Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, trying his absolute best not to feel like a trespasser in his own house. The tension between himself, Ron, and Hermione was like an invisible wall—thick, heavy, and impossible to ignore. They weren't even sitting near him. Ron was across the table with Neville, shoveling mashed potatoes onto his plate as if Harry didn't exist, while Hermione had retreated beside Ron, surrounded by a small stack of books as she ate. Seamus and Dean were there too, Seamus holding an ice pack on his eye while he glared across at Harry.
It wasn't that Harry didn't want to apologize to Ron and Hermione. He did. The guilt had been gnawing at him ever since he even spoke the words last night. But every time he thought about walking up to them, the words caught in his throat. What could he even say to make it better? "Sorry for being a total git" didn't feel like it covered the full extent of his outburst.
So instead, he stayed put at the farthest end of the table, where Lavender and Parvati had invited him to sit.
"You know, Harry," Lavender said as she poured herself some pumpkin juice, "I think you're the first boy who's willingly chosen to sit with us in ages. Most of them act like they'll catch some sort of disease if they do."
Parvati giggled, flicking a stray crumb off her plate. "To be fair, you do scare them off sometimes, Lav. Remember when you hexed Cormac McLaggen for taking your hairpin?"
"He deserved it," Lavender said with a huff. "And anyway, Cormac needed to be taken down a peg. Don't you think, Harry?"
Harry, who had been mindlessly poking at his shepherd's pie, looked up. "Yeah, he probably did." He gave a small, tentative smile. "Although, to be fair, Cormac takes himself down a peg pretty well without anyone's help."
Lavender laughed, the sound bright and genuine, like the sound of a bird chirping in the morning. "True! He does manage to trip over his own ego, doesn't he?"
Parvati leaned closer, resting her chin in her hand as she grinned at Harry. "See? You're funny when you're not brooding. Maybe sitting with us will help you stop looking so moody all the time."
Harry rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. "I'm not moody. Just… tired."
"Tired of what?" Lavender pressed, her brow furrowing slightly.
Harry hesitated, his fork hovering over his plate. "Everything," He admitted quietly.
For once, Lavender and Parvati didn't laugh or tease him. Instead, they exchanged a glance that Harry couldn't quite decipher, then turned back to him with surprising sincerity.
"Well," Lavender said, her voice unusually soft, "if you ever want to talk about it, we're here."
"Even if it's not about Divination," Parvati added, nudging him lightly. "We're not completely useless, you know."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by their kindness. He hadn't expected them to actually care, let alone offer to listen. "Thanks," He mumbled, his ears burning slightly.
Before he could say more, Ginny dropped into the seat beside him with all the subtlety of a Bludger. She plopped her bag onto the table, grabbed a roll, and promptly smacked Harry on the back of the head with it.
"You're an idiot," She said, her tone equal parts scolding and affectionate, a touch of annoyance as well.
Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his head but not bothering to argue. "Yeah, I know."
"You don't even know why I'm calling you an idiot yet," Ginny said, raising an eyebrow, trying not to laugh.
"I can guess," Harry muttered, glancing down the table at Ron and Hermione. They wouldn't even glance at him.
Ginny followed his gaze, her expression softening slightly. "They're hurt, Harry," She said quietly. "And they're too stubborn to say it, but they miss you. Even Ron, though he'd hex the ever loving shit out of me if he knew I told you that."
"I miss them too," Harry admitted, his voice barely audible. "But I don't know how to fix it. I messed up, Ginny. Really messed up."
Ginny sighed, her expression shifting into something more understanding. "You did mess up. But they'll forgive you—eventually. You just have to try, even if it feels impossible. They care about you too much not to."
Harry nodded slowly, the weight in his chest easing just a little. Ginny always had a way of cutting through his self-pity without making him feel worse. She reminded him of what he imagined a younger sibling might be like—blunt, supportive, and fiercely loyal all at once. They had claimed each other as siblings that summer anyways, hadn't they?
"Thanks, Gin," He said quietly.
"Don't mention it, if you tell anyone I might have to punch you," She replied, stealing a piece of his shepherd's pie.
Lavender and Parvati, who had been watching the exchange with quiet amusement, finally spoke up.
"You two are like siblings," Lavender said with a grin. "It's adorable."
"Annoying, more like," Harry muttered, but there was a faint smile on his face.
Ginny smirked, leaning back in her seat. "He's just mad because I'm right most of the time."
Lavender and Parvati laughed, and Harry felt a flicker of something like normalcy. Was this how normal friends hung out? No plotting the downfall of anyone, no research over something or another? It was nice.
Ginny leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand as she glanced toward Seamus, who was still sitting stiffly with his ice pack pressed against his eye. Harry's curiosity finally got the better of him, and he turned to Ginny.
"Do you know what happened to Seamus?" He asked, his voice low enough not to carry. "He's been glaring at me since I sat down. And what's with the ice pack?"
Ginny's lips twitched, and she leaned closer with a conspiratorial smirk. "Oh, that? Ron slugged him one."
Harry blinked, caught completely off guard. "Ron? What? Why?"
Lavender and Parvati perked up immediately, leaning in eagerly. "Oh, this is going to be good," Parvati murmured, grinning. Those two did love gossip, didn't they?
Ginny's smirk widened as she took a sip of pumpkin juice, clearly enjoying the suspense. "It happened after last class. Ron overheard Seamus talking rubbish about you—something about how you're just causing more trouble for the house and how his mum was right to think you've gone mad."
Lavender gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "No! He didn't!"
Parvati's eyes widened, a mixture of disbelief and delight on her face. "I knew Seamus was upset, but that's so out of line!"
Ginny nodded, her tone turning serious for a moment. "Yeah, Ron wasn't having any of it. He told Seamus to shut it, and when Seamus wouldn't, well…" She mimed being punched in the eye, a grin growing on her face after. "Ron clocked him."
Harry's mouth opened and closed a few times, struggling to process the news. "Ron hit him? Like, actually hit him?"
Ginny shrugged, unbothered. "It wasn't that bad. Just one punch. McGonagall didn't even find out, so it's not like anyone's in trouble."
Lavender and Parvati exchanged wide-eyed looks before bursting into giggles. "I can't believe Ron did that," Lavender said, shaking her head. "He's usually so… chill. Well, mostly."
Harry ran a hand through his hair, guilt twisting in his chest. "I can't believe he'd do that over me, especially after everything I said to him and Hermione."
Ginny reached over and flicked him on the forehead. "You really don't get it, do you? Ron's furious with you, yeah, but you're still his best mate. You think he's going to let someone bad-mouth you in front of him?"
Harry slumped back in his seat, feeling even more conflicted than before. "He shouldn't have done that. Seamus already hates me enough as it is."
Ginny arched an eyebrow. "Harry, Seamus doesn't hate you—he's just scared and angry and doesn't know what to believe. And, honestly, he probably deserved a punch for running his mouth like that."
Parvati nodded in agreement. "I mean, we don't condone violence," She said, though her tone was far from convincing. "But… he really shouldn't have been saying those things."
Lavender snorted. "Honestly, Seamus is lucky it was just Ron. If it had been Fred or George, he'd probably still be on the floor."
Harry let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know. I just feel like I keep making everything worse. For everyone."
Ginny rolled her eyes and smacked him on the back of the head with a roll again. "You're an idiot," She repeated, though her tone was more fond than harsh this time.
Harry didn't even argue, just nodded and repeated what he said last time. "Yeah, I know."
Ginny's expression softened as she leaned her elbows on the table. "Look, Harry. You messed up, sure. But Ron and Hermione are still your best friends, and they're not going to give up on you. You just have to stop being so stubborn and talk to them."
"I don't even know what to say," Harry admitted, his voice quiet. "I yelled at them. I said things I didn't mean."
"Then start with that," Ginny said simply. "Tell them you didn't mean it. Apologize. It doesn't have to be perfect—it just has to be honest."
Harry nodded slowly, her words sinking in. Ginny always had a way of cutting through his guilt and self-pity without making him feel worse. She really was his little sister, wasn't she?
"Thanks, Gin," He said softly.
"Don't mention it," She replied, stealing another bite of his shepherd's pie. "But if you don't sort this out soon, I will punch you. Like actually. Just a warning."
Lavender and Parvati laughed, and Harry couldn't help but to laugh too. Ginny just smirked, her chest puffed up as she soaked in the laughter.
"Now then, let's talk the study group." Lavender smiled, clapping her hands excitedly.
"Ooh yes! Who else are you thinking of inviting, Harry?" Pavarti asked curiously.
Lavender nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, who? We've got Gryffindors, Ravenclaws. Are you thinking of inviting anyone from Hufflepuff? Or—" She hesitated, lowering her voice dramatically. "Slytherin?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Ginny. The mention of Slytherins instantly brought Draco to mind, and he wasn't quite ready to explain that part of his life just yet, to anyone except Luna. "I haven't really decided yet," He said, trying to sound casual. "But I think it'd be good to include people from all the houses. The whole point is to help each other, right?"
Lavender leaned in, her eyes bright with excitement. "I know a couple of Hufflepuffs who might be interested. Megan Jones is really good at Transfiguration, and Justin Finch-Fletchley has always been decent at Charms—he might join if we ask nicely."
Ginny nodded thoughtfully, swirling her pumpkin juice. "Ernie Macmillan would probably jump at the chance to organize something like this. He loves being the responsible one. I could ask him if you want."
"Yeah, that'd be great," Harry said, his mood lifting slightly. The more names they added, the more real this idea felt. It wasn't just a way to prepare for OWLs—it was a chance to bring people together, something Harry realized he might need more than he'd thought originally.
Parvati leaned closer, her eyes narrowing playfully. "But what about the Slytherins? Are you really going to ask any of them?"
Harry hesitated, feeling Ginny's gaze flick toward him. He knew Lavender and Parvati were mostly teasing, but there was genuine curiosity there too. His mind immediately went to Draco, and he forced himself to look at his plate, not trusting his expression.
"Maybe," Harry said carefully. "If there's someone who'd actually join. I mean, I heard Blaise Zabini is already worried about his grades dropping because of Umbridge, and Daphne Greengrass seems nice enough in the halls. She handed me a spare quill once during class when mine broke."
Parvati and Lavender exchanged wide-eyed looks at this revelation.
"She handed you a quill?" Lavender repeated dramatically, as if it were the most scandalous piece of gossip she'd ever heard. "Are you saying she didn't hex you for fun first? That's practically an act of rebellion for a Slytherin!"
Parvati giggled, leaning closer to Harry. "Are you sure she wasn't secretly plotting your downfall, Harry? Maybe the quill was cursed."
Harry gave them both a look, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Yes, I'm sure. It was just a quill, and no, I haven't sprouted extra limbs."
Lavender sighed theatrically. "Well, if she's decent enough to lend you a quill, maybe she's worth asking. But if Blaise Zabini joins, you'd better watch your back. He's got that whole 'smooth and sneaky' vibe. You never know what he's thinking. It's hot."
Ginny snorted, taking another sip of her pumpkin juice. "Lavender, I think you've been reading too many romance novels again. Blaise Zabini is more likely to sit at the back and smirk at everyone than actually sabotage Harry."
Parvati nodded in agreement. "True. But if Daphne and Blaise are the only Slytherins who might join, it could work. They're not as… you know… Pansy and Draco about things."
Harry kept his expression neutral, though the mention of Draco made his stomach flip. He knew Draco would love to join a group like this, but since no one except Luna knew about their friendship, it hurt that Draco couldn't, or at least Harry couldn't invite him. It wasn't time for that to become public knowledge just yet.
"Anyway," Harry said, steering the conversation back on track, "We'll start with whoever's willing, no matter what house or year they're in. This isn't about who's friends with who—it's about learning."
"That's very noble of you," Ginny said with a sly grin. "But you might want to prepare yourself. If you invite a Slytherin, half the Gryffindors will probably faint."
Harry sighed. "As long as they're awake for the actual studying, I don't care."
Lavender and Parvati laughed, and even Ginny smiled warmly at him. Harry felt like things might actually start coming together. The study group wasn't just about preparing for their exams or resisting Umbridge—it was about finding a sense of connection and purpose, to bridge the gap between houses. That's what Hogwarts was originally intended for, wasn't it?
"Right," Ginny said, standing up and grabbing her bag. "I'll ask around in Ravenclaw and a few Hufflepuffs and see who else is interested. Lavender, Parvati, you two should start spreading the word in Gryffindor. And Harry—" She smirked at him. "Don't forget to actually eat your lunch. You'll need your strength if you're going to survive the chaos this group is about to bring."
With that, she left, her bright red hair swishing behind her as she made her way out of the Great Hall. Lavender and Parvati exchanged an amused glance before turning back to Harry.
"She's right, you know," Lavender said, grinning. "This is going to be absolute chaos. But fun chaos."
Parvati nodded, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "And, honestly, it's about time. Hogwarts always needs a little chaos."
Harry chuckled, finally digging into what was left of his shepherd's pie. As the conversation shifted to lighter topics—like Lavender's dramatic Divination predictions from last year and Parvati's theories on Umbridge's terrible fashion sense—Harry felt himself relax fully. It was nice to just talk with friends, to laugh and joke and pretend everything was fine.
He hoped this moment of peace wouldn't backfire horribly.
——
Herbology was his next class, and thankfully Neville came up and partnered with Harry for that class, ushering him over to stand beside two Hufflepuff girls. He was thankful Neville didn't seem mad at him for missing that meeting either.
"Harry, this is Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones. Hannah, Susan, this is Harry." Neville introduced, and Harry felt his chest warm. That's what he liked about Neville, Neville always forgot that most people knew who he was.
Hannah Abbott offered Harry a bright smile and extended her hand. "Nice to meet you properly, Harry. Not that I don't already know who you are, of course," She added with a light laugh, "but it's good to actually talk to you."
Susan Bones nodded, her expression a little more reserved but friendly nonetheless. "Yeah, same here. It's nice to work with you for a change instead of just hearing about… everything else."
Harry shook Hannah's hand, feeling a bit awkward but grateful for their politeness. "Thanks. Nice to meet you, too." He glanced at Neville, who was already preparing their workbench. Trust Neville to make things easier without even realizing it.
Today's Herbology lesson was on cultivating and harvesting Snargaluff pods. Professor Sprout had them split into small groups to tackle the tricky plants, after giving them a long lecture on how important it was this year because of OWLs. As Neville explained the finer points of handling the temperamental pods to Hannah and Susan, Harry found himself just as interested. It was nice to focus on something straightforward for once—no prophecy, no Umbridge, no lingering guilt about his friends.
"Well," Hannah said after a while, wiping some dirt off her hands, "I think we've almost got this one under control. Neville, you're a natural at this."
Neville blushed slightly but smiled. "Thanks. I've spent a lot of time in the greenhouses. Gran says I'm better at Herbology than anything else."
Susan raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. "Better than Defense Against the Dark Arts? That can't be true, with Umbridge teaching."
The group chuckled, and Harry felt a flicker of warmth at the camaraderie. Even the Hufflepuffs weren't fans of Umbridge, that was good to know.
"You've already had that class, right?" Hannah asked, looking at Harry and Neville. "I've heard she's awful. I mean, you'd think the Ministry could've sent someone decent."
"She's worse than awful," Harry admitted. "She doesn't teach us anything useful, and she acts like Voldemort isn't even back."
Hannah and Susan both flinched slightly at the name, but neither said anything. Instead, Hannah frowned. "I've heard rumors about that… and about you," She said carefully. "About what you've been through. People don't know what to believe."
Harry stiffened slightly, unsure how to respond. Neville stepped in before the silence could stretch too long.
"Well, I believe him," Neville said firmly, glancing at Harry with an encouraging look. "And anyone who doesn't is just scared to face the truth."
Hannah and Susan exchanged a look before nodding. "I believe you too, Harry," Susan said softly. "I mean, it's hard not to with all the evidence. My aunt believes you too, by the way. She told me about your trial and how awful they were. Aunt Amelia called them all vultures."
"Is your aunt Madam Bones?" Harry asked Susan curiously, wondering if the woman who had stood up for him was the same woman Susan was speaking about, if last names were anything to go by.
Susan nodded, but there was no shyness in her expression—just steady, unwavering confidence. "Yeah, she is. And honestly, Harry, she thinks the whole Wizengamot is a joke. She told me what happened during your trial, and I'm not surprised they tried to throw you under the bus. Half of them are too afraid of losing their power to stand up for what's right."
Harry blinked, surprised by her bluntness. "Your aunt was the only one who actually stood up for me. She didn't let them get away with twisting things."
Susan crossed her arms, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Of course she didn't. Aunt Amelia doesn't tolerate nonsense, especially when it comes to people abusing their authority. She's spent her entire career cleaning up their messes, and she's not afraid to call them out for it."
Hannah raised an eyebrow at Susan, a small smile playing on her lips. "You're making Madam Bones sound like she's single-handedly running the Ministry."
"Well," Susan said with a shrug, "she kind of is. If half the Ministry had her guts, we wouldn't have people like Umbridge anywhere near Hogwarts."
Neville chuckled as he carefully extracted a Snargaluff pod. "She does sound brilliant. Honestly, it's nice to hear there are still people like her in the Ministry. Most of them seem… well, not great."
"She is brilliant," Susan said firmly, then turned her sharp gaze to Harry. "And so are you, Harry. I don't care what some people say about you or what rumors are flying around—anyone with half a brain can see you're telling the truth. And even if they can't, it doesn't matter. What matters is what you do about it."
Harry hesitated, taken aback by her boldness. "Thanks," He said quietly, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and awe. "That means a lot."
Susan nodded, her confidence unwavering. "It should. You've got people behind you, Harry, whether you realize it or not. And if you're going to take on the Ministry and Umbridge or whoever else stands in your way, you're going to need all the help you can get. Don't be afraid to use it."
There was a long pause as Harry processed her words. Neville gave him an encouraging nudge, and Hannah smiled warmly, balancing Susan's fierceness with a touch of kindness. "She's right, you know," Hannah added. "You've got more people on your side than you think."
Harry nodded slowly, the weight in his chest easing slightly. "Thanks. Both of you."
As they finished harvesting the Snargaluff pods, Susan leaned over the workbench with a gleam of ambition in her eyes. "By the way, Harry, if this study group of yours Ernie told me about is more than just an excuse to review OWL material, count me in. I'm not interested in sitting back and pretending everything's fine while people like Umbridge try to tear us down."
Hannah grinned. "What she means is, we're in. Both of us."
Harry felt his chest warm at their confidence and resolve. He hadn't thought of making the study group a practical thing, but he kind of liked the idea of all of them learning to cast the spells as well as learning what they are. "I'll let you know when we've got everything set up."
"Good," Susan said with a nod. "Just make sure it's worth our time. Because if it is, you'll have more than a couple of Hufflepuffs behind you."
As they left the greenhouse, Harry couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. Susan's boldness and determination were infectious, he felt like he actually had a shot to make a lasting impact. Maybe this study group was more than just a way to learn or help bridge the gaps—it could be the start of something bigger. All he knew, the magic of Hogwarts seemed to sing brighter now that he was putting his plans into motion. Hogwarts wanted her students united.
——
Potions class was harder, of course.
He usually sat with Ron for this class, much like he did for Divination, but just like his other classes, he had to change it up. He elected to sit beside Neville for this class, watching his friend positively shiver in fear as they waited for Professor Snape to come in.
Harry had done his research over the summer, spending the rest of the week before the train ride studying his class books, putting in actual effort in his work. He had gone over his potions book, cover to cover, and read up on the theory and practical application of potions. He wanted to do good in this class, wanted to see Snape's smirk falter when he realized Harry wasn't actually an idiot. This was what he had been most excited for returning back to school.
"It'll be okay, Neville. I'll help you," Harry muttered under his breath, his green eyes bright and full of eager pride.
Neville gave Harry a small, shaky smile, clearly not convinced. "Thanks, Harry. I'm just… you know how he gets."
Harry nodded grimly. "I know. But if we get everything right, there's nothing he can say, right?"
Before Neville could answer, the classroom door slammed open, and Professor Snape swept into the room, his black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud. The air in the dungeon seemed to chill instantly, and the low murmur of students fell silent. He started off by talking about OWLs, about how next year he'd only accept students who got an Outstanding on their exams and nothing less, how he wouldn't teach those who didn't have a desire to do their best in his class.
"Now today," Snape began, his voice cutting through the moment of silence like a blade, "you will be brewing the Draught of Peace. A delicate potion that requires the utmost precision. I will tolerate no mistakes."
Harry's grip tightened on his quill as Snape flicked his wand at the blackboard, causing the instructions for the potion to appear in neat, flowing script. "Instructions are on the board. Begin."
Neville shot Harry a nervous glance, and Harry gave him a reassuring nod. "We've got this," Harry whispered, pulling out his supplies. He read over the instructions carefully, making sure to note each step and the precise order they had to follow down on a spare piece of parchment.
As they began preparing their ingredients, Harry kept his voice low, guiding Neville through the steps. "Chop the valerian roots as fine as you can, but make sure they're even," Harry instructed, demonstrating with his own knife. "If they're uneven, the potion will bubble too much."
Neville followed his lead, his hands trembling slightly. Harry kept an eye on him, offering quiet encouragement whenever he faltered. They added their ingredients slowly, stirring clockwise and counting the turns.
"You're doing great, Neville," Harry said softly as the potion in their cauldron turned a pale silver—exactly as the instructions indicated.
Across the room, Malfoy's group was already drawing Snape's attention, with Draco loudly declaring how easy the potion was. Harry ignored him, focusing on their own work. He didn't need Snape's approval, but he wanted to prove—if only to himself—that he could excel when he put his mind to it.
As they neared the final step, Neville whispered, "Harry, do we add the powdered moonstone all at once or a little at a time?"
"A little at a time," Harry said quickly, his eyes scanning his notes, pointing it out to Neville. "And make sure you stir slowly after each pinch. If we add too much, it'll turn orange. We want it to stay silver instead. "
Neville nodded and carefully picked up the powdered moonstone, his hand trembling slightly. Harry watched closely, ready to step in if anything went wrong.
"Just a pinch, Neville," Harry said quietly. "Then stir—slow and steady."
Neville followed his instructions, adding a pinch of moonstone and stirring gently. The potion shimmered faintly, maintaining its silvery hue. Harry let out a small breath of relief.
"Good, just like that," Harry encouraged. "Now one more pinch."
Neville repeated the process, and the potion began to emit a soft glow. Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of pride—they were nailing this. For once, Snape wouldn't have anything to sneer about.
Across the room, Draco's voice cut through the silence. "Honestly, this is child's play. Even Longbottom might manage not to blow up his cauldron this time."
Harry tensed but refused to look up, knowing Draco was just playing his part, focusing instead on Neville, who had frozen at the insult. "Ignore him," Harry whispered. "You're doing great."
Neville swallowed hard and nodded, adding the final pinch of moonstone even as his hand shook slightly. The potion glowed brilliantly silver, exactly as described in the textbook. Harry grinned. "That's perfect, Neville. We did it."
Snape's voice suddenly cut through the classroom. "Time's up. Step away from your cauldrons."
The professor stalked between the rows of desks, his dark eyes scanning each potion with a critical gaze. He sneered at a cauldron that had turned a sickly orange and muttered something about incompetence. When he reached Harry and Neville's workstation, he paused.
Snape leaned over their cauldron, his expression unreadable. The potion shimmered perfectly silver, a faint, calming glow radiating from it.
"Hmm," Snape said, his voice as cold as ever. "Surprising. Longbottom, I can only assume Potter did most of the work."
Neville opened his mouth, but Harry cut in, his voice calm but firm. "Actually, sir, Neville did a lot of it himself. He's getting better."
Snape's eyes snapped to Harry, narrowing slightly. For a moment, there was silence, heavy and tense.
"Acceptable," Snape said at last, his tone clipped, but it held something else inside, something almost akin to..was it..pride? He straightened and moved on without another word.
Neville let out a breath he'd been holding, his face pale but relieved. "We did it," He whispered, as if he couldn't quite believe it.
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "You did it, Neville. That was all you."
Neville managed a small smile, his confidence bolstered by the success. "Thanks, Harry. I don't think I could've done it without you."
"You didn't need me," Harry said sincerely. "You just needed to believe you could."
As the class ended and they packed up their supplies, Neville walked a little taller. For once, they'd leave Potions without humiliation, and Harry couldn't help but feel like they'd won a small victory.
Maybe things were finally starting to turn around, he mused. Every class had gone swimmingly today, despite the aching hole in his chest and the headache that burrowed its way between his ears.
"Homework is writing an essay no less than twelve inches on the properties of moonstone and its application in potion brewing. It is due next class." Snape explained before they all began to leave, and Harry was sure the grumbling was music to that old bastard's ears. "And Potter, stay after class."
As the classroom door closed behind the last student, which was a hesitating to leave Neville, Harry stood frozen at his workstation, his palms damp with nerves. Snape remained at the front of the room, rifling through some parchment on his desk as if Harry wasn't even there. The silence in the dungeon was suffocating, and Harry's mind raced with possibilities for why Snape had asked him to stay behind. Did he actually mess up somewhere?
Finally, Snape straightened and fixed Harry with his piercing gaze. "Potter," He began, his tone sharp as ever, "I am not blind to the fact that your performance in today's lesson was… uncharacteristically adequate."
Harry blinked, unsure if that was meant as a compliment. "Thank you, sir," He said cautiously.
Snape's lip curled, though it was hard to tell if it was in annoyance or amusement. "Don't thank me. I have little patience for mediocrity, and while today's potion was acceptable, one correct attempt hardly makes you a competent brewer."
Harry bristled slightly but bit back a retort, opting instead to meet Snape's gaze evenly. This was new and different for Snape, and Harry wanted to see where it went. "I'm trying to do better," He said simply. "That's all."
Snape studied him for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then, to Harry's surprise, he turned and walked over to one of the tall bookshelves lining the dungeon walls. His long fingers skimmed over the spines of the books until he stopped and pulled one free. It was an old, weathered tome with a faded green cover and gold lettering that read The Symbiosis of Potions and Herbology: A Practical Guide.
Without a word, Snape crossed the room and placed the book on the desk in front of Harry. "If Longbottom truly wishes to improve in this subject," Snape said, his voice low and deliberate, "this book may prove useful. It approaches potion-making from a herbologist's perspective, which may suit his limited capabilities better."
Harry stared at the book, momentarily stunned. He hadn't expected Snape to go out of his way to help Neville—or to even suggest that he believed Neville could improve. "Thank you, sir," Harry said, his voice tinged with genuine surprise.
Snape's expression darkened. "This is not a gesture of kindness, Potter," He snapped. "I have no interest in coddling incompetence. If Longbottom manages to use this knowledge to improve, it will save me the headache of watching him bungle even the simplest brews. Consider this an investment in my own sanity."
Harry bit back a grin. "I understand," He said seriously, picking up the book and tucking it into his bag.
Snape's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, as though searching for some sign of insincerity. Finding none, he gave a curt nod. "You're excused. And, Potter," He added as Harry turned to leave, "if you have any intention of continuing this farce of competence, you'd do well to review the properties of moonstone before next class. Your essay, as always, will determine whether today's effort was a fluke like I suspect it was."
Harry nodded. "I'll make sure it's not," He said, his tone firm.
Snape arched an eyebrow but said nothing more, turning back to the parchment on his desk. Harry left the classroom, the heavy door creaking shut behind him. The dungeon corridor felt oddly brighter after the tension of the classroom, and Harry glanced at his bag, where the book now sat. He smiled faintly. Whatever Snape's intentions, this felt like a small victory—not just for him, but for Neville too. He was glad things were beginning to come together, even if it was a small victory like this one.
——
Harry didn't have time to eat dinner that night, only being able to grab a roll from Ginny's outstretched hand in the great hall, shoving into his mouth before rushing to another night of Umbridge's detention.
This time, Umbridge was ready for him.
There were newspaper clippings on the small table, varying in sizes and from different publications, although most did come from The Prophet. Hardy didn't get a good look at them before Umbridge handed him the quill, her disgusting sickly sweet smile on her face, a glint of evil in her eyes.
"This time, I want you to copy these specially collected articles down instead of lines. You may go when you finish." Umbridge told him, a giggle falling from her mouth after.
The sight of the newspaper clippings spread across the small table made Harry's stomach churn. Unlike the usual headlines on the paper nowdays accusing him of madness or attention-seeking, these were different—far more personal. The yellowed parchment bore faded articles from the days after Lily and James Potter's death, complete with pictures of the wrecked remains of the house in Godric's Hollow.
Harry's throat tightened as he caught sight of a photo of himself as a baby, wrapped in a blanket, Hagrid's large arms cradling him. The headline read: "Tragedy Strikes the Wizarding World: The Boy Who Lived Emerges from the Ashes."
"Isn't it fascinating," Umbridge said, her voice sickeningly sweet, "to look back on the events that shaped your legend, Mr. Potter? I thought it would be… enlightening for you to reflect on them."
Harry gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. His anger flared, the locket feeding the flames like one does a raging bonfire, but he forced it down, knowing it would only feed her sadistic satisfaction. He'd rather die than ever make her happy. He glanced at the blood quill she had handed him, his hand already aching in anticipation of the pain to come.
"You will copy them all word for word," She continued, her grin as wide as it was fake. "A fitting way to honor your parents, don't you think? Once you've completed the task, you may leave."
Harry wanted to scream at her, to grab the stack of clippings and throw them in the fire, to set them on fire himself and burn her to ashes while he laughed. But instead, he clenched his jaw and sat down, picking up the first article. The quill's sharp point glinted ominously in the dim light, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the text before him.
The first article was a Ministry statement, dry and clinical, recounting the deaths of James and Lily Potter. It described how they had been murdered by Voldemort in their home and how Harry had somehow survived the Killing Curse. The detached tone of the report stung, reducing his parents' sacrifice to cold facts.
With a deep breath, Harry began writing. As the words etched themselves into the back of his hand, sharp and searing, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus, focus on the blood on the parchment. The pain was nothing compared to the ache in his chest as he copied down the sterile, lifeless account of his parents' final moments. His blood was his parents' blood. He hoped she choked on it.
The next clipping was worse. It was a dramatic article from The Prophet, detailing the aftermath of Voldemort's defeat. It described how the wizarding world had celebrated while Harry—just a baby—had been left orphaned, gone into the night. There was even speculation about what had happened inside the house that night, with some suggesting it was all a twist of fate and others crediting Harry's survival to some unknown magical force. Some even said it was dark magic.
By the time Harry finished copying it, his hand was trembling. The words carved into his skin burned painfully, the writing turning into indescribable letterings as they etched into each other, but he pressed on, unwilling to let Umbridge see him falter. He'd never let her win.
The third article was the worst. It was written in a sentimental tone, describing Lily and James as tragic heroes. It spoke of their love, their bravery, and their defiance against Voldemort. There was a moving photograph of the two of them smiling on their wedding day, their happiness preserved in time. Harry's chest tightened as he stared at their faces, so full of life and joy, watching his father twirl his mother around in her soft gold wedding dress. He could feel his eyes sting, but he blinked rapidly, refusing to cry. He thought of Luna, of how pain made him stronger, how it affected him differently than it did others.
He copied the words slowly, each one carving itself into his hand and his heart. His vision blurred, but he didn't stop. He wouldn't give Umbridge the satisfaction of seeing him break. He never would
When he finally set down the quill, his hand was raw and shaking. The jumble of words stood out starkly against his tanned skin, the fresh cuts glistening faintly in the low light. Harry glanced at the stack of clippings, the task complete, and pushed them away as if they were poisonous.
Umbridge's sickly sweet voice cut through the silence. "Finished already? My, my, such dedication. I hope this has been an enlightening experience for you, Mr. Potter. It's important to remember where you came from."
Harry stood slowly, his legs unsteady but his back straight. "Thank you, Professor" He said firmly, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. He looked in her eyes, his gaze unwavering and not one sign of the pain she had hoped for.
Her saccharine smile faltered before she waved him off with a clearly fake giggle. "Off you go, then. I'll see you tomorrow."
Harry left without another word, the door closing behind him with a dull thud. As he stepped into the darkened hallway, he let out a shaky breath, leaning against the cold stone wall. His hand throbbed, and his chest ached with the weight of memories he hadn't asked to relive.
He looked down at his hand, the fresh scars burning as if mocking him. But the pain didn't matter. What mattered was that he had survived—just as his parents had wanted him to. Umbridge might think she could use his past to break him, but Harry knew better. Their sacrifice was his strength, and no amount of cruelty or lies could take that away.
——
He wandered aimlessly, finding himself back into that old and abandoned necromancy classroom. He didn't remember walking there, didn't remember how long he had been there. Not until he suddenly blinked, staring at the empty stone wall. He blinked once more, and the anger came back tenfold.
"Fuck," Harry growled, his body suddenly igniting, his fist connecting with the hard wall, the pain a comforting caress to his rage filled mind, but not enough to douse the flames. His fist connected against the wall again, and again, and again, but he didn't care. Any emotion was better than the anger, better than the sobs that ripped through his body and threatened to pour out.
Harry's fist slammed into the cold stone again, his knuckles splitting with each impact, but the sharp sting felt distant—muted compared to the storm raging inside him. The tears that threatened to fall were hotter than the blood trailing down his hand, and he refused to let them spill. Not here. Not now. Please.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he pressed his forehead against the wall, the chill of the stone seeping into his skin. It did nothing to calm the fire roaring in his chest and the flames that crackled on his skin, the kind of fury that twisted and writhed, demanding release. His body trembled, torn between rage and despair, as he clenched his bleeding hand into a fist.
"Why?" He whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. "Why can't they just leave it alone? Leave mealone?"
He slammed his fist into the wall once more, a sob escaping his lips before he could choke it back. The sound echoed in the empty room, and for a moment, he hated how vulnerable it made him feel. He wanted to scream, to break something, to burn the entire castle down if it meant getting rid of the suffocating weight in his chest.
But instead, he sank to the floor, his back sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the cold stone. He cradled his injured hand against his chest, the blood staining his robes unnoticed. The locket around his neck felt heavier now, its cold metal pressing against his skin like a silent reminder of everything he was carrying. The flames on his skin crackled, the heat like a hug and a slap all at once.
For a long moment, Harry just sat there, his head resting against the wall, his eyes staring at the cracks in the ceiling. The silence in the room was deafening, amplifying every thud of his heart, every ragged breath, every crackle of heat. His parents' faces swam in his mind—smiling, alive, and then gone, replaced by the cold, detached words of the articles he'd been forced to copy. He could picture them dead, cold and lifeless. Cedric's body in his nightmares had quickly turned to his parents, their dead eyes staring into his soul.
"I'm sorry," He murmured, his voice barely audible. He wasn't sure who the apology was for—his parents, Cedric, himself, or the part of him that wanted so desperately to fight back but didn't know how. His best was not good enough. It would never be, would it?
The tears came then, silent and hot, sliding down his cheeks unchecked. He didn't bother wiping them away. For the first time in what felt like forever, but really was days, he let himself cry—not out of weakness, but because it was the only thing left to do.
After a while, the anger began to ebb, the flames dying down and leaving behind an emptiness that was almost worse. Harry wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing blood and tears across his skin, and forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. The locket around his neck felt colder now, as if it, too, was mourning in its own way.
Harry was sniffling when he heard the doorknob twist, but he wasn't phased. He knew who it was, could smell his shampoo and his magic even behind the barriers of a thick wooden door and heavy stone walls.
Draco Malfoy stepped into the dimly lit classroom, the soft creak of the door breaking the heavy silence. His pale blond hair caught the faint light as his sharp, stormy grey eyes immediately found Harry slumped against the wall. His chest tightened at the sight of him—torn, raw, and utterly defeated.
"Potter," Draco said softly, his voice cutting through the oppressive quiet like a lifeline.
Harry didn't look up, though he flinched slightly at the sound of Draco's voice. He'd known Draco would come eventually. The bond between them was too strong to ignore, and Harry had felt the tug of it, even in the haze of his rage and despair.
"You shouldn't be here," Harry muttered, his voice hoarse from crying. "It's not safe."
Draco ignored the words, ignored the warning, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. "You know I'm terrible at listening to anyone else but myself," He said, his tone light but laced with concern. He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room and kneeling beside Harry.
"I felt it," Draco said quietly, his eyes scanning Harry's trembling frame, answering a question Harry already had solved. "Through the bond. I knew you needed me."
Harry let out a shaky breath, still not looking at him. "I'm fine," He muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.
Draco's gaze didn't waver as he reached out, his fingers brushing against Harry's sleeve. "Don't lie to me," He murmured, his voice steady but achingly gentle. "I can feel it, Harry. You're not fine. Let me help."
Harry finally met his eyes, his emerald green gaze rimmed with red and filled with a raw vulnerability he rarely showed. "Why do you care?" He asked, his voice trembling slightly. He didn't mean it harshly—it was more an expression of disbelief than anything else. Why did anyone even care about him?
Draco's hand tightened slightly on Harry's arm, his silver eyes bright with something Harry couldn't quite place. "Because I like you," Draco said, the words quiet but firm. "You and your ridiculous hair." He finished his thought before sighing. "I felt you slipping, and I wasn't about to let you go through this alone."
Harry's chest tightened at the sincerity in Draco's voice, the bond between them humming with a warmth that cut through the darkness swirling in his mind. He hesitated for a moment longer before finally relenting, holding out his injured hand. The jagged letters carved into his skin glistened faintly with blood, and the sight of it made Draco's face harden with fury.
"That bitch," Draco hissed under his breath, his fingers brushing lightly over Harry's hand. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as though he were afraid to hurt him further. "She'll regret this. She's a fucking little troll."
"She's a lot of things," Harry said quietly, his voice tired. "But she's not the only reason why I'm here."
Draco glanced up at him, his expression softening. "I know," He said. "But I'm still going to make sure you're okay." He pulled out his wand, his movements deliberate. "Hold still. This will sting."
Harry nodded, watching as Draco muttered a soft incantation. A warm, golden light enveloped his hand, soothing the sting of the cuts as they began to knit themselves back together. Draco's brow furrowed in concentration, his focus unwavering as he worked to heal the damage. Harry didn't know the spell, but then Draco was more studious than Harry would ever be.
When the new cuts had faded completely, Draco's hand lingered on Harry's, his thumb brushing over the faint outline of the older scar, tracing the words I must not tell lies delicately. "I can't fix this one," He said quietly, his voice laced with regret. "It's been too long. I can only heal cuts within a few hours before they scar."
Harry shook his head, his voice soft. "It's okay. It's not your fault."
Draco's lips pressed into a thin line as he continued to trace the scar with his thumb. "It's not okay," He murmured. "You shouldn't have to carry this."
Harry's breath caught at the tenderness in Draco's voice, the warmth of his hand grounding him in a way nothing else could. "I've been carrying worse," He said, trying for a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Draco shook his head, his gaze meeting Harry's with an intensity that made his heart skip a beat, squeezing his hand gently. "You don't have to anymore," He said firmly. "You've got me, remember?"
The words settled in Harry's chest like a balm, and for the first time in hours, the tightness there began to ease. "Yeah," He said softly. "I remember."
For a long moment, they just sat there, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. The bond hummed softly, a steady reminder of the connection they shared, and Harry felt himself relax in its warmth, felt the heat of his skin dim as he periodically squeezed Draco's hand.
Draco finally broke the silence, his voice quieter now. "You've been through hell, Harry. But you're still standing. That's what matters."
Harry let out a shaky laugh, his eyes stinging again—but this time, it wasn't just from pain. "Barely."
Draco's lips quirked into a small smile. "Barely is still standing."
Harry nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in return. "Thanks, Draco," He said quietly, his voice filled with more gratitude than he could ever express.
Draco squeezed Harry's hand again, his grip firm but reassuring. "You don't have to thank me," He said softly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability. "That's what friends do."
Harry's chest tightened at the word friends. It felt so small compared to the weight of everything Draco had just done for him, the depth of the bond between them. He glanced at their intertwined hands, the sight both comforting and electrifying. He wished they were more, wished Draco was single, wished he liked boys. Harry couldn't help it, his thumb brushing against Draco's skin, admiring the contrast between them. He could blame it on the hangover from his anger, that he was deliriously tired and didn't know what he was saying. He knew, though. He knew he would be like this anyways.
"Your hands are so soft," Harry murmured, his voice soft and low. Harry's hands were rough and calloused, too many years of cooking and cleaning under his belt to be anywhere near soft, even from the phoenix transformation process from summer.
Draco blinked, his grey eyes narrowing slightly, though not with anger or discomfort—more with curiosity and something Harry couldn't quite name. A faint pink tinged his pale cheeks, but he didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he tilted his head, studying Harry's expression carefully.
"Soft?" Draco repeated, his voice even quieter, as though testing the word. He raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Are you sure you're not delirious, Potter? Perhaps all that blood loss has gone to your head."
Harry's own cheeks flushed, and he quickly glanced away, cursing himself for saying something so utterly ridiculous. "I just mean—compared to mine. You don't exactly look like someone who's ever had to scrub pots and pans or pull weeds in the garden."
Draco let out a soft laugh, the sound lighter than Harry expected. "Well, of course not," He said with mock offense. "Do I look like someone who spends his summers gardening? Honestly, Potter, I'm almost insulted."
Harry huffed a small laugh, though he still couldn't bring himself to meet Draco's gaze. His thumb had stilled against Draco's skin, but he couldn't quite bring himself to let go, either. The warmth of Draco's hand felt grounding in a way that Harry didn't fully understand—or maybe didn't want to understand.
Draco, for his part, didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted slightly closer, his expression softening as he lowered his voice. "Your hands aren't bad, you know," He said, his tone almost… reassuring. "Not really. They're—" He hesitated, his eyes flicking to Harry's red and bruised knuckles and back. "They're strong. They're hands that work hard. There's nothing wrong with that."
Harry finally met Draco's gaze, startled by the sincerity in his voice. "I… I guess," He said quietly, unsure how to respond. His chest felt tight again, but this time it wasn't from pain or anger—it was something warmer, something he didn't quite have a name for.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable; it felt charged, like the air before a storm. Harry's heart thudded in his chest, and he had the fleeting, absurd thought that maybe Draco could hear it.
Draco's smirk returned, though it was much softer this time, less guarded. "If we're done analyzing my hands," He said, his voice light but teasing, "Perhaps we could focus on the fact that you've completely wrecked yours, again. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep you alive, Potter?"
Harry let out a breathy laugh, the tension in his chest easing slightly. "Well, you're doing a brilliant job so far," He said, his voice soft. "I might start keeping you around permanently, you know. Just in case I need healing again, Healer Malfoy."
Draco's smirk widened, and for a moment, there was a glint in his eyes—something mischievous, something warm. "Permanently, hmm? Careful, Potter. I might just hold you to that."
Harry felt his face heat again, but this time he couldn't bring himself to look away. Draco's hand was still in his, their fingers brushing slightly, and for a brief, fleeting moment, the weight of everything—the pain, the fear, the anger—felt just a little lighter. He wasn't focused on anything other than Draco's touch, on Draco.
"Maybe I wouldn't mind," Harry murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Draco's expression faltered for the smallest fraction of a second, his stormy eyes searching Harry's face as if trying to read something in his expression. Then, slowly, his smirk softened into something else entirely—something quieter, something vulnerable. Harry liked when Draco took his gaurd down around him.
"Maybe I wouldn't, either," Draco said, so softly that Harry almost didn't hear it.
The moment hung between them, delicate and unspoken. Harry could tell now, could tell what Luna meant by how entangled his magic was with Draco's. He didn't know where he ended and Draco began. He wondered briefly.. would Draco's lips taste the same way they did in his dream?
Harry's thoughts spiraled before he could stop them, the weight of the room, the bond, the closeness between them pulling him under like a tide. His gaze flicked to Draco's lips for the briefest moment—a moment he couldn't quite take back. His heart hammered in his chest, and he didn't know if it was the aftermath of the day, the quiet warmth of Draco's touch, or something deeper that made him feel as if he were standing on the edge of something he couldn't turn away from.
Draco's breath hitched, barely audible, but Harry caught it. The teasing glint in Draco's eyes had softened into something unguarded, something real. His hand, still resting in Harry's, tightened slightly, just enough for Harry to notice. Neither of them moved, and yet the air between them felt alive, charged with something fragile and electric.
"Harry…" Draco said softly, his voice a whisper, hesitant but not uncertain. His gaze was steady, his silver-grey eyes searching Harry's as if trying to understand what he was thinking—what he was feeling.
Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry. He felt raw, exposed, and yet… safe. Safer than he'd felt in days, maybe weeks, years really. "Yeah?" He whispered, his voice barely audible.
Draco didn't answer right away. His fingers shifted slightly, brushing against Harry's palm in a way that sent a shiver down Harry's spine. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet it was almost drowned out by the pounding of Harry's heartbeat. "You're impossible, you know that?"
A faint smile tugged at Harry's lips. "I get that a lot."
Draco looked as if he was about to pull away, about to call it a night and they would be forced to pretend again. Forced to snarl and scoff at each other in public, act like they weren't friends, act like they didn't have something amazing between them. Harry couldn't stomach leaving this room without something else, without showing Draco how much he meant to him. And after all, Harry was the impulsive one, wasn't he?
Fuck Umbridge, fuck Pansy, fuck everyone, fuck the consequences. For once, Harry was going to be selfish without worry.
Before Draco could withdraw, before the moment could slip through Harry's fingers like sand, Harry acted on instinct. His hand tightened slightly around Draco's, grounding himself in the contact, and then, before he could second-guess the thought, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Draco's.
It was gentle—softer than Harry would've thought possible, given the tumultuous storm that had been raging inside him all day. He expected hesitation, maybe even resistance, but instead, Draco stilled, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, the world fell away, leaving nothing but the warmth of Draco's lips against his.
Harry pulled back after only a second, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. His eyes searched Draco's face for any sign of what he was feeling, anger, confusion, or disgust, but what he saw instead made his stomach flip. Draco was wide-eyed, his pale cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and his lips were slightly parted as if he hadn't quite caught his breath.
"I—" Harry started, the words sticking in his throat. He hadn't thought this far ahead, hadn't considered what he would say if Draco reacted poorly, he had been impulsive and just done it. "I'm sorry. I just—"
Draco blinked, the surprise in his expression softening into something warmer, something Harry hadn't dared to hope for. His grey eyes met Harry's, and then, slowly, his lips curved into a small, hesitant smile.
"You really are impossible," Draco murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. There was no malice in the words, only a strange mix of exasperation and affection that made Harry's chest ache.
Before Harry could respond, Draco leaned forward, closing the small distance between them once again. This time, it was Draco who initiated the kiss, and Harry felt his breath hitch as their lips met. It was still soft, still tentative, but there was a quiet intensity to it that sent warmth coursing through Harry's veins, chasing away the lingering shadows from the day.
Draco's hand slid up to rest lightly on Harry's cheek, his thumb brushing against his cheekbone, and Harry's heart stuttered in his chest. The kiss deepened, and for a moment, Harry let himself get lost in it—in the way Draco's lips moved against his, in the quiet hum of their bond strengthening and becoming solid, in the way the world seemed to freeze around them. Who needed air when they had each other?
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together as they tried to catch their breath. Harry's heart felt like it might burst, but for once, finally for once, it wasn't from pain or anger or fear. It was from something else entirely—something fragile and terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
Draco was the first to speak, his voice low and almost shy. "I suppose we'll want to talk about this now," He said, though there was a faint teasing lilt to his tone.
Harry laughed softly, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks. "Maybe," He admitted, his voice still a little breathless. "But not right now."
Draco raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a small smirk. "Not right now?" He echoed. "You mean after all that, you're going to leave me hanging?"
Harry's grin widened, and he leaned back slightly, his hand still holding Draco's. "You said it yourself," He said lightly. "I'm impossible."
Draco let out a soft laugh, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "That you are, Potter," He said, his smirk softening into something gentle. "That you are."
Harry felt like he could breathe fully again. He didn't know what this meant for them, didn't know how they would navigate the days to come, but for now, he let himself savor the moment—the warmth of Draco's hand in his, the hum of their bond as it wrapped around them both with a purr, and the hope that, somehow, they would figure it out together.
"I take it this means you're not dating Pansy, then?" Harry asked after a minute, his thumb caressing the back of Draco's hand again, watching in a bashful kind of way. He didn't figure Draco would be the type to be unfaithful, Draco was the kind of person who put his all into everything.
Draco let out a surprised laugh, his cheeks still faintly pink. He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "Dating Pansy? Really, Potter?" He rolled his eyes, but there was no real malice in his tone—just amusement. "I thought you were smarter than that. Pansy and I are friends. Nothing more. We've been best friends practically since birth. And besides, she's too.. female for my tastes."
Harry huffed a small laugh, feeling some of the tension drain from his chest. Draco was gay.. Draco was gay.. He almost started turning into flames again from sheer joy at that. "Well, that's a relief," He said, his voice softer than he intended. "I guess I should stop listening to the Hogwarts gossip mill, then."
"Probably," Draco said with a smirk. "You'd save yourself a lot of unnecessary stress. Though I have to admit, the thought of you brooding over me and Pansy is… amusing." His smirk widened, a teasing light dancing in his eyes. "Jealous, were you?"
Harry's face turned scarlet, and he looked away, his thumb still absently brushing the back of Draco's hand. "I wasn't jealous," He mumbled, though the heat creeping up his neck betrayed him.
Draco leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. "Liar."
Harry groaned, covering his face with his free hand. "You're insufferable," He muttered, though the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.
"And yet," Draco said, his voice softening as his smirk faded into something gentler, "you're still holding my hand."
Harry peeked at him through his fingers, his green eyes meeting Draco's grey ones. He lowered his hand slowly, his lips curving into a small, bashful smile. "Yeah," He said quietly. "I am."
Draco's expression softened further, and for a moment, they just looked at each other, the silence between them filled with something unspoken but understood. The weight of the day, the pain, the fear—it all felt distant now, replaced by the quiet warmth of this moment. Whatever this was between them, it felt… right.
Harry let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but… thanks for coming after me, Malfoy."
Draco arched an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "Malfoy? Really, Potter? Now?"
Harry grinned, his thumb brushing over Draco's knuckles again. "Fine. Draco. Happy?"
Draco's smile widened, and he gave Harry's hand a gentle squeeze. "Getting there." He paused, his gaze softening once more. "You don't have to thank me, you know. I'll always come after you, Harry. Whether you want me to or not."
Harry's chest tightened at the words, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was warm, reassuring, like the bond between them was wrapping around his heart and holding it steady. "Good," He said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Because I don't think I could do this without you."
Draco's smile faltered for a moment, his eyes searching Harry's face as if committing every detail to memory. Then, slowly, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Harry's lips again, the gesture so tender and brief it made Harry melt, made him crumble.
"You don't have to," Draco murmured, leaning his forehead against Harry's. "Not anymore."
The shocking part was that Harry truly believed him.