Chapter Text
April 3rd, 1999.
Spring arrived not gradually but suddenly—one week the grounds were grey and dead, the next they were exploding with green. Daffodils appeared in impossible abundance. The bare tree branches developed that fuzzy quality that suggested imminent leaves. The sky was still mostly grey, but occasionally it broke into actual blue, which felt revolutionary after six months of unrelenting clouds.
With spring came a shift in the school's social atmosphere. Winter had been insular, everyone huddled in their separate groups, conserving energy against the cold. But spring brought expansion—students spending more time outside, social boundaries becoming more permeable, new configurations forming.
And with spring came parties.
Silvercrest had an odd relationship with student parties. Officially, they were forbidden—no gatherings after curfew, no alcohol, no unsupervised socializing in students' rooms. But unofficially, the administration turned a blind eye as long as things didn't get too out of hand. A quiet understanding: teenagers will be teenagers, better contained chaos than uncontrolled rebellion.
The announcement appeared on the notice board on the first of April: Spring Gathering. Saturday, April 3rd. 9pm. North Tower Common Room. Everyone welcome.
It was carefully worded to suggest an authorized event while being deliberately vague about details. Everyone knew what it really meant: Pansy Parkinson was throwing a party. Her family was wealthy enough and connected enough that she could commandeer the North Tower common room—the one used by sixth and seventh years, larger and less supervised than the younger students' spaces.
"Are you going?" Ron asked at lunch, looking at the notice.
"I don't know," Harry said. "Pansy hates me. It feels weird to go to her party."
"It says everyone's welcome."
"Everyone except me, probably."
Draco, sitting beside Harry, was very carefully not looking at the notice board. His face was neutral, but Harry could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were gripping his fork slightly too hard.
"What about you?" Hermione asked Draco. "Will you go?"
"I haven't decided."
"It's your friend throwing it."
"Former friend. And I don't particularly enjoy parties."
"But you were part of that social circle. Won't they expect you?"
Draco's jaw tightened. "Probably. But expectations aren't obligations."
After lunch, when they were alone walking to History, Harry said, "You should go. If you want to."
"I don't want to."
"You're lying."
Draco stopped walking. "Fine. I want to go. Not because I care about Pansy's party specifically, but because I miss... I miss having a wider social circle. I miss being part of things. But I can't go because you can't go, and I'm not going anywhere without you."
"What if I went with you?"
"To a party thrown by someone who actively hates you? That seems like a terrible idea."
"Maybe. But maybe it's also a statement. We're together. We're not hiding. We go places as a unit."
"She'll make it miserable for you."
"Probably. But I can handle Pansy Parkinson."
"I'm not sure you can, actually. She's vicious when she wants to be."
"Then I'll learn. Come on, Draco. Let's go to the stupid party."
Draco looked at him for a long moment. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure. We'll go together. Face the social firing squad together."
"That's very dramatic."
"This is a dramatic situation."
"Fine. We'll go. But if it's terrible, we're leaving immediately."
"Deal."
April 3rd arrived with the kind of perfect spring evening that made even Silvercrest's brutalist architecture look almost charming. The sun set late, eight-thirty, painting everything gold and pink before fading to soft darkness.
Harry spent too long deciding what to wear. Everything in his wardrobe was either school uniform or the worn, ill-fitting casual clothes from the Dursleys. Nothing felt right for a party.
Three taps on the wall.
Harry knocked back.
"Harry? Can I come in?"
"Yeah."
Draco entered, and Harry's stomach did something complicated. Draco had clearly put effort into his appearance—dark jeans that actually fit properly, a grey button-down shirt, his hair styled but not too styled, the careful balance of looking good without looking like he'd tried too hard.
"You look nice," Harry said.
"You look like you're having a crisis."
"I don't know what to wear. Everything I own is terrible."
Draco surveyed Harry's limited wardrobe with a critical eye. "Your jeans are fine. But that shirt—no. Absolutely not."
"It's the only non-uniform shirt I have."
"Then you're wearing one of mine."
"We're not the same size."
"We're close enough. Come on."
Harry followed Draco to his room, which he'd only been in a handful of times. It was meticulously organized—books alphabetized, desk perfectly arranged, clothes in the wardrobe organized by color and type.
Draco pulled out a dark green shirt—softer fabric than Harry's, better quality, the kind of thing that cost money.
"Try this."
Harry pulled off his terrible shirt and tried on Draco's. It was slightly big in the shoulders but otherwise fit well. The color made his eyes look greener.
"That's better," Draco said. "Much better. You can keep it."
"I can't keep your shirt."
"Why not? It looks better on you than on me anyway. The color suits you."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Consider it a gift."
Harry looked at himself in Draco's small mirror. He did look better—more put together, less like someone who'd been dressed by relatives who resented his existence.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now, are you ready? Or do you need more time to be anxious?"
"I'm ready to be anxious at the party instead of here."
"That's the spirit."
They walked to the North Tower together, meeting Ron and Hermione on the way. Ron was wearing his nicest jumper—still clearly hand-knitted by his mother, but clean and without holes. Hermione had put effort into her hair, taming her curls into something more controlled.
"You both look nice," Hermione said, looking at Harry and Draco. "Very coordinated."
"We're not coordinated," Draco said. "We just both own dark colors."
"You're wearing matching color palettes. That's coordination."
"That's coincidence."
"If you say so."
The North Tower common room was already crowded when they arrived. Someone had brought a small sound system—music playing at a volume that was loud but not quite loud enough to bring staff intervention. Dim lighting. Drinks in plastic cups that were definitely not just punch. Clusters of students talking, laughing, performing the elaborate social dance of teenage parties.
Pansy stood near the center of the room, holding court. She saw them enter and her expression went through several rapid changes: surprise at seeing Draco, displeasure at seeing Harry, something more complicated at seeing them together.
"This was a mistake," Harry muttered.
"Too late now. We're committed." Draco took Harry's hand—deliberately, publicly. "Come on."
They wove through the crowd. People noticed them—noticed their held hands, noticed their coordinated arrival, noticed the statement they were making. Some stares were curious, some disapproving, some simply interested in the drama.
Ron and Hermione had peeled off to get drinks, leaving Harry and Draco to navigate alone.
"Draco," Pansy said as they approached. Her voice was cold but controlled. "I'm surprised you came."
"You said everyone was welcome."
"I said that. I didn't expect you to take it literally."
"And yet, here we are."
Pansy's eyes flicked to Harry, then to their joined hands. "I see you brought your... companion."
"His name is Harry. You know his name."
"Of course I know his name. Everyone knows his name. The scholarship student who somehow convinced you to throw away your entire social position."
"I didn't throw anything away. I made a choice."
"A catastrophically bad choice."
"That's your opinion. I disagree."
The tension was palpable. Harry could feel eyes on them, people watching to see what would happen. Part of him wanted to leave immediately. But another part—the part that was tired of being treated like he didn't belong—made him stand straighter.
"Thank you for the invitation," Harry said, keeping his voice level. "The party looks lovely."
Pansy's eyes narrowed. "I didn't invite you specifically."
"No, but the notice said everyone welcome. I'm part of everyone."
"Technically."
"Categorically. Either everyone is welcome or they're not. You can't have it both ways."
Blaise appeared at Pansy's elbow. "Let it go, Pans. They're here. It's fine."
"It's not fine—"
"It is fine," Blaise said firmly. He looked at Draco. "It's good to see you. It's been a while."
"It has," Draco said carefully.
"You look happy. Different. But happy."
"I am happy."
"Good. That's good." Blaise nodded at Harry. "You're the one responsible for that?"
"I don't know if I'm responsible. But I'm part of it."
"Then welcome. To both of you."
Pansy made a disgusted sound and walked away, several of her closer friends following. But Blaise stayed, creating a small bubble of civility in what could have been a hostile situation.
"Thank you," Draco said quietly.
Blaise shrugged. "You're my friend. Were my friend. Still are, maybe. I don't know. It's complicated. But I'm not interested in making you miserable just because Pansy is."
"I appreciate that."
"Though I do think you're insane. Throwing away connections, status, everything we were building. For..." He gestured at Harry.
"For love," Draco said simply. "I threw it away for love. And it wasn't a throw away. It was a trade. Status for authenticity. Performance for reality. I'd make the same trade every time."
Blaise studied him. "You really love him."
"Yes."
"Enough to accept all the consequences?"
"Yes."
"Then I hope he's worth it."
"He is."
Harry felt his face heating up. Being discussed like he wasn't there, having his worth debated—it was uncomfortable but also oddly validating. Draco was defending him. Publicly. Without hesitation.
Blaise wandered off, and they were left standing together in the crowded room.
"That was intense," Harry said.
"That was nothing. Wait until later when people are drunk. It'll get much worse."
"You're very reassuring."
"I'm very realistic."
They found Ron and Hermione near the drinks table. Ron handed them plastic cups—something that smelled sweet and probably had alcohol in it.
"You two caused quite the entrance," Ron said.
"We just walked in holding hands."
"Exactly. In a room full of people who are still getting used to you being together. That's a statement."
"Everything we do is apparently a statement."
"That's what happens when you're the interesting couple."
"We're not trying to be interesting."
"Too late. You're the most interesting thing happening at Silvercrest right now. Two boys from completely different social classes, together publicly, defying everyone's expectations. It's very dramatic."
"Ron's right," Hermione added. "Whether you want to be or not, you're symbols. Of change, of possibility, of choosing authenticity over expectation. That makes people uncomfortable and interested in equal measure."
"I just want to be with Harry," Draco said. "I don't want to be a symbol."
"Unfortunately, you don't get to choose that. Visibility comes with interpretation."
They moved away from the drinks table, finding a slightly quieter corner where they could talk without shouting over the music.
The party continued around them—people drinking, dancing, flirting, performing the elaborate rituals of teenage socializing. Harry watched it all with detached interest, feeling both part of it and separate from it.
Around ten, people started getting properly drunk. The careful social controls started slipping. Dancing became less coordinated. Conversations became louder. The inevitable drama started bubbling up.
"This is devolving," Draco observed.
"Do you want to leave?"
"Not yet. Let's stay a bit longer."
They stayed on the periphery, watching. Ron got pulled into a debate about rugby with some fourth-years. Hermione was cornered by Lisa and several other older students, apparently discussing university applications despite being years away from that.
Harry and Draco ended up near the windows, looking out at the dark grounds below. From up here, you could see the cliff edge, the suggestion of sea beyond.
"Do you regret coming?" Harry asked.
"No. I needed to do this. To prove to myself that I could exist in this space with you. That I don't need Pansy's approval or Blaise's blessing or anyone else's permission."
"And?"
"And I still don't need any of those things. Being here confirms it. This used to be my world—parties, social positioning, careful performance. But it's not anymore. My world is much smaller now. It's you and Ron and Hermione and a few others. Quality over quantity."
"Is that enough?"
"It's more than enough. It's everything."
Around ten-thirty, Pansy approached them again. She was clearly drunk—movements less controlled, voice louder, eyes bright with alcohol and anger.
"You know what I don't understand?" she said without preamble. "I don't understand how you could choose him over us. Over everything we built. We were going to be something, Draco. You, me, Blaise. We had plans. Connections. Future."
"I chose authenticity over performance," Draco said calmly. "I chose love over strategy."
"Love." She said it like it was dirty. "You're twelve. You don't know what love is."
"I know enough. I know it matters more than any plan you'd made for my future."
"Your future! I was thinking about your future because clearly you're not!"
"My future is mine to determine. Not yours. Not my parents'. Mine."
"You're throwing it away—"
"I'm building it. Differently than you'd planned, but building it nonetheless."
Pansy's eyes filled with tears—whether from anger or sadness or alcohol, Harry couldn't tell. "I miss you. That's what this is about. I miss my friend. You were my best friend, and then he—" she gestured at Harry, "—he took you away."
"He didn't take me anywhere. I chose. I keep choosing. Every day."
"Why? What does he have that I don't?"
"It's not about having. It's about being. Harry sees me. Actually sees me. Not the performance, not the social position, not the future potential. Just me. Messy, anxious, complicated me. And he chooses that version. Every time."
Pansy looked at Harry with something that might have been hatred or envy or understanding. "I could have seen you. If you'd let me."
"No, you couldn't. You were too invested in the version of me that fit your plans. Harry has no investment in any version of me except the real one."
"That's not fair—"
"It's completely fair. You wanted me to be something. Harry wants me to be myself. There's a difference."
Pansy wiped at her eyes. "I hate this. I hate that you're happy without me. I hate that he makes you happy when I couldn't."
"Pansy—"
"I'm going to say something terrible now. Something drunk and mean. But I need you to know: if this fails, if he breaks your heart, don't come back to me. Because I won't be able to not say 'I told you so.' I won't be able to be supportive. I'll be petty and vindictive and awful."
"I understand."
"Good. Now get out. Both of you. I can't look at you anymore tonight."
She walked away, unsteady on her feet. Blaise appeared and guided her toward a chair, looking back at Draco with an expression Harry couldn't quite read.
"We should go," Draco said.
"Yeah."
They found Ron and Hermione, said their goodbyes, and left the party.
Outside, the April night was clear and cold. Stars visible, moon bright, the grounds silvered with moonlight.
"That was..." Harry started.
"Terrible," Draco finished.
"But necessary?"
"But necessary."
They walked toward the cliff without discussing it—just naturally gravitating to their place, their ritual space.
At the wall, Draco leaned against the stone and closed his eyes. "I knew she'd be hurt. I knew leaving that social circle would have consequences. But seeing her actually hurt, actually crying—that was harder than I expected."
"Do you regret it?"
"No. But I feel guilty anyway. Guilt and regret aren't the same thing."
"She said some cruel things."
"She's drunk and hurt. People say cruel things when they're hurt."
"You defended me, though. Defended us. Even when she was crying."
"Of course I defended you. Defending you isn't negotiable. It doesn't matter if she's hurt or angry or drunk. You're mine to defend."
Harry's chest felt tight. "That's very... that's very you."
"What do you mean?"
"You're so certain. About us. About your choice. Even when people you care about are trying to make you doubt it."
"I am certain. Mathematics doesn't lie. 524 meaningful moments and counting. Positive derivatives. Growing integrals. All the data confirms we're real and significant and worth any social cost."
"You calculated since last week?"
"I calculate every day. Update the integral. Track our accumulation. It's how I stay certain when everyone else is trying to make me doubt."
Harry moved closer, until they were standing nearly pressed together. "Thank you. For defending us. For staying certain."
"Thank you for coming to the party. I know it was uncomfortable. But having you there—it made it bearable. Made it feel less like a performance and more like just existing with my person in a space that used to matter."
"Your person?"
"Yes. My person. The person I choose. The person who chooses me. My person."
"I like being your person."
"Good. Because you're stuck with it."
They stood at the cliff, pressed together against the cold, watching the moonlit water and the stars and the endless sky.
"Can I tell you something?" Draco said after a while.
"Always."
"Pansy was my best friend. For years. Before Silvercrest, at my previous schools. She was the person who knew me best. Or who I thought knew me best."
"And?"
"And she didn't know me at all. She knew the performance. She knew the version of me that was useful to her plans. But she never saw the anxiety, the vulnerability, the parts of me that didn't fit her vision."
"That must hurt. Realizing that."
"It does. But it also clarifies something. Friendship isn't just history and proximity. It's actual seeing. Actual understanding. And I have more actual friendship with you after six months than I had with Pansy after six years."
"That's very sad."
"It's very true. She said I chose you over her. But really, I chose being seen over being useful. Being authentic over being strategic. Those aren't small choices."
"No. They're huge choices."
"And I'd make them again. Every time. In every universe."
Harry kissed him.
It wasn't planned—just a sudden overwhelming need to close the final distance, to make physical what was already emotionally true.
It was brief—just lips pressed together, slightly awkward, neither of them quite sure of the mechanics. But it was real. It was theirs. It was the physical manifestation of 524 accumulated moments, of positive derivatives, of growing integrals.
They pulled apart, both slightly shocked.
"Was that okay?" Harry asked.
"Was that—yes. Yes, that was very okay."
"Good. Because I've wanted to do that for weeks."
"Weeks?"
"Months, probably. But especially the last few weeks."
"Why didn't you?"
"Didn't know if you wanted to. Didn't want to push."
"I want to. I've wanted to. I was just too anxious to initiate."
"So we're both anxious idiots."
"Apparently."
They kissed again—slightly less awkward this time, both of them a bit more certain. It was still clumsy, still figuring-it-out, but it was theirs. Their first proper kiss. Their 525th meaningful moment.
When they pulled apart again, both of them were smiling.
"That's going to require recalculating," Draco said.
"What?"
"The integral. Kissing is worth more than one standard moment. It's probably worth three or four standard moments. So that's 527, not 525."
"You're calculating our kiss value?"
"I'm quantifying our kiss value. For accurate recordkeeping."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm mathematically rigorous. There's a difference."
"A very small difference."
"A precisely calculated difference."
Harry laughed and kissed him again—moment 530, by Draco's metrics. Then again—533. Then once more—536.
"We're accumulating moments very rapidly," Draco observed.
"That's what happens when you discover kissing. Rapid accumulation."
"I approve. Of the kissing and the accumulation."
"Good. Because I plan to do both frequently."
They stayed at the cliff for another hour, talking and occasionally kissing, both of them giddy with the newness of it, the permission they'd given themselves to add this physical dimension to everything else.
Finally, the cold became too much.
They walked back to the dormitory, holding hands, occasionally stopping to kiss again because they could, because they wanted to, because 524 meaningful moments had accumulated into the certainty that this was allowed, was wanted, was right.
At their doors, they paused.
"Thank you," Draco said. "For tonight. For the party. For defending me to Pansy even though I was the one doing most of the talking. For just being there."
"Thank you for kissing me. For letting me kiss you. For recalculating our integral to account for kiss-value."
"That's very specific gratitude."
"I'm grateful for very specific things."
They kissed goodnight—three times, because one wasn't enough and Draco insisted proper goodnight kissing required three for mathematical completeness.
In his room, Harry pulled out his sketchbook. But he didn't draw—he was too full of sensation, too aware of his lips, too present in his body to translate it to paper yet.
Instead, he wrote:
April 3rd. Pansy's party. We went together. Held hands. Made a statement just by existing in that space.
Pansy was cruel and hurt and drunk. She misses Draco. She's angry that he chose me over her. She doesn't understand that he didn't choose me over her—he chose authenticity over performance. Those aren't the same thing.
Draco defended us. Defended me. Said I'm his person. Said he'd make the same choice in every universe.
And then we kissed.
First kiss. On the cliff. Under the stars. After 524 accumulated moments of choosing each other.
It was awkward and brief and perfect. Then less awkward. Then happening repeatedly because once we started, we couldn't quite stop.
Draco immediately calculated the kiss-value for his integral. Said kissing is worth 3-4 standard moments. So one kiss equals 527 instead of 525.
We're at approximately 578 meaningful moments now. After all the kissing.
That's the mathematics of us. That's the calculus of love. That's what happens when derivatives are positive and integrals keep growing and two people can't stop choosing each other.
From almost to is.
From one meter to zero.
From 524 to 578 to infinity.
From not-kissing to kissing.
From separate to together to intertwined.
Pansy doesn't understand. She thinks love is strategy. She thinks relationship is social positioning. She can't comprehend choosing authenticity over advantage.
But that's exactly what Draco did. What we both did. We chose real over comfortable. Chose being seen over being approved of. Chose each other over everyone else's expectations.
And tonight, on the cliff, after the terrible party and the confrontation and the tears, we kissed.
We're 578 meaningful moments into this relationship.
And counting.
Always counting.
Always accumulating.
The integral of us.
Through the wall, three taps.
Harry knocked back.
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm updating the count. Today was 12 meaningful moments, accounting for kiss-value multipliers. New total: 578."
"You actually calculated it."
"Of course I calculated it. Accurate data requires accurate accounting."
"You're absurd."
"I'm rigorous."
"Same thing."
"Absolutely not the same thing."
Silence. Then:
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the kissing. For all of it."
"Thank you too. For the kissing and the integral and the certainty."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Good night."
"Good night."
Harry lay in bed, touching his lips, still feeling the sensation of kissing, still processing the evening—the party, Pansy's tears, Draco's defense, the kissing, all of it.
They'd crossed another threshold. Added another dimension to their relationship. Moved from emotional intimacy to physical intimacy, from holding hands to kissing, from almost to is to fully realized.
And Draco, beautiful anxious mathematical Draco, had immediately calculated the value of it. Had updated his integral. Had quantified the kiss so it could be part of the data that proved this was real.
That was love, Harry thought. Meeting someone in their language. Understanding what they needed to feel safe. Supporting their mechanisms even when they seemed absurd to everyone else.
Draco needed mathematics. Needed data. Needed proof that this was real and growing and significant.
So Harry gave him data. Gave him moments to quantify. Gave him certainty through accumulation.
And Draco gave Harry art. Gave him presence. Gave him being seen. Gave him the first real Christmas, the first real love, the first real everything.
They were teaching each other. Learning each other's languages. Becoming bilingual in love.
Math and art.
Calculation and presence.
Derivatives and integration.
All of it accumulating into something larger than either of them alone.
578 moments.
And growing.
Always growing.
Outside, the April night was clear and cold. The stars mapped their patterns. The sea breathed its rhythm. Everything continuing as it always had.
But inside, everything had changed.
First kiss.
First physical threshold crossed.
First time moving from emotional intimacy to physical intimacy.
From almost to is to fully realized.
The grey held them.
The numbers proved them.
And tomorrow, they would wake to the aftermath—to the question of what kissing meant for their relationship, how it changed their daily interactions, whether the integral needed adjustment or expansion.
But tonight, just this:
578 meaningful moments.
First kiss under the stars.
The mathematics of love made physical.
The calculus of distance collapsed completely.
From one meter to zero to intertwined.
That was everything.
That was the integral of us.
Real. Quantified. Proven.
And kissing.
Definitely kissing.
578 moments and counting.
Forever accumulating.
Forever choosing.
Forever us.