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Draco fought against the instinct to curl into himself, burning arm clutched to his, just letting the tears stream over his face.

But he didn’t. He pulled in a deep, calming breath and pushed every inch of pain and discomfort and bone-gnawing fear behind his strongest Occlumency wards. Slowly, he pushed himself into a kneeling position, glancing at the Dark Lord as reverently as he could muster.

The Dark Lord was observing him with a slight smirk on his thin lips. “Will you look at that? The boy is stronger than some of you. Isn’t that right, Bella?”

“Yes, Mylord,” his aunt agreed with a cackle. “Didn’t even scream when we put him under the Crucio.”

At least his father’s education was worth for something. Not that he would mention that if he didn’t have to.

“Well done, Draco,” the Dark Lord mused.

Draco hesitated, gauging if his voice was strong enough not to quiver. “Thank you, Mylord.”

He was fairly certain the pain in his arm would subside, but he also knew it would never be truly gone. Not the worst sensation burning through his body on a daily basis, he supposed, but he also didn’t look forward to the rest of his life.

“I do have a very special assignment for you,” the Dark Lord continued, red eyes still trained on him.

A quick look around told Draco that only the utmost inner circle was present, so it had to be something quite sensitive. He expected the worst, considering the disappointment his father had caused, and the subsequent punishment Draco had received in his stead.

“What do you know about what happened in the Ministry? You can stand up,” the Dark Lord added dismissively.

In all honesty, Draco would have preferred sitting on the ground, but he knew far better than protesting. He pushed himself to his feet, hands clasped behind his back, despite the strain it put on his left arm. But the last thing he should do was appearing weak. Weak drew Death Eaters in like blood did sharks.

Draco was not weak. Draco could not afford to be weak.

“Thank you, Mylord,” he repeated, voice firmer. “I … know that you tricked Harry Potter and his friends to come to the Ministry to retrieve a Prophecy, trapping him there with some of your Death Eaters.”

“Yes.” The Dark Lord’s eyes glistened but didn’t flash again in anger. It seemed to have finally cooled.

“The Order arrived, though, before your people were able to secure the prophecy.” Draco hesitated, trying to gauge what he could believe from the rumours. “There was a fight, between you and Dumbledore, Mylord. I think … Potter was probably there. He is always, so …”

The Dark Lord’s lips curled into a smirk. “He is, isn’t he? What you heard is correct. During the confrontation, I managed to take control over Harry Potter’s mind, albeit for a brief moment.”

Draco almost frowned in confusion. That was … odd. He knew of course that Severus was teaching Potter Occlumency, he had heard him lamenting about it, but … Why was there such a connection between the Dark Lord and Potter in the first place? He wouldn’t ask that question, though, and luckily, the Dark Lord didn’t expect him to answer.

“Inside of his mind, I stumbled upon something very … interesting,” the Dark Lord continued and leaned forward a bit. “It led to a change in plans. My goal is no longer killing Potter. Instead, we need to bring him to our side … willingly, if possible.”

That was so unexpected, Draco was not able to properly control his face and he actually gaped at the Dark Lord.

Luckily, he didn’t mind too much and chuckled, an uncomfortable, cold, hissing sound. “Yes, Draco, you heard me correctly.”

“I …” Draco pressed his lips into a thin line, focusing on control yet again. “Apologies, Mylord. Am I right in the assumption that … this is going to be my task, Mylord?”

“Resilient and clever.” The Dark Lord grinned at him. “At least Lucius managed to raise his son properly, despite his other shortcomings.”

Yes, that was one way to put it.

“Yes, you are assuming right. Do you think that is a manageable task?” the Dark Lord asked in a mocking tone of voice.

There was only one possible answer here, but the thing was …

“It is, Mylord,” Draco said with more confidence than everyone probably suspected.

Voldemort raised his hairless eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I might … know of a possibility right away, Mylord.”

His thoughts were racing, connecting the dots, forming a way he hadn’t realised there was before. For a second he hesitated. Wondering if he could go through with this. But was there really any other choice? And wouldn’t it be for the best? For all of them?

Very pointedly, he glanced at the other Death Eaters and the Dark Lord considered him for a few heartbeats.

“Leave us alone,” he commanded and even his usually so vocal aunt didn’t protest, though she did look at him curiously.

Draco ignored her and waited for the sound of the door closing.

“He has several weak points, Mylord, which I think could be targeted,” he started right away, not wanting to trigger the Dark Lord’s impatience. “The relationship to his friends is always quite turbulent, and even though he did build a bigger support system last year, it is quite easy to sway the school against him. From what I’ve heard, his usually so strong natured connection to Dumbledore was weakened by Dumbledore’s own lack of support of Potter last year. He will surely try to rebuild the trust between them, but someone might be able to intercept that.”

His father hated it when Draco started to ramble like this, spewing out his analyses of other people. Draco figured that had something to do with the fact that it made him cleverer than his father.

But if anything, the Dark Lord looked slightly intrigued. “From what I heard, he hates you, though. How will you overcome this?”

“I might need some help from Professor Snape,” Draco admitted slowly. “But more than that, his saviour complex will be of utmost help.”

“Oh? Do you intend on letting him now about what transpired here? How will this make him consider joining our efforts, if he takes pity in you, and not trying to free you?” the Dark Lord asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Draco really did not want to tell him. But he knew he had to, or he wouldn’t walk out of here alive. “No, not this, Mylord. If I play my cards right, he will want to join first and foremost because he does not want to align himself with the other side anymore. And secondly … he will not want me to be on my own here, and in danger. Not the danger he thinks you might pose, Mylord.”

The Dark Lord looked at him, face unreadable. “Tell me, boy.”

“I was not always the way my father wanted me to be, Mylord,” Draco recounted courtly. “He thought me to be too soft, so he appointed a new tutor – you are most familiar with him; Maximilian Dubois.”

“I can see why he thought him to be an option,” the Dark Lord mused – Dubois was his personal spell maker. A sadistic bastard, even the Death Eaters called him that.

“He took a liking to me.”

And that did spark a stronger reaction, as the Dark Lord visibly stilled on his throne like chair.

Draco tried to suppress the shudder running down his spine, but he was fairly certain something was showing on his face, and it was definitely in the way his voice slightly shook. “He came into my room when I was ten and raped me. I made an effort to behave my best.”

“Did that happen more than once?” the Dark Lord asked, voice as unreadable as his face.

“No, just this once. My father was quickly pleased with my improvements and when I left for school, he didn’t return.” It didn’t feel like a “just once” – not when it was haunting him in his nightmares ever since. But he didn’t say so.

“Not even now, that he is back in the manor?”

At this, Draco did flinch slightly. Surely, the Dark Lord with his control over their wards, knew about the additional layer of wards he had placed around his room. Now he could figure out why.

“No,” Draco answered truthfully. “He is far too busy, I suppose.”

He was looking at him, the same way he had looked at him years ago, and that deeply unsettled Draco.

The Dark Lord was still observing him. “You intend to let Potter know about this?”

“It is almost impossible for him not to help if he thinks someone is in need of it,” Draco answered.

There was no need to tell the Dark Lord, or anyone for that matter, about his motivation behind this, apart from survival instinct. There was no need to think about them in the first place, so he shoved them all away. If he wanted to pull this off, he needed to be exactly as ruthless and cunning and despicable as people thought him to be.

Maybe, one day, in a far away, unattainable future, he would be allowed to explain himself, but he doubted it. Living a happy life was not exactly on his agenda these days.

***

Harry knew something was off about Malfoy. He had been watching him quite closely from the very beginning of the school year, gauging his reactions to his father’s imprisonment. It wasn’t exactly public knowledge, of course, but Malfoy must have known without a doubt the reason for his father’s imprisonment. He certainly didn’t seem angry by the news, but he also wasn’t his former gleeful self … if Harry was being completely honest with himself, Malfoy had already changed a bit last year, but he had been in no space of mind to notice it properly. In hindsight, though, his lack of support of Umbridge was quite jarring.

Despite that, he couldn’t pin down what was different about Malfoy this year. There were some obvious things. Like the fact that his hair was a bit longer and not as properly maintained. He overall appeared to be calmer, and a tad withdrawn.

And then there was an overall air of … change around him. Something in the way he held himself, interacted with his housemates, or the school in general.

In any other person, even any other Slytherin, Harry would have chalked it down to growing up. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a connection to Voldemort. Surely, the wizard wasn’t too happy about Mr Malfoy’s failure in the Ministry, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he had been punishing Malfoy for that. Something he wasn’t sure what to feel about. Being punished by Voldemort wasn’t something he wished on anyone, not even a git like Malfoy. And Voldemort was in need of a few new Death Eaters … Could Malfoy be one? Was his new demeanour born out of some sense of arrogant superiority?

Hermione told him to stop obsessing about Malfoy, and while Ron agreed that something was different, he was more focused on Quidditch try outs and general school gossip. It sparked a hint of annoyance in Harry. How often did his instincts needed to be right for his friends to believe him?

He didn’t gather any new, substantial information about Malfoy, though, until their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. Due to the smaller courses in general, all houses were taught together, but Harry didn’t believe for a second that this would stop Snape from personally tormenting him.

He was right.

“Due to the nature of the upcoming lessons,” Snape explained to them with a slight sneer, after his dramatic speech, “you will all be put into pairs for the entire year. You will do the practical work together and I will expect research projects and essays throughout the year. Do your best, as you will share a grade in these.”

While this was, in general, a surprisingly good idea, Harry had the most dreadful feeling, as Snape continued to tell them that he had chosen their partners.

“Oh Gods,” Harry mumbled in faint horror to Ron, who grimaced in dawning understanding.

And exactly as predicted, everyone got away rather lucky, Ron for example got paired with Dean, and Hermione with Padma, but …

“Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter,” Snape listed off, his eyes darting to Harry with a dangerous, gleeful glint in them.

Hermione smiled weakly and encouragingly at him, but Harry felt far too miserable to react in any way.

Snape ordered them to sort themselves into their pairs for their first practical lesson – as they would in every other course, they would start with nonverbal spells. With a flick of his wand, the tables and chairs all arranged themselves against the walls, creating an open space.

Warily, Harry dragged his feet over to where Malfoy was already standing. His grey eyes were trained on Harry with an unreadable expression on his face. None of them bothered with a greeting. They both hated that and didn’t need to talk more than necessary … Though Snape had said something about “research projects” and Gods, Harry didn’t look forward to spend his time in the library with Malfoy. That was all a horrible idea. Was it too late to drop Defence? He’d rather get himself killed in Care than spending an entire year working with Malfoy. Bloody hell. The realisation started to settle in.

But, a small voice in the back of his head quipped up, if something was going on with Malfoy, this was his chance to figure it out. And no one could accuse him of “obsessing” over Malfoy.

“One of you will try to disarm the other, while this person will try to shield themselves against it,” Snape explained, standing in front of the class, arms crossed. “Begin.”

Harry had no idea how he would make sure that their nonverbal spells worked, because there would be no effect at all if both were successful, but that wasn’t his problem.

“I’ll start with disarming,” he said quickly, not really wishing to have Malfoy’s wand pointed at him, and expected Malfoy to protest for the same reasons.

Instead, Malfoy tilted his head. “Alright.”

Harry came up short, though, because … he had no idea how to do that. Snape hadn’t even explained it to them. Was he just supposed to think the spell? All around them, he heard people muttering quietly, trying to circumvent this whole “nonverbal”-thing by speaking really, really quiet. Snape was already scolding the first for doing so.

Harry raised his wand, made the motion, thought “Expelliarmus” and … well. He knew nothing happened, because he didn’t feel anything around his magic.

Malfoy observed him with a suspicious amount of patience. It angered Harry, somehow, and he tried again. Nothing. Another time. Nothing.

“Expelliarmus,” he finally couldn’t contain himself whispering under his breath, just wanting to see some reaction, anything … and also, Snape was buy at the other end of the room.

The spell did work, it travelled through the space between them and hit Malfoy, but a shield flared up visibly, deflecting the spell.

Harry stared at him. He knew Malfoy was good in potions, but he hadn’t known that his spell work was decent as well. And from what he gathered from all around them, hardly anyone had managed a completely silent spell. And even then, this was his first try. How on earth …

“Tutoring,” Malfoy said suddenly, Harry’s surprise probably visible all over his face.

“Huh?” Harry asked, and he wouldn’t even be mad if Malfoy scoffed at his unintelligent response.

“After I started school, I received tutoring over the summer regarding spell work,” Malfoy instead explained calmly.

Harry blinked at him. That … were they having a civil conversation? What was happening? And why?

“But … the trace.”

Malfoy raised one eyebrow. “Wards around old magical homes usually prevent the trace from working.”

That … what? On one hand, it wasn’t as surprising, now that Harry thought about it. But did that mean … What about Grimmauld Place?! Would they have been able to cast magic there all the time? No, certainly not! Mrs Weasley would surely not have forced them to clean the house by hand if they could have used some magic.

Well. Or maybe she would have. Since it was the “proper” thing to do, the way you were supposed to do things, how the law dictated you to do them. Which was almost laughable, considering that the house had been inhabited by a supposed criminal, a werewolf and a secret organisation not exactly working with the law. But Gods forbid, the children were allowed to cast magic out of school.

“Great,” he muttered, more a reaction to his own thoughts than to Malfoy’s words.

Even though that was definitely an interesting information. If the Malfoy wards chased away the trace, they would certainly be strong enough to hide Voldemort and whatever evil magic he had cast there over the summer. Like putting a Dark Mark on someone’s arm. Instinctively, Harry’s eyes darted to Malfoy’s left arm … only to blanch, when he realised Malfoy had noticed that, since he was still watching him. His mouth twitched.

“Try again,” Malfoy said and flicked his wand.

“Apparently, it wouldn’t have any effect either way,” Harry snapped back. “Since you are so great at this.”

Malfoy seemed on the brink of rolling his eyes. “A well-aimed, strong Expelliarmus will always beat a Protego, Potter.”

That … he also hadn’t heard about that.

“Basic magical theory,” Malfoy said slowly, as if he thought Harry was a bit stupid. “In a situation of equally levelled spells, the aggressive spell, given the condition that both are cast with equal amounts of force, will always outmatch the defensive spell.”

Harry was on the brink of asking Malfoy why that was the case, when he realised that he wanted to ask Malfoy. What was going on? Maybe Harry was the one with the issue this year, and he should check himself into St. Mungo’s.

He narrowed his eyes at him, wondering what kind of trick that was. Surely something that would get him into trouble or … or something. He wasn’t so sure how Malfoy wanted to manage that, but whatever he was up to here couldn’t be good.

So, he snapped his mouth shut and tried again, and again, and again, with no avail, running himself ragged against the silence. He had a faint feeling as if there was some spark of magic at the end of the lesson, but nothing remotely strong enough to make Malfoy’s wand twitch.

The only good thing, he thought gloomily after storming out of the classroom at the end of the lesson, was that Snape hadn’t come to bother them – apparently, being paired with Snape’s favourite student had one advantage.

“How was it, mate?” Ron asked empathetically on their way to potions.

“It looked almost … peaceful,” Hermione added with a careful, questioning tone in her voice.

Harry paused, before spewing out some angry remark. Peaceful. No, that wasn’t the right word. Malfoy had been oddly … at ease. Like someone who had made their peace with a difficult situation. A tad resigned, even?

He continued to observe him throughout potions, at least out of the corner of his eyes, while he was a tad distracted by his weird potions book. Which proved to be a gift sent from heaven, as his potion was the best one and he received Slughorn’s price.

The mystery surrounding Malfoy was pushed out of his mind quickly enough, though, when he got into a confrontation with both Hermione and Ginny about the potions book he had found in the cupboard. Ginny, he could understand a bit. She was worried and he knew she still struggled with what had happened during her first year. Even though he did begrudge her a bit for thinking he would, knowing everything he knew, fall for something like that. Especially because … well. It was obvious that some student who had been a potions genius had written their own notes between the lines. Hell, it could have been entirely possible that it was all rubbish. He could have completely butchered his potion with those instructions. Which was what made him even more angry with Hermione. Just one time, he bested her in potions, and she instantly thought some devious mind behind it. She couldn’t possibly imagine that he, with the right instructions, could manage a decent work.

It … stung, in a weird, new way, feeding right into the amount of self-doubt and self-loathing he still felt after the events of last year. After what had happened with Sirius.

In a pretty miserable mood, Harry went to bed this evening. In an almost ironic twist of events, the Defence lesson with Malfoy had been the most peaceful part of his day, apparently.

***

With a content sigh, Harry saved the last available table in the Three Broomsticks and sat down to wait for Hermione and Ron. Ron had received some money from Fred and George “to congratulate him on making it on the team and not falling from his broom”, and was still busy at Honeyduke’s, while Hermione needed a book from the small bookshop. Harry, who had no interest in either, had offered to go ahead to the pub and save them a table.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the door open again, allowing a cold gust of autumn wind into the room, and did an instant double-take. It was Malfoy who had entered the pub – in and in itself not that surprising. But he was wearing a muggle hoodie, if Harry was not mistaken, and that definitely caught him by surprise. It was plain black and looked a bit too big, but not in the “I’m wearing my cousin’s clothes”, more in the “I’m doing it on purpose” way, especially because his jeans and boots were of impeccable fit.

He had barely reigned in his confusion, when Malfoy clearly made his way over to his table. The thing was, Harry had had a lot to do during the first few weeks of school. The interesting, yet somewhat pointless seeming lesson with Dumbledore, Quidditch try outs paired with his new duty as captain, schoolwork … Harry hadn’t kept track of Malfoy as much as he had wanted to.

What he knew, though, was that … their working together was not nearly as awful as it should have been. They barely spoke with each other, and if they did, Harry was usually stunned in suspicious silence by Malfoy’s outbursts of unfortunately rather interesting knowledge. Again, if it had been any other person, he would have called Malfoy downright polite. As it was, he remained very confused and very suspicious.

So, he watched Malfoy approaching with great apprehension.

“Potter,” Malfoy said and tilted his head. “You are really hard to find.”

“You have been looking for me?” Harry asked accusingly – at least that was what he tried to aim for. He wasn’t sure if it was entirely convincing.

“For our research project?” Malfoy offered with raised eyebrows. “That Professor Snape gave us as an assignment during our last lesson?”

Ah. Well. That was awkward. Of course, Harry remembered that, he had simply chosen to forget about it. They were supposed to train a new, nonverbal spell and then … do some research about … something. He hadn’t entirely paid attention.

“Right.”

Malfoy sighed almost inaudibly. “I would suggest we meet up tomorrow in the abandoned classroom in the fifth corridor by the portrait of …”

“The dragon in the flower field,” Harry interrupted him with a nod.

“Yes. For the practical part.” Malfoy hesitated for a split second. “You should read this. Both for the practical aspect, and more so for the research project.”

He pulled a somewhat worn-down looking book out of his pocket and placed it on the table between them, long, slender fingers resting on the cover. It was a book about magical theory, specifically the basics concerning magical cores and affinities.

“This …”

“Is my book, so do handle it with caution,” Malfoy said with emphasis. “I suppose even Gryffindors know how to do it?”

Harry glared at him, before realising that there hadn’t been any real malice in his voice. It had almost sounded amused. “Why would I want to read that? I’m good at defence.”

“And how well are your essays received by Professor Snape?” Malfoy asked back.

That … ah. That was unfortunately a pretty good point. With a deep, deep sigh, Harry slowly reached out and grabbed the book. “I hope you are not expecting a thank you.”

“Gods, no, I would never,” Malfoy answered without missing a beat and Harry glanced at him. His mouth twitched in undeniable amusement and … Bloody hell, Harry had meant it as amusing, too.

Everyone should forget about the stress of fifth and seventh year. Sixth year was apparently the year that killed people’s common sense.

“Good,” he muttered. “See you tomorrow then, I guess.”

Malfoy nodded and turned around, briskly leaving the pub again and Harry was startled to see that he took his time on the way out to smile at Madame Rosmerta and exchange a few words with her.

A few seconds after he had left, Hermione and Ron entered the pub. They organized them three butterbeers and some sandwiches to eat, before coming over to him.

“Was that Malfoy outside?” Ron asked between two bites of sandwich. “And here I thought, the slimy git only owns fancy suits.”

“Did you pick a fight?” Hermione asked Harry, ignoring Ron.

Harry puffed his cheeks in annoyance. Why was it always his fault? “No, I did not. He reminded me about our essay for Snape. And gave me a book to read.”

He showed it to Hermione, who blinked in surprise.

“Is it something evil?” Ron narrowed his eyes. “Hermione, is that an illegal book?”

“What? No,” she answered and shook her head almost as if to clear her mind. “The opposite, I would say. I read it, too, it’s a good book. It does make sense, though, doesn’t it? Malfoy is on top of his classes …”

“Right behind you,” Ron added with some smugness.

“…so, it’s not surprising that he wants a good grade in Defence, despite your … eh. Differences.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Harry said with a snort, his quick burst of annoyance melting away. Hermione grinned at him sheepishly.

“You still think something’s up with him, mate?” Ron looked at him curiously over the rim of his glass.

Harry took a sip of his own beverage. “I don’t know. I mean, something is different. That’s for sure.”

With that, not even Hermione could disagree. One year ago, working as a pair would have ended in a massacre. Now, they could have an entire conversation and Harry only felt … confused.

***

A day later, Harry was on his way to the abandoned classroom. To be sure he was on the right way, and wasn’t there first, because he would surely not sit around and wait for Malfoy, and there he already was. A dot with the name “Draco Malfoy”, not moving away.

Harry entered the corridor with a quiet sigh, his steps getting slower and slower. He really didn’t want to do that. There were around a thousand other things he would rather do than spent time alone with Malfoy, practicing spells.

How dreadful.

Well, he should better get it over with, he thought, and opened the door. It took him a second to understand what he was seeing.

Malfoy was already there, as he had known before. He was pressed against a wall, face paler than Harry had ever seen it, arms slung around his body in a protective gesture. Towering over him was a man dressed in tailored, dark robes, handsome at first glance, but with a cruel gleam in his eyes. To Harry’s horror, he reached out and curled his hand around Malfoy’s face, thumb dragging slowly over his lips.

“Don’t cry, sweet child,” he whispered. “Or I will make you eat your tongue.”

He leaned forward and Harry finally shook the shock off, darting forward. The noise made the man whirl around and … he turned into a Dementor.

Harry gaped at him, his mind and body reacting without thinking. “Expecto Patronum.”

The boggart-Dementor hissed, and Harry pushed him back into the cupboard that he now noticed was standing open. He locked the door as securely as he could, before he slowly turned around.

Malfoy was still frozen against the wall, eyes blown wide in unmistakable fear. His shoulders were trembling slightly.

“Malfoy?” Harry asked quietly, unsure, his own heart racing inside of his chest. He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand.

Malfoy’s eyes found him, but they were weirdly unfocused, still wide and endlessly big, face vulnerable in a way Harry had never thought to see. “I didn’t think it would be like this.”

“The …”

“Seeing the boggart,” Malfoy admitted, voice distant and almost dream-like. “Lupin asked about it, too …”

Harry felt his stomach churn uncomfortably. The boggart in the exam had been at the end of third year.

Malfoy pressed his eyes shut, a shudder running through his whole body, before he went almost eerily still, his chest rising in a deep intake of breath. When he looked back at Harry, his face was blank. Occlumency wards drawn up, the gates to his mind sealed shut.

“You will not tell a soul,” he said, for the first time this year sounding like his old self.

With the difference that Harry didn’t bristle. He heard the rawness, the defensive desperation.

“No,” Harry heard himself agree weakly, even though he thought someone should know. Someone that wasn’t him.

For a heartbeat, Malfoy’s Occlumency mask fractured, allowing Harry a glance at a deep wound, leading right into the deepest parts of his soul.

“We should …” Harry cleared his throat. “We should meet tomorrow in the library. For the research project. You probably practiced the nonverbal spell.”

Malfoy stared at him almost warily, expecting him to ask the question they both knew was dangling in front of them.

“Yes. Agreed,” he finally said, voice so firmly controlled, Harry wondered how he managed to press the words past his throat.

Without saying another word, Malfoy pushed himself off the wall and walked out of the room.

Harry also left the room shortly after, not wanting to stay inside of it, but he also didn’t return to the common room. The thought of Ron and Hermione asking him questions, of the noise and the people, made him feel sick. He couldn’t answer questions. He didn’t know the answers. Or maybe he did, and he refused to accept them. Because he knew that they would unravel a huge part of his life. Maybe all of it.

So, he retreated back into a hidden passage and slowly slumped to the ground, staring at the opposite wall. He couldn’t forget the terrified expression on Malfoy’s face, cornered by his own boggart. To do basically anything else but remembering, but thinking, he reached inside of his bag and pulled Malfoy’s book out, opening it at the first page.

With a startle, he noticed that there were handwritten notes added to the explanations. Cross-references to other books, or additional explanations, sometimes only putting a concept into, Harry supposed, Malfoy’s own words. Almost without actively wanting it, Harry started reading, coming to the jarring realisation that Malfoy’s explanation made a lot of sense. Concepts he knew were far over his head … suddenly sounded logical. And without having to struggle to every difficult explanation, he suddenly found the topic rather interesting, reading quickly through the introduction and the first chapter. Noticing that he still didn’t feel ready to return to the common room, he continued reading, until it was time for dinner, for which he went to the Great Hall – and rather surprising for him, still with his head buried in the book.

“Merlin, are you alright?” Ron interrupted him after sitting down next to him, and Harry lowered the book. “We thought Malfoy killed you!”

Harry quickly decided to lie – he would not tell Ron and Hermione about what he had seen, even though a part of him desperately wished for some advice. He could only imagine, though, how Ron would react, claiming that it had been fake, that it was a trap, something. And maybe Harry would have thought the same if he hadn’t seen Malfoy’s reaction. Even taking into account that Slytherins were good at deceiving and lying … Bone-deep fear was not easy to fake.

“No, it went alright,” he said with a shrug. “Just took it a bit longer, Malfoy wanted to be thorough.”

Hermione observed him, before she nodded slowly. “That is probably a good idea, considering that Professor Snape will grade our essays.”

“Mhm,” Harry agreed and focused back on his book, earning him a confused look by Ron.

“That’s Malfoy’s book, isn’t it?” Ron asked. “Ugh, why are you reading that?”

“To get over the research part quickly,” Harry lied easily. Telling Ron, he actually found what he was reading interesting, and especially Malfoy’s notes on it, was probably not a good idea.

“That is very … thoughtful,” Hermione said slowly, and Harry barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

Yes, he was capable of thinking through things, fancy that.

Ron shrugged his words away and focused on filling his plate with food. “Figured out then what’s wrong with the ferret?”

Harry paused, the unsettling feeling of dread returning. Considering what he had seen today … But from what Malfoy had said about Remus, it had sounded as if that was years ago … Not that Harry blamed him for still being afraid, but would it make sense that he only changed now?

It did, though, change Harry’s image of him from the last few years. As if he had observed a painting for years and now, in hindsight, realised that it had never been the original. That it had been altered with from the very beginning. And now, someone had painted over it yet again.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted with a sigh, but put the book away to start eating. He wondered what their meeting tomorrow in the library would bring.

***

This time, Harry didn’t make an effort to be too late, but Malfoy was still already there, a stack of books on the table in front of him and a piece of parchment, neatly filled with his own handwriting. He didn’t look up from what he was reading, one finger tracing the narrow lines and a slight frown on his face. Considering the speed in which his finger travelled over the page, he seemed to be reading faster than Hermione.

A bit intimated, and feeling more than a bit unsure, Harry sat down on the chair opposite and waited quietly, fidgeting slightly from side to side.

Malfoy made a quiet, discontent sound and closed the book rather forcefully, before focusing on Harry. His eyes seemed to seize him up, gauging if he was going to mention what had happened yesterday. Harry wouldn’t. Not before he had sorted through his thoughts and feelings and … well. Whatever. He was definitely not ready for that conversation, and he was also a tad afraid that Malfoy might Crucio him if he tried.

After Harry looked at him as blankly as humanly possible, Malfoy nodded ever so slightly, before he gestured towards the books.

“I already made a selection,” he explained and raised one eyebrow. “I suppose you are not too familiar with this topic.”

Which, Harry had dug deep into his mind to remember their explicit assignment, was the historical and magical nature of the nonverbal spell they were supposed to practice.

“Not … exactly,” Harry admitted with a sigh, and took a look at the displayed books. “Oh, you mentioned this one in your annotations.”

Malfoy tilted his head slightly. “Oh? Yes, I did. You read so much already?”

“Eh …” Harry pushed through the surge of embarrassment he suddenly felt. “Yes. I read the whole thing.”

“Caught your interest, then?” Malfoy asked, chin resting on his folded hands, elbows propped up on the table.

It was a bit unnerving, being Malfoy’s sole focus of attention, and for the first time not in malice. As far as Harry could tell, Malfoy was genuinely curious about his answer.

Harry decided that if they wanted to get any work done, he had to push every issue he had about this situation aside. Besides, fuck, this new Malfoy made it fairly easy not to bicker with him … and Harry had some questions about what he had been reading.

“Actually, yes,” he admitted and pulled the book carefully out of his bag to give it back to Malfoy.

“Keep it,” Malfoy said with a shrug. “I know it by heart.”

Harry gaped at him. “Eh … Okay. Thanks?”

“There you go,” Malfoy mumbled, and half hidden by his hands, Harry noticed his mouth twitching into a smirk. Ah. Their conversation in the Three Broomsticks.

Damn it.

He scowled at Malfoy, but more to keep himself from getting too flustered. “Anyway. I didn’t know. About the different magical cores. Why isn’t that taught?”

“Hogwarts once had a course on magical theory. It got disbanded around forty years ago I think?” Malfoy mused. “Even earlier than that, before the start of the twentieth century, Hogwarts also taught the different branches of magic. One was assigned a course after one’s magical core fully formed – at around fifteen. To focus entirely on the kind of magic one’s core specialised in.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Hogwarts was teaching dark magic?”

“Of course.” Malfoy smirked slightly. “Does that bother you?”

“I mean …”

“You did read that dark magic does not equal evil, as does light magic does not equal good?” Malfoy interrupted him.

“I … did,” Harry muttered. “But …”

Malfoy sat up straighter. “A few examples about connotation then, shall we? Is Parseltongue a dark ability?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because …”

Malfoy’s smirk deepened. “Because you-know-who is the other person famous for speaking it and he is evil? That is of course completely logical. We should make breathing illegal, as I am sure he does that, too.”

Harry was honestly surprised that Malfoy mentioned him so casually. Then again, he would do that if he didn’t want to draw suspicion on him … Harry shoved the thought away. No issues, he reminded himself.

“Yeah, okay, but …”

“Parseltongue is an old ability, tracing its way back right to the Naga, a south-Asian magical tribe who can shapeshift into snakes.”

“What?” Harry spluttered. That was the first he had ever heard about that.

Malfoy hummed quietly. “Mhm, most people do not know. But you can look it up in the library.”

“What does that have to do … Oh,” Harry said in dawning understanding. “You want to make a point about the subjectivity of evil and good.”

“Correct.” Malfoy observed him with an expression on his face that Harry couldn’t quite pin down.

“Okay, but what about … the Unforgiveables?”

Malfoy leaned back with a shrug. “The Imperio and Crucio truly do not serve any other purpose than harming people – but they are certainly not the only ones. They are Unforgiveables because of their fairly easy usage, and the fact that you cannot use shield magic against them. The killing curse, though … Some countries use it as an execution method instead of implementing the Dementor’s kiss. I suppose you could argue about which you’d prefer more.”

Harry was pretty sure he was going to have a headache at the end of their session. And they hadn’t even started with their actual work. “Fine. Dark magic is not evil. But it gets used for evil.”

“Of course,” Malfoy said dismissively. “Then again, in the past, magical covens used light magic for quite some destructive purposes. Light magic, you need to know, includes some aspects of weather magic. Imagine what you-know-who could do if he was able to control the weather.”

“I’d rather not,” Harry said dubiously. “Okay.”

“Look it up.” Malfoy elegantly waved towards the numerous shelves, before his gaze rested back on him. “Anything else you stumbled upon?”

“Well, apparently not before I’m researching on my own,” he muttered and Malfoy smirked again.

He pushed his piece of parchment on the table between them. “Let’s start with this then, shall we?”

They weren’t supposed to work together so well. Harry knew that, on one level, but he was more occupied with being still completely stunned whenever Malfoy showed off his vast amount of knowledge. He had an understanding of magic that went far beyond what Hermione displayed. Sure, she had probably read more books than anyone in the castle, but Malfoy had not only read, apparently, a decent lot himself, he also had the experience and the instincts to match it. Unlike Harry and Hermione, he had grown up surrounded by magic. It was as natural for him as breathing, and it was obvious in all the little spells he cast throughout their session. Summoning books to them, searching through them with magic, letting his quill make notes (and not weird ones like Skeeter’s, the quill just wrote down what they said) … and he did all of that nonverbal. Flicking his wand almost dismissively between his elegant fingers, occupied with something else, while he controlled magic completely effortless.

It was probably a bad sign that his school enemy was so good with spell work, but Harry, who had tried teaching people how to cast magic, couldn’t not be impressed with that. Hell, he had no idea what half the spells Malfoy used were, and he could barely cast nonverbal these days.

“How is that going?” Malfoy asked, at one point, and twirled his wand between his fingers. “Casting nonverbal?”

Harry grimaced. “Totally great. Thanks to Snape’s wonderful explanations.”

Malfoy snorted, and Harry realised with a startle that he had amused Malfoy again. “Cast verbal. Just before you let the spell go off from the tip of your wand, hold it there and trace magic’s way back where it comes from inside of you. Memorize this path and draw from it directly.”

Well, enough was enough, Harry decided. He leaned back and scrutinized Malfoy.

“Why?” he asked. “Why are you suddenly like this?”

“Preferential treatment. Professor Snape told me during the summer that he would put us into a group. I had my fair share of being angry,” Malfoy answered without missing a beat. “Besides, my future is important to me. I do have standards to maintain.”

It wasn’t as if Harry didn’t not believe him … but he also couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more going on. Knowing about this beforehand definitely explained why Malfoy had remained so calm about it. And he was clearly capable of strong Occlumency.

Malfoy glanced at his, probably filthy valuable, watch and snapped his wand, stacking the books and filing the pieces of parchment away. “Well, I need to be on my way. You know what your part of the essay is?”

“Mhm, yes.”

“Do try to practice nonverbal. My sources,” Malfoy said almost mockingly, “told me that some of us will have to present a little duel during the next lesson. I could imagine that somehow, our names will be drawn.”

“Right, because the last time went brilliantly,” Harry answered a bit scathingly.

Malfoy just shrugged and stood up, smoothing his robes in one motion. “See you, Potter.”

Harry watched him leave and only then noticed that he had left the books on the table for Harry to put away.

“Git,” he muttered, before accepting that it was probably fair. Malfoy had searched for them in the first place. And Harry could use this opportunity to check up on some things. He would really appreciate not feeling so uneducated and stupid every time he talked with Malfoy.

***

A few days later, one day before their next Defence lesson, Harry was running a bit late after Quidditch practice. He had sorted through their uniforms and training utensils afterwards, enjoying the quietness of it to go over some aspects he wanted to focus on during next practice, and had forgotten about time a bit. It wasn’t too bad, since being Gryffindor’s team captain gave him some leeway with curfew, but he was still tired and exhausted after a long day. And he was also dreading tomorrow a bit. Sure, he had practiced nonverbal spells, begrudgingly following Malfoy’s advice and unfortunately getting some good results, but he was sure it would end in a catastrophe.

He was on his way back to the castle, crossing the courtyard, when one window inside of the castle lit up, light pouring into an otherwise dim alcove. It illuminated blond hair, and he wanted to quickly walk away (just because they worked together, didn’t mean he trusted Malfoy when they met in darkness, without any witnesses), when he mentally caught up with the scenery his eyes were seeing.

It was Malfoy, standing there in the alcove, but he wasn’t alone. From what Harry could see of the other boy, it was Blaise Zabini. He slowly reached out to Malfoy, who nodded seemingly to something Zabini had asked him, and then … they kissed.

Harry’s mind went completely blank. He knew he was staring at two people kissing. At two blokes kissing. At Malfoy and Zabini kissing. And he definitely knew he should turn around and leave them the fuck alone, because that was none of his business and why was he staring, he should at least look somewhere else and …

They parted and to Harry’s horror, Malfoy looked up. Meeting Harry’s stare. Their eyes locked for an unbearably long moment in which Harry honestly didn’t know what he was thinking. Or if he was thinking at all.

“You good?” he heard Zabini’s low mumble.

Malfoy focused back on him and nodded, before pulling him into another kiss.

As quickly, and quietly, as Harry could manage, he retreated into the castle and straight to the common room. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, and he didn’t even know where to start.

Somehow, he made his way back into the common room and muttered a greeting to Ron and Hermione, who were still in that weird mood around each other and didn’t notice that something was wrong with him.

Well, not wrong. He thought. Nothing was wrong. Right?

Recently, everyone in Hogwarts seemed to hang around somewhere, kissing other people. Hell, he had seen Ginny and Dean kissing yesterday, and had wisely refrained from telling Ron. His moods were a bit hard to predict these days.

But maybe it was that he hadn’t thought Malfoy would be standing in a dark alcove kissing someone else. And not just any someone. Blaise Zabini. A boy. Harry honestly didn’t know what the magical community’s stand on that was in general, but he couldn’t imagine that old, traditional pureblood families were more open towards this than, say, the Dursleys. Also … he hadn’t known anyone liked Malfoy enough for … kissing. Not only that, apparently. Kissing him … like this. It was such a jarring contrast to his last and first and only kiss. Kissing Cho under a mistletoe after a brilliant lesson should have been … great, romantic. It had been nothing but awkward and awful. The whole year had been drowned in a looming sense of dread, of not being good enough, of feeling miserable and alone and in hindsight, this kiss that should have never happened had encompassed all of that.

Even seeing it from far away and in the darkness, the kiss he had witnessed outside had seemed completely different. Controlled, with Malfoy and Zabini knowing what they were doing, and … surprisingly tender, careful. It wasn’t something he associated with Slytherins.

In all honesty, it wasn’t something he associated with himself, either.

And maybe that, among … well the obvious (Draco Malfoy kissing a boy), struck him the most. That all around him, everyone, even the most unlikely people, had someone treating them carefully. It wasn’t fair … Or maybe it was exactly what he deserved, since ever single person who had cared for him was dead. Apparently, loving him meant dying. So, who was to blame here, really?

The thought didn’t leave him for the rest of the evening and kept him awake most of the night, so it was in a rather angry, hurt, overwhelmed way that he stepped into the Defence classroom.

Exactly as Malfoy had foretold it, Snape called them to the front of the classroom to perform a quick duel. From the way he looked at Harry, he definitely enjoyed it, expected him to lose, to make a fool of himself. He even casted a barrier of shields around them, he explained in a mocking tone, to prevent any “mishaps”.

It only funnelled Harry’s foul mood and he gritted his teeth, feeling the deep, disturbing anger from last year bubbling up inside of him. Outside of the shield circle, he faintly noticed Hermione’s and Ron’s worried looks. Somehow, it made him even angrier. How was he supposed to learn control if everyone treated him like a ticking bomb?

“Begin,” Snape commanded.

They even did the bowing thing, and Harry quickly stood up straight, seizing Malfoy up, who was observing him with a flat face.

To Harry’s surprise, he was the first to attack. The disarming spell darted through the air and Harry raised his nonverbal shield in the last possible moment, deflecting the spell, making his shield rattle. After their first lesson, he had read up on different shielding spells, and quickly attached one to his arm, so that he could block some lower level spells from Malfoy without constantly casting spells. He shot back a disarming spell of his own, which Malfoy easily deflected to the side, where it bounced against the protective circle.

Their duel picked up speed, now, with Malfoy casting several spells in quick succession. One turned the ground beneath Harry’s feet to ice, one let the dust rise from the surfaces around them. To not lose his footing, he had to quickly melt the ice, using the “Incendio” spell nonverbal for the first time. Malfoy’s tip did help. Now that he knew where to look, he could easily direct his magic the way he wanted to.

The cloud of dust encompassed him, taking his vision and making him cough, and he felt the wand in his hand twitch under another, more powerful disarming spell. With an angry sound, he gripped his wand tighter.

This was what he was good at! Fighting, defending himself. He wouldn’t, couldn’t let Malfoy win. He couldn’t bear the thought what that would mean for him. For the prophecy.

Without properly thinking about it, he disintegrated the cloud of dust even though he didn’t use a spell. He simply pushed his raw, unfiltered magic in the direction he wanted.

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose up a tad, as if he had noticed, and started casting a spell that was constantly raining down on Harry in blinding lights and distracting noises. Angrily, he pushed through the spell and simply … threw his pure magic against Malfoy’s shields. They flared up protectively, retreating under his onslaught until they rested right on his skin. The shields Snape had erected also started to glow, as more and more magic filled their duel space.

It was like a rush. A rush of pure, untampered, uncontrolled power that was bursting out of Harry like a tidal wave.

Their magic clashed against each other, fuelled each other, until the energy reached a melting point; the whole classroom lit up in blinding rays of magic, and Harry felt his wand slipping from his fingers, clattering to the ground. He reached out, felt Malfoy’s wand with the magic tingling in his fingertips, and ripped it straight out of his hand.

When the light settled, the magic retreated, Harry barely heard the hushed whispers, didn’t notice the wide-eyed stares, over the pounding of his own heart. Malfoy’s gaze, though, he noticed. A bit of colour had risen in his cheeks, his eyes were blazing in a way that made the grey look like a thunderstorm, and his lips were twisted in a faint smile. An appreciative smile that seemed to amplify the tingle of magic still buzzing on Harry’s skin.

***

“You look like you had an awful day,” an all to familiar voice said from the door and Harry looked up with a grimace. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

No one ever came to this stairwell … usually. Harry had no idea why it was experiencing such a rush hour today.

But here Malfoy was, leaning against the banister, looking up to where Harry was sitting on the platform atop of the stairs. He was once again wearing a black muggle hoodie, looking regal and calm, and not as if he had lost a Quidditch game today. Harry should look like him and not sit in a dark corner of the castle, sinking into brooding thoughts.

“Shouldn’t you be in mourning or something?” he snapped back.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “If my teammates still thought we will win against the Gryffindor team, I would feel the need to get their delusions checked.”

“Oh, really? Since when do you have so much faith in our team? I remember the little song you composed.”

“Then you might also remember that I did not sing it – it was Pansy’s and Blaise’s idea.”

That was, of course, correct, but the mention of Blaise Zabini didn’t do anything to lighten Harry’s mood. Something along those lines must have been visible on his face, because Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, I see. Is that the reason you skipped over the research meeting yesterday?”

Harry quickly looked away, choosing to glare at the wall. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Steps drew closer as Malfoy ascended the stairs and when Harry glanced at him, he was sitting a few feet away from him, leaning against the wall, observing him.

“What is it, then? That no one could possibly like me enough to kiss me?” Malfoy asked and Harry was caught by surprise by the hint of bitterness in his voice.

He felt his, admittedly unfair anger at Malfoy, slip away a bit. “No … I’m not that bad of a person.”

And he wasn’t, really. That was not the reason. But he sure as hell wouldn’t tell Malfoy that it was the fact that no one liked him enough. Even in his head it sounded absolutely embarrassing.

“Oh? So, it’s the gay thing?”

Harry’s head whipped around and he knew he was blushing now. “What, no, I … That’s not … I don’t …”

“Mhm,” Malfoy mused, and his lips twitched in barely concealed amusement. “Cute.”

That didn’t help Harry’s embarrassment at all, which was the only reason why he even blurted out his next words. “I didn’t know you were allowed to be.”

“To be gay?” Malfoy specified, probably only to make him even more flustered. “That comes down to your definition of being allowed.”

“Huh?”

Malfoy smirked. “My father would certainly not be thrilled if he knew. But as we are both quite aware of, he is no position to be anything.”

Harry was stunned that he mentioned it so dismissively. Then again, what was the point in denying it for Malfoy. As he said, they both knew the truth. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Malfoy’s left arm. If he noticed it, he didn’t comment on it.

“I just don’t know why I’m constantly seeing other people kiss,” Harry muttered to say something.

“Mhm, that’s why I’m here and not in the Slytherin common room,” Malfoy answered and his lips twitched again. “A tip: It helps if you are the one doing the kissing.”

Harry wondered if he should rather throw himself down the stairs than die from embarrassment.

But there was something else, too, that had bothered him about what he had seen. Well, not bothered him. Had confused him, maybe. And it couldn’t get any worse than this conversation. If Malfoy decided to kill him for mentioning, it might be a mercy kill.

“I didn’t think you would want that. Kissing people. Considering …,” Harry started, and couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.

The amusement vanished from Malfoy’s face, but he also didn’t reach for the wand. “You put one and one together, I assume.”

“Well …” Harry looked at him, unsure. He had seen what he had seen; a man towering over Malfoy, crossing all boundaries, touching him, threatening him into submission. After all, Harry knew what adult men were capable of. He knew part of the spectrum of horrors one could put children through.

“You would assume right,” Malfoy admitted, almost softly, and Harry was not sure against whom he wanted to soften the blow. “And I wish it was as easy as this. It would make life far easier, if the memory would fade and the fear would never return, when I never touched another person again.”

And that … made a surprising amount of sense. Harry’s own fears came back at random, sometimes completely unconnected to their source. He didn’t need to look at a cupboard to see in his nightmares how the lightbulb over his head went out and the darkness swallowed him whole.

“I think I know what you mean,” he heard himself say, surprised by the way he … did. He understood. He was connected to Malfoy now, in some sense. Some awful twist of events. That was the reason he hadn’t thought about Malfoy’s boggart; he had known, deep inside of him, that he would realise this connection. And now that he had, that he had admitted to it loud and in the open, there was no taking it back. Not going back to how it had been before.

Malfoy made a small, agreeing sound. “Besides, Blaise is very aware of my boundaries.”
“Good,” Harry said and grimaced. “I mean, it would be … not nice if he wasn’t.”

“Not nice,” Malfoy echoed. “My, what an extensive vocabulary.”

Harry glared half-heartedly at him. “Shut up.”

Malfoy leaned back more comfortably, one long leg stretched out in front of him. “So, what is going on here? Granger nearly pushed me down a flight of stairs, dissolved in tears.”

“Something that’s also my fault I guess,” Harry grumbled.

“Oh, and my money was on Weasley …”

“Well …” Harry huffed and ran a hand through his messy hair. “It was. Kind of. But not really. I mean he kissed Lavender and fought with Hermione because he played so well, and that’s my fault, so there’s that.”

Malfoy looked at him blankly, blinking very slowly and deliberately. “Please never become an author. Your storytelling is atrocious.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “As you are aware of, he has a problem with nerves when playing Quidditch. So, I made him think he drank Felix Felicis. When Hermione confronted us about it after the game, I explained that I didn’t do it – obviously, that would be forbidden.”

“I am a Slytherin. Nothing is forbidden if you do not get caught,” Malfoy answered, seemingly not bothered by the fact that Harry had kind-of-but-ot-really-cheated.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Ron got angry with Hermione, because he thought that she thought he could only play well with a potion. Then he kissed Lavender, Hermione left the common room and I followed her here to talk. Ron came, too, and she used this bird spell on him.”

“Ah. Now your story starts to make sense.” Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “I still hardly see where this is supposed to be your fault, though.”

“They wouldn’t have fought about it without the potion.”

“Look, like it or not, the school loves to gossip about you three,” Malfoy said a tad dryly and Harry cringed – he knew that and yes, he didn’t like it. “The two of them are constantly finding a reason to fight. Aren’t they? All those unresolved feelings have to go somewhere.”

Harry huffed. “I guess. Still …”

“Merlin, Potter, you have enough problems on your own,” Malfoy interrupted him with a dramatic eye roll. “Don’t make other people’s problems yours, too.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest that he didn’t, then he shut it again. Because … well. Malfoy had a point. Sure, he wanted his two best friends to get along, but it wasn’t his responsibility to sort out their feelings for them. If they couldn’t see it, then this was their issue to deal with.

“Ugh. I have to watch Ron and Lavender kiss from now on,” it suddenly dawned on him – because after tonight, it would definitely be a while before Ron and Hermione started to talk again. And Lavender had been kind of into Ron for a few weeks now, so that would be … obnoxious.

“I wonder who has their bet on Brown and Weasley,” Malfoy said thoughtfully. “I was right about his sister and Thomas.”

Harry gaped at him. “You are betting on couples at Hogwarts?”

“Of course.” Malfoy smiled at him, but it was so sardonic that Harry feared the worst. “There was some money on you and Diggory.”

That rendered Harry speechless, and he knew he was starting to blush, and there was nothing he could do against it, especially because Malfoy was watching him so intently. Probably enjoying the effect his shocking words had on Harry.

“What,” he managed to croak out.

“Mhm.” Malfoy tilted his head, still smiling. “Problem?”

“I … I am not going to answer that. You know what? I think I’d rather watch Ron and Lavender snogging in the common room than continue with this conversation,” Harry said and quickly scrambled to his feet, walking over to the stairs and passing by Malfoy.

Malfoy’s smile morphed into a snort. “Don’t break something, Potter. Is your mood lightened or do I have to prepare some stronger shields for our next duel?”

Harry paused, considered that for a moment and then sighed with a grimace. “I’m saying this once, so don’t make me repeat myself. I shouldn’t have … done what I did.”

Slowly, Malfoy pushed himself off the ground, positioning him quite close now, and Harry realised, for the first time really, that he was a tad taller than Harry.

“Was that supposed to be an apology?” Malfoy asked, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

Harry glared at him. “Take it or leave it, Malfoy.”

“No need for it anyway,” Malfoy answered and observed him. “It was rather impressive, was it not?”

Before Harry could come up with an answer, Malfoy tilted his head in a silent greeting and walked past him down the stairs and out of Harry’s vision.

“Oh,” Harry said quietly, slowly and far too late for Malfoy to hear it, anyway. Which was probably for the better.

***

And so it was written in times of old that there should be one to be a focal point of the dark and one to be a focal point of the light, with neutrality balancing between them. Lady Morgana was pronounced the first Lady of Light, while Lord Merlin was bestowed the title Lord of Dark, and they promised in front of magic and in front of the people to protect and to guide in times of need.

“Is that true?” Harry asked, putting the book in front of Malfoy’s face, his finger tapping against the paragraph.

He had made sure that Malfoy was alone in the library, of course, before he had went to him to ask about it.

Malfoy blinked at him. “Hello to you, too. Let me see.”

He took the book out of his hand, looked at the title, then read over the paragraph.

“Well, yes. What about that surprises you?”

“Uh, everything?!” Harry shot back. “Merlin was a Lord of Dark? And it’s an actual title? Not just some … dramatic supremacy bullshit?”

Malfoy gestured towards the second chair. “Sit. Please. I do not like people towering over me.”

“Right. Sorry.” Harry grimaced. That hadn’t been his intention, so he quickly sat down on the chair next to Malfoy.

“Of course he was a Lord of Dark. He was a Necromancer and that is a gift notoriously associated with dark magic,” Malfoy explained. “And yes, it used to be a real title. According to legends, back then magic could take on a real form. They chose people to be focal points of their different powers. Potter, why are you asking me and not your studious friend?”

“Oh. Well.” Harry sighed. “Hermione left the library after we stumbled over Ron and Lavender snogging behind a shelf. And you mentioned this book in your annotations.”

Malfoy looked at him, again with this unreadable expression on his face. “Oh yes, I did.”

“Besides … during our duel, I didn’t use spells. In the end.”

“I know.”

“What did I use? I am not going to ask Hermione, because she didn’t stop scolding me for the rest of the day.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows wandered upwards. “Why would she do that?”

Harry gnawed on his lower lip, not ready to admit to Malfoy of all people that his friends were constantly worried he was … going too far. Was getting too angry, too uncontrollable. Too much like last year. The thing was, though, he had never felt freer than when he had used his magic like this. It had been almost liberating.

“Anyway,” Malfoy said smoothly, probably gauging from Harry’s reaction that he wouldn’t get an answer, “you used your raw magical core, I suppose. It is unusual, but not unheard of. It does require a substantial amount of power to draw from.”

“I am the chosen one,” Harry said wryly.

“Sure,” Malfoy drawled. “Anything else a mere mortal like I can do for the great Harry Potter?”

“I deserved that,” Harry conceded with a sigh. “Why did you write “six branches” above the chapter about dark and light magic?”

Malfoy hummed quietly. “Ah. Wait.”

He leaned over Harry to grab a stack of parchment and Harry froze as his arm brushed against his. Had there been one instance where they had touched without … trying to punch or curse each other?

Malfoy sat back up again, placing the parchment between them. He quickly wrote down “dark”, “neutral” and “light” in bigger letters right in the middle.

“Three types of magic,” he said. “Each type has two branches. Aggressive and protective,” he wrote that down over and under the bold words, “some spells can be both, and we mostly learn neutral spells here.”

He made a little “x” at both neutral branches and the protective light branch. “These are allowed in Great Britain. The rest is not.”

“What do they,” Harry tapped against the forbidden ones, “entail?”

“Light aggressive magic is, for example, weather control and soul magic, and all magic that is used by light creatures.”

Harry came up short. “What? Light creatures are not allowed to use their magic around here?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said slowly. “Only with explicit permission, see house elves. Or goblins. You surely remember the goblin wars mentioned one or two times.”

“Or three or four or five …” Harry had to think about the rest, especially the off-handed comment about house elves … Did Hermione know?

Malfoy smirked slightly. “Exactly. Well, aggressive dark magic contains Necromancy and aggressive mind magic, to name a few. Protective dark magic are sacrificial blood rituals and … see, there is a potion that was used in the past. Not all damage done by magic can be healed by magic. This potion allowed, though, to heal extensive damage, but it required a sacrifice. Say, you had a child getting hurt with magic. A parent could offer some blood, or flesh, an organ or even their life to save their child with that potion.”

“A part of me thinks that sounds horrible, but I mean, muggles have organ transplantation,” Harry said slowly.

“Quite right,” Malfoy agreed and then stiffened.

Harry looked up from the parchment. Ron was standing at the beginning of the row of shelves at which end they sat on a table. He looked a bit dishevelled, but not nearly as enthusiastically as he had before, kissing Lavender.

“What are you doing?” Ron asked in an almost accusing tone, eyes darting between them.

Harry wondered what he was supposed to answer. “Malfoy is telling me all about illegal magic and we discussed the connotation of good and evil?” Yeah. That would go over great. He certainly knew how he would have reacted a few months ago if Ron had told him that.

“Going over the outline of our next essay,” Harry lied, without hesitating. He really didn’t want to deal with a disgruntled Ron. Ever since the Quidditch game, he was either: snogging Lavender, talking about Lavender, complain about Hermione, making fun of people “being all on their own, mate, what kind of hell is that”. There was no need to add moodiness to all of this.

“It’s due next year,” Ron answered affronted and glared at Malfoy. “You’re not doing everything the ferret tells you, right?”

The nickname “ferret” was usually something Harry found moderately funny, but with Malfoy sitting next to him it felt … awkward.

“It’s Snape. I hadn’t had detention with him this year yet, I want to keep it that way,” Harry answered truthfully.

Ron nodded slowly, his suspicion filled gaze never leaving Malfoy. “I better keep around.”

Malfoy scoffed quietly and Harry cringed inwardly, knowing that this would end up in a fight if he didn’t find a solution.

Lucky for him, though, someone else did.

“Ronnie!” Lavender squealed from somewhere.

Malfoy’s scoff turned into a cough that barely concealed his amused snort, and Harry had to fight to keep a straight face. Especially because Ron looked a bit mortified himself.

“Ronnie, where are you?”

“She’s not coming here,” Harry warned Ron and frantically shook his head. “Shoo, go to her. I don’t need to see that. I’m fine, really.”

“Okay … But let me know when he tries something!” Ron added, pointing at Malfoy warningly, who glanced very pointedly towards Lavender behind some shelves.

Ron muttered something under his breath and vanished where he had come from.
Harry grimaced and only now dared to fully look at Malfoy, who was concealing his mouth with one hand, lips pressed into a thin line, clearly fighting his amusement. Harry grinned.

“See what I have to live with? And I’m sharing a common room with them.”

Malfoy’s eyes glistened in amusement. “The horror. A shame the redheaded twins are no longer here. They would have lent you a helping hand … or mouth, from what I’ve heard in rumours.”

“Shut up!” Harry now practically squealed, feeling heat rise to his cheeks in an alarming rate.

“I figured that would shock Weasley the most.” Malfoy looked at him almost innocently. “I am trying to be helpful here, Potter, you should appreciate that.”

Harry would appreciate it even more if Malfoy stopped making him doubt his sexuality, so there was that. Not that Harry would say that one out loud. Instead, he glared at Malfoy and grabbed his book back to, at best, pretend to read in it. Going from Malfoy’s snort, it wasn’t really convincing. But he let it go, and for some minutes, giving Harry the time to compose himself again, silence settled in, only disturbed by the rustling of Malfoy’s parchment as he got some work done.

“You lied to Weasley,” Malfoy said suddenly, and Harry lowered the book he was reading to look at him. He was a bit surprised to see the hint of a frown on Malfoy’s face. One of the first bits of frustrated annoyance Harry had seen on him this year.

“Yes,” he answered slowly. “It was … easier. He would have picked up a fight, would have been arguing with me all weekend long … Hell, he might have told Hermione, and she would have pestered me for weeks.”

Malfoy crooked his head to the side. “Even if you assured them that you are not doing anything unjust, they wouldn’t trust you?”

Harry opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to come up with answer that lessened the blow, that made it sound less bad but … it was something he had thought over and over again, hadn’t he? How much lying had he done towards the people he was supposed to trust, because he had learned that they didn’t trust him completely?

“Probably not,” he admitted quietly.

“I might not have the best record of making friends myself,” Malfoy said, and there was a tinge of bitterness in his voice, “but … shouldn’t it be easier telling your friends the truth than lying to them? Is that not why you have them in the first place?”

To this, Harry didn’t even try to come up with an answer. It would never sound convincing, with a small voice in the back of his head insisting that Malfoy had a point. And that something was definitely wrong, because it wasn’t the case.

***

“Oh, I didn’t know Draco would be here, too,” Luna said cheerfully and Harry did not look around hastily to follow her pointing finger.

It was, indeed, Malfoy, standing with a group of people a bit further to the centre of the room. He seemed to accompany Daphne Greengrass, daughter of the Chief Healer in St. Mungo’s, whom had been invited by Slughorn, too.

“There is some talk about them marrying in the future, did you know that?” Luna asked dreamily.

Harry blanched at this. “What?”

“But I don’t think he would want that.”

“Because …” Harry snapped his mouth shut. Even though he was fairly certain Luna would never repeat anything he said to someone else, it was probably safer not to mention a word.

Luna smiled at him. “Oh, you know that he doesn’t like girls?”

“How do you … Forget the question.” Harry resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Talking to Luna usually gave him whiplash. Despite being rather unpopular, she always knew everything.

“You two have talked a bit more this year, haven’t you?”

Harry nodded slowly. It wasn’t really a secret. People knew they had to work together in Defence. They had seen them meeting up in the library.

“I think that’s good,” she said with a faint smile. “He was always rather lonely.”

Harry frowned. “I wondered about that. I thought he was friends with Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle … And he’s here with Daphne Greengrass, apparently.”

“Well. He talks to them, of course, but I am not sure they are really friends.” Luna raised her shoulders a bit, her dress sparkling in the candlelight. “Growing up without siblings as a pureblood wizard or witch is always a bit lonely. And Draco’s parents are rather strict.”

That, Harry didn’t even have to imagine. He remembered Lucius Malfoy’s cane digging into his son’s shoulder. His coldly spoken words, chastising Malfoy. Just because Malfoy had nothing to wish for that money could buy, didn’t mean he had grown up … happy.

And he knew that there was at least one really, really dark spot in his life. He wondered if anyone knew about it.

“You know, I thought he was up to something in the beginning of the year,” Harry admitted quietly. “I still think something’s different. Not sure if it’s something wrong, though …”

“Sometimes you two strike me as rather similar,” Luna answered, as if she could read Harry’s mind from the last few weeks.

“Yeah, that worries me a bit,” he said and chuckled weakly. “He makes me question …”

Before he could finish the sentence, which he wasn’t so sure how to do without sounding too dramatic, they were interrupted by Hermione poking her head through a curtain behind them.

“Have you seen Cormac?” she whispered and looked around frantically.

“I still don’t understand why you asked him,” Harry answered with a sigh, while Luna listened to them with clear interest.

“Because I already told Ron before everything that I wanted to ask him!” Hermione said and glared at him, as if he was supposed to understand this weird, complicated logic. “So, I had to find another person. I’m not desperate!”

Harry blinked at her. That didn’t make any sense. The only reason he had asked Luna to be his date, and hadn’t gone without a date, was because people literally tried to slip him love potions. He wanted it duly noted that this had not been what he had meant with wishing for someone to like him. Besides, he thought that Luna deserved to be here. She was the most special person he knew, and she had already chatted with a lot of people.

“Oh, is that Malfoy?” Hermione asked and frowned a bit.

Something in her voice made Harry bristle a bit, even though he couldn’t quite pin it down. He just knew he didn’t like it. “He’s here with Daphne Greengrass, I think.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “Well, it would have surprised me if Professor Slughorn had invited him. Considering everything.”

“He is one of the best students in our year,” Harry answered slowly. After all, Ginny had been invited for casting an impressive spell.

“Are you defending him?” Hermione asked a tad incredulously and with a suspicious edge to her voice.

“What? So, when I think something’s off with him, I’m wrong for judging him without reason,” Harry said, almost snapped back. “And when I try to look at some objective facts, like the one that his grades are as good as yours, I’m all of a sudden defending him, which is also wrong. Just tell me, Hermione, since you always know everything better: What am I supposed to think about him?”

“Oh, look,” Luna interjected whatever a glaring Hermione wanted to say. “Cormac is coming over here.”

Hermione groaned quietly, grimaced and duck behind the curtain again, while Harry glared at the point where she had vanished. “I really don’t know what she wants from me. Whatever I do, I do it wrong. If it’s not done exactly how Hermione wants it, it’s wrong. But of course it’s never wrong if she does it.”

“Oh? What does our most honourable student do in her free time?”

Harry spun around, noticing that not only was Luna gone, in her stead leaned Malfoy against the wall. His dress robes were impeccably tailored to his tall, lean body and the rather modern style suited him far better than the more traditional ones he had worn in fourth year. Combined with his longer hair, sweeping over his cheek bones, and the half-smile tugged into the corner of his mouth, he looked … damn it. He looked … quite good. Also, far less like his father and more like his mother, from whom Harry had seen some older pictures at Grimmauld Place, together with all the other Black children.

“You would be surprised,” Harry muttered, trying to regain some control over his thoughts, before they were too visible on his face.

“Surprise me, then,” Malfoy answered, his smile deepening.

Harry had the urge to look away and stare at him at the same time – for his own sanity, he chose the former. “Oh, what the hell … In second year she brew some polyjuice potion and we …”

“Snuck into the Slytherin common room as Crabbe and Goyle to ask me about the Chamber?” Malfoy finished his sentence and Harry did stare at him yet again. He answered his gaping with raised eyebrows. “Oh, apologies, was I supposed to not know about this?”

“Why didn’t you … tell on us?”

“I had no proof.” Malfoy shrugged. “I recognized your voice … and the oddity of this whole situation. What else?”

Harry filed these information away for later, and he would definitely think about them later!, and grimaced. “She confounded Cormac during the Quidditch try outs. So that Ron would get the spot.”

“Oh,” Malfoy mused with sudden interest. “Why was she upset, then, when you pretended to give him Felix Felicis?”

Harry scowled. “Yeah, that’s what’s annoying me ever since. By the way, she is also constantly proof-reading our essays for Defence, trying to find a flaw in them.”

“And?” Malfoy raised his eyebrows, voice flat and a tad annoyed.

“What do you want me to say? That your work is flawless and perfect?”

Malfoy’s put-on annoyance melted off his face, his grin returning. “Maybe.”

“You work is flawless and perfect, of course she didn’t find a single error,” Harry repeated dutifully and didn’t even try to stifle his laughter.

“Why thank you,” Malfoy said wryly, though his smile took the edge of his tone away. “What were you arguing about in the first place?”

“I …” Harry paused from deflecting, saying anything but the truth.

Suddenly, he remembered what Luna had said, about Malfoy being rather lonely. He remembered his bitter words, hinting at the very same thing, and at … familiarity. He thought about the boggart. He thought about telling the truth, and about lying.

“You, actually. She wasn’t too happy to see you here, I guess. Whereas I thought I wouldn’t have been too surprised if Slughorn had invited you himself. I actually think he should have.”

Malfoy’s lips parted in surprise, before he visibly composed himself and regarded Harry with an intensity that had the power to dissolve every other thought inside of his head.

“Well … It’s true,” Harry mumbled weakly, unable to tear his gaze away from Malfoy, who held him practically captive with his grey, stormy eyes. “Your grades are nearly perfect. And your spellwork is … good.”

“Good?” Malfoy echoed, shifting a bit where he was standing, so there was less space between them.

“It’s alright,” Harry said.

“You can say you think I am impressive, I won’t even hold it against you.” Malfoy smirked at him and then he leaned forward with an almost absent air of dismissal and reached out to straighten his as usual messed up tie.

Harry was completely frozen, not daring to move or to breath even, and definitely not able to say another word.

Suddenly, Malfoy stepped back and the intensity on his face melted away, leaving devoid flatness. “Sir.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Harry saw billowing black robes. He could practically feel being glared at.

“Mr Malfoy, on a word,” Snape said courtly, voice sharp and cutting.

Harry quickly stepped back to where Hermione had vanished what felt like hours ago. He could consider himself lucky that Snape hadn’t found something to scold him for, but he also couldn’t help but wonder what he wanted from Malfoy.

Malfoy pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded at Harry, before he followed Snape out of the festive room. Not really surprised anymore, just accepting it for the fact it was, Harry realised that he wished Malfoy had stayed.

***

It was Harry this time who was waiting for Malfoy in the abandoned classroom. The boggart was of course long gone, so there was only dusty silence residing in here.

Malfoy was a bit late when the door finally opened and Harry’s fleeting impression from dinner last night, the first meal after everyone had returned from their Christmas break, proved to be right; he looked unwell. Pale and thin, and the dark shadows under his eyes made him look almost frail.

Every question Harry had, every accusation he knew Ron wanted him to spit out, died on his tongue. Sure, he could ask Malfoy about his father. Could ask him scathingly why he was out of prison. Could glare at him and leave the room and never talk to him again for the sin of being his father’s son.

From the closed-off, wary expression on Malfoy’s face, he expected as much from Harry. He waited for the vicious words and the condemnation and the questions he couldn’t answer anyway.

“I thought about the project,” Harry said slowly, punctuated, every word and his tone measured carefully. “Snape said we could choose the topic, right? I don’t think people know about this whole counterbalance you told me about in our first lesson. Remember?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed a tad, as if he was searching for the trap. When Harry didn’t say anything else, instead waited patiently for his answer, some tension seemed to melt off his shoulders. Gods, he looked exhausted. And pained.

“I remember,” Malfoy said and cleared his throat, when his voice sounded a bit rough around the edges.

“It could be interesting, testing with power levels and differently complicated shields and attacks.”

Malfoy stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. His eyes flickered over to the spot where the cupboard had been in, before he settled down on the table opposite of Harry’s. “Do you know about other shield charms? I noticed you attaching shield to your arm in our duel.”

“Yeah, I looked that one up for the first task in the Tournament.”

“Ah. Smart choice,” Malfoy commented wit a slow nod. “Any other high-level shields?”

“Eh …”

Malfoy shrugged. “Don’t be too bothered. We were supposed to learn about them in Fifth year, but we know how this ended.”

“What is Umbridge doing these days?” Harry wondered.

“Trying to get her footing back in the Ministry,” Malfoy answered and grimaced in disdain. “I guess we start with a quick practical round, then.”

He pushed himself off the table and looked at Harry expectantly, until he stood up with a sigh and pulled his wand out of his pocket.

Malfoy ran him through the wand movements for several minutes and made him cast the different shields, varying in difficulty and magical power needed, out loud, before he nodded in satisfaction.

“You are doing very well,” he said almost off-handedly, his eyes following the movements of his wand as he tried to memorize the spells.

Harry froze and looked at Malfoy, who raised his eyebrows, before understanding dawned on his face.

“People rarely tell you that, do they?” he mused.

“I …” Harry snapped his mouth shut, trying to ignore the flutter of warmth inside of him at Malfoy’s words.

“Well, you do.” Malfoy reached out and carefully adjusted the way is wrist was twisted, his long fingers gracing over his skin for a fracture of a second. “You seem to have a problem with phrasing in books, but correct me if I am wrong, your upbringing was surely not of academic nature.”

“You could say that,” Harry agreed weakly.

Malfoy nodded. “Exactly. Now, are you ready to try out the shields nonverbal and against an attack? Just a more powerful disarming spell – it should be under the level of the shields, if you do it correctly.”

“Sure.” He faintly noticed that at the beginning of the school year, he would have bristled at the mere thought of Malfoy pointing his wand at him. Now, he was certain that Malfoy would only do what he had told him he would.

He noticed the magic flowing and ebbing around Malfoy, drawn together and then bursting out of his wand. Instinctively, he grasped the strength of the spell and chose a shield charm, blocking the attack just in time.

Malfoy’s lips quirked upward. “Good. Stronger.”

And again, Harry managed to analyse the strength of his spell and adjusted the necessary shield charm.

“My next spell is a sort of mild compulsion,” Malfoy warned him. “It will make you want to drop your wand. Strong Occlumency shields could also be sufficient, but …”

“Not my strong suit,” Harry interrupted him with a grin. “Alright, it’s okay.”

Malfoy scrutinized him for an additional second, before he seemed satisfied with Harry’s consent and the spell came flying towards Harry. Maybe it was his nerves suddenly flaring up, but he automatically casted the strongest shield charm Malfoy had taught him. It effortlessly blocked Malfoy’s charm. It didn’t stop there, though. The shield and the spell seemed to melt into each other and through the explosion of magic and colours, Harry saw Malfoy’s eyes widening.

The whole room seemed to evaporate around Harry, and he was suddenly no longer standing at Hogwarts, instead he was in a study, dark and looming, the atmosphere choking. Around the edges, the scenery was blurred, and he realised with horror what had happened; somehow, he had slipped into Malfoy’s mind, his memories, like he had done with Snape. He tried to get out, he really did, but the memory trapped him.

Malfoy was there, too, but a much younger version. He was maybe eight years old, grey eyes wide and big. His hands were clasped behind his back, but they were trembling slightly. A younger Lucius Malfoy stood in front of him.

“I am very disappointed, Draco,” he snarled and snapped his wand.

Malfoy, Draco was hit by some kind of spell, making him cry out in pain and slumping forward a bit.

“Stand straight, Draco. I didn’t raise you to be weak.”

Visibly in pain, Draco scrambled to regain his posture, grey eyes swimming in unshed tears, lips quivering. He was hit with another spell, and another, and another, every time his father waited for him to stand up straight, until he stopped slumping forwards.

His father glared at him one last time and gestured for him to leave. Draco did, as quickly as he could, and only outside of the study did he sink to the ground, thin arms wrapped around his body in a protective gesture. A bid of blood ran out of his nose.

The scene shifted again.

“Lucius, stop!” a woman’s voice, Mrs Malfoy, Harry supposed, cried out, and he watched in horror as Mr Malfoy brought his cane down onto a nine-year-old Draco, hitting his shoulders and his back, while Draco tried to cover his face from the blows.

“This won’t continue,” Mr Malfoy threatened and stepped back, sneering down at his crying son. “I will find him a tutor to fix … this.”

Draco was cowering in a small space between a desk and a wardrobe, the room was dark except a trace of moonlight shining in through the window. He seemed frozen in fear, eyes trained on the door, which opened with a creak. A dark figure stepped into his room.

“Silencio maximus,” a voice murmured that Harry realised he knew. “There you are.”

The man had crossed the room and crouched down in front of Draco, a cold, cruel smile on his face. “Don’t cry, sweet child. Or I will make you eat your tongue.”

He reached out and dragged Draco out of his hiding spot.

The memory dissolved messily in a whirl of colour, with Harry only hearing a suppressed sob, and the scenes picked up speed, only allowing him quick glances. The man’s face a few times more, Lucius Malfoy’s angry glares, Draco watching Hogwarts student laughing and chatting with each other out in the sun, while he was alone in the dark castle hallways. Bellatrix’ manic laughter, chasing him through the Manor. Red eyes flashing in the dark, a hissed “Crucio”. The man, a few years older, staring at him from across the room, smirking and raising a finger to his lips, silencing him, threatening him. His father, visibly strained from his time in Askaban, yelling at him and cursing him until he gasped for air on the cold grounds, blood running out of his nose and his mouth and his eyes and his ears.

Something pulled at Harry and it wasn’t Draco’s memories anymore, it were his, filling the space between them, and out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Draco standing there, with him, in the halls of his past. His cousin beating him and insulting him. The work around the house, too much for adults, and crushing the scrawny child. His face disappearing behind the crack of the door, all lights going out. People screaming “freak” into his face, pans crashing down on his back, hands dragging him by the arm until his shoulder dislocated.

“Come on, open your eyes,” a softer voice said, close to his ear, and he felt fingers gently prying his open to take his wand away. “Let go, Harry, please. Yes, just like that. Thank you.”

He ripped his eyes open with a gasp and stared right into Draco’s face. He looked exactly as frayed as Harry felt. Uncomfortably raw and anguished, scrapped to the bone.

“I didn’t … I didn’t mean …” Harry tried to formulate a complete sentence, but it was stuck somewhere deep inside of his throat.

Draco pressed the wand back into his shaking fingers. “I know. I was not aware you were capable of Legilimency.”

“I’m not, I can’t … Occlumency.”

“It is impossible to read someone’s mind like this without using Legilimency,” Draco explained, voice sounding weak and strained.

Harry felt a wave of guilt. “Draco …”

If the usage of his first name startled him, he didn’t show it. He lowered his gaze. “You must think I deserve it.”

“No,” Harry said and was glad that his voice sounded so assured. “No, fuck … No one deserves that. I had no idea.”

Slowly, Draco sank bank a bit, leaning against a toppled over table. “That was the point. My father lost a lot of standing after the last war, so he had to make sure everything else was absolutely perfect. I was too far away from that.”

“And the tutor is the one …”

“Mhm,” Draco agreed quietly. “I tried so hard to be good afterwards. It … worked in the sense that he didn’t come back once I started Hogwarts.”

“Until now.”

Draco smiled weakly. “You caught that? Yes, yes, he’s back in the Manor. I … Gods, what’s the point. He’s the Dark Lord’s spellmaker, so he returned.”

To the Manor, where apparently Voldemort was from time to time, too. And so was the fugitive Lucius Malfoy. But what was the point, even less than before, in blaming Draco for that?

“But he … did he …”

“Did it again? No. But … I think he will.” Draco looked at him, fear and desperation written all over his pale, tired face. “I’m scared.”

“I …” What did he want to say? That it wouldn’t happen again? That Harry would make sure it didn’t happen again? He couldn’t promise that, could he? He wouldn’t be there. Draco would return to the Manor during the summer and Harry would be … God knew where. Fighting Voldemort.

Though, he couldn’t help but wonder, what good was that when at the same time, people all over the place, people like Draco, would get hurt. If he could tell someone from the Order, if he could convince them, and then Draco, to get him to a safe place …

But they wouldn’t believe them. They would never, ever allow Draco Malfoy to seek refuge with them. A lot of them had mistrusted Sirius. They couldn’t understand that sometimes, if you were pushed enough, you did things to survive that weren’t good and noble and just.

“I didn’t know,” Draco said suddenly and Harry blinked at him. “That it was that bad with your relatives.”

“But you knew something?” he asked, legitimately confused.

Draco looked at him with his “you are a bit stupid right now”-look that Harry was familiar with by now. “Obviously. You wear hand-me-down-clothes, always come back from the summer half-starved and clearly didn’t know a thing about our world.”

“You noticed that?”

“Of course, I …” Draco narrowed his eyes. “No one else does?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably and pulled his knees to his chest, fiddling with his wand. “I mean, they know. Ron, and Hermione and the Weasley’s. Ron and the twins once broke me out of the house, when I still had bars in front of my window.”

Draco looked at him, face flat. “They know that. And they let you live there.”

“Yeah, because of the blood protection.”

“A good Fidelius charm works far better,” Draco answered with a scoff. “What is Dumbledore thinking, leaving you there?”

“Wait, what do you mean with Dumbledore?”

“He’s your magical guardian.”

Harry looked at Draco. Draco looked at him. It could have been funny, if there hadn’t been the residues of horror echoing through the room.

“You didn’t know that,” Draco said slowly.

“How do you?” Harry asked back, confused and feeling the old anger rise inside of his chest. “And what is a magical guardian?”

Draco folded his hands in his lap and Harry frowned a bit as he noticed his posture going more rigid – he knew now why he held himself like this. “My father took me with him to the Ministry from time to time, when I was younger. One day, he was talking with Minister Fudge and they argued about you. I think, Fudge complained about Dumbledore refusing to give him any information about your whereabouts. My father asked why he didn’t just use Ministry authority, but Fudge said magical guardianship overrules whatever he could do. As for what a magical guardian is … If one knows about a magical child being orphaned in the muggle world, they receive a guardian in our world. They are supposed to make sure the child is cared for, and informed about their heritage.”

“That certainly didn’t happen,” Harry pressed out through clenched teeth. He hadn’t even known about that! No one had ever cared to explain that to him. Especially not Dumbledore. Not even now, where they were meeting more regularly. And now that Dumbledore wanted to rebuild the trust between them. These new information … shook the already shaky foundation even more.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it, then.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I needed to know. People rarely tell me the truth, apparently.”

“In any case,” Draco said quietly, “for what it’s worth, I am sorry that you had to grow up like this.”

His words distracted Harry from his brooding thoughts about Dumbledore. Had anyone ever told him that? Apart from some hollow phrases, the few people who knew tended to simply … ignore the whole matter. Sure. Harry did downplay it usually, it wasn’t dragged in the open like it had been during their exchange of memories. But the Weasleys did know. Ron knew. Mrs Weasley knew. Hell, she even sent him food, so she was aware he didn’t get enough on his own.

“I’m sorry about you, too,” he answered, equally as quiet, and he hoped with the same amount of understanding he felt from Draco. Maybe it was an echo from where their minds had been connected for a short moment. “Are you … are you hurt, though? There was blood …”

Almost involuntarily, Draco raised his hand to touch his face. “Oh. Yes, I am not injured. When you are hurt by magical means, your magical core reacts to it and tries to fend off the damage. The blood shows that it nears its exhaustion.” A rueful smile pulled at Draco’s lips, probably a reaction to Harry’s surely horrified grimace. “Well, that sounded far worse said out loud.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“You just had to send him to Askaban, it upset him.” Draco snorted unhappily. “If I could give you the Manor’s Secret …”

Harry stared at him. “You would do that? If you could?”

For a few seconds, Draco scrutinized him, searching for something on his face, or in his own mind, to help with the answer. The fight was painfully obvious on his face, and Harry couldn’t even imagine what it was like; he had been taught painful lesson after painful lesson, trying to push and form him into something to his father’s liking. The thought about standing up against it must have been terrifying.

“Maybe,” Draco admitted finally, voice barely louder than a whisper. “If it was only you I could tell.”

That rendered Harry momentarily speechless. Not only Draco’s admission that he maybe would tell, if he could, that he would dare to defy his father. But more than that, it filled Harry with warm, surprised wonder that he would tell Harry. That he for some reason trusted Harry to do the right thing with this information.

Despite the hatred that had resigned between them all this time. Despite every wrong thing Harry had done over the years. His friends didn’t even trust him handling a stupid, annotated book, and his supposed school rival would trust him with a knowledge that could very much harm him.

For the very first time during his time at Hogwarts, he thought about what could have been if he had accepted Draco’s hand back in first year. He thought about not defying the Hat, and for the first time this thought didn’t entirely fill him with dread, but with an odd sort of … longing.