Harry wondered if he was getting too comfortable.

Where he was sitting now, in a little burrow surrounded by the plants in the courtyard, he couldn't see the fountain or the tree, and could barely make out the walls of the house through the thick tangle of bush and weeds. Lying back, all he could see was the canopy of the tree and the cloudless night sky, flecked with stars. Beneath him, his shirt cushioned the ground.

When Malfoy wasn't around, it was kind of okay. It was better than the Leaky Cauldron, anyway. It was nice to be alone sometimes.

Harry hadn't seen Malfoy at all that day, or his mother. He hadn't heard or seen anyone, not even a house elf, since the argument with Draco the morning before.

Harry was still bitter about the latest Prophet article. His own angry face shouted at him, a memory of the paper's cover. He blinked it away.

"How could they possibly think..." he mumbled aloud, trailing off. The conflict today had been internal, but damaging – from feeling angry to guilty, depressed to afraid, he'd spent all day anxiously trying to think - and then not think - about it. Was it his duty to save everyone? Of course not. Could he make a difference? He wasn't sure.

When all this blew over - if he ever got out of Malfoy Manor - he'd train to be an Auror. He'd learn how to handle these situations properly. He'd learn how it fight - and protect people - properly.

Assuming he could. Maybe he'd have to go back to Hogwarts. That might be okay too; it could be less stressful than tacking an adult world right now.

The garden helped with Harry's anxiety. Here he had found something genuinely distracting. He closed his eyes to see fiery red hair and an intelligent, knowing smile; freckles and warm eyes. What would Ginny be doing now? It wasn't an entirely happy thought, but it was comforting to have something new to dwell on. He wondered if she'd be going back to school in September. The idea of her being away from her muggle for so long made him smile. And the idea that he might be there too...

Something sounded nearby – the cracking of a twig and the shuffling through the grass. Uneven breathing, heavy then light. Fast, and then slow. A sniffle, a stumble, followed shortly by a gasp. Harry didn't have time to properly register any of this before something hard scuffed against his side, and something tall and angled topped over him and hit the ground hard.

There wasn't any swearing, or scrambling of feet - no rude accusations or snide remarks. A pair of bare ankles and legs in cotton trousers, uneven over Harry's stomach, led to the torso of Malfoy. He held himself up with one arm, the rest of his weight on his knees in the dirt. His eyes were wide and he looked back at Harry, blinking slowly.

Harry was just as slow in acting. "What are you doing?"

The small weight of Malfoy's feet shifted as Malfoy, finally reacting, cursed and twisted, pulling himself away and taking a deep breath.

"Potter," accused Malfoy. The tone surprised Harry – it wasn't an angry accusation.

It was then that Harry noticed Malfoy's damp face and red eyes. The small hollow in the flowers suddenly felt much smaller than it really was. Harry, confused, forced himself to look away.

"What kind of idiot walks through the flowerbeds of a garden in the middle of the night?" Harry muttered, embarrassed.

"This flower," said Malfoy. He held out a silver bud. "It's called - well, I can't remember what it's called in latin. But we call it sollic."

"The drug?"

Malfoy picked a white flower and held them together.

"When mixed with wilderflower."

Malfoy stood up to leave, and for some unexplained reason, Harry reached up and grabbed his hand. Even as he did it, he couldn't understand why. If anyone asked him later, he could have supplied a hundred excuses, but right now, he was at a loss.

Malfoy stood there, for a moment, looking down at Harry. He then dropped his gaze to their hands. Malfoy's hand was warm and smooth, but not soft. Harry wanted to trail his fingers down his palm, to rub that smoothness against his cheek. Harry's hand was larger, darker, and rougher. It was his own hand that evoked some kind of unexplained anger. He tightened his grip, feeling Malfoy stiffen, and hauled him back to ground.

"What the hell, Potter?" mumbled Malfoy, but he didn't sound angry.

Harry couldn't help but think that there was something appealing, something beautiful, in the way that their fingers were laced together.

"You drugged me," he said in dawning conclusion.

"I did not," said Malfoy, snatching his hand back. "I shouldn't have to put a sign up telling you to keep away from the flowers. It's not my fault you didn't pay attention in Herbology." Malfoy rearranged himself awkwardly next to Harry.

"I want to know why I'm here. Not here as in the garden, but here as in-"

"If you don't know yet," said Malfoy sighing, "you're an idiot."

"Are you okay?"

Malfoy brushed his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and lay down next to Harry. "I thought you stopped coming here."

"Have you been following me?"

"No," said Malfoy. He sounding frustrated. "I just wanted the garden back." Malfoy rubbed the petals and covered his face with his arm. "Sorry I didn't tell you. I thought that's why you came."

Harry realised he was talking about the flowers. He'd noticed a few days ago - the unusual drunken effects the garden had on him - but as soon as he passed through the door and went back inside, they vanished. He'd just assumed the garden was enchanted. To be more relaxing, or something.

"I really don't understand you, Malfoy," said Harry, looking down at him and cocking his head. It was no wonder so many people wanted to learn occlumency these days. Malfoy sniffed.

"Not many people do," he said.

Harry lent back, although he didn't lie back – he didn't want to get too comfortable with Malfoy. Malfoy's arm was already pressed up against his, and the closeness was too comfortable already. Absurdly, Harry felt his cheeks heating up, and he scrabbled around for more conversation.

"It's a nice...sky. Er, evening." Harry cleared his throat, and blushed further. He suddenly wished it was darker.

Malfoy snorted. "Yes, Potter. It's a nice night."

"How's your mother?"

"Don't pretend to care now."

"Why do you do this, Malfoy?" Harry took the flower from Malfoy's fingers. "Why do you hide behind- behind your sarcasm and bitterness? I know you can be a decent person. I've seen it." He thought of the few times he had seen Malfoy weak, afraid, and lonely. Did Malfoy have to be thoroughly upset to seem human? What he said next surprised himself. "We could be friends if you weren't such a jerk."

"Touching, Potter."

"See, you're doing it now! You're refusing to let me understand you." Harry tossed the flower away, then picked another one. He wanted to be angry, but the garden wouldn't let him.

"What would you like to know?" Malfoy rolled over onto his side, moving his arm away. Harry swallowed a bit too loudly.

"Why are you upset?" he scrambled. "Is your mother okay? I didn't think you cared that much about you dad, but..."

"I'm.. she's fine. She'll be fine." Malfoy sounded more like he was trying to convince himself, than Harry.

"What's wrong with her?" asked Harry, but Malfoy just shrugged.

"Well, er... have you heard from your father?" Harry wasn't sure if they were allowed to send letters from Azkaban.

Malfoy laughed dryly. "Potter, I'm giving you free reign to ask anything about me that you'd like. Take advantage of it."

"You want me to take advantage of you?" What had gotten into him?

"Don't put it into words." Malfoy smiled, and shut his eyes again. "Isn't there anything you'd like to know, Potter?"

Harry nodded slowly. There was one thing.

"What's going on with the Death Eaters?" Harry held his breath after asking, but Malfoy just laughed again, shaking his head.

"I don't know. How would I know. We've cut ourselves off. Mother doesn't want me to be involved any more. And the Ministry's keeping tabs on us."

Harry felt strangely relieved.

"Did... do you want to be involved?"

"I did," Malfoy admitted slowly. "I mean, not at first, and not heavily. But I don't know anything else."

Harry wasn't sure if it were the flowers or the sleepiness, but he found himself understanding. Kind of. He knew what it was like to only know one existance. How hard it was for everything in your life to change, for your purpose to vanish around you.

"Favorite color?" he asked finally.

Malfoy snorted. "Green, Potter."

"What do you think of me?"

Malfoy opened his mouth right away – to say something rude, probably - before brushing it off and smirking. He sat up and studied Harry's face.

"I think," said Malfoy eventually, "that you're arrogant and loud. You're short, and your temper isn't very attractive either. Your hair is messy. Your eyebrows are too thick, and your skin is too dark. You have an unhealthy obsession with saving people - a hero comeplex - and I don't think you really do it for them. You're just as selfish as I am. But," and here Malfoy paused for long enough for Harry to digest it.

"But what?"

"You're beautiful and I hate it."

Harry had a chance - a moment - before Malfoy's lips were pressed against his. Harry could have reacted, but he didn't. He fell back, and Malfoy fell with him. He didn't kiss back, but gently pushed Malfoy away. He knew it was the flowers. He knew they'd been there too long, surrounded by the thick scents of wilderflower and sollic.

Stumbling, Harry got up and walked away, leaving Malfoy alone, sprawled in the garden. Harry heard him laugh, and then groan, as he passed through the door and left the effects of the flowers behind him.