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First Year
Harry Potter's first impression of Draco Malfoy was all pointed chin and sneering superiority. On the Hogwarts Express, Malfoy had sauntered into the compartment with Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him, offering his hand with a drawl: "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort."
Harry hadn't taken the hand. From that moment, they were oil and fire. Malfoy mocked Harry's fame, his friends, his everything. Harry fired back at Malfoy's pure-blood obsession and his father's influence. By Christmas, they were trading hexes in corridors and glares across the Great Hall. Hatred felt simple, clean, inevitable.
Second Year
The Quidditch pitch was slick with rain after Slytherin crushed Gryffindor. Harry, soaked and furious, stormed toward the changing rooms when Malfoy intercepted him, flanked by his usual bodyguards.
"Enjoy the mud, Scarhead?" Malfoy sneered, but there was less venom than usual, perhaps because Slytherin had won fairly this time.
Harry shoved past him. "Save it, Malfoy."
But Malfoy followed, surprisingly alone now. "Wait, Potter." His voice was lower. "That save you made in the third loop… how did you even see the Snitch through the rain?"
Harry stopped, startled. It almost sounded like... respect? "Luck," he muttered.
Malfoy scoffed, but it lacked heat. "Right. Luck." He hesitated, then added, "Next time, try not to almost die doing it."
Harry blinked. Malfoy was already walking away, shoulders hunched against the downpour. It wasn't friendship, not even close, but it was the first time Malfoy had spoken to him without an insult attached. A tiny crack had appeared in the wall between them.
Third Year
Third year brought Dementors, Sirius Black, and a thousand new worries. But Harry found his eyes drifting across the Great Hall more often, landing on the Slytherin table.
Malfoy had changed over the summer. The baby fat was gone from his face; his cheekbones had sharpened, his jawline defined. The slicked-back hair that once looked greasy now caught the candlelight like pale silk. When he laughed--rarely, genuinely--it transformed his whole face.
Harry hated that he noticed. He told himself it was just observation, like studying an opponent's weak spots. But sometimes, in Potions, when Malfoy leaned over his cauldron and his sleeves rode up, revealing slim forearms, Harry's stomach did an uncomfortable flip.
He shoved the thoughts down. Malfoy was still a git. A handsome git, maybe, but still a git.
Fourth Year
The Triwizard Tournament dominated everything, but the moments between grew... different.
During the Yule Ball preparations, Harry overheard Malfoy complaining to Pansy Parkinson about dress robes. "They make me look like my great-aunt Tessie," Malfoy groaned.
Harry, hidden nearby, snorted before he could stop himself. Malfoy's head snapped around.
"Got something to say, Potter?"
Harry shrugged, surprising himself. "Yours can't be worse than mine. They look like my Aunt Petunia's curtains."
Malfoy stared. Then, to Harry's astonishment, he laughed. A real laugh. "Mine have lace cuffs. Actual lace."
They stood there for a moment, sharing something almost like commiseration. Later, when Harry struggled with the golden egg's screeching, he found a note slipped into his bag: Try running it underwater, Scarhead. -DM
Harry did. It worked. He never thanked Malfoy, but the next time their eyes met across the library, Harry gave a small nod. Malfoy's answering smirk looked almost pleased.
Fifth Year
Umbridge's regime made strange allies of everyone. When she gave Harry detention for "lying" about Voldemort's return, Malfoy, serving as Inquisitorial Squad member, found him bleeding in the corridor afterward.
"You're an idiot, Potter," Malfoy said quietly, pressing a clean handkerchief into Harry's hand. "Writing 'I must not tell lies' a hundred times?"
Harry stared at the offered cloth. "Why are you helping me?"
Malfoy's gray eyes flicked away. "Because watching Umbridge torture the 'Savior of the Wizarding World' is... distasteful." He paused. "And maybe because you're not entirely wrong about... things."
It was the closest Malfoy had ever come to admitting doubt about his father's beliefs. Harry took the handkerchief. Their fingers brushed, and neither pulled away immediately.
They never spoke of it openly, but the hatred had thinned into something complicated.
Sixth Year
Sixth year was darkness and secrets. Malfoy looked haunted--pale, thinner, with dark circles under his eyes. Harry obsessed over what he was doing, following him with the Marauder's Map.
One night in the Astronomy Tower, Harry found him crying.
"Malfoy?"
Malfoy whirled, wand raised, face blotchy. "Get out, Potter."
But Harry didn't. He saw the terror in Malfoy's eyes, the impossible task weighing on him. "You're not a killer," Harry said quietly.
Malfoy's wand trembled. "You don't know anything."
"I know you." Harry stepped closer. "You're not your father, Malfoy."
Something broke in Malfoy's expression. He dropped his wand and surged forward, crashing their mouths together in a desperate, clumsy kiss.
Harry froze for half a second, then kissed back fiercely. It tasted like salt and fear and six years of tension finally snapping.
They broke apart, gasping. Malfoy looked wrecked. "This changes nothing," he whispered.
"Everything," Harry corrected.
But war was coming, and everything was about to change anyway.
After the War
The Battle of Hogwarts left scars on everyone. Harry testified at Malfoy's trial--spoke of the moments Malfoy had lowered his wand, had chosen not to kill Dumbledore. They didn't see each other for months afterward.
Then, one gray autumn day in Diagon Alley, they collided outside Flourish and Blotts.
"Potter," Malfoy said stiffly. He looked different, his hair longer, no longer slicked back, wearing simple black robes. Handsome in a quiet, grown-up way that made Harry's chest ache.
"Malfoy." Harry shifted awkwardly. "You... look well."
A ghost of the old smirk. "You look like you haven't slept in years."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid: the kiss, the war, the choices.
Finally, Malfoy spoke. "I never thanked you. For the trial."
"You don't have to."
"I do." Malfoy took a breath. "I've spent a lot of time thinking. About everything."
Harry's heart pounded. "And?"
Gray eyes met green steadily. "I don't know what this could be. But I'd like to find out. If you're willing to try."
Harry stepped closer, close enough to see the faint scar on Malfoy's--Draco's--throat from the Sectumsempra curse years ago.
"I'm willing," Harry said softly.
Draco's hand rose hesitantly, fingers brushing Harry's. This time, neither pulled away.
It wasn't a fairy tale ending. It was awkward and uncertain and full of old wounds. But it was theirs: a beginning forged from years of enmity, slowly transmuted into something new.
Something worth trying for.