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Despite having been a Professor for a good few years at this point, the start of a new term always filled Harry with the same sense of anticipation it had as when he had first come to Hogwarts. The sense of excitement amongst the new students was electric and palpable, and always transferred to him. He shifted on his feet and crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall of the entrance hall where the first years were to arrive, led by Hagrid as per usual.

This year promised more excitement than most - Flitwick had finally retired, and along with the departure of the Slytherin head Caprine, that meant new staff members arriving. They hadn’t come to the school prior to the start of term like most of the other Professors usually did, and all McGonagall would tell him about the new Charms Professor was that they were renowned for their work in France. In wondering over his new peer, Harry felt like a small kid come Christmas Eve, bubbling over with curiosity that couldn’t be sated.

Before his mind could wander too far in its daydreams, three knocks were heard on castle doors. Harry swung them open and Hagrid came bustling in with a load of nervous first years following behind, like little ducklings after their mother. Harry straightened his posture and stood tall, trying to resemble the picture of a responsible and serious Professor, though he knew he was probably failing.

The children all stared at him wide-eyed and awed, the way most people still did. Much to his own personal discomfort, Harry was still regarded as a...legend of a sort. He supposed killing maniacal megalomaniacs sort of had that effect on how people viewed you. But it was no matter, they’d learn he was still just as annoying of a Professor as the rest of the staff soon enough, and that awe would be replaced with a sense of normalcy.

Once the little ones lined themselves up in front of him as neat and proper as any children were able to, Harry ran his fingers through the curls of his hair and prepared himself to speak. He gave Hagrid a quick nod of acknowledgement, and received a hearty smile in return. Channelling his memories of McGonagall’s speech from his first year, he offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile, and began to speak.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, kids. The start of term banquet will begin soon, but before that happens it’s time for you to get sorted into your houses. The sorting ceremony is important because while here at Hogwarts, your house is your family away from home - you have classes with your house, sleep in the house dorms, and will spend much of your free time in your house common rooms.”

“The four houses are Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. Each has its own unique history, and each has - no matter what you may have heard or been told - created many outstanding wixen.” Harry gave the students a meaningful stare, hoping that they had just got the message he had tried to impress upon them, before continuing on. “While at Hogwarts, your good deeds earn you house points and your bad ones take them away. At year’s end, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup. I am certain each of you will be a credit to the house you enter.”

The students shared nervous glances with one another, and some of them broke out into worried whispers. It reminded Harry of his first year - how nervous he’d been, how he thought there was some exam he’d have to take, and how scared he was he’d be made a fool of in front of all his peers. He felt for the kids. He did every year. Harry coughed to get their attention again, and the students quieted themselves.

“Now, form a line behind me and follow along. We’ll be entering the Great Hall shortly, where you’ll be sorted in front of your peers. I promise you all have nothing to worry about. In fact...well, you’ll just have to see for yourselves.” He gave them a promising wink, and turned on his foot, making his way across the flagged stone floor of the hall, and through the double doors leading to the Great Hall. He led the students to the stool where the Sorting Hat lay, but when he turned to McGonagall to grab the scroll with the list of student’s names, he stopped dead.

Sitting in Flitwick’s seat was Draco Malfoy. Sitting tall, and looking a lot more confident and angular than the last time Harry had seen him (at the trials), but it was Malfoy, all right.

This had to be a dream. He - not very subtly - pinched himself, to prove that it was. The pain from said pinch and the almost apologetic look on McGonagall’s face told him that it wasn’t.

He forced himself to grab the scroll from McGonagall - very nearly dropping it - and made his way back to the stool. The hat had finished singing its song, and it was time for Harry to begin the sorting. He dutifully read the names out one by one, but found that his mind kept wandering back to the man sitting behind him.

Harry wasn’t stupid - he wasn’t going to deny the possibility that Malfoy was Flitwick’s replacement because, well, he was literally sitting in Flitwick’s old spot. The question was why McGonagall had chosen him. When had he even gotten a Charms mastery? The last Harry had seen, from before he had finally cancelled his subscription to the Daily Prophet, Malfoy was a quintessential socialite, and in France no less. The last he had heard from him personally was after having owled Malfoy his old wand again, having received a brief thank you note in return.

And it’s not that Harry really minded Malfoy being a professor, if he had the qualifications for it. It was just that he felt like he deserved to know, to prepare himself beforehand.

Why or what he needed to prepare himself for was not something that he had an answer for. But the annoyance bubbling up inside him at McGonagall felt well-founded, nonetheless.

He called the last name out, and watched as the last student - a nervous and twitchy-looking girl, named Amara Zinke - was sorted into Slytherin. The poor thing looked like she was about to burst into tears at the announcement, and before she could he quickly shielded her from view with his body and knelt down in front of her, gently grabbing her by the shoulder. He wasn’t surprised by the reaction. In the years since the war and his time as a professor, at least one student sorted into Slytherin reacted this way to the news.

“Amara, chin up now. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Merlin was a Slytherin. Severus Snape, one of the bravest fighters in the last war, was the Slytherin head of house at one point. And I’ll tell you something else,” he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “I was almost placed into Slytherin myself. I promise it’s a good place to be. Don’t listen to what nonsense or silly things others have been saying about it.” He thumbed away the tears falling from her eyes and stood up, and gave Amara a gentle nudge in the direction of the Slytherin table.

She looked back at him, clearly still nervous but quite a bit less panicked. Giving him a watery smile, she turned on her foot and made her way to the Slytherin table, who - along with the rest of the houses - met her with raucous applause.

Harry could feel eyes on the back of his head, coming from the direction of the staff table. He turned, curious, and saw Malfoy staring at him inquisitively. But the other man quickly looked away as Harry returned his stare.

He made his way back to the staff table and took his seat - which, much to his chagrin, was next to Malfoy. As McGonagall stood up to make her customary start of term speech, Harry struggled to resist the urge to just...stare at the other man, who was dutifully paying attention to McGonagall, unlike him.

Frankly speaking, Harry was just baffled about the whole thing. And to be honest, it felt like every time his eyes weren’t on Malfoy, that Malfoy’s were on him. Which he also didn’t understand, because it was as though Malfoy was equally confused by Harry’s presence, when Harry had been a professor at Hogwarts for seven years now. The Daily Prophet had made an exhaustingly huge deal out of it, like they did with everything he ever did.

McGonagall ended her speech and sat down, and the golden plateware began to overflow with food. Now that the opportunity was there, Harry wrestled with whether or not to say anything to Malfoy, but he wasn’t sure what to say. Ron would have known what to do, but Ron wasn’t here, forcing Harry to rely on his own, admittedly terrible, social skills.

“Hello, Malfoy,” Harry said warily.

Malfoy seemed to...jump a little, as though surprised that Harry was speaking to him. But he regained his composure quickly, and had a look about him that was oddly...serene, in a way that felt off. Like he was faking a level of calm that he did not have.

“Hello, Potter,” said Malfoy.

“Bit surprised to see you here.”

“Yes, well. If I had to hazard a guess, you are not the only one,” Malfoy responded coolly. There was an odd note to his voice, a mixture of resignation and what Harry almost wanted to say was disappointment. Malfoy’s attention was directed firmly on his plate of food, his eyes refusing to meet Harry’s. They lapsed into silence, Malfoy seemingly uninterested in continuing the conversation and Harry not really knowing where to go with it.

Harry felt his skin begin to prickle, discomfited by the whole situation. Hogwarts was his home, where he was always on sure footing - but with Malfoy here now, the ground had shifted underneath him and rearranged into new, unfamiliar territory.

He settled down to eat his own food, but found his gaze helplessly drawn to Malfoy again and again. The way the man ate was very different from Harry. Where Harry ate as much as he could, as quick as he could - old traumas never die easily, after all - Malfoy was the picture of propriety. He cut into the food delicately, and took small, precise bites. Each forkful was laden with an equivalent amount of all that was on his plate - nothing threatened to overwhelm the other. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen someone eat in such a...posh way, before.

“The girl. What did you say to her?” Malfoy’s voice cut in, startling Harry so hard he knocked his goblet of pumpkin juice over and onto his plate of food. Harry stared forlornly at his plate, mourning the loss of a good meal. Malfoy, for his part, was still not looking Harry in the eye, but there was a glimmer of a smirk playing around the edges of his lips.

Harry let out an annoyed groan and crammed a napkin against the edge of the table before the juice could pour onto his lap. “Well, that’s between us, isn’t it,” he said as he mopped the table. Seeing Malfoy’s expectant stare, Harry sighed. “She was panicking about the hat’s decision. I told her what I normally tell them when they panic about being sorted into Slytherin.”

“Oh? And what’s that then?” Malfoy was paying such close attention to his plate that Harry wondered for a moment if maybe Malfoy had taken this job on for the dining benefits.

“You know. There are several great Slytherin wizards and so on and so forth and that even I almost was one.”

For the first time since he had sat down, Malfoy turned to face Harry. “Almost was one?”

Stormy gray eyes pierced his own, giving Harry an unfathomable look, distracting Harry, so it took him a few seconds to process the question. “Yeah,” he said. “The hat almost Sorted me there. It would have Sorted me there if I hadn’t refused.”

Malfoy’s brow creased. He blinked.

“Malfoy?”

Malfoy opened his mouth, but then paused, hesitation crossing his features. He schooled himself back into a more composed look, and then coughed to clear his throat. “I best take my leave early. I only arrived this morning, after all. Much is needed to prepare for the start of term. If you’ll excuse me then, Potter.” He placed his utensils down on his plate, got up, gave a nod to McGonagall and simply...walked out of the Great Hall.

Harry was left feeling rather confused and baffled and maybe a little bit miffed about the whole interaction. Malfoy hadn’t even finished his own plate. He looked around at the other Professors to see if they were just as confused as he, but everyone was focused on their own food or conversations. Harry stared at his own damp plate with distaste, and wondered if maybe he ought to have a conversation with Hermione or Ron about this, someone who could explain to him the things that he thought he should know but clearly didn’t.

Harry watched as the students filed out of the Great Hall, first years following prefects, and felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see McGonagall, looking weary and for the first time in a while, like her age.

“Follow me to my office, would you, Harry?” she sighed. She turned on foot and started walking at a rather quick, no-nonsense pace, and Harry scrambled out of his seat to catch up. He followed her through the halls and to the Gargoyle in front of her office, watching as she gave the password (gingerbread), and climbed into her office right after her. She motioned for him to take a seat in one of the tartan-covered chairs in front of her desk, which he dutifully did. From the portraits up above, Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled down at him, while Snape’s glared. Harry hated visiting her office, because it always made him feel like a misbehaving child instead of the grown adult he knew he was.

She sat down in front of him, adjusted her glasses a bit and pushed a biscuit tin his way. None of this helped to make Harry feel like any less of a child. But he wasn’t going to say no to free food, so he grabbed one anyway.

“I believe,” she began with a great sigh, “that I owe you an explanation, Harry.”

Harry felt like she owed him one too, but he’d come to realize in his ancient twenty-eight years of life that sometimes shutting his mouth was actually the best option after hearing what usually came out of it, so he shoved another biscuit into his mouth and chewed furiously.

“I should have told you Draco was to be a professor here sooner. I can only imagine that his presence brings up a lot of rather conflicted feelings for you, but at the end of the day he will be a professor here and you must learn to accept that.” She steepled her fingers together and gave Harry a pleading look.

Harry swallowed down the remains of the second biscuit and wiped the crumbs from his hands on the front of his pants. McGonagall, for her part, did not look very impressed. “Look, I just want to know one thing and I’ll leave it: why him?”

She took off her glasses and took out a tartan patterned handkerchief - one that matched the seats he was sitting in - and cleaned the lenses of her glasses. “You should know that he came to me, actually. But he came with an impeccable recommendation from the person he received his Charms mastery from, and he has experience teaching at Beauxbatons.”

Draco Malfoy?

“Since when?” Harry was incredulous.

McGonagall shot him a confused look. “What do you mean, ‘since when’?”

“I mean since when has Draco Malfoy been anything but a partying socialite pretty boy?”

The look that Harry received from McGonagall was one of deep disapproval. Maybe he should have taken a third biscuit. “You know, Harry, I know how much you hate the Daily Prophet, but if not that, you really ought to start reading some form of wizarding news so that these things don’t take you by surprise. Though you sped through yours, Draco completed his Charms mastery four years ago, and has been teaching ever since. He’s not the ‘party-boy’ you seem to think he is, and he hasn’t been for quite some time.”

Harry shrank back down into his chair, and chose to stare at the portraits hanging up above her head instead of at the stern visage of the woman currently scolding him. Snape was smirking at him, likely pleased he’d made a fool of himself. Dumbledore was smiling gently at him, in that knowing way of a teacher outwaiting a student too scared to admit having done something wrong. Not that Harry would admit to being any of these things, of course.

His mind flashed back to the feast, and the way Malfoy had spoken to him. How surprised he’d been to even have Harry start a conversation with him, how cool his response had been to what Harry had said, how he’d left the feast early giving an excuse that was, ultimately, obviously not the real reason he had left.

All it boiled down to was Harry realizing he was a right shit of a person. Malfoy really hadn’t done anything wrong, but already Harry was treating him with suspicion. He wondered if many other people treated Malfoy that way, such that his response was to become restrained and withdrawn. He wondered how many people treated Malfoy even worse. Harry found that he didn’t like the answers his mind came up with.

He ran a hand through his curls, frustratedly, and looked back at McGonagall. She gave him a knowing look, as though she had read his mind already. Knowing her, she probably had, but that was besides the point.

“Look,” he began. “You...may be right. I’ve not known Malfoy for a long time, and to be fair, I don’t think I’ve ever really known him to begin with.” He pulled at a loose thread on the arm of the chair he was sitting in. “And I know my past with him is...difficult, but I spoke for him at the trials. I gave him his wand back. If he’s a good teacher, he’s a good teacher, and I won’t let myself interfere with that.”

McGonagall sat back in her chair, clearly relieved. “Thank you, Harry. I mean it. You may go now. Take another biscuit if you’d like.” She vaguely motioned her hands toward the biscuit tin. “In fact, just take the whole tin.”

Harry did not take the whole tin, but he did shove a good few in his trouser pockets before leaving her office.

He made his way back to his rooms, meandering through the school as he did so. Sometimes he liked to take his time aimlessly traversing the halls - he found it comforting to just walk, and walk, and walk. There was never a particular path he liked to take, he just let his feet go wherever they felt.

In due time, he of course, landed back at his rooms. The first thing he did was make his way to the floo to call Ron and Hermione. had promised he’d tell them immediately who the new Charms professor was (which was, of course, on Hermione’s request. She was insistent she knew who her future children were going to be taught by.) He internally winced at the thought of their reactions to this new development.

Oh, well. He’d deal with it as it came up, he supposed. He tossed a bit of floo powder into the fireplace and gave them a call. Ron’s head dutifully appeared in the fireplace soon after.

“Hey, mate. How was the feast?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Treacle tart galore, and someone cried about being placed into Slytherin again. How are things at the DMLE?” Harry skirted around the subject.

“Oh, come on. I haven’t had Hogwarts food in years. You’re usually more detailed than that, Harry.” Just like Ron to latch onto the thread of what Harry wasn’t telling him, wasn’t it?

Harry scratched at the nape of his neck sheepishly. “Er, well, to tell the truth, I spilled pumpkin juice over most of my food. So I didn’t get to taste much of it.”

“Well that’s a shame, isn’t it? Waste of good food if you ask me,” said Ron, looking the picture of disappointment.

“Don’t really know anyone who would disagree with you there, Ron,” responded Harry.

Before Ron could open his mouth to respond, Hermione popped her head in. “Oh, Harry! You must tell us, who’s replaced Flitwick? Was it Sweetleaf? It must have been Sweetleaf, he’s had his eye on the position for years, you know, it was only a matter of time. I recently read his entry in Charms Weekly and it was quite a riveting treatise on the theoretics of creating a charmed object that comports a patronus inside of it, I’ll send it over for you to read.”

“Erm,” said Harry.

Ron rolled his eyes at Hermione. “‘Mione, as much as you find that stuff fascinating, I doubt Harry has the time or the interest. But...is it Sweetleaf? Who’d McGonagall hire?”

“Er,” said Harry.

As married couples are wont to do sometimes, both Hermione and Ron narrowed their eyes at Harry simultaneously.

“Harry? Who is it?” prodded Hermione, nervously.

“Itsdracomalfoy,” said Harry, in a rush.

“What was that, mate?” asked Ron.

In lieu of repeating himself, Harry fiddled with the strands of thread poking out from the rug he was sitting on. He picked at a particularly stubborn one, working at it until it came loose and fully unraveled. At this rate, he’d unravel the whole rug soon enough. He looked back up at the fireplace, where both Hermione and Ron were staring at him unblinkingly. He heaved a loud sigh and collapsed his face into both of his hands.

“It’s Malfoy. Draco Malfoy,” he finally said.

“Excuse me, it’s who now?” asked Ron.

“Oh! That makes sense,” said Hermione, at the exact same time.

Both Harry and Ron’s heads swiveled to look at her, incredulous at her lack of surprise or displeasure.

“And this makes sense, how, ‘Mione?”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to roll her eyes. She let out a huff of annoyance. “Honestly, you two really ought to keep up with the Daily Prophet and with what’s going on in scholarly circles. Especially you, Harry, you’re a professor. It’s your job.”

“I’m not promising anything,” said Harry.

“Yes, well.” Hermione sniffed. “Malfoy has been doing quite well for himself academically, you know. He studied under Sweetleaf and he’s been teaching for years now at Beauxbatons. I’ve heard he’s quite the teacher, too. I’m not speaking on him as a person, but academically? Hogwarts is lucky to have nabbed him.”

“Huh. McGonagall told me that he came to her, actually.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really? Oh, you must find out why, Harry. And then tell me, of course.”

“Er, well, you know I would for you ‘Mione, but. I’m not so sure that’ll be happening anytime soon.”

At that, Ron let out a snort. “Malfoy the reason why you dumped pumpkin juice all over your plate then, eh? I’ll bet it is.”

Harry felt his cheeks heat up in response. “Well, er, maybe?”

“Harry.” Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Harry waved his hands frantically. “I didn’t do anything. In fact, I tried to start a conversation with him, but he wasn’t interested. And then he asked me something and it startled me so I sort of...spilled pumpkin juice all over my plate. Then things got weird and he left the feast early and now I’m here, repeating the tale for you to laugh at me instead.”

“Well, what did he ask you?” asked Ron, curiously.

“I mean...I comforted a girl who was placed into Slytherin, since the poor thing looked like she was about to cry in front of the whole school. And he asked me what I said, so I told him, and then he stared at me and sort of...left the feast early? He said it was because he had to prepare for the start of term but, well, it didn’t feel like that was the real reason…” Harry trailed off, unsure.

“What did you tell the girl, then?” asked Hermione.

“I told her what I tell every Slytherin who gets upset about their placement: that Merlin was one, that Snape was one, and that I almost was one, too.”

Ron's forehead wrinkled. Hermione frowned deeply and she gazed off in apparent thought.

“Harry, how many people besides us, save for Dumbledore, knew you were almost a Slytherin?” she asked.

It was Harry’s turn to frown. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Harry,” said an exasperated Hermione.

“I’m the last person who would say be gentle with Malfoy, of all people,” began Ron, “but that was probably a bit of a shock to the system, you know what I mean? He’s probably in his room having a crisis over his very existence right now.”

“Er, so...should I apologise?” Harry asked tentatively.

“I can’t take this anymore. Ron, I’ll leave this one to you. Harry, I love you very much, but Merlin help you,” Hermione said, patting her husband on the shoulder before leaving them both.

Ron shrugged at Harry. “I dunno. Maybe just...leave him alone? If he wasn’t interested in talking to you to begin with, and he left early...maybe it’s a blessing in disguise for you? You won’t have to worry so much about what Malfoy might be up to if he doesn’t want much to do with you, now will you?”

Harry wasn’t sure why that stung, but it did.

“I...guess you have a point.”

“I’m not saying you can’t be civil to him. But if he wants to talk to you, he’ll talk to you. And if he doesn’t, he won’t. Let it be.” There was a gentle firmness to Ron’s tone of voice, and a knowing look in his eye. What it was Ron knew, Harry couldn’t exactly say.

“Fine,” ground out Harry. “I’ll...let it be, as you say.”

“Good lad.”

“Don’t be condescending, Ron, or you’ll start turning into Hermione,” Harry laughed, with a good-natured roll of his eyes.

“I’m not being any such thing!”

“You know, they say that after a while, married couples start turning into each other.”

“There isn’t enough room in the world for two Hermiones, and she wouldn’t let there be anyway,” said Ron, lovingly.

“And you’d be right. Well, I’d best be off then, yeah? I’ve got early morning classes. Tell ‘Mione I love her too, would you?”

“Of course, Harry. Have a good night.” With that Ron popped his head back out, and Harry doused the flames in the fireplace. He sighed, standing up and wiping any dust and soot from the front of his robes and trousers.

Leave Malfoy be. A simple task, really. He could do that.

Couldn’t he?

It turned out that Harry didn’t have to try hard to leave Malfoy be, as Malfoy seemed to have made it his personal mission to make himself scarce whenever Harry was present. Upon entering the Great Hall on the first day of term, Harry found that Malfoy had switched seats with Hagrid. That alone wouldn’t have bothered Harry, though after a few days it dawned on him that it was a permanent switch.

If he ran into Malfoy in the halls, he would try to exchange pleasantries with the man, only to receive a brush off and some poor excuse for why Malfoy had to run off, before the man would promptly scuttle away in the opposite direction.

If he entered the staffroom while Malfoy was there, the man would promptly end whatever he was doing and leave. Even if it meant leaving a confused fellow professor halfway through a conversation.

By all accounts, it was as though Malfoy was scared of Harry. Which couldn’t be the case, because they were both grown adults, and Malfoy wouldn’t have accepted a job here, or come to McGonagall asking for one rather, if he really were scared of Harry.

Right?

It’s not like this was something that kept Harry up late at night. Or like he was concerned over this. Or like when he wandered the halls late at night when he couldn’t sleep, which was often - because, well, he’d never been able to sleep well and adulthood and the end of a war hadn’t changed much on that front. It’s not like this was on the forefront of his mind.

All right. So. Maybe Harry was lying to himself, and in fact all of these things and more plagued his mind. He told himself that this had nothing to do with the fact that it was Malfoy, and that if it were anyone else, he’d be having the same thoughts and concerns.

He knew that was a lie as well.

But, every time he had the urge to go and poke and prod at Malfoy, he refrained. He repeated Ron’s mantra of “Let it be” over and over in his head, ad infinitum. He would not bother Malfoy, and Malfoy would not bother him. They could co-exist peacefully, and that’s what they were doing. Even if it left a trail of confused professors in its wake, they were managing.

So Harry could deal with Malfoy avoiding him. And besides, it wasn’t like Harry wasn’t busy himself. He had students to teach, and a house to look after, and he’d learn to deal with the uncomfortable itch building under his skin at Malfoy’s avoidance of him in time.

It was in that manner that before the blink of an eye, a whole month had passed, and the school was heading into October. The leaves of the trees had turned from various shades of green to burnt orange, red, and yellow and littered the grounds of the school. The crisp air bit the noses of those who lingered outside, and students and professors alike switched out their clothes for heavier weight fabrics. It wasn’t Harry’s favourite time of year, as Halloween was up and coming, and with it brought more restlessness and night time wanderings. But he had to admit that Hogwarts was a beautiful place during autumn.

He sighed internally as he collected his students homework for that week. Judging by the quality of their work with a quick once-over, it seemed as though he was not the only one feeling restless at Hogwarts. The last student to turn in their work was Amara Zinke, and by the looks of it, her essay wasn’t even half completed. She’d been struggling, and struggling hard, in his class. He worried over her, but she always managed to scuttle away at the last moment before he could have a private word with her. It reminded him a bit of Malfoy, actually.

However, this time he was prepared. “Miss Zinke, if I could have a word with you at the end of class, please?” The poor thing looked frightened as a mouse, but she nodded her assent. He smiled at her gently, trying to reassure her, but if anything she grew to look more scared. Harry stopped to wonder for a moment if he was really that intimidating of a teacher, but surely he’d have been told by one of the other professors if he were, wouldn’t he? Perhaps he’d ask around, just to check.

He shook his head to clear it of those thoughts and returned his attention to the task at hand. Harry had a class of first-years to teach, and he wasn’t going to let his mind’s idle wanderings distract himself from that. If there was one thing he had grown proud of over the years, it was his ability as a professor. Harry truly loved everything about teaching - from the late nights planning lessons, to the satisfaction that came with watching a student’s eyes light up once a lesson finally clicked for them in a way that it hadn’t previously.

The lesson at hand was one Harry had been looking forward to teaching for a while - the ins and outs of the Knockback Jinx. Though, with Harry’s manner of teaching, it was more of a demonstration followed by the students practicing it themselves. Not on each other, of course, but on a stack of heavy textbooks he’d set up prior to the lesson start. Hermione would have a fit if she saw what he was letting his students do to those books, already bruised and battered with age. As he made his way around the room, stopping here and there to lend pointers and adjust stances, it made him smile to think of it.

Though in thinking of Hermione, he found his mind drawn to thoughts of Malfoy. Malfoy who, like Hermione, always seemed to have his nose plugged into some sort of archaic or esoteric text when he wasn’t involved with something else. Harry found himself wondering how Malfoy would respond to the way Harry taught his classes, and wondered how Malfoy himself taught his own. From the mutterings of his students, Harry had gleaned that Malfoy was much like McGonagall - tough, but fair; interesting, but strict. But it was one thing to hear it from students, and another to see it for himself.

With the way Malfoy was avoiding him, however, he doubted he ever would. Which of course, didn’t matter to Harry in the slightest. He didn’t need to know anything about Malfoy.

The uncomfortable itch under his skin grew a bit stronger.

He came to a stop near Amara Zinke, and paused to watch her progress. Amara’s brows were furrowed in concentration - and perhaps frustration as well - and her wand was clenched tightly in her fist. She repeated the wand movements as Harry had shown the class, but instead of a singular fluid motion, it was a series of choppy movements. With each failed attempt to knock back the stack of books, the furrow between her brows grew deeper.

She was trying, and she was trying desperately, and it was making things worse for her.

“Miss Zinke, if you’ll pause for a moment?” Amara jumped at the sound of Harry’s voice and dropped her wand, where it rolled over to a stop in front of Harry’s feet. He picked up the wand and walked it back over to her, placing it into her hands. “Think of the wand as an extension of your own arm - you’re treating it like it’s a separate entity from yourself. That’s why the jinx isn’t working for you. Watch the way my arm moves carefully, now: Flipendo!” With a swift flick of his arm, Harry toppled over the stack. Amara watched, eyes wide.

“Now, Miss Zinke, do you think you can try that for me?” He asked softly. She nodded furiously and turned to try it herself, looking somehow uncertain and yet more sure of herself than before. Harry quickly reset the books for her, and watched carefully.

“Fl-flipendo!” Her movements weren’t as smooth and practiced as Harry’s, but he didn’t expect them to be. The books didn’t fly back with the same force as they had when Harry had shot the jinx, but they still fell over. He clapped Amara on her back enthusiastically. “See? I knew you could do it, Amara.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she said. Her tone belied a quiet sort of pride in herself. It was moments like this that were really demonstrative of why Harry had chosen to teach. It filled Harry himself with his own sense of pride.

“It’s only my job to make sure you can accomplish this, you know,” he said, teasing her lightly. She let out a soft giggle, before nervously clapping a hand over her mouth. “I’ll leave you to it for the rest of class then, yeah?” Amara dutifully nodded and turned back to practice the jinx some more.

Harry continued to make the rounds throughout the class, adjusting students when and where he saw fit. Every time he paused to check on Amara, she seemed to have improved herself. Internally, it pleased him to note this. There was hope for her yet.

“All right, everyone,” Harry said, at the end of class. “I want ten inches on the history of the Knockback Jinx and its creation, usage, and technique. Due one week from now, at the start of class.” The students all let out a series of disgruntled groans and complaints. “Would you like me to make it fifteen inches? Because I can and I will if you keep it up.” That quietened them down considerably, and any residual complaints were whispered between the students as they filed out of the classroom, leaving just Harry and Amara.

Amara made her way up to Harry’s desk and stopped. “You...you asked to see me, Professor Potter?” She fidgeted with her hands, nervously pulling at the loose threads on one of the sleeves of her robes.

Harry sighed, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Miss Zinke. All the homework you’ve been turning has been half-complete at best, non-existent at worst. I’m worried about you - what’s been going on? Are you all right?”

She looked down at her feet, ashamed. “I’m just...I’m just not very good at this class, Professor. I wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing, is all.”

“Amara,” said Harry firmly. “That is not true. Look at how well you did today in practical applications.”

“Yes, well, that was only with your help, Professor. When it was just me I was doing miserably,” Amara trailed off, voice breaking into a wobble.

“That’s literally why I’m here, Amara,” said Harry, gently this time. “To help you. I want to see you succeed, because I know that you can. You showed it yourself today, in class. So, tell me, please, Amara - what is going on?”

“I can’t talk about it with you,” she said. Amara wiped at her nose, which was now red and threatening to run, with the sleeve of her robe.

“I won’t push you to. But I want you to know that I’m here if you need an ear. I know you can do better, Amara, and I think you know you can too. Now go on, wouldn’t want you to be late to your next class.”

She nodded and all but ran out of the room. Harry sighed as he watched her go. He needed to talk with the other professors to see if they were having similar issues with her, but most of all, he needed to speak with Malfoy, her head of house.

This was going to be an ordeal.

Harry didn’t mean this in a negative way - all right, maybe he did, actually - but Malfoy was as slippery as an eel. If, prior to this, Harry had convinced himself Malfoy wasn’t purposefully avoiding him, he had been thoroughly disabused of that notion.

He could not, for the life of him, corner Malfoy. And frankly, he was at his wits end. He even had gone so far as to memorise Malfoy’s schedule, in order to pin the man down, but it was to no avail. Harry felt like if he did finally manage to capture Malfoy, he’d end up strangling him as a way to release his pent up frustration.

The more the man avoided him, the worse the itch under Harry’s skin got. It built, and built, and it built, becoming more unbearable with each passing second. He was simultaneously exhausted and wired by the whole thing, and it had only been a week.

And frankly, he just didn’t understand why.

He said as much to Ron, in one of their many floo calls, agonizing in depth over the whole thing. Ron was not very sympathetic.

“I mean, mate, have you considered how he feels?” Ron asked pointedly.

“Well, no, but that’s besides the point I think,” huffed Harry.

“No, it is the point, actually,” Ron responded. “Look, Harry. The man owes you a life debt - two, if you include him speaking for you at the trials. And now he’s your colleague? Any normal bloke would feel awkward about the whole thing, but this is Malfoy we’re talking about. His pride probably can’t take it.”

Harry heaved out a frustrated cry and fell backwards onto the floor. “I don’t care about his bloody pride, or his bloody feelings, when there’s a fucking student’s well-being at stake!”

A pause. And then, “Have you considered writing him a letter?”

Harry sat up. “What.”

“I said, have you considered writing him a letter?”

“I know what you said,” said Harry. “But...there’s no way that would work.”

“Yeah, well, there’s no harm in trying, is there mate?” Ron pointed out.

Harry considered Ron’s proposal. If Malfoy wouldn’t talk to him in person, he wasn’t really sure he’d talk to him through letters, either, but...Ron was right. There really was no harm in trying.

He rubbed at his face tiredly. “I’ll try it, I guess.”

“I’ll leave you to it then, yeah?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, I suppose.” He unceremoniously doused the flames, and got up, making his way to his desk where he grabbed a pot of ink, a quill, and some parchment. After numerous attempts, crumpled and tossed near or in the bin, he settled on:

Malfoy -

We need to speak about Amara Zinke. I’m concerned about her. She hasn’t been completing her assignments properly, but she refuses to talk to me about what’s going on when asked. Have you noticed anything the matter with her?

- Potter

Short, to the point, lacking any of the pointed remarks he’d so dearly love to throw at the other man right now. It should do the job. He attached it to his owl, Harriet, and sent her off.

All he had to do was wait.

Much to his surprise, he did not have to wait long. Harriet returned, with a new letter attached to her foot. He fed her a treat and untied the letter. It read:

Potter -

She’s been keeping up just fine in my classes. Perhaps that’s a testament to my skill as a Professor when compared to yours, or perhaps she simply likes me better. Either one would not surprise me. Would you like for me to coach you on how to, simply put, ‘be better’?

- Malfoy

This was not the response that Harry had, in any stretch of the imagination, thought he would receive. His first instinct was to light the letter on fire and send the ashes back to Malfoy. His second instinct was to stomp all the way over to Malfoy’s rooms and tear him a new one. His third response was to calmly sit down, and write his own response.

Malfoy -

Your sense of humour is a delight and never fails to entertain. Shall I send your letter to McGonagall then? Let’s see what she has to say about engaging in petty rivalries. I thought we were past that.

Harriet returned a few minutes later bringing Harry’s letter back. Across the bottom, Malfoy had simply written:

You wouldn’t.

Harry of course, simply sent this in return:

:)

The final response he received was of course:

Potter -

You’re really no fun, aren’t you? You used to be more entertaining when we were in school. You’ve become rather boring now, haven’t you? Obviously I’ll speak to Amara. I expect the content of my letters won’t reach McGonagall’s eyes in return.

- Malfoy

With that, Harry felt markedly more at ease. And when he slipped into bed that night, he found himself, oddly enough, feeling at ease for the first time in awhile.

Harry awoke in the middle of the night, like he did most nights, feeling restless and agitated. So he did what he typically would, and went for a late night stroll through the halls of Hogwarts, letting his mind wander and his feet lead the way. His mind, like it always seemed to lately, drifted to Malfoy.

He hadn’t really been expecting a response to his initial letter, and the response he had received was also not what he had prepared himself for. In the letters, it was the Malfoy that Harry knew, or used to know. And he wasn’t really sure he understood why Malfoy had decided to avoid him in real life, but treat him as though their letters hadn’t changed anything. The worst part about it? Harry wasn’t so sure he even minded. In fact, part of him preferred Letter Malfoy to Real Life Malfoy. If only he could figure out a way to get Letter Malfoy to translate over into Real Life Malfoy. But Malfoy, as he always was, remained a conundrum that Harry couldn’t parse how to fix.

Harry’s late night ponderings were interrupted by the sound of a set of voices coming from nearby. Before he could be seen, he hid himself behind a pillar. When he felt sure that he hadn’t been caught, he peeked around the edge of the pillar for a closer look. Illuminated by the moon, was Malfoy, kneeling down and comforting a crying...Amara? Her shoulders shook as she cried, and it hurt Harry’s heart to watch.

“Hush, darling, it’s okay,” said Malfoy, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Let it all out if you need to. That’s what I’m here for. You.”

“I just...miss them so much, Professor,” Amara whimpered. “I’m homesick, but I can’t write to them, because ever since being placed into Slytherin they’ve been so mad at me. I just want my parents to be proud of me.”

Something in Malfoy’s eyes hardened at Amara’s words, and he pulled her into a fierce hug. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He pulled out of the hug, and still holding her arms with both of his hands, looked her in the eyes. “I can tell you that I know what it’s like, not living up to your parents’ expectations. Perhaps it was good in the end that I did not live up to mine, and perhaps it will be good in the end, if your parents treat you the way they do for something not fully in your control, that you do not live up to theirs.”

“But what if- what if they’re right? What if all I’m good for is bad things, what if I can’t create anything good, and right?”

Malfoy sighed. “Do you think, Amara, that I can do good things?”

“Of course, Professor Malfoy!” She said, rather earnestly.

“Well, Amara, when I was younger. I did some very bad things. I actively chose to do those things. And I chose to do them, every day, for a long, long time.”

“Yes, but you’re not like that now, Professor.”

“Then if I can be capable of very bad, and of - to you - good things too, why can’t you be, sweetheart? Why are you so certain that all you’re good for is the bad?” He pushed a lock of hair behind Amara’s ear. “You are a bright young girl, with a kind heart, and most importantly, you care - about being good, and doing what’s right, such that it bothers you terribly to think that you might be doing the opposite. Do you think bad people, the real bad ones, care about these things? Do you think they concern themselves with such matters? I know for a fact that they don’t. A bad person doesn’t care that they might be bad, but a good person does. You, my dear, are a good person. I know that it may be hard. Don’t listen to the rubbish that your parents or anyone else tells you. Can you promise to try that for me?”

Amara sniffed, and rubbed at her eyes. “I...I can try, Professor.”

“Good girl. Would you like me to walk you back to your dormitory, then?”

“No, I can make it on my own.”

“If you’re certain, dear. Then head on back to your rooms.”

Malfoy sat there, in the hallway, illuminated by the moonlight and watched Amara leave. Harry stood there, behind a pillar, hidden in the dark, and watched Malfoy. He sat there quietly and after a moment’s pause, turned to let his face bathe in the moonlight, eyes closed. It looked almost as if he were glowing, to Harry. Harry, for his part, stood rooted to the spot, somewhat entranced.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Malfoy, eyes still closed, opened his mouth to speak. “You can come out now, Potter.”

Harry slunk out from where he was standing to where Malfoy was seated. “Er, how’d you know it was me, then?”

“Well, I knew someone was watching me, and it felt eerily familiar to when you were obsessed with me back in sixth year, if you must know. Not going to curse me again, are you?” Malfoy still hadn’t opened his eyes, but a smile played at the corner of his lips.

A wave of guilt washed over Harry at that. He opened his mouth to apologize but Malfoy raised a hand to stop him. “Oh, don’t drown yourself in pity over something that happened twelve years ago. Anyway, I was going to toss the Cruciatus Curse at you, so we’ll call it even.”

Harry couldn’t think of a proper response to something like that, so he went with, “So you’re finally talking to me then.”

Malfoy’s eyes snapped open in annoyance. “Get over yourself, Potter.”

“I would, if you could. But since that doesn’t seem to be happening, I don’t think I will.”

Malfoy pouted, but said nothing. They lapsed into silence, the air rather tense around them. Harry’s skin began to itch.

“I heard what you said to Amara, Malfoy an-”

“Obviously, you were watching us.”

“And,” Harry continued forcefully, “it was kind of you. You did a better job than I ever could have, you know.” He took a seat next to Malfoy, but kept a careful distance between the two of them.

“I,” began Malfoy, but then he stopped. He coughed and when Harry glanced over, two spots of pink were high on the other man’s cheekbones. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely for once.

Harry took off his glasses and began to wipe them clean. “So,” he said tentatively, “does this mean you’re going to start talking to me during the day now, or do I still have to resort to communicating to you through letters where you insult me for no reason?”

“Don’t count on it,” said Malfoy.

“You’re such a prat,” said Harry.

“From you, that’s a compliment.”

They lapsed into a silence that lasted till they parted ways, but it was a comfortable one.

And when Harry walked into the Great Hall the next morning, Malfoy was seated in Flitwick’s old chair.

If Harry had thought that this new development would lead to a change in Malfoy’s behaviour toward him, he was sorely mistaken. Well, partially. Malfoy still didn’t acknowledge him outside the occasional nod here or there, and he still seemed to avoid him. But Harry had taken to sending him letters at night and the swift responses he received were usually short, sharp and biting, and always managed to poke fun at Harry in some way, but he found that he didn’t mind. It reminded him much more of the Malfoy Harry had known, than the one his tenure at Hogwarts had shown him. It was comfortable, and easy, and he poked back at Malfoy just as hard. He found himself collecting the letters, and keeping them in his bedside drawer. Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, he took to reading through them.

They always, however, skirted around certain topics, like the war and what came before. Like unspoken rules, that they could be friends, but only at night, and only on a surface level. When he thought about it more in depth, the itch under his skin grew stronger, but he did his best to ignore it. If sometimes his feet found their way to Malfoy’s apartments or office, hands raised and poised to knock on his door before he came to his senses and left, or if sometimes during meals he said idiotic things just to get a reaction to spill out of the man next to him, could Harry be blamed? Self-control had never been his strong suit, after all.

He told himself that this arrangement didn’t bother him, and that he was pleased with the way things were - that there had been any improvement or change at all, but Malfoy’s existence was an itch that Harry couldn’t quite comfortably scratch and he found more and more his thoughts consumed with him now that there had been a breakthrough.

“It’s just...why not talk to me during the day? It’s like he’s two different people entirely. I don’t understand it, Ron,” Harry complained.

“I dunno myself, mate. You know him better than I do at this point,” said Ron, rather unhelpfully.

Harry let out a frustrated grunt and fell flat on his face onto the carpet.

“Okay, look. You managed to break him down a bit already. Maybe he just needs time?”

“Time for what, exactly?” Harry said into the carpet.

“To feel less awkward around you?”

Harry looked up at Ron’s face in the fireplace, unamused. “We’ve known each other for seventeen years, Ron.”

“And how many of those years did you spend hating each other? And trying to make each other’s lives a living hell? How many times did you both succeed at it, too?” Ron pointed out. “Besides, you’re the saviour of the wizarding world and he almost ended up in Azkaban, if not for, again, you. Bound to be some odd feelings there.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry huffed. “I’d rather he stop being such a prat.”

“It’s Malfoy. Being a prat is basically built into his genes. And besides, there are more important questions at hand here.” Ron’s tone shifted to something more serious, causing Harry to pause.

“Like...what, Ron?” he asked tentatively.

“Why does he matter so much to you?”

Harry sputtered, trying to come up with an answer to Ron’s question. But he found that he couldn’t.

“Just. Think about it, Harry,” urged Ron. “You don’t even need to give me an answer. I just want you to think about it.”

“Fine,” was all Harry said.

Ron sighed. “And before I go, I know Halloween is tomorrow. Remember that me and ‘Mione are here for you if you need anything, the whole day. You know that, right, Harry?”

“Yeah, I do. But I’ll be fine, Ron.” Harry was lying, of course. The look on Ron’s face indicated that he knew Harry was too.

Harry awoke on Halloween, the day of his parent’s death, with a restless itch under his skin. This was par for the course. If it were any other day, he’d get rid of the restlessness by going for a run, or flying on the quidditch pitch if it were empty. But it was, of course, Halloween, and so he couldn’t.

If only Voldemort had chosen a more opportune day to kill his parents.

He entered the Great Hall for breakfast, skin buzzing, and took his seat next to Malfoy. He added food to his plate, heaping it on mindlessly. And then he just stared at it, not eating. He simply pushed the food around on his plate with a fork. He wondered idly what his parents would have done on Halloween. He wondered who cooked more - his mother, or his father? He wondered if they took turns, or if they traded household duties.

He’d never know, and it made him feel sick.

Harry felt eyes on him and he turned to the side. Malfoy was watching him, with an unreadable look in his eyes. Harry wanted to say it was one of concern, but that would require a level of hope that Harry didn’t have in him today. Instead, he just felt irritated at being examined like an insect under a microscope.

“What?” he snapped. “Have I got something on my face, then?”

Instead of answering, Malfoy simply pursed his lips and turned back to the book he was reading. That just irritated Harry more. He wanted to break something, to start a fight, to scream. But he couldn’t. He felt his ears begin to buzz.

Normally he could make it through the day. Most years on Halloween, he’d be more irritated than normal, and he’d be especially restless at night, and yes, there would be a return of some of his more choice nightmares, but he could make it through. This one was not one of them though.

He excused himself and told McGonagall he was feeling particularly ill today. By the look on her face, she knew he was lying, but to her credit said nothing. He returned to his rooms and threw himself atop his bed. With no idea how to get rid of the buzzing in his ears, or the itch underneath his skin, he tried to force himself into a restless sleep.

Unfortunately he was unsuccessful in this endeavour, and simply kept tossing and turning fitfully for what felt like hours, unable to get fully comfortable. The thought of calling Ron or Hermione crossed his mind but he tossed that idea aside. As much as he loved them, the fact that they had their parents was a stark reminder that he did not.

He was sad, and he was lonely, and he was angry, and he was uncomfortable and he was tired and he just wanted his brain to shut up. Harry sighed and stared at the ceiling, perhaps not in despair, but something close to it.

Maybe he should put his nervous energy to use and clean his apartments. Rolling off the bed with a thump, he picked himself up off the floor and examined his surroundings. Books were stacked not on shelves but in jumbled messes upon various pieces of furniture. His desk was a mess of student’s homework and lesson plans. Harriet’s cage by the window was sort of disgusting to look at. The collection of pictures he had by his bedside and on the fireplace mantle were collecting dust. It was admittedly filthy, and nothing really burned out his energy the way a good deep cleaning could. So, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

Fortunately, this endeavour did quiet his brain, if only for a bit. Essentially being the Dursley’s live-in maid had made him rather...averse to cleaning on his own accord, but he did have to admit that the mindless nature of the task always did do a good job of distracting him when he needed it.

He finished the job as the sun began to dip in the sky, bathing his rooms in the glow of twilight. Harry stood in the middle of the room and surveyed his work. Everything was spotless, the buzzing in his ears had gone down, and he was exhausted enough from the work that he felt he could fall asleep standing up. So all in all, cleaning had done for him what he wanted it to do. He knew that the buzzing would probably rear its head again, and he knew the inevitability of having nightmares tonight existed, but for now he felt somewhat at peace.

There was a loud knock at the door. Harry made his way over and opened it, finding Amara standing there and struggling to balance a tray laden full of food. There was some sort of steaming lentil soup, what looked to be shepherd’s pie, a tankard of pumpkin juice, and best of all - a thick and hearty slice of treacle tart.

“Er, Miss Zinke?”

“Hi, Professor! Um, for you,” she said, pushing the tray toward Harry. He swooped down and grabbed it from her before she fell over from the weight of it all. “Well, um, have a good dinner. Bye then.” Amara turned on her heel and made to scurry away.

“Wait, Miss Zinke, come back here,” Harry called out. She paused in her tracks and slunk back shyly to the doorway. “I can’t eat all this by myself. Care to join me?” He smiled at her.

Amara fiddled anxiously with the sleeves of her robes and shifted a bit on her feet. “Oh, I don’t know Professor...I wouldn’t want to bother you tonight.”

“Hey, Miss Zinke,” Harry said sternly. “You are never a bother. And besides, if I really thought of you that way, I wouldn’t ask you to join me. Come on, you must be hungry.” He turned around and made his way to his desk, setting the tray down on it. Then he went and dragged the armchair next to the fireplace over to his desk. When he was finished, he saw that Amara was still standing in the doorway, watching him with hesitation in her eyes.

He clucked his tongue. “I’m serious, Amara. I would love the pleasure of your company, even if you don’t want to eat.”

“Well...if you’re certain, Professor,” she said uncertainly.

“Which I am.”

Like a turtle tentatively poking its head out of its shell, she carefully made her way into the room and over to his desk, where she took a seat.

“So, did you bring this all the way from the feast then?” Harry asked, rifling around in his cupboards for some extra utensils and plates for Amara to use.

“No, I got it from the kitchens, actually. I wasn’t really planning on attending the feast anyway,” she responded.

“Really? Why not? Most students look forward to it,” he said, turning around.

Amara looked down at her hands on her lap. “Halloween is...a big deal at home. And, um, I’ve not been getting on with my parents lately, so it just...hurts, a bit, is all. But I’m okay, I promise,” she assured him.

Harry took a seat, and began to slice the shepherd’s pie in half, plating it and handing it over to Amara. “Well, take it from me,” he said. “Halloween is overrated.”

There was a moment of silence and then: “I’m sorry.”

He paused midway through ladling some of the soup into a bowl. “Whatever for?”

“Um, well. Prof-someone told me what happened to your parents, and here I am, having parents and complaining about them in front of you.” She dropped her head in shame.

“Oh, Amara,” Harry sighed. “Just because I lost my parents doesn’t mean you can’t complain about yours. My best friends complain about theirs all the time and I don’t mind. If you feel comfortable, you can tell me what’s going on with you and yours.” He finished filling her bowl with soup and set it down in front of her.

Harry watched as Amara picked at her plate of food. “Well, um, I’m a Slytherin.”

“And I’m a Gryffindor. Are we just naming our houses?”

“No! Well. It’s just. I come from a family of Ravenclaws, and so, well, everyone at home expected I’d be one too. But I’m not. And, well, they may have said some things about Slytherins and the kind of people Slytherins are that weren’t very...nice. They’re very disappointed in me.” She sighed sadly.

Harry paused to digest this piece of information, and found himself getting incensed on her behalf. “You wanna know what I think, Amara?” he asked around a mouthful of shepherd’s pie.

She looked up at him uncertainly. “Um...I think so?”

“Your parents are a load of wankers,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Professor Potter!” Amara exclaimed. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Even if it was, which I’m not saying it is, you can’t just use words like...like that,” she insisted, red in the face.

“Look, Amara, let me let you in on a secret that I learned at your age. Family is what you make of it. If your blood ties aren’t treating you well, then I say they can sod off. You can find better people to surround yourselves with, ones that don’t judge you for things out of your control, or make far-reaching generalizations about whole groups of people they barely know.” He took a swig of pumpkin juice and swallowed, watching as Amara processed this information.

She took a forkful of shepherds pie into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. Amara swallowed, and then daintily patted her mouth with a napkin. “Well,” she said, and then paused.

“Well what?”

“I’m starting to think that you...might have a point, Professor. Prof-someone else told me something similar.”

He knew she was talking about Malfoy, but thought it best to leave that knowledge a secret. “Glad to hear you’ve been talking to someone else about this, Amara,” he said, meaningfully. “Can I ask you a question, though?”

“Of course, Professor,” she said, looking at him curiously.

“Is this why you haven’t been turning in your work in class?”

Immediately, she averted eye contact and directed a suspicious amount of focus toward her food. She did not answer the question.

“Amara,” he gently prodded.

“...Maybe,” was all he got in response.

Harry sighed and placed his fork down on his plate. “Amara, it’s okay. I don’t blame you. It’s hard, when family is unkind to you. Even though I wish you’d told me sooner, I’m glad that you trusted me enough to tell me at all.”

Amara looked up and her eyes were suspiciously bright and watery looking.

He pushed the plate of treacle tart toward her. “Here, have some tart. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Oh, I couldn’t Professor. I know it’s your favourite,” she said. She gave him a tentative smile, to indicate she’d heard what he said.

“How do you know that?” He asked, confused and wondering for a brief moment if he’d ever accidentally waxed lyrically about the wonders of treacle tart during class.

“Uh, well,” said Amara, looking somewhat sheepish. “I have to admit that it wasn’t my idea to bring you food. I ran into Prof-someone in the kitchens who told me you weren’t feeling well and asked if I’d bring you some food, and they knew all your favourites.”

“Oh, really? Who was it, then?” he asked, curious in spite of himself.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and bit her lip uncertainly. “Um, well. They asked me not to say, so I really can’t. I’m sorry, Professor.”

It was probably Hagrid or McGonagall who had asked her, though why they wouldn’t want him to know was something Harry didn’t have an explanation for.

“Well, regardless, it was still very sweet of you to bring it to me. And to join me. Halloween isn’t an easy day for me, and your presence definitely brightened it a bit,” he said sincerely.

Amara blushed and ducked her head shyly. “Y-you’re welcome, Professor.” She glanced at the clock, and then nearly tumbled out of her seat. “Oh, shoot. I told my friends I’d meet them in the library and I’m incredibly late. Sorry, Professor, but I have to go. Is that okay?”

“Of course, Amara. Go and spend time with people your age! I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

She made her way to the door and then stopped and turned around. “Um, thank you, Professor. And, um, I promise to try to get more of my work in from now on.”

“Think nothing of it, Amara. My door is always open,” he insisted.

For the first time since he’d known her, she gave him a bright smile, looking less like a wilted plant and more like a blooming flower for once. It made his heart feel warm at the sight of it. She nodded again, and then hurried off. As she left, any residual energy Harry had in his body sapped itself from him. He could bring the tray back to the kitchens now, or he could toss himself into a bed that looked incredibly, incredibly inviting. The only danger lay in the fact that he knew sleep tonight would only bring nightmares, but he was so tired. There was the option of forcing himself to stay awake through the night, which he did for some years, but in this instance it felt like it would be a losing battle.

Ultimately, he gave in, climbing into bed and letting the waves of what he knew would be a restless sleep wash over him and pull him under.

Harry awoke, sweaty and gasping from a nightmare, and felt the pangs of phantom pain around his scar. He sat up and pulled the bedcovers off, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. Rather than return to a dreamscape full of flashes of green light and dying mothers, he opted to leave his apartments and go for a late night walk through the school again. The itch under his skin and the buzzing in his ears had returned, and returned with a vengeance, and he thought that maybe exercise of some sort would serve as a cure-all.

As he made his way through the halls, past empty classroom after empty classroom, his mind wandered to his parents. He wondered about their lives as students, wondered about what went through their heads as they walked the halls. There was only so much that secondhand accounts of their time at school could give him, and it was never enough.

He found himself wondering what they’d be doing now, if they were still alive. Would they have retired or still working? Would they be proud of him? Harry liked to think that they would, but he’d never know for certain. The chance to know had been taken away from him.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became, and the worst part about it all was that the man responsible for it was dead. And he should be happy about it, but he wasn’t. Part of him wished Voldemort was still alive, so he could punish him again, and again, and again. Part of him knew this was sick and twisted and wrong, but he couldn’t help but feel that way.

He came to a stop in front of the staffroom. The door was slightly ajar, and light spilled out of the cracks, alerting Harry to someone else’s presence. It looked like he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep tonight. He peeked his head in and saw Malfoy seated at the table near the fireplace, scratching away at some parchment with a quill. His internal debate on whether or not to enter the room was interrupted by Malfoy himself.

“I know you’re there, Potter. You might as well come in, you know,” Malfoy sighed, without looking up from what he was doing.

Harry made his way into the room, and took the seat across from Malfoy. “Do you have some sort of sixth sense specifically to detect me, then?”

“No, I have these things called eyes, and another thing most humans have called peripheral vision. I know you’re quite dense so you may never have heard of them before.”

“Your boundless wit never ceases to amuse.” Harry placed his head in one hand and leaned forward on one elbow, trying to see what Malfoy was writing. “What are you doing?”

“Grading.” Malfoy was still not looking at him. It felt almost intentional at this point.

“This late at night? I always took you for someone who got things done bright and early.”

Malfoy set his quill down and looked up at Harry, eyebrow raised. “Do you normally think such detailed thoughts about my personal behaviour, or are you just like this with everyone?”

Harry felt himself flushing and he started to sputter. “Er, no, yes, well, I mean you’re like Hermione, you know?”

“Normally I’d take personal offense at ever being compared to Granger but knowing you, this is supposed to be some sort of compliment I assume.” Malfoy sniffed haughtily and picked his quill back up.

“First of all, sod off for that comment about ‘Mione. Second of all, I just meant that you’re very, academic-minded, like her, and she always prepares and gets things done far in advance. So yes, I guess you could say I was complimenting you,” Harry said petulantly.

“Well, you’re not wrong. I used to. But I find that now I get most of my work done at night,” Malfoy answered, with a surprising amount of honesty.

Unable to help himself, Harry asked, “Why?”

Silence. A long pause, and then: “I have...difficulties sleeping.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and scratched at the back of his neck with one arm. Unsure of what to say in response, he went with “Er, well, you’re not alone there.”

“Yes, well. Misery loves company, as they say.”

They lapsed into a silence that was not quite awkward and not quite comfortable. Malfoy continued scritching away at his parchment. Without much else to do, Harry found his gaze drawn toward the other man. Every now and then Malfoy would scrunch up his nose in distaste, and mutter something about the state of students' education at Hogwarts. Less frequently, a soft smile would slip onto his face as he read something that clearly pleased him. Harry noted how his fingers were ink stained - he even had a splotch of ink on the bridge of his nose. Harry felt a sudden urge to reach forward and wipe it clean. He shook his head to clear himself of that...odd thought. Instead, he laid his head down on the table and directed his gaze toward the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and dance. It was hypnotic, in a sense.

After a time, even the sound of quill against parchment stopped. Harry looked back at Malfoy, who was staring at him with an unfathomable expression on his face. “What is it?”

“Did you eat?”

“What?”

Malfoy drummed his fingers on the table and looked off to the side. “I asked, did you eat?”

“I mean, yes, I ate. But why are you asking at what must be two o’clock in the morning?”

“Good,” said Malfoy, looking pleased with himself. And also, notably, avoiding the question.

In an instance like this, normally Harry would refrain from rolling his eyes. But it was Malfoy, so of course, he didn’t.

“I’m just glad Amara made it to you without tripping over her feet and dropping everything. Poor girl is as clumsy as an ox sometimes,” Malfoy snorted.

Harry felt like he was hit with whiplash. “How do you know that Amara brought me food?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

Malfoy’s entire body immediately stiffened, and he went dead silent.

Harry stared him down and waited for a response. And waited. And waited. And waited. When it became clear Malfoy wasn’t going to say anything, Harry took it upon himself to break the silence. “You’re the one who told Amara to bring me food, aren’t you?”

A (very) long pause and then: “Yes.”

At that answer, Harry felt the buzzing in his ears and the itch under his skin returned. He felt...incensed, and infuriated, when in reality he knew he should be grateful. Something in him snapped.

“What in the bloody hell is wrong with you, Malfoy?” Harry asked, a sort of quiet fury laced into the tone of his voice.

“So that’s the thanks I get for making sure you don’t forget to feed yourself on today of all days?” Malfoy sniped.

“You absolute fucking wanker,” Harry shot back. “You can’t just sit there and ignore and avoid me for months, choose only to speak to me through letters or when I’m lucky enough to catch you off guard at night, and then pull shit like...like this!”

Malfoy stared at him, mouth agape.

“Do you understand how utterly and completely infuriating you are sometimes? Just...just why? Why won’t you talk to me normally? What did I do?” Harry felt his voice getting shrill, and heard the crazed desperation in it. He’d be cringing at himself if he wasn’t so upset right now.

And why was he even upset? Why did he care so much about Draco fucking Malfoy talking to him anyway? He honestly felt like tearing his hair out from the roots, or setting something on fire.

Malfoy crossed his arms tightly and looked away from Harry and toward the fireplace. The glow of the firelight softened the harsh lines of his face, giving way to a more gentle countenance. His ears were flushed pink, matched only by two similar spots of color high on his cheekbones. If Harry was less angry in this moment, he might have even gone so far as to say Malfoy looked delicate and ethereal, like some sort of porcelain doll.

There was silence. And more silence. And more silence. And more silence. And then it seemed as though Malfoy’s whole body collapsed in on itself. He turned back toward Harry with a weary look on his face.

“You make me uncomfortable,” he said.

“Yes, well, I gathered,” said Harry, still feeling rather uncharitable.

Malfoy sighed. “One thing you must know about me, Potter, is that I am in no uncertain terms, a coward. You know this already, you’ve seen it firsthand when we were in school, and during the War. You offered me a chance to build something better of myself when you spoke for me at the trials, and I’ve done my best. But I also ran from my past, fled to France where I thought I could better hide who I was, or who I fundamentally am. Being around you reminds me that I can’t, that for all I’ve done and may do, I’m forever tainted. And frankly, knowing what you do about me, I’m not sure why you’d ever want to know me.” He traced mindless patterns with his finger on the tabletop. “Running from you when all you’ve done is try to reach out is...cowardly, yes, but that’s just who I am.” He sounded resigned, like he’d consigned himself to this idea for eternity.

Harry took a moment to digest this information. What he’d expected was something insulting, and snide, that beat around the bush and didn’t really answer his questions. Instead he had got something raw and incredibly vulnerable and unexpected. He was at the edge of a precipice and what he said next would either toss Malfoy into a black abyss from which there was no return, or pull him away into the arms of someone safe.

For a long time, the only sound to be heard in the room was that of the crackling fire. The silence seemed to stretch between them, and Harry wanted desperately to close the gap.

“Do you know,” Harry said so softly he could barely be heard over the sound of the fire, “that sometimes I wish I could resurrect Voldemort, just so that I can kill him again, and this time make it a torturously slow and drawn out process?”

Malfoy’s hands paused in the patterns they were drawing on the table, and his gaze snapped up to meet Harry’s. “Why...Harry, why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want...no, rather, I need you to know that I’m not the sort of perfect golden boy, Saviour with a capital S of the wizarding world that you seem to think I am,” Harry said intently.

“I don’t think that of you,” Malfoy scoffed.

“Except you kind of do,” Harry pointed out. “You seem to think you’re not worthy of even speaking to me, which is just a load of rubbish.” He ran a frustrated hand through his curls. “Look, you say you’re tainted. And maybe you are. But I think we’re all tainted, in our own distinct ways. I think you ought to seek forgiveness, and I think that you’re deserving of it. You aren’t the same person you were a decade ago, Draco. Neither of us are, truthfully.”

Draco, who had been at that moment poised to retort, shut his mouth. He paused, and then leaned forward, opening his mouth again. Then he shut it. Again. This process where he appeared to be a gaping fish was admittedly exceedingly entertaining to watch, though Harry felt that now was probably not the most opportune time to laugh at him.

“Harry,” said Draco, looking like he was in pain at having to say this, “you are...oddly intelligent sometimes, and perhaps too kind to boot.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Your effusive praise will stay with me for days, Draco.”

“Yes, well. Thank you for saying all that,” Draco said honestly. “And for what it’s worth? I’m not against your ideas about Voldemort.”

“There is a certain appeal to it, yeah,” Harry laughed.

“Although, Harry, if I could ask you a question?” Draco put forth hesitantly.

“Yeah?” Harry asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Are you okay?” Harry toppled out of his chair. “Merlin, Harry, are you alright?” Draco asked, concerned.

“I’m fine,” said Harry, from his seat on the floor. “That was an answer to both your questions, by the way.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!” Harry cried out, indignant.

“You’re here in the staffroom at three in the morning, there are deep bags under your eyes, no one but Amara has seen you since breakfast and I highly suspect if I hadn’t sent her to your rooms with food you wouldn’t have eaten anything the whole day.”

“If you already know the answer to your own question why even bother asking it?” Harry grumbled.

“I’ll pretend like I didn’t hear that.”

Harry fell flat on his back and stared up at the ceiling. “What do you want me to say, Draco? That there’s a restlessness in my bones and a buzzing in my ears and an itch under my skin that’s been here the whole week and won’t go away? That despite everything I do, I can’t stop thinking about what was taken from me? That I can’t stop resenting that I never got to have a choice in any of it, that I was signed up for something I never wanted before I was even born, that it feels like all I’m made for is to give, and give, and give and that there’s a selfish part of me that wishes I could just…have? Because all of that’s true, but saying it aloud doesn’t change anything.” He let it all out in a rush, feeling winded.

A careful pause, and then: “You’re allowed to be angry, Harry. You’re allowed to be selfish, sometimes. You don’t have to be perfect, you know.”

“I never said that I think that,” snapped Harry.

“Except you kind of do,” said Draco, echoing Harry. “You seem to think your sole function is to exist as an object to serve others before yourself, and you seem to forget that it’s okay for you to be human. Merlin knows if anyone’s earned that right, it’s you.”

Harry felt his face flush with a sudden warmth that blossomed from within him. It was odd, but he’d never really...told anyone those thoughts before. Not even Ron or Hermione. And being validated in a way he hadn’t expected to be was disconcerting. Usually he felt sure-footed but now it was like he’d been thrust into something new and unfamiliar, though he couldn’t say it was an unwelcome feeling.

So in lieu of a serious reply, he went with: “Don’t you think it’s odd that we spent years hating each other and now we’re pouring out our deepest insecurities to one another?” Although, Harry realized belatedly, he may have just opened a new can of worms.

There was a moment of silence as Draco processed Harry’s question and then, much to Harry’s surprise and delight, he burst into laughter. Rather than the derisive and snide snickers Harry remembered from their childhood, Draco’s laughter sounded...lighter. He kept snorting from laughing so hard, and tears of mirth threatened to pour from his eyes. It was unrefined and out of control and unlike anything Harry had ever expected from someone as...prim as Malfoy was. He enjoyed watching it immensely.

Eventually Draco tired himself out, and he let out a relaxed sigh as soon as the laughter trailed off. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed. It’s just...you’re right. It’s incredibly weird.” More shyly, he added, “but I find that I don’t mind it. It turns out you’re tolerable company after all.”

Harry smiled, and found that he didn’t mind it either.

As October slid into November, as the air turned crisper and the beginnings of a winter chill began to settle over the school grounds, and as the leaves fell from the trees, Harry found that the seeds of friendship he hand planted with Draco finally began to blossom and flower.

The late night conversation they had had on Halloween seemed to have finally cracked the walls Draco had built up around himself and sent them tumbling down. Harry could actually enter a room while Draco was in it without the fear of chasing him away. In fact, more often than not, Draco would engage him in conversation. During meals they sat together and enjoyed each other’s company.

They continued writing late night letters to each other, letters Harry found himself starting to treasure. And they still, of course, bickered with one another. Harry didn’t think they’d be, well, Draco and Harry, if they stopped. But there was no venom in their tone when they did - not there had been any for awhile now.

Harry found that his late night wanderings through the school when his nightmares became too much always conveniently led him to the staffroom, where Draco would usually be, reading or grading or working by the light of the fireplace. He began to bring his own stack of work with him for the times Draco couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to anything but the task at hand. During those times they didn’t talk much, but the silence was comfortable.

When things got to be too much, when the buzzing began to build up under Harry’s skin and he grew restless, Draco managed to just...know. He’d stop what he was doing and all but drag Harry by the ear out of the staffroom for a walk. And he never pressured Harry to talk, either. He filled the silence with his own mindless chatter.

His newfound friendship with Draco seemed to have satisfied a yearning ache deep within Harry’s bones, one that he hadn’t realized he’d had in the first place. A sort of loneliness he’d never examined before, that perhaps his subconscious had buried for him, and now it was fading. But there was still something within him that hungered for more from Draco, but what it was, exactly, wasn’t something that he could put a finger on.

He said all this and more to Hermione one late November evening, hoping that perhaps she’d know what was going on. Because, well, it was Hermione. She watched him with a calculated stare through the fireplace, but stayed silent.

“Er, ‘Mione?”

Hermione worried at her lip a bit. “Harry,” she began carefully. “Since when has Malfoy been ‘Draco’ to you?”

That hadn’t been the response he was expecting from her, but it also gave him pause for a moment. Since when had he, really? He hadn’t given much thought about it, and the way they were right now felt like they way they had always been. But obviously this wasn’t true, and he was in unexplored territory with Draco.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I think...it’s been almost a full month now, yeah?”

A pause and then: “And he calls you Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm,” was all Hermione said. She gave Harry a look, and raised her eyebrow. “That’s interesting, Harry.”

“Er, is that all you have to say, then?” Hermione usually didn’t choose to be cryptic and vague, she’d always been more to the point and blunt about the state of things, so Harry was irritated that it seemed this was all she felt the need to say right now.

“Yes. Well, no.” She shook her head and her curls bounced. “If you think there’s something missing from your relationship with him, there probably is. But you know yourself better than I do - you’re the only one that has the answers to those questions, really. Even if I have my own suspicions.”

“Personally, I’d be all for hearing your suspicions, ‘Mione. It’d probably help me,” said Harry, with what he would not admit was a tinge of desperation in his voice.

She looked away uncertainly. “I...don’t think I should, Harry.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I...think this is something you need to figure out on your own. Just think about it. I think if you do, you’ll understand soon enough,” she promised. “Look, think about it this way. You spend as much time with Malfoy as you do with us when we’re around in person. Do the feelings you have about Malfoy apply to the way you feel about Ron and I?”

“No,” came Harry’s immediate response.

“Then just...think about why that is. What makes him different from Ron and I? That’s what you need to ask yourself.”

“...Fine,” Harry acquiesced.

They lapsed into silence and then: “You know we love you, right, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“Of course I do, ‘Mione. I love you too, but where is this coming from?”

“Nowhere. Just thought I ought to remind you, before you get too in your head again,” she said.

“You know, truthfully, I think sometimes I’d be lost without you and Ron,” Harry pointed out.

“I know, Harry.”

“That’s supposed to be the part where you say ‘Thanks, Harry, I feel exactly the same way.’”

Hermione let out a bright laugh. “Yes, but we both know I’d be lying.”

Harry clutched his chest in mock-offence, and toppled over onto the floor. “My heart has never known such pain.”

She just rolled her eyes at his antics and moved on. “So, have things improved with that student of yours? Amara, I think her name was?”

He perked up at the chance to talk about who was now, admittedly, his favorite student. “Yes, actually. She’s been turning in her work on time, and participating more frequently in class. She also seems to be struggling with the theory less and less, too. I have my own suspicions someone is tutoring her, but that’s not a bad thing. I’m quite happy for it, really.”

“That’s wonderful, Harry. I know you were fretting over her for a while, but it looks like things have smoothed out. Do you think she’ll keep it up then?”

Harry chewed on the question for some time. “I mean...I want to say yes. It’s easy to slip back into old habits but...I talked with her, and I’m pretty sure she talks more frequently with her head of house. From what I can tell, I think it’s a permanent behavioural change, you know?”

“Who’s her head of house?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, it’s just Draco,” Harry said with a wave of his hand.

“‘Just Draco’,” said Hermione, with a raise of her eyebrow.

“What?” asked Harry.

“Oh, nothing,” she said innocently. “He seems like a good professor, from everything you’ve told me.”

“He is,” replied Harry. “I never thought I’d say this but...I’m glad McGonagall took him up on his offer, you know? He’s really good with kids. Like, really good, ‘Mione. I don’t know how he does it.” His mind flashed back to that night with Amara and Draco, and how gently he had spoken to her, like she’d shatter into pieces if he breathed wrong. It stirred something inside him, made him wonder if Draco would be like this with his future kids. “He’d probably make a great father.”

If her eyebrows could raise further, they probably would have. “You find yourself thinking of Draco as a parent often, then?”

“Er, well, yes. I mean. No?” Harry shrugged helplessly. “The thought just crosses my mind sometimes. It’d cross yours too, if you saw him,” he added defensively.

“Uh-huh,” said Hermione, in a tone that implied the opposite was true. She gave him a long-suffering sigh. “You know, sometimes Harry, you’re incredibly thick.”

Harry felt like this was a moment where he should get offended, but seeing as he wasn’t sure what Hermione was trying to imply, she might have a point. There was a tap at his windowsill, and he glanced over to see Draco’s owl, a snowy owl named Xue, at the window.

“It looks like you have company. I ought to let you go then, Harry. But think about what I said, alright?” Hermione asked, giving him a meaningful look.

Harry nodded, already standing up from his seat in front of the fireplace. “Of course, ‘Mione. Thanks for talking with me, though.”

“Any time, Harry.” She popped her head back out of the flames and Harry made his way over to the window, where he let Xue in. He untied the letter from around her foot, and gave her one of Harriet’s owl treats when she nipped at his fingers. Unraveling the letter, it read:

I’m not feeling well. Don’t expect me in the staffroom tonight. And for Merlin’s sake, don’t try to visit me, lest I sick up all over you. Which I would force myself to do if you try to get a glimpse of me in my current state.

Harry frowned. There was something off about the letter, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was Draco-like in tone, yes, but it was just...too direct in a way that Draco never really was. He quickly wrote back:

I could bring you food from the kitchens so you don’t have to go get any yourself. You sure you don’t want that?

The response he received was nearly immediate:

If you value me as a friend, you will not seek me out. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.

Well, if anything, that made certain Harry knew something was off with the other man. He was hiding something from Harry. It was no matter, he’d simply corner Draco tomorrow morning.

Harry entered the Great Hall on the morning of December 1st to find Draco conspicuously absent. He frowned as he ate his breakfast, wondering if Draco would show up for any of his classes. Draco was missing during lunch, too. And during his afternoon classes, Harry found out through one of his students that Draco had been missing from his classes, too. When dinner arrived and Draco still had not shown up, Harry decided to ignore the note he’d received from Draco and go searching for him.

He first stopped by the kitchens to grab a spot of dinner, since he was functioning under the assumption that the other man had yet to eat. Looking for Draco, he checked the staffroom first, with no luck.Then he found his way to Draco’s apartments, which were dark and empty. Having struck out twice, and with no idea where to go, he let himself wander around. Maybe his idle wanderings would lead him to Draco, and maybe they wouldn’t.

Harry spent the next few hours like that, walking down every hall, exploring every nook and cranny of the castle, in search of the man who had so mysteriously vanished for some reason. Eventually, something drew him toward the Astronomy Tower, and he climbed the steps. He found Draco leaning against the windowsill, looking up at the stars.

He walked over and seated himself on the windowsill, swinging his legs over so that they were dangling off the ledge. “So, you’re sick, huh?” He asked, adopting a semi-cheerful tone.

Draco jumped back, startled. “I never said that,” he said, in an attempt to save face. “I simply said I wasn’t feeling well.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “And how was I to interpret ‘lest I sick up all over you’, then?”

The other man turned pink and began to sputter something that Harry wasn’t in the mood to listen to, so he unwrapped one of the sandwiches he had brought from the kitchen and shoved it in Draco’s mouth. “For you. I assume you’ve spent the whole day moping up here and haven’t eaten dinner, yeah?”

Draco glared at him from over the sandwich, but chewed in angry silence. He swallowed and then: “Didn’t I tell you not to come looking for me if you valued our friendship?”

“Shouldn’t you know by now that I’m not the type to listen to that if I think it’s stupid?” retorted Harry.

“Fair point,” Draco acquiesced. “I forgot how much of a Gryffindor you are, sometimes.” He took another bite of his sandwich.

“I feel like this is where I ought to point out again I was almost a Slytherin,” said Harry as he unwrapped his own sandwich.

Draco paused mid-bite, and lowered his sandwich. “You know, you told me that on my first day here, and I refuse to believe it. There’s no way.”

“You not believing me doesn’t make it any less true.” Harry leaned his head against the side of the open window. He shivered - he hadn’t thought to bring a cloak up with him, and the winter air was chilling him to the bone.

Looking over at him, Draco let out a sigh and sort of...awkwardly shuffled over to Harry, and wrapped him in his cloak. Harry eyed him, and watched as his face began to flush red. “Not a word, Harry,” he grit out.

Harry for his part, stayed silent and munched on his sandwich, watching Draco thoughtfully. The man had returned his gaze to the stars. He looked lost, and distant. Harry wanted to know what was on his mind, what had him inhabiting the Astronomy Tower for all this time, but part of him felt like maybe it wasn’t his place to ask. And he found that he was okay with that, that he was fine with just being near Draco.

“I wonder, sometimes, if I can ever atone for the things I’ve done,” Draco began. He kept his gaze on the stars. “It keeps me up at night, you know. It’s why I struggle to sleep. I just...remember all the opportunities I had to do what was right, and all the times I chose to do what was wrong.”

Harry stayed silent.

“I’ve run and run, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to escape my choices.” He smiled bitterly. “If only I’d been born a good person, right? But I’m not, and I don’t think I ever will be.” Draco fell back into silence.

“You’re wrong,” Harry replied simply.

Draco glanced to the side, gaze drawn to Harry. “What?”

“I said you’re wrong.” Draco opened his mouth to argue but Harry held up a hand to stop him. “Draco, tell me: Why did you come back from France? Why are you here?”

The blond drummed his fingers against the windowsill and looked away. “I...in France, things were okay. Good, great even. I was well-loved by my students and respected by my peers. But everything felt off-kilter. It didn’t matter if they thought that well of me, because I knew that I hadn’t done anything to deserve that praise. And Mother, well, she’d pretend like everything was the same. Like nothing had changed for us, when in reality...well, everything had. I couldn’t take it anymore. So I left.”

“So what I’m hearing is that you, in essence, wanted to make right your wrongs, or rather be held accountable for them? And now you’re moping because no one is, so you’ve taken it on yourself to self-flagellate,” Harry said matter-of-factly.

Draco whipped his head around, eyes wide. “I...er...well when you put it that way it sounds...it sounds-”

“Stupid?” offered Harry. “That’s because it is. No one’s treating you poorly because we can all see that you’re a different person. Do you really think that I would be sitting here with you, bringing you sandwiches, if I thought you were the same person who called one of my best friends a mudblood years ago?”

The other man hugged himself tightly, his whole body curling inward on itself. “I mean...you’re different. You’re bound to be all forgiveness and goodness and saviour-y, because it’s, you know, you.”

Harry let out a snort. “Sod off, Draco. I’m far from that and you know it. I’m not letting you use me as an excuse to hate yourself.” He bumped his shoulder against Draco’s, making the man stumble a bit.

“I should be angry at you for searching me out when I explicitly told you not to, but I can’t find it in myself,” sighed Draco, turning back to the stars. All of a sudden, he let out a bright and excited laugh. He reached his head out the window. “Look! It’s started to snow, Harry.”

He turned to look and saw that Draco was right. Snow had begun gently falling in the night sky. He turned back to Draco, whose head was still out the window. Snowflakes had made an icy crown in his hair, and some were caught in the wisps of his eyelashes. The tip of his pointy nose was red, flushed from the cold. The smile on his face, however, was pure and genuine and frankly put, one of the most beautiful things Harry had ever seen.

“It rarely snowed at Beauxbatons, you know,” said Draco. He reached a hand out the window, collecting some snowflakes in the palm of his hand. “I’d almost forgotten what snowflakes look like. Look at how beautiful they are.”

Harry watched the other man’s delight, and found warmth blooming deep within his chest. He wanted to reach out and pull Draco toward him, he wanted to tuck soft blond locks behind one ear, wanted to cup his face in his hands, wanted to trace the lines of his mouth with his fingers, wanted to pull him into a soft kiss.

Like a freight train, the answer to Ron and Hermione’s questions hit him: He was in love with Draco Malfoy.

And because Harry Potter was a coward when it came to love, he ran.

After giving Draco a terrible excuse about having some papers he just remembered he needed to grade, Harry hurried off and back to his rooms in a panic. It was just like him to be an idiot and fall in love with Draco as soon as they’d become friends. He made it back to his rooms and slammed the door shut behind him, before sliding to the floor and placing his head in his hands.

Being a professor gave him no time for romance, anyway. Ever since he and Ginny had broken up shortly after the war, he’d never really had a chance to find someone new. And he liked it that way. He liked being alone. He liked the solitude and having his own space and not having to answer to someone when he was feeling upset. It was better that way, he thought.

But then he’d see Draco interact with one of their students, and his mind would flash to what it would be like to parent with him. He’d do his work in the company of Draco and he’d get it done faster just by having someone there with him. He’d feel that angry itch under his skin but then Draco would take him on a walk around the lake and chatter endlessly about the way students had irritated him that day, and the itching would subside, and Harry’s sleep would be more peaceful.

So maybe if it was the right person, Harry could entertain the thought of being with someone. It just had to happen that it was Draco Malfoy.

It’s fine. That’s fine. It would be fine. He’d be fine. Everything was going to be fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.

Was he panicking? Maybe a little. Harry crawled over to the fireplace and tossed some Floo Powder in, calling Ron’s place.

“Whoa there, mate. You all right?” Ron asked, concerned at what must have been Harry’s increasingly panicked expression.

“No, no, I’m not, Ron.” Harry took in a deep breath to prepare himself. “I’m in love with Draco Malfoy.” He held his breath, afraid of Ron’s response.

“...That’s it?” asked Ron.

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?” Harry was incredulous. Surely Ron would be more shocked by this revelation. The force of it had nearly knocked Harry to the ground.

“I just mean...well, it’s been kind of obvious you’ve had a thing for him since he’s been here, is all,” Ron said carefully.

Harry felt the air deflate out of him like a lead balloon. “And you didn’t think to tell me this?”

Ron shrugged helplessly. “We just thought it would be better for you if you figured it out on your own. Harry, honestly, if Hermione or I had flat-out told you that we thought you fancied Malfoy, would you have believed us?”

“No,” said Harry.

“See? It’s something you had to realize for yourself,” Ron pointed out. “So what happened when you realized then? Have you told him yet?”

“Erm,” said Harry.

Ron narrowed his eyes. “Harry, what did you do?”

“Er, well, I sort of panicked? And told him I had papers to grade? And then came here and floo-ed you?”

Ron narrowed his eyes even further. “Well, do you have any plans to tell him?”

Harry let out a crazed laugh. “Tell him? Tell him? Why? So he can run away from me again, and never speak to me? I don’t think so, Ron.”

The other man pursed his lips and frowned, a furrow appearing between his brows. “Do you really have so little faith in him, and in yourself, Harry?”

“It’s not about having faith in him or myself, it’s about not destroying the very fragile relationship that I’ve been nurturing into existence,” argued Harry. Ron was missing the point, entirely. He didn’t understand the deep-seated fear Harry felt in his bones, he couldn’t understand the stakes at play right now.

“Yeah, well,” Ron said, unimpressed. “I think you ought to tell him. You’ll never gain anything if you don’t put yourself out there. Where’s the Gryffindor in you?”

“The almost-Slytherin sense of self-preservation in me has won out,” grumbled Harry. “Look, I’ll get over it. I just need space from him. If I distance myself enough, I’ll get over my feelings, and then things can go back to normal.”

For his part, Ron looked like he didn’t agree, but he held himself back. “If you’re certain this is what you want to do, Harry...I won’t stop you. But you know what I think.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Ron. I ought to head to bed, it’s late.”

“If you’re sure, Harry. Good night.”

Harry doused the flames and stared at the embers of the fire for a bit, Ron’s words ringing in his head. The thought of telling Draco how he felt...it was far too much. He didn’t know how he’d go about it, where he’d tell him, what he’d even say to mitigate the risk. And he couldn’t lose Draco, he just genuinely refused to let him go. So there was no other option but to hide, and shove his feelings away, until they disappeared like they were never there in the first place.

It was ironic, really, the way Harry was now behaving. It’s like his position with Draco had flipped. He avoided taking his meals in the Great Hall, stopping to pick up food in the kitchens, so that he didn’t have to sit next to Draco. He still wandered the castle at night sometimes, but he forced himself away from the staff room and from the Astronomy Tower. If he caught sight of Draco in the halls he turned the corner and ran. He took the letters that arrived from Xue, and left them unopened, without giving a response. They piled up in a stack next to his bedside.

More than ironic, it was pathetic.

But there was really no other option, in Harry’s mind. The more time he spent with Draco, the stronger his feelings would grow. He needed to cut it off before it took root and grew stronger, or else he was fucked. Not that he wasn’t already.

What made it worse was that now, when he wanted to avoid Draco, it seemed the man was omnipresent. Enter the library? Draco’s there, sitting by a window, reading some ancient Charms text. Stop by the kitchens? Draco’s there, making himself a cup of tea. Go for a walk around the lake? Draco’s there, seated under a large tree by the lake, despite it snowing.

It was almost like he was doing it on purpose. It had been a week of this, and he must have taken note by now. Whenever he thought about it, it made Harry’s stomach turn with guilt, but it just made it clear to Harry he had to get over his feelings, and he had to get over them fast. Besides, Draco hadn’t confronted him over it, so he must not have cared that much anyway. And as much as that thought did sting, it’s what Harry kept repeating to himself ad infinitum.

There was a loud banging on his door that startled him out of his thoughts. He jumped in his chair, and nearly knocked his cup of tea over. The banging stopped as abruptly as it had started.

“I know you’re in there, Harry Potter,” came Draco’s voice, sounding rather incensed. “Open up the bloody door right now, or I’ll knock it down myself.”

Well. Perhaps Harry had been wrong in his earlier assumptions. He made his way over to the door, and opened it to a rather disheveled and frantic looking Draco. His hair was ruffled, like someone’s hands had been run through it multiple times, and his normally pristinely-pressed robes were ruffled and wrinkled, as though they’d been put on haphazardly. Even the laces of one of his boots were untied. He was wild-eyed as he pushed his way into Harry’s rooms.

“Er, actually, I was just about to go for a walk around the grounds,” said Harry. He was lying of course, but it was the only excuse he could think of to get rid of Draco.

Draco whirled around and turned to face Harry. He crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. “I’ll join you.”

“But, er, you’re not really dressed for it? It’s been snowing all day…” Harry trailed off, eyeing Draco’s wardrobe.

“I’m a wizard, I’ll use a warming charm. It’ll be fine,” Draco sniffed. “Come on then, haven’t got all night, have we?”

Harry sighed and pulled on a winter cloak, scarf, gloves, and some heavier boots. It looked like there was no worming his way out of this interaction. He slunk out of his rooms, Draco following shortly behind. They walked in silence for a time as they made their way onto the grounds. Near the lake that had by now frozen over, Draco stopped and reached out, grabbing one of Harry’s arms to get his attention.

“Yes?” asked Harry.

Draco looked away and worried his lip, and then looked back at Harry. There was less wild-eyed anger in his eyes and more...fear and sadness. “What did I do?” he asked, and oh, was his tone so fragile. Harry thought that if he wanted, he could reach out and snap him in half in this moment.

“You...you didn’t do anything,” said Harry, truthfully.

The other man frowned and turned away. “Oh, come off it. I may be a bad person but I’m not an idiot, Harry. It can’t be a coincidence that you start running away from me like I’m some sort of...sort of monster the day after I admit that I know I’m terrible. You know...I thought we were becoming friends, of a sort. And every time I tried to corner you, you managed to disappear on me. Frankly, it’s making me feel like I’m some sort of dragon pox-ridden leper. Don’t think I didn’t notice that pile of unread letters by your bedside, too.” His voice shook a bit, and when Harry looked closer, his eyes were suspiciously bright.

“Oh, Draco,” said Harry, resigned to his fate. “That’s not it at all. Couldn’t be further from the truth, in fact.”

Draco gave a suspiciously wet cough to clear his throat. “Well, then what was it?” he asked expectantly.

Harry turned his gaze toward the lake. Snow was falling in fast flakes, coating the ice on the surface of the lake. He stayed silent for another moment, thinking. He’d hurt Draco, already. Made him think he wasn’t wanted, made him spiral over being a bad person when he was far from it. Perhaps it wasn’t right for him to hold back any longer, even if it meant losing Draco. Maybe that was okay.

“Draco,” he said ever so softly. “I think I’m in love with you.”

He was met with silence. Harry turned his head to glance at Draco, and the other man was staring at him, mouth agape. He winced internally, preparing for the worst but was met with a very quiet: “Say that again.”

“I-what?”

“I said,” Draco spoke even more softly than Harry, “say that again.”

Something like hope began to flutter in Harry’s chest, but he tried to dampen it. “I said that I think I’m in love with you.”

There was a pause and then Draco ran up to Harry and yanked on his cloak, pulling him into a ferocious kiss. His lips were cold as ice but Harry’s body felt as if it were on fire. He wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist and pulled him closer, such that their chests were flush against one another. They pulled apart for air and then Draco dove back in, busying himself by peppering Harry’s forehead, nose, cheeks, and jaw with kisses. Each spot Draco kissed felt alive with searing heat.

“I thought,” Draco said, punctuating each word with another kiss, “I was the only one who felt that way.” He paused, resting his forehead against Harry’s. His eyes were still bright with tears, but Harry found comfort in knowing that they were happy ones.

EPILOGUE, CHRISTMAS DAY

Harry awoke with a yawn and turned over on his side. Draco was still fast asleep, hair sticking up and mouth open, drool trailing down one side. Sunlight poured in from the windows, illuminating Draco’s body in a warm glow. Purple marks littered his collarbones and chest, evidence of their activities from the night before.

“I can tell you’re staring at me,” Draco mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed.

Harry felt a smile creep onto his face. “And so what if I am?”

Draco cracked open one eye. “I would ask that you stop being a wanker and let me sleep in peace, considering how late somebody kept me up last night.”

He intertwined his fingers with one of Draco’s hands and lifted it up, placing a soft kiss on the palm of Draco’s hand. “You act as though you weren’t enjoying every minute of it.

The other man’s face flushed a pretty shade of pale pink, and he tried to bury his head in his pillow. Harry let out a bright laugh. Draco was oddly shy sometimes, and he found it endeared him even more to the man. “Come on, the sooner you get up, the sooner we can give Amara her gift and see her reaction. I know how anxious you’ve been about the whole thing.”

“I have not been anxious,” Draco said, voice muffled from the pillow. “I just wanted to ensure everything was perfect. When she told me her parents told her not to come home for the holidays, I had half a mind to just adopt her right then and there. Honestly, what kind of people are they?”

“They’re terrible, but she’s got us now.” He planted a kiss on Draco’s head. “Besides, if it’s from you, she’ll think it’s perfect. I know I would.”

Rolling over so that he was facing Harry, it was clear Draco was trying to hide a smile, but he was failing miserably. “You’re incorrigible, you know that, right?”

“I know,” said Harry, with a smile. “But I love you anyway.”

“Yes, well,” said Draco. “Perhaps I love you too, and all that.”

And all that indeed.

.