Draco Malfoy had never been one for rebellion, at least not in the obvious sense. His rebellion was subtle, often hidden beneath layers of etiquette and duty, laced with venomous words and a disdainful sneer. Yet here he was, in the dead of night, sneaking through the empty halls of Hogwarts like some reckless Gryffindor.
It was all Potter's fault, of course. Everything in his life seemed to circle back to Harry bloody Potter. From the day they met on that wretched train, Potter had been the center of Draco's universe, whether he'd wanted him to be or not. And now, lying beneath the silken sheets of his four-poster bed in the Slytherin dormitory, staring at the stone ceiling, Draco couldn't stop thinking about him.
He was supposed to be asleep, getting rest before another day of pretending he didn't care about anything or anyone. But all he could think about was the way Potter had looked at him earlier, in the shadows of the library where no one could see. The way his hand had brushed against Draco's as he reached for a book on the same shelf. The way their eyes had locked, just for a moment, before Potter had quickly turned away, his ears turning pink.
It was ridiculous, this hold Potter had over him. It made no sense. Potter was the Boy Who Lived, the Golden Boy, the hero. Draco was the villain, the Death Eater's son, the one everyone expected to follow in his father's footsteps. They were supposed to hate each other, supposed to be enemies. But Draco didn't hate Potter. He never really had.
He hated how Potter made him feel. Vulnerable. Exposed. Like every carefully constructed wall he'd built around himself was crumbling with every glance, every touch. Potter was like a drug, addictive and dangerous, and Draco knew he should stay away. But he couldn't.
The memory of Potter's touch lingered on his skin, burning like a brand. Draco's hands trembled as he clenched the sheets, trying to shake the feeling. It was just a touch, just a brief, accidental brush of skin. But it was enough to send his heart racing, enough to make him feel alive in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.
Potter made him feel alive, and that terrified him more than anything.
Draco threw off the covers and sat up, his breathing heavy. He couldn't stay here, not with the memories of Potter haunting him. He needed air, needed space. He needed to get away from the suffocating darkness of the dungeons.
He pulled on a robe and left the dormitory, slipping out of the Slytherin common room and into the empty corridors of the castle. The moonlight filtered through the windows, casting long shadows on the cold stone floors. Draco walked aimlessly, not caring where he ended up, as long as it was far away from the thoughts that plagued him.
But no matter how far he walked, he couldn't escape them. They followed him, whispered in his ear, reminded him of every time Potter had looked at him like he was something more than the enemy. Like he was someone worth saving.
Draco's footsteps echoed in the silence as he climbed the stairs to the Astronomy Tower. It was deserted, as he knew it would be. No one came here at this hour, not when it was so close to curfew. But that was exactly why Draco had come. He needed to be alone, needed to clear his head.
He leaned against the parapet and looked out over the grounds, the cool night air brushing against his face. The Forbidden Forest loomed in the distance, dark and foreboding, but Draco's gaze was drawn to the lake. It was calm, its surface reflecting the moonlight like a mirror.
It reminded him of Potter. Of the way Potter had looked at him, like he could see right through him, see all the things Draco kept hidden from everyone else. Like he understood.
Draco hated him for that. Hated him for making him feel like he wasn't alone. Hated him for making him hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something more.
But there wasn't. There couldn't be.
"Draco."
The voice startled him, and he whipped around to see Potter standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
"What are you doing here?" Draco demanded, his voice sharper than he intended.
Potter stepped closer, his eyes never leaving Draco's. "I could ask you the same thing."
"I needed to get away," Draco muttered, turning back to the view.
"Away from me?" Potter's voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
Draco didn't answer. He couldn't. Because it was true, and yet, it wasn't. He wanted to get away from Potter, from the way he made him feel. But at the same time, he wanted nothing more than to be close to him, to feel the warmth of his touch, to lose himself in those green eyes.
"It's not that simple, Potter," Draco finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Why not?" Potter's tone was laced with frustration.
Draco closed his eyes, trying to find the words to explain. "Because you're... you. And I'm me. And people like us... we don't get to have things like this."
Potter was silent for a long moment, and Draco wondered if he'd finally given up, if he'd finally realized that whatever this was between them was doomed from the start. But then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he tensed.
"Draco," Potter said, his voice soft, "I don't care about any of that."
Draco's eyes snapped open, and he turned to face Potter. "You should."
"But I don't." Potter insisted, his grip on Draco's shoulder tightening.Draco stared at him, his heart pounding in his chest.
He wanted to believe Potter, wanted to believe that they could have this, that they could be something more. But the fear was still there, gnawing at him, telling him that this was too good to be true.
"And what happens when this all falls apart?" Draco asked, his voice shaking. "What happens when you realize that you can't do this, that we can't do this?"
Potter's expression softened, and he reached up to cup Draco's face in his hand. "Then we figure it out."
Draco felt his resolve crumbling, felt the walls he'd built around himself start to crack. He wanted this. He wanted it so badly that it hurt. But he was still afraid. Afraid of what it would mean, afraid of what it would cost him.
But as he looked into Potter's eyes, he saw the same fear, the same uncertainty. And he realized that maybe, just maybe, they could face it together.
Before he could second-guess himself, Draco closed the distance between them and kissed Potter. It was desperate and fierce, a collision of lips and teeth and breath that was more about need than anything else. And for the first time in a long time, Draco felt like he could breathe.
Potter kissed him back with just as much intensity, his hands tangling in Draco's hair as he pulled him closer. Draco could feel the tension in Potter's body, the way he trembled with the force of whatever he was feeling, and it made something inside him break.
When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads pressed together. Draco didn't say anything, couldn't say anything. But he didn't need to. Because in that moment, with Potter's hands still holding him close, he knew that he wasn't alone. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
As they stood there in the darkness, with the world still spinning around them, Draco knew that things would never be the same. But for the first time, he didn't care.