Chapter Thirty-Nine
The days leading up to Draco's grandmother's birthday were full of small, tense moments. Harry found himself in an uncomfortable limbo, trying to keep up the façade while everything inside of him screamed to just let it all go. The constant back and forth between bickering and moments of unexpected closeness had worn down his defenses, leaving him in a state of perpetual confusion.
He was so used to hating Draco that when those feelings started to blur—when he found himself caring in ways that went beyond a mere convenience—it unsettled him. But as much as he wanted to deny it, he couldn't escape the truth.
He was starting to want this. Want Draco. Not just for the show, but for real.
And that terrified him.
The day before the party, Harry was sitting in the living room of the flat, a book in his lap, though he hadn't read a single word. His mind kept drifting back to the confrontation in the kitchen just a few days ago, to the strange way Draco had looked at him when he'd said those two simple words—thanks.
It should have meant nothing. It should have been just another polite remark in a long string of them. But it wasn't. It felt like a crack in the wall between them, one that Harry didn't know how to seal up.
"Potter," Draco's voice broke through his thoughts, sharp and annoyed, "stop daydreaming like a lovesick teenager. You're not fooling anyone."
Harry's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "What are you on about now?"
Draco smirked from where he stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. "You've been staring at that book for the last hour, and I know you're not reading a word of it. So, what's going on in that messy little brain of yours?"
Harry forced a scowl onto his face, trying to cover the unease swirling in his gut. "None of your business."
Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "It's always my business when you look like you're about to throw up on yourself."
"Is that your idea of a compliment?" Harry shot back, though it came out more forcefully than he intended.
Draco just shrugged. "If you can't handle a bit of teasing, I suggest you start growing a spine. We both know you're far too emotional for your own good."
"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry spat, the words coming out before he could stop them. The usual biting sarcasm in his voice was there, but beneath it, there was a trace of something else. Something raw.
Draco's eyes flickered with something unreadable, and for a second, the air between them crackled with tension. Then, without another word, Draco turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen.
Harry rubbed a hand over his face, groaning inwardly. What the hell was happening to him? Why couldn't he just be normal around Draco, like he had been for years? Why was this engagement, this damn charade, throwing him into a tailspin?
He didn't have the answers, and he was too proud to admit that he was even looking for them.
The next day was the birthday party at Malfoy Manor, and it wasn't lost on Harry that everything felt more real now. The very idea that he was about to step into the lion's den—Draco's world, his family—made his stomach churn.
When they arrived at the manor, the opulence was overwhelming. The grand staircase, the polished marble floors, the gleaming chandeliers—it was all so... Malfoy. But despite the elegant surroundings, Harry couldn't help but feel like an outsider in a foreign world. He had spent years fighting against everything the Malfoys represented, and now here he was, pretending to be one of them.
Draco, of course, was unfazed by the extravagance. He walked through the house with the same bored, disinterested look he always had. But even with his usual mask of indifference, Harry could sense something different about him today. The tension was thick between them, and it wasn't just because of their ongoing feud—it was the fact that this was real. This wasn't just a game anymore.
They were about to pretend for an entire family. And Harry wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up the act.
"I can't believe you dragged me here," Harry muttered under his breath as they walked into the drawing room where guests were milling about.
Draco smirked, his eyes scanning the crowd. "You'll survive, Potter. Just stick to the script, and we'll both make it out alive."
The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the murmur of polite conversation. As Draco introduced Harry to various family members, he couldn't help but notice the cool, calculating stares of the Malfoy relatives. They were sizing him up, looking for any cracks in his facade.
Lucius Malfoy, tall and imposing as ever, eyed Harry with a faint, amused glint in his cold, gray eyes. "So, Potter," he said, his voice dripping with disdain but with an odd sense of curiosity, "how does it feel, knowing that you'll be part of this family? I do hope you've prepared yourself."
Harry forced a smile, though every muscle in his body was tense. "I'm sure I'll manage, Mr. Malfoy. Just a formality, after all."
Lucius chuckled darkly, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Let's hope so."
Draco stood nearby, looking entirely uninterested in the exchange, but Harry could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. It was the first time he had ever seen Draco falter around his father, and it made Harry's stomach twist in a way he couldn't explain.
And then, of course, there was Narcissa. The elegant matriarch, ever the picture of grace, smiled warmly when she greeted Harry. "It's so good to see you again, Harry," she said, her voice soft and soothing, though there was a hint of sadness behind her words. "I know this hasn't been easy."
Harry gave a tight smile, feeling an unexpected warmth in her presence. Narcissa was the only one in this room who didn't seem to have any ulterior motives. She was, perhaps, the only Malfoy who wasn't playing some sort of game.
As they moved through the crowd, Draco stayed close, his hand brushing against Harry's every now and then, the contact sending electric shocks up Harry's spine. But neither of them acknowledged it. They couldn't.
Not yet.