Merlin, He’s Not Getting It

by mikotonya

Summary:

Harry is an Auror. Draco is a Ministry potionist — quiet, meticulous, deeply committed to his work, and lowkey convinced no one actually likes spending time with him unless they need something.
But Harry? Harry is smitten. Hopelessly. He finds excuses to visit the lab wing. Always dropping by with terrible jokes, extra coffee, or pretending he “got lost” even though he’s worked there for years

Chapter 1: Love condition !

Summary:

Draco, being Draco, just thinks Harry is:
Chatty by nature
Weirdly nosy about bubbling cauldrons
Possibly suffering from mild attention deficits
He assumes nothing. Nothing.

Notes:

Hello !
Welcome to my new fanfiction !
I needed to do something light, heartwarming, funny ! I want to express my love to "Drarry" as much as i can xD
Please, enjoy this like as little coton cloud !

Harry Potter could say he was happy with his life.
A job he actually liked, friends he could be himself around, a strong, sexy body, and enough money to live comfortably. He’d never been the kind of person to want more — or to chase after things he didn’t already have.

Until one day.

Until his chief announced a new collaboration between the Auror Office and the Potions Department. From now on, Aurors would be able to request potions directly — before or after missions — without going through the usual mountain of paperwork.

Harry was thrilled. He hated the old, sluggish process that required about seventeen signatures and a blood sacrifice to get a single flask of Calming Draught.

So, on the first day of the new system, the Chosen One decided to go down and take a look. Just out of curiosity. Just to say "Hello".

There were five witches and wizards already working when he entered, all bent over cauldrons and racks of ingredients.

Harry cleared his throat.

No one looked up.

He tried again, louder, and this time, one familiar blond head turned. The sight hit Harry like a stunning spell.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry blinked. Just for a second. It had been years since he last saw him — not since Draco had been deployed to the Northern Division just after he joined the ministry, all the way up in the Highlands. 

He looked older — sharper somehow — but still achingly familiar. Lab coat rolled to the elbows, hair tucked behind one ear, wand held like a conductor’s baton. He was halfway through brewing something that shimmered gold at the edges. And now, he was staring straight at him, eyes narrowing.

“…Potter?”

Stood bathed in late afternoon light, his platinum blond hair tousled in elegant disarray, the longer strands at the nape softening the sharpness of his aristocratic profile. His skin was impossibly fair, smooth like porcelain, catching the golden hues of the sun through the window. High cheekbones and a defined jawline hinted at his pure-blood heritage, while his full, slightly parted lips betrayed an unintentional softness—one he would never admit to.

His eyes, pale gray but touched with an almost unreal glimmer of silver in this light, were framed by dark lashes and expressive brows that gave him a quietly intense air. He wore discret earrings on his ear—unexpected, yet they suited him, adding a refined rebelliousness to his otherwise composed appearance. 

He looked like he had stepped out of a painting—elegant, sharp, beautiful—and entirely unaware of the effect he had on anyone who looked too long. A Malfoy, through and through, but with edges softened by time.

The difference between Harry and Draco was striking

His black hair, tousled and charmingly unkempt, fell across his forehead in waves, half-concealing the iconic lightning bolt scar just above his right brow. His green eyes, vivid as ever, shone behind perfectly round glasses— carried mischief, warmth, and a depth earned through more than one lifetime's worth of trials.

His shirt—dark, slightly unbuttoned—clung to a broad chest and strong shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He looked effortlessly confident. There was a spark in him, something bold and magnetic, a touch of recklessness wrapped in sincerity.

He wasn’t polished like a prince—he didn’t need to be. His charm lay in that quiet strength, the way he smiled like he knew you'd catch feelings, and wouldn't stop you. A hero grown into his own skin, still messy at heart, but far more dangerous than he looked.

And just like that, for the first time in his life, Harry wanted something.
Truly wanted — not out of duty, or habit, or curiosity.
But from somewhere deep inside, where desire burned quietly and stubbornly.

He wanted him.

Oh yes, he’ll do everything, starting now, to have this charming slytherin. 

Harry smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey, Malfoy. Long time no see!”

Draco set down his stirring wand slowly, brow furrowed.

“Right. I’ve only just returned from Edinburgh.”

“Big loss for Scotland. Huge win for this hallway.” Harry said, taking a few casual steps closer.

Draco blinked again. “What?”

“I mean, it’s good to see you,” Harry amended, recovering quickly.

“You look… good. Very… potion-y.”

Draco stared like Harry had grown an extra head.

“You alright?” he asked cautiously. “You look flushed. A bit sweaty… And potion-y isn't even a word”

Harry cleared his throat again, more for effect than anything.

“Actually, yeah. I’ve got a bit of a… situation.”

Draco straightened slightly. “What kind?”

“You know — heart racing, trouble breathing, heightened temperature. Any chance you’ve got something for that?”

Draco frowned. “Are you having some kind of… heart attack?”

“Possibly,” Harry said, tone light. “The moment I saw you, my heart started racing like a crazy hippogriff.”

A pause.

Draco stared, visibly lost.

Harry smiled, hopeful.

“…You should get that checked out before asking for a potion, Potter” Draco said stiffly. “With a Healer.”

Harry’s grin faltered.

Strange. That should’ve worked…

Draco gave him a puzzled look. “Are you here for something else I can actually help you with?”

He tried again.

“I don’t need a Healer,” he said casually, straightening. “But I do need something.”

Draco tilted his head. “Alright. What is it?”

Harry looked him dead in the eye. “You.”

There was a beat.

Draco nodded slowly. “Right. That’s what I asked — do you need a specific potion I can provide to you?”

Harry blinked.
Then blinked again.
Sweet Merlin, he’s serious.

“No,” he muttered quickly, backing up a step. “No, forget it. I— I’ll come back later.”

Draco frowned. “Potter, if you’re experiencing symptoms, you really should see someone—”

But Harry was already halfway out the door, muttering something that sounded like bloody hopeless under his breath.

Draco stared at the door for a moment after it closed behind Harry.

Weird.

He turned back to his workstation, picked up a dropper, then paused again.

“Was it just me,” he said aloud, “or was Potter acting strange?”

Around the room, the soft clinks and bubbling sounds faltered.

“Strange how?” asked a witch, Euphenia Vexx, not even trying to hide her grin.

Draco gestured vaguely at the door. “He kept going on about symptoms — racing heart, elevated temperature. I’m not a Healer.”

There was a beat.

Then someone snorted. Loudly.

“That’s not funny,” Draco said, frowning. “He might actually be unwell.”

“Oh, he’s sick , alright,” muttered another colleague, Zion Chalice, from the far bench, grinning behind his goggles.

Another round of chuckles.

Euphenia coughed into her sleeve to hide a laugh.

“I’m sure he’ll… recover.”

Draco looked around, confused.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said sweetly. “You’re right. He’s clearly suffering from something.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at them, suspicious.

“You should all be more concerned…”

And with that, he turned back to his cauldron, muttering under his breath and carefully adding a sprig of powdered moonlace to the mix — completely missing Zion mouthing he’s so gone to the others behind his back.

---

Ron was hunched over a stack of parchment when Harry barged into his office without knocking, looking like a man freshly traumatized.

“Do you have a minute?” Harry asked, already dropping into the chair opposite.

Ron didn’t even look up.

“You’re going to tell me anyway.”

Harry leaned forward, hands in his hair.

“It’s Malfoy.”

Now Ron looked up.

“What about him?”

Harry leaned forward, eyes wide.

“Did you see him? Did you see how he looks now?”

Ron raised an eyebrow.

“What, like… recently? I think I passed him in the lift yesterday. Why?”

Harry let out a frustrated noise and threw himself back in his chair.

“He came back from the North Division looking like some kind of... elegant potion slytherin prince. Golden silk hair, perfect skin, a tiny smudge of something silver on his face— on purpose , I swear.”

Ron blinked.

“You think he smeared something on himself on purpose ?”

“No! I don’t— I mean, I know he didn’t, but he looked so good. And the lab uniform. And the way he talks now? All calm and efficient, with a deep sensual voice…”

“…Are you alright?”

“No!” Harry hissed. “I went in there just out of curiosity — to see the team and say hello! And he was just… there! Looking like that… I said I had symptoms — heart racing, trouble breathing, the whole dramatic speech — and then I said I needed something for it.”

Ron narrowed his eyes.

“Wait. What kind of something?”

Harry sighed, defeated.

“I said I needed him .”

A beat.

Ron blinked. 

“You what ?”

Harry groaned, covering his face.

“I know! And he just… asked if I was having a heart attack and told me to go see a Healer!”

Ron burst out laughing, nearly knocking over his ink pot.

“Oh, mate,” he wheezed, wiping his eyes.

“You’re so screwed.”

Harry peeked through his fingers.

“Thanks. That helps.”

Ron leaned back in his chair, still grinning.

“Seriously, though — maybe you should stop. Like, now. Before you say something truly mad, or snog him in the middle of the lab, or—I don’t know— something worse for you mental health.”

Harry dropped his hands and scowled.

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“You just told Draco Malfoy you had a medical condition because of how hot he is.”

Harry pointed a warning finger at him.

“That was poetic.”

“That was a cry for help.”

Harry groaned again.

“I can’t stop now. I have to make him see it.”

Ron raised an eyebrow.

“See what?”

Harry paused. Then:

“That he’s the love of my life — and I’ll keep flirting with him for months if I have to!”

Ron gave him a long look.

“...Okay. Yeah. Definitely stop.”

Notes:

Hello Again !
Thank you for reading this first little chapter.
If you have ideas you want to share, you're welcomed in MP ! =^^=

Maybe the next chapters will be longer. I'll depend what i'll want to express (and what Harry'll try next time)
See you soon !

Chapter 2: Please, it’s just a coffee

Notes:

Hello everyone !
Let's go for the chapter 2 ! It's longer than the chapter 1, it's a good thing, right ?? Right ??
Hope you'll enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writting it ^_^

Love you all !

A new day begins at the ministry of magic. 

The great atrium slowly filled with the usual hum of footsteps and fluttering memos, the echo of polished boots on marble, and the faint crackle of fireplaces as witches and wizards arrived through the Floo Network. Ministry robes swished through corridors, coffee cups floated lazily beside yawning employees, and enchanted quills scratched notes onto scrolls before their owners had even sat down.

The air smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and conjured lavender — a half-hearted attempt from Maintenance to keep the place from reeking of stress and old spell residue.

Somewhere on Level 4, the Auror Department was already bustling, reports piling up faster than they could be read. Down on Level 1, in the Potions Division, the lights were slower to come on — save for one lab, where Draco Malfoy had been at work since dawn.

Harry Potter was staring at his own reflection in a darkened office window, wondering how he's going to approach Draco today. The last time hadn’t gone particularly well.

Time for a new approach then. But which one ? 

Harry slumped into Ron’s office chair like a man defeated by life and love.

Ron didn’t even look up from his paperwork.

“What now?”

Harry groaned.

“I need ideas.”

“For what?”

“For Malfoy! Please, follow Ron.”

Ron sighed and finally set down his quill.

“Alright, let’s start simple. Have you asked him out for a coffee?”

Harry blinked.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, coffee,” Ron said dryly. “You know, that thing people do when they’re trying to spend time together. Ask him to grab a coffee. That’s the bare minimum , mate.”

Harry stared for a beat.

“That’s so boring.”

“It’s also clear, non-threatening, and not confusing. Try it.”

Harry got up with a reluctant grunt.

“Fine. Coffee. How hard can it be?”

He left Ron’s office with the weight of doomed hope pressing into his shoulders, crossed the bustling corridor and headed for the lifts. The numbers above the golden doors ticked down slowly — too slowly — and then opened with a soft chime. He stepped inside, jabbed the button for Level 1, and tried to get a grip on his heart, which was already starting its now-familiar tap dance against his ribs.

As the lift slid open, he took a deep breath and stepped out.

Harry walked the familiar corridor, pulse climbing with every step.

The air on this level was different — quieter, cooler, laced with the earthy scent of herbs, minerals, and something faintly sweet. The soft hum of simmering cauldrons echoed faintly behind a large and heavy wood doors. Draco’s lab door.

He opened it slowly and then he saw him immediately.

Malfoy, still at his workstation, lit by soft enchanted light. His lab coat hung open over a dark turtleneck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing pale forearms dusted with flecks of powdered root. His hair falling forward as he bent over a collection of neatly labeled vials.

Harry stopped for just a second too long, struck — again — by how utterly, unfairly beautiful he was.

Sharp profile. Calm hands. That constant little furrow between his brows when he was concentrating, like he was solving some ancient mystery only he could understand.

Harry felt it in his chest — a slow, stupid ache he never quite got used to. He was so far gone it was probably incurable.

Focus , he told himself.

You’re here for coffee. Not a proposal.

He adjusted his collar, tried to look normal, and entered, straight to the point.

Harry leaned against Draco's desk just near him, like he wasn’t pretending to be casual.

“Hey,” he said. “Busy?”

Draco didn’t even look up.

“Hello. Yes, as always.”

Undeterred, Harry kept going. “I was heading to grab a coffee. Want to come?”

Draco finally glanced over, eyebrows slightly raised. 

“I already had one,” he said — then nodded toward his desk. Just next to Harry’s hand sat a plain white mug with the Ministry’s logo on it.

Right in the open. In plain sight.

Draco added, lips curling into the faintest smirk,

“I thought you Aurors were trained to notice the small details.”

He was trained for that.

He’d been through simulations, fieldwork, high-risk missions — he could spot a disguised curse sigil at ten paces.

But right now? All he could do was stare at Draco’s perfect face and try, with every last shred of self-control, not to launch himself across the desk and kiss him senseless right there, in the middle of a very public, very crowded lab.

So, no. He hadn’t noticed the damn coffee cup. Not at all.

Harry just nodded slowly, already embarrassed.

“Right. Yeah. But I mean… I know a better one.”

Draco frowned faintly, like he was doing complex math.

“They’re all the same in the Ministry.”

“No, I mean…” Harry scratched the back of his neck, suddenly unsure why this felt like a bigger deal than asking someone to duel. “There’s one near the atrium. The barista actually smiles.”

Draco blinked.

“That’s still Ministry coffee, Potter.”

Harry let out a soft breath through his nose.

“Okay, yes, but I meant more like—forget the coffee. Just… come with me?”

A pause.

Draco tilted his head, genuinely puzzled.

“Why?”

Harry opened his mouth. Then closed it.

“…Right. Never mind. Thought you might want to stretch your legs. Or breathe different oxygen. Or… something.”

Draco nodded slowly, already turning back to his notes.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Harry stood there another second, defeated, before muttering,

“Brilliant talk. Really nailed that.”

Draco didn’t look up.

“What?”

“Nothing. See you later.”

He turned on his heel and left the lab, shoulders hunched, the air around him practically vibrating with secondhand embarrassment. He made it all the way back to Level 4 without punching the air or screaming into a potted plant — which, frankly, felt like progress.

The moment he stepped back into Ron’s office, Ron looked up with a smirk already forming.

Harry threw himself into the same chair with a groan.

“It was worse than the last time.”

“That’s impressive,” Ron said, not even trying to hide the amusement in his voice.

“What did he do this time?"

“He said he already had coffee and turned back to his notes like I was a door-to-door spell salesman.”

Ron chuckled.

“Well, at least he didn’t call security.”

Harry glared at him.

“I invited him for a coffee. That’s normal, right? People do that!”

“Sure,” Ron said. 

Before Harry could offer a witty retort (which he definitely didn’t have), the door creaked open and a tired-looking Auror in rumpled robes stepped inside — night shift badge still pinned to his collar.

“Hey, I'm just dropping the report you asked, Weasley” the man said, stretching.

“Oh, by the way, did I hear you lot talking about Malfoy?”

Harry blinked.

“Yeah?”

The Auror snorted.

“He’s been here since dawn . I passed him around five — he was already elbow-deep in something green and bubbling. I asked if he could make a tonic for the after-hours team. Didn’t even flinch. Just nodded and told me to come back in an hour.”

Ron raised an eyebrow at Harry.

“Since dawn , huh?”

The Auror shrugged.

“Yeah. Looks like he never even left. You know, for someone so grumpy, he’s weirdly reliable.”

Harry slumped deeper into his chair, hands covering his face.

“Brilliant,” he muttered.

“He was already four hours into a twelve-step brewing sequence while I was rehearsing how to say coffee like a functioning adult.”

Ron patted his shoulder, not unkindly.

“Maybe next time, lead with, Hi, I’m in love with you. Skip the beverages.”

Harry sat in silence for a moment, still slouched in Ron’s chair, face in his hands, while the two aurors chatted a little bit more.

Then, suddenly, he straightened.

His eyes lit up.

And before Ron could react, Harry slammed both palms on the desk with a loud thud that made the quills jump and a stack of files slide sideways.

“Alright!” he declared, voice full of determination. "He needs to take a break — and I’m going to be that break!”

Ron blinked.

“What—?”

“I mean it,” Harry said, already standing. “If Malfoy won’t take a pause, then I’m bringing the pause. With real coffee. And me. Possibly pastries. Doesn’t matter. The point is— this time, he’s not walking away.”

Ron stared at him.

“You sound like you’re about to propose and duel him at the same time.”

Harry pointed dramatically at the door.

“Don’t wait up.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the office like a man with a mission — a mission made of caffeine, bad decisions, and the unwavering belief that surely, this time, Malfoy would get it.

Ron leaned back in his chair, shook his head, and muttered to his colleague “Five galleons says he comes back in under ten minutes asking for a do-over.”

“I’ll take the bet.” 

---

Harry returned to the Potions Division like a storm with a coffee tray.

In one hand: two magically insulated cups from the decent little stand near the atrium

In the other: a paper bag containing two croissants, two cinnamon rolls, and what he hoped looked like spontaneous generosity and not a desperate love offering.

He took a deep breath outside the lab door.

You’ve got this. Say the words. Be charming. Do not talk about symptoms. Or magical oxygen. Or his hair. Especially not his hair.

He opened the door.

Draco was at his station, of course — bent over a simmering cauldron, wand slowly circling above the mixture, lips pressed in concentration. A thin plume of blue steam floated up around him, giving him an ethereal glow.

Harry stood there for a second, watching.

Then shook himself and strode in like he hadn't spent the past hour failing to ask this man out.

Draco didn’t look up.

“Unless you’re here with actual potion requests, Potter, I suggest you turn around and rethink your life choices.”

Harry set the coffee tray down gently next to the neatly organized ingredient drawer.

“I’m not,” he said.

“I brought real coffee.”

That got Draco’s attention. He glanced over.

“Why?”

Harry held up the bag.

“And pastries.”

Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! I just thought maybe you deserve a break. You’ve been here since dawn. That’s inhumane. You’re not a potions automaton, Malfoy. You have organs. And blood sugar.”

Draco blinked at him.

“Did you bring caffeine and sugar to talk about my internal systems?”

Harry exhaled slowly.

“Okay, let me rephrase.”

He took a small step closer, voice gentler this time.

“I just… thought maybe you’d like to take a few minutes. With me. Outside the lab. With decent coffee. And a croissant that doesn’t taste like a leftover spellbook.”

A pause.

Draco looked at him, unreadable.

“…I already had breakfast.”

Harry’s eye twitched.

“You’re impossible.”

Draco glanced at the bag.

“Is there cinnamon roll too ?”

“Yes?”

A beat.

Draco sighed, pulled off his gloves, and said flatly,

“Fine. Ten minutes.”

Harry blinked again, stunned.

“Wait—really?”

“Ten. Minutes.” Draco was already removing his lab coat. “And if you try to make it weird, I’m going back inside.”

Harry grinned, completely ignoring the threat. “Deal !”

They walked out of the lab together — Harry barely containing the victorious grin threatening to take over his face.

As they passed by the other workstations, Euphenia looked up and gave Harry a subtle double thumbs-up.
Behind her, Zion mouthed, “Good luck,” with a wink and the kind of smug satisfaction that could only come from someone who’d seen this trainwreck unfolding last time.

Harry, without breaking stride, held up one finger to his lips in a shhh , eyes wide in warning.

The last two wizards, Athan Hunt and Nicholas Evilian, snorted into their notes.  

Draco, of course, didn’t notice a thing.

The Level 1 break room was quiet, lit by soft enchanted lanterns that hovered near the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the mismatched chairs and slightly stained wooden table in the center. A few leftover mugs floated lazily in the washing sink, but otherwise, the space was theirs.

Draco sat down elegantly at the table, eyeing the coffee cup like it might contain poison.

Harry placed the pastries between them and sat across from Draco, doing his best not to fidget.

For a moment, there was only the sound of sipping.

Then Draco, without looking up: “So. What’s the occasion?”

Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

“That’s twice in a row you’ve offered me coffee,” Draco said flatly. “And you brought food. I assume either you’re buttering me up for something… or you’ve been cursed with a temporary coffee obsession, and this is how it’s manifesting.”

Harry opened his mouth, panicked, absolutely not prepared for that level of directness.

“…Maybe I’m just being nice?”

Draco gave him a sideways glance.

“You’re an Auror. You’re not nice. You’re suspiciously nice. That’s different.”

Harry stared at him for a beat.

“You’re very hard to talk to.”

“I get that a lot.”

A pause.

Harry reached into the bag and pulled out a cinnamon roll, sliding it across the table.

“Here. You seemed mildly interested. Hope it makes you feel good.”

Draco took it, peeled the edge of the paper bag back with careful fingers.

“…Thanks.”

Harry felt a weird twist in his stomach just watching him take the first bite.

Something about the way Draco’s lips closed around the edge, the way his jaw shifted as he chewed, the delicate swipe of his thumb catching a crumb from the corner of his mouth—

It was deeply unfair .

And it was definitely not the time to be thinking about mouths.

But Harry’s brain had clearly abandoned all rational function the moment Draco Malfoy licked the frosting off his uper lip like it was nothing.

He blinked, looked down at the table, and tried to remember how breathing worked. He finally cleared his throat — dry and tight.

"So… how’s work?"

Draco gave him a look that could curdle milk.

“…Right. Bad question.”

Draco sighed and leaned back a little.

“It’s fine. Busy. There’s a lot of mess to clean up from the North Division transfer. The organization here is a joke… and all of you need way too many potions for everything.”

Harry smiled.

“Yeah, well. Welcome to London.”

Draco’s expression softened — just a touch. Barely more than a shift in his eyes, the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But Harry noticed.

Of course he noticed.

And again, in that split second, his brain betrayed him entirely.

He pictured them sitting together at his kitchen table, a morning sunlight pouring in through the windows. Draco in one of Harry’s oversized T-shirt, hair still messy from sleep. They’d drink coffee, tease each other and laugh like an old married couple. Maybe toast. Definitely marmalade. Probably a cat.

Harry blinked, forcing himself back into the present, heart doing something stupid in his chest.

Draco was already reaching for another bite of pastry, completely unaware of the domestic fantasy playing out in vivid colour just across the table.

Then he said, unexpectedly,

“I don’t mind it, though.”

Harry blinked, back into reality.

“The mess?”

Draco shook his head slightly.

“Being back.”

For a moment, the air shifted. Softer. Quieter. Warmer.

Harry opened his mouth — maybe to say something honest, maybe something incredibly stupid. Something like how Draco was, quite possibly, the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

Or I think about you way more than I should  

Or — worst of all, Merlin helps him — You’re the reason I show up to work half the time, I'm in love with you, this cinnamon roll is actually a metaphor for my heart, so please just take it and maybe also me.

Instead, he made a vague, noncommittal noise. Something between a sigh and a faint wheeze that could have meant anything from “Nice weather” to “I’m about to die.”

But Draco didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t react — just checked the clock, stood, and said,

“Right. Break’s over.”

Harry blinked. “Already?”

“I said ten minutes and I was generous.”

Harry scrambled up after him.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

As they exited the break room, Draco stepped ahead, already pulling his gloves back on.

But Harry followed, slower this time, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. As he’s holding the empty coffee tray, he’s feeling like something had just happened.

Maybe it hadn’t gone perfectly. Maybe Draco still had no idea.

But at least he'd had those few minutes — a quiet moment in the middle of the chaos, just the two of them.

A chance to sit across from him, watch the way he stirred his coffee, how the corners of his mouth smile ever so slightly when he actually enjoyed the pastry.

---

Harry strolled back into Ron’s office with the kind of expression usually reserved for people who’d just won a Quidditch match or gotten away with something mildly illegal.

Ron looked up slowly from his paperwork, unimpressed.

“Do you ever plan on doing actual Auror work again, or is flirting with Malfoy your full-time job now?”

Harry didn’t answer — he just set the empty coffee tray down on the desk like a trophy and leaned casually against the doorframe, absolutely glowing.

Ron squinted at him.

“…Don’t tell me he said yes.”

“If only… but for this morning, he didn’t not say yes,” Harry replied, smug.

Ron frowned.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Harry said, pushing off the wall and dropping into the chair across from him, “that we had coffee. Together. In the break room. He drank it. Ate the pastry. Talked to me like a human being. No weird look. No suggestions to see a Healer.”

Ron blinked.

“So you’re telling me Draco Malfoy voluntarily took a break with you ?”

Harry nodded.

“Yes sir !”

“Bloody hell.”

Harry stretched out his legs with a grin.

“Told you I could do it.”

Ron shook his head, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth.

“You’re still ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Harry said, folding his arms behind his head, “I got ten whole minutes of uninterrupted Malfoy. Just the two of us.”

Ron groaned and buried his face in his hands after a few seconds.

“Unbelievable. I owe Dean five galleons.”

“You were betting against me?”

“I was betting against your terrible approach tactics , which, until today, were a disaster.”

“Well,” Harry said smugly, “today, they worked.”

Ron sighed.

“I give it two days before you start sketching your initials together in the margins of your field reports.”

Harry smirked.

“Too late.” 

Ron threw a crumpled bit of parchment at his head. “You absolute sap.”

Harry just grinned wider.

And for the first time, the ridiculous, hopeless crush didn’t feel so hopeless after all.

Chapter 3: Messy Potter

Notes:

Hellooooow everyooooone !
I'm very happy to see you again for this chapter 3 !
I'm having so much fun to write this ! Really xD I hope it's the same for you who read this !
Hope my littles stupid ideas makes you feel good ! If just one of you have a smile on the face or laughing, my mission is done !

Thank you for your comments and kudos, means a lot !

Well, enjoy the new Harry Potter's tentative !

Harry had been gone for two weeks.

A mission had taken his team out to the western coast, chasing down a rogue group of curse smugglers who’d somehow hidden half their inventory in enchanted fish crates. Long days, cold nights, salt-soaked robes, and a lot of dueling in the rain — the usual.

He should’ve been focused.

And mostly, he was.

Except… not really.

Because even with the long shifts, the shouting, the investigations, and the bruises, he still found himself thinking about Draco Malfoy.

Every damn day.

It wasn’t intentional. The thoughts just crept in — between wand blasts, over lukewarm tea, in the quiet moments before sleep. He’d picture the way Draco’s stirring his coffee absently while reading his notes or how his voice gets quieter when he says hello . The sharpness in his gaze when he focuses on his work. The tiny furrow between his brows. Harry told himself it wasn’t weird. It wasn’t obsessive. It was just… normal love stuff. Completely fine. Totally manageable.

It wasn't.

By the time he returned to London, he was tired, slightly sunburned, and very much not over it. And the first thing he wanted — before a shower, before a proper meal — was to see if Malfoy was still in that bloody lab. But he has paperwork — and absolutely no desire to do it. So, the next morning, after a solid night’s sleep and the kind of hot shower that should’ve qualified as restorative magic, Harry returned to the Ministry. He didn’t go straight to the Auror department. He loitered a little in the atrium. Took the long way around. Waited a beat longer at the lifts than necessary.

 Just in case.

He told himself it wasn’t on purpose. He just… wouldn’t have minded running into Malfoy in the hallway. Or maybe at the lifts. Or near the enchanted bulletin board. Or anywhere, really. But there was no sign of him. No glimpse of blond hair. No billowing lab coat.  Disappointed, but not defeated, he headed to Ron’s office — as tradition demanded. Except when he opened the door, it wasn’t Ron behind the desk.

“Morning, Harry,” said Hermione brightly, looking far too organized for someone surrounded by Ron’s chaotic pile of scrolls. “Ron went to get us tea. He said he’d only be a minute but prevent me, that's, maybe, I'll see you come here.”

She was sorting parchments into piles with the kind of precision Harry suspected as a magical skill.

“You’re... organizing his desk?”

“Well, someone has to,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t know how he finds anything. I think one of these folders had a chocolate frog card in it.”

The Chosen One slumped into the usual chair with a groan. “He’s lucky you love him.”

Hermione smiled.

“He really is.”

She glanced up at him, pausing.

“You look tired.”

“The mission ended yesterday,” He said, rubbing his eyes. “I just got back to London.”

“Ah. And you’re here... to see Ron. Obviously.” She said it with a knowing look that made the Chosen one sit up straighter.

“I am here to see Ron,” he defended.

Hermione arched an eyebrow.

“Mhmm okay.”

She smirked and went back to her sorting, flipped another stack of parchments into a neater pile, then glanced up at him again.

“So?” she asked casually. “What’s the news? Where are you with the project Malfoy?”

Harry blinked.

“Wait—what?”

She smiled, all innocent politeness.

“Malfoy. Can you update me on the progress, please?”

He stared at her, taken aback.

“You’re just… talking about it like it’s normal?”

“Well, it is normal,” she said, as if discussing the weather. “Ron told me how catastrophically bad you are with him. I figured I should be kept in the loop.”

The Dark-Haired Wizard groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Brilliant. I see privacy’s still alive and well in this office.”

“Oh, come on,” Hermione said, laughing softly. “At this point, everyone knows.”

He looked at her, alarmed.

“Everyone ?”

She shrugged.

“Well, not everyone everyone. Just… you know. Your department. His department. Mine too. A few admin staff… And probably the barista next to the atrium."

Harry buried his face in his hands.

“How is that possible? I didn’t tell anyone!”

His friend smiled sweetly.

“You didn’t have to. It’s obvious.”

He let out a low groan.

“If it’s that obvious, how is he still clueless? No one’s said anything?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” she said, reaching for another scroll. “No one’s told him. Because everyone made a bet.”

Harry looked up slowly.

“A bet ?”

Hermione nodded.

“On when — or if — he’ll figure it out.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

"You’re all gambling on my emotional downfall?”

“I wouldn’t call it downfall ,” she said, lifting a parchment to the light. “It’s more like slow-motion tragic comedy.”

He slumped back in the chair, defeated.

“This is ridiculous.”

“It really is,” she agreed. “But I must admit, it’s very entertaining.”

Just then, the office door opened and Ron stepped in, holding three steaming mugs in one hand.

“Finally,” Hermione said, taking her tea with a grateful smile. “You were gone for ages.”

Ron shrugged

“Sorry, there’s a long line at the café.” Then he looked at his friend, handed him a cup of tea. “I knew I’d find you here,” he said, catching the surprised look on Harry’s face. “Let me guess — you’ve been here five minutes and the topic’s already Malfoy?”

He sighed.

“Technically, Hermione brought it up.”

“She’s just faster than me, then.”

Hermione ignored them both and took a sip of tea.

“So. What’s the next move?”

“Next move?”

“Well, yes. You’ve been away for two weeks. You can’t just expect things to move on their own. Are you going to see him?”

Harry mumbled.

“Maybe? I thought I’d go down and just… talk to him? See how things are.”

Ron raised an eyebrow.

“Bold. Revolutionary.”

“Shut up”

Hermione leaned forward, elbows resting neatly on the desk.

“Why don’t you try something different this time? Instead of flirting badly and confusing him, try showing him who you are.”

Harry frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said patiently, “make yourself look like the person he’d trust. Respect. Maybe even want to spend time with. Be dependable. Be useful. Let him see what everyone else already knows — that you’re a good person.”

Ron yawned.

“She means act normal. Which, for you, is probably the hardest step.”

Hermione shot him a look.

“What I mean is — let him see you. The real you. Not the awkward mess that shows up until now.”

The gryffindor stared at Hermione, considering that.

“...So less flirting, more… functioning adult?”

“Exactly,” Hermione said with a nod. “Let him come to you for once.”

Ron gave a half-hearted shrug. “Or you could bring him another gift and panic. Worked great last time.”

Harry ignored him. For once, Hermione’s idea didn’t sound that impossible.

“Alright ! I’ll try.”

“Good,” she said, satisfied. “Now drink your tea before it goes cold. Hope it gives you some… Stability? ”

---

After finishing his tea and giving himself a stern internal pep talk : Be normal. Be helpful. No metaphors, no pining , Harry made his way down to the Potions Division. He didn’t bring anything, even a carefully rehearsed speech. Just himself. Calm, professional, perfectly fine .

Mostly.

The lab door was half-open when he arrived. The familiar scent of herbs, heat, and faintly burnt mint welcomed him like a memory. Inside, a few potionists were already at their workstations, heads bent over bubbling cauldrons and glowing vials. He stepped in and gave a casual wave.

“Morning.”

“Welcome back, Potter,” called Euphenia, without looking up from her scales.

Zion glanced at him and smirked.

“Thought you’d be dragging yourself in by broom, looking half-dead.”

“Not today,” the auror said, offering a grin. “Fully vertical. Slightly sunburnt. Only moderately traumatized.”

They chuckled, and that helped. A little.

Then he saw him.

Draco was across the room at his usual workstation, sorting through a set of labelled phials with steady, practiced hands. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, as always, lab coat hanging open over a sharp, dark shirt. He’d pushed his hair back neatly, but a few strands had fallen loose around his temple. He looked focused. Composed. Entirely himself. Harry’s breath caught just a little.

Merlin, I missed him.

He didn’t even realize how much until this moment — seeing Draco alive and well and quiet in his space, exactly as he’d left him. Like the last two weeks hadn’t moved him an inch. Harry crossed the room slowly.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer now. “Morning.”

Draco looked up, a little surprised — but his expression didn’t shift much.

“Oh, you’re back. How was the mission?”

Harry blinked. It was such a simple question, but it landed hard.

He remembered I was gone.

“It was fine,” he said quickly, maybe too quickly. “Long. Messy but it’s now done.”

Draco gave a small nod, eyes already drifting back to the phials.

“Did you… I mean, were you—uh—concerned?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, pausing his work. Potter immediately regretted asking. 

“I mean—not worried, exactly. Just, you know. I wasn’t sure if—if you…”

Draco cut him off, tone perfectly neutral.

“I prepared most of the potions your team requested. I assume they worked as expected?”

“Oh. Yeah. They were great. Saved our lives at least twice.”

“Good,” he said, already turning back to his drawer. “That’s what they’re for.”

Harry stood there, trying not to deflate like a balloon with a slow leak.

Right. Of course.

Potions. Protocol. Mission. Not personal.

But still — Draco had known where he was. Had remembered. Had prepared the supplies himself. That had to mean something .

Right?

Harry lingered, shifted his weight a little, then tried casually,

“So… how have you been?”

Draco didn’t look up right away, still measuring out something into a mortar.

“The usual. Labs are understocked, the night shift ruined the crushed valerian again, and someone exploded a vial of wit-sharpening tonic in Storage B.”

The Dark-Haired Wizard winced.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It was. For their pride, mostly.”

Harry huffed a short laugh, then hesitated.

“I, uh… I missed… London.”

Damn, he’d almost said I missed you.

Get a grip, Harry. Stay focused. For Merlin’s sake.

Draco hummed distractedly, still grinding his ingredients with even, precise movements.

“I mean, not just London. I meant—like, the city. Not here-here. Obviously.”

That got the blond’s attention. He looked up, brow slightly raised.

“Potter, are you trying to say you missed the workplace ?”

The auror’s ears went pink. “I’m saying two weeks felt long. That’s all.”

A pause.

Then — to Harry’s complete shock — Draco let out a soft, amused breath. A little huff of laughter. Just a small thing. Barely a sound. But it counted.

It definitely counted.

He stared at him, stunned. His heart tripped over itself. If he died in that moment — right there, in the middle of the Ministry, surrounded by potion fumes and cauldron steam — he’d honestly be okay with it.

“Glad you found that funny,” he muttered, trying and failing to bite down a smile.

Draco shook his head faintly, returning to his work, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that hadn’t been there before. Harry felt his soul leaving. He cleared his throat.

“Well… since I’m already here, do you need anything?”

The blond didn’t look up.

“Actually, yes. I’m out of stargrass extract. Should be on the cold shelf near the back wall.”

Harry straightened instantly.

“Got it.”

He turned toward the storage area, walking with purpose — head high, posture strong — like a man on a heroic quest.

Alright, Potter, he thought. This is it. Time to be useful. Show him you’re not just a pretty boy.

He reached the back wall. Opened the cold shelf. And immediately froze. There were at least thirty neatly labeled jars, vials, and flasks staring back at him. Not one of them said stargrass. Or maybe they did — he just couldn’t tell. Some were abbreviated, some were in Latin, one was written in what he was pretty sure was Norse runes. His heart began to beat a little faster — but not in the sexy, Draco-adjacent way. More in the panic is setting in way. Casually — as casually as he could manage — he turned slightly and cast a glance across the lab.

Euphenia caught his eye.

He looked at her. Looked back at the shelf. Subtly mouthed, help. She blinked. Then, fighting a laugh, pointed discreetly at a small frosted jar on the second row. Harry grabbed it, exhaling like someone who’d just disarmed a curse. He marched back and handed it to Draco with confidence. “Here. See? I’m already more reliable than I used to be when it comes to potions.”

“Thank you.”

Draco didn’t check the label. He just popped the lid and poured exactly the right amount into his cauldron, like it never even crossed his mind that Harry might bring him the wrong thing. He wasn’t sure what was more shocking: that Draco trusted him that easily… or that, for once, he hadn’t completely messed it up. He allowed himself a flicker of pride — the warm, rare kind that came with actually doing something right . Then, they saw a low, sputtering glorp , followed by a strange fizzing sound. The bright violet potion darkened abruptly to murky grey. A few bubbles escaped the surface — then one popped with a high-pitched squeak and released a thin curl of green smoke. Draco stilled. Harry’s smile froze. Very slowly, Malfoy turned his head to look at the jar the auror had handed him. Then back at the cauldron. Then — finally — at Potter.

“What,” he said evenly, “did you just give me?”

The gryffindor’s heart dropped straight into his shoes.

“...Stargrass?”

The blond raised one unimpressed eyebrow, then tipped the jar just enough for Harry to read the label. It read: stagroot concentrate.

“Oh,” he said weakly. “Right. That’s... not stargrass.”

Draco looked at his failed potion with a sigh.

Then the cauldron gave another pop — followed by a boom that sent a puff of brown smoke directly into Draco’s face. The little wisps of his fringe that had fallen loose around his face were suddenly blown back, sticking out in chaotic angles. And his previously immaculate cheekbones were now speckled with fine, powdery brown residue.

Harry froze this time. Draco blinked, completely expressionless, now looking like someone who’d been hexed by a mildly irritated gobelin. He cast a quick neutralizing charm over the cauldron, muttering under his breath. The potion let out one last wheeze and fizzled into a lifeless puddle of disappointment.

“I was so close,” the blond whispered to himself.

Then, very slowly, Draco turned his head — again — to look at Harry. He stood frozen for a beat, heart sinking fast. Draco didn’t even look angry — just vaguely resigned. “Next time, maybe try reading before attempting to help.”

“I can fix it,” he said, already reaching into his pocket. Of course he had no tissue. Why would he be prepared for this ?

He looked around desperately and spotted a cloth someone had left near the ingredients bench — clean enough, probably. He grabbed it and stepped forward, brow furrowed with guilt.

“Potter. It’s fine, i can do i…” Draco said, still perfectly still

But Harry was already on him.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, reaching up to dab at Draco’s face with the tissu. “I didn’t mean— I thought I was helping, and it looked like the right jar, and you didn’t even check and that kind of gave me hope and— just— hold still—”

The blond stiffened, hands awkwardly half-raised.

“Potter, stop. It’s— I said I can do it myself.”

Harry didn’t hear him. He was too focused on the fact that his fingers were actually touching Draco’s face — warm skin under soft brown dust, those stupid perfect cheekbones, the tiniest freckle near his temple he’d never noticed before—

And then his eyes narrowed.

The Dark-Haired pulled the cloth back. There was a thick, dark streak smeared across the blond’s cheek— and another one on his forehead. The cloth was not clean. Harry blinked at it. There was definitely something sticky on one corner.

“Oh no.”

Draco went very, very still. Harry backed up instantly.

“Okay. Right. That—was not—”

The slytherin stared at him with the cold rage of a man who had just been smeared with mystery goo in his own place of work.

“Get. The fuck. Out of my lab.”

“Fair,” he said quickly, hands raised in surrender.

Draco stormed off toward the back hallway, muttering under his breath. Harry thought he caught “bloody Gryffindors” and “hopeless” before the door slammed behind him. He stood in the middle of the room, holding the world’s filthiest rag, surrounded by potionists trying very hard not to laugh.

“…Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Not my best try.”

Harry stood there in silence, still holding the traitorous cloth, the scent of burnt herbs and humiliation clinging to him like a second skin. From behind a nearby workbench, Euphenia emerged with her arms crossed and the deeply unimpressed expression of someone who had watched the entire train wreck unfold in real time. She stopped beside him, glanced at the rag in his hand, then at the door Draco had disappeared through.

“You know,” she said conversationally, “the jar you were supposed to grab? It was right next to the one you did.”

Harry groaned.

“Of course it was.”

She pointed to a neatly labeled container on the shelf. Stargrass. Large print. Sparkling little enchantment on the label to keep it fresh.

“And the cloth you used?” she continued, with the gentleness of someone sliding in a knife. “We used it earlier to clean the dried gunk off that old bottle neck. The one from the bottom drawer no one’s opened since January.”

Harry slowly lowered the rag and looked at it like it might actually start laughing at him.

“Right,” he said hollowly. “So I basically smeared cauldron scum on his face.”

“Mm-hmm,” Euphenia confirmed. “But you touched his face, so... small wins?”

The Chosen One let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a wheeze. She patted his arm once, not unkindly.

“You’ll get there. Probably.”

Then she walked back to her bench, leaving Harry alone with his shame and what remained of his dignity — which, at this point, wasn’t much more than the dirty rag in his hand.

---

Draco came back ten minutes later, clean-faced and visibly irritated, a slight flush still lingering high on his cheekbones — from the potion incident, or the rage, or maybe just residual secondhand embarrassment. The first thing he noticed: Potter was gone.

Good.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and headed straight back to his workstation. No one said anything — though Euphenia looked suspiciously busy, and Zion coughed into his sleeve to hide a laugh. Draco ignored them. He picked up his notes and tried to refocus. But he couldn’t quite shake the image of Potter standing there, wide-eyed and frantic, fussing over his face with that stupid cloth like he’d set Draco on fire and was trying to put it out with his bare hands .

Why had he looked so worried?

It hadn’t been a big explosion. Barely even a reaction. A puff of powder and a little mess. Annoying, yes, but hardly a catastrophe. And yet… Potter had hovered like it mattered . Draco frowned down at his ingredients. And it wasn’t the first time either. The coffee. The pastries, a nonsense about symptoms and Merlin knew what else he’ll come next time.

Always here. Always for nothing. He tapped his quill against the table, jaw tight.

What the hell does he want? To mock him? Sabotage his work? Was he just… bored?

He didn’t have an answer. And that was somehow the most frustrating part.

---

Back on Level 4, Ron and Hermione were still in his office, deep in discussion over a tangle of overlapping reports and something that might’ve been Ron’s lunch wrapped in a spell diagram.

“I’m just saying,” Ron muttered, “if the curse rebound pattern isn’t clear, maybe we should—”

He stopped mid-sentence. Harry stepped in with the expression of someone who had just lived through something emotionally scarring. He walked over silently and dropped into the chair across from them with a sigh heavy enough to flatten paper.

Ron frowned.

"You alright mate?”

He nodded slowly.

“Physically? Yes. Spiritually? Debatable.”

Hermione tilted her head. “What happened?”

The Chosen one rested his elbows on his knees.

“I asked if he needed help, so he asked me to give him some kind of ingredient… I gave him the wrong jar. His cauldron blew a puff of god-knows-what directly into his face.”

Ron winced.

“Ow...”

“Then I panicked. Tried to clean his face. With the only cloth I could find.” Harry continued, undeterred.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Please don’t say—”

“It was used,” Harry confirmed. “For cleaning old potion bottle necks. I basically smeared lab grime across his face like I was finger painting.”

Ron leaned back.

“What’d he say?”

Harry sighed.

“Told me to get the fuck out of his lab. Which I did.”

There was a short silence. Then Hermione, very gently:

“I told you to make yourself look good, Harry. Not worst .”

Ron nodded solemnly.

“At this rate, he’s going to start wearing protective gear when you walk in.”

He groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“I was so close. He even laughed, earlier. Laughed . It was… amazing.”

Hermione smiled, softening.

“Then you’re getting somewhere.”

“You’re still a disaster, but like, a slightly more functional one.” Ron added,

Harry didn’t lift his head. “I’m never touching his face again.”

“Please don’t,” Hermione said.

Ron reached over and gave his friend’s shoulder a solid pat.

“You’ll get there. Eventually. Probably. If he doesn’t hex you first.”

“I’m doomed” he groaned louder.

Hermione, looking far too calm for the chaos she was enabling, added lightly, almost to herself—

“Maybe, for now, casual flirting’s better, after all.”

Harry didn’t move, just let out a long, muffled sound into his arms that might’ve been an agreement. Or a surrender.

Probably both.

Notes:

Hello again !
I hope you had a good time !
I'm already working on the next chapter, héhé
Don't worry, Harry is a positif man, he'll get over this little accident ^_^

Well, let me thank you again, feel free to comment, i love reading it ! <3
Love you, and see you later !

Chapter 4: Just Testing a Theory

Notes:

Helloooo people !
I'm super duper happy to see you again here !
I really enjoy writting this chapter ! It was so much fun hehe !

Hop you'll enjoy it !
Left a kudos or comments if you want, it make me really happy to have your feedback !

After the last disaster in the lab — the potion explosion, the dirty cloth, and Draco’s fury echoing in his ears — Harry had kept a low profile. It had been a week. A long, quiet, soul-crushing week.

Anytime he saw Draco, he tried to offer a casual “Hey.”
And every time, Draco didn’t answer.

Sometimes Harry swore the love of his life actively changed direction to avoid him. One morning, he was fairly certain Draco had spotted him by the Ministry café and promptly turned on his heel like a man fleeing an assassination attempt.

It was… depressing.

Harry knew he should probably take the hint. Back off. Let it go. But every time — every time — he caught even the briefest glimpse of Draco, something in his chest tightened. Like a string pulling taut behind his ribs. It didn’t matter how fast the moment passed. A flash of blond hair at the end of a hallway, the sound of his voice in the lift or on the other side of the atrium — it all hit Harry like a bludger to the sternum.

His mind kept drifting back to him. To the way Malfoy moved — precise, smooth, like he belonged in every space he walked through. His posture was always perfect, shoulders straight, chin slightly lifted, as if the world had to meet his standards. And to add more difficulties, Draco always looked like he’d stepped out of some impossibly refined fashion catalogue: long coats that billowed just right when he turned a corner, tailored sleeves, polished boots that clicked with intention on marble floors.

And Merlin, the way he carried himself — calm, controlled, just distant enough to be untouchable. Harry could spot him anywhere and still feel his breath catch. Just a glimpse was enough to ruin his entire concentration for the next few hours. And that morning, it happened again. He spotted him by the fountain in the atrium, standing with someone he hadn’t seen in ages — Blaise Zabini.

They were deep in conversation, face to face with the ease of people who knew each other for a long time. Harry slowed instinctively, eyes drawn to the calm, almost nostalgic energy between them. And then Draco laughed. A real laugh — bright, gentle and completely unguarded. His head dipped forward as he pushed Blaise’s shoulder in mock exasperation, as Blaise rolled his eyes. There was an ease between them — comfortable, familiar — the kind that only came with years of friendship. It was just… effortless, natural.  Desperately unfair. And Harry couldn’t help it — something inside him ached. He had never seen Draco laugh like that. Not once. Not with him. And he wanted to. He wanted to be the reason Draco laughed like that — the person Draco nudged in mock disbelief, the one he touched without thinking. He wanted to be close. Not as an auror. Not as a rival. Just… someone who made him smile. Draco ran a hand through his hair, tucking it back behind his ear, and Harry’s heart gave a sharp, stupid lurch in his chest.

Right.
He could do this.

He wasn’t going to mope anymore. No more walking the other way. He was going to try again. He was going to be brave. He was a Gryffindor, dammit. Motivated and suddenly buzzing with determination, Harry turned on his heel and rushed to his office. He still had paperwork to finish — reports to file, memos to sign — and if he wanted to look even remotely like a responsible auror in front of Draco Malfoy, he’d better at least pretend to be productive. But, he didn’t notice Zabini's gaze, arms crossed, watching his retreat with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Harry’s office wasn’t particularly glamorous — a decent-sized room with one big window, a perpetually flickering overhead torch, and a desk that had seen better days. It was lined with open files and half-sorted folders, and a mug of cold tea sat forgotten under a growing stack of reports.

He was trying to focus.

Really.

He’d spent the last hours filling out incident forms and flipping through patrol memos, but his brain was hopelessly uncooperative. It kept drifting back to that moment — to Draco by the fountain. The way he laughed. The way his coat moved when he turned. The casual way he swatted at Blaise’s arm, eyes bright, posture relaxed.

Harry leaned back in his chair and sighed, staring at the ceiling.

He wanted Draco to laugh like that with him . He wanted to be someone Draco let his guard down around. He wanted—

A knock broke through his spiral. He straightened, brushing a hand through his hair in a very unnecessary panic. 

“Come in!”

The door creaked open, and Harry, still trying to make himself professional, barely glanced up — expecting a colleague, maybe someone from Records.

What he wasn't expecting was Blaise Zabini.

The man walked in like he owned the place, his long dark robes immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight. He looked completely at ease, like he strolled through Auror Headquarters every day of the week. A rolled parchment rested casually in one hand, and the faintest smirk played on his lips. Harry sat up straight, eyes wide.

“Zabini?”

“Morning, it’s been a while since i didn’t see you, Potter” Blaise said smoothly, crossing the place like this was the most natural visit in the world. “I got something for you to sign today.”

Harry blinked, completely thrown.

“I—wait, what are you doing here?”

“Bringing a document,” Blaise replied, as if it were obvious.

He leaned forward slightly and placed the scroll squarely on the desk, patting it once like he was delivering something of great importance. Harry glanced at the parchment, then backed up. “No, I mean—since when do you work at the Ministry?”

“I don’t.” Blaise said with the same energy one might use to say I don’t eat soggy toast.

Completely unbothered.

“…Then how did you get in here?”

Blaise raised a brow.

“Please. You really think a name like mine doesn’t come with a few backdoor passes?”

Harry blinked again, at a complete loss, and finally unrolled the parchment. The title was written in elaborate, sweeping calligraphy:

Authorization for Ongoing Courtesy Toward Mr. Draco L. Malfoy

He stared at it. Then looked up at Blaise, who looked very pleased with himself.

“I thought I’d make it official,” Blaise said. “You know. So you don’t get sued for excessive staring.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again. His ears were already going red.

“I—what—this isn’t—” he sputtered, fumbling for something resembling a coherent response. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” Blaise replied without missing a beat. “Besides, I figured you could use a little encouragement. Or structure. You Gryffindors are a little messy when it comes to love .”

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“I can’t believe you came all the way up here just to mess up with me.”

“I came to offer support,” Blaise said innocently. “Emotional guidance. Tactical flirting advice.”

“You made a fake form.”

“I designed a fake form,” Blaise corrected. “There’s calligraphy.”

Harry looked down at the parchment again, as if hoping it might magically transform into a work memo or a tax document. It did not. Instead, it was written in bulleted ink :

I solemnly swear that I, Harry James Potter, do hereby pledge to follow the Unspoken Rules of pure-blood Courtesy in all future interactions with Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy, including but not limited to:

Conducting myself with poise, elegance, and minimal Gryffindor chaos

Refraining from embarrassing Mr Malfoy in public, private, or magically shielded spaces

Maintaining appropriate eye contact, posture, and the illusion of emotional control

And, most importantly, avoiding unsolicited heroics, awkward hovering, and overenthusiastic declarations of affection

Harry stared at it like it might bite him.

“Is this… is this a contract?”

Blaise shrugged.

“Think of it as a friendly reminder. With flourishes.”

Harry read the parchment again for a beat longer, then looked up slowly, eyes narrowing.

“How the hell do you even know about all this?”

Blaise gave him an infuriatingly innocent look.

“Know about what?”

“You know what.” Harry jabbed a finger at the parchment. “The whole—me being a disaster in front of him.”

“Ah.” Blaise folded his arms, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Well. He may have mentioned it.”

Harry froze.

“He told you?”

“Not directly,” Blaise said, with a lazy shrug. “But Draco’s terrible at hiding something. And I know him too much. I’ve seen that look before.”

Potter’s stomach flipped.

“What look?”

“The I have no idea why Potter keeps showing up and talking nonsense but it’s clearly interfering with my work and I haven’t hexed him yet and I don’t know why’ look.”

“So… he noticed.” He groaned. 

“Oh, he noticed,” Blaise confirmed. “He just hasn’t figured out why you’re doing any of it.”

Harry slumped back in his chair. “Perfect. So I’m an annoying riddle he hasn’t solved.”

“Exactly,” Zabini said cheerfully. “Which means you’re still in the game.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be. You’re on his radar, Potter. Do you know how rare that is?”

Harry muttered something unintelligible and covered his face with both hands.

“Lucky for you,” Blaise continued, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve, “you’ve got me. And I know what gets through that thick skull of his.”

Harry peeked between his fingers.

“Please don’t say emotional honesty.”

Blaise scoffed. “Merlin, no. I was going to suggest pick-up lines.”

“What?”

Blaise smiled.

“Draco loves them.”

Potter stared at him like he’d just suggested serenading Draco with a singing Hippogriff.

“Pick-up lines?” he repeated slowly. “As in… the cheesy, awful kind?”

Blaise nodded, dead serious.

“The cheesier, the better.”

There was a long pause as Harry tried to figure out if he was being messed with.

“I’m sorry,” he said, squinting. “Draco Malfoy — cold, aloof, eye-roll champion of the century — likes pick-up lines?”

“Loves them,” Blaise replied, far too confidently for Harry’s comfort. “It’s a deeply hidden weakness. Like dark chocolate. Or dramatic coat flourishes.”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

“You’re not making this up to embarrass me, are you?”

The man placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended.

“Would I do that to you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Harry said flatly, at the exact same time.

Blaise chuckled.

“Fair. But I swear, this one’s real. Just trust me. Try it. Something clever, flirty, ridiculous. He’ll pretend to hate it, but deep down…” He tapped his temple. “He’ll be thinking about it all day.”

Harry slumped back in his chair, deeply unsure whether this was a stroke of genius or a complete social death wish.

Pick-up lines.

Great.

Just what he needed — another way to make a fool of himself in front of the man he was desperately in love with. But then again… what did he have to lose?

---

It was just past lunch when Harry made his way down the corridor to the Potions Division, clutching two takeaway boxes and a vague hope that today wouldn’t end in smoke or humiliation. He peeked through the doorway before entering — and let out a quiet breath of relief. Just Draco and Nicholas, who was hunched over a cauldron with his back turned. The lab was quiet, sun slanting through high windows, the low bubble of brewing mixtures filling the silence.

Draco was sitting at his desk, head slightly bowed as he scribbled something across a parchment with smooth, practiced ease. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, pale forearms resting against the wood, and his hair — soft, almost silvery in the light — fell freely around his face. A few longer strands clung near his cheek as he worked, like they belonged there. No lab coat today — just a dark green shirt, perfectly pressed, collar undone, the top button left open like an afterthought. Effortless. Unbothered. Beautiful.

Harry hovered a second longer in the doorway, acutely aware of how very much he did not look like that.

He’d been making an effort lately. His dark hair was still a wild mess, despite he’s still trying to comb it — rebellious strands always fell back into place by midday. His jaw was clean-shaven, his uniform was freshly pressed in the morning, but his shirt was now slightly wrinkled from the morning brief. His wand holster rested snug against his thigh, half-hidden beneath the fall of his robe. There was strength in the way he moved, confidence in how he stood — not showy, but solid. Capable.

Not that Draco would notice. Or care. Or even look up, probably. Harry took a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the room like someone who might survive the next five minutes without combusting.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than usual.

Draco looked up, quill pausing mid-word. His eyes flicked to Harry, then to the boxes in his hands, then back to his face.

“You again.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, clearing his throat. “Listen—before anything else—I just wanted to say sorry.”

“For what?”

Harry gestured vaguely.

“For… the wrong ingredient. The whole boom. The dirty cloth. Nearly singeing your eyebrows off. That. All of that.”

Draco looked at him for a long second, impassive. Then went back to writing.

“You should be sorry,” he said calmly. “You ruined an entire batch of Healing Draught.”

“I know,” Harry said, wincing. “But I was just trying to—help. Be useful. Not look like a complete idiot.”

The slytherin didn’t respond immediately. He finished whatever he was writing, set down his quill, and finally looked up again.

“…You’re very bad at not looking like an idiot.”

Harry pressed a hand to his heart, mock-wounded.

“I deserved that.”

A tiny twitch pulled at the corner of Draco’s mouth. It was almost a smile. Almost. The auror’s chest tightened.

“Anyway,” he added, lifting the boxes, “I come in peace. And with food.”

Draco eyed the boxes with suspicion as Harry set them carefully on his desk.

“I hope this isn’t some clever plan to distract me again.” Draco leaned back slightly in his chair. “What is it?”

“Curry. From that place near Charing Cross. I heard you like spicy.”

Draco arched his brow.

“Heard from whom?”

Harry hesitated.

“...The same mysterious source who says you need to eat more during the day. You guys burn a lot of energy, right?”

Draco stared at him for a long, unreadable second. Then, without a word, he reached out and took the box. Harry smiled, a little too brightly. He set the second one down for himself and slid into the empty seat across from Draco, trying not to fidget. He could do this. Just a casual lunch. With a man who made his brain short-circuit and his hands sweat. Draco opened the container and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. Harry watched him. Then remembered he was supposed to be eating, too, and scrambled to open his own box before he got caught staring again.

After a few moments of silence, Harry cleared his throat. Time to try. Casually. Smoothly. Like someone Blaise Zabini wouldn’t personally shame for eternity.

“So…” Harry began, poking at a piece of chicken curry with his fork. “Are you always this hot… or is it just the curry?”

Draco’s fork froze halfway to his mouth and blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then he slowly lifted his head toward Harry, brows drawing together ever so slightly.

“…Who,” he said, voice low and cautious, “exactly are you talking to?”

The auror froze, his mouth went dry. 

“What?”

“You just asked if I was ‘always this hot.’ Is someone else joining us for lunch?

Draco set down his fork, eyes sharp. Harry’s cheeks flamed.

“What? No— What? It’s— I’m talking to you ,” he said, completely thrown.

Draco leaned forward, gaze narrowing

“You said it like you were rehearsing for an audience.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. 

“It’s… It’s a line , Malfoy.”

“A line… of what?”

“A pick-up line. It’s supposed to be funny.”

Draco’s eyes went wide. 

“A pick-up line?” He looked genuinely horrified. “On me? For someone else?”

Harry opened his mouth. Then closed it. 

“Merlin, no! It was just meant to break the ice—”

Draco leaned back slowly in his chair, eyeing his vis à vis like he might be contagious.

“Alright, It’s a joke!” He groaned “It was supposed to be clever.”

Draco looked down at his lunch again. 

“Right. Well… you might want to work on your material.”

Harry slumped in his seat, defeat written across his face. One table over, Nicholas coughed suspiciously behind his hands, very clearly laughing. Harry fidgeted with his fork, cheeks burning. He could leave it there. Pretend it never happened. Or—

He looked up.

“Okay, wait, one more,” he said, forcing a grin. “Do you have a name, or can I call you mine?”

There was a beat of silence so sharp it could’ve sliced a mandrake leaf in half. The look Malfoy gave Harry could’ve flash-frozen an entire greenhouse.

“…Don’t,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Just—don’t.”

Harry’s smile wilted instantly.

“Right. Yeah. That was… Yeah.” He busied himself with his curry, desperately trying to make himself small, like maybe if he concentrated hard enough on his rice, he could disappear into it.

Across the table, Draco took another bite like nothing had happened — but the chill in the air was very, very real. Nicholas stood abruptly, muttered something about a delivery, and hurried out of the lab — only for Harry to hear a burst of laughter echo down the corridor seconds later.

He didn't speak again for the rest of lunch.

---

It had been two days since the Curry Incident , and Harry had wisely chosen to disappear from the Potions floor entirely. He kept his head down, avoided unnecessary hallway detours, and tried very hard not to think about Draco’s glare — or the way Nicholas had practically sprained something from laughing so hard.

But now, it was just past midnight.

Harry was on night duty, returning from a dull perimeter check around the Floo Department. The Ministry was nearly silent at this hour, long corridors dimly lit, the usual chaos replaced by a strange kind of stillness. He liked the calm of it. Less pressure. Less chance of spontaneous humiliation. He stepped into the lift and hit the button for last floor, yawning—

Just as a familiar voice said, “Hold that.”

The doors slid open again, and Malfoy stepped in, dressed in charcoal robes with the collar turned up, a slim file tucked under one arm. His hair looked a little tousled, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His expression was unreadable — and, as usual, annoyingly gorgeous. Harry’s pulse immediately picked up.

Of course the lift had to get interesting just as he was letting his guard down.

They stood side by side in silence as the lift began to go up with a soft hum. Harry cleared his throat.

“Didn’t expect to see anyone else around.”

Draco barely glanced over.

“Didn’t expect to be here this late.”

Silence again. The numbers on the lift ticked slowly upward. And then Harry said it.

“So… is your name Lumos? Because you just lit up this whole lift.”

Draco turned to him with the slowest, most deadpan stare in human history.

“…Merlin,” he muttered. “Not again.”

Harry winced.

“Okay, wait, that came out weird. I wasn’t— I mean, I was , but not like—”

Draco didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared, like he was weighing whether pressing the emergency button would be a justified response. Harry scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Look, it’s late. I’m tired. You’re tired. I had a whole… normal sentence in mind. Like, normal normal. Something about work. Or weather. Or how you look like you could hex me in cold blood and I’d still say thank you.”

“Potter.”

“I know .”

“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” Draco said slowly, like he wasn’t sure if Harry was having a slow magical breakdown. “Is this a game?”

“No! It’s just—Okay, maybe.”

Draco stared at him.

“I mean no,” he said quickly. “Definitely not a game. I’m just… bad at talking to you.”

The lift gave a soft ding as they passed another level. Draco looked away again, clearly over it. Harry groaned and leaned his head back against the metal wall.

“…I liked it better when you just thought I was having a heart attack...”

Draco didn’t respond, but his lips curled— just slightly — before settling back into that infuriatingly neutral line. They rode in silence for another moment. The hum of the lift and the flicker of enchanted floor numbers overhead filled the space between them. Then, suddenly — like a stray arrow out of nowhere — something stabbed straight through Harry’s mind. An intuition. A need. He turned slightly.

“Hum… Malfoy?”

Draco gave him a slow, sideways glance. No words — but his face said it all: What now, Potter?

Harry scratched the back of his neck, then his hand nervously brushing his left shoulder. He looked Draco in the eyes and admit himself to say : 

“Your eyes are like diamonds.”

There was a beat.

The lift hummed quietly beneath their feet, a faint mechanical sound wrapped in magical stillness. Soft light spilled from the enchanted lanterns above, casting warm gold across Draco’s sharp features — and for a moment, it felt like time paused.

Draco blinked. And — to Harry’s absolute shock — a faint pink bloomed across the tops of Malfoy’s cheeks. Harry’s heart thudded painfully. He hadn’t expected it to land. He hadn’t expected anything , really — except maybe another glare or a cutting remark. And Harry, breath tight in his chest, suddenly couldn’t feel the floor under his feet. He chuckled awkwardly, shaking his head. 

“Geez… That’s… pretty corny though, huh?”

Draco didn’t answer at first. He blinked once, slowly, as if recalibrating. His expression was unreadable for a heartbeat — then softened, just barely. His gaze dropped to the floor between them, lashes low, and a hint of colour rose again on his cheeks. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

“Oh… No, not at all…”

He cleared his throat, eyes still not meeting Harry’s.

“That’s… something any woman would like to hear.”

Harry froze and it hit him like a wall. Hard and heavy. Draco didn’t get it. Didn’t realize it. Very quietly, he murmured,

“It’s not for woman…”

The words hung in the air like soft static.

Draco’s head turned back to him, eyes slightly widened — startled, like he hadn’t meant to hear that, but had. Before either of them could say more, the lift chimed again.

Level Seven. Draco’s stop.

He stepped out stiffly, holding his file a little tighter than before. At the threshold, he paused.

“Good night, Potter,” he said, not quite looking back.

Then the doors slid shut again, and Harry was alone with his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

---

Harry had just stepped out of the Floo, brushing soot from his shoulders, still half-lost in thought. It was a bright morning in the Atrium, golden sunlight pouring through the high enchanted windows. People moved in every direction — robes swishing, paper memos flitting above their heads. But Harry barely noticed any of it. He’d been thinking about their last conversation all the way in — Draco’s voice, his shy expression, the way he had glanced away with that strange flicker of… something. Embarrassment? Confusion? A crack in the mask? Harry still wasn’t sure. And the words had replayed endlessly in his mind, especially the look on Draco’s face when Harry had muttered, It’s not for a woman.  He didn’t know what reaction he’d been hoping for. But the silence that followed had taken root in his chest and hadn’t let go since. He adjusted the strap of his satchel, trying to shake it off.

Then he saw him.

Draco.

Just stepping out of the Floo across the hall, perfectly put together as always, a glint of morning light catching in his pale hair — and Harry’s heart stuttered like it was trying to find its rhythm again. And Harry — Merlin helped him — ran. His heart thundered as he pushed through the crowd.

“Malfoy!”

Draco looked up, startled.

“Potter?”

Harry skidded to a stop in front of him, slightly breathless but determined.

“Good morning,” he said, then added, very seriously, “If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber .”

There was a pause.

Draco blinked.

Then—

He laughed. Really laughed. It burst out of him all at once — sudden, helpless, and bright. He bent slightly, one hand clutching Harry’s shoulder for balance, the other on his own chest. A few people glanced over. Harry just stood there, beaming like a madman, letting Draco’s laughter echo in his ribcage like music. After a solid minute, Draco straightened and shoved Harry’s shoulder with a breathless scoff.

“I always hated that kind of nonsense,” he said, voice warm with leftover laughter. “But Merlin , Potter… with you, it’s definitely funny.”

Harry grinned so hard his face hurt. He could’ve floated all the way to his desk — or straight through the ceiling, honestly. Draco cast him one last glance over his shoulder: amused, a little baffled, but — and this was the part that made Harry's stomach flip — not annoyed. Not dismissive. Just… friendly. Then he turned, striding toward the lifts with his usual elegant walk, still shaking his head and muttering something under his breath that Harry couldn’t hear.

Harry didn’t move. He stood there in the middle of the Atrium, stunned, glowing, heart thundering like a drumline in his chest. Then he heard someone behind him mutter,

“Cute-cumber? Really?” Harry turned.

Blaise Zabini, leaning casually against a pillar, arms crossed and smug as ever.

“Of all people,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes, “ why are you here right now ?”

“Today, believe it or not, I actually have a meeting,” Blaise said smoothly. “Lucky timing, though. I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.”

“You set me up,” Harry said flatly. “You told me he liked pick-up lines.”

“I did,” Blaise said, completely unbothered. “I also told him you secretly enjoy it when people call you The Chosen One . He looked deeply concerned… Honestly, It’s not my fault you’re both disasters.”

Harry stared.

“So he really hates pick-up lines?”

“Loathes them,” Blaise said, grinning. “Claims they’re a waste of breath”

Harry opened his mouth—then shut it again. Because despite all of that… He could still hear Draco’s laugh.

Still feel the ghost of his hand on his shoulder. Harry looked back toward the lifts, where Draco had disappeared.

“…Still worth it.”

Blaise gave him a slow clap.

“Merlin help us. He’s smitten.”

Harry didn’t even argue.

Notes:

I told you Harry would be better this time ! :D
Haaanw, really, it melt my heart !
I don't know if you'll reconized the little detail i put in this chapter !

Thank you again for you kudos and comment, mean a lot, really !
See you next time !

Chapter 5: Suit Yourself

Notes:

Helloooo everyooone !
Hope you're fine and ready for this new chapter !
I worked on it with passion, as always :)
Let me know if you find something odd, strange with the writting ! As english not my first langage, i can't guarantee that everything is 100% accurate and well-written.

ANYWAY ! Don't hesitate to comment, having your reaction make my heart happy ^^
And, of course, thank you sooooo much for you kudos <3
Love you !

Harry eased onto the cushioned bench at Hermione and Ron’s kitchen table on a sunny Sunday morning. The late‑morning sunlight pouring through leaded glass windows and dancing on the mismatched dinnerware. The walls were lined with shelves of well‑thumbed recipe tomes and a few stray potion bottles Hermione kept for “reference,” while Ron’s collection of hand‑painted Weasley family mugs clustered near the kettle. A gentle hum from the Wizarding Wireless Network mingled with the scent of rosemary‑and‑garlic roast wafting from the oven.

Ron pushed a plate of thick‑crust quiche toward Harry and grinned.

“Look at you—brighter than those sunbeams. What’s the news?”

Harry accepted the quiche like a trophy. He drummed his fingers on the painted ceramic mug.

“I made Malfoy laugh.” He paused to savor a bite, then continued between chews, “Not a polite little ‘hmph’—he let out the most beautiful burst of laughter—I swear it was like my whole world brightened in that moment !”

Harry rested his head on his palm, a dreamy smile playing at his lips. All week, he’d been walking on air—reliving that sound every morning as he dressed for the Auror Office, catching himself grinning at his own reflection. At work, he’d nearly wandered into broom cupboards and tripped over parchment, so caught up in replaying Draco’s laugh that his colleagues had started giving him odd looks, whispering about Potter’s “new case of the giggles.” But Harry didn’t care. In his mind, the echo of that single, perfect laugh outshone every bit of business at the Ministry.

Hermione, perched on a stool beside the island countertop stacked with fresh herbs in clay pots, set down her herbal‑infused iced tea and smiled.

“All right, Romeo. Do tell—what did you do this time?”

Harry leaned forward, eyes alight. 

“I told him, ‘If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute‑cumber.’”

He sank back, chest puffed out, very proud of him. Ron snorted, spearing a chunk of quiche. 

“A cute‑cumber? Really ? Since when did you think puns were the way to Malfoy’s heart?”

Harry waved a hand defensively. 

“Blaise Zabini told me Draco loves pick‑up lines—said it was his secret weakness.”

Ron nearly choked.

“Zabini? You believed Blaise Zabini about anything, let alone Malfoy’s preferences ? You’re not that naïve, mate.”

Harry shrugged, cheeks coloring.

“I… thought he really wanted to help… Maybe I got carried away.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly and offered Harry a sympathetic smile.

“Honestly, Ron, give him a break—he’s putting himself out there. It was bold, if nothing else. Aren’t you just the poster boy for Gryffindor bravery, Harry?” she teased.

Ron just shrugged and took another bite of quiche, butterbeer forgotten for the moment. After a beat of comfortable silence, he swallowed and wiped his mouth.

“So, after this big triumph, what’s the next move?” he asked, glancing between Harry and Hermione.

Harry ran a hand through his hair and looked down at the table. “I…I don’t know. Malfoy’s always so elusive. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even worthy of catching his attention.”

He paused then blurted out in a desperate rush, “I mean—have you seen him ? Like, really? His hair glistens like—like dragon‑silk in moonlight, and his eyes are the exact shade of storm clouds right before they break. I know it’s ridiculous, but every time I catch sight of him, I swear my knees go weak…”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a quick, knowing glance. Hermione’s eyes shining with amused disbelief while Ron let out a nervous half‑laugh—his shoulders tensing as if to shrug off the absurdity of this situation. In that shared look, they both realized the same thing: Harry was completely, hopelessly smitten.

She reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. 

“See? That’s genuine. He’ll notice how much you care.”

Ron arched an eyebrow, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Dragon‑silk and storm‑cloud eyes, huh? Who knew you’d fall so hard on so little evidence.”

Harry waved a hand, exasperation coloring his tone.

“It’s not just his face—though, let’s be honest, that helps. His style is something else too. It’s just effortlessly perfect. He always wears pieces that flow together, there’s not a crease or stray thread anywhere… as if he’s a member of the ‘Effortless Elegance’ club…” 

Ron snorted into his butterbeer. Hermione just laughed, eyes warm.

“Next to him, I stick out like a crumpled rag…” 

Hermione leaned forward, fingers steepled. 

“All right, Mr. Crumpled Rag, let’s think this through. What is it about Malfoy’s look that really catches your eye?”

Harry drummed his fingers on the table, eyes drifting as he pictured Draco. 

“I love how everything he wears feels… deliberate,” Harry said at last, tapping his chin. “Every seam, every fold—it’s like each piece was chosen to work in perfect harmony. The fit is always spot‑on.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

“My wardrobe is just… my Auror uniform and the bare minimum in my closet. Basic, at least comfortable. I want to look good for the Summer Solstice gala—something that feels as intentional as Malfoy’s style, not like I threw on yesterday’s robes.”

Ron waved a dismissive hand.

“Honestly, just dress well, find something that looks good like he does and he’ll like it.”

Hermione shook her head. 

“It’s not that simple, Ron. What Malfoy likes on him isn’t necessarily what he’d like on others. Harry can’t just copy his style and hope it’ll work.”

Harry frowned.

“Okay, but… how are we supposed to know what he truly likes? We’ve only got a handful of passing remarks to go on.”

Ron shrugged, half‑smile tugging at his lips.

“Well, he did compliment Robards’s green cloak last week.”

“True—but Malfoy’s throwaway comments can be misleading. He might praise something to be polite. We need the details he reserves for people he trusts.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and sank back into the cushioned bench with a heavy sigh.

“Which… we don’t have. He never says much about what he actually prefers, aside from no loud prints , which is pretty obvious.”

At that, Hermione’s face suddenly brightened, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of a new strategy. 

“Then we have to ask someone who knows him better ! Parkinson, maybe? She’s been friends with him since the first year.”

Harry frowned at the proposition. He crossed his arm against his chest. 

“We’re not exactly friendly with Pansy Parkinson—what if she just teases me like Zabini did? I don’t want to walk into a new roast session.”

“She might rib you a bit, but if you explain you’re doing this to—y’know—win Malfoy’s love, she could surprise you. If not, we can just bribe her.”

Harry shook his head

“I’m just not comfortable dragging another person into this. I’d rather try talking to Malfoy—discreetly. Subtle questions here or there, see how he really feels.”

Ron exchanged a wary look with Hermione.

“Subtle how?” he asked, brow furrowed. “No offense, Harry, but you aren’t exactly a model of tact.”

Hermione folded her arms, concern creasing her brow.

“He’s maybe still suspicious, Harry. If you start asking about his tastes out of nowhere, he might clam up completely—or worse, think you’re mocking him.”

Harry sat up straighter, determination flickering in his gaze. 

“I can do this! I can slip in a casual question without making a scene.”

Ron leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. 

“I don’t know, mate. My gut says you’re setting yourself up for another embarrassing moment.”

Hermione nodded slowly. 

“I have a bad feeling about this. We’ve already seen how easily he deflects. If you push too hard, he might shut you out completely.”

Harry’s smile didn’t waver.

“I don’t think so ! I believe I can pull it off. I just need to trust him—and trust myself.”

They fell into thoughtful silence, the kitchen’s warmth suddenly tinged with the tension of what would come next.

---

A new week began at the Ministry of Magic on a sunny Monday. Early morning light filtered through the towering glass atrium, casting pale beams across the polished marble floors. Aurors and civil servants hurried past, clutching parchments and steaming flasks of coffee, their footsteps echoing under the vaulted ceiling.

Harry Potter—dressed in his standard Auror attire of crisp black trousers, a white shirt, and a tailored charcoal cloak—paused at the base of the grand staircase. He squared his shoulders, tugged at his cuffs, and drew a steadying breath.

He spotted Malfoy several yards away, leaning against one of the sleek railing mezzanine, reviewing a stack of parchment. The early‑morning light caught on Draco’s pale skin, making it glow with an almost ethereal radiance—as though he’d stepped straight out of a sunbeam. Harry’s breath caught. Every sharp angle of Draco’s face—the high cheekbones, the gentle curve of his jaw—seemed illuminated from within.

In that moment, Harry was struck by how otherworldly Draco appeared, as if he’d stepped from a masterpiece painting into reality. His heart hammered, and all Harry could think was that, for once, no spell could render him any more spellbound than Draco’s simple, perfect presence.

And, as always, he was impeccably dressed. A deep burgundy shirt, its rich hue glowing against the pale light, peeked from beneath an onyx‑black waistcoat that clung to his torso like a second skin. Over that, a tailored longline cloak draped effortlessly from his shoulders, the lapels falling in perfect symmetry. A slim black tie, tucked neatly under the vest, added a touch of quiet formality, while straight‑cut trousers fell cleanly into well‑polished boots. A narrow leather belt, its silver buckle embossed with a subtle crest, cinched his waist—every element chosen and placed with unmistakable precision.

Harry chastised himself under his breath.  

Stop staring like a bloody psychopath. Go talk to him—no puns, no big gestures. Be casual. 

He stepped forward, smoothing the front of his shirt one last time. As he reached the mezzanine, Draco glanced up, surprise flickering in those storm‑grey eyes.

“Oh, Potter—hello,” Draco said with a nod, setting his parchments aside.

“Good morning,” Harry replied, voice firm but respectful. After a brief moment of hesitation, he added, “Malfoy, may I steal a minute?”

Draco folded his arms, arching an eyebrow. 

“Mmmh… fine, but make it quick.”

Harry took a steadying breath and offered the first thing that came to his mind.

“You’re always… impeccably dressed.”

Draco froze, surprise flickering across his features.

“Oh… Thank you, Potter.”

Silence stretched between them for a heartbeat. Harry’s chest tightened—he bit his bottom lip, eyes flicking up to Draco’s chest before returning to his face. He wished Malfoy would say something in return, something nice about him. He leaned forward on the railing, hands gripping the cold metal. 

Draco seemed to sense it. He straightened, eyes roaming—up Harry’s boots, along the cut of his cloak, back to Harry’s face—and for an instant, Harry felt his own pulse catch.

Draco cleared his throat and slipped back into his usual reserve.

“Your Auror uniform is… more than sufficient for its purpose.”

Harry blinked, torn between flattery and uncertainty.

“Right,” he said, unsure whether that had been genuine praise or a polite brush‑off.

He forced a casual smile, rubbing the back of his neck, then leaned against the railing with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“So,” he began, eyes flickering away from Draco’s face. “I heard the Department’s hosting the annual Summer Solstice Gala—thought you might be attending.”

Harry kept his expression as neutral as he could, but his heart thundered in his chest, desperate for Malfoy’s response. He had a plan—and it all depended on Draco.

Draco looked momentarily taken aback, then gave a slow, deliberate nod, offering no words.

In Harry’s mind, a triumphant Yes! exploded. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, fighting to hold back the wide grin that threatened to spill across his face.

“And… have you… decided what you’ll wear?”

Draco glanced down, smoothing an invisible crease in his cloak.

“Why do you want to know?”

Harry swallowed, careful to sound nonchalant. 

“I—I haven’t quite settled on an outfit myself. Thought you might have some… advice.”

For a moment, Draco studied him, disconcerted by the request. Harry saw hesitation flicker in his eyes.

“There’s a new line by Sylara Seaworth,” Draco said at last. “Her evening wear strikes a balance between classic cuts and just a touch of shine. I placed an order for one of her ensembles last week.”

“Sylara Sea…?”

Draco rolled his eyes, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“S-e-a‑w-o-r-t-h. She’s the one who did the High Court robes last season for example.”

Harry chewed his lip.

“Right… Do you… Think I'll look good in this?”

Draco shrugged, his posture relaxing slightly.

“Honestly, Potter—pick something you like. Confidence is the best accessory.”

Harry grimaced. 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. By your definition, that’d just be a T‑shirt and underwear—and I don’t think I can attend the gala in that!” His face went crimson. “I—uh—I mean, of course not—just…” He ran a hand through his hair, stammering, “You know—I didn’t literally mean underwear only…”

Draco’s storm‑grey eyes went wide, and for a heartbeat Harry thought he’d dissolve into a puddle of embarrassment. Then Draco cleared his throat, a faint pink tinting his own pale skin.

“Right,” Draco said, voice a touch clipped. “I… understand what you mean.” He gave Harry a small, awkward smile. “You want something as comfortable as your favorite… outfit.”

Harry exhaled. 

“Yes. Exactly. Thank you.”

“Honestly, you’d be better off asking Granger—she maybe has an eye for these things. But not Weasley,” he added with a faint twist of disdain, “his fashion sense tends toward the… hideous.”

Before Harry could protest, Draco scooped up his parchments.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

With that, he slipped past Harry and vanished down the corridor, leaving Harry blinking after him—part relieved, part  exasperated by the lack of a real answer.

---

The next day, Harry slipped into the dimly lit Potion Wing just past mid‑afternoon. He’ll try again to find some more information. The soft hiss of steaming cauldrons and the faint tang of crushed moonstone greeting him today. In the corner, Draco swirled a bubbling vial after adjusting the fold of his lab cloak sleeve with meticulous care.

With a mug of strong roast coffee, Harry cleared his throat. 

“Good Afternoon, Malfoy. Brought you a pick‑me‑up .” Harry said, sliding a steaming mug across the desk and offering a playful glance. He let the unspoken insinuation hang.

Draco looked up, arching an eyebrow.

“Hello, Potter. Should I take that to mean you want me to stay late and awake at work?” he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Harry wanted to add not at work but at my home all night long but he restricted himself. 

Malfoy took the mug without a word, setting his vial aside and inhaling the steam as it curled around his face. Harry climbed onto the stool beside him, eyes drifting over Draco’s ensemble with deliberate care.

“You know,” Harry began, trying in a casual tone, “I’ve noticed something—every time I see you, you’ve got a brand-new outfit. I don’t remember if I've ever seen you wearing the same thing twice.”

Draco’s hand stilled on the mug. He set the coffee down with an edge of a clink. 

“What are you implying, Potter?”

Harry’s smile faltered. 

“Just… that you’re always well‑dressed.”

Draco’s storm‑grey gaze sharpened. 

“Or perhaps you think I’m superficial, flinging away money and perfectly fine clothes as if they meant nothing to me?”

Harry’s heart thudded. 

“No! That’s not—”

Draco’s voice dropped to a quiet, cutting edge. 

“Because that’s what your remark sounded like. As if I’m a walking display case. Just because I like to dress nicely doesn’t mean I’m irresponsible.”

Harry swallowed, cheeks warming. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. I honestly meant it as a compliment.”

Draco’s shoulders squared. 

“Choose your words more carefully next time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do and no time to chitchat about my one-stand-outfits .”

Harry watched him turn away, the lab’s bubbling chorus suddenly feeling colder. He wished he could unsay the words that had cut deeper than any curse.

Harry knew there was nothing more he could do when Draco was like this. He trudged out of the Potion Wing, berating himself for his own foolishness.

The corridor’s bustle felt distant as he made his way to Hermione’s office, every footstep heavier than the last.

He knocked softly and slipped inside without waiting for an answer. Hermione looked up from a stack of briefing reports, concern flickering in her eyes.

“Harry?” she asked, setting her quill aside.

He let out a long sigh and slumped into the chair opposite her desk. 

“That was… even worse than I thought.”

Hermione leaned forward. 

“What happened?”

He rubbed his temples, voice low. 

“I—I made him feel like I don’t respect him. I’m an idiot !”

Hermione’s expression softened. She stood and came around to place a hand on his shoulder. Harry looked up at her, desperation in his eyes. 

“Send an owl to Parkinson, please. I need… someone on the inside. Pansy might know how to help me make this right.”

Hermione nodded, already rising to her feet. 

“Consider it done. And Harry—don’t lose heart.”

Harry managed a small, grateful smile, the weight easing just a fraction as Hermione crossed to her desk. Between the two of them, maybe there was still a chance to mend things with Draco.

Surely, he had to stop speaking like a stupid Gryffindor.

---

On Saturday, Harry rounded the corner onto Diagon Alley’s bustling main drag, wand tucked safely in coat pockets, and immediately spotted Hermione and Ron outside Madame Malkin’s. 

Ron scowled at the display windows. 

“Honestly, I’d rather face a Hungarian Horntail than go shopping for evening wear with a slytherin...”

Hermione shot him an exasperated look. 

“Be quiet, Ron. We’re meeting Parkinson soon—she has the intel.”

Harry forced a grin. 

“Right. Pansy Parkinson: fashion oracle and former Slytherin socialite.”

Before Ron could quip back, two figures approached through the crowd—Blaise Zabini, wide smile in place, and at his side, Pansy Parkinson in a forest‑green coat that looked impossibly tailored.

her eyes lit on Harry. 

“Well, well, Potter. A real pleasure seeing you here—shopping for clothes instead of chasing criminals ?”

Harry flushed. 

“Hello, Parkinson… Hello Zabini. Didn’t know you’ll be here too…”

She glanced at Blaise, who gave a sly shrug. 

“Blaise—who’d filled me in on all your little puns and failed flirt attempts—was absolutely dying to get in on this.”

Ron muttered under his breath. 

“Brilliant… two for the price of one.”

Pansy pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, smirking. 

“So, Potter, have you decided yet? The over‑the‑top rich‑wizard look, or the Weasley‑Yule‑Ball type?”

“Thank you for coming, Parkison, Zabini. We need your take on what Draco really likes—not too much teasing please, Harry is desperate."

“Hey !” 

Pansy let out a light laugh. 

“All right, all right. I’ll behave… for five Galleons’ worth of firewhisky.” She winked at Harry. “Lead the way, Potter. Let’s find you something that won’t make Draco wince.”

Harry swallowed, both nervous and relieved. With Hermione at his side, Ron trailing grumbling behind, and Parkinson/Zabini (begrudgingly) on board, the unlikely fashion squad set off down the Alley—ready to transform “Mr. Crumpled Rag” into someone Draco Malfoy couldn’t ignore.

They ducked into Madame Malkin’s; the bell above the door chimed as they entered. Mannequins draped in elegant tailcoats and flowing robes lined the walls.

“Welcome! Oh my, what an interesting group I have today,” Madame Malkin greeted them, eyes twinkling. “What can I do for you young witches and wizards?”

“Hello, Miss Malkin, it’s lovely to see you,” Hermione replied with a polite curtsy, while Ron and Harry drifted toward a rack of costumes. “We’re here to find costumes for the Ministry’s Summer Solstice Gala.”

“Oh yes! I’ve had several orders come in recently,” Madame Malkin said, sweeping her hand toward the stack of parchments. “Please, feel free to look around—and don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything special.”

The group gathered around a low display table strewn with fabric swatches—Pansy poised with a charcoal wool sample in one hand, Blaise hovering with a silvery-gray pinstripe in the other. Ron lurked nearby, arms crossed.

According to Pansy and Blaise, Draco’s ideal wardrobe features deep, muted hues—charcoal, forest green, midnight blue, and burgundy—crafted from luxurious fabrics like fine wool or a wool–dragon‑silk blend that drapes with elegant ease. He favors subtle textures (a gentle herringbone or very fine pinstripe) rather than anything bold. Every cloak, coat or waistcoat in his closet is tailored slim through the body, nipping in at the waist before falling smoothly over the hips, with just enough room in the shoulders and chest to allow effortless movement while preserving a sleek, constriction‑free silhouette.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right— I’m supposed to wear something form‑fitting?”

Pansy offered a teasing smile. “That’s Draco’s style, yes. But you and he don’t share the same build… Still, let’s give it a try.” She handed Harry a chocolate‑brown vest and steered him toward a fitting room.

They slipped into the alcove just off the main floor, where a single enchanted mirror stood. 

Harry shrugged out of his coat and slipped into the clothes. The buttons split at his chest and the fabric pulled tight across his shoulders.

Pansy laughed. “Well, that’s one way to make a statement.”

Blaise smirked. “You look like you’re auditioning for a straightjacket.”

Hermione stepped forward, voice firm. “Harry, you have to be able to lift your arms. Let me undo that.” 

Harry nodded and allowed Hermione to unfasten the vest and tug it off.

“That was definitely not comfortable!” he exclaimed.

Pansy and Blaise exchanged critical glances. She crossed her arms, eyebrows raised. 

“Not to mention this color doesn’t suit you at all.”

Hermione pulled another vest from the rack—this one in a black silk blend.

“This looks promising, and it should move with you instead of against you… I hope,” she said.

Harry shrugged into it and smoothed the fabric down, but it still didn’t sit quite right.

“Merlin, you look like a Dementor,” Blaise exclaimed, exasperated. “Unless you’re trying to push Draco into an early depression, please take that off.”

Harry trudged through the next round of fittings, the bench beside him groaning under a growing pile of half‑tried garments. He peeled off a slate–grey waistcoat—its deep hue swallowed the warmth from his skin, making him look pallid under the enchanted mirror’s glow.

One came in a dove gray frock costume, cut close through the chest. He fastened the buttons with effort—the fabric stretched awkwardly across his arms, then hung limp below his ribcage. Pansy hovered. 

“The cut’s too severe,” she observed, Blaise nodded 

“And the color drains you.”

Ron threw up his hands. “Honestly, I can’t watch this any more !” He then slumped into a nearby couch, rubbing his temples. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

Hermione approached with a sympathetic smile. 

“Let’s keep going,” she said softly. “I know we’ll find something that feels like you… but also like Draco.”

Pansy’s brow furrowed. 

“We’re running out of options here...”

“Or out of patience…” Blaise sighed

Harry sank to the floor, shoulders slumping. 

“I’m never going to find anything that fits.”

Ron closed his eyes. 

“Wake me when it’s over.”

They stood in a hush, the racks of elegant fabrics all around them—and Harry wondered if he’d ever wear something Malfoy would admire.

The afternoon light started to dim when Harry found himself alone before the mirror, wrestling with the buttons of yet another waistcoat. On the plush couch behind him, Ron lay sprawled and snoring softly. Pansy, Hermione, and Blaise had slipped away upstairs, a quieter place of the shop. Their laughter and low voices drifted faintly to Harry’s ears— wishing that the perfect ensemble existed somewhere among these rails. Yet here he was, boxed in by another too‑tight waistcoat, the dark purple doing nothing for his complexion.

A soft chime at the door barely registered but Harry didn’t bother to look back. After a little moment, a low voice carried through. 

“Potter?”

Harry froze, hand resting on the final button. He turned—and there stood Draco Malfoy. Exactly as composed and impossibly elegant as ever, in deep forest‑green and slate tones that set off his pale skin.

Draco’s storm‑grey eyes flicked over Harry’s unevenly fastened waistcoat on a silk shirt and the tangled heap of discarded garments at his feet. For a heartbeat, neither spoke.

“Malfoy,” Harry managed, voice catching. He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. 

Draco crossed his arms, examining Harry with that razor‑sharp gaze. 

“What exactly are you doing with… that, Potter?”

Harry’s cheeks flamed. 

“I… Erm, wardrobe research. You know, trying to…”

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

“Research?”

Harry swallowed. 

“Yes. I—wanted to look… presentable. For the gala.”

Draco’s lips curved into the barest of smiles. “I see.” He glanced at the mirror, then back to Harry. “If you need further guidance, I suppose I could spare a moment while I'm waiting for my package.”

Harry’s heart thundered. “You… you would?”

Draco uncrossed his arms and slipped off his coat, draping it over a nearby rack.

“Why not… You seem a little.. Desperate, may I say.”

Harry’s chest felt like it might burst with relief and excitement. Draco’s eyes flicked from his hopeful expression to the heap of ill‑fitting garments piled on the bench—then to Ron, sprawled on the couch and snoring softly.

“I remembered saying to you to not bring Weasley for shopping…” Draco remarked, tone dry. “Clearly, he hasn’t been… helpful.”

Harry’s smile faltered for a moment. “Yeah… About that…” he mumbled, waving toward Ron. “He was available…”

“Mmmh… I see…” Draco replied, expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned in closer to Harry, voice softer. “Then let’s leave him to his dreams.”

Draco leaned over and swept half‑a‑dozen garments from the bench to the floor: a black tailcoat, a chocolate brown waistcoat and many other dark tones clothes, all in sumptuous, whisper‑soft fabrics.

“Interesting selection,” he said, voice low. “All very dark. Very… refined.” He held up a near‑black cloak, its lining shimmering with subtle silver threads. “I believe this isn’t your usual style. Why this one, in particular?”

Harry’s cheeks flared as he shifted on his feet, avoiding Draco’s gaze. “I… uh… thought I’d branch out,” he stammered. “Try something different for a change.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly. He nodded toward Harry’s waistcoat and shirt. 

“You don’t look comfortable in this,” he observed. “Is there a reason you chose it?”

Harry cleared his throat, scrambling for an excuse. “Well—black is slimming,” he offered lamely. “And silk supposed to be… versatile?” He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks burning. “Honestly, I just wanted to see how it looked on me.”

Draco’s eyes flicked up, sharp and curious. 

“Were you… inspired by me, by any chance?”

Harry’s heart leapt. He drew in a breath, then exhaled in a rush. 

“Yes,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I confess—I couldn’t help it. You always look so… impeccably dressed, and I wanted to see if I could pull it off.”

Draco glanced away for a moment, then turned back to Harry, conflict flickering in his grey eyes and a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

“I… thank you,” he said softly, “but that style—my style—might not suit you. I’m sorry.”

Harry’s chest tightened and his heart thundered in his ears. He realized Draco was telling him, gently but firmly, that no matter what he wore, he wouldn’t be what he wanted. He could cry right now. Still, Harry dared to lift his gaze, searching Draco’s eyes for any hint otherwise.

Malfoy held up a hand as Harry opened his mouth.

“Not that you’re unsuited,” he hurried on, voice gentler now. “I mean only that you have your own… strengths. I think something else—something uniquely you—would flatter you far better.”

Harry’s breath caught at the kindness in Draco’s eyes, and for the first time, he felt seen not as a copy, but as himself. He realized he’d panicked for nothing—Draco wasn’t judging him against a mirror of his own preference, but was looking at Harry’s true self, forming his own vision of who Harry really was.

Draco’s gaze sharpened as he studied Harry, the way the light caught the planes of his face and the quiet tension in his shoulders. Harry’s pulse hammered in his ears—under Draco’s scrutiny, he felt as exposed as if he were standing bare.

After a short moment, Draco stepped to a nearby rack that had been untouched all afternoon. He reached up and pulled down a ruby red costume, made with a high quality of cotton, the lapels edged with fine gold trimming and ornate gold buttons.

“I was thinking,” Draco began, holding the jacket out toward Harry, “that perhaps a redder tone with gold accents might suit you better—something that speaks to… Gryffindor flair.” His voice was measured but teased.

Harry’s breath caught. He took the jacket from Draco’s hands, fingers brushing against the smooth fabric. “You… you think so?”

Draco inclined his head once. 

“Try it on.”

In the fitting alcove, Harry shed the charcoal coat and slipped into the jacket. It hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, the gold buttons glinting at his chest, the tailored waist nipping in just right. He buttoned it, marveling at how the warm hue deepened his green eyes and complemented his unruly dark hair.

Standing before the mirror, Harry turned slowly, watching the jacket move with him—no pinching at the shoulders, no sag at the back, just effortless elegance. He looked… spectacular.

Draco watched from the side, a rare softness in his expression. 

“It fits incredibly well,” he said quietly. “Bold choice, but it’s undeniably you.”

Harry’s chest swelled with pride and something sweeter—gratitude, hope, something like the first stirrings of triumph. He met Draco’s eyes in the mirror and dared a small, genuine smile.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, voice thick with emotion. “It’s perfect.”

Draco’s lips twitched upward in a barely-there smile. 

“Good. Because I wouldn’t want you in anything less.”

Harry’s cheeks went flaming red at Draco’s words, the double meaning sending a pleasant jolt through his knees—even though he knew Draco spoke only of the costume. But in that moment, Harry felt seen—and perhaps, for the first time, truly noticed.

Draco studied Harry in the mirror for another heartbeat, then shook his head. “It’s almost perfect—yet something’s missing.”

Without another word, he slipped away and moments later, he returned holding a slender ivory lace tie. He held it out to Harry. 

“This,” he said, “will be the final touch.”

Harry blinked, heart stuttering. 

“I—I don’t actually know how to tie one of these.”

Draco murmured, “Classic Gryffindor—always underprepared.” He said. His eyes flicked up, a faint impatience softening into amusement. 

Harry startled when he saw Malfoy stepped close enough that he could feel the heat of his body, the faint trace of his cologne—something woody with a hint of wintergreen—wafting over him. 

Draco draped the lace tie around Harry’s collar, slipping his arms around his neck. His long fingers brushed a lock of hair behind Harry’s ear before trailing down the back of his neck, the cool fabric brushing skin as he wrapped it around. Harry’s breath hitched at the delicate motion of Draco’s fingers, the deliberate softness of his touch, and the heady warmth of his proximity as he began to tie the knot.

Draco’s fingers lingered on Harry’s throat as he tightened the fabric, the silk knot pressing firmly—but without pain—against his pulse. Harry swallowed hard, every nerve set alight as Draco’s thumb brushed the hollow of his neck to steady the knot. The gentle tension of the cloth echoed the rapid beating of Harry’s heart, and he felt Draco’s body so close that each breath carried his intoxicating scent.

Harry’s chest tightened; he could no longer hold back the words he’d been wanting to say for days.

“Malfoy… I’m… I’m sorry for the last time… It wasn’t what I meant…” he stammered, his voice cracking.

Draco exhaled in a soft sigh, grey eyes softening.

“Don’t worry about it. It was my fault too—I was in a foul mood and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” 

Relief washed over Harry, as if the heavy stone he’d carried in his stomach for days had suddenly disappeared.

Then, with one final, sharp tug, Draco tightened the tie into a perfect knot, his fingertip tracing the edge before pulling back. The space between them suddenly felt too large, yet Harry’s skin still tingled where Draco had touched him. When their eyes met, Harry saw something in Draco’s gaze—approval, perhaps, or something softer, more personal. He clasped the ends of the tie as if to anchor himself in the moment, daring to believe that Draco had fashioned this knot not just for the suit, but for him.

“Perfect.” Draco’s voice carried a note of pride as he tapped the knot with a gentle slap of his palm.

Harry looked at their reflections: his hair slightly mussed, the golden buttons gleaming, the ivory tie a bright, soft contrast at his throat. He swallowed, voice husky. “Wow… I never look so good…”

Draco offered him a small, genuine smile. “You’re welcome, Potter. Now, try moving—see how it settles.”

Harry turned, raised his arms in a mock stretch, then faced Draco again. Everything felt right—down to that final, perfect knot.

Then, Miss Malkin’s crisp voice rang out behind her counter. 

“Mister Malfoy! Your package is ready !”

Draco stepped back again, hands in his pockets as he surveyed Harry from head to toe.

“Well, my work here is done,” he declared, voice cool but satisfied.

Harry stared, too stunned to speak. 

Draco smirked, lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug.

“Next time, perhaps I’ll make you try emerald green. I have a feeling Slytherin’s colours might suit those eyes of yours.”

With that, Draco nodded politely, then turned to strode away. Harry’s heart was pounding so hard he was sure the entire boutique could hear it.

Alone before the enchanted mirror, Harry watched Draco collect his package and stride toward the door, those parting words echoing in his ears. A warm surge of joy bloomed in his chest, and he caught his reflection grinning back at him. Clad in the ensemble they’d chosen together, he felt the promise of something more pulsing beneath his skin. In that moment, Harry knew he was, quite simply, dying of happiness.

Minutes later, Hermione, Pansy, and Blaise returned, their arms laden with clothes and accessories.  Hermione’s gaze immediately snapped to Ron, still curled up on the couch.

“Ronald Weasley,” she snapped, poking his side “Wake up! You’re here to help, not to catch up on your afternoon nap.”

Ron bolted upright, hair a mess and eyes still half‑lidded. “I—sorry, Hermione—I just thought I’d close them for a moment—”

Pansy cut him off, her attention shifting to Harry. She blinked, then let out a low whistle. 

“By Merlin… look at you ! ”

Harry stood a little taller, as if his outfit had somehow altered his very posture. His heart thundered at the awe in Pansy’s voice, and he caught Hermione’s approving nod and Blaise’s impressed grin. The weight of all those discarded outfits—and the day’s anxious trial‑and‑error—fell away in an instant.

Hermione stepped forward, beaming. “Oh Harry, you look absolutely beautiful !”

Harry touched the knot of his tie, memories of Draco’s fingers still tingling on his neck.

“Thanks, all of you,” he murmured, voice thick with gratitude. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Pansy nodded emphatically. “Absolutely—this is the one you’ll settle on.”

Harry’s lips curved into a soft, secret smile. He turned and glanced toward the door where Draco had exited not five minutes before.

“Yes,” Harry said, voice low and full of meaning. “the one I'll settle on.”

Notes:

Hello again !
Hope you had a really good time =^^= It's one of my top priorities !
Maybe the next chapter will be posted with a little delay, I wont be at home ! (STRAY KIDS CONCERT BABY)

See you next time ! I'll continue to do my BEST !
Love you, have a nice week-end <3

Chapter 6: Lucky/Unlucky

Notes:

Hello everyone!!
I’m very sorry for the delay! After I went to Paris for Stray Kids (yes, I’m very happy about that! xD), I got sick T_T. Like, hella sick. Maybe COVID—I don’t know.
I didn’t have time to edit this chapter, and there was no way I was going to post something I didn’t feel good about without at least a few readjustments.
AND! This chapter is wayyyy longer than before. I couldn’t decide whether to cut it into two parts, so here it is—the full version!

Obviously, thank you with all my heart for your kudos, comments, and views. Really, thank you sooooo muuuuuuch!!

I really hope you’ll enjoy it. I’m trying my best to keep the tone. If you laugh, I win. Please don’t hesitate to send me a little message and tell me what you think—what you like and dislike. I want to make it good.
Okay, enough chitchat! See you in the end notes. <3

Harry wandered into the Auror break room early, loafing around as if he weren’t due at his desk, just as the ancient coffee machine gurgled its customary protest. Ron was already leaning against the counter, parchment in hand, a scowl on his face.

“Would you believe it if I say Colten swore he saw a Niffler in the broom closet?” Ron asked, glancing up as he folded his parchment. 

“Tell me about it. Speaking of pointless subjects, look at this.” He banged his palm on the Formica table and dropped a crumpled parchment beside Ron’s mug. “Yesterday, Chief Robards wanted me on weekend duty again—the second time this month.”

Ron glanced up, his eyebrow arching. 

“Weekend duty, eh? Didn’t you volunteer for the Diagon Alley patrol two weeks ago?”

Harry groaned, reaching for a paper cup of coffee. He took a swig, winced, and set it down.

“This stuff tastes like the dregs of a Bezoar brew. How do they expect us to function well?”

They both leaned against the counter, their eyes flicking to the clock carved into the wall—ten minutes until the department-wide briefing with Robards. Ron drummed his fingers.

“It’s time for the end‑of‑week meeting. Are you ready to feign enthusiasm?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Feign enthusiasm? I’m going to cause a scandal. I’ll straight‑up refuse weekend duty at any cost.” He jabbed a finger at his parchment. “Robards won’t know what’ll hit him.”

Ron snorted. “You can’t refuse the Chief outright.”

“Watch me,” Harry shot back, grabbing another gulp of that bitter sludge. “I’ll invent a medical emergency, accuse him of favoritism—whatever it takes. No more weekends in the field for me.”

With that, Harry folded his arms, his face etched with determination, as they headed toward the meeting room—ready to plot his theatrical showdown with Robards.

The Aurors trickled in a few minutes before the hour, slipping silently through the heavy oak doors and arranging themselves before Robards’s reading desk. The meeting room smelled faintly of parchment and clay—an ever-present reminder that this space was as much a command center as a conference hall. High arched windows let in the pale morning light, playing across the rune‑inscribed walls.

Harry and Ron arrived together, scanning for an empty spot. Harry leaned against the wall next to Ron with a theatrical sigh, straightening his cloak. Ron gave him a sideways grin.

Around them, murmured greetings echoed as the rest of the department found their places. Veteran Aurors chatted about last night’s patrols, while newer recruits nervously straightened their ties. At precisely nine o’clock, Chief Robards swept in with his robes crisply pressed and his wand tucked into his belt. With a single sharp rap on the desk, Robards’s presence hushed the room—and the meeting began.

“Good morning, everyone. Let’s get started.” He tapped the board with his wand, glancing around the crowd. “First order of business, field reports.” 

He swiped his wand, projecting a list of incidents onto the enchanted wall screen—a series of bullet points in neat white script. Headings flickered by: Knockturn Alley Apparitions, Boggart Containment Breach, Unregistered Animagi Sighting. The hum of interest rose as each story triggered a ripple of commentary. A grumble here about insufficient backup, a chuckle there at a particularly inept Dark wizard.

After summarizing each point with brisk efficiency, Robards lowered his wand and folded his hands.

“That covers the operational highlights. Any questions or pressing concerns before we move on to administrative matters?” he said, scanning the room.

At that cue, Harry’s hand shot up—eager, desperate—while Ron leaned over, eyebrows raised in amusement at his friend’s timing. The chief paused, and the room went perfectly still, poised on the edge of whatever Harry was about to unleash.

“About the weekend assignment, sir—”

“Ah, you’re right.” Robards cut him off with a grin.  “Thank you for the reminder, Auror Potter. I’ve just assigned you to oversee the annual monitoring review for the Malfoy family—Senior Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy—this coming weekend. Is that what you were about to ask?”

He paused, eyes fixed on Harry.

Harry’s mouth opened once, twice, then snapped shut. He pressed his back against the stone wall, his cheeks warm, the parchment still clutched in his hand.

“Yes, sir. Thank you…”

A ripple of laughter swept through the room. Ron gave a resigned sigh and nudged Harry’s arm—everyone knew that Potter had planned to refuse—but now he seemed positively delighted. The meeting pressed on, but Harry’s mind was already racing through the winding corridors of Malfoy Manor.

The meeting broke up with a final nod from Robards, the Aurors filing out of the room. Harry and Ron lingered by the door, waiting for the corridors to clear. 

Ron nudged Harry again, gently.

“So much for refusing weekend duty, eh? You said you’d refuse it at any cost.”

Harry flushed but squared his shoulders. 

“I meant I’d try—”

“Bullshit,” Ron snapped, grinning. “You chickened out as soon as Robards said Malfoy Manor. You’re weak, Harry.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, shooting Ron a mock glare.

“I’m not weak. I’m… strategically compliant.”

“Right,” Ron chuckled. “Next time, at least look like you’re protesting a little, yeah?”

Harry pushed off the wall.

“He caught me by surprise—that’s all. I can’t exactly lodge a complaint now.”

“As if…”

“Anyway!” Harry cut him off. “I need to make a good impression on Malfoy’s parents. After all, they’ll be my in‑laws.”

“Merlin… no way this is going to end well…”

---

The next evening, Harry’s drawing room at 12 Grimmauld Place was already lit by a roaring fire. He’d sent emergency invitations to Hermione, Ron, Blaise, and Pansy via Patronus—there was no time for formal stationery.

Harry waved his wand and drew chairs into a loose circle around the low table, on which he’d arranged mugs of butterbeer and plates of treacle tarts.

Hermione and Ron arrived moments later through the Floo Network, their expressions fraught with concern.

“Harry, what’s happened? Are you all right?” Hermione asked, stepping forward.

Ron scanned the room, his eyes going wide as he realized the purpose of Harry’s summons.

“No, no, no—Harry, you can’t have called us in for this! Absolutely not. I’m going home.”

He turned to leave, but Harry grabbed his wrist, his eyes pleading.

“Ron, please,” Harry said urgently. “I’m begging you. I need your help—I can’t afford to mess this up. I’ve got only one shot at this.”

“What’s going on here?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowed.

She hated being kept in the dark.

“Our dear hopeless romantic friend has to meet the Malfoys tomorrow for his weekend duty.”

“Oh…” Hermione’s voice trailed off.

“You still can’t have summoned us for that! We were about to—”

“Ron! Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” Hermione warned. 

His cheeks flushed and then drained of color as he registered the five chairs strewn around the table.

“Wait a damn minute… Why are there five chairs? Why, Harry?”

Before Harry could answer, the Floo flames flared green again, and Pansy and Blaise stepped through.

Ron leaned back against the mantel.

“You owe me one, Harry—and I’m still not convinced I should be here,” Ron whispered.

Harry grins. 

“Best friend’s duty, remember?”

“Since when did you play dirty?” Ron huffed.

Pansy raised an eyebrow at Harry.

“Why drag me and Blaise into this too? You said it was ‘a matter of life and death.’”

Blaise folded his arms. 

“Not exactly our usual Saturday night.”

Harry drew a rolled parchment from his pocket. “Listen—if I show up at Malfoy Manor unprepared tomorrow, I’ll humiliate Draco. This,” he said, spreading it on the table, “is my promise not to make a fool of him in front of Lucius and Narcissa.”

He tapped one clause with his wand.

“Zabini—you owe me for that time you made fun of me.”

“Touché.”

Pansy jabbed Blaise’s arm.

“Why didn’t you add a clause specifying that we aren’t obligated to help him every time he asks?”

Blaise grinned. 

“Sure—but where’s the fun in that?”

Harry leaned forward, eyes bright. 

“Exactly. Now, let’s get down to business—before I really do make a spectacle of myself.”

“Wait… did you say you have to go to the Malfoys tomorrow?” Zabini asked.

“Yes,” Harry replied. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing… just making sure,”

Blaise and Pansy exchanged mischievous looks—Harry barely had time to wonder what they were planning before diving back into preparations.

They all settled into their places—Harry in the center chair, Ron and Hermione to his left, Blaise and Pansy to his right. Hermione cleared her throat first.

“Okay, I read all about aristocratic courtesy—proper bows, formal introductions, even the right way to pour tea,” she admitted. “But I never bothered to apply any of it. The Weasleys don’t care about that sort of thing.”

Blaise scoffed. 

“No wonder. The Weasleys aren’t aristocrats—they live like plebs.” He folded his arms, eyes gleaming.

Ron shot Blaise a glare 

“Hey! My family may not have fancy titles, but they’ve got heart—and they’d never sneer at someone’s background. I’d rather be plebs who actually value friendship than snobbish pure-bloods obsessed with bloodlines.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. 

“Defensive much? I’m just stating facts—aristocrats behave differently.”

Ron jabbed a finger at Blaise.

“Facts? You lot supported You-Know-Who, and as soon as he was defeated, you acted as if he never existed.”

Hermione held up a hand. 

“Can we not devolve into Witch‑War finger‑pointing?”

Pansy smirked

“Maybe if you had proper etiquette, politics wouldn’t get so messy.”

Harry held up both hands.

“Enough! We’re heading in the wrong direction—no more insults. I need both your perspectives, not a blood-status battle. So can we please focus on how to impress Lucius and Narcissa rather than tearing each other apart? Please?”

Ron exhaled slowly, crossing his arms. Blaise rolled his eyes but didn’t argue further. Pansy leaned forward.

“Fine, but we’re doing this for Draco.”

Harry nodded, smiling, ready to listen.

“When you enter, give a deep bow to the lady of the house and offer your hand—allowing her to choose whether you kiss it. Address them by their respectful titles, never by their first names. Compliment something in the décor—perhaps a finely carved wooden panel or an ornate chandelier.”

Blaise nodded. 

“You can mention the Ming vase in the entry hall. It’s an exceptional piece, and talking about it will make a strong impression.

Harry’s confident posture faltered.

“Ming vase… right?”

Hermione beamed. 

“It dates to the Xuande reign—early fifteenth century—and is white porcelain with underglaze cobalt-blue lotus and phoenix motifs, prized for its clarity of color and elegant simplicity.”

Blaise smirked. 

“You always have to be the know-it-all, don’t you, Granger?”

Hermione shot him a glare.

“Someone’s got to keep you two from embarrassing Harry.”

Pansy turned back to Harry.

“When Lucius speaks, let him finish before you respond. A slight nod at the end of his sentence shows you’re listening.”

“And mirror their pace—if they speak slowly and deliberately, don’t rush your own words. It signals respect,” Blaise added.

Hermione chimed in, “Maintain steady eye contact without staring. Look away briefly before returning your gaze—that feels natural.”

Ron finally joined in, shrugging with mock seriousness.

“Oh, and for Narcissa: give a gentle compliment on her attire—perhaps praise her gown. Women appreciate having their wardrobes noticed.”

Harry pressed his palms to his temples as the rules tumbled over one another in his mind. Precise pottery trivia, formal bows, listening cues, and proper seating—they all swirled into a deafening roar. Across the circle, Hermione’s clipped reminders blended with Ron’s muttered complaints, while Blaise and Pansy volleyed etiquette pointers back and forth. Harry’s vision blurred, leaving him unable to lock onto a single instruction—overwhelmed and adrift in a tidal wave of advice.

For a full hour, he’d nodded and tried to store each nugget of advice—how to hold a teacup, how long to pause before answering, and which portrait to admire first—but it all blurred together in his mind like ink washed away by a rainstorm. Every time he thought he’d grasped one rule, another volley of pointers crashed over him. His throat felt dry, his jaw clenched, and the clacking of Pansy’s heels on the floor sounded as if it would go on forever.

At last, Blaise glanced at his watch. 

“Well,” he said, stretching, “Pansy and I really must be off. We have a party to attend, and there’s no way we’ll arrive late. And don’t forget that, Potter: be punctual.”

Pansy rose, smoothing her robes around her. 

“Not that this was any pleasure,” she added with a slight smirk, giving Harry a perfunctory pat on the shoulder. “Frankly, we can’t wait to hear Draco recount all your future blunders.”

They exchanged a knowing glance and, without waiting for a goodbye or a thank you, slipped through the Floo flames.

The flames snapped shut, leaving the three of them in uneasy silence. Ron shoved his chair back and stood, pacing with his hands jammed in his pockets.

“They’re insufferable,” he muttered, staring at the door. “Snobbish, haughty—pure-blood aristocracy at its worst. Their world sucks.”

Hermione rose and intercepted him, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“Ron, that’s enough. They meant well—now let’s focus on Harry.” She turned to Harry, whose eyes were fixed on the fire. “Harry,” she said softly, “will you be all right tomorrow?”

He blinked and forced a grin.

“I—I’ll manage. Really.”

His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair; confidence felt a world away.

Hermione nodded, though her gaze remained wary.

“What will you wear? You’re still on duty, so…”

Harry’s shoulders straightened almost involuntarily.

“My Auror uniform, of course.”

Ron snorted.

“Great… nothing says ‘I’m a charming guest’ like black leather and a wand holster.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

“It’s still… a professional visit.”

Hermione tapped her chin, considering.

“Right. Professional—but maybe you can swap the standard Auror cloak for something softer? Or at least hide your badge before you arrive?”

Harry’s eyes flicked to her, gratitude mixing with doubt.

“I could… do that.”

Hermione gave a small, uncertain smile.

“All right, let’s hope it’ll be enough.” She glanced at Ron, who merely rolled his eyes, then back at Harry, whose throat tightened at the thought of the Malfoys’ manor.

As the fire crackled on, the three friends sat in silence—each lost in their own worries about tomorrow’s delicate dance.

---

Sunday morning hit Harry like a Bludger to the head. His alarm—enchanted to mimic a persistent chitter of Cornish Pixies—was still buzzing when he bolted upright, his heart hammering. He’d taken that draught to chase away insomnia, but evidently the potion’s evening calm had overshot its mark. Now, he was running late.

Harry wrestled out of his blankets, stumbled into the bathroom, and kicked open the door. He flipped the shower knob and he dived under the scalding spray, trying to scrub away both sleep and nerves. While brushing his teeth in a minty blur, he caught sight of himself in the steamed mirror—his hair messy and damp, but there was no time to tame it.

Next came his uniform: a white shirt, a stiff leather tunic, a polished badge, and a utility belt clipped tight. He fumbled with the cuffs of his regulation robes— Always button the left side first , Hermione’s voice chided in his head—then straightened the collar and yanked on his cloak. The clock in the hallway—its minute hand jabbing toward the hour—offered no comfort.

In the kitchen, he slapped two slices of toast into the toaster, then reached for the butterbeer mug that had served as his coffee cup. He poured hot coffee until it nearly spilled, dunked a slice of toast in strawberry jam with trembling fingers, and tore off a bite as he bolted down the hall. Coffee-scented steam mingled with the sharp tang of jam on his tongue.

Harry snatched up the stack of parchments—review notes, monitoring forms, and a copy of the “promise contract”—tucking them under his arm. He spotted his quill on the counter, dipped it hurriedly in ink, and scribbled bullet reminders across his palm and wrist so he could glance down. Bow deeply, Kiss hand, Compliment vase, Listen first…

Then, mug in one hand and a half-bitten, jam-smeared slice of toast in his mouth, Harry nearly collided with the Floo grate. He drained the rest of his coffee and set the mug on the hearth. 

He pressed his wand to the hearth spark, spoke the final incantation for Malfoy Manor, and stumbled into the green flames. With a dizzying swirl of heat and light, he was off—still five minutes behind schedule but determined not to let Lucius and Narcissa see him sweat.

Harry stumbled out of the green flames into a spacious lounge swathed in pale morning light. Cream‑upholstered armchairs and low brown tables were arranged around a hearth framed by marble pillars, and heavy taupe drapes hung at the tall windows.

Lucius stood beside the Floo grate—tall and impeccably dressed in dark robes—with Narcissa at his side in a flowing silver gown. Neither moved as Harry landed. He hadn’t quite stuck the disapparition; he pitched forward and crashed onto the carpet, coming up nose to toes with Lucius’s polished boots.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then Harry’s face burned as he scrambled to his feet.

“My apologies—terribly sorry, sir, Mrs. Malfoy,” he stammered.

Lucius gave him a disdainful look.

“Mr. Potter,”

Harry forced himself to stand straight, dusting off his uniform with trembling fingers. His heart pounded, but he managed a steady nod.

“Good morning, and thank you for seeing me.”

Turning to Narcissa, he bowed so low that his robes nearly brushed the floor. He extended his hand, palm up. For a heartbeat, she said nothing—her pale fingers hovering in midair as his gaze flicked to the rings that adorned them. Every breath felt audible in the hush. Then, with deliberate grace, she placed her hand in his. He lifted his head slowly, his heart pounding, and brushed a gentle kiss across her knuckles.

He turned to face Lucius Malfoy and offered his hand for a handshake.

“Mr. Potter,” Narcissa murmured, her voice cool as marble, “why is there ink staining your hand?”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He glanced down to see the neat hand‑scrawled reminders—now smudged and half-erased—bleeding into a dark, mottled smear across his skin. Every carefully rehearsed movement felt foolish in the face of that one blot.

“I—I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Malfoy,” he stammered, flexing his fingers as if to wipe away the evidence. “I… I sometimes wrote notes on my hand so I wouldn’t forget.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked between Narcissa and Harry, his expression unreadable. Silence stretched, each second an eternity as Harry waited for judgment—or dismissal.

Harry swallowed hard, wiped the smear of ink on his sleeve, then squared his shoulders and offered his hand to Lucius.

Lucius regarded him coolly for a moment before lifting his hand and clasping Harry’s. His hand was smooth and chilled, and his grip was firm but not crushing. Harry forced himself to meet those pale grey eyes, willing his pulse to steady.

Lucius’s thumb pressed once against the back of Harry’s hand, a silent measure of control.

“Mr. Potter,” he said in a low, even voice, “I trust you understand the importance of this monitoring review.”

Harry nodded, his voice steady at last.

“Absolutely, sir. I’m here to ensure everything proceeds without incident.”

Lucius released his hand with a slight, imperceptible nod.

“Very good. Shall we?”

With that, Lucius turned, Narcissa gliding at his side. Harry followed, every footstep echoing in the grand hall—each one a test of the composure he’d rehearsed so poorly yet so desperately needed to maintain.

They stepped through the entrance hall. Harry fell in behind Lucius, who led the way toward the grand staircase. Sunlight pooled on the polished marble floor, picking out highlights in the dark wood panelling. 

Harry stole a quick glance at a tall porcelain vase on a low pedestal near the doorway, then blurted 

“What an extraordinary Ming vase you have here.”

Narcissa paused midstep, turning slowly.

“What Ming vase, Mr. Potter?”

Harry’s stomach sank.

The slender urn wasn’t Ming at all—Harry hadn’t the faintest idea what it was. He realized he hadn’t even looked closely before speaking.

“I—I’m sorry,” Harry stammered. “I must have misremembered. It’s… it’s lovely.”

Narcissa’s lips curved in a cool smile.

“That, Mr. Potter, is a Sèvres vase gifted by the French ambassador last spring. Perhaps next time you could take a moment to look before offering commentary.”

She turned on her heel and continued up the staircase, leaving Harry, cheeks flaming, as he followed Lucius onward.

They continued down the polished corridor toward Lucius’s office, passing an open doorway into a reception room. Harry caught sight of house-elves decorating the room—draping pewter candelabras with white-rose garlands and fastening emerald ribbons to the doorframes.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry murmured, leaning slightly into the room. “Are you preparing a party?”

Lucius shot him a sidelong glance.

“You seem unusually curious today, Mr. Potter,” he said, pausing at a polished oak door. “In fact, today is my son’s birthday.”

“What?” Harry’s exclamation rang out—too loud, too sharp—echoing against the high ceiling. Narcissa’s slim eyebrow shot up; Lucius’s gaze narrowed in cool reproach.

Harry’s heart thumped in his ears. He hadn’t even registered that it was June 5th—and, with it, Draco’s birthday.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. It’s… Malfoy’s birthday today?” Harry’s voice fell to a trembling whisper.

Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes, Mr. Potter. He’ll be turning twenty-six this evening.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the ballroom.

Harry pressed his palms together.

“Then… will Malfoy be here for the meeting?”

Narcissa’s shoulders tightened. 

“Of course not, Mr. Potter. He’s not concerned with this…annual monitoring session.” Her voice carried a sting of discontent.

Harry’s chest tightened with disappointment. He had hoped for at least a moment with Draco.

“I see,” he managed softly, forcing a polite nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

The meeting stretched on for three hours in the spacious office, ringed with stacks of parchments and ledgers. Harry moved methodically from one document to the next—financial summaries, magical security reports, business activities—questioning Lucius or Narcissa whenever a detail needed clarification. Every so often, he paused to cross‑reference a Ministry file, his quill darting across fresh sheets as he updated figures and notes. Despite the formal atmosphere and the Malfoys’ barely concealed impatience, Harry maintained his composure, determined to leave no question unanswered. By the time he finally stood to take his leave, the pile of completed reports on the desk felt like a small triumph.

Harry hesitated at the office door, his hand resting on the carved oak frame. Drawing a shaky breath—bolstered by his Gryffindor courage—he turned to Lucius and Narcissa.

“Sir, Mrs. Malfoy,” he began, his voice earnest, “before I go, may I have a moment with Draco to wish him a happy birthday? I promise it’s purely a courtesy visit—no Auror business.”

Lucius regarded him coolly for a heartbeat, then inclined his head. Narcissa’s expression softened just enough as she nodded.

“Very well, Mr. Potter,” Lucius said. “He must be in the West Wing Library, but don’t stay too long—we have many things to do before tonight. Havy’ll show you the way.”

Harry’s relief was palpable.

“Thank you. I won’t overstay.”

With a grateful bow, he stepped back through the office. A nearby house‑elf in crisp livery—Havy—approached at Lucius’s gentle summons. Havy gave Harry a curt nod and led the way down the polished corridor toward Draco’s wing. Harry quelled the last of his nerves as he followed—determined at last to deliver the birthday greeting.

Harry stepped into the hushed stillness of the West Wing Library and froze. At a low oak desk beneath a tall mullioned window, Draco sat with his back straight, entirely absorbed in the crisp parchment before him.

The afternoon sun filtered through amber-tinted glass, setting Draco’s silvery‑blond hair aglow. Loose strands curled at his temples, and he absently pushed them back as he leaned forward.

He wore a finely knitted cream waistcoat over a high‑collared striped shirt—a meticulous, old‑fashioned layering only a Malfoy would choose.

Harry’s breath caught as he paused at the threshold. Draco looked up at the sound—his steel‑grey eyes meeting Harry’s. The entire room felt suspended in that single moment, with golden light and quiet magic swirling around them. The sudden click of quill on paper ceased, and Draco’s pale face registered surprise—but not displeasure. He remained seated, straight‑backed. Harry stepped forward, every footfall sounding oddly loud in the hush. In this warm glow, Draco looked softer, less guarded than the austere potionist at work—more… human.

“Oh, hello, Potter,” Draco said, his voice smooth and unexpectedly gentle. He set his quill aside. “Did the meeting with my parents go well? Do you need anything? Are you lost?”

With those questions, Harry realized Draco assumed this was just another duty—he’d never imagined he could be here simply to see him.

“I… I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday before I return to work,” Harry said softly, stepping closer.

Draco’s brow softened, and at last he allowed himself a small, genuine smile. He closed the leather‑bound ledger with a soft thump.

“Thank you, Potter,” he said in a low voice. “That’s very considerate of you. You didn’t have to.”

Harry’s shoulders eased for the first time all day. He reached into his pocket and produced a small, neatly wrapped package.

“I… it’s not much, but maybe you’d like this,” he said, handing it over. Inside lay a single chocolate wrapped in silver foil—a sweet he’d picked up on his last trip to Diagon Alley.

“Happy birthday.”

Draco’s pale eyes flicked from the chocolate to Harry. He took the small chocolate with a polite smile. As Draco’s fingertips grazed Harry’s palm, a rush of warmth bloomed beneath Harry’s skin—a soft, electric tingle that raced up his arm. Draco’s touch was cool and almost weightless, but the pressure of his neatly kept pale nails—just shy of Harry’s knuckles—left a lingering awareness where they met. In that brief contact, Harry sensed more than politeness; he felt an unspoken curiosity in Draco’s movement that made his pulse thrum with hopeful anticipation.

Then, Draco offered Harry one of the chairs next to him. 

“Please sit.” As Harry took the seat, Draco leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and crossing his fingers. “You really didn’t have to—but thank you; I love chocolate.”

Harry grinned, feeling the last of his nerves melt away, his heart still humming at the contact.

“I’m glad you like it,” he managed, settling into the chair as Draco poured each of them a cup of tea. “Are you working on something new?”

Draco set the teapot aside and tapped the parchment on the desk.

“Actually, yes. I’m trying to refine a recipe called Cerevus Clarum. It’s meant to clear mental fog—help with focus and recall. Perfect for, say, Aurors who are airheads.”

Harry leaned forward, genuinely intrigued. 

“That sounds remarkable. Have you tested it yet?”

Draco allowed himself a small, proud smile. 

“A few times on myself. The initial results are… promising. I’ll need more time before I present it to the Ministry.”

Harry’s eyes lit up.

“Could I—might I be your next test subject?”

Draco’s smile faltered; he shook his head, cupping his teacup between his palms. “I wouldn’t. It’s still unstable; I can’t risk hurting you, Potter.”

Harry’s brow lifted, and he leaned forward, his heart full of hope.

“You… care about me?” he breathed.

Draco set his cup down, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. 

“Of course.”

Harry’s mind stuttered—had Draco just admitted that he mattered?

“I can’t jeopardize my career on a whim,” Draco said, tilting his chin up. “Besides, you’re far too important—to the wizarding world—to gamble.”

Harry’s hope faltered, sinking like a stone in a dark lake. At least Draco didn’t want to hurt him. He managed a small rueful smile, the corners of his mouth tilting in wry acceptance.

“I suppose you’re right,” he murmured softly.

Draco’s eyes warmed as he offered Harry a teasing smile.

“Of course; I’m always right.”

The gentle confidence in Draco’s tone eased the tension between them, reminding Harry that sometimes the greatest care was shown in cautious restraint.

Harry cleared his throat, shifting in his chair.

“So… your birthday party,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Are you looking forward to it? What’s the plan for tonight?”

Draco leaned back against the sturdy oak desk, folding his long fingers together. For a moment, his cool, unreadable expression held—and then, surprisingly, a small, genuine smile curved his lips.

“Maybe… a little, to be honest,” Draco replied, his voice low as he studied Harry’s face. “My parents organized everything—the guest list, the meal. I just showed up and thanked everyone for their gifts and attendance. Afterward, I mostly hung out with friends. But it’s nice to be the center of attention at least once a year.”

Harry’s heart thundered in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. Deep down, he knew tonight was a turning point he couldn’t miss. On a breathy impulse, he blurted out the question before his nerves could steal the words back:

“Hum… by any chance, can we say that we are friends?” The words tumbled out before he could reconsider.

Draco paused. His pale face betrayed genuine surprise—his eyes widened, his lips parting slightly—but he said nothing. The hush in the library grew oppressive: the distant tap of a house‑elf’s footfall, the soft rustle of muraled curtains stirred by a breeze… all of it pressing in on Harry, making him certain Draco would say no.

Draco leaned back, his expression clouded in thought. He glanced at the neatly stacked parchments and the sunlit spines of leather‑bound tomes, then met Harry’s gaze with steady, contemplative silence. Time stretched between them, a fragile thread.

At last, Draco’s shoulders eased. He offered a small, uncertain smile.

“I guess if you consider me your friend now,” he said softly, “then I suppose I can say that.” His voice carried a quiet vulnerability. “But… it depends on you.”

Relief surged through Harry like a wave, washing away the knot of fear in his chest. He felt the corners of his mouth lift in a trembling grin, his pulse finally slowing as hope took root.

“Of course I do,” he whispered, the single word brimming with promise.

Then Draco lifted his hand and held it out to Harry—an echo of the first time he’d offered that same gesture, before Harry had refused it. Now offered so deliberately and vulnerably, the simple reaching palm carried the weight of everything they’d been through. Harry’s breath hitched as he saw in Draco’s steady, open hand all the unspoken apologies and careful rebuilding of trust. With trembling fingers, he took Draco’s hand, the familiar warmth flooding up his arm. In that single, charged touch, Harry realized this was the true beginning of something real between them.

Harry’s fingers tightened around Draco’s hand.

“May I… come tonight? I promise I’ll bring you something better than a single chocolate.”

Draco arched an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“You’d be bored out of your mind, Potter. These gatherings are pure wizard-aristocratic fare—polite nods, muffled laughter, gossip, and people trying not to yawn.”

Harry tilted his head, undeterred.

“I won’t mind.”

Draco leaned back, feigning horror.

“You’ll barely know anyone. Trust me, they’ll swarm you with undelicate questions—and at least three mothers will offer their daughters’ hands in marriage.”

Harry laughed. 

“I’ll be fine. What you warned me about has been my usual evening—gala after gala, party after party—since the war.”

Draco hesitated, knitting his brow, then cleared his throat.

“Are you sure you really want to come?” He glanced away, then winced. “Do you want… to come with—” His face twisted into a grimace. “ Weasley? Or Granger?”

Harry tapped his chin theatrically. 

“Hmm… tempting, but no. I’m a grown man—besides, as long as I get to celebrate with you, that’s more than enough.”

Draco gave a crooked smile, shaking his head.

“You’re a very strange person—more so than before.”

Harry grinned back, undeterred.

“That’s part of my charm.”

Not long after, at precisely one o’clock, Narcissa swept into the library, her expression cool.

“Draco, sweetheart, we need you for the final preparations,” she announced, her tone leaving no room for debate.

Harry took the hint; it was his cue to depart.

As he gathered his things, Draco glanced at his mother and said in deliberate calm

“Mother, Harry will be joining us this evening. Could you inform the house‑elves to prepare an additional portion?”

Narcissa offered a curt nod, but the slight tightening around her mouth spoke volumes—she was far from delighted. Harry gave Draco a quick, reassuring smile before taking his leave, his footsteps echoing down the corridor with the promise of their reunion later that night.

---

Back at Grimmauld Place, Harry took extra time to dress—he wanted Draco to look twice the moment he stepped into the ballroom. But he didn't have many options: only two suits total. One he wore to every formal event, and another he’d never had the confidence to put on—Hermione forced him to buy it last year. It’s maybe the right time tonight. It was an impeccably cut black. The jacket was slim across the shoulders, tapered and closed with a single button to a narrow waist; beneath it, a midnight-black shirt lay open at the collar, no tie in sight. A sleek belt with a gold buckle cinched the look, and he’d swapped his battered wire‑frames for new, round gold‑rimmed spectacles that caught the light whenever he moved. 

He tried to tame his hair with a careful dab of Sleekeazy’s—enough to smooth the worst of the mess while leaving a deliberate wave over his forehead—and then studied his reflection. The suit’s dark, lean lines lent him a touch of rogue elegance, exactly the impression he hoped would make Draco forget all the stuffy aristocrats in the room.

Harry blinked at his own reflection. The jacket hugged his shoulders more snugly than he remembered, the fabric stretching slightly across newly defined muscles. Last time he’d tried this suit, it had hung a bit loose; somewhere between endless Auror drills and late-night patrols, he’d put on solid weight and tone without quite noticing. He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile to his lips and added a welcome boost of confidence for the night ahead.

At 7 p.m., Harry drew a steadying breath in front of the hallway mirror.

“All right, Potter,” he muttered to his reflection. “You’ve faced the Dark Lord, a rampaging Basilisk, and Snape on a bad day. You can handle one aristocratic birthday party, two disapproving Malfoy parents, and a room full of marriage-minded socialites.” He straightened the lapels of his jacket. “Just smile, don’t trip, and—Merlin help me—try not to spill anything.”

He gave himself a brief, decisive nod, grabbed the slim gift box tucked under his arm, and strode to the Floo. At precisely seven o’clock green flames flared around him, carrying him toward Malfoy Manor—and, he hoped, an evening Draco would never forget.

Harry tumbled once again out of the Floo grate into the familiar cream-and-brown sitting room. Before he could dust off cinders, a neatly uniformed house-elf in silver-trimmed livery bowed at his feet.

“Master Potter, welcome. This way, please.”

Harry followed the tiny guide across the polished floor. They passed the gleaming Sèvres vase—this time he definitely looked—then climbed the main staircase. With each step, the hum of conversation swelled. The clink of glassware, bursts of polite laughter, soft music drifting from beyond.

By the time they reached the reception room, the voices had blended into a rich tapestry of sound. The double doors ahead stood open, spilling warm light into the corridor and revealing glimpses of swirling robes, costumes, and cloaks. Harry took a slow breath, squared his shoulders, and let the house-elf escort him into the room’s glow.

Just inside, Lucius and Narcissa waited, every inch dignified hosts. Lucius offered a courteous nod; Narcissa’s expression remained serene, if reserved.

“Mr. Potter,” Lucius said, extending a gloved hand. “Thank you for joining us.”

“A pleasure, sir,” Harry returned the handshake, then bowed slightly to Narcissa. “Mrs. Malfoy.”

She inclined her head.

“Welcome, Mr. Potter. We trust your journey was uneventful.”

“Thankfully, yes.” Harry took out his silver-wrapped box from beneath his jacket. “I brought a small gift—something less perishable than my earlier offering,” he said, earning the faintest lift of Narcissa’s brow.

A waiting house-elf stepped forward, and Harry placed the gift carefully in its hands. “Thank you.”

“Please, don’t thank me,” the elf squeaked, bowing low before scurrying off.

Formalities complete, Lucius gestured toward the glittering expanse of the room.

“Enjoy the evening, Mr. Potter.”

With another polite nod, Harry stepped further inside, ready to find Draco amid the swirl of the crowd.

The instant Harry left Lucius and Narcissa’s side, the conversation around the room dropped, their eyes tracking him as though he were a new exhibit in a gallery. Perhaps it was the lightning-bolt fame or the fitted black suit—he couldn’t tell—but nearly every head turned.

He recognized a few faces in the crowd. One Magenmagot talking with the Bulgarian ambassador, Madam Selwyn, who had once sneered at his trainers in Flourish & Blotts, and even Zacharias Smith skulking near the punch bowl. Yet there was no sign of Draco’s platinum hair among the chandeliers’ reflections.

Harry took three cautious steps, and that was all the invitation the room needed. Like a tidal wave of silk and velvet, guests closed in—smiling too widely, voices too bright.

“Mr. Potter! Is it true you apprehended those Knockturn thieves in under a minute?”

“Would you sign my card?”

“Harry Potter—an honor! May I introduce my daughter, Callidora?”

Questions overlapped, hands reached for his, and Harry felt himself buffeted by a current of eager aristocrats—all before he’d even had a chance to locate the birthday boy.

After five endless minutes of polite nodding, forced smiles, and dodging yet another “eligible daughter,” Harry felt the room tighten around him like a noose. Voices layered into a cloying buzz—perfumes mingling, laughter pitched a touch too high, and people edged closer for a better angle. Hands kept popping up with small, perfumed cards and rehearsed compliments; somewhere nearby, a chandelier caught the light and threw fractured gold across his face, making him look both spotlighted and trapped. The polite grip of a matron’s elbow, the sharp tilt of a head to whisper a suggestion, the way eyes lingered a beat too long—all of it pressed in, turning the room into a tightening frame around him.

A firm hand closed around his forearm.

“Excuse us,” a cool voice drawled.

With surprising strength, Draco steered Harry through a gap in the throng and out onto a quieter stretch behind a marble column hung with white-gold fairy lights. Outside the crowd, air flooded his lungs like fresh freedom. Draco slightly released his grip only when the guests’ chatter had faded to a distant hum.

“Merlin, Potter—barely arrived and you’ve already become the center of attention?” he teased, though his voice had a protective edge. 

Harry forgot to laugh as he’d intended when his eyes met Draco’s. He would never grow accustomed to seeing him like that.

Malfoy wore a sharply tailored turquoise-green suit that made his pale skin glow, the jacket’s sleek black velvet lapels catching the light. Beneath it, a pure white shirt was open at the throat, and a silver serpent brooch—subtle but unmistakably Slytherin—pinned a fold of the lapel in place. Slim trousers broke just above polished black Oxfords, a flash of white sock peeking when he shifted his weight. The moon-bright sweep of Draco’s hair fell artfully across his brow, framing eyes that seemed even lighter against the rich green. Slim silver hoops glinted in his pierced ears whenever he turned his head; two silver rings—one a signet etched with the Malfoy crest, the other a simple band—rested on elegant fingers. The whole effect was effortless lethal elegance, and Harry’s first coherent thought was simply that Malfoy was magnificent.

Draco’s fingers were still curled around his forearm. That single point of contact seemed to drown out the crowd and the flickering lights; everything else vanished.

He’s touching me. Voluntarily. This is it—the beginning of the rest of our lives together.

His thoughts pirouetted straight into fantasy territory: Draco on his arm at their wedding reception, Draco tugging him down Flourish & Blotts’ aisles debating editions of cookbooks, Draco whispering, “Harry, love, grab the trolley,” at the Saturday market…

“Potter? Potter?” Draco tapped his sleeve twice, a gentle, insistent reality check. Harry blinked, pulling himself back to the present. “I told you if you came tonight you’d be overwhelmed. Why didn’t you keep a low profile? Have you forgotten who you are?”

Harry cleared his throat, still acutely aware of Draco’s hand.

“Usually, people don’t—well—pounce on me like that as soon as I arrive.”

Draco released his forearm but stayed close enough for Harry to hear over the music.

“This is a private gathering, not a Ministry gala. Rules and attitudes are different. Besides, more than half the guests are pure-blood aristocrats—professional scroungers. Attention is their currency.”

“You don’t seem to like them much,” Harry remarked.

“Not anymore,” Draco said, his old drawl tempered by something quieter. He glanced around the room, then back at Harry.

“I used to thrive on this sort of scene. But things change.”

Harry’s curiosity flickered.

“Why?”

Draco hesitated, eyes tracking a waiter gliding past with champagne.

“When I was transferred to the Edinburgh branch, I finally got away from my family—and from all… this.” He gestured at the chandeliered ceiling and bustling crowd. “The quiet made me think. About who I’d been. Who I wanted to be.” He gave a small, rueful shrug. “Turns out I prefer calm. Less posturing, more… discreet.”

Harry studied him, warmth spreading in his chest.

“I think I like the Edinburgh version of you.”

A faint smile ghosted across Draco’s lips.

“Let’s see if the Edinburgh version can keep you from self-destructing tonight. Are you ready to step in again?”

Harry drew in a steadying breath and nodded.

“Ready.”

Side by side, they slipped back into the current of guests. With Draco acting as an informal shield—shoulders squared, gaze cool—the tide of attention shifted as conversations drifted aside, curious onlookers hesitated, and Harry found he could breathe. Draco led the way from cluster to cluster, offering brief, impeccably worded pleasantries: a courteous nod to Lady Greengrass, a quick thanks to the Rosiers for the delightful ensemble , a polite handshake for old Mr. Selwyn.

Harry followed half a pace behind, matching Draco’s measured stride. When Draco inclined his head, Harry did the same. When Draco’s hand rested lightly at the small of his back to steer him through a tight knot of witches, Harry’s pulse stuttered, but he kept his smile fixed. Every so often Draco’s hand brushed his, and the tiny contact felt like a lifeline holding him amid the sea of silks and murmured niceties.

While Draco spoke, Harry couldn’t help studying the delicate tilt of his chin, the way his hair caught the chandelier light, and the way his fingers twitched with tension when someone addressed him by his full title. Absurd warmth curled in Harry’s chest.

He really has changed—still poised but softer around the edges.

They paused near a side table draped in cream brocade. Draco turned slightly toward Harry, one eyebrow raised in silent query— all right so far? Harry responded with a quick, grateful grin. Draco’s lips twitched, almost a smile, before he pivoted to thank another departing couple.

By the time they neared the tall double doors leading to the corridor, the crowd had thinned and the hum of conversation receded. Draco exhaled—just a shade deeper than composure required—and rolled his shoulders as if shaking off an invisible weight. Harry caught himself staring again, admiration plain in his expression.

Draco didn’t notice; instead, he offered a soft, almost conspiratorial murmur

“Not as terrible as you feared, hm?”

Harry swallowed, meaning to say not with you here with me —but before the words surfaced, Narcissa’s cool voice drifted in behind them.

“Draco, darling, Mrs. and Mr. Travers wish a private word with you before leaving.”

Lucius stood beside her, silver-topped cane resting lightly in one hand. His pale eyes drifted from Harry to his son in a slow, assessing sweep. Draco’s fingers slid along Harry’s sleeve, a soft, reassuring brush that seemed to promise everything would be okay while he stepped away for a few minutes.

“Of course, Mother.” 

Lucius’s lip curved just enough to be polite. 

“We’ll keep our wizarding hero company.”

Harry resisted the urge to tug at his collar. Lucius Malfoy as chaperone—great. Then Draco leaned closer, breath warm at his ear.

“My friends are in the little salon off the east corridor—Firewhisky and canapés. You’ll be safe there.” A faint, wry smile touched his lips. “Try not to set anything on fire.”

His face burned from the accumulation of small, quiet things: the brief, anchoring touch on his sleeve, the warmth of Draco’s breath close to his ear, the almost imperceptible tilt of that smile. Each tiny gesture had left a residue of heat behind, like coals glowing under ash, making him suddenly aware of the space between them even as Draco moved into the crowd. Inside the steady rhythm of his heartbeat had shifted.

Only when Lucius and Narcissa turned their cool, appraising gazes on him did Harry remember to act. He offered a crisp bow. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy— I hope you have a pleasant evening as well.”

Lucius inclined his head, silver-topped cane resting lightly against his palm.

“Potter.” The single syllable carried all the warmth of a northern gale. His pale eyes flicked past Harry to Draco, who was now deep in conversation with his guests, then slid back.

“Tell me,  do you… harbor anything for Draco, by chance?”

The words were polite, almost vague, but the meaning punched straight through Harry’s chest. His face flushed. 

Was he asking if he was in love with his son?

“I—I respect him greatly,” Harry managed, keeping his voice even. “He’s become an exceptional colleague.”

Lucius’s brow rose a fraction. 

“We saw how you look at him. I’m sure everyone does. You follow him like a particularly loyal Kneazle.”

Narcissa’s hand moved to her husband’s sleeve—light pressure, a silent caution. She gave Harry a soft, searching look.

 “Mr. Potter, Draco speaks well of you—not always, perhaps, but for the most part. We simply wish to understand the nature of this… relationship.”

Harry’s pulse hammered. He thought of Draco’s hand on his arm, of the way Draco chose his gala outfit for him, of his fingers at Harry’s neck tying his necktie. He decided honesty was the only dignified path.

“I value him—more than I can express in a few formal words. But I also value his trust and yours.” He met Lucius’s eyes without flinching. “Whatever you suspect, I would never do anything—publicly or privately—to harm him.”

Lucius studied him so long that Harry felt the seconds stretch taut as harp strings; the faint murmur of the room receded into a distant haze. The older man’s pale eyes narrowed subtly, not in curiosity this time but in something colder—his gaze hardened instead of softening.

“I can’t agree with this.”

Harry’s brow tightened, a flicker of defiance mingled with sadness.

“Is it because I’m a man?”

Surprise crossed Lucius’s features for the briefest beat—his lips tightening before he shook his head in a swift, decisive motion.

“What? No. It’s because you are Harry Potter.”

The words landed like cold rain. Narcissa’s fingers tightened on her husband’s sleeve, but she did not contradict him.

“Our family,” Lucius went on in a low voice, “remains under a magnifying glass—examined by the Ministry, by society, and by every gossip rag hunting for a misstep. Draco has endured more scrutiny and suffering than most will ever know.” His eyes flicked to Draco, who stood laughing politely, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I will not see him bruised further by public opinion.”

Harry felt the sting, but he forced himself to nod, keeping his throat tight so the tremor didn’t show.

“I understand your concern. Truly. But this is not my intention,” he said, carefully measured—each word meant to carry calm even if his heart was doing the opposite.

Lucius’s cane tapped once, softly, on the marble.

“Then be certain of your intentions. Affection is one thing; the whirlwind that can follow all of this is quite another.”

Harry drew in a steadying breath, letting the air fill his lungs slow enough to quiet the rush in his heart. 

“My intentions are sincere.” He held Lucius’s pale gaze without flinching. “I care for him—enough to fight anyone if that protects him. I can do that for two.”

The last words came with quiet conviction, and Lucius was weighing that promise against everything the name Potter had carried for years.

A silence stretched between them. Finally, Narcissa’s voice slipped in, gentle yet firm.

“Lucius, perhaps that is all we needed to hear.”

Her husband studied Harry a moment longer, then inclined his head—no warmth, but a grudging acknowledgment.

“We shall see.”

Harry exhaled, shoulders sagging, pulse hammering beneath his collar. We shall see. The words echoed somewhere between warning and the faintest permission. Either way, he’d spoken his truth—and for now, that would have to be enough.

Across the hall, Draco caught his eye, one blond brow lifting in silent question. Harry managed a small, reassuring smile— I’m all right. Draco’s answering nod was almost imperceptible, but it sent warmth rippling through Harry’s chest.

Harry lingered a moment longer, heart still racing. 

“Do… Do you think he realises how I feel about him?”

Narcissa’s expression softened.

“I don’t believe so, Mr. Potter. At present, he wishes to keep his head down: do good work, restore the family name, and avoid the gossip columns. Romance is hardly on his mind, but we have noticed small changes these past months—he smiles more.”

Lucius’s cane tapped once on the marble, drawing Harry’s gaze.

“If your intentions are truly honourable, prove them. Draco has suffered enough uncertainty; show him steadiness.”

Harry’s chest tightened with hope. 

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“See that you do.” He paused, grudgingly. “Well, Draco will rejoin you shortly. In the meantime, the little salon is through those doors. Enjoy the rest of the evening, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded his thanks and slipped through the indicated doors. The little salon felt cosy compared with the vast reception hall: plum-coloured walls, low lamps casting soft pools of light, and two velvet couches angled around a glass table.

The first faces he noticed were unmistakably Slytherin—Blaise lounging with a glass of Firewhisky, Pansy perched on an ottoman, Theodore Nott half-reclined with the Quidditch section of The Daily Prophet , Goyle contentedly demolishing cucumber sandwiches. Their conversation hushed for a beat; four pairs of eyes flicked his way, then resumed with collective smirks, eager to know how many etiquette rules he’d already broken.

Just beyond the Slytherins, by a sideboard stacked with pastries, stood Luna Lovegood in shimmering lilac robes and Neville Longbottom in subdued green dress robes. Relief unfurled through Harry—at least he wouldn’t be completely surrounded.

Neville’s eyes went wide; his jaw dropped as if he’d been struck by the unexpected. 

“Harry? What on earth are you doing here?” he blurted, the surprise lifting his voice a half-step, while Luna tilted her head with that quiet, curious smile of hers, as if she’d expected nothing less strange. Blaise spoke before Harry could.

“Here to gaze adoringly at our darling Draco again, are you, Potter?” He lifted his cup in a lazy salute, smirking as Harry’s ears flushed crimson.

Blaise’s remark hung in the air like a struck match. Pansy burst into sharp, delighted laughter, snapping her fan shut.

“Oh, Potter, your ears are practically Gryffindor-scarlet,” she purred.

Theo Nott straightened, eyes bright. “I knew it,” he drawled, tapping the arm of his chair as if claiming winnings on a long-odds bet. 

“What exactly is going on?” Neville asked, his confusion obvious.

Luna leaned toward him, dreamy-eyed but precise. 

“They’re teasing Harry because he’s hopelessly in love with Draco. It’s very romantic—like a hinkypunk leading you through a bog.”

Neville’s eyebrows flew up.

“Oh! Er—congrats… I think?” His voice wavered between genuine confusion and the instinct to be polite.

Harry’s face flamed hotter, heat creeping up his neck. He cleared his throat, fingers busy fussing with a nonexistent wrinkle in his cloak.

“Right. Well, you lot can cut the commentary now. Malfoy will be back any minute.”

Pansy leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief, and gave him a slow, deliberate wink.

“Exactly, darling. We wouldn’t want him to catch you swooning.”

“We’ll behave—just enjoying the view.” Zabini added.

Harry sank onto an empty couch, mortified, but secretly buoyed by the friendly ribbing. If even Slytherins could laugh about it, then maybe—just maybe—the night wasn’t doomed after all.

Neville and Luna slid onto the settee beside him. 

“Mind if we sit?” Neville asked gently.

“Not at all,” Harry said, grateful for the reinforcements, fingers rubbing the crease in the cushion “But… I was wondering—Why are you here? I could’ve sworn you and Draco weren’t exactly in each other’s circles.”

“I’m Draco’s cousin. It’s family time,” Luna said, gazing out through the windows.

Neville shrugged, cheeks pinking a little. “We weren’t—then last year happened. Draco turned up at the greenhouses, properly humble, shockingly enough, asking for help with a subtropical fluxweed cultivar. He’d read my paper in Herbological Quarterly and wanted the best leaves for an experimental potion.”

Harry blinked. 

“He came to you for fluxweed?”

“Mm-hmm. He listened, took notes, and treated the plants like they mattered. We ended up working together for a full fortnight. He even admitted he’d never really respected Herbology before. After that, well… animosity felt pointless.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, both relieved and surprised. “So he values your work—and your plants—for his potions?”

“Exactly.” Neville’s eyes crinkled. “He’s changed, Harry. Still prickly, but… earnest about doing things right. Thought you’d like to know, since… well…”

Warmth spread through Harry’s chest for the second time that evening. He glanced toward the doorway, half-hoping to see blonde hair coming their way.

“I do like to know,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips even as Blaise’s teasing echoed from across the room.

Neville nudged him lightly with an elbow. 

“So,” he lowered his voice into a conspiratorial murmur, “you’re in love with Draco Malfoy now? That’s definitely unexpected.”

Harry gave an exaggerated cough, ears burning anew. 

“Keep your voice down, Nev. I don’t want another round of Slytherins’ teasing.”

Neville just grinned, unrepentant. 

“Unexpected doesn’t mean bad, you know. Plants surprise me all the time—and most of the time they turn out to be the best discoveries.”

Neville’s grin widened, and Luna gave Harry a small, knowing nod. Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, the conversation easing some of the tightness from his shoulders. Across the room, his gaze kept flickering toward the doorway.

Finally, Draco appeared about ten minutes later, slipping through the salon doorway with a muted swish. He closed the door discreetly.

A faint, conspiratorial smile tugged at his mouth as he took in the scene: Blaise sprawled across one settee, Pansy regaling Theodore with some scandalous tidbit, Goyle patrolling the pastry tray, and Harry seated between Luna and Neville—still a touch flushed, but unmistakably more relaxed.

“All right,” Draco called, drawing eyes with a single clap. “Part one is finished—who’s ready for what comes next?”

Blaise raised his glass of Firewhisky in salute.

“Lead on, Birthday Prince.”

A ripple of amusement spread through the salon. Draco dipped his head in acknowledgment, the corner of his mouth curling before his gaze found Harry.

“Potter—try not to look so terrified.” The words were light, yet a flicker of concern tempered his tone. He crossed the carpet in two measured strides and stopped close enough for Harry to feel his warmth. Leaning in so only Harry could hear, he continued, voice pitched low, “And let’s keep tonight’s… events out of the Ministry on Monday, hm? I do have a reputation to maintain.”

Harry’s pulse thumped—equal parts nerves and delight—but he managed a half-smile.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Harry murmured, matching the private tone. He lifted an imaginary zipper across his lips and clicked it shut.

“Good.” Draco’s smile brightened by a notch. To the room at large he said, “We’ll move with the firewhisky to the west terrace. Someone grabs Goyle before he eats all the éclairs.”

As the others laughed, Harry fell into step at his side, his shoulder grazing Draco’s lightly—an almost casual touch that nevertheless sent a spark racing down his spine. Steady , he told himself, matching Draco’s stride as they headed toward the lantern-lit balcony, savoring the quiet thrill of moving forward together—even if only he understood how much it mattered.

The terrace was bathed in the gold-pink glow of lanterns and the lingering warmth of a June night. Beyond the balustrade, rolling lawns shimmered silver beneath a half-moon, while a faint breeze carried the scent of lilacs up from the garden below. Overhead, a single enchanted torch flickered, scattering gentle sparks.

Blaise, Pansy, and Theodore dominated the conversation at a wrought‑iron table—trading wizarding-world gossip and punctuating each jab with laughter and the occasional clink of crystal. Goyle listened, nodding sleepily, while Luna contributed meandering asides that somehow fit perfectly. Neville kept pace, grinning whenever Luna said something unexpected.

Harry leaned on the stone rail with a glass of Firewhisky, feeling oddly at ease. He’d expected stiff formality; instead, he found real camaraderie. Most of all, Draco held his attention—leaning in the opposite corner, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes bright. At work Draco was precise and guarded; here he was animated, quick to smile, his laugh soft and unrestrained. Each time he tipped his head back, the moonlight caught the pale strands of his hair like spun silver.

Harry tried to follow Blaise’s story about Selwyn’s disastrous duel invitation, but his gaze kept drifting. He noticed the relaxed set of Draco’s shoulders, the way his hand moved for emphasis when he spoke, and the faint flush on his cheeks from a modest sip of Firewhisky. Each detail lodged in Harry’s chest like a spark, spreading into warm happiness.

Once, Draco glanced over mid-story and caught Harry staring. Instead of the arched brow Harry expected, Draco gave a small, genuine smile—gone a heartbeat later as he turned back to Blaise. Still, Harry held on to the moment like a small good-luck charm. Whatever awaited him on Monday, tonight he was here, sharing easy laughter under lantern light, watching Draco Malfoy simply be happy.

And that, Harry decided, made this the best evening he’d had in a very long time.

After a moment, Draco lifted the empty bottle. 

“I’m fetching another round. Nobody move—or I’ll pour the amount I want for each of you.”

He slipped through the terrace doors into the salon; the hinges gave a soft hush and the voices beyond fell to a muffled buzz. Then, as soon as he disappeared, three pairs of Slytherin eyes swung to Harry in unison. Blaise leaned in, planting his elbows on the table, a slow grin curling.

“Potter, what in Salazar’s name are you doing all the way over there?”

Harry blinked and lifted his glass toward the doorway. “Enjoying the view?”

“The view?” Theo barked a laugh. “You’re parked out here like a garden gnome. Why don’t you close the distance between you two?”

Pansy’s dark curls swayed as she shook her head. She tapped her fan against her wrist.

“Talk to him!”

“He won’t bite, Potter—unless asked,” Blaise said, still smirking.

Harry’s ears went hot. He set his glass down so it wouldn’t rattle in his hand. 

“If I make a move, you lot will be watching the very second—”

Theo spread his hands. 

“That’s the point! Entertainment value.”

“You look like a shy fourth-year at the Yule Ball,” Pansy added, eyes sparkling as her fan clicked shut.

Blaise clucked his tongue. 

“Honestly, I’ve seen mandrakes with more games.”

Harry’s ears went scarlet. He didn’t understand what was happening or why everyone was pushing so hard for him to make a move on Malfoy. The very idea sent his heart hammering against his ribs, the pulse thrumming all the way to his fingertips.

“You’re all impossible...”

“And you’re hopeless,” Blaise said, patting Harry’s arm with mock sympathy. “Fortunately for you, Draco’s so oblivious he’ll probably blame your stammering on the breeze.”

From inside the manor came the muffled clink of decanters and the soft thunk of a cabinet door—Draco, no doubt, hunting a fresh bottle. Pansy leaned in, exasperation sharpening her voice. She tapped her fan against her wrist.

“Listen, Potter—this is your chance. When he gets back, move closer. If you don’t, I swear I’ll make the rest of your evening a living nightmare.”

Harry swallowed; he believed her. Pansy absolutely could. A moment later, Draco returned, fresh bottle in hand, topping up glasses as he made his way around the table.

Harry took a fortifying gulp of firewhisky—for courage—then set the glass aside and drifted toward the railing where Draco leaned. The moonlight cast a faint, rosy gold over his cheeks—part firewhisky, part summer night—and Harry’s treacherous brain supplied to kiss him. Now.

He glanced one last time at the guests—his face clearly saying, “I’ll do it; don’t look at me”—and cleared his throat. “Hot evening, isn’t it?”

Great opener, Potter.

Draco nodded, turning back toward the gardens.

“Warm enough that you can almost hear the cicadas.”

Harry blinked. “Oh. Right. Cicadas.” He edged closer, trying for casual; elbows brushed, and a jolt of electricity zipped up his arm.

Talk, you idiot.

“So, er—your laugh. I mean—your laugh sounds… good tonight.”

Kill me now.

Draco looked bemused.

“I wasn’t aware it had changed.”

Behind them, the lot fell politely quiet. Harry could feel eyes boring little holes in his back; even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

He pressed on. 

“It’s just—nice to see you relaxed. You… look happy.”

Draco’s lips curved. “Firewhisky helps. Also, the company’s tolerable.” His grey eyes flicked sideways to Harry. “Mostly.”

Harry’s pulse jackhammered. He’s flirting? Is he flirting? He decided to be bold-ish.

“I could make the company even better.”

“How?” Draco arched an eyebrow, utterly straight-faced.

Harry’s inner Gryffindor gave a doomed cheer. He leaned in, lowering his voice.

“I was thinking of something more… private.”

A beat. Two beats.

Draco’s brow knit in polite puzzlement.

“But all my friends are here—who are you thinking about?”

From the table, Blaise coughed something that sounded suspiciously like Merlin help him and Pansy’s fan snapped shut again.

“No, I—er—just wondered if you might like some fresh air. Out… here. With me. Which we’re already doing.”

Harry’s brain short-circuited. Brilliant, Potter—words, remember those? Every line scattered like startled Snidgets, leaving him with nothing but the knowledge that Draco was inches away and apparently immune to hints.

Abort, abort.

Draco considered him, head tilted.

“You’re acting oddly, Potter. I think it’s time you stopped drinking firewhisky for the night.”

“I—okay…” Harry said, staring helplessly at Draco’s mouth.

Say something brilliant. Something bold.

Neville, taking pity for his friend, called across the table,

“Draco, your garden smells very good!”

Several heads turned. Draco blinked, amused. 

“Oh thank you, I agree. The gardener will be relieved to know that.”

Seizing the opening, Harry leaned in. 

“You smell very good,” he blurted.

For a second, Draco appeared to consider his response, very seriously.

“I’m quite proud of my sense of smell,” Draco said, perfectly delighted. “I’m genuinely relieved I don’t have a blocked nose from allergies and be able to enjoy my garden.”

Pansy choked on her drink; Blaise muttered, Oh, my dear Draco… into his glass. Theodore hid a grin behind the rim of his, eyes flicking between them as if settling in for a match.

“Not yours—I meant… you. Not the jasmine,” Harry said, ears burning.

“Oh? So you don’t like the smell of jasmine ?” Draco asked, puzzled.

“No, I do—it’s lovely. I just prefer… yours.”

“But you just said not yours.”  

Harry couldn’t help scrubbing a hand through his hair, nerves buzzing.

“Forget the smell, let’s go with… I don’t know, you have…” He gestured vaguely at Draco’s hair. “Moonlight. In your—hair.”

For a heartbeat nothing and then Draco laughed: a proper laugh, bright and ringing, one hand braced on the railing as if the joke had actually knocked the wind out of him. The knot in Harry’s chest loosened. Every time he heard that clear, crystalline laugh—even if he’d just made a fool of himself—it thought it was worth it.

“Merlin, what does that even mean? How drunk are you?”

“You’re right—I’m definitely drunk,” Harry admitted with a lopsided grin.

Draco’s smile lingered for a moment before he pushed off the railing.

“Come on, drunk. Let’s rescue the cake before Goyle eats the inscription.”

As Draco brushed past, his fingers ghosted over Harry’s wrist—so fleeting that Harry almost doubted it had happened. He swallowed a giddy sound and followed while the Slytherins tried—and mostly failed—to muffle their laughter behind the rims of their glasses.

Oblivious or not, Draco was still smiling and laughing. For tonight, that was embarrassment enough for Harry.

Notes:

Hello again !!
So? Soooo? What did you think? Did you have fun?? Did you enjoy it?? I really hope so!
I can’t wait to read your thoughts—feel free to share!

Again, I won’t be able to post next week because I have another concert—this time, AMSTERDAM for JIN’s (BTS) concert!! (ARMY forever, I love them with all my soul 💜)
So please excuse me in advance for the little wait. I promise I’ll work hard on the next chapter. This story brings me so much happiness, and seeing that you enjoy it is the most valuable reward I could receive.

With that, have a great weekend and see you soon!
I love you <3

Chapter 7: May I have this dance ?

Notes:

Hello everyone!
Oh my, I didn’t expect to disappear for two weeks... I'm ashamed but my last trip wiped me out, but it was GLORIOUS. (Jin, I love you. Please let me relive that concert!)
Anyway ! Here’s a new chapter where Harry tries to win Draco’s heart. For the record, I loved writing this one. My heart fluttered like a damn college girl ! But that’s what we all want, isn’t it?
And obviously, I want to thank you all for your kudos and comments. You’re the best, thank you!

Also, before i forget, I’m looking for a beta reader, ideally a British English speaker, to help edit this fanfiction, because English isn’t my first language and I’m starting to struggle a little more. If you’re interested, please send me a PM and we’ll see if we’re a good match. :)

I’ll stop rambling—enjoy the new chapter! <3

The Ministry’s coffee tasted like someone had brewed it in a cauldron that once held Doxy eggs. Harry grimaced and took another sip anyway while Ron rifled through memos at the high table by the break room.

Ron glanced up, took in Harry’s bright eyes and ridiculous grin, and arched a brow.

“Well, someone’s radiant. You finally met the Malfoys yesterday, right? Did you come home engaged or merely humiliated?”

“Neither,” Harry said. “Though I did tell Draco he had moonlight in his hair.”

Ron choked on a biscuit. 

“You said what? Why? When?”

Harry stared into his cup like it might explain itself.

“It sounded less… stupid in my head. I said it last night—at Malfoy’s birthday.”

“Wh—Malfoy’s birthday?” Ron gaped, memos forgotten. “I… I need an explanation, Harry James Potter. What did I miss?”

Harry took a breath, letting the memory unfold.

“The Malfoys threw a party for their magnificent son. Big, chic affair—pure-blood aristocrats, a few politicians, and Draco’s… friends. He invited me after we decided we’re friends now. So I turned up on time—nearly tripped out of the Floo because I was overthinking how not to look like I was overthinking—did the bowing bit, tried not to spill anything. We ended up on the terrace with his circle, and I—” He winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. “—told him he had moonlight in his hair. He laughed,” Harry admitted, a grin threatening to break free despite himself. “Then he dragged me off to rescue the cake from Goyle.”

“So to recap. You, still a walking embarrassment; Goyle, still a food void; Malfoy…?”

“Smiling. Still beautiful. Relaxed. Happy.” Harry cleared his throat. “Also still completely oblivious.”

“Of course he is.” Ron tapped the memos into a neat stack, looking both exasperated and unreasonably pleased. “You always do that thing where you almost confess and then bottle it at the last second.”

Harry winced. 

“Don’t…please.” Then, he hesitated. “And with all that, his parents cornered me...”

Ron froze.

“Lucius and Narcissa? What did they want?”

“Lucius asked if I had anything for Draco, by chance .”

Ron pulled a face like he’d bitten into a lemon.

“Oh… That’s pure-blood for Are you in love with my child .”

“I said I valued Malfoy, that I’d never hurt him. Lucius gave me the icy nod. Narcissa was kinder, though.”

“Bloody hell. What a night.” Ron let out a low whistle, then jabbed a biscuit at Harry. “Next time, try a normal compliment. But nice try. Did you at least manage to stand within two feet of Draco for more than thirty seconds without hyperventilating?”

“Yes. I even chatted him up without breaking a sweat, in front of all his friends.”

“Heroic,” Ron said, mock-saluting.

“You know it’s my one redeeming quality. Oh, before I forget—did you know Malfoy’s now friends with Nev? He was at the party!”

“Really? How come he never told us? That’s a big deal!”

“I don’t know… He said it’s been a year. Maybe he thought we wouldn’t approve?”

“Yeah… maybe…Was Nev surprised when he twigged you’re in love with Draco?”

“Sort of. His eyebrows shot up and he went with a congrats… I think? like he couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or call a Healer.”

“That’s very Nev.”

Harry set his cup down with a soft clink and fished a small square of parchment from his cloak, handing it over.

“By the way, Malfoy sent me this last night after the party.”

Ron squinted at the neat handscript.

“ Thank you for your gift. Please refrain from discussing the party’s events at work. — D.L.M. That’s it?”

“There’s a tiny drawing of a slice of cake in the corner,” Harry said defensively.

“So romantic,” Ron deadpanned. “Still, it’s something. I suppose he doesn’t doodle for just anyone.”

Harry fought the smile down.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re in deep.” Ron gave him a light shove with his elbow. “So what’s the next plan? Birthday’s still fresh—do you have a follow-up, or are you going to let him go on thinking you’re a poetic weirdo?”

Harry opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again.

“I was thinking… something small. Meaningful. Nothing too over the top. Draco’s not exactly the sort to appreciate a declaration with fireworks or a singing letter.”

“Agreed,” Ron said. “Let’s avoid scaring him into bolting.”

Silence settled as they both searched for a new idea.

“What about the Solstice gala coming up?” Harry perked up. “That might be my next big window… I’ll be dressed up—looking good.”

“Yeah but… everyone will be there, and you’ll have to navigate being within reach of the entire Ministry’s gossip mill. Do you really want to try something there?”

Harry’s grin turned thoughtful—the dangerous sort, because he was already sketching five half-baked strategies in his head.

“The gala could work. People will be distracted. I could… borrow a moment.”

“Right.” Ron tapped the edge of the table. “What kind of moment are we talking about? A quiet corner, a note slipped into a pocket, a—”

“I want to dance with him,” Harry said, as if it were obvious.

Ron blinked. 

“You want to… dance. With Draco Malfoy? Harry, you’re a great bloke, but your dance moves are a public menace. The last time you tried a subtle spin at a wedding, three people needed Healing Charms and one house-elf is still traumatised.”

Harry’s face flushed a little, a mix of indignation and the stubborn heat of someone still convinced he could pull off anything if he tried hard enough.

“That was one time. And it was—experimental rhythm.”

““What we saw was you attempting I’m totally casual while swaying like a bewitched scarecrow in a gale. Look, I can’t help you with this plan. I hate dancing. So it’s a no. If you don’t want this to be a disaster, Hermione might be able to help.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up.

“Hermione? Help me learn to dance?”

“Don’t think you’ll become a professional,” Ron said, “but she might teach you not to look like you’re wrestling a broomstick with your feet. She’ll turn whatever you call movement into something that won’t make Malfoy question his life choices—and, by extension, his sanity.” He smirked. “Besides, I’m still pissed off about the last trap you set for us. I’m all out. Go beg her.”

Harry pressed his lips together, thinking it over, then held up a hand. 

“Fine. But if she starts with foot-placement diagrams and I end up doing algebra in my head while trying to tell left from right, I’m blaming you.”

Ron rolled his eyes.

“Just… if she suggests you practise with someone else first, don’t call me.”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. He stood, excitement edging back into careful planning.

“I’ll go find her later. Thanks, mate.”

---

Later that afternoon, Hermione was in the library annex, buried under a tower of policy briefings and what looked suspiciously like “Etiquette for Interdepartmental Events”, on which she had, in passing, corrected three footnotes. Harry caught her between straightening a stack of folders and muttering something about napkin-folding being its own form of diplomacy.

“Hello, Hermione,” he said, trying to sound casual.

She looked up and, as her gaze tracked his expression, the corner of her mouth quirked.

“Hello, Harry. You’re not here to borrow a book. That much is obvious.”

“You know me too well. In fact, I need your help.” He brought his hands together in a pleading gesture before she could ask. “I want to learn to dance.”

Hermione paused, eyes going wide, then scanned his face; her gaze sharpened.

 “To dance with Malfoy, isn’t it? For the Ministry’s Summer Solstice Gala?”

Harry’s eyebrows rose—he shouldn’t have been surprised that Hermione could read him like a book, but he hadn’t expected her to spot it so quickly.

“Yes, with Malfoy,” he admitted, shaking his head with a laugh. “At the gala. Properly this time. Not… whatever I usually do to music with two left feet.”

Hermione folded her hands; the librarian-in-chief mode slipped into something almost like amusement.

“That makes perfect sense.” She shook her head, a slow smile spreading. “You do realise dancing is about timing, rhythm, awareness—and not treading on someone’s toes, literally.” She tapped a pen against her lip. “So why are you so keen to dance with him?”

Harry’s grin softened. 

“Because it’s a way to be close without saying anything—a moment that doesn’t need words. If I can get him to move with me—just once—it’ll be something we’ll share. The two of us.”

She looked at him for a beat.

“Oh, Harry, that’s so romantic. All right, I’ll help. But we do it properly. No dramatic spins, no show-off nonsense. You’re going to start with the basics: posture, foot placement and how not to lurch when the tempo changes.”

Harry’s eyes lit up, joy written all over his face.

“I’ll do my best. I promise. Just… tell me what to do.”

Hermione pulled a slim notebook from her bag and slid it across the table.

“Let’s schedule some sessions before the gala. We have to get you comfortable so that when you ask, it won’t sound like a challenge or a set-up. If Malfoy’s in the right mood, you’ll use one line: May I have this dance? No flourish. No comments on his appearance, unless you want to risk a very specific kind of eye-roll.” She added, drily, “And don’t over-explain why you want it. Just ask. Then you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, earnest enough that Hermione’s expression softened.

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re the one who has to move without tripping.” She straightened. 

Harry straightened too, suddenly, oddly self-conscious about his stance, as if she might mark him down.

“Yes. Show me how not to embarrass myself in front of the entire Ministry.”

Hermione smirked.

“I won’t dance with you. Ron will.”

Harry’s grin drooped.

“What? Why?!”

Hermione leaned forward, tapping her pen against the notebook.

“Ron and Malfoy are about the same height. If you can get through a basic lead-and-follow with Ron—who, by the way, is annoyingly predictable in his timing—you’ll have a much better chance with Malfoy.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m too small for this to work as a practice partner.”

“But he’s already said no. He won’t help me with that.”

Hermione’s expression softened, just enough to betray her amusement.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s just being stubborn. He already knows the basics but I want him to learn more,” Hermione said, folding her arms. “So—two birds: you get a partner who approximates Draco’s build, and I get someone I can actually dance with more often.”

Harry blinked. 

“So you’re… volunteering Ron as my practice partner, and polishing him up for yourself?”

Hermione’s smirk returned. 

“Precisely. He agrees to dance with me at office parties—half-heartedly—and then disappears. He’s competent, but I’m tired of begging every time. You help me improve things and, in return, he becomes your guinea pig. Win-win.”

Harry hesitated, then sighed—partly reluctant, partly determined.

“All right. I’ll find him… but if he refuses again, you’ll be responsible for getting him on board.”

“Deal.” Hermione snapped her notebook closed, already planning her next move.

Harry left with a hesitant grin, replaying the conversation he’d have with Ron—again, while Hermione, pleased with the arrangement, returned to her books.

---

The empty break room corner was lit by enchanted lanterns suspended from the ceiling—a soft, warm glow Hermione had insisted was the ‘right mood’. Harry stood awkwardly facing Ron, stomach knotted.

Hermione stood off to the side, arms folded, watching with cool appraisal.

“You look cute,” she teased.

Both men shot her matching glares, but she didn’t so much as blink. In a clipped, precise voice, she carried on as if nothing had happened.

“Remember: left hand here, Ron” she tapped Harry’s shoulder blade “right hand on his waist, thumb just above the belt line, Harry. And don’t forget eye contact. Don’t stare at his feet.”

Harry nodded like a nodding dog.

“Right. Don’t stare at his feet.” He shifted, offering his hand.

Ron sighed theatrically as he took Harry’s hand.

“If this is how you thank me for all the times I’ve covered for you at work, I’m… ” He glanced at Hermione, who fixed him with a look. “Never mind…”

Hermione sighed.

“Music,” she said, flicking her wand. A soft waltz began. “Now, Harry, you lead. Forward left; side right; close. Back right; side left; close. One-two-three, four-five-six.”

Harry swallowed and cleared his throat. “One—two—three…” He nudged his partner forward. Ron’s first step was smooth enough that he almost overshot Harry’s frame.

“Careful!” Hermione barked. “Half-steps, boys. It’s not a broom race.”

Harry tried again, shuffling forward.

“Side—together. Pivot—”

Ron twisted aside as Harry’s shoulder bumped into his.

“Ugh, can you not use so much… enthusiasm?”

Hermione shouted. 

“Control your energy. Easy. Feel the music.”

Harry ground his teeth and signaled for the back half. 

“Four—five—six.”

Ron’s backward slide was crisp—too crisp; he nearly marched on the spot.

“Is that it? Because I thought we’d do, like, eight counts.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“We’re starting simple. Focus, Ron. Follow his lead—or lack thereof—and pretend you’re enjoying it.”

Ron grumbled.

“Oh, I’m enjoying it. It’s the highlight of my week.”

Harry flapped his free hand helplessly. “Sorry, sorry! Pivot… oh—Merlin.” He over-rotated, nearly sending Ron careering into the nearby table.

“Stop turning like you’re exorcising a Boggart!” Hermione snapped. “Harry, plant your left foot, twist at the waist, and use your core. Yes, like that; keep going.”

Ron actually laughed briefly before clearing his throat. 

“You’re horrendous at this, you know that?”

Harry flashed a triumphant grin.

“I’ll take ‘horrendous’ if it means I didn’t send you face-first into a wall.”

Hermione clapped once.

“That’s… marginal progress. Now, once more. And Harry, breathe, please. You’re not on trial.”

They tried again. Harry’s steps were small, cautious, and for once, Ron didn’t almost get injured.

After six more attempts, Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Well. You two didn’t injure each other. I’ll call that a win.”

Ron gave Harry a grudging nod.

“Less flailing next time, yeah? and stop gripping my waist like a vice. I’m sure I’ll have a bruise by tomorrow.”

Harry beamed. 

“Thanks, Ron. And you, Hermione, brilliant coaching.”

“Don’t get cocky. We’ve still got more sessions before you ask Malfoy to dance.”

Ron muttered about “perilous practice”, Harry hummed off-beat—and Hermione allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

They shuffled out, Ron slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders as they headed for the door.

“Hey, Harry, if you can lead me without murdering my ankles, maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

Harry laughed. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

---

The 21th of June had finally arrived. Harry stepped into the Ministry’s Grand Hall like a comet streaking across an indigo sky. He wore the three-piece suit cut from the finest ruby-red cloth—deep, rich and impossibly vibrant—that Draco had chosen for him. The cloak’s cut was impeccably sharp, its long tails swishing just above his calves, lined in a sumptuous burgundy. Beneath it, a matching ruby waistcoat defined his silhouette, its gleaming gold buttons catching the light. His trousers, slim-cut and perfectly creased, completed the ensemble in the same scarlet brilliance. At his throat, a delicate white lace necktie replaced the conventional tie, its intricate floral pattern softening the boldness of the red.

 

No sooner had he crossed the threshold than dozens of admiring glances settled on him. A circle of Ministry officials—ladies in gowns and gentlemen in dress robes or costumes—flocked to him with invitations to dance. Harry received each one with a slight tilt of his head and that lopsided, charming grin of his.

“I’d love to, but perhaps in a moment,” he told one whispered plea. “Another time, Miss Travers,” he murmured to another, his tone warm yet resolute.

Dance cards fluttered shut as he excused himself with polite refusals, his gaze sliding to the far end of the Grand Hall, where he hoped to see Draco standing in elegant attire of his own. He had been waiting to hear the soft click of Draco’s heel on the parquet, to feel the press of Draco’s palm against his—but the moment still eluded him.

After an hour of dancing—Harry had finally relented to a few persistent partners and endured more than one awkward conversation as admirers fluttering their lashes and leaned in close—he slipped away from the throng..

Cradling an untouched glass of punch, he retreated to a shadowed alcove beneath an ornate archway. From here, the music and laughter felt distant, muffled against the marble walls. He pressed his back to the cool stone, his eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of Draco’s familiar silhouette. The crimson of his suit felt suddenly too bright, too loud; here, in the dim corner, he could catch his breath—and hope that, soon, the man he’d been chasing would appear.

Harry pressed himself further into the shadowed alcove—until a soft, almost hesitant voice cut through the murmur of the gala music.

“Potter?”

He looked up, and there stood Draco, caught in a shaft of moonlight pouring through the high windows. He wore an ethereal ensemble that made him look less like a Ministry official and more like a guardian of the summer sky: an ivory-white tailcoat with delicately embossed floral patterns trailing down the lapels, a matching waistcoat cinched at the waist with a silver-filigree chain, and sharply creased trousers that lengthened the line of his legs. A pale silk necktie lay folded at his throat, pinned with a single moonstone brooch that caught the light with every breath he took. His cloak—cut in the style of a classical manteau—billowed softly behind him, the lining a shimmering pearl that fluttered like wings. 

Harry’s heart lurched in his chest. He’d seen Draco look handsome—flawlessly groomed, slim, aristocratic—but tonight he looked otherworldly. Beautiful enough to make Harry’s knees go weak, to strip him of manners and common sense. He half expected to hear angelic choirs.

He let his shoulders meet the cool stone, one hand pressed to his racing heart. The very sight of Draco, so close and so breathtaking, left him dizzy. He couldn’t trust himself not to cross the space and kiss him—right here beneath the chandeliers, with half the Ministry looking on.

He drew a deep breath, steadied his mind, and set his plan in motion.

“Over here,” he said, his mouth curving into a broad smile as he stepped forward. He cleared his throat, swallowing the lump there. “Were you… looking for me?”

Draco inclined his head, stepping into the warm light.

“Granger found me the moment I arrived. She said you don’t like being crowded for too long and might be… a bit overwhelmed.” He slipped a small vial from his waistcoat pocket and held it out. “She asked me to give you a Stabilising Draught. It’ll steady your nerves.”

Harry stared at the vial, then back at Draco’s impossibly calm face. The potion—or Draco’s presence—felt like a lifeline. He managed a shaky smile. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw.

Thank you, Hermione. I owe you one, he thought.

Draco gave him a small, encouraging nod.

“I—hope it helps.” He dipped his head. “How are you finding the evening so far?”

Harry laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’ve tried to stay polite. But honestly… my outfit’s caused quite a stir.”

Draco’s eyes glinted.

“I can confirm the person who helped you choose it has excellent taste.”

Harry’s chest warmed. He’d known Draco had chosen the suit at the fitting—still, hearing it now felt like a small miracle.

“Well, his taste is impeccable.”

Draco inclined his head, his expression softening; the moonstone at his throat caught and held a shard of light.

“I aim to please.”

Harry’s boldness flared. He set the vial aside, made himself breathe—slow, steady—willed his hands not to fidget with the waistcoat he’d already smoothed flat a dozen times.

“So—would you dance with me?”

Draco’s brow lifted. The waltz from the far side of the hall unfurled, three gentle beats that seemed to count out the pause between them.

“Dance with you?” He paused, considering. “Ah, I see—you want some advice. It’s true you’ve… never been particularly skilled in this area.”

Not what he meant, but safer; the sting of embarrassment fizzed and then settled into relief. He could work with that angle. Harry’s heart thudded anyway. He kept his smile easy, his hands at his sides so he wouldn’t reach for Draco too soon.

“Exactly. I’d be grateful for your… expert opinion.”

Draco’s lips curved into a knowing smile. Something in his gaze sharpened

“May I lead?”

The formality of it—soft, courteous—hit Harry harder than any flourish. His breath snagged; heat rushed up beneath the lace at his neck, and the world narrowed to Draco’s voice and the brush of cool air between them.

“Yes. Please”

Rather than stepping onto the crowded dance floor, Draco guided him towards a quieter corner of the Grand Hall, where moonlight spilled through a high window and dust motes drifted in the air. The music thinned to a hush at this distance; the nearness of Draco steadied him. He arched a brow, surprised, then let a contented smile settle—this little alcove felt perfectly, mercifully intimate.

Draco slipped an arm around Harry’s waist and took his hand, their fingers interlacing. As the music swelled, Draco began to move, guiding them forward on a gentle, sweeping rhythm. He danced with an ease and precision that made every step look effortless—each turn was both fluid and controlled.

Harry felt as though he’d been lifted onto a cloud. Draco’s other hand rested firm but soft at his waist , drawing him closer, increasing the flutter in Harry’s chest.

“Relax,” Draco murmured, low enough for Harry alone. “Don’t be so tense. Let the music carry you.”

Harry tried to follow the melody, but he was too mesmerized by Draco’s touch: the warmth of his palm at his waist, the solid strength of the shoulder beneath Harry’s own hand. Draco’s frame was more muscular than he’d thought, powerful without being bulky. Each subtle shift of his weight sent a thrill through Harry.

He nodded, choosing to trust Draco’s lead. As they moved together in that hidden corner, Harry felt all the jitters and self-consciousness melt away. There was only the music, Draco’s steady guidance, and the intoxicating nearness of the man he’d been longing to dance with all night.

Harry pressed closer as the final notes faded, breathless. He risked a question.

“Do you… dance often?”

Draco eased back just enough to meet his gaze. “Not lately, no,” he admitted, voice low. “With Mother, at family receptions—Pansy, sometimes, when she insists. Luna, if she’s in the mood. Otherwise, it’s rare.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the admission; the moment felt all the more precious.

Draco lifted his hand and gave a small, formal bow.

“Thank you for the dance,” he said lightly.

Harry tried to mirror the gesture—his knees knocked together in a graceless curtsy—which set Draco chuckling.

“Have a good evening, Potter,” Draco said, straightening. “I expect to see marked improvement with your next dance partners.”

And with that, he turned to go.

Harry’s heart leapt. He moved before he could think, closing the gap in a single, swift step and catching Draco’s wrist. Draco’s eyes widened as Harry found his voice, urgent and earnest:

“May I have this dance?”

Draco blinked, confusion flickering across his features. Harry gently guided his arm towards the main ballroom.

“There,” he said, voice hushed but firm. “The dance floor—this one, with me.”

Draco’s breath hitched, and he stiffened under Harry’s touch—the tension was delicate, electric, running from Draco’s arm into Harry’s fingers. For a heartbeat they stayed still, the glittering hall seeming to revolve around that single, suspended moment.

Draco’s brow furrowed, and he glanced towards the gleaming floor, crowded with turning couples. “I can’t,” he murmured, easing his wrist back. “There are too many people. They’ll all stare, and someone will make a rude comment.”

Harry’s grip tightened just enough to steady them both.

“I don’t care,” he said firmly, meeting Draco’s eyes. “Let them stare—that’s fine. You won’t have to face any of it alone. I’ll be right there with you.”

Draco’s jaw worked as he hesitated, imagining the weight of every gaze would land on them. But Harry wouldn’t let go—wouldn’t let Draco slip away again. He leaned in, voice soft but unyielding.

“Please…”

For a long moment, the music swelled around them, and Draco’s shoulders drooped as though surrendering to the pull of Harry’s sincerity. He sighed, an equal part of relief and resignation.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Just one dance—but only because you insist.”

Then Draco’s eyes softened, uncertainty giving way to something else—something like curiosity… or perhaps the same yearning Harry had carried all night. Harry’s grin broke over his face.

“Trust me,” he whispered. “With me, no one will say a word.”

Draco offered a small, uncertain smile, and, at last, Harry guided him forward. They stepped onto the ballroom floor together. The world seemed to tilt into focus: the swell of the orchestra, the soft shuffle of feet on marble floor, and the steady safety of Harry’s hand at Draco’s back.

They slipped onto the polished dance floor, and almost at once felt the weight of curious eyes. Couples paused mid-twirl; champagne flutes wavered. But Harry didn’t hesitate. He levelled a fierce glare at anyone who dared stare, jaw set and shoulders squared. Each time a gaze lingered too long, he let them meet his gaze—cool, unflinching—until the onlooker looked away in discomfort.

With every glare, the whispers thinned. First a murmur, then a hush, and at last nothing.The swell of the orchestra and the soft scuff of shoes were the only sounds Harry could hear. He felt Draco’s tension unspool as the crowd receded into polite invisibility.

Draco exhaled softly, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He tilted his head, eyes bright with surprise.

“I didn’t know you had that kind of… magical power,” he murmured, his voice warm with gratitude—and something more. Admiration, perhaps.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He pressed a reassuring hand to the small of Draco’s back.

“Only for people who are important to me.”

Colour bloomed in Draco’s cheeks, and he swallowed, flicking up to Harry’s as if seeing him anew.  His pulse fluttered beneath Harry’s fingers who felt his breath catch in his throat—so close, so intoxicating.

When the next phase of the waltz began, Harry drew a steadying breath.

“May I lead this time?” he asked, low and earnest.

Draco hesitated—just a heartbeat—then nodded, a gentle firmness returning to his expression.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Please.”

Harry let his hand trail down the small of Draco’s back, fingers splaying just enough to feel the heat along his spine through the fine cloth. He guided them into a gentle turn, stepping forward with assurance rather than hesitation. Even when the music changed tempo, Harry found the rhythm instinctively—no more flailing or stuttering steps. Only smooth, gliding movements that recalled every lesson with Hermione and every practice with Ron, distilled into this single moment.

He took Draco’s hand, interlaced their fingers and, with his elbow soft, guided him into a slow turn across the floor. Harry kept his other hand firm yet gentle at Draco’s back, his thumb brushing just above the hip—a touch both grounding and electric. Each step felt natural, as if his body were remembering a dance he’d always known but had never quite dared to perform—until now.

Draco followed with effortless ease,his composure melting into trust. Harry could feel Draco’s breath hitch when they drew so close. The soft sway of Draco’s cloak and the tightening of his grip in Harry’s hand spoke of surprise and quiet delight. Harry’s pulse thrummed in time with the music—and with the warm press of Draco’s chest against his own, every beat felt like a dream.

As they moved, Harry kept his gaze locked on Draco’s eyes, cherishing the way they shone in the light—soft, curious, and for the first time fully present with him. He guided them through a series of gentle pivots and a delicate sidestep. Draco’s lips parted in a small, contented smile, and Harry’s heart swelled so fiercely he thought he might burst.

They drew closer as the last notes began to fade, breathless, suspended in the hush that followed. For a heartbeat, neither spoke; they simply held each other, the afterglow of the dance humming between them. And in that perfect stillness, Harry knew he had found exactly the moment he’d been chasing this past few months.

Harry’s chest swelled with words he’d rehearsed a thousand times. He tightened his hold on Draco’s slim waist, lifting his gaze to meet those pale eyes.

“I love…” he began, his voice thick with longing.

But at that instant, the orchestra hit its final note and the music stopped dead.

Harry blinked, cheeks flaming as the world snapped back. He swallowed hard and forced a grin. 

“…dancing,” he finished lamely.

Draco blinked, then laughter bubbled up between them. 

“I didn’t know,” he said softly. “Me too. It’s… nice.”

They shared a brief, breathless smile before Harry cleared his throat. He was about to ask if they could sneak in another dance when a flutter of gowns swept towards them.

“Mr Potter! May I have this dance?”

“Please, dance with me, Mr Malfoy!”

Several women with sparkling eyes and outstretched hands descended upon them.

Draco’s brows lifted in surprise. He looked to Harry, uncertain. At first, disappointment clouded Harry’s face, but he gently squeezed Draco’s hand and gave a reassuring nod.

“It’s all right—I’ll stay close,” he promised.

Draco gave a small, brave smile.

He turned to the eager crowd with a courteous bow, and Harry mirrored him. Hermione appeared at his side, claiming the next dance and leaving the other witches to groan.

“Harry,” she whispered with a grin, “you’ve improved a lot since the last session.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder and caught Draco’s silhouette watching him. Heat flared in his chest—and in that moment, he knew there would be many more dances to come.

Notes:

Thank you for reading this chapter !!
I really hope it you enjoyed it and warmed your heart, hehe.
If you have any thoughts, please share—your comments make my day!

And again, if you’re interested in being the beta reader for this fanfiction, let me know. I’d appreciate it so much and it would help me a LOT!
See you soon, and love you all.

Chapter 8: The Fifth Deadly Sin

Notes:

Hello everyone !
Welcome for this chapter 8 ! So glad to share it with you =^^=

Two things to begin with. Thank you for your kudos and comments. So heartwarming ! I'm so happy you guys enjoy this story !
Thank you le_mimir for all your corrections and help, really ! So happy to have you as my betareader <3

Enjoy this chapter everyone !

Late June had turned Epping forest green, bright and breathless. Sun pooled in every gap and insects whined in the shade. Ferns brushed Harry’s knees as Ron flattened behind a fallen oak, bark crumbling beneath his fingers.

“Two on the ridge,” Ron hissed.

“Got them.” Harry flicked his wand. “Muffliato!”

A green curse hissed past where Ron’s head had just been. He answered with a fast Stunner that lit the grass red, then swore as a third caster popped out from behind a birch.

“Since when are smugglers morning people?” Ron called, rolling to a new angle.

“It’s four in the afternoon,” Harry said, and sent a Disarming Charm that yanked a wand from the nearest set of fingers. “And technically they’re not smugglers; they’re idiots with a portable wardstone.”

“You quibble, Auror Potter,” Ron said cheerfully, and flung a Jelly-Legs that took the second man off his feet, followed by an Incarcerous. “Left!”

Harry pivoted and threw up a Protego. The Shield Charm rang like glass. The caster—a narrow-shouldered witch who seemed enraged—tried to sweep around his flank. Harry cut the angle with an Impedimenta, felt the hex catch, and—because his brain was unhelpful—thought of a different kind of sweep, on a polished floor of the Ministry ballroom and a hand at a waist.

“Don’t say it,” Ron warned, already hearing the intake of breath.

“It was just-” Harry ducked a Knockback Jinx that shaved moss off the log. “Really great, you know? Dancing!”

“For Merlin’s sake, mid-fight?” Ron sent a sparkling Net Charm that broke across a tree trunk. “We’re in a forest, Harry, surrounded. Not a good timing!”

“I’m just saying.” Harry flicked his wand and ropes leapt from the undergrowth, cinching the ankles of the nearest wizard. “He’s—he’s really good at it.”

“I know! You’ve already told me that… I don’t know, five times a day?”

“Can you believe he really danced with me?” Harry asked, because talking about it made him feel as though he was flying, “We were so close to each other!”

“Stunner—high!” Ron snapped. Harry responded with another Shield; the curse struck and smeared harmlessly. Ron blew out a breath. “All right, fine. I’ll add that to the list of today’s miracles.”

A twig cracked behind them. Both spun around. Harry’s Petrificus hit a masked man mid-lunge, and Ron’s follow-up Incarcerous wrapped him like a Christmas present.

“Three down,” Ron counted. “How many did they say during the briefing?”

“Four,” Harry said. He jerked his chin toward a circle of old boundary stones half-swallowed by ivy. 

“Do you see where’s number four?” Ron squinted.

“I don’t know yet.”

He felt the hair on his arms stand on end before a Blasting Curse tore a gouge in the earth to their right. They dove in opposite directions; soil pattering down as a startled bird shot up through the trees. Harry muttered and sent a feint to the left, followed by a silent Expelliarmus to the right. A wand clattered behind a holly bush.

“Got you,” Ron said, and he went pounding after the sound.

Harry cut the path across the clearing, heart steady in the good way. He could hear movement and breathing; the jitter of someone who’d chosen the wrong career. He could also hear Ron, who had never quite mastered stealth, crashing through the forest.

“Ron, stop,” Harry called out. “Don’t corner him. Drive him toward the stones.”

“Copy that,” Ron said, then, because he was Ron, added, “so, was it a fast dance or a slow one?”

Harry grinned despite the stinging nettles lacing his sleeve. “Both.”

“What a show-off.”

He caught a glimpse of a cloak and snapped his wand down. “Arresto Momentum!” The fleeing wizard stumbled as the charm dragged at his steps. Ron’s Stunner took him cleanly. He dropped without fuss. Silence settled except for the sound of leaves ticking back into place. They stood for a moment, breaths heavy, listening for any other movement. Nothing did, except a brave and opinionated robin.

Ron propped his hands on his hips. 

“I’m on fire today!” he said to himself. “So, what's the next move?” 

Harry pushed a stray branch off the captured wizard, then checked the bindings with a neat twist of his wand. 

“I don’t know… I don’t even know what to call it, but it felt good. Easy. He didn’t insult me once.”

“Not about that.” Ron sighed. He then jabbed his chin toward the unconscious man. “Want me to call the lift team?”

“Oh… Yeah. And secure the wardstone. I’ll sweep his pockets.” 

Harry knelt, working quickly: wands, a coin-purse full of contraband hex tokens, a small brass compass that hummed under his fingers. He slipped it into an evidence bag and stood up.

Ron, his badge in front of his mouth, speaking quietly to Control. When he finished, he glanced over at Harry, his eyes warm. 

“You’re smiling like an idiot, mate.”

“Am I?” Harry said but didn’t stop.

“Worse than after you flew the Firebolt for the first time.”

“That was a good day.”

“Yeah.” Ron scratched at a smear of dirt on his cheek. “Look, dunno what this is with Malfoy. But if you’re happy, I can’t complain.”

Harry opened his mouth but a shimmer of air made him snap it shut. He lifted a hand. “Hold—”

A subtle tremor passed through the ground, as if a giant had breathed beneath the soil. The bound wizard blinked awake and smirked. 

“Too late,” he sneered.

Ron’s eyes narrowed. 

“What did you—”

The boundary stones glowed faintly, old runes kindling one by one. Harry swore under his breath. “They’ve set a fail-safe. If the wardstone moves—”

“We’re screwed?” Ron suggested.

“Definitely.” Harry sprinted to the circle and pressed his palm to the nearest stone, pouring a clean, steady counter-current into the pattern. 

“Come on, come on, please.” he muttered.

“Want me to… I dunno, blow this up?” Ron hovered, ready to yank him back.

“Please don’t,” Harry said, and he felt the magic take on a new rhythm. The light sank, the runes felt quiet and the hum eased. 

“There.” He exhaled. 

Ron blew out a low whistle. 

“Still got it, Wizarding world’s hero.”

Harry shot him a look.

“Never call me that again.”

Ron just laughed and tipped his head toward the path. 

“Lift team’s two minutes out. You can go back to grinning about your waltz.”

“It wasn’t a waltz,” Harry said, but he could feel the laughter pulling at his mouth again. He looked down at the captured wizard, then across the quiet clearing, let the grin happen. “It was better.”

---

Friday found Harry on his own doorstep with the sun still high in the sky and London sticky with summer. The wards at Grimmauld Place sighed when he stepped through, a cool draught rolling along the corridor like the house was trying to be kind. He set his satchel down and just… stood there. Boots heavy, shoulders pulling down. He was on the field since Wednesday, with two nights of poor sleep and dust still in the seams of his jacket.

A small, traitorous part of him wanted to go straight to the Ministry. Just to use the pretext to file forms and, by chance, pass the Level 1 test at the right time.

But it was the weekend and with that, no chance of making this happen.

He kicked off his boots and padded into the kitchen. Kettle on. Mug ready. The late light slanted through the window and turned the floating dust into a soft constellation. It looked almost festive, which felt silly when he knew it was just because he hadn’t cleaned his house enough.

He palmed the back of his neck and closed his eyes. It was ridiculous how strong the memory still was—the clean slide of music in the Ministry ballroom, him grabbing on the slim waist, their hands finding each other and fitting together as if they belonged there. Draco’s hands had been cool and steady with long thin fingers. The kind that made Harry dream about it in various scenarios. And his hair—Merlin—the way his hair had moved when they turned, like silk catching the light, pale and soft and slightly unruly by the dances. Harry had wanted to bury his face into it. 

A normal thought. Very normal.

The kettle clicked off. Harry poured hot water over a tea bag, added milk, and leaned his hip against the counter. Trying to drink like a calm person, he ended up smiling into the steam.

He wanted more. Not explosions or field actions; he’d experienced enough of that in his life to last several lifetimes. He wanted… the ordinary kind of more. The everyday. He’s craving for knowing what it would be like to experience that with Draco.

He allowed himself to picture it because there was no one here to laugh at him, except perhaps the house, which would never betray him.

Harry started to picture himself, coming home after a mission, bone-deep tired, only to find the lamps already lit to a gentle glow. He saw Draco in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, wrists bared, pouring tea like it was an exacting ritual. No fussing. Not really. Just a precise sort of care: a glance at Harry’s shoulders, searching for new bruises; a fingertip pressing the hinge of his jaw to check for stiffness and a murmured, “Shower, then sit,” that Harry would obey without argument because the voice would make obedience sound like his own idea.

Harry slid into a chair and hunched around the mug, the warm ceramic heating his hands. It wasn’t even big things he craved. Two cups instead of one; his long, pale fingers catching Harry’s wrist on the way past for a discreet hello, the scratch of a quill on a neat stack parchment when Draco wrote with concentration at Harry’s table.

He couldn't help continuing his fantasy a little further, him being made to sit on the end of the bed while Draco tugged his tie loose, neat fingers undoing the knot with patience. Harry, head bowed for kissing the top of Draco’s hair, would simply smile. Then, they would go under the heavy blanket together, their feet intertwined, staying there like that, before, maybe, hands would start to slide on…

Get a grip, Potter.

He huffed a laugh and rubbed his eyes. He should eat something other than whatever Ron had called lunch in the field. He should—what—write to Draco? 

Send an owl that said : Enjoyed not stepping on you while dancing, please confirm you still have all your toes?

He pulled a scrap of parchment towards him and, before he could stop himself, started to write.

Dear Malfoy,
Good to be back. Hope you’re having a quiet evening.

No. Too much. Not enough. He scowled, crossed it out and tried again.

I’ve discovered I’m not allergic to galas when you’re in them.

Absolutely not! He crossed that one out too. Nevermind, maybe he’s too tired and it’s not really a good idea to send an owl in this emotional state. He set the quill down and sat back, smiling helplessly because the situation was hopeless but he was also kind of happy.

Tired? Yes, that too. His muscles were humming and his brain was foggy from two days of adrenaline and not enough sleep. But happy in the embarrassing, ridiculous way that made him flustered.

He finally decided it was time for a good refreshing shower. Then bed. Upstairs, the water beat the last of the mission out of him. He stood under it until his shoulders loosened and the steam turned the mirror pale. In the bedroom he pulled on an old T-shirt and fell onto the mattress like a dead man. The window was open onto the warm evening; somewhere down the street, someone laughed; somewhere else, some owls were hooting. 

He thought, one more time, of the gala’s night, and the way Draco had danced with him—steady, careful and unexpectedly gentle. The softness of his hands, the delicate curve of his body, or  which he had only been able to glimpse.

The neediness came softer, no longer an ache. More like a tug at the sleeve.

He turned onto his side and let the picture of it settle for his soon dreams: a key in his door that wasn’t his; two cups on the counter; the quiet thud of a book closing; Draco's hand lifting his chin up before giving a little peck on his lips.

Monday could have coffee and ten minutes leaning on the counter in the lab while his love inspected labels and accidentally let their elbows touch. Monday could be enough for now.

Harry smiled in the dark, falling asleep. He indeed wanted more but he could wait a little bit more.

---

On Saturday late morning, Diagon Alley felt like a bustling market. The sun beat down on the brass shop signs and the owls preened themselves on their perches, the warm smell of sweet and concoction meddling in the air. Harry let it go some of the week off him as he slipped through the door of Flourish and Blotts. The bell chimed and dust motes rose like shy confetti.

Inside, it was cool and book-scented: two wizards were talking about a highlighted book at the entrance, a ladder was abandoned mid-shelf and a clerk murmuring Re-Shelving Charms to a wobbling stack. Harry breathed deeply and drifted along a row of new arrivals, his fingertips brushing titles as if pretending he might read purely for themselves and not because a certain someone might like them.

“Fancy seeing you here, Potter,” said a smooth voice behind him. 

Harry turned.

“Oh!” he coughed, masking his surprise “Hello Nott.”

Theodore Nott looked as if a designer had personally agreed to dress him. A dove-grey jacket, a blue shirt, collar opened and a slim book tucked under one arm. He took Harry in with a quick, bright sweep of the eyes and smiled.

“Escaped your duties?” Theo asked.

“It’s the weekend,” Harry replied, then made a face. “I don’t want to think about paperwork right now.”

“Mm.” Theo slid his book back into place with two perfectly neat fingers. “So now, you’re looking for a different kind of paperwork, aren’t you? Fiction, perhaps.”

Harry glanced at the display. “I was thinking… something good.” He heard himself and grimaced. “Which is not a genre.”

“In this shop it might as well be.” Theo tipped his head toward the mezzanine. “There’s a table of quiet novels that won’t set anything on fire except your standards.”

Harry huffed a laugh. 

“Tempting.”

They went to a side aisle, somewhere near the counter, away from a school-list mountain tilted and a harassed parent caught it with a squeak.

“So,” Theo said, almost idly, “Pansy, Blaise and I are… curious.”

Harry eyed him. 

“About what?”

“The future,” Theo said, as if it were obvious and only slightly amusing. “Specifically, what you plan to do about Draco in it.”

Harry blinked. 

“You—what?”

Theo’s smile went crooked. 

“You were very entertaining at his birthday party, Potter. We had a marvellous time. Pansy still cackles when she remembers your face and Blaise insists that your pick-up lines were the worst he’d ever heard. I remain unconvinced but I was deeply entertained.”

Harry groaned into the spine of a nearby book.

“I was not entertaining. I was… brave.”

“Of course you were.” Theo’s smile was kind even though his eyes weren't. “And it worked, which is the irritating part. He looked happy. You should’ve noticed that.”

Harry felt heat slip under his collar, in a way unrelated to the day.

“Oh… That’s… Good to hear.”

“In any case, we’re very eager to see what you do next. Pansy has a theory it will involve pastry. Blaise is betting on catastrophic sincerity. I’m rooting for… efficiency.”

“That’s rude,” Harry said, but without any sting. “Also fair.”

They reached the end of the aisle. Sunlight pooled on the floorboards in a deep, warm square; the books around them smelled of cloth and old glue. Harry let his shoulders relax slightly. He hadn’t meant to come here and talk to anyone, least of all one of Draco’s oldest friends—but maybe that was exactly what he needed right now.

“If I were hypothetically trying not to make a fool of myself,” he said, trying to look casual, “what would you recommend? Hypothetically.”

Theo’s brows lifted, pleased. 

“Hypothetically? I’d recommend starting with sharing a cup of tea one-on-one and ordinary conversation. He fancies people who make elegant efforts.”

Harry grumbled something impolite and reached for the nearest novel to hide behind. Theo’s grin sharpened.

“Don’t worry,” he said, softer. “We only meddle a little.”

Harry looked at him over the book’s edge and, despite himself, thought that Nott was very much easier to speak with than the two other slytherins demons. 

“Right,” he said. “Tell me more.”

They drifted down another aisle. Theo talked lightly about Draco’s interests. Perfume, favourite cakes, the kinds of conversations that actually hold Harry’s attention. Then he stopped at a shelf and tapped it.

“If you’re looking for a book, like… Draco’s favorite” Theo said, softer. “Here.” 

He reached over Harry’s shoulder and slid a cloth-bound novel from the shelf. The indigo cover featured a silver-pressed dragon winding around a tower. 

“The Bellwether Wyrm, by Edda Caerlyn. It's about a wizard in a ruined city who strikes a bargain with an old dragon that sleeps beneath the archives. Quiet, clever—about duty, and the things you tend until they love you back. He rereads it every winter.”

Harry held the book carefully, thumb against the silver scales. It looked like the kind of story that would sit in your chest for days. 

“He likes this?”

“He even underlines it,” Theo said, amused. “With a ruler.”

Harry huffed a laugh that felt unreasonably fond and, before the moment could become awkward, he eased the book into his shoulder bag with what he hoped was casual stealth.

It was only when he looked up that he realised the direction the conversation was taking. How easily Theo knew many things —even, the exact book’s titles Draco reread and when.

“You seem to know a surprising amount about him,” Harry said lightly. “Very specific things.”

“Do I?” Theo’s gaze flicked over Harry’s face, reading quicker than Harry would have liked. He tilted his head, his smile thinning into something slier. “It’s normal. We were together for a few years.”

Harry’s brain did a graceless drop of a lift between floors. Heat flared under his collarbone. Jealousy wasn’t reasonable but it came anyway, bright and stupid.

“Oh,” he said, and then, because his vocabulary had apparently left the building, “oh.”

The room shifted fractionally out of focus: shelves too tall, the floorboards too bright where the sun pooled, the murmur at the counter suddenly loud. He tried to think of something sensible to say—That’s nice, I’m glad; Of course—but the words wouldn’t line up. Images did instead, useless ones: Draco laughing with Nott; Draco holding hands with Nott; Draco underlining with a ruler his book while someone watched from across a table.

Theo’s eyes laughed. “Oh,” he echoed, gentle and annoyingly perceptive. “You didn’t know that, I suppose.”

Harry’s mouth made a small noise that might have been a laugh. 

“Right. I—right. I… have to go. Sorry!”

And then he moved. Not elegantly. His feet decided he needed air and took him toward the door. He nodded at nothing and everything, including Theo’s shoulder, before making for the exit.

“Excuse me! Mr Potter! You haven’t paid for that!” The clerk called as the bell over the door chimed.

Harry stopped dead on the threshold, mortification lighting every inch of him. He had, in fact, tucked The Bellwether Wyrm into his bag like a dim-witted thief and then forgotten about it. 

He turned back, cheeks on fire. Theo stood in the aisle with one hand over his mouth, eyes bright with unholy delight.

“Of course,” Harry told the clerk, already fumbling for his wallet. “Absolutely—sorry, long week.”

“Clearly,” the clerk replied, unimpressed.

Harry took out the book, smoothed its cover like an apology and placed it on the counter. He paid. He did not make eye contact with anyone until the receipt was tucked away and the book—properly purchased—was slid back to him in a neat paper bag.

When he finally glanced over, Theo had lowered his hand from his mouth and just waved it to Harry to say goodbye. The expression he still wore could only be described as hilarious.

Harry pointed at him helplessly. 

“Not a word.”

“Not one,” Theo said, eyes laughing anyway.

---

Monday morning, the briefing room hummed with quiet chatter and the gentle clinking of cups. A charmed chalk scratched the date onto the board; photos from Epping Forest hovered, a confiscated wardstone in a stasis field and the smuggler's profile.  

Harry stood at the front, a folder tucked under his arm and dark circles under his eyes he hadn’t bothered to hide. He cleared his throat.  

“Hello everyone, let's review the key points from our recent mission...” he began, suppressing a yawn. “Sorry. From last Wednesday to Friday, we conducted a field operation targeting four suspects connected to the counterfeit wardstone investigation ongoing since April. We successfully intercepted and neutralized all suspects in Epping Forest. There were no civilian involved or injuries sustained by our team.”

Harry directed his wand towards an enlarged image of the wardstone. “Observe the line fracture along the south rune. It is evident that whoever crafted this lacked proper expertise. We are lucky that their work was careless. We traced the residual magic to a supplier near Hogsmeade; Proudfoot’s team is currently investigating that lead.”

He noted his voice remained steady but somewhat flat. He could also hear his own thoughts running under it like static.

We were together for a few years.

He exhaled through his nose.

“Here are the evidences we were able to recover: four wands, hex tokens, a modified compass. These items are secured in containment; please do not handle them.”

A hand was raised.

“Sir, do we assess whether the fail-safe mechanism was standard or improvised on site?”

“Standardised,” Harry promptly replied before moderating his tone. “The runes match those from the Finchley seizure exactly. Patterns repeat when they’ve got a template.”

Patterns repeat-naturally-and so do people.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his hand before anyone could ask if he’d slept. He didn't, much. Every time he closed his eyes, he could hear Theo’s voice replayed —We were together— a stark reminder he was not yet ready to confront.

“Chief Robards has requested a sweep of the north zone,” he continued. “Ernest, take Maya with you. Do not engage if you encounter anything suspicious; mark the location and report it immediately. Christopher, you will assist me with the paperwork and cross-referencing it with the April case files.”

“Copy that,” they all said.

“Questions?” Harry inquired.

Silence. He realized he had been gripping the folder tightly enough to bend its cover. He relaxed his hold.

“Very well. That concludes our debriefing. Thank you.”

Chairs scraped as people stood, murmured among themselves, and gathered their pens and cups. No one questioned why his expression was so tense or why he reacted subtly to certain words. No one asked because he seemed not in the mood of being asked today, and they knew him well enough to understand that unspoken boundary.

Ron and Hermione would have asked regardless. Ron would have leaned back in the chair, folded his arms and said, “Spit it out” like Harry was being daft. Hermione would have waited until everyone else had left before looking at him expectantly until he spoke. But they were currently away enjoying sun and sea, and Harry had told them to simply “enjoy”. He’d meant it. He wasn’t going to drag them into… this. This time, he was handling it alone.  

We were together for a few years.

He slapped the folder open. 

“Christopher, in ten minutes, my desk.” The tone of his voice sounded abrupt even to himself. “Please,” he added more politely

“Sure,” he replied cautiously while he was leaving. 

He was keeping his eyes on the photos as they drifted back into their envelope. He caught his own reflection in the glass of the cabinet. He looked tired, and there were a bit of dark circles around the eyes that he didn't like seeing on himself. He felt… angry too. A little bit. At what point? At the sudden stupidity of jealousy which had arrived out of the blue and refused to stay quiet. 

He sat on the edge of the table and let his head tip forward until his chin brushed his chest. 

Don't be like that. It's not something you had a right to be angry about. People have lives. People had lives before you.

He finally slid off the table, pushed his sleeves up and decided it was time to put his plan into action. But before that, time to work a little bit. Harry went to his office, plonked himself down on his armchair in front of his desk, head up, looking straight at the ceiling.

Exactly ten minutes later, someone knocked on the door.

Harry opened the door with a smooth hand gesture. A head passed through.

“Everything all right?” Christopher asked carefully.

"I'm good," he said, sitting up straight in his armchair. "Let's get this written up."

They ran the report. Signatures, timestamps, cross-refs; all the usual weight of paperwork shushed the noise in his head into something quieter. By the time Christopher left with a stack of forms, Harry had the gist of a plan.

He'd got a few potion requests to make, so it wouldn't be a bad idea to pop into the lab. He then took the requisition folder and headed for Level One. This time, the lab smelled the same as usual when Draco was around—clean, parchment, with a hint of dried herbs. Rows of vials were lined up neatly under a soft glow, and a charm-clock ticked away in the corner.

Draco was sitting on a chair wearing a white coat with the sleeves rolled up, his legs crossed, reading a heavy book inscribed Ars Potionica, Vol. IV: Master Potioneer’s Guide to Reactive Brews, while a light blue draught was brewing. A loose strand of blonde hair had slipped forward in front of his eyes.

Harry knocked once on the doorframe. He stood close enough to look like he was only there for work, but his attention was caught by that stray lock of hair. He wanted nothing more than to put it back behind his pierced ear.

“Morning,” he said. “I need to place some requests.”

Draco glanced up and met his eyes for a brief, steady moment, nodding toward his desk. 

“Good morning, Potter. You can leave your requisition folder there. What are you asking for this time?”

“Invigoration Draught and Wit-Sharpening,” Harry replied. “The team has been doing fieldwork since Wednesday. I would like enough for eight Aurors, and I should probably take two doses of the invigoration for myself today.”

“That is a very reasonable request. I have to say, I'm not used to it,” Draco said in a smile. 

A real smile. Not the shy one Harry was used to. 

“I have six Invigoration doses ready. I can finish the rest by early afternoon. The Wit-Sharpening is brewing; it will be ready by noon.”

“Perfect. Thank you.” 

Harry put the folder down and stood nearby; leaving immediately felt too abrupt and was not part of his plan. The view of the loose strand of hair tugged at him with all the force of a tide. He had spent the last days trying not to think about how soft Draco’s hair had looked at the gala. Now it was right there in front of him, ridiculous and luminous. It was an opportunity to test his theory.

“Do you need anything else?” Draco asked, still measuring, his voice even.

Harry told himself to behave. He only meant to tuck the strand behind Draco’s ear—nothing dramatic, just an ordinary, everyday touch that you might make without thinking. His hand lifted before he could talk himself out of it.

He misjudged the distance. His fingertips hovered just centimetres from Draco’s cheek, close enough that he could feel the warmth of his skin without actually touching it. His hand trembled. Draco’s eyes flicked towards the movement. He took a half-step back.

“Keep those dirty hands away from me, they're full of chalk and ink,” he said, quietly and matter-of-factly.

Harry felt heat flood his face and blinked quickly. He pulled his hand back at once. He then looked at his hand and, like he saw them for the first time, realised they're indeed stained. 

“Oh right… I didn’t notice.” 

At the same time, Draco capped a potion vault with a neat twist and wrote a figure in the ledger. Only then did he look up again.

“Please, sign here so I can give you your potion vial.”

Harry knew that, until he was clean, touching Draco was out of the question. Casting a freshening charm now would be far too obvious—too pointed. He’d try something else later.

The next attempt took place two days later, on a Wednesday. After a general meeting, people left in a rush, chairs scraping back, parchment being gathered up and voices dropping to a level suitable for conversation in the corridor, someone laughed too loudly at a joke about requisitions.

Harry followed Draco without thinking. The space at the door narrowed to allow only one person through at a time. Harry lifted a hand to the small of Draco’s back to guide him through.

Draco stopped at once. He didn't flinch — just stood perfectly still, causing the crowd to swirl around them. He glanced over his shoulder, a little annoyed.

“Potter, you don’t have to push me like that.” He said between his teeth.“If you’re in a hurry, go ahead.”

Nevertheless, he stepped forward and slipped through the doorway with his usual neat, unbothered movement. Harry’s hand was left hanging in the air as he stared at his traitorous hand that had moved of its own accord.

Friday arrived a little too fast. Somewhere on Harry’s floor, near the lift, he spotted Draco halfway along, consulting a form while a junior Auror waited with a stack of parchments.

It was the smallest impulse—stupid, thoughtless—that sent him forward. He closed the distance in a few quick steps, and with a half-laugh on his breath, he reached out to catch Draco around the waist as a joke. A light, companionable gesture to show that he was there.

But Draco jolted. A sharp sound tore out of him—more instinct than voice—and the form slapped against his chest as he spun around. His eyes widened for a heartbeat before shutting tight. The young auror froze, realising Harry Potter was there. One of the Aurors passing by actually stopped mid-stride. A few other people looked over, some quills stopped writing and conversations paused.

“What in Merlin’s name… Potter!” he snapped, voice ringing clearly.  “Never do that again!”

Harry’s hands were already up.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t— It’s something I do sometimes! Like, with Ron!”

“Do I look like Weasley? You startled me!” Draco said, his anger evident in each word. “This is a workplace, not a joke. If you need my attention, use your voice.” He smoothed his coat with a fast, controlled motion, his breath tight and colour high along his cheekbones. “Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Harry said, his throat feeling thick. “Understood. Sorry.”

“Good.” Draco turned to the young auror with a crisp, chilly courtesy. “Thank you. I’ll take the request.” He signed sharply, handed the quill back and stepped past Harry without looking at him.

Sound returned to the corridor in an ungainly rush. Someone coughed.

Harry stared at his own traitorous hands as though they belonged to someone else. Again, he felt heat climb his neck as shame and annoyance sparked under his skin. Every attempt since the gala had gone wrong. The ink on his fingers, the doorway, and now this.  He shoved his hands into his pockets and forced himself to breathe. The soft, easy touches he had experienced at the gala felt like he’d dreamed it. Instead, there was the ugly tug of jealousy, bitter and stupid, dragging him back to thoughts of Theodore or anyone else who had once had the right to touch Draco easily.

It wasn’t his business. It didn't matter… 

It mattered.

Ernest caught up with him, matching Harry’s pace without looking over. “Why did you do that, chef?” he asked in a low voice.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

“I do that sometimes, even with some of you guys. I wasn’t thinking.”

Ernest huffed. 

“Have you just met Mr Malfoy?” He said ironically “He doesn’t look like the type to appreciate that kind of things.”

Harry pulled a face. Point taken. Ernest shot him a look.

“Would you do that to Miss Granger?”

Harry didn’t answer. He opened and closed his mouth. The answer was no.

You are an Idiot, he thought, feeling the heat crawl up again. Put your pride away and fix it properly. Merlin, I have to have a conversation with Theodore.

---

On Saturday in the first week of July, Diagon Alley was awash with heat and colour. Harry kept it simple today: a white A tight-fitting T-shirt, black trousers with a belt and trainers. The cotton was breathable, the sleeves fell perfectly on his strong forearms, and he let his hair do whatever it wanted. He caught his reflection in a shop window and thought it looked fine. He looked like a man who was meeting someone for coffee on a casual weekend day, not a man who was madly in love and trying to fix something he had clumsily broken. He hoped not.

The café on the corner had a narrow terrace surrounded by flowers, with nasturtiums cascading over the railings. He chose a table that was partly shaded and partly in the sun, and tried not to rehearse what he was going to say. The iced coffee arrived, sweating down the glass. He pressed his thumb to the condensation and forced himself to breathe.

“The shirt is doing things for your reputation,” Theodore said, appearing in front of Harry. He wore a linen shirt with an open collar and amused eyes. “Very approachable. Very summery.”

Harry huffed. He would be lying if he said that Theodore wasn’t a handsome man, but he doesn't hold a candle to Draco.

“I’m just in a casual mood.”

Theo sat down, dropped a slim book, and, after asking the waiter for an iced tea, he looked at Harry properly. 

“All right. Tell me why I’m here. You’re lucky your letter intrigued me enough for me to accept your invitation straight away.”

Harry glanced at the street, taking in the passing robes and the slow drift of floating receipts, before looking back at Theo.

“I messed up,” he said. “Twice… three times, if we’re counting properly. I tried to—” He grimaced. “I tried to make light physical contact with Malfoy. Small, stupid things. He’s probably angry with me and I can't blame him.”

Theo’s expression didn’t gloat; it tightened, then smoothed out.

“What did you do, precisely?”

Harry, embarrassed by his failure, took a deep breath. 

“I tried to put a loose strand of hair behind his ears or help him to walk through a big crowd after a meeting…” He hesitated a moment. Nott didn’t say a word and just looked at him silently. “And I did something, like, grabbing his waist from behind…”

“Oooh… You screw hard, Potter,” he said, his happy face showing how much he was entertained. “You made the worst possible choices. Even before lab training and the war, which left their marks in different ways, he wasn’t very… tactile.”

“Why do I keep making mistakes? Am I cursed or something?” Harry exclaimed, “I… just want to have the same ease we had at the gala, but I keep messing up.”

“A gala is a break when you know you’ll dance; it’s predictable,” Theo said calmly. It reminded Harry of Hermione. “A moment that tells you you can put your hands on their bodies. Unlike a work environment. For now, you have to ask, like you did when you asked him to dance.”

Harry stared into his coffee. It all made perfect sense. He was so carried away by his desire to feel Draco's touch again that he forgot to be delicate and respectful.

“I don’t want him to think I’m…” He broke off, frustrated by the embarrassment he felt. “Some kind of assaulter."

“Then don’t, you stupid bold gryffindor,” Theo scolded with a laugh. He grabbed his glass of iced tea and took a sip as if the conversation were casual.

“When you’re near him, speak up first, always. Make your presence known before you enter his space. And if you want to touch him—hand, sleeve, anything—ask. If he says no, say ‘thank you’ and carry on like the adult I hope you are. After a few times, if you've shown him that you're respectful, maybe he’ll let you do it without you having to ask. Trust is a wonderful thing to gain.”

Harry managed a weak smile. 

“I’m an adult on even days.”

Theo’s mouth curved. 

“Try to cluster them.”

They let the street noise fill the space between them for a moment. 

“I’m jealous,” he admitted, quietly. “Of things I have no right to be jealous of, but It keeps round and round in my head.”

Harry felt the knot in his chest loosen slightly just from saying it out loud.

“I can understand that,” Theo said kindly. He lifted his glass,  the ice clicking inside it. “But actually, you’re not competing with anyone. Either you’re building something new, or you’re not building it at all.”

Harry hesitated, then asked as if the next words had slipped from his mouth by themselves.

“So… what was it like… being with him?”

For the first time, Theo actually looked startled. His easy poise slipped as he set his glass down with a loud clatter and frowned.

“Er, really? Throwing this kind of question at me like this?” 

“Right. Sorry,” Harry said at once. He stared at the sweating ring that his glass had left on the table. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Theo watched him for a moment, noticed the way the apology pulled Harry’s mouth down, and sighed.

“All right, don’t give me those puppy dog eyes! I can’t believe  I’m gonna talk about that with you…” He sighted louder. “Just remember that what happened with me doesn’t mean it’ll happen to others… Or to you for example," 

Harry didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded energetically, eager to find out more about Draco.

“He isn’t cold like others may think. He’s just careful and protects his space and his pace. When he feels safe, he’s… gentler than people expect. He can even be funny in a cute way. He likes peaceful silences and...” Nott took his glass and tried to hide his blushing cheek behind it. “He likes to kiss…”

Harry couldn't stop the heat moving through his entire face at light speed.

“And finally, as for us,” Theo continued after a moment, his eyes on the street, “we weren’t really in love. We cared for each other and enjoyed each other’s company. It was just comfort. Now, we keep each other steady as friends.”

Harry still didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The jealousy that had been gnawing away at him disappeared, leaving the wooden table warm under his palm and making the afternoon feel suddenly brighter. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Theo watched the relief settle over Harry, and let out a small, bright, unguarded laugh.

“You’re a really strange guy, Potter. You know that?” His mouth tilted. “And, to be honest, I do understand you. Once you know him, Draco is stupidly easy to love. So be careful. Don’t let someone else get there first while you’re still tripping over your own feet.”

Harry met his eyes over the rim of his glass. 

“You don’t have to worry,” he steadily replied. “I'm going to marry him. I’ll love him enough that other people won’t have to.”

Theo’s eyebrows rose in amusement and slight admiration.

“All right, Potter, that's ambitious. I like it.”

“Patient,” Harry corrected, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away.

“You’ll need it.” Theo lifted his lemonade in a small toast.

---

Monday dawned bright and busy. Harry arrived at the Ministry atrium looking smart and feeling fresh after a decent night’s sleep, with a plan in his pocket. He rode the lift up with the noisy crowd and managed to say “Morning” in a way that sounded genuine when the doors opened on the Auror floor. People glanced up. A few surprised and cheerful hellos came back. He dropped his satchel by his desk and felt the knot under his chest relax a little.

“I’m back, mate!” Ron said,  arriving after him with a sunburn. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Harry said, casually. “The usual.”

Across the corridor, three Aurors immediately shook their heads at Ron. One of them, who was filing forms with unnecessary drama, mouthed not the usual. A junior Auror didn’t bother to hide her grin, while another shaped Malfoy with his mouth.

Ron sighed with the long-suffering air of a man who had seen this film before and disliked it.

“Right. The usual.”

Harry made a face he hoped was neutral and not a smile. 

“I’ve filed a new potion requisition,” he said, already reaching for the folder. “I’ll make the request ASAP!”

“Will you,” said Ron, dryly.

“Paperwork waits for no man. The sooner we do it, the sooner we’ll be efficient,” Harry replied, rather too briskly, and scooped up the forms. He nodded at no one in particular and hurried down the corridor, fooling exactly no one.

Behind him, Ron muttered something compassionate and resigned. Harry pushed the lift button, rolled his shoulders once and reminded himself of Theodore's words. The doors slid open with a chime and he stepped inside. The thin, ridiculous thread of hope tugging him.

He knocked twice and pushed the lab door open. The room was quiet; the others were clearly in the break room. Draco stood alone in front of a cauldron. He looked up, took in Harry and shot him a flat, warning look before returning to his mixture.

“Hello,” Harry said, keeping his voice steady. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about last week. I made a joke but I didn’t consider whether you were fine with that.. I startled you. I won’t do that again.”

Draco’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He wrote something in a little notebook, but the tension left his body. He put down his quill and looked Harry in the eye.

“As long as you don't do it again, it's fine.”

“What can I do to make amends?” Harry asked.

“You already have,” Draco said. “You apologised and you are standing at a reasonable distance.” His mouth twitched, almost smiling. “That will do.”

Harry nodded, feeling relieved. He was about to step back when he noticed it: a tiny dust ball, pale against the blonde hair, caught high at the crown of Draco’s head. It must have fallen from the top shelf.

“There’s a bit of dust in your hair,” he said, careful. 

“Oh, thank you.”

Draco started to run his hand through his hair blindly. The dust ball remained in the same place, clinging on.

“It's still there. I... I can take it off if you want.”

Draco blinked, taken aback by the proposition. His gaze moved over Harry’s face as if checking for tricks. After a moment, he sighed, sounding resigned but no longer angry.

“If it makes you happy,” he said wryly, “go ahead.”

Harry approached and lifted his hand slowly, letting Draco see the movement. He came close enough to smell Draco’s perfume, then stopped. He found the stray fleck and, slowly, slid it along the lock of hair, removing it without disturbing Draco’s hairstyle. The strands were as soft as he could have imagined, and the contact was brief and careful enough to be almost imperceptible — yet somehow it meant everything to Harry.

“Got it,” he said, showing the speck on his fingertip before dropping  it into the bin.

Draco watched him, sizing him up. 

“Thank you,” he said at last. His tone was neither warm nor cold. “Well, you know the procedure for the vials. Everything is already ready. Invigoration is on the left and Wit-Sharpening is on the right. Do not swap the caps.”

“We won’t”. 

“Oh, while you’re here,” Draco added, already turning back to his work. “Some of your Aurors asked me for a special potion for you last week. They said you looked exhausted.” He then pointed to a shelf next to Harry. “You can’t miss it; there’s a note for you on it.” 

Harry turned in the direction and saw a red potion with the words For our tired chief, stay focused! Good luck! written on it.

This made Harry laugh softly and smile. He knew exactly what they meant. His team was the best. After signing the slip and gathering the potions box, he paused at the door.

“Thank you… for letting me fix your hair properly.”

Draco didn’t move from his spot, but his voice held an uneasy tone.

“Just ask, Potter. It’s not complicated. It’ll always be a yes… generally"

Later in the afternoon, the first-floor break room buzzed as it sometimes did, just after three o'clock. Mugs clinking, spoons tapping, and conversation flowing easily. Everyone on this floor knew why some Aurors were here at this time of day, and nobody said anything about it.

This time, Harry came in with Ron and two other members of their team. He offered a general hello and made a beeline for the long table by the window. Draco had already taken the seat at the end of the table;  his team were standing nearby with their cups. He looked up when Harry sat beside him. A small nod, a smile.

Five minutes passed with easy chatter about the weather, news of Harry’s latest missions and Ron’s insistence that the redness of his neck wasn’t sunburn. Some laughed, while others tried to poke his neck for fun. Draco just looked at the scene with a grin on his face while Harry was literally looking at this grinning face.

While the rest of the group laughed heartily, Harry felt tiredness creep onto his shoulder. He reached into his satchel and took out a vial. It was the one that Draco had made for him, even though it was his team who had requested it. The glass was cool against his palm and was a flashy red colour. He unscrewed the cap and the faint, clean scent of citrus rose. 

He didn’t know how Draco and his team had achieved that, but their potions didn’t taste as bad as the ones he had taken many times at Hogwarts.

Draco’s head turned, surprise flickering across his face.

“You’ll take it now? Really?”

Harry shrugged. 

“Yes. I feel like I need it.”

“Did you rea…”

But Harry couldn’t hear the end of Draco’s sentence; blurred by Ron’s scream when someone slapped his neck. He tipped the vial back. The liquid slipped down in one neat line. 

“I read the note on it, don't worry.”

For a heartbeat nothing happened; then energy surged through him like a lit match. Bright, quick and almost joyful. His thoughts, which had been in neat order, scattered like birds. The cautious, useful voice went quiet.

The world seemed very simple.

He turned to Draco with a grin that he couldn’t have suppressed even if he’d wanted to. His gaze dipped unashamedly to Draco’s mouth. He licked his lips, tasting the citrus.

At the same time, Draco stood up, having been called by a colleague who wanted to ask him something. However, Harry followed his movement and was on his feet before he realised he meant to be. He caught Draco’s head and turned it back towards him in a firm, sure gesture.

Draco’s eyes flashed, startled.

Harry leaned in and kissed him.

For a moment, there was only the soft press of their mouths together and the clean scent of Draco’s skin in Harry’s mind. Then the room came crashing back: a cup fell to the floor and some people sucked in a breath.

Harry’s ears were ringing so loudly that he didn’t hear Ron shout.

“Harry?! What the fuck?!”

 

To be continued-

Notes:

Hello again !
What ? A cliffanger ? Really? No waaaaay O:)
I guess we'll have to wait the next chapter to see what'll be happen ! (I promise, no omg it was a dream, this REAL guys !)

I hope you enjoyed anyway ! Don't hesitate to share your thought <3
See you next chapter !
Love you all <3

Chapter 9: kiss & chaos

Summary:

Harry kissed Draco? What? Why?
Let's see what happened then...

Notes:

Hellooooo !!
I'm sorry ! I'm late ! BUT i promise it's a good chapter ! Worth it !
My beta-readers, you have my eternal gratitude ! And of course, thx a LOT for your comments and kudos, It always warms my heart.
I won't say much more and will let you enjoy it!
See you at the end !

Harry had a well-earned reputation for being straightforward. He was never afraid, generally cheerful, and sometimes thoughtful. But perhaps this time he would acquire a new one.  Because, when his senses returned and he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Draco’s face just five centimeters from his own, fear and shock written all over it. 

What had he just done?

Harry pulled away from the kiss so slowly that their lips lingered for a moment at the end. In the same motion he let go of Draco’s face, his hands dropping from where they’d been cupping his jaw, thumbs tucked just beneath his ears. Heat flooded his face, his ears rang, and sounds tumbled out of him that weren’t quite words.

Draco didn’t move. He stood very straight with wide eyes, as if he’d been hit with a Stunner. He was simply too stunned to speak. Or to breathe.

Harry needed to do or say something to pull him out of this. Now.

And just like that, his brain cheerfully suggested: Why not kiss someone else?

He pivoted on this thought and made a beeline for Ron.

“Mate, what are you—” Ron managed.

Harry grabbed his face as well, quickly and firmly kissing him on the mouth for no more than a second. Ron was left blinking like an owl in daylight.

Harry started laughing. It wasn't a normal laugh, but a high, breathless, uncontrollable one, like a man who’d just lost his last shred of sanity.

“Happy…” he inhaled “...is it National Kiss-Your-Colleague Day? Or is that just me?”

Euphenia had time to arch one highly expressive eyebrow before Harry leaned in and pecked her with a brisk little kiss that startled her too. When the others saw Harry looking in their directions, they all took a step back.

“Oh, for Merlin's sake, Potter!” someone spluttered. A cup rolled under a table. Draco still hadn’t spoken; the bright shock in his eyes had sharpened into something Harry had absolutely no capacity to process.

“Right!” Harry announced to the room, feeling both euphoric and mortified. “Administrative note! I am—ha!—going on holiday!”

He spun, bolted into the corridor and took the stairs two at a time, laughter chasing him up one landing and dissolving into a gasp by the next, until his eyes prickled from unwanted tears. By the time he reached the Atrium, he was sweat-bright, breathless, and suddenly, wildly certain that the only adult thing left to do was to leave the building in a hurry.

Grimmauld Place swallowed him whole like a safe den. He grabbed a sheet of parchment and scrawled without sitting down.

For Robards Gawin, Head of the Auror Department:

Taking immediate personal leave.

Backup: Ronald B. Weasley.

—H. J. Potter

He tied the note to his owl’s leg. The bird shot out as soon as the window opened and he watched it go, unable to wipe the psychotic grin off his face.

Then, as the rush subsided, he slid down the wall into the entrance hall, sat on the floor and pressed his palms over his burning face, muttering into his sleeves.

“What in Merlin’s name did I just do?”

---

One day after the incident

Harry stayed in bed.

Occasionally, he opened his eyes but immediately shut them again, forcing himself to sleep. But behind his eyelids the same humiliating moment was playing again and again: Draco’s mouth beneath his, cooler than he’d thought and impossibly soft; the clean smell of something green that had lived on Draco’s collar; the brief, shocking warmth of skin under Harry’s palm when he’d touched his face.

He groaned into his pillow. 

He tried to think about literally anything else and was only rewarded with a crisper replay. His face burned so often he lost count. Why was his mouth still tingling? How could he trace, to the millimetre, the shape of Draco’s lower lip? How did he remember the line where Draco shaved and the faint rasp against his own hand like it had been stamped there? 

He flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, thinking if he would receive a fine for public indecency. Why? Because he had kissed Draco on the lips. His mouth—oh, for Merlin’s sake—the mouth he’d kissed in a room full of witnesses and then thought about so hard the mattress might record his thoughts and sell them to the first paparazzi.

Then he had kissed Ron. Then he had kissed Euphenia. He had, in the space of nineteen seconds, turned the Ministry break room into the world’s worst team-building exercise. Excellent. Award-winning behaviour if he might say.

He pulled the sheet over his head and lasted twelve seconds before dragging it down again because the air tasted, unhelpfully, like Draco. He could still smell the cologne. His traitorous brain put it on everything: the pillow, the sheets, the summer-warm draft through the open window. He buried his face in his sheet; it didn’t help.

The owl on the sill hooted once, judgmentally. Harry waved a hand at it from under the sheet. 

“Yes, thank you, I am aware I'm crazy!”

Two days after the incident

Harry managed to get out of his bed and made it to the living room. He didn’t move from the couch this time.

This time, he tried to think about things in a practical way, like meditation, his current cases, his life choices, like an actual adult. But every time, new memories slid in sideways. Harry could remember what happened, as if he was watching from outside. He saw the way Draco had gone rigid, the small, shocked sound, the contained, furious look—and the grown-up feeling evaporated, replaced by a curl of shame so sharp he actually curled on his couch.

He could still see the colour high on Draco’s cheekbones. He could still feel the stiffness under his palm when he’d turned his head. Who does that? Who turns people’s heads like that? He exhaled through his teeth, mortified.

He lay there until the afternoon sun warmed his living room. The light was unhelpful, making everything feel too bright for his current state of mind. He sank, came back to his mind, only to sink again.

“Idiot,” Harry told himself into a cushion. “Absolute idiot.”

He thought about calling Ron and then remembered Ron had already suffered an unwanted kiss and did not deserve a cry for help. He thought about sending an apology to Draco and pictured parchment getting ripped under an icy, grey gaze. He thought about never leaving his house again and becoming a cryptid who haunted his own place, and that, for a full minute, seemed like a plan.

Three days after the incident

By the third day, shame had seeped into something worse: the heavy, drifting thought that he’d ruined it for good and didn’t know what would happen next.

At the end of the day, hungry and depressed, Harry made it as far as the kitchen and stood there with the cupboard open, staring at ingredients as if they might assemble themselves out of pity. Beans on toast seemed achievable. It wasn’t. He stared at the pan, lost the will to heat it, and ended up holding a slice of bread like it might offer advice.

Then, someone knocked on his door.

For a heartbeat he considered pretending he wasn’t home. 

“Harry?” He heard Hermione’s voice, warm through the wood. “We’ve brought you food.”

He yanked open the door. Hermione stood there with a foil-covered casserole clutched in her arms; Ron loomed behind her with a paper bag that smelled like chips and something mercifully fried.

Harry crashed, fast. He pulled them both in his arms and hung on with the kind of hug that didn’t bother being dignified. Tears came without permission. 

“I ruined it,” he said into Hermione’s shoulder, and then again, and again, like a refrain: “I ruined everything”.

Hermione tapped his back, steady. 

“Just breathe.”

Ron kicked the door shut with his heel and put the food on the kitchen’s table. 

“Let’s feed you before you start chewing the curtains.”

They prepared everything for him. Casserole in the oven, chips on plates, three bottles of Butterbeer uncapped with a flick. They put Harry in his armchair and sat next to him, keeping a hand on his shoulder as if he might otherwise disappear.

“Eat, then we’ll talk,” Hermione said, gentle but in a non-negotiable tone.

He did, mechanically at first, then with actual hunger. Spices and heat woke his mouth. He could feel his pulse start to climb down from wherever it had been battering itself.

“Mate, I'm so sorry I kissed you…” Finally said Harry to Ron. 

“You know what they say, if you’ve never kissed your best friend even once, he’s not your best friend." 

Harry managed to laugh after three days of moping.

“So, what happened after I left?” he asked, curiosity and fear in his eyes.

Ron and Hermione swapped a look. Ron was the first one to clear his throat and speak.

“Well. After you legged it, there was about ten seconds where nobody moved, or talked, or even breathed. We could hear the fridge charm working.”

Harry shut his eyes. 

“Okay, it’s legit. And after that?”

“Malfoy,” Ron went on, “was very… composed. He told everyone that everything was under control and that it’s just all your fault.” Harry started to open his mouth to react but Ron stopped him. “Then he told us — politely, and with murder-eyes — to get back to work. In fact, Harry, Malfoy explained to us that the potion he made for you and that you took wasn’t meant to be drunk in one sip…”

Harry’s eyes widened and his mouth made a perfect O.

“Oh… really?” He winced.

Hermione looked at Harry, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

“Did you really drink an unknown potion without reading the notice on it?”

“I… Malfoy said it was an energy potion my team had requested. I took it like the usual one.”

“Whatever, it’s done now. Since, well…” Ron added, “everyone’s been talking about that. All floors. The DMLE is calling it now ‘the Break-Room Incident’ like it’ll be going in a training manual and there was a floating memo called National Kiss-Your-Colleague Day in our break room; I set it on fire.”

Harry put his face in his hands.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m so screwed.”

“100% agree with you,” joked Ron.

“Is Draco—” Harry swallowed. “Is he all right?”

“As all right as Draco Malfoy ever is in public,” Ron said. “Even if he looked… rattled sometimes. But he didn’t make a scene. He never does. And nobody even tries to joke with him about that since he almost killed someone with only his eyes. Very terrifying, I was there and thought I'd die too. ”

Harry nodded, throat tight. 

“I keep replaying it. I can’t stop.”

“That’s because you’ve got a brain like a Niffler,” Ron said. “It hoards the worst shiny thing and jingles it until you’re mad.”

Hermione squeezed Harry’s shoulder. 

“You made a mistake under the influence of a potion. It doesn’t excuse it; it explains it. You’ll own it and you’ll do better. That’s the bit you can control. Now you have to apologise. But not today,” added Hermione. “Today you are going to eat, drink water, take a good shower and sleep like a reasonable human. You look wrecked.”

“It's not like you're not used to it these past few months,” smiled Ron.

Harry shot him a glare but let out a breath. 

“I think I broke it beyond repair.”

“You haven’t broken anything that can’t be mended,” Hermione said firmly. 

Ron nudged the chips toward him. 

“You just have to stop kissing people and never calling them back. It hurts our feelings, you know.”

A ragged laugh escaped him. It hurt and helped at the same time. 

“Yeah, I deserve that.”

“Yes,” they both said, perfectly together.

Harry ate another chip because obedience was easier than thinking. The kitchen felt warmer, the house kinder. He rested his forehead briefly against Hermione’s arm, then straightened.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse. “For coming. For… everything.”

“Always,” Hermione said.

“Obviously,” Ron added. “We brought pudding, too. And trifle. You can pretend it’s medicinal.”

Harry sniffed a laugh. The fear that everything was ruined didn’t vanish, but it loosened its grip. He could see, dimly, a way forward. He would apologize.

---

It was Saturday, the first week of July. Harry’d spent all Friday rehearsing his apologies and now, he was standing at the gates of Malfoy Manor, feeling extremely nervous.

It was a hot day, so Harry had gone for a simple outfit: a loose blue-and-white striped short-sleeve shirt worn open over a white T-shirt. He wore neat blue linen trousers with black trainers and clean white crew socks. A slim magic watch on his wrist and a small black pendant around his neck completed the outfit. His hair, as always, was doing its own thing. He looked—and he hoped—like someone who was there to put things right properly.

The heat pressed off the gravel. He wiped his palms on his trousers, rolled his shoulders, and tried to remember the opening sentence he’d practised. The peacocks on the distant lawn were as scandalised as ever. The wards hummed when he knocked on the door with the knocker.

A house-elf answered the door. His ears pricked up in surprise when he saw who was standing on the step.

“Good afternoon. May I speak with Malfoy please?”

“Please wait, sir.” He vanished with a soft pop and reappeared a few moments later, looking slightly breathless. “Sir will follow Milly. Please.”

Harry felt relieved—no rustle of robes or sound of a walking stick coming from the hall. Perhaps he’d been spared Lucius and Narcissa today.

Milly led him through the pale-panelled corridors that Harry half-remembered, with their thick carpets and portraits that watched with a discreetly disapproving look. They turned left, then right—the exact same route from last time, Harry realised uneasily—and they stopped in front of a heavy oak door.

Milly knocked for him and slipped away. When the door opened, it was Narcissa Malfoy who answered it. She took him in with a composed and assessing look, then inclined her head.

“Mr Potter. Good afternoon.” Her voice was perfectly civil but Harry could see her eyes flickering. “Do come in.”

She guided him to a low armchair set, facing a broad oak desk. Lucius sat behind it, immaculate as ever, one hand resting on a silver letter opener, grey eyes unreadable.

“Please, sit.” Narcissa said, and Harry did, suddenly acutely aware of his pulse and of how the room felt as if the door had shut gently behind him.

Lucius let the silence stretch until it felt like a test. Narcissa took place next to him, hands folded, gaze composed.

"Mr Potter, may I inquire as to what has occasioned the pleasure of your visit?" Lucius asked at last.

For a moment Harry thought—absurdly—that they didn’t know. But that was impossible. Still, the thought flashed through his mind. He kept his voice steady.

“I was hoping to say hello to Draco,” he said. “It’s a… good day for it.”

Lucius’s expression didn’t change; his eyes hardened. He brought his fist down on the desk once—controlled, but the silver letter opener jumped.

“Nice try, Mr Potter… but we obviously know why you're here. It was a rhetorical question! You broke my son!” he said, very clearly. “Now Draco is in—”

“Lucius,” Narcissa cut him, a warning in her voice. She laid her hand on his sleeve. Then she turned to Harry, who was standing perfectly still. “What happened at the Ministry? We are, of course, aware that there was… an incident. We want to hear your side of the story.”

Harry swallowed. Although he hadn't prepared to talk about it with Draco’s parents, he was now stuck with them. 

“I drank a potion that Draco brewed at the request of my team. An energy potion. I just drank it like any normal one. Things… escalated. Hermione told me later that I shouldn’t have taken it in one go.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful rather than condemning. 

“Describe it. Colour. Scent. Taste. What did you really drink?”

Harry didn’t really understand why this kind of information was necessary. He tried to recall as many details as possible.

“It was a bright red,” Harry said. “Glass felt cool. It smelled like an ordinary potion, clean with a pinch of citrus. The taste was nice but I really didn’t remember exactly, only the citrus took me by surprise. Draco said it was a special Invigoration Potion made just for me. I drank it.” He exhaled. “At first, nothing happened.. Then a surge—energy, quick and almost… cheerful. My thoughts emptied out. My inhibitions went with them.”

Narcissa glanced at her husband. 

“Lucius…”

His jaw flexed. 

“That little…” He said, voice low.

Lucius and Narcissa nodded at each other  and swept out of the office like a storm, leaving Harry alone and utterly confused. He understood nothing. After a few long seconds he pushed himself up from the armchair—but then froze at the faint call of Draco! from outside.

He moved over to the tall windows behind the desk.

Beyond the glass, the garden stretched out in neat rows of clipped yew and pale gravel, with a square of sunlit lawn. Draco was sitting on a stone bench beneath a tree, ankles crossed and a book loosely held in one hand.

Lucius and Narcissa came down the steps together, moving quickly and looking displeased. Lucius lengthened his stride; Narcissa matched him without seeming to hurry. Draco saw them and looked surprised, straightening up and lowering his book to his thigh. He didn’t get up straight away.

Lucius stopped a pace too close, his shoulders tense and his finger pointing towards Draco several times, who then stood up and placed his book in front of him like a shield. His mouth thinned.

Narcissa stepped between them and touched Lucius’s chest as if trying to calm him. Lucius drew a breath, let it out and adjusted a cuff that didn’t need adjusting. Draco, as he shook his head, said something.

Then their mouths moved at the same time, but the glass kept them silent for Harry. Draco moved his hands quickly and looked frustrated. Lucius responded by cutting the air with a flat, dismissive gesture of his palm. Narcissa’s gaze moved between them, cool and steady. Draco raked a hand through his hair, stopped halfway, and stood very still. Narcissa reached up and smoothed the disturbed strands back in place, then seemed to say something calmly. Draco’s eyes closed for the span of that touch.

He looked in pain.

Lucius angled aside, started again, moving more slowly now and looking calmer. He put one finger on his temple—think. Draco lifted his chin. He tapped his book with his index, then pushed it against Lucius’s chest, who didn’t take it. Instead, he pressed it back against Draco’s chest with the flat of his hand.

All three were now still. A warm wind blew through their hair. Narcissa briefly touched Draco's forearm while Lucius turned towards the steps with that contained grace that never wasted a motion. Narcissa followed him and, at the threshold, looked back. She then pointed towards the house, more precisely to the office where Harry was. 

Draco’s eyes opened wide and turned his head slowly, until his stare caught Harry’s. Panicked to be caught spying, he turned back and ran to sit back on the armchair. 

He was pretty sure he wasn’t meant to witness this interaction between them. 

After a short moment, the door opened again. Lucius returned looking furious; Narcissa followed, looking composed but slightly embarrassed.

“Mr Potter,” Lucius said, every word clipped. “You may go and see Draco and apologise properly—even though he hardly deserves this chance.”

Narcissa nodded slightly, indicating that Harry could leave. Harry, wrong-footed and grateful to be dismissed from this room, managed a shy thank you before he escaped the office.

The house was cool and echoing as he took the stairs and walked along the long corridor to the terrace. Heat hit him as he opened the garden doors. On the lawn, beneath the dim shade of the tree, Draco stood out like a bright figure in a dark painting.

He was summer-smart: an ivory shirt with an open at the collar, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms; tailored cocoa-brown trousers and polished chestnut derbies with a slim brown belt to match. A gold watch on a brown strap caught the sunlight. Dappled light fell on him like pale coins, and a warm breeze lifted a lock of blonde hair from his brow and let it fall again.

Harry stopped at the edge of the gravel, took in the quiet precision of him, and steadied himself to speak.

Draco noticed him and gave him a small nod of greeting before tapping the empty space at his side. Harry practically ran across the gravel and sat down with his hands laced tight between his knees. Draco looked at him—steady, unreadable. Harry tried to remember his rehearsed opening but every sentence died in his head because of these beautiful grey eyes in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, simply.

Draco rolled his eyes. 

“Aren’t you tired of apologising?”

“Ron said something like that too,” Harry muttered. “You’re both right.”

The dappled light shifted on Draco’s sleeve and when he spoke again, his voice had lost its edge.

“I was angry,” he said. “I can’t stand being made into a spectacle.”

“It’s all my fault, I drank the potion the wrong way like a complete idiot.” He grimaced. 

Draco’s mouth curled, a ghost of a smile tugging anyway.

“Yes, you did. I told you before if you read the note.” He breathed out. “But that doesn’t excuse what you did.”

“It doesn’t,” Harry said. “I’ll do better… I mean, not the kissing thing! I'll make sure I read the potion notes properly. All of them!” Harry went crimson, hiding his face behind his hand.

 “Good,” Draco said. He studied Harry’s hands, then his face buried in it. “For the record… You’re not a bad kisser.”

Harry made a noise that might have been a laugh strangled by panic. 

“That’s…doesn’t help me…”

“There’s a saying that if you’ve never kissed a friend, they’re not really your friend.”

Harry couldn’t refrain from laughing.

“Ron, is it you?”

Draco, as an answer, just frowned and waited for Harry to stop giggling.

“So…” Harry started, steadier. “Did you… already kiss your friends?” He tried, like it was a simple question.

“Why should I answer that?” The tone he used wasn’t on guard. Just like a little teasing. 

“Because… We are real friends now?” 

Draco let out a shy laugh. He placed both hands on the bench and tipped his head back to watch the branches above, swaying in the wind. Harry mirrored him, his hand resting just next to Draco's. He longed to move even one finger to brush against the hand next to his.

Feigning calmness, he edged a little closer. Draco shot to his feet so fast that Harry, startled, almost fell off the bench.

“You know what? I’ll tell you, but only on one condition.” 

“Oh, okay! I'm listening.”

“Let’s play Quidditch.”

Harry lifted his chin up and stared at Draco, taken aback. He would never have thought of this kind of arrangement in a million years. Harry was thrilled, overjoyed even. He was going to play Quidditch with Draco, just the two of them. The last time had been at Hogwarts years ago. And now here he was, at Malfoy Manor, being asked to play his favourite game with his favourite person.

“I’m in ! Let’s do it!”

Draco folded his arms, looking every inch the proud Slytherin.

“Don’t be so hasty, Potter. Let’s make it official—Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Like old times.”

Harry frowned, unsure what that implied.

“Er… sure, why not? Let’s call it a Hogwarts house match.”

Draco shook his head.

“You don’t understand. I’ve still got my old Quidditch robes. Do you?”

And then, Harry understood and that blew his mind. The prospect of seeing Draco in his old slytherin uniform made his heart go in his throat, beating like crazy. Could he survive?  All he knew was that he wanted it with all his soul.

“I… yes, but… I think it might be a bit tight now,” he managed.

Draco’s gaze skimmed him, thoughtful.

“A little help from the house-elves will do. It won’t be a perfect fit, but it will be enough for a couple of hours.” 

“I’ll go now then!” Harry said, already up, laughing.

He jogged to the front steps, disapparated with a crack, and landed in the hallway at Grimmauld Place. The old Quidditch trunk gave up its treasures : scarlet outfit with slightly faded gold lettering, padded guards a bit scuffed and gloves that still held the ghost of many matches and training sessions. He took down the Firebolt’s case from the cupboard, his thumb running over the familiar clasps. He hadn’t replaced it, and he never would.

“All right, old friend, let’s win a game… And a heart,” he muttered, and the polish-and-cedar scent that rose when he opened the lid felt like luck.

Ten minutes later he was back at the Manor gates, Firebolt over his shoulder, kit under his arm. He knocked. He knocked. A different elf answered, wide-eyed and bowing low.

“Tibbs will take you to the changing room, sir.”

Harry followed him along a side corridor into a bright room he hadn’t seen before; it looked like a changing room. Hooks lined one wall; a long mirror stood between two tall windows; a tailor’s dummy waited with a coil of measuring tape. Draco was already there with a green kit bag open at his feet. A neatly folded Slytherin uniform was lying crisply on a chair.

Harry held out the bundle and Draco took it. Something quick and bright crossed his face, gone almost at once, but Harry caught it, the pleased spark of recognition at a well-kept relic, a memory of a previous time.

“Tibbs, take Potter’s measurements please, and do the best you can.”

Tibbs clapped. The tape sprang to life, whipping round Harry’s chest, arms, and shoulders with efficiency. After that, there were a few deft pinches of fabric, a murmured charm to ease the seams and a tidy little 'tsk' at some ancient tears that mended themselves.

In the meantime, Harry leaned his Firebolt in the corner. Draco’s gaze slid to it, approving.

“You kept it,” he said, not quite a question.

“Of course I did.”

After a dozen minutes, Draco smoothed the uniform once, satisfied, and handed it back to Harry. 

“Try it on.”

Harry pulled it on behind a folding screen. It was snug, the kind of fit that remembered old muscles but accommodated new ones. The collar sat just right; the sleeves moved with him. He flexed his shoulders, the seams held.

“Well, how do I look?” Harry asked.

In his opinion, he looked incredible in a nostalgic way. He’d never thought he’d wear his old uniform again, and a burst of joy ran through him.

Draco's gaze swept up and down his body.

“Like my old quidditch rival,” he said, though the corner of his mouth gave him away. “We’ll use the East Lawn, the wind is better there. I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

Harry scooped up the rest of the kit, heart thudding at the thought of seeing Draco in Slytherin green again—on the far side of the lawn and under the same sky. Tibbs pressed a newly mended glove into his hand with solemn pride; Harry thanked him and followed him out into the bright afternoon, the Firebolt tapping lightly against his shoulder with every step.

Harry dropped onto the grass and buckled his shin and arm guards. The straps creaking faintly with the sound of an old friend from another life. He was tugging on his gloves when movement at the far path pulled his head up—and everything inside him went bright and wild.

Draco crossed the lawn wearing the full Slytherin Quidditch kit.

The deep, clean shade of green made the silver trim look almost white. The front lacing sat neat at the sternum and the cape was fitted through the torso before flaring out for flight. Leather forearm guards buckled snug over the sleeves; shin guards caught the sun in narrow gleams. His boots were polished and a dark wooden broom balanced easily in his hand. Hair already moving with the wind, posture effortless, he looked—unfairly—like the memory Harry had been carrying around had stepped out of his head. The heat on his face was obviously due to the afternoon sun.

Harry’s heart thudded hard enough to feel ridiculous. The smell of freshly cut grass brought back memories of old training sessions and gruelling drills. The Firebolt at his side hummed like it knew what was coming. He hadn’t thought he’d ever wear this shade of red again, let alone against green on a summer lawn, without a crowd, captains or team. Just the two of them and a strip of sky. He felt stupidly lucky. Giddy, even.

Memories crowded in. Rain-slick matches, jeers from the stands, the clean bite of air in his lungs. But this wasn’t school. Now, there was just Draco, all grown up and looking beautiful under the sunlight, in Slytherin colours that made his eyes look shiny and bright. Harry’s fingers tightened around his glove, his breath catching on a laugh that didn’t quite make it out. He couldn’t have said whether he was more thrilled or terrified. Probably both. He had no idea if he could survive this without embarrassing himself, but right now, he didn't particularly care.

He pulled the second glove on, stood up, and picked up the Firebolt. Draco crossed the last few metres of grass between them. They faced each other, their eyes alight with challenge.

“Your uniform's in better condition than mine,” Harry said, unable to look anywhere else.

“I look after my things. Do you mind if my parents have a little look?” 

Ordinarily, Harry would have minded. Now, though, nothing on Earth could make him say no. He’d probably say yes to anything Draco asked, with a huge smile.

“Fine by me. They’ll only see their precious boy lose again to a Gryffindor.” 

The old rivalry slipped back as easily as breathing. Harry missed it. Only now it was downright delightful because there was no longer any hate behind the jibes. Moreover, Harry saw Draco’s eyes were shining with anticipation.

“Always barking, but be honest, has that broom seen daylight since Hogwarts?”

“Humf, nothing here that I can't handle.”

“Oh, I seriously doubt that. I’m gonna eat you alive, Scarhead.”

Was it even possible for Harry to be aroused by Draco’s old insult? Yes, it was and now, heat flared through his whole body.

“Ok… are we fighting or flirting?” Harry mumbled for himself.

But before Draco could ask what he said, they could hear voices drifting from the manor.

“Gentlemen. Enough juvenile insults. This is unbecoming of men of twenty-five years old,” said Lucius, who looked far from pleased to have witnessed their exchange. Narcissa’s lips held the faintest hint of a smile.

“Killjoy...” Draco sighed and tipped his chin towards the sky. “Ready?”

The familiar match-day tension gathered between them, sharper and sweeter than ever.

They kicked off together with a clean lift that sent grass tumbling in their wake. The manor became smaller and Harry felt the wind get under his clothes and into his hair. The Firebolt purred, familiar and eager. For a moment, he simply flew, his hands relaxed and his grin wide.

Draco slid across his flight path, close enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of his pale hair.

“Scared to lose, Potter?” came the taunt, light as a tap.

“You wish,” Harry shot back, a laugh already bubbling up. “First to one?” 

“Aim higher,” Draco replied, scandalised by the idea of brevity.

“A true, greedy slytherin.”

Draco’s fingers flicked. The tiny golden ball leapt from his palm, wings blurred, and vanished into the bright sunlight.

They split up without hesitation—Harry climbing hard into the light, Draco banking low to the lawn. The old rhythm slotted in as if no years had passed. Harry with big, instinctive sweeps and Draco with his ruthless precision, carving the air into sectors. The Snitch appeared near a topiary peacock and zipped straight up. Harry followed, the Firebolt surging as the world narrowed to a clean, bright tunnel. He rolled into a dive so smooth that his body felt weightless.

Draco was already below, cutting across Harry’s line at the crucial moment, forcing him to choose between speed and angle. Harry chose both, because he was a skilled idiot and because the Firebolt still remembered how to do it. He cut through the gap that Draco had left for him, passing close enough to catch the clean scent of Draco’s cologne as the slipstream curled around them. They crossed again over the eastern hedges, each giving the other a look that said nice try without wasting breath.

Merlin, this was thrilling!

Harry still chased after it, flying in a straight line that made the Firebolt sing. Draco pivoted on the spot and matched him, the pair of them sped down the far side of the lawn, twin shadows skimming the grass. The Snitch doubled back at the last moment. Draco anticipated the manoeuvre and cut inside. Harry, caught out by his own speed, had to pull up so hard that his stomach dropped, then rose again with a whoop that he couldn't swallow.

“Rusty?” Draco called smugly.

“Just warming up,” Harry corrected breathlessly, grinning.

He threw the broom into a tight corkscrew, which gave him the angle he wanted. The Firebolt responded as though it had been waiting for the opportunity to show off. Down on the grass, a pale figure in a robe folded his arms — probably Lucius. Narcissa stood beside him, her white skirt fluttering in the breeze. It didn't matter. What mattered was the sky and the boy in green, carving out this moment like a treasure.

A moment later, they were chasing the Snitch into the orchard, where the air smelt of apples and sunshine. Branches blurred past, brushing their sleeves; leaves smacked Harry's cheek with sharp little kisses. Draco slipped through a narrow gap between two trunks with obscene neatness, while Harry took a more direct approach, bursting out with twigs in his hair. The Snitch shot into the open blue sky. Harry and Draco burst after it together, shooting upwards in a tight column. For a moment they were side by side, arms outstretched and hands open. Harry could see the pulse leaping in Draco’s throat and Draco could see the way Harry’s mouth quirked when he was about to do something foolish.

Harry feinted to the right—the Wronski Feint sparking down his spine as muscle memory—then dropped hard to the left. Draco didn’t bite. He let Harry go, held the decoy line for a yard, then slid into the sweet spot directly under the Snitch. It would have been infuriating if it wasn’t so beautiful, so impressive.

“Show-off!” Harry gasped, delighted, and doubled down. 

He gave the Firebolt his all and felt it respond with a clean, obedient shove that put him half a length ahead. The Snitch flirted with his fingers, wickedly close; he reached out and missed by a whisper. Behind him, he heard Draco laugh low and pleased.

They broke apart and circled, catching their breath and glancing at each other. Sweat prickled under Harry’s collar, while a strand of hair curled on Draco’s forehead, sticking to his temple in a way Harry absolutely did not have the mental capacity to think about.

He barely had time to continue when the Snitch glittered past the statue of a sleeping nymph. Again, they chased it together, brooms parallel and shoulders almost touching, as they climbed. Harry could feel Draco’s warmth beside him. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t need to. Their hands shot out in the same instant, two old colours chasing the same bright prize, enjoying the chase more than the win for once. Draco’s broom bumped his by a fraction—not hard, not rough, just old-fashioned Slytherin strategy—and Harry barked a laugh he hadn’t known he still had in him. The Snitch skittered across Draco’s fingers, then brushed Harry’s palm. It smacked his knuckles, his hand closed on nothing.

Both of them swore cheerfully. They overran each other, checked and wheeled, but the Snitch had already darted towards the far hedge.

“Tell me when you’re done being terrible,” Draco said, breathing short and eyes bright.

“After you lose,” Harry said, as happy as he’d been in months.

For a moment, they were just weightless at the top, surrounded by sky and with the world far below. Harry looked sideways then, just long enough to catch Draco’s expression. Both of them were flush, fierce and stupidly alive.

“Focus, Potter.” Draco said when he saw that Harry was looking at him.

“I am.”

Time flew and dusk had already fallen. The lawn turned to charcoal and the sky retained the last of the day's warmth. The score was tied at two all. Draco hovered a few feet above the ground, his hair tousled and his eyes shining.

“All right, one last round,” he said. “The winner takes it all.”

They were just about to push off again when Lucius’s voice cut across the lawn.

“No. It’s time to stop.” He stood on the terrace with Narcissa beside him. “It’s already late. Flying in a failing light is idiotic.”

They both opened their mouths to protest. Narcissa shook her head once; that was that. They both wore the same look as schoolboys told to put their brooms away.

“Fine,” muttered Draco, drifting down.

Harry’s boots hit the grass. A wicked idea struck him before he could think it through. He flicked his wrist.

“Accio Golden Snitch!”

A golden ball shot out of the darkness and smacked into his palm. He held it up, grinning.

“Looks like I won.”

“You absolutely did not,” said Draco, scandalised. “You can’t… Who summons the Snitch like that?”

They started bickering again, like first-years : “it’s initiative” “it’s cheating” “creative strategy” “Slytherin would stage a walkout”—until Lucius rolled his eyes heavenwards.

“Enough,” he said, dry as bone. “Potter wins. He cheated better. End of the day.”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed. He looked offended by the verdict, and then, inexplicably, amused. He slid a look at Harry that warmed the back of Harry’s neck. 

“Since you’ve been declared champion by gross injustice,” he said. “Would you care to stay for dinner?”

Lucius arched a disapproving eyebrow; Narcissa’s smile was small and polite. 

“Please, do stay,” she said.

Harry’s stomach flipped. 

“I’d like that.”

“Good,” Draco said, and the smile he let slip then was brief and lethal for Harry. “But before that, we should freshen up. Milly will show you the way.”

Milly appeared with a pop, bobbed, and whisked Harry through a side door and along a cool corridor to a guest bathroom the size of his kitchen. Steam was already curling from the shower, and white towels hung in precise folds.

“Clothes will be clean for sir when he is done,” Milly announced, proud. “Hot water is ready.”

Tonight’s dinner. With Draco. He grinned, stepped into the shower and let the day catch up with him at last.

---

Dinner was excellent, but altogether too quiet for Harry. He was used to Weasley family dinners, which were far noisier and more chaotic. They enjoyed a chilled cucumber and mint soup, roast sea bream with fennel and a lemon syllabub that was so light, Harry could have eaten five more. Narcissa and Draco maintained a polite conversation about deliveries, a gardener’s mishap with the lavender beds, or a promising new fashion designer. Lucius said very little but by the second course, Harry was sure he could feel the weight of his gaze on the side of his face.

He smiled when he was supposed to, thanked the house-elves, took tiny sips of his drink and wondered if married life with Draco would be like this: lovely food, perfect cutlery, and a father-in-law who glared at him until he had a hole in his body? He swallowed a laugh and nearly choked on a fennel frond, which earned him three simultaneous sidelong glances from the Malfoys.

Once the last of the plates had been cleared away and Lucius had murmured something to Narcissa that sounded suspiciously like too much for me, Draco stood up and glanced at Harry.

“Come on,” he said, in an easy tone. “Let's have a drink upstairs.”

Draco led Harry up a back staircase he hadn’t noticed before, past calm portraits. They walked through a long gallery, ending under a high stone arch. Beneath the balustrade, the garden stretched out before them. The lawns silvered by moonlight and the sound of a whispering fountain came from somewhere out of sight. The cool marble rail felt good against their hands, and the ivy clinging to the pillars smelled of a green scent after the heat of the day. The lawn and the yew hedges stood out against the starry sky. It was the most romantic place Harry had ever seen in his life.

There was already a small tray on the rail with two slender glasses, a cut-glass decanter containing something pink, cool and bright with a faint floral scent. Harry felt that he belonged there with this man, bathed in the light of the summer sky. 

The night suited him perfectly.

Harry turned half toward him. With his back to the railing, Draco leaned an elbow against it, a smile tugging at his mouth. The blue light caught the line of his jaw in a way that sent a ridiculous jolt through Harry’s chest. The spot felt perfect for a declaration of love: stars above, gorgeous garden below, and the kind of balcony straight out of every romantic story he’d ever laughed at but secretly desired. The words crowded his mind—too many, too big. He swallowed.

“I… Since your father declared me the winner of our bet, I think it’s time you honoured your promise” Harry said, because talking was safer than letting his racing heart speak for him.

Draco looked at him, the quiet glow of starlight was reflected in his eyes.

“Yes, he did,” Draco replied dryly. “Enjoy your miserable victory. It won’t happen again.”

Harry licked his lips and steadied himself.

“My question, then,” he said. “Have you ever… kissed your friends?”

Draco sighed and leaned fully against the balustrade, his head tilted towards the night sky and his eyes fixed on the stars, as if he were considering his response.

“You’re very curious,” he said at last. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because, depending on your answer, I might feel a tiny bit less awful about what happened,” Harry replied honestly. “And because I want to get to know you better. I’m nosy.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter.

“Fine. That’s a reasonable answer...” He picked up his glass and turned it by the stem, watching the pale wine catch the last of the light. “When I was younger, at Hogwarts for instance, it happened now and then.”

“With whom?” Harry asked, before he could stop himself.

Draco’s mouth twitched. 

“Er, almost everyone from my year, at one point or another. Pansy kisses for sport. Blaise kissed to make a point.” He pulled a face. “But not Vincent or Gregory. They were invariably… mid-snack. Absolutely not. I always said no.”

Harry choked on a laugh. The knot in his chest loosened, ridiculous and real. 

“Right. Sensible boundary.” But a name came to his mind, clear and unhelpful. “Is that all?”

“You want all the names ? Really? Like the Greengrass sisters or Millicent? Even Flint?”

“What about Theodore Nott? Isn’t he your friend?”

At that, Draco froze. Even though it was star-dark, Harry could see colour rise in his cheeks. Draco turned his glass by the stem once, twice.

“Yes, he's my friend now.”    

“Now? Why now?”

“What’s wrong with you? You asked about my friends, not my…” but Draco stopped mid-sentence, his jaw tightening, the unsaid word hung between them.

Harry felt the jealousy and the anger surged, but he forced himself to look normal until he thought his brain might short out.

“Not your what? Did you kiss Nott, but not as a friend?”

“Oh, so now we're talking about our past relationships, are we? What about you? As if you, a reckless Gryffindor, never do stupid things just for fun.”  

“I don’t kiss my friends, no!”

“Didn’t you kiss Ron?”

“That was a few days ago, and I’d been poisoned!”

They stood face to face, their voices low and sharp as they argued like old times, only this time the subject was new.

“Fine, what about Cho Chang or the Weasley girl? Don’t you dare tell me you never kissed Granger either.”

Harry stared at him, scandalised.

“What? I’ve never kissed Hermione! Why would you think that?”

Draco frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. 

“Everyone said it. You never heard of it? How?”

Harry couldn’t find his voice. Yes, he’d heard the whispers at school about some ridiculous love triangle involving Ron and Hermione and him but he’d always assumed that it was just some kind of joke that nobody actually believed.

“Anyway, you've got it all mixed up! I loved Cho and Ginny. So, do you love Nott?” 

Harry couldn’t hold the question back; it had been lodged in his head since he’d found out about them. Gryffindor courage, or stupidity, the result was the same. 

“Love? Like, in the present? How could I when I never loved him to begin with? Yes, we were just… involved in a casual relationship. Not like you and the Weasley girl, or any of the others the newspapers caught you with.” 

Harry was more lost than he had ever been before. What happened to this sweet and smooth moment, when he’d thought he might actually declare his love? Now, they… were arguing about past relationships? So, with nothing else to say, he could only manage a wince on his face. 

“What with that face?” Draco asked, frowning.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh my, Merlin, have I actually managed to shut up the biggest mouth in England for the first time?”

“Hey! It’s just that… I don’t like talking about all the fake relationships the Daily invented for me. It was ridiculous!” 

“Really?” Draco eyed him suspiciously. “How many were true, besides the Weasley girl?” 

“Why should I answer that?” Harry said, matching the tone Draco had used earlier.

“Touché.” The tension between them eased. They were still facing each other, but the annoyance had slightly gone. Draco smirked. “Let’s make a deal. You answer the question, and I’ll answer too.” 

Harry didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Fine. The only one they got right was just a fling, not a love story. With the Chudley Cannons’ captain... and please never tell Ron, I always tell him it was false.” 

“That’s it? The great Harry Potter has only ever had two ex-girlfriends?”

“You only asked me about the relationship I supposedly had, according to that ridiculous Daily Prophet. I'm very cautious about my relationships… of which there aren't many… In fact, besides the ones I’ve already mentioned, there are only two. What about you? You had quite a reputation at Hogwarts…“

Draco glared at him.

“None.” 

Harry went mute again, his mind had gone blank.

“Come again?”

“I said, no one. Are you deaf by any chance?”

“No, I heard you the first time, but… how? Have you looked at yourself?” 

“What does that even mean? Of course I look at myself every day. It’s just… I’m just very selective, that's all. Unlike you, I have excellent taste!” Draco said, putting a hand to his chest and looking absurdly pleased with himself. “And the Chudley Cannons’ captain looks like a troll… ” He added in a murmur. 

Harry had completely lost the thread of the conversation, but he wasn’t about to stop, Draco seemed unusually willing to talk tonight.

“What’s your type, then?”

Draco’s face turned redder, and Harry could have sworn he saw him glance at him quickly.

“White hair. Brown eyes. Short, old, fat and poor.”

Harry went still, then, a second later, burst out laughing.

“Wh—what?” He continued laughing and gasping, repeating What? over and over again. “Is that a joke?” he managed at last, his eyes watering from laughing so hard.

“Of course it was. Idiot.” said Draco, rolling his eyes.

“You won’t tell me, though”

“No, I won’t.” 

Draco seemed to pout now, then wandered back to the balustrade and rested his chin on his hand. Harry smiled at him.

“So, you’ve never kissed someone you loved?” 

“For Merlin's sake, Potter, are we still on this?” He paused for a moment “Not really.”

“That’s a little sad.” 

“Thank you for the reminder… you ray of sunshine.” 

Harry ran a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp, his mind scrabbling for something, anything, to say. There was no one around to interrupt, just them, a faint, fresh breeze and the scent of freshly cut grass wafting up from the lawn.

Maybe this was his best shot.

He took a deep breath and prepared himself.

“Draco, I might be able to help with that by telling you that I…” 

Draco turned to face him fully. In the starlight, his eyes were impossibly clear, bright enough to make Harry feel seen, steadied and undone all at once. The words climbed his throat… and stopped. His mouth went dry. The tiny, cowardly part of his brain flashed a picture of Draco stepping back, his carefully composed expression closing like a door. Or even worse, he might laugh at him and say that he would never love him. Everything crowded in, thickening the air.

But he tried again. 

“I…”

Nothing. Heat climbed under his collar. For the first time he could remember, the words he most wanted to say wouldn't come out.

He swallowed, let out a small, embarrassed laugh and looked away over the dark garden.

“I’ll… I’ll wish for you to find it,” he managed at last, defeated by his own weakness.

For a heartbeat something flashed across Draco’s face — a fleeting, sharp pain that caught the light and disappeared as quickly as it had come. He regained his neutral composure so fast that Harry couldn’t tell if he’d imagined it. Draco’s gaze slid back to the stars and his glass turned once between his fingers. Harry stood very still, feeling the unsaid words bite under his tongue.

“Thank you, I suppose… Alright, it’s getting late, Potter. We’ve had a long day, so I think you should head home now.”

“Oh yes… Maybe you’re right. I’ll go home… Thank you for this nice afternoon.”

And just like that, Draco nodded briefly at him with a faded smile, before walking down the gallery. The white of his shirt faded to grey, then to shadow.

---

On Monday morning, Harry turned into the first-floor corridor and spotted Draco and Euphenia walking towards him, side by side, heads bent over a piece of parchment. They were talking quietly as they walked. Draco tapped a line with his forefinger; Euphenia clicked her tongue, corrected it with her quill without breaking stride before handing the page back.

“Morning,” Harry said.

Draco nodded, polite, the briefest curve of his mouth. Euphenia clocked him, and let rip.

“Auror Potter!”

Harry winced. 

“I’m sorry I kissed you out of the blue! I was on my way to apologise, I swear!”

“Do you know what you’ve done to my week? My fiancé has made my life bloody miserable,” she said, hands on hips.

“I can apologise to your fiancé as well,” Harry offered earnestly. “He has every right to be angry with me.”

Euphenia blinked, then burst out laughing, making Harry and Draco exchange puzzled looks.

“Angry at you? He isn’t angry because you kissed me; he’s furious because I got a kiss from Harry Potter, and he didn’t. He’s been saying You’re so lucky, Euphenia every day since. I haven’t heard the end of it.”

 Harry’s mouth fell open.

“Oh.”

A small, bright sound escaped from Draco—an unguarded laugh that surprised them both. He looked away at once but the hint of a smile didn’t fade away.

She thrust a folded index card and a quill at Harry.

“If you're truly sorry, you'll give my fiancé an autograph. Make it out to Adelbert,” she spelled the name carefully. “And write something flattering.”

Harry took the quill, his cheeks warming, and obediently scrawled: 

To Adelbert, wish it had been you.
—H.J. Potter. 

Before he could stop himself, he added a tiny lightning-bolt doodle and handed it back. Euphenia inspected what Harry had written, nodded once in satisfaction.

“Appology accepted.”

Draco glanced at the note too and rolled his eyes, amused.

Harry risked a look at him. The smile was still there, but softer now, eyes bright with amusement, in a way that did dangerous things to Harry’s composure.

“I’ll, erm, get out of your way,” Harry said, stepping aside.

“Please do,” Draco said, perfectly civil.

Euphenia slid the autograph into her folder as though it were contraband.

“And for Merlin’s sake, Potter, read the labels!”

“Yes!” Harry swore.

He then left, carrying the echo of Draco’s laugh with him down the corridor.

Notes:

Welcome back !
I hope you enjoyed and see what you thought about it <3, really ! If some of you find some of my inspiration in this chapter... CAN WE BE FRIEND? <3
I apologise in advance if the next chapter won't be out next week. I'll do my best!
Have a great week-end !
Love you ^^