A week had passed when the owl came. Draco was surprised. There was a system in place to prevent threats from getting through. He looked at the head table. No one seemed alarmed.

He switched his gaze back to the approaching bird.

The brown and white speckled barn owl grew in familiarity as it approached; it seamlessly dropped its delivery beside his plate and onto his flatware. It was rolled up parchment, wrinkled and worn, with red ribbon and gold ribbon around its center. Potter. He recognised the owl only as it flew away. He instinctively looked toward the Gryffindor table, scanning its inhabitants. Potter was nowhere in sight. Pressing his lips into a thin line, Draco carefully picked up the roll of parchment and unfurled it. The parchment was torn along the edges and it looked like it had been crumpled up and smoothed out multiple times before a decision to send it was cemented.

There were five words written in scratchy black ink: The usual place. Tonight. Midnight.

He blinked, looking toward the table again. Potter had yet to appear.

To say he was undecided was... an understatement. He was still grappling with his resolve from the other night; he and Potter weren't exactly at each other's throats anymore but they weren't not either. Did Potter regret not cursing him again? Maybe.

Did Draco?

No.

Potter had always fascinated him.

Even when they were at each other's throats.

And, well, who could blame him?

He had been a kid once too.

Potter's name had haunted his childhood, typically said with a breathless sort of awe—albeit not in his own house. Still, Harry Potter was a literal legend. He had managed to succeed where many had failed when he was only one. There were whispers of hero and the chosen one and power. And power? Well, that he was encouraged to envy... to seek. When they met at the beginning of their first year—when Potter was right there, standing right in front of him, Draco's heart had skipped and stuttered and swelled.

Potter rejecting his hand—his friendship—him—had given him a mark far before He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named had.

Draco had longed for his attention. Even after and Gods, it was easy to rile Potter up. It was fun. The anger and disgust that lashed out at him whenever he poked and prodded was better than nothing, better than no attention at all, better than being cast into the shadows and forgotten. If he could rile Potter enough at least he'd be a footnote in the story, and he'd lie and say it was his power that he was envious of, not his bravery or loyalty or light. He would lie and say looking at Harry fucking Potter wasn't like staring steadfast into the sun.

He rolled the parchment back up and loosely tucked its ribbon around its center.

Draco carefully slid it into his pocket, knowing a decision had to be made.

X

He left early.

It was just after eleven and no, he had made a mistake and then he was following the twisting halls back to the dungeon and no, he was in the bathroom again because where else was their usual? and no—

His legs would no longer cooperate and before he could convince his body to do otherwise, Potter was in front of him, little more than a step away from him in the center of the loo.

He appeared out of thin air. Literal thin air and Draco hated how he was startled at the sight, eyes drawn to the cloak hanging from his arm, silver and sliding and not quite there.

"You came."

There was a breathless quality to the observation. Draco looked back to his face.

Potter looked different. His eyes were no longer bloodshot and his skin was less shadowed, cheeks less gaunt. He looked almost... happy to see Draco and Draco's heart moved into his throat.

"Observant as always," Draco managed. It was meant to come out a drawl but sounded off-tilt, almost nervous. Potter flashed him a small smile and Draco forced himself to avert his gaze, eyes settling on the cloak again. Knowledge tickled the back of his brain and he was suddenly in his fathers study, books stacked around him like a castle wall, uneven, spindling towers near either knee. He blinked. "Is that... an invisibility cloak?"

Potter nodded, half-lifting it toward him. His voice was warm. Fond.

"Yeah," he answered, running his other hand over the silky material. "It was my dads." His hand flickered in and out of existence and Draco lifted his gaze to his, somewhat surprised Potter shared. It explained a lot, of course—explained why the other boy seemed to appear at the most inopportune times of Draco's life. He was, quite literally, appearing by magic. "I forgot it the other night..." he made a face, nose screwing up some.

"Lucky me," Draco admitted.

It was his turn to flush then, heat rushing to his cheeks and coloring the better part of his face a dusty pink.

Potter smiled again and it was genuine and bright and directed at him and Draco's lungs tightened and twisted. He swallowed hard, setting his jaw.

"So—what... what did you want?" he managed.

Potter's smile softened and faded but his expression never hardened. There was that intensity again—the same from the other night—the one that drop-kicked Draco's stomach and sent it into a dizzying tailspin to his feet.

Fuck.

Potter suddenly looked nervous. It was Potter that averted his gaze then and instead stared down at the floor, stabbing at a scuff mark with the toe of his shoe. He bit at his bottom lip, drawing it up and into his teeth and Draco was relieved Potter didn't see how his gaze lingered there, eyes transfixed. Draco swallowed again, forcing his eyes down and to Potter's hands. One hand still toyed with the edge of the invisibility cloak and if Draco focused hard enough he could see the fabric fade, melt into the air more than disappear, twisted carefully around Potter's fingers.

Something in his chest quivered and he switched his gaze back to Potter's face.

"I want us to be friends." Potter didn't look up when he said it. Not at first. Instead he repeated it, a bit louder then, trying to turn it less of a whisper and more of a declaration. "I want us to be friends."

Potter finally lifted his gaze, head still tilted down; he looked at Draco from under his glasses and through his eyelashes.

Draco knew he was waiting for him to reply but his vocal chords sort of seized under the pressure and that look.

Potter cleared his throat nervously and lifted his chin, trying to look Draco more squarely in the eyes. Hesitance lined the movement and was Draco short circuiting?

"I don't care what other people think.. or—well, I'm trying not to—I mean... fuck 'em, right? And okay, maybe we can't move on—but we can try at least—trying is something and—well, we can do this. We can—we can have this."

The words came slowly first, then rushing, and Potter was rambling, his weight shifting from one foot to the other and Draco was trying desperately to process everything that came. Tingling relief and dizzying happiness and slow disbelief—wait.

We can have this.

Potter was moving closer, closing the distance and oh yes, Draco was definitely short circuiting. His thoughts were screaming and spinning and wait—what?

"..this?" he asked carefully, searching Potter's eyes. They were a bright emerald again, glittering in the torchlight, and Draco's hands felt clammy.

Potter nodded slowly, expression suddenly guarded.

"This," he repeated, close enough so that Draco could feel his breath.

A twitch of his mouth, eyes searching his still, Potter clarified, "Each other."

Potter was frighteningly close then. Draco could feel the heat radiating from the other boy, could smell his aftershave—notes of cedar and pine—and feel the shift of the invisibility cloak in his arms. The intensity in his eyes had returned and Draco could feel the steam in his chest again, quickly filling his lungs and causing his chest to ache.

"As friends?"

Draco didn't mean for it to be a question.

Potter nodded again.

"Yeah," he answered slowly, "or..." the suggestion was more of a breath than a word, "whatever." His eyes dropped down to Draco's mouth.

Draco's heart punched his lungs.

As friends.

Or whatever.

He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, heat and desire up and out. "Tell me," he started, waiting until Potter's eyes returned to his, "Potter." He pressed into his name, putting emphasis on each syllable, and his voice was lower than before. "What exactly does..." Draco dropped his eyes down to his mouth then, letting his gaze linger on his lips before dragging back up and to his eyes, "whatever entail?"

It seemed rather easy to turn the tables.

Potter practically sputtered out, "Get... get creative?" with a squeak in his voice and there was a laugh of a breath in Draco's chest.

His expression darkened some and his hand was twitching up and out, floating through the air until his fingertips brushed Potter's clothed side. There was a flicker of relief as Potter seemed to lean into the motion, moving closer yet, and a half-smirk, half-smile touching his lips. "Maybe I will."

"Malfoy?" Potter gulped out, tilting his face near his. "Stop talking."

A full smile then and Draco tilted his face accordingly. He thought of making another remark but why when he could act instead—he shifted his weight toward the fronts of his feet and then their noses were bumping, eyes closing, and he was leaning further in, bowing down until Potter's lips were crashing against his. There was a moment of hesitance, a silent question passed through the press of their lips. Potter wasted little time answering, pressing his mouth more firmly against his, and then they were actually kissing, their lips slotted and playing against one another's—no, not just kissing but breathing each other in—and when they pulled apart, Draco was breathless.

He lifted his face but kept his head bowed, his forehead pressing against Potter's for a moment. During the kiss Potter had shifted, pressing his hands against either side of Draco's waist. His fingers had turned in toward his palms, catching his t-shirt in their grasp and drawing him closer; the invisibility cloak was pressed between their bodies, a cool break from the heat. Draco's hand was on Potter's side then, fully pressed against the curve of his hip, and he lifted his other hand to let it settle against the back of his head. Potter opened his eyes briefly to stare into his, another question presenting itself and Draco's lips were playing into a small smile as Potter shifted up and forward to kiss him again.

Draco's fingers curled into his hair and he closed his eyes again, melting into the contact. He drew his teeth against Potter's bottom lip, gently nipping, and then smoothed his tongue against the imprint—Potter was opening his mouth against his, tongue pressing forward and then Draco could taste him and there was another crash of heat and steam.

Potter tasted of mint—of toothpaste?—and a thrill shot through Draco at the idea that Potter had planned this—wanted this.

Wanted him.

Potter was practically clinging to him and Draco shifted, moving carefully to balance a leg between Potter's as the kiss deepened; he leaned forward and began guiding Potter with him, encouraging him to stumble backward and toward the nearest wall. Their bodies jolted as Potter's back made contact, his head shielded with the palm of Draco's hand. A slight tug to his hair, angling his mouth further up to drag his lips away and to the curve of his jaw. A breathless groan escaped Potter. Draco barely recognized the noise as words: "Whatever it is, then."

There was a laugh of a noise in the back of Draco's throat and he pressed a biting sort of kiss to the juncture of Potter's jaw. Potter's right hand stirred, loosening its hold on him and stuttering around to press against the small of Draco's back.

"What?" Draco drew back to mutter, pressing another kiss to Potter's mouth—lighter and teasing then—quick, "Scared, Potter?"

More confirmation in a familiar two words that sounded rough around their edges: "You wish."

It was Potter laughing then, the noise light and breathless, and he was quickly claiming his mouth with his.