The Taste of Salt and Regret

The autumn wind smelled like leaves and woodsmoke, the kind of crisp that made you want to pull your scarf tighter. Students were scattered across the courtyard, soaking up the last warm days before November turned everything grey. Harry sat on the low wall with Hermione and Ron, working on an apple, half-listening to them argue about Charms homework.

Then he saw him.

Draco Malfoy stood by the fountain, back half-turned, his hair catching the weak sun like it was made for it. And he was laughing—not the cruel, cutting laugh Harry knew, but something lighter, almost sweet. A girl with auburn hair stood close, her hand on his forearm, tilting her head back, laughing. They were angled toward each other, the kind of closeness that meant something. Intimacy. Flirtation. Harry’s stomach clenched.

Hermione was still talking, but Harry couldn’t hear her. He watched Draco’s lips move, watched the girl’s fingers slide up his arm. Draco brushed a strand of hair from her face. She blushed.

Something hot stabbed through Harry’s chest. It wasn’t jealousy. Couldn’t be. He hated Malfoy. Hated him with everything he had. So why did his throat burn? Why were his fingers crushing the apple until the skin split?

“Harry? You listening?”

He stood up. The apple fell into the grass. “Be right back.”

Ron called after him, but Harry was already moving, feet carrying him across the courtyard on autopilot. The laughter got louder. He could see her face now—pretty, freckles, bright green eyes. Ravenclaw, maybe. She was giggling.

Harry stopped in front of them.

“Malfoy.”

The smile on Draco’s face flickered, then twisted into that familiar sneer, but his grey eyes showed something else—surprise, curiosity. “Potter. Come to gawk? Or do you need an autograph?”

Harry ignored him. Turned to the girl. “You’re wasting your time.”

Her smile dropped. “Excuse me?”

“He’s a git. He’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, then toss you aside like a used quill.” Harry’s voice was low, shaking. “He doesn’t care about you.”

Her face flushed. “Who are you to—”

“Leave,” Harry said, and his voice cracked. “Just leave.”

She looked at Draco, who stood with his arms crossed, smirking. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”

Draco shrugged. “He’s the famous Harry Potter. Who am I to argue?”

Her eyes went wide—comprehension, maybe disgust. She gave Harry a venomous look, then turned and stalked off.

Harry’s chest heaved. He didn’t know why he was still standing there, hands trembling, eyes stinging.

“Well, well,” Draco drawled. “First Potter takes my snitch, now he takes my girls. Anything you don’t want?”

Harry’s vision blurred. “Shut up.”

He grabbed Draco’s robes—soft fabric, warmth underneath—and shoved him back against the fountain’s stone edge. Nearby students gasped. Harry didn’t care. He was so close he could see flecks of blue in Draco’s grey eyes, smell his cologne, clean and expensive.

And then, before his brain caught up, Harry leaned in and pressed his lips to Draco’s cheek.

Barely a kiss. A brush. A gasp of contact. Harry felt the slight stubble, the sudden tension in Draco’s jaw, the sharp intake of breath. Then he pulled away, face burning, tears spilling down his cheeks.

He didn’t say another word. He turned and ran.

The whispers started immediately.

“Did you see that?”

“Potter just kissed Malfoy.”

“On the cheek, but still—”

“Was that a threat?”

Harry didn’t hear them. He was already halfway to Gryffindor Tower, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything.

Fred and George Weasley appeared in the courtyard moments later, having watched from a window. They descended on Draco like crows.

“Well, well, Malfoy,” said Fred, grinning. “Didn’t know you had an admirer.”

“The Boy Who Lived to Snog?” George added. “Bit forward for Potter, isn’t it?”

Draco was still pressed against the fountain, one hand touching his cheek where Harry’s lips had been. His expression was unreadable—shock, maybe wonder, maybe rage.

“He’s lost his mind,” Draco said flatly.

“Or he’s found it,” Fred said. “Either way, you’ve got a boyfriend, mate.”

“He’s not my—he’s not anything.”

But even as he said it, Draco’s fingers traced the spot on his cheek. The skin still tingled.

That night in the Slytherin common room, the whispers had mutated into full-blown gossip. Pansy Parkinson was furious, demanding to know what Potter thought he was doing. Blaise Zabini watched Draco with knowing eyes. Crabbe and Goyle grunted.

“Is Potter your girlfriend now?” Pansy snapped. “Because that’s what everyone’s saying.”

Draco laughed, hollow. “Potter? My girlfriend? The Chosen One can’t even choose a side.”

“He chose you,” Blaise said quietly. “On the cheek.”

The words hung there.

Draco didn’t sleep that night. He lay in his four-poster, staring at the canopy, replaying the moment over and over. Harry’s hand on his robes. The desperation in those green eyes. The warm press of lips on his skin.

He didn’t understand it. Why would Harry do that? Chase away a girl who was clearly interested. Cry. It made no sense.

Unless… unless Harry wanted him.

The idea was absurd. Harry Potter, golden boy, Gryffindor hero, wanting Draco Malfoy? Laughable. Impossible.

But the image wouldn’t leave, and neither would the strange, tight feeling in his chest.

So the next morning, Draco decided to test a theory.

He found a Hufflepuff boy in the corridor near the potions classroom—shy, sandy-haired, a third year who looked at Draco like he was a magical creature. Draco leaned against the wall, smiled slowly, and let his hand rest on the boy’s shoulder.

“You’re in Herbology, aren’t you?” Draco said, voice low and honeyed. “I’ve seen you with the Venomous Tentacula. You’ve got a way with plants.”

The boy stammered something affirmative, cheeks turning pink.

And then Harry appeared.

He came from nowhere, eyes wild, wand half-drawn. He stepped between Draco and the Hufflepuff, voice shaking. “Get away from him.”

The Hufflepuff boy blinked. “I—what?”

“He’s not worth your time,” Harry said, not looking at the boy. Eyes fixed on Draco. “He’s poison.”

“Potter,” Draco said, smirk returning. “Jealous?”

Harry’s face went red. He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to the Hufflepuff boy. “Leave. Now.”

The boy, intimidated, scurried away.

Harry stood there, breathing hard, hands clenched. Then he turned and walked off without a word.

Draco watched him go, a strange thrill running through him. So that was it. Harry Potter was jealous. Harry Potter wanted him.

The game had begun.

Over the next few days, Draco flirted with anyone who would look at him. A Ravenclaw girl near the library. A Gryffindor boy at the Quidditch pitch—the look on Harry’s face when he saw that was priceless. A Slytherin fifth year, pretty with dark curls. Each time, Harry appeared, like a summoned ghost, jealousy palpable, interventions clumsy and desperate.

“Leave her alone, Malfoy.”

“He’s just using you.”

“Don’t you have any self-respect?”

The insults were weak, the pleas transparent. And each time, Harry would touch Draco—a hand on his arm, a shove to his shoulder, once even grabbing his wrist and holding so tight Draco felt the pulse jump.

The student body started noticing. Whispers followed Harry in the corridors. “Did you see him again? At the lake? He practically growled at that Beauxbatons girl.”

Ron and Hermione were at a loss.

“Mate, what’s going on?” Ron asked one evening in the common room. “You’ve been stalking Malfoy all week.”

“I have not,” Harry snapped.

“You have,” Hermione said gently. “I counted six different people you interrupted. What’s wrong?”

Harry pressed his palms to his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

It was the truth. Every time he saw Draco with someone else, a red fog descended. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He only knew he had to stop it, had to make them go away, had to have Draco’s attention on him even if it was cruel.

Better Draco’s scorn than his indifference.

The climax came in the Great Hall on a rainy Thursday.

Dinner was in full swing, the enchanted ceiling a grey swirl of clouds. Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, picking at his food, gaze drifting to the Slytherin table as always. Draco was at the far end, surrounded by his usual cronies. And there was a girl next to him—pretty sixth year, dark hair, low-cut robe, leaning into him, hand on his chest.

Draco was smiling down at her, whispering something that made her laugh.

Harry’s blood went cold.

He watched as the girl leaned closer, as Draco tilted his head. Then her lips met his.

The kiss was slow. Deliberate. Open-mouthed. Draco’s hand came up to cup her jaw.

Something inside Harry broke.

The world tilted. Sounds of the hall—chatter, clatter of cutlery—became a roar in his ears. He stood up, chair scraping back. Ron said something, but Harry couldn’t hear. His vision tunnelled, narrowing to that single image.

He started walking. Then stopped.

Because his legs gave out.

He fell to his knees on the stone floor, and then the tears came. Great, heaving sobs wracking his whole body. He couldn’t breathe—the air wouldn’t come—his chest was a cage of iron bands squeezing tighter. His hands clawed at his robes, at his throat. He was drowning.

Around him, the hall went silent.

“Harry!” Hermione was at his side, hands on his shoulders. “Harry, look at me, breathe—”

But he couldn’t. He was shaking, teeth chattering, vision going dark. “Can’t—can’t breathe—”

Ron was shouting for Madam Pomfrey. Someone screamed. Whispers turned to gasps.

Then blackness.

He woke in the hospital wing, ceiling white and blurred. Head throbbing. Chest ached.

“He’s awake.”

Hermione’s face swam into view, eyes red-rimmed. “Harry, you scared us to death.”

“What happened?”

“A panic attack,” she said softly. “Severe one. Madam Pomfrey said… it was like you couldn’t handle something. You collapsed.”

Harry closed his eyes. The memory of the kiss flooded back, fresh pain washing through him. He turned to the pillow.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t talk about it.”

But the damage was done. The whole school knew. Harry Potter—the hero, the saviour—broke down in the Great Hall because Draco Malfoy kissed a girl.

The accusations started almost immediately.

“He’s a monster.”

“Malfoy knew what he was doing. He was toying with Potter.”

“It’s cruel. Even for him.”

Students who never spoke to Harry now cast sympathetic glances his way. The Slytherin table was quiet.

Draco sat at dinner the next evening, aware of the stares. Pansy refused to sit next to him. Blaise looked at him with something like contempt.

“You went too far,” Blaise said.

“I didn’t do anything,” Draco said, but his voice was hollow.

“You know what you did. You knew he was watching. You kissed her on purpose.”

Draco opened his mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Because it was true. He’d seen Harry’s eyes across the hall, and he’d leaned in and kissed that girl just to see what would happen.

He hadn’t expected Harry to collapse. He hadn’t expected that horrible satisfaction to curdle into guilt.

The next afternoon, Draco found himself standing in front of the hospital wing door. He didn’t know why he was there. Maybe to gloat. Maybe to see the damage. Maybe because something in his chest wouldn’t let him stay away.

He pushed open the door.

Harry was alone, sitting up in bed, glasses off, face pale and blotchy. He looked small. Fragile. When he saw Draco, his eyes widened, then filled with something that broke Draco’s rhythm.

Not anger. Not hatred. Hurt.

“What do you want?” Harry’s voice was hoarse.

Draco walked to the bedside table and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. Held it out.

“Drink this.”

Harry stared at the glass. “What is it?”

“Water.”

Harry’s eyes met his. A long pause. Then Harry said, too quiet, “Is it poison?”

Draco’s heart stuttered. He had considered it. The thought had crossed his mind—a cruel joke, a test. But hearing Harry say it made the blood drain from his face.

“What if it were?” Draco asked, barely above a whisper.

Harry’s hand trembled as he reached for the glass. He took it, fingers brushing Draco’s.

“Then I’d drink it.”

And he did.

He raised the glass to his lips and drank the whole thing, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He didn’t hesitate. He put the empty glass down and looked at Draco with tears in his eyes.

“There,” Harry said. “Is that what you wanted?”

Draco stood frozen. His chest ached with something he didn’t have a name for. He’d come here to hurt Harry, to prove his power, to understand. Instead, Harry had handed him the blade and said, Use it.

“It was just water,” Draco said, voice thick.

Harry’s shoulders sagged. “I know.”

“Then why?”

Harry laughed, wet and broken. “Because I’d rather die than see you kiss someone else again.”

The words hung between them, raw and vulnerable and terrifying.

Draco sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to process the enormity of what Harry had just given him—his life, his trust, his heart.

“Potter…” he started.

“Harry.”

Draco swallowed. “Harry.”

The name felt different on his tongue. Softer. More dangerous.

“I don’t understand you,” Draco said. “You hate me.”

“I thought I did too,” Harry whispered. “But then I saw you with her, and I knew. I’ve always known. Since the first time you laughed in the courtyard. Since the first time you looked at me like I was beneath you but also the only thing worth looking at.”

Draco’s hand moved of its own accord, reaching out to cup Harry’s cheek. The skin was warm, damp with tears. Harry leaned into the touch.

“This is insane,” Draco said.

“I know.”

“We’re enemies.”

“I know.”

“Your friends will hate you.”

“I don’t care.”

Draco’s thumb traced the line of Harry’s jaw. “You’re a fool.”

“I know.”

And then Draco leaned in and kissed him—not on the cheek, but on the lips. Soft, tentative, tasting of salt and regret and something that could become desire.

When they pulled apart, Harry’s eyes were open, clear, full of desperate, foolish hope.

“Don’t kiss anyone else,” Harry said. “Please.”

Draco looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded.

“I won’t.”

It wasn’t a promise of love. Not a declaration of peace. It was the beginning of something twisted and obsessive and dangerous—a bond forged in jealousy and pain, tested by cruelty, sealed with the willingness to die for the other.

In the quiet of the hospital wing, as rain tapped against the windows and the world outside turned slowly toward war, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter held on to each other like drowning men.

It wasn’t a happy ending.

But it was a start.