The lake was still, a sheet of silver reflecting the soft morning light, its surface only occasionally disturbed by the lazy ripple of something moving beneath. The air was crisp, the last remnants of what qualified as an english summer barely clinging on, and the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves filled Harry's lungs as he took a slow drag of his cigarette.
It was early—too early for most students to be up, which was precisely why Harry had come here. He needed the quiet. The space. A moment to just be without the weight of everything pressing down on his chest.
Luna sat beside him, her back against the same massive tree, legs folded beneath her, humming softly as she carefully painted his nails. Her pale fingers were steady as she worked, dipping the brush into a bottle of polish, her brows furrowing in concentration.
"You're thinking too loudly," She murmured, not looking up.
Harry huffed out a soft laugh, exhaling smoke into the cool morning air. "Didn't know thoughts could be noisy."
"They are when they're full of worry," Luna said simply, finishing his index finger before moving on to the next.
Harry flicked the cigarette ash into the grass, staring out at the lake. "I don't even know what I'm worrying about."
Luna smiled faintly. "Yes, you do."
Harry sighed. Of course she knew. Why did he still try and hide things from her again?
His fingers curled slightly against his knee, watching as Luna painted his ring finger a deep, fiery red—almost the exact shade of the flames that sometimes flickered beneath his skin, of the feathers he had sometimes glimpsed at in the mirror when he looked too hard for too long, a reminder that he was something else, something more than human.
"I don't feel different," He admitted, his voice quiet. "I mean, I do, but—I'm still me. I thought it would be more… dramatic."
Luna tilted her head, her silvery eyes thoughtful as she dipped the brush back into the bottle. "You were always this, Harry. Becoming a Phoenix didn't change who you are, just what you are."
Harry let that settle, tapping ash off the cigarette again. He hadn't really considered it like that before. He had spent so much time wondering what it meant—if he was even human anymore, if he was something unnatural, something wrong. He had experimented with his magic, seeing just how brightly the flames burned. He had always been attracted to fire, always liked the look and the smell of the smoke, but now.. after the whole transformation thing, it felt like fire was his addiction.
What had the book said? That he was destined to burn? The book still haunted him, the words echoed around in his mind. He was terrified that it would be true, because if it was, he's destined to destroy everything, to burn until everything was ash. He really was different. At least Luna didn't look at him like he was different. She never did.
"I don't know what to do with it," He admitted. "With… me."
Luna's smile was small but knowing. "You don't have to do anything, Harry. You just have to be."
Harry frowned slightly, flexing his fingers as the polish dried. "That's not exactly helpful."
Luna giggled, the sound soft and light, like wind chimes. "Maybe not. But it's true."
Harry sighed again, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. "What if I can't control it?" He hesitated. "What if I hurt someone?"
Luna dipped her brush into another bottle—this time, a shimmering gold that caught the light like liquid sunlight. "Phoenixes don't hurt unless they need to, Harry."
Harry shook his head. "That doesn't mean I won't."
Luna glanced at him then, sharp in a way that made Harry feel like she was looking through him, seeing everything he hadn't said aloud. "You think you're dangerous."
Harry swallowed, flicking his cigarette butt into the grass and pressing the ember out with his shoe. "Aren't I?"
Luna set the polish down and took his hand, her fingers cool against his warmed skin. "No," She said, unwavering. "You're powerful. That's not the same thing."
Harry let out a breath, looking down at their hands. "Feels like the same thing sometimes."
Luna squeezed his fingers. "Only because people have made you believe that."
Harry's chest tightened. He thought about the Dursleys, about Dumbledore keeping things from him, about the way the Ministry twisted the truth, the way everyone expected him to be dangerous. Even though he's a kid, even when he hadn't done anything to deserve it except be born, except survive where his parents had died, except inherit the ability to speak parseltongue, a trait the wizarding community all believed was a sign of a twisted and evil wizard.
But he also thought about Draco, about the way he looked at him like he wasn't something to be feared, but something understood, something to love and care for. He wasn't a monster to Draco. Never to Draco.
He thought about Luna, who sat beside him, painting his nails like he wasn't a Phoenix or a weapon or the boy who lived, but just Harry. It's like what he said to Hagrid before first year, not Harry Potter, just Harry.
"I don't know what to do," He admitted.
Luna smiled, finishing his last nail and gently blowing on it to help it dry. "You don't have to."
Harry exhaled sharply. "That's not how my life works."
Luna tilted her head. "Maybe it should be."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by that. By the idea that he didn't have to have all the answers, that maybe, just maybe, he could figure it out as he went. That he didn't have to plot, plan, and prepare, that maybe he just needed to live.
Luna turned his hand over in hers, tracing over his palm with her fingertip. "You're not alone in this, Harry. You never have been."
Harry stared at her, something in his chest loosening slightly. He had been holding on so tightly—clenching his teeth against the uncertainty, the weight of it, afraid that if he let go, if he trusted it, everything would fall apart. But Luna had never been wrong before. He doesn't think she'd ever lead him in the wrong direction.
"I know that, now." Harry sighed, playing with the locket against his neck with his free hand, everyone had been telling him that, been trying to drill it into him. Why was he so adamant that they didn't know just how far their loyalties would be stretched? War did awful things to people, and that's exactly what they were heading towards. War.
"Have you been practicing your meditating?" Luna spoke up after a few moments, glancing up at Harry from his palm, her silvery blue eyes curious as she tilted her head to the side, her long wavy locks flopping to the side. Luna's hair was almost as wild and uncontrollable as Harry's, the waves reminding him of ocean foam and honeysuckle vines.
Harry let out a breath, rubbing the locket between his fingers. "Kind of. I've tried, but… it's hard. It's like trying to grab clouds." He shook his head. "I don't know how you make it look so easy."
Luna hummed, tapping his palm lightly with her finger. "That's because you're trying to control it instead of listening to it." She tilted her head, considering. "Your magic isn't something you force, Harry. It's something you hear—something you understand."
Harry frowned, shifting against the bark of the tree. "That's not exactly easy when it feels like I've got something alive burning inside me."
Luna smiled. "That's because you do." She traced a slow, lazy spiral across his palm. "Fire isn't meant to be contained, Harry. It's meant to burn. But that doesn't mean it can't be guided."
Harry exhaled sharply, tipping his head back against the tree, staring up through the branches. "And how exactly do I do that?"
Luna just continued to smile that soft and serene smile of hers. "Watch me, and pay attention to how my magic feels. I'll demonstrate."
Luna didn't move right away. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, the early morning breeze stirring the ends of her hair. Her fingers were still wrapped loosely around Harry's hand, grounding and steady.
Then, with a soft breath, she closed her eyes.
For a moment, nothing happened. The lake remained still, the branches above them barely shifting. But then Harry felt it—a shift, a change in the air, something subtle but unmistakable. It was like the space around them had come alive, vibrating with something unseen.
Luna's fingers twitched slightly, and then, as if responding to her very presence, the wind stirred.
It wasn't a harsh gust or a sudden burst of power, but something gentle—playful, even. The leaves rustled, the surface of the lake rippled as though something unseen had brushed against it. A soft whisper of air curled around Harry's shoulders, running through his hair like a hand threading through strands. It wasn't like normal wind; it felt sentient, almost alive, like it recognized the both of them.
Luna opened her eyes, silver-blue and bright, as if she were listening to something only she could hear. "Magic breathes," She said softly. "It's not about bending it to your will, it's about understanding it. Letting it understand you."
Harry swallowed, watching the way the wind danced around her, watching her playing with the edges of her light purple jumper, the denim of her overalls crinkling. "And it listens to you?"
Luna tilted her head, thoughtful. "More like… we listen to each other." She lifted her free hand slightly, and the wind responded, lifting a few stray leaves from the grass and swirling them gently between them before letting them settle again. "It's always been there, waiting. People just don't notice."
Harry exhaled, rubbing his thumb against his locket as his eyes watched in wonder and awe. "And you think… I can do the same?"
Luna turned her gaze back to him, smiling like he had asked something obvious. "You already do. You just don't trust yourself yet."
Harry frowned, his fingers flexing. "It doesn't feel like that. It feels like—" He hesitated. "Like it's too much. Like I'll lose control."
Luna considered that, the wind still curling softly around them. "You're fire," She said after a moment. "You burn bright. You consume. It's in your nature. But even fire knows when to be gentle. A candle flame doesn't rage like a bonfire. A hearth doesn't destroy like an inferno."
Harry swallowed, staring at the shimmering surface of the lake. "And what if I'm a wildfire?"
Luna's fingers squeezed his lightly. "Then you learn how to burn without turning everything to ash. You learn to warm, not scald."
Harry's breath hitched slightly. He wasn't sure why those words settled something inside him, but they did. Maybe because he had spent so long fearing that very thing—that he was something uncontrollable, something destined to destroy. But Luna didn't see him that way. Neither did Draco, or Hermione, or Ron, or even Neville. That day in the shop, when he first let the flames out, he hadn't burned Draco at all.. but he still didn't trust himself with this. For all he knew, the bond could be what kept Draco safe.
"Okay," Harry nodded. He bit on his bottom lip, watching as Luna looked back down at his palm, tracing the lines with a curiosity in her gaze. His nerves still twitched, causing him to reach for another cigarette from his pack and light it simply by placing it in his mouth, his magic doing the rest. It had really become his favorite trick to do, the only thing he could do without worrying he would hurt others. "I think I can do that."
"Good," She smiled, reading the lines on his hand before pausing. She didn't have to say anything, Harry could sense a new presence in the air, smell the old parchment and caramel toffee. Hermione.
"I'll leave you two alone, you'll want this talk to be private" Luna said softly to Harry, standing and dusting off her clothes before stuffing her bottles of polish into the pockets of her overalls, smiling at Harry before walking off.
Harry watched Luna disappear into the morning mist, her hair catching the light as the wind carried her away, almost as if the air itself knew she belonged to it. She hadn't needed to say anything more—she never did. Somehow, she always knew exactly what he needed to hear, what he needed to understand, and when to step back.
He sighed, exhaling a slow drag of smoke, watching it curl and fade into the air. The sound of approaching footsteps made his stomach twist slightly, and he turned just as Hermione stepped into view, her arms crossed, an unreadable expression on her face.
She stopped a few feet away from him, eyes flicking over the cigarette, the polish drying on his nails, the space where Luna had just been sitting. "You're up early."
Harry snorted, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette. "So are you."
Hermione hummed, shifting slightly on her feet before moving to sit down beside him, mirroring the position Luna had been in moments before. Harry didn't speak—he didn't know what she was here to say, but he knew Hermione well enough to know that if she had sought him out, it wasn't for something trivial.
For a few long moments, neither of them spoke. The lake lapped gently against the shore, the wind still whispering through the trees.
Finally, Hermione let out a slow breath, tucking her knees to her chest. "Ron said you'd be here."
Harry huffed a soft laugh, not surprised in the slightest. Ron knew him better than Harry liked to admit. "Makes sense."
Hermione's lips twitched, but she didn't quite smile. "It does, doesn't it?"
Another beat of silence.
Then, so quietly it almost got lost in the morning breeze, she said, "Are you okay?"
Harry hesitated. He wanted to lie. It would be easier, less complicated. But Hermione had always been able to see through him, and after everything, after the distance he had put between them, she deserved the truth. He owed her that much.
"No," He admitted, "Not really."
Hermione didn't react—not outwardly. But her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of her deep plum colored jumper, her shoulders tensing just a fraction. "Because of what's happening with Umbridge?" She asked tentatively. "Or… because of something else?"
Harry exhaled slowly, staring out at the lake, watching the surface ripple as the wind carried Luna's presence away. He could still feel the weight of her words, the way they settled deep inside him like embers waiting to catch. But now, with Hermione beside him, something else curled in his chest—something heavier.
"All of it," He admitted finally, rubbing his thumb over the locket around his neck. "Umbridge. The Order. The war." He hesitated, the words catching in his throat before he forced them out. "Me."
Hermione studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp and knowing. "You mean… what happened this summer?"
Harry's fingers twitched. He'd known she would ask. Of course she would—Hermione had always been able to see right through him, past the deflections, past the silences. She had never let him shut her out completely. But this was different. This wasn't just another burden, another secret that he could pretend didn't matter.
This was him.
The thought of telling her—of saying it out loud, of watching her expression shift when she realized just how not normal he was—made his stomach twist. He had already told Draco, already let himself be seen in ways he never thought possible, but that had been different. Draco had been there when it happened, had felt it, had witnessed him burn. And Luna… well, Luna never questioned magic or creatures. She understood things in a way that defied logic, that didn't need explanation. She had taken one look at him and known.
But Hermione was logic. She was reason. She was books and facts and things that could be proven. And Harry didn't know how to explain something that felt too big, too impossible, too wrong to fit into the world she trusted.
So he didn't.
Instead, he sighed, dragging his hand through his already-messy hair. "It wasn't great."
Hermione's lips pressed together, unimpressed. "Harry."
He let out a humorless chuckle. "What do you want me to say, Hermione? That I spent the summer lost in my head? That I had to learn how to survive again? That I barely slept, barely ate, barely—" He stopped himself, jaw clenching, before shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does," Hermione said, her voice firm but not unkind. "You don't talk about it, you never do, but something's wrong. It's still wrong. And I—" She faltered for the first time, taking a steady breath before continuing. "I just want to help, Harry. But you have to let me."
Harry swallowed, staring down at his hands. The red and gold polish Luna had painted on his nails shimmered in the morning light, warm and steady against his skin. He could still feel the lingering brush of magic in the air, the way it had wrapped around him like a whisper, like a promise.
He wanted to tell her.
Merlin, he wanted to.
To tell her about the summer, about the moment he became something else, about how Draco had been there, had held him through it, had seen him at his most raw and real and hadn't turned away. He wanted to tell her about the way he felt things now—deep in his bones, in his blood, in a way that made his skin itch and his body hum with power that shouldn't be his. He wanted to tell her about the fear, about the way he still woke up in the middle of the night expecting to combust, expecting to lose himself in the heat, in the hunger that sat at the edge of his thoughts.
But he didn't.
Because once he told her—really told her—there would be no taking it back. No pretending it wasn't real. No going back to being just Harry in her eyes.
And he wasn't ready for that.
So he did what he always did, the one thing the papers had been getting right.
He lied.
"I'm fine."
Hermione inhaled sharply, her eyes flashing with frustration. "You're not fine, Harry."
Harry let out a slow breath, tipping his head back against the tree. "No. But I will be."
She studied him, searching for something in his expression, and he knew, he knew, that she didn't believe him. But she didn't push, not yet. Instead, she shifted, moving closer until she was tucked into his side, her head resting on Harry's shoulder. He leaned into it automatically.
"If you don't want to talk about it now," She said carefully, "that's fine. But someday, Harry." Her voice softened, but it didn't waver. "Someday, you have to let someone in."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words settle.
And then—before he could stop himself—he said, "It's not that I don't want to."
Hermione blinked, surprised by his admission, but she didn't speak. She just waited.
Harry's throat felt tight. His magic was restless beneath his skin, heat curling at his fingertips, and for once, he didn't push it down. He let it simmer, let himself feel it. He wanted to let her in, wanted to tell her at least one thing. He didn't want to be a liar, didn't want to hide anything from her or Ron. He racked through his head until he knew at least one thing he could let her in about. He missed her, missed being able to tell her everything.
"I—" He hesitated, but then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Hermione, what I'm about to tell you… I need you to be open minded and—" He broke off, running a hand over his face before looking at her, really looking at her. "I need you to let me get it out first before you start replying."
Hermione's breath hitched slightly, but she nodded. "Okay."
Harry swallowed. "Promise me, no matter what I say, you won't freak out."
Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly. "Harry, you know I don't freak out easily."
He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, well. We'll see."
The weight of the secret pressed against his ribs, and for a moment, he thought about backing out. But Hermione was here, and he knew that if there was anyone who would fight for him, who would try to understand, it was her.
So he took a breath.
And he told her everything.
Everything he could, at least.
He told her about his summer, about the deep pit of depression and trauma he had fallen into, about the nightmares, about being haunted by Cedric's lifeless eyes and body, about the sleazy muggle parties, about Uncle Vernon, about running away. He told her about Grunick and the magical signature test, about the names and magicks he now had running through his veins. He told her about Hissyfitz, about his beautiful shop that he called home. He told her about Draco.
He left out a lot though. He didn't tell her about the Phoenix in his veins, or the blood bond with Draco, or being in love with him, or the fact they were dating. He didn't say anything about Lucrezia or horcruxes. He didn't say anything about Narcissa either. He kept it vague, but said he trusted Draco and he considered him a friend now.
For a long moment, Hermione said nothing. The wind shifted, rustling through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and autumn leaves. The lake rippled in the distance, soft and slow, as if the world itself was giving her time to process everything Harry had just told her.
And there was so much to process.
She barely knew where to start.
Harry had just unraveled months of silence, peeling back the layers of himself in a way she had never expected. She had spent weeks—months, really—trying to figure out what was wrong, trying to pinpoint why he felt so different, why he carried himself like someone constantly bracing for impact. And now, finally, she had her answer. Or at least, part of it.
Hermione's fingers curled against the fabric of her jumper as she inhaled deeply, forcing herself to remain calm, even as her mind spun wildly. She knew her next words mattered. She knew how much trust it must have taken for Harry to say all of that, to give her this. She would not betray that.
So she didn't start with Malfoy, no matter how much she wanted to. No matter how insane that information was, no matter how much it bugged her. Instead, she started with Harry.
"You ran away," She said finally, her voice quiet but firm. The words echoed in her mind, growing louder and louder by the minute. Harry had run away.
Harry's fingers twitched, his cigarette smoldering between them. He didn't look at her. Harry had run away. "Yeah."
She swallowed, her chest tightening. "Because of your uncle." Harry had run away.
Another beat of silence. Harry had run away. Then, so quiet she barely heard it, "Yeah."
Hermione closed her eyes for a brief second, steadying herself. She knew things had been bad with the Dursleys. She had always known, even if Harry never spoke about it directly. But hearing it like this? Finally having confirmation? It made her stomach churn with something sharp and burning. She hated that no one would listen to her when she tried to point it out, tried to leave hints and clues to every available adult in the nearest vicinity in the hopes at least one of them cared, one of them had the power and desire to save her best friend. She was just a child, she couldn't do anything, and no one ever listens to children. She hated feeling powerless, and she did her best to be there for him.
She still had that bruise balm tucked away in her bag, the small jar she had stolen from the hospital wing at the end of last year, just in case Harry needed it. She had been doing that a lot lately, stealing from the hospital wing or sneaking into Snape's storage for potion ingredients, losing herself in books about healing spells and potions, about anything she could find that could help Harry. Harry was her family, the first person to stand up for her in this still foreign magical world. She'd do anything for him.
"You really had nowhere to go," She said after a moment. She kept the 'and yet you still did it' to herself.
Harry didn't respond.
Hermione looked at him, watching the way his shoulders had tensed, and she felt something deep and horrible claw at her ribs. Because of course he didn't. She had known, deep down, that Privet Drive wasn't home for Harry. It never had been. But hearing it now, in his own words, just how bad it had been—how much it had driven him to leave with nowhere to go—
She felt sick.
She felt violent.
"Harry," She whispered, her voice wavering.
He shook his head. "Don't."
But she had to. She had to say it. If she didn't, she'd never let herself live it down. She already knew the answer, hell Harry had just told her that much, but she needed to hear him confirm it. She needed the certainty that came with it.
"You weren't safe there, you never were," She said, voice thick. "Were you?"
Harry's throat bobbed. He didn't answer.
And he didn't have to.
Hermione's hands curled into fists. "I knew it," She whispered fiercely. "I knew. I tried—I told—but no one listened—"
"Hermione," Harry muttered, rubbing his face. "Please—"
"No!" She snapped. "No, Harry! You don't get to just—brush this off!"
Harry flinched, and Hermione instantly regretted raising her voice. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe.
"I just…" Her voice broke. "I just wish I had known sooner."
Harry sighed, tipping his head back against the tree. "You knew enough."
"Not enough to help," She said bitterly.
Harry shook his head. "You did help. You and Ron—you both did. I just… I never let you see it all."
Hermione clenched her jaw, holding back everything she wanted to say. She wasn't going to push. Not now. She promised she'd not push him.
They sat for a few minutes in silence while Hermione thought over her next words.
She exhaled, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Okay. Let's just—start somewhere else then. You're saying you're the heir to multiple ancient houses, right?"
Harry nodded, watching her warily.
"And that includes Slytherin?" She clarified.
Another nod.
Hermione blinked at him. Then she snorted. "Well, that certainly puts the whole Heir of Slytherin thing from second year into perspective, doesn't it?"
Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face even as he cracked a smile. He had thought about that immediately too. "Don't."
Hermione huffed out a laugh, but her mind was still spinning. Heir of Slytherin. It sounded impossible—but then again, it made too much sense. The Parseltongue, the Chamber of Secrets, the way magic had always responded to Harry in ways that weren't exactly… normal.
And the Black family—Sirius's family.
"Wait," She said suddenly, sitting up straight. "You said you're the heir to the Black family, too? But now the Lord?"
Harry nodded, tilting his head. "Yeah. Why?"
"Why? Harry! That's—that's huge! That means you outrank every other living Black family member—including Sirius!"
Harry looked vaguely uncomfortable at that, even though he knew it was true. "Yeah."
Hermione shook her head. "But—how? I thought… I thought inheritance followed bloodlines. You're not a Black by blood, Sirius was disowned—"
"Yeah, well, apparently, the goblins don't care about wizarding customs," Harry muttered. "And according to them, because Sirius is my godfather and named me his heir before his arrest, I do have a claim."
Hermione's eyes widened. "Harry. That makes you the head of the Black family."
Harry sighed. "I know."
Hermione let out a breath, trying to steady herself. "This isn't just a name on parchment, Harry. The Black family was one of the most powerful wizarding families in Britain, the most widely recognized oldestwizarding family actually. Sirius might have rejected their ideals, but that doesn't mean the influence disappeared."
"I know that, 'Mione." Harry sighed, staring at the ashes from his cigarette that he flicked onto the grass. "But.. I don't think Sirius was the one who named me the heir. The goblins say he did but, but Sirius acts like he has no clue about it. I've already reached the age where I get the Lordship title according to the Black creed or whatever, and you'd think he'd talk to me about it since he was the last Lord, give me advice, you know? But he acts like.. like he's clueless about it." Harry turned his head to look at his dark skinned friend, taking notice of the way she was messing with her hair, a habit she hadn't yet outgrown. "I really don't think he knows I'm Lord of the House of Black now. And that means.."
Hermione finished the thought for him when he trailed off, "That means someone else made you the heir. But.. but who? Sirius is the only Black left, isn't he? Or at least, the only Black with the ability to name you heir."
Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing his thumb over the locket at his neck. He hadn't figured that part out yet, and the unknown gnawed at him. The Black family wasn't exactly known for transparency—hell, half their dealings were probably hidden in ancient blood-bound contracts or burned to ash in their fireplaces—but still…
He should know who had done this. He should know who wanted him to keep the Black family magicks alive.
"I don't know," He admitted, shaking his head. "The goblins all swore it was Sirius, that as soon as the appointed heir turns fifteen, they become the Lord of the House. I'm fifteen, the blood test said I'm the Lord, I can't change any of that now, but I still want to know who did it, why they did it. I just know it wasn't Sirius, he would tell me if he did."
"That is odd," She admitted. "If it wasn't Sirius, then who—" She broke off, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her jumper. "Wait. Harry."
He looked at her, wary.
"What if—what if it wasn't Sirius who made you heir directly," She continued, her voice gaining momentum. "What if it was… something older? Some kind of ancestral magic? The Black family was ancient, and they clearly took bloodlines very seriously. Maybe there was something, some kind of clause, written into the magic of the house itself?"
Harry frowned. "Like what?"
Hermione's eyes flashed. "Like if there was no suitable Black left to carry on the name, then the magic would seek out someone it deemed worthy—or at least, someone with a strong enough tie to the family. Someone the family magic itself would accept."
Harry sat with that thought for a moment, his mind turning it over, testing it against what he already knew. It wasn't impossible. Sirius had been disowned, and if his ancestors had done something drastic way back when—something ancient and binding—then maybe, maybe, the Black family magic had taken one look at the state of things and decided, Fine. We'll take the godson instead.
He exhaled sharply. "So you think the family magic just—what? Chose me?"
Hermione nodded. "I mean, it makes sense. You are Sirius's godson, which is as close to a magical adoption as you can get without actually performing a formal ritual." She said factually.
Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. So the spooky magic decided I should be its new owner."
Hermione snorted. "I mean, stranger things have happened."
Harry shot her a flat look. "Name one."
She smirked. "You're the Heir of Slytherin."
Harry groaned louder, throwing his head back against the tree, a grin on his face nonetheless. "I knew you were going to use that against me."
Hermione giggled, but the mirth was short-lived. Because even with all the jokes, the weight of the conversation still hung between them, heavy and undeniable.
"So what are you going to do?" She asked finally.
Harry sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "I don't know." He looked at her, and something in his expression was raw, uncertain. "I don't even know where to start, Hermione. I feel like I have all these responsibilities shoved at me, but I don't understand them. I don't know what's expected of me. I don't know what being Lord Black actually means. And I—" He broke off, voice catching slightly. "I don't know if I want it. I'm Lord Potter too aren't I? Isn't it like.. betraying my dad to focus so much on a different family?"
Hermione softened, her gaze warm and understanding. "Harry," She said quietly, "you don't have to figure everything out all at once. You're allowed to digest a few things first."
Harry let out a dry laugh. "Tell that to the powers that be."
Hermione shook her head. "I'm serious. You're fifteen. You shouldn't have to carry all of this on your own."
Harry swallowed, looking away. "But I do."
Hermione's heart clenched. Because that was what this all boiled down to, wasn't it? The idea that Harry had to carry everything—that if he didn't, it would all fall apart. That he had to be the one to bear the weight of it, to keep going, to never stop.
She wanted to tell him he was wrong. That he wasn't alone. That she and Ron would always be there, that he didn't have to shoulder every burden by himself. But she knew better than to say it outright. Harry wasn't ready to hear it—not yet. She had tried and he hadn't really seemed to believe her then.
So instead, she reached over and took his hand, squeezing it gently. "Well," She said lightly, "at the very least, this means you officially outrank Malfoy now."
Harry snorted, shaking his head as a memory played in his mind. "Yeah, that sure was fun when he found out."
Hermione took that as her signal to talk about Malfoy now, to dive deeper on that whole.. situation. "So, you're really friends with Malfoy now?"
Harry hesitated, the amused glint in his eyes fading slightly. He knew this was coming, knew that Hermione wasn't just going to let the Malfoy thing go unnoticed, but still—he wasn't sure how to explain it. How do you tell your best friend that the person who used to be one of your biggest annoyances had somehow become… everything?
He exhaled slowly, flicking the remnants of his cigarette into the grass. "Yeah," He admitted, voice quieter now. "I am."
Hermione studied him carefully, her expression unreadable. "And… how did that happen, exactly?"
Harry huffed a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's… complicated."
"I gathered that," Hermione said dryly. "You do realize this is Malfoy we're talking about, right? The same Malfoy who called me a—" She broke off, expression tightening, before shaking her head. "Who made all of our lives hell for years."
Harry swallowed. He had been prepared for this, but it didn't make it any easier. "I know," He said carefully. "But… he's not who we thought he was, Hermione."
Her brows knit together. "And you know this how? Because of one summer?"
Harry shook his head. "No. Because I got to know him."
Hermione let out a slow breath, crossing her arms. "You got to know him," She repeated. "Harry, he's Malfoy. What exactly convinced you he wasn't the arrogant, prejudiced prat we've been dealing with for the past four years?"
Harry clenched his jaw. He had expected skepticism, had braced himself for it, but something about hearing it still sent irritation curling in his chest. Because he knew. He had seen the real Draco—the boy beneath the Malfoy mask, the one who wasn't cruel or hateful or just another carbon copy of his father. The one who had sat with him in the quiet of their shop, who had listened to his worst confessions without judgment, who had looked at him like he was something worth keeping, something worth care. They had seen the absolute worst in each other, and yet love persevered.
And now Hermione was sitting here, acting like that didn't matter.
"It wasn't just one thing," He said, trying to keep his voice even. "It was a lot of things. We—" He hesitated. "We just… ended up in each other's lives this summer, and I don't know how to explain it, but it worked. He's different when he's away from all of… this." He gestured vaguely toward the castle. "From his father. From expectations. From—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I don't know. But he is. And I trust him."
Hermione's gaze sharpened at that. "You trust him."
"Yes."
Hermione inhaled sharply. "Harry, I want to believe you, I really do. But this is Malfoy we're talking about. He's spent years making sure we knew exactly what he thought of us. And now, suddenly, you trust him?"
Harry clenched his fists. "I know how it sounds, alright? But it's real, Hermione. He's—" He stopped himself before he said something he couldn't take back. Something too honest. Something like he's mine, he's the love of my life, that the way Draco looked at him was the way Hermione looked at Ron when she thought no one was looking.
Instead, he exhaled, forcing himself to loosen his grip. "He's not who we thought he was."
Hermione frowned, searching his expression like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "Harry," She said slowly, "is there something you're not telling me?"
Harry swallowed hard, he could be truthful here, maybe help Hermione see what he saw in Draco. "When I was in Diagon, after I visited Gringotts and talked myself into staying and not running.. I bumped into Draco. I managed to get away, but I saw him again later on. I wasn't.. I was very clearly injured. From.." Harry didn't have to say it, and Hermione's fist clenched in her lap. "He uh, accosted me and dragged me to a small side-alley, forced a package in my hands and then left not long after, said he'd back a few days later to see if I needed any more. Hermione he.. he brought me healing potions and charms. I was his archenemy, someone he despised and shouldn't trust, and he still brought me things to heal me. Things spiraled from there."
Hermione's expression flickered, a mix of surprise and something else—something thoughtful. She was still skeptical, that much was clear, but Harry knew her well enough to recognize when she was re-evaluating.
"That… doesn't sound like the Malfoy I know," She admitted cautiously.
Harry nodded. "I know. But that's what I'm trying to tell you, Hermione. He's not just that Malfoy. He's different when he's away from his father, away from all the expectations." He hesitated before adding, "He's more than the person we thought he was."
Hermione let out a slow breath, brushing her hair away from her face. "So he helped you." She pursed her lips, clearly running through everything in her head. "But why? What does he get out of it?"
Harry sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know if it started as pity or just curiosity, but it changed, Hermione. I changed. He changed." He exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb over the locket against his chest. "We didn't set out to be friends. But we… we get each other in ways I didn't think were possible."
Hermione was quiet for a long moment, her gaze searching his, as if trying to find any cracks in his conviction. "And he hasn't—he hasn't said or done anything to make you doubt that?" She asked, her voice softer now.
"No," Harry said firmly. "Not once."
Hermione pressed her lips together, then sighed. "I still don't like this, Harry. But if he really is different, and if you trust him…" She shook her head, like she couldn't believe she was saying it. "Then I'll try."
Harry blinked, caught off guard. "You will?"
Hermione gave him a pointed look. "I trust you, Harry. If you say Malfoy's different, then I'll give him a chance to prove it."
Something in Harry's chest unclenched. He hadn't even realized how much he had been bracing himself for outright rejection until the tension eased. "Thanks, Hermione," He said, and he meant it.
Hermione huffed. "Don't thank me yet. He still has to earn it, and trust me, it'll take a long time for that to happen."
Harry chuckled, trying and failing to fight back a grin. He was happy there would at least be a chance. "Yeah, I figured."
Hermione shook her head with a small, reluctant smile. "Honestly, Harry. You always have to do things the hard way, don't you?"
Harry smirked. "Wouldn't be me otherwise."
Hermione groaned, but there was fondness in her exasperation, poking his shoulder. "Merlin help us all."
There was a beat of silence, a few minutes of calm as he and Hermione watched the morning sky, watched the water of the lake ripple. Peace. Harry loved when it was calm out, when he could let himself relax.
"Harry, can I ask you something? And promise you won't get mad?" Hermione eventually spoke up once more, her head resting on Harry's shoulder again.
Harry let out a sigh, bracing himself. " 'course, 'Mione." He mumbled, his eyes still watching the sky.
"Are you dating Luna Lovegood?"
Harry blinked.
Once. Twice.
Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at Hermione, who was still resting her head on his shoulder, though now her eyes were fixed on the lake, trying—and failing—not to look like she was waiting for a bomb to drop.
He stared at her for a long moment before huffing out a short laugh. "Luna?"
Hermione didn't answer immediately, but her posture stiffened just enough for Harry to feel it.
"She's always with you lately," She said quietly. "She's… different with you. Protective. And you seem more grounded when she's around."
Harry stared at the water again, his smile fading into something softer, more wistful. "Luna's brilliant," He said simply. "She sees things in people that no one else sees. She listens in a way no one else does."
Hermione was quiet for a beat, but then she said, "That didn't answer the question."
Harry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, Hermione. I'm not dating Luna."
Her head lifted then, and she gave him a quick sideways glance, brows drawing together. "You're not?"
"No," Harry repeated. "She's my friend. One of the best I've got. But that's it."
Hermione's brows creased further. "But… you talk to her more than anyone. You let her paint your nails. You let her in."
Harry exhaled through his nose. "Because she doesn't expect me to be anything other than what I am. Not the Chosen One. Not a soldier. Not a threat. Just Harry." He paused. "It's not romantic. She's like… like a mirror. Or maybe a compass."
Hermione blinked, visibly thrown by that. "That's… poetic."
Harry smirked faintly. "She brings it out of me."
"Then… is there someone else?" She asked, more cautiously this time, like she was picking her way through a maze blindfolded.
Harry hesitated.
He could feel the words forming in his chest, clawing up his throat like they wanted to be free: Yes. There's someone. Someone I love. Someone who sees all of me—even the fire, even the fury—and chooses me anyway. Someone I never expected.
But he wasn't ready. Not yet.
So he settled for, "Maybe."
Hermione's eyes narrowed, and he knew she was itching to push, but to her credit, she held herself back. "Is it someone we know?"
Harry gave her a flat look. "What happened to not freaking out?"
"I'm not freaking out!" She insisted. "I'm just… being thorough."
He rolled his eyes. "Let's just say it's complicated."
Hermione's expression softened slightly. "Is it real?"
Harry looked down at his hands—at the red and gold polish that shimmered like blood and fire. At the slight glow that pulsed beneath his skin when his magic stirred. He thought of Draco's hand in his. Of quiet nights in Hissyfitz. Of whispered truths and hidden smiles.
And he nodded. "Yeah. It's real."
Hermione looked like she wanted to ask a hundred more questions, but she didn't. Instead, she bumped his shoulder gently. "Well… when you're ready, I'd like to know. I promise not to freak out. Seriously."
Harry smiled. "You'll probably freak out."
"I'll try not to," She said, nudging him again. "Unless it's Umbridge. Then I'm staging an intervention."
Harry let out a bark of laughter. "Hermione—!"
She grinned, but it faded after a second. "I'm glad you're not alone, Harry. I mean it."
Harry's throat tightened. He glanced away, blinking at the soft light breaking across the lake's surface.
"Yeah," He said. "Me too."
——
Harry wasn't really surprised when, during lunch, Hermione and Ron made their way over to the Gryffindor table and sat in front of him without a word, just like they used to, pretending like they hadn't just spent days awkwardly dodging each other's gazes.
What did surprise him was that they didn't immediately bristle when they noticed who else was seated there.
Parvati sat on his right, laughing at something Ginny, who was on his left, had just muttered under her breath. Lavender was across from Parvati, waving her spoon around animatedly as she described something that, judging by Ginny's scrunched-up nose, had no business being talked about over mashed potatoes. He hadn't really been paying attention, if he was honest.
Harry noticed the way Ron's brows lifted slightly as he looked between the girls, then at Harry, a question clearly forming on his tongue.
Hermione gave a polite—if slightly wary—smile in Parvati's direction before unfolding her napkin with perhaps more attention than strictly necessary. She didn't say anything, but her eyes flicked from Parvati to Lavender to Ginny, then back to Harry, like she was taking mental notes and cross-referencing them with a list she hadn't written down.
"I swear it! Really! I saw one in his bag!" Lavender exclaimed, and Parvati immediately mimed gagging.
"Who carries one of those in their school bag?! Are all boys like this?!" Parvati's eyes immediately looked at Harry accusingly, who paused with his goblet of juice at his lips.
Harry had been lost in his mind, blinking as he tried to figure out what exactly he was getting tossed under the bus for as their closest guy friend. Ginny, ever the chaotic helper, leaned over and filled him in with a wicked gleam in her eyes.
"Lav saw a nudie mag in Seamus' school bag," Ginny stage whispered while trying not to cackle, "Wands & Witches apparently." Ginny paused a moment, scratching her jaw as a smirk tugged at the corner of her lip, "Frankly, I thought he'd be more of a Broomstixxx kind of bloke, very quidditch themed."
Lavender gasped overdramatically, clearly doing a bit, nearly knocking over her pumpkin juice. "Excuse you, Ginny Weasley! I'll have you know Seamus has layers!"
"Yeah," Parvati muttered, stabbing a potato with her fork, "and most of them are sticky and gross, like the pages of that mag, I assume."
Ron made a choked noise from across the table, his ears going slightly pink. "Bloody hell," he muttered, glaring down at his roast beef like it had personally offended him. "Is that what girls talk about at lunch?"
"Only when someone sees softcore porn in someone's backpack," Ginny quipped with a grin.
Harry bit back a laugh and leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table. "You're all mental, you know that, right?"
Lavender reached over and gave him a playful shove with her spoon. "Says the boy with nail polish on his fingers that I clearly didn't do, even though I had asked."
Ron's head snapped up at that, eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked to Harry's hands. "You're wearing… is that gold?"
"Gold and red," Harry said easily, showing his fingers. "Luna did them this morning."
Hermione's eyes softened at that, a thoughtful look settling across her features. She'd seen it that morning, but she hadn't really commented on it. "It suits you."
Ron blinked, clearly not expecting that answer but fine with it, used to it even. Charlie and Bill both wore nail polish sometimes. "Right. Okay. Cool."
There was a beat of silence. Then Lavender leaned across the table slightly, looking between Ron and Hermione with curious interest. "So, you're back with Harry now?"
Hermione blinked. "Back with—what? No, we've always been friends."
Lavender raised a perfectly manicured brow. "Sure, but you weren't sitting with him the past few days. And now you are. Which is lovely! But I'm just saying—it's nice to see."
Hermione looked like she was debating whether or not to respond to that. Beside her, Ron cleared his throat. "We just—had some things to sort out," He mumbled, poking at his peas. "S'not like we were mad at him."
"Not really," Hermione agreed, glancing at Harry with a small smile. "Just… needed space."
Harry nodded, catching her eye. "We're good now, though."
"Obviously," Ginny muttered around a bite of bread, picking a piece out of her roll and flicking it at Harry, "if you're letting them back into the chaos."
Parvati tilted her head, looking between the three of them with a kind of cautious amusement. "So… you lot friends with us now too, or is this just a guest appearance?"
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "Oh—I mean—we're not not open to it."
Lavender beamed, her eyes lighting up. "That's practically an invitation!"
Ron looked vaguely alarmed. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Parvati said sweetly, "that if you can survive lunch with us, you might survive a Hogsmeade weekend."
Ron looked like he wasn't sure if that was a challenge or a threat. Hermione, to her credit, smiled at her dormmates. "Well… maybe we'll see."
Harry leaned back, letting the conversation swirl around him, feeling something settle in his chest. It wasn't perfect. There were still things he hadn't said, secrets he wasn't ready to share. But for now—for this moment—it was okay. His friends were laughing. His people were talking. The space at the Gryffindor table that had once felt cold and splintered now felt warm again, patchwork and imperfect but stitched with effort and new beginnings. It was.. everything to him. All that was really missing was Draco, maybe Draco's friends too.
His eyes flicked over Hermione's head, searching over at the Slytherin table for Draco. He was holding court, as always, surrounded by his friends and talking a mile a minute, Pansy on one side of him and Blaise on the other, each listening intently and offering their own commentary on whatever the subject was. His eyes searched the rest of the hall, checking up on the others he'd befriended.
Hannah and Susan were sitting together at the Hufflepuff table, their arms crossed together as they giggled and talked to their house mates, Neville sitting beside Seamus and Dean on the other end of the Gryffindor table. His eyes fell to the Ravenclaw table, his eyebrows furrowing as he noticed Luna.
Harry frowned, eyes fixed on the Ravenclaw table. Luna sat alone, her tray neatly arranged in front of her, her book propped against a jug of apple juice. She turned a page delicately on a book she was reading about unusual magical beasts, head tilted like she was listening to the words rather than reading them. The rest of her housemates clustered at the opposite end of the bench, their backs mostly turned, as though her very presence was inconvenient, or diseased.
Luna seemed at peace, seemingly used to this. Harry frowned, because he could tell that no matter the appearances of calm and serenity, Luna was sad. A deep kind of sadness that's been swallowed by the dull and haunting ache of normalcy.
It made Harry's stomach twist.
He felt it in his chest—the quiet kind of rage, hot and heavy, the same one that always lit up when he saw someone being left out, someone being punished just for existing differently. It reminded him too much of himself. Of how people had looked at him every year when rumors started. How they still looked at him now, last year still fresh in their minds and the papers calling him an attention seeking nutcase.
He leaned closer to Ginny. "Why's Luna sitting alone?"
Ginny's gaze followed his, her eyes narrowing the moment she saw what he meant. "Bloody fucking hell," She muttered, her tone sharp. "I didn't even realize—"
Harry didn't let her finish. He set down his goblet and stood abruptly, grabbing his plate in one hand and his pumpkin juice in the other. "I'm not letting her eat alone."
Ginny didn't hesitate—she shot to her feet with a flick of her hair. "Same."
Parvati blinked, looking between them. "Where are you two going?"
"To sit with Luna," Harry said simply, his jaw tight.
Lavender gasped, delighted. "Ooooh! Yes, perfect!" She immediately snatched up her plate. "I've been wanting an excuse to ditch this spot anyways. The sixth years eat like trolls."
Parvati grinned. "Honestly, yeah. Let's cause a little chaos."
Ron blinked, holding a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. "We're sitting with a Ravenclaw now?"
Hermione shot him a look, even as she reached for her own plate. "Yes, Ron. She's Harry's friend. And ours, too."
Ron's ears turned a bit red, but he nodded, standing. "Right. Yeah. Just, uh—bit sudden, is all."
Hermione smiled faintly, proud and a little nervous. But this—this felt right. This was what they should be doing, helping others.
The group gathered their plates, trailing behind Harry like a miniature parade as they made their way across the Great Hall. Conversations around them paused. Heads turned. Whispers followed.
Because Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley, were leaving the Gryffindor table at lunchtime and heading for the Ravenclaw side. That sort of thing didn't just happen, house lines had never been crossed before in this way.
Up at the staff table, a wooden spoon was snapped from a certain pink cretin. Harry smirked.
Luna didn't look up at first. She was lost in the sketch on the page in front of her, a strange, spindly creature with wings made of water.
Harry gently set his plate down across from her. "Room for one more?"
Luna blinked, raising her eyes. Then, very softly, she smiled. "There's always room."
Ginny sat beside Harry, Parvati and Lavender sliding in on either side of Luna like they belonged there. Lavender immediately gasped at the book. "Is that a Nebberwing? I love those—so creepy and elegant."
Parvati peered over Luna's shoulder. "Wait, they're real?"
"They are if you believe in them," Luna said dreamily.
Hermione sat on Harry's other side, her plate a little wobbly in her hands. "Hi, Luna," She said, trying to smile like this wasn't the most daring thing she'd done all week.
Luna turned to her and beamed. "Hello, Hermione. Your hair looks lovely today."
Hermione blinked, surprised, then flushed, touching the ends of her hair and stammering out, "Oh, oh, thank you."
Ron hesitated last, standing awkwardly at the edge of the bench before slowly sliding in beside Parvati, who raised an eyebrow and passed him the salt like it was no big deal. Ron warmed up immediately at the action.
It wasn't loud, or grand, or dramatic. But it was noticed.
By the Ravenclaws, who stared like someone had spilled ink across their perfect parchment. By the Slytherins, who glanced toward Draco with raised brows and smirks and subtle nods like the main cogs of the rumor mill. By Luna, who didn't say anything about the stares, who just went back to eating like it didn't matter, like she hadn't spent countless meals alone.
But Harry saw the way her shoulders relaxed.
He saw the way her eyes flicked around the table, taking in everyone who had come with him—everyone who had chosen her.
And then, very softly, she set her book aside, picked up her fork, and leaned into the conversation like she'd always belonged there. Because she did.
"Loony is friends with Harry Potter?" "Why are they sitting with Loony Lovegood?" "Loony Lovegood and Loony Potter." "I didn't know Lavender and Parvati liked Loony." "I thought Loony was just Ginny's pet freak, not her actual friend." Whispers ran around the hall, but they ignored them. All except Ginny, who was listening and uttering names under her breath like she was crafting a very special hit list and memorizing her targets.
Harry murmured low, just so only Ginny would hear, "You raid your brother's stash, I'll be your alibi."
Ginny let out a sharp, vicious grin—the kind that promised violence and vengeance and a very thorough use of Weasley pranking ingenuity.
"Oh, I'm already thinking about it," She whispered back, voice syrupy sweet and deadly all at once. "And Fred and George owe me at least three favors. I'm cashing them in."
Harry smirked, "Perfect."
——
"Where are we going, Potter?" Draco whispered, being steered blindly by the warm hands covering his eyes.
"Shh, you'll like this, trust me," Harry whispered back, trying not to smirk when he saw the hair on the back of Draco's neck stand straight up in response.
"You're a menace." Draco huffed, goosebumps up and down his arms as he allowed Harry to lead him around Hogwarts after curfew, under the promise of a surprise.
Harry didn't deny it, it was true after all. Harry finally stopped, positioning Draco at the end of the hallway. "Okay, open your eyes."
Draco's eyelashes fluttered as he blinked, his eyes searching the long hallway for whatever the surprise was. It took a moment, his eyebrow arching after.
"It's a hallway," Draco said flatly.
"It's a special hallway," Harry corrected.
"A special hallway," Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing slowly like he was trying not to flip out. "I'm dating an idiot."
"I'm dating an actual fucking idiot," Draco repeated, scrubbing a hand down his face like he regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.
Harry just grinned.
He looked like the cat who caught the canary, smug and glittering with mischief under the flickering candlelight of the empty corridor. "Oh, ye of little faith," He said, sounding far too pleased with himself. "Watch this."
Draco opened his mouth, probably to argue or hex or dramatically threaten to leave, but paused when Harry turned from him and began pacing back and forth in front of the blank stretch of wall like a lunatic.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" Draco hissed, glancing up and down the corridor as if someone might spot them and hand them over to Umbridge for existing incorrectly.
"Just—hold on." Harry waved a hand behind him, focused entirely on the floor, his jaw twitching in concentration. "I've done this a few times—sort of. I think. You have to walk past it three times and want something. Want it really bad."
Draco blinked. "Is this some kind of meditation exercise? If you pull out incense and start chanting, I'm leaving."
"I'm not chanting!" Harry snapped, then paused mid-step, sparing a glance at the wall. "Should I chant?"
"No!" Draco hissed.
"Right. No chanting." Harry cleared his throat and resumed his pacing. "I need a place. A room. Just… a space where we can talk and not be heard. A place no one can find unless they're meant to. Something private. Comfortable. Safe."
Draco tilted his head, the sarcastic remark dying on his tongue when the wall rippled.
He blinked.
Because the blank stone wasn't blank anymore.
It was… shifting. Melting, almost. The bricks reformed and rearranged themselves, the outline of a grand wooden door etching itself into existence like it had always been there, just waiting to be seen.
Harry stopped mid-stride, staring. "Holy shit, I was right."
Draco slowly stepped up beside him, frowning suspiciously. "What the hell is that?"
"A door," Harry supplied, utterly awestruck and utterly unhelpful, "I think it's for us."
They both stared at the door for a moment, neither moving.
Draco finally broke the silence. "So let me get this straight. You dragged me out of bed, blindfolded me, brought me to a corridor that literally has nothing in it besides a tapestry of trolls doing ballet, muttered about needing a room like some madman, and now there's a door that wasn't here five seconds ago all on a whim—"
"Yes."
"—and you're going to open it?"
"…Yes."
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose again. "I'm going to die here."
"You'll die privately," Harry offered, and then promptly turned the handle.
The door swung open with a soft creak, revealing something out of a dream.
Inside was a cozy room, glowing with warm candlelight and soft charmed firelight from a floating hearth. Thick soft rugs blanketed the floor, and the walls were lined with bookshelves, potion racks, and strange little artifacts that shifted when not looked at directly. A couch sat near the fire, the ugly couch from the shop, covered in throw blankets and embroidered pillows. One of the windows even showed stars, impossible constellations.
Draco stepped in slowly, his voice hushed. "Harry."
Harry turned to look at him.
Draco's expression was unreadable—eyes wide, mouth parted, breath caught somewhere between awe and apprehension. "This isn't normal."
"Nope."
"You did this?"
"I think so?"
Draco gave him a long, slow look. "This room just… appeared because you wanted it?"
Harry shrugged. "I mean, I guess technically we wanted it. You were there too."
Draco's lips twitched. "Merlin help me, you're insufferable."
"But I'm right," Harry said smugly, stepping inside and toeing the door closed behind them. "This place—whatever it is—it listens."
Draco's eyes scanned the room again. "So we think about what we need and it gives it to us?"
"Seems like it."
"And you never knew about this?"
Harry shook his head. "No idea what it's called, or how it works, I found out about it a few days ago. I just—I needed a place. I was thinking about you. About us. About needing space to just be without the rest of the world pressing in. And it gave us this."
Draco stared at him for a moment longer, then walked over to the couch, running his fingers over back with a wistful smile. "Huh."
Harry followed. "You okay?"
Draco nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's just… it's kind of perfect. I don't like when things are perfect. It makes me suspicious."
Harry snorted. "You're suspicious of a magical room that gives you exactly what you need?"
"I'm a Slytherin," Draco said primly, dramatically. "We're not allowed to trust things, it's in the bylaws."
Harry laughed, grabbing one of the pillows and chucking it at him. "The bylaws, really?"
Draco caught it with a grin and rolled his eyes, "Yep, it's the third rule actually." He drawled dramatically before throwing the pillow back at him, a playful expression in his eyes.
"Third rule?" Harry raised an eyebrow mischievously, snatching the pillow out of the air easily, twirling it in between his hands for a minute, a smirk on his face as he observed Draco. "What are the other rules if not trusting anything is the third?"
Draco pretended to think, even going as far to tilt his head and rub his chin, humming a moment. This went on for a few good seconds before Draco chuckled and crossed his arms, "Can't tell you that, Potter. House loyalty, and all that."
Harry snorted, tossing the pillow back at Draco with a little more force.
"I'll have you know," He said grandly, stepping closer and putting on a fake posh accent, "that Gryffindor's bylaws clearly state that when faced with a suspiciously perfect magical room, you immediately flop onto the nearest couch and make yourself at home."
Draco caught the pillow, raising an eyebrow and trying his absolute hardest not to smile. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely." Harry grinned, stepping around him and throwing himself onto the ugly, familiar couch with a dramatic huff. He spread his arms across the back, tilting his head to smirk up at Draco. "Come on, Malfoy. I can't lounge alone."
Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was still fighting a smile. "This feels like a trap."
Harry shrugged lazily. "Maybe. Guess you'll have to risk it."
For a second, Draco just stood there, studying him, the rumpled messed up clothes, the way Harry's socks didn't match, the warmth that radiated from his skin like he was made of fire and defiance and every stupid and dangerous thing Draco had ever wanted in his life.
Then, with an exaggerated sigh like he was being deeply put-upon, Draco tossed the pillow onto Harry's stomach and flopped down beside him, sprawling with as much dramatic flair as he could manage at two in the morning.
"Oof—" Harry huffed, the pillow bouncing off his ribs.
Draco stretched out his legs, bumping into Harry's and overlapping them. "There. Happy now, Gryffindor?"
"Ecstatic," Harry deadpanned, chucking the pillow at Draco's face.
Draco caught it and launched it back, hitting Harry square in the chest again. Harry sputtered, grabbing another cushion off the back of the couch and whacking Draco with it.
It dissolved instantly into a ridiculous, half-hearted pillow fight, both of them laughing too hard to do any real damage, the cushions slipping out of their hands and tumbling onto the floor after a few minutes of trying to mess up each other's hair.
Finally, Draco shoved Harry lightly in the shoulder, breathless, sitting beside him now. "You're such a maniac."
Harry grinned, cheeks flushed. "Takes one to know one."
Draco rolled his eyes but didn't move away. If anything, he shifted closer, slouching down until their shoulders brushed — casual, like it didn't matter, like he wasn't aching to close the last few inches between them.
"You know," Draco said airily, picking at the hem of Harry's sleeve, "you're very lucky I find your complete and total utter lack of self-preservation charming."
Harry grinned. "You think I'm charming."
"Don't let it go to your head, Potter."
"Too late." Harry turned his head, their noses almost brushing. His voice dropped a little, rough with something warm and giddy and reckless. "You like me."
Draco made a wounded noise, dragging a hand dramatically down his face. "Salazar save me, you're insufferable."
Harry laughed, a low, bright sound that did terrible, awful, and absolutely perfect things to Draco's chest, and shifted closer, their knees bumping again. "Say it," He teased.
"No."
"Come on, Malfoy. Embrace your inner Gryffindor and be brave, I won't tell."
Draco scoffed, but there was no real heat to it. His eyes flicked down to Harry's mouth, and Harry saw the moment the teasing crumbled into something real, something raw and breathless.
"You're impossible," Draco muttered, a phrase he was beginning to believe was the complete summary of Harry Potter.
Harry smirked. "You like impossible."
Draco huffed, and then, finally, dreadfully finally, he leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't slow or tentative or soft. It was them.
Harry met him halfway, his hand fisting in the front of Draco's softer than cotton and smoother than silk shirt, dragging him closer like he couldn't stand the distance for another second. Draco made a low, helpless noise against his mouth, threading his fingers into Harry's messy black hair, tugging just enough to make Harry gasp and chase him, deepening the kiss.
It was messy, it was clumsy, it was perfect. It had all the grace of teenage boy hormones clashing into each other. All the tension, all the unspoken words, crashing into each other like a firestorm of love and want and laughter.
Harry tilted his head, chasing Draco's mouth when he tried to pull back for air, laughing into the kiss. Draco swore under his breath and kissed him harder, like he was trying to win an argument only they understood. It was like fighting in a way, back when they'd despised each other's very existence. One would push, the other would pull, only a crowbar could possibly break them apart.
When they finally pulled away, both panting and brushing their noses against each others, Harry grinned up at him, all flushed cheeks and shining eyes. He looked at Draco like he hung the moon and all the stars in the skies, and Draco looked at Harry like he was temptation, sin, and salvation all in one.
"Told you you liked me," Harry said smugly.
Draco groaned, letting his forehead fall against Harry's shoulder, gently beating his head against it as he mumbled out, "Worst. Decision. Of. My. Life."
Harry just chuckled, curling his arms around Draco's waist and pulling him down with him as Harry leaned back, both of them sprawling tangled across the ugly couch, the magical firelight flickering around them.
Neither of them moved to leave.
Neither of them wanted to.
Neither of them went to bed in their dorms that night.