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~Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice~

–What Are Little Boys Made Of?

Malfoy’s slender fingers were balled into fists and it looked like he would pounce on Harry at any given moment. 

“I. Will. Murder you!” Malfoy snarled, attempting to grab at Harry’s throat but narrowly missing when Snape forcefully pushed him back down into his chair. Which wasn’t hard given well, his… condition. Still, because he did have some Slytherin in him, Harry moved several inches to the right to ensure that he was well away from Malfoy’s claws. Self-preservation was a vital trait when dealing with an irate Draco Malfoy.

“Mr. Malfoy please show some sense of decorum,” Professor McGonagall huffs as if she can’t quite believe that Malfoy, of all people, was making a scene. “We understand that this is an undesired outcome—”

Malfoy bristles. “Undesired? I am a bloody girl!”

Snape growls at him and Harry watches in amazement as all of the fight leaves Malfoy’s body. It was nice to see someone with the ability to tame him. 

McGonagall raises a terse eyebrow at him as if to ask, are you finished? Dumbledore, watching down from his portrait at the scene unfolding before him, had looked awfully amused at Malfoy’s high pitched wails.

She folds her hands across her desk and her eyes drift back and forth between Harry, Snape, and a now female Draco Malfoy.

“Like I was saying, I am aware that this outcome is undesired. And Mr. Potter, don’t think that this will go unpunished.” 

“It better not be,” Malfoy grumbles. Snape shoots him a vicious glare and he glares right back, unyielding to his dark look. Eventually, Snape wins the battle of death stares between them because Malfoy slumps down further into the chair, pouting as he grumbles that his father will most certainly hear about this.

Harry takes a breath, ready to show her that there are still some students in Eighth Year who do have a sense of maturity. “I’m very sorry about this Professor—”

"No amount of arse kissing is going to get you out of this Potter,” Malfoy leers. McGonagall and Snape both scold him; McGonagall with a harsh Hush! and Snape with another one of his dark glares, but Malfoy persists in provoking him with his childish taunts. 

Maturity be damned.

Harry gnashes his teeth. “I’m sorry but Malfoy started it! Had he just let me borrow his notes in class I—”

Malfoy shoots out of his slumped position and snarls at him. “My fault?! Had you not been a lazy imbecile and done the most basic research you would have known to use Goosegrass not Knotgrass to make a potion to cure bloody scurvy!”

Harry sputtered and shrugged his shoulders carelessly. “What’s the difference!” 

Malfoy looks as if he were about to burst a vein in his neck. His hands splay out in an odd fashion and Harry could tell he was itching to wrap them around his throat. “Knotgrass is used for Polyjuice potions you dumbarse!”

“Maybe you should have kept your big mouth shut and you wouldn’t have swallowed the damned stuff!”

“Enough!”

Their bickering comes to halt when McGonagall slams her hand on the table so hard Harry swears he sees dust rise from the wood. The sound rattles around them like the vibrations of a rung bell. “This animosity between you two must come to an end. You are two Eighth Years fighting like Kneazles and Crups.” She turns to Harry, her thin mouth tightened into a small ball. “Mr. Potter, you shall serve detention for the next two weeks with Professor Snape for your carelessness. As you should know by now Potions is a very dangerous subject and must be handled diligently.”

Neither Snape nor Harry looks very happy about that. Malfoy smirks. 

“And as for you Mr. Malfoy, I will do my best to accommodate you during this… predicament. Professor Snape has already agreed to brew an anti-potion. In the meantime, you will attend all of your classes and be responsible for all of your assignments.” She looks at him from underneath her glasses. “Furthermore, if I hear of any more bickering, you will be serving detention right alongside Mr. Potter. Do I make myself clear?” She eyes them both. 

“Yes Professor.”

“Yes Madam.”

She raises her head and nods towards Snape. “Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to make some changes to your quarters for the month Mr. Malfoy.” 

Light pink colors Malfoy’s cheeks and his eyes widen in alarm. “Changes? What sort of changes? And why for a month?”

“The anti-potion will take at least a month to brew correctly,” Snape mutters, seeming far too unconcerned with the entire matter. He shrugs. “That or longer.”

“I— I can’t walk around as a girl for an entire month!” Malfoy exclaims. He sounds very close to being on the verge of panicking. Or tears. Merlin, please let it be tears. Harry snickers and the feral growl he is rewarded with evokes a disturbed hum from Professor McGonagall. Ha! Harry thinks, even McGonagall sees how utterly deranged Malfoy is.

“You can and you will,” McGonagall declares without a shred of remorse. “As for your quarters, you will need to be moved to a private room for the time being.”

“But why,” he whines. 

She raises a brow. “Girls cannot be roomed with young men.”

The light pink coloring explodes across Malfoy’s face. 

The door is opened with a flick of her wand and McGonagall waves them towards it despondently. “Dismissed.” 

Snape basically pushes them out the door when he grows tired of their slow, stiff pace.

If it weren’t for the strict policy against doing magic in the hallways, Harry’s sure Malfoy would have cast several different hexes on him as they walk down the corridor, each of them silently stewing.

Pansy Parkinson is pacing around the tail end of the corridor, clearly having heard about the potion’s accident. When she sees Malfoy, her eyes and mouth widen at the same time before she breaks out into hysterical laughter. 

“Oh my god it’s true, Merlin it’s true!” She throws her head back and laughs loudly. “I’m going to pee, I swear I’m going to piss myself!” 

Malfoy’s hands are curled into tiny fists under the ill-fitting sleeves of his robe. Harry backs away, experienced enough to know when it was too dangerous to be near the Slytherin. “Pansy, shut up,” he growls through painfully clenched teeth. 

“Oh come off it Draco,” Parkinson proclaims. “You always were one of the girls. Now you really are!” She doubles over into a fit of cackles at her joke, small tears forming in the corner of her eyes. She really did have an awful laugh, Harry noted, though he was far more preoccupied with the murderous look on Malfoy’s feminine face. He hardly has time to slip out of the corridor undetected when Malfoy pounces on him like a possessed wild cat, pressing him to the wall behind him so hard, he sees stars amidst a flurry of white-blonde hair. Malfoy’s nimble fingers were wrapped around his throat, squeezing until he genuinely feared for his life.

“What the hell? I didn’t say anything!” Harry attempted to squirm free from under Malfoy’s grasp but either he was still as strong as he was before or his surprising strength was a result of his fury. 

“That’s the problem! You didn’t say anything when making the potion either. You just assumed you knew what you were bloody doing!”

“I asked you for your notes!” 

Malfoy opens his mouth to fire a retort back, the word ‘idiot’ ready to slide off his tongue when Ron shouts from down the hallway. 

“Harry, mate is that you?”

Malfoy’s fists tighten around Harry’s robe and throat as he seethes. His cheeks puff in annoyance when Ron calls again. The grey in his eyes goes dark like he was contemplating whether or not it was worth murdering him in broad daylight with the threat of Azkaban over his head. 

“I’ll spare you the embarrassment of getting beat up by a girl today.” 

“Gee thanks,” Harry coughs out when Malfoy finally lets go of him with a final shove to his shoulders and backs away. There was something seriously wrong with him. Besides the fact that he’s a literal Death Eater.

Hermione and Ron give them curious glances, and Harry can see them trying to register the ‘new’ Slytherin girl in their minds. Malfoy visibly bristles, waiting for them to comment on his appearance. 

Ron cocks his head to the side, gazing curiously at Malfoy. “Is it just me or do you look like Malfoy if he had a hot twin sister?” Hermione grumbles irritatedly and tugs Ron away by the back of his shirt collar. 

Parkinson smirks into her robes and Malfoy stares him down with a piercing grey glare. Ron visibly swallows and shifts in discomfort under the intensity of Malfoy’s unblinking stare. He steps forward, a sly smirk on his face when Ron wisely takes a step back. 

“Oh Weasley,” he purrs. Harry shivers. When could Malfoy do that? “You’re going to regret you’d ever say that to me. You’re all going to regret it.” His eyes find Harry’s and he gives him one last sneer before grabbing Parkinson’s arm and leading her away from the trio. 

Once the Slytherins were sufficiently out of earshot, Ron turned on him. “Really Harry?” He asks, his arms incredulously splayed around him. 

 Harry shakes his head, not understanding Ron’s annoyance. Particularly when he was the one that just got assaulted. “Really what?” His voice is raw and he touches his throat gingerly. Malfoy really did have a grip on him.

He sighs and places a hand on Harry’s shoulder, looking torn between wanting to comfort him or wanting to throttle the magic out of his body. “Look, I get it alright? You’re still hurt over the breakup; Ginny is too by the way. But snogging some girl that could dub as Malfoy if she cut her hair isn’t okay mate, no matter how fit she is. I mean honestly, I always guessed you were a bit obsessed with him, but come on Harry, this is taking it too far.” He looks to Hermione for back up and she nods with a straight face and crossed arms. Merlin’s tits this was worse than he thought. “Seriously, she even said my name like he does.” He shudders, looking a little green in the face underneath his array of freckles. “Super creepy.”

Harry takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the firestorm that was about to ensue. 

“I wasn’t snogging anybody,” he clears up. The thought of snogging a Slytherin, let alone Slytherin Prefect Draco Malfoy… 

Ron raises a brow. “Sure looked like snogging.”

“Well it wasn’t,” he snaps. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. Here goes nothing. “Especially not her because she’s—”

“—Malfoy,” Hermione guesses coolly. 

There is a brief moment when her words hang in the quiet air then settle down like the dust on the headmaster's desk. Then Ron is shrieking in disgust and Harry’s brows are rising to his hairline. “How did you know?” After all these years, Hermione can still surprise him with her cleverness.

“I called Malfoy hot!” Ron hunches over, his breathing labored from his disgust of himself.

Ignoring her boyfriend’s panicking, she simply shrugs. “The resemblance was uncanny; Malfoy always did have girlish features. Plus, most of the Slytherins had been talking about it. It’s actually rather fascinating, I don’t know how you managed to create such a powerful potion Harry, but you should definitely look into reproducing it. Of course, only for people who actually want to change their gender.”

He doesn’t know about the potion part, but Harry had to admit that if his personality wasn’t so dreadfully ugly and there wasn’t a sneer permanently fixed on his face, Malfoy could be described as somewhat pretty. But girlish? He couldn’t see it. It was probably his natural aggressiveness that prevented him from seeing Malfoy as anything other than a raging, overstimulated manic. Even as a female, there was something so distinctly masculine about Malfoy that was hard to erase from his character with a single cocked up potion.

“I called Malfoy hot!” Ron cries again, sounding in physical pain from his mistake. Hermione rolls her eyes yet rubs his back in sympathy. 

“C’mon you, we have class soon.” She shoots Harry a look. “You okay Harry?” 

He swallows and nods a bit too quickly. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I’ll head back to class in a few, just need to sort some things out.” 

She twists her lips in irritation. He was lying through his teeth and she knew it. The one thing Hermione hated more than not having a variety of books at her disposal was a liar. “Well think about what I said. That potion really could help a lot of people; I hope you had the good sense not to Vanish it before anyone got a sample of it. Every potions’ a good one in someone’s eyes.” He mumbles a half-hearted agreement as she pulls a frazzled Ron away.

Harry waits several minutes before trailing behind them, trying hopelessly to keep the words ‘Malfoy’ and ‘pretty’ out of his mind for the rest of the day. 

The rest of the week went by as usual. A ridiculously lengthy inched essay for Charms took up most of his attention, as did a Quidditch game against Hufflepuff’s pitiful house team and Hermione’s new found obsession with books on feminism and sexuality that she was urging everyone around her to read. 

She eventually gets him to go back to take a sample of the cocked up potion and he gives it to her to obsess over. How she managed to find time to do extra studying outside of the insane amount of homework all the professors were assigning left and right never ceased to amaze him. He wondered when she slept—if she slept at all.

All the while, Draco Malfoy had not been spotted out of the Slytherin dungeons once. He was beginning to think that Malfoy would continue his era of self-confinement until an anti-potion was brewed or the spell wore off. Which was perfectly fine with him. With Malfoy out of sight, he was out of Harry’s mind. 

Mostly.

He still thought about the way Malfoy’s body felt pressed against him or the feeling of his breath on his face as he snarled at him. Harry wondered if Malfoy was aware that his new, er… assets had been pressed up against Harry’s body in much the same fashion Ginny’s were before they broke up. But obviously, she wasn’t squeezing the life out his throat whenever she did. 

It was odd seeing the one empty seat in Transfigurations and even odder to see it in Potions. Snape scowled at him more often, as if he was blaming him for Malfoy’s sudden disappearance. Maybe he should. Maybe Malfoy had taken ill from a side effect from the potion and was hiding away until he was better. Maybe he was so dreadfully embarrassed about being seen as a girl that he had committed himself to stay hidden. He sure seemed embarrassed when Parkinson howled in laughter at the sight of him.  

Though whatever the case may be, no one can deny that it had been a blissfully quiet Malfoy-free week at Hogwarts. But of course, like all good things, this too would come to an end. Malfoy may be sour git most of the time, but he did have friends who probably missed him, not to mention what now must be a fat stack of classwork that needed to be completed. So Harry mentally prepared himself for the day that Draco Malfoy would waltz into his life once again. 

And when that day came, nearly every straight male in the Hogwarts’ Great Hall did too. 

Malfoy always did have a dramatic nature to him and an innate ability to turn the sourest of lemons into lemonade. So he should have pictured this coming from a mile away. Yet even he was taken aback. 

The second he stepped foot into the dining area, all eyes—both wizards and witches alike—were on him. He looked like a model that stepped straight out of the front pages of Witch Weekly. 

Just below the shortest skirt Harry had ever seen, Malfoy’s milky-skinned thighs looked soft and supple, exuding femininity as he prowled over to the Slytherin table. He shows off every curve of his lithe body to all four tables before reaching his. When he passes the Gryffindor table, he gives Harry a sly wink and tosses his hair over his shoulder. Harry wanted to do nothing more than wipe that self-assured smirk off of his face. It’s like he was delighted to show off as much of his creamy skin as possible. 

“Holy Mother of Merlin,” a young, pale-faced Gryffindor several seats down from him whispered in awe to his equally bewitched mate. “Who is she?”

Ron groans. “Your worst nightmare, mate,” he grumbles to himself, brutally stabbing his eggs with his fork. But even he was enraptured by Malfoy’s graceful legs and aristocratic beauty. Nearly everyone was watching Draco Malfoy saunter into the room, lapping up his oozing sex appeal like thirsty strays. It simply wasn’t fair. If the git had to be a girl, why did he have to be such an attractive one? He looked like one of those animated Muggle Princesses for fucks’ sake. 

Hermione flicks Ron in the temple. “Oi, quit staring right in front of my face!”

“Ow!” Ron complains, flushing beet red when Harry raises an eyebrow and Hermione puts her hands on her hips. “Sorry Mione. It’s not my fault though that Malfoy chose to wear the shortest skirt possible. No bloke can’t help but to stare; I mean, it’s like he’s asking for it!”

Hermione gasps, horrified. “Asking for it? I can’t believe you would say something like that!”

Ron’s eyes widened and he looked positively petrified. “No! No, no, no I didn’t mean it like that Mione! I just mean—”

 “That you have the right to ogle a woman’s body, in front of your girlfriend, I might add, just because she is wearing a short skirt?!” Harry groans. Fuck, now he’s got Hermione defending the poncy git.

Ron rubs the back of his reddening neck. “Well, Malfoy’s a guy so—” he chokes and pales like he was going to vomit all over the Gryffindor lunch table. “Oh Mother of Merlin, that makes it worse!”

Hermione humphs and stands up, her brown eyes smoldering. “You, Ronald Weasley, are a sexist pig, and I can’t believe I ever dated you.” She stomps off, thoroughly ignoring Ron’s pleads to come back. He stands up to dash after her, but Harry grabs his arm and drags him back down, knowing that the best thing he could do to repair the damage done was to give her space right now. When she’s left the Great Hall for good, he lets his head fall to the wooden table in defeat.

“I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

Harry awkwardly pats his shoulder. “Yeah… you kind of did. At least it’s over, right? I had a feeling you were one stuttering sentence away from admitting that Malfoy now has the best arse in school.”

Ron lets out a choked sob. “The thing is, he kind of does have the best arse in school.” He looks up and points to the Slytherin’s table. “I mean look!”

Harry follows Ron’s finger and swallows when he sees Malfoy leaning seductively across the table with one leg placed delicately behind the other, his back arched beautifully in front of them and wonderfully displaying his perfect arse. As much as he hated to admit it—Ron was right. About the skirt and about Malfoy’s arse. 

His pleated black skirt stopped mid-thigh, showing off all of his wonderfully smooth skin and long legs. He was surprisingly curvy too—his male figure filling out into the vision of nearly every boy at Hogwarts’ wet dream. His thick, silvery blonde hair fell into a straight sheet down his back, stopping just above the curve of his arse. 

And goodness, his arse. It should be a crime for someone, especially someone whose name was Draco Malfoy, to have such a delectable arse. Harry wondered absentmindedly if Malfoy’s arse always looked like that, before pushing the thought away with a shake of his head. Malfoy shifts ever so slightly on his foot, the action causing his skirt to rise just the barest of inches. A hint of something green flashes briefly and Harry’s throat becomes dry when he wonders what was under said skirt. Good Merlin, what if he was wearing panties too?

No, no. The git was a snake, he had to remember that. Who cares what his arse looked like or what was underneath his poncy skirt?

“Yeah, I see what you mean. But that still doesn’t change the fact that it’s Malfoy,” Harry reminded him, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from him. “Right Ron?” He looks over at him, to see his best friend nearly drooling at Draco Malfoy’s voluptuous arse. He deftly swats him on the shoulder. “Right Ron?” He asks with a bit more force this time and a pointed look. 

Ron whimpers and rubs his hit shoulder. “Ow. It’s not my fault you accidentally made Malfoy into a super hot bint while also giving him the seductive prowess of a Veela.” 

“I want you to really think about what you just said.”

Ron’s face crumples as if he’s just ate something sour and he looks ready to Obliviate himself. Serves him right. Anybody should be ashamed that they dared to string those words together in a sentence.

“You’re tickling a sleeping dragon, Ron,” he continues. “You know what, scratch that, you’re humping a sleeping dragon and you’re going to get burned if you’re not careful.” Ron bites his lips in embarrassment. “Besides, Malfoy isn’t even that attractive.”

Either Malfoy must have superhuman hearing or he was just finely attuned to know exactly when to fuck with him because a swing of long blonde hair later and pewter eyes glittering with mischief are staring straight at the Gryffindor table. 

Catching both Harry and Ron’s eyes in the crowd, he brings a skewed sausage on a fork up to his wet, smirking lips and flicks his tongue around it teasingly, causing an uproar of boisterous laughter from Parkinson and the rest of his goons. Harry wrinkles his nose in disgust as Malfoy puts the rest of it in his mouth; his eyes rolling back in mock pleasure as he pretends to gag on the piece of meat. Harry swore he could even hear him moaning several times.

That sick bastard, Harry thinks while shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He takes deep breaths to calm himself when Malfoy’s cheeks hollow out and he genuinely looks to be fucking his mouth with the sausage. Ron stuffs one last roll into his mouth before scampering away. Malfoy bursts out into peals of laughter, his body leaning against Parkinson’s for support as they cackle gleefully together.

Blaise Zabini slams his palm on the table and gleefully declares in a voice far too reminiscent of a certain former headmaster, “A 100 points to Slytherin!” The other Slytherins laugh and Malfoy blows Harry a pouty-lipped air kiss. Harry seethes silently, the spoon in his fist threatening to bend. 

He just watched Draco Malfoy give fellatio on a sausage and now he was close to coming in his pants. 

What an excellent start to his morning.

Malfoy has his hair in a braid today and Harry wants to do nothing more than set the bloody thing on fire. 

He turns sharply to the left to reach for a quill and whips Harry in the face with his long braid for the eleventh time.

“For Merlin’s sake Malfoy, can’t you get control of that thing?” Harry hisses, looking around to make sure Snape didn’t hear him. 

Malfoy whips around—hitting Harry in the face again — his lips set into a sinister smirk. “Control what? The Murtlap Essence? I’d say it’s doing just fine, no thanks to you of course.” 

Harry feels his face flush in anger. Girl or not, Malfoy was a slimy git all the same. He leans forward, poking a threatening finger into Malfoy’s collarbone. Those silver eyes taunt him to do his worst and he does. “Listen here you pompous, vexatious, gender-bent little prat, I don’t care if you’re a bloody girl, I’ll still hex the skin off of your stupid, short skirt wearing ars—”

He stops short when he notices the dark shadow looming over him. Harry looks up and stares into the black eyes of Professor Snape. “You’ll do no such thing, Potter.” Harry gulps, feeling an involuntary chill run down his spine. “10 points from Gryffindor for your vile comments. And detention. For a week.” 

He wants to protest how unfair it all was, but knowing Snape, he’ll probably take 20 points from his house. So he forces himself to shut his mouth and slumps back into his seat with his head bowed. “Yes sir, Professor Snape,” he grumbles under his breath.

Malfoy’s girlish cackles tickle his ears once Snape’s left to go harass another poor soul. He crosses one smooth leg over the other and flips his hair. “That’s what you get for using big words you don’t know Potter,” he trills in a singsong voice, playing with the curled end of his braid. “I mean seriously. Vexatious—" the word rolls off his tongue and he snorts in amusement, “Who taught you that one? Granger?” 

Harry growls, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child. Malfoy reaches for the jar of pickled tentacles set near Harry when he notices a smattering of dark green on his nails. 

He sits up, suddenly intrigued. “Malfoy is that… nail polish?”

His pale hand yanks away from the jar and he scowls darkly at him. “And so what if it is?” Harry squints and notices for the first time the light coat of mascara on Malfoy’s lashes and the pink stain of blush on his cheeks.

“Are you wearing makeup?” He can’t help but grin. “Geez, you only have a girl’s body Malfoy. You don’t have to act the part as well.” Despite his jibing, he won’t deny that it looks good—that he looks good. Unlike the heavy makeup some of the older girls liked to wear, Malfoy’s was light and subtle, applied with an expert hand and complementing his admittingly pretty features. His already high cheekbones glittered from the combination of dusted gold and sunlight pouring in from the windows. He bets that if he saw him now, Colin Creevey would be salivating at a chance to take a picture of him.

He looked good, but only if he could get rid of that sodding braid. 

“Bugger off Potter,” Malfoy sneers, though with his pouty lips it looked far less menacing than it usually did. Come to think of it, Malfoy kind of always had pretty pouty lips. It must be the hint of lip gloss that made them stand out even more. “You’re not nearly as good at flirting as you think you are. If you think I look good just say it.”

“What? No, I—”

“10 points from Gryffindor for talking in class Potter!” Snape bellows from the other side of the room. 

He hears a groan and Neville leans up from behind him, whispering sharply. “Come on, Harry, if you keep letting Malfoy get to you, you’ll get all of our house points taken away!”

“Oh please, do keep it up,” Malfoy snickers, not caring to look at either of their faces. “I could play this game all day Potter.” He does that deep purring thing with his voice again, the sound going straight to his groin and settling there like a phantom ache.  

“Look who’s flirting now,” Harry grumbles. He hears Neville give him a harsh whisper to ‘Shut up and leave Malfoy alone!’ but he knew if he did that then Malfoy would just think that he’s won. And he can’t have that.

Malfoy smirks. With fluttered lashes, he leans closer to him, his hands cutting and dicing the potion ingredients with perfect ease. He didn’t even need to look at the textbook or his notes for help, almost instinctively knowing what to do. Harry’ll give him that— Malfoy sure did know how to brew a perfect potion.

His voice is another murmured purr and Harry can feel his sweetly-scented breaths on his cheek. “Projection, projection,” he croons in his ear. The closer he gets, the harder it was for Harry to tell whether it was his breath or his body that smelled so invitingly sweet. Whatever it was, it was making it hard for him to concentrate on pretending to look busy. 

“I am not projecting anything.”

“Oh Potter, there’s no use in denying otherwise. See, unlike me, your male body will betray you each and every time. And right now, it’s being rather forward, to say the least.”

Harry squeaks. No, he couldn’t mean—

He looked down onto his lap and sure enough, proof of his attraction was straining against the front of his open robes. He quickly covers it with his robe and buries his blushing face into his notes while Malfoy howls with laughter. Somehow, this doesn’t seem to make Snape deduct points from Slytherin. That biased bastard.

The next few days after that, Malfoy made it his personal mission to intentionally arouse Harry at the worst possible times. Whether it was when he was sitting at lunch with Ron and Malfoy was doing that idiotic sausage licking thing, in the hallway when he would ‘accidentally’ drop his books, causing him to bend over and giving Harry teasing view up his skirt, or simply as he swayed past the Gryffindor table, his hips and hair moving to an unknown beat. 

From the outside it seemed like he did the prat a favor; Malfoy was receiving far more attention than he had before, though Harry remembers quite vividly watching Slytherin Pureblood girls throw themselves at him before the potion accident and especially before he became a baby Death Eater.

Next time, he’d make sure to have Malfoy trip into a balding potion. See how arrogant he’ll be after that.       

Harry thought that cleaning the foul-smelling cauldrons by hand was the last thing he wanted to do on a Wednesday afternoon. It was his punishment, which Professor McGonagall kindly reduced to two days, granted, as long as he promised to maintain good behavior for the rest of the week. He felt like a child, not like someone who went through an entire war. He keeps his complaints to himself, knowing that it would serve him no good in the end. 

He thought that it was the last thing that he wanted to do and that his day couldn’t possibly get any worse. But, like always, Draco Malfoy was there to prove him wrong once again.

Malfoy, who had always had an eerily light footfall to him, is as silent as a cat when he ambushes Harry in the Potions classroom. Harry jumps when he sees him standing right in front of him, his crooked glasses sliding off his nose from the movement.    

The bloody bastard smirks. “Hey, Potter.” His voice does that stupid purring thing again, and it occurs to him that his voice may just naturally sound like that. He hopes not. His voice both evokes his most filthy carnal desires to bend him over a desk and the overwhelming need to punch him in his pointed nose. Neither of which are desirable outcomes if he’s intent on keeping his promise to McGonagall.

Harry fixes his glasses and twists his mouth into a scowl. “Bloody hell, what do you want Malfoy?”

Malfoy tsks in mock disapproval. “I would chastise you on your choice of language, but it would be fairly unnecessary of me to scold a detention serving delinquent such as yourself, yes?” 

Harry grinds his teeth. 

“What do you want?” He really didn’t have time for Malfoy’s dramatics right now. There was a pickup game against Ravenclaw happening in a few hours and he wanted to finish this stupid task before it started. 

The prat gracefully hops atop one of the desks to him, his skirt inching higher and higher up his thighs. Now that he had an up-close view of them, Harry was realizing how smooth and hairless his legs were. It looked good on him, but he personally didn’t mind a bit of hair. In fact, he thinks he’d rather it be there.

“Am I not allowed to speak with the Chosen One anymore? You wound me, Potter.” He snickers at Harry’s unamused face. He turns his full attention on scrubbing, reasoning that like a pesky dog, Malfoy was sure to go away once he sees that he won’t offer him any more attention.

Malfoy drawled on, unaffected by Harry’s vow to silence. “You know what I hate the most? Besides bullheaded Gryffindors of course.” Harry remains silent, refusing to let his resolve break. “I tell you. Doxies. Nasty, ugly little buggers they are. If I could personally exterminate them all, I absolutely would.”

Like muggles and muggleborns and me.  

Harry was itching to say it but wisely decided against it. Malfoy, though not exactly the epitome of a reformed citizen, didn’t seem to hold any of the same prejudices as he once did. Saying that would also break the silent vow between them to not mention the war or anything that happened in sixth year. Nearly everyone was aching to leave the past in the past, especially Malfoy. The childish pettiness was exhausting enough as is. There was no reason to unleash all hell and mention the war.

“I guess I’m recounting this to you, Potter, because I’m one of those people that when I see a problem I fix it.” He lifts his head in the air with a refined gusto. Harry rolls his eyes into the cauldron. “While your hair is one of the few unfortunate problems in the world that I doubt I will ever be able to fix—” Harry clenches his teeth and scrubs harder. “—I can dedicate my talents to helping the poor unfortunate souls that are suffering from Doxies tyrannical rule.”

How? How can one person be so utterly dramatic? 

Malfoy leans over Harry’s table, smirking down at him like a cat that got the cream. Harry wrinkles his nose in an attempt to seem disgusted by Malfoy’s closeness, but he ends up getting a whiff of his enchanting perfume by accident. Ugh, he just had to smell like so enticingly edible. Fuck, it was unsettling how Malfoy knew exactly how to mess with him.

“Snape likes to teach me special potions for fun sometimes,” Malfoy says. Harry wrinkles his nose for real this time. What kind of psychopath willingly takes extra Potions lessons, from Snape of all people, for fun?! “You want to know what he taught me to brew today?”

Harry narrows his eyes at him in answer. 

Malfoy smirks, lifting his skirt and brandishing his wand that had been strapped to his thigh. “Accio, cauldron.” He slowly brings a black potion cauldron across the floor of the classroom, where it was hidden from view. He Wingardium Leviosa’s it onto the table and sets it down with a resounding bang! A faint odor was emitting from the cauldron but it wasn’t anything that he couldn’t handle.

“Doxycide isn’t the most pleasant-smelling potion but I’m sure you’ll learn to get used to it.” He backs up, pinching his nose between his fingers and lifting whatever spell it was that masking the horrid odor of the Doxycide. 

Harry blanches, gagging on the rancid stench coming from the cauldron. His eyes sting from the foul scent and he has to wipe them with his sleeve. Malfoy cackles at his disgust and flees towards the door like the wanker he was. 

“Oh and Potter!” Malfoy calls out. Harry looks behind him, using every bit of strength that wasn’t sucked out from the Doxycide to not hex the prat six ways to Sunday. Malfoy gives him a sly smile. “Snape told me to tell you not to leave until there is not a single hint of Doxycide smell in that cauldron.” He wiggles his fingers. “See ya at the game Potter! I’ll make sure to wear my Potter Stinks badge just for you.”

The worst part out of the entire day was that when he finally finished cleaning the cauldron and hurriedly raced to the Quidditch field, Malfoy and several other Slytherins were all sitting the sidelines, rooting for Ravenclaw and wearing the infamous Potter Stinks badges as promised.

It should be impossible for one person to be so bloody evil. 

Malfoy still wore some of his male clothes, Harry noticed one evening at the library. While he was still donning a short skirt and his hair was pulled back into a high, feminine ponytail, the rest of his outfit was straight from his old wardrobe. A green and silver tie was tied loosely around his neck, falling into the curve of his unbuttoned cleavage. The crisp, white shirt he wore had the Slytherin crest placed right above his left breast, rising and falling as he breathed. Harry just wished for the life of him that Malfoy would just button up his damn top, because he, like nearly every male in his vicinity, was shifting uncomfortably in their seats. If Malfoy wasn’t so invested in his essay, Harry would have sworn he was doing this on purpose. 

Even Greg Goyle, who was sitting next to Malfoy, seemed to be becoming a bit flushed in the face. Harry watches him stare several more times at Malfoy’s swollen chest before finally bidding him goodbye and awkwardly adjusting the front of his robes as he walks away. 

“This is bad. This is really, really bad,” Ron says. Harry looks next to him and sees him wipe his sweaty forehead with the back of his freckled hand. “We need to find a counter-curse.” 

Harry nods, his eyes drifting back over to Malfoy who was blissfully unaware of the chaos he and his sweltering chest has ensued. “Agreed. Maybe Hermione could—”

“No way mate. She’s still up the diff with me about my comments from last week. I’ve been trying to apologize but I don’t think it would be wise for either of us to ask for her help right now. Especially if it pertains to Malfoy and his huge tits.” He slaps his forehead. “Aw geez, I did it again didn’t I? Maybe Mione’s right and I am a sexist pig.” He gives himself another slap on the head as punishment.

Not wanting to admit that Hermione did have a point, Harry plows forward. “Either of us? I don’t recall Hermione being mad at me?” Harry protests. She had no real reason to be upset with him, he wasn’t the one who talked about Malfoy’s body in front of her. Then again, he didn’t stop Ron from doing so either.

“It’s no use, Harry. Do you think she hasn’t seen you ogling Malfoy like the rest of us? Blimey mate, you’re probably the worst out of everyone. Always watching him walk out of a room and staring at him. I mean, it’s really no different than before, but once Hermione’s made up her mind about something then, well, you know.”

“I…”

What could he even say? He did watch him quite consistently. But for good reason, because he was Malfoy and everyone knows that Draco Malfoy was always up to something.

And admittingly it was hard not to, seeing that Malfoy was rather striking as a girl, but he always had been a handsome bloke too. Really, Malfoy was attractive to Harry no matter what gender he was. 

Harry’s quill paused mid-sentence. Malfoy was attractive. He thought that Draco Malfoy, the arrogant, fox-faced, and King of Sneers Slytherin, was attractive. Whether he was in a male or female body. 

Merlin, what did this mean? What Harry gay, or straight, or was he just something in between? 

It was all too confusing and Harry really didn’t want to have an in-depth analysis of his sexuality in the middle of the library with Ron by his side, so he pushes it off for something to think about later. Maybe during his nightly session of wanking to faceless blonde beauties.

“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you really should avoid Malfoy at all costs. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak this crudely about a woman—I mean, er— a person, before.”

“I know,” Ron sighs. “It’s not right and I know that Hermione has every reason to be pissed at me but it’s just so hard. Because it’s Malfoy.”

Harry glances over at the Slytherin. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, a carefully placed bandage laid over his Dark Mark. Despite his exploitation of his large assets, he doesn’t seem to be doing anything wrong. In fact, he seemed far too focused on his work to care about anyone else. Like Neville staring longingly in his direction. 

“God it’s like he’s shoving it in our faces,” Ron grumbles. “Can’t he just cover up?”

Harry raises a brow. Okay fine, maybe Malfoy wasn’t always planning some devious plot to take down Hogwarts from the inside. He couldn’t be doing much just sitting in the Library and studying for his N.E.W.T.s. He glances over at the Slytherin, watching as he takes meticulous notes from the History of Potions book.

 “Maybe… maybe you should cut him some slack, Ron. He’s not doing anything and he can’t help it if, well, er… you know.” He makes an awkward motion to his chest and flushes. He lowered his voice, suddenly worried that Malfoy may have unnaturally sharp ears and could hear every word he was saying. “This is exactly the type of thing Hermione is mad at you for.”

“Cut him some slack?” He closes his textbook and leans over the desk, looking at Harry as if he had gone mad. “He deep-throated a sausage in front of us!”

“And?”

“And,” he drawled, looking annoyed. “He’s purposefully being suggestive.” He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You know, you sound a bit possessive of him Harry. Like you don’t want anyone else looking at him.”

Harry gapes. “What?! Just because I’m advising you to stop making lewd comments about Malfoy’s body around your girlfriend doesn’t make me possessive.” He blows a raspberry. “You sound ridiculous.”

“Says the bloke who makes googly eyes at ferret face every time he prances into the room.”

Harry feels his face flush. “I do not—”

“Weasel.” 

Harry and Ron jump in surprise from being caught mid-conversation. Harry’s eyes flit over to the seat where Malfoy once was. How did he get over here without making a sound?

Malfoy places his hand on his hip and sneers. “You look rather flushed. Is everything alright?” 

He doesn’t actually care, he was simply messing with Ron’s head. Using his ridiculously curvy body to toy with him. Doing the exact thing Harry was just defending him for.

Harry sneaks a quick glance over at Ron, who was sweating bullets and staring at Malfoy’s chest and tiny waist with cloudy, lust-filled eyes. He steps on his foot to snap him out of it. 

“Wha— uh yeah I’m fine!” He fixes the collar of his robes and clears his throat. “Completely normal. But uhh, thanks for asking, yeah?” 

Malfoy giggles in that stupidly attractive high pitched voice, clasping his hands behind his back innocently. It doesn’t escape his notice that the action conveniently pushes his breasts out even more. Harry narrows his eyes. That sneaky ferret knew exactly what he was doing.

“Well, if you ever need me to take you to Madam Pomfrey’s…”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Yeah?” Merlin, was he drooling? Get a grip Ron, it’s Malfoy!

Malfoy gives him a small smirk and shakes his head. His hair was out of its ponytail, falling down his back in an attractively messy curtain. He runs a hand through it, messing it up even more. “Oh never mind, you’re a big boy, you know the way.” When he gives him a sly wink, Ron abruptly stands up, apparently having had enough teasing. 

“I gotta go do… Quidditch stuff. Er, I’ll see you later Harry. And uh, Malfoy.” He hardly looks at either of them when he walks away, his hand discreetly tucked into the pockets of his robes.

Malfoy watches him go, laughing quietly to himself. 

Harry takes a deep breath, reminding himself that he was in a library full of people and he couldn’t afford to cause a scene. “You’re not funny Malfoy,” he hisses.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, a hand on his hip. “Oh please, who needs to be funny when you’re bloody gorgeous? And besides, it’s not my fault your Weasel can’t keep it in his pants for me.” 

“Do you have to tease people like that though? You’re messing with real people’s lives here.”

Malfoy looks crossed between wanting to spit in his face or laugh in it. “Potter, men will still lust over my arse and tits even if I cover myself from head to toe. So why bother trying to? I see this as just making the best of an awful situation.” He gives Harry a pointed look. “I can’t control other people’s thoughts about me, but I can control how I feel about myself. And I have to admit Potter, I feel quite nice in these clothes.” He smirks, gazing appreciatively down at his sculpted physique. “So cut me some slack, will you?”

He doesn’t give Harry a chance to respond; twirling away as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Though he’ll be sore pressed to admit it, Malfoy was right. And he was right as well. Malfoy could wear whatever he pleased and Harry was now certain that the Slytherin had superhuman hearing.

The worst part about possibly being attracted to someone who was a downright prick was that, well, they were a bloody prick. It had been so easy with Ginny— she was all softness and gentle familiarity. Sure there wasn’t much passion in their relationship, but Harry had concluded that he had enough passion and excitement for a lifetime. Why choose fervent ardor when you could just have peace?

Unfortunately, peace was a rarity these days. There was a world to rebuild, bridges that needed to be formed, and a female Draco Malfoy that consumed his mind most of the day. The male version did too, but Harry tried to suppress those thoughts. Somehow, it made the entire attraction thing worse. Fancying a girl was one thing, but fancying a girl who was actually a bloke though at the moment a girl was… well, Harry didn’t know what to call it.

So he doesn’t call it anything. 

Harry sits on the stands, watching as Ron and Dean race each other on their brooms. Seamus sits behind Dean, his arms wrapped around his waist and his head laying on Dean’s shoulder.

Though Eighth years weren’t permitted to play for their house, no one could stop him from playing a quick pick up game. Unfortunately, today’s match would be against Malfoy and the Slytherins. He can only hope that a Bludger knocks Malfoy out for long enough for the anti-potion to be brewed and for everything to return to normal.

When he’s not thinking about Malfoy, he’s thinking about Quidditch. When he’s not thinking about Quidditch, he’s stressing about his N.E.W.T.s. When he’s not stressing out about his N.E.W.T.s, he was back to thinking about Malfoy. 

As of now, he was resolved to think only about Quidditch for the next hour and a half, but Hermione had just got done chastising him and Ron for spending their free time playing pickup games than studying. And worse of all, Malfoy seemed to have discovered the world of Muggle sportswear.

Joggers are the reincarnation of Satan, Harry decides.

For it to be the first week of December, it was an unusually warm one. Everyone was out soaking up the warmth, causing Hermione to hiss and mutter under her breath that no one seemed to be taking their studies seriously. It was only until Ron pointedly asked her for a book recommendation on the sexual repression of women did she perk up considerably under the rays. Harry was grateful too. Since that day in the Great Hall, Hermione only ever spoke to him when she gifted him with a new required text for the week. So far, Harry had obediently read through the pages of Witches in the Workforce: From Maidens to Ministers, Broomsticks and Bosoms, and Five Fly Feminists of the Fifties! 

He thought Hermione had some inkling of his restlessness when she gifted him a thick book titled Sex, Love, and Gender: An Introspective Look Into the Magic of the Wizarding LGBTQ Community.

She hadn’t even given him a second glance as she dumped the book on his desk. It’s been sitting there for the past week and a half, collecting dust. He wanted desperately to ask her if she knew something that he didn’t, or if it was merely just a book that she recommended to him without any hidden meaning. But that would require telling her about why he would be worried about it in the first place.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Malfoy stretch, chattering away with Parkinson as he bends to touch his toes, his toned legs making Harry salivate. Merlin, it was as if it was Malfoy’s life goal to eviscerate him into a pile of horny nothingness. Lost in the curves of Malfoy’s defined arse, he doesn’t even notice the dark shadow looming over him until Ginny’s panted greeting meets his ear.

“What?” Squinting, he looks up and is met with a freckled face framed by thick, fiery locks of hair. 

She rolls her eyes, sitting down next to him on the stands. “I said hello, Harry.” Her brow already sweaty from playing most of the afternoon. Harry smiles at her, resisting the twitch in his hands that whispers for him to reach out and touch her by the waist like he did when they were together. He wasn’t her’s anymore, they were friends and friends don’t grab each other by the waist and place their head on the other’s shoulders.

He gives her a little wave. “Hey Ginny, ready for today?”

She twirls her broom. “What do you think? How about yourself?”

Malfoy does several practice turns a few yards off the ground, the sharp movements capturing Harry’s eye as he cuts the air with his signature elegant style. He gulps.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She wrinkled her brow. “That doesn’t sound good. Should I get Hermione down here to shake some sense into you?” Harry glances over at Hermione, nose buried in a book on the top of the stands. She only came because Ron begged her and Harry reasoned that it wouldn’t hurt to do some studying outside for once.

Taking his eyes off of his best friend, he shakes his head. “Nah, she’ll only assign me another text to read and I’d rather not be guilted into reading a three-hundred paged book again.” 

Unless it was another text similar to the autobiographical tales of a Black witch from the states that left her small, southern hometown to move to Britain and help fight in the first war. Apparently, she was a genius at tracking even the faintest of magical signatures. Before that, she was helping combat racism in the Muggle community of her old hometown, going as far as living as a Muggle for several years to help in the cause. That book was without a doubt his favorite and if he was going to be given another reading assignment, he was hoping she’ll continue picking interesting ones like that one.

 “As annoying as it is, I have to admit that it’s doing wonders for Ron.” He’s still on thin ice with Hermione, but relations with her have been far better since Ron started actively listening and engaging in her thoughts on women’s rights. 

“So I saw.” She hums appreciatively at the circling figure in the sky. “Malfoy looks good, don’t you think?” Harry turns his head sharp to the side at her observation, wondering if he was having a fever dream. There was no way that Ginny was commenting on how bloody good Malfoy looked.

“You’re taking the piss, right? You don’t actually mean that?”

Ginny raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well for one because he is Draco bloody Malfoy! Who cares how attractive he looks; he’s the same blonde demon that endangered everyone we love by letting Death Eaters and Greyback into the school.”

He doesn’t mention Fred, he doesn’t have to. The pain that flickers past her blue eyes when he mentions Death Eaters speaks for itself.

“He was forced,” Ginny points out. 

“He was wrong. I can’t believe you’re actually defending him!”

“Like you did at his trial?”

He grits his teeth, annoyed that on such a gorgeous day, with the Quidditch goals gleaming gold in the sunlight, that they were discussing the war and the weeks that followed after Voldemort fell on one the few places that weren’t invaded by ugly memories. The Quidditch pitch was sacred—neither Malfoy or Ginny had the right to ruin that for him.

“That was different. Everything was different.” The stakes were far higher than simply Harry holding a grudge against the git. 

Ginny twirls her broom in her hands. “If you say so, Harry.” She stands up, lifting his chin with the hilt of her broomstick like it was a wand. “And by the way, when I said Malfoy looks good, I meant his flying looks good. You ought to get your head out the gutter before the game starts Harry, I am not losing to Slytherin.” She leaves like she came to him, red hair glistening in the sun like a fiendfyre and swinging loosely in a ponytail.

Sometimes, Harry really should think before he speaks.

Resolving to fly off some steam to clear his head of all Malfoy-related things before the match, Harry readies himself on his broom, only to be nearly knocked down by the broom of a certain Slytherin landing next to him.

“Oops, sorry Potter. Funny how I didn’t see your big head in the way.”

“Malfoy,” Harry growls. Parkinson follows suit, her amateur flying paling in comparison to Malfoy’s easy grace. He wasn’t wrong. Malfoy looked good flying and looked good in general. His eyes drift down to his chest and Harry suddenly worries whether he was going to be in the proper condition to attempt to fly a broom. Bollocks.

“My eyes are up here Potter,” Malfoy snarks. “Merlin, someone tell the Prophet that Boy Wonder is a complete slag for a nice pair of tits.”

Harry flushes and curls his hands into fists. “Whatever Malfoy.” He can’t even come up with a suitable retort because Malfoy was right— his eyes were on a part of Malfoy’s body that had captured his attention since that damned potions accident. 

Gripping his broom, he turns back over to his side of the Quidditch pitch.

“Hey, Potter!” Parkinson’s shrill voice calls out to him. “Wank to this!”

He makes the unfortunate mistake of turning around just to see her grabbing Malfoy’s hips from behind, forcefully bending him over and pretending to fuck him as Malfoy moans like a cat in heat. She pulls on his hair and he rolls his eyes back like he does every time he places a fucking sausage near his lips during breakfast. His keening vibrates in Harry’s ears.

A Slytherin Chaser wolf-whistles approvingly, cheering them on as Pansy pretends to thrust into Malfoy. 

What the hell was wrong with Slytherins?

Harry watches Malfoy’s exaggerated facial expressions for a second longer than he should because his trousers feel tighter than comfortable and he forces himself to tear his eyes away from the scene and head over to the Quidditch pitch, holding his broom with a deathly grip. 

Draco Malfoy was evil. He already knew this but Merlin, sometimes it was baffling remembering just how evil the git was. He was evil and gorgeous and worst of all he knew he was evil and gorgeous and used it to his advantage. 

It’s not like Harry’s never noticed how good-looking Malfoy was. It was always just a fact of life. The grass is green, he is a Gryffindor, and Malfoy is unfairly fit. The problem was when Malfoy found that out for himself. It was somewhere between when Harry realized his attraction to blondes and Malfoy’s features went from pointy to refined was when Malfoy was, objectively speaking, supremely attractive.

“Can we hurry this up? Some of us have N.E.W.T.s to study for,” snaps Bulstrode, her irritation directed mainly towards her pseudo-shagging Slytherins than the Gryffindor team. Harry never took her as the studying type or even the flying type but if it straightens Malfoy and Parkinson and gets this game starting sooner, then he’ll take it.

Between her and Ginny, they manage to corral the scattered players into their respective positions in the air, patiently waiting for Terry Boot to release the game balls and start the bloodbath. 

It feels like they’ve been up here for years. 

Wind replaces the everyday chattering of Hogwarts students, the smell of old parchment paper that is abundant in the castle is replaced by the crisp scents of winter begging to reclaim its ascendancy. The Snitch is his professor and him, the ever-eager pupil. 

He’s only ever conscious of two things when flying: the gold Snitch zipping cheekily from his grasp and the familiar warmth of Malfoy’s body as he races beside him to catch it.

Every turn, twirl, tumble is followed with Malfoy following suit. His strategy today seems to be trying to trip Harry up as much as possible by being an annoying little pest. Which is, ironically enough, his usual strategy outside of the Quidditch field.

With the Snitch making its twelfth reappearance, Malfoy speeds off for it first, with Harry following close behind him.

Malfoy gets close enough to him to whip his hair in Harry’s face, the impact heightened by the rushing wind already snapping against his skin. That dirty little cheater. He growls, “Bugger off Malfoy!” The Snitch zips to the right, sending both him and Malfoy hurtling towards the golden object. 

“Scared to be beaten by a girl, Scarhead?” Yells Malfoy over the wind.

“Harry!” Ron’s faint voice calls, “Don’t let Malfoy distract you!” Between the whistling air and Malfoy’s snarky remarks, Harry forgot for a moment that he had not only a team but an entire crowd waiting on bated breath. He tends to forget that he isn’t just playing against Malfoy, he was playing for his house. 

Dodging a deadly aimed Bludger, Harry spins off towards the Snitch, face pressed down to the handle of his broom. A familiar sharp pain pricks his arse and he looks back for a fraction of a second, seeing his smirking opponent holding his wand under his shirt sleeve. 

Bloody Slytherins. 

His own wand is strapped onto his thigh, the length of holly begging for him to brandish it and hex Malfoy off his broom. 

Another hex. This one hits his back and sends him hissing as the pain of the Stinging Hex travels up his spine. 

Two more hexes are dished out while their respective houses chant for their Seeker. The cries of ‘Go Harry!’s far outweigh the ‘Come on Malfoy!’s by a comedic amount, though this seems to spur on Malfoy even more. The Snitch in sight and he’s readying himself to reach his hand down and grab it when Malfoy rams into his broom, forcing him to grip onto the handle for dear life or risk sending himself back into Madam Pomfrey’s care. They’re mere feet off the ground now, both beginning to bottom out to catch the Snitch before the other. 

He can’t help it, even though he’s so close to the Snitch that he’s nearly touching it, he brandishes his wand and casts a spell right when his fingers close around the winged ball.

“Aguamenti!”

“Harry no!” Hermione shouts. 

A powerful gush of water streamlines towards Malfoy, knocking him off of his broom when it hits him square in the chest. Staining his pure white shirt. His see-through pure white shirt. Harry’s mouth bobs in mortification when the dark green fabric of a bra shows through his shirt. 

Malfoy was going to kill him. That is if Hermione didn’t do it first.

When Malfoy finally drags himself up off the ground, the cheers from the noblest of Gryffindor students are drowned out by the overwhelming laughter from both houses. Throwing the Snitch down, Harry nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of Malfoy’s dripping arms held tightly across his chest and his normally pale cheeks bursting with color. He looks so startled, so young and vulnerable as he stands trying to cover his soaked chest from the leers and wolf-whistles. Several Gryffindor blokes are openly drooling at him like wild animals while the Slytherins opt for sly smirks and cheeky cackles.

His voice is raw with shame. “Malfoy,” Harry purposefully tucks his wand away and runs over to cover his wet body with his own. “Oh my gosh, Malfoy, I’m so s—”

The punch to his jaw rattles his skull and the laughter stops.

Tears prick his eyes, pouring down his cheeks when he flexes his jaw and pain blossoms everywhere. He only sees a wet, white figure stomping off of the field as everyone is still reeling from the exciting match. 

Ginny’s on him like a hawk, swooping down from the air with practiced ease. “Harry! What did you do?!”

He grits his teeth and instantly regrets it, cradling his sore jaw in his hands. “What did I do? You should be concerned about what he did! He was hexing me for the last five minutes of the game, he could have seriously injured me!”     

“Merlin Harry, but you didn’t have to do that to him!”

“I didn’t know that it’ll—” He stops himself, choking on the familiarity of his words. He can almost hear Malfoy’s purring tone taunting him. Don’t you think you’ve worn out that excuse already Potter? Both times where an accident, he reminds himself. Both of them. 

“Harry?” Ginny’s voice is softer now, though still harboring the same firm tone. 

He takes a shuddering breath, forcing the memory of those damned bloody tiles out of his mind. “I’ll apologize to him.” He sets down his broom and heads off towards the way Malfoy scampered off to. 

Malfoy’s easy enough to track. He can hear him spitting out drying spell after drying spell in between cursing ‘Harry bloody Potter’. When he catches up to him, he notices that he was limping, possibly due to the small fall he took.

“Malfoy!” Stormy eyes drill into him at the sound of his voice. “Malfoy, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

He looks feral. His delicately plated hair is strung every which way. Withdrawn, pale eyes accuse him with their searing glare and the muscles in his face are tense as he snarls at him, hand wandering dangerously close to his pocketed wand. 

“You never mean to do anything Potter,” he growls. “Watch out, Snape isn’t here to clean up your bloody messes anymore.”

He hates him for that. For telling the shameful truth. He hates him, and he tells him so. 

“I hate you and you’re stupid scar face more!” Malfoy counters, lunging at him as he kicks and claws at his clothes. “You literally ruin everything Potter!” 

Though his voice is now light and feminine, the underlying hatred still remains. There was always a cold ruthlessness laced into his tone, reserved only for Harry. It was used specifically to get under his skin; a taunting, teasing thing that made him lose all sense of morality and tact.

So like always, he reacts, pulling at Malfoy’s hair and dragging them both down to the dry grass below. He’s a good deal lighter than before the accident and tumbles down far harder than Harry intended. After years of fighting with him, Harry had become accustomed to understanding Malfoy’s body and movements far better than he ever intended and he must say that this curvier, smaller version of his arch rival’s frame was far easier to fight against. Using this to his advantage, Harry pins him to the ground and lifts his fist in the air, his blood boiling far too much to remember just how bad this situation looks. 

Unfortunately for him, Malfoy remembers. His silver eyes widen at the incoming fist aimed at the pointy tip of his nose and he lets out a high pitched scream for help.

“Harry Potter is hitting a girl! Harry Potter is hitting a girl!”

Bewildered, Harry lowers his fist. “What? No, I—”

“Harry James Potter!” A voice screeches behind him.

Oh no. 

Hermione storms up to him, Ron trailing pathetically behind her like a lost puppy dog as she tears through the grass to them. Her eyes are nearly black with anger and she looks positively murderous. Malfoy’s shrill screaming had attracted a fair amount of onlookers as well and of all people, he sees Ginny shake her head in disgust.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hermione demands. Harry gulps, realizing that he still had Malfoy’s hair in his hand and was still on top of him in an offensive position. He feels Malfoy’s labored breathing as his chest rises and falls beneath him. Pinned down to the ground, he somehow manages to look both scared out of his wits and smug that Harry’s been caught by Hermione.

“Hermione, please— come on, it's Malfoy for Merlin’s sake. Just because he’s a girl doesn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what your excuses are Harry. Malfoy’s body has a lot less muscle than yours and he can’t fight back against you properly.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Whether he identifies as a girl or not is irrelevant at the moment.”

“And just because females typically have a lower muscle mass index does not mean they are the weaker sex!” Ron abruptly adds in, looking nervously to Hermione for approval.

Hermione sputters for several seconds before shaking her head in annoyance. “Thank you, Ronald,” she growls sourly. “Now get off of him Harry!”

Harry winces when he realizes he was still on top of Malfoy and quickly rolls off of him. He notices how Malfoy takes a deep breath of air once he is finally off of his chest. Salazar, maybe it really wasn’t a fair fight. His cheeks are flushed a deep red and his hair is scattered wildly around his head, forming a sleek, silvery halo. Hermione helps Malfoy up off the ground and Harry notices just how much taller Malfoy was than Hermione. Though he was now slightly shorter than before, he still was much taller than the average girl. The stupid git looked like an Amazonian goddess.

“Are you okay Malfoy?”

He nods and actually wipes away several tears from his eyes. Harry rolls his own eyes, wishing Malfoy was a male so he could punch the dramatic prick in the face. “I-I’m okay.” He sniffs as more tears fall down his dirt-covered cheeks. “He pulled my hair a-and yanked me to the ground.” His breath hitches and he covers his face with his delicate hands. “And t-then he punched me in the stomach.”

Harry gasps and steps forward. “I didn’t do that! At least not that last part! He’s lying, Hermione, I swear!”

Ron stood in front of him, blocking him from lunging at Malfoy again. “Listen, mate, just let it go. You can’t win this one.” Harry opens his mouth to protest when he sees a sight he thought would never happen in a million years.

“Oh Malfoy,” Hermione murmurs softly. “Come here,” she opens her arms and draws Malfoy into a comforting hug. A hug. One that Malfoy immediately returns. 

Harry seethes. Yes, he messed up by wetting his shirt, and yes he probably deserved to be punched in front of everyone, but his friends were off-limits. “I hate him, I hate him so fucking much Ron—”

Ron presses a hand against his fluttering chest. “Hey, just let it go. It’s what I had to do and now it’s your turn. It’s over Harry.”

But it was far from over. While Hermione was busy hugging Malfoy and with Ron having his back turned, only Harry saw it. Malfoy’s tear-stained face lifts from being buried in Hermione’s robes, and a sly, evil smirk crawls up on his pink lips. Harry growls indignantly. To make matters worse, a hand that was placed on Hermione’s back was now holding a polished middle finger aimed right at Harry. Malfoy sticks his tongue out before pulling away from Hermione. 

“Thank you so much, Hermione,” Malfoy gushes when he pulls away. Harry blanches. Since when did Malfoy call her Hermione? “It truly is disturbing how awful men treat women. I’m sorry for not realizing it earlier. And I’m sorry for how terrible I’ve treated you before. Now that I’m a girl on the outside, I figured it wouldn’t do me any good to fight with my fellow witches. So what do you say, friends?”

Don’t do it Hermione, remember who he is, remember that this is the same Malfoy that called you a mudblood less than a year ago—

Hermione takes Malfoy’s outstretched hand and gives it a hardy shake. “Friends.”

Harry could have fainted right then and there. 

“Splendid!” Malfoy beams, a pleased, dark look passing over his eyes. He roughly grabs Hermione in the crook of his arm. “Now, you’ll have to show me how to use a tampon because I can’t figure it out for the life of me.” He hears Hermione let out a nervous giggle. They sashay away, Malfoy glancing over his shoulder one last time to give Harry an evil wink and smirk.

Ron covers his mouth with his hand. “God I think I’m going to be sick.” He shakes his head quickly and recomposes himself. “No, no. The female menstrual cycle is natural and there is nothing to be disgusted by.” He nods, before smiling proudly to himself. “Hey Harry, have you ever heard of this thing called feminism? It’s pretty neat, Hermione taught it to me. This may sound crazy but there are some books that you should really read, they’re… Harry? Harry?”

Harry was already walking up the hill back to the castle, the name Draco Malfoy burning like acid on his lips.

Malfoy stumbles into Transfiguration, five minutes late and uncaring when Professor McGonagall scolds him for his tardiness. He takes the only available seat next to Ron and slumps down into it, his face buried in his arms the moment he takes out the appropriate materials for the day's class from his bag.

Objectively speaking, he looks an absolute mess. His skin was sallow and his usually perfectly plaited hair was an unkempt pile of frizz like he hadn’t cared to run a comb through it in days. 

Ron snickers silently at Malfoy’s appearance as McGonagall continues on with the lecture, her eyes watching Malfoy carefully. He leans over to Harry and whispers, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Or forgot how to use a comb, Harry thinks but he keeps his comment to himself. Mainly because he wasn’t one to speak, what with his unruly mess of hair and because he was genuinely worried about Malfoy. He wondered if there were any potential side effects of the potion that was causing him to feel and look so awful. 

Throughout class, Harry’s eyes continually dart over to Malfoy. The blonde was struggling to keep up, lazily flicking his wand when McGonagall instructs so, but otherwise keeping his head buried in his notes or his arms. He lets out small whimpers of pain every so often and clutches his midsection with a tiny groan. 

Finally, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He hated Malfoy, sure, but he didn’t want him to suffer like this. 

“Malfoy, pssst, Malfoy!”

Malfoy looked up and Harry noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He wasn’t even wearing makeup. Something must be seriously wrong and Harry feels his nerves alight with something only describable as fear. “What in the fuck do you want Potter?” His voice is gruff and lacks its usual spunk despite his harsh words. 

“Are you okay? You look awful.” He doesn’t mean it as an insult, just a fact. Malfoy did look awful. Still naturally pretty, but awful all the same.

Malfoy gives a half-hearted sneer. “Thanks. Because that’s what every girl wants to hear when they’re—” he groans again and lays his head flat on his parchment. “Just forget it.”

Harry leans back, perplexed. Sure Malfoy was always pretty unpleasant, but today it seems as if he had a genuine reason to be an arsehole. What that reason was Harry didn’t know.

He hardly pays attention to the Transfigure lesson and instead watches Malfoy from the corner of his eye until class is dismissed. Harry stays back, purposefully matching Malfoy’s slow pace in getting his bookbag and things together. Most of the class is gone when Professor McGonagall clears her throat. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” she looks at him from above her glasses. A curled finger beckons him forward. “Would you mind staying back for several minutes?”

Malfoy quietly groans and slugs his bag over his shoulder. He shoots Harry an annoyed glance and he suddenly remembers that he was about to interfere in a private conversation. He takes the hint and hastily ducks out of the classroom. 

The next day he waits for Malfoy to come to Potions but he doesn’t show. That was nearly unheard of. Harry didn’t know much about Malfoy’s interests outside of his love for Quidditch and his love for all things with chocolate, but he, like most people, knew that Draco Malfoy positively adored Potions. He wouldn’t skip it unless something was seriously wrong.

He was determined to get to the bottom of it, and he wasn’t above using a bit of stalking to find out. When he searches for Malfoy’s name on the map, the tiny red dot was stationary in the Slytherin dungeons. He gulps. Merlin, he did not want to go back into Slytherin, but it was necessary. 

After lunch, he watches as Parkinson and Zabini walk together arm in arm from the Great Hall. Harry raises a brow. They sure seemed… close. He wonders if Malfoy knew about this. He always thought that Parkinson and him were together. 

He shakes his head, reminding himself that he doesn’t care about the romantic afflictions of Slytherins and follows a healthy distance behind them until they’re in a relatively quiet area.

“Oi, Parkinson!” She turns and rolls her eyes when she sees Harry behind her. Zabini raises his brow at him expectantly.

“What is it Scarhead I'm busy,” she sneers.

Harry winces, already envisioning the blowback of what he was about to ask for. “Okay, just hear me out but I need a really big favor from you.” He waits for her reaction but she only gives him a bored blink. Here goes nothing. “I need the Slytherin password.” 

“What? No way Potter!”

“Hell no!”

“I’d rather die—”

“Please! It’s for Malfoy.” The words sound odd coming out of his mouth but he was desperate. Malfoy could be in serious danger because of an accident he caused. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t do anything.

Parkinson lifts her chin up into the air and wrinkles her pug nose. “Since when have you done things for Draco?”

“Since I accidentally changed him into a bloody girl.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustrated that he was wasting precious time with Malfoy’s friends just to see if the git was okay. “Look, he looked awful in class yesterday and he wasn’t in class today. I just wanted to make sure he’s alright. He could be experiencing some type of side effect from the potion.”

“Side effect?” Her eyes grow wide and she laughs, loud and hollow. He winces. “Sure Potter, I'll give you the password.”

“Pansy!” Zabini protests angrily.

“No, no it’s alright. Let’s let the Chosen One handle Draco and his side effect.” She snickers into her palm and Harry just knows that whatever it is wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

“Draco is going to kill you when he finds out,” Zabini murmurs.

“Draco is the equivalent of a fluffy Kneazle when he’s mad. Don’t worry I got this.” Harry snorts to himself. There must be another Draco at Hogwarts because the Draco Malfoy he knew was a firestorm when he was angry. She turns to him, wand raised in warning. “This is a one time thing, Potter. If I see you hocking around the dungeons outside of this, you’ll be as ball-less as Draco is.”

Harry shudders, not wanting to think about Malfoy’s ball-less state and nods obediently. 

She looks around for any nosy students then leans in, curling a manicured hand under his jaw to bring his ear near her red lips. “The password is… Dumbledoof.”

Harry snaps his head away. “Oh come on!”

Parkinson shrugs. “You asked and I provided. Draco sure thought it was funny.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Of course he did. He’s Malfoy. Does Dumbledore know about this?”

“What do you think?” She snorts. “Now quit wasting time and go play Prince Charming, Potter.”

He’s taken aback by the Muggle movie reference. “How do you know—you know what? Never mind. Just, thanks, Parkinson.”

She grunts and turns away with Zabini in tow. 

Harry races back to Gryffindor to grab his invisibility cloak and heads towards Slytherin. Classes be damned; he could always have Ron or Hermione share their notes with him. 

He walks into the Slytherin on careful feet, taking particular care not to draw attention to himself as he enters the dungeons. The temperature drops around him and he shivers underneath the cloak. How students survived in the dungeons submerged in the cold lake water was beyond him. 

With nearly everyone in class now, only a few students were in the Common Room when he entered. He’s hoping that Malfoy’s room wouldn’t be too difficult to find. He knows he has his own private quarters per McGonagall's request, but in the maze of dorms, it would be a bit tricky figuring out which one was his. Harry slinks off to a corner, pressing his head against a dorm door and waiting several minutes before pulling out his map to whisper Malfoy’s name. He almost gives himself away when he laughs aloud. He was leaning on Malfoy’s door. 

One Alohomora later and Harry was finally inside Malfoy’s dorm. He winces when the heavy door slams shut behind him and watches as the lump in the green blanketed bed stirs to life.

Malfoy sits up, his eyes bleary and he blinks several times. “Who’s there?” He demands, his wand already in hand. Merlin, did he sleep with the thing? As amusing as it was to see Malfoy shivering in his green satin pajamas, Harry rolls his eyes.

“Malfoy.” 

He jumps in fright, gripping his wand with shaking hands. Harry pulls off the cloak and reveals himself with his hands up. “Easy, I come in peace,” he says, waving his empty palms in the air. 

Malfoy’s face shifts from shock, to indignation, before finally settling on exasperation. “Potter!” He rubs his temples. “I’m only going to ask you this one time. How in the hell did you manage to worm your way into Slytherin?”

“Parkinson gave me the password.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes before throwing the thick blanket back over his head, his long silver tresses fanned out on the pillowcases. “I hate her.”

“I just came to make sure you’re okay.” 

“Well now you’re here and you know that I’m not dead. So, goodbye.” One hand appears from under the blanket and he waves it dismissively as if he was shooing away a pesky house elf. 

“Malfoy I—”

“I said goodbye Potter! Merlin, for such a goddamn hero you sure are thick in the head.”

Malfoy was usually standoffish at the best of times, but for some reason, his flippant attitude was positively infuriating. Just like when they were in the grass fighting, Harry feels himself snap in anger.

“You know what? I’m done. I’m trying to help you and you’re just pushing me away. I know that I was wrong to fight you and shoot you with water but seriously, how can anyone not want to punch you? You’re such a prat you know that? Hell, not even your own bloody friends want to look after you; honestly, I don’t blame them. How they can stand being around someone as insufferable as you is beyond—”

He stops when he suddenly hears muffled choking sounds coming from under the bedspread.

“Wait Malfoy, are you crying?”

“No,” a croaky voice answers. More sniffles follow and Harry bravely steps forward to pull down the blanket several inches. Underneath, appears two red-rimmed silver eyes and a few fat tears clinging desperately to the tips of his long lashes. The sun catches the light grey of his eyes and Harry’s breath hitches for a split second. 

These weren’t the crocodile tears Malfoy shed in front of Hermione. These were real, caused by some unexplainable pain that Harry was determined to get to the bottom of. 

Okay, and he also couldn’t help but notice how positively adorable Malfoy looked, with his doe-like, shining eyes looking up at him. Despite everything, his eyes remained the same; a familiar color of grey mist. He thinks he understands Parkinson’s Kneazle comment. He never thought he'd see the day when Draco Malfoy was cuter than a Kneazle.

He gently sits down next to him on the bed. “Can you just please tell me what’s wrong? It could be some side effect of the potion.”

“It’s not,” Malfoy states quickly, wiping the tear tracks from his face. “I don't even know why you care so much.”

“How can I not care? Just a few days ago you were perfectly fine,” and unintentionally seducing every straight male in school with your short skirt, “and now you’re…” he gestured vaguely to Malfoy’s pink face. “I don’t know, it’s just odd that you’re suddenly so sick and groaning in pain all the time and…” 

And crying. And wearing pants. And clutching his midsection in agony. And speaking to Professor McGonagall after class.

Oh shit.

“Are you… are you on your period?”

Malfoy’s face crumpled and he buried it into his pillowcase, openly sobbing into the satin sheets.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s normal.” He rubs Malfoy’s back in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. Though it wasn’t particularly pleasant, Harry was thankful that it wasn’t some weird side effect of the potion. This at least was manageable. And non-magical.

“No, it is not!” Malfoy protests. “I’m a guy. Guys don’t have periods.”

Harry shrugs, remembering some of the knowledge Hermione had passed onto him when she lent him a rather intriguing book on transgender wizards and witches. Per Ron’s request of course. “Some guys do. Just like some girls have penises.”

“While that may be true, I shouldn’t have a period. Just because I have a female body—”

“—and female organs. With female ovaries.”

Harry gives him a small, teasing smile which Malfoy returns with a scowl. “Oh, since when did Saint Potter become an expert on the cisgender female anatomy?” He asks, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

“Oi! I’m no expert but I’m also not completely oblivious you know. I did have a girlfriend once.” Malfoy sneers at the mention of Ginny. “And you’re lucky I did because whenever she got her period I went to Madam Pomfrey to get a special potion for her.” He continues rubbing circles on Malfoy’s back and feels some of the tension in his muscles slowly relax.

Purposely softening his voice, he says, “How about this, I’ll go to Madam Pomfrey and get you the potion. It’ll subdue the cramps for a little while but you’ll have to take it again the next day. And if there’s anything else you need, I’ll try my best to get it for you.”

Malfoy looks up at him with those large, light grey eyes and Harry feels a strange fluttering in his chest. “You’ll do that… for me?”

“Of course I will. I mean it’s my fault that this is happening to you anyway. It’s the least I can do. Is there anything else you’ll like me to get?” He should hate it, bouncing around like Malfoy’s house elf and waiting to take orders from his master. Yet for some reason, he finds that he genuinely doesn’t mind taking care of him. 

“Chocolate,” Malfoy answers without needing to think. “Lots and lots of chocolate.”

Harry grins. “Will do.” 

He turns to leave the room when Malfoy’s weak voice suddenly stops him. “Potter, can I ask you something?”

Harry turns, hesitating for a slight moment before nodding.

“When you see me, what do you think? Do you think of me as a boy or,” he swallows, “or as a girl?”

His eyes flicker apprehensively to Harry’s, uncertainty clear in them. 

“You want to know what I really think?” Malfoy nods. Harry takes a deep breath and crosses his arms. “I still think of you as the pointy faced ferret as before. And definitely as the most annoying bloke in Hogwarts.”

He doesn’t miss the way Malfoy’s eyes light up when he refers to him as a bloke, or the small smile on his face before he snaps the blanket back over his head.

White teeth sink happily into the gooey chocolate treat, a low, guttural moan escapes Malfoy’s lips as he eats. 

“Good?” Harry asks as he deposits another plate of chocolate onto the bedspread.

“Mm-hm.” Malfoy moans appreciatively. He takes another bite and his face morphs into pure bliss.

“Well, I’m glad. Just don’t eat too many sweets or you’ll get sick.”

Malfoy nods, though he’s pretty sure he hadn’t heard a word Harry just said. “Yes Mum.” He stuffs another treat into his already full mouth.

Harry sits on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling very awkward. “So um… this is Slytherin?” He pretends like he hasn’t already snuck into Slytherin in second year and acts as if it was his first time here. “‘S pretty cold, yeah?”

Malfoy tosses his hair over his shoulder and rolls his eyes. A drop of chocolate sticks to the corner of his lip and he licks it away. “Oh come off it Potter, you don’t have to play small talk with me. You’re in a room with a male stuck in a female’s body. I know there are far more interesting things that we can talk about than Slytherin’s abysmal room temperature.”

Harry’s face turns red. “I, er…” Malfoy cocks his head to the side and raises a delicate brow at him. “Actually yeah you’re right. How does it, you know, feel?”

“What? The period? The tits? The fact that I can’t walk down the hallway without feeling like I’m being stared at?” Harry winces. Malfoy snatches up a piece of candy on the plate of treats Harry brought up and examines the sticked candy closely. “What is this?”

“It’s a lollipop. A Muggle treat. Hermione told me that it's what she eats when she has her period. She wanted me to give you some.” He doesn’t understand the fascination girls—or blokes— have with sweet things when they’re on their periods but he’s learned not to question it. 

Malfoy shrugs and unwraps it, sucking at the candy on top with his pouty, pink lips. Harry looks away, feeling uncomfortable watching Malfoy suck at the lollipop with such an avid determination. It was almost worse than the case of the fellated sausage.

He pulls the lollipop out of his mouth, the red candy glistening with saliva. “Well, where do I start?” He taps his chin in thought. “I guess I’ll say that the tits are fine, for the most part. Bras are uncomfortable little fuckers, but worth it since they make my tits look so bloody good.” 

Harry nearly chokes on his spit when Malfoy roughly grabs one of his breasts in his hand and smiles down at it fondly. “My figure was always perfect but it’s nice to know that I’ll be just as desirable as a female.”

Harry clears his throat. “Can you like— not do that?”

Malfoy looks at him with hooded eyes. “Oh come on Potter,” his voice is light, with a flirty edge to it. “Don’t tell me a bit of tits bother you.” He puffs out his chest to further taunt him.

That potion was working far too well, Harry thinks bitterly. 

“Breasts don’t bother me. You, however, infuriate me.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Semantics.” Thankfully he stops grabbing at his chest and lets his hand fall onto his lap. “Now, as for the period? Pure hell. I mean Merlin, how are people expected to walk around feeling like something is stabbing them in the gut and not commit murder?!”

Harry gives him a sympathetic look. “I really am sorry Malfoy. I know this must suck for you.”

“The thing is, it sucks for every unlucky bugger who has a period. I’ve only had one and I feel like I’m either going to throw up or pass out.” He leans back into his pile of fluffy green pillows and huffs. “And don’t even get me started on men.”

“I know I said this before but I truly am sorry for fighting you the other day. And for…you know….” He flushes, remembering the embarrassment on Malfoy’s face when he looked down at his soaked shirt.

Malfoy huffs again, letting out a few quiet giggles. “In all honesty, you fighting me was the closest anyone has been to treating me like the real me. The girls are suddenly sweet to me and the boys—” he shudders. “The boys are constantly hiding their boners from me. Or worse, showing them to me. Even Greg…”

Harry scratches the back of his head awkwardly, remembering how Goyle was fixing his trousers as he scurried out of the library. “Yeah, I kinda saw that one myself.” 

Malfoy groans into his hands. “Some people I didn’t expect anything less from, like Blaise. That man would fuck a half-dead werewolf if he could. He was always a bit sleazy, to say the least, so it’s no surprise that he’s been staring at my arse like the sun shines out of it.” Harry snorts. “But Merlin, Longbottom? Weasley? It’s just awful. I even heard some bloke wolf-whistle at me in the corridor the other day. Like, I know I’m bloody hot but I don’t need to be reminded of it all the time!”

“I’ll talk to Neville and Ron,” Harry assures him. It was going to be the most awkward talk he had ever had with them but he’ll do it if it’ll make Malfoy feel more comfortable. 

“Please do. And remind them that in less than a month’s time, I will have a cock again and I will hold this over them for the rest of their miserable lives.” He holds up his small fist and shakes it in the air like a victorious gladiator. “They’ll rue the day they first wanked over me!”

Harry nodded, paling considerably at the thought of his two friends wanking. Over Malfoy and his perfect body nonetheless. “Noted.”

“Ah, and speaking of my cock,” Malfoy starts, laying back into the bed with a serene expression on his face. “It truly was a sight to behold. The perfect specimen: well-groomed, long, and thick. Made for the perfect fu—”

“Christ Malfoy, can you not be crude for just one moment?” Harry has never been more grateful for his school robes before. Malfoy’s description of his cock was far more exciting than he cared to admit. “Can’t we just talk about something else?”

“Like what?”

Harry holds up a finger and summons his bag from across the room. He pulls out several sheets from the classes Malfoy missed today and handed it to him. “Like your schoolwork. I went to your classes and picked up your work for today.”

He’s partially expecting Malfoy to grumble and groan about not wanting to do work in this state, but he actually sits up with excitement; scrambling eagerly for the Potions assignment Snape begrudgingly gave him. His eyes light up when he finally finds it and gives it a brief once over. 

“Dragon Tonic?” A large smile that Harry has never before seen on Malfoy's face—both male and female—appears at the description. “Excellent!”

Harry studies him intently. Though he’s never seen that grin before, he has seen a similar look in his eyes numerous times. Like when he’s flying and his eyes land on the Snitch. Or when he takes that first bite of chocolate. And especially when he knows he’s brewed the perfect potion.

Suddenly, it doesn’t seem too far-fetched that Hermione and Malfoy may genuinely be compatible in a friendship. Besides being the two top scoring students in their year for ages now, Hermione’s face almost always lights up like Malfoy’s when Ron gifts her with a new book to read.

It was so easy to forget how annoyingly studious the prat was underneath all of the thick layers of unpleasantness.

“You know,” Harry says after a minute, “you’re kind of a nerd Malfoy.”

Malfoy gasps, grabbing his wand and launching a quick Stinging Hex on his neck. Despite the pain, Harry laughs, pleased to be taunting Malfoy without the threat of them coming to serious blows. 

“Never call me that again,” he hisses in warning. Harry risks smiling, somehow knowing that this version of Malfoy, all hissing and dramatics, was far from dangerous. He points his wand to the bedroom door. “Now leave Potter, so I can be excited in private.” His sneer is far less sinister than before and is actually a rather endearing look on him. 

Harry holds up his hands in mock defeat, climbing off Malfoy’s bedspread to leave. “Okay, okay, I’ll leave you alone your Highness.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. “Is that a princess joke?” 

He smirks. “Your Highness is gender-neutral… your Majesty.” He gives a bow deeper than a house elf’s and laughs at Malfoy’s unamused face. 

“Sod off Potter.”

Harry chuckles as he reaches the door, knowing that that was just Malfoy’s way of saying thank you. He turns around and smiles at him. “You’re welcome Malfoy.”

It's two days later when Malfoy finally makes his reappearance in the Great Hall Thursday morning. Much like the first day he appeared in the lunchroom, he’s all hips and legs, his silver-blonde hair done into two intricately woven Dutch braids. Harry makes a mental note not to get into hair whipping distance when he goes up to him later today.

He’s gone to see him each day since he first went to Slytherin. The second day Malfoy gratefully accepted the plate of sweets and homework Harry brought and proceeded to talk his ear off about the empirical imbalances of Knotgrass and how magically unstable the plant was as a potion ingredient. Harry tried his best to follow along, nodding at the right moments and wondering why Malfoy had started talking about this in the first place. He just barely managed not to snicker under his breath when his brain constantly reminded him that Draco Malfoy was, in fact, a massive nerd underneath his obnoxious persona.

When he finally stopped talking about the magical qualities of the grass, the Slytherin scrunched his nose up at him, methodically insulted Harry’s hair and glasses, then ordered him out of his room. 

On the third day, Malfoy simply snatches the plate of chocolates and lollipops out of Harry’s hand and shows him a book Parkinson had nicked from the library about the family tree of Knotgrass, which, ironically enough, included Goosegrass. He talks further about how both kinds of grass can be used interchangeably in potions work, but Knotgrass tends to be more reactive when included in healing potions. 

He didn’t understand what the fascination was with informing him about magical grasses until he mentioned it to Ginny while they were studying together in the common room. He told her about the mix up between Goosegrass and Knotgrass the day of the potions accident, Malfoy’s insistent ranting about the grasses in Slytherin, and his odd fixation with the cherry lollipops Hermione gifts to him. When he was finished, she shut her textbook and rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. 

“I don’t think I know anyone as oblivious as you or anyone as prideful as Malfoy.”

He opened his mouth to protest because he was not oblivious when she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“He’s trying to forgive you, Harry,” she had said. “He’s trying but he’s clearly not very good at it. And before you ask, I know this because if he’s taking the time to explain why you made the mistake that you did without berating you for it, he’s obviously not upset at you anymore for turning him into a girl.”

When she said it like that, it actually did make sense. Malfoy never took the time to explain any of Harry’s mistakes in Potions nor did he ever cease to antagonize him over his accidents in class. Until recently, Harry still never heard the end of it from Malfoy when he accidentally turned his shoes blue from a spilled potion in third year. 

“And me? Should I forgive him? For… for everything?” Broken noses, dead friends, marked arms. There seemed to be too much to forgive Draco Malfoy for. 

Ginny set her jaw and addressed him with sympathetic eyes. “That’s up to you Harry. Forgiveness isn’t everything. It’s hard and uncomfortable and sometimes painful. But it’s a clean start and trust me, I think you could use one with him. He’s not the only one who has to apologize, you know?”

Harry gulped. Sectumsempra’s, bloody bathroom tiles, stolen wands. She’s right; he wasn’t entirely blameless himself.

Watching as Malfoy does his usual rounds for breakfast, Harry vows to catch him in between classes, to show him, to tell him that he understands and that he's thankful for his forgiveness. That maybe, they can start on even ground again, to let the dust of their past settle and try to go forward in the future as friends. 

Despite what his dreadfully confusing nightly wank sessions tell him, Malfoy wouldn’t be interested in him as anything more than a friend— if he even agreed to that. It was harder to keep his priorities in line as he watched Malfoy’s finely pressed green skirt sway around his thighs. First talk to him, then try to be his friend. Right. 

It was the perfect plan, but first, he had to get through breakfast. Breakfast, which used to be a relaxing affair, was now more salacious than those magazines he just knows Ron keeps under his bed.

The second Malfoy settles into his seat, he smiles smugly at him from across the room, raising his brows in delight.

Harry rolls his eyes when he sees the sausages on Ron’s plate, smiling fondly to himself like a mad man. Ron and Hermione exchange a look but thankfully decide to not push the matter. They wouldn’t understand anyway. 

Sausages for breakfast meant another round of perverted sausage sucking. Every day that they’ve served it at breakfast and Malfoy has been at the Slytherin table, he would watch as Malfoy repeatedly shoves it in and out his mouth. It was infuriating at first, downright embarrassing afterward, and later grew to an expected pastime. He’s realized that most of the Slytherins at his table have stopped paying Malfoy any kind of attention when he does this and that it was done only to get under Harry’s skin. At this point, Malfoy was embarrassing himself more than anything. Dare he say that it was rather endearing how committed he was to annoying him?

He couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic two days ago when sausages were served and Malfoy and his insolent sucking was nowhere to be found, instead he was suffering by himself in the depths of the Slytherin dungeons.

But now, Malfoy was sitting down at the Slytherin table, his skin sporting a healthy glow and his lips painted a gorgeous dark red color as he smirked from across the room at Harry. He stabs his fork into the sausage, making a show out of twirling it in the air. He can just hear him purring, ‘Look what I’ve got Potter.’

Harry impulsively snatches the half cut orange off of Ron’s plate right when Malfoy’s blood red lips are beginning to wrap around the food.

“Oi! That’s mine!” Ron whines. 

“I’ll give it back, just hold on.” Harry captured Malfoy’s curious gaze. Harry wiggles to the orange in his hand to show him that two can play this game. The open juices flow down his wrist in a sticky trail of tangy flavor. 

It was completely worth it because Malfoy looks like he’s about to choke on his spit when Harry sticks his tongue into the parted middle of the fruit, slurping licking at the center with as much fervor as Malfoy does sucking that damned sausage every morning.

Beside him, Ron and Hermione both gag in repulsion. 

“Merlin’s hairy balls what the hell are you doing Harry?!”

A high pitched squeak. “Harry James Potter, stop doing that at the breakfast table!”

He tunes them out, his gaze trained on Malfoy as the blonde watches with an open mouth and red cheeks nearly the same color of his fancy lipstick. Revenge literally never tasted so sweet. He sticks two fingers into the fruit and sucks them clean as he smirks cheekily. The sausage on Malfoy’s fork falls off into his plate with perfect comedic timing and Harry laughs, wiping the juices from his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to give the orange half back to Ron.

“Fuck, take it! It’s yours now!” He shoves Harry’s hand away like it was a slimy flobberworm.

He shrugs. A free orange. “Thanks.” Ron crinkles his nose at him and scoots his seat away, murmuring about how not even he had such barbarian table manners. Malfoy’s eyes are still on him and he looks like he’s about to explode. He’s gripping his fork like a wand, his white knuckles and red face a humorous contrast. 

Never did Harry think he’d see the day where he’s managed to get Draco Malfoy so flustered. 

“Harry, you’ll tell us if something was going on right?” Hermione asks, her voice laced with concern but her face still in the same disgusted expression as before.

Head in his hands, Harry gazes over at Malfoy’s blushing cheeks, watching as he nervously tucks and retucks a wayward piece of blonde hair back behind his ear, his eyes suddenly fixated with the breakfast food on his plate and not on the Gryffindor table. The sausage, which he discreetly shoved off to the edge of his plate, was being avoided like the plague. 

He watches, transfixed by Malfoy’s unusually skittish behavior. 

Hermione and Ron look at him with bright eyes; watching, waiting for him to acknowledge that something— or someone— has caught his eye.

Malfoy accidentally meets his eyes when he talks to Parkinson across the table. He quickly looks away, his blush deepening. Harry smiles. “Yeah, I will… eventually.”

As much as he loved them and would die for them, his friends could be the most annoying pair of bastards in England. 

Hermione won’t stop sighing next to him, both from her exasperation of Harry’s aloofness and because she absolutely detested not knowing every single little there is to know in the world. Ron keeps chattering away in an attempt to ease the tension but was unknowingly heightening it with his constant babbling. Between her sighing, his talking, and Harry’s ever-shortening fuse, every opportunity that could be used to corner Malfoy for a talk is spent with Harry trying not to snap at his dearest friends.

“—And you know how George is still doing the joke shop right? Well, he’s been testing this product that’ll change a person’s gender for a day. Isn’t that ironic mate?”

Harry blinks. Nods. Tries not to strangle Ron.

“Maybe we can see what he used and try to make our own anti-potion. You know for that, erm, blonde problem.”

A book page is flipped and Hermione sighs louder. 

“Snape’s been taking forever with it; I hope he remembers that Yule’s in two weeks,” Ron snorts, “I doubt anyone wants to see Malfoy in a dress.”

Harry snaps his head to Ron, a messy, confusing knot of annoyance pulling at the center of his chest like a taut string. “I think that’s enough Ron,” he snaps.

His quill snaps as well, theatrically splattering droplets of ink on his nearly done essay and scuffed library floors. Hermione gasps— whether from his shift in demeanor or from her concern for the Hogwarts library’s precious already-ink-stained floors, Harry didn’t know nor care. What he did know was that Malfoy was entering into the library, his face set into an impassioned expression as he strolls through a throng of weary-eyed Eighth Year Ravenclaws.

Ron lifts his hands up passively. “Merlin mate, what’s gotten into you?” 

Besides the fact that he has a strange desire to be friends with Draco Malfoy and is simultaneously battling a one-sided attraction to said person? Nothing much.

“Nothing, I'm just trying to study.” 

Malfoy walks by their table. A young Gryffindor several tables adjacent to them loudly hisses to his friend that ‘there goes that poncy Death Eater, Malfoy again’.

By the time Harry pulls out a new quill and Hermione lets out another sigh, Malfoy’s gone.

After Potions. That’s when he tells himself he’ll do it. Malfoy almost always stays behind to drag further information from Snape about the potion work. He truly was the male version of Hermione, only Snape didn’t seem to mind going into the theoretical aspects of each brew with Malfoy as he did for Hermione.

During Potions would have been an excellent moment to speak with him, but Snape, the sodding git, decided that today was the perfect day to do individual assignments instead. So during lecture, Harry watches Malfoy feverishly do his work, Ron watches Harry not do his work, and Neville watches his cauldron explode.

Just like old times.

Harry ignores Ron’s concerned, ‘Hey mate…’ at the end of class and dashes out the door, waiting on the tips of his toes outside of the classroom for Malfoy to finish dogging Snape with questions. Ron finds Hermione and the two stand off in a secluded corner, their faces etched with concern as they discuss whatever it is the two talk about these days.

Harry doesn’t care. He just needs one minute to talk to Malfoy. 

Unfortunately, Malfoy seems to be full of questions today because ten minutes later and he still has not come out of the room. Too curious and far too stubborn to admit defeat, Harry finds himself pressed against the door of the Potion’s classroom, one ear pressed against the wood. He can only distinguish a few warbled sentences and phrases from the conversation.

“...it’s going to take longer than expected…possibly another month.”

“Another month?!” That one was Malfoy. “...not fair!”

Harry presses against the wood harder to hear. He wishes he had an Extendable Ear on him. 

“What do you think my Father will say when he sees? He’ll be raging!” 

Ah, so they must be talking about Malfoy being stuck as a girl. 

“Probably no more than your disturbing attraction to—”

A group of witches laughs loudly from down the corridor and Harry wants to scream. Or punch something. Not a wall though, that would hurt too much.

“Severus, I—”

“Nosy, Potter?” 

Harry jumps, turning around and meets Pansy Parkinson’s knowing green eyes. He fumbles the Potion’s textbook in his hands that he hadn’t put away in his haste on to the floor. He quickly grabs it off the ground and scrubs his pinking face.

“What are you doing here Parkinson?”

She guffaws. “Funny how I could ask you the same thing Scarhead.” She bites her lip and curses underneath her breath. “Ugh, with the way Draco’s going, I guess I won’t be able to call you that much longer.”

Harry’s heart pounds far harder than what was healthy. “Wait, what—?”

“Forget it Potter,” Parkinson waves him off. “I’m just here to get my Magical Grasses book from him, I need it for Herbology.” She looks him up and down, one hand perched on her hip. “Why you’re here, I have no idea.”

For the sake of his future friendship with Malfoy, Harry wisely decides not to snap at her to mind her business.

“Well, I’m here because—”

A light female voice calls out to him. “Hey Harry!” He turns and sees Ginny strolling down the hallway behind him. He leaves Parkinson, grateful to be out of her clutches and goes to greet her. 

She must have just come back from the Quidditch pitch during her free period because her hair is slightly damp, her skin smells like soap, and she has that glowing pink tint to her freckled face that she always wears after stepping off the field.

“How’s it going—” She squeaks in surprise when Harry envelops her in a bone-crushing hug. 

“Ginny, I’m going to tell him,” Harry says into her hair with the utmost conviction. “You were right.”

When he pulls away, Ginny raises her brows, stunned. “Well… wow, that’s great Harry! I had this whole speech ready to tell you and what not but you figured it out yourself. Congrats.”

He rolls his eyes. “Thanks.” He frowns. “Is it odd that I’m a bit nervous?” He's been bouncing with anticipation all this week and now that he’s actually going to do it, his bloody nerves are getting in the way.

Grey eyes are staring him above Parkinson’s shoulder, piercing in their intensity. 

“For?” She questions.

He shrugs. “You try telling Draco Malfoy that you want to be his friend. I’d bet anyone would get nervous.”

She looks as though she’s swallowed something too thick to push down. “Friends? You want to be bloody friends with Malfoy?” Ginny throws her head back and sighs, small huffs of laughter pushing past her cherry blossom pink lips. “You would think after two attempts you wouldn’t be so painfully oblivious to the truth.”

Dumbfounded, he stares at her, his interest in Malfoy momentarily lost. “I— what?” The truth? What truth?

“Oh, nothing Harry. I think it’s best to let you figure it out for yourself, regardless of what Hermione thinks.” She leans up on her toes and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good luck.”

She’s gone before he can respond. He’s tempted to follow her and ask what it is that he needs to figure out, what in world did Hermione have an opinion about, and why in Merlin’s name would he need good luck for. But he doesn’t, because when he looks up, not a single pair of grey eyes are staring at him and Parkinson is nowhere to be found as well.

Frantic, Harry searches around to find a sheet of long blonde hair and a green skirt, but the students slowly filtering around him are all Fourth Years going to Snape’s. He spins around and finds himself face to face with two highly concerned looking Gryffindors.

“Ron. Hermione.” 

Merlin no. Not now, not when he needs to go find Malfoy.

“What’s the uh… what’s wrong?”

Ron explodes. “What’s wrong is you and your gigantic cr—”

Hermione pinches him. “We’ve just discussed this Ronald!” She hisses threateningly. Harry’s heart lurches when he sees long blonde hair swing into view, then it subsequently falls when a tanned Hufflepuff turns around.

His best friend is still talking. Pleading, actually. “Please Harry what do you want? Galleons? Skeeter stepped on? A vile of unicorn blood? I’ll do anything mate, just please don’t do it!”

The corridor is becoming crowded again as more students file into Snape’s class. A green skirt that was nowhere near as finely pressed as Malfoy’s twirls around pale legs and Harry’s drumming with anticipation again. 

He nods distractedly, giving Ron a half-hearted pat on the shoulder. “Yeah, sure, Unicorns are great. I gotta go but I’ll see you two at dinner, yeah?” He leaves before they can keep him any longer than necessary, ignoring Ron’s cries of ‘we’ve lost him, it’s over’ and Hermione whispered threats.

The next person who tries to keep him from speaking with Malfoy is going to regret it.

The only thing is, no one actually stops him again as he stomps through Hogwarts, trying to find Malfoy. The problem turns out to be finding Malfoy.

He’s in none of his usual spots and when he asks, Parkinson stiffly claims that he didn’t go back to Slytherin either. It’s like he’s vanished. 

He’s just stalking the Quidditch pitch for him when his legs start to cramp up from the constant movement. His body can survive an entire war and a fight against Voldemort, but it draws the line at desperate searches for Draco Malfoy.

Eventually, dreariness wins out and he sits down for a break underneath the always blooming tree at the edge of Ravenclaw. He’s always admired this tree. It’s leaves never die, remaining thick and green despite the wintery world around them. Maybe some unfairly intelligent Ravenclaw planted it years ago just to see what would happen or maybe it was just a beautiful result of magic.

Harry was tempted to go to the Tower and pull out his map to locate Malfoy but he resists the urge. Malfoy clearly didn’t want to be found and he had to respect that. No matter how much it was killing him.

He just wanted to be friends. At least friends. And he wanted Malfoy to know that Harry didn’t hold any ill feelings towards him. Maybe some annoyance and mild disgruntlement at times, but not hatred. If only Malfoy could just be here, so that he could tell that simple sentiment, then maybe he would stop feeling so drawn towards him.

He leans his head up against the tree, exhausted from his searching. This was nice. As much as he loved the heat, the cold December air was refreshing. Christmas is coming up soon and with it, the Yule Ball. 

Breathing in the sharp, crisp air, he absentmindedly wonders who Malfoy’s going to the Yule with. If he decided to at all. He wonders if Malfoy would mind going with him. 

As friends, of course, just friends.

A daydream of Malfoy and him at Yule is rudely interrupted by a thump on his head. He looks down. An acorn.

Another one soon follows. “What the…?”

Either a squirrel was feeling particularly cheeky today or someone was in the tree and was ungraciously hinting at him to find his own tree to daydream under.

A pale leg reveals itself amongst the thick foliage. It couldn’t be. Could it?

“Malfoy?” 

The leg swings in response. A flash of a green skirt comes with it. That was Malfoy alright. He had a birthmark the shape of France on the juncture of his right knee.

“What are you doing in a tree?” 

Malfoy pokes his head out from around the leaves. “What is it to you?” He sneers tiredly. Even from down here, Harry can see the redness of his eyes and the black streaks of mascara smeared on his cheeks. He wants to ask if he was okay, but from the sharp glare Malfoy was giving him, he knows better than to ask.

“Are you looking up my skirt Potter?!”

Panicked, Harry scrambles away from the tree. “No! I swear I wouldn’t do that!” Not unless Malfoy had given him explicit permission to do so of course. 

He just hums, clearly unconvinced. “Whatever. Just leave, I’ll be fine.”

Harry stays put. “No.”

A low growl floats down from the foliage. “Potter, I am not doing this with you today. Leave. Now.”

“I said no,” he defiantly crosses his arms over his chest. Malfoy looks murderous. “You’re my friend Malfoy and friends don’t let other friends cry in trees by themselves.” Maybe if he called Malfoy his friend enough times, it may actually become true.

“I’m not crying. And since when did you consider me a friend?” Malfoy questions.

“Since you asked to be Hermione’s friend. If you’re friends with her and she’s friends with me, that makes you a friend by association.” Malfoy sneers. “Sorry,” he shrugs, “I don’t make the rules.”

“Whatever.”

“So can I come up and ask you what’s wrong?”

There’s a long pause and Harry wonders if he was going to ignore him forever. It didn’t matter anyway, seeing that Harry was going to come up there if Malfoy didn’t answer him in the next five minutes.

“Whatever.”

Harry begins to climb, gripping tightly onto the branches the higher he goes. Merlin, he climbed high. So high that the branches begin to thin and he wisely stops once he gets just below Malfoy. The branches wouldn’t be able to bear his weight as it could for Malfoy’s slim frame. 

“So, spill. What is it that’s got your knickers in a twist?” Harry gives him a wiry smile. Malfoy is unimpressed. 

“Prat.” He takes a deep breath. “And you’ve wasted your time and energy climbing up here because there’s nothing to tell Potter. Go play hero somewhere else. I don’t need your help.”

“You’re probably right, but that still won’t stop me from asking though. I mean it when I say you’re my friend Malfoy. Friends don’t let other friends suffer in silence.”

Friends. Sure the term may be a bit lacking, but it felt pretty damn good to say.

“You’re not going to stop until I tell you, aren’t you?”

“Yup.”

Malfoy wipes his face again and scowls at a tree bark beneath his legs. When Harry looks slightly closer, he sees the faintest bit of blonde hair on his bare thighs. For some reason, he feels relieved by the sight of the fine hair. 

“Look, you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to say.” His eyes bore into his with a type of depth Harry didn’t think he was capable of. “Like, swear on your magic that you won’t tell. And while you’re at it, swear on that stupid scar as well.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Prick. “Fine, I swear on my magic and on my ‘stupid scar’ that I won’t go blabbering about whatever ridiculous secret you’re about to tell me.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes and Harry can practically see him weighing the consequences of telling him. He finally takes a deep breath and huddles in on himself. 

“It’s about a guy,” he murmurs.

Harry’s mouth flies open in rage. “Some bloke didn’t hurt you did he? Tell me his name Malfoy and I swear I’ll—”

Malfoy laughs lightly, the sound pleasant and dainty— two things Harry never thought he would associate with him. “Salazar no, you raging beast. It’s about a guy that I like.”

“Oh.”

Malfoy bites his lip. “Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Is that all you can say Potter?”

“I just— you’re gay?” He doesn’t mean to be so blunt but it was such a shock. Draco Malfoy was gay? Gay as in he liked blokes?

He suddenly feels very, very ignorant. Should he have known? It’s not like he wasn’t sucking a sausage every day at breakfast or anything. 

Malfoy reddens and wraps his arms closer around his curved body. “Yeah. I’m gay.” His eyes stay fixed on the ground. “Only a few people know and now you do too. So like, don’t go around telling people alright?”

Harry shakes his head vigorously. “No, no I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t do that to you Malfoy.” Malfoy side eyes him and purses his lips. “Really, I wouldn’t. If I wanted to embarrass you I’ll just keep beating you to the Snitch every game. That usually does the trick.”

“Don’t make me push you out of this tree.”

Harry laughs, a breathy whooshing sound. Malfoy was gay. For some reason, that knowledge made a tiny part of him alight with hope. He feels honored that he shared that with him; maybe that afternoon in Slytherin had paid off.

“It’s not easy you know,” Malfoy murmurs so softly he almost seemed to be speaking to himself. “Not as bad as it is for Muggles but still not easy. There’s only like, four gay blokes in Hogwarts and two of them everyone already knows are together.”

Harry furrows his brows. “Who?”

He looks at him incredulously. “Really, you don’t know? They’re in your house after all. And every time I see them they’re practically fucking each other in broad daylight.” He grinds his teeth. “Those lucky bastards.”

Insanely curious, Harry shakes his head. “No, who are they?” He racks his memory for any blokes that were together in Gryffindor but he can’t seem to come up with any names. Then again, seeing that he hadn’t realized Malfoy was gay, he doubts he’ll notice if anyone else was. He still feels supremely daft for not picking it up sooner. Straight blokes usually don’t go around sucking sausages and flirting with other guys for fun. Even straight blokes who have been magically turned into girls.

“Thomas and Finnigan?” Malfoy supplies, letting his arms drop down to his sides dramatically when Harry's face remains blank. “Have you really not noticed?”

He shakes his head again. “No, I just thought they were just really good friends,” he admits. Now that he thought about it, they were awfully handsy with each other… 

Malfoy blows a raspberry, his face suddenly hard. “Of course you did,” he drawls sarcastically. There’s something else behind his tone, something that almost reads as bitter.

“So other than them who are the other two blokes you mentioned?”

Malfoy blanched. “The other one’s a fourth year. That’s just gross. And of course the last is me. Joy.”

Harry feels bad for him. If he weren’t so high up he would have placed a comforting hand on his shoulder or thigh. “And your crush?”

Malfoy squirms at the word ‘crush’. “He’s not my crush. He’s just this guy I’ve liked for forever.” Harry resists the urge to point out that that was in fact, exactly what the word crush meant. “But,” he continues, “it’s so obvious that he’s straight.” 

Harry swallows. “What makes you say that?”

“Besides the fact that I saw him snogging that girl today?” His face turns up at the memory and it makes Harry want to do nothing more than to Incendio the bloke on sight. “I only ever saw him date girls and he only seemed even slightly attracted to me now that I’m stuck as one,” Malfoy says bitterly. “I bet he’ll go right back to hating me once I’m a male again.”

Harry’s nose twitches. Maybe a gratifying Crucio instead. “Well, first of all, that bloke sounds like a right prick.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen and he laughs into his hand. More like cackles actually. 

“I'm serious,” Harry protests. “If he can’t see how great you always were then that’s his loss, not yours.” Really, Malfoy wasn’t the easiest person to get along with but once you got to know him, it was hard not to like him. That guy must be either seriously blind or just plain deluded from his own hate. 

“Oh I know you’re serious Potter, that’s the problem.” His smile sours and he sighs in resignation. “But it’s my fault too. I’ve been an arse to him and I don’t really blame anyone for not wanting me, what with this horrid Mark on my arm.” His face crumples again and Harry realizes that maybe this was what Malfoy was so upset over. 

“You’re more than your mistakes,” says Harry, meaning every word. Though he despised the Mark and nearly all of the people who bore it, it was difficult to despise Malfoy. For better or for worse, Harry knew him, and he knew that on some level, Malfoy was forced into getting it. 

“My mistakes are literally branded on my skin for me to see every morning. Kinda hard to ask for forgiveness when I can hardly forgive myself.” His fingers absentmindedly trace over the mark on his arm, the dark green of his nail polish a striking contrast between the black ink and his white skin.

“Give yourself the opportunity for forgiveness.”

Malfoy’s quiet, his eyes glued to a songbird tending to its nest several branches away from him. “It just doesn’t feel right, for me to do anything other than to feel…feel like this. I just don’t deserve it, and I’m trying to become okay with that. I’m trying but,” he waves a hand around his tear-soaked face, his still red eyes low and narrow with annoyance, “obviously sometimes I have trouble remembering.”

Harry sighs. Ginny was right, forgiveness isn’t easy. For yourself, or for others. Malfoy’s nose twitches as though he was trying to ward off incoming tears. 

“I think you’re cunning,” he says suddenly. “And funny. And far smarter than me at most things.” Malfoy raises a brow in genuine shock. Harry pushes forward. “You appreciate small gestures. Sometimes you’re actually pretty nice too.” The blonde rolls his eyes, a faint smile on his lips. “And… and I forgive you.” Malfoy looks startled enough for him to leave the rest of what he thinks about him unsaid. 

You’re gorgeous and I like that you know that you are. 

You're impeccable with your word— you’ve never ceased to amaze me with your wit.

You’re a good person, even when you actively try not to be. 

Malfoy blinks at him, looking surprised, then perplexed as to why Harry felt compelled to offer him any words of encouragement. There’s a moment, where the only sound between them is the whistle of the brisk wind as it cuts through the tree branches.

“I don’t believe you and I don’t believe I deserve to be forgiven,” Malfoy says at last. He gives him a watery smile. “But thank you.” 

Then he coughs pointedly, clearly wanting to shift away from the topic of the war and his Mark. Harry doesn’t need a second hint.

“You’re welcome. Secondly, I think you’re wrong. I’m sure there are far more gay blokes out there than just four.” Malfoy shoots him a bored look as though he can’t believe how utterly guileless he was. “Really! Maybe they’re not gay but…. bisexual?” The word felt reaffirming on his tongue. Bisexual. Something about it feels fitting. “I uh— that’s a thing right?” He hopes that it wasn’t something he just made up in his mind.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Yes, Potter. That’s a thing. But where pray tell, would these bisexual blokes be at? I swear, sometimes the students at Hogwarts are so suffocatingly heterosexual…”

He bites his lip. “I mean, I think there’s a fair amount of people who are bisexual here. Really who is entirely straight or entirely gay? I suppose some people like yourself are but it just doesn’t seem realistic that everyone is, right? Doesn’t that go against nature or something? I guess magic does too if we’re being objective…” He realizes he was ranting and coughs in embarrassment. “Sorry, I guess what I’m saying is, is not to rule someone out just because they seem one way. You never know, the perfect bisexual guy could be right underneath your nose but you’d never think so because he seems straight.”

Malfoy’s lips quirk upwards into an amused smile. “Are you trying to tell me something Potter?”

Harry looks up at him and furrows his brows. “I, uh, I dunno. Why do you say that?”

“Well because you’re quite literally underneath my nose.”

Harry squeaks then blushes beet red. Oh, right. He rubs the back of his neck and gives him an awkward smile. “Ah well, that’s a bit convenient then eh?” He chuckles nervously, internally kicking himself for his timidity. 

Instinctively his stomach drops and he waits for the inevitable moment that Malfoy will admit that it was all a ruse to trap and embarrass him because he was Harry Potter and that's just how he and Malfoy were to each other.

It never comes.

Malfoy smiles at him softly, balancing on his knees so that his face was poised downwards towards Harry’s. Harry’s fingers twitch when he looks up and sees Malfoy’s long hair cascading down beside him in a silvery curtain on each side of his face. He likes his hair better this way; open and soft looking. He can smell the clean scent as the wind flows through the strands, several locks of hair tickling Harry’s cheeks as the winter air pushes the tresses towards him. It also didn’t hurt when the hair hit him in the face like the sodding braid did. 

“Potter,” he says slowly, breathing deeply as he chooses his words carefully. If he didn’t know any better, he’ll say that Malfoy was nervous. “Would you perhaps like to go to the Yule—”

“Yes!”

“—with me,” Malfoy finishes. They both stare at each other with wide eyes before Malfoy begins to laugh brightly at his eagerness and Harry flushes all over again. “I must say that I appreciate your willingness.”

Harry smiles sheepishly up at him. “Well, I appreciate you looking underneath your nose for once.” He runs a jittery hand through his hair. “Er, because like, you’re very tall, usually.”

Malfoy laughs again. Gender didn’t matter, his smile never changed. 

“Move over.”

Harry moves to the side as Malfoy climbs down on graceful feet, stopping only until he is side by side with Harry on the branch he was sitting on. Their legs swing in tandem and Harry’s body flushes from being in such close proximity to him. A gust of wind blows Malfoy’s hair into his face and Harry takes the deepest inhale he can without being obvious. He still smelled tantalizing, though the scent of oak and cold air was now mixed in the smell of his hair and skin. 

There’s a very fitting Muggle song that children would sing about this. He and Malfoy sitting side by side in a tree, only there was no kissing between them, just a newfound trust in one another and maybe, if Malfoy allowed it, something more.

Two silver eyes look at him underneath heavy lashes. Harry’s heart pounds in his ears. 

“Harry?”

Harry’s throat closes from hearing his given name fall from Malfoy’s—no— from Draco’s mouth. Something’s shifted between them, he can feel it. He couldn’t just be Malfoy to him anymore. Truthfully, he stopped being Malfoy to him a long time ago. Maybe around the same time he went from being Potter to Harry. 

“Yeah?” 

Draco worries the corner of his lip for so long, Harry wonders if he’ll ever respond. “You shouldn’t call yourself a prick, because I don’t think you are one.”

His mouth drops open from shock right when Draco places a tiny kiss on the tip of his cold nose. 

He still feels the heat of Draco’s soft lips on his nose long after he’s scurried down the tree and headed back towards the castle.

“So you all knew?”

“Yup.”

“And none of you said anything?”

“Nope.”

“None of you thought to say, ‘Hey Harry, we think you have a massive crush on Draco? Maybe you should do something about it?’”

Ron shudders when Harry calls him Draco. It still weirded him out to hear. “Trust me mate, I wanted to—”

“But,” Ginny interrupts pointedly, “we all came to a consensus not to meddle in your relationship with Malfoy. And we all,” she glares at Ron, “agreed to let you figure things out at your own pace. Without our opinions keeping you back.”

Even Neville, Ginny’s date for tonight, nods in agreement.

Harry thoughtlessly runs his fingers through his hair, musing up the hours worth of work Draco put into trying to tame his unruly locks into something decent enough for Yule. He was going to kill him once he got here. 

If he ever does of course. He’s still probably getting ready at this very moment. 

Harry rolled his eyes when Draco persisted in coming fashionably late (Harry just thinks he was too focused on preening himself to come on time) but at Draco’s insistence, he went ahead to meet Ron and Hermione there. And of course, he had to corner them and Ginny about their little schemes.

“Well, er, thanks guys. I can’t believe I’m saying this but I’m glad none of you tried to sabotage my relationship with Draco.” 

Ron pats him on the back. “That was a one-time occurrence. Prepare yourself for a lot more sabotaging from now on mate.”

They laugh, except for Ginny, whose eyes are transfixed on something behind Harry’s shoulder. “I don’t know about you Ron, but I would hex you to pieces if you try to mess up my relationship with that.” She points over behind him and the man of the night finally in attendance. 

If nothing else, Draco Malfoy knew how to make an entrance. 

Robes. That was the first thing Harry noticed. Draco was wearing robes. Traditional, masculine robes, cut in a similar fashion to a Muggle men’s suit. Only, these robes hugged his curves and made Harry’s mouth water as he approached.

“Have fun!” Ginny trills, pulling a gaping Neville away. Hermione adds a motherly, ‘but not too much fun’ as she also purposefully drags Ron away to the dance floor.

Draco smirks confidently as he strolls through the path of watching witches and wizards, the tails of his robes whipping behind him, eerily similar to a certain Potions Professor. Harry, who had always hated being watched and stared at like a strange creature, watches in awe as Draco soaks up the attention with admirable ease. Where Harry would have wilted from embarrassment, Draco shines. 

Harsh whispers float around the room when Draco stops right in front of Harry and smiles at him. Hogwarts students, who were now well aware of the potion accident, were attempting to put the pieces together at the sight of these two rivals together without hissing threats or lifting their fists at the other. Snape simply scowls deeper, black eyebrows furrowing at the sight of them together. To the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, they just saw Harry Potter and a witch in fine fitting male robes.

But to Harry, all he saw was Draco, his Draco, looking as gorgeous and poised as ever.

“I…you look…” Harry blinks several times. Takes his glasses off and purposely cleans them before hastily depositing them back onto his nose. 

The dark lipstick painted on his lips, subtle eyeliner, and his long blonde hair was the only distinctively female parts of his appearance. His gold trimmed black robes fit smartly against his curves yet still made him look as imposing and regal as he does as a male. 

Suffice to say, Draco looked bloody good.

Draco, of course, skips the formalities. He knew he looked good. “You really didn’t expect me to wear a dress did you Potter?” He holds out the crook of his arm and guides Harry to the crowded floor. The whispers and shocked gasps grow louder. “Can you even imagine me in one of those frilly get-ups, prancing around like a wayward trollop?” He just so happens to stomp past a group fourth year witches decked out in fulsomely frilly dresses. Harry shoots them an apologetic look in response to their screwed glares.

“Piss off the fourth years, why don’t you?” Muttered Harry to himself, though he really didn’t care about their feelings at this moment. Not when Draco was looking like that.

Draco snorts. “Someone needed to tell them. They’ll thank me later. If not, they can still bugger off either way because I don’t care.” He points his chin in the direction of Parvati and Padma’s stunning traditional Indian garbs and nods his head approvingly. “Now those are dresses. Everyone else should be ashamed.” 

As though they had no time to lose, Draco hastily pulls Harry into his arms once he finds the perfect spot, which of course, is right in the middle of the floor.

Draco, unwilling to be led around in the dance like all of the other girls where, immediately steps in the position as the lead, forcing him to stumble along as he tries to replicate the dance steps the follower was supposed to do. He snickers when Harry stumbles over himself for what must be the millionth time.

“Hush. Dancing isn’t my thing.” 

He opens his mouth, the shape of another smart remark forming before closing it abruptly. Harry’s entranced, he's never seen Draco back down from a chance at taunting him. 

“It could be if you let it.” Harry sighs. And Ron chewing with his mouth closed could be his thing too, but it wasn’t going to happen. They step and move together, Harry’s legs uncooperative as he tries to match Draco’s natural grace. Merlin, it felt like fourth year all over again. “You’re resisting too much,” Draco murmurs against his lips. “Trust me.” 

“What are you—”

He draws Harry into a dip before he could protest, his leg placed precariously close to his inner thigh. He makes a show of pressing closer to the crotch inseam of his trousers.

Harry squirms at the pressure, clinging onto Draco’s narrow shoulders and silently worrying that his weight was too much to bear and that he may accidentally drop him in the middle of the dance floor in front of the gaping students that are trying their hardest not to stare at the odd couple.

When he’s drawn up from the dip Harry sniffs at him, an odd grin on his face. “I thought you were going to drop me,” he admits.

“Told you to trust me.” He places their palms together and they do a simple turn about which was easily the only move Harry can say he is decent at.

Though it’s hardly surprising, Draco is excellent at everything, from waltzing to dipping to simply embodying the elegance the dance calls for. His body is lithe and feline-like, moving with a graceful fluidity that Harry couldn’t acquire no matter how much he practiced.

“Never thought I’ll play the follower in a waltz.” 

Draco laughs softly. He spins Harry without warning then yanks him close to his body, leaning backwards slightly and gripping his waist to prepare for his body weight. There’s not a single moment where he falters in the fluid motion.

“Well I don’t play follower, to anyone in fact,” he points out, a familiar air of snootiness to his tone. “Though I will say, both this potion accident and Hermione taught me a very valuable lesson.”

He raises a brow. “And that is?”

“That gender roles are utterly meaningless.” He twirls Harry again, as if to prove his point. 

“Let me guess,” Harry says once he’s stopped being twirled. “Hermione lent you some books on feminism?”

Draco makes a sound of approval. “I can’t believe that there are people who actually used to think of you as dim-witted.” He gives an exaggerated cringe. “Oh wait, that was actually me.”

“Tosser.” He gives Draco a playful swat on the arm, marveled that his insults no longer stung and instead could draw laughter from both of them.

Draco truly was beautiful—all pale skin glittering from the combination of fairy lights and the dusted gold glitter on his cheeks and eyelids. He quite liked his robes too—despite Draco’s persistence in only wearing dark colors, Harry has to admit that dark hues do serve him well. Everything felt perfect, except for one tiny, minute detail.

He frowns, pulling his head off of Draco’s shoulder and staring up at him. “You’re taller than me.” 

Call it petty, but he was enjoying having the height advantage over him for once in his life and he doesn’t see why he can’t enjoy it again tonight of all nights.

“Mmm, I’m glad you finally noticed.” He dips Harry once again, his smirking mouth right in front of his face as he runs one foot up Harry’s shin. Naturally, he shivers at the feeling of Draco drawing his foot seductively and torturously slow up his leg. Something sharp pricks against his calf and with his woefully lacking knowledge about fashion, it takes him a minute to figure out what it was pressed against his leg. He pulls Harry up again, smirking all the while.

“Heels? You’re wearing heels?” 

Sure enough, when he looks down, two elegant black pumps with insanely high heels capture his attention. How Draco’s feet weren’t screaming at him was a mystery.

Harry’s throat dries. Suddenly he was imagining a very male Draco strutting around the castle with his robes and heels. He presses closer into his body, more than grateful than ever that he had someone to help hide his pesky erection from anyone’s prying eyes.

“How? How can you dance so well in them? Hell, how can you walk in those things?”

Draco’s mouth twists into a contemptuous scowl. “I will puncture your balls with my heels if you tell anyone this Potter.” Harry laughs. “I mean it,” he insists.

Harry rolls his eyes playfully. “Sure, sure. So tell me, how did you learn to walk well in heels?”

Draco curls in on himself. “My mother had an abundance of nice heels lying around…” 

Harry begins to laugh. “You didn’t—!”

A manicured hand is placed over his mouth before he could continue speaking, pewter eyes scanning the room nervously as they dance. Everyone else seems too preoccupied with their dancing partner to notice, though several Gryffindors and Slytherins shoot confused looks their way. 

“Merlin, must you let everyone know? And to be fair, I was only like seven!” He groans. “I guess my father should have known by then that I’ll never bring home a nice Pureblood witch.”

Harry chuckles, imagining Lucius catching a seven-year old Draco playing in his mother’s fancy high heels. He removes his hand and brings Draco closer to his body as they dance. “You could bring home a very nice Half-Blood wizard instead?”

Draco kisses his cheek sweetly. “I’m certainly not opposed to that.” His warm lips press small kisses down his cheek until he reaches his mouth.

“Hands above the waist Malfoy!” Hisses Ron as he and Hermione dance several feet next to them. Hermione grumbles about minding his own and they harmlessly bicker about the importance of privacy. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Harry assures him.

“I don’t know if I want to.” 

They’ve only been here for thirty minutes, Harry reminds himself. Only thirty minutes. But Merlin, he doesn’t know if he can make it five more minutes before he jumps Draco in front of everyone.

Draco, in his high heels and black robes. Draco, who had been purring in his ear since Harry had snuck him into Gryffindor earlier in the day. Draco, who at the very moment, was supremely unaware of how difficult it was becoming for Harry to concentrate on not stepping on his feet while making sure his own robes properly cover him.

He waits an hour, two hours, three brutally long hours before he’s nearly vibrating with pent up sexual frustration and he has to drag Draco from the ball right when things start to shimmer down and couples begin to say their goodbyes. 

Harry’s lips are on Draco’s the minute they return to Gryffindor tower, his hands sneaking up Draco’s waist and clinging to the tips of his hair. Per Harry’s request, Draco left it down for the ball, letting it fall just the way he liked it. If nothing else, he will miss the hair once Draco returns back to his former gender. Maybe he could be persuaded to grow it out. With enough blowjobs and shagging, he’s sure he could manage. 

An adorably small squeak escapes Draco’s mouth when Harry unintentionally pushes him up against a wall in his haste. Draco’s nimble fingers find themselves tangled in Harry’s hair and he tugs at the strands, sending small sparks of pleasure down Harry’s spine. Harry’s mouth opens in a moan and Draco uses the opportunity to slip his tongue in, brushing teasingly along the velvety inner flesh of his bottom lip. 

Harry grinds against Draco’s thigh, the rough fabric of his fitted robes against his own doing little to relieve the pressure of his growing arousal. 

“H… Harry,” Draco sighs, stretching into Harry’s heated kisses. “Harry.”

Harry presses his body closer to Draco’s. Fuck, if he kept moaning his name in his ear like that, this may be over before it even started. 

His hands are everywhere, on Draco’s hips, in his hair, on the left side of his breast. Revealing the soft, creamy skin underneath the gorgeous robes was his goal. His hands tug gently at the white bowtie around his neck.

A hand absentmindedly grips along his inner thigh and Draco’s eyes widen.

“Harry.” 

His voice is less breathy this time and his writhing body has stilled behind him. It takes Harry a few seconds for his body to catch up to his brain and he’s nearly about to continue pressing open mouthed kisses further and further down Draco’s body until he notices. Draco’s hand tugs a little harder than before at the hairs on the nape of his neck, drawing his attention to the present. 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his mouth and stumbles back when he finally comes to his senses. Harry gapes at him, suddenly worried that he somehow went too far or did something to offend him. 

“You’re shaking,” Harry points to Draco’s trembling fingers, to which he shoves behind his back with a scowl. His already flushed face reddens considerably in the dim light. 

“I am not,” he growls stubbornly. He lifts his nose in the air with that same snobbish curl of his mouth that Harry was slowly beginning to grow fonder of the more time he spent with him. “I swear Potter if you ever accuse me of doing something so undignified like that again I’ll hex your bollocks off.” Harry opens his mouth to snap back a wry retort but Draco gives him a look that tells him to either drop it or suffer the consequences.

“Did I do something to—”

Draco shakes his head at a rapid pace. “No! No, I swear it’s not you it’s… ugh, it’s me.” He cringes. “Sorry to hit you with such an abysmal cliché, but it’s true. It’s just that I haven’t…fuck, well I haven’t actually done this before. Not real stuff at least.” Sighing wearily, he rubs the bridge of his nose. “Look, you know I’m not actually a girl—”

“I’ve gathered that much. Trust me, you’ve talked enough about your cock for me to know that you’re not a bloody girl.” 

Draco pinches him. Hard. Harry lets out a hissed laugh. It was the truth anyway because if there was one thing Draco loved talking about more than how great his tits looked, it was how perfect his cock was.

“Shut up. And you should be honored, one day you’ll get to see it if you play your cards right.” Harry rolls his eyes, though secretly ecstatic for that day. “But I don’t want the first time we, erm, do it, for you to touch me like a girl. Because I’m not one and I don’t want to be touched like one. Merlin’s saggy tits, that probably doesn't make any sense.”

Harry stops himself at the last moment from laughing again. Draco, who could go on half hour long soliloquies about how bloody perfect his male genitals were and could make even the most dirty-minded person blush with his thoughts, somehow can’t talk about sex with Harry without using virginal euphemisms like ‘doing it’. It was alarmingly cute.

“You hardly have to explain yourself to me. If you don’t want to, we don’t have to. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Is there?” Draco asks, scowling as he bites his red bottom lip. His eyes fall to the ground, looking far too disappointed with himself for Harry’s liking.

Harry grips Draco by the shoulders. He shakes him a little, as if trying to shake some sense into that ridiculously gorgeous and brilliantly intelligent head of his. That gorgeous and brilliant head that could befriend Hermione Granger, understand every word that comes out of her mouth and challenge her as an intellectual equal. Surely, Harry wanting to respect his boundaries shouldn’t be too difficult of a concept for him to understand.

“I won’t pressure you to do anything you’re not comfortable with Draco, I swear on my magic and my scar.”

His voice is small when he asks, “The stupid one?”

“The stupid one,” Harry assures him. “If you don’t want to have sex tonight then we won’t have sex. If you don’t want to have sex ever then we won’t ever have sex.”

Draco gives a nervous chuckle that is more breath than laugh. He wraps his hands around his wrists. “Well I didn’t say all that,” he looks up at Harry from underneath his painted lashes. “But thank you, Harry. For understanding.”

Harry closes the distance between them, drawing Draco in for a long, languid kiss. He can feel him relaxing with each passing second and the tensed air around them lifts.

“Mmm, you wouldn’t have been able to find the clit anyways,” Draco murmurs against his lips when they pull away.

“Oh fuck you!” Harry shoves him on the bed and Draco drags him down by his sleeve with him. He rolls his eyes as Draco curls up and laughs into his bedspread, his face buried under a pile of long hair and unmade red bed sheets. 

“Don’t be mad at me,” he protests, “I am simply saving you from the embarrassment. If anything I should be thanked.”

“Oh and I’m supposing you’ve found it?” He fixes the laughing Slytherin with a pointed look. Harry wasn’t daft, he knew where the clitoris was. It was like, somewhere inside, right? 

Draco’s breath hitches in amusement next to his ear and a knowing smirk inches up his face as he stares up at the ceiling. 

“Of course I have. While I will not be joining you on the bisexual train anytime soon, it was rather enjoyable.” He laughs to himself. “It was the first thing I did after I pounced on you in that corridor.” Twirling a lock of hair in his fingers, he sighs contently. “Bullying you truly does do wonders for my pleasure.”

His own breathing stutters at the thought of Draco, all alone in the Slytherin dormitory, touching himself with Harry’s name falling from his panting lips. His voice doesn't sound like his own when he says, “You, Draco Malfoy, are a complete arsehole.” 

Draco chides him with two soft tuts of his tongue. Several pale fingers absentmindedly trail the fine red trimmings of Harry’s robes. 

“What did I say about playing your cards right Potter? I can be very compromising with the right amount of flattery.”

There it was again, that damned purring sound. 

His own hands settle into the curves of Draco’s waist. For a moment, Harry was actually glad that he didn’t want to have sex tonight. He didn’t get many opportunities to just hold him and enjoy his presence like he could do currently. Sex would come, but for now, Harry was content with just being with Draco.

“Hey, Harry?” Draco whispers against his warm neck.

“Yes?”

“Just because penetrative sex is out of the question for now doesn’t mean everything is out.”

He raises an eyebrow at Draco’s suggestive tone. “What do you have in mind?”

Draco shrugs, feigning nonchalance. He tugs at Harry’s bow tie, his long fingers fiddling gently with the crisp loop in the fabric. “Just a personal experiment of mine. I want to see if I can make you look as hot and bothered on my knees as I do at breakfast.”

There are many things Harry never knew he would enjoy in his life. Like the feeling of mastering a new spell or the freeing exhilaration of flying on a broom. Those were things that he had to first experience to know that he loved.

But for some reason, Harry always knew that he would enjoy waking up the feeling of a hot mouth around his cock. Though he’d never known that he would love waking up to the feeling of Draco Malfoy’s hot mouth around his cock.

Draco always liked to wake up earlier than him and today was no exception. Harry cracked one eye open, a moan already forming in the back of his throat before he could fully awaken. He looks down and sees a large figure hovering above his crotch underneath the blanket. Draco must be in a stellar mood this morning for him to be waking Harry up with such a pleasant morning surprise.

“Draco?”

Draco hums around his cock, the vibrations making him squirm pleasurably. 

He lifted up the covers, ready to tease Draco for continuing his ‘experimenting’ nearly three weeks after the Yule Ball. What he wasn’t prepared for was a very male Draco Malfoy beaming up at him. 

Draco smiles at him, a hint of shyness in his face. “Good morning,” his breath his minty, though with the same traces of sweetness to it as always.

Harry blinks. He grabs his glasses from the side table to ensure that he wasn’t dreaming and that Draco, the real Draco, his Draco, was lying on top of him. 

“You’re— you’re back.” 

Draco chews at his bottom lip. Harry was right. His lips still were pouty and full underneath the lip gloss. “The potion wore off.”

Harry nods dumbly, still taking it all in. “I see that.” He gingerly touches Draco’s cheek. It was really him, all angular features and pale definition. His fingers trace the path from his temple down to the cut of his cheekbones, to the curve of Cupid’s bow before finally settling on the handsome point of his chin. “Am I the first person who’s seen you like this?” He hopes so. He wants to be the first person to see Draco Malfoy’s handsome face after over a month of living without it.

He nods and Harry’s heart makes a weird fluttering motion. It’s been doing that a lot lately.

“Merlin you’re beautiful.” Draco scowls and thumps him on the nose. “Sorry, handsome,” he corrects with a teasing smile. 

Satisfied with his response, Draco places his head onto Harry’s stomach, the point of his chin digging into his navel. He sighs, the feeling of cool air on his stomach causing goosebumps to rise on Harry’s midsection. His pale forefinger traces irregular patterns on his skin. 

“You know, I was actually scared you were going to be disappointed and that you wouldn’t want me once the spell wore off.” Harry opens his mouth to protest and Draco places a finger over his lips. “Hush, I’m not finished. I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore and I was scared that you would realize that you actually don’t like guys.”

“I would always want you Draco.”

“I know. And I said I wasn’t finished you git.” He pinches Harry’s side and he squeaks out an apology. “It was stupid of me to think that. I like you and for some reason, you seem to like me too. Plus it doesn’t hurt that you’re like… aggressively bisexual.”

“Shut up and kiss me you prat.” Harry cups Draco’s face to bring him closer to his lips, only to have Draco’s hand cover his mouth before he can kiss him. 

“Hold on,” Draco grabs Harry’s wand from the side table and casts a quick cleaning charm onto Harry’s mouth. “Now we can kiss.”

“Really?” Harry asks, rolling his eyes. Draco always refused to kiss him in the morning unless Harry cleaned his mouth beforehand. It was dreadfully annoying but it was one of his quirks that he had come to like. 

Maybe even love. 

“Really.” He presses a kiss on his lips, the soft familiarity of his mouth not lost on Harry in the slightest. “Now come on, I heard they’re serving sausages for breakfast.”