Chapter 1: The Jersey Under Her Robes
The Quidditch changing rooms smelled like a war zone. Sweat and stale magic hung in the air, thick enough to taste. Steam curled from the shower stalls in lazy spirals, catching the dim light and turning it ghostly. Somewhere in the distance, a locker door creaked on its hinges, groaning under the weight of damp robes stuffed inside.
Harry should have been home by now.
He should have been anywhere but here, standing in the shadows between rows of metal lockers, his heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. His Auror training screamed at him to turn around, to walk away, to file this under things I definitely did not see and never think about it again.
But his feet wouldn't move.
Because two rows over, half-hidden behind a pillar of rusted lockers, Draco Malfoy was pulling off her Slytherin robes.
And underneath, she was wearing crimson and gold.
Harry's breath caught somewhere in his throat. The jersey was old—he recognized the fraying hem, the faded number seven, the way the fabric had stretched just slightly at the shoulders from years of use. His jersey. His old Gryffindor Quidditch jersey, the one he'd thought he'd lost sometime during eighth year, the one he'd torn apart his trunk looking for before giving up and assuming it had vanished into the void along with half his socks.
Potter was stitched across the back in gold thread.
She wore it like a second skin. The hem barely grazed her thighs, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the collar loose enough to slip off one pale shoulder. Her platinum hair was pulled back in a messy knot, strands escaping to curl against her neck. She hadn't noticed him yet. She was too busy folding her robes with careful, deliberate movements, her back to him, his name blazing across her shoulders like a brand.
Something hot and possessive coiled in Harry's chest. It wasn't rational. It wasn't gentle. It was the same feeling he got when he caught a suspect trying to flee—the sharp, instinctive certainty that this was his and someone had dared to take it.
"Nice jersey."
His voice cut through the steam like a blade. Malfoy went rigid. Her hands stilled on the folded robes, fingers curling into the fabric. For a long moment, she didn't turn around. Didn't speak. Just stood there with her back to him, wearing his name like she had every right to it.
When she finally faced him, her gray eyes were wide but not surprised. Like she'd been waiting for this. Like she'd known, somehow, that he would find her.
"Potter." Her voice was steady. Too steady. "This isn't what it looks like."
"No?" Harry stepped closer. His boots echoed against the wet tile. "Because it looks like you're wearing my jersey. In the Slytherin changing rooms. After hours."
"It's comfortable."
"It's mine."
She tilted her chin up, that familiar defiance flickering across her sharp features. But there was something else there too—something fragile, something she was trying desperately to hide. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
"I was going to give it back."
"Were you."
"Eventually."
Harry stopped a few feet away. Close enough to see the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, the slight tremor in her hands, the flush creeping up her neck. Close enough to smell the familiar scent of her—something clean and sharp, like winter air and expensive soap.
"How long?" he asked.
Malfoy blinked. "How long what?"
"How long have you had it?"
She didn't answer. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and for the first time in all the years he'd known her, Draco Malfoy looked small. Vulnerable. Like a girl caught doing something she couldn't explain, even to herself.
"Since eighth year," she whispered.
Harry's stomach tightened. Eighth year. That was three years ago. Three years of her stealing into the Gryffindor common room, or bribing a house-elf, or—he didn't want to think about how she'd gotten it. Three years of her wearing his jersey. Sleeping in it, maybe. Pressing it to her face in the dark.
The thought should have disgusted him. It didn't.
"Why?"
Malfoy's jaw clenched. She looked away, toward the lockers, toward the steam, toward anywhere but him. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"You'd laugh."
"I'm not laughing."
She was silent for a long moment. Then, so quietly he almost missed it: "I've always... watched you. Even when I hated you. Even when I told myself I didn't care. I watched you, and I wanted—" She stopped. Swallowed. "It doesn't matter what I wanted."
Harry's heart was pounding now. Hard and fast and reckless. He thought about all the years of animosity, the insults and the hexes and the strange, charged electricity that had always crackled between them. He thought about the way she'd looked at him during the war, broken and terrified and still too proud to ask for help. He thought about the way she looked now, wearing his colors, standing in the steam with her secrets laid bare.
"It matters," he said.
Malfoy's eyes snapped to his. There was fear there. And hope. And something raw and desperate that made his blood run hot.
"Potter—"
"Harry."
Her breath hitched. "Harry."
The sound of his name in her mouth—soft, uncertain, stripped of all pretense—did something to him. The last thread of his restraint snapped clean in two.
He closed the distance between them in two strides.
Malfoy didn't flinch. Didn't step back. Just stood there, chest heaving, as he crowded her against the lockers. The metal was cold against her back, and she gasped when it made contact with her bare shoulder. Harry braced one hand beside her head, trapping her, and leaned in until his lips were a breath away from hers.
"You've been wearing my jersey," he said, low and rough. "You've been walking around with my name on your back, thinking about me, wanting me, and you never said a word."
"Would you have listened?"
"I'm listening now."
Something shifted in her expression. The fear melted away, replaced by something fiercer, something that burned. She held his gaze for a heartbeat, two, three—and then, without a word, she sank to her knees.
The wet tile squelched beneath her. Steam curled around her shoulders. She looked up at him through her lashes, gray eyes dark and hooded, and Harry forgot how to breathe.
"Malfoy—"
She didn't speak. Just reached for his belt with steady hands, undid the buckle, pulled the leather through the loops with a soft whisper of friction. Her fingers brushed against his hip, and he shuddered.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Her voice was quiet but certain. There was no hesitation in her movements, no shame in the way she looked at him. Just hunger. Just years of wanting, finally given permission to exist.
Harry's hand found her hair. He didn't pull, didn't force—just rested there, fingers tangled in platinum strands, as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the growing bulge in his trousers.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She smiled against him—he felt it, the curve of her mouth through the fabric—and then she was unzipping him, pulling him free, and the first touch of her tongue against his cock nearly made his knees buckle.
"Draco—"
The name slipped out before he could stop it. She made a sound, low and desperate, and took him deeper. Her mouth was hot and wet and perfect, her tongue curling around the head, her hand working the base in slow, deliberate strokes. Harry's head fell back against the lockers. The metal rattled. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe groaned.
She worked him like she'd been thinking about this for years. Like she'd imagined it a thousand times in the dark, alone, wearing his jersey and touching herself. The thought made him harder. Made him reckless.
He pulled her off him—gently, but firm. She looked up, lips swollen, eyes questioning.
"Get up."
She rose on shaky legs. He spun her around before she could speak, pressing her chest against the cold metal of the lockers. She gasped, palms flat against the steel, and he heard the sharp intake of breath when he pushed the jersey up over her hips.
No knickers. Of course there were no knickers.
"Were you planning this?" he asked, voice ragged. "Coming here, wearing this, hoping I'd find you?"
She didn't answer. Just pressed her forehead to the locker and arched her back, offering herself to him without a word.
Harry groaned. He ran his hand down her spine, felt the tremor that followed, and then he positioned himself at her entrance and pushed inside.
She was wet. Soaking. Ready.
"Fuck," she gasped, fingers scrabbling against the metal.
Harry didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled out and slammed back in, hard, and she cried out—a sound that echoed off the tiles and filled the empty room. The bench behind them creaked. The lockers rattled. Steam curled around their bodies like smoke.
He fucked her like he'd been wanting to for years. Like she was his and always had been. One hand gripped her hip, the other tangled in her hair. The jersey—his jersey—was bunched around her waist, and every time he thrust into her, he could see his name stitched across her back, gold on crimson, a claim she'd made on him long before he'd ever realized he wanted to be claimed.
"Harder," she begged.
He gave her harder.
The slap of skin against skin filled the room. Malfoy's moans were getting louder, less controlled. She pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, and he could feel her tightening around him, could feel the way her body was winding toward something inevitable.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Please, don't—"
"I'm not stopping."
He leaned over her, pressed his lips to the back of her neck, bit down. She shuddered and came with a broken cry, her whole body clenching around him. Harry fucked her through it, chasing his own release, and when it hit him—when he spilled inside her, hot and deep—he buried his face in her hair and groaned her name like a prayer.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The steam swirled around them, lazy and indifferent. The lockers had stopped rattling. The only sound was their ragged breathing, slowly returning to normal.
Harry pulled out. Malfoy straightened, turned, and faced him. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a mess, his jersey still bunched around her waist. She looked wrecked. She looked beautiful.
She looked at him like she was waiting for him to leave.
He reached out and tugged the jersey back into place, covering her. His fingers brushed her collarbone, and she shivered.
"I'm keeping this," she said, voice hoarse.
Harry laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm. "You think I'm letting you keep it after all that?"
"It's mine now."
"It's mine."
She tilted her head, a ghost of her old smirk flickering across her lips. "Then come take it back."
Harry stared at her. At this woman who had spent years pretending to hate him while secretly wearing his colors, touching herself in the dark, waiting for a moment that might never come. At this woman who had just dropped to her knees for him without hesitation, who had given him everything without asking for anything in return.
He should walk away. He should tell her this was a mistake, a one-time thing, something that couldn't happen again.
Instead, he reached for the hem of her jersey and pulled it over her head.
"Later," he said, tossing it onto the bench. "First, I want to see you without it."
Malfoy's breath caught. Her eyes went wide, then dark, then hungry.
"You're going to ruin me, Potter."
Harry pulled her toward him, fingers digging into her hips.
"That's the idea."
Malfoy's breath caught. Her eyes went wide, then dark, then hungry.
"You're going to ruin me, Potter."
Harry pulled her toward him, fingers digging into her hips.
"That's the idea."
He kissed her.
Not like before—not frantic and desperate, not the messy collision of years of pent-up wanting. This was slower. Deliberate. He wanted to taste her properly, to learn the shape of her mouth without the haze of lust clouding everything. Her lips parted under his, soft and yielding, and she made a small sound in the back of her throat that vibrated against his tongue.
His hands slid up her sides, over the curve of her ribs, until his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. She arched into him, pressing closer, and he felt the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against his chest.
"Wait," she breathed against his mouth.
Harry pulled back immediately. His hands dropped to his sides. "What's wrong?"
Malfoy's cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, her hair a disaster of platinum tangles. She looked like she'd just been thoroughly fucked, which, to be fair, she had. But there was something uncertain in her expression now, something vulnerable that made his chest ache.
"This isn't—" She stopped, swallowed. "I didn't plan this. Any of it. I just came here to change after practice, and then you were there, and I—"
"You panicked?"
"I didn't panic."
"You sank to your knees without saying a word."
She glared at him. There was the Malfoy he knew. "I was being efficient."
Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. The sound echoed off the tiles, bright and unexpected, and Malfoy's glare softened into something almost like surprise.
"Efficient," he repeated. "That's one word for it."
"What would you call it?"
"Hot as hell."
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. "You're insufferable."
"And you're wearing my jersey."
"I was wearing your jersey. You took it off."
"I can put it back on you."
"Don't you dare."
They stared at each other. The steam had thinned, leaving the air cooler, but neither of them moved to get dressed. Harry's trousers were still undone, his shirt rumpled, his hair sticking up in every direction. Malfoy stood in front of him wearing nothing but a flush and a defiant expression.
She should have looked ridiculous. She looked like a painting.
"Why me?" Harry asked.
The question hung between them, heavier than he'd intended. Malfoy's expression flickered—something guarded passing over her features before she smoothed it away.
"Don't ask stupid questions."
"It's not stupid."
"It is." She crossed her arms over her chest, defensive. "You know why."
"I don't."
"You're Harry Potter."
"I'm aware."
"You're—" She stopped. Frustration flickered across her face. "You're you. You've always been you. The boy who lived, the chosen one, the bloody savior of the wizarding world. You walked into Hogwarts at eleven years old and everyone knew your name. Everyone wanted to be near you, to know you, to have even a scrap of your attention. And I—"
She broke off. Her jaw clenched.
"You what?"
"I hated you."
"You've mentioned that."
"I hated you because I wanted to be you." The words came out in a rush, like she'd been holding them back for years and couldn't contain them anymore. "I hated you because my father talked about you like you were a threat, because my mother whispered your name like a curse, because everyone in my family looked at you and saw everything we weren't. I hated you because you had friends who loved you, because you had a destiny, because you had a reason to exist beyond being a Malfoy."
Harry was silent.
"And then I watched you," she continued, quieter now. "During the war. During the trials. During everything. I watched you fight and bleed and lose and keep going anyway, and I realized I didn't hate you at all. I never did. I just—"
"Wanted me."
"Yes."
The word landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spread outward, disturbing everything Harry thought he knew.
He stepped closer. Malfoy didn't back away.
"Why didn't you say something?"
"What was I supposed to say? 'Hello, Potter, I know we've spent the last decade trying to destroy each other, but actually I've been in love with you since I was thirteen and I'd appreciate it if you'd fuck me senseless'?"
Harry blinked. "In love with me?"
Malfoy's face went red. Actual, visible, mortifying red. "I didn't mean—that's not—forget I said anything."
"Too late."
"Potter—"
"Harry."
She made a frustrated noise. "This is exactly why I didn't say anything. You're impossible. You're arrogant and reckless and you walk around like you own the world and I—"
"I own your jersey."
"You own my—what?"
Harry reached past her and grabbed the jersey off the bench. He held it up, letting the fabric dangle between them. "This. My name. My colors. You've been wearing it for three years."
"So?"
"So that makes it mine."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"It makes perfect sense." He stepped closer, crowding her against the lockers again. She didn't resist. "You've been walking around with my name on your back, thinking about me, wanting me, and I didn't know. Do you have any idea how infuriating that is?"
"Infuriating for you?"
"Yes."
"You're unbelievable."
"I know."
She laughed. It was a real laugh, surprised and bright, and it transformed her face. Harry had never heard Draco Malfoy laugh before. Not like this. Not genuine and warm and unguarded.
He wanted to hear it again.
He dropped the jersey and kissed her. Softer this time, almost gentle. She melted into him, hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and he felt the tension drain from her body.
When they broke apart, she was looking at him differently. Like she was seeing something she hadn't expected. Like maybe, just maybe, she was starting to believe this was real.
"I should go," she said.
"Go where?"
"Home. My flat. Somewhere that isn't a Quidditch changing room."
"Why?"
She stared at him. "Because it's late and I'm half-naked and covered in sweat?"
"Sounds like a good reason to stay."
"Sounds like a terrible reason to stay."
Harry shrugged. "I'm an Auror. I make questionable decisions all the time."
"You make questionable decisions constantly. It's practically your defining trait."
"And yet here you are."
"And yet here I am."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. A real smile. Small and almost shy, like she wasn't quite sure what to do with it.
"I don't know what this is," she said. "I don't know what happens tomorrow, or next week, or—"
"Neither do I."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"I'm not trying to make you feel better." He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She shivered. "I'm trying to be honest. I don't know what this is. I don't know if it's a mistake or the best decision I've ever made. But I know I'm not done with you yet."
Malfoy's breath caught. "Not done?"
"Not even close."
She looked at him for a long moment. Her gray eyes searched his face, looking for something—a lie, a joke, a reason to run. Harry let her look. He had nothing to hide.
Finally, she nodded.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." She reached down and picked up her discarded robes, pulling them on over her bare body. The fabric swallowed her, erasing the curves he'd just spent an hour memorizing. She grabbed her wand from the bench and cast a quick cleaning charm on both of them.
"We're going to my flat," she said. "Because I'm not doing this in a changing room again."
"Again?"
"Don't push your luck, Potter."
"Harry."
She paused at the door. Turned. Looked at him standing there in the dim light, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his hair a disaster, his eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"Harry," she said. Softly. Like she was trying the word on for size.
Then she walked out.
Harry grabbed his discarded jersey from the bench, pulled it over his head, and followed.
The corridor outside was empty. Malfoy was already halfway to the Apparition point, her robes billowing behind her, her stride confident and sure. Harry jogged to catch up, falling into step beside her.
"You're wearing it," she said, glancing at him.
"Told you. It's mine."
"It's still on my body."
"Not for long."
She shot him a look. Heat flickered in her eyes. "You're presumptuous."
"And you're still wearing my colors."
"They're under my robes."
"Same difference."
She stopped walking. Turned to face him. The moonlight streaming through the high windows caught her hair, turning it silver, making her look like something out of a dream.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
"Doing what?"
"Acting like this is normal. Like we didn't just—like we're not—"
"Like we're not what?"
"Like we're not enemies who just fucked in a changing room after ten years of mutual hatred."
Harry considered this. "Were we ever really enemies?"
"Yes."
"Or were we just two people who didn't know how to be anything else?"
Malfoy was silent.
"I don't hate you," Harry said. "I never did. Not really. I hated what you represented, I hated the things you said and did, but I never hated you. I think I knew, even then, that you were just as trapped as I was. Just as scared. Just as desperate for something that made sense."
"And now?"
"Now I'm standing in a corridor at midnight, wearing my own jersey and following you to your flat, and I don't know what that means. But I know I want to find out."
Malfoy stared at him. Her eyes were bright, almost glassy, and Harry realized with a start that she was close to tears.
"Draco—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "Don't say anything else. Just—come on. Before I change my mind."
She turned and kept walking. Harry followed.
The Apparition point was at the end of the corridor, a small alcove tucked behind a tapestry of a dancing troll. Malfoy stopped in front of it, held out her hand.
"You'll need to side-along."
Harry took her hand. Her fingers were cold, but they curled around his without hesitation.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Been ready for years."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. And when the world dissolved around them, Harry held on tight.
They landed in a small, dimly lit flat that smelled like cedar and something floral. Malfoy waved her wand, and candles flickered to life on every surface. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with volumes both old and new. A leather sofa sat in the center of the room, draped with a Slytherin-green throw blanket. It was warm and lived-in and nothing like the cold, sterile manor he remembered.
"It's not much," she said, dropping her wand on a side table.
"It's perfect."
"You haven't even looked around."
"I don't need to." He tugged her toward him. "I'm not here for the decor."
She laughed—that same surprised, bright laugh—and let herself be pulled.
"You're impossible," she murmured against his lips.
"And you're beautiful."
"Flattery won't work on me."
"Good thing I'm not trying to flatter you."
He kissed her again. Slower this time, deeper, like they had all the time in the world. Her hands found their way under his shirt, nails tracing patterns on his back. He groaned and pressed her against the wall, and she wrapped her legs around his waist like she'd done it a thousand times.
Maybe she had. Maybe in her dreams, wearing his jersey, she'd imagined this exact moment.
The thought made him wild.
"This time," he said, between kisses, "we're doing it properly."
"Properly?"
"Bedroom."
She pointed down a short hallway. "Second door."
He carried her there, her weight light in his arms, her lips never leaving his. The bedroom was small but cozy, dominated by a large four-poster bed with dark green curtains. He dropped her onto the mattress and stood back, drinking her in.
Her robes had fallen open, revealing the smooth expanse of her stomach, the curve of her breasts still hidden beneath the fabric. She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him with those sharp gray eyes.
"Well?" she said.
"Well what?"
"Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to finish what you started?"
Harry grinned. "You're bossy."
"And you're slow."
He climbed onto the bed, settling his weight over her, pinning her to the mattress. She gasped, arching up, and he felt every inch of her body pressing against his.
"I'm not slow," he said, low and rough. "I'm thorough."
"There's a difference?"
"You're about to find out."
He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the hollow between her breasts. She whimpered and tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging him closer.
"Off," she demanded, pulling at his shirt. "This needs to come off."
He sat back just long enough to yank it over his head, then tossed it aside. Her gaze raked over him—the scars, the muscles, the ink he'd gotten after the war. She traced the line of a particularly jagged mark on his chest.
"Acerbus," she murmured.
"How'd you know?"
"I was there. I remember." Her fingers traced lower, over his stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers. "I remember everything."
"Then you remember how I looked at you."
"How did you look at me?"
"Like you were a puzzle I couldn't solve."
"And now?"
"Now I'm done solving. Now I just want to feel."
Her robes slid off her shoulders with a whisper of fabric. She was bare beneath, all pale skin and sharp angles, and Harry had to stop for a moment just to breathe her in.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're worth staring at."
She flushed. It was adorable. Draco Malfoy, flustered by a compliment.
"You're going to ruin me, Potter."
"Harry."
She smiled. "Harry."
He bent down and took one nipple into his mouth. She cried out, back arching off the mattress, hands fisting in the sheets. He worked her slowly, deliberately, switching between breasts until she was writhing beneath him, breathless and desperate.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need."
He kissed his way down her stomach, over her hips, until he reached the apex of her thighs. She was already wet, already ready, and when he pressed his mouth to her she nearly came off the bed.
"Fuck—"
He licked into her, slow and steady, learning her rhythms, her tastes, the way she moaned when he hit just the right spot. Her hands tangled in his hair, holding him there, and he let her. He'd stay here forever if she'd let him.
But she was pulling him up, tugging at his belt, at his trousers, and he kicked the rest of his clothes off and covered her body with his.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Are you?"
He answered by pushing inside her.
They both groaned. She was tight and hot and perfect, and he had to stop, had to breathe, had to tell himself this was real and not some fever dream.
"Move," she demanded. "For the love of Merlin, move."
He did.
It was different than the changing room. Slower. Deeper. More intimate. He watched her face as he thrust into her, watched the way her eyes fluttered closed, the way her lips parted, the way her cheeks flushed with color. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he buried his face in her neck and let himself fall.
"You're mine," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
He drove into her harder, and she cried out, nails digging into his back. The bed creaked beneath them. The candles flickered. Somewhere in the flat, a clock ticked steadily onward, indifferent to the world ending.
"Harry—I'm close—"
"Let go. I've got you."
She came with a broken cry, body clenching around him, and he followed a moment later, spilling inside her as ecstasy crashed over him like a wave.
For a long moment, they just lay there. Harry's weight pressed her into the mattress, his breath warm against her neck. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his back.
"Not done with me yet?" she murmured.
"Not even close."
"You're going to be the death of me."
"And you're going to be the best decision I ever made."
She was silent for a moment. Then she pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
"Stay," she said.
"I wasn't planning on leaving."
"Good."
He rolled off her, pulled the blanket over them both, and gathered her into his arms. She fit there perfectly, her head tucked under his chin, her body curled against his.
Tomorrow, they'd have to figure out what this meant. Tomorrow, they'd have to deal with the fallout—the questions, the stares, the inevitable gossip. Tomorrow, everything would be complicated.
But tonight, in the soft glow of candlelight, with Draco Malfoy warm and sated in his arms, Harry let himself believe this was enough.
Outside, the moon hung low over London, indifferent to the two people tangled together in a small flat, writing the first chapter of something neither of them had expected.
It was a good beginning.
It was only a beginning.
And for the first time in years, Harry couldn't wait to see what came next.