It was with resignation but no particular surprise that Harry found himself at Draco's mercy on Boxing Day. And the day after. And the days after that. He didn't know if Draco truly believed he needed guidance in opening his pile of Christmas presents or if it was just an excuse. There were a whirlwind of possible motivations that Draco might have, and Harry didn't want to overthink anything. He could do with the help, after all.

Aside from a cold bottom and the occasional waver in his vision, the situation didn't seem too bad.

For whatever reason, his old enemy had apparently taken it upon himself to educate Harry as to his social obligations. According to Draco, "Your earlier efforts were an improvement, I'm sure, on whatever you were doing before Granger got her claws into you. But it can't have been enough, of course, since neither of you actually know what you're doing. Now I know, it would be simply embarrassing if I left you so uninformed."

"Is that so?"

"Your previous performances were probably underwhelming if your usual attitude is anything to go by. I do hope you appreciate me. I don't help just anyone, you know."

Harry's head was bent over a gold and silver gift with little faces that sang carols at him. "If you say so," he mumbled.

Draco did say so. He had taken ownership of Harry's gift receiving, receipting and replying with all the gracious control of a drill sergeant. He didn't touch anything – certainly not. There was apparently "no need to be so positively gauche" about such things. Every gift was lovingly opened by Harry's own hands. Except for the dodgy ones. They got put aside for later.

Despite his suspect motivations, Harry was relieved to see Draco orchestrating the whole circus. He looked nothing like Hermione, but the precise instructions and the slightest hint of impatience – that he couldn't believe Harry needed to be told these things – were very reminiscent of studying with Hermione back in the day. It was curiously a rather nostalgic and comforting feeling.

While Crabbe and Goyle slept or snacked in an out-of-the-way corner of the room, Draco drawled instructions from his seat, scribbling down notes and making dry, often humorous comments on the occasional letter. Harry found, to his own surprise, that Draco Malfoy wasn't actually half the prick that Harry had always thought he was. He just liked to be in charge. Of everything.

Harry, being a much more mature wizard than he looked, didn't really mind giving Malfoy that impression.

Thus, while Harry sat cross-legged on the stone floor, presents surrounding him like a dragon's hoard, what once was an arduous task passed relatively painlessly.

While Harry developed a routine of inspecting his presents, reading out the greeting and sorting them into piles, the room was otherwise filled with the rustling of gift wrap, Draco's voice: dry, officious, often rather witty, and the cold scent of stone and dust that Hogwarts floors seemed to carry everywhere. Harry's capable hands, a little callused and rough at the fingertips, twirled his wand skillfully and grasped and pulled at presents rapidly. He was getting much better at the manipulating the spell weave, Harry realised, or perhaps his eyes were getting used to seeing through it. If a gift's spellwork seemed dodgy – and there were one or two, though not many – they went into a separate pile, unwrapped. Otherwise, Harry read out the greeting for Draco to note down, tore open the paper and tossed the present into one of a number of piles: for friends, acquaintances, strangers of a particular standing, professional associates… According to Draco, each pile would need a different style of response.

The mind boggled. Harry had never thought he would ever be so grateful to Draco Malfoy, of all people.

Harry shifted his posture occasionally, to find a place on his bottom that hadn't gone numb yet, but the sheer scale of the task was still his biggest complaint. It just seemed so monotonous.

It left his mind quite open to other, intrusive thoughts. Despite his best intentions, Harry couldn't stop himself from obsessing over what had gone wrong in the Chamber.

He'd almost died, Harry had realised, repressing the hand tremors while he worked through the latest present. He'd really almost died, and he'd walked into the Chamber with a whole set of wrong assumptions and a significant misunderstanding about his own abilities that really should have killed him.

While his fingers kept busy with spellwork, with unwrapping gift paper, and his mouth the occasional spell or response to Draco, Harry's mind was stuck turning over every little mistake he had made, every little decision gone wrong.

A pretty blue gift wrap with swirling clouds of gold fairy dust failed to distract Harry from the cyclical thoughts. "From Adalbert Spalding of Peterborough," Harry read out. "The Unauthorised Biography of Windslow Kneen: Seeker Extraordinaire."

Draco snorted. "And so it begins."

A suspicious number of quidditch related gifts did soon appear from the pile, to Draco's satisfied smirk. Harry didn't really see the humour. He was stuck in the spiral of self-doubt that had been looming over his head for days. He had to be better next time, he told himself. Actually better next time. More than just saying it.

His chest felt tight and stuffy again for some reason, and Harry clutched at his torso tightly in between presents. His nails dug through the heavy fabric sharply and scraped up the skin on his chest. The pain helped a little bit; it brought him back into his body. He had uncountable presents to sort through, after all. Harry took a deep breath and went back to introspection.

He'd planned a lot, he acknowledged to himself while his hands moved quickly. Not enough, obviously, but not bad for the kid who'd relied on Hermione to do his thinking for him for seven years. Determinedly, he looked for the positives.

He'd researched the Basilisk, that was Harry's first thought. He'd known what he was getting into, he'd used research to address its weaknesses. He'd taken the roosters to utilise that knowledge. And not just one, either. Thirty! He'd thought it was overkill. He'd even prepared the mirror, just in case its own gaze was deadly to it. He'd borrowed that from Lavender weeks ago for that very purpose. He'd been thinking ahead!

"Oh, that one's mine!" interrupted his thoughts, and Harry jumped at the sudden intrusion of Draco's voice in his musings.

"What?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't say 'what', say 'pardon', Potter. Didn't your mother ever tell you n..."

Harry surfaced from his unwrapping routine and private musings to glance at Draco's pale face in confusion. He glanced down at the heavy gift in his hands, wrapped in Slytherin green with elegant silver ribbons. How utterly in character for a Malfoy.

Up in his higher seat, Draco looked discomforted for the first time in a while. "Potter," he enunciated very clearly. "Harry, I'm dreadfully sorry. I'd forgotten your mother was d-, um, not that I forgot, precisely, but...a jobberknoll ran away with my tongue, Harry. How awful of me. My deepest apologies."

Harry searched his memory carefully: he hadn't been paying much attention to Draco, who obviously had no idea. Oh, he'd mentioned his mother. Harry wasn't quite ready to discuss all of his very complex feelings about his parents with Draco Malfoy, even if they were becoming more friendly, but in this case he'd obviously meant nothing by it. Harry huffed in amusement

Harry shrugged. "It's just a figure of speech, Malfoy. I'll get over it."

Draco shot him a glare. "There's no need to be needlessly polite with me, Harry, I know it was uncalled for."

Harry paused thoughtfully. "It was a long time ago, Draco. I..." still love them, don't remember them much, have spoken to their shades, have lost others more recently and more painfully, "It's not your fault."

To Harry's amusement, Draco looked rather off-balance. "You, er, you don't mind that I mentioned...?"

Harry's fingers stroked the fine, satin ribbon that wrapped Draco's present thoughtfully. "I miss them, of course," he murmured, having never really had to verbalise his feelings before. "But I've been alone for more than ten years. I miss the idea of having parents more than I miss them, I think." Harry scratched his head. "I don't remember what to miss, you know?"

Still subdued, Draco listened to Harry's musings with a baffled look on his face. Draco, of course, had been spoiled by his parents all his life.

"Alone? What about your muggles?"

Harry remembered where he was and who he was talking to. "Them? Never mind them. Just..." Harry shrugged, and the present on his lap tilted left so one corner stabbed into his thigh. Harry looked down at it. "Slytherin colours, Draco? Really?"

Draco snorted in soft amusement and let Harry change the topic. "I'm not surprised you lack my good taste." He raised one arch eyebrow. "If the wrapping doesn't amuse you, perhaps you might open the gift?" He picked up the quill again and poised it with a swish over a new line of script on the parchment. "Go on then."

Harry shuffled, gift wrap and fabric rustling, and decided against checking for curses. "'To Harry Potter,'" he read out. "'Merry Christmas, Blessed Yule, Draco Malfoy.' Thoughtful."

Draco shot a glance his way, and Harry suddenly wondered if the boy wasn't more nervous than he was letting on.

"Short, succinct, and to the point," Harry continued evaluating the note. "And not about to give me a big head, either. A nice balance, I think."

"Stuff it." But Draco smiled.

Harry tore off the wrapping and Vanished it, to find himself staring at a fairly heavy textbook by William Wallace. "A Wizard's Guide to Distraction, Diversion and Defence. You got me a Defence textbook?"

Draco, to Harry's sudden irritation, looked unbearably smug and self-satisfied as he puffed his chest up and spoke with pride. "I was sure that after the unmentionable quidditch game, all your other gifts would be based off your broomstick. I feel the 'personal touch' makes better presents, personally."

"You remembered our conversation!" Harry marvelled as he turned the heavy book over in his hands. He'd spoken to Draco in the bookshop many months ago. The book was a good choice too; one he hadn't seen before and it looked rather fascinating. It would be useful. "You really thought about this!"

To Harry's delight, Draco's face turned a delicate shade of pink that made his pale eyebrows very visible. "I did what I could," Draco sniffed, "within the limits I was given. There were much better options if only you spoke French."

Some warm fizzed under his breastbone, and Harry realised that the tight, breathless feeling he'd been struggling with recently had temporarily gone away. Aside from everything else he was – possible enemy, future blackmail material, potential future spy – Draco was also...friendly. Genuinely. What a concept.

"Thanks," he said wonderingly, and then felt that the conversation was getting too mushy. "Cheers, Malfoy. But I won't go easy on you in the next quidditch game anyway."

"Git." Malfoy threw his quill at Harry's face and missed. It clattered softly against the floor, and then Draco had to get out his wand to spell it back to him.

"Brat."

"Pillock."

"Twat."

They settled down again into companionable industry, and as his hands got busy, Harry's mind sank once more into the same gloomy cycle despite Harry's best efforts.

He'd even had Fawkes in the plan, Harry thought determinedly. Of course, he hadn't come, had he? Even though it had worked with the Salamander hut. Harry wondered what had gone wrong – had he been wrong to ask for help? Could Fawkes just not hear him when Dumbledore didn't instruct it?

But he'd played to his strengths, Harry thought positively, drowning out that little pessimistic voice in the back of his head. Brought his broom, and his luggage, and his Cloak. Timed it well.

He'd been prepared, Merlin be damned!

That little scornful voice in the back of his head whispered on, sounding uncomfortably like Snape, that he hadn't thought enough though.

The box of chocolates that he'd just unwrapped clattered on the top of the pile as Harry's hands shook with the thought. He hadn't thought about what to do if his back-up, back-up plan needed a back-up plan, had he?

He'd be living on in wilful ignorance, the horrible little voice suggested quietly. Just because Fawkes had saved him in the Chamber last timeline, just because it had saved him from the Salamander Hut, he thought he could command it?

Hubris, Snape's voice whispered. Pride. Arrogance.

He hadn't thought about how to stop the snake escaping if his plan hadn't worked, had he? Harry gnawed at his thumb nail before he read out the next greeting for Draco's list. Hadn't researched how to make roosters crow, either. Sure, he might be an urban kid from years of habit, but the Weasleys kept chickens. A thirty second conversation with Mrs Weasley would have solved that problem without anyone being the wiser.

He'd planned ahead to stop the sewers collapsing. Well, the thought had occurred on time anyway, hadn't it? It hadn't been ahead per se, but it wasn't late either. But the very concept that the Chamber itself could be damaged…he couldn't be blamed for that, could he? And he'd fixed it at the end! That had to count for something.

Harry clasped at his chest again, coughed. Found it didn't help, as the strange tightness continued to constrict his breathing.

He hadn't dropped his wand, either! That was a very good plan he'd had. Then he ran his hand through his hair in frustration because not dropping his wand wasn't really something a wizard should be proud of. That was the very basics of combat and survival.

He should have…should have found some better spells, or something. Not that anyone knew of anything that worked on Basilisks – there was nothing in the research, after all. But Harry had fought against dragons before. A dragon. And heard the crowd watching other people fight dragons, of course. So if he'd had his Pensieve, Harry could have borrowed some ideas from Diggory or Fleur or Krum! And be was doing his best on the Pensieve front, but you couldn't really put pressure on Master Enchanters in France, after all. Not even if you were the Boy-Who-Lived.

As something cold churned in his gut, Harry wondered where else he could have gotten powerful spells from. He was good at practical spell-work. Very good at everything he could cast. His Defence work would earn him a high N.E.W.T already, that's how good he was. And he could probably past a Charms N.E.W.T as well, despite missing his seventh year of school. But beyond school level? Well, Harry really hadn't had too much luck teaching himself spells beyond that. He'd gotten very good at everything someone else had already taught him, but…learning new magic? Alone? From texts? Secretly?

He'd have to look into it, Harry supposed with a frown. Gotta start somewhere, he assumed. Perhaps the Restricted Section, if he could sneak in without drawing attention. Surely he could plan that well enough to succeed. All he needed was a little bit of time alone.

It was well after midday when Harry next noticed the time. His small hoard of presents had not yet shrunk visibly, but the piles of unwrapped gifts were noticeably impressive. He blinked his eyes to refocus, and they made a squidgy sound when he did. They were sore. Stifling another sigh, Harry gazed down at his lap with apathy. The bright colours that danced behind his eyes wavered a little with his lack of focus and the magic aura of Hogwarts Castle. Harry refocussed his eyes with a squint. Was he pushing himself?

Probably, but he still had to work harder.

The following Tuesday, Draco finally put his master list down with a dignified nod, having shadowed Harry practically everywhere for the last couple of days. "Well done, Harry," — at some point in the past few days he'd become Harry — "you've done the first part pretty well, considering it's your first time."

"Wow, thanks," slipped out sarcastically. "Great encouragement there. Good job managing this complex project."

The tone went straight over the Slytherin's head. "I know. Your thanks are enough. Goodness knows where you'd be without me, after all. But at last you've unwrapped everything. Great work. Now all you need to do is write out all the thank you notes to everyone who sent you something."

Harry raised his eyebrows politely, and avoided rubbing his bruised-feeling butt. It was hard work setting on the stone floor for hours each day. "Naturally. Is that all? I…" he eyed the twelve towering piles of orderly gifts sceptically. "I only have to write how many thank you notes?"

Draco fiddled a little bit with his roll of parchment, which pooled on his knees before falling to the Charms room floor. The rustling wasn't a completely intimidating noise. "A little over three-hundred, I should think. A worthwhile reception for your grand re-entrance back into the Wizarding World, really."

Harry paled. "Over three-hundred? And didn't I, I dunno, reenter the Wizarding World last year? When I started Hogwarts?"

Draco waved Harry down dismissively. "Well, you came back last year, certainly. But this year you've really made your mark. That Quidditch match really brought you to people's attention. You've had the front page of the Prophet I don't know how many times, you've been interviewed by the Quibbler, haven't you? Although that might just be my misunderstanding…"

"No, no! No interviews!"

"Hrm," Draco raised an eyebrow. "I suspect my mother would recommend you gain more control over your representation in the media, if that's the case. And the Potter Spotter column was thinking of closing down when you came back to school, did you know that? But you've given people enough to argue about that they've decided to keep it running."

Harry dragged his attention away from the very, very long list of names and focussed on Draco with dawning dismay. "Hang on, what's all this then? I mean, I've heard the term Potter Spotter around before, but…what is it exactly?"

"You don't even know?"

Harry flinched guiltily at the remembrance that he had fallen back into a couple of bad habits; he was reading all the major articles in the Daily Prophet these days – even when they were boring. It was practically all of the first three pages! Of course, he wasn't reading all the adverts or opinion pieces…

"Oi, Vincent. Wake up!"

Vincent Crabbe stirred from his seat in the corner and stared at Draco with a very blank expression. "Wha'?"

"Tell Potter what the Potter Spotter thing is all about," Draco demanded imperiously. Draco called him 'Potter' when he was in trouble, apparently.

Crabbe shifted his simple gaze towards Harry. "It's the regular column," he explained in slow words. "For people who spot Potter."

Harry had avoided thinking about this too much, forcing the issue to the back of his mind, but now the concept had to be faced. He clenched one hand tightly, the knuckles on his fist turning white. "More precisely…?"

"People who think they've spotted Potter write in and share," Crabbe said. "Used to be filled with lotsa arguin' and theories. Draco used to read it. They mostly report on Hogwarts rumours about you now."

Harry shot an incredulous gaze Draco's way, who had the decency to colour red and look away. "You were my…fan?"

"No, no," Draco shook his head. "Just, you know, I used to keep an eye on you from afar. Make sure you were okay."

"But you didn't even know I was raised by muggles!"

"I didn't say it was a very accurate column, did I?" Draco defended. "You were all 'hidden away for your own protection' and 'inaccessible to everyday wizards' to keep you safe. I was doing my best."

"Are you…quoting…the Daily Prophet at me?!" Deep within himself, Harry found the concept very disturbing and tried forcibly to change the topic. Then the thought occurred… "Hang on, did this column run last time too?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did it run through…" third year, and the Tri-Wizard Cup, Harry wanted to ask, but then the words died in his throat. He was alone in his experiences, after all. No one knew he'd come back in time. No one was helping him. He felt completely alone.

He clutched at his chest a little again, trying to breath better, before forcing the thought from his mind. It probably hadn't, anyway. Draco had said something about it almost ending.

"Never mind." He flexed his fingers. "So…this letter writing business then?"

Draco perked up importantly. "Indeed. So, I've done some research for you, and at your age and with this volume, a dicta-quill is appropriate to help you out."

Harry hadn't even thought of the possibility that he might have to handwrite them himself, and sighed with relief now that the issue had been raised and addressed.

Draco patted a little leather pouch on the seat next to him. "Here's the parchment and envelopes you needed, specially ordered through Scrivenshaft. They're high-quality vellum, I'll have you know, so you can use this to write to just about anyone without worrying about injuring your reputation." Harry hadn't realised that this was something he needed to worry about until now, either. Draco continued. "I asked for some recommendations on ink colours too, what they thought would be appropriate for your situation, and they've given us a very nice maroon shade for free, as long as you promise to write them a letter that they can display in-store."

Harry added the chore onto his ever-growing To Do list, and swallowed loudly.

"Right."

At Draco's impatient gaze, Harry took his place at a desk properly and rubbed his hands on his knees with nerves.

"So, what am I writing here then? Dear Mrs So-and-so?" He reached out to grab Draco's master list and begin the dicta-quill charm.

"Hold on! Hold on!" Draco spluttered, alarmed. "Has no one ever talked you through the differences of address around here? When Madam is appropriate, when you use Lady, or Mistress or first names? Or for the men? Or…groups?"

Harry retracted his eager hands slowly, a small lump of cold settling into his stomach. He reached up to grasp the front of his robes, by his breast bone, once again. His lips seemed dry, so he licked them.

"Ah…No? You have, like, nobles here and stuff? Like Lords and Ladies, then?"

Distractedly, "No! Why would we need a muggle monarch to ennoble us? Our ladies and gentlemen belong to the landed gentry, and only the very rare individual deserves a courtesy title like..." Draco waved his hands frantically. "Never mind. Letter styles? Letter formulae? Modes of address to strangers? Friends? Acquaintances? Business partners? At the very least you know the difference between formal and informal language, right?"

Harry licked his lips again and gazed at the ceiling. It was a nice ceiling, he noted carefully. There were some beautiful dark wood beams running across the ceiling lengthwise. He wondered absently if the house-elves polished the roof beams too, or if this choice was something done on Flitwick's part. They looked beautiful, even in the light of a cloudy Scottish day. He always had liked the Charms room. He looked down: he had a hangnail on the little finger of his right hand.

"How have you lived this far, Potter?" Draco exclaimed. Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Although Harry living didn't have much to do with etiquette, he didn't think.

As Harry refocused his vision on Draco, he saw to his surprise the poised blond boy gripping his hair hard and pulling. Small tufts of very soft, fine hair stuck up at angles from within Draco's fists: they shivered with the movement of his head. It was the least controlled Harry had ever seen him. Aside from the Battle of Hogwarts, of course.

"I don't…" Draco muttered. "Merlin's Beard, I don't even know where to start!"

He seemed to stare fixedly at a spot on the wooden desk before, before startlingly glaring at Harry's right shoulder. "My mother," he muttered to Harry's rising dismay. "I'll simply have to owl my mother."

The adrenaline began flushing through Harry's system again, his mind racing as the possible implications of the choice began to register. It was not that he didn't trust Mrs Malfoy, exactly. Madam Malfoy. Narcissa. Whatever he was supposed to call her. He didn't even think it was about liking her, or not. But in a couple of years, Lord Voldemort would be living at her house and he really didn't want to have her know lots of personal details about him, not to mention that Draco was becoming a kind of friend, and he didn't want anyone to get in any trouble…

Draco was still talking. "…there's whole generations of information that are passed down by word of mouth, and without an official, established source your chances are practically infinitesimal that…"

Harry hit the desk in front of him accidently, then paused. "Wait."

"What now!?"

"Wait." There was a thought, just out of his grasp, almost there, that would allow Harry to escape this situation unscathed. And also possibly calm Draco down a bit, although that was just a fortunate coincidence. "There's a...almost got it…the library!" Harry exclaimed triumphantly.

"Excuse me?"

Harry sagged back in his seat as if he had just successfully fought off a hippogriff. "There are books in the library that will help."

Malfoy shot him a mildly insulting gaze full of disbelief and scepticism. "That's your grand plan, Potter?"

Harry grinned, undeterred. "You don't get it. The Hogwarts library is amazing. I'll be right back."

He walked back into the Charms classroom where his presents still sat in piles almost thirty minutes later. Draco trailed behind him petulantly. The weather was still terrible, and the classroom was still on the colder side, but Harry's mood had taken a massive turn up.

"I still don't get why we had to go on an 'urgent walk' to the library," Draco complained. "You didn't even talk to Madam Pince. You did some spell work – did you see her scowl at you? I thought you'd be thrown out – and went through a bunch of shelves and you aren't even explaining what you found, Potter! What did I go on this long walk for, after all this?"

Harry glared a little at the blond boy who had followed at his heels for the last twenty-odd minutes. He huffed as Draco threw himself peevishly into the seat he had previously occupied, and gently tossed out a green-leather book with gold calligraphy on the cover. It thudded a little on the desk; it was heavier than it looked.

"Here you go. I knew I'd find something. Essential Etiquette for Affluent Witches and Wizards by Cornelia Crumplebottom."

"And one book is all you got." Draco reached out curiously and turned the book over in his hands. "Its cover looks promising, at any rate. You think this will help, then, Harry?"

He was back to being Harry again; that was a good sign. Harry plopped down on the seat next to Draco and lounged lazily over the desk. "Take a look at the index. It starts from the basics, and then it has a section on titles, and…" he waved his hands sluggishly and let his voice trail off. "Y'know. All the things you mentioned. I forgot some, but I think they're in there."

"You think," scoffed Draco, but he browsed the index carefully, one gentle finger running down the page with careful attention to detail. "You know Harry, you're a bit dim sometimes—" Harry raised his eyebrows, "—but this time I think you've outdone yourself. Here, have a read of this to start with."

Harry shuffled over to read at the instruction of his classmate and bent himself to the task.

"Right," said Harry a few hours later. "I've read the thing, I've taken your notes – since you insisted – and I've got all the stationery you think I'll need. Can I start now?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "For someone received a rather large favour, you're not very grateful now, are you?"

Harry choked on his words. "Look, I don't mean to seem ungrateful. You've taught me, like, an awful lot I never knew I needed to know about, and I really do appreciate the time and effort you've put into helping me out with, well…" He gestured aimlessly at the looming pile of presents.

Draco slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't take yourself too seriously, Harry. It's okay. Although we'll never mention this where other Slytherins might hear us, alright?"

"…Sure?"

"To the uninformed masses," Draco continued to explain, "I have taken extreme actions to eradicate you as a rival on the quidditch pitch, and now that my cunning plot has failed, I'm wrangling my way into your good graces to that I can take advantage of your future power and fame." He grinned. "It's best to do it while you're young."

"…Riiight."

"But I'm sure you knew that. Now, hurry up."

"Hang on a minute."

"What now?" Draco asked warily.

But Draco was too self-conscious this time. Instead of looking at Draco, Harry stared up at the window of the Charms room, where a large screech owl hovered majestically.

"I think I've got post," Harry mumbled, and jumped up to let the owl in.

Soon he smiled.

"What?"

"Never you mind," Harry beamed, suddenly feeling as light and joyous as a kitten in spring. He uncrushed the letter from where it had been pressed against his chest and carefully flattened it out. Then he slipped it into his breast pocket. "Everything's wonderful."

His Pensieve had arrived at Diagon Alley. The anticipation roared. His plans coming to fruition! His future at stake!

Harry couldn't wait.

To Harry's dismay, he was unable to escape Draco over the following week. The Slytherin – with his two sidekicks who were loyal if silent companions – kept insisting that Harry complete this thank you notes hastily, and they followed Harry everywhere from just outside the Fat Lady, to dinner, to the loo.

"Give me some space!" Harry tried finally. "You don't actually need to watch me pee here, do you?"

"Sorry," Draco murmured and backed away from where Harry had hitched up his robe hem. "But you might disappear again. I've finally got you leaving Gryffindor Tower at a reasonable time, so we should make use of the daylight hours. It's bad form to delay thank you notes, don't you know? You really should get them finished before Sunday."

Since disappearing was precisely on Harry's mind, he wasn't quite sure what to say, and shortly found himself dragged back to the parchment and ink.

"What time does Diagon Alley close?" Harry soon wondered out loud, and curiously Draco responded.

"Well, during this time of the year it varies somewhat depending on the day, but mos—wait. Are you going to Diagon? We're not allowed out of the castle until we're third years," Draco complained. "Do you know how to sneak out? Are you going to the shops? Can you take me with you? How are you going to get to London?"

"Nope, no, sorry," Harry quickly dismissed. "I was just thinking of, maybe some free time after dinner tonight?" he asked hopefully.

Draco glowered at the names, still unticked, on his list. "Not until you finish your notes," he insisted strongly, reminding Harry again of Hermione's stern attitude to study. "And don't you slack off. This is important, Harry."

Stifling the urge to snicker at the similarities in tone, Harry instead bent his head to focus and planned his great escape.