Of all the possible repercussions, Harry never dreams that he'll give Malfoy back his fire.
It isn't his first thought, or even his third—but by lunch time, it's all Harry can think about. He spends his morning in a daze, ignoring Hermione's repeated queries as to where he'd been the night before. He can't tell her, not when morning's light brings a host of doubts and uncertainties. This is Draco Malfoy, the boy who'd spent the last five years making Harry's life miserable in ways adults couldn't. The son of Voldemort's most powerful supporter, put into Azkaban by Harry himself. Even if it's believable that he'd switched sides—and now that the moonlight is gone, it isn't—Harry is the last person he'd tell. Malfoy is too prideful to allow his rival such power over him, so it has to be something else. It has to be. Filled with doubts and second-guesses, Harry enters the Great Hall certain that Malfoy will do something to make Harry hurt.
He doesn't.
Instead, he does something much worse.
Harry watches, wide-eyed and stunned, as the true Draco Malfoy reappears. No mention is made of last night's conversation and Harry himself is never a target—but everyone else is. Malfoy is effervescent in his cruelty, the sincerity missing all term now dripping from each hateful taunt. No one is safe, not even the Slytherin first years who are reprimanded for not doing their part. He attacks until finally McGonagall orders him to stop, and then Malfoy aims sneers and glaring, silent smirks until a first year Hufflepuff looks as though she's about to cry. It's breathtaking, really, the differences Harry has noted now glaringly obvious for everyone to see. All of Hogwarts seems stunned, even the Gryffindors unable to defend themselves as the rug beneath their collective feet is yanked out.
Harry isn't stunned. Harry is hurt. He shouldn't be, but no matter how he tries to convince himself that last night was a fluke or a trick, a traitorous part of him still wants friendship. He doesn't want to be hated or called a rival, particularly from someone who'd made that decision without ever really knowing who Harry is. To be offered a chance to at least put the enmity behind them—Harry wants that, and to have it be so utterly denied hurts him.
As they leave for their afternoon classes, Malfoy meets Harry's eyes for the first time—and that's when Harry starts believing that he is responsible for Malfoy's returned fervor. There's something inside Draco's cold grey eyes that says You. You did this. It's your fault. Hermione would say this is nonsense and Harry takes on too much guilt over things he cannot control. But Harry does not tell Hermione anything as she speculates over Malfoy's performance. He only thinks it, hating that he's caused his friends yet more pain.
Malfoy loses none of his momentum throughout the day. He's vicious again, terrorizing the first years, while that familiar drawl sends the older students into tense rages. His pranks, never as effective as the rest of the Slytherins have always prided themselves for, become down right devious. Even Snape seems to despair of ever teaching a lesson without interruption, though he takes barely ten points off Slytherin during the whole week, while docking Harry fifteen his first day back.
This is what he gets, Harry tells himself bitterly, staring at carvings not quite removed from his desk. This is what happens whenever he tries to touch someone. Either he hurts them, and the list of those Harry's hurt or worse flows through his mind with practiced self-loathing—or they hurt him. Because Harry liked touching Malfoy like that, enjoying the way his hand had been so limp in Harry's, trusting that Harry wouldn't hurt him. It hadn't been sexual, then. Harry doesn't have a word for what it was, outside where Malfoy's voice had been soft and free of arrogance. At night, though, that casual exploration becomes something different, bleeding into dreams of locks burnished silver by moonlight, rings that seem to glow when he touches them, and Harry almost always wakes up sticky.
For one day, he sulks, hurt and trying not to feel betrayed that a Malfoy has been a Malfoy, like the scorpion who can't help but sting his ride, even when he's in the middle of a river and will certainly drown. He should knowbetter—and actually, he does know better. That thought pulls him up short, breaking his upset to trigger habits he spent a great deal of time forming over the summer. He starts thinking again, realizing that of all people, Malfoy is the least trustworthy of any Harry's ever met. Yet Harry had trusted him that night. He'd ...felt something. A sense of connection that Harry realizes he craves, desperately. He wants that Draco, who is not an enemy and might be a friend. The one that understands certain things, breaking through Harry's self-imposed isolation so effortlessly.
The one whose skin felt warm and smooth against Harry's fingers.
Harry knows his sanity is less than steady, but he doesn't think he hallucinated everything. There has to be a reason for it—and another reason as to why it's helped Malfoy revert back to type so soon afterward. So he stops. He stops simply feeling—betrayal and lost and hurt so deep he can't sense the bottom of it---and starts looking. Watching. Listening. Not making assumptions. He keeps his mind blank for two solid days, spending every moment he can watching Draco Malfoy—and comes to two very startling conclusions.
The first is that, again, Malfoy only plays when there are others to watch, particularly members of his own house. He is clearly posturing for his housemates, but more subtly than before. He isn't going through the motions. This is Malfoy at his most winning, as far as the Slytherins are concerned. Which is why whenever things are peaceful—or as peaceful as a school full of noisy, boisterous children ever really can be—Malfoy is aloof and arrogant in his reserve.
The second thing Harry notices is that Malfoy's jabs and pranks are always timed very, very carefully. Almost surgically precise, really, and so calculated that Harry wonders why no one else—not even the professors—sees it.
Hogwarts isn't really under siege, but sometimes it feels that way. On Saturday, two days after his conversation with Draco, it's leaked that there's been a major attack. It's probably the first open attack of the War, though not the first blood spilled. The victims are three muggle families—parents and young children and even a grandmother—their bloodless bodies laid out in arcane symbols. Hermione says the muggle press is calling it Satanic, the skin around her mouth tight and tinged with green for days. She studies book after book and repeatedly asks him if Dumbledore has said anything, but Harry has no information for her. Dumbledore probably does know what the killings mean, which spells Voldemort has used—but Harry doesn't ask. He hates being in the dark, especially when his ignorance is due to adults who want to 'protect' him, but he doesn't want to know this. He doesn't want Hermione to know, either. She's already frightened enough.
The rumors over the weekend and then the Daily Prophet's reluctant confirmation on Monday send a shockwave through the school. For all that they all believed that Voldemort is back, badder than ever, this is the first time it's real. Not just whispers from their parents or unconfirmed rumors that every knows are always an exaggeration. This is bodies lying cold on a slab somewhere. Muggle bodies, yes, and many of purebloods—from all four houses, interestingly enough—are disdainful because of it. But there are too many children of muggles in Hogwarts for it to be dismissed. To many children worried that their parents might be next.
The professors do what they can to help, but most students don't know how to handle themselves. Many become despondent, locked in their own fearful world and violently shunning any attempts to draw them out. Girls tend to burst into tears at random moments, while the boys, those not curled into turtle-like denial, snap and snarl at each other uselessly. Adrenaline is pumping hard through all of them, and only a few—Harry and his friends in particular—know how to channel that energy before it drives them mad.
D.A practices continue. Meetings are usually silent and grim, spells flaring in truer, more brilliant colors as their fear gives them strength.
Harry's never been particularly anonymous at Hogwarts. He's been loathed and loved, sneered at and honored, but he's never really been wanted before. Not with the anxious, childlike desperation for the Boy Who Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, who has to do so again. It's horrible. Half the school watches him anxiously, afraid to come near him, but afraid to go for too long without confirming that he's still there. Sometimes students run up to him and touch him—for luck, a few tell him, blushing. Others approach with offers of advise or, worse, requests for reassurance. It's particularly bad with the first years, who walk around in a wide-eyed state of perpetual fear. They look to him for safety. Not their professors, but Harry Potter.
The mountain of mail he gets and refuses to read only makes it worse.
Harry ignores it as best he can, but it's hard. He's not a savior or a hero, though telling people that is futile. He's just a boy who has a little bit of Fate mucking up his life, and parents who were willing to die for him. It's not a prize every kid should beg their mum for, really.
He stops responding to almost everyone except his Gryffindor mates and his teachers. It's easier being thought of as an arsehole, either annoying or disappointing his public, rather than the triumphant hero just biding his time, promising that everything will be fine. It isn't fine, and it won't be. People are going to die, people are going to get hurt, and there's nothing anyone can do about it—that's what war means. So Harry finds corners to sit in, staring pointedly at people who get too close—and thinks that maybe he's starting to understand the method to Draco Malfoy's madness.
It isn't a particularly nice method, Harry acknowledges. Some moderation or more careful choosing of targets couldn't hurt, but Harry's fairly certain that Draco—and it's Draco again—can't use moderation or subtlety at the moment. He's too terrified. The difference between Draco and the rest of the students, however, is that Draco knows what he's frightened of. Like Harry, he's not afraid of You-Know-Who, the nameless specter that's treated like some kind of ultimate boggart.
Draco is scared of Voldemort.
It's an odd feeling, knowing that not even Ron and Hermione truly understand the way Draco does.
They have Care of Magical Creatures that morning, held near the front doors of the castle in a tacit effort to reassure the students that they're still safe. Harry is leaning against the wall, his expression sullen and forbidding to keep anyone but Ron or Hermione away, and he avidly watches as Draco works. He's a master at provocation and cruelty—although Harry doesn't think going after Parvati is a wise choice. She's the worst of the criers, and has only stopped hiccuping an hour before. Harry doesn't understand how she has any tears left, after silently crying for days on end, but each day dawns with reddened eyes that are glassy and thick with yet more.
But she doesn't start weeping again, this time, and neither do any of the other girls. Draco needles and insults, careful to keep to just-this-side of reasonable, until the girls are so angry that there are no tears in their eyes at all, too busy glaring at Draco and the Slytherins following his lead. Parvati starts snapping back, the bite in her voice a welcome change from the whimpering quaver it's been, and a few of the other girls join her after a moment. Their cheeks are all red, now, their spines straight again—Lavender even begins surreptitiously straightening her hair, finger-combing lanks of it that haven't been brushed in at least two days.
When he's gotten the Gryffindor girls out of their slump, all of them now trading jabs with an eager Pansy, Draco turns his attentions onto the boys. Harry is very impressed when he bypasses Ron and Seamus. They make much easier targets, both so full of frustration and fear and a burning need to act that they're moments from pummeling anyone unlucky enough to be in their way. They're also the more dangerous targets, as either could start the kind of brawl Harry is fairly certain that Draco is working to avoid. So Draco eyes them both, smirking, until they're bristling and growling—and then turns his attention to Neville Longbottom.
Neville is another that's changed a lot over the past summer. He still doesn't like fighting at all, but he's practiced until he's scarily good at it. The increased appreciation and praise—Harry lavishes it on him during D.A. meetings—has given Neville a boost of confidence and poise that makes most of Draco's taunting roll right off his back. Not all of it, of course. That doesn't suit Draco's purpose. But Draco has chosen Neville for a reason, and by the time Neville starts defending himself, all the Gryffindor boys have rallied around him as their leader—and Neville, who hates bullies almost as much as he hates being the center of attention, keeps them reigned in. He won't allow them to fight for him, something Draco has obviously banked on: just when it looks like Neville's losing control, Draco draws Hagrid's attention, his authority enough to quash the fight before it occurs.
By the end of Care of Magical Creatures, the sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins are acting almost normally. Angrily, but that's normal too. They are talking animatedly, tossing out insults that sound relieved to Harry's ear, as if they are grateful to be doing something that doesn't have to do with Voldemort or death. It's astonishing. In a good way.
"Harry, why are you grinning like that?" Hermione's tone isn't as accusatory as it probably should be, surprise adding shrillness.
He wonders just how pronounced a smirk he's currently wearing. "Nothing," he says, and turns the conversation to the upcoming test in Charms. Hermione isn't fooled—she knows him too well for that. But she knows he won't explain himself, either, and sighs as she lets herself be distracted.
Harry doesn't stop smiling, not even when Hermione dashes down the hall to help a first year pick themselves up after an instantly recognizable Malfoy Tripping Jinx.
He knows that he has no reason to feel so proud of Draco. It's not like they've made secret plans, working out just how annoying Draco can afford to be, and what lines he should never cross. Draco isn't doing this for Harry, after all. But Harry can't seem to stop himself from smiling at the oddest times, and it takes real effort not to send those beaming, grateful smiles Draco's way. He compensates by making sure he and Draco tussle together at least once a day.
He isn't quite sure who starts the first fight, or which body launches itself forward initially—just that his throat is raw from shouting and there is suddenly a bony shoulder pressed into his chest, twisting the skin painfully, while Draco pants into his face, eyes wild and rolling as they fall to the floor. It's loud and messy, that first time, with arms that swing too wide and bodies that shove together without any grace or control.
It's also magnificently fake.
"Finally," Draco whispers as they roll together, grinning as Harry looms over him. "Thought you'd never figure it out."
That almost shocks Harry out of his desire to fight—but as aggression leaves, something else fills its place. He doesn't understand it or recognize it, but it fills him up so completely that he can't resist it. He wants this. Wants the chance to press his body into Draco's, turning his laugh into a snarl. "Well, you're not very clever," Harry whispers back as he yanks Draco to his feet and prepares to toss him against the wall. "Or you would've picked actual hints."
Students circle around them, hollering, which prevents Draco's reply—that time. It becomes a game with them, how often can they sneak in bit of real conversation underneath the insults the others expect of them. Sometimes Draco adds instructions or warnings, but mostly they're gleefully taunting each other even as they tumble around in a mockery of the wrestling moves Dudley loved to watch and imitate. Harry loves it more than he thinks he probably should. It satisfies something inside him, and from the fierce way Draco grins, everyone else sure it is just another form of insult, he feels the same.
They hurt each other without meaning to, of course, but the bruises are usually minimal—they instinctively choose the widest hallways or most uncluttered rooms—and are useful in convincing their friends that the fights are real. Ron is delighted with him and it takes some fast talking on Harry's part to convince him and the other Gryffindors not to help him 'give it' to Malfoy. Hermione is thoroughly disapproving, which is useful as she stops watching Harry quite so much.
Oddly, it's Ginny who is the most speculative about the fights. Not because she doubts their sincerity, but because none of the teachers seem to be as upset as they should be.
"Don't you think it's off?" Ginny asks. It's nearly ten o'clock and the four of them plus Neville are lounging comfortably in front of the fire in the common room, books over their laps as they pretend to study. "Snape caught you that last time, didn't he?"
Harry nods, watching the way the flames flicker: yellow, then orange, then yellow, with only the barest hint of true red at the base. There's a bruise on the inside of his wrist, right where blue veins branch into three distinct directions. Harry absently rubs it, wondering vaguely why the skin doesn't feel soft enough or thin enough.
"Well, Snape usually bends your ears back for going after his precious Malfoy. How come you only got ten points and another week of detentions?
Ron waves that off. He's still grinning from ear to ear, but it's lost some of the maliciousness now that Draco isn't in front of him. "Oi, Ginny! Don't jinx it now, or Harry'll never get the chance to pound Malfoy's face again."
"Ron! Harry should not be fighting," Hermione says severely.
"Why, cause he could get in trouble? Ginny's right, the teachers are going easy on him. And don't pretend you weren't cheering with the rest of us when Harry gave him that black eye."
Ron's exuberance makes Harry feel slightly ill. He hadn't meant to hurt Draco that much, face and elbow colliding before either of them realized just where their limbs had landed. Next time, Harry decides, no more mud fighting, no matter how intriguing the thought of messing Draco's hair is. He wants to go up and see Draco in the infirmary so badly that he can hardly sit still in his chair. His thighs tense up with the need to go, go, go.
"That's not what I mean," Ginny insists, leaning forward so her hair tumbles down her cheeks, almost black in the firelight. "Shouldn't the professors be more upset that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are having fist-fights in the corridors? Just listen to it. Harry Potter caught in a fist fight. Multiple! It even sounds wrong, and all they're doing is giving minimum punishments and mostly ignoring it."
She's right, of course. Snape may seethe and grind his teeth when he sees bruises on Draco's pale skin and act even more vicious to Harry during potions, but the fights he disregards as much as possible. So does McGonagall, though Flitwick almost levitates himself, he's so angry when they disrupt the fourth year's charms class accidentally. His punishment is no worse than the others, though, and Harry realizes suddenly that the next few weeks are booked solidly with detentions.
Detentions to be administered by either Gryffindor's or Slytherin's head of house.
With Draco. Snape in particular is very vocal in reminding them of that, though McGonagall occasionally stresses it as well.
The fire pops, sending up a shower of sparks that makes Harry blink. He's not entirely certain he likes the professors arranging things quite so neatly, but he isn't disappointed by it. The dreams that started the first night after his conversation with Draco haven't left him yet. Every night, Harry experiences something that's disturbing because it's so very normal. Or at least as normal as he can ever get. His subconscious comes up with all kinds of things Harry wants to do to Draco: touch his hands again, reexamining each and every flaw until they're memorized; his arms and legs should be subjected to the same scrutiny and most especially his mouth. Harry wants Draco's mouth, though whether he wants to kiss it or just study it, he's honestly not certain.
Mostly, though, he just wants to talk to Draco. He wants to know that he's guessed right, that this really is all a plot to stop the students from worrying themselves over things they can't affect. That Draco really is the changed boy Harry remembers, one who understands Harry and wants to be understood in return. And that maybe, Draco enjoyed it when Harry examined his hands. Harry really wants to know that. He wants to know if Draco will let him do it again.
"Harry?" Ginny asks. "Do you think something, er, important's going on? About the detentions, I mean."
Yes, obviously, but Harry's suppositions aren't anything like what Ginny's nervously hinting at. "They've got other things to worry about," he says lazily. He's become a decent actor lately, something that doesn't make him very happy. "That's all. Maybe there's a touch of relief, too, you know. So long as Malfoy fixates on me, he's not making the other student's lives so bad."
"Hm. That does have some merit," Hermione says. "I was talking with Professor Vector yesterday about how the Slytherins seem to be taking a break. I haven't had a first year come to me crying in two whole days."
Because the Slytherins—or at least the ones who look to Draco—don't need to be so vile, not anymore. Life is resuming at Hogwarts, that first overwhelming aura of fear dissipating into the normal mixture of chaos and confusion. Everyone is still aware, of course, and frightened, but with the immediacy gone, no one needs the distractions as badly as before. Draco's plan—if it even was as thought out as Harry assumes—has worked brilliantly.
"See?" he says, faking a yawn. "That's all it is. Night, all, I'm for bed."
The others wave or mumble good night to him and he can hear them whispering to each other as he climbs the stairs to his dorm room. It's distressing to know that his best mates are talking about him—and he's certain they are—but Harry likes to think he's almost used to it by now. He can't do anything about it, so he ignores it. Or he tries to. Fortunately, he's got the perfect distraction as he stretches himself out on his bed, Seamus already snoring away in his. His first detention is scheduled for the day after next, so that's just two more days before he can finally see Draco again.