Chapter 32
Draco had seriously considered not showing up that evening. He wouldn't know what to say if Potter asked him about the kiss the day before. He could try to pass it off as a joke again, but Potter wasn't that stupid.
He didn't particularly want to face the dementor-boggart again either. If he failed this time – he wouldn't fail this time, of course he wouldn't. It would be unbearable if he did.
And in the end he had decided to go anyway, because he was an idiot and despite everything he wanted to see Potter.
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It went more easily than he had dared to hope. He was waiting by the stairs to the dungeon – he was always waiting, apparently Potter had no qualms about the minutes of agony and/or boredom he so shamelessly put Draco through whenever they were supposed to meet. And if he was going to show up at all, then today of all days it would have been a kind gesture to be on time, but apparently that was beyond Potter's capability.
When he finally showed, he looked worn out, nervous and just as tense as Draco felt, and for a moment he was sure that it would be just as painful as he had feared, but he feigned nonchalance and made some stupid remark about Gryffindors and Potter's lateness, and Potter laughed at it, and it turned out that was all it took. Yesterday hadn't happened. Everything was back to normal. They went down the stairs together and locked themselves in the old classroom, but for a while none of them even mentioned the boggart. They just joked around for a bit, and Potter complained about Flitwick, and Draco agreed. Then there was lull in the conversation and they both waited for the other to bring it up, but in the end it was Potter who did. Draco wasn't the brave one, after all.
"You want to have another go at the boggart?" he asked.
"I suppose I'll have to," he said, trying hard to sound casual about it.
Potter crossed over to the wardrobe and Draco followed. He was getting nervous again. He took up position a few feet back and Potter turned to look at him.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.
Draco nodded.
"I'm sure. Come on, Potter, quit stalling and let's get it over with."
Potter still didn't reach for the handle.
"You don't have to. It might not even be a good idea – none of the others have done this, so-"
"I want to, okay?" he said. "I want to."
His palms were sweating. He could feel panic edging in on him. It was a nice offer, a chance to back out before he could fail. But it was too late now. Potter nodded and turned to the wardrobe again.
"Ready?" he asked.
Draco raised his wand and pointed it towards the closet door. He knew that if he wanted to, he could cast his patronus as soon as Potter turned the handle, before the power of the fake dementor could even reach him. He knew Potter would pretend not to have noticed it if he did. But he would notice, and then they would both know, and there wouldn't be a third chance after that. He had to remind himself of Azkaban. Azkaban was what was important.
Potter twisted the handle and pulled the door open. From the darkness came a gust of cold, the low sound of a rattling breath and Draco waited while the dementor glided forward towards Potter, who had his wand out but hadn't raised it. Draco couldn't see his face, but his shoulders were tense, and for a second he was distracted by the thought of Potter in third year, passing out whenever the dementors came near, and how he had never found out what it was they made him remember. Then he felt an icy twinge in his own mind and for one dreadful second he thought he had forgotten his happy memory, he thought that Potter was already raising his wand, that he had failed again.
But he hadn't. There was still time, so he forced the fear back, gripped his wand tighter.
"Expecto patronum!" he cried loudly, clearly, as if he wasn't afraid at all.
The silver snake appeared in the air and lunged at the shape of the dementor. It stopped, stumbled. Potter was still standing between it and Draco, so it didn't change shape.
There was no need to cast a Riddikulus this time. All Draco's pent up anxiousness, his fear and anticipation, was spilling over in relieved, triumphant laughter, and the boggart retreated into the darkness of the wardrobe. Potter stepped forward to push the door closed behind it, then he turned to look at Draco, grinning broadly at him.
"So," said Draco, still slightly out of breath. "That went better than last time."
"Yeah. It was brilliant."
"You shouldn't sound so surprised, Potter," he said in an exaggerated, condescending drawl, the tone Pansy used when she was mocking him.
"I mean, obviously it can't be that hard if you're able to do it. When have you ever mastered any sort of magic that I couldn't do twice as well?" he continued as he tucked his wand away in a pocket
When he looked up, Potter's smile had faded.
"What?" he asked, worried for a second that he hadn't caught on to the sarcasm, an apology already on his lips.
But Potter shook his head.
"Nothing," he said.
It didn't sound like nothing, and suddenly the silence between them was tense rather than triumphant. He knew it seconds before it happened what it was Potter was about to say, because apparently he hadn't gotten away with anything. Potter hadn't let it go, he had just saved it for later. For now, apparently.
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"Yesterday," Harry said, not really looking at Malfoy. "I thought maybe we should talk about it. About what happened."
"Really?" said Malfoy tersely, as if the word was bitter in his mouth.
He had grown rigid and was watching Harry warily.
He should have waited, Harry thought. This was not the right time. But if he had waited, he probably would have lost his nerve.
"Why did you kiss me?" he asked.
Malfoy closed his eyes, like he was taking a moment to steady himself. Or maybe to show his exasperation with Harry's stupidity that he had taken what happened so seriously, it was impossible to tell sometimes. Harry was aware of his heart pounding away hard in his chest. Malfoy's hesitation was excruciating, he had to fight to keep himself from just blurting out everything that went through his head and wait for an answer.
"I'm such an idiot," breathed Malfoy.
"What?"
Another long pause. Then Malfoy spoke, very carefully:
"You already know why," he said. "Why are you asking me?"
"Because I don't know," said Harry.
Malfoy grimaced.
"You're really going to make me say it?"
"I just want some sort of explanation, alright-"
"Fine," said Malfoy, cutting him off. "Fine. I kissed you because I was completely out of it after the boggart. I know it was stupid, but it really got to me. And then I suppose I was confused about the hand-holding, which isn't to say I'm blaming you or anything. But you wouldn't let me leave, for fucks sake - if I had just left like I wanted to, it wouldn't have happened."
"That doesn't explain why you-"
"Because I like you, Potter! I thought you had figured that out, but apparently I was giving you more credit for your intellect than you deserve. And I know how very inconvenient it is, which is why I tried to tell you that we should just ignore it."
Harry didn't say anything. He should, of course. He should say something reassuring so Malfoy would stop looking like he had just been stabbed and was trying not to let it show on his face. He just couldn't really think of anything.
The seconds ticked away while they stood there, not looking at each other. He didn't know why Malfoy had thought himself an idiot, it seemed to Harry he was the only one who deserved that title.
"Please don't be angry," said Malfoy.
He sounded tired.
"I'm not," said Harry.
Malfoy watched him like he was waiting for him to say something else.
"Should I leave?" he asked, when Harry remained silent.
Harry shook his head.
"No."
"Well, I'm not just going to stand here and wait for you to say something!"
"Just give me a second to think, alright."
Malfoy let out an exasperated laugh.
"I hate you," he said, but it came out soft, like what he really meant was I can't believe I don't hate you.
Harry stepped closer, because there was something flighty about Malfoy's manner now, like he might turn and run any second. And it wasn't like he would try to hold him back if he did, he just wanted to… be within reach. He opened his mouth to speak, but lost the words before he could say them. He breathed out heavily, felt his pulse hammer out another second.
"I don't hate you," he said.
That much was true, he thought. It wasn't the whole truth either, but he wasn't sure about the rest. He reached for Malfoy's hand, but it jerked away as soon as his fingers brushed his knuckles.
"Don't," he snapped.
Harry pulled his hand back.
"Sorry," he said.
"I know that this is just you trying to be nice about it, but honestly, Potter, I wish you would just leave it."
Harry wished he could stop thinking about his dream. He wished he could stop thinking about Luna, and about the astronomy tower and the fact that last night Draco had kissed him.
"I'm not… trying to be nice," he said. "I'm just sort of awful at this… things like this."
"Oh, please, like the famous Harry Potter hasn't had girls throwing themselves at him with declarations of crushes every day of his life of fame. You must have gotten used to handling it by now."
Harry forced a laugh. It was odd how two years ago he would still have interpreted the sarcasm as spiteful and the words as an insult. Now it was something else. He reached his hand out again, just the back of his fingers brushing Malfoy's knuckles, and this time he didn't pull his hand away.
"You're not a girl," he mumbled.
Malfoy scoffed.
"Right," he said. "That's a problem, of course."
"I'm not sure it is."
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Draco eyed him warily for any sign of humour, listened for a note of contempt, even though Potter wasn't that sort of person. He wasn't looking at him when he said it. Draco thought he might be blushing, but it was hard to tell when he had his face turned to the floor. He was standing too close again. If he looked up, his face would be right in front of Draco's. Were they the same height? He didn't even know. He used to care about that a lot, who was the taller of them. He used to set it up so he and Potter were competing about everything, and he would keep score in his mind, so the summer when they came back and Potter seemed to have grown twenty inches and he had only grown a few, Draco was behind, but then he got better grades in every single class and was ahead for a while, and then Potter saved the world, and Draco lost. Draco always lost in the end.
He looked down at their hands as he threaded his fingers through Potter's fingers. Because he was an idiot. He was a constant disappointment to himself. When he looked up, Potter was watching him again and his face was so close. Draco stared into those startlingly green eyes and tried to read the expression in them. Potter leaned in.
"This alright?" he asked and Draco could feel his breath on his face.
"I suppose," he said, and it should have sounded haughty, like he only deigned to approve, but it was just breathless and toneless and quiet.
Then Potter's free hand reached up and curled around the nape of Draco's neck. Draco closed his eyes and Potter pushed his fingers up into his hair and pulled him closer. He kissed him, and everything in Draco's mind went numb.
This was different from the careful kiss Draco had brushed over his lips the day before. Potter was kissing him, and his breath was fire in Draco's mouth, his lips nipped at Draco's, there was the foreign push of his tongue, and Draco kissed him back. Their fingers were still oddly intertwined and every nerve in Draco's body hummed.
He wasn't sure who pulled back first. Potter's hand remained curled in his hair for a moment when they did, before he let it fall away. He let go of Draco's hand too. He looked away, grinning nervously.
"Alright," he said, a bit out of breath. "Okay, so… Right."
Draco's heart was pounding.
"Why did you do that?" he asked.
Potter looked at him.
"What?"
"Why did you do that?"
"Because I thought- well, didn't you- I don't know."
He shrugged.
"I don't know. I wanted to. I think maybe I've wanted to for a while now…"
Draco smiled at the floor.
"I can't believe this," he said.
Potter cleared his throat.
"Yeah, well I guess it's a thing now?"
"If you want it to be."
Potter nodded. Laughed breathily. Looked at him and looked away. Draco reached for him, burying his fingers in the dark curls, and pulled him in for another kiss.
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They stayed in the room for a while, but not much else was said. They mostly kissed, which was surprisingly easy. It didn't leave much room for thinking.
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And when there finally was a pause, Harry thought Malfoy might be about to say something or ask him something that would require thinking on Harry's part, so he suggested that they went back. He wasn't sure how much time had passed in the dungeon, only that they probably ought to leave soon. It still felt cowardly to have said it, but Malfoy just nodded.
"Yes, I suppose we should," he said.
Malfoy stepped away from Harry, out of reach, and a jolt of panic shot through him. He didn't want to leave. Leaving felt very final all of a sudden, as if what had happened might be something that was confined to this room and would vanish as soon as they closed the door behind them.
"Draco-" he began.
Malfoy, who was halfway to the door, turned and looked back at him with an eyebrow raised in a question, half smiling. And it hit him again, hard this time, how much he actually liked him. How much he cared about him. How nice he looked, too. Harry had always thought that Malfoy looked exactly like Lucius, but now he thought the similarity was more in his mannerisms than his actual appearance. Without the haughty arrogance that both father and son had projected, they really weren't that much alike. He couldn't quite recall what Malfoy's mother looked like, but he thought it was possible that apart from the sleek, white blonde of his hair, he was actually taking after her. But he had never seen her smile like that either.
"What?"
Harry shook his head.
"Nothing."
"Are you coming, then?"
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They walked together to the stairs leading from the dungeon to the upper levels of the castle. Neither of them said anything, but it wasn't an unpleasant silence. They stopped by the steps and Harry turned to Malfoy.
"You know, we probably shouldn't tell people about this," he said. "If you don't mind."
Malfoy nodded.
"Probably a good idea. I wonder if it would make the Prophet, though? If it were to get out, you know, by accident. It might seriously change my public image, a Malfoy snogging the Chosen One – that was a joke, Potter."
"Good," said Harry quickly, knowing he had probably looked horrified for a moment.
He seriously couldn't tell sometimes.
"Seriously," said Malfoy again. "Just a joke. This is no one else's business."
Harry nodded.
"Right," he said. "So I guess I'll see you around?"
"I guess you will."
There was a moment's hesitation where neither of them moved to leave and Harry wasn't sure what to do, because just going up the stairs would seem like they were pretending that nothing had happened, and he didn't want that. He ought to say something to recognize that it was real. But then Malfoy leaned in and kissed him. And he supposed that worked to pretty much the same effect.
"See you tomorrow, Potter," he said, smiling his pretty smile.
Then he turned and walked away down the hall.
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Harry ascended the stairs and made his way back to Gryffindor tower. It was a long walk from the dungeons and since the corridors were mostly empty this time of night, it gave him some time and space to think over the events of the evening.
He had kissed a bloke. That was one thing. And he wanted to kiss him again, which was another. He wondered vaguely if this meant that he was queer, but he would rather not think about that. He didn't have to decide about it now; it didn't matter anyway, as long as no one knew.
The bloke he had kissed was Malfoy. Draco. And despite how awful that was supposed to be, despite his disagreement with Ron, his shame had drastically diminished. He was just happy in a violent, wonderful, all-encompassing way that made him feel slightly drunk. It felt like a victory, and there was just a second where he was excited to tell his friends about it, before he remembered that he couldn't.
It was only when he reached the portrait of the fat lady, that he realized that he was still smiling like an idiot, and quickly wiped the grin off his face. The fat lady was asleep in her frame. He cleared his throat, but she didn't wake.
"Excuse me?" he said.
She stirred, then straightened up and yawned as she shot him an annoyed look.
"What?" she demanded.
"I need to get into my common room."
"Password?"
It felt very strange to climb through the portrait hole to the common room. He felt sure that everyone would be able to tell just by looking at him exactly what had happened, like it was written all over his face. He was very aware of his face. And his mouth. But no one seemed to notice him at all.
He looked around and found Hermione still settled on the sofa in the corner. Ron had fallen asleep next to her with his head on her shoulder. She looked tired too, her eyes droopy but still focused on the long roll of parchment that trailed over her knees and the edge of the sofa and all the way to the floor. She was poking her lip with the tip of her quill as she read, sometimes putting it to the parchment and scribbling some addition in the margin, or crossing something out. She had ink stains on her cheek and her hand. He felt suddenly weird that he was watching them. Usually he would have stayed with them, either struggling with his own homework or distracting himself with keeping Ron awake.
Except that wasn't entirely true either, because that also belonged to a time when Ron and Hermione would never have sat that close, when Hermione wouldn't have allowed Ron to fall asleep on her and Ron wouldn't have dared to touch her that way anyway.
And maybe he had sometimes kept out of the way of that new closeness because he had been slightly jealous. Not because it had changed how they felt about him – Ron was still his best mate, Hermione was still like a sister to him – but even though he knew it wasn't fair, he sometimes envied them that they were together after the war, when it had broken him and Ginny apart. He still missed her sometimes. It had been good with her.
But thinking about Ginny and watching Ron and Hermione stung less now than it used to. Which could possibly be attributed to Malfoy, which was endlessly weird.
He walked over to them, but Hermione remained absorbed in her paper.
"Hi," he said.
She started and looked up at him.
"Oh, hi Harry," she said. "You're back late."
He felt blood rushing to his face.
"Uh, yeah. I was with Malfoy."
"How did it go?"
"Good. Pretty good."
She nodded.
"You know, I was reading something earlier. I didn't know if it was worth anything, but I've been thinking about it, and it might be, so I need to get a hold of him soon," she said, lowering her voice even though no one but him and Ron were within earshot. "In fact, we probably need to get a hold of everyone, but if you get the chance, will you tell him to get to the room when he can?"
"Why?"
She leaned forward as much as she could without disturbing Ron and said quietly:
"It's Azkaban. I've found something about the dementors."