Prologue: A Different Beginning

There was no prophecy.

No whispered fate.

No boy destined to destroy a monster—because the monster never rose.

Tom Riddle, brilliant and dangerous, was caught early in his Hogwarts years. A young Albus Dumbledore, already suspicious, had intervened before Riddle’s fascination with Horcruxes turned him into Lord Voldemort. He was quietly sentenced to life in a deep, hidden wing of Azkaban—his name erased from headlines, his crimes buried under Ministry red tape.

Without a Dark Lord to rise, there was no war. No orphaned boy marked by destiny. Just Harry Potter—still famous, still a child of tragedy, but this time because of a tragic accident that took his parents when he was a baby.

He grew up with the Dursleys, still neglected and unwanted, until Hagrid burst through the door on his eleventh birthday and changed everything.

And now, at seventeen, Harry is no longer the “Chosen One.” He’s just a Gryffindor with a knack for trouble, a strong right arm for Quidditch, and a tendency to argue with Draco Malfoy more than is probably healthy.

Character Introduction

Harry Potter:

Still famous, though no one can quite agree on why anymore. Brave to a fault, terrible at Potions, and too noble for his own good. Known for his messy hair, cursed glasses, and the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking too hard. Prefect. Quidditch Captain. Secretly a little lost.

Draco Malfoy:

Sharp tongue, sharper cheekbones. Slytherin’s golden boy with a complicated past, a posh drawl, and a surprisingly poetic soul—if you know where to look. Still rivals with Harry Potter, though neither of them seems to be trying very hard to end the rivalry.

Ron Weasley:

Fiercely loyal, always hungry, and accidentally funny. Prefect. Keeper. Harry’s best mate and perpetual buffer between Harry and Draco’s frequent verbal sparring matches.

Hermione Granger:

Smartest witch of her age. Bookish, brilliant, and absolutely exhausted by the Harry-Draco drama. She knows what’s going on between them. She’s just waiting for them to figure it out.

Chapter One: Snark and Spark

The Great Hall at breakfast was a symphony of scraping cutlery, fluttering owls, and murmured spells—but Harry Potter heard none of it. His eyes were fixed across the hall, locked onto a very specific platinum-blond head bent over a cup of tea.

Draco Malfoy.

Still perfectly dressed, still speaking in a voice like silk over daggers, and still managing to get under Harry’s skin with the ease of someone who had memorized every one of his buttons.

But things had changed.

There was no Voldemort. No prophecy. No war looming like a thundercloud over their heads. Tom Riddle had been caught decades ago, long before he ever became the Dark Lord. The Wizarding World had never erupted into war. Dumbledore was alive and tired but not battle-scarred. Hogwarts was safe, if not a bit overdramatic.

Harry still lived with the weight of his name—The Boy Who Lived, after a tragic house fire orphaned him as a baby. People whispered about him, but no one expected him to defeat a dark wizard anymore. His biggest challenge these days? Surviving N.E.W.T.s... and not strangling Draco Malfoy.

Harry bit into his toast as Draco laughed at something Pansy said. It wasn’t a loud laugh. Just a small smirk curling the corner of his mouth, like he knew something no one else did. Like he was in on a secret Harry desperately wanted to know.

Hermione glanced up from her Arithmancy notes. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Ron said through a mouthful of eggs. “You’ve got that look like you’re trying to set him on fire with your eyes.”

“Maybe I am.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Honestly, mate, either hex him or kiss him already. This tension is exhausting.”

Harry choked on his pumpkin juice.

Across the hall, Draco looked up. Their eyes met.

Draco smirked.

Harry scowled.

---

Later that afternoon, Dueling Club resumed in the Great Hall, with desks cleared and protective wards cast. Professor Flitwick stood on a stack of cushions, cheerful as ever.

“Remember, students: controlled magic, respectful conduct, and no aiming for the groin. Yes, Mr. Weasley, that includes you.”

Harry stood on one side of the platform, wand ready. He hadn’t planned on joining today, but when Draco stepped onto the opposite side, casually tossing his robe over his shoulder, something in Harry had said *challenge accepted*.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Potter. Fancy seeing you here.”

Harry smirked. “Figured someone had to teach you what a real duel looks like.”

“Charming,” Draco said, stepping into position. “Try not to cry when I disarm you.”

Their wands moved almost simultaneously.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Protego!”

A flicker of light, a clash of spells. The crowd whooped and hollered as the two boys traded jinxes, charms, and insults with equal flair.

“Rictusempra!”

Draco dodged, hair falling slightly over one eye. “Oh please, Potter. Tickling spells? Are we twelve?”

“You’re the one who still throws tantrums in the hallway.”

“That armor *deserved* it.”

“You hexed a suit of armor.”

“It insulted my hair!”

“Didn’t know you talked to metal, Malfoy.”

Draco sent a stinging hex that barely missed Harry’s shoulder. “Better than talking to your reflection all day.”

Harry laughed, even as he blocked. “You wish I looked at *you* like I look at my reflection.”

There was a beat—a flicker in Draco’s eyes.

And then he smiled.

It was infuriatingly soft.

Their duel ended in a draw, according to Flitwick, but Harry walked away feeling like he’d just lost something and gained something all at once.

---

That night, the Gryffindor common room buzzed with the usual post-dinner chatter. Hermione was rewriting her entire Transfiguration essay because McGonagall had sighed too loudly while reading the first draft.

Ron was half-asleep on the couch, a Chocolate Frog hanging from one hand.

Harry sat near the fire, textbook open on his lap, but he wasn’t reading.

He was thinking about Draco’s eyes.

Grey. Cold, usually. But earlier today, for a second, they’d warmed. Just a bit.

Just enough to make Harry wonder what it would be like to see them soften again.

“Hey,” Ron mumbled. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, too quickly. “Just tired.”

Ron cracked one eye open. “Still thinking about the duel?”

Harry hesitated. “Something like that.”

Ron grinned. “You like him.”

“I do not.”

“You *do.*”

Harry sighed, sinking lower into the armchair. “Maybe. A little.”

Ron snorted. “A *little*?”

“I don’t know what to do about it.”

Hermione, still scribbling furiously, didn’t even look up. “Tell him. Before he tells you.”

Harry blinked. “You think he—”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione said, finally looking up. “Harry, he flirted with you *during a duel.* He only does that with people he likes. Or people he’s plotting to kill. Either way, you’ve got his attention.”

“And you haven’t died yet,” Ron added helpfully.

Harry groaned.

He was doomed.

And possibly, incredibly, excited about it.

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Chapter Two: Shelves and Shenanigans

The next day, Harry told himself he wasn’t looking for Draco in the corridors. He was definitely not lingering near the Transfiguration classroom or taking the long way to Charms just in case a certain blond Slytherin happened to be walking by.

That would be ridiculous.

But fate, ever uncooperative, didn’t wait for convenient timings. It chose the moment Harry ducked into an unused corridor—ostensibly to dodge a crowd of chattering third-years—for his next Draco encounter.

He rounded the corner and nearly slammed into him.

“Oh,” Harry said, utterly brilliant.

Draco blinked, then smiled. “Potter. Still reeling from our duel, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Harry muttered, taking a step back. “Just—didn’t expect you here.”

“I could say the same,” Draco said, voice curling like smoke. “Are you stalking me, Potter?”

Harry flushed. “What? No. Obviously not.”

Draco leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking irritatingly graceful. “It’s all right. I’m quite stalkable.”

“You are not.”

“Please, I’m devastatingly attractive, well-dressed, and mysterious. I'm basically the full package.”

“You’re insufferable,” Harry mumbled.

Draco grinned. “And yet here you are. Again.”

Harry tried to form a coherent retort, but his mouth refused to cooperate. Draco had that look again—like he knew a secret Harry didn’t, like he was circling just close enough to touch but not quite.

“You keep staring,” Draco said softly.

“I do not.”

“You do. I like it.”

Harry’s stomach swooped dangerously. “That’s not— I wasn’t—shut up, Malfoy.”

Draco stepped closer, just a fraction. “You’re cute when you blush.”

“Stop flirting with me.”

“Make me.”

And that was it.

Something in Harry snapped, heat rising to his cheeks and behind his eyes, a strange, helpless frustration that felt far too much like wanting. He shoved Draco’s shoulder—not hard, but not gently either.

Draco stumbled back with a bark of laughter. “Temper, temper.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable.”

Before Harry could retort, a cool, silken voice cut through the corridor like a whip.

“Is there a reason I’m witnessing a duel of hormones in my hallway?”

Both boys froze.

Snape stood at the end of the corridor, robes billowing ominously, expression unreadable except for the clear disgust etched across his mouth.

“Professor,” Harry said quickly, stepping back from Draco like he’d been burned.

Draco, of course, didn’t flinch. “We were just—”

“Bickering. Loudly. In public,” Snape snapped. “And Potter, you appear to be redder than a Howler. Whatever this is, I don’t care. But you will not disrupt the peace of this school with your adolescent dramas.”

He stepped closer, sneering at both of them.

“As a suitable punishment for this… theatrical display, you will report to the library after dinner. Madam Pince has requested assistance re-shelving and reorganizing the entire back archive. You will work together. Quietly. Efficiently. Or I will find something worse.”

And with a dramatic swirl of his cloak, he vanished down the corridor, leaving behind only silence and mutual dread.

---

“I hate you,” Harry muttered later that evening, as they stepped into the dusty back section of the library, where crooked ladders leaned against tall shelves and ancient tomes floated ominously overhead.

“You wound me,” Draco said cheerfully. “We get to spend time together, reorganize centuries of questionable literature, and bask in each other’s company. It’s practically a date.”

Harry glared at him, grabbing a stack of books. “It’s punishment.”

Draco smirked. “Same thing, really.”

They worked in a charged, strained silence, the kind that buzzed under the skin. Occasionally, their hands brushed reaching for the same book. Draco hummed tunelessly. Harry tried not to look at his mouth.

Somewhere between Jinxes of the 17th Century and Ye Olde Hexing Manual, they started speaking again—begrudgingly, then more freely, with the kind of snide familiarity that always threatened to tip into something else.

“I don’t even know why you bother flirting with me,” Harry said at one point, balancing a stack of spellbooks on one hip. “I never flirt back.”

Draco glanced down at him from the ladder, pale hair falling into his eyes. “You’re flirting right now.”

Harry blinked. “I am not.”

“You are. You just don’t know how to do it properly.”

Harry crossed his arms. “And you do?”

“I’m excellent at it. People have swooned.”

“I don’t swoon.”

“You stammer. It’s close enough.”

Harry turned away, heart pounding, cheeks predictably warm. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Draco laughed softly behind him. “Maybe. But it’s not all air in there, Potter. Some of it’s just hope.”

That shut Harry up.

They worked in silence again for a while—an almost comfortable one. The library was dim and quiet, the rustle of pages and occasional whoosh of passing books the only sounds.

At some point, they both reached for the same floating tome. Their fingers touched.

Harry didn’t pull away.

Neither did Draco.

They froze.

Then, slowly, Draco turned his hand over, palm up, inviting.

Harry looked at it like it was a puzzle he didn’t know how to solve.

“You’re not going to mock me if I take it?” he asked, voice low.

“I’ll probably mock you either way,” Draco said. “But I’ll mean it less if you do.”

Harry hesitated… and then let his fingers slide into Draco’s.

It was terrifying how right it felt.

Their eyes met—no smirk this time, no sharpness. Just quiet, breathless tension.

And then Draco leaned in.

The kiss was not dramatic. It wasn’t heated or desperate or clumsy. It was soft—hesitant, almost questioning, like both of them were waiting for the other to laugh or pull away.

Neither did.

When they broke apart, it was slow and reluctant, like neither of them had quite decided if they were done.

Harry blinked. “Oh.”

Draco licked his lips. “Yeah.”

They stared at each other, still close, still touching.

And then—

“Are you two finished contaminating the archives?” came the dry, horrified voice of Madam Pince from the end of the aisle.

Harry jumped so hard he knocked over a stack of books. Draco swore under his breath.

Madam Pince looked like she’d just walked in on someone murdering a first edition.

“I—um—we were—” Harry stammered, turning bright red.

“I knew this would happen,” she muttered, storming over. “Two boys, alone in the restricted section. It's always kissing or explosions. Sometimes both.”

“We weren’t—” Draco started, then gave up.

“Out. Both of you. Go snog behind a tapestry like normal students. Leave the books alone.”

They fled.

---

Outside, in the cool corridor, they burst into startled, breathless laughter.

“That was—” Harry said.

“Mortifying,” Draco supplied.

Harry smiled. “Kind of worth it, though.”

Draco grinned, leaning just a little closer. “So. Same time tomorrow?”

Harry blinked. “For kissing or punishment?”

Draco’s eyes gleamed. “Why not both?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t move away. “You’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?”

“I already was. You’re just finally enjoying it.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just grabbed Draco’s collar and kissed him again.

This time, neither of them waited.

---

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