The Crack That Won't Close

The first time Draco Malfoy saw Harry Potter, they were eleven, standing in Madam Malkin’s robe shop. Draco had a mouth full of pins and a chest full of hope he didn’t understand yet. Harry Potter—messy hair, lightning scar—refused his hand. Refused him. And something cracked open in Draco’s chest that wouldn’t close.

Three months later, he’s watching that same boy laugh with a fourth-year Hufflepuff near the Great Hall entrance, and the crack’s a chasm.

She’s pretty in a generic, butterbeer-ad way. Blonde, pink-cheeked, giggling at something about a Niffler. She touches his arm. Harry smiles—that easy, infuriating smile that twists Draco’s stomach into acid and longing.

“What’s wrong, Draco?” Crabbe asks, mouth full of pumpkin pasty.

“Nothing.” Draco’s jaw tightens. He’s staring at her hand, still on Harry’s sleeve. “Wait here.”

He crosses the hall in seven long strides, robes billowing. The Hufflepuff girl’s smile falters as he approaches.

“Well, well,” Draco drawls, voice dripping with fake sweetness. “If it isn’t the pride of Hufflepuff. What’s your name again? I’ve forgotten. Actually, no, I never knew it. You’re not important enough to remember.”

Her cheeks flush ugly red. “I’m—I was just—”

“Talking to Potter?” Draco finishes. He steps closer, positioning himself between them. His hand lands flat on Harry’s chest, right over his heart. He can feel it beating through the robes. “He’s busy.”

Harry’s green eyes go wide behind his glasses. “Malfoy? What are you—”

But Draco doesn’t let him finish. He leans in, lips brushing the corner of Harry’s mouth, and presses a kiss to his cheek. Brief—barely a second—but it burns like a brand. Draco’s face crumples as he pulls away, tears already welling.

“He’s mine,” Draco whispers, just loud enough for her to hear. Then he turns and flees, footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving a stunned Harry and a bewildered Hufflepuff behind.

---

The Slytherin common room is cold and green, lit by the lake’s eerie glow through the windows. Draco sits on a leather sofa, face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. He made it to the dorm before the tears broke free, but now they won’t stop.

What have I done? he thinks. I kissed him. In front of everyone. I kissed Harry Potter.

Rumors spread faster than Floo powder. By dinner, the whole school knows Draco Malfoy publicly declared his love for the Boy Who Lived—or at least made a spectacle of himself. Slytherins are split between mockery and pity. Gryffindors buzz with gossip. Ravenclaws are writing speculative essays on sociological implications.

Harry, meanwhile, is cornered in the Gryffindor common room by Hermione, Ron, and the Weasley twins.

“What in Merlin’s saggy name was that about?” Ron demands, ears red.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair. “He just—walked up, insulted the girl, put his hand on my chest, and kissed my cheek. Then ran off crying.”

“Crying?” Hermione repeats, brow furrowed. “Malfoy? Crying?”

“Tears streaming down his pointy little face,” Harry confirms.

Fred and George exchange a look of pure mischief.

“Seems to me, baby brother,” Fred says, slinging an arm around Ron, “that our dear Draco is absolutely, hopelessly, obsessively in love with you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry says, but his voice sounds hollow.

“Is it?” George grins. “He did just claim you as his own. In front of a fourth-year girl. That’s not rivalry, mate. That’s territorial.”

“He’s a git,” Ron mutters. “Doesn’t love anyone but himself.”

“You’d be surprised,” Hermione says softly, but doesn’t elaborate.

---

That night, Harry can’t sleep. He lies in his four-poster, staring at the canopy, replaying the moment over and over. The warmth of Draco’s hand on his chest. The brush of his lips. The tears in his grey eyes.

Why would he cry? Harry wonders. Why would he care if I talked to another girl?

The thought gnaws at him until sunrise. Then, for reasons he can’t explain, Harry decides to test a theory.

At breakfast, he sits next to Lavender Brown. She’s bubbly, talkative, loves gossip. Harry leans close, lets his shoulder brush her arm. Laughs at one of her jokes, touches her wrist, and watches the door.

Draco walks in ten minutes later. He freezes in the doorway, breakfast tray nearly slipping as he sees Harry and Lavender. His pale face goes paler. Then, without a word, he marches over.

“Brown,” Draco says, voice sharp as a blade, “I need Potter. Now.”

Lavender’s eyes widen. “But—we were just—he was—”

“I don’t care.” Draco grabs Harry’s arm with surprising strength and pulls him up. “You’re done.”

He drags Harry out of the Great Hall, into an alcove behind a suit of armor, and presses him against the stone wall. His grip is tight, breath shallow.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Draco demands, voice cracking.

“Talking,” Harry says, trying to keep his own voice steady. “Making friends. Is that a crime?”

“With her? She’s—she’s not worthy of you.” Draco’s grey eyes are glassy, threatening to spill. “She doesn’t understand you. She doesn’t—”

“Understand me?” Harry repeats, confused. “What is there to understand?”

“Everything.” Draco’s voice drops to a whisper. “The weight of your scar. The burden of your name. The way you wake up screaming from nightmares you don’t remember. I know, Potter. I see you.”

Then, as abruptly as he appeared, Draco lets go and walks away. Harry slides down the wall, heart pounding.

---

The experiments continue.

Harry flirts with a Ravenclaw boy in the library. Draco hexes his quill to squirt ink in the boy’s face.

Harry offers a chocolate frog to a Hufflepuff girl. Draco transfigures it into a spider and makes her scream.

Harry lets a fifth-year Slytherin—a brave soul named Theodore Nott—try to hold his hand during Potions. Draco pretends to trip and sends an entire cauldron of bubbling green potion splashing across Nott’s robes.

By the end of October, the whole school is talking. The saying goes: If you want to get to Harry Potter, you have to get through Draco Malfoy first. And no one can.

Harry should stop. He knows he’s being cruel, playing with Draco’s obvious feelings. But there’s something addictive about the attention, the jealousy, the way Draco’s eyes burn whenever he sees Harry with someone else. It makes Harry feel powerful. And for a boy who spent his entire childhood powerless, that’s a hard drug to resist.

---

The feast for the start of November is grander than usual. Pumpkins carved with enchanted faces, bats flying between candles, the enchanted ceiling showing a swirling starry sky. The Great Hall buzzes.

Harry sits between Ron and Hermione, but he’s not paying attention. His eyes are fixed on Draco, who sits at the Slytherin table, head bowed, pushing food around his plate. He looks smaller, shoulders hunched.

He looks sad, Harry thinks. I did that.

But the thought drowns out when Ginny Weasley appears at his elbow.

“Harry,” she says, voice bright, “can I talk to you for a second?”

He blinks. “Sure, Gin.”

She pulls him aside near the staff table, where McGonagall is deep in conversation with Snape. Ginny’s freckled face is flushed, eyes earnest.

“I know this is probably a terrible idea,” she says, “but I’ve been wanting to tell you for ages. I like you, Harry. More than a friend. And—well, I don’t care what Draco Malfoy thinks. I want to kiss you.”

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but the words die. He looks across the hall and sees Draco watching. Sees his fork frozen halfway to his lips. Sees the dawning horror in his grey eyes.

And then, instead of stopping, Harry makes a decision.

“Okay,” he says.

He leans down and presses his lips to Ginny’s.

It’s soft, brief, barely a peck. But it’s enough.

Across the hall, Draco Malfoy lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream. His fork clatters to the floor. He stands, chair scraping, and then his knees buckle. He drops to the stone floor, entire body trembling.

“Draco?” Blaise Zabini reaches for him, but Draco doesn’t respond. He’s shaking violently, hands gripping his hair, breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Draco, what’s wrong?”

The Great Hall falls silent. Every eye turns to the Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy is on his knees, crying, hyperventilating, face streaked with tears and—is that mascara? Had he been wearing makeup this whole time?

“He’s not breathing,” someone whispers.

Harry’s blood goes cold. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Ginny’s confused calls, drops to his knees in front of Draco.

“Malfoy? Malfoy, look at me.”

Draco’s eyes are unfocused, dilated, his chest heaving without drawing air. His lips are tinged blue.

“He’s having a panic attack,” Hermione says, appearing beside Harry. “You need to calm him down. Talk to him. Touch his chest, help him breathe.”

Harry hesitates only a second. Then he places his hands on Draco’s chest, feeling the rapid, fluttering heartbeat under his palms.

“Breathe with me,” Harry says, voice low. “In. Out. In. Out. You’re okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco’s eyes finally meet his. Grey is dark, stormy, full of pain that takes Harry’s breath away.

“Please,” Draco gasps. “Please don’t… don’t leave me.”

“I’m not leaving,” Harry says. “I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

But Draco’s eyes roll back in his head, and his body goes limp.

---

Draco wakes in the hospital wing, tucked under a white sheet, an IV drip of Calming Draught in his arm. Madam Pomfrey adjusts his pillows, muttering about stress and hormones and first-year nonsense.

Harry is sitting in the chair beside his bed.

“You,” Draco croaks.

“Me,” Harry says. His face is pale, eyes red-rimmed. “You fainted.”

“I remember.” Draco tries to turn away, but his body feels like lead. “Go away. I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity.” Harry leans forward. “I need to understand. Why do you care so much? Why do you—?”

“Because I love you, you absolute idiot,” Draco spits, but his voice cracks. “I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you in Madam Malkin’s. When you refused my hand, it felt like the world ended. And then you saved me from the troll—do you think I forgot that? You said I wasn’t in danger, but you checked on me anyway. You cared.”

Harry remembers. That night in the Forbidden Forest, detention with Draco, stumbling on the unicorn killer. Draco had been terrified, and Harry promised to protect him.

“I didn’t know,” Harry says softly.

“Of course you didn’t. You never see anything that doesn’t hit you in the face.” Draco laughs bitterly. “So I had to make you see. I had to show you. But you kept—you kept flirting with everyone—and I couldn’t—I can’t—”

“Stop,” Harry says. “I have an idea.”

---

The next day, Harry steals a vial of Veritaserum from Snape’s storeroom. Takes him three tries, a disillusionment charm, and a very unfortunate encounter with a fire crab, but he gets it.

He finds Draco in an empty classroom on the third floor, staring out the window at the clouds.

“Drink this,” Harry says, holding out the vial.

Draco looks at it, then at Harry. “What is it?”

“Truth serum. I need you to tell me everything.”

“I already told you—”

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “I need you to say it without the panic. I need you to mean it.”

Draco’s hands tremble as he takes the vial. He uncorks it, sniffs it, and downs it in one gulp.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Then his eyes glaze over, slackness settling into his features.

“What is your name?” Harry asks, just to be sure.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.” The voice is flat, emotionless.

“And what do you feel for Harry Potter?”

Draco’s lips part. The truth pours out like a waterfall. “I am obsessed with him. He is the sun and the moon and every star in the sky. I think about him when I wake, when I eat, when I sleep. I have dreams about him where we run through the Forbidden Forest and he holds my hand. I have nightmares where he dies and I can’t save him. I want to be the one he smiles at. I want to be the one he cries for. I want to be his.”

Harry’s heart aches. “Why did you reject his friendship at the start?”

“Because I was scared.” Draco’s face contorts, even under the serum. “I had been told my whole life that Potters were bad. That they were blood traitors. But I saw you and I wanted you so badly it hurt, and I didn’t know how to handle that except to push you away.”

“And the Forbidden Forest? Telling me about the unicorn?”

“I wanted you to see that I was useful. That I could help you. That I wasn’t just a spoiled pureblood prat. I wanted you to need me.”

Harry’s hand finds Draco’s. “And when I kissed Ginny?”

“I felt the world collapse. I felt like I was dying. I would rather die than see you with someone else.” A tear slips down Draco’s pale cheek. “I want everyone to know that you belong to me. Even if you don’t want it. Even if it’s selfish. I want to be your everything.”

Harry stands up. He cups Draco’s face in his hands, tilting his chin up until their eyes meet.

“The serum is still working,” Harry whispers. “So I’ll tell you the truth too.”

He leans in and kisses Draco.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s fierce, demanding, possessive. Harry’s hand slides into Draco’s platinum hair, pulling him closer, while his other hand presses against the small of Draco’s back. Draco gasps into the kiss, hands fisting in Harry’s robes.

“I belong to you,” Harry murmurs against his lips. “I didn’t know it until now. But I do. You win, Malfoy. You win.”

Draco’s legs give out, but Harry catches him, lowering them both to the floor. He kisses him again, and again, and again, until they’re both breathless.

“Say it,” Draco whispers, voice hoarse. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” Harry says. “I’m yours.”

---

They walk out of the classroom hand in hand.

Heads turn in the corridors. Whispers erupt. A first-year Hufflepuff drops her books.

Draco doesn’t care. He pulls Harry to a stop in the middle of the entrance hall, right where everyone can see. He stands on his tiptoes—Draco’s still slightly shorter—and kisses him again, slow and deliberate, a statement for the whole castle.

When he pulls away, his grey eyes are bright, no longer full of fear.

“Good,” Draco says, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Now everyone knows.”

Harry laughs, a real laugh, warm and unguarded. “Knows what?”

“That you’re mine,” Draco says, and for the first time in his life, he says it without tears.

Harry pulls him close, pressing his forehead to Draco’s. “I think I can live with that.”

And in the Great Hall, where the enchanted ceiling shows a sky of endless stars, a group of Slytherins cheers, a gaggle of Gryffindors groans, and the Weasley twins start taking bets on how long it’ll take McGonagall to catch them snogging in the alcoves.

But that’s a worry for another day. Today, Draco Malfoy has Harry Potter’s hand in his, and that’s all that matters.