Friday morning hit Harry like a train. When he woke up, he was still drunk, and still smelled heavily of fire whisky and flame. His head throbbed quicker than the beat of a drum. His breath tasted old and stale; he was in desperate need of toothpaste. With what seemed like an enormous effort, he heaved himself out of his bed and into a hot shower. He let the water trickle down his neck and back. As he began to truly wake up, the events of last night began to seep back into his head. He remembered the honesty, the anger, and the fear of being open. The fear of talking about your fears. The fear of talking about what makes you scream in the night, what makes you the most vulnerable.

Harry never said anything he admitted to last night out loud before. He never thought that he could muster up the courage, or get over the embarrassment he thought, to claim those thoughts and actions as his own. Now that his "darkest hour" was all out in the open, he couldn't deny any of it anymore. There was no more hiding from himself.

Harry felt a wave of nervousness wash over him just as quickly as the initial wave of relief did. He had just relived hell for his worst enemy. He is hardly my enemy anymore, is he? Harry questioned. If he wasn't his enemy what was he? His friend? That seemed to be just as wrong as "enemy" sounded.

Harry tried, to no avail, to look as sober as possible when he walked into The Great Hall that morning. By the time he reached the staff table, McGonagall was giving him a stern look of disapproval. That woman never missed a trick.

When he sat down in his usual chair, he noticed a small vial next to his cup. Under closer examination, Harry noticed writing on the side of the bottle. "For a clearer head." Harry silently blessed the house elves that worked at Hogwarts. He quickly uncorked the bottle and drank its contents. It tasted lemony and pungent. Harry slowly felt his hangover evaporate, as if heavy bags of sand had been lifted off of his shoulders. He felt quick and alert, just as he did every morning.

Harry stood up to depart for his first class, but a firm hand on his shoulder held him in place. It was Professor McGonagall. "May I speak to you privately, Harry?" Before he could answer he was being led into the hallway where the teachers normally entered the dining room. It was much narrower than the hallway that the students entered through. McGonagall stood with her arms crossed. She stared directly at Harry. Under her stare, Harry felt like a tiny bug under a microscope; there was nowhere to hide.

"Harry, I know you are a new teacher, but it doesn't take a genius to know that you shouldn't show up to work drunk!" She spat at him angrily. "You are a role model for the adults of our future, it is due time that you start acting like it! What was so possibly important that you had to get drunk on a Thursday night?" Harry stood motionlessly. If he told McGonagall where he was and who he was with last night, she would surely want to know why. Although no promise was ever verbally spoken, he knew enough to know that was shared last night between Draco and himself was personal, and shared in private. If he wanted it to remain that way, he would have to lie to McGonagall, but is he really about to lie to his boss for Draco Malfoy?

"I assigned my seventh years a 14 inch essay, and after getting them back, I was overwhelmed. I was up late grading last night, but I stopped grading and started drinking, hoping to take the edge off. It was reckless. I am sorry. It will not happen again."

"It must certainly not!" Despite her harsh tone, Harry swore he saw her expression soften a little. "I understand how stressful this job could be, but this is what you signed up for. You need to learn how to cope." Harry did not respond. He started to examine a small crack in the floor with utter fascination.

"As it so happens, I have a second request to ask you." Harry looked up. The anger in her face was gone; she just looked like she wanted to get the conversation over with.

"Madame Hooch was supposed to give flying lessons to the first years tomorrow morning, but she has fallen ill, and is now resting in the hospital wing. Would you mind covering her class?" That was not what Harry was expecting. He felt honored that McGonagall found him skilled enough to teach the first years how to fly. It would be his first time back on a broom.

"Yeah of course! I am honored that you asked me."

A small smile crept onto her face. "Well, you are one of the best, if not the best seeker Gryffindor has ever seen." Pride shown in McGonagall's eyes just as the sun does early in the morning. "There is one downside. The amount of first years that want to learn how to fly is quite large, especially for someone who is inexperienced in teaching without two feet on the ground."

Harry blinked in confusion. She took this as a sign to continue. "I have also asked Professor Malfoy to assist you in your teaching, as he is an experienced seeker as well." Harry couldn't help but deflate slightly. He thought that he was being asked to handle the class alone. Misreading his expression, McGonagall quickly covered, "If you two are still experiencing… tensions, then I can assign Professor Sprout to the position." It took all of his will power not to burst into laughter. He tried to imagine Professor Sprout dangling in the air, her heavy weight being lifted by an old broomstick. As amusing as the sight sounded, he and Draco had turned a page. Although they weren't best friends, they did respect each other, and at least felt acquainted with one another. This would be a good test to see how far along they have really gotten.

"No. No, Dra- I mean, Professor Malfoy is fine. Him and I have reached an… understanding with one another."

McGonagall clearly looked skeptical, but only nodded her head. "Very well. Be at the pitch tomorrow at 8:30 am. The lesson starts at 9. Have a good day, Harry. Remember what I said." With that, she turned on her heel swiftly, and walked back into The Great Hall. Harry started down the corridor in the opposite direction, as it was closer to his classroom.

Classes passed on as they normally did. The concentration of the first years was exceptionally hard to ensnare, as they were all excited to learn how to fly the following day. Although their hushed whispers normally bothered him, Harry couldn't help but feel lenient. He remembered his first time on a broom; how natural it was to him. That day in his first year he was drawn into the air by Draco's taunting; it nearly got him expelled. But now when he thought back to that day, Harry only remembered a happy memory. That was the first time he had felt the wind whip thorough his fingers and clothes. The first time that Harry experienced the breathlessness that adrenaline-charged flying induced. The first time he felt truly free of all restraints. That was the first time that he had stood up to Draco. The memory seemed to be from so long ago, from a different lifetime.

Harry had no trouble falling asleep that night; his drowsiness chased its way from last night to this one. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep.

"Harry run! They have set the bloody room on fire!" Just as Harry heard Ron's shout, a wave of intense heat washed over Harry. He quickly grabbed Hermonie's arm and started to run. They ran at a heart stopping pace, consistently bobbing and weaving around the heaps of junk that had accumulated over the years.

As soon as Harry caught a glimpse of the door that led out of the Room of Requirement, a huge wall of fire blocked his path. Doing the only thing he could think of, he yelled, "Accio broomsticks!" Harry, Ron, and Hermonie just managed to kick off the ground before the fire below them consumed them.

They were almost at the door when he heard a scream, "Harry help me!" He quickly turned around to see Draco standing on top of a chair, which appeared to only have three legs. He looked as if he could topple over into the flames at any moment. Making his decision, Harry zoomed towards Draco at the fastest speed his broom could take him. He reached down for Draco's hand. With a loud smack, both boys grabbed onto each other. Draco was dangling off the side of his broom. He felt his grip start to slip. "Draco, hold on!" But it was too late. Draco had already let go of Harry's hand; he was falling into the flames-

Harry sat up as quickly as possible. He ran into his bathroom and immediately emptied all of last night's dinner into his toilet. After he finished, he tucked his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around himself. He tried to control his wheezing. He focused on the cool tile floor beneath him, the dim light emulating from a burned out candle. After a couple of minutes his breath slowed, and he unraveled himself from the ball he was in.

He grabbed the side of his sink to help him up. Refusing to look at himself in the mirror, he turned on the ice water and splashed his face and the back of his neck.

Still refusing to look at himself in the mirror, he looked at his watch, which read 8:15. Suddenly remembering the promise he made to McGonagall yesterday, he dressed himself hastily and made his way down to the quidditch pitch.

That certainly wasn't the first dream Harry had that centered on death, but that was the first dream that he had with Draco in it. Normally his dreams featured the people he cared about, not old-rivals-turned-acquaintances. The worst part of the dream had been when he woke up. The worst moment was the second he opened his eyes, still hazy from the dream he had, and he felt loss. He felt empty, as if he had lost something valuable to him. In his other nightmares he woke up feeling terrified and scared, but never feeling empty. The feeling was foreign to Harry, and he was not sure that he liked it.

Whatever leftovers from his nightmare lingered were vanished as soon as Harry breathed in the fresh morning air. The air was crisp and clean. The sky was slightly cloudy, it blocked out the sun, which made the conditions perfect for quidditch.

Draco stood in the middle of the field. He was wearing all black, a stark contrast to his pale hair and skin. His bruises looked even better than they did on Thursday; most were only a light blue. He stood with his hands in his pockets. "Morning Harry." Draco nodded in Harry's direction. "Morning." Despite the mutual agreement to call each other by their first names, Harry still found it odd. Some habits die hard.

"We should go get the balls and brooms we need. The first years are going to get here soon."

"Alright then."

Both boys walked towards the locker room where the school kept their brooms. When they got there, they bewitched the brooms to carry themselves out onto the field, but they decided to carry the ball trunk themselves. The each grabbed a handle and lifted the trunk up. It was surprisingly heavy for a trunk with only a couple of balls in it.

By the time they got back outside a small crowd had formed. Most of them looked genuinely excited, but a small handful looked nervous as well. After about five minutes, the talking had quieted down. The students gazed expectedly at their professors; they were ready to start.

Harry and Draco worked surprisingly well together. Draco, who had absolutely no problem bossing everyone around, was balanced by Harry's quiet expertise. As for the students, there was quite a mixture of talent. While some took a natural liking to being in the air, others were not so lucky.

"McFlagerty that is the back of the broom not the front!"

"Gomez you actually have to be sitting on the broom for it to work!"

" No no no! You aren't supposed to hang from the broom like a sloth, Bradey!"

For every one of Draco's criticisms, Harry quickly ran over and showed the student the proper technique. By the end of the class, some of the more advanced flyers started to throw the quaffle around in the air. Seeing the students' eagerness, Draco quickly divided the flyers into two teams, and started a game of quidditch.

Although Draco and Harry both started out on the sidelines, both boys quickly got invested in the game and played alongside their students. It was the calls of protests from the beginner fliers below them that brought them back to their senses. Even though it was only for a couple of moments, Harry savored his time back up in the air. It had been a long time since he had written a broomstick for pleasure instead of trying to escape from something.

"Alright that's it for today everyone! Back up to the castle!" Even though they had been out on the pitch for more than two hours, many cries of protest and groans could be heard as the students made their way back.

"Help me bring this back to the locker rooms will you?" Draco was holding up his end of the ball trunk. Harry lifted up his handle with a grunt of discomfort; they made their way back to the locker room.

The first years weren't allowed to use the locker rooms because they were meant for house team use only, but Draco and Harry were teachers. Draco must have known that he was going to get sweaty from two hours worth of flying, because he had brought a change of robes.

"You've got the brooms Potter? Cause I am going to go and clean up." Before Harry could answer, Draco had turned around and headed towards the bathroom.

Even with magic, it took Harry three trips to lug all of the brooms back into the locker room himself. By now the gray morning light had faded into clear sunshine. It was significantly warmer than it was two hours ago. Lifting the brooms back and forth caused sweat to trickle down his neck and forehead.

He was bringing the last brooms in when Draco called out, "That was a pretty good turn out, right? I mean some of the first years weren't that bad." Draco walked into the room without a shirt on. His hair lied flat on his head; he hadn't slicked it back yet. His hair and torso were wet; he must have taken a shower Harry thought to himself. He wore the same dark pants that he always wore.

Harry took a sharp intake of breath. Besides having a well-toned chest, he had scars. The parts of his skin where his scars were the biggest shown paler than the others, like white marble being reflected in the sun. Harry saw that the dark bruises that he thought only covered his neck on his collarbones and shoulders. His left arm had a bruise darker than the rest. After fixating on it, Harry realized that it was the Dark Mark. He would have thought that it had faded or even disappeared with time, but the black ink curled up his arm in obvious contrast with his skin.

The initial smirk that was plastered on Draco's face dissolved into a frown of confusion when he caught Harry standing still, his stare fixated on his body. "Uh, Potter? You are staring." But after following Harry's glaze more closely, he saw that Harry was staring at his Dark Mark, not his body.

Silently, Harry walked over to where Draco was standing and picked up his arm. His expression flickered between repulsion and curiosity. The second of the two seemed to get the better of him, because he lifted his other hand and touched his Mark lightly, tracing it with his fingertips. It was Draco's turn to inhale sharply.

"I would have thought this would have faded. I have never seen one up close before," Harry murmured. He seemed to be in a trance. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes portrayed nervousness, as if seeing the mark had drawn him into a vortex of his own thoughts. He seemed to not be aware of the awkward position they were in. Draco didn't mean to parade around shirtless; in fact, the only reason he did was because he had forgotten his shirt in this half of the locker room. He knew his body was marked with stories of good and evil, but he had always concealed them from everyone. His scars were not something that he was proud of, and certainly not something he flaunted. At least the person who had to see him like this knew of all his stories, could relate to all of his stories.

"Erm… Harry?" Harry snapped out of his daze at once. He let go of Draco's arm, which now swung lazily at his side. Harry's cheeks flushed bright red with embarrassment. He looked like he was trying to formulate some excuse to cover what just happened, but Draco beat him to it.

"Erm, Harry?" Words were pouring out of his mouth now. "Listen. I never got the chance to thank you for helping me out of my, erm, memory, that Friday night." Draco did not know what he was saying. He knew he wanted to thank him, but preferably while drunk and fully clothed. Pushing through his embarrassment, he continued.

"We weren't on the best of terms then, but you snapped me out of it regardless. I was pretty pathetic that night, so, thank you, for, erm, helping me come to my senses."

Draco shunned himself for his bulky wording, but Harry didn't seem to notice. Although Harry was no longer holding his arm, Draco could tell that he was still staring at it. "You were experiencing many things that night, and you were many things, but none of them were pathetic." Harry lifted his gaze to meet his own. He had said it in a matter-of-fact tone, but something in his expression made Draco believe him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

The room had gone very quiet and very still. The steam that remained from Draco's shower wafted into the room. It surrounded around the torches on the wall, causing the fog to lighten. Harry had not stepped away from Draco. Although they were boarder line uncomfortably close, neither boy made an effort to move. He was just close enough that he could faintly feel Harry's breath ghosting over his still-wet skin. They were looking at one another without really looking at one another; Harry watched the end of Draco's platinum hair curl as it slowly began to dry, while Draco looked at the small array of freckles that dotted Harry's nose. No one moved. No one breathed. Time temporarily froze, disabling all of their sense, the voice that whispered for them to step away.

It was a long moment until either boy moved. Draco moved first, suddenly aware of the now cold water still clinging to his hair and chest. He hastily grabbed a towel to dry the rest of himself off with. In one swift motion, he reached for his black button up shirt and black wizard's robes and put both on. Harry turned away just as quickly, though he appeared to have no reason to do so. Instead, he stared at his nails with newfound interest.

Harry was the first to speak. "McGonagall will be pleased to know that our lesson went so well." His voice was flat, normal. Draco didn't know what to expect his voice to portray, but he certainly wasn't suspecting normalcy.

"Yeah she will. I'll give her an update when I head up to the castle." Draco found his own voice to be steady as well, but he didn't feel steady. He didn't know what it was, but he felt off kilter.

"Yeah ok. I am in need of a shower myself, so I am going to head back up to my room. See you later." Harry briefly looked up at Draco, though he didn't want him to see his face. Harry was afraid that Draco would be able to read him like a book. He felt sick, yet charged with electricity at the same time. Like he was about to hurl over, but also about to run across Great Britain. He left quickly, leaving the door open behind him.

Harry's effort to hide his face from Draco, though admirable, ultimately failed. Draco noticed all of the color had drained from his face. He looked like he was going to be sick, though his abrupt movements suggested that he was filled with energy. It was very conflicting.

After he left, Draco realized that his damp hair still laid flat on his head; he left his tub of hair product on the sink by the showers. With one final breath, Draco turned around and walked back into the room that he had just come from.