Harry Potter had never thought very highly of Draco Malfoy; a boy in his year who was, despite being incredibly attractive, also incredibly pigheaded. In all honesty, Harry often got the feeling that he was a disappointment to Draco. After all, both of their fathers had come from old money.
Alas, Harry’s father, James Potter—who hailed from an incredibly rich family, which had been incredibly rich for roughly twelve generations—had died alongside his famous actress and model of a mother, Lily, in the same terrorist attack that had killed Harry’s grandparents and given him his lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. These days, Harry was with his godfather Sirius Black, and Sirius’s husband, Remus.
There was no such tragic past for Draco Malfoy. His father, Lucius Malfoy, came from an old money family that was even older and even richer than Harry’s; so did Draco’s—admittedly stunning—mother, Narcissa, who was Sirius’s first cousin. They didn’t talk much, seeing as the last time that they had gotten together—before either Harry or Draco had been born—Sirius had punched Lucius so hard that he’d broken his nose for insulting Remus. Both of Draco’s parents were alive and well.
But any sort of fondness Harry might have had for Draco for their similarities had been dampened by the first words out of the boy’s mouth when they’d met: “It’s too bad you have your mother’s eyes.” Harry had, of course, kicked Draco very hard in the shin for that comment, and, four years later, they still were not friends.
At fifteen, Harry knew that it was best to avoid any and all Draco-Malfoy-related-exploits. So why—why, god, why—was he about to do this? Why was he about to head inside the nearly empty classroom when he was supposed to be returning to class from the bathroom? What was he thinking, really?
Well, honestly, he was thinking that although he certainly recognized the muffled sobs coming from within the almost empty room, they sounded a lot less stiff than usual. Less contained. Like Draco Malfoy was, for whatever reason, truly crying. And, oddly enough, the very thought of that made Harry sad enough to open the door and step into the classroom.
Immediately, a pair of large, sterling gray eyes met his. They were—as Harry had expected them to be—brimming over with tears. Draco’s usually pristine white blonde hair was more ruffled than normal, like he hadn’t combed through it meticulously, or like he’d raked his hands through it and ruined the style. His pale skin was unusually flushed around his cheeks and his sharp, symmetrical features were tight. He pursed his lips, then opened his mouth—likely to say something foul—but Harry beat him to the punch.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Draco, at the very least, seemed so taken aback by the stupidity of Harry’s question that he did not start yelling like Harry expected him to. Instead, he merely stared at him incredulously through wet eyes, waiting for Harry to acknowledge his folly.
“Sorry—that’s a stupid question. Do you want to talk about it?” Harry corrected himself after a moment.
Sniffling and looking down, Draco’s shoulders hunched. “Not with you.”
Harry pursed his lips and closed the classroom door before striding over to the desk that Draco sat atop of, looking at the other boy with sympathy all the while. “Well, Pansy’s out with the flu, and Blaise is on a long holiday with his mum, so you don’t really have anyone else to talk about it with. Unless Crabbe and Goyle really are your friends. Which would be quite surprising, honestly, since you only ever seem interested in using them as bodyguards—”
“Are you quite finished?” Draco snapped, not seeming the least bit amused by Harry’s tangent.
“Sorry,” Harry said quickly.
Draco stared at him for a moment, disbelieving, then sighed quietly. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I usually am.” Harry flashed the other boy a smile.
Draco scowled, not at all interested in lightening the mood. “Though I’m sure to regret it, seeing as you’ve got such a bloody big mouth—”
“Name one secret I’ve let slip—anyone’s secret! Go on—I’ll wait all day if I have to. Which I will have to, since I’ve never let loose a single secret in my life.”
Draco sighed again, exasperated. “Won’t you let me have this?”
“Sorry, no. I’ll help you through whatever’s going on, but I won’t let you be a prick. It’s how I was raised,” Harry told him sternly.
The blonde muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, And here I thought you’d been raised by wolves, but his face shifted into something incredibly sad and defeated before Harry could bring himself to harp on the comment.
“My father’s going to kill me,” he whispered.
Harry frowned, motioning for Draco to make room for him to sit—which, surprisingly enough, he did. “What?”
“My father,” Draco said incredibly slowly, like he was talking to a mentally challenged toddler. “Is going. To kill me.”
Harry huffed. “I got that. Why?”
A few silent tears escaped from Draco’s eyes. “You can’t tell anyone—especially not Weasley or Granger.”
“I won’t,” Harry promised, and he knew it would be an easy one to keep.
“My mother found out over the weekend,” Draco murmured, so quietly that Harry actually had to strain to hear. “She found out that he still hits me.”
Harry had not a single clue what to say to that, so it was a good thing that Draco just went right on talking without pausing to gauge Harry’s reaction.
“He promised he would stop years ago, of course, when she found out the first time, but only because she threatened to leave and take me with her. I think that’s why he hates your godfathers so much—Cousin Sirius was her backup for a place to stay if she had to go somewhere. Lord knows that Auntie Bella wouldn’t have taken her in…”
Harry couldn’t help but shudder at the mention of Bellatrix Lestrange—Sirius had told him all about her—but he managed to keep the movement controlled enough that Draco didn’t stop to look over at him.
“He never did stop, obviously; just made sure to be more quiet about it once he realized that she was serious. But Mother saw one of the newer bruises over the long weekend, and I’ve never been good at lying to her—I can’t really bring myself to do it, if I’m being completely honest. But it wouldn’t have mattered if I were good at it, because she guessed correctly immediately…” Draco trailed off for a moment. “Good god, now I’m rambling.”
Harry couldn’t help it—he smiled. “I understood you well enough.”
Draco shrugged.
“Your dad’s a flaming bit of rubbish, you know,” Harry added, just to make sure that this fact was well established.
Instead of replying, Draco sniffled.
“And your mum’s right to not want him around. She’s also right in using Sirius and Remus as a backup.”
For the first time, a bit of light seemed to come into Draco’s clear, gray eyes. He looked to Harry hopefully. “Really?”
Harry nodded. “’Course—we’ll have the two of you whenever. It’s not like money’s tight,” Harry threw Draco another playful smile, and this time, Draco returned it with a watery one of his own.
“I suppose that’s true,” Draco conceded, but his shoulders were still hunched.
“And you’re not alone, by any means,” Harry told Draco, feeling his heart pound out-of-sync with his nerves.
Draco frowned. “I know that,” he said, a little suspiciously.
Harry huffed. “I meant me, Draco.”
At first, Draco didn’t react. Then, his eyes—which were already quite wide—grew to twice their normal size, and he said in a very faint voice, “Cousin Sirius and—”
Harry laughed. “No, of course not! I meant Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. If they weren’t screaming at me, or locking me in the cupboard under the stairs, then they were hitting me with whatever they could reach. My cousin Dudley, too, but he and I have since made amends. He’s a good kid.”
Draco looked truly appalled. “The aunt and uncle on your mother’s side? The ones that Cousin Sirius took you from?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. They didn’t like me much. Probably because mum was so smart and talented and beautiful, and Aunt Petunia was none of that, and neither was Uncle Vernon. Dudley turned out all right, somehow,” he added—it felt important, for whatever reason, that Draco knew that he and Dudley weren’t on bad terms. They weren’t friends, certainly, but Harry no longer hated his cousin. Not at all…
“No wonder you never talk about them,” Draco muttered.
Shrugging, Harry slung a tentative arm around Draco’s delicate shoulders. “Well, I certainly don’t have very fond memories of them, but I’ll talk about it with friends and family… You could be a friend of mine, if you’d like. I don’t care either way.”
“Pretty terrible way to extend the olive branch, considering the very first thing you ever did to me was attack, Potter,” Draco sneered.
Harry winced. “Well, you did insult my dead mother…”
Now it was Draco’s turn to wince. “And I’m sorry about that, really. It was what my father always said when you were brought up, and I didn’t know what else to say. You were the only person I’d ever met with a more well known and well liked family than mine. It was…”
“Intimidating,” Harry offered after a beat, ignoring Draco’s indignant scowl.
“If you insist,” Draco told him stiffly. “Still…”
“I like my eyes,” Harry added a little coolly—he wasn’t, it seemed, as over that moment as he had thought he was. “I think they’re my best feature.”
“That and your hair,” Draco muttered, before flushing a very pretty crimson. “And I already told you I was sorry,” he snapped, a little louder than before.
Harry grinned. “Well, apology accepted, then. Friends?”
Draco considered him for a moment, eyes first on Harry’s, then on Harry’s arm—which was still around Draco’s shoulders—and then back to Harry’s eyes again.
“Fine,” he finally said, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore.
Harry snorted. “I’m glad that’s all sorted out. Want to call your mum on the school phone and tell her to pack her overnight bag?”
Draco snorted primly—Harry hadn’t known until that particular moment that such a sound could be made prim—and slunk off of the desk. “If you insist.”
Harry smiled, jumping to the floor and joining Draco as he made his way to the classroom door, bumping their shoulders together. “This should be fun—and just think; if you’re already tired of me now, imagine living under the same roof!”
Draco smiled at Harry then—a real smile, one that rearranged many of his features and brightened up the whole room. It, for some strange reason, made Harry remember that Narcissa Malfoy—back when she’d still been Narcissa Black—had been a model with Harry’s mum. At the same agency, too, before her parents had pulled her out for work—not modeling, but work—being beneath her. It could be hard to remember, sometimes, that Draco looked like the male version of his mother. He was always scowling and scoffing, but when he smiled…
When he smiled, it was easier to see his beauty.