Hi! So, this is my first HP fic, and I've posted what I have so far in AO3, but this is an edited version that I wanted to get out there as well. Since some of it is already written, I'll be updating pretty regularly. Please let me know what you think!
Chapter 1
When Harry woke up, it was a bright, Sunday afternoon at St. Mungo's. Healers and visitors bustled about, looking after patients, weaving in and out of rooms – completely oblivious to the fact that the great Saviour himself was actually in their midst. Ron, Hermione, and Harry's supervisor at the Ministry, Robards, hoped to keep it that way.
Of course, Harry's primary Healer was in the know as well. He was sworn to secrecy, through both magical and non-magical means. Hermione had taken care of both counts when Harry chose him several years ago, and she had never been more grateful for it. Because this was one crisis the rest of the wizarding world should never stick their noses into. For their own sanity, as much as Harry's.
When he received the news that Sunday, Harry was ready to believe that he actually had gone insane.
Harry sat on the soft, white hospital bed, staring at Ron and Hermione, who looked just the same as he remembered, if admittedly, a bit older.
"So you're telling me," he said, through gritted teeth. "That I've just lost seven years of my life."
Ron shrugged jerkily, looking uncomfortable. "Yeah," he said. "That's…yeah."
"Harry," said Hermione, catching the look on Harry's face. "We know it's a lot to take in. I'm – I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you must be feeling."
Harry sat up straighter, his fists shaking on top of the sheets. "No," he said. "You can't. Bloody hell, Hermione, the last thing I remember is going to sleep at the Burrow. We'd just won the war, and we were thinking about going back to Hogwarts, and Ginny was planning a party...and – and you're saying that happened, all of it, seven years ago? Hermione, I was about to be eighteen, not bloody twenty-five! I can't just skip over seven years of my life, that's just – that's –"
"Unfair?" said Hermione, her eyes shining. "I know. I really do, Harry, but we'll make it right. It's been a few years since I've researched memory spells, but I've already looked at a few of my old books and of course it's all very complicated but –"
"Point is," said Ron, leaning forward. "We're here for you mate. Whatever you need."
Hermione shot Ron an irritated look, but she didn't go on. Instead, she took Harry's hand and squeezed it with fingers a bit softer than he remembered.
Harry still shook with anger, with panic, for a second, but then he couldn't help relaxing a bit. This was familiar. Hermione's helping hand and the fierce loyalty from his best friends, it eased him a little. This, at least, hadn't changed.
Then he looked down at Hermione's hand and, with a jolt, saw a wedding ring.
Harry stared.
He supposed it made sense. Ron and Hermione were hinting at marriage, even at eighteen, but that had still been a Future thing. An Adult thing. All three of them had just been through a war, but it was still hard to imagine an adult life, or anything about the future, really. At the time, it had stretched on before them, full of possibility, of careers, marriages, happiness, and life.
Now, seven years later, they had done all of that already. Harry just didn't remember any of it.
He looked away. "Do they know who did this to me?" he said.
"We don't," said Hermione. "We aren't even exactly sure what happened."
"Robards just said you were on some kind of mission when he brought you in," said Ron. "Any more information is 'classified', like I haven't worked for him for, what, four years now? The git," he added with distaste.
Robards? Mission? Work? Harry shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "He didn't say anything else?"
"No, mate," said Ron. "Sorry."
"But how are they going to fix this if they don't have the original caster?" said Harry. He wracked his brain, trying to remember all of Hermione's spiels about memory spells. She'd become obsessed with them after the war, afraid that if she didn't know absolutely everything, it would all come to nothing when she tried to reverse the spell she put on her parents.
Harry would have to ask her about that. He added it to his rapidly growing list of everything he didn't know.
Hermione smiled, as if she knew exactly what Harry was thinking. "That only applies when you're implanting a false memory," she said. "In that case, only the caster knows the unique complexities of the charm; therefore, only he or she can safely work backwards from its implementation to lift the charm entirely."
Hermione shifted in her seat. "The Obliviate Hex is slightly different. Once it's cast, the caster has no control or ownership over the actual memories; those are still yours and yours alone. However, what exactly happens to disconnect the lost memories from the victim of the spell is not entirely known. From previous case studies, it's clear that you can access them again, given time, but it doesn't happen for everyone."
"Not to discourage you, Harry," she added quickly. She squeezed his hand, her wide eyes worried. "Of course, there are plenty of people who recover from being obliviated. It doesn't seem like there were any complications when it was cast on you either."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Lucky me."
Ron snorted.
"It is, though," said Hermione sternly, though her mouth twitched. "There are so many things that can go wrong when you Obliviate someone."
Harry thought suddenly of Lockhart. He looked at Ron and Hermione. He knew them, at least, even if they were older and wearing clothes he'd never seen. His blood ran cold at the thought of not having even that, of being washed completely of who he was, what he'd known. He shivered.
Harry leaned back on the bed. "It's just not fair," he said. It sounded petulant and childish, but he didn't care.
"Life's not fair, mate," said Ron solemnly.
Harry looked over to see Ron's mouth twitch. "Sod off," he said, rolling his eyes, but he couldn't help smiling a little too.
None of this was all right. He wasn't reassured, he wasn't relieved, he had lost his memories, for Merlin's sake. But he still had this. He had Ron and Hermione, here, by his side, ready to support him no matter what. And maybe he wouldn't get his memories back. Maybe he'd always feel stuck seven years in the past, only moving forward as if in a dream. But right now, right here, he felt that maybe, it just might turn out all right.
"This is never going to work," said Harry, five days later.
Ron and Hermione grimaced from across the table, looking just as weary. They were in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, which Harry had apparently moved into five years ago. Before that, he had been living with Ron at a flat in Muggle London. They'd canceled the lease when Ron and Hermione got engaged, Ron getting an apartment with Hermione and Harry moving into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Much like Harry's summer when he was fifteen, they spent most of that year clearing out the house for Harry's habitation. "The place was a nightmare, honestly," Ron had said, when recalling it. Harry, all too able to imagine what it must have been like, grimaced in commiseration.
Now, however, it looked completely fine. Normal, even. They sat in a bright kitchen with modern-looking appliances and a cheery fireplace that was currently unlit. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, looked positively gloomy as they stared at the pensieve in front of them.
"Maybe we just aren't showing you the right memories," said Hermione. She was the only one who still looked the least bit hopeful.
"Yeah, and maybe I'll never know what Parvati's knickers look like," said Harry, leaning his head on the table. Apparently, they had dated for a few months, until she dumped him for reasons Ron and Hermione claimed they didn't know.
"Harry," Hermione admonished while Ron snorted.
"Just joking, Hermione," said Harry, smiling a little. "It's just – none of this seems to be working. I must've been through hundreds of memories this past week, and I haven't recognized a single one of them."
"These things take time, Harry," said Hermione. "And I know Ron and I have been with you for a lot of things, but maybe if you looked at some other people's memories too –"
"I will," said Harry, avoiding her eyes.
A few days ago, his healer had discharged Harry from St. Mungo's, saying that since he was physically stable, he should familiarize himself with his forgotten memories as soon as possible. Part of this was going back home, but largely, it involved actually looking through memory after memory of his past seven years through other people's eyes.
At first, it had been disconcerting. They started with Eighth Year at Hogwarts, and Harry just couldn't shake how odd it was to see him eating at the start-of-term banquet or lounging around in the Gryffindor common room, not remembering any of it. It was almost as bizarre as watching six other people transform into him after drinking Polyjuice.
In his final year, Harry was given the option to be Quidditch Captain again. He'd turned it down, he hadn't even joined the team, telling McGonagall that he'd rather take it easy. And for the most part, he did. Classes were just as he remembered: sometimes engaging, sometimes dull, and a lot of hard work. Mostly, they went to parties in different houses, comforted each other, rushed to finish assignments, and avoided the larger public. It was all so familiar, and yet incredibly strange to watch.
After a while, though, Harry got used to it. Every now and then something would catch him off guard, but on the whole, his future as an ordinary wizard (meaning a wizard not being viciously hunted down by a Dark Lord) turned out to look – well, ordinary.
After Hogwarts, he and Ron entered auror training and Hermione started an apprenticeship at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. They met up every weekend and went out sometimes, catching up with each other one night and with the rest of the DA for another.
When they were twenty, Ron proposed to Hermione – in full view of everyone from Percy to Hermione's parents – and several months later, they were married.
That, at least, had been nothing less than extraordinary.
It had taken place at the Burrow. Everyone came, and Hermione looked beautiful in her mum's old wedding gown, Ron dashing in brand new dress robes. The food looked delicious, everyone happy. The reception was golden, airy, large, and completely free of ominous messages from Kingsley. Kingsley himself, or Minister Shacklebolt in this new world, was actually there. He danced with Hermione, McGonagall, and even Aunt Muriel. Harry, also in new dress robes (and his own skin), gave an impressive speech that, much to Ron's amusement, made the Harry watching himself tear up.
Afterwards, their lives seemed to rush forward in a haze of Adult Things.
In their early twenties, Harry and Ron finally finished training. They became fully-fledged aurors, working as partners until Harry got pulled for some 'secret mission' about a year ago. Hermione graduated to a legal assistant, working with magical creatures, until she transferred over to the Department of Mysteries.
As for their personal lives, she and Ron seemed happy with their marriage, though not without the occasional row, which didn't surprise Harry in the least. They had a pregnancy scare. It turned into a pregnancy letdown, more like, and apparently, they've been trying ever since. Harry encouraged them, smiled, comforted when times got hard.
The closest Harry himself got to a child was with Teddy. He had grown into a smart, funny, and boisterous boy who liked to keep his hair blue. Harry saw him every other weekend, and every year, they celebrated his parents' birthdays together.
As for his romantic life?
Apparently, he and Ginny had a falling out. Ron and Hermione weren't too clear on the details, getting shifty whenever he tried to talk about it. They said he should hear the story from Ginny herself, an excuse Harry didn't entirely agree with, even if he understood. All he knew for now was that it had happened shortly after his eighteenth birthday and that yes, he'd been broken up about it, but it wasn't long before they were back on good terms.
Harry went along with this explanation, but he wasn't sure how much of it he actually believed. In the seven-year interval between then and now, Harry soon realized he hadn't truly been with anyone since Ginny. Parvati turned out to be his longest relationship, and that had barely lasted five months, followed by a French witch whose bad attitude managed to Neville cry.
If anything, his long-term relationship became his work. As much as Ron and Hermione tried to hide it, it wasn't difficult to figure out that his work steadily ate up most of Harry's life. When Harry lost Ron as his partner and Hermione became nearly as work-obsessed as Harry after her transfer, Harry's social life dwindled down to almost nothing.
He visite Teddy at Andromeda's. He met with Ron and Hermione and visited The Burrow sometimes. For the most part, however, the last few years of his life seemed to have been spent largely on his own.
This worried Harry. When imagining his future, he'd never have thought it would look like this, filled with nothing but work, loneliness, and the occasional weekend out.
Considering this, Harry didn't really see the point of looking at other people's memories. Hermione had been suggesting it more and more lately, especially since they seemed to be getting no closer to retrieving his lost memories than they were on day one. Harry knew he had to, eventually. Just not yet. He doubted it would actually help, and honestly, he was nervous about meeting everyone again.
They had all changed so much, grown older, gotten married, grasped control of their past and moved forward into the future. But Harry? It seemed that both his past and present self were still stuck there, in life just months after the war.
Hermione opened her mouth, probably to argue with him more, until suddenly, they heard something tapping on the kitchen window. Harry tensed immediately, still not used to feeling safe in here, of all places.
Ron just stared at the window, looking puzzled. Hermione got up to open it. An owl flew in, looking ruffled and slightly annoyed at having to wait for the invitation. It hopped onto the kitchen table with importance and stuck its leg out in Harry's direction.
Looking around at Ron and Hermione, Harry steeled himself. He took the message from the owl as Hermione prepared a bowl of water.
"Who's it from?" said Ron.
"Dunno," said Harry. The parchment was heavy and coloured a creamy white like letters from Hogwarts. He turned it over. It was blank. "There's no return address."
"Well go on then," said Ron, when Harry didn't open it.
"Do you reckon it's safe?" he said.
"The wards around your house are pretty strong," said Hermione. The owl gave a soft hoot of appreciation as she set down the bowl of water for him. "If that letter was cursed with anything, it shouldn't have been able to come through."
When Harry still hesitated, Hermione placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Harry," she said softly. "It's been a long time since anyone's tried to hurt you, at least, not from your own home. It's safe here. I promise."
"Yeah," said Harry. This was rich, considering someone had just obliviated a good bit of his life, but he still nodded, rubbing his thumb over the smooth parchment.
Taking a deep breath, Harry went ahead and opened the letter. Ron and Hermione squeezed in, reading it alongside him, but it didn't take any of them long. In small, neat cursive, it said:
Starstruck,
Five minutes after midnight.
- Q
Each of them stared a good bit longer after they finished.
Finally, Ron said, "Starstruck?"
Harry just shook his head. "Q?"
"It sounds like an answer to something," said Hermione, scanning the parchment for probably the tenth time.
"To what?" said Harry.
Hermione looked pained. "I don't know," she said. "The actual content is probably referring to something that had happened or something that will happen, unless it's code for something, which is possible considering the use of codenames in the rest of the letter and your profession, Harry. In that case, it could mean anything –"
"I reckon it's some weird fan mail," said Ron, leaning back in his chair. "Been a while since you've had those."
"But it doesn't make any sense on its own," said Hermione. She took the letter out of Harry's hands, bringing it closer to her face as she sat down.
"Well, not like they ever do," said Ron, shrugging. "They're crazy, the lot of them."
Harry leaned onto the table, glancing at the pensieve that was still shimmering with its last memory. "Maybe I'm having an affair," he said wearily. "You know, 'starstruck' and all that."
Honestly, for all he knew about his past, he could be. Hermione just gave him an annoyed look, while Ron snorted.
"Then what would 'Q' stand for?" he said. "Queer?"
A lot of things seemed to happen at once. Harry said "sod off," laughing, but it died as Hermione froze, sending Ron a panicked look that he matched with something like dawning horror.
"What?" said Harry. He sat up, staring. "What is it?"
Hermione broke first. "Nothing," she said. Her voice was high-pitched and strained. She started to fold up the letter.
"Hermione," said Harry. "What is it?"
When she said nothing, Ron put a hand on her arm. "Hermione," he said softly. He leaned down and whispered something. She whispered back, sounding angry, and Harry looked on, growing more and more irritated by the second.
"Just tell me," he said, cutting into their whispered argument. "For Merlin's sake, I'm not a child."
Hermione bit her lip. "Harry, I'm sorry," she said. "But Jerry told us –"
"Fuck Merwick," said Harry, exhaling sharply.
Jerry Merwick was his primary Healer, tall and handsome with an affable personality. He was nice enough all right, but Harry thought he coddled him too much.
Ron snorted. "He's not your type, mate," he said.
"That's not really the point here, is it?"
"Actually," said Hermione, looking nervous. "It kind of is."
Harry stared at them. When they didn't go on, he ran a hand through his hair. "I don't understand what the hell you two are on about," he said.
"Harry," said Hermione. Her voice was calm and level, like she was approaching a wild hippogriff. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hermione glanced at Ron, who nodded encouragingly.
She went on, looking irritated.
"Jerry isn't your type because you usually like men and women who have a bit more…personality."
"To put it mildly," Ron added under his breath.
Harry blinked. "What?"
"She's saying you're bi, Harry," said Ron, slowly as if that would take away the shock of it.
"I'm…what?"
"Look, it might make more sense if we told you the whole story," said Hermione, in a rush. "Ron?"
Ron grimaced, but he seemed more worried than annoyed when he looked at Harry. He hesitated for a second. After a prod from Hermione, he spoke.
"Er, you remember that Muggle club we used to go to? Nightshade?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
Ron shifted in his seat. "Well, the three of us were there, right," he said. "This was a few days after you broke up with Ginny, and we figured you could do with a bit of cheering up. You got sort of hammered, and we lost track of you for a bit – or I did, at least. But next thing I know, Hermione's tapping on my shoulder, telling me to look over, and I see you snogging some bloke. I didn't know what to do, honestly. Hermione said to just let you be, and I figured she knew better than me, so we let you get on with it. But it was a complete nightmare trying to get you home, you wouldn't let go of that poor sod until we got you sober enough to realize what you were doing."
Ron paused to choke back a laugh. He cleared his throat.
"You're, uh, probably better off not remembering that. Anyway, we didn't really talk about it much. But then next year, we went to Hogwarts, and…"
He faltered. He glanced at Hermione, who gave him a look that clearly said, "You started this. You finish it."
Harry just stared. He felt like one of them was slowly suffocating him, but he didn't know which. Maybe both.
Ron scowled. He ran a hand through his hair and looked back at Harry. "So we went back to Hogwarts," he said. "And you, uh, got a boyfriend."
"A boyfriend," said Harry, like he had never heard of such a thing before.
Ron smiled weakly at him. "Yeah."
Harry looked between him and Hermione. "But…that's impossible," he said. "We went through your memories at Hogwarts. I didn't have a – I didn't have anyone."
Ron and Hermione glanced at each other, looking uncomfortable.
"We didn't know how you'd take it, Harry," said Hermione.
Comprehension dawned on Harry, and a lick of fury seemed to race up his spine. "You hid it from me," he said through gritted teeth.
"We were going to tell you –"
"Fuck!" Harry jumped up from his chair, blood rushing through his ears. Hermione looked alarmed, but he didn't care. "First you won't tell me what really happened with Ginny and now this?" he said, glaring at them. "What else are you keeping from me? Fucking hell, I'm going through a hundred memories every sodding day for a reason!"
"We know, Harry!" said Hermione. "But –"
"No, you don't know!" Harry yelled. "You don't know what it's like to wake up seven years older, to wake up every day knowing that I'm probably never going to get those seven years back, and I gave my life for this world, for some fucking peace and happiness, not for this!"
Harry kicked his chair, reveling in the sudden crack of wood. The owl gave a loud hoot and flew over to the counter. It looked back reproachfully.
Ron stared at Harry, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to say something, but Hermione spoke before he could.
"Harry, we wanted to tell you. We were going to, but Jerry –"
Harry rounded on her. "FUCK JERRY!"
Ron stood up. "Fine." Harry looked him. "You want to know?" he said, his freckled face determined. "Fine, we'll tell you. No more secrets, all right?"
Hermione got up as well. "Ron," she said.
"Hermione, he's got a right to know."
There was an awkward silence, where the three of them just stood there, waiting for someone to speak. The owl ruffled its feathers.
Harry screwed his eyes shut. He imagined the silent conversation Ron and Hermione were having, and his head gave a nasty throb.
"Who was it?" he said.
"What?" said Ron.
Harry opened his eyes. "My – boyfriend," he said, grimacing. "Who was it?"
"Er, you mean the one from Hogwarts?" said Ron.
Harry gaped. "There's another one?"
"You've been with quite a few men, actually," said Hermione hesitantly. "But I don't think you were ever very serious about any of them." She glanced at Ron. "Except for the one you were with at Hogwarts, but that didn't exactly end well. That's mostly why we didn't want to mention it to you, Harry, you were a bit – well, brokenhearted afterwards, and –"
Harry leaned back against the counter behind him, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me who it was," he said.
Ron and Hermione exchanged anxious glances. Harry's headache grew worse. Before he could yell the question at them, Ron finally answered.
"It was Draco Malfoy, mate," he said. At the look on Harry's face, he grimaced, shrugging. "Sorry."
Harry lay in his bed later that night, his head still spinning. This new world he'd been obliviated into was a complete mess. Not that his life had ever been easy, but this? Wasn't life supposed to become less complicated, after getting rid of Riddle?
He was bi. He had dated Draco Malfoy. He felt like he'd entered into some weird nightmare, and that any second, he'd wake up safe and sound and straight at the Burrow.
Harry stared up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling. He still slept in Sirius's old room, apparently, and it hadn't changed too much from what he remembered. The Muggle posters were still there, just painted over, and the picture of his father and the rest of the Marauders still hung just above his bed. The bed itself was much comfier and cleaner, much like the rest of the room. After a few nights spent sleeping there, he still didn't remember anything about it: the renovations, his life. And after almost a week, the future was still overwhelming him in the worst possible ways.
After his anger at Ron and Hermione subsided, Harry found he didn't really know how to feel about all this. He supposed it was a good thing that he found a relationship so soon after Ginny, if a year's gap was 'soon'. Yet, it hadn't lasted, and it had been with Malfoy, of all people. Maybe he was just shit at relationships. It didn't sound too far off the mark, but it was still depressing to think about.
And of course, the whole bloke thing. Yeah, he definitely didn't know how to feel about that.
Although, when Harry reflected back on so many years of noticing and vaguely fantasizing, of hard muscles and deep voices, it sort of made sense. He shivered a little at having this bone-deep knowledge suddenly out in the open, but he wasn't entirely bothered by it.
The greatest problem right now, though, wasn't all of that. It was Malfoy.
Because Malfoy? Seriously? Yes, Harry had testified at his trial, but he also did that for his mother, and he hadn't dated her. Merlin, that would've been absolutely horrifying. He supposed he should be grateful for small mercies.
But Malfoy was just…Malfoy. An arrogant git who spent the better part of his formative years doing everything he could to make Harry's life even worse than it already was. He hadn't deserved what happened to him, of course not, but that didn't stop him from being a git.
Or, so he thought. Until now. Harry just couldn't see himself being with the Malfoy he knew, but what if Malfoy had changed? The war had changed a lot of people, himself among them, evidently. Was there any other explanation?
Unless Ron and Hermione were keeping something else from him. Harry scowled bitterly at the ceiling.
Well, first off, Malfoy wasn't necessarily ugly. It was difficult to think of him in that light, in handsome or attractive or whatever. But if he had to choose, Harry would say that the git wasn't unattractive. He hadn't looked so great in the last few years, what with death practically breathing down his neck, but even then, he had a haunted sort of beauty.
Harry blinked.
Beauty?
He shook his head.
The more he thought about it, the more curious he felt about the whole matter. He had sort of stormed off after hearing about Malfoy, so he didn't get any of the details. At the time, he thought he hadn't wanted any. Because surely it had to be some kind of joke? A gigantic prank, maybe, courtesy of the universe.
But then he began wondering, how did it happen? How long had it gone on? Were they happy, or did they just make each other miserable? What had he said about Malfoy? What had Malfoy said about him?
Harry lay there, these thoughts swirling around in his mind, until he couldn't take it anymore and started pacing his room.
What had they talked about? What could he and Malfoy possibly have in common? Quidditch, maybe, although he couldn't imagine any conversation there that didn't end in a fight. Honestly, he couldn't imagine any conversation between them that didn't end in one of them getting hurt.
What did they do? Go on dates? Harry snorted at the image of him and Malfoy, scowling over tea at Madam Puddifoot's. They probably hadn't done that, but then what did they do? Make out in abandoned corridors, like he did with Ginny?
Harry stilled. That…he couldn't imagine that. And then another thought occurred to him:
Did they sleep together?
A flood of fantasy suddenly assaulted him: Malfoy's flushed face beneath him, his white hair spilled over scarlet sheets, his pale skin, his posh accent…
Harry shook his head, almost violently. He ran a hand through his hair for possibly the millionth time. He probably looked crazy. He definitely felt like it.
More and more he felt like the answer to all this was just to meet with Malfoy. He had no idea what he was doing now, Ron and Hermione had failed to mention it or him in any way. Were they even passing acquaintances in this weird universe? How acceptable would it be for him to just show up at his house? Or apartment. Or wherever the hell he was living.
He wouldn't still be at the Manor, would he? His house arrest wasn't supposed to last seven years. Unless he did something to prolong it. Either way, his parents should probably still be there, and they most likely knew where Malfoy was.
Harry was suddenly struck with a crazy plan. He paced his room, mulling it over for a bit. Of course, he could just ask Ron and Hermione about Malfoy, but they probably wouldn't like the idea of going out to meet him. Not that he was feeling especially keen on following any of their advice at the moment. To Harry, actually seeing Malfoy felt extremely important, and he was supposed to be looking at other people's memories of him too, right?
Right.
Harry grabbed his wand from the bedside table and took a quick look at himself through the mirror. He tried to flatten down his hair, but gave up when the mirror eventually told him it was futile.
He cast a quick Tempus Charm before going down to the living room. He snorted.
It was five after midnight.
Narcissa Malfoy wasn't exactly pleased to see Harry. Granted, he probably should have waited until morning at least, but it was an emergency. Sort of. He was just glad that Narcissa was the one to answer his Floo call and not Lucius. She seemed a bit easier to work with. He tried to speak quickly, both because Floo calls were extremely uncomfortable and, even though he had cast a muffliato around him, he wouldn't put it past Hermione to check the Floo any second.
"Draco?" said Narcissa, looking suspicious. She was wearing a silky black nightgown that made her look even paler than usual, and her bone-white hair flowed down around her shoulders, stark against her clothes. "Is this related to a case of yours, Auror Potter?"
"Er, sort of," said Harry, because he hadn't actually thought of an excuse. "Not that he's in any trouble," he added quickly. "I'd just like to speak with him."
"Do you not have his records at the Ministry?"
Oh. He hadn't thought of that. Not that that really helped him, since Robards said he wasn't allowed at work until he'd sorted all this out. But that's what he was trying to do, wasn't he?
"It's sort of an emergency," he said, trying to sound like he knew what he was doing. "I don't have time to sort through records, and the Ministry's officially closed right now, anyway. I figured it would be faster to call you."
Narcissa looked at Harry with a searching gaze. He crossed all of his fingers.
"Very well," she said coolly.
Harry resisted letting out a sigh of relief as he thoroughly memorized the address Narcissa gave him.
"Auror Potter," she said, just as Harry began to leave.
He smiled politely. "Yes?"
"Will you let me know?" she said. "If anything happens to Draco?"
"Nothing will happen to him," he said.
"But you'll let me know if it does?"
Suddenly, Harry felt a bit guilty about asking her like this. He tried to give her a reassuring smile. "Yes," he said. "Of course."
Harry hastily said his goodbyes, the worried look on Narcissa Malfoy's face still tugging at his conscience. When he pulled out of the Floo, however, sudden excitement trumped any lingering feelings of guilt. His heart hammered with his new knowledge. This was it. He was going to meet the future Malfoy and learn everything about their…relationship. Merlin, that was weird.
Harry was about to walk right back into the fireplace and rattle out Malfoy's address, when someone cleared their throat behind him.
Harry whirled around.
"What do you think you're doing?" said Hermione, her arms crossed and eyebrow raised.
Harry started to talk, but then he remembered the Muffliato he cast around him. He quickly removed it, but found he didn't know what to say.
"I was just, uh…"
"Going to talk to Malfoy at half past midnight?" she said coolly.
He flinched. "Um, no?"
Hermione's mouth twitched, and she sighed. "Well, you won't be able to get to him like that. He lives in Muggle London and his fireplace isn't connected to the Floo."
Harry gaped at her. "How'd you know that?" he said.
"We work together," she said.
Like it was that simple. Harry went on gaping at her. "You what?"
"We work together at the Ministry," she said, stepping closer to sit on one of the sofas. "We have been since I switched over to the Department of Mysteries three years ago. We're not exactly the best of friends, considering everything that happened, but he's not a bad colleague."
Hermione motioned for him to sit down, and he did, still trying to process everything.
"So, he's…all right, now?" he said.
"Not a giant prat, you mean?" said Hermione, smiling. "He can get a bit nasty sometimes. But on the whole, he's good at what he does, and he can be quite funny."
Harry stared. "Funny," he said.
"Shocking, I know."
"Does Ron know?"
Hermione chuckled. "Of course he knows. He's not happy about it, but there's not really anything he can do. Believe me, he's tried."
"Did I know?"
Hermione gave Harry a searching look. "Yes," she said. "You knew."
"And I was all right with it?"
"Not at first," said Hermione. She shifted on the sofa, her wedding ring flashing in the firelight. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "But like I said, there wasn't anything anyone could do about it. It's work. You got used to it eventually."
"Eventually," said Harry, grimacing.
Hermione looked at him. "You know, I thought you wouldn't care as much," she said. "Given that you and Draco don't have a history this time around."
"I've only forgotten the past seven years, Hermione," said Harry. "I still remember what happened before. What he's done."
"I know, but I thought you'd moved past all that when you testified for Draco. You forgave him before most of us even began to think of that as an option."
"I never forgave him," said Harry. "He just didn't deserve Azkaban."
"Still, you testified at his trial. We didn't."
Harry glanced at her. At the time, Ron and Hermione hadn't completely understood why he'd wanted to testify for Draco Malfoy. Narcissa had save his life, so they got that, but Draco? He had let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, he'd nearly killed Ron and Katie, he'd watched Bellatrix torture Hermione, and in the end, he'd tried to turn Harry into Voldemort. Yes, he'd been underage for most of it, but so had Harry, Ron, and Hermione, when they were trying to save the world.
But Harry had seen sides to Malfoy that Ron and Hermione hadn't. They hadn't been there when Harry saw Malfoy crying in the bathroom, with no one but Moaning Myrtle by his side. They hadn't seen his white, petrified face at the top of the Astronomy Tower, his wand hand shaking and eventually dropping. They hadn't witnessed that same petrified face when Voldemort forced him to torture people. They hadn't looked straight into Malfoy's eyes at the Manor, seeing the spark of recognition there before he announced dully that he couldn't be sure.
But Harry knew. He knew Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater, the schoolyard bully, the scared, clever, and proud coward who was just human, too young, and Harry remembered countless nights spent struggling over what that all meant, what he was supposed to do. All he could do, at the time, was to make sure that the man he knew so well did not waste away in Azkaban.
Harry didn't know how to explain all this to Hermione. Instead, he said, "I just want to see him."
Hermione gave him a look. "And tell him what?" she said. "That you've been obliviated? Do you really trust Draco not to take that to the press?"
"Do you?"
Hermione held his gaze for a second. Sighing, she looked away. "He wouldn't," she said. "Not because of any moral integrity," she added with a bitter smile. "But because he's a Malfoy. No one would believe him, and he knows that. It would just backfire on him horribly."
"There you go then," said Harry, perking up. "Completely safe."
"But I still don't understand why, Harry." Hermione looked at him, the firelight doing nothing to soften the shrewdness in her eyes. "You said it yourself, there's no love lost between you two. Is it for his memories? Why his, specifically? Why now?"
Harry shifted in his seat. He felt distinctly like Hermione was trying to get at something, more than usual, even. He didn't like it.
"Does it matter?" he said. "I feel like I should. I think that's reason enough, at this point."
Hermione sighed. "It's not even been a week, Harry."
"It's been long enough."
"You could have asked us, you know," said Hermione. "Whether we have memories of you and him."
"But it wouldn't be the same," said Harry. "You can't honestly say you were there for everything, can you?"
Hermione just stared at him for a second. Then suddenly, she snorted. "All right," she said. "I can't say we weren't there for everything…"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Sod off," he said. He sighed, leaning back in the couch. It felt incredibly odd, discussing all this, not just his past with Malfoy – and Merlin, was that odd enough – but his past in general. He felt disconnected from it, like he was listening to a story that had happened to someone else. He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing again. He glanced at Hermione.
"How long did we go out for, anyway? Me and –" He paused, making a face. "– Malfoy?"
"About a year, I think," said Hermione. "You broke it off a few months after Hogwarts."
"Do you know why?" he said.
Hermione played with her ring, biting her lip. "It…was a lot of things, from what I gathered. I'm not really sure, actually. You didn't like to talk about it much."
Harry snorted, smiling grimly. "I just can't believe it," he said. "Me getting so hung up over Malfoy, of all people."
"Really?" said Hermione. She scoffed. "What was that all about then, in sixth year?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."
"No, I don't actually."
"I know I got a bit obsessed with him," said Harry. He sat up. "But it was with good reason! I suspected he was up to something, and I was right, wasn't I?"
Hermione looked almost pitying. "Harry," she said. "Ron used to catch you muttering his name in your sleep."
Harry felt himself redden. "That's – so what? He was on my mind. He was clearly up to something. Just because you and Ron wouldn't believe me doesn't mean what I did was – was weird, or something."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, almost smirking.
Harry looked back at her, feeling partly amused and partly irritated. "Hermione," he said. "He brought Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He tried to Crucio me. He broke my bloody nose."
"You used that awful Prince spell," said Hermione, her forehead crinkling.
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but suddenly, the blood seemed to drain out of him. He thought of Hogwarts. "You dare use my own spells against me, Potter?" he heard. "I, the Half-Blood Prince!" Quickly, this image of rage morphed to a chalk-white face, serious and unreadable, even in death.
"Look…at…me."
Harry took a startled breath.
"Harry?" said Hermione. She placed a steady hand on his arm.
He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have mentioned your fight with Draco –"
"No," said Harry. "It's not that – it's just –" He opened his eyes, sighing. "It's fine."
Hermione tugged at his arm, making him face her. Harry did, but only reluctantly. "Harry," she said. "You know I'm here for you, right? Ron and I both. If you need help with anything – and I mean anything, Harry – just tell us. Please."
How about the truth? Harry thought bitterly. But Harry looked at Hermione, her firelit skin, familiar brown eyes and bushy hair.
"Thanks, Hermione," he said, smiling.
Hermione sighed in relief, smiling too. "Of course, Harry," she said. She leaned back in the sofa.
Harry leaned with her, trying not to think of Malfoy, of Snape, of his past, present or future. He closed his eyes, and he tried not to think of anything.
The castle was busy tonight. Ghosts, professors, prefects, Filch, Peeves, and other rule-breaking students; everyone was out this night, as they had been every other night. Harry had to be careful, more so than usual. It wasn't very difficult for him, comparatively, what with his map and cloak. A number of those prefects and a few professors would probably give him a pass anyway, even if he did get caught. It was just irritating, even that leniency. Bitter against the back of his teeth.
He walked slowly down a corridor, ignoring the complaints he could hear coming from just behind a tapestry. Another unsuspecting pair caught by a prefect, it sounded like.
Harry understood, of course, the reason behind all this extra security. It was still the first week of school. Everyone was on-edge, ready for the precarious peace after the war to shatter at any given moment. Everyone was ready for bad news, a new death, an escaped Death Eater, maybe even a new Dark Lord rising from the ashes. Ever since Harry last left Hogwarts that exhausting, summer day, this uncertainty had been running as an undercurrent throughout all the celebrations. All the funerals and trials.
When the good news spread, that Hogwarts would be reopening just a year after the war, the wizarding world seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, everyone thought, things were going back to normal.
And it had, in a way. The Hogwarts Express, the trolley, the achingly familiar skyline, the Sorting Ceremony and start-of-term banquet. Everything was as it had been.
And yet, the stares were different. Harry was used to the staring, of course. Good stares, bad stares. Mostly bad. But after the war, staring took on a whole new level of meaning. No matter where Harry went, avid eyeballs burned through him, their owners dropping whatever they were doing just to look at him, openmouthed, or rush towards him, openmouthed. People wanted to talk to him, thank him, ask for autographs, pictures, a piece of his hair, clothing, saliva, anything. They pushed gifts on him, pushed themselves on him, and more than once someone was sent to St. Mungo's after trying to get to him. Twice, because he'd hexed them.
This madness was attention of a whole new world of embarrassment and irritation. Ron and Hermione had their share as well, much to their amazement and eventual annoyance. "Don't know how you deal with it, mate," Ron had said with a very put-upon sigh. He was still hovering somewhere between amazement and annoyance, which, Harry thought, was not likely to change anytime soon.
And the anxiety was still there. It might've abated somewhat with Hogwarts finally being restored, but it didn't fix everything. The Wizarding community was still edgy, still mourning, still picking up the pieces. Still celebrating, as well, but also waiting. Dumbledore once said that evil could never be completely eradicated, only kept at bay, and everyone seemed to agree. Harry just hoped that everyone was wrong on this count; that whatever it was they were waiting for, it would be good.
Anyway, this was how he dealt with everything now. With his cloak and map, ghosting between hidden corridors and avoiding people at all costs.
Harry dodged the Bloody Baron, not liking the way he stopped in the middle of the corridor, seeming to look straight at him. He spared a glance back at the chilling, silvery figure, which eventually started to move forward as if through some silent command. It was eerie, knowing now why he wore those chains. Why he was so bloody. Harry felt like an invader in the man's – ghost's – private suffering. Sometimes he felt like he should say something, maybe just to let him know that he knew, but the Bloody Baron never exactly invited conversation.
Shaking his head, Harry moved on.
Past a hidden doorway, past Peeves arguing with a furious Filch, past creaking armor, past whispering portraits, past two students hidden in an alcove and up the spiraling staircase.
Here, it was quiet, like it always was. It wasn't struggling to catch up on subjects he hadn't given a rat's arse about for the last two years. It wasn't listening to Hermione try to plan her – and his and Ron's – futures with highlighted notes and lengthy arguments. It wasn't trying to dodge insane students or lying awake in the middle of the night, scared to dream.
It was quiet. Empty quiet and his increasingly labored breathing, the grey staircases punctuated every several steps by white moonlight, streaming in through the windows. Even he thought it odd that this place, of all places, would end up being his place of calm. But maybe it wasn't so odd. After all, he had never felt more at peace than in death, and the Astronomy Tower felt most connected, somehow, to that place with Dumbledore, at the end of all things.
Maybe that was morbid of him. Hermione, certainly, would be alarmed to hear that was why he'd been coming here the last few nights. But he wasn't planning on letting her know, or anyone else for that matter.
Harry finally reached the top of the stairs. He reveled in the sharp burst of crisp, fresh air. And then he froze.
A familiar shock of blond hair, combined with an entirely unfamiliar set of silver-grey pyjamas. He almost shimmered in the flood of moonlight, angelic with a spark of danger, that spark coming from the way he stood on the very edge of a wide opening. A fallen angel, or the image of one who was just about to be.
Harry didn't think.
"Accio Draco Malfoy!" he cried, his cloak slipping off.
Harry had a split second to take in Malfoy's shocked face before he suddenly crashed into him. They tumbled down the spiraling staircase with yelps and curses, Harry desperately holding on as he tried not to bite his tongue off.
Several seconds and many bruises later, they slammed down onto a landing, the back of Harry's head cracking on the stone, Malfoy possibly cracking his ribs. It took a few moments for Harry to register anything outside of pain and a ringing in his ears. After that, however, he dimly registered the fact that Malfoy was struggling against something. Then he realized that something was his vice-like grip.
Harry quickly let go. Malfoy immediately sprung up, and then yelped before crumpling back down to the floor.
"Fuck!" he said, holding his ankle. He shot a furious look at Harry. "What the bloody fuck did you do to me, Potter?!"
Harry felt a pang of guilt for Malfoy's ankle. And then it passed. "Well, you were the one standing on the edge of the Tower!" he said. "What was I supposed to do?"
"You were supposed to exercise some common sense! I'm not a child, for Merlin's sake, I can handle standing on the edge of the –"
Malfoy broke off, paling.
"No," he said. "No. You thought –"
Malfoy looked at Harry like he was insane, though he hadn't said anything. He laughed, like he was the crazy one. Which Harry thought might not be far off the case.
"I wasn't about to off myself, you stupid wanker! You really think after everything that I would – that I would ever –"
Malfoy broke off. Grimacing, he shook his head, like an angry dog shaking off a fly. "Fuck you, Potter. Go take your overblown ego and pugnacious wand over to someplace where it's actually wanted and leave me alone."
Harry blinked, filled with an odd mix of relief and renewed irritation. "Pugnacious?" he said.
"On second thought, go find yourself a dictionary." Malfoy looked away from Harry and poked at his ankle with a harsh breath. "Learning something useful for once won't kill you. Not even the sodding Dark Lord could do that."
Harry looked at Malfoy, sitting there in his fancy pyjamas and grimacing over his broken ankle. He felt an insane desire to laugh.
"Sorry that I, er, misunderstood," said Harry, pushing down this sudden urge. "But I was only trying to help. How was I supposed to know you only wanted to, what, appreciate the view? What were you doing, anyway?"
"It's no business of yours what I was doing."
"It is my business if it looks like you're about to jump off the tower."
"So you can be the first to break open a bottle of firewhiskey and dance over my broken corpse?" said Malfoy. He scoffed as he took out his wand, pointing it at his ankle.
"You should let Madame Pomfrey look at that –" said Harry quickly, deciding to ignore Malfoy's comment for now, but Malfoy ignored him as well. He performed a wordless spell that repositioned his ankle with a sickening crunch. He breathed in sharply, his eyes fluttering shut as his face twisted with pain.
"Malfoy?" said Harry quietly.
"Fuck off, Potter," said Malfoy, just as quietly.
"If you need to go to the hospital wing –"
"No. Just go away."
"I can't just –"
"Yes, you can."
"No, Malfoy, I can't."
"You can."
"I can't."
"You can!"
"I won't!"
"For fuck's sake, Potter!" Malfoy's grey eyes shot back open and glared at Harry. "I don't need your bloody help!"
Harry felt blood boiling in him with something close to nostalgia. He missed this, he thought with a rush. Being able to lose his temper like this, to be someone other than the Boy Who Lived (Again) or the Chosen One or the Saviour of the Wizarding World. He didn't have to smile and just take it all as it came, he didn't have to plan for the future and pretend the past didn't haunt him every night. He could just be Harry again. And right now, being Harry felt kind of wonderful.
Pushing aside this sudden realization, he hurriedly responded to Malfoy. "So I'm to assume then," he said, "that you actually want to sit here in pain with a half-mended ankle?"
"I can fix it!" Malfoy spat. "I just need some sodding peace and quiet, which you're not exactly helping with. Also fuck you, you're the arsehole who broke it in the first place!"
"I didn't mean to!" said Harry. "And I said I'm sorry, didn't I?"
"Oh yes, now I feel right peachy, Potter, thank you," Malfoy drawled. "Now will you kindly fuck off?"
Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Merlin, Malfoy, I'm trying to help you!"
"Did you miss the part when I said I didn't need it?"
"I'm serious," said Harry, gritting his teeth. "You know how bad it could get if your healing spell goes wrong." Harry certainly knew. It had been nearly seven years since second year, but he would never forget the pain of Skele-gro.
"You want to talk about dangerous spells?" said Malfoy. "There's a reason why you don't Accio people, or did Granger forget to tell you that bit when she held your hand through O. ? I thought I was going to die!"
"It was an emergency," said Harry, curling his hands into fists.
"Yes, of course, you did it to save me, did you? Why don't you come over here and let me thank you properly."
"I wasn't thinking, all right?" said Harry, sighing. "Now are you going to get a professional to look at your ankle or what?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I am a professional."
"Got your healing license then?" said Harry. "Malfoy, stop being a prat and just go along with me for once."
"No, I will not 'go along with you'," said Malfoy, as if Harry had suggested he strip naked and walk into the Forbidden Forest. "The rest of the world may worship the ground you walk on, but I'll join our dear old headmaster before that ever happens, thanks."
Harry exhaled sharply. "You're a right git, you know that?" he said. Then he raised his wand. "Malfoy, come with me to the hospital wing or I'll stun you and make you come with me."
Malfoy blanched, which Harry took in with a small feeling of satisfaction.
"You wouldn't," he said.
"Watch me."
"Potter," said Malfoy, licking his lips. "I really can mend this. I've done it before, and I've dealt with far worse besides. It'll only take a few minutes. If you can be patient for once in your life, you can watch me do it, and then you can go off to do whatever you were doing before assaulting me. Alright?"
Harry felt like he would internally combust if he agreed to anything Malfoy said. On the other hand, he really didn't want to drag him over to the hospital wing and try to explain this to Madam Pomfrey at four in the morning.
And then the absurdity of it all hit him. Here they were, Harry Potter and Draco bloody Malfoy, sitting on the stairwell of the Astronomy Tower in their nighties at four in the morning, arguing about the best way to heal the latter. Harry wished, for a moment, that he was wearing something other than his flannel pyjama bottoms and his washed-out Chudley Cannons t-shirt. And then he remembered that this was Malfoy, and he had bigger things to worry about than his poor wardrobe choice.
Honestly, if Malfoy screwed up his healing spell, the worst that'd happen was Harry would have to drag the git over to the hospital wing anyway. And in that case, Harry would get to say "I told you so" to Draco Malfoy, of all people. And if he was being honest with himself, he was just a bit curious to see if the prat could actually pull it off.
Not trusting himself to speak, Harry gave a quick nod of his head. Malfoy visibly relaxed.
"All right," he said, softly. His gaze slid off Harry and back to his ankle, and this made Harry relax a little too. He tensed again when Malfoy lifted his wand, but it never went anywhere near Harry. Malfoy waved his wand in complex patterns, never making a sound, and it didn't even take a full minute before Harry heard him sigh in relief, his wand back by his side.
Harry spared a glance at the ankle. It looked good as new.
"When did you become so good at healing spells, Malfoy?" said Harry, unable to help himself.
Malfoy stood up, brushing himself off as Harry scrambled up too.
"I've always been good at them," he said.
Harry frowned. "No, you haven't," he said. "What about third year?"
"What about third year?"
Harry crossed his arms, glaring. "That whole thing with Buckbeak! Don't tell me you don't remember. You were complaining about your arm for weeks."
Malfoy laughed, the moonlight from a nearby window just illuminating his bitter smile. "Oh, Potter," he said. "Didn't know you cared."
Harry felt his blood boiling again. "What I cared about was how your arse of a father tried to murder Buckbeak all because you were too stupid to pay attention in class!"
Malfoy's already pale face completely drained of color. "Don't you dare talk about my father, Potter," he said.
"I'll talk about him all I want, Malfoy," said Harry. He stepped as close as he could on the narrow staircase. "He's Death Eater scum, locked up in Azkaban with the rest of them for good this time because he deserves it."
"Like me?" said Malfoy. He had backed up into the wall. It masked his face in shadows, but Harry could still hear his shallow breaths. "I was Death Eater scum too, in case you've forgotten. Is that what this is all about? Come to tell me you've changed your mind?" He scoffed, but Harry heard his breath hitch. "The Chosen One wants me in Azkaban after all?"
Harry took a step back, shocked. "No," he said. "Of course not."
Malfoy let out a small sigh, audible in the dead quiet. Harry felt it hit his face. He smelled like lemons.
"Fine," said Malfoy, as if they'd just settled something.
Harry blinked. "Er, yeah."
They stood like that for a few awkward moments. Harry cleared his throat. "So, uh, you're really not going to the hospital wing?" he said.
"What?" Malfoy snapped.
Merlin, did he have to react like that every single time? Harry sighed. "Your ankle," he said. "I know you healed it, but it wouldn't hurt to have Madam Pomfrey take a look at it as well."
Malfoy looked at him flatly. "It's healed," he said.
"I know," said Harry. "But I'm saying it wouldn't hurt –"
"It would hurt, actually," Malfoy sneered. "I would go there, looking like I'd just been in a fight, claiming I had a broken ankle, which isn't actually broken anymore, and no doubt you'd find a way to wriggle yourself into the situation, so then in no time at all, rumours would be flying that I'd gotten into a fight with the Saviour of the Wizarding World and then I'd get a letter from the Ministry informing me that I'd broken the conditions of my probation, and then next thing I know I'm being carted off to Azkaban." Malfoy's voice grew sharper and sharper, until suddenly he paused. He crossed his arms and continued again in a drawl.
"Not to mention the fact that I'd be pulling Madam Pomfrey away from other patients who actually have injuries, and Merlin forbid anyone has to suffer the consequences of their own stupidity even for a second. So no, Potter, I will not be going to the hospital wing."
"I –" Harry started. His mind was racing. Malfoy was on probation? What were its conditions? He shook his head. "Merlin, Malfoy, that would never happen."
"Wouldn't it?" said Malfoy darkly. "You're the only reason I'm not in Azkaban right this second."
Harry frowned. "No, I'm not," he said. "I might have testified for you, but there were other factors. You were a child when it all happened, for one."
Malfoy snorted, rolling his grey eyes. "You're the great Saviour, Potter. You really think anyone would have voted against you?"
"Some people would have," said Harry, but he could tell how weak that sounded even to his own ears. Malfoy snorted.
Harry sighed, sharply. "That doesn't matter, does it? The point is, you don't deserve to be in Azkaban. And you're not."
"What do you know about what I deserve, Potter?" said Malfoy, his eyes glinting in the dark. "You don't know anything about me. About what I've done."
"Weren't you listening to me at your trial?" said Harry. He shifted, looking off to the side. "I know. Probably more than you ever expected me to know."
"If you really knew you wouldn't have been there at all."
"Are we really going to do this?" said Harry. He looked back at Malfoy. "It's four in the bloody morning."
"You're the one who barged in on me." Malfoy stepped back into the moonlight. He was scowling. "Literally. I didn't ask for this."
"Yeah, well, neither did I."
"Then leave me alone, already. No one's making you stay."
"I –" Harry started. He frowned. "Why do I have to leave? Why can't you leave?"
Malfoy scoffed. "Really, Potter? Are you five?"
"I'm just saying you don't own the place, Malfoy," said Harry, scowling too. "You can't tell me to leave just because you don't want me here."
"Same goes to you, Potty."
Harry ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "I just want some peace and quiet, Malfoy. Is that so much to ask?"
"Apparently, yes."
"Malfoy," Harry growled.
Malfoy crossed his arms, glaring. "I'm not going anywhere, Potter."
They stared down for several seconds, neither one moving. Malfoy's pointy face, set in grim, scowling lines, looked incredibly odd with his silky pyjamas. It made staying angry a little difficult.
Harry sighed.
"Fine," he said, leaning back. Malfoy looked triumphant for a split second, until Harry sat down on the landing, his back against the wall. "Then I'm not going anywhere either."
He looked up at Malfoy, trying not to look smug. Really, this was all ridiculous and Harry had no reason to feel smug. But the look on Malfoy's face was priceless.
"What?" he said.
"I'm not going anywhere," said Harry, smiling this time. "I'm not leaving. I'm staying right here."
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
Malfoy seemed to war with himself for a second, but then his stubbornness won out. He sat down too, much to Harry's dismay.
"I'm still not leaving," said Malfoy, leaning against the opposite wall.
Harry glared. "Me neither."
They lapsed into silence like that, sitting across from one another. This was completely ridiculous, Harry thought again, and he imagined for a second what Ron would say if he found out about all this. He snorted a little. This earned him a curious glance from Malfoy, which he ignored.
Ron would be horrified, sympathetic, and amused all at the same time. Trust Harry to get into a battle of wills with Draco bloody Malfoy in the dead of night. Or morning? Hermione would be disappointed in him, of course. He had testified for Malfoy in his trial, after all, but that didn't mean he had to be friendly, did it? Anyway, he'd tried. He had saved his bloody life again (even though it didn't strictly need saving this time) and he'd offered to help Malfoy to the hospital wing. Malfoy was the one who had to act like a right git and take everything he did as a bloody insult.
Honestly, he was the reason they couldn't get along. Not Harry.
Harry looked out the window, glad that he chose the side with the best view. He couldn't see much at this angle, just the occasional bird and the twinkling night sky, but it was better than staring at stone walls.
Apparently, Malfoy didn't like looking at the walls either. Instead, he was looking at Harry.
Harry tolerated this for several minutes until he couldn't take it anymore.
"What?" he said, looking at Malfoy. It was hard to see him in the shadows, which wasn't fair, but Harry squinted as best he could.
Malfoy seemed startled. "What?" he said.
"What do you keep looking at me for?"
"Well, there's not much else to look at, is there?" Malfoy snapped.
Harry struggled with this for a few seconds, but then he gave up. He gestured to Malfoy. "Come on this side then," he said.
"I think not." Harry didn't have to see him to know he was sneering.
"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "If you'd rather stare at me all night, then go right ahead."
A beat fell between them. Then Malfoy got up, his face carefully blank. He stepped forward, kicked Harry in the leg, and then sat down next to him.
"Ow, you bloody prat!" said Harry, rubbing his shin furiously.
"Going to run and tattle on me then?" said Malfoy, looking out the window.
Harry glared, but couldn't think of a good answer. They fell silent again. Malfoy wasn't looking at him anymore, which was a relief, but Harry was all too aware of their sudden proximity. It was weird. This whole night aside, Harry and Malfoy, sitting side by side, not saying anything or even trying to kill each other was pretty much as weird as it got. They were just staring off at nothing, each lost in his own thoughts. Granted, it had been Harry's idea, but it was still weird.
It struck him that now, Harry knew what Malfoy slept in. And vice versa. Of course, Malfoy's nighties were posh as fuck, and that made him laugh a little. Malfoy sent him an irritated glance, as if he knew Harry was laughing at him. He didn't break the silence though, neither of them did.
They just sat together, without saying a word, without fighting. Each of them casting the occasional warming spell.
When dawn started creeping in through the window, it was like some sort of silent signal. They looked at each other. Harry gave a little shrug, too tired to say anything. Malfoy nodded, looking relieved. They started down the staircase together, still not saying anything, and when they reached the bottom, Malfoy stalked off in the direction of the dungeons without a word or a glance towards Harry.
Harry rolled his eyes, yawning. He headed off in the opposite direction, hoping he could manage a quick nap before breakfast.