Chapter Text
Oh—it was a provocation, of course. Was there any doubt? It was blatant, undisguised, utterly shameless. Harry Potter probably wanted the entire world to know he was provoking me.
That was what Draco Malfoy was thinking at this very moment.
Expressionless, he stabbed his fork repeatedly into the pathetic, undercooked sausage on his plate, as if it were the head of a certain Gryffindor deserving of impalement. He was one hundred percent certain that before leaving his dormitory this morning, Harry Potter had stood in front of a mirror, looked at that perpetually sleepy, inexplicably punchable hero face of his, and said, “Alright, let’s try something new today. Let’s see if I can drive Malfoy to a mental breakdown in a way no one has ever tried before.”
How else could he explain it? That scarhead, the blasted saviour of the wizarding world, with that hair like a nesting site for pigeons, was currently sitting at the far end of the Great Hall—staring at him with an expression Draco could only describe as ridiculously stupid.
Oh, please. It’s not like he was wronging that scarhead. It wasn’t some kind of comrade-in-arms concern born of surviving a war together. Besides, he didn’t need it. It was a look… almost like he was observing some rare magical plant. Was he going to take notes, ha!
Draco nearly sent the sausage flying off his fork. He truly wished he hadn’t chosen this seat this morning. Then he wouldn’t have to endure being stared at so intensely while also suffering the deeply unsettling, yet completely oblivious, assault of Harry’s handsomeness.
It was all last weekend’s fault. If he could, Draco would take that entire weekend, treat it like a mouldy potion ingredient, pull it out, chop it up, toss it into a cauldron to be boiled repeatedly, and then dump the whole mess—cauldron and all—into a dungbomb pit in the Forbidden Forest. Not even the most powerful Obliviate could fully erase it. He really, truly did not want to think about that blasted moment ever again. Not for a single second.
It was the eighth month since the war ended, halfway through the special “Eighth Year” Hogwarts had added. In the beginning, Draco Malfoy had absolutely, positively not wanted to return! Not at all! Go back to a place full of judgmental stares? Ha! Merlin be my witness, he would rather stay in the Malfoy Manor dungeons and scrub chamber pots for the house-elves—but not on his knees—and he would never, ever go back to that blasted castle!
But Lucius Malfoy clearly thought otherwise.
The war had struck the Malfoy family a devastating blow. Wealth, status, reputation… all of it had been stripped away overnight.
One evening, Lucius sat by the fireplace and spoke to him in a voice so weary Draco barely recognised it. “You must go back, Draco. The wizarding world cannot be allowed to forget the Malfoy name… Let them see that a Malfoy, even after falling, will rise again on his own.”
Draco had always respected his father. Although Voldemort’s catastrophe had made him question and even grow disillusioned with many of his father’s decisions for the first time, Lucius was still the man Draco had relied on and emulated his entire life. He remembered, as a child, sitting on the bend of the staircase playing with his magical toy train while secretly watching Lucius Malfoy receive guests, commanding the room with every word. He had once believed that when he grew up, he’d be just as omnipotent…
But the war—and a series of terrible choices—had shattered all those illusions.
Draco had wanted to resist, truly. He didn’t want to come back. He didn’t want to return to a place soaked in blood and dark shadows. He didn’t want to face those looks, those whispers, or those things he never wanted to touch again.
But his father wanted him to return. And so did his mother. She hadn’t said it outright, but she gave him a gentle look at dinner and placed her hand over his.
Draco didn’t say no… He couldn’t. Oh, yes, he simply couldn’t be the good little boy who disappointed his parents completely.
And so he returned. Like a prisoner unexpectedly granted parole, he dragged his heavy steps back to Hogwarts.
And last weekend was a serious violation of that parole.
Only three Slytherin boys had returned for Eighth Year—him, Blaise Zabini, and Gregory Goyle. Just the three of them. The dormitory, meant for four, felt strangely empty. It was as cold as a dungeon and as quiet as a tomb. The only entertainment was betting on whether the fireplace would die first or Goyle would start snoring.
Then, on Saturday night, after a questionable Quidditch tabloid—so filthy it wasn’t even fit to line a Kneazle’s litter tray—had crowned Gryffindor the “Loudest House of the Year,” they actually threw a party. A party! In this place! At first, Draco assumed they must’ve drunk a mislabeled potion.
Pansy Parkinson, as always, was the first to arrive—utterly enthusiastic. She dragged along the younger Greengrass girl—Draco honestly couldn’t remember whether her name was Alastor or Assto-something, the kind of name that never stuck.
Five people, huddled in the cold, damp Slytherin dormitory, sipping some Firewhisky Blaise had smuggled in from Hogsmeade—one sip, and it tasted like troll saliva. Thus began a one-hundred-percent venomous Gryffindor-bashing party.
“I swear, that Weasley girl stomps around loud enough to give a gnome a concussion,” Pansy sneered at Ginny. “Every time she’s in the corridor, I think a Norwegian Ridgeback’s broken loose from the Forbidden Forest.”
“Oh! And Miss Know-It-All,” Blaise said, rolling his eyes. “Raises her hand more religiously than the sunrise, and just as bloody annoying.”
Pansy chimed in immediately, “I say Professor McGonagall should send her to the Ministry for an inquiry into ‘abuse of the right to speak.’”
Amid the heckling and laughter, the fire crackled and the stench of liquor filled the room. While the others were deep in their tirades, Draco slowly put down his glass. “Potter.”
The room went silent.
“He doesn’t even have to do anything. Just breathing—the sound of his stupid breathing—is enough to constitute noise pollution for the entire Slytherin common room.”
The insults came faster, the drinks flowed stronger. Pansy and Blaise exchanged a look that screamed mischief: We’re definitely stirring up trouble tonight. Draco knew immediately this could only end in disaster.
He had managed to maintain a sliver of self-control and sarcasm, but after a few glasses of Firewhisky, his brain felt like it had been simmered in a cauldron—thicker with every boil. He vaguely remembered mocking Ron Weasley’s jumper, saying it looked like it had been patched together by a house-elf using a kitchen rag. He recalled imitating how Neville Longbottom gazed lovingly at a biting plant… and then? Then what?
Logic, at the exact moment the third bottle of Firewhisky was uncorked, had packed its bags like a shamed coward and slammed the door on its way out—without so much as a goodbye. All that remained was the smell of alcohol and increasingly audacious taunts.
He half-remembered a moment where Pansy fixed him with that gleam in her eye and her classic “I know your little secret” grin.
“What’s the point of all this talk if you’re not going to do anything, Draco? Are you really braver than Scarhead or not?”
Blaise had slinked up too, leaning against the mantel with a glass in hand. “Exactly, mate. Don’t just torture him with words. Do something. Show us what you really want to do to him.”
Those two were the kind of friends one should never get drunk around—because they knew your secrets, and they had zero intention of keeping them.
Under the combined assault of alcohol and provocation, Draco Malfoy’s brain officially went on strike. What he did next—even under the Imperius Curse, sober—he wouldn’t have managed.
At midnight, he snuck out of Hogwarts on his broom, wobbled into the Owl Post Office, and requested the most inconspicuous anonymous Horned Owl available. Then, from the inner pocket of his robes, he drew a cufflink, still warm from body heat.
A rose cufflink carved from black gold—a Malfoy heirloom. Each petal inscribed with delicate runes, visible only under a magnification charm. He had once worn it with pride, as if clinging to the last remnant of his dignity.
And now, he wrapped it in a scrap of parchment ripped from his notebook and, with hands trembling like he’d been cursed—how fitting, really, since he had another Parkinson to thank for this stupid late-night disaster—he scrawled a line of such idiocy that even now, just recalling it made him want to Avada Kedavra himself:
May warmth always find its way to you.
In certain ancient and insufferably formal pure-blood traditions, this was no ordinary gift. To give someone a personal item imbued with a protective charm was a highly private and formal signal. It could mean an inquiry, a promise… or even a courtship.
Merlin’s smelly socks. He’d just courted Harry Potter.
A wave of nausea, comparable only to a Death Eater family scandal (what was that family again—Ma-something?), rushed to his head. He could practically hear the sound of his dignity shattering. Perhaps the psychic damage was so severe that his brain, out of mercy, decided to erase the rest.
He vaguely remembered, in his horror, that he may have kissed Blaise. And maybe the younger Greengrass girl—whatever-her-name-was. Who knew?
Maybe even Goyle. And perhaps his brain, in a rare moment of compassion, had wiped that memory to prevent instant death.
But one thing he was absolutely certain of:
He had not kissed Pansy. That little bitch? Ab-so-lute-ly NOT.
Even if he had drunk the entire Hogwarts cellar dry and been hit with five Imperius Curses at once to perform a striptease, he would not have kissed Pansy Parkinson. Don’t even suggest it. He’d sooner kiss Goyle’s left toe.
The next day—Monday morning—he was dragged from the dead by a headache that felt like a Blast-Ended Skrewt was holding a rave inside his skull. No grace, no dignity. Ladies and gentlemen, the post-war life of a former Death Eater.
He cracked open his eyes. The room looked like a battlefield, strewn with “corpses” reeking of gods-knew-what. Half of Blaise was dangling off the bed like he might die right there. He was holding Pansy, but Pansy was holding an empty wine bottle—in this tragic love triangle, it was Blaise vs. the bottle, and the score was zero to one. Clearly, Pansy preferred the firmer, colder option.
And Goyle, that formidable slab of muscle, was perfectly blocking the only path to the washroom like a bloated metaphor.
Draco groaned so loudly it could have raised the dead and stumbled out of bed. Without a second thought, he kicked Goyle’s arse. “Move it, you lump of meat.”
The lump only grunted, rolled over, and resumed snoring. Whatever.
Draco steadied himself against the wall and fumbled his way to the washroom, turning on the tap with pure muscle memory. Cold water splashed his face, dragging him a little further from the grave (and his hangover). He grabbed his toothbrush, squeezed on some paste, and began numbly brushing both his teeth and his soul.
The mint burned across his tongue. Foam started to swirl.
And then—
Bang.
Ah—so that’s where the memory of that catastrophe had been hiding! It leapt out and slapped him hard across the face. He was nearly knocked into a full pirouette. Perfect, of course.
The cufflink. The parchment. The words.
He nearly swallowed his toothbrush.
He remembered. Everything! Not only had he sent it, but he had used the anonymous service—the kind of service only used by guilty, spineless Squibs who liked to hide so much they didn’t even dare sign their own letters!
Draco’s face instantly turned paler than a ghost’s. He rushed to the toilet and began to dry heave, his stomach containing nothing but acid and last night’s cheap Firewhisky. What came out was pure, unadulterated shame.
What in the world had he done?
He had actually used the most ancient and orthodox Malfoy family method of courtship to send a love letter to a blasted Gryffindor whose brain contained nothing but Quidditch and “I must save the world!”??
What would Potter think? Would he assume the cufflink was a Dark object hiding a poison curse, the kind of thing that says “Surprise :)” on the surface but would blow your brains out the moment you dared to wear it?
Or… in Potter’s eyes, would this look more like a mating signal from a mentally unstable Malfoy? Would he guess it was him? Would he? Could he recognise that casual yet elegant handwriting?
“Damn you, Potter!” he cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth as if the entire universe owed him an explanation. Yes, it was all Potter’s fault! If he wasn’t always strutting around in front of him, looking at him with those green eyes—as green as toads preserved in formaldehyde—he would never have become so mentally addled as to need Firewhisky to numb his nerves!
He hadn’t been drunk at all! It was Potter who was too… shamelessly handsome! He was so arrogant it was practically criminal!
…But cursing wouldn’t change anything. It couldn’t turn back time, nor could it stop this accident.
A cold, desperate fact surfaced in his mind. The owl postmen near Hogwarts were known for their dedication, rain or shine. They would deliver the mail even if they were hit by three Stunning Spells, flinging the letter in your face regardless!
No matter what, before eight-thirty this morning, Harry Potter would receive that monumentally stupid “romantic” little package.
Draco turned stiffly to look at the clock on the washroom wall.
Eight o’clock sharp.
It was over. The end. Curtain fall.
Three seconds. It took Draco Malfoy’s brain a full three seconds to reboot from the swamp brewed by alcohol, shame, and a hangover. Then, without a second thought, he shot out of the washroom like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
He had to stop that blasted owl. Immediately. Right now.
He dressed with what he considered to be rapid efficiency—of course, this was “rapid” by Malfoy standards, meaning he bravely omitted the steps of ironing his shirt wrinkles with a spell, spritzing on expensive cologne, and admiring the perfection of his own hairstyle in the mirror.
Even if the sky were falling, his leather shoes had to be polished to a shine, and his tie had to be fit for a Ministry ball—after all, even if one is off to destroy evidence, one must be presentable.
When he finally burst out of the Slytherin dormitory like a gust of wind, the clock on the wall pointed ominously to eight-twenty.
Merlin help him. Or don’t, it was too late anyway.
He practically flew into the Great Hall, his expensive dragon-hide shoes tapping a frantic rhythm on the floor.
However—the usual spot at the Gryffindor long table was already empty. Potter, and his two sidekicks who were as loyal as slugs (and about as intelligent), were all gone.
Draco muttered a curse so foul it would make the portraits in the Hall blush, haphazardly grabbed two small rolls, stuffed them in his mouth, and chugged a large gulp of pumpkin juice, nearly choking himself to death. He turned and bolted out again, practically spraying breadcrumbs.
Fifth floor, fifth floor, fifth floor.
What was the first class today? His hungover brain was like a badly brewed potion.
Ah… right, Charms. Professor Flitwick.
At this thought, Draco’s heart was ignited with a new round of dissatisfaction with the world. Due to the war, Hogwarts had lost too many students, and too many had left their studies unfinished. Now, among those willing to return for the “Eighth Year,” all four Houses combined couldn’t even muster forty people.
So the school had come up with a brilliant—no, a certifiably insane—idea. To save on teaching staff, all Eighth Year students, regardless of House, would be in mixed classes! All of them!
They really should have invited a Healer to that decision-making meeting. After losing the Malfoy family’s financial support, Hogwarts was practically worthless—if it weren’t for his mother’s generous kindness in continuing to donate part of her dowry to the scholarship fund, the school would probably be relying on Transfiguration to keep its window frames intact, wouldn’t it, ha?
And how did they repay him? By forcing him to share air with Gryffindors!
This meant that he, a Malfoy, had to spend every day in the same room with a bunch of Gryffindors as noisy as if they were stuck in an exhaust pipe, a group of Hufflepuffs so dull you’d wonder if they had to learn how to breathe, and a few Ravenclaws who thought they were smarter than Merlin but were actually just full of exam anxiety and self-superiority.
It was a blatant trampling of pure-blood dignity. It was like forcing a graceful white peacock to roll around in the same mud pit with a pack of filthy gophers—and expecting him to smile and play along. Oh, just marvellous!
Draco was still convinced this was Professor McGonagall’s personal revenge. After all, his comment from seven years ago—“Your hat is rather out of style”—wasn’t something one easily forgot. Otherwise, who would think putting him and Potter in the same class was a good idea?!
When he breathlessly reached the Charms classroom door, there were still a few minutes before the bell rang. Professor Flitwick hadn’t appeared yet, but the students were already seated in small groups—all except for those hungover bastards still playing corpse in the Slytherin dormitory.
Draco locked onto his target in a single glance. And then, his heart let out a soft, mournful cry in his chest.
A dusty grey Horned Owl, the very “accomplice in crime” he had hired last night, was perched gracefully on Harry Potter’s desk. Its feathers shimmered in the morning sunlight, its talons tapping twice on the wooden surface—tap, tap.
To Draco, that was definitely not the sound of a bird’s claws.
That was the sound of fate’s hammer, the final nail being driven into the coffin of his reputation.
In that second, a myriad of thoughts flashed through Draco’s mind, so complex they would have silenced Merlin himself, made the origin of the universe wait its turn, and told the end of time to kindly get in line.
Could he rush in right now and shout, “Potter! Get your filthy hands—er, off that package!”?
No. Absolutely not. That would be tantamount to publicly raising his wand and carving “I AM THE ONE WHO SENT THIS PACKAGE” on his own face. His reputation at Hogwarts was already as rotten as a troll’s sock that had been boiling in a cauldron for three months. Without other Slytherins to cover for him, such an act would only be interpreted by that bunch of self-righteous idiots as yet another “Death Eater provocation.”
He could almost see the disastrous scene unfold—Miss Know-It-All with her “I must uphold justice” expression, her wand gleaming menacingly. The Weasley red-haired ape would slam his hands on the table, glaring at him, ready for a fight.
No, he had to be calm. He had to remain still. He was a Malfoy. He did not panic.
He took a deep breath, trying to make his breathing sound as if he were scorning the very existence of oxygen molecules, and then put on his usual expression—you lot of inferior blood are unworthy of breathing the same air as me.
Elegant. Composed. Cold.
He nonchalantly slid into a seat at the back of the classroom, in the corner he always occupied. Then, like a hawk fixing its eyes on its prey, he locked onto Harry Potter with the corner of his eye.
He watched as Potter, slightly surprised, untied the small package from the messenger’s leg. Yes, small, because it contained nothing but stupidity and regret. Even the air disdained it.
Draco’s breath caught in his throat. He frantically wondered if, right now, from this distance, he could cast a silent Vanishing Charm—no, too gentle, a fiery Incendio would do!—and reduce it to ash, then the ash to gas, and the gas to cosmic dust, before it could be opened.
He hesitated.
To cast a precise, silent spell from such a distance, even Professor Flitwick would have to take three deep breaths before attempting it. And he—he was a tragic, hungover, nerve-wracked Malfoy, still suffering from a tremor courtesy of Parkinson.
What if the spell went slightly awry and burned Potter’s fingers to a crisp? Or worse—made one of his finger bones vanish into thin air?
That would be just splendid. The Aurors would surely swarm in, and what could he say?
“Sorry, everyone, I was just trying to destroy a love token I sent while drunk”?
Yes, that sounded completely reasonable. Just perfect.
Forget it. He closed his eyes, mentally chanting “Merlin, grant me a swift end,” and between a mental breakdown and pure-blood dignity, he made the only rational decision:
—Leave it to fate.
Time seemed to have been hit with a Slowing Charm, each second stretched to infinity. Draco watched as Potter tore open the pathetically simple parchment wrapping, revealing the cufflink inside, along with the note filled with shame and stupidity.
Of course, disasters never come alone. Weasley and Know-It-All Granger immediately leaned in, like two fat flies drawn to the scent of gossip, their heads craning in unison.
Granger’s expression instantly tensed, her eyes flashing with suspicion, as if the cufflink were not a piece of jewellery but a newly unearthed Horcrux from the Forbidden Forest.
Draco cursed viciously in his mind: Oh, of course, Miss Granger! In your eyes, anything that isn’t documented in the library and is more exquisite than that mess of hair on your head must be a Dark artefact, right?
And that red-haired idiot, ah, Weasley! He would only mindlessly agree with his girlfriend. A strange look appeared on his face, half-vigilant, half-purely stupid—the perfect combination for a Gryffindor.
And so, Potter merely glanced at the cufflink a couple of times before casually—casually!—handing it to Granger! For her to check if it was cursed.
Draco felt his blood run cold, his very soul letting out a pure-blood scream.
In his mind, he wailed in a tragic tone worthy of the stage: Oh, my dear Grandfather Abraxas! It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you—your most beloved pair of black gold rose cufflinks, a symbol of centuries of Malfoy elegance and taste, is now… is now being held by a pair of—no, don’t make me say it—a pair of Muggle-born fingers! Under the sun! Pinched and prodded without a shred of respect! A historic tragedy!
He almost wanted to rush up and snatch it back, crying, “It’s a family heirloom, not a dangerous artefact!” but before he could, Potter moved again.
He picked up the note.
As he read it, his brow furrowed slightly. The lightning bolt scar was half-hidden by his dark, falling hair. The morning sun streamed through the window, dappling his face, light and shadow dancing in his emerald-green eyes.
In that moment, Draco Malfoy’s life completely collapsed. Because he had to admit, this blasted Gryffindor… was unbelievably handsome.
Draco’s heart began to race out of control, the frantic rhythm almost threatening to break through his ribs. He told himself it was just nerves, pure nerves.
He stared intently at Potter.
He didn’t know if it was because his handwriting from last night was as messy as a slithering snake, or if Harry Potter’s reading comprehension was still stuck at the level of Quidditch Weekly. In any case, it took the idiot a full ten seconds to read that pitifully short sentence.
When he finally finished, his brow furrowed even deeper.
Draco’s breath hitched with every twitch of that eyebrow.
And then—
Potter moved. He raised his wand, gave it a gentle flick, and the piece of parchment carrying Draco’s drunken confession burst into flames with a soft whoosh. The fire licked at the air for a few seconds, leaving behind only a pinch of ash.
Draco’s mind went blank. That wasn’t just a piece of paper burning—it was his last shred of self-respect, dignity, and sanity.
Potter even turned his head and said a couple of quick words to Granger and Weasley. Draco was no lip-reading expert, but he understood. Merlin, he understood completely. The shape of the mouth, the expression—it was disgust! It was impatience!
Potter was cursing! Cursing the letter! Cursing the gift! Cursing the pitiful, stupid, anonymous—himself.
BOOM—
Draco felt his world crumble. He had been rejected. In the most disdainful way possible. Potter couldn’t even be bothered to find out who the sender was, didn’t spare it a single second of interest, and just disposed of it like rubbish.
Snap. The end.
A mixture of humiliation, anger, and a hint of sourness he didn’t even dare to admit to himself spread through him like venom. He roared in his mind that Potter was an idiot with no taste, no class, and no hope! Pansy and Blaise were two traitors who deserved to be tied up and fed to the Acromantulas! That bottle of Firewhisky was a curse from hell!
And himself—why, why had he listened to his father and come back to this godforsaken place to suffer this kind of torture?!
He could almost hear fate secretly applauding in the background for having successfully screwed him over.
Perhaps his resentful gaze was too scorching.
Harry Potter, sitting in the front row, suddenly, without any warning, turned around.
In that instant, Draco’s heart stopped dead.
Those green eyes caught his gaze perfectly.
Draco froze, immediately averting his eyes in guilt, pretending to be deeply engrossed in studying a crack in the ceiling.
—While silently holding a funeral for himself in his mind.
tbc
To keep a bit of mystery, I won’t be explaining things in the end notes for now. You can slowly savour the story from Draco’s point of view