Archive of Our Own

Prologue

Harry moved carefully thought the dark cottage, stepping over Ron as he headed for the door. He watched to ensure that he didn’t disturb anyone as he silently slid back the bolt and lifted the latch before disappearing into the night. Out of the cottage, his nose filled immediately with the smell of the sea and he breathed deeply. Harry was beyond grateful that Bill and Fleur had been willing to provide them with somewhere to recover after the ordeal at the Manor, but he’d been on the run for a year now. Sleeping through the night without the need to get up and take his turn on guard was going to be a difficult habit to break.

The sand was cool under his feet as he made his way down the beach, sinking slightly with each step and fighting to keep his balance. Eventually the fight became too much for him and he sank down to sit cross-legged in the sand, looking out at the waves that crashed relentlessly into the shore. More out of habit than out of hope, Harry withdrew the handkerchief from his pocket and removed the moleskin pouch from around his neck. He had studied the four items he drew out so thoroughly that he knew every flaw, every mark. There was really no need to continue this night-time ritual but it had become familiar, and anything familiar had the potential to be comforting at the moment.

As always, the empty remnants of the locket came first. Harry lifted it into his hands, feeling the weight of the chain as it hung over the edge of his hand. Slowly, he ran his fingers over the engraving on the outside, over the sharp twisted metal of the back from where they had ripped Riddle’s soul. Within the next few days, all being well, they would have another Horcrux shell and they would be another step closer bringing this darkness to an end. But what could the other one be? They were no closer to figuring it out and, without the final link, the whole cycle could begin again. Realistically, there was no way they could even begin to speculate on what the last Horcrux could be until they’d searched Bellatrix’s vault and, with that in mind, Harry replaced the locket on the bag and picked up the mirror.

The sliver of mirror was empty at the moment, reflecting nothing except his own tired eyes and the myriad stars of the clear April night. Not two days ago, however, the bright blue eye had sent help, had pulled them from the dungeon of Malfoy Manor. When Dobby had first shown up Harry had thought he might be able to finally put this mystery to bed. They would get out of the Manor and then Harry would ask the elf who had sent him. Instead, Dobby had died, sacrificing his life for his friends as so many had done before him.

Harry dropped the mirror back to the fabric, as if suddenly burnt by it, and reluctantly took up the Snitch. He pressed the cool metal to his lips and watched as the fine script of Dumbledore’s message appeared. He kept telling himself that he didn’t know what that message meant, that it was just one more mystery to be figured out and pondered over, but the truth? That was something different. Deep down, he knew that he wasn’t taking out the Snitch to try and figure it out anymore. He was taking out the Snitch to prepare himself. There could be only one meaning for those words and Harry had known it for a long time now.

Harry stared at the words for a long time, watching as they faded back to smooth metal and then bringing the ball back to his lips until the words were etched clearly again. Rather than returning it to the bag, he drew out his wand and tapped the Snitch, causing it to extend its wings and flutter in the air next to him. Holding the wand between his fingers, he turned it slowly, considering the patterns in the grain of the wood. The hawthorn was truly beautiful, rippling with numerous warm golden shades and Harry spent a good few minutes turning the wand this way and that, allowing the moonlight to reflect off its shiny surface.

This wand felt right in his hand. No wand had felt as comfortable as this since his own, like it was an extension of his arm. If he concentrated, he could feel the magic moving through him, working with the wand. He glanced down at the broken shards of his own wand. He’d tried to repair it numerous times, of course, but nothing had ever been achieved. The last wand he’d tried had actually left a nasty acrid smell in the air and so, fearing that he might do more harm than good, Harry had given up. This wand, however—Draco’s wand—felt like it might actually stand a chance.

Harry took a moment to focus, thinking hard of the spell and imagining his wand whole once more. He cast the spell and felt a swoop of elation as the pieces flew back together. He lifted his wand reverently and looked it over, taking time to notice that no cracks were visible on its smooth, pale surface. Eagerly, he cast the first spell he could think of, watching in delight as the now-inert Snitch fell onto the handkerchief on the sand. Immediately, the joy turned cold as his wand began to feel like it was made of several pencils, precariously stacked atop one another. An Aguamenti later, the holly wand fell back into its separate pieces but Harry was not despondent. This was the closest he had ever come to repairing his wand. Maybe, if he just focused a little harder...

A thin band of pale sky was just beginning to make itself visible on the eastern horizon when, reluctantly, Harry put the items back into the moleskin bag around his neck before shoving Draco’s wand into the waistband of his jeans and hauling himself to his feet. His wand still wasn’t fixed but he had a control and a focus with Draco’s wand that gave him hope. There was always tomorrow night, after all.

Two Wands Make a Right

‘For heaven’s sake, Mr Potter, will you please pay attention?” The harsh Scottish tones break Harry out of what he is certain must have been an extremely gormless moment and he blinks stupidly as he turns to look into the exasperated face of Professor McGonagall.

‘Your cup, please, Mr Potter,’ she asks and Harry winces slightly at the disapproving eyebrow. Sucking in a deep breath, he focuses hard on making a cup where there was previously nothing at all and wishes that he had paid attention to whatever it was that McGonagall had been saying whilst his attention had been drifting. He is surprised, therefore, when a rich blue, delicately curved tea cup and saucer rattle into existence as though he’d always know how to do it. He isn’t the only one who is surprised and McGonagall reaches out for the small cup and turns it upside down, inspecting the bottom.

‘Well, well... Denby,’ she remarks knowledgably before replacing the cup carefully on its saucer and moving on to the next table. ‘Good work, Mr Potter,’ she adds without glancing back.

Harry grins, delighted with himself. He’s certain Hermione won’t be as pleased for him however; she hates it when people do well without working for it. He looks across at his friend and, sure enough, she is staring at Harry’s cup with a frown. It’s not one of her disapproving frowns, however; disapproving frown are always accompanied by thin lips which Harry has often suspected are the result of Hermione having to bite back an admonishment. No, this time her mouth is twisted into a little moue of confusion.  That is Hermione’s ‘trying to figure something out’ frown. Harry watches as her eyes flit across the other students’ work before coming to rest on one particular offering and flicking straight back to Harry’s own.

Harry copies her and looks around at the various efforts of his classmates. There are various teacups on the desks: pink ones, yellow ones, willow patterned ones; there are even a few mugs dotted about. Hermione’s own tea cup has delicate ivy leaves trailing around the brim. The main point is that no two are the same, with one major exception. There on the other side of the room is a dark blue, curved cup, identical to Harry’s own and, standing right behind it, is Draco Malfoy.

‘Look, I’m not going to deny it’s a little odd,’ Harry relents as they march across the grounds towards the greenhouses. The wind is strong, tearing the dry autumn leaves from the trees and whipping at Hermione’s long hair and blowing it into Harry’s face. Irritated, he flaps at it, attempting to push it away. Hermione doesn’t seem to notice, and of course she doesn’t, she has gotten a hold of this cup issue and the small matter of her hair trying to suffocate Harry is insignificant.

‘Oh, come on, Harry, you have to admit this is more than a little odd,’ Hermione insists and Harry catches Ron’s eye, hoping that his mate will step in. Ron only offers a sympathetic smile and a shrug. He knows which side his bread is buttered on. Reluctantly, Harry tries again to bring the discussion to a close.

‘I really don’t see how it’s anything special, ’Mione.’

Hermione shoots him one of her patented looks, the one she usually saves for when she believes him to be being particularly obtuse. She takes a deep breath.

‘Do you have any idea of the improbability of you and Malfoy conjuring the exact same cup? It’s almost infinite. When someone says to you, “think of a cup” we’re all going to think of something different, we will think of the cups we have used, cups our parents have, cups we loved, cups we hated, cups in the media...’

‘The word ‘cup’ is starting to lose all meaning,’ Ron mutters under his breath and Harry nods, trying not to draw Hermione’s attention; the sooner she gets this off her chest, the better.

‘The chance of you and Malfoy having exactly the same references to draw upon and those references having identical significance to both of you is just impossible,’ Hermione continues, taking a moment to throw a sharp look at Ron. ‘If nothing else, the cups should have been different colours, but I looked at it when I took mine up to McGonagall and they were identical, Harry.’

Harry feels a prickle run down his spine and he turns to look over at where Malfoy is rooting around in his bag, looking for what Harry can only assume is an escaped dragonhide glove, based on the presence of the solitary glove on the table in front of him. He would be lying if he said that he hadn’t really paid Malfoy much attention this term. Not that Malfoy is trying to attract attention. He is quiet and withdrawn, spending almost all of his time on his own. Not that there are many other Slytherins who have returned for eighth year. Some, like Goyle, are serving sentences in Azkaban. Others, like Pansy Parkinson, have just decided not to return, probably thinking that they have made too many enemies.

The Slytherin eighth year now consists of just four students and, rather than banding together for solidarity, they all seem content to live isolated existences and just get through the year and Harry can’t help but feel a little bad for them.

‘I wonder... you know, I’ve heard of a spell that leeches magical energy.’

Harry realises that Hermione is still talking and drags his eyes away from Draco.

‘I’m sorry, what?’ Harry asks, unsure how far she’s managed to take this conversation without him.

She rolls her eyes, too used to his and Ron’s tendency to zone out to be anything other than exasperated that she’s spent the last five minutes talking to herself.

‘I was saying, I wonder if he’s hexed you? I’ve heard about this spell that leeches magical energy and...’

‘No,’ Harry practically barks and Hermione looks at him, surprised. To be honest, he can’t blame her; he has surprised himself with his vehemence. Something about that idea doesn’t sit right with him, though. He just can’t think of Draco wanting to hex him, even if he has spent the past seven years doing exactly that at any given opportunity. He can’t tell that to Hermione and Ron, though, not without looking like a total weirdo. Quickly, he casts around for some other reason to dismiss the idea.

‘I mean, no, he can’t be stealing my magical energy, I’d feel it wouldn’t I?’ he asks as reasonably as he can. ‘Plus, I’d be having difficulty doing spells and stuff, wouldn’t I?’

Hermione’s shoulders droop a little, obviously defeated, and Harry is quietly impressed with himself.

‘Oooh, what about this...?’ she begins, but thankfully, Harry is saved from having to come up with another excuse for why Draco Malfoy isn’t cursing him by Professor Sprout who marches into the greenhouse and calls the class to order.

**~*~**

The sunlight streams in through the high windows as Harry settles himself at his favourite table in the library, the one that has a good view of the door and ... other things. It might have taken him seven years but finally Harry understands why Hermione loves this place so much. In the hush, the rustling of pages and scratching of quills echo in the vaulted ceilings, creating such a calming atmosphere that Harry has been tempted to sleep here on occasion. Then there is the knowledge that you can find anything you want here. Harry smiles, flicking through ‘collectable china’ and scanning the glossy pictures of cups and saucers.

Hermione would be proud of him for researching his cup, he thinks. Not that she’s likely to find out about it. She and Ron have obviously worked out somewhere else to do their homework and, whilst Harry knows it isn’t that they don’t want him around, he knows that they deserve some time to themselves, time to figure out who they are and what they want from each other. Besides, since they returned to Hogwarts, whenever Harry is with them both he feels wrong somehow, incomplete, like he’s missing something and he supposes he is. He’s missing the feeling of balance that used to exist between them.

He flicks absently through a few more pages, not really looking at them as his gaze keeps travelling to the door. He wasn’t going to admit it to Hermione (showing interest in something like this is not the way to ensure a quiet life), but he’s actually quite interested in the cup or, at least, what the cup could possibly mean for another objective he’s trying to achieve. Since the beginning of term he has been trying to have a conversation with Draco Malfoy.

He needs closure; at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself. Somewhere at the back of his mind he thinks there might be something more to it, but he tries as hard as possible to ignore that feeling and concentrate on what he can understand, and that is a desire to get it all out, to understand what made Malfoy change his mind, and then to put it all behind them and move on. That is all he’s been trying to do. Unfortunately, Malfoy, being Malfoy, has been making this as difficult as possible.

To be fair to him, the first time he tried to talk to him Harry couldn’t blame him for running quickly in the other direction. On reflection, Harry had practically bounded up to him like an over enthusiastic Labrador and the look of panic on Malfoy’s face had made the words catch in his throat and wiped his mind blank. In the end, all he could manage was a lame, ‘How was your summer?’

Malfoy had simply looked at Harry as if he had completely lost his mind and slipped into the classroom. Harry can still vividly recall how his face had heated under Malfoy’s incredulous gaze and how he had wanted nothing more than the floor to open and swallow him whole. Thankfully, Slughorn had ushered them into the classroom before Draco had chance to verbally rip him to shreds. After all, what had Harry expected Malfoy to say?

‘Oh, yes, Potter, my summer was delightful; my father’s cell in Azkaban is the perfect place to go during the summer months for some sun and relaxation.’ Actually, that sounded a lot like the sort of thing Malfoy would say, each word dripping with scathing sarcasm as he threw Harry’s clumsy attempts to make friends back in his face. At least that’s what the old Malfoy would have done, the pre-war Malfoy. This Malfoy had just looked like he wanted to run a mile.

It wasn’t the last time he’d fled when Harry had tried to talk to him, either, and the second time had been barely less awkward than the first. In a weird, stalkery moment Harry had, in a moment of genius, decided that the best thing to do would be to hang around outside the Great Hall after dinner to try and speak to him. Unfortunately, Malfoy had walked out of dinner without even seeing Harry and, in a moment of panic that his plan was going awry, Harry had called out the first thing that had come into his head. It turns out that the phrase, ‘What did you think of the soup tonight?’ could, if said out of the blue, sound both creepy and slightly threatening. To Malfoy’s credit, he had just raised an eyebrow, politely informed Harry that he hadn’t had the soup and so couldn’t comment and walked away quickly and without looking back. For that, at least, Harry was thankful.

Not that Harry was the only one making things weird between them; Malfoy had managed it, too. The last time Harry had tried to approach him he’d remained calm and had planned in advance what he was going to say. He’d spotted Malfoy returning from the Quidditch pitch just as he was heading out. 

‘Good practice, Malfoy?’ he asked, finally pleased to have managed to say something that was neither insulting nor creepy. A hunted look had immediately crossed Malfoy’s face, but he had answered, at least, and politely at that.

 The ‘Yes, thank you, Potter,’ had buoyed Harry’s spirits immeasurably and Harry was all ready with a second question:

‘What’s that wind like?' Harry had asked, a little louder than he meant to but still, considering the previous issues that had befallen his attempts, he was doing pretty well.

‘It’s not bad,’ Draco had muttered with a frown. The situation had obviously made him uncomfortable because before Harry could follow up with another question, Draco had rushed to interrupt.

‘Sorry, Potter, can’t stay and chat, I have to ...’ he’d paused, clearly casting around for a good excuse and failing, ‘polish my broom,’ he’d finished lamely.

It had been Harry’s turn to raise an eyebrow as Draco’s pale skin had flushed pink and he had spun on his heel and rushed away. Feeling both amused and disappointed, Harry had continued on to the pitch but, as he had mounted his broom, he’d looked back after Malfoy and had seen him leaning heavily against the changing room wall, looking down at his broom and shaking his head in disbelief. Harry had known how he’d felt.

This time it will be different, Harry tells himself as he gives up pretending to look at the book and just watches the door for Malfoy. This time he has the cup, a perfect conversation starter, if only he can figure out a way to bring it up without sounding like a complete fucking idiot. A flash of blonde catches Harry’s eye and there he is, pushing his way through the doors and heading straight to his usual table, the one Harry has a surprisingly good view of from his current seat. Harry now has two hours to come up with a plan of action for his next approach before Madame Pince turfs them all out.

‘So, Malfoy, did you notice in Transfiguration today we made the same cup?’ Harry mutters under his breath, trying out his opening gambit just to see how it sounds. Ridiculous is how it sounds. People just don’t talk like that. How about, ‘Malfoy, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about these cups.’ Merlin, he sounds certifiable. Harry allows his head to fall to the desk with an audible thump. Surely it shouldn’t be this hard; he defeated the Evil One himself for crying out loud, he should be able to start a conversation with someone he finds... with someone.

When he looks up again, Malfoy is looking right at him with a curious expression on his face and Harry feels his stomach squirm and his face heat. He has no choice but to brazen it out, to meet Malfoy’s gaze. It feels like hours that they sit there, staring intently at each other, but Harry knows that in reality it’s probably only a couple of seconds. Eventually, Malfoy seems to pull himself together and looks back to his work with a slightly disbelieving shake of his head. Harry just continues to stare. First he stares at the at the ink spot on his collar; it’s odd, in his mind, that Malfoy is anything other that perfectly turned out. Also, purple ink. He doesn’t know why he is surprised by Malfoy’s choice of ink colour but for some reason, he is. Other that the stain, Malfoy’s shirt is crisp and white, as though brand new, and it lies against the creamy, pale skin of his throat, skin that looks so smooth that Harry can’t even fathom... how does he get his skin looking like that? Harry ponders, reaching up to feel the drag of stubble that covers his own throat and chin. It must be a charm, he concludes immediately. Something his father taught him, no doubt; in any case, he can’t see Malfoy relying on shaving cream and nasty plastic razors.

‘Miss Jordan, if you cannot be quiet you will have to leave my library at once,’ Madam Pince insists, cutting into Harry’s daydream as she scolds the group of second-year girls who had been having a fevered, whispered conversation not moments before.

Feeling his face heat once more, Harry quickly looks away before he is caught staring at Draco Malfoy with what he is certain must be a very dreamy look on his face. He looks blankly at the book in front of him, unsure for a moment why he has a book on Muggle pottery, before he remembers that he had actually come to the library with a purpose. He was supposed to be trying to avoid making an idiot of himself in front of Malfoy.

‘Well,’ he mutters under his breath, ‘you’re doing a stellar job so far.’

Madam Pince throws him a stern glance that clearly says, ‘Don’t you start,’ and Harry picks up his quill and begins scribbling on a scrap of parchment until she turns her back and walks away. If there is one person who doesn’t care that that he destroyed Riddle, it’s the humourless librarian.

Idly he doodles a Snitch on the scrap of parchment before trying to force his wandering attention back to the job at hand. Taking unnecessary care, he inks the words ‘What would Hermione do?’ on his paper and puts down his quill. Truth be told, Hermione probably wouldn’t obsessively try to start a conversation with Draco Malfoy. If pushed she would, of course, get it right the first time because she’s Hermione, and Malfoy, of course, wouldn’t run away because Hermione is tenacious and what would be the point? She’d get him sooner or later.

Not that any of this relates to the blasted cup and how to start a conversation about it. ‘How would she do that?’ Harry mutters, forgetting to be quiet. She’d do it with information, he thinks and immediately her voice is in his head.

‘Did you know that Denby is a very well established pottery company?  It’s almost 190 years since it was founded.’

Yeah, Harry thinks, very helpful. That kind of approach is just going to result in Malfoy looking at him like he’s lost his mind – again!

The Ron in Harry’s head doesn’t turn out to be any more helpful with his firm backslap and overly loud, ‘So, about these cups?’

With a heavy sigh, Harry pushes back his chair and goes to return the book to its rightful place. Maybe the cup isn’t going to be the saving grace after all.

**~*~**

Harry is relieved, and not a little surprised, that Hermione doesn’t choose to bring up the cups again. At breakfast the following day she talks enthusiastically about the Potions project they are working on. The group project to create a potion has been quite interesting by the standards of that class. Slughorn has grouped them into fives and has asked them to come up with a brief to explain their idea, to brew it and finally to devise a method of testing it to ensure that no one is permanently altered, injured or killed. 

As they head to the lesson Harry is only half listening to Hermione’s practical, if unexciting, idea about creating a potion to remove the acid from fingertips.

‘It would allow people to handle and use antique texts without gloves,’ she points out eagerly.

Harry just makes a non-committal noise. It’s not going to get the approval of Justin or Hannah so it doesn’t really matter. Even Ron, who usually knows better than to question Hermione’s ideas, is tenuously suggesting that it might get a little tedious if they have to work on it all year.

Harry’s attention drifts and settles on the long strides of someone further down the corridor. Another day, another inconsistency, Harry thinks, as he watches the bit of shirt tail that Malfoy has neglected to tuck in. It’s only when Malfoy turns into the Potions classroom, that Harry realises he has just walked all the way from the Great Hall looking at Malfoy’s arse and he wants nothing more than to give himself a good hard slap in the face. He resists somehow, knowing that it would just draw attention and that is the last thing in the world he wants right now.

Harry manages to focus on their group work long enough to hear Justin’s suggestion of a potion which could be sprayed onto parchment or added to ink to prevent homework being damaged by spilt tea or muddy paw prints, and to hear that suggestion approved. The moment he starts talking about the Impervious Charm and combination spell theory however, Harry’s attention begins to wane. It isn’t that he isn’t interested in what Justin has to say, it’s just that he has long since learned that Justin will usually impart any useful information in the first three sentences and then spend the next forty minutes repeating himself in various different ways and explaining his seemingly bizarre thought patterns.

Unsurprisingly, his attention is drawn to where Malfoy is sitting with Anthony Goldstein, Parvati, Padma and Lavender. He is writing furiously, apparently trying to take notes on their rapid-fire discussion, pausing only occasionally to tuck wayward strands of blonde hair behind his ear and out of the way. The Potions classroom is warm. A hard frost the night before means the fires have been lit for the first time this year and soon the students are shedding jumpers and loosening their ties. Not Draco, of course, and Harry is silently pleased at this little show of propriety. It fits with the Draco he thought he knew. At least, he thinks it does. Actually, now he comes to look at it, there’s something odd about Draco’s tie. It looks... but no, surely not.  Harry squints slightly, trying to make it out and yes, it looks like Malfoy has his tie on backwards, or inside out, or whatever.

The bell, when it sounds, causes Harry to jump slightly and he quickly begins to shove things into his bag, trying to hide the fact that he’d been startled by it. When Harry chances a look back at Malfoy he’s gone, as are the rest of his group, but there, on the floor next to Malfoy’s stool, is his pheasant feather quill. Dashing forward, he snatches it up and bombs out into the hall after him, only vaguely aware of Ron and Hermione’s sounds of surprise.

‘Malfoy,’ he calls, just as the other boy gains the top of the stairs and Malfoy turns, a look of alarm and surprise on his face as he sees Harry running up the stairs towards him.

‘You dropped your quill,’ Harry says in rush, struggling to look nonchalant and not at all like he’s gasping for breath, with a stitch slicing into his ribs.

‘Thank you, Potter,’ Draco says, not entirely managing to hide the look of surprise as he takes the quill from Harry’s outstretched hand. Harry’s stomach does something of a flop as Malfoy’s fingers graze his knuckles.

‘So, how’s your potion going?’ Harry asks, delighted at how normal and reasonable the question sounds. ‘We’ve just managed to figure out what we’re making. I think it’s going to be interesting,’ Harry continues, still surprised at how articulate he sounds.

Draco’s eyes are wide with surprise and he smiles ever so slightly as he assures Harry that their potion is also going well. The grey eyes flick to a spot just over Harry’s shoulder and suddenly the frightened, hunted look is back.

‘Excuse me, Potter, I need to just...’ Harry can see Draco looking around for an escape route when McGonagall appears from a nearby classroom, ‘I have to speak to the professor regarding the homework,’ he insists, before running to catch up with her. Harry sighs. He must have been really desperate to get away to have forgotten that McGonagall didn’t set them any homework.

Moments later, Ron and Hermione are flanking him and watching him watch Malfoy disappear around the corner.

‘I don’t know why you keep bothering with him,’ Ron opines as they head towards the courtyard for morning break. ‘He clearly wants to be left alone.’

Harry wishes it were that easy, though he really cannot say why it isn’t. He’s still pondering this as he draws his wand to cast a warming charm against the lingering frost. The wood is warm to the touch, as if heated from within and, across the courtyard, Harry can see Malfoy emerging though the great oak front doors and looking curiously at his wand.

**~*~**

‘How does your personality affect the spells you cast?’ Flitwick asks, as he walks backwards and forwards in front of the class. ‘Most of us will be aware that, when our emotions are strong, our magic is altered; when we are anxious or frightened, for example, performing intricate spells becomes difficult; the results may be weaker, yet performing spells that will protect can be possessed with a wild strength. Casting an Unforgivable on a friend would, likely as not, result in little more than a nosebleed, yet casting it with hate in your heart can be truly devastating.’

Harry fights the urge to turn and look at Malfoy, seated just two rows behind him. He might be concerned that Malfoy is uncomfortable with the topic, but the reality is that he will be even more uncomfortable if half the class turns to look at him every time someone mentions Unforgivables.

‘The truth is,’ Flitwick continues, after giving the class a moment to digest, ‘that our magic is affected by not only our emotions, but our personalities as well. Two people, both feeling happy, calm and relaxed can cast exactly the same spell, with exactly the same degree of competence and produce varied results. I understand from Professor McGonagall that those of you studying Transfiguration have just begun conjuring? I’m sure that you must have noticed how no two conjured items are exactly the same.’

In unison, Harry and Hermione both sit up a little straighter and Harry finds himself mildly annoyed that Hermione had been right; there is no way that it was a coincidence. 

‘Similarly, if you cast a charm on someone, that someone should be able to feel subtle differences in the magic. This is the spell’s Animus. Now for a little experiment, I will require a volunteer. Mr Longbottom, if you would be so good as to come to the front and stand with your back to the class.’

Neville gets to his feet and Harry smiles. Before the war, Neville would have been petrified about being called on in class like this, now he strides to the front with a confidence Harry couldn’t ever have imagined him possessing. At least something positive came out of the Carrows’ time at Hogwarts, he thinks.

‘Alright there, Neville?’ Flitwick asks and Neville nods his head.

‘Now, you, you, you, you and you,’ Flitwick says, pointing at Ron, Hermione, Draco, Justin and Millicent. ‘I will need you to cast this charm non-verbally, so that Mr Longbottom cannot identify you by your voices. Now using the charm, “Wingardium Leviosa,” I would like each of you to levitate Mr Longbottom for ten seconds and the return him to the ground safely. Mr Longbottom will then describe how each charm feels and we, as a class, will laugh heartily as he describes the elements of your personality,’ he explains, getting appreciative titters from the class. ‘I will cast first as a control, so that Mr Longbottom has something to compare it to and, though it may be tempting to improvise, please cast only Wingardium Leviosa. Simplicity is the key here.’

Without further ado, Flitwick casts the spell that sends Neville climbing gently into the air.

‘Now, I need you to concentrate on how the magic feels,’ he calls and Neville nods from where he is hovering near the ceiling. After ten seconds Fliwick lowers Neville back to the floor and beckons Millicent to the front. Seconds later Neville is soaring into the air again.

According to the test subject, Millicent’s charm feels safe, strong and slightly restrictive and Justin’s makes him feel as though he is bobbing around, like he is being jostled by hundreds of bubbles.

‘It felt like...’ Neville begins and trails off, obviously unsure of his description.

‘Yes, go on,’ Flitwick squeaks, eyes twinkling mischievously.

‘It felt chattery,’ Neville explains, throwing his hands in the air.

The peal of laughter that greets the statement has Neville itching to turn around and look at the rest of the class but he’s prevented by Flitwick who, now standing on his desk, places a hand on his shoulder.

‘I believe your classmates agree with your assessment of Mr Finch-Fletchley’s personality, Mr Longbottom.’

Ron steps forward next and Harry can’t help but smile as Neville describes his best friend’s charm as ‘Eager, but occasionally using losing focus, as if the caster is having difficulty concentrating.’

The most amusing example comes when Hermione steps forward. Neville has barely been in the air a second before he is calling down to Flitwick excitably.

‘I know who this is,’ he insists. ‘It’s precise and steady and feels like it’s trying really hard to be perfect.’ The whole class bursts into laughter and Harry sees that even Malfoy is chuckling softly.

‘Thanks, Hermione,’ Neville calls as Hermione lowers him to the ground.

‘Very astute, Mr Longbottom,’ Flitwick smiles, ‘though a word to the wise, you may wish to wait until you are back on solid ground before giving your analysis, in case the caster takes exception to your comments.’

Finally, Draco takes his turn and Harry watches closely, finding himself eager to discover something new.

‘It felt correct,’ Neville opines, once back on the ground, ‘And it wasn’t unstable, but it felt, I don’t know, kind of lazy, like the caster didn’t have to try.’

Harry laughs along with the rest of the class, but inside he feels let down. He was hoping to learn something about the other Draco, the one he is certain exists under the cool, crisp exterior, but if Neville is right then he’s fooling himself.

So intent is he on moping about this possibility that he almost misses what Flitwick says next.

‘Now, everybody up and into the courtyard, find yourself a partner and stand in two rows facing each other. Right,’ Flitwick calls once they are assembled in the courtyard with Harry opposite Neville. ‘We are going to do exactly the same thing again so that you can all experience what Mr Longbottom did. First, the left hand row will cast, then the right hand row, and then the left hand row will move down one place and then begin again. We have twenty minutes until the bell; that should give you adequate time to get a feel for the difference. Okay and go!’

Without further notice, Harry is unceremoniously hoisted into the air and he tries to separate the mechanics of the spell from the bits of it that are Neville. He is surprised by the force of it but is unsurprised by the simplicity of it. He is simply hanging in the air as if someone has hoicked him up by his armpits, whereas next to him Ron is reclining in the air, as if in a comfortable arm chair. Towards the end of the row, he can see Draco levitating Blaise Zabini and he tries desperately to figure out whether or not Draco will reach him before the bell sounds.

Harry drifts, soars, and is yanked into the air for the next fifteen minutes, each time taking a moment to watch Draco getting closer. Right now he is floating gently under Parvati’s control. Draco is casting on Justin and is just one person away. Harry can feel excitement and apprehension twisting in his stomach.

Millicent is holding him in the air and he feels slightly like he’s in a full body-bind, but it doesn’t matter, because Draco is next and he will be able to feel for himself what his magic is like when it hasn’t been cast in hostility.

Draco steps in front of him finally and, as they look into each other’s faces, Harry can see all the nervous apprehension reflected back at him. Draco raises his wand to cast and Harry cannot help but close his eyes, ready to focus solely on the feeling of Draco Malfoy’s magic, but the weightless, soaring sensation never comes because a bell sounds from within the school and with that the class is over.

**~*~**

‘Wasn’t Charms interesting today?’ Hermione asks pointedly as they sit in the Great Hall for dinner. Inwardly, Harry groans; he should have known her silence on a matter as intriguing as the identical cups wouldn’t hold for long.

‘I thought it was particularly interesting what he was saying about things that are conjured,’ she continues and Harry has to fight not to roll his eyes.

‘Mmm,’ he mutters, determined not to let her know he’s interested. This thing, whatever it is, is awkward enough without Hermione getting involved. Not that he doesn’t appreciate her help; most of the time he’s willing, if not eager, to go to her for advice and guidance on any number of subjects, just not this. He is not going to her about Draco.

Eventually Hermione, who has clearly been waiting impatiently, tuts in disgust at Harry’s apparent lack of curiosity and interest and launches into a conversation with Ginny, who is sitting on her other side. Catching his eye, Ron shoots him a sympathetic look and Harry smiles before tucking back into his chicken pie.

He's managed two mouthfuls when a prickling on the back of his neck makes him look up. He knows almost certainly that Draco had been the one staring at him only moments before. There is something about the way he is looking studiously at his empty plate with a delicate flush colouring his cheeks that tells Harry he only just looked away in time to avoid being caught. After all, it’s happened to him often enough.

Over the next week he catches Draco looking at him only twice, but he’s pretty certain he’s felt him looking a lot more. At meal times, in classes, in the library, so often in fact that Harry is surprised that Draco is able to keep up with his homework. A small part of him thinks about confronting Draco and asking him to stop; he’s finding the whole thing a little unsettling and very distracting.

Every time he thinks of confronting Draco, however, something his primary school teacher once said pops into his head. Every morning, before lessons began, they would sit on the floor and say their prayers. He can still hear the grumpy old nun telling them to put their hands together and close their eyes. To this day he doesn’t know how that was supposed to help and a few times he had kept his eyes open, just to see if it would make any difference. On one occasion, Miriam Stoker, a know-it-all blonde girl, had put her hand in the air the moment the prayer had finished and said in her smuggest voice, ‘Sister Evangeline, Harry Potter had his eyes open.’

‘Miss Stoker,’ the sister had said with a heavy sigh, ‘in order to tell me this, your eyes must also have been open and if there is one thing the Lord can’t abide it’s a hypocrite. You will stay after class and write “hypocrisy is a sin” fifty times,’ she had informed the thunderstruck girl before giving Harry a secret smile and telling them to get their spelling books out.

The truth of the matter is that Draco might be staring at the back of Harry’s head during class, but Harry has been practically stalking Draco since the first week of term. He tries to tell himself that it isn’t his fault, that events conspired against him, and this is partly true. It’s not his fault that he is often awake in the middle of the night. During his year on the run Harry had insisted on the middle watch, wanting Ron and Hermione to be able to get six hours of uninterrupted sleep. So, he would go to bed early, get up at one, watch until four and go back to bed when Hermione relieved him. He knows he isn’t the only one who has kept the odd sleeping patterns, either. Hermione frequently appears in the common room at four in the morning, just as Harry is taking himself back to bed for another couple of hours sleep before dawn. When they meet they don’t speak, sharing only a smile and a memory.

During the sleepless hours, Harry watches the map. It’s what he’s always done in the middle of the night because there is always somebody else awake and the silence doesn’t seem so deafening if he knows someone else is awake, too. He watches as Filch sporadically patrols the corridors, his mardy cat at his side. He watches Hagrid slip into the Forbidden Forest to spend time with Grawp. Of course, Sinistra is always up on the astronomy tower with whichever class is unfortunate enough to be subjected to the late night double period. Michael Corner likes to take secret two am trips to the prefect’s bathroom, something that always makes Harry think of dragons and eggs and Merpeople. McGonagall sits in her office till all hours of the morning doing Merlin-knows-what. Harry has taken the occasional invisible stroll along that corridor, just to be near another conscious person and, when he does, he always hears the tinny sound of Celestina Warbeck’s voice spilling from a wizarding wireless.

All these people moving around the castle after dark and Harry watches them all, but one always catches his attention. Draco Malfoy seems to like to spend the long hours before dawn in the owlery and this is what Harry finds himself watching more often than not. A few times he has thought of following him up there, of trying to find out what he does in that cold, draughty tower but Harry can’t bring himself to do it. He doesn’t want to spy on Draco; he doesn’t want to watch from the shadows anymore. He wants to talk to him; he wants to be his friend.

**~*~**

Harry waits patiently for the next Charms class, hoping that they will simply pick up where they left off, but Flitwick is obviously happy that they have had enough experience and moves on to the dry theory side, leaving Harry irritable and frustrated.

He can’t keep doing this; he can’t keep waiting for fate to throw them together. Fate has called enough of the shots in his life already. He needs to do something assertive, something bold, something...Gryffindor.

That night, when he rises, rather than just slinking downstairs in his pyjamas, he dresses, pulls out the map and his father’s cloak and slips out of the common room.

Anxiously, he checks the map, hoping that Draco hasn’t chosen tonight to get a solid eight hours. No, he’s there, trailing slowly around the edge of the owlery and, with a renewed sense of purpose, Harry head into the hushed halls of Hogwarts.

As he begins to climb the stone steps leading to the owlery, Harry becomes very aware of the sound of his shoes scuffing against the stone. He takes a quick glance at the map. Filch is busy over at the other end of the school but sure enough the little dot labelled ‘Draco Malfoy’ has stopped moving around and is instead waiting by the door, no doubt listening for sounds of footsteps. As eighth-years and with every one of them of age, they no longer have a curfew to adhere to, but that doesn’t mean that midnight showdowns with Filch are any more welcome. The misanthropic caretaker hates all the students, no matter how old they are, and most of the teachers, too.

Immediately, Harry thinks about calling out to Draco to let him know that he doesn’t have to worry, but the way Draco has been acting when confronted with him recently, Harry can’t be certain that an imminent Harry Potter is going to be any better than an imminent Filch. Unable to come up with a way of making the situation better for Draco as he waits uncertainly at the top of the steps, Harry begins to climb faster, taking the steps two at a time and pulling off his cloak as he ascends. When he finally steps into the doorway of the small, round room, Draco just stares.

Seconds stretch out as Draco stares at Harry, clenched fists and set jaw confirming Harry’s theory that he has been standing here, waiting for a showdown. Harry shifts awkwardly under Draco’s disbelieving stare but still Draco says nothing. Finally, for fear that the rising sun will find them still in this tense position, Harry opts to end the silence.

‘Evening, Draco!’ he says and immediately he has to bite back a laugh. He’d aimed for casual but he might have overshot it a little. He’s managed to make it sound like they’re passing outside the Great Hall at dinner. Draco’s eyes go round and Harry doesn’t think he could look more surprised if Filch had turned up in a pink party frock.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asks. There is a note of irritation in his voice that Harry is certain is borne out of adrenaline, but has his hackles rising all the same. He swallows the snarled, ‘What business is it of yours?’ that wants to escape his lips and, instead, takes a deep breath and does something sure to shock Draco even more; he tells the truth.

‘I came to see you.’ Harry hadn’t thought Draco’s eyes could get any wider, nor his eyebrows climb any higher, but he manages it. 

‘You came to see me,’ he repeats slowly, sounding each word as if trying to shake additional meaning from them, just something to make them make sense. ‘You came to see me,’ he repeats and Harry wonders if it makes more sense to him the second time.

‘That’s right,’ Harry nods, deciding that now is probably not the time to rush Draco.

‘Wait,’ he says, brow creasing in confusion. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘With this,’ Harry offers, holding up the map. It’s interesting, he thinks, when heading up here he had deliberately tried not to think about what he was going to say for fear he would lose his nerve, but now that he’s started telling the truth, he’s happy to go with it. After all, the truth is always the easiest thing to remember.

Taking a tentative step forward, Draco holds out his hand for the map and Harry hands it to him. Quickly, Draco steps back, looking a Harry as though he may be mad or dangerous. Well, he’s at least fifty percent right, Harry thinks, as he watches Draco turn his attention to the map. He has no idea how Draco is going to react to this. Harry tries to be ready for anything, for Draco to storm out, to start shouting, to hex him. What he isn’t ready for is for the tension to drain from Draco’s shoulders and for him to look up at Harry with a relieved little smile.

‘This explains so much.’ he says, passing the map back to Harry, and now it’s Harry’s turn to be on the back foot.

‘You aren’t angry?' Harry asks, wishing he could have the words back the moment they are out; he really doesn’t want to encourage Draco to be angry with him at this stage.

‘I’m relieved,’ Draco insists. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been afraid of your seemingly fucking psychic abilities?’ he asks and Harry can’t help but smile back. ‘That year, when you were following me, you were everywhere I was. I thought perhaps you were reading my mind.’

Suddenly something clicks into place and it all makes sense.

‘That’s why you’ve been avoiding me,’ Harry says, with dawning realisation. ‘I’ve been trying to talk to you all year and you kept running away. You were afraid I’d read your mind, like I’m some powerful Legilimens or something.’

Draco looks at him defiantly. ‘I’ve had quite enough of people poking around in my head, thank you!’

‘I know the feeling,’ Harry says vehemently. ‘Just to put your mind at rest,’ he adds, ‘I’ve always sucked at Legilimency and Occlumency.’

The rustle of feathers and the soft hooting of the few owls left in the owlery fill the silence.

‘So, why have you been trying to talk to me if not to read my mind?’ Draco asks suddenly, and Harry can do nothing but look at him askance for a few seconds.

‘Why have I been trying to talk to you?’ Harry asks, disbelieving. ‘Why do people usually try to strike up conversations? I’ve been trying to be your friend, you pillock.’

‘You’ve been trying to be my friend?’ Draco repeats, and Harry wonders how much of this conversation he is going to have repeated back to him. He supposes he should be patient with Draco, though; he can’t imagine that he’d be any better if the situation were reversed.

‘That’s right,’ he says daring to take a step closer, delighted when Draco doesn’t back away.

‘I don’t understand,’ Draco says looking up at Harry imploringly, as if begging him to make sense of the situation. ‘Is this pity?’ he asks, suddenly angry. ‘I don’t need pity, Potter!’

‘It’s not pity,’ Harry assures.

‘But then why? Why does the saviour want to be friends with a Death Eater?’ he challenges.

‘You aren’t a Death Eater, Draco, not really. You never were,’ Harry responds gently, his heart aching for someone so totally destroyed by Riddle that he can’t accept that there may not be an ulterior motive. Draco, however, scoffs at Harry’s assessment.

‘I assure you I was.’ he snaps, ‘Do you want me to tell you all the things I’ve done? Let’s see if you still want to be friends then.’

‘I know most of it, Draco; I know about Dumbledore. I know that you were forced to do horrible things to protect your family. I also know that you saved me; I know that you wouldn’t identify me, even when you knew it was me. I know that you stopped Crabbe from hurting me, stopped him from killing Hermione. You said it was because Riddle wanted us alive but that isn’t true. He wanted me alive. Hermione was fair game in his eyes. You can’t tell me that those are the actions of a Death Eater; they aren’t, they are the actions of an ally.

‘You risked your safety for me and for those I care about; in my book you are already a friend.’ Harry takes a deep breath. He hadn’t intended to say so much but once he’d started it was like he couldn’t stop. ‘I think we should put the past behind us,’ he suggests, quietly taking another step forward. ‘What do you think?’

Draco nods slowly, as though he’s not quite sure what is happening. On impulse, Harry reaches out his hand.

‘Hi, my name’s Harry, what’s yours?’

Draco stares at Harry for a moment before grasping his hand. ‘Draco,’ he says, voice cracking, but a smile is starting to twist the edges of his mouth. ‘They say that some wizarding families are better than others, but I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

Harry laughs warmly and strides across to the windowsill, flexing his fingers experimentally and trying to shake the strange ‘pins and needles’ sensation that had begun when Draco had taken his hand.

Heaving himself up onto the wide window ledge he looks out at the starry night. When he looks back into the room, Draco is standing exactly where he left him, looking at his hand as if at any moment it might burst in to flames.

‘Draco?’ Harry asks and he looks up.

‘What happens now?’ Draco asks, snapping back to reality.

‘I thought maybe we could talk,’ Harry suggests and with a shrug, Draco makes his way over to the windowsill and climbs up next to Harry, sitting sideways on, drawing his knees up in front of him and leaning his back against the wall.

‘What about?’ Draco asks awkwardly, picking straw from his trousers.

‘Anything,’ Harry suggests. ‘I’ll start shall I?’

And so he does; he tells Draco anything and everything he can think of. He talks about the year spent on the run and flying on the back of a dragon, about the Dursleys and coming to Hogwarts, about the Philosopher’s Stone and the Chamber of Secrets, about Horcruxes and Hallows. He talks about Ginny, about how he was surprised at how relieved he’d been when she had told him that she and Neville were in love. He talks about Ron and Hermione and their recent double act. He talks about sitting in the library, trying to come up with a way of talking to Draco.

Whilst he talks, he watches. He watches Draco’s expressions as they flit between surprise at some of the things Harry had seen in Riddle’s mind, to interest in Harry’s adventures with the Philosopher’s Stone and the dragon. He huffs with exasperation when Harry asks why he wears his tie backwards and has to explain that it is an ‘Atlantic’ knot and isn’t on backwards at all. He looks revolted when Harry tells him about the Dursleys, and amused when Harry explains his attempts to strike up a conversation. Amusement is the look Harry finds the most appealing on Draco. He likes the way Draco’s eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles and how they light up, making the silver seem almost molten.

Harry talks until he is hoarse and the sky is beginning to lighten on the eastern horizon, revealing grounds that have been painted with a hard white frost.

‘Fuck, I’m cold.’ Draco mutters when silence has fallen between them.  The roost is nearly full now and every couple of minutes another owl joins his companions in the roof.

‘We should have cast a warming charm, I suppose,’ Harry says, rubbing fiercely at his arms, trying to get the chilled flesh to respond.

‘How about tonight I bring my smallest cauldron and we can have a bit of a fire?’ Draco suggests, hopping down from the window ledge and stomping his feet on the ground, earning himself some reproachful looks from the parliament of owls above his head.

‘You want to do this again tonight?’ Harry asks, barely daring to hope that they have come so far in such a short time.

‘Of course,’ Draco agrees, with a touch of his former swagger.  ‘You talked all night and I barely managed to get a word in edgeways. Tomorrow it’s my turn.’

As he slips back into the common room, Hermione looks up from where she is curled by the fire with on obscenely large book and a cup of rapidly cooling tea balanced precariously on her knee. She looks at him curiously, head tilted to one side. 

‘You’re up late. I just assumed you’d gone to bed when I came down,’ she says, and Harry has known her long enough to know when she is sniffing around for information. He glances at the stairs and thinks about the warm bed waiting for him, but Hermione deserves to know, and it will be infinitely easier talking to her now rather than later when Ron is in tow. Not that he thinks Ron will have a problem with it, but something tells him he will be easier to manage if Hermione is already on side.

‘I was in the owlery.’ he admits, flopping down in front of the fire and holding his freezing cold fingers close to the flames.

‘I can understand that,’ she says, closing her book and placing it on the table. ‘I often have the urge to spend the night in a room with no windows when it’s minus three degrees outside.’

‘I was talking to Draco,’ he admits, ignoring the sarcasm. 

‘And?’ Hermione asks, leaning forward eagerly. Harry smiles. Hermione knows how much this means to him. She’d had her reservations in the beginning but she’d come around fast and been nothing but supportive, despite how horrid Draco had been to her in the past.

‘And we talked,’ he admits, ‘or at least I did. All night.’ 

She beams at him. ‘I’m really happy for you, Harry’, she insists before settling back in her chair and picking up her book again. 

Ten minutes later, Harry is lying in bed trying to remember what his toes feel like and listening to the cacophony of bird song that is greeting the sun, but something about the way Hermione had told him she was happy for him is niggling at him. There was something about it that suggested, in some way, she knew something he didn’t.

**~***~**

By the time the weekend rolls around again, Harry is exhausted and he is behind with his homework, but he is content and there is a lot to be said for that. Harry has spent the last four nights in the owlery with Draco Malfoy and twice has been so late back to the common room that Hermione has already gone down to breakfast and Harry has time to do nothing more than grab a shower before plying himself with obscene amounts of coffee and hoping for the best.

Saturday, however, brings with it a chance to sleep late. Ron and Hermione have to supervise the lower years in Hogsmeade so it is a perfect library day as well. All the noisy ones will be away. The first and second-years, who have nowhere near enough homework to confine them to the library on a Saturday, will be crammed into their common rooms, enjoying the extra space. This leaves the returning NEWT students, who are allowed into Hogsmeade without adult supervision, to enjoy the peace in the library.

Which is just as well, Harry thinks as he meanders towards the library, filled with bacon and toast and tea. He has an enormous essay for Transfiguration on the durability of conjured items compared to those transfigured; in addition, he has promised Hermione that he will collate the data she has collected regarding the marketability of anti-run ink.

As he had hoped, the library is practically empty when he arrives and he drops his bag onto the usual table before going to collect the books he needs for his essay.  When he returns, however, his table is not quite as empty as he left it.  Sitting opposite his usual seat, Draco is unfurling a long roll of parchment and unscrewing a bottle of deep purple ink. 

He feels a smile creeping across his face as he slips into his chair and begins pulling out his own parchment, ink and quill.

‘I thought you had Quidditch practice this morning?’ Harry asks quietly, scanning the room as he does so for Madam Pince.

‘She’s back in the stacks,’ Draco informs him with a quick smile. ‘And I did, but Scott remembered that it was his mother’s birthday next week and what use is it being Team Captain if you can’t foist your own disorganised lifestyle onto everybody else? Anyway, I remembered that you said you were planning on tackling that horrendous Transfiguration essay this morning and thought I would come and steal any ideas you might have and pass them off as my own.’ 

Harry grins, ‘What you mean is that you know I have no hope in completing this on my own and in the interests of our new found alliance you thought you’d come and see what you could do about preventing me from getting  a ‘T’ in Transfiguration.’

‘You know, I don’t know why we didn’t do this years ago. This is so much easier when you insult yourself.’

‘Well, you know me,’ Harry says with a grin. ‘I’m all about the efficiency.’

Draco just looks at Harry, eyebrow raised.  Refusing to give in so easily, Harry just stares back and, in a moment of madness, attempts to imitate Draco’s ‘Disparaging Eyebrow’.

He has never managed it convincingly in the past and he has no idea what inspires him to try it now, but he does.  He knows immediately that his ‘Disparaging Eyebrow’ has been unsuccessful as Draco’s lips pull into a tight line and the corners of his mouth begin to twitch.  Within moments they are dissolving into giggles.

‘Was that supposed to be me?’ Draco asks breathlessly, and all Harry can do is nod before they are both giggling again. They must have been making quite a lot of noise because within moments the tall, rigid presence of Madam Pince is looming over them and she is definitely not  smiling.

‘In case you gentlemen were unaware, this is a library.  You will be quiet, or you will find somewhere else to continue your raucous discussion, like the Quidditch pitch.’

With her patented glare, the one that has sent many first-years from the library in tears, she turns on her heel and stalks away.  Once more Harry catches Draco’s eye and they grin.   Fighting to suppress the laughter that longs to escape, Harry reaches for the one thing that is certain to dampen his high spirits and pulls ‘Power, Permanence and Limitations’ towards him and flips it open.  Draco pulls a sheaf of notes from his bag and with an amused glance at his new friend, Harry begins to read.

Harry has barely been reading for fifteen minutes when he looks up again.  The text is dry and uninspiring and Harry cannot force his brain to concentrate.  The library seems noisier than usual today and every sound seems to be somehow amplified within his head. The steady patter of the rain against the tall windows seems to rattle the glass; the sound of the lamps as they fizz and spit, fighting against the damp, seems to echo.  Then there is the sharp clicking of the librarian’s heels as she moves between the shelves and the constant rustle of pages being turned.  Closer, louder and more distracting than anything else, is Draco.  Harry can hear his quill scratching its way across the parchment and the soft sighs that he seems to make without realising it.

It’s more than the noise though; the more he thinks about it the more aware of Draco he becomes.  He can smell him.  Every time Draco turns a page, Harry gets a waft of something warm and clean and sharp. Like lemon, Harry thinks, wrinkling his nose slightly as he tries to identify the scent.  It’s not lemon, though, it’s something else, something bitter; it’s something that makes him think of breakfast and summer. Grapefruit, he realises suddenly, and now that he knows what it is he can smell it everywhere.

The table vibrates slightly and Harry quickly begins scribbling notes on his parchment, aware that when Draco’s leg starts bouncing energetically, he will gaze around the room as though the word or idea he is searching for is hanging in the air.  Eventually the vibrations cease and Harry glances up at him.

He is leaning forward over his work with his head resting on his hand.  His hair falls forward, obscuring his face, and in the lamplight the pale strands gleam like spun gold and Harry’s fingers itch with the desire to reach out and slide through them.  Forcibly he snaps himself out of it, slapping himself firmly across the face.  The quill scratching stops again and Draco looks up sharply, the questioning eyebrow back in place.

‘Sorry, zoned out for a moment,’ Harry whispers, feeling uncomfortable with the lie but definitely not ready to tell the truth.  Draco just smiles and shakes his head and Harry forces his attention back to his parchment and begins to write.  He has managed to write the date and the question when Draco kicks him lightly under the table and Harry jumps as if receiving an electric shock, streaking a line of ink across the page.  Draco grimaces in sympathy.

‘Sorry,’ he whispers, and Harry shrugs tearing off the strip of parchment and screwing it into a tight ball.

‘What’s up?’ he asks, needing to draw Draco’s attention away from his massive overreaction.

‘Have you got ‘A Conjurer’s Guide’ there?’ Draco asks, nodding to the pile of books at Harry’s elbow.  Harry scans the spines quickly and shakes his head.

Draco sighs. ‘Suppose I’ll have to get it myself then,’ he says, scraping back his chair, pushing himself up from the table, and making his way towards the Transfiguration section.

Breath caught in his chest, Harry can do nothing but watch as Draco makes his way down the nearest row of shelves and for the first time, he becomes aware of what Draco is wearing.  Gone are the Slytherin robes and the backwards tie, gone are the striped pyjamas and dressing gown.  Today Draco is dressed casually in a soft-looking grey sweater and dark blue jeans, and really Harry shouldn’t be surprised because it’s Saturday, after all, but he just looks so elegant and relaxed.  With his hair tucked back behind his ear and his sleeves pushed up to the elbows, he looks so normal, and yet.  The soft wool drapes across broad shoulders that Harry doesn’t remember ever seeing before and the jeans mould to long lean legs and a firm round arse that...

Forcibly dragging his eyes away, Harry drops his head heavily to the table, pleased when it makes a resounding thunk.  They have just ended years of hostility; they are developing a friendship, something new and fragile.  Why, oh why has he chosen now to develop a crush on Draco Malfoy?

Eventually, Harry lifts his head from the desk and attempts to refocus, or at least not look like he’s been spiked with Amortentia, before Draco returns.  He thinks he must do a passable job of it because no mention is made of his haphazard breathing, or what Harry is certain must be a neon-like flush creeping up his face and Draco just sits down and flips open his book.  No matter what he tries, however, Harry cannot concentrate and when the warm savoury smell of lunch begins to drift up through the floor he begins to pack away eagerly.

‘Hungry, are you?’ Draco asks, taking a moment to stretch languorously and in such a way that his sweater rides up, exposing about an inch of smooth pale abdomen. Harry rummages in his bag, pretending to search for something and determinedly not looking at Draco.

‘No,’ Harry says, forcing a nervous-sounding laugh. ‘Just looking for anything to get away from this essay.’

‘It certainly not the most thrilling essay we’ve ever been asked to write,’ Draco admits, rolling up his parchment and re-capping his ink.  ‘Unfortunately for you, you won’t have any distraction this afternoon.  Scott promised he’d be back from Hogsmeade in time for lunch so I shall be squinting my way round the Quidditch pitch trying to find a Snitch whist getting soaked to the skin and freezing to my broom.  So bear this in mind, you may be bored but at least you’ll be warm and dry.’ 

Harry snorts at this idea as they make their way down the marble staircase towards the Great Hall.  ‘I think I’d rather play every remaining Quidditch match in these conditions than have to write this essay, to be honest with you.’

With a friendly ‘See you later’ Draco heads off to the Slytherin table where the rest of the team appear to have taken over one end and are gazing forlornly out of the tall windows as their captain, Scott Harper, attempts to give some sort of ineffective pep talk.  With a small wave, Harry slides himself into a seat at the Gryffindor table, trying to put as much space between himself and the whispering first-years who, now two months into the school year, still seem to be star-struck whenever they see him.

Grateful for the solitude, he scoops a large serving of shepherd’s pie onto his plate and attempts, slowly, to unravel the tangle of emotion that has settled in his chest. He’s attracted to Draco and in most ways he’s okay with this.  He doesn’t care that Draco’s a boy. Or maybe he’s a man.  He’s fought in a war, after all; can boys fight in wars? Do boys have evil madmen use them to smite enemies?

Harry certainly doesn’t feel like a man and he’s being held up as some kind of saviour.  Can boys be saviours? Of course they can, he thinks, remembering Sister Evangeline and the scary looking Tiny Tears doll. It’d had fearsome black hair and blank, staring blue eyes and had appeared every December first, placed in the crepe-papered crisp box and beneath the drippy-looking yellow star in the corner of the school hall.

If fighting in a war doesn’t make you a man, though, what does? He thinks, absently separating out the peas from his lunch and corralling them at the side of his plate. He knows that if anyone were to call him a boy then he would bristle with indignation but, at the same time, Arthur calls him a man and it always makes him feel slightly uncomfortable.  Somehow, being called a man brings with it expectations and responsibilities like careers and mortgages, children and wives. That is one thing Harry is now certain that he doesn’t want. No wife for him. 

He’d still been uncertain at the beginning of the summer when Ginny had made her announcement.  He’d felt relief but also sadness at the thought of being alone again. Ginny had Neville and Hermione and Ron had each other and they would always try to include him, but he’d always felt a little awkward.  A little on the edge of things.  Then George had come home for a while, to be near his mother, and he’d felt the same as Harry.  He’d felt awkward and left out without Fred, shell shocked and raw after the battle.  Slowly, they had gravitated towards one another, spending time just sitting on the lawn by the pond, or traipsing across fields as they explored the little corner of North Devon on foot.

They had walked as if trying to escape from something.  On occasions they would sit beneath a tree in attempt to get out of the midday sun, and George would talk about Fred, about what it was like to be a twin and to suddenly be without the other half of yourself.  They had sat on the hard, dusty ground as the light had darted, and the gentle breeze rustled the leaves, and George had told Harry his secrets.  He had told him how he’d had a crush on Oliver Wood and that he’d told Fred about it, even though he wasn’t certain at that time he’d even wanted to admit it to himself.

‘I just need someone to know,’ George had said, and Harry had nodded, even though he didn’t really understand. ‘It means that if I tell someone else about it, it doesn’t feel like I’m lying to myself.’

The walks had stopped for a few days after that.  Harry had continued to wait for George every morning, sitting on the back step and looking out over the dew-damp lawn in the hour before the house woke up but Geroge had stayed away.  Instead he’d spent all day in his bedroom with the curtains shut, appearing only for meals and avoiding Harry when he did. 

Harry had let George get away with this for almost a week before he had taken matters into his own hands. He’d missed their walks, missed George’s company. Most of all, though, he had spent some time thinking about George’s revelation and needed to talk to someone about his own realisation.

He had knocked hard on George’s door and had gone straight in without waiting for a reply.  George had been sitting on the windowsill, peering round the curtains, and Harry can still taste the hot, stale air that had invaded his lungs as he’d walked into that gloomy room.

He’d had no idea what he was going to when he’d knocked on the door, but the moment he had seen George he’d known what to do.  He had cleared the room in two strides and had pressed his lips to George’s.  He remembers the drag of rough stubble under his fingers and the taste of salt on George’s lips from where he had been crying.  The kiss had lingered for long moments before Harry had pulled back, stomach doing back flips.

‘Do you want to go for a walk and talk about that?’ Harry had asked, and George had nodded, speechless, and scrabbled to his feet.

Harry comes to a stop in front of the Fat Lady and realises he has been walking through the castle in a daze.

‘I wondered how long you were going to stand there, staring into space,’ the portrait chastises. ‘It isn’t like I don’t have other things to do, you know?’

‘Sorry,’ Harry grimaces, and mutters ‘Hippogriff,’ pleased when she swings forward, taking her reproachful scowl with her.

An ear-splitting shriek, followed by a peal of laughter greets Harry as he steps into the common room.  Immediately, he is forced to step back as a second-year girl streaks past him, chased by a very mischievous-looking boy.  She leads the boy, and this one is definitely a boy, Harry thinks, all around the common room before allowing herself to be caught and tickled, resulting in more squealing.

This isn’t the place for him today, Harry thinks.  He needs somewhere quiet, somewhere secluded, that he can figure all this out.  Making his way up to his dormitory, he ponders his options.  He could go back to the library; it’s quiet there after all. But if he’s in the library he will probably feel guilty if he’s not working, and that will probably end up with him not doing either thing particularly well. 

It doesn’t take him long to hit on the perfect place, and he roots through his trunk, trying to find his warmest cloak.  The owlery is going to be freezing this afternoon.  He is just about to shut the lid, when something brass catches the lamplight and glows.  Without stopping to question why he will need them, Harry pulls the Omnioculars from his trunk and tucks them into his cloak.

As he makes his way up the owlery steps, Harry thinks back again to that day with George.  They had walked for longer than usual, venturing up Stoatshead Hill and stopping once they reached the summit to look down on the valley laid out beneath them as a verdant patchwork.

‘Harry, I really don’t know what to say,’ George had said, focusing on the horizon and refusing to meet Harry’s eyes.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Harry had explained, nudging George with his shoulder in what he had hoped was a reassuring way. ‘I’m not in love with you or anything, you know?’ Harry had explained, wrapping grass around his fingers.  ‘I just wanted you to know that you aren’t alone.’

‘I thought maybe I’d weirded you out last time,’ George had admitted, sheepishly. ‘You were so quiet as we walked home.’

‘You’d given me a lot to think about,’ Harry had pointed out. ‘Everything just slowly fell into place from there.’

They had sat in silence for a few minutes before George had blurted suddenly: ‘You know it isn’t that I don’t find you attractive.’

‘Shit,’ Harry had said, shaking his head slowly. ‘Maybe I am as arrogant as Snape always said I was.’ He’d chuckled sadly at the idea and rested his chin on his folded arms.  ‘That never even crossed my mind,’ he’d admitted. ‘I thought it was probably because, when you get right down to it, we’re basically brothers.’

George had grimaced at this idea and Harry had smiled.

‘Well, yes, that’s one reason,’ George had explained, ‘but also this: you’ve been a good friend to me, Harry.  I know I haven’t said it but these walks have kinda kept me sane for the last couple of weeks.  I’d hate to do anything to mess that up.’

And there it is, Harry thinks, as he gazes out of the window at the grounds.  That is why he’s having so much trouble with this Draco thing.  The sky is grey and heavy and the rain falls in sheets, diffusing and draining the colours of the autumn.  In the distance, Harry can see the seven green blurs of the Slytherin team as they dart and dive above the pitch.  He lifts the Omnioculars to his eyes and twirls a knob on the side until a familiar figure comes into focus.  Draco’s hair is dark with the water and is plastered to him, as are his robes, but he still flies elegantly and with a grim determination that Harry isn’t sure he’s ever seen before.

The truth is, he thinks as he watches Draco go into a spectacular dive, that in the last couple of days Draco has begun to mean a lot to him, more than he ever thought possible, and there is no way on this earth he is going to fuck it up.

**~*~**

‘Lesley, you need to keep your eyes on the ball!’ Harry yells, as he watches his two new Beaters hitting a Bludger between them as they wait for the trials to begin.  This is the third time they have had to replace team members so far this term and the process is becoming somewhat familiar to Harry now.  At the beginning of term, Harry had had three spaces available on the team and he had been delighted to find Andrea Nettleworth, an extraordinarily tall fifth-year Beater with fantastic vision, a killer aim, and plenty of power to be going on with. He had also found another Beater, this one by the name of Samuel Hayes, who had lacked Andrea’s vision but had a reasonable aim and a lot of power, and finally a nippy little third-year Chaser called Emily Whitford. 

Since then, however, the team had suffered a run of unprecedented bad luck.  Samuel had decided, after just one month, that Hogwarts held too many bad memories for him and had transferred to Beauxbatons.  Harry had been left to choose between Beaters he had previously turned down.  The result had been Lesley Stoker, an uninspiring fourth year, whose aim was okay and who could hit pretty hard when he could connect with the ball, which so far seemed to be only fifty percent of the time. Still one bad Beater wasn’t the end of the world.

At the beginning of the previous week, however, Emily had slipped on the steps to the dungeon and the hard stone floor at the bottom had caused a compound fracture in her wrist and an outbreak of fainting among her classmates.  Madame Pomfrey, not one to be outdone by a simple broken bone, had Emily back on her feet again by the next morning, but with a severe warning that the limb would be weak for some time to come. She would still make an excellent Chaser, but not until next year.  Harry had been tempted, at this point, to throw in the towel.  The idea of choosing again from a selection of Chasers who hadn’t made the grade the first time was demoralising.

‘Then don’t just pick one,’ Ginny had suggested one evening, stretching out on the common room sofa and depositing her feet in Neville’s lap.  ‘You should hold trials again.’

‘What would that achieve? Other than wasting everybody’s time, of course,’ Harry had asked moodily.

‘We were two weeks into the term when we held the first trials,’ Ginny had pointed out. ‘The first-years hadn’t even had their first flying lesson. We’re two months in now, their confidence will be increasing week by week; who knows—we might just find the next Harry Potter.’

Harry had scowled at this but he couldn’t fault Ginny’s logic and so, the next day, notices had gone up informing Gryffindor house that their Quidditch team was once again looking for a new Chaser and, at the bottom of the poster, was the note that first-years would be considered.

As he looks at the twenty or so Gryffindors that have grouped in front of him, Harry notices with surprise and relief that only five of the previous applicants have shown up today, and the crowd is instead compiled largely of first, second and third-years.

‘Apparently, they didn’t apply before because they thought it was a waste of time,’ Ron says, as he lands next to Harry and waves up to Hermione who is sitting in the stands and knitting something in what appears to be Gryffindor colours.

‘Let’s hope that’s not a reflection of their ability,’ Harry says beckoning to Andrea, who catches the ball neatly against her chest and dives towards the ground, followed closely by Lesley.

‘Okay, everyone, listen up!’ Harry yells over the din and he is pleased when the hopeful faces turn towards him. ‘The first thing we need is for you to fly two laps clockwise around the pitch, fast as you can, please.  On the count of three: one – two – three.’

They rise into the air in a messy ball and Harry watches as they set off, some flying well, some not so well and a few in the wrong direction.

‘Well, I think the ones who are so unsure of what they are doing that they can’t even follow everyone else should probably be out,’ Demelza suggests, taking the note of the tail numbers.

‘Ooh, put down number seven as well,’ Ginny suggests, ’he’s weaving all over the place.’

‘Number fifteen is gone,’ Harry mutters darkly as he watches a fifth-year girl swerve aggressively in front of a second-year, forcing the boy to pull up sharply. ‘She is not a team player.’

The wannabe Chasers are just passing the goal hoops when something at ground level catches Harry’s eye, a flash of blonde disappearing under the stands.  Harry grins as he looks back to the applicants in the air.  So, Draco has come to watch him play Quidditch, has he?  Harry feels himself standing up straighter and focusing harder with the need to appear impressive for his secret spectator.

By the time the two laps have been completed, they have thinned down the potential Chasers to just twelve.  The younger students who don’t make it onto the next stage seem content to settle themselves in the stands to cheer on their friends.  The older students, in particular the unpleasant fifth-year, slope off to the changing rooms, shooting ugly looks at Harry as they go.

Next up is what Katie always used to refer to as ‘The Gauntlet’. Each Chaser in turn has to get from one end of the pitch to the other without being unseated by the Beaters, without dropping the Quaffle, and without losing it to Ginny or Demelza.  Harry and Ron watch from either end of the pitch, trying to see which of these very young players have potential.

With seven down and five to go, Harry has so far managed to identify one second-year and one first-year who, with some training, might make useful little players.  The third-year who is currently heading towards Ron is doing a good job of avoiding Ginny and Demelza but is advancing up the pitch so slowly that Harry is concerned that he will never get there.  What happens next, however, seems to happen in slow motion.

He watches as Lesley flies close to the group of four students who are still waiting to take their turn, and swings his bat at the advancing Bludger. Harry doesn’t know how he knows, but at that moment he realises that Lesley is going to miss.  He also sees that at least one of those first-years is riding on an old Shooting Star and those brooms have a tendency to stall if you ask them to do anything too suddenly.

His Firebolt seems to react to the impending threat on its own and, before he has really decided what to do, he is streaking forwards, putting himself between the Bludger and the first-year, who appears to be frozen in mid air.  Harry tries to turn, tries to absorb the force of the Bludger against his chest, but he doesn’t quite make it and he is still twisting as the Bludger collides with him, knocking the air from his lungs.  He knows immediately that he is going to fall and his stomach leaps and churns, his skin prickles all over, and then there is nothing but open air beneath him and he begins to drop.  And then he stops.

Something warm closes around him and he is hanging in mid air, supported by something that feels warm and fluttery.  Like a hug, Harry thinks, as the rest of the team start to converge on his position. He feels so safe and secure wrapped in the spell that is keeping him hovering fifty feet above the ground that he is almost reluctant as he reaches out to pull himself onto his broomstick which is hovering just two feet away.

‘Harry, are you okay?’ Ginny asks, reaching across to relieve him of the still-struggling Bludger.  Harry nods, holding gently onto his left shoulder.  Now he’s back on his broom it hurts like hell and his arm is hanging, limp and useless at his side.

‘Oh, shit, shit, shit, I’m so sorry,’ Lesley is saying from where he is hovering next to the first-year, who looks like he is about to burst into tears. ‘It just got away from me!’

Harry takes a deep breath and fights against the pain which is causing his stomach to lurch and roll unpleasantly.  ‘It’s okay,’ he reassures, sounding slightly breathless. ‘There’s no harm done, but you really need to keep your eyes open when the ball comes towards you.’

‘Harry, mate, are you sure you’re okay? You look a bit pale,’ Ron says as he joins the crowd and Harry can see from the expression on Ron’s face that he must look terrible.

‘I’m fine,’ he says firmly, ‘but I think what we’ll do is come back tomorrow and pick up where we left off, if that is okay with everyone.’

He receives unanimous consent from twelve concerned faces and they immediately begin to head for the ground.  Harry struggles to hold his broom steady as he watches them trail back to the changing rooms, relieved that Ginny, Demelza and Ron have obviously assumed that his dismissal didn’t apply to them.  They probably wouldn’t have left even if it had, he thinks, feeling a surge of warmth and gratitude towards his teammates. It’s Ron who reaches out and brings the Firebolt under control, clearly aware that Harry can no longer stop it from shaking. Relieved, Harry relinquishes his death grip on the broom and tries to support his shoulder as best he can but he’s very aware that the world is starting to get very fuzzy round the edges. 

Ron gestures to Ginny and immediately she is beside him, one hand out stretched to hold him on his broom, as Demelza dips below him, apparently with the intention of catching him if he falls. Slowly and carefully they guide him back to the ground and up to the hospital wing.

**~*~**

‘Get back into bed, Mr Potter, I don’t want to have to restrain you,’ Madam Pomfrey instructs as she bustles over to him with a selection of potion bottles in her arms.

‘But, Madam Pomfrey, I really am okay now,’ Harry asserts, waving his arm up and down in an attempt to demonstrate that he is, in fact, all better and having to fight against the wince of pain that comes as his shoulder screams at him for treating it so roughly so soon.

‘Oh, yes, you’re fit as a fiddle!’ she says, tone heavy with sarcasm as she gently but firmly pushes Harry back on to the bed.

‘Really, Madam Pomfrey, it hardly hurts at all,’ he insists, and she just sighs.

‘Oh, come on now, Harry,’ she says wearily, and Harry starts at the use of his given name. ‘You and I have been playing this game for eight years; surely you must know who wins by now!’

Sensing the truth of the statement, Harry slides back into bed somewhat meekly.

‘I know you Gryffindors think I’m over-protective but have you never stopped to think that after forty years as this school’s mediwitch, I might have some experience in these matters?’ she continues, as she mixes precise amounts of potions together at his bedside. ‘You always want to run back to your common room and, you know, I would happily let you if it weren’t for the fact that some of these potions can have some very nasty side effects.’

Harry thinks about asking what kind of side effects she’s talking about and then decides he’s probably better off not knowing. He feels slightly ashamed of himself for always assuming that the Matron was being overbearing.  How could he be so arrogant as to assume that he always knew best?

‘Sorry,’ he murmurs, as she passes him a tall, smoking glass, and he drinks down the contents obediently. It tastes like cherry and sawdust.

‘There now, no need for apologies and, since you no longer appear to be a flight risk, I shall send your friends in to see you.’

‘What would you have done if I hadn’t co-operated?’ Harry asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

‘I would have added this sedative to your potion,’ she says, indicating a small blue bottle, ‘and told them that you’d fainted.’

With that she heads back towards her office and, moments later, Harry can feel a warmth wrapping itself around his shoulder and easing away the dull throbbing pain. As he settles back against his pillows, he thinks he could get used to this shockingly blunt Madam Pomfrey.

It isn’t long before he hears the squeak of Ron’s trainers and the clack-clack of Hermione’s shoes and they are at his bedside, concerned expressions firmly in place.

‘Mate, you alright?’ Ron asks, but Harry can see that he looks somewhat relieved.  He must be looking better.

‘I’m fine, Ron, really.  It was just dislocated.  Madam Pomfrey fixed it in seconds,’ he assures, and he squeezes Hermione’s hand in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. ‘I’m just a bit sore,’ he adds at Ron’s sceptical expression.

‘My father dislocated his shoulder when I was seven,’ Hermione says thoughtfully. ‘He took me ice-skating and fell down. It took about two months before he could even take the sling off.’

‘No slings for me.’ Harry grins. ‘I’m fine, honest.’ Once again he raises and lowers his arm in demonstration, taking a little more care this time and he is pleased when the pain is little more than a dull ache.

‘To be honest, mate, I’m just glad you’re alive,’ Ron admits, slumping down in his chair. ‘I didn’t think anyone was going to get to you.  Lesley was in a panic and the rest of us were too far away. If Hermione hadn’t cast that spell I think you’d have been a goner.’

Harry looks at Ron for a moment, confused. ‘It wasn’t Hermione,’ he says with certainty and Hermione eyes him sharply.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ she admits. ‘I didn’t notice anything was wrong until it was all over but how did you know it wasn’t me?’ she asks and, as Harry looks at her, he can see the cogs whirring with possible answers.

‘It didn’t feel like you,’ Harry says simply and Hermione smiles knowingly. ‘You feel more efficient.  I think if it had been you I would have just frozen in the air.’

‘What did it feel like?’ Hermione asks softly, in the way she always does when she knows the answer and is trying to help you to figure it out for yourself.

‘It felt kind of like I’d fallen into a feather quilt. I felt supported and safe and warm,’ Harry says thoughtfully.

‘So, do you know who it was?’ Ron asks, clearly oblivious to the fact that his girlfriend apparently already has her suspicions.

So does Harry for that matter, but he’s not about to share them with Ron or Hermione.  He wants to keep them to himself, at least until he’s had time to talk to Draco.

As he lies in bed that night, looking at the stars through the tall hospital wing windows, he thinks about Draco again.  He had held back when he was speaking to Ron and Hermione but there was one word that described perfectly the feeling of Draco Malfoy’s magic: love.  And that changes everything, Harry thinks. Up till now he’s been concentrating on not ruining his friendship with Draco but if Draco is interested in him too, it makes things far more complicated. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it makes things easier. 

After all, there comes a point where you have to take a risk, have to make a leap, or the friendship will be ruined anyway. No friendship can survive indefinite sexual tension. Ron and Hermione had taken that risk and made the leap and they were perfect together. Why couldn’t Harry and Draco be the same? Admittedly they hadn’t been friends for as long as Ron and Hermione but they’d had strong feelings for each other for just as long, longer if you included the incident in Madam Malkin’s, and what was it the Sisters used to say? ‘The boys only pulled the pigtails of the girls they liked?’ Maybe, all this time, he and Draco have just been pulling each other’s pigtails.

In recognition of their new-found understanding, Harry summons his strength and tries not to rush Madam Pomfrey as she runs through a series of stretches and exercises before she will allow him to leave the following morning.  He sits there as she rotates his arm this way and that and tries his very hardest not to fidget.  The moment she releases him, however, he springs down from the bed and runs for the door with her warnings about taking it easy still ringing in his ears. 

He needs to find Draco, to talk to him, but he has no idea where he will be.  What he needs is the map. He makes it as far as the Entrance Hall before he is struck, forcibly, by the complete absence of people.  The corridors are deserted and Harry turns in the empty space looking for someone, anyone, to explain what has happened.

A voice drifts towards him from a nearby classroom: ‘Joshua Parsons, put that drill down immediately and pay attention.’

Somehow Harry has managed to forget that today is Monday and he knows exactly where Draco will be.

Ten minutes later, Harry nods an apology to Professor Flitwick as he slips into the silent Charms classroom and takes his seat.  Two rows ahead of him, Draco is looking at the board and Harry stares hard at the back of his head, willing him to turn around, to look at him.

Draco, however, is either unwilling to look at Harry or unaware that he is being looked at and Harry suspects it is the former.  He is certain that if someone were staring at him with the same intensity that he is starting at Draco, it would feel like the back of his head were about to burst into flames. Still, there are only tem more minutes left of this lesson and then Draco won’t have the option of pretending Harry isn’t there. 

The bell is still ringing when Draco rises from his seat. He doesn’t even take the time to put his things away, opting instead to tuck his textbook under his arm and his quill behind his ear as he makes for the door. Harry attempts to follow him as quickly as he can.  Unfortunately, he doesn’t even make it out of the classroom before Ron and Hermione converge on him, Ron wanting make sure that he will be up to finishing the Quidditch trials and Hermione to make sure that he followed the lesson okay and to offer him her notes if he needs them.

Resigned to the fact that he will have to wait to speak to Draco, Harry follows his friends out into the hall, reassuring them both that he’s fine and gratefully accepting Hermione’s notes as he watches the retreating blonde head.

‘You never let me borrow your notes,’ Ron says, slightly poutily.

‘That is because you should have your own.  Harry wasn’t there because he was injured,’ Hermione explains in her patient tone. ‘You weren’t there because you were thinking about your lunch. If Harry had sat through the lesson with a vacant look and muttering about pork chops, I wouldn’t have lent them to him either.’

‘Hey,’ Ron exclaims, sounding injured. ‘It’s not like that,’ he explains, but Harry doesn’t get to hear what it is like because at the end of the corridor Draco has turned, his eyes meeting Harry’s and drawing him in.  Harry’s stomach lurches as if he has been driven over a humpback bridge; time seems to slow down and the world seems to fade.  Harry’s ears are filled with a low pitched buzzing, as if someone nearby has just cast Muffliato but not, because Muffliato doesn’t make your skin hot and prickly, and it doesn’t turn your knees to jelly.  At least, not as far as Harry knows.

‘Harry, are you alright?’ Hermione asks, grabbing his arm, and suddenly the world comes flooding back.

‘Sorry, Hermione,’ he says, swallowing with difficulty the lump that seems to have appeared in his throat. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. It’s the painkillers, they make me a little spacey,’ he lies awkwardly, covering her hand with his own in an attempt to reassure. Trying not to draw attention to himself, he glances back to Draco, but Draco has gone.

They are halfway to Transfiguration when Harry realises that his homework is still sitting on his bed and he dashes off to get it. As a result, by the time he arrives at Professor McGonagall’s classroom, the bell has sounded and the class has already gone in. Sheepishly, he lets himself in, wondering whether he is going to manage to be on time for anything today. He is halfway to his usual seat when he notices, out of the corner of his eye, that the seat next to Draco is also available.  Uncertain of what he hopes to achieve, he swerves inelegantly at the last moment and sits down next to Draco, earning himself a look of suspicion from Hermione and one of utter surprise from Draco.

The lesson is yet to begin and as Harry takes out his books, parchment and quill, Draco seems to recover himself.

‘I heard about your injury; are you alright?’ Draco asks and Harry just looks at him stupidly for a moment.  What does he mean, he ‘heard’?

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ He smiles, realising that Draco clearly thinks that Harry doesn’t know he was there. Draco just smiles back, prevented from any further comment when McGonagall calls the class to order. Impulsively, Harry tears off a strip of parchment while there is still enough noise to mask the sound.

You don’t have to pretend, Draco, I know, he writes, carefully keeping his eyes on the blackboard so as not to draw attention to himself. He can’t remember the last time he passed notes in class and a bubble of childish joy settles in his chest.

He slides the note sideways, nudging his knee against Draco’s thigh to catch his attention. In his peripheral vision Harry can see Draco’s eyebrows shoot up as he reads the note, and then he slides the parchment further across the desk so he can add his response. After a minute there is a warm knee knocking against his own, and a scratchy piece of parchment pressing against his finger. He looks down to see Draco’s reply written in tall, elegant, purple script.

You know what, exactly?’

With an exasperated sigh Harry adds to the note.

You were there, at the trials. I saw you there, under the stands, he writes, pushing the note back. He can’t understand why Draco is being so cagey... unless he’s embarrassed about why he was there, watching you play? a hopeful little voice in the back of Harry’s head chips in. He can hear Draco’s quill scratching next to him and he longs to look over at Draco’s answer as he writes it.  Instead, he summons all of his restraint and attempts to look like he is concentrating as he waits to feel the nudge against his thigh. When it comes, he all but snatches the note.

Are you sure that Bludger didn’t get you in the head? I was up in the library all day yesterday trying to get this blasted essay finished and I was still there when Granger came to tell me that you probably wouldn’t be meeting me as you were in the hospital wing having been caught by a Bludger. It was very considerate of her, actually, you must thank her for me.

Harry stares at the note for a minute and reads the words through twice more. Draco is insisting that he wasn’t there and yet Harry is almost certain that he had seen him, that it had been him who had cast the spell that had stopped his fall. Harry thinks fast, trying to devise a way to catch him out if, as he suspects, Draco is lying.

Fair enough, Harry writes, thinking carefully about how to word the next part. It’s just, I got knocked off my broom and someone saved me from falling. I thought it might have been you because I remember what Neville had said about how your magic felt and the spell that caught me felt kind of nonchalant.

Harry passes the note back and, unable to resist, chances a look at Draco, hoping to see indignation of irritation flare across his face at the slight.  Harry is disappointed when Draco’s mouth just twitches into a small smile.  A minute later, the note is back.

Nonchalant ,eh? I think the word that Longbottom used was lazy, but we can use yours, it’s more flattering. Unfortunately there must be another over-confident caster out there somewhere, because it wasn’t me.

And maybe it wasn’t, Harry thinks. Maybe Harry just wishes that Draco had been the cause of that feeling that had surrounded him as he had been held in the air, because it had been so amazing that now Harry just wants to feel it all the time. He wants to carry it with him everywhere and the only way that can happen is if Draco Malfoy loves him as much as he loves Draco.

The problem with this, of course, is that if it was Draco, he seems extremely fucking reluctant to admit it. Why, though? Maybe, says a little voice in his head that sounds like Hermione, he doesn’t want to put himself in the vulnerable position of admitting that he likes you without being certain that you are even able to love him back. Let alone whether or not you do. Harry considers this for a moment; he imagines how he would have reacted if Draco had somehow found out that he had sloped off to the owlery to watch the Slytherin practice. Harry feels his face heat at the thought.

The idea of taking the leap, of leaving himself open to that rejection... he knows all the Gryffindor bravery in the world wouldn’t have stopped him denying it. If he had something though, some kind of evidence, if there was even the slightest proof that Draco felt the same way; in that case Harry might be persuaded to take the first step. All he has to do is to somehow prove that it was Draco who cast the spell, then the lingering memory of the love that had been woven though every fibre of it might just give him enough courage to confront Draco and tell him how he feels. The question is, how to prove it?

Next to him, Draco shifts, his quill brushing Harry’s knuckles. Harry blinks stupidly and realises that he has been staring at the wall for the past five minutes whilst McGonagall has covered the board with her neat economical print and several different diagrams. As Harry scrabbles to start copying the information down, he realises what the diagrams are: they are pictures of teacups. In a flash of inspiration, Harry knows where to start.

It takes all of Harry’s resolve not to cringe when he tells Draco that he won’t be able to meet him that night and Draco doesn’t quite manage to conceal his disappointment.  Harry then manages to make the situation worse by telling Draco it’s because he didn’t sleep well in the hospital wing.  Now Draco isn’t just disappointed, he knows Harry is lying as well.  Because if there is one thing that Harry is rubbish at, it’s lying. What’s done is done, however, and Harry knows if he can figure this whole thing out, everything will be better. Either they will return to their now-comfortable routine, or ...

Harry is trying very hard not to think about the ‘or’ as he lies in bed that night, listening to the noise drifting up from the common room below.  The icy moonlight illuminates the clock by his bed and he watches as the minute hand clicks onto half-past ten. Usually he is asleep by now, but tonight he cannot stop his mind from drifting over the pleasant thoughts of what might be.

One by one the rest of the beds in the dormitory fill up, and the noise from the common room becomes less and less until, by one o’clock, silence reigns through Gryffindor house, punctuated only by the odd snore of its inhabitants.  Harry has managed a grand total of about an hour of sleep in the last three. He’s not going to sleep now, however, and he rises, snatching up the small pile of books on Advanced Charms and Transfiguration that he has taken from the library, and heads down to the common room.

The fire has burnt right down and Harry can feel the cold radiating from the windows as he settles himself into an armchair. Shivering, he gathers up the scraps of parchment and the old Daily Prophets that litter the table in from of him and throws them into the dying embers, pleased when they begin to curl and smoke.  He levitates a couple of logs on top and soon the fire is crackling next to him.

One hour later, Harry has managed to confirm his theory that the feeling of a spell will change depending whom you are casting it on, but nothing more. Unwilling to give up, he turns to the Transfiguration text and reads through the chapter on conjuring for what feels like the hundredth time.

Each item will reflect the individual, he reads, confident that by now he can quote this page by heart. As a result, the conjured item will always be unique to the caster.

A shadow sweeps across the page as a log in the fire shifts, and Harry sees, for the time, the indentation of an asterisk and a note long since erased. He holds the book up, twisting it this way and that, trying to see the phantom words. He manages to make out the word ‘exception’ and his heart skips. He sits bolt upright and searches the debris left on the tables. What he needs is a pencil. 

He sees one, poking out from under a pile of Drooble’s wrappers, and practically runs across the common room to retrieve it.  Placing the book on the table, he leans over it and, holding the pencil as lightly as he can, he shades back and forth over the imprinted words. Gradually, the notation begins to emerge:

* exception: wand unions.

Harry just stares at the words for a few moments before slamming the book shut and voicing his question aloud.

‘What the shitting hell is a wand union?’

The common room doesn’t answer him.

The halls are freezing and Harry huddles under his invisibility cloak as he heads for the library. As he glances at the map, he doesn’t even try to stop himself from locating Draco, pacing around the owlery. He hopes that the stubborn git has decided to take the cauldron with him despite Harry’s absence; it would be just typical if he managed to figure out this whole mess only for Draco to die of hypothermia.

The library is dark when he arrives, the moon casting long eerie shadows down the rows of books. Checking the map carefully for anyone who might be nearby, Harry lights a lamp and begins his search of the shelves for the section on wand lore.  Never having cause to study the subject before, Harry has no idea where it may be, and he finds himself heading deeper and deeper into the stacks. The books seem to whisper all around him and he is reminded forcefully of his very first night-time stroll under his cloak. He hold the lamp aloft, checking the little brass plaques as he passes. Pre-historic wizards, Magical Carpentry, Ministry History, Wizarding Art, and then, finally, just when he thinks that there can’t be many shelves left, Wand Lore.

Turning down the row, he peruses the titles, unsure of what he is looking for as he runs his fingers down the spines of Unusual Italics  and raises an eyebrow at Does Size Matter? Finally his eye is drawn to two titles sitting next to each other and out of sequence. ‘The Wizard and his Wand and A Mind of Its Own. The two volumes stick out slightly from the surrounding books and when he pulls them out they are missing the thick layer of dust that seems to cling to everything else. In an instant Harry knows that these are the books he needs.

‘Thanks, Hermione,’ he mutters, tucking the books under his arm and heading back to the common room as quickly as he can.

Back in the chair beside the fire, Harry eagerly flicks open the first book and realises that his task is going to be much easier from here on in. In the introduction of The Wizard and his Wand, a passage has been faintly underlined in pencil.

The wand may choose the wizard, but after this initial choice, the wizard will imprint on the wand.

Next to this are the tiny pencilled letters HJG. Smiling to himself, Harry flicks through the book, following Hermione’s breadcrumb trail.  He reads about the alignment of a wand to a magical signature and about how you can never achieve results that are quite as good with the wand of another, except in unusual circumstances. The last section has been underlined several times and, as Harry conscientiously erases each notation the way Hermione would want him to, he can’t help thinking that if there was going to be an exceptional case, he and Draco would be it.

Flipping open the second book, Harry notes a slip of parchment protruding from between the pages about two thirds of the way through and turns straight to it.

HP, I think this is what you are looking for. HJG, the parchment reads in Hermione’s rushed handwriting and, in a moment of sentimentality, Harry slips the note into the pocket of his dressing gown before beginning to read the chapter titled Union of Wands.

This is a very rare occurrence which can arise when one witch or wizard uses the wand of another for an extended period of time or to perform powerful magic in conjunction with his or her own wand. The borrowed wand will take on the imprint of the new user if, and only if, their magical core is attuned to that of the previous owner. In this case the wand will realign the combined magical signature of the new user and wand to that of the original owner. When the wand is returned to the original owner it will align this magical signature accordingly.

This re-alignment will result in the otherwise impossible ‘Gemini Effect’ i.e. spells with the same animus. It is important to note at this point that this does not produce any non-magical change in either party and acts simply as a preparation for a more flexible and permanent bond.

Most unions will never progress beyond this point and the Gemini Effect will diminish over time. This is because the final stage is dependent entirely on the actions and intentions of the parties involved. The union is only completed if the owner of the wand in question casts a spell which has an animus of pure devotion on the other party.

Allowing the book to fall closed, Harry presses the heels of his hands against his sore, tired eyes and tries to make sense of what he has just read.

He had been looking for something that would tell him that Draco was interested and what he has found is so much more; they are linked, bound. Draco’s hawthorn wand had apparently seen something in Harry that they had taken so long to see in each other, a kinship, a connection, an attraction. And the union itself, Harry knows he will never prove it, but he can feel it somewhere deep down, that was the binding spell. 

It had been Draco’s devotion that had brought him to the Quidditch pitch in the first place and meant that he had been watching closely, aware of that was about to happen probably even before Harry. No, he’ll never be able to prove it to anyone but Harry knows, and that is good enough for him.

A clatter on the stairs sends Harry’s heart racing and a quick glance at the window confirms it. The moon is riding low, barely grazing the tops of the trees and Hermione is awake. Something stirs in Harry; he doesn’t want to have this conversation with Hermione without first talking to Draco and immediately he pulls out the map. He is unsure whether or not Draco will still be in the owlery and he is relieved when he sees the dot. He can hear the shuffle of Hermione’s slippers on the stairs and, knowing he needs to go before she arrives, he practically throws himself through the portrait hole.

As he sprints along the silent corridors he doesn’t give a thought to being caught. It is four in the morning and even Filch and Mrs Norris are sleeping by this hour. His socked feet slip and slide against the tiled floor of the Entrance Hall and his stomach swoops as he skids haphazardly towards the concealed door that will get him to the owlery in the fastest time.

Every breath burns and his ribs scream as he climbs the owlery steps two at a time, aware that it is freezing out tonight and he is wearing nothing but pyjamas. His feet are so cold, it feels like he is running with bean bags strapped to them but he really doesn’t care. Grabbing the stone door jamb to help control his speed, he swings into the owlery and just catches sight of Draco, wand drawn and eyes wide, before he hears the word Stupefy and he can’t help wondering how he has forgotten so soon his resolution about not sneaking up on people in the middle of the night. Harry feels himself tense as he waits for the spell to strike, waiting for the familiar sensation of confusion, but it doesn’t come. A soft breeze rushes past him like a thousand tiny wings and he opens his eyes. Draco is standing in front of him and looking at his wand, an expression of complete bafflement on his face.

‘What the fuck happened there?’ he asks Harry, apparently over his shock and now shaking his wand violently, as if trying to get a ball point pen to start working again. All Harry can do is grin; he has his proof.

‘Your wand recognised me,’ Harry says, and Draco’s eyes snap to his.

‘My wand did what?’ Draco asks, and Harry takes a step forward as if he is being drawn in.

‘It recognised me,’ Harry repeats, continuing to gradually close the space between them.

‘I don’t understand,’ Draco states, as if pleading with Harry to start making sense. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were too tired to come out tonight?’ he asks and the disappointment in his voice tears at Harry and he needs to come clean.

‘I know you know I was lying, Draco,’ Harry says, taking another step closer. One more step and there will be no turning back.

‘I know you know I know you were lying,’ Draco says, defiantly. ‘Yet we both just pretended anyway.’

‘I had some stuff I needed to work out,’ Harry says, keeping his voice soft, trying to let Draco know how sorry he is.

‘What stuff?’ Draco asks, and Harry can hear the edge of nervousness creeping into his voice and just maybe the tiniest bit of hope.

‘This stuff,’ he answers, taking the final step towards Draco and sliding his hand along his jaw and into his hair, bringing their faces together, brushing his lips against Draco’s in a first tentative kiss. A kiss that quickly gains heat and desperation as he and Draco pour into each other years of unrealised emotion.

It takes Draco only a few moments before he seems to regain his equilibrium, but when he does his hands come up to fist themselves into Harry’s dressing gown and he is kissing harder. He makes a little sound of frustration and suddenly Harry’s world is spinning as Draco reverses their positions and pushes Harry back until he is against the cold rough stone and Draco is pressed against his front, warm and eager.  Harry’s fingers grip Draco’s hips, sliding under soft cotton, seeking out smooth skin and pulling Draco against him.

He gasps as Draco’s arousal brushes his own, separated only by thin pyjama pants, and Draco takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, licking into Harry’s mouth and making him dizzy. He holds onto Draco, unsure of anything but the smell of clean citrus that invades his senses and the press of Draco’s body against his.

When, gasping, Draco pulls back, Harry immediately feels his loss as the chilly wind rushes in through the glassless windows to wrap around him in Draco’s absence. When Harry shivers, Draco steps closer again, casting a quick warming charm before wrapping his arms around Harry and dropping his head to Harry’s shoulder.

‘Well, I can’t say I was expecting that tonight,’ Draco says breathlessly and Harry feels his smile against his neck.

‘No?’ Harry asks, his mind buzzing happily at the feel of Draco’s arms around him. ‘What were you expecting?’

Draco chuckles, huffing warm breath against Harry’s neck. ‘I was expecting to sit up here feeling sorry for myself and trying to figure out why you were trying to avoid me. Just so you know, you’re a terrible liar.’

‘Yes, I’m well aware, but you should know,’ Harry says, twisting so that one grey eye is visible, ‘you aren’t as good as you think you are.’

‘Oh, really?’ Draco asks, raising his head and looking at Harry dubiously. Draco is so close now that their noses are nearly touching and Harry can see flecks of blue in his eyes.

‘I knew you were lying about the Quidditch trial.’

Draco seems to squirm, apparently knowing he is caught but unwilling to admit it, and Harry decides not to drag it out.

‘I know you saved me. I know it was your spell for the same reason I know that your wand recognised me, Draco.’

‘You aren’t making any sense,’ Draco insists and with a sigh Harry nudges him towards the windowsill.

‘Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.’

**~*~**

‘So, we are just slaves to the whims of our wands?’ Draco asks sometime later as he leans back against Harry and Harry runs his fingers though Draco’s hair over and over again.

‘Have you not listened to anything I’ve just said?’ Harry asks, trying to sound exasperated but knowing that Draco is just being dramatic. ‘It was our choices that made it possible. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t given me your wand in the first place.’ Draco makes a small noise of protest but Harry just shakes his head.

‘If I had taken it by force it wouldn’t have gone back to you so easily. If I had really taken it by force it wouldn’t have retained your imprint. We both became linked to it just like we are both linked to mine. Here, try it,’ Harry says, removing the holly wand from his waistband and passing it to Draco.

Draco takes it from him, holding it somewhat reverently for a moment before swishing it through the air and recasting the warming charm that had been starting to fade.

‘Astonishing,’ Draco says, returning Harry’s wand. ‘It feels so normal and so different all at once.’ Silence falls for a moment and Harry looks up to the rafters of the nearly full owlery, spotting Archimedes sleeping soundly with his head under his wing.

‘Hang on,’ Draco says suddenly, twisting against Harry’s chest. ‘Does that mean I’m still master of the Elder Wand, too?’ he asks and Harry ponders this for a moment.

‘I suppose you must be, for all the good it will do you.’

‘Why, what happened to it?’ Draco asks, unconcerned.

‘Sealed back in Dumbledore’s tomb,’ Harry confesses, surprised at how easily he has shared this piece of information that he had sworn to tell no-one.

‘Well, it can stay there,’ Draco say vehemently. ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want to walk around with that sort of target on his back.’

‘You don’t know how glad I am to here you say that,’ Harry admits, attempting to wriggle his toes and realising that his foot is well and truly asleep. ‘I may love you but I’m not going to grave-rob for you.’

Twisting once more, Draco presses his lips to Harry’s in a soft kiss.

‘You know, I don’t think I will ever get used to hearing you say that,’ he beams, struggling into a sitting position.

‘If you don’t think you can get used to it, imagine how everyone else is going to react,’ Harry says, rotating his ankle to try to encourage the blood back into it.

‘That’s tomorrow’s problem,’ Draco says, getting to his feet and stretching. ‘Besides, it’s their problem, not ours.’

Harry tries to grin, but instead manages nothing more than a large, stretchy yawn.

‘I think you could do with some more sleep before dawn,’ Draco suggests, stroking Harry’s hair from his eyes before catching the yawn. ‘I know I could.’

Taking Harry’s hand Draco pulls him to his feet and leads him from the owlery. They walk through the dark corridors hand in hand until they reach the Entrance Hall where they linger, unwilling to part, sharing gentle kisses until above them the clock strikes half past five.

‘I’ll see you in a few hours,’ Draco says with one final kiss, stepping back and releasing Harry’s hand reluctantly as they go their separate ways, Draco towards the dungeons and Harry up the marble staircase. He has just gained the landing at the top when Draco’s harsh whisper from below has him hanging over the railing.

‘Don’t let Granger keep you up all night.’

When Harry steps through the portrait hole, Hermione is waiting with a tea tray and an expectant look and Harry knows that despite Draco’s warning, he isn’t getting any sleep tonight.

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