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Harry had fucked up.

Royally.

Granted, it was absolutely, positively, not his fault.

If asked, he would thrust blame entirely on the shoulders of the cackling clan of Hufflepuff fifth-year girls that attempted to corner him at breakfast.

A perfectly buttered piece of toast was halfway to his mouth—keen to follow the two fried sausages he’d just polished off—when he heard them; muffled giggles from the next table over. Over the years, stares and whispers had just been part of the Chosen One routine. But sixth-year ushered in the giggles. The doe-eyed looks, coy waves, flirtatious laughter, and the love-sick boy-fever. Harry had developed a sort of sense for an imminent attack. And breakfast was no different.

Fully aware that he only had a matter of moments before the girls struck, Harry scooped up his schoolbag, scarfed down the toast, said a quick goodbye to Ron and Hermione—the latter more miffed at his mouthful of food than anything else—and fled the Hall.

Harry made a quick succession of turns outside the Entrance Hall before muttering, “Bloody fuck.”

Slinking into a half-obstructed alcove and leaning up against the wall, he banged his head on the stone, just hard enough to really feel something. Then, he blindly reached into the disorganised heap of his bag and felt around for the familiar wrinkled parchment.

Removing his wand from his pocket, Harry pressed the tip to the front folds of the parchment and whispered, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

A welcome sense of ease bloomed in his stomach, the tight ball of nausea and anxiety loosening. The map came to life, the blueprints of Hogwarts appearing in lines of dark ink. One by one, students and faculty alike showed up, and Harry waited until he found himself. Unable to wait out the crowded hallways by staunchly staying put in the Great Hall (like usual), Harry brought a finger to the parchment, tracing paths from the alcove to the Potion’s classroom, desperate to find someplace deserted.

After a few moments, Harry finally found a secret passageway, hidden by a tapestry on both ends. He shoved both his wand and the map in his school bag and screwed his eyes shut.

Deep breath in. Hold for two beats. Out for two.

He felt it coming back, the anxiety. Felt the way it crawled up his skin slowly, an eight-legged unseen thing that set his teeth on edge. Felt it manifest in a pressure on his chest, like a bloody Erumpent was having a lie in.

The breathing helped. Mostly.

Sometimes.

But Harry had no more time to spend by his lonesome. Laughter and idle prattle echoed softly off the walls, and it wouldn’t be long before he was discovered if he didn’t move. So, with a final deep breath, Harry slipped silently out of the alcove and made for the first tapestry.

It wasn’t until he emerged from behind the tapestry in the dungeons and peered around the corner that Harry realised his mistake.

In front of the classroom, which was very closed and very locked, stood clusters of other eighth-years. He cursed silently to himself, annoyed that he didn’t think of it earlier. Harry always waited as long as possible to leave on days with double Potions first thing because of Slughorn’s propensity for tardiness. A propensity that—until now—never affected him. The idea of milling about outside the classroom waiting for Slughorn to show up put Harry ill at ease.

He didn’t want to subject himself to all the ogling. But he couldn’t very well skip, not after the serious and well-meant conversation he and Ron had with Hermione when they’d all decided to come back.

“I want you both to be sure about this,” she’d said, eyeing them both with as much earnestness as she ever had before.

“We are, ‘Mione. Honest,” Ron had chimed in, though she did look at him dubiously for all of a second before blushing.

“Then we’re going to take this seriously.” She’d nodded solemnly before quickly grabbing a parchment and self-inking quill to map out the classes they would all obviously be taking together, because, “Why go back at all if not to get full N.E.W.T.s?”

Harry’s sense flared up, and when he felt the tell-tale prickle on his neck that meant he was being watched, he knew he’d been standing there too long. Adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, he marched around the corner and towards the cluster of students outside of Slughorn’s room.

A sconce directly across from the oak door glowed dimly, and Harry moved to stand under it. He passed the trio of Padma Patil, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown, whose eyes all followed him as he walked by, but thankfully they said nothing. Harry loosed a relieved breath as he propped himself up against the wall, arms crossed protectively over his chest, his best ‘Leave me well enough alone’ face put on.

Eyes shut, Harry let the ambient sounds of the corridor wash over him. When he opened his eyes again, the hallway was more packed than before. Drawing his eye, though, was a tight knit pack of Slytherins huddled close together to Harry’s left. Nott stood closest to the door, flanked closely by Zabini, Goyle and Bullstrode who formed a sort of semi-circle around the wall. Leant back against the wall was Parkinson, and she was tucked close to the elbow of the unmistakably tall figure of Draco Malfoy.

Back straight, shoulders back, as imperious as ever, he held himself. It surprised Harry how unaffected Malfoy looked, with his perfectly tailored robes and styled hair. Not that he’d expected the git to be cowering and small and unkempt. No, that would have been utterly un-Malfoy. It could have been, Harry supposed, that without the animosity between them, all that was left was the naked attraction towards Malfoy Harry had always hidden.

Fuck, if that wasn’t a scary thought.

Attraction was all it was, though, Harry reminded himself—repeatedly.

Fabric rustled from next to him, followed by something brushing up against his arm. He turned slowly, jerking back when faced with Neville’s apprehensive smile.

“Hi, Harry.”

“Fucking Christ, Nev,” Harry gasped.

“Sorry,” he said bashfully. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but you just looked so calm before. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”

Neville smiled and asked Harry a question he couldn’t have repeated for anyone under threat of life or death. His heart raced in his chest and his ears rang, just the first of a barrage of symptoms Harry had become frustratingly familiar with since May. At Neville’s questioning look, Harry bobbed his head and hummed noncommittally.

Chest tight, the edges of Harry’s vision going dark and fuzzy, he took a step back. Then another. Always two steps. Two steps to give himself the space he desperately craved—no, needed to survive. Breaths coming easier, Harry focused back on Neville to find him still talking.

Harry was saved from blindly continuing a conversation when Hermione appeared beside him.

“Harry, thank God you’re here,” she blurted, lightly touching Harry’s elbow. “We weren’t sure where you’d gone after—well…”

“Those girls were barking mad, trying to corner you like that,” Ron agreed, showing up at his girlfriend’s side, working through the last of his breakfast by the sound of it.

“I’m fine, I promise,” Harry replied, smiling tiredly and stepping out of Hermione’s touch, two steps to the right. Her eyes flashed with hurt momentarily before they met his own and silently apologised.

It’d been toughest on Hermione when Harry realised he couldn’t bear to be touched, to be crowded. She understood, he knew, but that didn’t stop the initial flare of hurt she felt, or the guilt he felt in return.

“So, what were you and Nev—” Hermione’s cheerful redirection never finished, because right then, a boisterous group rounded the corner. Flanked by Michael Corner and Terry Boot was Zacharias Smith.

Ron bristled immediately. “I hate him.”

“Ron,” hissed Hermione. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do, ‘Mione. I really, really do,” he doubled down, face set in a mask of disdain. “Every time I see his ratty little face I just wanna…wanna…”

“Punch him?” Neville chimed in.

“Exactly!” Ron shouted, snapping his fingers and pointing at Neville. “I knew someone would get it.”

“Well, you might just get to see it,” Hermione whispered. “Look.”

Sneer plastered on his punchable mug, Smith stalked over towards the huddle of Slytherins.

“I was just telling Michael and Terry how nice it has been to have so many friendly faces back this year. Of course,” he said, stopping in front of Malfoy. “That doesn’t include your lot. I’m still surprised McGonagall let your kind back in.”

“And what kind would that be?” drawled Zabini, pearly white teeth glinting against the light of the sconces.

“Traitors,” he spat back.

A sing-song chuckle Harry would recognise anywhere sounded. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“How dare you address me. You’re the last person who should be here, Death Eater scum. I wonder what would happen if I told the Minister you’d been causing all kinds of trouble, so I did my civic duty and hexed you. I reckon he’d give me an Order of Merlin.”

Malfoy stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest. “The only Order of Merlin you’ll ever get is for Deserting the Cause. That is what you did, isn’t it? Ran the other way while everyone else actually fought and died for Hogwarts.”

Unsurprisingly, Smith’s face burned. With embarrassment, or more likely, the fact that it was true and was being used against him by Draco Malfoy who, incidentally, had done more to help Harry than he had. More surprising, though, turned out to be the full-blown laughter that bubbled out of Harry. It was different hearing Malfoy go after someone else. Harry still knew it was mean, yet he didn’t entirely care. And Smith deserved it, mind.

Tension was thick in the air, a palpable presence that grew by the second. The other students chose to focus entirely on Malfoy and Smith, but the trio surrounding Harry turned to look at him, various expressions on their faces.

“Harry…”

“I know, I know,” he wheezed. “I shouldn’t be laughing. But it’s all true, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“I don’t know, Hermione. I agree with Harry. I don’t like Malfoy, but he is a bit of a laugh when it’s not you he’s making fun of.”

“Exactly, Nev,” Harry agreed. “Cheers. You’re two for two today.”

Ron, who had already turned back towards the confrontation, sighed almost longingly. “Yeah. It’d be worth it.”

Hermione slid her hand into the crook of Ron’s elbow. “What would?”

“Malfoy punching Smith. A ferret punching a cowardly git just makes sense, yeah?”

“Watch yourself, Malfoy, or I’ll—”

“Never fear, children, I’ve arrived!”

Faster than anyone could say ‘Quidditch’, Smith abandoned the Slytherin cluster in favour of his friends. Slughorn hobbled up to the door and cast a quick Alohomora, disappearing into the classroom through the now open door. Casting a dark glance towards Smith, Malfoy swaggered into the room, shielded by his Slytherin cohorts. It was all rather impressive, how they curled around him, pulsing like a protective human wave.

Smith stared daggers into Malfoy’s retreating back and Ron whistled low as Smith, too, vanished over the threshold. “Reckon we’ll have to worry about him?”

“Don’t be silly, Ron. Smith would never be so reckless.”

Harry wasn’t so sure about that, but all he could do when Ron glanced his way was offer up a weak shrug. Making it through another round of double Potions was top priority on his list for the day.

**

Slughorn’s assignment to them was to brew a perfect Draught of Peace, and Harry found that without Snape breathing over his shoulder looking for any mistake, he was semi-competent—to his surprise as well as Hermione’s own. Towards the end of the brewing Harry realised he hadn’t grabbed the powdered unicorn horn. Even the smallest mistake, and everything could go tits up.

Harry moved across the room to the inventory shelves where he scanned the rows until he found the shimmering dust. On his way back to the workbench, he noticed Smith discreetly eyeing Malfoy’s station. The prat had always been a natural in potions, and by the looks of things, it would be his duty to drag the rest of the Slytherins over the finish line. Parkinson’s eyeliner already ran down her cheeks in wet tracks, and Nott’s hair stuck up in at least four different places.

Malfoy’s back was to his potion, and Harry couldn’t shake the feeling he should stick around. By his estimate, there was still some time until Hermione would need him back with the powdered unicorn horn, and in all honesty, he’d already made the decision to wait.

Crouching down under the guise of tying the laces on his trainers, Harry watched closely as Smith left his station and swiftly crossed the room. Draught of Peace required all the brewer’s attention, so it didn’t come as a shock to Harry that no one paid Smith any mind. What did shock him, though, was that even Malfoy failed to notice when Smith sidled up to his station and swapped out one of his ingredients. Harry couldn’t see exactly what he’d replaced, but there were so many ways this particular potion could go wrong, and even Malfoy deserved better than sabotage.

Gingerly approaching Malfoy’s workbench, Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. “Erm, Malfoy?”

Immediately, Malfoy’s posture went rigid, and Harry could almost imagine the look on that sharp face as he turned around to face him.

“Can I help you, Potter?”

What Harry hadn’t expected, though, was to be stumped by such a simple question. He hadn’t planned on what to say, and he couldn’t tell Malfoy the truth because that would mean admitting to watching him and trying to help him. And Harry didn’t think Malfoy would take kindly to being helped like that, would probably see it more like coddling, or god forbid, his ‘saviour complex’. That had been a particular favourite of the press of late.

“Do you actually have something of import to share, or are you here to waste my time?” Malfoy huffed, bracing a hand on his cocked hip.

“Er, well—”

“Right, I’ll take that as a no. Go bother somebody else, Potter.”

Malfoy turned around and reached straight for the swapped out powder. Panic immediately seized Harry, and he lunged forward, intent on stopping disaster. “Malfoy, wait! Don’t—”

Unfortunately, Nott’s tall, lanky form stepped in front of Harry, and all he could do was watch in horror as Malfoy dumped the powder into his cauldron. At first, nothing happened, and Harry questioned whether or not he saw Smith do anything at all. But then, wisps of smoke started rising out of the cauldron, and Harry heard it begin to bubble furiously.

Turning around, face drawn up furiously, Malfoy shoved Nott out of the way and rounded on Harry. “What the fuck did you do?”

Harry gaped. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh. So, I’m meant to believe it’s a coincidence that my potion is messed up after you showed up?”

He vaguely heard Slughorn calling out to them, but he didn’t care. “Yes! I didn’t do anything. It was all—”

The truth had to be put on hold, though, because just then, the contents of the cauldron exploded onto the two of them, the sludge catching on the flame and setting their robes on fire. Screams erupted throughout the room and Slughorn hesitated only a moment before rushing up to them, an Extinguishing Charm on his lips.

Singed and very, very angry, Malfoy turned to Harry and said, eerily quiet, “Potter.”

“It was Smith,” Harry coughed, examining the state of his robes. “That’s what I was trying to tell you before. He swapped out your powders.”

Malfoy went deathly still, eyes narrowing and his jaw clenching as he turned to look at Smith. Harry didn’t think he ever saw a look so vicious and laced with an overt glint of danger. If he’d been a Basilisk, there would have been a body to remove.

Instead, they were met with a huffing and puffing Slughorn. After sheathing his wand, he shook a finger in both of their faces. “Fifty points from both your houses. And…detention!”

“But, sir—” Harry tried, but Slughorn was having none of it.

“Detention, Mr Potter. You as well, Mr Malfoy. Meet me at the top of the steps before dinner.”

With a swish of his robes worthy of Snape, Slughorn turned and returned to his desk, calling over his shoulder that class was dismissed for the day. Harry looked back to Malfoy only to find him already back with his friends, nimble, deft fingers carefully tucking his quill and ink pot into his bag. He moved towards him only to stop at the sneer Pansy Parkinson pinned him with.

Not interested in picking that fight, Harry moved back towards a concerned looking Ron and Hermione. With every step back towards his friends, his adrenaline abated, Harry was left with the weighty realisation that he would spend more time in detention. Yet that alone didn’t scare him as much as the prospect of explaining it all to Hermione.

**

Remaining classes for the day completed and one discussion—lecture, more like—with Hermione (about the merits of thinking his plans through) later, Harry found himself at the top of the steps leading to the dungeons.

Late.

Slughorn greeted him with his usual smile, completely unaffected by his tardiness, while Malfoy eyed him with nothing but bored disinterest, like he’d rather be anywhere else. Harry could absolutely relate to the sentiment.

The room Slughorn led them to inhabited an unknown—to Harry, that is—corner of the dungeons, tucked deep in the shadows of Syltherin’s labyrinth, accessible only after navigating what seemed like endless twists and turns through narrow hallways. Harry was half convinced he wouldn’t have been able to make it there even with Marauder’s Map in hand.

Slughorn pushed the door open with one hand, the wood shrieking on its hinges as it swung back to reveal a large dilapidated classroom. Harry reluctantly crossed the threshold, immediately regretting his choice to not wear a jumper. The ever-present dungeon chill sliced through his loose robes, carrying with it the rank scent of whatever had grown and seeped into the weathered stone during the room’s tenure of disuse.

Devoid of most furniture, it easily filled up with the simmering glow of the setting sun that spilled in through each of the three lead-lined glass windows. Shadows crawled up walls that stretched wider and higher than in any Potion’s classroom he had ever been in before.

No glass jars filled with pickled nightmares lined the walls. No covers blocked the windows in a sadistic attempt to suck the happiness from the room. A twinge of annoyance tore through Harry at the thought of Snape’s aura, followed immediately by regret for thinking ill of the dead.

And yet, smell aside, Harry couldn’t help but be somewhat charmed by the room, in part for its role as the antithesis to the Half-Blood Prince.

Malfoy’s feet swept across the ground behind Harry, breaking his pondering, and he glanced over his shoulder to see patrician features screwed up in disgust; Malfoy’s nose was scrunched up, reminiscent of the look Harry’d seen on Narcissa years ago.

Harry watched the calculating glimmer in Malfoy’s sharp grey eyes as they took in their surroundings. Malfoy’s lips pursed, and Harry waited for a scathing remark; however, he was left wanting. Instead, Malfoy wrapped his arms around his midsection and turned back to face Slughorn.

The professor stood only a few feet away, moustache twitching, eyes darting back and forth between them, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“Well?” he asked expectantly.

“Er,” Harry risked a glance at Malfoy, but his gaze stayed resolutely on Slughorn. Clearing his throat, Harry continued. “To be perfectly honest, sir, I’m not sure what you want us to say.”

“Harry, my boy,” Slughorn laughed, apparently baffled by Harry’s lack of an answer. “I should say it’s rather obvious.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He’d always aimed to please the adults in his life—magical adults, mind—and, detention or not, Harry wasn’t keen to stop now, even when faced with the sycophantic star-pupil-collector.

“Er, sir, I—”

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake, Potter. We’re obviously meant to clean it.”

Harry gaped, could feel his jaw drop and eyes widen behind the now-foggy lenses of his glasses. Cleaning cauldrons for punishment, sure. Polishing trophies, alright. But cleaning an entire classroom? Visions of bleach and tiled floors swam through his mind. Hands, knees, and hunched backs.

“Clean?” Harry croaked.

“Mr Malfoy is quite right,” Slughorn beamed, brandishing his wand from the folds of his robes. With a quick, compact swish, the singular cabinet in the room flung itself open. A pair of wooden buckets floated over to them, each full of cleaning utensils, where they landed on the ground in front of them with an unceremonious clunk.

“Furthermore,” amended Slughorn, “you shall complete this task by hand.”

“By hand?” Malfoy squawked, and Harry couldn’t quite bite back the pleased smirk at the outburst.

“What’s the matter, Malfoy? Scared of a little manual labour?”

Again, instead of the expected verbal barb, all Harry got was a scowl. Draco Malfoy passing up verbal sparring in favour of nothing more than a sour face brought Harry up short. For anyone else, sure, it made sense. But for Harry? No. That’d never been how their…relationship (if one could call it that) worked. Theirs had always been one of intensity and passion, goading each other into heated exchanges, upping the stakes year after year. Maybe the war had changed things, because underneath his skin, thrumming and insistent like an unreachable itch, Harry yearned to have Malfoy joke with him like he did with the other Slytherins. Harry wanted to laugh with Malfoy, to make Zacharias Smith squirm under the weight of his sins.

Merlin, but fuck if that revelation didn’t shake Harry to his core. It sounded an awful lot like he wanted to be proper mates with Malfoy, and that thought definitely needed to be set aside for another time. Preferably a time in the very distant future.

“Oh, come now, gentleman.” Slughorn’s words brought Harry back to the moment. “The Headmistress and myself came up with this punishment together. Doing it by hand was the only way to make it last all term.”

“All term?” Harry’s mouth went dry, head swimming.

“What’s wrong, Potty?” Malfoy mock-pouted, pink lips turned downward. “Does The Saviour have a prior commitment?”

Harry’s retort never left his lips, because a voice cut in from behind them. “Mr Potter has done more than enough for our world I should think. As you well know, Mr Malfoy.”

Slughorn clapped his hands together, face splitting into a grin, bushy moustache twitching. “Ah, Minerva, so glad you could drop by. I was just telling our pupils that their detention would last the entirety of term.”

“How wonderful then, Horace, that I can assuage Mr Malfoy’s concerns about his partner’s attendance.” She peered over the top of her spectacles, shrewd gaze honing in immediately on Malfoy. At least the prat had the decency to stare at his feet, cheeks flaming.

With a long index finger, McGonagall motioned for Harry to move next to Malfoy—which he did, albeit reluctantly, stopping exactly three steps away.

“The two of you will meet here thrice weekly”—at Harry’s intake of breath (she knew him well enough to know when an objection was imminent) McGonagall raised a hand—“thrice weekly,” she continued sternly, “for the remainder of term.”

Malfoy didn’t move, but Harry could see his clenched jaw, the tense set of his shoulders. Harry’s temper flared; the nerve of the arsehole to choose this moment to shut up. They shouldn’t have even been in this situation. It was bloody Smith’s fault to begin with.

“But, Professor,” Harry started, stopping only briefly after the chilly glare McGonagall pinned him with. “Aren’t there, erm, house-elves to do this sort of thing?”

He regretted it immediately; images of Dobby and his makeshift grave invaded Harry’s mind. And if reliving that pain within the confines of his own memory wasn’t torture enough, the look of disappointment etched into every pore of McGonagall’s face finished him off. It was Slughorn, however, who spoke, reminding Harry of his presence.

“While that’s a natural assumption to make, my boy,” he chuckled, McGonagall’s head swivelling to gape at the man with such speed Harry was surprised her glasses stayed perched on the tip of her nose. “But they’ve been sent to slave away elsewhere.”

“I’m sure what Professor Slughorn means to say,” McGonagall interjected, tone sharp and chiding, “is that much of the castle is still in need of repairs, and we’re spread thin as it is. What elves we can spare are tending to those tasks.”

Harry had nothing else to say, rash or otherwise. So, he and Malfoy stood in complete silence, McGonagall carefully appraising them, eyes swinging back and forth between them like a pendulum, while Slughorn stood about uselessly beside her.

Her face softened somewhat when she looked them over one final time. “I’m aware this isn’t ideal, but the two of you have been at each other’s throats for long enough. Albus, Merlin bless him, did a great deal of good in his tenure as Headmaster, but it was a serious misjudgment on his part to let the animosity between the two of you go on the way it did.”

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy’s chin rise, slowly, as if tugged up by a string, his eyes quickly darting a peek at Harry before staring down what Harry assumed was a spot just over McGonagall’s shoulder.

“I made myself clear at the start of term that I wanted unity. How else are we to move on if we dwell in the past?”

Pleased with their silence on the matter, she continued. “I don’t want a repeat of the potions incident again, and—”

“But, Professor—”

“No excuses, Mr Potter. We’ve had enough quarrelling. No repeat, or there will be severe consequences.” She paused—rather more dramatically than necessary, Harry thought.

“Now that we’ve settled that—Horace? Shall we proceed to the Great Hall?”

“Oh!” Slughorn jolted from his daze. “Yes, yes. Quite right.”

The professors left with curt goodbyes, leaving Harry and Malfoy alone in the sad, mangled shell of their shared punishment. Waiting until he could no longer hear the echo of their footsteps in the halls, Harry rounded on Malfoy, arms crossed over his chest, an eyebrow raised.

Harry asked, livid, “Well? Got anything to say for yourself?”

Malfoy angled towards him, face perfectly composed, pale complexion and bored expression back in place, no sign of his precious discomfort. “I shouldn’t think so.” He made to leave, but quickly looked back at Harry, eyebrows drawn together. “Unless, that is, The Saviour requires something of me?”

Harry didn’t growl, but it was a near thing. He felt the twitch of his nose, his eyebrows. He forced himself to inhale deeply through his nose, and though he didn’t feel entirely better, some of his ire left with his body with the exhale.

“Nothing to say about what you just heard?”

Head cocked to the side and an elegant finger drumming against his pointed chin, Malfoy hummed. “Well, I suppose my first thought is what Granger might think of you when she hears what you said about those poor house-elves. As head of that SKEW movement, I’m sure she’ll be quite beside herself. You’ll really be in for it then.”

“You were listening!”

Silver eyes rolled heavenward, and Malfoy braced his hands on his hips as he spoke. “Of course I was listening.”

“Well, you could have backed me up. In case you hadn’t noticed, I was trying to get us out of this.”

“And in case you hadn’t noticed, Potter—” He spat Harry’s surname in the same way as usual, but it noticeably lacked the disdain and vitriol it used to carry with it. “—some of us don’t have the luxury of mouthing off to teachers, good intentions or not.”

“Oh.” Harry felt embarrassed that he hadn’t considered the terms of Malfoy’s probation as reasoning for his sudden silence. It made sense, after all, that he wouldn’t want to step on any toes when one wrong move could see him thrown in Azkaban. And seeing as they were already in detention…

“Bollocks,” Harry muttered, squeezing his eyes shut so hard he saw bursts of stars behind his eyelids.

“Eloquent as ever,” drawled Malfoy. “Now, if you’ve quite finished, I’ll be going.”

Malfoy made for the door, long, seemingly endless legs taking him nearly there in three strides. But, Harry couldn’t bear to have Malfoy leave. Gripped by a sudden and unexplainable panic, Harry sprang forward, scurrying in front of Malfoy and spreading his arms and legs across the opening to keep him from passing through.

“It’s S.P.E.W.,” Harry blurted.

Malfoy drew up short, eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Hermione’s movement. Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

Malfoy stood in front of Harry and stared at him. Not that Harry could blame him.

“S.P.E.W.,” Harry finished lamely, a crooked smile finding its way onto his face without permission.

“I see.” Malfoy crossed his arms, cocking a hip to one side. “And why should I care?”

Harry didn’t know. He knew Malfoy couldn’t care less, but he couldn’t exactly tell him why else he was using his body to barricade them inside the room. Couldn’t tell him that for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t want Malfoy to go. That was to say, he could say all those things, but not without sounding completely barmy.

Well, barmier than usual. Merlin knows Malfoy thought he was thick enough already.

“You won’t tell her, will you?” At Malfoy’s look of confusion, Harry continued. “Hermione. You won’t tell her what I said, right?”

A mix of emotions flitted across Malfoy’s face, too quickly for Harry to make heads or tails of any of them. But just before the cold pitying exterior settled back into place, he could have sworn he saw something akin to amusement.

“Fear not, Potter. I have better things to do than unleash your Muggle-born on you.”

Harry bristled, seconds away from baring his teeth like some kind of primal beast, but the glittering expression in Malfoy’s eyes shocked him enough that he forgot to speak, defense of his friend dead on his tongue.

Malfoy took one step closer, then another, until they were a foot apart. Harry could feel the warm puffs of his breath against his own skin. “If you’d please move out of the way, Potter. I’d like to get to dinner.”

Though he couldn’t see, Harry felt his cheeks heat, the burn creeping back down his neck, too. “Er—right. Um, sorry about that.”

Harry stepped aside, fingertips tracing the mortar between the cool stones to ground himself. Malfoy whisked past him in a flurry of robes and pretentiousness, a tantalising citrus scent trailing in his wake. And Harry, weak against the sudden cosy feeling in his stomach, moved towards it, mere inches from Malfoy himself.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, swaying on the spot as he clung to every remaining tendril of citrus in the air, missing the warmth of Malfoy’s presence. But soon enough, his stomach let loose a growl, and Harry knew he best head to dinner before Ron came looking for him, with a fervent determination to forget whatever it was that had just taken over him.

**

“Blimey, Harry,” said Ron around a mouthful of mincemeat pie. “Another minute and I was going to come look for you myself.”

A plate filled to the edges with food told a different story, but Harry only said, “‘Course you were.”

Conversation in the Great Hall hushed slightly like it always did when Harry came in, but it returned to a relatively normal volume by the time Harry took his seat at the table across from Ron and Hermione.

“I reckon you’ve still got to go through with the detentions?” Neville’s asked, piping up from his place a few feet to Harry’s right.

“You’d be right,” Harry sighed, reaching for a bread roll and tearing it in half.

Ron, still chewing, aggressively cut through a sausage. “That’s totally backwards, that is,” he said, pointing his dripping knife at Harry. “It’s all that bloody ponce Smith’s fault and he doesn’t get into any trouble at all.”

The look of vague disgust on Hermione’s face while she watched Ron eat shifted when she turned to look at Harry. “And McGonagall didn’t let you off once you explained it?”

“She wouldn’t give me the chance. Went on about unity again. Told us we’d been acting like this long enough and that Dumbledore should have helped us before he died.”

“I’d say she’s right.”

They all turned to look at Luna. She was sat next to Neville enjoying a helping of pudding.

“Why do you say that, Luna?” Hermione questioned.

Luna looked up, her blue eyes twinkling like the answer should have been obvious. And, to her at least, maybe it was. “Harry and Draco have been fighting an awful long time, except for these days it seems.”

“You can’t seriously expect—”

“Ron, please!”

Ron clamped his mouth shut and rolled his eyes at Hermione before swallowing. “You can’t seriously expect Harry to get all friendly with Malfoy, can you?”

“He’s not so bad once you get to know him. He’s not at all as awful as you’d think.”

“Oh,” Ron snorted. “Got to know him, have you?”

“Well, yes. I did spend a few months in his cellar, after all.”

Ron choked slightly, sucking in the inside of his cheek as he blinked owlishly at Luna.

“He was really very kind to me, you know. He snuck me food sometimes and would talk to me.” She tilted her head in thought, pinning Harry with a surprisingly unsettling stare, her corn husk earrings bobbing below her ears. “I think the two of you might get on more than you think. He did end up helping you in the end, didn’t he?”

A silence settled over the table as Luna’s words sat in the air. Harry shared a glance with Ron and Hermione before they all looked back to Luna, but she’d already given all of her attention back to her pudding while Neville whispered something in her ear that made her laugh brightly.

Obviously Harry agreed with her on some level. He’d testified for Malfoy and his mother for the part they’d played in Harry’s survival, but maybe he’d fallen a step short, not considering that Malfoy had changed. The war changed everything and everyone it touched, so why not Malfoy?

With a tired sigh, the prospect of an entire term’s worth of detention on his shoulders, Harry reached out and polished off the last of his roll, then decided to grab a serving of Treacle Tart to cheer himself up. It seemed he had some work to do.

**

As luck would have it, Harry had his work cut out for him. Which, in hindsight, he really should have expected given that it was Draco Malfoy he was dealing with.

Luna’s words had stuck with him all weekend, and he’d done nothing but turn them over in his head and wonder if she truly had made a good point. In the end, Harry had decided that he would try and make an effort with Malfoy. It wasn’t a secret that he didn’t have anyone outside of his Slytherin crew, and truth be told, Harry felt a bit sorry for him. Not that he’d ever admit that. And yet another truth was that Harry could swear he still smelled that delicious citrusy scent if he concentrated hard enough.

So, Monday evening rolled around, and Harry managed to direct himself to their stone prison. He crossed the threshold and stopped, surprised to find Malfoy already there on the far left of the room. Harry had never seen Malfoy in anything other than perfectly pressed wizard’s robes, so it was a bit disconcerting to see him in a pair of loose joggers and a jumper. Though he supposed even Malfoy wouldn’t want to dirty his clothes.

Harry stood there, mesmerised by the way Malfoy’s shoulders shifted under the fabric as he scrubbed, by the way the hem of his jumper rode up to reveal a sliver of creamy pale skin when he reached to dip his brush into the bucket of cleaning solution. He’d never seen anything like it.

“I know you’re there, Potter,” Malfoy called out without pausing.

Harry stumbled forward, mouth opening and closing like it was connected by a hinge. “I—”

“No excuses. You can start over there.”

And that was that. No questions. No fighting. Harry looked over to his side of the room. An identical bucket sat there, taunting him. With a resigned sigh, he approached it and dropped to his knees. He removed the different brushes and tools and set them aside before using his wand to fill the bucket. Then, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

Two hours a night, three nights a week hadn’t seemed like such a trial to Harry at first, but forty-five minutes in, he learned he’d grossly miscalculated. The silence was deafening, with nothing but the sound of bristles against stone and the occasional slosh of liquid to fill the seconds.

By the time he cast his third Tempus and found it had only been an hour, Harry’d had enough. Tossing his wand aside with a clatter, he cleared his throat. “So, Malfoy.”

“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“Just because we’re stuck here,” Malfoy huffed, lifting his arm to wipe sweat from his brow, “doesn’t mean that we have to—to talk about things. About anything.”

“What’s wrong with talking?”

Malfoy laughed bitterly, his brushing getting louder. “What have we ever had to talk about? Pleasantly, that is.”

Harry honestly didn’t have an answer to that.

“Exactly. I’d rather get this done in complete silence without one of us trying to maim the other and getting us into more trouble. Some of us can’t afford that.”

“Er. Right.”

With that, Harry gave up, the rest of the hour passing by in the same eerie silence. It didn’t, however, keep him from trying again the next time. Or the time after that.

In fact, Harry tried to get Malfoy to speak to him during every detention they had for the first two weeks. Nothing ever came of it. More often than not, Malfoy would rudely tell him to pipe down and that would be the end of it. But, near the end of the second week, Malfoy had laughed—a bit deliriously, mind—and stood, brandishing his wand. Only for the briefest moment did Harry consider that Malfoy might harm him, but he knew better than that. Instead, Malfoy pointed it at the floor and cast a Scourgify.

The spell sliced through the muck, revealing the clean stone beneath it. No sooner than the floor and cleared, the muck returned, only it was thicker and grimier. Slughorn and McGonagall had thought of everything, apparently.

Malfoy’s stunt made Harry think, though. And he decided that if Malfoy really didn’t want to talk to him, then there was nothing to be done for it.

Mid-October brought with it freezing gusts of wind, and Harry walked into the beginning of their third week of detention with no plans other than to keep warm. He kneeled next to his bucket and got to work, no utterances in Malfoy’s direction.

They couldn’t have been working for more than twenty minutes when Malfoy, for once, broke the silence.

“What, no questions today, Potter? I’d ask if you’re all right, but I’m afraid you would think I cared.”

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Harry grunted, working the brush against a particular unforgiving spot of dirt. “No use in wasting my breath. I know a lost cause when I see one.”

“Well, well. You can teach an old Crup new tricks, apparently. I’ll be sure to owl the Magical Menagerie and let them know.”

Harry gritted his teeth. For weeks he’d tried to start conversation and was met with nothing more than snide remarks and bickering. Leave it to Malfoy, the bloody git, to egg Harry on when he finally gave Malfoy what he wanted. Harry was tired of the back and forth, and especially tired of trying to prove Luna right.

The back of his neck tingled, the hairs there standing up on end. Harry dared a look over his shoulder, to see Malfoy looking at him rather expectantly, like he was waiting for Harry to respond. So naturally, he decided to say nothing.

Finally, Malfoy sighed. A small sigh that Harry was almost certain he’d imagined. “I didn’t think you had it in your blood to quit.”

“What’s it to you? You didn’t care before. You practically begged me to stop trying to talk to you.” And if Harry sounded bitter…well, that’s because he was. Just a tad.

“Forgive me for being curious why The Boy Who Lived suddenly fancies a conversation with a Death Eater.”

“You’re not a Death Eater.” The answer came lightning quick, on instinct. He didn’t realise just how much he’d got used to defending Malfoy. But it was true. He wasn’t a Death Eater, not anymore, maybe not even towards the end of the war, either. “Not anymore.”

“What difference does that make?”

“It makes all the difference.” Harry said softly.

“What is this?” Malfoy scoffed. “Some weird, twisted, effort to make you feel better for saving me in that room? Because I don’t want to be responsible for whatever moral crisis it is you’re having.”

“It’s not that at all! It’s—” Harry realised he was shouting. That wasn’t what he liked to do, who he wanted to be. It reminded him too much of fifth-year, with Voldemort in his head. “McGonagall was right. We’ve been at this for far too long. And I’m just so bloody tired of fighting. Aren’t you?”

Even from across the room, Harry could see Malfoy clench and unclench his jaw. Then, he nodded, white-blond fringe falling into his eyes.

“We’ve both changed so much since we were eleven. I don’t think we have to hate each other anymore. I know I don’t want to.”

“I don’t either,” Malfoy agreed.

“So, what do you say? Why don’t we try being…non-nemeses?”

“All right. I’d like that,” Malfoy said, no more than a whisper. Then, just a bit louder. “But if you think that makes us friends, you’ve gone round the bloody twist.”

“Oh, god no. Don’t be silly,” Harry smiled cheekily.

Malfoy nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and turned back to his brush. And if Harry kept smiling long after he got back to work, well, that was no one’s business but his.

**

Despite their agreement that they were under no circumstances friends, Harry found that going to detention became the highlight of his week.

Against all odds, conversation with Malfoy came easily. They talked about anything and everything, and six hours a week gave them plenty of ground to cover.

They talked about Quidditch; their favourite and least favourite teams, with the occasional sprinkle of criticism for the Chudley Cannons. Malfoy told Harry that his favourite subject was actually Transfiguration, and that McGonagall was “the only professor in the whole school worth a damn.” Harry told Malfoy that DADA was his, and that Lupin was his favourite and had taught him the Patronus Charm.

Malfoy learnt what it felt like to be teased by a Gryffindor when Harry told him about blowing up Aunt Marge, and the prat had nearly pissed himself from laughter. “Well,” Harry’d said between fits of uncontrollable giggles. “At least we’ve got buckets.” And Harry learnt what it felt like to be hit by a very strong Stinging Hex to the arse.

For the first time since the war ended, Harry started to feel hopeful that he could finally feel a sense of normalcy.

Of course, the feeling was short lived, and he woke up at dawn on Halloween, the same old screaming ghosts and flashes of green light imprinted in his memory. Except this time, they were joined by the faces of those they’d lost in the war, contorted in pain, crying out to Harry to save them.

Drenched in sweat, Harry rolled out of bed, gasping for breath, and decided the last thing he’d do today was be around other people. He changed into the same ratty clothes he’d worn for the last month and headed down to the dungeons.

**

Everything ached. Knees, elbows, back. Even the third knuckle on his index finger. Harry didn’t even know that could ache. But, ache it did.Though, he couldn’t say he minded all that much. The sting reminded him that he could feel, could hurt…that he was alive. And today, his brain could focus on little else than that fact. That he was here, after everything. Whether it be fate, or a god, or whatever. Harry James Potter had lived—again. Another lease on life when no one else had even been given a second.

It felt like a sick joke, like another way he’d been singled out by that bloody prophecy. Another way that Voldemort had been able to taint him, had been able to isolate him and make him unable to truly relate to anyone else his age. The realisation—no matter how contrived by trauma—hung behind him like a shadow. A heavy shadow that laughed at him for being stupid enough to survive while the others didn’t. That Harry got multiple chances, while his loved ones had only got one laughably short chance. All of it a palpable darkness Harry saw lurking in the background of every reflective surface.

That was one good thing about the grimy stone they were cleaning. Nothing could look back at him.

So, Harry scrubbed. Hard. Scrubbed hard enough for the ache to move from the third knuckle to the first. From there to his wrist. He put as much effort, if not more, into cleaning the muck away from the stone as he had polishing Aunt Petunia’s kitchen tile.

That had been out of sheer terror. Fear of the punishment that came if he didn’t perform to her satisfaction. But it wasn’t fear of starvation or isolation in his cupboard pushing him over the edge this time. Today, Harry just wanted to forget everything and not think.

Nothing registered but the scratch of the bristles against the slab. A mechanical rhythm that moved in time with his arms, thrusting the brush back and forth. His arms became unbearably heavy, like leaden poles attached to his body. But he couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop. Not when stopping meant letting the world back in. Letting his brain take back control.

He might’ve worked all day, too, if not for the brush that collided with his head.

“What the fuck?” he shouted, hand shooting up to cover the spot where a painful lump was sure to form, his own brush clattering to the floor.

“Oh, good,” drawled an all too familiar voice. “It speaks. I was worried you’d gone mute in addition to deaf and blind.”

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” asked Harry, sitting back on his haunches.

Malfoy, the git, stared at Harry, unimpressed, before using his toe to tap against a stack of books at his feet. “It’s quiet here. There are no…distractions.”

They both knew what he meant. The library felt like enough of a fishbowl for Harry, and he couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Malfoy. There were stares and whispers, the same as Harry, but for Malfoy, they were all malicious, full of ill-will and anger. Harry couldn’t blame him for trying to find somewhere else to study.

“Right.”

“And what of you? Why does The Saviour slave away on this Saturday morning?”

Harry weakly threw the brush back at Malfoy, groaning, “Please, don’t call me that.”

“All right.” He waited for a beat. “Why does Scarhead slave away on this Saturday morning?”

“Piss off,” Harry sighed, plopping back on the floor, his arse aching on impact. Soft beams of late-morning light snuck in through the window on the far right of the room, illuminating floating specks of dust Harry suddenly found very interesting.

He heard a sigh behind him, followed by a ruffle of rubric. Then, a soft puff of air ghosted his neck. Malfoy lowered himself next to Harry, robes spread out underneath him on the stone.

Malfoy saw the look on Harry’s face and scoffed. “Don’t look at me like that. Just because you insist on acting like a neanderthal doesn’t mean I must. These are my good trousers.”

Harry merely shrugged in response.

“Now,” Malfoy started, finally settled in. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“My knickers aren’t in a—”

“Come off it, Potter. I’ve known you long enough to tell when you’re brooding—and don’t say you’re not brooding. We both know you are.”

Harry didn’t pout—because he was eighteen, and after everything he’d been through, he was too old to pout, obviously—but it was a near thing. Disconcerting as it was, Malfoy was absolutely right. And Merlin’s beard if that didn’t frighten him.

“I don't really think it’s any of your business.”

“You made it my business when you invaded my study space.”

Harry ignored him, reaching for the brush again. Just because the git could tell something was wrong did not mean they had to talk about it like they were mates. Hell, he didn’t even confide in Ron and Hermione about it—or much of anything these days.

Sure, their detentions weren’t so bad anymore now that the frigid schoolboy animosity between them was gone. Harry wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he’d even started to look forward to detention. Three times a week he could count on an evening free of the spotlight. Merlin knows Malfoy treated him the same as ever. Which Harry enjoyed immensely, what with his inability to go anywhere without being mobbed.

“Potter,” Malfoy tried again, but softer—so soft Harry couldn’t help but take a peek at him.

Genuine concern rested in every pore of his face. In the subtle downturn of his lips, in the slight crease between his shaped brows. It disarmed him so greatly he blurted, “It’s Halloween.”

“That’s why you’re down here?”

Harry nodded.

“What,” Malfoy snorted. “Did one of the ghosts give you a fright?”

“No,” Harry groaned. He started to wring his fingers together in his lap. “It’s October thirty-first.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know what day Halloween falls on.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s—”

It wasn’t that he expected Malfoy to know the day his parents died. It’s just that given how often Malfoy used to taunt him about having no parents, it always seemed like something he ought to know. And the prospect of opening himself up like that to Malfoy was daunting. But Harry made himself remember the Malfoy sitting beside him wasn’t the same one who would have ridiculed him.

“It’s the day my parents died.”

“Oh. I see.”

Harry watched on while Malfoy tucked his hands delicately in his lap, one cradled in the other. He looked to be at war with himself, wrinkles creasing his brow, lips twisting. Once his expression cleared, Malfoy got up and folded his robes neatly over his arm.

“Get up.”

Harry blinked up at him. “What?”

“There you go making me think you’re deaf again.” Malfoy crooked a long finger at him. “Come on.”

For no reason at all, other than that he felt he could trust Malfoy, Harry stood. He still felt empty, hollow, but he didn’t particularly feel like staying in the dungeon alone. They left the chill of the dungeons, swapping them out for back staircases and old, forgotten tunnels. Once Harry realised where they were going, his steps slowed, breathing becoming more laboured.

Almost as if sensing Harry’s distress, Malfoy turned around. He took small, calm steps until he was at Harry’s side. He lightly touched Harry’s elbow. The contact set his skin on fire. “It’s all right,” he said simply. Malfoy jerked his chin to the stairs. “Come on.”

All the way up, Malfoy followed Harry, a solid wall of comfort from behind. Harry knew it was just to make sure he didn’t turn around and run knee-high all the way to Hogsmeade, but the sentiment was still appreciated.

Stepping foot onto the Astronomy Tower didn’t feel as life-ending as Harry feared it might. In fact, it was rather…pretty. A light breeze blew through the windows of the rotunda, the warm sunlight reflecting off every surface it touched.

More elegantly than he had any right to do, Malfoy walked wordlessly to the railing, bending over slightly at the waist, elbows resting against the barrier with his hands clasped in front. He left Harry standing awkwardly at the top of the steps, worrying his lip between his teeth, unsure if Malfoy meant for him to follow. Harry shuffled in place, bouncing on the balls of his feet to keep warm against the wind that barreled into him with the first taste of winter on its wings.

“Other than classes, nobody really comes up here anymore.” He looked over his shoulder back at Harry. “I’d come up here more myself, if not for the…unpleasantness it rouses.”

Unpleasantness. Such a watered down way to describe what was one of the worst moments of both their lives. If Harry closed his eyes and focused, he could still hear and see everything. He moved from his place at the top of the steps, sidling up next to Malfoy.

“He offered to help me, you know? Dumbledore.” A light breeze blew in, dislodging Malfoy’s hair, and Harry had the strangest urge to reach out and fix it, to feel what the white-blond strands would feel like against his skin. He felt his face burn at the thought and forced his fingers to cling harder to the railing.

“I was so scared,” Malfoy continued, staring out over the grounds, blessedly oblivious to Harry’s discomfort. “Scared of what the Dark Lord would do to me or my parents. There were a lot of nights last year where I would lie awake and wonder if accepting would’ve made any difference.”

Harry exhaled, rocking back on his heels. Knowing what he knew, he didn’t want to say the truth, that he didn’t think it would have changed much, but he found he didn’t have it in him to lie to Malfoy. Not about this.

“I don’t think it would have. Dumbledore was many things, but simple wasn’t one of them.”

Besides his best friends, Harry hadn’t told anyone about Dumbledore’s grand design. But there was so much history between Harry and Malfoy, so much common ground. Ground muddled with hatred and separated with lines of prejudice—but common ground, no less.

So, he told Malfoy. Told him about Snape’s true role that night, about his and Dumbledore’s plan. Malfoy started out looking understandably shocked, but with every word that poured out of Harry’s mouth, there came a look of resignation Harry knew all too well.

“How typical,” scoffed Malfoy. “One of the greatest regrets of my life, and it was nothing more than another calculation for Albus Dumbledore.”

“Yeah,” Harry chuckled. “Got used to it after a while.”

“Circe’s tits. Pawns in the game to the very end.”

Neither of them said anything. They merely stood there, letting the weight of their shared trauma settle around them like a blanket. After some time, Malfoy huffed, shoulders jerking upwards. “I wonder what it would have been like, if I’d said yes. What it might have been like coming back. Would I have been seen as some heroic Don Quixote, switching sides to bring about a victory to free our kind from the clutches of a megalomaniac. Or, would it be just the same. A traitor.

“I know that Zacharias Smith isn’t the only one to feel that way about me being back here. In fact, I’d imagine it’s most of the students. They’re just more fearful of any consequences from the Headmistress—” He paused, glancing sidelong at Harry, a smirk playing on his lips. “Or you, more likely.”

“Shove off,” Harry said weakly, gently jabbing Malfoy in the side with his elbow.

“In any case,” Malfoy continued softly, “I’m glad to be here—grateful. I’ve got Pans and Blaise and Theo. Millie and Greg. They’ve kept me grounded and on a short leash. Not as short as the one I’m on with the Ministry, mind. But they’ve been there when I’ve needed them.”

Malfoy wrung his fingers together, staring far off into the distance. “They don’t entirely understand me anymore, though. How can they? After everything? Sometimes, I don’t think there’s anyone left on this planet who does.”

“That, I get,” Harry agreed, nodding. He felt Malfoy’s curious eyes on him, but he continued to follow the flock of birds migrating just over the treeline of the Forbidden Forest.

“Yes,” hummed Malfoy, considering. “I suppose you do.”

“I died,” blurted Harry, unable to keep it in.

“Yes, yes, I know.” Malfoy’s laughter was light, airy. “Everyone in our world knows that.”

“No. Erm, well, yes. But I don’t mean that time. I mean in the Forest.”

“What?” Malfoy breathed, the volume of his voice abruptly soft enough the wind nearly drowned it out.

“I died. Again. Your mother lied to Voldemort to save me.” He shrugged. “To save you, really, but it’s all the same in the end I guess.”

Malfoy shook his head, almost in a daze. “You really do break all the rules, you know?”

“I’ve been told.” Harry grinned, only slightly, though. It melted away soon enough.

After a moment, Malfoy asked, “What was it like?”

“Peaceful. Bright. A bit like this actually. Dumbledore was there. Told me I could choose to come back or move on.”

“Did he now? The dodgy old codger.”

“Yeah. Sometimes, I find myself wondering whether I shouldn’t have bothered coming back at all.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Harry would have liked to say that he did. And maybe, just for fleeting moments when life got too hard, or the shadows felt a little too heavy, he did mean it. But Malfoy was right. Harry was always going to come back.

“No. No, I don’t.”

A not altogether uncomfortable silence passed between them before Malfoy spoke again. “I think had I been in your abnormally large shoes, I might have chosen to move on.”

“Really? Why?”

“It would have been much easier than coming back here and facing the consequences for all of the choices I made. Remorseful or not. And, there was always the possibility that you failed.” Harry kicked Malfoy’s ankle, muttering ‘Prat’ under his breath.

“But I suppose having a second chance would be nice. I already feel as though I have one, in a way, by being back here. Salazar knows I don’t feel like I deserve it. But I have it, and I’m going to make the most of it. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, not bothering to hide his smile. “Yeah, it does.”

Maybe there were some people out there who could understand him after all.

Well, someone.

**

After the Astronomy Tower, things between Harry and Malfoy shifted, and continued to do so as November passed by in a flurry of frost, classes, and more detention. Harry’d hardly had the time to think about the fact that his final year at Hogwarts was nearly half over, and he still hadn’t the foggiest what he wanted to do when he left.

It came up once or twice in detention, and Malfoy had been surprisingly helpful.

“I reckon you should be able to do whatever the bloody fuck it is you want to. You’ve done enough good to last a lifetime,” he’d said, aggressively mopping a slab of stone that wouldn’t free itself of dirt.

There was plenty that Harry could glean from what Malfoy had said. He could have considered that it was exactly what Hermione and Ron had told him—in a more blunt, rough around the edges way, mind. He could have asked Malfoy what he thought Harry should do. But he knew the answer he’d receive would be no-nonsense, and Harry didn’t think he was ready to make his future so real.

Plenty of things in his life were already becoming too real.

Chief amongst them being the impossible attraction he felt for Malfoy growing into something deeper and far more dangerous. Thoughts of the pointy git swam around in his mind all day, everyday. At mealtimes, Harry found himself staring longingly across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table, where Malfoy sat primly, surrounded by his friends. He laughed and smiled with ease, a king holding court with his subjects. And Harry often wondered what it might be like to be there with them. Would the Slytherin’s accept him? Mock him? Would Malfoy smile at Harry in front of them like he did when they were alone? In all honesty, he didn’t particularly care, so long as he got to be in Malfoy’s orbit.

That was another thing that had grown, too. Harry’s addiction—obsession, a voice in his head whispered—with Malfoy. His days had become nothing more than a countdown to their next detention. Everything in between was just bland moments of monotony. And occasions where they passed each other in the halls or Slughorn paired them together in Potions became bursts of colour in Harry’s dull life. A black and white film gone colourful.

At times, Harry was sure Malfoy must have felt the same. Could swear he felt the weight of wandering eyes on his neck when he wasn’t looking. Harry didn’t want to be anywhere but at Malfoy’s side, breathing in the citrus scent that clung to him like a second skin. He wanted to wrap his arms around Malfoy and never let go. Harry already found himself leaning into Malfoy’s space whenever they were together. That, perhaps, was the biggest shock to Harry.

After the war, the first time he’d gone into Diagon, he’d been swarmed. Not at first, but once word had spread…he’d never seen so many people in such a small place. Masses of people lined the small thoroughfare, a living, breathing wave that pulsed and shifted as he, Ron, and Hermione attempted to navigate it. People reached out to touch his clothes, his shoes. Any part of him, really. It had been awful. He’d got all dizzy, his heart raced, and his vision blurred. It’d been a panic attack, Hermione said. He’d never truly recovered. Harry couldn’t stand to be too close to anyone after that.

Not until Malfoy.

It was surreal—to want, to need, to crave like that. It took Harry completely by surprise.

So much so, that when December came, and Harry made a rare visit to Hogsmede, he didn’t realise until he was stood in the street blinking up at the line of shops that he’d made the trip entirely to purchase a Christmas gift for Malfoy. Because that seemed like something he should do, didn’t it? Not out of obligation, but of want. A want to somehow make the time they’d spent all term getting to know each other tangible. To show Malfoy it meant something to him.

It didn’t occur to Harry, though, until he was stood there in the street, that he was absolute pants at buying gifts. He’d never been good at it. Too torn up over the realisation, he didn’t notice Pansy Parkinson sidle up next to him until she spoke.

“Go to Tomes and Scrolls,” she said matter-of-factly.

Harry didn’t jump out of his skin, but it was a near thing. “No offence, but I’m not too keen on doing what you tell me to do,” he tried to deflect, eyes scanning the street behind her for any sign of white hair.

“He’s not here, you know,” she sniffed, the tip of her upturned pug nose pink from the cold.

Other students moved around the pair of them, some throwing nasty looks their way for standing in the middle of the street. Harry pretended not to notice them—much in the same way he pretended not to hear what Parkinson said.

She pursed her lips and looked Harry over from head to toe with shrewd, narrow eyes. And despite the fact that he knew she shouldn’t intimidate him…she absolutely did.

As if coming to some acceptable conclusion, Parkinson nodded. “Go to Tomes and Scrolls.”

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, huffing a cloud in the air in front of them. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, please. Don’t insult my intelligence.” She turned to face him fully. “We both know you’re looking for Draco’s Christmas gift.”

Denial danced on the tip of his tongue, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to voice it. Instead, he worried his lip between his teeth, eyes flitting between the bookstore and the girl at his side. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because Draco is my best friend, and he deserves the best.” She wrinkled her nose. “Salazar knows why that would be anything you could give him, but it’s rather out of my hands now.”

Something or someone over Harry’s shoulder caught Parkinson’s eye, and she lifted her small gloved hand and wiggled her fingers in a wave that managed to be both prim and affectionate. “Ta, Potter,” she chirped. “I’m off.”

If it had been snowing, Harry was sure tiny flakes would’ve got in his mouth thanks to the floundering routine he enacted as she sauntered away. “Wait!” he called after her. “What should I get?”

Parkinson didn’t look back at him as she shouted, “If you have to ask, you don’t know him as well as you think you do!”

Her words seemed to float in the air around him before being swept away by the heaps of people trudging along the street. She made a fair point, and the longer Harry stared through the window and into the shop, the perfect idea formed in his mind. And when he pushed open the door, immediately assaulted by the smells of treated leather and parchment, he knew exactly what to buy.

When the day of their final detention came, Harry found himself uncharacteristically early. From the centre, he spun in a slow circle, Malfoy’s dusty book held close to his chest, and scanned the room. The clean stone—free of spell damage and layers of thick filth—and lone window—free of murky blemishes—were hardly recognisable. It looked different from that first day, when things between them had been so different.

Progress had slowed the final month, and on Harry’s part, at least, that had been intentional. An effort to do anything possible to ensure they got the entire term together.

“Looks different, doesn’t it?”

Harry whirled around towards the voice that had come to give him so much comfort. “Malfoy.”

Full lips quirked. “Potter.” He strutted over the threshold, a cloud of swishing robes and citrus. “Ready for freedom?”

The question carried more of a weight than maybe Malfoy meant it to, and Harry saw the brief flicker of sadness in his silver eyes.

“More or less,” answered Harry. “But I can think of a thing or two I’ll miss.”

“Yes,” Malfoy whispered, clasping his hands in front of him, peering down at Harry. “So can I.”

Ferocious heat tore through Harry’s veins, liquid fire that burned his insides and threatened to scorch his skin, too. Malfoy’s eyes bored into his own, and Harry was powerless, unable to look away. Patches of pink blossomed onto the apples of Malfoy’s cheeks, and the air around them grew heavy. Harry felt himself swaying closer, the space between them shrinking, opposite poles of two magnets unable to resist their nature.

“What’s that?” Malfoy croaked, voice hoarse.

“What’s what?” Harry’s voice was just as gravelly, just as affected.

Malfoy jerked his chin towards the book Harry still held protectively against his chest. “That.”

“Oh. Erm.” Suddenly, Harry felt foolish and embarrassed. What if Malfoy didn’t like it? Merlin, what if he laughed at him? For fuck’s sake. He was a Gryffindor. He needed to show a little courage. “I got you a Christmas present.”

Malfoy stared at him, expression unreadable. Harry brought the book down between them, turning it over. “I’m sorry it’s not wrapped, but…”

“May I?”

“‘Course.”

Gingerly, almost reverently, Malfoy took the book from Harry’s hands. He brushed a hand over the cover, fingering the foiled lettering. “A Study in Lost Transfiguration: How the Salem Witches Survived the Trials.”

Harry shuffled uncomfortably. “It’s ok if you don’t like it, I’m sure Tomes and Scrolls would let you return it, or exchange it. I just thought,” he rambled, unable to stop the nervous word vomit coming out, “since you like Transfiguration—”

Malfoy touched Harry’s wrist, a shock of coolness against his skin, quickly replaced by a different kind of heat. “Potter. I love it. Thank you.”

Harry swallowed thickly. “You’re welcome.”

“As a matter of fact,” Malfoy started, opening his book bag and putting the present inside. “I got you something as well.”

“You did?”

That—Harry could be completely honest—he wasn’t expecting. Malfoy brandished a velvet box the size of his palm. Harry wasn’t much for jewellery, but in that moment, he knew he’d wear anything if it came from Malfoy.

“I know it’s been a rough term,” he said, handing the box to Harry. “So, I thought this might give you reason to have a little more fun.”

Prying open the lid, Harry’s breath left him. Staring back up at him was a Golden Snitch, his own initials engraved across the front in big, loopy cursive. Years' worth of Quidditch memories flashed through his mind. Intense Seeker’s chases against Malfoy himself. Suddenly, the box felt incredibly heavy.

“Malfoy, I—” Harry gulped, unable to find the words he was looking for, unable to say the words he really wanted to say. “Thank you.”

Another intense moment of eye contact ensued, but this time, Malfoy seemed to steady himself. A deep inhale, and then his mouth opened.

“Good to see you both already here.” McGonagall walked in, shattering the moment. She inspected the room, her intelligent eyes roving corner to corner behind her spectacles. “Fine work I must say, Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy.”

She stopped in front of them, gaze flickering between them momentarily. “I hope you’re both proud of what you’ve accomplished here. I must say that I certainly am.”

“Thank you, Headmistress,” answered Malfoy.

“I’m sure you’ll both be thrilled to be free of detentions. Let’s just make sure it doesn’t happen again,” she said slyly, eyeing them with a glimmer of amusement. Then, she swept her arm out beside her and angled herself back towards the door. “Now, why don’t we all head up to the Great Hall for dinner.”

Harry was hesitant to leave, desperate to reclaim the bubble of whatever moment he and Malfoy had been in the middle of when McGonagall arrived, and terrified that once they left, everything would be lost. Terrified that all progress between the two of them would fade away.

But, there was nothing to be done for it. At McGonagall’s expectant face and body language, Harry and Malfoy both looked at each other, an overt sense of longing between them, and left.

**

Harry spent the entire train ride sat with his body pulled up into the seat, side pressed up against the upholstery, his head lolling back against the chilled glass of the window, eyes closed. He let the familiar sounds wash over him, let Hermione and Ron’s voices sweep him off into that in-between place where he wasn’t fully asleep or fully awake. And when the Trolley Witch dropped in, he splurged on the lot, like it was first-year all over again.

He took advantage of every opportunity to distract himself. Anything to keep him from acknowledging the pestering thought in the back of his mind that whispered to him. Whispered that on the other side of the return trip, there would be no detentions with Draco Malfoy to occupy his time.

His thoughts, though? Dreams? Harry supposed they would have to suffice.

Once in London, Harry got off the train, Ron and Hermione hand in hand behind him, and found himself scanning the platform for any glimpse of a shock of white-blond hair. For a moment, it seemed that he accomplished nothing more than bringing more attention to himself. He felt the tingle on his neck and the skin on his body tighten under the stares he was starting to attract. He could sense the crowd pulsing around him like a living, breathing mass; some kind of sentient organism ready to swallow him up.

Just when he started to turn away, Harry saw Malfoy by the barrier, flanked by Parkinson and Nott. He just barely fought the urge to shout. Merlin knows the kind of chaos that would have started. But he stared. Hard. Right at the centre of Malfoy’s long back, urging him to look. Seconds later, Malfoy turned, a sculpted eyebrow raised, cold mask of indifference in place. Silver eyes scoped the surroundings, sharp and calculating. They roved over the crowd looking for a threat, as if Harry could even imagine harming Malfoy these days.

Harry’s breath caught when Malfoy’s eyes stopped on him. They widened ever so slightly before those thin, pink lips turned up at the corners. Long, elegant fingers wiggled in Harry’s direction and he felt his heart pick up speed like it was running through King’s Cross on its own accord, barreling through swarms of people just to stand in front of Malfoy. And in that moment, quick and utterly foolish, Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he did with his face, or the suddenly-clumsy hand he threw up in hopes of waving back.

Malfoy laughed, a private snicker made possible through months of close-quarter detentions. A little moment only he and Harry shared across a crowd of people and despite reputation and expectation. And Harry found that all he could do was stand there and soak it all in. Soak it in while that long, lithe body turned around and walked through the barrier with his friends.

“Harry?” Hermione called from somewhere behind him. “Harry, are you coming?”

“Yeah,” responded Harry, his voice sounding distant even to himself. “Yeah,” he said again, eyes swivelling pointlessly to the spot Malfoy had just stood.

Harry turned around, thumb absently stroking the Snitch in the front pocket of his jumper, and Hermione and Ron greeted him with smiles no less radiant or warm than usual. So, the three of them made their way to the Apparition point, Harry’s heart already aching, and his brain already working overtime to put him back on course for his Holiday of Distraction.

**

Hols at the Burrow felt like coming home.

The moment they appeared on the frosted lawn, Harry saw Molly waiting for them at the door, hands clutched in front of her, tangled in her apron in an effort to conceal the wringing Harry still noticed.

She wrapped Ron and Hermione in a tight hug, placing tender kisses on each of their temples. Harry stayed back, preparing himself for the embrace he knew Molly would give him. Her motherly warmth had always been welcome to Harry, even in the immediate aftermath of the war when everything started to go wrong, but it was something he still needed to work himself up for.

“Harry,” she said, smiling sadly, when he finally approached her. She reached up and cradled his cheeks in the palms of her hands, thin skin cool against his own. “Welcome home.”

“It’s good to be home,” Harry said truthfully, returning her gaze.

Shouts rang out from inside, Ron and Charlie from the sound of it.

“Oh, those two,” groaned Molly.

She patted Harry’s cheeks one last time before releasing him, swiftly turning back into the house and heading towards the kitchen. Harry smiled to himself and let the smells of the Burrow sweep around him. Good to be home, indeed.

Harry was more than content to keep to himself, quiet, but present. It was very easy to feel overwhelmed by the Weasleys, and he found himself thinking about what it must have been like for someone like Malfoy to grow up an only child with parents who adored him. Harry wondered—parental affiliation aside, of course—if it might’ve been anything close to what he would have had with his own parents. He only let himself think about it for a moment before realising, even in that capacity, that thinking of Malfoy was no good.

The first few days followed in a similar fashion. Harry at odds with his thoughts, and Ron at odds with anyone who challenged his ability to scarf down Molly’s cooking. Hermione observed it all curled up in any chair, a book in hand, a fond smile on her lips.

Bill and Fleur showed up the Tuesday before Christmas, only to be immediately pestered by Molly about when they’d be giving her and Arthur grandchildren. Percy kept himself scarce, but Ginny made up for it two fold. George made the odd appearance throughout the day, and everyone shared the unspoken agreement not to question him about it. It almost felt like everything was perfect.

But the knowledge that it was the first Christmas without Fred wrapped around everyone like a thick, heavy blanket of grief.

Harry missed Fred dearly. His easy smile and quick wit a noticeable and painful absence, but Harry couldn’t think about Fred without imagining Teddy. Teddy, both of his parents gone and no one to spend Christmas—and forever, really—with but his grandmother. Sure, he wouldn’t remember it, but Harry would. He remembered every face not with them.

Harry knew he wasn’t the only one stuck in such an emotionally draining limbo. Everyone did their best to get into the holiday spirit, and for the most part it worked. But there were times, with Molly and George most of all, when Harry could see the distant, haunted look slip into someone’s eyes. They’d be lost for a moment, staring off into nothingness, until a moment later they’d blink back into reality, a sad smile ghosting their lips.

As sad as the Burrow got at times, Harry couldn’t help but be grateful he wasn’t spending his last Hogwarts Christmas Hols out on the run or nearly murdered by a reptilian Horcrux (a glance or two to Ron and Hermione over the first week confirmed they felt the same, too).

On Christmas Eve, everyone sat around a crackling fire, nursing mugs of mulled cider or Firewhisky. The wireless hummed in the background, filling the room with Christmas carols that nobody really listened to, while pockets of individual conversation took place in different corners. A tame night by previous years’ standards.

Harry could sense the fragile atmosphere as if it balanced on the side of a spinning Galleon. It wasn’t until the song changed, and the distinct intro, followed by the familiar crooning of Celestina Warbeck sounded, that he knew something had shifted.

Conversation stopped almost completely and not even Fleur took up her usual mantle of mockery at the expense of Molly’s favourite singer. Molly herself sat slumped against the backrest of her seat, fingers lightly drumming on the side of her steaming ceramic mug. Her eyes were downcast, a vaguely entertained, wistful look on her face.

After the chorus played for the second time, George cleared his throat, shattering the silence. “You know,” he started, playing with the fringe of the throw next to him, “Freddie once said the banshees sang better than her. I never quite agreed with him before, but I reckon I do now.”

Silence swelled around them, anxious and uncertain. Until, all at once, the bubble popped, Molly’s wet laughter ringing out in its stead. Her tittering grew, and one by one, everyone joined her. Uncontrollable, riotous laughter. By the end of it, Harry’s cheeks ached and he had to take off his glasses to wipe away tears on the sleeve of his hoodie.

A dam broke, and one after the other, they shared their fondest memories of Fred. There were more tears, more laughter, and heaps more drinks. And little by little, it felt like they began to heal. Harry didn’t think the scars the war left on them would ever fully heal, some of them not ever come close, but maybe surviving would get a little easier.

Christmas Day passed with little fuss, but the energy was so much lighter after the previous night’s ruminations. Harry graciously accepted a myriad of gifts from the Weasleys (Molly’s sweater was more welcome than ever) and Hermione, but found that he was just grateful to be alive and with all the people he cared about.

Most of the people, that is. But he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about the other one, Harry reminded himself. Often. Constantly.

Boxing Day came, and with just over a week left of their holiday, Ginny grew restless and decided they’d all had quite enough lazing about drowning in their sorrows, and took it upon herself to organise Quidditch games in the back garden. Harry didn’t think it was particularly fair to have her play, what with her on the cusp of a professional contract, but he jumped on the opportunity nonetheless.

Hermione put herself in charge of casting the Concealment Charms and vowed to be a spectator only with both feet firmly on the ground. She watched on, more often than not joined by Fleur, and sometimes George. Teams more or less changed daily, the only permanent fixtures being Harry and Charlie as Seekers for opposite teams.

The last time Harry had flown was at the battle in the Room of Hidden Things, Malfoy tucked close behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, the body heat between them rivalling that of the Fiendfyre nipping at their heels. The thought didn’t do much good for Harry’s resolution to absolutely not think about how Draco Malfoy-less his life would become next term. Instead, he focused on how amazing it felt to be back in the sky. Flurries of snow swirled in the air around him, sticking to his lenses, the tip of his nose and his clothes.

It reminded Harry of the pure, unadulterated joy he’d felt at being a wizard for the first time. Before there was Voldemort. Before there was a war. Before Harry was The Chosen One with unbearable expectation thrust upon him, Harry was a Seeker.

There was just him and the open sky. Chasing Golden Snitches and dodging Bludgers.

The games utilised one of the Weasley’s Snitches. Harry couldn’t bring himself to part with the one Malfoy gave him.

Despite Charlie’s hiatus from any kind of competitive Quidditch, he hadn’t seemed to lose his touch. Harry, on the other hand? Well, it took him a few games to get back in the swing of things. Day after day, game after game, they went head to head in games that gave Harry a run for his Gringotts vault.

But once Harry’s game came back, there was no stopping him.

A day before New Year’s Eve, Harry managed to track down the Snitch only five minutes after the game started. Ending things so soon, however, didn’t quite appeal to him, so he pretended to lose sight of it.

After a thrilling chase that ended with Harry catching the Snitch, he whooped and hollered all the way down to the ground.

Just as he began making his way back to the house, though, Ginny called out to him. Harry paused and turned to find her effortlessly descending the final feet from air to ground before elegantly hopping off the handle of her broom, fiery red hair flapping in the breeze.

Eyes bright and cheeks tinged a pleasant shade of pink against her pale, freckled skin, Harry briefly mourned the connection he’d once shared with her. They were better off friends—a fact both of them had known for a while, but were quite reluctant to face head on—but he couldn’t help but wonder ‘What If?’

It’d been Ginny, in the end, who’d been brave enough to end things. She’d always been brave. It’d been one of the things he loved about her. For all of Harry’s heroics, he could stand to learn that lesson from her.

“All right, Gin?” Harry asked as Ginny came to a stop in front of him.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replied, waving him off. “I’ll get straight to it, then.”

Harry immediately felt himself go rigid. He took in her posture: back straight, arms crossed over her chest, and decided he must be in trouble.

“Keep your hair on,” she chuckled, whacking Harry’s elbow with her gloved hand. “It’s nothing bad. It’s actually quite good.”

“Oh?”

She took a split step forward, and then another, until she was a forearm’s length away. “I’ve heard Hermione and Ron talking, and I know you still haven’t figured out what to do once you’re through with Hogwarts.”

Eyes at once narrowed, Harry’s eyes zipped around the back garden, keen on finding the pair of traitors. He’d only managed a few seconds of perusing before Ginny whacked him again. “Ow,” he huffed, rubbing at his elbow. “Can you please stop doing that?”

“Don’t go off on them. They’re just worried about you. We all are.”

Harry could barely stand to look at her with all of the genuine concern in her kind, brown eyes. He did his best not to think about his future. It made living day to day more bearable, especially after seven years of nothing but planning ahead for the next big catastrophe. He’d done nothing all summer but move around the Burrow like a ghost. Sleeping, staring off into space, and sleeping again—only sometimes remembering to eat.

“My point is,” continued Ginny, “is that you’ve not lost your Seeker skills. And I think if it were something you wanted to do, you could easily play Quidditch professionally.”

Harry snorted. “Thanks a lot, Gin. I’ve been in need of a good laugh.”

Ginny, however, wasn’t laughing. She was staring at him, eyes hard and lips pursed.

Harry’s laughter tapered off. “Aren’t you having me on?”

“No, Harry, I’m not.”

“I can’t go pro.”

“And why not?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him, face rivalling Molly for stern.

And though the question was simple, as excuses ebbed and flowed through Harry’s head, he realised none of them were good enough. Without a war, without an end goal, he really had all the options in the world available to him.

But what really gave him pause, was Malfoy’s voice in his head telling him he could bloody well do whatever he wanted now.

Harry bit his lip and hesitantly met Ginny’s eyes. “You really think I could?”

Ginny’s answering grin made it impossible for Harry not to mirror it. “Fuck yes, Harry! I reckon all you’d need to do is find someone back at Hogwarts to keep you fresh.”

Calls for tea drew their attention, and they both turned and started walking back to the Burrow.

“Yeah, not all of us could bugger off school and jump straight into training camps,” he teased, rolling his eyes.

Ginny stuck out her tongue at him. “Damn right.”

And just like that, another knot in Harry’s chest loosed, the future not quite as scary.

**

On New Year’s Eve, Harry cracked.

All throughout hols, he’d kept his Snitch nestled in the front pouch of his hoodie where he could have easy access to it. In hindsight, it wasn’t the best move, not for Harry’s Malfoy-Free-Hol Plan.

So, after over a week of seeing happy Weasley couples, and having the heavy weight of his Snitch on his person, Harry wrote to Malfoy. It took several drafts, because he didn’t want to come across as weird or needy. But after he filled the bin with discarded parchment, he went with his gut and sent Pigwideon on his way.

Morning turned into afternoon, and still, no response from Malfoy. Harry’s thoughts weren’t his ally, and he ran through every scenario, every mistake he might’ve made in his missive that would tempt Malfoy to not respond. Surely, Harry thought, this must be what going truly mad felt like.

The Weasleys’ New Year’s Party came not a moment too soon, Firewhisky and champagne doing their best to distract Harry.

The wireless blared in the background while everyone laughed and mingled, ready to ring in the new year. Nineteen ninety-nine. For the better part of the last year, Harry hadn’t even thought he’d make it to eighteen, let alone a new year altogether.

The revelry successfully distracted Harry, but only until midnight, when he had to watch the New Year’s kisses. He ached. An ache so profound that his chest actually hurt and he struggled to breathe.

All at once, the music was too loud and the Burrow too stifling. He needed to get out. Needed to ground himself.

Once outside, Harry walked out a few yards before stopping where the last of the light illuminated the ground. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Malfoy.

It felt extremely cheesy, like every sappy romantic comedy he’d seen Aunt Petunia whinge over, but he couldn’t help it. The biting whorls of winter wind colliding with his pinked skin, hints of pine and snow and cinnamon flitting about the air—Harry couldn’t help but gaze contentedly, longingly up into the sky. Couldn’t help but look directly into the pale beams of moonlight bathing him from the expanse of a twinkling night sky and wonder if Malfoy was doing the same.

Somewhere in Wiltshire, from that gothic stone behemoth of a Manor, was Malfoy looking up at the same moon—the very same light cutting across his sharp cheekbones, illuminating his grey eyes into deep pools of molten silver—and thinking of Harry? Probably not, he decided, his disappointed sigh morphing into a pooling cloud in front of him.

Harry couldn’t quite imagine Draco Malfoy would do anything so common as pine, or stare wistfully into the sky. But that didn’t stop him from hoping. Didn’t stop his chest from constricting with the force of it, or his heart from beating so hard in his chest he felt it in his fingertips.

It didn’t stop Harry from wishing that Draco missed Harry as much as he missed Draco. But Merlin, he missed him so bloody much.

Three months ago Harry would’ve looked sideways at anyone who suggested he’d be friends with Draco Sodding Malfoy, let alone miss him. But he couldn’t hide from the fact. Couldn’t bury it under heaps of excuses, either.

The thought of returning to Hogwarts for the new term without detentions to look forward to threatened to send Harry to his knees. But fuck if thoughts like that didn’t make him want to run and hide.

It was far too easy to pretend like what he felt was normal when he decidedly ignored it—refused at every moment of the day to name it more like. Harry knew himself, though. And he knew that once he admitted it to himself there’d be no turning back.

Harry James Potter didn’t do things half-way.

An indeterminate amount of time later, the chill in the air made a move to numb the tip of Harry’s nose. He’d properly bollocksed up by not putting on his jumper before trudging out into the snow, and now he’d paid the price for it. A shiver wracked its way through Harry’s body, shattering the last vestiges of Malfoy in his head.

Harry was more than glad to hear Ron’s voice slice through the stifling silence of the night. “You out there, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry called back. His throat burned from the strain of disuse, and he swore he could feel shards of ice fall off his vocal cords.

“He’s out here, Hermione.” Snow crunched softly behind him at a fast, frantic pace, and then Ron appeared beside him, shuffling in place. “Blimey, mate,” Ron breathed, hugging his arms close to his chest, hands tucked under his armpits. “It’s freezing. What’re you doing out here?”

Harry swallowed and kept his eyes trained on the distant orbs of light flickering from Ottery St Catchpole. “Just needed some time to think.” He could see the understanding flicker across Ron’s face from the corner of his eye, and it made Harry grateful. So bloody grateful.

Ron didn’t get enough credit for his tact; not from his family, and unfortunately, not from Harry or Hermione. Ron knew how to read Harry, and Harry knew that Ron wouldn’t push him, wouldn’t make him say why it was he came outside, even though they both know. It was too much in there, so I wanted to be alone.

Wind blew around them, and Harry watched the clouds of breath drift away with each gust. He cherished the last few moments of companionable silence, because he knew Ron meant to talk to him about something.

“Been a nice holiday, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Really nice.”

“I think Fred would be happy that we’ve managed without him.” Ron’s blue eyes sparkled in the light as they cut Harry a glance. “He’d want us to be happy. Don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” Harry agreed. Fred wouldn’t have wanted them to wallow.

“And are you?”

“Am I what? Happy?”

“Yeah.”

Harry found the question odd, but even still, he couldn’t help but feel like he was getting there. “I think so. At least, I think I’m getting there.”

“You seemed pretty happy near the end of term,” he said, gazing intently at Harry. “Particularly after starting detention.”

Bursts of laughter rang out into the night sky, leaking out through the gap of the cracked kitchen window. The last thing Harry wanted was to have this conversation, let alone have it with Ron.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” he lied, peering out into the black wall of twilight.

“Come off it, Harry. I know I can be thick, but not about this.”

“Not about what?” Hermione joined them, standing on Harry’s other side and sliding her arm effortlessly through his.

Ron craned his neck forward to look at her. “You know,” he said, eyes widening and eyebrows climbing his forehead. “That thing.”

A silent conversation took place right before Harry’s eyes, outrageous facial expressions and all.

“Oh.” Hermione gasped. “That thing. The one we’ve been talking about for months?”

“Yes! That one.”

“What?” Harry squawked. “You’ve been talking about it?”

“I thought you didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Erm…well—you see. I—”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, oh so gently, her other hand coming up to wrap around his bicep. “You don’t have to tell us anything if you’re not ready to. We love you and just want you to be happy.”

“She’s right,” chimed in Ron. “We’ll be right here waiting with large, eager, open ears to hear whatever it is you’ve got to say.”

Ron put his arm around Harry’s shoulder, reaching over and putting his hand on Hermione’s head. All at once, things were just the same as they’d always been. Just the three of them against the world. Except older. And so much better.

In the distance, a screech drew their attention. It took a few seconds for the shape to morph out of the wall of darkness. But eventually, a large eagle owl swooped down and landed on Harry’s empty shoulder with a slip of parchment attached to its leg. Harry hissed when it impatiently pecked his neck. As he unrolled it, the clean cursive immediately put a goof smile on his face.

“Who’s it from?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Nobody,” Harry replied, though he did an awful job at taming his smile.

“Yuck,” Ron mock gagged. “Let’s go back in, ‘Mione, and leave Harry to his ‘nobody’.” They untangled themselves from Harry’s side, wrapping themselves in each other as they walked back towards the buzzing Burrow.

As Harry read the note, it became increasingly clear that his initial fears were totally unfounded. It was very clear that Malfoy missed Harry—the sarcasm dripping from every word gave the git away. Giddy and smitten, Harry devoured the rest of the note, an idea forming in his mind.

**

The first feast back at Hogwarts in the new year tasted just as amazing as ever, but there was a small part of it tainted by the thought that it was Harry’s last. That part, however, didn’t stick around for long, because Harry spent the larger part of dinner trying to not be obvious about staring at Malfoy. Harry itched to get him alone and put his plan in motion.

Malfoy’s gaze slid to Harry’s own every so often, a small private smile shared between them. Once dinner ended, though, Harry’s effort to cross the Great Hall was impeded by the mass exodus of students back to their houses, and Harry lost track of Malfoy.

With the Marauder’s Map packed up safely in his trunk back in Gryffindor Tower, Harry was left to do it the old fashioned way.

Likely, Malfoy had gone to study somewhere, as he was wont to do (his work ethic and mind rivalled Hermione, not that Harry’d ever tell her that!) and Harry’s first instinct meant he found himself outside the room where everything changed for them. Instead of a studious Malfoy, all he found was the same door, sealed shut. Harry pressed his ear up against it, but he heard nothing inside, and all he managed to get was a cold ear.

After that, Harry checked the Astronomy Tower, the long trek up nearly winding him. It was a good thing Harry’s plan involved lots of training, because if he truly wanted to go pro—which the more he’d thought about it since his talk with Ginny, he realised he very much wanted to—he’d need to get in better shape. Again, Harry came up empty handed. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. And, true to his word, there was no one else there, either.

Harry didn’t particularly feel like visiting the Slytherin common room, so he decided to try one last place.

With the lateness of the hour and it being the first day back, Harry knew the library wouldn’t be too busy. There were some students peppered about, mostly Ravenclaws, but they thankfully left Harry alone as he meandered through the space, eyes carefully roving. He was about to give up, when out of the corner of his eye, tucked in a corner near the back stacks, Harry spotted a shock of white hidden behind the cover of a thick tome.

“Wasn’t expecting to find you here,” Harry said, walking up to the table and perching on the edge.

Slowly, the book in front of Malfoy’s face came down, and Harry got to see the smirk he’d come to love. “Looking for me, were you?”

“And if I was?” Harry quipped, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms.

Malfoy leaned back in his seat, dragging his eyes slowly up and down Harry’s body. Excruciatingly slow. Every inch of Harry’s skin burned under his robes, scorched with Malfoy’s personal brand. “Well,” he said, crossing one leg over his knee, “you’ve found me. What is it you wanted?”

“Erm. Right. I wanted to ask you something.”

Almost imperceptibly, Malfoy’s pupils dilated, lips parting just slightly. “Yes?”

“I’ve decided I want to pursue professional Quidditch. And I was wondering if you’d train with me?”

“Oh.” Harry could tell Malfoy was disappointed, but all that meant to Harry was that his plan had more than a chance at being successful. Malfoy recovered his composure quickly enough. “Yes, all right. I was the only one who could ever give you a run for your Galleons anyhow.”

“Yeah. Never did quite win, though. Did you?”

“Aren’t you meant to be asking me for help?” he asked, eyes narrowed. “You’d do well not to upset me, I should think.”

“I’m just taking the piss,” Harry laughed, scooting back on the table and closer to Malfoy. He placed his hand on top of Malfoy’s own, pale and limp and there. “I’d be really grateful.”

Malfoy looked up at him with wide, round eyes. Then, he swallowed, and Harry couldn’t be bothered to stop himself from tracking the movement. Tracking the way pale, creamy skin rippled. Harry barely contained the urge to reach out and lick him.

“Yes,” Malfoy croaked. He cleared his throat. “You would be quite lucky to have me, I imagine.”

“Yeah,” Harry mused, “I would be.”

Breathing became quite laboured for both of them, and after a moment or two of intense eye contact, Harry thought something might finally happen. Until—

“Studying!”

“Huh?”

Parchment scattered around the table suddenly became very interesting for Malfoy. He rustled through them grabbing one after the other. “You’re distracting me from my studies. If you stay any longer, your aversion to school may pass on to me.”

“You’re an odd one, Draco Malfoy, you know that?”

“You have no idea.”

Harry hopped off the table with a chuckle. “Night, Malfoy. I’ll be in touch about Quidditch.”

Head buried in another book, Malfoy answered, “Goodnight, Potter.”

**

In all of Harry’s fantasies, training with Malfoy may have been only a third actual Quidditch, and two thirds…other things.

But as his luck would have it, Malfoy was a staunch advocate for Harry’s hypothetical professional career and wouldn’t take it easy on him.

They trained morning and night, day after day. No weather stopped them. They flew through the bleak frigid remains of winter and into the downpour of spring. Every session began with laps around the pitch, which Malfoy timed with an old fashioned stopwatch. It only took Harry a week of whinging to get Malfoy to run the laps with him. Once through with that, they moved on to Seeker’s games.

Harry won a lopsided amount of them to start, but once Malfoy got back into form, the games were surprisingly competitive. It took Harry right back to their days on the same pitch flying under their house colours. Now, though, there was no Cup on the line, only Harry’s future. The prospect didn’t frighten him as much as it probably should have. But after everything Harry had faced in his short life, he supposed there wasn’t much left that could.

Between training and studying for N.E.W.T.s, which Harry and Malfoy had begun to do together, the tension between them was reaching a fever pitch. It coloured every interaction they had, and Harry knew it was only a matter of time.

At the beginning of May, about a week before N.E.W.T.s, Harry and Malfoy were in the sky chasing after the Snitch. Malfoy still hadn’t managed to beat Harry, but there was something different about the day. Harry could feel it like a bolt of lightning or a steady current of electricity coursing through him.

Harry’s Firebolt soared through the air, cutting through the wind with the ease of a red-hot knife. And Malfoy was right behind him. Inferior broom or no, he kept pace, weaving from front to back in an effort to throw Harry off. The Snitch sparkled in the bright afternoon sun, a taunting talisman eluding both of them. Even in the roaring breeze, Harry could hear both of them breathing heavily, exerting everything they had into the chase. The Snitch flew towards the middle hoop before changing course and dropping towards the ground.

Harry and Malfoy followed with no hesitation, their brooms groaning in protest at the sudden change. The wind beat into them, a barrage of the elements, and Harry had to blink back tears threatening to fall.

The Snitch showed no signs of slowing, barrelling faster and faster towards the ground. Harry wouldn’t back down, and he knew Malfoy wouldn’t either. They shot towards the earth at a frantic pace, and when the Snitch levelled out and glided just above the ground, both of them matched it, desperately pulling up on the handles of their brooms.

Harry leaned forward in an effort to make him go just a little faster, but then Malfoy was there.

Next to him. Edging forward.

Harry grunted, stretching out his arm, desperate to reach out and grab the Snitch with his finger tips.

He gained ground, matching Malfoy, but then Malfoy was reaching too, long arm placing his fingertips just centimetres from the fluttering Snitch.

Malfoy threw his shoulder back and lunged for the Snitch, and Harry knew at once he had no shot.

Instead, he threw himself over and collided straight into Malfoy.

They crashed to the ground, a heap of tangled limbs, brooms flung somewhere to the side, cries of pain leaving their lips. Harry squeezed his eyes shut until the world felt like it stopped moving.

He felt something solid beneath him, and when Harry was able to pry his eyes open, he discovered he was right on top of Malfoy.

“Sorry,” he groaned. But Malfoy didn’t respond. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at Harry.

Instead, Malfoy was looking off to the side at his outstretched arm. In his hand he held the Snitch, wings jerking about. On his face was a look of pure, unadulterated joy. No sneers, no smirks. Only an open look and a private smile.

Malfoy had beaten him, and Harry didn’t even care. Instead, the last of his resolve finally shattered.

“Can I kiss you?” Harry breathed, staring down at Malfoy with what felt like so much adoration and longing he feared he might burst.

Slowly, Malfoy’s eyes landed on Harry’s face. “What?”

Sunlight beamed down on them, Harry’s back blocking the rays from directly hitting Malfoy and casting him in an ethereal glow. His hair looked like molten white gold, and his eyes deep pools of silver. Harry wanted so badly to kiss him, he burned with it.

“I’m sorry. I’m mad for you. I thought you knew that. And I just really want to kiss you. Well, I have for a while now and—”

“Harry.”

Hearing his name made Harry stop abruptly. That wasn’t something they did, call each other by their first names. It made his heart swell, hope bursting through him from head to toe. “Yes?”

“Kiss me. I want you to.”

Time stopped as Harry leant down, heart hammering in his chest. He removed his arm from where it was twisted underneath them and finally—finally, christ—ran a finger through Malfoy’s—no, Draco’s hair, sweeping his fringe away from his face. A puff of breath collided with his lips, and then there was nothing but bliss. An all-encompassing sense of rightness. Nothing like the other kisses he’d ever had.

They fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle. It started out soft, tentative. Careful, almost. The complete opposite of everything their relationship had ever been. But then, Draco moaned, and Harry could feel the vibration in his lips. He sat up without breaking the kiss and bracketed his legs on either side of Draco’s body. He deepened the kiss, moans of his own slipping out on their own.

Draco groaned into it, pushing himself up slightly on one elbow to meet Harry’s renewed interest. Harry felt drunk on the contact, felt like there was nothing in the world that could beat this feeling. His body felt consumed by it, hyper aware of every place their bodies touched. Slightly opening his lips, Harry flicked his tongue against the seam of Draco’s lips. Draco accepted, and their kiss deepened again, accompanied by more groans, more thrusting hips looking for purchase.

Draco’s free arm draped across the back of Harry’s shoulders, his fingers playing with the unruly hair at the nape of Harry’s neck. He tugged, and Harry’s moaned into Draco’s mouth, a feral, broken thing. Draco answered in kind, arching his back up off the ground. His fingers left Harry’s hair and slowly trailed down his back, leaving a line of heat in their wake.

Just as Draco’s fingers threatened to push into the waistband of Harry’s trousers, cackles rang out through the air. Their bubble of intimacy popped, and the laughs only got louder.

Breaking the kiss, Draco sat up and groaned murderously. “I’ll kill them.”

“Other people are allowed to use the pitch, Draco,” Harry laughed, carding his fingers through Draco’s hair—which was even softer than Harry imagined.

At the use of his name, Draco melted, hiding his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, placing wet kisses along the way. “We’re busy. We have a lot of time to make up for.”

“Yeah, we do,” Harry said distantly, an idea forming in his mind.

Body still sore, Harry gingerly got off of Draco, groaning all the way up to his feet. Then, he offered his hand to Draco, a smile on his face. “Come with me.”

Draco cast a scathing look to the small group now breaching the pitch, but still, he took Harry’s hand. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, nowhere special. Just some room.”

Then, they broke out in a run towards the castle.

Back to the room that changed everything.