Up to Something

by MarigoldWrites

Excerpt: Draco Malfoy was a coward. There was no argument there: he always had been, and proudly so. He was a coward with his father, following his commands without a hitch. He was a coward when a psychotic maniac branded him like cattle. It served him well, cowardice, ensured his survival, and his mother's, too. Not today.

1.

Draco Malfoy was up to something.

Of course, Harry reasoned as he followed him through the dark, abandoned corridors, Draco Malfoy was always up to something. Whether it be dressing up as a Dementor to sabotage him during a quidditch match, or planning a murder, Malfoy's transgressions were frequent and a static part of Harry's Hogwarts experience. As familiar as hot dinners, and as frustrating as the moving staircases.

This time, however, was different. The war was over. Old rivalries put behind, they haven't had one of their usual battles of sarcasm and wit since the year has started. It stirred something in Harry. It wasn't that he missed being degraded on a daily basis, having his hair ridiculed and friends insulted. It was simply such a constant, such a fixture, that without it the axis of his world was skewed.

At least that's what he told himself all those weeks ago, when nightmares kept him up long past a reasonable bedtime, when he found himself tracing the edges of the Marauders Map with tired fingers. He wasn't exactly searching for Malfoy, yet there he was, name dark against the pale parchment. Waking the castle.

Somehow, knowing he wasn't the only one awake helped Harry back to sleep.

It became a nightly ritual, and soon the name was so familiar he could pick it out of the crowded Map on a first glance. Yet in the day, there was nothing but avoided eye contact and cold sneers. Whenever his gaze fell on this day-time Malfoy, he found himself longing to be back in bed, watching the little dot skim through the ink corridors. The dot he felt could understand him.

So, he watched, day in and day out, until one such night when Firewhisky burned through his veins lending some of its courage, or maybe it's stupid rashness, and he grabbed his cloak and followed. It was exhilarating, sneaking around again, yet for the first time without the fear of doom and death leering above him.

Malfoy walked seemingly without purpose. He walked for the sheer sake of walking, tall and straight, and dignified as always, yet to a close observer (and Harry was defiantly one) the slump of his shoulders was evident, the several out-of-place hair jarring. This was Malfoy in a state of despair.

Harry followed him, again and again, sometimes through school grounds, sometimes through the restricted section of the library. It was here that he expected most to find out something, finally, the reason for this midnight madness, but Malfoy only stroked the book spines with his long graceful fingers of a violinist and reassumed his wonderings.

Tonight was no different.

They walked, Malfoy tall and unmissable in the front, Harry crouched and invisible courtesy of the Cloak behind, hiding in the shadows. He watched the blond head more intently than anything he has ever watched, and he couldn't tell if it was the thrill of the chase, or something altogether different causing his heart to fasten and his judgement cloud.

This was a day to visit the astronomy tower, it seemed. Harry followed a few steps behind, keeping his feet quiet on the creaky stairs. He watched in awe as Malfoy positively glided up the steps, without an awkward bone in his balanced body.

Usually, Malfoy would pace around the Tower for hours, unable to find peace. Today instead, without a sign of falter, he went straight to the bannisters and removed two tumblers and a bottle from his robes. His hand shook, almost unnoticeably, as he poured the golden-brown liquid. It danced in the moonlight, a tiny flame burning bright in each glass.

Harry couldn't steady his heart. Something ugly was building inside him at the thought of someone intruding on this, of someone else privy to the secrets of Malfoy's goings. He watched with trembling anger, and very un-Gryffindor fear, as Malfoy raised both glasses and turned to face the stairs, and at the same time, to face Harry.

The smirk he has grown to know so well over all those years has widened into an almost-real smile. Harry looked fascinated as the small change transformed the face in front of him so very completely.

Malfoy held one of the tumblers to his chest, raising the other towards the still invisible Harry.

'Fancy a drink, Potter?'

Harry stilled. Has he heard right? He fumbled with the fabric of the Cloak to make sure it was securely around him, and baffled at Malfoy's sudden ability to see him. The smile gracing his lips was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by exasperation.

He slid the Cloak off his head, then off of his shoulders, knocking down his glasses in the process and tripping to pick them back up. Murmuring swearwords under his breath and mentally kicking himself for this sudden bout of clumsiness, he avoided Malfoy's snarky stare. Until the boy, who was no longer a boy, raised the hand reaching out towards him again, and with a voice full of something on the verge of politeness and insult reminded Harry that Firewhiskey was best straight out of the bottle.

Harry agreed, of course, he knew that. He reached for the tumbler and their fingers met, just for a split second, warmed by the glow from the glass. He felt that warmth stay with him, and thought this Firewhiskey truly must be good; it never usually affected him like that. He watched Malfoy down half of his drink in one go and started nursing his own, focusing on the burn down his throat instead of how Malfoy's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. Hypnotising.

He suppressed a cough fighting to emerge, and with a voice hoarse from the drink he managed to squeal out 'How did you know-'

'That you were following me?' Malfoy finished for him. 'Please, Potter, you have all the grace of an elephant.'

The insult was there, but the usual edge in Malfoy's voice was missing, and Harry pondered that while they stood in a heavy silence. It was awkward. He wanted to turn and run.

'This is good stuff.' His voice was stronger now but still shaky and he immediately regretted his words. Seriously, could he sound more inarticulate. Malfoy agreed with his inner monologue, obviously, a self-satisfied smirk apparent on his sharp features.

'The question is, of course,' Malfoy started, twirling the now-empty glass in his hand, 'why have you taken to following me.'

Harry didn't expect that. He should have, of course, it was the first question one should ask their stalker. Oh Merlin, he thought, is that what he was now? Malfoy's stalker? From The Boy Who Lived Twice to The Man Following Malfoy In The Shadows. How the mighty have fallen.

He was taking an abnormally long time to answer, and Malfoy's eyebrow cocked as high as he ever saw it go.

'I couldn't sleep.' Technically, this was not a lie.

'Is following me your insomnia cure? Strolling down memory lane?' Malfoy's allusion to their 6th year left a sinking feeling in Harry's chest. There words were out before he could stop them

'I didn't know what that spell did. That's no excuse. I know. But if I knew… I wouldn't have. I didn't want to hurt you. Not really. Well I guess I did. It did say "for enemies". But if I knew… I wouldn't.' He was rambling, and he knew it, but he couldn't stop. 'What I'm saying is, I'm sorry.' His breath run out as he reached the unsatisfying end to the monologue he always carried with him but never before voiced out loud.

To his surprise, Malfoy's smile returned. Was this some new sort of mockery? The Slytherin walked over towards him, and Harry full well expected a slap. He deserved it, really. But no slap came, instead his glass had been filled again, and Malfoy rose his in toast.

'To always trying to kill each other, and to never succeeding.'

There was a strange warmth in his voice, one Harry never heard before, one he supposed was usually reserved only for the closest family and friends. It caused his insides to push him closer, while his mind screamed to run.

He stayed still.

2.

Draco Malfoy was a coward. There was no argument there: he always had been, and proudly so. He was a coward with his father, following his commands without a hitch. He was a coward when a psychotic maniac branded him like cattle. It served him well, cowardice, ensured his survival, and his mother's, too.

Not today.

There was a moment in life, Draco supposed, when everyone broke. If this was his, it could have been worse. Years of practiced cowardice are hard to repress, but Firewhiskey tends to help, and darkness doesn't hurt either. His insides burned pleasantly as the remnants of hesitation left him, and the mask he is so practiced at wearing peeled off, just a bit.

Draco's eyes found their way back to Potter's, and there was no mistaking the uncertainty within them. He will have to be the brave one for the both of them, tonight. He clenched tightly onto his new found courage, and plunged into the deep water, full speed ahead, restraint be damned.

'I have been wanting to talk to you.'

Potter's face doesn't hide things, and the surprise bloomed through it like ink through a napkin. Draco's upbringing scoffs at this blatant show of emotion, while his heart wants to reach out and apologise until he is sore and looses his voice. He settles somewhere in between.

'I know things have been… difficult between us.'

'You've been a bit of a tosser,' Potter interjects snarkily. It doesn't suit him.

'Yes, and you have been the perfect gentleman.' Draco is much more fluent in sarcasm and slips into it like a glove. He shakes it away, attempting to keep him mind on track and away from how easy it is to have a full-blown row with Potter. 'As I have said: difficult. Challenging, even. I do hope Firewhiskey shall rectify this.'

Away from the safety of sarcasm, he enters into the mannerisms his mother drilled into him. They suit well at dinner parties, not impromptu night-time rendezvous', and he panics. It makes it worse.

'Shall I pour you another? It truly is a tremendous vintage,' oh Salazar what is he saying. 'Indeed, splendid.' He punctuates his words presenting the bottle to Potter like some sort of a posh waiter, and positively feels the metal rod he obviously stuck up his own arse.

Merlin, Potter's face. The look he has on it is incredulous. He looked at Draco like he's having a stroke, or like he's grown another head. Draco wished he'd stop him from talking.

Of course, he thinks, he doesn't deserve mercy, and his practiced persona continues, seemingly not needing his cooperation.

'I do trust you enjoy it, it is perfect for this type of weather.'

Potter's eyes widen in horror, then crease slightly as he bursts into laughter. It's pearly, and easy, and it makes the stiffness inside Draco melt, breaking down years of repression just a little. It's infectious; Potter laughs like he does everything else, with his whole being, without hesitation. It makes Draco feel warm inside, to be the cause of this display, but it also makes him jealous. Never once has he felt free to just laugh like that, hands resting on knees, shoulders shaking.

'Perfect for the weather? Seriously? What the hell are you trying to say, Malfoy.' Potter is still laughing, words bursting out of him enveloped in mirth.

Draco feels himself blush, but for once doesn't feel offended at being mocked. It doesn't seem malicious. What a strange turn.

He fills up his glass and offers more to Potter, who gladly accepts, murmuring something along the lines of 'tremendous vintage'.

'This has all gotten frighteningly off topic.' Draco ponders, starting to feel the effects of the drink. It works well for him, and he feels his body loosen up. Potter spreads the Cloak carefully on the floor and throws himself down onto it, tapping the spot next to him, beckoning Draco to sit. He does, stiffly and uncomfortably, all sharp angles and pointy knees. Sitting on floors is not something Malfoys do.

They relax next to each other, but under the surface Draco can feel his heart trying to rip through his chest.

'What was it you wanted to talk about before you were possessed by the ghost of a vintner?' Potter's tone is conversational, the edges pleasantly rounded by the few glasses of Firewhiskey he has consumed. Draco gathers what's left of his courage and dignity, and tries again.

'I wanted to apologise.' Potter's hand freezes on the way to his mouth, the forgotten drink swaying in the glass. 'I need to apologise. The things I have done-'

'It wasn't your fault.' Potter's voice is too kind, too understanding. Draco feels anger rise inside him, and then realises the anger only serves to hide his guilt. He pushes it aside.

'What I mean is: I'm sorry for all of it. From the beginning. Not just for the end.'

Potter seems taken aback, but only smiles in response, finally taking a sip of his drink.

'How long have you known?' Draco shoots him a questioning look, 'that I was following you, I mean.' Potter blushes slightly, and the colour contrasts nicely with his eyes, making Draco think of modern art and of poppy fields.

'Probably from the beginning.' He offers, not unkindly, and making certain not to sound accusing. 'It was nice to have company.' The words come out like a whisper and he regrets them immediately.

Potter squeezes his hand in his.

Their fingers brush against each other, and his hand is hot, like fire, and surprisingly strong.

It's soothing. Draco doesn't like it.

He doesn't move away.

Draco's mind has compartmentalised itself into two neat, equal piles: one for delight, and one for disconcert.

On the one hand, Harry 'bloody saviour of the world' Potter has deemed himself worthy of touching Draco, and without a shred of permission. Maddening. This sort of behaviour was simply not acceptable. All of Draco's ancestors snarled with cold fury at the sheer cheek of it.

On the other hand, the touch was soft yet strong, and reassuring, and Draco couldn't really recall the last time someone had touched him without recoiling. It brought back memories long forgotten, of things that happened in childhood, and the smell of his mother before she smelled like death and medication. In all those ways and more, it was nice.

Both these parts of his were adamant on winning, neither budging, and he compromised - didn't run away, but didn't return the touch. He merely sat there, his brain marinating in the increasing amounts of Firewhiskey. Fighting against himself, knowing whatever he would do now, he would come to regret. Yes, complete and utter inactivity was the only way forward. The only way out of this with some remains of his dignity intact. His body stiffened, and both sides of his mind grew frustrated.

Compromising never truly pleased anyone.

'Are you alright?' Potter was looking straight at him, closer than ever before, except maybe in some of their altercations. The lack of boiling anger in his face, and how instead it was replaced by genuine concern did things to Draco he would never admit to, and probably wouldn't even know how to explain. He felt as his resolution shifted, and to his own horror his face broke into an actual smile.

Potter will certainly think he has gone mad, with the speed his emotions changed. Like a blasted kaleidoscope.

'I am. Thank you,' he answered, more out of his built-in manners than anything else.

An alcohol-fuelled rouge spread against Potter's cheeks. His skin glowed with it, like a small sun in the night. Around them, the sky grew darker.

Draco retrieved his wand and cast a nifty little charm which had lights appear and twinkle around them, shimmering slightly like stars.

'Wow.' Potter took a deep breath and watched the lights, mesmerised. He declined further on the Cloak, half-lying now. 'This is not the sort of magic I've expected from you.'

Draco retreated into himself at the words. He didn't mean to: it was a conditioned response whenever he felt threatened.

'What exactly would you have expected, then? Dark marks floating around? Illusions of shrunken house elf heads with candles for eyes?' He spoke with a snarl, sounding all the more like his fifteen-year-old self. It didn't matter that Potter looked remorseful even before the sentence fully left him; Draco was too far gone into his protective shell. 'Should I have Crucio-d you when you took that thing off?' He pointed at the Cloak. 'Would that have fitted The Chosen One's view of the world better?'

Every word ripped out of him without thought or contemplation for repercussions. It didn't feel as it usually did, fighting with Potter. It didn't feel worthy, he wasn't burning with pride and righteous indignation. There was no goal, nothing to be attained. He was breaking their fragile, new found peace and hated himself for it. Yet, he couldn't stop it. He didn't feel in control: his body was acting, and he was beside it, watching like one watches a train wreck.

Emotions rolled through Potters face one by one, from regret to surprise to anger. He seemed completely sober now, as if putting up with this temper tantrum (even Draco could not deny this is what it was) pulled him out of the pleasant haze he was lounging in just seconds earlier.

'No Malfoy, I'm sure this is exactly the kind of magic you usually use. Should we check? A simple priori incantantem should do.'

Draco huffed in anger, but a small voice inside his head nodded along to Potter's words. Just because he had putt so much effort into learning nice, safe spells since the war didn't erase the ones he used before.

'If only we could all be just like you,' Draco responded, feigning nonchalance. 'Harry Potter, the light of the Wizarding World, the saviour of all, wouldn't it just be grand if we all had your moral compass and only ever used Expelliarmus, against even the killing curse.' Draco's voice was steadily rising into an uncontrolled scream. The small lights he cast flickered. 'It is so much better to die than to actually protect yourself, isn't it just. No matter who you're leaving behind, or who is counting on you, or watching you, it is so much better to WALK INTO THE GODDAMN FOREST, TO BLOODY DIE THERE, LIKE LIVESTOCK TO THE FUCKING SLAUGHTER!'

The lights around them flared on and off like lightning, roared like thunder. Draco never once in his life screamed like some commoner, but now the floodgates opened, and it was all pouring out. He couldn't, didn't want to, stop. For once someone would listen to him.

'Why are you angry Malfoy?' The question hit home: he didn't know. Potter's face was a blank canvas, betraying nothing. Only his eyes, shimmering with the lights, burned into his soul, questioning, demanding. Fearful.

'This was a mistake.' Draco stood up. Shook his robes off. His steps were stiff, back straighter than ever.

'Draco, wait.'

His name. It sounded foreign and new and not quite his own in Potter lips. He stopped dead in his track, too afraid to turn back around.

3.

'Draco, wait.'

Harry didn't think about it, yet the name he never before used spilled out of his lips. It was awkward but rewarding: like speaking a foreign language and finally getting it right. He liked it, liked saying it, it felt daring and new. He liked how Malfoy - no, how Draco - reacted to it.

The newness of it all had his heart racing, his palms clammy, but his head felt clearer than before. It often was like this, with adrenaline pumping through his veins the usual confusion he felt regarding the world around him dissipated. Just as now, in the middle of the night, with nothing but Malfoy's, Draco's, charm for light, face to face with his once-enemy.

Draco's shoulders rose and fell in rhythm of his heavy breathing. He was so obviously struggling to remain in reign of his composure Harry felt his chest expand with something not dissimilar to pride, which confused him all by itself.

'Two, one. –' The whispers ceased, the shoulders stilled, Draco turned around.

'Yes, Potter. What else is left to say. Shall we continue this – however you wish to call this – this rendezvous? See how much farther we can embarrass one another?'

'We could just talk,' Harry saw the vulnerability in Malfoy-Draco's eyes and took it as encouragement. 'Is a bit awkward, but it was going alright before you started yelling at me.' He smiled cheekily, hoping it was reassuring rather than deprecating.

'Maybe you need a good yelling at, with all the moronic concepts your life seems to revolve around,' Malfoy-Draco murmured, adding with a nose wrinkled in distaste: 'I am not usually reduced to swearing. Pardon me for that.'

'Apology accepted.' Harry beamed against his will. Draco stayed, and their conversation seemed back on track. Harry couldn't really explain why that was important, but between the Firewhiskey and the adrenaline it felt paramount for Draco to remain in his vicinity.

Harry sat back down on the Cloak and left space for Draco, who followed suit, albeit cautiously. The smile stretching Harry's face only grew until he was certain he was wearing a goofy, toothy grin not unlike a shark's. Or, hopefully, something less murderous. Like the Cheshire Cat's.

'So, now that we're friends again, can you explain to me what exactly got you so upset?' Harry's grin didn't diminish despite Draco shooting him a cold, long stare that would send anyone running for their lives. Harry, of course, was used to putting his on the line and tickling the proverbial Dragon in it's sleep, so the glare didn't have much effect.

Draco only sighed in resignation. 'I'm not certain. It could have something to do with just how careless you are.'

'I got that. What I didn't, is why would you care.' Harry was unrelenting, and while he worried about pushing Draco over the edge of his fragile constitution, he didn't like leaving things unsaid.

'I don't care,' the snarky, huffy remark was met with knowing eyes, 'would you stop looking at me like that.'

'Would you stop lying?' Harry half-mocked, 'I can tell, you know?'

Draco's eyes widened at the comment, disbelief mixed with fear spreading across his face, accompanied by a fierce blush.

'You can tell - ? I do no know what you mean,' the denial in his voice was feeble, the colour on his face slowly approaching scarlet, but the decades of repression stronger than his own body.

'I can tell when you're lying.' Harry pushed a little further, fascinated by watching the barriers Draco has put up barely holding. 'You don't need to, you know, you can just tell me the truth. I'd like to hear it.'

'You'd like to… Merlin, Potter, you sappy tart.'

There was no heat in the insult, and Harry smiled even wider at the lack of usual cunning involved. "Sappy tart" was fairly decent considering some of the things Malfoy (now Draco) has called him over the years.

'I would like to. If you want to, you know, talk about things.' Harry was digging himself into the "sappy tart" hole, but he didn't really mind. It was worth it just to see the myriad of expressions on Draco's face, where usually only disdain resided.

Draco clammed up, only the way he worked his jaw betraying he was not fully composed. Harry gave him space, and time to think, filling out their glasses with the remainder of the Firewhiskey. Now the adrenaline was gone, it was starting to affect him again, and he felt comfortable, relaxed. He slumped against the wall a little, gravity pulling him towards Draco, until their shoulders touched. He would have expected Draco to be cold, like granite he was so obviously chiselled out of. The spread of heat which immediately latched onto his own body surprised him and he leaned into it further, revelling in it. Draco shifted under the sudden touch, but didn't move away.

'I don't care for how you always have to risk yourself.' Draco's voice was distant and small, but it pierced the silence like a bell.

The warmth spreading through Harry didn't have much to do with Firewhiskey. It had everything to do with Draco's shoulder pressing against his, with his words, guarded but honest. In this moment, as his heart soared higher than ever, he knew what he fought in the war for. It was all for this: redemption, the finality of enemies coming together, but more importantly for the small things. The heat of another person's skin against his. The fear mixed with feeling in the mercurial eyes watching his. For this, he would fight a thousand wars, for this he would not only die, he would live and fight to bare knuckles just to come back time and time again.

Finally, after so many years of fumbling in the darkness, of following instructions he barely understood, he found his own meaning, like a light shone on the spectrum of his life. It was so obvious, yet it blindsided him completely. To find that his meaning was in the heart of a boy he knew all his life, this man whom he grown up with, and seen grow up and change, and mature beyond what he ever expected possible.

There were no words to describe this sensation of weightlessness and at the same time an overpowering heaviness deep within his stomach. There were none at all, yet no words were needed as his eyes met Draco's and he recognised the same purpose, the same burdening weightlessness mirrored in them. Harry wondered if his own reflected the turmoil inside quite as well, but as Draco's widened in surprise he had his answer.

He lowered his forehead until it rested on Draco's, feeling the smooth, pale skin for the first time, inhaling the scent of citrus and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. His eyes fluttered shut and he let them, revelling in the conviction of his feelings. There was no fear, no hesitation: Draco has shown him, wordlessly, that he felt the same. They were on the same page, for the first time in their lives in absolute agreement. No need to quarrel. No need for assurances. Just the two of them in the darkness of the tower, surrounded by flickering lights of Draco's star-like charm.

Harry felt Draco smile and opened his eyes just a fraction. The sight was beautiful, but more than that: fulfilling, and he knew then he would spend the rest of his life trying just to see it one more time. His entire being, his past and his present was nothing compared to the serenity the smile created on Draco's face.

'I think I like you.' Draco's voice was soft and playful, transforming his usually cold and sharp demeanour to something pleasant but barely recognisable. Is that who he really was? Is that the person behind the years of Pureblood customs? It was a marvellous person, Harry thought as he answered without pause 'I like you too.'

Draco's fingers met around Harry's neck, and his heart purred with satisfaction at the friction between their skin. There was no hurry in either of them, each move languid and centred on relishing the novelty of it. Savouring it beyond the physical.

They shone together and Harry could see it in the golden glow which seemed to set itself around them, in the haze of the barely rising sun which lent its radiance only to them.

As the sun spells lazily enveloped their surroundings their lips met.

Soft. Unhurried. Filled with all that they have ever felt for one another, from rage to the quiet contentment. They knew each other fully, better than anyone before. In that moment, as their lips grazed against the other's with reverence, they knew this was a time of culmination. The war might have finished, but only now was it truly over.

As they savoured each other, there was only one quiet thought in each of their minds: All was well.