Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sometimes, Harry’s therapy sessions felt like being on a stakeout. He would sit back, constantly watchful of his surroundings, waiting for Healer Tran to make the next move. Meanwhile, she would watch him right back, her fingers steepled in front of her chin.

She usually broke first and asked one of her questions. That seemed to be her favourite defensive move when she encountered his implacable silences. She’d start in on another annoying round of “What was something that made you feel frustrated this week?”, and then he’d give her one of his reassuring smiles and say something like “Oh, I don’t really know,” and glance at the clock on the wall to see if it was time to leave yet. It never was.

Therapy wasn’t Harry’s idea. Robards' meddling, priggish administrative assistant had swept into Harry’s office and informed him in no uncertain terms that he was on administrative leave until he could get his shit together. He’d handed Harry the contact information for Healer Tran and told him she would have to sign off on him returning to active duty. Harry had acknowledged the news calmly, unwilling to show any weakness, but later that afternoon, he laid on the floor in Grimmauld Place and stared at the ceiling in silence until Kreacher came and snidely asked if “Master would like to be watered and turned towards the sun.”

“There’s a class tomorrow evening that I want you to attend,” Tran said, interrupting Harry’s reverie. That was different than normal. She unsteepled her fingers in order to push a piece of paper across her desk. “It’s a pottery class for beginners. Non-magical, but the teacher is a witch.”

“Pottery?” Harry snorted, crossing his arms. “You want me to, what, make some nice bowls? A pretty cup? What does this have to do with me going back into the field?” Tran's mouth thinned briefly, and Harry cursed silently. He always did this. He let down his guard and allowed his frustration out, in front of the one person he could not afford to slip up around. He took a breath, plastered a concerned look on his face, then tried for a less confrontational tone. “I’m sorry,” he said pleasantly. “I just don’t see the connection, and I would really rather do what it takes to return to work.” Saving lives, he didn’t say. Rescuing people like her from the scum that wanted to watch the world burn.

It’s not that he didn’t trust that the other Aurors would continue to make headway on their cases in his absence. It just never really felt like anybody else cared as much as he did. It showed in his results. No other Auror had reached his rate of closed cases, let alone sustained it like he had. And yes, these days he worked alone, often as not, because whoever they assigned him as a partner could never keep up, and could Harry really be expected to babysit someone in the field? He didn’t dare split his attention to keep somebody else alive. He put himself in danger all the time; that was an acceptable risk—it came with the job. The latest partner they’d tried to saddle him with hadn’t even lasted a month before she demanded to be reassigned; he’d heard she’d threatened to quit.

Tran was eyeing him again, and Harry realized that his polite smile had faded as soon as he’d stopped thinking about it. He sighed. This was going about as well as most of his appointments so far. He reached out for the paper on her desk, just for something to do with his hands.

“Do you actually want to return to work?” Tran suddenly asked.

Harry paused, feeling wrong-footed. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Of course I do. I’m good at my job, and I’m just sitting around right now. I could be doing so many more productive things with my time.”

“Interesting,” she said, which Harry thought was a very weird reply. She was being very therapist-like right then, which he supposed meant she was good at her job, too. “It’s just that most people I talk to who want to go back to work try to follow my instructions. ‘Jump through the hoops,’ as you put it so eloquently in our first session. You just glare at me and barely even go through the motions. Why do you think that is?”

“That’s just how I am,” Harry said. “I hate feeling like I’m wasting my time. I’m ready to go back; what’s the point of delaying?”

“And what would you say has been the biggest change since you started seeing me two weeks ago?”

“Change?” Harry repeated.

“What is different now that means you are ready to resume your work?”

His hands were suddenly clammy as he picked up the paper from Tran’s desk. “Well, it’s like we talked about. I was working pretty hard before all this—it was pretty intense. This has been a good break. It’s helped me reset.” He focused his attention on the paper’s contents, determined to read it all.

Tran made a noncommittal noise. “And what leads you to believe that you won’t wind up here again in a few months when it starts getting intense again?” she asked. “Or told to leave the Aurors entirely?”

“They wouldn’t,” Harry stated. He pushed his sleeves up; the room was getting uncomfortably warm. “I really am very good at my job. It would be mad to let me go.”

“Something like this pottery class could be helpful,” she said. “I think you could benefit from an outlet, because it doesn’t sound like you have anything besides your work right now."

Harry realized he’d been staring at the paper without actually taking in any of the words. “Make beautiful bowls and cups,” he read out loud. “No experience required. So that was your goal all along.”

“Busted,” Tran said. “Are you going to go?”

“Do I have a choice?” Harry said, realizing too late that he sounded defensive again.

Tran looked at him over her hands for a long moment. “Do you have something else you would like to do instead?”

This wasn’t the first time he’d been contrary out of habit, only to have her take him seriously. He didn’t know how he felt about it. “Er,” he said, stalling as he tried to remember things that he liked to do. Some kind of activity where he could at least have some fun while he waited for this stupid administrative leave to be resolved. “Flying?” He hadn’t touched a broom for… years, probably. It wasn’t an efficient way to travel.

She was already shaking her head. “I’d like it to be something that’s not dangerous, that gets you out of your comfort zone.”

Harry sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Pottery it is.”

“—and then she had the nerve to say that she didn’t think I wanted to go back to work!”

Harry was two beers in, sitting in a booth with Ron and Hermione at the Leaky Cauldron, and finally feeling like he could unwind a bit. He’d left Tran’s office earlier that afternoon with the pottery class information folded up in his pocket, and his thoughts had kept returning to their conversation ever since.

“Yeah, who’d ever think that?” Ron asked. “What a loon. She obviously doesn’t listen to you on pub nights.”

Hermione elbowed him in the ribs as Ron took a drink, and he spluttered as some beer leaked down his chin.

Harry grimaced. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to rant at you all night. We can talk about something else.”

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look. “We know this is difficult for you, but she may have a point. This hasn’t really been much of a break for you, has it?”

“Not much of a break?” Harry asked. “Hermione, it’s been nothing but break! I’m so bored! There are criminals out there walking free because—”

“Mate, a bit less shouting, if you could,” Ron cut in quickly.

Harry noticed the look he shared with Hermione, because he was a good Auror and picked up on things like that. He was pretty sure it meant “Don’t get him started again” in that secret shared code that people who had been close partners for a long time developed. Some of the other Aurors in the office who had been together for ages did it too. Harry thought they looked ridiculous and took a swig from his glass bitterly.

Hermione picked at her drink mat before she tried again. “I just meant that you’ve got this time to just… try other things. Obviously, you can’t go somewhere different because you have these sessions with your healer, but you could still visit a museum or take a class or something. Just as a change, you know? You could treat this as an opportunity!”

Harry snorted. “Funny you should mention that. She wants me to go to a pottery class tomorrow evening.”

“Pottery! That’s great!” Hermione said excitedly. “Ron and I did a few beginner sessions a couple years ago as a date night. You might find that you really enjoy it!”

“It’s just so ridiculous, though,” Harry said. “What’s pottery got to do with showing that I’m ready to get back to work? Nothing, that’s what.” He took an annoyed sip of his beer. “I did a little bit of accidental magic and everybody overreacted, and now I’m stuck playing their games.”

“Why did she say she wanted you to take the class?” Hermione asked carefully.

“We were talking about whether I find Auror work stressful, and she said I need an outlet. Of course the Aurors are stressful—if it’s not, that probably means we’re not doing our jobs well!” He took another drink before continuing. “But you just have to push through it; the outlet is when you close your case. Then there are those glorious thirty seconds before Robards hands you another case when you can feel good knowing you’ve made the world a better place.” Rather than being reassured, Hermione and Ron just looked vaguely concerned instead. Harry suspected that they wouldn’t laugh if he said it was actually more like twenty seconds. Talking about this kind of thing with non-Aurors was hard.

“Mate,” Ron began, but he trailed off. “I dunno. Maybe Hermione’s right and this could be a good thing for you.” He smiled, but Harry had a lot of practice reading his friends by now, and he felt his heart sink. He’d assumed they’d be on his side on this one.

“Promise you’ll take the class seriously,” Hermione jumped in quickly. “If this is part of your therapy, then it could be really important!”

“It’s not therapy, Hermione,” Harry said, annoyed. “I’m just talking to someone who happens to be a magical therapist because Robards told me to. It’s not the same.”

Hermione pursed her lips but didn’t pursue the argument. The silence hung between them for a moment before Harry relented.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his hand across his face. “I know you both mean well, and I know I brought this on myself somehow.” He pasted a smile on his face. “I swear I’m going to take the class seriously—I don’t want to ruin my best chance of going back to work at this point, after all!” He’d meant it to assuage their fears, but for some reason it didn’t seem to be helping.

Ron stretched. “I guess that’s something, mate,” he said. “Listen, I’ve got an early morning at the shop tomorrow—George has me coming in at the arse-crack of dawn to unload a big new shipment. If you’ve got your days free now, you could drop by and say hi sometime.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. Yet another reminder that he couldn’t do his job at the moment. “Great. I might just do that.”

Harry grumbled the entire way there, but he arrived at Diaz Fine Art Studio five minutes before the beginner pottery class was scheduled to start. It was a two-story building boasting a sign covered in elegant lettering that advertised the studio’s name. The sign was hung over a large glass window, providing a view into what Harry assumed was the main studio room. The lights inside blazed in the gathering dusk, and they illuminated a circle of desks that held what he assumed were pottery wheels. See, he knew what that was—he had read the pamphlet on the class that Healer Tran had given him. The Hermione voice in his head congratulated him on taking proactive steps towards his goals, but he quashed it grumpily. Still, he reflected as he pulled open the studio door, he’d promised to take the class seriously, and he intended to do just that.

“Hello!” He was greeted by a brown-haired woman wearing a smock covered in streaks of something grey. She straightened from where she was arranging one of the final desks in the circle. “Are you here for the beginner pottery class?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I’m, er… Harry Potter.”

“Pleased to meet you!” she replied cheerfully. “I’m Melanie; I’ve been teaching this class here at Diaz for, oh, probably seven years now. I’d offer to shake your hand, but…” She held up her hands, which were covered in more streaks of whatever was on her smock. “Clay tends to get everywhere if you’re not careful.” She gestured to the circle of desks behind her. “Go ahead and choose any available wheel. We’ll be starting shortly!”

There were only a couple of free ones left. Harry sneaked a look at the other students as he sat down on a stool; on his left was an Asian woman that Harry guessed was somewhere in her forties, while on the other side was a dark-haired man who looked about Harry’s age. In front of him was a short, small table, just large enough to hold a bowl of water and a basin that contained the wheel. Harry assumed this would help contain any messes as well.

The room itself wasn’t particularly large. Various shelves situated against the walls held rows of bowls and cups and other creations, and there was a sink at one end of the room that had seen better days. There were eight students including Harry, and along with their desks, they took up the rest of the studio space.

“Well then, let’s get started!” the teacher announced. “Welcome to Beginning Pottery night at Diaz Fine Art Studio! Those of us who spend a lot of time here just tend to call it Diaz, though. We run these nights to show members of the community what our space can offer; I’m a member of the studio, so I get to use the equipment here whenever I like. That means the painting supplies, sculpting tools and modelling clay, the drafting board in the corner… anything you see, really. If you find that you’re enjoying this class and you want more opportunities to practice on your own, there’s information about becoming a member in the pamphlets by the entrance. I’m also happy to answer any questions you might have during the break." She smiled invitingly at all of them, then clapped her hands. “Enough boring stuff, though! Let’s talk about pottery!” A few students dutifully chuckled.

“You’re sitting in front of a pottery wheel. There’s a pedal by your feet to control whether it’s turning or not, and you have some water next to you to dip your hands in to ensure your clay remains nice and wet. Apart from that, all you have to think about is what you do with your hands and how it affects the clay on your wheel as it’s spinning!” She started her wheel to demonstrate; after wetting it with a bit of water, she placed a round ball of clay in the centre. “Everyone, come gather round so you can see.”

Melanie proceeded to explain a surprising number of steps that were involved in making their first piece. First, they were supposed to form a slight cone by applying pressure with their hands just so; this would help seal the base to the wheel. Then they were to practice “coning up” and “coning down”, which seemed to involve forcing the clay to through holes between their fingers in both directions and would help shape and position the clay as needed. After that came “opening up”, where Melanie pressed three of her fingers to the top of the mound of clay, and all the students oohed as a bowl shape gradually appeared in the mound of clay, as if by magic. Finally, she showed them how to “pull a wall”, where she took that bowl shape and squeezed the wide sides to make them narrower, forcing the extra clay to move higher as a result.

“We’re all going to try making a bowl to start, but don’t worry too much about the details!” Melanie said cheerfully to the group of slightly overwhelmed students. “Now, back to your wheels and give it a go!”

Harry wandered back to his seat and considered his wheel. The demonstration had seemed straightforward while Melanie was giving it, but his own wheel suddenly appeared rather daunting. Glancing around the room, he watched the other students placing their clay balls and beginning to turn them, and he decided to copy their movements. It wasn’t long before his wheel was turning his round block of clay happily.

“Ok, bowl time,” he muttered to himself. He would make a few silly things and bring them to show Healer Tran at their next session, and then they’d spend some time talking about how it was such a productive activity and how relaxed he was now. Then she’d sign off on him returning to duty and he could get on with his life again. He was going to ace the next therapy session, he decided.

Harry was twenty-five minutes into failing to make his first bowl when he heard the studio door open and a half-familiar voice said “Sorry I’m late.”

“Draco! So glad you could join us!” Melanie said, and Harry raised his head fast enough to get whiplash. Improbably, there was a very Malfoy-esque figure at the front of the class, exchanging friendly words with the teacher. Sure, his hair was cropped short on the sides and he was wearing some flashy, well-fitting Muggle clothes, but Harry would recognize those features and long, pointy limbs anywhere. And none of that explained why Malfoy just happened to be a student in Harry's beginner pottery class.

“Everyone, a quick announcement!” Melanie called. “Draco here will be assisting with our class, so feel free to ask him questions as he circulates.”

“What the fuck,” Harry whispered as he stared at Malfoy. His wheel revolved in front of him, forgotten, as he tried to work out the likelihood of Draco Malfoy turning out to be an assistant teacher at a Muggle art studio. It defied explanation. Could Healer Tran have known about this? Had she done it on purpose? He was pretty sure he’d never mentioned Malfoy to her, but she came off as just devious enough to make him consider it.

Malfoy was looking over the class, his hands in his pockets, when he caught sight of Harry. The polite smile vanished from his face, and his eyes widened briefly before he recomposed himself and turned to the remaining students, pasting that fake smile back in place.

“Hello, everyone,” Malfoy said, carefully avoiding looking at Harry. “Just raise your hand if you're having some difficulties, and I’ll try and help you out.”

“What the fuck,” Harry repeated under his breath. The woman sitting on his left gave him a weird look, so he wasn't being quiet enough, apparently. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but he was pretty sure it came out a bit manic. Harry noticed Malfoy's gaze briefly dart over to him; he looked a little nervous, which Harry found surprisingly reassuring. A nervous Malfoy probably meant he was hiding something, and dealing with that was practically Harry's speciality. The class was looking more interesting already.

Harry was so bored. It was almost time for the second break, and despite the mysterious and very suspicious sudden appearance of Malfoy the class had not actually become significantly more interesting. Harry had honestly tried to work on his bowl, but the whole thing felt a bit hopeless. He kept accidentally creating holes in the bottom, or ruining the outer structure by pulling it towards him unevenly, or coning down off centre and ending up with a piece that was impossible to work with as it flew around the wheel. The teacher said this was normal, but he was sure he could see the judgement in her face when he still had no success after the first hour. He dutifully started again after each failed attempt, pushing the clay back into a ball and starting from scratch, but he noticed that none of the other students seemed to have the same kinds of struggles as he did.

It didn’t help that he was attempting to keep an eye on Malfoy the whole time, either. Not that it was particularly difficult—he mostly sat at the spare wheel and played with a small piece of clay, his eyes constantly scanning the class to look for anyone who seemed to be having difficulties. He would wait until they raised a hand before going over to them, however. Harry never bothered to raise his hand, and Malfoy conspicuously never offered him any assistance. Occasionally, Harry would look up from his latest disaster of a bowl to find Malfoy’s eyes on him, but Malfoy quickly looked away every time.

“Five minute break!” Melanie announced, interrupting Harry’s reverie. “It’s always a good idea to stretch your legs and move around a bit to keep the blood flowing!”

Harry gratefully abandoned his current attempt and stood up. He rolled his head between his shoulders, feeling the muscles in his neck begin to loosen as he did so. He watched Malfoy get up as well and stride out the door; before he realized what he was doing, he was following him outside.

The light situated above the studio door blinded Harry as he stepped out into the dark of early evening, but he could make out a dim Malfoy-esque shape leaning against the wall further down the sidewalk. A small light flared in the vicinity of Malfoy’s hand, and he watched as Malfoy brought it near his face, briefly illuminating a cigarette sitting between his lips. He lit it before extinguishing the flame in his fingers, and Harry watched as he expelled a small cloud into the night air.

“What is this?” Malfoy asked. He sounded tired. “An official visit of some kind?”

“What?” Harry asked, nonplussed. “What are you doing in my pottery class?”

Malfoy turned to look at him, bringing his face a bit closer to the light. He looked surprised, and a bit wary. “This was my pottery class first,” he finally said. “If anything, I should be the one asking you that.” Instead, he just took a drag from his cigarette, not breaking eye contact.

“You have to admit, it’s very suspicious,” Harry said, taking a step closer.”Five years since the trials and there’s no sign of you, and then you just happen to be assisting in a pottery class that I need to take?”

“Need to?” Malfoy asked. “Who says you need to be in this particular class?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said. “The question stands.”

“How about an alternative one: five years blissfully free of your interference in my life, and now you barge back in all of a sudden?" Malfoy breathed in; the end of the cigarette flared. He turned away from Harry, pressing his back against the wall once more. “No, I don’t trust it for a moment. You can tell your superiors that Draco Malfoy is a law-abiding citizen and that sending the Chosen One in a hamfisted attempt to intimidate me out of my chosen profession simply makes them look like fools.”

“Intimidate?” Harry asked, wrongfooted. “I’m not—I’m just here for the class! I had no idea you’d be here.”

“No, of course not,” Malfoy said. “Just another case of those in power pointing you in a particular direction and setting you loose, I suppose.”

“I’m not here with—” Harry glanced around; he didn’t really want to break the statute of secrecy by accident. “You know, work. This is unrelated to that.”

“And yet,” Malfoy said, sounding triumphant, “you admitted earlier you needed to be here. That implies you were sent. So which is it, hmm?”

Harry ground his teeth. “It’s not a work thing,” he said. It technically wasn’t, he rationalized. Unfortunately, his traitorous brain wouldn’t allow him to leave it at that. “Well, not quite. It’s related to work. But it’s mostly a personal thing.”

“You’re being very cagey about this, Potter,” Malfoy said. “It’s making me nervous.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, you’ll just have to live with that,” he said. No way was he telling Malfoy anything about why he was stuck in this class.

Malfoy took another inhale of his cigarette, then blew it out without saying anything. The silence quickly grew uncomfortable, and Harry started to have second thoughts. If this really was Malfoy’s life that he was intruding upon, he didn’t have to make a big fuss about it. Merlin knew Harry could relate to a desire to keep a low profile, sometimes.

Just as he was trying to figure out some way to deescalate the situation, Malfoy tapped out his cigarette and stretched. “Break’s almost over,” he said. “Good chat.” He strode briskly by Harry and re-entered the studio. Harry watched him through the window as he exchanged a few words with the teacher then made his way to his wheel. He didn’t turn it on immediately, just sat there, looking at it, and for a moment Harry thought he looked very small and alone.

“Isn’t this a depressing sight?”

Harry raised his head from his contemplation of his beer glass to find Ginny leaning against the side of his booth. The Leaky Cauldron was hopping; Ron and Hermione had abandoned him a good thirty minutes earlier, saying they didn’t want to keep their babysitter waiting too long, but Harry hadn’t been ready to pack it in for the night. He’d ordered himself another drink and nursed it, watching the other patrons without trying to be obvious about it. He felt jittery, like he was waiting for something to happen. He’d thought about trying to chat someone up, bring them home to distract himself, but honestly, the Leaky was the wrong place for that. He was far, far too recognizable a presence here, and he didn’t really want to attract that kind of attention.

He realized that he hadn’t actually replied to Ginny, and she was giving him a funny look. “What, can’t a man have a quiet drink by himself?” he asked.

Ginny slid into the booth opposite him, placing her glass on the table in front of her. “He could,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t really explain the other five empties.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Harry protested. “Ron and Hermione were here earlier and they didn’t take their glasses back to the bar. Those two have been keeping me from going out of my skull with boredom; it’s very decent of them.”

Ginny cocked her head. “It’s true you’re off the Aurors, then?”

“I’m not off the Aurors!” Harry protested. “I’m on leave, that’s all.”

She shifted her position, swinging one muscled arm up along the top of the booth. “Is that like when people who are dating say they’re taking a break?” she asked with a grin. “Because it sure sounds familiar.”

“Jesus, Gin,” Harry said, hiding his face as he took a drink, but he knew they were both thinking of how their relationship had petered out. After five months of telling their friends they were on a break, Ginny had quietly volunteered that she was thinking of asking Pansy Parkinson out, and Harry had agreed that she should follow her heart. He’d been surprised by how much relief he’d felt when they finally acknowledged that their relationship had run its course.

“It’s not like that at all,” Harry continued. “I just need to take some time off and meet with a, er… just someone. We talk, she clears me for duty, and then I’m back to work.”

Ginny took a drink, then wiped a bit of beer off her top lip. “Sounds like therapy. Are you seeing a therapist, then?”

Harry spluttered as he took a sip from his glass. “What, like, on a date?” he asked, trying to turn it into a joke. “Are you trying to get the inside scoop to sell to the Daily Prophet?”

She gave him a level look across the table. “Come on. Therapy’s not something to be embarrassed about. I’ve got a therapist; we usually only meet a couple times a year now, but I used to go more often.”

“Wait, really?” Harry blinked. “I thought it was just for…” Fuck-ups, he wanted to say, but he kept it to himself. Broken people. He waved his hand, hoping to move past it. “You know. Other people.”

“Oh, it is,” Ginny said seriously. “But it’s also for you. Like Pansy says, everybody should have a therapist.” She looked past Harry for a moment and waved; Harry looked behind him and saw Blaise Zabini, Ginny’s other significant other, making his way through the crowd, drink in hand. She had started dating him a few months after getting together with Pansy, and their triad was a regular feature at Gryffindor pub nights. “Even Blaise has got one, haven’t you dear?” Ginny said, shifting over to make room on the bench as he reached the table.

“That’s right,” Blaise said easily, even though there was no way he could have any idea what they were talking about given the noise levels in the pub. “It’s enormous. Women love it, men fear it. Hello there, Harry! Thank you for keeping Ginevra out of trouble.” He sat down in the space that Ginny had just vacated and gave the side of her head a kiss; she punched him gently on the arm.

"Git.”

Blaise leaned over to take a sniff of Ginny’s beer and then gave her a disappointed face. “You promised you would order something that wasn’t an IPA tonight. How are we ever going to expand your palate?”

“My palate is just fine without your silly chocolate porters,” Ginny said, taking a sip of her beer.

“Ah, if only we frequented establishments that would serve such fine cuisine,” Blaise said forlornly. “Instead we are here.”

“I like the Leaky,” Harry said defensively.

“I like the people who come here,” Ginny said.

Blaise nodded. “See, that’s at least a defensible position,” he said. “Harry, the Leaky is something to be endured, at best. I’m afraid you may be developing Stockholm Syndrome.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He’d come to enjoy Blaise’s presence over the past two years, once he learned not to take his comments to heart. Blaise was free with his opinions and positions, but rarely put much actual weight behind them. Sometimes Harry wished he had someone like Blaise in his life; something about the way he and Pansy would verbally spar, just for fun, while he would say outlandish things to Ginny just to make her laugh. Harry occasionally watched their interactions at pub nights like this one and felt a quiet absence in his heart.

He took another drink, rather than dwell on it. Harry did like the Leaky. Sure, it was often too loud, and the quality of the food seemed to be getting worse, and the booths were actually rather uncomfortable, but he always ordered the same beer and it tasted familiar, and that was fine with him. It was almost always exactly what he was looking for, and it could be counted on to settle an argument about where to go drinking with his friends. Nobody could ever seriously object to the Leaky Cauldron.

“Potter, shove over.” Pansy’s voice came from over his shoulder. He looked behind him and saw her standing next to the booth, looking at him impatiently. He slid towards the booth wall, leaving lots of room for her next to him. Pansy was the only person who regularly called him by his last name without prefixing it with Auror, and he was abruptly reminded that Pansy and Blaise might be able to help him understand the mystery of Malfoy’s sudden reappearance in his life.

“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed. “You’ll never guess who I saw at my pottery class last night!”

Ginny raised her eyebrows. “Ok, that’s not where I would have guessed that sentence was going.”

Harry was distracted by Blaise’s reaction, however. The other man’s eyes had darted to Harry’s left to look at Pansy, then he had schooled his features with something like polite interest. Harry’s Auror senses tingled.

“You knew!” he accused Blaise. “How did it never come up before now?” He turned to look at Pansy, who gazed back at him coolly as she took a drink from her martini glass. “How long has Malfoy been doing this?”

Ginny was giving them all a bemused look. “What is going on?” she asked. “Has Harry gone mad?”

“Draco Malfoy is going on!” Harry exclaimed. “And these two have been keeping him a secret!”

Blaise sighed. “It’s not keeping it a secret if you never asked.”

“I wouldn’t have said anything even if he did ask,” Pansy pointed out. Harry flipped two fingers towards her; she responded by raising her glass and giving him a Cheshire grin.

“So Malfoy is… in a pottery class?” Ginny hazarded. “With you?”

“He’s teaching it,” Harry said. “Or at least he’s assisting with it. Which—let me tell you—is super weird! Why is Malfoy assisting with a pottery class?”

“You know, he’s right,” Blaise said, turning to look at Pansy once more. “I can’t imagine why we didn’t tell him about it before. He’s taking it so calmly.”

“I’m quite calm!” Harry realized as he said it that he was raising his voice, but it was only because the volume level in the Leaky was getting unbearably loud. He tried to tone it down a bit. “I am! I was just taken by surprise, that’s all.”

“Potter, you of all people should understand when someone else is trying not to call attention to themselves,” Pansy said, giving him a hard look. “This wasn’t a plot against you; it was common decency and respect for Draco’s privacy.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, hearing an echo of his own thoughts while talking with Malfoy outside the studio the previous evening. “No, you’re right,” he said with a sigh. “That wasn’t fair of me.” He drained his glass. “You know, I should probably go. It’s getting late.”

They put up a token resistance, but Harry insisted and they didn’t press him. Ginny ruffled his hair and told him to get his beauty rest; Pansy did a little head jerk which was her way of saying goodbye to people she was friendly acquaintances with; and Blaise gave him a small, lazy wave with a smile.

Harry looked back over his shoulder at them as he neared the Leaky’s exit—they had shifted to one side of the booth with Ginny in the middle, so she could fit her arms around both of them and they could rest their heads on her broad shoulders. He watched Pansy’s lips move, and the other two laugh in response, quick and delighted. He turned away and walked out into the night before they could catch him staring.

Harry arrived at the second pottery class intent on not being weird about Malfoy. He was there to work on his pottery technique, poor as it was. The fact that Malfoy (Malfoy!) was assisting with the class was immaterial. Yes, maybe if they had another chance to talk privately then Harry might ask him some pointed questions. Not pointed, he amended; polite ones. Polite, non-weird sorts of questions. It was a good plan.

It was not a good plan. Harry was doing his best to focus on his wheel and his endless studies in bowl construction, but something about Malfoy’s presence kept distracting him. Malfoy kept wandering around the class, never sitting down for longer than thirty seconds at a time. Harry had actually begun counting after the sixth time that Malfoy’s rear had barely touched the stool before he was leaping back up to go and fix some clay emergency across the room.

Harry had his own emergencies to deal with—he kept tearing chunks out of his rim or collapsing the wall of the bowl when trying to repair the holes, and one time, he even tried to cone up too aggressively and ended up ejecting a bunch of clay right off the wheel. He still refused to raise his hand, however. It was one thing to be non-weird about Malfoy being in the same studio, helping the other students and generally not being a complete arse of a person. It was another thing entirely to contemplate waving him over and explaining that Harry was a complete and utter disaster at novice pottery skills. Harry gritted his teeth and forced himself to concentrate on yet another unblemished solid lump of clay that spun round and round in front of him. He would make a successful bowl if it was the last thing he did.

“Sometimes students feel like everybody is watching them,” Malfoy said abruptly. It was another short break in the class, and they were once again standing outside against the wall in the semi-darkness. Harry glanced over at him, but Malfoy was still looking straight ahead, seemingly ignoring him. “That kind of pressure can make learning something new… difficult.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he was expected to respond. He assumed Malfoy was talking to him, or at him, or near him or something, and just being super weird about it. He felt uncomfortably seen, but acknowledging it in that moment would just make it worse. Yes, I’m not an artist and being in a room with real artists is giving me performance anxiety. No thank you.

Malfoy just took another drag on his cigarette, and Harry unabashedly watched him do it. He blew out a cloud of smoke pensively as the silence continued to stretch, exposing the curve of his neck as he leaned his head backwards. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

“I like to use the studio on weekend mornings,” Malfoy said, causing Harry to guiltily look elsewhere. It came out casual, like he was just relating a mildly interesting fact. “I get there at 8. None of the other members bother to come in before noon.” Another drag. Exhale. “If you wanted to join me, you could.”

Harry supposed he should actually reply. It was an invitation, even if Malfoy hadn’t even made eye contact or looked in his general direction while issuing it. “Why?” he asked bluntly. “I’m crap at this. You want me to give you a private show?”

That made Malfoy dart a glance towards him, for some reason, but he quickly looked away again and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Merlin,” he said. “I’m just trying to offer a fucking olive branch here. Yes, maybe in a formal class setting surrounded by other students you are crap at it—”

“Or the assistant is just crap at assisting,” Harry interjected. He was pretty sure that teachers weren’t supposed to tell their students that they were bad at something.

The cigarette flared as Malfoy took a deep breath. “But maybe you would find it easier in a different environment,” he finally continued as if Harry hadn’t said anything. “Maybe you might even start to enjoy yourself! I’d be willing to settle for something more achievable, though, like not constantly having a stick up your arse.”

“Fuck you too,” Harry said mulishly.

Malfoy’s cheeks flared inwards as he took a final drag on the stub of his cigarette, highlighting the sharp ridges of his cheekbones for a moment. “Look, it doesn’t matter to me either way,” Malfoy said. He tossed the stub on the sidewalk and ground it under his shoe. “I’ll be in the studio tomorrow morning. You can show up, or you can fuck off. Makes no difference to me.” He glanced at Harry once again, as if checking for some kind of reaction.

“With an invitation like that, how could I refuse?” Harry said. “Look at all those years of pureblood etiquette lessons paying off.”

Malfoy tossed him a casual middle finger as he pushed off the wall. “See you inside,” was all he said, though, before he pulled open the studio door and went back in without another look.

Harry shivered in a sudden gust of wind. There were another thirty minutes of class left after the break, but it didn’t feel like there was much point to the whole thing. He wasn’t looking forward to discussing the experience with Healer Tran, who would definitely ask about it at their next session. At least it wasn’t the sort of class that involved grades. He could just… stop doing it and never think about it again, without harming any future prospects. Unless his magical therapist took it poorly and refused to sign off on his return to duty. Then again, he’d attended two classes; surely that counted.

Shaking his head, he went inside and collected his belongings that sat next to his wheel. Malfoy was there, standing beside one of the other students and giving advice as something that could be a bowl took shape in front of them. Harry could feel the other man’s gaze on his back as he approached the instructor.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,” he said quickly. “I’ve got a—there’s a thing.” He shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably, trying not to look at his shoes.

“Alright!” Melanie said cheerfully. “Is there anything you’d like me to fire in the kiln? You can collect it at the next class.”

“No,” Harry said. “Nothing really… it didn’t really work. There wasn’t anything worth saving.”

Melanie gave him a sympathetic smile. “Oh, I know what that’s like. Sometimes you can’t force these things, as much as you’d like to. Just keep at it—I’m sure you’ll have more luck next time!”

“Yeah, next time,” Harry mumbled. The instructor turned back to her own wheel and he hurried outside into the night, his retreating steps hastened by the sensation of Malfoy’s ever-present gaze.

Harry arrived outside the studio fifteen minutes early, still unsure if he was actually going to take Malfoy up on his offer. It wasn’t that he thought Malfoy was going to try and take advantage of an empty studio to get revenge—well, he didn’t seriously think that, although it had certainly crossed his mind as a possibility—but Harry still couldn’t figure out why Malfoy had invited him in the first place. It was an itch under his skin, a riddle that needed solving.

Harry chose a bench down the street from the front door where he could unobtrusively watch for Malfoy’s arrival. It was a standard Auror observation tactic, as was the copy of the Muggle newspaper that he raised to obscure his face from anybody else passing nearby.

Twenty-five minutes later, Harry was bored. He’d never actually been good at the waiting and observing parts of being an Auror; those in charge had quickly realized that he was most useful for the bits when resistance was expected, or a chase might be necessary. He had never really got the hang of reading newspapers, either, so he couldn’t even distract himself effectively. Malfoy still hadn’t appeared; trust him to be late to his own… whatever this was. Harry decided to wander past the studio just to make sure everything looked in order.

Giving it his best attempt at looking like a regular, every-day person out for a walk in the neighbourhood at 8:00 in the morning on a Saturday, he sauntered past the front door, pausing at the studio window to press his face to the glass and look inside. To his surprise, he saw Malfoy sitting at a wheel, working away at a piece that was tall and narrow, and made of sinuous curves.

Harry’s breath ghosted in front of him, fogging up the glass, and he reached up to wipe it away and get a better look. He immediately cursed as the motion drew Malfoy’s attention; the other man’s head whipped up, and they stared at each other for a moment before Malfoy reached out to turn off his wheel. He stood up, wiping his hands on a worn apron that was streaked with clay, then walked over to the studio door and unlocked it. Harry withdrew from his spot at the window and waited to enter. He supposed he had made up his mind about Malfoy’s offer after all.

Malfoy opened the door just wide enough to speak through the gap. “You’re late,” he said.

“I was early,” Harry retorted. “I didn’t realize you were already inside.” He pulled the handle towards him, and Malfoy reluctantly released his grip on it, allowing the door to swing open. Harry caught a glimpse of a nicely-fitted collared shirt and jeans beneath the other man’s apron, and he briefly wondered if he was underdressed for the occasion.

Malfoy stepped backwards to let Harry pass. “I’m often here early,” he said. “When I don’t sleep well… anyways, I find the space to be a good distraction.”

Harry eyed him, but no further explanation appeared to be forthcoming. They both stood in the entryway to the studio, looking at each other. “Well?” he said after an interminable moment of silence. “I’m here. What now?”

Malfoy held his gaze for another moment. “Whatever you want,” he eventually said, turning away and walking back towards the main studio space. “You’re here as my guest. Don’t trash the space, check with me before you use any of the equipment, and tell me if you're going to use any of the common supplies.”

“What?” Harry asked, baffled. “But… what do I do?” He followed Malfoy, who seemed to show no inclination in providing any further guidance.

“Make something,” Malfoy suggested as if it were obvious. “Or don’t. Whatever you want.” He sat down at his wheel again and appeared to consider his work, seemingly prepared to ignore Harry completely.

Make something, Harry mouthed mockingly at Malfoy as soon as he wasn’t looking at him any longer. There was nothing keeping him at the studio; he could leave any time he wanted. But Harry decided that he would make something, just out of spite, since Malfoy clearly wasn’t going to be of any help. He wandered over to the wheels that were clustered in one corner of the studio, out of the way, and picked one up.

“What was the rule about using the equipment?” Malfoy said, still looking at the clay on his own wheel.

Harry gritted his teeth. “Can I use this one?” he asked with forced politeness. You enormous git, he added silently.

“Go ahead,” Malfoy said easily, still not looking at him. Harry was pretty sure he was smiling, probably because he took twisted pleasure in making Harry’s life harder.

Harry wasn’t sure why it galled him so much. He carried his wheel across the studio space and placed it so it was directly opposite Malfoy’s with only a few feet separating their two desks. Malfoy actually looked up at this and rolled his eyes, which Harry found remarkably satisfying.

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asked warily.

“This way I can learn by watching you,” Harry said sweetly. “Besides, it felt weird to leave all this empty space between us when we’re the only ones here.”

Malfoy glowered at him. “If your plan is to… I don’t know, interfere or something—”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Harry lied; he had definitely entertained the idea.

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy looked briefly embarrassed. “Well, it’s the kind of thing that I would have done,” he said. “I like to think that I've moved on since then, but sometimes it’s hard to outgrow old habits.”

Uncertain how to reply to that, Harry busied himself arranging the wheel. He looked around for the clay; nothing in the studio was located where it lived during the night classes. He supposed that Melanie rearranged things every time beforehand.

Malfoy apparently noticed his confusion. “The clay’s on the second shelf in there,” he said, pointing at a cupboard against the wall behind him. “And yes, you can use it.”

It was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes as he went to fetch a block for himself. He still wasn’t sure what to make of this situation, with Malfoy being a bit anal about the whole thing but also apparently prepared to just.. let him be? Harry felt a bit adrift when he thought about what the next few hours looked like. He brought his clay back to his wheel and sat down, but for some reason, he hesitated to turn it on. Perhaps he hadn’t thought through the implications of sitting right in front of Malfoy, he thought morosely. It just meant more opportunities for Malfoy to watch him and judge his non-existent pottery skills. On the other hand, moving his table at this point would practically be an admission of weakness.

“Merlin, Potter,” Malfoy said, breaking into his crisis of confidence. “I’ve seen you use your pedal before. I didn’t think I had to provide you step by step instructions.”

Harry let out a surprised laugh. “Shut up,” he said. “I was just… deciding what to make first.”

“What, a small bowl or a big bowl?” Malfoy asked, smirking. “Don’t want to rush that decision.”

Harry flicked some water at Malfoy; the other man jerked backwards from it, but his smile seemed a bit wider as he looked down at his own wheel again. Harry found himself mirroring it as he started his clay spinning. The morning was going nothing like he had expected; in fact, the whole thing was rather odd, but not in a bad way. Suddenly feeling decisive, he resolved to start with a small bowl. Perhaps things were looking up for him.

“Would you like some advice?” Malfoy eventually asked. They were the first words that either of them had exchanged for the past forty minutes; he sounded surprisingly hesitant, despite having just watched Harry pummel his latest attempt at a bowl into unformed clay in a fit of artistic rage.

“Ugh,” Harry said, turning away from his failure and standing up from the wheel. “Not really.”

Malfoy shrugged and returned his attention to his own work. Harry watched his hands glide across the rim of the pot that he was working on, smoothly revealing a rim that was slightly folded over itself. It was like watching magic, and it was infuriating.

He couldn’t stand it. “Fine,” Harry snapped. “What advice would you give me if I were to ask for some advice?”

Malfoy paused the motion of his wheel, allowing it to spin down. “How does it feel to you? When you’re just starting your bowl?”

Harry had been prepared for mocking, or maybe even something like “don’t be bad at it”. He wasn’t expecting metaphysical questions. “What?”

Malfoy tsked impatiently. “When you’re just starting to make an impression on the clay. What does the process feel like to you?”

“Dunno.” Harry shrugged, bewildered. “Like… clay? I’m pressing my fingers into the clay. What else would it feel like?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “So eloquent, Potter,” he said. “No wonder you’re in such demand as a public speaker.”

“As far as advice goes, I have to say this is pretty shit so far,” Harry retorted.

“Yes, well, there’s a reason I’m not the class instructor,” Malfoy said, somewhat ruefully. He took a slow breath, holding it for a moment longer than necessary, then let it out again. “Let me try describing what I feel, instead,” he finally said, sounding more collected. “May I?” He gestured at Harry’s wheel and lump of clay.

Baffled, Harry stood and let Malfoy take over his wheel. Malfoy set it spinning and looked at the clay for a moment, before slowly reaching out and grazing one finger along its edge. As Harry watched, the shape of the clay slowly refined, gradually becoming rounder the longer Malfoy continued to exert small pressures against the spinning blob.

Malfoy’s voice was different when he began speaking again—it was gentler, dreamier than before. It was disturbingly reminiscent of listening to Luna when her focus was elsewhere, which, in fairness, was most of the time. “When I’m working on a piece,” Malfoy began, “I look for ways to influence the clay. It will respond to any touch, big or small, but in the beginning, I find that slow and steady pressure helps me determine what shape it wants to be.”

“Melanie said to start by making the bowl’s indentation,” Harry felt compelled to point out. “Pressing down to get the clay out of the way.”

“And how’s that working out for you?” Malfoy asked. “Melanie has probably made hundreds of bowls at this point, if not thousands. She has it down to muscle memory by now.” He moved his hands, cupping them on either side of the clay without actually touching it, then adjusted his left thumb and two fingers on his right hand to lightly press at the centre. The clay seemed to melt away beneath his gentle touch. Harry stared, captivated by the way his fingers slowly but inexorably carved out a depression, as the clay yielded to his will.

Malfoy lifted his fingers away, hovering them just over the wheel without touching the work in progress. There seemed to be scant millimetres separating them from the clay, but Malfoy kept perfect control and never let them touch. “Sometimes I take stock of what I’ve done so far,” he began. “Then I try to visualize what I will do next. For me, pottery is about being deliberate, about making choices.” He moved his hands above the indentation he’d previously made, held them there once more. He lightly ran one finger along the rim, not making an impression, just seeming to enjoy the sensation. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off of the sight.

“In every piece that’s ever worked out for me, there’s a moment when I’m coaxing some form out of it and it just… connects,” Malfoy continued. “For me, it’s like brewing a potion—when you add a particular ingredient, or you stir it just the right number of times, in the right way, and it reacts exactly as you expect. There’s a harmony when I’m working with clay, and I feel it from my fingers all the way up my arms and into my chest. When I know precisely what will happen when I touch a particular spot. That is what I strive for.”

His finger paused in its movement, and then Malfoy was digging into the clay once more. Gently tugging the brim of the bowl towards him to widen it, he would occasionally switch to deepening the impression in the middle of the bowl, maintaining some kind of symmetry between the two that Harry couldn’t fathom. If Malfoy had been allowed to sit at his wheel and work this kind of magic during the classes instead of helping out the other students, Harry wasn’t sure he would have been able to take his eyes off him. He found the effect mesmerizing, seeing the essence of a bowl emerge out of Malfoy’s delicate ministrations.

“Now you take over,” Malfoy said, breaking the spell. He let go of the pedal, allowing the wheel to spin down, before standing up and wiping his hands on a nearby cloth as he made room for Harry to take the seat again.

Harry stared at the perfectly shaped and centred proto-bowl. He felt like a child being handed a delicate and beautiful piece of glassware, and it made him nervous. Sitting down in the chair, he started the wheel once more and resolved that this time, this time, he would finish a stupid bowl without making a mess of the whole thing.

“Hmm,” Malfoy said. It was just one syllable, but Harry knew he was looking at the remnants of the perfect bowl that he’d started and that Harry had ruined. Harry felt a surge of embarrassment; why had he ever thought that this was a good plan?

“I have another idea, if you’re willing to indulge me,” Malfoy said, and Harry looked up in surprise. Malfoy was looking at him, not the clay disaster, and he was tapping one of his long fingers against his lip thoughtfully. “I think I might be putting too much pressure on you. Let’s try again, but we’ll have a proper conversation this time.”

Harry collected his clay, reshaping it into the unformed blob shape that he was far too familiar with by this point. “How will that help?” he asked dispiritedly. “I’ll just be splitting my attention.”

“Giving it your full attention obviously isn’t doing the trick,” Malfoy said, sitting down at his desk opposite Harry’s. “Now, off you go. No time like the present.”

Harry sighed and turned on his wheel again.

“Eyes up here, Potter,” Malfoy said. He didn’t bother to turn on his own, just motioned to his face. He was smirking for some unfathomable reason.

“What?” Harry asked. “I can’t even look at it?” He couldn’t help it; he kept darting glances back to his spinning clay.

“None of that now,” Malfoy said, leaning forward to close some of the distance between them. “Just keep your gaze on me, nice and steady. You know what a bowl looks like; I know you must have used one once in your life. All you need is that mental image—staring at the wheel won’t will it into being.”

“Fuck off,” Harry said, but there wasn’t any heat in it. He kept his gaze on Malfoy, resisting the urge to look down at his wheel. He would show Malfoy that he could do… whatever this was.

“See?” Malfoy said, looking amused. “It’s not that difficult. Now, I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them, and while you’re doing that, if the urge strikes you I want you to reach out gently and shape your clay. That’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all, is it?” Harry asked. He felt ridiculous for how readily he gave in, but the challenge appealed to him. His mind felt alive like it hadn’t in days, his body thrumming with potential. “I think I should get to ask you some questions too,” he said. “It’s only fair.”

Malfoy seemed to consider this for a moment. It was the weirdest thing to witness as they both stared at each other. “I accept,” he said finally. “But I get to go first.”

Harry snorted. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” he said. “Fire away.”

Malfoy adjusted where his elbows were resting on his desk, leaning forward slightly as he did so. It wasn’t much, but it closed a bit of the distance between them, and Harry had to fight the urge to match him. “How am I as a teacher?”

Harry laughed. “Jesus, Malfoy,” he said. “Is that what this is about? You could have just had me fill out a survey or something.”

“This is the warm up,” Malfoy said with a slight smile. “I’m just trying to ease you in.”

“Getting me into the mood?” Harry asked, and Malfoy flushed but held his gaze. “Ok, fine. You seem decent. I see you helping the other students in the class, and they all look satisfied.” As Malfoy seemed about to puff up at the praise, Harry added: “This, what we’re doing right now, on the other hand, is pretty fucking weird. So it’s a bit of a wash so far.”

Malfoy tsked. “Everybody’s a critic,” he said. Harry felt his gaze start to dip down towards his spinning wheel, but Malfoy also noticed. “Ah, ah,” he said, waggling a finger at Harry. “That’s a penalty. I get to ask the next question as well.”

Harry found himself blushing, inexplicably. “Fine,” he said. “But I still don’t see how you expect me to do anything with this clay if I can’t even look at it.”

“That’s a challenge for you to overcome,” Malfoy said lightly. “Before we go on, I just want to make clear—if at any point you don’t feel like answering my questions, like you’ve had enough of my… unusual methods, all you need to do is turn off your wheel.”

“And what, then we’re done here and you kick me out?” Harry asked sceptically.

“What?” Malfoy said, seemingly baffled. “No, Potter. You can always leave if you want, of course. But if you prefer to stay, we could keep trying other things.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He felt vaguely embarrassed for assuming… he didn’t know exactly what it was he’d thought. Malfoy’s reactions kept surprising him.

“Now, my second question, Potter,” Malfoy continued. “Which Quidditch team will take the cup this year and why will it be Puddlemere United?”

“You can’t be serious,” Harry argued. “The Tornadoes are miles ahead of everyone else; they’re sweeping the pitch every game.” He abruptly jumped as he brushed a couple of fingers on his right hand against the spinning clay in front of him. “Shit.”

Malfoy’s hand darted out, and he laid it lightly on Harry’s wrist before Harry could snatch his hand back from the wheel. “Allow your fingers to explore,” he said intently. “Get to know the shape of the clay before you start working it.”

“Um,” Harry said, his heart suddenly beating faster. He fought against the desire to look down and stared at Malfoy instead, trying to remember how to blink. “Sure, ok.” The weight of Malfoy’s fingers on his wrist vanished as quickly as it had arrived, but the sensation lingered. He slowly began to move his hands back towards his wheel; the distance they had to cover suddenly felt vast without any ability to see where he was moving them.

“Ask your question,” Malfoy said intently.

“Just give me a second,” Harry said. He felt sweat beading on his forehead; there were too many things he was trying to focus on.

“Ask it!” Malfoy insisted.

“How did you end up assisting with a beginner pottery class?” Harry asked. It was the first thing that came to mind, and he seized upon it.

“Oh, well, that’s easy enough,” Draco said. “Nobody else was doing it.”

Harry felt the tips of his fingers make contact with the clay once more. He was still only half-expecting it, but at least this time he kept himself still. “That’s a crap answer and you know it,” he said, but part of his attention still lay with his fingers. He moved his hands along the sides of the ball of clay, getting familiar with its dimensions and the shape of it.

“How does it feel this time?” Malfoy asked him intently.

“Is that your question?” Harry replied, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

Malfoy pursed his lips, and the sight made Harry want to laugh. “No,” Malfoy said. “Why did you say the other day that you needed to take the class?”

Harry took an involuntary breath, but he tried to play it off nonchalantly. “Oh, well, that’s easy enough,” he mimicked. “I just needed something to keep me busy.” His fingers continued to roam over the top of the clay, sensing its motion as his palms settled on it.

Malfoy gave him a narrow look, but there was a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “You’re doing very well, Potter,” he said, still holding Harry’s gaze. “You should try making an impression next. Nice and gentle.”

Harry licked his lips. This was where things had started to go wrong in all his previous attempts. “Is this what you want to do with your life?” he asked Malfoy, desperate to keep his mind off of what his hands were doing as he pressed his thumb into the soft clay.

Malfoy blinked; he appeared taken aback by the question. “Merlin, no,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy working with the students. Against all reason, I’m even enjoying working with you—”

“Wow,” Harry deadpanned. It didn’t stop a curl of warmth from appearing in his chest.

“—but doing this? Helping out at the studio forever? No. Circumstances change. Interests change. People change.”

Harry felt the clay mould and stretch around his fingers as the wheel forced it round and round. He spread them in the shallow depression that had formed while they had been talking, feeling it slowly deepen as he pressed downwards.

Malfoy cocked his head slightly. “And what of being an Auror? Do you see yourself doing that forever?”

Obviously, Harry wanted to say, but the thought was a shock to his system. Four years into his position, and he’d never bothered to plan his life more than a few months in advance. Even that had only occurred when Ron and Hermione had convinced him to take a vacation with them since Hermione couldn’t abide anything spur-of-the-moment.

Harry imagined himself as an Auror in another four years. It made him feel tired just thinking about it, but that was fine. Tiredness could be managed. His mind rebelled when he tried to contemplate forty years in the Aurors, but surely Mr Weasley had been working for the Ministry for that long. That was normal. He would just have to grit his teeth and bear it.

“Of course I do,” Harry said. It felt like a lie, made him feel a little sick to say it, but Malfoy didn’t need to know that. “It’s the right thing to do. You don’t walk away from that.”

“Careful,” Malfoy murmured. He was looking at him closely, and it made Harry a bit nervous. “Watch how much pressure you’re putting on the clay.”

Reminding himself not to look down, even though he had no idea why it felt important to do this Malfoy’s way, Harry realized that Malfoy was right—his hands were starting to compress the outer edges of the clay. He flexed them, raising his fingers away from the wheel and stretching them out one by one before lowering them back down and giving himself time to become familiar with the shape of the clay again.

“How did you know I was doing that?” he asked.

“You started hunching your shoulders,” Malfoy said. “That sort of tension usually bleeds over.”

Harry shook his head. It really was baffling, when he stopped to think about it, that he was sitting across from Malfoy and receiving art tips from his former childhood nemesis.

“Why are you really assisting with the class?” Harry asked as he carefully resumed deepening the indentation in his clay. “And don’t give me that pat answer about ‘somebody needed to do it.’ I just want to understand why.”

Malfoy eyed him again as if considering how much to say. “After the trials, I had a Muggle society integration specialist as a condition of my parole,” he finally said. “He made me do a bunch of different activities to show that I could be a ‘functioning and contributing member of society.’ One of those was some art classes through the studio here; he knew Melanie, and I guess this place has gained a bit of a reputation as a halfway house for people like me.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Anyways, the art was the first thing that really felt right to me, so I kept taking more classes. When Melanie was looking for some help, I volunteered in exchange for studio access.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “That’s… nice, I guess?”

“Your way with words never fails to astound me, Potter,” Malfoy said drily. “‘That’s nice,’ when I’ve just bared all my secrets to you.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, his face heating. “I just meant… I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.” Dragging his fingers idly around the clay that he was working, he abruptly realized that there was a reasonable approximation of a bowl taking shape beneath his hands. “Oh!” he exclaimed, taken aback. “This is starting to feel like it might actually work.”

Malfoy snorted. “You could at least pretend to have faith in my methods.” He looked at Harry consideringly. “I believe it’s my turn to ask a question again.”

“Go on, then,” Harry said, gamely. This whole… thing wasn’t at all like he had expected, but to his surprise, he realized he was enjoying himself. “I'm at your mercy.”

Something changed in Malfoy’s face; Harry wasn’t sure if he could pinpoint it, but the silence between them abruptly felt charged. Malfoy leaned a little bit closer, and Harry felt like he was being pulled towards him.

“Tell me, Potter,” he said intently. “What is the real reason that you needed to attend the class?”

Harry’s heart stuttered. “I, uh…” he said, stalling. His mouth was suddenly dry. “I don’t think that I can answer that while we’re staring at each other like this. It’s not… it doesn’t have a nice answer like yours.”

“Very well,” Malfoy said, and to Harry’s disappointment he abruptly pushed his chair back and stood up. He walked around the side of their desks and out of Harry’s field of view. “Eyes forward, Potter,” Malfoy said from behind him when Harry attempted to crane his neck to see where he was. “You should probably look at your clay for this next part, anyways. Now, you were just about to tell me some deep and dark secret about how you came to be in the class.”

Harry swallowed. Contemplating revealing the truth of why he had to see a therapist was certainly easier without having to look into Malfoy’s eyes while doing it, but knowing that Malfoy was standing behind him… there was a tension in the air. He wasn’t sure how far away Malfoy was actually standing—he could be right behind Harry, barely not touching him, and Harry would have no way of knowing. He shivered.

“Remember,” Malfoy said gently. “You can stop the wheel at any time if you’d prefer not to continue. All you have to do is take your foot off the pedal.”

Strangely, Harry found that the reminder only made him more determined to continue. It would be easy enough to stop, but he didn’t want to. He looked down at his clay—it was surprisingly well-centred, nice and wet, and ready to be pulled upwards to deepen the bowl shape. He took a breath to steady himself, then set about gently, slowly extending the rim as he spoke.

“I nearly hurt someone with accidental magic,” he said. “My latest partner. She was just out of training, and I was having a shittier day than usual, and all the windows in the room just imploded with no warning, and, well. She was standing right next to one.”

Malfoy hummed encouragingly from behind him, acknowledging that he was listening. Harry continued pulling the clay steadily higher; he found it helped to focus on it as he kept talking.

“It’s not the first time something like that has happened around me. This was the first one that ended in a formal complaint, though. I’m off work right now, and I’m meeting with a… a magical therapist.” Harry reminded himself of Ginny’s words, that it didn’t actually need to be a shameful admission. “I can’t go back to work until she clears me for duty. She told me she thought I should attend the class, and it was pretty clear that she wouldn’t let me return to work unless I did it.” He let out a slow breath; it felt like a knot loosening inside him.

“Do you enjoy being an Auror?” Malfoy asked abruptly.

“What?” Harry said, nonplussed. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple question, really,” Malfoy continued evenly. “Does being an Auror bring you joy? Or any pleasure at all?”

“Er.” Harry stared at his clay, completely caught off guard. It went round and round on the wheel with a repetitive, hypnotizing motion. “It’s not really that kind of job, is it?” he finally asked. “So it doesn’t really matter if I enjoy it or not. Someone has to do it.”

“And clearly that someone has to be you,” Malfoy said drily. “A very… cogent argument, as always.”

Harry had continued pulling the rim of his bowl the whole time, and somewhere along the way it had begun losing its bowl-ness. The tall sides that he had created meant it now resembled something closer to a squat pitcher. He’d never made it this far in the throwing process before, though. He kept his foot on the pedal, allowing the wheel to continue revolving while his thoughts ran in circles. Was this what Healer Tran had attempted to help him realize as well?

“Well, Potter,” Malfoy said gravely, interrupting his reverie. “Congratulations. I think we can definitely say that you have made.. something. Well done.”

“I know,” he said. “I fucked this one up. I really was aiming for a bowl, but you distracted me.”

“Do you know what I appreciate most about pottery?” Malfoy asked.

It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Harry felt a bit punch drunk after his confession. “The way your hands feel like a flobberworm sneezed all over them?” he asked.

“Merlin,” Malfoy said, sounding vaguely annoyed. “I swear, if you ruin the one activity I enjoy… No, I was going to say that I like how many times I can fuck up a piece and it never matters. I can start again from the beginning, or I can try to salvage it and turn it into something else. But there really is no limit to the mistakes that I am allowed to make, and I find that… surprisingly freeing.”

Harry slowly released the pedal and watched his creation come to a halt. It was an ungainly, slightly wobbly, weirdly-shaped pitcher-like thing, and he felt a surge of affection towards it. His hands had drawn it forth from a ball of clay, even if Malfoy’s process for helping him do it had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

“Time for a break?” he asked, turning around in his seat.

“Merlin, yes,” Malfoy replied, meeting his gaze. “I’ve been dying for a smoke.”

“How did you start smoking, anyways?” Harry asked him several minutes later. They were outside, taking in some sunlight and leaning against the studio wall in what Harry now thought of as their customary positions. “No offence, but it’s just not something I ever imagined you getting into.”

Malfoy fiddled with a heavy metal lighter as he considered the question. Harry watched his long, delicate fingers flick the lid back and forth across the top. “I needed something to do with my hands,” Malfoy said eventually. “When they took away my wand for that first year… well, let’s say I found it challenging and leave it there.” He waited a moment, before adding, “Also my father absolutely hates it.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at that. Malfoy lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag from it. “I know I should quit,” he said once he had finished blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “One of these days. Maybe if I go back to school.”

“Did you have something in mind?” Harry asked curiously.

Malfoy turned to look at him. “I’ve been thinking…” he began, a bit cautiously. “There’s this branch of Muggle therapy—it’s called art therapy. It might be nice to get a degree in that.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Yeah, I could see that.”

“Really?” Malfoy asked. He looked surprised but pleased.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s probably good to get some kind of training instead of whatever the fuck that was that we just did,” Harry said, grinning.

“Fuck off,” Malfoy said easily. “Are you going to keep coming to the classes, then?”

“Dunno,” Harry said. “I’m not sure if group classes are my thing.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said, and Harry could swear there was a flash of disappointment on his face before he turned away to blow out another cloud of smoke.

“But today was… honestly, really nice. Surprisingly nice,” Harry said. “Could we do this again?”

Malfoy looked back at him, a small smile appearing on his face. “If you'd like,” he said, and it seemed almost bashful.

“I would,” Harry said. He met Malfoy's gaze and he tried to convey… he wasn't really sure what, but he knew he wanted to spend more time around Malfoy. He wanted to solve this new mystery. “I really would.”