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The Hero Who Conquered the Dark Lord

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Draco was shopping for… well, everything. Harry was happily trotting alongside him, without having understood how embarrassing, on multiple levels, this all was. He’d been raised by muggles and been denied the knowledge of his birthright and of his very nature until a month before starting Hogwarts—something Draco still boggled at—so it was understandable how he couldn’t quite grasp just how mortified Draco felt.

Vanishing a roomful of one’s belongings was not something properly-raised wizards did. Draco had been expected to show utmost control of his emotions—at least when it came to his magic—before his ninth birthday. Harry still routinely turned the walls of whatever room he was in inside out when extremely frustrated; or once, when startled, covered absolutely everything with the most hideous polka dot pattern.

The potency of Harry’s raw magic was a turn-on, sure, and even more so when his affinity with casual wandless casting seemed to be related to it, but being turned on didn’t help when dealing with the aftermath of such incidents. They were still occasionally finding things covered on polka dots around Harry’s flat. Draco was sure Harry hadn’t bothered to un-polka-dotify some of his underwear. Thankfully, he didn’t wear those when Draco came round.

He was now pretending to examine an ancient wardrobe in Mr. Armitage’s cavernous shop filled with dusty furniture and miscellaneous forgotten things. His reddening face was making a comeback again. He didn’t need Harry’s earnest reassurances of how this wasn’t that big of a deal, especially when the whole accidental magic was only a part of it, really. He cringed at the memory.


He pictured himself a few hours ago sitting on the floor in the middle of his room, rummaging through the depths of an old school trunk. He was working his way backwards through it all, as evidenced by the big pile of POTTER STINKS badges to his right. He had severely overestimated the demand for those. He had been about to pin one on his chest for a laugh, when the one he was holding changed to the SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY message, putting a grim damper on the idea.

He reached the bottom of the trunk, where only dust, broken quills and discarded pieces of parchment lived. He unrumpled one with his wand, curious.

Oh, Merlin…

He was hit by a wave of embarrassment. He was sure he would’ve fallen hard on his arse if he hadn’t been sitting on the floor already. His unhappy stare focused on the ink-smeared words on the piece of parchment:

“█████████████ IN HIS GREEN EYES

He looked away. He let the full-body cringe happen.

And then, because he was nothing if not thorough—and a bit of a masochist—, he smoothed out the rest of the crumpled parchment balls. He compared Harry’s hair to everything from bottles of ink to raven feathers, and his eyes to emeralds and avocados. The only consistency seemed to be him rhyming “mine” with “divine”; he had been so—he gagged a little—proud of that one.

Of course Harry bloody Potter was going to receive dozens of Valentines. That had been part of his thought process back in second year. So, what was another one in that pile? But then he couldn’t resist making it a bloody singing one. He had wanted both to stand out and embarrass him. His life and relationship with Potter, summed up in a singing Valentine.

The mountain of enchanted badges next to him told a similar, not-as-embarrassing story. His wand was out now, ready to vanish it all into the ether.

He remembered how he had utterly panicked, how he had fallen back on his tried-and-true bullying tactics and then how he had deflected all his shame, anger and spite to the Weasley girl, who had taken it all with a magnificent lack of grace, making his last-minute immature strategy work beautifully. Maybe she had written something to him as well…

He stood there, wand in hand, reminiscing about it all, letting his old shame fuel the charm when a knock on the foolishly open door made him jump.

Seeing Harry’s face a quarter of a second later made the little colour he had on his go down the drain.

Hearing “Hey, what’s all this?” clinched it all. Something snapped inside his brain, recently primed with that memory of him panicking. He felt his magic expand violently. His attempt at containing it was futile: the room had emptied completely in less than a second.

“Whoa!” he heard Harry say.


“Hey!” he heard Harry say.

He was back in the present. How long had he been examining that wardrobe?

“Yes?” he replied and got his head, now covered on spiderwebs, out of it. Harry’s voice guided Draco to him.

“I think you just, er, displaced your things!” Harry said when he saw him, a grin on his face. He was standing next to a very familiar dresser.

“Oh, thank Circe,” Draco said. His relief made him forget his shame for a second.

“I’ll go talk with Mr. Armitage,” Harry said already rounding a corner, leaving Draco alone to inventory his possessions.

Of course, he hadn’t vanished all his stuff, he thought. He didn’t have the raw power to do so, unlike Harry. Mr. Armitage knew all the places where all the accidentally displaced objects tended to go, so he simply set a charm to get everything transported to the back of his shop, where they now were. It all had something to do with arcane topology…

“I think I finally got them,” Harry said when he returned, looking solemn.

“Got what?”

“My vows,” he said brightly, and cleared his throat. “His eyes are as grey as a London sky. His hair is as soft as a sigh….”

Draco looked down at Harry’s hand. He was holding a few pieces of ink-stained parchment.

Harry grinned wildly, with his teeth as white as a shark’s. Draco wished he could vanish himself.