Chapter Text
Two months into eight year, Draco is regretting his 'brilliant idea' more than ever. Though, to be fair, it wasn't a flash of genius motivating him in the first place, just simple exhaustion. Because it's quite a hassle, putting glamours over his hair, eyes, face every morning, and Draco survived a war, and his reputation is completely destroyed, so would anyone even care if he wore his imperfections on display?
Apparently, yes.
It's still an odd sight to see in mirrors - his hair honey blond instead of platinum, wavy and with a small patch of white running in the middle, cutting through his eyelashes, making them even paler against his alabaster skin. And his eyes, two-coloured, the left one his Mother's blue, the right his Father's silver-grey.
Draco is used to seeing marks on his face - to the two black moles, under his right eye and on the left side of his jaw - but the tiny freckles scattered on his nose catch him off guard every time.
For years, he hid his imperfections, first with enchanted jewels, then his own magic, all to maintain the image of the perfect Malfoy heir. But now, war is over, his side lost, and Draco has nothing to be proud of anymore. So what's the point in hiding all his flaws? If he's going to be called names, he'd rather be called a freak than a Death Eater. Even if he knows both titles fit.
So he wrote the apology letters - to Potter, to Granger, to Weasley, to half of Wizarding Britain, really, submitted his application to St Mungo's (a dream he's been nurturing since he was small), stopped with the glamours, and hoped for the best.
And then eight year began and all eyes were on him. A pair of emerald green ones most above all.
At first, it made him laugh. Seriously, Potter? I poured my heart out into that letter and you still suspect me of something?
Then, it got annoying. Merlin, if you don't stop staring, I'll risk Azkaban and hex you in the face.
Now, Draco's just tired. Can't I just eat breakfast in peace?
Which is how he finds himself slumped on Pansy's shoulder as she recalls the newest gossip, fork scraping against the plate, eyes glued to some point in front of him that's not the Gryffindor table. Draco doesn't need to look to know what's going on there, anyway - Potter is staring at him and spilling food all over himself, because clearly the Death Eater needs so much surveillance that he can't even eat without looking away-
"MERLIN, HARRY, JUST KISS HIM ALREADY," Weasley yells out, slamming his face onto the table. Ouch.
Wait. Him?
But Draco doesn't get much time to analyse - because suddenly Potter is in front of him, and oh, there he goes, here's the long awaited confrontation-
Except he's pulling Draco's tie..?
"Potter, what are you-"
Oh.
Fuck.
Potter is kissing him. Him. Draco Malfoy. Did he fall into some alternative dimension? Did Potter get hexed? What's going on? Huh, he smells like treacle tart- no, bad Draco!
But Potter is still kissing him, and Draco is frozen, aside from his face of course, which must be burning redder than the sun by now. Whoops and groans sound out somewhere in the background, but Draco's barely computing what's happening to him, let alone around him. Does he hear galleons clinking, or is it just his brain rattling around his skull, trying to make sense of what's happening?
Draco just barely began coming to his senses when Potter tears away from him and bolts out of the Great Hall like his arse is on fire. Draco, on the other hand, stays frozen to his spot, blinking and gaping like a fish out of water.
"Go after him, you moron!" Pansy smacks him on the head, while Theo pushes him out of his seat. What great friends he has, truly. Draco snaps out of his stupor (somewhat? at least?) and sprints after Potter, paying absolutely no mind to the sixth year parallel. The last time he ended up sliced up on a bathroom floor, Morgana knows what Potter is going to do to him this time. But Draco doesn't have time to consider how doomed he is, because a mop of jet-black hair flashes in his peripheral vision, and he's chasing after the Gryffindor again.
"POTTER! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ABOUT!" Draco yells, hoping his flushed face can be blamed on the exercise of running and not... the other thing.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK, YOU PRAT!" Potter bellows, as he rounds another corner.
"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?! I DON'T KNOW MUGGLE INVESTIGATION TECHNIQUES!"
Potter stops abruptly, and Draco nearly slams into him. "What are you talking about right now?"
Draco feels his eye twitch. "Well, clearly you think I'm up to something, and don't think I haven't noticed, Potter, you're about as subtle as a drunk Hippogriff in a china shop. Truly, how you managed to sneak around Hogwarts for so many years unnoticed is beyond me, you have the worst investigational skills I've ever seen, it's a favour to all of Wizarding World that you're not going to be an Auror-"
"You thought I was suspecting you of something?" Potter asks, sounding incredulous. Draco barely resists the urge to hex him. "Well, why else would you spend two months surveilling my every move?"
Potter blinks, and Salazar, the sheer audacity of this man to look at Draco like he's the unreasonable one. "Are you sure you're the top two student?"
Draco is going to Azkaban. For murder. One more word and he'll strike Potter with an Avada and mean it this time. "Do you insult every person you kiss? Which, by the way, you still haven't told me what-"
"I like you, you dense prat."
Draco short-circuits again. "Pardon?"
Potter sighs, exasperated. "Draco Lucius Malfoy, I have a big, fat, embarrassing crush on you, and no, I don't know why or how either, but I do, and apparently you have the emotional awareness of a rock, because everyone kept on telling me that I couldn't be less subtle with it, but apparently you thought I was stalking you again-"
"You absolutely were."
"Well, excuse me, it's not exactly easy to go up to your former arch-nemesis and tell them, 'Hey, you make me act like a lovesick puppy-"
But Harry doesn't get to finish the sentence, because Draco has already cut him off with a kiss. A proper one this time.