Merge

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Chapter 1: Laying the Groundwork

"Alright, Potter, let's start with the basics," Malfoy ordered matter-of-factly not even five minutes into their first session. "I'm assuming you can, in fact, read – and thus follow a recipe – so the problem most likely is in the how, not the what, when or why."

Malfoy wrote his last sentence, words Professor Slughorn kept repeating like a mantra in each lesson, on the lab's blackboard with a slightly mocking bow and flamboyant flick of his wand, making Harry grin. He could just about picture Snape's reaction to Malfoy's theatrics.

"A fine display of foolish wand-waving, Malfoy," he quipped before his brain could engage his inner censor. Harry snickered when Malfoy faltered and did a classic double-take. "First lesson with Snape, remember?"

"Of course I do," Malfoy said softly, his eyes searching Harry's for any trace of mockery. Finding none, he quirked a small smile. "Unfortunately, while I'm good I can't teach you to … how did Sev always put it? 'Bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory' …"

"… and even put a stopper in death," Harry finished the quote alongside Malfoy, both their voices subdued with memories. "You still miss him, don't you." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Malfoy replied quietly. After a minute or so he slanted a glance at Harry. "Guess you don't."

"Actually, I do, too," Harry answered to Malfoy's surprise. "He did so much for me over the years, things I never knew … without him, I couldn't have defeated Voldemort. I just wish I could've thanked him just once."

Draco was dead certain there was a story he'd be dying to hear behind the simple statement, but he also knew that now wasn't the time to ask for it. *Maybe one day in the future, if we do manage to become friends through this …* Instead, he sent a sly wink towards his companion.

"If you had, he'd most likely have cut you to ribbons with his tongue," he said with somewhat forced lightness. "Sev wasn't the most … er, gracious person."

"I know," Harry muttered. "Trust me, if I've learned just one thing from Snape, it's that he and the so-called 'social graces' might as well speak different languages altogether where I was concerned," he added with a rueful little laugh.

"Good grief, Potter, are you insinuating that Professor Snape didn't like you?" Malfoy mock-gasped.

"Yes. Shocking, isn't it?" Harry grinned, finding his emotional balance again as the memories and the inevitable regret receded. "Next thing you'll know, I'll be accusing him of blatant favoritism towards Slytherins, and having an irrational, unjustified grudge against Gryffindors in general and me in particular."

Malfoy was eyeing him with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. "Tell me, Potter, did Granger teach you all those big words?"

"No, you pillock, I picked them up when nobody was looking," Harry snorted. Eighteen months ago, he would've had trouble keeping his temper in check; today, he could appreciate the snark for what it was – a Malfoyese almost-compliment that was actually somewhat funny. *If one doesn't mind having the mickey taken out of oneself,* he admitted to himself.

Unfortunately, the brief flash of humour had to pass eventually, and Malfoy was the first to recover.

"Anyway. Back to the matter at hand – namely, whether you're indeed having problems with how rather than what, when and/or why," he said briskly after clearing his throat.

"That's what Professor Slughorn thinks, I guess," Harry muttered glumly, slumping in his seat. "Only, I really don't see …"

"It doesn't matter what you see or don't see, Potter," Malfoy interrupted him, not wholly unkindly. "Or what my former Head of House thinks, either. I prefer to make my own evaluation of what you can or can't do so I can determine how to best help you, if you don't mind."

"That … is fair enough, I suppose," Harry sighed. In fact, it closely resembled the way Hermione had managed to get him and Ron through any number of exams since they were eleven. He could still remember the way she'd drilled him on the Summoning charm during the Triwizard Tournament, or how patiently she'd taught him the obscuring and defensive charms and spells they'd used to evade capture through most of last year. The only difference was, he'd trusted Hermione not to lead him wrong. The tentative truce between him and Malfoy was still too new for Harry to be wholly comfortable about accepting instruction from his former enemy. Malfoy might try to stay objective, but Harry knew the other boy well enough to sense that he was rather pleased with the situation in general – and that there was most likely some kind of reward in it for Malfoy.

*I … I don't really care, as long as my Potions grade goes up,* Harry realized. *At least he isn't as insufferably smug about it anymore, like he used to be!*

The thought was strangely cheerful, but before Harry could analyze the unusual feeling, he was jerked back to his surroundings by an impatient "Some time this century, Potter?" He glared at Malfoy just on principle, but resignedly took out his book, parchment and quill before lining up his set of cutting knives, scales and cauldron.

"Ready when you are."

"Potter, where Potions are concerned I was born ready. You, however…"

And they were off again, sniping at each other with nearly every word.

In other words, business as usual.

00xXx00

Two sessions later (in which they'd managed to cover an astonishing amount of material despite the constant barrage of quips, putdowns and trading of insults, much to Harry's surprise), the former Slytherin had seen and heard enough.

"I don't get it, Potter," Malfoy said flatly as he closed his copy of NEWT-Level Potions with a snap. "Both you and Slughorn were right – you have a reasonable, if not exactly stellar, grasp of Potions theory, you are capable of following directions without excessive prompting – even though you're unlikely to ever brew most potions without a recipe to go by – and yet you manage to screw up anything more complicated than Pepper-Up over half the time." He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, losing the somewhat pompous attitude. "Really, you should be doing much better by now. What's wrong?"

Harry glanced at the other boy, decided that the look in the grey eyes held more puzzlement and curiosity than disdain, and shrugged.

"I thought you were sent here by Slughorn to find out and tell me," he grumped.

"No, I'm here to point out all of your shortcomings, not just the obvious ones," Malfoy deadpanned while raking his eyes up and down Harry's body.

For a second, Harry bristled at what seemed to be a mocking reference to his stature, but reason reasserted itself almost right away. There was nothing wrong with being of average height, after all, and compared to Malfoy's (and Ron's) six-foot-plus, almost everyone in the school looked like a runt. Then he caught the barely-visible wink the Slytherin sent him and had to grin despite himself. Ever since their first session, mouthing off at Malfoy had become almost a game – for both of them. Malfoy rarely took offense and merely retaliated in kind – which had made Remedial Potions into a rather enjoyable experience for Harry, especially as he knew he was learning at the same time.

Not that he'd ever admit as much to anyone, of course. Least of all Malfoy!

But it was an unexpected bonus for Harry that he was suddenly able to practice a new skill he'd been desperate to pick up – witty repartee. The one thing Malfoy had been much better prepared for and schooled in than him, even at age eleven.

*I'm catching up, though. I know I am!*

After the Final Battle, throughout the period of near-constant funerals, Harry and Hermione had stayed at the Burrow, grieving with the Weasleys and taking comfort from each other's company. But Hermione had been itching to retrieve her parents from Australia (or at least to restore their memories), Ron wasn't going to let her go on her own, and Harry had realized that he needed time by himself to come to terms with a lot of things. So the trio had left Ottery St. Catchpole after Harry's eighteenth birthday, Ron and Hermione in search of the Grangers, and Harry to London.

Harry needed a place to stay, and he'd decided at one point that he wasn't going to ignore Sirius' legacy … but the pain of having lost his Godfather was still too fresh now that he had time to grieve properly. Thus, living at 12 Grimmauld Place was out of the question. For the time being, Harry just couldn't face the house and all its memories. After thinking it over, he decided that maybe after he'd finished school and the house had been given a thorough renovation and magical cleansing he might want to move there eventually. A casual inquiry to Arthur and Bill Weasly had shown that as a feasible option, more so since money was not really an of legal age in the Muggle world now as well, it was no problem to set up a regular bank account through Gringotts, credit card and all, and after a week or so in a room at the Leaky Cauldron found private lodgings in Shepherd's Bush. He was close enough to Charing Cross Road – and thus Diagon Alley – via the Tube, but far away enough that the Wizarding media couldn't hound him. So he attended the Death Eater trials at the Ministry when he was needed, and explored all that London had to offer to a wealthy young man at all other times. In the evenings, or when he didn't feel like going out, he'd taken to watching television, for the first time in his life without any restrictions.

That was when Harry discovered and fell irrevocably in love with classic British comedy.

Blackadder. Fawlty Towers. Monty Python. All that was witty, intelligent and hilariously funny. He caught a rerun here and there at first, and when he mentioned to his landlady that there wasn't enough of it on the box to satisfy his newfound interest, she just laughed, told him to get a VCR and register with a video rental service. Which he did, and he'd been in heaven ever since. The Holy Grail saw him through the sleepless nights when he would have otherwise been wallowing in guilt over the deaths of Fred, Remus and Tonks; The Life of Brian saved his sanity when nightmares of walking to his death in the Forbidden Forest would otherwise have had him cowering under his blankets.

Billy Connolly, Eddie Izzard and Lenny Henrytaught Harry to appreciate the art of innuendo, irony, sarcasm and subtle provocation. Apart from rarely letting him watch TV at all, the Dursleys had never watched anything on TV that would've challenged them intellectually like these comedians did – or the way that they would mock and set conventions on their collective ears. It just didn't fit their notion of what was 'normal'.

The comedians also taught Harry it was okay to talk back – even to someone older, someone in authority.

Knowing when to keep his mouth shut and not smart-mouth whoever was hacking him off had been a hard lesson to learn for Harry, but necessity, as always, was a good taskmaster. It had enabled him to keep the peace while he was forced to stay with his relatives, to stand up under Rita Skeeter's slandering, swallow the worst of Snape's taunts and ultimately be Dumbledore's perfect pawn, but now he was past all that at last, accountable only to his own conscience … and Harry reveled in a freedom he'd never had before.

Unfortunately, he soon found out that his newfound appreciation of sarcasm and often off-colour or dark humour wasn't shared by his friends. Ron lacked most of the references, and while he was by no means stupid, he wasn't skilled at quick repartee. As liberal as Hermione was in most things, she could be too quick to take offense at what wasn't one-hundred percent politically correct, and – truth be told – she also was a bit of a prude. Ginny preferred the more slapstick-y pranks her brothers excelled at, whereas Neville was just a tad too traditional and too easily-hurt by a biting quip, although he'd see the humour if one took time to reassure him it wasn't meant personally. And Luna … Luna 'got it', he could see, but rather than respond in kind would just smile that maddeningly serene smile of hers and tell him she liked seeing him happy and beginning to enjoy life again.

Harry still loved his friends dearly and didn't hold it against them, but he was delighted to discover that Malfoy, always a master at verbal sparring, now strove to tone down the cutting edge of his comments and managed to make them genuinely funny. Even if he was still poking fun at Harry most of the time.

In the past, Harry had had no concept or experience of responding in kind; instead he would've been goaded into retaliating with crude insults, his fists or a quick hex. Now he welcomed the challenge to hone his own repartee with a willing, intelligent partner.

"Bloody prat," Harry murmured for form's sake.

"Draco Malfoy, at your service," replied Hogwarts' undisputed Master of Snark with a mockingly-elaborate bow. Harry bit his lip to hold back his laughter; that'd mean a tacit admission Malfoy had won.

"Oh, shut it, you."

This rather feeble riposte won him the first raised eyebrow of the day.

*When the hell did I start keeping score of Malfoy's expressions?* Harry wondered briefly even as he was distracted by Malfoy's growing smirk.

"That's lame, Potter, even by your admittedly pathetic standards."

Harry blew him a raspberry.

"My point exactly," the Slytherin sniffed, then switched gears without preamble. "Come on, Potter, you outperformed us all in sixth year, even Granger and myself – yet now you're almost as hopeless as Longbottom."

*Was that almost a compliment?* a part of Harry's brain – the one that had begun to notice every tiny detail of Malfoy's actions, comments and looks, at entirely inappropriate (in Harry's opinion) moments – piped up. He overrode it with the ease of someone who was getting lots of practice at this kind of thing. *Nah.*

" You can't have forgotten everything while you were out on your countryside ramble with Granger and Weasley," Malfoy complained without giving Harry a chance to reply. "Didn't you pack at least one book that would've helped you to keep up with your schoolwork?"

"Actually, Hermione did," Harry said dryly. "Including 'Hogwarts: A History', if you must camping out away from almost all civilization for a whole year doesn't exactly lend itself to studying potions. Moreover, I was kind of distracted by this whole having-to-defeat-Voldemort thing, in case you've forgotten."

Malfoy blanched, then flushed almost painfully hard. "Oh. That." An embarrassed silence threatened to swallow them, but Malfoy quickly recovered his usual aplomb and cleared his throat. "I suppose that may be counted as a valid excuse, then."

"Gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Trust me, I won't." This was one topic, Harry knew, that they would have to talk about eventually, no matter what they ended up being – simply former schoolmates, friends or perhaps more, if Harry's as-of-now still rather vague dreams should ever take solid form. But now was not the time, he reminded himself sternly, and brought the conversation back on topic with a slightly strained grin. "Besides, I haven't blown up a cauldron since before we took our OWLs."

Malfoy silently acknowledged the change in topic with a minuscule nod and a skeptically-raised eyebrow regarding Harry's last statement. *That's two,* Harry noted automatically, then gave himself a mental kick. *Dammit, Potter, STOP THIS!*

"At least not unless someone deliberately sabotaged my potion," he managed to add, giving the other young man a slightly challenging look.

"Yeah, well," Malfoy muttered, colouring up again as he turned halfway aside in obvious chagrin, busying himself with his quill and parchment. "It, um, kind of was expected. What with you being a Gryffindork, me being a Slytherin and all."

*More like me being the Dark Wanker's mortal enemy and you his main financier's son,* Harry translated, briefly flashing back to the revelations Lucius had made under Veritaserum at his trial. The Malfoy patriarch had committed his share of crimes as a Death Eater, but to a lot of people's surprise had stopped just short of outright murder, preferring to support his master in ways more suitable to his aristocratic standing. Which didn't get him out of a lengthy prison sentence or raised the Wizarding world's opinion of him, but was much easier to bear for his wife and son.

Harry harrumphed and let it drop; instead he just sent a medium-strength glare in Malfoy's direction. "Git."

The blond muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "pot, meet cauldron," but it was said softly enough that Harry could pretend he hadn't heard. Instead, he pushed his own textbook aside as well.

"So what do you suggest we try next?" Harry asked with a marked lack of enthusiasm. Bantering regularly with Malfoy might be fun, but he still hated Potions.

Malfoy chewed on a corner of his bottom lip as he considered the problem. The patch of pale-pink skin plumped up and deepened in colour to a rich rosy-red, and Harry had to exert every ounce of control at his disposal when he realized how fascinated he was by the sight. Embarrassed, he quickly bent down to his bag and rummaged aimlessly within. *Why did I choose Malfoy over Hermione again? And why the hell must I notice these things anyhow, especially now when I'm not even sure yet I want to notice these things about Malfoy? Or any other bloke, really?* He had no answer, but he knew he couldn't stay hunched over indefinitely. Grabbing a random piece of parchment from the bottom of his bag, he straightened up again, grateful that the small exertion would explain his heightened colour and was able to meet Malfoy's quizzical look with apparent innocence.

"Well? Have any major revelations yet?"

Malfoy sighed. "Not really." He unexpectedly rotated his neck and shoulders, loosening muscles grown stiff from sitting at ancient wooden desks all day that were just a bit too uncomfortable for his tall frame. Losing a goodly percentage of his usual near-perfect posture made Malfoy look much more approachable, and Harry couldn't help the slight surge of pleasure coursing through him as he listened to the other boy's suggestion. "I think I'll let you brew a potion all by yourself tomorrow, and will simply watch your technique from preparation to finish. Maybe that will give us a clue."

Harry slumped in his seat. It wouldn't be as bad as Snape's looming scrutiny, but he knew that he tended to get fidgety if anyone watched him too closely. Adding to that the awareness he was developing about everything Malfoy, and Harry was starting to suspect he just might be pretty much screwed.

0o0xXx0o0

The next day, the boys met again in their usual small potions lab after classes. As soon as their cauldrons were set up, Malfoy pressed a list of ingredients into Harry's hand and shooed him towards the supply cabinet.

"Here, you collect these; I'll get the rest from Slughorn's office."

"What rest?" Harry yelped after a quick glance at the parchment. "Merlin, Malfoy, there's already more than a dozen items on here!"

"Yes, and we'll need them all. We – or rather, you – are going to brew an Influenza Unguent."

"An Ung the what now?"

Malfoy's grin was positively unholy. "Influenza Unguent," he repeated slowly, pronouncing every syllable with deliberate exaggeration. Harry felt like an idiot. But he was given no time to react as Malfoy rambled on with the superior air Harry was used to from nearly seven years of enmity. "Basically, it's a salve that cures most symptoms of full-blown influenza, as opposed to Pepper-Up, which is a potion that was developed to ease general lethargy and was later discovered to also cure most symptoms of the common cold. The Unguent is recommended for use on children, the elderly and generally for patients who are too feeble to cope with Pepper-Up's side effects. It also uses ingredients that require the widest spectrum of techniques, from simple grinding to stirring. Which makes it perfect for me to observe your skills."

*That … makes sense, actually. Still, bugger!* Harry huffed resignedly and picked up one of the small baskets at the bottom of the cabinet to put his ingredients in. Thankfully Slughorn had organized the supplies alphabetically, which made them easy to find from his list. With a shudder, Harry recalled Snape's system – under him, everything had been stored by properties. Which, Harry had to admit, made as much, if not more, sense, but complicated collecting ingredients that much more if you hadn't memorized things in advance. *Well, that's over and done with now,* Harry thought a little defiantly. Still, a faint touch of nostalgia washed through him as it often did when he was thinking of one of Snape's little idiosyncrasies.

Within five minutes, he stared rather helplessly at the array of fresh, dried, pickled and liquid ingredients lined up between and around his cutting board and cauldron. How on earth was he supposed to remember every little step?

Apparently Malfoy could read his expression with uncommon accuracy. "Don't worry, Potter; I told you, this is an exercise to let me observe your technique. Just follow the directions step by step and take as much time as you need."

"Got it." Drawing a deep breath, Harry quickly read through the instructions twice, then picked up a sprig of fresh rosemary and counted out two dozen needles. Malfoy was doing the same. "What are you doing?"

"Brewing a control sample; not only will you be able to observe how the Unguent is supposed to look during its various stages, I'll also want to compare your effort to the correct method if – no, when – you're making a mistake."

"Why must you automatically assume I'm going to make mistakes?" Harry blustered.

"Well, something is making your potions come out off, if not completely useless – and while I'll admit that the reason could be spoiled ingredients, the likelihood of it happening to you time and again, in every Potions class since the first week of September, is extremely low. In my considered opinion, anyway."

Harry glowered at the other boy. "Did I ever tell you I hate it when you're right?"

"In your own, Gryffindorkish way? Yes, rather frequently," Malfoy actually chuckled, then grinned wryly. "If it helps, I'd feel the same way … in the unlikely case that you were right about something and I wasn't."

"Hmph." Harry hid his own reluctant grin under some sotto voce grumbling as he aligned the rosemary needles on the cutting board and picked up his knife. The camaraderie that was developing between them was quite a relief. *Besides, he hasn't given me the Brow of Doom even once today. Yet.*

Giving himself a mental kick, Harry refocussed on the task at hand – namely, the small pile of rosemary needles before him. "Fine chop, right?"

"Yes. Just make sure it's even pieces."

"Yeah, yeah …" Feeling somewhat put upon at the reminder (which might as well have come from Hermione), Harry started chopping, falling easily into the motions he'd learned years ago in Petunia Dursley's kitchen. Working steadily through his ingredients, he was aware of Malfoy watching his every move even as he was seeing to his own cauldron with almost negligent skill. And yet it didn't bother him the way Snape's hovering at his back or elbow used to. For one thing, he knew he wasn't going to be graded for his potion, he had more than enough time to organize everything, and most importantly of all, he didn't get any kind of snide comments on what he was doing.

One of the last ingredients was a Sopophorous Bean, and Harry smiled to himself as he crushed it with the flat of his blade rather than cutting it up, thus releasing the maximum amount of juice. He had forgotten most of the helpful notes from the Half-Blood Prince's book, but this one stayed with him – and somehow it was a small way of paying homage to the acerbic Potions Master's genius at his craft.

He looked up at Malfoy's astonished gasp. "What?"

"Who taught you that?"

*Oops.* "Um, no-one, really. I, erm, picked it up from a book."

"That's impossible," Malfoy declared flatly. "Severus was the one who discovered that crushing a Sopophorous Bean gave you better results than chopping, and he swore to me that he hadn't shared it with anybody but me!"

Harry shrugged sheepishly and decided spontaneously that the truth couldn't hurt anymore. "Well … I kind of learned it from Snape's book."

"But Severus never wrote a Potions text," Malfoy frowned.

"No, but he made all kinds of useful notations in his copy of Advanced Potion-Making while he was still at school," Harry said. "Remember when Ron and I were admitted late to Slughorn's class in Sixth year? Neither one of us had the book, Slughorn told us to get some from the classroom cupboard, and Ron beat me to the newer copy. Turned out the other one used to be Snape's, only I didn't know it at the time."

Malfoy's eyes could have rivalled a House-elf's for size. "So that's how you managed to beat both me and Granger for the vial of Felix Felicis," he realized.

"Uh huh. Hermione was absolutely livid," Harry recalled with a fond smile, completely missing the rush of colour to Malfoy's pale cheeks ... as well as the reluctant admiration flashing up briefly in the grey eyes.

"You … you cheated?"

It was Harry's turn to blush, but he tried to cover it by looking as innocent as possible. "Technically, I didn't," he muttered. "Slughorn only told us to follow the instructions in the text – which I did. It wasn't my fault that the text I was using, on his orders, had better instructions than everybody else's …"

Malfoy stared at Harry as if he'd grown an extra head. "Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with the real Potter?" he gasped. "That – that's positively Slytherin!"

Harry smirked. He'd already shared one of his personal secrets with Draco, he might as well go one step further.

"Well, the Sorting Hat did think I'd do well in Slytherin," he said blithely. "But I managed to talk it around."

With a visible effort, Malfoy picked his jaw up from the floor and pointed his cutting knife at Harry. "I don't even want to know," he declared, even though his whole body was vibrating with barely-suppressed curiosity. "But I swear to you, Potter, once we're out of Hogwarts, I'll tie you to a chair, ply you with alcohol and make you tell me all the things you were up to in the past!"

Harry laughed, relieved that his unplanned revelations had gone over comparatively well. *And what do you know, it wasn't hard at all!*

"You have a deal – if you'll help me get that 'EE' on my NEWTs, that is."

"Pfft. Piece of cake. Now go back to your potion!"