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Harry wasn’t looking for trouble that Saturday in Hogsmeade.
It found him anyway.
He’d been lingering by the entrance of Honeydukes, half-listening to Ron rant about the price of Chocolate Frogs, when he caught sight of her — tall, pale, hair the exact colour of winter morning sunlight, and wearing the kind of coat that practically screamed expensive.
And then she turned her head.
Sharp cheekbones. A perfectly arched eyebrow. That faint, aristocratic disdain like she’d just caught a whiff of something foul.
Harry froze.
Merlin’s beard… she looks like Malfoy.
“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, following his gaze. Then his expression twisted. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare—”
But Harry was already moving, curiosity tugging him forward.
“Hi,” he said when he reached her. “I… don’t suppose you’ve got any relatives in Slytherin, do you?”
Her lips curved into a smirk so familiar Harry’s stomach did an unhelpful little flip. “Not that I’m aware of. I’m Delilah. Beauxbatons Transfer.”
Her voice was smooth, low — the kind of voice that could talk you into trouble.
-----
Across Hogsmeade, Draco Malfoy was having a parallel crisis.
He’d stepped into Madam Puddifoot’s (against his better judgment) purely to get away from Pansy’s relentless matchmaking, and there, sitting by the window, was… Potter.
Or at least, someone who could’ve been Potter’s long-lost twin.
Messy black hair. Glasses. A warm, open grin that made Draco’s stomach tighten in a way he refused to name.
The boy — Callum, apparently — looked up from his tea and caught Draco staring. “Do I know you?”
“Not unless you’ve been following Quidditch standings,” Draco replied smoothly, sliding into the seat opposite without invitation.
He told himself it was research. That he was just… assessing.
But when Callum smiled again, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.
---
Back in Honeydukes, Ron was still muttering warnings, but Harry barely heard him. Delilah laughed at something he said, tossing her pale hair back.
It was unsettling.
Familiar.
And, Harry realised with a jolt, kind of addictive.
-----------------
By Monday morning, Hogwarts had new gossip.
Not just gossip — Gossip, with a capital G, the kind that spreads faster than Filch’s temper on a rainy day.
Harry Potter had been seen in Hogsmeade, walking very closely with a new student who appears to be a transfer from Beauxbatons.
And Draco Malfoy had been spotted in Madam Puddifoot’s with a boy who looked suspiciously like the Chosen One if you squinted and ignored the fact his glasses weren’t as wonky.
---
At breakfast, the tension was… noticeable.
Harry slid into his usual seat beside Hermione, who was trying very hard not to look amused.
Across the hall, Draco sat in his usual spot at the Slytherin table, his gaze cutting across the distance like he was sizing up prey.
Hermione cleared her throat. “So… Delilah seems nice.”
Harry almost choked on his pumpkin juice. “What? Oh—yeah. I mean, she’s fine. We just—talked.”
“She’s pretty,” Hermione said, a knowing tilt to her head.
Harry stabbed at his toast. “I guess. I mean, not that I noticed. Much.”
From across the hall, Draco smirked.
Harry felt his ears heat.
---
By lunch, Draco had made his move.
Harry was halfway through a conversation with Neville when the Great Hall doors swung open and Draco sauntered in with Callum at his side — tall, broad-shouldered, Quidditch-player build, hair as messy as Harry’s after a windstorm.
Draco’s arm brushed Callum’s as they walked past the Gryffindor table.
Harry didn’t glare. Not exactly.
(Okay, fine, he glared.)
Neville looked between them. “Are you two…?”
“No,” Harry said far too quickly.
---
By dinner, it was war.
Harry made a point of saving Delilah a seat next to him, leaning in to ask about Beauxbatons’ duelling club. She laughed, tossing her pale hair back, and Harry could feel Draco’s eyes on them from across the room.
The next morning, Draco “just happened” to run into Harry in the corridor — Callum’s hand resting lightly on his arm.
They passed each other in slow motion, like two gunfighters in an old Muggle film.
Harry’s jaw clenched.
Draco’s smirk widened.
-----
By the end of the week, everyone was talking.
Except Harry and Draco.
Who, inconveniently, were only talking to the lookalikes.
---
If Hogwarts gossip had been a campfire before, it was now a full-blown Fiendfyre.
Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy — dating people who looked suspiciously like… well, each other — had become the castle’s favourite spectator sport.
And neither of them seemed willing to call it off.
---
The Great Hall became a minefield.
It started innocently enough — a shared breakfast where both couples “happened” to sit within glaring distance.
Harry’s fork paused mid-air when Callum leaned in to whisper something to Draco, his hand briefly brushing the small of his back.
Draco, of course, chose that exact moment to glance over with an Oh? Are you jealous, Potter? expression.
Harry forced a smile, turning back to Delilah and asking her, perhaps a bit too loudly, about Beauxbatons’ summer villa programme.
-------
Lunch was worse.
Harry was mid-sentence when his gaze snagged on Draco at the far end of the hall —
— just in time to see Draco tilt his head back and laugh at something Callum had said.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a little smirk.
A real laugh, the kind Harry had only seen once, maybe twice, in his life.
Harry’s stomach did something uncomfortable.
So when Draco’s date’s pumpkin juice “accidentally” tipped over a little later, soaking Delilah’s robes, Harry didn’t miss the smug glint in grey eyes from across the room.
Delilah didn’t seem too upset.
Harry, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to duel.
---
By the time the weekend rolled around, sabotage had become a silent language.
Harry “accidentally” intercepted a note meant for Draco from Callum —
— Draco “helpfully” told Delilah that Harry sometimes muttered in his sleep about saving people.
Neither looked ready to stop.
Everyone else, however, looked ready to place bets on when they’d finally snap.
---
It happened on a rainy Tuesday — the kind where even the portraits seemed grumpy.
Harry was walking Delilah back from the library, the sound of rain pattering against the windows filling the silence between them. She’d been quiet all evening, eyes darting toward him in that way that meant she was working something out in her head.
Finally, halfway down the corridor, she stopped.
“Harry,” she said gently, “you know I like you, right?”
“Er—yeah,” Harry replied, unsure where this was going.
“But you also know,” she continued, a faint smile tugging at her lips, “that I’m not him.”
Harry froze.
It was like she’d just said the thing he hadn’t dared to name.
“I’m not offended,” Delilah said, reaching out to straighten the collar of his robes. “In fact, I think he’s lucky. But I’m not here to be someone’s substitute. And neither is that poor Ravenclaw Draco keeps dragging around.”
Harry opened his mouth, shut it again, and finally muttered, “I didn’t—”
“You did,” she said kindly, “and it’s alright. Just… maybe tell him, yeah?”
----
Meanwhile, across the castle, Draco was in a similar conversation — though his version was decidedly less gentle.
Callum leaned back against the Slytherin common room couch, arms crossed.
“You’re good company, Malfoy. Sharp, witty… but Merlin, you’re insufferable when Potter’s in the room.”
Draco scoffed. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Callum cut in. “Your eyes follow him like a Quaffle in midair, and every joke you tell is somehow about him. Do you even hear yourself?”
Draco’s jaw tightened, but Callum’s smirk softened into something almost sympathetic.
“Go after him, Malfoy. The real him. I promise, he’s better than a knockoff.”
---
Later that night, Harry sat in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fire. He realised he’d laughed more with Draco — even during their most ridiculous arguments — than he’d ever laughed with anyone else.
And somewhere deep down, Draco was realising that Harry’s messy sincerity — the way he threw himself headfirst into everything, the way he cared — was what drove him mad in the best way possible.
The game was over.
They just hadn’t told each other yet.
---
The wind was brutal that Saturday, whipping through the Quidditch pitch hard enough to make the stands creak. Gryffindor versus Slytherin — the one match that never failed to turn into chaos.
Harry was locked in a chase after the Snitch, his broom slicing through the air like an arrow. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of platinum hair — Draco, predictably, was right on his tail.
They were neck and neck when it happened. A bludger — poorly aimed, or perhaps perfectly aimed, depending on who you asked — came hurtling toward Draco. Harry didn’t think. He swerved hard, throwing himself between Draco and the incoming black iron missile.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. The world tilted violently. He barely registered the sound of the crowd gasping before he was falling — weightless, helpless — toward the pitch.
---
Draco’s broom dropped in a dive that would’ve made Madam Hooch faint.
“Potter!” he shouted, his voice cracking in a way it hadn’t since he was thirteen.
He hit the ground running, ignoring the shouting commentators, ignoring the Snitch now hovering idly above the grass. Harry was crumpled in a heap, breathing shallowly but still — still — managing to look irritatingly stubborn.
By the time he reached Harry, the Gryffindor Seeker was lying motionless, rainwater dripping off his hair, glasses askew. Draco dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he turned him slightly, checking for breath. Relief hit when he found it — shallow but steady.
Madam Hooch was shouting something about clearing the pitch, but Draco barely heard her. He slid an arm under Harry’s shoulders, lifting him enough to keep his head steady, and started walking toward the hospital wing before anyone could protest.
Harry’s weight felt wrong. Too limp. Too still.
Halfway there, the tight coil in Draco’s chest snapped. The words tore out before he could stop them, ragged and low.
“Don’t you dare, Potter… don’t you dare leave me. I—” His voice faltered, throat burning. “I love you, you absolute menace. I should’ve told you before, but you drive me insane and—Merlin, I can’t lose you.”
He felt it like a physical jolt when Harry’s voice — hoarse, weak — broke the rain-damp air.
“You… love me?”
Draco froze mid-step. “You’re awake?”
Harry’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “Sort of. Enough to hear that bit, anyway.”
Blood rushed to Draco’s face. “I was—forget it—”
“No,” Harry interrupted, shifting slightly in Draco’s arms despite the pain etched into his expression. “Don’t take it back.”
Draco’s grip tightened — not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor himself in the reality that Harry was breathing, talking, alive.
“Not taking it back,” he said quietly. “Not ever.”
Harry’s smile widened, even through the wince. “Good. Because I love you too. You insufferable, dramatic git.”
Madam Pomfrey’s voice rang out from ahead, ushering them inside, and Draco reluctantly set Harry down on a hospital bed. But as he let go, their hands brushed, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
That single, unspoken moment between them was worth more than any victory on the Quidditch pitch.
Harry wasn’t released from the hospital wing until the following evening. Madam Pomfrey had insisted on a full day of rest, several Skelegrow potions for the cracked ribs, and at least five lectures about his “reckless flying habits.” Harry nodded through them, though most of his attention kept straying to the pale-haired figure leaning against the far wall, arms crossed like he had no intention of leaving.
Draco had stayed. All night.
When Pomfrey finally declared Harry “fit enough to walk,” Draco was at his side instantly, hovering in that way he tried to make look casual.
“Alright, Potter?” Draco asked, though the edge of worry in his tone gave him away.
Harry smirked. “Been better. Been worse. You?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I didn’t fall twenty feet out of the air, so I’d say I’m fine.”
They walked together down the dim corridor, the soft echo of their footsteps filling the quiet. For once, neither of them was scrambling for something snide to say. It was… oddly peaceful. Until Harry stopped short.
Draco turned back. “What—?”
“You didn’t take it back,” Harry said simply. His green eyes held him like a spell.
Draco’s chest tightened. “No. I told you I’m not going to.”
Harry stepped closer, close enough that Draco could see the faint bruise still blooming along his jaw from the match. “Good. Because I meant it too. Every word.”
It wasn’t dramatic — no swooping music, no audience. Just the two of them, standing in a quiet Hogwarts hallway, rain tapping faintly against the windows.
Harry’s hand came up, hesitated for a second, then cupped Draco’s cheek.
The kiss started tentative — soft, testing — but quickly deepened as years of rivalry, stolen glances, jabs and weeks of denial, games, and jealousy melted into something raw and unguarded. Draco’s hand found Harry’s waist, pulling him closer and steadying him like he was afraid he might disappear.
When they finally pulled back, both slightly breathless, Harry’s forehead rested against Draco’s.
“You know,” Harry murmured, “those lookalikes are going to be very smug when they find out we’ve finally sorted ourselves out.”
Draco smirked, though his thumb traced the line of Harry’s jaw with a tenderness that betrayed his words. “They can have their victory lap. I’ve got mine.”
Somewhere in the distance, the faint rumble of voices drifted from the Great Hall, but neither of them moved. In that moment, the war of looks, the jealousy, the chaos — all of it — had given way to something steady, something that felt suspiciously like home.
And neither of them was in any hurry to let it go.