Chapter 18
Draco lifted his gaze from his plate as a letter sealed with the Malfoy crest was deposited before him. He immediately recognized the elegant, sharp handwriting of his father, and a sense of irritation coiled in his stomach even before he broke the seal.
He unrolled the parchment and read in silence:
“Draco,
I have learned of your relationship with, of all people, a boy. Apparently, Astoria Greengrass mentioned it to her father, who did not hesitate to inform me how disappointed he was to learn that my son is… gay.
I do not know who this person is, but the mere thought disgusts me. I never imagined you would stoop so low as to dishonor the Malfoy name.
We will discuss this.”
The blonde clenched his jaw, his fingers gripping the parchment so tightly it nearly crumpled. His eyes lifted, immediately finding the figure of Astoria Greengrass, gracefully seating herself at the Slytherin table, an expression far too satisfied on her face.
A surge of anger made him rise instinctively, but a hand fell on his, halting him.
Harry.
He turned and found his green gaze watching him calmly, and without needing to say a word, Harry merely gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Draco took a deep breath and sat back down, leaving the parchment on the table as if it were inconsequential. After a few moments, he took a fresh piece of parchment, dipped his quill in ink, and wrote in his usual precise hand:
“Father,
If you wish to discuss this, we shall talk during the Christmas holidays.
Your son, Draco.”
He rolled up the letter, sealed it with the Malfoy emblem, and signaled to the owl to take it away immediately.
«Shouldn’t you have invited me earlier?» the dark‑haired guy asked as he got up to head to class.
«Don’t you want to come?» he added, almost in a panic.
Draco stopped in the middle of the corridor, his heart skipping a beat when Harry grabbed him by the tie of his uniform and pulled him close. It was a quick, almost distracted gesture, yet the warmth of Harry’s lips on his cheek sent shivers down his spine.
The Gryffindor simply shook his head with an amused smile before turning toward the classroom.
«No, seriously, you should have told me about your aura, Harry!» Draco protested, as if to follow him.
But the dark‑haired guy, with his characteristic cheeky, playful air, turned just for a second before disappearing beyond the threshold—sticking out the tip of his tongue in a casual gesture.
And the blonde stood dumbfounded.
His boyfriend was there, with the corridor’s light caressing his tousled raven hair—one unruly lock falling right over the scar on his forehead. His deep green eyes looked at him with a mix of defiance and amusement, as if he knew exactly the effect he produced. His skin was fair, almost luminous, and a trace of a sly smile lingered on his lips. He was dangerously captivating, and Draco felt like an idiot for still being so affected by him.
«Malfoy, get a move on—we’re late.»
Draco abruptly looked away and shot a scowling glance at Blaise, who watched him with obvious amusement.
«Go to hell, Zabini.» he muttered, resuming his walk, though the image of the dark‑haired guy remained seared in his mind.
On the Hogwarts Express, the tricolour group had settled into a rather spacious compartment as the train began moving, leaving the school behind.
The blonde, with an absent-minded air yet a self-satisfied little smile, addressed Ron and Hermione, breaking the silence nonchalantly.
«My mother is organizing the usual Christmas ball at Malfoy Manor. I suppose it would be proper to invite you, considering you’re my boyfriend's friends.»
«Granger, you can bring Krum if you want.» he added with a smirk.
«See you at Christmas.» the dark‑haired guy bid them before disappearing with Draco—before the train even reached its destination.
They materialized in the luxurious lounge of the estate, where Dobby appeared almost immediately with a slight creak of air.
«Harry Potter!» the elf exclaimed, his eyes sparkling.
Harry offered him a gentle smile.
«Dobby, it’s good to see you.»
The elf bowed deeply, then looked at the Slytherin.
«Young Master Malfoy has returned.» he said respectfully, though his enthusiasm was entirely for Harry.
«Dobby, could you accompany us to my father’s study?» Draco asked, his tone betraying his tension.
«Right away, Young Master» the elf replied.
They walked along the marble corridors to the door of Lucius Malfoy’s study. The elf bowed once more before disappearing.
Draco opened the door without knocking, and the scene before them was exactly as expected: Lucius Malfoy, impeccably dressed as ever, seated behind a dark wooden desk with a cold, calculating gaze. Yet something in his demeanor faltered for a moment when he saw Harry enter the room alongside his son.
Lucius’s light eyes fell on the dark‑haired guy with a mix of surprise and concealed irritation.
«So, Father, must you say something?» Draco asked sarcastically, closing the door behind him.
Lucius remained silent for a long moment, struggling to find the right words. His gaze drifted over his son, as if seeking confirmation that this situation was real and not a tasteless joke. Finally, he composed himself and merely nodded toward Harry.
«Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Potter.» he said in a neutral tone, maintaining the formality his pride demanded.
Then, crossing his hands, he asked «How is your father?»
Harry barely tilted his head, a wry smile touching his lips.
«Oh, he’s mentally healthier—less mad than you might remember, I suppose.» he replied nonchalantly, watching Lucius’s reaction.
The older Malfoy’s eyes narrowed briefly, but he made no comment.
«Anyway, Father, if you have nothing else to say, I’d like to show the Manor to Harry and take him to his room.» Draco announced with an almost too-innocent air, already gripping Harry’s wrist.
Before his father could respond, he dragged his boyfriend out of the study and closed the door behind them.
Once in the corridor, Draco burst into laughter, leaning against the wall to recover himself.
«I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father so shocked.» he said between laughs, while Harry simply smiled amusedly, shaking his head.
«I’d say it was an excellent start.» commented with satisfied air.
Malfoy Manor shimmered with unparalleled elegance, immersed in an atmosphere of luxury and refinement. Every corner of the grand hall was lit by crystal chandeliers that diffused a warm glow, reflected off golden mirrors and walls adorned with enchanted paintings. Long tables draped in silk tablecloths were arranged along the sides of the room, laden with goblets of elven wine and silver trays brimming with delicacies. The air was filled with a melody played by an orchestra of enchanted instruments, their notes dancing in the air as if in a timeless waltz.
Draco embodied nobility: his black suit clung perfectly to his slender, graceful form. Beneath the jacket, a turtleneck of the same color added a sober, refined touch, while an emerald-green cloak—fastened with an intricately carved silver pin—draped over one shoulder and flowed regally along his side.
But if young Malfoy was the prince of the magical elite, he was also the flame that burned in the hall, impossible to ignore. He wore a semi‑transparent black shirt that revealed his bare shoulders, hinting at the runes etched on his skin. The flared sleeves ended in green veils, the same hypnotic hue as his eyes, which seemed to blaze like living fire under the hall’s light. A black leather corset cinched his slim waist, accentuating his elegant, lethal line, while trousers of the same shade clung perfectly to his legs. At his feet, ankle boots with thin, sharp heels made his stride even more sinuous and magnetic.
Conversations fell silent in his wake; surprised, uncertain glances followed him—some with astonishment, others with unspoken indignation. Yet he paid them no mind; what captured his attention was not the stares upon him, but Draco’s own expression.
The dark‑haired guy moved with his characteristic grace, his posture erect and proud as always, but there was a hidden tension in his shoulders—a slight clenching of his hands as he gripped his wine glass. He noticed that every conversation involving him felt like an interrogation, as if each word were a test he had to pass—a game of appearances in which he could not afford a mistake.
When a man with dark hair and icy eyes approached him with a razor‑sharp smile, ready to utter yet another insinuation cloaked as courtesy, Harry decided he’d had enough.
He raised his hand just slightly and, without a word, imposed an unreal silence around them. A fleeting shadow seemed to cross the hall, and in the blink of an eye, every conversation halted, leaving an unnatural void. People froze, words caught on their lips, their gazes confused.
The Slytherin looked at him, surprised.
The dark‑haired guy approached him calmly, letting the green flames in his eyes burn a little brighter.
«Let’s get out of here.» he said simply.
The other did not hesitate for a moment. Without a word, he set his glass on the table and took his hand, leading him away from the hall without concern for what others might think.
As soon as they left the grand ballroom and reached a secluded corridor, Draco exhaled deeply, finally feeling the weight lift from his shoulders.
«Thank you.» he murmured, still holding Harry’s hand, to which Harry gave a small smile and tilted his head.
As they walked down the long corridor, the muffled voices of the party behind them, the taller one slowed his pace, squeezing the dark‑haired guy’s hand before coming to a complete stop.
The other looked at him with curiosity, an eyebrow slightly raised.
«What is it?»
Draco studied him for a moment, then shook his head with a theatrical sigh.
«You know, you’re cruel, you know?»
Harry smiled, slightly amused.
«Oh? And why?»
«Because you dragged me out of the hall without even giving me a dance.» he replied, feigning offense, though a hint of sincere longing shone in his grey eyes.
The Gryffindor tilted his head thoughtfully. Then, without a word, he raised his free hand ever so slightly and, with a simple gesture, caused a delicate melody to ripple through the empty corridor. The light notes of a waltz filled the air, as if the very walls had absorbed that melody for centuries.
Draco blinked, but a satisfied smile curved his lips. The dark‑haired guy drew closer, their hands intertwining as he placed his other hand on Draco’s shoulder.
Instinctively, Draco rested his own hand over Harry’s, feeling the smooth fabric of the corset and the warmth of his body. With a fluid movement, they began to move, letting the music guide them.
He was light in Harry’s arms—agile and perfectly in sync with every step, as if they had always danced together. Every time they turned, the sleeves of his shirt swayed elegantly, the green fabric catching the torchlight along the corridor, while his eyes glowed like enchanted gems.
Draco lost himself in the way Harry’s skin seemed to shimmer in the dim light, in the hypnotic contrast between the transparency of his shirt and the runes adorning his back. He felt Harry’s breath brush his ear as the dark‑haired guy leaned in, a barely audible whisper accompanying their graceful twist.
«You’re trembling.» Harry observed with a trace of amused concern in his voice.
Draco shot him a scornful look, though his heart pounded too fast.
«That’s not true.»
Harry smiled faintly but said nothing more. Instead, without warning, he leaned in further, drawing them even closer—their lips nearly touching the blonde’s skin.
Malfoy felt warmth radiate through his body, his magic sparking—a silent blaze. The music slowed, and with one final step, the dark‑haired guy came to a stop.
He looked straight into Draco’s eyes, his face relaxed yet his gaze intense and inscrutable. Draco’s throat went dry.
«You play dirty.»
«Always.»
And with the same elegance with which he had invited him to dance, Harry left him there, still caught in the moment, as he turned and disappeared down the corridor.
Draco sat on the edge of the bed, hands intertwined as he watched his boyfriend move about the room. He was like a living shadow—fluid, almost an illusion.
«You know... I’ve spent my entire life in a society that told me who to be, what to want, what to hate.» his voice was low, devoid of emotion, yet every word weighed like lead.
«They taught me that my surname defined my existence. Duties, appearances, illusions... Nothing more.»
Harry paused, turning slightly toward him, but said nothing. He simply waited.
Draco lifted his gaze, his breathing slow and measured.
«And then you arrived.» the Gryffindor raised an eyebrow, curious.
«You... you are something… undecided.» he lowered his head for a moment, letting slip a half‑bitter smile.
«Like a spark in an otherwise lifeless existence. In a grey world, you are the only color that lights up my eyes.» he ran a hand through his hair, exasperated with himself for admitting it aloud.
«It doesn’t matter if you’re an enemy, a deity, or something else entirely... You’re the only thing that seems real. The only thing that breaks the monotony of my life.»
Silence stretched between them, then the dark‑haired guy moved.
Not with words, but with a swift, sure action. In a few strides, he was before Draco and, without hesitation, kissed him. Draco felt Harry’s mouth on his—warm and decisive, a flame that did not burn yet consumed.
He let himself collapse onto his legs, straddling him, his hands sliding through Harry’s hair. Then, just as suddenly, Harry pulled back slightly, his green eyes glinting with a hint of mischief before sinking his teeth into Draco’s already bare shoulder, with a force that elicited a surprised gasp.
«Revenge.» he murmured.
Draco gritted his teeth, tightening his grip on Harry’s hips.
«Bastard.» he hissed, though his voice was far from angry.
Harry chuckled against his skin and continued, leaving evident marks along Draco’s collarbone, jaw, and neck. Draco felt warmth rising, his hands moving to slowly remove Harry’s clothes with an exasperating deliberateness.
But then, when he least expected it, Harry took control.
With a swift motion, he pushed Draco backward, making him land on the mattress with a soft thump. He then rose above him, trapping him between his arms, his knees pressed against Draco’s hips.
Harry lay beneath him, his breathing uneven, his lips slightly parted, his eyes burning with something deeper than mere desire. He was magnetic, as always, and yet in that moment he seemed more real than ever. Draco felt his heart pounding in his chest as Harry’s fingers traced the lines of the runes decorating his bare skin, reverently sliding over his shoulders, his chest, his lithe form.
He was there, beneath him, and was letting himself be seen.
A shiver ran down Draco’s spine as Harry raised a hand, lightly brushing his face with the tip of his fingers—a gentle, almost intimate gesture.
«Keep going.» Harry whispered.
And for the first time in his life, Draco no longer knew where control ended and surrender began.
The Gryffindor, arching his back, allowed the blonde to explore, to take control, to claim him. He had teased him, provoked him, and now looked at him with that half‑challenging smile, even as he beckoned him closer, deeper. Draco leaned in, biting the skin beneath his jaw, leaving scattered marks. Harry responded with a soft sigh, his fingers digging into Draco’s hair, drawing him closer.
It was a perfect balance between dominance and surrender. Between fire and ice. Between the desire to control and the longing to lose oneself completely in the other.
They moved together as if it were natural. Their hands sought, gripped, and caressed one another. Time seemed to distort around them, an eternal moment enclosed in that room, amid rumpled sheets and broken breaths.
Draco no longer knew when he had ceased to think and simply began to feel—the warmth, the irregular beating of their hearts, the soft, delicate sound of the other’s voice uttering his name.
And then came the apex, the moment when everything merged into a single wave of heat that overwhelmed them both. Draco buried his face in his boyfriend’s neck as Harry’s breathing slowly calmed. With a barely perceptible smile, Harry pulled him close, letting his fingers glide slowly over Draco’s back in a languid, almost lazy gesture.