Draco stays behind in the Slytherin common room that evening.
He passes some time finishing an essay due next week with Pansy, listening as she talks about this girl she's apparently been seeing for an entire week without him noticing. By the time they're done – after what must have been an hour of chatting and not even half spent writing – he's fairly certain he knows more about this Hannah Abbott girl than he does about his own mother. However, hearing the enthusiasm in her voice as she recalls them holding hands in front of everyone for the first time, he can't say he really minds.
After Pansy has gone to bed, claiming she can barely keep her eyes open anymore, he moves to sit in an armchair near the fireplace and away from everyone else. There he sits and waits, toys with the can of broomstick polish in his lap, and watches as more and more students gather their things, bid their friends goodnight, and retreat to their dormitories for the night.
Eventually, he's all alone.
When Draco steps outside the Slytherin common room a little while later, once he's sure the castle has settled for the night, he has his wand in his pocket, his broomstick polish in his hand, and a warm scarf wrapped around his neck. His heart beats just a little quicker than usual, he notes, and he's not sure whether that is from the fear of getting caught out after hours by a professor, or from something– someone else.
A girl is waiting for him when he steps out into the corridor, and he can't deny the shock running through him just then, even though he knew she would be there.
"Hi, Draco," she says, and she's oddly calm to be standing here in the dark, quiet corridor after curfew. Though, he supposes she's allowed to be out here, considering the prefect pin on her shirt and all. "I'm Hannah." Stepping closer, she holds her hand out for him to shake. "I'm assuming Pansy told you I'd take you outside?"
He nods. "She did."
"Great." She smiles and motions for him to follow her.
They walk down the dark corridors of the castle in silence, for the most part anyway. Another prefect wandering about the fountain courtyard – Ravenclaw by the looks of it – spots them as they pass by, and Hannah leaves him for a moment to chat with them. Draco is standing too far away to hear what they say, but he sees her gesture in his direction, and the Ravenclaw prefect eyes him curiously, so he can only assume it's about him.
He wonders how much she knows, about why he's out here exactly. Pansy isn't one to tattle – at least not about him, that is – but she had seemed perfectly fine with telling him this girl's entire life story back in the common room.
"I saw Harry leaving the Gryffindor tower earlier, on my way to find you," Hannah says as they continue walking, and he supposes that answers his question – partly anyway. "He should be near the Quidditch stadium, flying about probably," she continues, pausing to push the door leading outside open, "at least that's where I've always seen him."
They stop just outside, and from here, Draco can see the faint outline of the stadium in the light of the moon. It's much colder than he had expected, and he buries his nose into his scarf. Hannah turns to him, shoving her hands into her pockets, and she looks eager to get back inside.
"I'll have to get back to patrolling now," she says, and her breath becomes a misty cloud in the cold air, "but if you need me, I'll be near the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower."
"I think I'll be fine."
"Alright, then." She flashes him a polite smile and turns to go back inside. "Good luck."
At that, Draco wonders how much she really knows, not quite sure just how much Pansy shares with her. He hasn't seen her this interested in anyone before, all excited and heart-eyed, at least while he has known her.
"Wait."
Hannah pauses in the door, just as she's about to shut it behind her and get back to her duties, and she looks at him with a puzzled expression on her face. "Yes?"
"You better treat her well," he says, and Hannah's brows furrow in confusion, though it's only for a moment as his words register. "She really likes you, you know. Can't stop talking about you once she starts."
At that, her eyes widen ever so slightly, and she breaks eye contact to look about as if it's not dark and there is nothing to see. Draco suspects the colour spreading across her cheeks isn't the cold's doing.
"Some words of advice," he begins, and takes a step closer, "hurt her, and you'll regret it, got that?"
She nods hurriedly.
"Good," he says, and with that they part ways.
This late at night, the Quidditch pitch is uncharacteristically quiet. What is normally one of the busiest spots on Hogwarts' grounds, always occupied by students practicing new Quidditch tactics or flying about with friends, is now completely empty. With the only source of light being the moon peeking out from behind the clouds, it's dark and hard to see very far.
However, as Draco wanders around the pitch, looking for any signs of Potter, he spots something.
Left in a pile on a bench, off to the side of the Quidditch pitch, is a cloak. Now, he supposes this could be anyone's cloak – some forgetful person having left it behind earlier today perhaps – but considering the fact that Potter's wand is sticking out of one of the sleeves, he highly doubts it. The initials neatly stitched into the collar of it might also give it away, he supposes.
Draco's eyes immediately begin searching the sky.
Along with the moon, an array of stars spreads across the sky tonight, and it's a beautiful sight. Had he known it would be this nice – albeit this cold – out, he would have brought his broom with him, but he has to admit that his mind had been elsewhere earlier, when preparing to leave the castle. It's a miracle he remembered a scarf.
Several minutes pass like this, and not once do Draco's eyes leave the starry sky above him. Not even as he lies down on the cold bench to ease the ache in his neck, does he tear his gaze away. He needs to find Potter tonight, now that he finally has the opportunity.
He thinks it's something else at first, like one of those shooting stars they had learned about in Astronomy a while ago, or a trick of the eye even. However, as it gets closer, flying past the castle too low in the sky to be a star of any kind, and remaining even after rubbing his eyes, does he realise what it really is.
Potter.
Immediately does he begin searching for his wand, only taking his eyes off of him for a moment to dig through his pockets. When he finally pulls it out, he moves to sit, and he raises his wand into the air.
"Lumos."
The light is bright, blinding even. It hurts his eyes, makes them sting, and he squints as he begins searching the night sky for Potter again. Had he taken a moment longer to think, perhaps he would have worried a professor or prefect would see, but Potter's presence has made it very hard to think clearly lately, hasn't it.
This time he doesn't have to search for long. Something flies past somewhere high above him just then, and he knows exactly who it is.
"Lumos Maxima."
His eyes really sting this time, though as the figure on the broom halts somewhere above the Quidditch pitch and begins descending, it's not very difficult to ignore. He dims the light, however, the moment the figure lands and effortlessly climbs off his broom.
Potter approaches him with visible caution. His steps are slow, hesitant even, and he doesn't get much closer than a couple metres before he stops. Then, he looks him up and down, eyes narrowing behind his glasses at the sight of the can of polish in Draco's hand.
In an attempt to reassure him he is in fact not here to kill him, Draco carefully places his wand down beside him.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" Potter asks, sounding anything but reassured, and he supposes "spits" is a more suitable word. His grip on the broom tightens, and his eyes leave him for a moment only to search the cloak left on the bench for his wand. "Out here doing Umbridge's bidding, are you?"
Draco ignores the urge to roll his eyes. All this effort to get him alone, sneaking out of the castle in the middle of the coldest night so far this month, getting escorted outside by his best friend's Hufflepuff girlfriend, and he thinks he's here for a fight?
If he had wanted to fight him – to harm him – he would have found a less… tedious way, wouldn't he.
"I'm here of my own accord, actually." He stands, and Potter takes a step back and braces himself. This time Draco does roll his eyes. Does he really think he's out here to start something, and, what is he going to do about it, hit him with his broom? "I just needed you alone."
"Yeah? For what?" Potter is glaring at him now, and he doesn't give him the chance to answer before he's already continuing. "Did Umbridge set you and the rest of Slytherin up to this? To get me while no one is around, cast some curses on me while I'm not looking and leave me out here, is that it?"
Draco opens his mouth to speak, to deny all his claims and explain himself, but he's interrupted.
"Did she want you to make it seem like an accident?"
"No, I–"
"Or did she want you to put the blame on someone else?" His eyes narrow and he closes the distance between them in a few moments only, leaving nothing more than half a metre of space to breathe. Potter is shorter than him, yet right now he seems much, much taller. "Let someone I care about take the fall, because that is perfect, isn't it, considering–"
Tired of being interrupted and talked over, Draco takes the can of broomstick polish and shoves it into Potter's chest, much harsher than he had intended to. Either way, it does the trick. When Potter finally stops spewing his absurd suspicions and conspiracies, he grabs his free hand and forces him to take it.
"Open it."
Potter looks down at the polish in his hand, turns it around and reads the label, but makes no move to open it. "What's in it?" he asks instead, and once again does Draco roll his eyes, because if he were to kill Harry Potter, he wouldn't do it with a rather expensive can of broomstick polish in the middle of the school's Quidditch pitch, would he. He would never do it himself to begin with.
"Nothing that will kill you," he replies, and Potter's brows furrow in suspicion, so he adds; "or harm you, if that's what you're so concerned about. It's just some broomstick polish."
His words of reassurance – if one could call them that – don't seem to do much, because the can of polish is shoved back into his hands.
"Real funny, Malfoy," he says, though looks anything but amused. "Stole this from some girl's bag during Quidditch practice, did you? Hoping it's her I'm attracted to so you can embarrass the both of us at once, is that it?"
Draco opens his mouth to explain himself, but pauses. He knows that every word he says is going to go in one ear and out the other, that once he's done talking he's just going to continue his nonsensical rambling, and he doesn't bother. Instead, he grabs the can of broomstick polish and opens it himself.
Wordlessly, he grabs Potter by the front of his jumper, pulls him closer, and holds the can right under his nose. The Gryffindor only struggles for a moment, before he stills. Their eyes meet, and Potter looks much less pissed off, and much more puzzled.
"I– How did–"
He grabs the can right out of his hand, and finally does Draco release the grip on his jumper. He watches the way Potter's face morphs into a variety of emotions, switching from one to the next in the matter of seconds. It is almost as if he can hear the gears turning in his head.
Then, his eyes narrow and he looks at Draco with an expression he can only describe as exasperation. It reminds him of Professor Snape, and that is never a good thing.
"Where did you get this?"
Draco doesn't answer. "Is it the same as the one in the Amortentia potion?" he asks instead, though he is almost certain he knows the answer to that.
"Who did you take this from?" Potter says, ignoring his question to ask another, though Draco doesn't really mind. The tone of his voice is enough of an answer to him.
Harry Potter is attracted to him, and Draco can't help the laughter bubbling up in his chest and spilling out his lips just then, at the very thought. He turns away from him – Potter – to suppress it with his hands, and it's hard because it's just so absurd, but it does nothing when the Quidditch pitch is so empty and quiet.
All these years, Draco Malfoy has caused nothing but torment for him and his interesting choice of friends, been nothing but a nuisance during his stay at Hogwarts and a hurdle to overcome in his life. Yet, despite all this, he's attracted to him?
Attracted to what?
"What are you laughing at?" Potter asks, and he sounds as upset as he looks, and somehow that makes it all even funnier, and Draco struggles to calm down again. Sure, he has had a sneaking suspicion the broomstick polish in question could be this one, and it is a thought that has crossed his mind a few times these past few days. Still, it somehow catches him off guard. "Who did you steal this from?"
"No one," Draco says once he has finally calmed down enough to talk, and it's the truth. Potter, however, doesn't look convinced.
"This isn't funny, Malfoy–"
Draco snorts into his scarf in amusement. It very much is, goes unsaid.
"Whose is it?"
When he doesn't get a reply, he brings the opened can up to his nose once more. His brows furrow in concentration as he smells it. He studies the content of the can and reads the fancy label on the side over and over, and Draco watches him expectantly.
Much to his disappointment, though not surprisingly, does Potter look even more confused than he had before.
"I didn't realise it was you at first, either," Draco says, and that catches Potter's attention. He takes his eyes off the swirly letters on the side of the can to look at him instead, and he looks so out of the loop, it's almost adorable. To have fought a troll, gone up against the Dark Lord several times, and lived to tell the tale, he is unbelievably dim-witted. "The scent seemed so familiar, I thought it might have been home I was smelling."
Potter is staring at him now – out of the corner of his eyes because he has to look away to continue.
"Because that's what it had reminded me of," he says, nestles his chin into his scarf and feels it warm his skin. "A warm fire waiting for me after a long day out in the cold, embracing me and melting all my worries away, just for a little while, and–" He pauses, and if he focuses hard enough, he can feel the same warmth welling up in his chest.
"And I've never been to the Gryffindor common room before, but I imagine it's just like that, just like I have imagined."
He dares cast a glance in Potter's direction, and he finds him looking elsewhere now. They stay like this for a while, steal glances when the other isn't looking and sway on their feet when the breeze picks up. All the while, not a word is said.
There is an inkling of regret somewhere in Draco's mind, and perhaps he should have gotten a proper answer before admitting all this.
Then, Potter speaks. "Is this yours?"
"Yes."
"And…" He reads the label again, as if that is going to answer any other questions he might have. "And no one else uses this– this brand of polish?"
"My father got it for me," Draco says in a matter-of-fact tone, "I highly doubt it."
Out of the corner of his eyes, Potter's brows furrow and his gaze moves back and forth between the can of polish and Draco several times, before he has to intervene. Salazar Slytherin, Gryffindors can be so bloody oblivious, it is almost painful.
"You're attracted to me, Potter."
"I–"
"Merlin's sake," he mumbles, and he rolls his eyes at the look of confusion that hasn't left Potter's face nearly this entire time. Aren't Gryffindors supposed to be all about acting before thinking, and whatnot? "Just admit you fancy me and kiss me already." With that, he grabs two fistfuls of Potter's jumper, pulls him close, and presses his lips to his.
Potter stands frozen in place, there is the sound of something hitting the ground beside them, and Draco can tell – feel even – his eyes are on him. He imagines they're all wide and round with shock, and he cracks an eye open ever so slightly to find that is in fact the case. It's… endearing, he has to admit, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips, although his surprise doesn't last as long as he had thought it would.
Only a moment later does a hand – albeit hesitantly – come to rest on his waist underneath his cloak, while the other gently cups his face. Despite the sinking temperatures, they're warm and leave his skin feeling tingly, as if he has just entered a warm room after being outside in the cold. They're gentle, never gripping too tight even as the kiss deepens, and he feels oddly safe and comfortable.
The familiar warmth wells up in his chest, spreading beneath his skin, and it feels… It feels oddly like home. Not Malfoy Manor home, but rather Harry Potter's gentle embrace home, and it feels right.
However, just as suddenly as the kiss had started, it is over. Draco slips back into reality from wherever he had just been, and opens his eyes to see Potter gathering his things as if he's in a hurry. It's his turn to wear an expression of confusion now, because Potter is clearly leaving.
But, why?
"Where are you going?"
Potter is folding his cloak and draping it over his arm when he speaks, and he pauses. Even though he has his back turned, Draco can see the tension in his shoulders and back, and knows something is wrong. What is wrong exactly, he doesn't know.
He thought this had been going well.
"Why are you leaving?"
"Stay away from me," is all Potter says before he starts walking, passing by him without as much as a glance. The expression on his face is hard to read, and Draco finds himself far too confused to say anything else, let alone follow him.
All he can manage to do is stand there and watch as Potter walks away, eventually disappearing into the castle.
What just happened?
