Harry Potter had no need for what ifs. Actively eschewed them, as a matter of fact.

During a sleepless night over the summer, when the darkness of Grimmauld Place threatened to swallow him whole, he wondered if he wasn't like a character in Dudley's old video games, fighting enemy after enemy until he'd finally beaten the big boss. And if he took that analogy to its logical end, what's next—oblivion or freedom? He'd like to think the latter.

The common room was bustling in a cozy way. He leaned back in his velvety armchair and basked in the warm glow of the cackling fire. Near him, one group of kids were playing exploding snap, and another was hunched over homework. The scene reminded Harry of his more innocent days, when the Wizarding World was still new and perfect in every way, when where there wasn't the constant threat of war and death. These were the days he had fought for, and won.

He'd won what he wanted, so no what ifs, please. No could'ves, or should'ves, or would'ves, no thinking about sorry souls he'd lost along the way, because what if he could've—No. He'd walked out of the game; it was over and done; no looking back.

"You okay, mate?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's just you're staring at the fire…real intense like."

Harry socked Ron gently in the shoulder with a roll of his eyes. He was just blanking out, relaxing, no need to get all weird about it. Ron scrunched a nose—if you say so—but was called back to his chess game before he could further comment. And when did get around to his next question, Hermione swooped down on him like a mother hen and that was the end of Ron's evening.

"'Mione, who the hell is going to care about our N.E.W.T scores?" Ron tried, but those types of arguments fell on deaf ears. It was the spirit of the thing that mattered to Hermione. Or maybe it was her way of coping, who knew. She was just setting her sights on Harry when, thankfully, fate intervened for him. Fate in the form of a pretty little redhead.

"Well, if Ginny's here…" She trailed off uncertainly. Ron tugged her by the arm though, and with a grin and wink at Harry, drew her away. There was an unspoken expectation in both their faces…

Ginny perched herself on the arm of the chair, elegant in way that Harry hadn't before noticed. A soft smile spread across his face, unbidden. She really was so, so beautiful.

"How's it going?"

They fell into a desultory conversation with half-lidded eyes where the words meant little and the tone meant more. Her voice, though now tinged with a touch of coy femininity, was still that voice he'd dreamt of during his darkest days. The one he'd longed to return to.

And now that he'd won the game, why shouldn't he get the girl?

"And next week," she was beginning to say, brushing a ginger strand behind her ear. But at that very moment, Harry became distracted by some first years nearby. They were making a big commotion about something or other, and it was not until a few second later that Harry realized it was over the escape of a chocolate frog. The little creature had hopped right onto Harry's leg and bounced away. Harry stared at the muddy imprint it left on his jeans.

He brushed off the profuse apologies from the first years, but all the while, he was thinking of something else: that chilly autumnal night, the long blond strands rippling in the wind, that pale, bony arm extended towards him, baring that haunting, nightmarish mark. Have one, Malfoy had asked, as if Harry would ever say yes. As if Harry would buy the faux-goodwill in those calculating, steel eyes…

"Harry?" Ginny sounded worried now. He quickly smiled at her, dispelling all thoughts of Malfoy. There were more important things—Malfoy belonged to the past, and there was the present to think about, or the future, like asking Ginny on a date so they could talk, actually talk, and … he thought of the quiet expectation in Ron and Hermione's faces … but no, they should really talk …

"Actually, I think I'm going to call it a night. A little tired, um. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Ginny uttered a bewildered oh, but what could she do but let him slip away?

Look, he'd beaten the game, all right? So they had all the time in the world to talk. Why rush it?

Undeniably, and certainly against Harry's will, Malfoy's stupid antics put him back on Harry's mind. Not in a weird, sixth-year-obsessive kind of way, but only as in, Harry was reminded of his existence again after a summer where he'd had too much else to think about. As in, Harry idly began to register again that bright blond hair at the periphery of his vision.

Malfoy wasn't having it easy, that much Harry could tell. It wasn't obvious, nothing that would call for professor intervention. Just small bruises here and there, some trips and falls and other unsavory accidents that could be hexes or…could not. It was the way he sat at the fringe of the table, with only Goyle for company; even Parkinson and the rest of his prior posse seemed wary of approach. It was the way he walked through the halls with hunched shoulders and vacant eyes, provoking the sidelong glances and angry whispers all around him.

There were rumors that someone had poisoned his soup or some such, and that he had vomited all night…

Okay, and, so what? Harry took all this in with a sort of grim satisfaction. It's not that he particularly wished ill on anyone, only, why should Malfoy have it easy after half a decade of being a right arse? Yes, yes, the war was hard, but the war was hard on everyone and it hardly excused Malfoy's prewar conduct, where he was essentially a rich, skinny version of Dudley. A bloody arrogant little tosser was Malfoy; bullies like that had it coming.

No, Malfoy had made his bed and now he had to lie in it—Deatheater consequences and all. He was hardly entitled to—Harry was certainly not obliged—They'd helped each other out once, and Harry had testified in his favor and returned his wand, and they could call it even.

Even as he thought this, even this very moment, he was cognizant that those grey eyes were staring at him from across the hall, almost embarrassing in their desperation.

"Don't fall for it, Harry."

"What?"

Hermione's sudden warning jilted Harry from his silent reflections. He put down the dinner roll he'd been absently tearing to shreds.

"I'm saying, don't fall for Malfoy's little tricks," she elaborated. Her quiet voice could hardly be heard above the general din of the dining table, or above Ron and Seamus' loud debate over shepherd's pie, in particular. Harry gave her a look of faint confusion and demurred that he wasn't sure what she meant.

"I see you staring at him," she said, more pointedly now. "No, I know, it's not like before. But I see you—"

"Hermione, you're crazy. He just said some things to me, all right, and it made me think, that's all." She raised a brow at him and, slowly but surely, extracted from him what those things were, which he finished recounting with a forceful, "So there, it's nothing." Which was true. They'd barely spoken two sentences.

"It's not nothing. It's clear what he's trying to do, Harry. He wants to use you to-to-I don't know, repair his reputation, probably. He probably thinks if he can get you on his side, all would be forgiven. Or something like that. It's not genuine, it can't be. You see that, don't you?"

"Yeah, obviously," Harry replied with an edge to his voice. He wasn't stupid. "I obviously know that. That's why—I'm not going to take him up on it, or anything. I mean, it's Malfoy. As if I'd—"

"Okay." She batted away Ron, who'd caught whiff of an escalation in their chat. "Okay. That's fine. As long as you're aware." She saw the tight clench of his jaw and backed down. Abruptly, she switched topics. "So how are you and Ginny?"

"What?"

"Ginny…"

He followed her gaze down the table, where, as if sensing them, Ginny peered over with a sweet smile, her lashes half shading her warm brown eyes. Harry flashed her a brief smile back. Everything about her was perfect. He should tell her that. They should talk. He should apologize—"We're fine."

"You're back together, then?"

"Well—I mean…"

"When are you going to—"

"Hermione."

The conversation ended on that note of exasperation. Could a man not eat in peace these days? He looked away from Hermione, a nascent irritation gnawing at him, along with guilt for feeling irritated at all. Hermione was only trying to help.

At the edge of his vision, he again caught that hint of that silvery-blond hair. Silvery-blond hair and a half-formed smirk . . .

He escaped Hermione and Ron after dinner, shrugging off their invitation for a stroll around the grounds. He'd meet them in the library after, he said, which was good enough for Hermione. And then, because he had nothing else going on, he did in fact go to the library. That Ginny looked like she might approach was neither here nor there, and it certainly didn't prompt him to choose the most obscure table he could find among the stacks. He'd done that solely to avoid any curious glances or unsolicited conversations . . .

In any event, it was wonderfully peaceful in this little hidden nook he found, silent save for the dreamy, faraway sounds of rustling pages and quill scratching against parchment. No one would think to find him here. He relaxed again, for what felt like the first time in ages, slowly taking out his stacks of texts and chaotic mess of incomplete papers; the mundane nature of the work was almost meditative. Now, where to begin? He was behind in Potions, of course, but then again, he was behind in most his classes. It was hard to study after a war, and he wondered sometimes if it wasn't a mistake to come back. But then he remembered this was his home, so. Where else could he go? And like Ron said, he thought with a wry smile, it's not like anyone would care about his grades. Even if he blew through everything, really everything, the Ministry would probably still—he frowned suddenly.

There it was again, that phantom flicker of pale yellow. Surely not here, here in this underbelly of the library?

But of course, it was.

Malfoy looked equally surprised, standing frozen near a bookshelf, seemingly unsure what to do with himself. He'd retreat, Harry thought, if he knew what was good for him. Just get the fuck out of there, so Harry could have his sliver of peace . . . but it was Malfoy, so peace was never an option. Those pointy, aristocratic features slipped into smirk and he sauntered over.

"Mind if I sit, Potter?" He'd already dropped into the seat before Harry could so much as say no. "It's just that I always sit here, see. And I've just got to finish this essay, you know how it is." How could he speak so calmly? "Don't let me distract you, Potter."

There was something grossly provocative in his off-hand, casual manner. Just horribly annoying. Harry blurted, "You don't."

"Pardon?"

"Distract me . . . You don't distract me." He saw the sharp grey eyes grow contemplative and kicked himself under the table. "Why don't you find another table?"

"I always sit here," Malfoy repeated, the subtext being, why don't you? Harry had half a mind to do so. It'd be the smart thing to do. He knew Malfoy's tricks, so why play his game? If Hermione were here, she'd—But the thing is, he'd been here first and to move now would be to concede defeat. And he was only too conscious of the fact that, to run away a second time after the incident of the chocolate frog would be . . . unfathomable.

"Fine. Whatever," he muttered.

An uneasy silence settled over the table that was no longer peaceful. Harry wished then that he had Ron and Hermione, and then he felt angry at himself for wishing that, because it was only Malfoy. He wasn't scared. Harry tried his best to appear relaxed, to show that Malfoy couldn't get under his skin as easily as all that. (To show whom? It didn't matter.) But still, his grip on his quill remained tight, and he kept his eyes trained on his parchment to avoid seeing that odious little face. In his line of vision, there were only those long, bony fingers—almost skeletal in their thinness—and a few, wispy strands of blond that fell forward when Malfoy hunched over his books.

He counted down the seconds for when he could make a dignified departure.

"Do you need help, Potter?"

Harry started.

"You've been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes."

Had it only been ten minutes? Could he leave yet? He realized that Malfoy was waiting for a response, for which mind your own fucking business or piss off seemed an overreaction. Was that what Malfoy was angling for? Harry wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "I'm good."

"Are you sure? I remember Potions not being your . . . strong suit. It is mine though," he continued quickly, before Harry could interrupt. "Really, I could look over your essay there, if you want. Oh, come on Potter, you needn't look so suspicious. It's a new era."

Harry's eyes narrowed. He didn't know how Malfoy could do it, speak with that kind of airy carelessness, as if they hadn't hated each other their entire lives.

"I can already tell from the beginning that you're way off. First of all, your chicken scratch-Anyway, Slughorn's no Snape, but even he wouldn't accept . . ." The casual utterance of Snape stung Harry. Malfoy had no right to invoke . . . But he continued in that same vein, "And I know we didn't always, well, get along, but I really do excel at Potions. Indeed, I'm just as good—actually, better, probably—than … than Granger."

Harry slammed his book shut. It was the small pause before Granger that did it, that suspicious pause that caused him to glance up and catch that brief bitter twist at the corner of Malfoy's lips, that hint of distaste in his eyes. He'd stopped himself from saying that forbidden word, but the word fit the pause so perfectly that Harry knew he'd been thinking it. New era? Harry laughed—a short scoff of a laugh—startling Malfoy.

"Malfoy, please. You haven't got a tenth-you're so far below Hermione, it's … an insult to even hear you say her name." He chucked his papers in his bag, a chaotic mess once more. He'd been crazy to think Malfoy wouldn't get to him.

"Potter, I don't know what—"

"I already told you, Malfoy, I've nothing left to say. And the answer to your question is no. So stop looking for me. Really, stop."

The last thing he saw before he turned his back and walked away was the stricken look of panicked desperation on Malfoy's crestfallen, gaunt face, that look of hopes dashed. Harry's feeling of grim satisfaction returned. Well, good. Did Malfoy really think it would be so easy to rewrite their past . . . to move on . . . ? Harry's green eyes glittered coldly as he marched out of the library and down the stone stairs. New era . . . what a joke.

If there's one thing Malfoy was good for, it was that he reminded Harry that there were no what ifs. The past could only have unfolded the way it did, because they were who they were and there was no changing any of that.