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This cannot go on. Not like this. Not in the same direction it has been dragging on for the past five—no, six?—years.
Let bloody Potter punch him, throw some ridiculous spell—something completely in his style—or mock him along with his red-and-gold friends. Maybe that would finally knock some sense into Draco.
«You irritate me more than anyone else in this castle…» — honest, straightforward, exactly as it is.
The handwriting below is less steady, but Draco tries not to betray himself, not to let the quill tremble too much against the parchment:
«And that’s exactly why I can’t stop looking at you.»
He freezes.
One second.
Two.
— This is nonsense! — he snaps aloud, but doesn’t cross it out.
Because it’s already too late to pretend it isn’t true.
Because the decision to put forward this embarrassingly boyish confession has been hanging over him since the beginning of the school year.
Because right now, what matters isn’t the upcoming Potions test, but just how harshly Potter will reject him—and the harsher, the better, absurd as that sounds. If Potter tears into him, says everything he thinks straight to his face in the most humiliating way possible, maybe that will finally cool this idiotic infatuation with the scar-headed prat.
«Come to the clock tower after curfew and put an end to this,» — he adds at the bottom, faster now, almost angrily, as if that might give him back some control.
Draco waits impatiently for the ink to dry on the last line before folding the note into a crane. He could have just folded it in half, but the crane is a hint too. If Potter hasn’t completely lost his mind after the last Quidditch match, he’ll figure out who it’s from. It’s not as if Draco is going to write his name in bold red letters on some ridiculous ornate envelope for the whole school to gossip about.
Besides, Draco always thought it was… nice. The way Mamá used to send little cranes like these to Papá at work, each one carrying a short message—about unexpected guests for dinner, or a simple reminder. He remembers those evenings in the blue drawing room of the Manor with a strange warmth, when he tried to copy Narcissa’s movements, folding his first crooked, clumsy attempts at birds.
Now, the paper messenger comes out of his hands precise and symmetrical. A light tap of his wand, and the parchment body fills with graceful motion.
There will be no turning back now.
There is no turning back now.
The crane circles above the Great Hall, deftly avoiding someone’s raised hands, veers slightly—and lands on the Gryffindor table with almost lazy precision.
— Hey, Harry, this is for you! — Ron’s voice is far too loud. As if anyone could still be surprised that someone sent the famous Harry Potter a note at breakfast.
— What is it? — as if it isn’t obvious. — Oh, — is all he manages, skimming the short three lines.
Harry reads it again. Then a third time. He doesn’t immediately notice that Ron is practically hanging over his shoulder.
— Well? — impatient. — What does it say??
— I… — Harry frowns, — I’m not sure.
— What do you mean “not sure”? It’s from a girl! Wonder who she is? Hope it’s not that one from Hufflepuff, the one with the hamster teeth… — Ron grimaces, — Though I guess that’s still better than some Slytherin, right?
Harry doesn’t answer. He only realizes what he’s doing when he notices he’s crumpled the parchment too tightly. He pauses, then carefully smooths the crease with his fingers.
As if it matters.
As if… it matters.
— So what kind of confession is it? — Ron doesn’t give up.
Harry exhales through his nose.
— Just a normal confession, — he lies.
— Who do you think she is?
That’s where Harry hesitates. He looks at the lines again. At the sharp, confident strokes at the beginning; at how the handwriting seems to falter toward the end, growing quicker, less neat.
At the last line:
«Come to the clock tower after curfew.»
His heart gives an uneasy jolt.
— Girls, — Ron snorts confidently, folding his arms, — who can ever understand them, right?
Harry raises an eyebrow.
— Why are you so sure it’s a girl?
— Well, who else would write like that? — Ron shrugs. — It’s just… well… — he waves a hand, unable to find the words, — you know.
Harry isn’t sure he does. His hands try to fold the note back the way it was, repeating the creases, but nothing works—either he’s suddenly gone completely stupid, or his hands have simply stopped listening to him. Maybe both.
In the end, he gives up on reconstructing the crane—neither the first nor the tenth attempt works—and simply folds the parchment in half instead.
«What a shame,» — he thinks to himself, — «it was kind of nice… Maybe she’ll fold me another one if I ask?»
At the Slytherin table, Draco finally allows himself to look up. Just for a second.
He sees Potter slip the note into his pocket. Not throw it away, not pass it around for the amusement of his noisy friends.
«He kept it,» — something inside him twists unpleasantly.
It doesn’t look like rejection.
But it isn’t enough to call it acceptance either.
Even though the sun already shines bright and warm during the day this time of year, the nights are still cold and damp—especially up in the clock tower.
Draco arrives first. Of course he does—he could barely wait for dinner to end and curfew to be called.
His heart is beating too fast.
Ridiculous.
Undignified.
— Just say it to his face, — he mutters quietly to himself. — And it’ll be over.
Footsteps behind him.
Draco doesn’t turn—there’s no doubt who it is.
— Malfoy?! What are you doing here? — Potter’s voice sounds startled, almost a shout. Or maybe he’s just trying to be heard over the rising night wind.
Draco turns slowly.
— What does it look like?
Potter is still standing in the doorway, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. His gaze sweeps over the platform, barely lit by a single dim lamp, as if he expects to find someone else here. One hand remains tucked in his robe pocket—the same place he slipped the note that morning.
— Is this some kind of joke? — he begins, once he’s sure they’re alone.
Draco exhales long through his nose.
— Do you really think I’ve got nothing better to do than play jokes? — he answers a little too quickly, more sharply than he intended.
The wind tugs at their robes, catches in their hair, making everything feel even more unreal.
Harry steps forward, fully leaving the shelter of the stairwell. The door closes softly behind him.
— Then explain, — he says, pulling his hand from his pocket and unfolding the parchment. — Did you write this?
Draco looks at the paper in his hands like it’s a confession of weakness. His own handwriting now feels foreign, almost unfamiliar.
— What do you think?
— I… — Harry frowns. — I don’t know.
Draco lets out a sharp, almost pained laugh.
— Incredible. I left so many hints… I thought you were smarter than that.
— What hints? — Harry takes another step closer. — It’s just… a note.
— Just?
— Yes!
— Of course, Potter, — Draco crosses his arms, as if that might hold everything inside in place. — People write to tell you how irritating you are and invite you to the tower at night every day. Completely ordinary.
Harry blinks for a few seconds, and only then, slowly:
— So it was you.
The realization comes to him far too late.
Draco rolls his eyes and shrugs.
«The sooner this is over, the better.»
— Congratulations, your insight knows no bounds!
Silence settles between them again. The wind rises, humming somewhere in the arches as if listening in. Potter doesn’t leave—but he doesn’t attack Draco with an expelliarmus or anything else.
That’s already strange. He should have, mmediately, without all this talking.
— Why? — he asks quietly instead.
Draco frowns.
— What do you mean?
— Why did you write this?
«Because I’m an idiot.»
«Because I can’t stop looking at you.»
«Because I’m tired of pretending I hate you.»
He says none of it.
— Because I can’t stay silent anymore, — he answers instead, cold and even.
Harry looks at him as if trying to figure out whether it’s true or just another привычная колкость—just another jab. He takes another step closer, as if proximity might make it clearer.
— I thought… — he starts, then falters.
— What? — sharply.
— That it was someone… else.
Draco lets out a quiet, cutting laugh.
— Disappointed?
— No! — too quickly. — Draco, I just… didn’t expect it.
The name sounds strange. Maybe because Potter had always spat it, shouted it, hissed it like a threat—“Malfoy”—and now suddenly “Malfoy” has become “Draco.”
Just a name with no venom.
Draco falters.
Just for a second—but Potter notices.
— Is it true? — he asks again, almost a whisper now. — What you wrote there?
The wind stills for a moment, as if waiting. Or maybe Draco just can’t hear it over the pounding of his own heart.
— Yes. You irritate the hell out of me, — a pathetic attempt to twist the meaning back on itself.
— And?
Draco smirks faintly.
— And you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, — he continues coldly. — Always. And you think that just because you’re Potter, you can do anything.
— That’s not what it says, — Potter insists. — Is that what you meant when you wrote you “can’t stop looking”?
Harry steps closer again. Now there’s almost no space between them.
— I meant that you’re the one staring at everyone like an idiot, — Draco snaps, and it’s cowardly, humiliating. Good thing it’s dark—Potter won’t see the flush burning across his face.
— If I’m staring at anyone, it’s you! — In the darkness, it’s hard to tell if his cheeks are just as red, but his eyes behind the glasses shine a little too… honestly.
They’re standing too close.
For too long.
Neither moves first, as if any motion might break something. But Draco can’t hold out.
— You were supposed to just… — he stumbles, exhales sharply, — reject me. Laugh. Hit me. Anything. It would’ve been… easier. I wanted this to end.
— And what if I want it to continue? — the answer comes sharp, almost nervous.
— Then you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.
Harry takes another step. Now he’s right there. The warmth of his breath brushes Draco’s skin.
— Just tell me what you want, — not quiet anymore.
Draco doesn’t answer. None of the scenarios he’d imagined had gone this far.
His gaze drifts over Harry’s face, as if memorizing it—maybe after tonight he won’t get to see it this close again. It lingers on his lips.
And Potter notices.
He leans in—slowly—until their foreheads touch. Draco feels Harry’s lips barely brush his skin, light, almost playful, and it sparks something sharp and blazing inside him.
— Draco… — Harry whispers somewhere against his neck.
— What? — it almost comes out as a moan, and he doesn’t even realize he’s said it aloud.
— I want… — Harry pauses, fingers tightening in the fabric of Draco’s robes at his back, — I want to know what happens if we stop pretending.
Draco swallows. His cheeks burn, his body tenses, his heart pounds so hard it feels like it might break free.
— Then… — he breathes, — then stop pretending, damn it, Potter!
Harry smiles faintly, and there’s challenge in it, promise—an entire world of possibility. He leans closer, their breaths mixing, hot and trembling and tight with tension.
— Say it again, — he whispers, almost against Draco’s lips, — so I know for sure.
But Draco doesn’t. He just exhales sharply. And that, apparently, is enough.
Harry’s lips find his—soft at first, searching, as if testing whether this is real. Draco responds almost immediately, arms sliding around his shoulders, pulling him closer. «I’m here.» «I’m real.» His hands say it louder than words ever could.
Harry’s warmth seeps through the fabric of his robes—or maybe, for the first time, he’s stopped holding his magic back around Draco. The thought dissolves before it forms, because Harry’s hands are already beneath his shirt, and his lips move along his skin, sending a shiver that knocks every coherent thought out of his head.
The wind beyond the tower walls stops mattering. The cold disappears.
There’s only Potter—his warmth, his breath, his hands, his lips.
And Draco realizes he never wants this moment to end.
— Harry… — he whispers, voice shaking, — don’t stop…
The smile is there, in the heat of his breath near Draco’s collarbone—promise, challenge, permission all at once. His hands tighten at Draco’s waist, pulling him closer, and now there’s no pretending left between them.
Only that old wish they both forbade themselves
Not to stop now would be complete madness.
They stay like that for a few seconds more, letting the moment settle into something real.
Draco pulls back first. Reluctantly, as if Harry’s magic had fused them together.
— Potter… — he breathes, almost voiceless. — I…
— I know, — Harry murmurs softly, his breath still warm, lips brushing his skin again. — Will you make me another crane?
The next morning, everything feels as usual: breakfast, overlapping voices, the smell of freshly baked bread and hot cocoa. But for Harry, the atmosphere is completely different. His heart leaps at the thought of warm, unfamiliar hands and willingly responsive lips. He already knows what happened last night, and that knowledge hums inside him like a hidden string.
He sits at the table, hesitant to look toward the Slytherin table, but in a blink, he notices a neatly folded crane on his plate. A tiny, subtle gesture unnoticed by others, and Harry smiles in anticipation: the note, just as he promised.
Unfolding it, he sees Draco’s tidy, still slightly nervous handwriting: a short line, a playful hint that makes his heart race. Now this becomes a daily ritual. Draco doesn’t appear openly—they don’t cross paths in the corridors or exchange glances at meals—but each morning’s crane is a small, private promise that what was said in the Astronomy Tower was real.
Harry carefully folds every note and collects them in the drawer by his bed, right under his old Numerology textbook. Sometimes he smiles, sometimes he blushes, sometimes he simply sits quietly, turning the little piece of parchment in his fingers.
— Is it from her? That girl? — Ron mumbles nearby, tousled and sleepy, reaching for a plate of cookies.
Harry doesn’t answer, only frowns, quickly opening the new crane. It’s already the seventh one—time to find a small box or case for them.
— Did you meet her? Is she at least cute? — Ron continues, sipping pumpkin juice.
Harry waves him off distractedly, thinking only of the treasured line in today’s note:
«I missed you. From morning till night, I keep thinking about how to get closer to you again.»
His heart twists sweetly at the words.
— “Missed you”? — Ron whistles, eyes wide. — What does “missed you” even mean?
Harry just rolls his eyes and slips the note into his sleeve. Ron frowns, clearly confused, but Harry doesn’t care. His thoughts circle that single line, delicate in Draco’s neat handwriting: «I missed you.»
Of course, they meet again that evening, sneaking out after dinner. This time by the edge of the Black Lake. True to its name, the surface darkens to a smooth glass, reflecting the faint moonlight and the castle’s dim glow in the distance.
Harry approaches quietly, trying not to make a sound, and almost immediately spots Draco sitting at the water’s edge. If not for the gleam of his light hair in the moonlight, he might not have recognized the silhouette.
— You’re early, — he says softly, stepping closer. His voice is calmer than at breakfast, but his heart still races.
Draco turns, lips lifted in a faint smile.
— I couldn’t wait, — he answers evenly, a hint of hidden impatience in his voice.
Harry smiles a little wider, feeling the warmth of the words spread through his chest. He steps closer, and the lake wind teases their hair.
— I missed you too, — he whispers, keeping his gaze on Draco, and sits on the grass beside him.
Draco averts his gaze, looking at the water, hands frozen on his knees. No words are needed; it’s enough that they’re here, together.
— You keep sending them to me, — Harry notes. — Ron’s starting to suspect something.
Draco flinches slightly, as if caught red-handed, but quickly straightens, trying to maintain his usual cool.
— You should be careful, — he replies, awkwardly smoothing the crease in his trousers. — Or do you want the whole of Hogwarts to know Harry Potter is dating a boy?
Harry smirks, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. He leans slightly closer, letting his fingers brush lightly against the Slytherin’s knee.
— You know… — he begins softly, a barely audible challenge in his voice, — I wouldn’t mind showing them exactly who’s been sending me these cute little notes.
Now it’s Draco’s turn to blush. He turns fully away from Harry, muttering barely audibly:
— If my father hears about this…
Harry chuckles quietly, the corners of his lips sharpening. He glances at Draco, who’s trying to hide his reddened face, and gently slides his hand higher along his thigh, almost weightless.
— You even managed to hide this from me for so long, — he whispers, voice low, warm, and heavy. — You’ll manage with Lucius somehow.
Draco presses his lips together, feeling the shiver that runs through his whole body, and finally, almost involuntarily, leans slightly into Harry, resting his hand atop his wide palm.
— Have you already thought about what you’ll write in tomorrow’s note? — Harry teases, offering his shoulder so Draco can lay his head there.
«What about tomorrow?» — And Harry doesn’t mind.
«You looked too… boring today. Maybe we should meet, and I’ll fix that?» — Harry’s “boring” face now only grows more expectant for their next meeting.
«I tried to focus on lessons, but every minute I catch myself thinking about you. At first it was irritating… now it’s become a habit. I miss you.» — Lessons have truly drifted to second, or even third, priority.
«I had to borrow something from Pansy to cover the bruise you left on my neck. If you don’t do that again, I’ll be upset.» — Harry will. Maybe even more than Draco dares to ask. Even if later Parkinson’s healing potion won’t fully erase the consequences.
«At first, I wanted to praise you for yesterday… but then I remembered you shouldn’t know I liked it. So all that’s left is to miss you and wait for our next meeting.
By the way, try not to fall off your broom when our team beats yours tomorrow on the pitch.»
— “Our team”?! But we’re playing against Slytherin tomorrow! — Ron protests loudly, peeking over Harry’s shoulder in his usual way, only to get a light jab to the forehead from an irritated Harry.
— Are there even any girls on Slytherin’s team? — Ginny asks, surprised.
— That’s exactly the point, sis, — Ron huffs, — Harry’s mind is focused far from any girl!
Harry just rolls his eyes, trying to hide a smile, and carefully tucks the crane into his robe sleeve.
— You just don’t understand, — he waves them off. — This… is different!
Ginny leans closer, trying to see the paper.
— “Different” how? — she squints mischievously.
Harry only smirks, quickly slipping the note into his pocket, unwilling for anyone else in Gryffindor to suspect anything.
— You still wouldn’t understand, — he says quietly, almost a whisper, but loud enough for Ginny to hear. — And it’d be better if Ron didn’t understand either.
Ron rolls his eyes, trying to be patient:
— More secrets! I hope it’s not Marcus Flint sending you these lovey-dovey little birds?!
Harry shakes his head slightly, a near-real smile on his lips:
— Flint or not, it’s none of your business.
Ginny wrinkles her nose in disapproval, and Ron snorts, clearly not grasping the game unfolding right under his nose. Surprisingly, Slytherin didn’t win. Maybe because Draco deliberately ignored the Snitch and kept his eyes on Potter instead? Or was it the argument yesterday, at the stake of which had been a surprisingly grown-up kiss?
Whatever the reason, Gryffindor won, much to everyone’s delight. The next morning, after the celebration, a crane made from old Slytherin-green stamped parchment found its way into the red-and-gold common room. Harry impatiently unfolds it, and a silky strand of pale hair tied with a silver thread falls onto the dusty carpet. The Gryffindors present can only gape—every clue is right there: the rare hair color, the paper stamped with the green crest, and the “someone” being on Slytherin’s Quidditch team.
It’s so obvious, it doesn’t even need thinking.
Harry freezes.
For a second—he doesn’t breathe.
Then he sharply picks up the strand from the carpet, as if someone might snatch it from him. The silk slides through his fingers, soft, familiar, almost warm. Silence in the common room lasts exactly one second.
— That’s… — someone starts.
— Hair? — another voice exhales.
— Merlin… — Ginny doesn’t even hide her smile, full of pure curiosity. — Harry!
Ron looks at him as if he were suddenly a revealed spy rather than his best friend.
— I knew it wasn’t a girl, — he says slowly. — But not a girl to this extent…
Harry snaps his head up.
— Shut up, Ron.
But it comes out too… deliberate. Like he’s already accepted that sooner or later the whole school will talk about how Harry Potter isn’t just “into boys,” but “into a very specific, complicated boy.”
He unfolds the note, ignoring the gazes around him, though he keeps slightly out of the curious Gryffindor cluster.
The handwriting is the same—ornate, the kind used to sign cards or checks:
«Congratulations on the win.
You looked way too pleased with yourself; it’s irritating. I, of course, demand a chance to make up for it! Now you have a reason to come prove you earned this victory.
And yes, this is an advance. The rest I’ll deliver in person.»
Harry exhales slowly. The corner of his mouth twitches upward.
— Whoa… this isn’t just correspondence anymore, — Ginny whispers, peeking at the note from under Harry’s elbow, — that’s serious! And how far have you two gone?
— Harry, — Ron leans closer, voice low but eyes burning, — be honest. Is it really him?
Harry looks at the hair in his hand. Then the note. Then at Ron, Ginny, and the wide-eyed mouths of Dean and Seamus.
Then he smiles, not like usual.
— Isn’t it obvious? — he says shortly.
— Obvious? — Ron almost chokes. — Harry, “obvious” is when you say, like, “Ron, mate, I’m dating Cho Chang!” not… all this!
— Slytherin, Quidditch… — Ginny mutters, eyes fixed on the strand. — If it’s not him, I’ll eat my wand.
— Don’t, — Harry replies dryly, tucking the note away faster than she can read it again. — Keep your wand.
But it’s too late.
Too late already.
The name isn’t spoken aloud—and yet it hangs in the air.
Malfoy.
Like a spell nobody dares to say, but that still works.
— You’re kidding, — Ron slumps on the edge of a chair, staring at Harry like he’s about to explode. — You… with Malfoy?
Harry shrugs, casually, almost lazily.
— Maybe.
— Maybe?!
— Harry, — Ginny interjects, her voice now pure excitement, — he sent you hair. That’s not “maybe.” That’s very, very serious!
Seamus whistles softly.
— Seriously? — he says, glancing at Dean. — That’s… intense.
— Not normal! — Ron jumps up. — That’s Malfoy! He…
— He what? — Harry interrupts calmly, noticing something new, unusual.
Ron freezes. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Silent for a long moment, face thoughtful, then finally says skeptically:
— You hated him.
— And he hated me, — Harry confirms.
— And?
He shrugs.
— We were both idiots.
Seamus snorts quietly, then pretends to cough after Dean elbows him. Ginny, meanwhile, studies Harry closely.
— How long have you two…? — she asks.
Harry thinks for a second. Recalls the tower. The wind. The first awkward note.
— Enough, — he deflects. — Breakfast is probably in full swing.
He hopes he doesn’t look embarrassed by the sudden reveal to the Gryffindors. At least, this time, there’s no irritation in his voice, only calm, stubborn certainty.
Ron goes silent again, because arguing is pointless. This isn’t the same Harry who would justify himself.
On the way to the Great Hall, he unconsciously fingers the note in his pocket and the silk strand of hair. He doesn’t pull it out, just lets it slip between his fingers.
Too personal to show intentionally.
Too… revealing.
Ginny had said the gesture meant “very, very serious,” and as a girl, she knew best.
He almost feels how Draco did it.
How he cut it.
How he tied the thread.
How he wrote it.
And that knowledge suddenly stirs somewhere beneath his ribs, warm and sharp at the same time.
— Hey! Where are you going, Harry! — Ron exclaims as Harry deliberately walks past his usual spot at the Gryffindor table.
— You’re going to him, right? — Ginny asks quietly.
Harry looks up and smiles instead of answering; without slowing his pace, he approaches the Slytherin table rows. The top of Malfoy’s head glints silver in the morning sunlight from afar, and now, Harry, fifth-year Gryffindor, sits at the green-and-silver table with such a businesslike, important air as if he’s always belonged there.
Conversations at the Slytherin table cut off immediately; within seconds, near-complete silence falls. Only Zabini drops his fork, and Parkinson snickers quietly.
Malfoy, on the other hand, freezes mid-lift of his goblet. His gaze first catches the red-and-gold tie, then the scar on the forehead, and finally—eyes locking with Harry’s.
— What the hell are you doing here?! — he hisses, trying to make his expression as angry as possible. It doesn’t work; his face doesn’t fully believe the mask he’s trying to wear.
Harry props his chin with one hand and reaches with the other to hug the bristling Slytherin at the waist. Draco flinches but doesn’t fully pull away. Harry’s hand remains on him—slightly lower than it should, too confident for a public gesture. Several Slytherins simultaneously inhale sharply.
— Take your hand off, Potter, — Draco hisses through his teeth, but the voice doesn’t sound as firm as it should.
Harry doesn’t even glance at the others. Only at him.
— Why? — he asks calmly, tilting his head slightly. — You did write that you missed me.
The silence thickens even more. Off to the side, Pansy is openly stifling laughter, and Zabini watches as if a play is unfolding before him. Draco grips his goblet tighter.
— You… — he stammers, clearly unprepared for this turn of events. — You’ve gone mad?!
— I have, and it’s all because of you. And by the way, if you’re still afraid everyone will find out… I think now, on my own house, only the lazy haven’t heard about us, — Harry ruffles his hair a little guiltily but still smiles, like a relief has washed over him.
He pulls Draco closer.
— You fool! How stubborn you are… — Draco hides his embarrassed face in his hands, trying not to look at the shameless, playful Potter and the gleeful faces of classmates just discovering the news. — Now my father will definitely…
— Draco, dear, only foolish first-years could have failed to notice that you… how to put it… are selectively particular in your preferences, — Pansy pauses, squinting theatrically.
Zabini snorts quietly, finally raising his fork.
— Very selective indeed, — he adds, pointing his fork at Harry, not hiding his smile.
Draco groans through his hands.
— Shut up… both of you.
But it’s already useless. Harry laughs quietly right by his ear—too close, too warm—and presses against his side so tightly that any desire to go to lessons disappears. Draco exhales heavily, trying to regain his usual cold composure, but his shoulders tremble and his heart beats too fast.
— You are… — he breathes, barely aloud, — such a Potter!
Harry only smiles, noticeably gripping Draco’s fingers on his robe. As if marking a secret that that morning had stopped being a secret for everyone at once.
— Want me to apologize for this? — he whispers in his ear, lips brushing the skin for just a moment, enough to send shivers down Draco’s spine.
Malfoy just squints, fists clenched on his knees.
— No, don’t you dare!..
— Harry! What about Herbology?! — Hermione chides, approaching from behind, hands on her hips in a parental gesture.
Harry considers it, but only for a moment.
— You know, I probably won’t go today. It’s the end of the year anyway…
Hermione stands nearby, slightly frowning, but says nothing. She knows arguing is pointless.
— I see, — she sighs, as if already tired from the brief conversation. — I’m glad it’s finally cleared up. I told you: the sooner you confess, the better. In any case, I have to go now. And try not to be late for Transfiguration!
Later, sitting for the first time with Harry at the edge of the dark Lake in daylight, Draco latches onto what the Gryffindor prefect had said.
— What does “finally cleared up” and “the sooner you confess, the better” mean? — he could have guessed, but Potter’s expression, struggling for words, clearly amuses him.
Harry smiles slightly, lowering his gaze to the hand sliding over the grass beside his.
— Just… — he stumbles slightly on words, — I was afraid Hermione noticed something before anyone else did.
— Oh Merlin, no! Don’t tell me Granger…
— Knew about us almost from the start? — Harry’s hand rests over Draco’s fingers. — Well, yes. And I really was an idiot for not believing her.
Draco smiles faintly at the corner of his lips, leaning slightly toward him:
— So now everyone knows? The whole of Hogwarts?
— Yep, — Harry agrees quietly. — I even like it. Finally, we don’t have to hide in corners.
He leans closer, warm breath, fingers cautiously gliding along Draco’s back.
— Want me to show you how much I’ve missed you? — he whispers, lips brushing Draco’s neck, then up to his jaw.
Draco freezes for a moment, catching his breath, fingers clutching Harry’s sleeve.
— Are you joking?! — he breathes, almost losing his voice, — Of course I want…
Harry answers with a soft laugh, lips finally meeting his, touching and lingering—a kiss long, promising, throbbing. Draco reaches for him with his hands, wrapping around his neck, no longer holding back, and Potter tilts his head slightly, letting them melt deeper into each other. Draco responds instantly, fingers tangling in hair and folds of clothing, body stretching in response to every movement. Breath hitches, mixing hot and sharp.
— Potter, you… — Draco whispers, nearly gasping, — you’re… rushing too much… — words dissolve into trembles and a moan escaping on their own.
Harry’s hand tightens unconsciously on Draco’s thigh, and he reluctantly pulls back from his lips.
— Can I not rush? The school year’s almost over, and I… — a sigh of disappointment, — won’t see you until September?
Draco lets his hands slide off the Gryffindor, reclining into the grass and staring at glimpses of sky through the tree canopy.
— Maybe… I could invite you over for a week or two, — he says playfully, throwing one leg over Harry’s lap. — You know, I’m seriously considering the probability that my parents will find out about you.