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The air in the Slytherin dormitories had always smelled of cold stone, lake water, and the faint, bitter tang of dried aconite. But in the Eighth Year tower—a hastily repurposed spire set high above the grounds, where the wind howled like a dying creature—the air smelled of damp wool, spilled ink, and Harry Potter’s overwhelming, suffocating presence.
Draco Malfoy adjusted the silver cuff of his sleeve, staring into the dark glass of the window. Reflection-wise, he looked immaculate. His hair was cropped short, precisely tailored, every strand adhering to a discipline his mind no longer possessed. Behind him, on the velvet lounge chair they had inherited from some forgotten Gryffindor common room, Theodore Nott was methodically shredding a quill with his fingernails.
“Tu es encore en train de fixer le vide, Draco,” Theo murmured, his voice low and smooth, barely carrying over the crackle of the hearth. You’re staring into the void again, Draco.
“Je ne fixe pas le vide,” Draco replied without turning, his tone dripping with the flat, polite boredom he had perfected over a long summer of ministry inquiries. “Je contemple la stupidité ambiante.” I am contemplating the surrounding stupidity.
“If you two are going to speak French all evening, I am going to transfigure your tea into vinegar,” Pansy Parkinson said from the corner. She didn't look up from her fingernails, which she was filing into precise, lethal points. “It’s rude. And besides, Potter has been staring at the back of Draco’s head for twenty minutes, and I’m fairly certain he thinks you’re plotting a coup.”
Draco’s shoulders stiffened by a fraction of a millimeter. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He could feel the burn between his shoulder blades—that obnoxious, heavy, relentless gaze that had pursued him from the moment he stepped off the Hogwarts Express back in September.
It was an absurdity. The entire arrangement was an absurdity.
Draco closed his eyes, and for a fraction of a second, the quiet warmth of the tower dissolved, replaced by the acrid stench of burning magic, the deafening roar of a courtyard collapsing, and the terrifying, absolute clarity of a single second in May.
The memory was never loud in his mind; it was unnaturally quiet.
Voldemort had been speaking—his voice amplification charm vibrating in Draco’s teeth—demanding allegiance, offering mercy to the broken remnants of the defenders. Lucius had called to him, his voice trembling, terrified, a broken man hiding behind a facade of nobility. Narcissa had reached out a hand, her eyes pleading.
Draco had taken two steps forward into the mud of the courtyard. The eyes of every surviving wizard were on him. He was supposed to walk across the line. He was supposed to surrender.
Then he had looked at Potter. Potter, supported by Weasley, bleeding from the temple, his eyes bright with a suicidal, terrifying resolve. Potter had looked back, not with hatred, but with a strange, exhausted understanding.
Draco hadn't walked to his parents. He had broken into a sprint.
It wasn't a noble act; it was a desperate, panicked reflex. He reached into his robes, pulled out the hawthorn wand he had managed to reclaim in the chaos of the Great Hall, and flung it across the ruined cobbles.
“Potter!” he had screamed, the sound tearing his throat.
The wand had arced through the smoke, a slender piece of wood cutting through the dawn light. Potter had caught it out of the air without looking, his hand closing over the grip as if it belonged there. The shift in momentum had been instantaneous. The distraction—the sheer shock of a Malfoy turning his back on the Dark Lord—had given Longbottom the second he needed to draw the sword.
Draco remembered the cold mud under his knees as he collapsed, the deafening roar of the final clash, and the sight of his father’s face, pale and ruined, as Lucius realized they were utterly, completely finished.
“Draco.”
The voice shattered the memory like thin ice under a heavy boot. Draco opened his eyes, smoothed his expression into a mask of mild indifference, and turned around slowly.
Harry Potter was standing three feet away.
He looked, as usual, as though he had been dragged backwards through a hedge and then lightly battered with a broomstick. His tie was loose, his hair was a disaster of gravity-defying curls, and his round spectacles were slightly askew. He held two parchments in his hand, his knuckles white against the paper.
“We’re assigned together for Advanced Arithmancy,” Potter announced, stating it not as a question, but as an inescapable fact of nature. “And Potions tomorrow morning. Vector and Slughorn said we’re paired for the term.”
Pansy made a small, choking sound into her teacup. Blaise Zabini, sitting in an armchair nearby, buried his face behind a copy of The Daily Prophet to hide a smirk.
“Is that so?” Draco said smoothly, his English polished to a mirror shine. “How terribly inconvenient for you, Potter. I’m sure if you ask Granger, she can write a strongly worded petition to the Headmistress to spare you from my presence.”
“I don't want to change it,” Potter said immediately. Too quickly. His jaw set, that absurdly stubborn Gryffindor chin thrusting forward. “It’s fine. I told McGonagall it was fine.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “How generous. A true savior of the populace.”
Potter flushed, a dull red creeping up his neck. “I’m just saying, we’re roommates. It makes sense to do the coursework together. Saves time.”
Saves time. Draco held back a sneer. He knew why Potter was doing it. It wasn't a secret, though Potter seemed to believe he was being subtly brilliant.
When the letter from McGonagall had arrived at Malfoy Manor in August, Draco had intended to burn it. His father was dead—died in Azkaban three weeks after the battle, his heart simply giving out under the weight of his own failure. His mother had passed shortly after, consumed by a lingering dark magic curse she had sustained during the final months of the war, leaving Draco alone in a mausoleum of marble and dark memories.
He had no reason to return to Hogwarts. None at all.
Until Andromeda Tonks had appeared at the Manor gates, holding a toddler with hair that shifted from bright turquoise to a soft, sandy brown. And behind Andromeda had been Potter.
Potter, who had stood in the dusty, dust-sheeted drawing room of Malfoy Manor and said, with maddening authority, “Your aunt wants you to help raise Teddy. And I want you back at school. You’re not staying in this house alone, Malfoy. You’re coming back.”
And like an idiot, Draco had yielded.
Now, he was subjected to Potter’s suffocating umbrella of protection. Every time a vengeful Gryffindor third-year considered throwing a hex at Draco’s back in the corridors, Potter would materialize out of nowhere, glaring at the offender until they scurried off. Every time a group of Ravenclaws whispered too loudly about the Malfoy bloodline in the library, Potter would slam a heavy tome onto the table and stare them down.
Potter thought he was being subtle. He thought Draco assumed it was merely because Granger and Weasley were constantly glued to each other, leaving Potter ‘unattended.’
“Il est tellement stupide que ça en devient presque fascinant,” Theo muttered under his breath. He is so stupid it becomes almost fascinating.
“Tais-toi, Theo,” Draco snapped quietly, before looking back up at Potter. “Very well, Potter. Tomorrow morning. Do try not to melt the cauldron this time.”
Potter blinked, satisfied, a small, ridiculously triumphant smile touching his lips. “Right. Great. See you in the morning, Malfoy.”
He turned and trotted back over to the Gryffindor side of the room, where Granger was scowling at a scroll of parchment three feet long, and Weasley was attempting to balance a quill on his nose.
Draco watched him go, feeling a sharp, familiar ache in his chest that he adamantly refused to name.
“He’s going to follow you to Hogsmeade, you know,” Pansy said softly, setting her tea down with a soft click. “He’s been talking about it for three days. Asking Weasley if the Three Broomsticks is too crowded, asking Granger if the weather will hold.”
“Let him follow,” Draco said, turning back to the dark window. “It changes nothing.”
“Tu es un menteur, Draco,” Blaise drawled from behind his paper. You are a liar, Draco.
“Et toi, tu es un parasite,” Draco shot back, though there was no heat in it. And you, you are a parasite.
Saturday arrived with a heavy, grey fog that clung to the turrets of the castle like wet wool. The Eighth Years gathered in the courtyard, a strange, fractured group.
On one side stood the remnant of the old DA—Longbottom, Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, Lovegood, Chang, and the Weasleys. On the other side stood the four Slytherins who had dared to return. The rest of the castle gave both groups a wide berth, treating the Eighth Years like dangerous, unexploded ordnance.
“Right then!” Weasley announced, rubbing his hands together against the chill. “Three Broomsticks first? Or Honeydukes? I’ve got a desperate need for Sugar Quills.”
“Three Broomsticks,” Potter said instantly. He was wearing an oversized wool coat that made him look slightly like a stray dog, his dark hair damp from the mist. His eyes scanned the crowd, instantly locking onto Draco, who was standing slightly apart, draped in a tailored charcoal coat that cost more than Weasley’s entire wardrobe.
Potter detached himself from Granger and walked straight over to the Slytherin cluster.
“Malfoy,” Potter said, stopping a foot short. “You coming with us?”
Draco did not look at him. He adjusted his leather gloves. “I have errands at Scrivenshaft’s, Potter. I do not require an escort.”
“We can go to Scrivenshaft’s after,” Potter pressed, his voice dropping into that quiet, persistent register that drove Draco entirely out of his mind. “Come on. It’s freezing out here. Just come to the pub with us. All of us.”
“No,” Draco said cleanly, in perfect English.
Potter’s face fell slightly, but then he leaned in a fraction closer, his green eyes flashing behind his rain-speckled glasses. “Please? It’s... it’s ridiculous that we’re sitting on opposite sides of the room every time we leave the castle. Just one drink.”
Draco looked at him then. Really looked at him. Potter looked exhausted, as he always did, but there was a strange, raw vulnerability in his expression that Draco found utterly terrifying. Potter wanted him there. Not out of duty, not out of McGonagall’s orders, but out of some bizarre, obsessive desire to drag Draco Malfoy into the light.
Draco felt his resolve slipping, a crumbling wall against a relentless tide.
“Non,” Draco said aloud, firm and clear.
Potter sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Right. Okay. 'No' it is. I get it.”
Draco sneered softly, a microscopic tilt of his lips that only Theo caught. “Mais peut-être plus tard, espèce d'imbécile,” Draco added under his breath, stepping past Potter toward the path down to the village. But perhaps later, you utter fool.
Potter stood there for a moment, looking confused. “Wait—did you just insult me in French again?”
“I merely remarked on the weather, Potter,” Draco called back over his shoulder without stopping. “Do try to keep up.”
Behind him, he heard Weasley shout, “What did he say, Harry?” and Potter’s baffled reply, “He said no, but... I don't know, he sounded like he was agreeing to something!”
Pansy fell into step beside Draco, shaking her head. “You are playing a very dangerous game, Draco. He has the intellect of a knarl. He’s going to take your English at face value until he accidentally stumbles into the truth.”
“Let him stumble,” Draco murmured, pulling his collar up against the wind. “It’s the only exercise his brain gets.”
The day wore on in a blur of grey drizzle and crowded shops.
Draco managed to avoid the main group for three hours, taking refuge in the quiet, dusty corners of Scrivenshaft’s and later in the back of Gladrags, where the proprietor treated him with a nervous, jittery deference that Draco preferred over the open hostility of the street.
But Hogsmeade was small, and Harry Potter was relentless.
By six o’clock, the sky had bruised into a dark, ink-black evening, and the wind had turned biting cold. Draco, Theo, Pansy, and Blaise finally retreated toward the warm, golden light spilling from the windows of the Three Broomsticks.
The pub was packed to the rafters. Steam rose from wet cloaks, the air thick with the smell of roasted nuts, spilled Firewhisky, and woodsmoke.
As soon as Draco stepped through the door, a hush fell over the immediate vicinity. A few younger students nudged each other; a Ravenclaw seventh-year scowled openly. Draco ignored them, moving with rigid grace toward a booths in the far back corner.
He didn't make it three steps before a hand caught his wrist.
The touch was warm, slightly calloused, and entirely uninvited. Draco froze, looking down at the fingers wrapped around his sleeve, then up into the flushed, bright-eyed face of Harry Potter.
Potter was... exceptionally drunk.
It was staggering. Harry Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World, was leaning heavily against the edge of a timber pillar, his glasses crooked, his cheeks stained a deep, furious crimson. On the table behind him sat four empty flagons of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky and a terrifyingly large pitcher of butterbeer spiked with something clear and potent.
“You came!” Potter announced. His voice was entirely too loud. Half the pub turned to look. “Malfoy! You’re here!”
“Potter,” Draco said, attempting to yank his wrist away. Potter’s grip was like iron. “Release me at once. You are making a spectacle of yourself.”
“I’m not a spectacle,” Potter slurred, beaming broadly. He let go of the wrist, only to immediately step into Draco’s personal space, grabbing the lapels of Draco’s charcoal coat to steady himself. “You’re the spectacle. Look at you. You’re wearing... a very nice coat, Malfoy. Very shiny.”
From the nearby booth, Ron Weasley buried his face in his hands, groaning audibly. “Harry, mate, please. We talked about this. You promised you wouldn't do this.”
“I’m doing great!” Potter shouted over his shoulder to Weasley, before turning his glassy green gaze back to Draco. “I waited for you. We drank the whole bottle. Well, Ron drank two, and Hermione had one sip and called us Neanderthals, but I drank... a lot.”
“Clearly,” Draco said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Potter was entirely too close. He smelled of cinnamon, oak, and the clean, rain-washed scent of his skin. “Theo, Pansy, Blaise, we are leaving.”
“No! No, no, no,” Potter protested, tightening his grip on Draco’s coat. He swayed violently, pulling Draco down a few inches with him. “You can’t leave! You just got here! Sit down. Malfoy, sit down.”
“Potter, unhand me—”
“I need to tell you something,” Potter muttered, his voice suddenly dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that was still entirely audible to the surrounding three tables. He leaned in, his forehead almost touching Draco’s chin. “It’s very important. It’s an emergency.”
Pansy was practically vibrating with delight behind Draco, her hands clapped over her mouth. Granger had marched over, her face a mask of profound mortification.
“Harry, come on,” Granger tried, taking Potter’s arm. “You need a sobriety potion. Let’s go back to the castle—”
“No!” Potter yanked his arm back from Granger without taking his eyes off Draco. “Hermione, stop. I’m speaking to Draco.”
The use of his given name sent a strange, electric shock down Draco’s spine.
“Potter,” Draco said, trying to maintain his posture despite the fact that six feet of heavy Gryffindor was currently hanging off his coat. “You are intoxicated. Go back to your dorm.”
“I don't want to go to my dorm unless you’re there,” Potter said simply, with the terrifying, unvarnished honesty of the utterly plastered. He blinked slowly up at Draco, his green eyes wide, unfocused, and absurdly earnest. “You’re always leaving. You go to the library, you go to the owlery, you go... wherever it is you go. You don't let me talk to you.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” Draco said, though his voice lacked its usual bite.
“There is!” Potter insisted. He let go of Draco’s lapels, only to slide his hands up, wrapping his arms securely around Draco’s neck.
A collective gasp went up from a nearby table of Hufflepuffs. Weasley slammed his forehead onto the table with a dull thud.
Draco went completely, utterly rigid. “Potter. Remove your limbs from my body.”
“I like you,” Potter announced to the entire Three Broomsticks.
The pub did not go silent, but a very distinct perimeter of quiet expanded rapidly around their group.
“I like you a lot,” Potter continued, entirely unbothered by the fact that Neville Longbottom had just spilled half a pint of ale down his own front in shock. Potter’s chin rested heavily against Draco’s shoulder, his breath warm against Draco’s neck. “I liked you when you threw the wand. I liked you before that, actually, but you were really mean. Why were you so mean, Malfoy?”
“Mon Dieu,” Draco breathed in French, his cheeks burning so hot he felt lightheaded. “Il est complètement fou. Qu'est-ce que je suis censé faire avec cet idiot?” My God. He is completely insane. What am I supposed to do with this idiot?
Potter pulled back just enough to look Draco in the face. His expression was dead serious, despite his eyes crossing slightly as he tried to focus on Draco’s mouth. “I want to kiss you,” Potter said plainly.
Pansy squeaked. Theo actually dropped his glass of wine onto the floor; it shattered, but no one paid any attention. He didn't even know when did they got the drinks for themselves.
“You... what?” Draco managed, his English failing him for the first time in his life.
“I want to kiss you,” Potter repeated, nodding solemnly. He leaned forward, aiming his face squarely at Draco’s mouth.
Panicking, Draco threw his head back, twisting away. Potter’s lips landed squarely, wetly, on the side of Draco’s jawline, right below his ear.
“Potter, stop!” Draco hissed, grabbing Potter by the shoulders and trying to push him off. But Potter was built like a Seeker—compact, surprisingly heavy, and possessing the tenacity of a barnacle.
“Just one,” Potter whined. It was an embarrassing, childish sound. He reached up, his hand clutching at the nape of Draco’s neck, pulling him down again. “Come on, Malfoy. Just a little one. On the cheek? Please?”
“No!” Draco croaked, pushing against Potter’s chest.
Potter’s face crumpled. It was the most horrifying thing Draco had ever witnessed. Harry Potter, the vanquisher of Dark Lords, the hero of the Wizarding World, pouted. His lip actually trembled. A fat, genuine tear squeezed out from behind his glasses and tracked down his flushed cheek.
“Why not?” Potter sniffled, his voice breaking. He leaned his entire weight into Draco, burying his face in the crook of Draco’s neck. “You let Andromeda adopt you into the family... you stay in the tower... why won't you let me kiss you?”
“He’s crying,” Seamus Finnigan whispered from three feet away, his jaw slack. “Harry Potter is crying because Malfoy won't kiss him.”
“I am going to die,” Weasley groaned into the table. “I am going to dissolve into a puddle and die right here.”
“Harry, sweetie, please,” Granger tried again, tugging at Potter’s robes. “You’re making a scene. Let’s go.”
“No!” Potter sobbed—an actual, audible sob—clinging to Draco’s neck like a drowning man to a plank of wood. “Malfoy, please. Just a cheek kiss. I’ve been trying to be nice to you all term!”
Draco stood frozen in the middle of the crowded pub, surrounded by thirty staring students, holding a weeping, drunk Harry Potter in his arms. His mind was an absolute blank. His heart was hammering so hard he was certain Potter could feel it through their coats.
He looked at Pansy. Pansy gave him a look of profound, unspeakable pity mixed with hysterical amusement, and silently mouthed, Just let him, you idiot.
Draco swallowed hard. He looked down at the mop of untidy black hair pressed against his throat.
“Potter,” Draco whispered, his voice shaking slightly.
Potter made a small, pathetic whimpering sound into Draco’s collarbone.
Draco let out a long, slow breath. He raised his gloved hands, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then rested them gently on Potter’s back.
“Tu es vraiment la créature la plus absurde de cette planète,” Draco murmured softly, his voice dropping into a tender, hushed French that no one else in the pub could possibly understand. You are truly the most absurd creature on this planet.
Potter lifted his head, his face wet, his green eyes wide and hopeful. “What?”
Draco sighed. He shifted his grip, moving one hand up to cup the back of Potter’s messy hair. He leaned down, slow and deliberate, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to Potter’s left cheekbone.
The pub went so quiet you could hear the crackle of the hearth three rooms away.
Potter blinked, stunned. A soft, foolish smile began to spread across his face. “Oh,” he breathed. “That was... nice.”
“There,” Draco snapped, pulling back, though his cheeks were burning a violent crimson. “You have had your kiss. Now release me.”
“Wait,” Potter said, his hands sliding up Draco’s neck, his thumbs brushing against Draco’s jawline. “You missed.”
Before Draco could process the words, Potter lunged forward again. This time, he didn't aim for the cheek. His lips brushed clumsily against the corner of Draco’s mouth—a warm, messy, whiskey-scented press of skin that sent a jolt of pure fire straight down to Draco’s toes.
Potter held him there for two agonizing, glorious seconds, his hand tight in Draco’s hair, before pulling back just an inch, grinning like a madman.
“That’s better,” Potter slurred happily.
Laughter erupted across the pub—a loud, roaring burst of tension breaking. Dean Thomas was doubled over, clutching his stomach; even Granger had her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking with helpless laughter.
Draco, entirely undone, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, gripped Potter by the upper arms to keep the idiot from collapsing onto the floor.
“We are returning to the castle,” Draco declared, his voice tight, attempting to salvage whatever microscopic shred of dignity he had left. “Immediately.”
“Okay,” Potter agreed instantly, leaning his full weight against Draco’s side, throwing an arm over Draco’s shoulder. “I’ll go anywhere with you, Malfoy.”
Draco looked down at the boy—the man—clinging to him like a burr, smelling of Firewhisky and rain, and felt the last remaining wall around his heart crumble into utter dust.
“Je te déteste, Potter,” Draco muttered under his breath, taking a slow step toward the door, hauling the savior of the wizarding world along with him. I hate you, Potter.
Potter looked up, his eyes heavy-lidded, a sleepy, blissful smile on his face. “Does that mean yes?”
Draco looked away, adjusting his coat over Potter’s shoulders to keep the wind off him as they stepped out into the cold night air.
“Oui, espèce d'imbécile,” Draco whispered into the dark. “C'est toujours oui.” Yes, you utter fool. It’s always yes.