Archive of Our Own ^beta

We learn together over time
that tolerance is more appealing
in theory than in practice.

We are waiting here for catastrophe.

October

Harry had never made New Year's resolutions, for the simple reason that festivities at the Dursley's were... unpleasant, not the precise atmosphere that would make one prone to do such things. And that was coupled with the fact that Harry spent New Years hidden somewhere, with no special meal apart from a bigger quantity of veggies that Dudley wouldn't eat, and being forced to listen to his uncle's babbling getting progressively louder and stupider as he imbibed more and more alcohol.

He had made resolutions in especial occasions, though. It could be considered another tradition, but instead of happening at New Year's Eve, it took place every time a new term at Hogwarts started.

Regretfully, when his tradition first began, there had only been a single matter that Harry had judged important enough to deserve being made a resolution, and that hadn't changed in a long while. So, for seven years, his resolution had been not getting killed by the nutter of the moment, which incidentally always ended up being Voldemort in one way or another. And when Voldemort was no more, he had to look for something else to focus his efforts on.

In Eighth year, Harry Potter's new term resolution was not getting into fights with Draco Malfoy.

It lasted exactly a month and two days.

And he couldn't be blamed, he really couldn't, because punching the git in the face was, by far, the hardest thing he'd ever tried to prevent himself from doing. Talking himself out of leaving the world to deal with Voldemort all by itself didn’t hold a candle to the way he was handling things at the moment, honestly, because saving everybody was something that needed to be done and apparently he was the one chosen to do so, how wonderful, but Draco Malfoy managed to get under his skin in such a way that he immediately forgot any reasons he could've had for not giving him a new face.

He was a saint for making it two days into October before it all went to hell. Besides, it had been all Malfoy's fault anyway.

They had literally bumped into each other in their way to class. Truthfully, Harry was just getting out of Potions and couldn't run away from Snape fast enough, but Malfoy had been the one who disregarded the allow people to exit the room before entering rule. He'd been daydreaming too, gaze intent but unfocused; probably pondering some complicated Arithmancy problem he'd just been given for homework, if Harry had his schedule right... and embarrassingly, he did. Just an old habit, of course.

Before Harry had time to understand what was going on, he found himself sprawled on the floor, his arse aching from the fall and feeling as if the air had been knocked out of him. Which was, in fact, exactly what had happened. As he carefully pressed his fingers against the points of his chest where he was positive he'd be getting bruises, he studied the scene in front of him.

There was an alarming quantity of books, big heavy books, scattered all around him, and he caught sight of an especially nasty-looking one whose cover would probably be impressed on his skin the next day, because if books could look guilty of hitting someone, that one did. Among the books, Harry found two bags; his own was starting to get drenched in ink from some broken pot, but the other one appeared to be intact. Not like its owner.

Laying on his arse in front of him, and looking extremely pissed, was Draco Malfoy.

"Blow me," Harry mumbled.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, managing to give away both his amusement and exasperation with no discernible change of expression. Which was bloody weird, but Harry was also kind of impressed.

"I don't think so, Potter."

"Har, har, har. Are you twelve, Malfoy?" he said as he got up, even if he'd have probably said the same thing, given the chance. But it was Malfoy, and one didn't simply waste a chance to get one over Malfoy, new term's resolutions aside.

In attempt of reminding himself he was supposed to treat the git like a decent person, he waited for said git to get up -on his own, of course; offering him help would have been a little too much- to gather his stuff and get into the bloody classroom, so he could flee and be in time for Transfigurations with clear conscience, but Malfoy seemed to have other plans, for he didn't move an inch from where he stood.

His eyes were digging holes in Harry's, who had the sudden hunch that Malfoy was waiting for him to do something, but he wasn't sure what. He found out a second later.

"Well?" Malfoy asked, raising a brow impertinently. "I'd like to get to Potions before the year ends, Potter."

"Erh... so what?" Harry was sure, by then, that he'd been fooled by Malfoy's impeccable appearance once again; it had made him disregard the fact that he was completely bonkers. "Have you forgotten where the classroom is? It's right there, Malfoy, right behind you." He pointed at the door, just in case. "You should know; you're the one who actually enjoys that class."

"I know where the class is, Potter. Unlike you, I'm not stupid."

"Then what in Merlin's beard are you waiting for? Go, Malfoy, go, shoo."

"Some of us actually study, Potter; I can't leave until you pick up my books."

As a rule, everything Malfoy said was either insulting or made very little sense, usually both, but that affirmation surpassed anything Harry had heard from him since last year, at least in the bollocks' division.

"And why," he said slowly, "would I pick up your books?"

"It's common courtesy, Potter," Malfoy replied, scowling. "You banged into me, you pick up the mess you left behind."

"I banged into you?" Harry repeated, incredulous. The students that were waiting to enter the class seemed to sense shite was going down and immediately gathered around them, eager for a fight. "You were the one who walked right into me, Malfoy! It's not my fault you were too busy visiting your dreamland to pay attention to where you were going or who you were going to send flying to the ground."

Then the bell rang, followed by disappointed mumbles of everybody who was interested in the outcome of the discussion. It was the perfect departure, in Harry's opinion, and he turned his back to Malfoy with all the dignity he could muster, ready to walk away and leave him there to deal with his shite on his own. Malfoy, unfortunately, seemed to have other ideas.

"Potter, don't you dare to leave me here like this!"

Harry spun on his heels and glared at him, hoping his mere expression was eloquent enough to show he hoped someone casted a particularly nasty hex on the nutcase, one that lasted for a good while and hurt.

"Fuck off! Pick up your stuff yourself!"

"I swear, Scarhead, if you don't kneel right now and start gathering my books..."

"What?" Harry prompted, stepping forward and barely preventing himself from strangling the git. So much for his new term's resolution. "You'll tell your Father? I don't think he can do much from Azkab-"

"Mister Potter!"

Snape was glaring at them from the door jamb... although it was more proper to say he was glaring at Harry. No surprise there. The man still didn't like him one bit, even if lately he'd made Potions almost bearable by not being a total arse. Nevertheless, Harry suspected that it had little do to with him behaving like a decent human being and more with the fact that Harry knew too much information Snape didn't want going around.

"Professor, he-"

"Mister Malfoy, you're late for my class."

Indeed, students had left them alone a while before, none of them daft enough to arrive late to Potions, not even for a good fight, but Malfoy had apparently lost track of time and worse, forgotten who his professor was. That was probably the reason Snape didn't look inclined to listen to anything Malfoy had to say, which suited Harry just fine, since he was sure it would have been something to put the blame entirely on him.

"Professor, we were just-"

"I haven't asked you, Mister Potter."

Ah, his annoyance for Malfoy's delay hadn't made him forget he was supposed to hate hate hate Harry. Not that he'd been expecting him to, but one could hope.

To be fair, it wouldn't have been surprising if Snape had snapped at him while he led them to McGonagall's office, with a fluent movement of his robe as the only indication he wanted them to follow him. Harry wasn't listening to a single word of his scolding, after all, first too focused in the amusing sight that was Malfoy tripping over himself to gather his books from the floor, and then too busy exchanging angry looks with him. And yet, Snape seemed content babbling to himself, occasionally scowling at Malfoy or him, and no doubt inserting a sly insult every two words.

By the time the gargoyle let them into the Headmistress' office, Harry's ears were ringing. A quick glance in Malfoy's direction confirmed that the git was as fed up as he was, although he probably hid it better. That allowed Harry to share a brief feeling of camaraderie with him, which lasted as long as it took Malfoy to sit down and drop his heavy books on Harry's feet on purpose.

McGonagall wasn't impressed.

"Mister Potter," she said, snapping him out of his thoughts, "one would think that, after seeing what hate can do, you'd be keener on forgiving and forgetting." Before Harry could protest, and maybe let her know about his new term's resolution, as little as it had lasted, she sighed and turned to Malfoy. "And you, Mister Malfoy. Considering everything you've been through and, Merlin bless, everything you've put us through, I'd advise you to temper your character, unless you want to get into further trouble. There's no reason for resentment anymore, boys."

"Not to mention that such a behaviour is ignominious and childish," Snape piped in, looking entirely too pleased at the opportunity to mortify them once again. "Certainly, your families are partly at fault, having either over-indulged you or not cared enough to teach you how to function properly in human society, but as sad as that is, it's no longer an excuse at eighteen. You ought to have taught yourselves some manners by now. If I were your guardian-"

"Ah, isn't it wonderful you've brought this up, Severus?" McGonagall exclaimed joyfully. It was a good thing she did, because Harry had been a second away from losing all resemblance of self-control and ending Snape in the ol’ good Muggle way, which included a lot more violence. "I'm giving you the opportunity to mend any gaps you fear may exist in Mister Potter and Mister Malfoy's education. From now on, you are their guardian in this school, and shall make sure they are at least cordial with each other. Any problem you might find in the way is your responsibility to deal with, of course."

On the bright side, Snape didn't look so pleased anymore, and Malfoy's sneer had turned into the very expression of horror. It was blatant they weren't happy at all with that agreement. But, unfortunately, neither was Harry.

"Headmistress!" Malfoy and he exclaimed in unison, at the same time Snape uttered a weak, "Minerva."

It was of no use. McGonagall kept on grinning, pretending she hadn't heard the triple plea, and not only that, but she spoke even louder in return, as if trying to drown their complains with her voice.

"Well, I must confess, I'm astonished at how quick your acceptance was," she was saying, imperturbable. "I was expecting to have to defend my decision, which would have been terribly inconvenient, not to say insulting, as it'd let on you don't trust me to know what's best for my students. But people always surprise us, don't they? Ah, and for that I'm glad. But still, if you have anything to say, please feel free to speak now."

"Minerva, truthfully, I doubt-" Snape attempted, only to be thoughtfully ignored.

"Alright! Seeing as there are no objections, you are all dismissed."

And they were. Harry had seven years to get to know that woman, and he doubted there was anyone brave enough to go against her wishes; if there was, the poor soul, he definitely wasn't the one. Snape ran back to his class wearing the face of someone who was sorely disappointed with life; he was nothing if not a clever man, which meant he also knew better than to fight her. And although Harry wouldn't have stuck his neck out for it, so did Malfoy, apparently, because he glared at Harry as if it'd all been his fault, which clearly it hadn't been, and trailed after Snape with one last malicious shove that made Harry stumble.

He didn't dare to look back at McGonagall as he exited the office himself, the same thought looping in his mind all the way to the Gryffindor dorms. Stupid Malfoy, stupid new term's resolution, stupid Malfoy.

..........................................

The second incident involving Malfoy took place in October too, although Snape didn't hear even a breeze of it... luckily for all the parties involved. Harry had managed to avoid Malfoy for a whole week before it happened.

It wasn't even a fight, not a proper one; it didn't even qualify as bickering, taking into account how their banter usually went. Harry wasn't even angry, and unlike any other clash with Malfoy, he just wanted to forget all about it. No holding grudges, for once; in fact, Harry was one step from asking his friends to Obliviate him, but then he'd probably have to explain which memories he wanted wiped, and that wasn't a conversation he'd enjoy having. They would surely think the same, if they knew.

But they would never, ever know, because there would be no one to tell them. As far as Harry was concerned, it had never happened, and if he could accurately predict Malfoy's behaviour and thoughts, and he sure as hell did by then, the git agreed with him.

The Eighth years weren't allowed to play Quidditch with students from other years, since McGonagall was adamant on not depriving other students of the opportunity to play. Harry understood it, but that didn't mean he had to like it. No one did, really, so they'd asked the Headmistress to let them have their own teams and matches, and she'd relented. And then explained that she wasn't going to deal with the additional problem that would be them sharing the Quidditch facilities with the other years, so she made them build their own small pitch and use an old locker room. Only one.

Which meant the team captains had to cast a powerful Muffliato before giving their encouraging speech, and the players couldn't badmouth about the other team right after the match unless they wanted to start a fight. There was something really uncomfortable in undressing and showering, in sharing a weird kind of intimacy, while being in the same room with the people who had kicked their arse or whose arse had been kicked by them.

Putting Slytherins and Gryffindors as the two teams, it was a recipe for trouble.

Harry had to endure Malfoy throwing him nasty glares while they spoke with their respective teams before a match, and the Slytherins bursting into soundless laughter from time to time, the mocking smiles they directed at the Gryffindors being the tell-tale sign that Malfoy had just said something mean about them. It was awfully difficult to calm down the team and boost their confidence with the Slytherins there, watching every move as if waiting for them to break down into sobbing messes.

At least there seemed to be a non-pranks rule that everybody abided by, even if they had never discussed such a thing. So nobody was stealing their underwear, at Harry's relief; they all feared the other team would reciprocate, and that over the course of months, they'd end up having seen everyone making a fool of themselves while naked. Everybody was working together to avoid learning things that couldn't be unlearnt, as whether Goyle really had dimples on his arse like some seventh years said, but it still didn't prevent it from happening.

It was a testament of Harry's lack of luck that, despite everything, he managed to see more than he'd ever wanted to. But Harry still blamed everything on Ron, anyway.

He'd been just fine for the last match, Ravenclaw against Gryffindor, although a small part of Harry kept excusing him with the argument that it was just Ravenclaw and that sharing the locker room with Slytherins was much more nerve wracking. It was true, but since Ron's sudden attack of modesty was what had started the issue, he didn't feel like being benevolent or reasonable.

Ron had sneaked into one of the individual changing rooms that were seldom used, and had begged Harry to wait for him lest the Slytherins decided to take a chance on pranking him while he was alone, because he changed his clothing slower than Hermione rode a broom and he already knew that, by the time he was finished, half of their friends would be gone. Harry understood that, and since he was an amazing friend... and hopelessly daft, he'd promised he'd stay.

However, after Demelza Robins left the locker room, leaving him alone with a small group of Slytherins and a couple of unidentified students still using the changing rooms, Harry started regretting it. He'd been leaning against the same wall for the last twenty minutes and his patience was wearing thinner by the moment.

"Ron! What, in the name of Merlin, are you doing in there?!"

"Eh, nothing, mate." came his friend's voice from a nearby room. "I just... got a bit tangled in my robes."

One of the Slytherins snickered, but Harry paid him no mind. Ron's hands were probably still trembling from the hard blow of the Bludger that had hit him earlier, and even in optimal conditions he was clumsy at best. They'd spend there the whole afternoon if he didn't step in.

"Bloody hell, Ron-" he groaned, exasperated, as he crossed the distance that separated him from his friend's hideaway in two strides.

Anything else he could've said was forgotten right after he slammed the door open, bursting into the changing room. In front of him wasn't Ron, but Malfoy. Malfoy, stripped down to his underwear, his face getting redder by the second. Malfoy, scrawny and with skin the colour of fresh snow, trying to hide as much of him as possible by hugging himself in a strange show of vulnerability. It should've been something to laugh at, but instead Harry found himself thinking of Malfoy as gorgeous.

The door closed behind him.

Harry couldn't tell who was the most mortified.

"Erhm... I... I thought..." he stammered, in a poor attempt to offer him an explanation on why he'd come barging into his changing room. If only he had a similar excuse for freezing on the spot.

"I know," Malfoy hissed, moving backwards until his back touched the wall. "You thought you'd find your Weasley here, didn't you? I've heard you two yelling just a moment ago. In fact, Merlin himself has possibly heard you from his tomb."

"Yeah... sorry."

Malfoy just kept on staring at him, although Harry could have easily pinned it on the fact that he was surprised Harry had actually apologised to him. It turned out that it had nothing to do with that.

"What the hell are you waiting for, Potter?! Get out of here!"

Harry should have. He knew. It'd have been the right thing to do, not to mention logical; even if he'd been thinking about publicly embarrassing Malfoy later, he had nothing else to do in his bloody changing room. But his feet seemed to be stuck on the floor, and his legs just wouldn't react, and he couldn't help himself, he couldn't drag his eyes away from Malfoy's barely covered body.

"Uhm... Why are you still here?"

"That's what I've just asked you, Potter!"

"No, I mean, you weren't changing, were you? You were just here, waiting... half naked."

That brought out the nicest blush he'd seen in Malfoy yet. Apparently, his half-arsed comment had struck a nerve, never mind that he'd just been trying to distract him from his confusion. And now, when he thought about it, it was weird. There didn't seem to be any clothes anywhere in the room, not even the Quidditch uniform Malfoy'd taken off. So much for their non-pranks rule.

"I... I can't find my clothes," Malfoy mumbled grudgingly, confirming Harry's suspicions. "One of your stupid friends must have hidden them, but I don't know how. I was here the entire time..." He'd been avoiding Harry's gaze while he spoke, but he suddenly stopped to glare at him, even if his cheeks were still on fire. "Since you seem so keen on having this conversation, would you at least turn away, or close your eyes, or something? I'm not into exhibitionism, Potter."

"No way," he blurted out, and he was certain the colour of his face matched Malfoy's. The git stared at him in incredulity. "I don't trust you not to take advantage and hex me."

"Whatever, Potter, just go. Go away."

"But you said-"

"Forget it! You aren't going to help anyway, so why-?"

"Obiectum Revelio."

Malfoy's clothes appeared in a neat pile on the small bench of the room. Harry offered him a tentative smile, his skin suddenly itching everywhere, as if he were allergic to something or very, very nervous. He had to get out of there, he reminded himself, preferably before Malfoy recovered his wits and decided that taking revenge for all the embarrassment was in order.

"Pott-"

"Well, uhm, I'm going. You should... dress."

"I should," Malfoy agreed. He blinked, perplexed, as if he couldn’t quite figure out what was going on. His arms fell and Harry forced himself not to stare at the new uncovered parts of him. "Ah... if you tell anyone-"

"I won't," Harry promised.

For a moment, none of them moved an inch. Then a voice yelled "Harry! You're still there, aren't you? I'll be out in a second, I swear!" And just like that, something was broken. Malfoy reached out for his clothes and Harry turned away, swallowing. Without daring to look back, he walked out of the room and gently closed the door behind him. Nobody seemed to have noticed his absence or where he'd just come out from, which meant the world didn't hate him that much.

Ron stepped out of his changing room, just a few ones apart from Malfoy's, and beamed at him.

"Hey," Harry greeted weakly.

"Hey, mate! For a moment I thought you'd left me here alone."

"I wouldn't..."

"Nah, of course you wouldn't." Ron dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, and stepped around a group of Slytherins to walk out of the locker room; Harry followed him like an Imperioused man. "So... did you see how Demelza dodged that nasty Bludger right before she-?"

But Harry wasn't listening anymore. A door banged open somewhere behind them, and Malfoy popped by Harry's right side and outwalked them in an instant, going so fast that he was almost running. Harry couldn't stop his eyes from following him.

November

By the first few days of November, Harry had almost managed to stop thinking about Malfoy. Really. He didn't even remember that incident in the locker room. ...Well, maybe he did remember it a little bit. Every time something distracted him from the monotony of the term, he felt thankful, because if he was bored, his mind was inevitably dragged back to Mafoy, as if the git were an itch he could never scratch properly.

The thing was, Harry's desk in History of Magic was a piece of history in itself.

Professor Binns cared about students vandalizing Hogwart's property as much as he did about students dozing off, and so every desk in the classroom was full of doodles and things former students had written. Considering just how boring Binns' classes could get, Harry wasn’t surprised to find out that he had memorised every mark on his desk, even if he didn't believe himself gifted with a supernatural skill for it; he'd had a lot of time to do so, after all.

And that was what allowed him to immediately spot the difference on a Tuesday morning, thus adding some excitement to his life and displacing his Malfoy-thoughts for a while. Under a surprisingly realistic drawing of a house elf, one of Harry's favourites, someone had scribbled: Could I have done more? Should I have?

There was something in those words that struck a chord, a sense of empathy resonating within of him. The handwriting was familiar in a way he couldn't quite place, almost a ghost memory of something he must’ve seen before; some hurriedly taken notes, perhaps, on a topic he didn’t quite remember anymore. The amount of students that had been there since Monday made the circle of suspects that could have written that too big, making it impossible for Harry to guess who had been. A part of him didn't want to, anyway. There was a certain appeal in sharing something so deep with a stranger, even if they weren't aware of it.

Without thinking it over, Harry gripped his quill tighter and wrote his answers, right under the questions: I probably could have, but I don't think I should have.

That moment, the mystery behind it, would have been enough to keep him distracted for a couple of days. He wasn't expecting anything else from it, not really, and so he was dumbstruck when, the next day, he found something new written on his desk.

Both, the words he'd written and the ones he'd been answering to, were gone, but in the place they used to be was what seemed to be a continuation of their conversation, if it could be called that way: I think I could have, and should have. But I didn't. And then Harry was sure his mysterious correspondent was grieving over the War. On one hand, who wasn't? But he was no stranger to regret, and if he could do anything to lighten someone else's burden, he bloody well would.

We were all afraid, he wrote. And young. Nobody can blame us if we didn't always take the right decisions, not even ourselves.

The next day, his words were gone once again. In exchange, he got a confession in small, trembling letters that seemed to snuggle each other for warmth, nothing like the neat handwriting he was already getting used to. He had to touch the table to make them appear, and that gave him an idea of just how personal they were even before reading them, because his mysterious correspondent had bothered to hide them under a spell that recognised him from before and only allowed him to see. Harry felt strangely touched.

I can. Everybody else might not, but they do anyway. Sometimes I'm glad I didn't do more, just because of that; if I had, they'd still ask me for more, always more, nothing is ever enough for them. I didn't know what to do. If I had done more, I'd have probably died. I'm not a martyr, I didn't want to die. I still don't want to. But they make it sound so easy, being heroic. Throwing your life away. Maybe it is, and I'm just weak.

I don't know why I'm telling you this. I would never say the words aloud; maybe that's why. Maybe it's because I don't know you and I don't want to, and because you don't know me and, trust me, you wouldn't want to either. Except to humiliate me, in any case. But you can't, so it doesn't really matter what I tell you, does it?

There was a knot in Harry's throat, making it hard to swallow. He didn't know how to cast the spell to hide his words, so he was relieved when he saw them slowly disappear as he wrote them, fading from his view to only ever show themselves again to the one they were meant to, whoever they were.

It's never been about being heroic, or throwing your life away, although sometimes it might feel like it. But no, it isn't easy. I made some hard choices, and while at times you forget you could lose everything and you just go with the flow, it usually feels like walking into the sea, knowing you'll drown when the water reaches a certain level, and yet you can't stop, you won't stop, and then your lungs are burning and you know you're close to dying, but you keep going even if every inch of your body screams for you not to. People who ask you to sacrifice yourself are the ones who had never done the same, because they don't know what it entails. They do think it's easy. But it really is not.

I think you're doing this because you're afraid, and lonely. I wouldn't want to humiliate you, or anybody, but I guess it doesn't make a difference. This is better, anyway.

It had been a gloomy conversation so far, even if it did help Harry to exorcise his own demons, but his correspondent's next words made him smile.

Ah, so you are a martyr, then! Only one could speak like that about sacrificing oneself. Shall I start playing some epic music in the background?

Well, even if your words make sense, I'm afraid it'd be a waste of time to try and explain them to the people who criticise my choices. They want to punish me for them, and they will. However, if they expect me to collapse into a sobbing mess at their attacks, they'll be sorely disappointed.

The Dark Lord is dead, being afraid now makes no sense. I might be lonely, though, in a way. The War wasn't easy for my friends either, but they didn't live what I did; they wouldn't understand half of what I could tell them. Not that I'd want to. Some things are better left untold.

"Harry, are you okay?" Hermione suddenly whispered, raising a brow at him.

"Yeah, why?"

"You were smiling, a while before. And I don't think the genocide of house elves is something worth smiling over."

"Ah, no, it had nothing to do with... I wasn't even listening..."

"I know that."

Harry glared at her, but Hermione wasn't affected in the slightest. She kept staring at him, her head tilted to the side and her eyes narrowed, like she did when she was trying to figure someone out. He wasn't sure if something showed in his face or if she was simply concerned about missing the lesson, but she dropped it after a while, allowing Harry to write a response to his correspondent.

Martyr? I prefer hero, thank you very much. And I'm not sure about the epic music; it does get a little tiring after a while.

It's still not fair, you know? Even if what they say doesn't affect you, or so you insist, they have no right to try and hurt you. But I guess they'll eventually grow tired if they see you couldn't care less about their opinion on your choices.

I haven't been in any Ministry's functions lately, but I don't think they've given Voldemort the "Only Reason to Be Afraid" medal. There are plenty of things out there that are worth fearing. I'm afraid of not knowing what to do or who I am anymore, now the War's over. I'm afraid of losing my friends. For a few weeks, I've even been having a really weird dream involving a pineapple and Filch's frilly knickers, so I'm quite afraid something's very wrong with my brain too.

That sounds tough, but... you're right. And we're all doomed to keep some secrets even from our best friends anyway, aren't we? I am, for instance, withholding certain information that I'm sure they wouldn't appreciate to know. It's for the best, really.

He immediately regretted alluding to his awkward encounter with Malfoy. It wasn't as much that he thought his correspondent would know what he was talking about, because that was downright impossible, but he was still very adamant on pretending it had never happened, and it was difficult to hold the illusion if he kept reminiscing the memory. Not that he wanted to remember Malfoy's stupid naked body, or his even more stupid blush.

However, the next day he realised he'd made another slip-up.

Now I see you're neither martyr nor hero, just plain dumb; there's a thin line between them, and you've just crossed from bravery to recklessness. The Dark Lord might be dead, but I doubt it's wise to say his name so soon after his fall. Or ever, for that matter. But some things you say make some sense, surprising as it is; there are still reasons to be afraid, and your mental stability strikes me as a good one.

How you know what Filch wears under his robes is another pressing matter to be addressed, but I shall not be the one to dig into. You might want to make a visit to St Mungo's to deal with the leftover trauma.

Ah, hiding some dirty little secret, are we? Truly, we all have some of those, although I'm more likely to spread the information than to keep it to myself. It's not for bragging rights, mind me, it's more a "control the gossip or the gossip will control you" philosophy.

"Hermione," he whispered, after a brief deliberation.

She lifted her head from her notes, her features arranging themselves into an annoyed expression for a fleeting moment. But then she turned to the side and shifted her full attention to Harry, which was surprising enough, considering Binns was still drawling in the background. Harry didn't think he'd imagined the brief look she'd given to his table, and he was as discreet as possible while he double checked the spell that prevented her from seeing the message written there. It was still in its place.

"Harry," she mumbled vaguely, raising a brow. What is it? was unsaid, but it wasn't necessary.

"Well..." He rattled his fingers on the table, right over the message, with no attempt of creating a rhythm; the soft tap-tap sound was comforting enough on its own. He was on the verge of telling her about his correspondent, or how the sight of a half-naked Malfoy insisted on following him into his very dreams, or any of those things he'd been hiding from her, but his courage wavered on the last second and he went back to his original question. "Let's say I have a friend who's still afraid of calling Voldemort by his name... How can I-?"

"They're all getting better at that, Harry" she was quick to say. "Ron barely ever slips anymore, and even Seamus-"

"I didn't mean them. It's... uh, another friend."

Hermione regarded him speculatively, the corner of her lips slowly turning upwards.

"Oh, so it's that kind of friend."

"No!" Harry said, horrified. Too loud, apparently, because Neville jumped on his seat and Ron turned to look at them, intrigued. Harry smiled weakly, gesturing him to turn back and trying to mentally deliver the message that what Hermione and he were talking about was the most boring shite ever. "It's not... they're not even a friend friend, really," he explained after Ron judged their discussion unworthy of his attention. "We're more like... acquaintances. I mean, we don't even meet that much."

That was an understatement, considering they'd never met, and Harry hoped to keep it that way. If his correspondent discovered who he was, there'd no doubt be either lots of joyful screeching or long hateful glares, depending on the side of the War they'd been on, and Harry was enjoying their conversations too much to lose them just yet.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Harry could practically hear the gears in her head turning, but fortunately, she didn't comment on whatever she'd picked up. At times, he really loved his friends.

"Okay," she hummed. "So what about your friend? They cling to the name of You-Know-Who, you say?"

"Yeah, they..." he almost choked, the sudden revelation leaving him breathless. "No, they didn't say You-Know-Who, they said... they called him the Dark Lord."

"Oh. So they were..."

"Yeah."

He should have noticed. He'd slipped up, but then, so had his correspondent, and in a much more revealing manner. Most of the Wizarding World was still saying You-Know-Who, but the only ones who called Voldemort the Dark Lord were his old followers. His correspondent had been a Death Eater... or had been in close contact with some. A lot of things made sense, taking that into account: their regret over the War, everyone's disapproval over their choices...

"Harry," Hermione called out, frowning. "Didn't you know-?"

"Of course I knew," he lied. "They told me they regret it, what they did. And what they didn't do, most of all."

"I'm not surprised they refuse to call him Voldemort," she sighed. "I think his followers were the most scared of all the Wizarding World. They weren't safe following him, but not to follow him was even worse, in their minds. But they still had to... meet with him, and he punished them..."

"I know," Harry mumbled, throat dry.

"It's good you encourage your friend, Harry, but they won't be able to call him by his name until they've learnt to stop fearing him."

"I guess. Thank you, Hermione."

She smiled, placing a hand on his arm. He smiled back, once again doubting his decision of hiding so much from her and Ron. A vague feeling of guilt washed over him for a moment, but he pushed it away and waited until she was concentrated on her notes again to begin writing a response to his correspondent. She looked at him a couple of times, but Harry moved his quill a few inches to his left and pretended he was writing on his parchment.

Voldemort won't hurt anyone anymore. He's dead, very, and he won't come back. Saying his name won't bring him back. It's cool if you're concerned about my mental health; I am, too, after all. It's cool if you're afraid you'll go to the Great Hall for breakfast one day and your socks won't match. But Voldemort is definitely not one of the things that should worry you.

Look, I know we said all that about not wanting to know who each other was, and I maintain it, but if you want to, we can meet up to scream Voldemort's name to the rain and dance on his metaphorical grave. Don't worry, I'll wear a hood and refrain from talking about Filch's underwear.

My secrets aren't precisely dirty, no. More like silly, although I do have a few shameful ones... but I'd rather not go into that. If I don't think about it, it doesn't exist, right?

..........................................

It was Wednesday when it all went to hell.

"Mate, are you coming or what?" Ron groaned for the fourth time, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He gazed at Hermione, as if she'd somehow support him in his impatience.

She didn't, but her eyes rose from 101 Uses of Magical Reptiles and fixed themselves on Harry's face. He suspected it was nothing pretty to look at, for how scrunched up in disgust it must have been, since right in that moment he was thinking about all the revolting ideas Hermione's book could have. She really had the weirdest taste on literature.

"Do you need help with that?" Hermione asked, gesturing towards the mess Harry was currently trying to handle.

Harry looked down at the mixture of books, parchments, quills, and weird ingredients for Potions that were sprawled on the floor, next to the armchair Hermione was sitting in. He sighed.

"No, it's okay. I'll find it eventually, I guess."

"I told you not to cast that spell on our homework!" Ron grumbled in Hermione's direction.

She abruptly closed the book, outraged. "Ah, forgive me for preventing former Death Eaters from manipulating your essays! Even if, I recall, it was you who asked me to figure out a way to do so after the second time it happened!"

"Well, but you didn't say we wouldn't be able to Accio them either! We've been here half an hour waiting for Harry to find his Transfigurations' essay because he can't just do it with a spell!"

"Guys..." Harry huffed, pushing the mess aside and rummaging through his half-empty bag instead. "Stop it."

"But we're going to be late for breakfast!" Ron whined.

Harry's hand stilled. Hermione stopped glaring at Ron. They exchanged a look, silently communicating, and reached the same understanding at the same time. It'd be a waste of time to argue with Ron; he was hungry, grumpy, and there was nothing in the world he hated more than arriving at the Great Hall when all the sausages had disappeared from the platters.

"Look, you don't have to wait for me," Harry prompted.

"But Harry... we can't just leave you here..." Ron said, even while his eyes brightened up at the thought.

His body was unconsciously turning towards the door, a second from stepping forward, and yet he stood there and controlled the deep-rooted instinct of reaching the food before anyone else did; it was very useful at the Burrow, but it only made his life more complicated at Hogwarts. It was touching, the things he did for his friends.

Hermione snorted. "He'll be just fine, Ron. We're leaving him in Gryffindor common room, not in the middle of a duel with Merlin. In fact, he'll be much safer here than down there, with all that fierce fighting for the last piece of pie."

"Do you really think there's no more pie left?" Ron asked anxiously.

Harry repressed the urge to laugh and waved his hand, giving Hermione another meaningful look. "Dean's already there, so if that's the case, I bet he's saved you some. But anyway, you can go, Ron. Really. I'll catch up in a moment."

Hermione had already begun pushing him towards the door, but it only took a second for Harry's words to sink in, and yet she didn't need to make any effort. Ron turned around so fast he almost slipped, and ran out of the room with a cheerful, "Later, mate!" Hermione echoed the sentiment and followed him outside, leaving Harry alone and surrounded by half of the contents of his bag.

Considering how much time he'd wasted looking for the bloody essay, it seemed likely he'd accidentally hexed it into other dimension. It'd be just his luck. But someone up there must have been watching over him, because it only took him five more minutes of frantic search before he spotted the parchment under a scarf.

He mentally congratulated himself, thinking it wouldn't be such a bad day after all, and shoved his things back into the bag.

The corridors were way emptier than usual, but that was easily explained: everybody was already in the Great Hall, stuffing their faces with pudding. The few students he met on his way there were either as desperate for having breakfast as him, which was blatant by how fast they walked past him, or lazily wandering around, enjoying the fragile peace. Harry didn't like the idea of running so early in the morning, so he was the only one walking around at a normal pace.

It happened to be a bad idea.

If he'd been running, he'd have probably missed the classroom. But of course he'd be at the right place and at the right moment... for the first time in his life, if he might add... to catch sight of something he'd had very much rather not seen. His curiosity didn't do him a favour either, because he just couldn't stay away when he saw that the door of the History of Magic classroom was open.

Binns was in the Great Hall, that much was as certain as the Sun would rise next morning. The professor's routine was immovable; it insisted on repeating itself every day, down to the smallest details, probably since his very first day teaching at Hogwarts. So it was impossible that Binns was already in his classroom, and while he was easily one of the most careless professors of the castle, locking his classroom's door was included in the perfect choreography his life was.

And for what Harry knew, no one had ever been interested in sneaking into the History of Magic classroom before. Potions? Sure, students tried all the time, hoping to snatch some Love Potion or maybe even Felix Felicis. But History of Magic? There was nothing there but dusty old books nobody cared about.

Harry had a mystery on his hands, and as dull as it could be compared to others he'd solved the years before, it'd been a while without that kind of excitement. He had missed it, even if he wanted to kick himself for it.

He looked around, telling himself he had no reasons for feeling guilty all of a sudden, and peeked his head into the classroom. Sure enough, there was someone there, hovering over a desk. The student was all long legs and narrow hips, back turned to the door and head topped with a mope of blond hair. Harry guessed that, any other time, he'd have felt a burning shame at how little it'd taken him to recognise the student in question, but at the time his brain seemed to be in short circuit.

Draco Malfoy, awkwardly bending over Harry's desk, in the classroom of a subject he didn't even have that day. Whatever he was doing, it must have been important enough for him to break into the room before classes started and probably skip breakfast because of it, so then... how was it that all Harry could focus on was Malfoy's arse?

It was a very nice arse, indeed, and he hadn't been able to take a good look at it during that incident in the changing room... not that he would have! His thoughtful examination of Malfoy's scrawny figure had been due to... temporary dementia, perhaps. He'd have to look it up.

Willing himself to lift his gaze from Malfoy's arse, he took a step forward, and then another, and another. Either Malfoy was really concentrated on what he was doing, or Harry had been more silent than he knew he could be, for the git didn't show any signs of noticing his presence. And from that close up, Harry could almost see what Malfoy was so busy with... his hand was moving, that much was certain, and the movement translated to a slight tremor in his arm.

Apart from that, there was no telling on Malfoy's activities, but Harry had a heart-stopping hunch. If only he could get a little closer...

But right in that moment, Malfoy stepped back and turned on his heels.

It would have been hilarious to watch, had Harry been a mere spectator. Malfoy’s face froze, eyes widening like a deer caught in headlights, and his jaw literally fell a little. That was before his brain processed the situation and recognised who was in front of him, of course. Then, with fascinating ease, his expression settled into a scowl while his whole body straightened up, giving him that proud and vaguely disdainful air that Harry had never managed to imitate.

"Potter," he spat, because that was how it was done.

"Malfoy," Harry spat back, following the script. "What are you doing here? Hasn't your bigotry left enough space in your brain to remember when classes start?"

"If that were how brains work, oh, Great Saviour, your self-righteousness wouldn't have let you remember your own name."

Harry was working on something sufficiently scathing to get one over that prat, but apparently there was someone up there who didn't want him to ruin Malfoy's self-esteem. He got distracted by the sense of movement under his line of vision, and sure enough, Malfoy was clenching his hands... and clutching a quill in one of them.

"What is that?" he blurted out, distrustful.

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"A quill, Potter. Honestly, I knew you were daft, but-"

"And what are you doing with that?"

It could have been coincidence. Harry couldn't have counted the number of times he'd found himself carrying something in his hand and was utterly shocked by the fact; once he'd taken one of Hermione's badges with him and carried it around for hours, unaware of it until he reached out for the pumpkin juice and noticed his hand was already occupied. So it could have been anything, actually, but Harry trusted his instincts over his reason when Malfoy was concerned, and right then they were screaming at him.

He got a confirmation in Malfoy's sudden fidgeting, his unwavering gaze twinkling as he supressed some emotion.

"This is a school, Potter, what do you think I'm doing with a quill?" Malfoy said, but Harry was no longer listening.

Sidestepping the other wizard, he leant in to look at the desk, hoping for some kind of revealing note on illicit activities, maybe even a threat for Professor Binns, to justify his odd behaviour. What he got was pretty revealing, but not in the way he expected.

Ah, you got me! Finding myself in my public setting and discovering my socks don't match is one of my recurring nightmares. In what the Dark Lord is concerned, I'm very much aware he's dead, thank you, but it's not unwise to fear him for what he did and for what he could do again if he ever

"Potter!"

Malfoy's voice sounded startled, and that alone would have got Harry's attention, but it also came accompanied by a shove that made him wonder just how strong the git had got during the summer. He stumbled and had to hang on the desk to prevent himself from falling face first on the floor.

"What the bloody- ?"

"What were you focusing so much on?" Malfoy asked, frenzied, as he grabbed his robes. "What, Potter? You're not supposed to be able to see anything!"

"Calm down, Malfoy!" Harry said, roughly pushing him away. For some reason, his hand shot out to still him when he involuntary stepped backwards because of the movement. "I have no bloody idea of what you're talking about!"

He did calm down, at that, or at least recovered some of his composure. But he still was too shaken to rip Harry's hand away from his arm.

"So you didn't see it," he sighed in apparent relief.

"What, the message? Of course I saw it, it's for me! What I don't get is how you know about it!"

They both froze.

"No," Malfoy uttered weakly, reaching the same conclusion Harry had. "No."

He very much felt like echoing the sentiment, but it wouldn't have helped the cause and Malfoy already looked unstable enough, so he kept quiet. Internally, though, he was screaming. Malfoy was his secret correspondent, bloody Malfoy. Malfoy, who had apparently been second-guessing his judgment during the War, and was still afraid, and had some kind of dark sense of humour that Harry liked. Malfoy, who had sneaked into Binns' classroom during breakfast to answer his dumb comments because he couldn't wait the next day, when he did have class there.

"So..." Harry coughed, breaking the thick silence, and forced a faint smile. "You don't like socks that don't match?"

Malfoy's bewildered expression crumbled into dust, rearranging itself into one of utter contempt. His whole body was shaking, but he still gathered his wits for long enough to send his most murderous glare in Harry's direction. With a mumbled, "Fuck you, Potter" that was dripping venom, he spun around and walked out of the classroom.

Harry observed his still stretched-out hand from when he had been touching Malfoy's arm, and could almost swear he could feel his invisible presence there, as if he hadn't really left. He let his arm fall and turned to the desk for a moment, his eyes and fingertips both trailing over the message, neither of them focusing on what they were doing. He refused to admit it even to himself, but he was afraid of reading that last message... because it was the last one.

He was never, ever, ever going to talk to Malfoy, ever again. He wasn't even going to interact with him at all, if it was possible, and he was certain Malfoy would agree with him. All for the better, he guessed.

He really should have taken into account that it wasn't the first time he'd proposed himself that, and life had decided against it.

December

Christmas had come to Hogwarts.

Harry used to think nothing in the world could be better than that time of the year at the castle, but he hadn't taken into consideration just how much everybody would want to celebrate after all those long years with uncertainty about the future hanging over their heads like a guillotine. Christmas during Harry's former years at Hogwarts had been bloody amazing, but it was nothing like Christmas in his Eighth Year.

"The professors have really outdone themselves this year, haven't they?" Ron said, voicing Harry's thoughts.

Just to humour Ron, though, he looked around again, taking in the small snowflakes that kept falling form the ceiling without getting to touch the floor, the soft mixt of Muggle and Wizard carols permanently playing on the background, and the colourful bright lights that offered a nice message for someone every time they twinkled. You're looking good today, Harry!

"Why, thank you," he mumbled as they walked past them.

It was easy to forget the corridors were the least decorated part of the castle, especially considering you met a house elf dressed in white and red every two metres, cheerfully wishing you a merry Christmas and handing you a ginger biscuit. Some took their special role better than others, though.

"On the Fifth day of Christmas, a house elf gave to me..." a scowling house elf grudgingly sang, suddenly stepping in their way and shoving a plate of biscuits in Hermione's direction. He breathed in deeply and shot out, faster than a bullet "Five blueberry biscuits, four chocolate biscuits, three peanut butter biscuits, two lemon biscuits, and a ginger biscuit. Congratulations, fifth person in walking through this corridor in the past two minutes," he added, resignedly, and stared briefly at Harry and Ron, as if pondering whether he should repeat the charade for them or not.

In the end, he shrugged nonchalantly and vanished with a pop.

The biscuits' tray clattered when it hit the floor, and Hermione kneeled to retrieve it, sighing. "You know, Ron, I think the professors might have gone overboard."

"Why, don't you like free food?" Ron replied, startled.

"I think you're missing her point," Harry helpfully chipped in, taking a peanut butter biscuit from the tray. He munched it for a moment, flashing a closed-mouthed smile at Hermione when she stretched out her arms in a goddess, at least someone understood gesture. "However, I have to agree with Ron here. This really is fantastic."

This time it was Ron the one who grinned, while Hermione let her breath out in another exasperated sigh. Harry didn't get time to enjoy it, though, because as usual, it seemed he'd just put his foot in his own mouth.

They were sidestepping people to get into the Great Hall for lunch, as everybody else was doing, instead of walking straight into it by that small path in the middle of the open door that no one was using for some reason, deciding to crowd in the sides. Of course, it didn't occur to him that students might have been avoiding something; all he knew was that Malfoy was there, walking way too close for his tastes, and it was getting really difficult to ignore him like he'd been doing for the last few weeks if he could smell his cologne from where he was standing. He wanted some space to breathe, so he stepped away from the crowd.

"Harry, no!"

It was all Ron could say right when he made the worst choice ever since lending money to Seamus Finnigan. Everything happened very fast, then: an invisible force wrapped itself around Harry and almost chocked him while pining him in his place, and someone came flying from his left and smacked into him.

Right in front of him, the Great Hall's doors closed all by themselves.

Everybody stopped in their tracks and went silent, apparently very interested in whether Harry would overcome his sudden headache and manage to untangle himself from the stranger who was clinging to him like a vine... although to be honest, he was kind of holding onto them too. It was all he'd been able to do not to come tumbling to the floor from the impact, and surely the stranger had thought the same.

Except that it was no stranger at all.

"Fucking hell, who's the bloody idiot that has just walked under a bloody magical mistletoe?!"

Harry all but shoved him away in his panicked hurry to deny his suspicions, but he didn't have such luck. Malfoy stared at him, all colour, which hadn't been much to begin with, draining from his face.

"Not you again," Harry groaned. He couldn't catch a break, he couldn't ever catch a bloody break, and he had almost learnt how to be okay with his messed up life, but seriously, Malfoy? Did it have to always be Malfoy? To hell with him, he wasn't in the mood for a fight. "Ron, 'Mione, let's go."

His friends hadn't answered him, but he was already stepping forward and away from Malfoy when a hand gripped his shoulder.

"Potter, don't-" he started, sounding irritated, as if he felt entitled to some kind of banter with him.

Harry's eye twitched. He smacked his hand away with a, "Sod off, Malfoy!", without even bothering to turn around. "Don't you think I would if I could, you wanker!" was the raging answer, right as he took a few more steps and the force that was holding him, which he'd forgotten all about, immediately snapped like a rubber band and violently pushed him back to Malfoy, smacking him against his chest.

It hurt, but Harry was mostly pissed off at how he was, once again, trapped in a situation he wanted nothing to do with.

"What's going on?" he asked his friends, blatantly ignoring Malfoy.

Hermione bit her lip and raised a brow in Ron's direction. He was staring at them with wide eyes, apparently too stunned to give useful information, but it must have been Harry's lucky day, because Malfoy had never let the opportunity of being condescending go by and he wasn't going to start then either.

"Of course you wouldn't know how magical mistletoe works." He let out a dramatic sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Harry forced himself to remember all the reasons why hexing him in front of so many witnesses would be a bad idea. "You can't just leave, Potter."

"And what do I have to do, dance?" Harry snapped. "Honestly, Malfoy, if you want my company so badly, you can just say it."

But no matter what he said, he was beginning to understand there was something terribly wrong about the situation. He wasn't certain, but he'd suddenly had a hunch that he couldn't dismiss as easily as he'd have wanted. The students had surrounded them, blocking the path to the Great Hall, as well as any other means of escape, and they kept watching closely with that look in their eyes that gave them a certain resemblance with a pack of hungry sharks picking up the smell of blood in the water.

"Well, mate," Ron said faintly, "you don't have to dance... So there's that."

Harry felt the need to ask, because there was still a slim possibility that it wouldn't be what he thought it was. A very slim one, alright, but he was clinging to the glimmer of hope he had left with all he had.

"Then, what do I have to do?"

He directed the question mostly to his friends, but turned away at the last moment to stare at Malfoy for no reason in particular, or at least for no reason he wanted to analyse. The git, however, seemed to have decided Harry wasn't worthy of his attention; he kept his gaze firmly on a spot on the wall, hands clenched into fists to the point his knuckles had gone white, and Harry had seen him like that enough times to recognise when he was pondering if starting a fight would make it better or worse.

Harry thought he could relate, especially after everybody's creepy smiles turned wicked and the crowd began chanting Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, drowning Ron's answer under the noise. It wouldn't have been any different, anyway.

"We're not going to kiss!" he screamed, because as terrifyingly conscious of Malfoy's attractiveness as he'd become during the last couple of months, it couldn't erase years of antagonism and shitty, bigoted behaviour. No matter how much he wanted it to.

Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, the crowd insisted, thrilled. Hermione locked her eyes with his and shrugged, managing to convey just how sorry she felt for him and how irritated she was at her own inability to help at the same time.

However, even stranger than Hermione not knowing how to fix something was what Malfoy did: he lift his gaze back to Harry and, expression blank, pulled him forward by his robes to kiss him.

Although, to be truthful, it wasn't as much of a kiss as it was crashing their mouths together, so Harry could always blame his reaction on a concussion. He should have pushed Malfoy away, of course, and maybe even punched him before getting as far as he could from the crime scene, but his thoughts had got all muddy and his hands had clasped themselves around Malfoy's shoulders without bothering to check if it was the right course of action.

He wasn't entirely sure he could blame what he did do on the concussion, though. Maybe it had been Malfoy's maddening scent, or his brain confusing the kind of violence Harry meant to use; instead of a blow or a hex, he attacked him with what had to be the most painful kiss in the History of Kisses. Nothing in it could be considered even remotely gentle; it was all gaping mouths, as if trying to suck each other's breath of life out, and teeth drawing blood, and tongues soothing the bites or maybe making them sting.

And yet, Malfoy tasted like strawberry jam cookies a house elf must have given him and his hands had slipped down to hold Harry's waist with a vice grip, like he didn't want him to get away, like he didn't want the kiss to end. It was incredibly easy to pour himself into it and forget the world, as enthralled as Harry got with anything that had to do with Malfoy.

The world, sadly, didn't like being ignored for long, and sent a nasty reminder in the shape of one of Harry's biggest pains in the arse.

"Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy!"

Snape's voice was unnaturally shrill, reaching registers previously unknown to him to be able to convey the horror he was overcome with. As amusing as it'd have been at any other time, it had the side effect of dragging Harry back to his senses, shame and shock coming in waves and threatening to drown him.

It was only a small relief that Malfoy looked just as mortified.

..........................................

They got off easily, considering the circumstances.

Snape had dragged them by their robes in the direction of McGonagall's office, only to abruptly turn around a couple of minutes later, no doubt remembering the Headmistress had made him Malfoy and Harry's guardian. So without the Headmistress' support to enforce a bigger punishment, Snape had leant towards a personal favourite of his, which happened to be a classic in the professor's repertory.

That was the reason Harry found himself in Snape's classroom, hand-cleaning some cauldrons that, judging by how nasty they were, could only be the result of Neville's attempts at potions.

Malfoy hadn't uttered a word in the half an hour they'd been there. It was completely uncharacteristic, and it was beginning to grate on Harry's nerves. He'd thought his days of uncertainty were over, but the inside of Malfoy's head was, at the moment, even foggier than Dumbledore's plans used to be. That unnerving silence made a thousand of possibilities spring to his mind, each one offering a barely credible explanation on what Malfoy might have been thinking.

Of course, he could have been busy planning an especially humiliating revenge, which would have been rich, because he'd been the one to kiss Harry in the first place, never mind the mistletoe. But he could also have been replaying their kiss, over and over and over, and soaking in the leftover feelings; Harry himself was guilty of that one.

By the twelfth time he licked his lips, seeking Malfoy's taste and finding only the metallic tang of blood, he was ready to admit to himself he had a problem.

Before Sixth Year, Harry hadn't really seen Malfoy as human, only as a creature who vaguely resembled one but had no other reason to live than to make Harry's own life hell; first, he was a rock in his path, and when Voldemort grew more threatening, he became something like a minor villain in one of Dudley's old videogames. Then, in the middle of the painful mess Sixth Year had been, he'd found his nemesis breaking down in Myrtle's bathroom. And suddenly, Malfoy seemed to be more than a bad chapter in the book of his life, and Harry couldn't quite reconcile the two images he had of him, so he didn't.

It had been so easy to ignore any feelings he might've had, at the time.

Harry went back to observing the enthralling movement of Malfoy's aristocratic hands, just for a little while, until he gathered the courage to look through his memories of Eighth Year and pinpoint the exact moment in which everything had started changing. For the better, maybe, but it'd also got much more complicated.

October, yeah, it had begun in October, with that accident in the Quidditch locker room that had left him with a disturbingly clear image of a half-naked Malfoy. Harry hadn't quite realised, then, that the gates which held back all the urges and feelings he'd been storing away with care had been smashed irreversibly. It'd been the beginning of his downfall, but not his doom, oh, no, that honour belonged to the moment he'd been allowed to see a side of Malfoy he hadn't ever considered could exist, let alone be so similar to some parts of himself. Those letters, those secrets neatly disclosed to a supposed stranger on an old desk, they had wrecked him.

Harry remembered thinking, in what felt like a hundred of years ago, that Malfoy and he could never get along. Even now, he couldn't quite believe he had been wrong in his supposition, but Merlin, how he wanted to.

His mouth felt drier than sandpaper, for all the things he wished he could say, but it had been enough silence for a decade. And enough fights for a lifetime.

"Hey," he said, way softer than intended.

Malfoy must have picked that up, or maybe the strange tinge of hope in his voice, because he tore his gaze away from the cauldron and directed all the strength of his scowl to Harry.

"Keep scrubbing, Potter, I'm not going to do all the work."

His words didn't have their usual bite, though, and Harry decided to take it as a good sign.

"Aren't we going to talk about... it?" he asked, tentatively. He prayed Malfoy took it as a challenge; if there was something the git couldn't resist, it was a challenge, or at least one that came from him.

"Talk about what, Potter? About the public humiliation we've both been subjected to? No, thank you very much, I expect to be sick of reading all the different views on the incident in the Prophet by Monday."

Harry gave him his widest grin. "I guess we'll have to find a private spot to snog, then."

And he immediately knew that, even if his less-than-subtle trick didn't work the way he wanted, it would still have been so worth it. Malfoy rolled his eyes and went back to scrubbing; it took a second before the words really registered, and then he whipped his head around so fast Harry would have sworn his neck should have broken. But his face, good Merlin, his face, that wide-eyed look and mouth gaping in a way Malfoy would probably thought undignified when he came back to his senses.

"Potter?" he hissed in a tiny voice, as if he'd started to think he was in front of someone who had Polyjuiced for the very dubious honour of dealing with Harry's punishment in his place.

"I mean, since public displays of affection clearly aren't your cup of tea. You called them public humiliation, if I'm not wrong, and I can take a hint."

"And what makes you think I wasn't talking about the kiss in itself?" Malfoy spat, but he was getting that look that reminded Harry of a cornered animal, the one that spoke of the need to proceed with caution. It wouldn't do to throw everything overboard just because he hadn't bothered to let Malfoy know where he was standing before asking him to trust him that way.

"Look, Malfoy, I haven't come back another year to waste it arguing with you. McGonagall was right, you know, we should... let this go. The rivalry, I mean. The snogging was quite nice, actually, so if you..." It had all sounded much more articulate in his mind, Harry was sure. He sighed. "Never mind. We can just... try this friendship thing instead, if you want to."

There was another moment of silence, but this one wasn't as irritating as it was tense, for it was pregnant with deep significance and a meaning Harry couldn't read, not yet.

"Well," Malfoy said, feigning nonchalance, "if you're going to pester me to be friends anyway, we might as well be something more."

Harry was about to point out he hadn't precisely begged him on his knees, but he was certain it'd have only sprung another discussion, and he could think of a large number of things he'd rather be doing instead and even of something he should be doing instead, so he swallowed the reply back.

"Something more sounds great."

Malfoy let go of the cauldron, as if he'd only been waiting for the confirmation, and smiled in a way Harry had never seen him smiling before. It looked so good on him that he had to, he had to step forward and cup his face and kiss him, and if it was gentler than it'd been the first time, just a tiny bit, no one said a word about it.

"This doesn't mean I don't think you have a collection of faults larger than Merlin's beard." Malfoy huffed, when they pulled apart to recover from the sudden intensity.

"Same here."

"And I'm not calling you Harry."

"Okay." Harry shrugged, and crashed their lips together once again, because it was okay.

They'd work up to it.

We search for different ways
to make it through the wall.