A Quidditch Poster Come to Life

Sunday mornings in the Slytherin common room were rarely this quiet. Green light from the Black Lake drifted through the windows, splashing wavy patterns across the dark stone floor. Most of the house was still passed out after a late night in the Room of Requirement, but Draco Malfoy didn't believe in wasting daylight.

He was sunk into one of the deep leather armchairs by the fire, a copy of Advanced Potion-Making open on his lap—except he hadn't turned a page in maybe ten minutes. His attention was elsewhere. On the figure sprawled across the opposite sofa, completely unselfconscious and annoyingly magnetic.

Harry Potter lay on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, chest rising and falling in that easy rhythm of total contentment. He wore a simple red jersey with Potter 05 across the chest, the fabric stretched tight over his shoulders and biceps. Sleeves rolled up, showing forearms corded with muscle—the kind you get from years of Quidditch and, Draco suspected, from hauling the weight of the entire wizarding world around. His trousers were baggy grey things that bunched around his trainers. The contrast made his build look even more ridiculous.

Draco's eyes traced the line of Harry's arm—from his wrist up to where the sleeve hugged his bicep. He wet his lips.

"You look like a Quidditch poster come to life," Draco said, using that particular drawl he only pulled out for compliments disguised as insults.

Harry lifted his arm just enough to peek at him. One green eye caught the dim light. "Is that a good thing?"

"It's adequate." Draco set his book aside and stood in one fluid motion, the satin of his black top whispering against his skin. The shirt was cut low in front and completely open in back, held together by a thin chain that caught the light. His pale shoulders were bare, and along his spine, a spray of beauty marks stood out like scattered stars. His nails were glossy jet black, and he'd taken time with his makeup—a subtle wing of eyeliner, highlighter on his cheekbones, lips tinted a soft rose. He knew he looked good. And he knew Harry knew it too, from the way Harry's eye had tracked him since he sat down.

Harry sat up properly, his hair a riot of dark curls, and stretched. The jersey pulled tight across his chest, and Draco felt his composure crack a little.

"Come here," Harry said, his voice soft but commanding.

Draco arched an eyebrow. "Bold, Potter."

But he crossed the space anyway—he always did when Harry used that tone. He stood in front of the sofa, looking down with a carefully constructed mask of cool disinterest. Harry reached out and caught his hand, fingers calloused and warm, and traced the line of Draco's shiny black nail polish.

"You look beautiful today," Harry said, and the sincerity in his voice made something twist pleasantly in Draco's chest.

"I look beautiful every day," Draco replied, but his hand turned in Harry's grip, their fingers linking together.

"You do." Harry tugged him down, and Draco went willingly, settling onto Harry's lap with practiced ease. The satin of his top slid against Harry's jersey. He curled an arm around Harry's neck, letting his bare back press against the cool air.

Harry's hand found the exposed skin of Draco's waist, thumb stroking a slow, idle pattern. "This top is unfair."

"It's fashion."

"It's a weapon." Harry pressed a kiss to Draco's shoulder, lips warm against pale skin. "You're trying to distract me from my Potions essay."

"Bonus." Draco tilted his head, fingers combing through Harry's dark hair. "But your essay's on the Draught of Living Death, and you've already mastered it. You're just procrastinating."

"Caught me." Harry grinned against his skin, and Draco felt the curve of it settle into his bones.

They sat like that for a while, the fire crackling and the lake sighing against the windows. Draco traced the line of Harry's jaw, the dip of his collarbone, the scar on his forehead—something he'd once thought of as a mark of shame and now thought of as a mark of survival. Harry's hands roamed the bare skin of Draco's back, mapping the moles there like constellations.

"You have no idea," Harry murmured, "how much I love that you let me do this."

"Do what?"

"Touch you. Like this." Harry's voice was low, reverent. "When I was younger, I thought you'd hex me if I got within three feet."

"I did hex you. Several times."

"True." Harry laughed, and the sound vibrated through Draco's chest. "But this is better."

Draco leaned down and kissed him, soft and slow—a brush of lips that said more than words could. When they broke apart, Harry's eyes were dark, his breathing uneven.

"We should take a photo," Draco said, a little breathless.

Harry blinked. "What?"

"A photo." Draco pulled his wand and conjured his phone—a sleek silver Mugglish device his mother had bought him after much persuasion. "For my Instagram story. The Ravenclaws will seethe."

"You want to show me off."

"I want to show us off." Draco stood, tugging Harry to his feet. "Stand there, by the window. The light's perfect."

Harry raised an eyebrow but complied, moving to the tall arched window where the greenish light pooled on the flagstones. He crossed his arms, which only made his biceps bunch, and gave Draco a look that was equal parts amused and indulgent.

"Like this?"

"Turn slightly. Good. Now—" Draco raised the phone, framing the shot. "No, wait. Better idea."

He crossed to Harry and pressed the phone into his hand. "Hold this."

Harry took it, confused, while Draco positioned himself in front of him, back against Harry's chest. He tilted his head back, looking up at Harry with half-lidded eyes.

"Put your arm around me," Draco instructed. "Around my neck."

Harry's arm came up, thick and warm, looping around Draco's throat. Not tight—never tight—but possessive. A statement. Draco's breath caught as Harry's bicep pressed against his jaw, the muscle firm and undeniable. He could feel the heat of Harry's body along his spine, the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

"Like this?" Harry's voice was a rumble against his ear.

"Perfect." Draco lifted the phone, angling it to capture both of them—Harry's arm around his neck, his own hand holding the device, the green light casting their features in soft shadow. He pressed his lips together slightly, as if he were being silenced, and snapped the photo.

He pulled back to look at it. The image was striking: Harry's muscular arm in the red jersey, sleeve stretched tight, curving around Draco's pale throat. Draco's eyes half-closed, lips parted, his black nails stark against the phone. Intimate, suggestive, utterly magnetic.

Draco smiled. "This will break the internet."

"The wizarding internet, maybe," Harry said, but he was smiling too, arm still around Draco's shoulders.

Draco posted it to his Instagram story with a single emoji: a black heart. Tagged Harry's handle—Pottersnitch76—and set it to public.

It took maybe thirty seconds for the first reaction.

Blaise Zabini: Did you two just murder the entire school with one photo?

Pansy Parkinson: I can't breathe. I'm dead. Draco, I'm dead.

Theodore Nott: Harry's arm. That's not a human arm. That's a weapon.

Luna Lovegood: The moles on your back look like the constellation Leo. Very auspicious.

Dean Thomas: No wonder Gryffindor keeps winning Quidditch. Look at that man.

Seamus Finnigan: DEAN DON'T MAKE IT WEIRD.

Draco read the comments aloud to Harry, who buried his face in Draco's shoulder, laughing. "They're going to be insufferable at lunch."

"Let them." Draco pocketed his phone, fingers brushing Harry's. "We deserve to be insufferable."

By the time they made it to the Great Hall for lunch, the story had been viewed by nearly the entire school. Students turned as they entered, whispers rippling through the tables like wind through grass. Draco walked with his head high, hand loosely linked with Harry's, the satin of his top shimmering in the candlelight. Harry walked beside him, relaxed but alert, grip steady.

They sat at the Slytherin table—a development that had taken months of negotiation and exactly one confrontation with McGonagall—and were immediately swarmed by Draco's housemates.

"Potter, your arm," Blaise said, pointing with his fork. "What do you do with it?"

"Quidditch," Harry said, reaching for a bread roll. "And lifting Draco."

Draco kicked him under the table, but his cheeks flushed with pleasure.

"I'm serious," Pansy said, leaning across the table. "You two look like you walked out of a magazine. The contrast is everything. Harry, you're all rugged and strong, and Draco, you're like... ethereal. Like a Victorian ghost who's also a fashion model."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Draco said, deadpan.

"Don't get used to it."

From across the hall, voices carried from the Gryffindor table. Ron Weasley was staring at them with an expression of bemused acceptance, while Hermione Granger was smiling—actually smiling—at Harry, which Draco still found unsettling.

"Your friends are looking at us," Draco murmured, reaching for Harry's hand under the table.

"They're used to it." Harry linked their fingers together, thumb stroking over Draco's knuckles. "Hermione said we're 'endgame.' I don't know what that means, but she said it with a lot of confidence."

Draco snorted. "She reads too many Muggle novels."

"Probably."

Lunch passed in a pleasant blur of teasing and quiet touches. Draco caught several people sneaking photos of them, but he didn't mind. Let them look. Let them whisper. He and Harry were something worth whispering about.

A first-year Hufflepuff approached their table, trembling, and asked if she could have a photo with them for her sister. Draco agreed, Harry smiled for the camera, and the girl walked away looking like she'd just met celebrities.

"We're a spectacle," Harry said, watching her retreat.

"We're iconic," Draco corrected, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

After lunch, they escaped the crowd. Draco led Harry through a series of winding corridors, past a tapestry of dancing trolls and a suit of armor that snored loudly, until they reached a narrow alcove tucked behind a statue of Gregory the Smarmy. Quiet here, the distant hum of the castle the only sound.

Draco pressed Harry against the cold stone wall and kissed him.

Harry responded immediately, hands finding Draco's waist, pulling him close. The satin of Draco's top was smooth against his palms, and he slid his hands up, over Draco's bare ribs, feeling his warmth.

"I've wanted to do that all day," Draco murmured against his lips.

"You've been kissing me all day."

"Not like that." Draco pulled back, eyes tracing the lines of Harry's face—the scar, the glasses slightly askew, the flush on his cheeks. "Not with an audience."

Harry smiled, soft and helpless, and ran his hand down Draco's arm to lace their fingers together. He lifted Draco's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, right over the black nail polish.

"You're perfect," Harry said.

"Flattery."

"Truth." Harry kissed his palm. "I love the makeup. I love the nails. I love the way you look at me like I'm something worth looking at."

"You are." Draco's voice was quiet now, stripped of its usual drawl. "You're everything worth looking at, Harry."

Harry's breath hitched, and he tugged Draco closer, wrapping his arms around him in a full embrace. Draco melted into it, cheek resting against Harry's chest, the thump-thump of his heartbeat steady and sure.

They stood like that for a long moment, the stone cool against their backs, the air still and warm. Draco traced idle patterns on Harry's back, over the ridges of his muscles beneath the jersey, and Harry pressed his lips to Draco's hair.

"I could stay here forever," Harry said.

"Then we'd miss tea."

"Worth it."

Draco laughed, the sound muffled against Harry's chest. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"I do." Draco pulled back, just enough to look up at him. "I love you."

Harry's eyes went soft, the green impossibly bright even in the dim light. He cupped Draco's face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and kissed him—slow, deep, full of everything they hadn't said aloud.

When they broke apart, Draco was smiling, his lipstick slightly smudged, eyes bright.

"Let's go find a proper place to sit," Harry said, voice rough. "Before I lose all self-control."

"That ship has sailed, Potter."

"Then let's sink it together."

They walked back through the corridors, hand in hand, footsteps echoing in the empty halls. The afternoon light slanted through the high windows, painting golden stripes on the stone floor. Draco caught a glimpse of their reflection in a suit of armor—his pale, elegant figure beside Harry's sturdy, warm one—and felt a surge of pride so fierce it almost hurt.

They settled in an empty classroom on the fourth floor, one with a large window overlooking the Black Lake. The waves rippled below, dark and endless, and the sky was a pale wintery blue. Draco sat on the windowsill, back against the frame, and Harry sat between his legs, leaning back against his chest.

Draco's arms wrapped around Harry's waist, chin resting on his shoulder. Harry's hands covered his, fingers interlocking.

"Today was perfect," Harry said, voice quiet.

"It's not over yet."

"Then it's going to be perfect."

Draco pressed a kiss to the side of Harry's neck, feeling his pulse flutter. "I love you," he said again, because the words felt new every time—like discovering a secret you'd always known.

Harry turned his head, meeting his eyes. "I love you more."

"Impossible."

"Try me."

Draco laughed, the sound bright and genuine, and Harry kissed him—soft, sweet, a promise sealed in the quiet of an empty classroom.

Outside, the lake murmured against the castle walls, and somewhere in the Great Hall, students were still talking about the photo on Draco's Instagram story, about the way Harry's arm curved around Draco's throat, about the black heart and the elegance and the undeniable rightness of them together.

But here, in this moment, there was only the two of them—Potter and Malfoy, Gryffindor and Slytherin, Harry and Draco.

And that was more than enough.