Chapter Text
"This is your fault." Draco hissed.
Harry bowed his head, having the decency to look a little guilty. "I know, I'm sorry."
"No, it is your fault-" Draco blinks, looking up warily. "What?" His words stumbled off the edge of his tongue, momentarily derailed by the sheer absurdity of Potter agreeing with him. Potter never agreed with him. That was half the point of Potter.
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "I said I'm sorry. I'm utterly pants at potions- I should've said before trying to..." Harry waved his free hand vaguely, as if that might complete the sentence for him.
His other hand, meanwhile, was grasped around Draco's. But they weren't holding hands, Draco insisted. They weren't. This was just the unfortunate side effect of a botched sticking potion.
"Anyone could have guessed that, Potter." Draco snapped. "It's impressive, actually. You managed to create a potion so catastrophically cocked up that there’s no antidote available within six hundred miles. Bravo."
Harry winced, looking every bit the apologetic puppy he no doubt imagined himself to be."That is a first." His hand tightened around Draco's.
Draco's face burned. He tried to look superior through it, but he could feel the flush creeping across his skin like a betrayal. "So was you leaping towards me and grabbing my hand mid explosion." Draco scoffed, raising their joint hands. His fingers were relaxed, detached, if you will. It was Potter who had grabbed him.
"Well, I didn't want you to get hurt!" Harry cried defensively. "Next time I'll just leave you in the splash zone, shall I?"
"Precisely." Draco sniffed, and they settled back into the silence of the Gryffindor common room.
The antidote to this specific potion, as Slughorn had so very helpfully explained while dabbing at his moustache with a handkerchief, was technically possible to make. But the ingredients were rare, seasonally difficult to obtain, and wouldn't arrive from bloody Norway until the end of the week. Four days of this. Of awkward glances. Of not-holding-hands-but-absolutely-holding-hands.
Naturally, the conversation about sleeping arrangements had been a mess. Draco had launched into a particularly elegant tirade about the injustice of being forced out of his own bed because Potter’s one brain cell had gotten overheated, but then he'd caught Blaise and Theo, his roommates, exchanging sly, downright suggestive looks. So Draco had cleared his throat, muttered something about flexibility, and begrudgingly agreed to stay in Potter's room. It would be just fine.
It wouldn't be just fine, of course. This was a bloody disaster. It was barely a week ago that he'd woken up, sweaty, confused, and ridiculously hard, his treacherous brain conjuring up images of Potter doing things to him that Draco wouldn't repeat in polite company. Not that Theo and Blaise counted as polite company, of course, so they needled it out of him the following morning, far too gleeful at his predicament.
"Now, boys," McGonagall intoned, her voice prim as she interrupted Draco’s internal tailspin. Everything is set up for you upstairs. I’ve made adjustments to your schedules so you may attend lessons...ah," She smiled faintly. "Hand in hand."
Draco wanted the floor to swallow him whole as Harry made a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh or a death rattle.
"And under no circumstances are you to practice Quidditch while bound like this. Of course, I know you’ll both ignore that rule just like all the others, so I’ll merely advise you to be careful." With a final nod, she turned and swept away, cloak billowing dramatically behind her.
Harry stood awkwardly. " Right-er-it’s this way." He motioned up the stairs with their joined hands.
"I know which way it is," Draco muttered, stalking forward anyway, too tired to summon more sarcasm.
"Really? How?"
And-well. Draco didn't really want to get into how he once slept with a messy-haired Gryffindor that resembled Potter a little too much, so he just shrugged and continued down the halls. He was holding a bag full of his things in his free hand- sleeping in Potter's room was humiliating enough. The last thing he wanted to do was borrow his clothes or- god forbid, his imaginary hairbrush. He eyed Potter's hair disdainfully, angry at mostly how horribly unkept it was, and a little frustrated at how much he wanted to tangle his hands into it and pull.
They made their way into Harry's room in silence- it had been a long day, and all they both wanted to do was knock out. Longbottom was already asleep, it seemed, based on the lump under his bedsheets.
They entered the Gryffindor dormitory in silence. The day had been long, exhausting, and more humiliating than Draco had anticipated. Longbottom was already snoring, a lumpy figure under his blanket.
"Ron’s with Hermione," Harry offered, digging through a drawer for pyjamas.
"Took the first opportunity to escape, is that it?"
"No!" Harry turned around, eyes wide. "I mean, not really. He’s over there a lot. Honeymoon stage, or…whatever."
Draco blinked. Then shuddered. "Disgusting."
Harry laughed. Not a polite chuckle- actually laughed. Draco hadn’t said anything particularly funny, but somehow Potter found him hilarious.
He ignored how this made his heart jump like a pathetic little teenage witch, and instead fished through his overnight bag with efficient, pointed rummaging, ignoring the way Potter was watching him like he'd never seen someone unpack before. Pyjamas- silk, obviously, in a pale silver trimmed with navy- neatly folded. Toothbrush, ivory-handled. A small pouch of toiletries, carefully enchanted to keep everything upright and avoid spilling. A small hairbrush. He extracted each item with casual grace and placed them on the edge of the dresser.
When he turned, Harry was still staring. At the pyjamas specifically.
Draco narrowed his eyes. "What?"
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to their still-fused hands, then to himself, then back to Draco’s pristine sleepwear. His face was visibly reddening, like a kettle about to whistle.
Draco raised a single unimpressed brow. "Potter, we are wizards. You do know that?"
Harry blinked. "What?"
Draco sighed. "There’s no need to stand there imagining...anything." He flicked his wand with a neat little flourish, and in a swift movement, his clothes morphed, shirt folding into nothing, trousers twisting mid-air, and his pyjamas snapped crisply into place. Not a hint of skin shown. Very tasteful.
Potter, inexplicably, looked away.
Draco rolled his eyes. "That was the entire point, you utter berk."
"Right. Yeah. Makes sense." Harry fumbled with his wand and did the same. His transfiguration was slightly less graceful- his T-shirt got caught halfway and wriggled around like it was fighting for its life- but the result was acceptable, even if his pyjamas were tragically Muggle and featured some old band logo that looked like it had seen war. He pointed down the hall. "Bathroom’s just through here."
Draco followed, not missing the way Harry reached for the toothpaste before he'd even unsheathed his toothbrush. He paused, peered into his bag again, and frowned. "Bugger."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"
Draco nodded solemnly at the toothbrush in his hand. "I forgot my toothpaste."
Harry smirked faintly, holding up his own tube. "Would you like to use mine?"
Draco gave him a flat look. "Obviously, I would like to use it, Potter. What, did you think I was just going to rinse and hope for the best?"
Harry chuckled and handed it over once he’d finished. Draco snatched it with a little more dignity than he felt and brushed efficiently. It was all painfully domestic. Two toothbrushes, one cup, shoulder to shoulder, like this was something they did all the time.
It wasn’t.
It definitely wasn’t.
And yet, horrifyingly, it didn’t feel that strange. Potter was humming something tuneless under his breath, looking half-asleep already, and Draco was beginning to question the entire trajectory of his life.
They finished up, Harry turning to leave the bathroom, but Draco tugged him back by their joined hands.
"Wait."
He dug into his pouch again and produced a series of small, labelled jars. First the cleanser, then the serum, then a dab of eye cream, a smoothing potion, and finally a touch of scented hair oil to keep his ends from frizzing. He began his routine with elegant swipes and practiced movements, completely at ease, until he noticed Harry’s reflection in the mirror.
He was watching him like one might watch a telly advert. Slightly slack-jawed, bizarrely invested, eyes full of baffled admiration. "Do you really do all this every night?" Harry asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
"And every morning," Draco said primly. "Shocking, I know. Some of us take care of ourselves."
Harry nodded slowly and took half a step closer. He was nearly flush against Draco now, peering at the jars like they were ancient artefacts. "Wicked."
Draco sneered faintly. "Indeed, very wicked for you, Potter. You probably don’t even wash your face."
"I do wash my face," Harry protested, sounding genuinely offended. Draco could feel the little puffs of air on his skin as Potter spoke. Why on earth was he standing so close? "It’s very clean," Draco said.
"Mm. Sure."
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly, gaze drifting to Draco’s cheek. He tilted his head. "Your skin does look really soft."
Draco blinked, midway through applying his eye cream. "It is soft. Because I take care of it. Something you wouldn’t kn-"
Harry raised his free hand and, before Draco could finish his sentence, brushed the back of his fingers against Draco’s cheek. The newly moisturised one that had just absorbed two layers of serum.
Draco froze.
His fingers lingered, featherlight, warm. His eyes were locked onto Draco’s now, distant and thoughtful, like he was trying to solve some kind of riddle using nothing but cheek texture.
A laugh bubbled out of him, low and surprised at the horrified look on Draco's face. "Relax, just testing my theory."
"Testing your- what?" Draco’s voice pitched slightly, mortified. He smacked Harry’s hand away and scowled, even as his skin tingled where it had been touched. "Get your disgusting, germy hands off my face, Potter. Do you even know what’s on them?"
"Hand," Harry corrected idly, eyes still wide with amusement. "Singular. The other one’s yours now, remember?"
Draco groaned and dragged his palm down his face, muttering something rude under his breath in French. He didn’t miss how Potter smiled at that either, the corners of his mouth twitching up like he’d found the whole thing unbearably charming.
They emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, teeth clean, faces moisturised (well, one face, anyway), and Draco’s was still suspiciously pink from where Harry had touched it. He kept glancing at him like he might do it again.
The remaining beds had been pushed together. Two tragically average Hogwarts dormitory beds, now forming one slightly lumpy, questionably stable surface. Draco stopped dead in his tracks, arms folded, and stared at it.
“I am not,” he said flatly, “sleeping in that Weasel’s bed.”
Harry blinked, halfway through fluffing up a pillow. His other arm was pulled back to where Draco was standing, a safe distance away. “What? Why not?”
“Because I have standards, Potter. And God only knows what he’s done to it. Just being near it makes me feel like I need a protective charm.”
Harry snorted. “He hasn’t done anything to it. He sleeps in it.”
“Exactly,” Draco said, face twisted in visible horror. “You both do, apparently. It’s a shared disaster zone.”
Harry gave up on the pillow and laughed. “Alright, fine, you can use my bed then.”
That, apparently, was even worse. Draco’s face did something dramatic and immediate- going from a warm pink to a deep, scalded red- and he actually took a step back.
Harry, concerned now, tilted his head. “Are you okay?”
“No, I am not okay,” Draco snapped, eyes wide and hand flailing vaguely between them. “I am stuck to you, Potter, and I have to sleep in a stranger’s sodding bed and it’s all- it’s miserable. This entire day has been a nightmare.”
Harry looked sheepish. “I know. Sorry. Again. Honestly. But I’m not a stranger.”
“You might as well be,” Draco muttered. “I don’t just crawl into bed with people I barely know.”
“Oh?”
Draco rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t injure something. “Shut it.”
Still, he followed Harry over. There weren’t exactly options. He eyed the bed like it might bite him before sliding in awkwardly under the sheets, one side of the bed already occupied by Potter’s warmth. He made sure to preserve at least half a foot of distance between them, which was about all the mattress would allow. Their joined hands stayed awkwardly tangled in the middle like some symbolic truce flag, and neither one of them was quite sure where to put them.
Draco lay flat on his back, stiff as a corpse, staring at the ceiling. He could feel Harry's presence next to him. He could smell his shampoo. Why did he smell nice? He wasn’t supposed to smell nice.
Potter, of course, looked like he was about two minutes away from dropping off completely. How did he do that? How did someone sleep so easily while shackled to their once-sworn enemy?
Twenty minutes of internal shrieking later, Draco was still wide awake, jaw clenched, shoulders tense.
Beside him, Harry shifted again. Then, in a voice that was irritatingly warm and soft, he said, “Are you asleep?”
Draco screwed his eyes shut tighter and focused on his breathing. Slow. Even. Sleepy.
There was a pause.
Then Potter laughed. “Malfoy,” he said, voice far too amused, “I can tell you’re awake. You’re terrible at pretending.”
With a huff, Draco opened his eyes and, with exaggerated patience, lifted their joint hands and slapped Harry in the face with them.
“Ow! Bloody hell!” Harry jerked back, laughing harder. “What was that for?”
“I was trying to sleep,” Draco snapped. “But you wouldn’t shut up.”
“You are not even close to falling asleep,” Harry said, grinning. “You’re stiff as a bloody board.”
“Well, this isn’t exactly an ideal situation, is it?”
Harry raised a hand in surrender. “Fair enough. But look, neither of us can survive four nights like this. Or, at the very least, you can’t. So just… try to relax. I’m not going to jump you in your sleep. And you don’t have to sleep on the edge. I can practically see your leg dangling off the side.”
Draco sneered, although it came out more tired and flustered than cutting. “Oh, would you rather I just cuddled up to you all night, Potter?”
Harry went a bit pink. There was a faint rustle as he shifted again. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “If that’s what’s going to help, then… yeah. That’s fine.”
Draco turned sharply to look at him. “That’s fine?”
Harry blinked. “Yeah. That’s great.”
Draco stared at him, then turned back to the ceiling and muttered, like it was the most baffling thing he’d heard all year, “That’s great,” he repeated incredulously. He shook his head faintly, rolled onto his side- facing away from Potter- and mumbled, “You-you're barmy.”
Harry let out a quiet, fond sort of sigh behind him, and Draco didn’t quite understand what that was supposed to mean.
But eventually, to his surprise, and perhaps because of that very sigh, he drifted off.
Draco stirred, eyelids fluttering as golden morning light filtered through the window- far too bright for such an ungodly hour. The entire room was red. Everything was red. The curtains, the walls, the bedding. It was like waking up inside a Gryffindor’s belly.
But that wasn’t the only reason it felt different.
No, it felt different because he had one Harry Potter curled around him like a bloody snail.
His back was pressed flush against Potter’s chest. Their hands, still interlinked, for Merlin’s sake, were tucked neatly under Draco’s chin like a bow on a cursed Christmas parcel. Potter was warm. Obscenely warm. He radiated heat like a furnace, every slow breath puffing out against Draco’s neck in short, sleepy exhales.
Draco’s heart was thumping so hard he was half convinced it would wake Potter up. He tried to shift- gingerly, carefully- face burning, body stiff with horror.
Potter made a faint sound of protest, something sleepy and slurred, and then pulled him in closer until Draco was practically cocooned. His heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic rhythm, and Potter’s thumb rubbed absently over his knuckles. His nose buried itself at the nape of Draco’s neck.
Merlin’s tits, Draco was going to die.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t survive waking up like this for another three days. It would actually kill him. He stared up at the ceiling, begging any higher power to end his suffering.
Then-
HOOOT.
Something white streaked across the room.
Draco swore loudly, flailing like a startled cat. Potter groaned behind him and slowly, finally, untangled himself, blinking blearily in the light and stretching his limbs in every direction as if he hadn’t just spent the night wrapped around another person like a human scarf.
“Hedwig,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes, “piss off, please.”
The snowy owl flapped lazily to a perch and fluttered her feathers, giving Harry what could only be described as a very rude look. Then she stuck out her tongue.
Draco blinked.
He liked her already.