The next day, another enchanted letter appeared, fluttering through the open window. It landed in Harry’s hand, stretching its wings and slowing before falling still.

Harry felt his heart flutter with anticipation, shocked to find himself looking forward to seeing that beautiful handwriting again.

He unfolded the notes, letting out a small sigh of relief as he looked down at the elegant scrawls of ink.

He first few pages were Herbology notes, the boarder of the pages beautifully illustrated with drawings of fungi—bundles of enoki, rows of hiratake and oyster mushrooms that grew likes rippling shelves on the side of a towering tree, rounded toadstools with bright tops, and clusters of honey agaric. There were notes of which fungi were edible and which were not.

The next page were notes from Potions class. Harry read through them all, turning the page over. He couldn’t help but laugh as he looked down at the illustrtion at the bottom of the page; a rather unflattering animated doodle of Snape blathering on with a seach bubble that read ‘blah, blah, blah’.

When he finished laughing, he drew in a deep breath and read through the rest of the notes, feeling his heart sip a beat as he read the message on the final page—the one line of elegant writing.

Get well soon.

Harry stared at that one sentence for a while.

Finally, he let out a measured sigh and laid the rest of the notes on top, reaching over to his bedside table and picking up one of his notebooks. He opened the cover and set the pages of notes inside, setting them aside where they’d be safe.

The next day, Harry was starting to feel a lot better, even more so when another enchanted letter flew through the windows and into Harry’s hands.

His heart fluttered as he read the beautiful script.

He turned through the pages, reading the notes.

The third Herbology class that week was about flowers, the pages of notes decorated with beautiful illustrations of lilies, jasmine, dandelions, and hawthorn as well as notes on how they could be used for healing and potions.

Among the notes was a pressed hawthorn flower.

Harry gently picked it up off the paper, turning it around in his fingers.

It was beautiful, delicate. The crisp white petals seemed enchanting on their own.

He set it aside carefully, turning his attention back to the letter.

The pages of notes from Potions class were filled with silly jokes and mocking doodles of Professor Snape.

He couldn’t help but smile as he read through the pages, feeling a warmth settle in his chest as he read the elegant handwriting.

“What are you smirking at?” Ron asked as he made his way into the dorm and flopped down on the end of Harry’s bed.

“Nothing,” Harry said dismissively.

He picked out one of the pages and handed it to Ron.

“Does his handwriting look familiar to you?” he asked.

Ron looked down at the page.

“No,” he said, turning the piece of paper over and bursting into laughter at the crude doodle of Professor Snape. “But whoever they are, they’ve captured Snape perfectly.”

Ron passed the letter to Neville.

Neville looked it over, snickering at the illustration before passing it to Seamus who then passed it to Dean, but they all had the same answer: no one knew who wrote the notes.

“Whoever it is, they’ve got to be a Ravenclaw,” Seamus said. “No one else pays that much attention in class.”

“Hermione does,” Ron countered, looking at another page he’d picked up off the bed. “But that’s not her handwriting.”

“Is that so?” Dean said, his voice drawn out in a suggestive tone. He smirked and arched a brow as he looked at Ron.

“Shut up,” Ron replied.

Harry chuckled. He took the pages back, sliding them in place with the rest of the notes.

He flicked to the last page, the same as the last page of all the others.

Get well soon.

The others began to talk about their day but Harry wasn’t listening though; his attention was focused on the pressed flower in his hand. He turned the hawthorn around in his fingers, looking at it with wonder.

“Who are you?” he mused, his voice a quiet whisper.

He carefully set the flower back among the pages, reaching for his notebook and setting the notes aside.

Days later, Harry was finally well enough to join classes, and as happy as he was about being able to leave the dorms and spend time with his friends, there was something that weighed on him. The thought of never receiving another letter broke his heart.

That morning, before breakfast, Harry opened the notebook where the letters had been stored, picking up one of the final pages that read ‘Get well soon’. He stared down at the curves of the lettering, feeling his heart flutter in his chest. He folded up the piece of paper and stowed it in his pocket.

Throughout the day, Harry and his friends would compare the elegant scrawls of writing from the letter to the penmanship of their classmates, but none of the girls’ handwriting matched up.

That evening, Harry, Ron and Hermione were gathered in the Gryffindor common room. Ron was stretched out across the couch in front of the fire while Harry and Hermione sat on the floor.

Harry had brought out the letters in order to show Hermione the notes, hoping she would recognise the handwriting.

“It almost looks like…” Hermione’s voice trailed off. “Never mind.”

“What?” Harry asked, hopeful.

“Forget it,” Hermione said, shaking her head as she handed the page of Potions notes back to Harry.

“Hermione,” Harry pleaded.

Hermione let out a sigh.

“When Malfoy takes notes in Herbology and Potions, he sometimes draws the flowers, herbs and whatnot beside his notes,” she said. “It almost looks like his drawings.”

“Malfoy?” Ron repeated, his voice a mix of shock, disbelief, and disgust.

“But I don’t know what his handwriting looks like and I doubt Draco Malfoy would be sending you letters,  let alone ones that say ‘get well soon’,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry let out a dejected sigh, looking down at the page in his hand.

“Oh no,” Hermione said. “I know that face.”

“What?” Harry asked, looking up at her.

“Harry, you can’t seriously tell me you’ve fallen for someone you don’t even know because they sent you a letter,” Hermione said.

Harry let out a heavy sigh, but he didn’t deny it.

“Harry,” Hermione said, her voice soft but scolding.

There was a heavy thud as a stack of paper dropped between them.

“Bloody hell,” Ron gasped, looking up at his brothers. “What’s this?”

“Samples of handwriting from every house,” Fred answered.

“You’re welcome,” George added.

Harry stared at the pile, his eyes wide with shock. “How did you—?”

“We called in a favour from Cedric Diggory,” George explained. “He put together examples of everyone’s handwriting from the Hufflepuff dorms—guys and girls alike.”

“Ginny talked to Luna and got her to ask everyone in Ravenclaw to write something down,” Fred added.

“We had to bribe Pansy Parkinson to get examples of everyone’s handwriting in the Slytherin dorm,” George said, his voice a little tense.

“How did you know—?”

“That you were looking for who wrote the letters?” George finished Harry’s question. “The whole dorm knows.”

“The whole of Hogwarts knows,” Fred countered teasingly.

Harry looked down at the stacks of paper and then back up at the twins. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” they said in unison.

A couple of others joined them, sorting through the mountain of paper – pages of notes, scraps of paper with things written on them, etc – and comparing the handwriting to the elegant script of the letters.

There were a lot that came close, but weren’t quite right: the slant of the writing wasn’t the same, there wasn’t as much of a curve on the upwards stroke of the “d”s or the downwards stroke of the “y”s.

Harry was about to give up hope when he picked up another page of writing.

His heart stopped, his breath catching in his throat.

He help the page up to the letter.

It was an exact match.

His eyes drifted to the name at the top of the page.

Without a word, he held the page out to Ron.

Ron took it, comparing the writing. He opened his mouth to say something when he noticed the same thing as harry—the name at the top.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

Ron passed the age to her, letting her see for herself, but Harry couldn’t get the name out of his mind.

Draco Malfoy.

The next day, Harry sat alone in the library.

He watched as the light outside the large windows of the library began to dim and the sky lit up with a brilliant display of colours.

He turned his attention to the blank piece of parchment before him, staring at the paper as he tried to figure out what to write.

He jumped at the loud thud of someone dropping their books on the table.

He turned to see Draco pull out a chair a few seats down from him. He sat down and opened the large text books, pulling out his notebook as he set to work writing things down.

Harry looked down at the piece of paper in front of him. He picked up his quill and began to write.

He wrote down two words before sketching a paper crane below it.

He set aside his quill and pushed the paper across the table.

Draco looked up from his work, his brow furrowed slightly as he picked up the piece of paper and read it.

‘Thank you.’

------------------------- 

 Geralt lifted the tankard to his lips, gulping down the cool, fresh water.

“Something struck me last night. There was a bard who came through town a few days ago. He was a little odd, but he spent the evening playing music in the tavern the night of the last sighting—the night before last. The strange part is he didn’t stay the night in the inn,” the inn keeper explained. “He’s most likely camping out in the woods. He might have seen something; if you find him, he might be able to help you.”

Geralt nodded.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, setting down the tankard and tossing a coin across the bar.

“You do not need to pay,” the inn keeper said, sliding the coin back across the counter. “Meals and drink are counted towards your say; it’s the least I can offer for your service.”

Geralt nodded briskly, returning the coin to his coin pouch.

He glanced towards the staircase.

“I’ll keep her safe,” the inn keeper promised.

“Thank you,” Geralt said, stepping back from the counter. He turned and made his way out into the street.

Even during the day, the town was quiet. Market stalls were set up along the streets; fruit stalls, stands stacked with bundles of cloth, fine silks and tailored clothes, and merchants who talked quietly among themselves. Yellow straw was strewn across the ground, tousled by the unsettling breeze that rolled through the streets, bringing with it a familiar smell: soft musk and the floral scent of buttercups and roses—a smell he had not encountered since the mountain.

Geralt felt a spike of fear drive itself through his heart.

The inn keeper had mentioned a bard, but Geralt hadn’t thought it’d be his bard.

He drew in a steady breath, making his way down the dusty track that led out the back of the town and into the woods and walking in the direction that the inn keeper had said the creature had flown in.

The dry husks of leaves crackled beneath his feet, the rich smell of sweet petrichor filling his lungs as they walked along the muddy train and further into the woods. The trees towered over him, beams of light shining through the canopy.

Crystal-like droplets of dew gathered on the wavering blades of grass and delicate flowers grew along the edge of the path, filling the undergrowth with bursts of colour: white, purple, yellow, and blue.

He was surrounded by towering trees and thick shrubs, full of autumn tones of brown, gold and red, and lingering black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space, shutting out the sky and filtering the sunlight. Thin streams of light filtered through the leaves, scattering glimpses of light across the forest floor.

The sweet aroma of musk, roses and buttercups seemed to grow stronger, mingling with the smells of the forest. As he walked deeper into the forest, he was met with the bitter smell of ashes and charred wood. Further up the past he stumbled upon a campsite; a small pile for locks stacked in the centre of the clearing, blackened by fire and surrounded by grey ash.

Beside the small campfire lay a bedroll.

There was no blood, no odd smells—just Jaskier’s earthy scent.

The blanket of leaves on the forest floor was disturbed, a trail leading through the shadows of the trees and towards another clearing.

Geralt’s foot falls were silent as he moved through the shadows towards the other clearing.

The breeze brought with it the sound of music; a soft melody of strumming strings.

Geralt slowed as he approached, listening to the sweet voice as the creature hummed along to the melody.

They sat on the moss-covered stump of a fallen tree with their back turned to Geralt. The radiant sunlight played across his pale skin. The soft breeze blew through the tousled mess of his dark hair. He’s dressed in a golden brown jacket, decorated with brown lace and gold embroidery; unbuttoned and hanging open to expose a white dress shirt.

The streams of sunlight seemed to sparkle as it danced around him.

Their wings rested against their back, gleaming as they caught the light. They were like fine lace—translucent and covered in swirls of golden patterns like fine embroidery or ornate filigree.

He held onto a mahogany lute, strumming at the strings as he began to sing the words to the familiar tune.

“The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool.

Better stay out of sight

I’m weak my love, and I am wanting.”

Geralt listened, his heart aching as he couldn’t help but say his name.

“Jaskier.”

The fae stopped singing, the sounds of the forest falling silent around them. He didn’t turn around to face Geralt—he didn’t need to; Geralt knew who he was.

“I know you’d find me one day,” Jaskier said, his voice saddened and quiet. “I had assumed it would happen later than this, but it looks like destiny is set on cursing you with my presence.”

Geralt grunted.

He wanted to say sorry, he wanted to say that he wanted Jaskier back in his life, but the words couldn’t come out. He wasn’t ready for this.

He had thought up a million ways to apologise to the bard; a million scenarios, ranging from those that ended in passionate kisses to those that ended with punches and bloodshed. But he wasn’t prepared for this.

“Well, Witcher,” Jaskier said, shaking Geralt from his thoughts. “How is this going to go? I imagine you’re here for a contract, so what is it they want: my head, my wings? I hope my death will at least bring you a large sum.”

Geralt was taken aback. Did Jaskier really think Geralt could ever hurt him? He’d never say it out loud, but the bard was his friend. But the words rang in his head: “If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands.”

He had hurt him in the worst possible way.

“I’m not here for a contract,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier turned to face him.

Geralt lost himself in his eyes; the same azure blue eye that were as bright as the sky above.

But there was something about him; without the glamour to hide his power, he seemed even more beautiful; radiant.

“So, you’re here for a personal kill? To kill a fae and gloat of your victory I know that it’s a high praise for a Witcher to bag such a kill.”

Geralt felt his heart drop.

It hurt that Jaskier would think so little of him, that he’d assume the worst in him. Granted, he did deserve the sharp retorts and the anger that dwelled beneath those pools of blue; he had every right to feel hurt after what Geralt had said.

Geralt shook his head. “I could never harm you… not like that. You are no monster or something to hunt for sport.”

Jaskier tilted his head slightly, looking at Geralt with curiosity.

“Then what are you heard for.”

Geralt let out a measured breath. He took a step closer to Jaskier, then another, until he stood beside him, meeting his gaze.

Geralt looked deep into his eyes as he said, “I’m here to beg for forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness for what?”

Geralt hesitates—words were never one of his strengths; neither was emotion. He had Jaskier for that.

He drew in a deep breath.

“For hurting you,” he said. “For blaming you for things that were never in your control. For taking my anger out on you unjustly. For… For everything.”

Jaskier’s bottom lip quivered, his breathing shallow as his eyes began to glisten with tears.

“But, most of all, for not realising how much you truly mean to me. For not realising that I took you – and everything you did for me – for granted.”

Tears threatened to spill over as Jaskier desperately tried to hold them back. All the hurt—all the heartache he had held for months—fading away as he settled into the familiar warm feeling he felt in Geralt’s presence.

A tear fell past his lashes, glistening in the sunlight as it caressed the pale skin of his cheek.

Geralt slowly reached up with his hand, Cupping Jaskier’s cheek as he gently brushed away the tear with the ball of his thumb.

Neither of them knows who leant in first, but it didn’t matter; what mattered was what they felt when their lips met.

It was indescribable; a mix of passion and tenderness that made them feel complete.

One of Jaskier’s hands glided up Geralt’s arm, up his bicep and across his shoulder blade. His other hand ran up the nape of Geralt’s neck, lacing his fingers through his long, silver hair.

Geralit sighed in return, craning his neck as he deepened the kiss.

He drew back slowly, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s as he drew in ragged breaths.

Jaskier tilted his chin, bringing their lips together again.

They lost themselves in the kiss, letting the world slip away as they melted into each other’s embrace.

After a while, Geralt finally returned to his senses.

“How did you manage to hide this for so long?”

“I used a glamour to disguise myself,” Jaskier admitted.

“But I would have sensed it,” Geralt replied.

“It was strong enough to hide effectively, but weak enough that you – or any other Witchers – wouldn’t pick up on it,” Jaskier admitted.

Geralt nodded He’d never say it, but he was impressed.

“Why?”

“Why did I hide among humans?” Jaskier reiterated, trying to extract Geralt’s question. “Because I wanted a chance to fit in.”

He met Geralt’s gaze.

“And I found one.”

Geralt lifted his brow questioningly.

“With you,” Jaskier replied. “I’ve never felt like I belonged until I met you. I’m just sorry my presence brought you so much chaos and misfortune.”

“You are not to blame,” Geralt said, his voice soft but firm.

Jaskier’s met his gaze with a pained look. “I heard Cintra burnt.”

“The child is safe,” Geralt replied. “She’s in town, waiting for me to return.”

A look of relief passed over Jaskier’s face.

“You’re welcome to return with me,” Geralt said, a hint of pleading in his voice.

Jaskier blinked in surprise. “Are you sure you’d want me? I only ever bring you bad luck.”

“Bad luck follows me no matter what,” Geralt replied. “And I’ve never been more sure.”

Within the blink of an eye, Jaskier’s wings disappeared; the glamour returning his image to what Geralt had remembered.

  -------------------------

 “Witcher,” the inn keeper greeted him as he returned to the town.

“The fae has been banished,” Geralt lied.

“Thank you,” man said with a sigh of relief. “You and the girl are welcome to stay a few more nights.”

Geralt nodded.

Geralt made his way upstairs to the room, Jaskier following after him. He pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

“You’re back!” Ciri called out, her voice a mix of delight and relief. She ran to Geralt’s side and threw her arms around his waist.

He tried to hide his soft smile as he hugged her back. He stepped back, turning slightly so that Ciri could see the man that walked in.

“Ciri, this is Jaskier,” Geralt introduced. “He’s… a friend.”

Jaskier’s eyes softened as he looked at the young girl.

“You’re just as beautiful as your mother,” he said softly.

Ciri smiled, but there was a sad note to it.

“Will you stay with us?” she asked.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt.

The Witcher met his gaze, his orange eyes somewhat pleading.

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile.

-------------------------------------------------------

Harry and Ron stood outside the Great Hall, waiting for their dates.

A short moment later, Ginny and Luna came over.

Ginny had convinced Ron to ask Luna to the Ball because she didn’t want to be the only third year there since she said yes to Neville. Ron had agreed; he and Luna were friends after all, and both of them were there to just have fun.

Luna wore a high-low dress that sat around her knees at the front and reached the floor at the back, the fabric a light blue at the top before fading to lilac and then to a soft orange, like a sunset. The dress was covered in the black silhouettes of embroidered flowers and light beading. She wore a delicate black beaded necklace that one of the other Ravenclaws had given her for the night. Her long blonde hair was tied up and decorated with flowers that matched the colours of her dress.

Ron offered her a friendly smile.

“You look lovely,” he said.

Luna smiled back at him.

“You look nice too,” she said. “So do you, Harry.”

Harry snapped out of his daze, tearing his eyes away from where he’d been anxiously watching the stairs.

“Oh, uh… thank you,” he stammered looking down at himself.

He wore a simple black suit jacket, dress pants and a smoky-grey shirt. A silver pocket square with a white trim brightened the look a little. He had intended to wear a tie, but it kept choking him. So instead, he’d buttoned up the top of his dress shirt and pinned a collar chain across the front of his shirt. The studs that were pinned to his collar were silver stag heads with a turquoise gemstone in each of them. The chain was his father’s; a gift from an old friend apparently.

He cleaned up nice, despite the tousled mess of his untameable brown hair.

“Did you really ask Draco Malfoy to the Ball?” Luna asked, a hint of confusion in her voice.

“Yeah, I did,” Harry replied.

“Why?”

“Because I, um…” His voice trailed off as he struggled to come up with a reason.

Why did he ask Draco to the Ball? Because he wanted to—the reason was as simple as that. And yet, he couldn’t put it into words.

He looked back over to the stairs, his heart skipping a beat and his breath catching in his throat as he looked at the young man who slowly made his way down the staircase.

Draco wore a pale blue suit; the jacket fitted to his body, complimenting his slim figure. The suit was completed by matching pants and a vest in the same colour. Underneath it, he wore a white shirt. The look was finished off by a black tie and a boutonnière made of a white rose and a sprig of baby’s breath was pinned to his lapel.

His silvery blonde hair had been sleeked back, drawing attention to his grey eyes.

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off of him. He watched, breathless as Draco walked over to their side.

“Oh,” Luna said quietly, looking at Harry’s bewitched expression. “That’s why.”

“Potter,” Draco greeted.

“Malfoy,” Harry replied by instinct.

“There you are,” Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out as she wove her way through the gathered students and over to them. “Mr Potter, I need you and your partner to accompany me to where the champions are gathered.”

Harry nodded. He turned to look at Draco.

The corner of Draco’s lips turned up in a coy smile as he nodded his head towards the direction in which Professor McGonagall was heading. “Shall we?”

-------------------------------------------------------

The Great Hall was filled with students, all watching as the champions and their partners entered; Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang, Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies, Viktor Krum and Hermione, and Harry and Draco.

Harry’s eyes drifted around the large Hall, taking in the sight.

The decorations were beautiful: the Hall looked as if it were made of ice, the pillars shimmering in the light. Chandeliers hung overhead, decorated with strings of glass beads that looked like crystal and hung like icicles. The illusion of snowflakes fell around them, but it wasn’t cold.

The magical wonder of the moment quickly disappeared as he realised everyone’s eyes were on him.

As they passed, people turned to look at them, the room filling with a buzz of hushed whispers as people watched them.

Harry swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. He drew in steady breaths, trying to calm his racing heart, but it didn’t work.

He felt a gentle squeeze on his arm and turned his head to look at Draco who walked beside him with his arm looped through Harry’s.

“Breathe,” he whispered softly, his voice quiet enough that only Harry could hear.

“Everyone’s looking,” Harry whispered, his voiced scratching at his dry throat as the champions stepped into the cleared space of the dance floor, taking their places.

Draco stepped in front of him, taking his place to dance. His stormy grey eyes were kind as he said, “Ignore them. Just keep your eyes on me.”

“But they’re all watching."

“Just look at me,” Draco encouraged. “Right now, it’s you and me. No one else is here. Just us.”

Harry took a step forward, settling his hand on Draco’s waist and the other on his shoulder—the way they had been taught in the dance classes.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Harry admitted.

Draco let out a quiet chuckle. He pulled Harry close against him and Harry didn’t resist, feeling secure in Draco’s hold.

“Follow my lead,” Draco said.

The music began and he took a step back, one to the side, one step forward and to the side again; just like they were taught. The movements were a little stiff at first, but slowly, they became more fluid. Harry followed Draco’s lead, slowly turning in circles as Draco guided him across the dance floor. They fell into a rhythm, moving as the melody guided them.

The lights that shimmered on the glass decorations reflected in their eyes, lighting up Draco’s eyes like glass, revealing soft hues of blue and green.

Harry didn’t look away; he didn’t look at his feet or at the faces in the crowd, all he could look at was Draco.

The gazes of all those around them melted away as Harry stared into Draco’s eyes.

It was just the two of them.

Draco guided him across the dance floor, moving swiftly and elegantly. When the others lifted their female partners, Harry and Draco spun quickly on the spot, twirling each other around and laughing at how ridiculous it must have looked.

As the melody slowed and the song began to fade into the next, they slowed to a halt, ending the dance as the song did.

The stepped back from each other and bowed politely.

The Great Hall filled with the sound of applause.

“There,” Draco whispered. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Harry chuckled breathlessly, bowing his head slightly to hide his bashful smile.

“Care for another dance?” Draco asked as the music began to play again.

“Sure,” Harry replied, stepping back into Draco’s arms.

One by one, others began to filter onto the dance floor: Ginny and Neville, Ron and Luna, Fred and Angelina, even Dumbledore and McGonagall.

The dance floor began to fill up, setting Harry at ease; he felt sheltered, lost among those dancing.

Draco guided Harry’s hand to his waist, settling his hand on Harry’s shoulders as they began to dance to the melody of the music.

Harry noticed a few others step onto the dance floor and start dancing, but many others hesitated; lingering and watching on. Only, this time, the hiss of their whispers didn’t reach Harry.

It was just him and Draco.

He doesn’t know how long they danced for, but during one song, Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s and Harry wanted nothing more than to kiss him, but he didn’t want to break that moment.

They danced for most of the night.

Harry took in little bits of what was happening – Fred had switched dance partners several times, eve dancing with his little sister; Ron and Luna were having fun, dancing in their own way. But it all seemed so distant; all Harry could focus on was Draco.

As the evening began to wind down, Harry suddenly realised that his feet ached from dancing so much.

“I could use some fresh air,” Draco said.

“I’ll walk with you,” Harry offered.

The two of them snuck out of the Ball, making their way down the hallways and out into the castle grounds.

The cool air was a welcome relief, filling their lungs with the sweet smell of the damp earth.

The full moon hung overhead, illuminating everything with a silvery glow. Lanterns and candles hung along the walls and outdoor hallways of the castle, keeping the darkness at bay as they slowly wandered across the dew-dampened grass.

“Are you worried?” Draco asked after a while, his voice breaking the silence.

“About what?”

“The tournament.”

“Oh… yeah,” Harry admitted, dropping his gaze.

Draco turned and took a step closer, standing in front of Harry.

He reached forward, cupping Harry’s cheeks in his gentle hands and tilting the young man’s head up. He met Harry’s gaze, looking deep into the dark brown depths. He leant forward, closing the space between them and bringing his lips to Harry’s in a deep kiss.

Harry’s eyes fluttered shut as he weakened in Draco’s hold.

He reached up and gently cupped Draco’s face in his hands, encouraging him.

Draco set his hand on Harry’s hip, pinning the young man back against the counter and pressing his body against Harry’s. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss.

Harry let his breath fall from his lungs as his shoulders dropped, feeling himself melt into Draco’s warmth.

Draco drew back slowly, resting his forehead against Harry’s.

And for a moment, Harry wanted o apologise, to say ‘sorry’ for making Draco uncomfortable, but his thoughts were interrupted by Draco’s soft voice.

“You’re going to do fine,” Draco whispered as if he were willing the words to be true. “You’re going to be alright.”

Harry slowly opened his eyes, meeting Draco’s gaze. He could see the swirling emotions in his grey irises rolling in like dark storm clouds.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Harry admitted. “I don’t think I can win the tournament.”

“Then promise me you’ll do everything you can to survive,” Draco pleaded.

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “I promise.”

A small smirk turned up the corners of Draco’s lips. He leant forward, bringing their lips together again.

This time, the kiss was more tender, more meaningful. It was as if he were trying to hold onto this moment, and Harry couldn’t blame him; he didn’t want to let go either.

Draco drew back slowly.

“You should get some rest before the Tournament begins tomorrow,” Draco said quietly. He stepped back, heading back towards the stone archway that led back inside the castle. He paused for a moment, turning back to Harry. “Potter?”

Harry turned to face him. “Yeah?”

“I had a nice time tonight.”

Draco slowly pulled back, meeting Harry’s gaze.

“No matter what happens, you and I will be okay,” he said softly.

Harry smiled back at him reassuringly.

Draco turned, leading the way up the flight of stairs to the large manor. He reached out for the large door knocker, listening as the loud bang echoed through the house.

The door opened.

“Master Malfoy,” a withered old house elf said fondly, stepping back and ushering the young man in.

Harry and Draco stepped into the large foyer of the manor house.

Harry looked around, trying to hide his shock. The walls were painted black and decorated by elegant panelling that gave the space more depth. There were small tables either side of the door, decorated with extravagant arrangements of white flowers—lilies, white roses, baby’s breath, lilies of the valley, and white alstroemeria; enchanted so they wouldn’t wilt.

In the centre of the room was a large marble staircase with an ornate banister that trailed up either side of the stairs. The staircase split into two flights of stairs once it reached the landing of the second flood, diverting towards the hallways or the next floor.

There were large portraits hanging on the wall, paintings of old faces – members of Draco’s family – and pieces of artwork.

Harry eyed each one, waiting for one of them to move, but none of them did—a small comfort for Harry.

Draco shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the stand by the door.

Harry absentmindedly followed, making sure the back of his shirt hung low enough to cover his wand once he took his coat off.

“Your parents are waiting for you in the sitting room,” the house elf told him, gesturing towards the large doors off to one side of the room.

Draco nodded.

He looked over his shoulder at Harry. “You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry said, but there was no confidence in his voice.

Draco led the way through the large doors and into the sitting room.

Narcicssa sat in one of the arm chairs, a hardcover book lying open in her lap.

As they stepped into the room, she glanced up, her face lighting up with a sweet smile as she shut her book and set it aside.

“Draco,” she said as she rose to her feet and stepped over to her son’s side, pulling the young man into her arms.

“Hello, mother,” Draco replied, returning the hug. He looked over to where Lucius stood by the fireplace. He nodded to him. “Father.”

Lucius nodded in return. His cold eyes turned on Harry.

“Mister Potter,” the man greeted. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too, sir,” Harry replied.

“Come, sit down,” Narcissa said, her voice sweet as she ushered her son towards the couch.

“I’d rather stand,” Draco politely refused, saying close to Harry’s side.

“You said in your letter that you had something to tell us?” Lucius prompted.

Draco swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

“Yes,” he replied, trying to steady his racing heartbeat.

He glanced over his shoulder at Harry.

“I think it’ll be easier to just come right out and say it,” Draco said quietly, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Harry took a step forward and tenderly brushed the tips of his fingers against the palm of Draco’s hand, unseen by his parents.

“Harry and I,” Draco started, struggling to find his voice. “…are dating.”

He swallowed hard against the wave of nausea that crashed over him, his stomach twisting in knots as the moment of silence that settled over the room seemed to stretch into oblivion.

“We have been together for a while now, but now that things are starting to get more serious between us we thought it was time to tell you,” Draco said.

Lucius didn’t say a word. He took a step forward.

Harry instinctively reached for where his wand was hidden in the small of his back –bracing himself, ready for a fight.

Lucius walked past them and over to the large doors, throwing them open and calling to the house elves.

“Bring everything we have gathered for wedding preparations,” Lucius told them.

“Wedding preparations?” Draco repeated, stammering over the words.

He looked at Harry, his stormy grey eyes wide with shock.

Harry looked back at him, stunned into silence.

“Father, we’ve only just started getting serious,” Draco objected politely.

“My son,” Lucius started, his voice shockingly soft and adoring. “It takes at least a year and a half to plan a proper Malfoy wedding, and planning yours will probably take two years—maybe more; I only want the very best for you. By the time we get preparations underway, you should be engaged, and if you’re not…”

His voice trailed off, the soft smile falling from his face as his cold glare fell on Harry, tearing through him like daggers of ice.

“Father,” Draco said warningly, glaring at Lucius.

Lucius looked back at his son, smiling sweetly. He took a step over to Draco’s side, gently cupping his face.

“I only want you to be happy,” he said softly.

“And I am,” Draco said. He glanced over his shoulder at Harry, a soft smile lying across his lips as he reached out to take Harry’s hand. “Harry makes me happy.”

Harry returned the smile, lacing their fingers together.

“And while we appreciate what you’re doing for us and we it’s nice of you to be so accepting of our news and to be thinking about our future, I think we’d feel a lot more comfortable if you just let us take this at our own pace,” Draco told his father. “After all, if you try to rush through life, you’ll miss all the good parts. Sometimes, you have to slow down and enjoy things as they come, because time goes by faster than you think and once a moment’s gone, you can’t ever get it back so you have to enjoy it while you can.”

Lucius looked at his son with pride.

“You’re exactly right,” Narcissa said as she rose from her chair again, stepping over to her husband’s side. She set a hand on Lucius’ arm, smiling sweetly at Draco. “We’re so happy for the two of you.”

Draco returned her smile, stepping back a little more until he brushed up against Harry’s warmth.

“Thank you,” Draco said quietly, finally letting out a sigh of relief.

Harry brushed the ball of his thumb across the back of Draco’s hand.

“We love you, not matter what,” Narcissa said softly. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Draco replied. “And I love you too.”