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Chapter Text

It started, as if often did, with an idle thought, one he’d had a million times. It went something like, what if, in the very beginning, Potter had agreed to be his friend? Couldn’t that have changed everything?

He was reminding himself of the thought’s absurdity when he tripped over an extended foot and sprawled onto the cold, stone ground. 

The culprit laughed. Didn’t see you there, Malfoy. So sorry. 

Didn’t see him? Ha, Father would hear about this…is what he might have said, once upon a time. With grim amusement, he thought, alas, times had changed… Smoothing away the pained grimace marring his face, he swept a cool gaze over the offending Hufflepuff (what even was his name) and noted with satisfaction the hint of fear bubbling beneath the bravado. There was a note of unease in the snickers of the onlookers. The kid and his gaggle of friends took a uniform step back when he rose. 

Fools, he sighed, dusting off his robes. After the cruciatus, after sectumsempra, did they really think that a scraped knee, a bruised ego…? Hufflepuffs! He tossed a silent sneer over his shoulder and walked on, already forgetting the incident. It was of no moment. His thoughts were far away. 

They had, in fact, wandered back to that perennial daydream. Most absurd, but…what if? 

A memory surfaced: Madam Malkin’s on that perfectly pleasant day—every day back then was perfectly pleasant—the lazy sunshine of a mild August streaming through the windows; his chest puffed out excitement as he stood next to Potter on a stool. He couldn’t remember what he’d actually said, probably something ridiculously arrogant. But what was it he wanted to say? Hullo, your eyes are awfully green. Hullo, I’ve never seen the likes of you before. Hullo, I’m actually just excited to meet a new person, d’you want to get an ice cream after? 

Potter had been awfully quick to write him off, that stupid sod. 

All right, forget that. What if, instead, he’d intercepted Potter that first day on the train, before Weasley got to him? He could imagine a different conversation, or no conversation. He could've salvaged the poor beginning. He could’ve plied Potter with chocolate frogs, instead of talk of purebloods. No one could resist chocolate frogs.

What if he’d hung onto Potter at the sorting, like he’d wanted to. He’d talk up Slytherin—well, talk it up better than he had. He’d infect Potter’s thoughts, at least a little bit, and couldn’t that have made all the difference?

Imagine if they could’ve played on Quidditch on the same team!

Imagine if Potter could’ve shielded him from Father over the holidays…

Imagine if…and there were infinite ifs, innumerable permutations, small details Draco dreamt up in the dead of the night when the Deatheaters prowled, minor modulations year after year couldn’t have mattered, but invariably did. They paved the way to a different ending, a better ending, as it were, than the one he got. The one he deserved, no doubt. The one he was living. If only…

Absentmindedly, Draco turned a corner and collided hard into a hard chest. 

“Fuck. I mean, sorry—oh.”

The thoughts dancing round and round in Draco’s head vanished. He stood still, blinking slowly at the bright green eyes that walked right out of his daydream. “Potter,” he whispered.

“…Malfoy…”

Potter’s eyes narrowed; his whole body tensed. Draco could see his hand on his wand in his back pocket; it provoked a glimmer of a wan smirk. As if Draco could, at this point… He gave Potter a lazy nod, which boy-hero returned, tersely. And then Potter was walking away again. 

Draco wasn’t sure what got to him. Maybe he was lightheaded from skipping lunch. Or maybe it was that he’d caught Potter alone, for the first time in forever. Or maybe there was just nothing to lose now. Nothing left to lose at all. 

“Potter, wait.” 

The footsteps paused. Potter turned to look at him, guarded and uncertain. 

“Do you ever wonder . . . if we could’ve been friends?”

Lumos.

The light flickering at the end of his wand was so faint that it was near invisible. Still, there was light, and that meant something, didn’t it?

He heard Greg laugh in the darkness. “I thought you were getting a new wand.”

A bit difficult, as it turned out, when the premier wandmaker had been shut up in your dungeons for weeks on end. 

“There are other wandmakers.” 

“Never mind all that, Greg. This will do.”

He toyed with the wand, familiar yet foreign, indulging again in his memories with a hollow smile: his irrepressible excitement when the wand had first responded to him on that perfectly pleasant day in August; his helpless despair when Potter wrestled it from him at the manor; his dull bemusement when Potter handed it back again during a break at his trial… 

Sorry I … uh … kept it so long, Potter had said in that gruff, awkward way of his. Draco would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so out of it. His fingertips accidentally brushed against Potter’s when the wand exchanged hands; they both flinched. The wand—that traitor of a wand—still swirled with remnants of Potter’s magic.

It had been a suitably dark day, frigid though it was summer, a perfect embodiment of England’s natural gloom. The rain fell in sheets, splattering against the ground in an almost violent way. Potter disappeared behind a curtain of precipitation before Draco remembered to say thank you. 

Focillo, he’d whispered, huddling outside the building without much hope. He was shivering so hard he almost dropped the wand. But, miracle of all miracles, a faint warmth spread from his wand up his trembling fingers. It wasn't enough to warm him through, but he let out a shuddering sigh of relief anyway. So, the wand hadn’t completely switched allegiance. Or, perhaps he and Potter were not entirely misaligned. Or, at the very least…

“Listen, Greg, I had a thought.”

Greg grunted noncommittally.

“It’s about Potter.” A snort now, full of derision. Are they ever about anything else, Draco could hear him thinking. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t an idle daydream, a fantastical rewrite of the past. “No, really. I was thinking, what if I tried to befriend him now?”

The silence stretched so long that Draco began to wonder if Greg heard him, or if he’d spoken at all. So he continued, his words coming out in a breathless pitter patter of syllables, if only to fill that silence. It’s not too late, really, and it's not impossible, despite everything. People change. He can change, I can change. And you weren’t there, Greg, you didn’t see his reaction. Of course, Potter was surprised, of course he was suspicious, of course he didn’t say yes, but he didn't say no, and that meant something. And more importantly—this was key—among all the emotions that flashed across those guarded green eyes, there had been a distinct absence of…hatred. Of revulsion. 

“And I can still use this wand, can’t I?”

“So?”

“Don’t be daft, Greg. It means, obviously, that Potter can’t hate me all that much. So there’s hope.”

“You’re speculating.”

Draco made a face—where had Greg learned such big words? “Maybe he even likes me a little, deep down. You know, feel the kind of begrudging respect one has for a worthy adversary. We’ve been at it for so long, he must…” 

“You think Potter finds you a worthy adversary—” Draco's frown deepened. What had gotten into Greg today? 

“—Do you have a better idea? Potter can rehabilitate... Greg, you know the problem with you?" He was beginning to grow incoherent. "It's just that we have to—we can’t just—“ They had to do something. Otherwise they'd just be sitting ducks. To wait would only prolong the torture. There would be no exam honors, no job prospects, no place in society. There was no future for people like them, didn’t Greg understand? He wanted to walk across the dark room and shake the stubborn giant by the shoulders. Father would understand. Not that Father should serve as an example, after … but Father had saved their family from ruin after the last war despite all odds, had made it grander even, so why couldn’t Draco? He was a Malfoy too; he was a Slytherin. He could swallow his pride and bury his feelings and bide his time, do whatever it took, if that meant…

And it didn’t have to be friendship, really. Draco wasn't that delusional. Just an acknowledgement, a public sense of forgiveness, really. Potter was the quickest way.

“Potter could save us, Greg,” he said. Even without Greg's response, the hopelessness of it all weighed on him as he voiced these final, desperate thoughts. The light at the end of his wand dimmed even more; it would be extinguished in a second. Forgiveness from Potter at this point, after everything? Just a wild pipe dream, and they both knew it. “But I could try…I should try…” His mumbling trailed off uncertainly. 

“You should get some sleep,” Greg said quietly. Draco heard his sheets rustle as he nestled deeper into bed. “Good night, Draco.”

The light died at last and darkness swallowed the room. Draco stared up at the ceiling with dull, grey eyes. He would stare until his eyes dried out and forcibly drift shut; only then would he let his nightmares catch up to him. 

“Good night, Greg.”  

And, good night, Vince, wherever you might be.

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t, after all, make further overtures of friendship to Potter.  

He had stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep, then woken up with a pounding heart from a bout of nightmares, terrifying twists on already terrifying memories. They reminded him that what he’d done was, perhaps, unforgivable, and that if he were Potter, he certainly wouldn’t bother with Draco. No amount of heroic magnanimity...Greg was right, he determined with a yawn; best not to embarrass himself. Best to just bear out this year and hope that Father had enough squirreled away to fund the rest of his life, or at least until the Wizarding world collectively moves on. Draco had always been weak like that. 

“You aren’t going to eat?” Pansy prodded at breakfast, when Draco didn't even bother grabbing himself a plate. “Is it because of last week? Because I get that it was horrifying, but you’ve got to eat, Draco.” Draco merely shook his head and gathered the packet of sweets his mother had owled, sauntering away. He’d eat later…maybe…

By Potions, his exhausted brain had begun to spiral again. It was Slughorn, the way he paced up and down that stuffy dungeon room with that self-smug face and pretentious lilt to his voice—it inevitably conjured thoughts of Snape, that man's natural superiority. But this led to thoughts of other things that were not so pleasant. At some point, when his eyes began to burn uncomfortably, his thoughts turned to lighter memories, i.e. all the stupid shit he'd pulled on Potter in Potions over the years, and that made him smile. It was funny, rather, how Snape had egged him on... 

And that again got him thinking, because he couldn't help himself, if Snape hadn’t took the tack he did, would everything have been different? 

“Mr. Malfoy, a little more vigor in the stirring, if you please.”

He did not so please, but Draco smiled graciously and did as asked, which is to say, he was vigorous in stirring and lethargic in mind. In any event, Potter had forgiven Snape. Potter! Singing that man's praises to the Prophet! How the world had turned upside down, was poor Severus rolling in his grave? Or was that what he had wanted all along, the stupid fucking martyr of a man...

But look, if Potter could forgive Snape, then what’s to say he wouldn’t, in a few months, forgive—

“Draco!”

Draco jumped in the nick of time; the cauldron clattered away harmlessly and Slughorn charmed away its hot liquid before it could do real damage. Still, a few drops had splattered on his arm, burning through his shirt sleeve, and then his skin. 

“Ten points from Ravenclaw,” for Hopkins’ clumsiness around the classroom. Draco studied the angry red boils forming on the back of his arm. Only ten points, Slughorn? 

And was it really clumsiness?

Oh, but what did it matter? 

He ran into Nott while roaming aimlessly through the corridors and was surprised when the other boy called out to him. He remembered then, that it was Nott who’d yelled his name just now and saved him from deeper wounds. He murmured a half-hearted thanks. 

“Draco, you didn’t go to Pomfrey’s, did you?”

Draco waived his hand carelessly. It didn't matter; the blisters would heal in time. Unlike the mark on the other side of his wrist. 

Nott surprised him again by catching his hand and pressing in it a small container of something or other. Draco pulled away sharply, as if burned.

“You’re still mad at me?” Nott asked, soulful brown eyes marked with disappointment. 

No, he just didn’t like to be touched. But he didn’t want to explain all that, did he, so he pasted on his customary sneer, or a tired approximation of it, and said, “No, I’m happy for you.” Which was sincere, actually. Despite all odds, Nott had been wily enough to align himself with the right side, which was more than could be said for Draco. Far it be from him to begrudge a fellow Slytherin for climbing up in life, especially a Slytherin with Nott’s pedigree. It brought him hope, if anything. “I’m toxic right now, I get it. So, what are you doing here?”

“You're not...look, it's hard right now, but it'll get better. I'm not trying to avoid you, Draco,” Nott pleaded. Draco, Nott insisted on calling him; how uncivilized he'd become with this change in alliance. Were they so chummy that—"I’ve known you since we were kids! You know that I’ve always—”

He pattered on, something about their family's longstanding friendship, and using the salve he’d just gifted, etc. etc. Honestly, Draco barely heard him. He’d suddenly caught sight of Potter downstairs on the ground floor, trudging towards the Great Hall. He was flanked by Granger and Weasley as always, but he drifted a pace or two behind, seemingly a world apart. The boy hero's face remained impressively impassive, even as his two friends talked right over him, even as the adoring masses scrutinized him from all sides. 

Draco leaned over the banister and squinted. He wondered if there wasn’t a new gravitas to this post-war version of Potter, a Potter who was no longer tensed and hunched with suspicions or anger, but who walked with his shoulders back and his head high, who knew he'd won... 

“Draco, are you listening?”

All his life, Draco’d wanted nothing more than to prove that he was just as good—if not better—than stupid Harry Potter, that it was stupid Potter’s loss for rejecting his friendship in the first place. But look at them now! Harry Potter was still the hero that he was always destined to be, and Draco… Merlin, it was so rich he could laugh. 

“Draco?”

“Yes, yes, I heard you.” Use the salve and whatnot. Draco sighed softly. 

What did it matter?

As it turned out, the blisters were slow to heal, despite Nott's best salve. And the days were slow to pass, despite Draco’s fervent wishes. The putrid heat of a long summer remained entrenched until the end of September, and every day, the small accidents and embarrassments accumulated. It didn't bother Draco, per se, but it did begin to wear him down.  It was when Draco had all but despaired of surviving the year in one piece, that providence, unexpectedly, tossed him a bone.

It was late Friday night, and the Slytherins, though subdued, couldn’t quite resist the teenage impulse to celebrate. Draco snuck his way out of a rowdy common room, unnoticed, and roamed aimlessly until his feet carried him out and away, far, far away. Almost trance-like, he drifted to the Quidditch pitch. A sharp breeze ripped through the grounds, cutting across his face as he climbed into the bleachers, higher and higher. Go back in, whispered the winds, where it’s warm and bright…There was not a soul out here, only a delicious, liberating silence save for the howling of the wind. He plopped onto a bench--Slytherin side, of course--and stayed there. 

Mother had sent him a box of Belgian chocolates. How she'd gotten it while under house arrest remained a mystery, but she always resourceful when it came to things that mattered. Draco tugged his coat closer and popped one in, savoring the complicated bitter-sweet from a premium chocolatier. He wished he could fly, came the stray thought, just steal broom and zip around a bit. But how could he? A gurgle of laughter in self-mockery. He was off the team; flight was banned; they didn't even need to tell him. And he was in no position to catch McGonagall's eye now...no, best sit here in the numbing cold and bask in the silence. Soon enough, there'd be one less day to endure. Who's counting?

He didn't realize someone was flying until the person had zipped right past him. A flash of Gryffindor red, a slice of cold autumnal air, and suddenly Potter was before him in all his glory.  

Of course it would be Potter. Draco beheld him with startled, wide eyes, momentarily speechless. 

"Malfoy."

Say what you will of Potter, but at least he stuck with Malfoy--none of that first name nonsense--he said Malfoy with that tinge with prewar suspicion, as if nothing had changed, as if Draco were still up to no good. He'd hopped off his broom now and was towering over Draco not two feet away, body taut beneath the Weasley jumper and worn blue jeans. No wand yet, but his eyes—those Slytherin green eyes—glinted hard in the dark, and his lips were set in a tight grim line; there was something ever slightly intimidating about all this. Just ever so slightly. 

Draco rose leisurely from his seat, drawling out a lazy, "Potter," as if his heart weren't pounding from adrenaline. 

"What are you doing out here?"

What does it fucking look like? —was Draco's first thought.  Because really, here was Potter riding out his illicit dream of flying solo in an empty pitch. Harry fucking Potter who continued to get away with everything, because he's saved the Wizarding world seven times over, or was it eight now, oh please.  Here he was, towering over Draco with that authoritative, grim face, as if he were some mini-auror apprehending a Deatheater, which Draco was, but—all the old feelings came rushing back; a sneer had almost formed on his cold-pale face. 

And then he froze.

Because this, this was the bone tossed by providence, was it not? What could it be, if not providential, for he and Potter to meet alone out here on this starless, moonless night?

Potter could save us, Greg.

What if? The perennial what if!

Draco took a deep breath. The sneer flattened into a smile, of sorts, stiff but uncontroversial. He controlled his voice as best he could, ironing out the ire. He wouldn't let Potter get the better of him, not this time. "Came out for a walk, didn't I? Nice night. You, Potter?"

“You came all the way out here for a walk?”

“What’s it to” —another deep breath — “As a matter of fact, yes. Lovely evening, like I said. Figured I’d … get some peace out here.” 

Which was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but Potter replied with a quiet hm, as if he didn’t quite buy it, the wanker. Only, having decided on a course of action, Draco leaned back now on his heels with a show of ease. His initial fury had drained in all events; he was too tired to sustain that. He wanted to sit back down; he wished Potter would go away. He lobbed the question back at Potter a second time. “Well, what about you then? Come out for a fly, all by your lonesome self?” 

But Potter only stewed in silence, his lips still that tight line. If nothing else, it reaffirmed Draco’s prior opinions, that Potter was a boorish oaf for all his heroics, that he wouldn’t last a second at Mother’s galas, that… a sudden thought struck him. 

He could’ve plied Potter with chocolate frogs, instead of talk of purebloods. No one could resist chocolate frogs.

The thought came unbidden, but he couldn't quite dislodge it. He only had one frog, a childish treat he'd been saving for last, but it would be rather amusing, wouldn't it? His lips curled at the corners. Wouldn't Potter loosen up just a little bit if--ah, what the fuck, what was there to lose? He rummaged through his pockets under Potter's watchful eye and pulled out the frog, thrusting it towards Potter with an expression approaching obsequious. Better late than never, as they say. “Have one?” 

Potter stumbled back, as if Draco had instead proffered some cursed talisman. 

“Just a frog, Potter,” Draco murmured with a soft chortle, bloodless lips curling into an actual grin.  Hero of all Wizards, scared by a frog! “Or perhaps you’d prefer a real chocolate? I've got a box here, the hazelnut is...It's Belgian. Yes, well, the Malfoy gold is still worth something, ha…No? Fine, suit yourself, then."  Potter was staring at him with bespectacled confusion, still tense but unclear as to what he was defending against. Draco found that as good a result as any. He allowed a respectful beat of silence to pass before he pounced. "Say, Potter, since you've taken the trouble to come find me all the way out here, I might as well ask, have you given any more thought to what I’d said before?” 

Potter’s hand tightened over his broom and a hint of discomfort flashed across his face.

"I was only wondering, see." 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Malfoy.”

Didn’t he, though? Draco stared at him with baleful, grey eyes. Us. Our relationship. Couldn’t we just start over? Take the olive branch and whatnot, must he spell it out? 

Potter wet his dry, cracked lips and muttered,“You…we’ve settled everything, haven’t we? There’s nothing else…I gave you back your wand, and that's... I’ve nothing left to say, Malfoy.” 

"But--"

But it appeared that the last fragment of Potter's broken-up sentence was true.  In any event, he didn't allow Draco another word. With an inaudible mutter along the lines of got to go, he'd jumped up on his broom and was gone as suddenly as he'd come. Draco could hear him zip all the way across the pitch, landing with a soft swoosh near the broom shed. There was some clinking and clanking, the slamming of a door, and then Potter had stalked away. 

When Draco could see him no longer, when he was nothing more than an invisible dot on the pathway to the castle, he let out a disbelieving bark of laughter. Surely--but surely--the stupid sod’s hasn't gone and run away?  Surely, it wasn't so easy to discomfit the Harry Potter? A gleeful mirth bubbled up through his body; his thin shoulders shook with merriment. Bloody hell, Potter. He teetered back onto the cold, wooden bench with a smile.

The night was quiet again, and the wind gentler, ruffling through his long blond hair like a soft caress. Of course, his plan was still adrift, but no matter, because he'd managed to get under Potter's skin, after all, and Potter hadn't said no.  He had his chocolates, and his peace. There was time. 

Chapter Text

Harry Potter had no need for what ifs. Actively eschewed them, as a matter of fact.  

During a sleepless night over the summer, when the darkness of Grimmauld Place threatened to swallow him whole, he wondered if he wasn’t like a character in Dudley’s old video games, fighting enemy after enemy until he’d finally beaten the big boss. And if he took that analogy to its logical end, what’s next—oblivion or freedom? He’d like to think the latter. 

The common room was bustling in a cozy way.  He leaned back in his velvety armchair and basked in the warm glow of the cackling fire.  Near him, one group of kids were playing exploding snap, and another was hunched over homework.  The scene reminded Harry of his more innocent days, when the Wizarding World was still new and perfect in every way, when where there wasn’t the constant threat of war and death.  These were the days he had fought for, and won. 

He’d won what he wanted, so no what ifs, please. No could’ves, or should’ves, or would’ves, no thinking about sorry souls he’d lost along the way, because what if he could’ve—No. He’d walked out of the game; it was over and done; no looking back. 

“You okay, mate?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just you’re staring at the fire…real intense like.”

Harry socked Ron gently in the shoulder with a roll of his eyes. He was just blanking out, relaxing, no need to get all weird about it. Ron scrunched a nose—if you say so—but was called back to his chess game before he could further comment. And when did get around to his next question, Hermione swooped down on him like a mother hen and that was the end of Ron’s evening. 

“‘Mione, who the hell is going to care about our N.E.W.T scores?” Ron tried, but those types of arguments fell on deaf ears. It was the spirit of the thing that mattered to Hermione. Or maybe it was her way of coping, who knew. She was just setting her sights on Harry when, thankfully, fate intervened for him. Fate in the form of a pretty little redhead.

“Well, if Ginny’s here…” She trailed off uncertainly. Ron tugged her by the arm though, and with a grin and wink at Harry, drew her away. There was an unspoken expectation in both their faces…

Ginny perched herself on the arm of the chair, elegant in way that Harry hadn’t before noticed. A soft smile spread across his face, unbidden. She really was so, so beautiful.

“How’s it going?” 

They fell into a desultory conversation with half-lidded eyes where the words meant little and the tone meant more. Her voice, though now tinged with a touch of coy femininity, was still that voice he’d dreamt of during his darkest days. The one he'd longed to return to. 

And now that he’d won the game, why shouldn’t he get the girl?

“And next week,” she was beginning to say, brushing a ginger strand behind her ear. But at that very moment, Harry became distracted by some first years nearby. They were making a big commotion about something or other, and it was not until a few second later that Harry realized it was over the escape of a chocolate frog. The little creature had hopped right onto Harry’s leg and bounced away. Harry stared at the muddy imprint it left on his jeans.

He brushed off the profuse apologies from the first years, but all the while, he was thinking of something else: that chilly autumnal night, the long blond strands rippling in the wind, that pale, bony arm extended towards him, baring that haunting, nightmarish mark.  Have one, Malfoy had asked, as if Harry would ever say yes. As if Harry would buy the faux-goodwill in those calculating, steel eyes…

“Harry?” Ginny sounded worried now. He quickly smiled at her, dispelling all thoughts of Malfoy. There were more important things—Malfoy belonged to the past, and there was the present to think about, or the future, like asking Ginny on a date so they could talk, actually talk, and … he thought of the quiet expectation in Ron and Hermione’s faces … but no, they should really talk …

“Actually, I think I’m going to call it a night. A little tired, um. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Ginny uttered a bewildered oh, but what could she do but let him slip away? 

Look, he’d beaten the game, all right? So they had all the time in the world to talk. Why rush it?

Undeniably, and certainly against Harry’s will, Malfoy’s stupid antics put him back on Harry’s mind. Not in a weird, sixth-year-obsessive kind of way, but only as in, Harry was reminded of his existence again after a summer where he’d had too much else to think about.  As in, Harry idly began to register again that bright blond hair at the periphery of his vision. 

Malfoy wasn’t having it easy, that much Harry could tell. It wasn’t obvious, nothing that would call for professor intervention. Just small bruises here and there, some trips and falls and other unsavory accidents that could be hexes or…could not. It was the way he sat at the fringe of the table, with only Goyle for company; even Parkinson and the rest of his prior posse seemed wary of approach. It was the way he walked through the halls with hunched shoulders and vacant eyes, provoking the sidelong glances and angry whispers all around him.

There were rumors that someone had poisoned his soup or some such, and that he had vomited all night…

Okay, and, so what? Harry took all this in with a sort of grim satisfaction. It’s not that he particularly wished ill on anyone, only, why should Malfoy have it easy after half a decade of being a right arse? Yes, yes, the war was hard, but the war was hard on everyone and it hardly excused Malfoy’s prewar conduct, where he was essentially a rich, skinny version of Dudley. A bloody arrogant little tosser was Malfoy; bullies like that had it coming. 

No, Malfoy had made his bed and now he had to lie in it—Deatheater consequences and all. He was hardly entitled to—Harry was certainly not obliged—They’d helped each other out once, and Harry had testified in his favor and returned his wand, and they could call it even.

Even as he thought this, even this very moment, he was cognizant that those grey eyes were staring at him from across the hall, almost embarrassing in their desperation. 

“Don’t fall for it, Harry.”

“What?”

Hermione’s sudden warning jilted Harry from his silent reflections. He put down the dinner roll he’d been absently tearing to shreds. 

“I’m saying, don’t fall for Malfoy’s little tricks,” she elaborated. Her quiet voice could hardly be heard above the general din of the dining table, or above Ron and Seamus’ loud debate over shepherd’s pie, in particular. Harry gave her a look of faint confusion and demurred that he wasn’t sure what she meant. 

“I see you staring at him,” she said, more pointedly now. “No, I know, it’s not like before. But I see you—”

“Hermione, you’re crazy. He just said some things to me, all right, and it made me think, that’s all.” She raised a brow at him and, slowly but surely, extracted from him what those things were, which he finished recounting with a forceful, “So there, it’s nothing.” Which was true. They’d barely spoken two sentences. 

“It’s not nothing. It’s clear what he’s trying to do, Harry. He wants to use you to-to-I don’t know, repair his reputation, probably. He probably thinks if he can get you on his side, all would be forgiven. Or something like that. It's not genuine, it can't be. You see that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Harry replied with an edge to his voice. He wasn’t stupid. “I obviously know that. That’s why—I’m not going to take him up on it, or anything. I mean, it’s Malfoy. As if I’d—”

“Okay.” She batted away Ron, who’d caught whiff of an escalation in their chat. “Okay. That’s fine. As long as you’re aware.” She saw the tight clench of his jaw and backed down. Abruptly, she switched topics. “So how are you and Ginny?”

“What?” 

“Ginny…”

He followed her gaze down the table, where, as if sensing them, Ginny peered over with a sweet smile, her lashes half shading her warm brown eyes. Harry flashed her a brief smile back. Everything about her was perfect. He should tell her that. They should talk. He should apologize—“We’re fine.”

“You’re back together, then?”

“Well—I mean…”

“When are you going to—”

“Hermione.”

The conversation ended on that note of exasperation. Could a man not eat in peace these days? He looked away from Hermione, a nascent irritation gnawing at him, along with guilt for feeling irritated at all. Hermione was only trying to help.

At the edge of his vision, he again caught that hint of that silvery-blond hair.  Silvery-blond hair and a half-formed smirk . . . 

He escaped Hermione and Ron after dinner, shrugging off their invitation for a stroll around the grounds. He’d meet them in the library after, he said, which was good enough for Hermione. And then, because he had nothing else going on, he did in fact go to the library.  That Ginny looked like she might approach was neither here nor there, and it certainly didn’t prompt him to choose the most obscure table he could find among the stacks. He’d done that solely to avoid any curious glances or unsolicited conversations . . .

In any event, it was wonderfully peaceful in this little hidden nook he found, silent save for the dreamy, faraway sounds of rustling pages and quill scratching against parchment. No one would think to find him here. He relaxed again, for what felt like the first time in ages, slowly taking out his stacks of texts and chaotic mess of incomplete papers; the mundane nature of the work was almost meditative.  Now, where to begin? He was behind in Potions, of course, but then again, he was behind in most his classes. It was hard to study after a war, and he wondered sometimes if it wasn’t a mistake to come back. But then he remembered this was his home, so. Where else could he go? And like Ron said, he thought with a wry smile, it’s not like anyone would care about his grades. Even if he blew through everything, really everything, the Ministry would probably still—he frowned suddenly. 

There it was again, that phantom flicker of pale yellow. Surely not here, here in this underbelly of the library?

But of course, it was. 

Malfoy looked equally surprised, standing frozen near a bookshelf, seemingly unsure what to do with himself. He’d retreat, Harry thought, if he knew what was good for him. Just get the fuck out of there, so Harry could have his sliver of peace . . . but it was Malfoy, so peace was never an option. Those pointy, aristocratic features slipped into smirk and he sauntered over. 

“Mind if I sit, Potter?” He’d already dropped into the seat before Harry could so much as say no. “It's just that I always sit here, see. And I’ve just got to finish this essay, you know how it is.” How could he speak so calmly? “Don’t let me distract you, Potter.”

There was something grossly provocative in his off-hand, casual manner. Just horribly annoying. Harry blurted, "You don't." 

“Pardon?”

“Distract me . . . You don’t distract me.” He saw the sharp grey eyes grow contemplative and kicked himself under the table. “Why don’t you find another table?”

“I always sit here,” Malfoy repeated, the subtext being, why don’t you? Harry had half a mind to do so. It’d be the smart thing to do. He knew Malfoy’s tricks, so why play his game? If Hermione were here, she’d—But the thing is, he’d been here first and to move now would be to concede defeat. And he was only too conscious of the fact that, to run away a second time after the incident of the chocolate frog would be . . . unfathomable. 

“Fine. Whatever,” he muttered.

An uneasy silence settled over the table that was no longer peaceful. Harry wished then that he had Ron and Hermione, and then he felt angry at himself for wishing that, because it was only Malfoy. He wasn't scared. Harry tried his best to appear relaxed, to show that Malfoy couldn’t get under his skin as easily as all that. (To show whom? It didn’t matter.)  But still, his grip on his quill remained tight, and he kept his eyes trained on his parchment to avoid seeing that odious little face. In his line of vision, there were only those long, bony fingers—almost skeletal in their thinness—and a few, wispy strands of blond that fell forward when Malfoy hunched over his books. 

He counted down the seconds for when he could make a dignified departure.

“Do you need help, Potter?”

Harry started. 

“You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes.”

Had it only been ten minutes? Could he leave yet? He realized that Malfoy was waiting for a response, for which mind your own fucking business or piss off seemed an overreaction. Was that what Malfoy was angling for? Harry wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I remember Potions not being your . . . strong suit. It is mine though,” he continued quickly, before Harry could interrupt. “Really, I could look over your essay there, if you want. Oh, come on Potter, you needn’t look so suspicious. It’s a new era.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He didn't know how Malfoy could do it, speak with that kind of airy carelessness, as if they hadn't hated each other their entire lives.

“I can already tell from the beginning that you’re way off. First of all, your chicken scratch--Anyway, Slughorn's no Snape, but even he wouldn’t accept . . .” The casual utterance of Snape stung Harry. Malfoy had no right to invoke . . . But he continued in that same vein, "And I know we didn’t always, well, get along, but I really do excel at Potions. Indeed, I’m just as good—actually, better, probably—than … than Granger.”

Harry slammed his book shut. It was the small pause before Granger that did it, that suspicious pause that caused him to glance up and catch that brief bitter twist at the corner of Malfoy’s lips, that hint of distaste in his eyes. He'd stopped himself from saying that forbidden word, but the word fit the pause so perfectly that Harry knew he'd been thinking it. New era? Harry laughed—a short scoff of a laugh—startling Malfoy.

“Malfoy, please. You haven't got a tenth--you're so far below Hermione, it’s … an insult to even hear you say her name.” He chucked his papers in his bag, a chaotic mess once more. He'd been crazy to think Malfoy wouldn't get to him.

“Potter, I don't know what—”

“I already told you, Malfoy, I’ve nothing left to say. And the answer to your question is no. So stop looking for me. Really, stop.”

The last thing he saw before he turned his back and walked away was the stricken look of panicked desperation on Malfoy’s crestfallen, gaunt face, that look of hopes dashed. Harry’s feeling of grim satisfaction returned. Well, good. Did Malfoy really think it would be so easy to rewrite their past . . . to move on . . . ? Harry’s green eyes glittered coldly as he marched out of the library and down the stone stairs. New era . . . what a joke. 

If there’s one thing Malfoy was good for, it was that he reminded Harry that there were no what ifs. The past could only have unfolded the way it did, because they were who they were and there was no changing any of that.

Chapter Text

Draco had a dream later that week that began in the library. As had happened in reality, he’d finally worked up the courage to approach Potter, who’d taken his usual seat, but Potter—instead off saying what he actually said—remarked ambiguously, “I’ve given some thought to your question, and I think…”

It’s unclear what Potter thought, because the scene then shifted to the boy's bathroom. It was sixth year again, when Potter burst in on Draco’s meltdown. Only this time, instead of cutting him to pieces, Potter asks him why he’s crying.

“You don't understand, Potter.”

“So tell me…We’ll figure it out.”

Draco awakened with a profound sense of relief. His problems would be resolved. Harry Potter would save him, just like he saved everyone else. Draco wouldn’t have to face it all alone…

But in a second, reality dawned. The relief gave way to a crushing sense of dread. He stared blankly into the darkness of the tiny room, listening to Greg’s rhythmic, rumbling snores, too tired to wipe away the hot tears that leaked out from his eyes.

Harry Potter hadn’t saved him then, and he wouldn’t save him now.

At the end of October, a little drama unfolded in the Slytherin dungeons that soon spread to the rest of the school, much to everyone’s amusement. Some person or persons unknown had stolen Draco Malfoy’s school books and drenched them in the shower.

“Rather juvenile, don’t you think?” Draco drawled as he dredged the soggy pages out of the stall. Come to think of it, this was the kind of stupid shit he might have pulled once upon a time, only he would have done it with more finesse, you better believe. That is, any mean muggle could drown books in the bathroom; if it’d been Draco, he’d have—well, whatever.

The black ink bled from the wet pages onto his pale hands, making yet more unwanted marks upon his body.

Greg grunted. He had no words of wisdom this time, only stalwartly gathered the heavier texts for Draco and stared at him in a lost sort of way. “What do you want me to do with them?”

“Dump them, I suppose. What else?” Draco dropped the stack he’d gathered in the bin. They were just books, nothing Mother couldn’t replace by tomorrow. And besides, even if they couldn’t be replaced, what did it matter? All the books in the world couldn’t help him now. He could receive an O for every subject, and it wouldn’t mean a thing. They were fools if they thought they could hurt him.

For a second, his mind flashed to Potter’s chicken scratch essay and he couldn’t help but let slip a chuckle.

“What?”

“I was just thinking about …no, never mind.” He was just thinking about how stupid it was that Potter even went to the library. Opposite to him, Potter could fail every single subject, and they’d still appoint him Minister. Oh, Potter would protest, of course, but that’s just the truth. No use being bitter.

Incidentally, he should stop thinking about Potter. That was a dead end. 

Greg had a worried look on his face. “What are you going to do about this?”

Draco shrugged. What could he do?

What annoyed Draco far more than the books was Pansy and Nott descending upon him in the Great Hall at lunch, as if some great calamity had befallen him. “Nothing could be further from the truth,” he declared sharply. “You needn’t bother with me.”

He didn’t like the pity in Pansy’s expressive black eyes, because really, who was she to pity a him? A mere Parkinson…She was forgetting herself… The Parkinsons may have dodged complete infamy in the war, but the Malfoys would be the ones to rise to the top in the end. That’s how it always was, how it will always be. Draco just needed to find a way…

“I’m worried about you, Draco," she whined. "You’re a sack of bones, barely.”

He turned away and tuned her out.

The place was near empty, it being a Saturday and Halloween. By and large, the older students had traipsed off to Hogsmeade, leaving only a handful young ones behind who were too scared to approach Draco, which was just as well. The staff had brought out the usual pumpkins and bats again, just like old times, but the decor had lost its charm for Draco. It was just another pretense, some illusory dream that they could return to normalcy.

Out of force of habit, his gaze strayed towards Gryffindor, but unsurprisingly, Potter wasn’t there. No doubt he too had gone—but no, surely not, for there was Granger and Weasley. Not only them, but also the girl Weasel. They had their heads bent together in deep discussion—discussion, if Draco had to guess, about the inevitable future union of Potter and Weaslette, which would elevate the Weasels as never before, and they’d unleash another brood of awful gingers upon the world. How horrifying.

He turned away when Granger caught his eye. She had a mean look to her face, that one.

“Draco, have some chicken. I just had some myself. It’s all right.” Nott passed him a plate. Unlike Pansy, he had a quiet authority about him that made it harder to say no. Back when they were kids, Draco had secretly admired that about Nott, that he would never cave to Draco’s whims. In fact, Draco had spent a fair amount of time trying to win Nott over. But that was before he got in too deep with Potter.

And in any event, they weren’t kids anymore. He forced down two bites of chicken and pushed the plate away with a sneer. “I’m going out. Don’t follow me.”

Pansy poured out a string of protests, and Nott gazed at him with vague disappointment, but it didn’t matter. The dread was catching up to him again, and there was nothing for it but to run.

As luck would have it, he ran right into Potter. 

Not literally, of course, just that he had meandered to a silent alcove by the lake, and there was Potter lying asleep on the ground. So well did Potter’s disgusting mustard jumped blend into the dead grass that Draco almost kicked him in the head.

A perplexed why drifted through Draco’s thoughts, followed by an amused why not. Potter was apparently invincible; he could sleep wherever he wanted, Draco supposed. And he supposed that he should also leave Potter alone to his nap. It’d be the polite thing to do. But that Draco should happen upon him under these circumstances…Couldn’t this be fate, he mused. And if so, why fight it? Suddenly tired of running, and never one to be polite to Potter anyway, he dropped listlessly to the ground a few feet away and sat still.

It was an unremarkable day, cold and a little overcast. The water on the lake lapped gently against the shore, propelled by a light breeze that held just a hint of wintry chill. Draco hugged his arms around his knees and stared into the distance. For the first time in days, he could feel the dread subside, just a tiny little bit. There was a conviction deep inside, somehow, that no one could hurt him out here.

Every so often, his eyes would veer towards Potter.

At some point over the last two years, Potter had finally filled out and grown bigger than Draco, and he was evidently more powerful magically. Draco wouldn't dare mess with him now, but asleep, Potter looked harmless enough. And while he wasn’t the pale sack of bones that Draco had become, his skin took on a pallid hue under the leaden skies and he didn't appear quite as invincible as he usually did. Unable to help himself, Draco crept closer, then closer still. He drank in the minute details: the shadows lurking beneath Potter’s eyes, the way his eyelids flickered restlessly in sleep, the quiet moans that occasionally slipped out from his grim-set lips.

So, even heroes weren’t immune to nightmares. Draco wondered what he dreamt about.

After a particular violent twitch from his dreams, Potter’s face lolled towards Draco. It was a face Draco had stared at for years, but in this light, it looked almost unfamiliar. Younger, somehow. Draco couldn’t quite resist the impulse to reach over and brush the messy black locks away from his damp forehead. There was nothing deep about it, only that he wanted to see Potter’s scar. He wanted to see if it was true what they said, that the famous scar had begun to fade with the true death of Voldemort. He wanted to know if lifelong scars like that could fade, with time…if there was hope...

The lightening bolt was still there. Fainter, perhaps, but still visible. Draco traced it lightly with his cool finger, mesmerized. For a moment, and only a moment, Potter’s restless eyelids seemed to grow still. Did Potter feel it too, then? That split second sensation of peace…

The dark lashes fluttered lightly, and Potter’s brilliant green eyes found Draco’s.

“…Malfoy..?”

“Potter…”

That was all he got out. Potter's gaze refocused, and before Draco could move an inch, Potter's wand was out. Flipendo. Draco hit the ground before he properly heard the words from Potters’s mouth.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy, what the fuck are you doing?” Potter snarled, eyes a storm of rage and distrust. He had already hopped upright; his wand aimed straight at Draco.

Certainly an improvement over their duel in second year, but that’s what war did to you.

Draco forced himself to sit up and tried to say something—I wasn’t doing anything, I wasn’t even looking for you, you just happened to be here—He needed to say something before Potter hexed him to death. But it hurt too much all over and he could only wheeze for breath. He briefly considered reaching for his wand but gave that up too as lost. As if that traitorous thing would help defend him against Potter! So in the end, he just sat there and stared up at Potter with a bleak smile of defiance. Well, come at me, if you must. Cut me again into a thousand pieces, what do I care?

Draco knew Potter was thinking it too, because a flash of guilt crossed his face. Did he remember the way Draco bled from every pore? His wand lowered a fraction in doubt and, for a second, looked as if he might approach Draco. But that second passed, and the steely-eyed fury returned.

“For the last time, stay away from me, Malfoy.”

Draco repressed a cough and rasped out, "I wasn't--"

"Do you understand me, Malfoy?"

There was a long pause. He didn't want to give into Potter's menacing glare--he wasn't scared, ok?--But he was unarmed and in pain and what could he say ultimately, but "...Yes." 

"Good," Potter bit out.

Fucker.

Draco watched Potter’s retreating back until he disappeared into the distance. His lips pressed into a thin line; he felt himself being corroded from the inside by an intractable, untreatable frustration.

It just wasn’t fair, was it?

Why is it that Potter could be everyone else’s hero, but not his?

Chapter Text

This, then, was the feeling of freedom. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but it sure as hell beat fighting for his life. And living in a cupboard, for that matter. With that in mind, Harry tried to be gracious as he listened to McGonagall prattle on about the upcoming ball.

“I don’t want to burden you, of course, but it would be a nice gesture for the school. And you needn’t do much, just open the ball and accept an award.”

Harry cracked a wry smile. “Open the ball, huh? We all know how well that went, last time.”

“Well…” McGonagall smiled too, conceding the point. “But it’ll be different this time.”

She looked kinder now, Harry thought as he ducked out of her office. Kinder and more worn, like a stern old grandma who couldn’t quite hide her secret fondness for all children. The war had worn down her armor. He wondered, though, how she felt  spending day in and day out in Dumbledore’s old office, his portrait beaming down on her. He wouldn’t be able to stand it—could barely stand it just now, even though she’d redone the whole thing.

A patter of footsteps interrupted his thoughts right before he reached Gryffindor. A reflexive adrenaline rushed through him and, before he knew it, he’d whipped around, wand drawn, ready for battle.

A pair of large, innocent eyes stared up at him.

Shit, a child. Smith? Grant? One of those generic little girls from first year, whose lips were beginning tremble and whose eyes were filling with tears. Double shit. Harry rammed the wand back in his pocket and crouched down.

“Hey there, sorry, I didn’t mean…”

The trembling lips formed a pout and, any second now, there would be a piercing wail. Harry readied himself for it with a grimace.

“Delilah! What are you doing out here! It’s almost curfew.”

Ah, saved by the bell. Or, Ginny, rather, blazing down the hall like some powerful, red-haired savior. Harry gazed at her with relief, which she returned with a playful wink.

The little girl was still blubbering, “B-because I saw Harry Potter, so—” He felt a momentary prick of discomfort, but let it pass. She was only a child.

Ginny talked the girl down with her customary mix of strength and levity and in a moment’s work, she’d successfully shooed the little Delilah through the portrait. Harry let out the breath he’d been holding. Thank god for her.

Just the two of them now, she glanced at Harry with a smile. The flickering torch light cast a gold tint upon her red hair brought out the freckles on her cheeks. “Attacking innocent little children now, are we? Not a good a look,” she teased. Harry agreed sheepishly, with a light chuckle, that it was not.

“So…” she continued, softer now, with her brown eyes cast downward, almost uncharacteristically shy. “Wanna take a walk?”

“Now? We won’t get in trouble? Almost curfew.”

“Trouble?” she repeated, playful again. “With me, a prefect, and you, Harry Potter? Surely not.”

There it was again, that prick. He pushed it down. She didn’t mean anything. And anyway, he was Harry Potter. No helping that.

He began to relax again as they meandered through the castle, his walls coming down with each mindless step forward. The troubles of the day melted away as he listened to her voice, as they exchanged meaningless banter. Just the two of them, no pressure or expectations, no knowing glances from an outside audience. Just two old friends, who might one day grow into old lovers, if only Harry would let it happen. And Harry would.

When they made it back to Gryffindor, she suddenly turned to him and asked, “Hey…we’re ok, right?”

“…Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn’t we be?”

This last question, at the end of a long day, threw him into a state of irritation, though he tried not to let it show.

“I don’t know.”

“—We’re fine—” “—You can feel…far away, sometimes.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s hard to explain…It doesn’t matter, I guess. If you think we’re fine.”

“We’re fine.”

“Okay. That’s good.” Her smile looked a bit wistful for his liking. “Well, in that case, do you want—”

Here too, he tried not to react, though he could feel the walls coming up again. He could guess what she wanted to ask. But he could only think, don’t ask. Don’t me ask that.

“—to come to the Quidditch game on Saturday?”

He blinked in surprise. Relief washed over him. “Oh, Ginny, of course I’m coming! Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Your first game as captain…”

“Great.” She said it lightly, with a pleased smile.

He wondered, nevertheless, if something hadn’t shown on his face. When they walked through the portrait together, the air felt different.

Saturday began with a fine, misty drizzle, but it largely cleared by the time of the match. Harry found himself in high spirits again as he joined the throng of students streaming towards the Quidditch pitch, colorful banners flying. The conversation with Ginny had been pushed to the back of his mind, and the ball McGonagall had planned was still far off in the distance. For now, he was just one of the masses, free to cheer as mindlessly as the rest of them on this crisp November day.

“Pity we aren’t playing this year!” Ron shouted to him over the screaming, after Gryffindor made its first score. “Yeah, I know!” Harry shouted back, excitement pulsing through his veins. Oh, how he’d missed this! Sitting in the bleachers and cheering his throat hoarse, like nothing else mattered. The only thing that would beat this would be to actually playing, but when he saw Ginny’s poised command of the team, and he knew he’d done the right thing. He’d already had his time; it was her chance to shine now.

Gryffindor scored again.

“Yeah!! But man, Slytherins are real shite this year!”

“You’re telling me, mate. And you know it’s because—” Harry paused, his eyes darting to the Slytherin stands. It’s because that little wanker Malfoy wasn’t there to teach them to play dirty. Where was he, anyway? It took Harry a moment to spot the pale blond hair, but there it was. Malfoy was a small dot huddled in the back, next to—who knows? Probably Goyle, but Harry couldn’t quite seen from a distance. He had no doubt, though, that Malfoy’s face was twisted in an ugly frown, and the thought gave him joy. Served the git right.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Malfoy for a couple of days now, not since that day he’d hexed Malfoy into the ground. He was no longer plagued by flashes of blonde every time he looked over his shoulder—thank Merlin for small mercies. Though actually, lest anyone think him a heartless bastard, he had felt a twinge of regret that day, but really, what else could he have done, waking up with Malfoy right in his face? What even was Malfoy doing—it didn’t matter. Anyway, he had felt regret, for at least a second. For a second, he’d heard Malfoy’s pained cry as his blood stained the bathroom crimson, and he’d felt a sudden horror because what if it happened again? But then, he’d seen the look of cold defiance in those arrogant grey eyes, and all his fury came flooding back.

That’s one thing the war couldn’t change. That despite Harry’s best efforts to be a better person, one look from Malfoy was all it took to—

“Fuck, yes!! Harry, did you see that? My little sister! Right there!”

The crowds roared. Gryffindor victory! Harry leapt to his feet, his face a big, proud grin as Ginny glided past, triumphant. She flashed him a smile that made his heart leap. God, she was wonderful! And better yet, he loved her still, he really did!

As he ran out of the stadium in a state of elation, he glanced again towards Slytherin. Take that, Malfoy!

Harry’s excitement didn’t begin to ebb until the party in the Gryffindor was in full swing. By then, he’d downed two butter beers and was actually feeling pretty swell. When he and Ron did a funny impression of the Slytherin chaser almost falling off his broom, everyone laughed. Even Hermione had abandoned her books for the evening and was giggling into Ron’s shoulder. Harry was surrounded by all the right people, Neville and Dean and Parvati and Lavender. They’d all made it some how, could still win Quidditch, could still laugh like kids. This moment—everything felt all right!

But then, some combination of the sugar and alcohol must have hit him, and all the giddy joy from the perfect day abruptly drained. It was like a switch flipped, or alternatively, a punch to the gut. At that very moment, he met eyes with Ginny standing halfway across the room, carousing with some girls in her year. He should walk over and congratulate her. He should’ve congratulated her already, he knew that. Why hadn’t he?

She smiled at him through half-lidded eyes, beckoning him over wordlessly. He should go to her. Actually, he would’ve, except his mind started playing games with him again. It called forth certain memories that rooted him in place—memories of that other time, when they’d run to each other spontaneously and kissed with giddy joy and complete abandon in front of all the people. God, he’d been over the moon back then.

But “back then” now felt like another universe. A sudden sadness swept over him. Despite his joy at seeing her win on the field, he came to the sudden realization that he could never repeat that moment with Ginny. He couldn’t kiss her again with everyone watching, couldn’t even walk to her with the knowledge of everyone’s unstated expectation. But why? He had been so sure he could simply resume what they had, that all he needed was just time, because hadn’t he dreamt of her in his darkest days? Hadn’t the past several years of their tangled wayward journey built to this very juncture? Surely, surely, she was the one for him.

But what if…

He kept stalling. He saw a flash of confusion in her eyes. Another moment passed and she looked as if she might extricate herself from the girls. A sickening panic rose in Harry. Did she also think they…but of course she would…

“Harry, something wrong?” Ron asked. No, not now, he couldn’t face Ron just now…

“Nothing. I—I think I left something…I’ll be right back.”

He slipped away before anyone could stop him.

Dead leaves crunched underfoot as he tread hastily across the grounds, slowing down only when he’d traversed half the campus with no one on his tail. The weak autumnal sun had set, and the skies appeared a dusky purple in the dim twilight. There was a chill in the air that wasn’t there before, which made Harry regret running out without his robes. But the regret seemed inevitable, given that he hadn’t planned on escaping like a coward…

Just talk to her! Couldn’t be harder than fighting Voldemort and staring death in the face. Yet, somehow… because to lose her, would be to lose everything. Besides, what would he even say?

His aimlessly wandering feet carried him back to the Quidditch pitch. Or maybe he’d secretly wanted to go there all along, to fly free for a bit to gathering his bearings. Couldn’t hurt, could it, to chase after the snitch for awhile and forget everything else? The place was silent and empty now, a bit desolate, almost, compared to that very morning. He grabbed a broom from the shed and hopped on.

He had just begun to rise from the ground when he realized that the pitch was, in fact, not empty. There was someone else making lazy circles high above. When he squinted hard enough, he was able to make out the dark green lining of a billowing, Slytherin robe.

“Hey! Who’s there?”

The broom above jolted to a pause, then slowly lowered down. It didn’t take long for Harry to recognize Malfoy; his familiar platinum hair glimmered even at sundown, catching every last ray of light. Harry sighed. Several days’ reprieve, but it would be Malfoy now, when Harry was feeling at his lowest.

“What do you want, Potter?”

The turbulent grey eyes glared at him with belligerent fury, but Harry couldn’t help but notice that Malfoy hovered at a safe distance. And the pale, bony hands on his broom trembled just slightly, betraying a pulse of fear behind his bluster. That was Malfoy in a nutshell, wasn’t it? Always Daddy’s little boy, who fled at the barest hint of danger.

“I came first, you know. Wasn’t looking for you, was I?”

“Didn’t say you were.”

When, exactly, had Malfoy developed that ugly sneer? It hadn’t looked good on his pointy face before, and it unequivocally looked worse now that he was thin to the point of gaunt. Harry noticed, in fact, that Malfoy had truly shrunk. He had become a wisp of a thing, near swallowed by his robes, poised to disappear.

“So, what do you want?” Malfoy repeated, breathing hard. “I’m not doing anything wrong, by the way. I mean, tattle to McGonagall if you want, Potter, because we all know you’re a little—but I’m not breaking the rules—they didn’t say I couldn’t—”

Harry said nothing, turning Malfoy’s words over in his mind. On this dreary, awful day, Harry found them funny, somehow. After seven years and a whole ass war, here they were again…Tattle to McGonagall? What were they, eleven? Harry’s lips twitched at the corners. And wouldn’t that be nice? To go back to the days when getting back at Malfoy gave him the biggest kick in life.

Malfoy was still going. “Whatever, Potter. I don’t care. I’ll leave. Just don’t—”

“Do you want to play?”

The grey eyes grew round, and the sneer slipped off in surprise.

Harry couldn’t say why, considering he’d told Malfoy to stay the hell away just days ago. But all the same, there was something tantalizing at the moment about beating Malfoy again at Quidditch. Ginny, Ron, the weight of the his reputation as the savior, whatever that meant, none of that mattered. If he could just do this one thing right now…Malfoy always did bring out this side of him.

He dug the snitch out of his pocket and waved it around tauntingly. “How’s this, Malfoy, I won’t tattle if you beat me.”

Malfoy studied him for a moment, then spat out, “Fuck you, Potter.”

Harry shrugged. Final offer. Ready or not, “Three . . . two—”

“I’m not playing—”

“One, go!”

He released the snitch and off they blasted, Harry first, Malfoy hurtling after, just like Harry knew he would. And Malfoy wasn’t a bad flyer either—pretty good, if Harry were to be honest, just not as good as Harry—so it wasn’t long before they were zipping through the air shoulder to shoulder. Every so often, Malfoy tried to jostle Harry off his broom, bumping angrily against Harry with all his might. But he was rail thin now and could exert no force; Harry felt nothing and found it almost amusing.

What Harry did feel was a bizarre sense of exhilaration. The wind in his hair, the cold cutting against his skin, life distilled into a stupid no-stakes battle between himself and Malfoy, where the only thing that mattered was trouncing that pointy-faced git even if there was no prize, and everything else fell to the wayside.

So maybe this was freedom—to fly in an empty pitch as your worst self against your worst enemy, who couldn’t help glaring at you even though you were Harry Potter, and who expected nothing better from you because you owed him nothing.

Harry could feel Malfoy’s speed begin to slacken.

“That all you got, Malfoy?”

“Shut up!”

The snitch suddenly reappeared below them, just a vague glimmer of gold near the ground. Malfoy had evidently seen it; he dropped into a sudden dive. But it was a slow dive, for Malfoy. Harry could sense he was near exhaustion. He looked almost wobbly on his broom. Harry trailed behind with a knowing smirk, slowing himself down just enough to give Malfoy a false sense of hope. But at the last second, he kicked into high gear and zoomed past with ease, grabbing the snitch and pulling himself upright just before hitting the ground.

The snitch buzzed against his hand, which he raised to the skies with a proud grin, prouder, even, than when Gryffindor won that morning. He turned to face Malfoy with wordless triumph on his face.

Malfoy had apparently also tried to speed up at the last second, only he’d failed to stop himself and had tumbled off his broom onto the ground. He was sitting there now, with a dazed sort of look.

“Getting a little rusty there, Malfoy—”

Harry was beginning to say more when, suddenly, the words caught in his throat.

He’d gotten a closer look at Malfoy, and there was something about his expression that bothered Harry, a strangely haunting quality to the dazed look. Harry thought of sixth year again, but it wasn’t that, wasn’t the fearful blubbering he’d seen before in the bathroom, or even if the overt terror from when he’d pulled Malfoy from the fire. This was quieter, fomenting just beneath the surface, an utterable disconsolate sadness—his blonde hair plastered to his forehead, his thin shoulders slumped in defeat, his unfocused grey eyes staring dully into the distance, as if he’d lost far more than a silly Quidditch match.

And of course, he had… They all have.

In the last light of a hazy dusk, Draco Malfoy seemed to fade before Harry’s eyes, blending into the impending darkness until he disappeared.

“Malfoy…?”

Harry heard a shaky draw of breath, then the rustling of robes. Malfoy had risen to his feet again.

“I was just off my game, Potter. Next time…”

But the fire had been extinguished, and Malfoy’s soft, spiritless voice trailed off as he glided past. Harry watched the slim, gaunt figure drift into the distance.  The joyful exhilaration from his victory had faded, and he was left with an uncomfortable, ineffable emotion that wouldn’t leave him, along with the lingering image of Malfoy’s abrupt, palpable despair.