The corridor was empty, the hour far too late for anyone to be wandering. And yet, Harry found himself drifting — feet on stone, mind miles away. It wasn't the castle keeping him up. It wasn't the coursework or the quiet tension of rebuilding Hogwarts. It was a face. A pale face. Grey eyes. A storm bottled up in a human body.
Draco Malfoy.
He had been spiraling in Harry's thoughts — not in the way he had once been, a rival or a caution, but like a strange ache Harry couldn't place. Something had changed. Harry didn't know when it had started — the glances that lasted a little longer, the gut twist every time Malfoy didn't return to their shared room on time, or the way he noticed Malfoy's loneliness mirroring his own.
It became too much.
When Harry opened the door to their room that night, Draco wasn't in his bed. The quilt was tossed back carelessly. The chair was empty. But the window was cracked slightly open, just as Draco always left it when he stepped out. Harry didn't know where he got the courage. Maybe it wasn't courage. Maybe it was that he couldn't breathe anymore.
When Draco came back and quietly slipped through the door, still flushed from the night air, he didn't expect Harry to be standing there. Or to be watching him with something unreadable in those infamous green eyes.
And then it happened.
Harry stepped forward and before Draco could speak or move away, he wrapped his arms around him. Tight. Warm. Like someone anchoring a drowning man.
Draco froze.
The hug was short. But it left them both winded. Harry had pulled back quickly, muttering something that sounded a lot like "Goodnight" and practically dived into his bed, back turned, as if nothing at all had just happened.
Draco stared at him for a long time.
The silence in the room was heavy. Draco paced once, twice. Then gave up pretending to ignore it. "What was that?" he asked, voice lower than usual. "Potter?"
Harry didn't answer.
Draco took a step toward him. "You don't just hug someone like that and act like nothing happened."
Still no answer.
"Seriously, why would you do that?"
Harry muttered, "I don't know."
Draco stared at the lump under the covers. "You can't do that. You *can't* just do that to me." His voice cracked on the last word.
When Harry turned slightly, just enough for his face to be partially visible in the moonlight, Draco moved. Almost against his own will.
He reached the bed, hovered above Harry — hands braced on either side. "Look at me."
Harry did.
The sight made Draco's breath catch. His face was red. Not angry red — flustered, pink-to-his-ears kind of red. His eyes wide. His lips parted slightly. And Merlin — his neck and even his eartips were blushing.
Draco's voice dropped to a whisper. "What are you doing to me?"
Harry swallowed. "I… I don't know."
"Then stop," Draco said, though his body didn't move an inch away. "Because I might not be able to."
And for a beat — just a beat — it seemed like the world would tilt if they got even a breath closer.
Draco didn't move.
His eyes roamed Harry's face, every flicker of hesitation, every twitch of his lips, every breath that hitched in his throat. Harry still wasn't pushing him away—his fists were clenched on the bedspread, knuckles white, but he hadn't shoved Draco off. That was all the permission Draco needed. Or rather, that was all the temptation he could take.
He stayed where he was, hovering, his hands firmly planted on either side of Harry's shoulders. The world seemed to slow. A quiet fell between them, the kind that was heavier than any argument or outburst. All Draco could hear was the wild hammering of his own heartbeat and Harry's soft, shaky breaths.
When his face leaned closer, it wasn't to tease anymore. Something deeper, quieter, maybe more broken had taken root. Harry didn't flinch. He didn't open his eyes either. Instead, he closed them, softly, willingly—as if expecting the moment to land, as if silently urging it forward.
That did something to Draco. Undid something in him too.
His lips hovered a breath away from Harry's, waiting, but Harry didn't budge, didn't open his eyes, didn't speak. Just breathed. And it was that quiet breath that made Draco tilt forward—closer, closer until their noses brushed, foreheads barely grazing.
Still, no protest.
Draco's breath hitched. He could feel the warmth of Harry's skin now, their lips so close, the air between them trembling. He wasn't sure if it was madness or clarity, but for once, he didn't second-guess himself.
He whispered, barely audible, almost lost in the silence of the room, "Tell me to stop."
Harry's fingers tightened around the sheets—but he didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Draco closed the last of the distance. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the faintest, tentative brush—like asking a question with his lips.
And Harry… leaned up into it.
It was nothing like Draco expected. It wasn't fire, it wasn't chaos. It was fragile. Too fragile. Their lips barely met, but it sent something crashing through both of them. A silence louder than any scream.
When Draco pulled back, just enough to see Harry's face, the other boy's eyes were still closed. A moment passed. Then another. Finally, those green eyes opened—startled, vulnerable, confused. And red. Still red, from his face to his ears.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them spoke.
But something had shifted.
Draco exhaled.
He was still on top of Harry, still pinning him. And still, Harry didn't ask him to move.
As if the silence said everything they couldn't.
Draco didn't move. He hovered above Harry, one hand braced beside his head, the other still lightly holding Harry's wrist against the bed. His silver-blond hair fell slightly over his eyes, and his breathing was shallow but steady. His gaze never once left Harry's face. He was watching. Waiting.
And Harry…
Harry didn't move either. His lips parted slightly. His eyes fluttered closed in a motion that looked more like surrender than fear. There was no push. No protest. Just quiet anticipation.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Draco spoke, voice just above a whisper, barely audible over the pounding silence.
"Why didn't you stop me, Potter?"
Harry blinked slowly but didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't. The words were stuck somewhere between his brain and mouth, tangled in the confusion and tension coiling inside him like a tightly wound spring.
Draco sat up slightly, just enough to reach for Harry's glasses. He removed them gently, with far more care than either of them would've imagined the other capable of just weeks ago. Harry didn't resist. He just stared back, his green eyes finally laid bare—raw, open, searching.
"You're not going to say anything?" Draco murmured. His thumb brushed against Harry's cheek.
Still, Harry was silent.
So Draco leaned in, hesitating for just a second as if giving him one final chance to pull away. But Harry didn't. He couldn't.
And then Draco kissed him.
It wasn't rushed or rough. It wasn't fiery or full of the years of enmity they'd built. It was soft—achingly, cautiously soft. As if he was afraid Harry might vanish if he pushed too hard. As if he was testing to see if the storm between them could settle into something gentler.
Harry's fingers curled slightly against Draco's shirt. His eyes closed again, slower this time, like a reflex—like a boy allowing himself to feel something he never thought he would.
It was brief.
But it was enough to shake the ground they both stood on.
Draco pulled back only slightly, eyes searching Harry's face, waiting for some kind of sign, a reaction—anything.
And Harry… still couldn't speak.
Because that one kiss had said too much, and yet somehow, not nearly enough.
Draco's fingers trembled slightly as they traced the edge of Harry's cheek, the kiss still lingering between them like a spark refusing to die. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and for once, the infamous Malfoy cool was nowhere in sight. All he could feel was the taste of Harry Potter on his lips—warm, hesitant, electric.
And Harry? Harry felt like he was floating and falling all at once. The second Draco's lips had touched his, something inside him had snapped and clicked into place. It wasn't rage. It wasn't confusion. It was… relief.
They were pressed close, chest to chest, breath mingling. Harry didn't know what to do with his hands—should he pull away, or pull Draco closer? But then he felt Draco's hand slide up to cup the back of his head, fingers weaving into his messy hair like it was something precious. It grounded him. So he kissed back.
Draco's mind was spinning. He hadn't meant to kiss him—not truly. He thought he wanted answers, wanted to rile him up. But the moment Harry closed his eyes and didn't push him away, Draco lost control. And now he was losing himself in the way Harry responded—soft, unsure, but willing. That willingness was undoing him.
Harry's hand found Draco's waist, hesitant at first, then firmer, pulling him impossibly closer. The heat between them was maddening, and he could feel Draco's rapid heartbeat under his palm. He didn't care about explanations or labels. Not now.
Draco tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss. Their mouths moved like they had done this a hundred times before. It wasn't messy or rushed—it was aching and searching, filled with every word neither of them had dared to say. For a moment, they didn't hate each other. They weren't rivals or enemies. They were just two boys, bruised by life, finding something that felt like solace in each other.
When they finally pulled back, breathless and wide-eyed, the silence wasn't awkward. It was charged. Harry blinked up at Draco, lips parted. Draco looked down, still hovering, chest rising and falling.
"That…" Harry murmured, voice hoarse, "wasn't nothing."
Draco nodded slowly, forehead pressing gently against Harry's. "No," he whispered, eyes shutting for a moment, "it wasn't."
And for the first time in years, they weren't pretending.