Chapter 3

By three weeks into term, routine had firmly settled. It was no less manic, and Harry was realising more and more each day just what an impact a year of listless hiding and running did to his education. He'd never really cared about his grades, but that was before. That was when fighting, defeating, and surviving Voldemort came first and school second. He hadn't realised just how firmly he'd subconsciously placed everything else on the sidelines until it was pushed to the forefront.

Harry wasn't smart. Not for books, and not for studying. He knew that, which made keeping up and fixing what a necessary absence had created all the harder. Even so, he could do without Hermione's incessant sighs and reminders that they should "really knuckle down and study a little more". It was even more tiresome when Harry was doing as much knuckling down as he knew how.

Luckily for Harry, Ron took up the mantle of arguing for the both of them.

"Look, it's not like I'm not trying, Hermione," Ron was saying as they stepped into the shadowed depths of their Potions classroom. Even Slughorn's placement of two whole years couldn't chase away the dampening aura of the place. "I just suck at studying."

"That may be," Hermione began.

"It's 'cause I'm dumb."

Hermione cuffed Ron lightly on the back of the head. "You are not dumb. Don't you dare say that. You're one of the smartest people I know, even if you're not good at studying."

Ron grumbled something under his breath, but he didn't argue the point further. If anything, Harry thought he seemed rather pleased by her scolding; the tips of his ears turned pink, and though he still scowled, it looked a little softer around the edges than it had been.

They're still dancing around each other, Harry thought with a mental roll of his eyes. While he and Ginny might not be crossing the bridge to get back together – a possibility less and less likely every day and something Harry was growing increasingly fine with – others weren't. Ron and Hermione clearly didn't know how to handle themselves or each other, but there was still something there. Definitely.

Following in their wake, Harry dropped his books onto the desk and glanced briefly around the room. It was already half-full, and Slughorn sat on his usual perch at the front desk, leaning back in his chair with hands clasped across his belly and fingers tapping one another. When Harry met his gaze, he smiled placidly and tipped his head towards him in a slight bow as he did every time they saw one another.

He wasn't the only one, and Harry doubted it would ever not feel disconcerting. That hint of respect, that recognition, was unasked for and excessive in his opinion, but no one seemed inclined to slow in their modest displays of gratitude. Before he'd come back to school, Harry could barely walk down the street without been assaulted by handshakes, bowing heads, and whispers in tones hissing with awe.

It was downright uncomfortable and half of the reason that Harry had returned to school at all. Maybe more than half, even. At least most people at Hogwarts had been through the Battle too. They still saw him as the person he'd been before Voldemort's defeat – or mostly did. People like Slughorn, like the wide-eyed first years, and a speckling of other students didn't seem quite capable of that.

Dropping into his chair, Harry folded his arms across the desk and propped his chin onto his forearms. He absently scanned the room, watching as more students entered and sought their own seats, barely listening to the not-fight that Ron and Hermione were still holding. Across the room, in their usual seats despite the disregard for old house divisions, the three Slytherins that took Potions sat in silent company. Harry watched as Malfoy flipped through his textbook with none of the distractedness that Harry would have himself. When Malfoy did it he actually looked like he was reading.

Well, he always was good at Potions, Harry thought, noting with continuing absentmindedness that it didn't gnaw at him as it once would have to admit to one of Malfoy's better qualities. Just about every subject, actually. I know I beat him at Defence, but in everything else… he was always up there with Hermione.

It wasn't the first time Harry had found himself watching Malfoy from across the room. In the Great Hall, across the Dragon's Nest common room, in class – he didn't know why, but curiosity niggled at him. Malfoy was a mystery, and not only because he was different to how he'd been months before. There was the fact that he only really spoke to his fellow ex-Slytherins unless someone spoke to him first, but in those instances he always replied neutrally enough, if with as few words as possible. That he didn't seem too fond of picking fights anymore – or at all, as it were, which Harry was silently grateful for. He didn't know if he'd be up to maintaining that level of animosity either.

Malfoy didn't sneer at Ron, or look down his nose at Hermione with mutters of "Mudblood" slipping through his twisted lips whenever they were close enough for her to hear. He didn't hold his head high with his old aloof arrogance, and Harry had noticed a distinct lack of peacock-strutting of late. Granted, being accused of standing on the wrong side of the war, not to mention losing both his parents to incarceration in quick succession, had to have a significant impact on anyone, but… still. Harry hadn't expected it. Not really.

And then there was the Thing. The Thing that Harry didn't know what to call. The Thing that had only happened once – or twice, if he counted his drunken stumble – but that still played upon Harry's mind whenever he stepped into the Great Hall. McGonagall had made good her agreement and extended the Little Head Table and its benches, so the crammed-like-sardines-in-a-can effect was erased, but sometimes Harry could still feel it.

The comfortable warmth of someone so close. The weight of someone sitting behind him, around him, even if it was an offhanded and unwanted proximity on Malfoy's part. The gentle shift of a body against him, the nudge of arms accidentally brushing, the automatic adjustment to compensate for movement – it was something that took up far more of Harry's mind than it should have. Far more than he really wanted, too.

Was he that touch starved? Hermione had said something to that effect a long time ago when she'd been made aware of the tip of the iceberg of Harry's life with the Dursleys. "It's understandable, really," she'd said, looping an arm around his shoulders that had felt as dutiful as it was comforting. "Giving hugs, comforting with a hug or a handhold, touching –"

"Touching?"

"You know what I mean. It's nice. It feels good." She'd smiled a little self-deprecatingly, and Harry hadn't known why until she shrugged awkwardly and continued. "As you can probably tell, it's not exactly the most comfortable thing for me specifically, but for everyone else? Did you know that scientists suspect the effect of physical contact actually has significant beneficial physiological effects? I was reading this paper a few months ago…"

Harry had never thought about it like that. Touching. Just touching, and not necessarily in the way that immediately sprang to mind when the word was mentioned. When he really thought about it, though… Yes, Harry supposed he did like it. It felt awkward, and he sometimes didn't know if he was doing it right, or for too long, or – or if maybe it was annoying to other people, but holding Ginny's hand? When they'd sat against one another, Ginny leaning into his shoulder, of between his own legs and reclining against his chest?

It felt nice. Good. Warm, and comfortable, and somehow fragile, as if moving too fast or shifting in the wrong way would shatter it instantly. Truthfully, Harry had never thought of it in so many words even when Hermione had explained her opinion years before, but it rose in his memory when he contemplated Malfoy.

Sitting with – no, on – Malfoy was weird. Weird because Malfoy hadn't immediately protested, but also because it felt nice. Because Harry didn't like Malfoy. He really didn't hate him anymore, but that was different to liking. But it was… comfortable to sit on his knee, to curl up on his lap, to lean 'accidentally' against him when Malfoy leaned forwards and around him to reach for his glass of pumpkin juice.

Maybe Harry was the weird one. Maybe there was something wrong with him. What kind of a person even considered doing such a thing with a classmate, let alone an old schoolyard rival?

Apparently Harry. Harry did. Yes, he was definitely weird.

"Is that everyone?"

Slughorn's voice interrupted Harry's absent staring and, shaking himself, he straightened from his slouch. Slughorn had hauled himself to his feet to totter across the room, planting himself before the blackboard with hands clasped behind his back. After a moment of silence, he nodded to himself and continued.

"Right-o, so the research report that I mentioned on Monday – we'll be beginning that today." Gesturing to a standing table positioned along the side of the room, a table Harry had barely noticed when he'd entered, he beamed at the class. "Samples are one to a pair. I need a full analysis of the ingredients within the sample, but independent fifty-inch reports from the both of you. The proceeding potion you'll be brewing between you, though – that will be a joint effort. Understood?"

A research report. Ingredient analysis. Wonderful. Harry had almost forgotten Slughorn had mentioned it earlier in the week. Slumping back onto his folded arms, Harry glanced sideways as Hermione's hand predictably shot into the air.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" Slughorn asked.

"Will the samples be of a seventh-year composition calibre, or are they limited in intensity and complexity given the analysing basis of the report?"

"Are you asking for specifics, Granger?"

"A ballpark would be good enough. Just a vague direction so we can work out it we need to do a Lunar Analysis for the higher-grade potions and have to time it, or…"

She continued, speaking at such a clipped, rapid rate that most of her words went over Harry's head. He exchanged a glance with Ron around her, though Ron was smiling with smirking fondness. Harry shook his head to himself. Ron really had become quite smitten. He should make his feelings known already. Honestly, it was almost embarrassing to watch.

When Hermione had exhausted her questions – for she was the only one organised enough to have the forethought – Slughorn swept a gaze over the room and nodded, his satisfied smile returning. "Alright, then," he said. "Off you go. Numbers are even, so partnership should be easy enough. I would prefer groups of mixed competency, if you would, but…"

He trailed off with a slight shrug before turning back to his desk. He was settled and leaning backwards, hands refolded across his belly, before most of the class had even risen to their feet.

Harry was a little slower to climb towards his own than Hermione and Ron alongside him. So that was why he'd pushed thought of the research report to the back of his mind. Shrugging his resignation aside, he met the twin gazes of his friends who in turn eyed him with matching frowns.

"You two are together, I take it?" he asked.

Ron glanced at Hermione, shifting between his feet, and Hermione opened her mouth to reply but took a huffing pause before speaking. "We could… work something out between us." She glanced at Ron in return. "I mean, if you two wanted to -?"

"Don't worry about it." Harry piled his discarded books together and slung his bag over his shoulder. He spared them both a smile. "Catch you after class, 'kay?"

He didn't glance over his shoulder again as he crossed the room. He didn't really want to see the pity that would be painting their faces, Hermione's tinged with concern and Ron's with guilt. It was far from being the first time they'd had to divide their trio, but it had always been Harry and Ron working together.

He wouldn't do that to them. Not now, when they were both so fumbling and awkwardly struggling to cleave together without tripping over their own feet.

That Harry found his own feet leading him to the Slytherin table was only partially surprising. The numbers worked out, after all, and when he considered the class as a whole… the ex-Slytherins weren't ostracised anymore, or at least no more than they afflicted upon themselves, but wariness and awkwardness still radiated from their corner of the room. Harry had already crossed the dividing line a handful of times that year, spoken up when he could even if he didn't really want to, if only to set an example for others to follow. It was a strange phenomenon, but if he'd learned anything in the past few months it was that people watched him whether he wanted them to or not. They watched him and, sometimes, they even followed. He may as well make the most of the unwanted attention.

"Hey," he said by way of greeting, glancing between Malfoy, Parkinson, and Zabini. "You're stuck for numbers too?"

All three of them snapped their attention towards him, as blank-faced as one another. Or a little less blank-faced than they'd been three weeks before, he supposed. Parkinson's lips thinned slightly, tellingly, and Zabini cocked his head like a curious bird. Malfoy blinked hooded eyes, lips twitching briefly before he spoke.

"We are." He darted a glance over Harry's shoulder before resettling upon his Harry. "Would you care to pair with one of us?"

Harry shrugged, adjusting the books in his arms. "Whoever's fine. It's just a project, right?"

"Right," Malfoy said quietly.

"It doesn't matter who, but fair warning, I suck at Potions."

Unexpectedly, Zabini uttered a bark of laughter. He clamped a hand over his mouth immediately as both Parkinson and Malfoy snapped their gazes towards. Zabini didn't seem to care but to flick them both a glance before eyeing Harry once more. "Yeah, we know," he said. "You took remedial Potions in fifth year, didn't you?"

A flicker of annoyance fluttered to life within Harry, and a snapping retort rose upon his tongue. He brushed it aside with surprisingly little effort and shrugged again. "I didn't, actually."

"You -?"

"Snape was trying to teach me Occlumency. It didn't stick 'cause he was as shit at teaching it as he was Potions, but whatever. No disrespecting the dead or anything. I'm sure he was a great bloke."

For one suspended moment, the class swirling around their frozen quartet as everyone made their way to the samples table, no one spoke. Then Parkinson snorted, Zabini snickered, and Malfoy cleared his throat.

"Right," Malfoy said. "Of course. I suppose that makes… sense."

"If you'd like," Harry said, brushing the revelation aside with more casualness than he felt. "I still suck at Potions, though."

"Except in sixth year."

"Huh?"

Malfoy raised his gaze towards him, returned to its hooded detachedness. "Sixth year. You weren't quite so appalling."

It was such a backhanded compliment that Harry almost thought it was a criticism. He found himself swallowing a smile a moment later, however; Malfoy was still a bit of a prat, it seemed. "Didn't think you noticed."

Malfoy cleared his throat again. Dropping his gaze, he gathered his own books and rose to his feet. "Yes, well. "He threw a glance sideways, then over his shoulder. "Shall we use the back table, then? There's not really enough space for two to work at this bench."

Shrugging, nodding, Harry stepped past him and led the way to the back of the room. There were more than enough spare tables, but Harry had always preferred the far back. Only Hermione's insistence had them constantly at the very front, after all.

They made short work of setting up, unexpectedly efficient as Harry lifted one of the ancient microscopes from under the table and got to work setting it up while Malfoy retrieved their sample. Harry almost expected them to dissolve into an argument, even with Malfoy's quietness and Harry's disregard for arguing these days, but they didn't. Within moments, Malfoy was smearing a transparent dish with a gelatinous scoop of their sample and sidling up to the illuminated microscope.

It wasn't the first potions analysis they'd done. Granted, Harry hadn't ever taken a look at one and really paid attention to what he was doing, and with a year between himself and his last real Potions experiment he was more than a little rusty. But Malfoy clearly knew what he was doing, and as he settled himself atop the stool, scooting up to the microscope and murmuring a vaguely suggestive "you can start looking for potions with peppermint essence, if you want. I can smell it" he got to work.

Harry watched him for a moment. A long moment, in which Malfoy seemed nothing if not entirely oblivious to being observed. Then Harry drew his gaze around the room instead, noting the huddles of pairs. He spared a glance for Ron and Hermione where they looked like they were already arguing about something, before turning back to his desk. Reading. It wasn't his forte, and was far from being his preferred method of learning, but he tugged his textbook towards himself nonetheless. Hermione's nagging had always been more annoying than anything, but he thought he might actually listen to her instruction in this instance.

The class buzzed at a muted volume around him. The clatter of vials, the shuffle of feet, the murmur of voices, mostly bored and mostly raised in questioning speculation. Elbows propped on the table on either side of his open textbook, cradling his head in a hand, Harry flicked through the pages. He scanned briefly through each ingredient's list and dog-earing those Malfoy's brief mention had deemed relevant. He'd never noticed how many potions contained peppermint essence before.

It was mind-numbing work, but short and simple. By the time Harry reached the end of the textbook, over two dozen potions were tagged and the class buzz had settled into mellow distractedness. Voices ebbed and flowed, and a glance around the room again found more than a few clearly caught up in conversation not of the studious kind. Ron was leaning with his back against the desk, rocking on his chair, while Hermione peered through their microscope, but they appeared to be chatting too. As he watched, far from arguing anymore, Hermione said something and Ron grinned goofily.

Glancing aside, Harry settled his gaze back upon Malfoy. He'd hardly moved since he'd begun his study through the lens, but he'd produced a minute spatula from somewhere, held a probe in his other hand, and was prodding at the congealed slime on the dish before him. Harry spared the potion smear a brief glance, the congealed mass of faintly metallic purple barely visible, before resettling on Malfoy once more.

It was strange, in a way, to see him without the familiar film of loathing. It had been a long time since he'd hated him, Harry knew, but the first time he'd properly looked. Malfoy sat with back straight and his head slightly bowed, utterly focused. Faint spots of pink were the only colour in his cheeks, and Harry could make out the edge of a frown tugging his eyebrows downward, his lips along with them, though he didn't seem angry. Not even annoyed. Rather, even as Harry watched, he drew away from the microscope with a soft harrumph Harry wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been standing an arm's length away.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

Malfoy twitched. Any other year, any other day, even, Harry might have thought it was with a knee-jerk flinch of distaste, a recoil from Harry's very voice. For whatever reason, however, Harry didn't think that was it this time. Rather, Malfoy turned from the microscope and regarded him for a moment before answering.

"Do you actually want to know?" he asked.

Harry frowned. "Do I… want to know what the potion is, you mean?"

Malfoy frowned a little himself. He glanced back to the microscope, shifted slightly in his seat, then raised his hand in that fluttering, disregarding wave Harry had seen from him before. It was characteristic enough of his old prat-ish self that Harry had to bite back a smirk.

"Sure," Malfoy said. "If you'd like. I just figured you wouldn't really care to participate."

Harry frowned again. "Why? It's our project."

"You never used to work in Potions when you could help it."

Frown deepening, Harry pushed himself up from his seat and folded his arms instead across his chest. Malfoy might be correct in saying that, but it was still a little vexing to hear the assumption made. Even more so when Harry had decided that, for the first time in his student life, he was actually going to make an attempt to study properly.

Stepping towards Malfoy, Harry sidled into the narrow space between his stool and the desk and, almost before he realised he was doing it, perched on the edge of Malfoy's knees. Wrapping a hand around the microscope, he leaned over the lens and peered through, stalwartly ignoring Draco's rigid silence behind him.

Not that the silence lasted long. They were a little removed from the rest of the class, positioned as they were at the back of the room, but Malfoy still lowered his voice when he spoke. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Looking at the sample," Harry said, squinting slightly at the smear. He hadn't any particular skill for eyeballing potions, but it was certainly more enjoyable – and more comprehensible – than reading endless pages of notes from long-dead potioneers. Not that he was really focusing upon the potion, the little flecks of black, the slight film that gave it the metallic sheen. Maybe it had been presumptuous – no, it was definitely presumptuous – but Harry couldn't help but take the opportunity that didn't quite present itself but was enabled nonetheless. Not when a trickle of ease, an awareness of the warmth beneath him and behind him, seemed to tiptoe through him by such a simple act in a way entirely too apparent to him.

There was definitely something weird about him. Definitely.

"That's not what I meant," Malfoy said, the added and you know it heard but not spoken.

Half-glancing over his shoulder, swallowing down a flicker of embarrassment and ignoring the similar flicker of warmth that touched his cheeks, Harry shrugged. "Does it bother you? I'll move if it does, but I figured…"

Malfoy didn't say anything. He took a breath, Harry knew, he felt it, but he didn't speak. Harry waited a beat, then two, and finally turned back to studying the sample.

I'm an idiot, he thought, even as he attempted to distract himself by properly working. What the hell am I doing? Why do I…? He gave a mental shake of his head, settled himself a little more comfortably in his seat that Malfoy hadn't yet tossed him off, and readjusted his hold on the microscope. Only to freeze at the unexpected warmth of Malfoy's chest as it brushed against his back, the hyperawareness of his arm reaching around Harry with probe extended to prod at the smear.

"I think it's probably looking like an acid-based substance, though I'd have to check with an indicator first. You can see around the edges. See?"

"Mm," Harry hummed, resisting the urge to lean back a little. Hermione's theory was growing more likely by the second. Maybe he was just critically touch-starved.

"What did you turn up in the textbook?"

Harry shifted slightly again, brushing against Malfoy once more and just as resolutely ignoring the little flicker of warmth that settled in his belly this time. "You're actually asking me that?"

"What? Asking you -?"

"Nothing." From his periphery, Harry could make out Malfoy's face, his head tipped forward slightly to peer over Harry's shoulder. "I just expected you to give me a redundant job or something and do all the work yourself."

Malfoy didn't turn his head, but Harry could feel him glance at him sidelong. "You were going to mooch off me?"

"No. I just expected you to think I would."

"Are you going to?"

"I just said I'm not."

Malfoy grunted. "Then don't expect me to expect it. Idiot."

Turning his head slowly, Harry just as slowly raised his eyebrows. "Excuse the fuck me?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. The gesture was so unexpected, so unseen of him that year until that moment, that Harry almost started. "Whatever. Look, are we going to actually do some work, or not?"

Harry stared at him a moment longer. Malfoy stared right back, probe raised expectantly. A moment of stasis passed, the mutters of the rest of the class the only interruption. Then Harry snorted, shook his head, and turned back to the microscope. "Whatever. Prat."

"You're the prat. Make sure you pull your weight, you tosser."

"I was intending to." Harry shuffled back a little in Malfoy's lap. "Git."

"Asshole."

"Wanker."

"Dumbass."

Harry snorted again. "Yeah, well, you're the one who has to work with me, so joke's on you."

Malfoy didn't reply to that, so Harry took it as a win. He didn't speak after that either, simply waiting as Harry leaned back over the microscope lens. He didn't dump Harry onto the floor, however; if anything, his shuffling shift on the stool made Harry's seat a little more comfortable.

What was even more comfortable was when Malfoy hooked his arms around him to better reach the microscope. He began poking and prodding, using the probe and miniature spatula to gesticulate, as he muttered speculations in Harry's ear, and Harry tried to listen. He did. It was even a little bit interesting, he supposed. It was just…

Too comfortable. Warm, and close, and comfortable. Yes, Harry thought there was something definitely strange about him. Blessedly enough, Malfoy didn't seem to hate him enough anymore to do anything about it.