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Hermione deems the  library much too loud to study in, so they’re in the eighth-year common room, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace in various states of comfort, a mess of textbooks and parchment laid out on the worn rug between them.

In Harry’s opinion, it’s an upgrade from the stifling aura of the library with its towering stacks of tomes and the not-so-subtle giggle of students from all years peering at him from above their books. Today was much louder than usual though, the ever-present rumor mill working its way through the student body. Madam Pince was working the wrinkles around her mouth overtime with all the shushing. And Hermione had gotten so annoyed, she’d dragged both him and Ron to the common room by their ears as if it was somehow their fault.

At least in the common room, there was the comforting warmth of the fireplace and the blissful absence of admiring stares.

Harry ought to thank whatever saucy story is making its way around Hogwarts for pulling him out of the library, though he doesn’t find himself all too interested in knowing what it is. There can’t possibly be any gossip juicy enough to top the fact that an entire war was battled and won right inside these castle walls.

Ron and Harry are flat on their stomachs, quietly cheering for their chess pieces as they command the knights and queens into playing a game of footie with a crumpled up piece of parchment. Harry lets out a hushed ‘yeaaah!’ for his queen scoring another goal, when Pansy Parkinson’s screeching laughter precedes the sound of the portrait opening. It’s like hearing a chainsaw behind a door before it tears into the room and murders you brutally.

“-their faces!” Pansy is cackling, “We should have done this ages ago!”

Malfoy’s voice follows close behind, smirking. And even though they’re walking behind the sofas and out of sight from Harry, he just knows the sound of his smirk. “It finally shut Smith’s big mouth, I’ll admit. Can you imagine if Pot-”

“Oh,” Pansy seems to stop, belatedly noticing Hermione leaned up against an armchair on the floor, following the trail of abandoned homework to Ron and Harry laying on the ground in front of the sofa nearest Pansy. She gives Harry in particular a nasty sneer. He frowns. “Come on, darling,” she says before Malfoy can see them as well, pushing him into the staircase leading up to their individual rooms.

Ron digs a pinky into his ear, wincing. “I swear, that girl has the laugh of a banshee. George sells fireworks quieter than her. And did you see how she looked at you? She must really hate that you lived twice.” Harry laughs and tosses his chess pieces at Ron, much to the stone figurines’ dismay.

He expects Hermione to say something about that, as she usually does when they light-heartedly tease about one of the scariest moments of Harry’s life. Harry thinks it’s a good thing that they can move past it in humour, but Hermione sometimes gets a little somber at it. It doesn’t seem like she’s paying attention though, and when Harry and Ron look over, she looks like she’s been petrified - another scary moment in their lives - staring at the staircase.

“…’Mione?” Ron frowns, sitting up in concern.

She’s quiet for a little more, lips parted, shaking her head. Her mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words and calculating in her head if maybe she saw wrong. “Malfoy…” she starts, looking a bit more red. “Malfoy’s…”

Both of them are frowning in her direction. What happened with Malfoy? He sounded fine - happy even, entertained by whatever he was talking about with Pansy. Did he come in covered in hippogriff blood? Missing an arm? Did he come in as a time-traveled version of himself, older and rugged with long hair sweeping delicately across his back and looking lean maybe with a bit of grown-in muscle and a charming look in his eyes–

“Malfoy’s wearing a skirt.”

Silence.

Harry gapes. “Wh-”

“What!?” Ron shouts.

—

Despite knowing that Malfoy is now sauntering around the school in - what he hears is - a standard-issue pleated Hogwarts skirt, Harry is never able to see it for himself.

Malfoy and the castle seem to be working together to create the perfect opportunities to hide his lower half from Harry’s sight.

At breakfast, Malfoy is seated at the Slytherin table before Harry arrives, and leaves unnoticed.

In Potions, Malfoy works with Theodore Nott at the station closest to the door until Slughorn requests his help arranging the storeroom. Harry thinks maybe he can catch a glimpse of the skirt as Malfoy steps away from his staion, and then Seamus’ fucking cauldron releases a thick cloud of glimmering silver smoke, the room exploding in complaints that they can’t see. By the time Slughorn has jauntily waved the smoke into his wand, Malfoy is gone.

Even in the hallways, there is always always something in the way between Harry’s eyes and Malfoy’s legs. A stray bludger - why the hell is there a bludger in the hallway, a gaggle of girls asking Harry inane questions, a fight between two Ravenclaw seventh-years - yelling something like I saw him first and he wouldn’t go for you!

It shouldn’t even concern Harry, he thinks. Stupid Malfoy has a skirt on, so what? Most of the girls have skirts. If he wanted to see a fucking skirt, he can look at Hermione.

For some reason, that thought makes him cringe. He doesn’t want to think about why Hermione in a skirt is resolutely not the same as a bloke in a skirt. And maybe a bloke in a skirt is definitely not the same as bloody Malfoy in a skirt. Harry might be going crazy.

Defeated, Harry declines the invitation to join Ron and Hermione in the library for another study session after dinner in favour of slumping into the common room’s squashy sofa. Hermione only lets him be when he gestures at the pile of textbooks on the coffee table.

He’s laid down on the sofa, nose dutifully buried in his textbooks, when he hears someone settle into the armchair by his feet. Distractedly, he peers out the side of his book to see who it is, then returns to reading.

Wait.

Harry looks again.

Malfoy has his legs crossed, one knee over the other, in the armchair with his jaw propped up on a loosely curled fist. He’s flipping through a worn edition of Tinctures, Elixirs, and the Human Psyche. Unlike Harry, he’s changed into a comfortable looking baggy top, very unfitting of what Harry expected him to wear for comfort. Harry expected silk button-ups, maybe a fluffy housecoat more befitting of the stifly aristocrat he is. Instead, he’s loose and cozy, hair slightly wavy and damp from a recent shower.

For some ungodly reason, Malfoy is also still wearing the skirt he’s presumably been wearing all day.

Harry stares.

It is, indeed, a skirt. The same dark grey, pleated material as the one most girls wear, with the addition of a band of Slytherin green adorning the hem. It falls delicately around the shape of - oh god - Malfoy’s thighs, plump where it presses against the edge of the cushioned seat. As Harry stares, Malfoy shifts and props his feet up on the coffee table, stretching his - oh Lord - long pale legs across its surface.

Harry takes about ten years to turn his head back to his book, but he’s not reading.

Alright. So Malfoy is definitely wearing a skirt. It is definitely 100% a skirt there, for sure. Good for him. Fashion is great. Lovely way to express yourself, that.

He looks at the skirt again.

Malfoy is looking at him.

Ah, magic theory, yes, this textbook has so much information! The interaction of elements and the magical core and all of it, so cool!

Harry yawns - forced - and stretches a dramatic arm over his head as he sits up. He darts a look to the ticking floor clock in the far corner of the common room, raising his eyebrows as if to say oh wow! That’s the time! and plucks his books off the table. He aims a thin-mouthed nod to Malfoy and gets the fuck out of there, walking calmly to the staircase and then hurrying up the steps two at a time.

He runs into his room and slams it closed behind him, presses his back to the door, tosses his books across the floor.

Hm.

He shoves his hand into his pants and fucks his fist until he spills cum down the leg of his trousers.