Chapter Text
That low-life blood traitor doesn’t deserve to stand by his side. It should be me, instead. How can he not see that?
Love always,
Your son Draco
Narcissa did not sigh as she read over her son’s letter for the third time. Doing so was a base sort of habit that her parents had steered her away from very early in life. That didn’t mean she had to ignore the burgeoning headache that threatened her. Draco’s signature at the bottom of the page was delicate and clean, just as she’d taught him when he first picked up a quill. The last three words of the body of the letter itself, on the other hand, were punctuated with the hint of an ink splatter, suggesting that Draco had used too much force at the end — certainly not the level of penmanship that Narcissa approved of.
With a wave of her hand and a few commands to her house elf, she had herself a Calming Draught before setting the letter down, staring into the low flames of her fireplace as she mulled over what she had just read.
After the Dark Lord’s defeat and Lucius’ narrow escape from Azkaban, she’d thought very little about the Boy-Who-Lived. Why should she, when everything was already said and done? He played no part in her life. Even whilst active in his Death Eater duties, Lucius spoke very little about the specifics of the Dark Lord’s plans to her; she suspected it was both to maintain secrecy of her Lord’s plans, in addition to allowing Narcissa some peace of mind to focus on raising Draco.
Then, the Dark Lord fell, and they’d both thrown themselves into their son’s upbringing. With nothing else to occupy their time, what else could they possibly waste their time on, if not their only son?
Though, Lucius would occasionally frown at her and hint that she had coddled their son too much, catered to his whims and tantrums too often. At that, she would harden her eyes and return to sitting on the floor with Draco, watching him as he cooed over his enchanted toys. Lucius never came up with any arguments against that.
Except, perhaps Lucius hadn’t been entirely wrong to discourage her from indulging in so many of Draco’s whims, judging by the letter Draco had written to her a mere week into his first year at Hogwarts.
He had always been a willful child. Willful, demanding, and proud, due much in part to Lucius’ influence over him. And yet, he had been sweet, adoring, and even charming in his precociousness and ability to gaze up at them with his round, gleaming silver eyes that even the strongest man couldn’t possibly say no to. They’d arranged for him to have plenty of playdates with other pureblood children to help guide his social skills while Narcissa and Lucius homeschooled him in preparation for his formal magical education, and Draco’s playmates always adored him — always bowed to his whims with ease with a generous litany of compliments, just as Draco demanded of them. It was one of Draco’s talents that Lucius had always admired and encouraged, as that was the kind of reverence befitting of a Malfoy.
Unfortunately, Lucius was being terribly slow with teaching Draco the art of subtlety and tact .
Ronald Weasley was one of the boys Draco had ranted about in his letter. He was the youngest boy born to the Weasley family, Narcissa recalled vaguely. A nondescript child born to a nondescript family whose patron head had somehow managed to sneak his way into a job at the Ministry despite being an extraordinarily ordinary student during their time at Hogwarts together. Nothing like her brilliant Lucius, she thought. And Draco was probably right, in that the little Ronald Weasley’s friendship paled in comparison to what Draco could offer.
That did not mean that Draco needed to be going around raising the ire of his classmates so early on, no matter how unremarkable they were. She blamed Lucius’ temper and his own palpable dislike of Arthur Weasley for it; he contained it well enough while in public, but had a nasty habit of letting his distaste slip in the privacy of his own home, even in front of their impressionable son.
She would have words for both Lucius and Draco on that matter soon enough.
In the meantime, she turned her attention to the other subject of Draco’s ire: Harry Potter. He’d survived after all, hidden away from the public eye, only to return with so little pomp and circumstance that Narcissa would’ve been taken aback if she weren’t impressed with how easily his remergence in the Wizarding World had progressed. Still, according to Draco, this mythical boy hardly seemed worth much attention.
Apparently, Potter was downright abysmal in Potions, constantly infuriating Severus with his laughable foundation of basic potions knowledge and inability to follow simple directions. In their other subjects, his performance was mediocre at best. He also was, in Draco’s boorish words, ‘a scrawny little thing, all bones and the shortest of all the First Year boys with big, round glasses that made him look ridiculous with how much of his face they took up’. In fact, save his bright green eyes and famous lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead, this Harry Potter seemed just as unremarkable as the Weasley boy.
And Lucius and Narcissa had always taught Draco that he need not concern himself with the unremarkable.
But Draco was still just a boy, and the fleeting desires of young boys had the tendency to baffle her, at times. She recalled when he had just turned six, Draco had developed a sudden fondness for Exploding Snap, even going so far as to pester the house elves into playing with him for hours into the night, only to abandon the game entirely a few months later. She’d questioned him about it, only to be met with a noncommittal shrug as Draco flipped through a Quidditch magazine.
Lucius had only smiled, and life went on.
Life, Narcissa thought as she picked up a piece of parchment and a quill, always went on.
They just needed to guide Draco along the way.
My dearest Draco,
It is a shame that this Harry Potter has not been able to recognize how valuable of a friend you would be. However, you need not fret and worry about gaining his favor, especially if he performs as poorly in class as you’ve stated. For now, you must focus on your own studies and find companions in those who are worthy of it…
“Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, I honestly do not understand what is so difficult about dicing up your Dittany leaves, as opposed to crushing them into unrecognizable slop, but you two have once again proven to me that people can flounder even the most basic of instructions. I would be impressed, if I were not so appalled. Ten points from Gryffindor!”
Draco snickered to himself as he watched the little Weasel flush with anger from their desk at the other side of the Potions classroom, face burning so bright it all but illuminated both of their faces within the dimly-lit room. How anyone could stand to be in such close proximity to so much bright, blotchy, and boorish red, Draco would never understand. Just being in the same room as him and his witless expressions for too long was enough to give Draco a headache.
Perhaps that was why the once respected Weasley family's minds had become so addled over time. The head-splitting glow of their own cursed coloring must’ve driven them all mad.
But there was Potter, sitting so close to the Weasel that their shoulders were nearly touching as he glared up at Snape.
Unlike his partner, Potter did not transform into a mottled mess of ruddy reds and purples when he got upset. He easily maintained his smoky-tanned coloring and clear complexion through his anger. Yes, instead of turning into a failed painting experiment of an overzealous child, Potter held his rage with much more grace than his pathetic friend, eyes alight with a glow so startlingly bright and green that it transformed him into something ethereal.
Green had always been one of Draco’s favorite colors. Green and silver, of course. Like his father and fathers before him, Draco had been destined to be sorted into Slytherin. He recalled that when he was younger, dabbling with paints enchanted to leave no stains, he’d used all kinds of greens in almost all his drawings, the ones Mother had dutifully collected and displayed throughout the Manor until Draco had grown old enough to feel embarrassed with his old scribblings.
But he’d never seen a green quite like that of Harry Potter’s eyes.
As if he sensed Draco’s attention on him, Potter turned suddenly, and their eyes met.
Potter’s eyes were a fascinating shade of green. More than one, really. Glistening high and light one moment, before quickly dipping low and deep, like the dark velvet pillows that adorned Draco’s bedroom at home, soft to the touch and luxuriously died. The greens of Potter’s eyes swirled and shifted, ever-changing, moving as if constantly hiding away to avoid being seen.
To avoid being known.
To avoid being captured and bottled into the finest, most immortal vase in Malfoy Mansion, before being shrunken down and hidden away in the pocket of his trousers. He wouldn’t want to cast a Lightening Charm on it, though. He’d want to feel the weight of the glass weighing his pocket down, jostling against the side of his leg as he walked, safe in the knowledge that he held it with him wherever he went so he could admire whenever he pleased.
Of course, he’d make sure to avoid taking it out indiscriminately. If other people knew he possessed such a magnificent wonder of the universe, they’d surely want it for themselves. They’d demand it of him, or try to devise a way to obtain it for themselves, the greedy swine. They would consume the wonder until they were about to burst and still want more, up until they completely destroyed it.
And that, Draco thought, was unacceptable.
Because only he deserved it. Only he deserved to keep a piece of Potter with him, forever to admire and own, kept safely locked away so it would exist forever. After all, Draco had never enjoyed sharing his favorite toys or most beautiful trinkets, after all. He wasn’t inclined to change his mind now.
He could pluck one out, Draco thought suddenly. One of Potter’s eyes. A tangible item he could hold.
Before coming to Hogwarts as a student, Draco had visited Professor Snape a few times with his Father. Professor Snape had let them into his private office, and Draco had seen a few preserved eyeballs in jars amongst his private stock of potion ingredients. Some cut clean from their sockets, others with frayed bits of muscle and fat still barely attached. They had turned and swirled through the liquid Professor Snape kept them in. Sometimes, Draco swore they were moving of their own accord, trying to get a closer look at him as he watched them.
Would the preservation charms keep the greens swirling, Draco wondered.
Would Potter hate him, if he knew Draco harbored such thoughts?
Potter was still looking at him, questioningly — warily. Draco continued to look back. This was the first time he’d managed to capture this much of Potter’s focus in days without having to draw himself up into the other boy’s face in order to demand the attention Draco rightfully deserved, instead of Weasel and the other Gryffindor fools who swarmed him.
If Potter would just let him, Draco would teach him all the important things about the Wizarding World that his parents had taught him. How to make friends with the right sort, how to speak to and act around adults and authority figures like Professor Snape, how to hint at promises and threats to friends and foe alike to leverage himself in the world. Hell, he could even teach Potter how to properly use a knife so that Professor Snape didn’t get so annoyed with him all the time.
But Potter wouldn’t let him. He’d rather laugh at Weasel’s dumb jokes, or tolerate Granger’s long-winded explanation of the latest book she’s read, and even smile sympathetically at the pathetic Longbottom boy as he continued to make blunder after blunder, day after day, as if he were trying to get himself kicked out of Hogwarts for pure incompetence.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
Potter gave Draco one final wisp of a frown before turning his attention back to the front of the class. He bowed his head alongside Weasel’s, and Draco could only assume their frantic whispers were about how they could salvage their assigned potion before the end of class.
Draco could tell him. He just needed Potter to come to him.
Except, as he glanced over to see just how badly they’d pulverized their Dittany leaves at the end of class, maybe even he couldn’t help with that one.
Whispers about Harry Potter ghosted all over the castle, and Draco always listened to them. His Father had taught him from a young age that even petty gossip had its occasional role in politics and power struggles. Words spoken in hushed voices in dark corners and dingy tables at pubs weren’t always accurate, but, when they were, they were often powerful.
And the whispers about Harry Potter never ceased. His fellow Slytherin’s were especially eager to talk about him, though most of it were simple, useless rumors. Often, they spoke about how the famous Harry Potter was being favored by Dumbledore for his status as the Boy-Who-Lived, and how he surely received special privileges that the rest of them didn’t, such as extra points on essays and special access to the Prefects’ Bathroom.
Draco had seen firsthand some of the marks that Harry had gotten from several of their professors, though. Aside from Potions, they hadn’t been terrible, but also didn’t seem doctored at all.
The days went on. The mindless talk continued. Draco listened to them, took it all in, but ultimately paid them little mind.
That was, until Theo burst into the common room one day with a devious grin and eager glint in his eyes.
“Did you know, Potter was raised with his Muggle relatives, and didn’t even know about magic until he got accepted into Hogwarts!” Theo announced excitedly to the small group of First Years gathered together, studying.
Pansy looked over to him, one eyebrow raised. “Where’d you hear that from?”
“I overheard him and the bushy-haired Mudblood in Gryffindor talking about it. About how she was so surprised to receive her acceptance letter because she hadn’t known a thing about magic before then. Potter then went on to say how he felt the same because the Muggle relatives he lived with had never mentioned his parents or magic,” Theo answered hurriedly. “I guess his Muggle mother’s side of the family really are like the rest of them, so desperate to be rid of us magicfolk that they wouldn’t even mention anything about us to him.”
Draco frowned. He couldn’t imagine the Harry Potter growing up with no knowledge of magic, — his magic — after the fall of the Dark Lord. It was his reward for what he’d accomplished as a babe. The fame, the glory, the showering of adoration and love.
Looking back on it, it had taken Draco an embarrassing amount of time to realize that the boy he’d spoken to in Madam Malkin’s while shopping for new robes had been Harry Potter himself. But, that was because that boy couldn’t possibly have been Harry Potter. The boy that stood there that day, forehead and hood of his eyelids hidden by his ridiculously long and uneven fringe, looked nothing like a child hero. His small frame had been swimming in tattered, stretched out clothing that looked haphazardly thrown on, as if he’d forgotten he was due to go shopping that day. He could barely even meet Draco’s gaze, and his answers remained vague as Draco questioned him. At the time, Draco simply thought he was some nameless child destined to be sorted in Hufflepuff and forgotten as soon as they stepped out of the store.
Not Harry Potter.
“They should’ve just left him there, then,” Blaise chimed in. “It’s not like he’s particularly good at magic. The whole Boy-Who-Lived thing must have been some fluke, or a story made up by Dumbledore and his crew to try to force us to accept Muggles.”
A few people laughed, but the conversation quickly died down as they dutifully returned to their studies; for a man as friendly and amiable as Professor Flitwick, he was certainly a fan of assigning lengthy essays.
Still, the conversation continued to reverberate in Draco’s head in the days to come. As they rang in his head, he observed Potter like a hawk anticipating its next meal. The clothes Potter wore beneath his robes were often just as old and frayed as they’d been that day in Madam Malkin’s, obviously worn previously by someone much larger. Then, every so often, he bore a clean, freshly-pressed shirt or fitted sweater with all the stitching intact. They should’ve made him look far more presentable, but they only highlighted just how frail Potter really was; under the right light, Draco swore he could even catch the faint outline of a few ribs through some of Potter’s more sheer shirts.
Potter also swung his robes around awkwardly as he walked, tripping over himself every so often while rushing through the halls to get to his next class, as if he didn’t know what to do with all the fabric. As a younger child, witches and wizards didn’t wear robes as regularly, but they were still commonplace when venturing out to the shops or when visiting others. By the time they reached Hogwarts, everyone grew accustomed to wearing them.
Draco saw that Harry held his quills with too much force, and then they’d snap in his grip, spraying ink all over his hands. He fumbled with his parchment paper as he pulled out rolls from his bag, sometimes looking utterly bewildered when the parchment kept coming, as if he’d expected it to end at some point without the need for him to cut it himself.
Not to mention, he was always awe-stricken by everything around him. Draco would admit, he, too, could appreciate many of the decorations and pieces of furniture around Hogwarts. Malfoy Manor held a great deal of unique and ancient artifacts, but not even they could claim that their home held more splendor or wonders than the castle. He himself had spent the first few weeks admiring all the different bits and bobbles that lined the halls and castle grounds.
But they’d been in school for several weeks now, and Potter had yet to move past the initial phase of excitement they all experienced. He still startled when their breakfast magically appeared in front of them, especially on the mornings when he was particularly bleary-eyed. The moving portraits continued to catch him unawares, and Draco swore Potter had nearly plummeted down two floors the other day after forgetting about the moving staircases. His saving grace came in the form of a bemused Weasley twin who quickly pulled him backwards, laughing as Potter stumbled gently into his chest.
Harry Potter, raised amongst Muggles with no knowledge of magic? Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, whose name was famous amongst every household in the British Wizard Community?
How could they do such a thing?
How could they turn the Harry Potter into such a pathetic little creature?
Draco didn’t know why he cared so much. It was hardly as if Potter was his friend. No, of course not. Because Draco continued to stare at his back from his seat in Potions class, and Potter paid him no mind. He’d set his sights on his silly Gryffindor friends, grin and laugh with them, let the infinite green of his eyes whorl for them, and act as if Draco didn’t even exist in his world.
It left an unknown maw deep in his chest aching until it could do nothing but rage.
He had accepted that Potter had grown up believing that he was nothing more than a lowly Muggle. Draco had been taught not to argue with facts, to not turn away from the truth when it so clearly stared him in the face. Fine, then.
Which meant that it was beyond unfair for Potter to be able to perform so brilliantly on a broom when he had never touched one, much less seen one before.
In the end, none of that mattered, Draco realized.
Potter belonged on a broom, as if he’d been born to fly, all grace and ease as he swirled over to where Draco had situated himself in the air. Potter looked on with a sharp glare before turning his attention to the Remembrall in Draco’s hand.
Once again, Longbottom had proven himself to be nothing more than a bumbling idiot who couldn’t figure out the most basic of broom commands. Even the Mudblood Granger had done better than him, even if only marginally.
Longbottom was useless, wreaking havoc in his wake and later crying about it, as if he himself hadn’t been the source of his woes in the first place. He didn’t deserve Potter’s sympathy, or his attention, or Potter’s righteous rage after Draco had announced he’d managed to find the Remembrall he’d dropped, and that he had no intention of returning it to that simple wretch. People like Longbottom deserved to slink into the shadows and remain hidden, quiet, and out of sight, so everyone else could focus on more important things.
More important people.
For some reason, the Remembrall felt heavy in his hand. Far heavier than he knew it should. He tossed it experimentally, catching it easily as it fell. Potter’s eyes followed the motion unblinkingly, unwavering.
No, it didn’t truly weigh much, did it?
But Potter’s gaze weighed him down, like an anchor with no end, and Draco wondered how he was even staying afloat at all.
Draco, for reasons beyond himself and possibly beyond any human comprehension, liked it when Potter looked at him. All green, all glowing, big and even magnified beyond behind those clunky glasses of his. Draco was used to having people looking at him fondly. After all, he was the apple of his parents’ eyes. Their one and only child, and the heir to the Malfoy line. Other kids looked up to him, too. They knew the Malfoy name carried weight, and soon the true extent of it would be cast upon Draco’s shoulders. Shoulders that would grow into someone very easy on the eyes, based on his parents’ looks.
People looked at him all the time.
Except for Potter.
But, right now, he looked upon Draco with eyes alight, fueled by a tempest of annoyance and sheer joy as they floated far above the rest of their classmates. Harry liked flying, Draco thought. Of course he did. Someone who made riding a broom look so effortless and magnificent on their first try had to love it.
Even though Potter was hardly flying. He looked unnatural, still in the air as he continued to stare Draco down.
Draco wanted to see him fly.
He barely remembered throwing the Remembrall or any of the flimsy taunts he’d chased Potter down with. How could he, when visions of Potter streaking through the air, sweeping past several effigies adorning castle walls took over his vision? For a moment, Draco believed he would never be able to see anything other than Potter flying, but he didn’t fear the prospect.
Potter sped up as he got closer to the Remembrall, and the air around him swept at his forever unruly dark hair, and Draco could almost feel that hair tickling the sides of his face instead of Potter’s, soft and teasing like a Kneazle’s tongue. Potter had a habit of running his fingers through his hair when frustrated or confused, Draco had discovered while watching him. After his ministrations, his birds nest disguised as a head of hair would betray him even further, no matter how much he tried to smooth them down afterwards.
Honestly, Potter’s hair was always nothing short of a complete mess of a mop, the kind that Draco’s parents would never let him be seen with in public. But it looked soft, and Draco felt like he’d be able to make something out of it, if he had the chance to touch it.
Then the moment ended, much too soon. Potter caught the Remembrall with ease, coming to a lilting halt next to an open window. His face glowed with pride as he dismounted, grinning down at their classmates as they flocked towards him with cheers and congratulations.
Draco remained hovering above and wondered if Potter would look back up into the sky. Look at him again before it was all over.
He did not.
“Our son is quite preoccupied with the infamous Harry Potter, isn’t he?”
Narcissa tilted her neck backwards, just barely. Just enough for Lucius to press a chaste kiss to the steady pulse of her artery before turning her attention back to Draco’s most recent letter.
More about Potter, about Weasley, and now even about young Longbottom. She knew of him, of course. Bella had an awful habit of speaking about her ‘conquests’ in far too great of detail, and she delighted in describing her ‘interrogation’ of Longbottom’s parents during her trial. Lucius, too, had, for a short period of time during the war, had a vague interest in the Longbottom boy. That was all in the past, however. The name Longbottom was best to be forgotten.
Draco also wrote of brooms — reckless, dangerous broom riding that she would have Lucius speak with him about — Remembrall's, green eyes and dark hair fluttering in the wind, and Potter getting recruited to the Gryffindor Quidditch team as the youngest Seeker in Hogwarts history for ‘a long, long time’. She knew Draco loved flying, and that Quidditch was one of his childhood interests that would remain during his time at Hogwarts. From the way he described the incident, though, Narcissa couldn’t parse together whether or not Draco was angry, jealous, or thunderstruck with eerie fascination.
“Do you think… Do you think this Harry Potter is terrorizing Draco? At school?” Narcissa asked slowly.
Behind her, Lucius scoffed as he leaned in to get a closer look at the letter from over her shoulder. “I doubt our son would allow some self-righteous Gryffindor to terrorize him. Besides, while Potter’s father had been a menace during his school years, Severus informs me that this Potter is somewhat dull, but largely harmless.”
“Then why do you suppose Draco is so, as you’ve stated, preoccupied with him? He has hardly mentioned any other of his classmates in his letters, including any friends in Slytherin. I fear he may be having trouble getting on with the others, and that is why he can’t help but focus on Potter so much.”
“The boy is eleven. At this age, friendships are fleeting. Shallow. As long as he gets along with them well enough, he will be fine.”
Narcissa felt her chin tighten as she looked back at her husband. “I’d like our son to be more than simply fine. I would like him to thrive, have all that he desires. Did we not raise him so?”
Lucius paused, and his eyes took on that faraway gaze Narcissa had become deeply familiar with over the years. He was thinking of his next political move, his grand plans. There was always a grand plan.
“If that is what you wish, then I believe our son may benefit from some advice on how to… appeal to Mr. Potter, as opposed to antagonizing him, which I suspect is why he keeps turning Draco away,” Lucius said.
“Oh my, I wonder where or from whom he has learned about antagonizing people?” Narcissa asked lightly.
Lucius pointedly ignored her comment. “And let’s not forget, aligning ourselves with the renowned Boy-Who-Lived would certainly benefit us. There are already whispers circulating throughout the Ministry about Potter’s future political career once he graduates.”
“I worry that you’re thinking more about your future than Draco’s.”
“It is all of our futures I am thinking about,” Lucius insisted. “Besides, if it pleases Draco to have young Mr. Potter as a friend, I don’t see the harm in it. As I mentioned, friendships between children at this age are flighty. Draco might simply spend a few months studying or playing childish games with Potter before moving onto someone else. Either way, we may as well paint ourselves in a more positive light in his eyes, especially while that cur Dumbledore remains Headmaster. That man has always been watching us.”
Narcissa did not sigh. She would not. She would, however, lean ever so slightly back in her chair so that the back of Lucius’ fingertips would brush against her shoulder blades, leaving behind a lingering warmth that many others did not believe he possessed.
“I will see to it that Draco begins to approach Potter with more sugar than salt. Not enough to spoil him, but to soften him up for the tasting,” Narcissa finally announced.
“Please do. In the meantime, I will craft my own letter regarding the foolish stunt he pulled during his flying lesson.”
My dearest Draco,
I can’t help but notice that you have written about young Harry Potter several times since you first arrived at Hogwarts. Of course, I expected to learn about your relationship with your classmates in your letters to me, but I was looking forward to reading about happier memories. I can’t say I fully understand your desire to earn his friendship, as I believe your struggles stem from the fact that you two are simply not compatible, no matter how lovely you are.
However, if you insist on vying for his attention, I offer a few suggestions.
You’ve stated multiple times that his performance in Potions class is quite poor. I know that you, on the other hand, are brilliant at Potions. Potter may open up to you if you approach him with the intention of helping him improve his Potions skills, but you must be gentle and sincere in your approach. From what I can tell of Potter from your observations of him, I doubt he will take kindly to you if you offer your assistance too harshly. He harbors himself a sense of Gryffindor pride, as silly as it may be.
You also believe he enjoys flying, based on his performance in your first Flying lesson, in addition to his role on the Gryffindor’s Quidditch team. People often grow closer naturally when they are able to partake in the same hobby. I believe your Father has already scolded you for that reckless stunt you pulled during class — you could have fallen and injured yourself without a trained adult to come to your aid. However, as long as you fly safely , that might be something you and Potter can learn to enjoy together.
I believe that your first introduction with Harry Potter unfortunately left a sour taste in his mouth. Thus, if you want to change that, the best alternate flavor to leave him with is sweetness. It is comforting and often leaves people yearning for more. Your Father has taught you the bitterness he offers those he wants favors from. Sadly, I now believe I have been remiss in not showing you the opposite.
With that being said, I hope you are eating and resting well. Do not fret and do not lose sleep, as everything will turn out in your favor. I will see to it, if you so desire.
Love always,
Your devoted Mother
Draco read over his Mother’s letter once more before quickly tucking it away into the chest at the foot of his bed. Then, he slowly laid himself down and stared up at the blank ceiling above him.
Her words made sense. They always did. She was his Mother, after all. She had never led him astray before, and he doubted she ever would. But, he still couldn’t wrap his head around all of it. He should be kind to Potter? Walk up to him in the middle of the library, or even the Great Hall and announce that he would be more than happy to help him with his Potions homework for nothing in return other than his company? Practically plead with the boy to go flying with him instead of his Quidditch teammates because, maybe, they could enjoy it together and laugh off their disheveled hair and windswept cheeks as they descended to the pitch together?
He, Draco Malfoy, was to throw himself at the feet of a boy who would not even deign to look in his direction?
What an absurd notion. How had they gotten to this point? The roles should be reversed. Potter should be the one begging for even a sliver of Draco’s time, gaze fixed longingly on Draco’s form as they walked through the halls together.
But Draco had not shared eye contact with Potter for over a week.
He was beginning to forget a few of the hues of green Potter possessed, and it was maddening. Maddening for others to receive them freely, daily, while Draco was left with meager scraps. He subsisted on ephemeral visions of green and black that danced beyond at the very edges of his line of sight, but only for a split second before they vanished again. He chased after them in his dreams, but they eluded him every time, as if he had been cursed to forever be one step behind the moment Potter turned away from him.
Unacceptable. Malfoy’s did not fall behind, get left behind.
He was Draco Malfoy. His Mother knew best.
He was going to get what he wanted.
Potter was going to look at him .
Lately, the lion-haired Mudblood had started hanging around Potter and the Weasel more often, even if they didn’t always look like they appreciated her company. Draco suspected they were among the few Gryffindor saps who were still able to tolerate her antics, while the others had already decided they wanted little to do with her. She was regrettably intelligent, but insufferable in her approach.
Despite her ever growing presence at his side, Potter’s grades in Potions weren’t improving at all. Granger had made some attempts in class to help correct the temperature of Potter’s cauldron or advise him on what the proper order of the ingredients should be, but she always did so with such aggressive gusto that Potter would quietly turn away and continue on with his mistakes anyway.
He needed to be sweet, Draco reminded himself, or Potter would turn him away, too. He had to be better than Granger.
That should be an easy enough task.
It took a few days and a fair amount of careful skulking within the shadows of the library until he finally caught Potter studying there without one of his Gryffindor lackeys sitting with him. He’d all but taken over the entire desk as it lay adorned with several textbooks and pieces of parchment paper scattered about. With a quick glance, Draco noticed a few drawings of basic potions ingredients littering several of the open books’ pages.
Perfect.
He watched Potter for a moment, well hidden behind the sturdy corner of a tall bookshelf. He watched Potter scrunch up his nose and run his hand impatiently through his hair and then made his move.
“Potter.”
Potter looked up, jumping slightly in his seat at the break in the silence. He set his sights upon Draco’s approaching form and frowned.
“Malfoy,” he responded quietly and offered nothing more.
“I’m surprised to see you so hard at work all by yourself. You usually have an entire entourage studying with you,” Draco said, making sure to keep his jaw loose so his words would come out light — a simple observation leaning on small talk.
Potter rolled his eyes, and Draco managed to keep himself still and silent just long enough to avoid shattering the illusion because of a prideful impulse. “Well, Hermione’s upset at Ron for being a prat, which means Ron’s upset at her for being upset, so he’s taken up everyone else’s attention by constantly complaining about it.” Potter pushed the book directly in front of him away with a huff. “Which means they’re all just complaining about everything all the time, which is bloody distracting. And I can’t afford to be distracted with this Potions essay due soon.”
Draco narrowed his eyes, confused. “We don’t have a Potions essay due soon.”
Potter scoffed as he fiddled mindlessly with his quill. His fingers were long and thin, his hands attached to fragile wrists adorned with bony hollows. If Draco reached forward now and grabbed them, squeezed them with even the barest amount of force, he was sure they’d snap in half from how thin and delicate they were. How Potter managed to keep a hold of his broom while speeding across the Quidditch pitch with such flimsy remained a mystery.
“You don’t have a Potions essay due anytime soon, but I do,” Potter said. “Snape gave me an extra assignment because I’m doing so poorly in class. He claims doing so will help me ‘understand the fundamentals of potion brewing better,’ but I think he’s just trying to distract me and waste my time.”
Draco didn’t respond. He had never personally known Professor Snape to be a petty man, but he also wasn’t blind or naive enough to deny that he clearly disliked Potter for reasons beyond his performance in Potions. Either way, he didn’t want to talk about Professor Snape or the childhood tiff between Potter’s friends.
He wanted this conversation to be about him and Potter.
“Professor Snape has a point, you know. You may just need to spend some extra time brushing up on the basics, such as how the temperature of your cauldron or direction of your stirring impacts your brewing. Then your practical brewing skills might improve,” Draco said slowly. He stepped closer to Potter’s table even slower, taking small, quiet steps, the same way he always did when he was trying to sneak up on his Mother’s exceptionally skittish pet Kneazle, Gloria.
Potter didn’t seem to notice, but that may have been because he was too busy dropping his forehead onto the edge of the table with a groan, the sound of which Draco was oddly drawn to. “Oh, not you too. Hermione says that all the time, but I still don’t get it, even after going through these books that she recommended to me. I’ve even seen a few copies of them on Snape’s desk, so they must be accurate, but I can’t make any sense of it, no matter how hard I try.”
Draco had made his way beside Potter’s seat without scaring him away. From here, he had a much clearer view of the books in question. He recognized several of them, as he’d read through some in the Malfoy Manor alongside his Mother. She’d excelled in Potions as a student, and it was a hobby that she continued to partake in at home. Sometimes, she would even let Draco join her, if she felt her current experiment was safe enough. These books were excellent resources, but not intended for novice brewers.
“It’s no wonder you’re not grasping any information from these texts. These are usually used as references for more advanced brewers,” Draco said.
Potter’s head tilted to the side like a baby Crup’s, and he stared up at Draco with wondering eyes, so lovely and alight that Draco nearly burst forwards to grasp Potter’s head in his hands, just to make sure that Potter kept looking at him like that.
“But then why would Hermione recommend them to me? It’s not like she’s some kind of Potion’s Master.”
“No, but she is… good at reading,” Draco responded delicately. He wanted to say that the girl was good for little more than regurgitating other people’s words with all the talent of an amateur, but he knew Potter would shut him down immediately if he did. He had to play this just right, or it’d all be for naught, and then Potter might never look at him like that again.
Potter’s attention was still on him, expression now thoughtful as his gaze flickered between Draco’s eyes and the bookshelf behind him. “I guess you’re right. But then what books would be good for a beginner? You know Snape never provides us with any recommended reading, aside from the books we use in class, and clearly those aren’t helping me.”
Draco felt giddy. This was his chance to prove to Potter exactly how inadequate his vapid Gryffindor friends were and how much Draco’s company and talents were worth.
“I know a few books that I think will be useful for you. I'll go look for them, while you put away the rest of these,” Draco offered.
For a moment, Potter’s gaze shuttered. The delighted confusion in his eyes disappeared, replaced instead with something skeptical and hint fearful.”Why would you do that for me? Not to be rude, but we’re not exactly friends.”
His words rang true, but that didn’t mean they didn’t sting. Still, Draco soldiered on. “It is a bit disruptful during class when Professor Snape has to keep reprimanding you and pointing out your mistakes, I’ll have you know, and I personally enjoy Potions class. I wouldn’t mind if it ran a bit smoother.”
The moment held fast for a few more seconds as Potter considered him. His green eyes swirled, mesmerizing, darting, thinking, before finally setting on something radiant and endlessly deep.
Potter began herding the textbooks on the desk together, nodding at Draco resolutely. “Alright, then. Anything to get this essay out of the way. Thanks for the help.”
If he were a bird, Draco imagined he would have begun preening. Or, if he were one of his Father’s prized white peacocks, his plumage would be on full display, ready to be praised and admired. It was a simple, half-heartedly thrown piece of acknowledgement, but it was Draco’s. It was Draco’s to keep, to cherish, to hold steadfast onto at night when he struggled to sleep as green shadows flitted about waifishly through the darkness surrounding him.
Quickly, he stalked through the library to pick up the promised tomes. So quick, that he’d returned back to Potter’s desk before him. Draco expected there to be nothing left besides some parchment, ink, and a quill, but one book still remained. It sat at the very corner of the table, almost as if it’d been forgotten, and the cover was so faded that he couldn’t even make out its title. As he continued to look, Draco spotted a small piece of paper stuck in the middle of it, barely sticking out like a tab.
Curiously, Draco flipped the book open to the page where the scrap sat.
CERBERUS
An extremely rare magical being with the appearance of a large three-headed dog. Native to Greece, these creatures are scarcely seen by humankind, as they prefer to live in isolated forests and caves. However, when they are spotted, they are known to be extremely aggressive with a tendency to hunt their prey down for hundreds of miles without tiring. Their tough skin is impervious to many spells and curses, making them highly dangerous to even the most skilled witches and wizards.
Draco had barely finished skimming a portion of the page before Potter returned. “Wow, you found those books quicker than I expected.”
Hastily, he glanced up just in time to catch Potter’s aghast expression as he looked down at the open book before them. Potter might not turn red when angry, but there was a faint flush ghosting across his cheeks now as he opened his mouth uselessly, eyes darting about as he struggled to find the words to say.
“Interesting topic to be reading up on,” Draco murmured, partly to help put Potter out of his misery, but also in the hopes that he would tell Draco everything — why he was reading up on dangerous magical creatures, all of his other secrets, his desires, something to be shared between only the two of them. He held their eye contact firmly, imploring and wanting.
Potter blinked hard, and the spell broke.
Potter averted his gaze and made himself look busy by fumbling with his supplies, pretending to reorganize them. “Oh, well, you know, we visit Hagrid sometimes to have tea with him, and he just loves all sorts of magical creatures. He mentioned a few really rare ones the other day. This whole world is still new to me, so I can’t help but look something up if it sounds interesting.”
Lies.
Potter was lying and refused to divulge his secrets to Draco today.
The inside of Draco’s throat burned as he turned over Potter’s hastily spun lie in his mind, and he could hardly breathe with the effort it took to swallow what felt like cinders back down to the pit of his stomach. Was it truly so difficult for Potter to tell him the truth, to give Draco what he wanted?
As the strained silence continued to stretch between them, Potter ventured another glance in Draco’s direction. Hunched over the table as he was, Potter was forced to look up through his devilishly long and dark lashes to meet Draco’s gaze. He was hesitant and sweet, lovely in his hopefulness as he waited for Draco to acquiesce to his lie, and, suddenly, all was forgiven.
“The half-giant is an interesting character, from what I’ve heard,” Draco said.
With that, the tension melted from Potter’s shoulders, and he flashed Draco a pleased smile before sitting back down. “That’s for sure. Anyway, thanks again for finding these books for me. I’ll make sure to ask Madame Pince where they came from before I leave.”
He was dismissing Draco, and doing so with hardly any substance behind it, surely under the impression that Draco had come to the library to work on his own assignments and that finding those Potions books for him was nothing more than a strange and unexpected diversion.
Draco didn’t care for any of that. Right now, it was Potter he cared about.
Just Potter.
He didn’t wait for an invitation before taking the seat across from Potter’s. “While I’m here, I might as well offer my assistance. Help explain anything you still don’t understand with the books, or help you go through them if you need to find any specific information.”
Potter turned into a Crup again and tilted his head, this time to the other side. That caused his fringe to sway, revealing a sliver of his scar while a few strands fluttered across his eyes, casting a shadow that turned them dark.
“You really don’t have to. You’ve already helped me plenty, and I’m sure you have better things to do than help remediate someone who’s on the verge of failing a subject you’re so good at,” Potter whispered.
Back to the metaphorical preening for Draco. He was beyond pleased to hear Potter compliment his brewing skills — so much so that it made his head spin and heart race, almost uncomfortably so. Even praise from his parents had never affected him so, but he couldn’t help but want to hear more from Potter in the future.
“It’s exactly because I’m skilled at potions that you should accept my help. Surely, even you wouldn’t pass on such a grand opportunity?” Draco purred, letting his eyelashes flutter ever-so-slightly, the way he did when asking his parents if they would allow him an extra serving of dessert that night.
Potter watched his performance and chuckled, grinning softly as he shook his head. “No, I guess I shouldn’t. But you can’t complain and start calling me ‘idiotic’ or ‘hopeless’ the way Snape does, alright?”
“I would never,” Draco replied, and he meant it.
Time continued to pass, and Draco struggled to find another chance to get closer to Potter. Some of the cracks in his friendship had mended themselves, leaving Draco with fewer openings to squeeze himself into. Residual animosity still lingered between the Weasel and the Mudblood, but Potter himself appeared to be on mostly good terms with them both, so they’d gone right back to attaching themselves to his side like the infuriating branches of a nettle.
At least Potter was acknowledging him more. When they caught each other’s eyes, Potter would offer a congenial smile, and even give him a short wave across the halls during the mad rush of First Year students making their way to their next class. Each time, his mindless Gryffindor friends struck him with odd looks and inundated him with hushed whispers, but Potter never paid them any mind.
It was simply beautiful, the way he’d pointedly ignore them in favor of Draco.
It was all for Draco. These moments, his rejection of others’ whims. Potter was giving something to Draco that he denied others.
Draco cherished each and every one of them, his collection of treasures that he would never let anyone else touch.
Except, none of it could compare to seeing Potter running down the hall, calling after him one afternoon while Draco was making his way back to the Slytherin Common Room.
“Malfoy, wait up!”
Draco turned to follow the sound and was met with the sight of Potter barreling down the hallway. His hair remained as disheveled as ever and glasses askew from being jostled by the speed he was moving at. Quite frankly, he looked all out of sorts and in desperate need for a brush and mirror.
Draco burned the image into the back of his eyelids.
“What’s happened? Finally tired of your Gryffindor posse and hoping I can help put them in line?” Draco asked.
Potter rolled his eyes as he came to a stop before him. “Ha ha, very funny, but no. I wanted to show you this.”
He then, very unceremoniously, shoved a crumpled piece of parchment into Draco’s hands. Draco raised a brow at the dreadful state of it, which Potter at least had the wherewithal to look slightly sheepish about. Slowly, Draco unraveled it and soon recognized it as the supplemental Potions essay he had helped Potter with.
On the top lay a large E in bold, red ink.
“It’s the first E I’ve gotten in Potions,” Harry confessed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Snape looked as if he wanted to rip my hair out when he handed it to me, but even he couldn’t deny that I deserved an E.”
Potter paused, waiting for a reply, no doubt.
Unfortunately for him, Draco found his mouth too dry and ears ringing too loudly to come up with a response. So, Potter soldiered on, reaching out his skinny, delicate hands to grasp at both of Draco’s arms, eyes so green that the different hues had taken over Draco’s vision almost entirely, nearly obscuring the rest of Potter’s figure standing in front of him.
“I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you.”
Potter left soon after that, mentioning something about Quidditch practice as he bounded away. He was like a whirlwind, rushing into Malfoy’s path before disappearing off into the distance with so much force Draco felt that he’d be swept away at any second.
Before that, he couldn’t help but brush his own fingers up against the spaces where Potter’s hands had rested mere moments ago, revealing the skin when he took off his robes that evening while preparing for a shower.
They looked the same as always. Pale, unmarred, and there.
But he knew they must be so, so different from before.
Dear Mother,
You were right. Harry Potter is weak to sweets.
Love always,
Your son Draco