to be very honest, draco malfoy really isn’t that attractive.
he’s too sharp, his face is too pointy and every time his flailing arms catch someone in the stomach or on the shoulder or merlin forbid, the face while he’s gesturing madly, they wince in obvious pain.
harry sees it happen often enough when he comes back for eighth year. he doesn’t have much to do this year, everything seems new, seems strange and there’s some comfort in the old pattern of keeping an eye on malfoy.
only this time, it’s not so much keeping an eye as–
well, harry doesn’t really know what he is doing.
but as he was saying, malfoy isn’t attractive.
his hair flops into his eyes and it isn’t that ‘just shagged’ look the quidditch player from the kestrels seems to sport or the sleek gelled look that malfoy had perfected over the last seven years.
it’s messy and it sticks up at odd angles more often than not, the result of- harry suspects- falling asleep in strange positions every night in the common room and continuously blowing the errant strands out of his face.
his eyes are always a bit manic, he talks too fast and harry knows malfoy is usually all calm composure and upright posture but every time something strikes his fancy, he goes wild with it, becoming obsessive while he debates the minutiae of potions theory.
he is sharp angles where softness should be– comprised almost entirely of nails, teeth and bones. he’s cutting edges where comfort should be and people definitely look at him twice but it really isn’t because he’s attractive. it’s more because he’s ridiculously striking in a rare, uninhibited way.
initially, harry harbours no attraction for the git.
attraction isn’t what crosses his mind when he finds himself staring at the back of malfoy’s white-blond head during history of magic. it’s familiar territory and so he keeps doing it in a world he finds difficulty recognising.
but attraction is hardly something that springs unannounced overnight.
it happens gradually, over a couple of months as they test the waters of the new truce they’ve forged that they’re both wary of but are determined to hold on to in favour of letting bygones be bygones.
they’re all groaning over potions homework in the common room one evening and hermione refuses to help him because really harry, i’m not the one who will sit for your newts so he gets up and goes to sit beside draco who really seems to work completely alone, holed up in his corner these days.
harry knows it’s strange and it probably is going too far and really, there are boundaries he should respect like personal space and all that tripe but this cheering potion is totally beyond him and honestly, malfoy and hermione tie for the top position in potions more often than not.
he offers help in dada but malfoy scoffs at him openly.
“one doesn’t live with the dark lord, potter, and not know how to repel muggles and cast protegos.”
harry sighs because really he should have expected this and ups to leave when there a tug on his wrist.
“would you– if it isn’t too much really– could you just help– can you tutor me in charms?” malfoy asks, very, very quietly.
harry sits back down and raises an eyebrow, because really, bloody charms?
but malfoy doesn’t quite meet his eyes when he vaguely says that he doesn’t understand charms anymore because he feels to heavy for the subject.
harry thinks he understands.
its unusual, definitely, their partnership. malfoy snipes at him but is surprisingly patient with theory when harry feels far too overwhelmed to truly discern the difference between powdered unicorn horn and crushed unicorn horn.
harry in return tries his best to teach malfoy more complex charms, the ones that aren’t just about making baubles sing. sometimes, when the syllabus doesn’t seem quite so challenging to him, they pore over a charms text together and create a christmas tree from scratch.
nobody reminds them christmas is a month away.
one day, they walk in to go over potions and harry realises the only free couch is the one in front of the fireplace. he knows draco prefers the shadows where he goes unnoticed but when draco turns around to go back up to the dorms, harry grips his wrist and drags him over.
he leans in, noting the tense set of draco’s shoulder and clenched jaw and murmurs, “chin up, ferret face.”
draco turns to him, startled but seeing whatever he does on harry’s face breaks out into a tentative smile.
and oh godric, the light from the fire makes his too pale skin glow warm and his eyes sparkle.
the smile doesn’t soften him, but his eyes crinkle around the corners and there are smile lines around his mouth and oh merlin, bloody merlin, is that really a fucking dimple–
harry swallows and looks away. he can’t allow himself to look, not when–
he stops. he’s spent so much time thinking about what he is allowed to do and what he isn’t to the point where he has conditioned himself to believe that happiness isn’t something he is allowed.
so he looks back at draco arranging the potions notes on the desk and blowing that tuft of hair out of eyes in an unconscious endearing fashion and drinks him in.
he is sharp angles and bones and jutting points but harry allows himself to notice.
he notices how draco’s fingers are always poised and elegant, how when he is explaining something, his hands move everywhere, how long his lashes are, how his nervous tic is biting and chewing on his upper lip. he notices draco is ambidextrous but he favours his left hand, notices he claims to like dark chocolate but is really rather weak for milk chocolate.
they get to know each other during the late nights. somethings they talk, sometimes they bicker, sometimes they fight and sometimes they sit in silence but once they start spending their sleeplessness together, they can’t stop.
it all comes out, the story of the dursleys, the cupboard, pivet drive. draco talks about lucius malfoy, the manor and his once bright future ruined by the mark on his forearm.
harry apologises for sectumsempra.
draco apologises for the past seven years.
the couch by the fireplace becomes theirs just like the one far back is lavender, parvati and surprisingly enough parkinson’s and the one by the portrait hole is ron and hermione’s.
it happens when draco is talking about somebody called barnabas belby and really his parents probably didn’t love him enough to saddle him with a name like that but who was he to talk anyway, his name was draco lucius malfoy and if that didn’t make him a poncy git–
harry stares at the slight twist of draco’s thin lips as they move when he talks. he keeps staring and abruptly draco stops talking. his eyes narrow and he asks harry if he has heard a single word.
the light is hitting draco’s eyes and harry is reminded of how astonishingly grey they are. most of his life has been black and white, compartmentalised, but this thing between them, doesn’t quite fit a box.
draco will never be light– his charms will always be a bit wonky and his singing baubles will have raspy voices that sound a bit like filch’s. but oh godric, he is so far from being dark and he is trying so very hard to not be who he was told he had to be. and harry wants him, fiercely, urgently.
so harry cuts him off mid rant- about how potter never listens to him and really, after seven years, shouldn’t he get a bit of credit for putting up with the great git- with a kiss.
draco’s lips are uncooperative for so long that harry begins to pull away, a pit of despair opening up like a chasm inside him when draco chooses that moment to make a helpless little sound and draws him in to properly snog the living daylights out of him.
when they break apart, still in a daze, adrenaline pumping through their veins, hearts and other body parts throbbing, the common room is silent.
and then ron’s voice cuts through the fog, gleeful, as he crows, “ten galleons, dean.”
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