Author's Note: All characters and settings are products of the ingenious J.K Rowling. I lay no claim to her work or talent.

WARNING: You will probably suffocate from the amount of fluff in this fic. And possibly go deaf/blind from the banter. Also, der is de gay. If you have issues with that, you may want to invest in a Time Turner to take you back a couple decades since you obviously are too close-minded for this one. BUT that's a whole 'nother story. I'll stop rambling and let you get to this one.

Enjoy, and please do drop in a review, especially if you favorite it. Might as well tell me what you liked so much, right?

Harry didn't understand why he and Malfoy always had to attract so much attention. Well, alright, he did, but he hated it. For once the subject of the whispers was not something upsetting, but rather something that made Harry happy, even proud. And oh, it was so good for the two, incredible, really, and he was just so sick of people trying to convince him otherwise.

Today's special feature was the mismatched duo's trip back from Potions. Harry and Malfoy had headed for the doors, intending to nip out to the lake for a quick stroll and maybe Malfoy's first chat with Hagrid, but they weren't going anywhere unless the seething crowd cooperated. They were all angry for different reasons, only united in distaste. The only way to shake them off would be not to acknowledge them.

So he ignored them valiantly, bumping Malfoy with his elbow every time he tried to shoot a death glare at some wide-eyed Hufflepuff or trip up a snickering Gryffindor.

He was a high maintenance friend, for sure. Sometimes Harry wondered whether he was worth all the trouble after all. But then he took another look at him and remembered. Malfoy might unintentionally make half of his days miserable, but he just as accidentally made the other halves some of the best of Harry's life.

Harry sighed and sped up his step and pressed closer to him simultaneously. He'd better distract him to prevent him from getting too angry—even as his enemy, the sheer iciness of Malfoy's fury had shaken him. Now, as his friend, seeing the workings behind his tantrums only made them seem worse.

"So. Malfoy. Why weren't you supporting Hufflepuff the other day?"

Malfoy's head whipped around to look at him. One hand now clutching his neck, he made a face. "What'd you go and do that for, Potter?" He muttered sulkily. "I was about to see this one little Ravenclaw smack into a pillar." Still rubbing his nape as he spoke, he stood on his tiptoes for a look.

"Sorry," Harry drawled, unapologetic.

He reached out and tugged Malfoy's elbow to speed him up and take advantage of the yawning gap in the crowd. He took the hint, as always.

"You should be," Malfoy continued a second later between heavy breaths. "You know what they say about there being no stupid questions, Potter? It isn't true."

Harry snorted, and Malfoy shot him a mock glare before plowing through. The exchange felt like a private routine already.

"Cite yourself as an example. Why would you even feel the need to ask me about that? You know I have little respect for that house."

"You have little respect for anyone," Harry pointed out dryly.

"I'll give you that," Malfoy conceded. "But especially not for those…those…bumbling bee-striped bubbleheads."

Harry thought he had cottoned on this time. "Alliteration and allusion to the Triwizard Tournament? Nice."

Malfoy looked briefly startled before resuming his usual smug expression. "I aim to impress."

"Not this time, you didn't," Harry teased, having actually caught on. "That was an accident, and you know it."

"I know nothing of the sort. We Malfoys are quite spontaneous, but our genius is always intentional," Malfoy said with even more pomp than usual.

He was beginning to find this disturbingly endearing nowadays, perhaps because he was realizing that it was all a front. Malfoy was certainly not of flawless character, but then again, neither was Harry, as much as people would like to claim otherwise.

Harry looked around to see the crowd thinning. They were drawing as much curiosity as ever, though. As he swept his glance around to the groups of lurkers by the wall, fearing that among them hid a stealthy newspaper informant, he noticed their location. They were walking down the corridor leading to the West Tower. This was perfect, actually. No one would think to follow them up to the Owlery.

"Let's go continue our correspondence, Malfoy," Harry muttered through his grin. Malfoy hardly had time to groan at the pun before he began tugging him along by the elbow.

Malfoy performed an awkward hop-skip to catch up before shrugging free and actually racing ahead. He stopped only to toss the smuggest of smiles back before skidding around the corner.

That would certainly attract attention, Harry thought. And it did—quite a few new gawkers, who probably didn't think they were mad for being friends. Probably thought they were just mad, and they might be right. But it didn't matter. Harry had a sneaky little snake to catch.

Malfoy was many steps ahead, long legs taking the stairs two, three at a time but light feet making hardly a sound. Harry had a bit more trouble, feeling even clunkier than usual next to Malfoy's easy grace. They made quick work of the several flights, though, and Harry hardly felt the cold. The flush of chase was rather wonderful.

Malfoy whirled around to face Harry suddenly, just at the top of the stairs. His effort to press against the wall and prevent collision failed rather miserably.

His hand slapped straight into Harry's glasses, knocking them into the bridge of his nose and off his face. They skittered across the stone. Malfoy muttered what might have been an apology.

"S'okay," Harry said, more amused than anything. He stooped to pick them up and they knocked heads for real that time.

They took another look at each other. Harry likely bumped up and more than a little disheveled, and Malfoy a flushing, disgruntled mess.

Harry saw his own growing smile mirrored on Malfoy's face, and soon the two were falling about laughing, draping themselves all over each other and clutching their stomachs.

Malfoy straightened first. "Well. That was…"

"Yeah," Harry agreed, a little breathless. He swiped a hand across his tender nose and grinned from under it. Unexpectedly, Malfoy continued to grin back.

Then he took Harry's glasses from his hand. "Temporary confiscation," he informed a bemused Harry as he tucked them into his chest pocket.

Harry noted absently that his usually impeccable, ironed shirt was no longer tucked in, the skewed collar exposing a triangle of white neck.

A few pleasantly awkward seconds passed. Harry used the time to situate himself, sidling over to lean his sore body against the cool stone. It had been a long day.

Malfoy finally stopped smiling to rub his jaw a little. "Yowch, Potter. Don't know how you Gryffindors manage all this heartiness. Quite wearing on the face, isn't it?"

"You're out of practice," Harry chided with a softer smile.

Malfoy just rolled his eyes, not removing his hand from his face as he joined Harry on the wall.

Now that they had some privacy, Harry swerved around to the original subject again. "All that love for Hufflepuff was all just a bit of fancy lying, then?"

"Fancy lying indeed," Malfoy snorted. "Tactics, Potter, tactics. Surprisingly enough, though, you're almost right. I had no great love for Diggory."

"Oh?" Again Harry could only wonder at Malfoy's continued insensitivity. Most people would be much more careful when speaking of the dead.

"—Just hatred for you."

"Thus inspiring your oh-so-creative badges?"

"Would you have rather I made them more offensive, Potter? It would be laughably easy to do now."

He could make out Malfoy's smirk plenty fine even with his blurred vision. An answering smirk threatened to lift the corners of his mouth. "Really, Malfoy?"

"Oh yes. There are plenty of things I could target. Your ridiculous hedgehog-y hair—"

"It is not!" Harry's hand flew to his hair all the same.

"—these stupid specs—honestly Potter, you think your Gringotts vault could be put to use for that, at least—"

He hated playing defense. "I'm saving money!"

"Not saving your eyes. Or mine, for that matter." His sneer was distant, cast out the window rather than at Harry.

"Well, Potter? What say you? Hurry up so I can start on you again."

Malfoy didn't deign to make eye contact unless it was really necessary, and so his pointed face was still in profile. Harry's disoriented eyes were drawn down the sharp angles onto his still-flushed neck. The shirt collar was really dipping quite low, especially with the added weight of the glasses.

With a start, Harry noticed the jag of a scar, whiter than white, disappearing beneath it. For a minute, he felt angry at the past, at Malfoy's mystery assailant. Then he found that he knew exactly who had done it, where and how although he was still not sure why. The renewed guilt crashed into him, wiping all lighter emotion out like a great wave.

As usual, Malfoy did not fail to notice his continued silence. "I stand by my theory, Potter," he sighed. "That curse did toast whatever little brains you have. Do you know how hard it is to have a conversation with so many pauses?" When no reply came, Malfoy provided his own. "No, of course you don't. But you know who does? I do! And let me tell you, Potter, it is extraordinarily frustrating when you're waiting on a response that isn't coming…"

Everyone said that Harry Potter was great, Harry Potter was good, far too good for the likes of Draco Malfoy. But Harry felt their roles were irreversibly switched now. Malfoy had never gone as far as he had. Malfoy had bruised him. Broke his nose once. But he had never slashed the scarlet of lifeblood from his body.

He realized that at this moment, Malfoy was as vulnerable as he'd been back in the bathroom. His rare happiness laid bare, a pinned butterfly Harry could choose to smear into oblivion. The power was almost too much.

Ironically enough, it was Malfoy's power, the power in his irresistible irreverence that brought Harry back from the brink he had ventured to once again.

"What're you moping about this time, Potter?" Malfoy still appeared to be addressing the night air. Maybe if he turned he could read the answer on Harry's face.

"Ah. Nothing. M'alright."

"That," Malfoy said, finally facing him. "Tells me you're not." He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It's fine. I'm being silly," Harry said quickly.

"Yes, you are, for clamming up." He was even more himself when agitated. He snapped all five fingers together, not an inch from Harry's nose, in a supposed imitation of a clam. Harry tried, but couldn't quite muster a smile. "Go on then. Tell me. Haven't got all night."

"It's stupid, alright? I'm stupid."

"Yes," Malfoy agreed. "Thank you for acknowledging your problem. The first step is acceptance. But seriously, Potter, with all this hedging you'd make a damn good Slytherin. Or perhaps a gardener."

Harry had to laugh then.

"Now tell me, before I decide to fix the shape of your nose again."

And Malfoy being Malfoy, he went and did his little unintentional things and dragged Harry's mood back down. They had both made so many mistakes. He wondered if Malfoy didn't find this painful, too. They had slipped so quickly into this odd friendship, but now and again they were confronted by this…this plaster wall. They would try to chip at it, but when they failed they would leave it. Let the dust collect. All that pain, swept under the rug that was bound to be pulled out from under them soon.

"You do that, Malfoy. I think I need it," Harry said weakly.

Malfoy, who had maintained a strange sort of calm, seemed to let go of some of his control. He could see a familiar confrontational confidence tilt his chin, curve his back, tighten his muscles. This didn't bode well. "Well, maybe it's time for a trip to Myrtle. Heard she's pining for you," Malfoy crooned. "I thought she'd just have to wait in line like the rest of us, but apparently she'll get her chance because weepy little Potter can't tell his problems to a caring human. You're sprung for the spectral type, huh?"

Two words jumped out at him so Harry could almost taste them in his mouth. They were too sweet to be true, and yet didn't ring false. "You don't want to hear this, Malfoy. I'm sorry, okay? Look. I'm grinning now. Grinning." He plastered an extra-convincing one on, raising his eyebrows.

Malfoy sighed heavily. His breath ruffled Harry's black fringe of hair. "Yes. I do see. And stop, it's frightening me."

For the hundredth time that day, Malfoy surprised him. He placed a hand on each of Harry's shoulders. The motion was steadying, but somehow Harry's heart beat faster. He managed a shaky but genuine smile.

His gaze was finally fixed completely on his face, searching until his eyes locked with Harry's. They weren't their usual steely color at all. They were soft, an almost silky grey, somehow warm. Harry wished he could wrap themselves up in them.

"Whine to me, Potter," Malfoy breathed.

This sudden intimacy was surely something caused by Harry's tempestuous emotions, and their brief physical closeness (there was hardly half a foot distance between their faces). A bond like this could not be born out of a moment. Harry's other casual friendships were built on common ground. The only thing he and Malfoy had ever shared was an awful last year and mutual hatred for each other. And he certainly shouldn't feel nearly as close to him as Ron and Hermione—theirs was a friendship of steel, forged in fire. This one was as fragile and new as cobwebs.

It was ludicrous. This whole thing was ludicrous. Getting all fuzzy over pointy old Malfoy. But Harry was sure he hadn't completely fabricated this intimacy. It seemed strange and clear and lovely. Maybe the wall turned into glass. He wondered if he would have found this if he had sought it out sooner. Perhaps. Perhaps not. It was likely all in his head anyway.

But against his better judgment (which hadn't been let out to air in the past eight years out or so anyway, so it was all good)…he did. He talked, and rambled and ranted until his vocal chords protested and Malfoy seemed about ready to, looking as haggard as Harry felt.

Malfoy wasn't a particularly good audience, either, always cutting in with a far more interesting tidbit of his own, or scowling when he was supposed to smile and of course, snickering at the most inappropriate times.

It probably said something awful about his psychological state, but the whole damn thing was positively cathartic.

And then if the whole evening wasn't strange enough, Malfoy hugged him.

Embraces of this sort were supposed to be pillowy, perhaps like returning to one's own bed after a trip away from home. Warm. Giving, not taking.

But this was Malfoy. His arms were more of a pentagon than a circle. His elbows jabbed into Harry's ribs, and his chin dug into the dip of his shoulder. Harry wouldn't be surprised if he had bruises on the soft skin there the next morning. And he took and took, pressing cold into Harry's chest through his thin shirt, grasping him like a drowning man. His white arms pressed round him as though forever.

Harry heard the thump of his heart, felt it sync with his own, and suddenly a wild thought struck him. Maybe forever wouldn't be so bad.

But then Malfoy pulled back. He glanced outside. "Shit. It's late. Why did I let you tell me this shit? Shit." He scrambled to his feet and yanked Harry up with him.

"Because you needed a good cuddle?" Harry suggested coyly. His mood was more than restored.

"Malfoys," he said, baleful. "Do not cuddle. The only thing I want to cuddle right now is my pillow. Good night, Harry."

Harry's smile widened almost painfully. "You said it."

"Said what?"

"Harry."

"I didn't say Harry!"

"Said it again."

"Shut up."

"Shan't. You first."

"Fine. I will. After you."

"That would hardly be first, would it? Two comes after one, doesn't it?"

Malfoy reclined in the doorway. "I took Arithmancy for eight years. I believe I know what I'm doing...Harry."

"You said it again!" Harry was mad with glee.

He stuck his nose in the air. "I'll say it as much as I like."

"Please do…Draco."

His head snapped up. "I didn't give you permiss—"

"Well. I took it," Harry said, with a last cheeky smile. He ran a hand through his hair and had to use the other to stifle a yawn. "We should get some sleep." He walked and stopped just behind Malfoy (it would probably take a while to adjust to calling him by his given name in his head, too), prodding him in the back.

"Suggests it like it's his idea," Malfoy muttered darkly. He stumbled with unusual inelegance out of the room. Somehow the pink flush to his high cheekbones pleased Harry.

They stayed silent as they moved together through the sleepy castle. A few students still scurried about, and the music of laughter was still audible from many rooms. Maybe Harry was just being even more stupid and sentimental, but But mostly it was just the two of them, and everything between them. They leaned on their wall now, and it stretched back and back but also had so much left to be torn and built.

They said nothing. There was no need. The air was full, their hearts were full.

Malfoy turned at the door with the lightest of smiles that somehow held the most impact of any.

Harry locked this image of the night away in the place where smiles came from. Draco Malfoy's eyes, tired, bloodshot, even, but perfect. He saw him reflected behind them as if through a window, but it felt like a window only one man had ever looked through before. Harry was honored to be him.

They were a quick study in contrast, his eyes. His eyes, ll of hunger and content. His eyes, barely speaking of the nightmares past, barely hoping for dreams of the future. His eyes, subtle, harsh. His eyes, daggers, velvet.

Sea-smoothed stones that Harry would like to press to his heart for eternity.

Didn't he know it, he was a poet.

Malfoy's eyes turned sharp and perceptive again. Harry couldn't restrain a little huff of disappointment.

"Don't choke on your emotion or anything, Potty," he groaned. "I don't believe I know the licky-him maneuver."

Harry had to take a second to figure that one out. "Heimlich?"

"If you say so. Ugh, Muggles. Ridiculous name, isn't it?"

Harry would stay above that. He wouldn't stoop to pick one of their non-fights right now. Oh no, that's right- he would. "Not as funny as yours…Draco."

"No, you like it. Why else would you use it so often, then?"

Harry was stumped. He decided very nobly, of course, that he'd let Malfoy—Draco—win this one. He walked away, head held high, and smacked into a pillar.

"Compensation!" Draco whisper-cried. "Excellent, Po—Harry. Much more satisfying than seeing a little old Ravenclaw do it."

Still being the bigger person, he chose to ignore Draco.

Then his tone turned soft again. "Don't bang yourself up too bad, yeah?" He sighed sharply. "Much as it pains me to admit it, I do care."

Harry couldn't help himself. He grinned a ridiculous piano-grin back over his shoulder. Draco's responding one made his look like a keyboard, but of course he twitched his smile into submission before Harry.

"Although if you do manage to get beat up, one man army that you are, be sure to bruise impressively. Purples and yellows and greens, if you can manage."

Harry screwed up his face. "What?"

"I'm an artist, not a craftsman," Draco declared. "They'll think I'm the assailer. I at least want to be known to use a good palette."

"You're unbelievable, Draco Malfoy," Harry said with a shake of his head. "What am I ever going to do with you?"

"Whatever is, it can wait 'til tomorrow," Draco grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut and dragging his palm over them.

"We do have tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that…"

"Kill me now."

A whole lifetime of tomorrows, oh yes.