Green Eyes and Silver Tongues: Dueling for a Kiss

Shelves and Shenanigans

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?”