Chapter Text
November 1998
"I hate you."
"Whatever will I do?" Malfoy drawls, not bothering to look up from his book. "The Saviour of the Wizarding World hates me. Tragic."
"Don't call me that," Harry mutters.
Malfoy looks up and tilts his head. "Did I upset the poor little hero?"
Harry glares at him from across the study table. "You are such an arsehole."
Malfoy shrugs. "You would know." And it's his tone—his nonchalant, posh prick tone—that sends Harry from annoyed to angry in nanoseconds.
He can feel the blood rush in his ears and his cheeks heat. He wants to deck him, punch the smirk right off his face, and watch his lip bleed. He slams his book shut instead.
"Fuck this," Harry says, scraping his chair back loudly and shoving his book in his bag. "Fuck this project and fuck you. I'm done."
Harry swings his bag over his shoulder, grabs his cloak, and storms out of the library. He's halfway down the empty eighth-year corridor when an arm closes around his bicep. Harry whirls, wand out, and points it directly at Malfoy's face.
Malfoy's grey eyes widen, and he raises his hands in vague surrender. Harry huffs and lowers his wand. Reluctantly, because Malfoy could use a good hex to the face.
"So touchy," Malfoy mutters, and Harry glares at him.
"Don't grab me like that," Harry snaps.
"Noted," Malfoy mutters. He swallows, and Harry notices the line of his throat, long and pale under his collar. He has the urge to bite the soft skin there.
Harry blinks. What the fuck is he thinking?
"Listen," Malfoy says, lowering his hands slowly, "we don't really have a choice—"
"I'll speak to McGonagall—"
"And say what? That you can't get through one project with me? You know she's just going to go on about," he mimes air quotes, "post-war unity and setting an example and all that other shite. She already gave us the lecture when the supervisor paired us. There's no way she's letting us off."
Harry frowns. As much as he hates to admit it, Malfoy's right. McGonagall and the N.E.W.T. adjudicators implemented a cooperative independent study for this year's exams. And, of course, he was paired with Malfoy. She'd called them to the Headmaster's office, handed them each a ginger newt, and told them they would work together ‘cohesively and cooperatively’ because they were 'adults setting an example on how to comport themselves in these tenuous times.'
They'd gritted their teeth through it, nodding sullenly as she laid out her expectations.
It’s just that Harry hadn't expected Malfoy to be so Malfoy-ish about the whole thing. Was it too much to expect even a modicum of humility from the bastard? For fuck's sake, he's only at Hogwarts instead of rotting in Azkaban because of Harry's testimony.
Harry doesn't want to be friends or anything. Still, the fact that Malfoy is utterly unapologetic and committed to provoking Harry daily is bloody infuriating. And it's even more maddening that Harry, more often than not, finds himself rising to the bait. It's as if they're still twelve and still challenging each other to stupid midnight duels.
Harry sighs. "Fine," he says.
Malfoy crosses his arms. "Are you coming back to the library?"
"Nope," Harry says, popping the p.
Malfoy rolls his eyes. "You are such a child."
Harry takes a half step towards Malfoy. "How about this," he says, lowering his voice and feeling particularly mean, "since I, oh, I don't know, kept you out of Azkaban, you do the fucking project?"
Malfoy's eyes narrow, and he smiles a slow, nasty grin. Harry swallows. He may have miscalculated.
"Am I supposed to get on my knees and thank you for telling the truth, then?" Malfoy asks, his voice low and dangerous. "Am I to pray at the altar of Saint Potter every night?" He closes the last bit of space between them, his eyes glinting in the dim hallway. "If that's what you expect, you can go fuck yourself."
They're close enough for Harry to feel Malfoy's breath on his cheek and smell his cologne—it's fresh and spicy, and just a little bit woodsy. He smells good, and Harry's dick twitches in his pants without his permission.
"Oh yeah?" Harry manages to ask, his breath catching in his chest.
He watches the line of Malfoy's throat as he swallows. "Yeah."
There's a beat, a pause. Maybe it's a second or an hour, but before Harry's brain can catch up, they crash into each other, teeth clacking in a brutal kiss. Malfoy tastes like cinnamon sugar quills and kisses like it's a fight. Harry feels like he's trying to devour Malfoy and being devoured in return.
It's the best kiss of his life.
He grabs Malfoy's hips and pushes him to the wall.
"No," Malfoy says, pulling back, panting.
Harry, unable to think about anything other than Malfoy's mouth, leans in, chasing him.
Malfoy puts a hand to his chest to stop him, and it's as if he's losing something he never even wanted.
Malfoy glances down the hallway. Harry stares at his mouth, his lips plumped and red. How has he never noticed how perfect Malfoy's mouth is?
Malfoy grabs his hand. "Grab your shit and come on," he says—no, he demands—and a shiver runs down Harry's spine.
He must have dropped his bag and cloak at some point, so he hastily picks them up and lets Malfoy pull him down the corridor past their dormitory, stopping at an unmarked door. He shoves it open with his shoulder and drags Harry in.
"Shut the door," Malfoy commands, and Harry shivers again. He thinks he likes it when Malfoy orders him about. He drops his bag and cloak and kicks the door shut.
They're in a small room—an old office, it appears, with barren shelves lining the walls and a dusty, unused desk.
"What is this?" Harry asks, looking around.
"Don't know," Malfoy says.
"How did you know it was here?"
Malfoy slants him a look. "Do you really want to talk about the room?"
Harry looks at Malfoy—really looks at him—for what feels like the first time ever. He's tall and lean, although he's filled out a bit since last year. His cheeks aren't as hollow anymore, and his shoulders are a bit broader. Harry lets his gaze linger on his pale neck and perfect lips. He drops it slowly, taking in Malfoy's long fingers and narrow hips. He stops at the bulge in his trousers, and Harry swallows. Malfoy is hard for him.
He lifts his gaze and locks eyes with Malfoy.
"I don't," Harry says, grabbing his hips again and walking him back until his arse hits the edge of the deck.
"Good." Malfoy pulls Harry in for another devastating kiss.
And, oh Jesus, it's good. It's so much better than it should be—Malfoy's mouth is like a dream.
Distantly, Harry thinks he should stop, run to the dormitory, and take a cold shower.
Instead, he presses into Malfoy, seeking more. More heat and teeth and tongue. More of those perfect lips.
Harry can't stop. He won't.
Harry breaks the kiss to tug on Malfoy's tie, letting it slip to the floor. He unbuttons the top three buttons of Malfoy’s shirt and his pulse skitters under Harry's fingertips. He grabs a handful of soft hair and tilts Malfoy's head back.
Malfoy's chest heaves against him as he stares at Harry under his heavy-lidded eyes. His pupils are blown wide, and Harry drinks in the sharp angle of his jaw, the soft skin behind his ear.
He wants to feel Malfoy's pulse under his mouth and know how his skin tastes.
He's ravenous, and he's not hungry at all.
Harry kisses where Malfoy’s neck meets his shoulder. Malfoy shudders under him, and pride wells in Harry. He can make Malfoy's body do that. He wants to know what else he can make Malfoy do.
He smells even better, like fresh pine and black pepper. Smoke and cedar, dark and seductive. Harry wants to bury his face in Malfoy's neck forever.
So he does. He sucks along Malfoy's neck until love bites bloom on alabaster skin. Malfoy shudders against him, pushing his hips into Harry's, and he thinks he might lose his mind. Malfoy tastes like cream, rich and sweet. He fills all of Harry's senses, and they haven't even done anything. They've still got all their clothes on, for Christ's sake.
Harry thinks they should rectify that immediately, so he gives Malfoy's neck one last bite and pulls off.
"Take this fucking thing off," he mutters as he tugs at Malfoy's shirt, pulling it out of his trousers, trying to push it off his shoulders, the buttons still half done up and impeding his goal.
"Heathen," Malfoy says, but it barely has any bite because he's undoing his cufflinks (who the fuck wears cufflinks, Harry's one functioning brain cell wonders), and finally, finally, the shirt is gone. Malfoy's skin is under Harry's hands, and he's so soft, his skin is so smooth, except—
Except for the raised slashes across his abdomen. They're difficult to see in the low light, but Harry knows they're his. The lines are smooth, the spell precise in its brutality. But as he lets his hands roam over Malfoy's chest and flat stomach, Harry's brain says, 'Mine,' and he's not sorry.
He wasn't sorry then, and he's not sorry now.
Malfoy wears Harry's mistake on his body like a tattoo—like Malfoy is his. A wave of possessiveness rises in him, fierce and hot, and Harry pulls him in again to seal it with a searing kiss.
A part of Malfoy will always be his. Always.
Malfoy grabs Harry's hips and spins them, pushing Harry into the desk.
Malfoy breaks the kiss and takes a half step back. Harry wants to chase his mouth, kiss his chest, suck his nipples, but something about the glint in Malfoy's eye stops him.
Malfoy pulls Harry's glasses off his nose, folds the arms, and sets them on the desk. He hooks one long finger in Harry's tie and pulls it loose, letting it slip to the floor beside his.
"Mal—"
"Stop talking," Malfoy interrupts, slowly unbuttoning Harry's shirt.
His fingers are light against Harry's chest and make short work of the buttons as he pulls the shirt out of his trousers. Malfoy brushes Harry's collarbone, his touch light and fingers cool, and pushes the shirt off his shoulders, first one and then the other.
Harry is practically panting. He needs more of Malfoy now, their bare chests pressed together, skin on skin. But Malfoy's gaze holds him still as he unbuttons Harry's cuffs and pulls his shirt off, letting it fall to the desk with his own.
Malfoy scrapes his nails along Harry's waist, and he shivers again. He hovers his hand over Harry's belt buckle, and Harry stops breathing.
"You want me to say thank you, Potter?" Malfoy asks, his voice low. Harry opens his mouth to protest, to say, 'no, not really, kiss me again, and we can forget about it.' Malfoy silences him with a stern look and slowly—so fucking slowly—unbuckles Harry's belt, leather sliding through metal, rasping against his trousers.
"I'll get on my knees for you," he says, unzipping Harry's trousers, his fingers brushing his cock. Harry bites on his lip to keep from moaning. "But it's you who will thank me."
And before Harry can react, Malfoy shoves his trousers and pants just below his arse, belt buckle jangling, and drops to his knees. He stares up at Harry, those silver eyes shining, and he smiles a slow, wide grin so predatory and self-satisfied that Harry might come untouched.
Malfoy wraps those long fingers around his cock, and Harry groans, 'fuck,' because it's so good. He's about to say something, anything, to get Malfoy to stroke him, but Malfoy is one step ahead again. He leans in and, in one swift motion, slides those perfect lips down Harry's cock, swallowing him.
Stars explode behind Harry's eyes—the pleasure of Malfoy's mouth on him is almost transcendent. Malfoy starts to stroke and suck him at the same time, swirling his tongue around the head of his cock, under his glans. Harry white-knuckles the edge of the desk and holds on for dear life.
Malfoy actually smiles around his prick, and Harry has to think about last week's Quidditch tables to stop himself from coming. It’s so good, he wants it to last.
Malfoy pulls off his cock, a long string of saliva and precome stretching from his wet lips to the tip of Harry's cock. "Come in my mouth," he says, his voice hoarse, "just warn me first."
Harry's nodding before he finishes speaking, and when Malfoy sucks him back down, he shudders. He lets his hand drift through Malfoy's white-blond hair, the strands silky and fine. Malfoy cups Harry's bollocks and rolls them in his palm, and Harry gasps.
Malfoy slips a finger behind his bollocks and presses the sensitive patch of skin there. Harry's vision goes white, the pleasure of it is sharp and bright.
He tightens his hand in Malfoy's hair and pants, 'I'm going to come.' Malfoy hums and sucks him harder, hollowing his cheeks, as he rubs tiny circles on that patch of skin. And then the whole world explodes as Harry comes into Malfoy's mouth.
Harry's shaking through the most intense orgasm he's ever had, Malfoy is making little choking sounds and holy shit. Holy shit.
Malfoy pulls off his cock with a wet pop, and Harry manages to open his eyes. Malfoy's on his knees, eyes bright and cheeks damp, his skin flushed pink. His lips are wet, and his hair is mussed from Harry's hands. He's smirking again, the smug bastard, and Harry wants to wipe it off his face.
He hauls Malfoy up and pulls him into a kiss, tasting his salty spunk on Malfoy's tongue. The kiss is still a fight, but Malfoy's naked chest is pressed to his, everything is warm and loose, and Harry realises he wants to make Malfoy come, too.
He breaks the kiss, panting a bit still. "You're good at that," he says, running his hands over Malfoy's arms.
"Is that a thank you?" Malfoy asks, brow arched.
Harry, for once in his forsaken life, doesn't rise to the bait. "Tell me what you want me to do," Harry says. "It's just—I've never…" he trails off.
"Sucked cock?"
Harry's cheeks heat. "Done anything with a cock. That isn't, er, mine."
He hates to give Malfoy anything to hold over him, but he's so turned on that he'll deal with it later.
Besides, Malfoy's skin is like silk, he tastes like sugar icing, and Harry wants to eat him alive.
"Wait," Malfoy says slowly, "am I your gay awakening?"
"Fuck off, you are not." Harry tries to sound annoyed but fails.
"Who, then?" Malfoy asks, trailing his fingertips down Harry's chest and stomach through his pubic hair.
"None of your business," Harry says.
If he thinks about it hard enough (which he has), it's probably Bill Weasley—which he wouldn't admit to anyone, especially Malfoy. But his first wet dreams about a bloke were definitely of Cedric, and well. Harry doesn't want to talk about that. Ever.
"If you won't tell me, I'm operating under the assumption that I'm your gay awakening—"
"—I still like girls—"
"—and as such, I will take it upon myself to teach you—"
"—truly magnanimous—"
"—so get on your fucking knees, Potter."
The breath whooshes out of Harry's lungs. Jesus, Malfoy making demands does something to him.
They switch places silently, and Malfoy leans against the desk, his long body stretched out, pale and perfect. Harry, embarrassingly, is getting hard again.
Malfoy stares at him imperiously. "I said, on your knees."
Harry drops to the floor, his eyes level with Malfoy's bulge. Harry swallows.
"Take my cock out," Malfoy orders.
Harry undoes his belt, unzips his trousers, and slides them below Malfoy's arse. He's got black pants on, and his erection is straining the fabric. Harry dips his fingers in the elastic waistband and looks up at Malfoy, who nods once.
He carefully pulls Malfoy's pants down, freeing his cock—it's longer than Harry's and a bit crooked. It's perfect, he thinks. Like every other part of Malfoy he's seen, touched, tasted, and smelled today.
"Lick your palm," Malfoy says, "then wrap it around the base of my cock."
Harry inhales shakily, looking at Malfoy as he slowly licks his palm. Those grey eyes follow the path of Harry's tongue, and although Malofy seems composed, his gaze is heated, and his breath shallows.
Harry wraps his hand around the base of Malfoy's cock, and they both inhale sharply. Harry strokes his shaft a few times, not bothering to wait for instructions. He marvels at the feel of Malfoy's cock in his hand, the skin soft over his hard length. It’s like his own, but somehow better. Harry strokes him, pulling his foreskin over the ridge of his head. Malfoy's hips jerk, so Harry keeps doing it until Malfoy's hips are restless and he's panting.
"Fuck," Harry whispers and looks up at Malfoy. "Can I?"
"Can you?"
"I can stop—"
"Do what I did."
"Okay," Harry breathes out. Just do to Malfoy what he did to him. He can do that. He wants to do that.
"And I want to come on your face."
Harry's brain shorts out. Malfoy wants to come on his face. Fuck. That never even occurred to him as a thing someone does. He’s certainly never done it to anyone. He imagines it briefly, the hot splash of it, how it would taste, and immediately wants to know.
Malfoy runs his hand through Harry's hair, sending shivers along his spine. He grabs a handful and pulls Harry's head back sharply, the pain of it pleasurable.
"I'm going to mark you the way you marked me," Malfoy says in that dangerous tone. "And you're going to like it."
Harry is very much afraid he whimpers.
So Harry does exactly what Malfoy did to him. He licks the underside of Malfoy's shaft and swirls his tongue around his head. He strokes him, spreading his saliva to the base of Malfoy's cock. He tastes good here, too. Not as sweet as his mouth or neck, but deeper, saltier. And when a bead of precome glistens on the tip of Malfoy's cock, Harry licks it off. It's bitter and sweet at the same time, and Harry wants more.
He swallows Malfoy down, his hand meeting his fingers, and when Malfoy tightens his hand in Harry's hair, he does it again. And again and again, until Malfoy is shaking, whispering filthy words between them, and Harry is rock hard again as he loses himself to the sensation of Malfoy in his mouth.
It's a different kind of pleasure, getting Malfoy off. Different from getting sucked by him, different from sex, different from anything he's ever done. Malfoy's whispered profanities, the caress of his hands in Harry's hair, his hips moving a bit—it makes Harry feel more powerful than he ever has before, smote evil arsehole be damned.
And when Harry tugs his bollocks, and Malfoy shudders under him, Harry knows he's close. He sucks him down as far as he can, Malfoy's cock bruising his soft palate and presses the same sensitive spot. Malfoy gasps, 'fuck,' and pulls Harry's hair to tug him off. Malfoy grabs his cock, jerks it frantically, and his whole body tenses as he comes in long white stripes on Harry's face.
His eyes are closed, his mouth is open, and Harry can't help but think that Malfoy is beautiful when he comes.
Harry grabs his prick and pulls on it two, three times, and then he's coming again, his spunk spilling over his fingers.
Malfoy opens his eyes, his chest heaving. He lets go of Harry's hair and runs his thumb through the come on Harry's cheek.
Malfoy smiles that slow, mean smile. "Does it turn you on? Being marked by me?"
Harry stands and steadies himself on Malfoy's hips, knees aching. He traces a fingertip, still wet with his own come, over one of Malfoy's scars, leans in and whispers, "Does it turn you on being marked by me?"
"Fuck you," Malfoy says, and then they're kissing again, but it's not as much of a fight this time. It's messy and hot, and if Harry hadn't come twice already, he'd already be hard again.
Malfoy tilts Harry's head and kisses down his neck. He sucks under Harry's jaw, and it's soft and almost sweet until Malfoy bites him. But that feels good, too.
Eventually—after a minute or an hour, Harry has no idea—Malfoy pulls back.
"Clean us up," he demands, and Harry pulls his wand out of his back pocket.
He can't believe they still have their trousers on. Harry wishes they'd been naked. He's going to fantasise about how Malfoy looks naked, long and lean, spread out on Harry’s white sheets. He’ll wank himself to it for weeks. Maybe months. Years, probably.
He says a tergeo, and the saliva, sweat, and spunk wash away, and a part of Harry's brain laments the loss.
He won't admit it to Malfoy, but he does like being marked by him. As if a part of him is Malfoy's, too.
Malfoy silently hands Harry his shirt, and they put themselves back together. Harry watches Malfoy's deft fingers as he buttons his shirt and, as he gets to the top, Harry sees the mess he's made of Malfoy's neck, purple and blue bruises blooming across his skin. He should offer to heal them, but he doesn't. Malfoy can do it himself later if he wants.
They finish dressing in silence. Harry is reasonably sure they've managed to switch ties, but it doesn't matter because all the eighth years have the same colours, a hideous purple and silver.
Malfoy buckles his belt, eyes on Harry, and says, "Library tomorrow? Same time."
Harry swallows and nods. "Yeah."
Malfoy gives him a sharp nod, opens the door, steps into the hallway, and shuts it with a firm click behind him.
Harry slumps on the edge of the desk and rubs his face. He can't believe that just happened. He hates Malfoy. Malfoy hates him. But, Christ, that was…revelatory.
He's thought about boys before. Wanked in the shower, thinking about how it might feel to be sucked off by Oliver Wood. Fantasised about what Roger Davies's cock looked like. He never dreamed Malfoy would be his first experience with a bloke.
Harry waits for shame to snake through his belly. Only it doesn't.
It's just the once, after all. No harm done.
Harry shakes his head to clear it, puts his glasses on, and grabs his bag and cloak. He checks his watch. It's after six, so he heads straight to the Great Hall for dinner, trying to put some distance between himself and the disused office. Between himself and Malfoy.
He gets to the Great Hall, and dinner is already in full swing with the buzzy din of students talking and clang of silverware. He walks to his table, and everyone is already there—Ron, Hermione, Nev, Seamus, Dean, and Luna.
And, sitting in her usual spot and smiling at him, is Ginny.
Harry swallows. He's an arsehole.
"Hey," she says as he drops to the bench beside her. She leans in and kisses him. She tastes like pumpkin juice and smells like soap.
Harry thinks of expensive cologne and salty come. He swallows.
She pulls back, a crease between her brows. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he says, pulling the pitcher of pumpkin juice toward him, pouring a glass, and gulping it down. The cold juice soothes his aching throat.
"I was thinking," Gin says, leaning close, "maybe I could stay with you tonight?"
He looks at her—fiery red hair and freckled cheeks, shining brown eyes, and expectant smile.
And he can't help it—he imagines how it would feel to have Malfoy in his bed instead. The pale expanse of him spread under Harry, his slate eyes glinting, his snide smile.
He pours more pumpkin juice.
Ginny is everything he ever wanted. Everything he was fighting for. He loves her. He does.
Her loves fierce independence and unshakable loyalty. Her ability to always say what she means. Her intelligence and her cleverness, and how she looks on a broom—like wind made solid.
But even as he reminds himself of how much he loves her, even as she's sitting next to him, smiling, he thinks of Malfoy. The scrape of his fingers on Harry's scalp and the ragged edge in his voice when he said, ‘on your knees.’
"Er, yeah," he says, shoving the images from his mind.
He flashes her a small smile and tucks in, but she catches his jaw with her thumb before he can drown his problems in mushy peas. "You have a smudge," she says, and his stomach drops.
Harry quickly covers his jaw with his hand. "Probably an ink stain," he says, muttering a healing spell under his breath, hoping it will remove Malfoy's mark.
He rubs his neck, and she peers at it again. "All gone?" he asks, praying to every god and goddess he knows that the wandless spell worked. Or else he's fucked.
Well, more fucked.
She nods. "Yeah. Were you at the library with Malfoy?"
Harry nods, shovelling a massive forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth. Maybe if he keeps his mouth full (his brain unhelpfully supplies 'with Malfoy's cock'), he can avoid talking too much.
"How's it going?" she asks lightly, and he shrugs. "Still a prick?"
Oh god. Not that image. Harry almost chokes on his potatoes. "Er, yeah. You know how he is," he grits out and gulps more pumpkin juice.
She hums in agreement. Harry thinks she's going to ask him another question, but he's saved by Luna tapping her shoulder and asking her to pick a card from the Tarot deck she’s holding. He breathes a sigh of relief as Ginny picks her fortune.
Harry focuses on his roast and veg. His stomach is in knots. He can't believe he cheated on Ginny. With Malfoy.
But then Harry's mind wanders to the empty office, and the sound of Malfoy's gasps echo in his ears, and his heart starts to pound.
He shouldn't have done it. It was wrong.
Only it doesn't feel wrong. Harry just wants more.
A hush falls over the Hall, and Harry looks up, knowing what it means. Silences follow Malfoy.
Harry spots him at the entrance. He strides down the aisle towards his friends, tall and straight-backed, not a care in the world. His hair is perfect, his (Harry's) awful purple tie is neatly tied, and his cufflinks gleam in the floating candlelight. He's buttoned up, icy and aloof, and Harry wants to muss him again.
Their eyes meet, and Malfoy's expression is impassive, but he slows momentarily. Harry presses his lips together, and Malfoy scowls at him.
But as he stops at his seat and turns his head, Harry sees a purple bruise above his collar.
Harry smiles at his peas.
January 1999
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want to say something earnest."
A laugh startles out of Harry.
Malfoy's eyes narrow. "What's so funny?"
"Earnest?" Harry raises an eyebrow, still chuckling.
Malfoy sits back and drops his biro on the table. At the start of term, Harry was surprised to see he used Muggle biros instead of quills. Harry had pointed to the one Malfoy was writing with that day, eyebrows raised in question. Malfoy had told him to fuck off.
But it's amusing to watch Malfoy write with them. It's like watching a dragon eat with a fork.
"You disagree," Malfoy says. It's not a question.
"Have I ever said anything earnest to you?"
Malfoy glances around. They're alone in the recesses of the library.
"There's nothing you want to ask me?" He leans forward and puts his palms together in mock prayer. "Please, Malfoy, one can know."
Harry snorts. "No."
Malfoy's eyes narrow, and he sits back, crossing his arms. "You're not worried I'll tell someone?"
Harry shrugs. "No one will believe you if you do." Malfoy's jaw twitches, and Harry adds, "And I don't think you will."
"I won't?"
Harry shakes his head and leans forward. Malfoy leans in, too, and Harry can't help but be a bit satisfied. Malfoy is interested, even if he pretends he's not.
"Because you liked it," Harry says softly. "And you don't want to ruin your chances of getting to do it again."
Harry has no idea if this is true. He wants it to happen again, even though he shouldn’t. It's the only thing he's been thinking about for weeks.
But he assumed Malfoy would pretend it never happened. Only he’s just brought it up, hasn’t he? But he’s so fucking obtuse…Harry may have miscalculated. Again.
Malfoy exhales heavily and goes back to taking notes without bothering to respond.
Harry leans back in his chair and watches him silently for a moment. He wants Malfoy to say something, say anything, just so Harry can be certain it was real. But he’s studiously ignoring Harry now, the git.
He sighs and goes back to looking for holes in the Advanced Transfiguration theories he's researching for their joint project. They (Malfoy) decided to do their N.E.W.T project on the Five Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Transfiguration. Malfoy seemed to think the fifth Exception—intentional spell damage cannot be reversed—wasn't actually an exception to the Law. And that one could, with the correct theory and practical work, reverse it.
It intrigued Harry. He'd seen nasty spell damage during the war, and if there wasn’t a previously known treatment available, curses were permanent. What if a curse—like George's ear injury—could be healed through Transfiguration? He'd told Hermione about Malfoy's theory, but she'd just rolled her eyes and listed all the ways it wouldn't work.
But the way Malfoy talks about it…he wonders.
Regardless of the outcome, he's not worried about them failing the project. Harry figures they'll pass as long as they complete it and don't kill each other.
They're silent, save for the rustling of pages and scratch of quill (or biro) on parchment. This is the kind of work Harry usually hates. Well, did hate. But since the war ended, he's realised he enjoys the library's quiet. And he enjoys organising his notes in his own way instead of copying from Hermione.
It turns out that research is like solving a mystery. Hunting for obscure books, and scouring texts for a single reference. It's similar to hunting Horcruxes, only without the threat of imminent death or a complete and total governmental collapse resting on his shoulders. It's a relief, really, after spending years being distracted by trying to stay alive. Which, when he thinks about it, was really fucking annoying.
"Oh!" Malfoy exclaims quietly, and Harry's heart jumps because that breathy exclamation sounds an awful lot like—
"Wha—" Harry stops when Malfoy looks up, his grey eyes shining in the low light.
"Have you heard of the Salem witch trials?" Malfoy asks, but before Harry can answer, 'yes, obviously,' he continues, "There was a vicar in Massachusetts, Cotton Mather. He was a real bellend, and he was convinced a neighbour of his, Goody Glover—what kind of name is Goody Glover—"
"Your name is literally Draco—"
"—was cursing children in Boston. Her daughter had been accused of stealing from Glover's employer and supposedly his children started having fits shortly thereafter."
"Fits?" Harry asks.
"Flapping their arms about, tongues lolling out of their mouths, saying odd things in languages they couldn't possibly know. What does that sound like to you?"
Harry tilts his head and shrugs. He has no idea.
"Merlin, you are thick," Malfoy mutters. "Remember when Lockheart said he cured a villager in Transylvania from a Babbling Curse—"
Harry snorts, remembering now. "Also said he made a vampire change his diet to lettuce—"
"Yes, well, he was a muppet. But the Babbling Curse is real, and it seems as if these children could have been struck with it. I think Goody Glover was trying to cure them."
Harry leans forward, interested now. "She was a witch?” Malfoy nods. “Go on, then."
Malfoy presses his lips together in a poor attempt to restrain a smile. Harry's heart thumps in his chest.
"There are first-hand accounts of this case from Cotton Mather and others. They're all Muggles, though, so it's difficult to say what exactly happened. But this incident occurred before the Salem trials—it was a harbinger of the coming persecution. Glover was arrested on charges of witchcraft, and supposedly she stopped speaking English in court—they said it sounded like she was speaking Irish and some form of Latin."
"Oh," Harry breathes out. "You reckon she was saying spells?"
Malfoy nods. "Could have done. But listen to this—when she was convicted, she spoke English long enough to warn everyone that the children's afflictions wouldn't stop with her death."
Harry frowns. "Maybe it was a Muggle disease? Or a mental disorder?"
Malfoy shakes his head slowly. "Mather caught one of the afflicted girls visiting Glover in her cell the night before her hanging. He wrote that Glover had been speaking in tongues, and the girl had been convulsing as a 'spectral haze' exited her body through her mouth."
Harry chews on his lip. "The Babbling Curse has intent behind it, right?" Malfoy nods. "So it should fall under the Fifth Exemption but, let me guess—this girl was cured."
"She was," Malfoy says. "It seems that Mather was a bit of a perv, though, and said Glover was engaging in 'nighttime trysts' with dark spirits, and exposing the girl to her depravity. He rather focused on that instead of the fact that she’d been cured."
"It's always the vicars," Harry mutters, and Malfoy snorts. "Let me guess again—the other children weren't cured."
"No," Malfoy shakes his head, "only the one girl. Glover was hanged before any of the others could be cured."
Harry thinks it over. It's sound, in theory, but Malfoy is inferring an awful lot.
"This is widely known information, yeah?" Harry asks, and Malfoy nods. "Why wouldn't anyone have come to this conclusion before? Wouldn't the American Wizengamot—"
"—MACUSA—"
"—have investigated? At some point in the last three-hundred years?"
Malfoy shrugs. "There wasn't an official Wizarding governing body in America then. America wasn't America then. There were obviously Indigenous magical people and creatures there, but European wizards stayed away from them, likely for the same reasons the European Muggles did." Malfoy clocks the question on Harry's face. He holds up a hand. "Because they were afraid of the differences between themselves and native people," he puts a finger down, "they wanted to exploit the magical resources in the new world," he puts down another, "and money, general stupidity and good old fashioned hubris, I'd think." He puts the rest of his fingers down.
"So no one cared about what happened to a few Muggle kids."
"Certainly not back then. But, after Salem, the American governing body—MACUSA—was formed and Wizards started to separate from Muggle society even more. I rather think everyone wanted to forget about it."
"And why wouldn't anyone here have picked up on this?" Harry asks.
"It's all Muggle texts, and it happened in America. Why would anyone here care?" Malfoy asks. "Most of Wizarding society doesn't care about Muggle affairs, even when they're accused of witchcraft. Which was and remains stupid, but that’s how it is."
"We have a Magical-Muggle relations department—"
"—That has historically been understaffed and underfunded—"
"—who could have looked into it?"
Malfoy shoots him a look that clearly communicates he thinks Harry is an idiot.
"Okay, okay," Harry concedes. "You really think Goody Glover transfigured the Babbling Curse out of the girl?"
"I don't know," Malfoy says slowly, "but if she had…"
"The implications for Gamp's Law would be…"
"Monumental," Malfoy says as Harry says, "Bloody wild."
They both pause for a beat and then, weirdly, they start to laugh. It's not exactly funny, but it's an unexpected breakthrough, and Harry realises Malfoy is probably as smart as Hermione, who is the smartest person he knows.
Malfoy's cheeks are pink, and his eyes are scrunched closed. For a few moments, Harry forgets they hate each other, forgets what happened in the office, and thinks that maybe they could be friends. His heart does that funny little thump again.
They're still laughing when a particularly sour-faced sixth-year Ravenclaw stomps past their table and shushes them. Malfoy nods and chokes back his laughter, but Harry just throws up a muffliato.
Malfoy stops laughing and swallows. His throat is flushed, too, and Harry can't help but let his eyes linger on it. Harry might be a tiny bit obsessed with Malfoy’s throat.
"You should drop that," Malfoy says quietly.
Harry frowns. "Why?"
"People might get the wrong idea."
"Wrong idea?" Harry echoes.
He can practically see Malfoy turning back into the arsehole he knows, the almost friendly mood dissipating like smoke.
Malfoy picks up his biro and starts organising his notes. "It might give people the impression we're friends."
"That's a bad thing?" Harry asks before he can stop himself.
"Quite," Malfoy responds, eyes on his notes.
"Malfoy—"
He looks up, his grey gaze sharp now. "Neither of us need any more complications."
Harry shoots him a pointed look. "You think people seeing us laughing in the library is a complication?"
Malfoy's jaw twitches. "That was a one off."
Ah, so Malfoy had brought it up. "If it was a one-off, why did you think I'd ask you not to tell anyone?"
Malfoy's gaze narrows. "Take down the muffliato, Potter, before you say something you'll regret."
"I don't regret it," Harry says before he can stop himself.
Malfoy swallows. "You should."
"Do you?"
Harry holds his breath, waiting for Malfoy to say, 'Of course I regret it.' Only he doesn't.
Instead, Malfoy stands, sticks his biro behind his ear, stacks his books and parchment, and says, "Ask Pince if she has any magical periodicals from Boston during the second half of 1688. If she doesn't, see if she can get them on loan from Ilvermorny."
Harry opens his mouth to protest, to ask Malfoy to stay, but then he thinks of Gin and her soft body pressed against his. And then of Malfoy, standing over him, marking him. He's more turned on by the memory of Malfoy than Ginny, and even he's not daft enough to know that's a problem. He nods instead. He dips his quill in ink so he can write down Malfoy's instructions.
"Same time tomorrow?" Malfoy asks, and Harry looks up.
If he's not mistaken, Malfoy's blushing a bit and studiously avoiding eye contact by staring intently at the dusty bookshelf above Harry's head.
"Yeah," Harry breathes out.
Malfoy gives him a curt nod and walks through the muffliato. Harry watches him go, his back straight, as he passes tables of students who all pause their studies to stare at him. He pays them no mind, just like he ignores the hushed whispers in the Great Hall. But as he gets to the end of the aisle, Malfoy glances over his shoulder, and Harry thinks—hopes—he sees the flash of a smile before he disappears.
Harry turns to his parchment, and there, on the table next to the book he'd been studying, is one of Malfoy's biros.
He can't help but smile, too, and there’s a new drumbeat, his heartbeat, of Malfoy, reverberating in his chest.