Summary:Harry returned to Hogwarts for eighth year because he didn't know where else to go. He didn't want to be an Auror, didn't want more titles, didn't want to save anyone. He just wanted time. To breathe. To forget. To figure out who he was, since pain and war were all he had ever known.
He just didn't expect a night of drinking with friends to end with him losing his virginity to Draco Malfoy, let alone waking weeks later to find himself pregnant with his child.
Notes:English isn't my first language, I'm Latin American, so yeah, you might catch a little Latin flair here and there.
Don't worry about the story, there's a bit of pain, but way more comfort.
And please be kind about any mistakes, because honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing with my life, let alone on this app.
Chapter 1Chapter Text
Opening his eyes, Harry felt a surge of frustration when he realized it was still night, though insomnia wasn't exactly new to him, not even before the war, it was still a total pain.
It'd been three and a half months since he'd returned to Hogwarts. The choice was driven purely by the need for time. Time for what, he hadn't figured out yet. Maybe to decide whether he really liked those vomit‑flavored magical beans, or if he'd just been too numb as a kid to say no.
He had no clue who he really was: the war had shadowed his life before he was born, and now that it was finally over, Harry felt utterly adrift. The offer to join the Aurors had triggered an accidental burst of magic that shattered every single window on the first floor of Grimmauld Place, a very subtle, delicate "no," if you could call it that, much like his emotional life lately.
He still wondered if he'd made the right choice. Sometimes, in moments like this, he'd remember the weight and warmth of Teddy in his arms and feel like dropping everything to look after his godson. Babysitting sounded way more promising than rounding up Dark wizards. At least it'd be more predictable, or so he hoped.
He rolled onto his side and stared at the starry sky through the window. It wasn't as epic as the view from the Gryffindor Tower, not even close, but it beat nothing.
Another thing bugging him was how the eighth‑year dorms were arranged: now‑Headmistress McGonagall had decided to sort everyone alphabetically by last name.
Nothing like a good, old‑fashioned bureaucratic ruling to really help a bunch of traumatized teens rebuild their lives.
He got why they couldn't stick with their original Houses, they were another year older, battle‑scarred from the war, and under a whole different rulebook than the underclassmen, but seriously, why couldn't they at least avoid tossing Gryffindors and Slytherins with attempted‑murder résumés into the same room?
He still lucked out with Ron and Dean in his dorm, but instead of Neville and Seamus, he was paired with Blaise Zabini and Zacharias Smith. And hey, it could always be worse, he could be Hermione, stuck with Millicent Bulstrode and Daphne Greengrass, or Neville, who, even with Anthony Goldstein, still has to share with Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy. Another entry on his petty list of problems. His testimony at the Slytherin trial had cooled things off between them, but didn't erase years of mistrust. In public they managed civility, no curses hurled, but sneak some firewhisky into the common room and it was only a matter of time before name‑calling and shouting began. Spells, though? A definite no. There was apparently still a shred of decency: yelling was fine; murder wasn't. Progress, right?
That's why Harry couldn't make sense of what went down that Friday night. He remembered drinking more than his share, and the sensible lot, including Hermione, had passed out when the Firewhisky ran dry. But Harry, ever the genius in judgment calls, chose to linger with a few others.
At some point the group split: some set off to scavenge more booze, others headed to the kitchen. Harry was too lazy to peel himself off the sofa by the fire, he only stirred when he noticed he was alone, stretched, and saw that Malfoy, of all people, had stayed behind too.
He didn't know who started it, probably that pompous Slytherin, but at some point he was pressing his index finger into Malfoy's chest, the other boy a solid fifteen centimeters taller than him, calling him a coward. Because, really, poking a drunk, cranky ex–Death Eater at two in the morning is an excellent idea.
He remembered those gray‑blue eyes burning with fury, locked onto his own, and the cutting tone of the blond's voice as he shot back an insult Harry couldn't quite recall. The next thing he knew, Malfoy's lips were crushed roughly against his.
He tasted Firewhisky on his tongue as Malfoy freely explored his mouth, felt those big hands clamp around his waist with not a shred of care, and the harsh jolt of being slammed against a mirrored piece of furniture.
It was almost poetic, if you ignored that they were basically attacking each other with pure desire. He remembered cold hands at his hips just before his trousers were yanked down to his knees, the low, hushed voice murmuring a spell before he felt his entrance being filled by a finger.
Oh, great. Now his sex life involved life‑threatening risks and a total loss of dignity. At least it was consistent.
Gods, it was incredible, on top of the bites and hickeys Malfoy freely scattered, his free hand roamed every inch of Harry's body: teasing his nipples, clamping his waist and hips, stroking his hard length, slapping his ass a few times, and gripping his thighs so firmly that, a week and a half later, the marks were still visible to anyone who looked closely.
At some point, when Harry was too lost in sensation, three fingers slipped from his ass, only for Malfoy to drive his cock home before Harry could even protest.
Harry swore he saw stars. The stretch, the weight, the heat, the invasion, every inch was claimed by Malfoy's rigid shaft. Harry felt so full, so alive. He wanted to spread his legs wider for his rival, to let him fuck him until he passed out.
Oh, what a glorious title for his autobiography: "From Savior of the World to Draco Malfoy's Official Bitch: A Tragedy in Three Acts."
His hips burned against the piece of furniture they were braced on, but Harry didn't care. He grabbed at that pale hair and, shamefully, begged for more, only to be met with two sharp slaps on his ass.
Dignity? Never heard of it. Self‑respect? It left after the fourth shot.
He tugged and tousled Malfoy's platinum hair as the Slytherin took him wholly for himself. Nothing else occupied his mind but Malfoy's cock inside him, sliding in and out, in and out, making a glorious mess, both literal and figurative. His sanity, it seemed, lay among the castle's shattered stones.
Harry came embarrassingly early. Malfoy paused and asked if he should stop, but stubborn Harry simply told him to keep going. And that's how Harry learned what over‑stimulation really was, and how exquisitely torturous it could feel.
He remembered nothing after that, nothing except the heat of Malfoy emptying into him and the slow trickle of cum down his thighs. The next thing he knew, he was curled up in his own bed, wrapped in Gryffindor‑red blankets.
The guilt, he'd slept with Draco Malfoy, the boy who'd hassled him and his friends since their first day at Hogwarts, the boy who'd called his best friend a "mudblood", the boy who mocked his friend's finances at every turn, the boy who helped the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, the boy who'd tried to kill Albus Dumbledore, the boy who'd failed to kill Dumbledore, the boy who didn't hand him over to Bellatrix, the boy who lent him his wand so they could escape Malfoy Manor. It was all so confusing.
He glanced at the red curtain, knowing Ron's bed lay just beyond it. He sighed and sat down, not even noticing when his wand slipped into his hand, though he deliberately ignored his glasses. Creeping as silently as he could, he approached his friend's bed and gently drew back the curtain.
Hermione was there, curled up beside her best friend, both looking serenely peaceful in sleep. Harry felt a pang of envy, not for their closeness, but for that calm, that undisturbed rest. He turned to leave them in peace.
"Harry?" Hermione whispered, her voice hoarse with sleep. He couldn't find his voice, he swallowed hard, not wanting to disturb his friends in any way.
"Come on," Ron said, pulling the blanket back to make space beside him.
Harry lay down quickly, wrapped his arms around the boy taller than him, and felt Hermione's hand rest gently on his arm. He closed his eyes, and for a brief moment, peace settled over him, the crushing weight he carried seemed to lift, the cold that never left his bones finally warmed. But then, a tight chill bloomed in his chest, refusing to let go.
Because even relief had an expiration date. Thirty seconds of peace before your brain reminded you that you'd fucked your childhood rival against a wardrobe three weeks ago.
"Thanks," Harry's hoarse voice whispered before he slipped back into unconsciousness.
When he woke up, he was alone in bed, and it felt like there were stones packed inside his stomach, making it that much harder to get up and face the day.
Sunlight slipped through the red curtains, and Harry buried himself deeper into the bed, wishing he could disappear right there, or at least somewhere in that room, far from any memory of what he had let Malfoy do to him.
With a sigh, he got up, stretched, reached for his glasses, and glanced around at the empty beds. Dean's and Smith's were a mess, while Zabini's was perfectly made, eerily reminiscent of the way he used to make beds at Aunt Petunia's house.
Oh, perfect, memories of Aunt Petunia before breakfast. The cherry on top of the torture.
He knew he wasn't late, Hermione would've called him if he were. He tried to remember his schedule for the day and sighed when he recalled his fourth class was Potions. Ever since what happened in the Forbidden Forest, it felt like his body couldn't hold warmth anymore. He couldn't remember the last time he wore short sleeves without shivering, which was a shame, really, considering the tattoos he'd gotten.
He left the dorm and headed down the stairs, walking out of the common room without so much as glancing at the piece of furniture where he'd fucked Malfoy. He made his way quickly toward the Great Hall, crossing the house tables with his chin held high, seeing nothing until he sat at the small Eighth Year table directly across from the staff table. He smiled at Hermione, who was buried in a book, and at Ron, who had a mouth full of what looked like eggs.
"You okay?" Hermione asked, eyes never leaving the page, but he felt the weight of her gaze behind the words.
Of course everything's fine. He just needed a full emotional exorcism after waking up. Nothing major.
"Just a bad night."
The reply came out flat, unconvincing. He forced a smile that barely reached the corner of his mouth before dying there. Maybe she'd press him. But she only nodded, gently turning the page, as if respecting his silence, his timing. And that's what killed him. They trusted him. They believed in him. And he was lying.
Because how do you even begin to explain it? How do you say that, drunk, he let himself get lost in the one person who was always supposed to be the exact opposite of everything he wanted? Someone who'd said terrible things, done even worse?
Oh, easy. Just sit down for afternoon tea and casually drop, "Guys, you won't believe who railed me against a common room cabinet." Simple. Breezy. Totally trauma-free.
He looked down at the food on the table and silently reached for a piece of toast, taking a small bite and swallowing most of it whole, as if chewing were just too much. He rolled his eyes when Ron dropped two slices of bacon onto his plate but said nothing.
Half a piece of toast. Two slices of bacon that seemed to be watching him. He swallowed hard.
Amazing how even the bacon seemed to be judging him.
He forced himself to take another bite, the mushy taste of toast spreading across his mouth like everything inside him was oversensitized, his taste buds, his nerves, his thoughts. The bacon followed, too salty, as if mocking his effort. He chewed slowly, without appetite, jaw tight, eyes downcast, like every bite demanded more than he had to give.
"You guys going?" he flinched when Neville sat down beside him, draping an arm over his shoulders.
"Going where?" he asked, thinking maybe another sip of pumpkin juice would help him stomach the food.
"Ginny told me the seventh and eighth years are organizing a friendly Quidditch match," Neville explained, and Harry looked up at him.
"Mate, I don't think I'm up for it, honestly," he muttered, then turned to Ron. "Can I stay with Hermione and watch you?"
"What time is it supposed to be?" she asked Neville, who pulled a thoughtful face.
"Last period," he replied, and she shook her head.
"I've got Runes," Hermione said, and Ron rolled his eyes. Harry allowed himself a small laugh, chewing a piece of bacon without even noticing.
"I still don't get why you picked those subjects," Ron muttered, just as Harry caught movement in his peripheral vision.
"You're taking Divination, Ronald," Hermione snapped, clearly annoyed, and Harry tried to focus on the conversation in front of him and not on the group of Slytherins settling nearby.
"I had to choose something optional! Harry took Care of Magical Creatures!" Ron protested, and Harry was sure the conversation carried on, but then a pair of grey eyes locked onto his.
"At least in Care of Magical Creatures he only has to understand a few beasts. Not invent vague predictions and stroke egos."
Harry swallowed hard. Part of him couldn't look away. Part of him didn't want to—even when a smug, self-satisfied smile crept across that pointed face. He flinched slightly when someone sat down next to him with a sudden thud, only to see Seamus steal a piece of bacon from his plate.
"Sorry, we're late," Dean said as he slid into the seat beside Ron.
"Your buttons are all crooked," Harry said, smacking Seamus's hand as he went for another piece. "There's literally a whole platter in front of you, genius," he complained, watching the boy chuckle and finally grab food from the serving tray instead.
"You're just mad because I pull it off with grace," Seamus shot back, grabbing another piece anyway.
"Grace?" Harry rolled his eyes. "If that's grace, then Umbridge was a goddess."
"What class do we have now?" Ron asked, completely ignoring the banter.
"Charms," Hermione answered, without looking up.
"Who with?" he asked, putting more food in his mouth.
"Hufflepuff," came the answer, as she consciously tried not to look at the group of Slytherins.
"After, history and free period," Dean replied, getting up from the table.
"For you lot," Hermione muttered.
"Suit yourself," Harry grumbled, and she stuck her tongue out at him before standing up as well.
Inside, Harry was thankful to be leaving the Great Hall, far from Malfoy's eyes, away from the memory of his hands, away from the gaze of any Slytherin and the green of their robes.
"Drinks on Friday?" Seamus asked, joining them.
"You can't even make it to breakfast looking like you haven't just fought a troll," Hermione pointed out, fixing something in her bag, but Harry knew she'd never say no to wine.
"One thing's got nothing to do with the other," Seamus defended. "Drinking is an art. Waking up early is oppression."
"I'll pass this time," Harry murmured, not wanting to open the door to what happened that Friday. Truth was, he'd been avoiding alcohol ever since.
One night, one bad decision, and one Malfoy later, and he'd magically learned the concept of 'limits.' A miracle.
"Damn, it's no fun without the Golden Trio," Dean said, totally overacting.
"I never denied anything," Ron exclaimed, his voice jumping an octave.
"Honestly, I think we're spending way too much time with the Slytherins in the common room," Harry muttered, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket, ignoring the looks thrown his way.
"I thought you were all in for McGonagall's speech about house unity after the war," Ron grumbled, eyeing him up and down. He knew something was off, you can't hide that from someone you've shared a dorm for seven years and survived months with in a forest.
"And they're chill," Dean added. "And I was kidnapped by one of them last year."
"It's true, Harry, you and Malfoy only start yelling like you're eleven again when you've both had too much to drink," Seamus pointed out.
"Another good reason for me to skip drinking on Friday," Harry smiled at his friends, knowing he hadn't convinced a single one of them, least of all Ron and Hermione.
He didn't need to look to know Seamus rolled his eyes, walking a few steps ahead with his boyfriend. Ron was still staring at him, brow slightly furrowed. Hermione's expression was similar, but she wasn't the one he was worried about.
Hermione was, no doubt, one of the smartest witches he knew, but that was academically. Ron picked up on social and emotional cues way faster than she did. Harry might have had a chance to dodge it if he hadn't noticed their pattern of talking it over, but with the two of them dating, he knew it was a hot topic between them. And he knew they'd already noticed.
Honestly, Harry just wished that night had never happened.
"Didn't you have a check-up with Madame Pomfrey?" Neville asked, glancing at the watch on his wrist, startling Harry.
"Shit," he muttered, closing his eyes as a headache began to settle in.
The teachers had arranged that every two weeks, all students above sixth year had to get a check-up to make sure there were no lasting physical effects from the Death Eater period at Hogwarts. In Harry's case, it was because he had died for a few seconds.
"I've got one too," Neville shrugged. "Shall we?" he asked, and Harry just wanted to sit down right there in the hallway.
"Pass me your essay," Ron said with a sigh, and Harry opened his backpack, searching for the parchment "Give me the bag," Ron grumbled, in a bad mood, and Harry handed it over.
"We'll be there soon," Neville murmured, nodding toward the hospital wing.
Harry huffed, changing direction and shrinking a little as a gust of wind blew past. The walk was quiet. Neville told him his fears, aftereffects from heavy exposure to the Cruciatus Curse, were easing up. The friend said that, all things considered, he'd been lucky not to end up in a bed next to his parents at St. Mungo's. And Harry was lucky too, not to be lying in a grave beside his own.
He avoided Madame Pomfrey's eyes when they arrived, he didn't want any looks of judgment for missing the appointment or pity mixed with understanding. He waited while Neville finished his check-up and eyed the potion she gave him to take every morning to continue treating his tremors.
He sighed as it was his turn. Sitting on the examination table, he still avoided the older woman's eyes, letting the wand be pointed at him. He was used to the cold sensation of spells by now, so he just stared at his worn-out sneakers.
"Has the cold gotten any better?" she asked, looking up and shaking her head.
"Has your appetite improved?" Harry just stared back, unsure how to answer "since the start of term, at least?" she tried again, and he nodded.
"I ate today," he said, and she nodded approvingly before casting a few more spells, then looking somewhat concerned, "everything okay?" she asked, redoing one of the spells, pointing at his stomach.
"Potter, have you had any sexual activity without protective magic recently?" she asked in a professional tone.
The air seemed to leave Harry's lungs without him even realizing it. A sudden stiffness seized his shoulders, while a cold tingling wave crept up the back of his neck, spreading across his back like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water under his skin. His fingers went numb, and his stomach, which had been empty moments before, now felt like it was shrinking inward, trying to disappear.
Harry glanced at Neville, who seemed thoroughly fascinated by the hospital wing ceiling, then looked back at the older woman without answering. He saw her sigh.
"Potter, apparently, you're pregnant," she announced.