It's Not A Love Potion (Drarry)

Chapter 1

Harry Potter walked absently from the Great Hall in the direction of the large marble staircase leading to the upper floors of Hogwarts Castle. He had just finished his lunch of bacon sandwiches (with lots of ketchup) and was looking forward to an afternoon spent on the Quidditch pitch, enjoying the crisp weather of mid-November in the air with his best friend.

He just needed to nip to Gryffindor Tower to grab his Firebolt (which he still refused to keep in the broomshed with the other brooms; yes, it was a pain to climb eight staircases every time he wanted a quick fly, but he really didn't want the Firebolt to get damaged or stolen), and then he'd be off. A homework-free afternoon was a rare luxury when Hermione Granger was your friend and you were in your seventh and final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Harry intended to enjoy every minute of it.

He was already six steps up the staircase when he caught sight of something that shouldn't be there. A student – male, blond and in fifth or sixth year, from what Harry could tell – was crouched against the wall, knees tucked to their chest, arms wrapped around them, head bowed.

His curiosity (and yes, okay, his saving people thing) got the better of him and he tentatively called out.

"Er, are you okay?"

The person visibly tensed, but gave no response. Harry climbed back down the stairs and tried again.

"Hello? Are you all right? Do – do you want me to get a teacher or something?"

Still no answer, although whoever it was seemed to be trying to curl themselves into the smallest shape possible.

"I'm not going to hurt you or anything... can you talk?"

"Sweet mother of Merlin, you never give up, do you, Potter?" came the somewhat muffled reply. Harry stared.

"Malfoy?! What the – what are you doing?"

"I'm having a party, Potter, what does it look like? And you are not invited. Leave. Now."

Harry suddenly realised that his mouth was hanging open and hastily closed it. He was at a total loss. Did he try and get Malfoy to talk? Help him? Hex him while he was down?

In the end, his Gryffindor side won his Slytherin one, and he (somewhat reluctantly) moved his hand away from his left sleeve, where he kept his wand, and walked over to where Malfoy was curled up.

"Listen, Malfoy. Are you – I mean, what – what's going on?"

"Go away, Scarhead!" Malfoy spat, flinching away from Harry's voice. "Or, wait, no, lead me to a really pretty girl... actually, on second thoughts, this is you we're talking about. I'd probably end up standing in front of a Weasley. Or Loony Lovegood. Yeurgh. No, just leave me here. Just walk away and leave me alone. That would be best."

Harry gaped at him. "You're not making any sense, Malfoy."

Malfoy laughed somewhat hysterically into his knees. "No, I suppose I wouldn't be," he mumbled to himself. "And yet, you're still here. Why is this, exactly?"

Harry folded his arms stubbornly and glared at the top of the blond head. "I don't see why I shouldn't be. It's not your Entrance Hall," he said, before belatedly realising how childish that sounded.

Malfoy surprisingly didn't pick up on his juvenile slip. "Believe me, Potter, you don't want to be here almost as much as I don't want you to be here. Just trust me, will you?"

Harry stared. "Now I know there's something wrong with you," he said finally, shaking his head.

He leaned forward yanked hard on Malfoy's arm to try and get him to stand up. And it worked, too; Malfoy half rose and stumbled forward, right into Harry. Malfoy's eyes snapped open and his hands flew out to keep himself from falling flat on his face, but he still ended up clutching the front of Harry's robes.