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The silence after Harry’s words thickened like frozen honey. Draco Malfoy stood, locked in his own paralysis. His heart hammered wildly somewhere in his throat, and his cheeks burned with a traitorous flush. "Beautiful eyes? He's cracked. Completely. Utterly. And I... I can't seem to move!" The thought raced through him with panicked clarity. His usual anger had evaporated, leaving only a sticky knot of anxiety and something else – something deeply forbidden and frighteningly familiar.
But Harry no longer hesitated. Confusion had been replaced by a blind, almost animalistic resolve. He’d seen that lost thread, and it pulled him towards Draco with inexorable force. Not for a fight. Not for threats. For something far more dangerous.
"No..." Draco exhaled, taking a step back. His heels hit the heavy oak table. "Potter, stop! This is..."
Harry didn't listen. He stepped close. Mere centimeters separated their bodies. Draco felt the heat radiating from Harry, the scent of sweat, grass, and storm energy. Harry’s hands rose – not to strike, but to grasp. They landed on Draco’s sides, just below his ribs. Strong fingers dug into the fabric of his robes.
"What are you... GET OFF!" Draco burst out, but his voice sounded strangely hoarse, devoid of its usual power. He tried to shove Harry away, but his palms merely slid helplessly over tense forearms. His wand slipped from slack fingers, landing soundlessly on the carpet.
The hands gripping Draco’s sides tightened, lifted him with a powerful jerk, and deposited him onto the table. Draco yelped, clutching the tabletop. Now Harry stood between his spread legs, pressing against him with his full weight. The table shuddered. Distance vanished.
"Harry..." The name escaped in a whisper, more like a groan. Not hatred. Confusion. Panic tinged with something... expectant.
Harry didn’t listen. His hand slid to Draco’s face, fingers tracing his cheekbone roughly, yet almost tenderly. The touch burned. Draco flinched but didn’t pull away. Harry’s green eyes burned with a mad revelation, fixed on his lips.
"Got it..." Harry rasped, his breath scorching Draco’s skin. A thumb traced his lower lip. Electricity jolted through Draco’s entire body. No! But... why aren’t I pushing him away?!
"Don't you dare..." Draco whispered, but it was a plea without strength, almost instinctive. His hands gripped the edge of the table helplessly.
Harry leaned in. His lips touched Draco’s – nervously, damply, with awkward pressure. Draco froze, petrified. His mind exploded: "POTTER! IT'S POTTER! BUT..."
And that "BUT" proved stronger. Something within him – deep, dark, suppressed for years – broke free. Not with thought, but pure animal reaction. Before he could comprehend what he was doing, his body responded. His lips, previously clenched, suddenly parted under Harry’s pressure. Not just parted – they moved to meet him. He kissed back.
First hesitantly, almost involuntarily, simply yielding to the pressure and warmth. Then... then with mounting fury that bore no resemblance to hatred. His hands released the table and grabbed Harry’s shoulders – not to push away, but to pull closer, to anchor himself. His lips became active, demanding, almost biting in their sudden, desperate responsiveness. He heard his own moan, muffled against Harry’s mouth. It was a kiss-battle, a kiss-surrender, frantic and utterly lost.
He was kissing Harry Potter. With all the passion he possessed. And it lasted several eternal, blinding seconds.
Then consciousness returned like a thunderclap. It crashed in with chilling clarity: "WHAT AM I DOING?!"
The next week at Hogwarts became Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy’s personal incarnation of hell. A hell paved with flagstone corridors, the echoing silence of the Great Hall, and ubiquitous curious stares.
The first encounter happened the day after The Incident (both mentally capitalized it, with freezing shame). Harry was descending the stairs to the Entrance Hall as Draco was ascending towards him. They saw each other simultaneously. Harry froze on the step, his hand instinctively gripping the banister. Draco, walking with his chin arrogantly raised, stumbled so visibly he nearly dropped his book. His face instantly flushed. He turned sharply away, staring at the stone wall as if hoping to burn a hole through it with his gaze, and walked past Harry, speeding up, practically plastering himself against the opposite side of the stairs. Harry felt his own ears burn. He stood there another minute before he could move on, feeling the searing gaze of Malfoy’s nape on his back.
It set the tone. Their paths became deliberately circuitous. If Harry spotted familiar platinum hair ahead near Transfiguration, he immediately ducked into the nearest corridor, even if it meant being late for class. Draco, spotting messy black hair peeking around a corner, would spin 180 degrees and march the other way, muttering under his breath. They became masters of avoidance, turning ordinary castle navigation into a complex obstacle course.
But Hogwarts was treacherous. Accidental collisions were inevitable.
In Madam Pince’s library. Harry was searching for a Potions book for Hermione on a high shelf. Turning, he almost chest-bumped Draco, who stood two paces away, clearly examining the same section. They yelped in unison – a short, muffled sound of horror. Harry jumped back, knocking a couple of folios off a neighboring shelf. Draco stepped sideways, treading on the robe of a first-year who squeaked in surprise. They stared at each other. Harry opened his mouth – perhaps to apologize to the first-year, perhaps to say something to Draco (he didn't know what). But Draco had already vanished, dissolving between the stacks so fast only a faint trail of expensive cologne and a sense of panic remained.
In the Great Hall at breakfast. Ron was loudly telling a story, waving his fork. Harry automatically looked towards the Slytherin table – and immediately locked eyes with Draco, who seemed to be doing the same regarding Gryffindor. Their gazes clashed for a split second – pure, unadulterated panic. Harry choked on his toast. Draco took a sharp gulp of orange juice and coughed so violently Pansy Parkinson patted his back, while Blaise Zabini raised a significant eyebrow. Harry felt Ron fall silent and stare at him.
"You alright, Harry? Choked?" Ron asked, thumping his back.
"Nothing... crumb... went down wrong..." Harry mumbled, desperately swallowing pumpkin juice and not daring to look towards Slytherin again.
But the worst part was everyone else’s reaction. Or rather, the lack thereof. Or rather, its incongruity with expectations.
Ron was the first to raise the alarm:
"Listen, Harry, what’s up with you? And Malfoy?" he asked on Thursday as they headed to Potions. "Have you declared a truce? Or did he finally curse you? He hasn’t hissed at you or pulled faces in a week. And you... you don't even look his way! If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd become friends. It's creepy!"
Hermione studied them both with scientific interest:
"It's extremely uncharacteristic. Malfoy isn't just avoiding confrontation; he looks... wired. And you, Harry, act like you're afraid to look at him. Are you hiding something? Did something happen?" Her gaze turned penetrating. Harry fidgeted and mumbled something about "just tired of it" and "not worth noticing."
On the Slytherin side, the confusion was no less.
"Draco, are you ill?" Pansy Parkinson asked bluntly when he once again veered sharply into an empty classroom upon seeing an approaching group of Gryffindors. "You're pale, twitchy as an owl in daylight, and act like you've got the plague when Potter's around. Is he blackmailing you? Tell us, we'll poison him!"
"He looks like he saw a Dementor without its trousers," Blaise Zabini observed philosophically, watching Draco nearly knock over a water jug when Harry unexpectedly exited the Defence classroom. "Wonder what Potter did? Usually it's you driving him to that state."
Crabbe and Goyle were simply bored. The absence of their usual bickering deprived them of entertainment and the chance to apply force. They stolidly chewed pastries, glancing at their leader, who stared into his soup bowl as if hoping to drown in it.
The peak of awkwardness arrived on Friday. Harry stayed behind after Ancient Runes to ask Professor Trelawney about a strange symbol in his homework (Hermione insisted). Emerging from the classroom tower into a narrow, dimly lit corridor, he saw the door to the neighboring classroom – History of Magic – also open. And out stepped Draco.
They stood face-to-face in the empty corridor. The doors clicked softly shut behind them. Escape was impossible without overt, panicked flight, which neither had the spirit for anymore. They froze like deer in headlights. Harry felt goosebumps race down his spine. Draco paled further, his fingers clenching his book until the spine creaked.
Silence. Echoing, oppressive. They stood three paces apart, unable to move or utter a word. The air hummed with the unspoken, with the memory of that kiss, of Draco’s heated response, of his wild cry of "THAT DIDN'T HAPPEN!". Harry saw Draco’s gaze flicker to his lips and then jerk sharply away, fixed on the ceiling. His own lips remembered that strange, damp, furious pressure.
An eternity passed. Or ten seconds. They didn’t know. Suddenly, Draco jerked his head sharply, almost convulsively, and took a step forward – not towards Harry, but along the corridor, clearly intending to pass by, hugging the wall. Harry instinctively stepped the same way. They were again on a collision course. Draco snorted – a sound full of pure frustration and shame. He stepped sharply to the other side. Harry, as if in a nightmare, mirrored the movement. They stood facing each other again, blocking the path.
"MOVE, POTTER!" burst from Draco, but his voice was hoarse and lacked its usual malice, sounding more desperate. His cheeks flamed.
Harry tried to say something, but only an incoherent sound escaped his throat. He waved his hand frantically, indicating the free space to Draco’s right. Draco nodded with exaggerated sharpness and lunged in that direction. Harry dashed left. They passed each other, shoulders almost touching. Harry felt Draco flinch at the fleeting contact. He shuddered himself.
They walked down the corridor without looking back, each feeling the other’s burning gaze on their back. Harry reached the Gryffindor common room, collapsed into an armchair by the fire, and covered his face with his hands. Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.
"Again?" Ron asked, putting down a chess piece. "It's getting ridiculous. You and Malfoy are like two ghosts scared of each other. What did he do to you?"
"Nothing, Ron," Harry mumbled through his fingers, feeling his entire face burn. "Absolutely nothing." Except kissing me back, then running off screaming it never happened, and now we're both walking around like scalded idiots.
In another wing of the castle, Draco Malfoy, hidden in an empty niche behind a tapestry, punched the cold stone wall, cursing softly in flawless French. His lips still burned. From shame. And from something else he refused to acknowledge. Hell Week was in full swing, and there was no end in sight.
Fate, it seemed, decided that a week of awkward glances and corridor sprints wasn't enough. Professor McGonagall, weary of their "inexplicable behaviour," decided the best remedy was shared detention.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy," her voice sounded like a sentence as she stopped them after lessons. "You are both avoiding not only each other, but your responsibilities. Therefore, you will clean the magical globes in the Astronomy Tower tonight. Without magic. Together."
Harry opened his mouth to object, but Draco had already paled as if offered an evening with a Hippogriff.
"But, Professor, I—"
"No arguments. Eight o'clock. Don't be late."
And so they stood in the gloom of the Astronomy Tower, surrounded by dozens of dusty globes emitting a faint, shimmering light. Harry carefully wiped Orion's constellation with a cloth, trying not to look towards Draco, who was polishing another globe with equal diligence, as if hoping to erase the paint.
Silence.
Only the rasp of cloth on glass and their own breathing.
"You're missing a spot," Draco said suddenly, his voice dry but without its usual bite.
Harry flinched.
"Where?"
"Here." Draco pointed without approaching. "Near Sagittarius."
Harry wiped the indicated spot, watching out of the corner of his eye as Draco gripped his cloth a little too tightly.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Draco snorted but didn't reply.
Another ten minutes of excruciating silence passed.
"We could finish faster if we didn't act like the other has Spattergroit," Harry finally exploded.
Draco froze.
"What do you propose?" His voice was sharp, but held no anger. More like... a challenge.
"I propose we stop acting like first-years who accidentally saw each other in the showers!"
Draco flushed, not from anger.
"You started it."
"You kissed back."
Silence hung between them again, but it was different now. Tense, but not awkward. Hot.
Harry put down his cloth.
"We both know it wasn't just... nothing."
Draco didn't look away.
"Do we?"
"Yeah."
Draco straightened slowly. His fingers loosened on the cloth, and it fell to the floor with a soft thud.
"So what now?"
Harry took a step.
"Now we stop pretending."
This time, there was no hesitation. Harry took Draco's face in his hands and kissed him – firmly, confidently, without a shadow of doubt. And Draco... kissed back.
Not like the first time, where he'd frozen before exploding with fury and shame. No. Now he leaned in immediately, his fingers digging into Harry, pulling him closer. Their lips moved together, no uncertainty now, knowing what they wanted.
This kiss lasted longer. Much longer. Harry felt Draco tremble, but he didn't push him away. On the contrary – his hands slid under Harry's robes, gripping his back as if afraid he might vanish.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily.
"Bloody hell," Draco exhaled, but his voice sounded more stunned than scared.
Harry grinned.
"Yeah."
Draco looked at him, and the panic was gone from his eyes. There was something else. Something complicated, but... not denial.
"This doesn't mean I fancy you, Potter."
"I know."
"And it doesn't mean I'll stop teasing your fat friend."
"He'll hex you into next week if he finds out."
Draco wrinkled his nose but didn't argue.
They stood for another second, then Harry leaned in and kissed him again – quickly, lightly, just because he could.
Draco didn't run away.
When they returned to the globes, their fingers occasionally brushed. And neither pulled away.
Detention was over.
But something had just begun.
The following week at Hogwarts, something inexplicable happened.
Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy no longer avoided each other.
They didn't fly into fights. Didn't trade insults. Didn't scatter down corridors like frightened rabbits.
But something had changed.
Now, when their gazes accidentally met in the corridors or the hall, the corners of their lips would twitch almost imperceptibly, as if they both knew a private joke no one else could guess.
---
Reactions
Ron noticed first.
"You... you smiled at Malfoy?" He choked on his fried bacon, staring at Harry.
"What? No." Harry instantly adopted a serious expression, but it was too late.
"You smiled! Like he'd said something funny! Malfoy! The git who spent the last six years spitting venom at you!"
"Maybe he was just yawning," Harry mumbled unconvincingly.
"YAWNING? You're saying Malfoy yawned, and you thought it was cute?!"
Hermione watched this exchange with narrowed eyes, then slowly put down her book and said, "You're hiding something."
Harry pretended to be very busy buttering his toast.
---
Meanwhile, a similar scene unfolded at the Slytherin table.
Pansy Parkinson leaned towards Draco, her eyebrows nearly vanishing into her hairline.
"Did you just nod at Potter?"
Draco nearly choked on his juice.
"Don't be absurd, Pansy."
"I saw you. You looked at him, and you had this face like you remembered something... pleasant."
"You've gone mad," Draco scoffed, but the tips of his ears turned pink.
Blaise Zabini watched this, arms crossed, then said, "If you two are friends now, I demand an explanation."
"We're not friends," Draco snapped immediately.
"Then what are you?"
"Nothing."
"'Nothing' doesn't make you smile when Potter walks past."
Draco didn't answer. But he didn't deny it either.
---
Stolen Moments
They didn't seek meetings deliberately. But Hogwarts was a small place, and sometimes they found themselves entirely alone.
In an empty Potions classroom where Harry had forgotten his textbook.
"Did you leave it on purpose so I'd come back?" Draco whispered as the door closed behind them.
"No," Harry lied.
Draco smirked, stepped closer, and…
…Harry didn't let him finish. He grabbed him by the collar of his robes and kissed him as if to prove the first time wasn't a fluke.
Draco kissed back with equal certainty.
---
In the shadow of library stacks, when Madam Pince had gone to check another hall.
"You know we're idiots, right?" Draco whispered, pulling back for a second.
"Yeah," Harry agreed, and pulled him back again.
---
Even in a corridor, when they happened to be the last ones after class.
"If someone sees…" Draco began.
"Then we'll have to be quick," Harry grinned.
And Draco, to his own surprise, obeyed.
A new week arrived at Hogwarts, and the epicenter of awkwardness decisively shifted. If Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had previously acted like two Muggles stumbling upon a functioning television, they now radiated a strange, vague semblance of... civility? It was far more disconcerting than their former bickering.
Manifestations of the "New Era":
1. The Nod: Now, when passing in a crowded corridor, they didn't turn to study the stonework pattern on the wall. No. Harry might give a short, barely perceptible nod. Draco would lift his chin slightly in return – not arrogantly, but more like... an acknowledgment of the other's existence. To the untrained eye, it looked like icy formality, but Ron Weasley, witnessing one such nod, dropped the stack of books he was carrying for Hermione.
2. Accidental Smirks: This was the most shocking. Especially for Slytherin. One morning at breakfast, as Harry passed the Slytherin table, he tripped over Crabbe's foot (perhaps not entirely accidentally). Draco, sipping his juice, snorted. And on his lips flashed something vaguely resembling... a smile? But without its usual malice. More like he'd seen something mildly amusing. Harry, dusting himself off, caught the look and responded with a quick, restrained twitch of his own lips before hurrying to the Gryffindor table. Pansy Parkinson froze with a spoonful of porridge halfway to her mouth. Blaise Zabini slowly raised one eyebrow as if observing a rare and potentially dangerous natural phenomenon.
3. The Word "Potter": Now, when Draco said "Potter" (and he had to, especially in class), his voice lacked its former venomous sweetness. It was just... a name. Neutral. Like "table" or "blackboard." To ears accustomed for years to "Potter, Mudblood!" or "Famous Potter showing off again?", it sounded unnatural and unnerving. Harry, in turn, stopped flinching at the address and simply turned, expecting a question or relevant remark, without bracing for an immediate verbal duel.
Epicenter of Awkwardness (Now for the Friends):
Gryffindor Tower: Ron shadowed Harry as if suspecting his best friend had been replaced.
"He nodded at you, Harry! Malfoy! Nodded! Like Mrs. Norris when she sees you haven't caused trouble! Did you Imperius him?"
"And that... that sound he made when you tripped! Was that a laugh? A nasty laugh? No, didn't sound like it! It was... a normal laugh? Harry, is he trying to curse you some new way? Psychologically?"
Hermione watched Harry with an intense, analytical gaze. She stopped asking directly, but her silent scrutiny and meaningful glances whenever Draco passed made Harry feel like he was under a magnifying glass. "It's very... uncharacteristic for Malfoy, Harry," she'd say, her tone not questioning, but stating a fact that clearly masked complex calculations.
Slytherin Common Room: The atmosphere here resembled walking through a minefield.
"Draco, are you ill?" Pansy asked for the third time that week, feeling his forehead with the back of her hand, which he promptly swatted away. "You talk to Potter without sneers or threats! It's unnatural!"
"Maybe Potter's blackmailing you?" Vincent Crabbe suggested around a mouthful of cake. "Threatening to tell everyone you... well... that you..." He failed to think of what Harry Potter could possibly blackmail Draco with, but the idea seemed plausible.
Blaise was succinct: "If you've suddenly decided Potter's your new charity project, Malfoy, I warn you: I refuse to be your accomplice in this madness." Though his eyes held more curiosity than condemnation.
The Dungeon Scene: Potions Assistance
Professor Snape, whose sense of aesthetics thrived on student suffering (especially Harry Potter's), scheduled a practical lesson on brewing the complex "Veritaserum Lite" potion for Wednesday. As usual, Harry and Ron tried not to poison themselves or blow up their cauldron while Hermione frantically consulted the textbook. Draco and his group worked neatly and efficiently at the other end of the dungeon.
Harry, rereading the step requiring powdered aconite root counter-clockwise, not clockwise, jerked his elbow awkwardly. The vial of rare Arachne web extract, perched precariously on the table's edge, wobbled and fell. Harry gasped – the ingredient was expensive, and Snape was already throwing icy glares his way.
Click. Levitation.
The vial froze a centimeter above the stone floor. Harry spun around. Draco, without looking at him, gave a barely perceptible flick of his wand, returning the vial to Harry's table, right beside his cauldron. Not a word. No sneering smirk. Just a quick, precise movement and immediate return to his own potion, which was emitting perfect silver bubbles.
"Er... thanks," Harry mumbled, too loudly for the tomb-like silence broken only by hissing cauldrons. Ron stared at him like he was a talking troll. Hermione froze, pestle in hand. Even Snape, sensing disturbance, slowly turned his head from Nott's table, whose potion inexplicably smelled of rotten eggs.
Draco merely tilted his head slightly, his gaze sliding over Harry. In the corner of his eye, visible to Harry but hidden from Snape, flickered that barely perceptible spark – not of gloating, but of something else. Almost... amusement at the situation. He pressed his lips together faintly, suppressing not quite a smile, but definitely not his habitual malice. Then he refocused on his cauldron, his profile becoming impeccably neutral and concentrated.
"Ten points from Gryffindor for unnecessary chatter, Potter," Snape's icy voice cut through the stunned silence. "And redouble your caution unless you wish to spend the evening extracting slug entrails for stores. Malfoy... your dexterity is commendable. Proceed."
Ron opened his mouth to say something to Harry, but Hermione jabbed him sharply in the ribs and gestured with her eyes towards their cauldron, which was starting to emit suspicious purple steam. Harry hastily returned to his potion, feeling goosebumps crawl up his spine – not from fear of Snape, but from that brief, silent exchange with Draco, and the killing glare now boring into the back of his head – Ron Weasley's gaze, full of the silent question: "What the bloody hell just happened?!"
Awkwardness had firmly settled at their friends' tables now, while Harry and Draco seemed to have found their own, highly peculiar and so far silent truce, a shaky ground understood only by them.
Cold moonlight silvered the dusty desks in the empty Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. The silence was broken only by the creak of a floorboard under an incautious foot.
The door opened a crack, and a shadow in Gryffindor robes slipped silently inside.
"Aha," a dry voice came from the dark corner near a bookcase. "Potter. Right on schedule. Skulked through half the castle to... what exactly? Check for Boggarts shaped like Snape?"
Harry flinched, but not from fear. The corners of his lips twitched. He snapped his fingers – a faint Lumos illuminated Draco Malfoy leaning against the bookcase with the air of someone patiently awaiting a tardy owl. His platinum hair gleamed in the moonlight.
"Malfoy. Astonishing. I thought you were hiding here from Pansy," Harry retorted, closing the door behind him. "She seems to seriously suspect you've got a Death Eater around your neck. Or that you're under hypnosis. The latter, by the way, isn't far off. You look... sleepy."
Draco snorted, pushing off the bookcase.
"Sleepy? I spent the last hour watching you lurk around the corridors like a lost kneazle, obviously trying to remember where you supposedly left that vital... what was it? Ah yes, 'your Quidditch glove'. In a third-year classroom. After curfew. Brilliant cover, Potter. Truly a masterpiece of subterfuge."
"Better than your 'I must check if any of my dragon liver essences are left in Snape's fume cupboard'," Harry stepped closer, his wandlight catching the mocking spark in Draco's grey eyes. "Snape would turn you into an essence if he found you here."
"Risk is a noble pursuit," Draco took a step towards him. The distance shrank to half a meter. The air seemed to thicken, filled with the familiar tension, but now without a trace of the old fury. Only anticipation. And relish. "Especially for such a... valuable trophy. As a forgotten glove."
"Or an essence," Harry grinned, extinguishing the Lumos. Now they were lit only by moonlight streaming from a high window. He saw Draco's gaze flicker to his lips. His own heart beat faster.
"I suppose we're both terrible liars," Draco whispered. His voice was low and slightly husky.
"Terrible," Harry agreed, and all trace of mockery left his voice. Only impatience.
The barbs were over. The pretenses crumbled to dust.
They moved simultaneously. No hesitation, no question. Only mutual, greedy attraction. Their lips met in the dark not with a clash, but with a confident, seeking connection. Harry grabbed Draco's robes near his shoulder blades, pulling him so close there was no space for air between them. Draco responded with equal force, his fingers digging into Harry's neck, his hair, knocking off Harry's glasses, which clattered to the floor unnoticed.
This kiss was deeper, surer than all their previous stolen ones. No fear of being caught, no panicked shame afterwards. Only warmth, the taste of each other (Draco smelled of mint and something expensive, Harry of soap and autumn air), and a rising wave of desire washing away the last shreds of doubt. They breathed into each other, lips moving in unison, slowing, speeding, losing track of time. Harry heard his own moan muffled against Draco's mouth, felt the answering vibration deep in Draco's chest.
They kissed by the bookcase in the empty classroom like two thieves who'd found the most precious treasure, and nothing else in the world mattered but this moment, this darkness, these clasped hands and tangled breaths. No words. Only greedy, impatient, ridiculous, and utterly necessary connection, the very reason they'd sneaked through the sleeping castle, inventing the daftest excuses.
Dusty shelves cast long shadows in their Lumos light. Harry sifted through parchments on the table, pretending to search for a quote for his History of Magic essay. Draco sat opposite, cheek propped on his hand, watching him over the flame of a single candle. His quill idly traced swirls on a blank sheet. Only the crackle of the wick and Harry's slightly quickened breathing broke the silence.
"Er... Malfoy," Harry began, not looking up from the parchment he was holding upside down. "You... er... this weekend... well... going to Hogsmeade?"
Draco continued his swirl. One eyebrow lifted slightly.
"I assume so, Potter. Like most seventh-years with permission. Unless your faithful Weasley catches nargles from the library books again and stays cooped up with Granger." His voice was even, but a faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah. Right." Harry coughed, nervously adjusting his glasses. "Just... thought. They... er... at the Three Broomsticks, they say they've got a new batch of Butterbeer. Stronger than usual." He stole a glance at Draco.
Draco finally set down his quill. Grey eyes, reflecting the candle flicker, regarded Harry with genuine, cutting interest.
"Really? Fascinating news, Potter. I just adore discussing Butterbeer vintages with you. Especially in the library. After midnight." He leaned slightly forward, resting his chin on folded hands. "Are you getting at something? Or did you just decide to share vital information about intoxicating beverages?"
Harry flushed to the roots of his hair. He swallowed, feeling his tie constrict.
"I'm getting... I mean... maybe... well..." He faltered, clenching his fists under the table. Saying it aloud seemed incredibly hard. Harder than fighting the Basilisk. "Maybe we... er... meet? There? Not for the Butterbeer! I mean, Butterbeer is fine... but... just... walk? Or..." He trailed off, thoroughly tangled.
Silence hung thick. Harry wished the stone floor would swallow him. He stared at his hands, not daring to look up.
Then came a soft chuckle. Not unkind. More... indulgent. Warm.
"Potter," Draco said softly, but with a distinct note of mockery. "You look like you're proposing we rob Gringotts, not... what was it? 'Walk'? In Hogsmeade?"
Harry risked a glance. Draco was looking at him, and in his eyes shone something incredibly familiar and new simultaneously: the usual sarcasm, but softened by... tenderness? No, not the word. Understanding. And infinite amusement at Harry's awkwardness.
"You want," Draco enunciated each word clearly, savoring the moment, "to go to Hogsmeade. With me. On a date. Is that it?"
Harry nodded, unable to utter a word. His ears burned.
Draco leaned back in his chair, feigning deep contemplation. He raised a finger to his chin.
"Hmm. A date with Harry Potter... An interesting proposition. Risky." His lips twitched again into a smile. "Somewhere near the Forbidden Forest, I hope? So there's somewhere to run if you start babbling about Butterbeer again or get cold feet?"
"Draco!" The name burst from Harry, a mixture of protest and relief that the proposal nightmare was over.
"Alright, alright," Draco waved a hand, but his eyes were laughing. He stood, gathering his parchments. "'Three metres from the Forbidden Forest' – prime date location. Clearly more romantic than here among dusty folios and Madam Pince's ghost." He looked down at Harry, and in that gaze, there was no mockery left, only warm promise and a slight challenge. "Be there. Saturday. Noon. And for Merlin's sake, Potter, think of a better conversation topic than Butterbeer strength. Though..." he paused at the door, "...given your 'eloquence' today, my expectations are rock bottom. That's almost convenient."
And before Harry could reply, Draco melted into the corridor's darkness, leaving him alone with the candle, the upside-down parchment, and a wild, ridiculous, intoxicating sense of relief and anticipation. He smiled to himself for the first time during that excruciatingly awkward conversation. Malfoy had agreed. Sarcastically, mockingly, but agreed. And that was what mattered.
The Three Broomsticks buzzed with its usual Saturday hum: clinking tankards, laughter, student chatter, the smell of fried sausages and Butterbeer. Draco Malfoy sat by the window at a small table, looking like a man patiently awaiting an important business meeting. He meticulously adjusted his cuff, his gaze sweeping the room, noting familiar faces but lingering on none. Inside, however, everything was wound tight. Would he come? Would he chicken out?
The pub door swung open, admitting a gust of cold autumn air and... Harry Potter. He stood on the threshold, breathless (clearly having run), his gaze darted across the room, instantly finding Draco. Immediately, Harry's face flamed a scarlet so bright it could rival a Gryffindor tie. The pub noise didn't cease, but it noticeably dipped. Dozens of pairs of eyes fixed on him. People at neighbouring tables stopped chewing, froze with tankards halfway to their mouths. Even Madam Rosmerta behind the bar slowed her pouring.
Harry took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive into icy water, and moved forward. Every step on the creaking floorboards echoed loudly in the sudden hush. He walked past a dumbstruck Zacharias Smith, past Dennis Creevey who dropped his spoon, past a table of Slytherin second-years whose mouths formed silent "O"s. The entire journey to Draco's table felt like an endless procession under the scrutiny of collective astonishment.
He reached the table. Draco looked up at him – calm, even slightly bored, but deep in the grey eyes flickered a barely perceptible spark of triumph and... warmth. Harry attempted a smile – it came out nervous, ridiculous, but genuine. He sat in the chair opposite Draco.
Silence in the Three Broomsticks became absolute. You could hear the fire crackling in the hearth and the Butterbeer hissing in Zacharias's tankard.
It was into this tomb-like silence that Draco Malfoy committed what Hogwarts students would later call "The Most Audacious Stunt of the Year." He didn't say anything. He simply leaned across the small table. His movement was smooth, confident, theatrical. He placed one hand on the table for balance, the other gently cupped Harry's chin – tenderly, but firmly enough to prevent him pulling away. His gaze met Harry's wide, panic-and-confusion-filled green eyes for a split second.
And Draco kissed Harry Potter. Right in the middle of the Three Broomsticks. In front of everyone. Not furtively, not quickly, but slowly, deliberately, demonstratively. His lips pressed softly against Harry's for a full two seconds. When he pulled back, he slowly ran his thumb over Harry's lower lip, which remained slightly parted in shock. His eyes shone with pure, unadulterated mischief.
Only then did he speak, loud and clear enough for everyone in the frozen pub to hear, with a light, sardonic note in his voice, edged with unexpected tenderness:
"Hello, darling. You're not even late. Though you look... slightly stunned. Don't tell me our audience embarrasses you?" He lazily surveyed the petrified room, and his lips stretched into the most provocative, most self-satisfied smirk imaginable. "Do stop gawping like hippogriffs at a fairy. You're distracting my companion. He's nervous enough as it is today."
The shock in the room gave way to a rumbling murmur like thunder before a storm. Harry sat, still red as a boiled lobster, glasses askew on his nose, but in his eyes, beneath the embarrassment and panic, something like relief and insane, ridiculous pride was already breaking through. Draco, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair, picked up his untouched tankard of Butterbeer, and took a casual sip, savouring the effect. The Three Broomsticks would never be the same.
Epilogue: Lakeside Idyll
News of the scandalous kiss at the Three Broomsticks spread through Hogwarts faster than winged keys in a Quidditch match. By Sunday evening, there wasn't a corner of the castle not buzzing about one thing: Potter and Malfoy. Together.
The Great Hall at breakfast on Monday morning hummed like a giant beehive. Gryffindors and Slytherins, forgetting centuries of enmity, jostled and pointed at the empty spaces at their tables where Harry and Draco usually sat. They weren't there.
"Not true! Can't be!" Ron Weasley, puce-faced, pounded the table, scattering oatmeal dishes. "Harry would've told me! It's a Malfoy trick! Probably slipped him a Love Potion! Or... or it's a Death Eater under Polyjuice!"
"Ronald, be realistic," Hermione sighed, but her eyes were also full of doubt. She'd seen the changes, but a public kiss? A date? It defied her logical constructs. "Although... their behaviour these past weeks..."
At the Slytherin table, similar chaos reigned.
"Draco? Kissing Potter? In public?!" Pansy Parkinson clutched her heart as if starved for air. "He's lost his mind! He needs St. Mungo's immediately! Or Potter Imperiused him?!"
"Imperius doesn't explain a kiss like that, Pansy," Blaise Zabini remarked impassively, examining his perfectly manicured nails. "Though the dramatics are pure Malfoy. He always loved a grand gesture."
"But with Potter?!" the Slytherin younger years shrieked in chorus.
Arguments raged. Those who'd witnessed the kiss at the Three Broomsticks swore, recounted minute details (adding increasingly salacious embellishments each time). Those who hadn't seen it refused point-blank to believe. Especially the close friends. Proof was demanded. And the main culprits were still missing.
Then it happened.
A breathless Hufflepuff first-year burst into the Great Hall, his eyes wide with shock.
"They're out there! By the lake! Potter and Malfoy! And you won't believe what they're doing!!!"
As if by magic (though no spell was uttered), the entire hall – Gryffindors, Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, professors (even Professor Flitwick nearly toppled off his stack of books) – surged towards the doors as one. It was a stampede, sweeping everything aside. Even Nearly Headless Nick drifted aside with an indignant cry.
They spilled onto the stone steps of the main entrance, jostling and craning necks. And froze. Stunned. Even Professor McGonagall's mouth fell open.
The scene was worthy of a great master's brush:
On the green lawn sloping down to the dark mirror of the Black Lake, under the soft rays of the morning sun, stood a simple wooden bench. On this bench sat Harry Potter. And sitting on Harry's lap, his back to the castle and the entire assembled crowd, was Draco Malfoy. His arms were wrapped around Harry's neck, fingers tangled in his perpetually messy black hair. Draco's platinum head was tilted, completely hiding Harry's face from the viewers. But from the movement of their shoulders, from the way Harry's fingers dug into Draco's back, crumpling the expensive fabric of his robes, it was absolutely clear: they were kissing.
And not just kissing. They were kissing very actively. With complete abandon. With such heat and absorption in each other that nothing else seemed to exist: not the castle, not the lake, certainly not the crowd of stunned students and professors. The world had narrowed to just the two of them on that bench. Draco shifted slightly on Harry's lap, his posture relaxed yet demanding. Harry seemed utterly dissolved in the moment, in the kiss, in the person in his lap.
The silence on the steps was sepulchral. Ron Weasley's mouth hung open wide enough to catch a Golden Snitch. Hermione covered her face with her hand, but between her fingers, she was visibly blushing. Pansy Parkinson gasped softly and seemed genuinely about to faint, but Blaise Zabini caught her, his own gaze fixed on the couple by the lake.
Professor Snape stood like a statue, his face paler than usual, his black eyes burning with some incredibly complex emotion – a mixture of disgust, shock, and... perhaps the tiniest hint of something else.
Proof was irrefutable. The sight was staggering.
And the most astonishing thing – the couple by the lake seemed completely oblivious to the attention. They existed in their own small, enclosed world, where there was only them, the sun, the bench, and this long, hot, absolutely public and absolutely intimate kiss. Draco Malfoy, it seemed, had decided not just to confirm the rumours, but to shut everyone up in the most spectacular and shameless way possible. And Harry Potter, judging by everything, was absolutely fine with that.
Professor McGonagall was the first to recover. She gave a sharp cough, startling nearby students.
"What are you all gawping at?!" Her voice was sharp but held a slight tremor. "Breakfast is continuing! Back inside! This instant!"
The crowd began to disperse reluctantly, glancing back, whispering, pointing. But the last thing everyone saw, retreating into the castle's cool shadow, was the sun, the green grass, the dark lake water, and the two figures on the bench, locked in a kiss – living, breathing, absolutely indisputable proof that the impossible had become reality. The era of enmity was over. A new era had begun. The era of Potter and Malfoy. And judging by everything, they couldn't care less.