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After the war and his mandatory six months of house arrest, the absolute last thing Draco wanted to do was return to Hogwarts for some mandatory learning. Unfortunately, the thing about it all being mandatory meant that he had no say.
When he’d asked his mother if he could flee the country with her in France, she said no(!).
Draco could scarcely believe it. He didn’t think he’d ever heard that word come from her mouth in all his life. At least not directed at him.
So, that was how Draco found himself back in the castle that he once knew like the back of his hand. Though the war had changed them all, the castle had gone through many changes as well.
Most importantly(!!), the dungeons were completely cordoned off and all returning Slytherins were re-sorted into the other three remaining houses.
Complete and utter bullshite.
If anyone were to ask Draco what his most embarrassing moments were, having an old dusty hat shout “Gryffindor!” to a vast room of one’s own former enemies, and then have to walk and sit at their table… well, that would certainly rank near the top.
The only thing that kept him marginally sane through the ordeal was the fact that his other favourite people in the world—Theo, Pansy, and Blaise—were also cursed with the same fate.
Draco honestly hadn’t put much thought into how he would spend another year back at Hogwarts. It couldn’t be too difficult. Everyone else was doing it. He could too. Obviously.
However(!!!), when faced with the offensive and gaudy shade of red upon entering Gryffindor tower, he began to question not only his sanity, but also his brittle will to live.
The only bright spot in all this mandatory torment was the upcoming Quidditch season. Draco’s meandering thoughts suddenly came to a screeching halt when he realised who would be trying out for seeker against him.
Harry-fucking-Potter.
He’d never felt worse.
✦
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Draco muttered, not so under his breath.
One month into the school term and he had managed to survive somehow. He’d shared so many classes with Potter over the years that he had his face practically memorised. Completely against his will, of course.
Which is precisely how he recognised the look on Potter’s face as he walked towards Draco on the pitch was one of pure malice. He was definitely up to something.
“Care to repeat that, Malfoy?” asked his new team captain, the girl Weasley.
Draco bit back his instinctual response, because yes, he very much would have liked to repeat it, but refrained because Blaise had taken a liking to her. And if Draco disliked being back for an eighth year, Blaise absolutely loathed it. So, for one of his very dear friends, he curled his mouth into a placid smile. (He hoped.) The things he did for his friends’ happiness.
But as Potter got closer and Draco got a better look at the broom in his hands, the reason for his smug expression became abundantly clear.
Draco had spent weeks tracking down a broom seller that would let him purchase the newest unreleased model of Firebolt. He’d thought he finally had an edge against Potter. Well, besides his natural talent, of course.
So Draco’s shock and outrage felt supremely justified when Potter casually strolled right on by carrying the very same make and model that Draco currently had clutched within his grasp.
“Nice broom,” Potter said with a wink. A wink!!
Draco dutifully followed after him, because where did he think he was going?
“Funny, that,” Draco sneered. “It looks just like yours.”
Making a turn for the stands, Potter glanced back at him with his stupid eyebrow raised and an ever stupider grin plastered across his face.
“Oh. Been looking at my broom, Malfoy?”
“You wish,” Draco bit out.
From the look on Potter’s face, Draco immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. It had just been one of their go-to’s for so long. Practically a muscle memory response!
“Oh?” Potter said, sultry and low.
Draco’s grip tightened around his broom handle while elsewhere on his person, other things started to grow tight as well. What the fuck was happening??
Draco heaved out a sigh, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Hmm,” Potter said mysteriously.
Now, what the fuck did that mean?
Draco should walk away, walk back to the middle of the pitch where the first session of Gryffindor tryouts would be commencing any minute now. But they surely wouldn’t start without The Chosen Git, would they?
No. No they wouldn’t.
Draco had learnt long ago just how far Potter’s brand of favouritism would get him. After all, Slytherin had lost nearly every single house cup year after year because of it.
So what if Draco was following Potter into a dark and dusty equipment room below the stands? It’s not like he was trying to do anything nefarious. And also(!!!), it was Potter who had followed him around for so many years first. It really only felt fair to do the same.
If Potter was trying to gain a secret advantage for the seeker tryouts, Draco would not allow it. No matter what his body’s reaction was to his ridiculous face and even more ridiculous words.
“What are you even doing in here?” Draco said after he remembered he should speak.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Potter’s cocky head tilt was doing a number on Draco’s nervous system, but Draco’s frustration won out.
“Can you please, for the love of Merlin just answer a fucking question?”
“Not Salazar?” he asked(!!!!).
The. Absolute. Gall.
Potter then laughed, immediately breaking the surface tension, making Draco want to laugh too. But he couldn’t, and didn’t, because there was plenty of tension left beneath. Potter's smile faded as he strode towards Draco, and it took everything in him to not reach for his wand.
And they said old crups couldn’t learn new tricks.
Under the shadowy beams, it was more difficult to read the finer details of Potter’s expression. The awful lighting should have been horribly unflattering, but it wasn’t. Unfairly so.
“You wanted to know what I’m doing in here,” Potter said, unnecessarily parroting back Draco's original question.
“Obviously,” he said on an eye roll.
Potter took another step forward until there was nowhere else for either of them to go. Draco’s pulse thumped as he realised they were now standing closer than they ever had before.
It was the middle of autumn, the weather chilly and overcast, the dank room drafty, but Draco felt like he was burning. Heat crept up his neck and into his face as sweat started to bead along his brow.
“I wanted to get a closer look,” he paused, roving his gaze over Draco, “at the competition.”
“And you needed to do that here?” Draco asked with as much forced bravado as he could manage. Which was a near thing, anything other than his usual backhanded retort seemed to get stuck in his throat.
“You didn’t have to follow me,” he said, grinning. “But I had a feeling you would anyway.”
Draco swallowed hard, still unable to dislodge whatever was preventing him from vocalising any rational thought. Because if he had that ability, he wouldn’t have said what came next.
“Well, did you get your fill?” Draco asked, voice tight.
Just when Draco didn’t think there was any remaining space left to fill, Potter stepped in to fill it. He leaned dangerously close, his warm breath ghosting across Draco’s neck.
“Not quite.” He pulled back slightly, the shadows dancing across his face making his expression almost unreadable.
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Yes,” Potter responded simply, still a maddening whisper away.
Draco couldn’t focus. He was completely overwhelmed and unprepared for this situation. His brain couldn’t make up its mind what to think or feel, and he couldn’t decide whether to stare into the bottomless depths of his Potter’s green eyes, or his gorgeously plush lips.
He’d almost stepped back, almost fled the scene right there. Almost returned to the pitch—where he should want to be right now. But then he wouldn’t be here.
The internal battle raged on, and Potter blessedly saved Draco from making another stupid, foolish mistake.
“I’m going to kiss you,” Potter said, giving time and space for Draco to protest, despite the definitive statement.
“Do it then.”
Potter closed the gap, and suddenly Draco couldn’t see his lips or his eyes. If he thought Potter’s lips looked soft, it was nothing compared to the way they felt. The kiss was gentle and sweet, nothing like Potter (or Draco, for that matter), and all too brief.
Draco knew Potter was fast, but did he really have to portray that particular quality right this moment? He was already turning away and heading back out to the pitch, broom in hand while Draco was still rooted to the spot.
Again(!!!!), Potter glanced back around, now in fully overcast light, and Draco could see the blush along the high planes of his cheeks, a direct betrayal against his cool demeanour. (HA!)
“Come on, we’re going to be late,” he said, like it’s not his fault they’re going to be late in the first place. He trotted off, and Draco’s eyes immediately travelled south to the riding leathers hugging his thighs.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he groaned.
“Heard that! You’ve already used that line once today.”
Draco sighed and rolled his eyes, but followed Potter all the same. He had a feeling that he always would.