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Harry Potter had always been a yes-man.
Not because he wanted to be. Not because it made him feel noble or selfless or particularly kind. It was never a conscious decision at all. It was just—habit. Muscle memory. A survival instinct so deeply ingrained that he barely noticed it happening anymore.
“Yes,” came easily to him. Automatically. A reflex he didn’t have to think about.
Growing up with the Dursleys had taught him that early. Taught him that resistance only ever made things worse. That arguing was useless, that explanations were a waste of breath, that his opinions—his wants—were not only unimportant, but inconvenient. Saying no meant punishment. Saying no meant anger, shouting, cold shoulders, sometimes worse.
So Harry learned. He learned to nod along, to swallow his protests, to keep his head down and his mouth shut. He learned to smile when he was told to. To agree even when every instinct in his body screamed otherwise. Because agreeing kept the peace. Because agreeing meant survival.
And even when he finally left Privet Drive—when the cupboard was nothing more than a memory and the Dursleys were reduced to bitter Christmas cards and distant resentment—it didn’t stop.
It followed him to Hogwarts like a shadow.
It didn’t help that the entire wizarding world had been watching him for as long as he could remember. Every mistake magnified, every reaction twisted into a headline. Harry learned quickly that it was easier to agree than to be misquoted, easier to smile than to be torn apart by speculation. Saying yes kept the peace. Saying yes made him palatable. Saying no had a way of turning into something ugly in print.
If he wanted to keep his friends, if he wanted people to stay, then he had to be agreeable. Helpful. Easy. He said yes to late-night favors, to dangerous plans, to emotional labor he didn’t know how to refuse. He laughed things off. Took on more than he should have. Let himself be the reliable one, the uncomplaining one, the one who never asked for anything in return.
Because if people were happy, they didn’t leave.
And if making them happy meant putting himself second—or third, or dead last—then that was a price Harry Potter had learned to pay without question.
He told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t mind. That he was fine being flexible, accommodating, endlessly understanding. He told himself that wanting things was selfish anyway, and that it was easier—safer—not to want too much at all.
It worked. For years.
Until Draco noticed.
Draco had always been a bit of a menace when it came to his wardrobe.
He treated clothing less like necessity and more like provocation—an art form, really. He enjoyed pushing boundaries, enjoyed the way fabric and cut and intention could shift a room’s atmosphere in seconds. Statements were important to him. Reactions even more so. And, if he was being honest with himself—which he rarely was—he took a particular pleasure in seeing just how flustered he could make Harry on any given day.
It was never accidental. Draco chose his outfits with care, with deliberation. He knew exactly which lines to blur and which rules to toe. He knew the difference between confidence and scandal, and he danced right along the edge of it with infuriating ease.
So when he emerged from their dorm one afternoon wearing a shirt that was entirely too revealing, it was very much on purpose.
The fabric clung to him in a way that felt almost criminal—tight across his chest, sheer in places it absolutely did not need to be, and cut in a way that left very little to the imagination. It caught the light when he moved, drawing the eye whether one wanted it to or not. Draco looked effortless. Smug. Fully aware of the effect he was having.
Harry, who had been mid-sentence, stopped short.
His brows drew together immediately, mouth tightening as his gaze flicked up—and then, very pointedly, away. The frown appeared almost on instinct, sharp and unmistakable, as though his brain had registered problem before he’d even had time to process why.
Draco noticed, of course.
“Are you seriously wearing that out?”
Harry’s voice came out flatter than he probably intended, but his eyes had already betrayed him—flicking over Draco once before he could stop himself, then snapping stubbornly to Draco’s face as if proximity alone might be dangerous.
Draco’s mouth curved immediately. He turned on his heel, slow and deliberate, giving Harry a full, infuriating spin. The fabric caught the light as he moved, clinging and shifting in ways that felt very intentional. When he stopped, he cocked a hip and lifted his chin, eyes bright with mischief.
“Like what you see?” he asked lightly, smirk firmly in place.
Harry’s frown deepened, carving a line between his brows. His arms crossed over his chest—not defensive, exactly, but restrained, like he was holding something back. “Draco,” he said, exasperation creeping in despite himself, “you’re going to get cold.” Draco blinked. Once. Then his smile sharpened.
“Oh?” he said, tilting his head. “So you don’t like it?”
Harry hesitated, visibly so, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for words that wouldn’t sound like too much or not enough. His gaze dropped, then lifted again, uncertainty flickering across his face.
“I—” he started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I just think maybe—”
Draco raised an eyebrow, the motion subtle but pointed, a silent prompt hanging between them. He didn’t speak—didn’t need to. He simply waited, eyes sharp and expectant, daring Harry to finish the thought he’d started.
And just like that, Harry’s resolve crumbled.
“Actually—no, it looks good,” Harry said quickly, the words tumbling out too fast to be natural. He forced a smile onto his face, wide and practiced, like he was smoothing over a problem that only he could see. “Really good.”
Draco’s smirk faltered, not by much, but enough. Enough for the air to change. Enough for something sour to twist in his chest. That wasn’t what he’d expected.
He’d worn the shirt to tease—to provoke a reaction, maybe get a dramatic complaint, a flustered glance, a half-hearted scolding that didn’t quite hide the interest underneath. He’d expected banter. Heat. Pushback. This... wasn’t that.
Because Harry had frowned. Had looked at him like something was wrong, like he wanted Draco to change. And that had been—telling. And yet the moment Draco so much as questioned it, Harry had folded completely. Rewritten himself on the spot. Smoothed the moment into something agreeable, harmless, easy.
Too easy.
A cold unease settled in Draco’s stomach, slow and heavy, like the sudden realization that he’d just brushed against something far more fragile than he’d meant to.
Draco started paying more attention after that.
Once he noticed it, he couldn’t unsee it.
The pattern threaded through Harry’s days in ways so subtle most people would have missed it—small concessions, softened answers, the way he bent without being asked. Draco watched him now with sharper eyes, less amused, more… alert.
And the more he watched, the more he saw.
One afternoon, Harry was clearly exhausted. Not the dramatic, heroic sort of tired everyone was used to seeing, but the quiet kind—the kind that sank into his posture and dulled the light in his eyes. He rubbed at his temples as they walked, blinking slowly like it took effort to stay present. His shoulders were tense, his steps just a little sluggish.
Draco noticed all of it.
He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Didn’t prod. For once, he was keen on not bothering Harry at all. So he stayed quiet as they made their way back toward Draco’s room—away from the common areas, away from the noise. Somewhere they could actually have a moment of privacy. Somewhere Harry could curl up and get a proper nap before dinner without being interrupted.
They were almost there.
Then Ron bounded over, broom slung over his shoulder, energy radiating off him like he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Oi, Harry!” he called. “Let’s play a round of Quidditch!”
Harry stopped short.
For just a second—barely a heartbeat—his expression slipped. His mouth opened like he was about to say no, shoulders sagging in relief at the idea of rest instead. His gaze flicked to Draco, apologetic, tired, wordlessly asking for understanding.
Draco gave a small nod. It’s fine. Go rest. I’ve got you. But Harry didn’t say it.
Instead, he straightened and smiled.
“Yeah,” he said, voice light. “Sure.”
Draco frowned.
Harry had been wearing a shirt he clearly loved—one of the few things in his wardrobe that he had ever called his “favorite.” They were planning on going on a secluded little date outside (a picnic).
Draco had offhandedly suggested, “Maybe something else would suit the occasion better.”
Harry immediately changed without protest.
Harry had been wearing a shirt he clearly loved.
It wasn’t flashy or particularly expensive—just soft, worn-in at the edges, the kind of thing that had been washed enough times to mold perfectly to its owner. He wore it often when he was relaxed, when he wasn’t thinking too hard about how he looked. Once, offhandedly, he’d mentioned it was his favorite. One of the few things in his wardrobe he’d ever claimed like that, without qualification or embarrassment.
They were planning on going out—nothing grand, nothing public. Just a secluded little picnic, tucked away somewhere quiet where the world couldn’t intrude. Draco had been looking forward to it all day.
Harry had looked… comfortable. Happy, even.
Draco hadn’t meant anything by it. It slipped out casually, almost thoughtlessly, as he glanced Harry over. “Maybe something else would suit the occasion better.”
Harry didn’t argue. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t hesitate.
He just nodded once, already turning toward the wardrobe. “Okay,” he said easily, like the decision had been obvious. Like it had never been his shirt to begin with.
Draco watched as Harry tugged it off and replaced it with something else—something perfectly fine, perfectly neutral. The favorite shirt was folded neatly and set aside without ceremony.
Something twisted low in Draco’s chest. Not anger, not exactly. More like a slow, creeping wrongness. The kind that came from realizing a choice had been made far too quickly.
Because Draco hadn’t asked him to change.
And Harry hadn’t even considered saying no.
The library incident made it worse. Harry had been sitting at one of the long tables near the windows, parchment spread out in careful stacks, quill moving steadily across the page. He wasn’t bothering anyone—hadn’t even noticed the room filling up around him. For once, he looked focused, quietly absorbed.
Then Hermione appeared at his side and let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Harry,” she said, already tired, “could you leave? I need this space to study.”
Harry blinked up at her, momentarily thrown. His quill hovered mid-sentence. “I—Hermione, I’m doing work too,” he said, not unkindly. Not defensive. Just… factual.
She didn’t raise her voice or argue, she just gave him a look.
Something in Harry seemed to fold in on itself. His shoulders slumped a fraction, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. Without another word, he began packing up his things—parchment stacked, books tucked away, quill capped with methodical precision. He stood, murmured a quiet “sorry,” and left the table as though he’d never been there at all.
Draco, watching from across the room, felt something sharp lodge beneath his ribs.
Harry found him a few minutes later, hovering uncertainly near the shelves where Draco had claimed a corner. When Draco glanced up, Harry was already half-smiling, like he was bracing for a joke.
“What happened?” Draco asked. Harry shrugged, too casual. “Hermione needed the table,” he said. Then, as if anticipating protest, added quickly, “It’s fine. I didn’t want to disturb her anyway.”
Didn’t want to disturb her.
Draco closed his book with more force than necessary. “You were already studying,” he said flatly. Harry shrugged again. Smaller this time. “She looked stressed.”
That did it.
“Sit with me,” Draco said, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. “You can study here.” Harry hesitated—just for a second—but then nodded immediately. “Yeah,” he said, relief softening his expression. “That’d be great.”
Draco watched him settle in, heart thudding uncomfortably, the pattern screaming louder every time it repeated.
Draco hated treacle tart. Always had. He made no secret of it, no matter the table, the company, or the school’s disapproving looks. The sticky sweetness, the cloying molasses, the way it stuck to the roof of his mouth—it was a nightmare. A personal, edible nightmare.
But Harry? Harry adored it. He’d practically glow when a slice appeared on his plate, eyes lighting up, hands careful as he lifted it, as if it were a treasure in porcelain. It was one of the few things that made him genuinely, unabashedly happy.
So when Harry had a slice in front of him one afternoon, perfectly golden, the sticky filling gleaming temptingly, Draco couldn’t resist. He wrinkled his nose and muttered just loud enough for Harry to hear, “Ugh. I can’t stand those.”
Harry’s response was instantaneous. Immediate. Unhesitating. Without a flicker of complaint or question, he set the treacle tart aside, almost ceremoniously, and reached instead for a cauldron cake.
A cauldron cake.
Harry didn’t like cauldron cakes. Not really. Not the way he loved treacle tart. But he’d abandoned the thing he actually wanted without a second thought, without a whisper of protest, just to accommodate Draco’s opinion.
Draco felt sick.
Draco needed proof. He needed to see it with his own eyes. The evidence of how far Harry would bend, how quickly he would discard even the things that mattered to him, just to make someone else happy. He had to know. So he set a trap.
“Harry,” Draco said smoothly, reclining on their shared couch in the common room, one arm draped lazily across the back, eyes glinting with mild mischief. “You should get rid of your invisibility cloak.”
Harry looked up sharply, every muscle in his face tightening. “What?” His voice betrayed surprise, disbelief, even a tiny edge of panic.
Draco waved a dismissive hand, exaggerating casualness, though his heart thudded a little faster than he cared to admit. “It’s unjust, inhumane, and just downright ugly,” he added, as if he were merely discussing fashion or décor.
Harry opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it. His gaze dropped. His hands fiddled nervously in his lap. That cloak—precious, irreplaceable, inherited from his father—was more than just a piece of fabric. It was history, memory, identity. It was his.
And yet…
Draco leaned a little closer, voice softer now, almost coaxing. “If you love me,” he said, pushing just enough, “you’d get rid of it.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Harry’s fingers clenched and unclenched, his jaw tight. For a long, agonizing moment, he said nothing, swallowed something Draco couldn’t name, and weighed the decision in silence.
And then, finally—defeated, pliant, unresisting—he whispered, “…Alright.”
Draco shot to his feet so fast that Harry flinched, the sudden movement knocking the air out of him. “What the fuck?” Draco’s voice rang sharp, almost cracking with disbelief and something hotter, something more dangerous.
Harry looked startled, eyes wide, hands raised instinctively. “Draco, I—”
“No. No.” Draco’s voice snapped over him. He stormed forward, long strides eating the space between them, and grabbed Harry’s wrist before he could step back. The grip was firm, insistent, possessive. “What the hell was that?” Harry’s throat worked. He swallowed, searching for words that didn’t exist. “I—”
“You were going to agree.” Draco’s words came like daggers, each syllable punctuated with disbelief and fury. His eyes were sharp, almost wild. “You were going to get rid of it. Not because you wanted to, not because it made sense. But because I asked. Because I pushed.”
Harry’s body stiffened under his gaze, jaw tightening, hands curling into fists. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as though the air itself had betrayed him.
Draco exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair, chest rising and falling with quick, uneven breaths. “Harry, how long have you been doing this?”
Harry didn’t answer. His silence was almost louder than any words he could have spoken.
Draco took a step closer, lowering his voice slightly, but the heat didn’t leave it. “How long have you been saying yes to things you don’t want? How long have you been—Merlin, how much have I forced you to do?”
Harry’s head shot up, eyes wide and defensive. “You haven’t—”
“Haven’t I?” Draco challenged, voice rising again. His chest heaved, and his hands shook slightly, both from anger and a raw, consuming hurt. “Because now I’m not so sure.”
Harry’s chest tightened, each word clawing its way out through a lump in his throat. “Draco, I love you.”
Draco stared at him, eyes sharp, jaw clenched, every muscle taut. His chest rose and fell, uneven, like he was struggling to contain more than just anger—more than just frustration. “I know,” he said finally, low and controlled. “But that’s not the point.”
Harry took a tentative step forward, reaching out, sliding his hands into Draco’s. The contact was grounding, a plea. “Draco, I swear, you’ve never forced me into anything. You’re not like that. This… this isn’t about you.”
Draco’s eyes searched Harry’s face, flicking over the tight line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way his hands trembled slightly as they rested in Draco’s. “Then what is it about?” His voice was quieter now, strained, a little broken.
Harry’s gaze dropped, falling to the floor as he exhaled slowly. “It’s just… easier. To agree. To keep the peace.”
Draco’s grip on his hands tightened involuntarily, almost painfully, as if holding on could anchor something slipping. “No, Harry. It’s not.” His voice was fierce, but there was something underneath it—a tremor he couldn’t hide. Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, pressing in on every word unsaid, every truth too fragile to speak aloud.
Then, after a long pause, Draco said, “Promise me.”
Harry looked at him warily. “Promise you what?”
“That you’ll try,” Draco said, voice softening, losing the sharp edges it had held for so long. He leaned a fraction closer, the intensity in his gaze still there, but tempered now by something warmer, gentler. “Try to say no when you want to. Try to put yourself first. I don’t want a relationship where you’re constantly bending over backward just to make me happy, Harry.”
Harry swallowed, throat tight. His chest felt heavy for a moment, the words settling like stones he hadn’t realized he was carrying. Then, after a deep breath that seemed to let some of the weight slip away, he nodded. “I’ll try,” he said quietly, but with certainty.
Draco held his gaze for a heartbeat longer, as if memorizing every detail of the expression, the little tremor of relief and determination flickering across Harry’s face. And then, just as the tension between them began to soften, Draco’s lips curved into something almost mischievous.
“Can I—” he started, eyes flicking to Harry’s, heat lacing the edge of his words. “Can I kiss you?”
He hesitated, the faintest pause betraying a flicker of caution. “…Only if you want to,” he added quickly, voice softer now, almost shy.
Harry’s lips twitched into a small, genuine smile, eyes lighting up like the sun breaking through clouds. He nodded.
Draco grinned, heart thudding, and leaned forward, closing the space between them. Their lips met—slow, gentle, and deliberate. Warmth spread across Harry’s chest, melting some of the tension, the fear, the years of bending and yielding. Draco’s hands stayed at Harry’s sides, just holding him there, steadying him, grounding him.
When they finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, Draco’s smirk returned, softer this time, teasing but tender. “And the cloak?” he asked.
Harry’s lips twitched in a small, victorious smile. “I’m keeping it,” he said, voice warm, almost triumphant.
Draco laughed softly, shaking his head.
“Damn right you are.”