The Shrieking Shack hadn't changed. The upstairs room still bore the signs of chaos from earlier that month—splintered furniture, the scent of old dust, moonlight slanting in fractured beams through broken shutters. The boards groaned under every subtle shift of weight, the whole place holding its breath like it knew something was about to break.
It smelled of old wood and secrets. The shattered furniture cast warped shadows across the floor, caught in the silver glow leaking through the cracked windowpanes.
Draco was already there. He stood off to the side, in the shadows where the moonlight didn't quite reach, arms folded tightly across his chest. His wand hung loose in his hand—ready but not raised. His pale eyes, sharp and watchful, tracked every flicker of movement like a predator. His posture was stiff, like even standing still required effort. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Harry stepped inside slowly, his jaw set tight. His hands were relaxed, but his whole frame was taut, alert. He paused at the threshold, scanning the room to be sure no one else was lurking among the wreckage. The demolished bed he had previously flung Snape into was now just a pile of brown splinters.
Harry raised his wand and murmured, "Lumos." Soft light bloomed at the tip, throwing gentle shadows across his face. Draco flinched but then relaxed when he realized what the spell was. Feeling embarrassed, he cast Harry a sharp, defensive look with a flicker of irritation. Harry looks straight at Draco, then, without a word, crossed to a battered table near the wall and laid his wand down. Draco's eyes narrowed even more, if it were possible. He didn't move.
"I'm not here to fight," Harry said, his voice steady, low.
Draco shifted his weight but didn't drop his arms. His mouth twisted into something sharp and disbelieving. "Really?" he said, voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "What is this, Potter? Some kind of trap?"
"No trap," Harry said simply, turning toward him. "You can keep your wand if it makes you feel better."
There was a long pause. Then, with visible reluctance, Draco walked forward and placed his wand beside Harry's, the sound of wood on wood loud in the quiet.
Harry turned back to face him fully. "Say whatever you want. Scream. Yell. Hit me if you need to. I'm not going to hex you. Just... say it."
Draco stared at him like he was mad. Then the dam broke.
"Oh, of course," Draco sneered, words spilling out like poison. "You, standing there all brave and broken, like you're carrying the weight of the bloody world. Always the hero, right? Everyone loves Harry Potter—the Chosen One, Gryffindor's golden boy. You get away with everything because you're so bloody brave, so bloody tragic. You didn't even get expelled for flying that car into the Whomping Willow! And everyone just eats it up."
He started pacing, fists clenching at his sides.
"You think your sad little orphan story makes you special? Boo bloody hoo, Potter. You don't have parents? At least you didn't have someone breathing down your neck every second of every day, telling you who to be, how to act, how to exist like a proper Malfoy."
Harry frowned slightly but stayed silent, letting him get it out.
"You have no idea," Draco hissed. "No idea what it's like waking up every morning knowing that your name is heavier than chains. That if you slip up once, you're not just failing yourself—you're a disgrace. Forever."
He whirled on Harry, eyes flashing. "You think you're better than me? You think you're so bloody noble? At least you got to be a person. I didn't even get to be a kid. I got to be a Malfoy."
His mouth twisted into a sneer. "And don't act like you're innocent. You didn't have to lift a finger. One look from you during the match, and next thing I know, I'm sprawled in the mud while the whole stadium laughs. Like I ever had a chance."
Harry's voice was steady when he finally answered. "I didn't knock you off your broom, Draco."
Draco laughed—cold and jagged. "Right. Your bludger just happened to be there, didn't it? Spare me." Draco didn't stop. "Doesn't matter. Everything's always about you. Everyone thinks you're perfect. But you're not. You're just lucky. You've got everything handed to you. Fame, fortune, fanboys—"
Harry cut in gently, "I was a kid, too."
Draco stopped pacing, his hands trembling slightly. His voice cracked when he spoke again. "Yeah? A kid with the entire bloody wizarding world kissing your arse."
"You don't know everything that happened," Harry said. His voice wasn't defensive—just tired.
Draco gave a short, humorless laugh. "Right. Because poor Potter's life was just so hard."
He shook his head, something brittle in his expression. "You think you were trapped? Try living as a Malfoy. Every move rehearsed. Every mistake punished. Your life mapped out before you could even walk. You weren't a person—you were a symbol. And you'd better be perfect, or you'd better be useful."
The words rang too loud for the broken room. They sat there between them, raw and vibrating.
"I didn't grow up with parents," Harry said. His voice was quiet, heavy. "I had a cupboard. An aunt and uncle who hated me. No expectations—just neglect. I used to wish I had what you had."
Draco stared at him, breathing hard. Then something in him faltered.
"My father..." Draco began, his voice thin, like the words hurt to say. "He doesn't want a son. He wants a name. A legacy. I'm just... the thing that's supposed to carry it."
He dropped his gaze, swallowing hard.
There was a long silence.
"Forget it," Draco muttered. "Not like you'd get it."
Harry crossed the room slowly and sat down on the broken frame of the old bed. It creaked under his weight. His voice was soft. "Maybe not. But I can try, if you let me."
Draco hovered there for a moment, torn. His eyes darted to the wands on the table, then to Harry. Finally, with visible effort, he crossed the floor and sat down too—distant, but not as far away as he could have.
He didn't look at Harry.
"Don't expect me to hold hands and braid hair," Draco muttered.
Harry gave a faint, tired smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The silence settled again—this time different. Less sharp. Less jagged.
After a long while, Draco spoke, his voice low and strange.
"My mother wants me perfect. My father expects it. Every breath I take is for the family. And I—I don't even know what I want. I just know what they want."
Harry nodded, slow and understanding.
"I used to envy you," he admitted. "Having a family. Parents who were still alive. I thought... it must be nice. But I didn't see the whole picture."
Draco snorted softly. "No, you didn't. And I used to envy you, too. You had friends who actually cared about you. People who liked you for who you were. I had to perform. Always be something."
Harry glanced over at him, a small smile touching his mouth. "You're kind of brilliant when you're not being a complete arse."
Draco turned to him, one eyebrow arched. "Don't get sentimental. It doesn't suit you."
But the jab lacked venom. His voice was softer now.
And they sat there, two boys bruised in different ways, the brokenness between them less a wall, more a bridge.
"I used to think you were everything I hated," Draco said. "Lucky. Untouchable. Always landing on your feet. But you're not, are you?"
Harry shook his head. "No. I'm just trying not to drown."
For a moment, Draco didn't reply. Then, softly:
"Same."
There was still distance between them. But the silence had changed.
Harry looked over. Draco was already looking at him, something brittle and breakable in his expression, like a boy standing on a ledge who didn't know if he should jump or turn back.
Harry shifted — meaning to stand, maybe, or to say something comforting — but his knee brushed Draco's. He froze. Draco didn't pull away. The space between them tightened, sharpened. And before Harry could think better of it — before either of them could shove the moment aside — Draco reached out, grabbed the front of Harry's shirt, and kissed him. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was a collision — mouths colliding, breath mixing, hands scrambling for purchase. Like they could tear the loneliness out of each other's ribs if they only held on tight enough.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing like they'd just sprinted through the Forbidden Forest. Neither spoke. They broke apart like they'd been burned, gasping. Harry stared at Draco, trying to catch his breath, trying to understand what the hell had just happened. Draco's chest heaved. His hands curled into fists at his sides. His face twisted into something ugly and raw.
"Don't," Draco said, voice low and furious, as Harry opened his mouth. "Don't you dare say anything."
Harry swallowed hard, hands shaking. "I wasn't—"
"I said don't," Draco snapped, stepping back — and then, like gravity betrayed them both, he lunged instead. Their mouths crashed together, rough and desperate and angry. Harry barely had a second to think before instinct took over, grabbing the front of Draco's shirt and yanking him closer. Draco pulled in just as hard, teeth scraping, hands grabbing onto Harry's robes like he wanted to tear them apart. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. It was a battle fought with mouths and teeth and desperate, furious hands. All the years of hating and wanting and pretending not to feel anything slammed into them at once.
It was too much — too sharp — and Harry shoved Draco back, chest heaving, eyes wild.
"What the hell are we doing?" he gasped.
Draco stared at him, lips swollen, hair a wreck, breathing just as hard. For a second — just a second — Harry thought he might snarl something cutting, end it there. But then Draco huffed a broken laugh — short and breathless, like he couldn't believe it either — "I have absolutely no fucking idea."
And somehow that broke the last bit of tension. Harry barked out a laugh — half-mad — and before he could second-guess it, he grabbed Draco by the front of his robes and dragged him right back in. This time it was clumsy — teeth clacking, noses bumping — and they both cursed under their breath, laughing into each other's mouths like the world's stupidest joke. Draco shoved at his shoulders like he was going to fight him off — but it was all wrong, too soft, too desperate — and Harry just pushed back, knocking them both sideways against the bed again. The mattress gave a pitiful groan beneath them.
"Smooth, Potter," Draco muttered against his mouth.
Harry grinned, breathless. "You started it."
Draco bit at his lower lip — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make Harry jolt — and then kissed him again, deeper this time, like he meant it. Their hands were everywhere, frantic, fisting into shirts and robes and hair, not careful, not planned — just hungry. Just alive. Harry shoved Draco down against the creaking mattress, one knee between his legs, both grappling like they couldn't tell if they were about to fight or fuck or both. Draco's hands yanked at Harry's collar, dragging him down like he was daring him to do it — daring him to want this, to keep wanting it. And Harry — reckless, desperate, hurting — did. He kissed him like he meant to drown in it. Like maybe if he kissed him hard enough, nothing else would matter for a little while. Like maybe, just maybe, he could forget. He could forget everything that happened previously in this room and outside.
Draco quickly got tired of being not on top and in one swift motion flips Harry onto his back. He pulls away back long enough to see Harry breathing heavy for this. The sight of his chest heaving in this moment made Draco feel powerful. He lunged back into Harry's mouth his tongue diving deep inside. Hands clawed at Harry's chest. It was though Draco couldn't get enough of his four minutes. And Harry the same clawing at Draco's back. It was enough to give him a shiver to cause Draco to even arches back and pull out of the kiss.
Then, just as Harry was about to pull him back into another kiss, Draco pulled away with a mischievous glint in his eyes. There was something in his gaze—a look that said, I'm about to cause a problem. He smirked, like he was about to do something very Draco Malfoy.
Harry barely had time to register the shift before Draco hopped off him with a laugh, landing lightly on his feet. His eyes met Harry's for a moment, filled with that familiar, bratty spark, before Draco turned toward the table. Without missing a beat, he reached for his wand, his fingers curling around it with practiced ease.
"Accio," he muttered, and Harry's shirt flew off his chest and straight into Draco's waiting hand.
Harry blinked, caught off guard for a second. His mouth parted in surprise, but the shock was quickly replaced by a laugh—half incredulous, half impressed. Did Draco just do that?
Before Draco could say a word, Harry was up and moving faster than Draco had expected. His own wand was already in hand, and with a smirk of his own, Harry pointed it at Draco. "You want to play like that?" he teased.
"Accio," Harry muttered, and with an almost dramatic flair, Draco's shirt was yanked from his chest and flew into Harry's hands. Draco froze, wide-eyed, and for the first time that night, Harry saw a flicker of surprise in Draco's expression.
Both stood there, shirtless, breathing a little harder than usual, their eyes locked on each other. The weight of the moment hit them at the same time: they were no longer just two boys caught up in an intense, passionate kiss. They were standing in front of each other, fully aware of their bodies, and they both wanted this—wanted to see each other like this.
They didn't speak at first. Draco's gaze moved from Harry's chest to his eyes, and then back to his chest. There was something vulnerable about it, yet confident too, like he was trying to get a read on Harry, but Harry wasn't sure who was studying whom.
Harry swallowed, not quite sure where to look himself. His heart was racing—had he just done that? And had Draco just let him? The whole thing felt so different now, so new. They weren't enemies anymore. Not in that moment.
Their eyes met again, and this time neither of them pulled away. The world outside the room didn't exist. The laughter, the playful banter, the intensity of it all—it was just them. Both shirtless, standing like this in front of each other.
The room was quiet again, the weight of the moment pressing in on them both. Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he met Draco's gaze, his eyes flicking over his bare chest before quickly locking back onto Draco's face. The silence was heavy, full of unspoken questions.
Neither of them moved at first—standing there, shirtless, each boy still processing the fact that they were even in this situation. They'd just shared a kiss that was heated and intense, but now, with the air between them so charged, neither of them quite knew how to take it further.
For a moment, Draco just stood there, eyes narrowed in a way that was far too focused for comfort. Then, his lips twitched into a sly grin, that bratty spark coming alive again. There was mischief in his gaze as he tilted his head slightly, looking at Harry as though he were sizing him up. Harry could practically feel the tension in the air.
Draco shifted his weight, then took a deliberate step forward, closing the space between them. His eyes never left Harry's as he moved, a slow and calculated movement. When he was close enough, he spoke, his voice low and almost teasing.
"Are you really just going to just stand there?" Draco's words hung in the air, playful but with that edge of mischievous charm that made Harry's stomach flutter.
It was all Harry needed to hear. Without thinking too much, Harry stepped forward, closing the distance completely. His body brushed against Draco's, and before either of them could process it, Harry was kissing him again, this time with a deliberate hunger, his arms wrapping around Draco's neck, pulling him closer.
Draco didn't pull away—he leaned into it, his hands sliding to Harry's waist, fingers playing against the bare skin, gripping him tightly. The taste of him was still fresh in Harry's mouth, but this kiss felt different. There was an urgency to it, but also an electric intensity that neither of them could ignore.
The kiss deepened, but it didn't rush. They were both still standing there, bodies pressed together, but the kiss felt like a slow discovery. Their lips moved against each other with a kind of hesitation, as though neither boy knew exactly how far they should let this go, but neither of them wanted to stop. It wasn't frantic—more like an exploration, tentative but full of want.
Harry's arms were still around Draco's neck, his fingers curling slightly into the now messy strands of Draco's hair, pulling him in closer. Draco's hands, having found Harry's waist, moved slightly, fingers grazing the smooth skin before tightening, pulling Harry just a bit more firmly against him. The heat between them was undeniable now, but there was something about the way their bodies connected—slow, almost reverent—that made it feel different than the kiss they'd shared earlier.
Draco's mouth pressed a little harder against Harry's, deepening the kiss just enough to send a shiver through Harry's body. His heartbeat quickened as he responded, his hands sliding to Draco's back, fingers tracing the contours of his spine, the sensation of Draco's skin under his touch sending electricity through him.
For a moment, they were lost in the feel of each other—the way their lips moved in sync, the way their bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle they hadn't quite realized they were putting together. Draco's fingers tightened at Harry's waist again, pulling him a bit closer, the friction between them sending a spark of heat through Harry's entire body.
The kiss slowed for a beat, a moment of stillness, but neither of them pulled away. Their breathing was ragged now, hot breaths mixing between them, lips still brushing in a way that felt impossibly intimate. Harry could feel the heat of Draco's body, could feel the muscles under his hands, could taste the lingering hint of Draco's breath on his lips. It was like they were both waiting for something—an unspoken signal that this could go further, or maybe that they were both ready to risk it.
With a final, almost reluctant movement, Draco slid his hand down Harry's side again, this time slipping beneath the waistband of Harry's trousers. It wasn't far, just enough to feel the warmth of his skin, the texture of Harry's briefs, but it was enough to send a wave of heat crashing through Harry's chest. The touch was intimate, electric, and Harry's breath may have caught in his throat. But it brought him back to reality. He broke away gently, pulling back just enough to look at Draco, eyes searching for some kind of understanding. His breathing was heavy, but steady, and he could feel the tension thrumming through him.
"Draco," Harry whispered, his voice low, but clear. "Not tonight. We can't... go any further."
Draco froze, his hand still resting on Harry's skin, but the movement in his fingers slowed, confusion clouding his expression. His eyes flickered between Harry's lips and his eyes, a mixture of frustration and surprise in them.
"What?" Draco's voice was barely above a whisper, his lips still slightly swollen from the kiss, that same mischievous spark still present in his eyes. "You're pulling away now?"
Draco," Harry murmured, his voice quiet but firm. "I... I just want to take things slow. I'm not ready for all of it tonight. We don't need to do everything now. There's no rush."
Draco looked at him, his expression still intense but softening at the words. It wasn't what he wanted to hear—not at all—but he could see the sincerity in Harry's eyes. They'd just crossed a line together, one that had taken them from enemies to something... else, and Harry wasn't ready to dive in deeper yet. Draco had to respect that, even if it frustrated him.
"Fine," Draco said, his tone still teasing, but there was a hint of reluctant acceptance. He couldn't help but lean in for a quick kiss, just a brief press of his lips against Harry's, as if to say, 'I'm not quite done with you yet.' His hands slid up to Harry's shoulders, lingering there for a second before he pulled back, giving Harry a playful wink. With a mischievous smirk, Draco says "We can take it slow... but that doesn't mean I can't tease you a bit."
Harry chuckled softly, his heart still racing from the intensity of everything they'd just shared. He pulled back again, his hands moving to the waistband of his trousers, starting to pull them back up from where Draco had slightly lowered them. "Come on, we really should head back," he said, even as his mind was still tangled up in everything that had just happened.
They both stood there for a long moment, silent and half-dressed, the weight of everything still lingering between them before Draco walked over to his shirt. Harry's heart was pounding, but it wasn't from the kiss anymore—it was from the knowledge that they couldn't pretend this hadn't happened. It was real now. And as much as he wanted to let everything else fall away, he knew they couldn't afford to be careless.
Harry reached down, grabbing his shirt from where it had been tossed aside. His fingers fumbled with the hem, clumsy and uncertain compared to Draco's smooth, practiced movements. Draco had already retrieved his own shirt, slipping it over his head with effortless grace, smoothing the fabric down over his chest without even glancing Harry's way.
Or so Harry thought.
When Harry struggled briefly with the shirt, tugging it down over his torso, he caught Draco watching him out of the corner of his eye. There was a glint in Draco's gaze—not mocking, but something quieter, more curious, almost fond. Harry quickly looked away, dragging his shirt the rest of the way on, cheeks burning.
"Draco," Harry said, his voice low and careful, "we need to go back to the way things were... at least in public."
Draco's head snapped toward him, his eyes sharp with disbelief. "You're joking," he said flatly.
Harry shook his head, forcing himself to meet Draco's gaze. "You know as well as I do that we can't be acting like this in front of people. My friends, your family, the whole school. It could be dangerous."
Draco opened his mouth to argue, then stopped, the protest dying before it could fully form. His hands flexed at his sides, the tension in him visible.
"Why?" he said after a moment, the word strained, like it was pulled out of him against his will. "Why can't we just—"
"Because it's not that simple," Harry said, his voice steady but urgent. He stepped closer, willing Draco to hear him, to understand. "Draco, you know what my life is like. My friends wouldn't understand. And your family—your father—he'd never accept it."
Harry paused, his throat tightening. "We have to be careful."
Draco looked away, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. For a moment, Harry thought he might walk away altogether. But he didn't. He just stood there, silent, breathing hard through his nose.
"You don't get it, do you?" Draco muttered eventually, voice low. "I don't care what they think, Harry. For once, I don't care about any of them. I just..." He shook his head, as if frustrated with himself. "I just want this. I don't want to have to hide it."
Harry's chest ached, hearing the rawness in his voice. He crossed the short distance between them, sitting down carefully on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and after a long, stubborn moment, Draco sat down beside him—close enough for Harry to feel the heat of him, but not quite touching.
Harry turned slightly, catching Draco's profile. He looked miserable, and stubborn, and unfairly beautiful all at once.
"Draco," Harry said softly, "I want this too. More than I can even explain. But if we rush into it without thinking... we're both going to get hurt."
He reached out hesitantly, letting his fingers brush Draco's forearm, grounding him.
"I'm asking you to trust me," Harry said, voice barely above a whisper. "We'll figure it out. But for now... we have to be smart."
For a long moment, Draco didn't move. Didn't even blink. Then finally—finally—he exhaled, the breath shuddering out of him like a surrender.
"You know," Draco said, voice dry and tight, "I really hate that you're right."
Harry shot him a sideways look, a small, cocky smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You usually do."
Draco gave him a narrow-eyed side glance, but there was no real heat behind it—just reluctant amusement. He nudged Harry's shoulder lightly, as if to say watch it.
Harry's smile softened. "But... I hate it too."
Another moment passed, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, the silence warm and complicated, but no longer heavy with anger.
Slowly, Draco leaned sideways, letting his head come to rest lightly against Harry's shoulder. Harry felt the weight of it, solid and real, and something in his chest gave a small, aching thud.
Draco's voice was quieter when he spoke, almost like he didn't want to disturb the fragile peace between them.
"We'll figure it out together, then," he said lightly.
But underneath the casual tone, Harry heard something real. Something that sounded a lot like hope.
Harry almost hated to have to take that hope away from him so soon.
He huffed a quiet laugh and muttered, "Now the real question is how we're going to get back into the castle without Filch or Mrs. Norris catching us."
Draco pulled back just enough to shoot him a sly glance, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That's the good thing about running with a Malfoy," he said, voice low and teasing. "We know how to get into places we shouldn't be in... and we don't need an invisibility cloak to do it."
Harry blinked, but Draco just smirked wider, like he knew exactly what he was doing—and Harry had the distinct, sinking feeling that he was going to regret underestimating Draco Malfoy.