The good thing about History of Magic is that it offers a lot of time to think. Professor Binns' voice is soothing after so many years, a lullaby that most of the students no longer care about resisting. There are rumors that someone's got a quick-notes quill that dutifully copies every inane thing goblins and giants ever did, then sells copies to students dismayed to realize they've actually got homework to finish. Harry's always wanted to buy a set, but doesn't. For one thing, he doesn't know who sells them. For another, Hermione would kill him.
Hermione's quill is the only one currently scratching.
It's been a month since term began again, and Harry knows the rumors haven't stopped yet. Oh, there are no rumors about the horrific occurrence the Daily Prophet sometimes—and only sometimes—reports. Nor are there any about the magical community's niggling worry suddenly proving to be very real with Death Eaters escaped and Voldemort officially returned. No, they talk about him, of course. How quiet he is. How solemn and somber, as though he's given up on life. Ron's told him several people are worried he'll do a runner off the Astronomy tower before too long. Crack under the pressure. Sometimes, Ron gives him a sidelong look, like he thinks they might be right.
When he does, Harry wants to laugh.
Do they honestly think that all the things Harry's had to deal with over the last five years—that only now is when it feels real? That only now, since they're utterly certain and scared, Harry has to be the hero?
Harry looks down at his blank parchment for a moment, studying the fine grains visible against the cream color. They make lines, almost like the books he'd learned to write his letters in, back during his muggle schooling. Sometimes he wishes those lines were back—it's hard to keep his hand neat and level, especially when he's desperate to finish those last few inches of parchment. Sometimes he wishes he was actually back in muggle school. Would he have friends by now? Especially with Dudley off at Smeltings and unable to terrorize everyone into being horrid towards him, he could have actually had friends, by now. A life. A different life.
The soft whoosh of moving paper attracts his attention. Lavender is writing notes to Pavarti again, the two of them trying not to giggle and attract attention. The giggles are strained—they're good at denial, those two, but the latest reports put Death Eater activity near where Lavender's home is. She's being brave enough about it, Harry decides with the dispassionate cynicism of the jaded, forgoing her usual histrionics in favor of attempting to move on with her life. She isn't entirely successful, though; Harry can see it in her lips, which are chapped and not covered in their usual layer of sparkly gloss. Her eyes are red-rimmed almost constantly now, and they dart whenever she isn't forcing them to focus on something.
Their whispers fade after a moment, Harry's attention wandering. He studies the students around him, making notes of anything different or odd. He spends a lot of time watching, now. Watching all of it, really. He watches his classmates, his friends, his teachers, even the way the ghosts interact with each other. Back at the beginning of term, Hermione had mentioned how glad she was that Harry had let go of some of his anger from the previous year, and later, she'd complimented him on noticing some of the particular transformations Professor McGonagall was assigning them, that they had the potential to be used for defensive tactics. She'd been very proud of his deductions.
Now she watches Harry almost as much as Harry watches everyone else. She understands that this quiet is almost as bad as the anger had been. Worse, in a way, since the quiet is passive and Harry had never in his life been passive.
But she doesn't watch him in History of Magic. She's too busy trying to take down her notes without falling asleep like the rest of them.
She doesn't like his quiet, though Harry is coming to really appreciate it. It puts people off guard, being quiet. He's spent five years teaching people to expect certain things from him, and now that he's gone and changed they're often left scrambling to reestablish themselves. Watching them maneuvers is fascinating, since the tiniest gestures can give a lot away. People start babbling in his presence just to cover up the disquieting silence, and he learns loads of interesting things. He's learned that Neville is interested in Ginny by staying quiet and letting Neville ramble—and more importantly, that Ginny likes him back. How they'll ever get together, each so certain that the other doesn't notice them, Harry doesn't know. He isn't going to interfere—that's something he's promised himself, and he's going to keep this promise. No more jumping to conclusions, no more reacting instead of thinking. No more interaction unless there's no other choice.
It makes absolutely perfect sense then, that it's for Draco Malfoy that he breaks that promise.
The first time he'd seen Malfoy this year was on the train back to Hogwarts. Harry hadn't forgotten or forgiven Malfoy for the comments he'd made those last few days of term, but when he saw Malfoy sitting in his compartment all alone, he couldn't bring himself to say anything. It was Ron who had immediately bristled, demanding to know where Malfoy's cronies were. Ron had grown very tall during the summer; doing more and harder chores, as well as his intensive Quidditch practice had put a significant layer of muscle on his lean frame. He'd gone from endearing and goofy to large and substantial and he'd confessed to Harry not two days earlier that he couldn't wait to show Malfoy and his goons that he wouldn't be so easy to push around anymore.
Malfoy had reacted exactly as expected. He'd sneered and snapped out something suitably scathing and Harry had dragged Ron away rather than get into a fight before they'd even reached school. It had all been very normal, or at least, as normal as anything was with Malfoy, with or without Crabbe and Goyle as an immovable wall protecting his back.
Except, it hadn't been.
It takes Harry a while to really understand. It's a shock to the system, thinking things like this. He's spent the last five years of his life not thinking anything of the kind. Rather the opposite, really, and it takes effort to yank his thoughts from their familiar patterns and direct them down new, strange paths. It takes careful watching and convincing before Harry can really believe that no, it isn't a hallucination. He's really seeing what he thinks he's seeing. It shouldn't be surprising, not really. A lot of things have changed during the summer. There's no reason those changes have to be exclusive to Harry and his friends.
But ... it's Malfoy.
He's still as awful as ever. The stupid pranks, the biting comments, the utterly sycophantic behavior with teachers who are 'marked' as having Death Eater leanings. At least, everyone else thinks it's the same as always because Harry hasn't bothered to enlighten anyone to his suspicions yet. Only Hermione is curious about it, partly because it's in her nature to be compassionate, but mostly because Malfoy doesn't call her mudblood that often anymore. Oh, when others are around or there's some status to be won or reputation to be gained, he's just as despicable as always. But only then.
Harry once watched the two of them interact very civilly in the library, back during the third week of term, Malfoy looking almost timid as they worked out a puzzling bit of their potions assignment.
Yet the minute Millicent walked through the door, Malfoy was immediately sneering and calling Hermione a stuck-up mudblood.
Understandably upset at the sudden attack, Hermione had leveled her own scathing reply and left the library. Harry, however, had remained. And he'd seen that sneer fall off as if it'd never been, as soon as Millicent left again.
Even more important, though, was the moment Draco had finally noticed Harry tucked away in his corner, so quiet that only the librarian herself would have noticed him. The first reaction should have been rage. Or disdain. Or belligerence. Something that reestablished Malfoy's utter superiority over Harry, in Malfoy's eyes at least. Instead, there had been a moment of tense anticipation—gray eyes as unreadable as a thunderhead—before Draco nodded, once, and left the library.
The Draco Malfoy who had spent five years of his life trying to make Harry's miserable should not have done that.
Then again, the Harry Potter who had loathed Malfoy right back would have used the opportunity for some kind of gain.
Being a sixth-year at Hogwart's means a great deal of homework. Being a pivotal member of one of the few successful War Councils currently established—the less said about Fudge's attempt, the better—swallows up most of the rest of Harry's free time, and his Gryffindor mates manage to snatch up the remaining crumbs to talk about and do the kinds of things sixteen year old boys are supposed to devote their energy towards. He has no interest in the last bit, but Ron and Seamus, in particular, demand some kind of interaction so Harry can't just slip off and think about things the way he wants to.
History of Magic, therefore, becomes his haven. His one place to let his mind turn over the bits and pieces he's collected, trying to put them together undisturbed and undisrupted.
For the first few weeks, Harry thinks about a lot of different things, much of it trivial, though some things aren't. Now, though, now Harry has just one topic to think about, one his mind returns to with increasing fervor.
Harry's decided, as of last week, that Malfoy is acting. His words are empty no matter how he pretends to hate, his gestures there only to keep up appearances, his expressions a mask he wears. Harry knows this because he knows what Malfoy's hate feels like. He remembers the loathing all too well, that feel of ice and ichor in Malfoy's eyes and the absolute sincerity in his voice. All of that is missing now, no matter what anyone else might think.
Obviously something has happened. Something drastic enough to make Malfoy rethink everything he's ever thought about.
Oh, he could be playing a game, of course. Something to throw Harry off, to make him doubt and mistrust so that the son of Voldemort's most powerful Death Eater can help pull off some devious plan. But Malfoy really isn't the best choice for a plan like that: he's too impatient, far too interested in the end result and the potential gains it offers rather than the careful application of each step. Harry's often surprised that Malfoy is as good at potions as he is, since that's a discipline that one has to love for its own sake, not just for the end results.
No, Harry's pretty sure that if there is some kind of game going on, it's nothing Malfoy's aware of. Or maybe it's that Malfoy isn't playing with him, Harry. Something has made Malfoy change almost as fundamentally as Harry's changed—he can see it every time he looks at Malfoy, whether or not he's wearing his sneering mask. There's something quietly desperate about him, a kind of muffled screaming that makes Harry's stomach twist. It reminds him of the small animals Dudley used to torture, the way they'd look when they were cornered and knew it.
It doesn't take a leap of genius to figure out what's the mostly likely thing cornering Malfoy. Why, though, that takes more information than Harry has to try and piece together.
Behind him, Dean starts muttering under his breath. It's not a loud sound, but since it's almost time for class to end, it shoves him out of his contemplation. Bugger. Sighing, Harry stares at the random lines he's drawn onto his parchment, wrestling with his thoughts in a way that's become all too familiar. He's made himself a promise. No more interactions—particularly uninvited interactions—unless someone's life is at stake. Unless he has no choice. Malfoy's life is not at stake, no matter how brittle he's started looking in the past week, and Harry certainly has a choice. He isn't going to get involved. There's no reason for him to get involved!
Absolutely none.
And when Malfoy makes a big production at lunch about how he's got to go to lake and fetch something for the absent Snape, Harry has no reason to mutter something to Hermione and follow.
He wishes 'no reason' would actually stop him.
Malfoy's already at the edge of the lake by the time Harry catches sight of him. There's a healthy distance between them, enough that Malfoy probably isn't going to notice he's being followed, though Harry isn't sure. He isn't sure Malfoy won't notice—and he isn't sure he doesn't want to be noticed. Heading towards a hillock that looks like it might offer him some screening, Harry studies Malfoy. He knows that boys aren't supposed to be interested in things like clothes or even aware that different sets of them exist, but Harry's become very good at picking things up from someone's attire. Malfoy is always immaculate, attention to his appearance going far beyond fussy, the way Pavarti is, and into obsession. Malfoy has to look good. He must always sit up straight, his posture perfect, his robes pristine, every gesture controlled. There's a practiced feel to his movements that he never loses except when he's flying—and sometimes not even then. It's as if he's spent his whole life containing himself, moving his body into patterns he's been taught, instead of where his limbs take him.
That's all gone, now. Malfoy is slumped, head down so that his straight blond hair falls into his eyes. The hem of his robes are ragged near his left leg, as if he'd torn them and not immediately had it fixed, and Harry remembers that there'd been a spot of something on Malfoy's tie before he left the great hall.
All of these things are tiny, insignificant details that Harry's pretty sure no one else would have cared about, even if they'd noticed. To Harry, though, after several weeks of compulsively watching Malfoy, these are incredibly significant.
Significant enough that Harry slips from his hiding place without really thinking about it, falling into step beside Malfoy.
"I'm looking for a weed. You'll help. I can't remember the name, just that it has purple edges and white flowers when it's blooming, and it should be blooming around now."
It's not 'hello, how are you', but it's not 'get away from me, Potty', either, so Harry thinks that this is a good thing. "Okay. It's supposed to be by the lake?"
Malfoy nods. He's careful not to look anywhere near Harry, but his body has angled slightly to his right anyway. "Yes. Professor Snape says that it comes out the most in autumn, when it's humid, but not actually raining."
That certainly describes this particular September day, the air thick with wet not yet condensed into droplets. It's cool, too, and Harry is glad his robes are layered and that Mrs. Weasley took him shopping over the summer. His jumper is very warm.
Malfoy, he notices, is shivering slightly. His hands are clenched into loose fists and there is something white over the first knuckle—a scar, maybe? It doesn't look new, but Harry's pretty sure it wasn't there last term. He has a sudden urge to take Malfoy's hands between his own and rub them warm to see if they'll pink up or stay that pale, almost albino color; he ignores it.
"I don't see any here," Harry says after searching for a while. To be honest, he's not looking very closely but Malfoy—surprisingly—is looking hard enough that Harry doesn't feel guilty. Well, much. And just why is Malfoy doing as he's told, anyway, when there are lackeys about to do the work for him?
"Professor Snape said to start by the lake, but that it could be anywhere between here or the edge of the forest." Malfoy hesitates—Harry can feel it, the air trembling around them both—and darts a glance out of the corner of his eye. If Harry hadn't been looking, he's certain he would have missed it, since Malfoy's pivot towards the forest comes instantly afterwards. But he did see it. He knows he did. It takes Harry a full second to restart his body and catch up, and by then, Malfoy is speaking again. "Professor Snape said that ... I can trust you."
There's something so incredibly worn down in Malfoy's voice that Harry doesn't bother with the surprised spluttering. He's not surprised. "You can," he says instead, because it's true. For all he's gone quiet and thoughtful, he's still a Gryffindor.
Malfoy's eyes move, again so fast that Harry almost misses it, then focuses on the ground before them and nods. "He says I should talk to you. He's not—he doesn't like mentoring very much." A hint of humor, as deprecating as Harry remembers but with a thread of affection that's stunning to hear, colors Malfoy's words: "He doesn't really like children at all. He's a good teacher, and better still at maintaining order, but give him something worse than a romance gone rotten and he stammers more than Longbottom."
Harry can picture that very easily and snickers. He doesn't like Snape. He probably never will and he knows how mutual it is, but this past summer he's finally learned to respect Snape, for both what his is and what he does. That's helped some of the animosity between them to ease—though Harry is amused to learn just how much Snape respects him, in turn. He wouldn't have sent Malfoy to him, otherwise. "I think Professor McGonagall does better that way, but not by much."
The forest looms before them now, shadows chasing each other at their heels. As they walk, Malfoy moves closer and closer to Harry. Not close enough to accidentally touch, but if Harry were to swing his arm a little, he could. Harry thinks about edging away, putting more distance between them, but doesn't. He had forgotten that he's got a good two or three inches on Malfoy's height, now—finally—and that amuses him. It looks almost like ...
The soft, wet sound of Malfoy swallowing distracts Harry. Malfoy's throat is very pale, the Adam's apple creating odd shadows over the fragile skin. "You've been staring at me, Potter. Every chance you get."
"You're pretty." Harry has no idea where those words come from, but the way they make Malfoy start and swing around to look at him for the first time are worth it. He stops, waiting for Malfoy to do something, then shrugs. "And I stare at just about everybody now."
The barest memory of Malfoy's customary smirk passes over his lips. "I noticed. But you, ah." The remembered confidence vanishes again, too weak to be sustained, and Malfoy bits his lip. It makes him look absurdly young and innocent—Harry isn't sure if he's either. All he knows is that this Malfoy is without masks and sincere. "But it's me you watch the most. It's me you—see."
See? Harry doesn't know what he sees, not really, because seeing implies more action, more giving of himself, than he wants. He just watches, sitting in the background, passively observing life as it tumbles around him. He isn't—he doesn't—
Malfoy's eyes aren't meeting his.
That makes Harry pause. He prides himself on his new observational skills, doesn't he? It's an effort, but he stops automatically reacting, instantly defensive, and looks. Sees the way Malfoy's body is tense, pointed chin thrust out slightly. Malfoy's voice is level, but Harry thinks there was maybe a note of challenge—no, of pleading? Turning that over in his mind, Harry studies the down-turned face, long lashes hiding the normally direct gaze that Harry realizes then that he almost misses.
If this is a challenge, it's a kind that Malfoy's never directed at him before.
"Yeah," Harry says eventually. "I see."
Nodding, Malfoy lets the faint hints of aggression slip from his body. He's almost slumping now, posture ruined into the kind of slouch that only a depressed Neville can truly achieve, and he's still angled towards Harry instead of away. Well, he is for a moment, anyway, before he drops down in between two roots at the bottom of a tree, wound so that the perfect niche for sitting is created. He glances up at Harry and then pointedly shifts over until there's enough space for another boy.
If those boys don't mind touching.
Harry is out of his depth right now, but that usually goads him into daring. He considers other options only briefly before sitting next to Malfoy, thighs and shoulders touching. "Malfoy?"
"Don't ... don't call me that." The shudder is severe, jerky enough that there's no way that it's faked. "Draco. My name is Draco. I'd say it was a pleasure, but I suppose it's a bit late for that."
"Okay. Draco." Harry offers a lopsided smile. "That sounds really weird, you know."
"Don't expect me to call you 'Harry' now. I can't get out of the habit of insulting you."
Harry nods, because there isn't anything else to say. Malfoy—Draco—is sitting next to him, leaning against a surprisingly comfortable tree, and warning him that he will not be calling Harry by his given name, for fear of blowing his cover. After being told by Snape to talk to Harry, which means that Dumbledore knows and—several things click into place with a suddenness that leaves Harry feeling very stupid.
"You met him, of course," he says softly.
Mal—Draco—shudders again, clasping his hands together in his lap until the knuckles turn white. "You should be saying 'I told you so'. Or otherwise rubbing my nose in it."
"Nah. Ron'll do that for both of us, when you finally tell him." It's oblique reassurance, but since Draco isn't leaping to his feet and tossing hexes to keep Harry quiet, he figures it works. "Er. That is, I'm assuming you aren't playing double-agent?"
"No. Oh, no." Draco's laugh is bitter, his finger's tightening around each other even more until his knuckles are almost creaking. He stiffens when Harry reaches out and touches him, but submits easily as his hands are taken and kneaded, fingers going limp again Harry's. "No, after careful consideration I've decided that spying is beneath me. My... reaction convinced me of that, long before Snape tried his hand."
"Right, then." Harry's mind is racing. He's discovered that he is a good thinker when he stops being a prat, and the answer comes easily enough. "When's your birthday?"
"Early January." Draco seems to be made of layers of tension because as Harry rubs and then starts absently massaging Draco's hands, he can feel yet more stress leave the body beside him. Draco's almost leaning on him now, too lost in his own thoughts to realize it. Harry's very surprised to discover he likes it. "I'm supposed to go home for Christmas and not return."
Draco's fingers—so easy for him to be 'Draco', all of a sudden—are long and bony. The heavy ring on his middle finger slips whenever Harry touches it, just a little too big. That seems fitting, oddly. The tips of his fingers are callused from playing Quidditch, as are the palms. There are several scars on his right hand, though none on his left. One feels like a knife wound and Harry hates that he thinks he knows what that feels like. The Dursley's had set him to chopping long before his body was coordinated enough to handle the large knife Aunt Petunia had insisted he use. Harry traces over each wandering path, Draco's left hand resting on his thigh, waiting its turn.
"You aren't, of course," he says, following blue veins under very fragile skin. Draco shivers as his inner wrist is examined but makes no objections. "Snape likes you, and Dumbledore would never turn you away."
"Snape says he'll find an excuse to keep me here over the holidays," Draco agrees. "And if he can't, Dumbledore will hide me away until after I'm seventeen. They can't legally touch me, then."
Harry smiles, because he understands just how futile that thin, legal protection is. Voldemort plays by no one's rules, while Dumbledore is hampered by trying to be at least mostly legal. But he has no doubts that, push to shove, Dumbledore will do whatever is necessary to protect Draco.
Harry's no longer quite so enamored with Dumbledore. He still cares for him greatly and trusts him to lead the Order—but Harry doesn't do blind faith anymore. Not for anyone. Thinking about that always makes him bitter and a little sad, remembering why he's purposefully distanced himself from the adults he used to trust implicitly. He doesn't like to, so he looks down at the hand resting in his own. Draco's right hand is placed in his lap, the left picked up for the same treatment. There aren't any scars on this one, and the calluses are smaller, the skin softer. There's another ring, the metal twisting in a delicate circle as it rests snugly against Draco's skin, which smells faintly of the potion they'd been making in class yesterday with their substitute, Professor Decant.
"I'm not going to tell you what happened," Draco announces suddenly. "Maybe not ever."
Harry lays his palm flat against Draco's, weaving their fingers together. His skin—not as dark as some—is very brown against Draco's pallor, each digit slightly thicker and larger. The nails aren't quite as well taken care of, but Harry can see ragged tips where a nail's been bitten nearly to the quick. At least he doesn't do that, he thinks. Around them, the light is dying. They're missing classes and probably worrying their friends—well, Harry's friends—sick, but he knows no one will come looking for him until after suppertime. Dumbledore allows him this much freedom, if he uses it sparingly. "Did I ask you to tell me?"
There's something arch about his voice. The tone is assured and even amused and nothing like how Harry's voice should sound like. But it makes Draco look at him again, eyes far too close and far too wide, his body limp against Harry's, and it makes Draco's voice go breathy: "No. You didn't."
"Well, then. Nothing to worry about."