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Chapter Text

A complete overview of the biology and society used in this fic.

SECONDARY GENDERS (BY BIRTH)

Every person is born with a secondary gender, as naturally as being born male or female:

• Alpha (Dominant or Normal or recessive; Male or Female)

• Beta (Male or Female)

• Omega (Dominant or Normal or Recessive; Male or Female)

Secondary genders never change.

OMEGA BIOLOGY 

Omegas—male or female—share the same reproductive biology.

✦ 1. Anatomy

All omegas possess:

• vulva

• vagina

• cervix

• uterus

• ovaries

• ability to menstruate

• ability to become pregnant

Male omegas have this internal anatomy in addition to masculine outward appearance.

This is normal and widely accepted in this universe.

✦ 2. Omega Puberty (Ages 11–13)

Omega puberty begins earlier than alpha or beta puberty.

This includes:

Physical changes

• narrower waist

• rounder hips

• softer skin

• slight breast development (enough for lactation)

• sweeter scent

Internal development

• ovaries activate

• uterus prepares for cycles

• menstrual cycle begins

• fertility increases

Instinct changes

• stronger emotional responses

• sensitivity to alpha scent

• instinctive reaction to dominant alphas

• bonding tendencies

• jealousy triggers

✦ 3. Monthly Omega Cycle

Phase 1 — Pre-Heat (3-4 days)

Before every heat, omegas experience:

• heightened scent

• emotional sensitivity

• chest swelling/tenderness

• lactation (milk production)

• instinctive nesting urges

• warmth in the lower belly

• desire for to be bred

During this time omegas Lactate,.

It signals fertility readiness.(I'm sugarcoating it but I have lactation kink and it's hot :)) 

Most omegas hide this with

• compression garments

• potions

• scent-blocking charms

• layered robes

Phase 2 — Heat

If cycle is unblocked:

• Dominant omegas: 5 days

• Recessive omegas: 2 days

Symptoms:

• intense pheromone release

• physical sensitivity

• instinctive behaviour

• strong hormonal shifts

• need for safety and seclusion

Omegas must remain in heat-safe rooms at Hogwarts.

Phase 3 — Luteal Phase (Post-Heat)

If not fertilised:

• hormones drop

• mood stabilises

• uterine lining begins to prepare for shedding

Phase 4 — Period (Menstruation)

Occurs one week after heat if the omega is not pregnant.

Includes:

• bleeding (3–6 days)

• cramping

• fatigue

• lowered scent

• stronger symptoms for dominant omegas

 ALPHA BIOLOGY

Both male and females have male reproductive organs basically a dick 

• strong scent

• protective instincts

• heightened response to omega pheromones

• dominant alphas react more dramatically

• rut exists but is mild in modern society

• instinct to guard omegas during pre-heat and heat

BETA BIOLOGY

• neutral scent

• no heats or ruts

• emotionally stable

• often act as buffers and stabilisers

• preferred caretakers during omega cycles

 HOGWARTS: OMEGAVERSE RULES

2. Scent etiquette

• blockers required in mixed groups

• no intentional scenting

• Any kind of degradation or sexualization = detention

3. Dormitory rules

• separate omega floors

• heat-safe rooms monitored by healers

4. Monthly checks

• omegas visit healers pre-heat

• potions given for comfort & safety

5. Pureblood courtship traditions

• offering one’s hand = formal bond invitation

• rejecting it = deep humiliation

• Draco offers his to Harry

• Harry rejects it

• Draco’s heart breaks for YEARS

This is the emotional foundation of my entire fic.

CHARACTER GENDER LIST (For Reference)

Dominant Alphas

• Harry Potter

• Pansy Parkinson

Normal Alphas

• Hermione Granger

• Blaise Zabini

Dominant Omegas

• Draco Malfoy

• Theodore Nott

• Ron Weasley

Male Betas

• Vincent Crabbe

• Gregory Goyle

Chapter Text

The boy on the platform looked nothing like Draco had expected.

For one, he was small.

Not weak-looking, exactly, but slight—almost swallowed by the second-hand clothes hanging off his frame. His hair was an absolute disaster, a dark mop that refused to lie flat, like it had been in a fight with a brush and won. And his glasses were too big for his face, sliding down a nose that had quite obviously been broken at some point and never properly mended.

Draco stared.

That can’t be him, he thought, pulse tripping. That can’t be the famous one.

But then the boy turned his head, and Draco saw the scar. Just a sliver under the dark fringe, thin and lightning-shaped.

Oh.

His heart stopped, then started again with a strange, fluttering jolt.

Oh, it is him.

For a moment, the noise of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters faded. The steam curling round the scarlet train, the shouting parents, owls shrieking inside their cages, trunks scraping, the distant call of, “Fred, put that down!” — it all blurred at the edges.

That’s Harry Potter.

Draco had imagined this moment, of course.

He’d imagined it for years, ever since Father had first told him the story of the Boy-Who-Lived and then paused, fingers tightening just briefly around his wine glass.

“Your age, Draco,” Lucius had said. “You’ll meet him at Hogwarts, no doubt.”

Draco had nodded, pretending to be calm, pretending it was perfectly ordinary to share a dormitory with a legend.

Mother had ruffled his hair and said softly, “Be kind to him, dragon. He hasn’t had an easy life.”

Father had said nothing to contradict her.

So Draco had gone away and dreamt.

He’d dreamt Harry Potter would be tall and elegant and clever. Maybe a bit mysterious. Someone you had to work hard to impress. An Alpha, definitely. The sort of Alpha Mother’s novels described—the ones who were powerful and steady and terribly polite to their chosen omega.

He’d imagined himself stepping into the boy’s life like something out of a story.

Nice to meet you, Harry. I’ll look after you. Stay by me.

Now the real Harry stood a little way down the platform, staring at the train as if it might bite him. No parents at his side, no trunks with polished brass locks, no house-elf fussing about with handkerchiefs. Just a scrawny boy with a too-big trunk and an owl in a cage.

He looked… lost.

Draco’s chest tightened.

He’s smaller than I thought. Smaller than me. His clothes don’t fit. Has no one fed him properly?

He watched as the boy turned to a plump, red-haired woman and asked, in a tentative voice, “Er—how do I get onto the platform?”

His voice. Soft. A bit uncertain. Not posh. Not polished pure-blood English like Draco’s, but not stupid either. Ordinary. Human.

Draco’s breath caught, and he hated that it did.

There you are, he thought, and the realisation dazed him a bit. There you are, Harry Potter.

“Draco?” Blaise Zabini nudged his shoulder. “You’re staring, mate.”

“I am not,” Draco snapped automatically.

Blaise followed his line of sight, smirked. “Oh. Him.”

“Who?” Draco asked, far too quickly.

Blaise’s eyebrows rose. “The Potter boy. Obviously.”

Draco lifted his chin. “I knew that,” he lied. “Father told me what he’d look like.”

That wasn’t entirely untrue. Father had said he’d probably have James Potter’s mess of hair and Lily’s eyes. But the descriptions had been words, flat and clean. They hadn’t mentioned how those eyes would blink away steam on the platform, or how fragile the boy’s wrists would look when he picked up his trunk, or the way his shoulders would hunch slightly, like he was bracing for someone to shout at him.

Draco’s omega instincts — carefully trained, carefully suppressed — stirred faintly.

He looks like no one’s looked after him properly. That’s not right.

He tore his gaze away. “Come on,” he said briskly. “We’d better get a compartment before the whole train is full of… people.”

“People,” Blaise echoed dryly. “Very specific.”

“Shut up,” Draco muttered, ears hot.

------------------------------------------

They’d almost found a decent compartment when Pansy Parkinson grabbed Draco’s sleeve.

“There you are!” she huffed. “Honestly, I thought you’d run off to elope with Longbottom or something.”

Draco looked offended. “Why on earth would I elope with Longbottom?”

“He’s rich,” Pansy said solemnly. “You are shallow.”

Blaise snorted.

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’ve known me since I was three, Pans. You’re not allowed to call me shallow, it’s rude.”

“Of course I’m allowed,” she said sweetly. “I’m your friend.”

Then she paused, narrowed her eyes. “What were you staring at on the platform, by the way?”

“Nothing,” Draco said, too quickly again.

Blaise cackled. “He saw Potter.”

Pansy gasped. “No.”

Draco felt cornered. “Yes,” he admitted stiffly, “but only because he was standing in the way.”

“In the way of what?” Blaise asked innocently.

“In the way of…” Draco floundered. “Of the train. Obviously. Don’t be thick.”

Pansy folded her arms. “He’s rather… sweet-looking, isn’t he?”

Draco made a disgusted noise that was mostly self-defence. “He looked like a lost kneazle in a charity shop.”

Which, unhelpfully, made his heart squeeze a little more.

Blaise hummed. “Stray, then. Easy to steal.”

“Steal?” Draco echoed, mind going blank for a moment.

Blaise shrugged. “Scoop him up, show him what proper pure-blood life is. Your father’s always going on about influence. Imagine having the famous Harry Potter as your personal pet.”

“Don’t call him that,” Draco snapped, sudden and sharp.

They both stared.

Draco swallowed, tried again in a bored tone. “I mean, that’s a stupid way to put it. He’s not a pet.”

“He’s a boy,” Pansy said slowly, watching Draco’s face. “A boy your age, Draco.”

Draco lifted his nose. “Yes, obviously, I know that.”

“And you stared at him like he’d dropped from the sky,” she added.

“I did not—”

“You did, actually,” Blaise said cheerfully. “I thought you were going to walk into a trolley.”

Draco’s cheeks burned. “I was just curious,” he insisted. “Everyone’s been talking about him for years. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mm,” Pansy said. “Of course not.”

Blaise smirked. “None at all.”

They clearly didn’t believe him. Draco glared and stalked away down the corridor, pretending their words didn’t dig under his skin.

He knew what it felt like, though—that odd lurch in his chest. The soft pull low in his belly. Mother had joked once, over tea, about “the day your omega instincts wake up, dragon” and how he’d probably “imprint on the first pretty boy who looks at you twice.”

He had assumed she was exaggerating.

Well, Harry Potter hadn’t even looked at him once yet, and Draco’s stupid heart was already fluttering like a charmed snitch.

Ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

——‐--------------------------------------

They met properly in the corridor later.

Draco had timed it—accidentally-on-purpose. He’d watched Potter and the red-haired boy find an empty compartment and had counted to a hundred before making his move, like a strategist going into battle.

He’d checked his hair in the reflection of the window. Straightened his robes. Tried to make his cheeks less pink. It didn’t work; they were always pink. Mother said it made him look cherubic.

Cherubs were for ceiling paintings and baby angels, not for boys trying to impress other boys. It was very inconvenient.

He paused outside their compartment, heard laughter inside, and swallowed.

You are a Malfoy, he told himself. You are an omega of an old, respected family. You are not some pathetic little thing begging for scraps. You will walk in there with dignity. You will be perfect. You will not make a fool of yourself.

He knocked lightly and slid the door open.

The red-haired boy scowled at him instantly. “What d’you want?”

Draco barely looked at him. He was too busy staring at Harry.

Up close, he was worse. In the best way.

His hair really was a mess. His eyes, behind the round glasses, were impossibly green. Not just nice green. Startling, vivid, proper emerald, like the ring Mother wore when she dressed for the opera.

He looked up at Draco with a bit of bread in one hand, crumbs on his robes.

And smiled, faintly, uncertain.

Draco’s heart stopped again.

“Oh,” Harry Potter said. “Hello.”

Draco forgot every speech he’d rehearsed.

He had planned something smooth and clever. Something that would make Harry think Draco was sharp and witty and worth sticking close to. He’d imagined offering his hand, not just as a pure-blood courtesy but as something more—a promise.

He’d imagined Harry taking it.

Instead, he blurted, “You’ve got dirt on your nose, did you know?”

The red-haired boy bristled. “Oi!”

Draco wanted to bite his own tongue off.

What was that, you idiot? That’s not flirting, that’s— that’s bullying—

But Harry just blinked, wiped his nose awkwardly, and said, “Oh. Thanks.”

Draco’s traitorous heart did something unpleasantly soft.

Right. Reset. Try again.

He straightened a bit, trying for casual disdain. That was easier than honesty. “I’ve heard of you, of course. Everyone has.”

“Have they?” Harry said, and he sounded genuinely surprised. As if the idea that anyone would care about him was new.

Draco’s insides twisted.

He doesn’t even know.

“Of course,” Draco said lightly. “Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. You’ve been on the front page of the Prophet since before you could walk.”

He watched Harry’s face carefully, trying to see if he would preen or boast or smirk. If he’d be like the other alphas-in-training Draco had met at dull society tea parties—loud, entitled, already sure the world belonged to them.

Instead, Harry shifted, uncomfortable. “Oh,” he said again. “Right.”

The red-haired boy scowled even harder now. He clearly didn’t like Draco. That was fine. Draco didn’t like him either. Not just because he was rude and dressed like a hand-me-down rag pile, though that didn’t help.

It was because he was sitting close to Harry. Because Harry was laughing with him.

Jealousy, sharp and hot, flickered low in Draco’s stomach.

He tried to ignore it. Put on his best pure-blood drawl instead. “Well,” he said, “You’ll find that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He held out his hand.

His palm felt suddenly sweaty. He hoped the others didn’t notice.

It wasn’t just a hand, to him. It was everything he’d been told a young omega might do when he wanted to align himself with the right Alpha. A small, traditional gesture: choosing.

He’d never done it before. There had been boys, certainly—sons of Father’s colleagues with their stiff little shoulders and arrogant smirks—but Draco had never wanted to offer his hand to them.

He wanted Harry to take it.

Harry looked at his hand. For a too-long, breathless second, Draco thought—

Yes.

Take it. Take it, see me, choose me—

Then Harry’s gaze slid from his hand to the red-haired boy and back again. His eyes sharpened.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” Harry said coolly.

A small silence followed.

Draco’s hand hung in the air, empty.

Oh.

The word rang in his head like a dropped bell. He felt his cheeks burn, his stomach swoop, something fragile inside him crack straight down the middle.

He let his hand drop slowly.

It had never occurred to him that Harry might refuse.

Nobody refused a Malfoy when they offered alliance. Nobody refused a well-bred omega’s hand. That simply wasn’t done.

But Harry did. And he did it in front of the red-haired boy, in front of the whole compartment, as if it meant nothing at all.

As if Draco meant nothing at all.

The humiliation was a hot, choking thing in his throat.

“Suit yourself,” Draco said, and he was proud of how steady his voice sounded. “We’ll see.”

He turned, closed the compartment door with great care, and walked away without hurrying. His back straight. His chin up.

If his eyes stung, he ignored it.

Inside his chest, something folded in on itself.

------------------------------------------

Blaise found him in an empty compartment a few minutes later.

Draco sat by the window, watching the platform blur as the train started to move, his hands curled into tight fists on his knees.

Blaise slid the door open quietly. “So,” he said. “How’d it go?”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t answer.

“Oh,” Blaise said, softer. “That bad, hm?”

Draco kept his gaze fixed on the countryside as it crawled by. “He’s an idiot.”

“Is he?” Blaise asked, non-judgmental. “Did he insult you?”

Draco shook his head. That almost would have been easier.

Blaise waited.

Finally, Draco swallowed and forced the words out. “I offered him my hand.”

Blaise drew in a breath. “As an—”

“As a friend,” Draco said quickly, lying again. “Obviously.”

Blaise said nothing.

Draco’s throat tightened. “He refused.”

There it was: the ugly little truth.

Blaise leaned against the doorframe, considering him. “In front of the Weasley boy?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Brutal,” Blaise said after a moment, not unkindly.

Draco’s eyes prickled. He blinked hard. “You don’t say.”

Blaise rapped his knuckles gently against the wood. “You going to cry?”

“No,” Draco snapped. His voice sounded slightly strangled. “I am not going to cry over Harry Potter of all people.”

“Good,” Blaise said cheerfully. “I’d have to hex you for being tragic.”

Draco made a noise that was meant to be a scoff and came out more like a hurt cough.

Blaise crossed the compartment and sat opposite him, stretching his legs out. “So. Potter’s a prat.”

“Yes,” Draco said, with feeling.

“Clearly has no taste,” Blaise added.

“Obviously.”

“Doesn’t appreciate good offers.”

“Precisely,” Draco said.

They sat in silence for a bit.

Then Blaise said quietly, “You still like him, though.”

It wasn’t a question.

Draco’s jaw clenched. His fingers dug crescent moons into his own palms.

“It doesn’t just… go away,” he muttered. “That’s not how it works.”

Blaise watched him, eyes sharp but oddly gentle. “What are you going to do then?”

Draco stared out of the window at the streaking green. He could still see Harry’s face in his mind’s eye—those green eyes, that hesitant smile, the way he’d looked genuinely grateful when Draco pointed out the dirt on his nose.

And then the way he’d looked at Draco’s hand and chosen to say no.

The hurt twisted into something else. Something sharper, desperate.

“I’ll make him notice me,” Draco said, very softly.

Blaise hummed. “By…?”

Draco’s lips curled into a brittle, bitter little smile. “If he won’t have me as a friend,” he said, “then he can have me as an enemy.”

Blaise snorted. “Very healthy.”

“I don’t care,” Draco snapped. “He will look at me. He will remember my name. I refuse to be nothing to him.”

He refused to be forgettable.

If Harry Potter wouldn’t take his hand, then Harry Potter could take his hexes, his insults, his attention—every sharp, petty blade Draco knew how to wield.

If softness had been rejected, then Draco would wrap himself in armour instead.

“Suit yourself,” Blaise said, though there was a hint of sympathy in his tone. “Just don’t be surprised if it all blows up in your face one day.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “When have I ever done anything by halves?”

Blaise grinned. “Fair point.”

As the train thundered north, Draco Malfoy sat and nursed his bruised pride, his hurt little heart, and his new resolve.

Fine. Harry Potter didn’t want his hand?

Then Harry Potter would get everything else instead—Draco’s sharp tongue, his clever plans, his constant, nagging presence.

Draco would follow him through school like a shadow.

If he couldn’t have the story where Harry chose him…

He would write a different one.

Even if it hurt.

Draco’s POV — First Year, Great Hall

The Great Hall was every bit as magnificent as the stories promised.

Thousands of candles floated above the four House tables, flames flickering in a slow, enchanted rhythm. The ceiling shimmered with clouds and starlight—an exact replica of the night sky outside. Golden plates gleamed on polished wood. First-years murmured and shuffled, staring at everything with wide-eyed awe.

Draco didn’t look at any of it.

His gaze was fixed—unwavering, embarrassingly so—on Harry Potter.

Harry stood a few feet ahead of him in the line of trembling first-years. His black hair stuck up in every direction like he’d just rolled out of bed and fought a small hurricane on the way here. His glasses were slipping down his nose. His clothes still didn’t fit him properly.

Pathetic, Draco told himself.

His heart whispered: adorable.

Harry kept glancing at the enchanted ceiling, mouth slightly open. He looked… stunned. Soft. Vulnerable in a way that made Draco’s omega instincts prickle under his skin.

He’s on his own, Draco realised.

No alpha family to guide him.

No parents.

No one.

A wave of protectiveness—unwanted, ridiculous—flared in Draco’s chest.

Stop that. He’s a stranger. A stranger who didn’t take your hand.

Draco tried to look bored. It didn’t work.

Because just then Harry wiped a smudge from his cheek, pushing back the messy fringe—and the scar caught the candlelight.

Draco’s breath hitched.

There it is.

The scar Mother talked about.

The scar the whole world knows.

This is the boy who lived.

This is the boy I’m going to marry—

NO. STOP. SHUT UP.

He shook his head sharply as Professor McGonagall unrolled the parchment and called the first name.

“Abbott, Hannah!”

The Sorting Hat murmured for only a moment before crying, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

Cheers filled the hall.

Draco swallowed. Hard.

He couldn’t look away from Harry.

He’d thought seeing Harry on the platform had been bad enough. But seeing him now—bathed in candlelight, eyes darting nervously, lip caught between his teeth—was unbearable.

He’s prettier in warm light, Draco thought.

More fragile.

More—

He cut the thought in half before it could embarrass him any further.

Name after name drifted past him in a haze.

“Bones, Susan!”

“Hufflepuff!”

“Boot, Terry!”

“Ravenclaw!”

“Brown, Lavender!”

“Gryffindor!”

But Draco paid attention to only one name.

Harry’s.

And when Professor McGonagall finally called—

“Potter, Harry!”

—the entire hall froze.

Gasps. Whispering. Heads craning.

The famous Boy-Who-Lived moved forward, stiff and awkward, as if he wasn’t used to being looked at.

Draco’s chest tightened painfully.

Don’t look scared, he thought wildly.

You’re alright. You’re with me now—

NO YOU ARE NOT, DRACO, SHUT UP.

Harry sat on the stool and the Sorting Hat dropped over his eyes.

The hall held its breath.

Draco did too.

He didn’t realise he’d gripped the hem of his robe until his knuckles went white.

Come on, Harry, come on—

Come to Slytherin.

Come to me.

The hat twitched. Then—

Gryffindor.

Draco’s heart cracked. Audibly. Like a wand under someone’s foot.

The Gryffindor table exploded into cheers. Ron Weasley whooped, banging his goblet on the table. Fred and George were shouting. Percy looked smug.

Harry smiled—small, uncertain—and walked towards them.

He took a seat between Weasley and a girl with bushy hair.

Draco stared.

He didn’t come to Slytherin.

He didn’t come to me.

The burn in Draco’s chest grew hotter.

Blaise whispered, “Well, that’s that. You'll never get him now.”

Draco elbowed him viciously.

Then Professor McGonagall called:

“Malfoy, Draco!”

Draco straightened, smoothing his robes, lifting his chin high. If Harry wouldn’t see him—properly see him—then Draco would make the rest of the Hall see a prince.

He walked forward, calm and perfectly poised.

The Sorting Hat barely grazed his hair.

“Slytherin!”

Of course.

He strode to the Slytherin table under a swell of applause.

But he didn’t feel triumphant.

He felt… hollow. Angry. Embarrassed.

Rejected.

By Harry Potter.

“If He Won’t Look at Me Kindly, He’ll Look at Me Anyway”

First Year — Draco’s attempt at being Harry’s worst problem (on purpose)

The first week of lessons at Hogwarts should have been thrilling.

Draco had imagined it all:

floating candles, ancient magic, hundreds of students in black robes moving like shadows through stone corridors. He’d imagined impressing professors, earning points, being everything Father expected—

But instead, he spent the majority of his time watching Harry Potter.

Not openly, of course.

Draco Malfoy would never be caught dead pining.

He did it through casual glances.

Accidental run-ins.

Perfectly timed corridor appearances.

And every time he caught sight of Harry—

laughing with that Weasley boy, or walking next to the bushy-haired Muggle-born Alpha, or simply existing—

that stupid flutter in Draco’s chest returned.

It was infuriating.

Even worse, Harry never looked back.

Not once.

Not even during Potions, where Draco sat only two cauldrons away.

Draco had insulted Weasley three separate times in five minutes that lesson, just to make Harry turn towards him.

Harry hadn’t even twitched.

Bloody unbelievable.

Apparently rejecting Draco Malfoy’s hand was easy, but giving him so much as a glance now was far too much effort.

Fine.

If Harry wanted to ignore him, Draco would make himself un-ignorable.

------------------------------------------

The first proper confrontation happened outside Charms.

Harry was standing with Ron and Hermione near the door, the three of them laughing over something that Draco absolutely did not find adorable.

He strutted forward, schooling his expression into the perfect smirk he’d practiced in the mirror.

“Enjoying your little study group, are you, Potter?” Draco drawled, leaning against the wall as if he owned the corridor.

He had practised this line.

Hours.

It was meant to sound witty.

Harry blinked at him. “We’re literally waiting for class.”

Draco faltered. “…Right. Well. You seem very—busy.”

Weasley made a face. “What d’you want, Malfoy?”

Attention.

I want attention, you ginger turnip.

Draco lifted his chin. “Oh, nothing. Just admiring Potter’s… friends.”

He let his gaze slide over Ron first—slowly, deliberately—and then Hermione.

One alpha and one omega with him.

Great.

Current annoyance level: catastrophic.

“Weasley, that hand-me-down robe is a tragedy,” Draco sniffed. “Is that a seam or a desperate plea for help?”

Ron bristled. “It’s fine!”

“No,” Draco said sweetly, “it’s not.”

He flicked his gaze to Hermione. “And you. Frizzy hair. Honestly, don’t they make combs in the Muggle world?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Oh, do shut up.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “Why are you even talking to us?”

Perfect.

There.

Harry had addressed him.

Draco’s heart leapt like a fool.

He shrugged, casual. “Thought it might brighten your day.”

Ron barked, “How is that supposed to brighten anything?!”

“Well,” Draco replied breezily, “it brightens my day.”

That much, at least, was true.

Harry sighed and turned away. “Come on, we’re going in.”

Draco froze—just for a second.

You’re leaving? Already? No, no, come back, look at me again—

“Potter!” Draco called.

Harry paused at the doorway. Looked back.

Draco’s pulse skidded.

Yes. There. Finally.

He opened his mouth—

And said the stupidest thing imaginable.

“You’ve got dirt on your… um… shoe.”

Harry frowned and lifted his foot. “…No I don’t.”

THE FLOOR SWALLOWED DRACO MALFOY WHOLE.

He recovered instantly (barely). “Well, perhaps it’s imaginary dirt. Common problem for Gryffindors.”

Harry gave him a look. “Right.”

Then he disappeared into the classroom.

Draco glared at the door.

“Bloody wonderful,” he muttered. “I insult people and it still takes him five whole sentences to look at me.”

------------------------------------------

Later that week, during flying practice, Draco discovered a new form of torture:

Harry Potter was good at flying.

No—Harry Potter was beautiful at flying.

His movements were smooth, instinctive, natural.

Wind in his hair, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, he looked—

Stop. Stop, Draco. Don’t be pathetic.

But he couldn’t look away.

Harry flew like he belonged in the air.

Like it was written in his blood.

Like he didn’t even know how breathtaking he looked.

Draco gripped his broom so tightly his knuckles whitened.

He wanted Harry to look at him.

To chase him.

To race him.

To laugh with him—

But Harry was flying with Longbottom and Weasley, and laughing with the Muggle-born girl.

Envy curled through Draco’s stomach, sour and hot.

Harry should look at me like that.

Not at them.

When Harry finally landed, Draco swooped down immediately, stopping with an unnecessarily sharp skid on the grass right beside him.

“Nice broom control, Potter,” Draco said, smirking. “For someone who probably hasn’t flown before.”

Harry wiped sweat from his forehead. “What do you want now, Malfoy?”

A soft voice inside Draco whispered: You. I want you.

But he said:

“Oh, nothing. Thought you might like a real challenge.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Try keeping up with me.”

Harry shrugged. “Alright.”

Draco’s heart did a weird flip.

They took off.

For a glorious minute, Draco had Harry’s full attention.

Harry was right beside him, matching his speed, cutting through the wind, glancing at him every few seconds.

Draco’s chest felt too tight.

When they landed again, Harry was breathing heavily, grinning. “That was brilliant.”

Draco’s breath caught.

You’re brilliant.

But all he managed was: “Obviously it was.”

Harry laughed—actually laughed—and walked away.

Draco stared after him.

“Pathetic,” he muttered to himself. “Absolutely pathetic.”

------------------------------------------

That night in the Slytherin dormitory, Theo Nott leaned across his bed and whispered, “So how was annoying Potter today?”

Draco shoved his pillow over his face. “Horrible.”

Theo smirked. “You’re obsessed.”

“I am NOT—”

“You totally are.”

Draco sat up and threw the pillow at him. “I don’t like him! I despise him!”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Right. That’s why your eyes turn to mush every time he’s mentioned.”

“They do NOT—”

“Draco, darling,” Theo said, patting his hand sympathetically, “you’re in love with him.”

Draco froze.

Then, in the smallest voice: “…I know.”

Theo’s expression softened instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Draco swallowed. “I tried being nice. He rejected me. So now I’ll just… annoy him forever.”

Theo laughed softly. “Solid plan. Healthy. Very you.”

Draco huffed. “Shut up.”

But when he lay in bed that night, staring at the canopy above him, the truth settled into his bones:

He didn’t want to bully Harry.

He wanted Harry to see him.

Even if it was for the wrong reasons.

Harry’s POV — “Malfoy’s a Git. Right? Right.”

Harry Potter didn’t understand Draco Malfoy.

And Harry prided himself on being fairly good at spotting trouble by now. He’d grown up around Dudley, after all. He knew the signs: loud voice, puffed-up posture, an expression that dared you to disagree. Dudley had been a master of it, and Malfoy wasn’t far off.

But Malfoy was… confusing.

From the very first moment, he’d been confusing.

------------------------------------------

Harry replayed that Sorting Hat moment sometimes, late at night in the dormitory when the castle was quiet and the moonlight spilled in silver squares across the floorboards.

Malfoy’s name had been called, and he’d walked up like the whole hall belonged to him. Chin high, robes immaculate, hair somehow shining. He’d sat on the stool with the impatience of someone who already knew the answer.

“Slytherin!”

And the table had erupted.

Harry had clapped politely, because everyone else was doing it. But he’d had this odd prickling feeling on the back of his neck.

Like someone was staring at him.

When he’d glanced over, Malfoy’s grey eyes were on him. Sharp. Assessing. Almost… expectant.

Harry hadn’t known what to do with that, so he'd looked away.

He shouldn’t have felt guilty about it.

He did anyway.

------------------------------------------

Malfoy’s behaviour made even less sense afterwards.

One minute he was offering friendly advice—on the train, no less, which had startled Harry enough to forget the bread smudge on his robes. The next minute he was insulting Ron’s family and Hermione’s hair and stomping around like he owned the school.

Harry tried ignoring him. Truly, he did.

But Malfoy made that nearly impossible.

Two days into classes, Harry had already been on the receiving end of at least seven snide remarks, three pointed looks, one deliberate shoulder-bump in the corridor, and one bizarre comment about “imaginary dirt”.

Harry sighed as he walked toward Gryffindor Tower after Charms. “What is Malfoy’s problem?”

Ron snorted. “He exists. That’s the problem.”

Hermione nodded. “He seems very insecure.”

Harry frowned. “He’s not insecure. He’s—well, he’s Malfoy.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said primly.

Harry opened his mouth to reply, then hesitated.

Because truthfully… Malfoy didn’t always seem confident. Not really.

There were brief moments—tiny flickers—when Harry could swear he saw something else in those sharp grey eyes.

Something almost… hopeful.

Then furious the next second, like Harry had accidentally offended him by breathing wrong.

He always looks angry at me, Harry thought. But he didn’t look angry that first moment.

He remembered the platform.

Malfoy staring at him like Harry had hung the moon.

It had been intense. Unsettling.

A little flattering, if Harry was honest.

And then Malfoy had insulted Ron, and that was that.

------------------------------------------

The flying lesson only made things worse.

Harry tried not to show off. Truly.

But once he was in the air… everything felt right.

Like breathing. Like freedom.

He’d forgotten Malfoy was even there—

until Malfoy swooped up beside him, silver-blond hair whipping in the wind, eyes bright with something Harry didn’t recognise.

“You call that flying, Potter?” Malfoy shouted over the wind, smirking.

Harry grinned back before he could stop himself. “You wanna race then?”

Malfoy’s face lit up in a way Harry had never seen before.

For a moment—just a moment—he looked… happy.

Not smug.

Not superior.

Just happy.

And Harry felt something strange twist in his chest.

They took off, neck and neck, both laughing. Well—Harry was laughing. Malfoy was grinning like he’d swallowed sunlight.

When they landed, Harry said, “That was brilliant!”

Malfoy blinked, stunned, as if no one had ever praised him before.

Harry wanted to say something else—something less stupid than “brilliant”—but then Malfoy recovered, tossed his hair, and drawled, “Obviously.”

And stomped off.

Harry stared after him.

“What is wrong with him?”

------------------------------------------

But the weirdest moment of all hadn’t been the broom race, or the insults, or the strange looks Malfoy kept giving him in the corridors.

It was what happened later that evening.

Harry was heading back to the common room alone, humming under his breath, when he heard quiet voices ahead.

He rounded a corner and froze.

Malfoy was standing with that quiet boy from Slytherin—Theo Nott. Omega he thought if he remembered correctly. 

Malfoy’s shoulders were tense, face red, eyes suspiciously shiny.

Harry stepped closer.

“—I do not like him!” Malfoy hissed.

Nott snorted. “Draco, don’t lie.”

Malfoy choked. “I’m not lying—he’s awful! He rejected me!”

“I noticed.” Nott folded his arms. “Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re obsessed.”

“I am NOT—”

“You are. And it’s pathetic. Also adorable, but mostly pathetic.”

Malfoy groaned loudly, covering his face. “Why won’t he just—”

Harry leaned forward instinctively.

Just what?

But Nott saw him first.

“Potter,” he said flatly.

Malfoy whirled around, mortified.

His cheeks were scarlet.

His hair mussed.

His eyes wide like a startled kitten.

Harry had seen Malfoy many ways—annoying, smug, angry.

He had never thought Malfoy could look like that…look so...adorable.

“Enjoying the eavesdropping?” Malfoy snapped, recovering his sneer with visible effort.

Harry was still lost in thought till he heard Malfoys voice 

Harry blinked. “Er—no? I wasn’t— I just— I was walking.”

“Well walk somewhere else!” Malfoy snapped. “This is private!”

Harry raised his hands. “Alright! Sorry!”

He walked away quickly.

But his mind stayed behind.

Malfoy had been talking about… someone he liked?

Malfoy liked someone?

Someone who rejected him?

Harry tried to imagine Malfoy having a crush.

Impossible.

Ridiculous.

Though… Malfoy had looked genuinely upset.

Harry frowned.

Why do I care?

He told himself it didn’t matter.

That Malfoy was still a git.

That this didn’t change anything.

And yet…

When Harry finally crawled into bed that night, staring at the hangings above him, one thought wouldn’t leave his head:

Malfoy isn’t what he pretends to be.

And another, quieter thought:

Would Who was he talking about?

“If I Cry Once, No One Will Know”

Draco’s POV — The night after everything goes wrong

The Slytherin dormitory was quiet.

Most of the boys had already fallen asleep, their curtains drawn, the low murmur of the Black Lake rippling softly outside the windows. Emerald light shimmered through the green-tinted glass, casting faint shadows across Draco’s bed.

Draco lay stiffly on his back, staring at the canopy.

He had held it together all day.

He had insulted Potter.

He had insulted Weasley.

He had sneered, and strutted, and pretended he was perfectly fine.

But now… now that it was quiet…

The truth pressed down on him like a heavy cloak.

Harry Potter had rejected him.

And not just socially.

He’d rejected Draco’s hand.

Draco’s choice.

Draco’s stupid, hopeful, omega-first-sight feeling.

Father always said Malfoys didn’t cry.

But Narcissa had once told him, brushing his hair tenderly, “Everyone gets one cry, dragon. One proper cry when it hurts too much to pretend.”

Draco rolled onto his side, pressing his face into his pillow.

Just one.

Just one cry.

His breath hitched, quietly at first.

He tried to hold it back—Merlin, he tried—jaw clenched so tight it hurt, shoulders trembling with the effort not to make a sound.

But the tears came anyway.

Hot. Humiliating.

A slow ache leaking out of him, one drop at a time.

He muffled the soft sob in his pillow.

It wasn’t just the rejection.

It was everything—

The Sorting

Harry smiling at Weasley

Harry laughing with the Muggle-born girl

Harry not looking at him

Harry not seeing him

Harry not choosing him

And worst of all…

Harry looking at Draco’s offered hand

and saying no.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, letting another quiet sob escape. His chest hurt—deep, bruising hurt that pulsed behind his ribs.

Obsession, Theo had called it.

Maybe it was.

Maybe Draco Malfoy was the biggest fool in Hogwarts.

He sniffed once, wiped his face with his sleeve, and forced himself to take slow breaths.

Enough.

One cry.

No more.

He wasn’t going to let Harry Potter ruin him.

He would wake up tomorrow and be sharp, and perfect, and impossible to ignore.

He would smile and sneer and hex Weasley’s shoelaces together.

He would act like nothing mattered.

He would make Harry look at him.

Even if it was out of annoyance.

Even if it was out of anger.

Anything was better than being unseen.

Draco pulled the covers up to his chin, curled in on himself, and whispered into the quiet:

“He will notice me.”

The tears dried on his cheeks.

His heart didn’t stop hurting.

But Draco Malfoy fell asleep with one small, stubborn wish:

Maybe one day, he won’t say no.

 --------------☆☆☆--------------

Chapter Text

Draco’s POV

Draco Malfoy stepped off the Hogwarts Express for second year with his chin lifted and his dignity glued firmly in place.

He was older.

He was wiser.

He was absolutely, completely, entirely over Harry Potter.

Or that was the plan.

It lasted twelve seconds.

Because there Harry was — standing by the carriages, laughing at something Weasley said.

And Draco, who had rehearsed seven different casual greetings in case Harry happened to look his way, promptly forgot how to blink.

Harry had changed.

Not drastically, but enough for Draco’s foolish omega instincts to notice:

•  Taller, just slightly
•  Shoulders a bit broader
•  Hair longer and even messier
•  Voice deeper when he shouted to  Hermione

It was stupid how much Draco noticed.

Stupid and pathetic and entirely predictable.

“Oh Merlin,” Blaise muttered behind him. “We’ve lost him already.”

Theo sighed. “He’s staring.”

Draco snapped out of it. “I am NOT.”

“You are,” Pansy said with the calm certainty of someone who had witnessed this tragedy for a full year already.

Draco tore his gaze away.

“Let’s go inside,” he said sharply. “Before this term manages to be worse than the last.”

He pretended he didn’t glance back once more.

He failed.

------------------------------------------

The Great Hall felt familiar yet changed.

Draco felt… warm.

Too warm.

Not feverish — not sick — but off, like something under his skin was shifting.

It irritated him.

Worse, he had no explanation for the way his cheeks flushed brighter the moment Harry walked past the Slytherin table.

Harry didn’t look at him.

Of course he didn’t.

Draco’s chest pinched in a way he refused to acknowledge.

Theo leaned in. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Draco said through clenched teeth.

“Your scent shimmered,” Theo murmured very quietly.

Draco froze.

“I’m wearing blockers,” Draco hissed.

“You are,” Theo whispered. “But… puberty breaks through blockers sometimes.”

Puberty.

Not omega puberty.

Surely not.

Draco forced a perfect, aristocratic smile and said:

“No. Absolutely not. I refuse.”

Theo hummed.

Blaise smirked.

Draco stabbed his roast potato with unnecessary force.

Halfway throught the breakfast, Professor McGonagall tapped the table with her spoon.

"Second years,"she called, "please rememberthat today'sfirst period is SecondaryGenderEducationin Classroom Three. Attendanceis compulsory."

Draco’s fork slipped.

Brilliant.

Perfect.

Sex-ed.

Exactly what we needed TODAY,while his cheeks were glowing like a lantern.

Theo snorted. 

Balise choked on pumpkin juice.

Pansy whispered,"Try not to faint."

Draco stared at ceiling."Merlin, strike me down."

------------------------------------------

second years gathered in Classroom Three for their mandatory Secondary Gender Education lesson.

Draco took his seat between Theo and Pansy, trying to ignore the way Harry sat directly opposite him.

Of all the places in the circle, Harry chose THAT chair.

Insufferable boy.

Madam Pomfrey began with her gentle voice:

“Today we’ll discuss what to expect during alpha, beta, and omega puberty. All bodies develop at their own pace, and none of these changes are shameful.”

Draco wanted to melt into the floor.

She continued:

“Omegas may experience scent changes, physical development, heightened emotions, monthly cycles, and eventually heats. These are not dangerous — simply natural biology.”

Draco sat perfectly still.

Harry looked directly at Draco.

Draco glared, as if challenging Harry to SAY something.

Harry didn’t.

But he frowned slightly, nose twitching.

Draco’s stomach dropped.

Oh no.

No no no.

Harry Potter was NOT allowed to smell anything.

------------------------------------------

Harry’s pov—

It happened while Madam Pomfrey explained the differences between dominant and recessive omegas.

A quiet sniff.

Short, puzzled, almost polite.

Harry tilted his head.

Sniffed again.

And then his eyes narrowed ever so slightly on Draco.

Draco’s entire soul evaporated.

Harry mouthed silently:

Are you okay?

Draco mouthed back, horror-struck:

STOP SNIFFING ME.

Harry mouthed:

I AM NOT—

Draco nearly flipped the table.

Theo covered his laugh with a cough.

Pomfrey was describing period symptoms. Draco wished for death.

------------------------------------------

As soon as the class ended Draco tried to sprint out of the room.

He made it three steps before his name was called.

“Malfoy? Wait!”

Harry.

Of course.

Draco froze like a deer about to be run over by a carriage.

Harry stopped in front of him, worry written across his stupidly heroic face.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Harry asked. “You kept going red in class.”

Red.

Red?

RED?

Draco’s ears turned crimson.

“I—I—NO!” he spluttered. “I’m perfectly fine! PERFECTLY. FINE.”

Harry blinked in confusion. “Right. Just checking.”

Checking.

Harry Potter had “checked” on him.

Draco practically combusted.

He spun away so fast his robes flared dramatically behind him.

Theo patted his shoulder sympathetically.

“He smelled it.”

“THEODORE NOTT I SWEAR—”

------------------------------------------

The end of second year brought events Draco would never admit affected him:

Something happened to Draco over the summer.

Something quiet.

Something gradual.

Something he didn’t notice until it was too late to be modest about it.

He grew into himself.

Not all at once — it happened in whispers, half-seen in mirror reflections, hints caught in sunlight and shadows.

At first it was his skin.

It softened — not like a child’s, but like polished moonstone.

A kind of delicate smoothness that seemed to catch every stray ray of light and hold it, glowing faintly under his collar.

Even Narcissa had cupped his cheek one morning and murmured, “Oh, my sweet boy… you’re beginning.”

Draco didn’t understand what she meant.

He understood by August.

Because next came his hair.

It had always been pale, but now it was luminous, almost white-gold in the sun.

A strange, ethereal shimmer clung to it — as though omega hormones had threaded starlight through every strand.

He would push it behind his ear only for it to fall forward again in soft, silken sheets.

The elves could barely keep up with how fast it grew — longer, smoother, elegant in a way he had never worked for.

And then, of course, his eyes changed.

The grey had deepened — sharpened — so clear it was unsettling.

Steel on the outside, storm clouds beneath, with a brightness that made people look twice.

Whenever he blinked slowly, lashes brushing his cheek, he looked heartbreakingly soft.

Blaise had stared at him one afternoon and said:

“Draco… you look like you stepped out of a portrait.”

Draco had slapped him.

(It did nothing. Blaise just laughed.)

Then there were Draco’s lips.

They had always been pink, yes — but now they were lush.

Rounded.

Soft.

Touched constantly by an omega flush that made them look bitten, even when he hadn’t touched them.

They were lips that suggested secrets.

And longing.

And danger, if one were foolish enough to comment on them.

Theo had been foolish.

Theo had said, “Your lips looks kissable.”and smikred.

Draco had nearly hexed him into a potted plant.

But Theo hadn’t been wrong.

The biggest change, however, the one Draco pretended not to notice…

…was his body.

Omega puberty had sketched new lines across him, refining him like a sculptor’s patient hand.

His waist had drawn in, subtle at first — then unmistakable, forming a gentle inward curve that robes draped beautifully around.

His hips had softened, rounding just enough to give him an unfair silhouette when he stood in profile.

He had not grown breasts, not truly — but the tissue had changed, enough that certain shirts felt… different.

And Merlin help him, his walk changed too.

Not intentionally — just instinct.

A natural sway, barely visible unless one was watching closely.

And people watched.

Far too often.

Alphas turned their heads by reflex.

Betas paused mid-step.

Even professors blinked twice.

But none of it compared to the moment Draco realised what he now looked like when he blushed.

The flush used to be faint.

Now it swept across his cheeks, softening his features, painting his skin like rosewater brushed with a fingertip.

It made him look—

Beautiful.

Painfully beautiful.

Dangerously beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that omega stories whispered about.

Draco hated that he noticed.

He hated even more that he wondered — in the privacy of his room, with no witnesses but the dark — whether Harry Potter would notice too.

And then came September.

Back at Hogwarts.

Draco Malfoy stepped off the train, the castle breeze lifting his shining hair, his new silhouette hidden beneath perfectly tailored robes, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he looked up at the sky—

—and the first person he locked eyes with was Harry Potter.

Harry froze.

His breath hitched.

His eyes widened, just a fraction — the tiniest break in his composure.

Draco felt it.

Saw it.

Nearly drowned in it.

A crack of awareness.

A flicker of something Harry didn’t understand.

A jolt of recognition between instinct and adolescence.

And Draco?

Draco smirked.

Very softly.

Very subtly.

Enough to say:

You notice me now.

Even if Harry’s brain hadn’t caught up yet.

------------------------------------------

Harry’s POV — 

Harry hadn’t expected anything dramatic to happen on the first day back.

New term, new books, same chaos.

He’d imagined Ron complaining about homework, Hermione making lists, Draco Malfoy being a nuisance.

The usual.

He absolutely had not prepared for Draco Malfoy walking onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters looking like—

Like…

Well, Harry didn’t actually have the vocabulary for it.

He saw Draco step through the barrier, the morning sun catching his hair just so, and for a bizarre moment Harry forgot how to breathe.

Malfoy had always been pale.

Always elegant in a prickly, pompous sort of way.

But this—

This was different.

His hair was… longer? And brighter?

His skin glowed — actually glowed — not shiny like he’d cast a charm on himself, but soft and luminous, like moonlight.

His face looked sharper, yet somehow softer too — cheekbones a little higher, mouth a little fuller, eyes framed by lashes that felt illegal.

Harry blinked once.

Twice.

Malfoy looked like someone had taken the old version of him and pressed ‘upgrade.’

Ron nudged Harry’s arm.

“You alright, mate?”

“Mmph,” Harry said, which was not a word but was all he could manage.

Ron followed Harry’s line of sight and groaned.

“Oh no. Not Malfoy. What’s he done now?”

Harry said nothing.

Because he had no idea what Malfoy had done.

But something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Harry swallowed, throat dry.

Did Malfoy just—was that a hair flip?

It was.

A deliberate, slow sweep of white-blond hair over one shoulder.

Harry’s stomach lurched weirdly.

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

“Let’s… go sit,” Harry muttered, dragging Ron away before his brain melted.

------------------------------------------

First class of term: Transfiguration.

Nothing fancy.

Nothing dramatic.

Except Malfoy was there.

And Malfoy was… glowing.

Harry took his usual seat beside Ron, who immediately dumped his bag on the desk like it was the most exhausting year already.

Hermione placed her books neatly, glanced at Malfoy, frowned, then muttered, “Oh my.”

“What?” Harry whispered.

“He’s changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Puberty, Harry.”

“What about it?”

“Malfoy hit it.”

“Oh.”

Harry did not recover from that “oh.”

Because Malfoy sat two rows ahead, profile perfectly angled as if he knew people were watching.

Which, annoyingly, Harry was.

Malfoy’s hair fell over his shoulder like silk.

When he turned, the strands shifted like liquid starlight.

Harry stared.

He didn’t mean to.

He didn’t want to.

His eyes simply… gravitated.

To the hair.

To the curve of Malfoy’s cheek.

To the outline of his waist beneath perfectly-tailored robes.

Ron whispered, “Mate, why do you look like you’ve swallowed a Bludger?”

“I DON’T,” Harry whispered aggressively.

He did.

He absolutely did.

Then Malfoy spoke.

“Crabbe, do you have the new ink? The owl tore mine again.”

His voice was lower. Softer.

Not husky — just… smoother.

Calmer.

More mature in a way that sent a strange jolt through Harry’s spine.

Harry nearly dropped his quill.

Ron stared at him.

“…Harry?”

Harry snapped his attention to the board, ears burning.

He did NOT blush.

He absolutely did, but he was not prepared to admit that under torture.

Halfway through class, Harry’s nose twitched.

Not unpleasantly.

Not strongly.

Just… something.

A faint warmth in the air.

Barely-there sweetness.

Something familiar but not familiar at all.

Harry frowned slightly and sniffed again.

Ron elbowed him. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, confused. “Just… weird smell.”

Ron sniffed dramatically.

“I don’t smell anything.”

Hermione sniffed.

“…oh,” she said delicately.

“Oh WHAT?” Harry demanded.

Hermione paused.

Then lied, badly:

“Nothing.”

Harry glared.

Across the room, Malfoy shifted in his seat, the movement drawing Harry’s eyes like a magnet.

Malfoy raised a hand to his hair, brushing it back in one graceful motion.

Harry’s nose twitched again.

Something warm surged in his chest, quick and confusing.

Harry dug his nails into his palm.

Nope.

Not happening.

Not reacting to Malfoy.

Not smelling Malfoy.

Not noticing Malfoy.

Malfoy glanced back.

Their eyes met.

Harry forgot what numbers were.

He jerked his gaze back to McGonagall so fast he nearly snapped his own neck.

When class ended, Harry practically bolted for the door.

But destiny hated him.

Because he tripped on Ron’s cloak, stumbled forward

Harry didn’t even have time to think.

The moment his foot snagged Ron’s far-too-long cloak, he saw Draco Malfoy directly in his fall path—

and pure, instinctive panic snapped through him.

He lunged forward, arm sweeping behind Draco’s head—

shielding him—

twisting his own body so Draco wouldn’t hit the floor first.

They went down hard.

Harry hit the stone with Draco beneath him—

Draco’s breath punching out in a startled gasp—

and Harry’s face landed full against Malfoy’s chest. His other hand grabbing his small breast squeezing it, and wet patch was formed on dracos uniform shirt.

Harry's immediate thought was.

Warm.

Soft.

Too warm.

Harry inhaled reflexively—

just a tiny breath—

And then he froze.

Because he smelled something.

Something impossibly gentle.

Something warm, sweet, soft like sugared milk warming in sunlight.

It wrapped through his senses before he could stop it—

And Draco’s body stiffened beneath him like he’d been struck.

Harry jerked his head up, lifted by trembling arms—

and saw Draco’s face.

Wide eyes.

Pink cheeks.

Lashes trembling.

Tears pooling at the corners but not falling.

Draco didn’t speak at first.

He just looked at Harry like something sacred had shattered.

Then, barely above a whisper—fragile, trembling—

“…Get off.”

Not angry.

Not sharp.

Just soft and breaking.

Harry scrambled back instantly, palms scraping stone, heart hammering.

“Malfoy—I—I’m sorry—I tripped, I swear—I didn’t mean—”

Draco’s breath hitched, shaky and wet.

He turned his face away, covering his chest with one trembling hand as though trying to hold something in place—

or hide something Harry should never have touched.

“Draco?! Draco, darling—what—”

Pansy’s voice cut through the corridor.

She shoved through the cluster of students, eyes blazing.

She saw the mess on the floor.

She saw Harry pale and shaken.

She saw Draco—rosy-cheeked, trembling, tears threatening.

And everything inside her snapped.

She grabbed Harry’s collar in both fists, yanking him upright so fast he choked.

“What,” she hissed, every word a razor,

“did. you. do. to. him?”

Harry held his hands up, shaking.

“I didn’t— I swear— I just fell on him—Ron tripped me—! I tried to protect him—I didn’t hurt him!”

Pansy’s eyes flicked to Draco again—

to the tears Draco was desperately trying not to cry—

and her grip tightened.

Just a low, terrifying warning:

“If you EVER make him look like that again, Potter…

you’ll regret it.”

Blaise arrived silently but powerfully beside Draco.

One look at Draco’s face—

the flush, the trembling, the way Draco’s hand clutched his chest—

and Blaise understood instantly.

His eyes flicked toward Harry with a coldness that made Harry swallow hard.

Then Blaise said quietly,

“He needs Pomfrey.”

Draco didn’t protest.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t even lift his head.

He simply let Blaise and Theo help him up, leaning heavy with shame, humiliation, and something Harry didn’t understand.

Pansy gave Harry one last shove.

“Stay away.”

Then she turned, gathering Draco in her arms, holding him protectively as they escorted him out of the corridor.

Draco didn’t look back.

Not once.

------------------------------------------

Later — Gryffindor Tower

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, hands shaking.

Ron watched him quietly, then finally asked,

“What happened?”

Harry swallowed hard.

“I… crashed into him. And I—I smelled…”

He hesitated.

“…milk.”

Ron froze.

“Oh.”

“What does ‘oh’ mean?!” Harry demanded. “Everyone acted like I—like I—hurt him!”

Ron sat beside him with the expression of someone preparing terrible news.

“Harry… you know how omegas sometimes develop early?”

Harry nodded slowly.

Ron rubbed his face.

“And how certain scents are… private? Meant for partners or approved alphas?”

Harry blinked.

“…yeah?”

Ron sighed, deeply.

“Well you crashed into Malfoy’s chest and smelled his milk harry, its someting only a mate or and approved alpha can do.”

Harry stared, confused and horrified.

“But I didn’t know! I didn’t mean to smell anything!”

“I know and im not blaming you,” Ron said gently.

“But Draco didn’t. And to him… it probably felt like you saw something he wasn’t ready for anyone to see.”

Harry let his head fall into his hands.

“I hurt him,” he whispered.

Ron didn’t correct him.

"Even i would be upset if a random alpha did that even if it's on accident it just rubs in a wrong way well honestly feels like we are easy and whore ourselves."

------------------------------------------

Draco’s POV

Omega Dormitory, Slytherin

Draco didn’t remember walking to the dorm.

He remembered Pansy’s arm around his shoulders.

He remembered Blaise’s hand steadying him.

He remembered Theo whispering, “It’s alright, Dray, breathe.”

But actually getting there was a blur — a smear of cold corridors, buzzing ears, and the awful, awful feeling that something inside him had cracked open and refused to close again.

As soon as the dorm door shut behind them, Draco’s knees gave out.

Blaise caught him before he hit the floor.

“Easy,” Blaise murmured. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

The word almost broke him.

He pressed a hand hard over his chest, as if he could push down the heat coiling beneath his skin, the humiliating warmth that shouldn’t exist yet.

Not now.

Not today.

Not in front of him.

Pansy knelt in front of him, brushing his hair back with trembling hands.

“Draco, darling… breathe for me, alright?”

Draco tried.

He really did.

But every breath hurt.

Not physically — emotionally.

Because every inhale replayed it:

Harry’s weight falling onto him.

Harry’s hand behind his head, protecting him.

Harry’s face pressed against Draco’s chest.

Harry’s hand squeezing his chest.

Harry sucking in that tiny breath—

And smelling something that no one was ever supposed to smell.

Not unless Draco chose them.

Not unless Draco trusted them.

Not unless—

His throat closed around the thought.

Draco pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to stop the tears.

Trying so hard.

But the shame was a living thing, tight and hot and unbearable.

“I-I didn’t mean—” Draco choked, voice cracking as the first tear slipped free. “I didn’t mean for anyone— I didn’t even know it was happening—”

Theo rubbed circles on his back.

“It’s early,” he whispered gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Everyone smelled it,” Draco whispered, curling inward, humiliated to the core. “He smelled it.”

His voice wavered, broke.

“He wasn’t supposed to. I— I never wanted—”

He covered his face, sobbing quietly.

Pansy pulled him into her arms immediately, fierce and protective and heartbreakingly soft.

“Sweetheart, listen to me. Harry Potter doesn’t deserve to smell you. He doesn’t deserve anything from you.”

Draco’s fingers twisted into Pansy’s sleeve.

“But he did,” Draco whispered. “He did. And I couldn’t stop it.”

Blaise exhaled through his nose, jaw tight.

“Harry isn’t the problem. This was an accident. He didn’t seek it out.”

Draco shook his head helplessly.

“That doesn’t make it less humiliating.”

Blaise rested a hand on Draco’s knee.

“It’s not humiliation. It’s biology. And it’s early. And it’s overwhelming. Anyone would cry.”

“It’s worse,” Draco whispered. “Because it was him.”

The room went still.

Pansy froze.

Theo looked away, pained.

Blaise’s expression softened in a rare, aching way.

“Draco…” Blaise said quietly, “he doesn’t understand the meaning of it. He doesn’t even know what he did.”

“That’s the problem,” Draco whispered, voice hoarse. “He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all. And now he knows something about me that— that should have been… special.”

Another sob slipped out, muffled against Pansy’s shoulder.

“I feel disgusting. I feel like— like some easy omega who just— lets alphas—”

“NO.”

Pansy’s voice cracked like a whip.

She gripped Draco’s face gently but firmly.

“Look at me.”

Draco trembled, but met her eyes.

“You are not easy. You are not cheap. You are precious, Draco Malfoy. This was not your fault.”

But the shame, the raw instinctual hurt, the horrible vulnerability — it clung to him like a second skin.

He cried until he couldn’t anymore.

Then Pansy stroked his hair.

Theo held his hand.

Blaise sat close, a silent guardian.

And Draco whispered into the quiet:

“I just want him to forget.”

But a smaller voice inside him whispered the truth:

He won’t.

And neither would Draco.

------------------------------------------

Harry’s POV

Gryffindor Common Room, later

Harry stared at the fireplace, its glow blurring into one smear of orange light.

He hadn’t moved in an hour.

Ron sat beside him, quiet.

Hermione sat across, watching him with too-knowing eyes.

But Harry didn’t look at either of them.

All he could see was Draco’s face.

Pink cheeks.

Wide eyes.

Trembling lips.

Tears that hadn’t fallen.

And Harry—stupid, clumsy Harry—

landing on him,

burying his face in Draco’s chest,

and smelling something he wasn’t supposed to.

Something intimate.

Something private.

Something that made Draco look like he’d been stripped bare in front of the entire school.

Harry pressed his hands over his face and groaned.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he whispered.

“We know,” Hermione said softly.

“I just wanted to protect him. I just— I didn’t want his head to hit the floor. And then I fell, and I— I smelled— his — milk, I didn't— and he looked at me like—”

His voice cracked.

“Like I’d broken something.”

Ron swallowed hard.

“Harry… we know u didnt mean to…but whats happened cannot be reversed all you can do now is sincerly give him your apology.”

Harry’s stomach twisted painfully.

“So I took something from him,” he whispered. “I invaded something.”

“No!” Hermione said sharply. “You didn’t take anything. It was an accident.”

Harry shook his head.

“But the way he looked at me…”

His voice dropped to a raw whisper.

“It hurt.”

Ron sighed.

“I imagine it hurt him more.”

Harry felt like he was sinking.

“I don’t want him to cry because of me.”

Hermione softened.

“Then… don’t let this be the last part of the story.”

Harry looked up, heart tight.

“What do you mean?”

Hermione exchanged a glance with Ron.

Ron shrugged.

“He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

Harry opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He didn’t know the answer.

He only knew one thing:

Draco’s tears burned inside him like a bruise.

And he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself for them.

------------------------------------------

Draco avoided Harry for two whole days.

And Harry couldn’t blame him.

The moment Draco entered a corridor, Harry stepped forward — and Draco turned sharply, robes swishing, Theo and Blaise closing ranks instantly.

At meals, Draco sat between Pansy and Blaise, back impossibly straight, eyes never lifting to Harry’s table.

In classes, Draco didn’t even look Harry’s way.

Not once.

Not even when Harry couldn’t stop looking at him.

Harry tried to catch him after Charms —

blocked by Pansy.

Tried again after Potions —

blocked by Blaise.

He even cornered Theo outside the library.

Theo didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t threaten.

He simply said:

“Not yet, Potter. He’s hurt. Give him time.”

Harry went to bed that night with a stone lodged in his chest.

He couldn’t stand the idea that Draco cried because of him.

He couldn’t stand the way Draco flinched when he entered a room.

He couldn’t stand the guilt twisting deeper every hour.

So the next morning, he did something brave and stupid.

He woke up early.

Went to the courtyard where Draco always liked to read before class.

And waited.

No Ron.

No Hermione.

No Slytherins.

Just Harry.

The air smelled of frost and damp stone.

Draco arrived five minutes before breakfast, robes wrapped around him like armor.

He hadn’t expected anyone to be there — the instant he saw Harry, he froze.

Completely still.

Like a deer caught in the wandlight.

His eyes flicked to Harry’s face — brief, sharp, wounded — then he turned to leave.

“Draco, please.”

Harry’s voice cracked.

Draco stopped.

Back still turned.

But he didn’t walk away.

Harry swallowed hard.

“I’m not here to corner you. I’m not here to make excuses.”

A breath.

Steady.

Raw.

“I’m here to apologise.”

Draco’s shoulders stiffened.

Harry continued anyway.

“What I did… hurt you. Even if I didn’t understand why. Even if it was an accident.”

He took one step closer.

“I should’ve backed away sooner. I should’ve respected your space the second I realised something was wrong.”

He hesitated.

“You trusted me to not make things worse. And I did.”

The wind carried the quiet between them.

Draco’s fingers tightened around the book he held, knuckles white.

Harry’s voice softened.

“I would never want to shame you. Or make you feel exposed. Or make you cry.”

Draco flinched.

Harry felt something twist painfully in his chest.

“I’m truly, honestly sorry,” Harry whispered. “Not because everyone yelled at me. Not because I got in trouble.”

He swallowed.

“But because you looked hurt. And I never want to be the reason you look like that.”

Silence.

Then…

Very slowly…

Draco turned.

His eyes were still rimmed pink, the faintest echo of tears he’d fought so hard to hide the day before.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t insult Harry.

He didn’t even lift his chin the way he usually did when building walls.

He just stood there.

Fragile.

Hurt.

Beautiful.

“What I felt,” Draco said quietly, voice thin around the edges, “wasn’t your fault.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

“But the humiliation was real,” Draco continued. “I wasn’t ready. It wasn’t supposed to—”

He looked away, cheeks flushing painfully.

“It shouldn’t have happened like that.”

Harry’s heart cracked.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

Draco’s eyes flicked back to him — quick, shy, searching.

“Don’t pity me,” Draco murmured.

Harry shook his head quickly.

“I don’t. I swear I don’t. I just—”

He hesitated, terrified of saying the wrong thing.

“I care, Draco. Not in the wrong way. Not in a pity way. Just… I care that you’re hurting.”

Draco blinked, startled.

That Harry was the one who said that to him.

That Harry cared about him

A breath shuddered out of him.

Then:

“I known it was an accident and that i reacted dramatically but I know you didnt do it on purpose…just make sure you don’t do it again.”

Harry nodded immediately.

“Never.”

A beat.

“Ever.”

“I promise.”

Draco’s throat bobbed.

Another tiny beat.

“…Thank you,” Draco whispered.

And for the first time since the accident—

he didn’t look away.

------------------------------------------

Return to Hogwarts (4th Year)

Harry’s POV

Harry honestly thought he was prepared this time.

Prepared for Draco Malfoy’s presence.

Prepared for the awkwardness still humming between them from last year’s… accident.

Prepared to keep his head down, stay civil, and not stare at Draco like an idiot.

He was wrong.

Completely, utterly, disastrously wrong.

Because the Draco who stepped off the Hogwarts Express that September looked nothing like the boy Harry remembered.

Not even like the boy Harry had apologised to.

Draco Malfoy had changed again.

He wasn’t glowing from early puberty anymore—

He had grown into it.

His hair fell in long, silvery waves over his shoulders now, catching the sunlight like spun moonlight.

His skin was impossibly smooth, porcelain with the faintest natural blush on his cheeks.

His waist was narrower, posture elegant without trying.

His lashes—Harry tried very hard not to notice—were long enough to cast shadows.

He looked older.

Softer.

More beautiful in a way that wasn’t fragile at all—

instead, steady, confident, poised.

An omega who finally understood his own body.

Harry’s throat went dry.

Ron elbowed him.

“Mate, you alright?”

Harry forced himself to blink, tearing his gaze away.

“Yeah. Fine. Just… tired.”

Ron snorted. “Sure.”

Hermione looked between Harry and Draco with a knowing, irritatingly gentle expression.

“Just be respectful,” she murmured. “Fourth year changes people.”

Harry pretended not to know what she meant.

He knew exactly what she meant.

------------------------------------------

Draco’s POV

Draco felt stable this year.

His cycles had evened out.

His scent blockers held easily now.

Pre-heat smelled faint and clean and could be hidden with minimal potions.

No more embarrassing scent leaks.

No more panicked tears.

He felt… in control.

Mostly.

Until he saw Harry Potter looking at him.

Harry didn’t stare like he had in third year — confused, alarmed, flustered.

No.

Harry stared like he’d forgotten what oxygen was.

Draco’s stomach swooped in a way he hated.

In a way he had grown used to hating.

He sniffed, lifted his chin, and swept past the Gryffindors with practiced elegance.

But when Blaise leaned in and murmured, “He nearly tripped staring at you,” Draco nearly did trip.

“I don’t care,” Draco said automatically.

He cared.

He cared much too much.

------------------------------------------

The Great Hall bustled with noise and excitement.

But Harry barely tasted his food.

His eyes—against his better judgment—kept drifting to Draco.

And every time Draco lifted a hand to tuck hair behind his ear—

every time his cheeks flushed from the warm hall—

every time he laughed softly at something Theo said—

Harry felt something strange twist in his chest.

A warmth.

A pull.

A spark of instinct he didn’t recognise.

He tried to ignore it.

He failed.

Draco noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Their eyes met once across the hall.

Just once.

Draco blinked, cheeks tinged rose-gold by candlelight.

Harry looked away first.

His heart thudded too loudly.

------------------------------------------

Later, after dinner

Harry lingered near the courtyard steps, pretending to admire the sky.

He wasn’t admiring anything.

He was waiting.

Draco appeared alone, walking toward the dungeons with slow, elegant steps.

Harry didn’t intend to speak.

He didn’t intend to move.

Yet somehow, his feet carried him forward.

“Malfoy.”

Draco stopped.

He didn’t turn fully, just angled his head slightly.

“Potter.”

Even his voice had changed.

Lower.

Smoother.

More controlled.

Harry swallowed.

“You look… different.”

Draco’s breath caught.

Annoyance flickered across his face—but so did something else.

Something softer.

“People grow, Potter,” he said coolly.

“I know,” Harry answered quietly. “I can see that.”

Draco froze.

Just for a heartbeat.

A flicker of pink brushed his cheeks before he looked away.

“Goodnight, Potter,” he murmured.

“Goodnight,” Harry said.

And for reasons Harry didn’t understand—

his chest felt warm.

Too warm.

------------------------------------------

Harry’s POV — Late Afternoon on a random day, Courtyard

Harry wasn’t trying to watch Draco Malfoy.

He wasn’t.

He was just… standing in the courtyard, listening to Ron prattle about who might enter the Triwizard Tournament, when—

He saw Adrian Pucey leaning against a stone pillar.

Tall.

Handsome.

Athletic.

A confident Slytherin alpha in his seventh year, all lazy smirks and arrogant ease.

And he was talking to Draco.

No—

flirting with Draco.

Pucey stood too close, his arm braced above Draco’s head as if Draco belonged there.

His voice was low, smooth, amused.

And Draco…

Draco was smiling.

Not a big smile, but a polite, soft, delicate one that made Harry’s stomach drop.

Draco’s hair glowed like silver in the sun; his cheeks were faintly pink, his lashes downcast.

Pretty in a way Harry still wasn’t prepared for.

Pucey must’ve noticed too, because he leaned closer—

closer than necessary—

letting his fingers graze Draco’s sleeve.

Harry didn’t remember moving.

One moment he was next to Ron—

the next he was striding across the courtyard, jealousy burning like wildfire inside him.

Ron’s distant voice called, “HARRY??”

But Harry didn’t stop.

He reached them just as Pucey touched Draco’s wrist—

a soft, flirting brush of fingers.

Draco stiffened slightly, uncertain.

Pucey smirked.

“Well, if it isn’t Potter,” Pucey drawled without turning. “Come to admire the view?”

Harry ignored him completely.

His eyes stayed locked on Draco.

“You okay?” Harry asked, voice tighter than intended.

Draco’s grey eyes widened in genuine surprise.

A soft flush crept up his neck.

“I—yes,” Draco said, though his voice wobbled.

Pucey straightened, eyebrow raised.

“What’s it to you, Potter?” he asked calmly, amused.

Harry didn’t look at him.

“It is.”

Pucey blinked.

“…Sorry?”

Harry stepped forward, instinct overriding logic.

“He said he’s fine,” Harry said sharply. “Which means you can back off now.”

Pucey laughed — low, smooth, patronising.

“You sound jealous.”

Harry froze.

So did Draco.

Harry’s denial came too fast, too loud, too desperate:

“No—I—THAT’S—NOT—WHAT—THIS—IS!”

Pucey smirked wider.

“Really? Because you look like you want to hex me.”

Harry’s magic buzzed under his skin.

He did want to hex him.

He wanted Pucey away from Draco.

Now.

Draco seemed equally startled—

and flustered.

His eyes flicked between them, cheeks pink, breathing slightly quickened.

“Potter,” Draco said softly, “you don’t need to—”

“I do,” Harry said, before he could stop himself.

Silence.

Beautiful, dangerous silence.

Pucey’s expression sharpened.

“Well,” Pucey murmured, “looks like Hogwarts’ Golden Boy finally knows what he wants.”

Harry choked.

Draco inhaled sharply.

Pucey pushed off the pillar with lazy confidence.

“Relax, Potter. I was only talking to him.”

“Too close,” Harry growled—

an actual growl, low and barely audible.

Draco’s breath hitched.

Pucey’s eyes gleamed with amusement.

“You really are an alpha, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Harry bristled—

and Draco flushed even deeper.

Pucey stepped back at last, offering Draco a smooth little bow of his head.

“If you ever want company from someone your own level, Malfoy,” he said, “you know where to find me.”

Harry’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles whitened.

Pucey left, whistling.

Silence hung between Harry and Draco, thick and hot and confusing.

Draco finally spoke, voice softer than Harry had ever heard it.

“Potter… you didn’t need to do that.”

Harry swallowed.

“I know.”

Draco met his eyes.

“Then why did you?”

Harry didn’t have an answer.

Not one he understood.

Not one he could say.

His throat tightened.

“I don’t know,” Harry whispered. “I just—didn’t like it.”

Draco’s lips parted in surprise.

A blush bloomed across his cheeks.

“Oh,” Draco breathed.

And for the first time—

he didn’t walk away.

------------------------------------------

Draco’s POV 

Draco Malfoy walked away from the courtyard with his pulse raging beneath his skin.

He didn’t even make it ten steps before he had to stop under the shade of a willow tree, one hand pressed flat to his chest as if he could quiet the storm inside him.

Because Harry Potter—

Harry “annoying, infuriating, impossible” Potter—

had just stepped between him and Adrian Pucey like an alpha driven by instinct.

Draco closed his eyes, breath trembling.

Potter didn’t even like him.

So why did it feel like his body had recognised something his mind refused to accept?

Why had his cheeks burned when Potter stood in front of him?

Why had his pulse jumped when Potter said, It is.

Why had his knees gone weak—just for a second—when Potter stepped closer?

Draco shook his head, trying to exhale the feeling.

No.

No, no, no.

He wouldn’t be the omega who fell for an alpha who didn’t care.

Not again.

He lifted his chin and continued toward the dungeons…

but he didn’t feel steady.

Not at all.

------------------------------------------

Harry’s POV

Harry stood in the courtyard long after Draco disappeared.

The sun was warm.

The breeze was cool.

But Harry felt feverish.

He wasn’t sure what had happened.

Not exactly.

He only knew a few things:

1. He didn’t like Pucey touching Draco.

2. He didn’t like Pucey flirting with Draco.

3. He REALLY didn’t like Draco smiling at Pucey.

4. Whatever he felt wasn’t normal.

Harry exhaled shakily.

“What is WRONG with me?” he muttered.

Ron clapped his shoulder from behind.

“Mate,” Ron said gently, “we’re in fourth year now. Everyone’s instincts are waking up.”

Harry blinked, confused.

“My instincts?”

He frowned.

“I don’t—what instincts?”

Ron smirked.

“Oh… you’ll figure it out.”

Harry didn’t feel reassured.

He felt undone.

Like his skin no longer fit right.

Like something inside him had been nudged awake and was now blinking in the light, confused and hungry.

Hungry?

Harry shook the thought away.

He didn’t understand what was changing.

He only knew one thing:

Draco Malfoy had looked at him differently today.

And Harry didn’t hate it.

Not even a little.

------------------------------------------

Something had shifted.

And neither of them knew if they were ready for it.

Chapter Text

The Triwizard Tournament Is Announced

The Great Hall thrummed with excitement that first evening. The enchanted ceiling crackled with storm clouds and lightning for dramatic effect; the candles flickered; the visiting schools veela-glided and Durmstrang-stomped into the hall.

Harry was mostly just trying not to trip in front of everyone.

Draco, meanwhile, was sitting at the Slytherin table with his arms folded, deeply offended by the entire concept of foreign schools.

“So they parade in like peacocks,” he muttered. “Do they think we don’t know what a ship is? Or a carriage? It’s a school, not a circus.”

Pansy smirked. “You’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous. I am correct.”

Blaise leaned his chin on his hand. “Are you upset because the French boys are prettier than you?”

Draco sniffed. “They are not.”

They absolutely were not, to be fair.

When Dumbledore said “The Triwizard Tournament has returned,” the Hall erupted.

Whispers flew at once.

“Dangerous—”

“Cool—”

“People died last time—”

“Shut up, it’ll be fun—”

Harry glanced instinctively to the Slytherin table.

Draco’s face was unreadable — chin lifted, eyes sharp. He looked… uneasy. But his expression quickly smoothed into bored disdain.

“Honestly,” Draco murmured to Theo, “if they wanted entertainment, they could’ve just let me run the school for a day. I’d have them all crying into their cauldrons.”

Theo’s lips twitched. “I don’t think that’s safer than dragons.”

Draco waved a hand. “Details.”

But his fingers trembled slightly when no one was looking.

------------------------------------------

When Harry’s name came out of the Goblet, he thought time had stopped.

It hadn’t.

The Hall roared. Chairs scraped, people shouted, someone shrieked.

Harry sat there frozen, stomach plummeting.

Then he did the only reasonable thing: he said, automatically,

“I didn’t put my name in—”

No one cared.

On the Slytherin side, Draco’s fork clattered to his plate.

For one heartbeat, he forgot how to wear his mask. The blood drained from his face, pupils blown wide, scent-blocker straining faintly under a spike of sharp, panicked instinct.

He’s going in there?

Into that? With dragons? With Merlin-knows-what?

He’ll die shot through Draco’s mind, wild and uninvited.

He slammed the door on that thought so hard his head hurt.

Blaise watched him carefully.

“You’re very calm,” Blaise said softly.

“I am calm,” Draco said, too quickly.

He was not calm.

He watched Harry stand and walk towards the antechamber, shoulders tense, ears pink, the entire school staring.

Draco’s hands curled into fists under the table.

If he dies, Draco told himself, I refuse to care. Absolutely refuse. Completely unaffected.

His heart hammered against his ribs.

------------------------------------------

That night, the Slytherin gang gathered around Draco’s bed like he was hosting a war council.

“I do not care,” Draco said, pacing at the foot of his mattress. “I am merely concerned for the sake of House safety, because if he dies, Gryffindors will cry at the table, and it will be unbearable.”

Theo lay on his back, hands folded over his stomach. “Right. You’re worried about table crying.”

Pansy, cross-legged, inspected her nails. “You almost fainted at dinner.”

“I did not almost faint,” Draco snapped. “It was poor lighting.”

Blaise sat propped against the headboard. “So you’re not at all invested in whether or not Harry Potter survives a series of ancient, highly lethal magical tasks?”

“I am invested,” Draco sniffed, “in the fact that our school might be sued if a Champion dies.”

Theo frowned. “If he dies, won’t You-Know-Who just have to find another target?”

The room went very quiet.

Draco swallowed.

“…It would be inconvenient, governmentally speaking,” he said, voice softer.

Pansy’s sharpness dropped for a moment. She reached out and flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve.

“You could just admit you don’t want him to die.”

Draco spluttered. “I do not—!”

Blaise raised a lazy eyebrow.

Draco threw himself dramatically back onto the bed.

“I hope he lives,” he muttered into his pillow, too low for most ears.

Theo heard.

So did Blaise.

They didn’t say anything.

------------------------------------------

— The First Task

The stands were roaring, the air thick with dragon smoke.

Harry was at the edge of the arena, heart hammering, wand slick in his fingers.

Somewhere high up, Draco Malfoy was trying not to throw up.

Draco clutched the railing so hard his knuckles went white.

“Why,” he muttered, “would anyone voluntarily go near a dragon? What kind of self-destructive maniac—”

“You love him,” Pansy said blandly.

“I DON’T—!”

A burst of dragon fire cut him off. Harry rolled, barely missing being roasted alive.

Draco’s breath caught sharply.

His scent — usually soft under the blockers — jolted into something sharper, almost metallic, before the enchantment strained to tamp it down again.

“Is he trying to die?” Draco hissed. “Who told him that was a good strategy? Does he not understand the concept of ‘stay away from the large fire-breathing death-lizard’? Has he no self-preservation? Has he no—”

“He’s doing very well,” Theo offered faintly, eyes wide.

Draco ignored him.

Harry summoned his broom. The crowd screamed. The dragon lunged; Harry swerved.

For a few agonising minutes, Draco forgot to breathe at all.

And when Harry finally grabbed the golden egg and zoomed away, alive, somehow, unbelievably, Draco heard himself clap.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He stopped abruptly, fingers stinging.

Pansy’s side-eye could have sliced a troll in half.

“Oh, shut up,” Draco muttered before she could say anything.

He looked down into the arena just in time to see Harry glance up into the stands — wild-eyed, exhilarated, chest heaving.

For a fraction of a second, their gazes met.

Draco’s heart stuttered.

He tore his eyes away, heat prickling his cheeks under the cold wind.

Idiot, he told himself viciously. Stupid, reckless, heroic idiot.

He had never wanted someone to live so badly in his life.

------------------------------------------

— The Yule Ball Announced

“Dress robes?” Ron groaned that evening. “We have to wear bloody dress robes?”

Harry wasn’t listening.

He was watching Draco’s reaction.

Dumbledore had just announced the Yule Ball, and chaos was already erupting.

Draco sat very straight, face neutral, fork idle over his food.

Pansy nudged him. “You’ll be fine. People will be lining up.”

“I know,” Draco murmured.

It was not arrogance. It was fact.

By breakfast the next morning, he had been asked six times.

By lunch, eleven.

By dinner, seventeen.

He said no to all of them.

“Why?” Theo asked, sprawled across Draco’s bed later, reading a book upside down.

“Because they’re annoying,” Draco said absently, staring at the canopy.

“Pucey is gonna ask you to be his date, I bet .” Blaise added.

“He’s very annoying.”Draco said frowning.

Pansy smirked. “Waiting for someone special?”

Draco’s stomach flipped and flopped and fell off a cliff.

“No,” he said, scandalised. “Absolutely not. There is no one I would want to go with less than the idiots at this school.”

A traitorous corner of his mind whispered, That’s not true.

He threw a pillow at that corner.

Across the castle, over in Gryffindor, Harry was having his own crisis.

“Just ask someone,” Ron said. “It’s not that deep.”

Harry stared at the fire.

He thought about Parvati or Cho or someone else normal. Safe. Non-Slytherin.

His traitorous brain supplied: Draco.

Harry shoved that thought into the Forbidden Cupboard of Bad Ideas.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I’m busy. Tournament. Dragons. You know.”

Hermione said into her book, “You’re avoiding making a choice.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

He was.

He knew exactly who he wanted to ask.

He also knew Draco Malfoy would sooner set himself on fire than say yes.

------------------------------------------

— Pucey Being a Slimy Bastard

Adrian Pucey was the kind of alpha who knew he was good-looking and put that knowledge to immediate, shameless use.

He was also, unfortunately, in Slytherin and had eyes.

So by mid-November, he had decided Draco was “interesting.”

Draco decided Adrian was “annoying.”

“Your hair looks nice that way,” Pucey said one afternoon, leaning far too casually against the courtyard wall.

Draco blinked. “It always looks fabulous.”

Pucey smirked. “Some people’s doesn’t look like that when it grows.”

Draco’s cheeks warmed. “Flattery is boring.”

“Is it working?”

“Absolutely not.”

Across the corridor, Harry told himself he was not eavesdropping.

He was just standing.

Existing.

In the same physical plane.

He did not hear Pucey say, “If you don’t have a date for the Ball—”

He definitely heard Draco cut in with, “I’d rather go with the Dementor.”

Harry choked on nothing.

Ron frowned. “You alright, mate?”

“I’m fine,” Harry lied. “Just, erm. Air.”

Hermione didn’t even look up from her book. “Draco rejected Pucey. That’s all.”

“How do you know that?!” Harry demanded.

Hermione raised her brows. “Because you’re staring at them like you want to jump over a wall.”

Harry looked away at once.

He did not.

He kind of did.

------------------------------------------

It got worse.

Like way worse.

Pucey had been getting on Draco’s nerves for weeks.

He appeared everywhere Draco went—outside Charms, in the library, at lunch—always with that smug alpha confidence that made Draco want to hex him into a wall. Draco had said no to him once. Twice. Multiple times. And still, Pucey stood beside him now in the courtyard, leaning over Draco’s textbook like he owned the air Draco breathed.

Draco’s patience—normally abundant when dealing with idiots—was gone.

Completely gone.

Especially when Pucey tried to grab him by his waist again.

Draco froze.

His inner monologue exploded:

Did he just—touch me? Again? Who the HELL does he think he is? I didn’t even let POTTER touch me and the one time he did was an ACCIDENT and I nearly DIED of humiliation and THIS man thinks he has that right—??. Who the fuck does he think he is??. SLIMY BASTARD.

Draco set his quill down slowly. Very slowly.

“Adrian Pucey,” he said, voice smooth as silk stretched over a blade, “stop touching me.”

Pucey blinked. “I’m just trying to help.”

Draco lookin him dead in the eye."And I sad 'NO'. I think I'm speaking English unless you are illiterate in it?"

Theo looked up instantly. “Do you not understand the word NO, or is it missing from your vocabulary?”

Pucey frowned. “I’m being friendly.”

Pansy turned, eyes gleaming like a predator.

“Friendly?” she repeated. “Boy, you may be an alpha, but that doesn’t give you ANY right to bother someone who already said no.”

Crabbe nodded sagely. “His dictionary’s incomplete.”

Goyle snorted. “Probably missing half the alphabet.”

Balise added, “Especially the letters N and O.”

Pucey scowled. “I’m asking him to the Ball!”

“And I said no,” Draco snapped at last. “Multiple times. Clearly your ears are not just for decoration??—are they.”Draco sneered.

“Come on, Malfoy,” Pucey insisted. “You’re an omega. You should be flattered.”

The courtyard went SILENT.

Pansy inhaled sharply.

Theo sat up like he was about to watch a murder.

Blaise raised both eyebrows, already amused.

Draco turned slowly, spine straightening, eyes cold.

“Repeat that,” he said softly.

Pucey hesitated. “I—I meant—”

“No,” Draco said, stepping closer. “Say it again.”

Pucey swallowed. “You should—be flattered?”

Draco smiled. Oh, it was deadly.

“Flattered?” Draco echoed. “By you? Adrian, darling, I would rather be flattered by the Giant Squid.”

Theo: “Damn.”

Pansy: “OH HE’S DEAD.”

Crabbe and Goyle: wheezing.

Pucey’s face went red. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No,” Draco said, voice rising dangerously, “I am being CLEAR. You don’t listen when omegas speak and clearly think we are below you. So let me shout it out—NO means NO.”

Pansy clapped. “LOUDER FOR THE ALPHAS IN THE BACK.”

Theo cupped his hands around his mouth. “NO MEANS NO, ADRIAN.”

Goyle mimicked: “NOOOO.”

Crabbe nodded vigorously. “NO.”

Pucey’s eye twitched. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Draco said sweetly, “I am EMBARRASSING you.”

Blaise cackled.

Pucey turned flustered. “You can’t do better!”

Draco blinked once, slowly. Then cackled.

“I would rather attend the Yule Ball with MOANING MYRTLE.”

Theo made the sign of the cross.

Pansy fell backwards screaming.

Crabbe and Goyle looked like they’d combust from laughter.

Blaise put down his quill and applauded.

Pucey sputtered. “You’re unbelievable!”

“And you,” Draco said, flicking his hand in dismissal, “are dismissed. Leave me alone, Pucey, before I petition Dumbledore to put you on a leash.”

The courtyard ERUPTED.

Balise: “NOT THE LEASH—DRACO.”

Pansy: “HE DID NOT JUST—HE DID.”

Theo wiping tears: “Oh, the audacity. I LOVE IT.”

Crabbe: “He needs a leash honestly.”

Goyle nodding: “For real.”

Pucey, humiliated beyond repair, spun on his heel and stomped away like a toddler denied dessert.

Draco sat back down, spine straight.

“Honestly,” Draco sniffed, “I warned him.”

“You destroyed him,” Blaise said proudly.

“He deserved it,” Pansy declared. “Touching without consent? Absolutely not.”

Theo hummed. “And the Myrtle line… inspired, truly.”

Draco stared stiffly at his book, ears pink. “…He annoyed me. Honestly I let him off easy.”

Behind a stone pillar, Harry Potter had heard he entire commotion.

He hadn’t even realised he’d stopped breathing.

Ron barely holding his laugh."Pucey deserved it, man he crossed the limits."

Hermione snorted agreeing.

Harry was lost in thought.

Draco refused to be touched by someone he didn’t want touching him.

Harry’s heartbeat echoed loud in his ears.

He whispered to himself, stunned:

“He didn’t even let Pucey touch him.”

He swallowed.

…He didn’t let me either.—it was an accident but still.

And for the first time, Harry understood exactly how badly he wanted Draco’s permission.

------------------------------------------

— Ball Preparations

In the Slytherin dorm, Draco stood before a long mirror, Pansy fussing over his gown—a deep emerald silk creation he had definitely NOT picked because it reminded him of Potter’s eyes. Absolutely not.

“They’re fine,” he said weakly.

“They’re perfect,” she corrected without hesitation.

The dress was perfect—too perfect.

The emerald fabric wrapped around one shoulder, dipping across his chest in a swirl of shimmering embroidery. Jewels glinted along the seam like droplets of moonlight. The waist cinched delicately, the skirt poured to the ground in soft, luxurious folds. His hair, falling in soft waves and half-tied with a silver clasp, caught the lantern light and glowed like starlight on snow.

He looked—

He looked—

“Oh no,” Draco whispered.

Theo appeared at his side, eyes wide. “You look unfair.”

Blaise nodded, jaw slack. “People might actually faint.”

Draco sniffed, lifting his chin. “Good. They’re not allowed to look at me anyway.”

Pansy smirked. “And who is allowed?”

Draco glared at his reflection, heat climbing up his throat.

Not Potter, he informed his traitorous heart. Absolutely not Potter. Potter is forbidden. Potter won’t even look at me. Potter will be busy with some pretty Gryffindor girl. Potter won’t notice this dress at all. This colour means nothing. Nothing. NOTHING—

His chest tightened.

He ignored it with all the dignity a Malfoy could muster.

------------------------------------------

—Meanwhile, in Gryffindor Tower, Harry was dying.

His burgundy suit was actually decent this year—rich wine-red fabric blooming with dark rose patterns, a black shirt beneath, a sleek tie that Hermione had insisted on tying for him because he “lacked coordination.”

But clothes weren’t the problem.

His brain was.

Every time he adjusted his sleeves, his thoughts betrayed him:

Draco under the fairy lights.

Draco’s long hair brushing his shoulders.

Draco smirking at him from across a corridor.

Draco’s stupid perfect waist—

“You’re making that face again,” Hermione said mildly.

“What face?” Harry demanded.

“The ‘thinking about Malfoy’ face.”

Ron nearly dropped his shoe. “He has a MALFOY face now?!”

Harry groaned into his palms. “I’m cursed,” he muttered. “That’s what this is. A curse.”

Hermione sighed deeply. “Honestly, it’s been obvious since the day you almost growled—”

“NOT NOW,” Harry snapped, ears pink.

------------------------------------------

 — The Ball Begins

When Draco walked into the Great Hall, the entire room stopped.

Conversation dipped. Candles flickered. Someone dropped a plate.

The emerald silk caught the golden fairy lights and shimmered like enchanted water. Silver embroidery glinted with every step he took, his hair glowing like pale gold. Draco looked soft and sharp at once—like a winter prince sculpted out of moonlight and arrogance.

Harry forgot his own name.

The moment he saw Draco—really saw him in that gown—his heart slammed against his ribs so hard it hurt.

Green.

Not just green.

His green.

The exact shade of his eyes.

Ron muttered, “Bloody hell.”

Hermione whispered to Ron. “Told you fourth year would be interesting.”

Draco, cheeks faintly pink, very pointedly did NOT look at the Gryffindor table.

He absolutely did not feel the molten stare burning into the back of his neck.

His inner monologue was screaming:

Do NOT look at Potter. Do not—stop—STOP—don’t look—

He did not look.

Two whole seconds of dignity were achieved.

Then Pucey materialised.

“You look incredible,” Adrian said smoothly, stepping far too close.

Draco stiffened. “I know.”

“Last chance,” Pucey murmured. “Come dance with me.”

“No,” Draco said politely, trying very hard not to stab him with his heel.

“I’ll just keep trying,” Pucey smirked, reaching a hand toward Draco’s waist—

Harry moved.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He just—

appeared near the punch bowl like a man possessed, pretending to rearrange goblets but absolutely watching Draco and Pucey like a hawk with unresolved emotional issues.

Hermione sighed. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Harry hissed.

He was absolutely doing something.

------------------------------------------

The Ball was going smoothly. Every one enjoying and carring conversations.

The music swelled. Robes swirled. Fred and George cackled over a mysterious bag labeled “Definitely Safe.”

Everyone should have been afraid. Peace doesn't last long—.

Golden sparks burst above the dancers, cascading down in a glittering rain.

“Uh oh,” Hermione whispered, already reaching for her wand.

The sparks fizzled on contact with the floor—

but when they fell between two people standing too close, the magic caught.

Harry didn’t notice.

He turned to avoid running into a Hufflepuff, bumped into something soft, and—

He was chest-to-chest with Draco Malfoy.

Again.—Atleast now it was just bumping and not cresing into each other.

Of course.

Draco’s gasp ghosted against his throat.

Harry froze.

Then they both looked down.

A glowing golden tether wrapped around Harry’s wrist and Draco’s, binding them together.

“What,” Draco said faintly, “did you do.”

“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING,” Harry whispered, scandalised.

Dumbledore clapped delightedly from the high table.

“Oh wonderful! A Binding Waltz Charm! Very traditional!”

Harry felt his soul leave his body. “A what?”

“Those struck by the charm,” Dumbledore explained, “must complete one full dance together!”

The music shifted into a waltz.

People cleared the dance floor.

Hermione whispered, “Oh dear.”

Ron whispered, “Oh no.”

Draco whispered, “I hate magic.”

Harry whispered, “Same.”

Their wrists tugged.

The spell pulled them toward the centre of the ballroom.

Draco’s face turned a breathtaking shade of pink.

Harry felt hot all over.

They resisted.

The spell insisted.

Their hands snapped together.

Both flinched.

Harry hesitated—asking for permission. "would you mind I—If I placed then placed my hand,—on you??" He asked very carefully, he did not want to sound overbearing or like a creep.

Draco gave a small nod, barely noticeable but Harry understood it's implication.

Harry gently placed his hand on Draco's waist, holding it delicately as if he might hurt Draco or bruise him unintentionally.

Draco squeaked—actually squeaked—and his hand flew to Harry’s shoulder, fingers curling too tightly.

“Move,” someone hissed.

They started to dance.

It was terrible.

Then awkward.—Harry was shit at dancing.

Then—

something shifted.

Their bodies found a rhythm, Draco guiding, Harry following with surprising ease. Draco’s gown brushed Harry’s legs. Harry’s thumb rested snuggly at the dip of Draco’s waist, and Draco’s breath caught.

For a moment, the world blurred at the edges.

Harry heard Draco’s breathing—soft, frantic.

Draco felt Harry’s heartbeat—loud, steady, overwhelming.

Then—

a flicker.

Their scent blockers slipped.

Only for a heartbeat, but it was enough.

Harry inhaled something sweet—warm cream, sugar, soft musk.

Draco inhaled something grounding—sunlight on stone, heat and cedar.

Both froze.

Blockers snapped back.

The magic above them shimmered.

“Nearly done,” Draco whispered, voice barely steady.

Harry’s throat was dry. “Yeah.”

He didn’t want to let go.

He absolutely did.

It was awful.

It was perfect.

The final note faded.

The golden band vanished.

They did not move.

For one suspended heartbeat, they simply stood—holding each other, breathing the same air.

Then reality crashed back.

They jerked away.

Draco stumbled; Harry caught his elbow.

Their fingers brushed.

Draco nearly combusted.

“This—” Draco stammered, “never happened.”

“Right,” Harry said too fast. “Never. Absolutely not. Didn’t happen at all.”

They stared at each other like idiots.

Then Draco spun on his heel and fled, skirts swirling behind him.

Harry watched him go, heart slamming, breath shaking.

He felt… ruined.

Ron appeared, holding two butterbeers and looking like he’d witnessed a crime.

“…Well,” Ron said finally. “That was… something.”

Harry covered his face.

“I’m going to die,” he whispered.

—He looked gorgeous. Harry thought flushing.

------------------------------------------

Draco did not run.

Malfoys did not run.

He just walked very fast out of the Hall, down the corridor, around a corner, and then pressed his back to the wall, shoving his hands into his hair.

His heart was still racing.

His skin felt too tight.

His wrist tingled where the magic had been. His waist tingled where Harry’s hand had been. His shoulder tingled where his own fingers had clutched too hard.

“Stupid spell,” Draco whispered. “Stupid Potter. Stupid Ball. Stupid everything.”

He shut his eyes.

He could still feel it, maddeningly: the warm weight of Harry’s palm at his waist, the careful way Harry had held him, as if Draco were something breakable that needed to be kept upright.

As if Potter had wanted to keep him steady.

His cheeks burned in the empty corridor.

He pressed his fingers over them.

“Absolutely not,” he told himself. “We are not thinking about this. We are not—”

His chest fluttered.

He exhaled shakily.

For the first time, the thought crept in, treacherous and quiet:

What if he doesn’t hate me?

Draco squeezed his eyes shut.

No.

No, no, no.

Home-trained instincts warred with his bruised pride, with his old humiliation, with the remembered sting of a rejected handshake from first year.

He pushed himself off the wall.

He would forget this.

He had to.

He absolutely, definitely would.

…Eventually.

------------------------------------------

Back in Gryffindor Tower, long after the Ball ended, Harry lay on his back staring at the hangings of his four-poster bed.

He could still feel Draco in his arms.

He had danced with Draco Malfoy.

He had held Draco Malfoy.

And for the first time in his life, he’d understood why people talked about dancing like it meant something.

His wrist still felt warm.

Harry groaned softly into his pillow.

Ron snored; Seamus muttered something in his sleep. The dormitory creaked familiarly.

But nothing in Harry felt familiar at all.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Draco — flushed, glowing under the fairy lights, silk shifting around his waist, his breath catching as Harry held him. He still felt the ghost of Draco’s waist beneath his hand, warm and impossibly soft.

It was driving him mad.

He rolled over, pressed his face into the pillow, and told himself firmly,

Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. Don’t—

His mind was not at peace.

His body did not rest.

His instincts did not rest.

But Sleep eventually dragged him under anyway.

------------------------------------------

It was foggy. And dark. Harry tried to adjust he eyes, when he saw a silhouette, —a silhouette he could recognise from mile away.

—Draco stood before him, not in the noisy ballroom, but somewhere quiet and dim — a corridor made of warm candlelight and shadows. He looked exactly as he had during the dance—his silver blond hair glimmering, cheeks flushed, emerald silk hugging every curve of his body.

But this Draco was closer.

Much closer.

“Potter…” he whispered.

Harry’s breath stuttered. The sound was too soft. Too real.

Draco stepped into his space, tilting his head up in that infuriating, perfect way that made Harry feel like the ground had vanished beneath him.

Harry lifted a hand without thinking —and traced it along Draco’s cheek.

and Draco didn’t flinch.

He leaned into it. Feeling Harry’s rough hand against his cheek.

Heat shot through Harry’s chest, warm and dizzying.

Draco’s fingers brushed Harry’s collar.

Barely a touch.

Just a soft glide over his collar bones, then slowly moving downwards feeling his chest then lower until his hand reached his belt, and then Draco withdrew his hand, wraping them along Harry’s neck, Draco stood on his tip toes leaning forward his chest touching Harry's, their lips less than centimeters apart, he could feel Draco’s breath warm—against his lips.

it felt like fire.— then Draco disappeared like smoke.

Draco’s scent curled around him, thick and sweet and warm, unfiltered, the way it had flickered for just a second during the waltz. It wrapped around Harry like a spell, sinking into his skin, making his heart pound.—Harry followed it, followed Dracos intoxicating scent into another corridor.

And saw Draco leaning onto a wall. Calling seductively.

“Harry…” Draco breathed.

Harry’s name had never sounded like that.

Harry felt himself moving towards Draco— helpless, drawn, wanting —

and Draco’s lips parted in anticipation.

The moment Harry got close to him—Draco touched Harry’s chest again, bolder this time.

Harry’s breath hitched, knees weakening.

He didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

Something deep and instinctive roared awake inside him, something alpha and possessive and utterly undone by Draco’s closeness.

Draco whispered something — Harry couldn’t make out the words, only the tone, soft and inviting and devastating.

Harry’s body moved on its own — leaning in, heat building, needing—

Then it happened Draco moved and guiding Harry’s lips to his— Draco kissed him it started small a peck, then another peck and then a Lick on his lips like Draco asking him to let him in.

And Harry did he kissed Draco back with passion and need—need he didn't know existed.

He kissed Draco gently at first then deeper he licked Draco’s lips biting them softly, enough to make Draco whine. 

It was hot—feverish,messy. They explored each other's mouths devouring every sensation.

Dracos face was flushed red, the natural pink flush gone and it— turned Harry on.

Then Draco parted slowly to catch his breath.

And then he slowly, enticingly started to undressed the top half of his chest.

Harry's breath hitched—He almost forgot how it breath.

His brain only able to process one thing— Draco is bare, exposed an—and alluring.

Harry couldn't take his eyes of Draco's pale chest, his smooth and flushed neck exposed, and merlin his nipples were such pretty pink. And he could smell it, smell the intoxicating milk— Draco's milk, it smelled exactly how it had back in 3rd year, he had always thought if it would taste just as sweet—warm, soothing as it smelled.

"No STop". Hary told himself.

But his inner alpha refused and rumbled, pleased with the sight infront of him—drink from him, nurse on him—his mind supplied.

"No" Harry thought to himself.

But then Draco cradled Harry’s head and guided Harry’s mouth to his nipple slowly.gently. and he said, his voice dripping with honey, smooth as velvet around the edges ."go on, drink from me—no need to hold back." 

Harry whined. With need and lust.

------------------------------------------

Harry jerked awake with a sharp gasp, heart racing, sheets twisted around his legs.

For a moment he didn’t know where he was — only that his body was too hot, his breathing too fast, and his mind full of images he couldn’t even think about without wanting the ground to swallow him.

It had been a dream.

Just a dream.

A dream about—

“Oh no,” Harry whispered into the darkness.

He dragged his hands over his face, ears burning. And then he lifted his blankets— his prick was hard, standing erect.

“I hate my life,” he muttered miserably.

From the next bed, Hermione snuffled in her sleep. “S’just a Ball, mate, stop stressin’,and sleep” she mumbled sleepily.

Harry stared at the ceiling.

He was not stressing about the Ball.

He was stressing about Draco bloody Malfoy and the way his dream-self had—

He shoved his face back into his pillow again and decided that in the morning, he simply would not think.

At all.

About anything.

For now Harry got up to take care of his current problem.

And he absolutely did not think about being nursed while he rubbed one out—Especially not about a cretain silver blond haired omega with soft breast feeding him gently, lovingly and being so sinfully beautiful.

------------------------------------------

One accidental dance, one stupid spell, one dream he’d never admit to…
and Harry was very suddenly, very badly in trouble.

Chapter Text

— The Morning After 

Draco Malfoy was not in a bad mood.

He wasn’t.

He refused to be.

He had woken up,he was internaly happy that he got to dance with Potter, Draco got up bathed, styled his hair, applied his scent-blockers with perfect technique, buttoned his pristine uniform—

And then the moment he stepped into the Great Hall, he saw it.

Harry Potter.

Who took one look at Draco—

—and spun on his heel like he’d seen a dementor.

Draco froze mid-step.

“…Excuse me?” he whispered to no one.

Potter didn’t just turn.

Potter FLED.

Full speed.

Nearly knocked over a Ravenclaw first-year in the process.

Blaise blinked. “Did Potter just—run away from you?”

“No,” Draco said coldly.

Across the hall, Harry tripped over his own feet trying to escape through the side doors.

“Yes,” Pansy said.

Draco’s jaw clenched. Hard.

He marched to the Slytherin table, sat down with unnecessary elegance, and stabbed a piece of toast.

Theo, half-asleep and barely functioning, mumbled, “Dray… why are you murdering your breakfast?”

Draco didn’t answer.

He was too busy watching Harry Potter disappear behind a pillar like a criminal evading Aurors.

What.

Was Potter.

DOING?

Pansy leaned in. “Okay, darling. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Draco snapped.

Blaise hummed thoughtfully. “Interesting. Potter sees you, turns pink, runs away, and you say nothing happened.”

Draco stabbed the toast again.

Theo frowned. “Did he say something at the Ball?”

“No.”

“Did he insult you?”

“No.”

“…Did you insult him?”

“No!” Draco snapped, face flushing. “We didn’t even talk. We—”

He stopped.

His chest tightened.

We danced. We danced and he held me so tenderly and I nearly—

No.

Absolutely not.

“That’s it,” Blaise said. “He’s avoiding you.”

“He is NOT—”

Harry reappeared by the far door.

Draco’s breath hitched.

Harry saw Draco look—

—and yeeted himself OUT of the hall like a coward with zero Gryffindor courage.

Draco’s fork bent.

Pansy squealed. “OH MY GOD HE’S AVOIDING YOU.”

Theo smacked the table. “This is better than breakfast.”

Draco stood abruptly. “I don’t care.”

He absolutely cared.

He cared so much he thought he might explode.

He left the hall before anyone could see the way his hands were shaking.

Meanwhile, outside the doors—

Harry Potter was clutching the wall and whispering:

“I can’t face him. I can’t—Merlin—WHY did I dream THAT—”

Ron patted his back. “Mate. Breathe. It’s just Malfoy.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “NO. IT’S NOT JUST MALFOY. NOTHING IS JUST MALFOY ANYMORE.”

Hermione patted his arm sympathetically. “You’re in love with him.”

Harry, turning red: “I’M WHAT—NOPE, not happening?!”

Ron snorted and said.“Denile is a river in egypt, you get will around it mate.”.and patted his back.

Harry: “I HATE THIS.”

Hare can't keep is eyes above Draco's neck. They just keep wondering downwards toward his chest.

No, Harry. Reign it in. Be respectful. Be decent. A good alpha keeps control…OH I really wanna suck his tits....No, Harry. Absolutely not. Control yourself. Good alphas don’t think like this. Decent. DECENT, Potter—come on.

Get it together Harry James Potter.

Harry James Potter was not having a good morning.

He’d barely slept, his brain fried from dreams he absolutely should not be thinking about, and now—

now he had to participate in a Tournament task that involved freezing water, half-baked instructions, and the very real possibility of death.

Wonderful. Fantastic. Perfect. Truly thriving.

Students crowded around the Black Lake, wrapped in cloaks, breath misting in the February air. The stands buzzed with nervous excitement.

Harry stepped into the cold wind—

—and immediately sensed eyes on him.

Not just any eyes.

His eyes.

Draco Malfoy was standing near the Slytherin section, robes perfectly arranged, scarf wrapped with dramatic precision… and glaring at him like Harry had personally offended the structural integrity of Hogwarts.

Because Harry had avoided him.

All day.

Harry swallowed hard.

Don’t look. Don’t look at him. He looks good. TOO good. No. Stop—

His brain went straight to the line he had sworn to bury:

Oh gods, focus. FOCUS. Do not look at his—nope. Absolutely not. Pull it together. Decent thoughts only. DECENT. —You cannot fantasise about sucking tits in the middle of a Tournament where Your life is on the line—your ACTUAL life—and your brain is doing WHAT?—stop daydreaming. Why are you like this, Harry James Potter?

He dragged his gaze away.

Across the stands, Draco’s scowl deepened.

Draco Malfoy was also not having a good morning.

He stood stiffly beside Theo, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t watching Harry walk toward the champions’ tent.

Pretending he wasn’t cataloguing every detail like an idiot:

The way Harry’s hair was already messy from the lake wind.

The way he kept tugging at his cloak nervously.

The grim determination on his face.

Why does he look like that? Why is he always—

He cut himself off viciously.

Pansy nudged him. “Dray. You’re staring.”

“I am NOT staring,” Draco said, staring even harder.

Theo hummed. “You’re worried.”

Draco went rigid. “Worried? Me? For Potter? Absolutely not. I’m simply observing— academically— the idiotic life choices of a reckless alpha with no survival instincts.”

“Right,” Theo said softly, like he didn’t believe a single word.

Blaise added, “If he dies, who are you going to argue with?”

Draco’s stomach flipped.

He hated how that question made him feel.

He hated even more that he didn’t have an answer.

The whistle blew.

Harry stripped off his outer cloak and stepped toward the edge of the lake.

Draco’s chest tightened—

too fast, too sudden, too much—

Harry dove.

The splash echoed across the stands.

A murmur swept the crowd as Harry disappeared beneath the dark surface.

Draco’s breath hitched.

Pansy frowned. “Draco? Darling, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Draco said, eyes fixed on the lake, voice thin. “Absolutely nothing.”

But his hands were gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles whitened. His throat felt tight, too tight, a twisting pressure he couldn’t swallow down.

Minutes passed.

Harry did not resurface.

Draco’s heart pounded with a cold, nauseating rhythm.

Come on, Potter… come on. Stop being dramatic. Stop being impossible. Stop—

The lake rippled.

Draco leaned forward, breath frozen.

Then—

Harry broke through the surface with a gasp, splashing, pulling someone with him.

Draco exhaled so violently he nearly stumbled.

Relief washed through him like a tidal wave — warm, overwhelming, unwanted.

Theo noticed. “Draco…?”

Draco jerked back, straightened, chin lifting sharply.

He smoothed his gloves as if that could hide the tremor in his fingers.

“I told you,” Draco said, too calmly, “he always survives.”

But his voice wavered — just enough that Blaise’s eyebrow rose.

Draco ignored them both.

He did not look relieved.

He absolutely did not feel warmth pooling in his chest.

He absolutely did NOT almost have a panic attack over Harry Potter.

He was fine.

Perfectly fine.

Harry climbed out of the lake, shivering, exhausted — and immediately looked toward the stands. Toward Draco.

Their eyes met.

Just for a moment.

A fleeting, electric heartbeat—

—before Draco snapped his gaze away like the sun had burned him.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Why does that hurt? Why—

Cedric clapped him on the shoulder, breaking his thoughts.

But the echo of Draco’s reaction lingered like a bruise.

------------------------------------------

— Harry Continues to Avoid Draco

The castle felt colder after the Second Task.

Maybe it was the February wind

—or maybe it was the fact that Harry Potter was avoiding Draco Malfoy with all the force of a man fleeing an ex, a crime scene, and a tax audit simultaneously.

Draco noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything.

Harry ducking into a classroom when Draco walked down the corridor.

Harry turning sharply whenever Draco’s gaze drifted near him.

Harry dropping quills, books, his dignity, whenever Draco appeared within ten metres.

It was infuriating.

It was humiliating.

It was—

“…really starting to hurt,” Draco muttered under his breath before he could stop himself.

He had been on his way to Potions when it happened again:

Harry.

In the corridor.

Walking toward him.

For a full, shining second, Draco felt his heart jolt—

And then Harry spun around so fast his robe slapped a Hufflepuff in the face.

Draco froze mid-step.

Pansy, walking beside him, stared. “Did Potter just… flee?”

Theo glanced after Harry’s retreating form. “He sprinted, Dray. That wasn’t fleeing. That was escaping.”

Draco’s jaw clenched until his teeth ached.

“I don’t care,” he said crisply, even though something inside him was sinking like wet parchment.

Blaise arched a brow. “You very much care.”

“I do NOT—”

“Darling,” Pansy interrupted gently, “your ears are pink.”

Draco slapped his hands over them. “NO THEY ARE NOT.”

They were.

They absolutely were.

Later that same day, Draco entered the library, determined to ignore the world and do homework like a dignified Malfoy—

—and immediately spotted Harry at a table.

Their eyes met.

Harry blushed like Draco had hexed him directly in the soul and looked down so fast his glasses nearly flew off.

Then, with tragic Gryffindor clumsiness, he gathered his books into his arms—

—and dropped all of them.

Loudly.

Across the entire library.

Draco blinked.

Harry scrambled to pick them up, hands shaking, ears red, muttering apologies to the table, the chair, the universe.

Draco’s chest did something weird.

Something warm.

Something awful.

“No,” Draco whispered to himself. “Stop that. Stop whatever THAT is.”

But the feeling didn’t stop.

Especially when Harry fled the library like a knight running from emotional danger.

Again.

That night in the Slytherin dormitory, Draco lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, arms crossed, pillow ignored.

He was NOT upset.

He was NOT bothered.

He was NOT replaying the dance from the Ball in his mind.

Why does he keep running? Why is he acting like I’m dangerous? I didn’t do anything. Did I do something wrong? Did I look ridiculous that night? Did he hate the dance?

He shoved his face into his pillow.

“I hate him,” Draco declared loudly into the fabric.

Theo, from his bed: “Sure you do.”

“I DO!”

Blaise: “Naturally.”

Pansy (who wasn’t even there, her voice drifting through the door): “We believe you, Draco!”

Draco groaned into the sheets.

He didn’t hate Harry Potter.

He didn’t know what he felt.

And that terrified him more than the Dark Lord ever had.

Meanwhile, in Gryffindor Tower—

Harry sat hunched over his bed, head in his hands.

He was exhausted.

Emotionally.

Mentally.

Hormonal-ly.

He kept seeing Draco’s face when he surfaced from the lake—wide-eyed, pale, like he’d been holding his breath.

Harry didn’t know what that meant.

He didn’t know what ANYTHING meant anymore.

All he knew was:

He could not look Draco in the eyes without remembering that dream.

He could not think about Draco without feeling too warm.

And he could not breathe near Draco without wanting—

No. Stop. Don’t finish that thought.

Harry collapsed backwards onto his pillow in despair.

“This is a nightmare,” he groaned.

Ron glanced over from his bed. “Mate, at this point, I think it’s a condition.”

Hermione flipped a page. “It has a name.”

Harry sat up. “What?!”

“You like him,” she said matter-of-factly.

Harry looked horrified.

Ron nodded solemnly. “You’re doomed, mate.”

Harry flopped back down again.

“I KNOW.”

------------------------------------------

— The Third Task 

The maze loomed over the Quidditch pitch like something alive.

Tall hedges twisted into impossible shapes. Magic crackled faintly in the air. The stands buzzed with tension — not excitement, not anymore. Everyone felt it. Something was different tonight.

Draco stood with the Slytherins, arms crossed, face composed, outwardly elegant as ever.

Inside?

He was unraveling.

He watched Harry step forward with the other champions, wand in hand, jaw set with that stubborn Gryffindor determination Draco pretended to find annoying.

He didn’t find it annoying tonight.

He found it terrifying.

Harry glanced toward the stands — not at him, Draco told himself, definitely not at him — but their eyes caught for the briefest, sharpest heartbeat.

Draco’s breath vanished.

Then Harry turned away and walked into the maze.

The hedges swallowed him whole.

Draco Malfoy was not okay.

He stood absolutely still, fingers tightening around the railing until the cool metal dug into his palms.

Theo watched him quietly.

Pansy hovered at his shoulder.

Blaise observed him from the corner of his eye.

None of them spoke.

They didn’t have to.

Draco’s face said everything.

Minutes oozed by, too slow, too quiet.

Spells flared inside the maze — green flashes, gold bursts, something loud and violent. The crowd murmured nervously. Mrs. Weasley clutched at her husband’s sleeve. Hermione looked sick.

Harry was somewhere inside that twisting labyrinth of monsters and traps and Merlin-knew-what-else — alone.

And Draco hated it.

He hated how powerless it made him feel.

He hated how his chest tightened painfully every time a spell burst behind the hedge.

Why—why am I reacting like this? He’s Potter. He’s impossible. He’s reckless and infuriating and—

The ground shook with a muffled explosion.

Draco flinched.

Pansy touched his arm gently. “He’ll be fine.”

Draco wanted to say, I know.

He wanted to be calm and cold and untouched.

But he wasn’t.

“He’d better be,” Draco murmured, voice thin. “If he dies doing something stupid in a shrubbery maze, I’m going to kill him myself.”

Theo snorted softly, though his eyes were warm with understanding.

And then—

A roar of magic burst from the center of the maze.

A blinding flash of light.

A scream.

Then—

Silence.

Dead, heavy silence.

Draco’s blood turned to ice.

“Where is he—?” Hermione whispered.

Dumbledore was already moving.

Someone sobbed in the stands.

The hedges began to retract, crawling back into the ground, revealing the maze’s center—

And Draco’s heart twisted violently.

Because lying there, limp and still, was a body.

Two bodies.

Harry Potter.

And Cedric Diggory.

Draco barely remembered stumbling down the stands with the rest of the students. The world blurred at the edges — voices muffled, movement distant. He didn’t realise he was shaking until Pansy gripped his sleeve.

Cedric lay motionless, pale in the moonlight.

Harry knelt beside him, shaking, clutching the Triwizard Cup with a death grip. His face was hollow. His eyes were wide and dark and ruined.

“He’s back,” Harry whispered hoarsely. “Voldemort’s back.”

Draco felt something drop out of him — a clean, cold snap of fear.

Not for Voldemort.

For Harry.

Harry’s hands trembled. His breathing hitched. He looked like he might collapse.

Draco took an involuntary step forward.

Stopped himself.

The world tilted into chaos — teachers rushing, students crying, Madam Pomfrey sprinting across the grass — but Draco couldn’t tear his eyes from Harry, soaked in terror and grief.

Harry had been through something.

Something none of them understood.

And Draco… Draco wanted to be angry at him, to be distant, to pretend this didn’t matter.

But it did.

It mattered too much.

------------------------------------------

Later that night, back in Slytherin…

Draco sat on the edge of his bed, numb.

Cedric Diggory was dead.

Harry had screamed.

Harry had cried.

Harry had looked like the world was ending.

And Draco’s chest still hadn’t stopped aching.

Blaise sat beside him silently. “You’re very quiet.”

Draco swallowed hard. “…He was shaking.”

“Potter?”

Draco nodded.

Theo asked softly, “Are you… worried?”

“No,” Draco said automatically.

Pansy raised a brow.

Draco exhaled sharply.

“Yes,” he admitted, barely a whisper. “I’m worried.”

The confession hung in the dark.

He covered his face with his hands.

“I don’t know why,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t—understand what’s happening to me.”

Pansy’s voice softened. “Dray… it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he whispered. “It’s Potter.”

And for once, none of them teased him.

------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, in Gryffindor Tower…

Harry sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, Cedric’s name echoing in his skull.

Ron and Hermione held him on either side.

Neither spoke.

Harry’s voice was hoarse when he finally whispered:

“I saw him die. Right beside me. I couldn’t stop it.”

Hermione pressed her forehead against his shoulder, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Ron’s voice cracked: “It’s not your fault, mate.”

Harry didn’t believe him.

Somewhere below the floorboards, lightning cracked. A storm rolled in.

Harry closed his eyes.

And for just one moment—

a single, fragile moment—

he thought of grey eyes and soft hair and the way Draco had looked at him before the maze.

Like he cared.

Harry didn’t know why that memory hurt so much.

------------------------------------------

— Ministry Denial & Summer Fallout

The days after Cedric’s death were strange.

Too loud.

Too quiet.

Too sharp around the edges.

Whispers filled the corridors of Hogwarts like fog.

“Diggory died—”

“Potter said You-Know-Who is back—”

“Dumbledore believes him—”

“The Ministry says he’s lying—”

Students argued.

Teachers moved with strained faces.

Even Peeves was quieter than usual.

And Harry…

Harry walked through it all like a ghost.

Draco told himself he wasn’t watching Harry.

He absolutely was.

Every day.

He saw the dark circles under Harry’s eyes.

The way he flinched at sudden noises.

The way Ron and Hermione stayed glued to his side.

He saw how Harry kept clenching his right hand, as if remembering the weight of Cedric’s body.

And Draco’s chest twisted in ways he couldn’t understand.

------------------------------------------

—The Daily Prophet turned everything into poison.

The first issue arrived at breakfast.

Blaise skimmed it, then froze.

“…Draco,” he said quietly. “You should… see this.”

Draco took the paper.

And immediately felt sick.

HARRY POTTER: UNSTABLE?

“TRAUMA OR DELUSION,” SAYS MINISTRY SOURCE

The article belittled the entire ordeal.

Painted Cedric’s death as “an unfortunate accident.”

Called Harry “attention-seeking.”

Called Dumbledore “senile.”

Draco’s jaw clenched.

“He didn’t lie,” he whispered.

Pansy looked at him sharply. “Dray?”

“He didn’t,” Draco repeated, voice shaking. “Potter— he wouldn’t lie about Voldemort. He’s—he’s not like that.”

Theo blinked slowly. “You believe him.”

Draco’s stomach turned.

He hadn’t meant to say it like that.

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.

“I— I simply mean—” Draco stammered, cheeks flushing, “he looked— he— after the maze— I saw him—”

Saw him broken.

Saw him grieving.

Saw him terrified.

“No one can fake that,” Draco said softly.

Blaise’s gaze softened. “You care more than you want to.”

Draco didn’t answer.

Because he couldn’t.

------------------------------------------

The summer after Cedric’s death felt heavier than winter.

Draco returned to Malfoy Manor expecting calm refinement.

Instead, he found tension thick as smoke.

Lucius spoke quietly to Narcissa in the study each night, their voices urgent, paced, fearful. Doors closed quickly when Draco approached.

Dark cloaked figures visited at unfamiliar hours.

Draco heard the name “Voldemort” more times than he had heard it in his entire life.

One night, passing the library, Draco overheard everything.

Lucius: “I will not let them mark him.”

Narcissa: “They’ll expect it. Any day now.”

Lucius: “I don’t care. I choose the worng side and I will pay my price but he is not theirs. I will not sacrifice our son or you my love.”

Narcissa:"We will fight together you are not alone we my have made wrong decisions but we still have time to change things. We won't let our son be harmed."

The world cracked open under Draco’s feet.

He stood frozen in the corridor, breath trembling, heart pounding in his throat.

They weren’t going to let him be Marked.

They were protecting him.

Fear and relief tangled inside him like vines.

He didn’t sleep that night.

------------------------------------------

Meanwhile at the Dursleys…

Harry sat on his bed in Privet Drive, staring at the wall.

The Prophet called him a liar nearly every day.

Fudge ignored every warning.

Owls were intercepted.

Letters from Ron and Hermione were short and stiff — clearly being read by the Ministry.

Even his nightmares were louder now.

Cedric.

The graveyard.

Voldemort’s cold voice.

And sometimes — inexplicably — grey eyes filled with fear.

Draco’s fear.

Harry didn’t know why that image kept resurfacing.

He didn’t understand it.

He wasn’t ready to understand it.

------------------------------------------

—New term

The start-of-term for the 5th year feast felt wrong the moment the Great Hall filled with whispering.

Rain hammered against the enchanted ceiling.

Candlelight flickered weakly.

Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, trying to ignore the ache in his chest since the maze.

Then a new figure stood at the staff table.

Pink.

Fluffy.

Unsettling.

Dolores Umbridge.

Harry felt Ron stiffen beside him.

Hermione set down her fork very slowly.

Across the hall, Draco looked up from a quiet conversation with Theo — they were both wearing perfectly coordinated emerald skirts, pleated at the hem, embroidered subtly with silver. Very tasteful. Very them.

Draco’s expression dropped instantly.

Everyone knew a Ministry plant when they saw one.

Umbridge started with a speech.

Her voice was syrupy and wrong.

“Hogwarts must evolve,” she began. “Especially regarding proper roles and appropriate conduct.”

A ripple ran through the students.

Ron frowned.

Theo’s shoulders tensed.

Draco’s hand paused around his goblet.

Harry felt dread lodge under his ribs.

Umbridge clasped her hands.

“To begin, all omega students will now be seated together for their safety and to preserve dignity.”

The Hall erupted.

“WHAT?!”

“That’s archaic!”

“That’s illegal!”

Even Hermione shot to her feet.

Blaise made a sharp, angry sound.

Pansy’s face drained of colour and then flushed red with rage.

And Crabbe and Goyle—usually quiet, simple—looked genuinely upset.

“Why separate them?” Goyle muttered.

“That’s stupid,” Crabbe added.

Beta voices started rising everywhere.

Umbridge ignored all of it.

“And attire,” she continued, beaming, “will now be subject to regular inspection.”

Draco froze.

Theo’s hand went straight to the hem of his skirt.

“As some of our young omegas have taken liberties with—immodest lengths—” Umbridge said sweetly, eyes sliding to Draco and Theo, “—the school will ensure clothing reflects modesty and morality.”

Draco’s face went bone-white.

Theo looked sick.

Blaise stood. “Excuse me? That’s inappropriate.”

Pansy stood beside him, voice like fire. “You don’t get to comment on what students wear, and on top of there is nothing immodest about it.”

Hermione stood too. “This is discriminatory. Respectfully, Professor—this is unacceptable.”

Umbridge’s smile sharpened.

“Oh, Miss Granger, dear,” she tutted, “alphas often do not understand what protects omegas best.”

“It isn’t protection,” Harry snapped, rising. “It’s control.”

The hall went silent.

Ron was forcd fully pulled from Harry and Hermione by a prefect enforcing new seating.

Theo was directed away from Blaise and Pansy.

Draco—furious—and when he tried to resist—was dragged to sit with the omega group.

Draco was not mad about sitting with the omegas no not at all —but what gets to him is how discriminatory it is. To separate the omegas from his friends.

Harry watched Draco walk stiffly, chin high, skirt swishing softly with every step — refusing to bend even as the world tried to crush him.

Something twisted painfully in Harry’s chest.

This wasn’t just wrong.

It was cruel.

------------------------------------------

—Defense Class

The DADA classroom had been stripped of practice dummies.

Kitten plates hung on the walls.

The blackboard read:

“Omegas must embody grace and restraint.”

Harry nearly snapped his wand.

Theo sat in the omega row, pale but defiant.

Ron looked miserable but stubborn.

Draco sat perfectly straight, the silver embroidery on his skirt catching the light—like armour.

Hermione shot the omegas a supportive nod.

Pansy looked ready to launch herself at the professor.

Blaise’s jaw was clenched tight.

Umbridge’s eyes roamed.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she called sweetly, “please stand.”

Draco obeyed stiffly.

“Your skirt is…” she inspected the hem with a patronizing squint, “one inch shorter than our new guidelines. This suggests a lack of discipline. Omegas must dress with propriety.”

Draco went scarlet — with anger, not shame.

Harry saw Draco’s hands tremble.

Theo whispered, “Ignore her.”

But Draco’s throat was tight. “It’s the same skirt I’ve always worn.”

Umbridge nodded as if this proved her point.

“Young omegas should avoid attire that draws attention.”

“This skirt dosent draw any unwanted attention it is not impropriety, and if it does give some ideas to the opposite party then the skirt isnt the problem perhaps— it their mentality” Blaise snapped.

Harry stepped forward. “You can’t speak to him like that.”

“Mr. Potter,” Umbridge chimed, “you will sit down.”

“No,” Harry said, voice shaking with fury. “I won’t.”

Her smile widened.

“Detention.”

Draco flinched.

Harry saw it.

And something in him broke.

------------------------------------------

—After Class

Draco rushed out of the class the moment Umbridge turned away.

Harry ran after him.

“Malfoy—wait—”

Draco stopped in the corridor, back still, shoulders trembling.

He turned, eyes bright with unshed tears he would NEVER allow to fall.

“I don’t need pity Potter,” Draco said hoarsely.

“It’s not pity,” Harry said, stepping closer. “It’s—no one should talk to you like that. To any omega. It’s wrong.”

Draco inhaled sharply.

Then said, barely above a whisper:

“I don’t want you seeing me like this.”

Harry opened his mouth.

No words came out.

Draco shook his head, skirt swaying, expression cracking for a fraction of a second—

Then he walked away.

Harry stood frozen.

Ron and Hermione caught up behind him, equally devastated.

Pansy and Blaise lingered at the far end of the hall, watching Draco go, eyes fierce with love and anger.

Even Crabbe murmured, “She’s awful.”

Goyle nodded. “Draco didn’t deserve that. Not one omega in the class did, it was humiliating.”

Ron hummed, agreeing.

“The only reason she targeted Draco is ’cause he’s pretty. Everybody knows it. There were other omegas wearing skirts not according to that pig’s guidelines.” He sneered, fists tightening. “But she only picked on him.”

Harry closed his eyes.

He agreed.

Too much.

------------------------------------------

—Harry’s Detention

The door to Umbridge’s office shut behind him with a soft click that sounded like a trap.

Harry sat stiffly in the hard chair, staring at the desk covered in lace doilies and kitten plates that blinked unsettlingly.

“Now,” Umbridge said sweetly, “we will correct that disrespectful attitude toward authority.”

Harry gritted his teeth.

She placed a quill on the desk.

“This has… no ink,” Harry said warily.

“Oh no,” Umbridge smiled. “You will not need ink.”

He picked it up.

Cold.

Wrong.

Magic humming through it like something alive.

“You will write,” she said. “I must not question the Ministry.”

Harry set the quill to the parchment—

Fire lanced across the back of his hand.

He hissed, dropping the quill.

Blood welled in a thin, perfect line:

I must not question the Ministry.

He looked up, horrified.

Umbridge’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Again.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

He picked up the quill.

He wrote.

And the words carved themselves into his skin again.

And again.

Hours slipped by.

Pain blurred into anger.

Anger blurred into something heavier.

Every time the cut opened, Harry saw Umbridge grabbing Draco’s skirt hem.

He saw Draco’s fists trembling.

He saw Draco’s face flush with humiliation he didn’t deserve.

By the tenth line Harry’s vision blurred.

By the fifteenth line he was whispering under his breath:

“This isn’t right.”

By the twentieth line:

“She can’t treat them like that.”

By the thirtieth:

“She doesn’t get to hurt him.”

The quill dug deeper at that thought — as if the magic sensed truth.

When Umbridge finally dismissed him, Harry’s hand was shaking, bleeding, burning.

He stumbled out into the corridor, leaned against the wall, and let his forehead rest against the cool stone.

His hand throbbed.

His chest throbbed more.

He didn’t know which hurt worse.

------------------------------------------

—Meanwhile, in Slytherin Dorms

Draco sat on his bed, skirt still on, posture rigid.

He hadn’t changed.

He hadn’t moved.

He just sat, staring at his hands.

Theo perched on the edge of the mattress.

“You’re scaring me, Dray.”

Draco inhaled shakily.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Draco’s throat bobbed.

“its just i dont like how Umbridgetreats the omegas.”

“We know that.”

“She said it like—like I was wearing skirt to… to draw attention.”

His voice cracked. “As if I don’t know how people already look at us.”

Theo placed a soft hand over Draco’s.

Draco didn’t pull away.

“It wasn’t about the skirt,” Theo said gently. “It was about hurting you.”

Draco’s breath trembled.

“I hate her.”

“We all do.”

But Draco shook his head, eyes shiny.

“No. I hate how powerless I felt. I hate that she singled me out. And—”

He swallowed hard, cheeks reddening.

“I hate that Potter protected me.”

Theo blinked. “Why?”

Draco looked away quickly.

“Because he got detention because of me, and it makes me feel weak.”

Theo softened. “Dray… you aren't weak.”

Draco shut his eyes, defeated.

“I just—don't want him seeing me like that, dont want him getting into trouble, and I get a bad feeling about the Detention.”

The admission was so raw that Theo froze.

He didn’t tease.

He didn’t smirk.

He just squeezed Draco’s hand.

“You’re not weak,” he whispered. “And he knows that.”

Draco didn’t answer.

But the tear that slipped down his cheek said everything.

------------------------------------------

Harry Returns to Gryffindor Tower....

Ron gasped when he saw Harry’s hand.

“WHAT—?! Who did that?!”

Hermione paled. “Oh, Harry…”

Harry tried to wave it off. “It’s fine.”

“It is NOT fine!” Hermione snapped.

Ron demanded, “We’re telling McGonagall—”

“No!” Harry said suddenly.

His friends stared.

Harry held his injured hand close to his chest.

“If Umbridge is willing to do this,” he said quietly, “imagine what she’ll do when Ron argues with her. Or—”

He hesitated.

“Or what she’ll do to the omegas she already targets.”

Hermione’s expression softened.

Ron’s anger sharpened.

“So what now?” Ron asked.

Harry looked toward the window — toward the path Draco must’ve taken back to the dungeons — and whispered:

“We fight quietly.”

He didn’t hear Hermione whisper to Ron:

“He’s thinking of Malfoy again.”

Harry didn’t deny it.

He couldn’t.

------------------------------------------

Hours later, Draco finally changed into pyjamas.

He curled up under his emerald blankets, hair a soft halo on his pillow.

Theo whispered, “Goodnight, Dray.”

But Draco was already half-asleep, breathing uneven and fragile.

His last thought was not of Umbridge.

Nor humiliation.

Nor fear.

It was of Harry, clutching his hand in a tight fist that his knuckles turned white, stepping between Draco and Umbridge.

Why does he do that? Why does he care?

Draco fell asleep with that question burning inside him.

And somewhere else in the castle, Harry lay awake, thinking the same thing —

Why do I care so much?

------------------------------------------

Hogwarts had changed.

Students whispered about it, but the omegas felt it first — the subtle, constant pressure, the eyes watching, the rules tightening until simple things like sitting with friends became “infractions.”

Draco and Theo weren’t the only ones suffering.

Ron was exhausted.

A Hufflepuff omega cried through break.

Two Ravenclaw omegas stopped speaking entirely.

And everywhere, Harry watched.

He watched Draco most of all.

------------------------------------------

Defense Against the Dark Arts class was tense before class even began.

Draco entered quietly, head high, wearing one of his favorite skirts — dark forest-green with subtle silver threading. He looked beautiful. Perfect. Controlled.

Pansy and Blaise flanked him like silent bodyguards, eyes sharp.

Theo walked slightly ahead, shoulders stiff.

Omegas trickled in behind them, sitting in the cursed “omega rows.”

Ron included — miserable, tired, fed up.

Harry, entering with Hermione, immediately froze when he saw Draco’s expression:

Calm.

Composed.

Empty.

The kind of quiet right before something breaks.

------------------------------------------

—Umbridge began her inspection.

She adjusted her bow. Smiled too sweetly.

“Let’s begin with posture,” she said brightly — falsely. “Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco went still.

Everyone else went tense.

Umbridge walked toward him with small, sharp steps. Draco didn’t flinch, but his fingers tightened around his quill.

“Stand,” she said pleasantly.

Draco stood.

Perfectly.

Years and years of pureblood etiquette training straightened his back, lifted his chin, kept his hands elegant and still.

He was the picture of discipline.

Which made what came next obscenely unfair.

Umbridge circled him like prey.

“Hmm,” she hummed. “Your stance is… surprising.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed.

Pansy leaned forward.

Blaise’s jaw clenched.

Harry felt heat rising in his throat.

Surprising? Draco had better posture than the staff table.

But Umbridge continued, voice dripping venom in sugar-coating:

“Your attire is distracting. Your skirt is once again borderline improper—”

“It meets the guidelines,” Draco said tightly. “Exactly.”

She ignored him.

“Your tone when addressing authority is impertinent.”

“I didn’t speak—”

“Even now,” she cooed, “you interrupt.”

A ripple of outrage went through the room.

But she wasn’t done.

She straightened, smiled wider, and said clearly:

“Mr. Malfoy, your behavior reflects a loose character. Omegas who draw attention often do so because they lack self-restraint.”

The room exploded.

Pansy shot to her feet. “EXCUSE ME?!”

Theo stood so fast his chair scraped. “THAT’S ENOUGH.”

Hermione slammed her hands on her desk. “THAT IS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR A TEACHER!”

Ron stood too, voice shaking with fury.

“Draco didn’t do ANYTHING! And even if he did—YOU CAN’T SAY THAT TO ANYONE!”

Other omegas rose—

A Ravenclaw boy, flushed with humiliation."You can’t just cage us like birds, forcing your old outdated ideology on us."

A Hufflepuff girl trembling with anger."We have heard enough. "

A Slytherin first-year on the verge of tears.

Umbridge blinked slowly, feigning innocence.

“Oh? Have I touched a nerve?”

Harry felt something inside him snap.

He stood, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re targeting him,” he said, voice low. “You’re humiliating him for NOTHING.”

Umbridge turned to him with mock-surprise.

“Mr. Potter. Involving yourself again?”

Harry stepped closer.

“I’m telling you, you’re wrong.”

A sound cut through the chaos.

A soft inhale.

Everyone turned.

Draco was trembling.

Not visibly.

Not dramatically.

But enough that Blaise stepped closer.

Enough that Pansy reached for him.

Enough that Theo whispered, “Dray… breathe.”

Umbridge smiled sweetly at the tremor.

That was her mistake.

Draco lifted his chin.

And in the clearest, coldest, most aristocratic voice he had ever used in his life, Draco Malfoy said—“Dolores Umbridge, I have had enough.”

Silence fell like a guillotine blade.

His cheeks were flushed, but his voice didn’t shake.

“You do not get to question my character,” he said, stepping forward. “You do not get to humiliate me in front of my peers. You do not get to imply things you have no right implying.”

Umbridge sputtered.

“Mr. Malfoy—”

“I have done NOTHING wrong,” Draco continued, louder. “You think I don’t know how to sit? Speak? Walk? My manners were drilled into me since I could stand.”

Students stared, breath held.

Draco’s eyes glistened, fury and humiliation burning behind them.

“And if you believe for even a SECOND that you can insult a Malfoy’s dignity without consequence—”

his voice sharpened,

“—wait until my father hears about it.”

Umbridge went pale.

Pale.

Because she knew.

Lucius Malfoy was dangerous.

Lucius Malfoy was politically powerful.

And Lucius Malfoy adored his omega son.

Pansy smirked.

Blaise folded his arms.

Theo looked ready to hex something.

Ron muttered, “Bloody brilliant.”

Harry stared.

Heart pounding.

Draco looked—

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

Strong.

More himself than he had been in weeks.

Umbridge tried to recover.

“Twenty points from Slytherin! Detention! Disrespect from an omega—”

Draco laughed.

A sharp, humorless sound.

“Take a thousand points,” he said coldly. “I don’t care. But you will NOT speak to me like that again.”

Students gasped.

Theo whispered, almost proud:

“That’s my best friend.”

Umbridge’s nostrils flared.

She opened her mouth—try for a retort but couldn’t.

"The class is dismissed." She said gritting her teeth.

------------------------------------------

— The Summons 

It happened three nights after the explosion in Umbridge’s class.

Hogwarts was quiet — too quiet, the kind of silence that settles before storms or disasters. The corridors were dim, the torches low.

Draco Malfoy had just finished washing his face when Theo appeared at the bathroom door, pale and shaking.

“Draco,” he whispered, “someone’s here for you.”

Draco’s blood went cold.

“Who?”

Theo swallowed. “Your mother’s elf.”

Draco’s heart stuttered.

Not his mother.

Her elf.

House-elves only came with messages when something was urgent—

Or dangerous.

Draco dried his hands quickly and followed Theo down the corridor to the Slytherin common room.

The fire burned low, casting eerie shadows over the emerald stone. The elf stood trembling, wringing its hands.

“M-Master Draco, sir,” it squeaked, “your mother requests—requests your presence. Right away.”

Draco’s stomach twisted.

“My presence? Now?”

The elf nodded frantically. “Now, young master. Right away. Your father—he—he doesn’t want you to come, but—but he says you must see—must understand—”

Draco’s knees almost gave out.

Theo caught him by the elbow.

“What’s happening?” Theo whispered.

“I don’t know,” Draco whispered back, voice thin. “But Father warned me… over summer… things might come. That I wouldn’t be forced to wear a Mark, but— but the Dark Lord would expect something.”

Theo’s breath hitched.

“You can’t go alone.”

“I have to.”

Theo’s grip tightened. “Dray—”

But Draco had already straightened his clothes.

Already steeled his expression.

Already become Malfoy again.

“Tell Pansy and Blaise I’ll be back before breakfast,” Draco said, voice steady in a way that terrified Theo even more.

“And if I’m not… they’ll know what to do.”

Theo went still.

“Dray,” he whispered, voice cracking, “don’t say it like that.”

Draco didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

The elf held out its hand.

Draco inhaled, exhaled, and touched it.

The world twisted.

------------------------------------------

Harry Woke Up Suddenly

It wasn’t a nightmare.

Those he recognized — Cedric falling, Voldemort rising, screams echoing.

This was different.

Harry sat up in bed, breath shaking.

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

Like the air had shifted.

Like someone he shouldn’t care about was in danger.

Like a thread in his chest had snapped.

His hand glowed faintly with the remnants of the blood quill.

His scar pulsed.

“Harry?” Ron mumbled, half-asleep.

Harry shook his head. “Something’s… wrong.”

“With who?”

Harry didn’t know how to say it.

Draco.

He didn’t know why he felt it.

He didn’t know why the thought made fear curl in his gut.

He didn’t know why his fists clenched the sheets.

But he whispered anyway.

“Someone’s in danger.”

Ron rubbed his eyes. “Mate… it’s the middle of the night.”

But Harry couldn’t sit still.

He got out of bed.

Ron sat up. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Which was an answer.

------------------------------------------

—Malfoy Manor

Draco landed in the familiar marble hall.

Cold.

Silent.

Bright with moonlight.

His mother rushed toward him first.

“Draco,” Narcissa whispered, pulling him into her arms before he could protest. “I didn’t want you to come—your father insisted—but I didn’t want you here.”

Draco’s heart squeezed painfully.

“Narcissa—Mother—what’s happening?”

Lucius appeared in the doorway.

His face was drawn.

His eyes hollow.

But when he saw Draco, something protective flared so violently it hurt.

“Come,” Lucius said quietly. “There is something you must hear.”

He led Draco into a side room — not the drawing room, not the parlour, but a small, private study Draco had only seen once or twice in his life.

Lucius closed the door.

And Draco felt dread settle in his bones.

“What is this?” Draco whispered.

Lucius looked at him — really looked.

His son.

His omega.

His heir.

“Draco,” Lucius said softly, “the Dark Lord has returned.”

Draco already knew.

But hearing it aloud, hearing it in his father’s voice — broke something inside him.

Lucius continued, voice low:

“He expects loyalty. He expects obedience. He expects our family to participate.”

Draco’s breath stilled.

“No,” Narcissa whispered, hands trembling. “We cannot let our son be used.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened.

“I will not let him be Marked,” he said. “I would rather be killed.”

Draco felt the room tilt.

He stared at his father — the man who he once believed only cared for politics and power — and realized something horrifying:

Lucius was afraid.

Truly afraid.

For Draco.

“Why am I here?” Draco whispered.

Lucius met his eyes.

“Because the Dark Lord wants to see you soon.”

Narcissa stiffened, panic rising.

“Lucius—NO.”

“He only wants to observe him,” Lucius lied, terribly.

Draco knew it was a lie.

He also knew he was being hunted.

He also knew he had no way out.

And for the first time in years, Draco felt small.

He felt powerless.

He felt trapped between a war he didn’t choose and a school that had become a cage.

He wanted—

He didn’t know what he wanted.

Except—

A sudden image flashed through his mind:

Harry.

Standing in front of him in class.

Taking a punishment meant for him.

Bleeding for him.

Shouting for him.

Looking at him like Draco mattered.

Draco’s throat tightened.

Lucius touched his shoulder gently.

“We will protect you,” he said. “As long as we can.”

Draco nodded, numb.

But as he stood in the cold hall, as moonlight fell across the marble, as fear curled in his stomach—

He wished—

He hated that he wished—

But he wished Harry knew.

------------------------------------------

—Back at Hogwarts

Harry sat awake in the dark.

He didn’t know where Draco was.

He didn’t know why he cared.

He didn’t know why dread twisted in his stomach like a warning.

But he whispered into the quiet tower:

“Come back safe.”

He didn’t know Draco heard it in the echo of his mind.

But he would.

Soon.

------------------------------------------

— Draco Returns Changed

Draco returned to Hogwarts just before dawn.

No one saw him arrive.

No one except the castle itself — ancient stone humming faintly as if aware something fragile had cracked inside one of its children.

Draco stepped through the Entrance Hall on unsteady feet, cloak wrapped tightly around him, hair mussed by wind and apparition, breath shallow.

He looked like someone who had been pulled apart and stitched back together wrong.

He looked like someone who had seen the beginning of a war.

He looked like someone who could shatter if touched too suddenly.

The castle was silent as he made his way down toward the dungeons, every footstep echoing too loudly. His fingers trembled as he pushed into the Slytherin common room.

Theo, who had been pacing all night, froze mid-stride.

“Dray?”

Draco opened his mouth.

No words came out.

Theo rushed to him.

“Where were you—why didn’t you send a message—we thought something happened—Blaise was about to go get Snape—”

Draco lifted one shaking hand.

Theo fell silent.

The quiet was worse.

After a long moment, Draco whispered,

“I’m fine.”

Theo stared at him.

“Draco,” he said softly, “you look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m fine.”

He repeated it like a spell.

Like saying it enough times might make it true.

Theo swallowed. “Do you want to talk—”

“No.”

Too fast.

Too sharp.

Too broken.

Draco brushed past him and disappeared into their dorm.

Theo didn’t follow immediately.

He waited against the door for five whole minutes before Draco's muffled, shaking breath broke through the wood.

Theo pressed a hand to the door.

“…I’m here,” he whispered.

Draco didn’t answer.

But he didn’t tell him to go away either.

------------------------------------------

—Later That Morning — Great Hall

Harry hadn’t slept.

Not even a little.

He walked into the Great Hall bleary-eyed, heart pounding in ways that made no sense. Ron yawned behind him; Hermione carried a stack of notes she clearly hadn’t reviewed once.

Harry scanned the hall automatically.

No Draco.

His stomach twisted.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

He told himself he was being paranoid.

He told himself—

Draco walked in.

And every thought in Harry’s head dissolved.

Draco looked—

Wrong.

Perfect clothes, perfect hair, perfect posture… but somehow everything was misaligned. His shoulders were tighter, his steps too careful, his eyes dimmer. His face was pale in a way that wasn’t elegant — it was frightening.

Blaise walked close behind him, jaw clenched, eyes scanning for threats.

Pansy was on Draco’s other side, whispering urgently.

Theo hovered protectively at his back, hand occasionally ghosting near Draco’s arm as if ready to catch him.

They surrounded him like a fragile thing.

Like someone who had been hurt.

Like someone who might break.

Harry stood from where he’d been sitting without thinking, breath catching.

Hermione’s eyes widened.

“You feel it too?”

Harry swallowed. “He’s… different.”

Ron frowned, following Draco’s movements.

“Bloody hell… he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.”

Harry couldn’t look away.

Because Draco wasn’t looking at anyone.

Not even his friends.

He sat down stiffly, eyes fixed on the table as if willing himself to disappear.

When Theo nudged his shoulder gently, Draco flinched.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully.

Their Eyes Meet

For a moment, Draco lifted his head.

Just one moment.

His gaze swept the hall—disconnected, distant, unfocused—

until his eyes met Harry’s.

Time fractured.

Draco didn’t glare.

Didn’t sneer.

Didn’t roll his eyes.

He froze.

Like he’d been caught off guard.

Like he’d been seen too deeply.

Like Harry was the last person he expected to be looking for him.

And then—

Something fragile flickered.

Fear.

Not of Harry.

Of the world.

Harry’s breath stopped.

He took one step forward.

Draco looked away abruptly, swallowing hard, shoulders curling ever so slightly inward.

The smallest movement.

But Harry felt it like a punch.

Pansy Noticed

She glared at Harry, sharp as a blade.

Not in anger.

In warning.

In fear.

Do not ask.

Do not come near.

He’s not ready.

Harry didn’t argue.

He just stood there, hands trembling at his sides.

Hermione touched his arm gently.

“Harry,” she said softly, “something happened to him.”

He stared at Draco’s bowed head.

“I know.”

------------------------------------------

—Classes Were Worse

Draco barely spoke.

Barely moved.

Barely argued with Snape.

Snape, to his credit, said nothing — but the way his eyes lingered on Draco’s trembling hand spoke volumes.

Theo answered questions Draco normally would have torn apart.

Blaise kept shifting his desk closer in protective increments.

Pansy whispered defensive threats under her breath whenever anyone stared too long.

Harry watched all of it.

And the more he watched, the worse it felt.

Because something had happened.

Something Draco was terrified to say.

Something that made even breathing seem like effort.

Harry’s instincts — the parts of him he didn’t understand yet — screamed at him to go to Draco.

Touch him.

Offer warmth.

Offer protection.

But Draco wouldn’t even look at him.

After Class ended— Draco rushes out.

Students flooded the corridor.

Umbridge barked some order at a group of omegas.

Theo grabbed Draco’s wrist to steer him away from her—

And Draco stumbled.

Just a fraction.

But enough that Harry, three meters away, moved fast.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t plan.

He reached out instinctively the same way he had in third year when Draco fell in the corridor.

But before he could reach him—

Blaise stepped between them, palm out.

Not hostile.

Protective.

Harry froze mid-step.

Blaise’s voice was low.

“Not today, Potter.”

Harry swallowed hard.

He looked past Blaise to Draco — who stood stiffly, breath shallow, refusing to meet his eyes.

Something inside Harry cracked open in a way he didn’t understand.

“Is he okay?” Harry whispered.

Blaise didn’t answer.

He just guided Draco down the hall, Theo and Pansy forming a shield around him.

Draco didn’t look back.

Harry did.

Until he couldn’t see Draco anymore.

Harry was standing alone in the corridor, Harry felt the fear crawl up his spine.

Not fear for Hogwarts.

Not fear for himself.

Fear for Draco.

Hermione stepped beside him quietly.

“You can tell,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t respond.

Ron joined them, expression troubled.

“Mate… whatever happened to him… it was bad.”

Harry closed his eyes.

It felt like someone had whispered inside his bones:

He won’t say it.

But he’s hurting.

And he’s alone.

Harry whispered:

“I’m going to help him.”

Hermione didn’t argue.

Ron didn’t scoff.

Because they all felt it.

Something was deeply, terribly wrong.

------------------------------------------

— Dumbledore’s Army Forms

The Room of Requirement opened like it had been waiting for them.

Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, a few Ravenclaw alphas, several Hufflepuff betas—

and omegas.

More omegas than Harry expected.

Omegas who looked tired.

Scared.

Bruised not on their bodies, but in their dignity.

Ron stood against the wall, arms crossed, looking more determined than Harry had ever seen him.

“We can’t rely on Umbridge for defense,” Hermione said firmly. “So we’ll teach each other.”

Harry swallowed.

“Me?” he asked faintly.

“Yes, you,” Hermione said. “You’re the one who’s faced Voldemort and lived.”

Ron grinned weakly. “Twice, actually.”

Someone whispered: “Three times, if you count first year.”

Harry flushed.

But omegas looked at him with something he’d never seen directed his way before:

Trust.

And that terrified him almost as much as it moved him.

Omegas Join — Quietly & Desperately.

The first omega to sign up was a shy Hufflepuff boy who kept glancing nervously at the door.

Then came two Ravenclaw omegas.

Then a Gryffindor omega girl.

Then more.

Because Umbridge had made Hogwarts unsafe for them.

Because having a wand wasn’t enough when the world was watching your every move.

Hermione whispered to Harry:

“They need a way to fight back.”

------------------------------------------

—Harry Teaches

And for the first time in a long time, Harry felt like he was doing something right.

He demonstrated Expelliarmus.

Protego.

Stupefy.

He corrected Ron’s stance gently.

He helped a trembling omega hold her wand steady.

He coached a beta through a shield charm.

No fear.

No pain.

No cruelty.

Just hope.

The room glowed with it.

And then Draco appeared.

Not inside.

At the doorway.

A silhouette framed by the shifting walls — blond hair catching the enchanted light, posture stiff, eyes wide with disbelief.

No one else noticed him.

Only Harry.

Their eyes locked.

Frozen.

A breath caught in Draco’s throat.

Something like longing flickered — quickly smothered.

He stepped backward.

The wall began to close.

Harry reacted before thinking.

“Wait—”

Draco froze.

Just froze.

Harry moved closer, heart hammering, but didn’t cross the threshold — as if something sacred separated them.

Draco’s expression was unreadable.

Worn.

Haunted.

A little hopeful.

A lot afraid.

He swallowed.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Draco whispered, voice trembling despite the walls he tried to put up. “It’s dangerous. For you. For all of them.”

Harry held his gaze.

“I know.”

Draco’s fingers curled at his sides.

“You’re going to get caught.”

“Maybe.”

Draco’s breath hitched.

“You’re going to get hurt.”

“Maybe.”

Harry took one gentle step closer.

“But if I don’t teach them, who will?”

Draco stared at him like the question had hit somewhere deep inside.

Somewhere he didn’t want touched.

Somewhere he didn’t know how to protect.

He looked away sharply.

“You’re an idiot, Potter,” he whispered — not cruelly, but brokenly.

Then:

“Be careful.”

And he left.

The wall sealed behind him.

Harry stood there for a full minute before anyone realized he had stopped talking.

Ron tapped his arm.

“Mate? You okay?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Because Draco’s final look stayed burned in his mind.

And for the first time, Harry understood something:

Draco didn’t want him to fail.

Draco didn’t want him to get hurt.

Draco… cared.

And that terrified Harry more than Voldemort ever had.

------------------------------------------

— Occlumency Begins

Harry’s mind fractures. Draco’s fear grows. Snape sees what neither boy will say out loud.

Occlumency lessons began on a Tuesday.

Which was unfair, Harry thought, because Tuesdays were already terrible.

The classroom Snape chose was cold, dim, and full of shadows — a place meant for secrets. Which made sense, because Harry already hated everything about it.

Snape stood with his arms folded, expression unreadable.

“Clear your mind, Potter.”

Harry tried.

He really did.

But clearing your mind was impossible when:

• Sirius was in danger

• Voldemort was in his head

• Umbridge was torturing omegas

• Draco looked like a ghost

• And Draco had told him to be careful

His brain was about as clear as a Quidditch pitch during a storm.

Snape lifted his wand.

“Legilimens.”

Harry's mind shattered open.

Screams—

Flashes of green light—

Cedric falling—

Draco crying in a bathroom, tears streaming silently—

Umbridge grabbing Draco’s skirt and yanking—

Ron bleeding from the hand—

Draco clutching his mother at the Manor—

Harry reaching out for Draco in the corridor—

And—

The Yule Ball.

That moment their scents touched.

Draco’s breath near his throat.

Draco’s waist beneath his palm.

Harry crashed into the floor, panting.

Snape stared.

Not angry.

Not mocking.

Something else.

Something suspiciously like—

concern.

“…Potter,” Snape said slowly, “you are exceptionally vulnerable. The Dark Lord will tear you apart if you do not learn control.”

Harry wiped his forehead. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

Snape turned away, but not quickly enough to hide the way he lingered on the memory of Draco — the one where Draco pressed his forehead against a cold wall at Malfoy Manor, fear shaking through him.

Snape’s jaw tightened.

That was new.

Snape didn’t tighten his jaw unless something was very wrong.

------------------------------------------

—Draco’s Occlumency Lesson

Later that night, in a different room, with the door locked and a silencing charm cast—

Draco stood before Snape too.

Not as a student.

As a boy being hunted.

Snape’s voice was softer with Draco.

“Legilimens.”

Draco’s memories spilled out—

Narcissa clutching him.

Lucius trembling.

The Dark Lord’s voice echoing down a hall.

A circle of masked faces.

Draco’s knees buckling.

The sickening knowledge that Voldemort wanted to inspect him.

Evaluate him.

Use him.

And—

Harry dancing with him under golden light.

Harry protecting him in class.

Harry’s hand brushing his at the Yule Ball.

Harry’s voice whispering, Come back safe.

Draco snatched back control with a gasp.

Snape inhaled sharply.

Not because Draco failed the shield—

but because Snape now knew something neither boy had admitted:

Draco wasn’t afraid of Harry.

He was afraid of what Harry meant.

Snape lowered his wand.

“You must guard your mind,” he said quietly. “If the Dark Lord senses your… attachment, he will exploit it.”

Draco turned scarlet.

“I am NOT— I don’t— I have NOT—!”

Snape lifted a hand.

“I did not say it was wise. I said it was real.”

Draco froze.

Because that was worse.

Much worse.

------------------------------------------

—Harry After Lessons

Harry stumbled out of the dungeon, drained, dizzy, furious.

Every time Snape forced his mind open, Draco fell out.

Draco crying.

Draco trembling.

Draco’s perfume.

Draco’s hands.

Draco’s voice saying be careful.

He wanted to run laps until he forgot.

He wanted to throw something.

He wanted—

To know why Draco had looked so terrified when he came back from the Manor.

He paused at the end of the corridor.

Someone stood there in the shadows.

Hair pale as moonlight.

Draco.

Harry froze.

“Malfoy?”

Draco flinched — a small, sharp movement he tried to hide.

“Potter,” Draco said, voice too thin.

They stared at each other.

So close.

So quiet.

So full of questions neither could ask.

Harry took a step forward.

“What happened to you?”

Draco’s breath caught.

“Nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, eyes shimmering with something bitter and exhausted.

“You don’t get to ask me that.”

Harry felt like he’d been punched.

Draco’s voice cracked as he turned away:

“You don’t get to care.”

And he walked down the hall, disappearing before Harry could breathe again.

------------------------------------------

Snape was alone in his classroom thinking about Harry and Draco's lessons.

Foolish boys,

he thought as he closed his classroom door.

Falling into something that will ruin them both.

But even he—

Severus Snape—

Could not deny one truth:

If Harry and Draco were ever forced onto opposite sides of the war…

The world itself might break.

------------------------------------------

— The Day Hogwarts Snapped

Not humiliation. Not a repeat.

A tipping point for an entire school.

It started in the courtyard.

Not with Draco.

Not with Harry.

Not with Umbridge.

It started with a frightened little first-year omega from Hufflepuff.

Her name was Marigold Finch.

She dropped a stack of books while hurrying to class.

A Gryffindor alpha—George Weasley—knelt to help her gather them.

That was all.

Just kindness.

Just a schoolmate helping someone smaller.

Umbridge saw.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

Her expression peeled open into something ugly beneath the pink.

“You!” she shrieked. “OMEGA—step away from that alpha this instant!”

Marigold froze like a rabbit under a hawk.

George blinked. “Professor, she dropped her—”

“DETENTION! For improper omega behavior!”

“But—she— I only—"

“Do NOT speak back to me!”

A crowd formed instantly.

Students stopped walking.

Books dropped.

Whispers turned to outrage.

Because everyone knew:

Marigold was shy.

Soft-spoken.

Gentle.

Scared of everything.

And Umbridge looked delighted to crush her.

Umbridge grabbed the girl’s wrist.

Too tight.

Too rough.

The girl whimpered.

A sound that went straight through Hogwarts like an alarm bell.

Th omegas reacted first.

Theo stepped forward, voice shaking with fury:

“LET HER GO.”

Other omegas behind him echoed:

“Have you gone mad?”

“She didn’t do anything!”

“She’s a child!”

Umbridge turned, wild-eyed.

“OMEGAS ARE TO REMAIN SILENT!”

Omegas roared back.

Not violently—

emotionally.

Weeks of fear, rules, punishments, isolation—

it all broke loose.

Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Gryffindors.

Skirts, trousers, young, older—

all of them.

And this time?

It wasn’t Draco she targeted.

It was the whole population.

------------------------------------------

Draco hadn’t been there at the start of the commotion.

He was walked in the halfway.

Hair braided loosely.

Robes immaculately arranged.

Expression composed.

But his eyes—

His eyes widened slightly when he saw the first-year crying.

Saw Theo shaking with anger.

Saw Ron trying to shield three terrified omegas behind him.

Saw Hermione arguing with two prefects to get help.

And Harry—

Harry standing between Umbridge and the crowd, one hand curled around his wand, body angled defensively.

Draco’s breath hitched.

Not because of Umbridge.

Because of Harry.

Protecting.

Again.

Even when it wasn’t Draco.

Even when he’d been screamed at, cursed at, punished all week.

Even when he had no reason to care anymore.

Harry still stepped between danger and whoever needed him.

Draco’s heart twisted sharply in his ribcage.

------------------------------------------

Umbridge yanked Marigold’s arm again.

“I WILL NOT HAVE OMEGA–ALPHA MIXING! Not EVER! You FILTHY—”

A sound cut her off.

Not a shout.

Not a spell.

A low, collective intake of breath.

Every alpha in the courtyard stiffened.

Every beta went silent.

Every omega froze.

Because someone had stepped forward.

Not Harry.

Not Theo.

Not Ron.

Draco.

Draco Malfoy didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“Let. Her. Go.”

Three words.

Calm.

Deadly.

Precise as a blade.

Umbridge spun toward him.

“Mr. Malfoy, do NOT insert yourself—”

Draco stepped closer.

His posture was aristocratic perfection.

Hands still.

Chin high.

Eyes glacial.

“Marigold Finch is twelve,” he said evenly. “She dropped her books. An older student helped her. That is normal. And you are manhandling a minor.”

His voice gained steel.

“You will let her go.”

Umbridge sputtered.

“This is regulation, Mr. Malfoy—”

“No,” Draco interrupted softly. “This is harassment.”

The courtyard rippled with shock.

Theo’s mouth fell open.

Pansy whispered, “Oh, he’s done.”

Blaise smirked darkly.

Hermione looked like she might cry out of pride.

Ron muttered, “That’s my boy—no I mean—not my boy—just—someone’s boy—I mean—oh, hell.”

Harry couldn’t breathe.

Because Draco wasn’t being humiliated this time.

Draco was leading.

Draco was becoming the voice the omegas hadn’t known they were allowed to have.

And Harry could see the tremor in Draco’s hand—

the fear beneath the composure—

but Draco stood anyway.

Strong.

Terrified.

Beautiful.

------------------------------------------

Umbridge saw it. And she panicked.

Her wand twitched.

“Detention for ALL of you!”

Harry stepped forward instantly.

“No.”

Umbridge turned scarlet.

“Potter—”

Harry’s voice was low, dangerous.

“You’re not punishing them for existing.”

Omegas behind him gasped.

Someone whispered, “He’s defending us.”

Theo whispered, “Blimey.”

Hermione whispered, “About time.”

Draco swallowed hard.

His hands shook at his sides.

He whispered—too softly for anyone but Harry to hear—

“Please don’t get hurt for us…”

Harry looked at him.

Really looked.

And said, without hesitation:

“I’m not letting her touch any of you again.”

Draco’s knees almost buckled.

------------------------------------------

The crowd’s energy changed.

What began as fear

shifted into unity.

Omegas stepped behind Draco.

Betas stepped beside Ron.

Alphas—quiet ones, scared ones, angry ones—took their place behind Harry.

For the first time since Umbridge arrived—

The entire student body looked like something Umbridge couldn’t control.

Not by rules.

Not by restrictions.

Not by humiliation.

She backed up a step.

Just one.

But everyone saw it.

Everyone. 

And amidst all the chaos McGonagall arrived.

Glasses askew.

Robe half-buttoned.

Expression colder than the grave.

“If someone does not explain,” she said sharply, “why a first-year omega is crying in my courtyard, there will be consequences—

for the responsible adult.”

Umbridge turned purple.

Students exhaled.

Draco finally sagged, but only slightly.

Theo steadied him instantly.

Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Ron relaxed his shoulders.

Hermione’s eyes glowed with fierce triumph.

And Umbridge…

Umbridge realized she had lost something today.

Not authority.

Not control.

Not power.

She lost fear.

The omegas weren’t afraid anymore.

And Draco Malfoy had made that happen.

Harry was watching Draco silently.

Draco caught his eye.

A single heartbeat passed.

Harry mouthed:

“Are you okay?”

Draco looked away.

But his shoulders softened.

Just a little.

Like someone had finally lifted a weight he’d been carrying too long.

------------------------------------------

Hogwarts didn’t return to normal after that day.

It couldn’t.

Something had shifted — not loud, not flashy, but deep, like a fault line cracking under stone.

Omegas walked a little straighter.

Betas stood closer to their friends.

Alphas glanced warily at Umbridge.

And Umbridge herself?

She watched Draco Malfoy like a hawk starved for prey.

Not because she wanted to humiliate him again—

she already tried that.

Not because she wanted to break him—

she already failed.

But because Draco had done something Umbridge never expected:

He led a rebellion without ever raising his voice.

And that angered her.

Harry saw the rage in Umbridge’s eyes whenever Draco passed her.

He also saw Draco’s hands tremble the moment her back was turned.

But Draco didn’t buckle.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t crack.

He walked the halls with Theo, Blaise, and Pansy beside him—

but Harry noticed Draco looking more often.

Not at Harry directly.

At shadows.

At corners.

At the sky.

At doors.

Like he was waiting for something.

Like something was following him.

Like something had changed since that night he disappeared.

Harry didn’t understand it.

Not yet.

------------------------------------------

—Harry’s Visions Grow Worse

At the same time Draco became more jumpy, Harry’s visions sharpened.

Sharper images.

Sharper pain.

Sharper whispers from Voldemort’s mind.

Sometimes he saw corridors he’d never walked.

Sometimes he smelled smoke.

Sometimes he heard a cold voice saying:

“He is close… the boy is close…”

Harry would snap awake gasping.

Ron would jolt upright.

Hermione would pace.

Crookshanks would hiss.

And the next day—

Harry would see Draco’s pale face in class, eyes hollow, hands shaking ever so slightly when he lifted his wand.

As if Draco had dreamed something too.

But Draco never said a word.

And Harry didn’t ask.

Because every time he tried, Draco shut down—

like a door slammed in his face.

------------------------------------------

—Two Boys Falling Apart on Opposite Sides of a War

Snape watched both boys carefully, his eyes narrowing more each lesson.

Harry’s shields failed.
Draco’s shields cracked.

Harry’s mind spilled fear.
Draco’s mind spilled secrets.

Harry couldn’t sleep.
Draco wouldn’t sleep.

Harry grew angrier.
Draco grew quieter.

Two lines, running parallel.

Never touching.
But inevitably bending toward each other.
Because neither could escape what was coming.

Harry felt the prophecy pressing closer—

like gravity.

Like doom.

Like a voice whispering from the back of his skull.

Draco felt Voldemort’s attention drifting toward him—

like ice.

Like a spotlight.

Like a silent promise:

soon.

------------------------------------------

They no longer fought.

They no longer ignored each other.

They existed in the same space with a tension that neither could name:

Too soft to be rivalry.

Too intense to be friendship.

Too fragile to be spoken aloud.

In Potions, their hands almost brushed.

In corridors, they paused a second too long.

In the Great Hall, they stole glances when the other wasn’t looking.

And when Harry woke from visions trembling—

His first thought wasn’t Sirius.

Or Voldemort.

It was Draco.

And when Draco felt a cold whisper crawling up his spine—

His first instinct wasn’t to run to Theo.

Or Pansy.

It was Harry.

Neither of them understood why.

Not yet.

------------------------------------------

It happened on a night when the wind howled against the castle walls,

when Harry woke with a scream stuck in his throat,

when Draco sat bolt upright in bed at the same moment, chest heaving—

And somewhere in between their two nightmares,

between prophecy and threat,

between fear and longing—

Harry and Draco finally collided.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Catastrophically.

And the truth neither wanted to face began to unravel.

Harry didn’t mean to find Draco that night.

He wasn’t looking for him.

He was running.

Running from a vision that tore through him like a blade—

Voldemort laughing, a hallway of black stone, a voice whispering:

“The omega boy is frightened. Good.”

Harry woke up choking on fear.

He stumbled out of bed, barely remembering shoes, barely breathing at all.

Ron called after him, but Harry didn’t hear.

He needed air.

Space.

Something that wasn’t tight and suffocating.

The castle was dark and hollow, torchlight flickering like dying stars. Harry leaned against a cold stone arch, trying to steady his pulse.

That’s when he heard it.

A sound too soft for anyone else to notice.

Barely a breath.

A stifled sob.

Harry froze.

Not because someone was crying—

but because he knew that voice.

He would know it anywhere.

“Draco…?”

Silence.

Then a choked inhale.

Harry followed the sound around the corner, past a row of unused classrooms and dim chandeliers flickering with spell-light.

And there—

Collapsed on the floor beside an abandoned tapestry—

Draco Malfoy.

Knees pulled to his chest.

Hands tangled in his hair.

Shoulders shaking violently.

Like the world was crushing him and he had nowhere left to stand.

Harry’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

“Draco?” he said again, softer.

Draco jolted like he’d been stabbed.

He scrambled up too fast, wiping his face with trembling hands.

His eyes were swollen.

His breathing ragged.

He looked—

He looked like he had been crying for hours.

“Potter,” Draco snapped, voice breaking through the cracks, “go away.”

Harry didn’t move.

Draco turned his face away, hiding the shine of tears.

“Please,” he whispered. “Just go.”

That was worse than shouting.

Much worse.

Harry stepped forward.

Draco backed up instantly, slamming into the stone wall behind him.

“Don’t,” Draco said, voice shaking. “Don’t come near me. I— I can’t—”

Harry’s chest broke open.

“Draco,” he whispered, “what happened?”

Draco laughed.

A tiny, shattered sound that made Harry flinch.

“What happened?” Draco repeated breathlessly. “Everything, Potter. Absolutely everything.”

He pressed a hand to his mouth as if holding himself together.

Harry swallowed.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll care.”

Harry blinked.

“Is that… bad?”

Draco shook violently.

His hair fell into his eyes.

“You shouldn’t,” Draco whispered. “You shouldn’t care. You don’t know what you’re— who you’re— dealing with. You don’t know what’s coming.”

Harry stepped closer, slow enough to not spook him.

“Then tell me.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut.

His breath shook.

He whispered, so faintly Harry almost missed it:

“Voldemort wants something. Something from you.”

Harry froze.

Draco’s hands clenched into fists.

“And he wants something from me too,” Draco continued, voice cracking. “Not the Mark. Not yet. Something else. Something worse.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“What is it?”

Draco opened his eyes then.

Raw.

Frantic.

Terrified.

“I don’t know. I just know he’s looking at me. Evaluating me. And he said— he said—”

Harry inched closer.

“He said what, Draco?”

Draco swallowed hard.

“That I would be useful. That my family would be useful. That— that I would be a good weak point. A good way to break someone.” Draco’s voice broke again. “A good way to break you.”

Harry stopped breathing.

Draco sagged back against the wall, tears spilling silently.

“I don’t want to be used,” he whispered, voice small. “I don’t want him using me to get to you. I don’t want to be a weapon, Potter.”

Harry’s throat constricted painfully.

“You’re not,” Harry said fiercely.

Draco shook his head.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” Draco insisted, harsh but shaking. “You don’t understand the prophecy. You don’t know what you are in all of this. What I am in all of this.”

Harry blinked.

“What prophecy?”

Draco’s breath caught.

He hadn’t meant to say that.

He slapped a trembling hand over his mouth.

Harry froze.

“Draco,” he whispered, “what prophecy?”

Draco backed up like a frightened animal.

“No—no— I can’t— I wasn’t supposed— please, Harry—please don’t ask—”

Harry moved carefully, gently placing a hand near Draco’s arm without touching.

Draco flinched, but didn’t pull fully away.

“Draco,” Harry whispered softly, “look at me.”

Draco did.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Eyes red, lashes wet, mouth trembling.

“Whatever this is,” Harry said, “you’re not alone in it.”

Draco’s face crumpled, pain and longing and fear bleeding into one expression.

His voice was a whisper breaking at the edges.

“I don’t want you to die, Potter.”

Harry exhaled like someone had punched him.

“And I don’t want you to be used,” Harry said quietly.

“I don’t want you hurt. Not by him. Not by anyone.”

Draco’s breath hitched.

They stood there—two boys pressed against the world from opposite sides—caught between a prophecy and a war they didn’t choose.

Close enough to touch.

Too afraid to.

Harry whispered:

“We’ll figure it out.”

Draco whispered back:

“No, we won’t.”

But he didn’t walk away.

Not this time.

------------------------------------------

The days after Draco’s breakdown felt… suspended.

Like Hogwarts was holding its breath.

Harry kept expecting Draco to avoid him again, to retreat behind insults or coldness or pureblood pride — but Draco didn’t.

Not exactly.

He didn’t seek Harry out.

Didn’t speak to him in halls.

Didn’t even look directly at him in class.

But when their eyes did meet?

Draco didn’t flinch.

He didn’t run.

He held Harry’s gaze just long enough for something soft and terrified to flicker between them.

And the world tilted.

------------------------------------------

—Harry’s Visions Change

They weren’t dreams anymore.

They were sharp, intrusive, blooming behind his eyelids even when awake.

A hallway of black doors.

Floating shelves.

A whisper: Find it… find it… find it…

And sometimes—

A flash of blonde.

Not a Death Eater.

Not Narcissa.

Draco.

Standing in a corner of the vision, eyes wide with warning. Reaching for Harry.

Harry jolted awake every time.

Hermione looked terrified.

Ron paced.

Neville held his wand all night.

Ginny tried to comfort him.

But none of them could stop the visions.

None of them could stop the pull.

------------------------------------------

Draco Notices

Not openly.

Not in words.

But Harry caught him watching during breakfast, eyes lingering on the dark circles under Harry’s eyes, on the tremor in his hand, on the way Harry winced when pain flashed across his scar.

Draco’s fork hovered above his plate, unmoving.

“You’re getting worse again,” he murmured to Theo, barely audible.

Theo frowned. “Who? Umbridge? Harry?”

Draco didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Theo understood.

------------------------------------------

Snape pulled Harry aside after Occlumency.

“You are leaving your mind wide open,” Snape snapped. “The Dark Lord is inside you.”

Harry was shaking.

He couldn’t help it.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Harry muttered.

Snape’s voice softened—barely.

“No one asks for war, Potter.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

“I’m not the only one fighting it.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

He knew exactly who Harry meant.

He didn’t comment.

------------------------------------------

It happened outside Umbridge’s office as he delivered a forged note to skip a detention she’d randomly assigned.

Two Aurors were inside — Dawlish and Williamson — Ministry dogs.

Draco had just raised his hand to knock when he heard it:

“…the prophecy concerns Potter,” Dawlish said.

Draco froze.

His blood iced.

“…but if we can’t get the weapon, we’ll take the bait,” Williamson replied. “The Dark Lord wants leverage. Something Potter values.”

Draco’s heart stopped.

Something Potter values.

He stumbled backward, breath caught in his throat, nearly tripping over a stone step.

Because he knew what Voldemort had said about him.

He knew why Lucius was terrified.

He knew what he overheard weeks ago:

“The omega boy will do. He is close to Potter. He will break easily.”

Draco ran.

Not towards the dungeons.

Not towards his friends.

He ran out into the courtyard, into the freezing wind, into the dark.

But he couldn’t outrun the truth:

He was a weapon.

And Voldemort intended to use him to destroy Harry.

------------------------------------------

—Draco Finds Harry 

Harry was alone by the lake, rubbing his scar, trying not to scream from the pressure in his head.

Draco saw him — the pain twisting Harry’s face, the way he hunched forward like bracing for a blow, the sweat slicking his palms.

Their eyes locked.

Harry whispered, “He’s in my head.”

Draco whispered, “He wants to use me against you.”

A gust of cold wind tore past them.

They stood two feet apart, both trembling, both breaking under two different forces—

And for a moment, they forgot they hated each other.

They forgot they were rivals.

Forgot they were supposed to stay away.

Harry reached out.

Draco didn’t pull back.

------------------------------------------

—The Vision Hits

Sirius.

Screaming.

Tortured.

Begging.

And the voice—

Voldemort’s voice—

whispering:

“Come find him, Harry…”

Harry fell to his knees.

Draco caught him without thinking.

“Potter! Potter— Harry—look at me—”

Harry gasped, clawing at the grass.

“He has Sirius—he has Sirius—I saw it—Draco, I SAW HIM!”

Draco’s breath froze.

Because this was exactly what Voldemort wanted.

He pulled Harry upright, gripping his shoulders, shaking.

“Harry, LISTEN—this could be a trap!”

Harry’s eyes were wild. “I have to go! Sirius—he’s all I have left—”

Draco’s voice broke.

“It’s a trap!” Draco shouted. “He WANTS you to go!”

Harry flinched.

They stared at each other.

Both terrified.

Both desperate.

Harry whispered, broken:

“What if it isn’t a trap?”

Draco closed his eyes.

Slowly.

Painfully.

And whispered back:

“Then you’ll die trying to save him.”

Sirius mattered more than fear.

More than prophecy.

More than Draco’s warning.

Harry staggered to his feet.

“I’m going.”

Draco grabbed his wrist.

“Harry—don’t—please—if he’s using me—if he’s using ANYONE—if you walk into this—you won’t come back—” Draco’s voice cracked, raw with emotion. “Don’t do this.”

Harry looked at the hand on his wrist.

Looked at Draco—

pale, shaking, terrified.

And Harry had never wanted so fiercely to stay.

To listen.

To choose Draco over destiny.

But he couldn’t.

He whispered:

“I have to try.”

Draco’s fingers loosened.

He didn’t let go.

He just whispered the truth he wasn’t supposed to say:

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Harry froze.

Draco froze.

The world froze.

But the moment shattered when Hermione called from the trees:

“Harry—come on!”

Ron yelled, “We’re going!”

Harry stepped back.

Draco’s hand fell.

Their eyes locked one last time.

Then Harry turned.

Then Harry ran.

And Draco stood alone at the lake, trembling so hard he nearly collapsed.

------------------------------------------

Draco didn’t see the fight.

He didn’t see Sirius fall.

He didn’t see Harry break.

He only saw the sky turn violent over the Astronomy Tower and heard screams echo across the grounds.

He only felt the cold dread blooming in his chest.

He only knew this:

Harry might not come back.

------------------------------------------

—Harry Returns

Hours later, the doors of Hogwarts burst open.

Harry stumbled in, covered in dust and grief.

Ron supported him.

Hermione held a shaking Neville.

Luna walked silently, blood on her sleeve.

Sirius was gone.

Harry’s face was—

Destroyed.

Draco stood in the shadows of the Entrance Hall.

Invisible.

Watching.

Harry looked up for only a moment.

And even in his grief—

even through tears—

even through pain—

His eyes searched for Draco.

Found him.

Draco’s breath caught.

Harry’s voice was a whisper only Draco could hear:

“He’s gone.”

Draco’s heart cracked.

He stepped forward—

one step—

two—

Then stopped.

He wasn’t allowed to go to Harry.

He wasn’t allowed to comfort him.

He wasn’t allowed to hold him the way he wanted to.

So Draco whispered across the hall:

“I’m sorry.”

Harry’s chest caved.

A single tear fell.

And then the world swallowed him again.

------------------------------------------

No battles. No shouting. No prophecy.

Just grief. Just distance. Just two boys whose worlds are falling apart in parallel lines.

Hogwarts felt wrong after Sirius died.

Too quiet.

Too still.

Like the castle itself was grieving.

Students moved softly through the halls, whispering instead of laughing. Teachers spoke in low tones. Even Peeves stayed strangely subdued.

The air felt heavy.

The kind of heavy that settles into bones.

------------------------------------------

Harry Didn’t Speak for Two Days

Not to Ron.

Not to Hermione.

Not to anyone.

He walked like a ghost—

eyes hollow, shoulders slumped, wand forgotten in his sleeve.

He ate nothing.

He slept badly.

He flinched whenever someone touched him.

Hermione cried quietly at breakfast.

Ron kept trying to joke, but the sound died in his throat every time he looked at Harry.

Everyone at Gryffindor table watched him like he might break.

But Harry didn’t break.

He just… went silent.

Completely silent.

Until silence became its own kind of scream.

------------------------------------------

Draco Watched from Afar

He didn’t mean to.

He tried not to.

He stood with Pansy and Blaise and Theo, pretending to listen, pretending to sneer at Umbridge’s announcements, pretending everything was normal.

But every few minutes—

His eyes drifted.

Across the courtyard.

Across the Great Hall.

Across the library.

Always toward the same place:

Harry.

Harry, who moved like someone walking underwater.

Harry, whose grief clung to him like smoke.

Harry, whose body seemed smaller somehow, as if sorrow had carved something out of him.

Draco felt it too.

A hollow ache.

A sharp fear.

A quiet longing.

He told no one.

But Theo noticed the tension in his jaw.

Pansy noticed the shaking in his hands.

Blaise noticed how often Draco stared into the distance.

None of them said anything.

They didn’t have to.

------------------------------------------

One Night, Draco Passed Harry in the Corridor

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It just happened.

Draco was heading back to the dungeons after prefect rounds, cloak wrapped around him. His steps echoed lightly on the stone floor.

He stopped when he turned a corner.

Harry stood there.

Alone.

Back against the wall.

Head bowed.

Shoulders hunched forward like the weight of the prophecy and the war and Sirius’s death had finally crushed him.

His hands covered his face.

Draco froze.

Everything in him—

fear, longing, pride, training—

warred at once.

He shouldn’t step forward.

He shouldn’t say anything.

He shouldn’t reveal how deeply he cared.

But Harry made a small, broken sound.

Barely a breath.

Barely audible.

But enough.

Draco moved.

Just one step.

Harry flinched at the sound of movement, lifting his head—

Their eyes met.

Harry’s green eyes were bloodshot.

Tired.

Empty.

Draco felt his heart crack.

He opened his mouth.

Just slightly.

Just enough to say something—

anything—

even if it would ruin everything.

“Harry—”

he whispered.

Harry’s breath hitched.

But before Draco could say more—

before he could commit fully to the thing he’d been running from—

before he could choose Harry over fear—

Footsteps sounded down the hall.

Ron and Hermione.

Draco froze.

Harry pulled away from the wall instinctively, swallowing hard, wiping his eyes quickly.

Not because he was ashamed.

But because he didn’t want Draco to see him like this.

“Potter,” Draco whispered—

soft, not cruel.

Harry swallowed again.

“Malfoy.”

A heartbeat stretched between them.

Something fragile.

Something dangerous.

Something inevitable.

And then—

Draco stepped back.

Harry stepped away.

They passed each other like strangers.

Or like two halves of something that hadn’t found a way to fit together yet.

------------------------------------------

Later, Draco lay awake staring at the canopy of his bed.

Theo slept nearby.

Pansy snored softly.

Blaise murmured in his sleep.

But Draco only heard one thing:

Harry’s broken exhale when he said Sirius’s name.

Draco pressed a trembling hand to his lips and whispered into the dark:

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop you.”

Across the castle, Harry lay awake too.

Staring at the ceiling.

Eyes burning.

He whispered into his pillow:

“I wish you’d stayed.”

Neither boy heard the other.

But if they had—

They would have realized how close they were.

How painfully, beautifully close.

------------------------------------------

In the end, it wasn’t war that kept them apart.
It was everything they couldn’t say.

Chapter Text

— After the Battle

The castle felt hollow after the Department of Mysteries.

Not quiet—

Hogwarts had never been quiet—

but heavy.

Like each stone had absorbed a little of the grief Harry brought back with him.

Students moved softly through corridors, voices hushed, laughter replaced by whispers that curled like smoke against the walls.

Harry didn’t speak much.

He walked like someone moving through water—slow, distant, weighed down by something too deep to name. Every time someone said Sirius, he felt himself shrinking inward.

He avoided crowds.

He avoided noise.

He avoided mirrors.

But he did not avoid Draco Malfoy.

Not intentionally.

It was simply impossible.

Hogwarts was too small, grief was too loud, and Draco somehow kept crossing his path—

once near the library,

once in the courtyard,

once at dinner when Draco arrived late and had no choice but to pass Harry’s end of the table.

Harry kept his eyes down.

And yet—

the moment Draco walked past him, the air changed, like everything held its breath for a heartbeat.

Draco didn’t speak.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t lift his chin and toss an insult the way he used to.

He just… looked.

A flicker of silver, quick and sharp, watching Harry’s bowed head with something that wasn’t triumph or cruelty.

Something too soft for Draco Malfoy.

Harry didn’t know what to do with that.

So he pretended he didn’t notice.

And Draco pretended he hadn’t cared enough to look.

------------------------------------------

— Umbridge Falls

It happened in pieces.

Whispers.

Rumours.

The sudden vanishing of pink cardigans.

Then—

“Umbridge is gone.”

The sentence rushed through Hogwarts like wind through open windows, carrying disbelief, shock, then overwhelming relief.

Students began smiling again.

Laughing again.

Omegas—who had spent the year tiptoeing around humiliation and cruel inspections—stood straighter, their posture no longer braced for impact.

Theo exhaled shakily.

Pansy hugged Blaise so tightly he nearly fell over.

Even Crabbe and Goyle looked unburdened.

And Draco—

Draco looked like someone had loosened the knots around his ribs.

His shoulders lowered.

His eyes softened.

His entire body exhaled without moving.

Harry saw it from across the Hall.

Saw the relief.

Saw the way Draco lifted his hand unconsciously to smooth his hair, like he didn’t have to guard himself anymore.

Saw—

for the first time—

what Draco looked like without fear tightening him.

Beautiful, Harry’s mind supplied before he could stop it.

Harry dropped his gaze, cheeks burning.

Draco’s head turned subtly, as if he felt the moment shift.

Their eyes met.

Only for a heartbeat.

But it was enough.

Harry looked away first.

Draco looked away second.

Both of them pretended they hadn’t been caught staring.

------------------------------------------

— The End of Term

Packing on the last day felt wrong.

The castle was too quiet.

Harry’s trunk felt too heavy.

Hermione hovered nearby, trying to smile. Ron kept muttering about food to fill the silence—both of them watching Harry carefully, like he might fall apart if they blinked.

Harry tried—really tried—to pretend he was fine.

But he kept seeing Sirius falling through the veil.

Kept hearing Bellatrix’s laugh.

Kept remembering the Department of Mysteries: his blood on Umbridge’s quill, Draco’s near-tearful face after she humiliated him, the exhausted slump of every omega in the school.

Harry swallowed against the ache.

Outside, students gathered for the carriages.

Draco stood a few yards away with Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle—his circle, close around him like a protective constellation. He wasn’t laughing, but he wasn’t tense either. He looked… calm. Tender in the edges.

Someone nudged Harry.

Hermione.

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to say goodbye?”

Harry nearly choked. “W—what? Why would I—?”

“You didn’t deny it,” Ron said simply.

Harry opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Because he couldn’t deny it.

Not anymore.

Not when Draco kept appearing in his thoughts like a quiet echo.

Not when Draco had looked at him yesterday like he understood grief.

Not when Harry didn’t hate him anymore.

Harry looked up again—

and Draco was already watching him.

Not daring him.

Not challenging him.

Just… watching.

Carefully.

Softly.

Their eyes held.

Harry lifted his hand—barely a nod, barely a motion at all.

Draco’s lips parted in surprise—

then he nodded back.

Small.

Precise.

Meaningful.

It felt like something inside Harry cracked open.

------------------------------------------

— Summer Break

Harry’s POV

Privet Drive felt emptier than usual.

Harry’s nightmares were loud.

Sirius’s laughter echoed in all the wrong places.

But sometimes—

in the quietest parts of the night—

another face drifted in.

Pale hair brushed by moonlight.

Grey eyes softening.

Draco’s voice shaking when he said, “I don’t need you seeing me like this.”

Harry woke flushed, confused, heart racing.

He buried his face in his pillow.

“It’s nothing,” he whispered to himself.

It wasn’t nothing.

He knew it.

He just wasn’t ready to admit it.

------------------------------------------

Draco’s POV 

Malfoy Manor was suffocating.

Every shadow felt watchful.

Every corridor whispered orders.

Lucius grew harsher—fear sharpening his voice.

Narcissa became a constant soft presence, like she sensed her son slipping away into anxieties he couldn’t name.

And Draco—

Draco could not stop thinking about Harry Potter’s face when he spoke of Sirius.

The grief.

The trembling.

And the quiet bravery Draco wished he didn’t admire.

Late at night, Draco lay awake under silk sheets and whispered:

“I hate that I care.”

Silence answered him.

Draco curled his fingers inward, remembering Harry’s eyes on him when Dumbledore returned.

Soft.

Steady.

Warm in a way Draco wasn’t used to being seen.

“I hate it,” Draco whispered again.

He didn’t.

Not really.

------------------------------------------

— Back to Hogwarts (6th year)

Hogwarts felt different this year.

Not fixed—

too much had happened for that—

but steadier.

Like the castle itself had straightened its spine.

Dumbledore was back.

And with him came something the school hadn’t felt in months:

Safety.

Structure.

Breathing room.

For omegas, the change was immediate.

No more skirt inspections.

No more punishments for speaking.

No more being separated from their friends or treated like fragile ornaments.

They walked the corridors without shrinking themselves.

Theo laughed again.

Pansy strutted again.

Even the younger omegas seemed to glow with relief.

Harry felt it too—

a loosening in his chest he hadn’t realized was there.

The air tasted lighter.

The shadows felt smaller.

He climbed out of the carriage with Ron and Hermione, expecting the usual chaos of first day crowds, but instead—

his breath caught.

Draco Malfoy stood at the foot of the castle steps, half-turned toward the entrance, the breeze catching on his longer hair. It glimmered pale gold in the morning sun, falling just past his cheekbones in soft waves.

His uniform was immaculate.

His posture elegant.

His expression calm in a way that made Harry’s heartbeat stutter.

Something about him looked… grown.

Changed.

Softer in the light.

And Harry felt it with an ache he couldn’t name:

This year was going to be different.

Draco looked up slowly—

as if he felt Harry’s gaze before seeing it.

Their eyes locked.

The entire courtyard—students, carriages, chatter—

all faded into quiet around them.

“Potter,” Draco said at last, voice low, careful, almost… gentle.

Harry swallowed. “Malfoy.”

A flicker—barely a tremor—moved through Draco’s fingers, which he very quickly hid inside his sleeves. His eyes lingered a second too long before shifting away, lashes lowering to hide whatever lived in them.

Theo elbowed Draco in the ribs.

Pansy smirked like she already knew the ending of a story Harry hadn’t even admitted he was in.

Ron muttered, horrified, “He’s looking at you like he expects something.”

Hermione whispered, delighted, “Harry’s looking back exactly the same.”

Harry opened his mouth—no words came out.

Because he realized something terrifying and undeniable:

He was glad to see Draco.

He’d missed seeing him.

And Draco—

Draco looked at Harry like he felt the same, even if he’d die before admitting it first.

Hogwarts was different this year.

Dumbledore was back.

Order restored.

The world felt fragile but hopeful again.

And somewhere in that shifting air, that tentative peace—

Harry and Draco were changing too.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Inevitably.

Harry didn’t mean to stare.

He really didn’t.

But there was something about Draco this year—something quieter, something steadier—that made it impossible not to.

And Draco, for all his practiced poise, kept glancing back at Harry too.

Quick, almost shy flickers of silver.

As if he couldn’t help it either.

They drifted apart when the crowd pulled them in different directions, but Harry kept feeling—strangely, stupidly—that Draco was still near him, like a steady hum in the back of his mind.

------------------------------------------

The Great Hall was buzzing with noise and clatter of utensils.

Breakfast was rushed and noisy.

Ron kept adjusting his new Prefect's badge.

Neville spilled pumpkin juice on himself twice.

And Harry—

Harry was fighting with his tie.

Well, “fighting” was generous.

It looked like the tie was winning.

He stood near the Transfiguration staircase, tugging helplessly at the crooked knot. It was twisted, uneven, somehow inside-out, and Harry was convinced it was actively mocking him.

Hermione usually helped him.

But she wasn’t there this morning—McGonagall had sent her to the Hospital Wing early.

Ron wasn’t helpful.

And Harry…

Harry could save the world but apparently could not tie a simple knot.

He groaned under his breath.

“Oh, come on—why are you like this?”

“Because,” someone said behind him, “you’ve committed a crime against fabric.”

Harry startled so hard he nearly choked himself with his own tie.

Draco stood a few paces away, books balanced on one arm, eyebrows raised in elegant disapproval.

“Merlin’s sake, Potter,” Draco said softly, stepping closer. “Did you wrestle the tie? Or did it surrender halfway through?”

Harry flushed instantly.

“I—I tried. Hermione isn’t here and—”

Draco took one look.

A breath.

A tiny, almost fond exhale.

“You don’t know how to tie a tie,” he said, not accusing—just bewildered.

Harry’s cheeks warmed.

“…No.”

Draco blinked slowly, and for a moment the façade slipped—the faintest softness touching the edges of his expression.

Then he sighed.

“Come here.”

Harry froze.

“W—what? Why?”

Draco stepped closer, voice dropping so quietly Harry felt it more than heard it.

“So I can fix it.”

He reached out before Harry could protest.

Draco’s fingers brushed Harry’s collar, and Harry stopped breathing altogether.

Draco didn’t notice—or pretended he didn’t.

His gaze lowered in concentration, lashes dipping as he undid the ruined knot with gentle, careful movements.

“I swear,” Draco murmured, more to himself than to Harry, “you’re going to give someone a heart attack walking around like this.”

Harry swallowed.

Hard.

Draco looped the fabric over Harry’s neck, the soft brush of his knuckles along Harry’s collarbone sending something warm and desperate spiraling through Harry’s stomach.

His breath smelled faintly of mint.

His fingers were cool and delicate.

He was close—so close Harry could feel the warmth radiating off him even through the air.

Draco focused entirely on the tie, voice low and steady.

“Relax,” he whispered. “I’m not going to strangle you.”

Harry’s heartbeat stuttered violently.

“Not intentionally,” he whispered back before he could stop himself.

Draco paused.

Just a fraction of a second.

Then—slowly, beautifully—

Draco lifted his gaze.

Their faces were inches apart.

Harry felt his throat tighten.

Draco’s eyes were soft.

Really soft.

Too soft for Harry’s sanity.

Draco’s voice, when it came, was quieter than the flutter of his breath:

“Hold still.”

Harry held so still he forgot how to blink.

Draco tightened the knot with a final, elegant pull.

His fingers smoothed the fabric down Harry’s chest—

and lingered.

Just half a heartbeat.

Just long enough for Harry’s chest to ache with wanting he didn’t know how to name.

Then Draco stepped back.

He looked at Harry properly this time.

And Harry… Harry felt bare under that gaze.

“There,” Draco said, voice barely above a whisper. “Perfect.”

Harry’s mouth felt dry.

“That was… thanks. I mean—thank you.”

Draco’s ears were pink.

“It’s basic uniform etiquette, Potter,” he said, failing miserably at sounding annoyed. “Someone had to teach you.”

But then—

Something flickered in his expression.

Something real.

Something fragile.

Draco added, much, much softer:

“…I didn’t mind.”

And Harry forgot how to breathe again.

------------------------------------------

— Things Feel Different

Harry floated through the rest of the morning.

Not literally—

although he might as well have been, considering he nearly walked straight into a suit of armour while replaying the sensation of Draco’s fingers on his throat.

His tie felt too snug.

Not uncomfortable—

just… present.

Like every time it brushed his collarbone, it whispered:

He touched you here.

Ron jabbed him in the ribs.

“Mate, why are you smiling at a wall?”

Harry snapped out of it.

“I—am not.”

Hermione ambled up, adjusting her bag.

“Did you fix your tie? It was terrible earlier.”

Harry turned an alarming shade of red.

Ron looked between Harry’s burning face and the perfectly tied knot.

“Who did it?” he demanded. “It wasn’t me. I can't tie a tie.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“…Harry?”

Harry tugged at the knot instinctively.

“N-No one. I mean—someone. A person. Just—don’t worry about it.”

Ron squinted.

“...It was Malfoy, wasn’t it?”

Harry choked.

Hermione brightened with the wicked glee of someone who suddenly understood everything.

“Oh. OH. That explains the blush.”

“I’m not blushing!”

“You’re redder than Ron’s hair,” Hermione said.

Harry covered his face.

“I hate this school.”

------------------------------------------

Meanwhile — Draco

Draco Malfoy walked down the corridor like his spine was made of glass.

Theo matched his pace, suspiciously calm.

“You’re quiet,” Theo said.

“I’m always quiet.”

“You’re quiet in a different way.”

Draco refused to look at him.

“It’s nothing.”

Theo hummed.

“You tied Potter’s tie.”

Draco stumbled.

Only a little.

Enough.

Theo’s grin could have powered the entire castle.

“I saw it,” he said triumphantly. “You tied Potter’s tie. Draco Malfoy touched Harry Potter—voluntarily.”

Draco hissed, “Lower your voice—!”

Theo smirked. “Malfoy, you realise you’re glowing, right?”

“I AM NOT GLOWING.”

Draco was absolutely glowing.

His fingers felt warm.

His ears felt hot.

His chest felt full in a way that terrified him.

He replayed it—

the soft slope of Harry’s neck,

the careful breath Harry took when Draco tightened the knot,

the way Harry whispered back and nearly killed Draco on the spot.

Draco pressed a hand over his heart.

Theo raised an eyebrow.

“Oh dear Merlin. You’re gone.”

Draco snapped, “I am NOT—”

But even he didn’t believe himself.

------------------------------------------

— Transfiguration Class

The classroom buzzed with the usual first-day energy, books slamming, quills scratching, chairs scraping—

And then Harry walked in.

Draco felt it before he saw it.

A shift.

A subtle tightening of the air.

He looked up—

and Harry was standing by the doorway, searching the room, tie neat, hair messy, cheeks still faintly pink.

Their eyes met.

And everything went soft again.

Harry’s lips parted, just slightly.

Draco’s throat tightened.

For a moment, the classroom fell away.

Then McGonagall swept in, robes billowing, and everyone scrambled to their seats.

Everyone except Harry—

whose tie Draco kept staring at

like he couldn’t believe he’d done that.

Harry sat two rows ahead, stiff and very, very aware that the tie was there because Draco’s hands had been there.

Hermione whispered, “You’re staring at your desk like it owes you money.”

Harry whispered back, “I’m fine.”

He was not fine.

Especially not when Draco crossed his legs behind him and the soft whisper of fabric made Harry’s ears burn.

Especially not when Draco brushed past him to borrow a textbook from Theo and Harry caught the faint scent of clean parchment and something sweet beneath the scent-blocker.

Especially not when McGonagall paired them for demonstration practice.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, front.”

Harry nearly died.

Draco nearly combusted.

They stood beside each other while McGonagall explained the charm.

Draco kept his eyes on the board.

Harry kept his eyes on the floor.

Their shoulders brushed once.

A feather-light touch.

Both boys inhaled sharply.

McGonagall didn’t notice.

Everyone else did.

------------------------------------------

— The Library 

Transfiguration left both boys rattled in ways neither would admit.

Harry spent the rest of the day pretending to pay attention, failing miserably, and absolutely not thinking about the moment Draco’s shoulder brushed his.

Ron kept shooting him looks like, Mate, you’re hopeless.

Hermione looked like she was writing fanfiction in her mind.

By late afternoon, Hermione announced, “We’re studying in the library. Come on.”

Harry didn’t argue—he needed distraction, or a coma, whichever came first.

The library was a soft murmur of parchment, quills, and late-summer light falling through enchanted windows. A few groups were scattered around—

Near the back, close to a wide window glowing with late afternoon gold, the Slytherin group had claimed their usual corner.

Draco sat there with a book open in front of him, posture immaculate, though his hair—longer this year, softer—kept falling out of the ribbon he’d tied it with. Every few minutes, he pushed the strands back behind his ear, only for them to slip free again.

Theo was doodling in the margins of his notes.

Blaise was pretending to study while actually people-watching.

Pansy was whispering dramatic commentary about passersby.

Crabbe and Goyle were trying (and failing) to stay awake.

They weren’t loud, but they were unmistakably present—soft chatter, low laughter, a comfortable hum of companionship.

Hermione spotted the table immediately.

“Oh! There’s space right beside them,” she whispered brightly.

Harry nearly tripped over his own feet.

Ron dragged him along before he could protest, and they settled at a table one row over—the perfect view of Draco without being with Draco.

Harry tried—Merlin, he tried—to open his textbook.

But his eyes kept drifting.

To Draco.

To Draco’s hair.

To Draco’s hands in his hair.

He watched as Draco attempted to loop the ribbon again, twisting his hair into a quick, irritated bun—

and failing spectacularly.

Harry’s heart stopped.

Because when Draco finally managed to secure the ribbon, barely, the bun loosened just enough for a few soft strands to fall forward and frame his face—

delicately.

Beautifully.

The sunlight from the window hit him at that exact moment, pouring gold over pale skin and making his hair glow almost white.

Harry’s breath caught.

Draco didn’t even know.

He just kept working, brows furrowed in concentration, lips pursed, looking unfairly soft.

Hermione noticed Harry staring.

Of course she did.

“Harry,” she whispered, smirking, “you’re staring.”

“I’m—looking at my book.”

“You’re staring over your book. At Malfoy.”

Harry immediately went red.

Ron leaned in. “Mate, if you stare any harder you’ll burn a hole in his skull.”

“I’m NOT staring!”

“Yes you are,” Hermione said, voice maddeningly calm. “And he’s struggling. Go help him.”

Harry squeaked. “Help him?!”

“I mean,” she said, voice dripping with innocence, “ask him to teach you how to braid. You clearly want to.”

Harry nearly fell off his chair.

“I DO NOT—!”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“You were staring at his hair like you wanted to worship it.”

Ron snorted so loudly Madame Pince shushed him.

Harry’s heart thrashed in his chest.

He did want to braid it.

He wanted to touch it.

He wanted to see how soft it truly was.

And suddenly the idea of walking away from Hogwarts at the end of the day without knowing that truth felt… unbearable.

He swallowed hard.

Fine.

Fine.

If he burst into flames, that was future Harry’s problem.

He stood.

Hermione grinned proudly.

Ron looked like he was witnessing a prophecy.

Harry took slow steps toward Draco’s table, each one echoing in his ears.

Draco looked up when he reached the edge of the desk—eyes widening, breath catching, as if he hadn’t expected Harry Potter to land in front of him like a summoned spirit.

“Oh,” Draco said softly. “Potter.”

The sunlight made him radiant.

Harry nearly forgot English.

“Hi,” he croaked.

Theo’s eyebrows shot up.

Pansy leaned forward like she was watching a romance novel come alive.

Blaise smirked in slow motion.

Draco’s cheeks went faintly pink.

Harry swallowed again.

“I was wondering if—um—if you could teach me… how to braid.”

Dead.

Silence.

Total annihilation.

Theo slapped a hand over his mouth.

Pansy let out a squeal so high only dogs could hear it.

Blaise whispered, “Merlin, he IS gone.”

Draco blinked rapidly.

“You want me to… to teach you. How to braid.”

Harry nodded, unable to trust his voice.

Draco’s lashes fluttered.

“Are you learning for someone special?” he asked, tone carefully neutral—but his fingers tightened around his quill.

Harry shook his head instantly, voice barely above a whisper:

“No.

Just you.”

Draco’s breath hitched beautifully.

Theo choked.

Ron—who had followed—made a dying noise.

Hermione clasped her hands like a proud mother at a piano recital.

Draco swallowed.

“...Very well,” he murmured, trying and failing to sound composed. “Come here.”

Tables were pushed together in a flurry of movement no one officially coordinated.

Somehow, some way, everyone ended up on the same table chatting and teasing, Harry ended up in the sunlight beside Draco, the warm glow bathing them both.

Draco shifted, turning his back to Harry, pale strands of hair spilling like silk over his shoulders.

The light made every strand gleam.

Harry reached out with trembling fingers.

Draco shivered—

just once—

barely noticeable.

“Go on,” Draco whispered.

Harry touched his hair.

And Draco melted.

The sunlight spilled across the table like warm honey, pooling around Draco’s seated form until he looked almost unreal—glowing pale gold, every strand of his hair shimmering where it fell loose down his back.

Harry sat behind him, breath caught somewhere between his throat and his lungs, hands hovering uselessly in the air.

He had no idea where to touch.

He wanted to touch everywhere.

Draco, already trembling faintly, cleared his throat in a voice that was far too soft for Draco Malfoy:

“You can… start.”

Theo made a strangled sound behind his textbook.

Pansy elbowed Blaise, who grinned like Satan in a silk shirt.

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks that could only be described as unhinged excitement.

But the moment was quiet.

Golden.

Just the two of them in a beam of afternoon light.

Harry’s hands finally lowered, fingertips brushing Draco’s hair.

It was—

He had no words.

Silk.

Featherlight.

Warm from Draco’s body heat.

Draco inhaled sharply, shoulders tensing for a split second before relaxing—melting almost—under Harry’s touch.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered without thinking.

Draco’s voice was barely audible.

“…Don’t be.”

Harry swallowed.

He divided the strands carefully, Draco’s hair sliding between his fingers like water. Draco tilted his head slightly—not away, but toward the warmth of Harry’s hands, like a cat leaning into a touch it had long been denied.

“Is this… right?” Harry asked, concentrating.

Draco’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Mm.”

A soft noise.

Approval.

Something dangerously close to pleasure.

Harry nearly forgot what a braid was.

Hermione clasped her hands together, looking like she was witnessing history.

Theo pretended to read but was watching Draco’s expression with unabashed fascination.

Pansy mouthed oh my GOD so dramatically Harry nearly laughed.

But Draco…

Draco sat perfectly still, breath trembling, his entire body attuned to every motion of Harry’s fingers.

Harry wove one section over the other.

Slow.

Careful.

Gentle.

Draco exhaled shakily.

“Your hands…” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Harry froze.

“What about them?”

Draco swallowed, flustered.

“...They’re warm.”

Harry’s ears burned.

“S-Sorry.”

“You really need to stop apologising,” Draco whispered, voice coated in sunlight and something softer. “I didn’t say it was bad, its nice—warm I like it.”

Harry’s heart tripped over itself.

He continued braiding—more confident now, more aware of the way Draco leaned subtly into his touch, like gravity had tilted between them.

When he reached the end, he tied the ribbon with trembling fingers.

“There,” Harry breathed. “Finished.”

Draco turned his head slightly, hair shining like a polished comet.

He didn’t speak.

Not at first.

He just lifted a hand and touched the braid—

slowly, delicately—

as if confirming it was real.

Harry watched his face.

Watched the moment Draco realised:

Harry touched him with care.

Harry touched him gently.

Harry learned something for him.

Draco looked down, lashes trembling.

Then—

Barely audible:

“…Thank you, its lovely.”

Harry’s breath stuttered.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence stretched between them—warm, sweet, impossibly fragile.

Then Pansy clapped.

LOUDLY.

“Well! Now that Potter has braided Draco’s hair like a love-struck Victorian heroine, can we please get back to studying?”

Blaise laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair.

Theo muttered, “Just get married already.”

Ron sputtered into his ink pot.

Hermione beamed like the sun.

Draco snapped upright, pink to the tips of his ears.

Harry nearly died.

But Draco didn’t undo the braid.

Not when Pansy teased him.

Not when Theo threatened to touch it.

Not when Blaise commented on how soft Draco looked.

Draco kept it in.

All evening.

Even at dinner.

Even when he walked past Harry later and didn’t look away quickly enough.

The braid stayed.

Because Harry made it.

And that meant something Draco wasn’t ready to name.

Not yet.

------------------------------------------

— Draco’s POV of The Meltdown

Draco made it exactly ten minutes after leaving the library before his composure shattered.

He reached the safety of the Slytherin common room, nodded stiffly at a pair of second-years, walked calmly through the archway to the boys’ dormitory—

—and then promptly collapsed face-first onto his bed.

His pillow muffled the sound he made—

somewhere between a wounded animal and a lovesick teenager.

Because.

Because Potter had touched him.

Potter had touched his hair.

Potter had braided his hair.

And Draco Malfoy, heir of one of the most ancient pureblood families, illustrious omega, trained from birth in poise, control, grace—

had practically melted into Harry Potter’s hands like warm sugar.

Draco groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow.

“Kill me,” he muttered. “Just kill me now.”

“Absolutely not,” Theo said from the doorway.

Draco shot upright so fast he nearly fell off the bed.

Theo leaned against the frame, arms crossed, smirk full of wicked delight.

“So,” Theo said casually, “how does it feel? Falling in love with Harry Potter?”

Draco’s entire soul left his body.

“I—WHAT—” he sputtered. “I am NOT—! That was NOT—! Theodore Nott, shut your mouth before—”

Theo walked in and flopped onto Draco’s bed with the confidence of someone who liked living dangerously.

“Well,” he mused, staring at the braid resting over Draco’s shoulder, “if you were trying not to fall, you failed spectacularly. That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

Draco’s breathing hitched.

“…It wasn’t,” he insisted weakly.

Theo reached out and flicked the braid.

Draco nearly screamed.

“He touched you gently,” Theo said softly now. “He was nervous. You were shaking. Don’t insult my intelligence—you care.”

Draco looked down.

At the braid.

Harry’s braid.

Warm from his hands, tied with his trembling fingers.

His chest tightened painfully.

“I hate him,” Draco whispered.

Theo scoffed. “You absolutely do not.”

“I do,” Draco tried again. “I despise him. He’s—he’s infuriating, and stubborn, and loud, and—”

“And he asked you to teach him,” Theo said softly.

Draco went silent.

“He wanted to learn,” Theo continued. “For you. Only you.”

Draco’s throat closed.

He touched the braid lightly, reverently.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted in a whisper so small it barely existed. “Theo… I don’t know how to feel things and not ruin everything.”

Theo’s gaze softened.

“Then don’t think about ruining anything, Dray. Think about this: he chose your hands. He chose your hair. He chose you.”

Draco’s eyes stung.

He bowed his head over the braid and breathed, voice trembling:

“I’m scared.”

Theo’s hand came to rest on his back, steady and warm.

“I know,” he said. “But I think—just this once—you’re allowed to want something good.”

Draco closed his eyes.

And didn’t undo the braid.

Not even to sleep.

------------------------------------------

— Harry’s POV of The Meltdown 

Harry barely made it back to Gryffindor Tower before collapsing into an armchair like someone had sucked all the bones from his body.

Ron and Hermione stood over him like worried parents.

Ron stared.

Hermione glowed.

“So,” Hermione said sweetly, “how was braiding Draco’s hair?”

Harry made a noise that wasn’t human.

Ron sat beside him, patting his shoulder.

“You alright, mate? You look… sweaty.”

Harry buried his face in his hands.

“I touched him.”

Hermione nodded encouragingly. “Yes, you did.”

“His hair is—” Harry’s voice cracked. “—it was—it’s so soft, Hermione.”

Ron gagged.

“Oh Merlin—too much information.”

Harry ignored him.

He kept seeing it—the way Draco’s hair slid like silk between his fingers, the way Draco’s breath shivered whenever Harry brushed the nape of his neck, the way Draco had leaned into his touch without meaning to.

“I think I forgot how to breathe,” Harry admitted miserably.

Hermione laughed. Not unkindly—just amused and endeared.

“You really like him.”

Harry lifted his head sharply.

“N-No, I— I don’t— I can’t—”

Hermione smiled gently.

“Yes, you can.”

Harry’s chest squeezed painfully.

He remembered the warmth of Draco’s hair.

The sunlight on Draco’s cheek.

The soft, stunned expression Draco wore when Harry tied the ribbon.

“I didn’t… mean to like him,” Harry whispered.

Ron snorted. “Nobody ever means to like someone. It just… happens. Terribly.”

Harry groaned and slumped deeper into the chair.

“I’m doomed,” he whispered into his hands.

Hermione softened.

“You’re not doomed. You’re just—finally being honest with yourself.”

Harry pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

“What do I do?”

Ron shrugged. “Er… braid it again?”

“Ron,” Hermione hissed.

But Harry…

Harry wasn’t laughing.

He was thinking about Draco Malfoy sitting so still under his hands, trusting him in a way Harry didn’t understand.

He was thinking about the warmth in Draco’s voice.

The quiet, almost vulnerable “Thank you.”

He was thinking he wanted to feel Draco’s hair again.

He was thinking he wanted to see that expression again.

He was thinking—

“I like him,” Harry whispered.

Hermione’s eyes softened.

Ron frowned sympathetically.

Harry’s voice cracked a little.

“I like him,” he repeated, as if admitting it out loud made it more real. “And I don’t think it’s going away.”

Hermione reached for his hand.

“That’s okay, Harry.”

Harry swallowed.

“I don’t know if I should tell him.”

Ron scoffed. “Mate, he’d combust.”

Harry closed his eyes and whispered, voice unsteady:

“…I think I already did.”

------------------------------------------

— The Next Morning

The morning after the braid incedent, the castle felt strangely quiet.

Students drifted to breakfast half-awake, owls swooping lazily over their heads, sunlight pouring into the Great Hall through tall windows.

Harry walked in with Hermione and Ron, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

He wasn’t looking for Draco.

He wasn’t.

But his eyes found him anyway.

And Draco—

sitting at the Slytherin table, hair neatly braided, posture elegant—

looked up at the exact same moment.

Their eyes met.

Not sharp.

Not guarded.

Not hostile.

Soft.

A flicker of surprise.

Recognition.

Warmth neither of them intended to show.

Draco’s lips parted—very slightly.

Harry’s breath caught—barely.

And then—

They nodded.

A simple thing.

A tiny thing.

Barely a greeting.

But it was the kind that meant:

I saw you yesterday.

I remember.

I’m not pretending it didn’t happen.

Draco looked away first, cheeks faintly pink.

Harry sat down slowly, heart thudding, feeling something delicate settle between them like the quiet flutter of a wing.

Hermione hid a smile behind her cup.

Ron kicked Harry under the table.

Harry kicked him back.

The day went on with regular classes but something changed between them they learned to—accept, a little of each other.

------------------------------------------

The next morning, the same thing happened.

Different place.

Different moment.

Same softness.

Harry was coming down the main staircase when Draco exited a corridor. The castle was bright with morning light, illuminating the dust motes between them.

They weren’t close.

Just close enough to notice each other.

Draco paused.

Harry did too.

Their eyes met—again.

Draco dipped his head in a polite, quiet greeting.

Harry mirrored it without thinking.

This time, Draco didn’t look away quickly.

There was something lingering in his gaze—

a kind of tentative warmth,

cautious curiosity,

like testing the temperature of water before stepping in.

Harry felt it all the way to his ribs.

Hermione, walking beside him, whispered:

“He trusts you a little.”

Harry swallowed.

“I… hope so.”

The days continued. Time passed.

It became a pattern.

Not planned.

Not spoken.

But real.

A glance across the courtyard.

A small nod in Potions.

A tiny upward curl of Draco’s mouth when Harry held the door open.

Harry offering Draco a spare quill in Transfiguration.

Draco murmuring “thanks” so softly Harry thought he imagined it.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing overt.

Just two boys slowly, unconsciously letting their walls lower.

Their friends noticed.

Pansy smirked every time Draco’s eyes drifted toward Harry.

Theo muttered, “You’re so gone.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow like he was watching a particularly good theatre performance.

Ron groaned, “Just date already.”

Hermione whispered, “It’s coming.”

Harry pretended not to overhear.

Days slipped by like that—

Small.

Quiet.

Soft.

A slow, gentle deepening.

The dangerous part hadn’t begun yet.

Not quite.

It didn’t happen dramatically.

Not overnight.

Just… slowly.

The same way warmth had grown between them, something colder began creeping into Draco’s expression.

One morning, his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

The next, he didn’t return Harry’s nod with the same ease.

A day later, he looked away a moment too quickly, as if the light between them hurt instead of warmed.

Theo hovered closer.

Pansy’s teasing turned into quiet worry.

Blaise watched Draco with sharp, assessing eyes.

Harry felt the shift instantly.

He couldn’t explain it—

as if the emotional thread between them tugged,

tightened,

wavered.

He didn’t know why.

Not yet.

He only knew:

Draco is slipping again.

Hermione noticed Harry staring at Draco’s retreating back that afternoon, concern in his eyes.

She touched his arm gently.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

Harry whispered, “I know.”

But this time—

Draco didn’t pause.

He didn’t nod.

He didn’t meet Harry’s gaze.

He kept walking.

And Harry felt something inside him go cold.

------------------------------------------

— The Day Everything Took aTurn

It was the fourth day when Draco didn’t show up for breakfast.

Harry scanned the tables once.

Twice.

A third time.

Nothing.

Theo looked tense.

Pansy’s hands were balled into fists.

Blaise said something sharp under his breath.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully.

No eye contact today.

No soft nod.

No lingering moment.

Just absence.

Something was happening.

Something dark.

Something Draco wasn’t saying.

And Harry—

slowly, helplessly—

felt fear take root beneath his ribs.

The braid had started everything.

But this—

this was the beginning of the storm.

------------------------------------------

—That Afternoon

By midday, the castle felt… wrong.

Hallways too quiet.

Whispers too sharp.

Students glancing toward empty spaces where Draco should’ve been.

Harry couldn’t focus.

Not on class.

Not on homework.

Not on anything except the growing, gnawing certainty:

Draco is gone.

And something terrible is happening.

Theo’s seat beside Malfoy’s was empty in Potions.

Pansy jumped every time someone walked through the door.

Blaise kept glaring at the clock, jaw tight.

Nobody said it.

But everybody felt it.

------------------------------------------

—Down in the Dungeons

Draco Malfoy stood in the farthest stall of the Slytherin bathroom, hands gripping the cold marble edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went bone-white.

His breath fogged the mirror.

He had been shaking since dawn.

Because the Mark wasn’t there on his skin—

but the magic was.

It seeped through the air like venom.

Coiled around his ribs.

Pulled at him.

A Summons.

Not a call he could ignore.

Not an invitation.

A command.

Come.

His chest tightened painfully, breath stuttering.

“No—no, not now—” Draco whispered, voice cracking as another wave of dark magic tugged at him, like a hook beneath his sternum.

Theo burst through the bathroom door.

“Draco—Draco, stop. Don’t go alone.”

Draco shook his head, turning away, clutching his arms around himself as if that could hold him together.

“I don’t have a choice,” he whispered, trembling.

Pansy arrived seconds later, breathless and wild-eyed.

“Dray, wait—tell someone. Tell Snape—tell anyone—”

“I can’t,” Draco whispered, voice unraveling.

“If he thinks I need protection, he’ll punish my parents. I won’t risk them.”

Theo’s throat bobbed, eyes shining with helpless fear.

“Let me come,” he insisted.

Draco closed his eyes.

For a moment, his mask slipped—

and he looked young.

Too young.

Sixteen, scared, burdened with a weight no child should bear.

He shook his head, voice barely a breath:

“He said I must come alone.”

The Summons tugged again.

Harder.

Draco gasped and braced himself against the sink.

Pansy reached for him.

“Draco—”

He stepped back.

A soft, defeated motion.

“If I don’t go…”

His voice broke.

“…he’ll hurt my mother.”

And that was the end of the argument.

Theo clenched his fists, trembling with fury he couldn’t use.

Pansy covered her mouth, eyes shining.

Draco straightened.

Not steady.

Not strong.

Just resigned.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered, as if saying it aloud made it true.

Theo whispered, “Come back safe.”

Draco nodded once.

Then he touched the mirror—

And the darkness swallowed him whole.

------------------------------------------

— Draco Returns

It was long after curfew when the castle’s torches dimmed and even the ghosts drifted into quieter corridors.

The students were asleep.

But Draco Malfoy stumbled back into Hogwarts alone.

His knees nearly gave out when his feet touched the stone floor of the dungeons.

His palms scraped the wall as he caught himself.

His breath hitched—sharp, painful.

Blood stained his sleeve.

A cut ran down his cheek.

His lower lip was split.

He didn’t cry.

He was too tired to cry.

The Summons had drained him; the curses he barely dodged had rattled him; Voldemort’s fury had bruised more than his skin.

“You failed me,” He had hissed.

“You are disappointing me, boy. You are too soft.”

Soft.

The word echoed in Draco’s skull like a curse.

He hadn’t spoken in hours.

His throat burned.

He reached the corner of the corridor, vision blurring—

and stumbled.

Hard.

His shoulder hit the stone pillar. He bit down a cry as pain shot through his arm.

He was slipping.

Sinking.

His breaths came in desperate, shaky gasps.

Just a little farther, he told himself. Just make it to the dorm. Just hide before anyone sees—

Footsteps.

Draco froze.

He didn’t have the strength to run.

Or hide.

Or even stand straight.

The footsteps grew closer.

A familiar voice called out, soft but sharp with concern:

“Draco?”

Draco’s heart lurched.

Of all people—

of all times—

of all corridors in this cursed castle—

Harry Potter.

Draco turned slightly, enough for the torchlight to catch his face.

Harry saw the blood first.

Then the shaking.

Then the way Draco’s knees buckled—

“Draco—!” Harry ran.

He caught Draco under the arms just as the boy sagged forward.

Draco’s breath punched out of him.

For one awful second, he thought he might collapse entirely.

“Hey, hey—steady,” Harry whispered, tightening his grip. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Draco’s fingers curled weakly into Harry’s cloak.

He hadn’t meant to.

He wasn’t even aware he did.

Harry was warm.

Solid.

Safe.

The kind of safe that made Draco want to fall apart completely.

“No—don’t—” Draco rasped, voice breaking as he tried to push away. “Don’t look at me—don’t—”

Harry held him anyway.

Firm.

Gentle.

Unshakably determined.

“Draco, you’re hurt,” Harry said, voice trembling with anger he didn’t understand, “and I’m not leaving you like this.”

Draco’s breath hitched.

His vision blurred.

“I can’t—” Draco whispered, shaking. “Potter—I can’t—just—let me go—”

“No,” Harry said quietly.

Just that.

A refusal soft as a hand on a wound.

Draco felt his last bit of strength crumble.

His head dropped forward onto Harry’s shoulder, breath hot against Harry’s neck. His body sagged fully into the support he’d tried so desperately to avoid.

Harry’s arms came around him instinctively.

Draco made a tiny sound—

part gasp, part whimper—

and hated how much relief threaded through it.

Harry tightened his hold, heart pounding.

“Who did this?” he whispered, fierce and terrified.

Draco shook his head violently.

“N-no one. I just—I fell—”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

“Don’t lie to me,” he breathed. “Not when you’re bleeding.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut.

He wanted to lie.

He needed to lie.

But he was tired.

So tired.

His lip trembled before he could stop it.

Harry brushed Draco’s hair back from his forehead—gentle, warm fingers slipping through pale strands.

“Come with me,” Harry whispered. “Please. Just… let me help you.”

Draco swallowed hard.

His whole body was trembling.

And for the first time in a long time—

he let someone guide him.

Harry wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist, Draco leaning into him more than he meant to, breathing unevenly.

Together, they moved down the corridor—slow, careful, the torchlight flickering over them.

Two boys.

One holding the other up.

Both terrified.

Both trying not to show it.

The storm had truly begun.

And neither of them would walk out of it unchanged.

------------------------------------------

Harry didn’t take Draco to the hospital wing.

He didn’t dare.

Draco stiffened even at the idea of being seen.

His fingers clutched Harry’s cloak weakly, trembling as he whispered:

“No… not there… no one can know—Harry, please—”

The “please” broke something inside Harry.

“Okay,” Harry breathed immediately. “Not there. Somewhere no one looks. I promise.”

Draco sagged in relief against him.

So Harry guided him—slowly, carefully—down the quieter east corridor, past the tapestry of dancing witches, to a narrow archway half-hidden behind an old suit of armor.

A place Harry used to hide in during his worst days.

A place no one but him knew.

He nudged the armor aside just enough and helped Draco duck into the little alcove behind it—bare stone walls, dim torchlight, quiet as a heartbeat.

Draco’s legs nearly gave out the moment the wall touched his back.

Harry caught him again.

“Easy—easy, I’ve got you.”

Draco hated how much he needed that.

Hated how safe it felt.

Harry lowered him gently to the cold stone floor, back propped against the wall. Draco sucked in a shaky breath, pain flashing across his face.

Harry dropped to his knees immediately.

“Let me see.”

Draco turned his face away, jaw tightening.

“No.”

Harry’s voice softened.

“Draco…”

Those grey eyes flicked back to him.

Harry swallowed.

“You’re hurt. I can’t just… leave you like this.”

Draco’s breath trembled.

Slowly—almost reluctantly—he lifted his sleeve.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Dark bruises.

Finger-shaped.

Ugly.

Fresh.

A cut slashed across Draco’s forearm, still bleeding sluggishly. His knuckles were scraped raw. His lip was split.

Harry reached forward before he could think.

Draco flinched.

His whole body jerked back against the wall, breath hitching sharply like Harry had raised a fist instead of a hand.

Harry froze.

“No—no, Draco,” he said quickly, lowering both hands to show he meant no harm. “I wasn’t—Merlin, I’d never hurt you.”

Draco forced himself to breathe, eyes too wide.

Harry waited.

Stillness.

Patience.

Warmth.

Until Draco’s shoulders slowly loosened.

“…Sorry,” Draco whispered.

Harry shook his head gently.

“Don’t apologize. Ever. Not for that.”

Something fragile flickered in Draco’s eyes.

Harry reached out again—slowly this time. So slowly Draco could stop him easily.

He didn’t.

Harry’s fingers brushed Draco’s forearm—light, warm, steady.

Draco exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat.

“Can I… clean it?” Harry murmured.

A small nod.

Harry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dampened it with a quick cleansing charm, and began wiping away the blood.

Soft strokes.

Gentle pressure.

No sudden movements.

Draco watched him through lowered lashes.

“Why are you doing this?” Draco whispered.

Harry didn’t look up.

“Because you’re hurt.”

“That’s not a reason,” Draco said, voice cracking on the edges.

Harry paused.

Then raised his eyes—green, bright, terrified for him.

“Because I care.”

Draco froze.

The world froze.

Only Harry’s breath moved warm against Draco’s fingers still clutching his sleeve.

“You… care,” Draco repeated numbly.

Harry swallowed.

“Yes.”

The word dropped into the silence like something dangerous and holy.

Draco’s eyes shone—not with tears, but with something deeper, older, aching with the weight of years he’d kept walls up.

“Potter…” Draco whispered, tone fragile as glass.

Harry wiped the last streak of blood from Draco’s arm, then cupped his hand just beneath the injury.

“Tell me who hurt you.”

Draco flinched and shook his head violently.

“No. No—I can’t. You can’t—” His voice broke. “Harry, if I say anything, they’ll hurt my mother. My father. Everyone.”

Harry’s breath went still.

Because that meant one thing.

One horrible, undeniable thing.

Someone powerful.

Someone deadly.

Someone Draco feared enough to bleed for.

Harry leaned in closer, voice trembling but gentle.

“You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… don’t go through it alone.”

Draco’s throat bobbed.

His fingers slackened on Harry’s cloak.

He whispered, voice shaking:

“I came back… barely.”

Harry’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt.

“You’re safe now,” Harry whispered back. “I’ve got you.”

For a moment—

just one—

Draco let his forehead rest lightly against Harry’s shoulder.

Not a collapse.

Not a cry.

Just a touch.

Small.

Shaky.

Unintentional.

Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare ruin it.

------------------------------------------

— Days After the Summons

Draco came back to classes.

But he did not come back the same.

He was present in body, but not in voice, not in spirit, not in the sharp, arrogant, brilliant Draco Malfoy the school knew.

His eyes stayed down.

His answers were short.

His posture was slightly hunched, as if bracing for a blow.

He barely touched his food.

He barely heard Theo’s jokes.

He barely responded to Pansy fussing over him.

And the braid?

He took it out.

Not angrily.

Just… quietly.

Letting it fall apart the way he was falling apart.

Harry noticed immediately.

His stomach dropped.

But Harry didn’t push.

Didn’t corner him.

Didn’t force anything.

He just… watched.

Worried.

Every instinct humming like a wound that wouldn’t close.

But Draco avoided him now.

Softly.

Skillfully.

Not with hate.

With fear.

Fear of being seen.

Fear of being known.

Fear of Harry noticing how bad things were.

One afternoon, Harry called out softly:

“Draco?”

Draco froze.

His back tensed.

His fingers curled.

His breath hitched.

But he didn’t turn.

He just whispered:

“Please… not today.”

And walked away.

Harry stood still, throat tight.

Hermione put a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s shutting down.”

Ron muttered, “Yeah. And he’s doing it fast.”

Harry knew.

It terrified him.

------------------------------------------

—Draco Disappears Again

Three nights later, Draco vanished.

Not for hours.

For the whole night.

Theo didn’t sleep.

Pansy paced the common room.

Blaise snapped at anyone who spoke too loud.

Even Crabbe and Goyle looked scared.

Harry wasn’t in Slytherin — but he felt it anyway.

Through the walls.

Through the castle’s silence.

Like a thread pulling taut in his chest.

He’s gone again. He’s not safe again.

He left Gryffindor Tower and began searching the corridors without knowing where he was going.

But he found the place Draco had returned to last time —

The same corridor.

The same shadows.

The same heavy feeling.

Draco wasn’t there.

But the cold on the stone floor told him Draco had been.

Harry pressed his palm to the wall and whispered:

“Come back… please.”

He didn’t know why he said it.

He didn’t need to.

------------------------------------------

Draco arrived in class late the next morning.

Late.

Disheveled.

Eyes bloodshot.

A bruise at his collarbone he hadn’t covered properly.

His wand hand trembling so badly he could barely grip it.

Snape noticed.

Snape said nothing.

Theo noticed.

Theo almost cried.

Pansy noticed.

Pansy clenched her wand under the table.

Harry noticed.

Harry’s heart shattered.

During the lesson, Draco’s potion curdled.

He didn’t react.

He looked at the bubbling mess with dead eyes.

Snape said something snide.

Draco didn’t flinch.

Harry did.

At the end of class, Harry reached out, voice soft:

“Draco—please—talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. I’m worried—”

Draco snapped.

But not in anger.

In fear.

“STOP!” Draco choked, backing up like Harry had grabbed him. “Stop asking—stop looking—stop caring, Potter—just stop!”

The classroom went silent.

Draco realized too late what he’d shown.

His mask shattered for a heartbeat — eyes glassy, breath uneven, the terror he’d been burying bursting through.

He turned and bolted.

Theo swore under his breath and ran after him.

Pansy shoved books aside, calling Draco’s name.

Blaise cursed sharply, slamming his bag shut.

Harry stood frozen, Draco’s voice echoing in his skull:

Stop caring, Potter.

Just stop.

Hermione whispered:

“He’s drowning.”

Ron whispered:

“And he thinks dragging you under will save you.”

Harry whispered back:

“I’m not letting him drown alone.”

------------------------------------------

— The Day Everything Cracks

Draco didn’t come back to class after he ran.

No one saw him for the rest of the day.

Not Theo.

Not Pansy.

Not Blaise.

Not even Snape.

Harry checked every hallway, every bench, every quiet corner of the castle.

Nothing.

By dinner, Harry couldn’t eat.

His eyes kept drifting to the doors.

Waiting.

Ron nudged him gently.

“He’ll come back, mate.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Hermione whispered, “If he doesn’t show up by curfew, we tell someone.”

Harry whispered back:

“He won’t want that.”

Because Draco wasn’t hiding from teachers.

He was hiding from fear.

From shame.

From failure he didn’t deserve.

From eyes that might see the truth.

And most of all—

from Harry.

------------------------------------------

— Draco in the Room of Requirement

The Room had reshaped itself into a workshop.

Broken cabinets.

Tools.

Scattered parchments.

A mess reflecting a mind in chaos.

Draco stood over the Vanishing Cabinet, hands trembling violently.

He had been here for hours.

Trying spells.

Reversing spells.

Breaking things.

Fixing them.

Trying again.

His shoulders shook.

His wand hand twitched.

His breathing was ragged.

And underneath it all—

fear pulsed like a heartbeat.

If I fail, he’ll kill my mother.

If I fail, he’ll punish my father.

If I fail…

Draco’s knees buckled.

He grabbed the edge of the cabinet to stay upright.

He whispered into the empty room:

“I can’t do this anymore…”

But the Room did not answer.

------------------------------------------

Harry couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t sit.

Couldn’t think.

The castle was too quiet.

Too wrong.

Something tugged at him — an instinctive pull so strong it felt like a physical thread tightening in his ribs.

Not magic.

Not logic.

Something primal.

Something protective.

Something tied to Draco Malfoy.

Harry stood abruptly.

Ron sat up.

“Where’re you going?”

Harry grabbed his wand.

“I don’t know.”

But he did know.

Somewhere in his bones, he knew exactly where Draco was.

Hermione sat up next, eyes wide.

“You feel him.”

Harry didn’t deny it.

He left the dorm before he could think too much about what that meant.

------------------------------------------

The castle was dark and quiet as Harry moved through it, steps quick, heart pounding.

The air itself felt thick.

Heavy.

Wrong.

Then—

He heard it.

Faint.

Raw.

A choked sound from behind a wall that shouldn’t exist.

A sound like someone breaking.

“Draco?”

Silence.

Then—

A soft, muffled sob Draco couldn’t hold in.

Harry’s chest shattered.

He found the seam in the wall — the hidden entrance to the Room of Requirement — and it opened at his touch.

Inside, the room was a dim, cluttered workshop.

And Draco was in the center of it—

kneeling on the floor,

hands in his hair,

breathing like he couldn’t get enough air.

His wand lay discarded beside him.

Scraps of parchment were ripped.

The Vanishing Cabinet stood ominously in the corner.

Draco didn’t hear Harry enter.

He was too far gone.

Too broken.

He whispered to no one:

“I can’t do it… I can’t… I’m trying—I’m trying—please—please don’t hurt them, please—”

Harry stepped forward.

Quiet.

Careful.

“Draco.”

Draco flinched like he’d been struck.

His head snapped up—

eyes red, face wet, chest heaving.

“Potter—” he gasped, scrambling backward like a cornered animal. “You—can’t—be here—you can’t see me—”

Harry’s heart broke.

“Draco, you’re shaking.”

“GO AWAY,” Draco cried, voice cracking violently. “You don’t understand—you can’t—just leave—before everything gets worse—before I make it worse—”

“Draco—”

“STOP SAYING MY NAME!”

His voice cracked on the word “stop,” ripping something raw and vulnerable open.

Harry froze.

Not in fear.

In heartbreak.

Because Draco wasn’t angry.

Draco was drowning.

Draco was terrified.

Draco was unraveling in front of him.

And all Harry wanted was to hold him together.

Draco stumbled to his feet, swaying.

“Potter, please—just go—please—if he finds out you were here—if you get involved—if I lose control—”

Harry stepped closer.

“I’m not leaving you.”

Draco’s breath hitched.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why do you keep… caring?”

Harry’s pulse hammered.

“Because someone has to.”

Draco shook his head desperately.

“No. No—Potter—you can’t save me. You can’t fix this. You can’t fix me.”

Harry swallowed hard.

“I don’t want to fix you.”

Draco froze.

Harry’s voice lowered to a trembling whisper:

“I just don’t want you to break.”

For a moment—

Just a moment—

Draco’s eyes softened.

Something inside him reached back, wanting and terrified.

“Harry…” Draco whispered.

Then—

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside.

Draco went white.

“Someone’s coming—Potter, hide—NOW—”

Harry grabbed his wand.

Draco grabbed his.

And that—

that breathless, terrified heartbeat—

was the moment

everything

finally

broke.

------------------------------------------

The footsteps outside grew louder.

Draco’s breath hitched—sharp and terrified.

His fingers shook around his wand.

“Harry—hide—please—if they see you—if he finds out—”

Harry didn’t move.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said firmly.

Draco’s eyes were wide, glossy, frantic.

His chest rose and fell too fast.

He wasn’t scared of Harry.

He was scared for him.

“Potter, I’m begging you,” Draco whispered, voice breaking. “GO.”

Harry stepped closer, ignoring his own racing pulse.

“Draco—talk to me. Tell me what’s happening. Tell me who hurt you. Tell me how to help.”

“You CAN’T help me!”

Draco’s voice cracked upward, raw with despair.

“You don’t UNDERSTAND—I’m not allowed to break—I’m not allowed to fail—he’s watching—he’s always watching—if I fall apart he’ll kill them—he’ll kill me—”

Harry reached out, instinctively wanting to steady him—

Draco flinched and raised his wand.

Not to attack.

To keep Harry AWAY.

Harry froze.

Draco’s voice shook violently.

“Don’t come closer, Potter. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then put the wand down,” Harry said softly.

“I CAN’T.”

“Draco—”

“I SAID I CAN’T!”

His magic flared—wild, unstable, terrified.

“It’s not safe,” Draco whispered, trembling. “I’m not safe—Potter, I’m losing control—I can’t breathe—I can’t think—everything is falling apart—”

The footsteps outside stopped.

Right at the door.

Draco’s panic spiked—magic sparking involuntarily around him.

“OH GOD—HARRY PLEASE—GO—RUN—RUN—”

Harry didn’t move.

He lifted his wand.

Not to attack.

To defend Draco.

To protect him.

But Draco didn’t see it that way.

His vision blurred with fear.

He saw a wand pointed at him.

He saw a threat.

He saw someone he cared about getting dragged into danger because of him.

And his survival instincts snapped like overstretched wire.

“Don’t—” Draco gasped, stumbling back, wand arm shaking violently. “Don’t make me—don’t—”

“Draco,” Harry whispered, “I would never hurt y—”

The door slammed open.

Both boys reacted at once.

Draco whipped around, magic flaring in pure fear—

Harry panicked, adrenaline spiking—

two spells collided in the air—

And Harry’s voice ripped out of him:

“SECTUMSEMPRA!”

He didn’t aim.

He didn’t think.

He reacted.

Draco turned back too late.

The spell hit him.

Not fully.

Not deeply.

Not with intent to kill.

But enough.

Enough to send him crashing backward into the Vanishing Cabinet.

Enough to tear into his arm, slicing through fabric and skin.

Enough to make Draco gasp in shock, breath choking off.

“DRACO!” Harry screamed, the world tilting.

Draco slid down the cabinet, one hand clutching his arm, blood seeping through his fingers.

His face went pale—too pale.

His breath came in short, desperate gasps.

“Harry…” he whispered, disbelief and hurt swirling in his voice. “You—”

“No—no—Draco—I didn’t— I wasn’t—MERLIN—Draco—”

Harry dropped to his knees beside him, wand clattering across the floor.

He reached forward—

Draco flinched away.

That hurt worse than any curse.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry whispered, voice cracking. “Draco, please—I wasn’t trying to hurt you—I swear—”

Draco blinked, dazed, tears threatening but refusing to fall.

“It’s fine,” he whispered hoarsely. “It was… it was an accident. Everything… is an accident.—you still have time— run. Get away...from here.”

“No—no it’s not—don’t say that—”

The footsteps fled after seeing the magic flash—they didn’t risk entering the room—but Draco barely registered it.

His breathing was unsteady.

His pupils blown with panic.

His whole body shaking.

Harry pressed his hands gently over Draco’s wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Draco, look at me—please—please look at me—”

Draco did.

Slowly.

Eyes full of something so fragile it almost killed Harry:

fear and trust tangled together.

“Why…” Draco whispered, voice faint, “does everything hurt?”

Harry’s throat tightened painfully.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, tears burning at the edges of his eyes. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Draco inhaled shakily and whispered:

“I told you… I’m not safe to be around.”

Harry gripped his trembling shoulders.

“You’re not the danger,” Harry said fiercely. “You’re the one who’s in danger.”

Draco’s lips parted.

A tremble.

A question.

A heartbreak.

“Harry…saty safe—alive for...me” he whispered, and his voice cracked around the name, soft and broken.

Then his body sagged forward, collapsing into Harry’s chest.

Harry caught him with both arms.

Holding him.

Cradling him.

Shaking with fear.

“DRACO—stay awake—stay with me—please—stay—don't go—”

Draco’s breathing slowed.

Harry’s heart shattered.

The storm had finally broken.

And nothing would be the same.

------------------------------------------

Harry barely registered how tightly he was holding Draco.

Draco’s weight sagged against him, breath shallow, eyelids fluttering like he was fighting sleep and losing. Harry’s hands were sticky with blood he was terrified to look at.

“Draco—Draco, stay with me—don’t close your eyes—please—”

Draco’s head lolled against Harry’s shoulder.

Panic surged up Harry’s throat like ice.

He cupped Draco’s cheek, voice breaking:

“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—Draco, wake up—please—”

A soft hiss of displaced air cut through the room.

Harry flinched.

Then a voice — quiet, deadly — spoke from behind him:

“What,” Snape said, “have you done.”

Harry whipped around.

Snape stood in the doorway, black robes billowing like smoke, wand already drawn, eyes blazing with a fury Harry had never seen before.

Not classroom annoyance.

Not sarcastic disdain.

Fear.

Rage.

Protectiveness.

Directed at the sight of Draco limp in Harry’s arms.

“Professor—” Harry began, voice cracking. “I—I didn’t—Draco was panicking—someone came—he turned—and I—my spell—”

Snape swept forward so fast Harry nearly fell backward.

“Move,” Snape snapped.

Harry obeyed instantly.

Snape dropped to his knees beside Draco, movements precise, swift, terrifyingly competent.

His hands hovered above Draco’s wound, magic gathering in controlled pulses.

Draco whimpered softly at the touch — the first sound since collapsing.

Snape’s composure cracked.

Just for a heartbeat.

“Draco,” he whispered — not gently, but urgently. “Look at me.”

Draco’s eyelids fluttered.

“Professor…?” he breathed, voice soft, dazed.

Snape exhaled shakily at the sound — barely audible, but Harry heard it.

It was relief.

Raw.

Unmasked.

Terrifying in its intensity.

Then the mask slammed back into place.

Snape’s voice came out low and razor-sharp:

“Potter. Fetch the dittany. NOW.”

Harry scrambled up, nearly tripping over discarded parchment as he grabbed the small vial Snape pointed at.

When he returned, Snape was muttering incantations under his breath — old ones, deep ones, the kind no normal sixth-year should ever hear.

Draco’s breathing steadied by fractions.

Snape took the vial and poured a drop into the cut.

Draco hissed quietly, fingers twitching.

Snape’s jaw clenched.

“He needs stabilizing,” Snape said, voice tight. “This is beyond a simple school hex.”

Harry swallowed hard.

“It was Sectumsempra,” he whispered.

Snape’s head snapped up.

His expression—

It wasn’t shock.

It wasn’t confusion.

It was recognition.

And then—

Rage.

“You reckless—ignorant—fool,” Snape hissed, eyes blazing. “That curse was never meant for childish dueling! It is dark, dangerous magic—do you have ANY comprehension—”

“I KNOW!” Harry shouted, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to hit him—I reacted—I was scared—and he—he—”

His voice collapsed into a trembling whisper:

“I didn’t want to hurt him.”

The honesty stopped Snape cold.

His eyes flicked to Draco — pale, trembling, sweat on his brow.

Then to Harry — shaking, blood on his hands, fear carved into his face.

For once, Snape didn’t sneer.

He didn’t insult.

He didn’t lash out.

He just said — very quietly:

“Help me keep him awake.”

Harry nodded, dropping to his knees beside Draco again.

He took Draco’s cold hand in both of his.

“Draco… it’s me. Stay with us, okay? Please.”

Draco’s fingers curled weakly around Harry’s.

Snape watched the gesture, expression unreadable.

But he didn’t pull their hands apart.

Instead, his voice softened — barely:

“Draco. Open your eyes.”

Draco tried.

Failed.

Tried again.

Finally, he managed to lift his lashes, grey eyes hazy and pained.

“Professor…” he whispered.

Snape’s face tightened.

“You will NOT fade on me, my boy. Do you understand?”

Draco blinked slowly.

Harry’s breath shook.

The room felt heavy, sacred, suspended in a moment that would break them all.

Snape conjured a stretcher with a flick of his wand.

“Potter,” Snape said without looking at him, “you’re coming with us. He wakes up, he’ll want to see you.”

Harry’s heart jumped into his throat.

“But—”

Snape cut him off.

“He trusts you,” Snape said simply.

Harry stopped breathing.

Snape lifted Draco onto the stretcher with a spell so gentle it contradicted everything he ever showed in class.

Harry walked beside it as Snape guided them out of the Room of Requirement.

Draco’s fingers remained curled around Harry’s.

He didn’t let go.

Harry didn’t either.

------------------------------------------

The antiseptic quiet of the hospital wing was the first thing Draco felt.

Then pain.

A dull, throbbing ache running up his arm.

Warm bandages.

A faint numbing charm.

Then voices.

No — one voice.

Low, steady, tightly controlled.

“Breathe, Draco. The worst is over.”

Snape.

His godfather.

Draco’s eyelashes fluttered, heavy and reluctant, as if waking might break him all over again. Eventually he managed to peel them open.

The world blurred, then sharpened around the edges.

Snape sat at his bedside, posture rigid, eyes dark with exhaustion and fury he hadn’t voiced yet.

Draco tried to speak.

Only a dry croak came out.

Snape conjured a glass of water and held it to his lips.

“Slowly,” he instructed.

Draco drank.

Swallowed.

Breathed.

Then—

He jolted upright so suddenly Snape had to catch his shoulder.

His voice came out hoarse, terrified:

“Where’s Harry—?!”

Snape blinked.

“Potter is—”

“Is he alive?” Draco demanded, chest heaving. “Is he hurt? Did I—did I hit him—did my spell—did anything—did he—Merlin—please—tell me—”

“Draco,” Snape said sharply, gripping both of Draco’s arms now, “calm yourself—”

“I CAN’T—” Draco gasped, eyes wide, frantic. “I can’t—not until you tell me—he was right in front of me—I had my wand up—I was panicking—I don’t even remember what direction my magic went—did it touch him—did it scare him—did I—hurt him—?!”

His breath stuttered, breaking into short, painful bursts.

Sweat beaded at his brow.

His heart monitor spiked wildly.

Snape tightened his grip, voice stern but softening around the edges:

“Draco. Harry Potter is alive.”

Draco froze.

Snape went on, slower, clearer:

“He is unharmed.”

Draco’s breath collapsed out of him in a trembling rush.

His shoulders slumped.

His eyes squeezed shut.

A single, shaky whisper escaped him:

“Thank Merlin…”

Snape’s expression flickered — the faintest widening of his eyes at Draco’s reaction.

Draco pressed a hand to his mouth, shaking.

“Is he—Is he angry?” Draco whispered through his fingers. “Does he hate me now? He should. He absolutely should. I almost—Merlin—I almost—”

Snape’s voice cut in, surprisingly gentle:

“Potter does not hate you.”

Draco looked up, startled and desperate.

“How do you know?”

Snape exhaled through his nose.

“He refused to leave your bedside until he passed out. Quite literally. Poppy made him sleep in the unused room across the hall.”

Draco’s breath caught.

“He… stayed?”

Snape hesitated.

Then said the truth:

“He thought you were dying.”

Draco’s hands trembled.

His voice collapsed into a weak, broken whisper:

“It should’ve been me worrying about him… not the other way around…”

Snape studied him long, dark, unreadable eyes narrowing slightly — not in suspicion, but in realization.

He had known Draco cared.

He had not known it was this deep.

This consuming.

This instinctive.

Draco gripped the sheets tightly.

“I need to see him,” he whispered, trying to sit up. “I need to— I have to tell him I didn’t mean to— I didn’t want to— he must think I—”

Snape pressed a hand to his shoulder, firm but not unkind.

“You will see him,” Snape said. “But not while you’re shaking. And not while you’re one breath away from collapsing again.”

Draco swallowed, chest rising too fast.

“Please…” he whispered, eyes glossy. “Just—tell me he isn’t afraid of me.”

Snape paused.

Then spoke with quiet precision:

“Potter’s concern, Draco, is not for himself. It is for you.”

Draco stared.

Stunned.

Like someone had opened a window in a room he’d been suffocating in.

“He asked to sit with you again once he wakes,” Snape continued. “I suspect he will not leave until you speak to him.”

Draco’s throat went tight.

His first thought upon waking had been Harry.

His first fear had been Harry.

His first relief had been Harry.

And now—

Harry wanted him awake.

Wanted him safe.

Wanted to see him.

Draco sank back onto the pillows, trembling, overwhelmed.

“…I hurt him,” Draco whispered. “Not his body. But I scared him. I know I did.”

Snape did not deny it.

Instead he said:

“Then the two of you must talk.”

Draco closed his eyes.

But a tiny, fragile hope flickered beneath the exhaustion.

Harry wasn’t dead.

Harry wasn’t hurt.

Harry didn’t hate him.

Harry stayed.

Snape sits besides him calming Draco."sublime yourself I will go get Harry"

------------------------------------------

— Snape Calls for Harry

The hospital wing was dim, curtains drawn, lanterns softened to a warm gold.

Draco sat upright now, pale but awake, fingers fidgeting nervously with the edge of his blanket as if that could keep the panic from returning.

Snape stood beside the bed, arms crossed.

He had been silent for several long minutes — too long — long enough that Draco felt the weight of something looming.

Finally Snape spoke.

“Draco.”

Draco looked up immediately.

“Potter is awake.”

Draco’s heart slammed against his ribs.

His hands stilled.

His breath caught.

Snape observed every detail — the way Draco’s pupils widened, the way his entire posture leaned forward unconsciously, the way fear and longing tangled inside him.

Snape inhaled quietly through his nose, then said:

“He wishes to see you.”

Draco’s throat tightened.

He looked away.

“I don’t know if I can—” he whispered. “I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how to face him after what happened…”

Snape’s expression softened in the smallest, rarest way.

“Draco. You are not the only one who fears this conversation.”

Draco blinked, startled.

Snape continued:

“Potter is pacing the hallway as we speak. Poppy is threatening to hex him if he doesn’t stop.”

Draco’s lips parted in shock.

He imagined Harry — frantic, anxious, pacing with that anxious, stubborn determination he always had.

For Draco.

Because of Draco.

Snape stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“He thought he lost you,” Snape said. “He is… deeply unsettled.”

Draco swallowed hard.

“…because he feels guilty,” Draco whispered.

“Perhaps,” Snape said softly. “Or perhaps it is something more complicated. You will not know unless you speak to him.”

Draco looked down at his hands.

“What if he doesn’t want to hear me?”

Snape gave a low, exasperated sigh — the kind he only ever used with Draco.

“Draco. The boy has not stopped asking about you since he regained consciousness. He is waiting outside this room like a starving dog waiting for scraps.”

Draco’s ears flushed pink.

“Professor—!”

Snape’s mouth twitched — almost, almost a smile.

“Do not make him wait longer.”

Draco’s breath shook.

His heart pounded.

“…send him in,” he whispered.

Snape nodded, robes sweeping behind him as he strode to the door.

Just before he opened it, he glanced back.

“Draco.”

Draco looked up.

Snape held his gaze — steady, meaningful.

“Speak honestly.”

Draco’s eyes softened.

“Yes, sir.”

Snape opened the door.

Harry stood there.

Hair a mess.

Clothes rumpled.

Eyes frantic and red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

The moment he saw Draco awake, sitting up, breathing—

Harry’s entire body sagged.

Like he’d been holding himself together solely by force of will.

Snape stepped aside.

“Potter,” he said quietly. “Go in.”

Harry swallowed, nodded, and walked toward Draco’s bed with the caution of someone approaching a wounded creature.

Snape paused at the threshold.

One last look at the two boys.

Then he turned and left, closing the curtain around them—

leaving Draco and Harry alone

for the first time

since everything broke.

------------------------------------------

Harry stepped into the curtained-off space, breath shallow, shoulders tense, hands shaking badly.

Draco was sitting upright in the bed, blanket gathered around his waist, pale hair mussed against the pillow.

The moment their eyes met—

Draco froze.

Not in fear.

In desperate, breath-stealing panic.

His gaze swept Harry’s face, chest, hands, arms—

fast, frantic, searching as if every second mattered.

He was looking for wounds.

For blood.

For bruises.

For proof that Harry lived.

Harry opened his mouth—

Draco inhaled sharply.

Then—

He sagged.

A ragged, trembling, broken exhale left him as if he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“You’re… you’re unharmed,” Draco whispered, voice cracking. “You’re—Merlin—you’re really—safe.”

Harry blinked.

“Draco—?”

Draco didn’t let him finish.

With a soft, strangled sound—half sob, half prayer—Draco reached forward, curled his fingers into Harry’s robes, and pulled him down into a fierce, shaking embrace.

Harry stumbled forward, knees hitting the mattress, chest pressed against Draco’s.

Draco buried his face in Harry’s shoulder, breath hitching.

“Thank God,” Draco whispered, voice hoarse and breaking. “Thank God—thank God—Harry, I thought— I thought—”

His hands trembled as they slid over Harry’s arms, cupping his wrists, moving up to his shoulders, brushing through his hair, over his cheek, as if checking every inch for injury.

As if confirming Harry was real.

Alive.

Here.

“I’m so sorry,” Draco choked out. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I never wanted to—if anything happened to you—if someone hurt you—if I hurt you—Harry, I swear, I swear I didn’t—”

Harry froze—

Then shattered.

He grabbed Draco by the waist and pulled him close, burying his own face in Draco’s neck, body trembling violently.

“No—don’t say that—don’t apologise,” Harry whispered, voice breaking into pieces. “Draco, don’t—don’t you dare apologise—this was my fault—I hurt you—I promised I wouldn’t, I promised nothing would happen to you—”

Harry’s voice cracked fully.

“I failed you.”

Draco jerked back just enough to cup Harry’s face in both hands.

“You didn’t,” Draco whispered fiercely. “You didn’t fail me, Harry—you didn’t—”

Harry shook his head desperately.

“I cast the spell.”

“I raised my wand first.”

“I reacted.”

“I panicked.”

“I hurt you.”

“I terrified you.”

“I nearly killed you!”

“That was an accident.”

Harry’s breath hitched, tears welling.

“I promised to keep you safe,” he whispered. “And look what I did.”

Draco swallowed, throat tight with emotion.

He brushed Harry’s cheek with his thumb — trembling, gentle.

“You did keep me safe,” Draco whispered. “You always try. Even when you shouldn’t. Even when it puts you in danger. Even when it hurts you.”

Harry leaned into the touch helplessly.

“I’m so sorry, Draco…”

Draco shook his head.

“No. No apologies from you.”

“But—”

“No.”

Draco pulled him in again, arms tight around Harry’s back, holding him as if afraid Harry might disappear.

“I was only scared for you,” Draco whispered into Harry’s hair. “Not of you. Never of you.”

Harry’s breath caught.

He clutched Draco tighter.

“…I thought I lost you,” Harry admitted in a whisper so small it barely existed.

Draco’s fingers slid into Harry’s hair and held him close.

“I’m still here,” Draco whispered back. “Harry… I’m still here.”

Harry trembled.

Draco trembled.

They held onto each other like drowning boys clinging to the same piece of driftwood.

For the first time—

neither tried to let go.

------------------------------------------

Harry didn’t move from Draco’s chest.

Not even after the sobs faded.

Not even after Snape left them alone.

He stayed curled against Draco as if gravity itself had placed him there, cheek pressed to Draco’s sternum, arms wrapped tight around his waist. Every inhale Draco took brushed warm air across Harry’s hair.

Draco rested one hand over the back of Harry’s head, fingers sliding slowly, rhythmically through that hopeless, messy nest of dark locks.

Merlin, it was soft.

Too soft for how chaotic it looked.

The kind of softness that made Draco’s chest ache.

Harry’s breathing gradually steadied.

Still shaky, but real.

Present.

Draco exhaled, long and slow, letting his own heartbeat settle beneath Harry’s ear. Letting Harry feel the proof: alive, steady, here.

Minutes passed like that.

Quiet.

Warm.

No fear.

Just shared breath and the soft drag of Draco’s fingers over Harry’s scalp.

Then Draco spoke first — low, careful, controlled.

“Harry… listen.”

Harry hummed against Draco’s chest, nose brushing the fabric of Draco’s hospital shirt.

“I’m listening,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco’s fingers stilled for a moment, then resumed petting gently.

He chose his words slowly.

“I wasn’t… avoiding you,” Draco murmured. “Not because of you. Not because I wanted to.” His throat tightened. “There are things happening that I can’t control. Things I didn’t choose.”

Harry pressed a little closer, arms tightening around Draco’s waist.

A silent promise: Go on.

Draco’s other hand came to rest between Harry’s shoulder blades, grounding him.

“I’m being pressured,” Draco whispered. “Forced. Someone… someone powerful expects something from me. Something dangerous.”

Harry tensed, just barely — Draco felt it under his palm.

He soothed him with slow, careful strokes through his hair.

“I don’t want you involved in it,” Draco continued. “I never wanted you to know. I never wanted you near it. Because if anything happened to you—”

His voice cracked once, softly.

He exhaled through it.

“I wouldn’t survive it.”

Harry swallowed hard against Draco’s chest.

“Draco,” he whispered, “I need to understand.”

Draco hesitated… but kept stroking Harry’s hair.

“You don’t need all the details,” Draco said quietly. “Not yet. But you should know this much: every injury you’ve seen on me… every time I disappeared… every time I came back looking like I’d gone three rounds with a troll—”

Harry’s grip on him tightened sharply.

“—it wasn’t school,” Draco finished. “It wasn’t accidents. It wasn’t me being clumsy or dramatic.”

He breathed out.

“It was him.”

Harry froze.

Draco felt it — in Harry’s hands, his shoulders, the sharp inhale pressed against his ribs.

Draco stroked his hair again, slower.

“He summons me,” Draco whispered. “And I go. Because if I don’t… he’ll hurt the people I care about.” Then, softer: “And he’ll hurt me too.”

Harry’s fingers curled into Draco’s shirt, trembling with contained fury.

“Draco,” Harry said quietly, dangerously, “you shouldn’t face that alone.”

Draco let out a breathy, humorless laugh and carded his hand through Harry’s hair once more.

“I am not alone my parents are trying their best, its just that there are some things that I have to do alone—Things that cant be changed,” he said. “That’s the entire point.”

Harry’s voice came out low, steady, unshakable:

“You’re not, you shouldn't have to—.”

Draco’s heart skipped so hard Harry felt it against his cheek.

“Harry—”

“I’m here,” Harry said. “And I’m not walking away from you. Not after this. Not after everything.”

Draco swallowed, fingers tightening slightly in Harry’s hair.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he whispered.

Harry shook his head against Draco’s chest — a small, stubborn movement.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Harry said softly. “You don’t owe me your secrets.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered closed at that.

“But,” Harry continued, “I want to help. And I’m not going to push. Just tell me what you need.”

Draco’s hand in Harry’s hair stilled.

What he needed?

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the question.

“I need you safe,” Draco whispered.

His voice softened.

Broke, just a little.

“I need you far away from all of this.”

Harry lifted his head finally — just enough to look up at Draco.

Green eyes.

Soft.

Determined.

Caring in a way that hurt.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, “I’m safest right here.”

Draco stared at him — stunned, breath caught in his throat.

Harry leaned his head back down, resting once more over Draco’s heart, as if that settled the matter completely.

And Draco…

Draco let him.

He resumed stroking Harry’s hair, slow and gentle, feeling the weight of him, the warmth of him, the reality of him. Feeling Harry breathe against him as though Draco’s heartbeat was the only thing tethering him to the world.

And for the first time in months—

Draco didn’t feel alone.

He didn’t feel doomed.

He didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to break.

He felt—

Held.

Safe.

Wanted.

He closed his eyes and whispered into Harry’s hair:

“…Then stay.”

Harry’s arms tightened around him.

“I’m not leaving,” he whispered back.

And Draco, for once, believed him.

------------------------------------------

At some point, the adrenaline faded.

The panic softened.

The shaking stopped.

The sharp edges of the day dulled into something warm, fragile, unbearably gentle.

Harry’s breathing evened out first.

Still curled against Draco’s chest, arms wrapped around his waist like a lifeline, his body slowly relaxed — tension melting one muscle at a time.

Draco felt every shift.

Every soft exhale brushing his collarbone.

Every moment Harry’s grip loosened, then tightened faintly again, as if making sure Draco was still there.

Draco kept his hand in Harry’s hair, petting slowly, rhythmically.

He didn’t want to stop.

Wouldn’t stop.

Harry murmured something — half a word, maybe Draco’s name — then drifted again, breath warm and steady against Draco’s ribs.

A soft, stunned smile tugged at Draco’s mouth.

Harry Potter was asleep on his chest.

Willingly.

Comfortably.

As if Draco were the safest place he could be.

Draco leaned his head back against the pillows, eyes heavy now that the danger had passed, exhaustion finally dragging him under.

His fingers threaded one more time through Harry’s hair.

“…Stay,” Draco whispered, so quietly the room almost didn’t catch it.

Harry’s arms tightened faintly in response — asleep, but understanding anyway.

Draco’s chest ached, beautifully, painfully, with something he wasn’t ready to name.

His eyelids fluttered.

And he fell asleep too.

Breathing in sync.

Warm.

Entangled.

Safe.

Two boys who had spent years at war

finally asleep

in the same peace.

------------------------------------------

It was nearly an hour later when Snape pushed the curtain aside.

He intended to check Draco’s vitals.

He intended to chart progress.

He intended to scold Harry for lingering too long.

He did none of those things.

He froze.

Harry lay sprawled half across Draco, face tucked into his chest, fingers curled into Draco’s shirt.

Draco’s arm — completely unconsciously — rested around Harry’s back, hand still buried in Harry’s messy hair.

Both asleep.

Both breathing in perfect unison.

Snape’s expression flickered.

Not anger.

Not annoyance.

Something softer.

Older.

Heavier.

A kind of grief

and a kind of relief

at the same time.

Quietly — almost reverently — Snape reached for the folded blanket on the chair.

He lifted it.

And draped it gently over the two sleeping boys.

Tucking the edges around Draco’s shoulders.

Letting it fall over Harry’s back.

He stared at them for a long moment.

Two children born into war.

Two boys forced to grow up too quickly.

Two opposites who had somehow found solace in each other’s breath.

Snape exhaled.

Very softly.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

“…Idiots.”

But there was no venom in it.

Only something raw and protective.

He pulled the curtain closed again

and left them to sleep.

Together.

Safe.

For once.

------------------------------------------

— Morning After

Sunlight crept gently across Draco’s face.

Warm.

Soft.

Too bright.

He winced, shifting slightly—

And froze.

Something heavy, warm, and very alive was wrapped around his waist.

Slow, terrified eyes traveled downward.

There—

sprawled halfway across his chest—

cheek pressed over Draco’s heart, hair a wild black halo, arms looped tightly around Draco’s torso—

Harry Potter.

Asleep.

Peaceful.

Breathing against Draco like he’d always belonged there.

Draco’s brain short-circuited.

Oh gods.

Oh gods.

His heart THUNDERED beneath Harry’s ear, loud enough to shake the bed.

Harry murmured something unintelligible and snuggled closer.

CLOSER.

Draco’s soul left his body.

His hand was still tangled in Harry’s hair—

because of course it was—

and he had apparently slept like that all night.

“No, no, no—” Draco whispered internally, his whole face flushing bright pink.

“This is illegal. This is dangerous. This is—this is NICE?! No. No, BAD. Very bad. I am compromised. I am WEAK. I am—”

Harry shifted again, nose brushing against Draco’s clothed nipples.

Draco made a noise he would deny to his grave.

He tried—VERY carefully—to slip his hand out of Harry’s hair.

Harry’s fingers tightened around Draco’s waist.

Draco froze.

“Five more minutes…” Harry mumbled, half-asleep.

Draco Malfoy’s heart combusted.

He stared at the ceiling, utterly helpless.

“How am I supposed to survive this man,” Draco whispered to no one. “I genuinely don’t think my organs can tolerate it.”

He swallowed hard, trying to calm himself—

Harry stirred again.

Lashes fluttered.

Brows knit in confusion.

Then green eyes blinked open, hazy with sleep, staring directly at Draco’s chest.

It took Harry a moment to realize.

To understand.

To lift his head, eyes widening.

“…Oh.”

Draco swallowed.

Harry blinked again.

“…Draco?”

“Y-yes?” Draco squeaked—actual squeak—mortifying.

Harry looked down at their position.

At his arms wrapped around Draco.

At Draco’s hand in his hair.

At the blanket pulled over both of them.

Then he looked back up at Draco.

“…Um.”

Draco cleared his throat, trying to salvage whatever dignity he had left, which wasn’t much.

“It—appears we fell asleep.”

“Together,” Harry added softly.

Draco’s ears burned.

“Yes. Well. That.”

Harry didn’t move away.

Neither did Draco.

They just… stared at each other.

Breathing the same air.

Sharing the same blanket.

Still half tangled in each other.

Harry’s voice came out quiet, hesitant:

“…Are you okay?”

Draco blinked.

“You’re asking me that?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed.

“I—I was worried. Last night. Before I fell asleep. I didn’t want to let go.”

Draco’s heart tripped violently.

He swallowed.

“Well. Clearly… you didn’t.”

Harry’s face went red.

“I—I mean—I didn’t mean to cling— I just— you were warm— and alive— and—”

“Harry.”

Harry shut up instantly.

Draco exhaled slowly.

“I didn’t mind.”

Harry’s breath caught.

Draco quickly looked away, ears flaming.

“I mean—you were… comfortable. It was fine. Not uncomfortable. I wasn’t— bothered.”

He winced.

“That sounded worse out loud.”

Harry’s lips curled into the smallest, sweetest smile Draco had ever seen.

“…I liked it too,” Harry whispered.

Draco forgot how to breathe.

Before he could answer, the curtain slid open.

Snape stood there.

Blank stare.

Deadpan expression.

Utter judgment radiating from every pore.

Harry and Draco froze like guilty cats.

Snape surveyed:

Harry draped across Draco.

Blanket shared.

Hands tangled.

Faces pink.

His eye twitched.

“…Breakfast is in twenty minutes,” Snape said flatly. “Do try to appear less… entangled.”

Draco made a dying noise.

Harry buried his face in Draco’s shoulder in pure humiliation.

Snape turned, muttering something that suspiciously sounded like:

“Idiots. Both of them.”

Curtain closed again.

Silence.

Then—

Harry snorted.

Draco buried his burning face in his pillow.

“…Kill me,” Draco whispered. “Please. End my suffering.”

Harry laughed—soft, warm, fond—and squeezed Draco’s hand under the blanket.

“I’m not leaving you,” Harry said.

Draco’s breath hitched.

And very quietly—

“…Good.”

------------------------------------------

Snape returned ten minutes before breakfast with two neatly folded uniforms.

“Get dressed,” he said briskly. “Before rumors grow legs.”

Harry and Draco were still groggy — warm from sleep and the embarrassing intimacy of waking tangled together.

They scrambled up, grabbing the clothes Snape had left on the chair.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, still pink around the ears.

Harry tried to flatten his, failed miserably, and tried again.

They dressed in a blur.

Harry shrugged into his jumper.

Draco tucked in his shirt.

Both reached for their ties at the same exact moment.

Draco held out a burgundy one.

Harry grabbed a green one.

Neither paid attention.

“Uh—tie?” Harry asked awkwardly.

Draco, still half-asleep and pretending not to be flustered, walked toward him, snatched the tie from Harry’s hands, and looped it smoothly around Harry’s collar.

Harry swallowed.

Draco’s fingers brushed his throat.

Harry’s knees went weak.

Draco stepped back quickly, ears flushed.

“There,” Draco said, too sharply. “At least one of us looks presentable.”

Harry returned the favor, grabbing Draco’s tie and fumbling embarrassingly with it.

Draco stared at him with an expression that was 40% judgment, 60% fondness.

“You’re making it worse—Potter—no—over, not under—just—here—” Draco guided Harry’s fingers, cheeks pink.

They finished.

Neither realized the mistake.

Snape did, of course.

He stared at them, pinched the bridge of his nose in utter agony, decided it was not his problem, and walked away.

------------------------------------------

—The Great Hall

All four House tables were buzzing — anxious, loud, half-panicked.

Draco and Harry had been gone all night.

Theo, Pansy, Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle, Hermione, and Ron were all seated together at a corner of the Gryffindor table — united by sheer mutual stress.

Theo looked ready to stage an intervention.

Pansy had already started planning a funeral.

Hermione kept twisting her napkin.

Ron shoveled eggs grimly for emotional support.

Then—

The doors opened.

Conversation died instantly.

Harry and Draco walked in together.

Side by side.

A little too close.

Everyone stared.

Theo was the first to register the absolute disaster:

“…Dray,” he said slowly, “why are you wearing a Gryffindor tie?”

Draco blinked.

Looked down.

Saw red.

RED.

His face went sheet white.

“What—?!”

Blaise choked on air.

Pansy slapped a hand over her mouth.

And then Ron looked at Harry.

Ron howled.

“BLOODY HELL, HARRY—YOU’RE WEARING SLYTHERIN!”

Harry froze, turned scarlet, and grabbed his tie in panic.

Green.

Silver.

Perfectly knotted.

By Draco.

Everyone gasped.

Hermione looked like she ascended into the void.

Pansy was vibrating.

Theo whispered, “I knew it. I KNEW IT.”

Draco’s entire soul left his body.

“I—THIS—THIS IS NOT—” Draco sputtered. “POTTER PUT THE WRONG—HE—IT WAS DARK—I—THIS IS—”

Ron leaned back smugly.

“So. You two shag all night.”

Harry nearly died on the spot.

“RON—!”

Theo smirked and asked in a teasing tone. “Did potter braid your hair again Dray...? And did have fun… with your little sleepover?”

Draco turned crimson.

Harry made a noise that was not human.

Hermione covered her face with her hands, muttering, “Oh sweet Circe.”

The whole hall was buzzing now — whispers, gasps, giggles.

But Draco and Harry stood there like they’d been Petrified.

Until Harry leaned in, voice tiny:

“Want to… sit together?”

Draco swallowed.

“…Yes.”

They walked to the table.

Together.

Red tie on Draco.

Green tie on Harry.

Matching by mistake.

Or fate.

Their friends stared, shocked and delighted.

And as they sat down —they quickly exchanged their ties—shoulders brushing — Draco whispered sideways:

“…Your fault.”

Harry whispered back:

“Still worth it.”

Draco’s lips twitched.

Just slightly.

Enough for Harry to see.

------------------------------------------

Whatever came next — war, secrets, danger — something between them had changed.
Irrevocably.
Quietly.
Undeniably.
And everyone in Hogwarts could see it too.

Chapter Text

—Draco Returns to Slytherin Dorms

Draco slipped quietly through the stone archway of the Slytherin common room after breakfast, hoping—praying—that he could make it to his dorm before anyone noticed him.

He did not make it.

Theo looked up first.

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood, eyes widening at the sight of Draco’s pale face and the faint, tired tremble in his hands.

“Dray?” Theo’s voice was soft, too soft. A warning.

Pansy turned her head sharply.
Blaise’s book lowered an inch.
Crabbe and Goyle looked over from the chessboard, confused but alert.

Draco forced a smile so thin it barely existed.

“I’m fine.”

Nobody believed him.

Theo walked straight over — gently, not crowding, but with purpose — and placed a hand on Draco’s arm.

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly.

Draco swallowed.
His ribs ached.
His shoulder throbbed.
His whole body felt pulled apart and stitched back together.

But none of that was the worst part.

The worst part was the memory of Harry’s face when Draco had awakened in the hospital wing — terrified for him, holding him like he mattered.

Draco blinked the thought away.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

Pansy rose slowly from her seat, arms crossed over her chest, eyes sharp enough to cut stone.

“You vanished overnight,” she said. “Then you come back looking like a stiff breeze could knock you unconscious. Forgive us if we don’t accept ‘nothing’ as an answer.”

Blaise closed his book fully now.
He didn’t move closer.
He didn’t need to.

His stare was enough.

Draco felt the pressure tightening around his chest — not unkind, but unbearable in a different way.

He hated being seen like this.
Hated being worried over.
Hated that if they pushed any further, he might actually crack open.

He lifted his chin, slipping back into the most polished version of himself.

“Really. I’m just tired.”

Theo inhaled slowly, then released Draco’s arm.

“Alright,” he said.
Not accepting — just pausing.
“But if something is happening… if someone is hurting you…”

Pansy’s expression softened, just a fraction.

“You can tell us,” she said. “We’re your family, Dray. We’re not leaving.”

Draco’s throat bobbed.

He wanted to say thank you.
He wanted to confess everything.
He wanted to crumble into someone else’s hands instead of holding himself together with sheer Malfoy stubbornness.

But he could not risk them.
Could not risk anyone.

So he stepped back.

“I just need rest,” Draco said. “I’ll be fine.”

Theo didn’t believe him.
Blaise didn’t believe him.
Pansy didn’t believe him.
Crabbe and Goyle looked torn between confusion and devotion.

But no one pushed him.

Not today.

As Draco made it to the stairs, Theo called softly after him,

“If you can’t tell us the truth… then at least don’t deal with it alone.”

Draco paused for only one heartbeat before climbing the stairs to his dorm.

He shut the door behind him, leaned against it, and let himself breathe.

Just once.

Then he sank onto his bed, fingers trembling as he touched the place where Harry’s arms had held him only hours ago.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

He whispered into the quiet room:

“I’m not dealing with it alone anymore.”

And for the first time,
that felt true.

------------------------------------------

—Snape’s Private Warning…

Potions ended early that day, but Snape’s expression said nothing good would come of it.

“Potter. Stay.”

Harry froze.

Ron shot him a pitying glance on the way out.

Hermione mouthed don’t antagonize him, which Harry absolutely planned to ignore.

When the classroom emptied, Snape shut the door with a soft, ominous click.

He didn’t pace.

He didn’t sneer.

He simply stood there and looked at Harry.

And for the first time… Snape looked tired.

Truly, deeply tired.

“Potter,” Snape said quietly, “I know you believe yourself courageous. Noble. Self-sacrificing.”

Harry frowned but didn’t interrupt.

Snape’s voice turned colder.

“What you do not understand is that you are stepping—blindly—into a war that will devour anyone attached to you.”

Harry’s breath stuck in his throat.

Snape continued,

“Draco is not merely stressed. He is not brooding. He is not ill. He is being pushed, Potter. Pushed toward something far beyond his control.”

Harry’s fists tightened at his sides.

Snape saw this.

He let out a slow, bitter exhale.

“You cannot save him,” Snape said. “You cannot shield him from the Dark Lord’s expectations. You cannot undo what has already been set in motion.”

Harry swallowed loudly.

“Someone has to try.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in that sharp, surgical way he looked at a potion that might explode.

“You are not thinking,” Snape said. “Your interference—your presence—your… attachment—will make Draco a target.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

“I’m not leaving him alone.”

Snape’s face pinched as if the words physically harmed him.

“You are a child,” he said quietly, “trying to hold back an avalanche.”

Harry lifted his chin.

“Then I’ll stand there anyway.”

Silence stretched between them.

And then—

Snape closed his eyes.

Just for a moment.

As if grieving something inevitable.

When he opened them again, there was something raw underneath the scorn.

“If you insist on staying near Draco,” Snape said softly, “you must be subtle. You must be careful. And you must be prepared to make choices you will not like.”

Harry nodded once.

“I’m ready.”

Snape stared at him.

Long.

Expression unreadable.

Then he sighed.

Deep.

Exhausted.

Ancient.

“…Very well.”

He turned away slightly—

—and then paused.

“Oh. And one more thing, Potter.”

Harry blinked. “Sir?”

Snape’s tone shifted.

From grim prophecy…

…to absolute DESTRUCTION.

“I have tolerated many things from you over the years, Potter. Your incompetence. Your recklessness. Your general talent for catastrophe.”

He paused.

“But I draw the line at finding you asleep like a swaddled infant on my godson’s chest.”

Harry’s soul left his body.

“I— THAT WAS— WE JUST— SIR—”

Snape lifted a hand.

“Do not. I beg you. Spare me the stammering.”

Harry clamped his mouth shut, turning redder by the second.

Snape took a slow, suffering breath.

“It was… unbecoming,” he said, voice rich with disgust. “One does not expect the so-called Chosen One to curl up like a baby Kneazle and nest on another student—and unfortunately that other student being my godson, dosent sit right with me.”

Harry squeaked.

“I WASN’T— I DIDN’T— IT JUST— HAPPENED—”

“Yes,” Snape said dryly, “I am well aware that it ‘just happened.’ I was the unfortunate soul who discovered the scene.”

“SIR PLEASE—I care about him.”

Snape blinked.

Once.

Slowly.

As if Harry had just confessed something unspeakably inconvenient.

“Yes,” Snape muttered darkly. “I had the misfortune of deducing that from the way you were draped over him like an overgrown man child.”

Harry groaned into his palms.

“Sir—please stop.”

“I will stop,” Snape said, “when you stop behaving like a lovesick idiot.”

“And do try,” he added, “to maintain at least twelve inches of distance from Draco in public. Hogwarts is already aflame with rumors, and I would rather not listen to Pansy Parkinson screech about ‘interhouse romantic entanglements’ before breakfast.”

“OH MERLIN—”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Get out, Potter.”

Harry fled the room at record speed, ears burning, soul damaged, dignity in shreds.

Snape watched him go, muttering under his breath:

“Hopeless.”

------------------------------------------

Draco, The Cabinet, and the Slow Breaking Point

The Room of Requirement formed around him the moment he stepped inside.

Silent.

Cold.

Too familiar.

A graveyard of forgotten things.

The Vanishing Cabinet towered in the center, tall and ominous, its wood cracked and splintered from centuries of disuse. It looked like an oversized coffin. Sometimes, Draco thought it smelled like one too.

He approached it slowly, wand trembling in his hand.

Another Summons.

Another threat.

Another reminder that he was running out of time.

He pressed a palm to the cabinet’s side.

His fingers shook.

“Reparo,” he whispered.

The crack sealed halfway—then split open again.

Draco sucked in a sharp breath, chest tightening painfully.

Another failure.

He tried again.

And again.

And again until his magic sputtered out, weak and exhausted, like his body had nothing left to give.

His knees hit the floor before he could stop himself.

Cold stone bit through his trousers.

“Please,” Draco whispered into the wood, forehead pressed against it. “Just work.”

His voice cracked.

“I can’t— I can’t keep doing this.”

His ribs throbbed.

His throat burned.

His head pounded with the echo of Voldemort’s voice.

Failure has consequences, Draco.

He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed the rising panic.

He wasn’t supposed to cry.

Malfoys didn’t cry.

Omegas didn’t cry where alphas could see.

He wasn’t supposed to be weak.

He wasn’t supposed to—

A sound escaped him anyway.

Small.

Raw.

Broken.

His breath came fast, too fast, tight in his chest.

He dug his fingers into his hair to stop the shaking.

“Get a grip,” he whispered harshly to himself. “You can’t fall apart. Not now. Not here.”

But the tears blurred his vision anyway.

He saw Harry’s face behind his eyelids.

Harry’s hands around his waist.

Harry’s steady breathing against his heart.

Harry saying, I’m not leaving you.

Harry looking at him like Draco was something precious.

It made it worse.

Because Draco wanted to believe it.

Wanted to cling to it.

Wanted to bury his face in Harry’s neck and admit he was terrified.

He broke down in a quiet, helpless sob.

“I can’t let him see me like this.”

He wrapped his arms around himself, as if trying to hold his own bones together.

“I can’t let him get involved,” Draco whispered. “If he gets hurt—because of me—”

His voice failed.

A trembling breath escaped him.

He leaned his back against the cabinet, hugging his knees, forehead dropping to them.

For a moment, he let himself be seventeen.

Let himself be scared.

Let himself crumble in a room where no one could see.

“Just a little longer,” Draco whispered to himself. “Just hold on a little longer…”

His voice faltered, breaking into silence.

Outside the door, unseen, unheard — the castle creaked, as if it were listening.

As if it knew Draco Malfoy was running out of time.

------------------------------------------

Harry found him at sunset.

He hadn’t meant to — not really — but his feet had carried him through the halls until he saw a familiar silhouette sitting beneath a tall window, washed in fading gold.

Draco.

Alone.

Too still.

Too pale.

Hands trembling just enough that Harry felt it like a physical blow.

He approached quietly.

Draco noticed him after a moment and straightened, spine snapping into perfect posture even though the motion clearly hurt.

“Potter,” Draco said, trying for cool indifference. “Shouldn’t you be at dinner?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“You missed lunch,” he said instead.

Draco’s jaw tightened.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Draco turned his face away, the flicker in his eyes betraying him.

“What I eat is no concern of yours.”

“It is,” Harry said softly.

That word—

is—

made Draco falter.

“Why?” Draco asked, so quietly he probably hadn’t meant to speak it aloud.

Harry sat beside him.

Not touching.

But close enough that Draco could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“Because I care,” Harry said.

Draco went very, very still.

Harry let the silence stretch, warm and gentle.

Then:

“Are you okay?”

Draco laughed under his breath — a brittle sound.

“Do I look okay?”

“No,” Harry answered honestly. “You look tired. And scared. And like you’re trying really hard not to let anyone see.”

Draco’s lips parted, breath catching. He turned his face sharply away again.

And that’s when Harry saw it.

A loose strand of pale hair had fallen across Draco’s eyes, hiding them.

Without thinking, Harry lifted a hand—

soft, hesitant—

and tucked the strand behind Draco’s ear.

His fingertips brushed Draco’s cheek.

Draco froze.

A soft pink bloomed over his skin.

His breath stuttered.

His eyes went wide.

“Don’t…” Draco whispered.

“Don’t what?”

“…don’t touch me like that.”

Harry’s brow pinched. “Why?”

“Because I— I can’t think properly when you’re gentle with me.”

Harry’s chest tightened.

He lowered his hand slowly, letting Draco breathe again.

The moment stretched between them like something fragile and new.

“I can’t tell you what’s happening,” Draco murmured.

“I know.”

“I’m not ready to talk.”

“That’s okay.”

“I might never be.”

Harry swallowed.

“Then I’ll still be here.”

A tremor went through Draco’s shoulders.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he whispered.

“We’ll be afraid together,” Harry said softly.

Draco inhaled shakily.

They sat in silence, breath mingling, shoulders almost touching.

And then—

Their hands shifted on the cold stone floor.

Accidentally.

Fingers brushed.

A small spark of warm magic shot between them, barely perceptible but very, very real.

Draco stiffened.

Harry didn’t move his hand away.

Neither did Draco.

For a moment, their fingers lay side by side—

not quite holding—

but not pulling apart either.

Suspended.

Wanting.

Choosing to stay.

“Potter…” Draco whispered, voice barely holding together. “Your hand.”

“I know,” Harry murmured.

He kept it there.

Draco’s throat bobbed.

He didn’t move.

Harry breathed out, slow and steady, letting Draco’s presence settle into him like gravity.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Harry said gently. “Just… don’t shut me out.”

Draco turned his head, meeting Harry’s eyes.

Soft silver meeting warm green.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered.

Harry smiled.

The small, warm kind that Draco couldn’t look at for too long without feeling his knees weaken.

They stayed like that until the sun dipped below the horizon — two boys leaning into each other without touching, fingers hovering dangerously close, breaths matching.

Something undefinable but unmistakable settled between them.

Not friendship.

Not rivalry.

Not yet love.

But something real.

Something new.

Something theirs.

------------------------------------------

Draco barely remembered how he got back to his dorm.

His legs carried him on autopilot.

His mind was still in that corridor — still replaying Harry’s warm voice, Harry’s fingers brushing his hair back, Harry’s hand lying beside his on the stone floor, close enough to touch.

“I’ll still be here.”

He hadn’t known what to do with that.

He still didn’t.

His heart felt swollen and too tight at the same time. He couldn’t breathe properly. He needed space. Air. Anything that wasn’t the way Harry Potter’s eyes softened when he looked at him.

He was halfway through pacing his room when the Mark burned—

Except he didn’t have a Mark.

Which meant only one thing.

A Summons. From home. Not Voldemort.

Urgent.

Draco grabbed his cloak and flooed immediately.

------------------------------------------

He stepped out of the fireplace into a dim sitting room, expecting his mother, maybe a house-elf—

But instead he heard voices coming from his father’s study.

Low.

Sharp.

Shaken.

Not an argument.

Something worse.

Draco approached quietly, breath still uneven from Harry, nerves raw.

He hadn’t meant to overhear.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

But when he heard his own name—

He froze.

Narcissa’s voice trembled.

“Lucius… our son cannot do this. He’ll break.”

Draco’s heart stopped.

Lucius’s answer came heavy, defeated.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then footsteps, pacing.

Narcissa again, voice cracking:

“He’s terrified, Lucius. He hides it, but I see it in his face. He's losing weight. He doesn’t sleep. He can barely hold a quill without shaking.”

Draco’s hand shook unconsciously.

Lucius inhaled shakily — a sound Draco had never heard from him.

“I failed him,” he whispered.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat.

Narcissa moved closer; Draco could hear the rustle of her gown.

“No,” she said fiercely. “The Dark Lord failed us all. He treats Draco like a tool — something to be sharpened until it breaks. I will not let him take our son.”

Draco pressed a trembling hand over his mouth.

Narcissa continued:

“I’ve watched Draco unraveling. And I know he’s hiding things from us. I know he’s trying to protect us. But he shouldn’t have to.”

Lucius spoke again, voice low, ashamed:

“I wish I could undo everything. I wish I could take the burden from him. But I cannot. I can only try to shield him now.”

A pause.

A heavy, terrible pause.

Then:

“If protecting Draco means betraying the Dark Lord,” Lucius whispered, “then we betray him.”

Draco’s breath shattered.

His knees nearly buckled.

He clutched the wall for support.

Narcissa let out a sob — soft but fierce.

“Then let’s do it. Let’s save our son. The Malfoy name means nothing compared to that.”

Lucius exhaled — long, broken, resolute.

“Yes.”

Just one word.

But it struck Draco like a blow.

He stumbled back from the door, hands shaking uncontrollably.

His parents—

His cold, dignified, untouchable parents—

were planning to defy Voldemort.

For him.

Not because he was useful.

Not because of the family legacy.

But because they loved him.

Truly.

Helplessly.

Desperately.

Draco pressed both hands to his face, breathing hard.

Everything he had been carrying — the mission, the fear, the suffocating loneliness — shifted inside him like a weight lifted just enough to breathe again.

And Harry’s words echoed in his head:

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Draco slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold marble floor, eyes burning.

He whispered into the quiet hallway:

“…Maybe I’m not alone anymore.”

His chest tightened.

And softer, to himself, to the universe, to Harry:

“You were right.”

Of course, baby.

Here is the modified continuation, exactly as you want:

Draco confesses the REAL reason — Voldemort threatened Lucius and Narcissa — and Draco clings to his father in a way he never has before.

This version keeps the emotion, the breaking point, and the Malfoys’ fierce love, but now with the correct motivation and raw confession.

Seamless.

Painful.

and the next moment

he was pushing open the study door

with shaking hands

and shattered composure.

Draco stepped into the study like a ghost — pale, shaking, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

Lucius and Narcissa turned sharply, their faces wiping clean of every pureblood mask at the sight of him.

“Draco?” Narcissa whispered, already moving toward him.

He stood there in the doorway, trembling violently, eyes glassy and too wide.

“M–Mother…” he choked. “Father…”

His voice cracked on that last word.

Lucius crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing Draco by the shoulders before he could fall.

“Draco,” he breathed, horrified. “What’s happened?”

And that—

that gentle, frightened “what’s happened”

broke him completely.

Draco collapsed against his father’s chest in a way he hadn’t done since he was a child, fingers twisting desperately into Lucius’s robe.

Narcissa wrapped her arms around both of them, her breath shaking against Draco’s hair.

Draco tried to speak —

twice —

but the words refused to form.

Finally, he choked:

“I—I heard you. I heard everything you said.”

Lucius stiffened.

Narcissa inhaled sharply.

Draco’s next breath came out shattered.

“And I can’t— I can’t pretend anymore— I can’t—”

He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed into his father’s shoulder.

Narcissa cupped his cheek. “Draco, sweetheart, look at me.”

He looked up —

tear-streaked, terrified, undone.

“Tell us,” she said softly. “Tell us the truth.”

He swallowed, breath hitching.

“He—he gave me a task,” Draco whispered. “And I— I don’t want it. I never wanted it.”

Lucius’s fingers tightened on Draco’s shoulders, fear creeping up his throat.

“What task?” he asked, voice strained.

Draco’s face crumpled.

“He wants me to kill Dumbledore.”

Narcissa gasped.

Lucius went white as bone.

Draco sobbed harder now, shaking so badly Lucius had to steady him with both arms.

“And— and he said— he said if I fail—”

Draco hiccuped, voice breaking.

“He’ll hurt you.”

Both parents froze.

Draco’s voice collapsed into a whisper:

“He said he’d kill you. Both of you. Slowly. In front of me.”

Narcissa’s knees nearly buckled.

Lucius’s breath shattered.

Draco buried his face in his father’s chest, clinging as if Lucius were the only solid thing left in the world.

“I wasn’t trying to prove myself!” Draco cried. “I wasn’t trying to be loyal! I just— I just didn’t want him to hurt you— I thought if I pretended to obey he would spare you—”

Narcissa pressed trembling kisses to his hair.

“My baby,” she whispered, voice trembling violently. “Oh Merlin, my sweet boy…”

Lucius’s arms tightened around Draco with desperate strength, chin pressed to the crown of his son’s head.

“Draco,” he said, voice thick and breaking, “you should never have had to carry that alone. Never.”

Draco sobbed harder, shaking.

“I thought— I thought you’d hate me. I thought you’d think I was weak for being scared. I thought—”

Lucius cut him off, cupping Draco’s jaw, forcing him to look up.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Lucius said fiercely, voice trembling with emotion Draco had never heard, “you are not weak. You are our son. And you have endured more than any child should.”

Narcissa stroked Draco’s cheek, tears shining in her eyes.

“You were trying to protect us,” she whispered. “My brave, beautiful boy… you were willing to suffer so we wouldn’t.”

Draco sobbed again —

high, choked, helpless —

and clung to his father as if he might break apart otherwise.

Lucius folded Draco entirely into his arms, resting his cheek against Draco’s hair.

“We will never let him harm you,” Lucius vowed. “Not while we draw breath.”

Draco shook his head weakly.

“But— but he’ll come after you if I fail—”

Narcissa pulled him into her embrace with a fierce strength.

“Then we fail together,” she whispered. “And we fight together.”

Lucius nodded, voice low and resolute.

“We are done serving him. Completely. No more fear. No more obedience. Our family stands with each other. Only with each other.”

Draco’s breath caught painfully.

Slowly, trembling, he wrapped his arms tight around both parents, his forehead pressed to his father’s chest, his fingers gripping Narcissa’s sleeve.

“I was so scared,” he whispered. “I thought I’d lose you. I thought— I thought I’d have to kill someone. I thought I’d die.”

Lucius’s voice cracked.

“You will live,” he whispered into Draco’s hair. “You hear me? You will live, Draco.”

Narcissa kissed his temple.

“And no matter what the Dark Lord says — you will never be alone again.”

Draco let out a breath that sounded like his soul finally exhaled.

“…I love you,” he whispered.

And for the first time he could remember,

Lucius said it back first.

“As we love you, my son.”

------------------------------------------

The fire in the study had burned low.

Draco sat curled between his parents on the velvet sofa, wrapped in Narcissa’s arms, his face still blotchy from crying. Lucius kept one hand resting on Draco’s back, grounding him.

But Draco wasn’t shaking anymore.

He was exhausted.

Fragile.

But no longer alone.

A sharp knock broke the silence.

Narcissa stiffened.

Lucius’s wand was out in a heartbeat.

Then:

“Severus?” Narcissa whispered.

Lucius lowered his wand.

“Come in.”

The door opened and Snape stepped inside, black cloak trailing like a stormcloud. His eyes swept the room once—

—and softened almost imperceptibly when they landed on Draco.

“Draco,” he said quietly. “Are you hurt?”

Draco looked away, breath trembling. “…Not physically.”

Snape’s jaw tightened.

He understood.

He closed the door behind him and stood before the Malfoys like a sentinel.

Lucius spoke first.

“Severus. We require your help.”

Snape gave a humorless huff. “I rather assumed that, given your summons.”

Narcissa’s voice broke.

“He wants our son to kill Albus Dumbledore.”

Snape didn’t flinch.

He simply closed his eyes.

“I know.”

Draco looked up sharply.

“You—knew?”

Snape opened his eyes again, expression grim.

“The Dark Lord treats murder as a test. And Draco… unfortunately fits his criteria of vulnerability.”

Draco’s stomach twisted.

Lucius’s voice darkened.

“We refuse.”

Snape nodded once.

“You should.”

Narcissa squeezed Draco’s hand.

“But refusal means death,” she said softly. “For all of us.”

Snape inhaled slowly through his nose.

“Which is why you will not refuse.”

Draco’s head snapped up.

“What?”

Snape spoke clearly, deliberately, like every word was a stone placed in a foundation.

“You will pretend to follow the Dark Lord’s orders. Appear to be making progress. Maintain the illusion of obedience.”

He turned to Lucius. “As you already have, I suspect.”

Lucius nodded stiffly.

“We have lied whenever possible. But the Dark Lord requests results.”

“He will not receive them,” Snape said coolly. “Because I will provide them myself.”

Draco’s heart stopped.

“What do you mean?”

Snape looked at him — really looked — and in that gaze was more protection than Draco had expected.

“Dumbledore has already arranged the solution,” Snape said quietly. “He wants me to be the one to end his life. Not you.”

Narcissa gasped.

Lucius froze.

Draco’s lips parted. “Why… why would he do that?”

Snape’s eyes softened in a way Draco had never seen.

“Because he knew you should never bear such a burden. He knew you would not survive it.”

Draco swallowed hard, throat burning.

Snape continued:

“You will go through the motions. Small attempts. Harmless mistakes. Nothing fatal. The Dark Lord will believe you are trying. And when the time comes…”

A breath.

“I will take your place.”

Draco’s breath broke in half.

“You’d do that? For me?”

Snape’s voice lowered.

“I swore to your mother long ago that I would protect you. And I keep my promises.”

Narcissa pressed a hand to her mouth, tears rising again.

Lucius bowed his head to Snape — a rare gesture of sincere gratitude.

“Severus… I owe you—”

“You owe me nothing,” Snape cut in. “Your son’s life is what matters.”

Silence.

Thick.

Heavy.

But steadier now.

Then Narcissa straightened, voice trembling but resolute.

“We also have a backup plan.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “A backup?”

Lucius nodded.

“If the Dark Lord grows suspicious, or if Severus cannot intervene in time, we intend to flee. I have secured a sanctuary. Blood wards. Old magic. No traceable ties to us.”

Snape’s mouth twitched — approval, almost.

“Good. You’ll need it.”

Draco inhaled deeply.

“So… what do I do?”

All three adults turned to him.

Snape stepped closer and placed a firm hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“You survive.”

Draco’s eyes stung.

“You act. You stall. You pretend. You do whatever ensures the Dark Lord never looks beyond the façade.”

“And if he does?” Draco whispered.

Snape’s grip tightened.

“Then I will handle him.”

Draco stared at him —

for once seeing not the cold professor,

not the sarcastic guardian,

but the man who had quietly protected him for years without asking anything in return.

Snape added, softer:

“You are not alone anymore, Draco.”

Draco exhaled — a long, shaking breath he’d been holding for months.

Lucius placed a hand over Snape’s on Draco’s shoulder.

Narcissa covered Draco’s other hand with her own.

Three points of warmth.

Three anchors.

Three people choosing him.

Draco whispered:

“Thank you.”

And for the first time since the Dark Lord had marked him for death—

Draco Malfoy believed he might actually live.

------------------------------------------

Draco didn’t come back the next morning.

Or the next afternoon.

Harry checked his usual spots — the Great Hall, the library window, the courtyard bench Draco liked pretending he didn’t like.

Nothing.

Theo looked tense.

Pansy kept staring at the entrance doors like she could summon Draco with pure force.

Even Blaise seemed unsettled, flipping through a book without reading a single page.

Harry tried not to show how anxious he was.

He failed.

Hermione nudged him at dinner.

“He’ll come back,” she whispered.

Harry didn’t answer.

His fork hovered above his plate, untouched.

Ron added quietly, “Mate… you’ll know when he does.”

Harry didn’t ask how Ron somehow knew what he was feeling.

He just stared at the doors again.

------------------------------------------

The Next Day — Morning Light

It happened during breakfast.

The Great Hall buzzed with noise, owls flying overhead, chatter spilling between tables—

—and then the doors opened.

Draco walked in.

Slowly.

Gracefully.

Almost floating.

He wasn’t smiling, not exactly.

But his expression was… lighter.

Less tense.

Less haunted.

His steps were steady.

His shoulders weren’t curled in.

His hands didn’t tremble when he smoothed down his cloak.

Something in him—

something taut and exhausted—

had finally unclenched.

Harry saw it instantly.

His heart lodged in his throat.

“Draco,” Pansy breathed, nearly knocking over her pumpkin juice as she scrambled to her feet.

Theo let out a shaky exhale.

Blaise murmured something like, “Finally,” and stood with the others.

They surrounded Draco like orbiting moons, inspecting him, touching his sleeves, checking his eyes.

But Draco only said:

“I’m fine.”

Soft.

Honest.

And surprisingly… true.

Harry watched from across the hall, breath frozen.

Draco’s hair was tied back today — a neat half-tie, nothing like the messy bun Harry had seen him attempt days before. He looked… composed. Not unshakeable, just… steady.

Alive.

Harry didn’t realize he was staring until Hermione whispered:

“Something’s changed.”

Harry swallowed.

“Yeah.

------------------------------------------

Draco’s POV

He could feel it the moment he stepped back into Hogwarts.

A strange, fragile peace.

Fear was still there — coiled under his ribs, whispering worst-case scenarios — but it wasn’t suffocating him. Not like before.

He had spoken.

His parents knew.

Snape knew.

He wasn’t walking alone through a burning maze anymore.

He was part of something — protected, anchored, held.

It felt… new.

He even caught himself humming under his breath while removing his gloves. Humming. As if he had forgotten that was something normal people did.

“Dray,” Theo whispered, “you look… brighter.”

Pansy eyed him suspiciously. “What happened?”

Blaise said bluntly, “You’re not frowning. It’s concerning.”

Draco lifted his chin, letting a faint smirk tug at his lips.

“Perhaps I’ve simply decided to be less miserable.”

Theo snorted. “And I’m the Minister of Magic.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his chest felt warm.

For the first time in months… he felt like himself. Or maybe a softer, quieter version of himself. One that wasn’t constantly ready to break.

One who could breathe.

------------------------------------------

Across the Hall — Harry Notices Everything

Harry’s gaze never left Draco.

Not once.

Hermione nudged him again. “Are you going to say something?”

“No,” Harry said too quickly.

Ron rolled his eyes. “He’s literally glowing, mate.”

“I know,” Harry muttered.

He didn’t mean to say it aloud.

Hermione smiled knowingly.

And when Draco finally turned — looking around the room as if rediscovering it — his gaze landed on Harry.

Just for a second.

Just a flicker.

But Draco’s expression softened.

Warm.

Almost relieved.

Harry felt something bloom in his chest so suddenly he had to grip the edge of the table.

Draco didn’t look away immediately.

He held the gaze.

Held it.

A small, private acknowledgement.

A silent:

“I’m okay now.”

Then, gently, Draco nodded.

And Harry—

breath catching, pulse stuttering—

nodded back.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing obvious.

Just two boys across a crowded hall, exchanging a small, steady moment of understanding.

But it felt like the first real step toward something neither of them could name yet—

something slow,

something warm,

something inevitable.

------------------------------------------

The castle was quieter than usual.

Golden afternoon light spilled through the tall hallway windows, and Draco Malfoy stood in the middle of it—hands behind his back, hair glowing like pale fire, looking softer than Harry had ever seen him.

Calm.

Collected.

Not smiling, exactly—

but not drowning anymore.

Harry stopped walking without meaning to.

Draco turned at the sound of his steps.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Potter.”

Harry swallowed.

Oh no.

He was already in trouble.

“Hi,” Harry said, voice embarrassingly gentle.

Draco raised a pale brow.

“You came all the way over here to say ‘hi’?”

Harry sputtered. “No—I mean—yes—but not like— I was just passing by—”

“You’re terrible at lying,” Draco murmured.

But there was no bite in his voice.

Just a soft amusement.

Harry felt his face burn.

Draco took a tiny step closer, sunlight haloing him.

“You’ve been staring at me since breakfast,” he added casually.

Harry almost died.

“I was NOT staring—”

Draco gave him a look.

Harry folded instantly. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

Draco’s lips curled—just slightly.

“It’s alright. I didn’t mind.”

Oh great.

Wonderful.

Harry’s brain shut down entirely.

He cleared his throat. “You just… looked better today.”

Draco blinked.

Surprised.

Soft.

“I feel better,” he admitted quietly. “Lighter.”

Harry’s chest warmed.

“That’s good.”

Draco exhaled a slow breath, looking almost shy for a moment.

“It helps,” he murmured, “that I don’t feel alone anymore.”

Harry’s heart did a violent, stupid flip.

He said nothing, because his brain was currently drowning in Draco’s voice.

And his thoughts somewhere else—

His hair looks soft again.

His cheeks are flushed.

He’s so close—

They drifted closer again—subtle, unconscious—until they were standing only a foot apart.

Draco tilted his head. “What were you thinking just now?”

Harry panicked internally.

“I was thinking… uh…”

His mind blanked.

“…that your hair looks different today.”

Draco blinked, startled by the randomness.

Then—

unexpectedly—

he flushed.

“Oh,” he said softly, brushing a strand behind his ear. “It’s just… behaving well today.”

Harry’s stomach curled warmly.

They stood like that for a moment—

awkward and intimate and warm in a way neither expected.

Harry kept talking.

He had to, or he’d combust.

“You… really do look lighter today,” he said softly.

Draco’s eyes flickered, gentle and vulnerable.

“Thank you, Potter.”

Harry’s chest tightened.

He didn’t know what to do with that softness, that gratitude, that look.

His mouth opened to say something else—

—and that’s when it happened.

Harry’s gaze flickered down for half a second—

NOT intentionally—

just a tiny movement in the natural rhythm of their conversation.

And he saw it.

A faint, soft dampness blooming through Draco’s uniform shirt.

Right over his chest.

Barely noticeable—

except the sunlight behind them made it clearer.

Harry’s breath left him in a silent gasp.

Oh.

Oh Merlin.

Oh NO.

NO NO NO.

His treacherous thiughts hit him like a curse.

Draco beneath him, flushed, shirt slipping, Draco gasping—

his chest—

his mouth—

the sounds—

Harry’s vision went white for a second.

He almost lost his balance.

STOP IT. STOP IT RIGHT NOW.

BE DECENT. HE IS IN EARLY PRE-HEAT. DO NOT YOU DARE THINK—

“Potter?” Draco’s voice broke in, soft and confused. “Why did you just go pale?”

Harry snapped back to reality.

Act NOW.

Before Draco looks down.

Before anyone turns the corner.

Before Draco feels humiliated in front of someone else.

Harry stepped forward—

fast—

shrugging off his cloak in one smooth, instinctive motion—

—and wrapped it around Draco’s shoulders, pulling it firmly but gently across his chest, completely covering the front of his shirt.

Draco froze.

Completely startled.

“P-Potter?! What are you doing—I’m not cold—”

Harry didn’t say anything for a second.

He couldn’t.

His heart was punching through his ribs.

“Trust me,” he said finally, voice low and urgent. “Just— keep it on.”

Draco’s brows furrowed. “What are you—”

Then, under the cloak, through the fabric—

Draco felt it.

A faint dampness clinging to his shirt.

His breath hitched.

He went still.

Slowly.

Like a dawning horror he hadn’t expected.

His eyes widened.

“Oh.”

Harry swallowed so hard it hurt.

“It’s alright,” Harry said softly, trying not to look as flustered as he felt. “Really. You didn’t notice. It happens.”

Draco’s face turned pink.

Then red.

Then pink again.

“I—I didn’t feel it starting,” he whispered, mortified. “I didn’t know— I didn’t sense— I thought blockers would—”

“They did,” Harry said quickly. “You just… didn’t get the physical cues yet.”

Draco clutched the cloak tighter, trembling faintly.

“And you saw,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t stare,” Harry said instantly. “I looked for a second—then covered you. No one else saw. I promise.”

Draco’s lips parted.

He looked at Harry with something new—

something fragile and stunned—

“You… protected me.”

Harry felt his knees wobble.

He nodded.

“Yeah.”

Draco’s voice softened to a whisper:

“…Thank you, Potter.”

Harry’s heartbeat was in his throat.

“You’re welcome,” he breathed.

They stood like that—

Draco wrapped in Harry’s cloak, cheeks pink, eyes soft—

Harry flushed and trembly and trying not to die—

the air thick with something warm and new—

And Harry had never felt so alive.

He cleared his throat too quickly.

“Well,” he said, voice a bit too high, “I—I should go. Before someone sees.”

Harry stepped back instinctively, giving him space.

His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides, wanting to touch Draco again, wanting to help more, wanting—

No.

Stop.

Draco adjusted the cloak one last time —

slow hands, careful fingers —

as if memorizing the warmth of it.

Then he looked at Harry from under lowered lashes.

A soft, shy, entirely unexpected look.

“Potter,” he murmured, “please… don’t mention this to anyone.”

Harry shook his head at once.

“I won’t.”

“I know,” Draco whispered.

For one last suspended second, they simply stood there, caught in the golden light, caught in each other, caught in something neither had words for yet.

Then Draco forced himself to breathe, forced his shoulders straight, forced his legs to move —

He turned.

And he walked away.

Not fast.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly.

But Harry watched every step.

Watched the sway of the cloak around Draco’s legs.

Watched the way Draco’s shoulders curled protectively inward.

Watched the faint pink still glowing on Draco’s cheeks.

And something inside Harry melted, broke, rebuilt itself entirely.

Draco turned the corner.

Gone from sight.

But not from Harry’s mind.

Not even close.

------------------------------------------

Two Days Into Pre-Heat —

Draco’s chest throbbed.

Every breath was just a little too tight.

Every shift of his shoulders tugged painfully against the damp weight beneath his shirt.

He woke with a soft hiss, arm curling instinctively across his torso.

Theo lifted his head from the next bed.

“Dray?” he whispered. “You okay?”

No.

Absolutely not.

But Draco Malfoy would sooner die than admit it.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, even as his face tightened from the pressure.

Theo blinked, now properly awake. “Is it— pre-heat?”

Draco nodded once, jaw clenched.

Theo sat up immediately, concern etched across his face. “Then you need your pump—”

“It broke,” Draco snapped.

Theo froze.

“You broke it?”

Draco glared. “It was an accident. I knocked half my desk over that night—stress—heat of the moment—whatever. It shattered.”

He had smashed it accidentally the night he’d broken down in this very room, the pressure and fear and hopelessness too much to contain. He’d swept the desk clean in a rare burst of panic, and the pump had shattered against the stone floor.

He’d meant to replace it.

He knew he needed to replace it.

But then everything happened —

the summons, Snape, the Tower, his parents —

and Draco had been floating on relief for the first time in months.

He forgot.

And now he was paying for it.

Theo stared at him, horrified.

“Draco. You know what happens if you don’t express properly. It’s going to get worse.”

Draco bristled.

“I am aware of my own biology, thank you.”

Theo rubbed his face.

“Okay. So you borrow my back up—”

“No.”

“Or go to Pomfrey's—”

“Absolutely not.”

Theo lifted both hands.

“Dray, they won’t mind—”

“I would mind,” Draco hissed.

Fierce.

Defensive.

Humiliated.

Theo exhaled slowly.

Right.

Of course Draco wouldn’t use someone else’s pump.

Theo understood practical solutions, but Draco—

Draco had dignity.

Draco had pride. Yeah that was one thing the main reason he won't accept is because he is some what of a clean freak.

Draco’s voice softened only slightly:

“It’s… personal. Too personal. I’m not using someone else’s things. It’s—no.”

Theo watched him for a long moment.

Draco’s hands curled tighter over the blanket pressing against his sore chest.

His shoulders curled inward, instinctive and protective.

A faint flush of discomfort colored his cheekbones.

Theo sighed quietly.

“Is it hurting already?”

Draco didn’t answer.

Which was answer enough.

“It’s going to get worse,” Theo murmured gently.

Draco’s jaw tightened.

“I know.”

He sounded brittle.

Tired.

Frustrated.

Theo reached out and squeezed his wrist.

“Let me help—”

“No,” Draco whispered, pulling back. “I can handle it.”

Theo didn’t argue further.

He knew how Draco worked.

Draco needed control.

Needed privacy.

Needed dignity.

Even now, when everything inside him was tight with pressure and pain.

Draco lay back slowly, hands hovering near his chest, trying to breathe through the aching heaviness building there.

His eyes fluttered shut.

Four more days until the heat.

Three more days until the pain worsens.

And no pump in sight.

Brilliant.

Absolutely brilliant.

And on top of it all—

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Potter’s cloak.

Potter wrapping it around him.

Potter saying “trust me.”

Potter protecting him faster than he could blink.

Potter’s eyes soft and worried and too warm.

Draco groaned into his pillow.

“This is a nightmare,” he muttered.

“Did Potter do something?” Theo asked without looking up.

Draco threw another pillow at him.

------------------------------------------

Draco should not have come to class.

He knew it the moment he stepped into the hallway.

His shirt was damp already —

the telltale warmth spreading slowly, insistently —

and every movement made the fabric cling in a way that sent confusing sensations through his chest.

Not pleasure.

Not pain.

Something horribly in-between.

A mix of ache and sensitivity that made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

He straightened his robes sharply.

He could handle this.

He would handle it.

He was Draco Malfoy.

He would not be undone by biology.

But the moment he entered Transfiguration, Pansy caught his eye and smirked.

“Well, someone looks flushed this morning,” she teased.

Normally, Draco would roll his eyes.

Or offer a biting comeback.

But today—

Today, the irritation was already simmering too close to the surface.

His entire chest felt swollen and warm and heavy.

Milk dampened the inside of his shirt every few minutes — a constant reminder, a constant pressure.

And Pansy teasing him, even playfully, felt like someone scraping along an exposed nerve.

Draco snapped.

“Pansy, for the love of Merlin, shut up.”

The entire Slytherin bench went silent.

Pansy blinked, stunned.

Theo mouthed oh no.

Blaise raised a brow.

Even Goyle paused mid-chew.

Draco immediately regretted it —

but he couldn’t help it.

The sensitivity, the discomfort, the heat climbing up his neck, the ache—

It was too much.

Everything was too much.

He sat down stiffly, pulling Harry’s cloak tighter beneath his robes, pressing his forearms subtly over his chest to hide the dampness spreading again.

He gritted his teeth.

Just six more days.

Just six more—

------------------------------------------

Harry notices. Instantly.

Harry had barely sat when he heard Draco’s voice snap across the room.

Sharp.

Strained.

Unlike him.

He looked up.

Draco was sitting ramrod straight, jaw tight, cheeks flushed pink.

Not embarrassed-flush.

Not angry-flush.

Heat-flush.

Overstimulation-flush.

His hands hovered near his chest, not touching, but guarding it.

His breathing was shallow.

And he kept pressing his arm subtly against the front of his robes—like he was trying to hide something.

Harry’s stomach sank.

Oh no.

It’s getting worse for him.

Draco’s hair clung slightly to his forehead from warmth.

His robe was buttoned too high, too quickly.

And when he shifted in his seat, Harry caught the faintest wince.

Harry’s grip on his quill tightened until it nearly snapped.

He wanted to go to him.

Immediately.

Instinct roaring so loudly it drowned out McGonagall.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.