Chapter Text
A rough knock against his shoulder jolted him out of his thoughts, sending him into the wall with a clatter. His shoulder and hip thudded against the stone and he winced, looking back over his shoulder with a nasty glare.
Newman smirked back at him. “Out the way, scum.” He stood there, broad and tall, facing him, ready to square up at a moments notice. His other seventh year cronies hovered behind him, each with a sick grin, watching it unfold with glee. The corridor was busy and other students streamed around the group, some turning back with curious glances.
“Get the fuck out of my face, Newman”, Draco said acidly, pushing himself off the wall and turning back to resume the walk to the Charms classroom. Briefly, he caught the stares of the rest of his classmates lined up outside the door, and he slipped a hand into his pocket, his fingers glancing his wand, before a hand gripped his shoulder and spun him back around.
Newman crowded him, pushing him back up against the wall, this time thudding his head against the stone. He looked viciously angry and utilised his scant height advantage to lean menacingly over Draco, spoiling for a fight. “What the fuck did you say to me, Death Eater?”
Against his will, Draco’s heart rate picked up beneath his robes. Newman and his gang had been cornering him ever since Draco had started his Eighth Year a few weeks ago. They were not the only ones, but they were the most persistent in their attempts to harm him. Previously, all attempts had been done in empty corridors, quiet places in the castle, away from witnessing eyes. Now, it appeared Newman felt confident enough to rattle Draco in front of the rest of his Eighth Year classmates.
Newman grabbed him by the front of his robes and slammed him back into the wall. “Are you even listening, you freak?”
“I said-“ Draco spat out at him, leaning forwards, before he was suddenly interrupted.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Draco and Newman wrenched their heads around and, almost immediately, Newman let go of his robes. Potter stood there, stepped in front of the crowd, grasping his wand at his side, and frowning at the pair of them. Behind him, Draco saw Granger wringing her hands in worry, and Weasley throwing his hands up seemingly in exasperation.
“I- what does it matter, Potter?” Newman said, taking a step back from Draco, who breathed out and smoothed his robes down.
“It matters because I thought we left this bullshit behind in the past few years. Leave him alone,” Potter said firmly, eyeing Newman with great displeasure.
“He’s a Death Eater. How can you accept him back in Hogwarts, after what he did?” Newman asked, truly bewildered by this sudden intervention from Potter of all people, widely known to have never harboured friendly thoughts towards Draco. As he silently watched the exchange, still pressed up against the wall, Draco could not help but share similar concerns.
“He was a Death Eater - not anymore. My own testimony cleared his name. I recommended his return to Hogwarts. So, unless you want to go to McGonagall right now and disagree, I would suggest you leave him alone. Got it?” Potter took another step forward, a warning, glaring at Newman all the while.
Newman swallowed and then threw a look of pure loathing at Draco, who tilted his chin up and glared back. Newman took another step back, shaking his head, and said, “Fine. The faggot’s all yours.”
Draco stiffened and clutched his bag strap, watching as Newman and his friends stomped off down the corridor. Without ever realising it had gone silent, quiet chatter slowly started to fill the hallway again. The hallway had mostly emptied during the exchange apart from a few straggling students who darted past on their way to their lessons. The Charms classroom door squeaked open and his classmates began filing in, throwing him unknown looks as they went.
Potter remained standing there, stubbornly waiting for Draco to look up at him. Draco steadfastly stared down at his shoes, absently noting the painful headache blooming at the back of his head.
“Are you okay?”, Potter finally asked, voice low in the quiet corridor.
Draco snapped his head up and glared. “I’m fine, Potter.” He pushed away from the wall and stalked towards the classroom. “If I ever need you to fight my battles, I shall be sure to inform you. Now fuck off.”
Potter’s hand shot out and gripped his bicep as he passed, forcing Draco to a halt. Draco stared down at his hand, and then slowly raised his eyes. “If they’re bothering you, you should tell someone”, Potter said calmly.
For a split second, Draco looked helplessly into his large, green eyes, which were fixed on Draco’s face. Then, furiously, Draco shook himself free of the strong grip. “The only one bothering me is you, you dunce. Take a leaf out of your own book and leave me alone.”
With that, Draco stormed into the classroom, finding his usual desk at the back and slamming his textbook down. Potter sidled in a moment later and slid in between Granger and Weasley, who immediately began furiously whispering at him and casting glances back at Draco.
The fight suddenly left him as soon as it had come. Draco signed and rested his elbow on the desk, balancing his chin on his fist, and gazed out the window. The Autumnal sky was full of grey clouds swirling and gathering above the castle. He had no doubt that the run in with Potter would only antagonise Newman and his gang further. At the front of the class, Professor Flitwick climbed atop the books and squeaked his welcome, and Draco shamelessly tuned him out, replaying the last few moments over and over again, allowing himself a moment of shameless self-pity to wonder where it all went wrong.
***
After dinner, Draco claimed his table in his preferred section of the library, at the back, near the ancient runes section. Few students ever came to this section and so Draco was able to study in peace, without looking over his shoulder every few moments. Term had only been going a few weeks but the Professors had been piling coursework onto them. Considering his list, Draco decided to start on his potion’s essay first; this was his easiest subject and so he hoped it would take him the least amount of time.
He had been writing in silence for some time, absorbed in his work, when the other chair at his desk was suddenly scraped back. His head shot up and he tensed in his chair, dropping his quill. Fearing the worst, that Newman had sought him out already, but instead, irritatingly, it was-
“Potter?”, Draco asked, confused.
The other boy nodded at him, unhooked his bag from his shoulder, and dropped down into the chair. Draco gaped at him as he unpacked a few books and spread them out in front of him.
“Potter,” Draco hissed, “what are you doing?”
Potter blinked up at him and then shrugged towards his books. “Working…”, he said, in a tone that conveyed just how idiotic he thought Draco was. “You do know we’re in the library, right?”
“Yes, obviously,” Draco bit out. “Why are you sat here? This is my desk.”
Potter slowly looked around the desk and then back at Draco. “Is there someone else already sat here?”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said, “and that is how I prefer it. If you couldn’t tell so far, your presence is unwanted. Please remove yourself immediately.”
Potter sighed in a put upon kind of way and then, infuriatingly, pulled a book towards him and started flipping through the pages. “This is the only quiet part of the library. I get bothered everywhere else.”
Draco stared at him for a few moments. “So? And this gives you good reason to bother me instead?”
“Come off it Malfoy,” he said, now digging through his bag for a quill, “I’m just here to work, not to do anything else. I promise I’ll be as silent as a mouse.” His mouth quirked up at that and then he looked up at Draco, tilting his head. “Okay?”
Draco hissed and shook his head. “I imagine I couldn’t get rid of you even if I tried, is that so?”
Potter did that same half-quirk of his mouth and looked back down to his book. “Something like that. Now hush, I need to write this essay.”
Draco sat in disbelief. How dare Potter plonk himself down as his table, the one that everyone avoided, and simply claim half like it was nothing. Draco briefly entertained the idea of moving but - he glared down at the table - he found this table first and he wouldn’t be the one leaving.
With a withering glance at Potter, who was now quietly humming to himself and scratching some notes down, Draco pulled his essay back towards himself and began reluctantly picking up his thread of argument.
They managed to work in silence for around half an hour before sudden movement across the table startled Draco. He looked up and saw Potter turned in his seat, one hand gripping the back of the chair as he faced a boy - a Sixth Year Gryffindor - stopped at the opening to the ancient runes section. The boy, frozen with surprise with his wand in hand, looked from Potter to Draco and then back to Potter. He opened his mouth, blinked, and then turned and hurried back the way he had come.
Potter’s shoulders visibly relaxed and he carded a hand through his wild hair before turning back to face the table with nary a glance in Draco’s direction. Draco blinked slowly, staring at the side of Potter’s bent head, as his thoughts flitted about wildly - that Gryffindor - he had been one of those who enjoyed sending sly hexes in his direction. Had he been coming to find Draco just for that? Had - had Potter known about it and stopped it?
Suddenly, Draco was filled with anger. He ground his teeth together and stared down at his half-written essay with hot fury in his eyes, clenching his quill in his fist. Once again, Potter the saviour, and Draco the weak one, just like nothing had changed.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, Potter”, he ground out, “but I do not need your ‘help’ or ‘protection’ or whatever it is that you think you’re doing.”
There was a beat of silence before Potter spoke. “I’m not doing anything, Malfoy. If those idiots are too cowardly to attack you when I’m around, then that’s on them.”
Draco wrenched furious eyes onto Potter, who was calmly gazing back at him. “I’m dealing with it, and I don’t need divine intervention from the Chosen One. Go find some snivelling First Year to save if you’re so desperate.”
Potters eyebrows drew together just slightly. “It didn’t look like you were dealing with it earlier. It looked like you were getting thrown about.”
Draco drew back, enraged, and then stood and started throwing his things back into his bag. Damn the desk, Potter could have it. “Go fuck yourself, Potter.”
“Hey, hold on, you don’t have to-“ Potter reached out and grasped his wrist. Draco threw off his hand like it burned, pulling it to his chest, horrified. He had touched the Mark.
“Don’t touch me,” he said furiously, “don’t you ever touch me!”
Potter winced, realising where he had grasped. He put both hands up in a placating gesture, leaning back in his chair. Draco ignored him, and desperately threw the last book in his bag, but it caught on the opening and fell, a letter sliding from the cover inside.
Potter picked it up first, and turned it up, where the carefully inked ‘Draco darling, your mother misses you…’ was visible at the top. Potter blinked down at it before Draco snatched it out of his hands and stuffed it into his bag, praying to any God there was that he had not read anymore.
“Leave me alone,” Draco said lowly, “or you’ll regret it, Potter.”
With that he turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, leaving Potter gaping after him.
***
Back in his room in the Eighth Year quarters, Draco sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. He had dumped his bag, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto the bed, stretching out his legs.
He felt… irritated, ashamed, and a bit like an idiot. He knew, as painful and infuriating as it was, that any association with Potter could only have positive implications for his tattered reputation. Being seen with Potter was just as likely to dissuade any would-be vigilantes from coming after him with hexes, curses, and fists.
But to accept that help, meant he accepted being the victim. Meant he accepted Potter coming out on top once again. He had already saved Draco’s life once; he could not bear to add any more weight to that debt. Every time Potter came to intervene, he only seemed to further prove Draco’s inadequacy. Not to mention, despite the events of the past year, Potter remained an irritating and obnoxious presence.
Draco was not entirely helpless. He could fight back, he could avoid danger. But there were more of them than there were of him. Not to mention his probation stipulations, restricting him from dangerous magic and requiring good behaviour. One report of fighting from McGonagall and he’d probably be bunking with Father in Azkaban sooner than be could blink, he thought mirthlessly.
Slowly, Draco reached over and picked up the letter off his bedside table, where he had placed it from his bag. He carefully smoothed out the crumpled pages on his chest and then lifted them to read.
It was from his mother; the letter was much the same as her previous ones. She missed him, the Manor was lonely without him and Father. She worked to rebuild the Malfoy name, albeit she reminded that the duty to the line rested on his shoulders, and it was his responsibility to pass his exams, maintain the family seat, preserve and grow the fortune, and marry well. She reminded him that he must work hard and wear the Malfoy name with pride.
In this letter however, she updated him on progress made in her efforts to enquire as to eligible young brides for him. She wrote ‘… I am continuing to correspond with several respectable families, whom remain sympathetic to our tenuous position and are open to a union between families. I am pleased to have made contact with several eligible young women, all of whom I am confident would be a suitable mother to the next Malfoy heir. I will be attending upon each family in the coming weeks and shall of course provide timely updates as soon as I have further details on your future bride …’
Draco re-read those words with a sharp pang in his chest. His mother’s firm instructions, to marry as soon as possible, had been made almost as soon as he had walked out of the Wizenmagot chambers. With Father in Azkaban, she was adamant that a successful marriage would repair the tarnished reputation of the Malfoy line. Only Draco’s legal requirement to attend his Eighth Year at Hogwarts had persuaded her to wait until the next summer, when Draco had graduated.
He was eighteen and yet already he was staring down a life of a loveless marriage, arranged for convenience, for the substantial financial benefits that would no doubt be offered to any future bride. He blinked up at the covering of his four-poster bed, at the velvet drawings hanging on each side. He was eighteen and yet he felt much older, tired and weary from all that he had seen and done.
Not only would he have the life sentence of a bride, but he had his five years of probation yet to go. Completing his NEWTs, complying with monthly checks on his wand, abstaining from any dangerous magics. If the Ministry found one spell they did not like, then it was straight to Azkaban to serve out the remaining years.
He turned and curled up on the bed, crumpling his mother’s words in his fist. She of course did not know the reality as to Draco’s treatment in school. He reported much time spent studying, working in the library, and keeping his head down, to her approval. It would break her heart to know the truth.
His chest burned as he lay there, mind swirling with thoughts of the future, of his terrible past, of what he faced at present. He found no comfort in these thoughts.
***
Several days later, Draco sat idly at his work station in potions, watching as Slughorn huffed and puffed and chalked on the blackboard the name of the potion they would be preparing.
“Today,” he said, sitting back down behind his desk with a heavy thump, “we will be continuing our work on medicinal potions and shall be brewing a Blood Replenishing potion. This potion is particularly tricky and for that reason, it shall be necessary to work in pairs for this lesson. Please, everyone, find a pair so that we may begin.”
Draco’s gaze drifted down to the parchment that lay open on his desk. There was an even number of students in this class - but none that would wish to be paired with Draco of course. Not for the first time, Draco resented his Slytherin classmates for forgoing their own Eighth Year studies.
There were scrapes of stools all around as people moved about and called out to one another. Through the din, Draco heard Weasley call out, “Harry! Where are you going?”
Then, a thump of books next to him. Draco looked up and Potter was stood there, determinedly smiling at him.
“Partners?” Potter asked and then swung himself down onto the stool before Draco had a chance to respond.
Draco looked at him in disbelief and then, frighteningly, caught the eye of Weasley, who stared at him in a similar look of horror. Weasley suddenly glared at him and, repulsed by this bizarre connection, Draco swivelled back to Potter, who was copying down the potion steps in his chicken scratch handwriting.
“Why are you sat here? Have you already forgotten my very clear instructions to leave me alone?”, Draco hissed, looking around the room. Their other classmates had now cottoned on and were turning around to look at them and then whisper.
“Because we need a partner for this potion,” Potter explained slowly, continuing to write down the instructions, “and you’re actually good at potions. Merlin knows I’m pants. Hermione says she’s not helping me anymore this year so…”
“So what?” Draco snapped. “If you think you’re copying off me, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“I’m not going to copy off you,” Potter said with a roll of eyes. Then he reconsidered and grinned at Draco. “Unless you let me. Although I do actually need to pass potions if I want to be an Auror.”
“But-“
Draco’s next retort was interrupted by Slughorn at the front of the classroom.
“Excellent, excellent, everyone’s paired up,” he said with a clap of his hands. He scanned the classroom and then caught sight of Draco and Potter, doing an obvious double-take at the pair of them. A few students tittered and Draco glowered. “Well, then… the instructions are on the board, please proceed. Potions on my desk once finished as usual.” He shot one last curious look at the two of them and then turned to leaf through his potions periodical.
“Okay, so…” Potter started, looking at Draco. “What do we do first?”
Draco stared at him and then sighed, giving up, and rubbing at the space between his eyebrows. Potter could be like a dog with a bone and he supposed he did need a partner after all. At least Potter was less likely to hex him under the table. “Go and get the ingredients,” he said wearily.
Potter went to the supply cupboard and Draco busied himself with setting up his cauldron, laying out the tools they would need, and lighting the flame. When Potter returned, Draco picked through the ingredients with a critical eye, and then gave a begrudging nod.
He set Potter to dicing the calves liver, and snickered when he grimaced at the slimy, cold touch. Draco began with peeling and then crushing the wither root, carefully measuring out the squeezed juice.
Together, they worked mostly in silence, apart from when it was necessary for Draco to criticise Potter’s shoddy work or sharply stop him from skipping ahead steps. Potter seemed happy for him to take the lead and on occasion would sit there making notes and idly watching Draco stir the potion.
“Do you think St Mungo’s will use these potions?” Potter asked him mildly, playing around with a spare kidney bean, rolling it about on top of the desk.
“Of course not,” Draco said, concentrating on stirring the required number of turns, “These are difficult potions and they will source theirs from only reputable brewers. It would be highly risky to rely upon potions brewed by school students.”
Potter sighed and looked around the classroom at the other students brewing. “It just seems like such a waste.”
Draco slanted a look at him from where he was bent over the cauldron. “I didn’t think you cared about any of the other numerous potions we’ve brewed here in years past.”
Potter shrugged and gave him a rueful smile. “Well, this one actually seems useful, so.”
Draco scoffed and then set down the stirring rod. “All potions are useful. You’re just a dunce who can’t appreciate that.”
Potter rolled his eyes. “Sure, Malfoy, you’re really telling me that the Babbling Brews in second year were useful?”
“Evidently so, as it appears you must have taken one,” Draco said, eyeing Potter warily. “Now be quiet and wait five minutes. Then we stir ten times counterclockwise and the potion is complete. Do you think you can manage that difficult final step?”, he asked sarcastically.
“I guess we’ll find out,” Potter said cheerfully and set the five minute timer on his wand. With nothing else to do, Draco started clearing away the leftover ingredients and putting away his tools. Potter noticed and grabbed his kidney bean just as Draco reached for it. Their fingers brushed minutely and Draco snapped his hand back, skin burning where they had touched. Potter put his hands up again in the same placating position as before. “Sorry - no touching.”
Draco gritted his teeth and wrenched his eyes away from Potter. “Just - finish cleaning up.” He pushed away from the work station and went to the small sink at the back of the room, where he washed his hands, wiping away that ghostly sensation and any potions remnants.
He came back just as Potter’s wand vibrated and he sat back down on his stool to supervise as Potter picked up the stirring rod and gently dipped it into the potion, beginning the turns within the potion. As he stirred, Draco’s gaze unwittingly climbed up from his hand grasping the rod. It travelled over Potter’s thick, strong fingers, across his forearm, bronzed skin lightly dusted with dark hair, veins standing out from his skin, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his lightly muscled biceps, his broad shoulders, and up to his face. Potter was chewing on the inside of his cheek in concentration, his green eyes trained on the potion surface, his dark eyebrows slightly drawn together. His hair was wild, unruly, and thick with curls. It seemed to point in every direction, resistant to the effects of gravity. The effect was broken when Potter shoved a hand through his hair, sending it in every direction, and Draco jerked his eyes back to the potion, now a pale crimson.
“There, was that satisfactory for you?”, Potter asked jokingly, laying the stirring rod back down.
“Yes,” he said roughly, clearing his throat, “that was fine.” He took his wand and siphoned some of the potion into a bottle, neatly writing their names on the label and affixing it to the lid, refusing to look at Potter all the while.
As he quickly packed up his stuff, to his horror, Granger wandered over to their work station and peered into the cauldron. “Wow Harry,” she said, impressed, “this looks really good.” She cut a sly glance in Draco’s direction. “I hope you actually helped with this one.”
“Hey!” Potter protested, “I helped the whole time. Didn’t I, Malfoy?” He turned to look at Draco beseechingly, who glanced up from his bag balanced on the desk.
He hesitated, glancing between the two expectant faces, and then drawled, “I imagine it depends on one’s definition of ‘help’ but I suppose you were not completely useless.”
Confusingly, Potter grinned at this, and turned to Granger with a lift of his eyebrow, as if to say ‘See?’. Granger hmphed and then, to his surprise, gave a short nod to Draco before making her way back to her own work station.
Potter turned back to Draco, with his mouth open, seemingly ready to say something else, before Draco hurriedly cut him off. “I’ll put this on Slughorn’s desk.”
At Slughorn’s desk, he slipped the bottle into place next to the others, ignoring the suspicious look that the professor gave him. Then, clutching his bag, he strode out of the lab and high-tailed it back to his room in the Eighth Year tower.
He barely paid attention as he clambered through the entrance and hurried across the common room, festooned with sofas, armchairs, lamps, plenty of cushions, and a few students dotted around. Once at the corridor, he raced to his room and locked the door behind him.
He threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in his pillows, taking deep breaths. Merlin, in that class… when he had looked at Potter… why had it made him feel like that? Like his stomach had gone tight and his mouth had gone dry. Like it had only a few times before in his life. Like he had already promised himself, for the sake of his family and future, that it never would again.
He drew in some shaky breaths. Fucking Potter, he thought bitterly. He always knows best how to ruin my life.