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It was impossible to concentrate with the persistent noise Potter made by tapping his quill against the desk, over and over. By this point in life, the Gryffindor should have found a way to control that erratic energy inside him—or that boredom. Draco didn’t care which one it was.
He clicked his tongue in irritation as he noticed McGonagall had already moved on to a new topic, and how far behind he’d be in the next Transfiguration class. He had no idea how he was supposed to learn all that material in so little time.
Accepting that he wouldn’t retain anything else from this class, he laid his head down between his arms to rest. He’d previously made sure the Slytherin sitting in front of him blocked the professor’s view of him.
But it turned out to be a bad decision, because with his eyes closed and focused only on how uncomfortable he was, his senses became sharper, and the sound Potter kept making became even more unbearable. Irritated, he stayed still for a while longer, hoping to relax. It didn’t work.
He slowly lifted his head, worried that he might have left a red mark on his face from resting in a bad position, even if it had only been for a few minutes. Defeated, he fixed his hair before speaking.
“Professor, may I go to the bathroom?” He needed fresh air, a distraction—anything.
McGonagall nodded without much interest and continued her explanation without missing a beat.
Draco stood up, grabbed his things to take with him—just in case. Lately, there had been too many idiots who thought they were incredible vigilantes by hiding other people’s belongings. Pathetic. Had he really ever behaved like that?
Unfortunately, he didn’t have to walk far to reach the bathroom. One thing he’d discovered about himself in recent months was how much physical activity helped him—whether it was a simple walk or a full workout, it helped him disconnect for a while. He liked when his heart raced because of exertion, not fear. He appreciated being able to recognize that difference, to make use of it.
The only sound in the bathroom was the water hitting his hands. He splashed cold water on his face, just enough to feel the sting. He closed his eyes at the cold sensation.
Draco didn’t feel like going back to class. He didn’t even like the subject—the only reason he took it was because the heavier his academic load, the more likely he was to get a decent job after Hogwarts. It was humiliating to know he had something in common with Granger, a shared disadvantage, even if their situations were completely different.
The war hadn’t left Draco with a good reputation. In his world, in his reality, he’d learned that it didn’t matter what you had to offer—only the image you projected, and whether it matched the current moral or financial standards. Years ago, he had loved what that meant because it had always worked in his favor. That was no longer the case. And Draco was a hypocrite, so now he hated those damn prejudices.
Still, he went back to the classroom, and with that, another half hour passed—completely boring, and not to mention lonely.
………..
In the Great Hall, Draco often knew he wouldn’t be able to eat a single bite, and since he had no interest in talking to his friends, he simply stared at the table flooded with that awful shade of red.
Each group and year carried a different atmosphere. The younger students didn’t seem as nostalgic or bitter as the older ones. Not everyone had lost something or someone, and it showed. Draco knew how easy—and how hard—it was to repress pain. But he felt like he could recognize it. He was still a teenager who thought he knew everything.
He tried to avoid looking at Potter’s friends, though he no longer felt such intense or negative emotions toward the group. The envy, however, was still very present. And Potter looked neutral. Every time Draco looked at him, he felt more confused. Half the time he thought he understood him, and the other half he had no bloody idea why he acted the way he did. He’d won the war and looked more humble than ever. Wasn’t he supposed to act like a winner? What the hell was wrong with Potter?
He looked away, embarrassed, when Granger caught him staring at her heroic friend.
He only did it because, every now and then, Potter looked at him too. It felt fair to look back—he had the right. He wouldn’t let himself be intimidated. Although the difference in what they each thought when those glances happened was too great. Of that, Draco was sure.
Sometimes their eyes met, but it was always strange, and they both looked away quickly. The odd part wasn’t the staring itself or even being caught doing it. What didn’t fit in that exchange was the absence of disdain—an absence impossible to ignore. That childish feeling that had always accompanied them, it was no longer in his eyes. And it wasn’t in Potter’s either.
So many things had changed in the past few months, but this one made no sense. Everything that happened during the war had an obvious reason, a clear explanation. Even if he hadn’t understood the consequences at the time, he could see them now.
If what was left between them wasn’t hatred or indifference, then what was it? Was he the only one wondering?
Goyle squeezed his shoulder to get his attention. “We’re going to Hogsmeade later. Coming?”
He frowned. “I don’t know. You know I need to catch up on like a million assignments.”
“You can study tomorrow.”
“No, I can’t. I’m really behind, and I’ve been super distracted lately.” He didn’t even know the basics of last week’s Transfiguration lesson.
“We all have our strengths—we can help you after.” He looked to the rest of the group for confirmation, and they all nodded. “A study session would help all of us.”
Draco knew everyone was dealing with the expectations of their families, that they all needed the best possible grades to build a respectable future. A good last name didn’t mean anything anymore if you’d been on the losing side of the war.
“It’d be easier to just invite Granger and have her lead the session than to get you to think, Goyle.” Everyone laughed—including Goyle.
It was tempting, having to do less research and having friends to help with what he didn’t understand. But his concentration issues would only get worse around them. It didn’t make sense to try.
“Thanks, but I have to do it on my own. I won’t focus with you lot around.”
His friend’s smile faltered, as if Draco had just ruined his fun. “Draco, I lost my reputation too—even my inheritance. But I’m not killing myself studying over it.”
The comparison felt totally out of place, and Draco was annoyed. Why was he interfering? Couldn’t he just take no for an answer?
“Your family didn’t host the Dark Lord in their home. Of course your situation isn’t as bad as mine.” He wasn’t being reasonable—that’s probably what they all thought. Their disgusted expressions said as much.
“What’s wrong with you, Draco? This isn’t a competition. May I remind you I watched my best friend die—basically commit suicide. You didn’t lose anyone!” Having his father in Azkaban didn’t feel like he hadn’t lost anyone.
“He wasn’t just your best friend! I was there too—and I tried to stop him, unlike you.”
Some people at the table had gone quiet and were staring. His friends looked at each other, clearly debating whether to intervene. Pansy looked ready to jump in, but Goyle silenced her first.
“Don’t talk to me about friendship! To you, we were just guard dogs you could treat however you wanted. You never had friends, so stop acting like you actually lost anything that wasn’t some superficial bullshit like your social status.” That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the only thing he’d lost—and Goyle knew it.
Draco grabbed his still-full plate, tilted it, and with his fork dumped all the food onto Goyle’s. “Eat it yourself, since that’s the only thing you know how to do.”
Goyle didn’t look particularly offended—just disappointed. The others wore similar expressions.
“I thought you’d changed. We all did.”
They weren’t going to make him feel worse than he already did. He’d never allowed that, and he wasn’t going to start now.
“That’s not my problem. Is it?”
…….
Draco was in the office of his Head of House, Slughorn. He was nervous and caught himself mimicking Potter’s anxious habit. He stared at his wand when he realized it—at least it wasn’t a quill.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but I had to fetch another student before coming.”
“No problem,” he said, squinting with displeasure. Of course it was.
The professor smiled, though not very sweetly.
“Shall I get straight to the point?” Draco nodded, relieved. “Very well, there’s nothing to worry about—
not really. But your teachers have mentioned that you’ve been quite distracted in class. And since you’re taking multiple subjects, they’re concerned you’re not giving each one the attention it requires.”
“I’m doing what I can. I’ll catch up.”
He didn’t like the unsure smile he received in return—he was being handled with care. Everyone seemed to think Draco needed that.
“The thing is, Draco, I don’t need empty promises, only action. That’s why I’ve decided to assign you a tutor.” Draco froze. Most people hated him—if someone had agreed to this, it certainly wasn’t out of kindness.
“Thank you, Professor,” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking. “But as I said, that won’t be necessary.”
“Nonsense. I’ve already taken the time to find the right person, so don’t worry. They won’t be able to help with every subject for obvious reasons, but they’re quite talented in some. Even you must have noticed. Trust me on this.” Who did he think he was to say that?
“But…”
“Draco, we both know how critical your situation is. Take what I’m offering.” Slughorn walked to the door with a smile and called in his future tutor, assuring them Draco was grateful—he actually used the word delighted.
Then Draco saw Potter, and his mind went completely blank. Potter, on the other hand, nodded a greeting without even bothering to speak or smile. Using that unsettling expressionless look—Draco had never seen him manage that before the war.
“Um, how about we start this weekend? I don’t know if I’ll be much help with most subjects, but we can begin with Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
Draco wanted to die.
Frowning, he muttered agreement and stood to leave. Slughorn told Potter (not even lowering his voice) that Draco had been very rude for a boy from a good family—or what used to be a respectable one.
Draco rolled his eyes and sped up his pace.
He hadn’t gotten far before Potter caught up to him. He didn’t ask him to stop—he just reached out, without thinking, and placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder.
“We could study at Hagrid’s cabin for more privacy.”
“Right, because you’d feel comfortable there,” Draco snapped.
Potter tilted his head and looked at him, bored. “Whatever you say.”
There was no point arguing over something so stupid. He had to grow up. Merlin, he just wanted a break.
“Let’s meet there after the last class. Where will Hagrid be?”
“Don’t worry about him—we’ll be alone. I already spoke with him.”
That was fast. And convenient. Draco crossed his arms, defensive. “When were you asked to do this?”
“About a week ago, give or take. Doesn’t matter. See you tomorrow.” Potter bit the inside of his cheek—irritated or nervous, Draco couldn’t tell. “Malfoy, don’t even think about standing me up. Remember, I’m doing you a favor.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. Relax, Potter. I’ll come.”
“Good.” Potter stared at him for a minute, those green eyes seemingly unwilling to let him go. Draco had to remind himself that the best part would be when that gaze did leave him. That day was getting closer. He felt a tightness in his chest and fought the urge to clutch it.
“You know, sarcasm just makes you more unpleasant. I hope you realize that.”
“More unpleasant? I don’t know if I can work with someone who constantly insults me.”
“Get over it, Malfoy.” Potter turned and walked away. Each step made Draco dizzier. Watching him walk so normally made Draco feel ashamed. That interaction would haunt him all night, and Potter had only seemed mildly irritated. That was all the effect Draco had on him. He was wrong. Nothing had changed—not really.
He was nervous someone might catch him sneaking out of the castle. Not that it was forbidden—it was early, and curfew was still hours away. But being alone made him uneasy, especially since he was heading to the cabin of someone he had once tried to get expelled. And that wasn’t exactly a secret. His destination could be misinterpreted. Many people were angry he hadn’t been punished. They didn’t know the consequences he faced daily. He didn’t seem to be in enough pain. They wanted to see him fall apart.
Potter was selfish. He had an invisibility cloak. No one questioned his actions—he didn’t even need it. Draco wished he had lent it to him.
He shook his arms, massaged his neck for distraction, and closed his eyes for a second. If he didn’t start calming himself, learning how to do it, these thoughts would follow him for the rest of his life.
Just before reaching the cabin, Potter approached him, stealing the privacy the woods had given him during his minor breakdown.
Apparently, he had been waiting by the door—probably to see if Draco would show or chicken out. He had no faith in him. Potter gripped his shoulders with a steadying firmness.
“Malfoy, look at me.” He didn’t want to. He didn’t. “You’re scaring me.” When Draco finally looked, he saw Potter confused—maybe even concerned, though just a little.
“Come on, let’s go in.” He removed one hand from Draco’s shoulder to open the door. He didn’t let go of him completely—he actually increased the contact. The hand on his shoulder shifted to wrap around him, pressing him to his side. To make it worse, Potter nearly tripped entering the cabin. For a half-giant’s house, it wasn’t very spacious.
Draco felt his face heat up and had enough. He pushed Potter hard. Embarrassing anger swelled inside him. For a moment, the closeness had confused him—a foreign sense of safety had overwhelmed him. Distance was all he had right now. He wouldn’t give it up.
“Don’t touch me, Potter.” He stepped back. “Don’t do it again.” He took a deep breath.
Potter frowned and raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, I won’t touch you.”
That somehow made it worse. He knew he was overreacting—he didn’t need confirmation.
“Can we forget this? Just lend me your cloak next time, that’s all I ask.” Potter wouldn’t agree to that—still, Draco tried. And he was shocked when Potter replied:
“Alright.” He ran a hand through his hair, a bit perplexed. Draco didn’t have the strength to thank him or even smile. He just nodded. That had to be enough.
He relaxed his shoulders and pulled out his wand. Potter cautiously watched every move.
“What are you waiting for? I thought your time was precious.” Potter blinked repeatedly—caught off guard, but only for a moment. It was enough to make him smile. He caught up quickly and drew his wand, followed by a wrinkled, poorly folded parchment.
“I made a list of spells your Head of House recommended. I think they’re perfect to start with.”
He handed Draco the parchment to inspect. It was clear his professor had been paying attention—most of the spells were the ones Draco struggled with most. Should he be worried that Slughorn knew his weaknesses? Was he being paranoid again?
“What’s wrong? Don’t like them?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The look on your face.” Potter crossed his arms and sighed.
“I guess I’m tired.”
“You picked the time,” Potter reminded him.
“I had no other free slots,” he snapped. “Potter, this won’t work. Why don’t you lie to Slughorn and tell him you changed your mind? I doubt he’ll be mad if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I don’t care about Slughorn.”
“Then why bother?”
Potter looked away and wandered around the small room, searching for something. He grabbed two chairs and brought them over. He offered one to Draco and kept the other. It didn’t look very comfortable, but Draco accepted it.
“Look, Malfoy. I’m not doing this out of obligation. I wanted to try. Hermione would’ve been the best choice to help you academically, but I couldn’t ask her. It wouldn’t have been fair.” Draco looked at him, hurt. That insensitive implication was the real injustice.
“Malfoy, you know exactly why I said that. Don’t be like this.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’ve always been expressive—no need to speak.” That was clearly an accusation.
“Yeah.” Draco looked away—he couldn’t bear Potter’s judgmental gaze. It was always the same.
“I just wanted to say that I don’t mind doing this.”
“How flattering,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.
“What do you expect?!” Potter stood and took a step toward him. “You’ve been a complete ass to me since day one, and you think you have the right to look offended when I remain neutral? I’m doing you a favor, you idiot.”
“I didn’t ask you for anything!”
“That’s not how things work!”
Draco rubbed his forehead, exasperated. “Tell me the truth, Potter. Why are you here?”
“You want to know why? Fine. Just don’t complain later.” He grinned maliciously and pulled another crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket. “Read it. I just thought if you wrote all that, there must be some humanity in you.” What?
Draco snatched the paper, heart pounding in his ears.
He recognized the handwriting immediately.
Shit.
“Potter—” His mouth was dry. He didn’t know how to fix this. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh no?” Potter reclaimed the parchment effortlessly—too fast for Draco to react. “Explain each line then. I must have misunderstood.”
“Potter, I…”
“Dear Harry, I hope you know that just writing your name is making me nauseous…”
Draco was paralyzed, eyes wide open. Potter wasn’t even looking at him—he was too focused on humiliating him.
“…But writing ‘Dear, Potter’ would be too strange. I shouldn’t justify myself; the point of this exercise is to let everything out without owing anything to anyone, that this is for me. It doesn’t matter, I make the rules of this shit. In a way, I could humiliate myself by letting all this thing out to Pansy—I owe that woman a bit of fun for her patience. However, it wouldn’t work; I could never be completely honest with anyone when it comes to you. I never could. With you, I’ve discovered every facet of falling in love, obviously not counting the physical part, which won’t happen without your participation. Unfortunately for me, I can experience all the rest, which aren’t the fun parts, all by myself.
It’s very confusing to like someone of the same sex; it was helpful at first, thanks to that I had no idea what I felt until well into fifth year. I confused everything with the envy I felt. I’m not saying it wasn’t real, but it caused me to eclipse everything else. Jealousy is easy to justify; it doesn’t have to mean something romantic, so I didn’t suspect it at first. But with each passing year, every tremor I felt in my hands when I was near you, the reddening of my face, my accelerated pulse—I could no longer see them only as the result of anger and shame. The pain in my chest, that unmistakable emptiness I shouldn’t have felt because of how contradictory it is, was there. It was unmistakable, I knew what it meant, and it ruined my life. I don’t know if you’d like to know that you and Voldemort were the ones who ruined everything for me, but it was mostly you. You always manage to beat him.”
Potter bit his lip at the end, carefully folded the letter, and handed it back. His hands were slightly shaking. A small victory. He was still standing in front of Draco. Draco hated the imbalance of power. More than anything, he hated the desire that came with admiring it.
“I didn’t beat Voldemort at everything. I think that’s the part of your letter that struck me most.”
“I’m deeply offended that that’s what rattled you most. I should’ve been more explicit.” He smirked.
Potter shrugged. He seemed at a loss for words—must’ve been a headache for him. Draco leaned back in his chair, chin high.
“So let me get this straight—you orchestrated all of this just to throw that letter in my face? A letter I clearly wrote from frustration and resentment? I didn’t think you were that kind of person, Potter. Maybe I should’ve written to Weasley.”
He shook his head. “You were honest—not by choice, but you were. Now it’s my turn.” He made a face that didn’t put Draco at ease. But it was a mistake to think Potter was predictable. He was right to remember that there were still many details left to uncover.
“I wanted to see if this would lead somewhere. You know…”
“What?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Your words were much more meaningful than mine.” He gave him a soft smile.
Draco shook his head like an idiot. “You’re not serious.”
“You’re the one with the cruel jokes. What does that say about your taste?”
There had always been signs about Potter—things that never quite added up. Maybe Draco had only seen what he wanted. It wouldn’t be strange if Potter had fooled himself about many of their interactions. He was known to live in a distorted reality as a child. That’s why those long stares, his help at the trial, his obsession with Draco in sixth year, his resolve to save him from that horrible fire—none of it had to mean anything.
He looked into that idiot’s eyes and knew. They were going to try this. His face must’ve said something right, because Harry smiled again.
“What can I say? I must be a true masochist. And since I ruined the chance to get to know each other without expectations, I guess we’ll have to be direct about what we want.” Potter lowered his head, placed a hand on Draco’s neck, and pulled him close. Draco let him. He would never want to reject him—to push him away. Harry pressed his lips against his in a soft, slow kiss. Unlike anything they’d ever lived through over the years.
The best part was that it meant they still had plenty of time to change the tone of their relationship.