Archive of Our Own ^beta

There was no easy way to slip back into life after the war. As Harry stepped over the piles of rubble at Hogwarts after the battle, he found himself staring past the holes in the walls of the place he’d called “home” once. He saw families, disheveled, all hugging each other and praying for the lives that were lost, finally safe. They were free.

Harry spent his summer at press conferences, celebrations, charities, and making public appearances. Every single event was Ministry-sponsored, and he got paid, but mostly, he did it to take his mind off of all he’d done the past seven years. Each time he turned his wand over in his hand, he thought of Voldemort’s bright green jet of light rushing to meet his own, and he had to fight the sensation of dying, again. He visited Hogwarts a lot during June, when the Ministry gathered officials from all across Europe to reconstruct the school. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of the screams of his classmates, his teachers, and his friends. It only took a few days before the memories of little Colin Creevey came rushing to the forefront of his mind, and he had to excuse himself from all future activities.

The summer season came to a close as he spent his birthday with his best friends at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley tried her best to piece herself together after Fred died, and every glance at the family clock made something in Harry’s chest twist like an ugly knife. Like an Avada Kedavra, bright green and splintering, spreading through his ribs and stopping his heart. And being near Ginny made it all the worse.

“I just don’t think this is the right time for us to be… us . You’re so very you , Harry,” was what she’d said, two weeks before his birthday. “It’s not a bad thing. And I didn’t want to do this to you now, but if not now, then I’d never manage it.”

He’d only mumbled an “Oh,” rather dumbly, before she kissed him on the cheek one final time, turning away soon after.

So when it came time to cut his cake and eat it too, Harry had to pretend the twanging in his throat and behind his eyes was nonexistent, and he smiled, for Fred, for what he and Ginny could have been, for Remus and Tonks and the Teddy who’d grow up like he did—but more loved.

Harry had gotten a letter that very same day, from Headmistress McGonagall, asking if he’d like to come back to school to complete his NEWTS and learn the seventh year curriculum that he’d missed out on when he was off, hunting horcruxes and camping through the woods. He hadn’t even had to think before Errol was off with his and his best friends’ letters. Two weeks before September first, a little girl he met outside Flourish and Blotts told him that the “H” in Harry stood for hope, and he couldn’t take that away from her.

~*~

Harry never really realized how mundane school was when there was nothing to be wary of and nothing to investigate. In his life, every year, there was something to be pondered upon or researched about. As much as he made fun of Hermione for her habit of burying her nose in a book, he realized that he was much the same. If not one thing trying to kill him, it was some secret of the castle. And if it wasn’t that, Harry was scheming.

He’d decided to start an advice column in the first week, after getting an awfully large amount of History of Magic homework. Something he’d always wanted was someone to talk to without the fear that they’d only see him for his name, or for his scar. Besides, no one would ever suspect that of all people, he would be the one to start the letters.

It was great to pass the time, really. Since McGonagall had banned all eighth-years from Quidditch, citing that they had “too much experience,” he needed an outlet of some sort. This was his latest hobby, latest scheme, and latest fixation.

“I really have no clue why you’re doing this, Harry.” Hermione sighed over her Charms textbook, quill scratching away an essay that wasn’t due for two weeks. He admired her dedication, but knew that was something he’d never get accomplished. “You’ve got NEWTS to prepare for.”

“He’s the savior , ‘Mione, and NEWTS aren’t for another couple months,” Ron groaned from his place on her lap. They were disgustingly sweet. Harry was happy for them, if not slightly sour. “Y’know Shacklebolt already offered him a position as an Auror, right? They’re all begging for him, NEWTS be bloody damned.”

Harry rolled his eyes, scribbling away on his parchment. “I’ve got no one trying to kill me this year. I’m attempting to live a little. Can a guy develop hobbies for once?”

“Oh, and that requires helping more people? You’ve got a savior complex,” Hermione muttered.

“What would you rather I do? Study? I haven’t ever done that, not even before I knew I was the chosen o—”

One of Hermione’s novels came catapulting through the air, with near perfect aim, at Harry’s head. If she really wanted to, Harry thought she’d make a good Quidditch player. A Chaser, maybe, or even a Beater. Harry laughed and put her book to the side, on the common room table that he used to read Sirius’ letters on. Signed, Snuffles . He tried not to think about that. Sometimes, he could still see the veil in the Ministry. He wondered if his parents were near it, watching over him.

“Sorry— sorry.”

“You aren’t, really,” she said disdainfully, though she was smiling. As usual, she was right. “I know you’re in it for the gossip.”

“Harry, you better tell us every juicy bit you get,” Ron shuffled to sit upright. “If one of them is the Slytherins, well, that would be amazing. Those wankers are always too secretive to catch them in the act of anything devious, and, er, blackmail? That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“Imagine Malfoy writing to me,” Harry chuckled. “That would be something.”

“No, really,” Hermione gasped. “The Slytherins have all been so tame all month. There’s been no drama. It’s a little disheartening, to be honest.”

“They might be plotting something big. Or, they might be laying low. Who knows?” he said. 

“You’ll know, Harry,” Ron answered. “You’ll know.”

~*~

Dear Confidante,

It has recently come to my attention that I may be… infatuated with someone who I don’t have the greatest history with.

Well, that’s an egregious understatement. In fact, I’m completely besotted with the idiotic fool. We haven’t liked each other or even really positively acknowledged each other during any of our years at Hogwarts, and I truly have no idea what sparked this. It may be his eyes, gorgeous and warm—there’s this look behind them, one of determination, as if he’s going to solve every issue that exists in the world. If my family ever caught me writing such nonsense as this about the blundering buffoon, I’d begin digging my grave promptly. If only curses could be directed at oneself…

He’s the worst and best person I’ve met. So undoubtedly kind, and though his hair seems to have a mind of his own, he’s quite beautiful. It’s unfortunate, really, that I am who I am, otherwise this would be much less difficult. Nearly every time we’ve spoken has been insults, and none of my friends like him. I doubt he nor his friends like me, either. I haven’t talked to them much, but when I have, it was never good.

However, I need to either squash this out of me immediately, or—and this is a sliver of my delusions coming to light—somehow, I must repair our relationship. Not that there is one to repair. Thus, I’d have to create a friendship, building it from the roots upward. And seeing as the two of us are more emotionally constipated than any novel characters anyone could imagine, I think this task is near impossible. This is why I come pleading my case.

— Lovestruck Lunatic

Dear Lunatic,

I do hope you don’t mind me calling you that. It isn’t that I believe it’s true. After all, I don’t know you very well, and I think it’s a little insulting to call someone you’ve never met a name like that. 

Your situation is not an easy one. Fancying someone you’ve had directly antagonistic feelings toward for so long—it may not come simply. Actually, it cannot come simply. I’ll give you two bits of advice, for either approach.

If you want to get over him, distract yourself. Find something to do. Busy yourself with a hobby, or schoolwork. If you’re in any of the higher years, begin studying for your exams early. Yes, it’s October, and exams are in June, but it doesn’t hurt to begin early. If that doesn’t work, and if you haven’t told your friends already, tell them. They’d be glad to berate him for you, from what you’ve written last time. That may help.

If you want to start the path of friendship, talk to him. Try sparking a conversation, or maybe apologizing for a regret you may have, an interaction went sour. I’ve had my fair share of opponents at Hogwarts. The best way to mend that is to communicate. It doesn’t always work, but if you’re annoying or persistent enough with it, I’m sure you could create a dent in his resolve.

Do update me soon,

Curious Confidante

Harry stuck his latest letters to the corkboard outside the Great Hall at five minutes before curfew, a time no one would see him—even so, he had his cloak. He hadn’t ever feared being caught by Filch since his first year, knowing that there was no major damage he could inflict upon any student. Plus, it wouldn’t be a good look for the school to harm the Harry Potter. Anyway, a little detention couldn’t possibly hurt him more than the war had. But the cloak was his safety net, and even if he had no fear of Filch, detention was still a nuisance.

He then opened the mailbox tacked right beside his post. Harry caught each of the envelopes as they trickled out the bottom, sorting through and seeing if he had anyone write back to his advice. He always had a couple letters, but he tended to cherry-pick the few that sparked the most interest: the ones who never explicitly mentioned any names, especially his own. He loved deciphering each letter, discovering the secrets behind each author and their writing. It made him weirdly more observant of everyone’s handwriting. Every week, he had a slew of love declarations, for everyone from Susan Bones and Anthony Goldstein to even Professor Sprout. Once, he had one that he was sure was from Dean to Seamus. He gave advice as if he’d never have known either of them, and a week later, they were shyly holding hands in the dorm.

Last week, he’d gotten one from a first year muggleborn who was utterly terrified of magic. Ever since they’d read about Harry Potter’s escapade down to the Chamber of Secrets (a horribly frightening time, if he could say so himself), they feared something was in the walls, waiting for them. Watching. Listening. Harry had imagined his words acting as a hug for the said first year. He, too, had been a little scared, but more so fascinated. And so he wrote—wrote about the wonders of not having to get up to grab something from across the room, never going thirsty, feeling the air rush around him during Flying lessons… 

He couldn’t lie, there were plenty of times he was terrified of magic and its capabilities. The immediate horror that settled in his stomach after Umbridge made him use the black quill for detention never really left, and neither did the scar. “I must not tell lies” sat imprinted on the back of his hand in a thin, silvery script. Sometimes, he traced his hand over it to remind himself that he was real.

Nevertheless, he’d received a not to be published thank-you note very few days later. Oftentimes, that was how it was. Receive a letter, give advice, get an update and thank-you. He had a feeling that wouldn’t be the case with Lovesick Lunatic. Somehow, their story stuck with him. After his relationship with Ginny had crashed and burned, and he had to witness his best friends get together, he found a little special interest in it. The letter was something he could appreciate, something sweet and not attached to anyone he knew. He reveled in that, the distance between Lovesick Lunatic and him. And Harry lived vicariously through each word on the browning parchment.

On top of that, this was the most interesting letter he’d gotten since the start of his journey. Most letters were minute anxiety, brief conflict, and already established relationship issues. But Lovesick Lunatic’s story? Theirs was something straight out of one of Hermione’s muggle novels.

Harry had experience with a story-like life. Though, his was less one of fairytale romance and invigorating love. No—Harry’s life was quite riddled with death and destruction and war, and he couldn’t imagine it being any pleasant to read. So Harry made copies of Lovesick Lunatic’s letters (using a spell Hermione had taught him during their adequately named “Road Trip in Hell”) to read them over and over, thinking of every word written in their beautiful, cursive script, wondering who at this school had sparked this interesting of a tale. He read them in the morning, before bed, and any other time he could get. 

Harry’s love life was, simply put, a disaster. Of his only two girlfriends, one never had time to mourn the boyfriend she so dearly adored, and he was just too much for the second. He’d loved them, that he was sure of, but when it came time to let them go he didn’t put up a fight.

Lovesick Lunatic wanted so desperately to be smitten with anyone else, to not think of the messy-haired boy, someone who could be any of Harry’s friends. Harry wanted nothing more than to be loved but left alone. He wanted something to do, something to busy his mind with, and something he didn’t have to face as the persona the public had created for him.

~*~

Harry strolled to his classes quite numbly, Hermione rambling off about someone she’d read about through one of Hagrid’s magazines. He’d tuned her out, mostly. Ron paid attention as though his life depended on it, although it probably did, considering they were who they were to each other, now.

They passed a group of dejected-looking young Slytherins who Harry knew, from his letters, were having a hard time. He received lots of letters from scared first- and second-years, who had nothing to do with the war, and had been placed in their house for their big dreams and hard work. Some kids were even muggle-born, while many of these children had parents in jail, relatives dead, and themselves, judged, for just being in one of four houses. They weren’t allowed to grieve. No one mourns the wicked, as they were told. And their house point count was at an all time low, even as none of them were misbehaving or stirring trouble. They weren’t doing much of anything, really.

“Did I ever tell you that I was nearly a Slytherin?” He asked, interrupting Hermione, who paused, inhaled rapidly, and smoothed her features.

“What inspired this very interesting shift in conversation?” she gritted her teeth behind her totally not irritated smile. 

“Well I was just thinking… some of the kids who’ve written…”

“You’re going bonkers, mate, it’s Slytherin,” Ron added. “We’ve gone here for nearly 8 years now, and all they’ve done is sneer and shake their heads at us.” Harry tried not to grimace. He knew they all had terrible experiences with that house, but he’d at least tried to be cordial. He was polite to everyone besides Malfoy and his group, who never seemed to let anything go.

“Have you considered how all of us treat them, though?”

“Harry…” Hermione had some complicated emotion behind her eyes, one Harry couldn’t quite decipher. But it wasn’t like he was spectacularly emotionally intelligent or anything, so he just let her be.

“I’m just saying, some of them are just kids, they don’t know any better.”

Hermione frowned and looked away from him, choosing pointedly to stare at the floor. She didn’t say anything down the two flights of stairs and four corridors they passed.

“You know, Malfoy did save my life last year. When we were caught by those… what do you call them— snatchers,” Harry pondered, fully well knowing his friends were ignoring him now. But that was beside the point. He was worried for the Slytherins.

“It’s not good to dwell on the past, or on the war, Harry, you know this.” He did, in fact, know, and he really was trying to heal, it was just hard when all he saw around the halls were memorials and statues erected where the honored person had fallen. Hermione stopped fully and turned to stare at him, shuffling the weight of the books in her arms just slightly. She hugged them tighter, and Harry could see that her knuckles were going slightly white.

Harry tried offering her a comforting look, but he knew he only looked more conflicted. “I know but, uh, it’s just—”

From the corner of his eye, Harry spotted an ever bright-blond Malfoy, dressed as prim and proper as always, tripping over his own feet. His eyes darted around the area to make sure no one had seen it, and Harry tried to look away. But Malfoy had seen him, and his lips curved into a deep, biting sneer.

“Congratu– fucking –lations, Potter,” he muttered. “Don’t you dare mention this to anyone.”

Harry winced, and his friends only turned to stare at him further. Hermione’s eyebrows knit together in worry, while Ron’s raised up so high they basically blended with his hairline.

“Sorry,” was all Harry could manage before Draco had glared with the most bitter contempt manageable and stalked past them.

~*~

Dear Confidante,

I think he pities me. I can’t quite tell you why, that’ll give me away, but I truly can’t stand it. See, we were on opposite sides of the war. I’m not too keen on discussing my nor my relatives’ actions—just know that we weren’t on the right side. I’m not going to say I never wanted to be part of that, because truthfully, I did. But the second people were actually harmed, my perspective changed. Truth is, both me and the object of my attraction have been bitter enemies since before he rose. Some of our exchanges may have resulted in our deaths. But even then, we’ve also saved each other’s lives, during the war. I’m indebted to him.

Every day I think about the moment that he saved me. Every time I’m near the place where it happened, I think of him. I can’t stop thinking of him.

But he pities me, and that’s absolutely detestable. I cannot stand pity. I’ve dealt with enough from the entire school, and its staff, and everywhere I go. It’s either pity or sneers. The bias against Slytherins has always been unfair, but this? It’s horrid. Especially when it’s him . I’m used to him sneering or frowning or rolling his eyes at me. I’d love it if he smiled at me, just once—he has these perfect teeth, no wonder so many people fancy him—but even if that doesn’t happen, I cannot deal with him looking at me with those beautiful, sad eyes. It’s horrendous.

I can’t get over him, Confidante. I managed to make all my years at Hogwarts about him. It’s useless to even attempt it. No amount of running from my issues has ever gotten me anywhere. And I can’t befriend him unless he stops pitying me. Do you have any advice?

—Lovesick Lunatic

Dear LL,

This might be better than calling you a lunatic.

As for your sweetheart, I still think you should approach him. Talk to him. Work things out—the war made lots of people behave in different ways. Apologize, right your wrongs, and heal together, not apart. The thing most people need at this time is someone who knows what they’ve been through.

Have you considered that the pity might be worry? Maybe he’s had a change of heart. If he’s as kind as you picture him, he doesn’t seem the type to hold a grudge. This is me assuming things, by the way. 

Another thing I’m assuming—you’re in Slytherin, correct? If he’s in another house, he’s likely to forgive. Ravenclaws don’t tend to dwell on actions, just the reasoning behind them. Hufflepuffs are endlessly forgiving, and they’ll only hold you accountable, but forgive and forget. Gryffindors… they’re the hard ones. No offense, but they tend to have rather thick skulls. Very few are likely to ignore what anyone has done in the past few years. Especially if you two have a history like that. However, it isn’t impossible with them, too. They may hold grudges, but they’re not impossible to convince. Just make sure you’re as sincere as humanly possible.

I wish you luck.

Curious Confidante

~*~

Harry sighed into the essay he was writing, cheek pressed against the parchment. With the ink still wet, he knew it’d leave a few marks, and possibly ruin the assignment. Harry didn’t quite care—it wasn’t great anyway. It was acceptable, really, but this was defense . His best subject. Acceptable was never up to his standards in that class and that class alone.

He felt like Hermione, which was never, ever, a good sign. Especially for him. And he’d written responses to most of his letters, anyway, so he couldn’t focus on that. There wasn’t anything he could do , nothing that he liked, nothing to take his mind off of whatever had happened in the past year.

And naturally, he was hungry, despite it being the middle of the night. He bid his farewells to an anxious Hermione and a deeply asleep Ron, and he made his way down several flights of stairs and down multiple different hallways.

The cloak gave him freedom he otherwise would not have had. He couldn’t escape from people, nowadays. In the middle of the night, however, the castle was his. It’d never stopped him. Not since first year, not when the Chamber was opened, not when Sirius tried to kill Peter in their dorm room. Not when he’d nearly been killed by the Tournament’s tasks, not when Umbridge was being herself, and certainly not the year where Draco had plotted to kill Dumbledore.

And so, as he stepped into the kitchens, ignoring the pang in his heart as he remembered Dobby, he immediately sank to the floor and sat to watch the house-elves work. It was oddly calming, watching them shuffle around, floating foods across the kitchen and scurry along with various cleaning supplies. But, as always, he felt the lump in his throat beginning to thicken, and his eyes started to sting.

“Mister Potter,” Winky said, using her little, bony hands to tap Harry on his knees. “Mister Potter, are you okay? Is there anything Winky can do for you, sir? Mister Potter is looking rather sick, Winky is worried…”

“Ah, no, I’m okay, really. Thanks,” he stuttered back. “Could I, er… could I get some bread?”

“Buttered?”

“Yes, please.”

“Winky will have buttered bread for Mister Potter urgently, sir.”

Harry sighed yet again as she popped in and out, bringing his bread and a slew of napkins. Before he could ask, she rubbed his cheek gently with the wet napkin, and dried it with the dry one.

“There was another boy here earlier, sir,” Winky informed him. “He looked much like you do, emotionally. I do not mean to be rude, Mister Potter, but the both of you looked very tired. Sunken.”

“Oh,” said Harry, for the millionth time in the past few days, as he seemed to be doing rather often. “Do you know who he was?”

“No, sir, only he was very pale, rather sickly looking. He had hair like Dobby told us his old Master did.”

Harry took to staring at where his arms were wrapped around his knees as Winky awkwardly stumbled away.

~*~

“I’ve news to announce,” Flitwick hushed the crowd. “Headmistress McGonagall has asked all of us professors to promote connection between the houses. As such, in all the classes we teach where the student body is mixed, we will be randomizing seats.”

Ron moaned loudly and pitifully.

“Now, now, don’t make those faces. Chin up! As I announce your name, begin sitting at this seat, going forwards.” Flitwick tapped his wand on the desk nearest him on the left. 

“This is really not necessary,” Hermione protested under her breath, leaning towards Harry so he could hear her. “I cannot be put near someone who won’t pull their weight—”

“Parkinson, Pansy, here, and next to her, Granger, Hermione.”

Hermione squinted but begrudgingly made her way to her new seat. Flitwick kept calling out names, one by one, until Harry and Malfoy were the only ones left.

“Well, then,” Draco mumbled, and as if Harry couldn’t hear him, he continued. “Just my luck…”

But they, too, walked sourly to their seats in the back right of the lecture hall, without a single word of complaint. That would only lead to an annoyed Headmistress McGonagall, and no one wanted that. Harry shuffled on the bench uncomfortably, not knowing whether to talk to Malfoy or not. He really, truly wished Ron were here. But Ron sat across the room, two rows up from his girlfriend, next to Theodore Nott. Harry closed his eyes and pretended he wasn’t going to have to sit in this lesson for the next few hours.

Without Ron, however, Harry actually paid attention for once. Mainly because he saw Malfoy rapidly taking notes at the most rapid pace he’d ever seen anyone write, including Hermione, and he felt obligated to do maybe half as much work.

An hour later, they were practicing the Obscuring charm, one that required a lot of trust for practice. Harry knew Ron was thinking that the Slytherins would try and kill him, probably. Hermione was likely wondering if this charm should be monitored for kidnapping purposes. His friends were rather morbid. 

“Alright, Potter,” Draco breathed. “I must assure you that if I were going to kill you, I would not do it in a place so obvious, with so many witnesses. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry said. “Go ahead.”

Draco faltered, looking Harry up and down as if he’d actually caught a case of Luna’s Nargles. “You’re letting me go first?”

“Well, you’re better at Charms.”

“Sorry, did you forget everything that’s happened all the past few years?”

“No, I just don’t want to permanently blind you or something.”

“Well… okay then. I think you’ve done it, Potter, you’ve finally gone insane.”

 Harry shrugged. 

Draco pointed his wand at him, the same way that he had two years ago, frightenedly casting an unforgivable curse in Myrtle’s bathroom. Harry could see his hand trembling violently, but nevertheless, he took a deep breath and cast the spell. Harry was immediately plunged into darkness, and he found himself reaching for his eyes immediately, as if the blindfold was something he could pry off without magic. He heard the whoosh of Draco’s wand—the wand he’d tossed back at him after his trial in August—and the classroom came into sight again.

“Your turn,” he said, pursing his already-thin lips flat into a line. “Go for it.”

“Obscuro,” Harry called, watching as a black blindfold appeared from thin air and wrapped itself around Draco’s eyes. The blond boy, still shaking slightly, didn’t move once, not until Harry flicked his own wand and the blindfold popped away.

“Not bad,” Draco told him, offering what looked like a half-smile. The corner of his mouth was quirked ever so slightly. Harry had never seen that before. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, much like you’d see in a confused dog.

“Huh,” he whispered. “That’s new.”

~*~

Dear Confidante,

You were right in assuming my house. I am a Slytherin, but that’s all the personal information you will elicit from me. And just so, such is my luck that my dearly detested is a Gryffindor. How shrewd, how terrible, how absolutely horrendous for me. This only adds to the long list of ever-growing embarrassing things that I have done. Fallen in—I cannot say that. That is much too… It's too much to describe my feelings right now.

As an update on the general situation, I’ve tried talking to him this week. We have few lessons together, and since Professor McGonagall seems hellbent on inter-house unity, as you’ve likely heard, she’s called for rearranged seats. Just my (again, very questionable luck) that I was seated by him. It was rather awkward. I’m not used to this insult-less conversation. And for once, he’s trying in his classes. His airheaded friends must have gotten to him. I told him as such. Just a little comment on how his work was good, or something similar. And I did try to apologize for our past, but I don’t think he heard, and he brushed past me as class had ended. It’s been the only time I’ve been able to discuss anything with him.

In other news, my friends have finally noticed. My best friend, she claims she’s known since fourth year. Told me that I’ve always “stared aimlessly at him” or “tried to get his attention.” I hadn’t realized I’d liked him that long. I don’t think it was always this intense, though. My other friends have accepted it too. “Not unreasonable” was the main comment. But they’re all concerned for my mental health if nothing is to come of this. I’ve been worried for myself since long before that, but they need not know.

For the audience that my letter apparently accumulated, I must implore you, and anyone reading these articles, not to search for my identity. It’s bad enough being a Slytherin. But I’ve heard whispers up and down the halls, discussing these letters. Confidante, I’m alright with you posting them—it’s how I get answers—but please. To all persons reading this: I am not some movie to be watched nor some mystery to be solved. If this ends in romance, trust me, I will be the first to celebrate. But if nothing comes of this, then I beg of you to stay silent, as the last thing I want is for him to reciprocate my feelings out of pity.

—Lovesick Lunatic

Dear LL,

I wholeheartedly agree. The whole thing about this advice column is—it’s anonymous. No one knows I’m writing this besides my two closest friends. And yes, they laugh at me when I give advice, even with my poorly broken love life, but I know I can trust them to keep this secret. Readers, please respect that.

Now, onto the actual content of your letter. I think your first interaction is honestly not half-bad. He hasn’t said anything, but at least he hasn’t insulted you or anything. I think this can only grow from here. Try pulling him aside, talking to him at a time no one sees you. Don’t beg— that’s rather unseemly, but a conversation about all the near-deaths and terrible things that occurred is long overdue for the two of you.

I know it’s scary. But if you want this, if you want him , you have to try.

I’m really sorry I don’t have many words of advice. I’m trying my best, and I’m also rather mentally preoccupied with my own life, so I’d like to deeply apologize. However, please do continue to update me. Not only for the readers, but for me—I don’t know why, but I have an inkling of a feeling things will turn out alright for you and your darling.

Have hope,

Curious Confidante

~*~

“Present!” Harry announced, slamming the door open and stumbling into the Potions chamber with the grace of a drunken sailor. The room smelled somewhat like French vanilla mixed with some other deep, sultry scent he couldn’t put a finger on. That, and it smelled like when Harry was flying too long and the air had gone straight past his nose and into his brain. It smelled much nicer than usual, and it even brought a slight grin to Harry’s face.

“Harry, dear boy, take a seat!” Slughorn chortled, hand extended to the only seat left in the room. The seat, clean and tidy, as his professor kept it, next to Draco Malfoy. Harry raised an eyebrow at the boy, who didn’t seem to notice at all. He was busy scribbling away something in the same small, leather-bound notebook he’d had in Charms. Harry quietly made his way to his seat, watching Draco jump as Harry dropped his textbook on the bench in front of them. He could tell Malfoy was seething and he pulled the cauldron back into position between them.

“We shall be discussing amortentia today,” Slughorn continued. Well, that explained the scent. This year, however, it smelled vastly different from the past. “Now, I know we covered this in sixth year, but seeing as it has been two years since then, I believe we are overdue for a make-up lesson. Now, now, look here.

“This will smell differently to most of you, unless two people happen to fancy the same person and enjoy the same things. For example, I smell exactly this classroom as-is. No place I’d rather be, see. Miss Granger, have your nostrils picked up on anything different since the last time you were here?”

This time, Hermione, sitting next to a queasy looking Milicent Bulstrode, positively beamed. “No, Professor, it’s the exact same. Freshly mown grass, spearmint toothpaste, the like.”

Slughorn smiled at her and moved across the classroom. “Anyone else, up for volunteering their nostrils? Mister Malfoy?”

Next to him, Draco shifted uneasily. “Um… I smell the quidditch pitch. And clean laundry. Maybe a hint of something sweet, too, though I don’t quite know what it is.”

Harry glanced at Pansy, as she looked at his deskmate with something mischievous in her eye. He knew that look from when Ron had a thought that he was absolutely not going to let go of, from when he’d taken to teasing Harry about Cho. So Malfoy fancied someone. Harry found himself wondering who the lucky lady was. Draco’s cheeks had flushed ever so slightly, and if Harry disregarded their past, he’d find it endearing.

“Now, students, follow along with the instructions in your textbook. Remember, be as precise as humanly possible. We will be working on this for the next three weeks.”

As Harry measured the water and the heat, Draco began finely chopping the lacewings. And when the temperature reached the correct level, Draco poured in the wings and the rose oil. As he stirred patiently, he rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” Harry asked.

“If Snape were still around, he’d probably prohibit us from learning this potion. Because he never really had a heart to begin with, did he?”

Harry smiled—something he never thought he’d do around Malfoy. “You’re probably right. Though he did fancy my mom…” Again, not a fond memory. But seeing Snape so gentle around his mother, a muggleborn, someone he knew virtually nothing about? That shifted some of his opinions about his late Potions professor.

After the seventh counterclockwise stir, Draco pulled the spoon out rapidly, placing it on the pristine countertop, only to stare at Harry with his eyes as wide as saucers. “There’s no way. You have to be joking.”

“He told me himself, gave me the memory, before he… uh.”

“Oh.”

Harry flicked his wand to lower the heat and cover the cauldron in one fell swoop. He’d never been any good at potions, bar when he used Snape’s illegal textbook, but somehow Draco made it easy. “Yeah, it wasn’t like, a good conversation or anything, but it was a little morbid, honestly.”

“He was always just like that, though. Once he told me that my mother nearly poisoned a first-year student for disrespecting my father, back when they were at Hogwarts.” Harry tried to think of a young Narcissa Malfoy, sparkly-eyed and curious, but with the signature Slytherin cunning. He imagined the poor kid choking on his drink at Breakfast in the Great Hall, with a teenaged but still white-haired Lucius staring in unabashed joy. His imagination twisted into the image of Draco, crouched around Snape’s body as Harry had done with Remus at the same time. He tried to conceal his frown.

“That’s insane!”

“You think? I grew up with them, it’s like they never left their honeymoon phase. I’d’ve much preferred living with Severus, honestly.”

Harry never knew this side of Draco, a side that was both sarcastic and funny. “Why have we never conversed like this before? You’re honestly a little fun to be around, Malfoy.”

“Oh, I don’t know, take a wild guess,” Draco rolled his eyes. Then he got real quiet, so as to hide the rest from the wandering ears in the classroom. “It’s almost like I’ve never tried to kill you.”

“But you’ve saved my life.”

“And you’ve saved mine.”

“We can try to be friends now?”

“Oh, we can try, but I don’t know how well that’d work out.”

Harry grinned brightly, holding out his hand for Draco to shake. “I’m Harry Potter.”

“Draco Malfoy,” the blond boy smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”

~*~

Harry couldn’t believe he’d been barred from playing quidditch. It just wasn’t fair . He’d been Seeker for years, all the way up to sixth year, and even then he was absent for two whole matches. It was his final year! He deserved to play!

He settled for watching Ginny zoom past after the quaffle, though she hadn’t managed to look at him with any other emotion than guilt. It had been months. He thought he was over it. Harry just missed her as a friend, honestly.

Ron sat with him, equally depressed. His first and second years, his only years, had been fifth and sixth year—if anyone deserved to play again, it was him. But even he was less emotional than Harry expected. Hermione held one of Ron’s hands in both of hers, and Harry rolled his eyes and looked away.

“I hate happy couples,” he muttered. Hermione just giggled contentedly. She’d been behaving far more girlishly than he’d ever seen her. It was slightly terrifying, but also gratifying. Ron shuffled closer to her, and Harry mock-vomited.

“Me too,” Malfoy said, making himself known as he slid past the other students to sit next to Harry. “Blaise and Pansy… eugh.”

“Oh, hey,” Harry greeted. “Wasn’t expecting you here.”

“Well, as you see, the stands are full, and this is the border between Slytherin and Gryffindor. There was room near the Hufflepuffs, but I’d rather not associate with them.”

“Is that your excuse, or are we trying the friends thing?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “If you really do insist.”

“I do miss quidditch, sometimes,” Harry remarked, shifting the topic away. Ron and Hermione had tuned him out ages ago, and he wasn’t too sure if Blaise and Pansy would listen. Plus, he was perfectly content with discussing the sport with his most previously bitter rival.

“You were always a step above the rest of us.”

“A compliment? That’s interesting.” One of the Slytherin Beaters shot a bludger straight at Ritchie Coote, who winced as it hit his arm, but still continued. Harry had respect for the guy. He’d never disappointed him since he was put on the team.

“Shut up, you dolt, I’m trying to be civil.”

“To be fair, you were always really good, too. I think you were the only Seeker who actually kept me on my toes the entire game.”

Malfoy’s face contorted in confusion. “Seriously? I only followed you. I had no technique of my own, and Merlin knows Flint was an awful Captain.”

“Still.” Draco’s eyes hovered over to where Vaisey made a beeline for the quaffle that Ginny was careening towards the hoops with. “She’s the one who’s brillant. How in the world did you find her?”
“Ginny? She’s my best friend’s little sister, I mean, it’s kind of hard to ignore her.”

“Isn’t she your girlfriend, too?”

“Hasn’t been for a couple months. It just didn’t work, you know?”

Draco frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, really. I’m over it. And we’re good friends, anyway.”

Harry felt him scooch a bit closer, but that could have been his mind playing with him. The cold November air bit at his nose and he could see his breaths forming steam in front of his face and fogging up his glasses. Ron was too far to even share any semblance of warmth. And though he wasn’t like the overly warm heater that his best friend was, having Draco’s arm pressed up against his was nowhere near as uncomfortable as he’d thought it would be.

There was a twisting and flipping sensation inside his stomach. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unexpected. Harry found himself thinking of the time he’d held hands with Ginny for the first time, and then he dismissed it just as quickly. 

~*~

“I wonder who runs the column,” Lavender was rattling off to Parvati, two seats down from Harry’s usual trio. She hadn’t spoken to Ron since sixth year, but as it was, the fact that she was within five feet of him was progress. “Who even has that much time?”

“Someone who clearly doesn’t care about their grades,” Padma told her. “Can’t be a Ravenclaw. It’s probably one of the Hufflepuffs.”

“Forget who Confidante is,” Parvati shoved her sister. Hermione tried to be inconspicuous about eavesdropping. They didn’t care nearly enough, so she was able to listen for far longer than she needed to. “I wonder who Lovesick Lunatic is. Have you read the letters? She’s so obviously smitten.” 

“Oh, yes, the way she described all the things she wanted to do with her beloved? I could swoon. It’s like what I thought about with… gingerbread,” Lavender mumbled the last part, shooting a guilty glance in Ron’s direction. Hermione looked away just in time, pretending to pull at her ponytail.

“She’s right, though,” Ron said through bites of his scrambled eggs. “They really are poetic. Five sickles says that it’s one of the Ravenclaw girls. Reckon Luna’ll know?”

Harry chuckled and went back to eavesdropping. Even if Luna associated with any of the girls in her house, she probably wouldn’t keep up with the interpersonal politics and drama that came with being a teenager. No, Luna would tell them that they had Wrackspurts messing with their nervous system, causing them to feel all sorts of things they didn’t really feel.

“Do you ever think about what would happen if Confidante ended up being the person that LL fancies?” Parvati had grabbed her sister’s shoulder. “That would be so unimaginably adorable! Someone, write the novel, now!”

Harry felt his face flood with warmth as Ron snickered next to him. “Shut your trap, Ron,” he glared. 

“If that’s not the case, I’d like me a piece of Confidante,” Lavender leaned forward, hovering over the muffins. Harry resisted the urge to spit out his juice. “Look, hear me out. They’re kind, sweet, and forgiving. Plus, they give the best advice, and always listen to your problems.”

“ Homie-hopper,” Hermione sing-songed quietly, wearing an equally shit-faced grin as Ron. Harry ignored them.

Harry’s gaze drifted from the girls beside him, and he turned to watch across the hall as Draco smiled at something Pansy had said. It was really a beautiful look on him. This was one of the only times it seemed that Draco was getting used to life after the war. After Crabbe had died, and after his father went to Azkaban. From the little he knew of Draco, he knew he was quiet and kept his issues to himself. 

Harry’s worry for all Slytherins had morphed into worry for one particular Slytherin. And somewhere, Harry knew that the basis of his worry wasn’t just that basic emotion. 

He knew what this was. Harry knew fully well why he was up at night, with the memory of Draco’s arms around his waist as they flew from the Fiendfyre tattooed at the forefront of his mind. Harry knew that the way his eyes lingered on Draco for far longer than they did on anyone else definitely meant what he thought it did. But he didn’t want to think of that. No, he’d continue to ignore it until he couldn’t.

~*~

Dear Confidante,

I can’t pull him aside, ever. He’s a busy person, and rather popular. I’ve tried. But as is my luck, I’ve got him beside me in every class we share. So I’m trying for tidbits of conversation, maybe a joke or two. I cracked one the other day, sarcastic, biting, like I barely even meant it, and remember when I wished he would smile at me? He did, and my stomach must have turned over. His eyes literally sparkled—I mean, who even fucking does that anymore? Pardon my language.

I think we may have become friends, actually. This is something I only dreamt of happening, and I never really thought about what it would actually be like. I’ve always seen him with his friends, but to be one of them? Now, that’s interesting.

As of late, I’ve been staring at his lips more often. Dreaming about kissing him, running my hands through his untidy hair, kissing his forehead, holding his hand. That's all I can think about. I got an E on my latest Charms assignment, which is awful, because I’ve never gotten below an O, not in any of my years at Hogwarts.

It’s terrible. I’m smitten. And now that we’re not actively hating each other (I hope), it’s doing terrible things to my brain. I may need to see Pomfrey soon.

—Lovesick Lunatic

Dear LL,

I can’t lie to you. You’ve brought a smile to my face. I think it’s rather heartwarming that you’re feeling all this, and I believe our readers are always on their toes anticipating every last issue that I post. You are entirely besotted, my friend. And I adore that for you.

You’re making real progress! The first time we discussed, well, anything, you were adamant that he hated you. And now, you’re friends, acquaintances at bare minimum. As such, try and try again to pull him aside. I know this is unhelpful, but you can’t move on without addressing the past.

I’ve had personal experience with grief and trauma due to the war. The best way to heal your scars is to let those bottled up emotions out. So try. Do your best. I’m really sorry I can’t do any better.

Proud of you,

Curious Confidante

~*~

The halls of Hogwarts always bustled with gossip and students, some days more vibrant than others. And since Harry had started his advice column, the corridors hadn’t once stayed silent. And lately, everyone was discussing LL and their romance. It had spread from just the few Gryffindors to the entire school. Across every grade level, there was always a clump of people around the corkboard, making copies of the latest issue, poring over every word, analyzing each phrase. He’d heard the most insane theories and the craziest speculations on what would happen next. Harry, however, had his mind somewhere else, despite being the main reason for LL's popularity.

Every single class, his eyes had wandered down Draco’s face to his lips. And when he wasn’t looking, Harry laced his hands together in his lap and imagined what it would be like to intertwine Draco’s fingers with his. He felt like Lovesick Lunatic, wondering, waiting, imagining, running with an urge he had and thinking about every last thing he wanted to do with Draco.

He had to tell someone about his feelings—this was not a burden he could bear himself. And yet he couldn’t burden anyone else with that. He really only had two close friends, and of the two, one would probably only stare at him in shock. He needed someone who would listen to his emotions, work out the internal conflicts eating away at his soul, and someone who’d comfort him. It wasn’t that he hated his feelings. He just hated the past associated with them.

Harry turned toward Hermione, who was mouthing her Ancient Runes lesson back for memory purposes. He could tell her, but seeing as they were in a crowded hallway, and any little Slytherin could hear him and scamper off with the news, he decided to wait for a little longer.

As they stepped past the Fat Lady and into the common room, Harry pulled her sleeve, dragging to their usual corner and sat her down. Her nose wrinkled, as it did when her train of thoughts left its station. Harry inhaled deeply, and exhaled shakily, avoiding her laser-like gaze. The last thing he needed right now was to chicken out after making up his mind.

“Hermione, I have to tell you something, and you have to promise to not freak out,” Harry told her, “because I’m freaking out. There has to be something wrong with me.”

“ God , you can’t just say something like that and not follow up. What is it?” She placed a hand on his forearm, coercing him to take a seat.

“Promise me you won’t look at me differently?”

“Of course, Harry, you’re my best friend! Now out with it , or I will hex it out of you!”

Harry breathed deeply before speaking. “I think I’m in love with Draco.” He was a bit quiet, and he wasn’t sure if she heard.

“What?”

“I—I think I’m in love with Draco. Malfoy.” And he took off his glasses and buried his head in his hands, unable to look at her yet again. Just then, he felt a pair of arms wrap around him.

“Oh, Harry, you absolute sweetheart,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I know. I’ve known, ever since the first day of Amortentia.”

He looked up at her and hugged her just as tightly as before, trying not to have his tears soak her shirt. He recalled the conversation they’d had about the scents they smelled. Clearly, Harry’s would have been the most intriguing.

“Shh… it’s okay, really, just breathe.” She ran her thumb in circles along his back. “I know this is complicated, but I think it’s time for you to take your own advice, Harry. Listen to what you’ve been telling Lovesick Lunatic. I think it’s perfect.”

~*~

Harry tried being as normal as possible after his sudden revelation. It was really impossible, though, as the first class he had after his discussion with Hermione was Charms. With his mind occupying the other end of the bench where Malfoy sat and his concentration nowhere near Flitwick’s lecture, the second they stood up to practice, Harry was completely lost. 

Draco noticed this. “You’re distracted, Potter.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled back. “Got a lot on my mind.”

“Been busy, lately?”

“You could call it that.”

The blond boy ignored his unusual behavior and aimed his wand at the bouncy ball on the desk in front of him. With a quick call of ascendio , the ball shot up into the air, hit the ceiling, and dropped back down. Harry had to stop himself from gaping.

“Draco, you’re so good at charms.”

Said boy squinted at him accusingly. “What’s up with you?”

“...I may need you to teach me how to do that. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Draco sighed but complied anyway. He put his hand over Harry’s and guided it in the motions Flitwick had shown them earlier. The exact motions Harry had ignored, and consequently now had to calm the beating of his heart while being taught.

“Calm down, it’s not that complicated,” Draco murmured. Harry could feel his breath against his ear. He was going to implode, and soon.

He felt his arm move, and the second Draco let go, he experienced the weirdest lump of emotion. He felt the ghost of his touch still on his hand and up his arm, missing it though it had been only a few seconds. And yet, he was ever so slightly relieved that Draco hadn’t noticed Harry’s palms beginning to sweat.

“ Ascendio,” Harry called, and his ball, too, rose into the air.

“You’ve got this, you only need a little more confidence,” Draco told him, offering Harry a pat on the shoulder and an awkward, tight-lipped smile. Harry felt the urge to throw himself into the sun.

Instead of doing that, though, he sent a similar smile at Draco and tried his best to not run out of the room as their professor announced that class was dismissed.

“ Harry, ” he heard Draco call behind him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Draco didn’t believe this for one second. “You know you’re going to have to pass Charms to become an Auror, right?”

Harry winced. “I haven’t told anyone this yet—”

“I’m special. Yay me,” Draco interrupted, sarcasm as disdainful as ever.

“—I’m not going to be an Auror. I actually wanted to look into teaching.”

“Oh?” the blond boy raised his eyebrows. “That’s new. I never expected it. Though I did hear of your schemes with Dumbledore’s Army and all, though I’m not sure if that contributed…”

“It definitely did. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t told Ron yet. I’m hoping it doesn’t crush him. We planned to do this together, you see.”

Draco smiled. “Sometimes you just need someone uninvolved to listen to you.”

~*~

Harry had unloaded the box of letters without even sparing them a glance. Every class, every meal, every single thing he did felt so incredibly taxing, and the weight on his shoulders was ever the heavier.

He tossed the letters onto the couch-side table and launched himself onto the couch opposite his friends lengthwise, slipping off his shoes and sinking into the cushions at once. As soon as his back stopped aching like an old man’s, he stretched over and grabbed the first letter off the top of the pile. Harry silently prayed it was something good, something entertaining.

The corners of Harry’s mouth quivered downwards as he noticed the short length of Lovesick Lunatic’s latest writing.

Dear Confidante,

See, I can’t do that because my dearly detested darling is Harry fucking Potter. He’s always surrounded by those damn fangirls or his friends, who are okay now I guess but they don’t ever leave him alone. And he doesn’t like being alone, either. I can see the way he gets when he’s the first to arrive in a class or at mealtimes. He’s restless. And I get it, I’m the same—he tends to catastrophize what’s happened to his loved ones. The war’s changed him. It’s changed me. It’s changed us.

I still have no idea if anything is to come of this. I’m in love with him. I don’t know if our short friendship is anything to base his ideas off of, but I don’t know how he feels about me. What little conversation we’ve had has been brief, and recently, it’s felt like he’s running from me. Awkward, I know. The savior of the Wizarding World: afraid of yet another Slytherin.

So no. I can’t pull him aside. We’re friends now, but not that close. And no, I can’t try any harder, please don’t respond with that. I truly appreciate all you’ve done, but that’s all I can do. Thank you.

—Lovesick Lunatic

Harry dropped the letter. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, the entire world was spinning around him, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t—

Ron grabbed his arm as he lurched forward, stumbling off of the couch and knocking his foot against the leg of the wooden table where their homework lay, dejected and ignored. His best friend was asking him something, telling him to calm down, but Harry couldn’t breathe, and he sat dumbly, his chest heaving and his nostrils beginning to ache from the force of his exhales. He could tell his hands were shaking, and his mind was racing, trying to piece together what he’d just learned.

Malfoy had told him that his Obscuro was “Not bad.” It was he who’d crushed Harry’s nose on the train before sixth year, and he all the same who’d lay across the bathroom floor, gashes across his chest spurting because of Harry’s haphazardly cast curse. It was he who loved Harry’s eyes, who wanted to kiss him, who Harry wanted to kiss, and oh, dear Merlin, Harry couldn’t breathe.

It had been Draco.

It was always him. 

From that day in Madam Malkin’s, to the day his arms wrapped around Harry’s waist as the Fiendfyre consumed his best friend. 

From the day Harry refused his hand in friendship, to the day Draco lied to the Death Eaters for him. 

It was always Draco. And it was forever going to be. So, before Harry could return to his normal respiration rate, before he could think about his actions, he scratched out a letter.

~*~

Dear LL,

The reason why I haven’t posted your letter with mine is because it contained a name. Yes, albeit who that person is. I must tell you that your letter made a lot of things click for me. Everything makes sense now. It’s all logical. However, I cannot continue to help you.

I also have to tell you that your identity has been compromised. Attached is a piece of paper, only legible to you. My friend helped manufacture the spell that isolated your magical signature from your previous letters—if you’re wondering, no one will be able to read it but you. It has details for a location. Please, please, if there’s any advice I can give you, please show up to that location at the time listed. We have to talk.

Readers, if there is any time to leave LL alone, it is now. I’m literally begging you to leave the envelope alone. It’s for LL and LL only. Thank you.

Curious Confidante

~*~

Harry waited not-so-patiently the entire day. He’d stopped by the bulletin board to check if the envelope was gone, and it was. Draco had gotten it.

It was Saturday. No one had any lessons. Harry could avoid Draco until their meeting in the library. But whispers echoed across the halls, murmurs of “what happened?” and “I can’t wait for an update” blended with giggles and hushed voices. Harry picked at his meals with his fork as if they’d personally wronged him. The Great Hall was quieter than ever, and Draco was nowhere to be seen. Pansy had her head down, and Theodore was rapidly babbling something at her as she rubbed her temples.

“Are you sure it’s him?” Hermione asked. “What if you’re reading this wrong?”

“Everything lines up, though,” Ron said. “Malfoy’s sat next to Harry in every class we shared with the Slytherins. And I told you they’d been getting rather chummy…”

“Just—stay quiet for now,” Harry gasped, peeling the bread off his sandwich and eating the pieces individually. “I’ll know soon. And you two better not follow me. This is something I have to do myself.”

“But, Harry, we’ve always done everything together. And besides, I’m here for you. We are. Right, Ronald?” Hermione elbowed her boyfriend harshly in his ribs.

Ron hummed in agreement and nodded as Harry lifted his chin to look at them.

“Wish me luck,” he said, placing the fork in his plate beside the crumbs of the bread. “Seriously. That’s all I need.” 

He stepped over the bench and all but ran out of the Great Hall. His speed walking turned into a soft jog, which escalated into a full sprint as Harry found himself skipping two steps at a time on his way to his destination. He cast a Tempus , winced at the time, noting that he was three minutes from being late.

Harry burst into the Library, earning a glare from Madam Pince, and watched as Draco’s eyes widened. Draco had never been late a day in his life. He was there early, rolling back-and-forth on the balls of his feet. Still, he turned away and stalked off to the muggle novels section, doing a piss poor job of pretending to be nonchalant.

“ Hey! ” Harry called behind him, leaping over the stools another fellow student had left behind. “Wait up!”

“I’m not discussing this. Not with you. I agreed to meet Confidante here, for fuck’s sake—”

“Draco, you have to listen—”

“ Not to you! We had an agreement .” He turned back to face Harry, eyes shining with tears that threatened to spill. He hadn’t seen Draco this distraught since his trial. Chest rapidly rising and falling, Draco did his best to compose himself.

“It’s me,” Harry gasped, trying to get the wind back in his lungs after his bolt across the castle. “Er… I’m Curious Confidante.”

“...Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Harry watched as Draco knit his fingers together and massaged around his palm. He couldn’t read his face, or emotions. Then again, Draco had never been easy to read.

It felt like several minutes had passed before one of them spoke again. “I’m sorry,” Draco muttered. “This is truly mortifying. Just as our relationship improved—”

“With the advice I gave,” Harry said. He hadn’t known it was for him, but still. Any contribution made is one that helped them get to where they were. Seeing as he was one-half of the equation, well, that just meant his advice played a much bigger part than he initially thought.

“How long?” Draco moved his gaze to Harry’s shoes. A minor improvement, but some is better than none. He still looked as if he was ready to hex Harry until he forgot his own name. “How long have you known?”

“I had no idea until you wrote my name.”

“Of course you didn’t. No offense—actually, full offense—you’re about as observant as a brick.”

Harry laughed and stepped closer to him. “I’m glad you wrote.”

“You’re not angry? Or disgusted?”

He took Draco’s hands apart and pulled them into his own. His were always warm, and Draco’s always cold. He could feel Draco trembling, and he might have flinched once. Harry thought back to the first time he’d had a thought like this, an extension of his imagination getting the better of him. He could feel the tingling sensation radiating from his fingertips to his heart.

“I don’t think I could ever be.”

Draco finally looked up to meet his eyes. “Think about what you’re doing, Potter. You’re making several decisions that could absolutely murder your reputation. Plus, it’s me . I’ve tried to kill you .”

“Well, ditto. And I thought we were trying to move past that? Forgive and forget? You’ve gotta have a little Hufflepuff in you.”

Draco scowled and rolled his eyes. “Merlin, I can’t believe I’ve been waxing poetic about you, to you. Pansy’s never going to let me live it down.” Harry let go of one of his hands to hold the side of his face. 

“Is it okay if I…”

“ Please. ”

Harry leaned forward slowly, tentatively pressing a kiss against Draco’s lips. He tried moving away, but Draco’s hands found his hair and pulled him in closer.

~*~

Dear Readers,

It has been a few weeks since the last update. Emotionally, it’s been a very long time, but very rewarding.

I know everyone wants details on the LL story. I’m pleased to announce that LL and his beloved are just that—they’re happy, and in a relationship. They’re enjoying their privacy, and it’s incredible.

Over these few months I had never expected this to come from my advice column, but I’m immensely grateful that I’ve had this time. This is why I regret to inform you all that this is the end of Curious Confidante’s letters to and from anonymous senders. Thank you all for your patience, your kindness, and dedication. It’s so gratifying to watch everyone take my advice and better their lives for it.

Thank you again, and goodbye,

Curious Confidante

“It’s sort of sad to post the final one,” Harry said, tacking it to the corkboard with a bright red pin. When his right hand was free again, he laced his fingers with his boyfriend’s. Draco pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, squeezing his hand as a vote of confidence.

“It was how we started, but now it’s up to us to continue that.” Harry had seen the copies of each issue that Draco had kept neatly folded in the trunk beside his bed. He, too, kept all of Lovesick Lunatic’s original letters. After all this time, he couldn’t believe that he had once despised the boy standing beside him. Now, all he wanted to do was pepper his face in feather-light kisses and make sure he knew he was so loved. And so, Harry did just that.

“Hey, Draco?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Harry.”