place and the stairs, he now sat directly across from Draco, his green arm chair dragged over by the window and pulled close to the chaise. At first he had worried about the red love seat that had also made it's way over, and about it occupants, but after a few weeks of listening to Granger boss Weasley around the 'whipped' jokes have not gotten old. The rickety chair was now the regular home of a chess board, a chess board that aided and abetted the competitive board game war that Draco had undertaken with Weasel. And Pansy often still sat next to him, gossiping at Potter who was actually a little old lady at heart, and apparently enjoyed being a massive busy body and terribly nosy and painting Pansy's nails black.
All traits, that Pansy of course, adored, because they provided her someone who would listen to her rambling without the annoying interruption of caustic remarks (things she had to contend with daily when Draco was her only friend), and also someone who didn't mind having her feet on them.
It was a little messy, but it worked. Draco looked around at what they had made and was happy. Hermione was reading The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and pretending that she wasn't interested in Pansy's story about the young Creevey boy's secret voyeuristic kink, Weasel was staring at the snakes and ladders board between them with a zealous type of intensity Draco hadn't seen since Goyle last met a cupcake... and Potter. Potter was Potter.
Harry of course, was listening avidly to Pansy as she elaborated excitedly upon the frankly scandalous photographic black market trade that Creevey had been operating right under the Gryffindor table. While Draco stared at them subtly he couldn't help but think that if Potter were to be painted one day, he wouldn't mind being in the canvas right next to him. Potter looked up, they made eye contact and Harry smiled, green eyes crinkling, cute cheek dimpling. Goddamn renaissance.
"You're not very covert you know." Harry quipped suddenly.
Draco only grinned, because yes, he wasn't very good at being covert, but he did have Harry, and friendship, and hope, and that was something else entirely.