Chapter 2
It started in sixth year, during those long, tense days at Hogwarts, when everything seemed to hang in the balance between light and darkness. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, had no time for distractions—or so he thought.
But then there was Draco Malfoy.
Harry had always noticed him. How could he not? Malfoy was loud and obnoxious, a constant thorn in his side. But something shifted that year. It wasn’t just that Draco was quieter, more withdrawn, or that Harry had become obsessed with following him through the castle corridors, convinced he was up to something. It was the way Draco looked under the soft, flickering glow of the torches.
He had always been striking, with his sharp cheekbones and silvery blond hair, but now, Harry couldn’t stop noticing the details. The graceful way Draco moved, the way his pale lashes fluttered when he was lost in thought, the way the corners of his mouth twitched when he thought no one was looking.
One night, Harry was tucked away under the Invisibility Cloak, watching Draco in the Astronomy Tower. He hadn’t meant to spy, not really, but something about Draco drew him there. The moonlight kissed his pale skin, and his hair shimmered like starlight. He looked fragile and strong all at once, his jaw set in determination even as his hands trembled.
And Harry felt it, deep in his chest—a pang of longing so fierce it stole his breath. He didn’t understand it at first. He didn’t know how to reconcile the fire of his frustration with the tenderness that had suddenly bloomed inside him.
But that night, watching Draco stand against the vast, starry sky, Harry fell.
He couldn’t stop himself after that. Every little thing about Draco captivated him—the way he pushed his hair out of his face when he was annoyed, the curve of his neck when he tilted his head back in exasperation, even the sharpness of his tongue when they argued. Harry realized that Draco wasn’t just beautiful in the physical sense—he was a storm, fierce and unpredictable, yet strangely vulnerable underneath it all.
Harry began to imagine what it might be like to hold him, to press his forehead against Draco’s and whisper that everything would be alright. He dreamed of mornings spent waking up beside him, of brushing his fingers through that impossibly soft blond hair. For the first time, Harry dared to think of a future beyond the war, and in every version of that future, Draco was there.
He could see it so clearly—Draco in a cozy kitchen, laughing softly as he fed toast to a little boy with messy black hair and bright green eyes. Harry could imagine Draco sitting in the garden, sunlight catching in his hair as he read aloud to their children. The thought of it made Harry ache in a way he had never experienced before.
It scared him, this longing, but it also made him feel alive. For so long, Harry had thought his life would end in sacrifice, that he’d never have the chance to dream of something as simple and beautiful as a family. But Draco made him want it, made him believe it was possible.
He didn’t know how to tell him, how to bridge the gap between them, but Harry was determined to try. Because Draco wasn’t just beautiful—he was everything Harry had ever wanted but never thought he deserved. And Harry knew, deep down, that he would fight for the chance to love him.