Chapter 2
When they meet again, it’s sudden.
It's late. Draco’s in the library, scanning the shelves for a book on Defense Against the Dark Arts, when his eyes catch something—a familiar figure, hunched in a corner.
Potter.
Reading.
The library's dark, lit by candles, but Draco can make him out.
Draco blinks, his mind struggling to process the sight. He’s rarely seen Potter with a book, and it’s even stranger to see him studying in such a focused way.
Potter, the golden boy who seemed to do everything effortlessly, was here, tucked away in a corner, reading. It wasn’t like him, at least not in Draco’s mind.
The idea of Potter working hard on anything felt foreign. But there he was, doing something that, in Draco’s mind, seemed utterly impossible.
Potter wasn’t a bad student, but Draco had always been the one who worked tirelessly, squeezing every drop of effort into his studies just to maintain some semblance of control. Potter, though—he didn’t need that. He never needed to try hard; he just was.
And here he was, reading. The very idea grated at Draco, who was used to seeing Potter breeze through everything. He’d watch in disbelief as Potter mastered Defense spells with seemingly no effort, using the simplest of spells in duels and finding a way to craft them into something powerful with an ease Draco could never replicate.
Potter’s movements were always perfect—timing, precision—like he’d known what was coming before it happened. Even when his spells were basic, they hit their target with a ferocity that felt calculated, as if Potter knew something no one else did.
Draco frowns, an edge of frustration biting at the back of his mind. Potter didn’t even try. And somehow, he was always ahead.
And yet, here he was, alone in the corner of the library, reading. Draco’s eyes narrow. What was Potter playing at?
Draco watches him for a moment longer, wondering if he’s imagining things. But no, there’s Potter, flipping through a book with a furrowed brow, completely unaware of Draco’s presence.
The sight unsettles him, more than it probably should. It doesn’t fit the image Draco has in his head of the boy who just gets by on luck and the occasional heroic stunt.
He takes a step forward, his curiosity prickling at him. Maybe this is his chance to finally catch Potter off guard.
It’s so rare that Draco gets a glimpse of him out of his usual element—so rarely that Draco can’t help but feel the tug to interrupt this bizarre scene.
“Potter,” Draco says, his voice sharp, cutting through the quiet.
Potter doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look up. It's as if he'd known Draco was there. Fucking git.
His fingers pause on the page, but that’s the only reaction Draco gets.
“Potter,” Draco repeats, louder this time, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. “What are you doing?"
Finally, green eyes flick up, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he masks it with indifference. “Reading,” he says, his tone flat. “Is that a problem?”
“Don’t have Weasel and Mudblood around?” Draco asks with a smirk. “Why’s that?”
And then Harry’s expression darkens, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. He’s up on his feet in an instant, wand drawn, the movement sharp, quick. “Don’t you fucking call them that.”
Draco smirks, but it falters when he sees the fury in Harry’s eyes. He steps back, but only slightly, trying to keep his composure. “I understand, Potter. Accepting the truth doesn’t come easy to you,” Draco sneers, crossing his arms. “That’ll explain why you’re going all lunatic about You-Know-Who.”
Draco expects a lot of things from Harry Potter. What he doesn’t expect, though, is for Potter to snap in such a… muggle way.
The punch comes out of nowhere.
Draco doesn’t even have time to brace himself. The fist connects with his jaw, hard, and he stumbles back, pain shooting through his face.
He lifts his hand to clutch at his jaw, the taste of blood already mingling with the sharp sting. His eyes narrow, and he glowers at Harry, fury written across his face.
“Why don’t you go bother your friends, Malfoy?” Harry’s voice is cold, calculated, as he stands there, calm and unfazed, the tip of his wand still pointed in Draco’s direction. “Clearly you’re desperate for attention.”
Draco doesn’t move for a moment, seething with rage. He wants to shout, wants to retaliate, but something in Harry’s tone, in the way he’s standing there, green eyes full of heat, makes him hesitate.
It’s all too much. Too humiliating. The audacity.
But Harry’s already turning his back, already walking away as if Draco doesn’t even matter. It only adds fuel to the fire.
So Draco marches after him, his steps quick and heavy, and maybe a bit stupid, but at this point, he’s beyond thinking. “Potter!” he snarls, still clutching his bloodied face, the sting of it mixing with his fury.
Harry keeps walking, his back straight, his pace unbroken, but Draco can feel the tension radiating off him. It’s like an electric current in the air. It only fuels Draco more, drives him forward.
“Potter!”
Harry stops. Abruptly. His body stiffens before he turns around, and his glare meets Draco’s like a slap to the face. “For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, take a hint, will you?”
Draco stands there, blood still dripping from his lip, his eyes blazing. “Merlin, I’m just playing around. Why won’t you calm down?”
The words slip out before Draco can stop them, and as soon as he says them, he knows it was the wrong move. Telling Harry to calm down? The last thing that’s going to do is help.
And sure enough, Harry’s eyes darken even more. His fists clench. “Calm down?” he repeats, his voice dangerously low. “Are you really fucking asking me to do that, Malfoy?"
Draco swallows slightly then scoffs. He's gotta find a way to make Harry forget he ever said it. If he wants the conversation to strech any longer. "I just wanted to know what you were reading."
Harry's expression falters. "Oh is that it?" he says. "And calling my friends names was gonna help you out?"
"It's not my fault you can't accept the truth."
And then he's glaring again.
What did Draco say wrong?
"You're an insufferable piece of shit, Malfoy." Harry spits. "I mourn anybody who has to be around you."
Say something else. Quick. Is all that comes to Draco's mind. Make him stick around a little longer.
“You’d know a lot about mourning.”
This time, Draco sees it coming. He braces himself, but what he doesn’t expect is the way Harry moves.
Before he can blink, Harry’s hands are on him—pushing him into the cold stone wall. It’s sudden, and it’s rough. Harry’s body is solid against him, and Draco feels the heat of his rage radiating.
“Don’t you dare bring that up,” Harry hisses and Draco could swear he hears his voice crack.
Draco’s heart races, his breath catching in his chest. Then—crack.
The punch lands hard. His vision flashes with pain, and his head snaps back against the wall. Draco stumbles, but Harry’s grip tightens, and he’s back on him in an instant, fists raining down.
Draco’s jaw throbs, but there’s something else in his chest. Something strange. The adrenaline. The heat of the fight. It’s intoxicating, the way Harry’s fury feels alive.
“Shut up,” Harry hisses, his voice barely contained, even though Draco has surprisingly said nothing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Draco spits blood, grinning despite the sting. It’s a rush he’s not used to, but he craves it. “And you do? I think you're a bit guilty, Potter." Draco says, and he stares at those wonderful green eyes. "Is that why you've been so angry?"
It’s out before he can stop it. And then Harry’s fist crashes into him again—harder, faster. The pain is sharp, but Draco can’t pull away. There’s something in the way Harry fights, something untamed and wild, and Draco’s caught in it.
“Potter—”
“Stop it, stop talking.” Harry’s voice is tight, barely controlled, teeth grinding together as he spits the words out. “You just can’t stop fucking talking, can you?”
Draco lets out a low chuckle, the sound dark and amused. His grin stretches wide, too wide.
And Draco should be scared of Harry- Draco is scared of Harry. But the feeling of want makes every other emotion blurry.
Harry’s body freezes. He’s still pressed close against Draco, and the moment stretches between them. His fist hovers above Draco’s face, fingers trembling, but he doesn’t strike. Not yet.
And Draco? He can feel the fire building inside of him. He wants more, needs more. He’s in too deep to stop now.
“Come on,” Draco foolishly dares, voice steady, even as the storm brews between them. “You’ve already done the damage, why not keep going, Potty?”
Harry’s breath hitches, and Draco sees the hesitation flash in his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
Draco’s smirk widens. “I don’t know. I quite like it… Potty.”
“Shut up.”
“Potty.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Draco tilts his head slightly, his grin widening impossibly.
“You’re beautiful.”
Harry’s eyes widen in shock, his face flushing a deep red. And then Draco’s own expression falters, what he'd just said hitting him harder.
But it’s hard to notice, not with the way his face is already battered and bruised.
Harry storms out of the library before Draco can say anything else.