I do not own Harry Potter. Happy Holidays!

5. Harry Potter is everybody's friend.

"What I don't understand," Ron said, as he and Harry left the Great Hall three weeks into their first year. "Is why everybody likes you so much."

Harry blinked at him, confused. "Erm," he said. "Okay."

Ron snickered. "No, I don't mean that," he said. "It's just that everybody seems to think you're so great. Everybody likes you. They'd want to be your friend even if you weren't the Boy-Who-Lived, and all that. Plenty of people don't like me. Like that Ernie Macmilian boy, from Hufflepuff, or that Granger girl."

Harry felt himself turn red. "Not everybody likes me," he said, in an attempt to downplay Ron's blunt comment. "Besides, I don't even remember anything about Vold—sorry, You-Know-Who—or any of that, I told you."

Ron sighed heavily. "Doesn't matter," he said. "Everybody else knows about it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Some people absolutely hate me," he said. "What about—"

Draco Malfoy came rushing out of the Hall behind them. He slowed as he drew level with them. "Hello, Scarhead," he sneered, ignoring Ron entirely.

Harry didn't bother to respond, turning triumphantly to Ron. "See?" he said. "He hates me."

"At least he pays attention to you," Ron grumbled, though he looked slightly mollified.

"Yeah," Harry conceded. "But believe me, it's not exactly the kind of attention I want."

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4. Harry Potter does not sink to Draco Malfoy's level.

In general, Harry tried to avoid physical fights with Malfoy. They always ended up in lost house points, and stern lectures from Hermione. But by the fourth week of their third year, both of them needed to take out their pent up frustration on something.

The corridor was dark, and damp from the fumes of the potions classroom just down the hall. The third years were just leaving one of the most difficult lessons they had ever had, and everyone was exhausted. Malfoy's eyes darted to Harry, and he muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.

"What the hell did you just say to me, Malfoy?"

"Your father was just as big a bastard as you are, Potter! Siccing werewolves on people—never without Black, and we all know how he turned out. Did they luurve each other, Potter? Guess he had to go somewhere, after all, your mother was a—"

Harry's fist connected with Malfoy's face in the most satisfying way, flesh giving in to the pressure of his knuckles, blood bursting out from nostrils and from between teeth. Malfoy went down hard, grabbed Harry's collar, pulled him down on top of him.

And then Malfoy's fists came, just as rapid and strong as his own, in his chest, his neck, his stomach, and suddenly Malfoy had flipped him over and was straddling Harry while he pounded his fists into him, again and again.

Harry hardly noticed. He concentrated on throwing his entire weight into every punch he threw, drawing blood from Malfoy's cheeks, blackening his eyes. A long, thin cut appeared at his scalp line, a bright red streak of glistening blood.

Malfoy stopped, surprised, and touched the cut gingerly. His eyes shone malevolently down at Harry as he winced.

Snape came hurtling down the corridors. "What have you done this time, Mr. Potter?"

Harry knew it would be utterly useless to explain that Malfoy had started it, or that he was, in fact, the one currently sitting on top of Harry. Instead, he rolled out from ujnder Malfoy and picked himself up off the ground.

"Nothing, Professor," he said icily.

Snape sneered, a look eerily reminiscent of Malfoy. "Detention," he said silkily. "I will send you the details later…I will have to think of something suitable for this…offence."

Behind Snape's back, Draco Malfoy was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

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3. Harry Potter does not feel sympathy for Slytherins.

Draco Malfoy had made a career of insulting and bullying others. He'd made Hermione cry, and he'd made Ron so angry he could hardly speak. He's an arrogant, nasty git; and Harry wants to be glad that he's finally getting what's been coming to him.

And he would be—if he hadn't seen Draco Malfoy crying.

Only humans cry, after all.

He remembered crying in that same bathroom, after Sirius died, and thought that maybe the two of them weren't so different, after all.

He remembered a pale face shaking with fear, and worrying for those he loved. He remembered a hand lowering just a fraction—deciding not to kill.

He remembered an offered hand, a little boy asking for friendship and not quite sure how.

He almost wished, now, that he'd accepted the hand all those years ago.

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2. Harry Potter does not believe in changes of heart.

He was trembling as he stepped into the room, into Harry Potter's room, and handed himself over to his boyhood enemy. He'd never been in the Gryffindor Common Room, before, and was uneasy. He wished Potter had picked a nicer part of the castle for his headquarters.

Harry drew his wand the instant the door began to creak open. "Malfoy," he said evenly. "What the hell are you doing here?" Malfoy's hands were trembling. Harry pretended, for both their sakes, not to notice.

Malfoy took a deep breath. "I want to help," he said. "You-Know-Who is doing things—and I can't—I don't want to."

Harry looked at him sharply. "I don't accept spies," he said. "Go back to Voldemort." And he felt a deep satisfaction at the way Malfoy trembled at the name.

"I don't want to be a spy," Malfoy said petulantly. "I want to fight with you. For you."

Harry looked at him carefully. "Why would you want to do that?"

Malfoy laughed tiredly. "Do you want some big speech about how wonderful you are, and how I'd do anything for the cause? Don't hold your breath. I have no other options, Potter, and I don't want to die."

Harry studied him carefully. He had grown up in the few months since Harry had last seen him, but he was still just past his seventeenth birthday. Still a boy. Still too much like himself to ever be comfortable.

Harry wanted him to stay. And besides, he'd told the truth.

"Fine," Harry said.

Malfoy smiled, then. It was a disconcerting look on him; genuine happiness, with no hint of manipulation or cruelty. The sorrow and tiredness left his eyes, and he looked like the boy he was—could have been—might still be. He was handsome in his joy, and Harry wanted to reach out and touch him.

It was gone as quickly as it came.

"Don't bother thanking me," Harry said shortly.

"I won't," Malfoy promised.

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1. Harry Potter does not fall in love with his male rivals.

Living in close proximity with Malfoy made it hard not to notice things about him.

His hair was blond, but in the evenings, in the lamp light, Harry saw streaks that were almost red, and almost white. It was almost lovely when he tilted his head to certain angles and different colors burst to life.

His eyes were gray, but when he leaned across a table to talk to Harry about some battle plan or some new spell, they were a light blue. Harry spent ages trying to think of something that shade of blue (it was perfect)—the sky, sapphires, certain stars—but nothing matched, so Harry just looked at his eyes instead.

He laughed frequently, but he did it quietly, as if he was afraid someone would hear and reprimand him. He didn't laugh when Harry was watching him, so Harry had to listen carefully for it, because he loved the certain knowledge that Malfoy was happy.

His fingers were long, but his palms were hard and callused. When Harry asked him what they were from, he muttered something about You-Know-Who, and left the room.

He was utterly, ridiculously perfect.

Harry kissed him, once, without thinking, and immediately wanted to die.

"Harry," he drawled. "I had no idea." Harry was absolutely sure he was being teased and wished he had his invisibility cloak.

He drew one of his long, callused fingers across Harry's cheekbone. Harry stopped breathing and died, just a tiny bit.

When he leaned in to kiss Harry back, it wasn't perfect. His lips were chapped, and Harry was scared and pulled away at first. He was Harry's height, too, and it was odd not having to lean down.

Harry felt a little more in love, and didn't care at all.

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