Harry needed to write more for himself than for Malfoy. He needed to figure out if his friends were right, if he really did have feelings for Malfoy.

Not that the kiss hadn't told him enough. So, he wrote and he wrote for hours. He wrote about every feeling Malfoy had given him, every thought he had about him, and he did it all objectively.

It was hard work. Who could have blamed him when he huddled close next to Malfoy to keep on writing? He was cold and tired.

Malfoy's scribbling stopped for a moment, and he looked over at Harry. He let out a satisfied humph and continued writing, scooting closer to him as well. They worked like that for a few hours more, their legs eventually linking and their positions becoming more and more awkward as they attempted to maintain closeness while writing.

The sky was just beginning to lighten when they both finished, exhausted and emotionally drained. They each had stacks of written on parchment and cramped up hands, soothed only by constant relaxation charms.

"Whatever that was," Malfoy said, "it worked."

Harry smiled and let out a sigh of relief. "Good." He gathered up all his papers and stared at them. Thank god it was Saturday, he thought. He was exhausted.

"What do we do now, after we pulled that all-nighter?" Malfoy inquired, apparently still capable of sexual humor in a state of exhaustion. Harry yawned and stood up, walking towards the edge of the tower.

"We throw them to the wind." He still clutched the writing to his chest, unwilling to let go yet.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Malfoy cried, springing to his feet and leaving his manuscripts on the floor. He grabbed Harry's arms to prevent him from throwing anything overboard. "Don't I get to read them first?" He demanded. He stuttered a moment and took a step backwards, releasing Harry.

"I mean... Don't do that! Someone might be able to read it!" He exclaimed, his voice hoarse from exhaustion but still pleading.

Harry turned around and shrugged. "Then we can incendio them," he suggested, holding the papers with one arm and pulling his wand out of his robes with the other. Malfoy froze, and for a moment Harry could see the wheels turning in his head, like he was considering something. Then, he snapped back to reality and grabbed Harry's wrist.

"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't get rid of them. I do want to read them. I mean, if they say something... good." His eyes dropped to stare at the writing with a strange kind of need in his eyes.

And for a moment, Harry understood. Once upon a time, Harry would have brushed it off as Malfoy being a narcissist. But after an entire night of thinking of nothing but him, of being with no one but him, of breathing in his presence and contemplating what he knew, he came to a conclusion. Malfoy-no, Draco-spent his life being the bad guy, thinking Harry hated him. He spent his life searching for approval, belonging; that was why he joined the Death Eaters, he reasoned.

And in Harry's hands were pages upon pages of all the wonderful (and sometimes not so wonderful) things Harry had felt and thought about Draco. Pages and pages of a history rewritten through a rose colored lense and tinted by the affection caused by feeling his warm body.

He didn't know Draco, not really. But he knew he didn't hate him, and something inside of him had always felt something towards him.

"You can read them," Harry said, handing him the parchment. He thought for a moment about the fact that there was an entire page reliving the dread Harry had felt when he sectum-sempra-ed Draco in sixth year, or another page about the betrayal he had felt when he learned that he was a Death Eater.

But that didn't matter. Because there were also pages talking about how absurdly pretty Draco was, or how nice it was sitting with him up in the tower, or how happt he had been when he had testified at his trial and helped him go free.

Draco smirked at him, taking the parchment and cradling it gently to his chest. "Perhaps I will later. Eventually." He tucked them into his robes pocket. "For now, I'm going to need them for written proof to justify what we're about to do."

Harry blinked. "What?"

That had nothing to so with his suspicions. Draco smirked and took Harry by the shoulders, pressing their faces close.

"I am dragging you down to the Great Hall," he murmured, "and we are going to snog in front of the entire school." He pulled away and began to gather up his own parchment, still strewn on the stones.

"Why?" Harry demanded, though he admittedly wasn't too reluctant in his exhausted state. He had to come out at one point, anyhow.

Draco finished picking up the papers and stood up. "It's a fantasy of mine," he said quickly, frantically shoving the parchment pieces into Harry's robes. "You can read about it later."

Then, in a mess of hormones, they both ran down to the Great Hall to make fools of themselves.

Because they were fools. Fools in love.