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He moved along the fourth-floor corridor and hummed the tune his aunt always put on the wireless in summer. The Easter holidays were nearly over, which suited him well. An empty Hogwarts never felt welcoming. He was the only Gryffindor left. The only other familiar face belonged to Luna Lovegood of Ravenclaw. The remaining seven were faces he scarcely knew by name.
He had grown weary of Luna’s blithe daily tally of Wrackspurts supposedly circling his head. She was marvellous company, although no one could keep pace with her all hours, not even Neville. Tonight she was safely absorbed in the latest issue of The Quibbler, and he slipped out of the Great Hall.
Everyone else he had spoken to that week was dead. Put like that, it sounded worse than it was. Only the castle’s ghosts kept him company. He got on with most of them, although Peeves took every chance to lob a scrap of doggerel his way. Harry was sure Nearly Headless Nick would have been offended on his behalf, but the Bloody Baron generally put Peeves in his place. The terror of Hogwarts’ ghosts proved a surprisingly civil conversationalist.
Fifth year was not the ordeal everyone made it out to be. The O.W.L.s loomed, although it was difficult to care just yet. Professors were fond of exaggeration and had been at it for five years. Hermione was the only one verging on tearing her hair out. He almost missed her 'lectures'. He and Ron had always been amused by her impulse to correct. It was not pedantry. It was how she looked after people.
He kept walking, nodding to portraits that followed him with their eyes. He had no destination in mind. He was studying his shoes and thinking of nothing of consequence when he walked into something warm and unyielding. A rather undignified sound escaped him and he looked up, eyes wide.
“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy, what are you doing here?” Harry said, stepping back at once. The closeness prickled along his skin. Grey eyes held his, cool and intent. Malfoy stepped in until the space between them was nothing at all. He leaned closer and Harry felt the warmth of his breath.
“I need a word, Potter.” His voice was unexpectedly soft at Harry’s ear.
“Not interested. I have no appetite for small talk with you,” Harry said. He aimed for disdain and almost hissed the last word as he jerked away. He knew he made a poor actor.
Malfoy did not answer. He shoved Harry to the wall and, to the audible gasps of several portraits, closed his mouth over Harry’s. Instinct told Harry to push him off. Malfoy’s body might as well have been stone. Harry gripped the front of his robes and shut his eyes. Pale hair fell over his face and he breathed in the clean, heady smell of it. He caught Malfoy’s lower lip between his teeth. He clamped his thighs round Malfoy’s leg and felt the answering press. The kiss was greedy and thorough until he feared he would forget to breathe. Time stalled. He did not care that the lips belonged to a Malfoy, or that his father had once tried to wrap him up as a present for Voldemort. Those soft and deliberate lips left him light-headed.
Malfoy drew back at last and ran his tongue slowly over his own mouth. Heat flashed under Harry’s skin. He pushed off the wall and tried not to look as undone as he felt.
“What was that?” he asked at last. Disbelief wrestled with very plain curiosity.
“I bet Zabini a hundred Galleons that I could kiss you, Potter,” Malfoy said, lazy as ever.
Harry stared, opening and closing his mouth like a fish on a slab.
By supper he still had not worked out whether to be furious or faintly delighted. He kept his eyes on his plate. He did not even know whether the Ice Prince had turned up in the Great Hall.
“Harry.”
“Yes, Luna?” He bit back a smile and covered it with his hand.
“There are more Wrackspurts in your head today than usual.”
“Are there? Is that very bad?”
“Three times as many,” Luna said, perfectly calm. “I would avoid important decisions.”
[Ten years later]
“Merlin, Harry, that was incredible,” Draco murmured against his ear. His voice was rough, uneven from release. He slid from Harry’s lap, thighs trembling as he settled astride the bed, but the aftershocks ran through him all the same. Harry drew him close again, catching the heat and weight of him, and felt him give, pliant and satisfied. The faint sheen of sweat clung to his collarbone where Draco’s breath tickled.
Morning sex had its own kind of magic. This one left Harry light-headed, laughter breaking low in his chest. He pressed his mouth to Draco’s temple, let the rhythm of their breathing even out together, and only then eased back. A minute later he could finally draw breath without the drag of it turning sharp in his throat. A lazy smile tugged at his mouth as he held Draco tighter for a moment.
“Draco, it is nearly nine. They are expecting me at the Auror Office.” His voice came out in a yawn; he stretched, long and shameless, muscles pulling taut before he let the bed take his weight again.
Draco watched him with the sharp kind of attention Harry always pretended not to notice. Pale hair had come loose and clung damply to his cheek. Harry licked his lips and brushed the strand back, fingers lingering where warm skin met the line of his jaw.
“Do you remember how it started?” Draco whispered. His tone was wicked now, not interested in answers, and he bent instead to Harry’s throat, mouth hot as it traced upward. He caught Harry’s earlobe between his teeth and tugged.
Harry swatted him smartly across the arse and gave a low laugh.
“I do. I never did thank Zabini.”