It was surprisingly easy to gather courage after grasping a hold of achieving it. Draco was surprisingly open to his suggestions. He wouldn't go as far as to say he was pliant, because that word itself didn't seem to be of Draco's vocabulary of adjectives that describe him.

This studying together actually helped him get a little better at the nuances Draco has. His little quirks, his favorite snacks. He was talkative, sanguine, but barely about anything of importance. His annoyance at the clack, clack, clack of passing gal's high heels (what kinda person would purposefully put themselves in such pain by putting their feet in something like high heels?), his annoyance at Professor Whitlock that takes the class so slow (I already know the alphabet, what's the point in taking such a slow pace when I've got fundamentals down?). Basically, Draco complains. But it wasn't like he was complaining, complaining. He was just.. critiquing?

Yeah. That was it. It was kind of… cute? Well, cute in the sense that Draco was complaining to fill the silence when they weren't studying.

Or how Draco didn't like wearing the same clothes twice without them being washed. Or how he preferred green grapes to red, green apples to red ones.

How much more Slytherin can you get? Harry had asked him and Draco turns his nose up in such a pompous way that it amused him.

All I need is to learn Parseltongue, Draco replied.

Or how when Harry teased him, coming down to his level of humor and he gasped, mouth dropping in shock before he shoves him. How his laugh is full of cheer and amusement when he's not purposefully making it into that sneer; like tinkling laughter, loud and unabashed before he realized how loud he was laughing and bites his lip, pretending to ignore Harry.

How Draco was particularly ticklish on his upper ribs. Harry had found that out as they were taking a stroll outside during the fall. He meant it as a jab, something what Draco does but on a lower level. Draco gave an indignant squeak, twitching half a foot away and then trying to play it off like nothing had happened.

Except it didn't work.

And Draco knew it didn't work, because he let go of Harry's arm and stepped away, glaring, hissing, "Don't you dare, Potter." But Harry did dare. Harry dropped his bag, as did Draco, before he bolted, autumn leaves crushing underfoot. His fear of being tickled must've outweighed the fear he felt running blind. He didn't get far, not with Harry in pursuit; longer legs, stronger strides. The chase made his heart race, something in his innermost self feeling oddly challenged by it, in a good way.

Harry practically scoops him up in one arm, hearing Draco's squeal of surprise of being lurched forward in a tackle. Harry rolls them, taking the brunt of the crash to the ground and his hands find Draco's side and start their attack.

Draco shrieks. He squirms and wiggles, arching his back to get away as if that will get away from Harry's hands which found their way under Draco's robes, catching the most tickling part of his ribs just under and at the sides of his shoulder blades. He kicked, which Harry barely noticed, caught off guard by how the setting sun shone on Draco just then; surrounded by autumn leaves, hair a glorious mess. Unrestrained laughter, along with shouts of, "Harry! Bloody! Potter!"

Draco elbows him and because he was caught off guard by the complete ethereality of that moment and Harry loosens his hold enough for Draco to twist in his hold and try to bolt. He didn't get far until Harry got his wits back and lurched again, wrapping his arms full around Draco and hears his squeal as his fingers ran ticklishly at his sides. Draco's hands cover his in an attempt to stop him and he lessened the barrage. It didn't work, Draco's petite hands barely cover his own, but Harry stopped anyway, keeping his fingers resting at his sides.

Draco catches his breath, curled up on his side under him. His lip was still curled in an aftereffect of laughter. Harry lifted himself up on his forearms, which made it a bit of a tight squeeze for Draco trapped in his arms but he was small enough to fit there without too much squishing.

"Ahh, I'm going to hex your balls off, Potter." Draco's sightless eyes go to him, his fingers drumming on Harry's. He didn't seem too pissed off at being tackled and tickled, but Harry could be imagining it as the light of the twilight glistened across the horizon, catching his diaphanous hair, pale blond and white, near gossamer against the light.

The laughter had turned his cheeks rosy, like an elf dusted with blush. Now that he took the time to actually admire his looks, Draco had rather long eyelashes. So fae-like, just add the pointed eas and some elegant cloth, stick some wings made of aging autumn leaves on his back and he'd complete the picture.

Harry smiles, resting his chin on Draco's shoulder, staring into his eyes; still so pretty despite the milky center.

"No, you won't."

Harry ignores the passersby who unabashedly glanced at them, wondering what they were doing. The sun started to set, dimming the ethereal shine on Draco's skin and turning him ghostly as the sun's final rays kiss the sky goodbye. Harry skimmed his fingers lightly, Draco biting his lip as he squirms just a tad, grip on his hands tightening before relaxing just as Harry stilled his fingers.

Draco smiles, something small and private and just between them, biting on his lip again against amusement, eyes narrowed in mirth.

"No, I won't."