Chapter Text
For the first time in his life, Harry was too excited to sleep.
Unlike Dudley, he hadn't spent Christmas Eves and the hours before his birthdays anticipating presents and sweets. He'd never had anything to look forward to, nothing to keep him up at night in anxious glee.
But now, as he stared up at the ceiling, his new roommates sleeping soundly around him, he found himself able to calm his exhilarated mind enough to rest.
He knew that the red and gold curtains that hung around his bed meant that he was in Gryffindor, and he mentally thanked the magical hat for not sorting him into Slytherin with that Malfoy git.
Irritation rose in his chest at the memory of Malfoy insulting his new friend, Ron. Harry'd decided then that anyone who could look at Ron and decide to be so rude to him must be someone to avoid. He knew a bully when he saw one, and bullies, in his experience, didn't change.
Harry turned onto his side to stare out the window, marveling at the novelty of sleeping somewhere with a view other than cramped, blank walls.
He curled up into the warm blanket, finally letting the exhaustion of the day lull him to sleep.
Third-year Charms, Harry decided, wasn't any more interesting than it had been the first two years.
He sat next to Ron, who was watching Hermione take notes with machine-like speed and precision. While the sight of Hermione in action was entertaining for a minute or so, Harry didn't understand why Ron stared at her all the time.
Not for the first time that class, Harry regretted not sitting toward the back of the room. Malfoy was sat next to Parkinson at the table just behind them, and Harry knew it was unwise to turn one's back to one's enemy. It was much more prudent to stare at one's nemesis for as long as possible, using subtlety and stealth to make sure one's observations went undetected.
Ron stared at Hermione almost as much as Harry stared at Malfoy, but surely Ron didn't think their friend was up to something.
Well, unless you called memorizing every comma of Hogwarts: A History nefarious.
“Remember, class, your homework for tomorrow is seven inches on the history of the Summoning Charm. You are dismissed," Flitwick turned to the board, casting a cleaning charm to erase the notes.
Harry was startled out of his reverie by the sudden announcement, as well as by Ron, who nudged him and gestured to Hermione, whose head was still bent over her desk as she wrote furiously.
"How long d'you reckon she'd stay here and write if no one stopped her?" Ron muttered.
Harry let out a short laugh and opened his mouth to respond when he caught sight of Malfoy darting quickly out of the room.
Harry frowned. But before he could voice his pondering over why Malfoy'd all but sprinted from the classroom, Hermione had finally snapped out of her note-taking daze and joined Harry and Ron.
As they walked along the corridor, Ron and Hermione continued to squabble over whether or not they needed to go to the library during their free period.
"But 'Mione, it's called a free period. A period of freedom. Don't you want to be free?"
"I don't want my mind to be enslaved to ignorance, Ronald! Information is freedom."
"Merlin, fine. But I have to go get my textbook from the dorm first. Harry, you coming?"
Harry nodded. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the two of them before giving them a mollified nod. Clutching her books tightly, Hermione turned on her heel and walked briskly toward the library.
"C'mon mate," Ron said, tugging at Harry's sleeve. "Let's take the long way."
Ron prattled on about quidditch, and Harry tried to listen, he really did. But his thoughts drifted inevitably back to Malfoy. He kicked himself again for not choosing a better surveillance point in class; maybe if he'd been watching he'd have seen why Malfoy'd fled class at the end.
He and Ron ventured outside, through the courtyard and into the open area beside the lake. Harry felt a surge of victory and relief at the sight of Malfoy sitting on the bench, his head tilted back with a soft smile as if enjoying the warmth on his face. His hair glittered golden in the sun.
Without thinking, Harry started walking toward him, an animated Ron following along.
“But Harry, they haven’t got a chance! Look, the Cannons--”
Ron stopped talking as Malfoy turned to sneer at them.
“Can I help you?” Malfoy drawled, “Or do you mind taking your boisterous conversation elsewhere? I was here first.”
Ron glared. “Shut up, Malfoy. We didn’t see you, or we wouldn’t have come any closer in case being a prat is contagious.”
Malfoy smirked. “Unlike you, I wasn’t raised in a barn, so I don’t carry diseases. But we snakes do bite, so mind your place, Weaselbee.”
Ron started toward Draco, his fists clenched, but Harry grabbed his arm, despite the rage swelling in his own chest.
“Ron, he’s not worth it. C’mon.” Harry said, eyes narrowed at Malfoy in a clear warning.
Ron gave Malfoy one last glare before he let Harry steer him away from Malfoy, who widened his smirk in satisfaction. They walked away, Ron continuing his rant as they made their way to Gryffindor Tower. Harry looked over his shoulder, catching one more glimpse of Malfoy basking in the sunshine.
“P-Potter,” Malfoy gasped, trapped between the bathroom wall as Harry crowded him, his face inches away. “W-what—?”
Harry shook his head, smiling softly. “You heard me, Malfoy.”
“I-I’m not sure I did, actually. Might you repeat it?”
Harry chuckled. “Why don’t I show you instead?”
Harry lifted a warm hand reached up to cup Malfoy’s cheek, leaned in and—
Harry woke with a gasp, sweat beading on his forehead. A hand scrubbed over his face as he wiped the sleep from his eyes and felt his four-poster ground him to reality.
After the last six years, he was no stranger to waking up in the middle of the night from strange dreams, but his subconscious--or rather Voldemort--usually tortured him with disturbing images and nightmare scenarios.
This time, it seems Voldemort had left Harry's subconscious to its own horny, teenaged devices--and it apparently had a twisted sense of humor.
That moment of blind rage in the bathroom haunted Harry enough during the day that he wasn't surprised that it would make its way into his dreams--but his chest hurt with the knowledge that perhaps it might've gone differently. Might've ended in whispered apologies, explanations, and soft, exploring kisses.
But if Malfoy hadn't hated him before, he certainly did now, and Harry couldn't blame him.
Harry knew a bully when he saw one, and during that moment, he couldn't pretend it had been Malfoy.
He raised a hand to the scar on his forehead and wondered when he'd changed.
“Draco Malfoy, you are hereby sentenced to three months house arrest, followed by one year of probation,” Kingsley banged the gavel, the sound reverberating in the large room before chatter rose from the avid audience.
Harry watched with a small smile as Malfoy and his mother sat together, their cool masks wavering with emotion for just a second before shifting back into place.
He decided to give them a moment before approaching Malfoy, but if he didn't get this over with now, he'd never have the courage.
Suddenly, Malfoy rose on shaking legs and walked over to Harry, who quickly stood to meet him in the middle. Harry regarded him with a tight-lipped smile.
Malfoy tipped his head slightly. “Thank you, Potter.”
Harry nodded. “Sure, Malfoy.”
Malfoy nodded before turning away, stopping when Harry, acting on impulse, reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Wait, Malfoy. I have something for you.”
Malfoy looked at him in confusion as Harry reached into his pocket and handed him his wand, stifling a chuckle when Malfoy’s eye widened.
“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” Harry said, his voice quiet.
Malfoy nodded again. He took the wand from Harry’s hand, closing his eyes. Harry let in a sharp breath at the sight of a soft smile on Malfoy's lips as he reunited with his wand. The image was more compelling than Harry imagined, as evidenced by the butterflies that filled his stomach.
Harry cleared his throat. “Well, er, I’ll see you around, Malfoy,” he said, nodding one final time before turning to leave.
He smiled as he heard Malfoy's quiet, "Goodbye, Potter," as he walked away.
Harry pressed his lips together in a grimaced smile as a few younger students gathered near him at the table in the Great Hall. Ron and Hermione shot him sympathetic looks, and he gave them an apologetic shrug before turning to sign another autograph for a wide-eyed first year.
If this would be an indication of what his eighth year would be, Harry wasn't sure how much longer he'd last.
After promises to fulfill the fans' requests later, the giggling group left the table to let him eat in relative peace--it was rather hard to enjoy one's dinner while half the school was staring at you.
His eyes flickered to the Slytherin table, where the students ate mechanically, their faces blank. Malfoy, who'd sent surprisingly genuine apology letters over the summer, looked thoughtful; not calculating or analyzing, but pensive.
Lying in bed that evening, Harry remembered the image of Malfoy at the Black Lake with his head tipped back in the sunlight. He thought of the rare smile Malfoy'd had when he held his wand for the first time after his trial, and the feeling that had bubbled up in his own chest at the sight.
Harry looked out the window at the night sky and wondered if happiness would be a constant thrum under his skin, or if it could be found in stolen moments tucked into his heart. The stars glittered in silent answer, shining with anticipation.