Draco, who had casually lounged himself over Harry's bed like he owned the place, didn't even attempt to hide his amusement. His grin stretched annoyingly wide, arms crossed behind his head like he was posing for the Daily Prophet's Most Smug Git cover.
Harry was doing everything he could to not meet anyone's gaze. Especially not Hermione's. Or Ron's. Or, god forbid, Draco's—because that smirk could set him ablaze faster than Fiendfyre.
Hermione set the tray down on the bedside table, finally turning to take in the scene. Her eyes narrowed slightly at Harry's blanket-wrapped form, the shirtless state, and the clear look of someone who had just rolled out of… something. She didn't say anything yet. She didn't have to.
Ron, however, had zero such restraint. His eyes jumped between Draco's smug face and Harry's flushed one. Slowly, theatrically, he pointed at Draco and said, in the most dramatic voice he could muster, "It was him, wasn't it?"
Harry blinked. "What—"
"He's the reason you're shirtless!" Ron shouted with the flair of someone exposing a scandal in the Ministry. "He's the reason you can't move properly! Bloody hell, Harry, what did he do to you?"
Draco choked on his laughter while Harry just groaned and sank deeper into the bed.
"You know what? I'm not even surprised," Ron continued, pacing the room now as if delivering a monologue. "You spend one night in this room and suddenly Harry's reduced to a pile of limbs, muttering nonsense about being sore and needing rest. What happened to just sharing bunk beds like normal people?"
Hermione facepalmed. "Ron. Please. Not everyone's business needs to be announced like the morning Prophet."
"I'm just saying!" Ron said, gesturing wildly. "Look at him! He's clearly been—been wrecked!"
Harry nearly strangled himself with the blanket. Draco laughed so hard he had to grab the post of the bed for support.
Hermione, doing her best to remain composed, turned to Harry with one arched brow. "Are you okay?" she asked kindly.
Harry, his face now tomato-red, managed a strangled, "Peachy."
"He looks anything but peachy," Draco said with a snort, still grinning. "More like… thoroughly pitted."
"Draco!" Hermione gasped.
Ron clapped a hand to his chest, looking betrayed. "You used a fruit pun. That's it. I'm reporting you to the Auror Humor Crimes Division."
Draco leaned over toward Harry, whispering just loud enough for everyone to hear, "Should I bring you a fruit smoothie next, darling? Something… restorative?"
Harry kicked him. Or tried to. It came out more like a weak nudge.
"See? He can't even defend himself!" Ron cried out again, now looking both scandalized and impressed. "What did you do to him?!"
Draco shrugged with a fake innocence that deserved an Oscar. "I'm simply a guest, Weasley. Your mate invited me to stay, and I obliged."
Hermione sat down, looking like she was suppressing the urge to laugh. "Honestly, Ron, you're being ridiculous."
"Am I? AM I?!" Ron paced again, his voice rising. "Next thing we know, Harry will be walking around with a limp and Malfoy will be strutting like he just won a Quidditch match!"
Draco didn't help the situation by leaning back with a pleased sigh and saying, "Already there."
Harry covered his face with both hands. "Please. Make it stop."
"Can't. Too much material," Ron said with a wicked grin. "Wait till I tell George. He's going to love this."
"If you tell George," Harry said from beneath the covers, voice muffled, "I will hex you into a new dimension."
Hermione finally gave up holding in her laugh and let it out, shaking her head fondly. "Honestly, you three. This feels like fifth year all over again."
Ron pointed dramatically again. "Except this time, it's not Cho Chang making Harry mopey—it's Malfoy!"
Draco gave an exaggerated bow. "Pleasure to be the upgrade."
Harry let out a long groan. "I hate all of you."
Ron leaned in with a teasing grin. "Even your beloved Slytherin?"
Harry threw a pillow at his face murmuring something incoherent.
Ron had just finished dramatically listing the reasons why he couldn't stand his roommate, only to suddenly fix Draco with a knowing glare. "Honestly, mate," he said to Harry, "it's obvious why you're all achy and shirtless. He's the bloody reason, isn't he?"
Harry choked on the piece of toast Draco had brought him, face flushing deep red.
Draco, entirely unbothered, leaned back in his chair and smirked with far too much satisfaction. "Well, I wasn't aware this breakfast came with commentary on our nighttime activities."
Hermione groaned. "Draco—"
The late afternoon sun dipped lazily over the Hogwarts lawn, casting a soft golden hue across the green expanse. It was the kind of rare, peaceful moment in the school year when everyone seemed to forget house rivalries, OWLs, NEWTs, and even who had kissed whom last week. Blankets were spread out like picnics, laughter echoing across the grounds as students from all years and houses mingled under the open sky.
Ron was tossing Chocolate Frogs at a first-year who kept fumbling them. Hermione sat beside him with a book open but mostly ignored, eyes occasionally lifting to scold Ron with a fond smile. Ginny was showing a group of second-years a new trick with her wand that made mini fireworks explode harmlessly into butterflies.
In the middle of it all, Harry Potter sat on the edge of a blanket, propped up on his elbows, half-listening to Neville and Luna's debate about whether dirigible plums could be weaponized in self-defense. But his eyes kept drifting. To the left. Always to the left.
Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, arms crossed, hair glinting like it always did in the sun. He was watching a group of fourth-year Hufflepuffs fail miserably at wizard badminton, lips twitching like he was restraining a smirk. Harry couldn't stop looking at him.
They hadn't really… talked much today. Not seriously, at least. Not since the night before, not since everything.
And maybe that was why Harry noticed her before anyone else did.
A girl, Ravenclaw—sixth year, pretty, obviously nervous—approached from the side. She held something in her hands, maybe a notebook or parchment. Whatever it was, it looked like an excuse.
Harry sat up straighter, gut twisting. He saw the way she looked at Draco. The way she tried to mask it with politeness but failed. He also saw how Draco's posture shifted slightly, like he noticed too but didn't know what to do with it.
And that was when Harry moved.
Smoothly, casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he got up, walked the few feet over, and stood beside Draco. Not in front of him. Beside.
He didn't say a word.
He just reached out and gently slid his hand into Draco's. Fingers intertwined. Not possessively. Not boldly. Just… softly. Intimately.
The Ravenclaw girl faltered. Her lips parted slightly. She looked at Harry, at Draco, back again. And then, with a soft, awkward smile, she turned and walked away without saying a thing.
Draco stared after her, then down at their hands.
"You realize," he said, voice just loud enough for Harry to hear, "that was absurdly dramatic."
"I learned from the best," Harry muttered, not quite able to hide his smirk.
Draco chuckled low in his throat. "You're ridiculous."
"So are you."
They stood there in silence for a moment, hands still joined, watching the Hogwarts lawn return to its chaotic, cheerful hum.
Ron looked up from throwing frogs. He blinked once. Twice. Then slowly raised a brow and elbowed Hermione. She followed his gaze.
She smiled. It was small, but it was knowing.
Ron just muttered, "Bloody finally," and went back to tossing frogs.
And in that strange, warm twilight between day and evening, no one said anything more. Because there was nothing else that needed saying.
Draco didn't let go. Neither did Harry.
But he raised a hand with mock sincerity. "No, no, I just think it's only fair to point out—no one's barging into Weasley and Granger's room asking what they do behind closed doors, right?" He gestured broadly, his smirk growing. "I mean, it's not like we come knocking every time Ron casts a silencing charm at an odd hour or Hermione 'accidentally' switches bunks during patrols."
Hermione turned scarlet. "That is not—! I never—!"
Ron looked horrified. "Oi! That's private!"
"Exactly my point," Draco said smugly, reaching for an apple. "So maybe, just maybe, I deserve the same courtesy. A little privacy. A touch of respect. And fewer surprise interrogations while Potter's still recovering."
Harry had buried his burning face in his hands by then.
Hermione glared daggers at Draco while attempting to compose herself. "You're impossible."
"And yet," Draco said, tossing his apple from hand to hand with a smug grin, "irresistibly right."
Ron looked between the two of them, then grumbled, "Next time, just put a sock on the door or something, yeah?"
Draco winked. "I'll consider a glowing Slytherin crest."
Harry groaned again, still red. "Please stop talking."
Later at lunch
"You're joking," Blaise said, deadpan, staring across the Great Hall.
Draco didn't glance up. He was reaching across the table, stealing a chip from Harry's plate with a casualness that would've been unthinkable two months ago. Harry didn't even blink, just pushed the plate a little closer toward him, muttering something that made Draco smirk like a damn cat who'd found the cream.
Pansy looked as if someone had slapped her with a wet rag. "No. No, no, no. What is happening? Did I miss a prophecy or something?"
Theo raised a brow and sipped his pumpkin juice slowly. "This explains the hickey debacle."
"Oh Merlin, you saw it too?" Pansy whispered urgently. "I thought I imagined it. I prayed I imagined it."
"Are they touching knees under the table?" Blaise leaned in, squinting. "Merlin. They are."
"I thought Potter was straight as a damn broomstick!" Pansy hissed, trying very hard to whisper and failing spectacularly.
"Oh come on, Pans." Theo rolled his eyes. "The only thing straight about Potter is the scar on his forehead."
"Fair," Blaise muttered. "Still. Draco?"