Chapter Text
The stench on the bus had just about been enough to send Draco scrambling back to the manor. It burned the literal whites of his eyes, and the slim crack in the windows was not enough to filter in any fresh air. He didn’t remember it being so wretched, except the last time he’d taken this very route he’d been only thirteen years old.
He and the rest of the counselors had long passed that repugnant point in puberty.
The road to the campground was nothing more than uneven dirt tire tracks and it was a miracle they didn’t manage to tip the whole damn vehicle over or veer off right into one of the towering, lush trees. At least the view was nothing to complain about.
Pansy turned around in her seat, twisting her head to peer back at him. It had been a few seasons since they’d last seen each other. Both her bob and her cheekbones were a bit sharper, but she seemed just as eager to torment him.
“You’re looking green around the gills,” she said, her lips curling up into a mischievous smile. “Don’t tell me you’re already going to back out.”
“Piss off, Pans,” Draco huffed, pushing his sweat-heavy hair back from his face. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Hogwarts. A sleepaway camp so far removed from the rest of society, it may as well have been on the bloody moon. Draco had attended only once before and he shuddered to recall the horrifying experience it had been. Hell, the only reason he came back was so his father could tote him around as a philanthropist—his only son, heir to the Malfoy name and fortune, a humble camp counselor.
It was humiliating.
“Don’t spoil my fun,” Pansy said. “Watching you supervise children is going to be a real fucking riot.”
Gods. She was right.
When they finally pulled in past the weathered wooden entrance sign, Draco couldn’t grab his bag fast enough. He slung it over his shoulder and booked it for the double doors.
“Ever heard of ‘ladies first’?” Pansy hollered after him, biting back laughter.
“Oh, please,” he huffed, stepping down into the dirt. Already lamenting the nubuck on his poor shoes. “I wouldn’t call you a lady!”
He gulped down the fresh air like it was springwater. Draco had forgotten how clean it could be when completely ensconced in greenery. Maybe a few weeks of this wouldn’t be so bad.
The rest of the counselors on his bus filed out, dispersing like ants. Some went straight for the counselor’s cabin while others went right for the woods, giggling and craning their necks to look up at the overhanging branches.
They were the first group to arrive, and he really ought to enjoy the silence while he still could. If things were anything like last time, it was going to be a very loud, very obnoxious summer.
Draco fetched his itinerary from his pocket.
His lips quirked up into a smile. Thankfully his house request had been granted. It probably helped that his father funded quite a few pounds into the campground each season, but he wasn’t above taking advantage of that.
It had been seven years, but it still felt right.
Slytherin.
*
Draco didn’t want to believe the strip of paper snagged between his knuckles would truly determine his fate at Hogwarts, but the way everyone was acting, it sure seemed like it would.
The campers were gathered around the flag pole out front, with all the first timers lined up in a neat row. Ready to participate in the traditional sorting of the houses.
An older woman with silver hair pinned neatly on her head cleared her throat and gave the burlap bag a small shake.
She wanted him to get on with it. Draco forced himself to swallow and finally draw the paper out of the bag and open it.
“Slytherin!” the woman announced, peering down over his shoulder.
Draco’s heart pounded. What did that mean for him?
Before he could say anything, a litany of hollers rang out from the rest of the Slytherin house, who were all grouped off to one side. Draco grabbed his bag and marched over to them in a way he hoped dearly looked both confident and disinterested.
They didn’t even greet him before forcing a mesh green shirt over his head and clapping him harshly on the back.
Most of the other boys were taller, probably already fourteen at least. The counselor, a lanky young man with a wafty dark haircut, gave his arm a tight squeeze.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a Malfoy,” the man said, a bit smarmy. “Lucky us.”
“You’re right,” Draco said, keeping his voice level. “Lucky you.”
Everyone broke into another round of shouting and Draco’s insides felt suspiciously warm. In the distance, the two cabins of their house flew bright green flags overhead. He decided right then and there that among all the houses at Hogwarts, it was no competition.
*
Draco would have been remorseful about not being able to bunk up in the Slytherin cabins he remembered so fondly, except the thought of doing so with twenty plus pubescent boys was enough to make him grateful the counselors had lodgings of their own.
The cabin, like all the others, was built with logs but wired with a simple electrical system. Not enough to get any kind of decent air conditioning, but at least there were a few overhead lights. Pansy was already in the far corner, hauling her duffle onto a top bunk, her green Slytherin neck scarf already neatly in place.
Draco went ahead and claimed the cot beneath hers and took a better look around.
Everything was a bit dusty, but nothing a few open windows and strong breeze wouldn’t fix. The mattresses were thin and beaten in, and Draco wondered vaguely how long it had been since they were last replaced.
What was his father paying for, anyway?
The counselor cabin was the only co-ed living space on the grounds. The camp director, Mrs. McGonagall, probably figured the adults knew well enough to use protection if they were going to be fornicating.
They had a few days of orientation before the campers showed up. Only about half of the counselors had arrived so far, but already the quiet wood was loud with chatter. Old friends greeting each other with childish handshakes or encompassing hugs. Most of them had been here before, most likely as campers themselves.
Pansy had attended every summer since they were thirteen years old, but unfortunately, Draco’s father found the whole thing beneath them if not being used to somehow improve upon their social image, so he never got to return. With how his first summer ended, he hadn’t even the willpower to push back about it.
“I’m starving,” Pansy huffed, draping herself theatrically over Draco. “Really. I’m so hungry I could eat a Hufflepuff.”
“Don’t let Finch-Fletchly hear you,” Draco said, nodding to a young man in the far corner of the room. “He’s already eyeballing us like we’re going to shave his head in his sleep.”
A wickedly gleeful grin stretched across Pansy’s lips. “That was only the one time…”
Draco smirked. He’d been the one to hold the boy(at the time) down.
He really had been quite the prick.
Draco liked to think he’d grown out of his more childish behavior, but he couldn’t deny the thought of tormenting the other houses had its appeal. He looked forward to stroking the flames of rivalry when the campers arrived.
His smile weakened. The Hufflepuffs were one thing, but he was not looking forward to dealing with the Gryffindors.
“Come on,” he said. “They’re probably already serving lunch.”
Pansy hooked her arm through Draco’s, locking them at the elbow. “Darling, I thought you’d never ask!”
Draco rolled his eyes but let her drag him out of the cabin.
He really had missed her.
*
The mess hall was as large as Draco remembered it being, only he’d never seen it so empty. Four rows of wooden picnic bench styled tables stretched across the vast space, each sporting little plastic flags in their corresponding house colors. A few counselors were peppered throughout the room, and a variety of packaged snacks and cold cut sandwiches were set out by the cafe window.
Draco grimaced. It figured they wouldn’t start serving hot food until the campers showed up. They would have to make due.
He grabbed a bag of crisps for himself and took a seat at one end of the Slytherin table. Pansy, despite having kicked up such a fuss about lunch in the first place, was still outside, snagged in conversation with Greengrass. She really could natter on when she wanted to.
“Malfoy!”
Blaise Zabini trotted across the mess, his own scavenged meal in hand. “I’d heard you were coming,” he said, sitting across from him. “But I had to see it with my own eyes to believe it.”
Zabini had been Draco’s bunkmate during his last summer at Hogwarts, and his family was affluent enough that they saw each other in passing at fundraisers and formal events. Draco wouldn’t go so far as to call Zabini a friend, so much as friendly. The other man’s hair had grown out in tight, dark curls but he still had the same prominent cheekbones and jawline, albeit they suited him better as an adult.
“Sod off,” Draco huffed, tossing a crisp at him.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
Before Draco could think of a witty response, Pansy came rushing into the mess hall—beelining for Draco.
What the—
“Draco!” she hissed, slamming her palms on the table.
He flinched. “Christ, Pans!”
“You’re never going to believe who’s here.”
Judging by the wide-eyed expression on her face, Draco had a feeling he was very much not going to like the answer.
Zabini choked a laugh into the back of his hand, looking toward the entryway. Draco turned around to peek over his shoulder.
His entire body went cold.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
*
The summer’s opening ceremony took place over dinner—an entire feast laid out across every table. Fresh fruit and snacking vegetables. Dips and spreads and crackers and whole roasted chickens and treats. Draco didn’t even know where to start.
He walked along the length of the Slytherin seating, looking for a gap in the crowd he could manage to squeeze into.
“Draco!”
Pansy’s hand shot in the air, waving him over.
His shoulders relaxed, and he made his way to her side.
Pansy’s hair was down to her shoulders and she was still growing into her button nose, but he knew better than to let her child-like features fool him. She was a real force of nature when she wanted to be, and demonstrated that by giving the person beside her a firm jab with her elbow to get them to scoot down and make room.
“You’re Slytherin!” she said, outright giddy. “Thank God! You look good in green.”
“I look good in everything,” Draco corrected, taking a seat. He just wished his voice hadn’t cracked when he’d said it. It was hard to be taken seriously when his body insisted on making every one of its awkward changes all at once.
She could have pointed it out, but she was kind enough to spare him. It often paid to be on her good side.
The whole mess hall rumbled with chatter and overzealous screeching, but by far the loudest table was the one directly behind them that sported red and gold flags. Draco glanced over his shoulder as one boy, a ginger with a litany of orange freckles completely blanketing his face and a thick Estuary accent, waved his hands wildly as he recounted something or other about a stolen car to his peers.
Draco rolled his eyes.
“Gryffindors,” Pansy huffed. “They never shut the hell up.”
Despite them being the same age, it was already her second summer at Hogwarts and she had been able to provide Draco with a few key insights ahead of time.
For example, Slytherins and Gryffindors had been house rivals since the camp first opened its metaphorical doors, and everyone seemed to take that to heart. Draco had been born with a competitive streak, and he was curious to know how the scheduled events were going to play out, given that precedent.
As the ginger boy’s voice hit an entirely punishing pitch, he decided Gryffindors would be quite easy to hate.
Which, of course, was right when something solid struck Draco in the back of the head.
He whipped around, jaw askance and holding his head like he’d been bludgeoned. Hell, he may as well have been.
The offending object, an artisan bread roll, had dropped to the floor. Sitting at the Gryffindor table across from the loud ginger was a dark haired boy with a hand held frozen in the air. His eyes almost as wide as his ridiculous round glasses.
“Oh my God,” the boy squeaked. “I wasn’t aiming for you, I swear!”
Draco’s face burned terribly hot as a few others around them took notice of the spectacle. Giggled as they watched curiously to see how things would play out.
Draco didn’t recognize either of the Gryffindors. Hogwarts was mostly populated by children of prestige, but judging by the rattiness of the ginger’s hand-me-down shirt and the small bit of tape holding the dark haired boy’s glasses together, they were probably attending on a charity grant.
“It would be in your interest to not disturb your betters,” Draco sneered, posturing his shoulders. A few of his fellow housemates snickered. “Best not to bite the hand that feeds you and what not.”
The dark haired boy’s sheepish expression morphed—his mouth twisting into an ugly frown. “Excuse me?”
The ginger glared at Draco while addressing his friend. “Ignore him, mate. No such thing as a decent Malfoy.”
Draco’s skin prickled as Pansy jumped into action.
“No such thing as a well-mannered Weasley,” she snapped. “Why don’t you do what your family does best and keep your head down?”
The dark haired boy leapt to his feet, and for a moment, Draco thought he might actually stomp right over and finish what the bread roll started. Instead, the boy picked up another one, tossed it into the air a few times as if weighing it, then lobbed it right at him, striking Draco in the face.
All hell broke loose.
Slytherins and Gryffindors alike jumped into action, proving just how quick they were to take a swing at one another. Food went flying through the air like artillery. The beautiful spread on the table immediately torn apart for ammo. A full cup of something sickly sweet drenched Pansy and she screamed, ducking down under the table and trying to ring her hair dry.
The dark haired boy didn’t seem to regard to any of the other campers, even as they chucked chips and bits of mince meat at him.
No. He had eyes only for Draco.
The boy lunged at him with a fistful of yorkshire pudding, and Draco would deny the abhorrent screech he let out until the day he died, but he was able to duck to the side—to grab the boy by a wad of his stupid soft curls and shove him face-first right into a treacle tart.
Draco grinned as he held the boy down for a bit longer than he probably ought to have, but he needed to make sure he’d learned his lesson.
Don’t fuck with Draco Malfoy.
Which was when the boy shot an elbow backwards, bashing it right into Draco’s face and breaking his nose.
*
The Director’s office was deadly quiet, while Draco Malfoy and the dark haired boy sat side by side on two lone rickety chairs. Mrs. McGonagall peered at them from behind her desk, her wire spectacles low on her nose.
She sighed.
“Day one,” she said, pointedly. “We are on day one, and thanks to the two of you, there’s already been a campwide incident. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Draco grimaced, pressing a small plastic bag of ice to his nose. Bits of dried blood were starting to flake around his lips. He wished she’d given him the chance to clean up, but decided it was worth it because the other boy was still covered in treacle filling. He’d made attempts to wipe his glasses clean on his shirt, but they were sticky and quite cloudy. His green eyes bright against the fuchsia mess.
“He started it!” Draco balked.
The Director nodded. “Yes, and you escalated it. We believe strongly in accountability here, boys, so please give me a good reason why I shouldn’t have you both sent home.”
Draco gritted his teeth. His father would absolutely kill him, but there was no way he’d ever admit that.
“You can’t,” the dark haired boy pleaded, his grumpy demeanor faltering. In fact, he looked on the verge of panic. “I—You already know—”
He trailed off, glancing at Draco.
Ah. It seemed pride had them both tongue-tied.
Mrs. McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose, her brow furrowed. “Listen, boys. We understand the value of a little healthy competition, but outside of activities, you have got to keep it civil. Am I understood?”
Draco exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing. He was okay. He could stay.
Draco and the other boy echoed one another. “Yes, Director.”
Mrs. McGonagall gave a firm nod, but it appeared she wasn’t done with them just yet.
“Let’s start over, shall we boys? Why don’t you introduce yourselves?”
It took every ounce of willpower for Draco to not roll his eyes. He hated being spoken to like a child.
McGonagall raised her eyebrows.
The other boy folded first, standing from his chair and turning to Draco. He stuck out a rigid hand.
Draco would absolutely not let the boy walk out of this as the bigger person. He stood as well and took the offered hand, firmly shaking it. Squeezing with all his strength.
“Malfoy,” he said. “Draco Malfoy.”
If it hurt, the other boy didn’t show it. He just held on, buying right into the unspoken challenge of who would withdraw first.
“Harry Potter,” the boy said, responding in kind. Crushing Draco’s fingers.
It was going to be a long summer.
*
The last time Draco had seen Harry Potter, the boy was so scrawny he had looked like a pile of twigs all tied together by a bit of twine.
Now, standing in the entryway of the mess hall with a massive grin, he was undeniably a man. Pushing close to six feet with broad shoulders and deep tan skin.
Draco whirled around to glare daggers at his treacherous friend.
Pansy at least had the decency to look sheepish.
Fuck. Harry Potter was here, with the same wild hair and dumb style of wire glasses. One would think after seven years he would have developed a lick of taste.
Potter strolled into the hall, with Weasley and Granger of all people filed neatly behind him. All sporting Gryffindor neckties, to nobody’s surprise.
Draco wanted to hide—to slide down under the table and maybe crawl to the kitchens and sneak out a window. He could hitch a ride back to the city, and maybe if he was lucky he’d get picked up by a serial killer who would put him out of his misery.
“Wow,” Zabini drawled. “Potter filled out in all the right places, didn’t he?”
“I’ll kill you,” Draco seethed.
Just as Draco decided it couldn’t possibly get worse, Potter locked eyes with him.
The man froze, his irritating friends bumping into his back.
“What the hell, mate?” Weasley grumbled, before following Potter’s line of sight. “Oh, blimey.”
Potter’s green eyes were huge from shock, his mouth just barely hanging open.
Draco wanted to slap the dumb look off his face.
Then Potter’s expression shifted—twisted into an angry frown.
“Malfoy.”
He’d spoken his name as if it were moldy in his mouth.
The panic swelling in Draco’s chest ignited—burned into a horrible, disfiguring rage. He crossed his arms and returned the same curled lip. Spat back with utter contempt.
“Potter.”