Work Text:
The boys’ lavatory on the second floor breathed damp and mildew, the scent of stagnant water clinging to cracked tiles and ancient stone. A rusted tap dripped steadily, the echo sharp against the hush — a single heartbeat in a suffocating silence.
Draco Malfoy sat on the edge of the marble sink, pale fingers pressed to the cold porcelain, his robes undone, shirt clinging to him where sweat gathered at his collarbone.
He hated hiding here — a Malfoy reduced to skulking in shadows — but his lungs burned and his head spun, and it was easier to breathe where no one could see.
His reflection in the mirror was unkind: sharp cheekbones washed in moonlight from the high, grimy window, pale lashes wet and clumped. He looked hunted. Cornered. And he despised himself for it.
He whispered to the mirror anyway, voice low and cracking as if speaking only to the ghost of himself: “La pire des bénédictions…”
The French curled softly off his tongue, something delicate clashing with the brittle edge in his chest.
“La plus belle des malédictions…”
His knuckles whitened on the porcelain as he exhaled through his teeth, breath fogging faintly in the cold.
“De toi, j’devrais m’éloigner…”
There was a shadow behind him. He didn’t notice at first.
Harry Potter stood just past the cracked door, spine braced against the damp stone, listening. He didn’t know why he’d followed Draco — maybe habit, maybe obsession, maybe something more dangerous he refused to name. The moment he’d heard Malfoy’s voice, soft and broken in French, Harry had stopped breathing entirely.
Draco kept going, unaware:
“Plutôt qu’être seul, mieux vaut être mal accompagné…”
His laugh was hollow. It scraped out of his throat like glass.
“Soit près d’tes amis les plus chers…”
A pause, sharp as a blade.
“Encore plus près d’tes adversaires…”
Harry shifted, and the ancient hinges groaned. Draco froze, shoulders going rigid. He spun around, wand already halfway drawn — but his breath caught when his gaze landed on him.
“Potter,” Draco rasped, voice steadier than he felt. “Here to gloat? Or just following me like a lost dog again?”
Harry leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, though his throat was tight and his pulse wild. He tried for arrogance and failed miserably. “You’re hiding in a loo, Malfoy. Don’t flatter yourself.”
Draco’s lips curled, almost a smile but nothing soft in it. “Better to hide than to follow, Potter. What are you even doing here? Hoping to catch me bleeding?”
Harry didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His eyes traced the loose collar of Draco’s shirt, the pale column of his throat, the way damp strands of blond hair clung to his temples. There was something sharp and unbearable in the air, something unsaid that neither boy could banish.
Draco scoffed softly, gaze dropping to the cracked tiles. “ma meilleure ennemie, c'est toi or for your vapid mind to understand Potter,You’re my best enemy” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear. “And I… I hate you for that.”
Harry swallowed hard. “…I know.”
The silence pressed in around them, heavy as rain-soaked robes. Neither moved, neither spoke again — just the soft drip of water between them, and the unspoken truth that whatever this was, it was already consuming them both.