nami-writes

[nami-writes]

ok i'm reblogging this just to say this kind of actually happened for real. look up nasubi

tw: isolation, dehumanization, captivity, panic attack mention, self harm (not in vivid detail)

isolation punishment in whump.

say whumpee tried to escape, and almost succeeded. Or hurt whumper, or killed someone working for whumper. something whumper would consider serious.

whumpee who gets trapped in basically a functional apartment- self restocking food and a working bathroom but no tv, or books, or board games, or anything made to entertain or keep them busy. there are no windows, and the lights turn on and off by themselves, and the door is heavy, dark, and grey- not to mention, locked. the only reason why their prison resembles a home is so that they would take care of themselves and wouldn’t be allowed to see the people who are giving them food or taking their dishes.

whumpee who starts hurting themselves just for something to do.

they get kept in there for sometime above a month, and when whumper finally comes in to check on them, they are so, so desperate for any kind of human touch.

whumpee who gets down on their knees in front of whumper, begging and pleading for forgiveness while sobbing violently. whumpee who’s just begging for whumper to not leave them alone. they’ll be good, they’ll be exactly whatever whumper wants them to be, just please don’t leave them. maybe whumper sees how desperate whumpee is to not be left alone, and decides based on that to leave them in there for a little while longer.

Or a whumper who likes to portray themselves as kind, holding whumpee in their lap while they cry and talking about how much they missed whumpee and how they hate doing things like this, but if whumpee would just be good, they wouldn’t have to.

whumper who found their breaking point, and every time they’re disobeying from then on, whumper just asks them if they want to go go back in their room, and whumper is instantly going completely silent. whumper smiles and ruffles their hair, saying something demeaning like ‘good pet’.

whumpee who never really gets over it. after recovery, they can’t be left alone at all so that they don’t have debilitating panic attacks. caretaker at a loss, because they love whumpee, but they have other obligations in their life and whumpee can’t come with them to all of them.

maybe caretaker doesn’t notice at first and whumpee doesn’t say anything, so whumpee stays home for a couple days just pulling at their hair or scratching at their skin to stay calm. whumpee who’s confused and so lost, because they don’t know why they’re being punished.

[nami-writes]

being a whump enjoyer is like

*enjoying some sort of horror media and something fucked up happens*

mind: omg that's horrible!

stomach: *tingling*

[nami-writes]

when a living weapon whumpee only takes orders from ONE person. They’ve been conditioned to ignore everyone else’s orders. This means that after rescue, the team can barely get whumpee to drink or allow them bandage their injuries. One of the teammates manages to imitate whumpee’s handler by deepening their voice.

They stay out of whumpee’s line of sight, standing behind their hospital bed. “Drink this,” they snap, hating how they have to command this broad-shouldered ghost of a person. Without their armor, without their mask, whumpee looks like a wraith. There’s nothing behind their eyes. They play with the hospital blanket with twitching hands that have strangled and maimed.

When whumpee hears the order they stiffen to attention and take the cup offered with those still-shaking hands. But the cup slips through their fingers and lands in a puddle on the tiles.

They immediately tense up, shoulder blades flung so far back they touch. Their breathing quickens, waiting.

But nothing happens.

They give whumpee a new glass of cold water. This time, they lift the cup to whumpee’s lips and hold it steady, with one hand behind their head for support.

[nami-writes]

Augusnippets Day Seventeen

Chosen Prompt: Forgiveness

CW: Discussion of violence; knives; carving; scars; broken bones; wounds; blood.

In the black of the night, his heart rate spikes. He hears it on the monitors, the only sound aside from his breathing to permeate the sickbay around him. Physically speaking, he’s safe here. He’s been examined and tended to, broken bones set in a quick shock of agony, flayed skin sewn whole. His stitches hold him together like a prayer, and his concussion has finally faded. The world seems clearer and steadier around him. The monsters who put their hands on his body, who took instruments to his flesh, are gone. In the wind. They grabbed Youngest Teammate in Whumpee’s place, threw Whumpee in a heap onto the dirt ground, bound and feverish and bleeding out on the doorstep of their bunker.

The last thing they did to him was a message for the Captain. Whumper’s pocket knife had glinted in the moonlight, and into his chest they had carved one simple word, their hand over his mouth to keep him quiet as they mutilated him.

Traitor.

Whumpee shakes his head to dislodge the memory. The word is covered by bandages now. He peers down at himself and is thankful for the crisp, clean white of them. The truth of the matter can be sanitised here. His teammates know what he did to them, and yet they have visited with terse smiles and awkward silences, paying their respects without feeling it anymore. They’ll probably ask him to leave when he’s healed. Even the medic cannot meet his eye.

He broke. His eyes well at the thought, guilt and disgust swirling beneath his broken ribs and quickening his thready pulse. It all sounds so sterile and clean, the way his heart races at the thought of what they’re doing to Youngest Teammate right now. They’re just a kid. A fierce and capable fighter, but in need of the team’s protection. He jeopardised all of that, their safety, maybe their life. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly then, and when the tears fall he’s suddenly struck by the sense of a shift in the air. He opens his eyes, and finds a silhouette in the doorway — familiar, important.

The outline of the only member of their team who hasn’t yet come to visit him.

“Captain,” Whumpee breathes, the air punching out of his lungs. The captain steps into his bay, the word like an invitation.

“Lieutenant,” he says, voice flat. Beneath fluorescent lighting, the captain’s hair is damp with sweat and there’s blood drying into his clothing. Whumpee knows this look. He’s fresh from battle, moments out of the fray. And there’s a muted air about him, shoulders slumped, body still. Hope flares bright in Whumpee’s chest, but it rots in his mouth the next instant. A slight tilt of the captain’s head, the way the trademark spark in his eyes is extinguished, icy blue turned to haunted grey. He’s known the captain for long enough. He doesn’t even need to say it.

Youngest Teammate is dead.

“Oh gods,” Whumpee breathes. It’s like his concussion all over again, dizziness hurtling back to him, a terrible sickness gripping his stomach. He knows the answers and yet nothing makes sense. The captain slides the door shut behind him, boots squeaking on the linoleum as he approaches, wet from the night or from their teammate’s blood. Whumpee cannot bring himself to peer downwards to find out. His eyes sting, his chest aches. A sob lurches through him, as violent as the blows that broke all his ribs. The pain sears breathlessly through his midsection. He grits his teeth and cries out through them.

“Shh,” says the captain, by his side immediately, a hand reaching out for his shoulder. The warmth of his captain seeps in through his t-shirt, and Whumpee realises no one has touched him with kindness since before he was rescued. The medic is clinical, any touch to his skin sterile and depersonalised, performed on strict necessity. The last person to put their hands on his body and mean it was Whumper.

Whumpee trembles badly now, can only imagine how the captain must hate him for this; must want to rip open his stitches and re-break his bones — both of his legs and his aching left wrist. He’d deserve it. The captain must want to tear off his bandages, dig his nails into the single word that defines Whumpee now that it’s over, the truth stark upon his violated flesh.

Traitor.

“I’m sorry,” Whumpee tells him. “I’m so sorry. Oh gods. Fuck. I-I’m so s-s-sorry, Captain. I—“

“I know you told them everything,” says the captain. The words are like ice water, thrown over him in such a sudden shock that he almost forgets how to breathe. But the touch on his shoulder stays gentle, a squeeze that feels almost like comfort. “I’m here to tell you I…that I’m sorry.”

Whumpee stills. The room falls silent once more, racing heart echoing back to him through the monitors, and aside from that — nohting. He watches the Captain draw a shuddering breath.

“I’m your captain,” he says, and suddenly Whumpee thinks he looks younger, like the words themselves are a mask he can see through. Captain or not, the man standing before him isn’t even thirty yet, dark circles pressed into pale skin under his eyes, frown lines taking permanence already. “I should have protected you.”

“I shouldn’t have talked,” says Whumpee. “I sh-should have let them k-kill me.”

“They wouldn’t have,” says the Captain. “They would have tortured you for as long as it took.”

“I should have let them,” Whumpee breathes. “I…I’m so sorry. I’m—“

“I forgive you,” says The Captain. All the air in the room disappears. “If that’s what it takes to get you to stop blaming yourself, then I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault, lieutenant. I know what they did to you in that place.”

Despite himself, Whumpee bristles at that, face turning suddenly hot. He doesn’t know. Not all of it. Memories starburst through his mind in sickening flashes — the worst of it all, the things he has decided to bury inside himself and carry to the depths of his grave. He cannot hold the captain’s gaze, but the captain understands him well enough by now, sees him in ways no one else does.

“I know enough of it, then,” he says, “to know it was horrific. And you didn’t kill Youngest Teammate. You…you didn’t kill them.”

“Neither did you,” Whumpee whispers, and this time the silence envelopes them both. The Captain doesn’t nod, hardly even responds. Whumpee might assume the man hadn’t heard him at all if not for the tears pulling suddenly loose, tracking through the sweat, dirt and blood on his face. The captain does not look at him. Whumpee stares silently down at the bedsheets, thin and largely inept. He hasn’t asked the medic for more, doesn’t feel he has the right to complain about something as trivial as his body temperature. They stay there together, the captain’s hand on his shoulder, Whumpee’s heart rate easing back towards baseline as the news loses the sharp edge of its shock, sinks instead into violent normality; miserable and unfair and unfixable.

But he is forgiven, and despite everything, despite the searing memory of the moment he gave up their location — blood in his mouth, his captor’s fingers pressing deep into a wound in his abdomen, gloved and wet and wriggling — that means something. It eases some of the weight on his chest. He thinks about his healing bones and the stitches coaxing him slowly into one piece.

He thinks, as they breathe together, about the day he can again be useful to his captain — the day he can take revenge.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!

[nami-writes]

i work in a restaurant with a walk-in fridge and freezer (separate)

sometimes i go in the fridge with the lights inside off and it's fucking terrifying hearing the door seal behind you and all you have for light is the square that comes thru the window. can't see a damn thing around you, everything is obscured by the darkness of the void, and it's cold. first time i did it i noticed the inside handle was glow-in-the-dark. thought "oh, thats pretty cool" and then thought about it some more and was like "oh god what if the outside lights turn off and all i have to navigate with is that knob"

the freezer is a different beast. colder, obviously, frosty. tiny, closet-sized. shuts and seals harder. no window. and the first time i went in there and let the door fall shut behind me, i panicked a tiny bit about how tight the seal sounded, tried to open the door to convince myself it was fine, and the door didnt budge. i was like oh my fuckjng god am i stuck in here do i have to call one of my coworkers to let me out holy shit what if i die in here. then i shoved the door again and it opened

hmm. i do wonder now how the gravity of that kind of situation would affect me if i were to really experience it

I think we as a community underestimate how truly terrifying it is to be stuck/restrained, and the panic response that comes with it. I got my hand lodged in a tight place, and while it was very simple to get it unstuck, it wasn't as easy as a simple slip. It was scary just to have my hand stuck of my own actions, while knowing how to get it unstuck.

So imagine the terror that ensues when it's your entire body, restrained by someone who wants to do you harm. Plus, the panic that comes as as result causes you to pull or fight against whatever it is that has you, which is painful. Trying to tug and force your way out of a situation will only cause you to hurt and become even more panicked when it doesn't work. Just. We need to describe that terror more I think.

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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pot of gold.

It’s time.

Harry climbs into their boat first, then Draco, with Ron and Hermione following close behind. Harry and Draco take a seat in the center and Ron and Hermione make their way to the back. With both couples holding hands and the rest of the eighth-year graduates settling in too, the boats depart from the docks of the Black Lake.

Students and staff line the castle walls and fill the windows. The boats are slow-moving but their faces are already difficult to see in the dark, and soon they’re too small to see at all.

One wand lights up yellow. Then there’s green, and blue, and red, and the face of Hogwarts lights up like a Christmas tree. Friends, siblings, and teachers of every house are there to watch the eighth-years leave Hogwarts for the last time.

The boats around them follow suit. Most are a uniform color, four blue wands or three yellows. Harry’s illuminates him with even more red than he’s already wearing. Behind him Ron and Hermione add to the royal crimson. But beside him, Draco glows green.

Then blue. Red. Yellow.

“I never did like the House system much,” Draco says.

His wand cycles through all four colors. Red, yellow, green, blue. A rainbow. Harry is surrounded by color, yet the mix beside him is more beautiful than anything he could see in anyone else.

His soft gray eyes reflect his wand’s light and it’s hypnotizing. It’s like he sees each House, each quality and trait, and chooses them all.

But Harry, when he leans in, he doesn’t choose any House at all.

He chooses Draco.

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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content warning: implied sex

rolling in the grass.

“You two had better not shag right next to me while I'm trying to sleep,” Ron whispers into the sleeping dorm room. “Have your celebratory sex elsewhere.”

Harry and Draco giggle. “If you insist,” Harry snickers and takes Draco's hand, pulling him out of bed and through the door.

—

The floor of the Astronomy Tower isn't the most comfortable or the most private, but it's isolated and the silencing spell alleviates some of Draco's anxieties about being heard.

Besides, the view is nice. Both views, actually.

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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meeting the parents.

The Gryffindors are just as thrilled when they fly down to meet them. They huddle around Draco and cheer, pat him on the back, tease him for the scene he and Harry caused, and he’s finally accepted. He’s always had the skills but now he has the spirit too. Among the Gryffindor team, he looks like just another one of them.

“You ready to officially meet my best mates?” he asks when Draco emerges, smiling wide.

“Officially? I've already met them,” Draco says, but Harry can tell he knows what he means by the way his joy falters just slightly.

They fly up to the bleachers together and Harry lands first to a crushing hug from an ecstatic Hermione. “Another win for Gryffindor! Final game of the year, even! You did great, Harry!”

She lets him go and pauses for barely a moment, then turns to Draco behind him.

“You too, Draco,” she offers, hesitance there but disguised behind a smile. For Harry's sake. He appreciates the gesture.

“So, er,” Ron says, approaching beside her, “does this mean you two are…?”

Harry scoffs. “What's it seem like to you?”

“Just asking,” Ron shrugs and then claps him on the shoulder. “Well, if it's what you want, then I'm chuffed. Happy for you, mate.”

Harry looks back at Draco. The tension in his shoulders isn't gone but at the dual positive reactions, he relaxes just a bit.

“Celebration at the Three Broomsticks for a good end-of-year game, anyone?” Ron pulls Harry and Hermione into a hug, then extends an arm to Draco. “You too, Malfoy.”

Draco's eyes widen with surprise. “...Yeah. Yeah, ‘course I'm in.” Then he grins and joins them. “It's Draco, by the way.”

“First name basis, eh?” Ron teases, clapping him on the back. “Draco it is then.”

—

It's like there was never anything wrong in the first place.

Ron is a little rough, a little coarse, but he means well and Harry can tell it's all in good spirit. He plays the role of interrogating the boyfriend— much to the dismay of an embarrassed Hermione— but with enough butterbeer and subtle encouragement from Harry, Draco stands the test and now they're laughing along like they've all been friends for a lifetime.

“So this is what you were out last night doing, huh?” Ron says, gesturing pointedly at Draco with his mug.

“No! Oh, God, Ron,” Harry groans and smacks his arm as the table erupts into crude giggles. “Really?”

“Hey, it's only fair that I embarrass you too,” he laughs.

Draco chuckles too. “For the record, nothing happened last night. We just rolled around in the grass.”

“That does not help your case,” Hermione rolls her eyes with a hint of a smile, and they all crack up again.

It comes so naturally, being friends, that Draco's inclusion doesn't even feel odd. It feels right, like he's meant to be there. It's just like any other day.

And it is. He's celebrating another incredible game of Quidditch at the Three Broomsticks, chatting with Ron and Hermione over mugs of butterbeer.

The only difference: his boyfriend is here now, too. And it just feels so right.

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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content warning: past self harm

the underdog.

It's close. 130-150. The crowd roars with mixed cheers and boos as Slytherin’s Chasers score yet again, bumping the score up 130-160. A Bludger aims straight for them but by the time it gets there it's already too late and Harry darts over to instead swat away the other Bludger on their Chaser’s tail.

They’re doing bloody well, if you ask him. They’re practically head-to-head with the Slytherins— in fact, they are head-to-head, their Chasers scoring another twenty points at once to bring them to 150— and the Keeper helps deflect enough of the Slytherins’ attempts to score that their Chasers’ goals are catching up quick. They’re doing great, but Draco…

Draco is faltering.

He puts up a good fight but he backs down easily. Twice he’s locked in, fixated on the Snitch, been absolutely determined to catch it— only to back down at his opposing Seeker flying at him, throwing him off his rhythm. A Slytherin Beater bats a Bludger at him and he freezes and ducks. His Gryffindor teammates are starting to give Harry foul looks that say everything they’re thinking: why in the world did you choose him?

Draco’s better than this. He’s so much better and Harry’s seen it, they’ve all seen it before. What went wrong?

He’s fighting off a Bludger from attacking a Quaffle-bearing Chaser when he realizes neither Slytherin Beaters are anywhere to be seen. An angry yell above him catches his attention and he whips around to find out why— Draco is caught between both opposing Beaters batting the other Bludger back and forth, taunting him, trapping him, until he reaches out to grab it and it rips him off his broom, sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Draco!”

A whistle sounds out and their Captain calls time. Draco doesn’t get back up, wincing and clutching his arm. Their teams descend to the ground and Harry makes a beeline to Draco, scrambling to his side.

“Draco,” he says, “Draco, are you okay?”

He hisses with pain. “Fuck,” he breathes, “fuck, oh bloody fucking hell.”

“Come on. Come on, I’ve got you.” He slings Draco’s arm around his shoulders and hoists his body up. Draco stumbles, catches himself, clings to Harry. “Can you walk?”

“...Think so,” he mumbles, and Harry carefully lets go. Draco wobbles but remains upright. “Yeah. Yeah, I… oh, Merlin. Fuck.”

“Come on. Broomshed.” Gently, he guides him along, past their staring teammates and snickering opponents. A few Slytherins watch with worry but he doesn’t care. Their Captain not-so-discreetly chews out the Slytherin Captain and Harry wishes he could do the bloody same.

Draco is unsettlingly, terrifyingly silent, save for heavy breathing and stifled grunts. Harry opens the broomshed door for him and when he closes it after himself, he turns to Draco.

“Are you oka—”

“I can’t do this.” His eyes lock desperately onto Harry. “I can’t. I can’t do it.”

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. He just wishes Draco saw in himself what Harry does. “You can. I know you can. You’re incredible at Seeking. Those Slytherins are just a couple of tossers.”

“No, Harry. I really can’t do it.”

He winces mid-gesture. Harry looks him up and down. “You’re hurt?”

“Aside from the twenty-meter fall?” he snaps, then softens. “Shit. Sorry. Meant to say yeah. The, uh… the Bludger messed up my arm.”

“Not broken, is it? That would probably put you out of commission for good this year, though I guess that’s what you want.” He takes the hand Draco offers out to him with a slight teasing smile. “Wouldn’t suggest it though. Hurt like hell when I did it.”

He hooks his thumb under the edge of his sleeve.

“Wait—”

Draco yanks his arm away with alarm. Harry stares. “What? Did I do something?”

“I… no. No, no, it’s not you.” His eyes search him— for what, he isn’t sure. “It’s just… I don’t know how to, um…”

“Draco, whatever it is, I don’t care. I just want to make sure your arm’s okay.”

“It’s not broken,” he says. “It’s fine in that regard. It’s… something else.”

Harry frowns. “Okay.” He’s curious but Draco is worried, almost scared. “Do you want to tell me?”

Draco’s quiet.

“It’s alright if you don’t. We can just get back to the game,” he adds, pointing with his thumb behind him.

“No, I— I do.” He sighs and looks away. “Erm… you remember how I was a Death Eater?”

“Yeah. Kind of hard to forget.”

Draco cringes.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Go on.”

“It wasn’t my favorite time of my life either,” he shrugs. “I did a lot of things I didn’t feel very good about. And I… I’m better now, I think, but I just couldn’t forget it. My Dark Mark didn’t make that any easier, so I…”

Harry doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like where he thinks this is going, but Draco just looks solemn.

“I tried to get rid of it.” He chuckles but it’s empty, there’s no lightheartedness to it. “Didn’t work very well.”

He holds his arm out again. Like he’s voluntarily subjecting himself to Harry’s scorn. His eyes lock onto the floor.

Harry takes his hand and pulls his sleeve up. Sure enough, his Dark Mark is there.

Mangled underneath a myriad of scars.

Somewhere in there he sees neat lines, faded white rows along his forearm where there was once order. Calculated attempts at relief, he thinks. But somewhere along the line, it devolves into chaos. Angry slashes at the snake, X’s crossing out the sockets in the skull, a slight curve along the top of his forearm that looks like he tried to carve the entire patch of skin off and gave up soon after he started. The scars cover most of it and yet it’s still clear as day what it is. A sign for everyone to see how low Draco had once let himself get. An indicator of the worst time of his life.

“I didn’t want you to look at me differently,” he says softly. “But… I guess you’ve already watched me contemplate throwing myself off of the Astronomy Tower and seen me at my worst last year, so how much worse could I make it?”

Harry puts a hand over the Dark Mark. He runs a thumb over the scars, feeling every raised line and rough surface. He’s especially gentle with the reddening bruise forming underneath. And then he pulls Draco in close. “I don’t care who you were last year. I care who you are now. And right now, all I see is you. Draco Malfoy. Not a Death Eater, and not your Dark Mark. That’s not who you are.”

For a moment, Harry thinks Draco’s going in for a kiss. But Draco’s arms wrap around him tight and he returns the hug as Draco clings to him like his life depends on it. Frankly, it just might.

“You know who you really are?” Harry asks, smiling. “My hot not-Gryffindor boyfriend. The best player on the Quidditch team. And the one who's going to win us the game.”

The shoulder of his robes feels wet. He rubs comforting circles against Draco’s back. Just the rise and fall of his chest is comforting enough to Harry.

Eventually, Draco pieces himself back together and takes a deep breath. He pulls away but looks into Harry's eyes with a deep affection he's never seen before in anyone, yet it looks so natural on him. “I, um… thanks. A lot. I really needed that.”

“‘Course.” He leans in for a final reassuring peck. “Ready to get back out on the field?”

Draco flushes red, then nods. “Yeah.”

—

Harry doesn’t take his eye off of Draco once, and he’s glad it seems he doesn’t need to. The Slytherin Beaters don’t try any bullshit again and now Draco has a fair chance against the other Seeker. It shows in his flying; he’s more confident, more bold knowing his team is on his side and Harry is never too far away. Harry focuses on keeping the heat off of Draco when he can and Draco channels the same energy and determination he has when it’s just them, alone, battling for the Snitch.

The score is 210-200 and the Slytherins are getting more aggressive, but the Gryffindors don’t let up. Their Seeker flies close to Draco, their billowing robes almost tangling in the wind, but Draco doesn’t back down, doesn’t so much as falter, and pride fills Harry’s chest. He stifles it and puts it away for later when they win. Because there’s no chance in hell they’re going to lose this, not when they have Draco on the team.

210-210 and now all eyes are on the Seekers, red against green, racing around the pitch side by side after the Golden Snitch. They fly dangerously close to one another but neither one of them falls behind. The announcer calls out another goal for Gryffindor and Harry doesn’t even realize their Chasers are still scoring. All he sees is Draco.

The Snitch flies upward and they shoot up in pursuit. They’re both inching closer, the Snitch just barely out of reach, when the Slytherin Seeker lifts a foot up to plant it on their broom.

Draco glances over and realizes what they’re doing as the crowd goes quiet, watching with bated breaths. The Seeker climbs to their feet on their angled broom, crouched with one hand still on it, other hand outstretched and still just the slightest bit too far. Panic sets in, but at the same time Harry can see the gears turning in Draco’s head.

It’s just like that night flying down the Astronomy Tower. One Seeker tempting fate, the other trying to keep up. In the end, Draco still won. Harry has no doubt he can do it again.

This time, though, it’s not his cunning or cleverness that saves the day. It’s not any particular quality from any particular House. It’s a flick of his broom, base knocking against his opponent’s in what could almost be an accident mid-turn, that sends the Slytherin falling off and gives Draco just enough time to secure the Snitch and the win.

The crowd roars. Harry’s throat hurts from screaming with pride, he can’t smile nearly as wide as he wishes he could. The Slytherins fly over to catch their teammate but Harry flies over to jump onto Draco’s broom in front of him, grab the back of his neck, and kiss him.

He doesn't care who's watching. The only person he sees is Draco. The rest of the world never mattered at all, and it seems by the way hands grasp the back of his robes that Draco finally shares this sentiment too.

When they finally separate, the crowd is still cheering, and it takes him a moment to realize that now it’s for them. The Chosen One, but more importantly, the new Seeker who caught the Snitch. The final score is 370-210 and when Harry meets Draco’s eyes again, it’s all they can think to do to break out in laughter.

“Told you you’d win us the game,” Harry says, and Draco laughs awkwardly.

“Glad you had confidence in me,” he says, “because I had none. I don’t know how I pulled that off.”

“Because you’re a bloody genius, and an incredible Seeker, and my goddamn boyfriend.”

Draco laughs again, real this time. “And now you finally get to brag about it. Not much of a secret anymore, is it?”

“Did you want it to be?”

He pauses. Then he shakes his head. “No.”

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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boys being boys.

“I… I don’t know if I can do this, Harry.”

In the dark, lying in the grass, Harry idly brushes his fingers against Draco’s. “What?”

“The game tomorrow,” he says. “I don't know if I can do it.”

“Of course you can.” He sits up and props himself up on an elbow. “You’ve been training your arse off. In fact, you’ve been working harder than the bloody Captain. That's a high bar.”

“What if it’s not enough?” he frowns. “I’ve gotten this far. What happens if I still lose? What happens if the Gryffindors hate me again? Or if I win, and the Slytherins have it out for me?”

“Then forget them,” Harry says. “It’s not about them. It’s about the game. And you.” He reaches out and takes Draco’s hand with a grin. “And a little bit about us.”

“Oh.” Draco pauses with a slight smile. “Us, is it?”

“The Seeker and the Beater, a tale of forbidden love,” Harry teases, rubbing the side of Draco’s hand with his thumb.

“Love? Bit of a strong word, innit?”

“Not at all.” He leans over to kiss him, then pulls back to gaze down into his eyes. “Unless this is something other than love to you.”

“Maybe we’re just best mates. Really close mates.”

“Oh?” Harry does an exaggerated double-take, pretending to reevaluate the kiss and their intertwined hands. “Hm. Guess you're right.”

Draco laughs. “Get down here.”

He pulls him down with his free hand and Harry falls over him less gracefully than he would’ve liked but recovers just enough for a deeper kiss. His one hand still holds Draco’s but now, with his weight over him, pins it against the ground too. His other hand props him up over Draco’s body so he doesn’t crush him and Draco’s other hand tangles in Harry’s hair. Harry straddles him as he leans in hard and Draco’s hand pulls him in closer than he can physically go. Their bodies are pressed against each other, chest to chest, foreheads touching, legs interlocked, yet it’s not close enough. They can never be close enough, never as close as Harry wants them to be, but by God if he isn't going to try.

Eventually one of them lets up and Draco’s smiling so widely Harry has to resist the urge to kiss him again, feel his smile against his own. “So, then, what are we?”

Harry chuckles. “Thought you said we were best mates.”

“Ah. Right.”

And then Harry gives in and kisses his smug grin right off of his face. When he comes back up for air, he relishes a little in the way Draco leans up a little, chasing him to no avail. “We're boyfriends, you wanker. What do you think?”

“Just wanted to be sure we were on the same page.”

“I didn't spend eight bloody months chasing your companionship to be best mates, Draco,” he scoffs. “‘Best mates’ my arse.”

It's bliss, finally being able to do this again, finally reaching this level of closeness. At some point they roll over and now Draco’s on top, taking what he wants, and Harry lets him. It's akin to roughhousing, the way they're jostling each other around, but the air around them is electrified with shared passion they can't ignore anymore. Draco’s hands on Harry, Harry’s arms around Draco, they roll around in the grass under the stars like little boys. Like free-spirited children without a care in the world.

All this time, he didn't know what he was looking for, what he was chasing in Draco. He didn't know why he cared. But this— this is why. This is it. This must be it.

—

“Don't leave this time,” Harry whispers into the darkness. His fingers brush through Draco’s hair where his head lies in Harry's lap. “Don't leave me again.”

“I won't.”

Draco leans up, pulls Harry down for a kiss, and Harry can just barely make out the glimmer of stars in his pupils.

“I won't.”

—

He's still there the next morning.

And he's still in his lap, still living in Gryffindor Tower, still the Seeker on the Quidditch team.

The game is still on.

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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courage.

Harry is beginning to see why Draco was re-sorted into Gryffindor.

It’s small. Little things, like showing up to breakfast to eat with his head down at the end of the table. He actually moved into his dorm room— a pretty large thing in comparison, to be fair. He attends every practice and performs so well the rest of the team has quickly gotten over their hesitation at Malfoy being their Seeker.

But most importantly— to Harry, at least— he talks to him in class. And between classes. And in the common room. And late at night. It’s like they’ve been mates all year. Just mates, chatting during class and when they’re bored with school. It comes so naturally he almost doesn’t notice the odd looks they get.

Ron and Hermione think he’s gone insane. Mostly Ron, who’s aghast at having to sleep in the bed next to Draco’s, but Hermione’s coming around so Ron slowly is too.

Maybe Draco isn’t a Gryffindor. Maybe he isn't a Slytherin either, or a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. But he’s brave and ambitious, loyal and quick-thinking, all at once. He’s the best of every world, on the Quidditch pitch and when he chooses to be.

God, is he glad Draco is choosing to be.

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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hideaway.

“Come with me?” He extends a hand. “I’ll need help getting my stuff together. And you’ve been wanting to know where I disappear to anyway when I’m not in class.”

“You just don’t want to move into our dorm room alone,” Harry scoffs. He takes his hand anyway. “But I am curious.”

Draco smiles. “Knew you were.”

“Lead the way.”

—

He expected somewhere interesting and profound, like maybe the Room of Requirement, or more isolated, like the Forbidden Forest, or representative of something he cares about, like a stand on the Quidditch pitch.

He doesn’t expect the Owlery.

“This is where you hide all the time?”

It’s covered in feathers and bird seed. A variety of birds perch or sleep in open alcoves recessed into the wall. But Draco just hums affirmatively. “It's not so bad. Nobody comes up here since the owls go where they're needed. And if people do come up here, nobody goes up to the top.”

He summons his broom and it descends to allow Draco to mount it. Draco beckons Harry on too and together, they fly up to a loft at the top. The alcoves there house generic school owls and a bed that must be transfigurated is situated against one of the walls, presumably Draco’s. Harry takes this in but waits patiently for Draco to take the lead.

“I wanted to, uh… show you this. To show that I'm serious.” He shrugs. “And… so I can't keep running away.”

Harry scoffs playfully. “‘Least you're self-aware.”

“I am,” Draco frowns, much less lightheartedly. “I know it’s been a problem. And I’m sorry. And— and I want to fix it. But I, um… I-I need…”

“Help,” Harry finishes for him. Draco nods.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’re fixing it now.” He approaches the bed and starts pulling off the green covers and red fitted sheet, folding them up as he goes. “So let’s get started.”

—

Malfoy, in the seven years he's known him, has never expressed fear towards anything but a stand of hair falling out of place. But it turns out that Draco, in the eight months Harry’s spent trying to get to know him, has been terrified. Of everything.

“It’s funny when you think about it. Right now, it’s Harry Potter— the golden boy, the Chosen one, the prized Gryffindor— who’s the only one who can stand to be around me, Draco Malfoy,” he says, a bitter laugh contradicting his self-deprecation. He folds clothes and puts them in a suitcase like he’s just making small talk. “But that can change anytime. So I suppose I just… decide not to take that risk at all. And I run away. And then I regret it, but by that point, it's too late.”

“You didn't run this time,” Harry says. He hands him a stack of his schoolbooks. “That's progress.”

“Yeah.” Draco shrugs and fits the schoolbooks into his suitcase. “I guess it is.”

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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beating the seeker.

“Brief me?”

Malfoy comes up behind him as he’s putting the team’s brooms back into the broomshed. Harry is carefully neutral. “On what?”

“The team.”

“You didn’t see how they played during practice?”

Malfoy shrugs. “They seemed distracted.” He quiets. “I wanted to know how they play when I’m not there.”

“...Okay.” Harry shuts the broomshed. “What do you want to know?”

“How many of them are awful at Quidditch?”

“None, actually,” Harry says. “Our Chasers work really well together. The Keeper used to be a Hufflepuff so she’s bloody passionate about her position. The other Beater always knows where everyone and everything is.”

“And the Seeker?”

Malfoy just barely hides a smile, like he thinks he’s so clever. Harry just shrugs. “He’s alright.”

He takes the hint. But when Harry starts walking away, Malfoy still follows. “You’re done training?”

“Yeah?” he says, confused. “Practice is over.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

“...Now,” he tries, but he's already caught.

Malfoy flicks his wand wordlessly and their brooms throw the broomshed door open as they’re summoned. He catches them both and offers Harry his. “Play me?”

After a brief pause, he takes it. “Alright.” Then he accios a Bludger and a club. “But if I’m practicing as a Seeker, you’re practicing as a Beater.”

Malfoy grins, openly this time. “It’s on, Potter.”

—

Turns out, it’s bloody difficult to catch the Snitch and evade a Bludger at same time. Especially when he's the only target.

Harry's objective is to catch the Snitch. Malfoy's is to knock him off his broom. Whichever one comes first determines the winner.

They aren’t quite sure what to do when Harry ducks out of the way of Malfoy’s Bludger and then reflexively knocks it back towards him, throwing Malfoy off his broom instead.

“What was that?!” Malfoy shouts and groans where he lies on the ground, brushing grass off his robes. Harry flies around and descends to his level. “Thought I was the bloke who’s supposed to be hitting the Bludger.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, but he’s laughing as he extends a hand. “Reflexes. Something it seems you don't have enough of.”

Malfoy glares at the offered help with spite but takes his hand anyway and lets Harry pull him to his feet. “Well, I haven't got anyone else to help me. Once I send the Bludger off in a direction it doesn't exactly come back to me on its own.”

“Sounds to me like a bunch of excuses for why you lost.”

Malfoy scowls. “I didn't lose.”

“You didn’t win.”

“Neither did you.” He picks up the Bludger that fell on the ground and tosses it to Harry. “You try and win as a Beater with no teammates.”

“Swapping positions?” Harry asks. “Are you admitting you’re a terrible Beater?”

“No,” he says and mounts his broom. “I'm saying I'm a superior Seeker.”

—

Malfoy is… not incorrect.

He isn’t a better Seeker— Harry won’t give him that satisfaction— but he is damn good at it. He is, however, wrong about the difficulty of being a solo Beater. Malfoy gives him a run for his money but Harry chases it just as well.

His Firebolt gives him an advantage and he learns quickly how the Bludger moves. It chases Malfoy when it’s not chasing him so all Harry has to do is follow Malfoy and the Bludger will follow too. Soon enough, they have him cornered— the Snitch is two centimeters away but the Bludger swings towards him in one direction and Harry blocks the other side, and when Malfoy is knocked off his broom Harry drops his club and catches him by the arm mid-fall.

“What were you saying about being a Beater with no teammates?” Harry asks with a smirk.

“Oh, shut it, Potter,” Malfoy snaps, but it’s playful. “Pull me up, you git.”

He does and Malfoy clambers up onto his broom. “I’m a bloody good Beater, don’t you think? Natural talent. Maybe even good enough to replace you.”

Malfoy scoffs. “This late into the season? They’d need to find a new Seeker and the game is in, what, a little under two weeks?”

“You’re right here,” Harry says. “You’re a half-decent Seeker if I do say so myself.”

“Oh, half-decent? How kind.”

“Really. You’re not bad,” he shrugs. “You could do well as the Seeker.”

For a moment, Malfoy is silent. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah. Why not? The swap would be easy to arrange.”

“It’s not that,” Malfoy says and he’s suddenly serious. “It’s the Slytherin game.”

“So?”

“So,” he continues, “there’s no way for me to win.”

“If you practice I’m sure the Slytherin Seeker won’t—”

“Not that.” He’s being uncharacteristically vague. Beating around the bush, avoiding saying it outright. Well, maybe not so uncharacteristic. “If I catch the Snitch and we win, the Slytherins hate me. If I don’t, the Gryffindors hate me. There’s no winning.”

“And that matters… why?”

“Because enough people hate me already, and I don’t want to make it worse.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t hate you.”

Malfoy chuckles dryly. “Not right now, you don’t.”

“I never did,” he says. “I’ve been looking for reasons not to all year. It’s just been… difficult.”

“Because of me.” Malfoy is more direct about that than he’s been all year. “You don’t have to say it.”

“Because of your fear of everyone else,” Harry corrects. “And that isn’t you.”

“It’s a part of me.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Malfoy is quiet. Contemplative or ashamed, Harry can’t tell.

“You’ve gotten this far. You joined the team. You can play as the Seeker.” He swings around on his broom so he’s facing Malfoy. “And besides, if you get over yourself, you can have more of this.”

There’s no more context before Harry kisses him. It’s quick, just a peck, but still his face turns red quick and he freezes, then looks away with embarrassment.

Harry grins. “Come on. You’d be great at Seeking. We can talk to the Captain next practice.”

“...Okay,” Draco says, and finally meets his eyes.

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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trying.

Quidditch is his one reprieve.

Being in all the same classrooms is suffocating, scanning hallways for that distinct hair paired with red or green is exhausting, and he can't even escape him in his dorm room where his bed is next to Malfoy's empty one. But he knows for a fact that with his team, on the pitch, in broad daylight, Malfoy will never be a problem. And that’s all he needs.

To stop thinking about godforsaken Malfoy.

—

With their end-of-year game coming up and their final opponent being Slytherin, suddenly the rest of the team is as dedicated as Harry is. Practices happen more frequently, drills are more intense, and Harry isn't the only one training late at night anymore. Their Captain is kicking things up a notch.

It's paying off, though. Harry can admit there's been a noticeable difference in the performance of their team as a whole and morale is high. They're seeing what could potentially be a game-winning margin of skill.

Until one of their Beaters finds themself on the wrong end of a redirected Bludger and suddenly, they’re one down a week before the game.

And then, at their next practice, Malfoy is there on the pitch.

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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flyaway.

Quidditch season starts and finally, Harry has real practices. Not just himself, the Snitch, and whatever random underclassman leaps at the chance after recognizing his scar. A real game with a real team. It’s a breath of fresh air to show up to a busy field blanketed in red.

Especially knowing Malfoy won’t be there.

At tryouts, he scans the field for no reason, searching for the tired eyes and platinum hair he knows he won’t find. Malfoy is too much of a coward. His love for Quidditch would never take priority over his fear of being known. Still, he keeps in touch with the Captain— they offered him the position at first but he refused, muttering something about university and studies— and can finally relax when the final roster comes out without a Malfoy on the list.

—

Their winter game is coming up and Harry trains tirelessly, more so than anyone else does. He doesn’t need to; it’s Hufflepuff and nobody else on the team has high expectations except maybe their transfer players, but he doesn’t care. He isn’t playing for Hufflepuff or for the glory. He’s playing for the wind in his robes, the adrenaline in his veins, the satisfying ache in his bones. He’s playing for that feeling of freedom he’s never found anywhere else.

Every game leaves him breathless and nothing matters but the Snitch. Not the eyes on his scar in the hallway, not the House points he loses for being late to class, not even Malfoy’s quiet avoidance that buzzes in his head. On the pitch, all he hears is the whistling of the wind and his own victorious whoops.

—

Gryffindor, as expected, wins.

Two of their Chasers are Ravenclaw transfers, re-sorted at the start of the year, and their strategizing and practices with Harry for the weeks leading up to the big game pays off better than any of them could’ve expected. Their formerly-Hufflepuff Keeper defends the goalpost valiantly as if fire blasts from her broom and having her on Gryffindor’s team instead is a relief. The Hufflepuff Chasers are skilled but their Beaters falter and when a Bludger flies past right at their Seeker, Harry secures the win.

Ron and Hermione scream from the bleachers and when he flies down to them, crush him between their arms. “Yes, Harry!” Hermione cries. “You did it! 180 to 130!”

“I thought for sure that Bludger had you, mate,” Ron laughs and claps him on the back. “You’ve still got it in you, though! All that practice over break paid off.”

“‘Course,” Harry grins wide. “Never a day off the field.”

Harry double-high-fives them both, then turns for another high-five from someone who isn’t there. But he plays it off and throws his hands in the air with a whoop and then wraps his arms around both their shoulders. “Butterbeer on me, yeah?”

“Always, as long as it’s after the game and not before,” Hermione chuckles. “Never drink and fly, Harry.”

“Wasn’t in the plan.”

“Oh, relax,” Ron says and cheekily elbows him. “Butterbeer’s barely booze at all anyway.”

Hermione smacks his arm.

“Joking! Joking.”

—

“Potter,” he hears behind him, then more softly, “Harry.”

He stills and he hates it. He hates how his heart still leaps, even slightly. “Malfoy.” For the first time all year, his voice is unwelcome.

“Draco,” he corrects almost pleadingly. Like he’s asking for it back. “That… was an alright game.”

Harry scoffs dryly. “What a compliment.”

He pauses as if he's misevaluated the situation. Because he has. Harry didn’t expect him to show.

“I’m not up here for you, Malfoy.”

He falters, quiet. “I didn’t think you were.”

He’s lying. They both are. The walls have been erected again and Harry doesn’t know if it’s worth it to knock them back down.

“That’s it, then?” Malfoy asks. He steps out on the observation deck where Harry stands and enters Harry’s field of view just barely. “You’re running away?”

“You ran away,” he says, sour with resentment. “That was all you, Malfoy. You don’t get to blame me for the problems you caused.”

Harry turns and walks briskly towards the stairwell, ignoring the footsteps that follow his. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He’s sick and tired of dealing with Malfoys.

—

There's only one place that he's sure will deter Malfoy and it's where he beelines, flying through the empty halls with Malfoy on his tail. Forget Hermione’s warnings about mixing butterbeer and flying. He felt fine until Malfoy showed up.

Swiftly, he dismounts in front of the Fat Lady and rushes through the password to stumble through her portrait and into the Gryffindor common room.

“Potter!” Malfoy calls after him but when Harry turns around, he's stopped at the doorway, glaring inside. “You’re a fucking tosser, you know that?”

Harry keeps walking.

“Now you’re the one running,” Malfoy scowls, and the portrait swings closed.

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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ghost.

He's gone in the morning.

Harry doesn't know what he expected when he wakes up and realizes that the warmth beside him has gone cold, but still he kicks the trunk at the foot of his bed with no regard for the confused eyes he attracts in his dorm room.

What a bloody coward.

—

Draco is back to being Malfoy, and Malfoy won’t even look him in the eye.

It’s a little bit justified. Harry’s heard the new rumors about the red and green flyers on New Year’s too. It’s led to some intense discourse among the Slytherins about which of them dared to befriend a Gryffindor, but nobody has been singled out, so Harry keeps his mouth shut. It’s Draco’s secret to keep as much as it is Harry’s information to give.

It doesn't mean Harry likes the distance, though. It just means he won’t say a word. To anyone else or to Malfoy.

—

Harry thinks he catches Malfoy looking at him in class.

With his hood up, it's hard to tell, but the sudden minute shift in his robes whenever Harry glances in his direction gives him away. Or maybe he's just seeing things. Things he only wishes were there.

—

In retrospect, he's glad that Malfoy was the one to end things early on, because he isn't sure he would've. And now, it isn't a lie when he tells Hermione and Ron he has nothing to do with him.

“Really?” Hermione asks with disbelief. “I thought you wanted to play Quidditch with him over break.”

“I wanted to play Quidditch,” he corrects, “not with him. I’d be a right tosser if he was my first option.”

“Shouldn't be an option at all, if you ask me,” Ron says.

Harry nods. “Yeah. And he's not.”

[nami-writes]

Seek, And Ye Shall Find - Harry Potter

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bravery.

“That’s your bed?” Malfoy— Draco— asks, looking around the Gryffindor dormitory.

“Yeah,” he responds, and watches as Draco beelines to flop on the empty bed beside it. “That’s your bed?”

“Seems like it.” He points up at the plaque on the upper panel in the front. “Room 2, bed 4. They gave me the assignment, I just never showed up to find it.”

“People have been talking about it for months, and I’ve finally cracked the case,” Harry says. “Bloody hell, I’ve been wondering all year why McGonagall hasn’t just magicked it away when nobody uses it. That explains quite a bit.”

Draco chuckles. “Ironic, too. It's right next to yours.”

Harry grins. “Ron won't be very happy. He's in the other bed next to yours.”

“Weasley will live,” Draco says. “Me, maybe not, once he finds out.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Harry teases. “You’re very stubborn about not dying.”

“And you’re very stubborn about dying.”

“Suppose we both have a bit of Gryffindor in us, then,” he says, and for the first time, Draco doesn’t disagree.

—

Near midnight, they head out to the Quidditch pitch riding each other’s brooms. Draco insisted on trying Harry’s Firebolt again, then added that he wants to see if Harry’s just as skilled without it, so of course he handed it over and now he mounts Draco’s Nimbus 2001 on the field. It feels just like his old Nimbus 2000, only smoother and more responsive, and he’s surprised at how much quicker it accelerates. Not Firebolt impressive, but impressive nonetheless.

This time, they agree on basic rules for their not-really-Quidditch game. Contact is fine but no magic, bounds are the school grounds, and the winner will be determined as whoever has the Golden Snitch when the fireworks start going off at midnight. Harry asks if they’re just playing Capture the Flag. Draco looks at him like he’s crazy. Harry mumbles something along the lines of “never mind, it’s a Muggle thing”— and the game kicks off.

—

Exhilarated, Harry races along the side of the castle with the Snitch in hand. Riding with one hand is difficult when the other clutches a struggling Snitch but Draco is on his tail and catching up fast. Plus, the fireworks are going to go off any minute and he wants a good view.

He glances behind him, once, twice, and when Draco reaches out to grab his broom he cuts sharply up the wall at an angle so Draco misses just barely. Draco is faster but Harry is more nimble and he adjusts his flying style to reflect that. This is why Draco flew the way he did for their previous match— it wasn’t just fancy moves for show, it was to throw him off. Draco knew the Firebolt had a speed advantage. Having an opponent who can challenge him like that regardless of what broom he rides is refreshing.

They soar above the castle now and dodge pointy towertops and Christmas lights hanging from balconies. Weaving back and forth with Draco, their chase almost becomes a dance and for a moment, Harry forgets they’re supposed to be enemies.

The clock tower passes on his right, Draco on the opposite side, and Harry catches the time: five to midnight. The fireworks should be going off in the courtyard soon and at this rate, Draco’s not going to get the Snitch back. Might as well give him a chance and have some fun while he’s at it.

“Catch!” he shouts and tosses the Snitch across to Draco just far enough out of reach that he has to pitch backwards. Initially surprised by the sudden motion, he recovers and smoothly flows into a loop-de-loop to level back out, but his hand misses its mark and the Snitch flits away. He looks at Harry, confused. “Second chance! Don’t waste it!”

And then he spins around and bolts past Draco, who reacts just as quickly to take off across the top of Hogwarts.

They fly over the courtyard giggling like children and they must attract eyes on the ground but in the moment, there’s nobody but him and Draco and the Golden Snitch. The flashing of the Snitch dodging in and out of the shadows and Draco’s pale hair mussed by the wind are all he sees and Draco’s so intensely focused that for the first time all year, not even he pays any mind to the unwanted gazes on them.

The Snitch dips low to a flat terrace and Draco is locked in, blazing forward at it. Harry might’ve sabotaged himself by giving up the Snitch, because there’s no way he can reach it from where he is.

He can reach Draco, though, and for the second time in two months, he dives off of his broom.

His body collides with Draco’s and together they topple onto the terrace, rolling to a stop when their brooms fall to the ground. The Snitch scurries out of reach again and buzzes in midair, mocking.

“Oh, come on! I had that!” Draco pouts, then glares at Harry. “What is it with you and throwing yourself off of brooms?”

Harry laughs. “Must be that Gryffindor bravery.”

“More like recklessness,” he remarks, but his eyes are bright with his smile.

They sit there, tangled in one another, quiet as they each recover from the fall. Draco is breathless with adrenaline still fresh in his blood, chest rising and falling with his tired pants, and yet he looks so relaxed and composed as he leans back to stare at the Snitch hovering from afar. His smile has faded but there's still that glimmer of excitement on his face. Harry can’t tear his eyes away. He’s never seen Draco so content— so passionate and real— but he decides right there that he never wants to stop seeing it.

The sky ignites, then, with a loud pop and a shriek and a sizzle, and he's mesmerized. So much so that Draco has to look back at him to startle him out of his daze and realize he's been staring at the way Draco lights up under the colors and not the fireworks themselves. He can't help it— apparently the fireworks are each House emblem, and Draco looks damn good in any of the colors.

Especially red.

Harry starts. “Can I—”

—And Draco finishes the thought by greedily leaning in and pulling Harry towards him until their lips meet and Harry can feel Draco's heart hammering along with his own.

Draco’s hand is on the back of Harry's head but he's messy and distracted, too focused on what he wants to figure out how to get it, and it's not enough, not nearly enough. Harry grabs at his shoulder and cups his face and pulls him in close so they're almost hugging over their tangled legs, and he takes control. With little complaint, Draco melts under his command, surrendering all the power to Harry.

Their eyes close and the fireworks are no more than a distant memory. One body pressed against the other, arms wrapped around torsos and necks, Harry vaguely registers losing his balance and toppling over. Draco doesn't seem to realize or care. He tastes like pain and like longing, like craving and desperation, and it's the biggest pleasure in the world for Harry to be the one to fulfill it all.

To both of their utter dismay, Harry breaks the kiss, because otherwise he's going to pass out from not breathing. Draco seems to share the same sentiment though, and pants even harder than he did when he fell off of Harry’s broom.

“Didn’t—” The words catch in Draco’s throat and he clears it, awkwardly looking away. “Didn’t know you could, uh… do that.”

Harry grins down at him. A sudden thought pops into his head and playfully, each of his hands take Draco’s to pin beside his head. He leans down. “Yeah? I didn't know you had enough Gryffindor in you to initiate it.”

“Shut up and kiss me again,” Draco snaps, and he leans up to close the distance.

—

When they finally pull apart— for good this time— the fireworks are long gone. The Snitch has deactivated on its own, sitting on the ground. Draco exhales with amusement. “I guess we both lost, huh.”

“No,” Harry says and smiles. “I think we both won.”

—

Draco has always looked at him with envy and jealousy. But for the first time, he also lets the corresponding admiration and pride show through, and it's the most satisfying feeling in the world.

Harry laughs softly to himself, unable to believe it. He bagged a Malfoy. Or maybe, a Malfoy bagged him.