Just Pretend

What Harry and Draco shared had been a secret friendship since their third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. If he was asked, Harry would say it started when he witnessed a moment of ironic Gryffindor bravery, in Draco's part, with the Buckbeat Incident. Draco would then scowl and say it had formed over witnessing the twisted use of Slytherin cunning outside the Shrieking Shack, otherwise known as the Snowball Confrontation. They would both then bicker and quarrel until they came to the conclusion that the bond had indeed formed over neither of these two events, but instead at a much later occurrence, something the two rivals called the Dementor Episode. . . .

oOoOo

"Are you sure about this, Malfoy?" Goyle had asked right before Draco prepared to climb onto his shoulders.

"Of course I'm certain, Goyle, now squat!" Draco had answered.

To be honest, Potter had really started to annoy him—he always caught the Snitch, always caught the bad guy, and was everyone's favorite hero . . . except for Draco's. But looking back on the incident now, Draco had to admit that it was a rather childish action, and Malfoy etiquette demanded that he formally apologize to Potter. . . . If he could find him.

Draco was wandering the halls listlessly, hoping to come across Potter and simultaneously avoid Filch, Peeves, and Snape.

It was a rather fruitless action, especially when he heard a familiar voice curse under their breath before pulling him into the shadows and letting something silky fall over his head to cover him.

"Malfoy, what the hell do you think you're doing, prancing through the halls at midnight?" the agitated voice came from somewhere to the left and a bit below him.

Draco looked down. Great, it was Potter.

"I could ask the same of you, Golden Boy—"

Said Golden Boy clamped a hand over his mouth, cutting off the rest of his sentence. Draco made a protesting sound in the back of his throat and was answered with, "Shush, Filch is coming."

Sure enough, heavy, wheezing breathing could be heard coming down the hallway toward them. Next they heard footsteps and the padding of paws on stone—Mrs. Norris.

"Where did they go, my sweet?" Filch cooed, only to be answered with a yowl from his furry companion.

"Not to worry, precious, we'll find them. . . ." Filch muttered as he passed by them on his way down the hall.

When the caretaker had turned the corner, Harry whipped the silky fabric from Draco and himself, pausing to tuck it under his arm before scrutinizing Draco.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I have to be getting back to my common room. 'Night." Harry turned and started walking away.

"Wait!" Draco couldn't stop himself—it was either now or never. Harry turned to look at him, curiously, before surreptitiously glancing at a sheaf of parchment in his hands.

Draco swallowed before continuing, "I would like to . . . apologize . . . for what I did during your match. It was childish and immature."

Harry raised his eyebrows before furrowing them in obvious bewilderment.

"So, I was wondering if you would like to call a truce?"

Even though it seemed fantastical, Harry actually seemed to be considering it. "No more cruel pranks?" he asked cautiously.

Draco shook his head negatively.

"Then I guess you've got yourself a truce," replied Harry with a lopsided grin.

Draco let out the breath he had been holding, flashing Harry a quick, barely-there smile before turning to walk away.

"But what are you going to tell your followers?" Harry asked before he could get away.

Draco turned back to face him, this time grinning fully. It struck him then that Harry had never seen him smile before. "Well, we can always just pretend, can't we?" he said before turning the corner and disappearing into the shadows.

oOoOo

Now, three years later, the friendship wasn't so secret anymore. It had happened so slowly only their closest friends had really noticed it—the gradual dying of cruel taunts (which had turned into playful jabs), the not-so-hateful glares, and the nasty hexes and curses. When the two "rivals" were seen walking down the halls peacefully, laughing and making jokes about the poor excuses for Defense professors they had had, the only really surprised people were the ones who hadn't taken care to notice—Ron and Hermione and Draco's two closest friends, Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass.

In their sixth year at Hogwarts, it wasn't uncommon to find Harry and Draco in the library, studying and doing homework together; Harry occasionally helping Draco with Defense and Draco taking frequent breaks from his own Arithmancy essay to explain Potions concepts to Harry.

This happened to be what he was trying to do now.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Veritaserum is not fatal in a dose larger than three drops, but can become fatal when larger than three liters!"

Harry glared at him and resolutely continued with his Potions essay. Draco tries desperately not to take special notice of the wet, plump bottom lip that was currently (and very enticingly) captured between the other boy's teeth in concentration.

Draco had realized he was gay during fourth year. Yule Ball, girls. . . . Ring any bells? None of the girls in his year or in the year below really appealed to him, and it came to him late one night that he would really like to ask Harry. . . .

So maybe he had a tiny crush.

It was exponentially insignificant, and hardly worth mentioning.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't that small of a crush. . . .

Draco cleared his throat nervously, causing Harry to look up from his work curiously.

"What's wrong, Dray?"

And that was when Draco decided that this was his chance; it was now or never.

"Harry . . ."

"Yes?"

"If someone were to tell you that they really liked you, and had for a while now, what would you say?"

"I don't understand. . . ."

Draco cleared his throat again; his esophagus seemed to be really dry. . . . Maybe he needed some water.

"If a girl were to come up right now and kiss you, what would you do?"

Harry blushed. "Um—I—uh. . . ."

"What if it were a guy that kissed you? Would you push him away?"

"Um. . . . I don't know. It would depend, I guess."

"On what?"

"If I—" here Harry went beet-red. "um—if I . . . I liked it." Harry wet his lips nervously, fiddling with his quill.

Draco was sitting beside him at the library table, and it would be—oh!—so simple for him to lean forward and capture Harry's lips with his.

So that's exactly what he did.

At first Harry's lips were still beneath his own, but as Draco messaged them, they gradually responded. When Draco ran his tongue against Harry's closed lips, the other boy gasped in surprise, opening that warm, wet cavern for Draco's exploration. Harry moaned and hesitantly put his hands at the nape of the Slytherin's neck, playing with the soft hairs there while Draco's arms slipped a bit awkwardly around Harry's waist. It was more tentative and exploratory, but it was a temporary heaven.

Temporary in the way that they would eventually have to break away for air.

Harry was flushed and breathing as if he had just ran a lap around the Black Lake; his eyes wide and searching Draco's own mercury orbs.

"Is that what you were getting to with all those questions?"

"Maybe."

"Oh."

"So—um—did you like it?"

"Maybe. . . . Yes."

"Do you want to do it again?"

"Yes."

"What do you want to tell your friends?"

Harry looked back at his Potions book. He didn't really want to say anything to his friends just yet. But thankfully Draco understood what he meant.

"You're scared of what they may think?"

"Yes."

"So, what do you want to do about them?"

Harry looked back up at him, amusement flickering in his emerald eyes. "Maybe we could just pretend?"