The castle has grown quiet, but it isn’t the tense, watchful stillness from the war. It’s a hush like snow—soft, healing, reverent. Hogwarts is rebuilding. So are the students.
Harry has returned for his N.E.W.T.s, and though he walks the halls like a ghost at first, the living has begun to find him. Hermione shoves schedules in his hand. Ron drags him to the kitchens for midnight snacks. And eventually—against all logic—Draco Malfoy re-enters his orbit.
It begins in the library, as things often do.
They reach for the same book on counter-curses. Their fingers brush. Draco yanks his hand back like he's been shocked.
“Take it,” he says stiffly. “I’ve read it already.”
Harry blinks, caught off-guard. “Right. Thanks.”
Malfoy spins on his heel and vanishes between the shelves.
A minute later, Hermione slides into the seat beside Harry and whispers, “That was civil. Alarmingly civil.”
“I didn’t even hex him,” Harry says. “I think I deserve a biscuit.”
—
They get detention a week later, courtesy of a hallway argument that escalates into Harry slamming Draco against the wall and McGonagall appearing out of nowhere like an angry bat in tartan.
It starts over a Transfiguration essay—because of course it does. Draco corrects him in the corridor, of all places, with that maddening smirk and arms folded like a particularly judgmental statue.
“You transfigured it backwards,” Draco says smugly, brandishing a sheet of parchment. “If you’d gone by Runespoor logic instead of just guessing, you might’ve noticed that ‘ignis cor’ is not, in fact, fireproof.”
“I didn’t guess,” Harry snaps. “I read it in the notes Flitwick gave us.”
“Well then, your reading comprehension is as tragic as your hair.”
And just like that, Harry’s temper snaps.
He shoves Draco back against the wall with a sharp thud of shoulder blades on stone. “You think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you?”
Draco’s eyes spark. “No. I know I am. You’re the one with the hero complex and a C average in Transfiguration.”
“I will hex that sneer off your face.”
“Oh, promise?”
Harry is this close to actually drawing his wand when a terrifyingly calm voice interrupts.
“Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy.”
They both freeze. McGonagall stands there, arms folded, tartan robes flaring like judgment incarnate.
“Detention. Tonight. With Filch.”
“But—!” Harry starts.
“I don’t care who started it. I care who slammed a classmate into a wall in full view of a first-year Herbology group.”
Draco tries to smooth his hair. “I didn’t even retaliate.”
“Shame,” McGonagall mutters. “Might’ve made for a fair fight.”
Harry is too stunned to respond. Draco, on the other hand, looks deeply betrayed.
Later, sorting old rat spleens in a dungeon reeking of vinegar and mold, Draco mutters, “At least I have the decency to insult you verbally.”
“Next time I’ll throw a book instead,” Harry mutters.
Draco raises an eyebrow. “Promise?”
They exchange glances. Then, inexplicably, laugh.
It’s the beginning of something.
As they sort dusty potion ingredients in the dungeons, the silence grows unbearable.
“Why do you do that?” Harry finally asks.
Draco doesn’t look up. “Do what?”
“Push. Prod. Poke at people like it’s your job.”
Draco seals a jar of shredded bat spleen. “Because it’s easier than being earnest.”
Harry stares at him. “You know, you sound like a particularly tragic tea advert.”
Draco rolls his eyes, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
They don’t talk about the past. Not directly. But bits of it slip through like cracks in the stone.
In the library, Draco slides him a corrected Arithmancy proof with a note that reads, Try looking at it backwards, Potter. Like your logic.
Harry scrawls beneath it, Thanks, Professor Pointyface.
The next day, Draco returns it with a tiny doodle of Harry’s hair drawn like a nesting puffskein. Hermione snorts when she sees it.
—
Pansy has mellowed post-war—but not by much. When she catches Draco watching Harry like a starving cat in the owlery, she hums.
“You’re doing that brooding thing again.”
Draco scowls. “I don’t brood.”
“You do. It’s very Byronic. Very 1830s. Very ‘I’m in love with my emotional rival.’”
Draco turns red. “I am not—!”
“Please,” she says, tossing her hair. “If I had a Sickel for every time you sighed in his direction, I’d buy the Manor.”
Later that week, Pansy accidentally (on purpose) switches Draco’s pumpkin juice with Polyjuice potion. He turns into Harry. In front of Harry.
Harry blinks. “Why do you look like me?”
Draco, in Harry’s voice, chokes. “Pansy!”
From across the hall, Pansy sips her drink and waves serenely.
—
Luna is the first to say it out loud.
“You like him,” she tells Harry in Herbology, utterly unprompted.
Harry startles, holding a puffapod in tongs. “What?”
“Malfoy. You like him. Your aura goes fuzzy when he’s near.”
Harry blushes. “That’s probably just the puffapods.”
“No,” Luna says dreamily. “That’s attraction. You should kiss him. But not during potions. Explosions happen.”
—
Neville has taken over greenhouse duty like it’s a personal mission. When Harry wanders in looking for ingredients, Neville raises a brow.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him.”
Harry scratches his neck. “Yeah. Is that... weird?”
Neville considers. “You fought a war together. Kind of. And he’s quieter now. Less... snakey.”
“Snakey?”
Neville gestures at the venomous tentacula lashing behind him. “You know.”
Then he smirks. “Anyway. You’re happier. That’s good. Just don’t let him convince you to adopt a carnivorous cactus or something.”
Harry laughs. “Noted.”
—
Blaise remains unbothered by almost everything.
When Draco storms into the common room red-faced one evening, Blaise looks up from his book.
“I kissed him.”
“Finally.”
“I panicked.”
“Obviously.”
“I ran away.”
“Of course you did.”
Draco slumps into the chair beside him. “He’s going to hate me.”
Blaise turns a page. “He’s going to kiss you back. And then we can all get some bloody peace.”
—
That night, Harry finds Draco on the Astronomy Tower. The stars blink down like they’re holding their breath.
“You kissed me,” Harry says softly.
Draco won’t meet his eyes. “It was a mistake.”
Harry steps closer. “Felt right to me.”
Draco looks up then, and Harry kisses him again.
It feels like thawing.
Like something worth building.
—
After the Astronomy Tower kiss, nothing explodes. No alarms go off. The world doesn’t end. If anything, it feels like something quietly slots into place, like an enchantment finishing its final flicker.
The next few days are a strange dance of stolen glances, fluttery stomachs, and awkward attempts at casual conversation that fool absolutely no one.
At breakfast, Hermione narrows her eyes when Harry sits down looking like someone who’s just discovered what butterflies in your chest actually feel like.
“You’re smiling,” she says.
“No, I’m not,” Harry says immediately.
Ron leans over the eggs. “You absolutely are.”
Harry looks down. “It’s nothing.”
Hermione, with frightening precision, butters her toast. “If you’re going to keep seeing Malfoy, I think we should talk.”
Harry blinks. “Talk?”
“I’ve drafted a list.”
“A list?”
“Questions. Safeguards. Concerns. I also have tea.”
“Of course you do,” Harry mutters, while Ron buries his face in his hands.
Hermione corners Draco in the library later that week. They haven’t spoken more than two words since the war ended, but that doesn’t stop her from sliding into the seat across from him like she has something to say and you are going to sit and listen, Malfoy.
Draco looks up, wary. “Granger.”
“I know what you’re doing,” she says, pouring tea from a conjured pot. “And I don’t dislike you, not anymore. But if you break his heart, I will personally transfigure your robes into screaming mandrakes every morning for the rest of the year.”
Draco blinks. “Do you routinely threaten your friend’s romantic interests?”
“Only the ones who used to call me a Mudblood,” she says sweetly, handing him a biscuit.
To his credit, he accepts it. “Noted.”
Later, Harry finds him in the courtyard, looking equal parts stunned and charmed.
“Did she give you the questionnaire?” Harry asks.
“She gave me tea,” Draco says faintly. “I think that means I passed.”
—
Meanwhile, the castle itself has begun conspiring to embarrass them.
Draco, in an effort to be “romantic” (Pansy’s words), tries to cast a simple affection charm that’s supposed to make flowers bloom when the target says something kind. Instead, he accidentally activates an old enchantment on the corridor and turns the floor into a squishy marsh.
Harry takes one step and immediately sinks to his ankles in magical moss.
“Is this a declaration of love or an attempted murder?” he asks, completely deadpan.
“I panicked,” Draco says, trying to lift him out and slipping spectacularly.
They end up flat on the floor, covered in glowing purple moss, laughing so hard Harry wheezes.
From a window above, Ron stares down in horror.
“They’re rolling in enchanted algae. I can’t—Hermione, I can’t do this.”
“They’re adorable,” Hermione says calmly, quill scratching across parchment.
Ron groans. “Is this my penance for surviving the war?”
“It’s your penance for dating Lavender Brown in sixth year.”
Ron throws a muffin at her.
—
Pansy and Ron find themselves in the same corridor outside Charms. There’s a moment of mutual distaste, followed by a reluctant sigh.
“You’re Potter’s best friend,” Pansy says, examining her nails.
“And you’re Ferret Junior’s pet,” Ron replies.
“Uncalled for. But accurate.”
They stare at each other.
“He’s serious about him,” Ron says.
“I know,” Pansy says. “So don’t hex Draco.”
“Not unless he deserves it.”
She pauses. “Fair.”
Then, weirdly, they both nod and walk away. Possibly friends. Possibly co-conspirators in the protection of two idiots.
—
Blaise, meanwhile, watches the entire school descend into romantic chaos and mutters, “I hate this place,” while a pair of third-years make out next to a bouncing, lovesick toad.
One evening, the 8th Years host a small “no war, no stress, just snacks” common room party. Luna provides charmed floating lights that change colour with mood. Neville brings homemade treacle tarts. Hermione sets up a board of trivia that hexes you with glitter if you get anything wrong.
Draco arrives with a tray of enchanted biscuits that insult you gently as you eat them.
“You call this sweet?” says Ron, as he takes a bite. “You’re lucky people like you.”
Ron blinks. “What—?”
Harry beams. “This is amazing.”
Draco smirks. “You’d be surprised how much magic goes into mild emotional trauma.”
Everyone's a little tipsy by the time Harry pulls Draco out to the courtyard for air. The lights from the party flicker behind them like fairies caught in glass.
Draco looks up at him. “You’re glowing again.”
Harry grins. “Luna said that too.”
“She’s usually right.”
“I like you,” Harry says.
Draco laughs quietly. “I know. I’ve been insufferable about it.”
They kiss again, slow this time. Certain. No panic, no charm-induced disasters.
Just them.
When they finally walk back inside, hand brushing against hand, Pansy looks up from her goblet and mutters, “Finally.”
Blaise, feet on the table, says, “We should’ve started a betting pool.”
Neville smiles. “I already did. Luna won.”
Harry raises an eyebrow. “What was the bet?”
“First kiss on the Astronomy Tower, second kiss in the courtyard, third one—”
“Okay,” Draco interrupts. “That’s quite enough of that.”
Hermione passes them a biscuit. “Yours says: ‘He likes you, you absolute disaster.’”
Draco bites into it and smirks.
—
after
The air in the bedroom is warm with evening sun, spilling gold over linen sheets and catching in Harry’s hair like he’s been kissed by fireflies. The cottage creaks contentedly around them, all old wood and wildflower breeze. Outside, cicadas hum. Inside, Draco circles the bed like he’s choosing the best place to devour his husband.
“You’re fussing,” Harry says, lounging back on the pillows, bare-chested and grinning.
“I’m preparing,” Draco replies. “There’s a difference.”
“You’re stalling.”
Draco levels a look at him—sharp and affectionate, that classic Malfoy blend. “Oh, Potter. I never stall. I build anticipation.”
He flicks his wand one last time, murmuring a charm that draws a shimmer of privacy around the room like a soap bubble—no noise in, no noise out, not even magical signatures escaping. When he finally tosses the wand aside and climbs onto the bed, he does it slowly, deliberately, like a big cat. Every movement calculated to make Harry’s breath catch.
Harry watches him settle between his legs, skin flushed and golden, trousers just barely hanging on. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his voice is already husky.
“And you’re married to me,” Draco murmurs, tracing his fingers up Harry’s side. “Which makes you complicit.”
His hands move slowly—mapping old territory like he’s rediscovering it for the first time. The ridge of Harry’s ribs. The soft dip at his waist. The faint, fine trail of hair beneath his navel. He leans down and presses a kiss just above Harry’s hipbone, slow and open-mouthed. Harry twitches beneath him.
“Ticklish,” he says, breathless.
“Good,” Draco says, and does it again. “You should laugh during sex. Keeps your heart young.”
Harry’s laugh turns into a gasp when Draco’s mouth moves lower, pressing kisses that get wetter, warmer, until Harry’s back is arching off the bed and he’s tugging at Draco’s hair, murmuring his name like a prayer.
Draco looks up, lips slick, eyes dark and hungry. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” Harry says, voice cracking. “Always you.”
It’s sweet, and stupid, and true—and it makes Draco pause for a second, like the words hit somewhere deep.
Then he rises up to kiss him, and the contact is slow and hot, hips slotting together with an ease born of years of near-misses and finally-getting-it-rights. Draco rolls his hips with purpose now, letting friction build between them, hands planted on either side of Harry’s face, framing him like something sacred.
Harry’s hands wander—over Draco’s back, over the muscles that flex with every movement, down to grip his arse and pull him closer. “Still too many clothes,” he mumbles.
“Yours or mine?”
“Both.”
Draco obliges. With a smirk and a bit of wandless effort—barely controlled magic fizzling between their skin—Harry’s boxers vanish. Draco’s slip down his thighs, nudged off with Harry’s eager feet. Now there’s nothing between them but heat and sweat and years of wanting.
Their rhythm picks up—rocking, teasing, chasing the edge and pulling back just enough to make it maddening. Draco bites at Harry’s shoulder. Harry moans into his ear. They murmur things neither of them will remember clearly later, but the words stay like impressions on the skin.
And when Draco finally slides into him—slow, careful, breath trembling—it’s like something electric snaps into place. Like lightning in a bottle. Like magic, pure and quiet and real.
They move together with the kind of trust that only comes from falling apart and choosing to rebuild. It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s perfect.
Draco whispers praise into Harry’s skin—beautiful, mine, fuck, I love you—and Harry drags his nails down Draco’s back, tugging him closer, grounding him, gasping out his name over and over.
When they finally come—one after the other, or maybe together, they’re too tangled to tell—it’s with the kind of shudder that leaves them boneless. Quiet. Lit from the inside out.
Draco collapses beside him, immediately dragging the sheet over their cooling bodies. “We are never leaving this bed,” he mutters into Harry’s shoulder.
Harry, barely coherent, nods. “Agreed. Hope you stocked up on snacks.”
“I married a gremlin,” Draco sighs. “A beautiful, sex-obsessed, bottomless-pit gremlin.”
Harry grins, eyes drifting shut. “You love me.”
“I do,” Draco whispers, softer now. “More than I know what to do with.”
Outside, the sun finally sets. Inside, two boys who once hated each other lie wrapped in each other’s arms, the bed smelling of sex and summer and safety.
The wards sparkle faintly around them—like magic itself is watching and smiling.