Work Text:
“Everyone, there’s been an error.”
Those words were the equivalent of hearing a chorus of angels singing.
Someone had fucked up. Someone that wasn’t Draco. And he was getting to hear about it.
Whipping his head around, Draco set his eyes on Granger. She was standing in the centre of the Eighth Years’ common room holding a sheet of parchment above her head.
“Who did it this time?” asked Pansy. She stretched out her hand to admire the emerald green nail polish that she had just applied. She lifted it in front of Draco’s face for him to see but he batted it away – there were far more interesting things happening.
Granger’s expression turned grave. “McGonagall.”
Draco smirked. Even better. The school had fucked up. Somewhere, Lucius was probably feeling a sudden rush of satisfaction of unknown origins.
“What’s she done, then?” Finnigan asked. “Scheduled us all for an additional class? Hired another incompetent DADA professor?”
“Crouch wasn’t too bad,” Patil piped up. “Aside from the whole ‘Polyjuiced as Moody’ bit.”
“Convicted murderer,” said Michael Corner.
“Yes,” reasoned Patil, “but a competent one.”
“No,” said Granger, clearly stifling a laugh. Her eyes flicked over to Draco, which was more than a little insulting – he wasn’t a convicted murderer (thanks, Professor Snape), and that wasn’t even the DADA teacher who had lived in his house, so she could at least get her jabs correct.
Granted, the one who had lived in the Manor for a time had been a secret head-attached addition to the teaching roster some years before, but Draco was counting the Dark Lord as one of his DADA Professors anyway. He couldn’t imagine Quirrell being smart enough to write some of the lesson plans he’d delivered, so. Dark Lord it was.
“Actually,” Granger continued, “it’s about our Houses.”
Weasley, ever the drama queen, gasped loudly. “Not the Houses?”
Granger closed her eyes for a moment; Draco wondered if she’d tell him off if he took the opportunity to hex Weasley and lie about it being for her benefit. “Thank you, Ronald. And we’re to be Resorted.”
“No,” said Pansy, applying another coat of green to her fingernails. “I’m not doing it. Throw me off the Astronomy Tower if I ever willingly wear yellow.”
“No danger of that, I reckon,” Finnigan muttered. He grinned sheepishly at her when she set down her bottle of nail polish and raised an eyebrow at him.
“It’s true.” Goldstein held up a beaded pouch and shook it. The motion made his shiny gold Head Boy badge gleam – yet another thing that irked Draco. Surely being a Death Eater shouldn’t disqualify him from being granted the position of authority that had been earmarked for him since he was a First Year? Injustices and prejudices certainly had made their way to the hallways of Hogwarts.
“She’s agreed to let us conduct the Resorting in private,” Granger said, taking the bag from Goldstein. “So, small mercies, for some of us.”
“I’m not going into Hufflepuff,” Pansy said, deadpan. “You can drag me down those stairs, I won’t be walking.”
Silently, Draco agreed with her. He placed his hand on her knee to show support, though it went a little too high and ended up nearly in her lap, which was a bit awkward.
“Now, we realise that some of you might have concerns,” Granger continued, “so we’ve negotiated on behalf of our Year—”
“And we’re having a piss up,” finished Goldstein. “A school sanctioned piss up.”
Finnigan stood abruptly, nearly unseating the chessboard in front of him. “I’ve a keg of goblin wine under my bed – give me five minutes.”
“You’ve got what?” Potter shouted, his mouth hanging open.
“Yeah, since when?” crowed Weasley. “We could’ve been getting on the piss all year.”
“I’ve been keeping it,” said Finnigan, “for a special occasion.” Then he turned and winked at Draco.
“Um,” said Draco, shifting closer to Pansy.
“Oh,” Pansy said, far too brightly, “Are you hankering for a boyfriend, Finnigan? If you are, Draco is certainly available.”
“Shut up,” he hissed, “or I’ll make sure that you get Sorted into Hufflepuff.”
The chatter picked up as Finnigan and Thomas disappeared in search of the wine. Potter and Weasley trailed after them like lost Crups, so Merlin only knew how much of the wine would actually make it back to the common room.
“How’s this working, then?” Hannah Abbott looked far too excited – it made Draco feel slightly nervous.
“How it always happens,” said Granger. “Sorting Hat.” She shoved her arm into the beaded pouch and yanked the cantankerous bit of fabric from its depths. The Hat looked downright pissed off, which was rather amusing. It frowned deeply, its ancient mouth creasing. She set it on the table in the centre of the room, stepping back to let Goldstein cast a series of Protection Charms its way.
Ducking his head low, Draco hissed, “We’re not going along with this, are we?”
Pansy shrugged. “Is this colour too dark, or should I go another coat?”
“Why aren’t you concerned? You’d look terrible in yellow, everyone knows that.”
“Not as badly as you, you twat.”
“I’m not worried,” Draco said. “That Hat’ll be able to sense the ancestral Dark magic and I’ll be sent right back to our beloved House.”
She raised an eyebrow, the side of her mouth lifting. “And if it doesn’t?”
“It will.”
“And if not?”
“Then I’ll … complain.”
“Yes,” she said, “but you’d be doing that anyway. We should go along with it – I can’t afford to rock the boat, and I know that you can’t either.”
She was entirely correct – Draco had been on thin ice with the school board at the beginning of the year. Many of them hadn’t wanted him back, so McGonagall had thrown her weight around and vouched for him herself. He would’ve been thankful if it hadn’t meant having to attend another year of school rather than summering on the Med, but needs must. Thinking of his future and all that naff shite.
“Fine.” Draco crossed his arms behind his head, eyes locked on the Sorting Hat. “I don’t know why you’re worried – if it comes to a change, I’ll Sort Ravenclaw.”
She snorted. “Do a riddle.”
“A what?”
“A riddle.”
Blinking, Draco said, “I think you’ll find that the last known one died downstairs last May.”
“You’re an idiot,” Pansy said, “and that’s why you’ll not Sort Ravenclaw.”
“I resent that. But I’m also not in any way fair, which comes with the butter-shaded territory.”
“What you are,” she said, “is self-aware at the most inopportune of times. Oh, lovely – the drunkards are back.”
The door that led to the Gryffindor common room was being held open by Thomas; he was shaking his head as he watched Potter and Finnigan attempt to fit the keg through the skinny frame. Weasley, making fully clear his typical level of usefulness, was crouched down behind Finnigan, giving terrible instructions about which way to turn the keg in order to make it fit. He had not yet become aware of the fact that the item he was intending to move was round, while its hurdle was square. It was a logic problem for toddlers, though very on par with the ability level of the average Gryffindor male.
“Just leave it in the hallway,” Longbottom said. “We’ll have to take it back up later anyway.”
The thing about piss ups was, everyone ended up being very nice to each other.
To Draco, in particular.
There were claps on the shoulder, jokes at the expense of others, and more refills than he could keep track of. Thank Merlin Finnigan had clearly mixed water into the wine to stretch it out or he would have been in danger of doing something very embarrassing, like telling Susan Bones that she was actually quite alright.
“What’s the point of the wine?” Smith asked. He was staring into his cup as though the contents had personally offended him. They probably had – his mother was in a travelling sommelier club with Draco’s parents, and he’d probably had the good sense to listen to a thing or two she’d said about small-batch quality versus mass produced swill.
“Lowering of inhibitions.” Weasley wrapped an arm around Smith’s neck and grinned. “Who knows what everyone’s like without the masks?”
“You won’t find any masks here,” Smith said. “Masks are for dullards who don’t know how to leverage their best qualities. Take Malfoy and I, for example. Genuine specimens of generations of premier Pureblood breeding. Excellence speaks for itself.”
“Er,” said Weasley. “Right. Reckon I’m more Pureblooded than you, so. Didn’t your great-gran marry a Muggle?”
Smith’s face turned bright red.
Draco stifled a laugh in his cup. He tried to keep the surprise off his face when Weasley turned to wiggle his eyebrows at him. He stopped short of nudging Draco with his elbow, but he was clearly inviting him into the joke. Which was very odd and very much outside of Draco’s wheelhouse, particularly when he was a cup and a half deep. Merlin only knew what Weasley would try next.
He had to think of something to distract Weasley before he did something ghastly like touch Draco. A question about the school holidays, perhaps? What did one do during sticky Devon summers when they lived in hovel? Wrestle pigs in the mud? Graffiti the local bus stop? Perhaps egg a passing motorist?
Before Draco could come up with something witty to respond with, Granger stood up and began grandstanding, as she was wont to do.
“Seems we might be ready to start. To quote Luna: getting to the very essence of your soul is what the Sorting should be about,” Granger said. He tone wasn’t unkind, despite making a public reference to Loony Lovegood, who tended to nudge even the most placid of people toward intense scorn. “Perhaps some of us are hiding our true nature for the sake of our egos.”
Draco snorted. He shook his head, smirking when Pansy rolled her eyes.
“We were thinking that alphabetical order would work best.” Goldstein waved his wand at the hat, his magic shimmering as it landed upon the fabric. “Keeps things both fair and interesting.”
It decidedly did not make things interesting.
In fact, when it came to the first handful of people, there was absolutely nothing noteworthy about the Resorting at all. Now, if Hannah Abbott had suddenly ended up in Slytherin, that might have made the whole affair worth Draco’s while, if only just to see Potter and Weasley have to begrudgingly admit that snakes weren’t all bad.
The first switch-up came with Millicent. She sat down on the stool, kicking her legs about and looking absolutely rat-arsed. Her serene expression froze and then melted away when the hat loudly crowed ‘Hufflepuff’.
“No,” she muttered, her eyes widening. “Sweet Merlin, no.”
Her pleas to the universe were cut off by the cheers of Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, who rushed over and swept her into a hug. They congratulated her on her change of House and immediately started nattering on about braiding each other’s hair, or some other bollocks. It was quite possibly the most Hufflepuff display in existence.
“Well,” Pansy said, leaning in close, “I never really liked her anyway. Did you?”
Draco couldn't say that he did, but it would feel a bit crass to say, given that Millicent’s life had essentially just ended. His mother had always said never to speak ill of the dead.
There were other minor changes - Sue Li to Hufflepuff, Ernie MacMillan to Ravenclaw, Megan Jones to Gryffindor - all of which had Draco stifling a yawn. He was far more invested in the members of his House - it had not escaped his notice that nobody seemed to be being Sorted into Slytherin, but rather out of it. No doubt it was a ploy by the school, the first step to eliminating one of the founding Houses entirely. Salazar Slytherin would be rolling in his grave.
As such, there wasn’t much to hold Draco’s attention; aside from he, Pansy, and Millicent, only Greg had returned for their replacement year of schooling. Which wouldn’t have been necessary if Hogwarts’s governors hadn’t completely bungled the 97-98 school year, thus forcing them all back to this travesty of an institution if they ever wanted to attain their N.E.W.T.s. But Draco had complained about that more than enough at this point.
Greg was sadly absent from the current proceedings, having taken up a job at a pub in Hogsmeade every second night of the week. He’d also need to be Resorted, of course, but Draco wondered if he or Pansy would be able to request a House on Greg’s behalf, rather than leaving him to flounder in front of everyone in their year. Granger and Goldstein were both painfully compassionate at the best of times, so a few white lies about Greg’s fragile mental state should work well enough. A public shaming into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff might actually send him over the edge.
A sharp elbow dug into Draco’s side.
“Draco,” Pansy hissed, elbowing him again.
Draco blinked, thoughts of faux-sad-Greg evaporating. “What? Stop elbowing me.” He poked her leg, pursing his lips when she let out a huff.
“Malfoy,” Goldstein said, sounding rather amused. “Your turn.”
Ah. Right. He’d forgotten that he did actually need to participate in this farce as well.
Standing up - unceremoniously shoving Pansy’s legs off of his own - he made his way to the front of the room.
Granger and Goldstein stood on either side of the wizened old hat like sentinels guarding their charge. There was a thin veneer of seriousness on Granger’s face, though more than a little amusement there too. Goldstein, on the other hand, looked as though someone had just whispered in his ear the funniest joke of his life and he was struggling to contain his reaction. Perhaps someone had, though Draco’s idea of hilarity was probably very different from that of someone who embodied Rowena Ravenclaw’s ideal man.
The top of the stool was far more comfortable than the one that the school used for the actual Sorting ceremonies. This one had a cushion sat atop it - red velvet, which wasn’t the best omen, but he’d take that over a sore arse.
Alright, Hat, Draco thought to himself. We both know that I belong in Slytherin, and you’ll risk your credibility if you send me anywhere else. But if McGonagall is forcing your hand in some way, I’ll strike a bargain with you for Ravenclaw. How does being removed from your glass case and taken for a walk around the grounds once a week sound?
“Interesting, very interesting,” said the Hat. It didn’t acknowledge Draco properly at all, which was a bit rude. McGonagall - or maybe even Potter, knowing his nosey arse - had definitely had words with it. “Such a devious mind, yes. Driven, too. Fair when it suits, brave when faced with the threat of death. Looking for a challenge that will expel effort but that can be bested through careful manipulation … but where to put you?”
“I swear to fuck,” Draco muttered, loud enough for the closest of his peers to hear; Goldstein, at least, seemed to appreciate it, given the great hacking laugh he let out.
“Well, Mr Malfoy, this has indeed been a very interesting dilemma,” said the Hat. “After much careful consideration, I have selected something which will truly meet your needs, offering you both comfort and a chance to stretch your boundaries. This is a challenge that you desire and, with time, will overcome. Gryffindor.”
Draco blinked.
The group erupted into cheers.
Draco blinked again. His head got rather cold when Granger lifted the useless bit of fabric from atop it.
“Yes, Malfoy,” Finnigan crowed, pumping his fist in the air like a hooligan at a Cannons match. “Go on, lad.”
Over on the couch, Pansy’s face seemed to be hovering between horrified and fiendishly delighted, the utter cow. When he made to walk back over to her, she shook her head and pointed at where Thomas and Finnigan had formed a sort of sideways conga line. “Those are your boys, darling. You might as well join them.”
“Over my dead body,” Draco hissed. Then he went, dragging his feet all the while. He sank onto the seat next to Longbottom, feeling rather hopeless indeed.
Finnigan lifted his fist, presenting it to Draco. He jiggled it when Draco just stared at him.
“You’re supposed to…” Longbottom pressed his fist against Finnigan’s with a minor bit of force.
A few cheers went up when Draco bumped his loosely closed fist against Finnigan’s tightly closed one. Whatever bizarre Gryffindor ritual this was, he had no concept of it.
Pansy’s Resorting drew Draco’s focus from his plans to vacate the school with haste. She sat primly on the stool, knees pressed together, hands clasped on her thighs. Barely three seconds passed before the hat loudly crowed ‘Ravenclaw’, which was nearly as big of a joke as Draco’s new House. After all, Pansy hadn’t even known that goblins were real until fourth year. How was she going to answer the riddles required to enter her new dorm? Though it would serve her right to be stuck out in the hall in the cold, given her reaction to Draco’s Resorting.
The last few students to meet with the repugnant hat didn’t register in Draco’s brain. The party ended soon after, with the Resorted students excited to see their new dorms. Draco was now out of options; McGonagall wouldn’t see him at this late of an hour, and she was likely to scold him for not going along with her hairbrained scheme anyway. The school council couldn’t be reached until Monday, wouldn’t sit for a formal meeting until later in the term, and were even more likely than McGonagall to tell him to shove it, given their apprehension to him being allowed to attain his N.E.W.T.s in person. He was left with nothing in his arsenal but to resort to tried and true methods of persuasion.
Sinking lower into the couch, Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “I won’t be going. You can’t make me.”
Weasley’s head appeared over his shoulder, his annoyingly blue eyes alight with mirth. “We can Levitate you, but it’ll probably start up some gossip. Your choice though.”
Frown deepening, Draco muttered, “You’d love that wouldn’t you, Weasley. Starting gossip about me.”
“Well,” Weasley said, awfully chipper, “it’d be a nostalgic return to when you were up to no good, skulking about the hallways and poisoning people. If I were you, I’d want to make the best out of a bad situation and use this opportunity to my advantage.”
“Well, well.” Draco looked Weasley up and down, his brows rising. “I didn’t have you pegged as a secret Slytherin, Weasley. Surprised you weren’t Resorted.”
“Not me, never would have happened. Harry though–” He jerked his thumb behind himself, where Potter was apparently lurking “–he nearly Sorted Slytherin when we were Firsties. Thought we might lose him tonight.”
“Sorry,” Draco said, the word coming out slow as molasses, “Potter what?”
“That’s the first Gryffindor trade secret you’ll get tonight.”
“But,” said Finnigan, grinning from ear to ear, “it won’t be the last. We’ll give you the proper rundown now that you’re one of us.”
Whatever the opposite of it’s music to my ears was, was what Draco was feeling. Nails on a chalkboard, perhaps. The sound of a brand new broom snapping in half. Moaning Myrtle’s undead wail.
One of us.
Good Merlin. He’d stumbled into a nightmare.
Feeling dazed, Draco got to his feet and followed the Gryffindors toward the door that led to their dorms. It was still blocked by the keg, though it was easily moved given that it was now more than half empty. Weasley and Potter shouldered the load, carrying it suspended between them as they shuffled down the hallway. Draco did his best not to look at their biceps in the meantime, but who was he to deny himself? He’d been granted the ultimate punishment – Gryffindorhood – so he might as well take the wins when they came, no matter how small or untoned or not nearly tattooed enough they were.
He watched as Pansy walked through the door marked with the Ravenclaw crest, chatting excitedly with Padma Patil. On the far edge of the room, the Slytherin one stayed firmly shut.
“Hang on just a moment.” Draco paused in the doorway, frowning at the Slytherin door. “All of my belongings are in my … the dungeons. I’ll need to go get them.” And give escape via the Black Lake my best shot.
The Gryffindors froze, staring at him. Finnigan and Thomas exchanged a loaded look.
“No can do, Malfoy,” said Weasley, suspiciously slowly.
“And whyever not?”
“Because…”
“Because the door won’t let you,” Potter piped up. “You’re not a Slytherin anymore, so you’ll be rejected. I don’t know what happens in Slytherin, but when someone who isn’t a Gryffindor tries to get into the common room, the Fat Lady screams bloody murder.”
On the wall atop the entrance to the Slytherin common room was a large stone snake with a forked tongue that darted in and out. If that was the House guardian, Draco didn’t particularly want to get on its bad side – not after the traumatising Basilisk shenanigans of yore.
Swallowing, Draco stepped further into the hallway. “Right. I suppose that I have no choice then.” A little more time to think would do him well – he’d come up with a better plan after sleeping on it, even if he had to do it surrounded by red. “How far is it to the Tower?”
“Two flights of stairs,” Thomas said, his smile wan.
“My arms are getting tired,” Weasley groaned. “Malfoy, come help.”
“Uh,” Draco said, “no.” Then, abruptly his arms were full of keg; Weasley had dropped it into them without waiting for a proper response. Draco had half the mind to let it fall and splinter on the ground, but he quite liked the thought of sneaking a bit of Finnigan’s shite wine when he wasn’t looking, and he had to think of himself and his needs in all this.
“Ron,” Potter hissed. He shifted the weight in his arms, muscles straining. “Bloody hell, warn me next time.”
Smirking, Draco raised his arms, tilting the keg down towards Potter. “Is it too heavy for you, Scarhead? Need a stronger man to shoulder the load?”
Potter’s eyes narrowed. “Can we still veto his Resorting?”
“Yes,” said Draco.
“No,” said everyone else.
*
“So…” Finnigan leaned in close and steepled his fingers under his chin. “You’ve found yourself in a den of lions, have you?” A pillow hit the side of his big head, sending him careening onto the bed behind him.
“Seamus, you idiot,” Thomas groaned. “Do it properly or we’ll lock you out. Look at him – he’s terrified.”
Draco crossed his arms over his chest and threw a steely glare Thomas’ way. He was perched on the end of the bed that was apparently his own, though hovering was probably a more apt description for how his body was positioned.
“I can’t be in here,” Draco said. “I’m allergic to red.”
“You’re allergic to fun is what you are,” Weasley retorted.
“I have fun,” Draco shot back. “I have so much fun. I can see on your face that you’re jealous of all the fun you know that I’m having.”
Longbottom pressed a wooden flagon into Draco’s hand. It was filled with wine that very quickly lined Draco’s throat.
“We’ll see about that,” Finnigan said; it sounded like far less of a threat than it probably should have. “We do have to initiate you properly though, so you can’t go running off just yet.”
“Alright,” said Draco. “What does that entail, exactly? Knock on the door of the neighbouring dorm and run off? Prank-Floo a Professor? Say ‘Hasty Hufflepuffs Hate Horntails Haunting Hammersmith’ three times very fast?”
“Fuck,” muttered Longbottom, “he’s got you there.”
Smirking, Draco continued, “Which is it? I’ll best your shite rituals with my eyes closed. Ironically, of course. I wouldn’t be caught dead actually contributing to this cursed House.”
Weasley leaned against Finnigan’s shoulder; he too steepled his fingers under his chin in what Draco assumed was an attempt to look menacing. Unluckily for him, Draco could never be intimidated by someone who lived in an attic. “I’d keep my gob shut if I were you, Draco – we’re going easier on you than the Seventh Years were to us.”
Draco gave an unceremonious splutter at the sound of his first name leaving Weasley’s lips without even a hint of sarcasm. “Well bully for you.”
“Your first task is this.” And then Weasley yanked down the side of his trousers.
Off to the side, Longbottom screeched a protest.
Draco – so friendly with Dorothy that he really should have been awarded his own pair of red slippers by now – maintained consistent eye contact.
That was, until he realised what was noteworthy about Weasley’s exposed pants.
“Why,” Draco asked, “do you have Potter’s face on your underwear?”
“Fuck off, he doesn’t,” Potter shouted. He scrambled closer to Weasley, crouching down to better inspect the area. “Jesus Christ, Ron.” His spluttering increased in both volume and intensity when Finnigan unbuttoned his own denims to show off his matching briefs. “Why are you taking the piss out of me? I thought we were–”
“Harry here–” Weasley slung an arm round Potter’s shoulders and pulled him in close “–is the unofficial Gryffindor mascot. We’ve got loads of themed merch.”
“No,” said Potter, struggling against Weasley’s hold.
“Quills,” said Finnigan, holding a fistful in Draco’s direction, all of which had lightning bolt nibs.
“Blankets,” said Weasley, pointing at the absolute monstrosity of a Potter-likeness that had been stuck to the ceiling above Draco’s bed.
“Sweets,” said Thomas, tossing a bag of Peppermint Potters into Draco’s lap – they were rather tangy, Draco had heard through the grapevine. He’d certainly not lowered himself to personally sampling them. Not while sober, anyway.
“And,” said Finnigan, slapping an open palm against the front of Weasley’s trousers, “pants.”
“I know more spells than just Expelliarmus,” Potter muttered. “I’ve cast Crucio, you know. A few times.”
“Cast it on me,” said Draco, still staring at the mini-Potters as they zipped around the vicinity of Weasley’s serf-ly cock. “I don’t think I’d even feel it right now.”
“Oh, come on – who wouldn’t take the chance to get into Harry’s pants?” Finnigan joked. “I would.”
“Yes, I rather gathered that, given the filthy wink you shot me earlier.”
“You liked it?” Finnigan winked again, though it rather looked like he was trying to force out a tear. “Perhaps I should–”
“The pants,” said Weasley. He produced a – hopefully unworn – pair from behind his back and tossed them Draco’s way. “You’ll have to wear them.”
Draco raised his eyebrows. “I think not.”
The pants were quickly joined by two more pairs - both red, though one had a roaring lion on the front, and the other had ‘Gryff-dogs rule’ printed across the arse.
“You will,” said Weasley, “or face the consequences.”
Sighing, Draco shoved the pants off his lap and onto the floor. “How much? Name your price.”
“Oh, shut up, Malfoy, you posh twat.” Potter had managed to extricate himself from Weasley’s hold; he stood, arms crossed, beside the two men who each wore his face over their cocks. “Are you scared?”
“No,” Draco replied, “I just have class.”
Weasley shrugged. “Suit yourself. Punishment won’t be good though.”
“And that will be…?”
“No alcohol. No sweets. And we’ll let Neville’s Mandrake alarm wake you up in the morning.”
Thomas shook his head. “That’s foul.”
Tilting his head to the side, Potter asked, “What is it that you do with traitors in Slytherin?”
“Well,” Draco said, sniffing primly, “that sounds as though you’re accusing me and my House of discriminatory behaviour, of which we were cleared. Multiple times. The most recent of which was–”
“You don’t do any events for the Firsties, do you?” Weasley shook his head, looking rather forlorn. “You poor bastards – you’ve got no culture.”
“We’ve culture,” Draco replied, sitting up ramrod straight. “We have dinner parties every second weekend in first term.”
“Oh, dinner parties,” Finnigan and Potter crooned at the same time – in falsetto, no less.
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “As if you lot could do any better. I bet you don’t even know what caviar is.”
Still looking oddly sad, Weasley regarded Draco. “If you don’t pass the initiation, you’ll be on bathroom cleaning duty.”
Rolling his eyes, Draco replied, “The house elves clean the bathrooms. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Maybe in Slytherin they do,” said Weasley. “Your parents must have all chipped in to pay for it. Not all of us here can do that.”
A clear declaration of peasantry was unexpected, though not unwelcome. It was – looking at the shocking state of the bedcovers, with not a single bit of silk to be found – the elephant in the room. As theoretically empathetic as he was about the plight of the working class, Draco was still not about to pick up a cloth and wipe a basin. He would – quite legitimately – rather pass away.
Holding his arms out to the sides, Draco announced, “I’ll pay for it. My gift to all of you.”
“It’s expensive,” said Weasley.
“I can afford it,” said Draco.
“Er, the fee to come to the Highlands is extra. So whatever you’re thinking, double it.”
Doubling it would come close to touching Draco’s monthly allowance, which simply would not do – he’d need a new broom and a weekly subscription box of Belgian chocolates if he was going to get through this new farcical development.
“There’s an obvious solution here.” Draco pointed at Potter, who looked properly affronted at being singled out. “I’ll pay half, and Potter can cover the rest.”
“Uh, no,” said Potter.
“Oh, do shut up.” Draco rolled his eyes. “We all know you’re good for it – you’re on Witch Weekly’s ‘World’s W-Richest Wizards’ list for fuck’s sake. The least you can do is part with some of your completely unearned coin.”
Potter replied, deadpan, “I literally died,” so Draco said, “If you don’t say yes, you might die again.”
Thomas held up his hands and stepped between them, doing his best impression of an overzealous ref at a Wasps v. Magpies match. “While those are all very good ideas, they won’t work - it’s too late in the term to organise a cleaning team.”
“But,” Weasley piped up, “if you’re a good sport about it, we won’t make you do any cleaning at all. As a show of brotherly companionship, and all that.”
“I want something else if I win.”
“There’s not really any winning, it’s more–”
“You,” said Potter, “can take a swing at me if you win the initiation.”
Draco held out his hand. “Deal.”
Weasley shook it. Then Potter shook it. Then everyone else did.
“Glad we’ve sorted that out,” said Finnigan brightly. “Pop the pants on then, Draco.”
Bending down to retrieve them, Draco said, “So where’s the list?”
“The what?”
“The list? Of all the initiation tasks?”
Weasley and Finnigan looked at each other.
“I deserve to know what I’ve signed up for.”
“Uh,” said Finnigan.
“We can’t give it to you yet,” said Weasley. “We need to…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking to Potter, then to Potter’s scar, then back to Draco. “We need to consult our secret book. Like a diary. A very sentient one.”
Potter’s eyes lifted skyward. A long-suffering expression crossed his face.
Apparently, the secret diary couldn’t be opened while in the presence of someone who wasn’t yet fully a Gryffindor, so they sent Draco outside. He changed his pants under a Disillusionment while out there, which got a bit dicey when one of the Sixth Years wandered past.
“Bollocking arse,” Draco muttered, staring down at the pale stretch of his legs as they emerged from his new Potter-themed briefs. “Fucking wizened Erumpent co–”
The door to the dorm swung open and Thomas appeared, beckoning him inside. Finnigan, the utter tart, let out a whistle when Draco strutted past.
Weasley went a little green, while Potter, rather interestingly, went red. Doubtless seeing his own broad grin stretching across Draco’s impeccable pair of bollocks was more than he could handle.
Crossing his arms over his chest – and tilting his hips outwards to put his torso into the best light, but he wouldn’t admit that even under pain of Crucio – Draco asked, “Where is it?”
“The Basilisk?” Finnigan joked. “In your pa–”
“Here,” said Weasley. He thrust a piece of parchment at Draco. It contained quite possibly the worst calligraphy Draco had ever seen.
“Who the fuck wrote this?” Draco brandished the parchment in the air, taking care to twist his torso just so. “A wizard with his arms bound behind his back?”
“Sirius Black,” said Finnigan, very very seriously. “Before he went mad.”
“Seamus, you git,” Potter hissed. Then to Draco he said, “We don’t know. It’s all very mysterious.”
“But it was written ages ago,” Weasley said. “Like, decades. Definitely not recently, so there’s no way of knowing who’s got such bad handwriting.”
“McGonagall really should introduce a penmanship course,” Draco said, frowning as he began to read. “Clearly this person can barely sign their own name.”
“Well,” said Finnigan, “that’s a bit much. Don’t we all think that’s a bit much?”
Eyes widening, Draco let the parchment fall to the floor. “Fuck off.”
“Can’t,” said Weasley, a shit-eating grin on his face, “you’re in our domain now.”
“You’re mental. I’m not doing those.”
“It’s those or the bathroom. And Seamus’ aim is shit in the mornings.”
Swallowing, Draco closed his eyes. He steeled himself, calling on the decorum that had been instilled in him from birth. His etiquette teacher wouldn’t be proud if he cast a Blasting Curse at the wall now, would she? “How long would I have to complete them?”
“Uh…” Weasley turned to look at Thomas, mouthing something that Draco couldn’t see. “Two weeks?”
“No,” said Draco. “Four.”
“Three.”
Draco wanted to hit him. But he wanted to hit Potter even more. So.
Clearing his throat, Potter asked, “Do you accept the challenge? Or are you scared you’ll lose?”
The spirit of Draco’s fifteen-year-old self rose within him. Nodding seriously, he said, “You’re on.”
*
Draco had been having a rather nice dream. He’d been wandering through a shaded glen, bare feet sinking into a thick layer of moss. Everything was tinged with green and gold, even the male fairies who fluttered around his head.
“We love you, Draco,” a rather buff, bare-chested one said.
“You look so lovely when you sleep,” crowed another.
“Well fit,” chimed a third.
“Thank you,” Draco replied, placing a palm against his chest good-naturedly. “Thank you all.”
One of them zipped through the air, stopping directly in front of his nose. “Careful of his eyes,” it said, and then the tip of his nose exploded into a ball of light.
Sitting bolt upright, Draco smacked at the air in front of him. He collided with something smooth, warm, and decidedly Gryffindor.
“What the fuck, Draco?” Finnigan groaned. He’d thrown himself to the floor, his Lumos extinguishing.
“Well, you did sort of ask for that,” Longbottom muttered. “Alright, Draco?”
Draco flopped onto his back and covered his face with his hands. “This is a nightmare.”
“It’s not.” Potter stuck his head in the space Finnigan had vacated. He tossed a piece of fabric at Draco, smirking when it smacked him square in the chest. “Pop that on, yeah?”
“It,” said Draco, throwing the bedcovers off himself, “is still dark. What sort of barn were you all raised in where you think this is appropriate behaviour?”
Weasley leaned through the doorway that led to the attached bathroom, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. “Fist tisk.”
“No,” Draco replied, deadpan. “I do not consent.”
Weasley rolled his eyes. He ducked into the bathroom and came back a moment later, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “First task.”
“Not even Filch is awake at this hour, you realise?”
Finnigan clapped Draco on the shoulder as he walked towards the bathroom. “Yeah but Filch is a vampire, we reckon. Only sleeps during the day, if that. Put your shorts on so we can go. There’s a good lad.”
“Shorts?” Draco hissed. His eyes widened in horror when he turned to look at what Potter had nearly killed him with not two minutes before. “You’re all sadists. Potter especially.”
Potter shrugged, though he did look mildly put out. “You’ll get over it. We do need to hurry up though.”
With a whispered insult, Draco spelled the bed curtains closed. He wiggled out of his pyjama bottoms and into the monstrosity that was the Chudley Cannons x Potter swimming gear collaboration. The shorts were bright fucking orange and featured an open-mouthed Potter who repeatedly shot cannonballs out of his ridiculously large mouth. Draco’s legs looked like rolls of parchment sticking out the bottom, all pale and veiny. It wasn’t a good look.
“Is there a matching top to complete this fashion statement?” Draco called out. “Or am I supposed to try and style this to perfection myself?”
“Are you decent?” Weasley asked, before ripping aside the bed curtains and effectively letting himself in anyway. “This doesn’t match, but it’ll do the trick.”
Lifting the shirt Weasley had handed him, Draco arched an eyebrow. “Gryffindor Quidditch Team, 1995?”
“Yep,” said Weasley.
Throwing it right back at his head, Draco yelled, “This is your shirt.”
“So?”
“So I have my own wardrobe. And you have a girlfriend who I cannot imagine would want to see me swanning around in your kit.”
Snorting, Weasley said, “Reckon she’d be pretty alright with that, actually.”
The next shirt was a little tighter but mildly less offensive. Wearing George Weasley’s 1991 castoff was vastly preferable, when one took Granger into account.
“Where are we going?” Draco asked, throwing open the curtains and rising to stand.
“Black Lake,” said Weasley.
“Ah,” said Draco. “Of course. Lead the way, I suppose.”
*
Draco was stood in the Black Lake not ten minutes later, as the coldest water he’d ever felt in his life lapped at his toes. Feebly, he muttered, “I thought you idiots were joking.”
“Nope,” Potter replied, rather brightly. He grinned, pulling his coat – with a furred fucking hood, no less – tighter around himself. “Unless you’ve changed your mind and want to clean the bathroom?”
Draco took a deep breath and stepped further into the lake. He would not debase himself by picking up a scrubbing brush. He simply would not.
Turning to look over his shoulder, he asked, “There’s health benefits to this, yes? Cold water regulates the system, or some shit?”
“Sure,” Weasley said, “if the Giant Squid doesn’t get you first.”
Draco flipped him two fingers, which felt rather good. What didn’t feel good were his bollocks, which seemed to be trying to climb their way back inside his body, in direct response to the freezing water assaulting his bare legs. Well, bare up to about mid-thigh, whereupon they were covered by cannon-Potter and his great lead lumps. Perhaps one of them would become corporeal and knock Draco in the side of the head so he could do away with it all and run off to the Infirmary.
“Yes, Draco,” Finnigan shouted. He’d started clapping. Jolly good.
Goosebumps broke out on Draco’s skin. He started to shiver. But he did not give up. He persevered, stepping further and further into the water as the cheers behind him grew in intensity.
When the water got up to his shoulders he thought about switching to a breaststroke, but his legs refused to cooperate. So instead, he kept walking until his head slowly disappeared under the surface, inch by inch.
He was then abruptly ripped from the water, rising so high that only the tips of his toes were left submerged.
“He’s not dead,” Weasley shouted, and another cheer resounded.
“Put me down,” Draco huffed, kicking his frozen legs out sideways as Longbottom and Thomas Levitated him to the bank. It was only once he was sat on the grass that he realised he should have taken the opportunity to milk this situation for all it was worth and pretend like he’d passed out. But it was probably a bit late for that now. “Did I pass?”
He received another cheer in return. Despite it coming from the biggest imbeciles this side of the English-Scottish border, it did make him feel satisfied to be the centre of such positive attention.
A towel was thrown over Draco’s shoulders, and they all made their way back up to the castle. The automatic Drying Charms blasted him with warm air as they stepped into the Entrance Hall; it didn’t completely put him to rights, but it ensured that he wouldn’t look like a drowned rat at breakfast.
There were more than a few side-eyes when Draco sat between Finnigan and Longbottom at the Gryffindor table. He offered a wan smile to Granger, who beamed back at him.
“How was your first night, Draco?” she asked.
“Shocking,” he replied, pinching a piece of buttered toast between two fingers. “Finnigan tried to cast a Blasting Curse on me, then Weasley assaulted me while I was unawares, then Potter directed me to disrobe. It was all rather undignified.”
“Er,” said Potter. “That’s not … at all how it happened.”
“It is,” Draco said, taking a bite and chewing primly, “to me.”
Peering at Draco, Granger asked, “Not to be insensitive to your current mental turmoil, but why are you wet? Or did you not realise?”
“Oh no, I very much realise. They threw me in the lake.”
“Again, not what happened,” said Potter, very unhelpfully.
“He passed his first task,” Weasley interjected; he had the incredible ability to talk coherently while his mouth was stuffed full of sausage, which was both exciting and concerning.
“Ssh.” Draco lobbed a bit of bread at Weasley’s head. It missed, hitting a third year Hufflepuff in the back. “You said that–”
“She’s a Gryffindor too, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“I’m not wearing knickers,” Draco hissed, “as you well know.”
Potter’s entire head turned bright red. Ironically, the ones on Draco’s damp pants did too.
Raising an eyebrow, Granger lifted her wand and cast a bubble around the table. A bubble which included every Gryffindor in their year, aside from Draco.
He rapped against the side of the bubble with his fork and received no response. Inside, Granger was talking a mile a minute. She gestured wildly at Draco, then pointed at his lap, then at Weasley, then back at Draco. Potter’s flush deepened. He looked like a tomato stuck atop a skewer.
With a huff, Draco slid the tip of his own wand past the edge of the table and began to cast.
It took five minutes for Granger to take the bubble down. When she did, a full English dropped onto the heads of every person who had previously been inside it; the bean that slid down the lens of Potter’s glasses was a personal favourite of Draco’s.
“Oops,” said Draco, lifting his cup of tea to his lips. “Accidental magic. How silly of me.”
*
“Do I really have to flirt with her? Couldn’t I just … ask politely, and go from there?”
“Yeah, you do. It’d be too easy just to ask her to sing. And you have to look appreciative afterwards.” Weasley grumbled as he picked a bit of scrambled egg from his hair. Beside him, Potter grimaced as he rubbed at a shiny streak of bacon grease on his forehead. “Be quick about it - Flitwick’ll have our necks if we’re late for Charms.”
Grimacing, Draco poked his head around the corner, eyes roving about the corridor. It was an unfamiliar spot to him - the few times he’d come here in the past it had been for the sole purpose of bullying Potter, so he’d been far more focused on that than the castle's more permanent occupants.
At the end of the corridor was Draco’s next task. It was daunting for multiple reasons: his pride, for one, but also his ears.
Guarding the entrance to the Gryffindor common room was Agnes Stillwell. Apparently, she relieved the Fat Lady of her duties every second Wednesday so that her counterpart could go and sing in peace without the nearby portraits complaining. They’d become fast friends sometime in the fifteenth century after discovering their shared passion of butchering opera.
“Hurry up, Draco,” Finnigan whispered, leaning in close. “Don’t run though; you don’t want to spook her.”
“There’s nothing I can do to get out of this? Another swim in the lake, perhaps?”
“Nope,” Potter replied, grinning widely. “It won’t be that bad. Well, aside from your ears, they’ll be ringing for a few hours.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Weasley said, “You know the painting of the old headmaster in the Entrance Hall? Puddlefoot or something or other. Well, when I was a Firstie one of my tasks was to kiss his bald spot. You could do that, if you wanted?”
With a groan, Draco pushed his hair off his forehead. “No. Bugger. Just … don’t suppose any of you buffoons have any cotton wool on you? I’ve sensitive ears.”
Potter tapped a wristwatch that he was not wearing.
The entrance to the common room was rather gaudy, considering it was for Gryffindor House. The stonework around the edges was sublime, with far more detail than Draco might have expected. There were vines and bunches of grapes and tiny birds flittering about. Had it been laid flat rather than arched over the doorway, it might have made a nice cornice for the Manor’s formal dining room.
“Head in the clouds, dear?” Agnes asked. She squinted, clearly trying to pinpoint exactly who Draco was.
“Actually,” Draco began, “I was admiring your…” He leaned in closer, letting his eyes trail down towards her overflowing bosom. “...portrait edging. Is it sandstone, or another material?”
Giggling, she opened her fan and began to flutter it. “Craigleith sandstone. Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh was built using the same stuff.”
“Oh my.” Closing his eyes to mask the emotional pain, Draco asked, “Does that make you a princess, then?”
Another giggle. “Oh, you cad. Are you a Gryffindor? You don’t look like a Gryffindor.”
If there was any justice in this world, his new housemates wouldn’t be able to hear him. “Why? Am I too good looking?”
The fluttering of the fan had kicked into overdrive. “I’m afraid that I can’t let you through if you’re not a Gryffindor, but perhaps–”
“I am. Newly Sorted. Draco Malfoy?”
“Oh,” she said, eyes widening. Then, “Oh,” and another, more knowing giggle. “Yes, I’ve been informed of your situation. Three weeks we’re to let you through, is it?”
“Uh,” said Draco. “Sure. But I don’t need to go in right now – I’ll probably come through the side hallway anyway, since we’ve our own common room. I’m waiting for someone, but perhaps you could keep me company in the meantime?”
She batted her eyelashes. “Would you like to be entertained?”
Grimacing, Draco replied, “I’d love it.”
And then she launched into song.
Cursing Potter – because his smirk was visible even this far down the hallway – Draco took a deep breath and steeled himself. His ears could survive a minor battering. It couldn’t last for more than a minute, surely.
It lasted far longer than a minute.
It lasted ten.
It lasted so long that Weasley actually came to get him, wading through the supersonic beams of noise to get to Draco. He’d looped Potter’s jumper around his neck and hooked its arms over the shells of his ears so that they’d not come loose from where he’d stuffed them inside his ear canals.
“Alright, Draco?” He shouted. “Miss Stillwell?”
She cracked one eye open for just a moment before continuing as though she’d not been spoken to. It wasn’t until a few moments later that she paused, gasping with joy as she crowed, “Harry Potter. Oh, my dear, you’ve not been avoiding me, have you? I say, you should stop by sometime for a chat and a show.”
“Er,” said Potter, hopping from foot to foot. “Maybe after N.E.W.T.s. But thanks for keeping Draco entertained for us, he’s properly awful when left to his own devices. Gets into all the wrong cabinets. Bit like a rat.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. Potter just grinned at him.
“Oh,” Agnes said. She leaned towards Draco, concern writ on her face as she took in his posture - he’d raised his shoulders absurdly high in an effort to block his ears. “Have you got a sore neck? I’d rub it for you, but–”
“Charms,” Weasley said, grabbing Draco by the collar and pulling him bodily down the hall. “Seamus, fuck off to Herbology, would you?”
“My ears,” Draco groaned. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the stretch. “I’ll never recover. You’ve permanently damaged me.”
“Bet you’re glad you didn’t have to deal with that every day for seven years.”
“Quite. I’m beginning to see exactly why you’re all so fucked in the head, actually.”
Potter sidled up next to Draco, falling into step. “Nicer than the entrance to the Slytherin common room, at least. That hallway’s way too gloomy – not that the inside of the room is any better. And the snake looks even less friendly than–”
“Sorry,” Draco said, feigning politeness, “but did I just hear evidence that you’ve seen the inside of my House’s common room? Care to elaborate?”
“No,” said Potter. Infuriatingly, his grin widened. “Does that bother you? Are you annoyed by that, Draco?”
“What, that you heard a story and you’re pretending as though you were there?” He snorted derisively. “Hardly.”
Leaning close and dropping his voice to a whisper, Potter said, “You’ve a portrait of Salazar Slytherin’s house over the fireplace – which has green flames. And your favourite armchair was the one by the window that overlooked the trench in the lake. Am I close?”
Draco tried to reach out and grab Potter’s collar, but he was thwarted by Weasley tugging more insistently on his arm.
“Potter,” Draco hissed, increasing his walking speed. “Potter. Slow down you fucking pillock and tell me what you know.”
It was at that moment that Professor Flitwick stepped into the hallway. He crossed his arms over his chest and began to tap his foot. “Ten minutes late, gentlemen. I hope you’re not planning on making a habit of this.”
“Not at all, Professor,” Potter said. He darted into the classroom and slid into the seat beside Granger.
Draco kicked him on his way past.
*
The day was finally over. It had ended and he wouldn’t ever have to do it again.
Flopping onto the bench seat with a groan, Draco rested his head on his crossed forearms. He itched to run over to the Ravenclaw table and place his head in Pansy’s lap, but that would be both odd and embarrassing to do in public. Instead, he settled for an awkward tap on the shoulder from Longbottom.
“Alright, Draco?”
“Knackered,” Weasley said, on his behalf. “Grimhall had us doing drills in DADA today. Said we needed to get our fitness levels up.”
“She’s not wrong.” Potter grabbed for the napkin that was under Draco’s elbow, yanking it free. He sat next to him, keeping their legs a few inches apart. “Wasn’t expecting laps of the Pitch though.”
“I don’t run,” Draco mumbled. “Why the fuck would I run? What would I ever have to run from? I live on an estate.”
“Chin up.” Weasley tapped his fork against Draco’s wrist. “I’ve just the thing to cheer you up.”
Raising his head, Draco asked, “Alcohol?”
“No.”
“My own private dorm?”
“No.”
“A professional masseuse?”
“Nah, but Seamus might give it a go, if you ask.”
Draco groaned again. He straightened up, letting his elbows slip from the table. “This term is shaping up to be a nightmare. I dare you to make it better, Weasley.”
“Well,” said Weasley, “how about this?” And he shoved an entire roast chicken in front of Draco.
Deadpan, Draco replied, “How kind – did you cook this yourself? Slaved away over a hot stove all day? Thank your mother for the recipe, would you?”
“Very funny. And this is your next task.”
“Chicken?” Draco blinked. “You want me to … eat a balanced meal? That’s your big initiation–”
“Ssh,” Finnigan said, waving a bread roll in Draco’s direction. “Secret, remember?” At least that’s what Draco thought he said, but his mouth was almost entirely full at the time.
“I wouldn’t call it balanced.” Weasley pressed his lips together firmly.
Potter slid a fork into Draco’s hand. “Go on.”
“Right,” said Draco. “What have you two idiots done to this poor bird?”
“Nothing,” said Potter. “But you should eat it.”
Suspicious, Draco narrowed his eyes. “No.”
Potter shrugged. He leaned back in his chair looking awfully pleased with himself. “Are you giving up? I expected more from you, you know.”
Draco pursed his lips. “I want your word that nothing’s been done to this plate. We can do an Unbreakable Vow right here.”
Weasley rolled up his sleeve and placed an elbow on the table.
“Right,” said Granger. She stabbed her fork into the side of the chicken and came away with part of the breast. She shoved it into her mouth and chewed ravenously. “Happy?” she asked. “And no Unbreakable Vows, Ron, bloody hell.”
Eyeing up the chicken, Draco asked, “The whole thing?”
“The whole thing,” Weasley replied. “Or, well, as much as you can without vomming. Nobody wants to see that. Don’t reckon you’ll be able to do the whole thing, personally.”
And if there was any better motivation than proving Weasley and Potter wrong, Draco didn’t know what it was.
Forty minutes later saw him sitting on the bench with an empty platter in front of him. He’d needed to undo the top button on his trousers, but nobody but Longbottom had seen him do it, nor had anyone heard the groan he let out.
Rather than looking horrified, Weasley appeared almost proud. He kept periodically shooting Draco a thumbs up as he ate. As the meal progressed, he switched to outright staring, then clapping, then a loud cheer as the final forkful went into Draco’s mouth.
“Good lad,” Weasley shouted, clapping Draco on the shoulder. “That was … Hermione, even I couldn’t do that. Did you see it?”
“Yes, Ron, I saw it.”
“Fucking incredible. What an absolute showing. If you’d just done that in first year, we would’ve been fast friends.”
Draco slumped against Longbottom. He course-corrected on his way, swung too far to the other side, and leaned against Potter instead. Surprisingly, he wasn’t shoved off the bench in retaliation.
“Levitate me,” Draco groaned. “I can’t walk. This is the third time I’ve died today. The family solicitor is going to have an absolute field day with all the billable hours for these wrongful death lawsuits.”
“Up you get.” Longbottom helped Draco off the bench, laughing when he slumped dramatically. “Harry, grab his other side.”
Potter did, draping Draco’s arm over his shoulders. He placed his hand on Draco’s waist to steady him. The scent of him, all masculine sweat and spicy cologne, filled Draco’s nose. “You good?”
“Fuck,” Draco whimpered. It was a reaction to Potter’s post-workout smell rather than the food, but it had the benefit of making Weasley look a little chastised.
“No tasks tomorrow.” He patted Draco on the shoulder. “You’ve earned the break. Do we think he’s earned the break, lads?”
Longbottom and Potter both responded in the affirmative, as did Finnigan and Thomas, who popped up out of nowhere.
Halfway to the dorms, Longbottom tripped on the stairs and went careening into the bannister. Potter doubled over with laughter, then began to wheeze when Draco followed Longbottom down, not anticipating the sudden removal of his physical supports.
Finnigan and Thomas took over assisting Draco. They chatted behind his head as they walked, content to carry on with whatever conversation they’d already been having.
Draco didn’t mind that so much – avoiding conversing with Gryffindors was an extreme sport in these dark, modern times, but one that he was exceedingly good at.
What he was not good at was pushing down the rising annoyance at having both Potter’s scent removed from his vicinity and his hand from Draco’s waist. It was a worrying development, yes, but Draco had weathered worse storms before. He could certainly deal with this one, no matter how fit said storm was beginning to look.
*
It was laughably easy to earn the respect of Gryffindors.
With Slytherins, you could build it through several means: proven trust, the sharing of gossip, or the purchasing of gifts. Draco had done each of these with Pansy, Blaise, Greg, and Vince at varying ages. Theo had attempted to, but he’d also tattled on Draco when he’d snuck a liquorice wand into Ms. Anthrope’s tea during one of Mother’s dinner parties, which had eternally disqualified him in Draco’s eyes.
Gryffindors, however, seemed content to take the consumption of a roast chicken with the same weight as secret keeping.
Over the next few days, the looks of suspicion melted away. They were replaced with friendly nods, shared quills, and wake up calls that didn’t start with a Lumos at the end of Draco’s nose. The night before, Thomas had been listening to the Wireless and even invited Draco to come and sit with him.
He’d not taken it up, of course – Pansy had been waiting for him in the back corner of the library with a salacious piece of gossip that she’d been dying to share – but it was a nice gesture all the same.
There was one key difference, however. Potter – if at all possible – seemed to be avoiding him even more than before. Which was no easy feat, considering they shared both a dorm room, a meals table, and most of their classes. And that just would not do. If Draco was going to be forced into this space, Potter was going to have to look him in the eye and deal with it.
It was properly irritating, was the thing. Potter had always noticed Draco. He’d been downright obvious about it, then tried to hide it, then got so dramatic that he sliced Draco’s torso up in bathroom after they’d had a little tiff.
Now, he seemed resolute in his new conviction of only looking at Draco when he couldn’t otherwise avoid it under pain of death. Or pain of Finnigan.
Draco wasn’t going to stand for that, obviously. If he wanted to be noticed, he was going to be noticed.
The underside of Thomas’ bed was horrendously dusty, somehow having managed to escape the elves’ housekeeping spells. There was a suspicious red stain on the flagstones right in the middle of the mattress; at first glance it looked like blood, but on further inspection, Draco was fairly sure that it was a spilt vial of colour-changing potion – the type that was intended to be used on hair. He’d seen them before – Theo wasn’t a natural blond, no matter how loudly he protested the accusation.
A muffled groan left Draco’s lips as he shuffled forward on his knees, arching his back so that he could reach further under the bed. His fingers glanced off the side of the Wireless twice before he got a proper grasp on the handle.
“Why the fuck are you so heavy?” he grumbled, dragging the Wireless toward himself. He huffed a sigh of relief when he had the box resting on his bent knees, no doubt getting dust all over his new cotton bottoms; Mother had them sent via express postage from Croatia. “Potter?”
There was a grunt from the nearby bed.
“Potter,” Draco hissed. Rather than shooting off a hex, he instead threw his wand at Potter’s exposed foot that was dangling off the end of his bed. It was a dead hit - the point of the wand smacked into Potter’s heel. He jumped half a foot off the bed, immediately swearing up a storm.
“What the fuck, Draco?” He sat up, looking rather baffled indeed. “Sorry, did you want something? Could you not just ask like a normal person?”
“I did. You weren’t listening.”
Potter’s expression grew concerned as Draco rose to his feet with the Wireless in hand.
“What are you doing with that? It’s Dean’s, you know, not the room’s.”
“I know that; he’s stuck his name to the side of it. Barely legible, but it’s there. Move your leg.”
“Er,” said Potter. “Why?”
“Because,” said Draco, depositing the Wireless onto Potter’s bed, “you’re going to teach me how to use it.” He clambered onto the bed, tucking his knees under himself.
Potter raised his eyebrows. “Can’t you just wait for Dean to get back?”
“No,” Draco replied. “You lug it into the bathroom with you every weekend morning – did you think the rest of us couldn’t hear you butchering the Weird Sisters in there?”
Potter’s face went bright red. “I’m going to kill Ron. He took down my fucking Silencing Charms on purpose, I know it.”
“I don’t care about your singing, so long as it doesn’t result in the complete desecration of my eardrums. You’re well on your way, mind, but not quite at the finish line yet.”
With a groan, Potter flopped onto his back. He rubbed his hands down his face, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. “Fine. Sure. Why do you want to use the Wireless?”
“I’m quite a music aficionado, you know. I’ve every Celestina Warbeck record in my bedroom at home.”
“You don’t.” Potter pushed up onto his elbows. He squinted as though trying to work out the answer to a particularly hard puzzle.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “And what, pray tell, do I listen to?”
Potter blew air out through his lips. “Dunno, whatever your parents listen to?”
“So … Celestina?”
“Yeah, ok. Uh, you have to push the button on the right. The silver one. Then turn the dial a little to the left.”
The dulcet tones of the Weird Sisters filled the room, and Potter’s cheeks turned pink once again.
“Don’t say anything,” he hissed, frowning at Draco.
“Oh, shut up, Potter. You’re not that interesting,” Draco lied. “Honestly, who doesn’t sing in the shower? Thank Merlin we can hear you, or we’d think you were up to more nefarious activities. You’re certainly in there for long enough to be suspicious. Do you have any snacks?”
Potter blinked. “Not for you, I don’t.”
“Don’t be a wanker.”
“Don’t be so bossy.”
Draco leaned against the bedpost, taking great care to violently shove Potter’s legs out of the way. “Mother hasn’t been able to send me a care package in weeks and I’m feeling ever so deprived. Truly, do you realise how hard it is to go without chocolate truffles when you’re accustomed to them? I’ve not met my daily quota since last month. I’m suffering withdrawals.”
“Go for a forage with Hagrid, I’m sure he’ll help you find some.”
“You’re hilarious, Potter. It’s a wonder that the Prophet doesn’t report on your standup comedy alongside that great honking scar. Is it perhaps that one is rather obvious while the other is completely non-existent. Help me.” He sat up straighter, putting on his best ‘give me what I want’ face. “Please.”
Potter stared at him for a moment.
Draco was left with nothing but his most basic fallback option.
“I’ll tell on you to Weasley and Finnigan.”
A loud guffaw escaped Potter’s lips. “You’ll what?”
“And Granger – she’d be completely fucking devastated if she thought you weren’t taking her Resorting mission seriously and were casting me aside. Leaving me out in the cold. Shunning me.”
“It’s not … Hermione’s idea. The Resorting.”
“I don’t give a rat’s arse about the Resorting, I want to see what you’ve got under your bed. Why have you gone all red again? Have you a condition?”
“I don’t–no, Draco, do not go under there.” Potter’s hands came around Draco’s hips and dragged him back up onto the bed. “Bloody hell, wait. I’ll get it, hold on.”
“Thank you.” Draco sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched as Potter leaned over the side to grab for something under the bed. “Do you have peppermint wheels? If you don’t, I’m diving underneath this mattress and looking for whatever it is you don’t want me to find. I might do it anyway.”
“Don’t. For your own good, don’t.”
A plastic tub landed in Draco’s lap. It had a blue lid that bent when Draco tugged at it, which was a bit of a novelty. Inside was a moderate selection of sweets, though they appeared to be of acceptable quality. All except for–
“Cockroach Clusters?” Horrified, Draco pinched one between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it out of the box. “I haven’t seen one of these up close in years – nobody’s mental enough to actually buy them. Except you, apparently. I should have guessed.”
Potter’s nose scrunched. “I didn’t buy them. I think Charlie might have, as a joke? Or maybe it was George. Whoever it was gave me those, and Ron a box of Fainting Fancies. Molly was properly pissed off when he ate one at dinner and went face first into the bowl of mash.”
The mental image was a delightful one, so it couldn’t be held against Draco if he let out a chuckle. Just a small one.
Potter’s face brightened, though he looked a little more nervous now, his hands coming up to fiddle with the Wireless unnecessarily. “My sweets were better than Ron’s, obviously. Just a bit creepy to have rattling around in your lunchbox. Have you ever had one?”
“No,” Draco replied, aghast. “I did blackmail Greg into eating one when we were children, though. He sicked up all over Mother’s Dancing Lavender, said he could feel the legs wiggling around in his stomach. I think he was being a bit dramatic, quite personally.”
The rise of Potter’s eyebrow felt dangerous. He nudged the box of sweets closer to Draco. “Try one.”
“No.”
“Why not? Scared you won’t be able to handle it?”
Draco scoffed. “It’s a sweet, Potter. What’s there to handle?”
Potter picked up the box and shook it. “You tell me.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. But you’ll have to have one too.”
“Fine.”
“At the same time.”
“Fine.”
“Actually, half a second before. So that I know it’s not been poisoned.”
Potter snorted. “I’d have to be daft to poison my own sweets. Just take one, you git.”
Draco did. He watched with a building sense of unease as the thing’s chocolate legs began to move. “I’m well aware that it would be a daft thing to do – hence why I accused you of doing it.”
“I’ll go first. But if you don’t eat yours, I’m spitting mine back at you.”
Bending his leg, Draco readied himself to kick Potter square in the groin should any projectiles head in his direction. “On the count of three? One, two–”
Potter stuck the chocolate cockroach into his mouth and swallowed it.
Draco stared at him, mouth dropping open. He quickly lifted his own hand to his mouth as Potter puckered his cheeks and leaned forward.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hissed, scrambling backwards. “I’ll have you know that I was admiring your swallowing skills, not trying to get out of our wager. Come any closer and I’ll hex you.”
Potter stopped, though his attack stance remained.
Raising his eyes to the ceiling, Draco placed the chocolate cockroach onto his tongue and bit down. It crunched. Then it moved. Then Draco tried frantically to swallow. His eyes widened as he looked at Potter, who now appeared to be trying not to choke on his own mouthful as he laughed at Draco’s misfortune.
No matter – a swift Aguamenti to the face did the trick.
Dripping and also coughing, Potter kicked out at Draco. “Why?”
Draco shrugged. He repeated the spell, aiming his wand at his cupped hand. He sipped from it, delighting in the way the crispness of the water washed the taste of bug from his mouth. “You looked as though you were having far too much fun.” He flicked his hand at Potter, raining the last few droplets down on him. “Surprisingly, they weren’t that bad, though I can’t say I’ll be requesting that Mother add them to my usual care package.”
Potter’s stupidly green eyes blinked at Draco; he’d taken off his glasses to wipe them on the hem of his shirt, so there was nothing between them and Draco, which was a little discomfiting. “What does she usually send? Aside from truffles.”
“Oh, Potter,” Draco said, shuffling closer. “Should I list them alphabetically, by weight, or by price?”
“Er,” said Potter. “Weight.”
“Well, there’s the Caramel Crystals – those are half a pound each, usually. After that it’s the blackcurrant tarts, then the assorted nougat bars. Mother usually sends a strawberry, an almond, and a toffee flavour. Then it’s…”
Potter nodded along as though Draco was giving a lecture. Pink mist came out of his nose when he popped a Fizzing Whizzbee into his mouth.
“When I was at home, she’d pair the nougat with dessert liquors. Have you ever had one?” Potter shook his head, pink misting around his face. “They’re simply divine. You’d not know what to do with yourself if you ate one; it’d be the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth.
The mist swirled when Potter coughed. “Do you have any here?”
“No.” Draco rolled his eyes. “Mother didn’t think it prudent to send alcohol through the post, despite it being such a low percentage that you’d have to drink your weight in it before you’d feel so much as a spot of warmth in your big toe.”
“Right,” said Potter. He shifted, eyes dropping to his bedside table.
“What is it?” Draco asked. “What have you got?”
“Nothing.” Potter held up his hands. “Just … I nicked a beer from Michael Corner a few weeks back. That’s all.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? Crack it open.”
Surprisingly, his vulgar enthusiasm worked; Potter leaned over the side of the bed, waved his wand over his bedside table in a rather complicated pattern, and reached inside. When he pulled his hand out, he was holding a green bottle.
“Carlsburg,” Draco read out. “Doesn’t sound too offensive.” He leaned closer to inspect the bottle, frowning when Potter moved it out of his reach. “Are you not going to share?”
“Thought I’d get us some glasses.”
“We’re not dining at Harrods; we’re drinking a stolen beer in our dorm. Give it here.”
With no small amount of trepidation, Potter handed it over. He watched as Draco ran the tip of his wand around the cap, his eyes widening when the metal expanded and dropped onto the bed.
“Party trick.” Not bothering to hide his smirk, Draco tipped the bottle back and took his first sip. “Keep in mind that I don’t have too much experience with what I’m referring to, but I feel fairly confident in saying that this beer is pulling off a well-rounded rendition of Crup piss.”
The bottle nearly went crashing to the floor as Potter let out a bark of laughter. When he took the beer to his lips, his smile made it difficult to drink. His nose screwed up at the taste, another bark of laughter escaping. “You’re not far off, you know. Michael’s got interesting preferences.”
“Bet he nicked it off someone else. Give it here.”
Potter raised an eyebrow. “You just said that it tasted like Crup piss.”
“Yes, but it will also give me a nice buzz. So hand it over.”
The top of the bottle was warm and slightly damp. Draco rested it against his bottom lip, feeling the ridges against his skin. Potter’s mouth had been there mere moments ago; that should have been off putting, but instead it felt pleasantly intimate.
Shaking his head, Draco knocked back a proper mouthful, swallowing before the taste could properly hit his tongue. Potter cheered. His knee knocked against the Wireless, making the song skip a beat.
“Careful, Potter.” Draco lifted the bottle in acknowledgement and took another drink. “Have you always been clumsy, or did I just not notice when we were small?”
“Er, bit of column A, bit of column B?”
“Lovely. Very self-aware. Did you want this back?”
Potter’s tongue swept out to wet his bottom lip. “Have what you want, I’ll take the rest.”
“Generous too.”
“No need to sound so sarcastic.”
Draco smirked. The bottle bumped against his lips as he spoke. “I don’t know any other way to be with you, Potter. Neither of us are exactly the earnest type.”
Dark curls shifted as Potter tilted his head to the side, assessing. “You could be, I reckon. With proper motivation.” He reached out to tug the bottle gently from Draco’s hand.
It was a bit heady, actually, having Potter’s attention on him and him alone. It made Draco feel quite giddy. So naturally, something had to ruin it.
And that something was Weasley.
He came barrelling into the room as though being chased, arms pinwheeling and legs a full step behind his torso. He crashed into the post of Longbottom’s bed, babbling about how the rain had stopped, and they had to go downstairs immediately.
“I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, Weasley, but we’re in Scotland. A bit of rain isn’t an event of note.”
Ambling over, Weasley gave Draco a smack on the shoulder and Potter a slap on the stomach. He beamed from ear to ear before pausing as he took in the scene in front of him, expression morphing into a mix of shock and amusement. “Is that a beer?” He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully in Potter’s direction. “Having fun, are you?”
“I think you’ll find,” Draco said primly, “that it’s not your business what Potter and I put into our bodies. Or into each others.”
Potter choked on his sip of beer.
Weasley crossed his arms over his chest, ginger eyebrows disappearing into his ginger hairline. “That’s more my business than anything else on this planet. Isn’t that right, Harry?”
“No,” Potter said, rather wetly. “Fuck off.” He coughed again, spluttering when Weasley slapped him on the back with proper force.
“Well, as romantic as this looks, both of you need to get your shorts on – we’ve got another task to do.”
“We?” Draco asked. “I was under the impression that this sorry state of affairs was for me and me only.”
“We’ve taken pity on you. This one’s a group task.”
“No,” Potter whispered. “Fuck, please no.”
“Fuck please yes,” said Weasley. He walked over to his trunk and began to rummage through it. “Shorts, lads. Now.”
*
It was only once Draco was stood on the wet grass, bare knees clacking together as he shivered, clad only in a tight white shirt and Potter-cannon shorts, that he realised what was about to happen.
“You’ve got to be joking,” he cried, waving his hand at the ground in front of him. “You’ve well and truly lost it. This is a school not an … an … adult broadcasting channel.”
Finnigan smiled brightly. “Nothing explicit about a few lads rolling around in the mud. We’ll keep our shorts on, Draco, don’t you worry.”
“I don’t wrestle,” Draco continued. “It’s common.”
“You,” said Weasley, “are just scared that you’ll lose.”
So, Draco decided to use whatever he had in his arsenal in order to gain a slight upper hand.
Which wasn’t much, considering his arsenal was severely depleted at the present moment.
Tipping sideways, Draco let himself bump into Potter. He forced a giggle from his throat, slapping his limp hand against Potter’s chest. “Oops,” he said, though it sounded more like ooze. Potter gave him a gentle shove in return.
Rather than standing upright, Draco allowed himself to fall against Weasley, who was standing on his other side.
Grasping Draco by the shoulder, Weasley asked, “Are you drunk?”
Draco giggled. It sounded ridiculously forced, but it clearly did the trick.
Staring into Draco’s eyes, Weasley muttered, “Bloody hell, how much have you had? You’re properly sloshed.”
There was a pause and then Potter started laughing. His chortles turned to chokes when Draco winked at him. His cheeks darkened in response, but it did seem as though he was going to keep Draco’s secret. Which was rather odd, all things considered. A good sort of odd, though.
“It’s not a fair fight,” Draco insisted, doing his best to slur every second word. “You all have one fight against me, while I have to take everyone, one after the other? I’ll be far too tired after the first one - you lot should be doing it too.”
“He’s got a point,” Finnigan said. “I’ll jump in, if anyone wants to go against me.”
Draco raised his finger in the air. He tipped forward, stopped only by Weasley’s arm around his stomach. “I pick the matchups.”
“This is going to be sad,” Thomas muttered. “Putting a drunk man in the dirt is just shameful.”
“I pick Thomas,” Draco said, rather decisively. “Now, before I pass out.” He swayed on his feet, smiling from ear to ear in what he hoped was a good impersonation of a serene, happy-go-lucky drunk.
Thomas grinned and shook his head. He lifted his hand for Draco to shake. “Did you pick me because you thought I’d be the easiest to beat?”
Draco rolled his eyes. He took Thomas’ hand and shook it. “Obviously.”
As soon as Finnigan called for the match to start, he lunged.
Evidently, Thomas wasn’t expecting to be taken out at the middle. His eyes went wide as Draco shot towards him, and a breathless ooft left his lips as he was tackled into the mud. He shoved at Draco’s shoulders, gasping out a laugh as he grappled with the slick fabric of Draco’s shirt.
Winning the match was rather simple when one had the motivation to do so. Simply put, Thomas wanted to win to feed his ego. Draco wanted to win in order to avoid getting mud on his clothes. Staying clean and dry was a powerful motivator.
Weasley slapped his hand against the wet grass three times and Draco stood. He brushed himself off, though he hadn’t gotten so much as a speck of dirt on himself. He turned and stuck out his hand – it was the polite thing to do, and he couldn’t really leave the man he’d bested on the ground, could he? Not when there were so many others watching.
“Well played,” Thomas said. He took Draco’s hand and pulled himself up. “Are you actually drunk?”
Draco scoffed and shook his head. “Half a beer isn’t enough to bring down a toddler, let alone me. I’m an honorary member of my mother’s wine club.”
“Ooh,” Finnigan said in high falsetto, “you’re well hard.”
Frowning in confusion, Draco glanced down, but there was nothing amiss.
“Who’s next?” Thomas asked.
Weasley and Finnigan seemed like a fine matchup – both had that hyperactive energy about them that set Draco’s teeth on edge whenever he had to study at the same library table as them. He expected Weasley to come out on top, given both the height difference and the frankly confusing amount of muscle he’d managed to pack on over the summer. Rumour had it that he’d been moving Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes boxes around manually because magic tended to set off the Whirling Whumples. But Draco should have known that Finnigan wouldn’t play fair.
“Seamus,” Weasley hissed through his teeth. He huffed out another laugh, trying desperately to catch his breath. “Fuck, leave off. I yield, fuck, I yield.”
Finnigan’s fingers dug into his ribs, wiggling desperately. “Didn’t quite catch that, mate.”
Weasley turned to the side in an effort to escape and instead pitched them both down the hill. They slid down the slope, clutching at each other as they laughed.
Potter and Longbottom’s match was over much faster, but that was mostly due to Longbottom essentially just laying down and dying.
“Sorry, Harry,” he said, looking sheepish as he sat down in the mud. “I’m working with the Trapeze vines after this, and they really struggle with new elements being introduced into their environment – I don’t want to push them.”
It should have been simple to beat Potter – after all, Draco had just won his match fair and square, while Potter had done so by default.
In actual fact, Draco should have remembered that – as irritating as it was – Potter did often manage to best him.
A rush of breath left Draco’s lips as he was tossed onto his back in the mud. Potter loomed over him, smiling fit to burst. He’d somehow managed to grab Draco round the chest when Draco had run at him, intending to take him out at the waist just as he had with Thomas. Instead, Potter had flipped him round and pressed him down without even the slightest of struggles.
Frowning, Draco bent his legs and kneed Potter in the stomach. “Get off.”
“You lost,” Potter replied. His grin was far too wide, considering he’d just had the air forced from his lungs.
“I did not.” Squirming, Draco attempted to shove Potter away. Instead, he moved closer, pressing his chest against Draco’s and forcing him more firmly back into the mud. He had a few flecks of dirt on his cheek, right under his eye; it made them look even greener. “You’re not that strong.”
“You might as well yield, it’ll get embarrassing for you otherwise. And I might not be strong, but you’re definitely predictable; I learned all your moves the second year we played Quidditch against each other.”
Draco scoffed. “A shove is hardly the same as a Defensive Feint.” He flexed his wrists, currently pinned in place by Potter’s hands. “I’m completely unpredictable. If you’re so intuitive, tell me what I’m thinking right now.”
“Er, that you want to deck me, I’m sure.”
“Too easy – try again.”
Potter’s green eyes stared into his own. His fingers fluttered on Draco’s wrists. “Uh … you’re…” He shifted again. “I got strong because of Auror training prep. Ron and I did lots over the summer, even though he’s not sure that he wants to sign up yet.”
Draco blinked. “That’s not a prediction.”
“No,” Potter agreed, “but I’m sure it answers your question.” And then he winked – winked.
Sure, Draco had done it earlier, but it was a right bit more salacious when one party had the other on their back in the dirt – a fact which Potter seemed to realise, given how quickly his cheeks darkened.
A slow clap sounded from off to the right.
Apparently now back in the land of sanity, Potter let go of Draco’s wrists and rolled off him, planting his knees in the mud. He turned his flushed face toward the noise, which was coming from both Thomas and Longbottom; they were applauding Weasley and Finnigan as they crested the hill, having returned from their impromptu exploration of Hogwarts’ topography.
“Did Harry win?” Finnigan asked, clapping his hands together. “Brilliant. Shall we go next, Draco?”
Draco sat bolt upright and fumbled for his wand. “Finnigan, I will spell you bald in your sleep if you bring those mud-covered hands anywhere near me. I mean it. And I won against Thomas, so that means I passed the task. Don’t try to twist it.”
“You’ve already got mud all over you, Draco,” Longbottom said, rather unhelpfully. “I think there’s even some in your hair.”
Groaning, Draco tilted his head back. “I’ll not make it to dinner if I have to go and wash it first. Potter, you idiot, you should have just let me win.”
“Not a chance,” Potter replied. “And we’ll just go wash off in the lake, then head to dinner afterwards.”
“No,” said Draco, “we will not.”
He was summarily overruled. But he also had no desire to suffer through one of McGonagall’s legendary lectures if he or any of his new housemates tracked mud on the flagstones. It was simpler to go along with the group while cursing their very existence.
Into the freezing water of the lake they all went, rubbing hands down shirts and shorts in a mostly futile effort to get the mud off. Draco’s teeth chattered something awful, but it did feel good to grab a handful of water and toss it right into Weasley’s face. It felt less good to get dunked under the surface for his troubles.
The run back up to the castle was somehow even colder than the water had been. Warming and Drying Charms were flying, most colliding with anyone but their intended target. Draco took one to the side of the head that made his hair stand on end, and would no doubt leave him looking like a feather duster for the entirety of dinner, but at least his shirt wasn’t sticking to his skin any longer. Potter’s arm brushed his as he turned to shoot a spell at Weasley, and Longbottom laughed when Draco’s feet got tangled with his own.
They stopped running when they got to the Entrance Hall, pausing to catch their breaths. Finnigan grabbed Thomas around the shoulders and leapt onto his back, insisting that he carry them both into the Great Hall. Weasley ruffled Potter’s hair, sending it even further into disarray. They all looked frightfully happy. Draco couldn’t help but wonder if Hogwarts had always been like that for them – fun and carefree. Not the near-death parts, obviously, but evenings in their dorm, weekends without classes, shared mealtimes.
It had been fun in Slytherin, but in a more structured manner. There had always been eyes on Draco – whether that was because of his House or simply his family name and its heavy legacy, he wasn’t sure – which had always left him a little on edge. He’d been performing a lot of the time, though he’d not ever thought that he hated it. He enjoyed being watched, liked the attention and the admiration that came with it. But it felt different here, surrounded by those who he couldn’t possibly consider friends given their history, but who made him feel welcome all the same.
A little later, when they’d tucked into their meals and quiet conversations had popped up around him, Draco tapped Potter on the arm. “What’s your favourite sweet? You didn’t say it earlier.”
Potter’s brows furrowed slightly – whether it was due to his poor memory, or because he couldn’t believe that Draco was inquiring after his preferences, was unclear. “Mars Bars.”
Draco frowned. “Like the planet?”
“Er, yeah, I suppose. They’re chocolate and caramel bars – Muggle ones. I used to sneak them from my aunt’s stash in the pantry when I was a kid. Tried to buy one on the Hogwarts Express in first year, but the trolley only sells wizarding stuff. I can’t remember the last time I had one, actually.”
“What’s your favourite wizarding one, then?”
Potter smiled. “Chocolate frogs. Preferably without my face on them.”
Draco hummed in recognition. “Have you ever had one of the dark chocolate versions? They’re 90% cocoa.” Potter shook his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised – they’re rather highbrow. Mother always sends them when she can; perhaps I’ll shave off a sliver of one next time so that you can try it. If you have something to bargain with, that is.”
“I could steal another of Michael Corner’s shite beers?”
Snorting, Draco said, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Potter pressed his lips together, but he wasn’t quick enough to hide his smile.
*
“Now, listen: you’re going to have to get inside his head.”
“Right.”
“Think of things that he likes. Money and power and all that. Potions. Ambition.”
“How very stereotypical.”
“And he … collects things. Not rocks or stamps but–”
Rolling his eyes, Draco said, “Weasley, has anyone ever told you that you’d make a good Quidditch Captain, what with all these speeches?”
“No,” Weasley said, brightening slightly.
“That’s because you’re shit at pep talks. Trying to educate a Slytherin on how to manipulate? Honestly.” Draco shook his head. “Hopeless. Sit back and let me do what I do best.”
Potter cocked his head to the side. “Slughorn’s not like those girls that used to follow you around in third year. You’re going to have to come up with a plan.”
“A plan? I do my best manipulating without a plan.”
“Brilliant,” said Potter, deadpan. “Only, it took me months to convince him to do me a favour when we were in sixth year, and I’m … you know.”
“What? Thick?”
“The Chosen One.”
“You’re sure as fuck not my Chosen One, you insufferable git. And I’ll bet that you didn’t grow up lying before you learned to tell the truth. My mother still thinks my first word was ‘abacus’, you know? In actual fact it was ‘Mippy’ – my favourite elf.”
“What a bloody good story,” Weasley said. “Only, the next class is about to start, and you know how Slughorn hates getting off schedule. So, you’d better crack on with it.”
There were indeed a few younger students beginning to filter in for second year Potions, and Draco wasn’t keen to give away all of his trade secrets, so he sauntered up to Slughorn’s desk and made himself known.
“Good afternoon, Professor.”
Slughorn glanced up. His eyes widened when he took in who Draco was, before dropping back down to the notes he was shuffling about. “Mr Malfoy. Did you have a question about the reading?”
“No, I’m all up to speed on the viscosity of Bubotuber puss. Fascinating stuff, there’s an Order of Merlin waiting for the first person to get that into a marketable skin cream.”
“Yes, yes,” Slughorn muttered. “Was there something else that you needed?”
Pursing his lips just slightly, Draco said, “Professor, did I ever tell you about my mother’s sister?”
Looking more than a little taken aback, Slughorn asked, “Mr Malfoy, are you referring to Miss Lestrange?”
“Oh,” said Draco. “Fuck. Uh, sorry. No. Actually, this one was removed from the family tree before I was born. It was a proper high society scandal, the full monty. But, uh, she and I recently reconnected–”
“Yes, yes, come in,” Slughorn called over Draco’s shoulder, waving through the group of tittering Second Years.
Draco took a long breath in and then out. “She’s a very successful actress, actually. She’s in loads of Muggle films, which is why I thought to reach out to her.”
Slughorn glanced up. “Is that right?”
“Oh, yes.” Sensing that victory was near, Draco pressed on. “She was thrilled to hear from me, given that I’m her only nephew and she’s been looking for someone to continue her shining legacy. It won’t be easy, given how talented she is. She’s been in a heap of stuff, my aunt. Would you consider yourself a film buff, Sir?”
Preening, Slughorn said, “Only for the very best, my boy.”
“Well then you must have heard of her – Pippy Ball? She had to change her surname from Black, of course.”
“Why, yes I have,” Slughorn replied. “She was in … oh, the name escapes me … the one with the animals, yes?”
“Yes,” said Draco. “A Dog’s Life. The canine actors were Crups with prosthetic tails, you know?”
“Well, that is very interesting indeed. Dare I say that I’ve always wanted a film star as a student.”
Smirking, Draco said, “I’ve been thinking of pursuing acting myself. You might see me in Muggle films in a few years’ time. Aunt Pippy thinks it’ll only take three before I star in my first blockbanger.”
“Blockbusters, yes, oh my.” Slughorn shook his head as he took Draco in as though seeing him for the first time. “My boy, it’s rather short notice but would you perhaps like to come to one of my Slug Club dinners next weekend? Cocktail attire is a must, so you might need to put in a rush order.”
Draco held up his hand. “Say no more, Professor. I’d love to.”
He couldn’t help but smirk as he met up with Potter and Weasley in the hallway. It very quickly dropped off his face when Weasley loudly proclaimed, “Now that you’re going to the dinner, we’ll just have to agree on who you’re taking”, and Draco thought about tripping him on purpose.
“Not Eloise Midgen. Anyone but her.”
“Has to be someone who can, you know, leave their designated area.” Rather evilly, Weasley tapped a finger on his chin. “Otherwise, I’d be suggesting Moaning Myrtle. You still need to use her toilet, you realise?”
Through gritted teeth, Draco said, “I’m working up to it.”
“Go in the middle of the night,” Potter said, idiotically. “She might be asleep then.”
“Do ghosts sleep?” Weasley asked.
“Of fucking course ghosts don’t sleep,” Draco hissed. “Let me have one moment of victory before you start selling my cock downriver.”
“You should do it tonight,” said Potter. “Peeves usually hangs out in that area on Fridays, so you’d be able to knock two off in one go.”
“I’ll knock you off,” Draco muttered, elbowing Potter in the side. “Why are you walking so close? Have you not heard of personal space?”
“No,” said Potter, deliberately running into him.
Weasley grabbed Potter by the elbow and steered him toward the staircase that would take them straight up to the DADA classroom. He shot a wink at Draco over Potter’s head. “Make sure to drink extra pumpkin juice at dinner.”
*
If sneaking out of the Gryffindor dorms under the omniscient eye of Mrs Norris hadn’t been bad enough, Draco was in the process of experiencing the most anxiety-inducing wee of his life.
It was a new low, really. Standing over a cracked bowl in the second-floor girls' lavatory with his limp prick in hand and not a droplet to be seen.
Thankfully, Myrtle was also nowhere to be seen, but it was only a matter of time.
In the stall beside him, a rather girlish titter sounded.
Draco smacked his palm against the wall and hissed, “Shut up.”
“Performance anxiety?” Finnigan asked, before devolving into giggles.
“I’d like to see any of you try and do this,” Draco muttered. “It’s plenty fucking harder than it looks.”
“I don’t think it is,” Thomas said dryly, and a fresh wave of laughter sounded.
“Just focus,” said Longbottom. He let out an eep when Draco slapped the stall wall again.
Staring down at the bowl, Draco hissed, “I can’t do it with you all listening.”
There was a pause.
“Anyone know any sea shanties?” Thomas asked.
Then – music to Draco’s ears.
Not piss, no. But the screams of a group of blokes being surprised by a randy teenage ghost.
“Boys?” Myrtle gasped, delighted. “In my bathroom?” Another gasp. “Oh Harry, you’ve come to visit.”
“Er,” said Potter. “Yes. Hi, Myrtle.” There was the sound of shuffling and a distinctly Weasel-like ooft. “How … how are you?”
“Far better now that you’re all here. My, my, are you playing sardines? I’ll squeeze in too, right next to Harry. Oh, now who are you? You’re rather handsome.”
“Uh,” said Longbottom. “Hello, Myrtle.”
Unable to help himself, Draco let out a bark of laughter. Thankfully, the sudden jolt did have a positive effect: he finally managed to make a start at completing his task. He gritted his teeth as Myrtle continued shamelessly tittering and flirting with both Potter and Longbottom.
“Is that…” There was a bang as the stall door next to Draco’s was thrown open. Without warning, Myrtle’s ghostly head appeared through the wall, her eyes widening.
“Now,” someone said, and then Draco was being hauled through the bathroom.
“Put your prick away,” Thomas snorted, as though the manhandling of Draco from the relative privacy of the stall was his fault.
Just for that, Draco took his time doing it.
“What,” he asked, once they were safely secreted in a nearby hallway alcove, “was the meaning of that?”
Weasley cringed. “She gets handsy if you’re in there too long. Suppose you’d know that though, wouldn’t you? Given how much time you spent in there in sixth year?”
“Oh, my mistake,” Draco said, ever so sweetly, “I didn’t remember that particular tidbit of information, given that all my blood stayed inside my body on this particular visit to that bathroom.”
Potter patted him weakly on the shoulder. “Want to fire a Crucio down the hall for old times’ sake?”
“Yes,” said Draco, “but only if one of you ‘accidentally’ falls into its path. Now, where’s Peeves? I want to continue my winning streak.”
Weasley crowded Potter against the wall. They both bent their heads low as they inspected something that Potter was holding.
“What’s that?” Draco asked.
He was ignored.
“I said what’s that–ow.”
“Sorry,” said Finnigan, not looking sorry at all.
Draco frowned as he rubbed his arm. “Why are you whispering?”
“Harry’s doing Divination,” said Longbottom.
“You,” Draco replied, “are the world’s worst liar. And Potter’s arse at Divination.”
“I’m not,” said Potter. He smoothed down the pocket of his robes as he turned around, which was rather suspicious. “Peeves is in one of the fourth-floor classrooms. Shall we?”
Draco held out an arm. “Lead the way, Trelawney.”
*
“You’re going to give me away.”
“We’re not.”
“You are. You idiots walk around like you’ve got blocks of stone on your feet. And you can’t help but laugh at my expense - just look at Finnigan’s face.”
“Oi,” said Finnigan, through muffled laughter.
Draco sighed. He rolled his eyes, wincing as a crash sounded from further down the hall; Peeves was stacking desks atop one another again. “I’m risking expulsion for this, you realise? And you’re only upping the likelihood of that by refusing to keep a safe distance.”
“You won’t,” said Weasley. “Get expelled, I mean. McGonagall hates Peeves. Apparently, he stuck all her books to the ceiling in her first year as a professor. Meows at her too. Which is actually a bit fucked, now that I think about it.”
“They’ll stay back,” Potter said, a tinge of amusement in his words.
Draco’s eyes narrowed. He pointed an accusatory finger in Potter’s direction. “‘They’? How about ‘we’?”
Smile widening, Potter said, “You won’t see any of us near you, especially me. Neither will Peeves.”
Satisfied, Draco nodded. His eye twitched when another desk crashed to the floor in the adjoining room. “Fucking hell, he doesn’t rest, does he?”
Weasley leaned back against the wall of the alcove. “Must be proper fucking boring to be dead. I’m not coming back as a ghost unless I get to haunt one of those airplane contraptions; get the see the world, at least.”
With the unsettling image of ghost-Weasley hiding in a luggage compartment lingering in his mind's eye, Draco exited the alcove. Behind him, there was a shuffling sound and a suspicious amount of whispering. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, though it didn’t seem as though any of his knobhead dormmates were going to try and follow him.
As Draco made his way down the corridor, wand in hand, footsteps sounded behind him. They stopped when he whirled around, a Bat-Bogey Hex on the tip of his tongue. The fact that there was nobody there was highly suspicious and more than a little unsettling, but it wasn’t as though he didn’t know that there were ghosts about. Plenty of them thought it a right fucking laugh to play tricks on the students, though they typically left the older ones alone, as they’d grown out of shrieking in fright and had moved on to swearing instead.
Shaking off the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, Draco pressed onwards. He’d need to keep his wits about him if he was going to successfully outfox Hogwarts’ most annoying spirit. He pressed his back to the wall and leaned into the open doorway just enough to get a peek at whatever was going on inside the unused classroom. He raised his eyebrows skyward when he saw what Peeves was up to; truly, did crafting towering stacks of desks never get old? They were quite sculpture-like, actually – arranged to look like the body of a troll with a very shrunken head.
After a deep breath, Draco cast a light Disillusionment; he’d been denied a stronger one, as the Gryffindors claimed that they wouldn’t be able to verify that he’d completed the challenge if they couldn’t properly follow along with his progress. Not that they could do that from all the way down the hall, tucked into an alcove, but alas. They’d never been the smartest gnomes in the garden.
Getting the best of Peeves wouldn’t be easy; centuries of students had tried, failed, and ended up strung up by their feet in the Entrance Hall as payback. But Draco wasn’t just anyone, and he wouldn’t let the failures of lesser men influence the opportunity of a lifetime: getting to rub Weasley’s nose in it.
A simple Immobulus froze the desks where they sat. A whispered Locomotor had one of the chairs scuttling across the floor.
Peeves paused and cocked his head. He turned around slowly, a maniacal grin on his face. “Who goes there?”
Swallowing, Draco flicked the tip of his wand to the side. It sent the chair crashing against the blackboard. The next step of his plan was far more fiddly – too fiddly, in fact, for him to be confident in it. Thomas had told him that he was downright idiotic for not trying something else, but what did Dean sodding Thomas know?
The piece of chalk that Draco Levitated dragged a thin white line down the black slate. The sound was entirely unpleasant; as Draco was so far away, he had difficulty working out just how hard to press. He inched closer, tucking his body behind one of the suits of armour that stood just inside the doorway.
Peeves floated towards the blackboard; his eyes fixed on the words. After a moment, he cackled. “You’d like to play a game?”
Yes, Draco wrote. I lie in a place where the stars also linger, and where clouds meet flame. Find me.
He let the chalk drop, feeling rather satisfied with himself. He’d take off at a run, it would look as though Peeves was following him, and then he’d lose his pursuer on the staircase.
“Linger,” Peeves muttered. He stopped, glancing around the room, before taking a deep inhale. His gaze caught on something, and he smiled in a properly evil manner that – Draco wasn’t afraid to admit – did bother him. Peeves was a poltergeist, after all. And an evil one at that.
Just as Draco was about to lob a book down the hall and take off running, the door to the classroom slammed shut. An oof sounded, and Draco clapped a hand over his mouth – he hadn’t intended to make a noise, nor had he realised he’d done it, but the evidence was right there.
Cackling, Peeves said, “Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.”
What, Draco mouthed, the fuck. He slid another chair across the flagstones, but Peeves paid it no attention. Rather, he floated closer.
“Who here thinks they can fool me? Show yourself.”
Pressing his lips together, Draco weighed his options. He couldn’t get out of the room without alerting Peeves, but it would also be difficult to create a proper distraction, given their close proximity. Casting would also be unwise, given that the use of any spells would immediately reveal Draco’s location.
Fuck, Draco mouthed, pushing his body back against the wall. He scarcely breathed as Peeves floated closer.
Just as he raised his wand in preparation to cast a Blasting Charm at the bookshelf, a roll of parchment landed in front of him. It rolled across the floor and came to rest against his shoe.
There was a pause, and then Peeves changed course, heading closer to the blackboard.
Frowning, Draco looked around the room. There didn’t appear to be anyone there with him – had he let out a burst of accidental magic? He’d not had a problem with that since second year, at least, and that had been more a joke than anything else. If morphing into a Gryffindor had stunted his magical growth that much, then he had no idea what he was going to tell his mother during the term break.
Peeves had plucked what seemed to be a jar of dirt from the shelving unit against the wall and began to unscrew the top. “Ring-a-ring o' roses, a pocket full of posies.”
Draco stepped closer to the door and fumbled with the handle. Classrooms didn’t usually lock from the inside, did they? Perhaps the handle on this one was just stuck. He jerked his hand back as he brushed something soft, yet there didn’t appear to be anything there.
“A-tishoo! A-tishoo!” Peeves cried. Then, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, “We all fall down!”
Draco was hit in the face with a clump of dirt.
Well, the entire wall seemed to have been. But the entire wall wasn’t under a Disillusionment, so. It did a pretty good job at revealing his exact location.
In a high, tittering voice, Peeves said, “Got you,” and lunged.
“Avis,” said an irritatingly familiar voice. “Oppugno.” A hand closed around Draco’s wrist as a flock of doves appeared out of nowhere and began to swarm around Peeves’ head. He batted at them, shouting and carrying on, as he crashed against the wall beside Draco. “Come on, Draco, bloody hell.”
Gritting his teeth, Draco went. He tried not to look at the spot where his arm disappeared into thin air; it was rather unsettling, seeing yourself missing a vital limb. The door flew open in front of him; the movement made something soft brush against his skin.
Two pairs of feet sprinted down the hall. Peeves was right on their heels, the Conjured birds on his.
“Aberto,” Potter – because of course it was Potter – shouted. The door to their left swung open, banging against the stone wall. Peeves shot inside, loudly cursing the birds that were doing their darndest to peck at skin that did not exist. “Hang on – in here.” Potter jerked Draco to a stop in an alcove and pushed him against the wall. “Crouch down.”
“If you’ve messed up this task for me, I swear.” Draco grumbled but did as he was asked. He slid to the floor, knees against his chest, and suppressed the urge to bolt as invisible-Potter pressed against his side. Then, in an instant, Potter was visible again. He shot Draco a shit-eating grin before throwing something shimmery over their heads.
“Hello,” said Potter. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“What,” Draco muttered, “the great buggering fuck is this?”
“Something that you’re not going to remember because I’m going to Obliviate you afterwards.”
“Try it and see how that goes. I dare you.”
“Just joking.” Potter leaned his head back against the wall. He flicked his thumb at the thin layer of fabric that stretched over their heads. “Special cloak. Got it from my dad.”
“You don’t have a dad,” said Draco.
“Reckon I did at one point,” Potter replied, though he didn’t look nearly as bothered by the comment as Draco wanted him to be. “And you should be thanking me right about now. Don’t worry, I’ll wait.”
A crash sounded from the next room. Peeves swore loudly.
“You have dirt on your face,” said Potter.
“Fuck off,” said Draco. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.
“You didn’t get it.”
“I don’t care.”
“You do, or you wouldn’t have tried to wipe it.”
“As long as nobody else sees me looking like a Victorian-era street urchin, I’ll be fine.”
“What, you don’t care about me seeing you?”
Draco scoffed. “You looked exactly like that until fourth year. It would be hypocritical of you to comment on my appearance in anything less than an overly positive manner.”
“Uh huh,” said Potter, eloquently. “Do you want me to wipe it?”
“Yes,” said Draco. He narrowed his eyes as Potter brought his thumb to his mouth. “If you lick your finger and put it anywhere near my face, I’ll lamp you.”
For a moment, Potter looked as though he might test it. Mercifully, when his thumb rubbed at Draco’s forehead, it was dry. Though perhaps, Draco mused, he should have just swallowed all his remaining dignity and allowed Potter to rub all sorts of unmentionables on him, since the lack of moisture didn’t seem to be working – Potter kept dragging the pad of his thumb across Draco’s skin.
“Ow,” Draco muttered, though it didn’t hurt at all.
“Sorry,” Potter said, drawing his hand back. “It’s gone now.” He looked a little sheepish – as he should, given that he’d ruined Draco’s perfect act of subterfuge.
“We shouldn’t wait here too long – the others will surely think I’ve given up.”
“Nah,” said Potter, throwing Draco a lazy smile. “They’ve definitely already headed back upstairs.”
Narrowing his eyes, Draco said, “But you chose not to?”
Potter shrugged. “Thought you might need some back up.”
“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t given away my position.”
“Sorry for saving you.”
“It doesn’t count as a good deed if you put the person in the situation before you rescue them, you realise?”
“Just say ‘thank you’.”
“No.” Draco rose to his feet, dragging the Cloak upwards with him. “Come on, Merlin alive.”
Potter scrambled upwards. “You don’t want to wait a bit longer?”
Draco edged out of the alcove, keeping an eye out for Peeves. “What I want is to have my win confirmed. The plan has hit a snag, yes, but it isn’t dead in the water quite yet. Do you see that portrait over there?” He pointed at the painting of a bearded man in dress robes sat next to a dog in a top hat. Potter nodded. “Behind that is a secret passageway that will take us to the third floor. Actually, it ends only a few rooms away from the entrance to the Eighth Year Common Room.”
“You’ve actually thought about this,” Potter said. He sounded impressed, which was mildly insulting.
“Of course I have,” Draco scoffed. He waved a hand in the direction of their salvation. “Are you coming, or not?”
Evidently, Potter was.
They crept down the hallway, pressed so tightly together that they kept stepping on each other’s feet. Well, Potter kept doing it, so Draco retaliated; he’d never be so uncoordinated as to do it accidentally.
Right when Draco’s hand touched the gilded edge of the portrait, Peeves decided to make his reappearance.
“Who goes there?” he called, throwing a stack of books through the door of the classroom he’d been ransacking. “You’re playing my game now.”
“Nope,” Draco muttered, swinging the portrait away from the wall and stepping into the dank passageway. “Absolutely not.”
“Go,” Potter hissed, shoving himself against Draco’s back and tangling their feet again.
Draco had half a mind to leave him out there, but he did rather like Potter’s special cloak, so he let him through before he closed the portrait. They’d fooled Peeves, if the sound of books being thrown down the hallway was any indication.
“Lumos,” Potter whispered, and the space filled with light. He tugged the cloak off their heads and slung it over the crook of his elbow. When he looked at Draco, it was with a wide grin. “That was fun. We could have been doing that all through school if you weren’t such a grass.”
“Fun?” Draco cried. “I was seconds away from being strung up by my ears thanks to your idiocy. Do you realise how malleable the shell of an ear is? I would’ve been permanently scarred.”
Potter just kept grinning. “Try harder to sound upset, you’re not doing a very good job.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Fine. I still think you’re a knob though.”
Potter hummed. The light from his Lumos glinted off the thick lenses of his glasses as he blinked up at Draco. “What was the answer to your riddle, by the way? The one you gave Peeves?”
“Oh, uh, what do you think it was?”
Potter shrugged. “At first I thought of the Astronomy Tower, but I wasn’t sure.”
“No wonder you didn’t get Resorted into Ravenclaw.” Draco’s knees bumped against Potter’s as he leaned against the wall. “Where in the castle can you see stars, clouds, and fire?”
“Feels a bit off-colour to say the Room of Requirement, given your history.”
“Thanks. And I’ll remind you that you were also there for the fire you’re referring to. But no – try again.”
“Er…” Potter’s eyes roamed Draco’s face as though trying to find the answer there. “The Dungeons?”
“I can assure you that you don’t get a clear view of stars or clouds down there.”
“Hagrid’s hut?”
Draco scoffed. “No. Here’s a hint: it changes daily.”
Potter snapped his fingers in the air; their close proximity meant that it was right in front of Draco’s face. “The portrait gallery in the first-floor corridor – there’s a huge painting of the Highlands there. Did I get it right?”
“No,” Draco replied, feeling rather satisfied with himself. “It’s the Great Hall. You know, because of the Charmed ceiling.”
When Potter said, “That’s clever,” it actually sounded as though he meant it. He leaned in a bit closer, shoulders arching off the stone wall. He opened his mouth to speak but was distracted by the sound of Peeves chucking something against the wall. He pressed his lips together and straightened up. “Don’t reckon I’ve ever used this passageway before. Want to lead the way?”
“You’re the one with the light – shouldn’t you be in front?”
Shrugging, Potter said, “Reckon I’d prefer to be behind.”
Muttering to himself, Draco drew his wand and mimicked Potter’s Lumos in falsetto. He tried not to stare when Potter bit his lip in an attempt to stop his smile from spreading further.
With a swallow that wasn’t nearly powerful enough to ground him, Draco muttered, “Let’s go.” Without any fanfare at all, he led them both into the dark.
*
It was over breakfast the next morning that Draco was delivered two pieces of bad news. Each threatened his sanity in vastly different, yet still deadly serious ways.
The first was arguably the one that would have the most long-term consequences.
“You can’t go to Slughorn’s dinner alone,” Thomas said. He tapped his fork against the side of his bread roll. “It’ll look sad, and he might not let you in. You’re supposed to network.”
“He’ll let me in,” Draco protested. “He thinks I’m a budding actor in the Holyrood scene.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Right. But do you really want to take the risk and have him send you away? You’d fail the task.”
“I’m starting to think that cleaning the bathroom wouldn’t be all that bad compared to this,” Draco lied. He slid his hand behind his back and crossed his fingers, praying to the universe that his bluff wouldn’t be called.
“Alright,” said Weasley, “I’ll go ask Filch for a bucket of water and a mop. Reckon you can wait ten minutes before starting?”
“Who should I take?” Draco asked quickly. “Be nice.”
Finnigan sat up straight and looked past Draco’s shoulder. “What about Romilda Vane? She might try to slip you a love potion, so I’d keep your drink covered.”
“No,” Longbottom piped up, “he really should see if Myrtle wants to go. We might be able to convince her to come out of the bathroom.”
The resounding chorus of cheers was broken only by Weasley’s raised hand and decidedly evil grin. “No. I’ve got one better: Draco should take Harry.”
“What?” Draco asked, at the same time that Potter hissed, “Ron, bugger off.”
“It’s perfect,” Weasley continued. “Draco won’t want to take him–”
“Thanks,” said Potter.
“–we’ll have someone there to make sure he doesn’t lie about going, and it’ll get Harry out and about. Which he needs.”
“You make me sound like a recluse.”
“Well, you did say no to game of Quidditch the other day so that you could stare at–”
“I said bugger off.”
Weasley held up both hands. “Fine. I will. But only because you’re my mate, and only if you agree to go.”
“Do I really not get an opinion?” Draco asked and was summarily ignored.
“Slughorn invited me ages ago, after our first Potions lesson,” Potter said. “I told him that I had a Portkey booked that night to go visit my mum’s grave, so I couldn’t go.”
Draco choked on his pumpkin juice. He spluttered when Finnigan smacked him on the back.
“You have to go,” said Weasley. “Or nothing will change.”
“You don’t know what,” Potter protested.
“I do.”
“You don’t – you’re not Hermione.”
“Great thought – let’s go ask her opinion.”
“No,” Potter all but shouted, grabbing at Weasley’s arm and pushing him down onto the bench. “I’ll go, I’ll go.”
Weasley looked around the table, visibly pleased with himself. He winked at Draco, which was rather unsettling. “Brilliant. We’ll spell your dress robes to match Draco’s.”
“Blue and silver,” Draco said. He lifted his brows when five pairs of eyes turned on him. “My dress robes? They’re lapis blue with a threaded silver accent.”
Potter swallowed. He stared at Draco as he asked, “You’re not going to say anything nasty about me going with you?”
Draco shrugged. He punctured a green bean with the tines of his fork. “As much as it pains me to admit it, I would rather take you than Moaning Myrtle. I do expect you to dress properly, however. Thomas can be in charge of that; he’s clearly the most fashionable of you all, though it’s an absurdly low bar to clear. And it wouldn’t be that awful, I don’t think.”
“Huh,” said Weasley. He looked properly gormless, gaping like that.
With a decisive roll of his eyes, Draco flicked his bean in Potter’s direction; it pinged off the side of his jaw and landed on Weasley’s plate. “So, what do you say, Scarhead? Want to yank that stick out of your arse and come have a good time with me?”
Potter blinked. “I’ve been to a Slug Club dinner before – there’s not much of a good time to be had, not unless you get properly sloshed beforehand. You crashed the last one I went to, didn’t you? Because you couldn’t score an invite?”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Draco lied. “Finnigan, out of the goodness of your heart, you’ll need to prepare your keg.”
Finnigan threw Draco a salute in response.
Weasley clapped a hand onto Potter’s shoulder. “Brilliant. But there’s just one more thing, Draco.”
*
“You can do this,” Draco muttered to himself. “What’s the worst that can happen? He can’t send you to detention anymore. And he can’t tell Mother or Father, given that he’s not got a portrait in their house. And I’m under duress, so he can’t be disappointed. Or angry. Can portraits even get properly angry? They’ve not got blood or a heartbeat or–”
“Mr Malfoy?” McGonagall prompted. She looked mightily concerned and also incredibly regretful that she’d agreed to let Draco loose in her office. “Are you quite alright?”
“Yes,” Draco lied. “I may be on the verge of a mental break, but I haven’t quite tipped over the edge yet. But thank you for asking.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll let Madam Pomfrey know that you’ll be stopping by to see her on your way back to your dormitory.”
Confused, Draco said, “But I’m not unwell?”
“That remains to be seen,” McGonagall muttered. “I trust that Mister Potter and Mister Weasley haven’t been giving you any trouble? Or any of the other students, for that matter?”
She wouldn’t leave until Draco had practically sung his dormmates praises, and even then, she seemed apprehensive.
“Finally,” Draco sighed, watching as the door to the Headmistress’ office swung shut behind McGonagall. No doubt she’d be waiting just outside, but that was fine. Hopefully he’d only need a minute.
Locating what he was there for was easy. It was the convincing that would be the difficult part.
“Draco,” Snape drawled. “How lovely to see you. What was the gift that I gave your mother in Christmas of 1993?”
Taken aback, Draco blinked. “Why?”
“Because I was not born yesterday. I can recognise an imposter when I see one.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “It was a box of Grindylow scales. She wanted to use them as fertiliser.”
Snape leaned so far forward that his hooked nose nearly came off the canvas. “Very good. In that case, you should be more discreet when redressing after visiting a paramour. Not a good look for the Malfoy name.”
Ah. Right.
Draco slowly tucked his crimson and gold tie through the neck of his jumper. “It’s a prank. We’re all dressing up as other Houses today.”
“I would have thought that you would have more important things on your mind, given the complexities surrounding your return to school this year.”
“Fun is important. Can’t revise for N.E.W.T.s without a bit of fun.”
“Hmm,” said Snape. “What is the function of a lacefly shell in a medical potion?”
“It changes the consistency, makes it smoother.”
“If Pepper Up is left in the moonlight for an extended period of time, what happens?”
“It turns alcoholic.”
“What is the result of adding the particles from a Time Turner into Felix Felicis?”
Draco paused. “I don’t remember anything about Time Turners from your lessons, Professor.”
“Good.” Snape steepled his fingers. “Why are you here? Minerva said that you required my counsel.”
Draco snorted. “She definitely didn’t put it like that.”
“No,” Snape agreed. “She said that you were a child in need and that I should set aside my general dislike for teenagers and assist you. So, here you are, and here I am.”
“I need a favour.”
“Need I remind you that I am forevermore a portrait?”
“Not a concern at all. All I need is for you to say that Gryffindor is the best school House.”
With a bark of laughter, Snape replied, “I think not.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“I’m asking nicely.”
“No.”
Draco threw his hands in the air. “You were friends with my parents for how long? You can do this one thing for me.”
“I think not.”
“You never do anything for me. Have a heart.”
“You will do well to remember that I kept you alive while you worked on your little sixth year project.”
“So, this should be easy in comparison.”
“I also killed Dumbledore for you.”
“If you’d failed at that, I wouldn’t be in this position right now. Really, you owe me.”
There was a tinge of amusement in Snape’s oily features. “Do I, now?”
“Alright,” Draco said, changing tactics. “How about this: it’s opposite day. I’m going to say something that is the opposite of what I think, then it’ll be your turn. Hufflepuff has the best Quidditch team.”
“Not since young Diggory was executed.”
“Professor Binns is the best teacher.”
“My, my, Draco, you really have changed your opinions. Your father would be so very displeased.”
“You’re enjoying this, you sadist.”
“No, do continue. I’d be delighted to see what else you come up with.”
Draco chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Alright, how about this: What is the best House for Harry Potter to be in?”
“Slytherin,” Snape replied. “Anyone would be better off there.”
“He would have hated it. What’s the best one for him?”
Snape sighed. “Gryffindor, if you’d like to be so very dull.”
“You have to include the question in your answer. Like when you write a Potions essay.”
“Draco,” Snape said, “I am very old and very dead. There is only so much bullshit I can take.”
“I’m trapped in a time loop,” Draco said. “The Sphinx won’t free me until you say the magic words.”
Snape arched an eyebrow. “And those are?”
“‘Gryffindor is the best House’. I’m very aware that it’s a fucking ghastly statement, particularly for proud Slytherins such as ourselves. But the Sphinx isn’t listening to my protests.”
For a moment, Draco thought Snape might not give in.
But, after the most long-suffering sigh that Draco had ever heard, Snape muttered, “I do not abide by the following statement and want to make it clear that I am currently under duress: Gryffindor is the best House.”
Draco let out a whoop and punched both fists into the air. He ignored Snape’s comment about him looking undignified and sprinted towards the door. He tossed a thank you, Professor over his shoulder as he went. He nearly crashed into McGonagall, who was lurking on the landing.
“Don’t forget about your appointment with Madam Pomfrey,” she called after him.
Upon reaching the Eighth Years’ Common Room, Draco was severely out of breath. He panted as the portrait swung open to reveal the Gryffindors all clustered on a couch together.
“I did it,” he wheezed, staggering into the room and dropping onto the rug. “He said it.”
“Good lad,” Finnigan said, patting Draco on the shin.
“Where’s the closest Pensieve?” Draco asked. The side of his shoe was resting against Potter’s ankle, but he wasn’t about to move it quite yet. “I’ve got proof.”
“‘S alright,” Weasley replied, “we trust you.”
“Fuck off, you do. I made him say it, so I want everyone to see it.”
“I’ve got a portable one,” Susan Bones called out from the window seat. “Would you like to borrow it?”
As they all took turns dipping their faces into Draco’s shiny threads of memory, Potter stuck close to his side.
“Was it alright?” he asked. “Seeing Snape again?”
Frowning slightly, Draco said, “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Just … you liked him, didn’t you? As a professor. And he helped you out, later on.”
Draco swallowed around the lump that was forming in his throat. “Yeah. He did.”
Potter’s hand brushed against the back of Draco’s. “Reckon he probably liked talking to you, even if it was … about this.”
“Maybe. Likely, I was interrupting his beauty rest, and he couldn’t wait to see the back of me. But who knows.”
When Weasley stepped back from the Pensieve he was already laughing. “That was incredible, Draco. Fuck, I’m so glad you wanted us to watch this. Hermione, come over here and look.”
Potter hooked his pinky around Draco’s own for just a moment. He squeezed gently, the round of his second knuckle catching between Draco’s pinky and ring finger.
When Draco turned to look at Potter, his hand had already dropped back to his side.
*
It was around the time that Draco was spelling his hair into a swoop in the dorm mirror that he realised he should probably be panicking quite a bit more than he was. At the very least, a mild tizzy was in order, yet he felt oddly serene. Fourteen-year-old Draco would have been absolutely wetting himself, given that he was essentially taking Potter on a date. It still counted, even if their destination was a Slug Club gathering rather than a lavish Parisian rooftop bar. Though, he supposed he could still chat Potter up over pudding, if that was where the night was going. Fuck if he knew, really.
“Your hair’s sticking up at the back,” Weasley said.
Draco grumbled and shot another spell at the back of his head.
“Still there.”
“Then come over and bloody help, you knob.”
“Can I not just…” Weasley waved his hand in the air, gesturing at his wand and then at Draco, not bothering to get up from his bed.
“Stay there, Draco, I’ll do it.” Potter came up behind him, twirling his wand between his fingers. “Look forward, yeah? Don’t want to catch your ear by accident.”
Draco stared at his reflection as Potter’s wand poked against the back of his head. He’d managed to avoid looking directly at the git in question all evening, and had successfully pushed back their departure from the dorm a good thirty minutes in order to allow for more internal meditation.
Unfortunately, no amount of deep breathing could help him when Potter turned Draco’s head to the side to inspect his hair; their eyes locked and Draco felt his pulse thump behind his eyes.
“Looks good to me,” Potter said. There was a smile on his face as he angled Draco’s chin down to check the crown of his head. “I’m guessing Pansy usually does this for you?”
Draco nodded, pressing his chin against Potter’s palm. “Or my mother. Occasionally a very stylish house elf.”
“A house elf,” Weasley muttered from off to the side. Then, louder, “Draco, just out of interest, how old were you when you learned how to tie your own shoelaces?”
Draco cleared his throat. “Ready to go? Honestly, Potter, you’ve taken an absolute age; we’re bound to be late now.”
“Right,” said Potter, grinning.
“How old, Draco?” Weasley called out.
Deep blue swirled around Draco’s legs when he rose to stand, his robes fanning out in every direction. The stardust pattern rippled with each step he took; it reflected some of the light that hit it and took in others, using it to power the occasional meteor that zipped across his chest and down his back.
It didn’t escape his notice that Potter was very obviously trying not to stare.
As he should – what use was it wearing one’s finest robes if a debatably-fit celebrity didn’t take notice?
As if sensing his thoughts, Potter turned in a circle, hands out to the sides. “Verdict?”
Pursing his lips, Draco allowed himself to look Potter up and down. The ‘debatable’ portion of his earlier assertion was doing some fairly heavy lifting. On the one hand, Potter’s robes fit him absurdly well. Draco had been expecting him to come out of the bathroom dressed in the same ones that he’d worn to the Yule Ball back in fourth year. It would have been irritating, yet expected, and besides, Potter would still possess a large amount of social capital if he were dressed in a potato sack.
Instead – in a move that was so wildly out of character that Draco wasn’t entirely convinced that he hadn’t been the victim of a prank – Potter had put in effort. Actual effort. The kind that Draco would insist that his romantic partners put in, should he ever have one. It was absurd to the point of … well … absurdity.
Potter’s robes were a deep green; the jewel tone contrasted nicely with Draco’s own. The fabric had been stitched with platinum thread – also a match to Draco’s – and he’d even swapped out his usual gold-rimmed spectacles for silver ones – once again, a match. When Potter spun around a second time, the hem of his robes lifting, Draco noted that even his socks had tiny glittering stars around the cuffs.
It took a moment for Draco to compose himself; Merlin only knew what had been on his face. He surreptitiously lifted his hand to brush the corner of his mouth; blessedly, it came away drool-free.
Eyes locking on Potter’s own, he said, “You look as shite as ever.”
Absurdly, Potter’s grin widened. “Hoped you would say that. We heading off?”
“No,” Weasley said. “Not until Draco says how old he was when he learned how to–” His words devolved into angry murmurs as Draco shot a Langlock his way.
Once they’d made it out of the dorms and were walking down the deserted hallway, Potter asked, with barely concealed amusement, “You never learned how to tie your own shoelaces, did you?”
Draco set his shoulders back. “I was eight when my mother taught me how to spell them into loops. Only those in the throes of true dereliction would regularly perform such a task with their hands. Are you aware of everything your shoes touch in a day?”
“You don’t know how to do it. This is brilliant.”
With a flick of his wrist, Draco spelled Potter’s shoelaces undone. He carried on walking, smirking as Potter tripped and went crashing into a suit of armour. “Your parents clearly didn’t teach you either.”
“You know what, they didn’t,” Potter replied, shouting from rather far back. His steps quickened, his shoes tapping against the flagstones as he jogged to catch up. “When I die and I see them again, that’ll be the first thing I ask them. That and, you know, if they’re proud of me and all that rot.”
There was a brief moment of silence before Draco groaned dramatically. “I can’t very well say anything in response to that, can I? Merlin only knows who might be listening, and they’d certainly take it the wrong way.”
Potter grinned. “Being a wanker never stopped you before.”
“Yes, but the orphan joke is only funny in the context of the orphan – aka, you. When you bring your real childhood trauma into it, it’s all a bit much.”
Potter smacked his hand against his forehead. Sarcastically, “Fuck, sorry. Should have thought about you first. I will next time.”
Draco sniffed. “See to it that you do.” He chanced a look at Potter from the corner of his eye and found him still grinning rather dopily. “Are we…” His face scrunched up with distaste. “Potter … do we have a rapport?”
Snorting, Potter replied, “Yeah, I think we do.”
“Well bugger me with a broomstick. Who knew that orphan jokes were my ticket in.”
“You could try a few different ones as well. Reckon you’ve got some half-decent jabs baking up there.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. He narrowed them so far that he nearly collided with the wall when Potter made a sharp right turn.
“What?”
“Are you flirting with me?”
Potter left his field of view then, having stopped dead in the middle of the corridor.
It was a good thing that he had, since Draco’s face chose that exact moment to flush; he could feel his pulse beating in his cheeks, and he knew from experience that he probably looked as though he’d just spent a day in the sun.
Down the end of the corridor was the portrait of Ser Ansel the Tenth; they’d been instructed to give him the name of Slughorn’s favourite biscuit as the password to enter the party. He waved at them, beckoning them forward. Draco lifted a hand to return the gesture.
“Who are you waving at?” Potter had finally regained the use of his legs and began to make his way over to Draco.
“You didn’t answer my question: are you flirting with me?”
Potter’s lips did an odd pursing-while-also-pressing-together motion. “You didn’t answer mine either.”
“What – about my non-orphan-centred jokes?”
“No, about whether or not you could tie your own shoelaces. You know, if it came down to it. If you were wandless and house elf-less.”
“Ginger nut,” Draco said to the portrait. Then, to Potter, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Brilliant. You first.”
“No,” said Draco, watching as the portrait swung open to reveal a room decked out in purple and gold, “I can’t tie my laces and I’m too embarrassed to learn now.”
“Yes,” said Potter, stepping in close behind him, “I am flirting with you.”
“Harry,” Slughorn crowed, making his way through the crowd of guests. “I wasn’t expecting you, my boy.”
“Hello, Professor,” Harry said, nodding in acknowledgement. “I couldn’t let Draco have all the fun.”
“And your mother? Is she…”
“Still dead, yeah. Er…”
Unable to help himself, Draco snorted loudly. He patted Harry on the shoulder and began to steer him further into the room. “You’ll have to excuse my date; he gets a bit out of sorts after taking a Portkey. Or perhaps it’s the lingering effects of childhood malnutrition. Don’t suppose you happen to have any mead here, Professor?”
“He won’t try to poison it this time,” Harry said. “Promise.”
“Oh, my,” said Slughorn. He turned quickly when a blonde woman with a camera called his name; with any luck, she was an ex-club member and not a reporter.
“Nice one, dickhead,” Draco hissed. He held a hand in front of his mouth so that Potter couldn’t see his smile. Fat lot of good it did him, since Potter just grabbed his elbow and tugged it out of the way. “He’s going to think that I’m up to no good now, you realise?”
Potter wiggled his eyebrows. No doubt it was supposed to be a bit rakish, but instead he just looked like someone had spelled a set of caterpillars onto his forehead. “Aren’t you?”
Draco scoffed. “By being here with you? Definitely.” He scanned the room, nodding when he located the long table that was laden with all types of drink. “If he doesn’t have mead here, I say we break into his rooms, get pissed, and come back.”
A choked laugh sounded. Potter followed him to the table, a step behind. “Aren’t you on probation?”
“Yes. But you’re not.”
“And you want me to do criminal activities on your behalf?”
Hissing with delight, Draco plucked an opened bottle of mead from the table and poured it into two crystal glasses. He handed one to Potter and lifted his own in a toast. “Is that not what friends are for?”
“Sure,” said Potter, clinking his glass against Draco’s. “I don’t flirt with Ron though, so it might get a bit confusing.”
“Hmm.” Draco leaned back against the table, wincing when it groaned in warning; he shifted to a nearby pillar instead. “Perhaps I should start – someone ought to take up Granger’s mantle when she’s not around.” He wasn’t imagining that Potter had moved a step closer to him in response to his words – it was definitely happening. “Finnigan would go for it, if Weasley wouldn’t.”
“Stop.”
Draco let his head loll to the side; he raised his brows lazily. “Why should I?”
“Because I’ve already told you that I’m flirting with you.”
“Yes, you have. Whatever happened to mystery? Mystique? Or is this just the Gryffindor way?”
Potter shrugged; his shoulder brushed against Draco’s own as he leaned back against the pillar. “Moreso that I’ve been a bit crap at picking up signals in the past, so I thought it better to just tell you. Do you mind?”
“Not as much as I should.”
“Brilliant.”
When Draco looked over, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Stop smiling.”
“I can’t help it,” Potter said through a smile. “I was pretty depressed in fifth and sixth year, you know. Reckon I deserve a bit of whimsy now.”
“Whimsy? Stop spending so much time around Granger, she’s putting words in your head. And would you really call awkward flirting ‘whimsy’?”
Potter tilted his head. It put his face in rather close proximity to Draco’s own, which made him realise how green Potter’s eyes were, which was unsettling because it was Draco’s favourite colour, and that was fairly–
“Draco,” said Potter, his voice low.
Draco swallowed. “Yes?”
“You’re spilling mead all over your shoes.”
There was indeed a pool of alcohol around Draco’s feet, tipped from the crystal glass that he was holding at a near sideways angle.
Spelling his socks dry, Draco declared, “That was your fault.”
“Yep,” said Potter, still smiling. “Reckon it might have been, actually.”
It took all that Draco had not to stomp his foot. Potter was winning. He’d been the first to admit that he was flirting with Draco and yet, somehow, he was still winning. That simply wouldn’t do.
“How long until we need to be seated for dinner?”
“What makes you think I would know?”
“You’re right – you’ve been so wrapped up in the pleasure of my company that you’ve not stopped to look at the time. Excuse me while I go and find out.”
Potter lifted his glass in Draco’s direction. The light bounced off the crystal, making his eyes twinkle. His ridiculous star socks became exposed as he lounged against the pillar, watching as Draco walked backwards into the crowd in search of someone to restore his sanity.
It seemed that luck was not on his side, for Slughorn called for everyone to gather in the adjoining room so that dinner could be served.
The decor on the table was sea themed; the plates were shaped like shells, the stems of the glasses were fashioned into tridents, and the napkins had been spelled to look like mermaid scales.
“The menu holds a clue about a potion that my N.E.W.T. level students will be brewing next week,” Slughorn said to the man on his left. “It’s all very exciting stuff. Cutting edge, one could say.”
“Sorry, excuse me.” Potter set his drink down beside Draco, nudging aside the Sixth Year girl who had been about to occupy the seat.
“My apologies,” Draco drawled, sliding into his chair. “He gets nervous when he can’t see me. Like a Crup with separation anxiety.”
Ignoring him entirely, Potter picked up his menu card. “What’ll it be – the seagrass or the shellfish starter? Can’t say I’m thrilled about either.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Shellfish. And it’s free, Potter. Not to mention the networking potential.”
“I couldn’t give less of a shit about networking. Which one should I get? Don’t think I’ve ever had seagrass.”
“You won’t like it. It’s got an almond crumb, and you always pick the almond slivers off the French toast.”
Potter stared at him for a moment. “Sorry, I what?”
Hoping to save face, Draco turned and snatched Potter’s menu from his hands. He waved a hand across both, activating the spell that would send their preferences to the house elves working in the kitchens. “There. Now you don’t need to worry about it.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Potter asked, “Have you ordered me everything I hate, then?”
He should have. That would have been far less embarrassing.
“Actually, I think you’ll like what I’ve selected. And it’s only fair that I – with my refined palate – be your guide when venturing into the wildlands that is the culinary landscape.”
“You definitely asked for the seagrass.”
“I did not order the seagrass.” With a huff, Draco turned his body to face Potter. He hooked a foot around the leg of Potter’s chair and pulled him closer. “I did order us two separate mains – it’s always more fun to split a range of options.”
“You want me to share dinner with you?”
“We’ve shared food before, don’t get precious about it now.”
“That was one beer and a box of sweets.”
Draco gasped dramatically. “Are you saying that it wasn’t as good for you as it was for me?”
Potter pressed his lips together, the corners quirking up. He jumped in surprise when a pop sounded and the plates before them filled.
Grinning, Draco shook out his napkin and placed it on his lap. “Would you like me to do yours for you?”
“Sure,” Potter said, leaning back in his chair. “If you’re so desperate to.”
It was absurdly easy to talk to Potter over tuna steaks, conch medallions, and sargassum baubles. Every quip that he served, Potter volleyed right back. Every raised eyebrow was met with a grin, every wink a flush.
It certainly didn’t help matters that Potter seemed to have forgotten that they were at a networking dinner and not tucking in to a meal in the Great Hall; he barely looked at anyone else. He’d either gone spontaneously deaf or took to pretending that he didn’t hear when people around the table were discussing him. They seemed to be trying to draw him into conversation without directly engaging, but he was having none of it. They might as well have been the only ones there.
It was a right shame that he’d not thought to get Potter drunk before dragging him to the party; it would have been properly entertaining to watch him try and fend off Alastar Nickelby’s awful Potter-manic jokes without the sharp edge of sobriety. In fact, he himself was missing the cotton-wool feeling of alcohol; it was easier to pretend that he didn’t want to stare at Potter when his brain was already fuzzy.
There were some small mercies present: the food was quite good, by Hogwarts standards; the company was passable, and he’d all but certainly won back some points with people of influence by having Potter on a short figurative leash; and Potter was rather good company, when he wasn’t fucking up all of Draco’s carefully laid evil plans.
Well, he was partially in the process of fucking one up in that very moment. But considering that said plan involved Draco getting one over on him, he couldn’t be too irked about it. Not that he was entirely certain about his end goal, only that he wanted to claim victory in some way. Leaning his chin on his palm and laughing at Potter’s murmured joke about a centaur and a giant seemed as good a start as any.
“And then,” Potter said, eyes shining with mirth, “he nearly hit us over the head with the handlebars of a bike. He loved the bell on them, kept ringing it again and again until I heard it in my sleep.”
“Quite. And then what?”
Potter rested his own chin on his hand, his elbow nearly bumping against Draco’s. “What did I say about the ghoul?”
Draco blinked. “The what? I don’t know, probably that you ran headlong into it like you do every other idiotic thing that life throws your way.”
“Trick question – I didn’t mention a ghoul.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “That’s no fun. Give me a proper question.”
Potter lifted his hand in front of his face. “What colour are my eyes?”
“Green, you idiot.”
“Yeah, but what kind?”
“Are you looking for an exact shade match? Did you want to come away from this discussion with a paint swatch?”
“More like a comparison. What’s a Potions ingredient that’s similar? Just trying to see something.”
Draco sighed dramatically. “Oh, I don’t know. The same shade as a freshly pickled toad, I suppose.”
When Potter dropped his hand, he looked smug as anything. “Brilliant.”
“Sorry, did you think that was a compliment? It wasn’t.”
“Actually, I remember hearing that back in second–”
Slughorn clapped his hands together and rose to stand. “Thank you, thank you all for your attendance here tonight. This club is one of my greatest treasures and it brings me great joy to see students new and old coming together. For those of you who are expected back at your Houses before curfew, now is the time to leave. All of age witches and wizards are welcome to a post-dinner drink in my library. It’s located just through those double doors, if you haven’t been here before. I would recommend sampling the lemon liquor – it was our late Headmaster’s favourite.”
Potter made an appreciative face. “Should we–?”
“Yes,” Draco said, already rising to stand.
They followed the group of ex-students into the next room, sticking close together. The house elves had transformed the room from a pre-dinner celebratory vibe to something resembling an upscale wine bar.
Potter let out a low whistle upon catching sight of the drinks table; it had been restocked, with many of the bottles swapped out with sweeter options. He snagged one of the dessert wines and selected two glasses, both of which had stems fashioned to look like tiny crystal mermaids. “Should we find a seat?”
“No. Follow me.” Draco reached access the table and swiped another dessert wine. He tucked the bottle behind his back and looped his other arm through Potter’s, dragging him through the crowd. “Come on, before someone stops us. Or, well, me – we both know that you can get away with murder.”
Potter’s foot caught on something and he stumbled, his chest bumping into Draco’s back. “Where are we going?”
“Behind here.” Draco flicked aside a gauzy purple curtain and stepped into the alcove that it concealed; it was a small space that had been built to hold a sculpture or other piece of artwork once upon a time, but now Slughorn seemed to be using it as a storage area.
“Come here often, do you?” Potter pushed aside a stack of thick, dusty books and sunk to the ground.
“Shut up.” The smell of caramel wafted from the bottle as Draco unscrewed the lid. “We should have pilfered some strawberries as well.”
Potter rose up onto his knees. “Did you want me to–”
“Sit down,” Draco huffed. He placed a hand on Potter’s shoulder and pushed him back into a sitting position. “Should I stick your robes to the wall? Could make things interesting.”
“No. You like them too much to do that.”
Cheeks flushing pink, Draco replied, “I don’t.”
With a grin, Potter said, “You do.”
“They’re barely better than Weasley’s Yule Ball ones.”
“Reckon you’ve said that already.”
“Or you’ve been hearing things. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Draco,” said Potter, “just admit it.”
“No,” Draco said. Then, “You picked a good tailor. And a fine piece of fabric. And you’ve … done alright with the hair. As good as it could be, I mean.”
“Brilliant,” said Potter, looking mightily satisfied. “Can I try that one?”
“Only if I can try yours.”
“Obviously - that’s why we got two. Give it here.”
Letting out a long breath that seemed to rattle in his chest, Draco said, “Chocolate and caramel tend to go together, don’t they? Should we mix them?”
Potter shrugged. He sipped some from his glass and held it out, waiting for Draco to pour some of the caramel liquor in to replace it.
“I have a better idea.”
A suspicious look crossed Potter’s face as Draco shifted closer. He moved his glass to the floor, eyes tracking Draco’s movement. “What are you doing?”
“Something better.”
When their mouths pressed together, Draco tasted only caramel. Then Potter groaned, parted his lips, and there was chocolate there too. One of his hands landed on Draco’s shoulder, the other on his waist. He swiped his tongue across Draco’s bottom lip, wiping away the rich caramel taste. The movement of it was unpractised, clumsy. It sent a shiver down Draco’s spine, had him leaning further into Potter’s touch. The hand on Draco’s waist squeezed tight enough to make him gasp. With a jolt, he sat back on his knees. Potter’s fingers trailed down Draco’s thighs until they pressed against the flagstones.
“Brilliant,” Potter said, sounding abominably pleased. He rubbed his lips together. “You weren’t half bad either.”
“Is that what you tell all the boys? No wonder everyone’s always fawning over you.”
“They’re not.” Potter’s throat worked as he swallowed. He picked up the bottle of caramel dessert wine and took a swig. “You do realise they’re not, yeah? Maybe only a bit.”
“Thanks ever so for letting me know that I’ve got buckets of competition. You know just what to say to make a girl swoon.”
Potter’s eyes were intense as they met Draco’s. “You’re not a girl.”
“And I’m also not swooning. Funny how that works.”
“You would.” The bottle clinked as Potter set it down on the flagstones. “Come closer, I’ll prove it.”
Instead, Draco leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. Potter initiating things wouldn’t do quite yet - he wanted to bask in having the upper hand for a bit longer.
“Actually, I think that I’d prove it; we used to play snogging games at parties in the Slytherin dorms, and we all got rather good at it.”
Potter’s eyes widened. “Sorry, you what? Like, everyone?” His expression turned haunted. “Even Goyle?”
Draco snorted. “Greg is quite the considerate lover.”
Potter’s eyes looked fit to bug out.
“Or so I’ve heard.”
An audible release of breath paired with another, far longer swig from the wine bottle. “Right. Okay.”
Unable to hide his smirk, Draco asked, “Did your lot not do the same?”
“Can’t say we did, no.”
“What a missed opportunity.” Draco tugged the wine bottle from Potter’s hands and took a drink. “Though I suppose I should have guessed that Gryffindor would be more prudish. Thank Merlin it’s never too late to make changes; I’ll take charge of revamping some of the more rudimentary traditions now that I’m here, don’t you worry. I suppose it could be fun, in a sort of menial, rustic way.”
“So you’re fine with it then? Being in Gryffindor?”
Draco snorted. “I’m not looking to undo my entire belief system here, Scarhead. But I can’t say that it’s been the most painful experience I’ve lived through in the past, what, two years? And–” He leaned closer to Potter, brushing the tips of their noses together. “–I can’t be too incensed about the Resorting, given that it’s resulted in some obvious perks.”
Potter’s exhale was warm against Draco’s lips. His mouth moved shyly against Draco’s own, his hands gripping Draco’s knees. When he pulled back, he looked conflicted.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Again, a pause. Then, “You can’t flip out.”
The train doing loops in Draco’s brain came to a screeching halt. “Flip out about what, exactly?”
“Promise.”
“I’ll do no such thing unless I know the details of what I’m agreeing to.”
“Just…” With a groan, Potter lifted his wand and attempted to cast a Notice-Me-Not.
With an amused tilt of his head, Draco said, “That won’t work – Slughorn wants to make absolutely sure that nobody at his parties gets so randy that they secret themselves into an alcove with a partner and ignore all his clever quips.”
“So, exactly what we’re doing right now?”
“Are you implying that you’re currently randy?”
Potter’s cheeks darkened. “I’m not implying anything. I’m also not not implying anything. You haven’t promised yet, by the way.”
“And I won’t. Not until you provide more information.”
Another tortured groan pulled itself from Potter’s chest. “Alright, fine. But listen to everything I have to say before you seal everyone inside the dorm and burn it down, yeah?”
“Oh, this does sound interesting.”
Potter squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It made lines appear between his eyebrows; they were soft under the pad of Draco’s index finger when he gently poked at them.
“Get on with it. Though I don’t know why you’re insisting on doing this now when I would have been happy to keep snogging you for the next hour.”
“And that’s why. I didn’t want to do anything with you before you knew the truth.”
“Oh Merlin, don’t tell me – the real Harry Potter died, and you’ve been a body double this whole time?”
Potter frowned. “What?”
“Or are you actually Weasley under Polyjuice? That would be quite a traumatising revelation.”
“Er, no.”
“Then you … are actually on a mission for the Aurors to frame me for some wretched crime so that I can be sentenced to Azkaban immediately and without fanfare.”
“That’s … no.” He clapped a hand over Draco’s mouth when it opened to speak yet another semi-plausible idea. “It’s to do with the Resorting.”
Draco licked the hand that was covering his mouth, smirking when Potter yanked it back. “You’re such a prude – my tongue was just in your mouth, why are you being precious over a hand?”
Potter grimaced. “It felt a lot nicer when it was in my mouth. And it was a lie. The Resorting.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Draco fixed Potter with his full attention. “Explain.”
As it turned out, nearly the entire year level was in on a ruse to simultaneously pay the returning Slytherins back for various criminal-adjacent actions committed during wartime, and see if they were – quote – ‘alright’.
“There’s no way that was legal.” Draco tipped the bottle of wine to his lips and took a deep swig. “McGonagall is going to throw a fit.”
“She gave us the ok, actually. After Hermione convinced her that it was the best way to build unity between the Houses. She’d been worried that you lot would have been too insular down in the dungeons.”
“So you decided to divvy us up between the rest of you? You’re lucky that I didn’t murder you all in your sleep. Do you have any idea how loud Finnigan snores? Or have you just gotten used to it?”
Grinning, Potter said, “We all cast Silencio around our beds. Must’ve forgotten to tell you.”
Draco’s eye twitched. “And the murder? No consideration for your own safety.”
Potter snorted. “You weren’t going to murder anyone. And we decided we’d reveal everything to you if you tried. Or threatened to.”
“I threatened to do so multiple times.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t serious about it.”
“You have no way of knowing that.”
Potter’s grin deepened. “I’m pretty sure, actually.” He kissed Draco again then, which was quite nice. It was a soft thing, a quick press of lips, but it levelled Draco’s pulse a bit. “Are you properly vexed now?”
“Surprisingly, no.” It was the truth, funnily enough. “Actually, I’m rather impressed at how devious the whole thing is. You deserve commendation for the more Slytherin aspects of the plan.”
“It wasn’t my plan, it was–”
“Partially your plan, then. And all the other idiots you share a dorm with.” Mouth twisting, Draco asked, “There’s no official ritual to initiate new Gryffindors into the fold, is there?”
Potter pressed his lips together, his smile ridiculously wide. “Nope.”
“And the bathrooms?”
“The house elves clean them.”
“So I wrestled in mud for nothing?”
“You barely got any on you. And I know you didn’t mind getting put on your back.”
“Well,” Draco said, “that’s a rather forward thing to say.”
Potter shrugged, looking mightily pleased.
“Since you’ve told me this, you might as well tell me what the surprise final task is. I’m quite excited to be able to ruin Finnigan’s gloating.”
“Shrieking Shack,” Potter replied, without hesitation.
“Meaning what?”
“You have to sneak in. Ron’s going to tell scary stories first, and Dean’s going to cast all these mist spells, so it looks really eerie.”
“You’re getting visibly excited talking about this, you absolute wanker.”
“It’s been fun. If you were me, you’d think it was fun.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I suppose I would, yes. And what’s the end result of the task supposed to be?”
“You get scared and then we all get pissed on elf wine together?”
Draco clicked his tongue. “That sounds like a fine evening once we take my humiliation out of it.” He rose to stand, letting out a groan when he stretched his arms above his head. “I’ll need to make a plan, of course. For revenge.”
Potter followed him up. He stepped in close, his fingers fiddling with the fabric of Draco’s sleeve. “Did you want help?”
Lifting a brow, Draco said, “You realise that you’re also involved? It wouldn’t be fair to only pay back some of you.”
“Yeah, but I told you about it. So I should get credit for that.”
A quick press of lips against the corner of Potter’s mouth quietened him. “There’s your credit. And you can help by not letting on that you’ve told me. I’m going to get them when they least expect it.”
“Brilliant.” Potter’s fingers twisted in Draco’s robes, tugging his hand closer to Potter’s own. Surprising no one more than Draco, he found it rather endearing that Potter couldn’t keep his hands to himself now that they had properly touched.
“You should do something horrendous right now,” Draco said. He dragged his knuckles across the back of Potter’s hand. “The most unappealing thing you can think of so that I no longer find you endearing. We need to reset the scale.”
“Sorry,” Potter said, “did you want to repeat that you find me endearing?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I said that I find that behaviour endearing, not you. Get it correct.”
“Actually, you said–”
“You’re hearing things. Again. As I also already said.”
“Right,” said Potter, not sounding bothered at all. When he kissed Draco, it was slow, soft, tentative. A brush of lips, the touch of his fingers at Draco’s nape.
With a swirling head, Draco stepped back. He leaned against the wall, his heel knocking against the wine bottle. “You did a piss poor job, by the way.”
“Of snogging?”
“Of making yourself unappealing.”
“Well,” said Potter, grinning down at the floor, “maybe I didn’t want to.”
The sounds of Slughorn wrapping up the evening filtered through the curtain; chairs scraped, glasses clinked, and people began to say their goodbyes.
It was hard to catch his breath, what with Potter looking at him like that. But somehow, he managed.
“So,” Draco said, throwing Potter a smirk, “are you going to tell on me, or not?”
Potter’s answering grin was even wider.
*
“It’s evil,” Finnigan said.
“Deadly,” Longbottom backed him up.
Weasley pressed the point of his wand at the underside of his own chin; the light from his Lumos illuminated his features from below, giving him a haunted look. “They say on cold nights that you can still hear the screams all the way to the North Tower. That’s why Trelawney went round the bend.”
“Have you ever noticed how badly the place creaks?” Thomas raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “That’s because the wood’s wet … with blood.”
It took every bit of self-control Draco’s had to not laugh. He masked his amusement by gasping dramatically and covering his mouth with his hand.
Behind Weasley, Potter buried his face in the hangings of Longbottom’s bed. His shoulders were visibly shaking, which was a rather poor effort, considering. He jumped half a foot when Draco yanked a pillow from Longbottom’s arms and lobbed it at him.
“This is without a doubt the most dangerous task yet,” Weasley said. “You could die.”
“Oh no,” said Draco, deadpan. Then, “What’s going to kill me? A creaky bit of wood?”
“Actually, a rotten floorboard could kill you,” said Longbottom. He grabbed his pillow from Potter’s hands and hugged it against his chest. “If you fell through it, you’d probably break your leg.”
“Yeah, and then you wouldn’t be able to do that poncy strut of yours.” Potter smirked, wrapping his arms around his bent knees. “Actually, I don’t think I’d recognise you without it.” His grin widened when Draco mimicked him.
“You’re one to talk,” Draco hissed. He rose to stand, hands on his hips. “You’ve got a head so big that Professor Sinistra ought to have included it on the list of celestial bodies in our solar system.”
“Ooh,” said Potter. “Good one. What’s next?”
Draco narrowed his eyes. He had half a mind to march over and snog Potter silly, but that would blow his cover – something that Potter was very aware of. “You’re a git.”
“Even better.”
“Stop,” Draco said, grabbing hold of Longbottom’s pillow and wrenching it away from him. “Egging.” He wound his arm back. “Me.” He pitched it straight at Potter’s head. “On.”
Potter ducked. The pillow went sailing over his head and crashed into the lamp on Thomas’ bedside table. “Nah.”
“Go easy on him, Harry,” said Finnigan. “He might die tonight.”
Draco rolled his eyes so hard they smarted a bit. “You still haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do, you realise?”
“Shrieking Shack,” said Weasley. “The Ravenclaw Diadem’s hidden in there and we need to get it back.”
“Ron,” said Potter, warningly.
“Lovely.” Sighing, Draco leaned back against the bedpost. “What does it look like? I haven’t the faintest idea what a diadem is.”
“Harry, remind me? You saw it last.”
Potter narrowed his eyes.
Weasley clicked his fingers. “Blue, that’s right. Bloody massive blue stone on the front, and then all these twisty silver bits.” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “Like a crown.”
“And why is a valuable piece of Hogwarts history sitting in a haunted shack?”
Weasley shrugged. “Werewolves wanted it.”
“Ah,” said Draco. “Of course. How silly of me to ask.”
“There might still be werewolves there.” Finnigan presented Draco with a leather bag that was beginning to crack at the corners; Draco was fairly sure that it was Granger’s old bookbag. “So we’ve fixed you a kit to help.”
Draco undid the flap.
Finnigan placed his hand over the top. “You have to wait until you’re there to open it.”
Draco upended the bag onto the ground. Out spilled a spool of string, a sprig of what smelled like parsley, a miniature gardening hoe, a chocolate frog card, and an open box of Loonar Loop Luminators.
“Uh,” said Finnigan. “Thank Merlin you checked. Must have gotten the wrong bag from the cupboard.”
Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s fresh parsley from Longbottom’s little grow op on the windowsill.”
“Fuck,” said Finnigan. “You’re right.”
“Since you’re all incompetent, I’m allocating myself one rule change for this task: you’re all coming with me to the shack.”
Rather than a round of objections, Weasley and Finnigan started nodding to themselves. Potter began laughing again.
“Still not brave enough?” Thomas asked, more teasing than anything.
“Well, I’m not properly initiated yet, am I? Or so you all keep telling me.”
Longbottom stood and knocked his shoulder against Draco’s. “Sounds fun, actually. Lead the way, Draco.”
Once the excitement of visiting a haunted part of the grounds – ignoring that literally every part of Hogwarts castle was liable to be invaded by a ghost at any given moment; truly, there was no peace to be had – began to sink in, Draco’s dormmates stopped watching his every move. Apparently, they no longer expected him to bolt now that he was travelling in a group, and had instead taken to swapping stories of their various escapades involving the Shack.
“Broke my leg here once,” Weasley said, sounding almost fond. “Got mauled by a dog, too. And bitten by a rat.”
“You’d take the ghosts, I reckon.” Potter’s shoulder bumped against Draco’s own as they walked, nearly driving him off the path. Again. For the fifth time.
With a loud huff, Draco stopped, placed his hands on Potter’s shoulders, and pushed him back a step. “You’re not a limpet, and I’m not your mother.”
Weasley snorted. “Sure bloody hope not.” He looped an arm through Potter’s and reeled him in close. “Don’t let him bully you, mate – I’ll take a hug.”
“I wasn’t hugging him,” Potter protested, cheeks bright red even in the dark. “And it’s not my fault the path’s tiny.”
“Not that tiny,” Draco and Weasley said at the same time.
With his general person now unimpeded, Draco picked up the pace. The others ambled along behind, none the wiser. He made a beeline for the dilapidated building, silhouetted against the moonlight. Skirting the edge of the Forbidden Forest seemed the best way to go in order to both avoid death via all sorts of unmentionables, and to thwart the bloodthirsty willow that, despite its distinct lack of a face, seemed to be glaring at Draco as he ducked by, just out of reach. It twisted its branches, the end of one sweeping over an archway formed by its roots. It looked mightily suspicious.
“Oi,” Finnigan shouted, a ways back. “Slow down, buggering hell.”
Smirking, Draco lengthened his steps. A wave of swears sounded in response and the thudding of feet on leaflitter grew louder. For his plan to work, it was imperative that he remain in sight – to avoid suspicion – but not close by. This would enable him to cast the necessary spells undetected. Not even Potter knew the details of what Draco had planned; it was a proper shame that he knew any at all, actually – Draco would rather have liked to have Transfigured something into a replica of the Dark Lord to see if he’d pop off at it. Doubtless he would have received a fist to the mouth in return, but it would have been worth it to see the reaction.
In no time at all, Draco’s hand landed on the low stone fence that ringed the shack. It was crumbling in sections, spilling across the grass. The windows above were covered by neither shutters, nor curtains; they stared out across the Highlands, gaping black maws in a decaying face. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have turned tail and run. He was still considering it – perhaps his dormmates had been double bluffing?
But, no – Potter wouldn’t do that. He didn’t have had the capacity to, not when he’d told Draco of the plan with flushed cheeks and a cheeky smile. Not when his lips had been dampened by the press of Draco’s own. He was conniving when he wanted to be, but he wasn’t completely sociopathic.
He might turn that way once Draco dug his claws in properly, but they weren’t quite there yet. One could only dream.
Small stones shifted underfoot, rolling down the grassy incline. Longbottom let out a loud huff as someone bumped into him.
As quietly as he could, Draco cracked open the front door of the Shack. Into the gap went the tip of his wand and the noise of a succession of spells, whispers that carried on the wind. By the time the rest of the group caught up, nothing appeared amiss.
Potter raised an eyebrow at Draco, his gaze questioning. Draco simply nodded in return.
“Alright then.” Weasley stepped forward, clapping Draco on the shoulder. “Going in?”
It took everything Draco had not to smirk. He wanted very badly to gloat but now was not the time. Instead, he asked, “And it’s definitely not dangerous? All jokes aside, there’s no risk of permanent injury?”
Longbottom began to shake his head but was forcibly stopped by Finnigan, who dropped the pitch of his voice rather ominously. “They say that many of those who enter go mad.”
“You could die of fright,” said Thomas, looking smug as anything. “Spells won’t work against the spirits, obviously. Take this.”
The thing that he handed Draco was heavy and had a bulging bit of glass at the end. When Draco pressed on a squishy bit on the opposite end, a bright yellow light shone from the bulb.
“Merlin’s torch,” Finnigan said, breathless. “Don’t drop it, Draco, it’s an antique.”
“Powerful,” Thomas agreed, nodding. He grimaced when Draco clicked the button again and the light disappeared. “Keep it lit – it’ll guide you.”
“Thanks,” said Draco, trying his best to sound appreciative. He clicked the button again and pointed the torch at the front door. “How long do I have to…?”
“Just do a sweep of the ground floor,” Potter said. “We’ll come in if you’re in trouble.”
“Make sure to check under the furniture,” Weasley said. He did an atrocious job at muffling a laugh.
“Good luck,” said Potter. He grinned when Draco threw him a wink.
The front hall of the Shack was musty, dusty, and more than a little manky. Grime stuck to the floor like a second carpet, disturbed only by the prints of Draco’s shoes, showing where he’d walked through mere hours before.
Casting a Notice-Me-Not, Draco crept through the rooms, casting wildly to ensure that he wouldn’t miss a thing. No stone would go unturned. He didn’t remove the spell until he reached the furthest room from the door. It was some kind of storage area, with bare shelves lining the walls and a door to the outside that had been barricaded shut. Only then did he begin to relax. He slid to the floor, back against the wall, and bent his knees. Atop them went a book that he had stashed earlier. It had one key difference from the tomes that filled Hogwarts’ library – the pages had been spelled into magic mirrors. As he flipped, the dilapidated kitchen turned into the front living room. Another flick allowed him to see the main stairway.
Now that he was alone, he allowed himself a moment of laughter before flicking his wand one last time. Then, once he’d caught his breath, he let out a shrill, elongated scream.
Around him, the Shack began to come alive.
The front door burst open and the concerned shouts of his dormmates sounded.
“Draco?” Weasley called out.
“Are you alright?” asked Longbottom, who sounded more than a little taken aback.
With an almighty groan, the front door slammed closed. Through the mirror pages, Draco watched as it sealed itself shut, its frame blending into the wall until there was only blank plaster.
It wasn’t actually like that of course – just a simple illusion.
But the others didn't know that.
As the merry band of wankers moved deeper into the Shack, Draco’s carefully placed spells began to come alive. Spiders dropped from the ceiling, sending Weasley shrieking and climbing onto Longbottom’s back. Thumps sounded from the walls, spelled to follow the occupants as they darted about. Wails echoed through the dilapidated rooms, and the empty picture frames on the walls began to spin. At Finnigan’s feet, a WWW ‘ghost in a can’ activated, sending spirits in cartoonish colours bouncing about the space. On the largest wall of the living room, red paint began to bleed through the wallpaper, proclaiming: The Shack has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware. Then, in sparkling purple letters below it: Their skeletons will lie in the Shack forever.
Potter keeled over at that, bracing his hands on his knees and gasping for laughter. He started coughing when a dust bunny – spelled to have two rather menacing front teeth – began to gnaw at his trainers.
“Harry,” Weasley shrieked. He was still atop Longbottom’s back, his knees bent and arms whirling as his ride attempted to stay upright. “Are you mental?”
Potter wheezed again.
“Why’s he laughing?” Thomas asked. He lowered his wand, eyes narrowing as he took in the party hat on the neon pink ghost before him. “Ron, this one looks a bit like you.”
“Leave off,” Weasley shouted. Then, “That’s one of George’s, isn’t it?”
With a sigh, Draco lifted his wand and cast the counter-spells. He closed the book and tossed it to the floor. “Help. It’s killed me.”
Finnigan swore. The Shack shook as they thundered down the hallway, shouting Draco’s name.
“Oh, fuck,” Thomas cried, upon seeing Draco on the floor. “Fuck. McGonagall’s going to murder us.”
“Have we killed him?” Weasley asked. He clapped his hands together, muttering an apology when Longbottom winced. “Draco? Draco, blink if you can hear me.”
Draco, who hadn’t even shut his eyes, arched a brow.
“Are you hurt?” Longbottom kneeled down, nearly dumping Weasley into Draco’s lap. “We’re really sorry – the Shack was supposed to be empty. It was supposed to be a laugh.”
Smugness radiating from his every pore, Draco said, “You lot told me the Shack was haunted.”
“We lied.” Weasley pressed a hand to Draco’s forehead. “He’s got a fever. Someone Floo Mungo’s.”
Draco rolled his eyes. He batted Weasley’s hand away, sending it colliding with Longbottom’s chin. “I don’t need a Healer, I’m too far gone. My heart’s already stopped. My deathbed wish is for you to make me feel less alone.”
“Er,” said Potter.
Finnigan clasped his hand. “Anything, mate. We’re really sorry we’ve killed you.”
Weasley nodded, pressing close to his other side.
Behind them, Potter crossed his arms over his chest and levelled Draco with a look that told him that he was laying it on a bit thick.
“Tell me…” Draco said, letting his voice crack in the middle. “Were you scared too?”
“Oh, yeah,” Weasley said. “Just about pissed myself with the spiders.”
“Would’ve asked for my mum if she’d been here,” Finnigan said. He smacked a hand against Potter’s leg and turned to glare at him meaningfully.
Potter raised his eyebrows at Finnigan before turning to Draco. “Terrified. Definitely. Not expected at all.”
Unable to help himself, Draco began to laugh. Then he couldn’t stop and had to have Longbottom smack him on the back when he began to choke on the copious amounts of dust swirling in the air.
Light returned to Weasley’s eyes. “You absolute wanker.”
“Did you like the message on the wall?” Draco asked. His words were probably completely unintelligible, but it was the thought that counted.
“Bit fucked up, if you think about it,” Weasley said, a grin spreading across his face. “My sister did nearly die in there.”
“But it was good?”
“Too fucking right it was!” Finnigan shouted, lifting his fists into the air. “Don’t know whether to strangle you or buy you a beer.”
“Where’d you get the spiders from?” Longbottom had one in his cupped hands; he grimaced when Weasley began to swear.
“Illusion charm,” Draco said. He waved his wand and the spider disappeared. “Most everything was from Wheezes.”
“And nobody thought to let me know that Draco Malfoy was stocking up on joke products?” Weasley clicked his tongue. “Some brother I’ve got.”
Draco smirked. “I paid extra for him not to.”
“Did you go yesterday?” Potter asked. “Is that why you acted shifty when Neville asked if you were going to Hogsmeade?”
“Got it in one.” Draco stretched his legs out in front of him, taking care to knee Finnigan in the process. “Surprised you didn’t press me for information.”
Potter’s eye twinkled. “I wanted to get the full experience.”
Weasley whirled around fast enough that the dust on the floor rose in a noxious cloud. “Did you know?”
Potter shrugged. “Mostly. And he also did.”
“Clearly,” said Thomas. “And you obviously told him. Was it at Slughorn’s do?”
“I always knew you were the smartest of your lot.” Draco sighed and waved a hand in front of his face to dispel some of the dust. “Merlin, this place is awful. They really should demolish it – I imagine it’s bringing down property values all over Hogsmeade.”
“Harry, you git.” Potter went arse over tit when Weasley tackled him to the floor. They rolled around for a bit, both laughing as much as they were grappling.
“Well,” said Draco, raising his eyebrow, “I won’t miss this when I go back to Slytherin.”
It was mostly a lie, but nobody else needed to know that.
“The jig’s up,” said Thomas, sounding somewhat mournful. “Suppose Harry told you that bit as well?”
“He’s a properly open book when he’s had a drink.”
“Speaking of,” said Longbottom, moving to the side so he could avoid being kicked by Weasley’s pinwheeling legs, “don’t suppose anyone brought any drinks? Wouldn’t mind a bit of warmth before we head back.”
Gloriously, Thomas produced a shrunken version of Finnigan’s keg from under his jumper and held it aloft. “Thought we’d celebrate Draco completing his final task.”
They made their way back into the living room, with a very dusty Potter and Weasley bringing up the rear. Draco lifted his wand and waved it at the wall, watching as the front door popped back into existence.
“You’re really good at Charms, you know,” said Potter. Dust rose into the air when shook his head like a dog.
Grimacing, Draco spelled him clean. “I’m aware. I got an O on my O.W.L. for it, and I see no reason that I won’t do the same for my N.E.W.T.S.”
“You will,” said Potter, grinning dopily. “You’re a proper swot.”
“Drink?” Thomas asked, handing Draco the miniature keg.
The quality of the wine hadn’t been diminished by the change, though the density of it had. The liquid was thick, particles melding together; it wasn’t unlike drinking cordial without the water. Draco coughed and wiped the back of his mouth before handing the keg off to Potter.
“Are you properly narked, then?” Thomas asked. “We did get you pretty good, after all.”
“I was … mildly vexed,” Draco replied. He snorted a laugh when Potter’s eyes bugged out at the texture of the wine. “But now I’m just pleased that my portrait-bound, yet eye-wateringly traditional ancestors aren’t going to disown me when I go home next term break.”
“We would’ve called it off before then,” Longbottom said. He rubbed Potter’s back as he forced himself to swallow. “We decided that if you tried to kill us or petitioned McGonagall to let you leave school early, we’d tell you.”
“But,” Weasley said brightly, clapping his hands together, “seems you can take a joke, so.”
A manic grin spread across Draco’s face. “I’d keep your curtains spelled closed tonight, you utter wanker, or I’m enacting my revenge.”
Weasley let out a bark of hysterical laughter. “Nev, give him the keg. Get some more in you, there you go.”
Draco rolled his eyes but tipped back his head so that Weasley could pour more alcohol down his throat. He swallowed involuntarily when Potter pressed himself to Draco’s side. He grinned as his fingers linked with Draco’s own.
“Well,” said Thomas. “You did have fun at Slughorn’s party, I see.”
Surprisingly, Potter’s cheeks didn’t darken. He fiddled with the sleeve of Draco’s jumper and raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Leave off.”
With a hearty sigh, Draco slipped his arm around Potter’s shoulders. He dragged his knuckles down the side of Potter’s neck; in the dark, no one would be able to see the caress. “Yes, yes, Potter’s love life is forever the most interesting part of this absurdly boring school. Can we get back to me now? I’ve one more thing to do before I go back.”
“To the castle?” Longbottom asked, frowning.
“No, to Slytherin.” Leaning against Potter’s side, Draco smirked. “You know that ridiculous lion hat that Lovegood wears to Gryffindor’s matches? Acquire a copy. And brush up on the school song – you’ve all a party to embarrass yourselves at.”
*
It wasn’t often that Draco was thankful that Hogwarts had an official choir. But at the exact moment that Seamus Finnigan attempted to hit the high note in ‘Hoggy Warty Hogwarts’, he found himself silently praising the Founders for their foresight.
Off to the side, Granger was wincing something awful, which served her right, having been a ringleader in Draco’s abject misery. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, particularly Lovegood, who had managed to con her way into being invited to the Eighth Years’ party, on the condition of allowing her hat to be Duplicated.
With all the showmanship of a veteran performer, Weasley went down on one knee for the baritone, belting out an extended ‘And learn until our brains all rot’ that seemed to shake both the walls of the Common Room and Granger’s desire for intimacy. She hid her face in her hands, shoulders shaking, as the song petered out.
The room burst into applause that was far too enthusiastic for Draco’s liking. Really, everyone should be grovelling at his feet, not congratulating him for being such a good sport. He’d taken great joy in removing some of the wind from the collective sails of the room, loudly crowing that he’d managed to spot the ruse before he’d been informed about it.
“I’m not easily fooled,” he’d said, looking meaningfully at Granger. “You’re all rotten liars, anyway. I kept the upper hand the entire time.”
“Sure you did, mate,” Weasley said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You looked fucking dashing in those pants with Harry’s face on them. Definitely your choice to do that. Bet you’re wearing them right now.”
Draco had given him an extra solo line in the performance as payback for his ridiculous comment. It made him feel a little better about the judgement being so accurate.
After stepping off the makeshift performance stage, Potter snagged two cups of elf wine and made his way over to Draco. The lion on his head kept opening its mouth in a silent roar, its mane shining gloriously around its boxy head. He looked the very picture of Godric Gryffindor’s most deluded daydreams, and it was so irritating that Draco wanted to press him against the wall and rip it off his head.
He only got to the bit where he grabbed the collar of Potter’s jumper and then Potter was kissing him. It was downright terrible – Potter had a ridiculous smile the entire time, which didn’t lend well to using tongue – but it made Draco’s stomach clench all the same.
There was a dark red spot at the corner of Potter’s mouth when Draco pulled back – elf wine, probably. He’d taken more than one drink ‘for courage’ before getting up on the stage. As though he – paragon saviour of the wizarding world – needed liquid courage for that, but not for facing up against a known megalomaniac. Potter was utterly full of inconsistencies, and it both frustrated and intrigued Draco in equal measure.
“People are definitely staring,” Draco muttered. He’d positioned Potter’s lion hat between himself and the majority of their classmates, not wanting to see the judgement that he knew would be writ across their faces.
Potter shrugged. “So? Can’t imagine you care about that.”
And he shouldn’t, really. So he wouldn’t.
Smirking, Draco leaned back against the wall and raised a teasing eyebrow. “They’re jealous that I let you put your hands on me.”
Potter moved into Draco’s space; the lion shifted when he tilted his head back. “And nobody’s jealous of you at all?”
Draco scoffed. He ran his hands over Potter’s shoulders and down his chest. They settled on the slight curve of his waist. “Absolutely not. Have you seen me? They know you’re lucky to get within spitting distance.”
The grin on Potter’s face widened. “You’re such a git.”
“Obviously. And you’re not?”
“Not like you.”
“Definitely like me. Actually, I think you’re far more like me than you realise.”
“Probably,” Potter acquiesced. He leaned closer, pressing his chest against Draco’s. “Is this a thing for you, then? Corrupting me?”
Draco snorted. “You’ve had a bit of the Dark Lord’s soul inside you since you were in nappies, yes? I’m flattered that you think my influence is larger than his. Keep going, I’m into it.”
When Potter shook his head, the tip of his nose brushed against Draco’s. “Stop talking.”
“No,” Draco replied. He smiled, the bow of his lips brushing against Potter’s. “I’m going to make you so much worse. Truly, you’ll have never seen a more despicable version of yourself.”
Potter swallowed. “Promise?”
A kiss was better than a promise, so that’s what Draco gave him. He licked over Potter’s damp lips, groaning when they parted in response. His hands tightened on Potter’s waist, fingers digging into the thick knit of his jumper. Potter made a noise against his mouth, the hand in Draco’s hair clenching. When he stepped back, his cheeks were flushed.
Draco made an appreciative sound low in his throat. “Have any of you idiots informed either McGonagall or the portraits that I know about your ruse?”
“No,” said Potter. His fingers dragged over the hollow of Draco’s throat, pressing gently. “Why?”
Draco took Potter’s hand in his own and squeezed once. “Perhaps we could hold off for another few days – it seems ill-advised to remove my access to the Gryffindor dorm at such a … pivotal time.”
Potter’s eyes darkened. His fingers tensed in Draco’s hold as he stepped back, pulling Draco with him. “How long can we keep it going for, do you reckon?”
Draco advanced on him, feeling his heartbeat thumping in his ears. “A week? Maybe two.”
“Done.” With a huff of laughter, Potter began to lead him through the crowded room.
“Unless the school’s magic already knows. McGonagall is all-seeing, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Well,” said Potter, placing his hand against the door that would take them to their shared dorm room. He turned to grin at Draco over his shoulder. “There’s only one way to find out.”