Green Eyes and Silver Tongues: Dueling for a Kiss

Moonlight and Misdirection

Chapter Four: Moonlight and Misdirection

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he expected when Draco whispered “Meet me by the edge of the forest tonight” on his way out of Charms.

But it wasn’t this.

A blanket laid out on the grass beneath a flowering tree. A floating lantern glowing above them, charmed to hover like a soft little moon. A bottle of elderflower fizz cooling in a conjured ice bucket. And Draco Malfoy, sitting with his legs folded beneath him, looking irritatingly perfect in a silver-threaded cloak.

“I didn’t know you knew how to picnic,” Harry said, enchanted and suspicious.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m not a heathen, Potter. I was raised with taste.”

Harry grinned and sat beside him. “So this is what Slytherin seduction looks like.”

Draco raised a brow. “You haven’t even had dessert yet.”

They talked. Laughed. Harry found himself more relaxed than he’d been in ages. The air between them buzzed with soft tension, the kind that made fingertips brush a little longer than necessary and eyes linger a little too long.

At some point, Draco summoned a soft magical melody—faint, like the forest itself was humming for them. And when Harry finally leaned in, Draco met him halfway.

It was slow, unhurried, almost reverent. A kiss that didn’t demand but promised—more kisses, more nights like this, more everything.

Draco’s hands slid up into Harry’s hair, pulling just enough to draw a soft groan from him.

And Harry, emboldened, shifted closer, pressing him down against the blanket.

Draco laughed against his mouth. “Careful, Potter. You’re dangerously close to being good at this.”

Harry grinned, breath warm against his cheek. “I’m very good at this.”

“I’m starting to believe you.”

Their kisses deepened. Fingertips curled into robes. The forest hummed around them.

Nothing happened that night—not everything, anyway. But something important did.

Trust. Desire. Possibility.

---

The next few days passed like a dream.

Harry felt lighter. He found himself watching the clock during class, thinking about Draco’s smirks, his eye rolls, the way he muttered, “You smell like broom polish and trouble.”

They met whenever they could—under staircases, behind curtains in empty classrooms, once even in the disused Astronomy storeroom. The secrecy made it more exciting. Every touch was a thrill. Every kiss, a small rebellion.

Even Ron and Hermione noticed the change.

“You’re smiling,” Hermione accused one morning.

“I’m allowed to smile,” Harry said, too quickly.

“You’re glowing,” Ron added. “It’s suspicious.”

Harry just grinned and bit into a croissant.

But then—without warning—everything shifted.

---

It started with a missed meeting.

Harry waited nearly an hour by the old greenhouse, pacing back and forth like a madman. No note. No owl. Nothing.

The next day, Draco barely looked at him.

At first Harry thought it was nerves. Or maybe someone had found out. But then came the silence. The distance. The cold, clipped replies in the corridor.

And finally, the dagger: Draco changed seats in Potions.

Harry cornered him outside the Owlery the next afternoon. “What’s going on?”

Draco didn’t look at him. “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m busy.”

“Draco—”

“Don’t,” Draco said sharply. “Just—drop it, Potter.”

The way he said Potter—sharp, like old times—felt like a slap.

Harry stared at him. “Did I do something wrong?”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “Not everything’s about you.”

He walked away.

Harry didn’t follow.