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Malfoy went outside again. He had let the door open, allowing the breeze to slip inside the cabin. Harry rubbed his hands, trying to get warm. But as always, nothing could drive away the cold. Not even a Warming Charm.

Harry rose to his feet and trailed after Malfoy. The grounds were white all over—the snow kept falling, never-ending. No trees, no other houses, no other living being beside them. The small cabin stood alone in the vast landscape. They had been there for a week or so. Still, no escape routes in sight, no slightest clues as to where they were.

Malfoy was lying on the snow, his eyes closed. He was so pale, his hair in disarray. So bright it looked white under the sun. Harry wanted nothing more than to stare at him from afar, yet he forced his feet to step forward one after the other. He couldn’t stay like this—no, he had to do something, say something. Break something. Or else he might go mental.

“You’ll die from the cold,” said Harry once he was right beside Malfoy.

“Go away, Potter,” Malfoy said without looking at him.

Harry watched him take shallow breaths, watched how his hair, now longer than his shirt collar, fanned around his head. Unconsciously, Harry tugged at his own hair. Like Malfoy's, it had brushed his shoulders, as messy as it had always been.

Are you copying Malfoy, Harry?

Harry ran his hand through his fringe. It almost obscured his view, and he had made it a habit to brush it away. Just like Malfoy’s new habit ever since they were back at Hogwarts.

Maybe, thought Harry, maybe I’m copying Malfoy. Or maybe we’re just too alike, Hermione.

“Malfoy, this must be your fault.”

Finally, Malfoy looked up. He pillowed his head above his arms. “That again? You’ve been telling me the same thing twenty seven times.”

“Well, whose fault could it be, then? Maybe you and your friends—”

“What, Potter?” Malfoy narrowed his eyes, his lips pulled into a sneer. “Like you and your troublemaker friends wouldn’t—”

“Oh, come on, everyone knows that you Slytherins love practising dark magic.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Still going on and on about that after all this time? Still thinking that you and your Gryffindor friends are so above everything, aren't you, Saint Potter?”

“Well, at least we weren’t the one who tried to kill Dumbledore.”

And there he went again. How many times had he done this since they were stranded? Being unfair. Lashing out at Malfoy. Hating him and his guts, and the fact that Harry had to breathe the same air as him now. Something bitter, dark and painful twisted in Harry’s chest. And then there was something else—a sense of satisfaction—that was swelling in his heart. Malfoy’s hurt was visible on his face.

Usually, Malfoy would punch Harry and that allowed Harry to fight back. Or Malfoy would simply leave, refusing to take the bait despite the fact that Harry could see his fists tremble. But not today.

Malfoy didn’t respond for almost an eternity, and when he did, he regarded Harry with such calmness it sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “No,” Malfoy said, sitting up. “But you were the one who tried to kill me.”

Something punched Harry’s stomach. He gaped for a moment, before scrambling for an answer, “I’ve never—”

“Yeah, all right, you just almost slashed me to death.”

Harry’s blood rushed to his head, his ears buzzing. “No, that’s different. I didn’t know what the spell could do, while you,” he pointed his forefinger at Malfoy’s face, “you had a choice. You could have refused Voldemort and—”

“Are you saying that you didn’t have any choice but to use the spell?”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. Malfoy chuckled, shaking his head.

“You know what, Potter?” he continued. “You’re right. I tried to kill Dumbledore. But that’s all there is to it. I tried—and I failed. I couldn’t do it.”

Harry clenched his fists. This was the same quarrel they had always had. And yet, somehow it was different. It was digging into Harry’s conscience. And the satisfaction was gone—leaving him somewhat empty. Bereft. Slowly, the feelings evolved into anger. But mostly... shame.

“You knew I didn’t mean to... kill you, did you?”

Malfoy stared at Harry for a long while. “No, I didn’t know. You never told me.”

And that was true enough. Still, didn’t Harry save him from the Fiendfyre? What other kind of proof did Malfoy need to convince him that Harry had never wanted to kill him?

Then again... what other evidence did Harry need to prove that Malfoy had never wanted to kill Dumbledore?

“Look, Potter,” said Malfoy, now staring at the colourful curtains of Aurora Borealis. Harry wondered when exactly that appeared, for all this time the sky had been boringly blue. “I’m tired. Aren’t you?”

Harry sighed. He supposed he was. Exhausted. Longing for a distraction. Because if he weren’t picking a fight, he didn’t know whether he could control himself from...

Aren’t you staring at the ferret a little too much, mate?

Yes, I am, Ron, mused Harry as he drank in the sight of Malfoy’s nape. So fair and pale, with his hair falling gently around it. Harry wanted to touch him, to let his fingers wander and map every inch of Malfoy’s skin.

“It’s not the right time for petty fights,” Malfoy said. “It’s about time we analyse the situation.” He drew his knees up and gathered them inside his arms. “This isn’t just an ordinary place. I’m willing to bet that we’re not in Norway despite the Aurora.”

“How perceptive of you.” Harry snorted.

Malfoy sneered. “Now, listen to me, Potter. Don’t you feel there’s something strange? There’s snow all over, and it’s cold, but we don’t freeze to death even without anything to warm our bodies? On second thought, is it really cold?”

“Of course it is! What are you even talking about?”

“Maybe it’s not cold, maybe it’s just us thinking that it should be cold and—”

“Malfoy, that can only happen in a dream,” Harry said, shrugging.

Malfoy’s reaction, though, made Harry wish he could take back what he had just said. “Exactly! A dream! Remember what we’d been doing before we arrived here?”

“Um.” Harry racked his brain. “I think we were in a classroom... doing something students should do during classes?”

“Still an idiot, I see,” Malfoy said, and he continued before Harry could snap at him. “We were in Potions. We made a variation of the Dreamless Sleep.”

Harry frowned. Dreamless Sleep? It indeed sounded familiar. His brain was fuzzy, though, and making a variation of a potion didn’t seem like something he could do without errors. “Are you saying that we made an error?”

“You made an error. Or at least, I think so.”

“You’re an arsehole, you know that, Malfoy?”

“Heard that countless times, thank you very much,” said Malfoy with a wave of his hand. “What I’m trying to explain to your simple brain, Potter, is that I know what’s wrong. It took me a while, but the memory came back to me.”

“Really?” Harry scoffed. “If you’re so smart, what should we do to get out of here, then?”

“Nothing.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I see.”

“No, you don’t understand. You botched up the potion, and so we’re dreaming. We just have to wait until we wake up,” Malfoy said slowly, as if Harry was a four-year-old child.

“It’s been a week, Malfoy,” Harry said through gritted teeth. He threw himself to the ground, lying in the snow and facing the opposite direction. He heard Malfoy sigh behind him.

“Who knows, perhaps in reality, we’re only sleeping for ten minutes.” And then he lay down again, his head right beside Harry’s hip, and his hand rested just an inch away from Harry’s. Harry’s heart tried to jump out of his throat.

“So...” Harry swallowed. “It’s a dream?”

Malfoy was watching him, his blond lashes made his eyes look lighter in the never setting sun. Harry strived to shift away, but Malfoy’s fingers caught his. “Whose dream do you think it is? Mine or yours?” asked Malfoy.

Harry couldn’t stop himself from staring back—Malfoy’s pointy chin, his Adam's apple that bobbed as he swallowed, his Dark Mark that was a contrast to his skin and the snow... even the way he left two of his black shirt's buttons open at the collar. Malfoy tightened his grasp around Harry’s hand.

“Maybe...” mine, because I can’t let myself be around you in real life. Harry swallowed his words, and said instead, “...I’m sorry.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Maybe... you’re sorry?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry for almost killing you.” He winced inside, but he forced himself not to look away.

Malfoy remained silent. Slowly, he closed his eyes. “Thank you for saving my life.”

That was probably the most shocking thing Harry had ever heard out of Malfoy’s mouth. He blinked twice, thrice, and finally believed that it was a dream. His dream. Everything was possible here, even a different Malfoy... right?

And so he rubbed circles on Malfoy’s knuckles, wanting to pull him into his embrace, wanting to kiss him. Wanting to run his hands over Malfoy’s cheeks, to breathe in his scent, to find out what lay underneath the shirt. But Harry didn’t, because even in dreams, he was not brave enough.

It would break him when he woke up. He just knew it.

When he woke up, Hermione’s bushy hair blocked his vision. And then came her face, and her voice, “...ry? Harry, are you all right?”

Harry groaned. His head hurt, as if a rock had repeatedly smashed his skull. He blinked twice, and someone shoved his glasses to his face. Ron, who was examining Harry with an odd expression. Harry wasn’t surprised to find himself in the Hospital Wing. Although he had thought he wouldn’t be here again after Voldemort was gone...

“That was weird,” Ron said. “Did you have a nice dream?”

Harry sat up, ignoring the stinging pain in his temples. “What, uh, what do you mean?”

“Well, you...” Hermione began, but Ron pointed to the bulge in Harry’s blankets.

“Fuck,” Harry said.

“Yeah, mate. You think you can make me that potion so I can dream, too?”

“Ronald, honestly,” Hermione huffed. “Harry, don’t worry about that. Maybe it’s a side effect. We’ll investigate it later.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Harry hurried to add. “Um, how long was I asleep?”

“Twenty minutes,” Hermione said.

“Oh,” Harry said and recalled how Malfoy told him they could have been sleeping only for ten minutes. And speaking of Malfoy...

Harry straightened, sending his gaze all around the room. Malfoy was sitting in a bed near the opposite wall, staring blankly at his hands. His blankets pooled around his thighs.

“Don’t worry about him. Madam Pomfrey has checked him already,” said Hermione.

“What? Who said that I’m—”

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Now, it’s your turn. I’ll call Madam Pomfrey.” She turned around, not giving Harry enough time to correct her terribly wrong perception. But...

Malfoy looked up, and their eyes met. Harry forgot to breathe. “Ma—”

Malfoy sprung to his feet, as if he didn’t have the same headache as Harry. Well, maybe he didn’t, but the thought wasn’t the reason that made Harry clench his jaw. Malfoy sneered at Harry and Ron—and he headed toward the door just like that.

He didn’t seem to remember the dream.

Harry bit his lip. Then, it was indeed Harry’s dream. Harry wanted to laugh at himself. How pathetic he was to dream about Malfoy because the real Malfoy loathed him.

“Fuck,” he said to no one in particular.

“Daydreaming in my class, Mr Potter?” Snape sneered, bending down until Harry could see the pores around his oily nose. Harry straightened in his seat, trying to bleach his brain from the horrifying memory of Snape’s close-up view. “And after you gave us so much trouble with the incident last Wednesday.”

The class erupted in laughter from the Slytherin tables. Harry couldn’t help but see Malfoy snickering with Goyle.

“I’m sorry, Profess—”

“Ten points from Gryffindor for disrespecting my class,” Snape said and whirled around with a blur of dark robes billowing behind him. Once he was at his desk, he levelled a glare to all students—minus the Slytherins. “On Monday, you will brew the Draught of Constipation. Class dismissed.”

Harry buried his face under his arms even as students started filing out of the class. As always, Snape was evil. It didn’t matter that he was a hero and had received an order of Merlin—he was still a slimy git.

“I’m starved! Let’s go for lunch, mate.” Ron shook Harry’s shoulder, but Harry merely groaned in despair. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” Ron asked, tilting his head in confusion.

Harry rubbed his face. “Nothing. Just tired.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie. He couldn’t get a wink of sleep ever since the potions accident. The problem was, despite knowing it already, Harry couldn’t stop himself from thinking that, isn’t there any possibilities that Malfoy dreamed the same thing?

Worst of all, he still couldn’t forget the warmth of Malfoy’s fingers around his. He really, really was fucked up.

And truth be told, Malfoy was exactly the same as ever the next morning. He made fun of Harry, he laughed at Harry and Ron, and he stayed away whenever Harry was with the other Gryffindors. Which convinced him further that, of course, the Malfoy in the dream was really not Malfoy.

“Harry?” Hermione called, having suddenly appeared before him. A frown marred her face. “You’re having that look again.”

Harry huffed. “What look, Hermione?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “A look you have whenever Malfoy is around.”

“I don’t have a—!” Malfoy’s laughter echoed from the hallway. Harry bit his tongue, and fuck, he was pathetic. He was acting like a love-sick git, and all right, maybe he was indeed one, but...

He sighed, angry at himself. He wasn’t like this before the dream, he should be able to go back to normal. Why couldn’t he now?

He rose to his feet and snatched his satchel. No doubt, Ron and Hermione must have been exchanging exasperated glances behind his back, but Harry couldn’t care less. He stormed out of the classroom. Not so far away, Malfoy was chatting with Zabini and Parkinson. Harry glared at him, cursing his irresistible, pompous voice. Loathing how he was baring his pale neck every time he laughed, and how his cologne invaded Harry’s nostrils as he walked past him—

Harry froze. Something brushed against his fingers. Feather light, and it took only a few seconds, but no doubt someone had touched him. So Harry turned around—and there, Malfoy was staring at him. His lips tugged a little less like a smirk and more like a smile, before he spun around to talk with his friends again. He made his way in the opposite direction, leaving Harry’s fingers tingling with his warmth. Again.

“Harry,” Hermione said, “you shouldn’t block the way.”

“But—” Harry began, “but I—”

“Are you all right, though? You look all red.” Hermione touched his forehead. “Is it a fever?”

“Or maybe he’s just hungry,” Ron offered.

“Oh, come on, Ronald, Harry’s not you.”

Harry grinned. He clasped his fingers in his hand and felt his cheeks hurt. Hermione and Ron looked at him as if he had just sprouted a second head.

“Yeah,” he said, this time louder, “I think I have a fever.”