Trouble Takes Many Forms

by ViridianValor

Summary:

After a cryptic comment in Potions class and discovering that Draco Malfoy is related to Sirius Black, the escaped Voldemort supporter that's hunting him, Harry corners Malfoy in an attempt to get some answers. But when they narrowly avoid a run-in with Filch, Draco turns the situation to his advantage, and soon the boys reach an uneasy agreement that might get both of them what they want.

 

 

A third year AU that alternates between Harry and Draco's perspectives as they navigate the difficulties of school, Quidditch, family, history, murderous traitors, and being teenagers.

Notes:

Hello reader! This is the first fanfic I ever published and I can't believe how it's grown... and still growing! I don't have a regular posting schedule and I sometimes go years between posting chapters, but I promise I am still planning to finish it.

I'd love to hear from you in the comments! Interacting with you guys is the reason I started publishing my writing instead of hoarding it all to myself, and your comments keep me going.

I'm massively grateful to honeybeet and alligatorbeerpong for alpha and beta reading parts of the story!

Chapter 1

"I'd be out there looking for him... Don't you know, Potter? I'd want revenge. I'd hunt him down myself."

Malfoy's words during their last Potions class were still haunting Harry, earning him a pointed glare from Hermione as he distractedly twirled his quill. They were at a table in the common room, working on a Charms essay together, because that was apparently Hermione's idea of fun. Harry groaned.

"It's not even due until next week!" He protested, but she just rolled her eyes.

"It never hurts to get ahead," she said shrewdly. "And anyway, just because you don't want to be proactive doesn't mean you get to distract me."

He winced as the quill he had been spinning in the air fell to the table. It left a large ink splatter across a diagram of wand movements for the Cheering Charm that Hermione had been studying, and she hastily shot a cleaning spell at it, before turning her wand towards him. He immediately apologized. "Sorry, point taken. I'll try to focus. It's just -"

"I know you have a lot on your mind, Harry." She scanned the room and lowered her voice. "I don't blame you for having some anxiety, with Black being sighted so close to Hogwarts."

"It's not really that," Harry sighed. "Er, I mean, it is, but mainly because I think Malfoy knows something about it. He said something in Potions when Snape forced me to help him the other day."

"Well, that's not surprising, considering his parents."

Harry gaped at her. He had been hesitant to bring it up because of how she and Ron usually reacted to these kinds of concerns, but this was far from the response he had expected. "Hermione, ever since Malfoy turned out not to know anything about the Chamber of Secrets, you haven't taken me seriously when I tell you he's up to something. You always say that just because his father is an evil arse doesn't mean Malfoy is involved in everything that goes wrong."

"And that's still true, but I'm not talking about his father, am I?" Hermione replied smugly, pulling a thin and extremely old-looking book from her bag. Pure Wizarding Bloodlines was the title gilt in gold on its cover, and though its materials seemed extremely expensive Harry noticed that Hermione did not handle it with the usual care she showed her books, letting its ancient spine crack as she flipped to a dog-eared page and flattened it on the table.

She revealed a hand-drawn family tree, pointed at one of its branches, and waited for Harry to catch up. He studied the tree, with the ink at its top long faded and each name written in a different hand, most likely at different times. He traced the branch that Hermione had indicated down to its latest entries, and his eyes widened as he reached the last generation of Blacks.

"They're cousins, you see?" Hermione said as she saw his sudden comprehension. "Narcissa Malfoy, formerly Narcissa Black. Any one of You-Know-Who's followers might have known of Black by reputation, but a family member might know a great deal more."

"How did you find this?" he asked, his stomach churning. Malfoy had to know something, and Harry absolutely hated when other people knew more about his own life than he did. Especially when it was Malfoy.

"I've been looking for more information on Black ever since you told us about him on the train. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to give you any more to worry about. Besides, this was about the only thing I could find in the library - he's far too young to be in the history books, so I haven't found much beyond what the Prophet is already printing."

"But Malfoy knows something important. I've got to find out."

"That's not really what I meant, Harry," Hermione sighed. "It's possible that Malfoy knows something, yes, but it's much more likely he's trying to get to you. You know how Malfoy is. He's probably bluffing, relying on his family connection to sell it. Even if his mother does know something, would she have told him? His father sent Riddle's diary to school last year, after all, and didn't even tell him about that when there was a basilisk on the loose."

Harry frowned, considering. Malfoy certainly did like to run his mouth about anything that could make him look important. He might know nothing. But was that a chance Harry was willing to take, with his life potentially on the line?

He snapped Pure Wizarding Bloodlines shut as he came to a decision. "You're right, he's all talk. Thanks Hermione. But I think I've had enough of Cheering Charms for now."

He pushed his chair out and started packing his bag. If he was quick, he might be able to catch Malfoy leaving dinner at the Great Hall...

"Oh, alright then, but where are you going?" Hermione asked with concern, grabbing her book back from him before he could pack it in his own bag in his haste.

"Might try to find Ron for a game of chess," Harry lied with a twinge of guilt. He was already halfway to the portrait hole but he could still hear her answering growl of frustration. Ron and Hermione weren't speaking after Crookshanks had made a swipe at Scabbers the day before. There was no chance Hermione would follow him.

He opened the portrait hole and climbed through, taking a second to make sure he was alone in the hallway before ducking into a nook and fishing the invisibility cloak out of his bag. It had become habit to carry it around with him everywhere, just in case.

He swirled the cloak around himself and set off down the stairs, moving quickly but still careful not to tread on the fabric's trailing edges. He had to dodge a few groups of students as they moved about the castle, unable to see him, and it made leaping over the staircases' trick steps a bit difficult. Perhaps the cloak wasn't entirely necessary. Still, it gave Harry a sense of comfort that Malfoy would never see him coming. He was tired of the other boy always having the upper hand.

He had followed Hermione out of the Great Hall quite early this evening, since she hadn't wanted to hang around and chance running into Ron. Dinner would just be ending now. Thinking he would catch Malfoy as he was heading back to the dungeons, Harry was surprised to almost bump into the pointy faced git himself as he passed the entrance of the library on the first floor. He narrowly avoided a crash, pressing himself back against the stone wall just as Malfoy strode past.

He couldn't believe his luck. Crabbe and Goyle would never set foot inside the library, so there was a good chance he would be able to catch Malfoy alone on his way out. An empty classroom's door was ajar only a few meters down the hall, and Harry was fairly certain Malfoy would walk past it on his way to the dungeons. He could wait inside and catch Malfoy off guard. He just needed to come up with a plan to get Malfoy to talk, and to stay alert as he waited for him to exit the library. But how long could a pretentious bastard like that even spend in the library, anyway? Malfoy's father probably bought his school assignments just like everything else. Harry smiled grimly as he ducked behind the classroom door, sure it would be a short wait.

☆ ☆ ☆

Draco yawned quietly as he returned his books to the library shelf, several hours after dinner. He hadn't meant to stay so late. He'd gotten caught up in the fascinating translation of some ancient runes and completely lost track of time.

He wondered what Vince and Greg might be up to without him. Probably nothing useful. If only they would spend more time reviewing lessons with him, they might make Slytherin house proud yet.

If he hurried back to the common room, he would have time before bed to catch up with Marcus about their plans for delaying the team's Quidditch match against Gryffindor. Draco hated to postpone his rematch against Potter, but he couldn't very well join the team for practice with this ridiculous bandaging on his arm, and he refused to face Potter on the pitch unless he was at his absolute best. Marcus was on board, anyway, what with the miserable weather they'd been having and the opportunity the plan presented to throw the other teams' schedules into chaos.

He gathered up his things, careful not to misplace the letter he had received earlier that evening. Draco frowned, recalling its contents. "Do not allow them to remove your bandaging yet," Father's letter had instructed. "You cannot lead the Governors to think that you exaggerated the state of your injury, for it would be detrimental to my case against that aberrant freak Dumbledore dares to call a professor."

Draco's arm had healed completely, besides a lingering phantom pain that tore through him whenever he remembered that brutal hooked beak and razor-sharp talons... He was anxious to lose the bandages and forget the experience completely. Pansy's simpering had grown boring after the first day or two, he missed flying, and it was bloody inconvenient acting like one of his arms was totally useless. But he would not disobey Father's order.

All his notes placed neatly back in his bag, he slung it over his "good" shoulder and nodded at the group of Ravenclaws he'd been sitting with before making his way through the maze of bookshelves back to the library's entrance.

He was letting his feet guide him down the familiar path to the dungeons, his thoughts miles away, when a brash voice called his name and demanded his attention.

"Malfoy!" It called again, louder, and Draco looked through a classroom doorway to his left to see Potter glaring at him, arms crossed.

"A word?"

Draco sneered, clutching his wand in his pocket and clenching his bandaged fist. It wasn't smart to engage with Potter after being caught out alone and off guard, but he never could resist the opportunity to bring the sanctimonious twat down a peg.

He brushed past Potter and into the classroom, summoning all the confidence he could and glaring right back at the other boy. "If a single word is all you're capable of communicating, best spit it out, Potter."

"I've found out the truth," Potter growled, bullheadedly ignoring his barb. "I know that Black is your family."

"I wasn't aware that was a mystery," Draco laughed, once again caught by surprise. He had been drilled with the study of pureblood lineages so often during his childhood, it had never occurred to him that his peers might not be equally as well-versed in his family tree. But then, he supposed Potter had never received a civilized upbringing.

"You said something about wanting revenge, but you're cousins or something."

"Yes, he's my second cousin. Well done. I wonder what else you know," he continued slyly, his mouth still running as he enjoyed the intensity of having Potter's undivided attention. "You were too young to remember yourself, but surely someone has told you what he was to you."

He smirked, watching the effect his words had. A glorious possibility was beginning to dawn on him - that in fact, no one had told clueless Potter anything about his parents' relationship with Black, and that Draco was perhaps the only one who had even broached the subject.

"You're lying!" Potter moved from where he had stood blocking the doorway, getting up in Draco's face. Draco spared a thought to revel in his slight height advantage as the other boy forcefully met his eyes. "I can't possibly be related to Black. I saw the tree, and I'm nowhere on it. You're just inventing some wild story, trying to manipulate me into running off to find him."

"Dumbledore truly didn't tell you." Draco shook his head mockingly. "He must not have as much faith in his chosen one as he pretends. Well, no need to accuse me of manipulation. If Dumbledore in his infallible judgement doesn't trust you with information about your own family, then who am I to divulge it?"

"You're going to tell me what you know," Potter said, seething with rage, "or I'll -"

"You'll what? Curse someone who's injured and defenseless?" He waggled his arm around, moving it stiffly under all the bandages. "Good luck making that sound noble when Professor Snape gets ahold of you."

"You're not even hurt! I'll prove it, you pathetic tosser!"

He lunged at Draco, but he wasn't nearly as graceful on the ground as he was on a broom. Draco sidestepped and held his bandaged arm well out of the way. They tussled a bit, swatting each other back and forth like common muggles, Draco defending as ferociously as Potter attacked. He even got a few good hits of his own in, one-handed. Suddenly they were both stepping back, wands held at each other's throats.

They were both breathing heavily, daring each other to make the next move, and Draco had never felt more alive.

He was debating whether to open with a Full Body Bind or a Jelly Fingers Curse when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the hall. Both he and Potter immediately quieted, holding their breath but keeping their eyes locked as neither wanted to be the first to look away.

The footsteps grew closer.

"Sounds like students out of bed," Filch's voice grumbled out of the darkness. When had the hallway gotten so dark? How long had they been here?

He blinked in confusion and abruptly Potter was on the move, making a break for the door. Draco cursed his foolishness. What was Potter thinking? He was sure to be seen in the hall, and Draco had no doubt that if Potter went down, he was taking Draco down with him. So he did the first thing he could think to do, latching onto Potter with a strong grip and attempting to hold him in the room.

"Let go!" Potter whispered, trying to fight him off as fiercely and as quietly as possible.

"Like hell! If he finds us, I'll just explain how you cornered me here, pulled a wand, and wouldn't let me leave!" He tightened his grip, no longer caring to pretend his arm was injured. Potter hadn't believed the ruse anyway.

The footsteps in the hallway picked up their pace.

Potter swore in exasperation and twisted in Draco's grip, grabbing for his bag. Draco pulled back in confusion, but he was quickly pulled close again as Potter swirled some shimmering fabric through the air and settled it over both of their heads. Then Potter grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him back into the far corner of the classroom.

"Hiding under your sheet isn't going to get us out of this, Potter!" He hissed, only to grunt in surprise as Potter clamped his sweaty hand over Draco's mouth, shutting him up. He started to struggle, but stopped immediately when he saw the light of Filch's lantern flickering in the doorway.

Mrs. Norris preceded him into the room, instantly turning her attention towards their corner. Filch followed her until he was only feet away, lantern pointing straight at them. Both boys were still breathing heavily, bodies tensed and hearts pounding with adrenaline from their scuffle, but from where he was pinned between Potter and the wall Draco could feel Potter start to take a deep breath and hold it.

Draco could hardly believe Potter seriously thought this sheet - or was it a very large cloak? - would be enough to hide them. They must look absolutely laughable standing there huddled together, as if they could pretend to be furniture. How could Potter possibly get away with so much when he was such a dolt? Draco had known most authority figures at Hogwarts showed Potter an insufferable leniency in regards to rule breaking, but surely a sadist like Filch was not among them?

Outraged and sure that their abysmal disguise would fall apart any second, Draco was just about to fight Potter off and explain to Filch why this was all Potter's fault, when the beam of Filch's lantern suddenly redirected itself.

"Nothing here," Filch murmured to his cat as the light swept across the empty classroom's corners and under desks. "Must have got out into the hall..."

Draco had no idea what to think. He watched in stunned disbelief while the man took up a position by the classroom door, listening intently for further evidence of student activity.

Filch seemed likely to stay there for a while as the halls were completely silent. The minutes stretched on and Draco contemplated this turn of events with confusion. He wondered for a second if there was a disillusionment charm on the fabric, but dismissed it as impossible. There was no way a substandard student like Potter knew magic like that.

Speaking of Potter, he was still pinning Draco against the wall, hand over his mouth, unmoving as a statue. The cat hadn't followed Filch to the door and was staring at them, not fooled. Potter was staring right back, locked in a contest of wills with the animal and seemingly oblivious to the growing awkwardness Draco felt being trapped in this position.

Somehow it felt like Potter was invading his space more now than he had been mere moments ago when they were grappling each other and throwing punches. His hand was incredibly warm, burning Draco's face. The rise and fall of his breath and the rapid beating of his heart were quiet enough not to draw Filch's attention, but they thundered in Draco's ears. He began counting each beat to distract himself from the tension of waiting for Filch to leave. One hundred... two hundred... three hundred...

ϟ ϟ ϟ

Something creaked in the distant hallway and Filch finally sprang into action, taking off out of their classroom at a run. Mrs. Norris begrudgingly followed, sparing one last disdainful look over her shoulder at Harry before trotting off after her master.

Harry turned around with a victorious grin, but it quickly dropped as he remembered who he was with when Malfoy unceremoniously shoved him away. Harry stumbled backward in surprise, but Malfoy managed to snatch the invisibility cloak from him and started examining it with a greedy eye.

"Give that back!" Harry hissed, still careful to stay quiet. Malfoy looked up with a sneer, his bandaged arm half invisible within the folds of the fabric, as Harry made a grab at it. Unexpectedly, the other boy let it go without a struggle.

"Of course, Potter," he smirked. "But you're going to tell me what it is and where you got it. Because if you don't, I'll tip off Filch and Snape to its existence, and then we'll see how well you get away with your usual rule breaking."

Harry could feel his blood heating. "Some thanks that is for saving you a detention!"

"My savior!" Malfoy snickered. "You self-righteous prick. Don't pretend you weren't about to run and leave me to take the blame, when it was you who accosted me so close to curfew. You were only trying to save your own hide."

Harry seethed, trying to think of a way out. He couldn't let word of his cloak spread. It would be bad enough if Filch and Snape knew about it - he could imagine them teaming up to cover the castle in trip wires and traps that would make invisibility useless. But if all of the professors who had been trying to keep him safe from Black, or Merlin forbid, if Mrs. Weasley found out he was roaming alone at night... he could already hear the howler.

He gritted his teeth and gave in. "It's an invisibility cloak. It used to be my dad's. Happy?"

"Not nearly. What kind of charm is on it? How has it lasted so long without losing effectiveness? How do you -"

"Look, I dunno, alright? My dad wasn't exactly around to give me the details. Now do you want to stand here asking questions I can't answer while we wait for Filch to find us again, or are we done?"

Malfoy's eyes glittered, reflecting the dim light of the moon shining through the classroom window. "Sure, we're finished," he replied slyly. "Just as soon as you give me the cloak to get back to my common room. Seeing as you're so eager to save me from detention."

Harry clutched the cloak possessively. "You're mad. There's not a chance I'm giving this to you, I'd never see it again."

"Need I remind you, you are entirely to blame for my being out so late? It's in your best interest for me not to get caught! When I run into Filch on the way to the dungeons, I assure you, I'll be taking you down with me! I bet Snape will have confiscated that cloak before breakfast!"

His groan of disgust didn't faze Malfoy, who continued his tirade uninterrupted. "Just wait until my father and the Board of Governors hear about it, too. I'll be sure to let them know you endangered your fellow students by using a potential dark artifact. You don't even know what charm is on the cloak - surely the Ministry will want to take possession of it, if not destroy it for safety's sake!"

"Shut it! Just shut it," Harry snapped in aggravation. This was getting them nowhere, and Filch could return any second. "Fine. Neither of us is getting detention. If you think you can manage to stay quiet for a whole five minutes, I'll walk you to your common room, but then I'm taking the cloak with me and you're never going to speak of this again."

Malfoy took a second to consider while Harry held up the cloak impatiently. "I obviously can't let you see how I access the Slytherin common room," he said after a long pause, clearly enjoying making Harry wait. "But I suppose if I leave you at the end of the hall, a few seconds of visibility won't be such a risk."

Harry snorted, eager to get on their way but unable to resist an opportunity to get the upper hand. "I've been in your common room before anyway, but whatever works for you."

Malfoy gaped. "You absolutely have not!"

"Sure I have. Green, cold, damp with a view of the squid... loads of tufted furniture and stuffy things. Shall I keep going?"

Face growing redder with each word Harry said, Malfoy sputtered and clenched his fists in frustration. "Impossible! What Slytherin would be so bloody stupid and disloyal as to let in the likes of you, Potter? Any idiot could guess the room would be green. As for the other things, you've clearly just overheard a conversation not meant for you and concocted some lie to make yourself feel important."

"Yes, that must be it, I'm a big-headed liar," Harry rolled his eyes with a smug grin. "Or possibly, you're about to find out how bloody stupid a Slytherin can be. Come on, no need to tell me where to go, I can lead the way."

Harry stepped aggressively into Malfoy's space and flung the cloak over their heads. He grabbed Malfoy by the wrist, pulling him forward into the hallway and shushing him as he started to protest with a meaningful look in the direction Filch had gone.

Through a secret passageway hidden behind a tapestry of a centaur hunting party and down a narrow spiral staircase that ended somewhere different when you hopped over the third step, Harry confidently led Malfoy on a path through the dungeons that he remembered well from his second year. The other boy was clearly not as familiar with the shortcuts Harry had discovered while exploring the castle, but he kept pace. It was slow going anyway, with the cramped quarters under the cloak and the need to move silently.

At one point, they had a close call when the Bloody Baron floated out of a wall just ahead of them in the darkness. They both gasped, caught by surprise at his ghastly appearance, but managed to duck to the floor just before his translucent boots floated overhead. The Baron carried on, perhaps not having heard them over the rattle of the ghostly chains he carried. Harry couldn't help but smile in relief, catching Malfoy's eye, but received only a quizzical look in reply as the other boy quickly rose to stand once more. Harry bristled and stood as well, not sure what had possessed him to smile at his nemesis in the first place.

Thankfully, no other obstacles presented themselves, and they were soon standing in front of a familiar bare stretch of stone wall.

"Well, this is it," Harry whispered complacently. "The entrance to your common room. Believe me now?"

"If you're so sure this is the entrance, why don't you open it?" Malfoy asked, his voice dripping with condescension. If Harry hadn't been unknowingly allowed entrance at this precise location by Malfoy himself less than a year ago, it might have been enough to make him doubt.

"I... haven't been in since last year," Harry admitted reluctantly. "Haven't exactly kept up with the passwords. But I'm certain this is it, and I'd wager that the new password's probably some blood purist rubbish."

Malfoy raised a brow. "It appears you're not as familiar with the Slytherin common room as you initially claimed," he challenged. "Time to part ways, Potter. Good riddance."

"Fine, believe what you want -"

"I will! Now get going, down to the end of the hall at least. And keep this cloak off until I'm done! I cannot have you sneaking in behind me."

"Fine!" Harry repeated, a little too loud. "Like I want to be surrounded by snakes anyway!"

He whipped off the cloak and stamped to the end of the hall. As he reached the corner, he turned only to flick Malfoy the finger and disappear under the cloak once more. Let the git be paranoid about him overhearing the password. It served him right. Harry had gone out of his way to save him a detention, and yet he continued being the world's biggest prat.

Harry began the long trek up to the Gryffindor dormitories, barely noticing where his feet were taking him, as he replayed the events of the night in frustrated disbelief. Somehow Malfoy had got the upper hand again, and far from having any new insight into Malfoy's ominous comments about Black, all Harry had landed was a couple of punches.

Notes:

A fun thought: If Draco had received an invisibility cloak as a gift from his father as a first year, it might have been useless to him because he would have been physically incapable of shutting up about it.

Chapter 2

The next few days seemed incredibly dull after the excitement of escaping from Filch and discovering Potter's secret. He was burning to tell the other third year Slytherins about the invisibility cloak, but forced himself to hold his tongue while he considered how best to use the information to his advantage. Since it was all he could think about, he had very little to contribute to conversations with his friends and had to suffer in silence through Pansy and Blaise's usual inane gossip.

Then came the distinct displeasure of waving off the team as they made their way to the pitch for the first Quidditch practice of the year, without him at their side. Vaisey, a stocky second year that had been elevated to alternate Seeker while Draco was unable to play, raised a haughty brow at Draco as he walked past with his broom slung casually over his shoulder.

"Watch out, Draco," Theo had remarked in a loud whisper. "That one's aiming to be Seeker permanently. Better hope you heal up before you get too out of shape - your father can hardly threaten to take those brooms back now!"

Draco had elected to leave the room rather than dignify Theo with a response.

Continuing the charade with his bandaged arm also meant Draco had to sit on the sidelines or ask help from a classmate in many of his classes. That was a welcome relief in Care of Magical Creatures, where Draco was happy to remain far away from both hippogriffs and slimy flobberworms alike, but it was a source of great irritation in Herbology and Potions, two of his favourite classes. After a double Herbology spent shouting instructions at Greg as he tried to defang enough vampiric vegetation for the both of them, Draco was feeling quite ready to rip his bandages off. Unfortunately, his father's plans were still in motion.

As the days dragged slowly by, his friends eventually responded to his foul mood by leaving him to stew in it. Four nights after his encounter with Potter, he found himself sitting alone in a quiet corner of the common room, staring at his Arithmancy text without taking in a word of it.

Instead, he was lost in thoughts of tomorrow's double Potions class. It would be the first time he'd been forced into close proximity with Potter since that night. Their shared Care of Magical Creatures class hardly counted, as Draco had kept to the far end of the creature paddock and out of the way of the flobberworms.

Potter, predictably, had made a show of being engaged in the lesson to support his oafish professor. Draco normally would have been keen to ridicule both the professor's incompetence and Potter's pathetic attempts to pretend flobberworms were interesting, but he felt that something unknown had shifted between them since that night, and he needed more time to put his finger on what it was. So he had stayed away and merely gave Potter a nod when their eyes met across the field, smirking at the suspicious look that came over Potter's face in return.

As he sat engrossed in thoughts of Potter, Draco realized he was unconsciously scanning the common room, searching uneasily for signs of an invisible presence. The possibility that Potter could invade the Slytherin common room and catch Draco with his guard down had disturbed Draco more than he cared to admit. The other boy's knowledge of secret passageways and his confidence in moving around the castle at night had been impressive, but Draco had not taken his claims of having entered the common room with any credibility until Potter had led him directly to the entrance. He would certainly have to possess a level of cunning that Draco had not previously given him credit for, if his claims about having entered the common room were true.

The memory of brushing shoulders together under the cloak as they made their way through the castle, Potter gesturing at the Slytherin entrance and suddenly smiling at him like a lunatic, was seared into Draco's mind. It kept returning to him unbidden. He wondered with serious concern whether Potter might be lurking invisibly nearby at that very moment. Perhaps Draco was intuitively sensing Potter's hidden presence, and that was the reason why he couldn't stop thinking about him.

His inner turmoil was interrupted, however, when Marcus stepped through the common room entrance and, catching his eye, started walking briskly towards Draco's solitary table.

"Good, you're here." Marcus waved a piece of parchment at him. "I've been drilling the team in some new maneuvers, and even if you can't join us at practice, I want you to keep up."

He slid the parchment across the table and Draco saw that it was covered in moving diagrams of player formations. Completely covered.

"This is quite a lot," he said with a raised brow.

"Well, if we stick with your plan to delay our match against Gryffindor, it's going to shake up the season schedule. We may not know who we're facing until just before the match, so we have to be ready for anything. At least the other houses won't be expecting a change, so we'll have an advantage there."

Draco frowned, his attention stuck on one word. "If we stick with the plan? Why ever wouldn't we?"

"You may have noticed we have a new alternate Seeker," Marcus said, eyes glinting.

"And is he any good?" Draco tried to remain casual, but his heart was racing.

"He's not up to your level... yet. But we'll see how things progress, won't we? In the meantime," he patted the parchment covered in diagrams, "you'd better keep up with this, if you want to rejoin us."

Draco scowled. "I'll see what I can do."

As the team captain walked jauntily away, Draco caught sight of Vaisey standing in the shadowy hallway to the dormitories, snickering. He violently crumpled the parchment, imagining for a second that he was strangling Vaisey instead, but just as quickly smoothed it back out. He had to find a way to not only memorize its maneuvers but to master them as well.

And that meant finding a way to get back on a broom.

ϟ ϟ ϟ

Snape commanded the class to pair up and begin dicing their potion ingredients, but before Harry could so much as turn in Ron's direction, Malfoy slapped a dragon liver on the desk in front of him and started issuing orders.

"Quarter-inch cubes, Potter, and consistency is key. Not that knife! Can't you see how dull the blade is? We'd be here all day."

"Er... are we doing this again, Malfoy?" Harry looked longingly at Ron, who shrugged like a traitor as he partnered with Lavender instead. "Forcing me to help you last class didn't exactly result in a perfect potion, if you remember. I'm not going to let you order me around while you sit there faking -"

"Hold your tongue, Potter," Malfoy hissed, cutting Harry off as he spoke over him in a low voice. "I think you'll agree that I'm not faking anything, if you want your cloak to remain a secret. And of course you're the last person I'd choose to partner with, except that I have a proposition for you that can't wait."

"You couldn't have even waited until class is over? Now we're stuck together until the potion is finished. It takes weeks to brew!"

"Don't remind me," Malfoy groaned. "But no. I don't want your nosy sidekicks getting wind of this, so it had to be now, while they're distracted."

Harry didn't like the nasty look that Malfoy shot at Ron and Hermione, who both seemed to be having a much better time with their respective brewing partners than him. But it was too late to get out of this now - everyone else had paired off already. He sighed in resignation. "What the hell do you want, then? And why would I help out a tosser like you?"

"Firstly, I want you to get chopping! If we receive less than outstanding marks, I'll make you regret it. Yes, that knife will do, but honestly, it's as if you haven't sharpened any of your blades since first year."

In fact, Harry had never bothered to sharpen his potions knives since he'd purchased them, but he wasn't about to admit that. He stabbed ferociously at the tough outer layer of the dragon liver, imagining it was Malfoy's face, while the git prattled on about how even a squib could keep a knife honed.

He couldn't believe he was going to have to not only put up with Malfoy but also do all the hands-on work for this potion. His mind raced through scenarios where he might expose Malfoy's fully healed arm publicly and convince the professors the injury had been faked, but he couldn't come up with anything more than variations of attacking Malfoy. Tempting as that was, attacking him right in front of a professor probably wasn't worth the trouble he'd receive.

Three pounds of dragon liver now chopped into cubes, Harry finally interrupted his partner's quibbling with a huff. "Are you going to complain all class, or are you ever going to tell me what this is about?"

Malfoy paused, scanning the room with quiet intensity. Their desk was in a corner, and everyone nearby had their heads bent over their ingredients in concentration. Snape was across the room tormenting Neville, so most of the Slytherins were distracted as they laughed at the Gryffindor's misfortune. Nevertheless, he moved closer to Harry and spoke in a hushed voice.

"I have information about Black and his history with your family. Information that the papers aren't reporting, that Dumbledore is hiding from you."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You implied as much the other night, but you could have just told me then if you wanted to be generous. Quit playing games with me - what's the catch?"

"I want to borrow your cloak. I'll need it a couple of nights a week through November, or you can just leave it with me until then for the sake of convenience."

Harry laughed so hard he nearly cut himself while slicing the skin off a shrivelfig. Hermione and Ron both looked over in concern at the outburst.

"I'm serious, Potter," Malfoy scoffed. "Black is coming for you, and the information I have could mean life or death."

"If it was actually life or death, Dumbledore would have mentioned it," Harry returned somewhat doubtfully.

"Oh, certainly, that madman has never endangered a student before!"

Their argument was gaining volume, and the students nearby were starting to glance over curiously. Harry took a deep, calming breath and tried to speak quietly while still firmly rejecting Malfoy's idea.

"I'm not handing over my cloak. Not once, and certainly not several nights a week. Can't you think of something else? What do you even need it for, anyway?"

"No, nothing else will do. I - I can't -" Malfoy stuttered, gritting his teeth and looking pained by what he was about to say. He spoke with a dangerous edge, and yet so softly that Harry had to lean in even closer to hear him. "I can't get to the Quidditch pitch unseen without it, and I have no choice. If I don't practice, I'm off the team."

An uncomfortable feeling lodged in Harry's throat as he realized how much he had been looking forward to trampling Slytherin in the first Quidditch game of the season, and how much that had to do with Malfoy. Why did it feel like a loss, to think that he might never face off against Malfoy as Seeker again?

"Just tell them your bloody arm is healed, then you can fly all you want!" Harry growled in anger and confusion.

"Out of the question. Besides, then I would have no need for your cloak, and no reason to give you information about Black. Aren't you dying to know? Be smart for once in your life, Potter."

A tense silence filled the air between them. Harry continued working on the potion as he thought over what Malfoy was offering. He knew he wouldn't be able to stop obsessing about what information he was missing. It would drive him mad. He'd already thought of little else since that night they'd escaped Filch. At length he finished scrambling the doxy eggs and slopped them violently into the cauldron.

"Just because it bears repeating, I'm not handing over the cloak," he said stubbornly. Malfoy opened his mouth, no doubt ready to keep arguing, except Harry continued. "But. I could walk to the pitch with you under the cloak, like we did the other night. Just once. And if you want to keep going, a couple nights a week through November like you said, then you'll have to prove that your information is good enough to be worth it."

His face a mask of indifference, Malfoy gave no hint of what he was thinking as he considered the counteroffer. The potion ingredients sat forgotten while Harry waited for a decision.

A small but loud explosion from Seamus's cauldron suddenly startled Malfoy out of his thoughts, and he used the commotion as a cover to respond. "That will have to do," he muttered. "I accept your terms, with the condition that we only go after curfew. Though I doubt a Gryffindor would have the proper cunning, I can't have you getting any ideas about setting me up to be seen flying. Going out after curfew, you'll be putting yourself at risk just as much as me."

Harry frowned. He didn't like the added risk, but couldn't deny that Malfoy's concerns about being set up made sense. If only Harry had recognized the opportunity to expose the fake injury first, he surely would have taken it. Now, he could only hope that the information about Black would be worth all this bother.

"Fine. We'll go tonight. I want to hear what you have to say about Black and get this over with. Meet me in classroom eleven on the ground floor just before curfew - the less time we have to spend wandering the castle together, the better."

Malfoy nodded, and with the deal sealed, immediately resumed bossing Harry around until all of their potions ingredients were successfully simmering in the cauldron. When Snape dismissed the class, they turned to their friends and walked away without another word to each other.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked Harry once they were in the hallway.

"Er, just Malfoy being a git again," Harry said cagily. "Milking his supposed injury for all it's worth."

"And ruining your day in the process! What an arsehole," Ron joined in, his quarrel with Hermione temporarily forgotten in the name of solidarity against the Slytherin. "Sorry I couldn't save you, mate, it's just that I got such low marks on that Shrinking Solution after I had to give Malfoy my shredded daisy roots. Lavender's really good at potions..."

"Yeah, I get it," Harry said begrudgingly.

"I'm sorry you're stuck with him, Harry, but at least it's only a couple of weeks," Hermione added unhelpfully. "You know I'd partner with you, if Neville didn't need so much help..."

Harry was bursting to tell them that actually, he wasn't just stuck with Malfoy in class for a couple of weeks - he had to meet the bastard for Quidditch tonight! He held back though, knowing that they wouldn't understand or approve of the risk he was taking. He'd fill them in afterward, once he knew whether the information about Black had been worth it.

Chapter 3

Potions was followed by a quick lunch and then Charms, where Draco partnered with Pansy. Somehow she managed to make Cheering Charms unpleasant, as she was still pouting about having been overlooked as a partner in their previous class.

"I sympathize with wanting to make Potter suffer, Draco," she said with very little sympathy. "But what about me? I was stuck with Millie, and I spent the whole class listening to her describe Sable's morning hairball. If I have to spend the next few weeks faking a polite interest in cat sick, I'll boil my head in the cauldron."

"Stop exaggerating," Draco sighed. "We all know you adore that cat, even if you pretend not to."

Pansy scowled and jabbed her wand at him aggressively. "Cheriolas!"

The unorthodox wand movement combined with the Cheering Charm incantation put the conversation on hold as Draco was unexpectedly overcome with uncontrollable hiccups. Pansy simply smirked for a moment, giving him a scare, before she called over Professor Flitwick to set him right.

"I apologize, Pans," he said to satisfy her, once he was able to speak again. It was too hazardous to stay on her bad side. "I should have partnered with you. Potter is terrible at Potions, and a total bore."

To complement his apology, he performed a flawless Cheering Charm, and she was all smiles after that.

But no matter how Draco insisted that Potter was a bore, he couldn't keep his eyes off the Gryffindor table at dinner. He supposed he was keeping a watch for any sign that Potter had divulged his evening plans to his housemates or even a professor. Draco didn't trust a stupid, "noble" Gryffindor to participate in Slytherin rule-breaking without some sort of interference.

In a sea of Weasley red, his gaze locked on the scruffy black hair of his nemesis. Potter's head was bowed low as he shoveled beef casserole into his mouth with truly atrocious table manners that made Draco's lip curl. In the rare moments that his mouth was not completely stuffed with food he joined the Weasley's conversation, but he didn't appear to be the center of attention for once in his life, and thankfully he didn't have the demeanor of someone scheming to pull a double-cross.

(Draco was entirely too familiar with what a scheming Potter looked like. He, Granger, and the Weasel would sit off by themselves at the far end of the table, leaning in to whisper to each other and darting their eyes periodically to the professors at the high table. Their plotting was completely transparent, and Draco didn't understand why this behavior was never immediately obvious to anyone but him.)

"Oi, Draco!" Blaise called, snapping his fingers to get his attention. "Are you going to glare at Potter all night, or are you going to pass the salt? I've asked three times!"

Draco passed the salt with a scowl and then excused himself before dessert, grumbling that he was headed to the Owlery. His nerves were already buzzing with anxiety about all the ways his plan might go wrong, and he didn't want to fly with an overly full stomach. Vince and Greg made to follow him, but he gestured for them to stay put, and they happily tucked into the rice pudding instead.

As he was about to pass through the doors into the Entrance Hall, he turned for one last glance at Potter, and caught the other boy staring back. Potter gave a slow nod, and Draco's stomach flipped.

They were really doing this, then.

It was too early yet to loiter around empty classroom eleven, so he headed to the Owlery after all. He passed an hour there writing a letter to his mother and watching through the tall open windows as the moon rose in the twilight above the Quidditch pitch.

The weather had been dreary lately, but it was finally a clear night. He could just make out the bright yellow robes of the Hufflepuff team practicing, lit from below by the glow of the stadium. Soon, though, the lights of the stadium would darken and the grounds would become still and silent as Hogwarts settled in for a night's sleep. It would be the perfect time to fly.

At last the Hufflepuffs landed their brooms with curfew fast approaching. Draco tied his letter to the leg of the family owl and sent it off, hoping it would return with some French chocolate or perhaps some additional galleons for the upcoming Hogsmeade visit. Then he made his way back down to the ground floor of the castle, looking just like any other Slytherin returning to the dungeons, until he took a swift left turn and ducked inside classroom eleven. He shut the door softly behind him.

Potter immediately stepped out of the shadows near the front of the classroom and cleared his throat. "It's almost time."

Draco nodded stiffly. He could hardly believe things had taken such a turn this year as to require teaming up with the Gryffindor. If only his eleven-year-old self could see him now.

He spoke quickly to cut the tension. "McGonagall was about to lock up the entrance as I walked in. Have you got your cloak? How are we getting out to the grounds?"

Potter answered both questions with one fluid movement, reaching towards a desk and seeming to grasp thin air, then pulling it aside to reveal the broom that had been wrapped in the invisibility cloak. "I figured we'd fly in and out of this window. The cloak won't cover both of us on the broom, not entirely, but we'll only need to fly a few feet to the ground and then we can walk the rest of the way to the pitch. No one should see us, unless they're waiting on the ground right below."

Draco peered out of the window in question. The ledge was only about eight feet above the ground, and it faced directly towards the pitch. In the light of the moon, he could see the nearby grounds looked empty. "It's a good plan," he acknowledged begrudgingly, then sneered. "Almost as if you've had lots of practice, sneaking around and breaking the rules."

Potter smiled infuriatingly. "Wouldn't you like to know. Now, about Black -"

"I'll give you the information on the pitch, Potter. If I told you now, you could just walk away."

"Fine, but I won't escort you back into the castle without it. If this is a double cross, you can rot outside all night."

Draco rolled his eyes, unimpressed, as he unlocked the window and shot a grease spell at its creaky hinges. Fortunately, the window was tall enough that they wouldn't have much trouble flying through it. The matter of the single broom, however, was altogether more difficult.

Approaching the hovering broom from opposite sides, the boys instantly collided as they both attempted to mount the front half.

"Salazar's sake, scarhead! Quit faffing about, I thought you knew how to ride a broom!"

"Oi! It's my broom, I'm the one who's going to steer!"

A minor scuffle ensued, the broom pulled back and forth between them, but eventually Potter threatened to leave and Draco was cowed into accepting the back seat. He settled back as far as he could with the support of the foot rest, muttering all the while about how it was inferior to the Nimbus 2001, which had larger pivoting stirrups. Potter ignored him and flung himself onto the front of the broom, nearly crushing Draco's hands before he moved them, forced to grip Potter's shoulders instead of the occupied broom shaft.

Draco tried to hold Potter at a distance but the other boy's feet were dangling freely and he kept sliding backward as he shifted to pull the cloak around them. By the time the cloak came to rest fully around both of them, Draco's knees had been forced wide and Potter was pressed firmly between them, uncomfortably close. He felt his face heat up and thanked the stars that Potter was looking away. At least it would be a short ride to the ground.

The broom rose to the threshold of the window, and after a quick glance about the grounds to ensure they were still alone, Potter guided it swiftly into the crisp night air and down to the earth below. They stumbled to their feet, and without looking at each other or acknowledging this strange and tense camaraderie they had been forced into, they set off silently towards the pitch.

In the shimmering moonlight, it was easy enough to see that the path remained clear ahead of them. They shuffled along with the broom held between them under the cloak, and reached the pitch without incident in a matter of minutes. Once inside the stadium walls, they were hidden from the sight of the castle and free to whip the cloak off.

Draco took a quick detour into the locker room to retrieve his sleek Nimbus 2001, then hurried back onto the field. He had expected to find Potter sitting in the stands when he returned, but was shocked to see him hovering astride his broom, evidently waiting for Draco.

"Alright, what moves are we practicing?" Potter called while Draco stared at him, dumbfounded.

"We?!"

"Well, you didn't expect me to just watch?!"

"I would rather you didn't watch at all! Why don't you go - revise for Potions, or something? You could certainly use more of that."

"C'mon, Malfoy. An extra opportunity to fly is the only thing making this deal worthwhile."

Draco kicked off the ground petulantly, choosing to disregard Potter as he raced several laps around the pitch. Potter soon joined in, however, and kept up rather better than Draco would have liked. He was tempted to be angry at the smug bastard, who was laughing as Draco swerved unpredictably, trying to throw him off.

But a traitorous part of his mind was enjoying the challenge, and he had to admit that he was far more likely to improve his skills practicing with Potter than alone. He was nothing if not a resourceful Slytherin. He'd take any edge over Vaisey he could get.

"Very well, Potter," he panted as he slowed to a stop. He pulled the parchment full of Quidditch strategies and diagrams out of his pocket, unfolding it as he continued. "I have another deal to offer."

ϟ ϟ ϟ

Originally, he wasn't planning to accept Malfoy's new deal - to teach Malfoy a couple of new Gryffindor tactics in exchange for being allowed to study and participate in his Slytherin training drills. Then Malfoy flashed him a look at a parchment that was completely covered, both front and back, in animated diagrams of player formations. It looked like the entire Slytherin playbook.

So he took the deal, figuring that even if Malfoy leveraged knowledge of two new Gryffindor moves to get Flint to keep him on as Seeker, it would be worth it when he told Oliver all that he had learned.

Harry was stunned by how thoroughly he enjoyed himself as he and Malfoy ran through drills. The git wasn't totally horrible when he wasn't surrounded by his cronies or on about blood purist tripe. He was a competitive and cunning flier, and much improved since Harry had played against him in the short-lived Quidditch season in second year.

Now, flying as if they were part of the same team for the first time, Harry noticed how natural it was for them to sync their movements and predict what the other would do next. It all seemed simple after several years of watching each other's every step, yet surreal with the layers of suspicion and antagonism stripped away.

Once they had covered both of the promised Gryffindor moves and about half of Slytherin's, Harry flew up alongside Malfoy and pulled a practice snitch from his pocket. "Tired of team formations yet?" he asked.

"I suppose I know the Hawkshead Attacking Formation well enough now," Malfoy replied tentatively, his eyes glittering as soon as the golden snitch was revealed.

Harry sniggered. "It's not like you to be humble." After an exhausting number of repetitions, Malfoy had mastered the Hawkshead ten minutes ago, or at least done as well as he could with only the two of them there to make up the team formation. Harry was quickly learning that the Slytherin was as much a perfectionist as Hermione.

Malfoy preened at what Harry realized too late had been a sort of compliment. "You're right, I'm certain that I know it better than Vaisey. Let's have a Seekers game. It's no use keeping my place on the team if I can't beat you to the snitch."

"You wish!" Harry grinned as he activated the snitch and tossed it towards the far side of the dark stadium. "On the count of three... One, two-"

"Three!" Malfoy shouted as he zoomed away. Harry took off after him, pushing his broom to an exhilarating speed.

Though they reached the spot where Harry had thrown it lightning fast, the snitch had already hidden itself or flown off elsewhere. They started slowly circling the pitch like vultures, alert to any sign of movement or shine of reflected moonlight. Without any other players or bludgers to focus on, they were able to evenly split their attention between watching each other and watching out for the snitch.

They started practicing dives and feints, trying to trick each other and lure one another into falling off their brooms, but through steep dives and tight spirals they both managed to maintain their grip. After a while, Harry reckoned they'd both learned to recognize each other's bluffs and were just reacting to the feints for the thrill of it.

The moon had migrated to the western sky by the time the snitch finally revealed itself. It hovered fifty feet in the air at the dead center of the pitch. Malfoy caught sight of its moonlit glint first, but Harry saw his mad burst of speed from the opposite end of the field. He knew intuitively that this was different from the other feints.

Harry was closer to the snitch, but Malfoy had the elevation advantage, and his split second head start had built into a momentum that Harry couldn't hope to match. If they crashed into one another while barreling forward from opposite angles like this, Harry knew he was likely to end up in the hospital wing.

He changed course ever so slightly so he could fly just to the left of the snitch, hoping he would have the speed to reach out and grab it before Malfoy could while also avoiding a collision. His grasping fingers were only inches away when Malfoy, lying completely flat along his broom handle to reduce his wind resistance, beat him to it. Malfoy crowed in triumph on his way to the ground as Harry spun in the turbulence left behind by his swift passage.

He was still breathing heavily with excited laughter when Harry stepped off his broom and slumped to the ground, totally drained. "Great effort, Potter! Just a bit too slow to beat me," he said with a brilliant smile, and Harry was surprised to find that the teasing felt closer to friendliness than the snottiness to which Malfoy was prone.

"Well, you've obviously been practicing all summer," Harry replied, thinking with a twinge of jealousy about his broom locked away in the Dursley's cupboard. He was at war with himself over whether to be angry with the outcome or happy that the game had been such an exciting one. Malfoy's win was fair and square, for once, and his unexpected graciousness made it harder to feel resentful.

Malfoy lay back against the grass to catch his breath, gazing dreamily at the stars. "Marcus would be mad to let me go. Vaisey could never come close to beating you!"

"Erm, thanks?" Harry said with quiet chuckle. Bloody surreal. "Too bad no one saw you win. You're free to tell anyone you want, but of course, then you'd have to admit you're not injured."

Malfoy groaned, propping himself up on an elbow and meeting Harry's eye. "If only! My housemates ought to recognize my talent. I'm the only flyer in Slytherin who can keep pace with you, and do you remember my game against Hufflepuff before the Cup was cancelled last year? The Chasers kept fumbling, we only won because I saw the snitch ages before Diggory. But instead, all they remember is the Nimbus 2001's. If I hadn't been the best choice, Marcus never would have kept me on the team once he had those brooms in hand. The brooms were only a foot in the door, you know?"

Harry turned away, his satisfaction with the excellent practice suddenly soured by the bitter memory of second year. It was too much to ask of him to feel any sympathy when, just one year ago on this same field, Hermione had expressed a similar sentiment about Malfoy buying his way onto the team and in return had been taunted and harassed with blood purist slurs. He couldn't allow this strange and uneasy truce to let him forget who Malfoy really was.

"Right," he said stiffly, getting to his feet. "It's getting late."

☆ ☆ ☆

"Oh." Draco blinked at Potter's newly cold tone, searching his face for a reason. He supposed he must have wounded the Gryffindor's arrogance with the reminder that he was at least an equal, if not better, Seeker. Sighing, he gracefully stood and brushed the grass off his cloak.

"If you've no objection, I'd prefer to clean up in the locker room before heading off," he said impassively. "Otherwise my housemates might guess where I've been with one sniff."

"What, you don't know any fancy cleaning spells?"

"Of course not, that's what house elves are for." Draco watched as the chill look on Potter's face began to turn into something absolutely murderous. "Don't get so self-righteous, I'm sure you don't know any cleaning spells either!"

Without another word, Potter stomped off in the direction of the locker rooms. What an angry brute.

Draco followed at a much calmer pace, refusing to let Potter's mercurial mood affect his own good manners. By the time he made it into the locker room, the other boy was already halfway through ripping off his practice robes, carelessly tossing them in a heap on the floor.

Draco caught a glimpse of bare buttocks and forced himself to look quickly away - it felt somehow illicit to see Potter in a state of such vulnerability, in a way that it hadn't with the boys on the Slytherin team last season. He supposed it was just because he'd known the Slytherins for so long that he hardly noticed their nudity.

Suddenly feeling an urge to be elsewhere, Draco grabbed a spare set of robes from his locker and headed straight for the showers. He undressed out of view and slung his clothing over a shower stall. Then he turned on the water, which was magically heated to just the right temperature for a post-practice rinse, and tried to get his frustrations with Potter off his mind.

He had to remind himself that they were enemies, no matter how naturally they had seemed to work together during the practice drills, no matter how much fun they had both seemed to be having by the end. Potter's aloofness was the natural state of things between them. It wasn't worth wasting another thought over the Gryffindor.

It became more difficult when he heard the spray of another shower and knew that Potter was there. He couldn't explain why it felt so frightfully awkward, the two of them showering in silence only feet from one another, or why his heart was racing like he was back on the broom.

He slammed the water off and dressed speedily, heading back to the main room before Potter. A grimy old mirror hung from one wall there, half covered in graffiti, and he fidgeted with his hair in agitation. He hadn't thought to bring any hair potion with him, and it was bound to turn into an undisciplined mess as it dried.

Potter ambled back into the room a few minutes later, wearing only his trousers and seeming immune to the overwhelming awkwardness that plagued Draco. Nevertheless, his icy manner persisted as he shrugged on an oversize shirt with his back turned.

"I've held up my end of the deal," he said, his tone all business. "Time to pay up. What do you know about Black?"

The question was sufficient to draw Draco out of his self-consciousness. He had stalled as long as he could. He needed to give Potter something that would convince him that helping Draco had been worthwhile.

At the same time, though, he couldn't reveal everything he knew. He had to hold the most crucial information and dole it out a bit at a time, so that he would have leverage to continue using Potter's cloak. A single night of Quidditch practice wouldn't be enough to keep in shape until the games started in November.

"The ancient lineage of the House of Black can be traced all the way back to the time of Merlin," he began. He had no intention of getting straight to the point; he loved a good story, and he could tell that drawing it out would annoy Potter to no end.

"It's a much larger family than the Malfoys, and nearly as wealthy. Blacks are held in the highest esteem by the pureblood community. Sirius Black, my fugitive cousin, was born the heir to the eldest and wealthiest of the Black family lines.

"My mother and her sisters were close with Black's parents and often visited Grimmauld Place, the ancestral family home. Mother was older, but Black started school at Hogwarts in her sixth year, so she was there to see what followed.

"Up to that point, Black had been the perfect heir. He displayed magical aptitude almost as soon as he learned to walk. He was quick-witted and well versed in all the pureblood traditions by the time he was of age for school. Everyone was certain he was destined to do great things in Slytherin.

"So it is no surprise that the family was deeply scandalized when Black was sorted into Gryffindor." Potter drew in a sharp breath, and Draco smiled wickedly.

"Yes, Black belonged to your own house. My mother still tried to take him under her wing for the two years they were at school together, but I'm told that once she was no longer around to be a stabilizing influence, Black began acting out in ways that brought further shame on the family.

"By the time he was sixteen, his parents had had enough. They cast him out of their home and made his brother Regulus, who was a model Slytherin and pureblood, their new heir.

"Black continued at Hogwarts and became a powerful wizard with an impressive number of NEWTs. Rather than use them for anything productive, he joined the Order of the Phoenix."

"What's that?" Potter interrupted.

Sure that Potter was being deliberately obtuse, Draco sneered. "You can't possibly be so dense, Potter. Dumbledore must have explained all this to you. You must have at least read a history book at some point in your life!"

Potter scowled. "I pay attention in History of Magic. Sometimes. No one's ever mentioned a Phoenix Order."

"It's the Order of the Phoenix, you pillock. It was Dumbledore's group of muggle-worshipping vigilantes that meddled with the Dark Lord's plans during the war."

Draco let Potter sit with that information for a moment before continuing. Truly, the old fool must not have told Potter anything about his family history.

"Anyway," he finally went on. "All that muggle worship must have just been an act, because at the end of the war Black massacred twelve of them in broad daylight with a single spell. It came out afterward, once he was in Azkaban, that he had been a spy for the Dark Lord the whole time. His brother had been a Death Eater as well, but the Dark Lord kept the identities of his inner circle close to his chest, so the family never knew. It must have been enough to get him back in his parents' good graces, though, because when Regulus died they reinstated Sirius as heir, rather than passing along the inheritance to my mother or aunt."

"Your family," Potter growled as Draco finished his narrative, "is full of the worst people I can imagine."

"Watch your mouth, Potter!" Draco's fingers inched towards the wand in his pocket, feeling an instinctive need to protect his family name. He straightened his shoulders and stood tall, channeling the proud image of his father, and wielding that pride like a hardened shield.

"Perhaps some of my relatives chose the losing side in the war," he allowed, "but my family has a long and respectable history of using our influence and fortune to advance the best interests of wizarding society, and that's far more than you can say. The most your family's ever done for society is fixing their hair."

Potter, who had been squaring up for a fight, started sputtering indignantly. "My family - hair?! What are you on about?"

The question was so ridiculous, Draco's anger deflated. "I realize you live in a state of constant ignorance, but how can you not know about Sleekeazy's? I use so much, I must be personally lining your vaults with gold to this day."

Potter still seemed baffled, but at least he looked momentarily less likely to start throwing punches. Draco decided to capitalize on the change of subject, reminding himself that it would be counterproductive to antagonize Potter, tempting though it was.

"Sleekeazy's is a hair potion," he explained, expending great effort to avoid a patronizing tone. "It helps tame unruly hair. You could do with a few drops. Fleamont Potter, your grandfather, invented it and earned a fortune. Someone should have told you where all your gold comes from."

It sounded like Potter didn't care about the gold, though.

"I always wondered about my grandparents," he sighed. He leaned against the lockers, ruffling a hand through his hair. "I don't know if I ever met them. Do you know what happened to them?"

There was such unguarded longing in Potter's voice, it made Draco's stomach twist. The other boy was more vulnerable now than he had seemed when Draco caught sight of him changing clothes, and it felt wrong to witness it. Draco was almost sorry to disappoint him.

"I don't know. Couldn't your relatives tell you?"

"I'm not sure if they know either, but if they did, they'd never tell me about it. You may not be the only one with a horrible family..." Potter grimaced and trailed off.

What a curious thing for him to say. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't let the boy savior live anywhere other than in the greatest of comfort? Then again, Draco had heard that Potter lived with muggles, and he shuddered to think how terrible that would be.

"I could find out for you," Draco blurted, breaking the growing silence. He winced as soon as he realized what he'd offered. The late hour and exhaustion from Quidditch training was loosening his lips, threatening to let all kinds of half-formed thoughts spill out. Potter looked as surprised by his words as he was.

Draco tried to cover for himself - he couldn't let Potter think he cared. Because he didn't.

"I'll find out what I can as part of our deal, you understand. I'm quite serious about needing to practice until I'm able to rejoin the team, and who knows how long that could take. I'll give you information about your family, as well as Black, in exchange for your guarantee that you'll continue allowing me the use of your cloak."

Potter looked torn. His scruffy hair was sticking straight up because he kept unconsciously hassling it. Finally he nodded and replied, "Alright, as long as we don't get caught. But you'd better have more information about Black as well. So far you haven't said anything about why you think I would want revenge, unless it's just because he gives Gryffindor a bad name."

Draco smiled victoriously and turned to secure his broom back in his locker, satisfied to know that he'd have the opportunity to fly again soon. "I've only scratched the surface, Potter," he said. "I can't promise you'll like hearing the rest of it, though. We'd best get back to the castle now."

They didn't have much more opportunity for conversation as they crept quietly back across the grounds and through the classroom window, Draco resigning himself to the backseat of Potter's broom with only a minimum of grousing, nor as they snuck invisibly down to the dungeons. They briefly crossed paths with a pyjama-clad Professor Sprout when she popped out of a stairwell into the entrance hall, but she seemed preoccupied with the steaming mug of cocoa she was holding. No further obstacles lay on their path, and in good time Potter led him once again to the Slytherin entrance.

This time, Draco didn't bother asking Potter to remain visible until he could secure the entrance behind him. Instead he used a simple spell to fill the area with a dense smoke, and grinned at Potter. "I'll see anything that disturbs the smoke, invisible or no, so don't try anything."

Potter rolled his eyes. "I keep telling you, I've already been in, and once was enough," he replied before pushing Draco unceremoniously out from under the cloak.

"Where are your manners, scarhead?" Draco grumbled affrontedly under his breath as he stumbled over to the secret entrance. "Good night to you too."

He waited a second, but nothing disturbed the smoke, so he whispered the password and headed for his dormitory to sleep away the few remaining hours before breakfast.

Notes:

Sirius was the one who left his family, rather than the other way around. But Draco would have heard the story from the Blacks and his mother, who might tell it differently in order to save face.

Chapter 4

A dormitory full of teenage boys might be expected to sleep in on a Saturday, and yet Harry was awoken far earlier, louder and more violently than he had hoped. He startled out of his deep rest as his bed curtains were ripped aside, revealing a blindingly bright sun through the tower windows that was quickly eclipsed by a pillow launched straight at his face.

Raucous laughter rang out from his housemates while he struggled to free himself from his bedsheets, seeking revenge.

"We had to wake you, mate," Ron insisted, but his apologetic tone was undermined by his suppressed grin. "Only half an hour left for breakfast!"

A set of robes was scooped off the floor and thrown his way, and he was given hardly a second to get them on before he was rushed out the door.

With his hair uncombed, glasses askew, and Dudley's oversized hand-me-down pajama trousers blatantly visible beneath the hem of his robes, Harry and his fellow Gryffindors arrived at the Great Hall just in time to see Malfoy stepping out. The others ignored him in their mad dash to the bacon platter, but Harry spared a glance just long enough to see that the Slytherin looked as put-together as always, not a hair out of place. He showed no sign of exhaustion from the previous night and it was extremely unfair.

Malfoy sneered at Harry's untidiness and brushed past without a word. Merlin, Harry hated him.

Breakfast itself was a blur of bacon and sausages, followed by a typical weekend day spent exploring the grounds around the lake, mucking about in the common room, and procrastinating on schoolwork in general. Harry dragged himself through it all, yawning profusely the whole time. He couldn't wait to get a solid night of sleep.

The third time he started to nod off during an afternoon game of wizard's chess, Ron grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him back to consciousness with a look of concern.

"You alright? You seem knackered."

Harry looked down at the chess board, avoiding the genuine worry in Ron's eyes as he mumbled, "I, er, haven't been sleeping well. Nightmares."

He didn't know why he wasn't ready to tell his best mate about where he'd been last night. Ron would surely be interested in what he'd learned about Black, even if he'd despise who the information had come from. He just got the sense that Ron wouldn't understand the deal Harry had made, and Harry would be forced to offer explanations he wasn't sure he understood himself.

"Nightmares about Black?" Ron whispered, interrupting Harry's thoughts.

Harry nodded. It wasn't even stretching the truth - there had been plenty of those.

"I heard you come into the room around half two," his friend continued. "Did you go somewhere?"

"Oh, sorry, I tried not to wake anyone. Yeah, I... needed some time alone. Took a walk to clear my head."

Ron simply nodded. Harry was reminded how grateful he was that his best friend never forced these hard conversations. And there had been plenty of opportunity for hard conversations in their years at Hogwarts. Hermione might call them emotionally constipated, but not every problem was solved by talking it to death.

"Well, I know the castle is safe, and you've got your cloak, but still. Be careful, Harry. If you ever want someone to walk with, wake me up."

Harry agreed with a smile, finally meeting Ron's eyes. When he looked back to the board, paying more attention this time, he immediately realized his king had been checked. The tiny king shook its fist at him, shouting high-pitched obscenities, until Ron ended the game and cleared the board.

The remainder of the weekend was fairly uneventful, rounded out by a tentative truce between Ron and Hermione, who were reunited after their spat over Crookshanks by a mutual scorn for the latest Divination assignment.

"I'm just going to answer every question with 'the Grim,'" Hermione said mockingly, to Harry and Ron's utter delight. The trio spent an excellent evening by the fire, taking turns coming up with increasingly ludicrous scenes they might have seen in their tea dregs.

It was with a great sense of satisfaction on Monday morning that Harry walked alongside both Hermione and Ron on their way across the grounds to Care of Magical Creatures. He was hopeful that this row over Crookshanks and Scabbers could be left in the past.

Hermione was in the middle of telling them about her Muggle Studies lessons ("What's a microwave?" asked Ron) when Harry felt the unmistakeable tug of a Tripping Jinx latching around his ankle. His arms windmilled, sending his bag and books flying all across the grassy path, and he squawked as he fell on his face in the dirt.

"Harry!"

Ron and Hermione rushed to his side, checking that he wasn't injured. "Shoelaces got the best of you, eh?" Ron teased once he'd been assured Harry was alright, and handed back his newly cracked glasses. But Harry was glaring over his shoulder at the blurry green forms of three approaching Slytherins.

"Better watch your step, Potter," Malfoy drawled. The two bulky blurs at his side chuckled nastily.

Harry cast a quiet mending charm and pushed his glasses up his nose, blinking as everything came back into focus. Hermione had paused her effort to gather up Harry's books and was clutching her wand, glowering at Crabbe and Goyle.

Ron rose to his feet. "Bugger off, Malfoy!"

"That's not very polite, Weasel," Malfoy said as he stepped casually forward. He grabbed Harry's bag from the ground where it had fallen, eyes glittering. "I'm only trying to help."

"I don't think the professors would agree that jinxing another student is helpful," Hermione snapped as Harry stood up, wiping the dirt from his hands.

"All I saw was Potter tripping over his own clumsy feet. I didn't see any jinxes. Did you?" Malfoy turned mockingly to Crabbe and Goyle, who both grunted unintelligibly.

Harry stepped past Hermione, hand held out towards his bag. "Just give it back, Malfoy. We don't have time for this. We'll all be late to class."

"Ah yes, we wouldn't want to be late to the flobberworm feeding." The Slytherins smirked, but strangely, Malfoy shoved the bag into Harry's hands without further argument. "Make sure to take notes, I'm sure this class will once again be riveting."

Grey eyes met his and lingered, and Harry had the sudden impression that Malfoy was trying to silently communicate something, but what it could be, Harry had no idea. He couldn't work out what Malfoy was even thinking, trying to start a fight when their secret deal depended on them tolerating each other enough to cooperate. Their first Quidditch practice had gone better than expected, in Harry's opinion. He was disappointed, but not surprised, that Malfoy was back to his usual ways in the light of day.

Harry took his bag, and then the moment was over, the Slytherins walking ahead and leaving them to pick up the rest of the fallen books.

"I would wish for a flobberworm to chew off his good arm, if I didn't think Hagrid would be fired over it. It's all his own fault that we can't learn about interesting creatures," Hermione huffed, dumping the pile of books into Harry's outstretched arms. Harry and Ron agreed. The three of them had been massively relieved when Hagrid hadn't been sacked immediately after the hippogriff incident, but even so, they were no more interested in studying flobberworms than the Slytherins.

They hustled, not wanting to let Hagrid down, and managed to make it to the creature paddock just as class was starting. Unfortunately, Malfoy had been right - they were in for another dull day of trying to prod more cabbage down the unmoving flobberworms' mouths.

Just to spite the git, Harry reached into his bag to pull out a note-taking quill. Surely he could find a single noteworthy trait about flobberworms, if he spent all class thinking it over. But as he rustled around in his bag, he heard an unexpected clink, and his fingers closed around a strange glass bottle that he didn't remember placing there.

He pulled it out curiously, and saw that it was filled with some kind of oil. Turning it in his hand, he found a label emblazoned with a smiling, winking wizard and the words "Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment, suitable for all hair types."

He smiled back at the wizard incredulously, then turned it to the reverse side, where the label included a short blurb about its inventor. This must have been where Malfoy came across his knowledge of Harry's grandfather.

"Fleamont Potter, skilled duelist and potioneer extraordinaire, created Sleekeazy's Hair Potion in 1925. His original recipe has stood the test of time, and Sleekeazy's remains the #1 selling hair potion brand in Europe today!"

Harry looked up. Hermione and Ron weren't paying attention, too busy trying to coax a flobberworm to show some sign that it was still alive. But he could feel Malfoy's gaze from across the paddock. Harry met his eye and held the bottle up, and Malfoy gave a slight nod in response before returning to his conversation with the Slytherins.

A warm feeling spread through Harry as he looked back at the blurb about his grandfather. Malfoy was an overdramatic knob, but Harry supposed he was willing to forgive the Tripping Jinx and the fight over his bag if this was the reason for it. He couldn't believe he'd never made the effort to discover more about his family before now.

It felt amazing to have this small piece of connection to them, and to have a place in the wizarding world other than just being the Boy Who Lived. He was the grandson of a successful potioneer. He wondered if Fleamont Potter's hair had been as uncontrollable as his own, if that was what had inspired the invention of Sleekeazy's. It was comforting to think of generations of wild-haired Potters that could have come before him.

Debating whether to try some of the potion in his hair now or wait until he was in front of a mirror, Harry turned the bottle over and over in his hands. Stuck to the bottom of the bottle, where he hadn't noticed it before, was a folded scrap of parchment. He opened it up to a short note written in an elegant, looping script.

Tomorrow night, same place.

☆ ☆ ☆

This time, Draco was already waiting in classroom eleven when Potter arrived.

He startled at first as an unfamiliar, greasy-haired head peeked in the door, then snorted when he recognized the circular spectacles and realized what had happened.

"How much did you use, scarhead? The whole bottle?"

Potter scowled as he made his way over. His hair was entirely flat, falling in oily strands past his chin. It had the signature Sleekeazy's shine, but the amount Potter had used clearly tamed the life right out of his normally lively locks. He looked like he'd just come in from a rainstorm.

"The instructions said to use more if your hair needs extra help," Potter muttered, not looking at him.

"Yes, it certainly looks like the instructions served you well. You used enough to tame an erumpent."

Potter's shoulders tensed and he didn't respond at all, but Draco wasn't done. "At least it will keep your hair out of your eyes when we're flying. You'll need every advantage you can get if you want a chance to beat me this time."

Draco continued to tease him under his breath while they once again mounted Potter's broom, ducked under the invisibility cloak, and flew out the window. He observed with glee as Potter grew more and more agitated with every whispered remark, until he made an unflattering comparison to Snape's hair and Potter abruptly stopped halfway through their trek across the grounds. "Shut the hell up!" he roared.

He shoved Draco, hard, and the cloak slipped off them as he was forced backwards.

"Quiet, Potter!" Draco shouted back, his heart racing, whether from the risk of being seen or the thrill of fighting Potter he wasn't sure. He dove to retrieve the cloak and slowly approached the angry Gryffindor with it in hand.

"You don't need to explode, I was only taking the piss," he said in a hushed voice, trying to calm Potter down enough to get back under the cloak with him. "You saw me in first year, right? Everyone uses too much hair potion until they learn better."

Potter snatched the cloak back from him with a snarl, but after a tense second of glaring, he did step closer and throw the cloak back over both of their heads.

"D'you think anyone saw us?" he asked tonelessly.

Draco took a look around. The bit of the grounds they had stopped in was fairly flat and a good distance from both the castle and the edge of the forest. Though the wind was picking up, the moonlight was unobstructed by clouds. He didn't see any people around. But he did see two glowing eyes in the grass, watching the spot where they'd vanished.

He tapped Potter's arm and silently pointed in their direction, but as he turned to look, the eyes blinked out of sight. "Probably just a cat," Potter said, but he didn't sound very certain.

They didn't speak the rest of the way to the pitch.

As soon as they arrived, though, Potter whipped off the cloak and put some distance between them. "Why do you have to be such a tosser, Malfoy?" he asked vehemently. "I'm out here helping you, and yet you're throwing Tripping Jinxes at me and going on about my hair. I should just walk away."

Draco drew in a deep breath, preparing to argue, but managed to catch his tongue before the tirade could begin. Yes, he could remind self-righteous Potter that he wasn't here to help Draco out of the goodness of his heart. He could point out that the Tripping Jinx hadn't done any real damage, and that it had been necessary in order for Draco to pass him the Sleekeazy's bottle without raising any suspicion, since he was constantly followed by his little Gryffindor friends. (Sharing the Sleekeazy's wasn't even part of their deal, for Merlin's sake! Draco had given it to him as a kind gesture, to further their precarious truce.) He could even state truthfully that he would have mocked Blaise or Theo just the same if it had been them to use such an unfortunate amount of hair potion, and that they would have taken it in stride rather than flying off their broom handles.

But Potter wouldn't like hearing any of that, and Draco needed to defuse the fight quickly lest it put an early end to their Quidditch practice, or worse. It pained him, truly, but for the sake of his spot on the team he would have to make an effort not to provoke Potter further.

"Fine, Potter," he sighed, finally releasing the breath he'd been holding. "I'll lay off the jinxes, and keep my observations about your appearance to a minimum."

"What - really?" Potter stared at him suspiciously.

He shrugged. "You know how old habits are, but I suppose I'll try. For as long as I have a use for you and that cloak. Speaking of which, might we play some Quidditch now?"

Draco turned without waiting for a response, heading to the locker room to ditch his useless arm bandaging and retrieve his broom. When he exited, he was relieved to see Potter zipping here and there across the pitch, the fight apparently set aside for the sake of flying.

The wind howled and whipped around them as they worked through the remaining tactics from the Slytherin playbook, but the sky stayed clear. Flying in all of the new formations with Potter felt as natural as it had the first time, despite the gale trying to blow them off course. Being around Potter could actually be enjoyable when he wasn't on some Gryffindor crusade or surrounded by his fan club.

About an hour in, a gust managed to steal the diagram-covered parchment right out of Draco's hand, and they made a fun, impromptu game of attempting to retrieve it as it drifted unpredictably through the air currents. Each time one of them was close to catching it, the other would swerve to block them, and they chased it as it blew all the way into the stands until finally both of their hands closed around it at once.

They simultaneously tried to pull it out of the other's grasp, resulting in a torn parchment and a mutual look of surprise that turned into a shared fit of laughter.

"Let's land for a moment!" Draco yelled over the wind, which was only increasing in strength. He gestured to the ground and Potter nodded.

Once on solid ground, Draco was able to mend the parchment with his wand. He tucked it safely back in the inner pocket of his robes. It was bad enough that Potter had seen it, and he didn't want anyone else finding a piece of it blowing around the grounds.

That done, he looked at Potter, intending to ask whether he'd brought the practice snitch for another Seekers game. Potter, however, had turned pale and was staring wide-eyed over his shoulder towards the stadium entrance. The words died on Draco's tongue.

"Do you see that?" Potter asked, his voice sounding urgent.

Draco turned slowly, his body stiff with the fear that he was about to come face to face with a professor. He couldn't imagine the depth of his father's disappointment if he were to be caught on the grounds after curfew, flaunting his fully healed arm after his letters had been so explicit about maintaining the appearance of the injury.

But when his gaze settled where Potter was pointing, there were no professors. All he saw illuminated in the moonlight were the glowing eyes and shining black fur of some wild dog.

"Damn you, Potter, you had me worried!" He groaned. "It's probably a stray from the village. Let's keep flying."

"You can see it!" Potter gasped, still visibly tensed. "But does that mean it isn't the Grim?"

Draco snorted. "What are you talking about? That mutt isn't the Grim, idiot."

"But I've seen it before! It's been following me, and Trelawney keeps saying -"

"Well if you've seen it before, and you're still alive, it certainly can't be the Grim," Draco interjected in the same slow voice he'd use to help Vince learn a difficult transfiguration concept.

"Er, I guess, but..." Potter scratched the back of his neck, unable to counter such logic.

"Trust me, scarhead. My father has a painting of the Grim back at the Manor. It's bigger than a bear. A dark specter with a magical aura of dread. This dog may be a bit on the large side, but there's nothing magical about it."

Draco started walking towards it, delighted that for once Potter was the one acting scared.

That wasn't to last very long, though. The dog bristled and growled at his approach, and a memory of massive wings and slicing talons flashed before his eyes. He quickly came to a halt about 20 feet away, shaking, but he refused to let this be a repeat of the experience with the hippogriff.

He steeled himself, hoping Potter hadn't noticed his momentary hesitation. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly lowered himself to the animal's level.

He had read obsessively about how to engage with wild beasts while he was confined in the hospital wing after his accident, determined not to live in fear of the fantastic creatures that he had loved learning about as a child. Many authors suggested calming hostile creatures by making yourself smaller and less threatening - the exact opposite of how he had been taught to comport himself as a Malfoy, but, well. Father was best at influencing wizards, not animals.

"It's alright," he murmured placatingly to the dog, which was watching him with intense interest. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just trying to show Panicky Potter over there that you're not here to kill him."

It stepped forward and for a moment, he thought he had managed to charm the beast. Then he cursed as it unexpectedly bounded past him and headed straight for Potter.

The other boy stood rooted to the spot, mouth agape, and for a second Draco wondered if the dog actually would kill Potter. But rather than attacking Potter, the dog pranced in circles around him, licking him affectionately and barking excitedly.

Draco groaned. Of course the bloody mutt would be charmed by stupid bloody Potter just standing there.

ϟ ϟ ϟ

The shaggy black dog rolled over at Harry's feet, showing its belly with its tongue lolling out of its mouth in a giant smile, and Harry released the breath he'd been holding in a shocked laugh.

"Er, hullo," he said as he sank to his knees in the grass and gently patted the dog. It seemed to smile even wider, if that was possible, and nudged its head into Harry's hand as though showing him exactly where to scratch.

"You're a good boy." He told the dog, awfully embarrassed by how tense he'd been. He hoped that Malfoy, who was looking cross and still crouched on the ground where the dog had run past him, wasn't going to make a thing of this like he had the dementors on the train. "Sorry I thought you were a death omen."

Malfoy muttered something that Harry couldn't quite hear over the wind, but sounded very much like "I told you so."

Harry petted the dog for a moment longer, feeling himself calm. He'd been so on edge this year between Black sightings, Trelawney's gloomy predictions, and the looming presence of the dementors at the far edges of the castle grounds. His imagination had run away with him. He'd created some dreadful connection between this dog, the dog he'd seen in Little Whinging, and the Grim when it was actually all coincidence. Realizing that at least he wouldn't have to worry about Trelawney's rubbish anymore, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he pulled the practice snitch from his cloak and held it up to Malfoy questioningly. "Think you can beat me twice?"

"You're on, Potter."

They jumped to their feet and with one last pat on the dog's head, Harry took to the sky.

He was immediately buffeted on all sides by the wind, which had only continued to rise. They flew to the center of the pitch, but had trouble holding their brooms in place there long enough to begin the game.

Harry clutched the snitch between his fingers, preparing to toss it, but it was blown out of his hand the second it spread its wings. After a hurried countdown, they zoomed off together in the direction that it had been carried.

They each did their best to keep an eye out for it while also maneuvering around each other and practicing the new moves they'd been working on. Over the next half hour of battling the wind, though, the likelihood increased that the snitch was nowhere to be found.

It had probably been blown straight out of the stadium into the forest, and as the wind got ever stronger, the chance that they would lose control of their brooms and be blown along the same route grew.

Malfoy was the first to return to the ground. Harry was reluctant to give up on retrieving his practice snitch, knowing that it could take weeks to order another from Diagon Alley. Even more than that, he was driven by a need to beat Malfoy and restore the natural order of things. He hadn't forgotten what a prat Malfoy had been about the hair potion, even though he'd let the argument drop when Malfoy had unexpectedly offered no resistance. The Slytherin deserved to be taken down a peg.

But eventually a particularly strong gust blew him dangerously close to the stadium wall, and he had to admit defeat. He didn't trust Malfoy to get help if he were injured, especially since he would risk being discovered out after curfew.

Harry forced his broom to the ground, where the big black dog bounded up to him as if it had been worried. He scratched its ear, watching Malfoy walk casually and unconcerned in his direction. The git almost looked disappointed - knowing him, he'd probably been hoping Harry would crash so he could do a runner with the invisibility cloak.

"I suppose we should give it up for the night," Malfoy called, speaking loudly though the sound of the wind was lessened on the ground.

"Yeah," Harry agreed sullenly. "We'll call it a draw. Let's head to the locker room."

The dog followed them in, sniffing curiously around the musty lockers. Harry immediately started undressing, but Malfoy headed directly into the showers once again, too snooty to share a locker room with a Gryffindor.

Grabbing a towel, Harry soon headed to the showers himself. He rolled his eyes, seeing that Malfoy had chosen the furthest stall away. Did the Slytherin team have some sort of modesty standard?

With a smile, Harry recalled Fred and George running around the shower room last season, whipping their teammates with their towels. Modesty had never been a concern for the Gryffindors.

It felt great to stand under the hot water, warming up after the bite of the chill wind, and he sighed in relief. He was also glad to finally rinse the potion from his hair, though he would never have admitted it.

He had poured a large glob of Sleekeazy's into his hands that morning and rubbed it through his strands enthusiastically, giddy with the possibility that his grandfather was about to solve his hair problems for good, but he'd instantly regretted it when he looked in the mirror.

The potion had congealed, turning his hair into prickly spikes that stood straight up off his scalp. He looked like one of those punks Uncle Vernon always complained about seeing on the telly. Harry had attacked it with a comb, but all that had managed to do was plaster it to his head, and by then it had been too late to wash it again before class. He'd had to go about his day, and Malfoy hadn't been the only one to notice or laugh.

As the last of the potion rinsed down the drain, Harry vowed never to use it again without getting help from Hermione.

Harry heard Malfoy walking back towards the locker room, so he shut off his shower and quickly dried with his towel. When Harry rejoined him a few minutes later, the other boy was fully dressed and quietly trying to coax the dog to come to him. The shaggy animal just stared back, head cocked to one side.

"He seems pretty friendly for a stray," Harry said, startling Malfoy. "Maybe we should give him a name."

"Hmm," Malfoy pondered, continuing to hold his hand out to the dog with no effect. "Perhaps 'Procyon?' It's the brightest star in Canis Minor."

Harry groaned. "You purebloods and your weird astronomy names. I was thinking something more normal, like 'Max.'"

"Normal! You mean common." Malfoy huffed. "A matted mutt like this needs a respectable name to be taken seriously."

The dog barked.

"I don't think he likes your fancy name," Harry laughed.

"Fine, no stars. If it has to be a simple, one-syllable name that even a bludger brain like you can pronounce... I've got it, we'll call him the Grim!"

Malfoy must have suggested it just to mock him for his earlier panic, but Harry really didn't hate the name. Giving a name like the Grim to such a friendly, playful dog was a nice way to find humor in the death omens Trelawney had been tormenting him with.

"Grim. What do you think of that?" He asked the dog. It tilted its head again and Harry smirked. "Alright, works for me. Much better than your astronomy rubbish."

"Just get dressed, Potter," Malfoy said with a glower.

Harry turned away and dropped the towel from around his waist to start pulling on his pants. As he grabbed a fresh shirt, he mentally steeled himself and prepared to broach the topics that had brought him here.

"So, what else can you tell me about my family, and about Black?" He asked faux-casually, still facing the open locker. His heart was beating fast with nerves. He wanted to know, desperately, but Malfoy's warning that Harry wouldn't like what he had to say had still managed to crawl under his skin.

"Ah, well, as for your grandparents... I was able to discover when they died. It was after your parents were married but before you were born. I'm still trying to find out what caused their deaths. I'm not sure whether they died in the war - they were very old, but the timeline matches up."

"So I never met them, then." It hurt, but Harry swallowed the pain and reminded himself he couldn't miss what he'd never had. His voice was a bit strained as he asked, "And as for Black?"

"Father saw him in Azkaban once," Malfoy drawled. Harry, now fully dressed and with no more excuse to gaze into his locker, schooled his face and turned around to give the story his full attention.

"I overhead him telling Mother. Father takes trips to observe the security at the prison occasionally, to make certain no one can escape."

It was left unspoken, but Harry was sure the reason Lucius Malfoy had such an interest in Azkaban's security was because he feared what the other supporters of Voldemort - Death Eaters, that's what Malfoy had called them before - would do to him if they got out. It couldn't sit well with them that Lucius had wormed his way out of a sentence.

"Most of the prisoners are incoherent, lost in the terrible memories the dementors dredge up. But Father said that Black was up and pacing his cell. He was even lucid enough to speak to Father, although I wasn't able to overhear what was said.

"Father admired Black's mental fortitude. Black was practically immune to the dementors. He must possess some powerful, wandless dark magic that keeps them at bay. It goes without saying how dangerous a person like that must be.

"Of course, we've all seen how useless you are around dementors." Malfoy's eyes glittered. "It's a pity you can't get lessons from him, what with him out to murder you."

Harry felt his head swim with the memory of the dementors on the train and how they had dominated his mind. How powerful must Black be, to be able to resist that?

"Doesn't the Ministry run Azkaban?" Harry said, struggling to keep his breathing steady, voice brimming with anger. "Do you mean to tell me that the Ministry ordered dementors onto the Hogwarts train and grounds, knowing that they can't actually protect us? That Black is immune, and the students here aren't, and we're not actually safe at all?"

His thoughts were spiraling and breathing becoming harder. The dog - Grim - rushed over and rested his head on Harry's leg, whining. Malfoy lost his smug look and took a half step towards Harry as well, before seeming to realize what he was doing and thinking better of it.

"There's all sorts of protective wards around the grounds," Malfoy said in a strained tone that Harry had never heard him use before. He couldn't tell whether it was attempting to be comforting or was just disguising ridicule.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Even if the dementors aren't helping, there are a variety of enchantments over Hogwarts keeping anything that intends to harm students away. Haven't you ever read Hogwarts, A History?"

The question was so unexpected coming from Malfoy that Harry broke into shocked laughter, and it was that, more than the reassurance about Hogwarts' protective enchantments, which helped him to calm down. Malfoy, of course, had no idea why Harry was laughing and got a sour look on his face, which only made him laugh more. Harry knew better than to say that it was because he had more in common with Hermione than he thought.

Once he had stopped shaking, Harry patted Grim's head and started gathering up his things. "Thanks, Malfoy, that helped," he said with a weak smile.

"Quite. Who knew that the idea of you reading a book was so hysterical."

"I have a feeling you've got more on Black, since I still have no idea why I'm supposed to want revenge."

"Just one last piece of information." Malfoy still looked peeved and didn't elaborate.

"Er, and will you keep looking into my grandparents? I'd like to know more about anyone in my family, really."

He sighed. "I can guarantee I'll have more information about your family. Let's leave it there for tonight, Potter."

"Alright. Well... when are we meeting next? Tell me now so you don't have to use another Tripping Jinx to slip me a note," Harry teased.

"I think we should continue Tuesdays and Fridays. Unless Gryffindor team practice is scheduled for those nights, in which case, I wouldn't want you to be too exhausted."

"Very kind of you."

"You'll be useless at sneaking me around the castle if you're dead on your feet." Malfoy finally smiled.

Harry rolled his eyes as they walked out of the locker room. "And there it is. Let's go, you twat."

Harry said goodbye to Grim, wondering if they'd see the dog around the grounds again. Then he stood close to Malfoy, which was becoming disturbingly normal, draped the invisibility cloak over their shoulders, and led the way back to the castle.

It'd had a rough start, and more rough patches in the middle, but as Harry finally stepped into his dormitory later that night he had to admit that he had once again enjoyed Quidditch with Malfoy. He was surprised to find he was looking forward to next time, and learning more about his family was only part of the reason.

Notes:

This is now officially the longest thing I've ever written!

Chapter 5

Draco didn’t see much of Potter besides an occasional glance at meals until Friday morning’s double Potions. That’s not to say he didn’t think of Potter more frequently, though.

Twice now, he’d had the opportunity to provoke Potter with disturbing truths about Black. He had expected it to feel like a victory, revealing how little Potter knew about the world and how little confidence Dumbledore must have in him.

Instead, Draco had left each encounter with a lingering sense of unease. In his mind, Potter had always seemed the darling of the wizarding world, given every advantage - whether it was being made Seeker in first year or having every expulsion-worthy offense, like breaking the Statute of Secrecy, completely overlooked. Why, then, did Potter have no one closer than Draco whom he could ask for information about his family and his history with Black? Why were Dumbledore and the Ministry itself keeping secrets from the Boy Who Lived?

Draco’s sense of who Potter was and his place in the wizarding world was shifting, thrown into disorder each time he got a glimpse past the boy’s armour. Those glimpses were adding up to a picture of someone who had no one to trust, who was perhaps more lost than he knew.

The more Draco came to understand Potter, the less satisfying it was to hate him.

Unfortunately, that made it rather inconvenient that he had yet to reveal the most devastating news about Black and the Potter family. He had made a valiant effort to uncover any positive information about the Potters he could, in hopes of softening the blow, but he wasn’t having any luck learning more from his Slytherin sources and he didn’t know who else to ask.

He was also disappointed that their Tuesday-night Seekers game had been ruined by the strong winds. With the practice snitch lost, he knew it wasn’t likely he and Potter would play one-on-one again. This strange truce of theirs could never last beyond the term of their deal. He was upset with himself for not seizing this last chance to catch the snitch and maintain his superiority as a Seeker. On some level, though, he was equally upset that Potter had failed to catch it. He had almost been hoping Potter would find it just so that they could play again, but then the other boy had almost crashed and given up.

His confusion about Potter and frustration with the situation came to a head just before Friday morning’s Potions class, when he heard Pansy interrupt Millie’s prattling about her cat with a dramatic gasp.

He glanced up from his textbook just in time to see the Gryffindor walk into the classroom, surrounded by a swarm of tittering girls. The swarm wasn’t what had inspired Pansy’s theatrics; that much was evident as soon as Draco laid eyes on him. Rather, it was Potter’s usually-scruffy head of hair, its wild kinks miraculously tamed into shining waves that perfectly framed the branching lightning shape of his scar.

Draco realized his mouth was hanging open and quickly snapped it shut. He couldn’t be blamed for his shock, though. The difference that well-styled hair made to Potter’s overall look was drawing attention and astonishment from everyone present.

His eyes seemed brighter, a more startling shade of green now that there was no longer a distracting rats’ nest of hair above them. The confidence in his posture had shifted as well; it was less brooding arrogance, which Draco had come to associate with Potter, and more congenial self-assurance.

Draco cataloged each difference as Potter walked further into the classroom, so absorbed he almost forgot that they were still brewing partners and startled when Potter dropped his bag on the ground, sinking into the chair next to him.

He took a second to recover before making a snide comment. “Learned how to use the right amount of hair potion then, have you?”

Potter smirked in return. “I had some help. Hermione’s the best potioneer in our year, she knew exactly how much to use.”

Draco scowled, turning to glare at Granger. Of course the mudblood would take credit for Potter’s transformation when it had been Draco who had given him the bottle of Sleekeazy’s. As if it was hard to determine a reasonable amount of hair potion! Draco would show them all who the best potioneer in the year really was.

Looking around the classroom, Draco saw that Granger and the Gryffindor girls had finally settled into their seats, Brown and Patil still staring openly at Potter and giggling amongst themselves. Draco was dismayed to note that Pansy and Millie were hardly any better. Even Blaise was glancing over furtively. His eyes met Draco’s and he went tense as he realized he’d been caught looking.

“Focus on your cauldrons, you imbeciles,” Draco snapped as Snape swept into the room and class began.

He turned back to Potter, who was dumping potions supplies haphazardly out of his bag, completely oblivious to the way the Slytherins had taken notice of him. Their own shared cauldron sat over the flames between them, bubbling occasionally as the liquid inside simmered. He dragged his eyes away from Potter and tried to focus on their assignment.

The potion’s thickness was progressing nicely since last class, but it had taken on a worrying yellow hue that Draco knew needed to be corrected by adding scullcap stems. It was unlikely Potter knew that; he hadn’t even seemed to notice the color difference yet. It was the perfect opportunity for Draco to demonstrate his potions expertise.

“Well, Potter, now that you’re a hair potions savant,” he snickered, “why don’t you explain the measures we need to take to remedy the damage done when you neglected to stir the doxy eggs counterclockwise?”

ϟ ϟ ϟ

When Harry worked on a potion with Ron, they both tried to follow the instructions to the letter. Then one of them would inevitably crack a joke, dare the other to eat a newt eyeball, or otherwise distract themselves until they lost track of which instructions they’d already done. Their potions were hardly ever as effective as they were meant to be, and they were clueless as to why.

When he worked on a potion with Hermione, he would put in a token effort only to have his hand slapped away at the first sign he was about to make a mistake. She would spend the rest of class alternating between brewing the potion herself and chastising him for not paying attention to the textbook. Their potions were always nearly perfect, yet he came away from the brewing feeling like he had learned as little as he would have if the potion had failed.

Harry got the sense, working with Malfoy, that the Slytherin would have quite liked to slap Harry’s hand away from the cauldron on multiple occasions but couldn’t because he was still pretending he only had one uninjured hand of his own. Instead, Malfoy spent the class demanding that Harry think about why each step of the instructions was necessary, what role each ingredient played in the brewing process, and how potential mistakes could be fixed.

Harry felt like he was learning more from this one potion than he had learned in his entire first two years at Hogwarts.

It was surprising, he reflected as he walked away from the supply cupboard with several new ingredients, how much potions knowledge he could dredge up from forgotten corners of his memory when Malfoy challenged him.

“At this stage of the brewing, what we want to see is a nice mint coloration,” Malfoy said while Harry dropped split scullcap stems into the cauldron one by one. “And why would mint be the ideal color, Potter?”

“Er…” Harry ruffled his hand through his newly smoothed hair, trying to recall what Snape had said about dragon liver. It was difficult, because Harry had spent most of that lesson seething over Snape docking points from Gryffindor when Parvati had asked whether their dragon liver supply had been ethically sourced. “Because mint means that the shrivelfig essence has reacted with the liver?”

“And that reaction leeches green bile out of the liver. Good. Now why would adding scullcap reduce the yellow color?”

“I know this one!” He smiled in triumph. “It’s because of the oxidation.”

“You’re starting to get it. Perhaps your potioneer grandfather need not be ashamed after all. Just one more stem, don’t overdo it.”

Harry looked down at the potion and was amazed to see a perfect mint color. It had become thicker as well, which he could now confidently say was a good sign. He had never been able to recover from a brewing mistake so thoroughly without Hermione’s intervention.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” he said begrudgingly, meeting the boy’s silver eyes through the haze above the simmering potion. “I know you’re only helping because your grade’s on the line, but all the same. No one’s ever taken the time to break a potion down like this for me. You’re a good teacher.”

Malfoy stared back at him, his eyes roving across Harry’s face, waiting as if he expected Harry to take it back. Finally, he murmured low enough that only Harry would hear. “I suppose if I can teach Vince and Greg, I can teach anyone.”

He smiled thinly and turned away to gather his things. Harry hadn’t even realized class was over, and looked up to see Ron and Hermione waiting for him while their classmates shuffled out.

“Right, well…” Harry lowered his voice to a whisper. “See you tonight!”

A quill fell from Malfoy’s hand and his face flushed bright red. Harry supposed he must be angry that Harry was acting politely towards him and mentioning their secret Quidditch practices in public where anyone could overhear. He shoved his things chaotically into his bag and darted over to his friends before Malfoy had a chance to tell him off.

Chapter 6

They were back in the Quidditch locker room after another Friday night spent sneaking out to practice together. It had gone well, despite a light mist of rain. By now they had mastered the art of stealing out of the castle and getting to the pitch unseen. No arguments had sparked between them this time, so they’d launched their brooms straight into the foggy night sky to continue working through the Slytherin playbook. They’d had a brilliant time flying together, as usual, forgetting their worries and their rivalry as soon as their feet left the ground.

Draco had insisted on practicing the Dalmally Dive for far longer than necessary in an effort to prolong their time on the pitch. He bitterly regretted the loss of the practice snitch. Eventually, though, they both grew bored of the same repetitive moves and decided to head to the showers early.

It was strange to think that this was only the third night they’d snuck to the pitch together. The routine they’d developed felt natural, as if they’d been doing this much longer. Even Grim, their stray mutt, seemed to think so as the dog had been waiting for them on the pitch when they arrived.

Draco had been relatively subdued since entering the locker room, thinking about what was to come and how Potter would react to the final reveal about Black. He now sat quietly, trying to convince Grim to accept a scratch behind the ears while Potter finished up.

He sensed a mounting anxiety in Potter as well. The Gryffindor paced as he donned his robes, and his hair was back to its normal scruffy mess post-shower, Sleekeazy’s forgotten in his single-minded focus on learning the hidden truth about his enemy.

Mercifully, Potter managed to rein in his impatience while he got fully dressed. Draco didn’t think he could have this conversation with the other boy clad only in trousers and socks.

Potter finally placed the last of his soiled Quidditch gear in his bag and then sat on the narrow wooden bench, looking at Draco expectantly. Draco sighed and turned to face him, sitting the wrong way on the bench and leaning back with his legs crossed between them. He was aiming for an air of nonchalance, but he also needed a buffer. Potter’s green eyes were far too close for comfort.

With the dense fog muffling the sounds of the night outside, and the silent locker room lit only by a single ancient, bare yellow bulb, the world seemed like it had shrunken down to just the two of them.

“Sirius Black was a Gryffindor,” Draco said, breaking the stillness. Potter already knew this, but nodded, waiting to see where Draco was going.

“He was sorted into Gryffindor the same year as your father. They were in the same dormitory and all the same classes. They had already known of each other, both being pureblood heirs, but at Hogwarts they became the best of friends. By all accounts, they were inseparable both in and out of school.”

Potter’s eyes widened behind his glasses, and Draco wondered if he could already sense how this story would end. He was tense, but he merely nodded for Draco to continue. Draco looked away, gaze landing on the dingy floor tiles, before he continued.

“When he was banished from the Black house, your grandparents invited him in. Black went to live with the Potters. When they graduated, both he and your father joined Dumbledore’s Order of the Phoenix together.

“No one knows for sure when Black devoted himself to the Dark Lord, or if he had been a Death Eater the whole time. It’s clear, though, that Black infiltrated the organization and passed information back to the Dark Lord. No one was the wiser.

“Your parents, especially, were fooled. They made Black best man at their wedding. They… made him your godfather.”

Draco had determinedly kept his gaze lowered, knowing his mask of calm would waver if he met Potter’s eyes, but couldn’t help glancing up to see his reaction now. Would he even believe Draco?

Potter was sitting ramrod straight, knuckles straining as he clenched the bench beneath him. Grim was curled up at his feet, watching him with wide, doleful eyes, but Potter paid the dog no mind. He had turned away from Draco and stared at the wall of lockers as if they held the secrets of his family tragedy.

“Maybe he hadn’t turned yet,” he croaked eventually. “They would have seen… Dumbledore would have seen…”

“Perhaps.” Draco wouldn’t deny Potter this defense of his parents, no matter how unlikely it seemed.

After a few minutes of silence, Potter spoke again. “You’re not even finished, are you? There’s more you haven’t said.”

Draco shook his head, weary and sick of drawing this out. The worst of the story began to rush out of his mouth.

“The Dark Lord took an interest in your parents. They had defied him too many times, so they went into hiding with you. There’s a spell, the Fidelius Charm, where you can magically bind knowledge of your hiding place to a single person. The Secret Keeper. No one, not even the Dark Lord, could find them unless the Secret Keeper told them where to look.

“There was only one person they trusted with their secret. The same person they trusted to be their son’s godfather.”

Potter remained absolutely still. Draco could hardly tell whether he was breathing. Realizing that he was staring, Draco turned away once again, listening to the deafening quiet that surrounded them as the seconds stretched infinitely.

He couldn’t remember, now, why he had felt so excited - gleeful, really - the first time he had heard this story. Father had imparted it as a tale of the Dark Lord’s triumph, that he could inspire such fearful devotion and loyalty to the cause from even the most unlikely of purebloods. Father had laughed with Draco about how ignorant and stupid the muggle-worshipping Potters must have been to give everything to the Dark Lord’s closest servant. Mother had smiled fondly, saying that perhaps her guidance in Black’s childhood had made an impression after all, and that Draco would do well to listen to her and learn from Black’s cunning.

They had made Black seem like one of the unlikely heroes from the stories Draco loved to read.

Just a few weeks ago, Draco had gloated to the other Slytherins about his connection to Black. He had followed the sightings reported by the Prophet, rooting for Black to evade capture and continue making a mockery of Dumbledore and the Ministry.

He had even tried to use the story to goad Potter into seeking Black out. Imagining this moment, when he had first made the deal to reveal the truth to Potter, he had pictured himself laughing at his rival’s ignorance of the story of his own family’s downfall.

Now, it didn’t feel like a story at all. The grief and anger etched into every line of Potter’s body was too real. The intensity of it burned, but Draco was too frightened to reach out, and too frightened to pull back.

He knew that for Potter to go looking for revenge was the last thing he wanted now - now that it was real. But the cold fury radiating from the boy made it feel inevitable.

He said nothing.

He would not laugh and gloat, as he had once imagined, but neither would he attempt to soothe the raw wound that he had opened. The way things stood between them had shifted over the past week, but still Draco was sure that Potter would not be receptive to his caring or concern. That he even felt concern was still a surprise he was grappling with - it wouldn’t do to let it show.

ϟ ϟ ϟ

The first light of dawn broke over the distant horizon long before Harry, who was crouched under his invisibility cloak and gazing over the parapet of the Astronomy Tower, was able to drag his thoughts away from Black’s betrayal long enough to wonder how he had gotten here.

He remembered Malfoy’s words in the locker room like they were seared in his brain, but he couldn’t put a finger on when they had returned to the castle. He vaguely recalled being in the dungeons, where the Slytherin had met his eyes under the cloak, started to say something, then shut his mouth and walked silently away. Harry couldn’t recollect what Malfoy had been about to say, if anything, or the path he had traveled afterward. He didn’t think he had gone back to Gryffindor Tower; he could picture himself in front of the portrait, but his feet had other ideas, and had kept walking.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to go back, even now. The idea of his dad and Black living in the Gryffindor dormitories together, building a friendship as close as his own with Ron and Hermione, sickened him. He couldn’t imagine betraying the lives of his best friends. What kind of person could do that?

Other questions spiraled in his head, a loop that had been repeating ever since the locker room.

Why had he never heard about this before? Fudge and Mr. Weasley probably knew - looking back, the Ministry had practically confined him to Diagon Alley that summer, and Mr. Weasley had wanted his promise not to go looking for Black, no matter what he heard. Dumbledore must have known, too, since it was all tied up with his Order of the Phoenix.

Who else was keeping this information from him? Why? Why hadn’t they done a better job of keeping Black in Azkaban?

Why was it him who had to suffer while Black walked free? Him who had to hear his mum screaming when a dementor got too close, while Black was immune?

Why hadn’t anyone seen Black for what he really was and protected Harry’s parents?

Why was Harry the one who had to lose everything?

The questions rampaged like wildfire through his brain, until where before there had been some confidence in the Ministry and no small amount of faith in Dumbledore, he was left with only ash.

He wrung his hands together, body tensed as if at any moment Black might appear. He wasn’t sure whether he was tensed to run, or to fight. He knew he wanted to take something from Black. Wanted to make it hurt.

He couldn’t bear to sit here doing nothing, and yet there was nothing to be done, other than making himself a target and waiting for Black to find him. That had no appeal. Whatever Harry did, he wanted to do it on his own terms.

His mind circled again, filled with the same answerless questions he’d been asking himself all night. It wasn’t until he was interrupted by the ringing laughter of a group of students on the grounds below, now late morning, that he was able to drag himself out of the haze.

He might not be able to do anything about Black, he suddenly realized, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get some answers. He leapt to his feet, scattering the dew that had settled over his cloak throughout the night and walking briskly into the tower.

Dumbledore knew the whole story, he was certain of it, and Harry was going to demand an explanation.

He didn’t bother removing the cloak as he tromped through the castle towards the Headmaster’s office. With everyone out of class for the weekend, he was sure to run into someone on the way, and he didn’t want to be held up. Dumbledore had kept this secret from him long enough already, and he deserved to know why.

It was a long march from the tower down to the third floor, where the stone gargoyle guarded the Headmaster. Harry’s anger only grew with each step, thinking of all the occasions there had been for Dumbledore to tell him about his family. About his parents, who had apparently been so involved in Dumbledore’s resistance group. About their murderer, who was hunting Harry now. Yet he hadn’t so much as written a letter.

Harry was so wrapped up in his thoughts of what he would say to the Headmaster that he forgot he was invisible, which abruptly became a problem as he stomped too quickly around a corner on the fourth floor. Professor Lupin, who happened to be walking at a much more reasonable pace just on the other side, couldn’t see him coming.

The resulting crash sent them both staggering backward. Harry tried to recover so he could get away, holding his breath to stay silent and hoping the Professor would chalk the crash up to Peeves or some rogue spell. He needed to get to Dumbledore’s office, and had no patience for distractions.

But Lupin’s eye caught on a point near his feet. Too late, Harry realized the toe of his trainer had been revealed during the scuffle. He shifted the cloak to fully cover himself, but the damage had been done. Lupin righted himself and his eyes fixated on a point just above Harry’s, as if he somehow knew he was addressing an invisible person standing in the middle of the hall.

“Harry?” Lupin asked. “Are you alright?”

Harry was struck speechless, his jaw hanging uselessly. How could he know?!

Lupin sighed when no response came. He looked up and down the hallway - they were still alone, but who knew for how long - then opened a door to a storeroom and gestured inside.

“Step inside please, Harry. I can’t stand in the hall talking to myself.”

Lupin looked quite serious and still had his eyes trained on Harry’s invisible form. Harry hesitated, still caught up in the urgency of his anger at Dumbledore. It was likely that he was about to receive a detention or worse, though, and running wouldn’t help the matter when the professor clearly knew who he was. After a few quiet seconds, he stepped inside and pulled off the cloak.

The professor was unfazed by Harry’s sudden appearance from thin air. He shut the door softly behind them, and with a smooth wave of his wand, rearranged the crates in the crowded storeroom to give them more space. Then he took a seat on one, motioning for Harry to do the same, and smiled at him.

“How did you know?” Harry demanded, still standing. He probably should have addressed a professor more respectfully, especially one he liked as much as Lupin, but all of the anger and questions burning in his brain left no room for good judgment.

“Years of your father’s pranks taught me what to look out for,” Lupin replied, his eyes twinkling. “I’m pleased to see that old cloak is back at school. But have I interrupted a prank, or is there another reason you’re barrelling into professors in the halls? You don’t look very well this morning.”

Harry stammered, his mind struggling to process what the professor had said. “Dumbledore - I was going to ask him - er, sorry - did you just say you knew my dad?”

Lupin’s kind smile took on an edge of concern, and he took a second to answer.

“I did. I was close friends with both of your parents at school. Sorry, Harry, I thought perhaps you would have known.”

“I don’t know anything!” Harry exploded. Several of the items on the shelves around them began to rattle and shake. Lupin’s eyes darted to them, then back to Harry, but Harry wasn’t stopping. Couldn’t stop.

“Everyone seems to know all about my family except for me, so I guess I should have assumed you do too! But no one tells me anything, and then I have to hear it from bloody Malfoy! Does no one think I deserve the truth about my parents, after hearing the Dursleys’ lies all my life?”

A glass jar on the shelf behind Lupin shattered, and Harry’s anger was infused with a spike of panic. He didn’t think he wanted to blow up Lupin like he had Aunt Marge, but he was spiraling out of control.

Lupin stood quickly. His hand was steady as he reached out to grasp Harry by the shoulder, though, and his voice was still calm.

“You deserve to know about your parents. It’s alright, Harry. I’d like to tell you about them, if you’ll let me.”

“Would you?” Harry asked sharply, through tears. “Or will you only tell half the story like everyone else? You’ll try to leave out Sirius Black, but I’ve heard the truth - I know about how he betrayed them!”

“I see.” Lupin gripped his shoulder more tightly, the strength of it surprising Harry when the professor so often seemed ill. His handsome face had quickly fallen from a smile to a grimace. When his brown eyes dropped for a moment, Harry recognized in them a grief and anger that matched his own.

“I don’t like to speak of him, and I suppose no one else does either… Even so, I’m sorry that no one has given the answers you need.” Lupin’s gaze rose to meet Harry’s once more, full of both pain and sincerity. “I won’t hide the truth from you. I’ll tell you about Sirius as well, if you wish.”

Harry nodded mutely. The sorrow that weighed down the man in front of him had curbed his rage, at least for the moment. If Lupin had been such a good friend to his parents, maybe he still felt their loss like Harry did.

Fatigue from his night atop the Astronomy Tower was catching up to Harry fast, and he leaned into the support of Lupin’s grip on him. The professor supported him gently, and after a few moments he unexpectedly folded his arms around Harry, gathering him into a warm hug as if they’d known each other for years.

There Harry stayed until his tears had dried and his magic was back under control. The jars and crates around the storeroom stopped trembling long before his hands did.

Chapter 7

Notes:

Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans, I am thankful for everyone who has left a comment. You keep me going!

Warnings for internalized homophobia and references to underage drinking.

Potter wasn’t at breakfast. Draco knew because he arrived early, eager to put an end to a miserably sleepless night, and though he tried to bury his head in that morning’s edition of the Daily Prophet his eye kept wandering to the Gryffindor table. As other students came and went, he stayed, nibbling on his cauldron cakes and waiting. The Weasel appeared briefly, just long enough to wrap up a heaping portion of food and carry it off with him, but Potter never showed.

He must have been up in Gryffindor Tower, telling his friends the story of Black’s betrayal, getting sympathy from Granger while Weasley fetched them breakfast. It was a forgone conclusion that Potter would turn to them in his distress - not someone like Draco. And why should that feel like a disappointment? No matter how much had happened between them since the start of term, they weren’t friends.

Blaise and Pansy staggered into the Great Hall shortly before the meal ended. Pansy sat down across from Draco, blocking his view of the other tables. While Blaise attacked the sausages as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, she yawned and poured herself a black coffee, not touching the food. Smudges of yesterday’s makeup accentuated the dark circles under her eyes as she stared him down over the rim of her mug. “You’re looking peaky this morning, Draco.”

“Pot, kettle,” he sneered. “Had a rough night?”

“Actually, it was delightful. We all tried some elf wine Tracey nicked from her uncle’s cellar. The taste was horrid, but it was worth it to see what fools the boys made of themselves. We all missed you.” Her eyes narrowed further. “I told Vince to invite you, but he and Greg hadn’t seen you anywhere since dinner.”

Blaise’s bleary gaze sharpened, and Draco clenched his jaw as they both watched him expectantly.

“I was in the hospital wing. Pomfrey wanted to check how my arm was coming along, but there was a complication.” The lie slipped easily off his tongue, and it was almost perfect, excusing not just his sudden absence but also his exhaustion. Unfortunately, Pansy wasn’t so easy to convince.

“That’s interesting, because Daphne went to Pomfrey for a cramp cure potion yesterday and didn’t mention seeing you there.”

They frowned at each other in silence for a few beats, and Draco stubbornly willed her to drop the subject, though he kept his face impassive. Eventually she rolled her eyes and relented.

“I suppose Daph is a bit of an unobservant twit,” she sighed, charitably ending the interrogation. Blaise didn’t look satisfied, but mercifully, his mouth was too full of sausage to contribute.

“Anyway,” Pansy carried on, “Theo reckons he could get his hands on some Firewhiskey. You should get sloshed with us next time. At the very least, I demand you put your talents to use and brew us up a hangover cure.”

“I could be convinced.”

“Excellent. Dragging ourselves out of the dungeons this morning was absolutely wretched. All the others are still having a lie in. I should get back, make sure Millie doesn’t sick up on my side of the dormitory.”

She drained her coffee and stood to leave. Draco looked around and realized they were some of the last stragglers still in the Great Hall. His eyes darted back to Potter’s usual seat, only to confirm that it was still empty.

“Draco and I will take a walk down to the greenhouses,” Blaise interjected pointedly, his sausages at last consumed. “We’ll pick up whatever he needs for the hangover potion, so it’ll be ready for next weekend.”

“Lovely!” Pansy called over her shoulder before Draco could object. He’d wanted some time alone, possibly to go looking for Potter and find out how he was handling things. Blaise was already standing, though, and looking at Draco insistently.

He groaned and rose to his feet, following Blaise without further complaint through the Entrance Hall and out onto the grounds.

Last night’s fog had cleared. Blaise scowled at the bright morning sun, but he pressed determinedly onward. He seemed to have something more on his mind than potion ingredients. Sure enough, the moment they were far enough from other students to have some privacy, he spoke up.

“Were you with someone last night, Draco?”

Draco’s eyes snapped to meet his. He couldn’t detect any notes of accusation or mischief - the other boy seemed to be genuinely curious. Nevertheless, his reply was uneasy. “Just Pomfrey, like I said. Or has that hangover got you too out of sorts to pay attention?”

Blaise sighed resignedly. “You don’t actually expect me to believe that, do you? We all know about your arm.” Draco spluttered in protest, but Blaise continued speaking forcefully over him.

“Pansy may play up the injury to protect your ego, and none of us say anything that would have your father angry with you, but we’re not idiots. You weren’t with Pomfrey all night. In fact, I happen to know you snuck into our room rather late, because I saw you when I got up for a piss.”

Draco turned away, frustrated with himself. He’d thought he had been more subtle. “What’s it to you, anyway?” he asked scathingly as he walked a bit faster towards the greenhouses.

“I know what you’re hiding. The nights you’ve been disappearing, always followed by Potter looking particularly exhausted in the morning, or not even making it to breakfast. I just wanted to tell you I understand,” Blaise said, stubbornly keeping pace.

If Blaise knew about his secret Quidditch deal, there was no telling how the other Slytherin might try to use it against him. What was friendship for if not blackmail fodder?

“Been keeping a close eye on Potter, have you?” Draco lashed out to cover his growing panic. “I noticed you ogling him in Potions yesterday, as bad as all the girls. It was sickening!”

Blaise guffawed. “That’s rich! I’m surprised you could even see me when your eyes are glued to him any time you’re in the same room.”

“Are not!” Draco was too flustered by the direction this had taken to form a more intelligent retort.

“Come on, Draco. You’ve been obsessed with each other since first year. But suddenly you’re brewing partners, and you’ve stopped prancing around the common room doing your stupid Arsehole Who Lived impressions. It’s like you’ve lost interest in scheming against him.”

“It’s third year! We’re too old for childish impressions and schemes now.” Draco’s mind was reeling. Did Blaise know about the Quidditch practices, or didn’t he? The other boy seemed to be hinting at something quite different, but he couldn’t possibly think…

“I haven’t even heard you complain about him in over a week. Don’t tell me you’re not sneaking off to snog him!”

Draco whirled around to face the other boy, his cheeks red as flame. “No! I’m not some bloody poof like you!”

Blaise stopped in his tracks. Smile thinning into a tight-lipped grimace, he looked Draco up and down pityingly. “My mistake. I forgot, you’re the perfect Malfoy heir.”

“That’s right,” Draco agreed angrily. “And you know what happens to people spreading nasty rumors about my family.”

The threat did nothing to cow the other Slytherin, who sneered infuriatingly and leaned in close to whisper. “I know. Something tells me you won’t go running to daddy about this rumor, though.”

Draco shoved him roughly away, drawing his wand. He pointed it at his supposed friend. Its tip trembled in the air, the hand that held it shaking as Draco tried to control his breathing.

There was a charged silence between them until Blaise eventually backed off, hands raised.

“Fine, Draco. If this is how you want it to be, I won’t say a word.” He shook his head sadly. When Draco didn’t lower his wand, he turned to walk back up the hill to the castle, leaving Draco alone.

Rage continued to boil inside of Draco, though. He swung his wand at the greenhouse behind him, unleashing a curse that shattered several flower pots.

How could Blaise be so deluded? Draco would never so much as think of snogging a boy. It was unnatural - completely deviant to pureblood traditions. Besides, he didn’t even think much about snogging girls.

Not to mention, he and Potter hated each other. Or at least, Potter hated him. He had made it clear since the first day at Hogwarts that they would never be friends. After the horrible things that Draco had told him last night, and the way Potter had walked off with hardly a word, friendship seemed even further from the realm of possibility. Draco laughed to himself, a little unhinged, thinking about the unlikelihood of Potter wanting to snog him.

While he was there at the greenhouses, he gathered ingredients for the hangover potion mechanically, knowing Pansy would have questions if he returned without them. It would be far easier to act normally and hope that Blaise stayed quiet.

Blaise’s voice echoed in his mind, though, for the rest of the day. You’re obsessed with him. It taunted Draco each time he turned a corner in the castle and found himself hoping to see Potter there, or wondering if he really was there, hidden under the cloak. But Potter never showed himself.

Notes:

Draco: I would never so much as think of snogging a boy
Draco (2 seconds later): Wouldn’t it be crazy if Potter wanted to snog me?

Chapter 8

Mid-afternoon sun streamed through the window of Professor Lupin’s office, warming the cozy table where they’d sat down to share some tea and chocolate biscuits. The professor had spread out a stack of old photographs and was telling the story of Harry’s parents’ nearly-disastrous first date. The tale of spontaneously combusting flowers and a very rude talking couch had Harry bursting with laughter.

One of the photos showed his mum and dad in the early days of their relationship, just four years older than Harry was now. He watched fondly as his dad, speaking animatedly with spirited hand gestures, suddenly became lost for words when his mum pecked a kiss on his cheek. They looked so happy together.

“When James came back to the dormitory that night and told us how it had gone, we had no idea if there would ever be a second date,” Lupin admitted wryly. “Luckily, Lily asked him out to the Three Broomsticks before Sirius could convince him to teach the couch a lesson on whose bum it insulted.”

They both lapsed into silence, the mood darkened by the mention of Black. Unfortunately he was a fixture in all of Lupin’s stories. He appeared in many of the photographs, and torn edges on others hinted that he had been forcefully removed. He had been every bit as close to the Potters as Malfoy had claimed.

The younger image of Black was hard to reconcile with the photograph from Azkaban. He was handsome, fashionable in a rebellious sort of way, and full of life. The way he looked at the Potters, Lupin, and their school friends didn’t betray any sign that he would one day turn on them.

It hurt to see the man responsible for their deaths looking so carefree in photos of his parents. Black had the chance to spend his school years with them, happily. Then he’d gone and thrown it all away, stealing the same chance from Harry. Nevertheless, Harry was grateful to Lupin for staying true to his word and not trying to steer him away from learning more about Black.

“How could he do it?” Harry murmured, gazing at a photo where Black stood in between James and some blonde boy, arms thrown around both of them with a wide smile. “Was he ever really their friend?”

Lupin stared into his tea cup as if it contained the answers. For a moment he seemed lost.

“I’ve been asking myself that for twelve years,” he finally said, his voice hollow. “There was no trial, so I never got any answers. If his friendship was all an act, it was a bloody convincing one. But I might be the worst person to ask. I was always blind when it came to Sirius. There was a time when I thought…”

“Thought what?”

Lupin set his tea cup on its saucer with a clink. He rested his head on his hands, looking immensely tired. Harry could tell that his next words cost him, so much that his voice nearly broke over them. “I thought we were in love. Just another thing I was wrong about.”

Harry was too dumbfounded to reply. Lupin saw the shock on his face and sighed.

“I’m sorry. As your teacher, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. I cared a great deal for your parents, though, and I know what it’s like not to get the answers you need. I promised not to hide the truth from you - I’ll answer any questions you have.

“But let’s leave it there for today, please. We can have tea again soon. I’ve got more stories to share, and I’d like to hear more about you.”

Harry nodded quietly, still processing all that Lupin had said. When he pushed back his chair and stood from the table, the professor followed him to the door.

“Take these with you,” Lupin said gently, handing him a tin of chocolate biscuits on top of his folded invisibility cloak. Harry had completely forgotten the cloak in the storeroom after his outburst. His cheeks heated at the thought of how he had raged at the man.

“Thank you, professor. And er, sorry about… earlier.”

“No need to apologize. I enjoyed spending some time with you, outside of class.” Harry smiled sheepishly and turned to leave, but Lupin placed a hand on his shoulder to hold him back. When he spoke again, his voice was grave. “I think it’s wise to keep the cloak with you, just in case. But please be careful how you use it. And if things start to feel overwhelming again, come and find me.”

“Thank you,” Harry repeated, taking in the professor’s wrinkled brow and clear concern for him. He felt he should probably say something more meaningful, something that properly conveyed how it felt to be understood, but he wasn’t sure how. In the end he simply nodded and walked out the door.

With a vague idea that he might take a nap before dinner, he trudged through the corridors back up to Gryffindor Tower. He wasn’t certain what time it was. He felt hollowed out. At least his talk with Lupin had quieted some of the questions that had been circling in his mind, enough to get some rest.

Navigating the changing staircases with practiced ease, he finally made it to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who had her nose stuck in a book. He hoped the password hadn’t changed this morning. “Acta non verba,” he said rather loudly when she didn’t look up.

“Yes yes, one second, I’m at the end of the chapter,” she sniffed.

He was about to argue when the portrait hole door burst open from the inside, the Fat Lady squealing as her painting swung wildly. Hermione hurried out, Ron on her heels, and nearly crashed into him. He staggered backwards.

“Harry?!” Hermione grabbed him before he could fall back down the stairs.

“Harry! Where have you been, mate?” Ron asked angrily when he caught up.

“Er - I was just in Professor Lupin’s office. Where are you rushing off to?”

“We were going to find McGonagall to tell her that you’re missing, only now there’s no point!” Hermione’s voice was shrill.

“Missing?!”

Ron’s face had become as red as his hair. “I went to wake you this morning and you weren’t there! Your bed hadn’t even been slept in. I told Hermione it was alright, you can’t sleep sometimes - you’d show up before breakfast. But then you didn’t. And then you weren’t at lunch. We’ve been looking for you all day!”

“You had us really worried, Harry,” Hermione added, biting her lip.

Ron lowered his voice but spoke no less ferociously. “We were starting to think Black had gotten you.”

“I’m fine,” Harry snapped. They both took a sharp breath, preparing to chew him out more, and he immediately regretted it. He sighed.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you where I was. But really, I’m alright. I just… found out some things about Black and got distracted.”

Ron still seemed upset, but Hermione’s curiosity battled her irritation. “What happened?”

Glancing around cautiously, Harry could see that the corridor was still empty, but the Fat Lady had managed to put herself right and was listening in. When she caught him looking, she hastily hid her face back in her book.

“Let’s go upstairs. No one should be in the dormitory right now.”

Reluctantly, they nodded and followed him back through the portrait hole while the Fat Lady huffed about the interruption. A few students were playing Exploding Snap in the common room, but most of the Gryffindors were outside enjoying a beautiful autumn day. The third year boys’ dormitory was empty as expected.

His friends stood in the middle of the dorm and waited impatiently for him to bring them up to speed. Harry took his time to settle on top of his bed, though, wishing he could just go to sleep and debating how much to tell them. He wouldn’t lie to Ron and Hermione, but he knew that some things they wouldn’t be able to understand.

Like his deal with Malfoy, and the risks he was taking to uncover the truth. Like the way he felt let down by everyone from Ron’s dad to the Minister of Magic. Like the long night he had spent on the Astronomy Tower, fervently hoping that he would catch sight of Black so he could make him pay.

“I’ve been having a lot of nightmares. Last night, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I took the cloak and went for a walk,” he eventually said, fiddling with his blanket anxiously and looking at the floor. It was all technically the truth, but he hoped they wouldn’t question him too heavily.

“I was out longer than I thought I would be. Then I ran into Professor Lupin this morning. He mentioned that he knew my dad at school and invited me to his office for tea. It turns out, he knew Black as well.” Let them assume Lupin told me everything, Harry thought.

Hermione gasped. “They were at Hogwarts together?”

“Not only that, they were all Gryffindors in the same year.” Harry kept talking, struggling to keep his voice even as he told them about how Sirius Black had been James Potter’s best friend, his Secret Keeper, and his son’s godfather.

Ron’s face grew paler as the story went on, and when it came to a close he sat heavily on his own bed, nearly crushing Scabbers, who had been burrowed in the sheets. “What a rotten sack of dragon shit,” he said darkly.

“I’m so sorry, Harry!” Hermione sat on the bed next to him and flung her arms around him. “Your family deserved so much better.”

He patted her back and tried to extract himself, feeling a bit uncomfortable with her pity. Thankfully, Ron stayed on his side of the room. “Are you alright, Harry?” he asked.

“Not really,” he replied with a shrug. “But I’m glad to know the truth.”

Silence stretched between them as Hermione and Ron tried to think of how they could help their friend. There wasn’t anything to be said that could lessen the hurt. Eventually, the silence was broken by the loud growling of Ron’s stomach and they realized that dinner had started.

Ron stood with a sigh. “Sorry for giving you a hard time when we found you. I’m just glad you’re safe, mate. Let’s get some food - you must be starving, yeah?”

Harry stayed on his bed. He didn’t think he had the energy to get up again. “Thanks, but that’s alright, I had biscuits and tea with Lupin. Think I’d rather get some rest now.”

Stopping halfway to the door, Ron nodded. “You look like you need it. I’ll bring you back a plate for later. Coming, ‘Mione?”

Hermione hadn’t budged from the foot of Harry’s bed. “Do you really think we should leave Harry alone right now?” she asked sternly.

“How else am I supposed to sleep?” Harry said, indignant.

“We missed lunch to look for him. You aren’t suggesting we skip dinner too?!”

“Go! Eat!”

“Oh, fine,” Hermione muttered. “But Harry, you have to promise us not to do anything rash.”

“He just said he’s going to sleep,” Ron pointed out in confusion.

Hermione ignored him and forced Harry to look at her. “Please. Promise you’ll stay here tonight. I know you must be angry, and you’re right to be! But it isn’t safe for you to go off on your own, and if you go looking for Black to get revenge, nothing good will come of it.”

“I’ll be here all night, Hermione, I promise. I’m only going to sleep.”

Still she stared at him dubiously.

“I don’t want to find Black,” Harry insisted. His stomach twisted with guilt. It was the first lie he had told them. It seemed to put Hermione at ease, though. She squeezed his hand and finally stood, joining Ron.

“I’ll be back with a plate of dinner for Harry in an hour or so. I’ll check to make sure he’s still here,” Ron reassured her.

Harry watched his friends go with a sense of relief. He was glad that they knew the truth now - or at least, most of it - but he’d had all he could stand of sitting around talking about the traitorous Black for today.

He kicked off his trainers, closed his bed curtains, and buried himself in his blanket, hoping that tomorrow wouldn’t bring any new, terrible revelations. When Ron checked on him a short time later, he was fast asleep.

Notes:

I hit a few milestones - more than 25k words and over 100 subscribers! Thank you guys so much, it means a lot to me that you want to stick with this story.

Chapter 9

“Malfoy!”

Draco blinked in confusion and looked back at the door to the Great Hall. Potter stepped out, moving quickly towards him.

“I need to talk to you,” the Gryffindor called loudly across the corridor, rushing to catch up.

He stiffened, his hand instinctively seeking his wand. Past experience told him that Potter charging towards him like a wild erumpent meant trouble. Draco wasn’t entirely certain if that was still the case. Potter had clearly been angry the last time they’d talked, but he had thought that anger was reserved for Black and not directed at him. Then Potter had vanished for a whole day. He had likely told his friends everything about Black. Had he told them about his and Draco’s Quidditch arrangement? Had they convinced him that Draco was somehow at fault?

Vince and Greg, who had been waiting for him near the passage to the dungeons, stepped protectively between him and Potter. The Gryffindor, having clearly thought Draco was alone, stopped short.

“What do you want?” Draco asked warily, searching his face for clues.

There wasn’t any anger to be found in Potter’s features, though. His eyes were wide and he looked a bit caught out. Perhaps he simply did need to talk. Draco might finally have an opportunity to learn how Potter was handling his new knowledge about Black.

“I, erm - I needed to ask you about… about…”

Now that he knew he wasn’t about to be assaulted, Draco couldn’t help but enjoy watching Potter flounder. The boy wonder was as unsubtle as a dancing troll. Obtuse though they might be, it would be a miracle if Vince and Greg didn’t begin to suspect something was amiss.

“About our Wideye Potion?” Draco cut in, sneering in a way that he hoped would tell Potter to play along. “I think it will be salvageable, despite how you bungled the doxy eggs. You’ll need to add more billywig stings - the sooner, the better. And don’t be a pillock, use fresh ones this time!”

Potter squawked in outrage. Whether it was feigned or real, Draco couldn’t discern. Excellent - that would fool their observers.

“I suppose I can’t trust you to do it correctly on your own,” Draco sighed in mock exasperation. “I’ll have to supervise. Let’s go, Potter!”

Vince and Greg sniggered. They always appreciated it when someone besides them was struggling with a potion.

“Fine, Malfoy. But watch your tone, or I’ll dump the cauldron on you,” Potter grumbled.

“I’ll catch up with you two later,” Draco told his friends with a smirk. “I can handle Potter.”

He winked at Potter as Vince and Greg shrugged and ambled away towards the Slytherin common room. The other boy groaned.

“I thought we fixed the potion? I haven’t actually mucked it up, have I?” Potter asked quietly once they were out of earshot.

“We fixed the yellowing, but it never hurts to check in on it while it stews. Besides, we’ll be able to speak privately in the potions storeroom.”

For longer brews, students’ cauldrons were kept in a special dungeon cellar equipped with everlasting flames. Hardly anyone worked on potions on Sunday morning, and when the two boys entered, no one was there. Even if someone had walked in, it would have been difficult to eavesdrop amidst the potions’ constant bubbling and steaming, and the crackling of the fires.

“Alright, scarhead. What did you really need to talk about?” Draco asked while he leaned over their cauldron, checking the color and consistency of the sludge inside. Snidely, he added, “It clearly wasn’t this potion. You need to work on your bluffing.”

Potter leaned over the cauldron from the opposite side, watching Draco work. “I thought you were alone!” he protested. “I didn’t have time to come up with an excuse. I tried to get your attention during breakfast, but you weren’t looking, so I had to rush out after you.”

Draco was glad he could blame the steam for the heat in his cheeks. He would never admit that he had purposely sat facing away from the Gryffindor table to avoid any further comments from Blaise. Their argument yesterday had made him uncomfortably aware of how often he sought Potter out in the crowded hall.

“Anyway, I needed to warn you that I’ll be a bit late to our next Quidditch practice. I told Ron and Hermione about Black, and now they won’t stop watching me. I guess they think I’m going to do something stupid. I only barely managed to leave breakfast without them. So, I’m going to have to be a bit more careful and wait until Ron falls asleep before I leave Gryffindor Tower.”

Their eyes met over the cauldron’s fumes. “Are you?” Draco asked pensively. “Going to do something stupid?”

Potter frowned. “I know you’d love it if I chased after Black and got myself killed.”

“You don’t know anything, Potter. Answer the question.”

“No,” the other boy replied after some hesitation. “Nothing more stupid than usual, anyway. I don’t want to play into his hands. I’ll find Black, but not until I have some kind of plan.”

Relief washed over Draco, and only then did he realize how worried he’d been that seeking revenge would lure the reckless Gryffindor into danger. He kept his face blank. “There’s usually no stopping you when you’re angry.”

Potter sighed, not denying it. “I won’t wait around for him to kill me, but I’m not going to hand him the opportunity either.” His eyes dropped to the cauldron, gazing at its contents unseeing. “God, I hate him. It’s hard to think about anything else. He should suffer like my parents did. I want to hurt him.”

Draco would have felt the same, had it been his own parents. “He’d deserve it,” he said grimly. “Still, if that’s what you said to Granger and the Weasel, no wonder they’re concerned.”

The other boy shook his head, expression unreadable. “Actually, I haven’t told that to anyone. It didn’t seem like they would get it. They want me to sit back and trust the Ministry to handle it.”

“Oh.” It took a moment for Draco to digest what Potter was saying. It was incomprehensible that Potter would confess something like this to Draco alone. “So, you didn’t tell them everything? What about our deal?”

“No, I kept you out of it. I found out that Lupin used to know my parents, and let them think I got the information from him.” Potter rolled his eyes mockingly. “You don’t have to worry. Nobody knows about our Quidditch practices, and I’m not planning to rat you out.”

A thrill ran through Draco, knowing that these nights on the pitch belonged only to the two of them. He told himself that it was just because he wouldn’t have to deal with the other pesky Gryffindors endangering his position on the Slytherin team.

“You’d better not, Potter,” he replied, but his smile and the laugh in his voice belied his threat. “You’re as much a part of this scheme as I am. I daresay you need the extra practice more than I do, in any case. You’ve lost your edge.”

Potter smiled back. “You wish.”

“Seriously, Slytherin is going to slaughter Gryffindor. If we still had the practice snitch, I’d offer you a preview.”

“How convenient for you that we lost it, then,” he laughed. “Actually -” He seemed about to say something more, but bit his lip and stopped himself.

“Actually what? Spit it out.”

Potter ruffled a hand through his hair anxiously. Miraculously, the Sleekeazy’s kept it from becoming a disaster. “Erm, I was going to say, since we lost the snitch, maybe… we could practice dueling together, after Quidditch. After all, we had a practice duel last year, and that went well enough.”

Draco looked at him incredulously. “Well enough? You can’t possibly be referring to the incident where you used Parseltongue to set a snake on a Hufflepuff?”

“I told it not to attack Justin!” he argued. “I - forget it, that’s besides the point. The duel itself went well. We were evenly matched. And up until the whole school started thinking I was the Heir of Slytherin, it was even a bit fun.”

Potter must be incredibly desperate to prepare himself to fight Black, if he was willing to duel Draco without any supervision. Unless this was a trick. “Why should I trust you not to hex me and leave me there?” Draco asked slowly.

“I could have cursed you any time you were distracted, on the pitch or in the locker room. I haven’t.” Potter smirked. “Scared you’ll lose, Malfoy?”

“Not even slightly,” he snapped. Potter’s smugness was insufferable. “And don’t even think you could get away with cursing me unawares. I’d see your big head coming from miles away.”

Across the cauldron, that arrogant grin only grew.

Draco gritted his teeth, determined to wipe it off Potter’s face. “I’ll duel you,” he continued. “But when I thrash you, remember, you asked for it.”

“We’ll see about that,” Potter replied, eyes glinting in the firelight and his lips still curved in a smile. “And, erm… thanks. I know this wasn’t part of our deal.”

This was the second time in just a few days that Potter had thanked him for something. It was unbearable. Draco had no idea what to do with the Gryffindor’s gratitude. Clearing his throat, he quickly backed away from the cauldron.

“Our potion is progressing nicely,” he offered lamely. Potter nodded, looking equally relieved by the change of subject. “Adding the scullcap stems did the trick. Help me move it to a lower flame, so it doesn’t lose too much moisture.”

Working together to levitate the heavy cauldron, they relocated it easily enough, although they both spent a moment coughing as they walked through thick, foul-smelling fumes emanating from a cauldron marked “G. Goyle.” Draco held his breath and peered inside it, resolving to give his fellow Slytherins a refresher on how to properly prepare a dragon liver that afternoon. He would have tried to correct the potion for them, but unfortunately, it was beyond help. He’d never before thought it possible that Potter could be a better brewing partner than Vince or Greg, yet here they were.

Soon after their own cauldron was settled and simmering, Potter excused himself, concerned that Granger and the Weasel would be looking for him. Draco watched him go with a mixture of irritation and - horrifyingly - a growing sentiment that could only be called fondness.

He shook his head, banishing the notion, and immediately headed for the library. Nevermind his school work or the letters from his parents he had yet to answer. There were only two days to research and master as many unusual and inventive curses as he could before their duel.

ϟ ϟ ϟ

Ever since he’d learned the full truth about Black, Harry had felt a fog clouding his head, and though his daily life and classes had carried on he’d felt numb to it all. What was the point of Slowing Charms and star charts when Black was still out there?

But as he and Malfoy crept out of the castle and into the starry night once again, some of the fog cleared. Evading the notice of watchful professors and nosy ghosts required his full attention. Even better, the rush of flying through the wind and chasing after the Slytherin managed to push all other thoughts from his mind. By the time they dismounted their brooms and squared up to duel, he had started to feel alive.

They stood in the shadow of the stadium wall where no wandlight would be visible from the castle. Grim, who had barked excitedly when they arrived on the pitch, was now watching from a safe distance with his ears perked up. Still well pleased with themselves over their Quidditch stunts, they smirked as they bowed to each other.

“Last chance to back out before I destroy you,” Malfoy taunted.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “If you’re as good with your wand as you are with a broom, I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

They turned to take measured paces away from one another. Then Harry whipped around, exhilarated, his wand stabbing through the air. Both boys shouted their incantations at the same time.

“Petrificus totalus!”

“Incendio!”

Malfoy’s conjured jet of flames was flying towards him in the blink of an eye, and he was forced to dodge before he’d completed his own wand movement, sending his Body Bind Curse far off target. Where Harry had stood, a burst of fire left the grass singed and blackened. His eyes lingered on it a fraction of a second too long and Malfoy was able to graze him with a Tickling Hex before he was able to shield.

“You’ll have to be faster than that!” Malfoy called triumphantly while Harry held his breath, trying to ignore the phantom fingers tickling the backs of his knees.

“En-engorgio!” he choked out. He gave in to the giggles when Malfoy fumbled his wand, his hands rapidly swelling like balloons. For a moment, the duel stalled as they both struggled to counteract the spells affecting them.

Harry was able to end the Tickling Hex first, and he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath and get back to his feet. Heart pounding, he watched Malfoy finally retrieve his wand. The Slytherin couldn’t wrap his suddenly sausage-sized fingers around it, so he settled for pressing it between his bloated palms instead. Thinking that Malfoy would prioritize fixing his hands, Harry was unprepared when a jinx that he had never heard of came flying at him.

Immediately, the hood of his Quidditch robes flew over his head, and he was completely blind. Something was choking him. He reached up to fight off whatever was closing around his throat, only to fling his arms back out as his boots started moving on their own and he stumbled. Rolling on the ground, he wrestled with his own robes while they continued to attack him.

He managed to rip them off and toss them aside just as Malfoy’s fingers shrunk back to their normal size. It was hard to aim with his boots still forcing his legs into a strange, jerky dance, but he hit the other boy solidly with a Knee Reversal Hex, evening the playing field.

He followed it up with a Freezing Charm for good measure, but Malfoy blocked it with a timely Shield Charm, then retaliated with another unknown spell. This time, Harry felt an itch as the hair on his scalp began to grow, quickly falling past his shoulders and beyond. His vision started to darken and he realized with frustration that his eyebrow hairs were lengthening as well, forming a thick curtain across his eyes.

Sweeping it aside as best he could, he caught sight of the other boy snickering and flung a Pimple Jinx at him. It would hardly help Harry win the duel, but it did help take some of his anger out, and he had to admit that was part of the reason he’d asked for the duel in the first place. Though he would have felt bad about fighting Ron or Hermione, Malfoy was Malfoy, and he was giving as good as he got.

Seeing Malfoy covered in purple boils was well worth it. Face contorted in outrage, he hurled a barrage of several hexes at Harry, who shielded himself against some but was unable to dodge others thanks to his boots still stomping around unpredictably. He returned fire until both of them were panting, twitching, hair- and boil-covered messes.

It was brilliant. They were perfectly matched, and equally driven to win. And if it was against the rules of a traditional wizard’s duel to grapple your opponent and try to pry their wand away with your hands, neither of them cared, because they both ended up in a pile on the ground heaving with exhausted laughter.

“Finite,” Harry gasped once he was able to speak again. Malfoy’s knee caps migrated back to the fronts of his legs.

“Cheers,” he said with a wince. Testing that his legs would bend the way he expected them to once more, Malfoy crawled over to where Harry’s glasses had fallen when he’d been caught by a Tripping Jinx. He used a Mending Charm to repair them and tossed them lightly at Harry, who blinked as he slid them over his nose and the world came back into focus.

“That was ace. Need any help with the boils?” Harry asked. Malfoy shook his head, so Harry started the long process of removing his own. The other boy chuckled at his extremely long hair and eyebrows, which kept getting in the way.

“You look like Dumbledore. You’ll have to let me cut your hair, I suppose, and hope that the Weasel is too thick to notice the difference. It’s a pity I can’t take the opportunity to improve that mop.”

Harry swatted at him jokingly. “Hey! There’s nothing wrong with my hair, you tosser. Especially now that I’ve learned how to use hair potion, or isn’t that what you said yourself the other day?” Malfoy spluttered in denial, but Harry rolled his eyes and kept talking. “Besides, it has a will of its own. No matter how you cut it, it’ll be back to usual tomorrow, or at least that’s what always happened when my Aunt buzzed it.”

“Buzzed? Did the muggles sic bees on you?” Malfoy’s pointy face was pinched with confusion. “That’s positively barbaric. How would the bees even cut the hair?”

“Not bees!” Harry roared, laughing from his belly. “Dogs, sure, but - no, it’s called a buzz because of the electric clippers.” Malfoy only looked more lost. “Look, forget it, my point is that you can chop it how you like and it’ll be fine in the morning.”

His confused frown turned into a wicked grin and he spun his wand at Harry’s face. “However I like? Excellent. Hold still, Potter.”

“I meant with scissors!” Harry protested, but too late. Malfoy darted forward, much too close for comfort, and slid his glasses back down his nose. His entire body tensed as Malfoy grabbed a bit of hair and used a Severing Charm at point blank range. Thankfully, it merely returned an eyebrow to its normal state without doing any harm.

“Relax, you numpty,” Malfoy demanded, flicking away the severed length of eyebrow hair with a look of disgust. “I help Pansy with her bangs all the time, and she never squirms this much.”

Slowly releasing the breath he’d been holding, Harry tried to focus on something other than the feeling of Malfoy’s hands and dangerous magic roving around his head. He watched the other boy’s face, silver eyes narrowed in concentration. He’d never seen him this close before. Sure, they’d gotten in each other’s faces while fighting, but he’d never had a chance like this to just quietly observe. There was a freckle on his left cheek that Harry had never noticed; nor had he ever noticed how long his blonde eyelashes were, or the way he dragged his lip between his teeth when he was distracted.

Malfoy chattered away as he worked, a commentary on both his and Harry’s performance in the duel that quickly turned into gloating wisecracks about the curses Harry hadn’t managed to block. Once again, Harry asked himself why he was putting his trust in this boy. As little as a month ago, he would have sooner eaten a flobberworm than believed that the Slytherin would fight fairly in a duel, or sneak out of the castle with him, or even help him improve his potions.

He was a snobbish, scheming git. And yet Malfoy had proven that he could be both trustworthy and agreeable when it suited him. He had given Harry the truth about his family when no one else would, though it came at a cost. He had turned out to be surprisingly fun when it came to playing Quidditch or dueling. Now here he was, helping Harry put himself to rights when Harry had been sure he was going to sit back and laugh as he struggled.

“That’s about as good as it’s going to get,” Malfoy said, cutting into his thoughts. He was staring critically at Harry, his wand finally lowered. “Shame it’ll be back to normal by morning. I quite think I’m responsible for a masterpiece.”

Harry’s eyes crossed trying to see his finished hairstyle, and when that failed he ran his fingers through his hair as if that might tell him anything. It was short - that was about all he could say.

“Let’s head inside. You need a mirror.” Malfoy collected his broom, and Harry and Grim followed.

In the locker room, Malfoy gestured to the mirror above the sink with a dramatic flourish. “Prepare yourself, Potter! You’ve never looked better.”

Harry stepped forward, Malfoy a step behind him, and took a good look at himself. His hair was short, that was for certain. But it wasn’t uniformly short across his head. Bits of it had been cut at odd diagonals, while some chunks were a good inch longer than others. It was worse than the time a seven-year-old Dudley had gone after him with Petunia’s pinking shears.

“You’re so lucky you’re the only one who’ll see this, you knob,” he groaned as he met Malfoy’s eyes in the mirror. The other boy’s straight face had cracked into a grin from ear to ear, and Harry hated that he couldn’t help but smile back at him.

“As I said, best you’ve ever looked, and you’re welcome,” Malfoy teased.

They went about changing and getting ready to head back to the castle. With no further truths about Black left to be revealed, Harry lacked the tension and sense of dread he’d come to associate with the final moments of his and Malfoy’s nights out. He hummed happily in the shower and enthusiastically rubbed Grim’s belly after he gave the dog some bits of ham he’d smuggled from dinner.

Malfoy seemed more pleased than usual as well, his eyes lighting up every time they landed on Harry’s ridiculous hair. Throughout their walk across the grounds, huddled together under the cloak, he babbled quietly about new spells he wanted to use in their next duel. They were both still smiling when they parted ways at the Slytherin entrance.

So Harry wondered why, when they next spoke in Friday’s double potions class, Malfoy was suddenly back to acting like a tosser.

He had been standing near Hermione’s desk, leaning over her shoulder to read her notes on aconite, when Malfoy thundered into the classroom like a stormcloud.

“Potter!” He snarled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Harry stared at him blankly until Malfoy shoved him, none too gently, towards the desk where their cauldron sat. “Start bottling up our potion. It’ll congeal if it sits out any longer. Don’t you know anything?”

“Piss off, prick,” Harry grumbled reflexively, though he did start searching his bag for a glass phial as he trudged over to the cauldron. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing at all. In fact, I’m eagerly awaiting the moment we turn in our assignment so we can return to our old brewing partners.”

It sounded convincing, except that Harry knew Malfoy a little better now. Something was off. The other boy usually took vicious joy in acting superior, but now his face was a stony mask.

Harry leaned in close under the pretense of scooping some potion from the cauldron. “I’m not,” he whispered. “I liked working together.”

Malfoy’s eyes snapped sharply down to meet his. A moment passed. He seemed to be on the verge of replying when Snape swept in, robes billowing, and the room went quiet.

“Potion samples on my desk, now. You had all better hope for good results, else you’ll be writing fourteen inches on where you went wrong over the weekend.” The professor sneered as his students groaned.

On his way to the head of the classroom, Snape paused in front of Harry and his cauldron. He gave the potion a withering glance, and seemed ready with a cruel remark, until his eyes landed on Malfoy. Then he wavered, torn between his contempt for the Gryffindor and his favouritism towards the Slytherin. Harry watched in fascination as his eye began to twitch.

“Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy,” he finally said, scowling pointedly at Harry all the while.

Malfoy smiled thinly, saying nothing. Harry scowled at Snape’s back but continued angrily scooping potion into his phial. Considering how often the potions master vanished Harry’s potions before he could even turn them in, he had to count this as a win. As soon as the phial was full, he rushed it to Snape’s desk.

When he returned to where Malfoy sat, he was ready to pick up his belongings and move to a seat near Ron, who was already waving him over. He’d slung his bag over his shoulder and was about to use a Hover Charm to move his cauldron when a pale hand clasped around his wrist.

“Don’t,” Malfoy commanded, looking anywhere but at Harry.

Harry froze, then slowly lowered his wand arm. “You, er… want to be partners again?”

“You did a passable job on this assignment. I suppose you’re not the worst partner to have.” He gestured in the direction of Crabbe and Goyle, who were struggling to bottle their potion since it had solidified into a brick.

Harry wasn’t satisfied. “Yeah, but you always partner with Parkinson, and she’s decent with potions,” he said under his breath. “I thought you said you were eager to go back to our old brewing partners.”

“Salazar’s sake!” Malfoy hissed, finally turning to look at him. “I enjoyed working with you, scarhead, but if you think I’m going to beg then you can run along right this instant!”

Smirking, Harry sank back into the chair next to Malfoy.

“Settle down,” Snape ordered from the front of the room, sending students scurrying back to their desks. “Today we will be reviewing the properties of valerian and how its components interact with aconite, which you will combine next week in the brewing of a Babbling Beverage…”

He droned on, filling the chalkboards with copious notes so small Harry had to squint to see them. Malfoy was diligently copying them down though, nodding along as Snape spoke, so Harry did his best to keep up. With his attention divided between Snape and the chalkboards, he quickly lost track of what the professor was saying.

He was puzzling over whether Snape had said that they should or shouldn’t boil their valerian roots when Malfoy tapped the desk with his quill and slid a piece of parchment to him.

In the margin of his notes, the Slytherin had drawn a hook-nosed caricature of the potions master. Its eyes were narrowed and teeth bared in a comical glower, and a caption below it read:

I’ve never seen him so angry about giving me full marks.

Harry had to slap a hand across his face to stifle a snort of laughter. Abandoning his effort to follow the lesson with the hope that the other boy would fill him in later, he immediately responded with a caricature of his own.

They continued passing notes for the rest of the class, and by the time Snape dismissed them, there was no trace left of Malfoy’s earlier crossness. They parted with a nod, each thinking about the Quidditch and dueling that awaited them that evening.

“I was saving you a seat, mate, didn’t you see?” Ron asked as soon as Harry joined him and Hermione in the hall.

“Sorry mate, I was about to come over, but, erm…” He ran a hand through his hair anxiously. “Well, er, Malfoy and I decided to partner again on the next assignment.”

“What?! Have you gone mental? How can you put up with him?”

“I, er, reckon he’s not as bad this year,” Harry mumbled, looking at the floor.

“Not as bad?!” Hermione repeated darkly. “Harry, he’s worse. You should have seen the way he looked at me when you were reading my potions notes this morning - like he couldn’t think of a curse horrible enough. He’s a rotten snake, full of blood purist poison.”

Ron nodded in agreement. Harry’s stomach twisted, wishing he could tell them about the other side of Malfoy he had seen, but that would bring up too many questions.

“Yeah…” he sighed. “Yeah, you’re right, he’s awful. But I bet you this will be the first time I ever get full marks from Snape.”

They walked back to the tower together, Harry staying unusually silent as Ron and Hermione argued over whether Snape or Malfoy was the greater evil.

Notes:

I’ve been told that the term “buzz cut” isn’t used in the UK but I was too proud of my bee pun and decided to keep it in. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Happy holidays to you all and I look forward to bringing you more of Harry and Draco's shenanigans in 2023!

Chapter 10

Notes:

A huge thanks to the wonderful alligatorbeerpong who beta read this chapter! 💚

On the second Saturday in October, the waters of the Black Lake churned in the wind of an oncoming storm, rattling the subaqueous windows of Slytherin House. Flashes of lightning periodically illuminated the rippling surface above.

Draco thought it would likely be a dull weekend, stuck in the castle, but while he and his fellow Slytherins idled around the common room, Theo took the opportunity to announce that he had managed to pilfer some firewhisky, and would be hosting a party in the third year boys’ dormitory that evening. The mood instantly shifted, all the third years excitedly making plans for the gathering.

Pansy assisted Draco, who was badgered into spending his day learning to brew the hangover cure. It ended up being a fun challenge, even though she spent most of her time making underhanded comments about how nice it was to finally be given an opportunity to brew with Draco again. Ultimately, the finished potion was the correct color and consistency, but they would have to wait and see to truly find out if it would work.

After dinner, Pansy and the other girls disappeared into their room in a fit of ominous giggling. Draco was left with a few hours to himself and spent them practicing the wand movements for a spell that Potter had used during their duel the previous night.

They had dueled after their Quidditch practices several times now, and both had already improved. Potter’s quick reflexes made him handy with defensive spells, but Draco’s knowledge of a wide variety of charms and curses made it challenging to predict his next move. He was musing over spells he could use to affect the dueling ground itself, which Potter wouldn’t be able to block with a shield, when a loud, thumping bass jolted him out of his thoughts.

He dashed across the common room and down the hall to his dormitory, where the door was flung open and a small crowd had begun to gather. “Idiots,” he grumbled, layering a hasty Muffling Charm over the doorway. Snape might or might not care about the drinking, but he would certainly be irate if the sounds of the party were loud enough to disturb him in his own dungeon chambers. The raucous beat of the Weird Sisters song quieted in the hallway just as the third year girls arrived.

Daphne shrieked unintelligibly and led a stampede past Draco into the room. Pansy and Tracey followed, grinning faces sparkling with overzealous cosmetic charms. Draco’s jaw dropped in dismay as he caught sight of Pansy’s school uniform skirt, which looked like it had been magically shrunk for the occasion and revealed far more of her thighs than he’d ever thought he’d see.

Millie was at the rear of the group, sporting a bemused expression and comfortable trousers. She walked calmly inside, pulling Draco with her. “Come on, we can’t let these slags have all the fun,” she said, with a laugh that was drowned out when they crossed the threshold and the music returned to full volume.

The rest of the third years - and, Draco noted, a few fourth years as well - were circled around Theo, who held a bottle of firewhisky in each of his hands at the center of the room. “Who’s going to try first?” He shouted.

“It ought to be you!” Tracey squealed.

Theo didn’t seem too pleased with the idea, but he didn’t argue as he uncapped a bottle and sniffed it dubiously. He steeled himself, then took a pull. Almost instantly he began violently coughing. His audience laughed and his face reddened, but when he had recovered he took another swig, to general applause.

Blaise grabbed the other bottle, making a show of examining the label. “This is no Ogden’s,” he complained, nevermind that he had zero experience with any brand of firewhisky. “Where’d you get this cheap shit?”

“Nicked it from Trelawney,” Theo bragged. He started passing his bottle around the circle, and gestured for Blaise to do the same. “I found her stash in a cupboard when she had me put away her teacups. Then the other day, I waited for her usual hysterics over Potter’s impending demise, and snagged the bottles while everyone was distracted.”

Blaise looked knowingly at Draco when Potter was mentioned, and Draco looked sharply away.

“There was so much there, I hardly think she’ll miss two bottles,” Theo continued. “I reckon she’s so batty because she spikes all her teas.”

One of the bottles had reached Pansy, who took a quick swig and came away choking. “It’s horrid!” She pronounced gleefully, and passed it to Draco.

He had only ever snuck sips of expensive champagne at the pureblood weddings he attended with his mother, and wasn’t sure what to expect now. The eyes of the room were on him, though, so he wiped the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve and then took a determined pull.

Immediately, he felt a burning sensation on his tongue, and gulped the fiery liquid down as fast as he could. Draco soon realized that swallowing was a mistake - flames trailed all the way down his throat and lit an inferno in his chest.

“It’s atrocious,” he rasped once he was capable of speaking, very proud of himself for managing not to choke.

He passed the bottle on to Millie, who merely shook her head and got rid of it without partaking. She always had been the wisest of the bunch.

The bottles continued circling the room, and after a few more rounds, Draco didn’t notice the burning in his chest quite as much. His whole body was warm.

He loosened his collar, swaying to the music and giving Pansy a twirl. Before he knew it they were on his bed, pillows and blankets flying in disarray while they danced and jumped up and down to the throbbing beat of the enchanted record player. Others joined in until all five beds were straining under the weight of bouncing, whooping teens.

Most of the lamps were extinguished, quickly replaced by colorful sparks and strobing light charms that pulsed from the dancing students’ wands. Occasionally they would be caught by a flash from the camera that Daphne had enchanted to fly around the room taking photos.

Draco was panting and out of breath by the time the Weird Sisters album ended and a new, quieter record began playing in its stead. He crashed to the floor and took a seat, joining Tracey and the fourth years, who were deep in conversation.

“- and yeah, he had Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile, but there was no sense of mystery,” a dark-haired fourth year girl was saying.

“Draco!” Tracey exclaimed, leaning on him as she passed him a bottle. “Your timing is impeccable. Perhaps you can settle this debate for us.”

He took another swig of firewhisky, which did no good for his already burning lungs. “Of course I can. What’s it about?” he asked.

“We’re trying to decide who’s the most fit professor at Hogwarts. I say Lockhart. He had that gorgeous blonde hair and the most beautiful, expensive robes,” said Tracey, looking at Draco in a way that made him a bit uncomfortable, before turning a glare on the fourth year girl. “But apparently ex-professors don’t count!”

“Get over Lockhart! Lupin’s much more fanciable, anyway.”

“Lupin?!” Draco spluttered.

“Sure, Lupin’s hot, if you don’t mind the skint look,” Pansy said haughtily, jumping down from the bed to sit next to him. “But do go on, Draco, who would you choose?”

He hurriedly filed through a mental list of female professors. It wasn’t something he’d really considered before. Most were easily eliminated on the basis of age - McGonagall certainly wasn’t fit. But amongst the younger professors, there still wasn’t one Draco found particularly attractive.

“I suppose Sinistra. She’s… got a good face?” He didn’t intend for it to come out sounding like a question, but Pansy jumped in and saved him from having to elaborate.

“Ooh, Sinistra is so elegant! She really has the most striking eyes!” The girls dissolved into shrieks and giggles, so Draco took another pull from the bottle he still had in hand before holding it out to the only male fourth year who had come to the party.

He accepted it with a nod, but his eyes lingered on Draco’s other arm, bandaged and hanging limply at his side. “Still not in Quidditch form, eh?” he asked. “Think you’ll ever be able to get back on a broom?”

Draco smirked. “It would take more than one puffed up hippogriff to keep me off the pitch. Marcus is keeping me informed on all the new plays. I’ll be back in shape by Slytherin’s first game, and I’ll win the Cup for us, you can bet on it.”

The boy - a Yaxley, whose given name Draco couldn’t remember - raised a brow. “That’s not what I heard from Vaisey.”

“Sod Vaisey, that blighter!” Vince slurred, drawn into the conversation from across the room by talk of Quidditch.

His friend’s loyalty made Draco smile. “Indeed. I heard that Bole had to point the snitch out to Vaisey at their last practice. That’s hardly the kind of play that will earn us a win over Gryffindor.”

Yaxley shrugged, uninvested in defending the alternate Seeker. “Do you really think Gryffindor is the biggest threat?” he asked instead. “Diggory’s looking strong this year, and that new Ravenclaw Seeker is a wildcard.”

“No one’s as good as Potter,” Draco insisted immediately. “Except me, of course.”

“Oi, Draco,” Vince interrupted, stumbling over to the group. “I’ve invented a new spell.”

Draco took in his friend’s drunkenly disheveled state. Even holding himself up against a bedpost, he was still swaying on his feet. “I assure you, you haven’t,” Draco replied. Vince belched loudly in protest and Yaxley snorted unkindly.

“I have! I’m a genius, like you. Shh, ‘s a good one, jus’ watch. ‘S gonna be brilliant.”

Draco yelped when a cross-eyed Vince pointed his wand at his own face, but was too late to stop the jet of yellow light that shot from it. With a horrible popping sound, Vince’s rather large head shrunk to the size of a grapefruit, and his thick neck nearly disappeared entirely.

The party erupted into cheers around him.

“Yes, absolutely brilliant, you total plonker,” Draco said fondly when the applause had stopped. Vince was patting a hand against his tiny head in disbelief.

“Tha’s not what it was s’posed to do!” he squeaked in an impossibly high-pitched voice. “Draco, help!”

It took a few tries to get to his feet. Sitting on the floor, Draco hadn’t really noticed the way the room was spinning. With some assistance from Pansy, he made it up, and aimed his wand right between Vince’s bulging eyes. A simple Growing Charm ought to counteract whatever his friend had done. “Engorgio,” he said confidently.

Nothing happened.

Draco shook his wand as if it were the problem. His fellow Slytherins snickered at him.

“You’re too drunk,” shouted Theo. “I’ll try!”

Several of them took turns trying to set Vince right, but between their slurred incantations and less-than-precise wand waving, it was a miracle they didn’t make the problem worse. At last Draco turned to Millie, who hadn’t touched the firewhisky all night.

“Mills, can you sort him out?”

She cocked her head, looked over at poor Vince, then grinned wickedly. “I don’t think I will,” she said. “I like him better this way.”

Vince pouted as Daphne’s hovering camera snapped a photo. Draco thumped him cheerfully on the back. “Apologies. I’ll fix it for you first thing in the morning, hm? You can live with it until then.”

His misfortune was quickly forgotten when a few of the party-goers, who had ducked out of the room, returned with a bounty of snacks. They brought sandwiches, crisps, and doughnuts filched from the dinner table, along with chocolate frogs, Fizzing Whizzbees, and a few items Draco had never even seen before. He and his hungry housemates descended on the pile like vultures.

“What are these?” Pansy asked, holding up a package of something called Hobnobs.

“Oh, they’re a muggle biscuit,” Tracey explained through a mouth full of greasy crisps. “My cousins on my mum’s side love them.”

Draco had already eaten one, but he spat his second out inelegantly.

“Come now, Draco, they’re muggle, not poison,” cried Tracey.

“This filth doesn’t belong at Hogwarts,” he replied acidly. He could almost hear his parents now, condemning the sorry state of Slytherin house for allowing wizarding culture to be diluted in such a way. The pity was that Draco had quite liked the biscuit, but he refused to touch any more of the muggle foods on principle, and several of the other students half-heartedly began to follow his lead.

“You sound just like your father,” Blaise scoffed and ripped open another of the muggle packages. “If you want to be old-fashioned, suit yourself. I want to try Twiglets.”

“Oh, let me have one!” Pansy grabbed at the bag of Twiglets in Blaise’s hand, but Draco was still too staggered by the insult to his father to register her treachery.

Moments later, everyone except Draco and Vince had indulged in the muggle snacks, and in Vince’s case he had only abstained because Millie warned him his shrunken throat might be too small to accommodate food. The firewhisky bottles were passed around the room and the dancing began again, though everyone seemed much less steady on their feet this time.

Draco sat on his bed, removing himself from the action and inwardly seething at Blaise. Pansy soon flounced down onto the blankets to join him.

“Sulking, darling?” She snaked an arm over his hunched shoulders and started playing with his hair. She was turning into a tactile drunk. “You mustn’t be cross, the muggle snacks are just a lark.”

“They’ll certainly never compare to our sweets,” Draco muttered contemptuously. “They don’t come alive and hop about, or cause you to levitate, or do anything but taste good really.”

“Ah, so you did like the Hobnobs.” Her eyes sparkled. “Fear not, your secret is safe with me. Now, here’s something ghastly to take your mind off your troubles.”

She pointed to the far end of the dormitory. He narrowed his eyes and followed her gaze, looking past the group that was still dancing, towards Theo’s bed, the one closest to the window. The bed curtains had been drawn half shut, but in the low lamplight he could just make out two figures behind them. One was Daphne - that shade of blonde was unmistakable - but it took him a second to identify the boy with his tongue down her throat.

“Greg!” He hissed, astonished. “Snogging Daphne? What in Salazar’s name has gotten into people tonight?”

He watched with a look of faint disgust as they rolled messily about the bed, making a valiant attempt to devour each other. “I never thought those two would be the first in our year to -”

His words died on his tongue as he turned to Pansy, ready to commiserate, only to find her already staring at him with an intense glint in her eye. From her position halfway on top of him, she leaned in infinitesimally closer. One of her hands came to rest on his leg.

Throughout their long friendship, she’d never touched him like this, and his brain struggled to make sense of it through the haze of whisky.

“Kiss me, Draco,” she said bossily, though he could tell from the flush on her cheeks that her directness was a fragile sort of bravado. “Let’s show them how it’s done properly.”

He stared at her, gaze moving to her red lips, wondering what it would be like to meet them with his own. He’d never thought of Pansy in a romantic light. The idea of snogging her held no particular appeal, but then, Greg seemed to be enjoying himself with Daphne immensely.

Perhaps Draco would like it once he tried it. Perhaps this was exactly what he needed to knock Blaise’s deranged ideas right out of his mind.

Not entirely sure what to do with his hands, he mirrored Pansy, using one for support and placing the other on her leg. He immediately felt awkward when his palm brushed against bare skin, exposed by her ridiculously short skirt. Pansy didn’t seem opposed, though - rather the opposite.

Her breathing quickened as he leaned even closer to her, but he unconsciously held his breath when he finally pressed his lips to hers. Their noses bumped into one another and Pansy tilted her head to compensate. Draco sat there, not breathing, feeling the strange warmth of her face against his own, with no idea what to do next.

After waiting a few beats for Draco to do anything, Pansy took over. Where she had been fiddling with his hair, her fingers threaded through the strands and guided him even closer to her. Frustrated with the way his mouth remained tightly shut, she caught his bottom lip in her teeth and slowly, carefully dragged it down. Her breath smelt of alcohol and chocolate.

He let it happen, wondering when he would start to enjoy the kiss. With every second that passed, his mounting sense of awkwardness grew, especially when he realized that Pansy seemed to be liking it much more than him. What was wrong with him?

Then, she broke the kiss, rising to her knees on the bed, and slid a leg over his so that she was sitting in his lap. Her lips still hovered inches away. “Draco?” she asked, looking at him hungrily. “Do you want me to -”

“We can’t,” he blurted out before she could finish the thought. His heart was racing in panic and his lungs burned from the length of time he’d forgotten to breathe. He sat straight up, so suddenly that he accidentally knocked her backward off his legs. Pansy screeched in shock, and several pairs of eyes turned sharply towards the commotion. Barely pausing to check that she was alright, Draco leapt from the bed.

“Sorry, Pans,” he muttered, and stumbled away.

The room was still spinning, but somehow he managed to stay upright. Draco locked the door of the bathroom behind him, shutting out most of the noise of the party. He desperately needed to be alone, to clear his head.

Lurching to the sink, he grabbed the sides with both hands to support himself until he regained his balance. He inhaled deeply, trying to slow his thundering heart. Then he turned the cold tap and splashed water across his burning face.

He let the sound of the running tap drown out everything else until the other students and the party seemed far away. His gaze drifted up to meet his own eyes in the mirror, and he hated the distress he saw there.

“Why did you run away?” He sneered at himself, water droplets dripping down the sides of his face.

“Hunngh,” someone groaned from the toilet. Draco startled and jumped away from the sink.

Poking his head around the corner, he saw Theo kneeling on the tiled floor, arms cradling the toilet bowl and his cheek resting against the seat. His hair was damp with sweat. Though his eyes were closed, he moaned pitifully again when Draco approached.

“Looks like someone had a bit too much,” Draco said unnecessarily. The smell of vomit clung to his friend. It was clear Theo was in no shape to move, and might be here all night without some assistance.

He moved next to Theo and attempted to lean down, but his treacherous body ended up slumping against the wall and sliding to the floor. Blast! It would have to do. He reached into his pocket and extracted his dose of hangover cure.

“Theo. Theo!”

He shook Theo until the other boy got his head upright, and poured the vial down his throat, making sure he swallowed. It would take a half hour or so, but if it worked properly the potion would sober him up, breaking down the toxins in Theo’s body and helping to rehydrate him. Draco only hoped he’d be able to find another vial of the potion for himself in the morning.

He sat with Theo on the floor, leaning against the cool tiles without speaking, while his friend recovered. He had no desire to return to the party. Pansy was sure to be angry, and Blaise would smirk at him as though this proved something.

Eventually, though, the bathroom door handle rattled as someone tried to open it from the other side. Realizing it was locked, that someone progressed to an urgent knocking.

Draco wanted to ignore it. Theo rose though, still ashen-faced and soiled but newly steady on his feet. His friend quickly cleaned himself up at the sink, and Draco took the opportunity to relieve himself before they went to unlock the door.

Daphne was waiting on the other side, squirming about with her legs tightly crossed. She rushed past them, heading straight for the toilet without waiting for them to close the door behind her.

The room wasn’t spinning quite as violently as before, Draco was glad to discover. Nor was it as loud - the dancing had ended, a few people had left, and the ones who remained were having quiet conversations. Theo’s bed was vacant now, and he crashed on top of it, not bothering with the blankets.

Draco moved on. As he went by Blaise’s bed he recognized Pansy in it, passed out and curled up around Sable, Millie’s cat. He had worried she would wait in his bed for him, and was flooded with relief to know that his own bed was blessedly empty.

He pulled his bed curtains shut around him and collapsed beneath the covers. He couldn’t be arsed to find his pyjamas. His eyelids were so heavy. It felt good to lie down, burying his face in his soft, cool pillow. The tension in his body went slack, utterly relaxed. A thought flickered through his mind - he ought to eavesdrop on the conversations still happening around him, find out what was being said and if any of it concerned his disastrous first kiss - but before he could act on it, he was pulled down into unconsciousness.

Darkness claimed him for several long hours. The last remaining party-goers either fell asleep themselves or cleared out without rousing him. As the dawn approached, though, he began to dream.

It wasn’t a particularly visual dream, starting off with just an assortment of feelings. Excitement. The wind in his face. The thrill of flying.

He was on his broom, feeling the solid hardness of it between his legs, its sensitivity to his every movement as he gripped and handled it around the pitch.

Suddenly, he realized someone else was on the broom in front of him. Black hair that flapped wildly in the breeze. A quiet laugh that made Draco’s heart race - Potter. They must be flying back to the castle after another night spent sneaking out together.

Potter pulled the broom into a steep upward trajectory, aiming for a classroom window that seemed impossibly high above them.

The force of gravity slid him backwards along the broom handle until he was pressed firmly against Draco, backside flush against his chest and groin.

Draco groaned.

Rather than trying to push Potter away, this time, he tightened his legs around the other boy so that he wouldn’t budge. He snaked his arms around Potter’s midsection, trailing his hands over his chest and middle, pulling him even closer until Potter groaned in return.

Then the broom hit a patch of rough air, bucking beneath them, and the pressure on Draco’s bollocks jolted him awake.

For a moment, he felt incredible, as if he were still flying. Lying face-down in his warm, soft bed, he wasn’t alert enough yet to consider just why the dream had felt so good.

Slowly, he became more conscious of the dormitory, which was filled with loud snoring sounds. There was a dull twinge of pain in his head. Once he felt able to move, he shifted to his side, planning to crack open his bed curtains and check the time. But as he shifted he felt a sticky wetness in his pants that stopped him in his tracks. What the…

An image from the dream flashed before his eyes and he paled. Merlin, no, this could not be happening!

He yanked his blankets up to cover as much of him as possible, not knowing what he would do if one of his dorm mates saw him in this state. It was difficult to control his breathing as he began to panic, but he forced himself to stay quiet.

It was the firewhisky, that was all. The alcohol and Blaise’s terrible influence, fucking with his head. Why else would he have a dream like that, about Potter?

Draco cursed himself for not having learned a single cleaning charm. He had to get rid of these pants before anyone caught on to his problem.

Holding his breath, he silently opened his curtain, peeking out to check that everyone else was still asleep. The path to the bathroom looked clear, so he slowly and noiselessly got up, head now aching mercilessly. Draco grabbed his wand, snagged Greg’s dose of hangover cure off his friend’s bedside table, and then locked himself in the bathroom once again, shutting out the rest of the world.

Chapter 11

Notes:

March 13 marks one year since I began writing this fic, which was my first Drarry fic and the first fic I ever published! I’ve written over 46k of Drarry in this past year and I’m really proud of myself for keeping at it. Thank you so much to all of you for your support along the way and for being here to help me celebrate this anniversary.

The door of Lupin’s office stood slightly ajar. He was expected, but Harry knocked anyway, still a bit self-conscious of the way he had blown up at the professor the last time they had spoken outside of class.

In the weeks that had passed since, he had begun to worry that the man was just humoring him when he’d mentioned having Harry over for tea again sometime. The worry had grown when Harry had stopped by last weekend, hoping to hear more stories about his parents, only to find Lupin’s office locked up and no sign of the professor at meals. But he’d reappeared this week to teach the Gryffindors about the dangers of kappas, and after class, he’d quietly asked Harry to join him for more tea and biscuits that Sunday.

“Come in,” Lupin called, and the door swung open on its own.

Harry waved off Ron and Hermione, who were still reluctant to let him out of their sight, and watched them walk together down the corridor before poking his head inside.

“Erm, hullo,” he said.

“Ah, Harry!” The professor was reading at his desk within, but he snapped his book shut and stood to welcome Harry as he entered.

There was a bit of awkward shuffling, neither of them sure whether to greet the other with a hug, a handshake, or a simple smile. They both stepped forward, only to second guess themselves and jerk to a stop. In the end, Harry rooted himself to his spot by the door with an embarrassed grin, feeling his face heat, and Lupin stepped forward to clap him on the shoulder good-naturedly.

“Thanks for coming.” He swept over to his small table by the window and began setting it for tea. He smiled back at Harry, motioning for him to sit as he continued. “I’m sure there are a million things you’d rather do this weekend than hang around in a professor’s office.”

“Nah, Hermione would just be making me write my Transfiguration essay,” he groaned without thinking. Lupin laughed, and Harry hastily explained, “Er - that’s not to say that I wasn’t looking forward to this. I actually came to see you last Saturday, but it looked like you had left the castle?”

Busying himself with filling the kettle, Lupin nodded, but didn’t meet Harry’s eye. “Sorry about that. I would have liked to see you, but I had to meet up with an old acquaintance. Unfortunately, he kept me away for the whole weekend.”

He tapped the kettle with his wand, setting it aside to heat. Then he cleared his throat and sat across from Harry at the table. “What did you think of the lesson on kappas this week?”

“It was brilliant!” Harry had so much to say about the lesson that he hardly noticed Lupin changing the subject. The professor had transformed half of his classroom into marshland, and they had spent the class period taking turns trying to trick one of the Japanese water demons into bowing. Harry had enjoyed it even more than studying boggarts and red caps. Though none of the students had successfully tricked the kappa yet, he eagerly told Lupin all of the ideas he wanted to try in the next class, while the professor finished preparing the tea.

“Have you ever been to Japan?” Harry asked as he added milk to his cup. “How did you learn so much about kappas and the other dark creatures?”

Lupin shook his head. “I visited India with James and your grandparents once, but otherwise I haven’t had much chance to travel outside Europe. There are plenty of kappas here in Scotland, though. Many creatures like the kappas have been introduced to Britain, either intentionally or accidentally, by wizards and muggles alike.

“I’ve spent a bit of time in the wilderness, and I’ve been unlucky enough to cross paths with more than a few of them. I sometimes wonder if they’re drawn to me.” He chuckled darkly. “I’ve learned the hard way that there’s no substitute for practical experience when mastering defense against such creatures.”

Harry listened with wide eyes. Lupin was so bloody cool. After seeing the fearless way the man had handled boggarts and red caps in class, Harry could easily imagine him adventuring in the wild.

“Did my dad ever fight dark creatures with you?”

The professor smiled and gazed out his window with a faraway stare. The sky was grey, and the wind whipped through the distant trees of the Forbidden Forest. He sipped his tea before answering. “James was a capable wizard and legendary with defense. He had a tendency, though, to see the best in everyone. He would have sooner befriended a dark creature than fight one.”

Harry couldn’t help but mirror Lupin’s wistful smile, though his heart hurt to think that he would only ever know his father through other people’s stories. When he spoke again, his voice cracked with emotion, but Lupin seemed too deep in his memories to notice.

“So my grandparents took you to India?” He asked. “Did you know them well?”

Across the table, Lupin finally dragged his eyes away from the window, focusing on Harry once more. “Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose I did. I wasn’t nearly as close with them as… as Sirius was, after they took him in… but I spent many school holidays popping in and out of their fireplace.”

“What was it like? At their house, I mean.” It had to be better than the Dursleys’. Harry had always wondered what it would have been like to live with his father’s family instead.

“Well, their door was always open,” Lupin said. “They had the best of everything, but they were generous to a fault. Monty always invited me to help tinker with his potions, even though he knew I was abysmal at brewing, and Effie liked to send me home carrying enough food to last my family for days. Those were always the best parts of my summer, when I got to visit the Potters and muck about with Prongs on their estate.”

“Prongs?”

“A nickname your father had, at Hogwarts,” Lupin was quick to explain.

“Not a very cool one, was it?” Harry’s nose wrinkled and the professor laughed. Feeling bolstered by the ease of the conversation between them, Harry took a deep breath and asked the question that he had been dreading. “Did… did Voldemort kill my grandparents, too? I asked Malfoy, but he wasn’t sure…”

“No, it wasn’t anything like that, thank Merlin,” Lupin sighed softly. He absent-mindedly tapped his wand to each of their cups, and their tea was once again steaming hot.

“Your grandparents lived long, happy lives, full of love. They were very old by the time your parents married, but that didn’t stop them wanting to do their part for the war. Euphemia and Fleamont volunteered at St. Mungo’s, which was always full to bursting in those days. They must have caught dragonpox from a patient while they were there. At their age, the illness moved swiftly. They didn’t suffer long, and died peacefully in their own home. I was devastated when I heard, but… knowing them, they would have had no regrets.”

Harry nodded silently, not knowing what to say. He wished he could have known them himself. Would they have been kind to him? Offered him a loving home? Still, he was relieved that this was one thing Voldemort hadn’t taken from him.

For a mad second, he wondered if he ought to tell Malfoy what had happened to them, or if the other boy would even care.

“As your professor, it’s not my place to pry,” Lupin said suddenly, looking down at the table. “But could I ask how you’ve been getting on at home? I hear you’ve been living with Lily’s sister.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry mumbled, and though his chest felt heavy in the way it always did when he thought about the Dursleys, he found that it was true. It was nice, knowing that an old friend of his parents was curious about him.

“And yes, my Aunt Petunia took me in. It’s… er, well, it’s a place to live. Not like I have anywhere else to go. I got to spend a few weeks at the Leaky Cauldron last summer, but Fudge convinced the Dursleys to let me come back next year, so I guess I’ll have to,” Harry said with a frown.

“Fudge? As in, the Minister of Magic?” Lupin sounded amused, but there was a dark look in his eye. “How did he get involved?”

Harry became very interested in the box of biscuits, fiddling with it as he talked. The way he’d left things with the Dursleys had been terrifying until he learned he wouldn’t be expelled. Looking back now, it was painfully embarrassing. He didn’t want to see Lupin’s reaction to the story.

“Fudge found me when I ran,” Harry sighed, “after I accidentally blew up Aunt Marge. She’s Uncle Vernon’s sister, not related to my mum.”

Lupin said nothing, and Harry dared not look up. He kept talking to fill the silence.

“I swear, I didn’t mean to do it. The things she said about my parents, though - rotten blood, dying drunk in a car crash - it was all the same rubbish the Dursleys fed me before I found out about magic, and I couldn’t take it anymore. If there’s anyone who deserves to be blown up a little, it’s Marge.”

“I don’t blame you, Harry,” Lupin said at last, his tone kind. “I would have been angry to hear such lies about your parents as well. I’m sure whatever happened with your magic was an accident, just like when we bumped into each other a few weeks ago.”

Harry begrudgingly met Lupin’s gaze, and was relieved to see it held no judgment, though he could sense a storm brewing beneath the professor’s calm exterior.

“Have you experienced accidents like these before this summer?” Lupin asked lightly.

A boa constrictor slithered out of its zoo enclosure and into Harry’s memory. Times he had miraculously escaped Dudley’s gang and times Aunt Petunia’s fine china had unexplainably shattered sprang to mind.

“Maybe once or twice…”

Lupin nodded, and Harry got the feeling the man saw right through him, but thankfully he didn’t press the matter. “I never met Lily’s sister or her family,“ he mused instead. “I take it they weren’t the most pleasant people to grow up around.”

Harry snorted. “You should be glad you never met. The Dursleys would certainly be unpleasant to you.”

“Why’s that?”

“They hate magic, they hate anything out of the ordinary,” he explained quickly, not wanting to offend the professor. The things about Lupin that would disgust the Dursleys, after all, were the same things that made Harry think he was so brilliant. “They hate anyone who’s untidy, or doesn’t dress a certain way, or act a certain way, or drive a nice car. Women who want to be in charge, men who like… well… you know. People that they would call freaks.”

“I see.” The professor’s voice remained even. His face was still kind, and Harry was glad to see he hadn’t taken it personally. That only made it all the more surprising when his next question cut like a knife. “Did they ever make you feel like that’s what you were - a freak?”

Freak. Freak. FREAK. The word echoed in Harry’s head, only it was no longer in Lupin’s voice but Petunia’s, and Vernon’s, and Dudley’s. The tightness in Harry’s chest twisted around his lungs, and he struggled to keep his breathing even. He shouldn’t have to hear them here, at Hogwarts.

“I don’t care what the Dursleys think,” he said forcefully. Was it Lupin or himself that he was trying to assure? He sighed, looked away, then looked back, trying to smile. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I only have to see them in the summer.”

Lupin didn’t seem ready to let the topic drop. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, opening and closing his mouth as if he had a million things to say and couldn’t pick just one. Harry, however, wanted nothing more than to move on. Before the man could get another word in, he distracted the professor with a rapid series of questions about other creatures and spells he would be teaching that year.

Harry really was interested, especially in any spells that might be useful for dueling, though he didn’t go into detail about why that was. By the time they had finished the biscuits, Lupin had stopped trying to turn the conversation back to Harry, and they were too deep into a discussion of useful counter-curses to feel any lingering awkwardness. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a fascinating teacher.

It was almost time to meet his friends for dinner when he finally excused himself, so wrapped up in the conversation he had been. Briefly, he wondered if he’d been a nuisance and taken up too much of the professor’s time, but then Lupin kindly asked if he would like to make Sunday teas together a regular habit, and Harry figured he hadn’t minded after all. He accepted the professor’s offer happily.

The week went by quickly. Harry was kept so busy he managed to put all thoughts of the Dursleys and Sirius Black out of his mind for most of it. Defense classes were as exciting as usual, and Harry was the first of the third years to trick a kappa into bowing low enough to spill some of the water collected atop its head. Lupin awarded ten points to Gryffindor and congratulated him with extra warmth in his smile, but otherwise treated Harry no differently than he had before they’d met for tea.

Outside class, Harry kept to his schedule of late nights with Malfoy. Between that and attending practices for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which were becoming more frequent in anticipation of the first match of the season, he was getting little sleep and falling dangerously behind on his coursework (though he had never been in better shape on his broom).

Hermione gave him many pointed reminders about their Transfiguration essay, and even Malfoy gave him a hard time, scolding him when he hadn’t finished the reading that Snape had assigned. When he’d hissed under his breath that he’d been too busy sneaking out to run Quidditch drills, the Slytherin had grumbled on and on about poor time management skills, but he did help Harry with their potions assignment in the end.

Despite struggling to keep up with his many assignments, Harry still made time to visit Lupin on the weekend. It was comforting, sitting at the professor’s cozy table having tea and listening to stories about dark creatures, or his parents, or anything really. No adult, besides Hagrid of course, had ever shown interest in just chatting with Harry before.

He wasn’t keen to bring up the Dursleys again, and Lupin didn’t push, but he had been wondering about something ever since the first time they’d spoken. Halfway through tea, when the conversation came to a natural pause, the words started stumbling out of Harry’s mouth.

“My parents… they weren’t like the Dursleys, were they? I mean, everyone says they were nice, but did they… erm, they didn’t hate people who were different, right? They wouldn’t have hated someone for being untidy, or not always knowing how to act around wizards?”

Lupin had been relaxed in his chair across the table, idly picking at a hole in the sleeve of his jumper, but his gaze sharpened and he leaned forward to answer immediately. “No, Harry. Your parents loved people who were different, even the untidy ones.”

“Did they know about you? Y’know, being in love with…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

“A man?” Lupin supplied, avoiding the name as well. “They did.”

“And they were more accepting of all that stuff?”

The professor’s face broke into a warm smile. “Definitely. Godric knows I had poor taste in men, and there’s as much stigma in the wizarding world as there is in the muggle one, but ‘all that stuff’ never made a difference to James and Lily. They were happy for me.”

Harry nodded, silently grateful to have this confirmed. He had always wanted to believe the best of his parents, but he knew hardly anything about them, really.

Lupin’s eyes twinkled. “Is there any particular reason you were curious?” he asked.

All the blood in Harry’s body rushed to his face. “N-no!” He said, not sure why he was stammering. “I’m not - like that. Er - not that I think it’s wrong or anything, I’m not like the Dursleys either, it’s just that I like girls.”

“As do I.” Lupin winked. He relaxed back into his chair, grabbing another biscuit. “It’s possible to simply like people, you know.”

Harry hadn’t known.

It sat in the back of his mind throughout the rest of their tea, even when Lupin mercifully changed the subject. It continued to distract him at dinner. He thought he’d managed to stop thinking about it after burying himself in coursework and classes, but at the next Gryffindor team practice, there it was again.

He was hovering a hundred feet above the pitch, watching the Chasers as they ran the Thimblerig Shuffle and attempted to score. Katie whooped when she sent the quaffle flying past Oliver, who was watching Angelina after clearly losing track of the ball, and it went soaring into the goalpost.

Harry had always thought Katie had a pretty smile. He didn’t think he wanted to date her, or anything, but he couldn’t ignore the swooping feeling in his stomach whenever she turned that smile on him.

Then Lupin’s words popped back into his head, and before he could stop himself, Harry was looking at the boys on the team in a way he hadn’t consciously done before. Did they have nice smiles, or pretty eyes?

Fred and George had some of the widest grins he’d ever seen. They felt too much like his brothers to think of them any other way, though. Oliver had warm brown eyes, and while he only really smiled when Gryffindor won a match, when he did smile it was blinding. He was handsome, Harry thought, but Oliver didn’t give him any swooping feelings - whether that was because he was a boy, or just because he was so much older, Harry couldn’t say.

He kept looking around the pitch, feeling like he was missing someone - but no, he was thinking of Malfoy, who wasn’t even on this team. He was just so used to flying with Malfoy these days, it seemed like the Slytherin should be there.

Malfoy had a nice smile, Harry remembered suddenly.

Not the sneer he had so often seen the boy wear before they’d struck up their secret deal, but his real smile. The one that lit up his face when he was too busy celebrating beating Harry to the snitch or getting a hex past his shield to worry about posturing. Harry liked the way it dimpled his cheeks and crinkled the corners of his bright silver eyes. When he smiled that smile, Malfoy almost didn’t look like a pointy git. He looked -

A bludger went whizzing past Harry’s head, missing his ear by centimeters, and Fred and George’s ferocious laughter dragged his awareness back to Quidditch. The whole team was grouped up at the center of the pitch, staring at him expectantly. Oliver looked exasperated, and Harry could tell he was winding up for a lengthy speech about staying focused.

Probably best to leave that thought for another time, then.

Harry took Oliver’s speech to heart and threw himself into his classes, coursework, and Quidditch practices with more focus than ever before. With great effort and no small amount of help from Ron and Hermione, he caught up on his assignments before his marks could slip too badly.

He only let himself wonder about Malfoy and his rare, beaming smile when the two of them were alone together, because that was the only time he ever saw it. It was unbelievable how well they had been getting on.

They bickered constantly, but hadn’t had a full-blown argument in weeks. They’d taught each other several dueling spells, and Harry was becoming confident enough in Potions that Malfoy hardly took issue with his brewing at all anymore.

On the pitch, they had both mastered the entire Slytherin playbook and moved on to thinking up new plays of their own. Malfoy was a dead clever strategist, which Harry found he appreciated more when the prat wasn’t scheming against him. He loved the thrill of executing the mad maneuvers Malfoy devised.

Before he knew it, the last week of October had arrived. It struck Harry that there were less than two weeks until the first Quidditch match of the season as they flew around the dark pitch together under a cloudy, starless sky.

“That was wicked,” Harry called with a grin. Malfoy had invented a new play involving a tightly spiraling dive that took Harry four tries to pull off. “Think you’ll convince Flint to use it in the game against us? Only, I’ll have to train the other Gryffindors to counter it if you do, and there’s not much time left for that.”

Malfoy shrugged, a shifty look in his eye. Harry flew closer so his broom was right alongside the other boy as he continued talking.

“Oliver and the others underestimate you. They think that you’ll be out of shape because of your injury, that you haven’t been practicing.” He laughed. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in better form. I’m looking forward to playing against you again. It’ll make a great start to the season, especially when we crush you.”

“Don’t be so sure about that, Potter,” Malfoy replied, unusually prickly.

It had been a while since he’d gotten under Malfoy’s skin, and though they were mostly friendly now, the old urge to take him down a peg was still there. “Oh come on,” Harry teased, “You’re good, but you don’t actually think you can win, right? You haven’t practiced with your own team all year. It’ll take time for you to get in sync with them again. What are you going to do, anyway - say that your arm miraculously healed the day before the match?”

“Absolutely brilliant plan,” Malfoy said scathingly. “Of course I never thought of my arm at all, and have no idea what I’m going to do.”

Before Harry could get a word in, Malfoy dropped the sarcasm and jumped straight to insults. “No, you idiot! I suppose I can’t blame a thick-headed Gryffindor if that’s the best idea you could come up with. I, however, have always been well aware of the need for more time to practice with my team, and I’ve had a plan since the day I got those stupid bandages.”

“Yeah?” Harry challenged. “And how are you going to get enough time with your team when our match is eleven days from now?”

“Your match,” Malfoy corrected.

“What?” Harry pulled his broom to a stop, not sure what Malfoy meant.

“Forget it, I shouldn’t have said anything. You’ll find out when the time comes.”

But Harry wasn’t about to let it go. “My match? So - what, you aren’t playing in it? You’d never give up your place as Seeker, though. That must mean the whole team isn’t playing…”

Suddenly, it clicked into place, and Harry understood exactly what the plan was. He should have seen it sooner, honestly, but somehow he’d overlooked how big of a scheming arsehole Malfoy could be. He narrowed his eyes at the other boy, who was flying silent circles around him. “You bastard! You’re going to use your arm to delay Slytherin’s first match? You’re not even bloody injured!”

“Finally caught up, have you?” Malfoy asked, affecting a bored tone. Harry could tell, though, that the Slytherin wasn’t happy about him catching on. Part of his plan must have been to surprise the Gryffindors and throw them off their game.

Even though they were on rival teams, it stung to think that Malfoy had been keeping this from him the whole time. He hadn’t ever expected to let Malfoy close enough to betray his trust, but here they were. Harry mentally kicked himself, thinking of the way he’d foolishly gone on about looking forward to playing against Malfoy, when the Slytherin had probably been inwardly gloating about his plan all the while.

Worse yet, Harry knew this went further than Quidditch. “You haven’t been injured since the first week of term, if you ever even were. This is about more than getting attention, isn’t it? You’re only still pretending to be injured because you're still trying to get Hagrid sacked!” he accused.

“You think I’ve enjoyed playing the part of an invalid?” Malfoy drawled. “It’s frightfully dull, but it’s necessary. Perhaps you can always do whatever you want, but for some of us, things aren’t that simple. My father -”

“No, actually, it is that simple!” Harry interrupted, sick of Malfoy’s manipulative words. “You’re pathetic. You say you don’t want to pretend to be injured? Just stop! But you won’t, because you’re a coward, scared to play a fair game of Quidditch and too afraid to stand up to your own family!”

They were both yelling now. Malfoy flew right up into Harry’s face, and if they hadn’t been on brooms, Harry would have thrown a punch at him.

“What would you even know about it? You’ve never had a family!” Malfoy sneered, and Harry reconsidered whether it was worth the risk of falling to give him a black eye. “Besides, Father is right. That oaf has no business teaching students. If I hadn’t put him under the Governors’ scrutiny, some other student might have actually been seriously hurt.”

“As if you care about anyone other than yourself!”

Malfoy kept arguing, but Harry’s blood was boiling with rage, and he didn’t hear a word. Somewhere between shared smiles on the pitch, secret notes passed in Potions, and finally being given the truth about his family, he had been blinded. Now the other boy had reminded Harry of his true colors, and Hermione was right - he was worse than ever. Harry wanted nothing more in that moment than to bodily knock Malfoy off his broom.

Instead, he angled his own broom towards the stands and abruptly took off. Malfoy was too angry and too caught up in his rant to follow, which was exactly what Harry was counting on. He had already landed next to their bags and had his cloak in hand by the time the other boy realized what was happening, too late to stop it.

“Good luck getting back to the dungeons alone!” he shouted, and held up the bandages Malfoy had taken off for their practice. “It would be such a shame if someone found you without these.”

He tossed the bandages to the ground. With a flick of his wand and a muttered “incendio,” he set them ablaze. Then he wrapped the cloak tightly around himself and took off running, not once pausing to look back.

Notes:

A quick note: Harry doesn’t have the Marauder’s Map yet. Fred and George don’t give it to him until December in PoA. So no, he does not recognize the nickname “Prongs” - yet ;)

You guys I’m not writing from Moony’s perspective but please know he is absolutely living for this chance to help kickstart James’s son’s bisexual awakening. Also, he is taking his promise to give Harry answers very seriously, but it’s Moony, and he’s still gonna be a shady motherfucker about the things Harry doesn’t know to ask about.

As for Draco, well, it was time for him to get a wake up call. I can’t believe my guy canonically pretended his arm was injured for two full months. Can he bring himself to disobey Lucius just this once, to fix things with Harry?

Chapter 12

Notes:

I took a break from writing because a lot has been going on for me IRL since my last update - a new job, a dead laptop, a dance performance, a long overdue bout of reading new books, a business trip… All of that is pretty settled now, and I’m so excited to be back with another chapter! My longest chapter yet by quite some margin!

This fic has surpassed 200 subscribers now and I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for sticking with this story. It means more than you know.

 

Warning for a bit of gore/detailed descriptions of blood during the potions lesson in this chapter (no one is injured though).

The darkness was desolate and the dawn slow to arrive.

Draco rose at the first sign of light through the crack beneath the door. He had to get out of there before anyone got the idea to go for an early morning fly.

His eyes were crusted with the remnants of a few hours’ fitful sleep, and his back was stiff. He’d given up on refreshing his Cushioning Charm halfway through the night spent on the cold, dirty tile floor of the locker room. Returning to the castle during curfew hours without the invisibility cloak hadn’t been an option.

When Potter had left him there, he’d oscillated wildly between rage, worry that a professor would find him out of bed, and hope that any minute now, Potter would see sense and return. He’d paced furiously at first, waiting for someone to come. As the hours passed and nothing happened, though, the night’s dull silence subdued his nerves, and he had settled on the miserable floor to await daybreak.

Now, curfew had ended, and Draco had a narrow window to run for the dungeons before the rest of the school left their beds.

He kept his arm tucked away, glad that the weather had been so dismal as to necessitate wearing a winter cloak early this year. It was heavy enough that it would hide his lack of bandaging from anyone who didn’t get too close. As long as he could get far enough from the pitch without anyone questioning his presence there, he should be in the clear.

The walk back to the castle seemed much longer alone. The quiet that blanketed the grounds was eerie. Fortunately for him, the faint light of the not-yet-risen sun was shrouded in mist. He wasn’t likely to be seen in the vicinity of the pitch by anyone looking out of a window into the gloom. Even so, he kept his hood up.

His footsteps echoed as he made his way anxiously into the deserted Entrance Hall, then down the corridors that led to the dungeons and through the Slytherin common room. They were all empty, aside from a few seventh years revising by the common room fire who didn’t even look up when he passed by. No one seemed eager to make an early start of such a cold and dreary morning, especially when breakfast would not be served for an hour yet.

Draco was glad to avoid being noticed - a relief that lasted until he pushed open the door of his own dormitory. Only one of the Slytherin boys was out of bed when he entered, but of course it was Blaise, and of course he spotted Draco instantly.

Draco froze, the door still hanging open behind him, until his hands started shaking and he had to hide them in the folds of his cloak.

He could see how it might look to Blaise, him being out all night. He could imagine the wild, distasteful, and baseless assumptions that the other boy was forming about where he had been.

He could not look weak. Meeting Blaise’s eyes, Draco stared him down, silently daring him to cause trouble.

Blaise smirked back, looking far too high and mighty for someone wearing Babbity Rabbity pyjamas, but swept off into the bathroom without a word. In that moment, it hit Draco that they hadn’t spoken in over a month.

How had it come to this?

Draco stalled by the door until he was absolutely certain no one else was awake. Once he was sure there would be no further confrontation, he mechanically went about gathering a change of clothes and fresh bandages, willing his hands to be steady, willing his pounding heart to accept that he’d made it through the night without being caught.

He set his things on his bed and closed the curtains around himself. The bed was soft and clean, and felt safe. As he listened to the sounds of his friends sleeping peacefully around him, the adrenaline that had kept him tense and alert slowly began to fade.

His mind didn’t calm, though. Now that he had successfully evaded the consequences that Potter had left him to face, the danger of being discovered could no longer distract him from his anger and regret.

And there was plenty of anger. Potter had gone back on the terms of their deal. He hadn’t been clever enough to anticipate that Draco must have some kind of plan, and he’d thrown a tantrum over it. Then he’d fucking abandoned Draco! Right on the heels of accusing Draco of not caring about anyone but himself! Potter was one to talk.

Truly, the other boy was blind if he couldn’t see that Draco cared about others. It should be obvious, even to an outsider, the way he looked after his friends - helping them in their courses, keeping them out of trouble, and making sure they had the best of everything, whether it be racing brooms or Care of Magical Creatures professors.

Without ever intending to, he had even started looking after Potter himself. He’d given Potter information about his family, and given him the bottle of Sleekeazy’s. He’d helped save Potter’s Potions marks. And after every duel they had together (another favour to Potter, he might add!), Draco always helped Potter reverse any spell damage and get cleaned up.

Why should he have bothered? Potter was a self-absorbed, self-righteous ingrate who knew as little about Draco as he knew about upholding his deals!

But the thing was…

The thing was that despite all that, he really did feel badly about keeping his plan from the other boy. Draco was every bit as hungry for a Slytherin versus Gryffindor rematch as Potter seemed to be, ready for a chance to prove he had the skill to win. Trickery was fair play for a Slytherin, but Draco didn’t want the Gryffindors to use it as an excuse to discount his ability on the pitch. Even more than that, after so many nights spent sneaking out of the castle together, he had begun to see Potter as a bit of a partner in crime. It had felt wrong not to include him in the plan, especially when Potter already had so many people keeping other truths from him. Especially when it clearly hurt him.

Perhaps that was why Draco had almost let it slip. He’d been infuriated with himself when Potter had figured the plan out anyway, knowing that he’d endangered his position on the Slytherin team - Potter would alert the other Gryffindors, and Marcus would be irate, since he’d only supported Draco’s plan in order to catch the other teams by surprise.

Potter had been viciously angry as well, and Draco had helplessly tried to explain, but couldn’t get a word in over his bellowing. So Draco had taken his own frustration and vulnerability, and like alchemy, transformed them into cutting remarks targeted to get under Potter’s skin.

Once he might have felt himself justified for the way he’d snapped about Potter’s ignorance and lack of family. He was still certain that a hot-headed, Muggle-raised orphan would not grasp the subtleties of Malfoy family dynamics. But, Salazar save him, now that he knew Potter better he couldn’t help comparing the boy to his friends, and he never would have abused them as such. Pansy would have had his bollocks if he’d ever said anything so cruel to her, true or not. And she would have been right to take them, because being betrayed by a friend would have made the insult sting a hundred times worse.

Betrayal… that couldn’t be what had angered Potter so much, though. Could it? Was it possible that Potter sensed something had grown between them, something large enough to break?

It occurred to Draco that if there had been something there, it was now shattered, and he regretted its loss violently.

His stomach twisted and he clutched at the bandaging supplies for his arm. They were a reminder of his duty, and they helped to ground him, yet at the same time he was newly infuriated by them. It was because of them he was unable to do classwork, unable to play Quidditch. Constantly making excuses to avoid any questions about his recovery. Watching the other Slytherins teeter between pity and contempt as his act became less and less convincing. Fighting with Blaise. Fighting with Potter.

Feigning this absurd injury had ruined his third year.

If it weren’t for the bandages, he never would have needed Potter in the first place. They’d still be enemies, and Draco wouldn’t be sitting here at sunrise agonizing over what if’s.

Was it really worth it? He didn’t enjoy questioning his father, but his father wasn’t at Hogwarts and couldn’t see the toll the ruse was taking on him, or how thin the excuse had worn. Surely if he understood… Besides, if the gamekeeper’s ineptitude for teaching was still as dangerous of a threat to the school as Draco’s father insisted - which Draco was beginning to doubt, after weeks of useless flobberworms - it would inevitably make itself apparent in time, with or without Draco having to suffer further.

He couldn’t so easily disobey his father’s instructions, though. While his father might be unaware of how Draco’s school year was progressing, Draco had even less insight into his father’s business with the Governors. He shouldn’t put such delicate matters at risk, especially not when his father had indicated that Draco had only a few more weeks to endure. His father’s disappointment would be immeasurable.

Especially if he knew that Potter was the reason behind it all.

The dorm began to fill with sounds of students getting ready for the day, but in the calm and private space between his bed curtains, Draco sat quietly, trying to convince himself that he didn’t care about what Potter thought. He shouldn’t. Their deal was almost over. Draco had managed to hold onto his position as Slytherin Seeker, and he could easily persuade Pansy to become his Potions partner again. He had nothing more to gain by associating with Potter.

But alas, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he couldn’t pretend anymore that his only interest in Potter was taking advantage of his cloak or fulfilling their stupid deal. It hadn’t been about that for a long time.

“Draco?” Vince whispered from the other side of the bed curtains, and Draco almost jumped out of his skin, startled out of his thoughts of Potter. “Are you awake? Feeling alright?”

Draco sighed. If Vince was already up and about, he must be running extraordinarily behind. He’d sat there brooding for too long, wasting time hiding in bed. The best way to avoid suspicion about the events of last night was to attend breakfast and classes as if it were a normal day.

“I’m feeling fine,” he replied brusquely, suddenly in a rush to change into the clean robes that had lain forgotten on the bed beside him. “I’ll be ready in a moment.”

He waved his wand over his skin and hair, using the cleaning spell he had been working towards mastering in the weeks since the party. The effect was nowhere near as pleasant as a hot shower, but it would do in a pinch, and it saved time.

Then he one-handedly applied new bandaging to his own arm. It was difficult, but he had become adept at it since he couldn’t risk anyone else, least of all Pomfrey, getting a good look.

Finally, he dressed himself and stepped out of his bed curtains to stand in front of the mirror. His robes were pristine and his hair tidy. Besides the redness of his eyes, and the dark circles under them, nothing was amiss. Good. From across the Great Hall, Potter wouldn’t see any sign of how badly their fight had gotten to him.

“Hope they’re serving black pudding today,” Vince said wistfully, as food-focused and unobservant as ever. He already had a foot out the door, ready to meet Greg in the common room and head upstairs to breakfast together, so Draco hurried along after him.

As the three of them walked through the wide open doors of the Great Hall, Draco held his head high, prepared to meet Potter’s eye and appear unaffected. It was for naught, though - at the Gryffindor table, the other boy stared resolutely down at his plate, refusing to spare so much as a glance towards the Slytherins throughout the entire meal.

Draco watched Potter nonetheless, certain he would eventually break, until Granger caught him looking and scowled back nastily. She tapped Potter on the shoulder and gestured towards Draco. Just when he felt sure that he had finally got Potter’s attention, though, the Gryffindor instead stood and left the hall.

For two days, Potter carried on altogether ignoring Draco.

At every meal, he looked away from where Draco sat, and in the halls he surrounded himself with Gryffindors so that there was no chance of them bumping into one another. He seemed to avoid isolated places like the Owlery or the library where Draco might have had a chance to confront him (though admittedly, Potter had never had much of a presence in the library previously either).

It was as if he wanted to forget that Draco had ever existed. The thought that he might be succeeding in that endeavor was making Draco mental. It wasn’t right for Potter to be able to put Draco out of mind, when he was all Draco could think about.

In the past, Draco might have done something drastic, brazen, or cruel that would force Potter to pay attention. He still wasn’t ruling it out. But inside him dwelled a small glimmer of hope that they could somehow get past this - that their nights on the pitch, their shared secrets, their conspiring and note passing and burgeoning friendship could all somehow live on.

Plus, there would be no way for Potter to ignore him in Potions class.

On the third morning after their fight, Draco arrived early to the dungeon classroom and sat expectantly at their usual shared desk. The cauldrons bubbling noisily around the room would give them plenty of opportunity for a private conversation. He figured they would argue at first, as they were both bound to have lingering anger, but he was prepared to apologize for his callous words about Potter’s family, and perhaps from there he could nurture a chance at putting this fight behind them.

He busied himself pulling his quill, ink, and parchment from his bag and arranging them on the desk so that he wouldn’t look too eager when Potter showed. Any minute now…

“Malfoy,” said a gruff voice behind him, and Draco had to stop himself from smiling. Potter was standing over him, focused intently on him and him alone.

“Potter,” he replied softly, his hope swelling. “We should talk -”

“No need,” the Gryffindor interjected shortly, in a decidedly hard tone. Draco noticed suddenly that the other boy was making no move to sit down. “Nothing’s really changed, has it? There’s not much left to say that hasn’t already been said. Anyway… you should ask Snape to let us swap partners.”

Draco stared back at him with an open mouth, both argument and apology dead on his tongue.

“Obviously, I can’t be the one to ask him,” Potter went on while Draco’s heart was steadily sinking. “But he’ll give you anything you want, especially if it means he gets to start failing me again.”

“No!” Draco said, rather too loudly.

“No?!” Narrowed green eyes glared at him. “You can’t be serious. There’s no way I’m working with you now.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Draco lowered his voice to a hiss. “I’m not interested in swapping partners. You’re stuck with me, Potter.”

“Unbelievable,” Potter scoffed. He stood unmoving for a bit longer, as if he thought Draco still might change his mind, but Draco glared stubbornly back at him.

Finally Potter took a begrudging seat, dragging his chair as far from Draco’s as the desk would allow. “If you’ve got some scheme to get back at me by ruining my potions or something, I’ll take you down with me,” he muttered.

“That’s not -”

“Silence!” Snape boomed over the bubbling of the cauldrons as he swept into the room, walking swiftly towards his desk, and Draco cut himself off with a frustrated groan. This was not going at all to plan.

At the front of the class, the professor held up a knife and a dark, dripping plant. “The time has come to add bloodroot to your potions,” he said ominously. “I will demonstrate how to peel the bloodroot properly. Pay attention! If the blood coagulates prematurely…”

Draco tuned out Snape’s lecture, only waiting until the professor was fully preoccupied with the messy task of peeling the bloodroot before quietly scooting his chair closer to Potter.

“You have some nerve,” Draco whispered angrily. “You went back on our deal, left me to rot out on the pitch, and now you want to ditch our potion too?”

Potter gazed unblinkingly forward, acting like he couldn’t hear Draco and was paying rapt attention to Snape’s demonstration. As if the git had ever listened to the potions master in his life.

“You can’t ignore me forever, Potter!”

Snape cleared his throat pointedly at the front of the room.

Draco flushed and sank lower in his seat, knowing how much trouble he’d be in if he forced the professor to take points from his own house, but he wasn’t giving up. He dunked his quill in his inkwell and started feverishly writing a note in the corner of his parchment.

”I’m not scheming against you, idiot. Although you would deserve it.”

His quill hovered over the parchment as he took stock of everything he was bursting to say to Potter. Right now, insults were top of mind.

Was it worth it to rehash their argument, though? He had clearly lost the trust he had built with the other boy. Replaying their fight might end even worse the second time around. Plus, Draco had decided he didn’t much care about defending his father’s plans any longer, anyway. What was far more important to him was the chance to go back to the way things had been with Potter.

He scratched out half of his note and resumed writing.

”I’m not scheming against you █████ ████████ ███ █████ ███████ ██ I just want to talk. I’m sorry for the things I said, and that I didn’t tell you about the plan for the Quidditch match. I was trying to do everything I could to stay on the team. I wanted the chance to play against you again. But I should have told you the truth.”

Draco was relieved to find that the words of apology came more easily when he could write them down, and didn’t have to meet Potter’s intense glare. Speaking directly with Potter when he was angry only ever made Draco match his energy and become more eager to fight. Having the parchment as an intermediary between them let him lower his defenses and open up to the other boy.

He tore the missive away from his potions notes, folded it, and slowly slid it across the desk to Potter. Then he watched the other boy intently to gauge his reaction. Draco didn’t apologize often, let alone apologize to Potter, and that had to count for something.

As he had suspected, Potter wasn’t really so invested in listening to Snape as he had tried to appear, and his eyes were drawn to the note sitting in front of him immediately. He stared it down for a full minute, while Draco held his breath, before finally reaching out to pick it up.

Without unfolding it, however, Potter tossed the note directly onto the flame burning beneath their cauldron.

They both watched it char and turn to ash before Potter turned resolutely back to Snape’s demonstration. Draco’s eyes remained locked on the flame where the note had vanished, his jaw clenched and lips pressed into a thin line.

He would not allow the other boy to have the last word - refused to allow it to end this way.

It was time for something drastic. Something that would force Potter to pay attention.

ϟ ϟ ϟ

Potions class had gotten off to a bad start and gone steadily downhill.

Peeling the bloodroot was completely foul. Harry felt like he was flaying the skin from someone’s fingers, only it was even bloodier. It looked like a violent scene from a muggle slasher movie. With each stroke of his knife the warm, sticky red liquid spattered all around, getting all over his face and hands. Distressingly little of the blood collected in the bowl where it was meant to go.

What little of it had collected was already beginning to clot while Harry struggled with his knife. Its handle was growing more and more slippery as the blood covered everything. He was pretty sure that clotting was a bad sign, but he’d completely missed whatever Snape had said to do about it.

Malfoy didn’t make any smart remarks about what Harry was doing wrong. For once the Slytherin didn’t seem to care about their potion. Harry was willing to bet that Malfoy had some plan to let him take the blame for ruining it while convincing Snape to save his own marks.

At least the selfish git had stopped talking at him and trying to manipulate him once Harry had tossed his note on the fire. That had seemed to get Harry’s point across. He was determined to keep giving Malfoy the cold shoulder. It was difficult, though, when he also wanted to shout in Malfoy’s face until he could finally get through to the bastard.

So much of Harry’s concentration was being put towards not looking at Malfoy that his knife slipped. Narrowly avoiding cutting himself and adding his own blood to the mix, he huffed in frustration. He wasn’t moving fast enough. He hadn’t collected nearly enough blood from the bloodroot yet, but the longer he waited to add what little he had collected to the potion, the more it would clot.

“Careful, scarhead. Class is almost over. Wouldn’t want you spending your lunch with Pomfrey,” Malfoy murmured. Harry rolled his eyes, still not looking at the other boy, and kept his own mouth shut.

The class period had dragged by painfully slowly without Malfoy’s witty commentary to liven things up. Harry had forgotten how much duller the class was when the two of them weren’t getting on. It couldn’t end soon enough. Eager to start packing up his potions supplies and get out of there, Harry gave the assignment up as a bad job and dumped the clotting blood in.

As it splashed into the cauldron, thick smoke immediately began rising from the mixture, but Harry ignored it just the same as he ignored Malfoy. It was no use trying to fix it; it would make no difference. He turned away and tried to focus on other things.

Hastily wiping the remaining blood from his knife onto a dry patch at the hem of his robes, he packed it away in his bag, along with the rest of his supplies. The robes themselves were beyond help. He stared blankly at his bloodstained hands, wondering what to do with them, until suddenly from the corner of his eye he saw a raised wand swivel to point directly at him.

His instincts kicked in before his brain could catch up. Harry spun around to face the holder of the wand, and against his will, his eyes met those familiar silver ones for the first time since that night on the pitch. Malfoy shot a spell at him too quickly to block and he flinched, sure it was going to be a nasty curse.

An uncomfortable scrubbing sensation covered his skin and he whipped his own wand out of his pocket to retaliate. But as he raised it, the scrubbing stopped, and Harry saw that the bloodstains had vanished from his hands. He paused, long enough to discover that his robes were clean now as well.

Slowly, Harry’s wand arm lowered. He searched Malfoy’s eyes, trying to find a hint as to what the tosser was thinking. Malfoy just sighed when Harry remained silent.

The bell rang and students crowded the aisle between desks as they began to shuffle towards the door. Malfoy leaned in close before Harry could join them. “You leave me no choice,” he said grimly. “See you in the Great Hall.”

Then he slipped into the crowd and stalked quickly out of the room. Harry was left blinking after him.

What could he mean by - no, no! Harry shook his head to clear it. He was done worrying over Malfoy and his plotting. Wasn’t he? He’d managed to avoid the prick and give him the silent treatment for several days. Other than having to finish up their potion together, everything was back to the way it had been at the start of the year. Surely Harry could forget about Malfoy and move on with his life. But what if -

No! He had to stop thinking about the bastard.

His friends could distract him. He hurriedly slung his bag over his shoulder and met them at the door, where Hermione was trying to wipe a small spot of blood off of Ron’s cheek despite his arm waving protests.

“Harry, tell him to stand still!”

“Harry, tell her to stop acting like my mum!”

“Let’s just get out of the bloody dungeons,” he grumbled at them. “That class felt like it went on forever.”

“Nasty stuff, bloodroot,” Ron agreed. “Took me right back to when I was seven, when Fred and George convinced me that I’d murdered a gnome.”

A shadow crossed Ron’s face at the memory, and Hermione took advantage of his inattention to finally swipe the mess from his cheek.

“Well I thought it was fascinating,” she said, leading them out into the hallway with the rest of the students. “Especially what Snape mentioned about bloodroot’s use in healing potions. I might go to the library this evening to read up on it.”

“But it’s Friday!” Ron groaned, and the two started quibbling over whether going to the library was an appropriate Friday night activity.

As Harry walked beside them, he tried to let their bickering take his mind off his problems. He offered up the occasional comment in support of not reading all weekend, though he knew it wouldn’t deter Hermione. Then their winding path out of the dungeons passed an alcove with a leering statue of Egbert the Egregious, and beside it, he couldn’t help but notice two figures were huddled close to one another, talking in a rush.

“Alright, Draco, but why -”

Harry’s curiosity was instantly aroused when he realized who it was. He had known the git was up to something!

“It doesn’t matter why,” Malfoy interrupted Parkinson. “Just do it as a favour to me -”

Parkinson’s reply was too low for Harry to overhear without getting closer and making it obvious that he was eavesdropping. While Harry had slowed down to listen in, Ron and Hermione had kept walking, oblivious to anything outside their argument, and it would soon just be Harry left in this stretch of the hall. For a split second, he considered finding a place to hide, maybe getting under the invisibility cloak, and uncovering what Malfoy and Parkinson had planned…

But he had already decided to stop obsessing over Malfoy, he reminded himself. He had to stick to his decision. Acting like Malfoy didn’t exist was the best way Harry could think of to make it clear that he wanted nothing to do with the arsehole and his family’s bigotry. Putting as much distance as he could between them also helped dull the pain of remembering who Malfoy really was.

So after only a brief hesitation, he steeled himself to forget he’d overheard anything, and walked quickly away to catch up with his real friends.

Having to walk all the way up from the dungeons meant that the Great Hall was already bustling when they arrived for lunch. The air was charged with an excited, Friday-afternoon energy. Plates and cutlery clattered, owls swooped over the tables, and the professors at the staff table burst into laughter over some private joke.

After jostling their way through a group of second years jamming the entrance, the trio found seats next to Dean and Seamus, who were enthusiastically discussing their plans for the weekend. Everyone was looking forward to their first chance to visit Hogsmeade on Sunday (“Oh! I can look for books about healing potions while we’re there!” Hermione said, to Ron’s dismay), and there was a rumor going around that a vampire coven had been invited to attend the Halloween feast afterward. No one quite believed it was true, but Harry privately thought he might carry some garlic just in case.

Between his friends’ wild stories about vampires and his own worries about whether he would be allowed to visit Hogsmeade without a signed permission form, Harry had almost managed to put Malfoy out of his mind by the time he tucked into his second helping of lunch. But Malfoy wasn’t one to go quietly.

“Potter!”

The rowdy room went still around them. What seemed like the entire Gryffindor table, plus some of the nearby Hufflepuffs, looked over at the source of the shout.

Strutting obnoxiously from the Slytherin table across the front of the Hall, Malfoy was headed towards Harry, and he was making sure all eyes were on him. Harry sighed. He supposed Malfoy was about to start taunting him in front of the whole school - that was how things had been before their deal changed everything, after all. He just hoped he would be taunted about their ruined potion, or the dementors again, and not anything touchier. Merlin knew Malfoy had a full arsenal to use against him after all of their private conversations.

Harry held his wand inside his pocket as Malfoy advanced, but didn’t dare raise it in full view of the staff table. When he noticed the suspicious absence of Crabbe and Goyle, who weren’t flanking Malfoy like they usually did, he quickly scanned the room, worried they might be planning something. They were both back at the Slytherin table, next to Parkinson, who was gazing at Malfoy intently -

“Potter!” Malfoy called again in that old jeering voice. “I heard that you -”

Mid-strut, Malfoy’s leg wavered like he had taken a misstep on the stone floor, and before he could deliver his insult he was off balance, tripping, and toppling forward. With a panicked yelp, he held his hands out to catch himself. He managed to brace himself with both arms instead of falling fully on his face, and came to a halt on the floor right in front of the headmaster’s seat at the staff table.

A smattering of shocked laughter rippled through the watching Gryffindors. With everyone else gawking at Malfoy, Harry was the only one to see Parkinson glance around shiftily, lower her wand, and tuck it away in her robes.

Dumbledore rose from his chair and gestured for some of the professors to help Malfoy to his feet. When he got back upright, the Slytherin’s face was bright red and his eyes were still locked firmly on the floor.

“An excellent catch, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said, his own eyes sparkling. “One must always watch one’s feet. These old stones can surprise us. However, I’m delighted to see that you’re uninjured.”

The headmaster nodded knowingly at Malfoy’s bandaged arm - the one he had just used to catch himself. Murmurs rose from the watching crowd, and Hermione snickered.

“A surprising recovery indeed. Nevertheless,” Dumbledore continued, “Madam Pomfrey will want to give you a thorough examination. I must insist on escorting you to the hospital wing personally, as I believe that we have much to discuss along the way.”

Down at the end of the staff table McGonagall was whispering something to Hagrid, who looked gobsmacked, still holding a forgotten forkful of pie.

The room erupted in conversation as all the students watched Dumbledore lead Malfoy down the aisle between house tables towards the Entrance Hall. Malfoy trailed a respectful distance behind the headmaster, keeping his head down - until their path led him within a few feet of Harry, and his silver eyes darted up, meeting Harry’s with a piercing gaze that seemed to freeze time.

Harry wanted to believe he knew what Malfoy’s eyes were saying. He couldn’t be sure. Neither was he sure what his own eyes might say back.

Then the moment was over.

“Blimey!” Ron said happily as Dumbledore and Malfoy marched out the door. “Didn’t see that one in the tea leaves today, eh?“

Harry smiled uncertainly back at him. “There’s no way Pomfrey will find anything wrong with his arm… D’you reckon Hagrid’s off the hook now?”

“I should hope so! Pity,” Hermione said with a laugh, “I was just starting to grow fond of the flobberworms.”

They spent the rest of lunch dreaming of what interesting creatures they might be allowed to study now, and guessing what punishment Dumbledore might have given Malfoy for his lies after the non-injury was exposed.

Ron proposed expulsion, an admittedly unlikely possibility which he assumed Harry would appreciate but which secretly made Harry’s stomach turn. Dean and Seamus took turns impersonating Malfoy and reenacting his yelp as he fell to the ground, and even Hermione cheered them on, so Harry forced himself to smile along.

At the Slytherin table, the third years picked at their food much more quietly, casting the Gryffindors an occasional dirty look. Neither Dumbledore nor Malfoy returned to the Great Hall.

When afternoon classes began, the other Gryffindors’ interest in Malfoy died down. Harry, however, remained distracted, still mulling over what Malfoy’s actions might mean. Though the Slytherin had acted convincingly, Harry was familiar enough with the Tripping Jinx, and had no doubt that Malfoy’s “accidental” fall had happened by design. Where his real doubts lay were in Malfoy’s intentions. Was it possible that the other boy had actually listened to Harry and chosen to do the right thing? Or was this some new scheme, and the same old selfish Malfoy?

He wavered back and forth between the two possibilities, thinking of little else. Even in Defense, he barely took in a word that Lupin said. Luckily for him, he didn’t stand out amongst all the other students who were distractedly planning their weekends.

After the final bell rang, everyone was in a rush to leave class. While the other students hurried to enjoy the remaining daylight on the grounds or begin their festivities in their common rooms, Harry asked Ron and Hermione to walk past the hospital wing with him. When he peeked inside, though, it was empty. It was what he had expected, since Pomfrey would have been able to tell immediately that there was no injury. Still, he had hoped to see Malfoy. Only because he needed answers, of course.

Hermione was insistent on going straight to the library from there, so Harry and Ron headed down to dinner early, promising to bring a plate back to the common room for her. When they descended the staircase into the Entrance Hall, several enormous pumpkins were there to greet them.

“Hullo, you lot!” Hagrid boomed, stepping out from behind the nearest one. “Yeh’ve got great timin’. Me n’ Frankie here are helpin’ set up fer the feast. Mind givin’ us a hand? Just a few more pumpkins left ter roll inter the Great Hall.”

A small and unlucky first year poked his head out from behind another pumpkin that was easily three times his height, looking overwhelmed. Harry and Ron dashed over to help roll it away before the massive gourd could crush the poor kid.

“Hi Hagrid!” Ron called as they rushed past.

“Is it just me, or are the pumpkins even bigger this year?” Harry asked.

“Yer right,” Hagrid said proudly, “this is the biggest I’ve seen ‘em in more ‘n a few years now. ‘S all this rain we’ve been havin’. Alrigh’ there?”

Hagrid reached out to help steady the pumpkin they were pushing with the first year. It had started to careen out of control as they tried to steer it through the double doors of the Great Hall. Ron cursed and whipped out his wand, shooing the first year out of the way before levitating the pumpkin through the door with ease.

“Well, tha’s one way ter do it,” Hagrid chuckled, standing aside with Harry while Ron worked. Harry was pleased to hear him sounding so cheerful, and the reason for it made his curiosity burn.

“Hagrid, have you heard anything from Dumbledore? About Malfoy?”

“As a matter o’ fact, I did,” Hagrid replied with a twinkle in his eye. “His arm is fully recovered, an’ it has been fer a while, from the looks o’ things. Dumbledore’s been callin’ on Lucius an’ the governors this afternoon ter give ‘em the good news. Says he thinks the Malfoys’ll drop their charges ter avoid any more embarrassment.”

Harry beamed. “That’s brilliant!”

“’S lucky it happened when it did. Dumbledore’d heard that Lucius was plannin’ ter open a case agains’ Beaky with the Ministry. I’m sure that wouldn’ta got far, mind - Beaky’s a good hippogriff. Speakin’ of, would the two o’ yeh wanna come fer tea with me and Beaky tomorrow? Yeh can invite Hermione too, we’ll make it a celebration!”

“I’m in,” Ron said as he passed by with another floating pumpkin. “I want to hear all about your new lesson plans.”

Harry quickly agreed and Hagrid smiled sheepishly. “‘Course. I was thinkin’ o’ coverin’ nogtails next… they eat flobberworms, y’know.”

Plans made and pumpkins moved, they waved goodbye to Hagrid, who was off to Hogsmeade for a pub night. More students had begun to trickle into the Great Hall for dinner by the time the two of them finally headed towards the slowly filling Gryffindor table. Oliver was already seated there, and frantically beckoned them over.

“I’ve just heard from McGonagall about our first game,” Oliver said to Harry, skipping hello and getting straight to business like he always did when it came to Quidditch. He went on as they settled into two seats next to him. “I know you were worried that they might try to get away with a schedule shakeup, but Malfoy is officially back as Seeker now. Looks like Slytherin is going to play.”

“Back? Just like that?” Ron interrupted. His involvement in team discussions was so commonplace, Oliver hardly blinked.

“They’re not going to suspend him for faking an injury?” Harry asked, unsure which answer he would prefer.

“From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t even been given a detention,” Oliver said, and Harry clenched his fists reflexively. He realized that while perhaps he might not want Malfoy out of the game, he certainly wanted the git to face at least some consequences.

“With no detentions,” Oliver continued sternly, unaware of Harry’s mixed emotions, “Malfoy will have the whole week free to train. If he’s as good as he was last year, then he’s much better than Vaisey, and the Slytherin team just got a lot stronger. One week of training probably isn’t enough to beat us, though...” Oliver’s grim face undermined his words, making it seem as if he was trying to convince himself as much as them.

“Yeah, we’re in good shape this year,” Harry said quickly. He hadn’t told Oliver much - just that he had overheard a rumor Slytherin were trying to delay their game. He was the only one who knew that Malfoy would have a lot more than one week of training. Telling Oliver the truth definitely wouldn’t help his morale.

“Listen, the important thing is,” Oliver went on, “We’ve got to win the Cup this year. It’s my last chance. Harry, I want you to get in some extra practice this week, and focus on playing to Malfoy’s weaknesses. I don’t know where you got your intel about the plays Slytherin have been drilling this year, but see if there’s anything else you can dig up. We’ll need all we can get.”

Ron quirked a brow, intrigued about the source of the intel that Harry had never mentioned to him. Harry shrugged, and to his relief managed to brush Ron’s curiosity off when Fred and George walked into the Great Hall. They stirred Oliver into a rant about various tactics to handle the Slytherin Beaters, and Ron was eager to share his own thoughts on their strategies.

Harry tried to look interested in their commentary and energetic gestures. He nodded along as he ate, but his eyes glazed over and he didn’t hear half of what was said. His brain was too busy trying to process everything that had happened since lunch.

He couldn’t believe it. Somehow, Malfoy had found a way to fix everything. Hagrid was off the hook. The Gryffindor versus Slytherin match was back on. Harry would get his chance to officially play against Malfoy again.

And yet, Malfoy could have done what he’d done to make everything right at any point earlier in the year. He hadn’t until now.

Harry couldn’t believe there wasn’t going to be so much as a single detention for Malfoy after nearly two months of lying. It was an outrage! Harry was sure that even Malfoy must have expected some punishment.

Why had Malfoy decided to take that risk and reveal the truth when he was so close to getting away with everything? Did he actually feel sorry for the trouble he’d caused? And why had he staged an elaborate accident, embarrassing himself in front of the whole school, instead of just speaking to Dumbledore privately?

Harry had so many questions. He just wasn’t sure whether he was willing to talk to Malfoy to ask them. He was still angry about all that had been said during their fight.

Without answers, Harry was too uncertain of the other boy’s motivations to think about forgiving him yet.

☆ ☆ ☆

Marcus had insisted on getting Draco on a broom as soon as he was cleared to rejoin the team, and so he didn’t make it to dinner until much later than usual.

The rest of the Slytherin team had sneered at Draco on the pitch, offering spiteful comments about his having missed weeks of practices, until he flew circles around them all. They were happy enough to welcome him back to the team after that. They didn’t let up on taunting him about his clumsiness at lunch, though. He’d been hearing it from his housemates all afternoon - everyone, with the exception of Pansy, was having a laugh about him tripping right in front of Dumbledore and the shame he had brought on his family.

He didn’t mind arriving at dinner late, since he knew more of the same awaited him in the Great Hall. Still, he knew it was only a mild humiliation compared to what he would have faced had he openly defied his father.

Draco wasn’t looking forward to the owl he was bound to receive from his father in the morning. It wouldn’t be a howler, no, that was beneath the dignity of a Malfoy, but his father had never needed to resort to shouting to ensure he was heard. His disappointment would be worse than his ire. And Draco expected his disappointment would be immense, even if his father only suspected incompetence rather than disobedience. His father must have had to make serious concessions to hush the whole thing up and persuade Dumbledore not to punish him.

It was all worth it, though, when he walked into the Great Hall and Potter immediately turned to watch him. Potter didn’t look particularly happy, but the fact that he was looking at all was a start.

Though the Gryffindor and his red-headed hangers-on had already finished eating when Draco arrived and only remained at their table for a few moments, Draco was immensely satisfied that Potter spent every second of that time watching him. Now that he had Potter’s attention again, he was sure he would find an opportunity to fix things between them.

It was with this growing confidence that he got through dinner, keeping his head held high and not reacting to his housemates’ teasing. Later in the evening, he even convinced himself to sneak away from the Slytherin common room and into classroom eleven.

It was Friday night, after all, and he and Potter hadn’t missed their secret Friday night rendezvous once since they’d started. There was a chance Potter would show tonight, however slight.

The classroom was deserted when Draco got there, but he settled into a seat at one of the dust-covered desks to wait. There was still time. He would stay until just before curfew and then sprint back to the dungeons, if it came to that. If Potter offered him a second chance, he was prepared to take it.

Each minute that ticked by felt thrice as long as usual. A couple of times, he checked his watch and swore it hadn’t moved at all. Perhaps its time-keeping charms needed tuning.

Then a muffled thumping noise broke the silence and Draco’s head whipped up. “Potter?” he called softly into the shadowy classroom. He hadn’t seen anyone enter. Was the other boy there, under the cloak, debating whether to reveal himself?

The thumping noise sounded again, followed by a quick, insistent tapping. His heart sped up to match its rhythm, and Draco held out his faintly illuminated wand to follow the sound to its source -

Not Potter, but Potter’s gorgeous snowy owl, pecking her beak against the classroom window. Tap, tap tap, tap.

She saw Draco approaching and fluttered into the air, giving him room to swing the casement open, before soaring into the room with the moonlight gleaming on her white feathers. Coming to land on the back of a chair, she regarded Draco dubiously. A scroll of parchment was tied to her outstretched leg.

He reached for it cautiously; the owl seemed like she might bite. No sooner had he removed the parchment from her leg than she took off again. She flew back through the open window and disappeared into the night without granting him a chance to write a response.

Potter must not have told her to wait for one. Still, Potter would see that his note had been delivered, and know that Draco had been here waiting. That he hadn’t given up.

He unrolled the parchment, hands shaking with wild curiosity, and uncovered a single word written in Potter’s angular, scratchy hand.

Thanks.

Draco held onto it, gazing at it for a length of time in which he could have read several much longer letters. Truly, he felt that this one word held more meaning than hundreds could have.

Eventually, he folded the note neatly and tucked it away in the chest pocket of his robes. There was a lightness to his steps as he traversed the castle, returning to the common room.

Everything was going to be alright.

Chapter 13

Notes:

Just gonna take a moment to declare how pleased I am with myself for getting the Halloween chapter (unlucky number 13!) out right in time for Halloween! Happy spooky season, y'all.

Contrary to what Draco had expected, no more owls sought him out on Saturday. Potter’s snowy owl swooping around the Great Hall without acknowledging him again was no great surprise, but silence from his father was worrisome. He spent breakfast dreading the arrival of his father’s eagle owl, Myrddin, and when he didn’t appear, Draco spent the rest of the day dreading his continued absence.

Quidditch practice with the Slytherin team provided Draco with a distraction. Marcus was determined to win the match and drove them hard to prepare for it, demanding that they all spend long hours on the pitch despite the stormy conditions. He had successfully requested special dispensation from Snape to book the pitch for twice as long as usual, claiming that Draco needed the time to get back in shape. In reality, the primary motivation behind their captain’s dedication was that every minute Slytherin was on the pitch was another minute that Gryffindor couldn’t be.

Draco found it exhausting but participated without complaint, glad that his time pretending to be unable to play was finally over. The Slytherin players had never been the most sociable bunch, though, and they were now even tetchier from the weather. The longer he practiced with his own team, the more Draco realized how much he preferred practicing with Potter.

Draco tried to finagle an opportunity to speak with Potter privately, but he wasn’t able to make it happen. Pansy had been looking at him strangely ever since he’d asked her to use the Tripping Jinx on him, and he’d even walked in on her and Blaise whispering things in the common room, only for them to stop dead when they had realized Draco was there. He wasn’t too keen on drawing more scrutiny to himself just now.

Potter didn’t seem keen on speaking to Draco, either, though he was still paying attention. On Sunday morning, Draco felt Potter’s eyes on him when his mother’s stately grey owl delivered a crisp white envelope to the Slytherin table.

But Potter was suddenly the least of Draco’s concerns as he rushed to read what his mother had written, troubled that he still hadn’t received any word from his father. He sliced the envelope open cleanly with his wand and withdrew a thick linen card emblazoned with the Malfoy crest.

Oh Merlin, no. She had used the formal stationery. Draco knew that was a very bad sign…

Darling,

Your father and I have heard much of your recovery from the Hogwarts administration. Everyone is satisfied that you are well. We hope you will take more caution and tread carefully to remain so.

I have been asked to send your father’s regards. He is quite occupied in his work with the Ministry and the Hogwarts Governors, but will perhaps write to you again soon.

Enjoy the Halloween feast and have a pleasant outing in Hogsmeade. I must apologize as, in the excitement caused by your recovery, I have not found the time to visit Gringotts and withdraw additional funds for you. I am certain you will find the village so diverting that you will not miss them.

- NBM

Draco had years of practice reading between the lines of his mother’s polite and tactful missives. As far as they went, this one was rather short and to the point. In plain English: “Everyone is talking about how you faked your injury. Don’t slip up again. Your father is too disappointed to bother with you right now, and by the way, you’re cut off until further notice.”

It was worse than Draco had feared. Perhaps it was exactly what he deserved. He must have mucked up his father’s plans badly. He didn’t know how to fix it or how to convince his family that he wasn’t some bungling idiot.

If only he could talk to Potter, then at least he would have some reassurance that it had been worth it. Unfortunately, the hope that Draco had held of finding a chance to speak with him in Hogsmeade was dashed when the third years lined up in the courtyard. As they readied themselves for the long walk to the village, Potter approached his head of house, and next thing Draco knew, McGonagall was telling the other boy in no uncertain terms that he was forbidden to visit Hogsmeade since he had no signed permission form.

When they started off down the path to the village moments later, Potter wasn’t with them. Draco would have to find some other opportunity to pull him aside.

Draco's enthusiasm for the trip to the village began to fade even before the group was subjected to an inspection by the dementors at the gate. After passing through their cold, hopeless aura, a shaken Pansy insisted that the Slytherins all use Cheering Charms on one another. Thus they passed their journey on foot in a strange state of unnerved giddiness that so contrasted with Draco’s glumness over the letter, it left his head reeling.

Draco and most of his lot had been to Hogsmeade before. They had accompanied their parents on various shopping or social excursions, but they had always arrived via floo or side-along and were never given much leeway to roam. Now as they crossed into the village proper, McGonagall made a beeline to the Three Broomsticks, and the students were for the first time free to explore without a chaperone.

“Zonko’s first?” Greg suggested, and most of his friends nodded enthusiastically, but Draco wrinkled his nose. Though he’d never been to the joke shop when he’d visited the village with his parents, he had no interest in Dungbombs or Stink Pellets. He felt much more drawn to see the magical apparatuses in Dervish and Banges, the rare books in the village’s specialty bookshops, and of course, Honeydukes’ sweets.

“Let me know if you find anything useful there,” he said doubtfully. “I’ll head to Scrivenshaft’s, I could use a new quill.”

It wouldn’t be the most exciting first destination, but if he didn’t take the opportunity to visit the stationery shop while the others were entertaining themselves at Zonko’s, they’d never give him a chance later.

“I’ll come, Draco, I need a quill too,” Millie said. “Anyone else need one? We’ll pick up some extras and meet you at Honeydukes after.”

There was a general chorus of yes, please, and the group split. Draco and Millie made their way to the side street where Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop was going unnoticed by the vast majority of the Hogwarts students, stopping only briefly along the way to peek through the front windows of Dogweed and Deathcap, which were full of colorful and venomous fanged geraniums.

Only one other customer was inside Scrivenshaft’s, and Draco was glad to have time and space to browse freely. If he’d ever been able to convince his other housemates to come here, they would have immediately complained of boredom and rushed him out the door, but Millie was fascinated enough by the Quick Quotes Quills and color changing inks to let him be.

From an enormous, feather-covered wall display, he picked an assortment of goose and turkey quills for his friends, plus a handsome, self-inking swan feather quill for himself. Then he wandered into a smaller adjoining room crowded with shelves of different parchments and stationery papers. His mother had always impressed on him the importance of presentation when sending a letter, and he was able to appreciate the wide variety of options, though it once again dampened his mood to remember his mother’s correspondence from that morning.

There was a small glass case in the far corner that drew Draco’s attention. Two pieces of parchment were sitting inside, gathering dust and looking rather ordinary. A handwritten sign above the case, however, promised they were anything but.

“No owl? No problem!” the advertisement read. “This magically indestructible parchment is enchanted to convey written messages to its twin instantaneously across any distance. Price: 30 galleons.”

At first, Draco scoffed. Thirty galleons to communicate with one person was hardly practical. He could see why the parchment was gathering dust. Wizards were far too attached to their owls, and it was considered gauche to correspond without one. Anyone who couldn’t wait long enough for an owl to deliver a message was likely to just make a fire call.

He was about to walk away when it struck him. Owls and fire calls were sufficient if you weren’t trying to hide your correspondence. But there was someone Draco was dying to talk to, if only he could do so secretly. Neither Draco’s friends nor the Gryffindors would be able to tell that there was anything remarkable about this parchment. Plus, with an indestructible parchment, Potter wouldn’t be able to ignore Draco’s message by tossing it on a fire again.

The price wouldn’t have been an issue, had Draco been in good standing with his parents. Being as he was now cut off, however, thirty galleons was nearly the full amount of coin that he had access to, and he couldn’t expect those funds to be replenished any time soon. He’d have enough left for a few treats at Honeydukes or butterbeers at the inn, perhaps, and then his pockets would be empty, a daunting prospect he’d never thought he’d have to face.

He was already thinking of ways that he could slip the parchment to Potter in their Care of Magical Creatures class tomorrow, though, so he knew that leaving here without it was not an option. He grabbed the two pieces of enchanted parchment before he could overthink the matter and surreptitiously paid the shopkeeper, hoping Millie was too occupied to notice how much gold exchanged hands.

With his pockets so much lighter, shopping lost much of its appeal, but when they regrouped the other Slytherins were still eager to explore all of the village’s stores. Draco was forced to turn his nose up at many items that actually interested him. The dress robes at Gladrags weren’t the right shade of blue, the potions in the apothecary weren’t as strong as he could brew them himself, and copies of all of the rare books they found were already collected in the Manor’s library. Better to pretend that nothing met his exacting standards than to give away any hint that he was skint.

Still, it was an enjoyable day out with his friends, especially once they settled in at the Three Broomsticks for some butterbeers. The pub was full to bursting, the Halloween revelry off to an early start. Carved pumpkins decorated the tables and festive garlands hung above; the holiday spirit was enough to divert Draco from his worries. The Slytherins gossiped freely as they watched the variety of people coming and going, at one point sure that they’d seen an ogre enter and sit at the bar.

McGonagall eventually came round and announced it was time to head back to the castle. Their inspection by the dementors at the gate brought the mood down a bit, but with that exception, the students remained excited the whole way back, chattering spiritedly about that evening’s festivities.

Draco’s mother had hosted many a Halloween gala at the Manor. When he’d arrived at Hogwarts, he hadn’t expected the incongruity between those stiff, high society gatherings and the school’s feasts. It was much like the difference between visiting Hogsmeade in his parents’ tow versus jaunting around the village with his friends. Since he’d realized in first year how fun Halloween could actually be, he’d always looked forward to the food and entertainment at the feast, as well as sitting around the common room fire afterwards, sharing grisly tales of dark spirits and blood magics gone wrong with the other Slytherins.

This year’s feast was as exciting as he had come to expect. The Great Hall was filled with massive pumpkins, carved with the images of trolls, wolves, dragons, and hags. Orange streamers fluttered under the breeze from the enchanted ceiling, where the starry sky was quickly being overrun by storm clouds and flashes of lightning. Another, darker cloud turned out to be a load of bats that would periodically descend to frighten unsuspecting students (even getting, on one occasion, a startled squeak out of Professor Flitwick).

At the center of the hall, space had been cleared for a large bonfire, which the Headless Hunt galloped around in an impressive display of horseback head-juggling. The Fat Friar floated in front of the flickering flames, dramatically reenacting the story of his own death by execution, his commitment to the retelling of being boiled alive leaving him oblivious to the heckling coming from the Slytherin table.

“Good for him. I’d be too embarrassed to tell anyone if Muggles had caught me without my wand by waiting outside the privy,” Draco scoffed.

“Where did they even find a pot big enough to boil him?” Blaise asked with a wicked grin, and Draco smiled back, forgetting for a second that they still weren’t on speaking terms.

When the feast came to an end, they rollicked down to the dungeon common room, where Draco spread himself out happily on the couch closest to the fire. He sent Vince off to collect blankets from the dormitories and waited for his other friends to gather, eager to kick off their spooky storytelling tradition. He knew he could scare their pants off with the one about the young witch who didn’t realize she was becoming a banshee until she drove her entire family mad.

Just as Vince returned to distribute the blankets, though, a tall figure loomed out of the shadows around the common room entrance and cleared his throat loudly to get the room’s attention. It was Snape.

“Attention! All students are to return to the Great Hall immediately,” announced their head of house gravely. “Bring only what you have with you. Do not delay.”

Draco and his housemates looked around at each other in confusion. An Avery in sixth year even began to speak up, asking, “Sir, why -”

“Now!” Snape snapped, and they all jumped into motion. While the students who were already in the common room lined up by the door, Snape flicked his wand, causing all of the dormitory doors to fly open at once with a bang. Unfortunate pyjama-clad students who’d turned in early straggled out into the common room to join them.

Snape set a brisk pace through the narrow dungeon corridors, not slowing down to take any questions. The line of students following him was abuzz with conjecture anyway.

“Do you think another troll got inside the castle?”

“Maybe there’s another feast. I could go for seconds.”

“I bet we’re gonna do some Samhain rituals! It’s a full moon tonight, y’know.”

As they left the dungeons behind and crossed the Entrance Hall, Draco noticed that many of the portraits lining the walls were emptied, their occupants mysteriously drawn away from their own frames. The castle was quiet, like it was holding its breath. Judging by Snape’s haste and the eerie feeling in the air, he personally suspected the Slytherins hadn’t been called out of their common room for anything good.

Snape ushered them into the Great Hall just as Dumbledore strode out. The headmaster spared the students only a passing glance before casting some complicated spells over the heavy double doors and disappearing into the dark corridors.

Inside, the swotty Weasley and the Head Girl were addressing the other three houses, who were already milling about the room. Draco expected their head of house to join them, but when the last Slytherin had stepped across the threshold, Snape raised his lit wand and turned on his heel like a man on a mission, letting the door slam shut behind him as he stalked away. It was unsettling, being left without any answers.

“- conducting a thorough search of the classrooms, corridors, and common rooms,” swot-Weasley was saying at the front of the hall. “Prefects are standing guard. You will remain here until the castle is cleared. Everyone, pick a sleeping bag and settle in. Lights out in ten minutes!”

Stuck in the crowd by the door, Draco hadn’t even registered until that moment that the house tables had been replaced by rows of sleeping bags spread out across the stone floor. Some students were starting to claim them, though most were standing around in worried bewilderment. Candles still lit the pumpkins that remained from the feast and orange streamers were strewn around the room, but the festive mood was lost.

“What is going on?!” Pansy murmured, clutching Daphne’s hand.

Though nothing demarcated one row of sleeping bags from another, the students kept to their houses by and large, with the Slytherins ending up wedged between Ravenclaw and the door. The Ravenclaws that Draco and his friends settled down next to seemed just as clueless as they were.

Then the Gryffindor Patil claimed a sleeping bag next to her twin. The agitation in the sisters’ voices drew the attention of everyone nearby, and Draco listened intently as Patil related the whole story of what had happened at Gryffindor Tower.

“Everyone was loitering in the hall outside the tower after the feast. At first I thought Fred and George might have set off Dungbombs in the portrait hole again, but Lavender wanted to get closer, see what the fuss was about. That’s when we saw -” Patil’s voice trembled and her captivated audience leaned in closer.

“Oh, Godric, it’s a miracle she got away! The Fat Lady’s portrait was shredded to pieces. There were tatters of her dress all across the floor. I couldn’t have been sure if she’d escaped at all, there were so many bits of painting gone everywhere, until Peeves told us she was hiding in a landscape on the fourth floor. It’s a good thing no one left the feast early… I don’t want to think about what might have happened if anyone had been around when he tried to break in.”

“Break in?” the Ravenclaw Patil questioned. “Do they know who did this?”

Gryffindor Patil lowered her voice to a whisper, almost fearful of the name, but the students grouped around her had gone so quiet that everyone could hear. “It was Sirius Black!” she said, and her sister gasped. “He wanted to get into the tower badly. I think he must be looking for something.”

Draco’s breath caught and suddenly he was craning his neck, eyes frantically scanning the crowd of students. Had he seen Potter since he’d come back into the Great Hall?

If Potter knew that Black was in the castle, Draco wondered with a rising panic, would he sneak off with his cloak and go searching for a fight?

But no, there in the far corner, nearly hidden behind Granger’s bushy head - Potter was there, deep in conversation with his friends, and safe… for the moment. He must be shaken up by Black’s unexpected intrusion, though.

“Quiet down now, everyone, time for lights out! Sleep well,” the Head Girl called from her position guarding the door, to a chorus of groans.

Before Draco could get a good look at Potter’s face, she flicked her wand and every light in the hall was extinguished.

ϟ ϟ ϟ

Every now and then, the enchanted ceiling would flash with distant lightning, or a bat would flutter overhead. Harry lay on his back, watching them. It was hard to tell how much time had passed. He thought it had definitely been more than an hour since the lights went out.

A hush had fallen over the hall. Students had started dropping off to sleep one by one. Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to follow, though.

For a while, he, Ron, and Hermione had huddled together, trading whispered ideas about how Black had gotten into the castle or where he might be hiding, each more wild than the last. Then Percy, drunk on the authority Dumbledore had granted him and completely ignorant of the danger that Harry specifically was in, had come over and told them off for talking.

So Harry was laying there silently, staring vaguely at the sky. Every creak of the old castle made him twitch. He wasn’t sure if he was scared of Black bursting into the hall, or itching for it. Either way, he held his wand at the ready beneath the cover of his sleeping bag.

More time crawled by. A professor appeared at the door, spoke quietly with Percy and Penelope, then left again. The storm clouds above started to roll out, the light of the full moon peeking through.

Another bat fluttered overhead, but this one’s strange silhouette caught Harry’s attention. It didn’t move like the other bats. Was he imagining it, or was there something wrong with its wings?

It floated downward, directly over Harry, and the closer it got the more rectangular it appeared. He realized it wasn’t a bat at all. When it was only a few inches above him, he reached up stealthily and caught it, his fingers closing around - a scrap of parchment.

Harry glanced at the students surrounding him, bemused. No one near him stirred. There was no sign that any of them had been levitating this parchment, or that anyone had seen him snag it. But then, why had it been hovering above him?

He looked to his friends, wondering if they had noticed anything, but quickly found that they had not. Ron was asleep, his limbs splayed and his mouth hanging open in a noiseless snore that someone must have used a charm to silence. Meanwhile, Hermione was completely hidden from view.

She had enlarged her sleeping bag to make a sort of tent, and based on the faint glow at its seams, Harry guessed she was inside reading by wandlight. Curious about the parchment he was still holding and eager for something to take his mind off of where Black could be hiding, he decided to do the same.

“Lumos.” Sitting cross-legged with the sleeping bag over his head, he swished his wand and then squinted blearily at its sudden light, eyes taking a second to adjust.

Eventually, he was able to get a good look at the piece of parchment. At first glance it was ordinary parchment, perfectly blank. He flipped it over to look at the other side - still blank - and was about to write it off as a piece of rubbish. Just then, a scrawl of black ink began to bloom across it, startling him. Words formed in a loopy script as he watched.

“Sleeping on the floor is awful. Not that I could fall asleep right now if I tried. How are you holding up, Potter?”

Harry stared at the words on the parchment, taken aback. He didn’t need to ask who had written them. That elegant handwriting, by now, was familiar. The question was, how? Against his better judgment, he pulled a biro from his pocket and wrote back.

“What is this?” he asked, suspicious. “It had better not be some dark artifact like the diary, Malfoy.”

A response started to appear immediately. “What diary? I bought this parchment at Scrivenshaft’s in Hogsmeade, so no, it isn’t dark, unless dark wizards are suddenly likely to run stationery stores. It’s a pair of parchments, actually, and anything we write will appear at the same time on both sheets. When you want to clear it, just tap it twice with your wand. Think you can handle that, or is it too evil for your Gryffindor sensibilities?”

Harry ground his teeth together. “You’re a dick,” he wrote back, and below it added a crude drawing of two circles and a shaft, illustrating his point.

Even in his irritation, Harry couldn’t help but imagine Malfoy sitting somewhere on the far side of the dark and quiet hall, huffing indignantly to himself as he watched the cock and bollocks magically appear on the parchment.

“It pains me to say it, but you may be right, Potter.”

The writing stopped for a while, as though Malfoy were trying to find the words. Harry waited. He wasn’t going to offer any help for this.

“I tried the other day, but I’ll say it again. I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t lied to you, or said what I said. Things have been different ever since we started practicing Quidditch together, and I don’t want to go back to hating each other.”

It was Harry’s turn to pause as he considered what to say. Biting his lip, he scrawled out a question, already knowing the answer but wanting it confirmed. “You gave away that your injury was faked on purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

An even longer moment passed before Malfoy replied, but when it came, his answer was short. “I got sick of lying.”

“I heard you didn’t even get detention for it,” Harry wrote bitterly.

“No. But don’t worry, my father is seeing to my punishment. He had my mother write to tell me I’m cut off, and that he’s refusing to speak to me himself.”

The satisfaction Harry felt over Malfoy facing some consequences was undercut by his outrage at their source. “That’s mad!” he half-scribbled, anger making his words hard to read. “What kind of father punishes their kid for telling the truth?”

“Let’s not talk about my father.” Malfoy’s writing was as crisp and elegant as ever. “I appreciate your sympathy, though.”

“Fine.” Harry clenched his biro tightly as he wrote. It wasn’t fine. Lucius Malfoy was one of the most rotten people he’d ever met. Saying so would only start another fight, though. “I won’t talk about your father, and you won’t lie anymore. I don’t really want to go back to hating each other either, I guess.”

“Good. Then let’s not. Now, you never answered me - how are you holding up? I heard that my murderous second cousin tried to visit.”

Harry took a second to wonder how to answer that. Ron and Hermione had been so preoccupied with trading theories about how Black had gotten into the castle that they hadn’t thought to ask how Harry was doing. He didn’t blame them. He hardly knew how he felt, himself. Once he started thinking about it, though, he found the words poured out of his pen, and he was grateful to have Malfoy, of all people, to talk to.

“Ron thinks Black lost track of time. That he didn’t know it was Halloween, and we’d all be at the feast,” Harry wrote, “but it’s not lost on me that Halloween is when Voldemort killed my parents. I keep thinking, maybe Black knows exactly what he’s doing. Maybe he wanted to kill me on the anniversary. I hate that he got so close. If he’d gotten into my dormitory, I wouldn’t have been prepared. I know I’m only alive right now because of luck. But at the same time, I wish more than anything that I had been there, had the chance to fight him. Either I could have cursed him like he deserves, or… well, at least it would all be over by now.”

When he lifted his pen from the parchment, Harry experienced a fleeting nervousness that he had written too much - revealed too much - and that Malfoy would ridicule him for his weakness. It had been too easy to keep going on, feeling safe to open up when Malfoy wasn’t there to witness the way Harry’s hands shook or his face flushed with agitation.

Then the blank half of the parchment started filling with elegant script, the other boy clearly having just as much to say, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

“Don’t be daft, Potter. It’s a very good thing that nothing is over yet. You’ve got more time to prepare. Really, it’s more than luck keeping you alive. You’re smart. You’re not underestimating Black, you’re keeping your cloak close at hand, and you’re doing everything you can to become a better duelist. That’s not even mentioning all the people who are willing to bend over backwards to help you. It would make me mental, if I hated you still. Every single professor in the school is out there right now, looking for Black and trying to keep you safe. And I’m sure your chivalrous Gryffindors would have been lining up to take on Black with you, if it came to that.”

Harry pictured himself, Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus dueling Black in the dormitory and winced. While it was comforting to know his friends had his back, he also hated that they were in danger because of him.

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” he wrote back grudgingly, “and I take your point. It’s probably for the best that I didn’t meet Black tonight. I’ve been thinking so much about payback, but… it isn’t worth getting anyone else hurt.”

“Or getting yourself killed,” Malfoy returned, and Harry could nearly see him rolling his eyes through the ink. “At least wait until after our Quidditch match for that. Stay smart, Potter. I know you’re no Slytherin, but for Salazar’s sake, muster some self-preservation.”

There was a pause, but just when Harry had picked up his pen to start writing a response, Malfoy quickly jotted another line. “We could keep practicing dueling together, if you’d like?”

Harry wasn’t sure if he was just projecting a note of hopefulness in the question. The suggestion was unexpected, and he was pleased to discover Malfoy seemed willing to offer without any strings attached.

“Yeah, that would be great,” he wrote back with a smile. “Now that you’re done with the whole injury act, we won’t even have to sneak out after curfew. I know a few empty classrooms where no one ever goes.”

“Perfect. I’m afraid that it’ll have to wait until after our Quidditch match, though. Marcus has me scheduled on the pitch practically every waking moment. I’m going to wind up with sores on my bum after being on a broom all week.”

They wrote back and forth on the enchanted parchment for hours while the other students slept around them. The conversation turned to Quidditch, then their next Potions assignment, then other insignificant things that did wonders for taking Harry’s mind off the murderer lurking around Hogwarts. It was a bit thrilling, to be secretly chatting with Malfoy in the middle of the Great Hall, surrounded by people but without anyone knowing or making a fuss about it.

Eventually though, Harry found himself yawning, the messages they traded grew shorter and their penmanship sloppier, and at last he drifted off to sleep on top of the parchment in the early hours of the morning, biro still clutched in his hand.

Professor McGonagall woke him gently as the other students were just starting to stir. She ushered him into a small, quiet room just off the hall, where she informed Harry that Sirius Black was targeting him (he smiled wryly, having lived with the knowledge for months now) and broke the news that their search of the castle had yielded nothing. As soon as she dismissed him, Harry pulled out the enchanted parchment to give Malfoy an update, then rushed off to find Hermione and Ron.

It was easy to keep talking to Malfoy through the parchment. He could jot down a quick message as he pretended to pay attention in class, none of his professors or friends any the wiser, and then check back a few minutes later to find that Malfoy had responded with some witty commentary about his own day. More than once, Harry had smiled so noticeably that a suspicious Hermione had tried to get a peek at his notes, but Harry just cleared the parchment and all she found was a few half-copied transfiguration diagrams.

They kept it up all week, spending far more time talking to each other than they ever had before. For the most part, their notes centered around classes and other ordinary things.

“I cannot believe Binns managed to make the Soap Blizzard of 1378 sound so boring.”
“Is that what that lesson was about? I fell asleep after he said something about economic bubbles. Had a dream that I was in a bubble bath the size of a swimming pool.”
“Are they not, usually?”
“You rich prick.”

“What class are you in right now?... Ok, I guess you're busy.”
“Sorry, just saw your note. Herbology. I always have to pay close attention lest Greg get eaten by a carnivorous plant again.”

“What’s the name of the star that’s Orion’s left foot?”
“Why are you just now working on the Astronomy assignment? It’s due tonight!”
“That’s the same thing Hermione said. She wouldn’t give me the answer though.”
“It’s Rigel. Look at page 147.”
“Thanks, you’re the best.”

After a while, though, their conversations started to stray into deeper discussions.

“I have to admit, nogtails are a big step up from flobberworms. And no injuries today.”
“Wishing you had given up the act with your arm sooner?”
“I suppose if I’d known the end result would be the same, I would have tripped myself in front of Dumbledore as soon as I first had to poke lettuce into a slimy flobberworm’s mouth.”
“Hagrid can be a good teacher, you’ll see. Just give him a chance. And if you give yourself a chance, I think you can get along brilliantly with the creatures too.”

“I always thought Crabbe and Goyle were your best mates. I never knew you were so close with the other Slytherins.”
“Most of us have known each other for ages, Pansy and I practically since birth. You know, you and Pansy would like each other if you got to know one another, I’ll bet. A lot of my housemates only dislike you because…”
“Because of what?”
“Well, because of my persuading them to dislike you for the last two years.”
“Are you still at it, then?”
“Let’s just say it hasn’t been a priority recently.”

Harry carried the parchment with him practically everywhere. He’d gotten into the habit of checking it first thing in the morning, and falling asleep with it under his pillow at night.

On the first Saturday in November, he smiled as he tucked it into his pack with his Quidditch gear before heading down to the pitch. He hadn’t yet cleared it of their latest exchange.

“See you at the match.”
“Best of luck, you'll need it!”
“You wish!”

Chapter 14

Howling wind and thunder drowned out the clamour of the waiting crowd as the Slytherin team, with their waterproofing charms already battered by the deluge, lined up on the muddy pitch. Draco spared a moment imagining himself dry and comfortable under a large umbrella in the stands, watching Gryffindor face off against some other house in the first match of the season, but when the team captains shook hands Potter locked eyes with him and Draco knew he was exactly where he wanted to be. Madam Hooch blew her whistle and they all shot upwards into the murk.

Immediately, a strong gust of wind sent the players hurtling towards the eastern side of the pitch. There was a moment of pandemonium where a beater’s bat went flying and no one seemed quite sure where the quaffle was. Draco’s full focus was given to trying to stabilize himself.

When at last he had adjusted to the chaotic wind currents and managed to take control of his broom, he quickly scanned the other players. If it weren’t for the two teams’ stark size differential, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart, their Quidditch uniforms so sodden with rain that both teams took on the same dark hue. With the exception of Draco, though, the Slytherin players were all much bulkier than their counterparts, so he could distinguish them with only a little difficulty as they swooped together into a Hawkshead Attacking Formation. He was pleased to see that, while Potter had clearly trained the Gryffindors to counter the Slytherin playbook quite well, his own team had the edge in handling the weather, effectively using their additional mass to maintain their momentum and prevent themselves from being blown off course.

Potter was an inky blot hovering amidst the fog at the far end of the field. Being about the same size, Draco knew he would be struggling with the wind as well. They were both flying lower than usual to avoid the strongest gusts. Putting the other players from his mind, Draco dedicated half of his attention to searching for the snitch and the other half to watching Potter for any sudden moves.

The rain stung Draco’s eyes as he flew against it, and his drenched Quidditch robes and hair whipped in the frenzied wind around him. To say that visibility was poor was a massive understatement. The weak November morning sun was almost fully obscured by the storm, thick grey clouds casting the pitch into semidarkness. Both Draco and Potter had plenty of practice flying in the dead of night now, but it would still be exceedingly difficult to spot the snitch from a distance.

Knowing the importance of responding quickly if Potter caught sight of it before him, he flew closer to the other boy. Normally he enjoyed taunting Potter during a game and he would have tried to pull the other boy’s attention away from seeking with some distracting banter, if only there had been any chance his words would be heard over the storm. Unfortunately the thunder was growing closer, and forked lightning striking over the Forbidden Forest flashed repeatedly in the corners of his eyes. He poured all his effort into being the first to find the snitch, wanting to end the game without delay and while Slytherin had the lead.

The longer the game lasted, the colder Draco became. Even inside his gloves, his fingers were freezing, and it was getting more difficult to grip his wet, slippery broom handle. (Inwardly, he cursed himself for having polished it so recently.) Slowing his broom a bit while Potter flew ahead in the direction of the Slytherin goalposts, he took a second to loosen his grip and shake his hands out, trying to restore their circulation. He needed to keep his hands warm and flexible so that he could get a grip on the snitch when the time came.

He refused to let it slip through his fingers and into Potter’s. Already, he was picturing the party that his housemates would throw for him when he caught it, and looking forward to reminding Potter of his victory for weeks to come.

Then, in a spectacular flash of lightning that seemed to originate almost directly above the stadium itself, Draco saw it. The glint of golden wings.

Instantly, he re-gripped his broom tightly and flattened his body to the handle. It shot forward, and he cut like a knife through the fog and rain without stopping to see whether Potter was reacting. The fluttering snitch was being carried swiftly upward by the wind, already high above the other players at mid-field. He was fairly certain that Potter’s trajectory towards the Slytherin goalposts meant the other Seeker wouldn’t have seen it, but any overconfidence or hesitation could lose Draco the match. As he darted forward, his eyes tracked only the snitch, buffeted back and forth by the gusts that were so strong at this height, and he forced every other thought away.

Afterwards, he would question whether he should have noticed the sound of the roaring wind and thunder start to fade away, the way the flashes of lightning seemed to dim, or how the rain suddenly began freezing around him, chilling him to the bone.

But he was already so cold, and so singularly focused, that it all passed by in a blur. There was only his speeding broom - his numb fingers outstretched - and then, at last, the feeling of icy metal trapped against the palm of his glove.

He stared at the snitch, hardly believing it until he laid eyes on it clenched in his fist. All at once he was whooping with laughter, slowing his broom’s ongoing upward climb, and turning to see the look on Potter’s face, sure that his rival was right on his tail.

What he saw instead was a mass of swirling blackness on the ground hundreds of feet below, shrouded in mist, and a body that seemed to be falling in slow motion towards it.

 

“Did you see the look on Wood’s face when Hooch called it?” Marcus crowed. “He knows the Cup is ours this year! And it’s all - thanks - to you - !”

The Slytherin Captain’s words were punctuated by chummy punches against Draco’s shoulder. What felt like half of their house was standing in a circle around the team, shielding them with umbrellas, breaking out into cheers, and preventing Draco from fleeing. He winced.

“If you hadn’t caught that snitch right before Potter fell off his broom, Gryffindor would have been given a replay. It was perfect timing! Almost like you and the dementors worked it out beforehand!”

“I think Potter might have actually died this time,” Cassius sniggered. “He wasn’t moving when Dumbledore scraped him off the pitch.”

Laughter surrounded them. Draco felt sick.

“Well done. Hit the showers, boys. And you lot -” Marcus gestured to the gathered Slytherins. “You’d better have the party started by the time we get back to the dungeons!”

Another cheer went up, and finally the crowd began to part. Seeing an open path to the locker room, Draco hurried towards it.

“Congratulations, Draco!” Vince, standing to one side with the other third years, called as he passed, but Draco merely waved over his shoulder and kept going.

The team was rowdy as they packed themselves into the locker room. In their excitement, they had already shaken off the miserable cold, but Draco still felt frozen to his core. He grabbed his bag and disappeared into a shower stall, adjusting the heating charm on the water until it was scalding hot.

He stood under it, shivering, for a long time, waiting for his teammates to leave.

At last, Graham called, “Don’t be too long, Draco, the party’s already starting,” and he heard the door slam shut. He turned off the shower and listened to the water on the floor drip down the drain, the showers and locker room otherwise silent. Then he rushed to his bag and pulled out the enchanted parchment.

“Are you hurt?” he scrawled, writing in an awkward position with the parchment pinned against the wall of the stall. Are you alive, he didn’t ask.

Drip, drip, drip. Minutes passed. Nothing.

”Please. Please, let me know if you’re alright.” He stared at the blank section of parchment, hardly blinking.

No response came.

Eventually, standing around the shower stall starkers and watching the unchanging parchment began to feel pointless. There were other ways to get answers. He threw on clean clothes, then checked the parchment again, just in case he had missed a reply from Potter while he pulled his jumper over his head. Potter was merely busy handling the concern from Dumbledore, Pomfrey, and his friends, Draco told himself repeatedly. He would answer as soon as he had a moment alone. Or perhaps he simply didn’t have his parchment with him. He wasn’t… he couldn’t be…

Draco would go and find out for certain, he decided.

On his jog back up to the castle, he barely noticed the rain, which had lightened considerably after Dumbledore had forced the dementors away, but was still coming down. The halls were clear, all the students spending the rest of the dreary Saturday in their common rooms.

There was a commotion in the corridor outside the hospital wing, though. Draco froze in panic as he turned a corner and was suddenly presented with a gaggle of agitated Gryffindors.

Almost the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team was there, milling about with mud on their boots and still wearing their soaking wet robes from the game. Their brooms were piled at one side of the corridor, forgotten. The two youngest Weasleys were there as well, plus Granger, McGonagall, and inexplicably, Snape. They were all huddled around Madam Pomfrey, who guarded the door and looked harried by all the attention.

“He hasn’t awoken,” Pomfrey was saying in a strained voice. “I won’t have you crowding my patient.”

“But he will recover, Poppy?” McGonagall asked anxiously.

“The fall was one thing. I can mend bones in no time. The dementors, on the other hand…” Pomfrey looked haunted, but McGonagall cleared her throat and she recalled herself. “Yes, Minerva, he will live. Physically, he should recover in a matter of days. I will not speculate about his mental state until I’ve had a chance to speak with Mr. Potter. Just what the Ministry thinks they’re doing, stationing dementors so close to children -”

“Thank you, Poppy,” McGonagall nodded. “I’ll let the headmaster know. I believe he is having words with the Minister as we speak.”

Snape had already turned on his heel and was silently stalking off towards the other end of the corridor. McGonagall, too, turned to leave.

Draco felt like he could finally breathe again, though his heart was still beating like a rabbit’s as Pomfrey addressed the crowd of relieved students who remained. “It may be several hours before he wakes. If you wish, you may wait inside - quietly! - for Mr. Potter to be ready to receive visitors. It will do him good to have his friends around him. But if you disturb his rest in any way, mark my words, I’ll send you packing.”

The Gryffindors solemnly began to file inside. Draco hovered at the end of the hall, knowing he should leave before he was noticed, but feeling drawn to Potter’s bedside. It was his hesitation that got him caught.

Granger and the Weasel, lagging behind the others, suddenly became aware of his presence and turned matching scowls his way. He shrunk back, feeling awfully exposed without any Slytherins behind him.

“What are you doing here?” Granger hissed, pinning him to the wall with her glare.

Before Draco could even begin to think of how to respond, a sneering Weasley answered for him. “Come to gloat about the match, hasn’t he? Bloody rotter. Piss off, Malfoy!”

“Just ignore him, Ron. Quidditch is hardly important right now.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Besides, he never would have won without the dementors and he knows it.”

Draco scoffed, hoping it hid the way Weasley’s remark stung. There was an angry tirade on the tip of his tongue. He reined it in, reminding himself that he hadn’t come here to antagonize Potter’s friends while Potter lay unconscious in the next room.

“I only came to see if Potter was alright,” he said coldly.

“Why?” Granger asked. “Hoping to go back to Slytherin and tell everyone he’s dead?”

She advanced towards him, her hands balled into fists, and Draco got the distinct impression she was about to throw a punch. He took a quick step backward in alarm.

“You should leave. Now,” Weasley said firmly, making no move to hold Granger back. “You’re the last thing Harry will want to see skulking around when he comes to.”

Hearing their raised voices, the other Gryffindors started returning to the doorway of the hospital wing, the red-headed Weasley twins grinning maliciously as they surveyed the scene in the corridor. “What’s this? Didn’t get thrashed on the pitch, so you came looking for it here instead, Malfoy?” one of the twins cackled. The other twin not-so-subtly eyed his Beater’s bat where it was piled with the brooms.

It was time to retreat.

“Give Potter my well wishes when he wakes,” Draco said dispiritedly, knowing it was all but pointless, before turning and fleeing the corridor.

He walked swiftly, unnerved and frustrated by the Gryffindors’ hostility but unwilling to outright run away. They were surely mocking his hasty departure already. Though it seemed unlikely they would follow him, he needed to put enough distance between them and himself so as never to find out what would happen if they did. His path veered automatically towards the dungeons, towards safety with his house, and he got all the way to the ground floor before he remembered the party that was currently raging in the Slytherin common room and his steps faltered.

His outer calm was held together by a fraying thread. There was absolutely no way Draco could face a wild party at that moment without the mask slipping.

Pacing back and forth across the hall, he deliberated over where he could go instead. He started to make for the library, then thought better of it; he needed air and privacy while he collected himself. He also felt a strong need to get out of the corridors, where anyone might come across him. So he turned in the opposite direction entirely and headed back out onto the grounds where he could continue his pacing, without fear of being observed and without any particular destination in mind.

Privacy was easy to come by there. No one was in sight as he stepped out of the castle doors, and no one could be blamed for avoiding the grounds, with the rain still falling in sheets.

After a long and aimless tramp across the wet grass, Draco wound up sheltering in the cover of the trees at the edge of the forest, using the broad trunk of an ancient spruce to block the worst of the wind. Above, the rain fell softly on the dense forest canopy, but it didn’t reach him there in the shadow of the massive tree as he collapsed on the bed of moss covering the relatively dry spot of forest floor.

For lack of anything else to do with his shaking hands, he pulled out his wand and slowly began to siphon the water from his hair and clothes. Dully, he realized that his cheeks were still wet, and he hated himself for his weakness. Today he was the pride of his house - he ought to be back in the common room celebrating, not out here hiding his helpless tears. He ought to -

Something rustled in the underbrush close by and Draco had a momentary scare, forgetting all about what a good pureblood Slytherin ought to be doing.

He held himself as still as if he had been petrified, not daring to breathe, allowing only his eyes to dart around. Was another student about to stumble across him and discover his distressed state? Had the dementors returned? Had the sounds of his sniffling drawn something terrible out of the depths of the forest?

No. A large black shape was prowling past him through the low foliage, but he was relieved to recognize its silhouette. It was only Grim, the stray dog that liked to hang around him and Potter during their illicit Quidditch and dueling practices. Draco hadn’t seen the dog since it had run off after he and Potter fought, on that last night they had snuck out to the pitch together. It had always liked Potter much better than him.

“What are you doing here, you mongrel?” he called out to the dog, cringing at the pathetic sound of his own voice. The sniffling didn’t help in that regard.

The dog halted in its tracks, abandoning whatever quarry it had been hunting to look curiously in Draco’s direction. It approached him with its ears perked, looking around and scenting the air, then whined as if it was disappointed not to find anyone else at Draco’s side.

“Yes, yes, I miss Potter too.” Draco wiped at his nose and tried to get his voice under control. The dog had cocked its head quizzically at him, and though he knew it was only an animal, Draco sensed its judgment keenly.

“I’m sure that soft-hearted Gryffindor would be here to give you his table scraps if he could. We had a match today, you see,” he rambled on as Grim listened silently, feeling a strange need to explain himself. “Do you know what a dementor is? You’ve probably come across them at the border of the village. Truly nasty things, even for a dog, I’d imagine. Anyway, the fools who run the school must not be keeping a very good eye on them, because they showed up on the pitch. Potter has… an especially hard time with them. Some pretty dark memories come up, I suppose.”

The dog whined again, as if it understood exactly what Draco meant. Merlin, he was going mental, running off into the forest and talking to stray mutts.

“We were chasing the snitch when the dementors came… It was pretty high up. Potter - he fell. A long way.”

Grim moved closer while Draco struggled to even out his breathing. He didn’t know why he was bothering - it wasn’t like it mattered if a dog caught him breaking down. But he found he was desperate not to scare the mutt away. There was no one else he could talk to about this odd thing he had with Potter - no one else who even knew they were anything other than bitter rivals.

“He’s in hospital now. Maybe he’s starting to wake. I - I tried to visit. I had to know. I heard them say he’d recover but it - well, it looked bad. I wanted to see him. He was mobbed by Gryffindors though - of course - and they wouldn’t let me near. Potter and I have a bit of a history, and none of his friends realize we’ve put it behind us.

“He’ll pull through. He must. Potter’s taken a beating before and it’s never stopped him. Of course, back then I would have laughed… I was a right shit, I guess. To be fair, he was a bit of a shit as well. But this year, with Black after him… I’ve been worried for him, but I’ve never seen someone so foolishly brave. Nothing stops Potter.

“I just wish I’d - I don’t know, done something differently during the match. If I’d noticed the dementors were there, if I’d seen how he was reacting, maybe I - I don’t know! Could have caught him on my broom, maybe. I only wanted to show him - I mean, everyone - that I’m just as good a Seeker, better even, and so all I saw was the snitch… until it was too late.”

The dog, whether it understood Draco’s words or not, had padded over to sit next to him. Draco reached out. He felt like a lost child reaching for a plush toy, desperate to comfort himself. One stroke through its shaggy black fur only managed to spook the dog, however, and as it backed away from Draco he was left feeling even worse than before.

“No - I’m sorry, just, don’t go,” he pleaded. To his relief, Grim stopped just outside arm’s reach and turned back to watch him warily.

Draco laughed weakly. “At least I know where I stand with you. With Potter - well, I just got him back! You were there for that fight we had… I made it right, in the long run, but now I worry I’ll lose him again. I don’t even know what we are to one another. Not enemies anymore, but… friends? Perhaps not - friends are allowed to visit each other in hospital.

“I tried to be his friend, back when we first came to Hogwarts. He wanted nothing to do with me. Since then, everything about him drives me mad, from the way everyone else is allowed to dote on him to the way he looks, with his stupid scruffy hair and those infuriating green eyes.”

The dog was inching slowly closer again, but Draco took no notice, caught up in his rant. “And don’t even get me started on the way he acts, always so earnest and noble and positively maddening,” he carried on. Meanwhile, Grim was bending down, snuffling at something on the ground next to him.

Then the mutt straightened up, a stick in its mouth, and only too late did Draco realize what had happened. “Hey! Give me back my wand, you mangy -”

His eyes went impossibly wide, words cut short as magic rippled through the air. The massive dog’s frame shifted unnaturally, transforming into something taller and leaner but no less mangy, until suddenly before Draco stood a terrifying wizard with a wand clenched in his crooked teeth. The animagus stared down at Draco, who was frozen in horror on the ground, as he flicked his long and matted hair out of his face and took the wand into his filthy hand.

“Don’t be alarmed,” the man rasped. But how could Draco not be?

It was Sirius Black.

Notes:

Sirius is my all-time fave and I cannot begin to tell you how eager I've been to reach this chapter. Draco pouring out his whole heart to a dog only to realize he has accidentally revealed his entire emotional landscape to a member of his family... I live for this.

I hope you guys enjoyed it too. Please consider leaving a comment if you're still here reading - or if you're a new reader here! :) Feel free to tell me how much you hate cliffhangers.

Because we're almost halfway through December I expect this will be my last update for 2023. Happy holidays and I look forward to bringing you a new chapter early next year!

Chapter 15

Harry awoke lying in bed, freezing cold, with a thick fog in his head. He had dreamed of the woman screaming again, but it felt distant now, like the aching pain enveloping every part of his body - it was all dulled and deadened behind the fog. He couldn’t remember going to sleep. This was his first clue that something was wrong.

The next clue came when he blinked open his bleary eyes and saw not the red and gold dormitory bed curtains that he had expected, but rather a blurry vision of the stark white hospital wing, with at least a dozen eyes staring worriedly back at him.

“Madam Pomfrey! He’s awake!” called a shrill voice at the left side of his bed.

“Hur… hurm…” Harry groaned unintelligibly. His throat felt raw, like he had been the one screaming.

“Yes, Harry, I’m here,” the same voice said, moving closer until its fuzzy shape resolved into Hermione. She handed him his glasses.

He slid them on gingerly, his hands moving clumsily as he tried to think through the fog. Why was he here?

He looked around at the small crowd surrounding his bed. Hermione’s eyes were bloodshot, and next to her, Ron was as pale as a freckled ghost. At the foot of the bed, his teammates’ scarlet Quidditch robes came into focus, looking soggy and disheveled like they’d been dragged through the lake by grindylows. As he took them all in, the match came back to him piece by piece.

The rotten weather. The muddy pitch. Malfoy’s determined half-smile just before they took to the sky. The deafening wind, and the constant mist on his glasses that left him nearly blind. The lurch in his gut as he turned his broom and saw Malfoy already streaking high into the air - the rush of flying as fast as he could to catch up - the screaming that somehow started to drown out the wind, until it was all Harry could hear…

The dementors, and then, nothing.

Footsteps tapped across the floor of the hospital wing, rapidly approaching, and soon Madam Pomfrey was there shoving a mound of chocolate bars at him. Recalling how much the chocolate had helped after his dementor encounter on the train, Harry dutifully got to work cramming them down under Pomfrey’s supervision. His throat was still raw and his muscles ached, but surely enough, the chocolate thawed the cold in his fingers and the fog in his head began to clear.

Pomfrey wasn’t done with him, though. While Harry passed the remaining chocolates out to his friends and teammates, she explained what had happened to him (he remembered the dementors, but not falling) and then ran him through an endless panel of questions that he presumed were meant to assess whether the dementors had sucked out his brain.

What day was it? How many fingers was she holding up? What had he had for breakfast that morning? Could he count to twenty? What was something that made him feel happy? It went on and on.

Only once he had croaked out an answer to every question and performed a simple Levitation Charm on a chocolate wrapper was she satisfied enough to leave him with his friends. She headed back to her office, warning him as she left that she’d be keeping him in the hospital wing until the end of the weekend for further monitoring.

“Another year, another near-death experience, eh mate?” Ron chuckled, the color finally returning to his face. Everyone looked a bit less peaky now that they had established Harry wasn’t a vegetable.

“At least you’ve still got all your bones this time,” Fred grinned.

“You’ll be back on a broom before you know it,” Alicia added, and Hermione rolled her eyes while the other girls nodded enthusiastically. Harry smiled back.

“Are we having a rematch soon, then?”

Before he had even finished asking, the smiles fell, and no one wanted to meet his eye. His heart sank.

“There’s… not going to be a rematch?”

George shook his head angrily. “Malfoy caught the snitch a few seconds before you fell. Oliver tried to reason with Hooch about the dementors, and I think if Malfoy had caught it after you fell, we might have stood a chance, but in the end… the match went to Slytherin.”

Angelina jumped in, trying to be optimistic. “We still have a chance at the Cup. It’ll be hard, but if we beat both Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw -”

The rest of the team erupted in discussion about Gryffindor’s path to the Cup, some more hopeful than others.

“We’d have to win by a margin of two hundred points -”

“If Slytherin lose the rest of their games -”

His teammates seemed to have endless ideas about how many points Gryffindor would need versus how many games Slytherin might win, but Harry didn’t hear anything further. He laid back against his pillow, letting it sink in. It was the first time he’d ever lost a Quidditch match - the first time he’d let down his team. And he’d lost the snitch to Draco Malfoy.

He wasn’t angry at Malfoy. It probably would have been easier if he were, to be honest. It would have been familiar, and given him someone to blame besides himself. But Harry knew from their practices that Malfoy was real competition. He’d looked forward to their match, even knowing he could lose - especially knowing he could lose.

Instead, Harry felt gloomy, as if some of the dementors’ affect had lingered. He just wished that he’d been conscious to see the ending. It was all his own fault, really, for being so weak to the dementors. What was wrong with him? No one else was so affected by them. Why did Harry have to go and faint every time they came near him? He’d robbed himself of the chance to put everything he had into challenging Malfoy for the snitch, and the chance to either triumph or to see Malfoy’s brilliant smile when he managed to snatch it out from under Harry’s nose.

He wondered if Malfoy was celebrating. Did he consider it a true win? Harry wouldn’t begrudge it of him. The fact was that Malfoy had seen the snitch first and closed in on it faster. It was possible that Harry might have caught up, but in the privacy of his own thoughts, he could admit that the end result likely would have been the same, dementors or no.

Yes, Malfoy was probably down in the dungeons surrounded by Slytherins singing his praises. Harry felt a twinge of jealousy. He’d much rather be at a party with Malfoy than be stuck in hospital, even if it meant he would have to put up with the other Slytherins. But of course his friends wouldn’t understand, and Pomfrey wouldn’t let him leave, and Malfoy probably wouldn’t even have wanted him there.

Eventually, the team gave up trying to cheer Harry and left him to get some rest. Ron and Hermione stuck around, though, promising to keep him company until Pomfrey kicked them out.

They didn’t have much else to say about the match - with the weather, it had been hard for the spectators in the stands to follow the action. Harry didn’t want to talk about the match anymore, anyway, but he could hardly think of anything else. He mostly sat in distracted silence while Ron continued eating chocolate and Hermione worried aloud about all the class assignments she had due for her many elective courses the following week.

“Don’t forget about McGonagall’s essay on trans-species transformation,” Ron piped up, licking melted chocolate off his fingers. Hermione looked both disgusted and horrified.

“Oh God, I did forget!” she cried. “I’ve been so busy with the chemical calculations for Potions, it completely slipped my mind!”

She immediately dove into her bag, pulled out some parchment and a textbook, and promptly disappeared behind them.

Ron grimaced. “Potions - that’s gonna be a real nightmare this week, innit?” he said to Harry while Hermione frantically flipped pages.

Harry had only halfway been paying attention as he replayed the match over and over in his head. “Why’s that?” he asked, feeling he was missing something.

“Malfoy,” Ron said, as if it should be obvious. “He’s been a bit less horrible since they caught him lying about his arm - I reckon Dumbledore put him in his place - but I can’t imagine he’ll stay quiet after winning against you. He was already being a nuisance after the match. We caught him out in the hall trying to spy on you here before you woke up.”

“What? Really? What did he say?” Harry sat up a little straighter in his bed.

“Not much before he scarpered,” Ron chuckled. “Just some snotty, sarcastic comment about wishing you well. He must’ve been here to rub in his victory, but we scared him off before he had the chance.”

“Oh.” Harry blinked. He’d never felt the need to defend Malfoy to Ron before, but he somehow felt certain that Ron could be misinterpreting Malfoy’s visit. Malfoy had changed this year, and it was hard to imagine him being cruel to Harry now. There was a chance that Malfoy had meant well, and been run off before he could explain himself. At least, Harry hoped so.

He couldn’t just say that to Ron, though. Instead, he frowned and asked, “How did you scare him off?”

Ron was grinning. “Well, first Hermione got up in his face like she was about to hit him. She was brilliant, and I wish she had done.” Hermione mumbled something Harry didn’t quite hear and sunk further behind her book, embarrassed. “Then Fred and George joined in, and that’s all it took, the coward. Ran like a herd of hippogriffs were on his tail. If only you’d been awake to see the look on his face when he realized Crabbe and Goyle weren’t around to jump in front of a curse for him.”

If Malfoy really had come with good intentions, it couldn’t have been easy for him, facing down a crowd of Harry’s angry friends alone. Harry wanted more than ever to jump out of the hospital bed and go find him. His body still ached when he moved, though, and Pomfrey was keeping a steady eye on him from her office.

“Hey, did anyone bring my pack up to the castle?” Harry asked suddenly. The enchanted parchment! He had left it in his bag with his Quidditch gear. He could send Malfoy a message that way - maybe Malfoy had even sent him something.

Ron looked confused at the abrupt change of topic. “Er, no, mate, I haven’t seen it. Must still be in the locker room.”

“Is there something you needed from it?” Hermione asked in concern, popping up from behind her textbook.

“Erm, yeah, I…” he paused. He couldn’t just tell them about the parchment. What would they think when they realized how often he and Malfoy had been writing to each other? They still hated the Slytherin.

“I think I left my Charms notes in there,” he sighed guiltily. “I meant to go over them before we start practicing the Shrinking Charm this week. Might as well revise while I’m stuck here.”

“Nonsense!” Hermione scolded. Harry’s hopes that she might retrieve the pack for him in the name of academic excellence were immediately dashed. “Harry, you should be resting. After the day you’ve had, even I wouldn’t be worried about studying.”

“Yeah, but -”

“Flitwick is sure to understand if you need a little extra time practicing Shrinking Charms. And if Madam Pomfrey says you’ve recovered tomorrow, I can share my notes with you then.”

“But I -”

“I’ve never seen you so keen to study,” Ron laughed. Hermione, however, was observing Harry with an air of rising suspicion.

“Alright, alright,” he relented. “Forget it. I’ll rest.”

He leaned back against his pillow and stared unhappily at the ceiling.

Ron, sensing that Harry wasn’t much in the mood to keep talking, left him alone while he set up his battered old wireless to play some music. The Bent-Winged Snitches belted out a staticky rock ballad, and Ron hummed along softly.

Hermione seemed satisfied that Harry was resting and let their tiff over the Charms notes drop. Soon enough, she got back to work on her essay. Every now and again, though, he would catch her looking over at him as if trying to figure him out.

Harry huffed at her scrutiny and closed his eyes to block it out, trying to picture instead what Malfoy might be up to at that moment. He was sure to be having more fun than this.

☆ ☆ ☆

“What do you want from me?” Draco stammered, cowering on the forest floor at Black’s feet. With his wand in Black’s hand, he was utterly defenseless.

Not yet recovered from his shock, his mind raced with half-formed guesses as to why Black might have revealed himself. Black probably didn’t want to kill Draco, right? They were family - both purebloods with old ties to the Dark Lord - and everyone knew it was Potter he wanted to kill. Black had just overhead Draco running his foolish mouth about how close he and Potter were, though - would Black try to use Draco to get to Potter? That was hardly a preferable alternative…

Leaving him in suspense, Black fiddled absently with Draco’s wand while he considered Draco himself, hollow eyes staring out of his wasted face from beneath a tangled mass of hair. Draco returned his gaze apprehensively, keeping one eye on where his wand was pointed at all times.

Despite the toll taken by years in Azkaban and months on the run, the wizard retained certain features that clearly tied him to Draco’s family. And yet, nothing about Black fit the image that Draco would have expected. The man seemed to be neither the proud pureblood champion that Draco’s parents had spoken of, nor the bloodthirsty maniac characterized in the media coverage. Underneath the many layers of grime, Black looked incredibly emaciated and frail, and his sunken eyes were filled not with pride or rage but with grim determination.

He scratched himself idly behind an ear in a manner uncannily reminiscent of the dog form before finally responding to Draco’s question.

“There’s someone in the castle,” Black croaked in a voice harshened by disuse. “I need help getting to him.”

Potter!

No… no, that couldn’t be right, though. Because this man had been the dog all along, hadn’t he? The more time Draco had to regain his wits, the less this all made sense.

The dog had been with him and Potter multiple nights a week since nearly the start of term - nights where they were alone and vulnerable on the pitch or in the locker room. Draco was no obstacle to a dark wizard; Black had managed to disarm him like it was nothing. Black could have killed Potter a hundred times over by now.

But the dog… the dog had instantly loved the other boy. Draco had been wildly jealous.

“You’re not here to kill Potter,” Draco said slowly, not sure if he meant it to be a statement or a question.

Black’s answering grin was yellowed and crooked. “Smart lad. There might be hope for you yet, little Malfoy.”

Draco bristled at the sneering way Black pronounced his surname, but Black continued without taking notice. “I didn't like you much at first, you know. So much like your parents, and all those terrible things that you told Harry about me,” he growled hoarsely. “I won't say I don't deserve the abuse, but Harry at least deserves better than those old lies.”

“I didn’t lie to Potter,” Draco challenged.

“You did, but only because you don’t know the truth - that he's in danger! There's a rat in Harry’s midst. A rat that I intend to flush out... and exterminate.” Black’s face twitched convulsively with anger as he spoke of this purported danger Potter faced. His grip was so tight on the wand that Draco was afraid it would snap.

Once Black regained his composure, he sighed, “Moments ago you told me how much you want Harry to be safe. That means we want the same things. Just hear me out."

Draco had thought he’d been talking to a dog about Potter. His cheeks burned as he recalled everything he’d said. Something didn’t add up, though, and it was far more important than his embarrassment.

“Why should I believe you’re concerned about Potter’s safety when you’re the one who handed his parents over to the Dark Lord?!”

“I as good as did,” Black said quietly, hanging his head. Draco was forced to lean a bit closer to hear his words over the drone of the rain. “Though it was only ever out of concern for their safety.”

He looked up to meet Draco’s gaze, measuring Draco’s reaction as he told his story. “I’m not sure how you knew about the Fidelius, but you - and everyone else - are missing one crucial detail,” Black said firmly. “We all knew there was a spy in the Order. Because of our family’s ties to Voldemort, many already suspected me. James was quite loud in his support of me as their Secret Keeper - which I knew would make me the true spy’s target. At the last minute, I convinced James and Lily to switch. If someone tried to force the secret out of me, I would have nothing to give, and they would be safe. We told no one… no one, except the traitor who took my place.”

The story wasn’t implausible, and against his better judgment, Draco found himself being drawn in. “This supposed traitor… is that who you’re after in the castle?” he asked, remembering Black’s vicious attempt to break into Gryffindor Tower during the Halloween feast. “Who is it?”

Black stuck a hand inside his tattered robes and withdrew a folded piece of paper. It was a clipping from the Prophet. When he unfolded it, Draco was surprised to see a photo of the Weasley family, one that he had ridiculed at length with Vince and Greg that past summer, which felt like a lifetime ago now. Black’s bony finger pointed right at the ginger Weasel.

He was a madman after all, Draco thought in panic.

“That’s impossible,” he said carefully. “Ron Weasley couldn’t have been the traitor - he was only a year old.”

Black shook the paper in frustration. “Not the boy! THE RAT!” He spat, and jabbed his finger at the animal that Draco now noticed was sitting on Weasley’s shoulder. “He’s an animagus by the name of Peter Pettigrew, and I’ve come here to put an end to his treachery once and for all!”

Draco recognized Pettigrew’s name from a Prophet article that listed Black’s alleged victims on the day he had been apprehended by the Aurors. Was it possible there was more to the story? “I’ve seen Weasley’s rat before,” he said doubtfully. “It bit Greg on the train once. It seemed very rat-like to me…”

“Yes, and I’m sure you’re an excellent judge of that, since you saw right through my act,” Black scoffed. “How many times did you try to stroke my belly? No, there’s no doubt in my mind that this rat is Peter. After the number of times I saw him transform, I know all his markings, and he’s even missing the finger - he cut it off right before he blew up that street full of Muggles, so the Aurors would find it and think I was responsible. He’s found a way to lurk in Harry’s shadow, biding his time until his master returns and he can hand Voldemort his prize.”

It was a mad tale, but not one that Draco could immediately deny. If it was true, if the Dark Lord were ever to rise again as so many in his parents’ circle believed was possible, then Potter would be in mortal danger.

“Why haven’t you told anyone, if what you’ve said is the truth?” Draco demanded. “Why vanish from Azkaban and sneak around on your own, with Potter’s safety at stake?”

Black cackled, voice breaking on his barking laughter. “Dementors aren’t known to listen to their meals!” he wheezed. “Do you think I’ve had access to legal representation? They chucked me on that forsaken island without so much as a trial, and then they threw away the key. The only people who would have been willing to speak to me after that were more likely to help Peter than Harry. And what would you have me do now that I’m free, write a letter to Dumbledore? He abandoned me to Azkaban without even questioning me. He would see every word of mine as a lie.”

He burst into another round of manic laughter, which quickly turned into an intense coughing fit. It wracked Black’s frail body, so badly he had to support himself against the trunk of a tree to remain upright. Draco’s heart pounded - if ever there were a chance for him to grab his wand and escape, this was it. His legs tensed, prepared to move - but by the time Black recovered, he still hadn’t budged.

“Say I were to believe you,” Draco said instead. “What would you ask me to do about it?”

Black looked at him appraisingly, still catching his breath. “Nothing that would put you in danger,” he said eventually. “My attempt to break in may have scared Peter off. You could find out discreetly if he’s still hiding in Gryffindor Tower. Tell me if they’ve added any other defenses to the tower entrance, and most importantly, get me the password. I’ll handle the rest.”

“I’m no Gryffindor. Why not tell Potter your story and get him to help?”

“No! I won’t involve Harry,” Black shook his head vehemently. “He hates me after the things you’ve told him. Even if he found a way past that, he’d be at too great a risk. Peter is watching his every move. One sniff of something off, and at best, Peter would go to ground, or at worst, hurt Harry. We have to keep Harry as far away from this mess as he can be, and for his sake, we have to hurry. The sooner it’s done, the faster we can get these bloody dementors away from him and make sure nothing like what happened at the Quidditch match happens again.”

Draco bit his lip, not sure what to think. He was certain now that Black didn’t want to hurt Potter, but that didn’t mean the wizard wasn’t lying about the rest of it. Draco needed time to look into his claims, especially about Peter Pettigrew.

Taken at his word, the only one Black planned to kill was Weasley’s rat, but Draco wasn’t even sure how he felt about that. If it was only a rat, well, Weasley could get another… and if it was the man who had sold the Potters to the Dark Lord, the threat to Potter had to be removed. Potter would surely want the one who had betrayed his parents dead. None of that was enough to stop Draco from feeling uncomfortably squeamish at the thought of having even a minor role in it.

With the possibility that Black was lying, though, giving him aid might inadvertently cause a great deal of harm and land Draco in unimaginable trouble. There needed to be no doubts about Black’s story before Draco could begin to decide what to do.

“Alright. I’ll see if I can locate the rat,” he agreed after some consideration. That, at least, couldn’t cause any harm, and would give him more time to think it all over. “But don’t do anything drastic before then - and you’ll have to give me back my wand and let me go.”

Something shifted in Black when Draco agreed to help, as if a bit of weight had lifted off his hunched shoulders. He nodded without any argument to Draco’s demands. “Of course,” he said quickly, perhaps fearing Draco would change his mind. “We’ll both have to be subtle, so Peter doesn’t sense us closing in. We can meet back here in the forest - just whistle, and I’ll hear.”

Black held out the wand and Draco reached to take it back, but as he did Black gave it a swish and cast something wordlessly. Draco felt a sensation like all of the air being magically sucked from his lungs. He spluttered and gasped, then grabbed violently to get the wand out of Black’s hands. There was no need for force, though; Black relinquished it easily, grinning again.

“Not to worry, just a little spell I invented back in my school days. I couldn’t give that back without making sure you wouldn’t speak of this to anyone. I’m glad you were willing to listen - I thought it was more likely that I’d have to obliviate your memory of me and run off with your wand. This will be much better.”

Draco scowled, but was so relieved to have his wand back in his hand that he didn’t complain. He had, after all, been expecting Black to do much worse to him, and still had trouble wrapping his head around the direction this had turned.

“It will take me at least a couple of days to learn anything about the rat,” he told Black, who was looking at him expectantly. “Weasley and I aren’t friends, so I can’t just ask him where his pet is, and who knows how long Potter will be in hospital. I’ll come back here once I’ve got something.”

“Good,” Black nodded, appeased. “I’ll be around. Now hurry back to the castle before anyone decides to come looking for you.”

He clapped a filthy hand on Draco’s back in what was probably meant to be an encouraging gesture, then shifted into his mangy dog form before Draco could tell him off. With a farewell bark, the dog slunk back into the shadows, like he’d never even been there.

Draco stared into the trees for as long as it took to convince himself that he hadn’t just dreamed it all up. He returned to the castle in a daze, feeling entirely off balance from the encounter. It was strange to think that at this very moment, the other Slytherins were absorbed in their post-match party, going about like it was a completely normal day. He had no idea what he would say to his housemates about where he’d been, nor even what the spell that Black had cast would allow him to say.

As he drifted past the potions storeroom on his way through the dungeons, though, he began to form a plan that would enable him to sort out whether Black had told him truth or lies.

There was one thing he was certain of: he would work out how to help Potter, one way or another.

Chapter 16

Notes:

I know it’s April now, but I wanted to note that March 13, 2024 marked two years since I started writing this fic. I’m still here! I’m still going! The end, though not near, is not out of sight! I could not have kept at it if I did not love this thing so damn much, and I want to thank everyone who has loved it with me.

Are you hurt?

Please. Please, let me know if you’re alright.

Harry, tucked inside the curtains of his four poster bed, felt a stab of guilt as he read the words that Malfoy must have written to him over a day ago, left unanswered on the enchanted parchment ever since. He had run down to the locker rooms to pick up his things as soon as Pomfrey had released him Sunday evening, but it felt too late.

”I’m alright,” Harry scratched out with his quill, not wanting to delay any further, even if it was likely that Malfoy had forgotten all about the message and wouldn’t be waiting for a reply. ”Pomfrey fixed me up. Sorry, I just got the parchment back, or I would have let you know ages ago.”

His night in hospital had been restless, full of dreams about chasing after Malfoy on his broom while all sorts of impediments came between them. Then, his second day of lying in bed under Pomfrey’s eye had been too dull to bear. He’d had a few visitors, but Malfoy hadn’t made another attempt to see him there. Harry was dying to talk to him, but it was just past curfew now, so there was little he could do.

Assuming that Malfoy wasn’t looking at his own parchment and probably wouldn’t see the new message until morning, Harry was about to stash the parchment under his pillow and get ready for bed. Just as he set aside his quill and ink, however, new words started scrawling themselves below his. His glum mood instantly lifted.

“Apology accepted, but don’t let it happen again,” Malfoy wrote while Harry watched the parchment intently. ”It’s my duty as your nemesis to stay informed.”

Harry snickered, then grabbed his quill again to write back. ”Nemesis? Aren’t we a bit past that?”

”Grudging acquaintance, then.”

”Sure, whatever. I heard you tried to visit me in hospital. I wish Ron and Hermione hadn’t run you off.”

”There was absolutely no running involved. I walked away with immense dignity in the face of their immeasurable incivility.” The writing paused for a moment before continuing. ”Anyway, their reaction was probably to be expected, given our history. How was your convalescence?”

”Immensely and immeasurably boring.” Harry settled with satisfaction against his headboard as he wrote, forgetting all about getting ready for bed. ”I don’t recommend spending weekends in hospital, if you can avoid it.”

”And yet, you seem to wind up there every year.”

”Just lucky, I guess. At least this time there was chocolate. It can’t compare to the party you must have had down in Slytherin, though - was it fun?”

”I arrived a bit late and missed some of the festivities, but everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.”

”Congratulations, by the way,” Harry wrote, still a bit surprised by how much he meant it. ”You flew brilliantly.”

“Look, Potter, you don’t have to say that just because we don’t hate one another anymore.”

”No, I’m serious! Before the dementors, it was a good match. You handled the wind really well, and you spotted the snitch when I could barely see anything. I just wish I’d had the chance to race you to it.”

”Oh. Well… thank you. You always fly brilliantly. I thought you were right on my tail the whole time. I want you to know that if I had realized what was actually happening, I wouldn’t have gone for the snitch. Don’t tell my teammates, but I was hoping they’d let us have a rematch so I could beat you properly.”

”Me too,” Harry replied, grinning. ”Well, I mean, so that I could beat you, not the other way around. Because next time, you’re going down.”

”We’ll see about that!”

”Looking forward to it.”

”Why wait for Quidditch? We should find an empty classroom and return to our dueling routine this week. That is, if you’re feeling up to it, and the dementors haven’t scrambled your brains too badly.”

”You’re on!”

That night, when he eventually folded up the parchment and drifted off, Harry slept much more soundly.

Excited to see Malfoy again, he convinced the other boy to meet him in an unused room on the third floor the very next evening. After making sure that no one had seen them enter together, they locked and soundproofed the door to the hall and had a quick round of dueling practice.

Spells streaked across the room. The ones that missed their target impacted the furniture they had hastily moved aside, upending it and raising clouds of dust. Malfoy sent Harry’s glasses flying and, blinded, Harry shot Jelly-Legs Curses around wildly until the whole room was wobbly.

But what Harry had really been looking forward to was catching up with Malfoy, who didn’t seem to mind at all when Harry called the duel a draw quite early in order to leave more time to chat.

“Glad you’re on your feet again, Potter, though it’s a pity Pomfrey didn’t fix your eyesight while she had you,” Malfoy teased as he handed Harry’s glasses back. “Once a speccy git, always a speccy git, I suppose.”

“Yeah, and it’s a real shame that there’s no cure for being a knob head like you,” Harry replied without any heat behind it. He had learned how to tell the difference between insults Malfoy used affectionately and those he used to offend. He popped his glasses back on and Malfoy’s silver eyes came into focus, considering him.

“So Pomfrey’s cleared you to practice Quidditch already?”

Harry nodded. “We’re on a relaxed practice schedule though, since our next match isn’t until after the new year. I don’t know what I’ll do if my broom hasn’t been found by then.”

His Nimbus 2000 had been blown away by the wind when he’d fallen, and Hagrid suspected it was lost somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, though Harry was still holding out hope it would be found on the grounds. It was the only broom he’d ever owned, and he couldn’t wrap his head around the idea it might be gone.

“You could borrow mine, if you needed to,” Malfoy offered, and Harry chuckled.

“Thanks… but I’m pretty sure everyone would recognize your Nimbus 2001. I don’t know how I would explain it to the team if I was riding a Slytherin broom. They would all think I’d been Confunded.”

Malfoy shrugged and looked darkly away. “Fine. Suit yourself. You could always fly on one of those ancient Shooting Stars that they use to train the first years. Anyway, the dementors are the bigger concern. Has Dumbledore given you any assurances about keeping them away from the pitch?”

“Dumbledore hasn’t talked to me about it at all,” Harry said with a frown.

“And here I’ve spent our school years thinking he actually favoured you. What is wrong with that old goat? If I were you, I’d go to the Board of Governors - !”

“I’m not going to do that,” Harry interrupted, not voicing his opinion that going to the Governors would end badly for him if Lucius Malfoy still had any influence over them. “I was thinking, though - on the train, when the dementor attacked my compartment, Lupin used some kind of spell to force it back. I’m going to ask him if he could teach it to me the next time we have tea together.”

“Was it a Patronus Charm?” Malfoy asked. Harry shrugged. “Well, if that’s what it was, it will be incredibly difficult magic to learn. I don’t even think my parents know how to use it.”

“I have to try something to defend myself -”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t be able to learn,” Malfoy cut him off. “Just that it will be challenging. I actually think it’s a brilliant idea. You’re intelligent, Potter, and when you put your mind to doing something, Merlin help anything standing in your way.”

Harry smiled slowly. “You think I’m intelligent?”

The tips of Malfoy’s ears turned red. “Don’t let it swell your big head even more,” he said. “Everyone knows you’re the best in our year at Defense. Maybe Care of Magical Creatures as well, judging by our limited experience with any creatures that aren’t flobberworms.”

“Oh, that’s nothing to do with being smart. All you have to do is treat the creatures with some respect, it’s easy,” Harry insisted.

“It doesn’t come easily to everyone,” Malfoy grumbled. “I haven’t had much practice with creatures - I’ve never even had a pet.”

“Not even an owl?”

“No. We have family owls that are kept in the aviary, and some peafowl that roam the Manor grounds, but those are all looked after by the house elves. I did ask for a Crup when I was younger, but Father said it would make too much mess. Keeping animals in the home isn't very fashionable among the old families. Millie’s the only Slytherin in my year who has a house pet, and she’s a half-blood.”

Harry was surprised to hear it. “The Gryffindor dorms are full of pets. I guess not many of them belong to the old families, though. Still, there’s Trevor and Scabbers.”

Malfoy looked up. “Scabbers… is that the Weas- I mean, Weasley’s rat? I haven’t seen him carrying it around this year. He still has it?”

“Yeah. Scabbers has been sickly, and Hermione’s cat has been after him. I think he spends most of his time hiding in Ron’s bed.”

“I see,” Malfoy said, oddly serious. “How long has the rat been ill?”

Harry was thrown by the question, coming from Malfoy. Never in a million years would he have imagined that the other boy might be concerned for Ron’s pet. Malfoy really had turned over a new leaf.

“Oh, don’t worry too much about Scabbers,” Harry reassured him. “He’s just really old - been in the Weasley family since Ron was too young to remember. He’s looked peaky since summer, but he hasn’t kicked it yet, so he’s probably got years left in him.”

“Since summer,” Malfoy repeated. “That’s… unfortunate. You don’t often hear of common rats living so long, though.”

“Maybe Scabbers has got a bit of magic hidden in him.” Harry shrugged.

“Perhaps.” Malfoy appeared strangely lost in thought, but just as Harry was about to ask if he was alright, the other boy abruptly returned to their original topic of conversation.

“At any rate, you are smart when you don’t let your big head get in the way, and you really should insist that Lupin help you with the dementors, Potter. I’ve never heard of someone being so constantly in life-threatening situations as you. Speaking of which, shall we have another duel? There’s a new hex I’d like to try…”

They stayed together, dueling and chatting, until just before curfew, when they were forced to return to their own common rooms.

For the first time, Harry found himself wishing that he and Malfoy were in the same house so as to see more of each other. Harry wrote to him several times that week, trying to arrange for them to meet again. He suggested that they could have another duel, or spy on the Ravenclaw Quidditch practice, or even put some extra time into their Potions assignment.

Malfoy persistently begged off, though, saying he was too busy until the weekend juggling his own team's Quidditch practices and an important assignment for Ancient Runes. His replies on the enchanted parchment came much slower than usual as he focused on his work.

Although he was disappointed, Harry didn’t want to be a distraction. He knew now that Malfoy took his studies almost as seriously as Hermione did. And so, he spent his evenings with Ron and Hermione, hanging around the common room and the library, catching up on his own schoolwork. Comfortable but increasingly bored with the return to his usual, Malfoy-free routine, he never could have predicted the strange events that would happen later in the week.

The first shock came Thursday afternoon.

Harry was walking back to Gryffindor Tower from Hagrid’s hut after checking in on the search for his missing broom - there had still been no luck with finding it - when a hand reached out suddenly from behind a suit of armor in an otherwise deserted corridor and pulled him into a classroom with a surprisingly strong grip.

“Hello, Potter,” Pansy Parkinson sneered while Blaise Zabini subtly shut the door of the classroom behind them. “We need to talk.”

“Just a conversation,” Zabini added, holding up his empty palms as Harry went for his wand. Parkinson scoffed.

“About what?” Harry demanded.

“About Draco!”

“Pans, calm down.” Zabini sighed and shot Harry an apologetic look. “Apologies for dragging you in here like this. It’s just that Draco keeps disappearing after classes are over, and we thought he might be with you.”

They both stared at him knowingly.

“I - why -” Harry spluttered. “Malfoy - he isn’t with me, obviously. I’ve got no idea where he is. We’re just Potions partners.”

“You’re a terrible liar, darling.” Parkinson smiled, predatory.

Harry’s eyes shifted nervously between the two Slytherins. “Why? What did Malfoy say about me?”

“Draco didn’t need to say anything as such,” Zabini drawled.

“Blaise here suspects that the two of you have been sneaking off to meet each other for months now.” Parkinson’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I didn’t give the notion any credibility, mind you, until Draco went insane and asked me to jinx him in front of the headmaster. That was your doing, I assume?”

Harry ruffled his hair in agitation. “I didn’t -”

“And I suppose you’re the reason Draco looked like a kicked Crup after he won us the Quidditch match?” Zabini piled on.

“I don’t -”

Parkinson didn’t give him a chance to deny it, another question already on her pouting lips. “Is it really true that he was late to our victory celebration because he went to sulk at your hospital bedside?”

“Is that what he told you?” Harry asked, bewildered. He knew that Parkinson and Zabini were two of Malfoy’s closest friends, but he’d thought that Malfoy was keeping their meetups a secret as much as he was.

“Of course not, you imbecile - Draco would never admit to such a thing, and he’s a much better liar than you,” Parkinson chided.

“One does tend to hear rumors, however, when there’s a confrontation between a Slytherin and a gang of angry Gryffindors,” Zabini explained. “Besides, we’ve known Draco long enough not to buy his story about going to the library after the match.”

Harry folded his arms across his chest. “If you’re such good friends, you should really be asking him these questions,” he said stubbornly. He wasn’t going to be the one to spill Malfoy’s secrets if he could help it.

“Draco clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, so we won’t force him to,” Zabini answered.

“We’re just worried for him. We wanted to make certain that you -” Parkinson jabbed her finger at Harry’s chest threateningly - “aren’t dragging our friend into any trouble.”

Harry felt that was a bit unfair. Malfoy was the one who had dragged him out to the Quidditch pitch after curfew in the first place. He scratched his neck awkwardly, unable to deliver this argument without proving all of their suspicions to be true.

The two Slytherins were leveling anxious looks at him, though. He felt he had to say something.

“Look, he might have mentioned that he was going to work on his Ancient Runes project somewhere that no one would disturb him,” Harry admitted, hoping it would relieve their concern and get them out of his hair. “I’ve got no idea where that is, and honestly, I haven’t dragged him into anything.”

“But the two of you have been talking!” Zabini said triumphantly, all traces of worry melting instantly from his face. He smiled charmingly as Harry started to protest. “Thanks for the confirmation. Don’t worry, we won’t tell him how easily you cracked. Any friend of Draco’s is a friend of ours, right Pans?”

Parkinson looked much less pleased.

Harry shared the feeling. “Er, no offense, Zabini -”

“Please, Harry, call me Blaise.” His smile had only grown wider. “We should start over fresh, without all that old formality.”

“Er -”

“This has been a lovely chat, Harry,” Parkinson (or should he call her Pansy? He didn’t understand what was happening!) said acidly. “But we won’t detain our new friend any longer. Blaise and I need to have a private word. I’m sure we’ll be seeing much more of you soon.”

She whipped open the door to the corridor and stared pointedly at Harry, dismissing him as subtly as a bludger to the face. Zabini - Blaise? - kept grinning handsomely over her shoulder, as if he was in on some joke that Harry hadn’t caught.

“Yeah, alright, see you around,” Harry said, mystified.

He was only too glad to leave them to their private chat. This was the only time he could ever recall having had a civil interaction with them, and it had left him feeling uneasy - especially since he felt that, though they had been civil, they had somehow managed to get the better of him. Bloody Slytherins.

That night he was itching to ask Malfoy about the whole thing, but the other boy must have still been wrapped up in his schoolwork, because he wasn’t responding to Harry on the enchanted parchment. Harry hoped he’d be finished with his work soon. It was growing harder to resist the urge to start searching the castle for Malfoy, just to find out what he was up to.

With the unexpected encounter still on his mind the next morning, Harry was resolved to bring it up to Malfoy in Potions, especially after Blaise winked at him across the classroom. Even Pansy gave him a surly little nod when their eyes met. He wouldn’t end up getting a chance, though. Malfoy didn’t arrive until just as the bell rang to start class, and soon after, something even more unexpected distracted them all - the most chaotic Potions class that the third years had ever experienced, or probably ever would experience.

The students were all milling about, gathering potion ingredients and setting up their cauldrons as usual, when from the storage cabinets that lined one wall of the classroom there came a sudden hideous, wailing scream, so loud that Harry could barely hear his own thoughts.

He clapped his hands over his ears in an attempt to deafen himself and looked wildly around for the scream’s source, many of the other startled students doing the same. There, by the open cabinet - Seamus, who must have opened it to get potion supplies, had come face to face with a skeletal, green-tinged woman… no, not a woman, a banshee, whose gaping mouth was contorted in an endless, unearthly shriek!

Seamus turned white and stumbled backward in terror while the other students’ cries of fright joined the horrible scream of the banshee in a ghastly chorus. Those nearest the cabinet started running for the door.

Neville, caught in a corner with no escape, was forced to dash past the banshee as he made a break for it. Clumsy as ever, he tripped over a fallen cauldron and sprawled on the floor right at the banshee’s feet. Only, there was no more banshee, and no more hideous shriek - the face of the wailing spirit flickered and morphed into the angry glower of Professor Snape, who looked down in disgust at poor Neville.

Shock turned to utter confusion. The students’ heads swiveled between this new Snape and the one who had been teaching the class, both wearing matching scowls.

“It’s a boggart!” Hermione was the first to shout. She was proved correct not a moment later when Ron stepped hesitantly forward to help Neville to his feet and the fake Snape grew long, spindly legs, transforming gruesomely into a giant spider.

“I would expect third years to know how to dispatch a boggart more quickly,” the real Snape said with a sneer while the spider lunged, nearly sinking its fangs into Crabbe before transforming once more, taking the shape of a manticore.

Harry noticed that despite Snape’s dismissive words, the potions master seemed tense. He remained at the far side of the classroom, carefully keeping a barrier of students between himself and the boggart at all times, even as he continued taunting them - “Obviously, Professor Lupin hasn’t managed to get anything through your thick skulls!”

Merely the mention of Professor Lupin seemed enough to remind the students that they had been taught the Boggart-Banishing Spell earlier that year, though. The chaos in the classroom became an eager energy as they lined up to take the boggart down.

Crabbe, apparently having more imagination - and a dirtier mind - than Harry ever thought he possessed, shouted “riddikulus!” and caused the manticore’s scorpion-like tail to turn into a giant knob, raising a shocked laugh from everyone watching. Many of the students who followed him gleefully took inspiration from his crude sense of humor, and the boggart was forced into a variety of phallic shapes, much to Snape’s dismay. The class was filled with scandalized laughter until Parvati was finally able to banish the boggart; when it approached her in mummy form, she caused its bandaging to unravel and reveal its wrinkled, naked body and shriveled prick, earning the loudest laugh yet.

“Silence! Get back to your potions immediately!” Snape shouted once the boggart had vanished. The students hardly heard him over their excited babbling.

Harry looked around for Malfoy, finding him far from the action, next to the door to Snape’s office. When their eyes met, Harry grinned and made a rude jerking gesture, immediately setting them both off laughing again. It didn’t even matter that it cost Harry ten house points from Snape - he was so pleased with himself for making Malfoy smile like that. He realized then just how much he had missed spending time with Malfoy in the past few days.

Eventually Snape’s threats became extreme enough that the class was forced to settle down and work quietly on their brewing assignment. As they huddled over their cauldron together, Malfoy leaned close, keeping their conversation private.

“It’s good to see you, Scarhead. Sorry I’ve been so distracted this week,” he murmured into Harry’s ear, sending a strange flutter through Harry’s body.

“That’s alright,” Harry whispered, content to have Malfoy’s attention back now. He was already thinking about the things they could do together if they secretly met up that weekend. “Have you finished all the work you needed to do? Could I see you tomorrow?”

Malfoy sighed, and Harry felt the breath against his skin. “I’m very close now. Just one last thing to take care of, and then I’m all yours, Potter.”

☆ ☆ ☆

It didn’t take long after Draco whistled into the trees before the shaggy black dog came bounding out of the depths of the forest. He must have been keeping a watch, perhaps getting impatient after a week of waiting. He seemed pleased enough to see Draco now, though, a crooked grin lighting up his cadaverous face once he’d resumed his human form.

“Is that bacon I smelled in your pack?” Black barked excitedly, not bothering with a greeting.

“I brought breakfast.” Draco pulled from his pack the two wrapped parcels of food that he had taken from the Great Hall, careful not to mix them up. He handed one over.

“Good lad. I haven’t had bacon since… well. Cheers!” Black, clearly starving, sat immediately on the forest floor and tucked in.

Draco took his time with his own breakfast, watching Black shovel down nearly the whole fry up before he’d even finished his eggs. Black wasn’t wasting time on niceties like cutlery. Just as well - Draco wanted to get this over with.

Around the time Black polished off his second sausage, Draco saw the change in his eyes. His gaze became unfocused, and shortly after his whole face went slack as his hands fell to his sides, the remnants of his meal abandoned.

It was what Draco had been waiting for.

The Veritaserum had not been easy to procure. To brew it would have taken a full lunar phase, and skills far more advanced than Draco’s, so pilfering a few drops from Snape’s own supply had been the only viable option. His head of house had long had a habit of threatening to use it on Slytherins who tried to deceive him, and Draco had sleuthed out exactly where the small vial of truth potion was kept in Snape’s office. Finding the boggart and relocating it into the dungeons to distract Snape had been the hardest part - it had taken long enough that it had put Draco seriously behind on all of his coursework - but Snape’s security had been no joke, either.

“Alright, Black. Let’s see whether you have anything new to say today.” Draco set his own breakfast aside, all his attention on the interrogation. He had put hours into planning out all of his questions the night before, and he would only have a few minutes to ask them. “Why did you break out of Azkaban?”

Black’s croaky voice came out flat and expressionless. “To protect Harry.”

That matched what Black had told him previously. So far, so good. Draco was about to ask his next question when -

“And to murder Peter,” Black muttered, compelled by the potion to tell the full truth. “To watch him die, to see his body as lifeless as theirs were… To get him away from their son… To take everything from him.”

Unnerved by such intense words delivered in Black’s drugged, flattened voice, it took Draco a moment to remember what he’d planned to ask next. It was clear now that Black had been playing down his desperation for revenge in order to win Draco over with the desire to protect Potter. Black wanted the rat - allegedly, Peter Pettigrew - to suffer. But Draco had very little time to digest that, he reminded himself. Time was ticking down until the potion would wear off.

He cleared his throat and started rapidly firing off the list of questions he’d prepared. “Were you ever loyal to the Dark Lord or a traitor to the Potters?”

“No. It was always Peter,” Black said in the same lifeless tone.

“Is Peter Pettigrew currently a threat to Harry Potter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain that Weasley’s rat is Peter Pettigrew?”

“Yes.”

“Other than Pettigrew, do you plan to harm anyone in the castle, including me? Do you plan to reveal my knowledge of your whereabouts or involvement in your scheme to anyone?”

“I only want to harm Peter. I have no plan beyond that.”

Draco spared a second to scoff. Breaking out of Azkaban with no plan but to improvise - he could see why Black was a Gryffindor.

He was nearing the end of his list, but after all of Black’s worrying statements about taking revenge on Pettigrew, Draco felt he needed to ask a question he hadn’t planned. “If your desire to… neutralize Pettigrew comes at the cost of Potter’s safety, which will you choose?”

Black’s face began to twitch. The potion would soon wear off. Draco stared at him intently, silently urging him to answer before it did.

“I…” Black’s answer was delayed. Draco started to worry that Black himself didn’t know the truth, but finally the words came, tone still as flat as before. “I will choose Harry. Harry’s happiness and safety is all that matters.”

Black’s face started twitching even more, his eyes rapidly fluttering as his senses began to come back to him. “The spell you used on me - !” Draco blurted, frantically trying to fit in one last question. “What’s the counterspell? How do I reverse it?”

But it was too late. With a heaving shake, Black came back to full consciousness.

Draco stood up swiftly before Black could move, sure that the wizard would be furious. He raised his wand defensively, preparing himself in case Black decided to seek revenge for being dosed with the potion. The incantation for a curse to immobilize attackers waited at the tip of his tongue.

Black stared him down and a moment passed in tense silence, the wind in the trees the only sound. Then the bedraggled wizard raised a hand and pointed at him with one bony finger.

“There is no counterspell,” he croaked. “Now, are you going to eat that?”

“What?!” Draco asked incredulously.

“Your breakfast." Belatedly, Draco realized that Black was pointing at the food, not Draco himself. "Are you going to eat it? What’s left of mine’s fallen in the mud. That’s not necessarily a deal breaker, but then there’s the fact that it’s drugged.” Black spoke dryly, already reaching for Draco’s forgotten parcel of food, and Draco swore that beneath all the dirt, he saw the man smirk.

He lowered his wand cautiously, hovering on his feet while Black sat below him and tucked greedily into his second helping of breakfast, acting as if the Veritaserum was of no consequence. “You’re not angry?” Draco asked warily, a bit peeved by Black’s nonchalance. “I just tricked you into taking truth potion.”

Black replied around a mouthful of food. “Do you know how many times I wished that someone would care enough about the truth that they’d use Veritaserum on me?”

Draco raised a brow. Very slowly, he sat back down.

“Besides,” Black continued between bites, “It’s not every third year who could get their hands on that stuff. Your talent bodes well for our mission… presuming you still intend to be involved?”

There was a vulnerable note in the wizard’s question that was completely at odds with his gruff voice. Draco hesitated. Black was planning a murder - that was impossible to ignore. Anyone involved might end up with blood on their hands. Yet the Veritaserum had also proven that Potter was in mortal danger. Black’s silencing spell prevented Draco from seeking help elsewhere, and somehow the threat had to be eliminated. Black alone had, in Draco’s estimation, little chance of success.

Potter’s life might depend on Draco doing what had to be done.

“I don’t see how you’ll get the job done without me,” Draco said at last. “Since you have no plan and no idea where Pettigrew is hiding. Luckily for you, I’ve already found out his precise location.”

Black didn’t bother to conceal his relief. He reached out to grip Draco by the shoulder, heedless of the way Draco flinched at the touch of Black’s grimy hand on his pristine robes. “Is he in Gryffindor Tower?”

“Yes. The Gryffindors think that the rat’s developed a fear of cats, on account of how he spends all his time hiding in Ron Weasley’s bed.”

Relief giving way to frustration, Black cursed, letting go of Draco to tug at his long matted hair. “Fucking coward! He knows it will be next to impossible for me to reach him there unseen.”

“But he doesn’t know you’ll have help,” Draco said grimly, his calm words cutting through Black’s rage. In for a knut, in for a galleon - there was no going back now. Potter was depending on him.

“I’ll start looking into ways to get into the tower. We’ll figure out how to make sure Pettigrew never sees us coming.”

Chapter 17

Notes:

It's been a year and five months exactly but I have finally finished this chapter. Never give up, never surrender, never be afraid to take a long break when you really need one :) Anyway, I'm still alive and I hope my readers are too. Sound off in the comments if you're still around!

Damned scheming Slytherins. They had snuck up on Harry so easily, once again cornering him while he was alone. Hermione never should have sent him off into the bowels of the library stacks without her.

“Harry!” Blaise greeted him in a jaunty whisper-yell, smiling like a shark. Pansy slouched beside Blaise, studying her nails.

“Er, hullo,” Harry said, speaking quietly in case Madam Pince was lurking nearby. “If you’re looking for Malfoy, I haven’t seen him since Potions yesterday -”

“Not at all,” Pansy interrupted in a low, bored voice, finally looking up at him. “We crossed paths with him on his way to the common room only moments ago. At long last, he’s finished his little project. And just in time for tonight - that’s why we’re here.”

“Today’s my birthday,” Blaise beamed.

“Oh.” Harry wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything. “Well… happy birthday, then.”

“Thanks very much! So, you’ll come to the party?”

“Wait, what?!”

They both looked at him as if he were being deliberately slow. “Tonight,” Pansy said flatly. “Blaise’s birthday party. In the dungeons.”

Harry would have thought he was being pranked, if it weren’t so obvious that Pansy wanted him to say no. Blaise, on the other hand, tried to persuade him. “It’ll be a small, select crowd,” he assured Harry. “Very discreet. No one that would make trouble or go blabbing to the school about having a Gryffindor around.”

Pansy muttered something under her breath about how Harry should feel honored just to be invited. Blaise ignored her, adding with a wink, “Draco will be pleased to see you there.”

Hang on - had Malfoy told them to invite Harry to the party?

Harry was dying to ask, but not here in the hushed library, where anyone might overhear them from within the maze of shelves. He had to end the conversation before someone happened across them, or Hermione decided he couldn’t handle finding his own books after all.

It would be risky to go to a party in the dungeons. No matter what assurances Blaise made about discretion, gossip about Harry Potter had a tendency to spread like wildfire. This could be some Slytherin plot.

If Malfoy had finally finished his project, though, there was no doubt that Harry wanted to see him. Maybe Malfoy wanted to see him tonight as well? Besides, Blaise at least seemed friendly, and none of the third-year Slytherins had been nasty to Harry or his friends ever since Malfoy had stopped egging them on.

Maybe the party could actually be… fun?

“Alright, yeah, I’ll drop by,” Harry blurted before he could overthink it. “What time does it start?”

“Excellent! We’ll be in dungeon four at half seven,” Blaise answered, further lowering his voice. He smiled warmly, dark eyes shining with mischief. “I’m sure I don’t have to ask, but don’t tell anyone else, if you please. We wouldn’t want word of the party reaching any of the professors.”

Harry nodded. Who would he tell about a Slytherin party, anyway? Blaise seemed to have already guessed that Harry didn’t want any of the Gryffindors to know he was going.

With a whispered “see you later,” Blaise and Pansy slipped off into the stacks together, slinking in the direction of the library entrance. Harry watched them go, wondering nervously about what a party hosted by those two would be like. He’d have to stay close to Malfoy, for safety.

Winding his way through the bookshelves in the opposite direction, he quickly returned to the table where he’d left his bag with his friends. He was impatient to check the enchanted parchment for messages, hoping that Malfoy might have sent word about the unexpected invitation.

“Did you find Charms of Defense and Deterrence?” Hermione asked, startling Ron out of a doze, as Harry walked up and pulled out his chair. He realized his hands were empty of books.

“Oh, er, I - didn’t see it,” Harry hedged. “Maybe someone else checked it out.”

Hermione frowned. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to make due with The Standard Book of Spells. There’s a short section on applying charmwork to defense in chapter twenty-eight…”

Harry rummaged through his bag, hoping Hermione was too busy thinking about whatever was covered in chapter twenty-eight to notice him pulling out the parchment. Sure enough, there was a message from Malfoy waiting for him.

”Finally finished my Ancient Runes assignment. I’m about to head to the pitch for Quidditch practice, but I hope we can catch up tonight?”

Tonight - he must mean at his friends’ party! Harry propped up his textbook on the table and ducked behind it, hiding his grin as he wrote back. ”Brilliant, I’ll talk to you soon then.”

He tried to concentrate on reading the chapter Hermione had referenced for a few minutes, but it was no use. His head was whirling with a million ideas about what lay in store that evening. He was chuffed that Malfoy had gotten his friends to extend an invitation, but… would things be different with Malfoy, when other people were around? Not just any other people, but Malfoy’s Slytherin housemates…

Glancing at Ron and Hermione guiltily, he wondered whether he was being a bad friend to them by agreeing to spend time with Slytherins. They had a general enmity with everyone in their rival house, but perhaps it was really only Malfoy that they truly hated. Unlike Harry, though, Ron and Hermione hadn’t seen how much Malfoy had changed. Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about spending time with that particular Slytherin. And if anyone else at the party had rubbish to say about Harry’s friends, it would be best if Harry was there to stand up for them, he reasoned.

Ron shuffled his parchment around in boredom, pulling Harry from his thoughts, and he realized he hadn’t taken in a word of his textbook while he’d been sitting there. In fact, he’d read the same paragraph about a dozen times. He huffed in frustration, and Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t look up from her own notes.

Harry gave reading one more try, for her sake. But it was pointless. He couldn’t think of anything besides the party. He might as well start getting ready for it - he just needed to find a reasonable excuse to get away from the library.

“I’m getting hungry,” he said tentatively. “Think I’ll head down for an early dinner.”

“I’ll come too!” Ron eagerly jumped in, and really, Harry should have expected that. “I can’t take any more reading, my head’ll explode.”

Ron had already slammed his textbook shut and thrown half his belongings in his bag before Harry had any time to think of an excuse as to why he had to go alone. It would have been highly suspicious if Harry suggested that Ron stay.

“But we’ve only just begun the assignment!” Hermione objected when Harry started packing his books as well.

“It’s Saturday, Hermione. There’s still plenty of time,” Harry sighed, knowing from experience that it wouldn’t convince her. At least he could be sure Hermione wouldn’t rush to follow him.

“So you say now. Fine, go. I want to stay here and work. I’m warning you both, if either of you asks to copy mine the night before the assignment is due, I’ll hex you.”

Ron smirked. “Who, us? Never!”

Harry smiled at her apologetically and shuffled off after Ron. He wasn’t worried about Hermione - she’d probably enjoy her time in the library more without them there to disturb her concentration. Ron, however, would be harder to distract.

They were among the first to arrive for dinner, but since Ron refused to be hurried off without a third helping, and he gave Harry a funny look when he tried to turn down treacle tart, the Great Hall was quite full by the time they finished eating. It was getting late. The party would start in only a little over an hour, and Harry was still struggling to find an excuse to go his own way that wouldn’t leave Ron suspicious.

When Ron followed him back up to the common room, Harry really started to worry about the time. He ended up playing (and losing, badly) a full game of wizard’s chess by the common room fire before he was able to convince Seamus and Dean to challenge Ron in his place. Fortunately, they provided enough of a distraction for Harry to finally slip upstairs to the dorms alone.

He carefully shut the door behind him, hoping no one else would wander in, then anxiously set upon his trunk, rummaging through the clothing inside. What were you supposed to wear to a Slytherin party? Harry mainly had school robes and Dudley’s castoffs to choose from. He’d never hated Dudley’s baggy old clothes more.

A small bit of emerald caught his eye, though, and from under a pile of school robes he unearthed an old Weasley jumper. It had grown a bit tight since he’d received it at Christmas in first year, but it was clean and the green seemed appropriate, so he settled for throwing it on.

It was nearing half seven - he was already going to be late by the time he made it down to the dungeons - but he still spared a few hurried moments to fix his hair with some Sleekeazy's. Not that there was anyone at the party he wanted to impress; it was just because he didn’t want to give the Slytherins a reason to sneer at him, he told himself.

Out of time and in a rush, he at last bounded down the stairs toward the portrait hole. Ron was laughing gleefully at Seamus and Dean, who had teamed up to try to beat him at chess but were currently watching his knight pummel their queen. None of them noticed Harry passing through the common room on his way out.

☆ ☆ ☆

“I don’t know why you’ve been acting so coldly towards Blaise this year and I don’t care one bit,” Pansy snapped, a firm grip around Draco’s wrist tugging him through the corridor. “You cannot miss his birthday party.”

“Fine, but I’m only staying for a few minutes -”

“Draco!”

“I have other plans!”

“Such as?”

He couldn’t very well admit that he was itching to spend the evening writing to Potter, or even catching up in person if Potter was available. She had no idea that he and Potter were on speaking terms, let alone that seeing Potter was all he had been looking forward to that week.

“I’m starving,” he complained instead, which wasn’t even a falsehood. Pansy had waylaid him on his way from the Quidditch locker room to the Great Hall. “I need to go eat before dinner ends.”

“We’re not savages, darling. There’s food at the party.”

She hauled Draco into dungeon four, settling the matter. He was left to grumble to himself as Pansy exuberantly greeted those who had already arrived. It was a small gathering - mostly third year Slytherins, although Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw who sometimes partnered with Blaise in Transfiguration, was laughing with Daphne over by the record player.

Usually, Draco would have been involved in his friend’s plans, or at least been consulted, but he had forgotten all about Blaise’s birthday this year in his preoccupation with Black. He hadn’t spent much time around his housemates at all in the past week. Then, when Pansy had tracked him down and told him that he was expected at the party, he’d tried to get out of it.

Ever since their argument by the greenhouses, interactions with Blaise had been awkward and uncomfortable, when they weren’t simply ignoring each other’s existence. Draco was beginning to think they might never patch things up. It was much easier to avoid Blaise forever than to be reminded of the accusations he’d made.

So, with a mind to avoid Blaise as long as possible, Draco headed towards Greg and Vince, aiming to hide behind their wide frames as they raided the snack table. Blaise seemed to have different ideas, though. He’d already spotted Draco, and made to intercept him immediately.

“I’m glad you came,” Blaise said, stepping into Draco’s path before he had a chance to veer away.

Draco glared at him doubtfully. “Are you? I wasn’t sure I should, but Pansy convinced me. Happy birthday, I suppose.”

“Listen…” Blaise glanced around to make sure no one was paying them any mind before continuing. “I for one have had quite enough of our little spat. If you say my assumptions were incorrect, then I accept that. Will you forgive me? Think of it as my birthday gift, if you like.”

Draco was rendered speechless by his surprise. Blaise had always challenged him more than any of their other friends. For him to offer such an easy reconciliation, readily accepting the blame for their fight with no need to rehash the accusations that had started it all - it was almost too good to be true. These weeks of not speaking to one another must have been painful for Blaise as well, to prompt this apology. Perhaps Blaise had even come to realize how terribly wrong he was about Draco’s association with Potter. Could their friendship actually go back to the way it had been as easily as that?

Draco fought to make his face neutral. It wouldn’t do to show Blaise, who was still awaiting his reply, how much that prospect meant to him.

“I suppose I could forgive you, for your birthday…” he said slowly, trying to sound indifferent as he pretended to think it over. “Let’s let bygones be bygones - and never speak of it again.”

Blaise smiled at him for the first time in a long time. “Thank you, Draco. That’s very gracious of you.”

He smiled back, relieved. Maybe it really could be that easy.

“Not to mention, it will certainly make things less awkward for my special guest,” Blaise continued, eyes sparkling. “Ah, speak of the devil! Excuse me, I’d like to greet him personally.”

Blaise brushed past Draco, heading towards the door, and Draco looked around in confusion. A strange tension had come over the party that he hadn’t noticed while they had been speaking. Everyone around the room had gone quiet and was staring at the entrance to the dungeon.

He turned, a deep unease in his stomach as his gaze followed Blaise to the source of the disturbance. What he saw made no sense at all.

“Potter?!”

It undoubtedly was Potter, although he looked a bit - different - with his tamed hair and his tightly fitted emerald jumper. And he was grinning like he was happy to be there, talking to Blaise, who was ushering him inside.

“What in the everliving -”

“I told you, you could not miss this,” Pansy said snidely, appearing at Draco’s side.

“Pansy!” He hissed her name as if it were a curse.

She regarded him haughtily. “If only you hadn’t kept disappearing all week, you might have been better informed about the guest list. Personally, I wasn’t sure why Blaise wanted him around, but I have to admit now, he might be entertaining. He certainly looks good in green.”

With a cruel smile, she left his side to walk towards Potter, a sway in her hips that hadn’t been there before.

Draco stayed rooted to the spot, even as the chatter of the party started up again around him. Looking at Potter, he abruptly felt anxious over the robes he was wearing, the lack of effort he’d put into his own hair after his post-Quidditch shower. If his legs would have moved, he might have tried to make a run for it.

But Potter met his eyes over Pansy’s shoulder as she spoke to him and he was suddenly stepping past her, heading straight for Draco.

“Hullo, Malfoy,” Potter said, a bit timidly. “Sorry I’m late. I thought I’d come to the wrong place, at first - you can’t even tell there’s a party in here from the corridor.”

“That would be the silencing charms,” Draco heard himself say. He felt like he had left his body. He was floating somewhere above the party, paralyzed by the realization that all his housemates could see him and Potter chatting. His mouth ran on without him. “Professor Snape doesn’t tolerate any excess noise in the dungeons. He grants us a lot of freedom as long as we don’t disturb him.”

“Ah. Well, I’m glad I found it. I was starting to worry I’d misheard Blaise, or -”

“Blaise?” Since when had he and Potter been on first-name terms?!

This must have been why Blaise was so keen to end their fighting. He had found an even more effective way to torment Draco.

“Yeah, he and Pansy found me in the library to tell me about the party. I thought - er - did you ask them to invite me?”

“No! Those overstepping twats!”

Draco had half a mind to storm over to his supposed friends and demand just what they thought they were playing at - but at his outburst, Potter’s face had fallen. The easy grin he’d had when he walked in had evaporated. It hit Draco, then…

Potter had thought that Draco had invited him to a party, a party full of Slytherins, and he had come. He had actually come.

Immediately, Draco backtracked. “But it’s - I mean - I am glad to see you. I didn’t expect it to be here! I have been looking forward to catching up, though, I promise. I was just a little shocked. That you and Blaise have been - chatting - without me. You can’t trust him, you know. What exactly did he tell you?”

“About the party?” Potter asked warily, shifting awkwardly on his feet. Draco hadn’t been concerned over what was said about the blasted party at all, but Potter carried on. “Only that it was his birthday, and that you’d be here. I… might have jumped to some conclusions. Sorry. I just thought that he and Pansy would have spoken with you about me, after the way they interrogated me the other day.”

“They did what?!”

Draco glared at Blaise, who was pretending not to watch him and Potter from the other side of the dungeon. Blaise’s grin only widened.

“I didn’t tell them anything, honestly! They already seemed to know about us talking and meeting up,” Potter said stubbornly. Bloody hell, did he think Draco was angry at him? “Look, I’ll go, that’s probably better for everyone -”

“No, Potter, I’m sorry. Please - stay.” Draco took a deep breath, trying his best to ignore his friends’ treachery and the intrusive glances being directed their way from around the room. Letting it out with a sigh, he said, “I’d rather you were here. All of my other friends are meddlesome wankers.”

Potter looked taken aback, and Draco realized too late the words he had used. “Your other…? Does that mean that we’re friends, then?”

Cold panic shot through Draco’s veins as he recalled the old, familiar rejection. Yet, he couldn’t help but hope things might go differently this time.

“Up to you, Potter,” he said stiffly. “It always has been.”

Just like that, the grin was back on Potter’s face. “Yeah, alright. Friends.”

Flooded with relief, Draco had the strongest urge to demand that Potter shake his hand to seal it. Wary not to remind Potter too much of first year, though, he managed to rein the feeling back and simply returned Potter’s smile.

“I -”

“We could -”

They both spoke at the same time, and immediately stopped to let the other proceed. In the awkward pause, Draco blushed furiously.

Before either of them could finish what they had been about to say, however, Greg and Vince, having finally torn themselves away from the snacks, arrived to stand at Draco’s side.

“Alright, Draco?” Greg asked as Vince cracked his knuckles, staring menacingly at Potter. Merlin help them, they had absolutely no ability to read the room.

“Yes, everything is fine, thank you,” he said pointedly, trying to communicate with his eyes that the two of them should stand down. “Potter and I were just agreeing that he should stay and enjoy the party.”

“Er - really?” Greg relaxed a bit, but Vince still seemed to be catching up, the scowl frozen comically on his face.

“It turns out Potter isn’t really so horrible as I’ve given him credit for over the years,” Draco said with a smirk. Potter appeared to be holding back laughter. “I’ve gotten to know him better. Perhaps you two ought to do the same.”

Once his housemates were certain that there would be no altercation between Draco and Potter, the small, curious crowd had started to gather around them. “I wouldn’t mind knowing him better,” Daphne said somewhere nearby, and all the girls tittered.

Blaise swooped in, the filthy hypocrite, saying, “Give him some space, you boors,” only to maneuver himself into position right at Potter’s side. Draco narrowed his eyes as Blaise asked, “Harry, have you had Twiglets before?” and smoothly guided Potter away to the snack table.

It turned out that Potter was quite an expert about the exotic muggle foods that Tracey’s cousins had supplied. Blaise and the few others who had followed them quizzed him about muggle dietary habits, and Potter enthusiastically tried to describe something called a ‘tesco express.’ Silently, Draco tried to listen in, but his thoughts kept returning to the look on Potter’s face when he’d said ‘friends’, so decisively, and the memory turned over and over in his mind.

“I’m probably explaining it all wrong,” Potter said, with more patience than Draco would have thought he possessed, the third time he was asked how the muggles could even cook food without magic or elves. “You should sign up for Muggle Studies, if you’re interested.”

“And get disowned by my parents for it?” Theo scoffed. “No thanks.”

Potter frowned, and Draco could tell he was barely holding back a remark along the lines of where Theo’s parents could shove it. Draco jumped in quickly before he exploded.

“I’ve never eaten any of these, Potter. Which one is the best?”

“Oh, er -” Potter blinked, looking around at the muggle snack selection. As hoped, the tension was defused. “Well, you like sweet things, right?”

Had he ever mentioned that to Potter? The other boy seemed confident though, not waiting for confirmation.

“Try these.” He held out a violently colorful package that proclaimed ‘JAMMIE DODGERS!’ in bright yellow letters, watching Draco expectantly. Everyone around the table stared back and forth between them. Draco took the package and opened it gingerly, pulling out a muggle biscuit and inspecting it thoroughly before taking a small bite.

He hummed in approval at the sweet raspberry flavor, earning another smile from Potter.

“Really, Draco?” Tracey sneered bitterly. “Last time, you said muggle snacks didn’t belong at Hogwarts. You couldn’t possibly have been wrong, could you?”

Draco stalled as he chewed, frantically trying to think of a comeback that wouldn’t anger Potter, but he was ultimately spared the trouble when Pansy appeared at Potter’s side and pulled his attention away.

“You weren’t at our last party, Harry, so I’ll have to fill you in,” she said. She pressed close to him as if sharing a secret, until she was practically hanging off of Potter’s arm.

Draco gave her a warning look. “Pansy -”

She smiled flirtatiously at Potter. “Don’t mind Draco - he’s worried I’ll gossip about the kiss we shared, but a lady never tells.”

“Kiss…?” Potter asked, turning back to Draco with wide eyes. “I didn’t realize you two were dating.”

“Aren’t you adorable,” Pansy smirked at the same time Draco insisted with a scowl, “We’re not!”

“I suppose our parents intend for us to marry someday,” she continued, making sure she had Potter’s undivided attention, “but until then, I don’t see the harm in having fun with whoever I want.”

It was so disgustingly transparent. There was no way Potter couldn’t see she was coming on to him. Sure, Potter looked better than ever now he’d put in an effort with his hair and tight green jumper, but Pansy hardly even knew him - the sudden interest, calling him by his given name, it all had to be some attempt to get back at Draco for that disaster of a kiss! Draco’s teeth clenched and he gave Pansy a black look.

Potter, apparently lost for words, said nothing. Pansy shamelessly carried on the conversation anyway.

“How about you, darling, are you dating anyone? Granger, perhaps?”

“Hermione? No!” Potter yelped, pulling a face of genuine aversion. “She’s my best friend. She’s like my sister!”

His reaction surprised Draco. He’d assumed, with the amount of time Potter spent ‘studying’ with Granger, and the way she followed him everywhere, that there must have been more to it. He would have bet his broom on it. It was a massive relief to hear that Potter wasn’t interested in her romantically. Merely because Potter could do better, and if he had started dating someone who hated Draco, it might have caused awkwardness in their new friendship - no other reason.

But his momentary sense of relief faded at once when Pansy said, “So you’re available, then,” and Potter didn’t protest. He had to get Potter away from the spiteful bint before she sank her claws into him.

“Parkinson!” He snapped, grabbing her by the arm. “I need a word with you.”

Pansy looked all too happy to let him lead her away.

“Quit the games,” Draco demanded once they were out of earshot, the loud party music keeping others from eavesdropping. “This is about that kiss, isn’t it? If you have a problem with me, you’ll only make a mess by dragging Potter into it, Pans.”

She smiled devilishly. “Why, Draco? Are you jealous?”

Jealous? He couldn’t possibly be… not now, not when he had just gotten what he’d always wanted, to have Potter as his friend. There was no denying, though, that Potter using his housemates’ given names, and not outright rejecting Pansy’s outrageous advances, had filled Draco with a simmering rage. He didn’t understand it.

Pansy watched him trying to sort out his thoughts and smirked. “You’ve always gone mad with jealousy when Potter is offered something you wanted. Glad to see that hasn’t changed. There’s a simple solution, you know - ask me to be your girlfriend.”

Draco nearly snorted with laughter when he realized Pansy thought that he was jealous over her affections.

It was the wrong reaction, though - Pansy’s expression went from devilish to outright murderous. She huffed and stormed out, no doubt already thinking of all the ways she would hex or poison him. He’d have to keep a close eye on his tea at breakfast tomorrow.

He couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about the situation, despite her furious exit; Potter had needed to be rescued from her manipulations. Now that Draco had accepted that Potter was actually here, at a party with Draco’s friends, he felt it was imperative that Potter be shown a good time.

“Sorry about that,” he said, positioning himself back at Potter’s side. “Any other snack recommendations? I quite liked the raspberry biscuit.”

ϟ ϟ ϟ

Harry was relieved when Malfoy didn’t leave the party with Pansy, who had taken off from the dungeon in a hurry. He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on between the two Slytherins, but he hadn’t liked the idea that Malfoy was dating someone and he hadn’t known. They were friends now - officially, and how insane was that! - and friends were supposed to know that kind of thing about one another.

Plus, he needed Malfoy to help him navigate socializing with the Slytherins.

As soon as Malfoy had stepped aside with Pansy, Nott, whose name Harry had barely remembered, struck up a conversation about Divination, a class that Harry hadn’t realized he shared with any Slytherin students. Harry didn’t know Nott well enough to read whether he was genuinely curious about Trelawney’s predictions of Harry’s death, or whether he was taking the piss. Nott stayed straight-faced even as he asked if Harry saw any ‘dark portents’ in the cup of pumpkin juice he was holding.

Fortunately, Malfoy returned just as Harry started giving his pumpkin juice a skeptical look. “Quit boring Potter with your jokes, Theo,” Malfoy laughed. “Can’t you see how hard he’s trying not to tell you to bugger off? It’s a miracle of self-restraint.”

Nott’s face transformed into a fiendish grin. “Just fucking with you, Potter. I reckon you’re as sick of Trelawney’s dramatics as the rest of us.”

Harry learned that there were several well-respected seers in the Nott family tree, and that Theo’s parents had encouraged him to take Divination in case he had inherited the gift, but he had no interest in it. In turn, Harry told him and Malfoy about how he’d been completing assignments by making up preposterously detailed images that he’d supposedly seen in his tea dregs, curious just how much of it Trelawney would swallow as long as it indicated his future misfortune. Nott found the idea hilarious and made him promise to share a copy of the next assignment he turned in.

It was surprising when Crabbe and Goyle joined the conversation - not because it was unusual to see them flanking Malfoy, but because they actually had something to say.

“We tried the same sort of thing in Ancient Runes,” Goyle told Harry as Crabbe nodded. “Making stuff up, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Crabbe added, “We only took the class ‘cause Draco said that runes would be… er, what did you call ‘em?”

“Subjective. Ambiguous. Nuanced. Open to interpretation depending on historical context,” Malfoy said with relish, and it hit Harry that perhaps Malfoy was a secret nerd. “They’re fascinating, really, because using runes in magic can be as much about subtext as literal meaning.”

“Right, that,” Crabbe agreed. “Runes can mean whatever you want. But when we were translating some old stone, we wrote down loads about rocks and stuff, and the professor didn’t like it. Apparently, the stone was supposed to be a story about some old dead warrior.”

“I guess the professor needs to learn to be more open to interpretation,” Harry deadpanned.

“You said it. Hey, you wanna see who can fit the most chocolate frogs in their mouth?”

Malfoy shook his head subtly at Harry from behind Goyle’s shoulder. “Er, maybe I’ll just watch you two try,” Harry replied.

They shrugged and started unboxing frogs. Harry pulled Malfoy aside.

“This can’t be real,” he said under his breath, leaning close so that only Malfoy would hear. “I’ve never heard Crabbe and Goyle say so many words in my life!”

Malfoy chuckled. “They’re just a bit timid around the other houses. Sometimes I can’t get them to shut their big mouths. Good call, by the way, to not take them up on their eating competition. The rest of us refuse to participate anymore, so they’re always looking for new victims.”

The rest of the party had sensed a good show and gathered around Crabbe and Goyle. With no space to move amongst the sudden crowd, Harry stayed pressed against Malfoy’s side while they watched. It was impressive how many hopping, squirming frogs the pair was able to cram in at one time, if a bit gross. Those watching helped by catching any frogs that tried to jump away. It was a heated battle, and when Crabbe tapped out at fifteen, Harry cheered for Goyle with everyone else.

He couldn’t believe how normal it felt. Slytherin wasn’t a house full of dark wizards; it was a house full of teenagers. He hadn’t really seen that before. Maybe, one day, those teenagers would all become their horrible parents - but, glancing at Malfoy right next to him and seeing him smiling back, Harry thought, maybe not.

One thing was becoming clear. He had to find a way to tell Ron and Hermione about all this. Even if he managed to avoid any rumors spreading about his time in the dungeons, he wouldn’t be able to hide his changed outlook on the Slytherins, and he was sick of acting like he still hated Malfoy. Maybe, if Malfoy got to know Ron and Hermione like Harry was getting to know his friends, things could even be different between them. He hoped he could think of a way to convince them all to take that chance.

For now, though, Harry let himself enjoy the party. Malfoy filled him in on all the rules of pureblood party games, Blaise introduced him to some new wizarding music groups, and Millicent Bulstrode showed him several moving photographs of her cute cat pouncing on various magical toys. (The cat looked nothing like the monstrosity that the Polyjuice Potion had made of Hermione last year.)

It was, quite honestly, a great time. Harry hoped he’d be invited back for the next one. By the end of it, he didn’t even feel like he needed Malfoy’s guidance for socializing with the other Slytherins anymore - not that he strayed far at all from his new friend. Malfoy was full of witty insights that kept Harry laughing the whole night.

The party didn’t break up until just before curfew. It was only when he had to return to Gryffindor Tower that Harry reluctantly left Malfoy’s side.

Notes:

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