An Accidental Allegiance

by made.of.bees

Harry and Draco become business partners in their eighth year at Hogwarts. Animosity quickly melts away into acquaintanceship into something more, perhaps? Another sort of business agreement comes into play, but will it be enough? Harry/Draco; Drarry. Silly fluff, nothing too serious. Rating for later chapters.

1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey all! It's Drarry O'clock! I know you've missed it, especially nannily. I've been waiting and waiting to publish this just because I know it'll make you smile. It should have gone up Wednesday and I apologize for the delay; my health has been not so good, and I didn't have the energy to deal with the internet. On the bright side, this story is completely finished, so barring any unforeseen circumstances, I should be able to publish it regularly with no interruptions.

A warningthough: it has been edited by me, but is unbetaed, so if there are more mistakes than usual, it's entirely my fault.

Also, it's a bit—cracky? OOC? Something. Silly, definitely. I usually keep on the more serious side of things, but this is really just silly fluff. But hey, we all need some fluff sometimes, oui?

The rating is for later chapters; individual warnings will be posted at the top of each chapter. None for today.

Enjoy!

Chapter One

1

Harry was bored.

Really bored.

Like resorting to staring at Hermione's copy of Hogwarts, A History that she was currently reading bored. She had propped it up against a stack of books so he could only see the top inch or two, the bit that proclaimed Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus. He mused on the phrase. The cover, of course, depicted the castle itself and not a sleeping dragon, or even better, a particularly unwise wizard tickling a dragon. He thought that would probably sell more copies, but as long as there were people like Hermione buying the book and people even worse than her printing it, the castle would remain on the cover.

"Hey, Hermione?" he asked.

"What?" she answered distractedly, not looking up.

"What're the dimensions of that book?"

"Uh, two hundred and twenty-two millimeters by one hundred and forty-three, the standard size for hardcovers."

Harry had grabbed a clean sheet of parchment and, though he still distrusted them due to one Rita Skeeter, told his Quick Quotes Quill to draw him a rectangle that size. Then he shoved the blasted quill back in his bag and, since he was feeling silly and artistic, chose the lime green Fwooper quill Hermione had given him for Christmas a few years ago.

She put her book down and looked at him over the pile. "Why?"

"No reason," he replied, sketching out a vague impression of a dragon, recognizable only by the flame shooting from its shout and the spiked tail. Other than that, it looked more like a dog. Or maybe a Flobberworm who'd gotten into a fight with a porcupine.

"Shouldn't you be doing homework?" she asked.

"I've finished everything but Muggle Studies, and I haven't got that for another day," Harry said, crumpling up the parchment and setting it on fire. It floated in the air for a moment, a small ball of fire, then burnt itself out leaving a pile of ash, which he swept onto the floor.

"Harry!" Hermione said, aghast. "You can't just make messes like that!"

"It's fine," he said, pulling out a fresh piece of parchment. "It blends in with the rest of the dirt." This time he didn't bother with the rectangle; it was clear he was going to need practice drawing dragons before he could start for real. "Any idea where books on dragons would be?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Doing your Muggle Studies paper on dragons? I suppose that could be interesting. Don't forget to mention the Ilfracombe Incident of 1932."

"Yeah, of course," Harry said, though he had no idea what she was going on about. "Where'd I find the books?"

"In Magical Creatures, under 'D'," Hermione said. "Obviously."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Not everyone's got the library memorized. I'll be right back." It took longer than he expected, first to locate the Magical Creatures section (just before Muggle Studies and after Local History), and then to find a book with illustrations. He had no idea what use a book on dragons without them would be, but it seemed nobody thought it particularly important to depict the beasts. Their history, sure. How to kill, or at least contain one, absolutely. But what they'd be up against? Nothing but text.

The very last book on the subject was a children's book entitled Don't Dabble With Dragons! It had a cartoon of a Common Welsh Green on the cover, and a little girl smelling a flower with her back to the creature. Somewhat dubiously, Harry flipped through the pages. It was mostly an illustrated children's story, but at the very back it had full-page, full-color photos of each dragon breed. He walked back over to his table with a spring in his step. He was baffled why children were the only ones who needed to know what a dragon looked like, but at least he had found what he was looking for.

He started on the general shape first, using the cartoon of the Welsh Green as a model. Soon enough his parchment was covered with little dragons, ranging from pitiful snakes with wings to a fairly accurate depiction of the Welsh Green. Curvy neck, convex stomach, long tail and two small streams of fire shooting out from its snout. He magicked his ink green and colored the best of his sketches. It didn't look half bad.

Suddenly the tower of books blocking his activities from Hermione disappeared. Don't Dabble With Dragons! fell face up, and Hermione gawked at him.

"You—you've been spending all this time drawing cartoon dragons?" she accused.

"So what if I am?" Harry replied defensively. "I told you, I've finished everything for tomorrow. I just wanted to relax."

Hermione shook her head as she walked away, putting her books away. When she returned she picked up the parchment and examined it. "Some of these are pretty good, actually," she said. "I can't condone putting off your homework until the last minute, but since you can't help yourself, I suppose there are worse things you could be doing."

Harry smiled. That was high praise indeed. "Thanks," he said, taking the parchment back. "D'you mind if I borrow your copy of Hogwarts, A History?"

She pulled the book from her bag and handed it to him. "If it comes back with a single drop of ink—"

"I know, you'll skin me alive," he said, setting it far away from his inkwell. "Thanks, 'Mione."

"I don't know why you'd need it," she replied. "There aren't any pictures of dragons in it, and I highly doubt you're curious as to their history in relation to Hogwarts."

"Don't worry about it," Harry said, settling down with a new piece of parchment. Full-sized cartoon, that was next. He had every intention of progressing to realistic drawings, but he wanted to make absolutely certain he had his bearings first.

"All right, then," Hermione said, a bit mystified. "I'm going back to the Tower. I'll see you later."

"Later," he replied vaguely, already absorbed in the drawing.

2

Harry was kicked out of the library when they closed at eight. He had an hour left before curfew and spent it in the hallway just outside the library, having hovered his things rather than shove them in his back only to pull them out again right away. He got a strange look from Madame Pince when she left, but she didn't say anything.

He was still working on the full-scale Welsh Green, trying to get the shading on its stomach right. The scales kept throwing him off and he'd changed the color of his ink from light green to dark over fifty times since he had started. It finally occurred to him that he could smudge the ink and once he conjured a glass of water and some paper towels he found his job much easier. Suddenly everything clicked and a few minutes later he had an exact reproduction of the dragon on the cover of the book.

He held up the parchment and smiled at it. He hadn't known he was good at drawing, never would have guessed from his atrocious handwriting, but this wasn't half bad. Yeah, it was just a cartoon, but it was a perfect cartoon, roughly speaking, and he had drawn it. It had only taken—he cast a Tempus charm—two hours to get it. That was pretty impressive, given that he'd never drawn before. Or maybe it was awful, he really didn't know. His knowledge of anything and everything art-related was exactly zero.

Then Harry ruined the drawing completely by trying to add the quote. He knew his handwriting was bad, but he thought he could write those four words without making it look like a five-year-old had scrawled all over the paper. He was wrong. Now the whole thing looked ridiculous, and he cursed. He attempted to magic his letters into something resembling calligraphy but he just made it worse, spreading the ink around the page and over his perfect dragon and then he set the damned thing on fire and watched angrily as it burned away to nothing.

"Potter!"

Harry flinched, jerking towards the sound of the voice. Professor McGonagall was striding towards him, lips thin and a dangerous frown on her face.

"Yes, Professor?" he asked quietly.

"Out of bed past curfew," she stated, standing before him. Towering before him, really, since he was still sitting. "Doing magic in the hallways. Setting fires. Really, Potter, what's gotten into you?"

"I lost track of time?" he said, almost like a question. "And I, er, got frustrated with my Muggle Studies essay."

"So you burned it," she replied. "And what, may I ask, are you doing with a children's book?"

Harry flushed. "Um. Studying?"

"Your lack of conviction is as unsurprising as it is ridiculous," Professor McGonagall said sharply. "Ten points from Gryffindor, and be lucky it isn't more. Get back to your dorm, Potter."

"Yes, Professor," he said, quickly gathering his things and speeding off towards Gryffindor Tower where settled himself at a table in a corner and went back to drawing dragons. He knew his time might be better used attempting to improve his penmanship, but that was a task to save for another night. Potentially never.

Around ten he set his drawings aside, which were really just exact copies of the cartoon on the cover over and over again, and picked up Hogwarts, A History. The title was in big, elegant letters along the bottom, and underneath, in smaller letters, the author. The school's motto curved along the top of the cover on a scroll, and the castle was in the middle. Harry considered. He wanted to stick with cartoon dragons—he had figured them out—but as long as he was pretending to design a new cover for the book, he might as well do it right, and there was no way such an esteemed book would concede to have a cartoon on the cover.

Not that they'd have someone tickling a dragon at all, but that wasn't the point.

Harry considered. Maybe it was the point. It wasn't like this endeavor would ever leave the confines of his sock drawer, where he kept all hidden things. Realistically speaking, tickling a dragon was more of a cartoonish activity than a realistic portrayal of a dragon curled up on the ground laughing while a little girl tickled its belly with a flower. Namely, it was not possible to use the words "realistic", "dragon" and "tickle" in the same sentence as long as said sentence did not also involve words like "flames" and "claws" and "very dead wizards".

So, cartoon it was.

He flipped through the book again, looking for a reference photo with the dragon in roughly the right position—lying on its back. But it seemed dragons did not do that, and while he supposed that made sense, as their bellies were potentially vulnerable, it was nevertheless very frustrating. Eventually settled on the cover photo again; at least the dragon was standing up, so if he turned the book sideways, it was almost like it was lying down.

Sort of.

It was like all of his hard work had disappeared the second he tried to draw something from his imagination. Getting the dragon in a curled position, finding the right arc, that was surprisingly difficult. Half his dragons were folded in half and the others were lying flat; there was no in between.

Harry momentarily gave up on dragons and filled an entire sheet of parchment with bowl-shaped arcs. Then, slowly but surely, he filled in each arc with a miniature dragon. Somehow it was much easier to imagine when all he could see were arcs.

When Ron came over around eleven to tell him he was going to bed and Harry really ought to as well, they had double potions with the Slytherins first thing, Harry's sheet of arcs was almost entirely a sheet of dragons. There were a few left to fill in but, for the most part, he had perfected the art of drawing a dragon lying on its back, curled up as if giggling. He was ignoring the hard parts, like their expressions and the little girl but, for the mean time, he was pleased with himself.

"You really are copying dragons out if a kid's book, then," Ron asked as Harry handed over his handiwork for inspection. "I thought Hermione made it up to cover something embarrassing. Not that this isn't, mind you. Pages and pages of dragons, Harry? Really?"

"I'm redesigning the cover of Hogwarts, A History," Harry said. "To go with our motto, y'know? Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus and all."

"So you're drawing a dragon that's being tickled?" Ron asked, handing the drawings back.

"Yes," Harry said firmly, as if it wasn't weird at all.

"Huh," Ron replied. "Well, I guess that's alright, then. Dragons are pretty cool."

Harry thought back to fourth year, and first, and how he had almost gotten killed both times, never mind the dragon they had ridden out of Gringotts. "Er, yeah."

"Anyway, coming to bed, or are you going to stay up all night drawing?" Ron asked. "I'm sure Slughorn would love that excuse. At least it'd be a new one. 'Sorry I'm distracted, Professor, I'm just tired from drawing cartoons all night.'"

"Ha ha, very funny," Harry replied, rolling his eyes and putting his things back in his bag. "I'm coming, don't worry. I don't care about Slughorn, but Malfoy spends enough of Potions glaring at me as it is, the last thing I need is to give him an excuse to complain for real."

"Oh, that's right," Ron said, leading them up the stairs. "I forgot Slughorn assigned you two as partners. How's that going?"

"How do you think?" Harry grumbled. "He does most of the work, at least. I just have to do all the prep, and sometimes two or three times if he thinks I've done it wrong, and he does the actual brewing. Suppose it could be worse."

"Something worse than Malfoy?" Ron asked with a grin. "Yeah, maybe if you were partnered with that Aragog monstrosity."

They entered the dorm in a fit of giggles.

3

It wasn't until the next morning Harry realized his fingers were covered in ink and, due to not having washed his hands before bed, so was his pillowcase and the side of his face. Dean and Seamus found this hilarious and Harry brushed them off as he went to shower. The ink had set, though, and while the top layer came off fine, he was left with faded stains all over his hands and face. Absolutely brilliant.

They were even more amused when he returned from the bathroom not looking any better. Ron and Neville were laughing as well, and Harry muttered angrily under his breath as he dressed. There wasn't any way to cover the stains, either—gloves would look very strange, and as far as he knew there wasn't a contraption meant to cover just the left cheek.

At breakfast Dean and Seamus happily told the entire Gryffindor table that Harry was covered in ink and Ron supplied the reason, which Harry was not particularly thankful for. He was asked repeatedly if cartoon dragons breathed ink instead of fire, and he had his plate filled by his friends, so as to prevent any ink poisoning. Harry was feeling very grumbly and unpleasant by the time they went to potions and it only got worse when he saw Malfoy sitting neatly and cleanly at their station. He'd never let himself get covered in ink. Harry sunk into his seat, pulled his sleeve down to cover his fingers and rested his head on his hand to cover the stain on his face.

"Don't bother, Potter, your exploits reached the Slytherin table," Malfoy drawled. "Cartoon dragons, ink stains, all that nonsense. Give me your hands."

Harry gaped at him. "What? Why?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Residual ink could get on our ingredients and into the potion, and I'm not interested in either redoing the potion or doing all the work myself. Give me your hands."

Hesitantly, Harry held out his hands. He was expecting a particularly powerful cleaning spell, not that Hermione hadn't already tried, but instead his hands were covered in a thin layer of something clear and bendable and molded to his skin. Harry flexed his fingers. "What is this?"

"They're gloves, Potter," Malfoy said, sounding bored now that the potential potions crisis had been adverted. "You'll retain all movement and feeling but you won't get ink all over everything."

"Oh," Harry said dumbly. "Thanks, I guess."

"Don't bother. It was for my benefit, not yours."

And, just like that, his day was miserable again. The gloves might keep his fingers working and feeling but they were slippery and he went through maybe five or six ivy tendrils before he managed to chop one without it slipping out of his grasp at an inopportune moment. He only cut himself once, and it was shallow enough he fixed it himself, but still, this was clearly not his day. The ivy was all that needed to be chopped, at least, and the rest of the crushing and powdering and shredding was painless. Malfoy took the ingredients as they were prepared, and began the process of actually brewing the potion. When they had first been partnered Harry had tried to persuade Malfoy into telling him what he was doing, but he had quickly given up. It just wasn't going to happen. If he failed his N.E.W.T.s because of it, well, at least he'd have someone to blame.

Besides, it left him with just over half a class of doing nothing, and that was entirely okay with him.

"Malfoy, how do I get these things off?" Harry asked, waving his hands at him.

Malfoy leaned away and gave him a distasteful look. "Get your hands out of my face, Potter. They're gloves, I told you. Just take them off."

"Oh," Harry said again. Why was it Malfoy always made him feel so stupid? He found the edge of the glove and peeled it off. It vanished as soon as he set it on the table, and he repeated the process with the other. He pulled out a piece of parchment and, as much as he wanted to use his Fwooper quill, a standard quill, and started practicing his penmanship. As long as he was stuck in the dungeons with Malfoy, he might as well continue his misery.

He decided to jump right in. No messing around with the alphabet or his name, he'd start off with the motto itself. One word at a time, though. There was no need to get cocky. He started with his normal scrawl, just once, to motivate himself. Then he sneaked Hermione's copy of Hogwarts, A History onto his lap and proceeded to copy the lettering.

It was impossible. There was no way he could tilt the quill in just the right way, or get his embellishments thin enough, or even keep the writing neat enough to be legible, especially when he was focusing on the curlicues.

And then, with a sudden ferocity, the parchment was ripped from his hands.

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed, reaching for it. "Malfoy, come on! Give it back! You said you didn't need me anymore. How's it your business what I choose to do with my free time?

"Well when you've scrawled my name all over a sheet of parchment, I tend to think it's very much my business," Malfoy said.

Harry gaped at him. "What're you—oh!" He started laughing, which only got worse as Malfoy glared at him.

"Pray tell, Potter, what's so funny?"

"It's not your name," Harry gasped. He saw Slughorn looking in his direction and quieted. "It's not you, you egotistical git. It's the school motto. Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus and all."

Malfoy looked at him, then at the parchment, then back to Harry. "Why? Why should I believe you and if I did, why would you be fixated on just the first word?"

"Why else would I be writing Draco over and over again?" Harry challenged. "Do you think I'm some simpering school girl writing Mrs. Harry Malfoy over and over again on all my things? Come on, even you can't be that arrogant."

"Fine," Malfoy snapped. "It's not my name. I get it. What's your obsession with the motto?"

That was how Harry ended up explaining the whole dragon and Hogwarts, A History nonsense to Malfoy of all people when he had intended on keeping it a secret until—well, until forever. He fell silent, expecting a bitter rebuke, endless teasing, or possibly just the silent treatment. Instead, Malfoy asked to see the book.

"It's Hermione's copy," Harry said, picking it up but not handing it over. "If anything happens to it—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Let me see." Feeling very nervous about it, Harry handed the book to Malfoy.

"What're you doing?"

Malfoy held the book up to his face, almost so close his nose was touching it. Then he held it at arm's length, tilting his head to the side. "You're trying to copy the filigree?"

"Er, yes?" Harry asked, having only a very basic concept of what filigree meant and wasn't entirely sure if that's what he was doing.

"Here, you do it like this." Harry watched in astonishment as Malfoy took out his own quill and, carefully looking up at the book, penned the motto in a beautiful, elegant, flowing script that was arguably better than the original. "Is that really so hard?"

"Yes!" Harry said. "Yes, it really is!"

Malfoy sighed haughtily. "Let me see your dragons, then. I shudder to imagine what they look like."

"Not half bad, thanks," Harry said sarcastically, but he reached into his bag and pulled out the sheet of arcs. "I was practicing positioning," he said, feeling the need to explain the thirty or so nearly identical dragons adorning the page.

Malfoy considered. "These really aren't that bad," he said. "You're redoing the cover, you say? Tickling a dragon and all?"

"Yes," Harry replied suspiciously. "Why?"

"Are you planning on sending it in to the publishers, as an alternative?" Malfoy asked.

Harry was entirely confused. "Um, no. It's a little girl tickling a dragon with a sunflower. Somehow I don't think they'd approve."

Malfoy smiled, and it wasn't even a smirk. "No, perhaps not. Without that restriction, have you thought about making a poster-sized rendition? It could be amusing, perhaps."

Harry's brow was furrowed and he was eyeing Draco with the same level of confusion as if there was an actual dragon sitting in his seat. "Um. I guess, maybe? I suppose I could give it to Hermione, she'd think it a laugh."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Don't give it to her, you dolt. Sell it. I'd even do the lettering for you, if you'd split the profits. Ten galleons a poster, split between the two of us?"

Harry was blinking. Over and over again. Dumbfounded. "I—um—are you offering to help me?"

"No," Malfoy said. "I'm offering to go into business with you. A very different proposition. Think about it; between your artwork and my lettering, we could turn quite a profit. Dorm posters, school announcements, maybe charts for the professors, that sort of thing."

"Let's just start with one, alright?" Harry said, not really grasping the fact that he was agreeing to work on something with Malfoy by choice. "I'll let you know when the drawing's done, and hand it off."

"Have you got poster-sized parchment?" Malfoy asked.

"Er, no. I could probably magic some together."

"No, I've actually got some. I'm taking Arithmancy this year, I need extra-wide parchment. Stop by Slytherin dorms after dinner, I'll give you some."

Harry's head was spinning. "Right, sure."

Malfoy tossed him Hogwarts, A History, as well as his parchments. "Here. I've got to finish brewing this."

"Right."

4

The thing was, Harry realized, he hadn't been to the Slytherin dorms since second year, and he didn't exactly remember where they were. He had checked the Marauder's Map before leaving, but the little lines were a lot clearer than the actual corridors. He ended up wandering the dungeons for upwards of fifteen minutes before finally running into Goyle, lurking around suspiciously. This was going to be awkward, but he could do it.

"Hey, Goyle," Harry said. The other boy looked at him as if a chair suddenly started speaking. That wasn't really surprising. "Er, Greg, I suppose. Where's the Slytherin common room again?"

Goyle continued to stare at him, and Harry was reminded how very, very dull the boy was. "What's it to you?"

"I need to pick up something from Malfoy," Harry replied. "He told me to meet him down here, but I don't remember where."

Goyle blinked at him. "Got any tricks up your sleeve, Potty?"

Harry suppressed any number of insults. "Nope. Just need to talk to Malfoy."

Goyle eyed him, as if he was capable of higher thought. "Right, sure you do. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to escort you there myself, make sure there's no funny business."

"Thanks," Harry said, following the Slytherin through the maze of corridors that was the dungeons. They stopped in front of an unmarked bit of stone wall, and no wonder Harry hadn't remembered, there was nothing to remember.

"Anguis," Goyle said, and the wall slid away revealing a passage. Harry was pushed forward, Goyle following behind. He hadn't been here in ages, but the green light in the common room was just as unsettling as he remembered. Who would want to live beneath the Black Lake, really? Harry got a lot of incredulous stares, but that was hardly surprising.

"Ah, there you are," Malfoy said, rising from one of the tables. There was indeed a poster-sized piece of paper covering most of the table, filled with numbers and archaic symbols. "I was beginning to think you'd never show up."

"So he wasn't lying?" Goyle asked. "You did tell him to come here?"

"Of course," Malfoy said silkily. "Come on, Potter, it's in my room."

"Er, okay," Harry said, following Malfoy up a tightly curled stone staircase he really wished had a handrail and better lighting. Malfoy opened the door with a silver eight emblazed into the dark wood and disappeared inside without waiting to see if Harry was coming.

He did, feeling very uncomfortable about the whole thing. This was where Malfoy slept. He couldn't get past that. It was such a human need, to sleep, and Harry didn't generally think of him as human. Malfoy was on his knees, reaching beneath one of the beds, the one that must have been his, and that was really odd, because that was exactly where he slept. He pulled out a metal contraption with a thick roll of parchment around it, sort of like a toilet paper holder. Malfoy pressed a small button and it sprung up to shoulder height.

"How much do you need?" Malfoy asked.

"Poster sized, I guess?" Harry replied. This fascination with Malfoy's bed was ridiculous, and it would be fantastic if he could focus on the conversation rather than if it was as comfortable as the Gryffindor beds. "I don't know dimensions of standard posters."

Malfoy considered. "Hmm, neither do I." He glanced around the room. "I'll just measure Blaise's, that should give us an idea." He walked over to a picture of a very scantily clad witch lying on a beach, winking suggestively at them and tossing her hair. "Oh, shove off," Malfoy snapped at her. "I'm measuring, not ogling." The girl crossed her arms and stuck out her tongue. Harry snorted in amusement. Malfoy conjured a measuring tape. "Sixty by ninety centimeters," he said, turning away from the lewd poster. "My parchment is sixty across, so that's perfect." He pointed his wand at the paper. "Ninety centimeters, please." The parchment unrolled, cut itself at the proper length and fluttered to the floor.

"Did you just say please?" Harry asked.

Malfoy sneered. "It's finicky, okay? The last time I snapped at it the thing trussed me up and gave me a thousand paper cuts. I had to have Blaise get me out, and it took ages for the house to stop laughing at me."

Harry bit back laughter. "I see," he said, sounding a bit choked. "Well, thanks, then." He picked up the parchment and stood awkwardly. Malfoy wasn't giving any indication of leaving the room and Harry wasn't sure if that meant he should stay and wait for him, or that he was too lowly to bother with.

"Should we plan it out together, do you think?" Malfoy asked after a moment. "I mean, you've got to leave me room to do the lettering. You can't cover the entire paper. Are we doing landscape or portrait? I'd imagine landscape, since your dragon will be lying down."

None of this had occurred to Harry. "Um, yeah, probably."

"Stick the parchment to the floor so it doesn't curl, will you?" Malfoy asked. "I need to find my erasable quill. I know it's around here somewhere." He started rummaging through a desk and Harry turned back to the parchment, the parchment that was right next to Malfoy's bed, where he slept, like a normal person.

"Can I put the roll away?" Harry asked. "It's in the way."

"Yeah, sure, just press the button on the side and put it back under my bed."

Harry shrunk it back down and slid it under the bed. He was curious, very curious, about what else might be hiding there, but there wasn't any way to check without being obvious. Instead he focused on sticking charms, trying to think of one that wouldn't harm the paper. He turned the paper sideways and used the spell Hermione had used for SPEW flyers fourth year. The parchment obediently uncurled and stuck itself to the floor.

"Finally," Malfoy muttered. He joined Harry on the floor, curling his legs elegantly beneath himself. How was it every single thing he did had to be so bloody perfect? "Okay, so we've got the scroll at the top, and the title and author at the bottom. Do you want to keep the author? If it's just a poster for Granger, I don't see the point."

"Um, no, I guess not."

Malfoy eyed him. "You haven't thought this through at all, have you?"

"The poster was your idea!" Harry protested. "I was just bored and putting off my Muggle Studies essay."

Harry thought, amazingly, unbelievably, Malfoy might be fighting against a smile. "Right, then," he said, turning back to the paper. "The scroll with the motto, that would be about here." He leaned over the parchment and sketched a perfectly centered rectangle that was exactly the right proportions. "And the title, that should be, hmm, like this?" He sketched another rectangle at the bottom of the parchment. "What do you think?"

Harry was flabbergasted. Malfoy had never asked his opinion on something before, never. And Harry was leaning against his bed. This was weird. "That looks good," he said.

Malfoy shot him an annoyed look. "Don't you have any opinions, Potter?"

Harry huffed. "I told you, I wasn't thinking about a full-sized poster!"

"Well neither was I, until I suggested it," Malfoy shot back. "Use that so-called brilliant brain of yours. If you insist on making me do all the planning and hard work, that fifty-fifty split is going to change drastically."

"But what you did really does look good!" Harry said indignantly. "I'm not going to sacrifice quality because I won't argue with you. Merlin, Malfoy, that's just so bloody daft."

Malfoy pursed his lips. "Well. Fine. That was oddly flattering, coming from you. Do you want to sketch out your dragon here, since I've got an erasable quill?"

"Er, sure," Harry said, taking the quill from him.

"I've got to do homework, mind you, but I can bring it up here and keep an eye on things," Malfoy said. "I'll be back in a moment." He left, and now Harry was alone in Malfoy's room, alone with his bed, and he wasn't going to pass up this sudden and obsessive need to investigate.

First he looked under the pillows. Of course there was nothing there, Malfoy wasn't an idiot. Then he checked under the bed. The paper scroll was there, as well as three ornate wood boxes. Harry glanced at the door. He had no idea how long he had. He turned back to the boxes and thought very hard and very fast. Would the box closest to the head of the bed be the most important or the one from the left, as in alphabetical? Harry pulled out the one to the right and opened it. It was filled with letters, letters from his mum. That was sweet, a side of Malfoy he'd never seen. He quickly put the box away and returned to the parchment. That was enough of that. Really, though, nothing was enough of that because this bloody obsession was ridiculous. It was a bed for Merlin's sake.

And then he squished his bed, just to see if it was as plushy as the Gryffindor beds. It was.

Okay, so, sketching a dragon. He started with an arc.

One more box wouldn't hurt. There were only three, after all. The second contained quills, regular-sized parchment, and other school supplies. Not particularly interesting.

He glanced towards the door again and listened for footsteps. Nothing.

Harry opened the third box. He flushed immediately, all but threw the top back on and shoved it into position. Was this the right position? Had he put them away incorrectly? Were they too far under the bed, or not far enough? Merlin, why had he done this, it was stupid, so very, very stupid, and Malfoy probably had all sorts of spells on them that would notify him the second they were tampered with and Merlin, he would have liked to have a bit more time to go through the third box but that wasn't happening.

Dragons.

Dragons all the way.

Nothing but dragons.

Harry stilled his shaking hands and went back to work sketching. It was different, working on such a large scale, but the shapes were all the same, and by the time Malfoy came back with a stack of books, he had the bottom of the dragon drawn out. More arcs, that's all they were. A big arc for the belly, a series of small, swishing arcs for the tail and the neck, and another arc for the head.

Malfoy dropped his books on his bed, the bed he slept in, and came over, squatting next to Harry.

"That's a dragon?" he asked.

"Yes," Harry said irritably. "The bottom of a dragon. See? Arcs."

Malfoy shrugged. "Whatever you say, Potter. And don't forget about that girl; she's in front of the dragon, you need to leave space for her."

Ah, yes, that would be wise. Maybe he should let Malfoy do all the planning and give him more of a cut. He wasn't doing this for the money, he was just bored and had spare time on his hands. He was taking the bare minimum of classes, just the ones he needed for the Ministry. It was a lot of work, but not a lot of a lot of work. The point being, he had spare time to draw dragons, and he found he really liked drawing dragons. Any profit was irrelevant.

Malfoy was reclining on his bed, the pillows pushed up against the headboard, one leg bent at the knee and the other straight out, reading his Arithmancy book. He looked perfect, like always. It was infuriating.

Harry turned back to the parchment and finished sketching out the dragon. He ignored the girl for now, he'd need to practice small scale first, but since the quill was erasable, it didn't matter. He found he had as much work as he wanted once the outline was complete. If he felt so inclined he could stay here on the floor of Malfoy's dorm for the rest of the night, adding scales and fire and spikes and claws.

Quite suddenly Malfoy leaned over, craning his neck to look at the drawing. "Not bad, Potter."

"Er, thanks," Harry said. Their faces were very close, and it was disconcerting.

"Hand me a quill and some parchment, would you?" Malfoy asked, looking directly into Harry's eyes, and that was even more disconcerting.

"Um, sure, where?" Harry replied. That wasn't a full sentence, but at least he didn't accidentally reveal he knew precisely where they were.

Malfoy's eyes twinkled. "I think you know."

Harry had to work very hard not to betray himself. "Your desk, I assume?" he asked, starting to get up.

Malfoy grabbed his shoulder, preventing him from rising. "No," he said with a smirk, drawing it out. "Not in my desk."

Harry's brain flew, trying to come up with another place they might be. "Your bag?" he tried. "I don't see it, maybe you left it in the common room."

"I did," Malfoy replied. "But that's not right, either."

Harry forced himself still, forced himself to hold Malfoy's gaze, forced his brain to work. "I don't know, Malfoy," he said, forcing himself to sound irritable. "I'm not your bloody house elf, I don't know where you keep every little thing. Tell me or not, I'm going back to drawing." He tried to lean forward but Malfoy prevented him from doing that, too.

"Under my bed," Malfoy said. "The first box on the left." He was daring Harry to contradict him.

"You should've just said so," Harry muttered. He forced himself not to blush. Puppies, he thought to himself as he slid the box out from under the bed. Puppies and kittens and baby sheep and dragons. He opened the box. "I think you got the wrong box, Malfoy," he said as if it was nothing. "Nothing here but gay porn."

"Oh?" Malfoy asked, raising an eyebrow. "My mistake. My school supplies must be in the middle box, then."

"Didn't know you were into that," Harry said, putting the lid back on, cutting off the leer of the leather-covered man on the front cover of Conjurers and Chains. He had been sucking suggestively on the tip of his wand, and if that had been distracting, well, so be it. Harry slid the box back under the bed and took out the second. "Any quill in particular?"

"Whatever floats your boat," Malfoy said, answering both questions in one fell swoop.

Harry cursed him. Perfectly articulate as always. Fucking bastard. He was not going to give in, not going to let Malfoy get to him. This was some new form of teasing, a brand new torture since his regular insults failed to bother Harry anymore. After spending a year hunting Horcruxes and killing Voldemort, being called Potty or Scarhead just didn't get to him.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific than that," Harry replied. "Like I said, I don't know what you're up for. An eagle quill? Owl? Maybe that purple Fwooper quill? I need instruction."

"Hmm," Malfoy considered. He leaned over further, bracing one hand next to Harry, right next to him, and went through the box with the other. "I'm feeling tame tonight. Owl it is." He plucked a plain brown quill out and a sheet of parchment. "Thanks for the help, Potter. Couldn't have done it without you."

"Just get back to studying, would you?" Harry asked, shoving the box back under the bed. "I have a dragon to draw."

"Pardon my interruption," Malfoy replied. He was back on the bed, lying on his stomach, quill poised. "By all means, return to your dragon."

"I will, then," Harry said, leaning over and starting on the flames.

"Good," Malfoy replied. "Meanwhile I'll write an essay on Goblin relations for History of Magic. So much more interesting than dragons, don't you think?"

"Absolutely," Harry said. He was trying really hard not to pay attention to Malfoy and focus on the flames, but even though their conversation had turned away from innuendo, he couldn't quite realign himself. "I'm jealous. But oh, that's right, I've already finished mine."

"No doubt because you have the course load of a first year," Malfoy shot back and, yes, that was good, because Harry knew how to deal with this sort of banter.

"I've been through hell and back," Harry replied. "I deserve an easy year."

"Whatever you say, Scarhead."

"Ferret."

They fell back into silence, working steadily. Once Harry finished the fire he moved onto scales and lost track of time completely. There was an infinity of scales. Scales took forever. So it wasn't until he heard a very small snore he realized it might be a bit late. He looked over at Malfoy, who was fast asleep on his parchment, still holding his quill in one hand. Harry had to bite back a smile. The word adorable did not come to mind when speaking of Draco Malfoy, but it was the only thing Harry could think of. Carefully he removed the quill and, even more gently, lifted the sleeping boy's head up so he could reach the parchment beneath. Both of these, along with the inkwell, went on his bedside table. Harry cleared the stack of books and set them on the floor.

Harry looked around for a clock. When he finally found it, he jolted—quarter past one. When had that happened? What's more, why had none of the other eighth years come to bed? He and Malfoy had been undisturbed, the lights were still on, there was no indication they were anything but alone. Did Slytherins just not sleep? Harry gathered his things, though he didn't unstick the poster yet. Maybe it was best left here? He wasn't sure and he didn't want to incur Malfoy's wrath by doing the wrong thing.

Very quietly, Harry tried to leave. When the muddy feeling first hit he thought he was just tired and his legs didn't want to support him. But as he continued the sensation of walking through molasses grew stronger, and he only got a few feet away from Malfoy's bed before he couldn't move at all. He stepped back, and immediately the sensation went away.

Okay. So that explained some things. He hadn't heard the other Slytherins go to bed because Malfoy had erected some sort of protection spell, complete with silencing and separate lighting. The thing was, Harry was really tired, and he didn't want to deal with this. Given enough time and effort he thought he could break through, but he had neither of those things, and he just wanted to lie down and go to sleep and never draw another scale ever again. He turned and looked at Malfoy. He looked… calm. Almost happy. Waking him would be unfortunate. Yes, today was the first time they had been civil towards each other, and only barely, but waking a happy Malfoy seemed a bit like poking a sleeping bear. Disaster. Carnage. Very loud, upsetting noises.

So, Harry sat back down and went back to drawing scales.

A short while later he put his quill down and rested his head in his arms. Just for a minute, to relax his eyes from all those scales.

5

"Potter, what are you doing on my floor?"

Harry opened his eyes groggily. He tried to turn to look at the voice but a stiff pain shot through his neck and down into his shoulder, the sort of pain he got from sleeping on an uncomfortable surface. And yes, this did seem uncomfortable. In fact, it seemed an awful lot like a floor. He was nudged in the ribs, just past gentle but not into the land of painful.

"Come on, Potter, wake up."

Harry rolled over. Carefully, so as to not disturb his neck. Or disturb the paper he was lying on because yes, now he remembered, he had tried to go back to his own room but had been held captive and so had decided to work on scales all night, and at some point he must have fallen asleep.

Malfoy was sitting on his bed, legs hanging off, clothes rumpled from sleeping in them, and he had a slight case of bed head, just on one side, causing a few errand strands of otherwise perfect hair to stick up. Harry laughed, and Malfoy frowned.

"What's so funny down there?" he asked.

"You look cute."

Silence reigned. Harry was not a morning person, that had been established a long time ago, but usually he wasn't quite that daft. Then again, he didn't usually wake up on Malfoy's floor.

"I mean, your clothes are rumpled, and your hair's sticking up," Harry amended much too late. "I've never seen you look anything other than perfect. It's good to see you're human after all."

Malfoy continued to frown at him. "So tell me why you're on my floor again? I missed that."

"I couldn't leave," Harry said. "Some sort of protection spell?"

Malfoy flinched. "Ah, yes. The Treacle Trick. Forgot about that. Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I dunno," Harry said defensively, feeling like any answer he gave would sound too mushy. "You looked…peaceful?"

"Peaceful?" Malfoy repeated. "Is that a question? Are you asking me how I look when I'm asleep? I'm afraid I can't answer that one for you."

"You're bloody infuriating," Harry said angrily. "I was being nice. You could thank me."

"For unwittingly letting you sleep on my floor?" Malfoy asked, purposefully difficult, as always. "Thank you for the great honor of having the one and only Golden Boy grace me with his sleeping presence. It means the world to me, Potty, really."

Harry glared at him. "I let you sleep," he replied. "That was nice of me. Especially since it meant I had to sleep on your very uncomfortable floor."

"If you're a masochist, that's your business, not mine," Malfoy said. "Come on, get up. We're going to be late for breakfast."

Harry sat up and flinched. It wasn't just his neck, though that was the worst by far. Every muscle in his back was clenched and felt like someone with an awful lot of fingers was poking him very hard. He rubbed his neck, and even that hurt.

Malfoy sighed. "Stiff?"

"You could say that," Harry replied. He pulled himself to his feet and picked up his bag. It would have to go over his right shoulder and only his right shoulder. He looked over to see Malfoy rummaging through his bedside table drawer. "What now?" he asked dully.

He pulled out a flask filled with a pinkish purple liquid. "Here," he said, handing it to Harry. "Just one sip, otherwise you'll be a puddle."

"What is it?" Harry asked, opening the cork and sniffing. It smelled like nothing in particular with just a touch of medicine.

"A muscle relaxant," Malfoy said. "Go on. I'm not poisoning you, I promise."

Harry took a small sip. Immediately his neck, shoulders and back relaxed. He let out a surprised and grateful sigh, corked the flask and handed it back to Malfoy. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Malfoy replied. "Really, don't. That's from my private stores, I don't need everyone in school thinking I'm a bloody apothecary."

"Yeah, sure," Harry said, rolling his shoulders. They were pleasantly loose, looser than they'd been since the damned war started. "Thanks. Loads."

"You've said that already," Malfoy said, going through the stack of books and picking out the ones he'd need for the day. "Seriously, we need to go. We've already missed most of breakfast, might as well grab a slice of toast before heading to Herbology."

"Muggle Studies," Harry replied. This time it was easy to leave the room; maybe the spell only activated when Malfoy was asleep?

"Don't care," Malfoy replied, dropping his books into his bag, which was still on the table with his Arithmancy chart, and led the way out of the common room and through the dungeons.

"You're brilliant to wake up to, you know that?" Harry asked. It was still early, and he hadn't been awake enough to generate actual annoyance or anger.

Malfoy smiled, and for a split second it seemed genuine before returning to his trademark sneer. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Harry made an expression somewhere between a frown and a laugh. "Malfoy, I do know, I just did it."

Malfoy glared at him. "I meant in bed, you dolt."

"That definitely would have been nicer," Harry replied lightly. "I don't know what I would've done without that potion. Still, I would rather sleep in a bed."

"Not in mine," Malfoy said.

Harry actually laughed. "You've gotten yourself turned around. First you start off by insinuating I've spent the night with you, then you declare it would never happen? Silly little ferret."

Malfoy glared at him. "You're an idiot. I insinuated that you wanted to be in my bed, not that I wanted you there. In fact, that was my entire point, if you had let me get to it."

"Ah," Harry replied loftily. "How very clear and concise."

Malfoy punched his arm a little harder than he needed to. "And I'm not a bloody ferret."

"Whatever you say, Malfoy."

They reached the Great Hall and, just before splitting ways, Malfoy said, "My room at ten?"

Harry stared, completely shocked. Then he remembered the poster. "Yeah, sure. I dunno if I'll have time to practice the girl before then, though, so I might just finish up the dragon, which won't take long."

"Then bring some homework," Malfoy said off-handedly. "I had to suffer watching you have fun while I toiled away, now it's your turn."

Was that a request to study together? No. Definitely not. "Suppose so," Harry replied carefully. "See you then, I guess."

"Later."