Blood

Harry did his best to disappear in the shadows as he pressed his back against the wall of the building that housed Hordin's Coffee Shop. Diagon Alley was alive with people, a crowd which was good for business but not much else. Even when a witch only glanced at him in passing, her eyes going over him without a hint of recognition, Harry flinched and ducked his head. He wished he'd brought his invisibility cloak.

He took a few steps to the side, attempting to be swallowed by the darkness of a side alley. He flattened his fringe over his scar, feeling horribly conspicuous, like there was a flashing sign over his head reading 'HARRY POTTER HERE, TAKE A PICTURE!' It was a relief when he finally saw an enormous shadow thrown onto the street as Hagrid came cheerfully walking up Diagon Alley, a broad grin on his face. Harry stepped forward and dared a little wave.

"Harry!" Hagrid exclaimed, too loudly, engulfing Harry in a huge, breath-stopping, chest-crushing hug that made him feel warm all over. "Been too long, too long, you know. Hogwrts isn't the same without you and Ron. Hermione comes to see me sometimes, but –" He released Harry; Harry took a deep breath – "I worry she's a bit lonely without you two."

Harry shrugged, uncomfortable. "Well, Hermione always liked school. And lots of people went back..." Like Ginny.

"I s'pose." Hagrid looked unconvinced, but mercifully he let the subject drop and jerked his thumb in the direction of the coffee shop. "You thirsty?"

"Yes," Harry said emphatically, though he wasn't really.

Inside the shop, a small, dark, damp little thing, Harry felt freed from the stares of passers-by. Though several people looked up when they entered, he felt their eyes settle on Hagrid, then glance away quickly as if embarrassed.

"So you're an Auror now," Hagrid said, beaming, oblivious to the looks he was getting. "Always knew you had it in you, Harry. Your dad would've made an excellent Auror, too."

"I'm only in training," Harry said. "And I'm not the best. But it's nice," he added quickly.

"Of course it's nice! It's what you wanted to do, isn't it? Even in your sixth year –"

"I wanted to fight Death Eaters," Harry said, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone.

"And you did. You did more than anyone else. You defeated You-Know-Who himself –"

"Voldemort," Harry said sharply. "He's dead, Hagrid! You can say his name now."

Hagrid gave him a strange look as the waitress set down two large Butterbeers in front of them. He finally seemed to sense his reluctance to talk about this topic. "What about outside of training? How have you been?"

"Fine," Harry said. "Everything's fine." Then, maybe because it was always on his mind, or because he knew it would take Hagrid's mind off his Auror training, he added, "I'm the Malfoys' probation officer, you know. I mean, I'm responsible for their –"

Hagrid scowled for the first time. "Hermione said something about that. If you ask me, Lucius Malfoy's not worth your time – but you knew that already, didn't you?" His eyes were piercing. "He'd have gladly watched you die during the war and you know it."

Harry couldn't deny the truth of that. "They've been civil with me," he said awkwardly.

"Yes, Lucius Malfoy was always very civil. Even when he was threatening you."

Harry took a large gulp of Butterbeer. It went down the wrong way, making him splutter. Eyes watering, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"It's not that. I – well, you were there. Malfoy saved my life. I owed it to him."

"He owed it to you," Hagrid growled, making Harry flinch. "And he doesn't deserve your protection. People like the Malfoys – you aren't doing anyone a favour by helping them. First change they get, they'll thank you the only way they know how: by stabbing you in the back. They've never done anything that wasn't in their own interest."

Harry fell silent. Draco Malfoy couldn't stab him, even though he clearly wanted to – but he wasn't about to tell Hagrid that, or how right he was when he said Malfoy owed him.

He said, "You know Andromeda is Narcissa's sister?" It had been on his mind ever since his last visit to Teddy.

"Of course I knew. Sirius was their cousin."

Harry nodded. "Well, they're related to Teddy by blood –"

"Blood," Hagrid said, shaking his head. "Wasn't the whole reason you fought because blood didn't matter? Hermione is the brightest witch I've met and she's Muggle-born. You're more family to me than anyone of my own blood. The Malfoys aren't any family of Teddy's. I don't care what blood says."

"I'm not saying Lucius –"

"The apple didn't fall far from the tree with Draco Malfoy," Hagrid said. "You promised Remus you'd look after his son, didn't you? I don't think he meant to let in the boy who got his father fired from Hogwarts."

Harry gave up. "Well, Andromeda thought the same. I'm supposed to tell Malfoy this afternoon."

"You're going there today?"

"After this, yeah. Every Saturday."

There was an awkward silence. Harry sipped at his Butterbeer quietly and wished he'd never brought the topic up. He certainly didn't want to think about Malfoy. The thought of telling Malfoy to lay off his godson made him feel sick, though he couldn't have said why.

They sat in silence for a few long moments, until Harry, having finished his Butterbeer, noticed the insistent look the waitress gave him when she asked him if he wanted another.

"No thanks," he said abruptly, pushing his chair back and tossing a few coins on the table.

The waitress looked affronted, but at that moment Harry wanted nothing more than to leave as quickly as he could. Hagrid stood up and followed him, his every step making the floorboards creak. Harry wanted to disappear into the ground. He heard someone snicker, and his head snapped around, eyes searching wildly for the culprit before they settled on a pimply-faced youth with an unpleasant smirk.

"Is there something wrong?" Harry asked loudly, making his way to where the kid was sitting.

Every pair of eyes in the room settled on them. The kid looked startled. "Your friend's making the whole room shake, is what's wrong."

"You got a problem with our being here?" Harry's hands curled into fists. A strange sort of rage was rising in him, anger too long bottled up, and he didn't even know where it came from.

The kid's eyes narrowed. He wasn't even a kid, Harry realised; he must have been close to Harry's own age, but he still had that aura of unshakeable belief in his own invulnerability that no one who had gone through a war could have. "And if I do? What are you gonna do about it? Ask that half-breed friend of yours to save your ars –"

Harry swung.

His fist connected with the idiot's jaw, making his head snap back. The guy let out a small cry of surprise, then leapt at Harry, throwing him to the floor. They rolled around like two dogs fighting. It was delightfully unglamourous and uncivilised. Harry felt fingernails rake his cheek and responded by kneeing the other in the stomach. His robes caught on something and ripped, and a nail from one of the floorboards scratched up his thigh, but as he threw another punch his blood roared in his veins and he felt free.

Then two huge arms were pulling him up and back. "Stop, stop, he's had enough, see, look –"

Harry looked. The kid didn't look as if he'd had enough. His eyes burned with the same rage Harry could feel surging through his veins.

Hagrid gave him a little shake and whispered harshly in his ear, "You can't do that kind of thing – what if he pressed charges –"

Oh, but Harry wanted him to press charges, was itching for it, dying for a real, fair fight where his name wouldn't matter, and it would only be about what he'd done and why –

The girl who'd been sitting with Pimple Face caught him by the arm and said something to him in a low voice. Pimple Face went white and stared at Harry, and in that look Harry saw the recognition and realisation. Pimple Face wouldn't be pressing charges against Harry Potter.

He turned on his heel and left, ignoring Hagrid's call for him to wait.

The next time Potter came through the gate, he was limping and his face was a mess of cuts. Draco couldn't explain the swooping sensation he felt in his stomach at the sight of the Saviour, or why he made his way to him so quickly you could call it rushing forward. That wasn't the kind of action that could be explained away by the life debt, because Potter was obviously in no danger of dying. But Draco was in front of him in three large strides, reaching out to touch him... He met Potter's gaze, and his hand dropped to his side.

"What happened?" he asked dispassionately.

There was a glint in Potter's eye that said he had caught the movement, but he didn't comment on it. "Auror stuff. Since I was due here, I didn't bother to stop by St Mungo's first."

"You could have. I wouldn't have minded."

"You think I care what you think? I just like to be on schedule."

"A schedule." Draco knew his tone reflected his disbelief. "Harry Potter, Saviour of the wizarding world, needs a schedule to get through his day. Really?"

"Cut me some slack." Potter grinned, but there was no real amusement in it. "I just spent the last year in Hermione's twenty-four/seven company."

"I suppose," Draco said vaguely, not really wanting to get into last year territory. "What happened to your face?"

The grin faded. "I told you. Auror stuff."

"You're supposed to be in training."

"Training can be pretty intense."

"Don't take me for an idiot, Potter," he snapped. "That's not from training. You got into a fight."

He expected Potter to deny it, but he didn't.

Draco couldn't justify the anger that flared up inside him. "Damn it, Potter! You promised me you wouldn't put yourself in danger," he said accusingly.

Potter sighed. "This is about the debt, isn't it? Look, Malfoy, I wasn't in any danger."

"You're limping."

"I am?" Potter looked down at his feet, as if surprised. "Oh. Well, can we sit down? I'll explain once I get my arse into a chair."

Draco backed away, trying to conceal his surprise. He hadn't actually expected Potter to give in. "All right, then."

Potter limped his way to the drawing room in silence and sank down into an armchair, closing his eyes for a second. "You're right."

"Excuse me?" Draco said, sitting down across from him, motioning for a house-elf to bring them drinks.

Potter cracked open an eye. "You know, Hermione would hate that."

"What?"

"The house-elf."

"Right, because I've always valued Granger's opinion highly."

"Fair point. So," Potter said, opening both eyes, "it wasn't even Auror stuff."

"No? You mean you weren't fighting the Dark Lord? How disappointing."

"Voldemort," Potter said, and Draco felt a chill go up his spine.

"What –"

"Say it."

Draco hesitated. He didn't want to let Potter bully him into this or anything else, but one look into the other man's eyes told him how much this meant to him. Uncertain, he foolishly reached for the bond, but Potter's feelings were too complicated for him to grasp. He realised with a jolt what he was doing and drew back, feeling stupidly guilty.

Something shifted in Potter's eyes; he must have sensed something. "Malfoy –"

Draco didn't let him finish. "Voldemort."

There, he'd said it. He watched in amazement as Potter's entire body relaxed; through the bond, he sensed the relief that washed over him and wondered at it.

"Why do you –"

"It's just so annoying," Potter said, not needing his prompting. "Everyone always dancing around his name – it wasn't even his real name! – like it's a fucking curse, like he's going to come back from the dead and kill them. They're still afraid. They all thank me and admire me and tell stories about how I defeated him, but deep down, they don't believe he's gone." His voice was raw, his eyes shining as he stared hard at Draco, almost feverishly. "I need someone to believe me."

Draco looked down at his arm. The Dark Mark was covered by his sleeve, but he knew it had faded a little. It never stung or burned these days, and as the weeks went by the blackness seemed to lose some of its intensity. At first he hadn't been able to believe it, not quite, but now...

"He's dead," Draco said quietly, as though realising it for the first time. "He's really dead." And he would never thank Potter for that, but he couldn't deny he was glad. The realisation unsettled him, and he changed the subject. "That doesn't explain what happened to your face. You couldn't have made me believe it was Auror stuff, anyway. Not a Death Eater's style, the black eye."

Potter lifted a hand to cup his face. "You're not serious."

"Weren't you wearing your glasses?"

"They got knocked off."

"So if it wasn't a Death Eater, who managed to corner the great Harry Potter and beat the shit out of him?"

"Wait 'til you see the state of the other guy before you say that," Potter told him, his face relaxing into a grin that looked painful. "I beat the shit out of him."

"You resorted to Muggle duelling?"

"What can I say? Instinct took over. Throwing a punch has always felt more natural to me than casting a spell."

"Barbarian."

"You would say that. I bet you've never thrown a punch in your life, have you?" Potter grinned. "If you must know, it was some kid I've never met before. He pissed me off."

Draco blinked. "He what?"

"He was mouthing off –"

"Oh, right. More of your righteousness. Tell me, do you ever do anything that's not saintly?"

Potter's jaw tightened. "Fuck off."

"Don't be like that," Draco said. "How do you expect me to heal you if you treat me like that?"

To Draco's amusement, Potter's eyebrows shot up. "Heal me?"

"Unless you'd prefer to keep wincing every time you smile, or frown, or move, then yes. Heal you."

Potter shook his head slowly. "You're not a Healer."

"It doesn't take a genius to mend a few cuts and bruises, Potter. I bet your girlfriend Granger could do it."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"I know, I know. She's with the Weasel. Terrible taste, obviously."

Potter shot him a look. Draco grinned.

"Who taught you how to cast healing spells?"

"I taught myself," Draco said. "After you sliced me up in the bathroom in sixth year, I became interested in healing. It turned out to be useful knowledge to have last year with the Carrows ruling the school. Should I thank you for that?"

Potter looked away uncomfortably. "Probably not."

"Probably not," Draco agreed.

He stood and walked around the table until he was standing over Potter, looking down at him. He drew his wand – well, not his wand – and laid it on Potter's cheek lightly, right underneath a flowering bruise. Potter didn't even flinch. He looked up at Draco with cautious eyes.

"Does the – does it work well for you?" he asked, meaning the wand.

"Well enough for this," Draco said tightly, but he understood the need to ask. "Will you let me –?"

He didn't finish the question, just looked down at Potter. Potter hesitated and, after a moment, shrugged.

"Why not? It's not like –" He stopped.

"Not like I can kill you?" Draco completed. "No, it's not."

He whispered a first charm under his breath, holding onto the wand so tightly he thought it might break. His arm wasn't as steady as it might have been had it been his own wand he held, but it would do the job. He saw Potter's eyes flutter closed as he breathed out slowly, a whisper of a sigh.

"Is that all right?"

"It's fine."

Draco moved his wand along Potter's face, gaining confidence as the small cuts and bruises faded before his spell-casting. A few of the more persistent bruises he had a cream for that would heal them, but for now, tracing Potter's features with his wand was like nothing he'd ever experienced – the show of trust, the way Potter had his eyes closed and didn't seem to care, the way he hardly reacted when Draco's wand moved away and came back, the way his lips curled a little when he heard Draco murmur the spells. Draco told himself it shouldn't matter this much. Of course Potter trusted him; there was no way for Draco to hurt him even if he'd wanted to. Which he didn't.

That was the problem, wasn't it?

"That's your face done," Draco said, leaning back. "I have a lotion for your eye that should finish it up; the spell didn't quite get it."

Potter opened his eyes and raised a hand to his face gingerly. He ran his hand across his cheeks and nose and grinned. "You once broke my nose, remember?"

Draco smiled faintly. "I remember."

Potter was looking at him intently; Draco looked down.

"What's wrong with your leg?"

Potter shrugged. "I think I twisted my ankle or something. It'll pass."

"It might be sprained," Draco said. "If it hurts a lot..."

"It doesn't."

Draco knelt, reached out, and wrapped his fingers around Potter's ankle, tightly. Potter didn't yelp, but his face went white and his entire body tensed. Draco sat back.

"Okay," Potter said. "It doesn't hurt if I don't put any weight or pressure on it."

"It's swollen," Draco said. "It really might be sprained. You should probably go to St Mungo's."

"I'll think about it," Potter said, his expression saying he wouldn't.

"You're an idiot," Draco told him, standing up. "Don't move," he called over his shoulder as he left the room.

It took him five minutes to find what he needed in his storage, and he came back holding a small vial of blue-tinted liquid. Potter eyed it curiously, then met Draco's gaze.

"It's for your ankle," Draco said. "It'll dull the pain enough to let you walk if you insist on it."

Potter kept his eyes on Draco as he reached out and took hold of the vial. Their fingers brushed. Sparks shot up Draco's arm, but he had been expecting it. He let go of the vial as casually as he could and watched as Potter tipped his head back and swallowed without hesitation.

Draco couldn't explain what he felt when he saw Potter drink something he had brewed without thinking twice about it. He reached out and laid his fingers lightly on Potter's wrist, surprised by his own boldness. This time neither of them pulled back when the now-familiar tingle of energy sparked between them. Potter curled his hand so their wrists were pressed together and dropped the empty vial into Draco's hand.

Draco felt the link slide forth insidiously, forcing itself between them, and he snatched his hand back. He slipped the vial into his pocket and took a step back.

"Does that feel better?"

Potter shook his head as though to clear it. "… Yeah. The pain's going away."

"Good. That's... good."

Good? Of all the things Malfoy could have said – Good was the first thing that came to mind? No taunting, no sarcasm, not even that meaningful silence Harry had learnt to expect from him. Just good. And then there was the matter of that touch. Malfoy had instigated it, and he had also been the one to pull back. Harry was becoming more and more certain that Malfoy was deliberately messing with his head.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he asked sharply.

"Excuse me for helping you," Malfoy replied just as tersely. He sat back down across from Harry. "You're right, I have no idea what I was thinking."

"You always have to be right, Malfoy, don't you?"

"I am always right."

"No," Harry said sharply. "You're not. You've never made a right choice in your life."

Malfoy went completely still; his tone was quiet and not angry and may even have been mistaken for pleasantly polite if Harry hadn't known better. "We're not all Chosen Ones, you know. Some of us have a less glorious destiny to follow."

"You believe in destiny? I didn't think you were that stupid. We are who we choose to be."

"I chose to follow my family," Malfoy said, and this time there was a cutting edge to his tone. "What does that make me, O sacred Pothead?"

Harry knew he had achieved something, here. Malfoy only resorted to immaturity when he was backed into a corner. Strange that a discussion about destiny had led him there; Harry filed the information away for future use.

"It makes you a coward," he said.

Malfoy's eyes flashed, but he said nothing. Harry admired his self-restraint. He wasn't sure he could have resisted the bait.

"It also makes you a Slytherin, and... and someone who cares about his family a lot. More than he cares about himself, maybe."

"You're such a Gryffindor. You want to see the good in everyone, Potter, but listen up: some people are truly bad, but no one is truly good. Could you find the good in the Dark Lord? And among those you counted on your side, how many have never betrayed you or done something shady for the greater good?"

Harry started at the familiar phrase. Dumbledore. He remembered Snape's disgust upon learning the truth. A pig for slaughter...

"Not everyone is a pure white as you are, Potter."

"I'm not. You know I'm not. But some people have more white than others. I think you –"

"I'm grey, Potter. Just about the darkest shade of grey you can find. Maybe you can see something redeeming, if you squint hard enough, but most people see only black. And they're the ones who are right. You are just desperate to find something worth saving in me. You can keep searching, Potter. You won't find anything."

"I already have found what I was looking for."

Malfoy blinked. Was that surprise?

"I know I made the right decision," Harry said firmly. "If only because I didn't want you to die. Or be Kissed. Or locked up in Azkaban forever. That's the only reason you're free."

"Why do you care, Potter?"

"I haven't figured that one out yet." Harry smiled. "I just do. You've been around for so long... If you suddenly weren't there anymore it would be as though something were missing."

"Is that why you didn't mind when you couldn't find someone to replace you?"

Harry glanced sideways at him. "Oh, that. I lied. I never asked for Kingsley to switch me up with someone else."

"Because you felt you were somehow responsible for me."

"No," Harry said flatly. "It was because I didn't like the thought of someone who hated you having this amount of control over you."

"I'm not sure which question to start with," Malfoy said. "Either 'Don't you hate me?' or 'Do you really think you have control over me?'"

"I choose not to." Harry didn't bother to explain which question he was answering. Let Malfoy figure it out for himself. He smiled. "We are what we choose to be."

Malfoy scowled, but there was a spark of admiration in his eyes. "You know, I really hate you when you're being clever."

"Thank Merlin it doesn't happen very often then," Harry said good-naturedly.

He allowed himself to joke because he knew Malfoy wasn't serious. If he had been, he wouldn't have scowled. It was when Malfoy was most composed that he was, inwardly, most angry. Also, jokes seemed to unsettle Malfoy and leave him struggling to find a retort, something which was always gratifying, as Harry felt the blonde always had the upper hand during their interactions.

Harry wondered whether it was normal that he studied Malfoy's mannerisms so intently. Hermione probably wouldn't think so.

"Not very often is still too often for my taste," Malfoy said.

"I forgot you used to hang out with Crabbe and Goyle. You must have felt exceedingly clever around them."

"You have no idea." Harry could tell Malfoy was thinking of smiling. "I had Theo – that's Nott to you, I imagine – for intellectual company. Sometimes. When we weren't arguing. And Pansy, of course."

Harry didn't say anything, but he must have thought it quite loudly, because Malfoy looked sharply at him.

"She isn't as much of an airhead as you seem to believe."

"That wasn't exactly what I was thinking. I was remembering the way she used to fawn over you."

"Just because she has good taste," Malfoy said, "doesn't mean she's a complete idiot."

Harry scrutinised his expression, which was blank. Was he joking?

"Pansy sees people the way she wants them to be," Malfoy added. "She's a lot like you in that respect. Both of you try to make out to be some sort of angel. But Pansy has outgrown that. You haven't."

He certainly looked the part of an angel, with his almost-white hair and delicate features. But there was nothing pure about Draco Malfoy. His hands were bloody, his soul was tainted and his thoughts ran dark as night.

"I know what you've done," Harry said. "I'm not deliberately closing my eyes on who you are. Is it so wrong to believe in redemption and second chances?"

"It's a silly idea. Why should a couple good deeds make up for years of wrong ones?"

"It doesn't work like that." Harry thought for a moment. "It doesn't mean making up for what you've done. Humans have a capacity for forgiveness. That's what redemption means. Asking for, and earning, forgiveness."

"I've never asked for forgiveness."

"It's just about feeling sorry and apologising." Harry shrugged. "You already feel sorry, so maybe one of these days you'll man up and say it out loud."

"You don't –"

"– know anything about you, I get it." Harry shook his head. "You can lie to yourself all you want, Malfoy, but what's the point when we both know the truth? You're not proud of who you are, and you are sorry."

"I'm not ashamed of myself."

"I'm not saying you are, or that you should be."

"I have nothing to be ashamed of, or to feel sorry about; I have no one to apologise to." Malfoy's tone was hard and cold as ice. "You still don't understand, Potter. It's about choice again. I didn't have a choice in the things I did. And that's why I'm not going to apologise for them."

"There's always a choice, and you should take responsibility for the things you've done. You've ruined families, watched people die, tortured people – and you could have not done it. You could have, Malfoy."

"I'm supposed to apologise for valuing my life above others'? Is that it?"

"You're supposed to feel sorry for hurting people, no matter why you did it. Those people, they don't care why. They don't give a damn."

"I'm sure they wouldn't care much if I was sorry or not. What would it change?"

"Everything," Harry said. "It would change everything. It would make you human, and people tend to forgive humans more easily."

"I don't need forgiveness."

"Don't you? Why did you apologise to Andromeda, then?"

Malfoy's expression changed completely. His spine stiffened, and two spots of colour appeared high on his pale cheeks. "You read that?"

"I was there when it arrived," Harry said, as though he owed Malfoy an explanation.

He didn't think he'd ever seen Malfoy look so uncomfortable. "It wasn't meant for you."

"I know."

Malfoy seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. "She... never replied. Do you –" He didn't voice the question, but Harry knew.

"Andromeda asked me to tell you to – to leave her alone," Harry said.

To his surprise, Malfoy flinched visibly.

Harry felt the need to explain. "Bellatrix killed her daughter –"

"Don't you think I know that? They're my aunts, Potter." Malfoy clenched his fist.

"Andromeda isn't your aunt," Harry said, thinking of Hagrid. "There's more to family than just blood."

"I know. That's why I –" Malfoy cut himself off. "You know what? Forget it."

Harry was at a loss for words. He hadn't expected Malfoy to react so intensely to the rejection, not after reading the letter he had sent Andromeda. It had been cool, formal, distant – but not, Harry understood now, insincere.

"They named me godfather –" he started, about to describe Teddy to Malfoy, as though that could help mend things, but Malfoy raised a hand to cut him off.

"Don't. Just don't." His grey eyes were fixed on the table. "I told my mother I'd contact Andromeda. I didn't think..."

He trailed off. He really hadn't expected the rejection, Harry realised. He felt a strange sort of pity for Malfoy. How could someone be so disconnected from reality, so unaware of the consequences of his actions?

"I should probably tell her," Harry offered.

"Brilliant idea," Malfoy said, and Harry didn't miss the sarcasm in his voice.

"You know," he said after a moment, "I forgive you."

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me? I wasn't aware there was anything you had to forgive me for."

Harry was incredulous. "How about being a git to me all these years? Insulting my friends, insulting me, breaking my nose on the train in sixth year, almost getting Hagrid fired when you –"

"Do you really want to go over everything we did to each other as children? That could take hours."

"No, I don't. I want to forget it all. I – I want to start again, Malfoy."

He hesitated, then held out his hand; Malfoy stared at it as though it were a snake. Harry could tell the symbolism was not lost on him; they were both thinking of that day on the train in first year, when he had refused Malfoy's hand.

"Why?" Malfoy asked. "You can't really think our enmity was purely incidental."

"I do." Harry smiled. "In a strange, twisted world where you wouldn't have been such a git, we could have been friends. It would only have taken me taking your hand on the train that day. So here I am, a few years down the road."

"We'll never be friends, Potter."

"I know."

With this clarified between them, Malfoy reached out and took Harry's hand, giving it a brief shake before letting go again. The short skin-to-skin contact sent a jolt of electricity up Harry's arm, and the fleeting look of surprise that crossed Malfoy's face told him it was the same for the blonde. He hadn't been imagining it.

"I am never shaking your hand again," Malfoy said.

He could have been joking, but from his tone, Harry thought he finally understood what Malfoy was feeling. He was scared of the debt. Not just of having to save Harry's life, but of the debt itself. Which begged the question: why?

"Because I find it more than a little disturbing when my thoughts are not entirely my own," Malfoy said, "and I would think, having shared the Dark Lord's mind, that you would feel the same."

It took Harry a moment to realise that Malfoy was answering his unvoiced question. A chill ran up his spine. "How did you do that?"

"How do you think?" Malfoy countered.

"It's like you read my mind –"

"Of course not. I just sensed your confusion. I only guessed the question."

"You sensed it?" It seemed an odd way to describe a gift for deciphering body language.

Malfoy scrutinised his expression, his eyes searching. Then he shrugged. "Just because you're blind as a bat, doesn't mean we all are," he said lightly, though his expression remained guarded. "Maybe I know you better than you think."

"But –"

Malfoy's lips pressed together in a thin line, and Harry let the subject drop. He filed the incident away in a corner of his mind, knowing he would mull over it later.

"Well, thanks for this, Malfoy," he said, gesturing at his face. "I think that's enough for today, don't you?"

Malfoy gave him a strange, startled look. Harry knew he was shirking most of his Auror duties and that only chatting with Malfoy wasn't really what Kingsley expected of him, but he wasn't in the mood to torment Malfoy or ask him to explain where he'd gone that week. He stood up and made for the door.

"You're still limping," Malfoy said.

"I could tell."

"Does it hurt?"

"No, I'm limping because I think it makes me look hip," Harry drawled.

Malfoy didn't smile. "Are you sure –"

"It's fine, Malfoy. Don't worry about it." Harry couldn't keep the amusement out of his tone.

"I'm hardly worried."

Harry smiled. "Thank you for the potion. And for – this," he said, gesturing vaguely towards his face again.

"Wait until you look in the mirror to say that," Malfoy said.

As Harry left, he was struck with the sudden, terrifying realization that Malfoy hadn't just been mocking him. They'd been teasing each other.

Next chapter is called Tingling. Here's a little preview:

"Shut up!" Harry roared, and closed the distance between them.

He grabbed Malfoy by the shoulders and slammed him hard against the wall behind him. He saw the ex-Death Eater's hand immediately go to his sleeve for his wand.

"Go ahead," he said, sneering. "I dare you."