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PART ONE
The Library
Harry was late. He should have been able to tell immediately, from the dormitory. It was brightly-lit, silent, and empty. But it had taken immeasurable time to pull himself into consciousness – at least, an operable level. He had drifted in-between states, tendrils of sleep clinging to him, lazily and suffocating. The familiar haze – of mad confusion, of certain danger, of a lingering threat beyond reach yet entirely present within and without him – choked him.
Nightmares engulfed him. They were an unfriendly familiar thing. Nowadays, they felt like an absent, yet entirely real threat, broiling him slowly, dragging a blade that no longer existed yet never left over his skin, through his mind. Ever-present. He was his own danger – he lived within the past, brought to life each night. The danger was gone, beyond him. Brought to life by him, of course, as his mind slowly tasted his fears and pains. An omnipresent, non-existent, entirely self-perpetuated thing. Harry had been, unknowingly and then untameably, revolving around and around himself for months. Stuck and spiralling.
The nightmares lingered for hours after; he lived within them, or rather they became without him. He saw, or imagined, the dark shadowy figures, piercing red eyes and blank dead faces cast over Hogwarts' halls and rooms. In morning hours, they seemed as present as the people around him.
Harry ran to Potions, and looped his tie around his neck as he threw upon the dungeon door.
"Sorry, Professor, must have slept in –" he said, flustered, fixing his tie in place. Slughorn looked up briefly, cut off from speaking, and frowned. A classroom of eyes turned to Harry.
"No problem, m'boy. Find a seat," said Slughorn, and continued a long-winded monologue.
Already entirely unfocused, Harry did not keep up. He peered around for a seat, intent on taking his usual one next to Hermione. He paused mid-step; it had been taken by a Ravenclaw, not entirely surprising considering how late he was. There was only one free seat – next to a very familiar blonde head.
Malfoy was the only Slytherin in the class, and the only person sitting alone. A familiar haunting image sparked to the forefront of his mind, a lone figure in the Great Hall. Harry opened and shut his mouth, furrowed his brows, stuck at the dungeon door, as if waiting for something. He remained unmoved. Slughorn paused again, mid-sentence, this time raising his eyebrows. "Harry, is there a problem?" he said.
Harry jolted. "No, sir. Sorry," he said stiffly.
As he approached the back table, Malfoy's gaze swivelled and locked on Harry. It was hard and unreadable. He froze for a moment, matching his gaze. Malfoy tensed when he took a seat.
"Alright, then," continued Slughorn. "Now that you all know the plans for the classes to come, you'll be happy to know you don't have to make these difficult potions on your own. Your permanent partner for this project will be who you're sitting next to. I don't want any switching around; you'll appreciate a more consistent, helpful partnership."
Harry glanced to his left at Malfoy from the corner of his eye. Malfoy didn't acknowledge him, remaining tense.
"All instructions for the first one are on the blackboard. Good luck!" said Slughorn jovially.
The class erupted into movement and talk. Neither Harry nor Malfoy moved – time stood still. Then, abruptly, Malfoy shot up and walked towards the storeroom for ingredients. Harry blinked.
When he returned, arms full, Malfoy went straight to work, slicing, crushing, pouring and measuring briskly. Unsure, Harry watched in silence – and in awe, if he could admit.
"Er, did you want me to –?" he asked hesitantly.
Malfoy seemed to ignore him, silent and efficient. The potion progressed – they remained stuck. Then, in a single movement he slid beetles and a knife to his right and pulled his arm back. Taking the hint, Harry began slicing them up.
By the time he was satisfied – though they were uneven sizes, to be fair – Harry tilted his head, assessing the messy constellation of glittery black shell, before shifting them to his left. In that time, Malfoy had completed another three steps. Malfoy kept at his work, eyes fixated down. Harry waited, counted three beats, and pondering if he was being ignored to infuriate or silence him. Finally, Malfoy looked over and raised an eyebrow at the beetles, apparently dissatisfied. Harry waited for the snide remark.
It didn't come. Malfoy merely did what he could – took the evenly sized ones and measured them. Harry frowned.
If there was one thing Harry felt sure was concrete, that would remain unchanged at Hogwarts, it was feuding between Malfoy and him. If there was something dependable, predictable, it had to be that. Was everything tainted? Had they both been so polluted, irredeemably lost in the castle's rubble? It tugged at something deep and unsettling in him, it shook some ring of comfort he could easily tread, a game he could play, a role he belonged to.
The air of discomfort swallowed him, and his whole body seemed to sigh. He felt empty, holed through. He watched Malfoy work, accepting resignation. He clearly wasn't needed – Malfoy worked quick and capably, the small details and intricacies of potion-making becoming a natural extension of his swift, graceful arm movements.
"Wow, you're good at this," Harry said, before he caught himself.
Malfoy hesitated, hands still, and – allowing once more for Harry to intrude his barred, private space – shifted his eyes to meet his. They were narrowed and suspicious. Razor-like, daring him. Harry didn't look away.
As Harry watched, the hard, closed stare shifted. Something was stirring underneath, behind the wintery grey. As if kicked up, his stormy eyes brewed, swirled like mounding clouds. Once provoked, it couldn't be wrestled down. There was an unexpected deep heaviness, layers upon layers of impulse and repression, bound together. The unbound mess was cut through by something surfacing, like vapour. Something transparent and light. Anticipation. They searched between Harry's, locking him in a direct gaze. His lips twitched.
"Almost believed you, Potter," he said, quietly.
Malfoy released the gaze, before they flitted back to his work. Harry watched a hardness return to his face, a familiar, stoic mask. The picture of stony indifference.
Harry's lips parted, then pressed together. It was only after Malfoy spoke again that he realised he'd been staring openly, unmoving.
"But of course I am." And Malfoy smirked slightly. The snobby note in his voice tugged at the corner of Harry's mouth. It settled something, it was far too familiar. Expected.
Harry did little for the rest of class, his mind elsewhere. Not deviating from a simple yet inexplicable moving image, playing repeatedly. A turbulent pool of cloudy grey. And the effort to contain it. He couldn't focus, no matter what tedious thing he tried to get his hands to do. Absently, Harry wondered why he was obsessively wound up. But even more so, he wondered what was stirring in Malfoy's eyes. Since when had Malfoy affected him this relentlessly?
A smaller voice answered.
He should have known. It showed in many, different ways over the past years. They had always been aware of each other.