A/N: Long time no see! Life's been stressful and with the new job I got significantly less free time, so at this rate, it should only take a decade to finish up the story! Can't believe I still got people willing to hang around for an update (thank you and I'm so sorry), but getting comments and reviews every now and then makes me seriously happy. Anygays, new chapter, enjoy!

The rest of February passed without any further major incidents. And to be quite honest, Draco was glad about it. Oh, Potter might have proven helpful, and whatever dressing down McGonagall had given to that little blood tr—to that twat Creevey had obviously been thorough enough that all he had been able to do since had been angrily glaring at Draco whenever he passed him in the corridors. Nevertheless, the more Potter got involved in this, fighting a battle that wasn't his, the worse it would get. The last thing Draco needed was even more hatred from the student body for leading their precious messiah astray.

Of course, the bloody Gryffindor brat would never understand. Merlin, when Draco had allowed himself to utter some words of gratitude, Potter had looked like he'd just been given an early Christmas present. Sort of adorable, Draco guessed, in a way, if black-haired dorks with a superhero complex and the emotional maturity of a preschooler were one's type.

'Harry, Harry, Harry. And you were doing so good!'

Draco looked up from the potion he'd been stirring to peek across the classroom to where Harry stood. The potion they were studying today was hardly challenging—a simple memory restorative, primitive enough to allow Draco to let his thoughts wander while brewing it—but of course, Potter had managed to mess it up. How he had ever made it into his 7th year Potions class, Draco had no idea. Whereas his brew was exactly as described by the textbook, a light, shimmering blue, the colour slightly oscillating; the Gryffindor's had somehow turned into a sickening, green soup, bubbling and occasionally emitting a puff of quite toxic-looking smoke.

'Remember what I told you! The citarus root first, then the tarantula eggs!' Slughorn sighed. 'A shame, I thought your attempt was quite promising.'

'Sorry, Professor.'

Draco kept his face as blank as possible, despite the urge to roll his eyes. Whether the old fool actually recognised any talent, or whether he was simply trying to get into the good graces of the most famous wizard he could hope to collect for his club of people more relevant than him, he didn't know, but either way, the patronising way he treated Harry made Draco's blood boil. Oh, he had enjoyed his fair share of favouritism himself, but Severus had at least had the decency to not swoon over him like… that.

He kept stirring his own cauldron, three clockwise, two counter-clockwise, rinse and repeat. A few minutes later—across the room, Harry was, surprisingly methodically, starting over with his potion—he added the ground mandrake, and watched in satisfaction as the liquid changed its colour to a yellow, reminiscent of molten gold, indicating its final state.

'Aaaaand that's it! Time's up, everyone, please bottle your potion and bring it to my desk', Slughorn announced just then. 'Don't forget to label your samples!'

Murmurs of disagreement and dissatisfaction were heard from various students standing next to cauldrons of unfinished potions, but one by one, everybody lined up to bring the result of their work to the professor's desk.

'Ah, Miss Granger, good work as ever! Take ten points for Gryffindor.' Slughorn's voice boomed across the classroom. 'Don't be disappointed, Mr Potter, A for Effort, I suppose!'

The queue moved further ('I wouldn't drink that, if I were you, Mr Longbottom') while those who had already handed in their sample cleaned up their workplace and then filed out of the classroom. Weasley's potion was met with a devastating review, and then, at last, it was Draco's turn to present his bottle.

'Oh, yes, Mr Malfoy.' Slughorn briefly held up the vial to inspect the contents. 'Yes, yes, very good', he uncorked it to catch a whiff, 'colour, smell, just as described. Five points to Slytherin, young man.'

Any reply Draco might have given was cut short by a loud clattering behind him. He spun around while the professor hurried out from behind his desk. At the back of the classroom, two cauldrons had fallen over and toppled a shelf with ingredients, sending a bunch of tools flying and spilling various substances across the floor. From behind the mess they could see Harry pushing himself off the floor, face beet red, apparently having stumbled over something.

'Sorry—Professor—sorry—must've fallen', he choked out, desperately wiping something Draco recognised as curry powder off his robe.

'Dear Merlin, today isn't your lucky day, Harry, is it?' Slughorn chuckled. 'Oh well, I'm sure I can leave you to clean this up. Just lock up behind you when you're done!'

And out of the classroom he strode, leaving behind a bewildered Draco to watch as Harry started picking up the mess.

'The red face suits you', Draco drily remarked. 'Gryffindor colours, too. You should keep it.'

Harry didn't bother responding.

Draco sighed theatrically before drawing his wand and starting to arrange whatever it was that lay scattered across the floor into various piles that began returning themselves into their containers.

'Magic, Potter, you wouldn't happen to have heard of it?' he commented. 'Right, Muggle upbringing, I can see it clearly now.'

'Oh shut it.'

The topic was obviously a sore spot for Harry, and unlike him—or rather, unlike his old self—Draco let it drop.

'What's gotten into you, anyway? Old Sluggy must be losing faith in his petit prodige', he changed the subject.

'Maybe he won't want you for his precious collection after all. I can all but see the Prophet front page already', he gestured as though writing out invisible letters in the air, 'The Boy Who Stumbled Over A Cauldron: Fall from grace at Hogwarts.'

His words were without malice and they both knew it.

Harry put the last jar back onto the shelf and dusted off his robes. 'Get bent, Malfoy. Fine with me if he stops hovering behind me all the time like some kind of helicopter.'

'Come again?'

'Oh, yeah', the Gryffindor pushed his glasses back up his nose, 'you wouldn't know. It's a machine, muggles use them to fly because they don't have brooms. It has metal wings and such.'

'Fascinating', Draco muttered. 'How do they get by without magic at all?'

Harry shrugged. 'They manage. How do you get by without a telly?'

Draco snorted. 'Now you're just making words up.'

Ten minutes and an in-depth explanation about the workings of a tele-vision (a wicked contraption that seemed like an awfully complicated surrogate for photographs) later, they had finally returned the classroom to its original state and headed for the exit.

'Colloportus', Draco mumbled as they passed through the door, pointing his wand at the lock, and they could hear the various latches and bolts click into place behind them.

'As much as I'd love to just enjoy watching you entertain the entire classroom', Draco picked up their earlier conversation again, 'how in Salazar's name did you even mess this one up? You do remember we talked about restorative draughts, right?'

'You can't afford to flunk those', he added when Harry stayed silent. 'Not that I'm entirely familiar with St Mungo's hiring process, mind you, but you can expect such primitive essentials to be a requirement for even applying.'

'Nightmare', Harry eventually mumbled, now visibly less cheerful than just a minute ago.

Whatever further lecture Draco had been about to deliver died in his throat. Nightmares, that he could relate to only too well. He himself had had his fair share recently, especially regarding—oh well, no point in dwelling on that.

'I see', he responded eventually, to little success if the slightly disappointed, slightly pained look on Harry's face was anything to go by. Comforting was not a word that anyone would use to describe a Malfoy, and until a few years ago, his preferred method of 'encouragement' would have been a disdainful sneer, something that would most likely not work on Potter. Public displays of sentimentality went entirely contrary to his nature, but then again… they were in a deserted corridor, in the dungeons. Here goes.

'Would you appreciate a hug?'

There, wasn't so hard, was it? he thought. Except father would lose it if he'd heard me say this; to Potter, too.

'I'm sorry?'

Draco snapped back to reality. Oh, just for the absolutely dumbfounded expression on Harry's face, this had been worth it.

'A hug', Draco repeated. 'I asked whether you needed a hug, Potter.' Falling back into old habits, he raised an eyebrow in a display of mock arrogance. 'It means to embrace somebody as means of expressing comfort, support, or—' or affection, he'd almost said. Better not. If he let any more emotion show through, Harry might just suffer a heart attack.

'I know what a hug is, Malfoy', there was the usual Gryffindor sass again. 'Just didn't expect you'd know, is all. Didn't peg you for being a hugger.'

'Oh, sod off. Now, do you want it or not?'

Which was how Draco found himself pulled into what he could only describe as a bear hug. May Salazar know wherever the Gryffindor brat got those muscles from. Not that Draco was going to complain. He'd tried his best not to think about his momentary weakness during Christmas, but he hadn't been able to deny that Harry's embrace had felt comforting now, and even though it was now him who was supposed to comfort Harry—it still felt, undeniably, quite nice.

After what may as well have been minutes, the two disentangled themselves from each other. Draco was fairly certain that his face was considerably more flushed than was appropriate for a Malfoy, and there may have been something wet glistening on Potter's cheeks, but somehow, the tension—a tension Draco had not been aware of before—had left both of them, and they walked the remaining way in silence, until they reached the entrance to the Great Hall.

'Well', Draco coughed as he spotted the unmistakable bunch of ginger hair in the crowd, 'it seems your entourage of admirers is already waiting for you.' He tried for a more composed look on his face. 'Don't let me hold you back.'

Something indecipherable briefly flashed across Harry's face, before he nodded. 'See you around, Draco.'

Said Draco was so busy contemplating how foreign it sounded, hearing Potter address him by first name, that he almost missed Weasley's obnoxious voice in the distance, inquiring about where Harry had been, and what business he had had with 'that bloody git' that had taken them so long.

Almost.

February ended and was succeeded by March, bringing with it unfortunate injuries to Hufflepuff chasers Evans and Mitch, and thus a 240–130 win for Slytherin in the fourth Quidditch match of the season. Harry received an A on his Charms homework, an E on an unscheduled practical exam Professor Slughorn saw fit to surprise his students with; and a reprimand for oversleeping and missing DADA as well as History of Magic. All in all, there had been worse months, and Harry didn't expect any bad news when he was shaken awake on a Saturday morning.

'—ry? Harry?'

'C'mon, wake up, mate!'

Confused, slowly getting his bearings, he sat up in bed. Next to the bed stood Hermione and Ron, already dressed despite the hour, and both with a grim expression that didn't bode well.

'What—?'

He didn't get to finish the sentence before a stack of paper was thrust into his hands. The latest Daily Prophet. He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looked down to read the headline.

IN BED WITH A DEATH-EATER: DOES MALFOY JR. HAVE POTTER'S EAR?

Rumours of collaboration at Hogwarts: Harry J. Potter, previously beloved icon of the wizarding world, appears to have given up his ideals to pledge allegiance to something, or someone, else. Multiple eyewitness accounts testified to observing conspicuous meetings between Potter and Draco Malfoy, who's unusual acquittal by the courts last Summer had previously caught the nation by surprise. Malfoy, whom our readers will remember as the man who spearheaded the fateful attack on Hogwarts Castle, has repeatedly stirred up controversy in the past, and appears to have found an all-too-willing victim in Potter, who's improbable victory over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named radically changed Britain. One classmate also told us in confidence about speculations regarding Potter and Malfoy's sexuali—

It was at this point that Harry hurled the newspaper against the wall, shaking with rage.

'You don't have to read the rest of it', Ron bitterly spat. 'It just goes on about how you apparently couldn't have defeated Voldemort yourself and about the supposed', he shuddered, 'intimacy Potter has sought from who may well be the most influential remaining dark wizard in all of Britain, quote unquote.'

Harry sent a questioning look at Hermione, and she shook her head.

'They didn't put a name on it', she explained, 'but I don't think it's Rita. Last I heard, she was somewhere in the Midlands', she grimaced, 'researching Snape for her new book.'

Harry nodded numbly. Hermione's ability to soak up and retain enormous amounts of information was occasionally intimidating, but she was usually right.

After taking a quick shower and getting dressed, Harry made his way downstairs for breakfast. He approached the Great Hall with a feeling of apprehension, but fortunately, nobody at the Gryffindor table, or elsewhere within earshot, seemed inclined to discuss the matter with him, although he spotted several copies of the Prophet here and there. It wasn't until he glanced towards the Slytherin table that the thought occurred to him what this had to mean for Malfoy, and he hastily tried to think of something, anything else, at least until after breakfast.

When the mail arrived, he vanished all of it without a second thought.

After forcing down whatever breakfast he could stomach, before the concerned eyes of Ron and Hermione, Harry decided that would have to do. Those around him seemed to be unusually quiet, and a few of them seemed determined to avoid any eye contact with him. He declined Ron's unspoken offer of going with him and headed for the doors.

Bloody Prophet.

Leaving the Great Hall and escaping what felt like a thousand stares boring into his back helped a little, but not much. Instead of heading back to the common room, he opted for a stroll across the grounds instead. Despite it being March, the grass was still covered with several inches of snow, and his footsteps crunched as he strode towards the lake.

Harry didn't know how long he had been sitting there—the sun, peeking feebly from the sky, was already heading towards its zenith—when he heard someone approach from behind. He almost hoped it to be Draco, but it turned out to be Hermione, sitting down next to him and conjuring up a little fire to ease the cold. They sat in silence before she spoke up.

'We could go to McGonagall, you know.'

Harry snorted. 'And what is she gonna do about it, Hermione? She can't tell the Prophet what to write, can she?'

She sighed. 'What about Kingsley? I'm sure he could', she searched for words, words that didn't sound like assume control of the press, but they both knew what she meant to say.

She eventually gave up—it wouldn't have worked anyway, and she knew it—and sighed in frustration.

'It's just awful. Who would even do anything like that?'

Harry could think of plenty people, not least that little rat Creevey. He told her so, and they fell both silent again as they contemplated the implications—that someone in Hogwarts held this much contempt for both Harry and Draco.

'Ron's really worried about you', Hermione eventually changed the topic. 'You didn't see him when he saw that article, he was so shocked… I thought after fifth year, we had all gotten used to it.'

'Not Draco he didn't', Harry answered without thinking. She regarded him with a curious look, and he continued.

'Think about it. He was the Prophet's favourite for years. Remember how they courted him after what happened with Buckbeak? His trial was probably the first time he's ever been on the wrong end of a headline.'

'I never thought about it that way', Hermione admitted. 'But you're probably right.'

She hesitated before she spoke her next words.

'I didn't think I'd ever say this, but… I'm starting to think he may actually be genuine. Well, either that, or this is a very elaborate plan that involves spending a whole year without insulting you.'

'I know, I know', she cut him off before he could interrupt her, 'that's not what I said when you two started… hanging out, but I think I may have been wrong about this.'

'Yeah', Harry managed hoarsely, instead of the I told you so that had been on he tip of his tongue. 'Thank you. I just wish Ron would agree with you.'

'He'll come around', Hermione assured him. 'You know all the bad blood between his family and Malfoy's. But he'll come around.'

'Your word in Merlin's ear, Hermione, your word in Merlin's ear.'