Chapter Text
'I told you it was your fault!' Harry grunts, his fingers digging into his scalp with frustration as he clawed at his already disheveled hair.
'Talk about victim blaming, clearly—' he would say some oddball shite
'Pray, let us discourse on the matter of ascribing culpability to the aggrieved party.' Draco countered back
'Are we doing this or not??' Harry cut him off. Urgently as they watched the glowing ring of floating passage at once… it was shrinking rather rapidly! And about to close any moment.
They both looked to each other and then back at it and decidedly knew.. nothing good was going to come out of talking anymore, they would end up trapped for eternity together to which a temporary agreement would be more likely pleasant than prolonged company until they're greyed and gone by each others side..
As the two enemies stumbled into the portal, Harry's breath grew shallow slowly beginning to morph into a pant with anticipation.. the sage green orbs staring into stark greys, feeling hot with unwilling trust.
Draco held onto him tightly as they fell through a never ending tunnel of time warping and darkness soon they found themselves being ejected to hard floor covered in plush carpeting alerting.. what quickly looked like two tangled lovers ahead on a bed, eerily similar to them..
wait hold on, IT IS THEM! And Merlin they were SNOGGING HARD before the interruption. In this world Harry and Draco were busy canoodling and snogging. All blood rushed to their heads as the original Potter-Malfoy gasped and stiffened scandalized-'
"Bloody hell," Ron mutters, eyes wide. His grin stretches even wider as he drops closer to Hermione's side, leaning in attentively to get a better look at the parchment in her hands.
"Thats it—we mustn't," says Hermione, heat creeping up her cheeks as the lot around them snicker.
The Eighth-Year common room is alight with a secret activity of reading. Someone has decided to make Harry's life under the sun hell all over again. Maybe not in a Dark lord hunting, life threatening manner this time, but unpleasant nonetheless. It starts only a few months into their peaceful year. No sooner do the notes appear, unannounced but ever-present, sticking to almost every available surface in view: tables, inside books (replacing bookmarks), unattended portraits in the corridors. Like a mandatory ornament in any room, almost every time, without fail.
"And did they write sage green?" Susan Bones asks, smiling ear to ear, cosy on the opposite couch beside Luna Lovegood.
Neville, Hannah, and Seamus are scattered around, listening speculatively, when their meeting is cut short by a bewildered, loud, frustrated voice.
"Now which one of you has got this pinned. To. The bloody notice board" Harry storms in, holding a weary, abused-looking parchment and holding it out for display.
"Check if he's got the continuation of the chessboard—" Seamus blurts, then pipes down immediately at Harry's pointed gaze. He did not look thrilled at all. The room falls into pin-drop silence.
Another one, they all mutually note.
"What's going on here?" Harry asks, eyes scanning the room, landing on each of them in turn, watching for reactions, "What chessboard—" He keeps going, already guessing what’s coming.
"It’s where you and the git play chess and the loser stri—" Ron starts, amused, but his sentence dies when Hermione elbows him hard. He groans, folding in half, and light laughter stirs around the room.
"Thanks, ’Mione," Harry sighs, equal parts disbelief and inevitable misery, as he takes the seat on her other side.
"Pleasure," she replies, rather proud, folding the parchment in half, similar to the one Harry is holding himself, and not asking for the obvious.
"Wha 've you got this time, mate?" Ron asks, recovering, and trying to suppress a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, in a failed attempt to sympathise.
The rest perk up, despite pretending to be occupied with literally anything else, eager to know. Even Luna glances over expectantly, trying to look uninterested while holding Enchanting Elves of Tartagrollo and Their Legacies open upside down.
"You look rather happy, Ron. I hope they write your arse on a stick next," Harry says, tossing his crumpled parchment onto Hermione’s lap. She extends an arm around his shoulders, letting him lean into a hug.
"Oi, that’s spiteful, Harry," Ron protests, theatrical, creeping his hand towards the creased parchment in Hermione’s lap, only for her to slap it away. A collective chorus of disappointment rises from about four other people who are just as nosy.
"Not cool, Ron," Hermione tsks, then pats Harry’s head. He looks smug as anything, snuggling closer to her side.
"Hey— is this my girlfriend or yours?" Ron says, astonished, rubbing the back of his hand, now red. It’s one thing to bicker with Hermione; it’s another to start a physical. He really ought to reduce her time with Ginny before he’s faced with domestic abuse in his near-future marriage.
"You be nice to Harry," Hermione counters softly, looking to the others one by one. "He’s suffering with this—whatever this is. We’re supposed to help," she states, and Harry watches her with something close to admiration.
"Suffering with fan-made erotica," Seamus mutters, earning a snort from Ron, Neville, and Hannah while the rest try to refrain.
Harry sighs. "Think Lockhart would be jealous if he knew?" Maybe humour will help him cope.
"Do be patient, Harry. This person will be found, surely," Luna says with a serene smile, closing her book as the bell sounds. She stands to leave for class.
"Charms," Hannah and Susan say at once, getting up and joining Luna.
Neville checks his wrist with a tempus charm and rises too. "Need to check in on the cross-bred Strophanthus preussii," he says, smiling wide with pride.
"Stro-phan—what?" Seamus repeats, tentative.
"Strophanthus preussii," Hermione supplies. "A plant that secretes a thick, milky-white sap—less fluid than common slug slime—when threatened, and it’s highly toxic." Neville’s eyes light up. Harry nods; on the other end of the couch, Ron pulls a foul face at the mention of slugs.
"See you lot," Neville says fondly, then heads out.
"That leaves us," Ron says, grinning as he leans into Hermione’s space the way Harry does. He flicks a look at Seamus and wiggles his eyebrows at the forgotten, worry-creased parchment on Hermione’s lap.
"So—no classes for you, Hermione?" Seamus asks, settling onto the opposite couch.
"Oh, only Arithmancy, but Millicent says Professor Vector is running late. I should get going, though," Hermione replies, patting Ron on the head and Harry on the shoulder.
Harry makes a disgruntled noise and leans away. Ron snickers and does the same. The parchment slips off Hermione’s lap and lands behind her on the couch. She makes a quick sweep to grab it before Ron can, and Harry privately rejoices at the tiny, utterly pointless victory.
"You’re both no fun," Ron mutters, pouting, completely ignored.
Hermione gathers her books from the small table between the couches and gives Harry a sympathetic look. "I promise—we’re going to Headmistress McGonagall after this, Harry," she says, then flashes the rest of them a half-smile and leaves.
Harry waits until Hermione is fully out of sight, then turns to Ron with a pointed look. "You’re not coming."
"What did I do?" Ron wails.
"Nothing helpful," Seamus adds, giddy.
"En pointe," Harry says at the same time, and he and Seamus grin.
"Fine by me. Acting like a totsy," Ron grumbles, then all three of them laugh.
Harry had craved this kind of hangout. He missed actually enjoying Hogwarts like he was always supposed to. If it weren’t for the astonishing things circulating lately, it would be even more of a luxury.
"Skipping classes, Heather?" a voice cuts through their fading laughter. Dean Thomas stands by the door with a stretched smile and a scroll of parchment in hand, waving it in a mocking display.
Harry’s heart sinks. He spends his free period scouring the castle corners for remaining parchments; it can’t be possible he misses one. He bites the inside of his cheek and says nothing at the absurd nickname, one of many bestowed by the anonymous writer, just as he’s trying to think of something to make Dean hand it over.
"I’m sent to announce: slackers get minus fifteen points on each pre-N.E.W.T.s unit examination. Dash or don’t," Dean says with a shrug, tossing the tied parchment roll at Harry before wandering off.
"Minus fifteen…" Seamus repeats, pulling a face. Ron and Harry mirror the same grimace as all three of them stand at once.
Harry jams the scroll into his robe pocket and bolts for class. This could be dealt with it later.
Professor Dominic turns his nose up at the class as he speaks. "For our next demonstration, we will be using—"
"Excuse us, Professor!" Ron pants, bursting in. Harry follows on his heels, trying to catch his breath.
The class breaks into murmurs immediately.
"Silence," Professor Dominic snaps, and the sound dies at once. He fixes them with a piercing gaze as Seamus slips in after them.
Dean glances over, shakes his head, and goes back to his notes, leaving the three of them to flounder for an excuse.
"Professor, we were stuck on the staircases—"
"Just because you have overthrown a problematic wizard does not give you lot the privilege of arriving late to class. You are still students," Professor Dominic says, stoic and stern. He reminds Harry of Lucius, if Lucius was muddled, then washed and wrung out, then dried under the sun, you'd get Dominic Eoin.
"Come on, Mr Potter," Professor Dominic spits. "Show us how one defends oneself from singing fae." He smirks, looking straight at Harry.
Harry opens his mouth, then hesitates, heat crawling up his neck. Another reason he loathes the writings: they get everywhere. Even to the professors. Harry doesn’t need to think twice to know it’s a dig at an excerpt, one where one of them lures the other into the depths of the forest. Harry only knows because he reads the bloody things to keep track, watching for any slip on the anonymous author’s end.
Murmurs rise again; once again, eyes drift towards the three of them.
"Professor, I’m sure the Educational Decree Number Twelve would disagree with the way your lessons are being carried out," Ron says, puffing his chest with as much air as he can manage, only to earn a stark glare.
Harry feels the tension simmer, and he’s honestly shocked Ron even knows the thing, abolished and reformed as it is. Professor Dominic seems to think better of it. He turns back to the board. "Have a seat and note it down," he says, voice hard with anger.
The three scramble to an empty bench in the middle rows. Seamus exhales and leans in, whispering to Ron with a grin. "So… Decree Twelve??" He raises a brow.
Ron smiles and pats Harry’s shoulder, whispering back proudly, "Hermione."
Harry nods, offering a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. At least dating her does Ron some good.
The class blurs into an abyss for Harry as he pretends to take notes, dreading when the next note may appear. He scribbles circles, ovals, and stubborn lines for show. When the bell rings, joy and laughter burst through the room as students enthusiastically rise and pack up. Harry turns to Ron.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asks, brows furrowing with genuine concern.
"Potions next," Seamus says from beside them, nodding towards the rapidly crowding exit, as students move out, emptying the classroom.
Harry thinks, trying to choose an expression, then gives up. He drops his head onto his desk. "Think I’m going to pass," he says, and Ron nods.
Seamus pats Harry’s side, shouldering his bag. "Don’t want to piss Professor Slughorn off next!" he says, and he makes a run for it.
"Are you sure, Harry?" Ron asks. He’s an active enjoyer of Harry’s misery, yes, but he’s also the company that comes with it, and sometimes he’s useful.
Harry smiles faintly at the care in Ron’s voice and shifts upright. "I just… don’t think I want to share a class with him."
"That makes no sense. How are you going to pass your exams and meet the requirements for the Auror programme," Hermione would say but Ron just studies Harry for a long moment, unreadable, then breaks into a delighted grin.
"Good for you, mate. Almost avoided brewing potions with that slimy git—where one of you blasts Amortentia all over and then you both have to k—"
"Sod off, Ronald Weasley," Harry snaps, hurling the nearest thing he can grab at the fleeing redhead. Ron yelps and bolts, and laughter follows him as his silhouette disappears around the corner. Fuck that twat of a best friend. Harry has a great friendship in Ron, truly, but he also truly hopes the bloke trips and ends up with his arse on a stick. Preferably one with a splintered end.
Skipping class is easy. Not getting caught is hard. Harry strides through the barren corridors wearing the plain expression of someone with somewhere urgent to be. He’s mastered the language of acting like he knows what he’s doing. A group of sixth-year girls pass him, giggling rather unceremoniously; Harry is not eager to know why. He adjusts his moleskin pouch, checking it anxiously to make sure his belongings are still there. Lately, his things disappear too, his quills, his ink pot, replaced by something shiny or odd-looking in exchange. Not only is he being written about scandalously, he’s also being courted with gifts: high-end, suspicious, near-mint, always with faint signs of handling, and a tainted sort of essence to them. Harry refuses to use any of it. He stuffs everything into what he calls his drawer of evidence. He digs an arm deep into his book bag as he walks, just to look occupied, and makes his way to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds. Hagrid’s hut is the perfect getaway.
Harry knocks and waits. Relief loosens his chest at the sound of heavy footsteps fumbling, followed by a few smaller objects clattering to the floor. Hagrid is on his way to the door.
"Why, hello there, Harry," Hagrid greets, smiling. He’s got a cup of tea in hand, spilled, the stain still fresh as it dribbles down his sleeve.
"Hello, Hagrid. You look startled," Harry says, delighted, already smiling as he invites himself in. Hagrid steps aside with a broad gesture for him to enter.
"Only a little," Hagrid says, shaking his head. With a flick of his wand, he Scourgifies the carpet and table. "So—what class are you flunking?"
"None at all. Just here to see you," Harry says cheekily, looking around the familiar, cosy space, all warm tones and well-worn comfort. He takes a seat at one of the scrubbed wooden chairs, and his eyes snag on a small red creature zipping through the air, tail streaming behind it. Another pet, perhaps.
The little thing darts straight at him. Harry yelps and ducks, squeezing his eyes shut. "Take a good look at him, Harry," Hagrid says, setting out his teacups with obvious joy. "A faerie dragon—the smallest of its breed. Very mischievous."
Harry lifts his head and watches the creature loop above him, chirping and clicking as it circles like a freed Snitch. He grins wide. "So what’ve you named him?"
Hagrid clears his throat, busying himself with the kettle. "He’s called Drahar. Very friendly."
Harry nods, eyes still fixed on the faerie dragon as it whips around the room like a snitch freed in the air. "He’s quick."
"Quick indeed. Here’s your tea, Harry," Hagrid says, offering a small teacup with floral imprints. He squints at Harry over the rim of his own cup. "And—subject?"
"Potions," Harry blurts, and immediately looks at Hagrid, embarrassed. He bites the inside of his cheek.
"Well, Potions isn’t that bad, is it?" Hagrid asks, lowering himself onto the sofa that sags under his weight. "What makes you skip?"
Harry glances down at his tea, then back up at Drahar. The little creature is now inspecting his hair with great interest. "It’s difficult," he says, tentative, because he’s never really come to Hagrid with anything this brazen.
"Ah. I understand, Harry," Hagrid says solemnly. He nods into his cup, downs it in two gulps, and lets out a satisfied burp. "Matters of the heart are very difficult."
Harry pauses, confused. He looks up over his cup at Hagrid, face blank, like an empty canvas, then nods and takes a slow sip. Hagrid has always had a riddling way with words. This is probably one of those times.
"I’d no clue myself, I tell you—know nothing of what it must be like," Hagrid continues, compassionate as ever. Harry keeps nodding, sipping normally. "It must be difficult for you to come to terms with being fated mates with Draco Malfoy."
Harry chokes. Tea rockets up his throat and straight out of his nose and mouth, dribbling everywhere like some cursed fertiliser spray. The teacup slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor as he clamps both hands over his mouth, wheezing, eyes watering violently.
"HARRY! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!" Hagrid booms, surging up. He sets his empty cup down and thumps Harry’s back, patting and hitting in a careful frantic way, until Harry finally coughs the last of it out.
Harry gasps, sinuses burning, heart hammering, tears filling at the corners of his eyes. "Where—" he manages, voice raw. "Where did you get that from??"
"Well—I—Harry," Hagrid stammers. He flicks his wand, Scourgifying the mess and Harry’s robes.
"Where, Hagrid?? Who??" Harry demands again, dragging in shaky breaths. Hagrid shoves a glass of water into his hands, and Harry takes small, controlled sips, trying to stop the sting behind his eyes.
"Better?" Hagrid asks, not quite meeting his gaze, as Harry gathers his breath.
Harry nods, then clears his throat and looks up properly, brows furrowed, eyes bright with stubborn hope. "You must tell me."
"I read it," Hagrid blurts. He hurries to a cramped desk in the corner and rummages until he produces three creased parchments. "It says right here, Harry—see?" He thrusts them forward, sincere as anything.
Harry stares down at the pages. His grip tightens until the parchment crinkles. Somewhere in the distance, Hogwarts bells ring, and for a moment it feels like he’s miles away from his own body.
"It’s alright if it’s a sensitive subject, Harry," Hagrid says gently, patting his head like he’s twelve again. "Sometimes finding love can be rough—"
"I must go," Harry says at once. His face drops. There are days he gets accused of worse than this, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. He can’t fathom what has gone so wrong. "Mind if I keep these? Thanks," he adds, already rising.
"Well, if you ever—"
"Thank you for the tea, Hagrid. I always feel welcome here," Harry says quickly, forcing a polite smile for display. He pats his pockets, gathers himself, and heads for the door. He nods at Drahar, who chirps and loops near his ear like it understands, then flees.
The walk back to the castle is full of the same turmoil as the walk to Hagrid’s hut—maybe worse. Harry can’t tell the difference. He moves in stiff, almost analog steps and tells himself lunch will be better. He can feel the parchments shoved deep in the corner of his bookbag and he walks faster. There’s probably his favourite pot pie waiting.
Harry turns one corner, then another, clinging to one wish: don’t run into Draco Malfoy. He has no escape. If he hasn’t spent the last few years stalking and observing the bloke, maybe he wouldn’t feel like Malfoy haunts him now, openly, shamelessly, in broad daylight. Harry either dies trying to find who’s behind all of this, or he takes Draco bloody Malfoy down with him in the process. So far, all he manages is shooting daggers into the back of the blond’s head. Malfoy never meets his eyes during the scarce moments they share a space. There’s no excuse for banter anymore, and that makes Harry’s plan for confrontation even harder. Approaching Malfoy alone feels… wooing, and Harry’s face twists at the ridiculous thought. He smacks into someone solid. His glasses go askew.
"WATCH where you’re—ooh!?" a sultry voice gasps. Susan Bones staggers a step, then grins when she realises who it is. "Harry!" she greets.
Harry awkwardly nods, forcing a nervous smile. "Sorry," he says, embarrassed again. His embarrassment scale lately has no bearings. "Sorry," he repeats.
"Hm," Susan hums, eyes sparkling. She glances around the corridor like she’s searching for something, which only confuses him more. "Heading to lunch?" she asks.
"Yes," Harry answers, nodding. He can’t hold her gaze.
Susan steps into his personal space, smiling wide. Harry reflexively steps back, then she laughs. "Oh, don’t worry. I just want to see—"
"Sorry?" Harry blurts, stumbling another step until his back hits the corridor wall. His eyes dart around as if someone is about to Apparate out of thin air.
"Stay still, you," Susan says, and presses right up against him, close enough that her face is inches from his. She peers into his eyes with intense focus.
Harry is very sure he’s never seen Susan this way and he’d be damned if he ever thought she looked at him with fancy.His palms sweat as he bunches his robes in his fists. His breath slows into panicked little drags as her pupils widen, boring into him.
"Hmm," Susan hums, thoughtful. "It’s difficult to say," she murmurs, voice low, no flirtation in it at all despite the closeness. Still, her cheeks tint ever so slightly.
"Hello, Susan!" another voice calls. Penelope Clearwater appears behind her, raising a brow at the sight of them crammed together. Susan giggles and steps aside, finally giving Harry room to breathe.
"Breathe, Harry! Your eyes are definitely not just sage green," Susan announces to the corridor like she’s delivering the final ruling in a trial, equal parts amused as Harry was perplexed.
Harry sucks in a proper lungful of air as the panic finally loosens its grip. He looks at Penelope like she’s just saved him from drowning and nods gratefully. "Got to go—Ron’s waiting!" he blurts, and bolts before anyone can stop him. He clutches his bookbag like he’s hoarding another secret Horcrux. By the time he reaches the Eighth Years’ table, he looks like he’s just gone twelve rounds with a troll.
"Are you alright?" Hermione asks at once. Concern pinches her features as she nudges Ron to scoot over, making space between them.
"Functioning," Harry mutters, sliding onto the bench. His week has been a fever dream.
"You look like you’re going through it," Ron comments, shovelling a generous amount of food onto Harry’s plate as well as his own. "You need to eat well, mate."
"Eating," Harry says, then pauses, sighing through his nose, "won’t stop Hagrid from thinking Malfoy’s my soulmate because of impudent writing on parchments."
Ron stops mid-munch. He swallows wrong, coughs once, and fights for his life not to snicker. Hermione just shakes her head dismissively.
"What do you mean, Harry?" she asks, chewing her bottom lip lightly before lowering her voice. "Muffli—"
"There’s no need, Hermione," Harry cuts in, flat with exhaustion. He stabs at his food and eats mechanically. He truly doesn’t care who hears, worse is already circulating at a frightening rate.
Ron finally recovers, pounding his chest and forcing down what he’s half-swallowed. "I think you’re taking this too seriously, Harry. I genuinely think—" He stops at the twin looks Hermione and Harry give him and returns to his food with exaggerated focus.
"I go to Hagrid’s—skipping Potions—and he has these parchments. And he thinks it’s true," Harry says, prodding at his food between bites. His eyes flick around the Great Hall: Dean… Luna… Millicent… Pansy… Dean… Pansy. Now there’s someone who might do this out of spite, though it could just as easily be Malfoy himself. Malfoy hasn’t joined their meal tables since returning; Harry knows there are alternative set-ups for students. Still, Harry aches to face him. If it really is him, he has a lot of explaining to do, justifying why Harry shouldn’t start plotting his murder. One more parchment and Harry is going to make an impulsive, crass assumption he can not take back. And with the way things are looking, he’s almost willing for it to be his best mate Ronald Weasley if it means it finally ends.
"Harry!" Hermione says sharply. "I’ve called your name twice. Are you alright?"
Harry blinks out of his thoughts. "Just fine," he says low, swallowing the last of the pot pie, cheeks full.
As lunch winds down, Millicent hurries over.
"Hermione!" Millicent calls. "We need to go—double Arithmancy for the notes, remember?" She flashes a small smile at Ron and Harry in greeting.
Hermione looks torn, then turns back to Harry with the determined expression of someone prepared to skip class for him. "Harry, the Headmistress—"
"It’s alright, Hermione," Harry says, and this time his smile is genuine—fond, warm enough to stop the frown forming on her face. "I’m having fun with Ron and the others for Quidditch practice anyway."
Ron looks up from his pumpkin juice, brows lifting. He swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "We will?" he asks, then catches Harry’s pointed look and snaps into it with a grin. "We are yes," he declares confidently, nodding.
Hermione hugs them both before she leaves, and Harry thinks that Ron may not be the most emotionally empathetic creature alive, but he is a good mate. He still wants his arse on a stick… just a shiny, polished one now.
By the time Harry trudges back from the pitch, his cheeks are numb from the cold and his hands feel unreal, like they don’t belong to him. He opts for the dorm showers instead of the locker rooms. More privacy. Less tripping over stray gloves and gear. He strips off his kit and heads upstairs. The moment he steps into the showers, a scent hits him, thrilling, fresh. He drags in a lungful of it without meaning to, rubbing his hands together to chase feeling back into them. He strips quickly, eager to make it before dinner, and slips into an empty cubicle with a sigh as lukewarm water meets his skin. His shoulders sag in relief. He closes his eyes and lets the water run, trickling over every inch of him, just enjoying it.
The scent wafts again, earthy, like the pitch after rain dried by sun. Harry exhales, calmer, until he realises there’s another shower running. He startles, swears under his breath, then forces himself to relax. It shouldn’t matter. Whoever it is going to be leaving before Harry does. He scrubs at his hair, trying not to let his mind wander, trying not to listen. A soft sigh slips through the steam. Goosebumps race down Harry’s spine. He keeps washing, jaw clenched. He doesn’t eavesdrop. He’s not a creep. The water next door stops, and Harry tells himself to stop being absurdly aware of everything.
"Fuck," a low, rough voice mutters. Harry goes rigid under the spray. A knock hits the dividing wall between cubicles.
Then, in a cadence Harry could pick out from a crowd with his eyes shut: "Give my towel back, you little shit."
Harry freezes. His breath catches. He swallows hard and turns the water off, straining to hear better, because this has to be a mortifying joke. His hands suddenly feel very alive. Heat crawls up his neck as he answers, voice too loud in the tiled room.
"I wouldn’t—I have my own!" he insists, twisting to glance at where his towel hangs over the curtain, where his towel should hang. Except it isn’t there. Panic detonates in Harry’s chest. Adrenaline floods him in a hot wave, and in the awful silence that follows—
"Potter..?" comes the familiar low drawl.
Harry stares at the empty hook like it’s personally betrayed him. Harry is extremely fucked.
"Malfoy," Harry says, the name coming out surreal. Heat ignites through his entire body all at once, he’s naked in a shower cubicle, his towel is missing, he has no wand, and fucking Malfoy is right next door.
"Give me back my towel," Malfoy demands again from the other side, followed by a sharp exhale.
"I don’t," Harry snaps through gritted teeth. "I don’t have it." He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them, then shuts them again as if blinking hard enough makes a towel appear on the third try.
"Is this your way of post-war picking?" Malfoy asks, voice impatient. A hard knock rattles the divider on his end.
"Fuck off, Malfoy! I’m telling you—mine’s fucking missing!"
That shuts Malfoy up for a moment.
"And you want me to believe that?"
"Fuck you," Harry spits, spiteful, shivering as the air turns cold without the steam of running warm water.
"Our towels are fucking gone," Malfoy grumbles, and Harry can’t help wondering when Malfoy’s vocabulary got so obscene.
Harry cups himself with one hand, feeling his nipples peaking, trying to keep warm and trying, desperately, not to let his body betray him. Now is an extremely rude time to get a hard on. The cold air nips at him, confusing and sharp. He can’t help thinking of the situation being straight out of one of those insolent parchment writings.
Would Malfoy get so mad he come's over to Harry's cubicle and jerk him off? What if their teeth's clashed if Malfoy tried to kiss him, the cold air would excite his cock further if he was edged right here—
A number of metal pieces clanking against the others is heard, breaking Harry out of his train of thoughts, putting him to utter shame. Harry quickly gathers, its the sound of the shower curtain being pulled off quickly doing the same, he was not going to let Malfoy do anything he planned to.
Harry's heart beat spikes rapidly as he forced the curtain off in his own cubicle in a haste and wrapped it around himself, stepping out rather urgently to flee, only to freeze at the sight of Malfoy having stepped out at the very same moment.
His eyes stick to the water droplet dripping down a wet blond strand to trail down the cheek and jaw and collarbone..taut muscles, yards and yards of strong taut defined muscles, down lower and lower
"Creep" Malfoy comments his brows furrowed as his eyes narrowed at Harry, both his hands come up covering over his pecs in a cross X pose.
"What?" Harry swallows very offended and disturbed as the shower curtain shifts lower from the lack of support of not being held with hands dragging lower to expose the V dip on Malfoys torso.
Malfoy's own gaze follows suit on the way the droplets make their way down Harry's own toned muscles a singular droplet racing its way down his chest and navel. "You're gawking"
"So are you" says Harry still very distracted and glaring.
"Who knows what you're upto," says Malfoy flatly, his eyes stuck to the hardened eager pebbles Harry's nipples have grown to.
"You're barking" counters Harry face flushed at the strange attention as heat pools lower.
"You just wanted to peak so bad"
"I don't!?"
"It's bigger than yours"
"What the fuck?"
"Ponce" Malfoy finishes, his expression still but his ears tinting a distinguishable shade of red, before brushing past him knocking shoulders leaving Harry utterly stirred.
Harry returns to dinner stripped of his senses and any coherent thoughts, as though he has been lobotomised, or hexed multiple times with a confundus charm. This is not good for his brain or anything down lower. All sense of being has evaporated him.
"Dunno…seemed normal when we practiced" says Ron shrugging to Hermione, now looking rather concerned as well.
Harry remembers nothing of what he ate or served himself or if he even managed to do so. As they gather in the common room after, Harry remains to be in a daze.
"Harry would you please tell us what happened" says Hermione her tone distressed as she rubs her hand over his.
Ron stays in his seat arms crossed over his chest looking rather serious now, he would never let Harry live it down if he knew that Harry had a raging erection underneath their shower cubicle's curtain and the peak of misery— all because of him, because of Malfoy.
He brushes them off with a vague explanation of being upset and stressed over the prospect of things and how it has been an embarrassing element for him, they exchange knowing looks but say nothing and comfort him before wrapping up for the night.
Harry goes to bed knowing all too well what having a hard cock under the thin material of a shower curtain feels like. This is way more unfortunate than any parchment writing he had ever encountered. Things could not be any worse for Harry.
The next morning brought determination, Harry is going to find out who is behind it all. He attends the mudane D.A.D.A's class peacefully, no blond git in sight, no random parchments, all of his belongings in place. Stagnance…
Too still… it was starting to throw Harry off.
Until he spots what appears to be a similar parchment with an all too familiar manner of folding, but this time suspiciously he did not have to go look for it, or find it amongst a crowded group of students reading or pinned on some surphace.
'Meet me at the Astronomy tower' that's all it read, in an elongated handwriting matching the font from the parchments before all too well.
"You alright Mate?" Asks Ron, patting his shoulder smiling.
"More then alright" says Harry smiling right back, he is going to put an end to it all. All by himself ofcourse, he is not going to let anyone jinx his victory, the end of his sufferings, it is going to be a turn over new leaf life. He excuses himself quietly after his class ends.
The sun is shining on Harry's face, the clouds have cleared for him and he's stepping towards the Astronomy tower with his wand in hand at ready. His heart beats rapidly with each step he takes at the narrow spiral staircase up to the tower. As he pushes the door open using the iron ring handle once he gets to the top with all the anticipation gathered in his body, met with the sight of a certain slytherin there already standing with his back turned.
Harry's eyes go wide as Malfoy turns, "You?" He says pointing his wand at once furious.
Malfoy's eyes narrow as he shows his hands in the air palms open in surrender, "Resorting to notes and murder, Potter?" he asks in a goading manner although his expression remains hardened.
"Soon, if you don't tell me why you're here" says Harry giving Malfoy the benefit of the doubt, his wand still held high and pointed.
"I received. A note to meet"
"A note?"
"I'll show you, if you let me"
Pause, Harry's eyes narrow
"Not like that, you imbecile"
"Who, are you calling an imbecile now??" counters Harry bewildered at the audacity.
"First the showers and now here all alone with me" says Malfoy tilting his head in an assessing manner, lowering his hands and snaking one into his pocket to bring out the note, a similar parchment with the writing alike to show. "What's your excuse"
Baffled, Harry quickly lowers his wand to use his other hand and drag out the note he got out of his robe pocket to show as well, both remain standing in silence before inching closer to compare the notes side by side. The fact is starkly clear, it is neither of what they thought.
Malfoy looks around the towers surrounding as tho for another person to show up, when Harry's gaze stops at a box left eerily in the open right before the smaller sets of telescopes.
As if reading Harry's expression by default, Malfoy's gaze follows suit, "Do not" says Malfoy in a stern tone.
Harry's finger twitch at the site as he stares at the box sitting there on the floor no signs of magic, undisturbed as he steps towards it stubborn and set to find out, this could be his break through and against his better judgment so does Malfoy.
They exchange a quick look before Harry extends a hand to touch it, fingers barely grazing when the box vibrates and explodes with a deafening sound sending them both flying backwards landing against the hard stone floor with a thumph, groaning individually.
Harry coughs trying to sit up only to be greeted by the horrible realization of their outstretched hands now fused together in an all too natural held fashion, fingers interlaced and unmoving.
"Let go" says Harry yelling halfway in genuine terror, as he peers back to the box empty and fallen apart in pieces of three.
Malfoy tries to pull away, but the hands remain immovable as if they refuse to separate, a sort of paleness takes over Malfoy's own complexion.
"This, is your fault, Potter."
"You did not have to follow the note?" says Harry trying to tug their hands apart as the skin burns in between their palms but nothing happens.
"Ofcourse it is my fault, is it?" Malfoy retorts, letting his hand now be tugged by Harry's incoherent attempts.
It takes no less then a minute for Harry to give it up and stare down at their hands in defeat like he's been betrothed to him agaisnt his will. As the echo of the bells ring through the space, Harry lifts his gaze to look out to the sky now grey. It is going to rain.
Malfoy feels the very real weight of Harry Potter's hand in his own, his fingers laced over passionately as he glances to look at his face, "We must take it to the hospital wing" he says.
"I'm going to Hermione" says Harry at once his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at their hands together.
"Madam Pomfrey, is better suited." says Malfoy arguably looking rather offended by the moment with the way color seems to drain from Harry's face at the sight of their hands together, "I do not fancy this any more then you would" he continues involuntarily tightening his grip.
"I can not do this, this is not done" murmurs Harry looking very out of it still.
"Potter, are you going to walk to the hospital wing or be ragged" spat Malfoy, angered more by the moment at the thought of how Harry would loath to be seen with him as tho he is something undesirable.
Malfoy waits a moment before Harry nods and gets on his knees first to get up together in order to not stumble.
The way to the hospital wing is distressing, either Malfoy is walking too fast as Harry's hand is tugged or Harry's picking up his pace in an attempt to match but ending up stepping behind his shoe making him stagger.
"Would you take smaller steps or would it shrink your balls, Malfoy?" complains Harry frustrated, his own feet feeling wrong as if he has two left legs.
"I am not interested in making up for your lost Waltz lessons, Potter" says Malfoy slowing down to glare into Harry's eyes.
Harry glares right back as they come to an halt in the middle of the corridor stirring curious movement in the portraits lining the walls. "I wouldn't need lessons from you" he says just for a bite back.
"Let's see it"
"What?"
"Dance with me," Malfoy says stepping in closer to him and snaking his spare hand around Harry's waist with a mad expression as Harry gasps at the movement his eyes widening.
"What are you? 12?" says Harry in protest putting his spare hand in between them against his chest, trying to push him back but there's only much strength he can use when his own other hand is glued to his in a romantic unyielding hold, he's a thin line between offended and flushed as he feels Malfoy's hand on the small of his back pressing Harry back closer to his body. There was no saying what someone passing by would assume of them if they saw; a sense of urgency rising in him, "Let go," he finishes his tone clipped.
"Scared? Potter?" A shit eating smirk spreads on Malfoy's face delightfully and that does it.
"You're on" Harry says, no longer using his hand to push as it slips over his upper arm in a firm hold instead, the hold on each others hand readjusting.
Malfoy may be acting 12 but there's nothing Harry would let him get ahead on alone without being in it equal parts with himself, shoulder to shoulder, he would rather dance than back down now.
Their glares maintain as one of them moves first and the other responds in kind stepping forward then backwards in a sway towards their direction of movement, Harry's steps falters but he plays it off regardless to go unnoticed but another smaller smirk tugging at Malfoys lips may say otherwise.
They spin and switch sides along the bridging corridor earning gasps and scoffs from the few portraits, Malfoy's hand slips readjusting better on his back pulling him into their silent rythym.
Steps come easy, Harry's hypothetical just in case dance practice in his cramped dorm before the Yule ball with Ron, came really handy for him. Another story that he got nothing out of it but mutual abused toes back then. He's fairly aware and determined of how to dodge stepping on Malfoy's.
It seems they are surprisingly compatible of dancing together than walking, Malfoy staggered at entering the stone doorway that has Harry flashing an audible prideful grin, as their eyes hold momentarily void of annoyance, it fades as soon as it appears as they both avert their gazes to look straight ahead spotting the copper unicorn statue over the fountain outside the hospital wings entrance. Relief washes over them as they slow down.
Two students step out of the wooden double door, one supporting the other, a Ravenclaw and Hugfflepuff that seem to be in their third year. The Hufflepuff looking timidly flushed in a foot cast, all four free in place as the door closes behind them.
One of them gasp, it is lost who but the Ravenclaw straightens and outstretches her arm pointing towards the stone door with a very wide eyed look, "This is..the hospital wing, the ballrooms that way."
Harry's hand immediately swerves off Malfoys upper arm In a rather sensual brush then intended, as he clears his throat. He feels Malfoy's hand retreat from the small of his back feeling the loss of it. His cheek coloring and a strange sort of heat washing down his spine. The rumors are to fly and land around like wild Quaffles in a tournament with this one
Harry refuses to look anywhere but Malfoy to acknowledge either the most decent dance he's ever shared all his life or any kind of expression he may have directed his way. He notices the Hufflepuff is now laying on the ground silently somehow having ended up there as the Ravenclaw awkwardly takes notice as well with an "Oh" and helped them up whispering something along the lines of an apology. They quickly saunter off together leaving the pair behind holding hands.
'Quick before someone else see's' Harry thinks and shakes himself out of it glancing at Malfoy who seems to be fortunately sharing the same kind of expression and with a nod they enter through the double door with a spell.
Harry breaths easier when he takes a good sweep of the generously empty room, the rows of beds unoccupied and the privacy screens not drawn, all is clear, no occupancy meaning no more unwarranted scrutiny.
When Penelope Clearwater steps out of a farther screen drawn, along with Madam Pomfrey. Assumably visiting, she raises a brow at them holding hands as Harry's fingers twitch to part but the small movement is all it manages.
Both of them, make their way towards Harry and Malfoy, Penelope now with a smug expression and Madam Pomfrey with a knowing look almost expectant. Penelope nods a greeting their way before leaving.
Madam Pomfrey takes a good assessing look at the two and finally opens her mouth to break the deafening silence, "About time" she starts before pausing looking at them both individually, then continuing "love potion?"
Harry exhales and shakes his head.
"Soul binding magic?"
"No" says Malfoy this time.
"Hmm..Amortenia spike!" says Madam Pomfrey almost delighted to be playing this misfortune pairing roulette.
"No it's-" says Harry as he extends to tell her only to be tutted into silence by her.
Madam Promfrey makes a small movement with her wand towards Harry's stomach and a blue flame swirls around before dissipating, "Not Impregnated either…" she finished almost disappointed.
Harry's jaw falls as Malfoy's head turns at the speed of light to look at where Pomfrey is, looking just as scandalized at the thought as Harry. A muscle ticking in his jaw.
Madam Pomfrey looks back at them rather bored, "Well? what is it?" she asks.
"We-" says Harry as he feels a pointed look at himself from Malfoy before scoffing and speaking again "I, touched this box..sort of-"
"A jinx. The box seemed to have some kind of Jinxed effect, our hands won't come apart since" says Malfoy explaining in the most coherent way possible, his expression serious.
Madam pomfrey looks in between their hands and then mutters a spell under her breath using her wand to run a check, she hums in thought before speaking "Nothing harmful, should wear off in a few hours—"
Harry exhales in short lived relief.
"—days sometimes" she adds.
"Don't we have a come apart spell?" says Harry immediately desperation creeping in his tone, only to be faced with an expression of having said a bad joke. Malfoy stood beside him eerily quite, even an insult would've been helpful.
"And where have you gathered that—interesting idea" Madam Pomfrey nods before going over to a trunk at the foot of one of the beds and rummaging through it, before sighing and turning "No potions to wear off faster, all out of inventory ingredients until next month stocks come inn" she says.
Harry's world is spinning, he wonders if the ground beneath him would open any moment to swallow him so he can free fall to awake from this nightmare he's having, a very real one. His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of another person entering the hospital wing curled inn on themselves holding their stomach and groaning as Madam Pomfrey takes a small pause to look and then moving forth to help the next patient.
His fate is sealed, and he's to spend it with Draco Malfoy.
"It's lunch" says Malfoy informatively.
"And you want to eat while we're still like this??" says Harry in frustration brows knitting together, his stomach grumbles the very moment in the silent room cept for the sounds of the now retching student afar who's entered and Madam Pomfrey shifting with nonchalance to levitate fresh towels and medical vials her way.
"Don't you?" says Malfoy grinning, his tone haughty but not mocking.
Harry's ears color as he nods, "But not in the great Hall"
They start walking this time around instead of dancing and surprisingly neither knock over the others feet, leaving behind the bridging corridor Harry dreads running into the flocks of students making their way to lunch when Malfoy leads them to an entirely unused corridor.
"Where are we going?" asks Harry, trying not to immediately alert himself.
"Not in the Great hall" replies Malfoy as he halts before a painting of a mountain scenery.
Harry is greatly confused when he does it, Malfoy pushes the side of the painting as it easily glides aside revealing the stone walls illuminated by floating torches and the scent of good nourishing delicacies immediately hits Harry's nose taking over completely as his mouth waters making him swallow.
Malfoy has a small prideful smile, the only subtle kind that can be easily missed, only that Harry wouldn't.
They step inside hand in hand, the grasp no longer feeling like forced dead-weight.
Harry takes notice of the much smaller yet impressive dining setting inside the space, as many elves shuffling along with plates both full and empty, some take notice of him and gasp out of joy bowing automatically.
"Hello! Is Masters to dine here?" says an elf, bouncing joyously on their feet and a bunch of others crowd around them slowly with big wide eyes curious and expectant of serving.
"We will" says Malfoy, as the elves part to make way he glances over at Harry just as wide eyed taking in the new space he did not know existed before.
A single normal side chair stood set on one end of a table and another smaller elf-sized chair being dragged on the other end.
"This…is, what is this?" asks Harry, eyes still watching elves indulge themselves with food, he has no idea if he ever thought they ate at all before.
"An extension of the kitchen.." replies Malfoy, walking over to the normal sized chair slightly dragging Harry along and having a seat as Harry stood.
"Is this where you normally have your meals?" asks Harry, only to be met with a shrug and no answer, once done gawking he takes notice of the spare chair added to the table, "I'm not sitting there" he says offense clear in his tone.
As a few elves shuffle and joyously serve the table with all sorts of food maybe even fresher then served in the Great hall or must be the ambiance that amplifies his hunger.
"You're welcomed to stand" says Malfoy smirking, as he gets himself a serving of lemon tart biting onto it leisurely almost as if mocking him.
Harry is positively stunned as he bites the inside of his cheek before quickly taking his seat on the other end carefully so their hands don't tug, he fits not too comfortable but snug and well enough in the chair embarrassed but too hungry to care all while Malfoy watches him, for a moment Harry thinks he's sure to have a snarky comment his way but it never comes, instead Malfoy nudges a plate full of pie towards him. They rest their hands held on the table, Harry has some difficultly eating with one hand but in a few minutes of indulgent scarfing he feels very full.
"You seem to eat well," says Malfoy, a fleeting comment as he downs the last of his ginger ale setting the glass down as Harry halts with a bread piece in hand, he has very much infact not eaten that well for long due to always being occupied or overly alert of the recent events. His mind always seemed elsewhere.
"It's nice," Harry says, not quite meeting Malfoy's eyes and downing the bread stick to its last crumbs before he's expected to answer anything further. "I did not know elves needed to eat" he comments.
"They don't" answers Malfoy, leaning back in his chair slightly having Harry lean over closer onto the table looking annoyed but not protesting yet more interested to know something else.
"Then are they—" asks Harry, as he looks over to the tables now being cleared where the elves sat in small groups of three and fours.
"They are sustained by magic but some like to indulge" says Malfoy, looking where Harry is as well before returning his gaze back to him.
Harry turns his eyes back to Malfoy as well. Only to be met with an intent stare at himself, but even more precisely at where he is very sure on his lips, Draco Malfoy is looking at his lips. Harry can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, a strange kind of bubbling in his already full stomach. When Malfoy uses his spare hand to tap on his own bottom lip, how obscene.
Does he expect a kiss suddenly just because of a meal together? Harry is put off and angered immediately as his expression changes to one of early detectable dislike.
"You've got something there" says Malfoy, completely baffling Harry all over again as he quickly pats over his own mouth feeling the left over jelly cream. Harry's life was a humiliation ritual, he just did not know of his participation or when he signed up for it. He quickly wipes his face with the back of his sleeve robe.
"Shall we?" says Malfoy, standing up first and carefully coming around the table, Harry follows after with a nod and they silently made their way out of the painting they entered from. Harry glances behind once to look at the not so bad Elf chair and the cozy lit space before stepping out entirely.
Walking a little further they come to an halt as Harry slows down and Malfoy does the same. He holds their hands up for display trying to move his interlaced fingers on Malfoy's and it stays unmoving.
"No luck" Harry mutters, looking at it now not as harshly as it suddenly occurs. "I haven't told Hermione—" he says dropping their hands slowly. "They must be worried"
"We have Potions now" Malfoy says, casting a quick tempus.
"You don't say we attend?" Harry glances back down at their hands together and back at him before continuing "like this?"
"You do have those don't you?" suggests Malfoy, and the gears turn for Harry, for one he might be making a Smart choice, his ongoing circumstances and lack of studying, he shouldn't risk his notes and points deduction and for another his friends must be worried sick for him missing lunch.
They set out towards the dorms for their book bags first and then make it to class just in time, Harry is delighted at the sight of his friends winding his foot to sprint towards them when he's reminded by the weight in his hand and many several stares of his reality, Malfoy is pulled only a fraction from the impulsive movement as he has a smug expression forming at Ron looking not so pleased in a distance.
They settle down in a row behind them, a double Potions theory class shouldn't be bad.
Hermione turns to asses them both, eyes sharp and accusatory as she takes her while to come up with something, Ron seems to be point blank for a moment. "You missed lunch" she says, clearly treading safely.
"Well a bit of something happened—" says Harry.
"Clearly" adds Ron.
The class greets Professor Slughorn, making their conversation come to a break. Ron looks behind them and shakes his head once before turning and scribbling down on his parchment. Slughorn recites the importance of sterility and steps to ensure no contamination. Hermione is already noting ahead of the instructions using two thick books before her. Harry digs down into his own bookbag, no quill's. He looks next to him to spot a very alarmingly familiar quill being used by none other then, Draco Malfoy.
Reminding him of all those many gifts, including the quality quills with small signs of handling. He watches Malfoy take notes precisely and clearly as stated. Harry's throat dries at the possibility as he peeks into his parchment quickly, mapping the elongated handwriting but all tilted and pointed. Not at all familiar with the ones in those parchments further confusing him.
It's only when Malfoy turns his head that Harry realises how close up he really has leaned into his space, with an inaudible gasp under his breath he leans away, almost as if burned.
Harry very impatiently awaits for the next few hours to pass. He's itching to know of the mystery gifts and their origin. He remains very quite all the while plotting ways of torture once his hand is free, Harry will Throttle Malfoy.
Exhausted and bored out of his mind, the classes finally come to an end. Ron has barely made out of the theory double classes without dozing off when reality slaps, he shakes himself out of it to turn to Harry first thing after the Professor takes his leave.
"Have you actually made out with this slimy git?" Ron says, scandalized and looking every bit astonished.
"What?" Harry says swallowing, breaking out of his many scenarios in play in his head.
"Does he know I can hear him?" comments Malfoy off handedly, keeping his belongings in his bag.
Hermione turns, after settling her thick books back with their bookmarks intact for the next session. She gives all three a collective glare that means only one thing.
"You're telling me, you got yourself jinxed so easily?" says Hermione in disbelief, they debrief in the empty common room, while she paces her steps back and forth.
Harry is seated in between Ron and Malfoy, his head stuck elsewhere entirely. He does not trust Malfoy enough for any sort of discussion yet he needs to ask.
"Remember my things disappearing and replaced with, other things..?" says Harry tentatively, only for Hermione to stop her pacing and look his way attentively.
"What of it," she asks, folding her hands over her chest speculatively.
"Looks eerily similar to the kind.." Harry trails off, looking at Malfoy.
"No way" exclaims Ron with an evil grin.
"Whatever it is you're thinking, it is not me" says Malfoy, straightening his posture at once glaring at Ron then Harry.
"I have got those quills twice in place of my own" says Harry very sure now, as he glances between his own friends and Malfoy.
"Harry are you sure—" says Hermione before being cut off.
"Twice you say" Malfoy interjects, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought, he speaks again "I've lost my quill's and ink pot sometime along in exchange of raggedy one's."
And that nails the chest of truth opening back close, Harry feels dormant in his search towards the truth. The person behind this was either very cunning or on a streak of Felix Felicis of idiocy.
They use the study break to debrief the possibilities together. Ron brings over the box of 'evidence' from Harry's drawer, with Malfoy identifying each one of his items by hand.
"So what did you do with my things," asks Harry looking forward to reuniting with them.
"Tossed away." replies Malfoy, in a simple tone making Harry shoot daggers with his eyes.
"Free my hand. Hermione." Harry says, looking over wildly to her on the opposite couch, "Free me so I can strangle him. And go to Azkaban."
"Can it wait after dinner?" says Ron, possibly having the time of his life now, getting a glare from all three and swallowing.
Dinner comes, and they inevitably resort to going to the Great hall. If the day was not eventful enough, Malfoy finally joining the eighth years dinner table adding to its fabulous charm. Harry is very sure of now living in the writings he so loathed devotedly. And hated the fact that the writer was somewhere out there, snickering, drooling over their fantasies come true.
They return after dinner to Harry's dorm room in a group, due to his insistent request of not being left alone with him and refusal of staying out in the common room, like display figurine's for people to see.
"Are you sure you want us to keep watch" says Ron yawning, wiggling his brows at Harry, "I mean I'm not into that sort of thing mate" he finishes, before being thwacked in the head, dodging only half of a book cover's exterior, tossed by Hermione on the study table.
Malfoy has a bored look on his face while Harry has no more fuel to be seething or feeling humiliated.
"Quit embarrassing him, Ronald." says Hermione, evidently not having it as she continues "I'm very sure you will appreciate it, just being the cover and not the entire book"
"Are they always this way?" mutters Malfoy plainly as he uses his spare hand to brush his hair back, as it naturally falls back into place.
Harry watches, dazed, something about being full and exhausted after a meal with very less brain cells does something to one's ability of judgement, Malfoy looked rather fit, did he look this way before? "always" he answers.