Chapter Text
When Ron and Hermione get back from their prefect duties, Harry is slouching on his seat, staring at the passing hills made bright green by the sun. They say something or another to the rest of the group sitting inside. It’s only when Ron turns to Harry, a knowing look in his eyes, and says, “Malfoy’s not doing his duties. He’s just sitting in one of the compartments with the other Slytherins,” that Harry straightens up, interested.
It was difficult telling the truth to his friends that morning, when the name Draco Malfoy appeared on his arm. Harry himself had a barely controllable bout of panic at the soulmark branded on his skin. Though, after a couple of minutes trying to breathe and erase the name with his thumb, a sense of calm resignation washed over him. He shouldn’t have expected his soulmark to be uncomplicated, considering his life's track record so far.
And, as usual when things became too overwhelming for normal reasoning, he found himself waking Ron up so they could go to Hermione’s room and share the news.
He remembers clearly the excitement on their faces to see the newly developed soulmark, the way it changed to apprehension when they noticed Harry was decidedly not smiling, and then the absolute horror when his sleeve was raised.
Because of all that was going on in the beginning of fifth year, when Hermione received her mark saying Ronald Weasley she didn’t tell them straight away. In fact, she waited until Ron’s birthday so they could confirm it together. His friends weren’t dating, exactly, rather they were circling each other like bees around a flower without really knowing how to get on with it. But, despite the awkwardness, at the end of the day their marks had been a reason to celebrate. Nothing at all like Harry’s situation.
After the initial shock, Ron immediately got up and started denying it, sure that Harry was just having him on. Meanwhile, Hermione tilted her head with wide eyes, in that way she did when she discovered the final piece of a puzzle, and remarked an ominous, “Well, it makes sense”. As if Harry hadn’t been completely floored by the name on his arm.
“Does it, really?” Harry remembers asking incredulously.
Hermione shrugged, clearing her throat and trying to appear composed. “Think about it, Harry. Malfoy has been pestering you ever since first year. And you usually play right along with his strange mating dance.”
“Ew, Hermione,” Ron cried, “Don’t say the words ‘Malfoy’ and ‘mating’ in the same breath. I’m gonna throw up in my mouth.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and continued, “I’m just saying, in retrospect he behaved like the typical bully pulling on the pigtails of the girl he fancied. Besides, you two have always been big parts of each other’s lives. Didn’t you tell us he was the first wizard you met?”
Harry mused on that, thinking back to their fateful meeting in Madam Malkin's. He had been so fascinated by everything back then, hungry for this entire new world he didn't know existed. The sudden excitement of seeing another boy his age who was also a wizard, who had known he was a wizard since he was born, had lived in this world and known its secrets, was at first part of what made that day so special, even if the experience had been soured soon after.
Not only was Draco the first wizard his age he met, it was mainly because of him that Harry got into Gryffindor in the first place. Without Malfoy and his little shit attitude showing him what awaited him in Slytherin, there’s no way of knowing whether Harry would have bothered refusing to go to the snake house. Now that Harry stopped to think about it, many events in his life had only happened because of Malfoy being the way he is. He was the one behind the circumstances that led Harry to become seeker. He had been the force behind Harry’s investigation of the Chamber of Secrets, no matter how unknowingly. His actions with Buckbeak, his presence at the World Cup, his participation in the Inquisitorial Squad…
It’s true, Harry blinked surprised. He couldn’t imagine Hogwarts without Malfoy.
Hadn’t he thought precisely that during summer after first year? He had missed Malfoy then.
“Alright, sure,” Ron interrupted his thinking. “Even though it pains me to say this, let’s assume the ferret’s had a childish crush on Harry all this time.” He stopped to make a gagging motion. “That doesn’t mean Harry likes the ferret back! He’s a bloke, for starters.”
“Well,” Hermione said quietly, “That’s something only Harry can disclose about himself.”
Both his friends looked at him. Harry swallowed and raised his hands up in the air. “I mean! I’d never thought about it! I fancied Cho all through last year. I think I’d know if I suddenly started wanting to snog Malfoy.”
“This is the worst conversation we’ve ever had,” Ron groaned.
“Harry, now’s the time to think seriously about it. Would you say you’re attracted to Malfoy?”
“He’s a pointy git!” Ron interrupted, looking half-crazed.
“Of course I’m not! I’d say, the only thing I could maybe see as attractive is his hair or his eyes. Though he did grow into that pointy chin of his,” Harry commented absent-mindedly. “He’s got a strong jawline now that he lost all that baby fat…”
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look and Harry shut up, feeling his cheeks warm all of a sudden. Well, it was true! Malfoy was a pointy git, but he had the regal features to make it work.
“It’s okay, Harry.” Hermione patted his knee consolingly. “This is not something you have to figure out now. Let’s all get used to the idea first, alright?”
Ron had complained some more, and Hermione had tried to talk him into not bothering Harry about it, but his thoughts had already drifted far away, going back to what Hermione first said about Malfoy’s influence in his life.
He looked at his soulmark with different eyes after that. Could it be the wild magic wasn’t trying to play the ultimate prank on him, was instead trying to tell him something he wouldn’t have ever stopped to consider?
But then, Malfoy had been absolutely nasty towards his friends. Had tried to do serious harm to the people in Harry’s life, had relished in it, even. If everything Hermione had said about soulmarks was true, your soulmate was supposed to be the person to make you feel complete, to complement your qualities and diminish your flaws. Sure, soulmarks could change with time, if the person had also changed enough to need someone else entirely. But the soulmark being wrong was definitely unheard of. Did it make any sense for it to be Malfoy?
Harry hadn’t been able to reach a conclusion then, and he continued to be undecided now. The subject was dropped for the remainder of the summer, until the day the trio saw Malfoy in Knockturn Alley. After that, Malfoy had been a topic of discussion so frequently he could tell Ron and Hermione were getting annoyed with him. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t know what was going on, but he could feel something was happening. Malfoy’s birthday was almost two months before Harry's, he definitely knew Harry was his soulmate. Wouldn’t that merit a conversation, at the very least? When Madam Malkin tried to pin his left sleeve back in the shop in front of the trio, had Draco been trying to hide his name? Did his mother know?
All those questions swirled like a hurricane in Harry’s mind, no closer to being answered than they were before. But Ron’s mention of Malfoy now, in the train to Hogwarts, is enough to bring them to the forefront of his thoughts once again.
That’s why, he reasons with himself, he decides to follow Blaise Zabini back to his compartment after the meeting with Slughorn. Though he isn’t fast enough to slip inside with Zabini, he chooses to simply push the door and get in with the cloak still on. Zabini falls on top of Crabbe and Goyle and Harry uses the distraction to quickly hoist himself up into the luggage rack.
He tries his best to control his breathing. For a second, he thought Malfoy was able to see him, but the boy simply snickers over his friends and falls back onto Parkinson’s lap. Zabini sits down with a huff, Crabbe goes back to reading a Wizarding comic and Goyle starts eating from a package of the fancy chocolate Malfoy usually gets from his mother.
Harry shrinks in on himself and lays there uncomfortably, eyes set on Malfoy.
The blond is wearing a white shirt, a grey tie and black slacks tailored to his form, stretching up from the way he’s lying down, revealing a slip of an ankle. Harry doesn’t think he has ever seen Malfoy so casual before. His eyes snap up to Parkinson’s fingers brushing the blond fringe from his forehead, softly and with an ease that speaks of having done this many other times.
Something about that doesn’t agree with Harry. Does Parkinson know Malfoy has Harry’s name on his skin? Would she still act so intimately with him if that were the case? He bites his tongue to keep from grumbling.
Zabini starts telling them about the meeting with Slughorn. Malfoy stays quiet until Neville’s name is mentioned, and then he scoffs.
“He invited Longbottom?!” He sits up suddenly, knocking Parkinson’s hand aside. “Longbottom wouldn’t know a pewter cauldron from a gold one!”
Zabini shrugs. Malfoy rolls his eyes but lays back down, not commenting on the fact that Harry had been there himself. Perhaps he didn’t listen to that part? If Malfoy knew Harry was his soulmate, wouldn’t he want to talk to his friends about it? Even if only to be comforted about what he certainly thought was a tragedy.
“I wonder if Aidan is good at potions,” Parkinson says abruptly, with a dreamy voice. All of the boys in the compartment groan, seemingly done with the subject before Parkinson had the chance to start it.
“Let’s not come back to this again, Pans,” Malfoy utters, annoyed.
“You’re all such killjoys! My soulmate isn’t from Hogwarts, it’s normal to be curious about it!”
“If only we hadn’t heard all of your speculations a hundred times before,” Zabini drawls, resting his cheek on his hand, bored.
“None of our soulmates are from Hogwarts, besides,” mutters Goyle, tilting his head.
“We don’t know that, do we?” Parkinson asks. “Draco hasn’t shown us his soulmark yet.”
All eyes move to Malfoy and Harry sucks in a breath, not daring to blink. Malfoy looks like that entire conversation has managed to give him a headache. He sits up and pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning.
“There’s nothing interesting to show. I don’t know her and I don’t care to.”
Harry knows he’s lying, yet it still fills him with indignation to hear Malfoy talk about it as if it isn’t Harry’s own name on his forearm. As if their five years of rivalry are a mere inconvenience to be hidden.
“Does she have an embarrassing name?” Parkinson cackles. “Nothing like Aidan Priggside, I imagine. Did I tell you there’s a Priggside family line in Ireland? An illustrious line of wizards too.”
“Yes,” they all sigh together.
“Don’t worry, Draco,” Parkinson goes on, as if she didn’t need their input to continue the conversation. “I can help you track down your soulmate.” She lines up her wrist to Malfoy’s arm, making a motion to open his cufflink, and she’s so annoying in that moment that Harry sees red. “Though I know for sure she can’t come from a better family than Aidan.”
“No one gives a damn about Aidan Pigsty or whatever the fuck his name is, Pansy!” Malfoy finally snaps, pushing Parkinson’s wrist away with viciousness.
Everybody is silent after that.
The air inside the compartment suddenly feels fifteen degrees colder, with the boys on Harry's side awkwardly picking at clothes and looking away. Her face reddens with anger, and she crosses her arms, huffing.
The girl throws Malfoy a nasty look that seems to say something Harry has no idea how to decipher. Malfoy grimaces, seemingly regretting his outburst. He looks to Zabini, Crabbe and Goyle with pleading eyes, and the other boys immediately go back to doing the things they were before, as if in a practised dance. Crabbe turns to engage Goyle in a conversation about Quidditch and Zabini picks up a book, leafing through pages aimlessly.
Meanwhile, Harry turns his attention back to Malfoy when he nudges Parkinson’s elbow.
“Fine, I’ll pretend I haven’t heard this all a million times before for the sake of our friendship. Tell me again, what job do you think Aidan Priggside will have?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t bother you with my endless blabbing anymore.”
“C'mon, Pans,” Malfoy sighs, playing with Parkinson's fingers where they're set on her arm.
“No!” The girl turns to Draco suddenly, and that’s when Harry notices her eyes are watering. “First you spend all summer without talking to us, no news about your well-being, nada! And on our first day back together you snap at me like I'm your house-elf?! No, thank you.”
Harry had never seen Malfoy look so chastised before. He’s starting to realise that he didn’t know the Slytherin group nearly as well as he thought he did. Harry’d always had the impression that they operated as a pit of snakes. Treacherous, sharp-tongued, ready to betray one another and bundled together purely for survival.
Certainly they have their own ways of interacting; Harry can’t forget how coordinated the boys were in pretending to be doing something else to give the couple a modicum of privacy. They act as if they’re privy to invisible roles each of them must play, but it doesn’t mean there’s no friendship between them. It’s a side of Malfoy’s life Harry had never seen before, and he finds it's one he’s happy to have discovered.
“Ah, yes,” Malfoy remarks after a moment, in a nonchalant tone, practised. “Speaking of this summer, Mother got the contact of Francine Beauvais, from Madam Beauvais’ Charmed Nail Solutions. Did I mention it already?”
Parkinson raises an eyebrow at him, but Harry can tell her scowl is threatening to break. “You clearly did not.”
Malfoy shrugs briefly, “Must've forgotten it. Well, I was just thinking it would be so very simple to owl her and acquire her limited edition nail lacquer from the summer collection. You know, the one that sold out in two days?”
Parkinson seems to struggle with herself for a couple of seconds and then gives up on the fight, grabbing Malfoy by the upper arm and asking reluctantly, “Really?”
“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true, would I?”
“How did you know I wanted that?”
“I remember you mentioning it to Daphne, of course.”
“Humph,” Parkinson clears her throat, obviously trying to contain her excitement. “Fine. But if you raise your voice towards me again, I’m hexing you with premature balding.”
The blond imitates a wand movement over his chest. “Curse my heart I won’t.”
“And,” she points a finger to his nose, “you owe my poor Aidan a gift too when we finally meet.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
“I swear, just because you won’t show us—”
“Pansy,” he interrupts her, though he keeps his word on not raising his voice. Harry swears he sees Malfoy glance his way, but it’s too fast to confirm it before he’s turning back to his friend. “I’m not talking about it.”
“There’s Hogwarts,” Zabini remarks, looking out the window, too pointed for it to be a coincidence.
“We’d better get dressed,” Malfoy sighs, standing up.
The others start to put on their robes. Malfoy stretches his back and tilts his head to the side, loosening the grey tie in the process, the tips of his fingers brushing against pale throat. Harry stares transfixed, mouth suddenly dry. Maybe he’ll have a chance to check the soulmark now?
He’s so busy staring at Malfoy he doesn’t notice when Goyle reaches for his trunk and hits him hard on the side of the head. Malfoy looks up at the involuntary gasp of pain he lets out, frowning, and Harry curses himself.
Malfoy changes his tie for the Slytherin one and shrugs on the uniform robes. He can’t help but feel disappointed by that. It was probably the closest he’d ever be to Malfoy taking off his shirt, which he needed to see in order to confirm the name on his arm.
The train slowly comes to a stop. Harry hopes Ron and Hermione will remember to get his things. He can’t leave before the Slytherins and the other compartments will probably be empty by then. Zabini, Crabbe and Goyle all go out one after another. Parkinson stops by the door and extends a hand.
“You go on,” Malfoy says to her, refusing the hand she’s offering. Harry smirks a little. Despite all of her whining, whatever Malfoy is up to, Parkinson is not in the know. That pleases Harry like no tomorrow. “I just want to check something.”
Before he can feel hopeful over being alone with Malfoy and having the perfect opportunity to confront him about the soulmark, he’s being hit with a Petrificus Totalus, falling out of the luggage rack and onto the floor with a painful crash.
He can only stare up when Malfoy approaches and kneels by his side.
The warm feelings budding in his chest vanish immediately at the sight of that familiar sneer. When Malfoy makes that face, all the things Harry began to find handsome in him disappear.
“I thought so,” he says quietly. “I heard Goyle’s trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back…”
Harry follows with his eyes as Malfoy reaches for him, a hand approaching and hovering in the air near his cheek, though it never touches him. Malfoy swallows and seems to come to a decision, taking his hand back and standing up.
“Stay the fuck away from me, Potter.”
And then he stomps on his face.
***
It takes Harry another week to confront Malfoy again.
There wasn't an opportunity to tell his friends about the conversation in Malfoy’s compartment the night of the feast, after being saved by Tonks. He did his best to relay the way Malfoy had specifically avoided talking about his soulmate the next morning, how he hadn’t even bothered to curse Harry’s name when Zabini mentioned him being in Slughorn’s meeting.
Despite his attempts to make them see how strange that behaviour was, he only managed to be the object of Hermione’s and Ron’s trademark looks, the ones they threw at him whenever they thought he was being unreasonable, which made Harry more frustrated. It wasn’t usual for Malfoy to not want to pester Harry during the ride to Hogwarts, and it wasn’t usual that, besides making fun of his broken nose to his friends, Malfoy had let him alone in the corridors, no snide comment, no shoving his shoulder or hexing when passing each other; in fact, Harry hadn’t accidentally passed Malfoy at all, almost as if the blond was deliberately avoiding him.
The lecture he got from Hermione for the overt creepiness of waiting to see Malfoy change was so extensive, Harry decided he shouldn’t talk about the subject for awhile, no matter how hard he had defended himself by arguing he just wanted to see his bare arm. Harry intended to give it a rest, focus on his first week of classes and the personal lessons with Dumbledore.
However, the first potion class of the year earlier that day had reinvigorated his investment in Malfoy.
It started when he entered the room with Ron and Hermione behind him and decided to sit by the cauldrons bubbling near the front. When Harry sat down, he was suddenly enveloped by a seductive aroma that immediately relaxed his limbs. It was a mixture of broomstick polish, green apples and a hint of cologne, a combination that made him want to lay down on a bedspread doused with the stuff and never get up.
He closed his eyes and allowed memories to be brought forth, the fruit bowls during breakfast, green apples cut into slices speared with strawberries on toothpicks next to a plate of treacle tart. The Quidditch changing rooms before a game, the smell of polished brooms mixing with the faint cologne coming from someone’s robes, before the Gryffindor team entered the pitch to face—
Harry freezes, back going stiff. It’s specifically the smell of the changing rooms before a game with Slytherin.
Perhaps it shouldn’t have been such a surprise, but it was. It was a sucker punch to the stomach, actually.
As soon as everybody sat down, Harry looked at Malfoy, expecting to see some kind of reaction over the smell coming from the cauldrons, anything that could be used as evidence for his soulmark, expecting the boy to be as affected by their connection as Harry himself felt. But Malfoy looked positively bored, leaning a pale cheek against his hand.
As if a dog denied a bone, Harry’s focus zeroed in on the blond, noticing the smallest of details, from the smart comments he shared with Nott to the hungry look in his eyes when the Felix Felicis was mentioned. Along with his suspicions from the train journey to Hogwarts, all of it contributed to making Harry itch to talk to him.
A chance comes for him during dinner, a couple of hours after their lesson together. The moment Malfoy gets up from the table and leaves the Great Hall, Harry finds an excuse to stand up as well and follow him.
Malfoy is leaving much earlier than expected. Most students are still eating, the corridors between the Great Hall and the Slytherin common room in the dungeons practically empty, which is all the better for Harry. The blond continues in a hurried pace, without Crabbe and Goyle acting as his shadow, those two chose to stay behind for dessert.
Harry quickens his step and finally gets a hold of Malfoy’s forearm, the left one, the one with his name on it. The blond spins in his direction fuming, but with the controlled movements of someone who was expecting this sooner or later.
“Didn’t you hear me back on the train, Potter?” Malfoy asks, eyebrows furrowing in anger. He yanks his arm out of Harry’s grip and hides it behind his back, sneering. “Stay away from me, unless you fancy yourself another broken nose. Who knows, maybe it’ll make your face look decent for once.”
“Why don’t you come at me now that I’ve a wand in my hand, Malfoy.” Harry snaps, “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
“You w—” Malfoy starts in a spiteful tone of voice, but then snaps his mouth shut.
He breathes in deeply, clearly holding himself back from whatever reply he wanted to say. It unnerves Harry, to have the blond retreat from the fight. After five years of goading, getting on each other’s nerves, of feeling his blood rush to his head near Malfoy, he doesn’t know what to do with a Malfoy that won’t rise to the provocation. A Malfoy that is indifferent, that won’t deign to look back. It’s that reaction more than anything that pisses Harry off.
Look at me, he wants to say.
“I know your secret.” Harry tries, his one argument for going after the other boy.
Malfoy’s eyes flash with something dangerous.
“You don’t know shit, Potter.”
“Really? Show me, then! Prove me wrong if you are so sure of yourself!”
The blond seems to deflate at that, pursing his lips and taking a step towards the dungeons, the opposite of what Harry intended.
“I don’t have anything to prove to you,” he states neutrally and turns to leave. Harry follows, desperate.
“Did you tell dear old Lucius about having the name of a half-blood on your skin?” Harry calls, his voice echoing in the looming stone walls. “Oh, wait, you’re not allowed to send letters to Azkaban, right?”
It’s the most provoking taunt he can think of, anything that will stop Malfoy from escaping. Malfoy raises a chin to look at him from up his nose.
“I’d return the courtesy of asking if you told your parents, but then again, they’re dead, aren’t they?”
Harry gets so angry he clenches his fist. He doesn't know what other wound he can prod that will continue their argument, that will make the other snap and finally reveal what he’s trying so hard to keep hidden. In the end, he doesn't need to. Malfoy seems to change his mind about avoiding confrontation. He stops mid-turn, looks contemplative for a second, and then levels at Harry the most vile smirk he's ever seen, in such a way that transforms his features completely.
“Even if you did tell them, I wonder if they’d be able to understand. I wonder if the wild magic even gives soulmates to dirty mudbloods like your mother—”
Before he can reconsider it, he grabs the collar of Malfoy’s shirt and slams him against the wall, blood rushing to his head. The other keeps that smug look on his face, as if he won the battle now that Harry’s about to give him a beating.
Ah, Harry muses to himself, looking at those infuriating pink lips, did he truly think he’d be able to win against Malfoy at this game?
From their proximity, a sweet smell wafts up between them, the aroma of expensive cologne encompassing the two and making Harry freeze. It’s a flowery scent that reminds Harry of one of the few times he went out with the Dursleys and a nice saleswoman gave him a slip of paper dabbled with the free sample of a terribly expensive perfume. Only, a hundred times more appealing coming from the other boy than the paper he’d kept at his nose that entire night until the smell disappeared.
It’s the smell he got from the Amortentia. Broomstick polish, green apples and this flowery, fancy cologne. The smell left behind in the changing rooms before a Quidditch game. Hermione’s question comes unbidden onto his mind, ‘would you say you’re attracted to him?’
Harry finds himself looking from that mouth down to Malfoy’s jawline, the one he got at some point during fifth year and that had Harry making a double-take at him one morning during breakfast. His unblemished skin, with the exception of a couple of pale freckles spread throughout his cheeks. A slender neck and the sudden memory of Malfoy loosening his tie, fingers scratching lines down a throat.
It occurs to him suddenly, how close they are. Every single point of contact between their bodies feels electrified, from their knees to where Harry’s hand is pressed against his collarbone. When Harry looks back up, Malfoy has a dazed look to him, eyes hooded and molten silver.
He gulps, mouth dry and avid. His eyes subconsciously fall back to Malfoy’s lips, and that’s when the sound of footsteps round the corner echo in the empty corridor. Malfoy seems to snap away from whatever haze he’d found himself in. He widens his eyes, a dose of fear replacing the fuzziness.
The contrast is enough to make Harry’s slacken his hold, and Malfoy takes that opportunity to push him away.
“Leave me alone, Potter!” He gasps, out of breath. “I don’t want anything to do with you!”
With that final scream, he runs away, leaving Harry dumbfounded in the middle of the corridor.
***
That night, Harry can’t stop thinking about Malfoy.
It’s past midnight, all beds from the Gryffindor dormitory have their curtains drawn and constant snores are heard coming from Ron’s side of the room, but Harry can’t turn his brain off enough to fall asleep.
He replays over and over the moment he pushed Malfoy against the wall, his smug smile, the warmth underneath Harry’s hand and that damned, intoxicating smell.
It seems too ludicrous to believe that Malfoy had been the one to come to his senses first. That Harry had almost, almost…
He casts a quiet Lumos, and picks up the Marauders’ map, whispering the sentence to activate the parchment. After a couple of seconds adjusting his eyes to the brightness, he finally finds the Slytherin dorm in the dungeons. Nobody out of bed, disobeying curfew this early in the school year. The Slytherin part of the castle is less detailed than the other houses, though the layout of the structure is accurate from what little he remembers of their venture in second year.
And there it is, the name Draco Malfoy, static on the bed near the window.
Leaning the map against his knees, he raises the sleeve of his left arm and compares the name on the parchment to the name written on his skin. They’re different of course. The soulmark is always developed in the same handwriting as the person it refers to, while the names on the map are standardised.
He never got around to asking Sirius whose handwriting was used to make the map. It hadn’t occurred to him, didn’t seem like something important.
Was it his father's?
Harry closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath before opening them again and looking upwards, fighting against the tears welling up. Of all things, to be affected by something this silly. It’s just that, it hadn’t seemed urgent then, he thought he’d have more time. For so many things.
Shaking his head, he comes back to the name on his arm, the elegant handwriting curving slightly to the right, as if Malfoy wrote with a tilted quill. The letters are slender but sure. It looks like an actual signature, all official and professional-like.
With a sigh, Harry closes the map and flicks his wand, ending the Lumos charm. It’s late; he should try to sleep, no matter how difficult it is. Though, before he closes his eyes, the image of Malfoy’s reaction when Harry looked at him that evening comes back to bother him, those wide grey eyes pinning him in place.
It hadn’t been just a simple reaction to the possibility of getting caught. No, for a split second, he’d looked proper scared. And Harry needs to figure out why.