Chapter Text
Draco tore away the brown paper packaging carefully, discarding it on his bedsheets. He reached up and twitched the curtains for a fourth time, making sure they were closed.
He didn’t want anyone to see this.
He unfolded the black fabric inside and frowned at it. So heavy and awkward – did muggles really wear this?
He lay back and kicked off his tailored suit pants, wriggling into the new, unwieldy fabric with a grunt. The zip slid smoothly closed.
Draco smirked. Maybe these muggles knew what they were talking about. The jeans fit him like a second skin.
He slipped on the black cotton t-shirt that came with it, and felt oddly relieved for the first time since returning to Hogwarts.
He pulled his robe back on - covering his clothing - pushed open the curtains, and left.
***
As Draco strode down the Hogwarts corridor, he made sure to hold his head high despite the stares and whispers. Whenever a first year scurried away from him, he made sure to sneer after them. Whenever a third year flinched, he made sure to hold their gaze.
He rolled up his left sleeve and kept walking. They could think what they liked of him. He had tried to show them that he had changed, but they hadn’t even allowed him the opportunity. Before he had even spoken a word to anyone, a fight had broken out with him at the centre.
“Death Eater Scum!”
Well, he deserved that, didn’t he?He lifted his chin and strode into the Great Hall. As usual, he noticed Potter staring at him; trying to catch his eye for god knows what reason. Potter had tried to stop him in the corridors too, but had so far given up after encountering only cold silence.
He sat down. Even the Slytherins moved away from him, unwilling to appear sympathetic to Voldemort’s reign.
Surely these morons can see beyond that? Draco thought to himself, forcing his face to remain impassive. McGonagall trusts me – doesn’t that mean anything to them?
He supposed Dumbledore had trusted him too.
It didn’t really matter in the end. He only needed access to the Hogwarts library for a little longer, and then he would have what he needed. Then he’d never have to see any of them again.
***
The first time he had visited the Room of Requirement after the Fiendfyre incident, he had been astonished to see that it remained in tact. Almost like the Room had healed itself, repairing the scorched walls brick by brick.
He didn’t care how it had happened; he was only pleased that it had. He sat down on the floor and piled the library books in front of him, one by one.
Away from judgemental eyes, he removed his robes, enjoying the free sensation of his new clothing.
He opened the first book to his marker and muttered the spell to himself until he felt he had it perfectly memorised. He held out his left forearm and began to cast.
It only took five minutes before he passed out from the pain.
***
The second time he tried, he lasted ten minutes until he had to throw the wand away. It clattered against the stone floor, and to his horror he found himself bursting into tears. He dropped his head into his hands and wept.
A noise made him look up, and of course it was fucking Potter.
“What the hell do you want?” he spat, pushing his hair back out of his eyes and ignoring how wet it felt.
Potter stared at him, his eyes wide as he looked from Draco to the wand on the floor and back again. His eyes fell to the blood and ink dripping from Draco’s arm. He made a small noise, like understanding.
Then, very slowly, he knelt on the ground in front of Draco.
“You need to heal as you’re going,” he said quietly, as if afraid he would spook Draco into running away. He lifted his wand questioningly. “I can help?”
Draco stared at him. “Why would I want your help?” he finally managed to say, twisting his mouth into a sneer.
Potter’s lips twitched, almost like he was about to laugh. “Because I’m really good at this,” he said simply.
Draco’s eyes widened in surprise, but before he could say anything, Potter had Draco’s wrist in his hand and was muttering an incantation under his breath.
Draco nearly snatched his arm back, but the magic flowing over his arm felt so soothing – so blessedly soft and healing – that he stopped.
“What were you drawing?” Potter asked, still in the quiet voice, like he was talking to a wounded animal.
Draco paused. It felt embarrassing to say out loud. Potter looked up at him, waiting patiently. “A dragon,” he finally muttered. “I’ve got a picture.”
Draco flipped one of the other books open to his marker and moved it in front of the brunette.
Quietly, Harry Potter began to tattoo over Draco’s Dark Mark.
Draco was amazed at just how different it felt to his own attempts. He had been carving the skin into a new design; Potter was gently adjusting it, healing as he went.
His healing spells sent shivers all through Draco’s body.
“I like your jeans,” Potter said, a small smirk on his lips.
Draco inwardly cursed, realising belatedly that of course he wasn’t wearing his robes. He supposed Potter had already seen him crying - he couldn’t fall any lower.
“It’s what I’m going to have to wear soon enough,” he said airily.
“Why?”
Draco glared at Potter, who hadn’t even looked up. “Because I’m going to leave Hogwarts and go live with muggles,” he said through gritted teeth.
Potter paused for a second, though he kept his eyes on Draco’s arm. “You’re not going to get your NEWTS?” He resumed the spell.
“No.”
“Then why come back?”
“Because at the start I intended to get them, you idiot,” Draco snapped.
Potter snorted.
Draco lifted his other hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “But then… Well, it hasn’t quite been the experience I had thought it would be.”
“Maybe if you wore your robes open, that might change.”
Draco raised one eyebrow. “Yes, because everyone is so willing to see that I’ve changed. They’re just so happy and welcoming.” He looked away, waiting for Potter to laugh. He would have laughed, in Potter’s position.
Potter looked up and frowned, lowering his wand. “You haven’t shown anyone that you’ve changed.”
“No one’s let me.” I'm not good enough.
He waited for Potter to see through the lie, to see how impossible it was for Draco to do this. To start again, with everything that he had done. He waited for Potter to laugh in his face, and tell him how worthless he really was.
Instead, Potter looked thoughtful. With a shock, Draco realised Potter was slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth across Draco’s wrist. He stiffened, unwilling to admit how nice it felt.
“Perhaps this will change their mind,” Potter finally said with a smile, letting go of Draco’s wrist.
Draco looked down in surprise. His lips parted, but no words escaped them. It was perfect.
“So, will you give it another chance?” Potter asked, leaning back on his hands.
Draco stared at him. After a pause, he huffed a laugh, surprising himself as well as Potter.
“Maybe,” he said, looking down at his forearm, turning it around to admire the dragon from every angle. It really was exceptional. “How did you get so good at this, Potter?” he asked reluctantly.
Potter – the arsehat – smirked and stood up. “Maybe I’ll show you later.”
Chapter Text
The dragon could move.
Draco first noticed it when he went to shower, and the dragon slinked behind his forearm away from the water. He turned his arm over and stared in astonishment, not having read anything about moving tattoos in the book. The dragon had flicked its tongue at him in annoyance, so he turned his arm back around and continued showering.
Since it seemed to take the Dark Mark with it wherever it went, it could move all it liked.
“Potter,” Draco hissed during Defence Against The Dark Arts.
Potter looked up in surprise from his seat two desks over. “Malfoy?”
“It moves,” Draco muttered. “Did you know that?”
Potter suddenly smirked. “Yep. All of mine do. Don't you like it?”
The way Potter was smiling had Draco suddenly wondering where Potter's own tattoos were. He swallowed, feeling a flush rising on his cheeks. Though why that should make him strangely uncomfortable, he had no idea.
Potter was still waiting for an answer, although now one eyebrow was quirked in amusement.
“No, I like it,” Draco muttered, turning back to the front.
He noticed Finnegan - who was sitting between the two of them - looking back and forth between them in astonishment, but Draco steadfastly ignored him.
Professor Mimble entered the classroom and trotted to the front, setting his books down on the desk.
“Class,” he said, shoving his glasses back on his nose and blinking owlishly at them all. “Today we're going to practice Occlumency. The most important thing to note about Occlumency is that it is all down to strength of will. There is nothing to stop any of you from employing Occlumency to its full success, even in the face of - yes - He Who Must Not Be Named.”
Draco heard several impressed gasps in the room, but that was all he managed to take in before he began to laugh. He sensed people turning toward him, but he barely noticed as tears of laughter began to stream down his cheeks. Occlumency? Against the Dark Lord?
Soon Draco was howling, slipping sideways off his chair at the thought of Professor Mimble attempting Occlumency against Lord Voldemort. He faintly thought he could hear someone else laughing over the sound of Professor Mimble angrily hitting his desk to get Draco’s attention, but he couldn't be sure.
Then Draco felt someone pinch his ear hard and throw him outside the classroom. The door slammed behind him. He turned around in time to see it open again to emit a completely hysterical Potter, and to glimpse the shocked and confused faces of his classmates - who must think they were insane - before it slammed again.
“Can- can you-” Potter gasped between breaths, fighting for control. “Can you imagine Mimble up against Voldemort?” And then he lost it again, holding his sides as he fell back, laughing, against the wall.
And of course, now the image was back in Draco’s mind, he lost control again too, and slid down the wall to land sideways on the ground.
After several long minutes where Draco thought his sides would burst, their laughter finally subsided.
“So,” Potter said finally, wiping his eyes. “Is it healing alright?”
Draco pushed back his sleeve and held his arm out, unable to keep from smiling when he saw the dragon again.
“Perfect,” Potter said happily, leaning closer and brushing his finger over the dragon's back.
Draco was horrified to see the dragon stretch delightedly and rub closer to Potter’s fingers.
“Aw, it likes me.”
Draco snatched his arm back like it was burnt. “Traitor,” he muttered, rolling his sleeve down.
Potter smirked. “Would it be a fair trade if mine liked you?”
There was that smile again. Draco swallowed.
"Perhaps,” Draco said, lifting his chin slightly. “What are yours anyway?”
The smirk turned into a grin. “We'll have to go somewhere quieter if you want to see.”
Chapter Text
Draco swallowed slowly and wondered how exactly circumstances had led to this. He cast a nervous glance at the entrance to the prefect’s bathroom, but it remained shut.
“Are you sure no one’s going to come in?” he asked again.
“Yep,” Potter said, shrugging off his robe and starting to undo the buttons on his shirt. “I checked the map. There are no seventh years nearby - or eighth years who might have bullied their way to the password.”
“Map?”
Potter paused and looked up at him with a grin. “Nevermind. I’ll show you some other time.” He undid the last button and dropped his shirt off his shoulders.
Draco gasped softly, unable to help himself. He had seen Potter shirtless before, passing by the Gryffindor change rooms after Quidditch, glancing in and looking away quickly. But it was somehow different, having the boy - man - stand before him, his gaze steady.
Having permission to look felt far more intimate.
Potter’s lips quirked into the smile that was becoming worryingly familiar to Draco. It was enough to shock him back to the present and he shook his head with a frown.
“Where are they?” he asked, looking at Potter’s unmarked torso in confusion.
In answer, Potter turned around.
“Bull shit! ” Draco swore. “There’s no way you did them on your back .”
Potter laughed - a rich laugh that sent tingles down Draco’s spine. “You think I should have done them on my front? Where’s the challenge in that?”
“Fucking Gryffindors,” Draco muttered, taking a tentative step forward so that he could see the tattoos clearer.
Potter’s body was covered in a rich tapestry of flame. Fiendfyre licked its way over his shoulder and down his side, winding its way around Harry’s back and creeping down below his jeans.
Draco reached out tentatively and paused.
“You can touch it,” Harry said quietly, apparently sensing Draco’s movement.
Draco took a deep breath and moved his hand forward, running his fingers gently over Potter’s skin. The fire rippled beneath his touch.
Potter’s fists clenched quickly and then relaxed. Draco wondered if Potter could feel the tattoo. He knew that when the dragon moved it tickled slightly. Would fire tickle, or would it burn?
Draco felt something warm beneath his fingers. He frowned and leaned closer, his face mere inches from Potter’s back. “There’s something hidden in the flames,” he said curiously.
“Mmm,” Potter murmured, but didn’t elaborate.
Draco frowned - typical Potter, feeding off drama. He traced the tips of his fingers over the warm patch, running them in circles through the flame. It began to dance quicker, and he felt Potter stiffen slightly, tense.
Draco saw movement. A hint of blue in the flames. He smiled triumphantly and opened his mouth to tell Potter he could see something, maybe a jewel.
Suddenly, the flames parted. Draco’s jaw dropped as a phoenix appeared beneath the fire. As he watched, the phoenix preened before tilting its head curiously up at him.
“She’s woken up, hasn’t she?” Potter asked quietly. “I can feel her.”
“You drew this?” Draco managed at last, his voice a whisper.
Potter turned around and Draco was forced to stand back up straight so they were face to face again.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he admitted. “I drew her on my stomach, but she likes it better back there. I think she likes to watch out for me. Phoenixes are quite protective.”
“Why Fiendfyre?” Draco asked. In the long moments it took for Potter to respond, he realised that he was holding his breath, waiting for the answer.
Potter’s gaze was steady when he finally spoke. “Because I like what it reminds me of.”
“What does it remind you of?” Draco couldn’t look away, no matter how much he wanted to.
“Second chances.” Harry’s voice was gentle. “Hope. Blinding obsession.” He paused, some unidentifiable emotion in his eyes. “You.”
Draco felt the room fall away around him until there was nothing left but Potter, staring at him like he was the only thing that mattered.
“Me,” he repeated dumbly. “Why would-”
Potter stepped forward, closing the distance between them until they were so close Draco could feel Potter’s minty breath on his own lips. He shivered as Potter paused, his eyes dropping for the briefest of seconds to Draco’s mouth.
“I’m not sure if this is welcome,” Potter admittedly quietly, waiting.
Draco realised that Potter wasn’t going to move any closer unless Draco asked him to. The knowledge struck him like a blow. How often had anybody ever asked him permission when it was something they wanted?
“It’s welcome,” he said, his voice breaking.
Potter smiled, that same familiar smile. Draco knew with a sinking feeling that he would never be able to get enough of that smile. Draco closed his eyes.
Potter’s lips met his, warm like the echo of Fiendfyre, and Draco melted.
Chapter Text
“I don’t understand.” Potter waited, his expression intent as if he were mesmerising the features on Draco’s face.
“I just don’t want people to think I’m corrupting you,” Draco muttered, looking away.
Potter snorted. The derisive sound served to allay some of Draco’s fear and anxiety, but not enough.
He sniffed delicately and turned back to see Potter smiling at him with affection. Draco’s chest tightened, and he felt deep within him the cold fear that this could be taken from him simply by people cruel enough to will it so.
It would be taken from him as soon as people learned of it. Draco Malfoy - a Death Eater - was hardly worthy of the saviour of the wizarding world.
“No,” he said again. “We can’t let anyone find out. Not until they believe I… believe I’ve changed.” If they ever believe it.
Potter leaned back against the stone walls of the prefect’s bathroom and crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised. “They’re not going to think you’re corrupting me.” His voice was flat; Draco had no idea what he was feeling. Maybe he was just angry that something he had thought was his was being taken from him.
No. That didn’t suit The Boy Who Lived, did it?
“But they won’t like to think that we’re together.” Draco argued. “They know I don’t deserve you.”
Potter’s eyebrows drew together and he opened his mouth to reply, his eyes glowing with the righteous fervour Draco had seen so many times before - the passion for life that Draco had never wanted to admit he admired. The passion he was drawn to, like a moth to a flame.
Draco held up one hand, stopping Potter in his tracks, and glared. “You know that’s what they’ll say.”
“It’s what they’ll say ,” Potter spat. “It’s not what-”
“Oh, shove a sock in it, Potter,” Draco snapped tiredly. “Can we have this pointless argument another day when you’ve come to your senses?”
Potter glared a few seconds more, but couldn’t seem to hold the anger. He smirked and suddenly slid his arm around Draco’s stomach to pull him close.
With the door still firmly shut, closing them off from the outside world, it was easy to pretend that all of this was possible. If he closed his eyes, Draco could almost believe that nothing would stand in their way.
He leaned forward and closed his eyes.
***
It was fairly common for students to wear their robes open, revealing the uniform underneath. Draco had never been one of those students. He eyed himself in the mirror: black, muggle jeans and a grey, muggle t-shirt. Without his robe on, the dragon could be seen lazily circling its way around his forearm.
If he wore a scarf, the teachers would have to look closely to realise it wasn’t his uniform. But the students would notice.
He shrugged on his robes - leaving the clasp undone - wound a Slytherin scarf around his neck, and left the room.
***
Several Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff gave him odd looks, but Finnegan was the first person to say anything out loud. He looked Draco up and down as they took their usual seats in Defence Against the Dark Arts and frowned.
“You shopping on a budget now, Malfoy?” he asked loudly, a shit-eating grin on his face.
Draco raised one eyebrow. “On the contrary, Finnegan. These are tailored to my exact measurements by a renowned Italian seamstress.”
Finnegan’s eyes narrowed. “Wizards don’t make jeans.”
Draco rolled his eyes, making sure everyone heard him and hoping they didn’t notice the tremor in his voice. “Are you truly as dumb as you look? They’re muggle design, delivered to my P.O box and owled to Hogwarts.”
Finnegan’s eyes bugged out of his head. “You have a muggle post box? And a muggle seamstress?” Behind Finnegan, Draco could see Potter trying not to laugh. As Draco had asked, he hadn’t approached Draco apart from a friendly greeting - nothing to make people think twice.
“She’s the best seamstress in Italy,” Draco replied, his eyes on Potter.
“That’s bloody rich that is,” Finnegan spat.
Draco’s head whipped up in shock, and he saw Potter suddenly tense.
“Your family causes no end of bigoted violence, and suddenly you’re a muggle supporter?” His voice had risen and he was now standing. The room had been quiet, listening, but now a few murmurs were starting in the background.
“Seamus,” Potter began, resting a hand on Finnegan’s shoulder. “It’s not like that-”
Seamus spun around. “You’re supporting this bastard now, Potter? You’ve forgotten everything he did, then?”
Draco felt his forearm tingle, and for a minute his vision went white with panic. Then he remembered the dragon.
A low, rumbling sort of noise began near Draco’s desk, slowly rising in volume until it drowned out Potter’s protests. Draco’s arm felt like it was on fire. He shoved back his sleeve and gaped in astonishment, barely registering that the noise of the classroom had quietened down as every student turned slowly to look at Draco.
The rumbling softened to a low, irritated growl. The dragon on his forearm flicked its tail, the fire dropping down to wisps of smoke as it glared at everyone in the room.
Chapter Text
Pansy recovered her voice the quickest. “Draco! You have a tattoo!”
Draco turned slowly to look at her. It was the first time she had spoken to him all year – with her history, she could hardly afford to associate with anyone who had faced trial if she wanted to have any career prospects after Hogwarts. At least she had the grace to look sheepish.
“Of course he does.” Finnegan snorted. “Voldemort gave it to him.”
The room fell quiet, and Draco felt a flush rising along his chest and neck. He had been stupid to think they would ever see him as anything else.
“Actually, I did.”
Potter's calm voice cut through the silence. Draco turned without meaning to, his eyes pleading with Potter to just drop it – it was a lost cause.
“You drew that, Harry?” Dean Thomas suddenly spoke up.
Draco watched in surprise as Thomas craned his neck to get a better look at the dragon. It was still huffing and blowing smoke, though its roars had quietened to grumbles now.
“Yeah,” Harry said, leaning back against his desk now that there seemed to be no immediate threat. “Take a better look at it, if you like.”
To Draco, it felt as though the entire room – it was probably just him – was waiting with bated breath in the moments before Thomas stood up. He crossed the floor and made brief eye contact with Draco to confirm it was alright before he knelt over and inspected the tattoo closely. In a daze, Draco held his forearm out so it could be seen more easily.
“Wicked,” Thomas breathed. “Harry, this is unreal. How did you get it to move?”
Harry shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “Practice.”
“Practice? How'd you get-” Thomas looked up, eyes alight with excitement. “Show us yours!”
Harry held his hands up, stammering slightly, but was saved from responding by Professor Mimble's entrance.
“Take your seats,” Mimble said, oblivious to the tension in the room, and began writing on the board.
The class was oddly silent through the lesson, and Draco wasn't oblivious to the looks that were being sent his way. But it was a relief to have no one say anything outright.
When the lesson ended, Pansy came over to him, a speculative look in her eye.
“Can I see?” she asked.
Draco held out his arm wordlessly, and she ran her fingers over the ridge of the dragon's back. The dragon shied away, but didn't run. She blinked in surprise.
“And Potter did this?” Her eyes met his, asking a very different sort of question.
Draco shifted uncomfortably. How did she know? He had never professed any interest in the speccy git, surely.
Finnegan's gruff tone interrupted their conversation. “You think covering it up is going to make it go away?” he spat. “We all know what you did.”
Draco froze, willing himself not to respond, but something in him had snapped, and he couldn't hold back any longer. “Of course it doesn't make it go away,” he said with a sneer. “You think looking at a ruddy, great dragon on my arm is going to make me forget what it hides? My arm is more noticeable than ever, you imbecile.”
Finnegan's eyes narrowed, making his face twist into an ugly scowl. Draco continued before he could get a word in.
“It about choices,” he spat. “I'll never forget that I chose the Mark – though the fact that it was hardly a choice is something you and your little saint friends will never understand – but now I'll always remember that I chose something else too.”
His speech delivered, Draco felt suddenly drained, his energy sapped from his very bones. Ignoring the eyes of the entire class upon him, he turned to leave.
He was stopped, of course, by Potter, leaning in the doorway with his arms folded. He raised one eyebrow – having more than reached the end of his tether – but Potter wasn't looking at him.
“You do understand, Seamus,” Potter said slowly. “That most people who were affiliated with the Death Eaters moved to Durmstrang, don't you?”
Draco's tattoo started to growl again, and several people turned to look at him. He noticed Granger's eyes widening in realisation, and decided that could only mean bad news.
Finnegan opened his mouth to object, but Potter, in his stubbornly pigheaded fashion, kept talking. “Anyone in the lower year levels has left. Durmstrang has welcomed them with open arms, because the school is well used to running classes that advocate reform without abandonment of the Dark Arts.”
For the first time, Finnegan paused.
“If we're talking about choices,” Potter's eyes flicked to Draco and back again, “it might be an idea to actually notice a few, and appreciate what they mean, instead of getting stuck on old assumptions. We just finished fighting one war on prejudice; I'm not keen to start another.” Before Draco was aware of what had just happened, Potter hoisted his bag over his shoulder, ready to leave, and turned to him. “You coming, Draco?”
In the silence that followed, Draco picked up his bag, avoiding all of their eyes, and followed Potter out the door.
***
News began to spread through the school that Draco Malfoy was protected by Harry Potter's tattoo, and it was all Draco could do not to fly to bloody Durmstrang just to escape all their stares.
“So, does it react whenever he gets angry?” Pansy asked at dinner. “Or only when he gets angry for you?” She smirked.
Draco sighed. “Only when he gets angry for me,” he muttered, having watched one of Potter's infamous temper tantrums from across the Great Hall at breakfast that morning, and felt nothing on his arm.
“How adorable,” she said, still smirking.
It didn't take much longer for news to spread of Potter's own tattoos, which meant he must have shown them off in the Gryffindor Common Room. Draco tried to stamp down the burning jealousy he felt when he heard the news, but failed miserably.
But along with the rumors, came something new. Draco was still the subject of stares and whispers, but they were not so malicious. He was no longer targeted in empty corridors, his books sent flying with spells, or his legs suddenly stuck together so that he stumbled and fell. Part of this was the supposed protection of Potter, of course – Draco had very mixed opinions about that fact – but part of it, too, seemed to be a sort of curiosity held by the rest of the school. Draco's image had changed from hated Death Eater to something of an enigma – a Slytherin who wore muggle clothes, smiled at Hufflepuff first years in the corridor, and let Harry Potter tattoo him.
The Hufflepuff thing was a mistake. He had remembered a particularly funny part in the book he was reading, and was merely laughing at the memory. By the time he realised what had happened, it was too late, and he decided to just go along with it.
It was a start. It was small, and its foundations were shaky, but it was a start. Which was why he knew he had to break things off with Potter.
When Potter left the Gryffindor table after dinner and strode directly to the Slytherins, looking for all the world as if he couldn't see or hear the looks and whispers he was leaving in his wake, Draco decided it was now or never.
“Room of Requirement?” Potter asked quietly.
Draco nodded and followed him out of the doors. Apparently Potter required a supremely comfortable couch, for which Draco wasn't complaining, and they settled on it in silence, each sprawled slightly in the corners so that they could face each other.
“You look like a deer in headlights,” Potter said drily, his eyes running over Draco and seeing far too much.
“A deer in what?” Draco asked, before he realised he was letting Potter lead the conversation, and that was not acceptable. He shook his head. “I've been thinking.”
Potter smiled wrily, but his eyes looked strangely sad. “About what?”
Draco shifted uncomfortably. “This is bound to crash and burn,” he said slowly, horrified to hear his voice catch on the words. He cleared his throat. “It's all so new, and people are only just beginning to entertain the idea that they might accept me. Imagine how that's going to turn when we fight.”
“That's assuming we do fight,” Potter interrupted.
Draco glared at him. “We will fight, you utter pillock,” he snapped. “You'll get tired of being kind, and I'll get sick of feeling sorry for myself, and our tempers will be at their worst – and we both have awful tempers; don't deny it – and guess what happens when Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter get irritated?” He stared flatly at Potter. “They take it out on each other. Gosh, what a healthy relationship this is going to be.”
To his profound irritation, Potter laughed.
“Alright, fine,” Potter said, holding up one hand in acquiescence. “We will fight, that's true. But, Draco, do you really think I'm going to get tired of being kind to you?” His expression turned serious. “Is that all you think this is for me? Some pet project? A way to satisfy my hero-complex, but it's a struggle to be on my best behaviour around you?”
Draco smirked. “So you admit you have a hero-complex?”
Potter rolled his eyes. “I do not have a hero-complex. And you're missing the point. Why do you think the dragon moves, Draco? Why do you think it roars when I'm worried about you?”
Draco frowned, ignoring the way that admission slotted into place like the missing piece from a puzzle. “It roars when you're yelling. That's all.”
Potter gave him a withering look. “It roars because I couldn't sever the connection,” he said, a touch bitterly. “I tried to keep my distance when I was inking it. I really did. But I couldn't. I couldn't break away from you enough to just cast the spell and move on. Instead I had to leave behind some, some-” he paused, struggling for the word, “essence of myself.”
Draco pulled a face. “Essence of Potter? Gross.”
“I know you're deliberately acting like a git, so how about you drop the pretense and talk to me honestly.”
Draco opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but he stopped at the last second. Potter gazed at him, temper slightly flared, but otherwise calm and open in a way Draco knew they would have both refused to show each other before this year.
“This is just all so new,” Draco finally said, his voice quiet. “We don't know how it's going to go, and everyone is going to be watching.”
Potter's lips slowly curved into a hesitant smile. “I wouldn't have it any other way,” he said lightly. “Not for this. A secret relationship makes it look like we're ashamed. I'm not ashamed.”
Draco remembered the day Potter had shown Draco his tattoos: second chances, hope, blinding obsession. Draco.
How long had they gravitated towards each other without ever knowing what it meant? Without ever knowing what was missing?
“I'm not ashamed,” Draco said finally, trying and failing to hold back his own smile.
Potter moved so that there was no longer any distance between them. Draco was impressed with the graceful maneuver; Potter's teenage clumsiness seemed to have finally disappeared.
Potter reached up so that his hand was tangled in Draco's hair. Draco suppressed a shiver, but he could see in Potter's eyes that he had noticed all the same.
“So you're not going to do anything rash?” Potter asked quietly, leaning in so that Draco could feel his minty breathy on his lips.
“What, like start dating Harry fucking Potter?” Draco breathed back before he could stop himself.
Potter huffed a laugh. “No, like leave Hogwarts and live in the muggle world.”
Draco smirked, closing his eyes. “Ah, that.” The movement brought their lips closer; they brushed together when he spoke. “Who would do an idiotic thing like that?”
He felt the corners of Potter's mouth curve up into a smile. “Just checking,” he said, before he tightened his grip in Draco's hair and kissed him.