You’re Harry

The curtains around your four-poster bed were drawn tight, muffling the golden light that filtered through the windows. The air was warm, still, and smelled faintly of parchment and the cinnamon bun Draco had smuggled in from the kitchens. They’d skipped classes—Potions, Charms, even Defense Against the Dark Arts—and spent the day tangled in whispered conversation, laughter, and long stretches of silence that felt safer than anything outside these walls.

Now, Draco lay curled against your chest, his platinum hair soft against the hollow of your throat. His breathing was slow, steady. Asleep. You hadn’t meant to drift off yourself, but the weight of Draco’s body, the rhythm of his breath, the quiet—it had lulled you.

A sudden burst of voices shattered the stillness.

“Harry—what the hell—”

“Is that—Malfoy?!”

Your eyes snapped open. Ron stood frozen near the foot of the bed, mouth agape. Hermione clutched a stack of books to her chest, her expression flickering between confusion and alarm. Neville hovered behind them, wide-eyed and silent.

Draco stirred but didn’t wake, his hand still resting lightly over your heart.

Your voice caught in your throat. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The moment stretched, taut and fragile, like a spell waiting to break.