Draco didn't, after all, make further overtures of friendship to Potter.

He had stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep, then woken up with a pounding heart from a bout of nightmares, terrifying twists on already terrifying memories. They reminded him that what he'd done was, perhaps, unforgivable, and that if he were Potter, he certainly wouldn't bother with Draco. No amount of heroic magnanimity...Greg was right, he determined with a yawn; best not to embarrass himself. Best to just bear out this year and hope that Father had enough squirreled away to fund the rest of his life, or at least until the Wizarding world collectively moves on. Draco had always been weak like that.

"You aren't going to eat?" Pansy prodded at breakfast, when Draco didn't even bother grabbing himself a plate. "Is it because of last week? Because I get that it was horrifying, but you've got to eat, Draco." Draco merely shook his head and gathered the packet of sweets his mother had owled, sauntering away. He'd eat later…maybe…

By Potions, his exhausted brain had begun to spiral again. It was Slughorn, the way he paced up and down that stuffy dungeon room with that self-smug face and pretentious lilt to his voice—it inevitably conjured thoughts of Snape, that man's natural superiority. But this led to thoughts of other things that were not so pleasant. At some point, when his eyes began to burn uncomfortably, his thoughts turned to lighter memories, i.e. all the stupid shit he'd pulled on Potter in Potions over the years, and that made him smile. It was funny, rather, how Snape had egged him on...

And that again got him thinking, because he couldn't help himself, if Snape hadn't took the tack he did, would everything have been different?

"Mr. Malfoy, a little more vigor in the stirring, if you please."

He did not so please, but Draco smiled graciously and did as asked, which is to say, he was vigorous in stirring and lethargic in mind. In any event, Potter had forgiven Snape. Potter! Singing that man's praises to the Prophet! How the world had turned upside down, was poor Severus rolling in his grave? Or was that what he had wanted all along, the stupid fucking martyr of a man...

But look, if Potter could forgive Snape, then what's to say he wouldn't, in a few months, forgive—

"Draco!"

Draco jumped in the nick of time; the cauldron clattered away harmlessly and Slughorn charmed away its hot liquid before it could do real damage. Still, a few drops had splattered on his arm, burning through his shirt sleeve, and then his skin.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw," for Hopkins' clumsiness around the classroom. Draco studied the angry red boils forming on the back of his arm. Only ten points, Slughorn?

And was it really clumsiness?

Oh, but what did it matter?

He ran into Nott while roaming aimlessly through the corridors and was surprised when the other boy called out to him. He remembered then, that it was Nott who'd yelled his name just now and saved him from deeper wounds. He murmured a half-hearted thanks.

"Draco, you didn't go to Pomfrey's, did you?"

Draco waived his hand carelessly. It didn't matter; the blisters would heal in time. Unlike the mark on the other side of his wrist.

Nott surprised him again by catching his hand and pressing in it a small container of something or other. Draco pulled away sharply, as if burned.

"You're still mad at me?" Nott asked, soulful brown eyes marked with disappointment.

No, he just didn't like to be touched. But he didn't want to explain all that, did he, so he pasted on his customary sneer, or a tired approximation of it, and said, "No, I'm happy for you." Which was sincere, actually. Despite all odds, Nott had been wily enough to align himself with the right side, which was more than could be said for Draco. Far it be from him to begrudge a fellow Slytherin for climbing up in life, especially a Slytherin with Nott's pedigree. It brought him hope, if anything. "I'm toxic right now, I get it. So, what are you doing here?"

"You're not...look, it's hard right now, but it'll get better. I'm not trying to avoid you, Draco," Nott pleaded. Draco, Nott insisted on calling him; how uncivilized he'd become with this change in alliance. Were they so chummy that—"I've known you since we were kids! You know that I've always—"

He pattered on, something about their family's longstanding friendship, and using the salve he'd just gifted, etc. etc. Honestly, Draco barely heard him. He'd suddenly caught sight of Potter downstairs on the ground floor, trudging towards the Great Hall. He was flanked by Granger and Weasley as always, but he drifted a pace or two behind, seemingly a world apart. The boy hero's face remained impressively impassive, even as his two friends talked right over him, even as the adoring masses scrutinized him from all sides.

Draco leaned over the banister and squinted. He wondered if there wasn't a new gravitas to this post-war version of Potter, a Potter who was no longer tensed and hunched with suspicions or anger, but who walked with his shoulders back and his head high, who knew he'd won...

"Draco, are you listening?"

All his life, Draco'd wanted nothing more than to prove that he was just as good—if not better—than stupid Harry Potter, that it was stupid Potter's loss for rejecting his friendship in the first place. But look at them now! Harry Potter was still the hero that he was always destined to be, and Draco… Merlin, it was so rich he could laugh.

"Draco?"

"Yes, yes, I heard you." Use the salve and whatnot. Draco sighed softly.

What did it matter?

As it turned out, the blisters were slow to heal, despite Nott's best salve. And the days were slow to pass, despite Draco's fervent wishes. The putrid heat of a long summer remained entrenched until the end of September, and every day, the small accidents and embarrassments accumulated. It didn't bother Draco, per se, but it did begin to wear him down. It was when Draco had all but despaired of surviving the year in one piece, that providence, unexpectedly, tossed him a bone.

It was late Friday night, and the Slytherins, though subdued, couldn't quite resist the teenage impulse to celebrate. Draco snuck his way out of a rowdy common room, unnoticed, and roamed aimlessly until his feet carried him out and away, far, far away. Almost trance-like, he drifted to the Quidditch pitch. A sharp breeze ripped through the grounds, cutting across his face as he climbed into the bleachers, higher and higher. Go back in, whispered the winds, where it's warm and bright…There was not a soul out here, only a delicious, liberating silence save for the howling of the wind. He plopped onto a bench-Slytherin side, of course-and stayed there.

Mother had sent him a box of Belgian chocolates. How she gotten it while under house arrest remained a mystery, but she always resourceful when it came to things that mattered. Draco tugged his coat closer and popped one in, savoring the complicated bitter-sweet from a premium chocolatier. He wished he could fly, came the stray thought, just steal broom and zip around a bit. But how could he? A gurgle of laughter in self-mockery. He was off the team; flight was banned; they didn't even need to tell him. And he was in no position to catch McGonagall's eye now...no, best sit here in the numbing cold and bask in the silence. Soon enough, there'd be one less day to endure. Who's counting?

He didn't realize someone was flying until the person had zipped right past him. A flash of Gryffindor red, a slice of cold autumnal air, and suddenly Potter was before him in all his glory.

Of course it would be Potter. Draco beheld him with startled, wide eyes, momentarily speechless.

"Malfoy."

Say what you will of Potter, but at least he stuck with Malfoy-none of that first name nonsense-he said Malfoy with that tinge with prewar suspicion, as if nothing had changed, as if Draco were still up to no good. He'd hopped off his broom now and was towering over Draco not two feet away, body taut beneath the Weasley jumper and worn blue jeans. No wand yet, but his eyes—those Slytherin green eyes—glinted hard in the dark, and his lips were set in a tight grim line; there was something ever slightly intimidating about all this. Just ever so slightly.

Draco rose leisurely from his seat, drawling out a lazy, "Potter," as if his heart weren't pounding from adrenaline.

"What are you doing out here?"

What does it fucking look like? —was Draco's first thought. Because really, here was Potter riding out his illicit dream of flying solo in an empty pitch. Harry fucking Potter who continued to get away with everything, because he's saved the Wizarding world seven times over, or was it eight now, oh please. Here he was, towering over Draco with that authoritative, grim face, as if he were some mini-auror apprehending a Deatheater, which Draco was, but—all the old feelings came rushing back; a sneer had almost formed on his cold-pale face.

And then he froze.

Because this, this was the bone tossed by providence, was it not? What could it be, if not providential, for he and Potter to meet alone out here on this starless, moonless night?

Potter could save us, Greg.

What if? The perennial what if!

Draco took a deep breath. The sneer flattened into a smile, of sorts, stiff but uncontroversial. He controlled his voice as best he could, ironing out the ire. He wouldn't let Potter get the better of him, not this time. "Came out for a walk, didn't I? Nice night. You, Potter?"

"You came all the way out here for a walk?"

"What's it to" —another deep breath — "As a matter of fact, yes. Lovely evening, like I said. Figured I'd … get some peace out here."

Which was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but Potter replied with a quiet hm, as if he didn't quite buy it, the wanker. Only, having decided on a course of action, Draco leaned back now on his heels with a show of ease. His initial fury had drained in all events; he was too tired to sustain that. He wanted to sit back down; he wished Potter would go away. He lobbed the question back at Potter a second time. "Well, what about you then? Come out for a fly, all by your lonesome self?"

But Potter only stewed in silence, his lips still that tight line. If nothing else, it reaffirmed Draco's prior opinions, that Potter was a boorish oaf for all his heroics, that he wouldn't last a second at Mother's galas, that… a sudden thought struck him.

He could've plied Potter with chocolate frogs, instead of talk of purebloods. No one could resist chocolate frogs.

The thought came unbidden, but he couldn't quite dislodge it. He only had one frog, a childish treat he'd been saving for last, but it would be rather amusing, wouldn't it? His lips curled at the corners. Wouldn't Potter loosen up just a little bit if-ah, what the fuck, what was there to lose? He rummaged through his pockets under Potter's watchful eye and pulled out the frog, thrusting it towards Potter with an expression approaching obsequious. Better late than never, as they say. "Have one?"

Potter stumbled back, as if Draco had instead proffered some cursed talisman.

"Just a frog, Potter," Draco murmured with a soft chortle, bloodless lips curling into an actual grin. Hero of all Wizards, scared by a frog! "Or perhaps you'd prefer a real chocolate? I've got a box here, the hazelnut is...It's Belgian. Yes, well, the Malfoy gold is still worth something, ha…No? Fine, suit yourself, then." Potter was staring at him with bespectacled confusion, still tense but unclear as to what he was defending against. Draco found that as good a result as any. He allowed a respectful beat of silence to pass before he pounced. "Say, Potter, since you've taken the trouble to come find me all the way out here, I might as well ask, have you given any more thought to what I'd said before?"

Potter's hand tightened over his broom and a hint of discomfort flashed across his face.

"I was only wondering, see."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy."

Didn't he, though? Draco stared at him with baleful, grey eyes. Us. Our relationship. Couldn't we just start over? Take the olive branch and whatnot, must he spell it out?

Potter wet his dry, cracked lips and muttered,"You…we've settled everything, haven't we? There's nothing else…I gave you back your wand, and that's... I've nothing left to say, Malfoy."

"But-"

But it appeared that the last fragment of Potter's broken-up sentence was true. In any event, he didn't allow Draco another word. With an inaudible mutter along the lines of got to go, he'd jumped up on his broom and was gone as suddenly as he'd come. Draco could hear him zip all the way across the pitch, landing with a soft swoosh near the broom shed. There was some clinking and clanking, the slamming of a door, and then Potter had stalked away.

When Draco could see him no longer, when he was nothing more than an invisible dot on the pathway to the castle, he let out a disbelieving bark of laughter. Surely-but surely-the stupid sod's hasn't gone and run away? Surely, it wasn't so easy to discomfit the Harry Potter? A gleeful mirth bubbled up through his body; his thin shoulders shook with merriment. Bloody hell, Potter. He teetered back onto the cold, wooden bench with a smile.

The night was quiet again, and the wind gentler, ruffling through his long blond hair like a soft caress. Of course, his plan was still adrift, but no matter, because he'd managed to get under Potter's skin, after all, and Potter hadn't said no. He had his chocolates, and his peace. There was time.