Chapter Text
Time moved slower than nowhere. Harry sighed longingly, imagining flying over the Quidditch pitch with Ron. Malfoy, working about ten metres away, turned and shot him a murderous look that clearly said: "Remind you whose fault this is?" Harry hadn't forgotten. But, to be fair, was it entirely his fault?
Why were they – war veterans, healthy eighth-years – being punished like misbehaving schoolchildren? So they'd bickered with Malfoy three times this week. So they'd blown up a couple of cauldrons. Big deal. A few lines would have sufficed. Instead, they'd locked them in a three-by-ten greenhouse on a weekend.
It all started with a textbook. There were only a few, one per pair. One remained on the shelf, meaning one of them would have to join someone else's established team. Malfoy, who usually worked with Zabini, knew this and was determined to get the book at all costs. Harry, on the other hand, was unlucky. He was alone – Neville, his usual potions partner, had overslept – so Malfoy had the advantage, but it was worth a try. After all, no harm in asking.
He hadn't accounted for Malfoy's nasty temper and the fact that he didn't like to share, didn't know how, and had no intention of learning. That was why the Slytherin snatched the textbook right from under Harry's nose with the most infuriating smirk in existence.
Harry could live with losing his independence – Jay and Rowan weren't the worst partners – but what Malfoy did next, Harry couldn't ignore. Strictly speaking, Malfoy was acting as usual: perfect posture, slicing mandrake root, measuring out the exact number of beetle eyes, and paying absolutely no attention to Harry, whose stares were burning holes in his straight back.
This irritated Harry. He'd thought he'd gotten through to Malfoy over the summer – during the trial and afterwards – but back at Hogwarts, Malfoy had returned to his pre-war behaviour, albeit quieter. His friends kept telling Harry that Malfoy had changed, even Ron defended him, but Harry didn't listen. How could he believe it when Malfoy looked right through him again, with that hint of contempt? How could he believe it when Draco Malfoy had just snatched the last textbook and was clearly proud of it?
"Typical… Slytherin move," Harry muttered under his breath and stirred his potion twice as hard. Jay, a seventh-year Slytherin, gave him a disapproving look and whispered something to her friend.
He was watching Malfoy again when Malfoy's gaze swept the dungeon and briefly snagged on his figure. Flared nostrils, pursed lips, arched brows – the famous Malfoy contempt, and Harry hadn't even done anything.
He suddenly realised his teeth were clenched – must be anger. Who wouldn't be angry when that stupid Malfoy was playing his stupid, incomprehensible game and pretending?
"Potter, you're turning the potion into mush, how many eyes are you putting in?" Jay gasped and lightly smacked his hand. Harry blinked and turned to his neighbour. Malfoy had looked at him for only a second, but it was enough to send him into a stupor.
Stupid Malfoy.
They reached the sink together, and Malfoy, as if competing, deliberately stepped forward, blocking the basin. Harry caught the smirk flickering across his face. He must be messing with him.
"What is wrong with you?" Harry whispered angrily, barely holding back his emotions.
Malfoy reluctantly turned around. His face bore an expression as if he'd accidentally touched something foul. He twitched his eyebrows but said nothing, only stepped aside and returned to his cauldron.
Harry scrubbed soap under cold water furiously, thinking. That time, he'd almost gotten an answer. Just a little more, and Malfoy would break: drop the mask, show some real emotion. Maybe he should slip a rat spleen into his potion?
The idea was childish and stupid, but there were only twenty minutes left until the lunch bell. He wouldn't have time to brew a new potion, which meant Malfoy would definitely get angry.
When the explosion came, Harry, pleased with himself and slightly surprised, stared at Malfoy, waiting for a reaction. He saw the sharp cheekbones tighten and felt a surge of satisfaction. Come on, then.
Malfoy gave a slight jerk of his head, and the contents of Harry's cauldron splattered all over him. Caught off guard, Harry froze. Hot, sticky potion soaked through his robes and dripped onto the floor. Laughter rippled around them.
"Potter," Jay hissed. "Can't you just behave? Find another team next time."
She shot him a withering look and hurried to the panicking Slughorn, no doubt assuring him that Potter was entirely to blame.
Harry watched her go and looked back at Malfoy. Malfoy was silently packing his things, putting away ingredients, as if Harry didn't exist. Zabini whispered something to his friend, but Malfoy just shrugged.
The satisfaction gave way to bewilderment, and then to hurt – overwhelming, burning, lodging itself in his throat like a stone. Did he really not remember anything from that summer? Or worse: he remembered everything and that was why he was avoiding Harry. Because – why? – he couldn't forgive himself for his weakness? For his exhaustion, for his real emotions? That was just stupid.
In the end, they were assigned detention under Sprout. The professor looked at them with disappointment and sent them to the abandoned eastern greenhouse to clean the windows and clear out the rubbish without magic. Though small, there was a lot of work, as if the greenhouse hadn't been touched since the Founders' time.
They weren't locked in, but they were warned that every hour spent outside the detention area would cost their Houses ten points each. Better to get to work.
The greenhouse was filthy – and that was putting it mildly. Broken pots and centuries of grime on the windows, the kind that gets under your nails. Rickety tables, rusty tools, and withered vines hanging from the rafters. The air smelled musty and dry.
Sprout made them surrender their wands, warned them about using non-verbal magic, and gave each of them gloves, a brush, and a chemical cleaner. Two hours with a silent Draco Malfoy in an enclosed space – and every weekend. Just perfect. Couldn't get better.
At first, they worked in silence. Malfoy immediately went to the far corner of the greenhouse and, wasting no time, started scrubbing the dirtiest window – harshly, angrily – leaving Harry standing by the door, bewildered.
Malfoy's whole demeanour screamed that he wasn't interested in Harry, and that was hard not to take as an insult. Harry had expected Malfoy to snap, to yell at him for ruining his potion and getting them both detention, but Malfoy just stayed silent, as if he'd dug an impassable moat around himself, crawling with crocodiles.
Harry was known for his recklessness, so he decided to try crossing the obstacle. He exhaled loudly, grabbed his brush and bucket, and walked towards Malfoy with a firm stride. He stopped only when he was right next to the Slytherin and, as if nothing had happened, started scrubbing the grime off the adjacent window.
Malfoy's hand faltered for a second, then resumed scrubbing twice as hard. He didn't move away, refusing to acknowledge that Harry was there.
Harry saw from the corner of his eye how Malfoy's shoulders tensed and how the glass fogged from his breath. He was the first to break.
"Do you have a rag?" he mumbled, already wincing at how fake his question sounded.
Malfoy didn't answer, just took a step to the left, moving to the next window.
"I'm serious, I need to dry this off," Harry repeated insistently and stared at him.
Malfoy raised his head and exhaled quietly. Finally, he turned and asked, in a lethally calm voice:
"What's your problem, Potter?"
Not a muscle moved in Harry's face, but a tiny devil inside him screamed in triumph. He'd finally broken through the wall of silence!
"I asked if you had a rag."
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean, then?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes and went back to his work.
Harry watched him scrape off the dirt and reluctantly resumed his own. He had to admit: this round, he'd lost. Badly. He'd wanted Malfoy to be honest. Maybe it was time he was honest himself.
He tried again an hour later – or maybe it was ten minutes. Hard to tell when time dragged so slowly.
"I'm going to clean the table."
Malfoy shrugged but said nothing.
"I could use some help."
He didn't expect Malfoy to answer, so he was surprised when he heard:
"I'm not finished with the windows."
"There's enough work here to keep Merlin's beard braiding, you'll get plenty of practice."
Malfoy's pale face seemed to soften for a moment, but a second later it went blank again. Harry watched him, hiding his hope, feeling his cheeks prickle.
"I'll just stick to my own," Malfoy muttered and turned away.
Harry felt a crushing disappointment. He'd almost gotten through. He'd almost reached the real Draco, and then… He'd shut down again.
But still, Harry had seen it. A glimpse of real emotion. Proof that Malfoy hadn't forgotten the summer. He picked up his brush and walked towards the table. That was something to work with.