Malfoy is sick of it. Harry can see it. It’s obvious, the vicious eye rolls and foul sneers. Though it seems that Harry is the only one who notices Malfoy’s glares and who doesn’t swoon over his insults.
The thing is, Malfoy turns out to be a Veela. He came into his heritage in the summer after the war, on his eighteenth birthday. He was late –Fleur told Harry that Veelas come into their heritage around their seventeenth- but some Mind Healers had explained that traumatising events, like a war, can delay it. The moment Malfoy’s Veela-ness had become public knowledge, the Malfoy family had gone into hiding. Only Lucius came out from time to time for business.
And then Malfoy had come back to Hogwarts for their retake year, very creatively called ‘Eighth Year’. And everyone, even the straightest of guys, hugged him hello, touched him semi-casually and smiled seductively at him.
Malfoy is entirely done with it.
Not that anyone notices. Everyone seems to think that Malfoy is only playing hard-to-get, to fuel the interest of all those lovers, vying for his hand.
Right now, a fourth-year is seated next to Malfoy, close enough to share Malfoy’s breath. Malfoy is trying to lean away, but the fourth-year follows his every movement. There is a moment where Malfoy almost topples over, only to be steadied by another interested lover. Malfoy rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, sneers and stands up to leave. Parkinson and Zabini, who have both joined him for Eighth Year, flank his sides to guide him safely to the dungeons. Harry shrugs mentally before standing up himself. He needs a run.
After he has made it –unseen- to the Forbidden Forest, he concentrates on transforming. He feels much more relaxed, whenever he’s in his dog form. In the beginning, he was a bit miffed with his Animagus: what is so cool about a mid-sized, black dog? But then he started thinking, and realised that his Animagus was as close to Sirius’s as it could get. Combine that with having the same Patronus as his Dad, and Harry was almost convinced they were with him every day.
Running through the Forbidden Forest is something he has taken to doing thrice a week. He wanted to practice transforming to his newly acquired Animagus form, and the best way to gain control over a new body, is by using it. Right? Right. So Harry started jogging in the Forest, enjoying the sharpened smells and sounds. It turned into a therapeutic habit, with the bonus of improving his human form’s strength and endurance.
Hermione had suggested it, trying to become an Animagus. The summer after the war, Harry was restless, jumpy. He needed to do something, but Grimmauld Place wasn’t something he was keen on cleaning just yet. Hermione had started reading about more complex pieces of magic, as her way of coping with the war, and, when she had tired of Harry’s nervous energy, had thrown a book about Animagi in his lap. When Harry had become a little too invested to be merely curious, Hermione decided to help him become an Animagus.
Harry barks once at a squirrel before sprinting to a bit of water and jumping in. The water is cold, refreshing and just a tad salty. It doesn’t take long before Harry decides that he doesn’t like being in the water anymore, so he climbs out and lies down to try and clear his mind.
It isn’t fair, the way Veelas are treated like public property. Not that Malfoy is treated that way. Parkinson and Zabini protect him enough, and no doubt that Lucius has his barristers ready if anyone touches Malfoy once too often. Still, it’s the principle of the matter. Everyone is invading Malfoy’s personal space, everyone is drooling over his clothes and everyone keeps an eye or two on him at all times. However much Harry is sure that Malfoy doesn’t mind the extra attention, the kind of attention he gets, must be annoying.
Which might be the reason that Malfoy lights up whenever Harry indulges him in their battle of wits. Harry seems to be the only one that isn’t affected by Malfoy’s new heritage. He doesn’t really feel any different around Malfoy, apart from sympathy for his loss of privacy. Because of this, and because Harry has no strange urge to fondle Malfoy right then and there, Malfoy and he haven’t stopped trading of insults and swinging of fists. Although it isn’t as fiery as it used to be anymore –neither of them feel much like fighting- Harry likes the continuation. He likes knowing that one thing hasn’t changed, and will probably never change: Malfoy and he don’t get along.
And Hermione keeps telling him that Malfoy may have become a different man, like they all have. And Ron keeps telling him that Malfoy doesn’t deserve these fights, because he has enough on his mind already.
And McGonagall keeps telling him that Malfoy can’t afford being seen fighting with him, or the fortunate outcome of his trials will be reversed.
But it’s not about hating or hurting each other. It’s about a sense of normalcy. Harry can see it in Malfoy’s eyes. They’re calm when they fight, not blazing the way they used to do. The war has changed everything. Every friendship ever formed, every word ever uttered and every touch ever felt. Everything has gotten a different perspective. But this, these petty little fights with Malfoy, that is still the same.
Even running as a dog through the Forbidden Forest can’t match the calming effect of fighting with Malfoy.
Harry stands up to return to the castle, not wanting to be in the Forest when it’s properly dark. When he nears the doors –in human form, of course- he is just in time to see Malfoy violently pushing away a girl from their year, and stalking away. Harry frowns as the girl doesn’t take a hint, following Malfoy back inside, crooning all kinds of filthy promises.
“Pathetic,” Harry sighs, sinking down next to Ron and Seamus in the sofa of the Gryffindor common room.
“Hiya Harry. What’s pathetic?”
“That people can’t seem to reign themselves in around Veelas. I mean, how hard can it be?”
Ron rolls his eyes. “The Malfoy business again? Why can’t you let it slide?”
“If he would have been a girl, everyone would be screaming blue murder. How would you feel if this was Fleur?”
“Are you comparing Malfoy to my sister-in-law? My family? Merlin, Malfoy and I aren’t exactly chubby.”
“I just don’t understand! I am perfectly able to ignore every ‘allure’ Malfoy is supposed to have. Why can’t everyone else?”
Seamus snorts. “Harry, you can throw of Imperius. You’re just the exception to every rule. Get over it.”
Grumbling, Harry stares into the fire, letting the rest of the conversation flow without his input. They have had this discussion a million times already since the start of this schoolyear, but Ron and he still don’t see eye-to-eye on it. Perhaps Hermione can say something Harry agreed with.
“’Mione! Hey, Hermione!” Harry calls as she walks down with parchment and quill in her arms. She comes sit on the chair opposite of him, giving Ron a quick kiss hello, and arranges her parchment in such a way that she can start writing if she wants to.
“’Mione, what do you think of the way everyone is grabbing Malfoy at the least opportune moments?”
Hermione cocks her head to the side in thought. “I don’t know. It’s difficult, of course. Veelas are supposed to be attractive. That’s pretty much the essence of being a Veela. But there are barely any laws that protect Veelas, here in Britain. I think Malfoy’s very unfortunate with his heritance, and finding out right after the war can’t have been pleasant, but there isn’t much that can be done. Why?”
“Harry is jealous that other people are touching Malfoy,” Dean supplies with a grin.
“It’s not that!” Harry splutters. “It’s just rude, is what it is. Just now, I saw Malfoy pushing some girl away that has been bothering him from day one, and she still ran after him towards the dungeons.”
“Well, I assume that he can complain to McGonagall if he wanted to,” Hermione shrugged.
“As if she could do anything for him. It’s about general respect and behaviour towards Veelas, not just Malfoy.”
Ron raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t seem to object when we met Fleur for the first time.”
“We were fourteen. I’ve matured.”
“But everyone else here at Hogwarts is younger than us. You can’t blame them for not having matured yet.”
Seeing Harry’s frown deepen, Hermione places a hand on his arm in compassion. “If you really want to do something about it, you could start keeping Malfoy company? Or try to press for Veela rights. There is a lot you can do, you know.”
Harry nods, not completely convinced. Apparently, his friends don’t have the same qualms as he does. That’s fine. They will understand one day.
After a last sigh, Harry decides to go up to his dorm and read a bit before he falls asleep.
That week, during Potions –where Harry is seen as some kind of prodigy by Slughorn, while Malfoy seems to be doing everything wrong- Harry and Malfoy are paired up. Of course. That’s a fate Harry can’t seem to escape.
Malfoy is neat while working. He has full control over the size of the ingredients he cuts, and the liquid never once sloshes over the side of the cauldron. Harry isn’t allowed to do a thing –Malfoy still believes he is incapable in Potions. Which, let’s be honest, he is. But it looks like the potion is going to be perfect. The only thing remaining is waiting until the potion has settled, then adding the last ingredient, and a bit of stirring. Malfoy sits down, finally, next to Harry, albeit having pushed his chair a bit further away from Harry.
“Did you get a new cologne?” Harry suddenly asks.
Malfoy looks up, sneering lightly. “Don’t sniff me.”
“I wasn’t. It just… smells differently in here.”
“Perhaps it’s the fresh smell of finally getting your head out of your backside.”
“That’s gross. Also, if it is your cologne, it’s a compliment. Take it or leave it, Malfoy.”
Malfoy hums, picking up a small spoon to scoop up some of the potion, and sniffs it. With a satisfied nod, he drops the spoonful in a container vial and puts the spoon back down. Harry takes it that the potion is going well.
“How do you think your NEWTS are going to go?”
“I don’t see how that concerns you.”
“It’s called small talk, Malfoy. We’ll be sitting here, waiting for that potion for a fifteen more minutes.”
Malfoy growls something under his breath. “They’ll be fine. Obviously.”
“Good. You take Arithmancy, right?”
“Yes.”
“Hermione does too. She said something about a terribly difficult assignment?”
Perking up slightly, Malfoy sniffs at the potion again before answering. “We have to work out a problem, which can only be done by solving a couple very difficult formulas. Formulas of which the numerical charts are incomplete, since they are ancient and no one cares about them enough to complete them.”
“Oh. What’s your problem?”
“My case is about the Centaur populations. I have to find all factors that may have caused their diminishing, so I have to read and analyse all existing records of their numbers, and – never mind, it wouldn’t be interesting to you.”
Shaking his head rapidly, Harry tries to convince Malfoy to continue his story, assuring him that he really is interested and he would love to know more. Malfoy raises an eyebrow in disbelief, but leans back in his chair and continues anyway.
“Apart from records of their numbers, I have to analyse records of weather, human populations, populations of other magical creatures, et cetera, et cetera.”
“How will you ever gather all the data?”
“By using Arithmancy. I’ll make a list of factors that could influence a population, and then calculate how significant those factors may have been as cause. Then I’ll start researching the most significant factors, by choosing archives and records that will hold the most significant information.”
“Sounds like a lot of preoperational work.”
“That it is.”
Harry looks at their potions for a moment, and sees that most other pairs are also waiting for the potion to settle.
“How do you know which factors can affect the size of a population?”
Malfoy shrugs. “Mostly imagination. I also base it on known influencing factors on other creatures’s populations. I started with a very basic animal, a mostly domestic, Muggle animal, to see which factors affect their populations. This was the goat, by the way. And then I look at magical creatures and their populations. There has been a lot of research on Veela populations, because before the First War, they were concerned that the Veelas may become extinct. If I can combine factors on a regular animal, like a goat, with factors on a magical population, I can come up with the most accurate factors on Centaur populations.”
Impressed, Harry falls silent. “That’s… pretty cool. Did you come up with that method?”
“Of course,” Malfoy scoffs, a bit insulted. “Who else?”
“I don’t know, perhaps you had help or something.”
In a brisk movement, Malfoy stands up and adds the last ingredient to their potion, stirring less neatly than before. Harry rolls his eyes at the sudden annoyance, but keeps silent. Their conversation is clearly over, and it stays awkward until they are allowed to leave.
In the Gryffindor common room, that evening, Hermione sits down with her Arithmancy assignment in front of her. While she complains, Harry is unable to think of anything else than Malfoy and his Centaurs.
“Did you have to come up with your own problem, or was it assigned?” he interrupts Hermione mid-rant.
Hermione looks up, surprised that someone actually seems interested in her Arithmancy. “No, we had to come up with something ourselves. A problem that we actually cared about. I took -“
“Malfoy has the Centaur population. Why would he care about that?”
Sagging a bit in her seat, Hermione has a difficult time to suppress her smile, but Ron is less subtle and snorts loudly.
“I don’t know, Harry. Perhaps he thought it was a challenge. Although Merlin knows why anyone would want to challenge themselves with an Arithmancy assignment.”
“Wouldn’t he look down on Centaurs?”
“Why?” Ron questions.
“Because… he thinks pureblood wizards are the best right? Magical creatures aren’t as important. Why wouldn’t he do something about purity of blood?”
Hermione laughs. “Harry, you know that’s not all Malfoy cares about. You are being very prejudiced against Slytherins right now. Besides, since he came into his Veela heritage, perhaps he decided that other magical creatures were worth his attention as well? Or he just likes Centaurs. Or he thought it would be interesting.”
“But –“
“There are thousands of reasons why he could choose Centaur populations. How do you even know his assignment?” A pained expression flits over Hermione’s face as she considers her own question. “Are you stalking him again?”
Harry gapes at her, astonished and frankly offended that she would think that. “No! We talked during Potions.”
Ron and Hermione share a look that Harry can’t read, but shrug it off as one of the many improbable events in Harry’s improbable life.
As Harry pointedly ignores his friends, he can’t help but wonder. Why is he suddenly so invested in Malfoy? Is Hermione right, and had he been invested since the beginning of this year? Hermione is usually right…
But no, obviously she is wrong this time. Idiotic thoughts. He had never stalked Malfoy to begin with. Sixth year was just - He had been dedicated to helping the Order and finding out what Voldemort was up to. Nothing more than that, and nothing less. Definitely no stalking.
Harry silently goes up to his dorm and crawls into his bed, determined to have a good night’s sleep.
He only sleeps after a couple hours of pondering Malfoy’s choice for Centaur populations and Malfoy’s Veela-ness.
A couple weeks later, as Harry is strolling through the Forbidden Forest again, it starts to rain. He is just on his way back to the castle but stops when he hears two voices. It sounds like a fight. Well, one of the voices sounds plain angry, while the other is more of a controlled annoyance.
A controlled annoyance Harry knows all too well.
Watching from the shadows of a tree, Harry sees how Malfoy is leant against a thick trunk of a tree, arms crossed, but face impassive.
“Give me one good reason, Draco!” the plain angry voice sounds. Harry can’t quite make out who it neither, and neither does he recognise the voice. It’s vaguely familiar, but there is just no direct memory of this tone of anger.
“I’ve given you plenty reasons already. It’s not my fault you can’t get it through you head.”
“You have been flirting with me this entire year, and now it’s my fault that I don’t understand why you suddenly reject me?”
Harry gnashes his teeth. Apparently, someone thinks that Draco has been flirting with them. Of course, Harry can’t judge, because he doesn’t know who Draco has or hasn’t been flirting with, but it sounds suspiciously like someone has fallen for Veela beauty. The disrespect, honestly.
“Draco, come on. You know I would treat you well,” the voice pleads. At least they’re on first name basis with Malfoy, so it wouldn’t be impossible that Malfoy has actually been flirting with the poor man.
“Don’t call me Draco. I don’t even know your first name,” Malfoy snaps. So Malfoy has not flirted with the man.
“Yes, you do. Why deny it all of a sudden?”
Malfoy pushes himself away from the tree and takes a few steps towards the castle. Harry can see by the way he moves that he is uncomfortable, but simultaneously rolling his eyes at whoever the guy is.
However, the guy does not understand that Malfoy wants to get away. He grabs Malfoy’s wrist and swirls him around so that they are face to face again. Thunder claps above their heads, but Harry doesn’t notice. Malfoy looks up at the sky, grimacing when the rain thickens and one drop lands precisely in his eyes.
“Let me go,” Malfoy demands. The guy only pulls him closer, clearly with the intent of making Malfoy stumble, but the latter’s balance is well enough to catch himself smoothly. With a vicious sneer, Malfoy rips his arm free and tries once again to stalk inside.
When the guy –Terry Boot, as Harry sees at a strike of lightning- reaches again for Malfoy, Harry jumps in between. He snarls at Terry, who stumbles backwards, eyeing Harry’s dog form with distaste and a hint of fear.
“Whose mutt is this?” Terry asks. Harry takes a step forward and growls low in his throat. He senses Malfoy’s fear behind him, but ignores him in favour of scaring Terry some more. Threateningly snapping his jaws together, Harry manages to drive Terry further away from Malfoy.
Just when Harry decides Terry has been scared enough, and turns around to trot up to Malfoy and see if he is all right, he feels a sharp pain zing through his hind leg. With a whine, he falls down. Terry’s face appears grinningly above him, stick in hand.
“Dogs. No one actually likes them,” he mutters. Glancing one last time at Malfoy and at Harry, who is still growling, Terry shrugs, after which he heads towards the castle.
Malfoy stares at Harry, unsure of whether to approach him or let it lie there. When Harry whines pitifully and moves his hind leg, which is getting sticky with some thick liquid, Malfoy seems to decide that Harry needs help. He moves closer slowly, murmuring sweet nothing to assure the dog he doesn’t mean any harm, and crouches down when Harry seems to have no objections.
“Your leg’s bleeding, love. I should bring you to Hagrid’s.”
Harry whines again. Going to Hagrid means getting an animal’s treatment, and he is not entirely sure that is the right way to go, nor the most pleasant.
“Hagrid can treat you well, I promise. What’s your name? Do you have a tag somewhere?” Malfoy carefully threads his fingers through Harry’s fur around his neck in search of a tag, but only finds the black collar. Frowning, Malfoy feels at Harry’s hind leg again.
“It doesn’t feel like it’s broken, just a flesh wound. And Hagrid’s hut is quite far away, especially since curfew is approaching and he doesn’t really like me…” His grey eyes seem to lighten as he gets an idea. “I’ll bring you up with me. Madam Pomfrey can get you a bandage around your leg, and then you can sleep in the Slytherin common room until someone claims you. It’s not allowed, exactly, but even McGonagall can’t deny you now. Or maybe she can, she’s a cat, but we’ll try.”
Malfoy scratches behind Harry’s ear before sliding one arm underneath his chest, and winding the other very carefully around his loin, taking care not to disrupt the wounded leg.
Harry would have thought that it would be immensely uncomfortable, being carried by someone, let alone Malfoy, but it’s remarkably all right. Malfoy’s gait is controlled, as is everything about him, and he never once stumbles or place his foot too hard on the ground. Harry is barely feels as if they are moving. Then again, that may be because he is a bit dizzy.
After a while, and Harry isn’t quite sure how long it has taken, they arrive at the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey frowns at Malfoy’s explanation, but doesn’t oppose. With practised movements, she binds up Harry’s leg so the blood is stopped from flowing. Malfoy is silent now, instead of his continuous rambling on the way to the hospital wing.
However, when they are out of earshot of Madam Pomfrey, and on their way to the dungeons, Malfoy has picked up his talking. Harry isn’t really listening, too dazed from the Calming Draught he was given, but appreciates the constant hum of Malfoy’s voice. He is sharply shaken from the fuzziness by loud music. As he opens his eyes, Harry sees that they have entered the Slytherin common room. It’s still as green as Harry remembers.
“Turn it down!” someone yells towards the Slytherins standing around the radio.
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Half-bloods. Their Muggle family introduced them to hop-hip or something. Awful music, but I suppose it’s better than the Weird Sisters.”
Parkinson looks up when she hears Malfoy’s voice and frowns when she sees the dog.
“What is that?”
“It’s a dog.”
“I know that. Why are you bringing it in our common room? What if it’s full of fleas?”
Malfoy snorts. “It looks far too groomed to have fleas. Besides, there is a spell for that.”
“You haven’t answered my first question.”
“Fine. Boot was bothering me when I was outside, and this dog jumped out of nowhere in front of me. Boot hit it with a stick, and its paw was bleeding. I decided to take it to Madam Pomfrey and then here, until someone claims it.”
Zabini is wearing a pinched expression after Malfoy’s story, but Malfoy doesn’t let him speak. He pointedly sits down in the chair he always sits in, far away from the fire, and lets the dog curl up in his lap. After a few deep –exaggeratedly deep- sighs from Parkinson and Zabini, they join him in their little corner.
Harry doesn’t bother keeping his eyes open, and lets himself fall asleep with the sounds of friendly chatter in his ears.
He wakes up when everyone is still asleep. Malfoy is slouched in his chair, with Harry still in his lap, but he is the only one in the common room. Harry figures it must be around two. Ignoring the urge to doze off again, he carefully jumps to the ground and heads towards the door. Safely in the dark hallways of the dungeons, he changes back into human form, sneaking into his dorm to catch another couple of hours of sleep.
The next morning, Harry is woken rudely by his curtains being opened. Ron takes one look at his clothes, before hitting Harry on his chest.
“We were worried, mate,” he grumbles.
As they change and leave for the Great Hall, Harry can’t hide the light dragging of his leg. Ron frowns, but doesn’t comment on it until they see Hermione standing in the door opening with her arms crossed.
“Better have a good excuse for that,” Ron warns. Harry smiles awkwardly, trying to ease the tension in Hermione’s posture.
“Where were you?” Hermione demands angrily, before Harry can answer Ron.
“I was running. In the Forest.”
“From dinner to midnight? I highly doubt that, Harry. It was storming last night! What happened?”
“Nothing, I promise! I lost track of time.”
Hermione huffs, making a point of ushering Ron and Harry towards the Gryffindor table. While Harry tries his best to walk as normally as possible, Hermione immediately spots it and holds Harry still.
“Is that a result from your ‘nothing’?”
“Let it go, ‘Mione. It’s not important.”
“What is it? Nothing or not important?”
“Both.”
Ron frowns again, nudges Harry when Hermione has turned around. “I get it if you don’t want to tell her, but at least tell me. You know I won’t start a lecture.”
“Right,” Harry relents. “Boot was being an annoying twat, and he hit me in my Animagus form. I was in the hospital wing last night to have my leg healed.”
With a nod, Ron starts piling his plate full of food and turns to Hermione. Harry is left to get aggravated with everyone that leans too close to Malfoy.
After breakfast, when Harry walks into the classroom, he catches Malfoy’s eye. He sees how Malfoy slowly travels down to his dragging leg, and senses how he zeroes in on it. A hot flush creeps over Harry’s cheeks as those grey eyes snap to his again, now with undeniable knowledge sparkling in them.
“Are you even registered?” Malfoy asks, voice only lightly stained with mock.
Harry turns around in his seat to face Malfoy properly. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Of course not. My apologies, I must have mistaken you for someone else.”
Harry shakes his head, holding his quill poised for making notes. Just when their professor starts talking, Malfoy does too.
“Has the bleeding stopped?”
“What are you on about?”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I’m not stupid, Potter. If it hasn’t stopped, you should go to the hospital wing. It shouldn’t infect.”
“Even if I knew what you were referring to, I still wouldn’t take your advice,” Harry snaps, after which Hermione shushes him and glares at Malfoy.
Malfoy only raises a single eyebrow before scribbling something on a piece of parchment. Harry would assume he was taking notes from the lesson, but the thing is that it’s only a scrap of parchment, while Malfoy’s neat binder of notes is lying right beside him. It annoys Harry to no end. Fortunately, he finds out exactly what Malfoy was writing, because the parchment folds into an origami bird and flies directly to Harry’s desk.
“Why did you do it?
And don’t bother with the innocent act. I know it was you.”
Harry grumbles. Of course Malfoy knows it was him. That much is clear. But he is not going to answer Malfoy’s question. Mostly because he doesn’t know why he did it, but also because Malfoy doesn’t need to know every thought that goes on in Harry’s head.
Not that every thought in Harry’s head is about Malfoy, obviously.
A second origami bird lands on Harry’s hand.
“I’m merely curious. Don’t you think I deserve to know why the Almighty Saviour would jump to my defense?”
Balling up both notes, Harry really tries to focus on the professor in front of him. Malfoy apparently gets the hint, because there is no third origami bird. There is one scene, however, where one of the Gryffindors is asked to hand out some parchment, and dawdles a little too long around Malfoy’s desk. Zabini eventually waves them away, but a deep line of annoyance has been etched between Malfoy’s eyebrows already.
Soon after that, Harry catches Malfoy’s gaze again and twists his face into something that hopefully conveys the question whether Malfoy is all right. Malfoy’s nostrils are flaring lightly, but he nods and that’s really all Harry needs.
At the end of the lesson, Malfoy’s forehead has smoothed out somewhat and he is back to smirking whenever he sees Harry glancing his way. As they walk out, Malfoy waits for Harry and raises an eyebrow in inquiry. Harry stomps over to him, sighing.
“What do you want now?”
“Still the same. Why?”
“Because! It’s disrespectful, how everyone treats you like some kind of fertility statue.”
Malfoy laughs, and it’s a surprising sound. “A fertility statue? Really? Creative, Potter, truly.”
“Yes. Well,” is the last thing Harry says before shrugging and following Hermione and Ron to their next class.
He eats through an entire bag of M&Ms Dean provides in order to distract himself from wondering exactly why he bothers with Malfoy.
It doesn’t take long before Hermione figures it out. It takes Malfoy even less time. And while Hermione is kindly listening to Harry complain about Malfoy’s Veela-ness, asking questions that hopefully guide Harry to the right conclusion, Malfoy is less subtle about it. After about two weeks of indulging everyone with a smile or a wink, Harry is about to burst with annoyance. In fact, he even dares to call it jealousy, in the safety of his own mind.
But it doesn’t matter how he calls it, the situation doesn’t change. Malfoy doesn’t seem as annoyed as he used to be when people push into his personal space. He spares them his attention, he lets them talk to him, and he even attempts to make them laugh. Which, you know, would be fine if he would treat Harry the same. But he doesn’t. Harry is the exception to the rule, as he always has been, and it’s starting to get to him.
Why would this new Malfoy ignore him? Had he done something wrong? Is Malfoy angry with him? Or is it a sort of punishment for driving Terry Boot away? Had Malfoy really just tried to play hard-to-get?
Harry groans at his whirling thoughts. When Madam Pince shoots him a warning look, he sighs and decides to go outside for a breather. Out of sight, he turns into his Animagus and strolls through the scrubs, staying close to the castle.
There is a picnic table of sorts, where Terry Boot is enjoying the watery sun. He is lying on the bench with his eyes closed and ankles crossed. Harry wouldn’t have noticed him normally, but Malfoy is walking up to the table in determined steps. There is one second where Harry swears that Malfoy is throwing a wink his way, but the moment disappears before he can think about it properly.
Malfoy leans with his back on the table, greeting Terry softly. Terry cracks one eye open and upon seeing who it is, sits up to face Malfoy.
“Draco.”
“Terry.” So Malfoy does know Terry’s first name. Perhaps he had been flirting with Terry when Harry interrupted. An irrational surge of rage burst through Harry at the thought.
“How are you?”
Malfoy sends Terry a sweet little smile. “I was just about to ask you the same. I’m fine.”
“Me, too. Did you find out whose dog it is?”
“To be honest, I don’t think the dog listens to anyone but itself.”
“Right.”
There is a lapse of silence, in which Harry creeps closer to hear their conversation better. Malfoy turns his head to the sun and basks in it, sunlight glinting of his unnaturally blonde hair, until Terry speaks up again.
“Did you come here with a special reason?”
Shrugging, Malfoy casts his gaze down. “Not really. I – well, I wanted to see how you were.” Tucking a lock of hair back behind his ear, he pastes self-deprecating smile on while trailing his eyes along every ridge of Terry’s face. Then he chuckles, softly. “You’ve got a little –“
Bending forward, he outstretches his hand to gently pluck something from Terry’s hair. His hand lingers there for a second, before he drops it, swallowing simultaneously. Harry can barely suppress the growl threatening to break free.
A smile appears on Terry’s lips. “Please tell me if I got this all wrong, but - would you like to kiss me?”
Please don’t, Harry thinks, grimacing at the thought.
Malfoy smirks. “I don’t know. Would I?”
Terry stands up and places his hands on both sides of Malfoy’s hips, on the table. “I think you might,” he whispers before slowly leaning in.
He doesn’t get to kiss Malfoy though, because Harry pounces and sinks his teeth in Terry’s calf. A pained scream fills the air. Terry stumbles backwards, glaring at Harry.
“Bloody dog. Haven’t I hurt you enough last time?” he yells. Turning to Malfoy, with his hair in disarray and an angry expression, he roars, “Is this some kind of joke? Is that dog yours?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but stomps off, limping to relieve his calf from the pain.
Harry sits quietly a few steps away, beside the picnic bench. Perhaps he went too far now. Perhaps Malfoy actually wanted to kiss that prat. He should have turned away if he hadn’t wanted to see it.
Malfoy rubs his finger along his upper lip, sniffs and scrunches up his nose. Then he stares into Harry’s eyes, and purses his lips in an attempt to hide his smile. As he comes closer, measured steps, straightened back and all, he bites his lip. He crouches in front of Harry, leaning lightly on the bench.
“Are you still going to pretend I don’t affect you?”
A full-blown smirk replaces his earlier expressions while he scratches Harry behind his ear. In one fluent motion, he stands up and walks away.
The only response he gets is a small whine. Malfoy counts it as a victory.
Harry isn’t capable of holding conversation the rest of the day. As his eyes are glued to the Slytherin table during dinner, Hermione decides that is has been enough.
“Harry. Harry. Harry!”
“Hm?” Harry hums, turning his head to face Hermione, but still looking at Malfoy through the corners of his eyes.
Ron snorts, Seamus slams his thigh in laughter. Ginny shakes her head in exasperation.
Hermione sighs. “It’s the only way,” she mumbles to herself, before whipping her flat hand against Harry’s cheek.
It does get him out of his hypnosis.
“Ouch! Godric, Hermione, what was that for?”
“Listen to me, Harry. You are obviously gone. Can you please do something about it?”
“Whipped? Me, in love with Malfoy? Are you out of your mind?”
Ginny smirks. “No one said anything about Malfoy.”
Spluttering and wishing his cheeks weren’t bright red –and that’s not just from Hermione’s slap-, Harry tries to find an answer for that last remark, but is cut off by Ron.
“Harry. Mate. Brother. I would love nothing more than you falling in love with someone else. Anyone else. But frankly, I think Malfoy could be the right one for you. And I’m getting a whiplash with all the different emotions you are presenting. Could you please, for the love of Merlin, Salazar and Godric, talk to him?”
“N-“
“If there is any part of you that loves me, save me!” Ron bursts.
There is no way Harry can keep denying it. Not even to himself, while he is the most gullible person he knows.
He should really do something about it.
And so, a couple days later, Harry faux-casually sidles up to Malfoy when they are waiting in front of the classroom and hands him a box.
Malfoy raises and eyebrow. “What’s this?”
Harry nods towards the box, indicating that Malfoy should open it. When the latter does, it results in a long moment of stunned silence.
“I’m not sure I understand what this means.”
Harry rolls his eyes, picks one heart shaped cookie from the box and pushes it under Malfoy’s nose, which crinkles from the smell.
“Dog treats?”
Scuffling a bit, and desperately ignoring the jeers of his friends and whispers of everyone else in the hallway, Harry nods. “I want to be yours.”
“So you’re giving me dog treats?”
“I – yes? Because of my Animagus, see?”
“You’ve got to elaborate a bit.”
Harry sighs. “It was symbolical. Like, if you have my dog treats, I will come to you, right? For treats. It’s a bit of a guarantee I will visit you.”
Malfoy snorts. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“You don’t even know that the music genre is called hip-hop, not hop-hip.”
“Git.”
“Centaur.”
“Goat.”
“Weird bird.”
“Hold on, what does that have to do with anything?”
Harry laughs. “I have no clue.”
Shaking his head fondly, Malfoy throws a handful of dog treats to his head.
“I did get a new cologne, by the way,” Malfoy smirks, right before they enter the classroom. They sit next to each other, neither of them even having to think about it.
“I know. You smell like a fertility statue.”
Their laughter and giggling continues throughout the entire lesson.
It’s the first time this year that Malfoy has done something good in Slughorn’s eyes.