Chapter 4
The library was Draco’s sanctuary. Even with the chaos of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students flooding Hogwarts, the library maintained its quiet dignity—a haven of order in a school otherwise overrun with chatter and commotion. Draco had made it a point to retreat there whenever he could, and today was no exception.
He had a specific purpose this time: helping Antonin and Sofiya—two of the more tolerable Durmstrang students—with a project on defensive wards. Petar had tagged along, though his contribution thus far had been flipping through pages at random and muttering about how “primitive” British magical techniques seemed compared to Durmstrang’s methods.
“Antonin, focus,” Draco said sharply, leaning over the table where the boy had sprawled his parchment. The gangly, fair-haired student looked up with a sheepish grin, his quill suspended midair.
“I am focusing,” Antonin replied, though his doodles of dragons suggested otherwise.
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re meant to be diagramming the layering of the ward, not sketching a bloody dragon.”
Sofiya, seated across from Antonin, smirked. “It’s a good dragon, though,” she said in her clipped, heavily accented voice, brushing a strand of sleek black hair from her face. “Perhaps he will enchant it to guard your room, Malfoy.”
“Charming,” Draco drawled, though he felt his lips twitch upward despite himself. Sofiya had a sharp wit that reminded him faintly of Pansy, though without the cloying dramatics.
“Petar,” Draco said, turning to the other boy, who had been idly flipping through an advanced charms tome, “if you’re not going to contribute, at least stop distracting the others.”
Petar slouched further in his seat but shut the book he was flipping through. “Sorry, Malfoy.”
Draco opened his mouth to retort but stopped when a shadow fell across the table. He looked up, and his breath caught.
Leonid stood there, his presence commanding despite his quiet demeanor. His dark hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it, and his storm-grey eyes flickered between the group before settling on Draco.
“Malfoy,” Leonid said, his voice low and smooth. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Draco’s mouth went dry. He wasn’t sure why the sight of Leonid always seemed to throw him off balance, but it did. The Durmstrang student had an air of quiet confidence that made him magnetic, and his sharp features and broad frame didn’t help matters.
“Leonid,” Draco said, struggling to keep his tone even. “I could say the same about you.”
Leonid arched an eyebrow. “I spend more time in libraries than you’d think. Durmstrang values discipline, after all.”
“Discipline,” Petar said with a snort. “You mean you prefer books to people.”
Leonid ignored him, his gaze still fixed on Draco. “What are you working on?”
“Defensive wards,” Draco said, cursing inwardly at the faint hitch in his voice. He gestured to the scattered books and parchments on the table. “I’m helping Antonin and Sofiya with their project.”
Leonid nodded, his expression unreadable. “Impressive.”
Draco felt a flush creep up his neck and quickly looked away, pretending to adjust the placement of one of the books. “It’s nothing special,” he muttered.
Leonid’s lips quirked upward in the faintest hint of a smile. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, Malfoy.”
Draco nearly dropped the quill he’d been holding. Sofiya coughed lightly, clearly suppressing a laugh, while Antonin made no such effort, snickering openly.
“I could offer some input,” Leonid said, turning back to Draco. “If you don’t mind.”
Draco blinked, momentarily thrown. “Of course,” he said quickly, then inwardly winced at how eager he sounded.
Leonid pulled up a chair and settled beside Draco, his presence far too close for Draco’s comfort. He smelled faintly of something woodsy, like cedar and winter air, and Draco found it inexplicably distracting.
They worked in relative silence for the next few minutes, save for the occasional rustle of parchment or the scratch of a quill. Leonid had a quiet intensity about him, his focus entirely on the diagrams and notes before him. Draco, on the other hand, found it increasingly difficult to concentrate.
“Malfoy,” Leonid said suddenly, and Draco nearly jumped.
“Yes?” he said, trying to sound composed.
“This layering technique,” Leonid said, pointing to one of the diagrams. “It’s clever, but it could be more efficient if you adjusted the rune placement here and here.”
He leaned closer to show Draco, and Draco felt his breath hitch. Leonid’s hand brushed his as he pointed to the parchment, and Draco’s brain short-circuited for a moment.
“Yes,” Draco said, his voice slightly higher than usual. “That...that makes sense.”
Leonid glanced at him, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Are you alright, Malfoy? You seem...distracted.”
“I’m fine,” Draco said quickly, too quickly. He straightened in his chair, forcing himself to focus. “Just tired, that’s all.”
Leonid didn’t look convinced, but he let it go, turning back to the parchment.
Sofiya caught Draco’s eye and smirked, her expression full of knowing. Draco glared at her, but it only made her grin wider.
By the time they finished, Draco felt as though he’d run a marathon. Leonid stood, gathering his things with practiced ease.
“Thank you for letting me join,” he said, his gaze lingering on Draco for a moment longer than necessary.
Draco nodded, unable to trust himself to speak.
As Leonid walked away, Antonin leaned over with a sly grin. “You’re blushing, Malfoy.”
“I am not,” Draco snapped, though the heat in his face suggested otherwise.
Sofiya laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.”
Draco scowled, but deep down, he couldn’t help but agree.
Draco stayed in the library longer than he’d intended after the Durmstrang students left. The echo of Leonid’s voice—low and measured—lingered in his mind, much to his annoyance. He sat with his head in his hands, surrounded by books and empty parchment, willing himself to think about anything else. It didn’t work. Eventually, Draco sighed and began packing up his things. He wasn’t going to get any more work done tonight, not with his thoughts spinning in useless circles. He slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way toward the exit, hoping the cool air of the castle corridors would clear his head. As he turned a corner near the Charms section, Draco stopped short. A familiar figure was leaning against one of the bookshelves, his dark, messy hair sticking up in every direction.
Potter.
Harry hadn’t noticed Draco yet. He was clutching a book—though he didn’t appear to be reading it—and swaying slightly as if the floor beneath him were unsteady. His Gryffindor tie was loosened, and his cheeks were flushed. Draco narrowed his eyes. He’d seen Potter like this before, though never in such an isolated spot.
“Potter,” Draco called, his voice sharper than he intended. “What are you doing?”
Harry startled, his head snapping up. When his eyes landed on Draco, he grinned—a lopsided, almost boyish grin that made him look younger.
“Malfoy!” Harry said, his voice too loud for the quiet library. He stumbled toward Draco, the book still clutched in one hand. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Draco crossed his arms, regarding Harry with a mixture of irritation and concern. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” Harry said, though the way he leaned against the nearest shelf suggested otherwise.
“You reek of firewhisky,” Draco said, wrinkling his nose.
Harry waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just...a little celebratory drink. You know, for rebuilding and all that. Everyone’s doing it.”
“Everyone?” Draco repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Or just you and your merry band of Gryffindors?”
Harry frowned, as if trying to puzzle out whether Draco was mocking him. “I don’t see the harm. The war’s over. We deserve it, don’t we?”
Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Potter, you’re a hero. We’re all very proud. Now, why don’t you go back to your common room before you get caught and lose Gryffindor even more house points?”
Harry laughed—a soft, breathy sound that caught Draco off guard. “You sound just like McGonagall.”
Draco bristled. “Take that back.”
Harry leaned closer, his green eyes bright and unfocused. “Why are you always so uptight, Malfoy? It’s like you’ve got a stick—”
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll hex you,” Draco warned, though there was no real venom in his voice.
Harry laughed again, clearly unconcerned. “You’re funny when you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad,” Draco snapped, though the faint blush creeping up his neck suggested otherwise.
Harry tilted his head, studying Draco with a curious intensity that made him uncomfortable. “You’ve changed, you know,” Harry said, his voice quieter now. “You’re not the same prat you were in school.”
Draco stiffened, unsure how to respond. He hated being analyzed, especially by Potter of all people. “And you’re still insufferably Gryffindor,” he said, his tone biting to mask his discomfort.
Harry didn’t take the bait. Instead, he smiled—a small, almost wistful smile that made Draco’s stomach twist. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
Draco opened his mouth to retort but stopped when Harry swayed again, nearly losing his balance. Instinctively, Draco reached out to steady him, grabbing his arm.
“Merlin’s sake, Potter, can you stand upright for five minutes?”
Harry grinned sheepishly, leaning heavily on Draco’s arm. “Sorry. Guess I’m more tipsy than I thought.”
Draco sighed, glancing around the empty library. He couldn’t just leave Potter here in this state—not unless he wanted to deal with the fallout of a passed-out Chosen One.
“Come on,” Draco said reluctantly, looping Harry’s arm over his shoulder. “I’m taking you back to your tower before you embarrass yourself further.”
Harry didn’t protest, though he seemed amused by the whole situation. “You’re surprisingly strong, Malfoy,” he said as they made their way down the corridor.
“Shut up, Potter,” Draco muttered, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from Harry’s body.
They walked in awkward silence for a while, Harry stumbling occasionally but letting Draco guide him. When they reached the staircase leading to Gryffindor Tower, Harry stopped abruptly.
“What now?” Draco asked, exasperated.
Harry looked at him, his expression unexpectedly serious. “Why did you help me that night? In the corridor?”
Draco froze, his heart skipping a beat. He hadn’t expected Harry to remember—or to ask.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco said quickly, looking away.
“Yes, you do,” Harry insisted, his grip on Draco’s arm tightening. “You didn’t have to. So why?”
Draco hesitated, his mind racing. He could brush it off, make some snide remark, and end the conversation. But something about the earnestness in Harry’s eyes stopped him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said finally, his voice quieter now. “Just...forget it.”
Harry frowned, clearly unsatisfied with the answer, but before he could press further, the Fat Lady’s portrait swung open, revealing Hermione.
“Harry! There you are!” Hermione exclaimed, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. “What happened?”
“Your friend decided to get plastered,” Draco said, his tone dry as he handed Harry over to her. “You might want to keep an eye on him.”
Hermione looked from Draco to Harry, her brow furrowed in confusion, but she didn’t question it. “Thank you, Malfoy,” she said reluctantly.
Draco gave a curt nod and turned to leave, his heart pounding as he walked away.
“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Harry called after him, his voice soft but clear.
Draco didn’t look back.
Draco walked briskly away from Gryffindor Tower, his heart still hammering against his ribs. Harry’s question about the lake haunted him. He hadn’t expected Potter to remember that night—hell, he’d barely been able to justify his actions to himself, let alone explain them to Harry.
Why had he helped?
Draco shook his head, trying to push the thought away as he descended the staircase to the dungeons. The dim, cold halls of Slytherin territory were a comfort, grounding him in their familiarity. He strode past the common room door without stopping. It was too late for his housemates to still be awake, and he wasn’t in the mood for Pansy’s teasing or Blaise’s knowing smirks.
Instead, he continued to the small study nook tucked away near the potion stores, a quiet space where he could think—or pretend to, at least. He dropped his bag onto the table and collapsed into a chair, running a hand through his hair. Potter’s voice echoed in his mind.
Why did you help me that night?
Draco groaned aloud. “Bloody Gryffindor,” he muttered, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes.
“Talking to yourself, Malfoy?”
Draco’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up straight. Pansy stood in the doorway, arms crossed and a smirk playing on her lips.
“What do you want, Parkinson?” Draco asked irritably, though he wasn’t surprised she’d found him.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Pansy said, stepping into the room and perching on the edge of the table. “You’ve been acting...strange lately.”
Draco arched an eyebrow. “Strange? Elaborate.”
Pansy shrugged, twirling a strand of her dark hair around her finger. “Oh, I don’t know. Spending all your time in the library with the Durmstrang lot, disappearing at odd hours, hauling a drunk Potter through the castle...”
Draco stiffened. “How do you know about that?”
Pansy grinned. “Oh, darling, word gets around. You know that.”
Draco scowled, but Pansy only laughed, leaning closer. “Relax, I’m not judging. In fact, I’m intrigued. You and Potter—”
“There is no ‘me and Potter,’” Draco snapped, standing abruptly. “He was drunk. I was helping him. That’s all.”
Pansy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so.”
Draco grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, unwilling to continue the conversation. “Goodnight, Pansy.”
She watched him go, her smirk lingering as she called after him, “Sweet dreams, Draco!”
Draco stormed down the corridor, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Pansy’s insinuations annoyed him more than they should have, mostly because a small part of him worried she was right.
But that was ridiculous.
Wasn’t it?
He turned a corner and nearly collided with Blaise, who was leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed.
“Rough night?” Blaise asked, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.
“Not now, Zabini,” Draco muttered, trying to push past him.
Blaise stepped into his path, blocking him. “Come on, Draco. You’ve been out of sorts for weeks. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Draco said curtly.
“Nothing?” Blaise repeated, arching a skeptical eyebrow. “You’ve been distracted, snappish, and you keep sneaking off to Merlin knows where. Pansy’s convinced it’s a love affair. Care to enlighten me?”
Draco glared at him. “It’s none of your business.”
Blaise studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped aside with a shrug. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But if you need to talk...”
“I won’t,” Draco said, brushing past him.
Blaise chuckled softly, his voice following Draco down the hall. “You always were a terrible liar, Malfoy.”
Draco ignored him, his mind a jumble of frustration and unease. By the time he reached his dormitory, he was too tired to think anymore. He changed into his nightclothes and collapsed onto his bed, pulling the curtains shut. But sleep didn’t come easily. Instead, his thoughts drifted to Leonid—his sharp features, his calm demeanor, the way his hand had brushed Draco’s in the library. And then, unbidden, they shifted to Harry. His lopsided grin, the way his green eyes had softened as he’d said goodnight. Draco groaned and buried his face in his pillow. Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he’d sort this all out.
But even as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, he knew it wouldn’t be that simple.