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Chapter Text

It was difficult to be friends with Draco Malfoy. To be honest, Harry would have called their relationship more of a fragile truce than an actual friendship. A rickety bridge—one false step, and it could all collapse.

At first, the arrogant, spoiled boy seemed utterly detestable—Dudley all over again, only worse. But over time, Harry began to see something else in him. Of course, his dreadful temper (Ron would have been much harsher in his judgment) hadn’t gone anywhere, yet in closer company Harry noticed that all that showy confidence was riddled with cracks. Draco didn’t seem particularly close to any of his cronies—except perhaps for Pansy Parkinson, and only because she was annoyingly persistent. She wasn't embarrassed by Harry's presence either, if he was unlucky enough to be nearby. In front of Crabbe and Goyle, though, Malfoy wore his mask of bored superiority. It was infuriating—Draco could turn in an instant into that smug little snob whose hand Harry had refused to shake on their very first year. And yet, it was so natural that Harry sometimes wondered if Draco did it unconsciously. In moments like those, he preferred to keep his distance.

But outside that bubble of prejudice and arrogance, however, Malfoy could be tolerable. More than that—sometimes being together was genuinely fun. They could argue for hours, trade sharp remarks, and then, as if nothing had happened, discuss potion-making or Quidditch. Harry understood that the worldview hammered into Draco’s head by his loopy father over the years couldn’t be changed overnight. Still, he was glad whenever Malfoy at least made an effort. Of course, sometimes Malfoy went too far, and Harry’s patience snapped.

“Why are you bothering with him?” Ron asked after yet another argument, but Harry just shrugged.

At those moments, it seemed only sensible to sever all ties with Malfoy, yet somehow they always resumed. Harry hardly noticed how accustomed he had become to having a Slytherin in his life. Amid schoolwork and adventures with his best friends—Ron and Hermione—there was this unpredictable cog named Draco Malfoy. Would today’s potion lesson be calm? Would they hand in their project with top marks and not see each other until next week, or would they argue over some triviality? At some point, Harry even caught himself heading down to the dungeons for a joint lesson with a flicker of anticipation—a far cry from his first year, when the mere thought of a lesson with that loathsome Potions Master had filled him with dread.

At their first shared assignment, when Snape had seated them together, Malfoy immediately started bossing things around. Harry was about to protest, but Draco was far too confident, tossing one ingredient into the cauldron after another. The Potions Master, who was also the Head of Slytherin, was always generous with top marks for his favourites, though Harry didn’t dwell on whether they were deserved. Well, Malfoy had certainly earned his. So Harry followed instructions unquestioningly, chopping, crushing, and grinding everything Draco indicated. At the end of the lesson, Snape scrutinised their beaker with his usual precision.

“Outstanding, Mr Malfoy. But how can I grade both of you, when the result is clearly the work of only one?”

Harry wasn’t particularly worried about his grade: even Snape couldn’t give him less than Acceptable—they had completed the assignment, after all. Anything above that… well, in Potions, that was hardly likely. So he merely shrugged. The Slytherins, who had been watching the whole scene unfold with great interest, murmured their approval.

“But sir,” Malfoy suddenly protested, “it is our joint work. Potter was also… trying.”

Harry stared at the sharp profile of his classmate, but Malfoy didn’t take his eyes off Snape. They played a silent game of stares for several seconds before the professor finally said:

“Well… Outstanding, Potter.”

Since then, working together became not only routine but surprisingly productive. Even down here in the dungeons, there were advantages to being paired with a high achiever and teacher’s pet.

Of course, that didn’t mean their rivalry was over. Most of the time, Draco fussed over trivialities—Potter had chopped the asphodel root unevenly again, tied his shoelaces wrong, or some such. Harry usually didn’t mind; Malfoy was simply trying to draw his attention, and, if he was honest, it was a little flattering. One provoked, the other retaliated, and eventually the quarrel stopped feeling hostile, becoming instead a sort of game only they understood.

With Harry’s friends, though, it was different. Malfoy barely bothered hiding his contempt, and one careless word could easily trigger a full-blown argument. For the Slytherin, it seemed there were no limits when it came to anyone who caught Harry’s attention.

“Poor Blaise,” he breathed into Harry’s ear during another Potions class where students from multiple Houses were forced to work together. “Do you get an Outstanding working with Weaselbee?”

Or:

“It’s commendable Granger spends so much time staring at books—but has she ever tried looking in a mirror?”

At first, Harry was quick to rise to the bait, and their quarrels would erupt at once—invariably drawing in Malfoy’s thick-skulled cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. Not that Malfoy ever made the slightest effort to defend their honour.

Perhaps they would have continued to coexist in this endless cycle of silly quarrels and stilted apologies, had it not been for a series of strange events—the sort that seemed to happen exclusively to Harry. Someone might say it was fate—or just a silly story about a hippogriff, which is sometimes almost the same thing. But first things first.

Chapter Text

The day was unusually pleasant and sunny, but Harry felt a slight unease. Hagrid was teaching his first Care of Magical Creatures class, and the inseparable trio were on their way there, accompanied by a group of third-year Gryffindor and Slytherin students. Everyone seemed to be in a surprisingly good mood, despite the fact that joint lessons between rival Houses often had a negative effect on students, and multiple lessons in a row could be disastrous.

The school day had begun with Divination, where students dragged themselves out of bed only to finish their dreams in class, curled up on soft cushions while listening to Professor Trelawney’s melancholy whispers. Usually, Harry was the centre of attention in those lessons—‘My dear boy, you bear the mark of death!’—but today, Malfoy was the lucky one. As he idly swirled the coffee grounds at the bottom of his cup, Trelawney, drifting among the students, suddenly snatched the cup from his hands.

“I see… Oh, I see that you’re in for a great love!”

At this, the more awake students stirred and turned their eyes to a wide-eyed Malfoy. But Trelawney continued, dreamily:

“You have a warm heart, full of love… Yes, draw this symbol… Oh, I see: this person is near you…”

If Draco hadn’t been behaving like a stubborn donkey the day before, Harry might have felt a bit sorry for him. But he was, so the Gryffindor didn’t hesitate to chuckle along with the rest of the class as Malfoy flushed as if he’d been slapped.

Ron, wheezing with laughter, elbowed Harry in the ribs and pointed at Pansy Parkinson, who was sitting at the same table as the victim of love. She was just as red-faced and beaming, as though Draco had just proposed to her in front of the entire school. Harry snorted, only to be met with a glare from Malfoy’s stormy grey eyes. Oh yes—Draco would definitely be holding a grudge.

The walk to Hagrid’s hut was long, but the gossip lasted the entire way.

“No, well—did you see her face?” Lavender Brown’s high-pitched giggle echoed far into the forest. “Do you think Malfoy likes pugs?”

Ron, walking beside Harry, chuckled and nudged him.

“Heard that? What a couple! Ferret and—”

“Ron!” said Hermione sharply, trying to reason with him. “Don’t say that. Harry asked you.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” said Harry, who genuinely wanted to keep the peace. It hadn’t worked out perfectly, but at least Hermione was trying, and Malfoy hadn’t called her ‘Mudblood’.

“What?” Ron said in surprise. “The truth hurts, huh? Come on, did you hear what that loony said? Love, really. What kind of love could a grump like Malfoy ever have?”

“You’re wrong,” Hermione objected. “If he were more handsome, we wouldn’t be laughing right now. Some girls like, you know, bad boys. But only if they’re good-looking, of course.”

More handsome? Harry had never thought of Malfoy that way. What traits counted as handsome? Surely, ones that were correct and symmetrical. But without his aquiline nose and crooked smile, Malfoy wouldn’t be himself anymore—so what would be the point? Girls were weird.

“But Hermione,” Ron protested, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders, “if Malfoy gets a girlfriend, our mate here will be jealous!”

Harry stumbled over his own foot and immediately tried to trip Ron in return. How dare he! His friends—and the rest of the Gryffindors—often teased him, though Harry couldn’t understand why. Ever since that first day in Hogwarts, every move he made had been watched. And while plenty of students from all Houses had friends in Slytherin, it always seemed to be he and Malfoy that drew the most attention. So what if they’d practically started off with a fight, and now they were sitting at the same desk? Big deal. People change. Even Malfoy. Harry remembered the first time he’d seen him—at Madam Malkin’s robe shop—and how they’d met on the train to school. Sometimes, it felt like the arrogant boy who parroted his father’s pure-blood nonsense and the young man scribbling rude little rhymes in the margins of Harry’s parchment were two completely different people.

Clearly, it wasn’t just the Gryffindors who had overheard their conversation. Draco, walking behind with his usual entourage, quickened his pace and caught up with Ron, stepping in front of him to block his path.

“Funny you should mention that, Weasley,” he drawled, his voice slow and deliberate. “You’re certainly not in any danger of it yourself.”

Ron stopped short, almost colliding with Malfoy, and in the next moment lunged forward—but Harry grabbed his arm just in time and turned to the Slytherin.

“Hey, he was just joking!”

But Malfoy simply gave Ron a mocking look, clearly satisfied with the reaction, and continued:

“What’s the matter, Potter? I’m just glad Weasley’s still tolerated by his family. I wouldn’t be able to do that. Do tell your mother, Ronnie, that I sincerely admire her—”

Harry felt a weight in his chest, as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs. Why was Malfoy like this? They’d got on reasonably well for a year—so why was he seeing again the boy he had loathed at first sight back in first year?

“Draco, that’s enough,” he snapped, each word delivered with such cold determination that Malfoy actually fell silent mid-sentence. “I thought you’d changed. I believe I asked you not to bring up anyone’s mother, but if that’s too hard to remember— then shut up and never speak to us again. I don’t know what Trelawney claimed about your heart, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s full of shit, not love.”

A small crowd had formed, and the Gryffindors were murmuring their approval. Malfoy slowly turned to face Harry. His face, which usually turned blotchy and red when he was angry, was now pale. Narrowing his eyes, he said quietly,

“Disappointed in me, Potter?”

“Disappointed? Not in the slightest. You’re not human—you’re a snake, pretending just to hurt more.” Come on,” he said to his friends, and without another glance at the frozen Slytherin, strode past.

His blood was boiling. His heart was pounding in his throat. He had never been this furious with Malfoy. Sure, they’d traded nastier insults before—but hadn’t they managed to find some kind of common ground? Or had that been only in Harry’s head?..

His friends caught up with him a few steps later. Hermione was silent, and Ron slung an arm round Harry’s shoulders in his usual offhand manner.

“Don’t take it so hard, mate. You don’t have to put up with that git.”

Harry shook his head silently. He was grateful—but he couldn’t explain why the row had left him feeling empty. Before he could make sense of it, a familiar, booming voice cut through his thoughts.

“Oi, everyone, over here! Class is starting! Stay here; I’ll go get the creatures.”

The students turned to see Hagrid beaming at them from outside his hut, gesturing towards a large enclosure nearby. Harry took a deep breath, trying to pull himself back to the present. He respected Hagrid, and he wanted to support him on his first official lesson. As the class lined up along the fence, Harry slipped into the crowd of Gryffindors, hoping to keep his distance from Malfoy—though he could still hear his voice.

“I’ll bet that great lump’s got some sort of disgusting beast for us,” Malfoy muttered. “Let’s see how long this teaching career lasts.”

“If you don’t like it, then shove off,” Ron snapped. Harry vowed not to look at Malfoy.

“And miss the chance to watch him humiliate himself? Don’t be daft.”

Soon, Hagrid returned with the creatures—fearsome, yet magnificent hippogriffs. Harry thought nothing could cheer him up today—but the sight of the creatures, with their powerful wings, fierce eyes, and proud bearing, momentarily cleared his head. It wasn’t every day you got to fly on something that had hooves, talons, and wings big enough to blot out the sun. It was a questionable experience, perhaps—but at least Hagrid was happy.

The hippogriffs, Hagrid explained, were proud and temperamental. Students were to approach only after a thorough briefing—bow respectfully, no sudden moves, and above all, don’t insult them.

Malfoy hung back with his cronies, wearing his usual smirk. Harry wasn’t looking at him at all. It just so happened that the Slytherin, pale as a toadstool, was the brightest spot on the entire clearing, that’s all. That’s why Harry saw the whole disaster from start to finish: how Draco, accompanied by his cronies, made his way towards Buckbeak—the very creature that had given Potter a ride—and how he was sent crashing to the ground by a powerful clawed strike.

“He insulted Buckbeak!” Hermione cried, outraged. “Of course it didn’t go well!”

Harry nodded vaguely, eyes fixed on the crimson droplets now staining Draco’s pale hair. He writhed on the grass, surrounded by Slytherins and Hagrid, but the image of him bleeding was burned into Harry’s mind.

“He killed me! He killed me!” Draco shrieked. It was theatrical, as always—but the sight of thick, dark blood running from his torn forearm was deeply unsettling.

“It’s nothin’, Draco, nothin’,” Hagrid muttered as he crouched and gently lifted him. Malfoy groaned, eyes rolling, but Harry couldn’t stop staring at his hand.

“I’ll get yeh up to Madam Pomfrey. She’ll fix that scratch in no time—”

“A scratch?!” Malfoy’s eyes bulged. “I’ve been disfigured! My father will hear about this—!”

Hagrid set off towards the castle, carrying Draco in his arms like a wounded bird. Whatever else he said was lost in the rising murmur of the class.

“Draco!” shrieked Pansy Parkinson. “He could have died! That monster will pay for this!”

“Your Draco’s a muppet,” Dean Thomas retorted. “If he’d listened to the rules and kept his mouth shut, it wouldn’t’ve happened. But no—had to make a scene.”

“But did you see him?” Lavender said anxiously. She and Parvati were still watching the spot where Hagrid had disappeared. “He didn’t look good…”

“Oh, come off it,” Ron cut in. He too was eyeing the patch of blood on the grass. “He’ll be up and whinging in the Great Hall by breakfast tomorrow.”

Hermione whispered something back to him, but Harry wasn’t listening. The moment kept flashing before his eyes—the instant when he thought his last words to Malfoy would be, “Don’t ever speak to me again.” He could easily imagine himself walking into the infirmary and saying, “So, Malfoy, hippogriffs aren’t exactly your thing, huh?” He’d tease him a little, throw in a few jokes, maybe even feel a tiny bit sorry for him. Just a little. But now? That stupid argument had only made everything more complicated.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice pulled him back. She was standing beside him. “Shall we go?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, without turning around.

Of course Malfoy would be all right. Tomorrow he’d show up at breakfast with a bandaged arm and a look of tragic martyrdom, describing every drop of blood in painstaking detail to anyone who’d listen.

Harry knew he wouldn’t go to the hospital wing. And he hated himself for that

Chapter Text

Malfoy deigned to show up only for the second lesson. Anyone else would have faced severe punishment from Snape for such insolence, but Draco had nothing to worry about. He silently took a seat at an empty desk near Harry and Ron, immediately surrounded by sympathetic Slytherins, led by Pansy Parkinson. As usual, Malfoy complained and showed off the bandage on his arm, but somehow, his performance felt half-hearted.

"Soulless," Harry thought.

His suspicion was confirmed by Ron.

"He's slipping, not even trying anymore!"

At that moment, Snape returned to the classroom. He scrutinized the students, then let his gaze linger meaningfully on Malfoy, who was sitting alone, before shifting it to Harry.

"Trouble in paradise?"

The class murmured, but even the Slytherins didn’t dare laugh openly—Snape’s sharp remark had been directed at Draco as well.

Once the lesson began, it became clear that Malfoy’s bandaged hand was making it difficult for him to work. All the Slytherins had already paired up, leaving him alone. Harry knew Draco’s hand was fine—Hagrid had taken him to the hospital wing, and Madam Pomfrey could easily handle such wounds.

"Potter," Snape suddenly called, making Harry nearly drop his knife onto his foot. "Slice some lyrium root for Mr. Malfoy. I believe you must be quite used to it by now."

Harry obeyed in silence, not looking at Draco. Malfoy, in turn, pointedly ignored him, sitting perfectly still. Quiet conversations buzzed around the room. Even in the dungeons, there was only one topic on everyone’s mind.

"They say Black was spotted in Hogsmeade," Millicent Bulstrode whispered.

"Nonsense," Seamus Finnigan snapped. "How would he even get there? Dementors are everywhere."

"What if he gets into Hogwarts?.."

A cold knot tightened in Harry’s stomach. Sirius Black. The man who had betrayed his parents. The man who, according to Mr. Weasley, was hunting him.

"If I were you, Potter, I’d take revenge," Malfoy said suddenly, still staring into his cauldron.

Harry froze.

"What?" His voice was harsher than he had expected.

Malfoy didn’t look up.

"Revenge for what?"

But Draco only shrugged. Anger flared in Harry’s chest. Did Malfoy know something? Or was he just trying to provoke him? Either way, there was no use in pressing him for answers.

When the lesson ended, the students pushed back their chairs and gathered their things. Harry grabbed his bag, still fuming at Malfoy, and hurried out the door to avoid another confrontation. Ron followed close behind. Harry was halfway to the staircase when a loud snap echoed behind them.

"Oh!"

Hermione’s bag had burst open, sending books scattering across the floor.

Ron bent down to help, but before he could reach her, Malfoy strode past and sneered, colliding with Hermione in the doorway.

"Careful, Granger! What, did you decide to rob the library?"

Harry gritted his teeth, ready to snap back, but then he noticed something odd. Malfoy wasn’t looking at Hermione—he was looking at her books. More specifically, at one book that had landed right at his feet.

He nudged it slightly with the toe of his shoe, eyeing the cover. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and for a brief moment, his expression was almost… curious.

Harry followed his gaze and saw the thick volume: ‘Numerology’.

"Strange," Malfoy murmured.

"What?" Hermione snapped, snatching the book from the floor.

"There’s no Numerology today."

"And how would you know?" Ron cut in. "Go study your own schedule."

"Because," Malfoy drawled, turning to him, "I wanted to take Numerology myself. But it clashes with other subjects." His gaze flicked over to Hermione’s bag. "Maybe you should check your schedule if you don’t want your future to be completely pathetic."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed for the staircase.

"Oh, sod off…" Ron muttered after him. "He’s acting weird today, isn’t he?"

"As if he’s not weird every day," Hermione grumbled, shoving her books back into her bag.

Harry said nothing. He was still angry—at Malfoy’s tone, at his cryptic remarks, at the way he acted like he knew something no one else did. But beneath the irritation, something else stirred. Something uneasy. A feeling that he was missing something important.

As he climbed the staircase, Harry couldn’t shake the thought of Malfoy, his words, and the nagging suspicion that there was more to this than met the eye.

Chapter Text

As if Harry didn’t already have enough to worry about—with Sirius Black, Malfoy's tantrums, and the upcoming match against Slytherin—another disaster struck: Buckbeak had been sentenced to execution.

Hagrid was the one to break the news, sounding utterly defeated after enduring months of inspections and commissions ever since the hippogriff had attacked Draco. Despite all efforts, they never stood a chance against Lucius Malfoy. He had appeared in court as a wealthy and influential accuser, fighting for the safety of his child. No judge in the world would dare oppose someone like that.

Of course, Harry had expected Lucius to find out and take action. The school was obligated to inform parents about incidents involving their children, and Draco would have certainly told his father himself. But no one had imagined things would get this serious.

“They can’t…” Hermione muttered, rereading Hagrid’s message.

“They can,” Ron replied grimly, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Of course that bastard Malfoy had a hand in this.”

“We need to talk to him.”

Ron and Hermione stared at Harry in silence but didn’t argue. They needed answers.

They found Malfoy in the courtyard. He was sitting on a bench, his long legs stretched out, absentmindedly listening to Pansy Parkinson’s chatter.

“Malfoy!”

Draco turned, squinting, and a faint smirk crossed his face.

“Oh, Potter. Speaking to me again? What an honor.”

“Your father got Buckbeak sentenced to death,” Harry shot out.

Malfoy tilted his head slightly, considering this.

“Yes,” he finally said. “And?”

“And?!” Ron exploded. “What the hell—”

“It’s unfair!” Hermione cried.

“Tell that to my hand,” Draco said coolly.

“There’s nothing wrong with your hand!” Harry blurted out. “You know perfectly well that you broke the rules and paid the price for it.”

“Oh, do you, Potter?” Malfoy’s voice turned sharp. “Or do you think the real problem is the pathetic excuse of a professor who allowed this to happen in the first place? He has no idea what he’s doing. This isn’t a game. Yes, I agree—execution is a bit much—but what, in your opinion, would have been enough? Should I have died instead for you to admit something needed to be done? I suppose having my arm torn to shreds wasn’t reason enough, was it?”

Hermione’s nerves were at their limit. While Harry struggled for a response, she stepped forward, towering over the seated Slytherin.

“One more word about Hagrid, and I swear—”

“Yes?” Malfoy rose to his feet with ease, pushing aside a startled Pansy. “One more word about that sorry excuse for a teacher and what, exactly?”

A sharp crack echoed in the courtyard. Malfoy’s head snapped to the side, his pale fringe flying up as he clutched at his reddening cheek. Hermione stood there, rubbing her palm.

Pansy recovered first.

“You filthy Mudblood—”

She reached for her wand, but Malfoy stopped her with a gesture. For a moment, he locked eyes with Hermione, then slowly shifted his gaze to Potter. Harry wanted to say something, but his mind was a mess. Malfoy’s words had stoked his anger, and for a brief second, he himself had wanted to wipe that smirk off Malfoy’s face with his fist. But now that Hermione had done it first, he suddenly felt almost ashamed of his own petty desire.

Malfoy seemed to be waiting for Harry to speak. He stared at him for a long moment, then nodded to himself, as if confirming something, and walked off toward the castle. Pansy hurried after him, loudly ranting about Mudbloods, Gryffindors, and Hermione in particular.

Ron, his face a mixture of awe and delight, was staring at Hermione.

“That was brilliant!”

“Thanks…” Hermione still looked embarrassed, rubbing her hand. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said unexpectedly. “I wanted to do it too.”

The news about Buckbeak’s execution had shaken all three of them, but they couldn’t afford to despair. The match against Slytherin was coming up fast.

“Harry, we have to win!” Hermione declared later in the common room, unusually invested in a sporting event. “Don’t let Malfoy catch the Snitch—I don’t think I could bear it!”

The weather could not have been worse for the game. Harry stood by the window, watching as the rain hammered against the glass with vicious intensity. The walls of the castle trembled from the howling wind, and the sky over the Forbidden Forest loomed heavy and gray, promising only worse to come.

Rumors had been circulating all morning that the Slytherins had tried to get the match postponed. Their Seeker had allegedly claimed that playing in such conditions was life-threatening and that he hadn’t fully recovered from his “injury.”

“Oh, please!” Ron scoffed when Hermione relayed the news. “Coward.”

But the match was not postponed.

The storm only worsened. By the time Gryffindor took to the field for warm-ups, everyone’s nerves were frayed. The wind lashed at their faces, powerful gusts threatening to rip the broomsticks from their hands. The rain had turned the field into a swamp, and the stands were nearly invisible behind a thick veil of mist. Harry took a deep breath and gripped his broom tighter.

Slytherin emerged next. Malfoy walked at the front, his brows furrowed, pulling his cloak tighter around him. Harry was surprised to note how small he looked compared to the rest of his team. Their Beaters, Chasers, and especially their Keeper were all towering upperclassmen, clearly selected for their size. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle blew.

***

It was the dirtiest match Harry had ever played. The rain lashed so hard that players could barely see one another, and the Slytherins wasted no opportunity to use the worst tactics, openly attacking their opponents. Harry kept getting distracted from looking for the Snitch, listening instead to the commentary. The point gap wasn’t big enough yet—he couldn’t catch the Snitch just yet. Malfoy alternated between tailing him and darting across the field. A few times, Harry spotted glimpses of gold in the storm, but each time, the Snitch vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“Hurry up,” he begged inwardly as the Slytherin Keeper let in another goal, bringing Gryffindor’s lead to thirty points. Just two more goals, and he could go for the Snitch.

Malfoy, apparently bored of circling the field, had been following Harry closely for some time now, clearly hoping to rattle him. Well, two could play that game. Harry made several feints, pretending to chase the Snitch, and Malfoy fell for it every time. The point gap was growing steadily.

“Yes!” Lee Jordan’s voice boomed over the field. “Alicia scores! Brilliant shot, Alicia! The score is 20 to 70, Gryffindor in the lead!”

There it was! Harry, who had been carefully tracking the Snitch’s movements, realized it was flying higher than usual. And there—through the mist—he saw a flicker of gold above the stands, above the lighting towers. Without a second thought, he shot upwards. Malfoy, who had been watching him like a hawk, immediately followed.

Harry wasn’t worried. They both had fast brooms, and Malfoy had been flying since childhood, but he was still too afraid to take real risks. Harry surged forward, climbing higher. He turned his head slightly to check Malfoy’s position, and in that instant, he saw it.

A massive black dog sat at the very top of the stands, alone. The Grim.

Its glowing eyes pierced through the rain and mist, burning into Harry’s soul. A terrible weight crashed down on him, as if his heart had been shackled in ice.

“No, please—not Harry!”

A voice, desperate and terrified, echoed in his skull. The cold turned his fingers numb, and then a scream—his mother’s scream—filled his ears. His hands slackened. His broom slipped from his grip.

And he fell.

Harry couldn’t see the ground rushing toward him. He couldn’t hear the roar of the crowd. The only thing in his mind was that terrible, echoing scream. But then—suddenly—it was drowned out by another sound. A new, furious shriek, hoarse and wild.

Something yanked him upward, grabbing the collar of his uniform, slowing his fall.

“Strong”, was the last thought that flickered through Harry’s mind before everything dissolved into darkness.

Chapter Text

“You’re lucky the ground’s soft! Look, his glasses didn’t even break…”

The loud voice cut through the air, and Harry snapped back to consciousness. Before that, a constant, unpleasant hum had pressed on his ears, as if a swarm of bees was circling around his head. Harry couldn’t understand where he was, what had happened. Why did his whole body ache, and why was his mind slipping away? He needed to open his eyes.

The entire Gryffindor team loomed over him, and Ron sat at the edge of the bed. Everyone was talking at once, arguing, creating an indecipherable buzz. How dirty and wet they all were!

“Oh, Harry!” Ron had to lean in even closer for Harry to hear him over the noise. “You scared us to death.”

Looking up, Harry saw the high, bright ceiling – a familiar sight. That meant he was in the Hospital Wing. But it had never been this noisy… However, the answer came immediately – behind the Gryffindors, the green robes of the opponents were flashing. The players were whispering and arguing. Harry heard the moans of Pansy Parkinson, whose high voice now sounded like nails on a chalkboard:

“Oh, what a nightmare!”

“What…” Harry coughed and tried again. “What happened?”

Hermione appeared beside a flushed Ron:

“You fell off your broom. Harry, it was Dementors! Dumbledore was so angry, I’ve never seen him like that. When you started falling, he rushed onto the field, cast a protective barrier, and then drove the Dementors away. We thought you… You…”

“Harry, there’s something…,” said a gloomy George, appearing in his line of sight, holding a heap of some dirty rubbish. “Your broom… Well, here it is. It crashed right into the Whomping Willow…”

Harry went cold.

“No… What about the match? We…”

“We’ll replay it!” Oliver Wood finally pushed his way to the head of the bed. “No one caught the Snitch, so it’ll be a replay!”

“Flint’s fuming,” Ron interrupted him, leaning toward Harry with a confidential tone. “Malfoy was right next to the Snitch—just about to grab it. But then he turned around and flew after you.”

Harry lost the gift of speech — along with every other gift he might once have possessed.

“W-what?” he managed to croak, but at that moment, Madam Pomfrey finally appeared.

“Young people, you promised to be quiet! I should have locked the door. Your champions will be fine, they need rest. And what’s this?” she cast a disapproving glance at the broken broom. “No rubbish in my infirmary. Out, now!”

Ron and Hermione tried to stay, but under Madam Pomfrey’s pointed look, they hurriedly said their goodbyes and headed for the door. Somewhere nearby, Blaise Zabini was trying to persuade Pansy to leave. The colorful crowd slowly made their way out, leaving behind puddles of mud, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. Finally, the room became unnervingly quiet. Harry’s head was spinning. He tried to sit up, but Madam Pomfrey stopped him.

“Young man, you have a concussion. You need rest.”

Harry didn’t argue. He turned to the neighboring bed—Madam Pomfrey was working her healing magic on Draco. Harry strained his ears: it seemed Draco had dislocated his shoulder, elbow, and torn wrist ligaments. Madam Pomfrey checked his hand and nodded with satisfaction.

“It’s healing properly. The worst part is left,” she said, taking a bottle of murky liquid from her pocket and pouring it into a glass. “This is Skele-Gro, Mr. Potter had the pleasure of getting acquainted with this marvelous remedy last year. It’s unpleasant, but not fatal.”

It was only now that Harry noticed Draco’s face wasn’t covered in dirt, but some kind of medicinal paste, beneath which bruises and cuts were visible. Madam Pomfrey waved her wand, removing the healing ointment.

“Unfortunately, Skele-Gro can’t be used with any painkillers. It could have unpredictable consequences.”

Draco turned to the healer and, with difficulty moving his lips, indignantly exclaimed:

“Are you kidding me?”

“This is non-negotiable, Mr. Malfoy,” she replied sternly. “Drink.”

Draco grimaced as if he’d been offered slugs for dinner, and only now did Harry notice that Draco was missing a few of his front teeth.

“Does healing ever happen here without torture?” Draco grumbled, but catching Madam Pomfrey’s stern look, he reluctantly took the glass.

“That’s better,” Madam Pomfrey nodded. “Rest. Mr. Potter, drink this strengthening potion.”

And she left for her office.

Harry remained stunned and silent. Too many events for his aching head. He probably needed to say something.

“Ron says… says you saved me. Why?”

Draco hadn’t managed to gulp down the potion yet, eyeing the glass with doubt.

“I don’t know. Maybe I caught idiocy from you.”

Harry smiled.

“Thanks.”

An awkward silence fell, but it wasn’t as oppressive as it had been in the past few days. Harry hadn’t expected it would feel so nice to talk to Draco again.

Draco was trying to inspect his reflection in the small spoon used for stirring the bone growth potion. Harry watched him surreptitiously.

“Listen, Draco… Why were you so angry at Ron back then? You know, when we had that argument?”

It was clear Draco didn’t really want to recall that day. He froze, then propped himself up on the bed and stared at Harry. The right side of his face was one big bruise.

“Because your friend needs to watch her mouth.”

“Friend… Wait, you mean Hermione? What did she…”

Draco remained silent, and Harry desperately tried to remember that conversation.

“She said…”

“Ugh, Potter, shut up!”

“She said, you’d be much more handsome… Oh.”

Draco turned away and stared at the wall opposite. Harry waited for a response, but the only thing he got was a blush rising through the bruises. He suddenly found it incredibly funny. What a silly thing! He hastily shared this thought with Draco.

“And anyway, if you’re curious, I think you’re actually quite handsome.”

There’s nothing awkward about telling the truth. Harry liked everything unusual, including human features. Each of his friends had something unique and beautiful: Ginny’s gorgeous hair, Ron’s cheeky freckles, Hermione’s intelligent eyes. Draco’s sly smile, stolen in a glance. How could anyone worry about their looks with such long eyelashes and smooth skin? Draco, as always, was in his element.

“Uhhh…” Draco responded, surprised, but then frowned. “Well, forget it.”

Harry snorted. He would have laughed if someone had told him he’d be having conversations with Draco Malfoy about beauty, even convincing him of his own attractiveness. But apparently, Draco wasn’t in the mood for fun.

“What’s wrong? I’m sure Madam Pomfrey can fix this without a trace. Drink your potion and tomorrow you’ll be as good as new.”

Draco sighed irritably and swallowed the potion. Harry remembered how every sip of that stuff sent unbearable pain through his body. Draco immediately felt it and nearly dropped the glass.

“Wait!” Harry struggled to sit up and limped over to the neighboring bed. He conjured a glass of water and placed it on the bedside table next to Draco. “Here! You’ll feel really hot soon.”

Draco leaned back on the pillow, stretching out on the narrow bed, cradling his injured arm against his chest. Harry returned to his bed and thoughtfully watched him.

“You know, if Hermione knew she upset you, she’d apologize. I think she’d be okay if I apologized for her, so… please, forgive her.”

Draco stared at him, his eyes comically wide, then said:

“Alright.”

They fell silent. The first wave of heat and pain subsided slightly, and Draco exhaled. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all?

“So, what actually happened?” Draco raised himself on his elbow to get a better look at Harry. His face was swollen, and his speech was slurred, but Harry didn’t laugh. “Do Dementors really affect you that much? Or was it just that you couldn’t handle the broom? Maybe that broom’s too good for you…”

Harry smirked and also sat up. His head was spinning.

“You know, at first, I saw something… but don’t laugh! Well, I saw a Grim in the stands. Just like Trelawney predicted.”

For a few moments, Draco stared at him, trying to keep a straight face, but then he couldn’t hold it in and snorted:

“Ha! Very funny!”

“Don’t believe me,” Harry shrugged. “Enough about that. And honestly, I’m feeling nauseous.”

“Ugh, Potter. I can’t believe I risked my life for you!”

Flustered by his own words, Draco snapped his mouth shut. To distract himself, he took another sip of the horrible concoction, and his body immediately cramped with pain. Now, the pain concentrated in his jaw. Oh, he would tell Madam Pomfrey all about it: “Unpleasant, but not fatal.” Ha!

Harry remembered wishing he could cut off his own arm when he had been tortured like this for almost the whole night. Draco could only hope that his new teeth would grow back faster. He tossed and turned in bed, his movements becoming increasingly jerky. The Skele-Gro was doing its job: his teeth were growing back, and his head throbbed as if it were going to explode.

It was already dark outside when Draco took the last dose of potion. He was shaking heavily, his body so weak that he could barely lift the glass. Harry hadn’t managed to fall asleep all evening. His own head felt like it was spinning on a different orbit, out of sync with the rest of the world. And he couldn’t leave Draco. A strange mixture of gratitude and embarrassment kept Harry from relaxing, as he had been told to, so he got up several times to force Draco to drink the Skele-Gro and to offer him cold water. Madam Pomfrey came to check on her patients, and Harry pretended to be asleep. Since she hadn’t said anything about the dangers of the cooling compress, he placed the wet cloth on Draco’s face. Accidentally touching his skin, Harry quickly pulled his hand back: no one should be this hot.

At some point, Malfoy fell silent, and the stillness of the infirmary was only interrupted by his labored breathing. Harry was about to get up once more to check on him, but didn’t manage to: he finally fell asleep.

Chapter Text

When Harry woke up that morning, the first thing he did was glance at the bed next to his. It was empty. But before he had time to worry, he heard a noise coming from the bathroom. A moment later, Malfoy burst out, flashing his brand-new teeth.

“Look at that!” he announced, plopping unceremoniously onto Harry’s bed without the slightest regard for his legs, and leaned in close. “Something feels off!”

Harry rubbed his eyes with one hand and reached for his glasses with the other. His head wasn’t spinning anymore, but his body still felt weak and clumsy—he had to steady himself with Malfoy’s knee.

He tried to remember what Draco’s teeth had looked like before he knocked them out during the Quidditch match. As far as he could recall, they’d always been white and straight—nothing particularly memorable.

“I think they look fine,” Harry said, shrugging.

Draco still looked uncertain. He ran his fingers over his face. The bruises and swelling were gone now, leaving only a faint mark from a deep scrape on his chin and the dark circles from a sleepless night.

Harry gave his knee an awkward pat. It hadn’t even occurred to him to check his own injuries in the mirror. They didn’t hurt, and that was good enough for him.

“It’s fine, Draco. Anyway, scars give you character. You’ll have a great story to tell your grandkids someday…”

Malfoy recoiled and smacked Harry’s arm.

“Potter, are you mental? Where did you hear that? Maybe in the forest, but for a wizard from an ancient and noble house, that’s absolutely unacceptable! I’d have to spend my whole life casting concealment charms or go around looking like some kind of savage—no way!”

Harry rolled his eyes and looked at him. Of course, Malfoy never missed a chance to bring up his pure-blood heritage, but to Harry, he was just another boy in school robes. He had only a vague idea of what “pure-blood” meant in the wizarding world, or what Draco’s life was like outside Hogwarts. The only scar Harry ever had to think about was the lightning-shaped one on his forehead—and that was just because strangers recognized him by it. He tried to imagine the sleek and severe Lucius Malfoy with facial scars. The image was more than a little unsettling. But Draco wasn’t his father, no matter how much he resembled him.

“I probably don’t get it,” Harry admitted. “Doesn’t matter to me. I just think you look good. Even with the scar. That’s all. Shall we go to breakfast?”

Surprisingly, Malfoy calmed down. He slid off the bed with an effortless motion, his feet barely making a sound on the floor.

“What’ve you got today?” he asked. “We’ve got two whole Divination lessons. I’d rather stay here and read something. At least that would be useful.”

“You sound like Hermione,” Harry said with a grin. “But honestly, I’d rather get some more sleep.”

“I didn’t doubt it,” Malfoy snorted. “How do you even study, Potter? So many letters…”

“Hey, I can read!” Harry protested. “I just don’t really like it. I never had many good books around, and the boring ones—I mean, who’d want to read them again?”

Malfoy fluffed his pillow and settled back, clearly ready to listen.

“You’re talking about Muggle books, right?” he asked. “Tell me.”

“What?” Harry frowned. “If you want to learn about Muggles, you could take Muggle Studies.”

“I don’t want to learn about Muggles,” Draco replied sharply. “I’m asking about you.”

Harry wasn’t sure why that stung. Maybe it was just that Draco always managed to make the word “Muggle” sound like an insult. He didn’t feel like having that conversation again.

“Well, like I said, I didn’t read much.”

“Muggles don’t read books?” Draco asked immediately.

“No, they do,” Harry said. “It’s just… my Muggles—my relatives—didn’t read anything interesting. I tried borrowing books from the school library, but I didn’t find many that caught my attention. And I didn’t always have the chance to read, either. I preferred watching TV when I could.”

“Right,” Draco nodded wisely. “And a TV is…?”

Harry smiled. It felt good to know something Malfoy didn’t.

“It’s a box that shows moving pictures with sound. Like a theatre, but recorded—and you can watch it anywhere. My aunt’s obsessed with Brazilian soap operas.”

Draco toyed thoughtfully with the button on his pajama shirt.

“And how does it work? How do they show pictures without magic? I know Muggle photos don’t move, but a whole play—with sound? From a distance?”

Harry looked uncertain.

“I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “Muggles have something called science. Physics, electricity… it’s kind of like their version of magic. I didn’t get to study it much in primary school. You’d have to ask someone else.”

“Like who?” Draco scoffed. “Who else am I supposed to ask?”

“I dunno,” Harry muttered. “I thought you didn’t care about Muggle stuff.”

“You’re right,” Draco replied flatly. “I don’t.”

“Look, Hermione could probably explain all of this. She loves talking about that sort of thing. I’m sure she’d be happy to tell you.”

“Yeah, maybe…” Draco said slowly. Then he looked back at Harry, eyes narrowing. “But why don’t you know? You lived with Muggles, didn’t you?”

The last thing Harry wanted to do was tell Draco Malfoy exactly what it had been like living with Muggles—as a cockroach, or worse. At least a cockroach could sneak into the kitchen at night and not die of thirst before morning. Maybe Malfoy had become more tolerant since first year, but even so—telling him this…

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Harry said quietly. It was honest, though not entirely. He felt like he owed some kind of answer—especially since Draco was still clutching his injured hand. How could he refuse? “I was never close to my relatives. They didn’t even tell me I was a wizard, so I was on my own most of the time. I used to walk around a lot—just to get away from the house. That’s why I don’t know much about the world beyond my street.”

Malfoy’s mouth fell open, and he stared at Harry in stunned silence. Harry stayed quiet too. He was already regretting saying anything at all.

“Wait… if you didn’t even know about magic… how could you not know you were a wizard?” Draco glanced toward Madam Pomfrey’s office, then lowered his voice. “How did you think your parents died? And what about the scar?”

“I was told they died in a car crash. Oh, a car is—”

“I know,” Draco interrupted, waving the explanation away. “No, Potter, that can’t be true. I almost believed it, too. The most famous wizard in all of magical Britain didn’t even know magic existed? Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Harry just shrugged.

“I really didn’t know. When I was eleven, Hagrid literally broke down our door on my birthday and told us everything. Before that, I just thought weird things kept happening around me.”

Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Broke in?”

“Well, yeah. The Dursleys dragged me off to the middle of nowhere to stop the Hogwarts letters. They— well, they hate magic. The way some wizards hate Muggles.”

“That’s—” Draco hesitated, then steepled his fingers in front of his lips. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Harry looked at him, doubtful.

Draco didn’t answer. Harry turned away, staring at the floor.

“Hagrid was the first one to tell me the truth. He introduced me to this world. Helped me understand at least some of it. Back then, I didn’t know anything. And honestly… I still don’t, sometimes.”

Draco swallowed, an odd tightness in his throat. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—that Hagrid had meant so much to someone, or the way Harry spoke about him. With respect. With warmth.

Luckily—or unluckily—Madam Pomfrey interrupted them.

“Well, I see you boys already have the strength to talk. I suppose I can discharge you, Mr. Potter. Breakfast is waiting.”

She turned to Draco, raising her wand to scan him for lingering injuries, ignoring Harry entirely now. There was nothing left for Harry to do but get dressed and go.

At the door, he paused and turned back.

“I'll come by at lunch and bring you something good.”

Malfoy snorted, but there was something almost pleased in his expression.

The Great Hall was noisy as always, but Harry immediately noticed a strange tension hanging over the Slytherin table. Many of them looked glum, and Blaise Zabini was talking to Pansy Parkinson with barely concealed irritation. She just shrugged in response.

Harry slid onto the bench beside Ron and Hermione, eyeing the Slytherins as he reached for toast.

“Harry!” Hermione said brightly. “You’re out! How are you feeling?”

“Great,” Harry said with a shrug. “Although… a bit weird.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

“Well, I’m not dizzy anymore, just a little tired. But Malfoy’s still in the Hospital Wing. I mean, how come? We both fell—”

Ron froze mid-chew and slammed his hand on the table.

“Of course he’s still there—he almost died yesterday! Okay, maybe not literally, but you both looked like you were about to kick the bucket!”

“What?” Harry’s hand froze with the mug halfway to his lips.

“Dumbledore conjured a shield around the pitch when you were falling,” Ron was animatedly sharing gory details. “Slowed you down a bit. But Malfoy—he was trying to control his broom, smashed full-speed into the guardrail. Snape was practically sewing his face back together.”

Harry was stunned into silence. Hermione nodded with a pained expression.

“It was awful, Harry. You were just lying there like you were—well, like you were dead. And Malfoy—”

“Why didn’t he say anything?” Harry murmured.

“Malfoy didn’t complain?” Ron raised an eyebrow. “It must have hit him hard...”

“Ron!”

“What? It’s weird!”

Harry leaned back in his seat, staring at the ceiling, face burning. Could Draco have known how bad it was going to be? And what was Harry supposed to do now? Not long ago, they’d nearly had a fistfight over nothing. The day before, they’d been seconds from drawing wands over a Hippogriff.

He ran a hand down his face and said firmly:

“I’m going back at lunch. We need to talk.”

The time until lunch passed quickly. Gryffindor had two joint Charms classes with Ravenclaw, and Harry threw himself into the lessons, desperate to keep his mind occupied.

Professor Flitwick introduced them to a complex levitation charm for moving multiple objects at once. Unlike his friends, Harry didn’t do particularly well—he managed to lift everything into the air, but the lighter objects kept zooming across the room. Hermione, of course, had her books, quills, and parchment floating in a gentle orbit around her desk. Ron nearly poked out Terry Boot’s eye with a rogue quill.

As the class ended, the students headed toward the staircases. Ron muttered an apology to Terry, who glared at him and ignored the goodbye.

“You’d think I did it on purpose,” Ron muttered. “Come on, it’s a lesson, there are bound to be casualties… Wait, where’s Hermione?”

The boys stopped and looked around. She’d walked with them to the door, hadn’t she? Had she fallen behind?

Ron rubbed his forehead in disbelief.

“It’s not the first time, is it? One moment she’s walking next to me, and the next she’s at the other end of the corridor. Now this… Are we going crazy, or are we just lousy friends who don’t notice when she disappears?”

“I don’t know, Ron… I was thinking about something else just now, and you were upset. We might have missed it.”

Ron chuckled knowingly.

“Were you thinking about Malfoy? Yeah, that was actually really brave—what he did yesterday. I’d even shake his hand; if he wasn’t such an asshole. I didn’t expect it from him.”

Harry smiled faintly.

“Me too.”

Hermione was already in the Great Hall. She had piled a mountain of food onto her plate and was chewing rapidly, not looking up from her Divination textbook.

“And we’ve lost you!” Ron exclaimed, plopping down next to her.

“Yeah, I— I was just really hungry and decided not to be late for lunch for once. Where’ve you been?”

“Oh, Harry’s spying on the Slytherins,” Ron waved it off casually.

“What?” Hermione put down her fork.

“Ron’s joking!” Harry cut in quickly. “I just needed to make sure there was no one in the hospital wing right now.” He quickly wrapped two pieces of pie in a napkin and picked up a glass of pumpkin juice. “See you later!”

With that, he slipped out of the Hall and hurried to the infirmary.

Draco was still in bed. He was reading, but Harry could tell from the sharp rustle of the pages that he wasn’t in a good mood.

The Gryffindor quietly approached the bed, not sure how to start a conversation.

“Hey. I’m here… Anyway, take it.” He placed the glass of juice on the bedside table and unwrapped the napkin.

“Thanks,” Draco replied dryly. “I’ve already eaten.”

“Uh— okay.”

Harry froze by the bed, not daring to leave. Draco had seemed to enjoy talking to him just recently. Malfoy closed the book, marking the page with his finger.

“They told me what happened. About yesterday.” Harry took advantage of the fact that Draco wasn’t looking at him—it was a bit easier to speak that way. “What you did was really brave, Draco. Thank you.”

“You already said that. And anyway, what’s so brave about it? Turning on my own team? Letting people talk shit about me? That’s brave, Potter?”

Harry was taken aback.

“What are you talking about? Draco, listen,” Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, and Malfoy inhaled sharply, “we can still have the rematch! Wood said there’d be another game. And who’s talking about you? Was it your team?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

“Are you spying on me?”

Harry bit his tongue. He had been spying—using the brilliant map Fred and George had given him. It showed everyone in the castle, and Harry really didn’t want to run into the entire Slytherin team in the hospital wing.

“Well, you seemed fine this morning, and now you’re angry. Don’t have to be a detective to figure that out.”

Draco snorted and turned away. Without hesitation, Harry placed his hand gently over Draco’s. He’d never done it before—but somehow, now it felt right.

“Draco, it’s not always a bad thing to be a Gryffindor.”

Malfoy flinched and tried to pull his hand away.

“Potter, are you crazy?” he snapped in confusion.

Harry gave his hand a light squeeze but said nothing. He wasn’t ready to leave yet, even though he had no idea what to do next. Malfoy stopped struggling, but looked like an angry cat. With his free hand, he grabbed the juice from the bedside table and drank deeply—he wasn’t going to let Potter think he could fluster him! Harry settled at the foot of the bed and started eating a pie, thoughtfully glancing at the empty rows of beds.

“You must be bored in here? So many healthy students—the infirmary’s empty!”

Malfoy pulled a face and shook his book pointedly, but Harry had noticed something. The sheets on the next bed had already been changed, so he flopped down on top of them and turned toward Draco.

“What are you reading?”

Draco picked up the book again and showed the cover. L’Homme qui Rit. The title and author meant nothing to Harry.

“It’s not English, is it?”

“Brilliant observation, Potter. It’s French.”

“And you… can read the original?”

Harry’s genuine surprise made Draco smile slightly.

“Of course, Potter. My ancestors were from France. It’s my native language.”

“Wow!” Harry blinked. “Two native languages! That’s cool. Will you read to me?”

“What?”

“Read aloud. You’ve got nothing better to do, and I’ll get an excuse to skip Divination.”

“Merlin’s beard, Potter! Are you skipping class? Have I corrupted you already?”

“Don’t flatter yourself!” Harry laughed. “When have you ever skipped a class? Is it a Slytherin habit to steal other people's achievements? I’m a pro at cutting class.”

“Touché. Fine. But if you start snoring, I’ll hex you.”

Draco opened the book, and Harry settled in, but immediately sat up in surprise. Soft, melodic sounds flowed from Malfoy’s lips—unlike anything he’d heard from him before.

“It’s like a cat purring in your mouth.”

Draco paused mid-sentence and looked up from the book. Harry rushed to explain:

“That’s a compliment. I mean I like it. What’s the book about?”

“A boy with a scar,” Draco replied and, clearly enjoying the irony, added, “He was kidnapped as a child and turned into a circus freak. They carved a smile into his face. The tragedy of his life is having to hide his identity under a mask.”

“Wow…” Harry said thoughtfully. “That’s grim. But it suits you. I figured you liked horror stories.”

“Oh no, Potter, this isn’t horror. The British write the darkest Gothic fiction. The Germans, too; they love scaring children. Listen to this: ‘Der Junge ist fett genug. Morgen will ich ihn schlachten und kochen…” ¹

Harry listened, transfixed. Draco used a creaky old-man voice, but the words still sounded melodious—like in French—as if Malfoy himself had stepped out of a fairy tale.

“Wait—” Harry straightened, eyes fixed on him. “How many languages do you know?”

Draco grinned and began ticking them off with mock indifference.

“English and French, obviously. Latin—for school. German—just because I like it…” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Thinking about Italian. Zabini speaks it sometimes—it’s beautiful. And the more you know, the easier it gets.”

“That’s insane,” Harry said in awe. “You’re such a nerd. All right, carry on!”

Draco shrugged and turned back to the marked page. Harry didn’t even try to understand what he heard—the moment Draco started reading again, a calm tiredness washed over him, and his eyes began to close. “I should’ve warned the others,” he thought vaguely, but he didn’t have the strength to move. Being around this Malfoy was surprisingly peaceful. Harry smiled to himself—if Ron only knew what he was thinking…

Draco felt his voice starting to slur, but he was determined to finish the page. Just a few lines left! But the book slipped from his hands and landed on his chest—and neither of them noticed.

The hospital wing went quiet.

Chapter Text

„Mr. Potter!“

A woman’s voice in a boy’s bedroom? Had he overslept his class so badly that Professor McGonagall had come to shake him out of bed herself? Harry jolted upright and blinked—Madam Pomfrey was standing over him, a mixture of annoyance and disbelief on her face.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Potter? I discharged you this morning!”

Harry rubbed his eyes, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. It took several long seconds—he hadn’t slept this well in a long time. Clearly, he was still in the hospital wing. But how had he ended up back here…?

A hoarse chuckle came from the next bed. Harry turned and met a familiar smirk. Draco Malfoy, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, had also woken and was thoroughly enjoying the scene.

Harry regained some composure and turned to Madam Pomfrey.

“I’m sorry, I just came in for a moment. I meant to visit… and then…”

She sighed heavily and cut off his vague explanation.

“Mr. Potter, your friend is going to be fine. You may go to dinner—before it ends.”

In the morning, students had rushed into the hospital wing, but by afternoon the only patient remaining was quietly recovering. Madam Pomfrey had returned to her office to catch up on paperwork. She made a mental note: even if there was only one patient who actually stayed in bed and followed instructions, it didn’t mean he didn’t have unpredictable friends.

Harry jumped up, apologized again, and hurried to the exit. At the door, he hesitated and turned back to say goodbye—but Malfoy had already opened a book and didn’t bother to acknowledge him. Harry sighed and made his way toward the Great Hall.

Hermione spotted him at the entrance and waved furiously.

“Harry! Over here! Where’ve you been?”

Harry dropped onto the bench next to his classmates, just like that morning. The déjà vu was only intensified by the lightheadedness he still felt.

“I had to check on someone…”

Hermione slapped her forehead.

“Ron, he was in the hospital wing the whole time! And we thought—well, we imagined all sorts of things, honestly.”

Harry tried to explain.

“I went to check on Malfoy after lunch. He was reading, and I… accidentally fell asleep.”

Ron shook his head in disbelief.

“I still can’t get used to the fact that he’s not our enemy anymore, and now you’re reading books with him! What’s next—sharing a diary?”

“I wouldn’t call him an enemy,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “He’s just… annoying.”

“Annoying?” Ron repeated with mock offense. “I’d call him a monstrously insufferable slug with a gargantuan ego—but sure, your version works too.”

Harry shrugged and didn’t argue. He knew Ron and Hermione didn’t see Malfoy the way he did. Maybe if they stopped seeing him as just an arrogant prat and more as a regular boy, it wouldn’t be so hard. Spending time with Draco didn’t seem strange anymore—quite the opposite. They’d talked a lot today, and probably would’ve talked more if Madam Pomfrey hadn’t thrown him out. And Harry was certain—it wouldn’t have been boring.

***

Malfoy remained in the hospital wing for the rest of the week. In truth, he didn’t mind it—Pansy Parkinson brought him the latest gossip, though unfortunately, it wasn’t always flattering. Many Slytherins had taken his behavior at the match as an unpleasant shock. For students of a house that prided itself on fighting tooth and nail for every point—however underhanded—his stunt had felt like betrayal.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was a strange shift in how the rest of the school now looked at him. Especially the girls. According to certain rumors, it turned out Draco had always been a “complex soul,” and only a complete dolt could fail to see the “fierce and passionate spirit” beneath his mask of arrogance.

Harry thought it was hilarious. He’d taken to reporting the most absurd bits of gossip back to the newly minted tragic romantic hero—until, after asking with exaggerated concern, “Draco, aren’t you cold in that armor of cynicism?”—he narrowly avoided a faceful of pumpkin juice.

By Monday morning, Malfoy had rejoined his house for breakfast in the Great Hall. Harry had been scanning the Slytherin table for his familiar blond head since early dawn, and when he finally spotted him, he couldn’t stop watching. Ron, for one, noticed.

“Harry, stop staring—it’s unhealthy,” Ron said, buttering his toast. “I know you feel like you have to check on him, but what if someone cursed you? You were in the hospital wing an awful lot.”

“I’m not staring,” Harry muttered, still glancing sideways. He was aware of the rumors and worried someone from Slytherin might try something. Quidditch players with bruised egos had long memories. Malfoy was sitting stiffly beside Pansy, calmly eating breakfast, but Harry could tell he was on edge too. Pansy was talking animatedly, and Crabbe and Goyle flanked him with the enthusiasm of disgruntled trolls. Definitely not the moment to walk over.

Harry turned his gaze toward the staff table. Professor McGonagall looked especially intent on her food, like she was analyzing it for magical properties. And then, Headmaster Dumbledore rose to his feet.

He adjusted the hem of his robes with practiced flair and surveyed the students over the top of his half-moon spectacles. His blue eyes twinkled, that familiar glint that always meant something unexpected was about to happen.

“I hope everyone is enjoying their breakfast,” he said, bowing slightly. “Now that we are all gathered, I have a small announcement.”

He folded his hands in front of him and paused, tilting his head as if considering his words.

“At our last Quidditch match, one student displayed uncommon bravery and offered a helping hand where it was most needed. I believe such an act deserves recognition.”

He paused, letting the room fall into a hush of anticipation.

“Fifty points to Slytherin,” he finally said. “Draco Malfoy—well done.”

There was a mixture of cheers and skeptical muttering at the Slytherin table. Some applauded politely, while others grimaced—points were great, but not if they had to be earned the Gryffindor way. Malfoy, for his part, looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

Ron groaned.

“Oh, brilliant. Malfoy’s a hero now. What next—autograph signings?”

Hermione was watching Dumbledore with her arms crossed, thoughtful.

“Well,” she said at last, “that’s only fair.”

Harry didn’t reply. Slytherin might’ve caught up to Gryffindor in points, but somehow, it didn’t bother him. In fact, he was looking forward to teasing Malfoy during Divination class.

Malfoy had appreciated the points in theory, but being praised for that moment still made him cringe. So when he saw the trio at the bottom of the stairs, he said nothing and simply swept past them. Potter was bound to say something ridiculous, and Malfoy had no intention of playing along—especially not in front of others.

Harry felt a sharp twinge in his chest. Not that he’d expected them to become best friends overnight, but still…

Ron snorted at the exchange and pushed open the trapdoor, letting Harry and Hermione climb into the tower first. The air inside was thick with incense, and candles flickered from every corner. Professor Trelawney hovered near the center of the room, swathed in her usual assortment of shawls, bangles, and enormous dragonfly spectacles.

The students found their seats around the round tables. Trelawney gazed at them dramatically, trying to build suspense.

“Ahhh…” she breathed, and froze.

Harry followed her gaze and realized she was staring straight at Malfoy.

“I felt your absence,” she said, her voice low and mysterious. “But now… you have returned.”

“That’s… very observant, Professor,” Malfoy said coolly, his expression flat. A shadow passed over his face, but he quickly masked it with a sneer and raised one eyebrow.

Trelawney leaned closer.

“You have a gift.”

The class erupted in muffled laughter.

“I’m sorry—what?” Malfoy said, incredulous, looking at her as if she’d declared him Hufflepuff’s star Seeker.

“The gift of Sight,” she intoned solemnly. “Rarely do I encounter a student so attuned to the unseen threads of fate. But I have felt it in you since our first lesson. It’s remarkable that you have not yet recognized it in yourself.”

Malfoy stared at her in horror. The room buzzed as students leaned closer to whisper. Everyone knew Divination was where serious students came to nap—and now Malfoy was being hailed as a seer?

“You’re joking,” he said at last.

“Oh no, my boy. Not at all.” Trelawney shook her head gravely, already enchanted by her own narrative. “You are sensitive to the currents of destiny, whether you wish to be or not.”

Malfoy opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked genuinely insulted.

“Utter nonsense.”

Trelawney only smiled.

“Then let’s put it to the test.”

She waved her hand, and one of the crystal balls rose gently into the air, landing softly on the table in front of Malfoy.

“If your mind is truly closed, you won’t see anything,” she said solemnly. “But if I’m right… then you may glimpse the future.”

She turned to Harry.

“My boy, sit across from him. Now…” she looked back at Malfoy, “gaze into the ball and tell us what awaits Harry Potter.”

A gasp rippled through the classroom, quickly followed by giggles and whispers.

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, “turns out she’s been right all along about your gruesome death, and it’s happening right now.”

Harry took a deep breath, stood up, and walked stiffly to the table where Malfoy sat behind the crystal ball, his expression one of extreme displeasure.

“Sit down, Harry,” Trelawney said softly but urgently.

He dropped into the chair and stared into the ball to avoid looking at Draco.

“Now, hold hands,” the professor continued.

A loud chuckle erupted from the Slytherins, and elsewhere in the room, someone coughed theatrically, trying to mask their laughter. Malfoy abruptly straightened, his face turning a shade of purple with anger and embarrassment.

“You’re kidding me,” he said, rising to his feet.

Harry silently placed his hands on the table, palms up, and looked at Draco. In the dim light, his face appeared even sharper, and his eyes burned with the devilish fire of reflected candles. It was intimidating to face such a Malfoy, but Harry waited patiently. Finally, Draco exhaled briefly and placed his hands into Harry’s open palms—his fingers cold and dry, his injured wrist wrapped in a bandage.

A new wave of amusement swept through the class. Draco narrowed his eyes angrily, as if he intended to incinerate everyone with his gaze. Harry quickly squeezed his fingers in a soothing gesture and was surprised to feel a return squeeze.

Malfoy stared irritably at the ball, pursing his lips into a thin line. The glass sphere was filled with swirling mist, but, of course, he couldn’t see anything definite. It was all nonsense. Humiliating.

“Well? What is it?” someone asked impatiently from the darkness of the classroom.

Draco remained silent. If he just said he didn’t see anything, the professor would leave him alone, right? But then, in the depths of the ball, something changed, moved. At first, it was barely noticeable—the fog wavered, swirling into a funnel. The outlines changed, turning into blurred silhouettes.

“Someone’s running,” Draco said in a hoarse voice.

Harry shuddered.

“What?”

Malfoy wasn’t listening. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ball, and his fingers suddenly turned icy.

“A beast…” he whispered.

The class became very quiet; even the girls had stopped giggling.

“My boy,” Trelawney appeared behind Harry, “ask him questions. Ask: ‘What kind of animal?’”

“What kind of animal?” Harry repeated dully, parting his dry lips with difficulty.

“A deer…” Draco frowned. “But he’s not alone. Someone is chasing him.”

A muffled gasp rippled through the room, but Malfoy continued, his voice trembling.

“Wolves… no, jackals!”

Harry knew that Malfoy liked to perform, but now his face looked truly frightened. Harry’s gaze darted from the moist shimmer in his eyes to the painfully bitten lips: Draco was about to wink at him or give himself away with a smile… But the joke dragged on. The thin fingers dug into his palms with such force that the joints cracked. Harry began to feel as if he himself could see a pack of jackals running through the forest—swiftly, smoothly, tirelessly—their yellow eyes burning with hungry fire, and their bared jaws snapping in anticipation.

“The deer is trying to escape, but they’re not far behind,” Malfoy swallowed hard, staring into the ball with growing horror. “They’re getting closer…”

Harry stopped breathing.

“Draco, don’t—” he began.

But the Slytherin suddenly pulled his hands away and shoved the table back. The ball rolled with a thud and crashed to the floor.

“Bloody nonsense!” Malfoy exploded, jumping to his feet. The veins in his neck bulged with fury. “What utter bullshit!”

He kicked his chair backward—narrowly missing the students next to him—his face blotchy with rage. Harry stared at him in silence, dimly aware that Draco had picked up Muggle expressions from him. Malfoy shot him a look so fierce it sent chills through his spine, then stormed toward the trapdoor.

“I’m telling my father about the teaching standards here!” he snapped, kicking the door open and disappearing down the ladder.

As soon as his footsteps faded, the classroom erupted into noise: whispers, laughter, and wild speculation filled the air.

“What a performance,” Ron muttered, shaking his head. “Bet you a Galleon he just wanted to scare everyone.”

Harry said nothing. His arms still ached from the grip, and all he could see was Malfoy’s pale, frightened face. That hadn’t looked like a performance.

“It’s all nonsense,” Hermione said suddenly. “Truly.”

Professor Trelawney, who had been watching the fallen crystal ball with a curious expression, slowly looked up. The candlelight gleamed in the enormous lenses of her glasses.

“Ah, Miss Granger,” she sighed, “it is indeed nonsense… for you.”

“Why?” Hermione asked stiffly.

“My dear, your soul is too dry, and your mind is immune to the ether’s currents. Not everyone has a heart open enough, or an imagination rich enough. It happens.”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Ron cut in.

“Who’s got the open heart, Malfoy or something?”

“Of course,” Trelawney nodded. “I’ve never been wrong.”

“Professor!” Lavender Brown cried out. “But your prophecy came true!”

The room fell silent.

“Yes,” Parvati Patil chimed in. “You said someone would soon leave the class forever…”

“And Malfoy’s gone!”

“That’s it!” Hermione sprang to her feet. The professor’s patronizing tone had clearly pushed her over the edge—and the comparison to Malfoy didn’t help. “Then I suppose your prophecy was mistaken, because I’m leaving too!”

She marched straight to the trapdoor and stomped down the ladder.

The room erupted with laughter again, and Harry felt like he’d been hit over the head. He looked up at Ron, who was still staring at Hermione’s empty seat.

“Merlin’s beard…”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

“You don’t believe any of that, do you?” Ron asked.

Harry shrugged.

“Come on, Harry, what are you talking about? It’s Malfoy! He just loves to make a scene. And scare people—including you.”

“No,” Harry said. Then, more firmly, “No. I don’t think he was pretending.”

Ron looked at him like he was completely mental.

“You know what? I’ve had enough prophecy for today. I need a lie down.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t sure whether the ridiculous vision had meant anything, but Malfoy’s fear had seemed very real. And something inside him still felt cold, as if he’d been there too—in the forest, among the shadows.

Chapter Text

What had happened in Divination had rekindled a range of conflicting feelings in Harry—feelings he couldn’t discuss even with his closest friends. Then, at the most terrifying moment during the match, when the Dementors appeared on the field, Harry heard a desperate female scream. Even if the woman hadn’t said his name, he would have known it was his mother, trying to protect her child until her last breath.

It must have hurt, having such a memory of his family—and maybe it did—but still, Harry felt a kind of quiet happiness. How could you not feel some happiness, knowing someone had loved you so much that they had chosen to give their life instead of yours?

And yet, Harry supposed he ought to be angry that someone had intruded on such a deeply personal memory. And that was exactly what had happened—the memory of his parents had become inextricably intertwined with the image of Draco Malfoy risking himself to save him. It didn’t make sense! No one had truly cared about Harry throughout his childhood, and now suddenly, it seemed like he had been important to someone then, and was important to someone now. He had friends. He had a home.

If Draco had just been trying to earn popularity points by playing the hero on the field, he wouldn’t have avoided talking about it like the plague. If he’d simply staged a performance in Divination, he wouldn’t have hidden in his dormitory until dinner (and he had been hiding—Harry would’ve bet anything on it, because he had been watching him on the Marauder’s Map).

Harry couldn’t shake the thought that Malfoy had genuinely been scared for him. It was absurd, but the more he replayed the Divination lesson in his mind, the more clearly he remembered the look on Draco’s sharp features—not a trace of mockery, only fear. Was it really possible that, in that moment, Draco had seen something in Harry’s future and had actually been worried?

Maybe it was just his imagination. Harry wanted to believe it—and feared believing it at the same time. He decided not to tell Ron or Hermione. He had to figure this out on his own. But to do that, he needed to talk to Malfoy—and Malfoy was avoiding him. When their eyes happened to meet across the Great Hall, Draco quickly looked away and disappeared into the crowd.

It was both irritating and unsettling, but right now, Harry had more pressing concerns: the Dementors. They were supposed to be protecting him from Sirius Black, but they were a threat in their own right. They didn’t care about Harry’s doubts—when they were near, they affected him far more than any other student. Harry knew that if he didn’t learn how to defend himself, the next encounter could end much worse than what had happened on the Quidditch pitch. Which was why Professor Lupin’s help—Lupin, an expert in Defence Against the Dark Arts—was invaluable.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A silvery mist burst from the tip of Harry’s wand but dissolved at once. Lupin, standing beside him, observed the failed attempt with calm attentiveness—no disappointment, no judgment, only patience. He paused, thinking, before asking:

“What memory did you use?”

“The first time I flew on a broomstick,” Harry admitted, breathless.

“It’s a good one,” Lupin nodded. “But it might not be enough. To cast a Patronus, you need more than just a happy memory—you need something powerful.”

Harry frowned. That first rush of freedom in the air, the wind in his hair, the joy of discovering he was born to fly—what could be better than that? But deep down, he knew what memory he truly needed.

His mother’s voice echoed in his ears, but the strength wasn’t in the fear—it was in the love. The knowledge that she had died to save her son. A strange feeling: happiness, wrapped in the ache of loss.

“I—” Harry swallowed, summoning his courage. “I think there’s something else.”

Lupin studied him carefully, but didn’t push. Harry’s grip on his wand tightened.

“Good,” Lupin said quietly.

Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He imagined his parents were still there—that he could remember their voices, their touch, their smiles. That they loved him, and always had.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A flash of silver light burst from the tip of Harry’s wand, brighter than before. Professor Lupin gave an approving nod.

“That’s better. But perhaps the memory you used still isn’t strong enough?”

Harry nodded, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. They needed to try again. Lupin gave his wand a wave, and the Boggart appeared once more, shifting into the shape of a Dementor. Harry focused. His parents, laughter, love… a Quidditch pitch, warm afternoons, shared books, the sound of someone laughing freely… A strange warmth settled in his chest, like someone was standing right behind him, just barely touching his shoulder. He wasn’t alone.

“Expecto Patronum!”

This time, a brilliant column of silver light erupted from the end of his wand, slicing through the cold, shadowy presence of the Dementor. The creature gave a shriek and recoiled, then vanished into the depths of the wardrobe with a loud pop. Harry stood still, chest heaving, eyes locked on the spot where the Boggart had disappeared.

“Magnificent,” said Lupin, clearly impressed. “That was a real Patronus, Harry. Very well done.”

Harry nodded silently, his cheeks flushed. He had done it—but something gnawed at him. Why, at the crucial moment, had his thoughts turned not to his parents, but… to Draco Malfoy?

He hadn’t even had time to form a proper image, but there was no point in denying the feeling. It was ridiculous. Harry would never have imagined using the words “reliable” and “Malfoy” in the same sentence, and yet… his subconscious clearly had other ideas.

The memory had been powerful. Perhaps it wasn’t just about Malfoy. Maybe he was a symbol—proof that someone cared, that there were people around Harry who wouldn’t let him fall. Ron. Hermione. His friends. His professors. Hogwarts itself. He wasn’t alone anymore. And that, more than anything else, gave him strength.

Harry continued practicing with Lupin, but it was becoming harder to find time for extra lessons. Christmas holidays were drawing near, and the professors were piling on assignments in anticipation.

“What are they thinking?” Ron grumbled, stretching a meagre Potions essay in a desperate attempt to fill an entire roll of parchment. “Christmas is basically tomorrow, and we’re drowning in homework!”

“I suppose the professors expected students to study consistently throughout the term instead of saving everything for the last week,” Hermione said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, let me suffer in peace, Hermione. What else do I have left in life…”

Harry listened to their usual banter, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Since that strange Divination lesson, he and Malfoy hadn’t spoken at all—and somehow, everyone seemed to know about it. Even the upper years. Harry had personally overheard a group of Ravenclaw boys sniggering and pointing at Draco, muttering something about a “sweet couple.” They certainly weren’t referring to Draco and Pansy—Pansy kept hanging around him, but Malfoy barely tolerated her presence.

He seemed to take the teasing hard. But this wasn’t bullying—not really. Harry thought bitterly that if the roles were reversed, Draco would’ve been the first to mock someone who’d made a spectacle of themselves in Divination.

Most of the girls, however, didn’t find it funny at all. For them, the ominous prediction only added a layer of dark mystery. They speculated endlessly about whose hand had been held, who had looked into whose eyes, and what it could all mean. Harry tried not to think about how it must have looked from the outside. He was already dreaming of forest chases more often than he liked.

Even Ron had noticed. Though he laughed with the others, he was quietly worried. So, during Potions—when Malfoy very pointedly chose to sit next to Zabini, and Harry sat in a fog, slicing roots with barely any attention—Ron tried to intervene.

“Are you staring at Malfoy because you’re hoping he’ll drop the cauldron on his foot?” he asked lightly.

“What?” Harry blinked. “No.”

“Then maybe you could focus on our potion? We’re about three drops away from a ‘Troll,’ and Snape’s heading this way.”

“Sorry. What were we up to?” Harry glanced at the small piles of chopped ingredients. At least working with Malfoy had taught him to handle a knife properly—their roots looked neat, even if his mind was elsewhere.

“Mandrake root. And seriously, you need to sort this out.”

“It’s weird hearing that from you,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t stand him.”

“Exactly,” Ron nodded. “But you apparently can, and it breaks my poor little heart to watch you suffer.”

“How sweet.”

“I’m serious. I can’t stand to look at his face without wanting to hex it, but I’ll admit—he’s been acting almost tolerable lately.”

Harry didn’t agree. At the moment, Malfoy looked perfectly content, listening to Zabini talk animatedly, gesturing with his long fingers and flashing his usual dazzling smile. Their potion, annoyingly, was the perfect shade of green, steaming just the right amount. Everything Harry and Ron’s potion wasn’t.

“Okay, okay,” Harry said, trying to refocus. “We’ve still got a bit of time. Next step—frog legs, wasn’t it?”

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t manage to fix the potion completely. But the added frog legs did improve the colour slightly, so at least their concoction wasn’t the worst in class. When Snape finally arrived at their table, he peered into the cauldron, lip curling in distaste.

“Have you mistaken my classroom for the Great Hall? Are you attempting to make soup from my ingredients? Still… unlike Longbottom, you didn’t explode the cauldron. ‘Poor’, both. I cannot imagine why Mr. Malfoy saw fit to convince me you were capable of anything at all, Potter.”

Harry didn’t look at Malfoy, but he could still feel the smug grin he remembered from his first year. Harry had seen it less often lately, but now Malfoy seemed to be rewinding time, becoming that arrogant boy who was desperately trying to prove his superiority. Harry nodded at Snape, silently agreeing with the assessment. No matter how much he hated the professor, he knew that without Malfoy in Potions, he really wasn’t much use. Snape continued on, and the graded students began to slowly pack up their things so that they could leave the classroom as soon as possible after the end of the lesson.

Harry noticed that Malfoy and Zabini were already fully prepared and waiting for the bell, although there was still a quarter of an hour left. Snape wouldn’t say a word to his favourites, but the rest of them would be punished for such an outburst and reminded of their liberties in the next lessons. When, may I ask, did Zabini become Malfoy’s bosom friend? Harry didn’t know anything about this boy, only about his mother—a femme fatale who had buried several husbands almost immediately after their weddings—but he immediately found him somehow unpleasant. Oh, and Zabini speaks Italian. And what is Harry doing with this information? Why is he even mad at a student he doesn’t know?

Somewhere in the distance, a magical bell rang, and Snape had just finished checking the latest practical work. Harry was sparsely throwing his textbooks into his bag—it was unlikely that the professor would calculate the average grade based on his and Malfoy’s joint work. The only thing more unpleasant than a bad grade is that Snape never gives it silently—the holidays would end, and he would keep remembering… and all because of Malfoy! Of course, if he hadn’t been offended by Harry out of thin air, they would have continued to sit together.

“I’ll catch up with you,” he said to Ron and hurried after the Slytherins, who were already climbing the dimly lit stairs. The sleek head Harry was interested in loomed in the area of the lower steps, almost shining in the torchlight.

“Malfoy!”

Zabini had also turned around and was now staring indifferently at the Gryffindor from a height of several steps and his gigantic height. Harry noted irritably that he was probably even taller than Ron, but he carried his body confidently and easily, without bending over or hunching his shoulders. An annoyed expression crossed Malfoy’s face; he gave Harry a contemptuous look, and then threw to Zabini:

“Blaise, go. I’ll catch up.”

He just shrugged and headed up the stairs. Perhaps Harry should even thank him: in front of witnesses, Draco did not shamefully run away.

“What, Potter,” Malfoy cocked his head to one side, and warm light slid over his immaculately smooth hair, “is Weasel really bad at Potions?”

“I don’t care about the potion,”—it was almost not a lie—“I wanted to talk about something else.”

“Oh, I see. Then here’s the thing: fortune-telling is nonsense, Potter,” Draco snapped and went up one step.

“Then why are you freaking out so much?” Harry couldn’t resist. He went up two steps, and now they were almost on the same level.

“Everyone talks nonsense about predictions. Why are you so hooked on mine?” The grey eyes narrowed angrily. “I’m not Trelawney, I don’t care what happens to you.”

Harry wasn’t going to back down, even though his stomach was clenching.

“Yeah? Then what is it?” he asked defiantly. “Then why are you avoiding me?”

Draco froze and pursed his lips so that they were almost indistinguishable on his pale face.

“Oh, poor Potter!” He chuckled, but his voice sounded almost serious. “If you’re destined for a tragic death, maybe I’ll visit you on your deathbed sometime.”

“Then come with an interesting book,”—Harry suddenly felt funny. “You know, Hermione said that book of yours about the boy with the scars is Muggle. Do you read Muggle books?”

Draco snorted, wrinkling his nose.

“Ha! Potter, I still think that Muggle stuff is complete nonsense. It’s just that sometimes,” he paused and glanced at Harry. “You can make an exception if it’s something interesting.”

Harry felt a pleasant jump in his chest, even though he was trying to remain serious.

“Is that a compliment, Malfoy?”

Draco grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

“No, Potter, it’s just that someone as extraordinary as me must be… well, at least famous.”

“Wow!” Harry made a mock bow. “High score!—”

Before he could finish, a door slammed deafeningly downstairs, and they both jumped and turned around. Snape stood in the torchlight and glared at them.

“Go to the lessons, both of you!”

Malfoy was blown away, and Harry hurried after him, still smiling. They probably looked very stupid from the outside, stopping at every step to exchange barbs. Their feet barely touched the steps, and the skirts of their robes flapped behind them.

“He looked at us like we were idiots,” Malfoy squeezed out as he ran and nudged Harry with his shoulder, “why are you putting me in such stupid situations?”

Harry didn’t say anything, he was too amused to answer.

Chapter Text

Christmas at Hogwarts was a special treat. Even with the icy morning air outside, the Gryffindor bedroom was filled with a sense of celebration. Although most of the students had gone home for the holidays, the room was no less noisy than usual.

“Wow, Mum really went all out!” Ron was pulling another knitted sweater from Mrs Weasley out of a paper parcel, this time a dark green one with a golden “R” on the chest.

Harry was sitting on the bed, looking at his presents. He had also received a sweater from Mrs Weasley, this time a burgundy one. Hagrid had tried to make another homemade treat that looked like a stone, Hermione had given him a massive volume of Ancient Magical Theories with bookmarks on almost every page, and Ron had given him a broom care kit.

But the main discovery awaited Harry ahead. The largest package stood modestly by the bed, hiding in the folds of the canopy. When Harry tore open the paper, a long, perfectly smooth broom with a glossy handle, fine silver engravings, and a perfect feather-to-feather tail fell into his hands. There was a moment of silence in the bedroom.

“That’s it…” Ron sat up abruptly, eyes wide, and whispered, as if afraid of scaring the broom, “Firebolt! Who sent it to you?”

He jumped onto Harry’s bed, reaching for the broom, but immediately pulled his hand back, as if he could desecrate this treasure with his touch.

“I don’t know,” Harry slowly turned the broom over in his hands, feeling his heart beat faster.

“Let me see!” Ron pleaded.

Harry handed him the broom, and at that moment, another box caught his attention. In the farthest corner of the bed, almost invisible among the wrappers, was a large black box covered with silver patterns. It looked so luxurious that it completely did not fit into the surrounding chaos. A laconic silk bow, embossed, and inside… sweets. The most delicious, exquisite, and expensive Harry had ever seen. Small cakes with crystal snowflakes flying around, chocolate truffles in the shape of Snitches, profiteroles shining with icing, as if covered with moonlight…

“Wow!” Harry muttered. He pulled the box towards him and noticed another thing under it — a large heavy book with a shining gilt cover. Picking it up, he almost burst out laughing. At that moment, Hermione looked in the bedroom door, already dressed and collected, as if she had woken up at dawn.

“Merry Christmas! Have you looked at your gifts yet?”

Ron held up Harry’s broom, but Harry beat him to it and showed Hermione the book.

“Merry Christmas! You’re very timely. What does it say here?”

Hermione travelled to France with her parents every summer, and it would be logical to assume that such a smart girl should be interested in the local language, and judging by the cover, Harry’s gift was written in it. She came closer, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“The Chosen Child: The Harry Potter Story”

Harry snorted.

“That’s what I thought!”

Ron looked like he’d been asked to kiss a troll.

“Oh, Merlin.”

On the cover, in addition to the author’s name and title, there was an embossed lightning pattern, and the pages were cut in gold. Harry knew of only one person who would spend money on something so blatantly expensive just for the sake of a joke.

Broom, book, cakes… Harry had never held so many expensive things in his hands at once. A book and cakes were fine, but surely Malfoy couldn’t have given him a luxurious professional broom? He didn’t have one himself! Yes, it was probably the strangest and most delightful Christmas of Harry’s life! His joy was overshadowed by the realisation that he hadn’t prepared anything for Draco himself. What can you give to a person who has everything from birth?

“Harry, why are you stuck?” Ron’s voice brought him back to reality. “Let’s take her with us! Let everyone see!”

“What?” he asked, still thinking about Malfoy.

“We’re taking the broom to breakfast!” Ron waved enthusiastically at the door. Even Hermione, who was very indifferent to sports equipment, was interested.

“Okay,” Harry agreed. He couldn’t wait to see Malfoy’s reaction: after all, he was still a little doubtful about the sender of the gift.

Ron had already jumped into his new sweater and was heading for the door, holding the Lightning like a baby. Harry followed, still thinking about what he could give Malfoy.

The Great Hall, adorned for Christmas, looked spacious and majestic. In the center, where the four House tables usually stood, there was now one long, shared table for the students who had stayed at Hogwarts over the holidays. The air was filled with the warm scents of freshly baked buns, citrus fruits, and cinnamon. Enchanted garlands sparkled on the stone walls, casting golden lights across the hall.

There were only a handful of students present. Harry immediately began scanning for familiar faces: a few Gryffindors, a couple of Hufflepuffs, a notably sullen Terry Boot from Ravenclaw, and two Slytherins. Draco Malfoy sat near the far end of the table beside Pansy Parkinson. His blond head was bent over his plate, his usual bored expression in place. Pansy leaned toward him, speaking softly, her eyes flicking anxiously across his face. For some reason, Harry felt a strange relief that Zabini wasn’t there. Pansy, on the other hand, stirred a feeling he couldn’t quite place—something close to fondness. He wouldn’t say he liked her, but at least she seemed to genuinely care for Draco. And Malfoy himself acted less arrogant around her than he did with Crabbe and Goyle.

Before Harry could greet anyone, Ron proudly placed the Firebolt broomstick on the table, as if presenting a royal treasure.

“Look at this!” he declared, eyes gleaming.

The reaction was immediate and loud enough to rival all four tables filled to capacity.

“A real Firebolt!” George exclaimed. “The Quidditch Cup is as good as ours now!”

“Come on, Harry, where’d you get it?” Fred leaned in over the broom.

“Who sent it to you?” Pansy asked curiously, beating Malfoy to the question.

Harry glanced at Draco, who had frozen mid-bite, a fork suspended in the air. He stared at the broom, his lips twitching as if about to deliver a trademark sneer—but he hesitated.

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy said slowly, “do you even know who sent it?”

Harry had expected envy or disdain, but Malfoy looked genuinely puzzled. Clearly, he hadn’t sent the broom. Harry felt foolish for having suspected him—but the festive mood around the table quickly swept that thought away. Professor Dumbledore stood to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, Professor Flitwick led a small choir past the tables, and enchanted snowflakes danced lazily above their heads.

Harry felt lighthearted, truly at ease. He was sitting with friends, laughing, enjoying the holiday. And even though the shadow of Sirius Black still loomed over him, and Dementors patrolled the grounds, at this moment… Hogwarts felt like home.

***

A few months ago, Harry could never have imagined that Draco Malfoy would be lying on his bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, talking about the peculiarities of magical bookshops—yet here he was: jiggling his foot in a warm sock and coughing hoarsely from time to time. Perhaps Harry should have given in and not dragged his sick friend to the other end of the castle, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to go down into the “viper pit,” as Ron had called the Slytherin common room.

Besides, the Gryffindor Tower was nearly empty. Most of the students, even the older ones, had gone off to Hogsmeade for the day. Harry wasn’t allowed to visit the village, and Draco has a bit of a cold—something he was keen to remind everyone about—so they remained at the castle together. Probably Harry should have felt remorse about this—but, after all, who would have thought that Malfoy would really get sick if you poured snow down his back? In any case, Malfoy’s revenge spell had sent Harry straight to the hospital wing, and the snowball fight had ended before it truly began.

To organize a proper Christmas surprise, Harry had enlisted the help of Dobby and the kitchen elves. It was hard to surprise someone who’d tasted every imaginable delicacy in his life—but Harry thought he had an idea.

Malfoy, unsuspecting, reclined on a pile of pillows, flipping through the Harry Potter biography he’d received as a gift.

“Blanchard’s selection never disappoints,” he muttered.

“Whose selection?” Harry asked from Ron's bed.

Malfoy shot him a sharp look, so he had to explain:

“Draco, I’ve got no idea where that is.”

“In Montmartre.”

“I see” said Harry. Of course, he didn’t.

Malfoy’s blank expression shifted into confusion, then into mild outrage.

“Potter, it’s the best bookshop in Europe. It’s in Paris. Montmartre is a district in Paris. How do you not know that?”

“Simple” Harry replied flatly, then changed the subject. “So, is everything about me true in there?”

Malfoy glanced back down at the book, flipped a few pages, and tilted his head.

“Well, the author calls you a ‘courageous beacon of hope.’ No wonder you’re so arrogant. Do they even know you’re only thirteen?”

Harry snorted. Truthfully, he had hoped Draco would read more of it aloud in French, but Malfoy only translated the most pretentious phrases—and Harry would never ask him outright. Dobby should be arriving soon…

As if on cue, the house-elf appeared in the middle of the room with a loud pop. He bowed low, his eyes shining with excitement.

“Dobby is honored to see Harry Potter!” he squeaked. Then he turned to Draco. “Master Malfoy.”

Draco recognized him immediately—how could he not? The elf had served in the Malfoy household for years. Headstrong and independent—an oddity among house-elves—Dobby had earned his freedom last year thanks to Harry’s clever trick. Lucius Malfoy had been livid, and Draco had always found the elf more nuisance than servant. Now, the boy sat up slightly, frowning at the familiar figure.

“Potter, is that—”

Dobby clapped his hands, summoning a large silver tray with a gleaming lid, and vanished with another pop.

Harry gave a sheepish smile.

“You probably know he works at Hogwarts now, right? He actually gets paid and everything.”

“Yes, you’re all completely mad,” Draco muttered—but his gaze was fixed on the tray. The motion had triggered another coughing fit, and he pulled a bottle of potion from his pocket, taking a long swig.

Harry lifted the lid.

Inside was a complete takeaway lunch—just as he’d asked for: crispy French fries, a juicy burger wrapped in shiny paper, an enormous milkshake, and a cheap plastic toy on the side.

“What’s it? Do you really think I haven’t seen any potatoes?” Draco asked mockingly, examining the dishes on the tray.

“There’s definitely no such thing,” Harry smiled. “Look, Dobby even overdid it—they’ve never looked so delicious!”

He defiantly dipped the longest piece of potato into the sauce and tasted it: yes, it was incredibly good too! Malfoy moved closer uncertainly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” Harry shrugged, “since you were born with golden spoons in every conceivable place, it’s hard to surprise you. But I don’t think you’ve ever tried anything cheaper… I don’t even know what the galleon’s exchange rate to the pound is. Anyway, imagine: you’re ten, you’re coming home from school. You have half an hour of free time before your relatives miss you, and a couple of coins saved up from school lunches…”

Harry dipped another slice into the tearfully hot sauce and raised it to Malfoy’s lips. Apparently, the absurdity of the situation weakened his usual defense mechanisms, because he meekly opened his mouth and accepted the treat, but the next second his elongated face twisted into his usual contemptuous expression:

“Ugh, Potter! What a mess!”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “drink a milkshake.”

“Well, no! It’s clear why no infection sticks to you—eat like this every day, and even dragonpox isn’t terrible…”

Harry took a sip from a plastic cup. Surprisingly, even the powder was mixed without lumps. The sullen waiters, students from the academy opposite the café, had never bothered to perform their duties properly, and this one was even drinkable…

“I’ve eaten there just a couple of times. I didn’t have any money.”

“But you said yourself that it’s cheap food.” Draco’s sharp face fell even more.

“Yeah,” the expression of sincere surprise was worth a couple of embarrassing stories, “that’s right. But I had even less than a little money. Actually, the Dursleys would’ve preferred not to give me a penny, but it might’ve interested the social workers. So I had money for lunch at school.”

There was silence in the bedroom. Draco tapped the rim of his cocktail glass with his finger, thoughtfully watching the liquid ripple slightly with movement. Then he looked up:

“Is this a plaintive story? Ugh.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me,” Harry grinned. “Calm down, Malfoy, I’m just feeding you potatoes. Aren’t you interested in new sensations? I thought you were curious.”

“It’s not the same! Don’t compare curiosity and the risk of food poisoning.”

Nevertheless, he picked up a hamburger with his fingertips, carefully examined it from all sides, tried it on, and cautiously took a bite.

“Well?” Harry was really interested.

“Mm-hmm… bad, but not in the way I thought. I’m not going to Pomfrey’s yet. Let’s see if I’ll make it to the evening.”

Harry laughed, trying to hide his relief. He was sure that Malfoy would laugh at him, and inwardly he was waiting for this. But despite the mocking tone, he looked serious, even too serious.

“Are you angry?”

“Yes.”

“At me?”

“Including.”

“Why?” Harry asked, confused.

Draco paused for a moment, twirling his cocktail glass in his hand.

“In my first year, I would’ve been delighted with such compromising material. Even last year, I would’ve remembered what a loser you were with every fight. You can trust me. And now… I don’t know.”

Harry shook his head, smiling incredulously.

“So you’re angry because you’re less of an asshole this year than you were last year?”

Draco jerked his head up and indignantly slapped the tray with his palm.

“Of course! And it’s your fault!”

“Oh,” Harry said, confused, but then he added with genuine pleasure, “I didn’t really try.”

“Exactly!” Malfoy took an indignant sip from his glass and immediately started coughing. “Merlin, it’s cold! Do you want my death…?”

“Moment!” Harry turned to the center of the bedroom and shouted into the void, “Dobby! Bring some tea, please!”

A moment later, a steaming mug materialized on Harry’s bedside table, but before Malfoy could take a sip, the bedroom door creaked for a long time and the sound of footsteps echoed through the room.

“Damn it!” Draco burned his hand with the boiling water and almost spilled it on his nice sweater.

Harry tensed and turned to the door, wondering if the Gryffindors had already returned. But it turned out to be just Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks. He sauntered into the room, his powerful paws clattering loudly on the wooden floor, and stopped between two occupied beds. Obviously, he was lured by the smell of food. The cat lazily surveyed his possessions, sniffed, and deftly jumped onto the bed, immediately settling into Draco’s lap.

“Hey!” Draco tried to push the beast off, but to no avail. “Who’s that?”

Harry tried to hold back his laughter, but his lips stretched into a smile anyway.

“It’s Hermione’s cat. Hello, Crookshanks.”

“A cat?” Draco lifted massive head with an effort and scrutinized the cat’s face. “What a scarecrow! What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know for sure, it’s half a cat, half… a kneazle, probably,” Harry said, not being very knowledgeable about magical zoology.

Draco patted the cat hard on the scruff of the neck, but it only sprawled more comfortably on his pointed knees. The Slytherin finished his tea and settled back on the pillows.

“Of course, who else needs you like that?” he turned to Crookshanks.

The cat didn’t answer. He stood up, bracing all four paws on boy’s thin body. Draco gasped, but the cat was already lying on his chest, pinning him to the bed.

Harry couldn’t hide his amusement anymore.

“He likes you.”

“Shut up, you’d better take it off.”

“I wouldn’t think about it. He’s treating you. If I were you, I wouldn’t quarrel with a magical creature.”

“I’m going to suffocate!” His voice sounded muffled, but Harry didn’t move. “Oh buzz off, Potter.”

Malfoy plunged both hands into the thick fur and began to stroke the cat rather roughly, but Crookshanks seemed to enjoy it. Soon, the room was filled with rumbling sounds, as if an old rusty mechanism was working.

“Do you like it?” Malfoy muttered in an unaccustomed soft voice. “You’re so heavy… and hot. Like a stove…”

“I’m delusional,” Harry informed him. “Yes, you probably infected me, and now I’m seeing hallucinations.”

“Mmm…” Either Malfoy was really trying to answer something, or Harry had imagined it. In any case, he was soon asleep, his face buried in the red fur. Crookshanks lazily opened one eye and looked at the Gryffindor with an expression of ancient feline wisdom.

“Is this your magic?” Harry asked the cat in a whisper, as if it could answer. It really must have been some kind of feline magic: Draco was no longer coughing, but breathing calmly and steadily.

Harry tiptoed over to his bed, picked up a Quidditch magazine, and quietly returned to Ron’s bed, still smiling. It seemed to him that his relationship with Malfoy was based solely on conflict, and that without it, they would be bored. Not true. It might have been fun to compete and exchange witty remarks, but such moments of silence were much better remembered. They got under the skin, like needles. Harry wasn’t going to sleep right now, although Malfoy’s measured breathing and Crookshanks’ rhythmic rumbling created a sense of comfort he hadn’t felt in a long time. He just lay there, propped up on a pillow, idly flipping through a magazine. The reading was slow: his gaze kept returning to the bed next to him. Harry sometimes thought about buying a magic camera to take pictures of his friends, just like now. But he wouldn’t show this picture to anyone. Except for Draco himself, just to see his reaction.

Malfoy turned over and lay on his side, facing Harry. The cat graciously allowed himself to be turned over, fidgeting a little, getting comfortable in the ring of arms that embraced him. Interesting if the children of magicians sleep with toys? If so, which one did Draco have? He probably had a lot of toys, more than Harry could ever imagine.

The setting sun fell on his snow-white hair, highlighting it with red. Harry realized that he hadn’t read a single line in the past quarter hour, staring at the bed next to him. By studying. “Scientific interest,” as Hermione would say. He had never seen Malfoy so peaceful. Surely some explanation must be found for why a sharp and slightly predatory face looked so soft now? Well, just an angel from a Christmas card. Last year, Draco’s father provided him and the entire Slytherin team with expensive new brooms to please his spoiled son. Harry thought that even someone as nasty as Lucius could love, which was amazing. Lucius, whatever he was, saw in his son not the sarcastic upstart he was at school, but just his boy. Did Harry’s parents love him that much? He had no doubt that it was. And how would he grow up if he spent his whole life basking in parental love? The same as Draco or Dudley, for whom the love of mom and dad was as natural as air? It was a strange thought, but it didn’t hurt, at least not the way Harry used to feel when he thought about his parents. It was a gentle sadness.

Harry smiled and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. Really, he should wake Malfoy up and send him back to the dungeons before Ron gets back. Of course, he knows that they’re not feuding anymore, but it’s one thing to be friends with Malfoy from a distance, meeting in the hallways and in class, and quite another to find him comfortably ensconced in their bedroom. Harry imagined Ron’s reaction and grimaced. Yes, for the sake of a friend’s peace of mind, it’s better to wake Draco up.

But he didn’t want to ruin the moment. A cozy silence, an unusual feeling of lightness—perhaps he can sit a little longer. Just a minute more.

Chapter Text

The door flew open and hit the wall with a thud. Harry jumped up in bed, almost dropping the magazine. Ron stumbled into the room, clutching a bag of sweets from Honeydukes to his chest with one hand, and holding a huge snowball in the other.

“Hey, Harry!” He aimed at his friend’s bed, but at the last moment froze like a statue, his arm absurdly raised.

Awakened by the loud bang, Malfoy looked like the only thing that could cheer him up right now was a good murder. He sat up, disentangling himself from Crookshanks’ grip, and clutched his now-dizzy head. His eyes were narrow slits, and hair was tousled, as if a hippogriff had licked him—but Harry stifled a chuckle, in case it earned him a hex.

“Bloody hell, Weasel, what’s wrong with you?” Perhaps one of the mildest expressions Draco was capable of in this situation.

Ron finally froze, lowering his hand and awkwardly pressing the snowball against his jacket.

“Harry, you didn’t say that… mmm…”

“Very informative, Weasley.”

Malfoy stood up slowly, trying to control his trembling limbs. His expensive jumper was covered in ginger fur, which infuriated the Slytherin.

“Get me out of here,” he said through clenched teeth, not looking at Harry.

He glanced at the stunned Ron, shrugged, and stood up. Weasley finally managed:

“Maybe you can explain it to me…”

But Harry just waved a hand and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, hurried after Draco.

Malfoy felt a little better in the cool air of the hallway, but he was still painfully pale. His head must’ve still been spinning, because they nearly bumped into two students rushing past with shopping bags.

They passed several staircases, gradually slowing their pace. Draco relaxed a little and walked more steadily. Harry waited patiently until it felt safe to speak.

“Feeling better? No more coughing?” he asked, letting Malfoy go ahead so they didn’t bump shoulders in the narrow hallway.

“Yeah, better,” Draco replied grumpily but quickly, as if he’d just been waiting for Harry to speak first. “Pomfrey’s potions have never failed me before.”

Harry nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Oh, of course! The cat has nothing to do with it, obviously.”

Malfoy snorted and nudged him with a sharp shoulder. They descended another flight of stairs and went out into the hallway leading to the Slytherin common room.

“Uh… Draco, since you’re feeling better…” Harry suddenly lost all confidence, “are you going to dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” Malfoy nodded in surprise. “I need to eat some proper food! I’ll come, and you’ll tell your pathetic little stories.”

Harry sighed heavily. So how do you talk to him?

“Oh, so you don’t like pathetic stories? I thought you lived in one.”

“In mine, you would have been gagged by now, Potter. Okay, see you later.”

Malfoy quickened his pace, indicating that the conversation was over. Harry turned around and staggered back to his room. The feeling of warmth and comfort was blown away, as if it had never existed.

In the bedroom, Ron was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring out the window. Harry shuffled over to his own and fell on top of it, almost crushing Crookshanks. The bedspread was still warm—of course, the cat was still there. He turned to Ron and noticed that the tray with the leftovers was still on the bedside table.

“Ron, did you take anything from the table?”

“No, mate. I’m dreaming, and It’s a nightmare.”

Harry took another look at the tray: yes, the toy keychain in the form of a Muggle superhero was definitely gone.

***

Not all the students had gathered for dinner in the Great Hall; some had begged the house-elves for leftovers from lunch in the kitchens, and others had bought so many sweets in Hogsmeade that they could eat them three times a day until the end of the holidays. Fluffy, fragrant fir trees decorated with twinkling garlands seemed even more enormous against the backdrop of the half-empty hall, and the ceiling was especially starry tonight, as if someone had generously scattered precious stones across it. The students were sitting at a long table, enjoying dessert and talking loudly. It was especially noisy at the far end, where all the remaining Gryffindors at Hogwarts had gathered.

Harry and Hermione were surrounded by the Weasleys—Ron, Ginny, the twins, and even Percy, who was unsuccessfully trying to calm his rowdy siblings. But what could he do? If Fred and George wanted to put on a show, no force could distract the audience from them. Percy kept a haughty look on his face and constantly adjusted his Prefect badge—he was the only one who hadn’t taken off his school uniform during the holidays. Ginny giggled as she watched him, and next to her, Olivia Brooks from Ravenclaw was intently wrapping a gingerbread man in a napkin “for later.”

“So,” Fred announced, slamming his palms on the table, “ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for the miracle of engineering?”

“More like a disaster,” Hermione muttered, but her voice was drowned out by the excited hubbub.

“We present to you…” George paused, leaning in a little closer. “Our new wheeze!”

He took out a small round sweet, similar to an ordinary caramel, and placed it in front of them.

“Whoever eats it,” Fred continued, “will forget how to speak coherently for ten minutes.”

“Just don’t look at me,” Ron muttered when Fred looked pointedly at him.

“You disappoint me, brother,” Fred sighed.

“And who will test it?” Michael Corner asked curiously, putting aside the parchment on which he had been writing all evening about which books to buy on his next trip to Hogsmeade.

“Me, of course,” Fred said with dignity, and popped the sweet into his mouth. “Like norma… nor… oh…”

He clutched at his throat, looked at his brother with wide eyes, and then theatrically collapsed onto the table. Everyone laughed.

“Impressive,” said Ron.

Harry kept up the fun but kept glancing at the doors. Isn’t Draco coming? Dinner is almost over. Harry once again turned towards the entrance to the hall and finally saw a blond head. Malfoy had changed his clothes, and now he was sporting a black jumper made from the wool of some obviously magical creature—the reflections of the candles kept running across the smooth knitting. Pansy trotted beside him. Ron also noticed the Slytherins arriving and visibly wilted. Apparently, he really had decided to consider Malfoy’s presence in the Gryffindor bedroom earlier a bad dream.

Harry caught Draco’s eye and waved at him. Draco ostentatiously rolled his eyes but slowed down as he approached the table, then noticed the experimental samples spread out in front of the twins. Curiosity flashed in his eyes. Harry grinned and moved closer to Hermione, making room for him. There was a pause, and then Malfoy deftly slid onto the bench next to him. Pansy reluctantly followed him, looking as if the presence of the Gryffindors had already ruined her entire evening.

Everyone around them was a little tense — it was still very strange to see Malfoy among the Gryffindors, even though Harry was friendly with him.

“Alright, alright,” George raised his hands, attracting attention. “Did everyone see Fred muttering like a crazed troll? Great. Now, let’s move on to the next item in the program.”

Fred pulled something that looked like a Christmas lollipop out of his pocket.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began solemnly, “we present to you a miraculous invention — ‘Jelly Legs’!”

“Oh, I’ve seen that before,” Malfoy said. “Every time Longbottom comes down for Potions.”

Pansy giggled, but George pretended he hadn’t heard anything.

“What’s the trick?” Ginny asked with slight skepticism.

“Whoever eats this will temporarily lose control of their legs!” Fred was defiantly twirling the candy between his fingers. “They’ll become soft, like, uh, jelly, or just numb.”

“Yes, we’ve been working on this for a week,” George added.

“Has anyone checked it yet?” Hermione asked, looking at the twins with apprehension.

“Of course I have!” Fred reported cheerfully. “However, last time it was only half-done: one leg was numb, and the other was just twitching like a frog in a hot frying pan.”

“Charming,” Pansy murmured.

“You mean there aren’t any volunteers?” Fred looked around at the others.

Everyone stared at the twins expectantly with wide eyes, but the question remained unanswered.

“Well,” he sighed, tossing the candy in the air and catching it, “for the sake of science.”

He popped the lollipop into his mouth, chewed it with a loud crunch, and… nothing. Fred rolled his foot thoughtfully, got up, and walked back and forth.

“Well?” George asked hopefully.

“Hm. Maybe it’s just… oh, wait!” Fred twitched, but it turned out his back just itched.

“Really?” Malfoy suddenly asked. “Why didn’t you use a binding spell?”

Everyone stared at him, even Michael looked up from his list. The Slytherin sighed and condescended to explain in the tone one uses with unreasonable children.

“It’s safer and much more predictable. You’d be dragged through the courts if someone’s spine accidentally dissolved.”

Several dozen eyes were still focused on him, but the twins were looking at each other.

“How come we completely overlooked the most inventive Slytherin, Georgie?”

“I don’t know, brother, but I think it’s time to fix this right now.”

Draco lazily crossed his arms over his chest, watching the twins whisper to each other. Finally, George nodded and grabbed Malfoy by the shoulder, pulling him closer.

“Welcome to the Weasley Lab, Mr. Malfoy,” Fred announced very seriously, and pushed a piece of paper with notes towards a smugly grinning Draco. Malfoy made a show of grimacing, but judging by the way he bent his head over his notes, interest still got the better of him.

“You can use Incarcerous for binding, but I would prefer Ligafortis — it’s not easy to get rid of such bonds.” He grabbed a pencil from the table and ran it thoughtfully over his lips. “Although, knots that are too tight can cause cramps. Unless that’s what you’re trying to achieve. The main thing is to limit the area of action with your feet and…”

Three heads bent over the table, and a murmur rose in the crowd—it seemed that not everyone liked the prospect of something Draco Malfoy had a hand in spreading through the school. And it was going to spread—some of the twins’ successful inventions had been flying around like hotcakes, and they hadn’t even started mass production yet.

Harry had to stifle his laughter—it was too ridiculous to see Draco Malfoy, an aristocrat and heir to one of Britain’s oldest wizarding families, involved in the development of wheeze candies. Pansy looked like she was about to throw up.

“Draco, that’s enough,” she pleaded. “Shall we go?”

“Yeah,” he said, not even seeming to hear the question. “If you patent this, I’ll get a percentage, right? Plenty of witnesses here, after all.”

George looked at him incredulously.

“You’ve already got a lot of gold, don’t you? Still, we appreciate your acumen. We’ll work together, and who knows—maybe we’ll become monopolists in the entertainment market?”

Hermione sniffed sharply, apparently preparing to shut down the entire outrageous scene, but Ron burst out laughing, speaking for everyone.

Harry, however, was silent. He just enjoyed the atmosphere of togetherness and watched. From where he sat, he could really only see a pale pink ear framed by smooth blond hair—Malfoy was practically lying across the bench, leaning over Harry and digging a sharp knee into his side. But it was almost pleasant. Probably because Draco always smelled nice—something fresh and bitter, some kind of herbs.

“After all, Christmas is a time of miracles,” Hermione whispered in his ear.

Harry absolutely agreed with her.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts students could feel the rapid approach of spring in every cell of their bodies, despite the fact that Dementors were still patrolling the school grounds, noticeably spoiling everyone’s mood. Harry also couldn’t wait to throw off his heavy cloak, take a deep breath, and finally ride the racing Firebolt! Of course, he had flown it a couple of times, but the frosty, snowy winter hadn’t been very conducive to long flights, so the full potential of the high-speed broom had yet to be revealed.

In addition, Professor McGonagall had immediately confiscated the suspicious object for a thorough inspection, since Harry had never discovered who could have given him such a magnificent gift. In fact, it was Hermione who had been particularly cautious—she was the one who had told the professor about the broomstick, and Ron considered it almost a betrayal. The boys had been about to quarrel in earnest when, suddenly, Hermione received support from an unexpected source: in a tone that brooked no objection, Malfoy suggested Harry seek help from Snape, who probably had more expertise in the Dark Arts.

“Let them check it for as long as they need,” he said in response to Harry’s indignation. “Don’t you get it? Last year, you were nearly killed by one—one!—cursed object. This thing is enchanted, and that bloody broom won’t just drop you in the mud—it’ll kill you. If you’re that afraid of losing to me, you’d be better off just forfeiting the match…”

Well, no chance of that! Harry was looking forward to the upcoming game—he really wanted to beat Malfoy on the new broomstick. Of course, he could have beaten him before, but doing it with the Firebolt would make the victory all the more spectacular. Whenever he stepped onto the pitch with Draco, Harry seemed to become someone else—just a fighter, no mercy. He knew Malfoy was just as much of a gambler, which is why the last match, when Draco had voluntarily passed on a win, still felt unreal. Harry thought about it often. Probably too often—but that didn’t mean he was going to give in. Only this time, he didn’t want to crush his opponent—he wanted to play so well that even… no, especially Malfoy would admire him. It was silly, but Harry couldn’t help fantasizing about it.

Maybe it was just the excess of free time—even though the broomstick issue had been resolved, Ron and Hermione still barely spoke, and it was too hard for Harry to be caught in the middle of sulking friends. The reason was Ron’s rat—or rather, a bloody tragedy involving Hermione’s cat. Everyone had long noticed that Crookshanks had an unhealthy interest in Scabbers, and when the rat vanished without a trace one day, it didn’t take long for the verdict to fall on the cat.

“It’s your cat!” Ron shouted, shaking the tuft of ginger fur he’d found by the bed. “He ate poor Scabbers! And you’re still defending him!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron!” Hermione snapped, just as angry. “Scabbers was old and sick—he could’ve run away and died a natural death. You need to take better care of your pets!”

“Oh, that’s it!”

Harry was sick of the fighting and didn’t want to take sides. To avoid the painful silence, he started studying alone, slipping into the dormitory immediately after dinner. The thought of inviting Malfoy out began to cross his mind more and more often. Couldn’t they fly together—or at least just go for a walk? The next trip to Hogsmeade wasn’t scheduled until April, so Draco was likely to have a free weekend… In fact, Harry had been thinking about it ever since the holidays had ended. They had spent so much time together over the holidays that now just having lessons together wasn’t enough.

In addition, Draco had suddenly thrown himself into studying extra subjects he planned to take next year. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes were, by all accounts, incredibly dull. The boys occasionally ran into each other in the library, but Malfoy was almost always surrounded by his usual entourage—or worse, Blaise Zabini. Zabini was also studying Ancient Runes, and they often sat together, surrounded by an absurd number of textbooks. Harry didn’t dare send notes in front of everyone, and sending Dobby to the dungeons didn’t feel right. He had almost decided to turn to a couple of Hogwarts’ most inventive businessmen—they were bound to have something useful—when, as always, reality reshuffled all the cards.

***

In Potions, Malfoy had pointedly sat with Zabini, condemning Harry to a poor mark and Snape’s usual contempt. Potter summoned all his willpower not to look at the stubborn Slytherin. Was it really so hard to just keep his mouth shut? Harry had asked him time and again not to provoke his friends—but Malfoy clearly enjoyed doing the opposite. Or maybe he simply didn’t know how to behave any other way. Anyway, he was especially cruel to Ron, who was only too happy to snap back. If Draco and Hermione had come to a sort of silent truce—they could even sit at the same library table (with Harry between them, of course)—then any conflict with the Weasleys always ended in disaster.

At that morning’s Charms class, only three students managed to cast the Silencing Charm correctly on their first try: Hermione, Draco, and, to everyone’s astonishment, Goyle. Harry and Ron didn’t manage to silence each other for the rest of the lesson. Malfoy, naturally, couldn’t resist commenting—he began with harmless jokes about how Hermione could now mute their brain-numbing chatter, but somehow veered into mocking the Weasley family’s poverty.

“What did it matter how many people lived in one house?” Harry immediately stood up for his friend, saying that in a loving family, no one would ever think of silencing each other—and, for some reason, this infuriated the Slytherin.

So it wasn’t surprising that they were sitting apart again. Even Snape, it seemed, had grown used to their constant switching of desks and said nothing, which was something to be thankful for.

Harry was focused on chopping anise leaves, but he kept sneaking glances at the Slytherin side of the room. Yeah, so much for self-control… Malfoy probably felt his gaze and was now taking up as much space as possible—dropping ingredients into the cauldron with dramatic flair, smacking Zabini on the shoulder with a theatrical gesture, and scattering his belongings across the table.

Harry’s eyes followed an expensive leather quill case that nearly slid off the edge—and then froze. Hanging beside the silver clasp was something completely out of place: a bright, cheap-looking trinket that didn’t match Malfoy’s aesthetic at all. Muggle.

Harry stared in disbelief at the very keychain he’d never dared to give Draco—not even as a joke—because he’d been sure Malfoy would just sneer at it. And not only had he taken it, but he was carrying it around.

Harry’s heart started pounding, and a strange warmth spread through his chest. He had no idea what it meant. Maybe Malfoy was planning to mock him in front of his friends? But maybe—and that thought was strangely comforting—he kept the toy for no reason. Because it was a gift. A silly, Muggle gift.

Harry turned away and buried himself in his bubbling cauldron—just in time, too, since letting it boil too long would have ruined everything. A real volcano was bubbling inside him: not just anger that hadn’t faded, but something new—big and warm, like a creature curled up in his chest. No, not just any creature—a dragon. Hot and dangerous.

He had to use this energy before his resolve ran out—and deal with a long-overdue matter. But for that, he needed to find the twins…

Fred and George were in the far corner of the library, clearly doing something that had nothing to do with studying. When Harry approached, they both looked up and grinned at exactly the same time.

“Harry, my friend! To what do we owe the honour?” George leaned back in his chair and tapped his nose in a mock-McGonagall gesture, pushing up imaginary glasses.

“You’re not after a Potions consultation, are you?” Fred added, elbowing his brother.

“No,” Harry muttered, feeling his ears burn. “I need… something to send messages. Like, to communicate from a distance. With… someone.”

The twins exchanged a look, their grins growing wider.

“How sweet,” George drawled. “Why doesn’t ‘someone’ make one himself? Or does he not need it?”

Harry clenched his jaw. He hadn’t even thought of that. What a stupid idea…

“Forget it. Sorry to bother you.”

“Wait a sec!” Fred called after him as Harry turned to leave. A chair creaked in the far corner—as if Madam Pince had heard them. “No offence taken—we’ve got something. Just remind me tonight, yeah?”

Good. Thanks, guys,” Harry nodded. “Just—don’t give me anything that explodes when it opens, all right?”

“How could you say that—!”

Fred didn’t get the chance to finish. A stern-looking Madam Pince emerged from behind a nearby shelf, and Harry made a quick exit.

***

Will you come with me to the lake?

Those were the first words Potter had spoken in three days. Of course it was him—who else would dare leave a note for Draco Malfoy, and on something as conspicuous as a full scroll of parchment? At least he’d had the sense to do it while everyone was still settling in and not yet watching one another.

Harry watched surreptitiously as Draco nudged the parchment toward himself, then glanced around the room. He was ready for it, but still flinched when their eyes met—those sharp grey eyes locking onto him for just a second. Draco’s expression didn’t change; he simply turned away and leaned over the parchment.

Harry nearly strained his neck trying to follow both his own scroll and Pansy Parkinson, who had already packed up her things and was now eyeing Malfoy with growing interest. What a clingy girl!

Finally, words began to appear on Harry’s parchment. What beautiful, delicate magic! The day before, he’d tested it several times—watching how the enchanted scroll transmitted and erased text with a touch—but seeing someone else’s elegant handwriting form in real time gave him goosebumps. It wasn’t like last year. He’d worried that using these parchments would remind him too much of Tom Riddle’s diary, but this was different—more like a phone call.

Don’t write me rubbish.

Harry stared at the page, ears burning, then looked up. Draco had stacked his textbooks high and nudged them toward the edge of the desk, hiding the parchment beneath. He paid Harry no attention. Of course. Next time Harry would think twice before acting like—

I’ll come.

Harry blinked. His eyes flicked back down to the scroll, reading the tiny words tucked in the lower corner. Then he looked toward the Slytherin table. Draco sat perfectly straight, listening attentively to Professor Binns, a quill in one hand and the edge of parchment just visible beneath his books.

Harry exhaled slowly, trying to calm his racing heart. Professor Binns wouldn’t notice, even if one of the students decided to dance a jig on their desk, but Ron was already watching his flushed friend with interest. Harry quickly slid the scroll beneath his workbook—but not before scribbling one last line at the very bottom:

After lunch?

A moment later, the reply appeared:

Yes.

Yes!

Chapter Text

They left the common areas almost at the same time. Naturally, both pretended it was purely accidental. Harry smiled faintly and walked over to Draco, who was lingering near the tall mirror, adjusting his hat. Despite the growing warmth of the spring sun, Malfoy was dressed as though a blizzard were waiting just outside the doors.

“Hi,” said Harry, stopping beside him at the mirror. Next to the immaculately buttoned-up Malfoy, Harry looked like a scruffy mess, although moments ago he’d felt that his new jacket and oversized scarf gave him a somewhat respectable look. “Going for a walk?”

“Yeah,” Draco replied, deadpan. “What a coincidence.”

Their eyes met, and the solemn expressions cracked. A small smile tugged at the corners of Malfoy’s lips, and Harry realized that he was in a surprisingly good mood—a rare phenomenon. Harry shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Shall we go?”

“Right now.”

Draco pulled a tiny vial of potion from his coat pocket and dabbed it onto his lips and the tip of his nose, as if preparing to trek across the Arctic. Harry suppressed a grin—best not to provoke a Slytherin. Instead, he watched discreetly as Draco fussed with his appearance. It was oddly fascinating—Harry had never seen any of the boys he knew brush their hair from under their hats so delicately. His friends, at most, ran a wet comb through their hair; Harry himself barely bothered with his own. Finally, their eyes met again in the mirror, Malfoy gave a sharp nod and headed for the doors.

The moment they stepped outside, they were wrapped in cool, damp air. Snow had melted in patches, leaving the earth soggy and soft beneath their feet. Every step came with a squelch. Harry looked down at his trainers with regret—they were clearly not suited for early spring at Hogwarts.

“Perfect day for wading through mud,” Malfoy snorted, glancing around the courtyard. He enchanted his pointy, dandyish boots so they wouldn’t get soaked in the viscous muck

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, wishing he’d chosen better shoes. “Probably not the best time to visit the lake.”

“Hold on,” Draco said, pursing his lips as he cast a skeptical glance at Harry’s trainers. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a protective charm around them. “There. Now maybe you won’t sink on the way. The squid’s in a playful mood today—we could go have a look.”

They set off at a careful pace, dodging puddles and slushy patches of snow.

“How do you know that?” Harry asked, stepping over a melted drift. “About the squid.”

““Don’t be thick, Potter. You do know our windows look right out over the lake, don’t you? If I wake up and can see every pebble on the bottom, it means the weather’s clear. If there are shadows thrashing about outside, it’s going to rain. But if I open my eyes and it’s nothing but darkness, then…”

“Then what?” Harry walked around him, watching Draco’s theatrical arm-waving.

“It means I’ve been swallowed by the giant squid!” Draco declared, punching Harry lightly in the chest, laughing at his own joke. Harry slipped on the slick path and instinctively grabbed Draco’s arm to steady himself. For a few moments, they stood there, holding onto each other, regaining their balance. Draco was still chuckling, and Harry found himself smiling back. He let go awkwardly and walked on, carefully avoiding any more treacherous spots. He thought he’d grown used to casual touches over his years at Hogwarts, but there was something about the feel of someone else’s steady grip that made him strangely self-conscious. Harry didn’t notice how he quickened his pace, but Malfoy easily caught up, his long legs covering the ground in wide strides. From the direction of the castle, voices echoed across the grounds. Ahead, down by the lake, patches of sunlight danced between shadows.

“Did your entourage finally let you go?” Draco asked cheerfully, hopping over a tuft of grass.

“Mine?” Harry snorted. “You heard about the rat tragedy, didn’t you? Ron and Hermione have other things on their minds right now. And how did you manage to shake off Pansy?”

“Told her I needed to study Ancient Runes in the library. Frankly, I could teach the subject at this point. Lucky for me she’s too lazy to check.”

“I thought you liked them.”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m studying them.”

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, only to yank them back out again for balance.

“And Pansy…” he added. “She’s in love with you.”

Draco tugged at his collar and sighed theatrically.

“I know… it’s probably my curse.”

Harry pretended to study the bare branches of the surrounding trees and asked as casually as possible, “And Blaise?”

“What about Blaise?” Malfoy immediately straightened.

“Well, he’s around a lot too… he’ll be looking for you.”

“Oh, that. He’s close with those who benefit him. Trust me, he doesn’t care where I am.”

“I see…”

Harry couldn’t think of anything better to say, so the trail finally led them to the top of a hill overlooking the Black Lake. Even from here, the giant squid could be seen gliding underwater, chasing the waves. Malfoy grunted with satisfaction.

“As I said! Enjoying his life. I wonder if I’ll see from the bedroom if he drags someone to the bottom.”

“We probably shouldn’t go any further,” Harry drawled, glancing at the swamp that had taken over the hillside next to the lake.

Draco’s face twisted in disgust, but he resolutely straightened his coat and adjusted his gloves.

“Come on, Potter! It’s just dirt. You should feel at home.”

Harry stared at him in amazement, fighting the urge to touch friend’s forehead—maybe he had a fever?

“I’m surprised you even left the castle in this weather… Are you all right?”

“Can’t I develop a love of nature?” Draco snapped. “Do you think you know me that well?”

“Not so well,” Harry agreed, “but enough to suspect that the real Draco was abducted by aliens.”

The Slytherin sighed heavily and stamped his foot, making the path slurp beneath him.

“Have you heard anything about Aldous Vellaria? Of course not. And he, by the way, lived for almost a hundred and fifty years, drawing strength from the forest. Of course, I don’t want to become a hermit,” he added with a shrug, “but wizards have long fueled their magic with the forces of nature…”

“And you think walking in a muddy field will help?” Harry’s lips curled into a smile of their own accord, but Malfoy’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Uh-uh… You said yourself he lived in the forest, right? We won’t go to the Forbidden Forest, but we can walk here, in the grove. What do you say?”

Draco frowned thoughtfully, a crease forming around his lips—there were practically no paths in the nearest grove, which meant he’d have to walk ankle-deep in the melted snow.

“Mmm… you know, Potter, that’s probably enough to start with.”

Harry nodded, and they continued along the relatively dry path at the top of the hill, which skirted the grove and curved back toward the castle. He hadn’t expected Draco to want to wander through the meltwater, but his very desire to get closer to nature surprised the Gryffindor beyond words.

Harry took a box of sweets from Honeydukes out of his pocket and handed it to Draco.

“Want some?”

Draco looked at the sweets incredulously.

“Robbing poor Weasley?”

“No, I… I bought them myself.”

Draco’s narrow face fell even more, and he angrily punched Harry in the shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a permit! You just didn’t want to come with me!”

“Oh, come on!” Harry protested sheepishly. He was surprised by Malfoy’s reaction—he had only once invited him for a walk to Hogsmeade, back at the beginning of the year. Even if Harry had had permission, he would’ve refused anyway, since Draco always went to the village with the noisy company of his classmates, who weren’t likely to welcome a Gryffindor. “I’ll explain—just be quiet! It’s a secret.”

The magic word had the desired effect. No matter how much Malfoy pretended to be important and reasonable, he loved other people’s secrets. Grabbing Harry’s arm, he spun him around and lifted his chin in a demanding manner.

“Well?”

“Anyway,” Harry broke free of the grip and awkwardly tugged down his jacket, “I know a secret passage to the village. Only a couple of people know about it, so don’t tell anyone, all right?”

“Are you crazy? There’s a dangerous criminal on the loose, the school is crawling with Dementors, and you—” Blond eyebrows shot up skeptically. “And how did you even find this secret passage?”

“Gift of clairvoyance,” Harry teased. “The twins told me. And they know I use it.”

“Oh, of course. The two main rule-breakers paving the road of lawlessness…”

Harry jumped over a puddle that had formed in a hollow at the foot of the hill, then turned to watch Malfoy overcome the obstacle in a single step.

“Why just the two? Aren’t you their best friend now? And speaking of which… how did that even happen?”

“I like them,” Draco shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry looked at him dumbfounded and almost sprawled on the muddy path, tripping over a stone. Having barely regained a stable position, he rightly remarked:

“But that’s not what you always said. I thought you meant all the Weasleys.”

“I’m not going back on my words: they’re blood traitors and all that…” Draco kicked a pebble and didn’t look at Harry. “But the Malfoys respect people’s strengths, and these two have an entrepreneurial streak. And they definitely know how to enjoy life. Yes, for half of their pranks, my father would…”

He kicked a rock hard, and it disappeared into the puddle with a loud gurgle. Harry decided that words weren’t his strong suit, so he handed Draco the candies again. He opened the box with a displeased look, his fingers hovering over the rows of shiny chocolate backs. Harry had noticed a long time ago that their tastes for sweets were different: he himself usually chose the most sugary fillings, whereas Draco preferred some strange flavor combinations. Why should chocolate be bitter and caramel be salty? However, now the Gryffindor realized how convenient it was. Malfoy chose a lemon sherbet candy, and Harry, without looking at it, threw his favorite strawberries with cream in white chocolate into his mouth. A hum of voices could be heard from the direction of the castle, amplified by the gusts of wind.

“I’m so sick of it!” Malfoy said suddenly.

Harry squinted at the candy in his hand and clarified:

“What?”

“It’s noisy all the time, have you noticed?” Even at night. Someone is constantly talking, rustling, stomping, coughing, snoring…” Draco angrily kicked a bump. “I miss music.”

“Music?”

“Oh, I have everything at home: a bunch of musical spheres, portraits of legendary musicians, enchanted ballads — my father collected a collection. And you can’t even bring a seedy magic gramophone here!”

“Like Lupin’s?” Harry asked, startled. Finally, something familiar.

“What? Well, like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if this ragamuffin brought Muggle stuff here…”

“Don’t say that!” Harry immediately stood up for the teacher. “Professor Lupin is not a ragamuffin!”

“Calm down, Potter. I know that you are the protector of all the poor.”

Harry tensed, but said nothing. He was wondering what Malfoy could tell him about the music of the wizarding world. Harry himself had never thought about this area of life, and he had barely even heard Muggle music. Meanwhile, the Slytherin continued:

“I’ve been surrounded by music since I was a child, but nothing here. Except maybe silly songs from the magic radio, but I don’t listen to that.”

“And what do you listen to?” Harry asked immediately, having no idea what Draco was talking about. He himself only knew about the existence of the band “The Weird Sisters” because his classmates had once discussed their upcoming concert, but then he was not interested at all. He immediately hurried to share his modest knowledge, so that Malfoy would not consider him too stupid.

“The Weird Sisters?” What are you talking about, Potter, this is such nonsense! I doubt you know any artists I like.”

Harry just shrugged his shoulders:

“I don’t know any — not even Muggle ones.”

“How’s that?” Malfoy was taken aback. Was Potter laughing at him? Draco really didn’t like being laughed at.

“And I don’t even know what I would like. Like you said, there’s nothing to hear here, and the Dursleys…”

The Dursleys never listened to anything but silly TV shows that were endlessly mumbling from different parts of the house, and the news on the radio. Harry remembered that it was in the Muggle news that he first heard about a fugitive criminal named Sirius Black. And one more thing:

“By the way, Draco, do you remember once saying that if you were in my place, you would take revenge on Black?” I thought you were kidding, but what did you mean?”

The smile immediately faded from Malfoy’s face.

“Merlin’s pants, Potter… You don’t even know that?”

“I don’t know about what?” Harry asked. He hated omissions, and Malfoy was definitely keeping something back.

Draco sighed and rubbed his hand wearily over his face. He suddenly discovered that they had been standing in place for quite a long time, and the viscous mud began to drag them in like a swamp. Malfoy irritably dusted off his feet and moved forward to give himself time to think. He suddenly became acutely aware of how bad he was at emotional conversations. What should he tell Potter now? He decided to start from afar:

“What do you even know about Black?”

“Well, they said on Muggle television that he was a murderer, armed and very dangerous. He’s obviously a wizard, but what does that have to do with me?”

Malfoy pursed his lips, and they became almost invisible on his pale face. He cocked his head thoughtfully and replied:

“This is not far from the truth. I can’t believe no one told you.”

“Didn’t tell me what?” Harry couldn’t stand it.

“Black gave the Dark Lord your location. He was your parents’ Secret Keeper, and after… after everything happened, he killed a bunch of witnesses on the street. He was immediately sent to Azkaban.”

His voice sounded hoarse, as if every word was coming with difficulty. Draco knew the story by heart, but for the first time, it appeared to him in a completely different light.

And Harry felt the ground fall out from under his feet. An alarm was ringing in his head. If the Potters had made Black their Secret Keeper, then he must have been their close friend. And then… betrayal. Such a nasty word, but even it couldn’t contain all the pain. Black had betrayed Harry’s parents, and now they were dead, and Harry was an unwanted orphan…

His nose stung, and his eyes blurred. Malfoy hovered nearby, awkward and silent, not knowing what to say. It took a great deal of effort not to blurt out something inappropriate. He turned away in annoyance, unable to tolerate the pitiful sight, and stared at the towering castle nearby. Now he was letting all sorts of boys cry in his presence—what next? What would his father say…

“Why?..”

“What?” Draco turned and found Harry staring straight at him. His eyes were completely dry.

“Why would Black do that? Why was Voldemort looking for us? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why? Why?!”

Malfoy instinctively took a step back, but his irritation quickly got the better of him. “How should I know?”

“And why are you telling me just now?!” Harry pressed on. His lower lip was trembling, but his voice was clear and firm. “You’ve always known, haven’t you?”

Draco had already pulled himself together and snapped back with his usual anger. He stepped forward and said through gritted teeth:

“I had no idea you didn’t know this much bloody shite! Everyone’s jumping around you on their hind legs—‘Oh, Potter! Potter this, Potter that!’—and no one saw fit to tell you?”

He spat the last words with such venom it was as if he were speaking Parseltongue. Paradoxically, that grounded Harry a little. An angry Malfoy— that was something familiar. He felt the air leave his lungs. His back bent, and his head dropped heavily into his hands. He doubled over with a muffled groan and, without meaning to, let his forehead rest against Draco’s chest.

The Slytherin froze. Suddenly, his own heart was pounding somewhere in his throat. He turned his head slowly, scanning the path—but there wasn’t a soul around. Carefully, Draco placed his hand on Harry’s hunched back and gave him a few awkward pats. His body didn’t respond well; the movement felt silly and entirely out of place.

Harry spent a few moments just learning how to breathe again. Then he straightened and looked directly at Draco. His face appeared surprisingly calm, though Draco was quite sure he couldn’t say the same for himself. He lowered his trembling hand and turned back toward Hogwarts. Without another word, the boys started walking.

They were nearly at the main doors, and Harry still hadn’t spoken. Draco silently swore never to talk to him again—but somehow, his mouth betrayed him:

“I don’t think you’ll ever stop breaking the rules, no matter how much you scare yourself. So if you want… we could meet in Hogsmeade sometime. Listen to music at ‘Orpheus and the Salamander’. If you’ve never even had one musical sphere, you’re like a blank slate. It’s kind of… interesting.”

Harry blinked out of his thoughts and turned to Malfoy in surprise. Draco immediately regretted saying anything and looked away, growing angrier—especially at himself. What was that all about?

He didn’t see Harry’s faint smile, but he heard the quiet reply:

“I want to.”

Chapter Text

“Wait, Harry, one more time… Where are you going?”

Harry stood awkwardly on a dry patch of path, trying his best to look confident and honest in front of his two best friends. But it didn’t come off well. At the last moment, for some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was deceiving them.

“To the music shop,” he said.

“Why?” Ron asked, frowning in surprise. “And how, under the Invisibility Cloak? We can come with you.”

“Oh God, Ron!” Hermione burst out, unable to contain herself. “Leave Harry alone. Isn’t it obvious he’s going to meet Malfoy?”

Her intuition, as usual, proved more helpful to Harry than he cared to admit. He often struggled to put his feelings into words, and Hermione’s perceptiveness, though sometimes embarrassing, saved him the trouble. He nodded silently and turned to Ron.

Ron pursed his lips, clearly holding back a sarcastic comment, and asked again, “So how are you getting there? Under the Cloak? Did you tell Malfoy about it?”

Harry hadn’t told them. Not about that, nor about many of the details of his… adventures with Ron and Hermione. In the beginning, they simply weren’t close enough. And besides, Harry didn’t want to risk dragging anyone else into danger. But the thing about danger was—it had a habit of showing up uninvited. Now, for instance, even with the looming threat of Sirius Black wandering the castle grounds, Harry found himself willingly walking straight into risk—sneaking off for a meeting of questionable wisdom.

He shook his head. “He said he’d sort something out. Don’t worry so much. We were going to spend the rest of the evening in Hogsmeade anyway, weren’t we? I’ll only be gone for an hour.”

“Take your time,” Hermione said with a small smile, but Ron didn’t share her amusement.

“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of setup?”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not saying he’s going to turn you over to Black or anything…” Ron hesitated. “But what if it’s a prank? What if you show up and it’s just a bunch of Slytherins waiting to hex you?”

“No,” Harry said confidently. He didn’t believe Draco would do that. Not after… well, he just didn’t believe it, that’s all. They had grown very close over the past couple of months, and after that emotional conversation about his parents and Black, Harry felt more connected to him than ever. Even though he had told Ron and Hermione everything, and they had done their best to cheer him up, he didn’t think they truly understood.

“Okay,” Ron muttered. “Will you meet us at the Three Broomsticks in an hour?”

“Ron, make sure Hermione takes a proper break from her studies. See you later!”

Harry smiled at his friends and hurried off toward the music shop at the far end of the street. He and Malfoy actually had a plan — one they had been refining for a week, using Fred and George’s enchanted parchment. The main difficulty was shaking off Parkinson, who tracked Draco’s movements like a hawk. She always tried to separate him from the rest of the Slytherins and whisk him off to Merlin-knows-where, and though Draco resisted with all his might, he hadn’t breathed a word about his plans with Harry.

Harry arrived about fifteen minutes early, but he was still in a rush. Adjusting the hood of his Invisibility Cloak, he peered around the corner. Malfoy was already there, strolling casually along the shopfront, inspecting the display of enchanted musical instruments. Although the streets of Hogsmeade were bustling with students at this hour, few wandered into this part of village.

Carefully, Harry removed the Cloak, stuffed it into his pocket, and crept up behind the unsuspecting Slytherin. But as if sensing his presence, Draco spun around—and they nearly collided, nose to nose. A sarcastic grin spread across his pale face.

“Minus ten points for Gryffindor. Stealth isn’t exactly your strength.”

Harry grinned, ready to fire back, but voices echoed around the corner. He quickly ducked into the shadows. A group of students passed without giving them a second glance.

“Draco, you said you had an idea. How am I supposed to get into the shop?”

“Elementary, Potter.”
Draco’s thin lips curled into a smug grin, and he pointed his wand directly at Harry’s face. “Stand still.”

Harry didn’t even have time to pull his wand from his pocket, thinking with some regret that, for once, Ron had turned out to be right. A tingling sensation swept over him—but that was all. Draco tugged on his jacket sleeve and turned him toward the window. The reflection in the glass wasn’t as clear as a mirror, but Harry could tell something was off about his face.

“Illusion charm, Potter,” Draco said, clearly pleased with himself. “Not perfect, but you don’t look like you. Just make sure no one stares at you too long. Don’t draw attention. And don’t do anything stupid, yeah? Come on—we don’t have much time.”

Harry obediently followed him up the steps to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, Draco turned and whispered:

“Oh, by the way. You look a bit like Nott right now, so I’m calling you Theo.”

The shop was empty, but far from quiet. Every one of the enchanted instruments hanging on the walls made a soft tinkling sound, like the static of a radio. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood, something synthetic, and sweet perfume.

At the counter stood a middle-aged witch with long red hair. She looked up at the sound of the doorbell. Harry panicked—he wasn’t supposed to be looked at directly—but Draco stepped forward smoothly, drawing the witch’s attention as easily as flipping a switch. In the dim lighting, his pale features appeared almost ethereal.

“Good afternoon. My friend and I are interested in musical spheres, and we’d like to see some of the new releases, if possible.”

Harry glanced at Malfoy, slightly surprised by such politeness, but he was too busy trying to balance between staying still and moving unobtrusively.

“Right this way, dears,” the witch said. “At this booth, we’ve got the latest trendy music spheres—absolutely fascinating! Each one has its own unique properties, and they’re ideal for wizards with refined taste. Be sure to check out the classics, too—you simply can’t go wrong…”

Harry stared in wonder at the shelves filled with glowing spheres, each resembling a Christmas ornament. Inside, golden smoke swirled and twisted into mesmerizing patterns. Malfoy nodded sagely and examined them with obvious interest. When he spotted one he liked, he waved his wand—and the orb floated off the shelf and into the next room.

Harry followed him and found an elegant setup: an upholstered sofa, and a semicircular wooden record player that resembled a gramophone, except it was made of deep black ebony. Suspended above it was a thin crystal, which shimmered as the musical orb was inserted into the player. The crystal vibrated softly and released sound—clear, immersive, and strangely alive, as if the music itself had a soul.

Harry stepped closer with interest as Draco confidently made his way toward one of the suspended spheres. Inside it, the golden mist was especially thick—almost bronze.

“If you have any questions, please let us know,” said the sorceress, returning to the counter and closing the door behind her.

Harry turned to Malfoy, who had already set up the record player.

“Here,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Real craftsmanship. I love it! Vallierne has a special gift—he can enchant twenty-four instruments at once, and they play as if they share a single mind.”

The room fell silent. Then, from somewhere above, came a thin, vibrating sound—like a distant bell—that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. The melody grew, multiplied; chaotic bursts of sound followed the bell, echoing like thunder through the space.

Harry immediately thought of sci-fi films about space—but even those had nothing quite like this. He was struck by the variety of sounds, though not exactly enchanted. The music felt vague and cold—too abstract.

Draco, on the other hand, looked completely absorbed, tapping the rhythm on the armrest with his fingers. He glanced at Harry and realized he wasn’t impressed.

“It’s probably too complex for you,” he said offhandedly.

Harry tried not to take offense.

“Really, I just don’t get it. How hard is it to enchant twenty-four instruments at once?”

“Oh, it’s not a problem for a professional to handle ten—but no one had done this before! I still can’t even conjure two instruments at once.” Draco paused, a bit disheartened. “The piano and harpsichord are similar! Sure, different mechanics, but still…”

Harry leaned against the other armrest and got ready to listen: he liked it when Malfoy got carried away and started talking about something sincerely, in a childishly scattered way. And just now, he interrupted himself and exclaimed:

“Oh, I know what you’ll like!”

He even bounced slightly with excitement and waved his wand. One of the spheres detached from the group and hovered above the player.

“I don’t listen that often. My father thinks this kind of music isn’t proper for pure-blooded wizards…”

Draco rolled his eyes with a grin, but Harry still found the comment a little sad.

The record player buzzed, vibrated—and after a few seconds, the room filled with the deep tones of a gloomy melody. Harry felt the bass reverberate through his chest, as if the music itself was making his heart beat in rhythm. Then came the voice—hoarse and deep, without a hint of pretension. He wasn’t just singing; he was speaking to the world.

The mysterious singer spoke of a freedom that couldn’t be taken away, and Harry was surprised to realize that—by old-fashioned wizarding standards—it sounded almost rebellious.

“Wow,” he said, taken aback. He genuinely liked this song a lot more. The sound, the words about inner strength—they struck something in him.

Malfoy smiled, flashing his teeth. His pale face was flushed with pleasure.

“You really like it?”

Harry hadn’t expected the question to be asked so earnestly, as if the answer really mattered to Draco.

“Yeah… yeah, I do. I didn’t expect you to listen to this.”

“Listen to what?” Draco asked quickly.

“I don’t know… I was expecting something more relaxed.”

“And boring,” Malfoy concluded with a huff, standing up to turn the sphere off.

Harry jumped up too. “No, it’s not! Just… he sings about freedom and all that. No wonder your dad doesn’t like it.”

Spots of red appeared on Malfoy’s cheeks, and he pursed his lips in embarrassment. The air turned awkward, and Harry quickly changed the subject.

“I heard the chorus is about getting stronger. You think it’ll help if you listen to it before our match, huh?”

Malfoy snorted indignantly, his mouth curling into a familiar grin.

“I’m strong enough, Potter,” he said, demonstratively straightening his shoulders and stretching to his full height, “but you could use a course of Skele-Gro.

Harry chuckled and slapped Draco lightly on the arm. He knew that, at least in a fight, Malfoy’s height had never helped him — Harry was simply tougher from years of labor at the Dursleys’ and Quidditch training at school. He’d always been the thinnest, frailest boy in his Muggle school, so now, with proper meals and regular sport, he was eager to catch up.

“We’ll see soon enough. The game’s just around the corner. After a good kidney pie, I’ll lift you with one hand.”

“Yeah!” Draco said with a gleam in his eye. “You’re a short weakling! You look like you’re being starved…”

Harry’s smile faltered. He tried to keep a face, but the silence stretched too long. Malfoy narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

“Potter?”

Harry had no idea what to say. That silence was worse than any answer. Draco hadn’t expected to hit a nerve.

“Wait…”

Disbelief flickered across Malfoy’s sharp features, quickly replaced by something harsher — anger. He slammed his palm on the record player’s table, making the horn tremble, and barked:

“Seriously? Is that really true? It’s those disgusting Muggles, isn’t it? And you still protect them?! Wait—” He dropped his voice. “Don’t tell me that old bastard Dumbledore knows. And he still sends you back there every summer?”

Harry put his own hand on the table, unsure of what he meant to do. He spoke quietly:

“Don’t talk about Dumbledore like that. I don’t have any relatives anymore. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“Rubbish!” Draco slammed the table again. “What about your precious friends?”

“Ron already has a huge family, and Hermione… her parents know about me, sure, but…”

“I’ve got plenty of room at home,” Draco said. Then, more thoughtfully, “Though I’ve never invited anyone over. And my father—why the hell did you start fighting with him in the first place?”

“Me?” Harry said before he could stop himself. “Wait… you mean I could live with you? But how come you’ve never invited anyone? I mean, you’ve probably got plenty of spare rooms, haven’t you?

“More than twenty guest bedrooms,” Draco nodded seriously.

“I always thought that’s what you purebloods did. You know—summer at each other’s luxurious mansions. I’d invite friends over all summer if I had a house.”

Draco cleared his throat and took his hand off the table, gripping his trousers instead. Already embarrassed by his outburst, he lifted his chin higher and said with forced arrogance:

“That’s vulgar. All my friends have their own estates—why would they stay at mine? I don’t even know how close you have to be with someone to let them live with you.”

“So… my level’s high enough?”

“Well…”

“Are you saying… that I’m your best friend?”

Draco immediately grimaced as if Harry had shoved something foul under his nose and turned away, but not before Harry saw his cheeks flush.

“Stop it,” Draco muttered, “you always ruin everything…”

The words sounded sharp, but unconvincing—like even he wasn’t sure what he was angry about. Harry, without saying a word, confidently covered his hand with his own. Malfoy flinched as if he was about to pull his hand away. He was silent for a few seconds, then quickly changed the subject, speaking as if nothing had happened:

“It’s a good thing my mum can’t hear you. She’d adopt you on the spot, I swear by Merlin. She’s obsessed with starving kids in Africa. Always donating at charity events,” he added with a sneer, then more seriously, “My father, of course, prefers something more worthwhile—education or the arts. Remember our music room on the second floor? He paid for it in full.”

Harry stayed quiet for a moment, then said sincerely:

“I’m glad you have a good mum.”

Draco looked a bit taken aback. He slowly slipped his hand out from under Harry’s and stepped over to the record player.

“So you liked it, then?” he asked, glancing at Harry. “I’ll buy it for you.”

“Hey, don’t—” Harry started, but Malfoy cut him off with a raised hand and was already levitating the sphere to the counter. Harry stayed behind, watching him sort through the musical globes, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and irritation. He didn’t like others making decisions for him—even if it was a gift.

They were running out of time, so Draco quickly picked out a few spheres for himself—one with wildly ornate melodies and a collection of German ballads Harry had liked. Waiting near the doorway in the dim light, Harry couldn’t help but notice how easily Malfoy spent money, without a second thought. Of course he was used to taking whatever he wanted.

The shop assistant was counting the change, and Harry flickered in the distance, while Malfoy stared at him and then irritably said:

“You seem to be late… Theo.”

Harry stared for a second, then it hit him—the illusion was wearing off. He quickly mumbled a goodbye and darted out. No big deal that I made a fool of myself in front of the witch—let Theodore Nott have a headache over it. The bell above the door chimed as Draco emerged, arms full of bags. He stepped down from the porch, the metal heels clicking sharply, and handed Harry one of the packages. The spheres were compactly packed and resembled golden vinyl records.

“Thanks,” Harry said. “But that’s probably too expensive.”

“Not really,” Draco replied with a grin. “And besides, didn’t you say you had gold? Then you can buy me coffee.”

“Coffee?” Harry was surprised. He didn’t really like this drink, but he drank it at the Dursleys’ house in an attempt to get enough. Not much better than empty tea, but…

“You can only get a cup of coffee at Hogwarts at Divination, but I won’t be there again in my life!” the Slytherin complained, turning up the collar of his coat. “And the house-elves refused to serve me an Americano: they said, “Sir is too young”! How do you like that? They’re completely out of control, not like at the manor…”

“But Draco,” Harry interrupted, “how am I going to buy you coffee if I’m not allowed to show myself to people?”

“I don’t know,” Malfoy lifted his chin defiantly, and his eyes twinkled slyly. “Come up with something.”

Well, Harry had an idea. He tugged at Malfoy’s sleeve in the direction of the Three Broomsticks, trying to keep to the deserted residential streets. There was noise coming from the market square, and Draco’s boots were clacking loudly on the pavement. Harry wanted to ask Malfoy about disguise charms and when he learned them.

“Listen, the spell of illusion…” he began. “How stable are they?”

“Depends on the skill,” Draco shrugged. “Mine aren’t… convincing enough yet, but they’ll last a long time. Do you want to turn into someone better?”

He grinned, but Harry caught a hint of wariness in his eyes.

“Just curious. When did you learn how to use them? I think Hermione said we wouldn’t study them until next year.”

“Probably in first year,” Draco mused. “But actually, I first used them when I was about six years old—I didn’t even know what I had done.”

“Really? Tell me!” Harry pleaded.

“I climbed the oldest tree in our garden,” Draco began reluctantly, as if he wasn’t sure it was worth sharing. “It’s made to climb, you know? But there were problems with the descent and… anyway, I scratched my whole face.”

He paused, looking away, and a strange smile appeared on his lips. Harry gave him a reassuring smile.

“I was terribly afraid that my father would see.” Draco shrugged his shoulders. “I knew I’d get a reprimand. I really shouldn’t have tried, not being sure that I could handle it. In general, the magic hid the abrasions. Didn’t cure it, just hid it.”

Harry shuddered involuntarily at the thought of tiny Draco and Lucius looming over him.

“But you were very young,” he objected.

“So what?” Draco snapped, as if Harry had insulted him. “I didn’t fall anymore. So, everything is correct.”

Harry wanted to give Lucius a good kick. To avoid blurting out something rude about Malfoy Sr., he said:

“My hair grew one night when my aunt cut it badly. She almost had a stroke that morning, and I just thought, ‘That’s weird.’ But it turned out funny.”

Malfoy chuckled. Potter’s ridiculous story seemed to cheer him up a bit. Harry was silent for a moment, and then asked:

“Do you know how Polyjuice Potion works?”

It was risky, because last year he and Ron entered the Slytherin common room disguised as Crabbe and Goyle to find out from Malfoy if he was the heir to Salazar Slytherin. Harry and Draco had been fighting for months because each thought the other was the heir. It turned out to be a stupid story, terribly dangerous and not without the participation of Lucius Malfoy. Maybe Draco still hadn’t realized how dangerous his father was, and Harry hadn’t been in a hurry to tell him.

“Of course,” Malfoy looked at Harry in surprise, but not suspiciously. He probably decided that he was not a completely lost man and also sometimes reads something. “It’s a pretty complicated potion, but the effect can fool almost anyone. I’d like to try, but it’s kind of disgusting: you also need to add a piece of who you want to become!”

Harry shuddered at the memory. If you’re going to turn into someone, it has to be at least someone nice.

“And if you could take on the appearance of any person, who would you choose?” he asked. “Just don’t use platitudes like Dumbledore or the Minister of Magic.”

“Diggory,” Draco replied without hesitation.

Harry stumbled out of the blue and barely kept his balance: it was as if Draco had read his mind!

“Why?” he managed, hoping that he did not betray his excitement.

Draco shrugged lightly.

“He’s an adult, popular, everyone likes him. Who would you choose?”

“Uh,” Harry muttered, not looking at his companion. He was saved from answering by the fact that they turned onto the main street and almost ran into passersby hurrying about their business.

“Oh!”

Harry ducked back into the narrow alley between the houses. Malfoy froze warily, and his face immediately assumed a disdainful expression, as always in the presence of strangers.

“And now what?” he asked, barely moving his lips.

Very close by, on the other side of a small square, the sign of the Three Broomsticks flickered invitingly with lanterns. Harry critically assessed the number of tourists scurrying around the square and slapped his pocket with his invisibility cloak. The plan was simple, but he had to be careful.

“Come here,” he beckoned Draco back into the alley and pointed to a bench next to one of the courtyards. “Wait here.”

Malfoy was probably too curious about what Harry had come up with, because without saying a word, he sat down and prepared to wait. Harry slipped around the corner, threw on his invisibility cloak, and stepped back into the crowded street. He dodged between passersby as if he were sneaking through the corridors of Hogwarts after lights out. The lanterns above the sign of the Three Broomsticks swayed in the wind with a soft creak. Someone was just coming out of the door, and Harry deftly slipped into the pub. It was warm inside and smelled of cinnamon, butterbeer, and something fried. Harry saw Ron and Hermione at a corner table, one seat next to them was empty. Ron’s attention was focused on his mug of butterbeer, while Hermione was bent over a newspaper spread out on the table. Harry slid towards them, deftly avoiding the noisy customers.

“Ron,” he whispered, coming very close.

Ron flinched and jerked so violently that he almost knocked over his beer mug. Creamy foam splashed over the edge, dripping directly onto the newspaper.

“Merlin and Morgana!” he cried hoarsely, clutching at his heart.

Hermione giggled and covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to attract the attention of the other customers.

“Oh, Harry!” she whispered.

Harry was embarrassed: he didn’t want to scare his friend like that. Although, if he had squealed, it would probably have been quite funny.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, putting a few coins on the table. “Can you buy two Americanos?”

“What?”

“Two Americanos. Please.”

Ron mumbled something unintelligible as he wandered over to the counter, and Hermione giggled softly again. It was as if she was waiting for Harry and wasn’t scared at all.

“Did you have a good time?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered. It suddenly seemed to him that having fun without his best friends was somehow wrong.

Hermione smiled warmly at him and turned back to the cash register, where Ron was paying for coffee. She thought for a moment and said:

“You know, I even like that you two communicate. You’re more responsible about your studies, and Malfoy… has become more normal, or something. You do understand, don’t you? We met in the library recently, and he greeted me in front of Pansy. I thought she would burst on the spot.”

Harry raised an eyebrow slightly, glancing sideways at his friend. He didn’t know what exactly surprised him—whether it was the fact that she spoke quite approvingly of Malfoy, or the fact that she sounded just like the other girls.

“Hermione, are you… gossiping?” he asked in a whisper.

In response, she flippantly shook her curls. “No. I’m just sharing my observations. And anyway, it was a sociocultural comment.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry muttered again.

At that moment, Ron returned to their table with coffee. From the outside, it wasn’t surprising—two students ordered themselves a mug of something hot—but the next moment the dishes evaporated from the table. Harry adjusted his Invisibility Cloak, hiding the cups, and whispered to Ron:

“Thanks. Don’t leave, I’ll be back soon!”

“Where would we go?” Ron snorted and squinted at Hermione, who was smiling slyly. “We have beer and gossip here.”

Harry hurried to the door, which was constantly letting visitors in and out, and slipped out into the street. When he reached the alley between the houses, he slowed down and cautiously peered around the corner. Draco was still sitting on the bench, nervously swinging his leg and staring at the curtained window opposite. Harry studied his profile for a few moments, noting that even when he was alone, Draco looked a little wary, and his pale cheeks were already pink from the first spring sun. The slender figure seemed unusually vulnerable to Harry, and he suddenly wanted to…

Without taking off his robes, he cautiously crept closer and bent down to the rosy ear:

“Your Americano, sir.”

Draco leapt a good foot into the air, almost falling off the bench, and began to look around. Harry chuckled and pushed the hood off his head.

“Potter, are you an idiot?!” Malfoy barked, his eyes flashing. “You almost killed me!”

He noticed the mug being held out to him and snatched it from Harry’s hands, clutching it to his chest as if it were a trophy. His snow-white hair fell over his forehead, and his cheeks were flushed. He looked as if he had actually just participated in a duel, and he did not take his eyes off Harry—or rather, from the place where his invisible body was.

“Where did you get this?” Draco cautiously reached out and ran his hand over Harry’s invisible shoulder, which made him flinch and almost spill his coffee. “Light and doesn’t rustle at all…”

Harry awkwardly sat down next to him on the bench. He felt a little silly with only his head dangling in the air, but this way he would be able to hide quickly if anyone looked in here. Malfoy immediately felt the corner of the Invisibility Cloak and began to examine the fabric by touch.

“This cloak belonged to my father. Don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”

“Yeah,” Malfoy seemed to ignore him, concentrating on the smooth fabric sliding between his fingers. In his other hand, he held a mug of cooling coffee. “You know, Potter, you have absolutely no instinct for self-preservation.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“It saved me from Filch more than once.”

“Ha!” Draco finally stopped the embarrassing stroking and remembered his Americano. He took a small sip and licked his lips. “Better than I expected. Did you steal it?”

“What?” Harry choked. He hadn’t even thought of such a method. “No, I asked Ron to buy it. What would you prefer?”

Malfoy licked his chapped lips again and smiled slyly. His mood improved noticeably.

“That’s right, the famous Gryffindor gall! At the same time, you’re walking around in robes worth hundreds of Galleons. How does that fit you? Hiding, scaring decent people…”

“Draco! There you are, we’ve been looking for you everywhere!…”

Interrupted in mid-sentence, Malfoy almost bit his tongue, and Harry, to his shame, repeated Draco’s recent act of bouncing on the bench and almost fell. He hurriedly pulled the hood over his head and hid the cup of unfinished coffee.

Pansy Parkinson noticed Malfoy’s hair shining in the sunlight from a distance, but she didn’t pay the slightest attention to the floating head next to him. She walked straight toward them, and Draco hurried to his feet. Pansy’s arrival had destroyed the harmony in their tiny world. Malfoy turned to levitate the cup back to the Three Broomsticks, and Harry saw his own disappointment reflected on his face. He muttered:

“Bye,” but Draco had already turned to Pansy and was waving off her questions with his usual laziness in his voice.

Harry got to his feet and walked across the square back to the pub. The clock on the square showed a quarter past one, and he was surprised to double-check the time again. Instead of the promised hour, he had been gone for more than two hours—and he hadn’t noticed it at all.

Chapter Text

Harry and Draco were sitting on the grass in the shade of a huge beech tree that spread its branches over the Hogwarts courtyard, eating cupcakes with raisins. More precisely, Draco ate cupcakes, and Harry ate raisins. The sun was already quite warm for summer, and the air was filled with the scent of greenery and flowers from Madam Sprout’s greenhouses. Despite the lazy regularity of the day, the students were in nervous anticipation: exams were approaching, but the final Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin was even closer—the same one that had ended in a bloody mess last autumn.

According to the original schedule, the last game should have been Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, but now the season would close with the fiercest rivalry at Hogwarts, the one the whole school looked forward to each year. Harry wasn’t too worried: his House had already beaten Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, and he—Harry—had personally earned his team a few hundred points. Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff, of course, had put up a real fight—he was a truly strong Seeker. And pretty Cho Chang from Ravenclaw’s dormitory had been a great distraction in and of herself, making it hard for Harry to concentrate on the match. Thankfully, she didn’t play all that well… Still, the most interesting and unpredictable opponent for Harry had always been Malfoy—even if, at their last training session together, Draco had caught only two Snitches out of ten and had sulked about it ever since. But it was hard to compete with a high-speed Firebolt—even Malfoy’s confidence on a broom couldn’t bridge that gap. Harry felt fairly safe betting on Gryffindor’s victory. Still, he didn’t mind losing now and then during training, it made things more fun.

Licking his lips free of crumbs, Harry squinted at the unusually taciturn Slytherin. In a quarter of an hour, they had to head off to a joint Care of Magical Creatures lesson—despite Malfoy’s desire to drop the subject after the hippogriff incident. It seemed like that had happened ages ago… Buckbeak’s execution date still hadn’t been set, and to Harry, it all felt like some unfortunate misunderstanding that most people had already forgotten. Everyone, of course, except Hagrid—who could be quite moody during lessons, especially when paired with Slytherins. He was even visibly nervous around Malfoy, which looked rather ridiculous, considering Malfoy himself was a little afraid of the teacher, skilfully masking it with his usual sneer.

Voices drifted in from the direction of the main doors. Ron and Hermione were slowly making their way over. Crookshanks circled under their feet, and Ron kept tripping over him. Malfoy pointedly turned away, lifting his face to the sun. Harry smiled: if Draco had forgotten to apply protective potion to his skin, his cheeks would be pink as a Fwooper with sunburn by evening. Meanwhile, Crookshanks wagged his tail and, with unexpected grace, leapt into Malfoy’s lap in a single bound. The Slytherin recoiled as if an Acromantula had lunged at him, but the cat made himself comfortable, stretched out his paws, and stared at him with wide amber eyes.

“Traitor!” Ron said indignantly, stopping beside them.

“Crookshanks, get down!” Hermione shouted.

“He just has good taste,” Malfoy replied lazily, as though he hadn’t been jumping out of his skin a moment ago. He dragged his hand across the cat’s fluffy back. Crookshanks squinted and purred even louder.

“Well, you know!” Ron snorted, flopping down onto the grass. He still couldn’t decide who he disliked more, Crookshanks or Malfoy. Either way, he didn’t care for the sight of them getting along. Crookshanks looked perfectly content to remain in his new perch, apparently having decided long ago that sharp knees were ideal for naps. The Slytherin, naturally, had other ideas.

“Get off, you monster!” he growled, grabbing the cat by his well-fed belly and tossing him into the tall grass. Hermione gasped in outrage, but Crookshanks was already charging back like a ginger cannonball.

“Oh, really?”

Malfoy, now seething with indignation, picked him up again and flung him even farther. The cat performed an elegant pirouette mid-air, turned around, and bolted straight back into Draco’s arms. The boy stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief, expression comically incredulous.

Harry watched them closely and was pleased to see Draco’s expression soften, as though lit from within. Chuckling and panting, Malfoy picked up the cat again and again, launching him into the lush grass.

Ron and Hermione looked on in stunned silence, while Harry’s smile only widened. The Slytherin who had just been sulking as if the world had wronged him was suddenly alight—cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. Crookshanks, too, seemed more joyful than Harry had ever seen him. Of course, Hermione had never played with him so boisterously, Ron couldn’t stand him, and Harry, truth be told, had always been rather indifferent to all things feline.

“Draco, be careful! It’s a living creature, not a Quaffle,” Hermione scolded the Slytherin. However, there was a slightly embarrassed smile on her lips, which she didn’t try very hard to hide.

Laughing, Malfoy leaned back, barely holding the cat at arm’s length, and peered into its face, as though trying to work out what it was thinking. If the cat was thinking anything at all, it didn’t show—just breathed noisily through its flattened nose and wagged its tail lazily in the air.

Harry simply stared at them, resting his cheek against his hand. He could’ve sat like that all day, under the soft sun, surrounded by strangely peaceful friends. Could it really be Crookshanks’ cat magic? Draco seemed to have forgotten where he was—and who he was with. Now Harry could see quite clearly how dramatically Slytherins changed when they were uncomfortable among others.

Ron finally broke the stunned silence with an exclamation:

“Crookshanks, blink twice if you’re being held hostage!”

Hermione giggled stupidly and smiled at Harry over Malfoy’s dishevelled head. And Harry wanted to shout, pointing right at him: ‘Look, this is my friend!’ Or worse, take Draco’s hand in front of everyone. Ron would have a stroke. He wondered how Draco would react.

Harry might’ve done something incredibly stupid—something he’d probably regret—but his thoughts were interrupted by an angry shout:

“Draco, finally! We’ve been looking all over the castle for you. Come on, we’re late!”

A whole crowd of Slytherins poured into the courtyard, led by the ever-present Pansy Parkinson, who stamped her foot impatiently and sparkled with indignation.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione jumped. Pansy looked at Draco with thinly veiled outrage, but he had already shrugged off the cat, smoothed down his hair, and assumed his usual expression—relaxed and just a touch arrogant. He rose quickly and, without a word, headed towards Hagrid’s hut, deftly stepping around Pansy, who froze in place as though expecting him to take her hand. When she came to, she gave her hair a dramatic toss and hurried after him. The rest of the Slytherins could only follow.

Ron, having noticed the awkward pause, shook his head and remarked philosophically:

“Well indeed.”

“Oh!” Hermione leapt up, scooping Crookshanks into her arms. “We are really late!”

***

Hagrid was especially tense in class. The threat hanging over Buckbeak weighed heavily on him, but as a teacher, he had to stick to the curriculum and continue showing magical creatures—though now he avoided anything too dangerous or controversial.

The Slytherins clustered at a distance from the tables, approaching slowly as squeaking and rustling noises came from beneath several cloth-covered cages. Harry, Ron, and Hermione made straight for Hagrid. They always tried to stand close by and support the inexperienced teacher. It seemed to help: Hagrid’s face broke into a small smile, and some of the tired lines around his eyes smoothed out.

Clearing his throat, Hagrid began the lesson.

“Afternoon, everyone. Right, let’s see who we’ve got today!”

He waved his massive hand towards the row of cages. The cloth slid off, revealing a flock of colourful, furry creatures. Startled by the sunlight and the crowd of students, the animals began chattering and squealing like an entire herd of Cornish pixies.

“These are House Puffs. Look how pretty they are!” Hagrid beamed and moved into instruction mode. “You’ll be workin’ in pairs. But also—per Professor Dumbledore’s orders—you’ll be pairin’ across Houses.”

An indignant murmur spread through the group. Ron sighed audibly. Hermione was scandalised:

“Oh, Dumbledore thinks the Slytherins will sabotage the lessons! How can this happen—we’ve so little time left before exams…”

Still, no one moved to follow instructions. The Slytherins remained at a distance while the Gryffindors approached the tables, peering curiously at the small beasts, pointing out the liveliest.

Harry felt a tug at his sleeve. Turning, he saw Hagrid leaning down, speaking in what he clearly thought was a whisper:

“Harry, could yeh work with Malfoy? Yeh know, better if someone… well, keeps an eye on ‘im.”

“Of course,” Harry said, suppressing a smile. “I understand. But you’ll have to pair the rest up as well, or they’ll just stand around for the whole lesson.”

Hagrid nodded seriously. Harry turned and headed for the tables. He selected the largest Puff—about the size of a good pumpkin—and made his way to Draco.

He hoped Draco wouldn’t actually try to sabotage the lesson. He didn’t want Hagrid to be upset—but he also wouldn’t mind spending a bit more time with the Slytherin, even though they’d only had lunch together twenty minutes earlier.

Draco stood in the shade of a wide tree, lips curled in contempt, watching the other students pair off. Harry walked up, holding the indignantly squeaking Puff aloft.

“Look what a specimen!”

Malfoy eyed both of them with distaste and gave a small shrug. He’d actually been watching Zabini join Hermione, and Harry was now blocking his view.

Hovering nearby with the Puff against his chest, Harry followed Zabini with his eyes too, noting how gracefully he moved—almost like a dancer. Hermione accepted the creature in silence. Neither said a word to each other.

The one who was speaking was Pansy—loudly. She hovered next to Neville, commenting on his every move. The poor boy was sweating profusely, struggling to hold both the Puff and his parchment. Parkinson, meanwhile, marched in small circles with her arms crossed.

Harry remembered she’d hoped to take Draco’s hand earlier and snorted. Maybe Malfoy didn’t mind being friends with her—but surely no more than that. How could she not see it herself?

Ron had once said Pansy looked like a pug. Maybe that’s a bit much, Harry thought, at least her hair is nice—sleek, heavy, a bit like Cho’s.

Still, she might look decent next to someone like Crabbe and Goyle. But next to Draco…

“Like a cow,” Harry thought, and immediately felt guilty. But then Pansy called Neville a crooked-armed dolt, and his conscience eased just a bit.

Finally, everyone had a partner. (Harry noticed Ron and Goyle glowering equally at their Puff as if it had personally ruined their lives.) Hagrid clapped his hands for attention and continued:

“Puffs are gentle creatures, they need lookin’ after. Your job is to care for yer Puff until exams. Feed ‘em, groom ‘em, and write a summary. First thing—give ‘em names.”

Malfoy let out a sigh of pure exasperation and turned to Harry. After giving him a long-suffering look, he crossed his arms and stared down at the Puff like it was something foul.

“Well, Potter, are you satisfied? A whole month with me and that hairy ball.”

Harry gently placed the Puff on the grass and crouched beside it, holding it in place.

“Well, I’m perfectly fine with it. Very cute creature. And the Puff’s not bad either.”

“Hey!” Red spots appeared instantly on Malfoy’s cheeks, and he gave Harry a swift kick to the shin. “You idiot.”

Harry snorted and rubbed his bruised leg. Let Draco show off all he liked—it was still easy to embarrass him. Cradling the animal with one arm, Harry dug around in his bag with the other and pulled out a notebook. Since Draco usually did most of the potions work in their duo, Harry figured it was his turn.

“Let’s do this: you start writing notes, I’ll comb her out and feed her. Looks like they’re pretty fussy, and we need to describe exactly what our Puff prefers to eat.”

“What makes you think it’s a she?”

“Er… I think so” Harry hedged. “Let’s check the book.”

“You just watch it.”

Harry sighed and pulled out Euphemia Splink’s Guide to Domestic Magical Creatures—Hagrid’s recommended textbook for the class. So nice to hold a normal book in your hands instead of a biting Monstrous Book of Monsters.

Malfoy sighed theatrically, squatted down, and gave the Puff a tentative stroke with one finger. The pink tongue darted out and licked him. Draco jerked his hand away.

“Disgusting. Useless, stupid…”

“Stop!” Harry protested, defending the Puff. “She’s just a pet.”

“So what? Your owl’s useful.” Draco conjured a small cushion with his wand and plopped down beside Harry. “So’s mine. Zabini’s snake, too. But Weasley’s rat? Longbottom’s toad? Merlin save us.”

“Zabini has a snake?” Harry blinked. “Is that even allowed? And what’s so useful about it, anyway?”

“Allowed if you’re a Slytherin,” Draco replied coolly, flipping through the book Harry had brought over. “Snakes protect you from enemies. Merlin, it really is a girl.”

Harry gladly running his fingers through her thick fur and scooted closer to Malfoy so the Puff could move onto his lap. She clung to Slytherin’s robes and attempted to climb higher, but Draco shook her off with a huff.

“Potter, control your monster.”

“Look,” Harry said, grinning, “her whiskers twitch when you talk. She’s studying you. Come on, read out what we’re supposed to do with her.”

Draco scanned a few paragraphs and pulled a face.

“Ugh. They’re sensitive to the owner’s mood. No yelling, no swearing at each other… boring. Ours is clearly unlucky.”

“Why? We don’t fight. And you’ll be a better owner than Crabbe.”

And sure enough, not far from them, Crabbe had failed to hold onto his Puff with his great big hands—the creature let out an indignant squeak, earning him a scolding from the nearby girls, even from Parkinson. Malfoy relaxed a little and gave a dry smile.

“Fair point. Right, I’m writing that down. Performers: Malfoy, Potter. Victim: Madame Frou-Frou.”

“That’s awful,” Harry laughed. “Why would you do that to her?”

Malfoy let out a careless laugh, tossing his head back. Harry watched the pale line of his throat, where his Adam’s apple jumped as he laughed. Suddenly, he wished Draco would lower his head again—though there wasn’t a single creature around today that looked ready to go for anyone’s throat. The Puff, sensing the shift in his mood, gave his finger a tiny bite to get his attention. Harry quickly returned to brushing.

They worked in silence for a while—Harry offering various treats, Draco noting down the Puff’s reactions in handwriting that was, Harry was sure, annoyingly perfect even in a notebook balanced on one knee.

“Do you have a pet?” Harry asked, breaking the quiet.

“Of course,” Draco replied without looking up. “We have owls, racehorses, hunting dogs, peacocks…”

“Peacocks?” Harry blinked. “Wow. I meant—your own pet.”

Malfoy looked up, squinting slightly.

“What for? I have my eagle owl.”

Harry shrugged.

“You got along well with Crookshanks. I just think a cat would suit you.”

“What do you mean?” Malfoy sat up so abruptly that the quill left a blot on his page. Harry recoiled instinctively.

“Nothing! Cats are beautiful and elegant. That’s all.”

A moment that felt like an eternity to Harry—what had he done wrong this time?—Malfoy kept him under a tense gaze before returning to his notes, muttering irritably:

“A real man keeps a dog.”

“What?” Harry snorted. “Who told you that load of rubbish?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Malfoy said quickly, diving back into his notes and making it clear from every angle of his posture that the conversation was over.

Harry, for his part, refused to understand anything. For the rest of the lesson, he kept his head down, brushing Madame Frou-Frou—who was clearly shedding into summer—and collecting enough fur to stuff a life-sized stuffed animal. Next to him, Draco scowled as he marked up his notes with coloured pencils, though there was really no need for it. Harry didn’t need to look to know exactly what expression Malfoy had on his face. Once, he might’ve been angry about Draco’s sudden mood swing, but now… now he just felt something like sympathy.

Damn it, the Malfoy family order was absolute nonsense. Day after day, Draco followed a rigid set of expectations—probably detailed in some cursed ancestral volume in their library—and it clearly didn’t make him happy. Who could it possibly make happy? Lucius? Oh, Harry had noticed during their thankfully brief encounters how much he enjoyed power—he simply reveled in it. Harry wondered if he came up with all those idiotic rules for his son himself, or if there was some kind of parenting manual. If that was the case, maybe Malfoy senior had become the way he was because of his own parents’ influence, and it was all just an endless cycle.

“Enough,” Harry told himself. “The last thing I need is to start feeling sorry for Lucius.”

When Hagrid finally announced the end of the lesson, the boys packed up in silence. Harry gently carried Puff into the aviary, passing through little clumps of bickering students. It seemed only a few pairs had managed not to fall out—and Harry was genuinely disappointed to think he and Draco should have been one of those rare successes.

Adjusting his bag over one shoulder, Harry strode purposefully toward Malfoy. He wasn’t about to let them fall out over nothing. Malfoy was already standing at the edge of the clearing, packed and waiting, while the rest of the Slytherins lagged behind. Zabini was scribbling furiously, while Hermione dictated something that sounded suspiciously like a thesis. Harry scanned for the loudest pair, expecting to find Parkinson tearing Neville to shreds again—only to stop short, but instead he found Neville enthusiastically talking about something—and she, no less, was actually listening attentively. Even Malfoy had raised an eyebrow, watching them with visible confusion. Harry stepped up beside him and nudged him with his shoulder.

“Am I going crazy, or are you seeing this too?”

Draco shrugged, noncommittal. But Harry leaned in a little closer, this time more seriously.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. Can we not fight?”

Draco turned to look at him. He looked pale, drawn out, like he’d spent the day in a dusty office rather than the sunlit grounds. His eyes searched Harry’s face for a moment before he said:

“You didn’t offend me. Just… don’t say stupid things, alright?”

“So… we’re good?” Harry asked, unable to keep the smile from his face. “Still meeting at the library tonight?”

“We agreed,” Draco replied with a shrug. “And Malfoys keep their word.” He added, offhandedly, “When it matters.”

“I’ll never forget your sacrifice,” Harry gave him a cheerful clap on the hand but immediately grew flustered at the sudden rush of associations—Quidditch, blood, the hospital wing… “Oh, I meant…”

Malfoy stared at him with a blank expression as Harry fumbled for words, and then his lips curled into a familiar, cutting grin.

“Merlin, Potter, it takes so little to impress you! Just lose a couple of teeth, and your brains turn to jelly! So, how are you doing? Already planning to name your firstborn after me?”

“Ha!” Harry smiled, vividly imagining the picture. “Just listen to this: ‘Draco Potter’! I’m going to love my children, not bully them.”

“Hey!” Draco seemed seriously hurt. “It’s your last name that ruins everything.”

“Oh, come on! You’d think ‘Harry Malfoy’ would sound better.”

“Of course! With such a lovely surname, even your plebeian name would probably sound acceptable.”

“Uh-uh… What are you doing?” It sounded right behind them.

Harry jumped in surprise (to his credit, he wasn’t the only one) and turned to Ron, who was staring at them with wide-eyed amazement and even some horror. Probably, out of context, their conversation really sounded strange, so Harry hurried to clarify the situation:

“We’re not talking about ourselves; it’s for our children!”

Ron’s already surprised face fell even more, but Malfoy didn’t even seem to get angry. He looked at Harry tiredly and exhaled:

“Potter, do you… don’t you have any control over what your mouth says?”

Turning on his heel, he strode down the path. When he had almost reached the bend where the path disappeared behind the trees, he turned around and threw:

“Seven o’clock, Potter.” And don’t be late—I won’t wait for you!

Chapter Text

“Did he actually say that?”

Ron was performing his brilliant little skit for the third time, and his grateful audience—Fred and George—were beside themselves with delight. The Gryffindors were scattered across the carpet and the armchairs set in a semicircle near the fireplace, laughter echoing around the sitting room. More precisely, it was the Weasleys who were having fun; Hermione was attempting to read, and Harry was desperately wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

“For your kids, Harry, seriously?” George chortled, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah, Harry’s such a serious bloke!” Fred echoed. “A proper rarity these days!”

“I hate you,” Harry muttered from the floor, scowling. He really ought never to have left his bedroom. He and Draco were supposed to meet in the library soon, but the mere thought of it now made him squirm. Should he just get up and leave? But Ron knew exactly where he was going—and that meant endless material for gossip.

“We love you too!” George declared cheerfully, ruffling Harry’s hair.

“No offence, mate,” Ron added placidly. “It’s just a joke.”

“That’s right, Harry, don’t pay them any mind,” Hermione said without looking up from a thick tome on Transfiguration. “You can’t let that sort of nonsense get to you. And honestly, you, guys, should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Ashamed?” Ron looked appalled. “What are we supposed to be ashamed of?”

“You twist everything,” Harry replied darkly.

“Twist?” Ron said, affronted. “Mate, you said ‘Draco Potter’ out loud. We’re just assessing the scale of the disaster.”

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands—but before he could say anything more, he leapt up, clutching at his pocket.

“Ow! What the—?”

Smoke was pouring out of his robes, and the sitting room was suddenly filled with the stench of burning paper.

“What’s on fire?” Hermione asked sharply, slamming her book shut.

Harry hastily turned his pocket inside out. A folded piece of parchment tumbled onto the table—one of Fred and George’s inventions. He’d assumed it would be incinerated by now, but it remained miraculously intact. Unfolding it, Harry saw jagged, oversized letters scrawled across the page, as though the sender had been determined to make his name look as ridiculous as possible: POTTER potter PoTteR. He looked up in horror at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was only a quarter to seven. He wasn’t late, was he? Or had Draco lost his mind and all sense of time?

“Is that Malfoy?” Ron croaked.

“Wait a minute,” said George. “Our samples can’t do that.”

“The boy’s got talent,” Fred remarked, peering over Harry’s shoulder as he scrawled a hasty reply: Coming. You’re mad!

Somewhere in another wing of the castle, Malfoy replied instantly. A cartoonish hand appeared on the parchment, making an obscene gesture—though it was quickly scribbled out. Fred, however, caught sight of it and let out a laugh.

“Ah, so that’s what boys from noble families are really like!”

Harry quickly rolled up the parchment, slipped it into the book he was planning to take to the library, slung his bag over his shoulder, and made his way towards the common room door, his head held high.

“Harry!”

He turned. Hermione had called out to him, one finger marking her place in her textbook, teeth tugging at her lower lip uncertainly.

“I need to go to the library too. Is it all right if Ron and I come by later?”

“Er, sure,” said Harry. “It’s the library—it’s for everyone. We’re all studying for exams, aren’t we?”

“For the exams, right.” The twins nodded in mock solemnity, sharing a look. “Just keep in mind: we both want to be godfathers!”

Harry stormed out into the corridor, not forgetting to kick Fred’s chair on the way out. Even after the portrait hole thudded shut behind him, laughter echoed from the fireplace alcove.

He practically ran to the library and burst through the doors, stopping dead in the reading room. Several students glanced up, frowning disapprovingly, but luckily Madam Pince was nowhere in sight. Malfoy wasn’t among the crowd, but Harry knew he preferred the far corner, tucked away between the shelves. He made his way there quickly, bracing for a scowl or a sarcastic remark—but as he turned the corner, he froze.

Draco was already seated at a small corner table, wearing a smile that, to Harry’s annoyance, actually looked quite good on him. All of Harry’s frustration evaporated. He dropped heavily onto the neighbouring chair and stared questioningly at Malfoy, taking a certain grim satisfaction in noting that his face had, in fact, caught the sunburn.

“Are you mad?”

Draco just grinned and waved his watch under Harry’s nose.

“It’s not even seven yet, and look—you’re already here. Brilliant, isn’t it? If it weren’t for me, you’d have been late. Don’t argue. You need a new watch—if you know how to use one.”

He pushed a massive stack of textbooks across the table with a flourish, like a magician unveiling his next trick.

“You can start now. Sooner you begin, sooner you’re done.”

Harry felt queasy just from reading the titles: Magical Drafts and Potions, 1001 Basic Potions, The Art of Potion Modification… He was already trembling at the mere thought of Snape’s exam when Draco slid a neatly written parchment across the table, covered in small, razor-sharp handwriting.

“Why do I need a watch when I’ve got you?” Harry muttered, mostly to be contrary, and picked up the parchment with a sigh.

Draco glanced at him quickly, unreadable, then returned to his efficient tone.

“These are the potions that might come up in the exam. Snape never deviates from the syllabus, so there won’t be any surprises. I’ve noted which books give the best explanations for each. All you need to do is write up a summary for the theory section. Even you can manage that. We’ll go over the practical side later — get started.”

Miles of dull, dusty potions texts swam before Harry’s eyes—but at least now he had a place to start.

“Why can’t I just use your notes?”

“Your audacity would put a megalomaniac hippogriff to shame, Potter. Write it down. Maybe you’ll even remember something this way.”

Harry sighed, dropped his bag onto the end of the table, and pulled out his own copy of the message parchment, tucked into the textbook he’d brought.

“The twins were very impressed with your alert system.”

Malfoy smirked.

“Of course they were. And you?”

“Well, I’ve got a few things to write in the Book of Complaints and Suggestions.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Just tell me—why are you wasting your time on me?”

With a flick of his wand, Draco cast a Silencio charm, silencing the already hushed library. The rustling of parchment and occasional coughs under Madam Pince’s watchful eye were nothing compared to Malfoy’s apparent need for total isolation.

“My standards are quite high,” he said calmly. “If you want to be my friend, you’ll have to try harder. Popularity isn’t enough.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry chuckled, then lowered his voice. “I thought you only wanted to be friends with me because of my name.”

“Obviously,” Draco replied without irony. “I need the most famous and influential wizards in Britain in my circle. How was I supposed to know you’d turn out to be such a complete git?”

“You too,” said Harry. “Funny how that worked out.”

“Some people might find your… narrow-mindedness charming. I don’t. Now get on with it.”

“My what?”

“Narrow-mindedness. Muddle-headedness. Call it what you like. It’s not an insult—it’s just true.”

“Oh, it’s a fact, is it…” Harry began unpacking his quill and notes. “What about Crabbe and Goyle? Don’t tell me they’re secret geniuses.”

Malfoy snorted, pulling a book from his bag and adjusting the desk lamp.

“Sure, Potter. Go and tell them that to their faces.”

“And Pansy? You’re always saying how foolish she is.”

“Foolish, not stupid. There’s a difference.”

Harry decided not to argue and finally got down to work. He skimmed the list with his eyes — the first potion was a general restorative — and reached for the stack of textbooks. Malfoy tucked his legs up beneath him, settled in comfortably, but something was missing. He pursed his lips in displeasure and suddenly called out into the empty room:

“Dobby!”

Harry jumped when the house-elf materialised in front of them with a loud pop. He watched in disbelief as Dobby bowed to them both in turn. Malfoy adopted the air of a slightly bored nobleman, but his request was quite polite:

“Could you bring me a glass of pumpkin juice?”

Dobby nodded and turned toward Harry, who looked thoroughly conflicted. He’d asked Dobby for help in the past, as a friend—but Malfoy? Still, Dobby was free now; he could refuse if he wanted to. But he hadn’t. Clearing his throat, Harry said:

“Dobby, if it’s not too much trouble… could I have a cup of tea?”

“Dobby will be happy to bring tea to Mr Potter!” the house-elf replied with enthusiastic zeal, clapped his hands, and a glass of juice and a mug of fragrant herbal tea appeared in front of the boys. Harry smiled at him gratefully.

“Thank you! Smells wonderful.”

Malfoy sipped his juice and nodded in satisfaction.

“Thanks. You can go now.”

The house-elf smiled at Harry and disappeared. Draco opened his book as if nothing had happened and began to read, while Harry, who was having trouble concentrating on his notes, stole glances at him.

“What?” Malfoy asked without looking up from his page.

“Er… That was nice. Well, being polite to Dobby.”

Malfoy chuckled and looked at Harry with a raised eyebrow.

“Should I have thrown a glass at him?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that I’ve seen how pure-bloods treat house-elves. Your father, for example. Like furniture—if furniture could be beaten.”

“My father always said that fear is a reliable way to ensure order.” Draco paused, turning a page in his book. “But I think it’s like training: a frightened dog is a bad dog. It doesn’t know what to do, only what to fear. It’s the same with servants. I’ve noticed that if you praise them sometimes, they work better.”

Harry was offended by the comparison of intelligent house-elves with dogs; Hermione would definitely not appreciate it. But at least Draco’s reasoning didn’t sound cruel.

“Fear and respect are not the same thing,” he said confidently.

“Well, of course, everyone respects my father,” Draco replied quickly.

“And they’re afraid. At least the elves don’t shake when they see you.”

Draco gave him a brief, appraising look.

“I don’t know what you’ve got in your head, Potter, but house-elves are no friends of mine. It’s just that when I was a child, I was often… let’s say, left to my own devices. Of course, I had a whole gaggle of nannies trailing after me. I see how you’re looking at me: no, I didn’t punish them. They always did whatever I told them anyway. Bibby was always keeping an eye on my clothes, Tata—she brought me food…”

Harry chuckled to himself. He imagined elf nannies who would rather take care of a moody boy than serve a cruel master of the house.

“Do you remember their names?” he asked.

Draco looked at Harry as if he really doubted his mental abilities.

“Of course I remember, you idiot. I told you, I spent all my time with them. It wasn’t that bad. You can talk to elves, and they can’t scold you.”

Harry was silent. For a few moments, he stared at his hands clasped on the open textbook, feeling a strange sense of togetherness. He and Malfoy had as different childhoods as possible, but here it was—something in common: loneliness. An unwanted orphan in a dusty cupboard, and a little aristocrat whose parents were too busy to talk to him.

“I wouldn’t mind an elf’s company,” he said. “It’s great to have someone to talk to.”

Draco sensed that the conversation had taken a wrong turn, pointedly glanced at his watch, which was working properly—unlike Harry’s—and whistled.

“Oh, Morgana! Are you going to cheat on the exam, or are you going to start studying anyway?”

Harry obediently buried himself in his textbook—indeed, there was quite an impressive amount of work ahead. If only he could take notes in class! But Snape’s theoretical classes were as bad as his practical ones. He could borrow Hermione’s notes, but she’d been saying for a while now that she and Ron needed to study on their own… Besides, apparently Malfoy had decided to prepare thoroughly and use additional literature. Actually, a brief summary of theory from a basic textbook would’ve been enough for Harry, but what if he could learn something more complicated? So that Snape would strangle himself on the spot from surprise. The sight of the Potions professor falling dead in the middle of an exam lifted Harry’s spirits a lot. And it was a good thing that Draco had done the most difficult part of the job for Harry! All he had to do was follow the plan.

Harry briefly looked up from his textbook again and glanced at the Slytherin. He was sitting with his legs tucked under him and was immersed in a book that clearly had nothing to do with lessons. Obviously, it was something scary, because his whole posture expressed nervous tension. Harry was tempted to say something like, “Watch out, they’re behind you!” but he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he reached out and took Malfoy’s hand. Of course, Harry had had wonderful close friends for three years now, but he still sometimes had no idea which touches were appropriate and which were not. It was a little exciting, but it seemed to him that it was necessary. Malfoy flinched and gave him a startled look, but he didn’t take his hand away. Harry had done this before, Draco had allowed him, so it was okay. That’s probably the way it’s done in Slytherin or among pure-bloods. Harry had pure-blood wizards in his family, and the Sorting Hat also wanted to send him to Slytherin—he must have subconsciously felt such things. Calming down, Harry returned to his studies. The tense, cool fingers in his hand didn’t move for a long time, but after a while Draco turned their clasped palms over and hid them under the table, placing them on Harry’s lap. The Gryffindor smiled without looking up from his book.

The work was progressing well. It turned out that without Snape looming nearby, the theory of Potions could be very entertaining. Without uninvited sarcastic comments, Harry was much faster at delving into formulas and patterns that he hadn’t had time to follow before. They sat for quite a long time: the shadows of students leaving the reading room flickered in the aisle between the shelves, the lights on the walls became a little dimmer. Draco was hunched over a book in his lap, leaning his shoulder on the table, deeply engrossed in reading. They were no longer holding hands—Harry needed to flip through the pages and take notes—but Draco, as if not noticing this, just left his hand on Harry’s knee.

Harry was finishing a table listing the properties of various doses of soapwort when Hermione peeked into their makeshift shelter.

“There you are! Harry, the library’s closing soon.”

They both jumped — Draco’s Muffliato spell had muffled all footsteps, making Hermione’s clear voice sound like a bolt from the blue. A warm hand quickly slipped off Harry’s knee, and he immediately felt an unpleasant emptiness.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to scare you,” Hermione said, looking confused. She was holding several new textbooks. Harry was once again surprised: when did she even have time to read them? She probably didn’t sleep at night. Ron appeared over Hermione’s shoulder. He looked at the stack of books on their table and gave a low whistle.

“Planning to sit exams for every year at once, are you?”

Malfoy looked at him with mild surprise, as though it was unusual for Ron to speak at all.

“No,” he said after a pause. “For that, Potter would have to finally read Hogwarts: A History.”

“Oh, honestly, Harry!” Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, shaking her head in disapproval. “You were supposed to read it in first year.”

Draco straightened his shoulders, crossed his legs with the grace honed by generations of pure-blood breeding, and added with vindictive pleasure:

“He thought Sirius Black might be able to Apparate straight into the school.”

Hermione gasped in outrage, and Ron pursed his lips behind her, clearly embarrassed — he hadn’t read Hogwarts: A History either, and probably didn’t know you couldn’t Apparate on Hogwarts grounds.

Harry irritably slammed his textbook shut and stood up. He began stuffing his things into his bag — a note, a quill, a bottle of ink… then froze. Where was the message parchment? He’d definitely taken it out of the textbook he was planning to return, and later had probably used it as a bookmark in another one. But which?

Harry flipped through the nearest book — nothing. He opened the next, but was stopped by pale, slender fingers sliding onto the cover.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Malfoy asked lazily, taking the book from his hands. “Aren’t you supposed to be a wizard?”

“What?”

The Slytherin took a sip of Harry’s tea without asking and shrugged.

“You can Summon your things with a flick of your wand.”

“We haven’t done Summoning Charms yet,” Harry snapped.

“So what? It’s a basic spell. I learned it before I even had a wand.”

He flicked his fingers theatrically, and one of the books from the shelf leapt neatly into his hand.

“What else can you do without a wand?” Hermione asked eagerly — she was always keen to learn from others’ magical skills.

Draco’s sharp face lit up with self-satisfaction. Not many third-years could boast wandless magic, after all. Still, his abilities were quite limited, so he replied evasively:

“I can only show you that one. It takes a lot of practice.”

He turned to Harry and eyed him thoughtfully.

“All right, you don’t know the Summoning Charm. But you could try using your brain—assuming you’ve got one. Look: you’re working on the fifth potion from the list, which means you haven’t opened the antidote book yet. Life and Death in a Flask—too,” he nodded toward the volume, “but you’ve been using Magical Drafts and Potions the whole time. You’re still double-checking the most basic things—by third year, you ought to know the difference between a catalyst and a stabilizer. If the parchment were in that book, you’d have noticed.”

Harry frowned. For the first time in a while, he felt uncomfortable under Draco’s sharp gaze. He hadn’t realised Malfoy was watching him so closely even while appearing to focus on his own business.

“What else did you open today…” Malfoy muttered, snapping his fingers. “The Essential Symbolism of Ingredients, but you said it was too complicated and shut it immediately.”

He reached for the book, flipped casually through it — and a folded piece of parchment slid out onto the table.

“Voilà.”

Harry stared at the slip of parchment, not knowing what to say. It annoyed him when Malfoy acted like that — but he had to admit, it was rather impressive.

“Wow, you’re like Sherlock Holmes,” Hermione said.

“Who?” Malfoy asked dryly, turning to her. He didn’t like that a Muggle-born knew something he didn’t.

“He’s…” Hermione hesitated for a second, “a character in Muggle literature. A detective.”

“Oh? Is he good?”

“Very.”

Malfoy chuckled contentedly and leaned back in his chair. Hermione paused, adjusting the books in her arms, then asked:

“Harry said you were reading Muggle books. Do you like them?”

A shadow crossed Malfoy’s face, but he glanced at Harry and answered calmly—though his tone was still somewhat cool:

“I’m not interested in Muggle culture, if that’s what you mean. But there are certain works where it feels as though our world has left its mark. I like that sense of mystery.”

“Really?” Hermione looked truly curious now. “Like what?”

She stepped closer and hovered near an empty chair, as though she might sit down. Harry and Ron stared at them in silence, awed by Hermione’s true Gryffindor bravery.

“Well, right now I’m reading about a man obsessed with scent,” Draco said. “He’s trying to create a fragrance that makes everyone who smells it fall in love with him. I haven’t finished it yet, but I’m not expecting anything good. So,” he raised an eyebrow and glanced around like Snape, “Does that remind you of anything? Maybe some potion?”

“Amortentia!!” Hermione exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. Harry, however, had no idea what she was talking about. “I read about it in the N.E.W.T.-level Potions textbook. Am I right? Right? What else?”

Draco gave her a long, appraising look from head to toe, then leaned forward a little. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, which finally made Hermione sit down and lean in as well.

“Have you heard anything about binding the soul to an inanimate object?” he asked. “I don’t think so. It’s very advanced magic. Dark.”

Hermione looked both impressed and cautious.

“What do you mean?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “What kind of binding?”

“Transferring the state of mind to an external object. For protection… or to shift consequences away from yourself. There’s something similar in Muggle literature. For example, a portrait.”

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly.

“Oh… The Picture of Dorian Gray? I haven’t read it, but I’ve heard about it. I know the author wrote very touching letters to his beloved man.”

Hermione was always prone to sharing random facts; Harry and Ron were used to it. But Draco visibly flinched and gave her a strange look. His jaw tightened. He glanced briefly at Harry and Ron — both still quietly watching — then said,

“Some things are better left undiscussed in a school library. Even if they’re just Muggle books.”

“Perhaps,” Hermione agreed, “but it’s an interesting topic. The portraits in the castle are all enchanted — is that dark magic?”

“No, not at all. But still… how do you think Muggles came up with the idea?”

“What makes you so sure Muggles wrote those books?” Hermione asked, curious, resting her cheek on her hand. “I mean, sure — the Statute of Secrecy and all that…”

“Exactly! The Statute!” Malfoy slapped his palm on the table, his family ring tapping sharply against the wood. “And none of those authors are listed in The Great Creators, so they weren’t wizards.”

“The what?” Hermione perked up like a warhorse hearing a battle horn.

“Oh, Granger,” Draco chuckled. “The Great Creators—the monumental work of Bathilda Bagshot. Not particularly popular, since most people prefer gossip and scandalous dueling memoirs, but it’s full of dry, hard facts. If you trust the author of Hogwarts: A History… well, she even included Melisande Friske, who wrote that dreadful Love at the Top of Avalon series. So if someone had written something truly brilliant, they’d be in there. But they aren’t.”

Hermione beamed. Her eyes sparkled like a child’s at the sight of a whole bag of sweets.

“I can’t believe I’ve never heard of that book! I’ll definitely look for it after exams…”

Harry caught Ron’s eye and shook his head with a smile. When Hermione got excited about something, she’d learn everything about it. Draco smiled tightly for a second, watching her delight, but quickly returned to his thoughts. His expression grew serious again.

“But still,” he said slowly, choosing his words. “How can Muggles write about things like this? About living portraits, about souls—and without any real understanding of magic? It’s too precise to be coincidence.”

His brow furrowed. He tapped his fingers nervously next to his half-empty cup. Harry glanced curiously at the wrinkle forming between Draco’s pale eyebrows. It was clear he’d been thinking about this for a while.

“Muggles know about magic,” Hermione said. “Or at least, they wish it were real. And people with a strong imagination often become writers.”

“Ha!” Draco scoffed. “Imagination. Do you honestly think Muggles, with their level of development, could just… invent that?”

Hermione was so surprised she didn’t even argue at first. She shook her head in disbelief and gave him a tight smile, as though hoping he was joking.

“Of course. In fact, Muggles surpass wizards in some areas—especially in technology. And that takes real imagination, believe me. But since we’re talking about books, let’s talk about detective novels. I’ve tried a few magical ones, but I didn’t like them at all. The Auror just finds a wand, casts a tracking spell, and done—the culprit’s caught. No intrigue.”

“I don’t understand,” Malfoy said, frowning. “What’s wrong with using a wand? We’re not savages.”

“Well, there’s nothing particularly civilised about breaking the law,” Hermione said primly. “But what struck me is that wizards commit crimes almost exclusively using wands. And since magic is traceable—that’s like Muggles leaving a weapon with fingerprints at the crime scene.”

Harry nodded in agreement, Ron frowned, thinking. Draco suddenly straightened up and exclaimed, irritated:

“Because the wand is what makes us wizards! Without it, we’re no better than animals. Magic is power, dignity, tradition! A true wizard doesn’t hide—he uses his power. His magic!” He clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white, then lowered his voice slightly. “If you really want to kill someone, there are duels for that. If the wizard dies in a fair fight or—” he gave a crooked smile, “not-so-fair—then so be it.”

Harry found himself no longer following the meaning of Draco’s words. He had always been fascinated by how quickly the emotions shifted across the sharp features of the boy’s face. Draco tried hard to imitate his father’s impassive manner—no doubt he’d been told at home more than once that a pure-blood wizard must keep a steady face under all circumstances—but it didn’t always work. If Lucius Malfoy reminded Harry of a fish washed up on the shore with lifeless eyes, then on Draco’s expressive face all his feelings were reflected so clearly, they might as well have been headlines on the front page of The Daily Prophet.

Harry’s gaze drifted thoughtfully over the Malfoy’s capriciously curved lips when Ron jabbed him sharply under the ribs. Hastily, Harry brushed away Ron’s silent inquiry. Turning towards Hermione, who herself was studying Malfoy with a pensive air—eerily reminiscent of Professor McGonagall—she tilted her head to one side like a patient professor and, pretending not to notice the tone of her interlocutor, replied:

“I see what you mean. It’s noble, in a way. But Muggles, although they don’t use magic, break the law just as much as wizards do. That’s where we’re the same.”

Draco leaned back in his chair with a show of nonchalance and put on a bored expression. He might have fooled someone else, but Harry could see the curiosity in his narrowed grey eyes. Draco idly swirled his mug around in his fingers and said almost indifferently:

“So how do they do it, then? Without magic?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched into a smile. There was something strangely pleasant about the way Draco asked questions, turning into an ordinary curious boy. Hermione folded her hands in front of her thoughtfully and considered before answering.

“You see, Muggles are quite diverse in their crimes. Not only in this, of course! But in the modern world, there are so many new opportunities for criminals: for example, by hacking into computer systems, they can manipulate other people’s data and finances…”

“Wait,” Draco interrupted, “hacking into what?”

“Computers,” Hermione explained. “Information processing devices. Sometimes, criminals hack into them and steal entire fortunes…”

Harry and Ron exchanged glances and silently went to the next section, where they found a couple of chairs. They sat down and prepared for a long lecture. Harry sat next to Malfoy, their knees touching due to the limited space. Malfoy ignored him, his gaze fixed on Hermione with disdain.

“So, are Muggles completely defenseless? You don’t even have goblins!”

Ron watched Malfoy silently, his lips pursed. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, ready to jump up and defend Hermione at any moment, should the Slytherin cross the line. Harry hurried to answer for her.

“Not really. Muggles have all sorts of passwords and codes.”

“That’s true,” Hermione nodded at him calmly, as if Harry were her assistant. “Of course, it’s a bit complicated—Muggles and wizards have very different ways of developing. So I think we’d better talk about something more understandable. Like weapon—it’s an important part of any detective story.”

“Weapon?” Draco raised an eyebrow in mockery. “Stones and clubs?”

“Why?” Hermione asked, surprised. “Of course, you can hit someone with a stone, but there’s also strangulation, drowning, and arson…”

“You can cut someone with a knife, poison with gas, damage the brakes in a car, electrocute…” Harry added. The Dursleys often watched the crime news, after all.

“Stop giving him ideas!” Ron groaned, clutching his head.

“And murderers used to use poison a lot before,” Hermione added.

“Poison?” The Slytherin interrupted indignantly, sitting up straighter in his chair. “How can Muggles understand anything about poisons when they don’t have Potions?”

“Muggles have chemistry,” Hermione said calmly. “The essence is the same: some substances react with others. It all depends on precision, dosage, and knowledge of formulas.”

Harry hadn’t yet had the chance to start studying chemistry at his old school, but he was certain that it, like Potions, would be beyond him. Unless, of course, fortune had sent him a clever partner for practical classes. He glanced at Malfoy, who was leaning his blond head thoughtfully to one side—no, there was no one else like him in all of England.

“I think that, most often in modern detective novels, Muggles use firearms,” said Hermione. “In case you come across a modern detective, of course. So you’ll know what I’m talking about. Personally, I can't stand not understanding something.”

“Firearms?” Draco repeated, as if tasting the word. “It sounds like Muggles shooting fireworks at each other.”

Ron, also taking in the new information, snorted, and Hermione smiled mischievously.

“You could say that. Picture a metal tube with a heavy ball inside. You pull the trigger on the tube, the gunpowder—the stuff inside—ignites, and… Boom!” she said, striking her palm with her fist, “the bullet flies to someone’s head faster than a Quidditch ball!”

The three boys stared at her with horror and a certain amount of admiration. Malfoy’s eyes widened as if he had seen a deadly weapon firsthand, and Ron whispered:

“Hermione… How do you know about things like that?”

“I read a lot,” she snapped, then hesitated, flustered. “Oh! Or… does it bother you to hear such things?”

“No,” Draco interrupted. He seemed more interested in the mysterious fire-spitting things than in financial schemes. “Go on.”

“Well,” Hermione cleared her throat, gathering her thoughts. “The murder itself isn’t the most interesting part. The investigation is where the Muggles have really made progress! They don’t have the same tracking charms or the same resources. The police are gathering evidence and piecing together the truth…”

“The police are Aurors in Muggle society?” Ron asked, gripping the edge of his chair.

“Exactly,” Hermione confirmed, briefly tearing herself away from the story. “Recently I was reading about a case… It’s amazing, the sheer amount of work Muggle police put in! An expert spent two whole weeks using a vacuum cleaner—that’s a machine for sucking up dust—to study how time affects human hair, just to prove that the hairs at the crime scene were left during the attack, not before!”¹

“Wait,” Malfoy interrupted, narrowing his eyes. “Sucking what?..”

“Dust and rubbish!” Ron explained proudly, pleased to know something about the Muggle world. “I didn’t think you were such a prude, Malfoy. A vacuum cleaner is a cleaning thing. Muggles have all sorts of gadgets for everything, really…”

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, his face flushed, but Hermione, with undisguised enthusiasm, hurried back to where she had left off.

“That was before the DNA test was used. Investigations used to be much more difficult, but now it only takes a drop of blood or a fingerprint to identify a criminal.”

“Nonsense,” Draco said at once. “That can’t be. Yes, blood carries a lot of information, but, for Merlin’s sake, fingerprints?”

“Yes, yes! Blood, saliva, a piece of skin, or a sweaty palm print is enough. It’s amazing, isn’t it? If they wanted to, the police could easily prove that you drank from this very mug.”

Harry chuckled under his breath, watching Malfoy’s reaction as he slowly looked down at his mug and then at his hand. He frowned in annoyance, as if his palm had just betrayed him. It seemed that he was taking Hermione’s words seriously. Harry had noticed before that Draco was more tolerant of Hermione than of Ron, as if being a Muggle-born was not as bad as being friends with them in his strange pure-blood hierarchy. Or was it solely because of Hermione herself? At first, Draco teased her mercilessly about her background, but later he seemed to soften. Maybe it was because of her outstanding intelligence. Draco had once said that the Malfoys respected strength in others. And what about the time she slapped him? Had he forgiven her? It was something to think about…

Hermione was also watching the boys with a pleased expression. Ron was usually open to learning new things about Muggles, but it was surprising to see Draco sitting there listening intently. She cleared her throat and suggested in a matter-of-fact tone:

“I can lend you something to read. I don’t have much time anyway, because of the exams…”

“I know what you’re doing,” Draco chuckled, staring hard at her face. “Trying to win me over to your side, turning me into a Muggle-lover?”

“No such thing!” Hermione said, indignant, as if he had accused her of something indecent. “It’s just… It’s nice to share a good book with someone who’s reading, isn’t it? I… I don’t get to do that very often, so…”

Harry and Ron looked down in embarrassment. Hermione was right: they would never be able to share her passion. She must have felt a little lonely when they start talking about Quidditch, the Weasley twins’ mischief, or anything else that she wasn’t interested in. Malfoy seemed to get the message, because he gave Harry a reproachful look.

“Oh, I understand.”

“Hey!” Harry protested. “I don’t mind talking to you about books…”

He almost blurted out, “and I like when you read to me,” but bit his tongue when Draco nudged him with a sharp knee. However, Hermione paid them no mind, musing aloud about which novels to choose.

“I think we ought to start with a closed-circle mystery,” she said, thoughtfully surveying the shelves laden with textbooks. “Classic: murder in a confined space, many suspects without means of communication…

“You mean an unplottable house and a blocked Floo Network?” Draco clarified.

“Yes, yes. Stories like those are my favourites. They’re like that…”

“Cozy?”

“Exactly!”

“You’re both mad,” Ron muttered.

Harry snorted and buried his face in his hands, and Hermione rolled her eyes. She and Draco (although he was pretending that this had nothing to do with him) had agreed to start with first-rate detective stories that wouldn’t confuse a wizard who was only vaguely familiar with Muggle culture. Malfoy had a general understanding of what a car was, and Hermione explained a few more terms to him, and with a clear conscience, she added classic novels by Agatha Christie, stories about Sherlock Holmes, and a collection of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe to her list. She warned that the latter might be a bit dark, but Draco merely raised an eyebrow in amusement. None of the books contained the latest Muggle technology, which, frankly, would have confused even Harry. However, this did not stop him from making jokes about it. Seeing Draco gulp down the now-cold tea, he grinned and said:

“At least I shan’t have to drink tea with your spit. Case closed—no need for a DNA test.”

It had been a jest—truthfully, he didn’t much mind sharing a mug with anyone. What surprised him most was that Malfoy, it seemed, didn’t either.

“Oh, you don’t like it!” Draco exclaimed in mock surprise. He pretended to stand up, causing his robes to slide across the floor, and leaned towards Harry. Harry felt a warm, wet tongue slide across his face, from his chin to his eye, and froze.

Hermione let out a squeal, pressing her hands to her mouth, while Ron flung his arms up in indignation. Draco simply smirked and, without a word of farewell, turned to leave the alcove—only to have his path blocked by Madam Pince, who’d appeared at the noise. She stared at them in open-mouthed shock: on her usual evening rounds, she’d been absolutely certain the library was empty.

“Get out, now!” she commanded in a voice capable of stirring up the dead, and pointed to the exit as if she were expelling particularly audacious spirits from a sacred repository of knowledge. The intruders flew out into the corridor like a cork from a bottle. Despite her age and fragile physique, Madam Pince dealt with violators so famously that any duelling club could take a couple of lessons from her.

Hermione looked at her watch and exclaimed in horror:

“The curfew has already begun. Faster!”

Harry glanced around, but there were already three of them in the corridor. He felt strangely sluggish and could hardly hope to evade Filch and his ever-present cat now. The Gryffindors headed towards their tower. Hermione, who was usually very precise about time, was giggling and shaking her head, as if it were not her who should have been in the common room half an hour ago. Harry followed her, his legs barely able to carry him, and he did not even try to walk quietly. Ron, certain that Harry’s stupor was caused by disgust, looked at his friend with sympathy.

“He’s really revolting sometimes!”

But Harry didn’t feel revolting. For all his effort, he couldn’t have put his sensations into words, yet they were by no means unpleasant. It was simply that he had just experienced the closest physical contact with another person in his entire life—and he really needed to ponder that.

Chapter Text

On the morning of the final match, Harry awoke feeling refreshed and full of energy, despite the fact that he and Ron had stayed up far too late the night before, discussing Quidditch strategies. Oliver Wood would’ve been proud. The twins had spent the evening holed up in their room as well, though their attention had been fixed not on tactics but on devising betting strategies for the upcoming match—and, somewhat worryingly, on a new enchanted lollipop Draco had created. The lollipop, when held in the mouth, enhanced vision. Draco joked that the thing was specially made for Harry, so he could finally see something beyond the end of his nose, but of course, players were strictly forbidden from using any potions or magical artefacts during the game. The twins were planning to make a tidy profit selling the sweets to spectators.

Harry stretched luxuriously, limbs spread like a starfish, as a cool morning breeze slipped through the half-drawn curtains and tickled his bare feet. He didn’t feel anxious—only pleasantly electric. It was a pity this would be the last match of the season. After that, it’s nothing but exams… Harry listened—silence. He rarely woke up first and usually got up to the murmur of the other boys’ voices. He reached beneath his pillow and drew out his wand along with a piece of parchment, the edges soft and frayed from frequent use. A lazy Tempus charm revealed he still had half an hour before he needed to get up. He could write to Draco, but no doubt he was still asleep. Dragged from a sweet morning sleep, Malfoy was worse than a hungry hippogriff; best not to disturb him. Harry ran his hand across the blank page—a pity the messages vanished the moment they were read. Then again, without that, they’d have needed an endless scroll.

Harry would never have thought that Hermione could strengthen his friendship with Draco, but thanks to her, they were talking more than ever before. Every book Draco borrowed from her, he devoured at a furious pace, reading between lessons, over breakfast, even late into the night. Of course, he charmed the covers to make it look as though he were revising for exams. Even Harry—who wasn’t exactly working hard himself—would now and then remind him about homework, but Draco merely waved him off.

Malfoy would never, in his life, ask Hermione to explain anything. So he asked Harry instead. That didn’t mean, of course, that Draco had suddenly developed an interest in Muggle culture for its own sake—absolutely not! But, like Hermione, he hated not understanding things. Every question he asked began with: “Muggles have come up with some utter rubbish. How does this even work?”

Well, Harry was more than happy to answer any of his questions. There was something oddly satisfying about sharing things that seemed obvious, and getting such a genuine reaction in return. Draco was fascinated by cinema and television, horrified by the slow, smelly petrol-powered cars—though he hadn’t the faintest idea what petrol actually smelt like—and intrigued by the concept of a telephone. When Harry explained how it worked, Draco wrote: “So it’s like the Floo Network, only worse? You can’t even see the person you’re talking to.”

“But for Floo,” Harry argued, “you need a fireplace, don’t you? If we had a telephone, we could talk without getting out of bed. And without getting ink all over our pillows. By the way, Muggles haven’t used quills and ink for years, you know.”

He pictured it now—curtains drawn, lying warm in bed, chatting on a telephone for hours. Ron would’ve been horrified, of course. He didn’t even know that, at times, Harry stayed up past midnight, scribbling out entire essays about how Muggles paid for things with bits of paper or went to the cinema.

He himself found it fascinating to read everything Draco wrote in return—tales of heroes Harry had never even heard of, yet saw as if through someone else’s eyes. Only once did Harry regret ever reading up Draco’s scrawled parchments. Malfoy, who was especially fond of crimes involving chemistry, had come across the Muggle use of acid and alkali for… less than conventional purposes. He described, in vivid detail, the process of dissolving a victim’s body in acid—step by step, with unsettling precision. As it turned out, he knew an alarming amount about decomposition. That night, Harry had been plagued by restless, unpleasant dreams until dawn.

But tonight, he’d slept great. It was time to start the day. He set the parchment aside and slipped out from behind his bed’s curtains. On the way to the washroom, he dipped a hand into his trunk and let his fingers brush the sharp-edged wrapping of the music sphere—a small ritual that had somehow become part of his mornings. He hadn’t received many gifts in his life, and he refused to forget the few he had. He wore Mrs Weasley’s sweaters in cold weather, cared for Firebolt with his gifted grooming kit—and only the sphere still lay untouched, like a keepsake, a reminder of a day well spent.

“Never mind,” Harry murmured to himself. “I’ll have a record player one day.”

The sound of running water from the showers stirred the dormitory to life. A mop of tousled red hair poked out from the bed next to his. Ron squinted blearily into the light, blinking at Harry.

“You’re in a good mood,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Ready to win, yeah?”

Harry gave him a silent thumbs-up.

***

The Great Hall buzzed like a beehive. Harry and Ron pushed their way through the throng of students hurrying to their seats. Above them, the ceiling was clear and blue—a perfect replica of the sky outside, promising excellent weather for the Quidditch match. The air crackled with excitement. As they entered, the Gryffindor table erupted in greetings, scarlet scarves and robes waving like flames. Flags fluttered alongside enchanted lights that danced above their heads. Here and there, the odd splash of scarlet appeared on the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables—students sporting Gryffindor flags tied to their bags or red-and-gold scarves draped over their robes. The support was palpable, almost overwhelming. It hadn’t been like this last time.

As usual, the Slytherins sat apart. Clad in their emerald-green robes buttoned up to their chins, they were a calm, deep sea amidst the chaos of scarlet. Harry’s eyes caught Draco’s; without thinking, he waved. Ron immediately elbowed him in the ribs.

“Are you mad? They’re all thinking of sinking their teeth into us, and you’re waving at them?”

Harry shrugged, nonchalant. They settled beside Hermione and Ginny. Harry piled his plate high with fried bacon, eggs, and fresh bread—what more could a young Seeker want before a match? Ginny put down her fork and leaned across Hermione towards Harry. Her cheeks were flushed, but her expression was seriously.

“Good luck, Harry. We’re all rooting for you.”

“Uh—thanks,” Harry said, the warm mood that had lifted him from bed that morning beginning to fade. It was nice to receive support, but he felt awkward under such close attention.

Ron flushed, matching his sister’s colour. As Ginny turned away, he leant toward Harry, about to say something, but before he could, a scarlet whirlwind suddenly appeared behind them. Oliver Wood grabbed Harry by the shoulders, making him nearly choke on his toast, and leaned in close, shouting over the din.

“A nutritious breakfast—excellent, Potter! Just don’t overeat; a Seeker mustn’t be sluggish. And don’t be late! I want to see everyone in the locker room in fifteen minutes to go over the details one last time…”

“Okay, Oliver!” Harry swallowed a crust of bread with a gulp of juice, struggling to keep up with the torrent of words.

Wood nodded and strode away, calling over his shoulder to Alicia Spinnet:

“Spinnet, no Claw tricks for the first ten minutes, I beg you!”

Harry hurried to finish his eggs and left the hall. The last thing he needed was a scolding from Wood for being late. Just as he reached the doorway, he almost collided with Cho Chang. They stood awkwardly, each giving way until Cho giggled and smiled at Harry.

“Good luck! I’ll be cheering for you.” She held up a small lion keychain attached to her robes.

“Thanks,” Harry replied, voice slightly hoarse, cheeks matching the scarlet of his Gryffindor scarf.

Cho slipped out, followed by her laughing friends, and Harry almost ran towards the changing rooms. The match was still hours away—hours filled with tense preparation. The Gryffindor team gathered on the field beneath the stands. Oliver Wood, brimming with manic energy, rattled through formations, defences, and manoeuvres. He gestured so wildly he smacked his leg with his broomstick more than once but barely noticed.

“If Wood says ‘defence’ one more time, I’m going to throw myself off the stands,” George whispered.

Fred snorted, and Harry gripped his Firebolt tighter. His whole body tensed, his stomach a tight knot of nerves. He nodded automatically but his eyes drifted to the far end of the field. There, the Slytherins emerged from the stone archway of the changing rooms. Clad in dark green robes embroidered with silver, all carrying identical black brooms, they moved as a tight, silent group, confident and unreadable. No girls on their team, only tall, muscular seniors with identical scowls.

With a strange sense of déjà vu, Harry noted how Malfoy stood out against the rest. The difference was, during the last match they’d been at odds—but today, he had the urge to walk up to Draco and… what? They wouldn’t be able to have a proper conversation anyway, not with the entire Slytherin team standing around. So Harry continued watching Draco’s slender figure blending with the grass. Only Draco’s white hair and pale face stood out—he’d clearly gone overboard with the sun protection potion and looking almost like a porcelain figurine.

“Harry!”

Startled, Harry turned.

“Harry!” Oliver repeated. “Are you listening?”

“Yes… yes, of course.”

The warm-up, which followed a boring repetition of tactics, was over quickly. The stands were filling fast; nearly three-quarters of the crowd wore scarlet and gold. The Slytherins had claimed their section and did their best to make up for their smaller numbers. Every supporter brought flags or crests; their enchanted green robes shimmered with silver with every movement. Some older students let off smoke bombs, shrouding the field in thick green fog. Each new group of supporters entering the stands seemed to feel it their duty to chant some slogan or another—which was immediately picked up by those already seated:

“Fly like a snake, make the pitch shake!”

Or

“Roaring loud won’t save your pride—
A serpent waits, then strikes your side!”

The din from their stand all but drowned out the rest of the stadium. Harry winced: when the match started, the chants would turn far more rude. The Slytherins were excellent cheerleaders—but their insults were relentless. Each year they invented new verses, both targeting teams and individual players.

Harry walked along the row of brooms lined up against the wall of the changing room—smooth, shiny, and eager for battle. He ran his hand over the Firebolt, which trembled with anticipation, just like its owner. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, smoke, and something else—the unmistakable aroma of a big event. The game was about to begin.

Lee Jordan was already in his commentary box, adjusting his enchanted megaphone. Professor McGonagall sat beside him. Lee was a good commentator, but sometimes he forgot himself and said things he probably shouldn’t have. The murmurs of the crowd died down as Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out, loud and clear, amplified by a spell.

“Welcome to the season’s final game! Let us wish the players a fair and worthy match!”

The stadium buzzed, and Lee added:

“As a reminder, this is Gryffindor’s second chance to win the Cup! I do hope the team’s Seeker understands the responsibility…”

As if on cue, the Slytherin flags burst into green flames—safe but very dramatic. In reply, the Gryffindors raised a giant lion over their section, which let out a terrifying howl meant to stun and confuse the enemy. The match hadn’t even started, but already confusion reigned in the commentary booth.

“Oh, Professor, I’m not biased at all!” Lee laughed nervously. “I wish both teams good luck and now invite the players to the field!”

Harry grabbed his Firebolt and followed the others out onto the pitch. Wood walked with his back unnaturally straight, the twins bounced slightly as they walked, Alicia, Katie, and Angelina close behind. Harry came to a stop beside the girls, watching as Wood and Flint shook hands and each trying to crush the other’s fingers. Suddenly it hit him clearly: this was Oliver’s last match at Hogwarts. Harry knew he was graduating this year, but this was the first time he was really seeing the team from the outside—the uncontrollable yet talented twins, the chasers with their own unique styles, and the young Seeker. Harry felt confident in his own abilities but was still a bit embarrassed for not paying closer attention to Wood’s instructions. Lee Jordan’s reminders served as a sharp warning not to let his guard down.

On the other side of the dividing line, the Slytherins stood in formation, their polished broom handles gleaming in the sunlight. Each wore an expression as if Slytherin had already won the national Cup—or perhaps even the entire universe. Malfoy stood next to Flint, watching the silent exchange of looks between the captains. Harry caught his eye and winked, causing Draco to flinch and quickly look away.

“On your marks…” Lee’s voice rang out, louder than ever, “Get ready…”

Madam Hooch’s whistle split the air like a thunderclap, and the players shot into the sky. Harry felt the rush of wind tearing through his lungs, his hair whipped back as he climbed higher. Until the Snitch appeared, his job was to scan the pitch: watch the play of light and shadow, keep an eye on the other players. He circled high above, gliding past the stands, carefully planning each turn. Below, players darted and collided, knocking the Quaffle back and forth.

“It seems the Slytherin chasers could learn a thing or two from their Seeker,” Lee remarked after a whistle, as a Slytherin player rammed Angelina so hard she nearly fell off her broom. “Let me remind you: in the autumn, it was he who caught not only the out-of-action Harry Potter, but also our collective astonishment and admiration. Pity the Slytherin team didn’t take the hint…”

A murmur rippled through the nearly silent stands. Harry snorted in amusement—he wished he could see Draco’s face right then! But Draco was too far away, circling low, not climbing above the rings. Had his injury made him afraid of heights? No, they’d flown together too many times for that. Harry decided to descend a little as well, though he preferred to keep his distance from the crowd. This was the last match of the year. After that—just exams, the holidays on Privet Drive, and no flying at all…

Gryffindor rallied, and after a few dangerous collisions, a few sharp warnings from Madam Hooch, and a particularly determined push from Angelina, the Quaffle soared through the opposing team’s hoop. Then a second. Then a third.

“Yes!” roared Lee Jordan, nearly knocking over his megaphone. “Three stunning goals in a row! That’s our girls—not only absolute stunners, but brilliant on a broomstick too— Oh, Professor, I was merely pointing out how well-rounded the Gryffindor team is! Well done, Gryffindors—looks like they’ve finally remembered why they’re on the pitch!”

Harry, circling near the North Tower, felt his focus sharpen. Gryffindor had stretched their lead to fifty points, meaning the tiny golden ball—the Snitch—would soon appear somewhere on the pitch. He noticed Malfoy growing more animated too, gaining altitude, weaving skillfully between players, then gliding down like a paper airplane. It seemed Draco still hadn’t spotted the Snitch.

Harry altered course, moving to the opposite side of the field. It was as if he and Draco had divided the sky above the stadium: each searching his own half, eyes fixed on the slightest flicker of air. But the Snitch was nowhere in sight. Flying over the Slytherin stands, Harry clearly heard:

“Pretty gaze behind thick glass,
Nice to look at, slow to pass!”

He nearly slipped from his broom, spun around, and stared in disbelief at the top row of spectators, who, upon seeing him, began hooting and blowing kisses, pretending to check themselves in an imaginary mirror.

“Mad!” Harry shouted, then flew to the other end of the field, towards the South Stand.

Tearing his gaze from the crowd, he spotted Malfoy hovering at the highest point, casually leaning with one foot on the commentary booth, the other dangling in the air as if there wasn’t a fifty-foot drop below him. Harry flew closer.

“Do you like our rhymes, Potter?” Malfoy called out, brushing his hair away from his face. A faint smile played on his lips—a smile that might have been shy, if it had been anyone but Draco.

“Terrible” praised Harry, returning the smile.

Draco broke into a smug grin and without another word, plunged downward, disappearing into the crowd of players milling around the rings. Harry hovered for a moment, then turned and continued his search.

The Gryffindor team was really going for it: the score was already 120–40. Their section was going wild, with waves of applause and cheers encouraging the players to give it their all. However, more and more eyes were drawn to the two figures flitting over the field. The Seekers were either circling low to the ground or soaring out of sight. If someone spotted the Snitch, the game could end at any moment.

Harry was starting to get worried as time passed and the golden ball remained elusive. He scoured the field, watching Malfoy’s reaction as he dived towards the ground and soared back up. Nothing. Harry found Draco with his eyes again. It was not that difficult: his hair, lit by the sun, stood out from anywhere on the pitch. He watched as the Slytherin dived straight toward the ground—and froze. A golden flash appeared right next to Draco, almost brushing his cheek. Of course, Draco noticed it too and quickly gave chase. Harry hadn’t even had time to process what was happening, but his broom was already hurtling towards the ground so fast his ears popped. The stands gasped. The Firebolt roared, drowning out the stadium’s noise—though that seemed impossible. Harry ducked down over the handle of his broom, his fingers trembling from the vibration of the wood. The distance between him and Draco was closing, but the other boy’s broom was fast too. Draco even looked back, as if he couldn’t believe Harry wasn’t catch up with him. And then, as if in slow motion, Harry saw him stretch out a hand and catch the Snitch—effortlessly, just like a customer picking something off a shop shelf.

The Slytherin section, armed with eye-clearing sweets, roared so loudly that the ground shook. The school itself seemed to tremble, and their flags soared into the sky, green smoke obscuring the sun. Draco raised his hand a little absently, the Snitch clenched in his fist, while Harry barely avoided crashing into the ground—pulling the handle of his broom upwards at the very last second. The flight slowed, but stopping completely after such a dive was impossible. Harry avoided hitting the ground, but a moment later collided straight into Malfoy, who had been descending in wide circles.

The world spun. Draco’s angular body and his Nimbus 2001 slammed into Harry, and they tumbled across the grass, knocking elbows and grappling with the earth. Harry’s vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of colours—green, red, grey. He stared into wide-open eyes opposite him, vaguely aware that they were no longer moving. They were lying on the hard ground, clinging to each other.

Lee Jordan’s voice echoed across the field, and he didn’t even try to hide his disappointment:

“Slytherin catches the Snitch! The score is 210 to 150 in favour of Slytherin…”

His words were drowned out by the long, despairing groan of the Gryffindor fans. Harry felt something crack beneath his elbow—it was the Snitch’s broken wing. No one seemed particularly concerned that both Seekers might be seriously injured. When the world around him finally slowed its mad spinning, Harry tried to sit up, but Malfoy, who had landed on top of him, pinning him to the ground, didn’t move. Harry looked up at his face, smeared with dirt and streaked with blood from a split eyebrow, and recoiled. He had expected triumph, not burning fury. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he tried to wriggle out from under Malfoy, but Draco swung a leg over his and shoved him hard in the shoulder, sending Harry crashing back down onto the ground.

“Oi!”

“You!” Draco hissed, eyes blazing. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“What?” Harry spat, trying to push Draco off. “You caught it yourself, idiot!”

Somewhere above them, Lee Jordan was shouting in delight:

“A fight! A fight on the field!”

Harry didn’t blame him. To be honest, it really had seemed like Malfoy was about to strangle him. A deafening whistle from Madam Hooch cut through the air, and Harry mentally said goodbye to his eardrums. This might be his last chance to hear anything in this life—and Draco, of course, wasn’t saying a word, so Harry repeated:

“You caught it.”

Coming to his senses, Malfoy leaned forward, but before Harry had time to be frightened, he realised no one was trying to strangle him. Draco pulled him into a hug so tight Harry’s ribs gave an audible crack. Harry instinctively hugged him back, fingers gripping the front of his uniform jumper. He felt that Draco’s back was soaked with sweat and something hot was trickling down his own neck.

Lee’s megaphone choked on a long, drawn-out “O-o-oh…!” If Harry had thought, up until now, that the crowd couldn’t possibly get any louder, he now realised just how wrong he’d been. The roar that tore through the stands made the ground tremble, or perhaps it was the heavens themselves splitting open—it was hard to tell.

For Harry, time had come to a standstill—but in truth, it took the Slytherin team only a few seconds to land and toss their brooms aside. Strong arms tried to pull the two Seekers apart, but there was no chance of that.

Harry clenched his fingers tightly, trembling from the tension still coursing through him, and felt the body in his arms shaking as well. A moment later, he realised Draco was laughing and saying something, though there was no way to make out the words.

They pulled apart slightly. Draco’s eyes were glittering feverishly, a wild grin on his lips, and blood had now covered nearly his entire face. Harry flinched and ran his fingers along his neck—so that’s what it had been!

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey came hurrying over to the Slytherins. She grabbed Draco smartly by the collar, like a kitten, and pulled him to his feet. He staggered slightly, but one of the Beaters—Harry didn’t know his name—caught him and kept him upright while Madam Pomfrey began cleaning the wound on his forehead.

No one paid any attention to Harry, and, staggering slightly, he got to his feet. The Gryffindor team, also back on the ground, stood awkwardly to one side. The girls looked somewhat downcast, and Harry didn’t even want to look at Wood. With a dark expression, Wood himself approached Harry and asked in a halting voice:

“Did you give in to him, Harry? Give in?”

Harry stared at him, stunned. Did it really look that way?

“No,” he said shortly.

“But how? Your Firebolt’s the fastest broom on the pitch, and—”

“It’s still just a broomstick, not a teleport!”

“What?” Wood asked, bewildered.

Harry waved his hand in exasperation and turned away. His eyes were drawn to the Slytherins, who were huddled together in a shapeless green mass. Malfoy emerged from the tangle of arms and heads, perched on the Keeper’s shoulder like a parrot. Every member of the team was trying to pat him on the back or stroke his leg, as though he were a good-luck charm. Malfoy’s face shone like a polished silver coin, almost reflecting the sunlight.

The twins came up behind Harry and gave him a simultaneous shoulder bump. Both were clearly upset, but they couldn’t resist a bit of teasing. They didn’t look at the Slytherins.

“Interesting distraction tactic, mate,” Fred remarked, scratching his chin.

“Exactly!” George agreed at once. “We’re all for inter-house unity, of course—but maybe you should’ve asked him out first…”

Harry gave him a weary elbow. His whole body ached, he was caked in mud, and his head was throbbing. He didn’t respond—just shook his head slightly.

“Attention!” Lee Jordan’s booming voice cut through the Slytherins’ cheers. “Based on the season’s overall score… Ladies and gentlemen, I have no words—though clearly I’m saying some now—but the Quidditch Cup goes to Gryffindor!”

He was saying something else, but it was impossible to make out a single word over the wild screams of the Gryffindors. In an instant, the world around Harry became a storm of flashing scarlet robes, shouting, clapping, and deafening jubilation as the supporters poured onto the pitch. Barely aware of where his body was in all the chaos, he suddenly found himself at the heart of the celebration. Someone grabbed him under the arms, hands clapped him on the back, and a pair of arms wrapped tightly around him in a crushing hug. Harry looked over to see Wood clutching the Cup to his chest with such force it seemed he feared someone might take it from him. The captain was trembling, and his eyes were filled with tears. The Gryffindor team crowded around him, and one of the twins began to sing in a solemn, ceremonial tone, as though welcoming the Minister for Magic himself:

“Hip-hip—”

“Hurrah!” the others chorused.

“Hip-hip—”

“Hurrah!”

“Now, the team is lifting Wood! Come on, come on!”

But the Gryffindors’ faces didn’t show much enthusiasm—and it wasn’t surprising. While Wood deserved the full fanfare, the Gryffindor team, in addition to the twins, consisted of only three girls and a rather slim Harry. As if to confirm everyone’s doubts, loud cheers erupted once again from the green stands. The Slytherin team, gathered in a tight circle at the foot of the stands, hoisted their Seeker into the air and tossed him up with force, to the sound of cheering and laughter from the supporters. Madam Pomfrey watched them with disapproval. Flushed and dishevelled, Malfoy flew nearly as high as the second row, laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. His head was tipped back, arms spread wide, as if he were trying to grab hold of a cloud. Each time they caught him, he shouted something to his teammates, and they burst out laughing, trying to launch him even higher. Draco was the centre of attention and clearly in his element. Even from where he stood, Harry could see that blood was still on his face, but no one, not even Draco, seemed to notice.

Harry glanced up at the tournament scoreboard. The gap between Gryffindor and Slytherin was fifty points—just five Quaffles through the hoop. Could Slytherin have made up those fifty points? Unlikely, given they hadn’t played with their usual boldness today. Still, Harry had expected them to be displeased that Draco had caught the Snitch, denying them the chance to close the gap. Then again, there was a good chance Harry would have reached the Golden Snitch first; and if that had happened, Slytherin would have slipped to third place, behind Hufflepuff.

It seemed the Slytherins understood that too, and didn’t appear disappointed. Though the match hadn’t won them the coveted Cup, they were celebrating their Seeker—who had, for the first time, beaten that show-off Harry Potter.

Beaming, Wood shook hands, nodded his thanks and accepted congratulations from all sides. Supporters had crowded around him, and even Professor McGonagall was discreetly dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her robes as she watched Oliver, trembling with emotion, lift the Cup high above his head.

Harry smiled as he looked at him. In the three years Harry had played Quidditch, Wood had become not just a mentor, but perhaps a friend, and he was genuinely glad for his success.

But there were two victors today—and Harry wasn’t one of them. No matter how hard he tried to focus on his own team, his eyes kept drifting back to the crowd, searching until they found that familiar blond head. Malfoy was already on the ground, surrounded by teammates, hanging on every word and smile, revelling in the attention.

Harry caught himself staring. He had known that boy since first year, but he had never seen him look so happy.

Chapter Text

The noisy festive evening slowly turned into morning. It seemed to Harry that his head had barely touched the pillow when the blazing sunlight fell on him through the gap in the curtains. He opened his eyes with difficulty and stared into the dimness beneath the canopy of the bed. The room was stuffy and still carried the remnants of the celebration—the Butterbeer the Weasley twins had saved, the sweets, a trace of sweat and the polish from the brooms.

Harry tried to rise, but an unpleasant heaviness pressed him back into the pillow. He clutched his temples and exhaled through his nose in annoyance. No one had accused him of losing the game the day before—Gryffindor had won the Cup, after all—but the odd jests about house unity were still ringing in his ears. He hadn’t been directly accused of yielding to Malfoy, but for some reason half the school seemed to think so. Everyone was celebrating Oliver Wood as the finest captain, while Harry’s own achievements seemed to fade into the background. But if it hadn’t been for him, Gryffindor could never have scored so many points against Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff! He struck his pillow angrily and buried his face in it. Perhaps he was just being a sorehead. Gryffindors couldn’t possibly be that way. Some of the older students had pointed out that Quidditch was about respecting opponents—students were not enemies, and it was no accident that captains shook hands before each match. Yet not everyone was ready to concede defeat, even if “the battle was lost, not the war.”

And Harry thought it no shame to lose to Draco Malfoy. He had always liked playing against him—tactics against reckless gambles, cold calculation against instant reaction… Of course, the smug faces of the other Slytherins, especially Flint, were unpleasant to behold, but Harry took comfort in knowing that at least his friend was pleased.

The boy heaved a heavy sigh, climbed out of bed, pulled on his cloak, and, as usual without touching the comb, made his way down to the common room. There he found Ron and Hermione, pacing near the back of the portrait of the Fat Lady, as if unsure whether to step out into the corridor.

“There you are,” Ron said, relieved. “I was going to wake you up, but I saw you weren’t asleep, and—”

About half an hour earlier, Ron had indeed peeked behind Harry’s canopy and caught a look so heavy that Harry had never before directed it at his friend. At that moment, Harry was just turning over yesterday’s conversation with Wood in his mind, and he looked the part. He cleared his throat awkwardly and said:

“Er… Should we get going?”

Hermione, not taking her eyes off her Charms textbook for a second, nodded and slipped out the door. She hardly noticed Harry’s mood after the match, and the match itself probably flew right past her. The closer the exams got, the less interested Hermione became in the world around her. From the dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes, it was clear that even basic necessities like sleep and food had taken a backseat in her life. Harry had noticed the changes happening to his friend, but now it was as if he was seeing her through someone else’s eyes, and he felt even worse than before. Neither he nor Ron had once asked Hermione what was going on with her. What kind of friends were they?

Harry nodded distractedly at Ron, and they followed Hermione into the Great Hall. Halfway through, the smells were overwhelming, but Harry’s stomach wasn’t in the mood for a feast. Like a zombie, he dragged himself to the doors of the Great Hall and managed to tug Ron by the sleeve of his robe.

“Listen, I—probably won’t go.”

“Stop talking rubbish!” Ron exclaimed. “No one’s going to say anything to you—come on.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh! Suit yourself, mate. We’ll see you at Transfiguration, then.”

The friends disappeared through the door, and Harry headed off. He intended to go outside, get some fresh air, and feel sorry for himself a little, away from prying eyes. Dodging between students hurrying to breakfast, Harry passed several older students and almost collided with a group of Slytherins led by Draco Malfoy—hair perfectly combed, socks matching his tie, and smug grin. Harry intended to pass them by unnoticed, but it was too late.

“And here is our champion!”

Pansy’s high-pitched voice grated on Harry’s ears, and he winced. The Slytherins burst into laughter. Malfoy’s crooked smile became a little more forced as he silently examined Harry from the top of his disheveled hair to his unlaced sneakers. Harry endured the scrutiny, although he felt as if those light eyes were burning a hole through him. He wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation, but if that’s what Draco wanted…

“Go ahead without me,” Malfoy waved to his entourage without even looking at them.

“What?” Pansy was surprised. “But Draco—”

“I don’t want to eat.”

He turned around and headed confidently for the nearest staircase. Harry rocked on his toes and followed, having no desire to stay in the company of the Slytherins. Draco knew that Harry would follow him. He didn’t say anything, but he deliberately lingered on the staircase so that Harry could see he was heading down. In the corridor on the lower floor, Harry finally asked:

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

After a couple of minutes, Draco stopped in front of a huge painting of a still-life, apparently designed to tempt to the sin of gluttony.

“There’s something you need to do now.”

“Draco, I’m not in the mood for your jokes—”

Malfoy clicked his tongue in annoyance and pointed at the pear that had fallen out of the painted bowl:

“Tickle it.”

“What?”

“Come on, don’t be such a bore. Just tickle it.”

Feeling like a complete idiot, Harry raised his hand and scratched his fingers across the canvas. The pear, which had been indistinguishable from the others in the picture, suddenly shuddered and turned into a doorknob, which Harry turned by inertia.

The kitchen that greeted them was huge and bustling. House-elves scurried everywhere, and on the blazing stoves, something was constantly boiling, frying, or simmering. While Harry stood dazed in the doorway, Draco slipped inside and looked around as if he owned the place.

“What do you think?”

Before Harry could respond, Dobby materialized in front of him.

“Good morning, Sir Harry Potter! Good morning, Master Malfoy!”

Draco was in a great mood today, so not only did he nod graciously to the house-elf, but he even smiled slightly at him.

“Howdy-howdy!” Harry had never heard such familiarity from him before. “Could you sort out breakfast for two lost souls?”

Dobby nodded and looked at Harry.

“Does Harry Potter wish to have breakfast here?”

“Er…” The heat from the dozens of stoves seemed to be affecting Harry’s mental processes. “I don’t know… Can we eat somewhere else? I don’t want to bother you.”

“We’re not bothering them,” Draco replied for the elf. “They would have set the table for us upstairs anyway.”

It was only then that Harry noticed the elves scurrying around the long tables, arranged in the same way as in the Great Hall. Apparently, each dish was being sent directly to a specific student.

“Wow… Draco, how do you know about this place?”

“From my mother. She was worried that I wouldn’t eat well away from home and all that… Not many people know how to get here, so don’t just bring anyone.”

Harry looked away and smiled secretly: he wasn’t just anyone!

“How did your mother find out?”

“From a Hufflepuff guy. Their common room is nearby, and they don’t like it when gawkers wander in. But he wanted to impress her, so she—well, she let him bring her here.” At Harry’s surprised look, he raised his hands defensively and shrugged. “The greatest sin a proud Slytherin can allow herself.”

Harry snorted cheerfully and looked around the kitchen again. How huge it was! As always, Dobby materialized in front of them with a loud pop. He set a heavy wicker basket on the floor, which Malfoy immediately lifted into the air with a spell.

“Thank you, Dobby!” Harry crouched down in front of the house-elf and shook his tiny hand. “Would you like to come for a walk with us?”

“Oh, Harry Potter, sir, Dobby must work! It’s time to serve the fresh buns—that’s his favourite part!”

With that, he disappeared into the crowd of house-elves. Draco watched Harry with marked skepticism.

“Are you done?”

Harry nodded, and they headed outside, levitating the basket behind them. Many students were late for breakfast and were rushing without looking around. Harry had hoped that the corridors would be empty, but they kept running into people. Most of the students looked friendly, but then they would notice Malfoy walking next to him, and their faces would take on a strange expression that Harry couldn't quite place.

It was warm in the castle courtyard, but the shade of several large trees provided a cool respite. Draco chose a spot at the base of a maple tree, scrutinized the grass, and finally sat down. Harry joined him, gazing thoughtfully at the students passing by in the windows of the first-floor corridor. He couldn't shake off their strange stares. Meanwhile, Malfoy, with an almost indecently contented expression, emptied the basket, placing plates, bundles, and enchanted mugs of tea on the ground. Harry thought that perhaps even God Himself, when He created heaven and earth, was not as pleased with himself as Draco was this morning. His boundless generosity even manifested itself in spreading jam on Harry’s toast.

“Here you go.”

Harry obediently took the bread, but was in no hurry to eat it.

“If you don't like orange jam, chew the grass!“

Harry shook his head and took a bite. The students' behavior had a depressing effect on him, and the morning blues returned.

"I'd rather have a good dose of poison."

Malfoy calmly rummaged in the basket and pulled out a small jar. He scooped out a pinch of dark powder and sprinkled it over Harry's toast. Cinnamon!

"Here you go—enjoy. But first, you’d better entrust me with your Firebolt."

Harry's lips stretched into a smile, and he gave Draco a slight shoulder bump in return. Slowly, they began to eat. Away from the corridors and the Great Hall, Harry felt a sense of relief. Draco munched on an egg sandwich and looked at him thoughtfully.

"Are all Gryffindors like this?"

Harry didn't argue; he was unpleasantly surprised by his fellow students' attitude. It seemed that no one had accused him the previous evening, but he could still sense the air of condemnation. Gryffindor was still in first place, so it wasn't about the cup. If Harry had lost to anyone other than Malfoy, it would have been forgotten by now. It wasn't just Wood who thought Harry had deliberately given in. Was the entire school convinced that he had lost his mind? Harry would never give in. He loved competition, loved challenging and beating Malfoy. This time, it was the opposite—it wasn't the end of the world! After a moment's thought, he replied:

“Sometimes.”

Draco clicked his tongue in disapproval and grimaced.

“Gryffindor doesn't deserve the cup, if you ask me," he said, raising his voice to an unpleasant falsetto, mimicking someone. "Oh, Potter caught the Snitch with a broken hand—brilliant! Oh, Potter nearly got flattened on the pitch, but never mind, at least we didn’t lose! All it took was one loss, and that was it! I thought you were a saint to them. Do you always support each other like that?"

Harry stared at him in amazement, almost choking on his tea.

“I think the Slytherins didn’t like it last time either, when you didn’t chase the Snitch, but—”

“That’s not the same!”

“Oh, it’s not the same… So you do like to lose, do you?”

"Don't be silly! It's just that no one's going crazy, that's all. We know how to lose with dignity... at least when it doesn't happen too often."

"And when I catch the Snitch first—" Harry began, narrowing his eyes.

"Of course I'm angry!" Draco cut him off. "So are the others. But I'm part of the team. That's the difference, you know." We Slytherins may hate defeat, but we don't turn our backs on each other. That's the essence of staying together. If all the other houses hate us—and they do, don't deny it—then we'll be united against them.

"You sound like a Hufflepuff."

"Well, no!" Malfoy shook his head in disgust, deeply offended by the comparison. Harry noted with some regret that his hair, neatly styled into a sleek coiffure, hadn’t even stirred. “Don’t compare our wonderful pragmatic strategy to their whining. We stick together not out of some touching devotion to one another, but to preserve Slytherin’s legacy for future generations!”

"Wow," Harry drawled. "Impressive.”

Malfoy nodded meaningfully, letting Harry know that he had the last word, and leaned back on the grass, propping himself up on his elbows. He squinted and tilted his face towards the light filtering through the leaves. Birds were chirping high above them. Harry watched his friend for a moment, a slight smile on his face, and then lay down next to him. He enjoyed talking to Draco like this, about everything and nothing. They could have stayed out all day, but they didn't have much time left before the exams. Harry should get up and go to Transfiguration—it's not a good idea to be late for the Head of the House. Instead, Harry stretched, cracking his joints, and spread his arms wide. The left one landed on Draco's stomach, and Harry wanted to pinch him, but Draco, as if reading his mind, swiftly grabbed his hand. They wrestled lazily for a few moments, but Harry quickly lost the unequal battle as Draco firmly held his wrist against his chest with both hands and let out a victorious yell, perhaps inspired by the wild African tribes. Harry could have pinched him with his other hand, but he decided against it, realizing that his wrist was no longer being squeezed but simply held. The heart was beating beneath the back of his hand, and the chest was rising and falling slowly. Harry felt his eyelids grow heavy and closed his eyes. Now he really risked oversleeping classes. From the castle windows, the boys could hear the hum of voices, but Harry could hear it as if through a column of water.

Malfoy suddenly shuddered, as if waking up, and threw Harry's hand away as if it had burned him. He jumped to his feet, and in response to the surprised look, grunted:

“Let's go.”

Harry followed, watching as Draco smoothed his already perfect hair, brushed off his trousers, and waved his wand to send the dishes back into the basket. A moment later, a house-elf appeared, whose name Harry didn't know, and took it.

The boys quickly crossed the courtyard. As they walked, they passed students carrying textbooks, hurrying to find seats in the shade. Many students preferred to study for exams in the morning air rather than in the stuffy library.

Crabbe and Goyle were propped up against one of the pillars that framed the courtyard in a picturesque arc, like loyal watchdogs. As Malfoy passed them, he nodded graciously, and the two bodyguards hurried after him. Harry wasn't particularly fond of their company, but as long as they remained silent, he could tolerate them. He hoped to find Ron and Hermione on the first floor. He couldn't wait to tell them about the secret passage to the kitchens. Draco probably wouldn't have liked it, but they were Harry's best friends. However, in the swirl of red-trimmed robes, he only noticed Seamus Finnigan, and that was only because he had run into him. It was clear from Seamus's face that he wasn't in a good mood. He stepped back from Harry, glaring at him, but then his eyes narrowed in contempt. Behind Harry stood a smug Malfoy, unfazed by the crowded hallway, despite his usual sensitivity to crowds and its scents. Seamus's gaze remained fixed on Malfoy as he said:

"You know, Harry, you and your boyfriend should choose better places to meet."

Harry decided that he was beginning to suffer from auditory hallucinations, and he stared at Seamus.

“What?”

Seamus explained readily:

“I just think you ought to pick busier places for, er, dates. I wouldn’t trust a Slytherin—least of all him. You never know what sort of perversions they get up to down in those dungeons…”

What the hell is Seamus talking about? Before Harry could voice his question out loud, a green whirlwind shot up nearby, and Seamus' head jerked to the side. Malfoy, breathing heavily, rubbed his fist, and Crabbe and Goyle, forgetting about their role as bodyguards, stared at him in amazement.

It was only then that Harry finally fully grasped the meaning of what had been said. He spun round on Seamus, with Dean Thomas already rushing to back him up, and snarled:

“Have you gone bloody mad, Finnegan?”

The crowd parted around them, creating a ring-like space. Seamus spat blood from his split lip and glared at Harry.

"You're even talking like him now! I don't like rumors, but the whole school is talking about it—"

Crabbe and Goyle remembered their duties, and they shielded Draco so that he was almost invisible. It was unclear what danger they were protecting him from, as Malfoy was the only person who had physically harmed anyone. He was trying to get to Seamus and was spewing insults, but all that came out of his mouth was an incomprehensible hiss. Harry had never seen him so furious. The situation was becoming more and more surreal by the second. He didn't take his eyes off Seamus, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You’ve fried your brains in the sun, Seamus. Can we just pretend you didn’t say that?”

“Why?” Dean cut in. “Everyone else is talking about it—why shouldn’t we?”

Seamus nodded in agreement, holding his swollen face.

"Who's talking?" Harry couldn't take it anymore. He lunged at Seamus, grabbed him by the collar of his robes, and gave him a good shake. This whole conversation was a complete waste of time, but for some reason, Draco was really upset, and Harry wasn't going to ignore it. Seamus pushed him back, and Dean tried to pull them apart. Harry still didn't get an answer to his question.

“What’s going on here?”

At Professor McGonagall’s stern voice, everyone froze, and she was presented with a rather familiar sight: a kaleidoscope of red and green robes. However, a moment later, she realized that it was exclusively her students in the thick of the action, with the Slytherins trying to pull Draco Malfoy away from them.

“What’s going on here?” McGonagall repeated, looking from the bloodied Seamus to Malfoy, but it was Harry who answered:

"Seamus is being offensive, Professor!"

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips in displeasure and asked in a tone that brooked no argument:

“And what has Mr. Finnigan done?”

Under the Dean’s gaze, Harry’s fury began to give way to embarrassment. He hesitated, glancing first at a scowling Seamus, then at a flushed Malfoy.

“He’s—he’s spreading rumors. False ones.”

The Professor looked around the room again, her gaze lingering on Malfoy’s hand. Harry looked too, and saw that blood was oozing from his clenched fist. Draco tried to hide his hand behind his back, but it was too late.

"You," McGonagall nodded at Draco and Seamus, "to the hospital wing. Then all three of you to my office. Now!"

They both turned and walked towards the hospital wing. Harry hurried after Draco, glancing at Seamus, who was holding a napkin to his face. He also caught a glimpse of Ron and Hermione's worried expressions in the crowd. Crabbe and Goyle followed closely behind, maintaining a respectful distance. It would have been amusing if they hadn't seemed unusually anxious.

The crowd of onlookers fell behind, and Seamus and Dean overtook them and disappeared around the corner. Draco, leaving a trail of blood droplets behind him, stopped by the wall and turned to Crabbe:

"My bag. Now!" But he had already unzipped it and handed it to him. "Accio!"

A small vial of silvery liquid flew out of the bag and into Draco's palm. He uncorked it with his teeth and drained it in one gulp. Meanwhile, blood was already streaming down his wrist. Harry watched in a mixture of confusion and horror. When the wound had cleared a little, he looked closer and realized that it was just a few scraped knuckles.

“What— what is it?” he breathed.

Malfoy gave him an irritated look, but then, apparently deciding that Harry had seen enough, muttered:

"My medicine. Go to McGonagall, you don't need to go to the infirmary."

"Yeah, get lost, Potter," Crabbe immediately interjected, as if protecting Draco from excessive attention.

However, Harry ignored him and stepped closer.

"I'm not leaving until you explain."

Draco snorted and rolled his eyes, but upon noticing Harry's expression, he softened a bit. Yes, you can't get away from Harry that easily. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly.

“Fine. I don't need to go to the infirmary anymore either. Let's go to your old cat.”

He nudged Harry with his shoulder and strode towards the stairs leading to McGonagall's office.

"But, Malfoy—“ Goyle began, clearly alarmed.

"Go to class," Draco cut him off abruptly, without looking back.

Harry caught up with him, and they walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Their footsteps echoed throughout the hallway.

"Well?" reminded Harry, staring at Draco.

"This is my medicine. For the blood.”

“Explain it.”

"I have... a slight problems with blood clotting," Draco replied reluctantly. "It's hereditary. The medicine helps me.”

"Slight?" Harry said indignantly. "You nearly bled out from a scratch!"

"That's not—" Malfoy said, suddenly angry. "It’s not like that, do you understand?”

But Harry wasn't listening to him anymore. He remembered with horror how Draco had bled on the Quidditch pitch, how Buckbeak had attacked him... The already terrifying images began to play with new colors.

"Wait—" Harry grabbed Draco by the shoulders, forcing him to stop, and peered into his face. "Are you saying that you can bleed from any wound?"

Draco turned away in annoyance and tried to shake off his hands, but Harry wasn't going to let go.

"You told me you fell out of a tree when you were a kid, but you were fine..."

"My mother wouldn't let me out until I drank the potion," Draco confessed. "I had a choice: to sit in the room all day or drink this stuff."

"If I were your parents, I wouldn't let you out of the house at all! How did they even let you play Quidditch? And on such a fast broom—"

"They had no choice." Draco shrugged and added, not without self-satisfaction. "I always get what I want."

"Yeah…"

They had reached Professor McGonagall's office, but Harry was so engrossed in Draco's story that he had forgotten the reason for their visit. He cast a hesitant glance at Malfoy, whose pale face was etched with anger and an inexplicable sense of despair.

Harry gripped his fingers tightly for a moment, then slipped through the door.

***

"Punished? You? You didn't touch anyone!"

Ron's indignation was understandable, but Harry didn't care. McGonagall had assigned them all some detention, which shouldn't take long. No, what bothered him was the reason they were being punished in the first place.

After leaving the Dean's office, Harry didn't go to class. Instead, he spent the rest of the day walking around the edge of the forest, thinking and thinking, but he didn't come up with anything. It wasn't until evening that he returned to the boys' dormitory, where Ron and Hermione were waiting for him. Judging by their serious expressions (Hermione even closed her textbook—not put it aside, of course, it’s not the end of the world, after all), his friends needed answers too.

“Where have you been?" Ron asked. He placed a bundle of cold ham and bread in front of Harry, who had also missed lunch.

"Walking," Harry said vaguely.

"Can you tell us what happened?"

“It's difficult… What's wrong with Seamus? He said that Malfoy and I have a date. He said it twice! So Draco punched him.”

Hermione furrowed her brows and thought hard, but Ron, who had been trying to keep a straight face for a moment, burst out laughing.

“What?.. Well, Seamus really said it!”

"I don't really care," Harry shrugged, "but Draco seems upset. Is it true that everyone's talking about it? That we're... well..."

"Of course he was upset!" said Ron, throwing up his hands. "It really doesn’t matter who he’s holding hands with—his father won’t like it, that’s for sure. It wouldn't be good for him. If it were someone else in his place… And you don’t take it to heart; there are plenty of silly rumours among the girls.

Hermione shook her head in disapproval, and Harry asked:

"What do you mean, 'anyone else'?"

"Well," said Ron, waving his hand vaguely. "Someone who could deny it more easily. Say, Crabbe. No one cares whether he fancies boys or girls! Have you seen him? A mountain troll is hardly his sort, at best.”

Before Harry could open his mouth, Hermione intervened in an indignant tone.

“And by what signs do you judge that, Ronald? You won’t be helping anyone if you just follow stereotypes!”

Ron’s eyes widened and he stared at her:

“What’s wrong with that? I just think Malfoy looks exactly like someone who might fancy boys, and that only makes his situation worse. Hermione, you just don’t know how things are done in pure-blood families…”

“Do I look like that?” Harry asked suddenly, surprising even himself.

“What? What has that got to do with you?” Ron didn’t understand.

“What do you mean, ‘got to do with’? If you haven’t noticed, Seamus was talking about both of us.”

"I— I don't know, mate. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know either... It's just that I've never thought about it, and... "

"Never thought about it?" Hermione was astonished. "But you're almost fourteen, and you've never thought about who you like?"

"No," said Harry, suddenly annoyed with the conversation. "I didn't have time, you know. My old school was terrible, and I hated everyone. Here, someone's always trying to kill me. But I can tell you that neither Dementors nor Basilisks are my cup of tea."

"All right, all right," Hermione said, holding up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. She had long since put aside her Arithmancy calculations, which she had started over three times already. If she didn't take a short break, she would never finish them. "You can take some time to think about it now. I think it’ll be useful not just for you. Start from a distance—reflect on who you’ve ever liked, even just superficially, and draw your conclusions.”

“I’ve already said, no one…”

“Yes, yes, I know. But you said you found Cho Chang attractive. If at least one girl has caught your eye, then Seamus’s insinuations don’t really apply to you, do they?”

Ron nodded encouragingly at Harry.

“Go on, mate, get it over with.”

“Stop embarrassing me! I don’t know… It’s so awkward…”

“We feel the same. But it’s even worse watching you suffer. So think about it.”

And Harry thought. In a muggle school, he definitely didn't have time for such nonsense, so he had to take the period of his studies at Hogwarts. Who did he consider beautiful, pleasant, or cute in the last three years? Anyone! Girls, boys, older students... Harry never had the opportunity to slow down and think about himself, because even in such a safe school, he had to survive! So, who ever seemed attractive to him...

"Well, as I said, Cho is very nice. Cedric Diggory... Everyone knows he's handsome. Or maybe I just think that because everyone thinks that? Draco— okay, he doesn't count."

"Why not?" Hermione asked quickly.

“He’s my friend. When you enjoy someone’s company, it’s not because of how they look, right? You just like the person as a whole—”

“We’re your friends too,” Ron interrupted. “Come on, tell me how good-looking I am.”

Harry hesitated. Of course, Ron was his best friend, and it was nice to be around him. He had an open, kind face, but it wasn’t the same thing at all…

"Don't worry," Ron reassured him, "I'm just joking. What do you think, Hermione, is Malfoy attractive? I think he's a bit of an outsider in this group."

"First of all," Hermione began pedantically, "we care about Harry's opinion and his tastes, and secondly... Well, I think he has an interesting appearance, and that's probably even better."

“Interesting? Better?! Hermione, you're scaring me.”

"Wait," Harry broke in. "I remember you saying the opposite. Draco heard it, and Ron got in trouble..."

"Thanks a lot!" Ron immediately protested, as if the incident had just happened and the hurt was still fresh.

"Did I say that?" Hermione was astonished. "Actually, I think he's quite nice, without that expression on his face…" She curled her upper lip slightly. "And then— you're right, it's part of human psychology: the better you like someone, the more attractive they seem to you. After that Quidditch incident, when all the girls were talking about how brave Draco was, I— to be honest, I’ve started seeing him a bit differently too—"

"Blimey, Hermione!"

"So, where were we? Cho, Cedric, Draco..." Hermione waved Ron off in embarrassment and returned to the burning question. "What exactly do you like about them? Is there anything they have in common?"

"Cho is very beautiful," Harry said confidently. "Especially her eyes— well, they seem to glow when she smiles. And her hair. How does it stay so neat, even during practice?"

"That's great!" Hermione praised. "What about Cedric?"

"Cedric's also... handsome," Harry felt like an idiot when he realized that he was about to praise someone else's hair again. But what could he do when even after the match, Diggory looked like he'd stepped straight out of a fashion magazine? It was just unfair! But Harry had caught himself staring at the Hufflepuff several times, and that was a fact.

“Alright,” Ron said dryly, not impressed by other people’s hair, eyes, or whatever. “But what about Malfoy? I’m actually curious.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief—finally, he had something to say besides, “well, they’re good-looking.” Although Malfoy’s eyes were indeed very good-looking.

“He’s funny—I mean, when he’s not trying to make everyone laugh at once. Smart, too. Although it’s not always noticeable from his grades, but that’s because he’s too lazy to do homework if he doesn’t like the subject. Actually, Draco knows a lot of things—some useful and some not so much—but he always tells them in an interesting way. And he can do a lot of other things, too—I’d probably have to live several lifetimes to learn foreign languages, drawing, potion-making, playing all sorts of musical instruments, and who knows what else…”

"He's playing?" Hermione was surprised. "I didn't know."

“Yeah. And he’s terribly emotional as well.” Harry gave an awkward little smile. “I’ve always been used to keeping everything bottled up—with the Dursleys it’s better not to show too much. But when someone near you shows their emotions so openly, you start to feel… well, more alive. Yes, that’s the right word.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a secret glance, which Harry noticed. He felt awkward about his own confessions, but at the same time he was pleased that his friends were listening to him. He really wanted them to like Draco. If Hermione could get along with the Slytherin, at least a little, then Ron obviously never intended to.

“Well,” he began cautiously, “Malfoy might be fun sometimes, but I still don’t understand how you can stand him.”

"You can talk to him about a lot of things,” Hermione shrugged. “At least, he’s got an opinion on everything under the sun. Though sometimes he ought to direct that energy into a calmer course instead of starting debates over anything—that includes schoolwork too. Speaking of school… and Draco, and Cho, and Cedric are strong students, but successful in different subjects. And they look nothing alike, either…”

“Of course!” Harry smacked his forehead. How had he not thought of it at once? “They’re all Seekers, aren’t they? And each of them is good in their own way. Looks like I’m just interested in Seekers, that’s all.”

Ron chuckled and slapped Harry's leg playfully. He seemed to be quite satisfied with this explanation as well.

"Makes sense, mate. Just keep in mind—if you ever decide to move on to Chasers, have a look at the Ravenclaw team: the girls there are… Ouch!”

Hermione threw a crumpled piece of paper at Ron in annoyance and shook her head in disapproval.

"That’s not what I meant. Honestly, boys! All you ever think about is Quidditch. Seekers can be boys or girls, can’t they? Which means Harry’s question is still unanswered.”

Harry's smile faded, and he fidgeted uncomfortably. He wasn't prepared for such revelations; until today, he hadn't spent a second thinking about who he liked and why. At Hogwarts, Harry had found a home where he was treated with kindness and affection, where people smiled at him as if he mattered, as if he wasn't just an empty space. How often had he noticed the beauty of others' friendly smiles without realizing what it meant? Did it even matter? Oh, how complicated it all is...

"Ron..." Harry cleared his throat and tried to look casual. "How does the wizarding world feel about people who might fancy both boys and girls?” He added quickly, “I’m not saying that’s the case, I’m just asking!”

"It's fine," Ron shrugged. "Depends on the family, blood status… My parents don’t mind. Take Charlie, for example: he’s been with all sorts! Both girls and boys. Mum used to scold him all the time. Though what embarrassed her more was that they were either musicians or broom racers… But with some of them she still swaps Christmas cards.”

Harry's jaw naturally dropped, but he didn't even think to put it back in place. He stammered out:

"Are you serious? Charlie? Was he... was he dating guys? But you said he trains dragons and all that…”

Ron stared at him in surprise.

“Yeah? How’s his boyfriend stopping him from training dragons?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, bewildered. “It’s just… I thought…”

“Muggles have a lot of stereotypes about that,” said Hermione helpfully. She added angrily, “I don’t know what the Dursleys told you, but you shouldn’t listen to them. And thank you, Ron, it's nice to know that your family isn't affected by old-fashioned prejudices.”

Harry thought once again how wonderful Ron's family was. It was hard for him to imagine that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would kick their child out of the house for making the "wrong" choice. It would take something truly unimaginable—like killing someone—for their parents to turn their backs on their child. Harry had heard from the Dursleys that parents had given up on their children for much less. He wasn't ashamed to admit to himself that he was jealous of Ron, but he didn't want it to show on his face. Instead, he thought about another family—the Malfoys. Hypothetically, which of Draco's parents would he confide in if the rumors were true? His father? Never. Harry had never met Draco's mother, but he had the impression that she loved her son dearly. However, it was unlikely that even she could change Lucius's mind. How strong were the traditions in pure-blood families? Harry decided to ask a member of one of these families about it:

“If it’s not important in the wizarding world, why was Malfoy so angry? He recently wrote an essay about the guy who invented the Potion of Living Death. Well, he was married to a Veela. I didn’t quite understand who that is, but clearly not entirely human. So a wizard can marry someone of another species. Do pure-bloods have some special rules?”

“Exactly!” Ron slapped his knee for emphasis. “I’d be angry too if I had a nutty father like that. Draco is the only heir, after all. Unless, of course, his family is hiding some unlucky specimen in the cellar—a Hufflepuff or a brunette…”

“Sounds like the Middle Ages!” Hermione exclaimed.

Ron tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the spine of Numerology, which lay on the floor at Hermione's feet.

“Yeah, he doesn’t even have to be gay or anything. I’m sure his father wouldn’t be happy about the rumours either. Hmm, I even feel a bit sorry for him. Just a little. But this year there are at least plenty of girls our age in Slytherin. Fifty years ago, Malfoy would’ve had to choose between some pure-blood widow or an unborn niece...”

Harry frowned, fiddling with the sleeve of his robes. He had never thought about the burden that Draco had carried since birth. Of course, Malfoy had always acted as if the world revolved around him, but now Harry was looking at his friend's life from a different perspective. As the heir to one of Britain's most influential families, Draco was expected to follow a predetermined path. And marry some pure-blood girl, like Pansy Parkinson. At the very thought of Pansy as a wife, Harry shuddered. For some reason, it didn’t occur to him that not every girl would be happy to marry Draco.

"Don't worry, buddy," said Ron, noticing his thoughtfulness. “Not all families are so conservative. Most magicians don't care who anyone likes at all. Unless, of course, you're going to marry the sole heir of some ancient pure-blood family.”

“What?”

Ron sighed and tried to sound serious, though his eyes twinkled mischievously:

"Harry, you're my best friend. I don't care, really. But please—please!—if you decide to turn your attention to the male Chasers or Seekers or whatever, just don't choose Malfoy!”

"Why not?" Harry asked immediately.

"Because then you’d have to deal with his nutter of a father. Like I said, you’re my best mate, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. And—” Ron gave a sly grin, “as your best mate, I won't ask why you asked that question.”

Harry blushed to the roots of his hair and quickly hid on his bed, hiding from the grinning Ron. Hermione shook her head with a smile and went back to her calculations.

Chapter Text

“What would Malfoy choose for breakfast: toast with marmalade or a fried egg?”

The tone in which Ron asked this—certainly not for the first time that day—betrayed his inner spirit of an investigator. It was beyond his comprehension how Harry could possibly like Draco Malfoy on par with Cho and Cedric, whom many people found attractive for obvious reasons: she was pretty and kind, if a bit too proper, and he was tall, athletic, and friendly. As simple as that. Harry didn’t deny the obvious either, but coming from him it sounded strangely mundane: ‘Yeah, Cho’s pretty… Cedric’s handsome…’

Malfoy, however, was a different story. Harry knew far too much about him. It was enough for Ron to give his friend a slight nudge, and details—exactly like from a cornucopia—spilled out, things Ron hadn’t even guessed. It turned out that Malfoy often clicked his fingers, though in a peculiar order: from the little finger to the index, skipping the middle one, which was adorned with the family ring. He wrote quickly, never getting his sleeves dirty with ink, but the margins of his notes looked as if they had survived the end of the world: folds, scribbles, and drawings—lots of drawings… Ron didn't know what to think. It wasn't romantic, it was disturbing. The way Harry catalogued the other boy's daily activities was alarming. Why Malfoy? Among the hundreds of students at Hogwarts, why did he occupy so much space in Harry's mind? There had to be something special about him.

As Ron struggled to make sense of it, Harry, already weary of the interrogation, sighed and responded without much thought. He'd already realized that Ron wouldn't leave him alone.

“Definitely something unsweetened."

“What about me?”

“You’d eat one and then the other,” Harry snorted, shooting him a glance.

“Ha! Fair enough.” Ron chuckled, leaning back and raising a warning finger. “But, just so you know, I’ve been sitting next to you for three years now. And you have to look at Malfoy across four tables. Four! That means something.”

Stung, Harry turned away, scanning the Hall. What was the big deal? So what if today he couldn’t see Cho or Cedric from his seat—only Draco, though he was the furthest away. It was natural, wasn’t it? They’d always been able to see each other, ever since the very first day.

The view gave Harry a clear look at Draco. He seemed a little down, slightly dishevelled—even though Harry could tell his robes were ironed to perfection and his hair, as ever, impeccably combed. The Slytherin table bristled with tension: the older students chatted animatedly, while the younger ones sat sullen, eyes fixed on their plates. Harry frowned.

“What’s going on with them?” he muttered.

Ron gave him a baffled look.

“You’re asking me?”

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully and glanced along the Gryffindor table. Who at Hogwarts always caught the gossip first?

“Hey, Lavender!”

Lavender Brown looked up from the Witch Weekly in front of her, blinking in surprise. The Patil twins immediately leaned over her shoulders, their dark eyes glinting with curiosity.

“What is it, Harry?”

“Do you know what happened with the Slytherins?”

“What, you don’t know?” Padma asked, astonished.

Harry shook his hair back, irritation prickling.

“If I did, I wouldn’t ask.”

“He doesn’t know!” Lavender whispered excitedly. “Malfoy had a fight with Zabini this morning, and the Slytherins won’t stop talking about it!”

Harry’s eyes widened. He turned to Ron, but Ron only shrugged, equally surprised.

“Do you know why?” Harry asked Lavender.

“You’d better ask him yourself,” she giggled. “I’ve only heard rumours, but you could get the story straight from the source…”

Harry barely managed to sit through breakfast. He watched the Slytherin procession file out, led by Malfoy and Parkinson. Draco’s back was unnaturally rigid, as if he’d swallowed a broomstick, and Pansy was practically glued to his arm. What an idiot, Harry thought irritably, looking at her. He waited until the green-robed figures vanished through the doors, then pushed back his bench to follow—only to find Seamus Finnigan blocking his path. Harry’s first instinct was to shove him aside, but something in Seamus’s face made him lower his hand.

“What do you want?” Harry asked, not very friendly. They hadn’t seen each other since yesterday, though they shared a room. Seamus and Dean must have stayed in the common room until lights out, and in the morning they’d got up earlier than Harry and Ron.

“I— I wanted to apologise,” Seamus stammered.

“Yes? Well, all right. Now let go, I’ll—”

“Harry, I’m serious,” Seamus grabbed his arm, and Harry had to stop. “I don’t know what got into me yesterday. I didn’t mean to offend you, I just saw Malfoy, and—”

“Well, I wasn’t offended,” Harry replied dryly. “But Draco was upset. Maybe you should apologise to him.”

“How can you not get it! Our team lost, and he’s walking around so pleased with himself—”

“So did mine, actually,” Harry remarked fairly.

“Nothing better to say?” Ron cut in. “Seriously, Seamus, you really couldn’t think of anything better than that to insult Malfoy with? Malfoy?!”

“It’s simply not acceptable to use qualities a person is born with as an insult!” Hermione’s voice rang out, making the boys jump in unison.

“H–Hermione?” Ron muttered. “How long have you been here? I couldn’t find you, so I thought you’d gone to the library…”

“I was here, thanks for noticing,” she replied coldly.

While his friends were busy with Hermione’s sudden appearance and discussing whether insults were acceptable in such a case, Harry deftly slipped past Seamus and slipped out the door, trying not to attract unnecessary attention. In the corridor, he glanced around quickly: no Slytherin robes in sight. Muttering unflattering words about Seamus under his breath, Harry hid in a niche behind a statue and pulled out the map.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!”

If he was right, Draco would be trying to get rid of everyone except Pansy. Ignoring the spots where clusters of names crowded together, Harry studied the nearby secluded benches in the courtyard. Ha! Quickly spotting the pair he was after, he hurried outside. Running along the long arcade that ringed the courtyard, Harry nearly reached the open space before he froze.

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had! Just get out of here! I don’t want to see you!”

Draco’s voice shook with fury, forcing Harry to take a cautious step back. Peering around a pillar, he saw Pansy hunched on a bench, Draco standing over her. His whole body seemed to vibrate with rage. Pansy’s face was drawn, but when she caught sight of Harry, she wiped her expression clean, leaving only burning resentment. She stood abruptly and swept past him, jostling his shoulder. Draco paced the small patch of trampled grass.

Harry approached and looked him in the face.

“What did she do?”

The simple words seemed to steady Draco: Harry was on his side. He dropped heavily onto the bench and exhaled as though all the air had been sucked out of him. With trembling fingers, he pulled a mint from his pocket, tossed it into his mouth without looking, and stuffed the wrapper into another pocket. Judging by the rustling, there were quite a few in there already. The boy rubbed his face wearily and finally said:

“You’ve no idea.”

“I don’t,” Harry agreed cautiously. “But why would you treat her like that? I thought she usually tried to support you.”

Although Harry hated to admit it, he really did think Pansy had been a good friend to Draco. What would happen if they stopped talking?

“Yeah, I know her ‘support’,” Draco snapped, still rubbing his neck nervously. “Trying to snog me when I’m having the worst day of my life…”

Harry thought he must have misheard. For a moment, speech failed him, and he managed only:

“W-what?”

“You heard me,” Draco ground out, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist so tightly the nails dug into his palm. “She suggested we start going out… to put an end to the rumours.”

“Maybe it makes sense?” Harry suggested cautiously, choosing his words carefully so as not to make Draco even angrier.

Malfoy shot to his feet, his whole body taut as a bowstring.

“Oh, I see! You’re just as barmy as she is!”

He turned to leave, but Harry managed to grab the sleeve of his robes.

“Well, no! At least I wouldn’t have kissed you when you were upset.”

Draco froze, not turning his head, staring fixedly at the ivy-covered castle wall as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. Harry stepped closer.

“I understand pure-bloods have their own traditions. Ron said…”

“You talked about me with Weasley?!”

“We were talking about pure-blood marriages and how important they are,” Harry replied calmly, though his heart was racing. “Your family’s strict—I understand that. If everyone’s taking Seamus’s chatter too seriously, then maybe you should try to… well, to protect yourself?”

Draco froze, as if all the fury simmering in him had suddenly burned out, leaving him hollow. He looked broken. Harry hesitated only a moment, then gently pulled him close and hugged him.

“Brilliant, now there’ll definitely be talk,” Draco muttered, burying his face in the Gryffindor robes.

“Shut up. Please.”

They stood like that for quite a while. Or at least it felt long to Harry—perhaps only a few seconds had actually passed. Still, he managed to realise two things.

First: Draco was perfect for hugging. Perhaps it was his lean but sturdy frame, easy to wrap your arms around without fear of squeezing too hard. Perhaps it was the height—his sharp chin seemed made to rest comfortably on Harry’s shoulder.

Second: he definitely, absolutely liked boys. It wasn’t exactly a revelation—after all, Harry had been somewhat resigned to the idea since last night—but it was one thing to think about it, and quite another to feel the warmth of another person’s skin, to breathe in the scent of their hair, to feel the strength in arms wrapped around you—

Harry’s cheeks burned, and he pulled back. In front of him was Malfoy’s pale face, touched with a hint of pink, and Harry quickly shut his eyes. It didn’t help—he could still feel Malfoy’s breath on his face, and the scent of mint sweets. Coughing awkwardly, he stepped back just as Malfoy’s hand slid into his, and it felt surprisingly natural. The grip tightened slightly—securely and reassuringly.

“Walk?” Harry suggested. His voice cracked treacherously, and he braced for some cutting remark—but Draco only gave a curt nod and tugged him along. They slipped into the corridor leading from the courtyard to the wide lawn in front of the castle. Few students ever lingered there; it was one of the rare spots where you could get fresh air without trekking through the whole castle.

As they stepped out beneath the archway, Draco hastily dropped Harry’s hand, but he didn’t move away. He walked close beside him, brushing his elbow against Harry’s with each step, wincing as if irritated by the contact—yet never once pulling aside.

“What’s up with you and Zabini?” Harry asked as casually as he could manage. Too obvious, he realised at once—but too late to back out.

Draco stopped so abruptly that Harry bumped into him.

“Zabini’s a prat!” Draco snapped, stamping his foot. “He doesn’t want to share a room with me anymore!”

“What?” Harry was genuinely shocked. “Don’t tell me it’s because of Seamus!”

“Why, of course! If Finnigan makes me lose all my friends, I’ll personally curse him—and all his descendants to the fifth generation, so you know.”

“You still have me,” Harry reminded him.

“Yeah,” Draco admitted listlessly.

“I wouldn’t have believed it if you hadn’t told me. Blaise, with his family history? How dare he condemn anyone?!”

Draco shook his head and tugged distractedly at his collar:

“Enough. I don’t want to talk about him.”

Something in his reaction made Harry uneasy. There was nothing unusual about the quarrel itself—Malfoy argued with everyone, and he did it with panache and obvious enjoyment. Hermione had once said that there was a type of person who deliberately irritated others to drain their energy. Harry didn’t agree with her, although Draco sometimes behaved that way. He also liked to list all the mischiefs he had already pulled on his victim and everything he planned to add to the list, savoring every detail of his revenge. But not today. No, today he radiated a heavy, almost doomed despondency. The Draco Harry knew wouldn’t have left a wet spot on either Seamus or Zabini. He was always painfully sensitive about rumours about himself: everyone had to either admire him or keep their mouths shut.

But right now, this boy—so unlike the Malfoy he knew—was swallowing his resentment instead of showing what he really thought.

“It’s just nonsense,” Harry began, studying Draco’s face closely. “Why did Zabini take Seamus’s chatter seriously at all? You could have just said it wasn’t true.”

“Because it’s humiliating, Potter!” Draco cut him off sharply. His cheeks flushed, and his eyes flashed. “I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, got it?”

“Yes,” Harry agreed softly, stepping closer. “But maybe Pansy’s right: if everyone knew you liked girls, no one would take Seamus seriously—”

“I don’t like anyone! No one!” Malfoy shouted, making several birds flutter from a nearby bush. “Leave me alone!”

He was shutting down again, building his walls. And Harry didn’t like it. His friend seemed unusually vulnerable, and the first thing that came to Harry’s mind was to show him that it was okay to talk about what was bothering you, that opening up wasn’t frightening.

“What’s the big deal?” Harry blurted. “I’ve been thinking… perhaps I like both girls and boys. That’s it.”

For a moment Draco’s face showed genuine horror. He stared at Harry in disbelief, clearly struggling to recover.

“Perhaps,” Harry said again, this time more firmly. He suddenly felt much more confident. Strange as it was, the more anxiety showed on Draco’s face, the more clearly Harry realised that Seamus’s silly joke had hit the mark. While the Slytherin paled with fear, at least Harry could say aloud what was on his mind. And that gave him strength. “Any problems? Or are you siding with Blaise?”

“No!” Draco snapped at once. “No— I don’t care, got it? I’ve got more important things to do. Why should I pay any attention to anyone at all? I don’t like anyone, and I never will—enough said!”

“All right,” Harry said calmly.

A gust of wind, unexpectedly cool for the end of spring, swept over them, tugging at clothes and tousling hair. A few strands escaped from Draco’s perfect hair and fell across his forehead. Harry watched him out of the corner of his eye as he irritably brushed them aside. Draco caught his gaze and immediately squinted suspiciously, and Harry hurriedly looked down at the grass beneath his feet. Malfoy also glanced downward, knocking the open heads of dandelions aside, and thoughtfully bit the inside of his cheek, which made his sharp cheekbones stand out even more, giving his face an almost painfully tense expression. Harry found himself staring at him again, completely unconsciously.

“All girls go mad at some point, don’t you think?” Draco asked suddenly.

“What?” Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Pans,” Malfoy began, counting on his fingers. “Daphne… Daphne! And she’s never been a fool. My cousins—”

“What about them?”

“You don’t know them, they live in France,” Draco waved him off. “Strictly speaking, they’re my aunt and second cousin, but that’s not the point. Every summer we had a wonderful time together, but last year this… madness started. All they talk about is whether I'm dating someone I like, and all that sort of thing. Just like you are now.”

He shot Harry a pointed look, but Harry only shrugged.

“I don’t know, Draco. Hermione’s never done that. I think some girls have always been like that. Lavender, for example. You’re— well, popular, and a lot of people like you. I suppose. How would I know?! But if you’re not attracted to anyone at all, that’s fine. It’s just—they might feel disappointed. You’re a big loss for both teams… if you know what I mean...”

Draco stared at him with an unreadable expression. Under that gaze, Harry felt a shiver run through him, followed almost immediately by a rush of heat.

“Er— thank you?” Draco said at last, his voice oddly uncertain.

Harry smiled, and suddenly he felt very, very good. Still horribly embarrassed, yes—but lighter, as though a weight had slipped from his shoulders. Malfoy probably hadn’t been completely honest with him, but it was Malfoy—he was always like that. Still, today they had grown closer to each other.

The thought of how nice it was to be near Draco embarrassed Harry, but he was determined not to make a drama out of it. They were friends—and that was enough. Besides, Draco had made it clear that a relationship didn’t interest him, and Harry respected that, though he couldn’t help smiling to himself. What irony! A handsome, confident boy, so easy to fall for, turned out to be completely indifferent. Funny how things worked out.

Draco seemed lost in thought too, because when the castle bell rang for class, both of them jumped. When had they wandered so far?

“I think we’re late,” said Harry.

“Oh, you’re hopeless,” Draco rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself. “Run!”

They dashed toward the castle at full speed, elbowing and grabbing at each other as they ran. Their laughter echoed off the castle walls and across the clearing, startling the birds. Harry’s heart was hammering like one of those birds—but it felt lighter than air.

Chapter Text

The days left before the first exam flew by so quickly that Harry barely had time to notice one night passing into the next. It seemed only yesterday that he and Ron had been trying to squeeze the last arguments into their History of Magic essay, and today they already had to sit down for the written part of Transfiguration. Though it was hardly surprising: Harry’s school life had always been full of distractions—especially now, with his recent ‘personal crisis,’ as Hermione had put it… Harry tried not to let it bother him too much, but he couldn’t ignore the strange thoughts that occasionally crossed his mind. People around him—even Neville!—noticed that he was becoming rather pensive. He was aware that he sometimes lost himself in unproductive thoughts, and when he emerged from them, he felt even more confused. Most often, this happened when he found himself alone with Draco.

They had always been different, but the recently discovered, uncharted (and slightly frightening) part of Harry’s life seemed to have placed them at opposite ends of the spectrum. Harry was faced with a vast array of choices, where, in theory, he could go beyond just girls. However, things were made more complicated by the fact that he had even less clarity about relationships with boys. Meanwhile, Draco seemed to stand apart from all these emotions, as if on a pedestal—unattainable and enigmatic. Did he not feel the same vague, strange emotions that were plaguing Harry? Perhaps he wasn’t interested in this aspect of life, or perhaps he hadn’t fully understood himself yet. As he immersed himself in endless contemplation, Harry reminded himself that he didn’t have time for such thoughts. Together with Ron, he worked tirelessly to complete their assignments, sometimes submitting them at the last moment. Fortunately, some professors allowed late submissions, and they took advantage of this opportunity. Hermione, who usually kept a close eye on ensuring the boys didn’t get distracted from their studies, was preoccupied with her own concerns this year. The number of subjects she was preparing for seemed unfathomable, so they mostly had to prepare on their own.

Harry’s Transfiguration exam was surprisingly smooth. Even the strict Professor McGonagall, whose very gaze made the most nervous students tremble from head to toe, nodded approvingly when he confidently turned the teapot into a living turtle. He did a better job with Charms than he expected, too.

However, the Potions exam was going to be a real challenge. It was the only subject Harry would never have been able to prepare for on his own. Draco had spent enough time with him in the lab, showing him how to make basic potions. It turned out that outside Snape’s tense classroom atmosphere, Harry was able to remember the simple steps. Additionally, without Draco’s guidance, Harry would never have been able to practise the material, as Snape did not allow anyone other than members of his own house to enter his lab. In return, Harry helped Draco with Defence Against the Dark Arts and was surprised to find that he was quite good at it. Of course, he vividly remembered their disgraceful duel with Draco last year, orchestrated by Gilderoy Lockhart. Since then, they had never fought each other in a real battle, but training together was almost as exciting as chasing the Snitch.

And yet, just the sight of the Potions classroom door filled Harry’s heart with anxiety, even though he wasn’t trembling with fear like Neville. He prayed silently that Draco was right and Snape wouldn’t give him an impossible task just to be spiteful. The Gryffindors were clustered outside the classroom, shifting from foot to foot and whispering, exchanging knowledge at the last moment. Wish Draco was here, Harry thought. His confidence would have been more than enough for both of them. Hermione, who was also good at Potions, was trembling and whispering her notes with white lips. She probably had every line in the book memorised, but Harry would have preferred to ask Malfoy for help, who seemed to have a natural feel for potion-making. Harry could have lived in a lab, but he wouldn’t have achieved the same results. However, he didn’t mind watching, and it was a pleasant experience.

When Snape finally opened the door, the students reluctantly filed into the classroom. Inside, they were already greeted by rows of cauldrons and neatly arranged ingredients. First, the students had to deal with the theory part. Harry was given a rather difficult topic—the difference between the effects of mandrake-based antidotes and with the addition of unicorn horn. He had to use all his mental abilities to avoid panicking. A page from the textbook flashed before his eyes, with a long white finger tapping it admonishingly: Write it down, he’s bound to ask about it! The quill darted swiftly across the parchment until Harry lost his train of thought. He even drew a small comparison chart—Snape simply had no right not to appreciate it!

The practical part turned out to be a real gift: Harry was given a Confusing Concoction, quite simple to brew. He remembered this potion from classroom lessons. As he proudly watched the potion in his cauldron thicken and change colour from a cloudy white to a clear one—just as it was described in the textbook—Snape glided through the classroom like a shadow. He leaned over the cauldrons, hurling venomous comments and giving out grades, mostly just Acceptable, with the exception of Hermione’s. Finally, the professor peered into Harry’s cauldron. A shadow of disappointment crossed his face, as if he had expected a complete failure.

“Well… it’s passable, Potter,” drawled Snape, and moved on without deigning to announce a mark.

Harry stared at his back. If he didn’t dare to stand up for his work now, his Gryffindor robes weren’t worth a Knut!

“Professor!”

Snape turned, raising his right eyebrow in mild surprise. He seemed to doubt that Harry would actually argue with him.

“I did everything right,” Harry continued, trying his best to keep his voice steady. “My potion matched the description in the textbook at every stage.”

A collective gasp went round the dungeon. No one ever argued with Snape. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment there was something in his expression that was almost like bewilderment—even he hadn’t expected this.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter,” he said coldly. “Your occasional successes are entirely due to Mr Malfoy. You won’t change my mind.”

Harry clenched his fists under the desk, trying to suppress his rising fury. His whole gut protested this injustice. He straightened up and said firmly:

“As you can see, he’s not here, Professor.”

Everyone was staring at Snape expectantly, and Harry felt acutely aware that the opportunity to receive a Troll for the first time was closer than ever. Snape stepped towards him, his robes billowing menacingly.

“Impertinence,” he said. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”

In complete silence, the professor glided to his desk. The whole class couldn’t breathe as he took notes in his journal. Finally, with a loud click, Snape replaced the quill on the stand.

“You’ve no shortage of impertinence, Potter. Well… Exceeds Expectations.”

Harry nodded and sat down in silence, but his heart was pounding so hard the whole class could probably hear it. He wasn’t sure he could trust his own ears, and he longed to check what Snape had written in the register. Still, it wasn’t worth risking his neck…

In the corridor, jubilant Gryffindors surrounded Harry—someone slapped him on the shoulder, and Seamus shook him by the shoulders and exclaimed in a loud whisper:

“That’s what it means to be a Gryffindor! The way you put Snape in his place, eh! Come on then, Harry, how did you pull it off?”

“You saw—”

“I mean, how did you cheat?”

Their classmates all nodded in agreement, staring curiously at a rather embarrassed Harry.

“But I didn’t cheat,” he shrugged. “I just learnt everything—Draco helped me prepare.”

Without waiting for Seamus’s reaction, Harry headed to the Great Hall for lunch, his shoulders proudly straight. His heart was singing with the satisfaction of finally completing such a difficult task on his own. All the subsequent exams seemed simple and insignificant. Only Hermione seemed even more delighted than he was. She, of course, had received Outstanding, but that didn’t stop her from glancing at Harry with pride.

“Harry, well done!” she kept insisting, even during lunch. “See, I told you: it’s all about hard work. That’s an example to follow, Ron!”

Ron, who had only received Acceptable—which he was nevertheless overjoyed to get—protested:

“Well, you know! If I have to get a pet Slytherin to do that, I’ll just manage without!”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh, and Hermione just waved her hand in a tired gesture. In high spirits, the three of them headed to Hagrid’s hut for their Care of Magical Creatures exam. The Slytherins were already gathering outside.

Harry spotted Draco immediately. Well, he reminded himself, it was rather hard not to notice him. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, almost deliberately highlighting his blond hair and dazzling white shirt. The boy was chatting carelessly with Pansy, apparently telling something funny, because she was laughing shrilly. Hermione had noticed him too. Before Harry could even blink, she—usually cautious and reserved around Slytherins—was beside Draco, tugging at his sleeve.

“Harry got Exceeds Expectations for Potions!” she blurted out. “Can you imagine, Draco? It’s incredible!”

Malfoy froze, stunned. The Slytherins around—too. A moment later, Hermione realised what she had done and jerked her hand away as if she’d been burned. Harry hurried over, expecting a storm to break out. But it didn’t happen. For just a moment, Draco’s face showed confusion, then he straightened, put on his trademark smug grin, and, ignoring Hermione, looked over her shoulder directly at Harry:

“Oh, you're welcome!”

One of the Slytherins snorted, and everyone relaxed a little. But not Pansy. She was staring at them suspiciously, and Harry could have sworn he could hear the gears turning in her head. But he didn’t care. He was relieved that Draco hadn’t made a scene. Out of habit, Harry reached for his hand, as he had done many times when they were alone. But Draco dodged neatly, stepping back towards Pansy. It looked perfectly natural to everyone around him, but Harry felt as if a door had been slammed in his face. His ears immediately filled with heat. How stupid! He would have said something inappropriate, but then Hagrid appeared at the door of the hut.

“Everyone here? C’mon then!!”

The crowd of third-years headed towards the pen of the now-grown fuzzies, the Slytherins hurrying to get the best view. Harry noticed Draco rushing to the opposite side, pushing Pansy in the back. Harry, Ron and Hermione remained where they were. Harry stared at the fluffy creatures, but he could barely see them. Hermione was wringing her hands nervously next to him:

“Oh, I’m so tired with these exams—I think I’m already asleep on my feet! I didn’t think at all that we weren’t in the library, but surrounded by the whole class… It’s amazing that he reacted so calmly, but it was still so silly…”

Well put, thought Harry.

“What did you expect?” Ron asked in genuine surprise. “That he’d kiss your hand and you’d start tap-dancing together?”

“Oh, no,” said Hermione. “It’s just that Draco’s quite polite to me when we meet in the library. He sometimes studies alone just before closing time, so we can talk about books in peace… You know, he reads so fast that we’ve already reached modern literature! I asked my mother to get me something new, and she sent The Silence of the Lambs and some Stephen King bestseller. Just in time for Draco’s birthday. It’s far too dark for me, but he likes it—”

“Wait— what?” Harry asked, dumbfounded.

“What’s ‘what’?”

Ron, who had been following their conversation with interest, shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re going to… give Malfoy something for his birthday?”

“Why not?” Hermione asked, genuinely surprised. “He just gave me a large encyclopaedia on poisons for no reason. He said he had two of them, and I might need it in my later years at Hogwarts. It was very… kind. So I thought it would be appropriate to give him a gift in return.”

Ron suddenly became serious and frowned.

“Hermione, are you sure the book isn’t poisoned? Everyone knows how the Malfoys feel about— well, why didn’t you tell us?”

“You didn’t ask!” she snapped. “I don’t have to answer to you—”

The brewing quarrel was interrupted by Hagrid, who summoned Hermione and Zabini to demonstrate their pet. She picked up her notes and, with an exasperated toss of her hair, hurried to the paddock, leaving Harry and Ron in painful silence.

Ron sniffed resentfully, and Harry felt the ground give out from under his feet.

“Ron, what’s the date today?”

“The fourth.”

“Damn it.”

He and Malfoy had never exchanged birthday gifts. Certainly not in their first year, when they couldn’t spend a day without bickering. And not in their second year, after their mutual suspicions about who was the Heir of Slytherin. But now… it seemed like they had become quite close this year. Harry quickly dismissed the thought that they might be too close.

What if Draco was expecting a gift from him?

Harry hadn’t even thought about it. At Christmas, it had all happened naturally: they were both staying at the castle, and he had the idea of treating Malfoy to some Muggle food. It had been almost a joke. But a birthday—that was a completely different—

“Potter, Malfoy!”

Hagrid’s voice snapped Harry out of his daze, and he stumbled over to the fence. Draco was already waiting for him, armed with his notes and a small bag of slightly sweetened chicken gizzards—Madam Frou-Frou’s favourite treat. Harry glanced at Draco’s displeased face and then at his sleek hair. Draco’s shampoo probably cost more than all of Harry’s belongings combined!

With a brief nod, Malfoy sent Harry to fetch their pet. It was easy to find her: the fluffy creature, which had always been quite big, had grown to the size of a medium dog during their experiments with treats, and weighed just as much. Harry struggled to lift her and set her down on the ground in front of Draco, who had already handed his notes to Hagrid and was ready to demonstrate everything he had taught the esteemed Madam. He snapped his fingers, beckoning the Puffskein to one of the stumps at the edge of the clearing. With unexpected grace, the creature leapt onto one stump, then onto the next, and finally—straight into Draco’s arms, almost knocking him off his feet. Harry was pleased to notice that some of their classmates had their mouths open in surprise. Of course, none of them would have thought to teach these lazy creatures tricks! And he certainly hadn’t intended to—this had been entirely Malfoy’s initiative.

Draco nudged Harry with his elbow, reminding him that their performance was not over. He bowed to the audience with such grace that the heavy creature in his arms seemed nothing more than a prop. Harry hurriedly bowed alongside him. Hagrid was absolutely delighted.

“Well done, boys! Outstanding!”

He even clapped his hands, which made Harry’s ears pop a little. Draco smiled contentedly and carried Madam Frou-Frou back to her cage. Harry held the door open and noticed that the Slytherin was surreptitiously running his fingers through her luxurious fur. There was a soft, almost tender expression on Draco’s face, and it made Harry’s chest feel a little tight for a moment.

And then an idea struck him.

Harry could hardly wait for the exam to be over. Everyone received an Outstanding—even those who had barely looked after their pets. Some thought it unfair, but Hagrid explained that their main task had been simply to keep the Puffs alive until the exam, and since they were all in good health, that meant everyone had done the job.

When the last pair had received their marks, the gamekeeper prepared to carry the Puffskeins back to their pen. Harry at once volunteered to help, dragging Ron and Hermione along with him. A few students were still lingering by the cages, including Neville and Pansy. The Gryffindor was cooing over their pet, while the Slytherin was staring at them with an unreadable expression. Harry decided that they were too busy, but he still spoke to Hagrid in a near whisper.

“How was the trial?”

Even at the very beginning of the lesson, Harry had noticed that Hagrid, who had gone to London for a meeting that morning, looked a little tired but not upset. That cheered him up. Hermione, who was helping the gamekeeper write his speech, came closer with keen interest.

“Nothin’ much… Lucius Malfoy, he talks real smooth, not like me. Without your help, Hermione, I’d never have managed. But it don’t seem too bad. Let ’em sack me, as long as Buckbeak’s all right…”

The trio nodded in agreement, and Ron frowned.

“So what did they decide? I mean, about—”

“Nothin’ yet,” sighed Hagrid. “Malfoy wants—oi, it’s hard to even say—he wants Buckbeak executed. But even the Committee thought that was too much. At least, that’s how it seemed to me. There’ll be another hearing, not for a while yet. So… I’m hopin’ it’ll all turn out all right.”

“What cruelty!” Ron burst out angrily, and Hermione nodded in fierce agreement. “If his bratty son breaks the rules, what’s that got to do with Buckbeak?”

“Lucius Malfoy’s a big man,” said Hagrid with a weary sigh. “Maybe too big for his own family.”

There was a pause as everyone thought about the hippogriff’s difficult fate. Harry understood Ron’s anger and Hermione’s indignation, and he was filled with unflattering thoughts about Lucius’s arrogance and cruelty. However, he knew Draco and believed that he did not share his father’s principles. He had seen how cautious and caring Draco could be. All three of them were worried about Buckbeak and Hagrid, who had become very attached to the magical creature, but it was encouraging to hear that the court seemed not to be taking Malfoy’s side entirely. Harry decided it was time to ask his question:

“Hagrid, do you happen to know where I could get a kitten? It’s very urgent! I can pay—”

“I happen to know,” Hagrid said, surprised. “I’ve got some!”

He led them to a small shed behind the hut. There, in a corner, on a huge canvas that had once been Hagrid’s clothes, lay a tabby cat with a whole litter of kittens. They were large, fluffy, and fiery red, and Harry immediately thought that Crookshanks must have had a hand in it. But one kitten caught his attention right away—it was smooth, almost like a Sphinx, and jet black. Its bright yellow eyes shone like stars in the night sky.

“You’ve got a cat?” Ron said in amazement. “I mean, a regular cat?”

“She’s not really mine,” Hagrid shrugged. “Cats, y’know… they come when they want, they go when they want. Lots of students bring ’em here. Once yeh didn’t keep an eye on ‘em and— ahem-ahem— So, Harry, you want a cat?”

“Not for me. I want to give it to someone… He’ll look after it properly, I promise!”

“Well, all right,” Hagrid agreed. “Only Fang’ll miss ’em—he’s very fond of ’em. I’m not too good with cats myself… they’ve got a mind of their own.”

Harry carefully lifted the black kitten into his arms and peered at its little face. It seemed to understand what was being said about it and looked back with almost human seriousness. Harry stroked its warm back, imagining long, white fingers gliding over its smooth fur.

“Mind of their own,” he said. “That’s right.”

Chapter Text

When the friends came out of the barn, the clearing in front of Hagrid’s hut was almost empty; only Neville and Pansy lingered by the pen with the Puffskeins, talking quietly. But then Pansy turned her head and noticed that three Gryffindors were watching them at once. The smile instantly vanished from her face. Spinning on her heel, she hurried after her classmates towards the castle.

After a brief inner struggle—he really wanted to ask Neville what on earth was going on—Harry stepped after Pansy as she walked away. When would he ever catch her alone again? Tucking the kitten against his chest, he ran to catch up with her.

“Hey, Pansy!”

The Slytherin slowed and turned to glare at him, irritation written all over her face.

“What do you want, Potter?”

“It’s just—” Harry caught his breath and adjusted the kitten hidden beneath his shirt. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“It’s about Draco.”

Her eyes narrowed as she fixed him with a suspicious look that made Harry shift uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Well?” she snapped.

“Draco told me about your plan. You know, how he’s supposed to… protect himself from—” Harry hesitated, unsure how to phrase it, “—rumours. Anyway, you get it. I got the impression he’d agreed to it. Is that true?”

“And what makes you think I’d discuss that with you? I don’t owe you anything!”

Blimey, she’s stubborn! Harry thought irritably. Well, so am I.

“Because he’s my friend too,” he said aloud. “I’m… worried about him. And look, you’re still talking to me, and the sky hasn’t fallen in.”

Pansy shot him a heavy look, but she didn’t run away anymore. She turned and walked on, and all Harry could do was hurry after her.

“And why exactly are you so interested?” the Slytherin asked, giving a short, derisive snort. “Are you jealous?”

“Not in the slightest. I’m just concerned.”

“Mmm.” Pansy’s tone softened slightly. They were walking side by side now, and Harry noticed that the frown between her eyebrows had eased a little. “To be honest, I wouldn’t waste my time talking to you at all. But I happen to need something from you too—”

“From me?”

“Don’t interrupt me! So—to answer your question—no, he didn’t agree. Now you’re going to help me figure out why.”

“Me?” Harry asked again.

Pansy sighed and shook her bangs.

“Yes, you. You’re his friend, you said so yourself. Obviously, Draco talked to you about it. Well, I’m not surprised. It’s hard to admit, but you’re probably the most sane of his friends.”

“Wow,” Harry said in genuine surprise. “Thanks, I guess…”

Pansy just shrugged.

“Think about it. Greg and Vince are hopeless idiots, Theo’s only seen girls in books, and Blaise…” she rolled her eyes, “it’s better not to discuss feelings with Blaise at all.”

“Speaking of Blaise,” Harry immediately perked up. “What happened back there with him?”

“Oh, it’s a circus!” Pansy waved her hands excitedly, showing genuine enthusiasm for the first time. “Blaise has obviously gone mad: he started accusing Draco of all sorts of… indecencies. Ghastly! Allegedly, he’s staring at him in the bedroom. Can you imagine? I almost cursed him myself!”

Harry stumbled on the spot, causing the kitten under his shirt to wriggle unhappily and dig its sharp claws into his stomach. Tears sprang to Harry’s eyes from the pain, and he blurted out louder, than he meant to:

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

Pleased with the boy’s strong reaction, Pansy ignored the bulge under his robes.

“That’s what I’m saying!” she nodded. “Draco punched him, of course. Blaise deserved it!”

They walked in silence for a while. Harry was still digesting all of this when Pansy was ready to ask her counter question. Her face showed determination, as if she was preparing for a duel.

“Now you’re going to explain something to me. And don’t you dare shirk!”

“What?” Harry said warily.

“What’s going on between Draco and that… Muggle-born, Granger?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t be an idiot!” exclaimed Pansy, and Harry bit his tongue. “Do you think I haven’t noticed? Why is she grabbing his hands in front of everyone?”

“Pansy, calm down. They’re not even friends. They just talk sometimes in the library—a couple of boring nerdy topics, you know: classes none of us take, creepy murder stories— anyway, it doesn’t matter. What you’re saying is rubbish. Draco would never fancy Hermione, and she wouldn’t fancy him either.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to the side. Her thin lips stretched into a dangerous smile.

“You seem to have thought about it a lot.”

“That’s not true!”

“Then why are you so sure?” she became serious. “You’re obviously thinking about it. Why?”

“What about you?”

They both froze, staring at each other suspiciously. Harry was the first to break down. Shrugging his shoulders in annoyance, he growled:

“I think you’re being paranoid. This whole conversation is utter nonsense, honestly!”

“You think so?” Pansy didn’t take her eyes off Harry. Her dark eyes seemed ready to bore right through him. “It is. Perhaps all this is even more ridiculous than… than you and him.”

Harry choked on his breath and managed to say:

“Wh–what?”

“At least you’re not Muggle-born. And not so bad-looking, either.”

“Absurd!”

“Of course,” she said, flipping her sleek dark hair with a show of defiance. “Everyone knows who is really the best match for Draco.”

Harry wasn’t so sure.

“But he doesn’t even want to pretend to go out with you. And I understand him— I mean, I couldn’t pretend to like someone if I didn’t. Even if it’s a friend.”

“Nonsense,” Pansy waved her hand with a scornful laugh. “Sometimes complete strangers get married and end up loving each other perfectly.”

“Because there’s nothing else they can do,” said Harry.

“It’s not like that with us!” Pansy exclaimed, her cheeks flushing. “Draco and I already love each other. How long have we been friends? Almost thirteen years! That’s a lifetime!”

Harry pursed his lips skeptically but said nothing. Pansy pouted and turned away from him. He thought the conversation was over, but then she sighed and muttered, apparently addressing the nearby bushes:

“What choice do I have? Anyway, our parents will decide who we marry. I just want to live like everyone else. If not now, then when? Draco doesn’t understand me. He says it’s better to have nothing at all than to lose it later.”

Harry cast a quick glance at Pansy, surprised by her openness. Her shoulders were held proudly, but there was a sadness in her large, slightly bulging eyes. Vulnerable—and damn human. Harry had only ever thought this way about one Slytherin before. Could he really be starting to feel sympathy for the whole house?

Draco… Harry had always thought that this boy wanted everything he could get his hands on—and more. But what he had just heard from Pansy… it was an astonishing discovery.

“I think you’re right,” he said quietly. “I’d like to know what it’s like, too.”

Pansy bit her lip, and Harry thought she was going to say something else—but she didn’t. The silence between them wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either. Harry was fine with that. He’d never talked to her like this before—one on one. And perhaps Parkinson wasn’t quite so unbearable. Especially now that it turned out she wouldn’t be walking around on Draco’s arm, putting on displays of affection. Possibly even kissing for show. Harry hadn’t expected that knowing this would bring him such a sense of relief.

“I see you and Neville have worked well together.”

Pansy didn’t notice (or pretended not to notice) how awkward his attempt to change the subject was, and exclaimed:

“Ugh! What do you mean?!”

“Nothing! It’s just that your Puffskein has grown into quite a beauty. Not like ours, of course, but still—not bad. It’s obvious you took good care of it.”

Pansy snorted and lifted her chin defiantly.

“Well, you know! You’ve fattened yours up so much it could be mistaken for a pig! For our Longbottom’s devised a whole diet—taking into account her weight, habits, and all that…”

Harry barely managed to keep a straight face. He listened to Pansy’s chatter and wondered if she realised she was actually praising Neville. As she went on about the importance of proper nutrition, they reached the front doors.

“Perhaps someone else could use a break from eating sweets for breakfast,” she remarked pointedly, glancing at Harry.

“What?” Harry asked, startled. “Are you talking about me? How do you even know what I eat for breakfast?”

She just smiled indulgently, as if explaining something to a child.

“Of course we all know that.”

With that, she slipped through the castle doors first, leaving Harry completely bewildered.

“What are you talking about…?” he began, but Pansy had already flitted away—surrounded by a crowd of Slytherin girls, with no trace of her former openness.

Harry almost followed her, but came to his senses and stopped in the middle of the corridor. A Ravenclaw upperclassman immediately bumped into him, making the kitten squirm in protest.

“Alright, mate,” Harry said to it. “Let’s go and find you something tasty.”

***

“And when, pray tell, are you planning to take your Ancient Runes exam?”

Hermione, rudely snatched from her world of complex symbols and ambiguous definitions, sighed irritably and turned to Ron.

“I told you, tomorrow. Since I’m the only one in my year taking this exam, I’ll be done quickly. I’ll have time for both Runes and those stupid Divinations!”

By the end, her voice was getting louder, and several students nearby looked over at them. The Gryffindor common room was crowded that evening, with some students studying, others relaxing after a particularly difficult exam, and older students creating elaborate cheat sheets. The fire in the fireplace cast a warm glow over the walls, the piles of textbooks, and the focused faces.

Ron wasn’t satisfied with Hermione’s answer, and he frowned, but he didn’t say anything. He and Harry were sitting on the sofa, pretending to study for their Divination exam, but their attention was completely focused on the kitten. It had finished drinking the milk that Harry had brought from the kitchen, and it was now lazily playing with a string. It had been determined that it was a boy, and Harry was wondering what name Draco would give it. He was confident that his friend would appreciate the gift.

Ron braced himself, sighed, and pulled out a star chart from his bag, an unfinished assignment for the exam. The main challenge was calculating an insane number of angles, which they both hated. And what’s the point anyway, if in the end Harry’s just going to be foretold another brutal death? Hermione, of course, had already completed the assignment. And though she and Draco had kept their distance and hadn’t shown up in Professor Trelawney’s classes since, they still had to turn up for the exam with their practical work ready.

Pulling himself away from stroking the warm, soft feline side with an effort of will, Harry reached for his bag as well—the last thing he needed was to fail the easiest exam. Otherwise, he’d have to attend extra lessons with Trelawney…

“Oh, where is—” he dumped the contents of the bag right on the sofa. Textbooks, quills, sweet wrappers… Harry rummaged through the pile of junk, but still couldn’t find a map of the sky. “I must’ve left it in the dormitory.”

“Come on, mate, don’t leave me to do this rubbish alone,” Ron urged him. “And what’s that?”

From the pile of papers, he fished out the already well-worn enchanted parchment that Harry had used to correspond with Draco.

“Nothing!” Harry tore the paper out of his hand and put it in his pocket. “Don’t touch anything, I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, “do you keep your rubbish in alphabetical order?”

Harry hurried into the bedroom. He had nothing to hide from his best friend, but he didn’t want him going through his stuff. After all, Harry didn’t even remember what he had in his bag.

The boys’ dormitory was silent. It was already dark outside—lights out would be soon. Harry went over to his bed and bent down to his trunk when something large and dark hit the windowpane with a loud crash. He jumped, startled, but at once realised it was only an owl. He ran to the window and flung it open. One look was enough to tell it wasn’t a school owl, but a wild one—mottled, ruffled, and looking terribly bad-tempered. It barely waited for Harry to untie the note from its leg before taking off again into the darkness.

Harry unfolded the crumpled piece of parchment.

Got a letter. Buckbeak’s to be executed after the exams. Don’t come, my friends. Don’t want you to see it. Thank you for everything.

Hagrid

Harry stared at the paper, not believing his eyes. The letters were blurring, refusing to form words. How? Hagrid had told him only this morning that the court had not made a decision. Clutching the note in his fist, Harry ran to the common room, taking the stairs two at a time.

Hermione was still hunched over the table, and Ron was holding crumpled scraps of paper. When he saw Harry, he exclaimed:

“Does he always call you ‘Scarhead’? How sweet—”

Harry silently handed him Hagrid’s letter. Ron, barely glancing at Hagrid’s uneven handwriting, exclaimed indignantly, but immediately quietened down, looking around. Hermione, worried about his reaction, raised her head and looked questioningly at the boys.

“What is it?—” she began, but after running her eyes over the lines, she paled. “Oh, Harry…”

Ron looked pointedly around the crowded living room.

“Come on,” he said, and the three of them headed for the boys’ empty dormitory.

As soon as they were inside, Ron let his feelings out:

“What do they think they’re doing? How? What happened? They passed sentence without Hagrid?”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione echoed tearfully. “Isn’t there anything we can do? It’s illegal!”

“There is!” said Harry. There was such conviction in his voice that his friends fell silent on cue and stared at him. “There is something we can do,” Harry continued more quietly. “Lucius Malfoy’s definitely involved. I’ll talk to Draco—maybe he can convince him.”

Hermione’s lips pursed in disbelief, and Ron immediately expressed his opinion on the idea.

“It’s all because of him! If he hadn’t acted like a fool back then, Hagrid wouldn’t have gotten into trouble!”

“But that doesn’t mean he wants Buckbeak to die either,” Hermione pointed out. “It might work out.”

“Not a chance!” Ron kept raging. “First he complains to his dad, and now what, he’s going to change his mind?”

“Actually, incidents with students are always reported to parents,” Hermione continued to insist. “Lucius would have found out anyway. Harry,” she turned to the boy, “this may be our only chance. If anyone can change Lucius’s mind, it’s his son.”

Harry had already taken the Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder’s Map out of his suitcase. He glanced at Neville’s alarm clock.

“There’s less than twenty minutes before curfew… The important thing is not to get caught by Filch.”

He unfolded the Map and whispered:

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Thin lines appeared on the parchment at once. He glanced quickly over the corridors—Filch wasn’t there yet; he was in his office. Snape was in his, too. And there was Draco—in the Potions lab. Alone.

Harry quickly rolled up the Map, put on his robes so that no one in the common room would ask where he was going, and slipped out into the corridor.

The castle was falling into the silence of the night, late-coming students hurrying to their common rooms. Down in the dungeons, the air was cool and smelled of damp. Harry stopped at the turn to the corridor of laboratories. Draco was always punctual, and it was no more than five minutes from here to the Slytherin common room, so he would be coming out of this corridor very soon. Harry prepared to wait, but at that moment a tall figure appeared around the corner. Malfoy, of course, couldn’t see Harry under the Invisibility Cloak, so he ran straight into him.

“Merlin!” he cried and jumped back against the opposite wall.

“It’s me!” Harry said hastily, pulling off his cloak and tucking it into his robes so that Draco wouldn’t have to talk to a floating head. “I need your help. Now!”

“I—” Draco began, but a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

“May I ask what you are doing so far from your common room after curfew, Potter?”

Snape’s cold voice echoed through the empty dungeon. His pale face was visible in the darkness, but his black-clad figure blended into the shadows. Harry pushed away the unpleasant association with ghosts and replied as confidently as he could:

“I needed Draco’s advice about tomorrow’s exam, Professor.”

“Hm,” said Snape, tilting his head to one side, and Harry winced at the false politeness in his tone. “I am willing to believe, Potter, that you require assistance beyond my subject. However, don’t you think this is an unfortunate time for it?”

Harry swallowed.

“I just—”

“Professor,” said Draco. “I’d forgotten that Potter and I had arranged to meet in the library. He’d arrived here uninvited, as usual. I was just about to—”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Mr Malfoy,” Snape interrupted. His voice turned completely icy as he faced Harry. “Potter, empty your pockets.”

“What?” Harry froze. “Professor, I—”

“Pockets, Potter. Now!”

Harry slowly pulled out everything he had: his wand, a couple of sweets, the wrapper from a Chocolate Frog, a caricature Draco had drawn a few days ago, a piece of parchment for writing to him, and the Marauder’s Map.

“What is it?” Snape quickly grabbed both pieces of parchment.

“It’s just a piece of parchment,” Harry replied calmly, avoiding Snape’s black eyes.

“Just parchment?” The professor’s voice was deceptively soft, but Harry could feel the threat beneath it. “And why are you carrying two blank scrolls around with you? Perhaps there’s something unpleasant hidden within them?”

“Professor,” Draco interjected again, “they’re just pieces of parchment from Zonko’s. They’re used for communication.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Communication? You mean to tell me Potter is corresponding with someone outside the castle?”

“No!” they shouted together.

“With me,” Draco added hastily.

“With you?” Snape’s surprise momentarily broke his polished restraint. “Then you too have a similar scroll?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Show it, please,” Snape ordered.

“I don’t have anything with me,” Draco shook his head.

“Well. So only Potter is willing to keep in touch at all hours of the day and, apparently, night. Remarkable loyalty. What else might he be carrying, Malfoy?”

Harry felt himself blush, but Draco merely shrugged indifferently.

“I’ve no idea, sir. I don’t keep an eye on his pockets.”

“Potter claims they’re just blank scrolls,” Snape continued. “Why do you think he might have needed them?”

If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Harry might have burst out laughing: Malfoy’s expression was priceless. From the raised eyebrows, he was visibly taken aback by the intellectual brilliance of his own Head of House.

“Why would a student at school need a piece of parchment, sir?” he said innocently, looking at Snape with his usual expression of mock politeness.

Snape realised he wasn’t going to get anything out of him, so he turned back to Harry.

“Why do you need two sheets, Potter?”

“Like we said, for correspondence,” Harry replied. “I just bought a new one.”

“For correspondence…” the professor repeated contemptuously and waved his wand over the Map. “I command you, parchment, to reveal your secrets!”

At first, nothing happened. The surface of the parchment remained smooth, and Harry hoped that Snape would achieve nothing and let him go. But then words slowly began to appear:

Mr. Mooney presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business."

Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugle git.

Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor.

Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball!

A deathly silence fell over the dungeon. Snape’s face turned a deep shade of purple, and Harry couldn’t help hoping he might actually have a stroke. No such luck.

“WELL!” the hiss that escaped Snape sounded like a steam kettle coming to the boil. “You little—”

It must have been only the presence of a witness that stopped the enraged professor from committing a probable crime. Snape drew a sharp breath through his nose, then turned and roared:

“Malfoy!”

The Slytherin, whose face was already the colour of a ripe tomato from barely restrained laughter, instantly straightened his shoulders and leaned forward eagerly.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Since you claim to have such a trinket as well, be so kind as to check. Perhaps your friend’s artefact will obey you better?”

“I— I don’t think so, sir,” Draco tried to object. “If this parchment is enchanted to insult everyone, then—”

“Mr Malfoy!” Snape barked, making Draco jump. He pulled out his wand and, approaching the parchment cautiously, waved it.

The new inscription appeared almost immediately:

Mr Moony greets the young heir of the Malfoy family and informs him that money and connections are unlikely to help him solve our mystery.

Mr Padfoot bows to the most pure-blooded family in England, but advises them not to stick their long noses into other people’s business.

Mr Wormtail advises the offspring of dear Lucius to look for a mirror, where he will find a much more interesting sight.

Mr Prongs joins in with all of the above and adds, “Get out of here, pretty boy!”

Draco stared at the parchment in silence, then looked up at Harry for a clue. Harry could only shrug helplessly.

“Yes, I’m sure it’s just a joke, sir. Zonko’s sells the same kind—they react to spells and give out nasty remarks.”

“That’s enough!” Snape thundered. The echo reverberated through the dungeon, making both boys shudder. “To my office. Now! I’ll find out what Potter does and why you’re,” he jabbed a long, gnarled finger at Draco, “covering for him!”

Suddenly, footsteps sounded behind them and a calm voice said,

“What’s going on here, may I ask?”

“Professor Lupin!” Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

Lupin quickly approached them and slightly raised his eyebrows when he saw the parchment in Snape’s hands.

“Potter is walking around the school with a dangerous artifact!” the Potions professor informed venomously.

“Well, dark artifacts are my line,” Lupin said calmly. “Let me have a look.”

He took the sheet, ran his eyes over the lines, and couldn’t help but smile a little.

“It looks like just a trinket from Zonko. Insulting to anyone who sticks their nose in.”

“That’s what I said!” Draco immediately interjected.

Snape stepped forward, reaching out his hand, but Lupin deftly tucked the parchment into his robes.

“Anyway, as a professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, it’s my responsibility to check this subject,” he said calmly. “By the way, Potter, I just wanted to discuss the upcoming exam with you. Don’t worry, I’ll walk you to the common room.”

Harry realized that he would not be able to talk to Draco today.

“Of course, Professor,” he said reluctantly. “Bye, Draco.”

Ignoring the dumbfounded Snape, he caught the Slytherin’s eye, hoping that he would somehow magically understand what Harry wanted to talk to him about. But Malfoy just pursed his lips, turned on his heel, and without saying goodbye to anyone or waiting for his professor, headed towards his common room.

Harry trudged after Lupin, feeling a sharp chill deep in his stomach. As soon as they entered the office, the professor pointed to a chair, and Harry dared not disobey.

“So…” the professor began angrily, not giving the boy a moment to collect himself. Harry had never seen Professor Lupin so furious. “Do you even realise how reckless you’re being?”

“I— I really needed to talk to Malfoy,” Harry muttered.

“At this hour? In the dungeons?” Lupin’s voice became firmer. “Sirius Black is around here somewhere, and you’re carrying a map that makes it easy to track you!”

“But you have to be able to open the map to do that,” Harry said. “Draco and Professor Snape couldn’t do it!”

Lupin didn’t say anything, but he gave Harry a hard look that made him realize that he wouldn’t be seeing the map again.

“Professor!” Harry exclaimed. “I really need to see Draco! He’s in the Slytherin common room. Maybe you could—”

“I think it can wait,” Lupin interrupted.

“You don’t understand! The thing is—”

“No, Harry, you don’t understand! Do you think your parents gave their lives for you just so you could take yours so foolishly?”

Harry felt the heat of shame flood his cheeks. But it was really about the life of another creature, and he wasn’t ready to back down.

“I understand, Professor,” he said, bowing his head. “I did it to help Buckbeak, Hagrid’s hippogriff. He’s being executed the day after tomorrow. It’s all Lucius Malfoy’s fault! If Draco can convince him to commute the sentence—”

“Lucius Malfoy is not easily swayed,” Lupin interrupted, but his tone softened slightly. “The best thing you can do right now is to rest.”

Harry wanted to object, but the professor’s steady, calm gaze made it clear that it was useless to argue.

“You’re right,” he replied. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Escorted like a criminal, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room. As soon as he set foot inside, Ron and Hermione pounced on him. Everyone had already gone to bed, and the friends were finally able to talk.

“How was it?” Ron asked hopefully.

“Nothing,” Harry replied grimly, collapsing heavily into a chair. “Snape ruined everything. And Lupin took my map.”

“I told you that map wouldn’t do any good—”

“Please, shut up, Hermione!”

Harry looked at his quarreling friends and felt a surge of determination. No matter what Lupin said, he was going to talk to Draco. Today! Of course, the professor might be able to track him on the map, but that didn’t matter. After all, he wouldn’t be doing it at night, when he had an exam to take from the older students in the morning. It was a done deal.

“I’m going to bed,” muttered Harry, and he went to his bedroom. His upset friends barely noticed his departure.

Later that night, when all the castle was silent and Harry was restless with anticipation—Ron, still angry with Hermione, had been tossing and turning for a long time, and Neville had woken several times to drink water—it was time to act. Harry sat up quietly in bed, waiting for a few minutes, staring into the darkness. The watch he wore for decoration on his arm was not working, but he could tell it was well past midnight. This meant Draco’s birthday had effectively arrived. Carefully lifting the sleepy kitten from the pillow, Harry tucked it into his shirt. After thinking about it, he decided not to look for a milk bowl—they had transfigured it themselves from a broken cup, and Draco would definitely come up with something. Throwing on his invisibility cloak, he slipped out of the bedroom, passed the living room, and went into the quiet hallway.

It was harder to walk without a map—there were suspicious shadows around every corner—but Harry felt he needed to talk to Draco in person. He had no idea what he was going to say, but it would have been even more difficult to put his thoughts on paper. No dry lines on parchment would be convincing enough.

Harry stopped beneath the archway leading to the Slytherin common room and stared at the solid stone wall. He remembered how, last year, Draco had personally let him and Ron into the Slytherin Holy of Holies, completely unaware of who he was actually letting in. There was a password to enter, but Harry didn’t know it. And what would he do once he was inside the common room? Would he go through every bedroom in turn? He looked at the blank, featureless wall once again. At least you could talk to the Fat Lady…

“I need to see Draco Malfoy,” he said uncertainly into the void, feeling like a complete fool.

Nothing happened.

“Hey… can someone call him?” Harry lowered his voice, but it still echoed through the hallway. “I do not know the password, but I really need to see him. It’s important, honestly!”

The minutes dragged by painfully slowly. When Harry had already lost all hope, the wall shook and part of it slid aside with a bang, revealing a dark opening. Draco was standing in the doorway.

He was holding a wand in his hand, pointing it defensively at the intruder’s face, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to think of him as threatening. Dressed in a long nightshirt, barefoot, and with a pillow mark on his cheek, Malfoy looked young and vulnerable. Harry stared at him, almost forgetting why he had come. The sight reminded him of the illustrations from Muggle children’s books, where elves were shown as enchantingly graceful forest creatures dancing in the moonlight.

“Have you gone mad?” said the beautiful elf crossly, rubbing his eyes. “It’s the middle of the night!”

“Buckbeak’s being executed!” Harry blurted out.

Draco frowned. Harry, who hadn’t closed his eyes yet today, waited patiently for his friend to wake fully and start thinking.

“So what?” he finally said.

“Please, we’ve got no one else to turn to! Talk to your father—he can convince the committee to call off the execution!”

“Be quiet!” Draco hissed at him, turning and casting a glance into the darkness of the living room. “You’re going to wake everyone up with your yelling!”

“I don’t care!” Harry waved his hand, lowering his voice a little. “You can talk to him!”

“Just drop it! I can’t, all right?”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Harry demanded. “He’s your father! He does everything for you. All you have to do is ask, and he’ll—”

“Shut up!” Draco interrupted, taking a step into the cold corridor. His angry tone was at odds with the desperate, even slightly frightened expression on his face. “You don’t understand anything, Potter!”

“Oh, sure, I don’t! I don’t have a father!”

“Exactly!”

They stared at each other, breathing hard. If by some miracle no one had noticed Harry on his way here, Filch would surely hear their shouting from the other side of the castle. The kitten under Harry’s pyjamas woke up and began to squirm in protest.

“Maybe,” Harry whispered, staring into Draco’s face, “you want Buckbeak to be killed.”

“I don’t!”

The tightness in Harry’s chest eased slightly. He hadn’t realized how important it was for him to know the answer to this question. But it was too late to back out.

He stepped forward and gently took his friend’s hand. The slender wrist under his fingers was warm from sleep. Draco shuddered at the cold touch and pulled away.

“You really don’t understand anything,” he said softly. “If I ask my father, he will understand… I mean… he will say that I have become weak.”

“So you’re just going to let Buckbeak die? Do you think that’s what it means to be strong?”

“I can’t do anything,” Draco replied tiredly, turning away.

The silence was thick and heavy. Water could be heard dripping in one of the underground corridors.

“Fine,” said Harry. “Brilliant.”

What had he even been thinking, coming here?

Without another word, he turned and started down the empty corridor. Then he remembered something. Turning back, he walked up to Draco again. In the flickering light of the torches, his eyes seemed as clear as water in a mountain stream. Carefully, Harry drew the sleepy kitten from inside his shirt.

“What are you—” Draco began, but Harry thrust the kitten into his hands.

In surprise, he reflexively grabbed the writhing creature and held it close.

“Happy birthday, Draco. I’m not sure if I should give you such a gift, but since you don’t welcome the execution of innocent animals… Anyway, if you don’t need it, take it to Hagrid.”

Harry headed out of the dungeon. He suddenly really wanted to get out into the air, away from this stone bag. And without a warm side under his shirt, it felt cold and dreary.

“Potter!” Draco called after him. He didn’t turn around. “Harry!”

Harry winced but only quickened his pace. Later, lying on his bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, he could still feel the burning gaze on the back of his neck.

Chapter Text

Love can make you feel so good,
When it goes like you think it should.
Or it can make you cry at night,
When your baby don't treat you right.

Buddy Holly

Harry was sitting on the floor at the entrance to the Divination Tower, staring blankly at his knees. There was still almost half an hour before the exam, and since students were being called up one at a time, there seemed to be plenty of time to finish the star chart. But the parchment lay beside him, carelessly rolled up, and Harry hadn’t even touched it.

The atmosphere was typical of an exam. Third-years from all four houses were crowded around the narrow spiral staircase, some sitting on the floor, others pacing nervously and muttering about the influence of Jupiter and Mercury. It looked as though half the school had taken Divination, and quite a few of them already regretted it—just like Harry and Ron. Others, like Lavender and the Patil twins, were whispering excitedly, waving their notes at each other and wondering what sort of prediction they’d get this time.

“Stupid Divination,” Ron muttered irritably. “If I’ve never predicted anything in class, how am I supposed to now? Should I say I’m foreseeing a excellent mark?”

Harry wasn’t listening. He’d been awake for most of the night, and when dawn came he’d got up with a pounding head and stumbled down to breakfast like a sleepwalker. His thoughts were muddled and disconnected.

Someone’s bag landed beside him with a dull thud. Harry looked up—and saw the person he’d been thinking about all night.

“You still haven’t finished, have you?” Malfoy drawled, as if nothing at all had happened yesterday. His pale eyes flicked over Harry’s rather crumpled chart. “You won’t make it in time. And Trelawney wouldn’t accept such a mess anyway.”

He reached for the parchment, but Harry snatched it away.

“I don’t need anything from you!”

Draco recoiled as though he’d been slapped. For an instant there was confusion in his eyes, but his lips quickly curved into their usual smirk.

“I’m just trying to be generous, you know,” he drawled. “Won’t do it anymore. Just don’t complain later when you get the Troll. Although you, Potter, are no stranger to looking thick.”

Without waiting for Harry’s reply, Draco turned back to his friends. Parkinson shot the Gryffindors a look of such scorn it made Harry’s skin prickle. Hadn’t she and Pansy been almost friendly only yesterday? Unthinkable.

Ron snorted, his eyes gleaming nastily.

“Coward,” he muttered with grim satisfaction.

Hermione seemed to be the only one who looked at Draco without malice—perhaps even with sympathy.

“Don’t you see?” she said quietly. “It’s not a good thing that he’s frightened of his own father.”

“Right,” Ron agreed. “That’s because he’s a coward.”

Hermione only shook her head, and Harry looked down at his scribbles again. He wasn’t angry or offended—just disappointed. Draco should have understood… But what if that thoughtful, vulnerable Draco existed only in Harry’s imagination? He wasn’t asking for anything impossible, only to stand up for a creature that didn’t deserve to die.

Harry tried to convince himself he was angry, but the more he thought about it, the more a heavy, sticky emptiness spread inside him. It was as though the Dementors had sucked out not only his joy, but his anger and hope as well, leaving him only tired.

With a sigh, he unrolled the chart and, pressing hard, drew a few random lines with his pencil, leaving deep grooves in the parchment. If he’d accepted Malfoy’s help, his work would probably have been among the best in the class. He could almost see it: neat angles, confident strokes that nearly tore through the parchment. Draco had probably drawn his chart on the very first evening—if there was anything in the school curriculum he loved almost as much as Potions, it was measuring angles. Harry was sure that if Muggle geometry were taught at Hogwarts, the Slytherin would have excelled in it. He tossed his pencil aside and folded the chart even more carelessly than before. To hell with it.

The exam had already begun, and Trelawney’s most devoted admirers were climbing the tower one by one. Coming back down, they beamed eagerly, rushing to share their visions with their friends. Harry, on the other hand, only wished it would be over quickly, so that he, Ron, and Hermione could finally finish the appeal—there was still a chance to save Buckbeak.

As if to spite him, a murmur rippled through the crowd.

“Malfoy—Malfoy’s coming!”

Of course, everyone still remembered Draco’s performance in that disastrous lesson. Even the older students had been talking about it. Malfoy himself, however, didn’t so much as blink. He tucked a rolled-up chart under his arm, gave the Slytherins a curt nod, and ran up the stairs. When the trapdoor closed behind him, the crowd fell silent at once. Harry suddenly had an overwhelming urge to get away—from the tower, from the whispers, from all of it. His stomach gave a sickening twist. Why did the wait feel so long? Surely Draco wouldn’t see something horrible in the crystal ball again… or would he?

There was no sound from above for several minutes. Then the trapdoor banged open and every head jerked up. Malfoy slid down the ladder and was greeted by dozens of eager faces.

“Well?” Parvati asked at once. “What did you see?”

Draco lazily ran a hand through his hair and surveyed them all with a look full of condescending disdain.

“Nothing,” he said. “Do you really believe all this rubbish?”

“Then how did you pass the exam if you didn’t see anything?” Lavender sneered.

“Had to improvise,” Malfoy said with a shrug. “Said I’d seen Trelawney die. Why not? She’s always predicting Potter’s death…”

For a moment, silence hung in the corridor—then Dean Thomas burst out laughing, clutching his sides.

“Oh, Malfoy,” he managed between gasps, “that’s brilliant.”

Harry felt the corners of his mouth twitching involuntarily. Even now, Malfoy had managed to make him laugh. But the smile quickly faded as he was certain that what Draco had said was not the whole truth.

***

During the break before the evening Herbology exam, Harry, Ron and Hermione dashed into the Great Hall, grabbed a sandwich apiece from the table and almost ran straight to the library.

Harry still felt slightly dazed, as though he hadn’t quite woken from a bad dream. Professor Trelawney’s strange words kept echoing in his already buzzing head:

The Dark Lord will rise again. His servant will return to him…

Of course, Harry had immediately told his friends what he’d heard.

“Well, if she’s really a Seer, then I’m Merlin himself,” Ron said flatly.

Hermione shook her head in disapproval but didn’t reply. Her brow was furrowed as she chewed her sandwich and scanned the bookshelves. Harry knew her look well: she had heard and understood everything, just didn’t have time for it right now, but she would come back to it later.

Almost no one else was spending their lunch break among the dusty shelves, so the library was quiet. Hermione at once began hunting for the right books, and soon a whole stack of books on legal studies and wizarding law sat on the table in front of them. Harry hadn’t even suspected that such books existed in the Hogwarts library.

Ron eagerly opened the one on top, but it soon became clear he’d overestimated himself.

“Ugh,” he groaned, pressing his palms to his eyes. “It’d be easier to take another of Snape’s exam. Remind me, Hermione, what exactly are we looking for?”

“We’re referring to Article Forty-six of the Magical Creatures Act,” she muttered without looking up. “The Committee had no right to pass a verdict without the defence being present—Hagrid. And if we find a similar case where the guardian wasn’t invited to the meeting, and the decision was later declared invalid, that will be a strong argument. In addition, the defence has every right to request a review of the ruling and an independent expert examination.”

“Yeah,” said Ron. “And you reckon the Committee doesn’t know its own laws?”

“The main thing,” Hermione said briskly, “is that they accept our appeal for consideration. That’ll at least delay the execution. We’ll have time…”

With renewed determination, the boys set to work—but soon Ron put his quill down again.

“It’s time. We’ve still got to get to the greenhouses.”

“You go on,” Hermione waved them off. “I’ll catch up.”

“No way!” Ron snapped. “I’ll stay with you. We’ve nearly finished this bit—”

“No! I mean, don’t even think about it—I’ll catch you up, all right? There’s just a little left to check. We can’t all be late for the exam, can we?”

Ron didn’t argue, and Harry was too preoccupied with his own thoughts. So when Hermione’s watch showed ten minutes to one, they both hurried outside.

Outside Professor Sprout’s greenhouses, all the third-year Gryffindors were already gathered. Harry hoped that the absence of green robes nearby would have a calming effect on him. As the students lined up along the long tables filled with pots, Ron looked around and leaned towards Harry.

“Where’s Hermione? She’s going to be late for the exam, and we’ll get into trouble for not dragging her there ourselves.”

“You won’t.”

Harry and Ron jumped in surprise and turned around.

“Hermione! You’re already here? But—”

“Of course! I couldn’t be late for the exam, could I?”

Harry and Ron nodded together. Of course she couldn’t.

While Professor Sprout was handing out the tasks, Harry’s thoughts drifted miles away. The hot, heavy air of the greenhouse didn’t help—it was hard to breathe, let alone think. And Hagrid’s hut was so near. Harry could hardly wait to go and tell him something encouraging. They would send the appeal by owl to the Wizengamot today, and everything would surely turn out all right…

But that wasn’t the only reason. As much as he worried about Buckbeak, Harry had another question gnawing at him: had Draco brought the kitten back to Hagrid, or had he kept it? For obvious reasons Harry couldn’t ask him, and it seemed wrong to bother Hagrid with something so trivial. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

As if in a dream, Harry immersed himself in completing the exam task. Fortunately, he hadn’t been assigned the most dangerous plant—the rattlesnake vine. Remembering the correct spell, he raised his wand and whispered:

“Calmora flora.”

The vine fell still at once, its coils slackening, and Harry carefully plucked three ripe pods. Then he transplanted it into a larger pot, taking care not to damage the roots, and dusted the soil with powdered dragon egg shell to encourage growth. He couldn’t quite remember how Professor Sprout had explained it in class, but the instructions in his head somehow sounded like Neville Longbottom’s voice. Harry trusted his imaginary Neville completely—after all, if anyone knew what he was doing, it was him. Professor Sprout, walking between the tables, gave Harry an approving nod and said he had a “light hand.”

As soon as they had received their marks—two Outstandings (Hermione, Harry) and an Exceeds Expectations (Ron)—the trio hurried down the slope to Hagrid’s hut. The door didn’t open at once. When it finally creaked ajar and the gamekeeper appeared in the doorway, the friends stepped back in shock: Hagrid looked broken and utterly miserable. His usually twinkling eyes were swollen and red.

“Аh, it’s yeh…,” Hagrid muttered hoarsely. “Well, c’mon in.”

Inside the hut was utter chaos: the furniture seemed to be out of place, the table was piled high with rolls of parchment, dirty dishes, and quills. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged a silent glance.

“Hagrid, we’ve written an appeal,” Hermione burst out. “I’ll read it to you—you might want to change or add something… Oh, and of course, we’ll need your signature.”

“My signature?” Hagrid repeated vaguely. He sank heavily onto a bench, which gave a pitiful creak under his weight. “Yeh… yeh wrote all this yerselves?”

“It’s all Hermione,” said Ron, shaking his head. “Though even she couldn’t’ve ploughed through that many dull old books on her own, so… yeah.”

Hagrid gave a great, wet sniff and, nearly knocking the table over, jumped to his feet to pull all three of them into a hug. His eyes were shining with tears, and when he wiped his face with his hand, he only managed to smear them across his cheeks and beard.

Hermione was the first to pull away and quickly took a rolled parchment from her pocket. She read the appeal aloud, and Harry—who had actually helped her write it—was amazed at how serious and grown-up it sounded. Hagrid listened carefully, then took the parchment from her as though it were some priceless relic and scrawled his enormous signature across the bottom. Stepping up to the window, he gave a deafening whistle, and a moment later a large, shaggy bird landed heavily on the sill. Harry recognised it at once as the owl that had brought him the note the day before. Ron stared at it in surprise.

“Blimey! It’s wild, isn’t it?”

“Wild?” Hagrid repeated, carefully fastening the rolled-up letter to the bird’s leg. “She’s tame as can be, my clever girl!”

The owl, half-hidden in his enormous hands, twisted her head impatiently and vanished into the air the moment he let her go.

“Will she manage all right?” Hermione asked anxiously. “I mean, school owls are specially trained to deliver letters—”

“She’ll manage,” Hagrid said with a nod.

He turned back to the table, and the friends had to shuffle aside to make room—the hut was far too small for such a large host.

“Well, we’ll show ’em!” Hagrid declared, thumping his mug down so hard that some of its thick, dark contents slopped onto the tablecloth. Harry decided he didn’t want to know what it was.

The gamekeeper’s mood brightened noticeably. He poured the trio some tea, thanking them over and over, and didn’t forget to ask about their exams. Hermione seemed to enjoy nothing more than talking about her studies. Ron gave her a little nudge when she got carried away, but he was smiling all the same.

For Harry, however, instead of sharing in the general cheer, a strange emptiness came over him. Although Buckbeak was still in danger and his anxiety hadn’t vanished, this brief respite allowed everything he had been suppressing all day to spill out. Harry sipped his tea in silence, the warmth stinging his tongue, and listened to the chatter around him, barely taking in a word. He ought to have felt relief. Instead, he was gripped by a sharp, almost tangible sense of loss—as if some important part of himself had been taken, ripped straight from his very soul.

It was stupid. Stupid and unfair to his friends. Ron and Hermione were the best thing that had ever happened to him. They ought to be enough. They always had been enough.

Eyes stung unpleasantly. Harry quickly lowered his head so that no one would notice.

“I’ll… go check on the cat,” he croaked, not looking at anyone, and slipped out the door.

The barn was warm and smelled of hay. The cat, curled up around her fiery-red kittens, didn’t so much as twitch an ear when Harry sat down beside her. The perpetually hungry kittens had just had a hearty meal, it seemed, and were now sleeping soundly, while their mother licked the one she could reach. Harry lingered, watching the peaceful scene. The mother cat didn’t seem at all upset that he had taken one of her kittens. Perhaps she sensed he’d been brought to a good home. The very best, if he thought about it. Harry stroked her smooth side, tracing the “M” on her forehead with his finger. The door creaked.

“Hermione, what should I do?”

“We’ve made a good appeal, Harry,” she said cheerfully. “Everything will be fine—”

“No,” he interrupted. “No, that’s not what I mean. I… I like him. I really do.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione finally whispered after a long pause.

Harry hadn’t felt so foolish in a long time. Foolish, ridiculous, and helpless. But he was grateful that Hermione hadn’t, as usual, started lecturing him. Still, when her narrow hand slid onto his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze, he felt a little calmer.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry was the first to wake. The sky outside the window was a dull grey, and the dormitory lay silent. Far below, in the kitchens, the house-elves were probably already clattering pots and pans, and the doors of the Great Hall were about to swing open for the hungry students. The earth kept on turning, and life went on as usual. For everyone—but not for Harry.

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make himself think about the Defence exam ahead, but his thoughts were tangled and looping in circles. He was frightened—not the way one feels before an exam, but with clammy hands and a heart that refused to slow. Over and over, he turned the two possible ways out of his predicament over in his mind, yet each time they led him to a dead end.

Unhappy Option No. 1: don’t tell Draco about his… embarrassing discovery. Just forget it, pretend nothing had changed. But that would mean keeping it all bottled up inside. Awful, because Harry hated keeping anything from his friends with all his heart.

Hopeless Path No. 2: tell the truth and almost certainly lose Draco as a friend forever.

It was that almost that frightened Harry most. Draco had made it plain he wasn’t interested in anything of the sort, and yet… Harry’s cheeks grew warm. He tried to push the thought away, but somewhere deep down a frail, stubborn hope had begun to take root—that perhaps Draco felt the same. Just a little? He’d let Harry hold his hand so many times, though Harry hadn’t thought much of it back then.

Now, looking back, Harry saw their friendship in a different light. What if he hadn’t been that forgiving and noble Gryffindor, giving Draco a chance to show his better side, but had simply forgiven him for a single genuine smile? He wasn’t sure of anything anymore—except that romance (he winced at the word) wasn’t for him. That belonged to another world entirely: to the older students sneaking off into hidden corners of the castle or meeting in Hogsmeade for dates. So grown-up… Harry had never pictured himself among them. But tomorrow they would officially begin their fourth year—a turning point between childish mischief and something more serious, where they’d have to start thinking about the future. No, he wasn’t ready for such grown-up things. And neither, Harry thought, was Draco. They were only boys still, too proud and too stubborn to admit how much they missed each other.

Harry clutched the blanket tightly in his fist. What was the point of tormenting himself with impossible fantasies when he and Draco weren’t even speaking? They’d split into two mismatched pieces, like parts from different construction sets—you simply couldn’t fit them together. Not that Harry had ever owned a construction set in his life.

He just needed to get up and get through the day. If he stayed like this, he’d grow into the bed like moss. He’d become part of the room itself and frighten the third-years every year, just like Moaning Myrtle.

No, that wouldn’t do. He had to get up. He could, if he stopped thinking and simply started acting. All he had to do was get up, pull on his uniform, fasten his robes, pack his notes, and slip his wand into his pocket. Step into the Great Hall, smile, and no one would notice a thing. Except Hermione, of course. She had seen just yesterday what a trembling wreck Harry had become because of his own foolish heart. Wonderful, perceptive Hermione, who had found a little time in her hectic schedule to give him support.

With one precise movement, like that of a mechanical doll, Harry threw off the blanket and stood. The sudden motion made his head swim for a second, but he still marched off to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and even managed to comb his hair—more or less. When he noticed—or rather, felt on his skin—Malfoy’s gaze in the Great Hall, Harry found the strength to meet it openly and didn’t even gloat when the Slytherin faltered and turned away.

Professor Lupin’s final Defence exam was so absorbing that Harry almost forgot his worries. The obstacle course they had to complete consisted of several tasks involving different magical creatures. To succeed, the students had to think carefully about each move, showing both cleverness and quick reflexes. Harry passed all the trials with remarkable ease: deftly fending off the grindylows and emerging victorious in his encounter with the boggart. At the finish line, Lupin greeted Harry, tousled and flushed from the adrenaline coursing through his veins, tried to catch his breath.

“Excellent work, Harry,” said the professor quietly.

Well, that certainly made Harry feel far more confident than he had that morning. So he steeled himself and asked casually, as if in passing, desperately trying to appear nonchalant:

“I heard Slytherin had an exam yesterday… Could you tell me what Draco Malfoy got?”

“Oh, he did splendidly,” said Lupin with a smile. “The most confident Outstanding all day.”

No questions like ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ for which Harry was truly grateful. He felt a smile tug at his lips. Of course Draco had done well. They’d trained together, after all, and Malfoy was good—clever and cunning; he could probably handle the creatures not just with the standard textbook methods, but with a bit of ingenuity as well. Well, that was exactly one of the traits Harry had always admired in him…

Harry nodded gratefully to Lupin and settled in to wait for Ron and Hermione. Both of them completed the task fairly quickly, though not without a few mistakes. The trio just managed to make it to lunch, discussing on the way that they ought to drop by Hagrid’s, when they were met at the main doors by the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. And the Executioner.

***

The friends hid from prying eyes at the edge of the clearing, where the green castle lawns met a patch of tall grass and scattered bushes, and beyond that, the Forbidden Forest began. The air was warm and still, carrying the scent of dust, sun, and freshly cut hay.

Ron was darting around the clearing like a scalded snake, kicking at the grass in a fury and cursing the entire judicial system, the Minister of Magic in particular, and especially the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. He wanted to tell Fudge exactly what he thought about the Ministry’s corruption to his face, but Hermione gave him a timely nudge in the ribs and sensibly led him away. Behind another clump of grass lurked a small mound, which Ron kicked with all his might—and leap into the air with a furious yell, unleashing a colourful string of curses as he went.

“Ron, don’t swear,” Hermione said automatically. She was sitting on the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking as though she’d just been hit over the head with a dustbag.

“How can I not?” Ron’s voice was shaking, and his face was flushed with anger. “It’s all… it’s all Malfoy! Both of them! Harry, don’t even try to convince me otherwise. If your precious Draco—” Harry, who hadn’t really been trying, flinched and looked up from the blades of grass he’d been nervously plucking, but Ron wasn’t looking at him. “—if he’d at least tried to talk to his father, maybe we wouldn’t even need that appeal, and—and—oh, to hell with it!”

Ron finally gave up and waved his hand in defeat. He dropped heavily onto the grass beside Hermione and stared gloomily at Hogwarts, sprawled across the hill in the distance. Harry didn’t have an answer, but Ron wasn’t expecting one—there weren’t words in any language that could ease the kind of despair born from the world’s sheer unfairness. The hot June sun was already sinking towards the horizon, and a fresh breeze, promising a cool night, chased clouds across the sky. In about an hour, the castle would be bathed in golden light. Hagrid had said the execution would take place at sunset… He couldn’t be left to face it alone.

“Where’s your Invisibility Cloak?” Ron asked quietly.

Harry got to his feet. In silence, the three of them set off towards Gryffindor Tower—if you were going to sneak out of the castle after dark, you’d best be prepared.

Chapter Text

The meeting with Hagrid went as expected. It probably couldn't have been any other way. The gamekeeper greeted them in silence, and it was even worse than if he had been crying or smashing furniture. He let them into the house and sat down at the table, hiding his face in a huge palm. He looked so tired and old. Harry had never thought before that their friend was already at an advanced age, at least by Muggle standards. His friends had no idea how to support him, what to say, and they themselves felt disgusting.

Even Ron's reunion with a living and almost healthy Scabbers—the reason for his strained relationship with Hermione over the past few months—did not cheer up the friends. It turned out that the rat had been hiding in Hagrid's hut all this time, and Hermione had discovered it quite by accident. Maybe at another time she would have lifted her chin triumphantly and exclaimed, "I told you so!" but now she had absolutely no time for that. Hagrid kicked them out before the Committee for the Disposal arrived. Slipping out through the back door of the house, the trio, hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, headed back to the castle, barely moving their feet, although they had to hurry. The rays of the setting sun shone obliquely on Hogwarts, playing with reflections on the drainpipe of Hagrid's house. In the soft light of the sunset, the feathers of Buckbeak, tethered in the garden among the pumpkins, turned golden and crimson. The fairy-tale picture made what was happening even more unreal—as if nature itself had decided that this evening should be special for the hippogriff.

Hermione sobbed all the way to the castle, Harry looked sullenly at his feet, and Ron unsuccessfully struggled with the suddenly furious Scabbers, trying to keep him in his pocket. When the rat twisted around once more and almost jumped out, Ron grabbed him tighter, raised him to eye level to peer into his shameless face, and…

"You!"

Harry was startled by Ron's shout and turned around. His friend's gaze was directed up the hill to where the ruins of some buildings stood on a small platform—the remains of a former civilization. There, among the stone slabs protruding from the ground, stood Malfoy. He was motionless, leaning back against a huge boulder, and in the fading evening light he resembled a ghost—he had no blood in his face and his light clothes looked like a shroud from a distance.

"Ron, don't," Hermione whispered quickly, but Ron had already shoved Scabbers back into his pocket, slipped out from under the cloak and strode towards Malfoy.

"Wait," Harry also made a feeble attempt to stop his friend. At the sight of Malfoy, all strength suddenly left the Gryffindor—it was hard to even move his tongue.

Hermione ran after Ron, and Harry was left alone in the refreshing silence of the evening. For a moment, he desperately wanted to be anywhere but here. But he still moved forward, dragging his feet with difficulty through the tall grass.

Draco didn't leave. He didn't want to or didn't have time—in the next instant Ron was next to him and pushed him in the chest. The Slytherin didn't even try to defend himself, only grabbing Ron's arm to steady himself.

"You!" Ron snarled. "You're here to gloat, aren't you?"

"Ron—" Hermione began warningly.

Draco interrupted her, speaking through gritted teeth:

"Shut up, Weasley."

Ron took a threatening step towards him:

"Satisfied, aren't you? Well, your daddy got his way!"

The Slytherin and the Gryffindor stood so close that their foreheads were almost touching, breathing heavily and glaring at each other. Harry looked from one to the other as if he were watching a Ping-Pong match. The last thing he wanted was to break up a fight between two people who were important to him. No matter what had happened, he still considered Draco important. Harry knew that the other boy was not only angry but also embarrassed, because his entire face and neck were flushed, not just his cheeks. He knew that the thin, translucent sweater made from the hair of some magical creature and the linen trousers were an attempt to protect himself from the scorching sun, to avoid being slathered from head to toe in protective potion. Harry knew too much, and it was driving him insane. The strain of the last few days had exhausted him. Normally, Harry wasn't opposed to letting his emotions out, but today all he wanted was to lie down right there on the rocks and merge with the moss, to cease existing for just a minute. Ron, on the other hand, was filled with energy.

"I told Harry we couldn't expect anything good from you!" he exclaimed. "You're just a coward!"

Draco's face twisted into a pained grimace. He took a quick look at Harry, stepped up to Ron, and shoved him in the chest. Ron, as if he had been waiting for this, pushed him back and continued in a voice ringing with rage:

"Oh, yeah! You're a coward, just like your dad! Using a whole Ministry department to kill a harmless creature..."

"Not so harmless," Harry thought.

"Stop it!" Hermione exclaimed with tears in her voice, but no one was listening to her.

"A coward?" Malfoy's face turned even redder, and his eyes flashed.

"And who?" Ron didn't back down. "Afraid of his own father—"

"What do you understand! Your father won't scare a Bowtruckle!"

"Oh, so?!"

Harry didn't understand who rushed forward first, but in the blink of an eye they grappled and almost rolled down the hill.

"Ouch!"

Hermione screamed, pressing her hands to her mouth. Malfoy recoiled from Ron, his sweater stained with a splash of scarlet.

"What the hell was that?" he exclaimed and put his bleeding finger in his mouth.

Ron stared at him in disbelief, forgetting about the rat. It immediately wriggled out of his pocket and scurried down, but Ron managed to catch it near the ground. He shoved it back in his pocket, and it was not without a struggle.

Harry, staring at the bloodstain, took a hypnotized step towards Draco. He could almost feel how intensely Malfoy was watching him in return.

"Draco—" he said uncertainly, holding out his hand, but Draco roughly pushed it away.

"Piss off, Potter!" he said through clenched teeth. "I'm not going to die from a damn rat bite!"

Malfoy ostentatiously took a small vial of potion out of his pocket and gulped it down.

Harry wanted to scream. During these three years, any interaction they had with Malfoy could have ended in shouting, quarreling, and sometimes fighting, but today, right now, he didn't want that at all. Standing face to face with the boy who occupied all his thoughts, Harry realized he couldn't remain silent, or he would simply burst. But he also couldn't put his feelings into words. The air became thin, and his head began to spin. What a stupid day…

Ron, caught up in his desperate fight with the rat, yelled as Scabbers bit his arm, too.

"Will you calm down, you fool!"

"What's wrong with it?" Draco exclaimed in surprise, dodging the rat that had darted towards him and the Weasley chasing it. "Is it rabid? Am I going to die of rabies now?"

Harry had little idea how people died from rabies. How they bled to death, for that matter, too— so he watched Malfoy's condition carefully, watching for any sign he might lose consciousness or something of the sort. It seemed the potion was working: the blood was beginning to clot without spilling from the wound.

"Don't touch him, Ron!" Hermione tried to intervene. "What if he's really sick?"

"You're sick yourself! That's my rat!" said Ron indignantly. "Scabbers, come back!.."

A door slammed somewhere below. For a few seconds, only the echo of men's voices could be heard over the meadows, and then the air was cut by the sharp, whip-like whistle of an axe.

Harry felt as if his consciousness was leaving him. It just can't be real, right? Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Malfoy's short cry, saw Hermione's legs give way. Standing on either side of the girl, Draco and Ron instinctively grabbed her by the arms.

"How…" she muttered, as if in delirium. "How dare they?"

The horror pinned everyone to the spot. They froze in a picturesque group, the three of them clinging to each other, and Harry standing awkwardly next to them. Even Scabbers, which Ron had shoved back in his pocket, had quieted down.

Hermione sucked in a shuddering breath and sobbed. Draco backed away from her, raising his hands in a defensive gesture, but no one paid any attention to him. Except Harry, of course. He noticed him stealthily wiping his wet eyes with his palm. It was such a clumsy, childish move, completely unsuitable for Draco, who always tried to appear older than he was. But now Harry could see clearly what a child he still was. All of them. Hagrid was right: they really shouldn't have come here. Tears were streaming down Hermione's face. Ron hesitantly hugged her, and she hid her face on his shoulder. Scabbers, taking advantage of the fact that everyone had forgotten about him, slipped out of the pocket and plopped down onto the grass.

"What's wrong with you?" Ron exclaimed irritably. Hermione and Draco immediately shushed him: the procession in the courtyard below could easily hear them.

The rat scampered up towards the castle, weaving through bushes and stone debris. Ron ran after it.

"Hey, Granger!"

Hermione turned to Draco, and so did Harry. The boy was pointing at something in the thick grass.

"Crookshanks? Come here, kitty-kitty-kitty!" Hermione called, but the cat did not deign to look at her.

"Come on, there it is!" Draco was encouraging Crookshanks in turn.

It seemed the cat followed his instructions much more willingly. At the last second, Ron snatched the rat right out from under the red nose and hugged it to his chest. He kicked the cat away and tried to stand up, holding Scabbers tightly with both hands.

"Ron, get under the cloak!" Hermione called to him in a loud whisper, annoyed, even though they were already making such a fuss that they could probably be heard on the other side of the Forbidden Forest. She and Harry had just managed to catch up with Ron, taking two steps for each leap of his long legs. Malfoy trailed behind. He was probably wondering if Crookshanks would eat the rat or not, and he didn't want to be alone in the approaching darkness.

And then it appeared: a black shadow, barely visible in the gathering dusk. It slipped out of the darkness of the forest, as if born from it. With one giant leap, it appeared on the scene, separating the friends from each other, and only then did Harry realize that it was a huge, shaggy dog. Instinctively, he stepped back and bumped into Malfoy, who immediately grabbed his shoulder. Harry reached for his wand, but before he could utter a single spell, the animal lunged among them. Malfoy managed to draw his wand, but the flash he threw barely touched the black fur. Powerful jaws snapped.

"Ron!" Hermione screamed in horror. She too had pulled out her wand, but the dog was too fast. They only had time to see Ron's contorted face before he, and the dog, vanished into the darkness. However, it was quite easy to determine the direction in which the dog had dragged Ron: Ron wasn't going to give up and was trying to fight off the beast, which was tearing through the bushes at the edge of the forest with a guttural growl. Without a word, Harry and Hermione rushed after them.

"Wait!"

Harry, who had already been mentally racing into the forest, fueled by fear and adrenaline, jolted at the loud shout and stopped. He turned to face Malfoy, who was as white as a sheet. The Slytherin had regained a sliver of composure and added, more quietly:

"Are you insane? We need to call for help!"

"We're out of time! It's going to eat Ron!" Harry shot back.

Hermione turned and flashed her eyes angrily.

"Well, what are you waiting for?! Hurry!"

For a moment, Harry was torn between rushing into the night and staying. The choice was obvious: Ron needed to be rescued, now! But how could he leave Malfoy alone here in the horror-infested darkness?

Hermione's patience had finally run out. She waved her hand irritably, and her gaze could have incinerated a basilisk.

"Then I'm going alone!"

She turned around and rushed to where the sounds of fighting could still be heard. Without thinking any more, Harry raced after her, the light from his wand beam bouncing ahead. Small twigs crunched under his feet, but he immediately heard footsteps and heavy breathing behind him.

"What are you doing?" Harry gasped as Malfoy caught up with him.

"Damn Gryffindors!" he muttered, not listening to Harry. His voice was choked with running and barely contained anger. "Stupid, heroic Gryffindors..."

"Go to the castle, it's dangerous!" Harry barked, trying to pull away from him.

"Piss off, Potter, I'm not made of glass!" Malfoy snapped, and Harry caught a glimpse of his face flaming with annoyance. He'll probably want to do something reckless just to prove his resilience, that's for sure. "Anyway, where do you suggest I go in this dark? You saw who might be hiding in it!"

Somewhere ahead, there was a loud noise and the crunch of breaking branches.

"Ron, we're coming!" Hermione shouted.

Harry felt a cold sweat trickle down his back, even though his whole body was burning from running. He picked up his pace, but stumbled into a wall of thorny bushes. He and Draco had to slow down to get around the unexpected obstacle.

"Besides," the Slytherin continued, as if nothing had happened, deftly jumping over the thorns, "I'm going to make sure you don't get yourself killed today."

"What?"

"You heard me," Malfoy's condescending tone was slightly marred by his shortness of breath. "If you're so fond of risking your stupid life—fine, but I won't have you dying in some idiotic way, got it?"

"Won't have me? How?"

"Since Dumbledore lets you wander wherever you please, I'll just have to ensure you don't lose your life in the most pathetic way possible," Draco shrugged, his voice laced with feigned indifference. "And what's more, I want to tell fascinating stories at your graveside. I need the inspiration."

Harry was stunned into silence, pushing through the undergrowth. On the other side, they almost bumped into Hermione, who was frozen in place. The wand in her hand was shaking, but even in its uneven light, they could make out a dark, floundering tangle on the ground. The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood up: only a few yards away, Ron, his face contorted with horror, was desperately trying to escape from the mouth of the monstrous dog that was clutching his hand. Before anyone could do anything, they both vanished. At first, Harry didn't understand where they could have disappeared to, but then the light from his wand picked out a ragged, dark hole in the ground, like the burrow of some enormous animal. The entrance was framed by the pale, snakelike roots of a gnarled tree.

"I've realised what this all reminds me of," announced Malfoy.

"What?" Hermione's curiosity was strong, even in this situation.

"Well, what? 'Four little soldier boys going out to sea. A red herring swallowed one and then there were three'...

"Oh, stop trying to frighten me!" said Hermione angrily.

"Think about it: where did Potter's Grim come from? It's as if someone deliberately wants to separate us. This bungler is going to climb into that hole now, and we'll be left—"

Harry didn't even have time to take offence at 'bungler', because the Slytherin was interrupted by a loud whistle, like that of a flying projectile. A moment later, something reached a target with a dull thud, knocking a word out of Malfoy that Harry had never heard from him before. Even in the heat of an argument, he never stooped to profanity; Harry couldn't imagine he even knew such words.

Hermione shrieked in fright. Something smooth and hard whistled past Harry's face, bringing a gust of cold air, and then slapped his cheek with the force of a horse's hoof. 'Draco was putting it mildly,' Harry thought, when stars exploded behind his eyes. Stunned, he stumbled back, away from the whipping, smooth limbs. He raised his wand, which he still clutched in his hand, and in its trembling light saw Hermione clutching her split shoulder, while Malfoy lay on the ground, pressing a hand to his face. Instantly assessing the situation, Harry rushed to the fallen boy, crouched down, and carefully lifted his head, cupping the sharp chin. His fingers slid over something viscous—under the potion's influence, the blood seemed thicker and hotter than usual. Draco's eyes were screwed shut, and his lips were compressed in pain, but the wound crossing his eyebrow didn't look too serious. Harry froze awkwardly, unsure what to do with his hands. Malfoy pushed him away and sat up, breathing heavily.

"It's a bloody Whomping Willow!" he spat.

It was a miracle none of them had lost an eye or a tooth in the encounter. Hermione was circling the tree, keeping a safe distance.

"What do we do?" she wailed. "Ron! Ron!.."

A shadow moved through the grass between them.

"Crookshanks?" Hermione asked, lowering her wand arm. "What are you doing here? Stay back, it's dangerous!"

Crookshanks ignored her. He padded right up to the trunk of the crazed tree. A moment later, the branches slowed their thrashing, as if the air around them had turned to jelly. The tree shuddered and stilled, giving a final shake of its scanty foliage. Harry suspected nothing would hold this mad plant for long. Draco, as if he'd read his mind, shouted:

"Now! Quickly!"

Hermione took a determined breath and scrambled towards the hole. At the last moment, a thin, frightened cry escaped her as she dropped into the darkness. Harry slid in after her, fell several feet, and nearly broke his neck, crashing into Hermione as she tried to get her bearings in the low, dark tunnel.

As they fumbled, trying to roll away from each other, a piercing scream rang out from above. Harry barely managed to dodge a collision with Malfoy's sharp elbow, but immediately banged his hand against the protruding hipbone. Not a boy, but a weapon of mass destruction!

Grunting and spitting out dirt, all three scrambled to a safe distance. One by one, they lit the tips of their wands, and a cold light illuminated the cramped space they found themselves in. A narrow earthen tunnel led away into darkness, smelling of damp and mystery.

"That was a damn shitty idea," Malfoy grumbled, nervously running his wand light over the earthen vault. Harry no longer flinched at the Muggle swear words, but it was still strange to hear them.

"Ron!" Hermione shouted into the darkness. "We're coming!"

Hunched over, they moved forward. For some reason, it seemed to Harry that the tunnel must be very long, since it was so narrow. With every step, he became more and more convinced he was right.

"We're probably already somewhere under Hogsmeade," he muttered.

"Stop!" Malfoy, who was behind him, tugged at his sleeve. "Do you hear anything?"

Harry froze and listened.

"No."

"Exactly! Maybe Weasley's beyond help now."

Harry pulled away from him indignantly.

"If you don't want to, don't go. Wait for us here."

"I don't want to!" Malfoy snapped. "But I don't want to stay here, either. If we all die over this Weasley and his rat, I'll—"

He didn't finish: something soft and undeniably alive brushed against their legs. Malfoy jumped, banged his head on the low ceiling, and froze, pressing himself against the wall. Crookshanks strode proudly past them, gave a flick of his bushy tail, and disappeared into the dark depths of the tunnel.

"Come on!" Hermione ordered in a loud whisper, and Harry moved after her. Judging by the disgruntled sighs from behind, Draco was following too. Harry still didn't understand why Malfoy had come with them. He didn't care about Ron, and he certainly cared about his own safety and comfort. Was he really worried about Harry? Well, no, he would never admit it outright. He probably just wanted to needle him in retaliation for yesterday's rudeness. And yet, how nice it was to think that it might be true…

The path was long, but the fiery red tail, like a torch, flashed ahead, urging them on. When it had begun to seem like they were about to tunnel straight through the Earth, with the next stop being Australia, a light glimmered up ahead. Harry let out a shaky breath and raised his wand. As he exited the tunnel, he glanced back and saw that Draco had his wand raised, too.

The light was streaming from a single, very shabby-looking room. The only piece of intact furniture seemed to be a staircase in the far corner. Harry and Hermione, without a word, crept towards it and ascended to the second floor. Harry could feel Malfoy's presence at his back, pale as a ghost and covered in dirt. But his tall stature and the wand held ready gave Harry a strange sense of confidence.

The state of the second floor was no better than the first. Amid the chaos of what was clearly a former bedroom, Ron was sitting on the floor. His face was contorted and had taken on a sickly, greenish hue. Harry rushed to him.

"Ron!"

"Harry, stop!" he exclaimed, trying to get to his feet. "It's a trap! It's... it's him!"

Harry spun sharply towards the room's only corner that wasn't visible from the door. A dark figure detached itself from the wall and stepped into the light. Harry had seen this man's face many times in the newspapers that year.

It was Sirius Black.