#hd quotes

“Is it morning?” Draco murmured. His hair hung dishevelled, all over his face. Harry stared at him. Malfoy’s eyes were sweet and grave, this close. “Not yet,” Harry said, and swallowed. “Sorry.” “Mm?” “For - waking you up,” Harry said. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I came back--” “I’m glad you did,” Draco mumbled, and put his head against Harry’s shoulder. Harry went very still. “I thought maybe you’d finally buggered off.” “Are you always like this in the mornings?” Harry said, overly jocular. “I - maybe I should come by more often--” “Mm,” Draco said, yawning, breath warm against Harry’s neck. “If you like.” “Okay,” Harry said, and shook his head. “Okay, then.” He shifted, until he was half sprawled back against the dragon’s leg, and Draco followed him, holding onto his wrist, until he was lying next to Harry. Then he rolled and rested his cheek against Harry’s shoulder again, and Harry closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept yet tonight. It was cold in the barn, but Malfoy was warm, half-resting on him. “Are you going back to sleep?” Harry mumbled, shy, and Draco made a quiet, agreeable noise. Something like gravity sunk into Harry’s chest, inevitable and aching. He turned his head; he opened his eyes. Malfoy made a tiny noise and shifted up, and their mouths brushed, light and cool with the dark valley quiet outside. Harry’s breath came short, and Draco mumbled something he couldn’t catch, patted clumsily at Harry’s chest. “Sleep,” he said, “it’s still dark out.” “Yeah,” Harry said. After a moment he brought his arm up around Draco’s shoulders, holding him there. “Okay.”

“You could try going out again. Not in public, maybe, but there are private parties.” Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy in the society pages of the Prophet, but there were no photographs of her son ever. “I went to a few balls back in the summer and enjoyed being spoken to with extreme rudeness. Not an experience that I’d care to relive.” “That was months ago. People are putting the war behind them. And you’ve been pardoned. It’s time to move on.” Malfoy didn’t speak for a long moment, he just stared at his drink. Then, “I’ve nowhere to move on to.” Harry’s next words stopped in his throat. It was so rare seeing Malfoy without the mask of cold, drawling haughtiness he liked to don, and this — this fragile admission stirred something inside Harry that he put aside to maybe examine later. At a quiet moment, preferably at night. He caught himself wanting to touch Malfoy, just on the shoulder, but he didn’t think it’d be welcome. They didn’t speak for a while. A waitress brought their chips and chili con carne, the smell making Harry salivate. A couple walked in, the woman rubbing her hands to warm them up, while her companion examined the drafts on offer.   “See this, Potter?” Malfoy broke the silence. His haughty manner had returned; his air of nobility marred a little by the chip he held in his fingers as he gestured broadly. Harry watched Malfoy’s lips close over the chip. He swallowed. “See what?” “This. No one knows us here. We’re nobodies. And it’s marvellous. No one is glaring at me, or muttering under their breath about me escaping justice, or threatening revenge. No one even looks at me.” Everyone is looking at you, Harry thought, because he’d noticed the admiring and often lustful looks that Draco drew in the Muggle world. Even with the awful orange jumpsuit on, he looked glorious, beautiful and unattainable, like a shining galleon in the dirt. Now, sitting close with a soft ice blue jumper and bright hair, he looked like something out of a dream.

Back at their booth, Draco looked up at him, gaze still shuttered and wary, sleeve pressed against his bleeding nose. Something quick and sweet fell through Harry; he felt, abruptly, much better. He set the butterbeers down and sat next to Draco, gently drawing Draco’s hand away from his face. He caught Draco’s chin in his fingers and tilted his head up, studying Draco’s face. Draco stared back at him, jaw set and defiant. He was definitely going to have a black eye; it was already swelling. His nose looked painful and red, too, though it had stopped bleeding, a crust of blood smeared above his upper lip, trailing down his chin. Harry shook his head. “You shouldn’t let Neville rile you up.” “I didn’t,” Draco said, immediately and untruthfully. “He’s just a bit freaked out by the whole - thing,” Harry said. “I understand, I’m not crying myself to sleep about it. You don’t have to attack him for my sake.” “I didn’t,” Draco repeated, looking annoyed that he had to lie twice in the space of one conversation. Draco didn’t like lying. It was something Harry had discovered, slow and surprised, the past few months. He let Draco’s chin go, dropping his hands back into his lap. After a moment, he laughed, a little awkward, a little pleased. “Shut up,” Draco said. “My hero,” Harry said, and Draco scowled.

Harry watched Malfoy smile and mouth you’re fine, it’s fine at a woman who had knocked into him with a tray of shots and then apologised. He watched the pink and purple lights from the stage play over Malfoy’s straight nose and his high cheekbones. He saw the way Malfoy was standing beside Parkinson, as though she was at the exact centre of the universe. Harry thought back to his dreams, and the way that Malfoy had been gentle when he touched Harry. He knew, then, that Malfoy had changed, or would change, or was in the process of changing. Harry knew, with the same surety, that he wanted to be there for it. He wanted to watch as Malfoy unfolded himself and shook out the parts that were cruel and mean and hateful. He wanted to watch for the moment when Malfoy’s limbs and heart and brain and muscles moved in a way that wasn’t heavy with unease and anger. He wanted to see a thousand more easy smiles on Malfoy’s face, it wouldn’t even matter if he hadn’t put them there himself. He wanted to see Malfoy bloom with laughter. Harry wanted to tell him that he still hated the things Malfoy had done and would never forget them, not to be cruel, but because now he thought that Malfoy would never want to be with a person who forgot about things like that.

Shaking his head, Draco deliberately picked up his fork and set about his stew once more. "I've got no idea what you're talking about," he reiterated with a sniff. He could feel Blaise's smile without needing to look at him. "Oh, I think you do." "I do not." "Yes you do," Theodore chimed in. "Shut up, Theo," Draco replied mildly, gaze still downcast. Blaise laughed once more. "You do. And I think you probably also even know the reason for it all. For everything being… better." Draco didn't mean to. He honestly didn't, but somehow, quite without his direction, he found his gaze drifting upwards and across the room towards the Gryffindor table. He noticed the Golden Trio – they were, quite frankly, hard to miss, especially with Weasley and Weaslette initiating their nightly argument, cries of "Stop being an idiot" and "He was with you last night" ringing across the Hall. And naturally, his eyes drifted to Potter, to Pipsqueak, as they were want to do. Potter, who was watching his two friends snarl and snap at one another's throats with a hand propped beneath his chin. Potter, who seemed to have neglected half of his dinner in favour of offering it to Pipsqueak at his shoulder who ate far more daintily and tidily than her siblings, Draco was sure. Potter, who somehow seemed to feel Draco's gaze upon him and glanced in his direction through the mess of his overlong fringe. He didn't smile but he didn't frown either, simply regarding Draco as he was regarded in turn. Draco hastily dropped his gaze down to his bowl once more, resolutely ignoring Blaise's muffled chuckles at his side. Stupid Potter with his stupid fringe and his stupid stare and the ridiculously, stupidly cute way he smiled at the foxlet that lived on his shoulder. It annoyed Draco to no end.

“Hermione?” Hermione’s head snaps up, from where she’s buried it in Ron’s shoulder. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wet. She glances at Rudy and he gives her a cautious nod. “Yes, Harry?” “Will you hate me if I fall in love with Malfoy?” Draco’s jaw drops open; his face heats and he sucks in a panicked breath. He loosens his hold on Harry’s free hand. Hermione seems just as startled. She’s darting looks back and forth between them, shrewd and speculative, and then her face softens. “No, Harry. Why would you ever think I could hate you because of someone you loved?” “Ron would.” Ron clears his throat. “No, I wouldn’t.” “They tortured you,” Harry says, steady and slow. It’s like listening to music on the wireless after a magical dampener has been used. “He was there.” “He threw up,” Hermione says, looking directly at Draco with something like compassion as he shrivels inside. “He couldn’t watch, and then they made him, and he threw up.” “Oh.” A little sigh escapes him. “That’s good, then.”

Malfoy moved like a lanky cat, all limbs and syrupy motions that annoyed Harry and set his teeth on edge. He tapped his foot impatiently, shoving the photo towards Malfoy. Harry took the opportunity to study him while Malfoy was watching the loop of the crime scene photo. His brows were furrowed in concentration, and he nibbled on the corner of his bottom lip. Harry’s eyes lingered on Malfoy’s mouth for a moment before moving on to catalogue the way his eyes flit across the moving scene in the photo. The cocky persona from a moment ago was gone, replaced by someone Harry was far less familiar with — someone contemplative, looking for an answer to an unasked question. It made his stomach twinge uncomfortably.