Harry stiffled a yawn as he placed his broom back in the storage shed, having just completed several hours of Quiddich practice. All of them had worked hard practicing different flying plans, and Harry could feel the exhaustion in his body.
Normally, flying brought him a rush of adreneline, something that stil hadn't gone away even after flying for five years. He'd still enjoyed himself, but his mind felt weighed down. Five days remained of the curse, and he wondered if his body would last. Despite the fact that Malfoy had been on his best behaviour the last two days, Harry still felt ill at ease. The constant tension was starting to affect him, a constant headache lurking and his consentration waning more often than usual.
Things had been going smoothly, but Harry still couldn't get rid of the feeling that something bad was going to happen. He was used to this feeling, although it usually had something to do with someone trying to kill him, but it held a slightly bitter taste this time. He needed things to get back to normal, so he could get rid of the feeling that he was walking along a very sharp edge. He didn't know what would happen should he fall, and he certainly didn't want to find out.
The trip back to the Gryffendor tower took him past the library, and Harry paused when he spotted Malfoy inside. The other youth was bent over a parchement, but wasn't writing. He was just staring down at it, as though his mind were a miliion miles away.
Harry longed to keep walking, take the shower that he wanted, then crawl into bed and forget his troubles for the night. However, his own inner sense of what was right wouldn't allow it. Harry was certain there was no way Malfoy would ask for help. But if he needed a hand with a spell, Harry couldn't just turn his back on the other and leave him to suffer the consiquences.
With a sigh that heaved his shoulders, Harry made his way into the library and took a seat across from Malfoy.
"So, what spell do you need?" he questioned, pulling his wand out from beneath his Quiddich robes.
Malfoy blinked and looked up at him, as though he hadn't noticed Harry sit down, then frowned at him. "What?" he asked.
"What spell do you need?" Harry repeated. "I figured from your expression that you needed a hand. And heaven forbids that you should ever ask for help, so I'm offering."
Unreadable steel colored eyes stared at him for such a long moment that Harry found himself fidgeting a little. Really, Malfoy had a powerful gaze. It had just never struck Harry as much until this moment, and he had to force himself not to look away. It was a little disconcerting, having those eyes carefully take in every detail of his face.
Not wanting to back down, Harry did likewise. Puberty had been kind to Malfoy. His skin was smooth and blemishless, everything perfectly purportioned to everything else. His cheeks had filled out a little, softening the point of his nose and chin, and filling out his mouth. Harry had never looked so closly at the other before, never noticed the almost startlingly pale skin or that Malfoy's hair had grown so that it hung past his jaw. On someone else, those features may of seemed feminine, but they simply made Malfoy look... elegant.
Harry shook his head slightly, closing his eyes and breaking the gaze. He was a little confused at the thoughts he'd just had. He'd never really taken such close notice of another person before, usually distracted by something or another, and found it a little unsettling that he'd found Malfoy's features so be so pleasing. Okay, so he had to admit that Malfoy had always made him feel clumsy and ruffled, a little jealous of the ease which Malfoy handled himself with. Being the center of attention so many times, Harry was rather self-concious of his messy hair and plodding steps. Next to Malfoy, he felt unrefined.
"Anyway," Harry continued, trying to break the train of thought he was in, "do you need my help or not?"
"No."
Harry was a little startled by the abrupt response, but managed to keep himself from snapping back a response. "Okay," he replied, getting to his feet.
He hesitated just a moment, then made his way toward the door.
'You needed a hand.'
'So I'm offering.'
He'd offered his hand once. It had been rejected.
That memory had stayed with him for a very long time, and not just because of the punishment it had brought upon him.
'I've heard that Harry Potter will be attending your school. You've heard the name, right Draco? I want you to make friends with him. I don't care how, you will make friends with "The Boy Who Lived".'
The failure had been made even more sharp by the fact that Potter had made friends with Weasley. He'd never been able to live that shame down, nor rid himself of the whisp of jealousy that had taken hold of him.
Draco had been raised with a firm hand from his father. He was used to being pushed to being the best, and of achieving that. The first nine years of his life had given Draco an ego, pride and a sense of self. He'd always been the most magically talented kid in his class.
Until Hogwarts.
Until Harry Potter.
And, for the first time in his life, he'd learned the bitterness of failure.
Again and again.
And now this situation had presented itself. It was all he could do to keep his resentment for Potter from boiling over. The failure that Potter had turned him into, the depth of hatred that it had caused in Draco couldn't even be described. Sometimes he thought he could reach past it. But all he had to do was see Harry win yet another Quiddich match, cast his glance at his friends, or get yet another spell aced, and that burning would return. And now he couldn't even cast a simple spell without Potter's help.
Draco took a deep breath and let his head drop into his hands. The weekend was the day after tomorrow, and he was at a complete loss of what to do. His father would be expecting results, and there was no way Draco could give them in the condition he was in. He didn't exactly want to tell his father that he was presently spell-bound to Potter. But if he refused to display the spells he'd learned, he'd end up in even more trouble.
Once again, he cursed that damned Dark Arts teacher. Hadn't the man paused to think that his actions might have consequences beyond the obvious? Hadn't he bothered to consider that Draco might have a life beyond classes?
With a sigh, the blond picked up the closest book to him, once again starting his search for a solution, any solution, to the problem at hand.