Chapter 13

Every door he tried in the Astronomy Tower was locked, so Harry followed the stairs all the way to the top. He found Malfoy sitting casually leaned against the parapet that ran around the edge of the tower. He looked up when Harry slipped through the door and into the cold air.

"I didn't think you would show up," he said.

"I didn't think you were serious."

There was a bottle standing by his foot. It was too dark for him to tell how full it was, but Malfoy didn't look drunk.

"What are we drinking?" he asked.

Malfoy picked up the bottle and handed it to him.

"Firewhisky. It's cheap and terrible; I had to buy it off one of the other Slytherins. If I had been able to get a bottle from home or at least go into Hogsmeade or something – but of course we're not drinking for the taste, so just swallow it fast. And I'm already not quite sober, so don't hold back."

Harry sat down next to him and took a swig from the bottle, pretty sure he wouldn't be able to taste the difference between cheap and expensive whisky.

"Are you celebrating or something?" he asked.

"No."

Malfoy pulled an envelope from his pocket.

"I just got a letter from my mother. She hasn't been writing me a lot this year."

He handed Harry the letter.

"Bad news," he said.

Harry pulled out the folded piece of parchment. Apparently even the letters sent by the Malfoy family looked more expensive than those of normal people. The parchment was heavy, smooth and cream-colored, inlaid with a watermark of the Malfoy family crest, and the writing was in a beautiful cursive that it took Harry a while to decipher. It wasn't a long letter and it was formal to the point where it became impersonal, which was probably why Malfoy allowed him to read it. He had never thought about what sort of letters Malfoy would receive from his adoring mother, but this certainly wasn't what he would have imagined.

Dear Draco, he read.

As you know I have applied for a visit to Azkaban over the holidays, and I recently received the ministry's approval of my request. I know we have discussed the possibility of you staying at Hogwarts for Christmas this year, but in the light of this I expect that you will come home so that we can visit your father together.

Love
Mother

He looked up from the letter. Malfoy was staring past him, frowning.

"This is the bad news?"

Malfoy gave him one of those looks to tell him he was being an imbecile.

"So… you don't want to visit your father?"

"No," he said. "I don't want to visit my father."

Harry slipped the letter back into the envelope and handed it back to him.

"What, because you want to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas?"

Malfoy scoffed.

"Azkaban isn't a very nice place," he said gravely.

"I was never a big fan of your father, but I think I would be happy to get to see my father even if he was in Azkaban."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Potter."

He wasn't sure if the heaviness in his voice was just Malfoy feeling sorry for himself, or if there was something more.

"Were you in Azkaban?" he asked tentatively. "Before your hearing?"

He shook his head.

"No, I've never been there. I've just heard a lot. Pass me the bottle?"

Harry handed it over.

"Is this how you usually handle bad news?" he asked.

Malfoy laughed.

"No, if I did I would have been a raging alcoholic by now."

There was a pause while he drank with theatrical commitment. He put the bottle down too heavily on the stone floor between them. Harry picked it up. He didn't really want to be drunk, but he also didn't fancy being the audience for Malfoy's dramatic descent into drunken self-pity if he was to be sober himself. Malfoy looked approvingly at him.

"I might have handled it this way before," he admitted, taking the bottle back from Harry as soon as he lowered it.

"Of course you have."

"What is that supposed to mean?" said Malfoy sharply.

Harry shrugged.

"That you're the sort of person who throws tantrums. A "pay attention to me, I'm in pain"-type of person."

"I am not!"

"Really?"

Harry grabbed his arm dramatically, clutching it to his chest and feigning great pain.

"Oh, my arm!" he whined. "The stupid bird tried to kill me! I'm dying! I'm dying!"

He was practically writhing on the floor and howling in pretend agony. Malfoy kicked at him.

"Stop it, you senseless idiot!"

Harry laughed and pushed himself upright. Malfoy scowled.

"It would have been hilarious if you hadn't been trying to get Buckbeak killed for it."

"I've changed my mind," said Malfoy. "Go back down to Gryffindor. I just realized that I prefer to drink alone."

Harry took the bottle that Malfoy passed him. They were a good way through it. He didn't know how much was necessary to get drunk. Probably less than this.

"Why are we sitting up here?" he asked.

"I didn't want to be in some classroom where people might accidentally pass through."

"It's the middle of the night. And there are about a thousand secret rooms and passages all over the castle."

"I like it up here."

"It's freezing."

"Really? You should get better robes. Or drink more."

"I think I've had enough, thank you."

"You're drunk?"

"I think so."

Malfoy laughed. He had that dishevelled air about him again. As soon as they had stopped talking about Azkaban he had relaxed. It was easier to like him like this. Harry tried to reconcile the image with the things Hermione had said, with the Malfoy he knew and hated. He wondered if Malfoy was acting – not the drunk part, he couldn't have faked that, but the likeable parts. The part that had sent him the embarrassing note, the one who told him to leave and didn't mean it, the one that was afraid to visit his father. He had admitted it at the pub, that he was using Harry. He wondered why he hadn't just left as soon as he found out. It hadn't seemed so obvious at the time that that was what he should have done. Harry watched him. He had his head tilted back, resting against the wall. His eyes were closed.

"It's all spinning," he said quietly.

It all seemed too elaborate to be a lie. Malfoy opened his eyes and looked at him with a smirk like he had guessed exactly what was going on in Harry's mind.

"What are you thinking, Potter?" he asked.

It was a reciprocal game of guessing the truth. Because he was lying too. He made jokes, had invited Malfoy to go flying, defended him in front of the others and joined him in his drinking. Even he wasn't sure if any of that was true, or if he was just playing along.

"Nothing," he said.

"Bad habit of yours."

"Yeah."

Malfoy closed his eyes again.

"This is nice," he said. "I can't feel anything."

Harry watched him. It was dark and his eyes were slow at focusing and he lifted a hand to his face to check that he was still wearing his glasses.

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He wanted to ask him about being a Death Eater. And about Hogwarts last year. He wanted to ask if he felt bad about having used the cruciatus curse in class, and if he had used it outside of class too. He wanted to ask why he didn't care when Bellatrix tortured Hermione – or if he had cared. Mostly he wanted to hear him say that he was sorry for all of it and that he regretted everything, which was why he didn't ask: he knew that wasn't the answer he would get. Hermione had to be right. If Malfoy had still had a conscience, how would he even be able to stand? How could he look at anyone without crumbling from shame? How could he have made himself come back to Hogwarts?

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He wanted to ask him about politics too. He still didn't understand it, and he thought that if he did he might find out why things still weren't right. But he didn't really trust his tongue to form an intelligent question, nor his mind to comprehend the answer.

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"Hey," he said instead.

Malfoy opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him.

"What?"

"Can I try something?"

He was glad he hadn't brought up any political stuff, because he was slurring his words a little.

"Sure, what?"

Harry grinned as he reached out and touched Malfoy's hair.

"Oh god," he said.

Malfoy had stiffened.

"What?" he said. "That's a muggle swear, right?"

Harry ran his fingers through the silky, white locks.

"It's so soft," he laughed. "This is ridiculous."

It was so light and thin, so smooth it felt watery in a way that reminded him of the invisibility cloak. It was hard for his eyes to focus. It took him a second to realize that Malfoy was looking weirdly at him. The apology was ready on his lips immediately: hey, sorry mate, I'm just drunk, it was an impulse, didn't mean to freak you out, haha. He was just about to pull his hand back when Malfoy moved.

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Draco was very, very drunk. He had been about to fall asleep when Potter called him back. Potter said something. He messed up Draco's hair. He laughed and ran his fingers through it again. The hand had curled around his neck and it was warm and soft. Something was off about it. Potter was laughing. The warm hand didn't move. Draco wasn't sure what it was that was off, so he just went with it. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Potter's in a clumsy, drunken kiss. He had only a fraction of a second to register that this was wrong, before he was shoved back, hard enough that he lost his balance and tumbled over.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?"

Potter spat – he actually spat – on the ground beside him and wiped his mouth with a look of shocked disgust and near sobriety. Draco sat up with as much dignity as he could manage.

"Would you calm down?" he asked, slipping effortlessly into bored annoyance. "If I had known you treasured your personal space that much I wouldn't have invaded, but that's no need to get bloody violent."

"Don't give me that shit," said Potter loudly. "What the hell was that? I thought we were – and then you pull something like that?"

There was real anger in that voice.

"Relax, Potter. We're just drunk, you were messing with my hair, I was just going along with it. It's just for fun. I've been making out with Pansy at parties for years, it doesn't mean shit."

"Right," said Potter. "But I'm not bloody Pansy Parkinson. What is wrong with you? You're a bloke."

He raised his eyebrows. Comprehension finally dawned on him. He had messed up badly.

"You grew up with muggles," he said. "Right. I forgot. They don't like that sort of thing, is that what it is? Very uptight about it? Honestly, I always thought it was just a myth, just like the one that they heal people by sewing up their wounds with string…"

"What, and wizards don't mind?" said Potter, he was still practically yelling.

"No of course not. I mean, in families like mine, the heir is expected to marry in a way so that he or she can carry on the legacy, but otherwise people don't mind."

"Fuck you," said Potter.

He was getting to his feet without much elegance.

"What did I do now?" asked Draco.

"I'm not going to stay here for your bullshit. And the deal is off."

Potter walked unsteadily to the stairs.

"You're being an arsehole, Potter!"

He disappeared through the door without even looking up.

"You really shouldn't walk by yourself!" called Draco after him. "You're going to fall and break your neck on the stairs, and guess who will be charged with murder if you do?"

There came no reply. Draco reached for the bottle. There was still a bit of brain activity left to kill.