Chapter 14
Harry stood in the middle of the field, surrounded by grass and wild violas. The air was crisp with February’s lingering chill, damp earth beneath him, the scent of winter not yet gone. In the distance, Draco wandered, camera in hand, capturing ghosts—of the past, of the present, of things only he could see. There were no buildings here, no streets, no signs of life beyond them. Just open land, endless and quiet.
Harry sank onto the wet grass, pulling his shawl tighter around his shoulders. The cold wasn’t what unsettled him. It was Draco. Or more precisely, the way his body responded to Draco. He felt too much, too suddenly, like something inside him was clawing for freedom. The thought alone was enough to make him curl further into himself.
Draco called for him to join him, and Harry hesitated. Then, as if the fabric could shield him from himself, he pulled the shawl more securely around his frame and stood, following.
Draco turned, smiling—bright, unguarded, too much. And before Harry could prepare himself, the clicking started. One. Two. Three. A rapid series of photographs, Draco’s gaze behind the lens sharp and knowing.
"Stop it, Draco."
"No." Another click.
Harry exhaled sharply, turning away. "I mean it."
But Draco only followed, camera still raised, capturing him in motion. Click. Click. Click.
Harry gritted his teeth, pulling his shawl even closer as if that would somehow protect him.
"I'm hungry."
Draco lowered the camera, amused. "Alright. Let’s go."
They found a Muggle café, small and packed, voices overlapping in warm, familiar noise. The air smelled of coffee and baked bread, a welcome contrast to the cold outside.
Harry slid into a seat against the wall, and Draco took the spot next to him. Not across from him, where Harry could avoid looking too closely, but beside him—close enough that their arms nearly brushed. Harry wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
They waited for their food. For once, Draco wasn’t talking. And Harry wished he would, because silence meant Draco was focused elsewhere—on his camera, on the photos he had taken. And Harry could feel the weight of Draco’s attention even without looking.
Then, against his better judgement, he glanced up.
His breath hitched.
It wasn’t the young couple seated nearby, laughing, leaning into each other, hands tangled together. It wasn’t them, exactly—
It was the way, in one brutal instant, Harry imagined himself and Draco in their place.
The realisation struck like ice water down his spine, leaving him breathless, reeling. His stomach twisted, panic rising, because—
No.
No, no, no.
"I'm feeling sick," he blurted, shoving back his chair. "I'm going home."
Draco barely had time to react before Harry was already moving, barely aware of the confused call of his name, barely breathing.
By the time Draco stepped outside, Harry had already disappeared.
—
The moment Harry stepped into Grimmauld Place, the Floo flared to life.
Draco.
Harry didn’t even turn to look. Instead, he gritted his teeth, ignored the call, and sent his Patronus before Draco could step through.
I’m fine. Just sick. Needed to come back. Don’t worry.
The stag shimmered for a brief moment before vanishing, and Harry exhaled shakily, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. His heart was still pounding, his stomach still twisted.
What the hell had just happened?
He likes girls.
He’s always liked girls.
And Draco—Draco is his friend. His friend. That’s all.
But the thought of Draco, of the warmth in his voice, the way he looked at Harry, the way their legs had brushed, the way Harry had felt it—
Harry swallowed hard, nausea rising.
Is he… Is he bisexual?
The idea made his head spin. But it wasn’t just that, was it? Because it wasn’t just about attraction. It wasn’t just about anyone. It was about Draco. Draco, whose voice had lingered in his mind long after he left. Draco, whose presence had settled into the fabric of Harry’s life so seamlessly that he hadn’t even noticed—hadn’t realised—until now.
Does he love Draco?
The thought hit him like a curse to the chest, and for a terrifying second, Harry felt like he might actually be sick.
What would Draco say if he knew?
What would his friends say?
What would the papers say?
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, breath coming too fast, too shallow. He couldn’t think about this. Not now. Not like this.
He tried to sleep, but the thoughts wouldn’t stop, circling and circling until his own mind felt unbearable.
In the end, he gave up. Reaching for his bedside drawer with shaking hands, he pulled out a calming draught and a sleeping potion, downing them both in quick succession.
The effects came slowly, warmth spreading through his limbs, pulling him under.
And only then, when his mind was finally quiet, did he let himself sleep.
—
The next morning, Harry woke early, his head heavy, his thoughts sluggish. He dressed in a hurry, skipping breakfast, and left for the Ministry before he could think too much.
The moment his report was submitted, he found himself at a loss.
He considered going to Ron and Hermione’s, but they’d take one look at him and start asking questions. Questions he wasn’t ready to answer. And what would he even do there? They’d both be at work, leaving him alone with his thoughts—again.
Andromeda’s, then?
But no, Draco could turn up there. And if he did, Harry couldn’t exactly avoid him, not without raising suspicions.
He could close his Floo. Shut himself away.
But even the thought of that felt too final, too obvious—too much like running.
So instead, without another thought, Harry turned on the spot and Disapparated—letting instinct, or desperation, or whatever it was that had taken hold of him, decide where he’d land.
—
Harry realised, sooner rather than later, that running from Draco Malfoy was an impossible task.
Because Draco was there—always. Relentless, insufferable, refusing to give Harry even a moment’s space to breathe, to think, to make sense of the storm raging inside him.
Harry gritted his teeth and endured it, because what else could he do? Every time Draco barged into his home uninvited, every time he dragged Harry out of the house without warning, every time he turned up at Harry’s work site even when Harry hadn’t asked him to join—Harry told himself he could handle it.
Except, he couldn’t.
Because Draco was getting loud. Loud in words, in actions, in presence. He talked more than ever, filled every silence, gave Harry no room to think. He kept taking pictures—dozens of them, capturing Harry at every turn, as if he were documenting something unseen, something only he understood. And the touching—Merlin, the touching.
Harry could have handled one of these things, maybe even two. But all of it together? It was unbearable. It ticked at something inside him, something raw and restless, something he refused to acknowledge.
It started with the Floo flaring to life without warning.
Harry, still damp from his morning shower, barely had time to blink before Draco stepped through, brushing soot from his cloak as if he owned the place.
"Morning, Potter," he announced, striding in like an unstoppable force. "You’ve got a free day, yes?"
Harry, standing in the middle of his living room in just a towel, scowled. "I do, but clearly you don’t."
Draco smirked, already making his way towards the kitchen. "Perfect. Let’s go out."
Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his wet hair. "Draco, you can’t just decide my plans for me."
Draco paused, looking over his shoulder, grey eyes gleaming with challenge. "Can’t I?"
Harry opened his mouth—because of course he bloody well couldn’t—but then Draco turned, heading deeper into his place, already making himself at home.
Harry groaned. This was his life now, apparently.
—
They were at a café, one Harry hadn’t even wanted to go to, but Draco had shown up and somehow convinced him before he had time to refuse.
Harry sipped his coffee, pretending not to notice the way Draco had angled his camera towards him.
Click.
Harry exhaled. “Draco.”
Draco lowered the camera a fraction. “Hmm?”
“Do you have to take pictures of me every time we go somewhere?”
Draco shrugged, perfectly at ease. “You always complain, yet you never actually stop me.”
Harry scowled, but Draco just smirked, setting the camera down. He didn’t apologise. Didn’t explain.
Harry shifted in his seat.
A moment later, Draco picked up his coffee, fingers brushing against Harry’s across the small table.
It was brief. Nothing, really. But it stayed.
—
They were in a library, and Harry was trying—really trying—to focus on his work.
Draco had claimed the seat next to him, uninvited as usual, reading something completely unrelated.
Harry barely registered the way their chairs were just a little too close.
Until Draco leaned forward, reaching for his wand to summon another book—his sleeve whispering against Harry’s.
Harry froze.
Draco didn’t move away. Didn’t acknowledge it.
Minutes passed, and Harry knew he should shift his chair. He should. But he didn’t.
And neither did Draco.
Draco wasn’t doing anything, not really.
But he was there. Always. Loud and clear.
And Harry, despite every instinct, couldn’t bring himself to step away.
—
Harry lost it. Finally lost it.
It happened in the kitchen. Draco was perched on the counter, far too close, watching as Harry chopped vegetables with precise, sharp movements. His presence was a weight Harry could feel—the press of his gaze, the slight tilt of his head, the way he lingered.
And then, just like that—Harry snapped.
“Stop looking at me like that!”
Draco blinked. “What?”
Harry slammed the knife down, chest heaving. “I said, stop looking at me like that! And why—why do you always have to be so bloody close?”
Draco went still. The easy air about him vanished, as if Harry had struck the breath from his lungs.
His lips parted—perhaps to argue, to throw something sharp and effortless back—but no words came.
Instead, something flickered across his face, something unreadable at first, then—panic. A raw, fleeting thing that made Harry’s stomach drop.
“I—” Draco exhaled sharply, unsteady. He stepped down from the counter, movements no longer fluid but hesitant, almost reluctant.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice tight, barely above a whisper.
And then—before Harry could speak, before he could make sense of the weight pressing against his ribs—
Draco turned and walked away.
—
Harry stared at the empty space where Draco had stood. His pulse was erratic, his breathing uneven. He should go after him. He should fix this. But his feet wouldn’t move. His chest felt tight, like something inside him had been wound too hard and was about to snap.
Had he just ruined everything? Had he just—ended it?
Minutes blurred together, then maybe hours. He didn’t know. He only knew that when he finally moved, he moved without thinking.
Draco had once told him the Manor’s Floo was always open to him. He prayed that hadn’t changed.
The second he stepped out onto the cold marble floors, silence pressed in around him. The house was too big, too empty.
And then he saw him.
Draco sat on the staircase, head down, hands threaded through his hair. The moment he heard Harry’s steps, he looked up, startled. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression unreadable.
Harry didn’t stop. He didn’t think. He just rushed forward, words tumbling out before he could catch them.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, Draco. I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “It’s not you. It’s me. I messed up, I—”
“No.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
Draco swallowed, his jaw clenched. “I was doing things.”
Harry frowned. “Draco, what the hell are you talking about?”
Draco let out a sharp, hollow laugh, shaking his head. “I didn’t realise, okay? After that fight, something shifted, and I—I couldn’t stop looking at you. I kept telling myself it didn’t mean anything, that I was imagining it.” His voice wavered. “I thought if I stayed close enough, if I acted the same, it would go away. That it was just—nothing.”
Harry’s heart pounded.
Draco exhaled shakily, eyes darting away. “But it didn’t go away,” he murmured. “And I kept pushing. Kept getting closer. Kept—” He swallowed hard. “And then you snapped."
He exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Merlin, I was an idiot. I didn’t even see what I was doing to you until you snapped at me. And then it hit me"
Harry stood frozen, his heart slamming against his ribs. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.
Draco laughed again, bitter and quiet. “It’s fucking pathetic, isn’t it?” He turned away. “I didn’t even realise it myself.”
Harry’s mind spun, trying to grasp onto something solid, but all he could feel was Draco—Draco’s voice, Draco’s presence, Draco standing right there, looking like he was barely holding himself together.
“What?” Harry croaked.
Draco hesitated. Then, finally—
“I love you, Harry.”
The silence stretched.
Harry thought he might fall apart right there.
Draco’s hands clenched at his sides, his breathing uneven. “It’s fine,” he said quickly, the words rushed, desperate. “You don’t— I know you don’t—”
“Draco,” Harry rasped.
Draco stiffened.
Harry swallowed hard, every nerve in his body alight.
“Did you really not see it?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.
Draco blinked. “See what?”
“That I was struggling too,” Harry admitted, throat tight. “Struggling because I—” His breath caught. “Because I was falling for you.”
Draco’s eyes widened.
His lips parted, but no words came. He just stared, his entire body frozen, as if the world had suddenly shifted beneath his feet.
“You—” His voice cracked. “You what?”
Harry let out a breathless, unsteady laugh. “Yeah.”
The silence stretched again, but this time it was different.
Draco let out a disbelieving breath, running a shaky hand through his hair. “You’re serious?”
Harry huffed a laugh, something fragile, something real. “Yeah.”
Draco exhaled sharply, his gaze searching Harry’s, as if waiting for the moment it would turn into a joke. But it didn’t.
“Can I—” He hesitated, his voice breaking slightly. “Can I kiss you?”
Harry’s breath hitched. Then, after a long, terrifying, wonderful moment—
“Yeah.”
And then Draco was on him.
The kiss was hesitant at first, almost unsure, but then it broke. The hesitation, the fear, the restraint. It shattered, giving way to something desperate, something that had been waiting too long.
Draco’s hands curled into Harry’s shirt, pulling him closer. Harry clung to him, feeling like he might drown, like he might finally breathe.
When they pulled apart, their foreheads touching, Draco let out a shaky, breathless laugh.
“So we are not... straight?” Harry whispered.
Draco chuckled, pressing his face into the crook of Harry’s neck.
“yeah, we are not.”