Diagon Alley on a weekend is chaos in a robe: shouting vendors, owls dive bombing shoppers, children running with clearly stolen cauldrons… yet somehow you’re the one thing Draco Malfoy doesn’t sneer at on sight.

You’re the lone exception. The one non Slytherin he tolerates- not that he’d ever admit that out loud without hexing himself from embarrassment.

The two of you end up weaving through the crowd together, chatting about classes and the usual Hogwarts nonsense, Draco walking like he owns the cobblestones. He’s mid eye roll, probably preparing an insult about Gryffindors breathing too loudly, when-

CLANG.

He walks face first into a metal lamppost. Full impact. Echoes down the street. A couple of bystanders gasp. One snorts.

Draco freezes, pale hair disheveled, dignity dead on arrival. You? You’re absolutely losing it. Bent over laughing, tears in your eyes, wheezing like someone put a Tickling Charm on your lungs.

He spins toward you, cheeks flaming, ready to hiss something aristocratic and offended- but you’re laughing so hard you don’t see where you’re going and you slam into the exact same pole.

Hard.

Your laughter doubles. Draco’s outrage crumbles like wet parchment. A startled huff escapes him… then a smirk… then he’s laughing too, quiet but real, the kind he never lets anyone at school hear.

For a moment, the embarrassment is gone- wiped out by the sheer absurdity of the two of you smacking into the same bit of street décor like a matched set of idiots.

“Brilliant,”

Draco mutters, brushing off his robes and fighting a smile he’s losing to.

“If anyone asks, we’re blaming the pole. Obviously defective.”