Chapter Text
The sun shone high at its zenith on the first day of the Four-Sect Heroes Conference. Every year, the four great sects of the land of Hogwarts would gather at this conference to feast and compete, compete and feast for seven days and seven nights. During these competitions, many young heroes of the Roaring Lion, Crouching Badger, Soaring Eagle, and Striking Serpent Sects would vie for a chance at glory in friendly combat.
This year in particular was a special year for seventeen-year-old Harry of the Roaring Lion Sect, as it was his first time that the Roaring Lion Master Minerva McGonagall had deemed him fit to compete in the Four-Sect Heroes Conference. Ever since Sect Leader McGonagall had taken him on as a disciple when he was eleven—rescuing him from his horrible aunt and uncle along the way—Harry had longed for this chance to prove himself. As the cheering in the stands grew louder, Harry tightened the discipline bands around his wrist and stepped out onto the sparring grounds to face his opponent.
“Presenting: Harry Potter, courtesy name Lightning, of the Roaring Lion Sect!” bellowed the voice of the announcer.
Harry held his arms up and accepted the cheers and flowers thrown from his admirers in the stands. His face was young and fresh, winsome in its youth and inexperience—
“Hold on, how is any of this supposed to be telling me my fortune?” demanded Harry as he pulled his hand back out of his Divination partner’s grip. Blast the Ministry for suddenly deciding they all had to take remedial Divination in eighth year. Something, something, prophecies are now important, blah, blah…
Across the tiny velvet-covered table, Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes at him. “It says right here that in the art of physiognomy, the different planes of your face have meaning regarding your future—”
“So in the future, I’m supposed to spar someone in front of the whole school?”
Malfoy pulled him in closer by the tie—Harry very much did not blush at that, thank you very much—and tilted his head back with his hands again. “Shut up and let me read your face.”
—His face was young and fresh, winsome in its youth and inexperience. His eyes were as green as the leaves of a forest, and he was tall and sturdy as young men trained in the Roaring Lion Sect’s powerful fighting styles were wont to be.
“Lightning, as the most promising young disciple Master McGonagall has taken in decades, will be facing off against the legendary ice prince of the Striking Serpent Sect… Draco Malfoy, the Young Dragon Master!”
“Of course you’d call yourself legendary,” grumbled Harry, only for Malfoy to jab him in the cheek.
The screaming in the stands grew even louder, as the Young Dragon Master strode out from the opposite side of the pitch, a stunning vision in white from head to toe. Everything about him was pure, snowy white—from his icy-pale skin, never apparently touched by sun or hard labour, to his silver-blond hair, to the long flowing robes that swirled around him like clouds, or flower petals…
He was the most beautiful man that Harry of the Roaring Lion Sect had ever seen, and Harry could not bring himself to fight such a legend—
“Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy,” Harry shot back, as Professor Trelawney called for them to switch their roles. “I’d fight your pointy face any day of the week.” Just because the Malfoys had helped (a little bit) with the war effort (okay, actually a lot, considering how Mrs Malfoy had lied for him in the Forest) (And considering how Malfoy’s wand had helped him master the Elder Wand) (And he’d failed to identify Harry at the Manor…) didn’t mean Harry wasn’t above a little bit of verbal sparring, just like old times. Malfoy had explicitly told him to go back to old times, because the new times of their strange, uneasy detente were… well, too strange for him to fathom.
And saying that, he cupped Malfoy’s cheeks—very nice, aristocratic ones—and leaned in, attempting to examine the ridges of his features…