Chapter Text
Two months into school and Draco had already been subjected to a week's worth of detention with the likes of Potter.
Oh stupidly perfect Harry Potter.
Harry was quite possibly the best seeker currently in play at Hogwarts. It was barely the start of Quidditch season and scouts were already sticking their noses into past scores to see if it was worth it for them to pluck him fresh out of Seventh year.
Not that Draco would ever praise him on the fact he could catch a tiny golden ball with wings that flapped faster than a Hippogriff could even imagine. It was simply…an observation.
He titled his head against his hand, sniffing as his posture slumped out of proportion. Sure, it had been partially his fault that he was stuck clearing all fhe cobwebs from the forbidden section with Potter. However, he hadn’t been the one to throw the first punch — which he was still pondering why on earth they had used their fists when each of them owned a perfectly fine wand.
Perhaps, the boys did have quite a nasty history of using the unforgivable curses on one another. In fact, scars still smoldered Draco’s skin from an incident at the end of fifth year in the dungeons. So, it was completely possible that Potter was merely trying to avoid a months-long stay in the hospital wing.
And Draco couldn’t blame him for that because he certainly didn’t want to start off the year on a stained cot with an almost sheer sheet stopping him from murdering the other.
Therefore he was here, subjecting himself to sitting on an old desk with his ankle delicately tucked around the leg of the shaky thing. He told himself it was a protective stance, that if Potter attempted to take him down by force they’d be toppled by a desk.
Really, it was comfortable.
Draco didn’t bother to straighten out his back. His father wasn’t in the room, so there was no reason for him to have an extra day of back problems. Gently, he dug his tongue into the cavern of his closed lips and let his eyes dart back and forth as if to watch Potter. He had to strain his neck so his ears could catch the soft mutters of wandless magic that not even the most powerful of wizards could grasp.
Every little spark that lifted from the black-haired boy nearly made him gasp in admiration. He had to wash them down with ounces of venomous thoughts.
Just a single thought about Potter, no matter how small, was supposed to make bouts of bile crawl up his throat and threaten to spill past his lips. And here Draco was, helplessly in awe of the fact that a simple flick of his tongue could move a duster along the corners of the shelves.
Sniffing again, the he turned his head away. A poorly potted plant hung from the ceiling in a horrid manner became the new recipient of his seething attention.
“Are you going to help?” Potter spoke, his voice cracking with a mixture of late-stage puberty and unuse. Before Draco could even reply, he was interrupted by a bitter version of the almost pleasant voice. “At all?”
“My ribs hurt.” Draco sneered. Any bit of admiration had been wiped away within a moment's notice.
“Bullshit.” The black-haired boy kept his voice full of malice, returning to the soft mumbles that kept the duster afloat as he crossed his arms.
“Excuse you?” Unfortunately, Draco had grown quite used to muggle swears from all the time he had spent in Hufflepuff-Slythertin herbology classes. “It’s not even my fault! You kicked me!”
Each of their voices seemed to perk in volume and intensity. By tons. “Merlin knows you where the one who started it!”
“Ah, yes!” The blond twisted his leg free and pushed himself closer to the edge of the desk. His face had contorted into something his mother would’ve been appalled by for the wrinkles that would form. “I’m the one who gave you a black eye for making a simple observation!”
Potter seemed to jump from his lean against the face of a bookshelf labeled ‘Dark Arts’, his arms by his sides with fists clenched tighter than they had been when they’d smacked against Draco’s face. “That’s what you’re calling it? An observation?”
“Because that’s what it is!” His arms were thrown up in mock defense now, a soft twinkle coming to life in his eyes. Every bit of his body language offered an invite for another round of poorly aimed punches. “You’re little-”
“Finish that thought and I’ll be sure to throw you off the astronomy tower during your next late night viewing of the stars.” Potter’s snarl may as well be permanent. The down tick of his lips despite the show of gums wasn’t an easy face to pull.
“Aw!” Draco threw his fingers against his own chest, leaning his upper body forwards as he mocked a look of generosity. “You stalk me? I’m touched.”
“I am going to fucking kill you.”
A soft click of heels seemed to steal both of the boys' attention without hesitation from either.
Professor McGonagall.
Draco swallowed rather thickly, wiping his face clean of any incriminating expression. He even forced his brows to unfurl and his back to straighten out. Being a Malfoy, he wasn’t scared of the small woman, simply unwilling to be faced with another detention with the arsehole before him.
“Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy.” She gave each of them a sharp nod. “I wasn’t aware bickering was a part of your evening. From what I heard, Madam Ponfery had awarded you each silent cleaning duties.”
“Malfoy was refusing-” McGonagall pressed her finger to her lips with a sharp downturn of her brows, frowning at Potter behind the pale, loose-skinned bone.
“I don’t want to hear excuses, Mr Potter.” She said slowly, calculating every little mannerism of her voice. “You should, for one, not be threatening another student with death for any reason. For two, you will speak when told to.”
Draco watched in slight disbelief and yet delight as Potter slouched back against the shelf without any bout of argument. Though, the sour look on his face was about as much of a response as he really needed. He let a soft scoff brush off of his lips, not of anything but the oh so sweet glory he could feel himself basking in.
Until McGonagall turned her attention onto him and crushed his inflating ego with the slightest twitch of her eyes. “You, Mr Malfoy, have got to stop provoking the boy into fighting you.”
“I do no such-” Draco, unlike some students, shut his mouth the second he let the burst pass through his lips, scooting further back onto the table as means for surrender. It was pathetic that a Malfoy could fold under the bitter gaze of the head of Gryffindor house. Though, he had yet to see a single grown man or woman who didn’t disappear into the shadows the second that the professor's stone face contorted in the slightest bit.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” That sharp edge to McGonagall’s voice seemed to dissipate the second that both of them had backed up both physically and vocally. “Now, I didn’t come here to scold you — Mr Potter, Professor Slughorn has requested the remainder of your detention in his classroom. You’ll finish up your time there, and I will be sure that Mr Weasley or Miss Granger grabs you a plate of food from the hall.”
The blond watched, with scrunched up brows, as Potter simply gave a curt nod and slid away from the forbidden section as if he’d never been there at all. In the lack of his presence, the duster had clattered against the desktop unceremoniously.
Without Potter there, Draco had become the focus point of McGonagall’s stern eyes once again. Bitterly green eyes hidden behind golden spectacles met him without an ounce of anything readable, though he could taste the malice from past interactions. Of course he knew the Gryffindor’s head of house would never have a liking for his presence, his parents had contributed to the shattering of the original Order of the Phoenix.
“Madam Pomfrey wants to check in with you one last time before curfew. I told her that you’d be under her order until the last of your detention time is served.” The woman said this so pointedly that Draco had nearly forgotten that he was meant to be on the receiving end of the stick.
His lips parted in hopes to sneak a sort of reply into existence, but she’d already turned on her heel and was clacking away. So he stayed there for a moment, listening until the soft echoes of her shoes hitting the floor didn’t exist anymore.
The table groaned as Draco pushed himself back onto his feet, leaning over to grab the duster before he took off. Madam Pince would be out for their heads if they’d just left the darn thing laying around, especially in the forbidden section. Merlin knows what amount of magic is held in each book that lined the walls, and Merlin surely knows how many times a younger student had behind a quill and returned the next afternoon to find the thing cursed.
He slid his finger into the little hole, which Professor Burbage had commented was used by muggles to stick price tags on them or hang them off a hook in a storage closet. The non-magical folk would always be rather confusing to him, and he surely didn’t expect the darned class to help him understand them any more than he did.
Draco was still not really talking to his father out of protest for being told to take the subject up. Stupid publicity stunt, He thought to himself as he scuffed his feet against the carpet. The sounds created by the dragging were anything but pleasant, but the strange feeling that vibrated through his bones as he did was rather strange. In a good way.
***
Madam Promfrey hadn’t done much but sit him atop one of the many stained cots and prodded at his bruised ribs with her wand. She’d made no remark of the one that was particularly prominent along his jaw, shaped the way that Potter’s knuckles had been, though it hadn’t really developed until after the afternoon visit.
All that the nurse had done was pressed a mug of pain-killer tea to his lips and told him to gulp the whole thing down without a little dribble remaining.
It was nearly as disgusting as the cot was.
The time spent in the hospital wing hadn’t felt as long as he’d expected. In fact, he sauntered into the great hall within the last half hour of the mealtime and scanned the mush of red and golden robes for the jet-black, mop of hair that belonged to Potter.
Draco hadn’t even noticed that he was aching for just one glimpse of that pair of hellishly green eyes. What he had noticed, however, was the burning sensation of being watched that had tracked him the second he pushed through the grand doors. Beady brown eyes that used to be soft in his presence, hardened and locked onto his soul like he had personally offended their owner.
Theodore Nott, the estranged childhood best friend of Draco Malfoy and the current inhabitant of Harry Potter’s heart and attention.
It wasn’t quite clear if this stare was out of malice and hatred or out of pure overprotectiveness of a boy who could quite well protect himself. So he settled on the first option and slid into his seat without bothering to acknowledge the stare.
The rest of the 6th year Slythertins, however, didn’t seem to enjoy that decision quite as much as he did. They were far too busy dragging their eyes back and forth between the two boys at a speed fit enough to give them aneurysms.
“Draco, love.”
“Pansy?” He didn’t offer her a glance, just stirred his soups around with the spoon. It was fake silver, unlike the bouts of silverware tucked away in the manor’s kitchen.
“What happened today?” Pansy wasn’t stupid. Of course she knew that Draco had his strange, itching want to piss off the boy who lived. Perhaps, it was a bit masochistic with some odd driblet of sadism.
“Potter punched me.” Draco smiled a little snarkily at her, watched her face travel through four phases of emotion before settling on a strange dissatisfaction. “Hooch threatened that if he continued with petty violence, she wouldn’t let him return to the Gryffindor team.”
“What he’s saying, Pansy,” Blaise coughed into his balled up fist to dislodge a piece of food from the back of his throat and swallowed tightly. “Is that he’s securing Slytherin’s recollection of the Quidditch Cup.”
Draco snapped his fingers, pointing at the boy opposite of him to staple what he said. Each of their eyes seemed to twinkle viciously, just imagining holding that beautifully silver trophy on their shoulders at least once in their Hogwarts careers.
His mouth actually seemed to water at the thought.
Pansy scoffed, clearly displeased with the idea of manipulating somebody to win a school sport. Not that she was past manipulation. Often, she’d use her status as a young woman to get her way — especially when it came to the likes of old men. The tactic had been used once or maybe twice on Lucius Malfoy so that she’d be allowed to spend dinner in the manor. “You two are pathetic.”
“What’s pathetic is Theodore’s dirty looks.” Blaise sneered. The trio shot short glances down the table to the secluded group hounded around their little lord. He’d promoted his and Potter’s relationship as building a better inter-house connection with Gryffindor to the professors, and a double agent sort of thing to his peers.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Blaise!” Pansy’s voice had always been quite shrill, at least until the passing summer when everything about her had seemingly matured. Except for her beady black eyes and love for gossip that didn’t involve her by any means. “Draco beat up his boyfriend!”
Draco didn’t know why that comment made his cheeks feel a bit hot, but it did. So much so that his face had quickly been hidden in the neck of his robes while the Great Hall fell silent. All eyes were on him, or in his general direction. Though, it felt more like students pausing their conversations to listen to a howler.
“For your information, Parkinson,” Oh fuck, this day just couldn’t get any better. Could it? “Harry doesn’t have nearly as many blemishes that Draco is wearing.”
Again with the involuntary bodily reactions, Draco lifted his face from his robes and shot Theodore a curious look. Though, he was sure he looked more like a ghoul than anything. Quiet conversations struck up again, unwilling to be held accountable for whatever blowout the two boys were gonna have.
And that smug little prick of Theo’s lips wasn’t making it any better. “Isn’t your daddy gonna kill you for letting a Gryffindor mark you up like that, Dray?”
Draco recoiled at the nickname, visibly too. He hadn’t liked it back when they’d been friends and he sure as hell liked it less now. Before he had even had the chance to reply, Blaise was jumping in and clamping his hands against the table.
“Bloody hell, Theo, grow up!” The fading French accent rolled off his tongue smoothly, blubbered like the gentlest streams. “Nobody cares that the boy you’re shagging got into a fight with Draco, it happens every other week.”
Scoffs followed the statement, from the entire group that was huddled around Theodore. The little gap that had been there merely two seconds ago had quickly stopped existing as whispers picked up in harsh winds.
Draco didn’t think he’d ever get used to the dynamic of Hogwarts and he often wondered if he’d be better off at Durmstrang. He’d spent the entirety of fourth year following the visiting students around, eyes sparkling more than they’d ever had. Of course he understood his mothers want for him to be closer to home, since he’d be home much quicker on holidays. But, he couldn’t help but long for the northern school.
He’d even persuaded one of the Drumstrang students to let him try on their uniform, since they’d been exactly matching sizes. The fur detailing around the neck of the jacket and the tops of the boots, Merlin they made him feel like a god.
“Hey ‘Dore.” Harry fucking Potter. Wasn’t he supposed to be in the dungeons still, helping the nutcase of a potions teacher they had?
“Oh, hi!” Theodore seemed to melt into his boyfriend’s arms, so loosely wrapped about his shoulders while his lips molded into his neck.
“How are you doing?” Draco tore his gaze away from the couple, stirring his stew with the spoon that had not once made it past his lips. Every swirl of the liquid meal acted like the galaxies that they had to examine later that evening.
Of course it had to be a Wednesday. And of course, the Slytherin and Gryffindor fifth years had to be in the same class.