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Harry scowls; every turn he takes there’s another person with a swirling green badge on their robes and a sneer on their face. The exact last thing he needs right now is to have to deal with Draco Malfoy, but the world doesn’t seem to care, because that’s exactly who he runs into the second he steps out into the courtyard.

Malfoy is in his personal space within seconds, the vibrant colours of the badge stuck to his robes are taunting Harry as they shift from praising Cedric to insulting him. He scoffs, not wanting to deal with Malfoy’s childish cries for attention today.

His eyes must follow Harry’s, because Malfoy smirks, tapping a finger on the badge as he speaks. “Real clever bit of spellwork, don’t you think? Though, of course someone like you wouldn't know to appreciate genius when they saw it.” Malfoy’s cronies laugh along with him, people around the courtyard giggling and pointing at the pair of them.

Harry rubs his eyes, a headache blooming behind his temples. The whispers and the laughter reverberate around in his skull. He winces as he sways on his feet, slight nausea washing over him.

“Aw, little baby Potty, are you going to cry? It wouldn’t be the first time.” Malfoy looks conspiratorially between his friends, only egged on by their dutiful chuckles. “What was that one quote? ‘His eyes are glistening with the ghosts of his past’?”

Harry rolls said eyes, anger bubbling under his skin. “Real rich coming from you of all people, Malfoy. You’re the one who goes crying to daddy every time something doesn’t go your way. I think we both know who the real baby here is.”

Malfoy flounders, unable to resort to his usual threat of calling his father without playing into Harry’s words. Harry scoffs and turns away. If Malfoy can’t even come up with a valid retort, then this conversation isn't worth his time.

Harry ignores when Malfoy makes a sound of indignation from behind him. He also ignores the sound of footsteps growing closer as Malfoy inevitably won’t let the conversation die. He additionally would have ignored the presence of a hand on his shoulder, but he isn’t given the chance.

With a great bellow from Moody, who Harry hadn’t seen appear, and a jet of blueish-green light, the weight trying to pull him back is gone. Confused, Harry turns around, only to be met with a distinct lack of Malfoy, and a crowd of wide-eyed, slack-jawed stares.

The crowd quickly erupts into noise, laughter being a distinct component. The only explanation available is a small, pure white ferret on the ground. The ferret squeaks, shivering as it scans its surroundings.

“Are you alright?” Moody asks Harry, his voice a low growl.

Harry nods absently, tilting his head as Moody raises his wand and the ferret subsequently follows. “Sir…” he starts hesitantly. “Surely that can’t be–” he cuts himself off, biting his lip. Moody has never seemed the most stable; Harry wouldn’t put it past him to actually transfigure a student.

Moody growls insults under his breath, flicking his wand around sporadically. With a sort of vindictiveness, Moody watches as the ferret bounces along to his motions. Harry, however, blanches, an innate sense of horror filling his body as the boy turned ferret swings wildly around in the air. The sound of other students laughing rings dimly in his ears. This isn’t right. 

With a dull thud the ferret – Malfoy – hits the floor, only to soar back into the air again. Surely, someone is going to stop this. How does no one see an issue with it? This is like… animal cruelty or something. Although, does it count when the animal is a student? If anything, that makes it even worse.

If no one is going to do something, he has to. He may not like Malfoy but that’s no reason to accept what’s happening. He hesitates for a long moment. Is this a good idea? Maybe he shouldn’t talk back against Moody; the idea rings with consequences he isn’t sure he wants to face. Biting his lip, he flinches once again as the ferret twists particularly sharply in the air.

However, Harry isn’t often prone to making good decisions, so he raises his wand at his teacher.

“Turn him back,” says Harry, his voice firm. Moody looks up at him, both his magical eye and normal eye trained on his figure. He pauses, leaving Malfoy to float midair, still squeaking wildly as he flails in place.

Harry breathes out a small sigh of relief. Moody’s fake eye swirls in its socket, and he licks his lips. Repulsion roils in Harry’s gut. He feels strangely exposed under Moody’s gaze, but he can’t back down now. “You’re not going to cast at me, are you, boy?” Moody asks, his free hand twitching.

Harry keeps his wand steady, and Moody falters for a moment to take a pull from his flask. The distraction causes the professor to lower his wand, so Harry takes two large steps forward. Now, faced with Malfoy, he isn’t quite sure what to do.

The rational part of him is sounding every warning alarm known to man, but he’s already gotten this far. “Harry?” Someone whispers at him, but Harry doesn’t turn to address them. Instead, he awkwardly wraps an arm around the ferret, praying Malfoy isn’t stupid enough to bite him. He doesn’t budge from his fixed position but thankfully also doesn’t try to claw at his arms.

“Mister Potter! What on Earth are you doing?” McGonagall shouts, her voice accompanied by a series of thumps as a pile of books fall from her grasp. 

Her arrival fills Harry with equal parts relief and dread. For now, he pushes the tension threatening to rise within him down, focusing on the hope that McGonagall sees the problem in this situation too.

“Professor!” He shouts, his voice breathy and odd. “I didn’t– I wasn’t-” He’s not quite sure what to say to make the picture seem right. Him holding his teacher at wandpoint doesn’t look great for him, no matter his intentions, so he lowers it quickly.

Moody follows along, and the ferret, er, Malfoy is no longer held captive by his magic and falls fully into Harry’s arms, scrambling further into his hold. Harry doesn’t want to think about the implications as he clutches Malfoy to his chest.

“He was… This is Malfoy!” He says, holding the squirming ferret out for her to see. The moment she understands what he’s trying to say is clear on her face as it falls, her eyes moving slowly to bore into Moody’s instead of his.

“Alastor,” she whispers, scandalised. “Surely Dumbledore told you that we never use transfiguration on a student.”

Moody shrugs, nonchalant as he gazes back at her. “He mighta mentioned it,” he responds simply, seemingly unaffected by the simmering fire behind McGonagall’s collected posture.

You could hear a pin drop in the silence after his words, the crowd collectively holding their breaths. Harry bites the inside of his cheek, the sharp pain of his molars against the soft of his flesh chaining him to reality.

“We will be having a very long talk, Alastor,” McGonagall says finally. “And Potter?” She turns to look at him, her eyes narrowed and staring through to his soul. “Fifty points from Gryffindor.” She looks as if she is about to walk away, and Harry immensely grateful for getting off so easy, but then she speaks again. “There are better ways to handle an issue with a professor than pulling out your wand; I expect better from you. Detention.”

McGonagall lets out a harsh breath from her nose, pulling her wand out with a flourish. She points it as him, Malfoy still held outstretched and struggling in his arms. She pauses for a long moment, her wand pointed at him before she makes one last amendment. “Fifteen points back for your strong sense of morality. Not many would value fair play so much with history like the two of you have.”

And with that, she waves her wand, an incantation on her breath. Then suddenly, his hands are no longer full of a wiggly, fluffy ferret, and instead his arms are full of a tall, angry blond. He’s nearly knocked off his feet at the impact of Malfoy falling into him, and he bites his tongue with enough force to draw blood.

They’re both spluttering as McGonagall walks away with Moody in tow, Harry because of the distinct taste of iron in his mouth and the abundance of Slytherin in his arms, and Malfoy because of… everything about this, really.

“What the fuck!” Is the first coherent thing that Malfoy is able to string together in response, and all Harry can think is that the boy is extremely lucky both teachers are long gone by now.

He only realises Malfoy is trying to address him when the boy rears himself out of Harry’s grip like the contact is burning him, and maybe it is, because all the places where they were touching are tingling uncomfortably for Harry.

“What?” Harry says rather stupidly, his mouth feeling heavy and wrong.

Malfoy’s face isn’t red, but there is a definite soft pink dusting across the high of his cheekbones as he snarls at Harry, the sharpness of his eyes and the downturn of his lips contrasting with the image the subtle colouring provides. “No, what the fuck, Potter! What were you aiming for, what’s your goal here?”

Harry feels utterly at a loss for words. Did he not just stand up for Malfoy? Which is certainly a thing he never thought he would do. But he’s surely not dreaming, because when he runs his top teeth gently over his tongue he can still feel the dull throb from when he bit it.

“Are you daft, Potter?” Malfoy manages to snap his long, pale fingers in front of Harry’s face a few times before he pushes them away with a glare. “The fuck were you thinking?”

Despite Malfoy’s insistence for Harry’s input, the only thing that registers in his mind is a question of if Malfoy has always been so readily profane, and he just never realised. Someone calls his name again, but they’re not Malfoy, so he pays them no attention.

“Daft?” He repeats, almost incredulous. “I helped you!” And both he and Malfoy cringe at the words, as if the very notion of Harry doing something in favour of Malfoy is wrong. “Would you have rather me let him humiliate and disrespect you further? Because believe me, I’m starting to think it would have been a better idea.”

He almost entertains the idea, letting Moody swing Malfoy’s little ferrety body to and fro, laughing along with the crowd at his misfortune, but it feels wrong, somehow more so than the reality where he cradled the boy-turned-weasel to his chest. That thought, however, does cause him to snicker a little internally.

After taunting Ron for years about his name, he was turned into one himself. It’s almost cosmic, the irony of it all. He thinks about telling Ron and laughing later, but then he remembers they’re not on speaking terms and sobers immediately.

“Exactly!” Malfoy whispers through gritted teeth, glancing mistrustfully at the crowd around them as if someone is going to jump out at him and say this whole thing was one large, elaborate prank. “What is going on in your thick skull, Potter?”

“Obviously not much if I was stupid enough to think you were worth saving, Malfoy. Next time, I’ll save myself the trouble of lending you a hand. We’ll all get a good laugh, maybe we’d let Mrs. Norris have a go at you,” Harry snaps, harsh despite the sickening feeling his words ignite low in his stomach.

Malfoy clenches his fists tightly, looking as if he’d very much like to punch Harry. The soft colour on his cheeks looks nearly as sweet as the matching shade of his lips, or the hint of tongue that darts out to wet them.

Instead of lashing out and losing points for Slytherin, which he’d lucked out of doing, McGonagall likely thinking what he had went through was punishment enough, he turns, stomping off in the direction of the dungeons without a second glance back at Harry.

Harry himself turns the other way, finding his way to the great hall where Hermione will undoubtedly be waiting for him with an endless stream of questions, where Ron will be steadfastly refusing to meet his eye, and where he himself will avoid thinking about Malfoy for his own sanity.

There was nowhere he could go to escape the whispering, the lingering looks casted across rooms. Everyone has something to say about him, yet he couldn’t care less. Not even the common room is safe, with students huddled in groups and conversing in hushed tones, or Ron in their dorm glaring at him.

He’s tired of keeping track of who he has to tread on eggshells around and who thinks whatever about his status as a champion. Is it too much to ask for a little respite from the chaos? He didn’t want this no matter what people like Ron think.

A sourness curdles his stomach at the thought of Ron, who is still not talking to him. His strained relationship with his friends is the last thing he wants to think of and the exact reason why he’s made an effort to escape the commotion of Hogwarts even if just for a minute.

He’s been moderately successful, but one spot in particular has given him the best quiet he’s had in a long time. That’s where he sits now, his back to one of the many stone walls of some random corridor and a textbook in his lap that he doesn’t have the care to be pretending to read.

Biting mindlessly at what’s left of his nails, he pushes his glasses up with his other hand, rubbing at his eyes. He freezes when the sound of footfalls against the stone hallway make their way to his ears, hoping desperately that whoever it is won’t come this way, or will leave when they see it’s currently occupied.

But his luck has already been worn awfully thin, so he isn’t sure why he’s surprised when Malfoy rounds the corner, a textbook of his own in his hands. Harry almost thinks that maybe Malfoy had sought him out on purpose just to interrupt the scant bit of peace he’s had recently, but the unguarded look on the boy’s face before he notices Harry and the startled one that replaces it once he does tell Harry that he hadn’t known he was here.

When Malfoy opens his mouth, the quiet “Oh.” that leaves it is not what Harry was expecting to hear. Harry tilts his head at the boy who looks back down at his book with a disappointed frown.

Sighing, Harry starts grabbing his things, shoving them haphazardly into his bag. If Malfoy knows where he has been hiding then there’s no chance it'll be a safe space anymore. The Slytherin boy has always taken any chance he had to make Harry’s life a living hell, so why would this be any different?

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asks him, a frown on his face that’s jarringly different from the expression Harry has grown used to seeing on him. It’s a weekend and cold outside, and Malfoy is wearing a plush green jumper that leaves Harry feeling distinctly off-kilter, the way it rounds out his sharp features.

In combination, the effect is enough to offset his balance, so he pauses when Malfoy talks instead of walking away like he would if he had all his wits about him. “Leaving?” He says as if it’s self explanatory, which frankly, it is. Is Malfoy expecting him to again about for a cuppa, or to talk idly about the weather?

“No!” Malfoy shouts just a bit too quickly, startling Harry into dropping his book. “Er, you don’t have to leave,” he finishes awkwardly, hugging his own book to his chest.

Merlin, does Malfoy actually want him to stick around for a chat? Did Moody give him brain trauma, or something? He must be absolutely insane if he thinks Harry wants to spend a moment of his time hanging around him, and Harry voices that thought. “Have you gone mental? Do you need the hospital wing?”

Something unidentifiable contorts Malfoy’s features before being replaced by practised nonchalance as the Slytherin’s posture straightens. “I’m only saying you needn’t leave; you haven’t got to be so affronted by it.”

At Harry’s obvious unease, Malfoy scoffs, taking a large, deliberate step backwards. “I meant, it’s not like I wanted to be here near you. I’ll go.” If Harry’s jaw wasn’t dropped before, it’s on the floor now. Malfoy turns with a haughty sniff, his shoes clacking against the flagstones as he leaves.

Harry remains tense for minutes after Malfoy walks away, waiting for the boy’s angle to become obvious. If not for the undeniable fact of Malfoy’s appearance, he would be hesitant to believe it was even Malfoy he was talking to. But even that could be worked around, he would know out of all people after what he did second year.

It hurts his head to think too much on what might be going on with Malfoy, and as the time drags on nothing jumps out at him from the shadows. The idea that Malfoy was genuine grows more likely by the second, which is practically unthinkable despite being the obvious answer.

He leaves not much longer after that, part of him not quite willing to believe that Malfoy doesn’t have some hidden reason behind his actions and the other part not able to concentrate after being interrupted by Malfoy. Not that he was really being productive before Malfoy showed up, so he supposes he can’t blame that on him.

During the next few days when no rumours about Harry Potter’s hiding place are circulating around Hogwarts he’s confused. He’s even more confused to go back and find the spot is still completely deserted and devoid of any sort of trap Malfoy may have seen fit to place.

He’s wary the entire time he’s there that day, yet it’s more peace than he’s found anywhere else in the castle. Maybe Malfoy is playing the long con, waiting until he’s let his guard down to strike. That would make sense, letting him get comfortable enough to forget that they had ever interacted there in the first place, then he would enact his plan.

It makes sense, even more so considering how silent Malfoy has been recently. He’s been avoiding Harry like he’s got the plague, which Harry had originally attributed to lingering embarrassment from the incident with Moody, but he thinks better of it now. Malfoy’s trying to get back at Harry for… whatever he did wrong by helping him that day.

He still isn't quite sure why Malfoy was so upset by Harry’s aid, but he hasn’t been putting much thought to the matter, more concerned on what the Slytherin plans to do about it. When he next stumbles upon Malfoy, he’s certain he’s about to get to the bottom of it.

Or maybe ‘stumbles upon’ is the wrong choice of words to use. Malfoy is sitting in the very same spot that he had found Harry just days before, and the reversal of roles is dizzying. Malfoy hasn’t noticed him, or at least hasn’t acknowledged Harry’s presence, his head tilted back against the wall and his eyes closed.

He looks serene, and Harry finds himself torn between confusion and agitation. This was his spot first. Unless, miraculously, Malfoy had been going here for ages, and they had just yet to run into each other until now, which he highly doubts.

Why, now of all times, is Malfoy coming here? Is this his retaliation, taking away Harry’s respite from the world? He could find another spot, it’s not impossible, there are tonnes of empty and unused sections of the school, but he had liked this one.

Harry stamps his foot impatiently and Malfoy cracks an eye open, peering at him with one half lidded grey iris. “Yes?” He asks, completely unbothered by the way Harry curls his lips in annoyance.

“Why are you here?” Harry asks, straight to the point. He doesn’t want to play games or beat around the bush, he just wants to sit down and do his assignment without having to rip his bloody hair out because he can’t get a second without someone’s taunting whispers piercing his concentration.

Malfoy opens his other eye, glancing lazily around the corridor. “Hm, interesting. I don’t see any signs reserving this spot as yours. I do go to this school, do I not? Can a man not wish for some time to himself? Surely saint Potter doesn’t think he’s the only one who wants to get away from everything.”

Harry’s eye twitches. “Yes, well. Get away from everything somewhere else, I was here first.”

“Actually, quite the opposite. Seeing as I’m the one sitting here and you’re not, I was here first.” Malfoy’s slow drawl makes the two sentences take an eon, testing Harry’s patience. The blond knows exactly how to push every one of his buttons, his irritation increasing tenfold.

Scoffing incredulously, Harry resists the urge to throw his arms up in frustration. It’s exactly what Malfoy wants, to get a reaction out of him, and he’s not going to indulge the boy. “You- Fuck you, Malfoy. You know that’s not what I meant.”

“What gives you the right to tell me to leave a public corridor? Just because you’re Gryffindor’s golden boy doesn’t mean everyone will bend to your will. Although, I suppose even Gryffindors aren’t your biggest fans these days, are they? How is the weasel?”

Harry grits his teeth at the mention of Ron. “You’re a right twat, you know that?”

Malfoy simply shrugs placidly in response, looking up at him with a certain measured dullness.

“Well, I’m not leaving,” Harry says defiantly, hoping the threat will encourage Malfoy to get a move on. He doesn’t want to spend more time than strictly necessary around the Slytherin, and he assumes the sentiment is returned.

Again, Malfoy shrugs, gesturing to the spot next to him. “I never told you to.”

“You must be seriously mental, Merlin. It kind of ruins the whole ‘being alone’ thing if you’re here. I want to do my homework, not get into a fight.”

“Then sit down and be quiet and we’ll both have what we want. If you don’t provoke me, I won’t provoke you.” With that, Malfoy leans his head back against the wall, the sunlight shining in from a nearby window illuminating his face in a soft yellow glow.

Harry shifts on his weight between his feet, looking at the empty spot beside Malfoy. He bites his lip, taking a hesitant step forward, then another, and another until he can’t go back without making an utter fool of himself. He settles next to Malfoy who doesn’t even look over at him, pulling out his parchment and getting to work while pretending the Slytherin boy isn’t sitting just a metre away from him.

He’s fourteen, he’s mature enough to not get into a brawl any time he’s near Malfoy. He can handle sitting quietly next to him and writing an essay. He’s not so volatile as to where the boy’s very presence stirs something low within his gut that makes him itch to lash out.

So he does. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t even dare look at Malfoy for more than a few seconds at a time, even when Malfoy pulls out a book and begins reading. His hands stay stubbornly away from his wand even though every shifting movement makes his skin jump.

He continues keeping his mouth shut even after both he and Malfoy leave for dinner. He doesn’t utter a word when Hermione looks over his essay and asks where he got it done, as he wasn’t in the common room or the library. 

Not even a single scathing remark leaves him when he goes there again to find Malfoy occupying the same spot. His lips are sealed as he makes himself comfortable on the familiar stone with yet another essay to be written. They stay that way when he sits with Malfoy again and then again and again.

He doesn’t let a syllable make its way into the calm between them, even when he’s nervously chewing at the skin of his fingers the day before the first task. When it’s getting too dark to ignore the inevitability of tomorrow.

So he’s more than surprised when it’s Malfoy who breaks their unspoken tradition. Malfoy looks up at him when Harry is grabbing his things and shoving them carelessly into his bag. In a whisper that Harry could almost convince himself he didn’t hear, Malfoy says “Good luck.”

Harry pauses in the middle of standing up, his fingers clutching the straps of his satchel. What? He thinks, though he can’t find it within himself to voice the question. Hesitantly, he moves from his odd sort of half-crouching position.

Somehow, it feels even more wrong, Malfoy looking up at him, waiting for something. Harry takes a step back, and then another, and another until he’s sure he’s making a total fool of himself. He flees, and when he glances back, he’s not sure if the look on Malfoy’s face is disappointed or resigned.

He’s talking with Ron again, and for some reason, that doesn’t dissuade him from returning to his spot. He has no reason to be avoiding the common room or his dorm, and he isn’t, but something within him isn’t willing to let go. He insists to himself that it’s not because of Malfoy, because why would he be averse to spending less time with Malfoy? But then he imagines going back to arguing every time they pass in the corridors and his heart clenches.

So he returns there, if not for the promise of company that he’s not quite willing to admit isn’t unpleasant, then the peace that is associated with it even when Malfoy doesn’t appear too.

And Malfoy spoke to him. Something changed between them with two simple words from Malfoy. He can’t deny that that means something. The day after the first task, Malfoy is alone in the corridor, knees drawn up to his chest with his forehead resting on them.

Malfoy lifts his head at Harry’s approach, his silver eyes meeting Harry’s. There’s a brief silence, a hesitant pause before Malfoy speaks. “Are you just going to continue to stand there like a dunce? Don’t you have better places to be, Potter?” He asks with a sneer, and Harry flinches. “Your fan club is surely waiting to fawn over you; it’d be a shame for you to disappoint them.”

It’s like a switch flipped, Malfoy reverting to petty insults at the ease of an old habit. Harry’s smile drops from his face in an instant, and he glances around the deserted hallway. Why… There’s no one around that he can tell, so why is Malfoy back to being a complete prick? Did Harry do something wrong? He hadn’t thought the blond would be so offended that he didn’t respond last time, but he was planning on saying thank you today.

“Merlin, all that fame must have gone to your head and caused you to burst a blood vessel,” Malfoy says with a roll of his eyes. His tone turns mocking, his syllables drawn out childishly. “Did you hear me, or are you completely daft? But, of course, now that he’s the ‘dragon rider’, precious Potter doesn’t have time to listen to those below him.”

“Shut up!” Harry snaps back, his hackles rising. “Of course I heard you. I was just having a hard time understanding how you manage to get anything done when you’re so committed to being a full-time pillock.”

Malfoy smirks, always having known exactly how to push Harry’s buttons. He tsks. “See, that’s simply not nice. I myself am struggling to understand why everyone has come running back for your attention when you’re so blatantly crass. If only they could see you now.”

Scowling, Harry holds back a scoff. Malfoy’s arms are crossed against his chest, his head cocked with a defiant sort of gleam in his eyes. They had been past this; he thought. It was Malfoy himself who said that they shouldn’t fight, even if it was in his own convoluted way.

What in Godric’s name is his problem? Harry knows he has never been the most detail-oriented person, but he is seriously failing to see what he did to earn this. But fine. If Malfoy wants to be a prat, then Harry can give as good as he gets. “Almost sounds like you’re jealous, Malfoy,” he says, Malfoy’s eyes widening ever so slightly. “Your lackeys get tired of kissing your arse daily?”

A series of expressions flash across Malfoy’s face before he settles with disgust. “Jealous of you? Not a chance in the world. I could do without your heathen friends drooling at my feet. Some people actually have self-respect.”

The moment of hesitance makes Harry pause. He bites his lip, running his eyes over Malfoy again. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. He’s going out on a limb with this one, but– “You can’t be serious. Are you actually jealous?”

Malfoy’s cheeks flush noticeably pink; whether from indignation or embarrassment, Harry hasn’t decided. “That Horntail must have done a number on you if you think even for a moment that I would be jealous of having Weasley of all people around.”

“Alright…” Harry starts as he takes a step forward. “Then if you’re not jealous of me, you’re jealous of Ron?” Malfoy scoffs, turning to look away from Harry, who simply grins. “Well, that’s rather stupid, seeing I’m here with you right now .”

Finally, Malfoy looks back at him, his eyes flickering over Harry’s body to check that, yes, he is in fact here, broken arm and all. “You’re too forgiving,” he says after a long moment of silence.

Harry shrugs as he sits down next to Malfoy. “I figure I’m just the right amount of forgiving. Would you prefer I hexed you once or twice for good measure?”

“I’d rather you hex Weasley, but you’re far too Gryffindor to do anything of the sort. You’ve kissed and made up and are all but ready to go die for each other in increasingly stupid ways.”

Snorting, Harry tucks one of his legs under the other, leaning back against the wall. “For your information, I didn’t actually ride the dragon.”

“I- What?” Malfoy furrows his eyebrows, but recognition dawns on him a moment later. “Oh, right. I figured you didn’t, of course. Castle gossip is worthless. I mean, practically everyone believes you put your name in that goblet, so forgive me if I don’t hold their opinions to high respect.”

Harry turns to look straight on at Malfoy, his lips parted in surprise. “You don’t think that I did?”

Malfoy looks at him, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter what I think. People will talk, they always do.”

“But you actually think that I didn’t put my name in the goblet?” Harry asks again, just short of pinching himself to check that this is real. How could Ron, his best mate, believe that he did, but the boy he’s despised for years doesn’t?

Grey eyes steady, Malfoy stares hard enough to make Harry take a deep breath. “You’re many things, Potter, but suicidal is not one of them. You’re reckless, not stupid. Besides,” he says, glancing away. “I doubt that even you would manage to find a way to cheat such ancient magic. It’d take something incredibly powerful or dark to do so.”

“That’s… Disturbingly comforting. Thank you, Malfoy.” Harry snorts, nudging Malfoy with his foot. “Who knew you, of all people, would be one of the few on my side?”

Malfoy scrunches his nose up. “Don’t get used to it,” he says, but then he sighs loudly. “You’re concerningly consistent, you know? You do dumb things, but you’re not the type to volunteer for something like this.”

Harry sighs too, knocking his head against the stone wall behind him. “I wish everyone else saw it that way, too.”

“People see what they want to see. They’re more willing to villainize you than they are to accept that something is going on because they’re utter idiots.” Malfoy sneers, but Harry finds that he doesn’t mind it nearly as much when it’s in defence of him, which may make him a terrible person, but he frankly doesn’t care at the moment.

Not too long later, the clock tower chimes somewhere in the distance, and Harry looks up at the sky through the window. A flock of birds scatter from their perch on a nearby tree at the noise. “It’s nearly dinner; Ron and Hermione are probably wondering where I am.”

Malfoy follows his gaze, something strange behind his eyes. “You should go, then. Don’t wait up for me.”

Nodding, Harry accepts the hand that Malfoy offers to help him get up. His arm in his sling makes it semi difficult to do things sometimes, and while he could have stood on his own, he appreciates the assistance. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Malfoy,” he replies, giving the blond a wave and a smile as he walks away.

His smile, however, transforms into something smaller, more secret when he’s back in the main corridors. Ron and Hermione were indeed looking for him, but he offers them no explanation other than a simple shrug as they sit down to eat together at the table.

He glances up to check on the Slytherin table every few minutes, though he never manages to catch sight of the one Slytherin he’s looking for. And eventually, in the blur of dinner conversation and clattering dishes, he forgets to look anymore.

After the meal, they all make their way back to the tower, laughing and chatting away with each other. The common room is as vibrant as always, the warm glow of the fireplace casting flickering shadows across the walls and students. Ron and Hermione go about their plans for the evening, but Harry’s mind is elsewhere.

Deciding he needs some time to himself, he mumbles something about finishing up some homework before fleeing the common room. As he lies on his bed, staring up at the canopy, he can’t shake the feeling that something strange has happened.

The next morning, as Harry navigates through the crowded hallways, he spots Malfoy in the distance. Their eyes meet briefly, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in Malfoy’s gaze before he turns away.

Over the next two weeks, Harry found himself settling into a new rhythm. Classes continued. The once-exotic presence of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students gradually melded into the background. And he and Malfoy continued to talk near-daily.

However, the biggest change just came yesterday—McGonagall’s announcement during Transfiguration. The Yule ball, coming soon and bringing with it a wave of anxiety that Harry is not at all prepared for.

Now, sitting in his usual spot in the hall, Harry chews nervously at his fingernails. He’s had at least three girls he has never seen before ambush him in the corridors to ask him about the ball, and for reasons he can’t explain to himself, he said no to all of them.

“Merlin, Potter, will you stop that?” Malfoy snaps at him, his eyes narrowed and his quill hovering above a scroll of parchment. Malfoy gestures for his hand, and Harry surreptitiously wipes it off on his trousers with a frown.

Malfoy tsks when Harry gives him his hand, turning it over and inspecting his cuticles. “You’re utterly barbaric, Potter,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb over Harry’s stress-bitten nails.

Harry gives him a dull look, pulling his hand back. “I didn’t ask for you to judge me, Malfoy.”

Reaching out and grabbing Harry’s hand back, Malfoy shakes his head. “The judgement is complimentary,” he says with a wide grin. “But hardly my point.” He pulls out his wand, and Harry flinches instinctively.

Malfoy leans away, a pink tinge tinting his cheeks, though whether it is of anger, guilt, or shame—Harry can’t tell. “Right,” he says, ducking his head. “Sorry.”

Harry shakes his head so hard it hurts. “No!” And Malfoy’s head snaps back up. “Sorry, er, didn’t mean to yell. Just…” He holds his hand back out, urging Malfoy to take it again. His own cheeks must be just as red as Malfoy’s, but if they are, the blond has the grace not to mention it.

Scooting a little closer, Malfoy gently takes a hold of Harry’s hand, his wand hovering over it. He tilts his head; a silent request for permission. Harry grants it immediately, offering him a smile and a nod.

Malfoy whispers an incantation, his wand tracing delicate patterns over Harry’s pinky. “My mother taught me this spell,” Malfoy murmurs a moment later, not taking his eyes off his spellwork. “Not that I ever bit my nails, horrid habit. Pansy used to struggle with it, but this was far more effective than hitting her upside the head.”

Harry nods distractedly, noting the small tingle of warmth that settles over his finger. “What exactly does it do?” he asks, his voice as low as Malfoy’s. It would feel wrong to be any louder, he thinks.

Malfoy tilts his head, eyes only flickering up to look at Harry’s face for a split second. “I can’t say I know the details, but I do know it… dissuades the compulsion to bite your nails. It’s nothing harmful, though.”

Humming, Harry watches him repeat the process with his next finger, feeling a little dumb just sitting there. But he supposes this is a nice opportunity to examine Malfoy. With him so focused on his spellwork, it’s easy for Harry to let his eyes roam across his features in a way he wouldn’t dare try otherwise.

The frown on his face, though an expression he wears frequently, is distinctly different from the one Harry is used to seeing. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, a softness in the downturn of his lips as they form the words of the incantation.

“By the way,” Malfoy comments after a long few moments of silence, his voice startling Harry out of his stupor. “I’ll have to reapply this in a week. It’ll have faded by then, and I doubt a week will be enough to break your habit.”

“Why can’t I just reapply it myself?” Harry asks, though he finds he isn’t terribly bothered by the idea of having Malfoy do this again. It’s… Calming. Of course, he could always have Hermione do it, but then there would be questions. There’s always questions with Hermione, and research, and scathing looks that imply more than he wants to think about.

Malfoy looks up from Harry’s fingers through his eyelashes, black fanning out over grey. He shakes his head. “Some spells are only meant to be cast upon others, not oneself.” He returns to moving his wand slowly over Harry’s fingertips, the tip glowing faintly, a rainbow of alternating colours. “Besides,” he says, rubbing his thumb over his finished work before he moves on to the next one. “Some habits are hard to break. If you could cast it yourself, you could remove it yourself.”

“Right,” Harry replies absentmindedly, almost hypnotised by the changing colours. He supposes that makes sense, though almost painfully so. The spell shows a history of people who have cared enough to painstakingly sit someone down and enchant each of their nails every week just for something as simple as not chewing on them. Each pass of his wand, a small act of care, a defiance against the inertia of old habits. It isn’t going to fix the problem forever, but it’s a catalyst for change, a break in the cycle. In a way, it almost reminds him of Malfoy.

Malfoy, who up until recently would turn his nose up at the idea of being so… docile around Harry. Or maybe docile isn’t the right word. Vulnerable? Harry sighs; the wording isn’t important. What he means is that he never would have let Malfoy anywhere close to him with his wand out, yet somehow that’s exactly what he’s found himself doing.

Where was he going with this? He can never seem to keep track of his thoughts these days. There’s always something eating up his attention, the tournament, or classes, or Ron and Hermione, and now Malfoy. Malfoy more and more frequently, actually.

Malfoy turns Harry’s hand over in his. “Hmm,” he hums, tapping his index finger on Harry’s palm, delicately tracing one of the more prominent lines there. He doesn’t say anything, and Harry finds himself compelled to do the same. He’s no idea what Malfoy is doing, but he might have missed the explanation when he was too caught up in his head.

“Your other hand?” Malfoy asks expectantly, raising his eyebrow at Harry. Harry blushes scarlet, extending his hand for Malfoy to take, hoping the blond can’t tell how clammy it is. He takes it, a small smirk on his lips as he does so. “What’s got you so forlorn?”

“What?” Harry stutters out. He might not know exactly what forlorn means, but whatever it is, he isn’t it. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

Snorting, Malfoy is quiet for a second as he traces familiar patterns over Harry’s skin. Once he’s done, he pauses, wand held aloft an imprint of light clouding the end like a memory. “You’re sighing like a lovesick girl; something is obviously on your mind.”

Had he been? He hadn’t noticed. He’s tempted to defend himself, but he knows there’s no chance he’s winning that fight, which is something he’s surprised he’s not upset about. “The tournament, I guess,” he replies, and if Malfoy can tell he’s lying, then he doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah?” Malfoy encourages, tapping his finger against Harry’s wrist since both his hands are occupied. Harry takes it as what it is, an offer.

“Yeah,” he replies, and then he tells Malfoy everything. Because, well, while it may not have been the thing he was thinking about at that exact moment, the pressure of the tournament has been weighing on him almost constantly, especially with Hermione’s constant urging that he simply needs to be trying to figure out what the second task is at every waking moment.

And Malfoy listens. He nods along periodically to let Harry know he’s listening, occasionally jumping in to make a remark about something or other. He finishes casting the charm and yet he still sits there, attentive to Harry’s every word.

Even though he had long since completed casting the spell, Malfoy’s hands cradle Harry’s, fingers gently working their way from palm to fingertips. His touch now just as sure as his spellcasting was, skilled fingers kneading the flesh of his palm.

Harry isn’t sure why, but he always imagined Malfoy’s skin would be cold. Not that he took to imagining Malfoy’s skin often, or anything. But he’s undeniably human, soft and warm with callouses similar to Harry’s from flying too often.

Though, Malfoy’s fingers are longer and slimmer than his. Rather fit for playing a piano, Harry thinks, which would suit Malfoy quite well. Malfoy asks him a question, and Harry hums, glancing back up to meet Malfoy’s curious eyes.

“Sorry,” Harry says somewhat bashfully, offering Malfoy a small smile. “I’m just a little tired. What did you say?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “Nothing important.” His gaze flickers towards the window nearest them, and he frowns. “It’s getting rather late. I think it’s best we leave, anyways.” Malfoy drops Harry’s hands, and Harry can’t help but be disappointed at the loss of warmth and contact.

“Oh, alright.” Harry stands with him, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Harry asks hopefully. Malfoy shrugs, then nods, giving Harry a little wave as he walks off.

Harry is already there when Malfoy arrives. He only looks up from his parchment for a split second to make sure it’s only Malfoy before his eyes are focused back on the blank page. His quill is tapping a staccato rhythm against the page as he fidgets endlessly.

It’s been a few days since they talked about the tournament together, or more so Harry ranted about the tournament for a solid half hour while Malfoy listened dutifully, but Hermione has all but let up on him about it.

He’s been staring at the empty parchment for he doesn’t want to know how long, lost on any sort of idea on what the clue for the second task might mean. Seriously, who decided an egg with an ear-piercing scream was enough context to connect any dots?

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it, maybe he’s been putting it off but that’s only because he honestly doesn’t know where to start. Hermione is the smartest person he knows and she has zero idea on what the clue might mean, and if anything is discouraging, it’s that.

He chews on his lip, his quill hovering over the page. Maybe he has to fight some sort of… screaming bird? Birds hatch from eggs. It sounds stupid, even to him, but one stupid idea is better than no ideas. But, would they really do another fighting competition after the dragon? That just seems repetitive.

“Glare any harder and it might just burst into flames, Potter,” Malfoy starts, his tone light and airy, almost teasing. He’s leaning his head on his hand, not even pretending to have been doing anything other than watching Harry.

Harry coughs, a light blush rising on his cheeks. “Wuh?” he asks ever so eloquently. Malfoy raises an eyebrow, gesturing lazily at Harry’s now not blank parchment. Harry pouts. “Well, I’d love to see you do any better.”

Malfoy raises his hands up in mock-surrender. “Far be it from me to impose when you’re being so productive.” Then, he leans closer, trying to read the parchment. Harry covers it with his hands. “What are you working on anyway? McGonagall’s assignment?”

“Uhm…” Harry bites his lip, looking at his, in hindsight, kind of pathetic note. He scribbles it out. “No, not quite.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he leans back. “It’s actually for the next task. Hermione is worried about it and it’s getting closer and… I have nothing. Well, unless you have any ideas?” Harry asks, totally not batting his eyelashes.

Malfoy’s eyebrows furrow, seemingly unaffected by Harry’s best puppy eyes. “What?” he questions. “Why would you ask me? I’m not exactly the picture of being… well, cooperative.”

Harry cocks his head to the side, a slight frown overtaking his features. “Well… You’re my friend.” Malfoy’s face only contorts more, and for a second Harry worries he was being too presumptuous. “I mean… Hermione is great and all but she’s already about ready to pull her hair out with everything going on with Ron, and–” Harry cuts himself off, chewing nervously at the skin of his lips.

Malfoy pauses for a long moment, staring at Harry blankly until he scoffs, turning away. “Only fucking you , Potter,” he mumbles, and Harry’s unsure if he was meant to hear it or not.

But either way, the comment stings in a way comments from Malfoy haven't in a long time. “What does that mean?”

“I wanted this for years and suddenly you have the gall to just make it happen. I would have given anything to be your friend back in first year. And here you are, saying something that changes everything. I don’t understand how you do it.” 

“Do what?”

“Make it seem so easy.”

Harry stares pointedly at his trainers. They’re muddy and beat up after years of use. “It can just be that, you know? Sometimes it is that easy,” he says, his voice low. For a moment, he’s lost in thought, biting the inside of his cheek as he scuffs his shoes against the flagstones. “For what it’s worth,” he starts, “I wish things could have been different from the start. And–”

“Don’t,” Malfoy interrupts, voice breaking slightly, barely above a whisper. The normally steely grey of his eyes are glassy, refusing to directly meet Harry’s gaze. He’s curled in on himself, legs pulled tightly to his chest and his forehead resting against his knees. “Just don’t, please.”

Harry shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as if searching for the guidance that ultimately isn’t there. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s not good at this stuff, never has been. 

Malfoy shuffles, startling Harry, who is a little ashamed to admit he flinches. Taking in a few steadying breaths, Malfoy closes his eyes, tilting his head back. There’s a distinct pinkness to his cheeks, and he runs his hands through his hair, mussing the fine white-blond strands from their usual perfectly-styled state.

“Alright,” Malfoy says, blinking a few times for good measure. He looks as composed as always, Harry wouldn’t be able to tell that something was amiss if it wasn’t for the state of his hair or the colour of his face. “The second task, what was your clue?”

Harry shakes his head, trying to clear his head because for the oddest reason, at the forefront of his mind was that Malfoy looks pretty like that. “It’s… Uhm.” Harry wipes a hand over his face, huffing out a harsh breath. “It’s kind of hard to explain, it’d be easier to show you.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him. “I know you’re inarticulate, but it surely can’t be that hard.” He sighs at Harry’s unimpressed stare, shrugging in concession. “Then, just bring it here tomorrow. We can take a look at it together.”

Cringing, Harry shakes his head. “Not a great idea to look at it here; you’ll see why.” Harry hums, glancing around the hallway. They need somewhere he’s sure they won’t be interrupted. “How about tomorrow night after curfew. We can meet by the docks.”

“The docks?” Malfoy asks, clearly surprised. “Why not just find an empty classroom?” Harry opens his mouth to explain, but Malfoy groans before he can speak. “And I can’t tomorrow night. Promised Pansy I’d stay up to paint her nails and talk. She’s an unbearable wretch about it when I cancel.”

“Then how about Saturday night?” Harry suggests, a note of hope in his voice. Though, a second later, he tilts his head, a small sort of grin on his face. “Wait, you paint Parkinson’s nails?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, though the red spreading to his ears betrays him. “Don’t act all shocked. She’s simply a horrid gossip, and if I can keep her entertained on my own terms, it’s worth sacrificing an evening.”

Harry nods, suppressing the smirk that tries to grow on his face. “Alright, I’m not judging you. But, Saturday, does that work for you?” he asks, and it feels oddly like trying to arrange a date. Not that he’s done that before or anything, but he imagines it would be something like this.

With a longsuffering sigh, Malfoy waves his hand vaguely. “I suppose it does. But if you murder me out there I’m haunting you.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Harry replies, bumping his shoe against Malfoy’s with a grin. Malfoy rolls his eyes, which is expected and doesn’t bother Harry in the slightest. He’s grown to understand Malfoy in ways he never thought he would. 

Malfoy hides a small grin behind his hand, looking away to be careful, but Harry can see the crinkle of his eyes and the way the corners of his lips quirk upwards. Malfoy glances at Harry to see a similar grin stretching across his face, and he reaches out to shove at his shoulder playfully. Harry just giggles.

“Oh, piss off,” Malfoy says, not sounding the least bit upset. He tries to keep up the facade, but after a few seconds of eye contact, he too breaks out into laughter. Harry isn’t entirely sure what’s so funny, but that doesn’t stop him from losing his breath with how hard he’s laughing. He grips Malfoy’s shoulder, leaning his forehead against it as he tries to compose himself, but he glances up and meets Malfoy’s eyes, and he can’t help but smile.

The common room’s warmth and comfort do little to ease Harry’s restlessness. He’s perched on the edge of an overstuffed armchair, pretending to be absorbed in a book he hasn’t actually turned a page of in over thirty minutes. His mind is elsewhere; on the docks, with Malfoy.

Glancing at his watch for what must be the umpteenth time, Harry sighs. It’s nearly time to leave, but Ron and Hermione are still here, in the same room, making any attempt at a discreet exit seem increasingly impossible. He could try waiting them out… but the chances of Malfoy thinking Harry ghosted him if he doesn’t show up on time are too high to consider being late.

With a surreptitious look around, Harry begins to gather his things nonchalantly – or so he hopes. His movements, however, are far from inconspicuous to Hermione.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice, sharp and inquisitive, slices through the low hum of the common room. “Are you going somewhere?”

Harry freezes, a textbook half-stuffed into his bag. He steals a glance at Ron, who is gesticulating wildly, blissfully unaware of Harry’s internal struggle. Hermione, however, shoots him a concerned look over the top of her book. She’s always had a way of sensing his restlessness.

Fiddling with the strap of his bag, Harry avoids Hermione’s piercing gaze. The weight of the egg and his invisibility cloak tucked beneath books and loose-leaf parchment feel like an impossible burden to carry. He swallows deeply, shifting where the bag rests on his shoulder. “I just, uhm, need some air,” he mutters, hoping the vague excuse will suffice.

“In the middle of the night?” Hermione’s scepticism is palpable, her brow furrowed in concern and curiosity. Ron, caught up in his game, doesn’t look up, but Hermione’s gaze is unrelenting. Harry can feel the weight of her stare, urging him to fess up, yet he knows he can’t. Not yet.

“Yeah, you know, clear my head and all that,” Harry says, forcing a casual shrug. He can tell that Hermione isn’t entirely convinced, but she seems to let it slide, for now. Her expression is one of mild suspicion as he marks her spot in her book before closing it.

“Harry,” she beings, her tone laced with a mix of concern and curiosity, “you’ve been rather evasive lately. Is everything alright?” She tilts her head at him, her large doe-like eyes boring into him with nauseating sincerity.

Harry meets her eyes, but he glances away just as quick. The weight of his secret meetings with Malfoy presses uncomfortably against his conscience. “It’s not anything like that,” Harry is quick to interject, trying to avoid raising more suspicion. Hermione, however, isn’t so easily dissuaded.

Her expression softens, but her eyes remain sharp. “If you need help–”

“I know, I know. I’ll let you know if I do,” he assures her, offering a smile that he hopes looks more convincing than it feels.

With a final, reluctant nod, Hermione turns back to her book, though her worry remains evident in the crease of her eyebrows. Harry stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his cloak, trying to appear calm as he edges his way towards the portrait hole, his bag slung over his shoulder. Just as he thinks he might actually slip away unscathed, Ron’s voice pipes up.

“You good, mate? Where are you going?” He calls out, finally looking up from his game with a frown.

“He says he’s going on a walk,” Hermione explains for him, though her accusatory tone and keen eyes make it clear she isn’t fully satisfied with that answer.

Ron, sprawled across an armchair with a half-eaten Chocolate Frog in his hand, raises an eyebrow. “At this hour? It’s freezing outside.”

“A bit of cold air won’t kill me,” Harry interrupts a little too eagerly, desperate to avoid more questioning. “I’ll be careful; I’ve got my cloak,” he says, patting his bag subtly in indication. Ron’s eyes flicker toward it, and he blinks twice.

He looks unconvinced. He and Hermione share a glance in solidarity, and Ron seems to be bolstered by it, sitting up with a huff. “You’re acting weird, mate. You sure you’re alright?”

The truth hovers on the tip of Harry’s tongue, but he swallows it down. “Just can’t sit still, I guess,” he mutters, avoiding their gaze. “Won’t be long.”

A weird expression falls over Ron’s face, a sort of half grimace, half forced smile. He takes a moment to consider his chess board, making his move – much to Neville’s dismay – before he addresses Harry again. “Well…” he starts awkwardly, “make sure you stay safe. Gryffindor really doesn’t need to be losing more points.”

Harry nods, and with one last, somewhat guilty glance over his shoulder, Harry steps out, the portrait swinging shut behind him. He doesn’t dare look back again. The corridors are quiet, though his heart is pounding not just with the fear of being followed or caught, but with an odd mixture of excitement and guilt.

The docks tonight are a world away from the warm, flickering light of the Gryffindor common room, and as Harry makes his way through the castle’s quiet corridors, he can’t help but wonder how his life has come to this – sneaking out for secret meetings with Draco Malfoy.

He pulls his cloak tighter around himself as he walks; the wind carrying its icy promise, biting at his skin. The path to the docks is lit only by the moon and the stars, no clouds in sight to block out their pale glow. Harry treads carefully, his senses heightened. His breath mingles with the cold air, forming ephemeral clouds that are barely visible in the dark.

The night is quiet and crisp as Harry approaches the docks, the only sound being the gentle lapping of the lake against the dock’s supports. The moon casts a silvery glow against the water, highlighting the ripples that dance with the breeze.

The silhouettes of the boats bob gently, tethered to the docks with invisible strings. He spots Malfoy standing near the edge, staring out at the inky expanse. He stands out starkly, the white of his dress shirt almost fluorescent paired with the moon’s light. Harry idly wonders how he isn’t cold.

Malfoy turns as Harry’s footsteps grow closer, a blend of surprise and something unreadable in his eyes. “Took you long enough, Potter,” he drawls, his hands tucked in the pockets of his trousers.

“Sorry,” Harry replies, slightly breathless, a grin on his face. All his worries from earlier evaporate with one look at Malfoy. “Had to navigate dealing with Ron and Hermione, would have been here earlier, otherwise.”

Malfoy smirks back at him, and all the trouble feels worth it. “What’d you tell them?” he asks, his gaze flickering to the lake before landing back on Harry.

“That I was going out for a walk.” He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck somewhat bashfully. It’s not his strongest excuse, and he knows that, but no lie he could have told would have saved him from Hermione’s keen eyes. “Hermione wasn’t very pleased.”

“Well, you’re here now,” Malfoy says, turning back to the lake, his expression indecipherable in the dark. He shifts on his feet, crossing his arms as he looks up at the sky. The moonlight makes his hair look almost silver. “Figured you’d have more trouble with Weasley than Granger.”

Harry chuckles, a sound that’s almost swallowed whole by the noise of the water against the dock. “You’d be surprised. Mione has a way of knowing when I’m up to something.”

Malfoy tilts his head, regarding Harry with a curious look. “And does she know what you’re ‘up to’?”

“No,” Harry replies, the word slipping out a little too quickly. He shakes his head. “I didn’t tell her. She’d only worry more.”

Malfoy nods, seemingly satisfied with Harry’s response. “Fair enough.” He glances at Harry’s bag. “Did you bring the clue?”

The old, weathered wood of the dock creaks under his weight as he rummages through his bag, grunting slightly as he pulls the – frankly absurdly heavy – egg from its hidden depths. Malfoy’s eyebrows raise as Harry holds the thing aloft; it gleams in the moonlight, intricate carvings catching the subtle glow.

Harry doesn’t hesitate to hand it to Malfoy when he reaches his hands out, fingers tracing the seam. He huffs, sitting down on the dock; Harry is quick to follow. Malfoy crosses his legs, setting the egg in his lap with his back to the water.

“It’s warm,” he remarks idly, tilting his head. Harry simply shrugs. Malfoy turns the egg over in his hands, inspecting the carvings along the sides. He moves to open it, but Harry shoots his hand out to stop him.

“I… It’s, uhm. There’s a reason we had to come all the way out here to listen to it,” he says, searching for the right words. “So, just be prepared.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “How bad could it really be?” he scoffs dismissively. Without waiting for Harry’s answer, he deftly twists the top of the egg. For a brief moment, the shifting display of bubbles is mesmerising, but the peace is shattered quickly. The egg emits an ear-piercing screech, and Malfoy startles so violently that he loses his balance and topples backwards.

“Holy shit! Malfoy!” Harry lunges forward, trying to grab him, but before he knows it, the Slytherin is over the edge of the dock, falling into the lake with a large splash.

The screaming stops as quickly as it began, leaving the night air eerily quiet. Harry peers over the edge of the dock, looking for any sign of where Malfoy went. He bites his lip, unsure of what to do. Surely Malfoy knows how to swim… The water isn’t very deep this close to shore.

Should he jump in after him? “Are you okay?” he calls out vaguely in the direction Malfoy fell, feeling a little silly for talking to the water. The seconds keep ticking by, each one stretching into what feels like an eon. It’s taking Malfoy a concerningly long time to resurface, Harry thinks with a frown.

Just as Harry thinks that it’s certainly been too long , Malfoy’s head pops out from the surface of the lake, his hair slicked back and dripping. He takes a large, gasping breath, the egg held close in one of his hands. “Merpeople,” he says suddenly, looking at Harry with wide eyes.

“What?” Harry asks, torn between being relieved and even more concerned than before. “Did you hit your head?”

Malfoy still manages to look at Harry like he’s an idiot while struggling to stay afloat. “No, you dolt. The clue, it’s in mermish, I– Help me get out of this fucking lake, first.”

Harry is quick to stretch a hand out to Malfoy, which the Slytherin takes. With a bit of struggle, they manage to haul him back onto the dock. Malfoy lays there, coughing up water, looking dishevelled and distinctly un-Malfoy-like.

His clothes are soaked through, his white shirt nearly transparent, sticking to his skin in a way that must be uncomfortable. And cold, Harry tacks on as an afterthought. He places a hesitant hand on Malfoy’s back, and despite his shivering, he’s warm to the touch.

“For fuck’s sake,” Malfoy says, glaring at the egg half-heartedly. “You could have said it would start screaming like a banshee. That was–”

“Eventful?” Harry tries, tilting his head with a slight grin. Malfoy glares at him.

“I was more going with unbelievably idiotic, but sure, eventful,” Malfoy replies, his tone dry. Which is rather ironic considering he’s soaked, but now really isn’t the time to point that out.

“I didn’t expect you to fall in,” Harry defends with a pout. “Can you not swim? Seems like you inhaled a lot of water there.” He’s more concerned than teasing, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to care, squinting at him while he wrings his hair out.

Malfoy runs a hand through his hair, trying and failing to make it lie flatter. Harry hides a grin behind his hand. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Malfoy’s face is flushed pink from the cold, his hair ruffled, a slight curl to the tips.

“Of course I can swim, you prat. I just wasn’t expecting to have to. In case you couldn’t tell, I didn’t come out here for a midnight dip.” He looks down at himself with a grimace. “And now I’m a bloody mess. Great.”

Harry tries to rub a soothing hand down Malfoy’s back, but the boy’s shivering makes it difficult. “I’m serious, though. Are you alright?”

Sighing loudly, Malfoy nods. “A bit wetter than I’d like to be, but fine.”

Biting his lip, Harry looks him over. He can see each individual notch of the boy’s spine through his thin, wet shirt. He tries not to think about it too much as he unclasps his robe, laying it over Malfoy’s shoulder. He’s wearing a jumper under it, so he’s not too worried about himself. “This should help a bit,” Harry mutters, his voice low.

Malfoy jumps when he feels the warm fabric settle over him, but he doesn’t move to take it off. He flushes a darker pink, pulling it tighter around himself. “You’re not getting this back, just so you know.”

Harry chuckles. “I’ve got a thick jumper; I’ll survive.” He pauses, raking his eyes over Malfoy’s form. “Why did you come out in just your shirt, anyway?”

“Theo was awake; I didn’t want him thinking I was going outside.”

Nodding in understanding, Harry stands up, holding his hand out for Malfoy to take. “We should head back before you freeze.” The blond accepts without complaint, grabbing Harry’s hand and letting himself be pulled up.

Harry grabs the egg from its place atop the wooden boards of the dock, looking at it in a new light. “You said it was mermish?” he asks as they start walking back to the castle. 

Malfoy nods, humming as he thinks for a moment. “Yeah,” he says, blinking a few times. He turns to face Harry, taking a few seconds before he speaks up again. “You have to listen to it under water to understand it. It was, uhm, a song. I can’t… remember the words.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Harry asks, concerned. Malfoy seems to be taking longer than usual to process things, his words slow and disjointed.

“Piss off,” Malfoy responds, much quicker than his other replies. Although, Harry supposes insults are just instinct for him at this point. He rolls his eyes, scooting closer to Malfoy as they walk, though he’s not quite brave enough to throw his arm over the boy’s shoulder.

Harry’s attention drifts to the egg in his hands, and he turns it over. “Does this mean I’m going to have to jump in the lake to decode the clue?” He wonders aloud, frowning. It’s freezing this time of year.

“Karma,” Malfoy responds simply, a small smile on his lips. He looks like he’s regaining some of the colour in his face. “But, no, probably not.” He tilts his head, and they walk up the stairs to the entrance of the school together. Once they reach the top, he continues. “You mentioned that you told Diggory about the dragons, right?”

“Yeah?” Harry says, though it’s more of a question than a confirmation. “How does that have to do with any of this?”

“He owes you,” Malfoy says, as if that explains everything.

Harry grimaces. “That’s really not why I did it–”

Malfoy cuts him off. “Incorrigible righteousness or not, he owes you, Potter.” With a nonchalant shrug, he gives Harry somewhat of a devilish smile. “I say cash in on that. Get the password to the prefect’s bathroom.”

As they walk the quiet halls of Hogwarts, the idea takes root in Harry’s mind. Cedric does owe him, and Malfoy’s suggestion seems both practical and fair. Harry chews on the inside of his cheek, considering the implications. He doesn’t have to let him know why, just that he needs the password.

Malfoy, ever observant, notices Harry’s internal debate. “Think about it, Potter. You gave him valuable information; Diggory has something you need. Plus, it’s not like you’re asking for something unreasonable.”

Harry nods slowly. “You’re right… It’s not unreasonable at all.” It’s not a move Harry would typically make, but the circumstances seem to warrant it.

Smirking knowingly, Malfoy watches as Harry contemplates the egg. Harry groans, shoving it into his bag, and at that, Malfoy knows he won. Harry shoves him away at his overly proud look, but Malfoy simply laughs, head tilted back and cheeks rosy. 

He looks so unlike the Malfoy that Harry thought he knew like this, hair plastered to his forehead, a genuine, large smile on his face, all while wearing Harry’s cloak. They come to the place where they should part; Malfoy heading towards the dungeon and Harry up the endless amount of stairs to the tower, but he finds himself not wanting to leave Malfoy, so he doesn’t.

Malfoy gives him a weird look when he chooses to continue walking alongside him, but he doesn’t say anything. Harry feels the need to defend himself nonetheless. “Just making sure you get back alright.”

Not looking entirely convinced, Malfoy simply nods. The dungeons are cold, maybe even colder than it was outside, and Harry watches as Malfoy wraps the robe tighter around himself, still shivering slightly. They navigate the twisting hallways in silence for a while, the only sound the echoes of their footsteps on the stone floor.

As they approach the entrance of the Slytherin common room, Harry slows down. Malfoy stops and turns to Harry. “Why are you stopping?”

Harry looks at him like he’s insane. Maybe he did hit his head after all. “Because this is where the common room is?”

Malfoy squints at him. “How do you know where the entrance is?” He glances at the bare wall next to them, the spot where Harry very vividly remembers the common room to be.

He grimaces, biting his lip. “Long story?” He says uncertainly.

“Right,” replies Malfoy, utterly unimpressed. Then, he sighs, pulling Harry’s cloak from off his shoulders. His expression is less guarded than usual, something akin to gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, but I suppose you should have this back.”

Nodding, Harry takes it, though he can’t deny the disappointment at seeing Malfoy without it. It’s slightly damp against his fingers, and Malfoy looks considerably smaller without it draped over his frame, his clothes still wet and clinging to his skin. 

Harry folds the cloak over his arm, catching a hint of Malfoy’s cologne lingering on the fabric. The realisation that Malfoy’s lips are blue hits him first; the desire to kiss him came next. A large step backwards is all he manages, almost choking on a breath. “Right, uhm, bye,” he stammers out, turning to leave before he can hear Malfoy’s response.

His heart continues to race the entire way up to the tower, but it’s easy enough to blame that on the endless amounts of stairs. He pauses outside the common room, pacing in front of the portrait as he waits for his hands to cease their incessant shaking, and only when his heartbeat calms to a reasonable rhythm does he speak the password.

It’s only been a little over an hour since he left, but the common room is significantly emptier. Being a weekend, there are plenty of lingering students, though. Ginny gives him a small wave from where she sits on the rug near the fire, but doesn’t let her gaze linger on him for too long.

The stairs up to the dorms are nothing compared to the ones up to the tower, and he barely registers them as he makes his way upwards. His hand hovers over the doorknob of the dorm room. The idea of his warm bed beckons him inside, but his thoughts are still consumed by Malfoy. He wonders if he made the right decision to leave so abruptly, if he should have stayed to make sure Malfoy was okay.

With a heavy sigh, he pushes the door open. It clicks shut behind him, and Ron looks up from where he’s laying on his bed, quidditch magazine in hand. Harry doesn’t say anything, only dropping his cloak on his bed, slumping down next to it.

“Hey, mate,” Ron greets him, lowering his magazine, eyeing Harry with a mild curiosity. “How was your walk?”

Looking over at him, Harry fiddles with the hem of his jumper. “It was, uhm… eventful,” he settles on after a long minute, and he chuckles at the reminder of Malfoy, but then he’s harshly reminded that he’s lying to his friends, and it’s not so funny anymore. He tries to muster a smile, but it feels forced, hollow even.

Ron raises his eyebrows. “What d’ya mean by that?”

Harry hesitates, his hands slowing to a stop. “Nothing… I” His voice trails off, a lump forming in his throat as he struggles to find the right words. He knows he should tell Ron the truth, but he doesn’t want to lose him again. Their wounds are too fresh. He knows lying will only make it worse, but he can’t bring himself to confess the truth, not now, not when everything feels so uncertain. “I think I’m gonna turn in.”

Ron’s gaze softens infinitesimally. “Alright, mate,” he says, though there’s a hint of concern in his tone. He sits up slightly, setting his magazine off to the side. “If anything is bothering you… Just let me know.”

Harry manages a weak nod, grateful for Ron’s understanding, but unable to shake the suffocating guilt that weighs heavily on his heart. He gives Ron a small, weak grin. “Thanks, Ron; I appreciate it.”

The lake seems almost infinite, though the harder he looks, the more blurry around the edges it gets. The waves are crashing upon the shore loudly despite the water’s stillness. It must be midnight, but the moon is nowhere in sight, yet he has no trouble seeing his surroundings.

Malfoy is standing next to him– no, sitting, they’re both sitting on the edge of the dock, their legs dangling above the dark lake. He’s laughing at something, hiding his smile behind pale fingers. The moonlight plays tricks on his silvery hair, and in this moment, Harry imagines there is more to Malfoy than he could ever think.

He blinks at Harry, his eyes and nose scrunched up as he smiles. Harry smiles too. Malfoy’s eyes are blue or grey or whatever, and bright, looking directly at him. It’s the middle of winter and there’s a bird singing somewhere. Harry glances back towards the castle, and the windows are yellow, light streaming through the not-quite-darkness of the not-quite-nighttime. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder; it’s Malfoy’s hand. He opens his mouth to say something, but they’re both falling, tumbling into what looks like the stars– but no, it’s the reflection of the water. The lake welcomes them with open arms, and Harry opens his arms to meet her’s–

Malfoy is kneeling on the dock, shivering and wrapped in Harry’s cloak that he doesn’t remember having, nor does he remember giving it to him. Harry’s dry and warm even though he’s not wearing anything but a plain tee and he swears he can see a breeze ruffling Malfoy’s damp hair, but he can’t feel anything.

Harry is kneeling in front of him, his palms flat against the splintered wood of the dock, stray slivers digging into his skin. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice echoing in the empty expanse. Malfoy says something in response that Harry can’t quite make out over the blood rushing through his ears.

Tilting his head, Malfoy’s lips are parted and – blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, – he reaches a hand out to hold Harry’s cheek. His skin is ice cold. He’s leaning forward, or maybe he’s pulling Harry closer. Either way, there’s such little space between them; a puff of warm air brushes Harry’s face, and then they are–

Malfoy’s hands are in his pockets, standing on the rocky shore as he stares out at the horizon. He’s tall and proud. He’s confident. He’s everything Harry’s ever wanted and everything he’s always hated. Harry kicks a pebble, but it doesn’t go far, only clacking against a few other rocks before skittering to a stop.

He’s still wearing Harry’s cloak, though Harry can’t place why. Harry can’t place anything– the castle isn’t behind them anymore, and the bank of the lake was always grassy, but now there are rocks digging into the flimsy soles of his trainers.

Malfoy leans down to pick up one of the pebbles, turning it over in his hands. “Have you ever skipped stones?” he asks, then tosses it to Harry.

Harry catches it on instinct, blinking at its smooth greyness. He clutches it in his palm. “You can’t skip rocks on the ocean,” he says.

Malfoy looks out at the lake, then back at Harry. “Can you say that for certain if you’ve never tried?”

“I don’t have to; it would sink in the waves.” The water is still motionless. It reminds him of Malfoy’s eyes. Harry has never skipped stones before. He doesn’t think he could if he tried.

The stone is still in his hand. Malfoy is walking towards Harry, stepping behind him. “I’ll teach you,” he says simply, his voice startlingly close to Harry’s ear. His hand closes over Harry’s, adjusting his grip on the stone. Malfoy’s other arm wraps around his side, his fingers coming to a rest on his biceps.

He adjusts Harry’s stance ever so slightly, his warmth bleeding through Harry’s thin shirt. The rocks shift loudly under their feet, the night eerily quiet, not even the sound of Malfoy’s breathing to break the silence even though Harry can feel his chest rise and fall.

Malfoy pulls his arm backwards. “Throw it,” he says, so Harry does. It skips against the water, little ripples forming in each spot it touches that spread into larger circles until they shatter when they meet another.

Harry tilts his head. Its rhythmic, echoed splashing is just as audible even as it grows further away. “Malfoy…” Harry whispers.

“Harry,” Malfoy murmurs into his neck, his nose pressing into the soft skin there. “Harry,” he says again, his voice odd and his fingers gripping tighter around Harry’s arm.

“Malfoy?” Harry repeats, turning to face the boy. There’s a frown on his face, and he reaches out to hold Harry’s jaw. “Malfoy, M–

–alfoy?” Harry jerks up so harshly he almost knocks into Ron, who is leaning over him and shaking his arm. Ron looks uncomfortable, his face contorted into an odd, blurry grimace. “Ron?” Harry asks, and he receives a pair of glasses for it. He blinks at them for a few seconds before putting them on.

“You were talking in your sleep, again,” Ron says eventually, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes.

Harry’s heart sinks, and a flush of embarrassment rises up his neck. “Right, uhm, thanks. What time is it?” He pushes himself into a sitting position, glancing around the darkened dormitory, the other beds occupied by sleeping figures. “Did I wake anyone else?”

Ron shrugs, his discomfort clear. “No, just me. Everyone else is still asleep.”

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, mortified, his voice still heavy with sleep. He rubs his eyes, running a hand through his messy hair.

“It’s fine, mate. Just try to keep it down next time, right?” Ron’s attempt at casualness falls flat, and Harry cringes. “It’s still late, let’s just… go back to bed.”

Harry nods, hoping the darkness of the room hides the burning red of his face. Both he and Ron settle back into bed. Once he’s sure Ron isn’t looking, Harry buries his face in his pillow, groaning internally. His whole body feels aflame, the sensation of Malfoy’s phantom touch lingering like an echo.

Memories flit in and out of his head of his dream, and the parts he can piece together make him wish the ground would swallow him whole. He’s used to Malfoy invading his thoughts, but usually that’s only during the waking hours. 

He just hopes Ron couldn’t quite piece together what he was saying, or else he’s going to be laughed off the face of the Earth in the morning. Maybe he’ll be able to laugh about it too, one day, but for now, he just wants to bury himself under his covers and forget it all ever happened.

Malfoy uses green ink, so dark it may as well be black. Harry only noticed its colour when Malfoy held a hand up to adjust a lock of hair that had fallen out of place, quill still clutched between his fingers. The light hit just right; beautiful forest coloured ink at the tip shimmering in the sun's warmth.

He paid more attention after that, however innocuous it seemed. He noticed that when dried; it was a slightly paler colour. He noticed that Malfoy’s hair is just long enough that he has to repeatedly brush it back when writing, his head bent over his parchment. He noticed that Malfoy rolls his eyes when he’s annoyed at Harry. He noticed that Malfoy bites back a smile when he’s not actually annoyed, which is most of the time.

He noticed that Malfoy’s eyes dart up at any small noise. He noticed that Malfoy stopped doing that when it was just Harry, like he learned the pattern of his footfalls or like the way Harry shuffles absentmindedly while working had become familiar to him like the calluses on his palms had grown to know the fit of his broomstick in his grip.

Harry glances at his own paper, sentences scrawled in plain black ink. For a moment, he considers buying something coloured next Hogsmeade weekend, if only to see if Malfoy would notice. But then, he thinks that’s a rather silly thing to do. He already has several jars of black ink, and what does he care if Malfoy thinks about the colour ink he uses?

So, instead, he dips his quill into the glass and watches as the darkness sinks into the parchment, splattering where it drips from the chewed tip. His lines come out jagged and askew, stretching his already questionable handwriting to something almost unrecognisable as words.

Malfoy tsks at him when he asks the blond to check over his essay, yet his eyes rove over the paper with efficiency and understanding. He’s not quite sure why Malfoy being able to read his handwriting so well makes him feel weird inside, so he ignores the restlessness of his fingertips, nails that after years of biting having grown out long enough to dig into his palms when he clenches his hands.

It feels almost poetic that Malfoy is the cause of the crescent-shaped indents left in his skin in more ways than one, but he doesn’t know what to make of that thought. He relishes in the redness left behind anyway, like Malfoy is leaving his own mark on Harry. Like he’s standing there behind him with hands on his shoulders, and he’s whispering that Harry had always been wrapped around his finger anyway, so it only makes sense he can control him like this too.

“What the fuck?” Malfoy mutters to himself. “Is this even in English, Potter?” He holds the parchment aloft, reading off it with furrowed eyebrows. “What in Circe’s name does that mean?”

Harry snorts. “Is that actually what it says?” He leans forward, grabbing Malfoy’s shoulder to steady himself as he squints at the writing. It probably says something that he struggles to read his own penmanship, but he chooses to not think about it.

He scans the lines until he finds the one Malfoy was mentioning and… yep. He reaches out to take the paper back, but Malfoy swats his hands away. “I’m not done looking it over. You’d be delusional to think that was the limit of your ineptitude.”

Groaning, Harry puts his head in his hands. “Is it really that terrible?” He wrote most of it this morning in bed, running on only a few hours of sleep, because Seamus and Dean decided it was the perfect night to have the loudest exploding snap competition physically possible.

Malfoy pauses, and Harry peeks up at him through the gaps between his fingers. “Well… It’s not complete shite. You’ve gotten better.”

“Wow,” Harry says dully. “You truly are a flatterer. ‘It’s not complete shite.’ I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He only gets a shove to the shoulder and a pair of narrowed eyes in response as Malfoy turns back to finish checking over the essay. Harry just snickers, leaning his head on his hand to watch the blond read.

It’s not long until he gets it back; a few bits of feedback on places to expand his explanations or places where his reasoning is faulty. He’s not too displeased at the criticism, it’s more constructive than anything Hermione would have done. And the grin he gets when he adjusts his work accordingly makes it worth all the effort.

What was he even trying to say there? Mmmm , he glances back and forth between the preceding sentences and the jumble of words that Malfoy had pointed out. Remind him to never write essays before breakfast ever again.

Malfoy looks over at him and scoffs. "Seriously, Potter? You're insufferable."

He pouts, pulling his quill from where he was worrying it between his teeth. "What?" He asks indignantly. He was just sitting there; what could he have possibly done wrong this time?

"You– Ugh, you have ink," he gestures vaguely at Harry's face, "right there."

Harry looks down at his quill, frowning at the now dull tip with ink still glistening on it. He licks his lips, the bitter taste coating his tongue as he cringes. He really needs to stop doing that, but he always forgets.

Still scowling, Malfoy shakes his head and Harry tries again, this time wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Only a light bit of moisture comes off, and he’s beginning to believe Malfoy was lying. Although that makes no sense, what would he get out of lying other than watching Harry make a fool of himself?

Or, well, he supposes that’s a valid reason for Malfoy, it always was before. Glancing upward, Harry is startled by how close Malfoy’s hand is, and for a moment he thinks Malfoy might hit him. But then, soft as a feather, he’s taking hold of Harry’s chin, his thumb reaching to brush under the curve of his lips.

Slightly dumbfounded, his eyes drift to the blond’s face, his own lip being worried between ivory white teeth. A small disgruntled sound escapes them, and then his tongue is poking out, wetting the tip of his thumb before it returns to Harry’s face, clearing the smudge of ink from his skin.

Malfoy’s thumb lingers on Harry’s chin for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and then he withdraws his hand, the warmth of his touch still lingering on Harry’s skin. Harry has to blink several times to be sure he’s seeing right, and even once he does, he’s still slightly tempted to pinch himself. “Thanks,” Harry mumbles, resisting the urge to trace the pathway Malfoy’s fingers took with his own.

Malfoy’s eyes dart between Harry’s face and his own hand like he’s only just realised his actions. Harry expects him to pull away, to close in on himself like he does at any sign of vulnerability, but he doesn’t. Malfoy blushes, settling back on his heels with only a shrug.

Harry clears his throat, hesitant to tear his eyes away from Malfoy’s face lest he miss something. Malfoy looks away first, and even still Harry finds himself staring longer, not feeling the least bit embarrassed when Malfoy glances back and grey meets green once again.

“Stop,” Malfoy complains weakly, lacking any sort of conviction. Harry feels an odd sort of smile form on his face, unsure and unashamed, the usual heat accompanying it. He must be red, but so is Malfoy, which happens more and more often these days.

He feels like he’s seeing something new from Malfoy each time they meet, which really must be impossible, yet it’s true nonetheless. Somewhere along the line, Harry’s not exactly sure where, they became genuinely… friendly.

Which feels a little absurd, or at least it would if anyone had told Harry the beginning of this year. But, now, to be anything less would be unthinkable. When did Draco Malfoy become such a staple in his life? Or more importantly, when wasn’t he?

Harry doesn’t know the answer to either of those questions. He’s not sure he wants to. He thinks putting a date to it, or classifying every interaction would spoil it. It’s not fragile, per se, but tender. A minor wound that never had the chance to heal properly, an injury that only aches when a storm is coming.

Malfoy shakes his head, turning back to his own work. Not that Harry really registers it. Which, if Harry was focused enough on the present, would send him on another mental spiral.

It’s so insignificant, really, that Malfoy does small things like that. Noticing when he’s zoned out, not minding. Used to his endless fidgeting, still so committed to helping Harry stop biting his nails. So proud that it’s working.

Harry’s stomach still does a little twirl every time Malfoy takes his hands. He’s become rather accustomed to the way it feels like there is nowhere else they’d fit better. Besides maybe intertwined rather than loosely draped over each other.

Not that Harry has held many people’s hands, but unlike the other Gryffindors, he doesn’t really want to. Especially with the ball coming up soon, most of the boys seem preoccupied with finding the prettiest date, or ogling over the Beauxbatons girls and Fleur’s distinctly veela-like charm.

And not that Harry can’t see the appeal. He’s held Hermione’s hand a few times before, although out of necessity or convenience rather than romantic inclination. But if he looks at it objectively, there was a sort of comfort to the experience; she has soft hands, smaller than his.

He and Ron have held hands maybe once or twice. Ron’s hands are much larger and rougher, but Ron is also much taller. He runs quite warm, and his hands are frequently clammy, although maybe that was more so a situational thing rather than just his permanent state.

But Malfoy’s hands are a sort of happy medium. A similar size to Harry’s, though his fingers are longer and slimmer, elegant in a way Harry isn't. He’s not cold, but not overly warm, either. His hands are soft, yet with callouses that match Harry’s own. Even though there’s no quidditch season this year, they’re still present in a way that implies he still gets his hands on his broomstick anyhow.

Harry sighs loudly, letting his eyes fall back onto his paper. He needs to stop letting his mind wander. It does him no good to linger on self-indulgent, long-winded rants in his head when he needs to be editing his essay. If only he could drone on about magical theory the same way he could about Malfoy.

He taps his quill against the paper a few times. How bad would it really be to just… not do it? He entertains the thought for a long moment, but he doesn’t feel like getting turned into an inanimate object, so overall, not a good idea.

Harry has been under more pressure than ever to get a date to the ball, and Ron’s anxious remarks about what girls might be free are getting under Hermione’s skin too, which is never good. 

He’s been sneaking away from them more often these days. Hermione is incorrigible when she’s irritated, and Ron never knows when to just stop talking . So, once again, the safety of the hallway has become a reprieve rather than just simply a fun place to be.

Malfoy isn’t even there most of the time Harry is, which is fine. Harry doubts Malfoy even knows how much time he has been spending here. Plus, Harry imagines Malfoy has friends who don’t drive him up the wall every time they’re in the same room as each other.

Maybe Harry should just get it over with and bribe some poor girl to go to the ball with him. He really only needs her for one dance so people can get their pictures and he can get out of there. Plus, being a champion, it really can’t be that bad for anyone to be seen with him. Although, it leaves a sour taste in his mouth to be likened to an accessory.

He may be a terrible dancer, but he surely can’t be that bad that no girl would want to suffer through one dance with him. Right? Besides, how would they know he can’t dance?

Malfoy sets his book down, not bothering to mark his place. Harry can’t tell if he simply wasn’t reading it or just chooses to remember the page numbers every time. He reads nearly as much as Hermione, which is an absurd amount, so Harry is inclined to believe the latter, even if it is a bit off-putting.

“Something on your mind?” Malfoy asks eventually, his fingers tapping out a sequence against the hardcover of his book.

Well, yes , Harry thinks, but one is far stupider than the other . He chooses to keep his mundane observation and speculation to himself, opting for the, while weighty, easier option. “Just the ball,” he answers, as if it’s something that can be classified as just .

Nodding, Malfoy’s tapping fingers pause as he considers Harry’s response for a minute before he hums. “Yeah?” he says, less of a question and more of an offering for Harry to continue, or to brush it off and move on.

“Yeah,” Harry echoes, his gaze drifting down the hallway. He considers leaving it at that, but ultimately decides against it. With a nonchalant shrug, he tries to seem more casual about it than he feels. “I just wish I didn’t have to ask out some random girl.”

Malfoy snorts, but from the look on his face, Harry can tell that it’s not at him, and rather preemptive to a joke he’s going to make. Because Malfoy laughs at his own jokes, which is more endearing than it has any right to be. “Who else would you go with? Weasley?” 

And, yep, he looks far too proud of himself for that one. Harry can’t help but smile. Then he sighs wistfully, his attention shifting to the ceiling. “Sounds like a better idea than someone who would see me as a champion rather than just… Harry.”

Malfoy’s eyes are glued to his shoes when Harry gathers the courage to steal a glance over at him. Just before Malfoy looks up, Harry’s gaze flits away. “I don’t know,” Harry continues when Malfoy stays silent, a nervous chuckle clawing its way out of his throat. “You?” It’s meant as a joke, though it comes out far more genuine than he intended, and he almost chokes on his sharp inhale after.

Very slowly, Malfoy turns to look at him. Really look at him. Harry isn’t sure if a lack of anger or shock or anything tangible in response is a good or a bad thing. He swallows nervously.

“But I’m going with Pansy,” Malfoy says eventually, not a rejection, just a statement.

Harry blinks rapidly, both processing and trying to dispel the threat of tears. He doesn’t know why he feels like crying; nothing happened. “Right.” His voice breaks. Malfoy doesn’t react.

Malfoy is still looking at him. Harry thinks this is what it feels like to be dissected, to have eyes boring so intently into his skin, determined to knowing him from the inside out. His insides are laid bare under Malfoy’s scrutiny. It’s borderline nauseating.

“For the record, going with you…” Harry jumps when Malfoy speaks up again. He wasn’t sure he was ever going to. He braces himself for the worst. “I would. Hypothetically.”

It’s terse, the most minimal non-confession ever, and purely hypothetical, but Harry understands. He thinks he might never recover. “Really?” A part of him hopes Malfoy might repeat it, just because he wants to hear it again. “But… Pansy is your best mate.” Which really isn’t what he means to say, but he hopes Malfoy understands.

There’s something unreadable in Malfoy’s expression, a set to his eyes that Harry has seen before but hasn’t been able to pinpoint, to put a name to. “And you’re Harry.” His voice is soft, and it’s the most perfect thing Harry has ever heard.

“Oh,” Harry breathes out before he can stop himself, caught off guard by the sincerity in Malfoy’s tone. His mind is racing. He’s never heard Malfoy say his name without a sneer on his face. He thinks he likes this change far too much. His name was made for Malfoy to say. “Not Potter?”

Malfoy shakes his head wordlessly, thumb absently tracing the cover of his book. “Just Harry,” Malfoy repeats, his eyes meeting Harry’s with an intensity that leaves Harry breathless. 

Oh.