Chapter 3
Draco rarely sees Potter for a long time after that.
And it's strange, really, because Draco never thought Potter was the type to just disappear. He always figured Potter would throw himself into things, face them head-on like he always did. No, Potter wasn't a coward, not by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, Potter was anything but that. He was reckless. He was impulsive. A loose cannon. And Draco would know, he'd seen enough to understand the chaotic mess that was Harry Potter. But really, all this over a compliment?
Draco Malfoy does not think he had done anything wrong.
Or anything to be ashamed of for that matter.
Beautiful.
Potter had told him to be nice after all.
So when he doesn't see him, not even across the Great Hall, when the usual back-and-forth insults don't come, Draco starts to notice it. Starts to count the minutes. He watches, carefully, as Potter's fork moves to his plate and back again, the motions mechanical, as if everything he's doing is just an effort to blend in, to escape the reality that's eating him alive. Draco's eyes follow the movement, wondering how many times he can repeat the same action before he finally cracks.
And it's been a week. A whole week of this silence. And Draco can't stand it. Not one bit. His thoughts circle Potter constantly, how's he doing? What does he think about it ? What's going through that thick skull? It's almost like an addiction, but Draco would never, ever call it that. He doesn't need to admit it, doesn't need to put a name on it. But the irritation is there. The clenching of his jaw. The tapping of his foot beneath the table. The impatience gnawing at him with each passing second.
Then, there he is. Potter, sitting in class like nothing's wrong, like he's forgotten everything. Like it never happened. He doesn't look at Draco, doesn't even flinch when he passes him. He's so indifferent, so annoyingly unbothered, that it makes Draco's blood boil. How can he be so fucking calm?
Draco tries not to stare. He really does. But it's hard, when the boy's presence is the only thing occupying his mind. It's infuriating. Potter, acting like he's moved on, like the whole world (Draco's world) hasn't gone to hell and back, like their stupid little game hasn't left both of them wounded. Draco can feel his frustration building with each quiet second, but he knows that Potter's indifference is just another way of keeping him hooked. Always silent, always untouchable. Always... just out of reach.
Draco feels his chest hurt from discomfort.
-
Draco ignores the questions his friends throw at him, the curiosity in their eyes practically glowing with concern. They want to know about the bruising next to his eye, the ugly purple blotch that mars his skin, but Draco doesn't offer an explanation. Instead, he lets the questions hang in the air, unanswered, and wears the bruise almost as honorably as his perfect's badge.
Draco wasn't as strong or as brave as Harry Potter when it came to these things. He had cried after they fought, because it had hurt. Draco would always remain a coward after all. But he'd never admit to it.
It's funny, how he claims to love being like his family, but runs away from their blood.
Instead, he smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching as he spins a tale.
"I had to fight off a Muggle," he says casually, the lie sliding from his lips with ease. "Came at me like a wild animal. I had no choice."
The Slytherins around him eat it up, hanging on to every word like it's gospel. They nod in admiration, eyes wide with respect as they imagine Draco, the great Malfoy, taking on some clueless Muggle. The story grows in the telling, with each retelling, it becomes a little more exaggerated, a little more heroic.
Draco's chest swells with pride as they laugh, their admiration thick in the air. His friends are more than willing to believe him, more than happy to feed into the image he's created. And that's all that matters, isn't it? The image. The story. The legend. No one needs to know the truth, not when the lie tastes so sweet, not when it feeds his ego in a way nothing else can.
He makes sure to keep his hand on his face, just enough to remind them of the battle he's won, and for the first time in a long while, he feels invincible.
-
Draco glances at Blaise, who glares at his plate like it has personally offended him. Draco raises an eyebrow, unsure of what's going on. But when his gaze shifts to Pansy, he notices she's uncomfortable too. What has he missed?
"I'm done. I'm tired of it," Blaise mutters under his breath, voice low and tense, like he's speaking more to himself than to anyone else. Draco stares at him, confused, like he's watching someone lose it over a broken broomstick. Before he can make a sarcastic remark, Pansy beats him to it.
"Yeah, Blaise, I bet you have it so hard," she sneers, her voice dripping with mockery. "I can't believe you're making a big deal out of this..."
"Out of what?" Draco finally demands, his jaw tight with irritation. Blaise just shakes his head, refusing to answer, and that only makes Draco more curious.
Turning to Pansy, his patience wearing thin, Draco asks, "So, let me guess. Mrs. Zabini's boyfriends are falling apart, and Blaise is having a breakdown over it?"
Pansy sighs dramatically. "Well, the second-to-last one took off and left fifty million Galleons. The last one left with much less, and now Blaise thinks the current one isn't any better. So now he's 'depressed' or whatever."
Draco snorts and rolls his eyes. "Well, that's tragic. Maybe I should take a turn. I bet I could give her some good gold."
Before he can say anything else, Blaise's already taking his wand out, furious.
Draco tends to say horrible things.
But just as he begins to point it at Draco, Blaise's wand shoots out of his hand, flying across the table toward Draco.
Draco's eyes widen in surprise, and Blaise's do the same. They both stare at the wand for a second, then glance back at each other.
"You can do wandless magic, Draco?" Pansy asks, voice full of fascination. Some of the other Slytherins start to ask him questions, but Draco doesn't care. His gaze shifts immediately to Potter.
Potter isn't looking at him.
Why is Potter the first thing on his mind?
Because you know nobody else in this school could do magic like Potter.
Instead of answering Pansy, Draco picks up Blaise's wand, twirling it between his fingers. "Listen, Blaise," he says, his voice flat, "take it easy. It was just a compliment."
Blaise glares at him, venom in his eyes. "That's my mother, Malfoy."
"Oh, Draco!" Pansy suddenly interjects, her tone almost teasing. "You told us to come up with ways to get Potter angry, right?"
Draco focuses on her, intrigued. "Yeah, why?"
Pansy's smile turns sly. "Guess what I saw happen between him and the beloved new professor?"
Draco raises an eyebrow. "Professor Umbridge?"
"Yep," Pansy confirms with a nod. "She's really giving him a hard time."
Draco's grin widens, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "How so?"
Pansy leans in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I heard she's... torturing him."
Draco's eyebrows shoot up. "No way!" he laughs, a smug grin spreading across his face. "She really is doing everyone a favor, seeing Potter for who he really is."
Pansy nods, her grin matching his. "Yeah, and think about it, everything I've heard about him this year has been bad. Always out past curfew, always in trouble."
Draco smirks, eyes narrowing.
This could be even better than anything he could have imagined.
"Golden boy's loosing his touch..." he mutters. "A day I never thought i'd see."
Sneaking out past curfew? Good.
Draco could take his perfect duties more seriously. And not just use them to take points from other houses.
-
Draco's patience wears thin. He's been wandering the castle for what feels like hours, each empty hallway, each silent classroom only adding to the growing irritation bubbling in his chest.
Where the hell is Potter? he thinks, the question gnawing at him like a persistent itch he can't reach. He should've been long gone by now, running off with his ridiculous little band of followers, causing trouble. But no. Nothing.
Pansy said it—he's supposed to be out of the castle. Yet here Draco stands, in the middle of some forgotten corridor with no Potter in sight.
Is he hiding? Or maybe just avoiding Draco? The thought makes his hands curl into fists.
That's it, isn't it? Draco thinks, his lip curling in disgust. Potter's hiding. Like a coward.
He can't stand it. The idea of Potter deliberately making himself scarce, making Draco search for him like some kind of game, like he can get away with it...
Draco snorts.
He's not going to let that happen.
He's Draco Malfoy, for Merlin's sake. He's not the one who runs from things, especially not Potter. The thought of actually sneaking into the Gryffindor common room crosses his mind more than once, but no, he's not that desperate. He has more self-respect than that.
Yet, as the minutes tick by and frustration seeps deeper into his bones, the temptation gnaws at him. What if Potter is really just hiding? What if all this time he's been sitting in his room, pretending to be some sort of martyr, waiting for Draco to come crawling back?
The idea of Potter sitting there, smug in his little corner, makes Draco's blood boil.
But still, Draco is not that insane.
He decides to check outside the castle, wondering if Potter had somehow managed to wander out into the grounds for some bizarre, unfathomable reason.
Potter's reasons for anything were always baffling.
Draco had long learned to accept that fact, even if it left him shaking his head more often than not.
He likes to think of himself as a good man.
But tonight, as his footsteps echo in the dark, he feels far from it.
Draco storms off out of the castle, the cold night air biting at his skin. The moon hangs low, casting an eerie, silver glow over the empty grounds. The silence is thick, unnatural, yet somehow it suits the strange urge clawing at his chest.
Draco circles the castle like a predator, eyes darting for any sign of movement.
Could Potter really be asleep? Really?
Frustration builds, his thoughts growing sharper, harsher. Just show yourself, you bloody idiot.
And then—
he hears it.
A rustle of fabric. His head snaps up, muscles tensing in an instant.
There.
He sees him.
The unmistakable figure of Potter, standing just ahead, barely visible in the moonlight. His silhouette shifts slightly as he moves, and for a moment, Draco wonders if it's his mind playing tricks on him. But no, it's him.
Potter.
He's leaning on the brick wall of Hogwarts, like a man who's just been cursed.
Potter doesn't see him, not yet. But Draco doesn't move. His instincts scream at him to stay hidden, to observe. To wait.
The tension in his chest grows tighter, the need to confront Potter thrumming through his veins. He doesn't understand it, doesn't want to understand it. Why is Potter out here? What the hell is he doing?
But as he watches, a strange pull drags him forward, a magnetism he can't ignore, even if he tries. It's maddening, really, how one person can get under your skin like this.
Draco steps out from the shadows, his boots sinking into the damp earth with an unmistakable crunch. The sound breaks the silence, sharp and intrusive.
Potter's head snaps toward him, eyes wide with the usual suspicion. And then-
confusion.
"Malfoy?" Potter's voice is a low rasp, as if he hasn't spoken in hours. "What are you...? The hell are you doing here?"
The words come out rough, but there's something else, something different. Potter's guarded expression falters for the briefest of moments. And Draco... Draco doesn't know what to do with that.
There was something off about him. His green eyes were far away.
"I should be asking you the same thing, Potter," Draco replies, his voice colder than he means it to be. "What, did you get lost? Or is this your new go-to-to-cry?"
Potter's eyes narrow, but there's no real anger there. Not yet.
But Draco does see something there.
The fucker's drunk. Golden boy is drunk.
"Fuck off." Potter snarls, slurred.
Draco doesn't know why the retort stings. It shouldn't. Not anymore. But it does. It fucking does.
He takes a step closer, the ground beneath him feeling suddenly unstable. "So why are you out here, alone? You've got the whole bloody castle to hide in. Why come out here in the middle of the night?"
For a long, heavy moment, neither of them speaks. Draco watches Potter closely, looking for anything, any sign of weakness, of a crack in his armor. But Potter stands there, unreadable, silent.
He leans on the wall closer and Draco considers pushing him.
Finally, Potter shifts, breaking the tension with a slight shrug. "Quiet." His gaze flickers to Draco, like he's gauging something, testing the waters.
Draco's heart stutters. That's it? And yet, Potter's expression is so damn guarded. It doesn't make sense. Nothing about him makes sense.
You're drunk give me more, you fucking twat.
"You're drunk." Draco finally says, his voice unsteady as he glances at Potter, unsure if he should have said it. The words come out blunt, awkward even, and it stings a little. It's not like he's used to speaking to Potter, especially not in situations like this. Potter never beamed at him like the Slytherins did.
"No." Potter denies quickly, almost too quickly. He shakes his head, his eyes hazy, a little glazed. "I'm not like him..."
Him?
This freak did have a nature of speaking nonsense to himself, it had been a rumor for years. As long as Draco could remember.
Draco frowns, confused, but before he can let himself think too much, his mind catches up with his instincts, and he's already walking toward him, slow, careful steps.
The last thing he wants is to make this worse. Potter, with all his weird layers and unpredictable anger, might just get violent if Draco pushes the wrong button. But Potter doesn't seem to care. He's slumped against the wall, his movements sluggish and unsure, trying to steady himself.
"Who are you talking about?" Draco asks, despite the weird growing knot in his chest.
Potter stays silent for too long, and Draco almost thinks he's done something wrong, almost thinks Potter won't respond, that he'll just stay in his world of drunken confusion. But then, finally, the words come, barely a whisper, "Not telling..."
Draco lets out a soft snort, almost amused by how childish he sounds. To his surprise, Potter snorts right back, the sound muffled but genuine, and then, without warning, his grip on the wall falters and he's sinking to the ground.
Draco's eyes narrow. How much has he had?
He doesn't really know why he does it. He's not the type to hover around Potter, not the type to care about him when it's just the two of them in a dark hallway. i'm But for some reason, Draco can't quite leave. He just... doesn't. So, he sits beside him.
Besides Draco, had spent his good time looking for him.
"I'm taking points, y'know..." Draco mutters.
"Doubt you'd do any damage..." Potter whispers back, voice low, almost drowned by the buzz of whatever he's had. "Might wanna check if we have any left anyway."
You're talking to me.
"No shit," Potter mutters, glancing at Draco with a frown, and Draco feels his face flush. He hadn't meant to say that out loud, but there it is. He's just... caught in the moment, too caught up in this strange pull he doesn't know how to stop.
Potter's eyes lock with his then. Green. Luminous. Too damn bright. Draco feels his throat tighten, his heart pounding harder than he wants to admit. The look in Potter's eyes shifts, uncertain, almost lost, and for a moment, Draco doesn't know what to do with it.
Draco really wants to sober that face up.
Then, before he can even react, Potter lifts a hand, fingers brushing against Draco's cheek with an expression of pure confusion on his face.
"Malfoy." He says it like it's a question.
"Yes?" Draco whispers back, his voice barely a breath, like everything around them has melted into something impossibly close, too intimate.
"Kiss."
Draco's lips part in shock, his heart stuttering in his chest. "Me-?"
You. You. You. He's talking to you. About you.
Draco might just faint.
But Harry's not waiting. The next thing Draco knows, he's on the ground, pinned under Potter, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.
"Potter-"
"Now." Potter's voice is hoarse, and Draco doesn't hesitate. Doesn't stop to think. He reaches up, pulls Potter's face down to his, and kisses him with everything he's been holding in for what feels like forever.
And Merlin, Potter tastes like something sweet, some prize that Draco had been trying to reach all his life and had finally got his hands on it.
Draco savors it, every second, every feeling, every spark of something that he hadn't known was inside him. And it's too much, too fucking much, but it's exactly what he's been craving. And for once, it's real.
It's real.
Draco feels like an addict who had just been exposed to their favorite drug.