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"Well, Harry, how's your teeth—" Hermione pauses as she awkwardly looks at Harry's reflection in the mirror. "Er, fangs, I mean. Does it hurt?"
Harry, on the other hand, sighs in defeat. "I don't know, I feel like I have teeth."
"Of course you'd say that." The girl said whilst flipping the pages of a huge book on the table beside her. The papers are yellowish, indicating how old the parchment is.
After the 'great' war with Voldemort, Harry had to pay a little price for the victory. Well, we wouldn't say it as little—because turns out, a follower of the Dark Lord somehow held a grudge against Harry and hexed him with this... Vampiric thing. Harry is now temporarily a (half) vampire and no one finds that endearing. Genuinely.
The curse made his instincts go just how a vampire is. He's now more sensitive towards sunlight, his skin got paler, and he grows fangs. A not very long one, thankfully, so he can hide them. Not to mention that he also received this gnawing hunger for someone's blood—but he managed to endure that feeling so he won't be The Boy Who Bites. Hermione (and Ron, occasionally) helped by providing him information about the curse and how to manage his instincts so he won't lose control.
"How long do you think this will last?" Harry asked, tapping his cheek with a finger.
"According to the book," Hermione pointed at a certain line on the page. "Five full moons."
Harry felt his heart sink. "Five full moons? Five bloody months, Hermione? I’ll be feral by Christmas."
Hermione shrugged. "Unfortunately."
Harry looks like he just saw a Dementor. He then rubbed his face with his palm, his skin getting even paler—almost porcelain like.
"Can't find a way to quicken that, yeah?"
"Actually, there is a way... But I don't think you'll like how it is."
Harry leaned back, trying to find a spark of his old humor. "What? Do I have to drain a virgin under a willow tree to lift the hex?"
"Yes, quite so."
"...pardon me?"
"Yes, Harry, you need someone else's blood."
Harry wants to bite his wrist and drain his own blood.
***
The Great Hall is just as crowded as it has always been. Harry wouldn't expect less.
Usually, the sight of a post-war feast would have Harry reaching for the shepherd's pie, but today, the smell of roasted meat felt oily and cloying in the back of his throat.
Maybe he was just not hungry. His vampire nature made him lose his appetite in regular food. Or maybe he just wants something that isn't a meat at the moment. He needs that red liquid sliding past his fangs. Or maybe he's sick. He kinda is.
"Mate, you’ve been glaring at that plate for ten minutes," Ron said, his voice muffled by a mouthful of chicken. "You alright? You look like you’re about to hex the gravy."
"Hm? Er, yeah, totally fine," Harry said while playing with his fork. "Waiting for the mood to strike."
Ron just shrugged and continued to eat. "Maybe you could ask Madam Pomfrey for a lil' blood, rather than not eating at all."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"I know it's the curse," The ginger said while licking his fingers clean. He took a sip of his pumpkin juice before continuing, "and I know that you haven't been eating properly since you were hexed. And I know that you started to lose interest in regular food. And I know you need... blood." Ron kind of whispered the last word.
Harry sighed heavily, fixing his glasses before he raised his pumpkin juice glass at chin level. "Maybe you're right, maybe you're wrong. I don't know, mate. I really don't."
"I know you don't."
"I mean... If you were me, would you be selfish enough to drink someone else's... blood? It's disgusting. I never understand how vampires works."
Ron glanced around and snickered. "I mean, if I were in your shoes, I’d ask Hermione for a sip and be done with it. Better than starving, isn't it?"
"Right, of course you happen to have a girlfriend," Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands.
As the feast went on, Harry didn't swallow a thing except his pumpkin juice and his own saliva. He zoned out, completely ignoring the attention people gave him after defeating Voldemort and even Ron's ramblings. There's just... a lot to think about.
Do I really need to drink someone's blood? But whose? I wouldn't dare to just come to someone and say 'hey I'm hungry, can I suck at your neck for a bit?' — no, no, that's stupid! Mm, what if I just come to Ginny? Well, not the worst option, but it just don't feels right. Maybe I'll ask Hermione later for opinions. But what if—
Just as Harry's fighting with his own needs, the big door swung open.
Harry catches a glimpse of a blond with green attributes walking into the Great Hall alongside some other people. Just as he clears his vision, Harry sees him.
That's Draco bloody Malfoy and his friends.
He walks in with his usual unapproachable persona, but Harry senses something different from that ferret. He doesn't know what yet, but he notices that Draco didn't look at the surroundings arrogantly like how he used to—instead, he looked down at his feet. His face flat and his hands hidden beneath the pockets of his robe.
"Well, surprised to see him here today," Seamus said.
"Yeah. Thought he’d be rotting in the Manor or halfway to France by now." Another Gryffindor replied.
Harry ignored the whispers and focused on how Draco looks. He doesn't know why, but something pulls him into taking a better look at the blond. He's still as infuriating as ever, for sure, but he's quieter. Back in their early years at Hogwarts, Draco would be the one laughing the loudest and giving the meanest comments at his friends' talking. But now, he went completely silent. Not a single expression on that pale face.
Harry hates that he started to wonder why.
Suddenly, from across the crowded room, Draco's cool grey eyes locked onto Harry’s emerald ones.
The world tilted. Harry’s heart gave a violent, slamming thud against his ribs. His throat went bone-dry, and a dizzying wave of heat crashed over him. He was the first to break the contact, looking down at his glass with trembling hands, his pulse screaming in his ears.
Draco raised an eyebrow at that bizarre behavior of the Chosen One.
***
Later that night, Harry couldn't sleep.
After that moment of making an eye contact with Draco, Harry realized something is wrong. He is yet to find out what.
He sits up straight, leaning his stiff back against the wall and takes his wand from under his pillow. As he whispered "Lumos," a tiny light appeared on the tip of his wand, brightening just a small area on his bed.
Harry took the book Hermione got for him from the Restricted Section of the library, quietly opening it under the small light of his wand. He stopped at the page that is talking about Vampire-Related Curses. He carefully reads the symptoms.
... A bearer of the curse shall find their fated one to drink from; for they have sealed each other, the curse must lift.
What does that mean? Harry thinks. Harry certainly hopes that he doesn't have to indulge in fairytale-like actions—like looking for his soulmate just to be free. It's nonsense. He continued reading.
If the mate is near, the bearer shall:
- Feel their heartbeat screaming louder;
- feel their pulse quickening;
- feel thirsty in their throat;
- feel a tingling sensation all over their flesh;
- and—
Harry doesn't feel like continuing.
He closes the book abruptly and is about to get a heart attack. Merlin, he experiences all the symptoms when he locked eyes with that bloody Malfoy.
He lets his wand fall to the mattress, the glow fading. Harry then took his Invisibility Cloak and went out of his dormitory by himself, his steps quiet.
Spending most of his life in Hogwarts made him very familiar with all the turns in the castle. He could go anywhere without a lamp, and not getting lost. Does that count as a talent?
But Harry knew his destination this time: the Astronomy Tower. He dare say that spot is his haven, his safe space when he needs time for himself late at night.
As his foot reaches the final step, Harry holds his breath.
Someone is already there at the Astronomy Tower, their hood on. Harry hates that he knows who that person is.
"...Malfoy." Harry called out with his gaze locked to the ground.
The person visibly flinched slightly and turned their head, some strands of their blond hair showing.
"...Potter. What are you, of all people, doing here?"
"Looking... For fresh air,"
It was almost ironic. Harry went out to seek tranquility from his thoughts of Draco, but he just needs to see the muse of his thoughts standing in his safest space.
Harry took some steps closer to Draco, maintaining a respectful distance as he leaned over the barrier. He gazed up to the sky, not saying any more words.
Harry cleared his throat. "Well. How's life?"
"It's in the gap between good and bad," Draco said, his gaze following Harry's to the constellation above. "But I'm better."
"Yet you're still a huge prat, aren't you?" Harry said with the tiniest smirk plastered on his face.
Draco looked almost offended at that. "You're still one too, by the way."
Harry chuckled and turned his head slightly enough to catch the side profile of Draco's face. His pale skin was illuminated by the moonlight, his eyelashes fluttering gently, and his jaw as sharp as ever.
Yeah, that's very Draco of him.
"Is it weird that I'm starting to get tired of the attention?" Harry started, returning his focus back to the sky.
Draco, a bit surprised by the sudden change in topic, couldn't help but to really look at Harry. He raised an eyebrow at him, but responded anyway.
"Of course you disliked the attention," Draco said, his voice lowering a bit. "I hate that I understand that. You and I once... kind of got into the same page, weren't we? We had no choice and are burdened with expectations. I had to follow my family's track and you had to sacrifice your childhood to be the Savior."
It's almost strange to share thoughts with your enemy. To say that we share the similar pain...
At the loss of words, Harry just nodded. "Yeah."
"...why are you here in the first place, anyway?" Harry asked.
"Same reason as you."
"Liar."
"I wonder where that assumption came from?"
Harry never wanted to admit that he could smell the lingering scent of Draco’s peppermint tooth-polish and the faint, bitter musk of a Calming Draught from this distance. "...You’re hiding."
Draco turned fully then, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. He looked gaunt—not quite as pale as Harry, but close. He shifted his weight, and for a fleeting second, his left hand twitched toward his forearm, hovering over the sleeve of his robe where the Dark Mark lay hidden.
"Observant as always, Potter," Draco sneered, though the bite was missing from his tone. "Is that what they taught you in Auror-training-prep, eh? How to stalk your rival to the highest point of the castle?"
"I’m not stalking you." Harry’s voice lowered an octave. The hunger flared—a sharp, stabbing pain behind his canines. He had to clench his jaw so hard it ached to keep his fangs from descending. "I just... Er, I noticed you weren't eating. In the Hall."
Draco let out a short, dry laugh. "Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World, concerned about my appetite? That’s rich. Especially considering you’ve spent the last twenty minutes staring at my neck like you’re trying to decide which hex would be most effective."
Harry flinched. Was it that obvious? "I wasn't—"
"You’re acting strange, by the way," Draco interrupted, his eyes narrowing. Draco leaned in, his gaze scanning Harry’s face with clinical intensity. "You’re paler than I am, which is a feat in itself. You’re sweating in the middle of September. And your eyes..."
Draco paused, his breath hitching. Up close, Harry’s green eyes weren't just green anymore; they were rimmed with a very faint, glowing amber.
"What exactly did they do to you, Scarhead?" Draco whispered.
Harry took a stumbling step back, his heart screaming.
"Nothing," Harry murmured, the lie tasting like ash. "I’m just tired. Let's drop it."
"You’re a terrible liar." Draco said, his voice regaining some of its silkiness.
"Anyway, Potter," Draco looked down at his own covered arm, his expression flickering with a momentary vulnerability. "...Do you think that it's humiliating to have something inside you that you never asked for? Something that eats at you."
He turned back to the view, stopping Harry from giving any answers. "...forget it. Go back to bed, Potter, before you collapse. You’re making the scenery look depressing."
Harry stayed for a moment longer, his skin tingling as if he’d been hit by a Stupefy. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to lean forward and see if the "fated mate" theory was just a bunch of poetic nonsense or if Draco really was the key to his survival.
But the pride—and the fear of what he was becoming—kept his lips sealed.
"Right. Good night." Harry murmured.
He then practically fled down the stairs, his fangs finally clicking into place the moment he hit the shadows of the corridor below.
Harry didn't sleep after reaching his bed in the Gryffindor dormitory. He spent the remaining hours of the night vibrating with a subtle terror deep within his gut.
He had five months. But looking at the moon through the window, Harry realized with a sinking dread that he might not even last five weeks.
***
When he found Hermione in the library the next morning, he looked like a ghost that had forgotten how to haunt.
"It’s him," Harry whispered, leaning so close to Hermione that she nearly jumped. "The symptoms... they only happen when Malfoy is near."
Hermione didn't look disgusted at that, which was a relief; she looked surprised and fascinated. She pulled a heavy, leather-bound tome toward them titled Laws of Arcane Equilibrium.
"You know, it makes sense, Harry," she muttered, her finger tracing a diagram of a scale. "Think about it. The curse was cast by a Death Eater. Pure malice, pure Dark Arts. To neutralize it, the magic doesn't just want blood, it wants balance. It’s looking for a specific frequency of magic. Someone who has been steeped in the Dark, but whose soul hasn't tilted entirely into the black."
"So..."
"He is the inverse of the curse," Hermione explained. "He’s been 'touched' by the Dark Mark, but he’s fighting it. That internal conflict creates a specific kind of magical resonance. To the curse, his blood is the only 'food' that will satisfy the hunger because it’s the only thing that can neutralize the hex inside you."
Harry buried his face in his hands. "He'll never let me, Hermione. He hates me. I’m the 'Savior' who put his father in Azkaban."
"Then you have to make him not hate you," she said grimly. "Because the book says if you don't form the 'tether'—the first feeding—within the first two months, the hunger stops being a choice. It becomes an animal instinct. You'll just be a predator. But if you managed, there'll be more hope for you to return to normal early."
From across the library, tucked behind a stack of Ancient Runes texts, Draco Malfoy was not reading. He was watching. Neither of them noticed the way Malfoy gazed at Harry.
He watched the way Harry's hand trembled as he pushed his glasses up his nose. He watched the way Harry's nostrils flared every time the wind blew Draco’s scent toward the Gryffindor table.
Something is rotting him, Draco thought, a cold stone of dread settling in his stomach.
When Harry stood up to leave, he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the table. For a second, his lip curled back, and Draco caught a flash of something white and sharp.
Fangs?
Draco’s heart did a slow, heavy thud. No. Surely not. But the thought lingered, poisonous and intriguing. If the Golden Boy had turned into a monster...
***
"Now, now, settle down!" Slughorn’s voice boomed, echoing off the dungeon walls. "To truly master this essence, one must understand the harmony of opposites! Therefore, I have pre-selected your partners for the next month. We shall pair the brave with the cunning!"
Harry felt the blood drain from his face before Slughorn even spoke.
"Mr. Potter... with Mr. Malfoy! Over here, please, the gold-rimmed cauldron."
The walk to the station felt like a march to the gallows. As Harry sat down, the scent hit him like a physical blow. It was stronger than in the Astronomy Tower. Draco smelled like winter air and expensive soap. And beneath that, the metallic, sweet tang of life.
"Don't look so miserable, Potter," Draco said, his voice lower than usual. He was already setting out the ingredients with steady fingers. "I’m the one who has to worry about you fainting into my potion."
"I'm not going to faint, you prat," Harry snapped, but even his voice sounded thin.
They worked in a tense, suffocating silence for forty minutes. The steam from the cauldron rose between them, dampening their hair and making the air thick. Harry’s hunger was no longer a gnaw; it was a roar. Every time Draco reached for a vial, his sleeve slipped up, revealing a sliver of his pale wrist. Harry could see the pulse jumping there. It's... Distracting.
"Potter, the valerian roots," Draco prompted.
Harry didn't move. He was staring at Draco’s neck, at the spot just below his ear where a stray blond hair rested against the skin. He could practically taste it. His fangs ached, pushing against his gums with a dull, throbbing pressure.
"Potter? Are you there?" Draco’s voice was a bit softer it surprises Harry. He glanced down at Harry's hand, slowly reaching out to poke it lightly. "Merlin, you’re shaking. Your magic... the cauldron is starting to vibrate."
It was true. The liquid in the cauldron was beginning to hiss, reacting to the volatile, starved magic leaking out of Harry.
"I'm fine," Harry says stubbornly. But as Draco’s hand brushed against his for a moment, a jolt of pure, white-hot lightning shot through Harry's spine. Harry looked up, his pupils blown wide. The amber color comes to slowly cover the original green of his eyes.
Draco froze, yet he didn't pull his hand away. He looked deeply into Harry's eyes and saw the truth—the hunger, the curse, and the desperate need.
"So," Draco whispered low, his face pale but his gaze steady. "That's what this is-"
The chime for the end of class hadn't even finished ringing before Harry bolted right away. He didn't pack his bag; he didn't look back. He shoved past a group of Hufflepuffs, his lungs burning. He just needed air. He needed to be away from that scent before he did something he couldn't take back.
He made it as far as a deserted corridor on the third floor, leaning his back heavily against the wall. His fangs were almost descended now, making it impossible to close his mouth properly.
"Potter!"
The voice was sharp, echoing off the high ceilings. Harry stiffened as Draco rounded the corner, his robes billowing. Draco looked focused, his grey eyes searching Harry’s face with a frightening level of clarity.
"Go away, Malfoy," Harry hissed, though it came out more like a growl.
"Not a chance. You nearly blew up a cauldron because you were too busy looking at me like I was a five-course meal," Draco stepped closer, his bravery borderline suicidal. "I saw them. It’s a vampiric hex, isn’t it? The one the papers mentioned after the battle?"
Harry slumped against the wall, the fight draining out of him. He was too tired to lie. "It’s a curse. Five months, Malfoy. Five months of this... this thing. Hermione says it needs 'Balance.' It needs blood from someone touched by the Dark but with a soul that isn't... isn't gone. It's complicated."
Harry looked up, his green-amber eyes filled with frustration. "It’s you, unfortunately. It’s your bloody blood. It’s the only thing that stops it—you're my fated one, or so I thought."
Harry looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He braced himself for the mockery, the laughter, the "I-told-you-so."
Instead, a long, heavy silence stretched between them. Draco looked at Harry, noticing the way his messy hair clung to his sweat-beaded forehead and the desperate, raw vulnerability in his posture.
Draco let out a long, theatrical sigh, rolling his eyes as he began to loosen his tie.
"Honestly, Potter," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with its usual sarcasm but lacking any real venom. "You really should have said something earlier. It would have saved us both the trouble of that disastrous Potions lesson. It’s much easier to just get it over with than to watch you vibrate out of your skin for an hour."
Harry froze. "What?"
"Don't make me repeat myself. Consider this solely a payback." Draco stepped firmly into Harry’s space. He reached up, unbuttoning the top of his crisp white shirt and pulling the collar aside to reveal the pale, unblemished stretch of his neck. "Do it. Before you lose your mind and bite a first-year."
Harry’s heart hammered. "What if it hurts?"
"I've been through worse. Just... try to be quick about it."
Harry didn't have the strength to refuse again. He stepped forward, his hands trembling as they found Draco’s waist. He did it instinctively, needing to anchor himself, to keep Draco steady as the world began to blur. He awkwardly spun Draco around, making Draco's back hit the wall behind him with a soft thud.
Draco’s waist was lean, his robes soft under Harry’s calloused palms. Harry leaned in, his breath hot against Draco’s skin. The scent there was intoxicating.
As Harry’s fangs pierced the skin, Draco let out a sharp, hitching breath, his hands clutching at Harry’s shoulders. Draco's head lolled back, giving Harry access to his neck more comfortably. He flinched a bit when Harry was sucking on him like mad—he felt like he could collapse from it.
"Mmh, Potter..." Draco breathed. "Slow down."
The tension in the corridor became searingly hot. Harry obliged and drank slower, feeling the rich flavor of Draco's blood flooding through him like liquid gold. It was the first time in weeks the noise in his head had gone silent. He felt Draco’s pulse fluttering against his lips—fast and alive.
In the silence of the corridor, thoughts began to shift.
Potter is... not that bad, I assume, Draco thought dizzily, his fingers curling into the fabric of Harry’s robe. He could feel lashes of Harry’s closed eyes on his skin, the rugged line of his jaw.
When Harry finally pulled away, he licked the stray drop of blood from the wound, his magic finally settling into a calm hum. His eyes returned to their natural, brilliant green.
He stayed there for a moment, his hands still resting on Draco’s waist, their chests heaving in unison. The air between them had changed, the sharp edges of their rivalry had been blunted by the intimacy of the act.
Draco reached up, buttoning his collar with slightly shaky fingers, his face flushed a pretty, faint pink.
"There," Draco muttered, looking everywhere but at Harry. "I expect my Potions notes to be perfect from now on, considering I’m currently your primary food source."
Harry let out a small, genuine breath of a laugh. "Thanks, Malfoy. Really."
Draco paused at the expression on Harry's face, his expression softening just a fraction. "Don't get sentimental, Potter. It doesn't suit you."
He turned to walk away, but stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "Same time next week, before you start looking like a corpse again?"
Harry nodded, a strange warmth blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the curse. "Next week."
For the first time since the war ended, neither of them felt quite so alone.