Omar Abasi
It was late at night, and the house was wrapped in heavy silence, save for the soft creaks of the floorboards and the occasional crackle from the dying embers in the fireplace. Teddy had been asleep for hours, his tiny snores audible if you lingered just outside his bedroom door. He had exhausted himself with a day full of adventures, leaving the adults with a rare quiet moment.
Even though Harry and Draco had spent months cohabiting, navigating the chaos of raising a child together, moments like this—just the two of them—were rare. They were used to each other’s presence by now, their routines overlapping in an oddly seamless way, but they had never sought time alone. It had seemed pointless. Most of their interactions without Teddy had ended in biting remarks and tension-filled silences, the residue of years of animosity that neither fully knew how to shake.
And yet, over time, something had shifted. The arguments were still there, sharp and inevitable, but they no longer stung in the same way. The bitterness had dulled, replaced by a strange sort of rhythm they were beginning to fall into. Neither of them would admit it, but they had started to appreciate these exchanges. Perhaps not enjoy them, not yet, but there was something about the way they challenged each other that felt... grounding. Familiar.
Harry didn’t find it strange to see Draco waiting for a letter, the blond received plenty of them. From what Potter could glimpse, driven by occasional curiosity, they came from a variety of senders: Pansy Parkinson, the Ministry, Luna Lovegood, and even Lucius Malfoy, who, sitting in prison, likely had little else to occupy his time.
Of all these, the letters from the Ministry were the most unpleasant. They always left Malfoy with a hesitant, almost guarded expression that Harry couldn’t help but notice. But this time was different.
Draco stood by the window, his back to Harry, his usual poise replaced by a restless energy. His leg bounced in a steady rhythm, and though his eyes occasionally flicked toward the television, it was clear he wasn’t paying attention. His anxiety was almost tangible, the air between them heavy with unspoken tension.
Harry, watching from the sofa, couldn’t help but ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Draco replied curtly, his tone clipped and dismissive. He didn’t look away from the window.
Harry wasn’t surprised by the response. Draco wasn’t the type to bare his soul, and Harry hadn’t expected him to. Yet, as the silence stretched on, Harry found his gaze drawn to Draco’s face, to the faint lines of tension carved into his features.
There was something there, something soft, vulnerable, even with the tension etched into his features. The way Draco’s blue-gray eyes shimmered with emotion as they briefly met his... It stirred something in Harry he couldn’t quite name.
But one thing he knew for certain: it wasn’t hate.
A letter came in, as expected. Harry couldn’t see what it was, but Draco’s expression turned desperate as his eyes flew over the paper. Moments later, he sighed deeply and let his body sink into the couch. Harry interpreted it as good news, even if Draco didn’t smile.
The black-haired man felt a silly sense of pride as he realized he could read Malfoy a little better now. He also knew Draco wouldn’t appreciate being asked about it, so Harry held his tongue, using all his willpower to remain quiet.
Mr. Malfoy,
Your letter was unexpected, though not unwelcome. Let me be clear: I do not believe in allowing personal feelings or past grievances to interfere with my duty as a healer.
I made a vow to aid those in need, regardless of circumstance. If you trust that I will do everything in my power to help your mother, I will assist you without hesitation. I cannot promise miracles, but I can promise that I will approach this with the care and dedication it deserves.
You may find this difficult to accept, but your willingness to set aside pride for her well-being has earned my respect. It is not easy to ask for help, especially from someone you may believe would deny it.
Let me know how you wish to proceed.
Omar Abasi
If Draco were more of an optimist, he might have been jumping around or even smiling. But optimism was a foreign concept to him, as unattainable as a dream he didn’t dare to have. Instead, he sat frozen, the letter still clutched in his hands, his heart pounding in his chest. Telling himself that this was only the first step, his mother was still sick, there was nothing to celebrate, no need for useless emotions such as hope.
Each beat felt like a reminder of how exposed he had allowed himself to become. He focused on his breathing, trying to calm the rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, but it was no use.
The weight of the letter—and what it meant—was crushing.
Guilt began to creep in, sharp and unwelcome, wrapping around his thoughts like a suffocating fog. He couldn’t stop thinking about Omar, about their history. Draco knew exactly how he had treated the healer in the past: with indifference at best, and hostility at worst. It had been easier then, to dismiss Omar as nothing more than a bitter annoyance who lashed out at him without cause.
But now, in the quiet of this moment, Draco couldn’t hide from the truth. It hurt far more to acknowledge that Omar was not only a good man but one who had every reason to hate him.
The realization cut deep, leaving Draco raw and unsettled. No, he hadn’t done anything directly to Omar—no hexes, no cruel confrontations—but that wasn’t the point, was it? His name, his presence, his silence in the face of the injustices perpetuated by people like his family—all of it was enough. Omar’s disdain wasn’t misplaced; it had been earned.
Draco’s mind wandered to the words he had used in the past, words he had grown up hearing and repeating without thought. Mudblood. How easily that word had slipped from his tongue as if it were nothing. He winced at the memory, shame rising in his chest like a burning flame. He didn’t know if Omar had ever heard him say it, but it didn’t matter. The harm was done.
And yet, despite all of this, Omar had responded with professionalism, with respect. He had set aside their shared past to extend a hand of help. It was more than Draco felt he deserved.
He wanted to believe he was a better man now. He tried to be. But as he sat there, staring at the healer’s words, it was hard to feel any sense of growth. His past loomed over him like a shadow, its tendrils winding their way into his present, refusing to let go.
For every step he took forward, it seemed there was always something pulling him back—a reminder of who he had been and the harm he had caused, intentional or not. Could he ever truly move past it? Could he ever be someone who deserved the forgiveness he wasn’t sure Omar would grant or even the respect the healer had offered?
Draco folded the letter carefully, his hands trembling as he tucked it away. The words lingered in his mind, not yet ready to settle.
“Isn’t this movie strange?” Harry asked, his tone light, though his real intention was to pull Draco out of the dark expression settling over his face. He knew Draco wasn’t paying attention to the film, and honestly, the question didn’t matter.
Draco didn’t respond immediately but shifted his gaze to the television. For the first time in a while, his leg stopped bouncing, and his restless fingers stilled.
Harry tried to focus on the screen, but having Draco Malfoy sitting so close made it impossible. Instead of following the plot, his eyes kept straying to Draco, tracing the sharp lines of his profile, marveling at the way the light from the TV danced across his pale skin. He knew he shouldn’t stare, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Luckily, Draco was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice. At least, that’s what Harry thought—until Draco suddenly caught his gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly, a furrow forming between his brows.
Harry quickly looked back at the screen, heat rising to his cheeks. The movie, which he had completely lost track of, was apparently about zombies and some kind of resistance group fighting for power. The plot had long since become irrelevant, but the eerie suspense and sudden jump scares were enough to make both men react.
Each scare brought them closer, inch by inch, as if the sofa were shrinking. They had started the movie on opposite ends, but now, somehow, they sat side by side in the middle. Draco clutched a pillow tightly, using it as a shield during particularly intense scenes. Harry, meanwhile, was horrified by the graphic imagery but couldn’t look away.
“Scared, Potter?” Draco muttered, his voice quiet but edged with discomfort. His silver eyes flicked toward Harry’s green ones, an unspoken challenge lingering in the air.
“You wish,” Harry replied, his voice lower than he intended, almost distracted.
The tension between them was palpable. Slowly, their faces drew closer, as if some invisible force were pulling them together. Their minds were blank, their focus entirely on each other. Harry could feel the warmth of Draco’s breath, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed like they might close the gap entirely.
But then, a peculiar moaning sound erupted from the television, shattering the moment. Both men jumped apart, startled, before dissolving into awkward laughter.
Harry stood quickly, moving toward the TV to turn it off. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a little too loud, “definitely a weird movie.”
Draco didn’t respond, but as Harry glanced back at him, he caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips—a rare and fleeting expression that sent Harry’s heart racing all over again.
"What if..." Harry began, his voice breaking the silence as he returned to the sofa, sitting nearer to Draco than before. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, only that he needed to fill the uncomfortable quiet. "What if there’s a zombie apocalypse?"
Draco raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. "From what I understand about zombies, you’ll be perfectly safe."
"What?" Harry paused, narrowing his eyes. "Why? Because I’m the Chosen One?"
Draco’s smirk widened. "I’d say it’s because you wouldn’t have any food to offer."
"What—hey! You git!" Harry exclaimed, lunging to grab the pillow Draco had been clutching.
Draco dodged, laughing in a rare moment of unguarded amusement. They wrestled playfully, the tension of the earlier moment seemingly forgotten. Harry lunged again, but this time Draco shifted too quickly, causing Harry to lose his balance. With a startled yelp, they tumbled off the sofa.
Somehow, Harry ended up on top of Draco, his legs straddling either side of the blond. His hands instinctively pinned Draco’s wrists above his head, and they both froze, their laughter dying as the reality of their position set in.
Draco’s silver eyes flickered with something unreadable—fear, maybe, or anticipation. His smirk faltered for the briefest moment, and Harry saw it: the vulnerability Draco so carefully kept hidden. It made Harry’s breath hitch, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t name.
"Well, I’d rather face zombies than you any day," Harry muttered.
"Get off me, Scarhead," Draco said, his voice steady but his eyes betraying him. There was a flicker of hesitation, a moment where he seemed to consider saying more. His sarcastic smile reappeared, as though it were a shield.
"So we’re back to name-calling?" Harry asked, his green eyes locked onto Draco’s lips, glinting with something unspoken.
"Well, you’re the one acting like a child."
"Does this seem childish to you?" Harry’s voice dropped, the tension crackling between them as he leaned in.
Abruptly, Harry closed the distance, his lips crashing against Draco’s. For a moment, Draco’s mind screamed that this couldn’t end well, that it was reckless, foolish. But then the warmth of Harry’s mouth chased the thoughts away. He hesitated, his heart racing, the instinct to push Harry away warring with the desire to pull him closer.
In the end, the need to feel won out. Draco responded by returning the kiss with a mix of uncertainty and fervor, matching Harry’s messy, fervent rhythm.
It was intense, aggressive, but undeniably pleasurable, just like them. The kiss was filled with everything they couldn’t say, everything that had built up over years of animosity and unspoken emotions. It only ended when air became a necessity.
They broke apart, their breaths ragged, eyes wide as reality came crashing back.
"Draco, I—I’m so—" Harry stammered, scrambling off Draco as panic began to creep into his voice. His mind raced, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he’d just done.
The blond didn’t let him finish.
"You kiss like a virgin," Draco quipped, his tone deceptively calm. Internally, he was grateful he was lying down—his legs felt like they’d turned to jelly.
Draco stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes with exaggerated nonchalance. His smirk was back, sharp as ever. "Well, that was... childish," he drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm.
He turned and strode toward the stairs without a backward glance. His steps were hurried, his shoulders tense, but his smirk lingered, even as he disappeared from view.
Once alone, behind the safety of his closed bedroom door, Draco let himself fall against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. His head dropped into his hands as he struggled to breathe, the tightness in his chest refusing to ease.
He had lived with guilt. Guilt for his family’s choices, for his cowardice, for surviving when so many others hadn’t. And now, for wanting Harry Potter in a way he had no right to.
The kiss had been everything and nothing. It had been fire and chaos, a momentary escape from the crushing weight of his reality. But it had also been a cruel reminder of all he could never have.
You’re not a good person, he thought bitterly. You never were.
Draco let out a shaky breath, his eyes burning as he stared at the ceiling. He didn’t cry. But the ache inside him felt unbearable, a hollow pit that nothing could fill.
When Harry stumbled over his apology, Draco felt the words hit him like a poorly aimed spell, clumsy but heavy nonetheless. He didn’t want to hear them. His chest tightened as the weight of the moment pressed down on him, suffocating in its intensity.
Draco had spent so long barely holding himself together, and now it felt as if he was being pulled in every direction at once. His mother, a shadow of the woman she once was, needed him, but he couldn’t fix her. Teddy, sweet and innocent, deserved a better guardian than the man who had once worn a Death Eater’s mark. And now there was Harry— bloody perfect Harry Potter, who had kissed him with the kind of abandon Draco couldn’t fathom.
And yet, Draco couldn’t even let himself enjoy the memory. Instead, he felt the familiar sting of inadequacy, sharper now that it came from someone he had always secretly admired.
You’re not enough, a voice in his head whispered, cruel and insistent. It was a mantra he knew well. He had tried to ignore it for years, tried to drown it out with arrogance and excuses. But no one could run away from their own mind.
…
Harry’s lips tingled as the reality of what had just happened hit him like a rogue Bludger. He had kissed Draco Malfoy.
He sat back, running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to untangle the mess of thoughts spiraling in his head. What the bloody hell was that?
He had never thought of himself as someone who liked guys. He had dated Cho, and Ginny. And yet, here he was, the lingering warmth of the kiss making it hard to focus on anything else.
He wasn’t into Draco Malfoy, of all people. That was absurd. Sure, Malfoy was… objectively attractive. Harry could admit that. Sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes, that arrogant tilt of his chin. Anyone with eyes could see it. But recognizing someone’s good looks didn’t mean anything, did it? He wasn’t gay.
The next morning, Draco acted as if nothing had happened. Casual. Cool. Almost too casual, Harry thought. He couldn’t tell if it was calculated or if Draco genuinely didn’t care. Harry had to replay the moment in his head multiple times, over and over again, to reassure himself that it hadn’t been a dream. It had happened. But Draco was so composed, so indifferent, that Harry began to wonder if it had been meaningless to him.
Maybe Slytherins were just like that—cold, detached, the type to kiss someone and brush it off like it was nothing more than shaking hands. Maybe Draco kissed people all the time. Maybe this was just... what he did.
Harry wasn’t like that. He couldn’t compartmentalize things so easily, couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. The memory of it clung to him like a stubborn charm, no matter how hard he tried to push it away.
But that didn’t mean he wanted something with Draco. He didn’t even like the guy. Draco was arrogant, sarcastic, and infuriatingly smug. Sure, he had improved—he wasn’t the same cruel git from Hogwarts, not entirely—but he was still an asshole most of the time.
Harry groaned, dropping his head into his hands. What does it even mean if I kissed someone I don’t like? He didn’t know if he wanted Draco or if the moment had just been... there. They had been arguing—of course, they had—and maybe the adrenaline or frustration had gotten to him. People did impulsive things all the time, didn’t they? It didn’t have to mean anything. Some surge of adrenaline, or frustration, or—Merlin forbid—attraction. And the worst part was, he wasn’t sure what scared him more: the idea that he didn’t want Draco, or the possibility that he did.
The memory of Draco’s eyes flashed in his mind—bright, searching, vulnerable in a way Harry had never seen before. He shook his head, trying to push it aside.
It was easier to tell himself it was nothing. A mistake. A weird, fleeting lapse in judgment. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, the weight of it pressed against him, stubborn and unyielding.
Because deep down, Harry knew it hadn’t been nothing. It had felt like something . And that terrified him.
So Harry visited Hermione’s small apartment, knowing Ron would be there as well. He had rehearsed this conversation in his head, yet their reactions still made him nervous.
Harry decided it was time for Draco, Hermione, and Ron to sit down for a proper dinner together. He wasn’t entirely sure what had pushed him to make the decision. Maybe it was the awkward but strangely consistent progress Draco had been making at being a slightly less insufferable housemate. Or maybe it was a misguided attempt to see if Ron and Hermione could finally start seeing Draco as more than an ex-Death Eater and perennial thorn in Harry’s side.
It certainly had nothing to do with the kiss. Absolutely nothing.
The memory of it was tucked away in the furthest corner of Harry’s mind, locked in a mental box he refused to acknowledge. Sure, it sometimes clawed its way to the surface—like when Draco walked into a room, or when their hands brushed while passing the salt, or when Harry caught himself staring at the curve of Draco’s smirk for longer than he should. But the dinner had nothing to do with that.
He told himself it was just practical. After all, they were all a part of his life now, in one way or another. It made sense to try and bridge the gap, didn’t it? He wanted things to be easier, more seamless, less fraught with tension. That was all.
As expected, the couple wasn’t entirely surprised—Harry’s stubborn nature meant he often pushed boundaries—but the idea of having dinner with Draco Malfoy caught them off guard.
They exchanged a quick glance, their unspoken concerns evident. While they had promised to try being kinder after hearing about Malfoy’s supposed transformation, the years of animosity were hard to overlook.
The uncertainty on their faces wasn’t rooted in distrust of Harry’s judgment; it was the sheer weight of everything that history carried. Harry and Malfoy had always been opposites—volatile and intense in their interactions, whether as enemies or, apparently, something else now. Accepting this new reality felt almost impossible as if they had missed a crucial chapter in Harry’s life.
“Well, we argue a lot,” Harry admitted, “but we’re more mature now. We talk things out. No physical fights.” He sounded almost proud as if this was an achievement worth noting.
“That’s… good,” Hermione replied, her tone carefully measured.
“I’ll be nice,” Ron added with a shrug, “as long as he doesn’t irritate me too much.” Then, as if recalling something, he said, “Oh, and you should stop by the Burrow later. Dad wants to talk to you and Malfoy.”
Harry’s hesitation was obvious, so Ron quickly clarified. “To apologize.”
Harry blinked in surprise but nodded. “Right, okay. Anyway, as I was saying, Malfoy is… nice when you get to know him. Fine, he’s still kind of a jerk. And yes, he’s spoiled, always has to be right.” He paused, a broad smile spreading across his face as a light laugh escaped. “And he has this uncanny knack for making the most cutting remarks. Merlin, his biting comments—”
“Where are the good qualities?” Ron interrupted, staring at him in disbelief.
By now, Ron had pieced together what he saw as a baffling mystery: Harry was interested in Malfoy. That was barely tolerable. Living with him? Absolutely not. Talking about him with that dumb smile? Unbearable.
“Draco is part Veela,” Harry declared suddenly, his voice filled with conviction.
“Why do you think that?” Hermione asked cautiously, her brow furrowing.
“Isn’t it obvious? He has this… charm. It has to be supernatural,” Harry replied, waving his hand as if the answer was self-evident.
Ron and Hermione exchanged uneasy glances.
“No, I’m serious. I can’t stop thinking about him. My heart practically jumps out of my chest whenever he’s near, and when we—”
“Please, be a prank.” Ron groaned, covering his ears. He leaned forward, his head between his knees, as though on the verge of a breakdown.
“Harry, it’s going to take a while for you to admit having a crush on Malfoy?” Hermione asked, her voice calm but exasperated.
“I don’t have a crush on Malfoy,” Harry said, genuinely confused as if he had no idea why they would think that.
“Right. So it’s going to take a while,” Hermione muttered under her breath.
“I don’t—”
“Sure, Harry. Whatever you want to believe,” she cut him off, clearly done with the conversation. Whether it was their lingering dislike of Malfoy or Harry’s obvious denial of his feelings, now wasn’t the time.
“Well,” Harry said, his voice quieter, “just don’t forget—you promised to be nice and give him a chance. Try not to get upset with him.”
For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, almost as if he was considering his own emotions for the first time. With a quick goodbye, he promised to head home soon. But there was a distant look in his eyes, a clear sign of the confusion swirling in his mind over what he had just admitted, however unintentionally.
…
Harry figured he’d bring it up with Draco later—maybe when Draco was in one of his more tolerable moods or too preoccupied to argue. But since the kiss, Harry had noticed that Draco never seemed to be in a good mood. At first, he tried to dismiss the idea as paranoia, but things felt undeniably off. Then, he wondered if he was giving himself too much credit. After all, that same night, Draco had received a letter that had visibly shaken him. Maybe that was the real reason.
Even though Harry could piece that much together, it didn’t help. Draco was never one to talk about his personal feelings, especially not with Harry. And honestly, Harry couldn’t blame him—he wasn’t even sure how he’d help if Draco did open up.
As Harry made his way to the kitchen, he tried to ignore the nagging feeling that he might be setting himself up for disaster. He also tried to ignore the flicker of something else—something he couldn’t quite name—that stirred whenever he thought about Draco being there. Because this wasn’t about the kiss. It wasn’t about Draco. This was just about making life simpler.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
“So, the youngest Weasley and Granger are coming here? Tonight?” Draco’s incredulous reaction was unsurprising.
“Only if you agree,” Harry said quickly. After all, things hadn’t gone well the last time he acted without consulting Draco.
“I think you’ve misunderstood the concept of giving advance notice,” Draco replied dryly. “It usually means a day or two beforehand, not two hours. Where am I supposed to eat dinner? And when can I return?”
Harry winced at the frustration in Draco’s voice. “I was hoping you’d stay for dinner too. All of us, together.”
“Me, dining with the Golden Trio?” Draco scoffed, as though the mere suggestion was laughable. And in his mind, it might as well have been.
“I’ll cancel if you’re not okay with it,” Harry offered, his tone earnest.
“No,” Draco blurted out, the response surprising them both. It was instinctive, driven more by the look of disappointment in Harry’s green eyes than by any rational thought. “If they don’t have a problem with it, I can manage. Besides, Teddy seems excited about having visitors.”
“Friends!” Teddy chimed in enthusiastically from the living room. The boy had learned the word from a cartoon he watched recently, though he still struggled with its meaning. He didn’t know many children his age, aside from the ones he occasionally saw at the park on weekends.
This was one reason Harry had brought up the idea of preschool, though Draco had been resistant. For now, Harry let the topic drop.
“Great! I’ll start making dinner. Do we have the ingredients for lasagna?” Harry asked, his tone light, trying to ease the tension.
“What’s—” Draco began, only to be cut off.
“Muggle food,” Harry clarified with a grin.
Draco gave a small nod, glancing over to make sure Teddy was still focused on his painting project before following Harry into the kitchen.
“We’ll need to go shopping. If you’d told me earlier, I could’ve taken care of it,” Draco said with a faint, teasing smirk.
Harry, pulling ingredients from the cupboards, didn’t rise to the bait. “You wouldn’t have gone. You hate grocery stores.”
“And who was it arguing with me just last week to avoid going shopping themselves?” Draco countered, raising an eyebrow.
Harry rolled his eyes, conceding. “Fine. You’re right. I hate them too. There are too many people, and they hover like I’m under surveillance.”
Draco quirked a brow, the faintest trace of pride flashing in his eyes. He was pleased he understood the Muggle concept of surveillance cameras—he was slowly adapting to this world.
“We should go together,” Draco suggested lightly.
“Sure. Now that we’ve made the front page, why not let the entire world see us shopping for pasta?” Harry quipped, a grin tugging at his lips as he began prepping the meat.
Draco leaned casually against the counter. “Aren’t you going to ask for my help?”
“You look fine just standing there,” Harry teased. “Actually, I think you should be banned from the kitchen entirely—for public safety reasons.”
“A sweet salad never killed anyone, Potter,” Draco retorted, though his cheeks flushed the faintest pink. He ran a hand through his hair in mock exasperation, his irritation genuine yet somehow endearing.
Harry chuckled despite himself, quickly refocusing on the lasagna before his thoughts strayed too far. It wasn’t the time to dwell on the flush of Draco’s cheeks or the way his smirk lingered in Harry’s mind. After all, there was dinner to make. And dinner wasn’t about Draco.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.