DENIAL AND ITS SIDE EFFECTS

HashtagMC

Sorry for the long wait! I got stuck at the beginning of the chapter for a few weeks, but once I got over this problem, I couldn't stop writing. Which is the reason why this chapter is over 5k words! Wow! Some time yesterday evening, realisation hit me that this story will soon reach 30,000 words! A few months ago, I was proud if I managed to write 1k words per chapter, and now this! Of course, everybody who comments, follows, or just reads the story is a huge motivation!

Also, this story is now on Archive of our Own as well! FanfictionNET doesn't allow links, so if you're looking for it on AO3, you can just search for the title, or for my username (HashtagMC).

And yeah, I couldn't resist the temptation to include another one of my favourite pairings at the end ;)

— Hashtag

CHAPTER 8 – OVERDOSE

Harry was utterly convinced that he had gone mad. There was no other explanation as to why he was watching himself pour five drops of the potion on a spoon, and then swallowing them. Five drops. Almost twice the dose he'd been prescribed. They left an unpleasant taste in his mouth that made him want to throw up, although Harry wasn't sure whether it was the potion or his bad conscience.

It had been two weeks ago that he had first taken four drops. At the time, he had assured himself that it would be only this one time, and that he wouldn't do it regularly. But the next night, he had barely slept two hours, and the night after that night, he hadn't slept well either. After a few days, he had taken four drops again, convincing himself again that a fourth drop wouldn't kill him. From then, it had become something appallingly regular. He had made sure that none of his friends noticed anything, even going as far as purposefully taking three drops in front of his friends, as he was supposed to do, and taking the fourth when he was sure everybody was asleep. He acted as though he was some drug addict.

Well, addicted he surely was. Harry hated to admit this, he loathed himself for acknowledging the fact, but when he had tried to go back to three drops a few days ago, he had lain awake all night, sweating like he had a fever. The next day, four drops had been barely enough to make him fall asleep. The day after that day, he had been forced to take five for the first time, and now he had done it again.

He had no idea how this was going to end. Five drops, what next? Sooner or later, he knew, he'd have to ask for help. And the worse he allowed this addiction to become, the harder it would be. When would it be too much? Six drops? Seven? The only things keeping him from running to Slughorn or McGonagall were his pride, and the irrational hope that he'd be able to stop this himself. It was obvious he wouldn't be able to do this.

These thoughts, however, quickly left Harry's when the potion kicked in, making him fall asleep within moments.

'I got this one for asking her how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got.'

'Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first-year they'd chained up, and they tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off.'

'We're supposed to practice the Cruciatus Curse on people who've earned detentions.'

'Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me.'

They're looking at him. He knows it. Their faces are a blur, but he can feel their stares. And they are blaming him for the year they've suffered while he was gone. He should have stood by them. He wants to apologise, but the words don't seem to leave his mouth. The people surround him, closing in, making him panic. Across the crowd, he can spot a mop of white-blond hair, but he can't see what expression the person it belongs to is showing. He wants to reach out to them, but the faceless crowds block his way.

They hate him.

Harry woke up to the sun shining through the windows of the dorm, and with a terrible headache. He had only once been really pissed – after the final battle, he'd had a house-elf bring him a bottle of Firewhiskey –, and this felt exactly like a hangover, except for the fact that he hadn't had any alcohol the day before. His temples were pounding, and his skull felt as though it was vibrating. He folded back the covers to get up and get himself a glass of water, but he couldn't even walk two steps before his legs buckled. Harry's knees hadn't even hit the floor when he already felt the bile rise in his throat, together with the panic.

Harry's body shook until his stomach was empty. Just the stench made Harry want to throw up again. He felt the urgent need to reach for his wand, clear this mess, and wash himself until the smell was gone. He was still trembling from the fit he'd just had, a shaky hand feeling for his bedside stand, when the door to the dormitory swung open.

'Merlin's!—'

The person – Ron, if Harry had recognised the voice correctly – ran up to Harry. A quick 'Scourgify!' later, the vomit was gone, leaving only the disgusting smell behind. Strong arms gripped Harry's shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Legs still wobbly, Harry turned around to look into Ron's worried face. His best friend quickly conjured a tissue and passed it to Harry, who weakly wiped his mouth clean.

'Mate, you alright? Have you eaten something bad, or—' Harry shook his head and managed to choke out a, 'Nothing', before his legs gave in again, sending him towards the ground once more. Ron caught him before he fell, but Harry could barely focus on anything beyond the throbbing in his temples. He could faintly hear Ron yelling something – probably for help –, but he drifted into unconsciousness too quickly to make out any words.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

'I am very disappointed, Mr Potter. Very disappointed. I, and I think Horace would agree with me, would have expected a more responsible behaviour from you. You should have come to me or Horace when you noticed that the potion lost its effects, but not, under no circumstances should you have taken more than the prescribed dose!'

'I know, Professor.'

Harry didn't need Professor McGonagall's monologue to know that what he had been doing was the wrong thing. He'd had it coming for him, and now he lay in the Hospital Wing, with Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall disapprovingly glaring at him.

Withdrawal. Harry dreaded what the word meant, but Madam Pomfrey didn't show any mercy. Instead, she explained the consequences of Harry's behaviour in minute detail. The first days would be the worst, she said. He would have to spend the next week in the infirmary while his body would cope with the lack of the addictive potion, and even during the time when he'd be allowed to attend classes again, Professor McGonagall and Professor Slughorn would personally search his belongings on a daily basis – to make sure that he wouldn't secretly get himself Sleeping Draught again. It was a humiliating prospect.

Right now, Harry didn't even have the power to pale at this idea. He had spent the past hour alternating between vomiting and passing out, and he felt like his throat was burning with leftover bile. He hadn't seen Hermione yet – Madam Pomfrey had sent Ron back to the common room as soon as he had brought Harry to the Hospital Wing –, but he could already picture her reaction. She would be disappointed as well. Harry could only hope that Professor McGonagall would try and keep this from the rest of the student body. The last thing he need was a Prophet headline like, 'The Boy Who Lived – enslaved by drugs?' Rita Skeeter would have a field day.

Madam Pomfrey kept talking, but Harry had stopped listening. Despite having slept less than two hours before, he could already feel his exhausted body urging him to close his eyes, and drift into a world without problems…

…and with nightmares. As soon as he had closed his eyes, he desperately wished for them to open again. For what felt like hours, Harry dozed off and woke up, bathed in sweat. The light outside the windows changed from pink to bright to red to dark, Harry didn't really notice. As soon as he felt his eyes fall shut, he woke up again, limbs shivering, his stomach clenching, his heart beating way too fast. There were moments when he felt like suffocating, then again, the air seemed to grow cold, and burn his lungs with coldness. Tears stung in his eyes, and if there would have been any other patients, he surely would have woken them, as Harry was sure that he was crying out in pain. Sometime around morning – almost an entire day after he had emptied his stomach in the Gryffindor common room –, he fell asleep due to pure exhaustion.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

Draco silently cursed his shaky hands. He had managed to break his wrist and his ankle once again – without another student involved this time, but by tripping over his Transfigurations book –, and therefore had had to heal it with his wand in his left hand. But instead of healing it, he had managed to complicate the fractures further, to the point that he was forced to – once again – request Madam Pomfrey's help. By now, the nurse was probably used to his regular visits in the infirmary, but that didn't lessen the humiliation of constantly requiring her to heal his injuries.

As expected, Draco received a disapproving look – although he guessed that this time, the nurse's disappointment was directed at his poor attempt to fix his bones on his own, rather than at his constant refusal to tell her who regularly hexed him. Draco didn't expect her to believe his explanation – especially since he had claimed to have tripped before, when actually Benny Anderson from Hufflepuff had pushed him from behind –, but he didn't care, did he?

'I am afraid that you will have to stay the night, Mr Malfoy,' the mediwitch said while she produced an all too familiar bottle from a cabinet. 'Usually, fractures are easy to heal, but with your botched up healing spell involved, I'll have to re-grow the bone in your ankle. Fortunately, you wrist does not require this procedure, as it is rather unpleasant.' She gestured towards the numerous empty beds. 'Make yourself at home. I'll send a house-elf to get your pyjamas in the meantime.'

Draco was about to protest – a house-elf, an inferior creature, should dig through his belongings? –, but he bit his tongue to keep his mouth shut. Now was not the time to express his beliefs, not if he wanted to be seen as someone else than a miniature version of his father. Judging by her expression, Madam Pomfrey knew what he had been about to say anyway.

When Draco approached the nearest bed, he noticed the figure lying in a bed a few metres away. A closer look revealed that it was Potter. How the Saviour himself had once again managed to land himself in the infirmary, Draco had no idea. While he hadn't talked to Potter since the conversation he mentally referred to as the incident, he hadn't failed to notice that Potter hadn't attended classes for the past two days. Given the worried looks and whispers the Weasel and Granger constantly exchanged, Draco could have concluded that Potter had gotten into trouble once again. Hopefully not by 'investigating' Draco's problems, as he would prefer not to get into trouble for supposedly manipulating the Boy Who Lived.

Draco was jolted out of his thoughts when he heard Madam Pomfrey arrive. She wordlessly handed him a fresh set of pyjamas, obviously fetched from his trunk in the dormitories, and gestured for him to climb into the hospital bed. While he crawled under the covers, she poured some of the potion into a cup. Draco had forgotten the name of the draught, but he vividly remembered its disgusting taste. He had been forced to take some of it to mend his injuries before, and the liquid still tasted as bad as he remembered it.

His brain urged Draco to ask the nurse about the cause of Potter's presence, but he kept his mouth shut. Asking questions, especially those concerning the Golden Boy, would only get him into trouble, and Potter's case was probably confidential anyway.

Draco wasn't really tired, but the eerie silence and the decreasing light from outside had him asleep within a relatively short timespan anyway. He didn't dream – he rarely did nowadays, unlike most veterans –, but the unfamiliar hospital bed made sure that he still felt rather exhausted when he woke to desperate screaming in the middle of the night.

For a few moments, Draco tried to tune out the heart-wrenching cries, but even burying his head in his pillow didn't help against the sounds of despair coming from the bed next to his. Annoyed, Draco reached for his wand in order to cast a silencing charm around his bed, but froze when yet another cry rang through the empty hospital. Draco worked hard to keep an indifferent façade these days, but he couldn't ignore the – if only tiny – spark of pity at the sound of Potter's screams.

Heaving an annoyed huff at his own soft-heartedness, Draco folded back the covers and limped towards Potter's bed. Any annoyance he might have harboured dispersed when he caught sight of Potter tossing and turning in his bed. The Saviour was a sobbing mess, sweat beading on his forehead, limbs twitching, and tears flowing out under closed eyelids. One of Potter's hands was forming a fist, clenching and unclenching, while Potter muttered something which Draco eventually recognised as 'I'm sorry' over and over.

Slowly, Draco stretched out his hand. When his fingers touched Potter's hand, the other student's hand closed around Draco's, clinging to his hand for dear life. Draco had no idea what it was that caused these nightly terrors, but he assumed it had to do with the war. Most people's nightmares had. Trapping Draco's hand in his grip, Potter kept repeating apologies over and over again, but at least ceased his screams.

Acting on its own, Draco's other hand found its way to Potter's face, carefully stroking the black strands out of Potter's face. The blond used his sleeve to wipe the sweat off the Gryffindor's forehead, and was surprised to find the Boy Who Lived relaxing when Draco's fingers stroked through the unruly black hair. The smaller male's breathing slowed down to a more regular and less ragged pace, and while Potter was still holding on to Draco's hand like a lifeline, the tears slowly stopped flowing.

Satisfied to have calmed Potter down – by this, he had basically done a good deed! –, Draco tried to untangle his fingers from Potter's. To his surprise, though, the other student tensed, and frantically felt for Draco's hand, trapping the Slytherin's pale fingers between the Saviour's calloused hands.

Seeing as he apparently wouldn't get back to his bed any time soon, Draco stepped back and removed his hand from Potter's hair for a moment to fetch a nearby chair. It took a good minute for Draco to get somewhat comfortable in the chair, but eventually, he managed to doze off, still holding Potter's hand, his head resting against the metal frame of the Gryffindor's bed.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

He can feel their hateful glares, but something is missing. There used to be a present which used to stand out of the mass, sending especially distasteful looks his way, but he can't seem to find it. Instead, there's someone new. He can't see them, but he can feel them. They stand behind him, stroking through his hair and holding his hand. He doesn't know who they are, but they send an unspoken promise of protection his way.

One time, they retract their fingers, and he feels around until he can wrap his fingers around their slender hand again. He doesn't know who they are, but they don't leave him. He's not alone.

When Harry awoke the next morning – day three of his stay in the Hospital Wing –, he felt more rested than during the past two days. Don't get him wrong, he still felt as though his legs would fail him were he stupid enough to leave the bed, but somehow, he didn't feel as exhausted – emotionally-wise – as he used to. He reached for his glasses, put them on, and took a look around.

The next thing he noticed was that Draco Malfoy was asleep in a chair next to his bed.

Within an instant, Harry's thoughts were racing. What was going on? He hadn't seen Malfoy in the Hospital Wing the last time he had been awake. Maybe the other boy had come here some time after dinner the day before, when Harry had been asleep, but if so, why was Malfoy sitting next to him, and not in one of the other beds? A year ago, Harry wouldn't have hesitated to assume that Malfoy was up to something, but given their interactions this year, he wasn't so sure anymore. The revelations about Malfoy being harassed still made Harry's blood boil with anger.

'You do know that staring makes people uncomfortable, Potter?'

Malfoy's voice – surprisingly lacking its usual venom – jolted Harry back into reality. He hadn't noticed that he'd been staring at the blond Slytherin while lost in thoughts about Malfoy. Much to his embarrassment, Harry could feel his face heating up in a blush. Crap. Now he'd made a fool out of himself in front of Malfoy. Hopefully, he hadn't drooled or something equally mortifying. He quickly stuttered an apology and frantically scanned his surroundings for a quick escape. Maybe he could excuse himself by claiming that he had to talk to Madam Pomfrey… Without hesitation, Harry folded back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

He hadn't come far when his legs failed him. Before his face made contact with the floor, however, pale arms wrapped around his torso, effectively keeping him from falling. Malfoy led him back to his bed, and Harry was surprised by his former enemy's strength when he helped Harry to climb back into his bed. Even more so when the expected snide remark never came.

'Should I call Madam Pomfrey?'

Harry shook his head, doing his best to will away the blush. Not only he had been caught staring at Malfoy, but he had almost fainted in front of him. It was unlikely, given Malfoy's recent change of heart, but he'd better be prepared for new jokes on himself. Exhausted, Harry let his head fall back into the pillow.

'Do you get these nightmares regularly?' Harry's head whipped around at the sound of Malfoy's words. What—how did Malfoy— 'I – I have no idea what you're talking about,' Harry stammered. The blond only rolled his eyes in response.

'Could've fooled me, Potter. For your information, I woke up to you screaming blue murder.' The usual sneer returned to his face. 'But of course I am not worthy enough for The Saviour Himself to talk with, so I guess I'll just leave you alone.'

'Wait!' Harry cried out, flinching at the desperate tone of his voice. Malfoy froze mid-step, then slowly turned around.

Harry sighed. ' 'bout two months, give or take a week,' he said. 'Most of the time, I haven't slept more than one hour per night.'

Malfoy seemed a bit taken aback at Harry's honesty, but he quickly replaced the surprised expression with a thoughtful frown. He opened his mouth and began, 'Have you tried,' followed by a list of anti-nightmare-spells or -potions, but each time, Harry could only shake his head – he had tried all of them already, without success. The look of disappointment that flashed across the Slytherin's features reminded Harry of the expression Hermione wore when she couldn't solve a problem, and he wondered when he had begun to compare his arch-enemy to his best friend.

However, Malfoy quickly restored his usual, blank expression and turned towards Madam Pomfrey's office. While Malfoy spoke to the school nurse, Harry used the opportunity to change into his usual clothes – he would probably have to spend the rest of the day in bed, or sitting in a chair at best, but he could at least try not to look like a patient tied to his bed. Harry itched to just go and walk, but given that his limbs were still shaking as soon as he tried as much as stand on his own feet, he would only end up breaking his bones during the attempt.

Some time during his wallowing in self-pity, he noticed Malfoy return. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Slytherin grab his clothes and disappear behind the curtains of an unoccupied bed to change. Saw him emerge from them, pyjamas in his hand, clothed in the usual school robes, and making his way to the door.

'Malfoy?'

For the second time that day, Malfoy stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. He merely raised an eyebrow at Harry, encouraging him to say whatever he wanted to say.

'Uh, I just realised I never thanked you –'

'What for, Potter?'

'The Manor, remember? I mean, you recognised me, I know that, but for whatever reason you didn't tell them. I've been meaning to thank you since I returned your wand,' that had been the most awkward ten minutes of Harry's life, both he and Malfoy dancing around each other, exchanging pleasantries none of them meant, 'but I guess it never seemed fit, okay? So, um, yeah… thank you.'

Malfoy's smile seemed fake, and it didn't go further than to the corners of his mouth. 'And you pulled me out of the flames when I had just tried to turn you in anyway, so I guess we're even. Anything else the matter?' He didn't give Harry the time to respond. 'I'll take my leave, then.'

— Denial and its Side Effects —

Watching McGonagall and Slughorn rummage through his belongings was beyond humiliating. Dean, Seamus, and Neville had probably noticed that Harry had taken potions recently, but they had been decent enough not to ask any questions. And while Harry could rely on his house mates not to spread rumours, he couldn't ignore their questioning looks every time the two teachers searched Harry's trunk.

He had been discharged from the Hospital Wing the week before, and from then, he'd had to bear through this disgracing procedure every bloody evening. He still slept like shit, if he slept at all, he still felt exhausted more soon, and on top of that, he had a shit load of homework to catch up on. Every night, Harry had to clench his hands into fists, and bite onto his pillow to muffle the sobs which escaped his shaking torso. He rarely ever slept before two in the morning, and woke up at least one hour before the rest of the dorm. He felt like utter crap, to sum it up.

Eager to escape the curious looks from the other Gryffindor, and to get away from the undignified scene in front of him, Harry grabbed his Potions book, a self-inking quill, and a piece of parchment, and left the dorms. He mumbled something about 'gotta study' to Hermione, ignored her warning not to over-exhaust himself, and made his way to the library. Since he had missed one week, he'd had a hard time catching up on Potions the past few days, and right now, he had to write four feet of parchment about a memory-manipulating potion.

When he arrived, the library was mostly empty. The time remaining until curfew was cut short, and only a handful of students were still around. One of the Ravenclaw Beaters, whose name Harry couldn't remember, slept with a book in her lap; in an armchair by the window, Harry saw a slumped figure reading a newspaper; and as he walked past the aisles, he caught a glimpse of two Hufflepuffs snogging enthusiastically. Why they chose the library, Harry had no idea. Madam Pince was probably going to get those two detention if she found them.

Seating himself by a table, Harry opened his book and tried to focus on the words on the page. Brewing the potion in question was a rather complicated procedure, but fortunately, the students only had to write an essay about the draught. Which turned out to be hard enough, as Harry repeatedly failed to understand how the potion was supposed to modify the memory of those who drank it. He'd already written the part on the brewing, plus a short history of its invention, but the essay was due the next day, and curfew was getting closer and closer.

Exasperated, Harry shut the book closed with a loud THUD!, earning himself a disapproving glare from Madam Pince, before the librarian returned her attention to the book in front of her. Letting his gaze wander around the room, Harry saw the girl from Ravenclaw stuff her book into a bag and stumble out of the library, trying to stifle a yawn. At the opposite side of the room, the person occupying the armchair put away their newspaper, revealing a mop of white-blond hair—

—which belonged to Draco Malfoy. A crazy thought crossing his mind, Harry pushed back his chair and strode over to where Malfoy was sitting. The other boy paid him no attention, until Harry cleared his throat as loud as he dared in Madam Pince's presence. Sighing, Malfoy lowered the book he had picked up instead of the newspaper.

'What is it, Potter?'

Unsure how to phrase his request, Harry shuffled his feet for a moment, refusing to look at Malfoy directly. 'Er, I had some problems with my homework, I mean, I've missed a week, and I don't really get a part of the assignment, so I thought –'

Malfoy snorted. 'Oh, Harry Potter thought. Somebody alert the press.' The fake laughter ended abruptly. 'And what does this have to do with me?'

Harry doubted he'd ever felt more self-conscious before. Standing in front of Malfoy and admitting defeat, pleading for his nemesis to help him, it wasn't something Harry was keen on. Yet this was the second time already that he'd had to ask Malfoy for help.

'Well, I kinda hoped you could explain some stuff to me?'

'And I would do this because? Here's a hint: "I am Harry Potter" isn't enough.'

Harry bit back a groan. Malfoy just had to make it complicated, didn't he? The prat was so enjoying this. 'Just admitting that you're better won't work this time, right?' He knew the answer already. He wouldn't get Malfoy to help him with the same trick twice. 'Uh, I could help you with this bully problem of yours?'

Within moments, the blond's face darkened. He tossed his book away in favour of jumping up from his chair and press Harry against the closest bookshelf. Malfoy's eyes, sparkling with hatred, were inches away from Harry's.

'Shout it to the world, why don't you? For the last time, Potter,' the taller boy hissed, 'there is no problem, and if there was one, I surely wouldn't want your help. Understood?'

After Harry managed to nod, Malfoy let go of him and sat back in his chair. 'Good. Now, if you'd be so kind and just piss off…'

Anger flared up in Harry. He only meant well when he offered Malfoy to help, why couldn't the damn git see it? And he fucking needed Malfoy's help. If he failed his Potions class, then he could bury the idea to become a healer, because Saviour or not, St Mungo's wouldn't let him near their patients if he wasn't qualified for the job.

He must've said the last part out loud, because Malfoy gave him a look of genuine surprise, mixed with amusement, when he said, 'You want to be a healer, Potter? I thought you'd go for Auror – you know, run around, blow things up, catch evil wizards like me?'

Harry groaned in frustration. 'One, you aren't evil. Two, what's wrong with healer?'

Malfoy shrugged. 'Nothing.' Abandoning his book and armchair, he stood up and took a step forward. 'Alright, what was it that you didn't understand about the essay?'

Confused by the sudden change, but determined to grasp his chance, Harry led Malfoy to the table where he'd left his books. Malfoy, of course, made a comment about his untidy scrawl, and claimed that everything Harry had written so far was 'poor', but sat down to explain the mysteries of memory potions to Harry nonetheless.

'—you see, the roots are the part which makes the recipient lose their memory. But since it's a memory-modifying potion, it also contains these, which stimulate certain brain areas to make sure that the drinker's subconsciousness produces false memories in order to fill the gaps in the victim's memory.'

Harry let his head fall to the table with a groan. 'Can you explain it in English, please?'

Malfoy sighed and buried his head in his hands. 'Imagine this, Potter: You go to a party, you drink too much, and the next morning, you wake up in a stranger's bed – naked. Well, that's not the part you should imagine, but if you would be in this situation, you would of course try to imagine what has happened the evening before, right? You would think of different scenarios which might have led to the aforementioned situation. That's exactly what this potion does. It tells the recipient's brain, hey, what could possibly have happened while I was out cold, only that unlike in the scenario I described, the victim doesn't notice what's going on, it only sees the false memory it's subconsciousness produced.'

Harry slowly nodded, trying to keep his eyes from falling shut. ' 'kay.' He fought a yawn, and collected parchment, book, and quill. 'I'll try to write it down in the dorms. I think the library closes now, so we better get going.'

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted when they heard a shriek from where the books on Quidditch stood. Seconds later, Madam Pince emerged from the aisles, dragging two students – who Harry recognised as Ernie McMillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley – by their ears. The look on the librarian's face made Harry want to curl into a ball and hide.

'You two,' the old lady growled as she strode towards the door, 'are now going to explain to the Headmistress why exactly you thought it would be a good idea to do inappropriate things in my library.'

'We were just kissing!' Ernie yelled, face dark crimson, but it only served to upset Madam Pince even further.

'That's what they always say. Had I come a moment later, I would have found you two doing – fornicating next to the bookshelves! Not even James Potter ever dared to defile this library, and I will make sure that you won't either.'

A choked sound next to him caught Harry's attention, and he turned his head to find that Malfoy was desperately trying to suppress his laughter, tears rolling down the Slytherin's cheeks as he clutched his stomach. Harry had never seen Malfoy smiling genuinely, and now the boy almost choked on is own laughter at the sight of the librarian scolding two teenagers for kissing. Wonders never ceased to exist, Harry mused.

'And you two! Shouldn't you be in your dormitories already?'

Malfoy didn't stop chuckling until they parted ways outside the library.