Chapter 1
Draco remembers the imagine vividly in his mind. How could he not? The rejection. And it isn't just something he recalls, no it something Draco has pitifully obsessed over, something that he thought about at night, in the shower or when his thoughts wonder.
And it's childish to obsess over, to have it stuck with you for so long and never get over it and Draco knows this. Everybody knows this.
And a small part of Draco Malfoy thinks, it isn't the rejection that had maimed him, no, no at all.
Maybe it was the person.
Lightening boy.
The oh so great, hero, that was Harry Potter.
Draco, being who he was, had came across a number of personalities in his life time.
The filthy rich who disguised their faults with laughter, and bathed in their pride. Stepped on those below them and walked like the whole world belonged to them.
These people, Draco was used too. And he adored them most of all.
Sure there were those who were crazier than others...Aunt Bella....those who rejected all ideas...Andromeda. The blood traitor.
Draco let himself sit right where his parents sat. Be quiet and safe, and till you are spoken to do the opposite.
Cowards.
And Draco did know better.
He knew better than to call Weasley poor, than to call Granger a Mudblood, pick at all of Potter.
But Draco couldn't help himself.
Not when that's all it took.
All it took to get Potter to meet his eye and speak to him. Shoot him a smart insult, even for a second.
Draco loved it, in fact he spent most of his time thinking of it. Seeking it. Even subconsciously so, even when the musics high and the people are dancing, even when the lights go out and the world is quiet.
He found every single thought consistently tracing back to him.
And Merlin, Draco couldn't express how disappointed, how painfully dissatisfied he felt, when somebody else stepped in. Said something.
When Draco was speaking directly to Potter, staring at him and the git not even sparing him a glance. Not even a slight acknowledgement, no.
Draco would watch as he'd turned to Weasley, spoke to him, had that look of unexplainable love in his eye.
And Draco would always be forced to witness that vomit worthy show of affection. Because when it came to Granger and Weasley, Potter loved with no hint of shame.
When he'd walk they were always by his side. Potter arms would be slung by one of their shoulders, or his hands would be intertwined in theres. And he'd be listening to one of them speak, green eyes full of nothing but warmth.
Draco seemed to feel the need to insult Weasley and the mudblood. Because that's when Potter's reactions were most angry.
Potter did not seem to care when it was him being insulted.
And the thing is, it only makes him more insufferable. The way he stands there, laughing it off, shrugging off every jab like they were nothing more than a bit of stray fluff.
He doesn’t shrink, doesn’t flinch—just lets it all roll off him.
Harry Potter acts like he's already five steps ahead of you, already waiting for the next round when you've just started your first.
Picking up on every little thing around him, always constantly watching.
Always watching anything, anything but Draco.
You can’t get to him. He’s not just untouchable, in fact Draco feels as if Harry's inviting him to try.
And it’s maddening.
Because the more you push, the more you realize it’s never going to crack. And that’s what makes him unbearable.
Unbearable but addictive. So fucking addictive.
Because when Harry does fight back, humiliate him, Draco feels everything.
When he pushes Draco back, spits out an insult that only Merlin knows how he came up with and walks away with upmost anger.
That's when Draco feels everything.
And while there was embarrassment and fear, but longing wiped them out completely.
And sometimes when the conflict was far more heated, Draco would swear to himself that he would not go back, that he'd ignore them completely. That he'd ruin them from afar.
But even when he thought it, he knew he was lying. Because Draco kept coming back for more. Like an addict. Kept throwing insults, coming up with ideas just to get a reaction out of him.
And Sometimes it would get disturbing, how far his thoughts went.
Because when news of a boy's death at the hands of Voldemort came about. Draco had only one thought in mind, and it was what he was going to tell Potter when he saw him. The ways he would mock the whole thing, instead of see it for what it was. Mock it only to see green eyes flicker towards him, and linger on him longer.
But fifth year was not at all what Draco Malfoy thought it would be like.
Because Harry Potter was different.
-
“But do you really think he’s back?”
Draco hears the question a million times since his return to Hogwarts. Pansy and Goyle walk beside him, asking it for what feels like the thousandth time.
“Only someone as thick as a brick would fall for that rubbish,” Draco spits, Pansy and Goyle sniggering beside him.
“Merlin, though. You’ve got to admit, Potty’s tears? Convincing as hell.”
Draco smirks. “Don’t you know?” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “The kid’s a born actor. Been crying since his parents stopped breathing.”
“So what else would have killed Diggory?” Goyle asks, clueless.
“Probably a mishap in the maze.” Pansy starts. “Saw the guy’s dead body, freaks out, and starts losing his mind.”
“Ah,” Draco says with a grin. “Nice theory, Parkinson. Really. But I think it’s much deeper than that.”
Goyle raises an eyebrow, curious. “What do you mean?”
While they babble on, Draco’s eyes dart across the crowded halls, scanning for any sign of a head of mess. But nothing.
“Well,” Draco says, dragging out the suspense. “Have you seen him this year? He looks…”
“Like a miserable, sad freak?” Pansy offers, eyebrow raised.
Draco chuckles. “No, I wish it was that simple.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“The bags under his eyes, the sickly face… he’s barely sleeping, barely eating…”
“And this is new?” Pansy asks, tone skeptical.
Draco narrows his eyes, voice quiet. “It’s worse than usual.”
“What are you getting at?” Goyle asks, leaning in, eager for the reveal.
“I’m saying Potter probably killed Diggory.”
Both Pansy and Goyle’s eyes widen like saucers.
“That’s a bit of a stretch,” Pansy says slowly, shaking her head. “Potter’s too much of a sweetheart."
“Just a theory,” Draco shrugs, an almost malicious grin creeping onto his face.
And just then, he sees him.
And Merlin, Draco almost takes back his words. Because it’s as if Potter has killed himself in that maze.
He’s walking alongside Weasley and Granger, tie loose, hair messier than usual, eyes dull yet still as bright as ever. The bags under his eyes only make the green stand out more.
His arm is slung over Weasley’s shoulder, and he seems to be laughing at something the Weasel said.
Draco feels himself walking toward them. Doesn’t care if Pansy and Goyle follow.
He keeps walking, but, like always, Potter’s eyes don’t even flicker toward him—not once, not even for a second.
Draco keeps walking, and even when he’s close enough to stop and throw a well-timed insult, he doesn’t. He just keeps going.
And just as he’s about to walk away from Potter entirely—
Potter catches his eye.
For no more than a second.
The only time Potter acknowledges him is when he’s walking away.
Draco flushes, turning away quickly and picking up his pace.
--
Draco wasn’t paying attention to what Snape was saying.
Why had Potter looked at him?
Thinking this much about it was pathetic in its own right, but even when Draco attempted to steer his mind away from it, because, yes, it certainly was pathetic to fixate on it like this, he still found himself circling back. Over and over. The prick's stupid green eyes, the brief flicker of attention, the way Potter didn't even acknowledge him—except for that one second. One split second.
“Potter,” Draco snapped his head up at the sound of Snape’s voice, breaking the pattern of his thoughts. “I said page 124.”
Harry, who had been slightly leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, shot him a glare. “You said page 124 two seconds ago. How’d you expect me to flip so quickly?”
The professor’s expression morphed into a snarl so fast, it was like watching something snap into place. “Do you need to learn the basics of time too now, Potter?”
“Maybe if you weren’t so busy trying to catch me out, you’d have more time to actually teach something in this classroom.”
The students around him gasped, and Granger nudged his shoulder with a frown. “Page. One. Two. Four.” Snape’s voice rang out, hard and final.
Draco, who could hardly stop himself from glancing back at Potter, found a certain sick satisfaction in the exchange.
Even if it wasn’t directed at him, he couldn’t help but feel a twist in his chest at Potter’s insolence. Because it wasn’t just a normal exchange. No, this was more. Potter was still there, refusing to break.
Not even after the witness of death at the hands of You-Know-Who could he keep his mouth shut.
--
“Montague,” Crabbe says, his broom dragging against the grass, the sound grating on Draco’s nerves. “Won’t the Gryffindors be training today?”
“That they will,” Montague replies, voice casual. “But who cares? What’ll Johnson do, stop us?”
Draco smirks, the corners of his mouth curling upward as they draw closer to the main pitch. And as always, his eyes go straight to him.
Potter.
He’s laughing, of course, at something one of the Weasley twins has said. Weasley one is in front, Weasley two at his side. Draco doesn’t care which is which; he can never tell them apart.
Draco’s smirk falters as he watches Potter’s laughter melt into a hard glare.
His favorite glare.
“What the fuck do you want, Montague?” Johnson spits, her eyes burning with fury. Before she can even blink, Potter is there, right by her side, ever the knight in shining armor. Ready to defend. To be the hero.
“What the fuck do you think we want, Johnson?” Montague shoots back, already worked up, and Draco, eyes fixed on Potter, feels the air thicken with tension.
Honestly, with no bias at all, Harry Potter looks bored. He leans casually on his broom, arms crossed, like he’s waiting for something to happen—waiting to intervene.
“The pitch is ours,” Johnson seethes, eyes blazing, and Draco feels the heat of her gaze even from where he stands.
“Do you truly think we give a fuck?” Montague snaps, voice low and sharp.
“The pitch is ours,” a Weasley twin chimes in, not even bothering to hide the smug grin on his face. “Maybe book it more responsibly next time.”
“I don’t care who—” Montague begins, but the words are cut off before they can fully take shape.
“Does it matter?”
All eyes snap to him. To Potter. Saint Potter, who always has to make himself known, doesn’t he?
“What do you mean?” Montague spits, glaring at him like he could physically rip Potter apart.
“I mean,” Potter says, voice smooth, like he’s addressing a child, “does it matter if you guys train or not, Montague?”
“Of course it matters if we train!” Crabbe shouts from beside Montague, his usual lack of a filter giving way. “How else would we win?”
And then it comes. That laugh. And it sounds like the kind that Potter had genuinely tried to stop from escaping his mouth. Because that's how he was. So fucking kind.
The other Gryffindors follow suit, chuckling like it’s some kind of joke.
“Win?” Harry questions. “Come on, now.”
He steps forward, like he’s daring them to do something. “I thought Slytherins were supposed to be ambitious, not dreamers.”
Draco feels his grip tighten on his broom, his knuckles going white. And that laugh. The way Potter dismisses them like they’re nothing, like their entire existence is a joke.
But he does so kindly and carefully. As if he's cautious about leaving a mark.
The slytherins around him are cursing and complaining. And Draco wants to do just that as well.
--
Instead, Draco finds himself waiting by the Gryffindor locker room. Not directly beside it, but just enough to keep an eye on who’s coming in and out.
He waits, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against his broom handle. He watches multiple people pass by, some of them giving him a glance, but none stopping. And then he sees Johnson.
Surely they can’t still be training.
But then the Weasley twins pass, laughing about something—typical. And there’s no sign of Potter behind them.
Draco raises an eyebrow, his mind flicking through possibilities. Where the hell is Potter?
The entire team is practically done with practice by now. Why hasn’t Potter left?
He’s sure he hasn’t missed him. Impossible to miss. Especially for Draco.
He scans the area once more, eyes flicking over every corner. No sign of him.
And then, with no more patience to spare, Draco stalks off toward the pitch.
--
There he is, still on the pitch, gliding on his broom like some sort of bloody angel.
It doesn’t make sense. Draco can’t make sense of it.
He watches Potter for another moment—his posture loose, his eyes half-lidded, like the rest of the world doesn’t even exist.
Draco notices it again, and this time it hits harder. Potter’s completely shut off.
It’s not the usual disinterest, the one Draco's used to seeing on Harry, the kind Draco claimed to loathe, the type that’s just a little too cocky, a little too self-assured.
No, this is different. He’s slipping into this blank state where he always snapping at someone, or worse—he just doesn’t respond at all. His eyes are distant, his mouth set in that same frustratingly blank expression.
Draco doesn’t know why he even notices. He’s not supposed to care. It’s not like Potter’s ever given him the time of day. He’s never been the one to stand out, never been the one Potter’s looked at long enough for his gaze to linger. But Draco watches him too much to ignore the change.
At the end of fourth year, It was subtle.
A little slip in the way Potter talks, the way his smile fades faster than it used to.
But now it grows. It grows into this thick wall that even Draco can’t get past, no matter how hard he tries.
Draco’s feet carry him before his brain can catch up. He’s walking towards Potter, and a part of him doesn’t care whether he’s seen or not.
He doesn’t care if Potter ignores him again like he always does, or even if he gets a smart remark in. But when he’s close enough to shout distance, he stops, waiting for Potter to acknowledge him.
Potter doesn’t immediately. He’s just floating there, unbothered. The moment stretches. Draco could turn back. He should. He knows this isn’t worth it. But something inside him snaps.
“Potter,” he calls, his voice cutting through the still air like a knife.
Potter’s head snaps in his direction, and for the first time in ages, there’s no boredom in his eyes, no walls up. Potter looks defensive, like he's ready to fight.
But Potter always looks like that. Like he’s perpetually startled, always a second away from being caught off guard by something as simple as a name being called.
Merlin.
“Malfoy,” Harry says, and it’s not hostile, not anything. Just that flat tone, the kind people use when they really don’t care about whatever you have to say. “What do you want?”
“Why the fuck are you still up there?”
“Malfoy.”
Draco swallows, throat dry.
Harry lands, as graceful as ever. Like he was born to do it. It’s infuriating. For fuck’s sake.
“Why are you here, Malfoy?” Harry asks, stepping closer, making it impossible for Draco to ignore him.
“I came here to train,” Draco says, but there’s an edge to his voice, “but clearly someone isn’t finished.”
“Right,” Harry replies, and steps forward again, and god, Draco’s cheeks feel hot now. “You came here to train without a broom?”
Draco’s face flushes deeper. He can’t stop staring at him. At the dark curls falling into Harry’s eyes. At the sharpness of those green eyes, so bright, so sharp, so… always knowing. Harry’s lips are just—
“Well?”
“Fuck, what’s it to you?” Draco snaps. His pulse is racing, but he’s still trying to keep it together. “The pitch doesn’t belong to you. I could be out for a fucking walk, for all you care.”
“Really, Malfoy?” Harry’s tone drops, and now he’s just a breath away, close enough to make Draco feel every inch of the space between them. His voice low, just for Draco’s ears.
“That’s good. I was beginning to think…” He stops, gaze holding steady, and steps even closer, then whispers into his ear. “You wanted to see me.”
Draco’s heart nearly stops. He can’t breathe, can’t think. The world is closing in, and it’s all Harry.