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“Potter,” Draco said dryly, pausing in the doorway with his teacup in hand. “Do try not to be too loud tonight. I’m up early tomorrow.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, just swept off toward his room in that insufferably composed way he had.
Harry smirked, sliding a hand onto the waist of the woman he’d brought home. “Can’t promise you that,” he murmured, loud enough for Draco to hear before the bedroom door clicked shut.
The thing was, this sort of exchange had become normal. Somehow, Merlin knew how, they were roommates now. Harry would’ve bet good money, back at Hogwarts, that he and Draco Malfoy would rather hex each other into St. Mungo’s than share a house. But life had a cruel sense of humor. When Harry tried moving back into Grimmauld Place, Kreacher had flat-out refused to leave unless the rightful master of the House of Black also lived there. Which meant Draco bloody Malfoy.
So here they were, Harry and Draco, under the same roof, neither quite believing it. Against all odds, it worked.
Harry brought people home when the mood struck him, which was often, and Draco never said a word. No comments, no looks, not even a sniffy remark about Harry’s choices. At first, Harry had been thrown, surely Draco had something snide locked and loaded. But Draco stayed maddeningly uninterested. Civil, almost polite. Eventually, Harry stopped waiting for the sting. In some ways, it was convenient.
“Who was that?” the woman, Anna? Ashley? Something with an A, asked as she tugged Harry toward the sofa.
Harry smirked. “That’s my roommate, Draco. He’s got his own thing. You don’t need to worry about it.”
And that was that. They didn’t talk about Draco.
They ended up in Harry’s room, across the hall from Draco’s, but Harry didn’t dwell on that. He never did. The woman was fine. Attractive enough, interesting enough. But also annoyingly demanding. She kept tugging Harry this way, shifting him that way, like Harry was supposed to follow a set of instructions.
It wasn’t awful, just the kind of thing that made Harry mentally cross him off the list for a repeat. Too much effort, not enough spark. Still, it filled the night, and that was the point.
By the time the woman was asleep, snoring softly, sprawled diagonally across the bed like ahe owned it, Harry was on his second cigarette by the open window. Smoke curled lazily into the night air as he leaned on the sill, watching the faint glow of lamplight on the street below. Another night, another forgettable face beside him.
And then it happened again. And again. Different people, different faces, different names Harry didn’t always bother to remember. Some were loud, some were quiet, some stayed an hour, some until morning. A parade, really, and all of them slipping past Draco Malfoy in the hallway like he was part of the furniture. Draco never reacted. Not a twitch, not a raised eyebrow, not even the curl of his lip Harry used to get at school when Harry so much as breathed too loudly.
After a while, Harry stopped expecting it. Draco would be in the sitting room with a book, or heading out with a cup of tea, or already behind his door, and Harry would walk in with company, waiting for a crack or a sneer that never came. Nothing. Just a polite nod, sometimes, like Harry had brought home groceries instead of another date.
And maybe that should’ve been a relief, but it wasn’t. It gnawed at him, in quiet moments, the way Draco never so much as flinched. Because wasn’t it annoying? Sharing a house with someone who stumbled in late, who brought strangers across the threshold at all hours, who sometimes, wasn’t exactly discreet? By all rights Draco should’ve hated it, should’ve said something. But he didn’t. He carried on, unbothered, as though Harry’s life had nothing to do with his.
Harry could still remember the first time it happened. Draco had stopped dead in his tracks, eyes flicking over Harry and the girl trailing behind him with a bottle of wine in hand. For a split second, he’d looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. Harry braced for it, a drawled insult, a complaint, something. But instead, Draco only adjusted his grip on the book he was carrying, muttered a cool “Excuse me,” and disappeared down the hall.
After that, Harry brought someone else, and this time they were loud, laughter spilling out of his room well past midnight. Draco didn’t react. The next time, same thing. Not even a twitch of disapproval. Harry found himself testing it, doors slamming, voices carrying, music turned up too high, moans being exaggerated, half hoping for a bite. Nothing.
It was strange, really. He was used to Draco reacting to him even when he wasn’t doing anything at all. Back then, a glance across a room could spark a fire. Now, Harry could shake the walls, and Draco wouldn’t even look up.
The thing was, if they were alone, Draco reacted. Against all odds, they’d turned out to be friends, or something near enough to it. They shared late-night tea in the kitchen, traded books they knew the other would secretly like, and lobbed banter back and forth until one of them gave in with a reluctant grin. Draco could be sharp, cutting, maddening in the way he still liked to win every exchange, but there was warmth there too, tucked beneath the bite.
But the second Harry brought someone home, it vanished. No sparring, no side comments, not even a lifted brow. Everything was civil, almost pointedly so, like Draco had decided to excuse himself entirely from that part of Harry’s life. He was bloody respectful of Harry's love life, if one night stands even count.
And for reasons Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on, that bothered him more than if Draco had rolled his eyes or muttered something cruel.
The cigarette burned down to the filter before he realized he’d been staring at nothing, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He ground it out in the ashtray, the room heavy with the stale tang of it, and shook himself back into the present. Behind him, the eomen shifted in her sleep, a soft snore muffled against Harry's pillow.
Harry sighed, tugged the sheets higher over him shoulder, and sat there a moment longer, listening to the muted quiet of the house. Somewhere across the hall, behind a closed door, Draco was probably reading or asleep or doing whatever it was Draco did when he wasn’t busy needling Harry. And for once, Harry wished he’d hear the faint creak of a floorboard, the rustle of movement, any sign that Draco had noticed.
But the silence stayed.
Eventually, Harry made himself comfortable and let exhaustion do the rest. When he blinked awake the next morning, sunlight was already spilling through the curtains, and the other side of the hall was quiet. Draco’s door stood open, his room neat as ever, bed made, no sign he’d even been there. Typical. Always up early, always gone before Harry could so much as pretend at small talk.
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning, before turning to deal with the woman still asleep in his bed. A nudge to the shoulder, a half-muttered “Come on, up,” and a pointed gesture toward the pile of clothes on the floor did the trick.
“Shame,” the woman said around a yawn as she tugged on his shirt. “Could’ve gone again.”
Harry forced a polite smile, the kind that shut the door without words. “Yeah, busy day.”
That seemed to settle it. The woman gave a grin that carried more hope than Harry had the patience to answer, and then he was gone, footsteps fading down the hall.
Only then did Harry light another cigarette, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty doorway opposite his own.
He didn’t have work that day, training had been called off on account of some Ministry meeting, or budget cuts, or whatever excuse they were running with this week. so he stayed in. No plans, no obligations. Just the slow crawl of hours filled with nothing, and Harry letting them slip by. He dozed on the sofa, half-watched the wireless, even considered tidying up before deciding that was a problem for future Harry.
By late afternoon, the lock clicked and Draco stepped inside, pale hair catching the weak light as he set his briefcase down with maddening precision. Harry, sprawled across the couch, perked up instantly, a grin tugging at his mouth.
“Finally,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d moved out and left me all your furniture.”
Draco arched a brow, tugging off his gloves one finger at a time. “Tragic, Potter. Imagine being left alone with your own decorating choices.”
Harry barked a laugh, tossing a cushion at him.
Draco caught it like he’d been expecting it, barely glancing down before flicking it back with perfect aim. “Pathetic.”
Harry yelped when it smacked his face. “Oi! You can’t throw things at the Chosen One.”
“I just did,” Draco said flatly, unbuttoning his cuffs. “And clearly, you weren’t chosen for your reflexes.”
Harry snorted, lobbing the cushion back again. “Keep talking, maybe you’ll finally say something funny.”
Draco arched a brow. “I must’ve, you’re still here.”
Harry clutched his chest as though wounded. “Merlin, you’re cruel. I waited all day just to greet you properly, and this is the thanks I get?”
“Yes,” Draco said without hesitation, walking toward the kitchen.
Harry scrambled after him. “You could at least pretend you missed me.”
“I did miss you,” Draco called over his shoulder, pulling out a teabag. “Missed your eloquence.”
Harry groaned, flopping dramatically against the counter. “One day you’ll admit you’d be lost without me.”
Draco didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Potter, whatever helps you sleep after you’ve driven away your latest conquest.”
Harry nearly choked on his own laugh. “You absolute bastard.”
Draco smirked, finally turning to look at him. “And yet, you keep coming back for more.”
Harry grinned, easy and unbothered. “Yeah. I do.”
Draco rolled his eyes like that was the most predictable answer in the world and turned back toward the kitchen. Harry trailed after him, already tugging open cupboards like he belonged there.
“What are we making?” Harry asked, peering into the fridge.
“We?” Draco drawled, tugging out a chopping board. “Last I checked, you ‘make’ chaos, Potter. Not dinner.”
Harry plucked a tomato from the counter and tossed it in the air. “I’m excellent moral support.”
Draco snatched it mid-air before it could splatter. “You’re excellent at being insufferable.”
Still, Harry set about fetching plates, clattering them onto the counter in exaggerated ceremony. Soon enough, the two of them were moving around each other with an ease that had long since stopped surprising Harry. Draco chopping, Harry stirring, the kitchen filling with the smell of garlic and something warm that made the house feel less empty.
By the time they sat down with bowls balanced on their laps, the sky outside had gone dark. Draco flicked his wand at the telly, and the opening notes of some Muggle series Harry had got him into filled the sitting room.
Harry slumped onto the couch, stretching his legs out, and Draco sank into the other end with a put-upon sigh that didn’t fool anyone.
“This one’s your fault,” Draco muttered, pointing his fork at the screen.
Harry smirked around a mouthful. “And you love it.”
Draco didn’t dignify that with an answer. But he didn’t change the channel, either.
Harry shifted lower into the cushions, his legs stretching out until his knee brushed against Draco’s. He told himself it was just the lack of space on the sofa, though there was plenty, but Draco didn’t move away.
The flickering light from the telly cast soft shadows across Draco’s face, making his features look less sharp, more human. Familiar. Harry found himself watching the curve of his mouth, the way his hand curled loosely around the fork, the little crease between his brows as though he was taking the show far too seriously.
Harry’s chest tightened, stupidly, because this quiet routine of theirs felt more like home than anything had in years. He almost said something, something reckless and too close to the truth, but Draco shifted slightly, their knees pressing more firmly together, and the words lodged in his throat.
So instead, Harry cleared it with a laugh. “You know, if you keep looking that intense, people might think you actually care about this show.”
Draco hummed, not looking away from the screen. “Better than people thinking I care about you, Harry.”
It was dry, effortless, perfectly Draco. But the warmth lingering where their knees touched told a different story, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to move.
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Harry said, tilting his head just enough to catch Draco’s eye. “A roommate caring for his roommate.”
Draco finally turned to him fully, one brow arched. “For starters, Harry, I’m gay. Do try to keep up.”
Harry blinked, thrown off by the bluntness, though Draco’s tone was smooth as ever.
“And secondly,” Draco went on, lips quirking, “that’s a flagrant violation of the roommate charter. Terribly inappropriate. Boundaries.”
He chuckled then, low and amused, as if he’d just let Harry in on some private joke. Harry laughed too, a little too loudly, a little too quickly, mostly because it was easier than admitting his stomach had just swooped.
Draco turned back to the telly like nothing had happened. Harry, meanwhile, was spiraling.
Draco was gay? What? Since when? He'd taken Pansy to the Yule Ball, everyone knew that. Granted, she did most of the twirling and Draco looked vaguely nauseated the whole time, but still. That had to mean something.
But.. fine. That was ages ago. People changed. People grew. The war was literally over. If anyone had earned the right to live openly and unapologetically, it was Draco. Harry could respect that. Really, he did.
Except, well. If Draco was gay, then what did that say about the fact that he hadn’t even noticed Harry? How is he not affected? Harry had people over, short flings, awkward hookups, a couple of dates that ended in disaster, but Draco had never so much as raised an eyebrow.
Which, fine, maybe that was respectful. Very mature. Good for him.
Except it also meant Draco hadn’t considered Harry worth reacting to. Not even a flicker of irritation, or jealousy, or, Merlin forbid, interest. Apparently Harry was so thoroughly beneath Draco’s radar that his love life barely qualified as background noise.
Harry crossed his arms, jaw tight. He wasn’t bothered, obviously. It was just insulting, that was all.
Purely insulting.
Harry leaned back against the sofa, arms crossing as if he could shield himself from how bizarrely personal this was becoming. “So, you’re fine with me bringing people over then? The hookups and all that?”
Draco didn’t look away from the telly. “Yeah.” The word was clipped, clean, like he’d cut it out of stone. His jaw shifted, tightened, but otherwise, he might as well have been commenting on the weather.
Harry frowned. That was it? Just yeah?
“Good,” Harry said, too quickly, scrambling to fill the silence. He pushed on, trying to sound casual, like he wasn’t actually probing. “Because, well, it’s not like that’s ending anytime soon.” He even tossed in a laugh, airy and ridiculous, the kind he used when Ron asked if he was studying for exams and he definitely hadn’t.
It was meant to land as a joke, a little brag, proof that he wasn’t bothered at all. Instead, it hung there, heavy, like a dare neither of them had wanted him to throw out.
Harry’s chest felt tight. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, you could, too, y’know. Meet people. Nothing’s stopping you.”
Draco finally turned to him, lips curling just enough to suggest amusement, but his eyes, sharp and unreadable, didn’t match the expression. “I’ll think about it.”
And just like that, he went back to the telly, as if Harry hadn’t just accidentally lit a fuse between them.
Harry sat there, stewing. He’d meant it as what, encouragement? A joke? Something. Instead it felt like he’d just handed Draco permission, as if Draco bloody Malfoy needed Harry’s approval to start dating. The thought made his stomach twist in a way that was entirely unfair, and he hated himself for it.
The rest of the program played out with both of them in stubborn silence. Their knees still brushed occasionally, the warmth bleeding across the small strip of sofa like nothing had changed, but Harry couldn’t relax back into it now. Every quiet laugh track from the telly seemed to mock him. He found himself glancing sideways at Draco, searching for some sign, annoyance, smugness, anything. But Draco was infuriatingly serene, eyes fixed ahead, like Harry hadn’t just tripped over his own tongue and spilled far too much of himself into the room.
Eventually, Draco stood, muttered something about turning in, and disappeared down the hallway. Harry remained on the couch for a while longer, pretending he cared about the rerun, when in truth he was still replaying Draco’s “I’ll think about it” until it lost all meaning. By the time he dragged himself to bed, his chest still carried that same tight twist of irritation and, fine, something else he refused to name.
The next morning, sunlight was already spilling into the kitchen when Harry shuffled in, hair messier than usual and socks sliding against the floor. He stopped short at the sight of a neatly folded note on the dining table, propped up against a mug. Draco’s handwriting, elegant as ever:
Running late. Don’t wait for me. - Draco
Harry stared at it longer than was reasonable, the short sentence pressing on his chest. Running late for what, exactly?
He picked it up, reading it again like the words might change. They didn’t, of course. It was absurd to feel unsettled. Draco could be late for any number of reasons, work, errands, whatever. Still, Harry found himself glaring at the note as if it were deliberately withholding the answer.
He dropped into a chair, dragging the mug toward him, and muttered under his breath, “Yeah, well. I’ll think about it, too.”
And that he did.
Over toast, he thought about it. What could Draco possibly be late for? Breakfast meeting? Work emergency? A tryst in Knockturn Alley with some mysterious stranger whose hair was just as sleek as his? Harry snorted into his jam. Ridiculous. Draco Malfoy didn’t have time for mysterious strangers. He barely had time for Harry.
In the shower, he thought about it again, shampoo foaming in his hair as he pictured Draco somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t here. That stupid “I’ll think about it” kept echoing, infuriatingly calm. Think about what, exactly? Think about who? The idea that Draco might’ve actually considered Harry’s suggestion lodged itself in Harry’s chest, prickly and uncomfortable.
By the time he got to work, he was useless. Paperwork blurred before his eyes, quills snapped too easily in his hand. He’d catch himself staring off into space, mind wandering uninvited to the thought of Draco laughing with someone else, maybe leaning too close at a table, maybe looking at them the way—no. Harry shook his head violently. No. He wasn’t bothered. He was just curious. Perfectly normal curiosity.
And yet, the more he told himself that, the more his chest burned.
“This is stupid,” Harry muttered out loud, slamming his quill down a little harder than necessary.
“I’ll say,” came Ron’s voice from across the desk. Harry hadn’t even noticed him sit down. “You’ve been staring at the same bloody form for twenty minutes. At this point, it’s practically a crime against productivity.”
Harry glared at him. “I wasn’t staring. I was thinking.”
“Right,” Ron said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms like an authority on the matter. “Thinking so hard you’ve written your name where the date should be. Twice.”
Harry blinked down at the parchment. Sure enough, there it was. Harry James Potter scrawled under “Day/Month/Year.” His ears burned.
Ron grinned. “Go on then, what’s got you twisted up? Paperwork can’t be that offensive.”
Harry made a vague noise in his throat, somewhere between shut up and help me, and shoved the parchment away. No way in hell was he going to tell Ron that the problem wasn’t paperwork, or Dark magic, or even sleep deprivation. No, it was Draco Malfoy. Draco bloody Malfoy saying he’d think about it.
“This is pathetic,” Harry muttered, raking both hands through his hair. “I was the one who brought it up.”
Ron frowned. “Brought what up?”
“Nothing.” Harry shook his head quickly, but the words kept bubbling up anyway. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop circling back. He was the one who had opened his big mouth about hookups, about meeting people, about options. And now all he could picture was Draco out there, smirking at someone else, leaning too close, saying he’d think about it and actually meaning it.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Alright, spill it. You’re doing that thing again, where you look like you’re trying to solve a murder, but it’s just you being mental.”
Harry waved him off. “It’s nothing. Just work. Reports.”
Ron gave him a flat look. “Reports don’t make you go red in the face, mate. Who is it?”
“No one.”
“Who,” Ron repeated, smug now, like he’d caught the scent of something juicy. “Come on, you can’t hide it. I know that look. Hermione knows that look. Half the bloody office knows that look.”
Harry slammed his quill down again. “Ron,” He stopped, jaw tight.
Ron’s grin widened. “Go on. Say it.”
Harry exhaled sharply, glaring at the parchment like it had personally betrayed him. “Draco.”
The name dropped between them like a brick.
Ron blinked. Once. Twice. Then he let out a low whistle. “Blimey. Malfoy?”
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t.”
Ron sat back in his chair, eyes still wide, fighting a laugh. “Oh, I’m definitely going to. You’ve got it bad, mate. Malfoy this, Malfoy that, you’re practically keeping a diary about him at this point.”
Harry scowled. “I do not.”
“You do,” Ron said, grinning. “Yesterday you complained about how he stirs his tea. The day before that, it was the way he rolls his sleeves. Who even notices that? Honestly, it’s like you’re studying him for your NEWTs all over again.”
Harry shoved a hand through his hair. “No, Ron!”
Ron leaned forward, voice dripping mock sympathy. “It’s alright, Harry. Obsession happens. First stage is denial. Second stage is," He wiggled his eyebrows. “snogging behind a broom cupboard?”
Harry groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Thank you. Now,” Ron said, smacking the desk. “Out with it. What’s really going on?”
Harry hesitated, then muttered, “Well.. it's Draco. He said he’d.. think about it.”
Ron blinked. “Think about what?”
“That,” Harry faltered, heat creeping up his neck. “That whole dating thing."
"What," Ron raised his brows. "With you?"
"What," Harry's eyes widened. "No! With others.."
That wasn't even a possibility Harry considered. But it could be since Draco's gay. Shit.
There was a beat of silence. Then Ron narrowed his eyes, studying him. “You act like you like him.”
The words landed like a Stunner.
Harry froze.
Ron froze.
They stared at each other across the desk, the silence stretching tighter and tighter.
Then Ron suddenly leapt to his feet, voice cracking as he bellowed, “Bloody hell!”
Harry went scarlet, slapping a hand over his face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,”
Ron jabbed a finger at him, practically wheezing. “You do! You like him! You like Malfoy! Oh, Merlin, this is the best day of my life!”
Harry, still red. " I do not like him! We're friends now! That's why it's weird to say that I like him!"
Ron propped his chin on his hand, watching Harry squirm. “All these years of ‘he’s an arrogant git, he’s insufferable, he’s got stupid hair’, and what was that really? Love letters?"
Harry made a strangled noise. “No!”
“Admit it,” Ron said, leaning forward like a vulture. “You like his stupid hair. You want to run your fingers through it.”
Draco's hair is definitely soft. Harry saw his products once and Draco went on and explained what they do—
Harry threw a quill at him. “Absolutely not!”
Ron dodged easily, grinning like a man possessed. “Oh, come on. You probably dream about it. ‘Oh Malfoy, your hair is so soft, let me braid it while we confess our deepest secrets—’”
“His hair is not long enough to be braided!” Harry hissed, face blazing.
"What," Ron grinned. "You even know the length?"
Harry avoided Ron's eyes. "Of course I do, I have eyes!"
Ron was cackling now, absolutely delighted. “Next thing you’ll tell me is you’ve been staring at his mouth, wondering what it’d be like to—”
Harry lunged across the desk. “Ron!"
Ron toppled backward in his chair, laughing so hard he nearly cried. “Bloody hell, you really do fancy him! Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, utterly taken down by Malfoy’s conditioner?" He wheezed.
Harry groaned into his hands. “I hate you so much."
Ron clapped him on the shoulder with all the fake sympathy of a man who was loving every second. “Don’t take it so hard, mate. I don’t think Malfoy meant it. He probably just said that to shut you up. You know, like when you tell a kid, ‘Yes, we’ll get ice cream tomorrow,’ so they stop screaming in the middle of Diagon Alley. Gentle parenting, innit?”
He wheezed at his own joke, so hard he nearly slid out of his chair. “You’re Malfoy’s toddler, Harry. Congratulations.”
Harry dragged his face out of his hands just to glare at him. “Haha, you're hilarious.”
But the thought wormed its way in anyway, unwelcome and persistent. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe Draco had just said it to avoid the conversation, to brush him off like he always did when he couldn’t be bothered. Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek, frowning.
Draco had a lot on his plate. He and Hermione both worked at St. Mungo’s, and from the bits Harry picked up in passing, it was brutal, long hours, emergencies, endless paperwork. It wasn’t that far-fetched that he simply didn’t want to deal with romance on top of everything else.
And yet, Harry’s stomach twisted, he could’ve just said no.
He sat up straighter, yanked the parchment back toward him, and forced his quill into motion. Reports. Ministry reports. Nothing earth-shattering, just routine check-ins on cursed object confiscations and a half-finished memo. Simple, boring, the kind of thing he could do half-asleep. Which, frankly, he often did.
But tonight, every scratch of his quill felt like it was competing with the weight of Ron’s eyes on him.
Harry glanced up once, caught Ron watching him with a grin that was far too smug for someone doing absolutely nothing, and scowled. Ron only smirked harder, like he’d just won something.
Harry rolled his eyes and bent back over the parchment.
Five minutes later, it happened again.
This time, Harry didn’t even bother glaring, he just muttered something that might’ve been “git” under his breath and shoved another report into the finished pile, pretending his ears weren’t burning.
They went on like that until the office clock chimed the hour, sharp and unforgiving in the silence. Harry stacked his work with exaggerated precision, tucked his quill away, and stood. “I’m going home.”
“Try not to dream about him,” Ron called after him, voice full of wicked glee.
Harry flipped him off over his shoulder and flooed out.
The world snapped back into the dim hush of the Grimmauld Place. It was still warm from the fire but felt empty in that way only home could when you came back with too much on your mind. He dropped his bag onto the couch, shrugged out of his robes, and stood there for a moment, staring at nothing.
Merlin. Ron always had to push. Always had to say things.
Harry scrubbed at his face and headed for the kitchen, more for something to do than out of hunger. He filled a glass of water, leaned against the counter, and let the quiet swallow him. It should’ve been peaceful. It wasn’t.
Because Ron’s voice wouldn’t leave him alone. You act like you like him.
He’d brush it off, argued, denied, but now, in the stillness of his house, the words crawled back under his skin. What if? What if there was something there? He’d never let himself think it, not properly. Draco was Draco. Sharp edges, sharp tongue, far too clever for his own good. And yet—
Harry set the glass down too hard, the faint clink echoing.
It could be, couldn’t it? Him and Draco. Ron had made it sound so bloody simple. Like all this time Harry had been circling something obvious. Like it wasn’t impossible.
But then, Harry’s stomach twisted, Draco had already turned him down. Not outright, not with cruelty. Just.. a refusal because it would be weird for roommates to like each other. A look that said, not interested. And Harry had believed it. Had forced himself to believe it.
So what good was it, imagining otherwise now?
Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, and trudged toward his bedroom. He told himself he was too tired to think about it anymore. He told himself he’d drop it.
But as he lay down, staring at the ceiling, the thought was still there, stubborn as ever.
It could’ve been.
Harry wasn’t sure how long he lay there, eyes fixed on nothing, thoughts looping in the same miserable circle. The house was too quiet, his head too loud, until even the tick of the clock seemed to vanish.
The sudden whoosh of the Floo startled him upright.
Harry sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Right, Draco. He was going to have to face him eventually. Living together meant snarky greetings and slammed doors whether Harry was ready or not. He pulled himself to his feet, already forming something cutting to toss at him, anything to hide the ache twisting in his gut.
But the words never made it out.
Because Draco wasn’t alone.
A tall, dark-haired man stepped through the Floo after him, brushing soot from his sleeve with a kind of lazy elegance. And Harry knew him. Of course he did.
Theodore Nott.
Hogwarts. Slytherin. Quiet, sharp-eyed, always hovering on the edges of Draco's circle. Not really a friend Harry ever bothered to know, but enough of a presence in his memory that the name dropped into his chest like lead.
Draco said something low, and Theo chuckled, warm and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world to follow Draco bloody Malfoy home.
Harry’s mouth went dry. The snark died on his lips.
Draco stepped out of the hearth, dusting off his sleeve with his usual disdain, but it was the man beside him that Harry couldn’t look away from.
“Theo,” Draco said easily, as though it wasn’t strange at all to drag someone into their house without warning. “Do you remember him?"
Harry’s jaw worked uselessly. Remember Theo? Of course he bloody remembered him. Theodore Nott, quiet, clever, always a shadow in Slytherin’s corner. And now he was here, standing in Harry’s sitting room like he belonged.
Theodore gave him a polite nod. “Potter.” His voice was smooth, unbothered, like he hadn’t just walked straight out of Harry’s school days into his house.
“Er.. yeah,” Harry managed, stiff. “Hi.”
Theodore smirked faintly, then turned back to Draco, launching into some easy conversation Harry couldn’t quite catch. Something about St. Mungo’s, about schedules, about a patient he’d heard of.
Friend. It had to be a friend. Draco wouldn’t. He shouldn't. Harry wasn’t even sure what he was telling himself, only that the sight of Theodore standing too close made his chest feel uncomfortably tight.
Harry sat back down, pretending to shuffle through papers he hadn’t looked at in hours, ears straining for every word exchanged between the two of them.
Draco moved toward the kitchen with the ease of someone who’d already made himself at home, Theodore following without hesitation. Harry’s quill scratched uselessly against parchment, his eyes fixed firmly downward, though his ears betrayed him.
“Honestly, you’d think you’d have learned how to use a Floo properly by now,” Draco drawled. “You nearly landed on me.”
Theodore's laugh was low and warm. “Maybe I just like throwing you off balance.”
Harry’s grip tightened on the quill until the feather bent.
The two of them slipped into easy rhythm. Draco putting on the kettle, Theodore leaning against the counter like he’d done it a hundred times before. Their words overlapped in that way of people used to speaking freely, used to being heard.
Harry hated every second of it. Isn't that their thing?
“I still say you botched the Wolfsbane calculation last time,” Theodore teased.
“I did not,” Draco shot back, scandalized. “If anyone botched it, it was you, with your ridiculous handwriting."
“Ah, so it’s my handwriting’s fault, is it?” Theo grinned, nudging Draco with his elbow. Draco swatted him away, but his lips twitched upward, traitorous.
Harry stared down at the same line on the parchment for the tenth time. The ink blotched where his quill had lingered too long.
It was too easy. Too domestic. Too practiced. Like Draco had been living another life Harry knew nothing about, one where Theodore Nott stood in kitchens with him, shared inside jokes, nudged him into smiling.
And Harry sat in the background, pretending his world hadn’t tilted sideways.
After a few minutes of listening to their laughter ricochet through the house, he couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed back his chair and stood, muttering something about needing a drink.
The kitchen felt too small the second he stepped into it. He brushed past Theodore, his shoulder knocking harder than he intended.
“Watch it, Harry,” Draco said sharply, catching the teacup before it tipped.
“Sorry,” Harry muttered, reaching for a glass. But the words were out before he could stop them, bitter and stupid and not nearly as casual as he meant them to sound. “Didn’t realize I was interrupting your.. little date night.”
Theodore raised his brows in mild amusement. Draco blinked, caught between indignation and confusion.
Harry’s ears burned. He gripped his glass like a lifeline. “Not that it matters,” he added quickly, fumbling, trying to shove the words back into the box. “Enjoy.”
Before Draco could respond, before he could tilt his head in that infuriating way and ask what Harry meant, Harry bolted. He downed the water, slammed the glass a little too hard on the counter, and headed for the stairs two at a time.
His chest felt too tight, his pulse too quick. The realization hit him halfway to his room, sharp and merciless. Harry was jealous and it terrified him.
Bloody Ron, planting that idiotic idea in his head, that he liked Draco. As if that explained anything.
But as Harry paced his room, the truth gnawed at him with every step. The sour twist in his stomach, the way he bristled at Theodore's laugh, the heat that shot through him when Draco looked away, none of it was simple irritation. It was indeed jealousy.
And jealousy meant, Merlin, he couldn’t even say it.
He was so stupid. He’d been the one to tell Draco he should get out more, meet people like Harry, have a life outside the two of them rattling around this house. He’d practically shoved him toward it. And now that it might actually be happening, he was unraveling.
Pathetic.
Harry sat heavily on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands. His heart thudded traitorously in his chest, loud as a confession.
He liked Draco.
And he was too late to realize it.
Harry barely slept that night, tossing and turning until the sheets felt like a noose around him. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Draco leaning too close to Theodore, laughing softly at something Harry wasn’t meant to hear. By dawn, he’d given up, lying flat and staring at the ceiling, heart thudding in miserable rhythm.
When he finally dragged himself downstairs, bleary-eyed and aching, the house was quiet again.
Draco sat alone at the dining table, back straight, hair mussed in a way that suggested he hadn’t slept much either. His tea sat untouched, steam curling into the morning light.
Harry froze in the doorway, pulse leaping. For a second, he thought of turning right back around. But then Draco glanced up, eyes meeting his, and Harry’s chest went tight.
“Morning,” Draco said, voice low, guarded.
Harry swallowed, stepping into the room. “Morning.”
The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it.
Harry forced a crooked smile, leaning against the doorframe. “So.. your date bailed, then?” he asked, aiming for lightness but hearing the strain in his own voice.
Draco’s mouth parted, about to answer, but before he could, another voice cut across the room.
“Draco, mind if I use your shirt?”
Harry stiffened. He turned, slow and unwilling, to see Theodore Nott standing there, bare-chested, tugging one arm through a shirt Harry knew far too well. The faded green one Draco wore at least three times a week, the one soft enough to mean something.
Harry’s stomach dropped. He couldn’t look away, Theodore's pale skin, the easy way he moved through Draco’s house, his house too, technically, but it had never felt less like it.
And Merlin, Theodore was in that shirt.
The one Harry had once teased Draco about wearing so much. The one Draco had once rolled his eyes at and muttered, it’s comfortable, Potter.
Harry’s throat went dry, his casual mask slipping like sand through his fingers.
“Oh, brilliant,” he said, louder than necessary. “Didn’t realize we were all swapping wardrobes now. Want me to lend you one of mine too, Nott? I’ve got plenty, though they might be a bit too clean for you.”
Theodore's eyes widened then he barked out a laugh, clearly entertained, while Draco’s eyes narrowed just slightly.
Harry smiled tightly, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “No? Right then. Enjoy breakfast.”
He shoved his chair back with a scrape that was just shy of obnoxious and stalked off toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath about people parading around half-naked in other people’s flats at ungodly hours of the morning.
Harry yanked open a cupboard just for something to do, glaring at the rows of mugs as if they’d personally offended him. He grabbed one, maybe a bit too hard, the clink echoing in the quiet kitchen.
“What the hell is your problem, Potter?” Draco’s voice snapped from the doorway, sharp with disbelief.
Harry froze, mug in hand. Slowly, he turned, forcing a smirk that felt flimsy even on his own face. “Ah. So I’m Potteragain, am I? Figures. Easy to forget me when you’ve got your Theo with you.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation, and maybe something else, breaking across his carefully composed face. “My Theo?” he repeated, incredulous.
Harry’s jaw clenched, heat crawling up his neck. “Well. He’s certainly making himself at home, isn’t he?”
Draco turned to him with a look of pure incredulity. “Merlin, Potter, do you hear yourself? You sound jealous.”
Harry’s stomach lurched. “Jealous?” he croaked, horrified. Then, before he could stop himself, Gryffindor bravery, or sheer stupidity, took over. “Well, what if I am?”
Draco blinked, then scoffed, crossing his arms. “Are you mental? You’re parading people through here almost every day. I bring one friend once and suddenly you think our friendship is in jeopardy?”
Harry stared at him like he’d just confessed Voldemort was his father. “Friendship?”
“Are you deaf? Yes. Friendship, you absolute git.”
That broke something in Harry, and a laugh burst out of him, rough and disbelieving. Draco narrowed his eyes like he was calculating whether to hex him or not.
“You think I got jealous because of friendship?” Harry managed between laughs.
Draco’s frown deepened. “Is it not?”
Harry dragged a hand down his face, still half-laughing, half-miserable. “Merlin, Draco. You said you’d think about meeting new people.”
“Well, yes,” Draco said evenly. “And I did. I met up with Theo.”
“As a friend?” he asked.
Draco arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. For now.”
Harry’s laugh faltered. His chest squeezed tight. Just like that, the mood shattered. His stomach sank, and the grin on his face slipped into something brittle. Well. What a way to fucking ruin the mood.
“Oh,” Harry said, the word flat, empty.
Draco shifted, as if Harry’s reaction wasn’t quite what he’d expected. He lifted his chin, feigning nonchalance. “I just thought.. maybe it’s time I tried. Meeting people, I mean. You said so didn't, you? And since Theo’s around, I figured, why not?”
Harry’s throat worked, but no sound came out. Why not? Because the very idea made his chest feel like it was caving in, that’s why. Because the thought of Draco with anyone else made him want to hex Theo off the face of the earth.
But all Harry managed was a tight nod. “Right. Makes sense.”
Draco studied him for a long moment, something flickering in his expression, hesitation, uncertainty?Before it was gone, smoothed over into the usual Malfoy cool.
Harry forced a laugh that tasted like ash. “Good for you, then.”
Before he could retreat further behind the brittle mask of indifference, Draco’s hand darted out, fingers wrapping firmly around his wrist. Harry stilled, heart stuttering at the sudden warmth.
“Are we okay?” Draco asked, quiet now, none of his usual sharpness in the words.
Harry’s mouth went dry. He wanted to say no, not even close, but the word that left him was a soft, automatic, “Yes.”
Draco searched his face for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, without warning, he tugged Harry just slightly closer and brushed his thumb against the inside of Harry’s wrist, absent, almost careless, but enough to send sparks racing under Harry’s skin.
“Good,” Draco said finally, letting go as if nothing had happened. He stepped back, straightened his sleeve with practiced precision, and added, “I’ve got work. I'll be going with Theo. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”
And just like that, he was moving toward the door, leaving Harry standing there, wrist tingling, the ghost of Draco’s touch refusing to fade.
Harry tried to bury himself in work after that, papers and quills and half-finished reports stacking in front of him, but his focus kept slipping. Every time he lifted his quill, he could still feel Draco’s thumb brushing over his wrist, like the mark hadn’t worn off.
Ron noticed. Of course he did. By mid-morning, his eyes kept flicking over the partition with an expression that was part suspicion, part brotherly concern, part Merlin, don’t make me drag it out of you.
When lunchtime came, Ron didn’t even bother asking. He just clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder and steered him outside. “Come on. Smoke break.”
Harry didn’t argue. He followed Ron out to the alley, already pulling his own pack from his pocket. The two of them leaned against the wall, lighting up in silence. For a few minutes, only the scratch of lighters and the faint burn of tobacco filled the air.
Finally, Ron blew out a slow stream of smoke and cut him a sideways look. “Alright. Out with it. What happened?”
Harry faltered, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He stared at the ground, then muttered, “I ruined it.”
Ron raised a brow. “Ruined what?”
Harry dragged on his cigarette, exhaled too sharply, and muttered, “I don’t know, the thing with Draco? He actually bloody did what I told him to. Meet other people. And he was with Theodore Nott last night. In our fucking house. What the hell.”
Ron blinked, then barked a laugh that made Harry’s stomach twist.
“It’s not funny,” Harry snapped, heat rising in his cheeks.
“I’m not laughing at you,” Ron said, still grinning. “Alright, maybe a little. But you’ve got to hear yourself, mate. Youtold him to meet people, he meets someone, and suddenly it’s the end of the world?”
Harry ground his cigarette into the brick wall harder than necessary. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s just.. bloody Nott? In our house?”
Ron tilted his head. “Your house, or yours and Draco’s house?”
Harry froze. His mouth opened, then shut again. “…What’s the difference?”
Ron snorted. “Everything, Harry. Everything.”
“I don’t understand,” Harry muttered, dragging on his cigarette like it might fill the hollow ache in his chest.
Ron shook his head, lips quirking in that exasperated way that meant he was about to explain something painfully obvious. “It’s simple. If it were just your house, Malfoy being there with Nott wouldn’t bother you. You wouldn’t care who he brought over. But the way you said it, our house? Sounds like you think it’s yours together.”
Harry blinked at him, thrown. “Well.. we live there, don’t we?”
“Yeah, as flatmates. Except flatmates don’t usually get bent out of shape when their mate brings someone round.” Ron tapped ash off the end of his cigarette, eyeing Harry. “You’re jealous, Harry.”
Harry went still, staring at the smoke curling between them. For once, he didn’t bother denying it. He let out a harsh laugh and muttered, “Yeah. Fine. I’m jealous. I like Draco, happy?” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, cigarette smouldering between his fingers. “But it’s not like it changes anything. I was so bloody slow to realize it.”
Ron blinked, taken aback, not by the confession, but by the way Harry said it, like it was too late, like he’d already lost.
“Oi,” Ron said, voice softer now. He nudged Harry’s arm with his elbow. “Don’t talk like that. It’s not too late.”
Harry gave a hollow laugh, staring at the ember of his cigarette. “Feels like it is. He’s already meeting people, Ron. I told him to, and now he is. What the hell am I supposed to do? Tell him I’ve suddenly changed my mind?”
“Yes,” Ron said firmly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s exactly what you do. You tell him.”
Harry shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” Ron countered, flicking ash to the ground. “Listen. I’ve known Malfoy long enough to say this. He doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do. If he’s still there, living with you, putting up with your snoring and your clutter and your bloody moping? It means he wants to be.”
Harry’s chest tightened, hope stirring where he didn’t want it to.
Ron looked him dead in the eye. “You’ve still got a chance, mate. Don’t waste it.”
Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words stuck somewhere in his throat, heavy and useless. So instead, he finished his cigarette in silence, dropped it to the ground, and crushed it under his heel.
The afternoon blurred after that. Work, the walk home, the hollow ache that followed him like a shadow, Harry couldn’t remember much of it, only that the next thing he knew he was in a bar, smoke clinging to the ceiling and music rattling through his ribs. He drank too quickly, laughed too loud at something he didn’t hear, and when a bloke pressed close, Harry let him.
By the time they stumbled back through the door of Grimmauld, Harry’s head was buzzing, his skin hot with the sour mix of firewhisky and spite. The man’s hands were all over him, fumbling and eager, and Harry let himself be pushed against the wall of the sitting room, mouths crashing together, messy and hungry.
And then he felt it, that prickling awareness at the edge of the room. He didn’t have to look to know Draco was there. But he did anyway.
Harry’s lips were still locked with the stranger’s, his hand curled in the back of the man’s shirt, when his gaze found Draco's across the room. Steady.
He didn’t look away. He kissed harder, dragging the stranger closer, all while staring into Draco’s eyes.
Draco’s face was a perfect mask, cold and elegant, like carved marble. He stood just inside the doorway, shoulders squared, mouth set in a thin line that said this doesn’t touch me.
But Harry knew better.
He’d spent years memorising Draco’s expressions. Rage, disdain, reluctant amusement. He knew how to read the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the too-still set of his jaw. And now, he saw it. The crack. A flash in Draco’s eyes, sharp and raw before it vanished again, hidden behind that immaculate composure.
It hit Harry like a blow to the chest. He wanted to stop, Merlin, he wanted to, but instead, he kissed harder, nails digging into the stranger’s shirt, chasing the ugly, hollow satisfaction of making Draco watch.
Draco didn’t move when the nameless bloke moaned. Didn’t say a word. Only stood there, arms crossed, mask polished and perfect, except for the slightest tremor in his fingers where they gripped his sleeve too tightly.
Harry’s stomach twisted. The taste of the kiss soured in his mouth, but he couldn’t pull away. He kept his eyes on Draco, caught between wanting him to break, react, damn you, and dreading what would happen if he did.
And then, quietly, Draco spoke. His voice was calm, distant, but Harry heard the fracture underneath.
“Don't be too loud.”
He turned on his heel and walked away.
Harry’s eyes followed him, watched Draco’s back retreat, the precise set of his shoulders, the unhurried way he climbed the stairs as though none of this mattered. He never looked back. Not once. The sound of his door clicking shut echoed through the silence like a curse.
Harry tore his mouth from the stranger’s, breath ragged. The taste of him was suddenly foul, heavy in his throat. His stomach lurched. Nausea rose fast and choking, and before he could think, he shoved the man back a step.
“You need to go,” Harry muttered, voice harsh, broken around the edges.
The bloke blinked, anger flashing in his expression. “What the fuck, mate? You drag me here, snog me like you’re starving, and now," He gestured toward the stairs. “Was this all some twisted show? Christ, you’re mental.”
Harry flinched but didn’t argue. He couldn’t. His pulse roared in his ears, guilt clamping tight around his ribs.
“Get out,” he said again, quieter this time. Pleading.
The man swore under his breath, grabbed his jacket, and stalked out, the slam of the front door rattling through the house.
Silence rushed in its place, heavy and suffocating. Harry pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, bile sharp on his tongue. His wrist still tingled where Draco had touched him earlier, and the memory of it, of what he’d just tried to bury under someone else’s mouth, made him want to be sick.
He stood alone in the wreckage of it, staring up the stairs, the weight of Draco’s closed door pressing down on him like judgment.
The house was too quiet after that. The kind of quiet that seeped into his bones, that followed him into bed, that refused to let him close his eyes without replaying the look on Draco’s face, or worse, the absence of it. That carefully constructed mask, smooth and cold, but Harry had seen the hairline crack in it. He’d chased him away with his own stupidity, and now the silence was all he had left.
The next morning, Draco wasn’t there. His bed was empty, the sheets untouched, not even a glass on the counter to prove he’d come down for tea.
The day after that, still nothing.
By the end of the week, Harry had stopped pretending to sleep. He dozed in fits, body heavy but his mind refusing to quiet. Every creak of the house pulled him up sharp, heart pounding, half-hoping, half-dreading it would be Draco walking in. It never was.
He looked for him everywhere. In the kitchen, in the study, in the bloody library Draco pretended not to like but spent hours in anyway. Each empty room scraped at him until Harry couldn’t stand it anymore.
He tried to drown it out the only way he knew how. Drinks after drinks, nights spent slumped in bars, smiling too wide at people he couldn’t even name the next morning. But no matter how far he staggered from Grimmauld, he always found himself back at its doorstep, the key heavy in his pocket, the ache heavier still.
One night, stumbling in with liquor burning down his throat, Harry froze.
Because for the first time in weeks, the silence wasn’t absolute.
It started faint, muffled by walls and doors and distance, but unmistakable, low and sharp, curling into the air like smoke. A moan.
Draco.
Harry went still. His heart slammed against his ribs, every drop of alcohol in his veins burning away in an instant.
Another sound followed, choked and breathless, and Harry’s stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick right there in the hall.
It wasn’t just that Draco was back. It was that he wasn’t alone.
Harry gripped the banister, knuckles whitening, staring up the staircase as if he could bore a hole straight through the door at the top. His throat felt raw, like he’d swallowed glass.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just stood there listening to the rhythm of itx proof, over and over, that Draco was upstairs, with someone else, and that Harry had only himself to blame.
Harry’s vision blurred, breath catching in his throat as another moan spilled out, richer this time, drawn out like it had been pulled from Draco’s chest. He could see it without trying, Draco’s head tipped back, pale throat bared, lips parted around those sounds Harry knew he’d never forget. His imagination supplied the picture all too easily, like it had been waiting for this exact kind of torture. Flushed cheeks, damp hair clinging to his temple, grey eyes fluttering shut as someone else’s hands held him down.
Harry’s stomach roiled. His chest tightened until he swore something in him was caving in, cracking under the weight of it. His knees nearly buckled, the banister the only thing keeping him upright as he choked on the image of Draco like that, beautiful, undone, and not because of him.
And then he heard it. Clear, breathless, breaking.
“Theo.”
The name seared through him like fire, tearing through bone and marrow, a sound so intimate it made Harry’s vision go white. Of course. Theodore fucking Nott.
Harry’s hand flew to his mouth, as if that could stop the nausea from rising, but it was useless. His body felt foreign, hollowed out, his heart a violent drum in his ears. Every part of him wanted to storm upstairs, rip the door off its hinges, tear Nott away, but he just stood there, trembling, because it was too late.
And Harry had no one to blame but himself.
The thought sliced clean through the haze of nausea, sharper than anything else could’ve been. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, like maybe he could keep it from breaking open, but the sound from upstairs, Draco’s voice, Theo’s name, echoed anyway.
Is this how he felt? Harry thought, grim and relentless. Is this what Draco had to swallow every time Harry dragged some nameless stranger home, kissed them hard enough to bruise in doorways he knew Draco would see, fucked them behind closed doors that never really kept anything out?
He let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t been so jagged. A bitter, sarcastic little chuckle that scraped up his throat and burned his lungs. “Yeah,” he muttered to no one, voice low and cracked. “As if he’d ever feel that way about me.”
Because that was the cruelest part, wasn’t it? The possibility that Draco hadn’t cared at all. That while Harry had been unraveling with every calculated kiss, every desperate attempt to provoke a reaction, Draco had only ever seen a pathetic man flailing for attention he’d never have.
Harry dragged both hands down his face, nails scraping over stubble, and let himself sag against the banister. His laugh, hollow, strangled. hung in the empty corridor, before fading into the silence between Draco’s muffled moans upstairs.
He stayed there, rooted. Listening. Every sound from above clawed at him, tearing something vital from his chest.
You fucking idiot.
He should have listened to Ron. Ron had told him, clear as day, that he still had a chance. That it wasn’t too late. But Harry had gone and done what he always did. Ruin it. Pretend not to care until he burned everything to ash.
He should have known sooner. Should have let himself see it, the truth that had been staring him in the face all this time. That he liked Draco. Wanted him. Needed him.
Instead, he’d slept around like a dog, dragging strangers into their house, putting on a show like some cheap, desperate performance. Hoping for a reaction, hoping for something.
Now he had it. Draco’s voice, Draco’s moans, Draco’s name for someone else.
It twisted inside him, brutal and unforgiving. That should have been him. He could have been the one up there, coaxing those sounds out of Draco, memorizing every shiver, every breath. He could have been the one Draco called for.
But he wasn’t. Because he’d been too slow, too proud, too blind. Because he’d shoved it all down until it was too late.
And now Draco was gone, even when he was right upstairs, Harry had already lost him.
Harry’s legs gave out, and he sank to the floor against the banister, arms wrapping around himself as if he could hold back the collapse. But it came anyway, raw and violent. His chest heaved, breath hitching, until the first sob tore out of him, ugly and desperate.
He pressed his fists into his temples, hitting once, twice, the dull thud reverberating through his skull. “Fucking idiot,” he choked, slamming his palm against his thigh hard enough to sting. “You fucking ruined it.”
Tears blurred his vision, hot and relentless, tracking down his cheeks as he curled forward, shoulders shaking. He clawed at his arms, like he could peel off the skin that felt too tight, the guilt that pressed in from every side.
Upstairs, the noises continued, fainter now, but still there. Each one twisted deeper into him, sharp as a knife.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, trying to silence himself, to not give Draco the satisfaction of hearing him fall apart.
After what felt like hours, exhaustion hit him in waves. His body was trembling too hard, his throat raw from strangled sobs, but still he forced himself to lie down on the cold floor. He curled onto his side, knees to chest, fists tucked under his jaw like a child.
The tears kept coming even as his eyes slipped shut, his breaths uneven. His mind repeated it over and over, should’ve known, should’ve stopped, should’ve been there, should’ve loved him right.
And still, with his face wet and his chest aching, Harry whispered one last, broken thing into the dark before sleep finally dragged him under.
“Could’ve been me.”
Harry’s sleep was no mercy. It dragged him through the same torment again. Draco’s face twisted in pleasure, Draco’s voice breaking on someone else’s name, Harry’s own hands striking his skull, his chest caving in until he couldn’t breathe.
He jolted awake with a choked cry, lungs burning, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free. Hands gripped his shoulders, firm and desperate, shaking him.
“Harry—”
Hands were on him, urgent, shaking. Draco’s voice, low and frantic, cut through the haze. “Wake up, damn it, wake up!”
Through the blur of panic, Harry forced his eyes open. And there he was. Draco. Bent over him, pale hair mussed, grey eyes sharp with concern, mouth tight like he’d been calling his name for a while.
Harry barked out a laugh, raw, bitter. It ripped at his chest. “What a cruel dream,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes squeezing shut again. “First you’re happy with someone else.. and now you look like you give a fuck.”
“Harry, what—” Draco’s voice snapped, the edge frayed.
Harry turned his face into his pillow, trembling all over, shoulders hitching with a broken sound that wasn’t quite laughter. It hurt too much to look again, to believe even for a second. “Why are you here?” he whispered hoarsely, like he already knew the answer would vanish when he opened his eyes.
But Draco didn’t vanish. The weight on his shoulder stayed steady, grounding him. He was breathing hard too, Harry realized, like he’d sprinted to get here. “Because you were screaming like you were being murdered, that’s why,” Draco said, voice shaking despite himself. “You think I could just ignore that?”
Harry froze, fingers curling tight in the sheets. The warmth against him didn’t fade. The nightmare hadn’t followed him here. Slowly, painfully, he dared to open his eyes again.
And Draco was still there. Real.
The weight of his hand was solid on Harry’s shoulder. The crease between his brows was sharp, real. His breathing, uneven. His thumb, unconsciously, brushing once against Harry’s arm like he couldn’t help it.
And Harry felt it. Every detail. Every breath.
Not a dream.
His throat worked around a strangled sound, something between a sob and a laugh. “You’re here,” he whispered, almost reverent, like the words themselves might break it apart if he said them too loud. His hand lifted, hesitant, trembling, and when his fingers brushed Draco’s wrist, the contact burned. Real. Too real.
Draco didn’t pull away.
Harry’s vision blurred again, but this time it wasn’t from sleep. He closed his eyes, letting the tears fall, letting himself believe it. “You’re really here.”
A pause. The weight of Draco’s hand grew heavier, firmer, anchoring him. Then, soft but sharp enough to slice through Harry’s spiraling.
“Of course I’m here, you absolute idiot.”
Harry’s eyes flew open, wet and wide, staring up at him. The words sounded like scolding, but Draco’s voice shook, like he’d run all the way through the house, like the idea of Harry not waking had cracked something in him.
Draco’s lips pressed tight, as if he regretted letting it slip, but his hand stayed on Harry, steady.
And Harry broke all over again, but this time with relief. Draco held him.
Harry’s chest heaved, the aftershocks of the nightmare tearing through him like fresh wounds. His hand shot out blindly, finding Draco’s wrist, clutching tight.
Harry clung to him like he’d drown otherwise, voice muffled against Draco’s shirt. “Don’t leave me. Please. I can’t—"
“Shut up,” Draco muttered, though his arms only tightened. His hand dragged once down Harry’s spine, steady and grounding. “I’m not going anywhere. You ridiculous man.”
But Harry only shook harder, sobs ripping out of him, apologies spilling over. “I’m sorry, Draco. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— Merlin, Draco, I—”
“Stop.” Draco’s voice cracked, sharper than glass. Harry froze mid-breath, staring at him with wide, wet eyes.
“Do you have any idea,” Draco said, voice jagged and low, “how fucking hard it was? Hearing about you. Watching you sleep around like none of it matteredx when all I could bloody do was stay in love with you?”
Harry flinched, shame sinking like lead in his chest. He opened his mouth, but Draco shook his head, fury and heartbreak spilling too fast to hold back.
He loves Harry back.
“You think it was easy?” Draco pressed on, voice raw, rising. “Pretending I didn’t care, when every rumor, every stupid grin on your face felt like you were ripping me apart? I had to stand there, Merlin, Harry, stand there and watch you throw yourself at people who weren’t me.” His voice broke, bitter and trembling. “And I still,” His throat worked, choking down the rest. “I still wanted you. Even when it hurt like hell.”
Harry’s sob tore through the room, ugly and broken. He dragged shaking hands up to clutch at Draco’s shirt, eyes wild. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want anyone else. I was stupid. Scared. I should’ve known. I should’ve,” His voice cracked, desperate. “Please. Please don’t leave me. Don’t go to Nott. Don’t. Please, you can’t—"
“Oh,” Draco breathed, startled, his fury faltering for just a beat.
Harry’s words tumbled out in gasps, too fast, too messy, his chest heaving like it couldn’t hold the panic in. “I love you, I love you. I fucked it all up but please, don’t hate me, don’t—” His breathing hitched, spiraling, his nails digging into Draco’s arms.
“Harry.” Draco’s voice gentled instantly, his hand firm against the back of Harry’s neck, grounding him. “Hey. Look at me. Breathe.”
Harry shook his head violently, choking, “Can’t—can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” Draco pressed his forehead to Harry’s, firm, steady, refusing to let him fold in on himself. “Breathe with me. In. Out. That’s it. You’re safe. I’m here.” His thumb stroked slow circles against Harry’s pulse. “I’m not leaving you. Do you hear me? Not now. Not ever.”
Harry’s breath hitched, ragged, but slowly, painfully slowly. his gasps fell into rhythm with Draco’s. He sagged, boneless, into Draco’s chest, shuddering.
Draco wrapped himself around him, fiercely protective, his anger burned out into exhaustion. His chin pressed into Harry’s messy hair, his voice rough and trembling. “You bloody fool. Do you know how impossible you make it to stop loving you?”
Harry’s eyes squeezed shut, fresh tears spilling, but for the first time that night, his chest ached with something almost like hope.
Harry’s chest still heaved with uneven breaths, each one catching sharp against the sobs he couldn’t quite hold back. His grip on Draco was desperate, almost bruising, like if he let go even for a second, Draco would vanish.
But Draco didn’t move. He stayed, arms steady around him, one hand splayed broad across Harry’s back. His thumb brushed slowly back and forth, again and again, small grounding circles that shouldn’t have meant anything but somehow undid Harry completely.
“You’re alright,” Draco murmured, softer now, his earlier bite dulled into something raw but steady. “Breathe. With me, Harry. Just breathe.”
Harry tried, chest stuttering, lungs refusing to obey. But then, there. Beneath his ear, pressed close to Draco’s ribs, he heard it. The steady, relentless thud of Draco’s heartbeat. Not racing, not faltering. Just there. Strong.
It anchored him. Each beat drawing him back from the edge, each pass of Draco’s thumb against his back smoothing another jagged corner inside him. Slowly, painfully, his own breathing began to match the rhythm, shallow gasps giving way to shaky exhales.
The tremors in his body eased, though he still clung tight, face wet and hidden in the fabric of Draco’s shirt. He felt exhausted, wrung out, but.. safe. For the first time in months, maybe years, safe.
And Draco simply held him.
Draco’s thumb kept moving, slow and sure, as if he could rub calm back into Harry’s bones. He dipped his head slightly, lips brushing Harry’s hair when he finally spoke.
“You don’t have to fall apart alone, you know,” he murmured, voice low, worn thin but steady. “Not with me. Never with me.”
Harry’s throat tightened all over again, though this time the sob didn’t break free. His fists loosened slightly in Draco’s shirt, his breathing still hitching but less frantic, steadier against the solid weight of Draco’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, softer this time, raw but no longer frantic. It slipped out like confession, almost childlike in its sincerity. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”
Draco let out a long breath, something between exasperation and grief, and pressed his chin more firmly against Harry’s hair, holding him closer. “You’ve said it enough now,” he said quietly. “Just.. don’t make me live through that again.”
Harry buried his face deeper into Draco’s chest, letting himself be held, letting the warmth and steady heartbeat anchor him. His voice came out small, earnest, trembling but certain.
“I won’t,” he whispered. “I promise. I won’t ever do that to you again. Not ever.”
Draco’s hand paused for a fraction of a second on his back, as if checking whether Harry truly meant it. Then, slowly, he resumed the gentle circles with his thumb, letting Harry cling to him however he needed.
“Good,” Draco murmured, voice rough but soft, the tension in it easing slightly. “Because you don’t get another chance at breaking me, Potter.”
Harry let out a shaky laugh into Draco’s chest, muffled but relieved. “I know,” he admitted, voice quiet. “I know.”
And for the first time since the nightmare, he believed it. Draco was here. Draco was real. And he wasn’t going anywhere.
Harry stayed pressed against Draco’s chest, still shivering from the panic, and after a long, shaky breath, he whispered, “What.. what happened with Nott?”
Draco stiffened, jaw tightening, then let out a long, slow exhale. “It made me feel like shit,” he admitted, voice low and rough. “We fucked, yes, but my head.. my heart.. they weren’t there. All I could think about was you.”
Harry froze, his pulse hammering. “You were thinking about me?”
Draco’s thumb rubbed slow, grounding circles on Harry’s back. “Yes. Every moment. And when it was done.. when I," He swallowed, voice tight. “When I told him the truth, Theo just sighed. Said he understood. That he’d sleep in the guestroom, and he did. He didn’t push."
Harry’s chest tightened painfully, a mixture of guilt and relief twisting inside him. He buried his face deeper against Draco, letting the words sink in. Draco had been honest, and even in that honesty, he had stayed. He had stayed for Harry.
“I.. Draco, I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, trembling. “For everything. For making it like—”
Draco pressed a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “Don’t. Not anymore. You’re here now, and that’s what matters. He’s out of the way, and so am I. You’ve got me, Harry.”
Harry exhaled, shivering, and let himself relax a little more. “I love you,” he murmured, quiet, vulnerable.
Draco tightened his hold, voice soft but firm. “I know. And I love you too. Always have.”
Harry stayed pressed against Draco’s chest, shivering, heart still hammering from the panic. His hands clutched at Draco’s shirt like letting go would make him vanish, like the nightmare was still crawling over him.
“You’re safe,” Draco murmured, low and steady, thumb brushing slow circles across Harry’s back. “You’re here. I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight, not ever.”
Harry swallowed, eyes fluttering shut, his chest still heaving. His breaths were uneven, but Draco’s steady heartbeat beneath his ear anchored him, pulse syncing to his own ragged rhythm.
“You’re not leaving me,” Harry whispered, voice cracking.
“I’m not,” Draco replied, voice firm, but soft enough to soothe every frayed edge of Harry’s panic. “I won’t. Not now. Not ever. You’ve got me, Harry. Always.”
Harry let the words sink in, letting himself relax into the warmth, the unshakable presence of Draco holding him. He clung a little tighter, tears damp against Draco’s chest, and finally, the tremors in his body eased.
With Draco’s low reassurances still ringing in his ears, Harry’s eyes slipped closed, and he let himself drift, just a little, finally letting the nightmare fade, finally letting himself feel safe.