Draco hadn’t meant to watch Potter all through dinner.
In fact, he had very specific intentions to do the exact opposite—avoid him entirely, maybe focus on the new Arithmancy theory, or argue with Theo about the wandless magic technique. But then Potter had flinched.
It was a barely-there moment. A Slytherin brushed past the Gryffindor table, and Potter’s hand darted instinctively to his arm, his fingers curling over his sleeve like something might crawl out from beneath it.
Draco’s fork paused mid-air. His eyes narrowed.
That wasn’t normal.
He’d seen Potter get knocked off his broom and bounce. This? This was too delicate. Too deliberate. Like he was checking for something that wasn’t supposed to be there.
“Alright, Malfoy,” Blaise said as he slid onto the bench beside him. “Why are you staring at Potter like he just insulted your tailoring?”
Draco jumped slightly, caught. “I wasn’t staring.”
Blaise raised a perfectly groomed brow. “You’ve been glaring at the back of his head for ten minutes. Either declare a duel or start writing sonnets.”
Pansy appeared across the table and dropped onto the bench like a queen returning to court. “Oh Merlin, is he still doing the thing?”
“What thing?” Draco asked flatly.
“The Potter thing. The broody, pouty, I'm not interested but let me memorize his earlobes thing.”
“I’m not—! I was monitoring. He flinched. It was suspicious.”
Theo leaned in casually, looking vaguely amused in the way he always did when he smelled chaos on the horizon. “You do realize the last time you monitored someone like this, it was because you thought Goyle had stolen your hair tonic.”
“He did,” Draco muttered. “His hair smelled like bergamot for a week.”
From beside him, a small, velvety voice purred, “Maybe Potter’s been using it too.”
Draco didn’t even look. “Don’t start, Ingrid.”
The fox, perched daintily on the bench between him and Blaise like she belonged at every proper meal, flicked her tail against his arm. “Just saying. You’ve got a type. And apparently, it includes trauma, bad posture, and a typical sign of mental regression”
“I do not have a type,” Draco snapped.
“Sure,” Pansy said, her face stoic and her lips seemed to almost want to thin out. “You just have a recurring pattern of extreme emotional investment in one messy-haired, morally complicated Gryffindor.”
Draco tried to stab his peas with a bit more intensity than necessary. "He could be cursed or something; who knows if it's something I could get.”
“Mm-hmm,” Blaise hummed. “Cursed with irresistible charm.”
Theo nodded gravely. “The most dangerous kind.”
Ingrid tilted her head and said serenely, “Maybe he’s cursed you.”
Draco turned, horrified. “What is wrong with all of you?”
Pansy beamed at him, her smile too wide, almost as if to taunt him, but there was a feeling of reclusion in her eyes. “You’re entertaining. And emotionally repressed.”
Blaise added, “And the Potter obsession is our new favorite drama. Don’t take that from us.”
“I am not obsessed,” Draco hissed. “I’m just—keeping an eye out. Strategically.”
“For reasons,” Theo supplied helpfully.
“Exactly.”
“And the dreams?” Ingrid murmured with wicked amusement.
Draco froze.
Blaise’s head snapped around. “Oh, you’re dreaming about him now?”
“No,” Draco said quickly. “She’s lying. She’s literally a fox. They lie.”
Ingrid yawned. “I’m an emotionally intuitive magical creature. You wish I were lying.”
Draco turned his face deliberately away from their snickers and back to Potter—who was now laughing at something Weasley had said, though that hand still brushed his arm now and then like he was feeling for something. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t over.
Draco frowned.
And despite his friends’ torment, despite Ingrid’s knowing gaze and Pansy’s dramatic swoons, something tight in his chest twisted at the thought. Because he’d seen that expression on someone before.
He’d worn it himself.
That barely-there panic. That quiet check-in. That little whisper of, Am I still whole?
Something had happened.
And he didn’t know what infuriated him more—the fact that Potter was clearly hiding something, but despite that, Draco had other things to worry about.
His back had ached for days, maybe weeks, and it was getting unbearable the more the days went on. He had read up on all the books about what could be happening and it narrowed it down to only three things.
His body might be actively trying to focus on a specific part of his body to redirect the bond's effect of long separation to avoid him trying to end the pain by different means. I.e suicide.
Or it could be that his spinal cord was straightening to ensure correct posture for his body to get his body used to the many gifts bestowed on his unique self. Note the sarcasm.
But it could also be that he was growing his wings. It's kinda like baby teeth, you have to break them to get in the new teeth. So, in this case, all the bones in the way of his wings will either be broken and have to be extracted, or they will mold into his wing structure.
Sounds good, but that would be the bone that would have to appear through his flesh and muscle just to spring out and sprout feathers.
Draco shuttered at the thought, but all he could do was eat, and his mother would hopefully write back.
YOU ARE READING
Redemption | Drarry (Old version. Incomplete)
FanficSixth year at Hogwarts was supposed to be just another step toward the future, but for Harry Potter, it became something else entirely. A sudden shift in his magic, an unshakable instinct gnawing at the edges of his mind, and a pull toward something...
