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Crazy Eyes

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Draco Malfoy hates being the Potions professor… actually, no, he quite enjoys that part. But he does hate that his students are absolutely smitten with the new DADA professor, Harry bloody Potter. Did that make him a hypocrite? Maybe, but he never claimed to be anything else.

The bespeckled git had only been there for a month and every single person in the castle was wrapped around his finger (including Draco himself, not that he'd admit it). Every day his students gossip about ‘Professor Harry' and his un-tamable raven hair or crazy classroom exercises or his wicked scar or how his eyes are so green and sparkly and blah blah blah. Annoying, the lot of them.

And really, how can Potter be so interesting? Sure, he saved the world from a homicidal maniac and made it to head auror in only five years after Hogwarts before quitting and becoming a professor and did a few impressive demonstrations during class (not that Draco ever watched Harry's classes, of course not), but surely there were other things to talk about. Anything. Anything but bloody Harry Potter. Mercy.


“Professor Malfoy?”


Draco pauses, in the middle of grading a stack of Potions essays, and looks up from his desk, immediately recognizing the student speaking as the first year Hufflepuff girl, Emilia Zambini. “Yes, Miss Zambini?”


“Uhm… Harry says he needs your help with something,” She mumbles shyly, twirling a lock of fiery red hair in her hand. “He said to meet him on the seventh floor.”


Draco almost groans in annoyance. Bloody Potter insists that his students call him ‘Harry,’ Salazar knows why. It's bothersome, hearing that name being thrown around so casually. It's just so disrespectful . The git even had the nerve to ask that Draco call him by his first name too! Ridiculous. As if he'd ever do that. As if he'd ever want to. Although he did kind of like when Potter called him ‘Draco,’ but that's different.

He waves a hand towards the door. “Fine fine, thank you, you can go now.”


Emilia nods once and scurries out the door. A nice enough girl, for being the product of the Weaslette, but she is, surprisingly, a bit shy. The Weasley-Zambini wedding was still fresh in his mind, full of clashing reds and greens and a weird-but-somehow-appropriate quidditch theme. (Not to mention Potter was there too and damn did he clean up nicely- but of course, he barely noticed.)


With a put-off sigh, he lifts himself from his chair and locks the office behind him before heading to the seventh floor.

Why Potter would want him specifically he has no clue. (And the thought of being alone with the raven haired idiot made his heart race, not that that means anything, of course. Shut up.)

It takes him a few minutes to climb all the stairs, the ridiculous moving staircases, and quickly spots Potter standing in front of an old and familiar-looking tapestry.


Potter waves him over with a wide grin. “Hey, Draco! Thanks for coming, Headmistress needs us to move something for her.”


“And why, pray tell, did you need me for this job?” Draco drawls as he approaches the other professor. They didn't hate each other anymore (not that he ever really hated Potter, but he had to back then). Of course, they weren't friends either. The Savior graced him with a few nods and smiles and greetings, and a brief conversation about forgiveness and putting the past behind them (which he readily agreed to, although they still teased each other on occasion), but they weren't friends. Barely acquaintances. “Surely a little magic is all you need to move whatever it is you need to, something even you can do by yourself, Potter .”


“Actually, Draco, I do need your help. It's a magical object, spells don't affect it very well so I need another person. Come on, I'll show you.” Potter winks, making Draco's heart skip (no it didn't shut up), and motions to the bare wall in front of him. After a moment, a large pair of doors, intricate and ancient, appeared from the wall.


Draco inhaled sharply. He remembered those doors, of course. How could he forget? The flames, Crabbe and Goyle, grasping tightly around Harry's waist… he hadn't visited the room since, although he knew it was cleaned and repaired with the rest of the castle. After what he did why would the room even want him there?

Potter pushed the doors open and stepped through, followed by Draco as soon as he snapped out of his thoughts. Potter led them through the Room of Hidden Things, now with much less things in it and a few remaining scorch marks. Draco avoids looking at those as best he can, instead focusing on Potter's back (upper back upper back do not look lower ) as they weave through the objects strewn around. Eventually Potter stops in front of a large mirror. It looks old, covered in cobwebs and full of dust, with some strange jumbled letters near the engraved top.


“Ta da! The Mirror of Erised,” Potter smiles at him, looking a bit smug.


Draco glances from the mirror and back to his moronic companion before huffing impatiently. A mirror? There has to be more to it than that. “What's so magical about a mirror, Potter? Care to explain?”


Potter's eyebrows furrow slightly and he quickly looks into the mirror himself, staring for a while before glancing back to Draco, seeming confused. “What do you see in it?”


Draco rolls his eyes. Deciding to indulge the Savior, he stares blankly into the mirror for a full fifteen seconds (he counted, of course), waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he gives up. “It's a mirror, obviously I see us.”


“But…” Potter trails off, face scrunched up like a frustrated crup before his eyes widen and a wide smile stretches his lips. “Wait, just us? You just see us? As we are?”


“What on earth are you blathering about?” Draco huffs again, but takes another look at the mirror. It's definitely them, since it's a bloody mirror . What is- oh, wait. Potter's reflection and his own are strangely close together, and also… “No, it's not exactly us. You aren't wearing your hideous glasses. Is that significant?”


“What? Draco, you realize I need those to see, right?”


“Of course, I'm not an idiot, unlike someone here,” Draco responds, flashing Potter a teasing smirk. “I'm just saying what I see. And besides, you've had those horrendous things since we were eleven. They're being held together by a piece of muggle tape, for Merlin's sake. You realise you can repair them, right? Or, you could use a spell to fix your eyes themselves. You're a wizard after all.”


Potter gives him a sheepish smile, raising a hand to mindlessly adjust said horrible glasses. “I know, I just got used to it, I guess. They remind me of- uh… anyway, is there anything else there?”


Draco glances to the mirror once more before shaking his head. He easily ignored Potter's weird behavior, Salazar knows the man never got much better at social interactions since their childhood, even with all the press attention and galas and being the bloody Head Auror for a year.


“Alright, help me shrink this thing down? Headmistress McGonagall said we should bring it to the storage room in the sub-dungeons. Do you know where that is?”


“Of course I do, Potter.” Draco huffs before pulling out his wand, the one Potter so graciously gave back to him after his trials.


With a flick of his wrist and a quick Diminuendo the mirror began to shrink, but he noted it only shrunk about half of what he would expect. Apparently Potter was right about the mirror being resistant to spells.

Potter mimicked his spellwork and the mirror shrunk a bit more, but not enough for one person to carry.


Draco flicked his wrist again, attempting to shrink the mirror a third time, and frowned when nothing more happened. “Now what?”


Potter smiles at him, that infuriating sparkle lighting up his green eyes. “Now, we carry it.”


Excuse me?” Draco folded his arms in front of his chest, one eyebrow raised incredulously. “If you really think I'm lugging that thing all the way to the dungeons, with you of all people, you're more mad than I thought.”


Potter barked out a laugh and shoved his wand in his back pocket (a terrible place for it really, get a wand holster like everyone else, weren't you an auror?). “Come off it, you ponce, you'll be fine. We can't levitate it, I don't want to risk the spell failing and break the mirror.”


“Bloody nutter,” Draco mumbled, but knew Potter had a point. He didn't understand what was so special about this mirror, but he didn't want to be the cause of it breaking. “Fine. You're taking the heavier side.”




Draco wanders back into his office thirty minutes later, irate and speckled with dust and cobwebs. With a huff, he sits back down in his chair and pulls out a quill to continue his grading.

It wasn't too bad, considering. They managed to carefully carry the shrunken mirror down the bloody ridiculous moving staircases and leaned it against the wall inside the storage room in the dungeons before enlarging it again and locking it inside. With Potter, it could have been much worse. Although it was highly suspicious how the raven haired moron kept looking at Draco and grinning like the absolute madman he is. Honestly, the Boy Who Lived must have lost his mind recently… or maybe it was lost long ago and just hid it fairly well.

A soft sigh slipped from his lips and he quickly cast a charm to clean up his attire. Then, he reluctantly continuing to grade the essays he started before Potter sent for him. Forty-five centimeters… What was he thinking when he assigned this‽




The next day, Draco strolls through the doors to the Great Hall and takes his seat at the head table, the previous day's events almost completely forgotten. He was between Potter (because of course) and Professor Trelawney near the left end. Luckily, the downright strange Divinations professor never spoke to him and Potter was almost always late, so he didn't have to try to make awkward conversation with the twat. Not that he would have anyway, but Potter himself would likely try to start something that would end in disaster.

Headmistress McGonagall stands in front of the podium and says a few words, which Draco pays no attention to. How much could it really matter to him? Besides, if Potter doesn't have to listen to them and sees no consequences, he shouldn't either.


Ah, speak of the devil. Potter rushes through the main doors as the headmistress finishes her speech and plops down next to Draco, panting like he ran here- which he probably did (again, absolutely mad, that one).


“Morning, Draco. Thanks again for helping me out yesterday. Guess I owe you a favour, yeah?” Potter grins and winks at him before reaching out and scooping some steaming hash browns onto his plate.


Draco exhales, exasperated, and turns towards Potter to tell him off before noticing something. Something that really shouldn't make him feel the things he's feeling. Potter isn't wearing his glasses. And it really shouldn't matter but it does . It does because were Potter's eyes always that bright and green and absolutely breathtaking? They were always a pretty shade of green (of course he noticed, how could he not?) but now… perhaps those frames were just so disgusting that they ruined whatever beauty was behind them (not that Potter is beautiful but- oh fuck it, he has always been bloody gorgeous and the lack of glasses made it impossible to deny). Those verdant eyes with flecks of pure gold, wild black hair, full, absolutely sinful lips. Fucking Harry Potter just had to be bloody perfect in every way just to piss him off the universe must hate him- wait, why isn't he wearing his glasses? “Potter, how on Earth did you forget to wear the things that allow you to see?”


Potter blinks at him (with distractingly long, black eyelashes, bloody hell), then smiles again. “Oh, I didn't forget them. ‘Mione gave me these contacts to try out, apparently muggles use them a lot. I can see a lot better with these, too! I kinda just found those old glasses in my cupbo-uh… anyways, these are good.”


Now you can see? You mean to tell me that all these years you never actually saw clearly?”


“Yeah,” Potter replies sheepishly, raising a hand to scratch at the slight stubble running along his jaw (it suits him quite a lot, if Draco's rapid heart rate is any proof). “I didn't know it got any better than that… but it's great! Everything has so much more detail. For example-” Potter leans closer to him, eyes flicking over his face as he tries to hold back a blush. “-I didn't know you had freckles.”


Draco quickly covers the bridge of his nose and the flush of his cheeks (he failed to push it down) with his hand, scowling halfheartedly. “Shut it, Potter, Malfoys do not have freckles.


Potter shrugs and moves back into his seat. “Dunno why not, I think they're cute.”


“What‽ They're not- I don't have- You're bloody insane, absolutely mad,” Draco sputters while Potter bursts out laughing. Did Potter just call him cute? No, can't be…




Draco is going insane. Maybe it's karma, from all the times he called Potter mad. Or maybe Potter is just trying to kill him.

For the past week, Potter has worn those godforsaken muggle contacts and batted his long eyelashes at Draco with that infuriating smile whenever they crossed paths, which was suspiciously often by itself. Potter was everywhere and it was driving him bonkers.


When he went to the library, Potter was casually perched on a chair, reading a book (a miracle in itself). Those dark lashes fanned over his tanned cheeks as he scanned the words, making Draco forget why he even went to the library in the first place.

When he sat alone in his office, Potter would come in with two cups of tea and talk to him for a time, forest-green eyes bright and happy and distracting. Draco never really responded aside from a light hum or a raised eyebrow, but Potter didn't seem to mind at all. He never got any work done with Potter there, though he pretended to be busy.

When he arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast or dinner, Potter was there. Perched on his chair with the most innocent smile on his face. All through the meal Potter would brush their shoulders or legs or hands together (were their chairs always this close?) and not acknowledge it, though there's no way it could be accidental.

Draco has never been this combination of confused and turned on.




It took until the end of the week for him to snap. Vowing to confront Potter, he marched up to his office and burst through the door with a loud bang.


Potter clearly wasn't expecting him, judging how he jumped a foot in the air and dropped the stack of papers he was holding all over the floor. The Savior was, weirdly enough, a bit of a disaster.

“Draco! What the hell‽” He exclaims, then glowers and flicks his wand to re-organise the papers and float them to his desk.


“Shut up, Potter. You have to stop… whatever it is you're doing,” Draco blathers out, exasperated. “Stop- just stop being everywhere with your- You. Stop it.”

Only the Boy Wonder could get Draco Malfoy, the prince of eloquence, to be this much of a mess. Maybe the disaster is contagious.


Potter shoves his wand in his pocket before glancing to Draco's face, bright green eyes blinking innocently (infuriatingly). “My… me? What do you mean?”


Draco sneers, disbelieving. “Oh please, ever since you got rid of those horrifying glasses you've been everywhere. Everywhere , Potter, with your… your crazy eyes!”


“My crazy eyes?” Potter huffs a laugh.


“Yes! You know exactly what I'm talking about you heathen, don't play innocent with me!”


“Draco, you're honestly making no sense. Why do my eyes bother you?” Potter asks, with two completely unnecessary bats of his eyelashes and a sly smile that only infuriates Draco further.


Draco huffs and strides closer before aggressively poking Potter's cheek. “Sly Slytherin doesn’t suit you, Potter, you know exactly what I'm talking about and I demand an explanation!”


“Er… alright, fine.” Potter shrugs, smiling sheepishly. Draco’s rage only built at the nonchalonce the other man had at being called out. At least grovel or something! “I'll tell you, if you can figure out why the Mirror or Erised is special.”


“What? Wh-no! I'm not going on some ridiculous quest when you can just tell me.”


Potter shrugs again, smirking now. “Then I guess you'll never know.”


Draco bristles and narrows his eyes, glaring at the un-bespeckled git furiously for a few seconds before he sighs and backs down. Potter is well-known for his stubbornness, after all. Might as well get it over with. “Fine, I'll be back. Stay.”


“I'm not a dog!” Potter huffs, and Draco simply closes the office door behind him in response.


The easiest way to find the answers he needs is to ask Headmistress McGonagall. So Draco quickly makes his way over and stops in front of the large statue guarding the staircase to the Headmistress’ office.

“Strawberry yoghurt,” he mumbles out the password, feeling like an idiot (who comes up with these?), and the statue rises and rotates to reveal the stairs.

Draco climbs up, and is met with the sight of Headmistress McGonagall sipping tea with a bowl of biscuits on the round table in front of her. Since becoming the Headmistress, she obtained this air of knowing about her, similar to the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes when he knew something you didn’t and refused to clearly reveal it to you. Draco always hated that about the elderly man.


“Ah, good afternoon Professor Malfoy. How may I help you?” She motions to the seat across from her.


Draco sits and, after a moment’s hesitation, inhales sharply before asking, “Could you tell me about the Mirror of Erised? What does it do?”


McGonagall blinks in surprise and gently sets her teacup down on the table. “The Mirror of Erised? How did you hear of such a thing?”


“What do you mean? You told P- oh, that bastard.” Draco huffs, remembering just how sly Potter can be when he wants to. That idiot made him lug a mirror all the way to the basement for no reason! “Potter told me you wanted us to move it. Clearly he was mistaken.”


“Hm… I wonder why he would want to do that.” McGonagall's lips twitch into an amused smile before she hides it behind her teacup.


“Oh, I'll find out. But before that could you tell me about the mirror, please?”


“Very well. The Mirror of Erised has been here for many years. Mister Potter encountered it in his first year here, when he successfully stopped Voldemort from obtaining the Philosopher's Stone. It is a mirror with the power to show the heart's greatest desire. Whatever will make you truly happy will be shown in the reflection. Did you look in the mirror?”


Draco's cheeks slowly turn a light pink and he glances to the tabletop, avoiding McGonagall's gaze. The heart's greatest desire? Oh Merlin. That bastard. “I… I thought it was a normal mirror, at first…”


McGonagall's lips twitch into a full smirk. “Really? Only at first?”


“Yes, but in the mirror, Potter wasn't wearing his-” Draco's eyes widen in realisation. Potter knows what the mirror is.

That's why Potter hasn't been wearing those awful frames? That's why Potter has been- wait, he's going along with it. He got muggle contacts just to go along with what he knows is Draco's greatest desire (it's horrifying that Potter knew how he felt this whole time, but he can get back at him later). Does that mean… maybe he wants it too?

“My apologies, I have to go. Thank you for your time Headmistress!”


Without looking back, he darts out of the room and down the stairs before rushing towards Harry's office. Like before, he bursts through the door, but this time Harry seems prepared for it.


Instead of jumping, he rises slowly from his chair and smiles shyly. “Welcome back, Draco. Did you-”


“Shut up Harry,” Draco interrupts, quickly crossing the floor of the small office.

With the speed of a striking snake, he reaches out and grasps the front of Harry's jumper and pulls him close before leaning down and brushing his lips against the corner of Harry's mouth. When the raven did nothing but let out a short gasp, he righted himself and gently fused their lips together.

Draco kisses Harry slowly, watching as the breathtakingly green set of eyes in front of him fluttered closed before letting his own fall shut in turn. He feels Harry's fingers slide into his hair and moves one of his own up to cup Harry's cheek, the other trailing down and around his waist. As Harry sighs contently, he gently bites  Harry’s bottom lip in a question that is immediately answered by the slow meeting of tongues and the adjustment of angle to deepen the kiss.

It wasn’t searing flames or passion or fireworks like in those muggle books Pansy gave him. It was a faint buzzing in his chest, pleasant warmth where heat from Harry’s body soaked into his own, and the deep desire for this to be the beginning of something even greater.

After what felt like hours but was, in reality, only a minute, they pull apart. Warm breath ghosting over each others lips, Harry grins, cheeks flushed a nice pink that Draco never wants to go away.


“You called me ‘Harry,’ what does that mean?”


Draco rolls his eyes and pecks Harry’s lips again before letting go of the other completely and stepping back, ignoring the other’s pout. “It means you have a lot of explaining to do. What exactly have you been doing this past week?”


“Close the door and I’ll show you.”


And really, how could he be expected negotiate with that?