A/N: Sooo, this story has been up for a little while already, but it has been mentioned that it would be easier to read if it was split into chapters, and I do have to admit, a 70,000-word one-shot is a bit extreme. And I live to please! So, without any further ado, I give you...chapters!

p.s. I lied about the lack of ado. Real quick WARNING: Like all of my other stories, the following is rated M for profanity and sexual content of the super gay kind. You have been warned, and the ado is once again no more.

oOo

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It was supposed to be easy; it was supposed to fun, simple, relaxed. It was supposed to be a year of school, Harry's final year—his only year—without the heavy threat of Voldemort looming over him, following him between classrooms and mealtimes like some haunting sort of snake-faced storm cloud.

It was not supposed to be like this.

If he was being honest with himself, Harry had assumed that by now, given this much time after the final blow had been dealt and the fighting finally ceased, after Harry was allowed to lay down his wand after years of struggle and finally just rest, he had hoped he would have achieved some sort of inner peace within himself. He was supposed to be settled and content, at ease with himself; he was supposed to be happy—he was supposed to have gotten back together with Ginny.

He was not supposed to feel this constant, creeping sort of numb detachment weighing down his every limb, blanketing him beneath a heavy, apathetic quilt of indifferent exhaustion, oftentimes making it difficult just to find the energy to drag himself out of bed in the mornings. What was the point anymore? It was hard to remember. He was not sure what it was he should be feeling, but he knew with certainty that it was not how far removed and distant from everything he actually felt, as if the war had severed all the strings tying him to the earth and he was now floating high above his own head watching his life play itself out.

And it was boring.

Harry was bored with his own existence. Classes were dull, homework was tedious, even the faces around him had taken on an almost grayish-tinge, as though he was seeing them all through some sort of thick drab veil, casting the world in a colorless gloom of constant shadows. It felt like a banal tedium had settled heavily into his very bones, leaving him feeling nothing more than an enveloping apathy that gave him the sense of slowly being drained.

Harry should have known the year was going to be shit the day after classes began and McGonagall announced to the consternation of his classmates that eighth-years would not be allowed to join House Quidditch teams. Ron had sat next to him in utter silence, gaping at her in horror for several minutes before he turned and mouthed wordlessly at Harry. "Ha…but…H-Har…" he stammered, seeming unable to get his friend's full name out.

Hermione tsked and lowered her book, her gaze hard across the table. "Ronald Weasley, I know you will be able to find better use for your time outside of protecting hoops from a rubber ball." His mouth, if possible, dropped even wider. "After all, you both went months without it not too long ago without your worlds collapsing."

Ron's jaw snapped shut tightly and he seemed to finally find his voice at last. "Hermione, that's exactly why I was looking forward to it so much! Because of how long it's been since we last played!" His words were accompanied by wild gesturing.

Hermione stared at him in clear disapproval and Harry knew she wasn't convinced. "Aren't you both a little old for games anyway? I mean, don't they seem rather trivial and commonplace after everything?"

Ron gaped at her.

Harry remained silent, poking at his eggs in quiet indifference. Truthfully, he sided with Hermione. Quidditch did seem unimportant and inconsequential after everything they had seen and gone through. It was hard to get excited over the idea of it—just as hard as it was to feel angry over not being allowed to play. In fact, Harry was finding it harder and harder to feel much of anything anymore.

The silence stretched into full minutes, until he looked up and realized that both Ron and Hermione were staring at him, waiting for some sort of response. Clearing his throat, he shrugged and returned his somewhat scattered attention back to his mostly-full plate.

Ron was silent for a full twenty-seven seconds before turning back to Hermione and beginning to lecture her on the multitudes of all the numerous mental and physical benefits of playing Quidditch—all of which she responded to by huffing and disappearing once more behind her thick leather textbook.

Unable to continue feigning interest in his food, Harry sighed as he stood. "I'll see you guys in class," he mumbled as he slung his bag over one shoulder and left, avoiding their wounded eyes and their unwanted concern. Slinking away toward the exit, Harry ducked his head before glancing over to the far side of the room, unable to help himself and unable to care enough to try as he looked over to the Slytherin table.

To where he sat.

A cool grey stare met his own and Harry felt a startled jolt in his midsection at both the eye contact and being caught staring. Feeling the ghost of a blush threaten to stain his cheeks, he glanced away, unsure what to make of the exchange. Harry hadn't felt heat rush through his body like that since before—before the world had imploded into full-blown violence and bloodshed and death. Before he had died.

Feeling the fierce stare piercing his back—good lord, was his heart actually hammering?—Harry quickened his stride and, finally reaching the exit, yanked the doors open sharply only to stumble into a solid body, one that suddenly enveloped him in a very familiar flowery scent. Hands shot out to steady him as he choked around a mouthful of red hair. "Hullo, Harry," an amused voice said. He stared at the pale fingers encircling his upper arms for a second before glancing up into affectionate brown eyes.

"Ginny."

She released her grip on his arms only to reach up a moment later with her own as she wrapped him in a warm hug. Copper hair tickled his nose as she leaned in and whispered, "How did you sleep?" into his ear.

Fighting the urge to step back and break the embrace, he instead lifted his hands to rest them lightly on her hips, just as he had so often in the past, silently pleading with himself to draw some sort of comfort from the familiar warmth of her soft touch.

"Fine," he lied, willing her to believe it and drop her arms, the latter of which she had yet to do. She pulled back slightly without releasing him to look him in the eye.

"I'm glad." Brown eyes gazed into his own, much too close for his comfort and he felt a slight panic begin to build; he had to escape her stare. In an attempt to avoid it he turned his head away, only to be frozen by a different sort of gaze altogether.

Draco Malfoy was staring at him intensely, gaze fierce even from a distance, grey eyes boring into Harry's own sharply. The panic grew to an alarming level and he struggled for a moment with his frozen body—willing it to move, step back, drop his light hold on Ginny, anything.

He heard her begin to speak and was able to finally break eye contact with Malfoy, head whipping around to cut off her words before she could complete them. "We—"

Should talk, he finished internally with a cringe. They really did need to talk. But not now, he thought hysterically. "Sorry, Gin, I have to go…I have to…talk to Flitwick." His hands released her hips as if burnt and he practically ran past her into the safety of the Entrance Hall, legs refusing to stop pumping until he reached the empty Charms corridor. Shaking—with exhaustion or anxiety, he wasn't sure—Harry rested against the wall for a moment before sliding to the floor and wrapping his arms around his knees.

He couldn't keep this up for much longer—avoiding Ginny, running from her every time she came near or opened her mouth. It wasn't very nice, but he just wasn't ready to talk to her, wasn't ready to say the words he could no longer deny. He wasn't ready to see the hurt on her face when he told her that he no longer wanted to be with her. And if he was being honest with himself, it had been a very long time since he had felt any desire towards her.

At first, their relationship had been brilliant. It had been a source of light for him in the darkness of his life at the time. Everything had been so painful and terrifying; he had still been struggling with the loss of Sirius and had begun learning about Voldemort far too intimately, coupled with his usual near-death experiences, schoolwork, and a Quidditch captaincy—not to mention all the fucking articles, rumors, and occasional attempts to slip him love potions—had all left him feeling isolated and miserable. The only times he hadn't felt like everything was spinning out of control were the stolen moments in Ginny's arms. She would hold him close and whisper in his ear, trail her fingers lightly over his bare skin. Her laugh would never fail to bring a smile to his face and her kisses used to give him hope. But now…

The danger was gone, Voldemort was dead; most of the Death Eaters had been killed or captured, with the Ministry dealing much harsher punishments than they did the first time around. Lucius Malfoy was given no leniency this time for faking servitude under the Imperius Curse.

But now that everything was over and Harry was finally, after eighteen years, finally allowed freedom to have what he wanted, he was at a loss. What did he want? Ginny's kisses no longer stirred passion within him; they no longer held hope or the promise of a brighter future. They felt empty. Hollow. The hope was now unnecessary and the brighter future he had prayed so fervently for had finally arrived. And yet, it was turning out so differently from what he had expected.

His breathing finally began to slow as he forced himself to ponder what he did want, drawing a frustrating blank. Thoughts swirled through his mind of Ginny's smile and warm supple hands, smoothed from years of playing Quidditch, her voice whispering his name from beneath him, her sharp gasps and high-pitched cries and the way she would arch into him; the comfort he once found in her embrace. With a pang of guilt, he shook his head, shelving the memories and knowing for certain that that was no longer a desire.

Well, that answered what Harry didn't want, but how about what he actually did? The memory of breakfast surged once again to the forefront of his mind, and he shivered at the remembrance of grey eyes staring into his own. Malfoy's eyes. In the Great Hall, he had been too far away to be able to read the emotions within them, but the sheer intensity emanating from the silvery depths had been all too clear and Harry shivered again at the recollection.

Those eyes had arrived at Hogwarts at the start of term with only Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson to represent the Slytherin eighth-years. The night of the welcoming feast the doors to the Great Hall had been thrown wide and silence had fallen as the three Slytherins were noticed and appraised. Malfoy stood tall and collected and stared right back at the students eyeing him, some with curiosity or surprise, others with blatant hostility. He held himself stiffly and drew his cloak tighter around himself before sweeping gracefully to the far Slytherin table, Zabini and Parkinson following closely behind.

But long after everyone else had averted their attention, Harry kept his eyes fixed on the blond. He had not been expecting Malfoy to show his face that term. Truthfully, he had not given it much thought. He had spoken at Malfoy's trial, had mentioned the Manor and how recognizable he had been—even with Hermione's Stinging Hex in effect—when Malfoy had pretended to be unable to identify him. He had also detailed the ways in which Malfoy's wand had been imperative in defeating Voldemort. Harry's testimony coupled with Malfoy's age had swayed the Wizengamot in favor of a lighter sentence, the conditions of which Harry had not bothered to pay attention to after hearing that no jail time was to be served.

After the trial had ended he had approached the blond, who was still sitting in the cold iron chair in the center of the room in a state of shock, rubbing the imprints of the shackles on his wrists absently. Startled grey eyes flashed up to meet Harry's own, for once devoid of any anger or vitriol. Feeling unexpectedly nervous at the sudden eye contact, Harry fumbled in his pocket for a moment before pulling a wand from the dark folds of his robes. He handed it over to Malfoy with a mumbled, "This is yours". Trembling fingers reached out slowly to grasp it and Malfoy inhaled sharply as the skin of his pale digits connected with the wood, sending a slight pang of guilt shooting through Harry for not returning it sooner. His mouth opened to speak, wondering what the best thing to say would be, but he did not get the chance.

"Harry!" Kingsley Shacklebolt greeted in a warm voice, striding over and clapping him casually on the shoulder. The Minister stared hard at the wand held loosely—almost disbelievingly—in Malfoy's fingers before giving him a short nod and turning back to the brunet. The Minister had then practically swept him away from the thin blond, talking about upcoming trials and asking Harry's personal views on more than one matter. Being asked his opinion by the Minister for Magic had left Harry feeling uncomfortable and unsettled, but he had answered as honestly as he could. Malfoy had disappeared shortly after and Harry did not understand the loss he felt about not having said goodbye before he vanished. What if he joined his mother in France and Harry never saw him again?

Yet despite his temporary panic over the idea of never again seeing his childhood nemesis, the blond was more or less put from his mind. Until the first of September, that was.

In the days that followed, the school slowly began to accept and tolerate the presence of the three Slytherins. It wasn't that hard really, seeing as one rarely heard any sort of noise from any of them. They kept their eyes averted and their hands down in class, speaking only to each other and only in hushed tones. Once, Harry heard a sharp shriek of laughter from Parkinson, but it was quickly shushed by the other two, who had glanced around with guilty faces as though expecting some sort of punishment for daring to laugh. Malfoy's eyes had connected with his for a heartbeat before Harry turned away.

Then again, a week later, Harry had rounded a corner in the library only to come face-to-face with a startled Malfoy. They had both frozen automatically and stared at one another for long moments, neither saying a word. Harry wasn't sure what he felt as he gazed into the silvery depths of Malfoy's eyes. Gone was the animosity he had once felt towards the insufferable blond—there was simply no hatred left to feel for the boy who had once actively made his life a living hell. Not after everything he had seen Malfoy go through, or the way he had held his head high as his father was sentenced to life in Azkaban, eyes bright with tears that Malfoy blinked back, never allowing a single one to fall; tears that Harry had never been sure sprang from sadness or relief. He had no idea how Malfoy felt about his father, or how he felt about anything, really. All he knew was that he could no longer hate the silver-eyed Slytherin. Especially not after seeing those grey eyes wide with fear, sunk deep in a too-thin face, framed by blackened circles and sharp cheekbones and yet still refusing to identify him.

Malfoy began opening his mouth and the moment was broken as Harry swiftly sidestepped him and all but ran away. He wasn't sure what Malfoy had been planning to say, nor did he intend to find out. It wouldn't make a difference; nothing anybody had said so far had made any sort of difference.

Harry was pretty much resigned to the fact that it would be this way forever.

Spine stiff from his seated position on the stone floor, Harry shifted his aching lower body and lifted his head with a sigh—only to have his body freeze once more in shock. The corridor was no longer empty. Grey eyes, the same grey eyes he had just been thinking about, stared into his own from only several feet away. When the hell had the Slytherin gotten so damn quiet? Harry thought about running away again, but it was far too un-Gryffindorly to make a habit of.

Malfoy shrugged off his schoolbag and set it on the ground before walking to Harry's side and cautiously sinking down to sit next to him, studying Harry intently. The expression on Malfoy's face was sharp and intense and Harry figured he may as well take the opportunity to study the blond as blatantly as he himself was being stared at.

Feeling somewhat bold now that he had given himself permission to look, Harry's eyes narrowed as he swept his green gaze over the pale skin of the other boy, taking in the delicate, angular cheekbones below two perfectly arched eyebrows, a straight nose and sharp jawline, and finally his thin alabaster lips, barely parted. His features seemed less pointed than they had when he had been younger, somehow softening just enough to appear noticeably different. Malfoy's silver-blond hair was also different—instead of his usual slicked back look he had worn so religiously in the past, his hair now fell loose and soft around his face, covering his forehead and ears as though he longed to hide behind it, grow it long enough to act as a shield between himself and the world. The strands swept gently over his eyebrows and Harry's fingers twitched as he fought the urge to sweep the fringe aside and tuck it behind one ear.

At the thought, he shook himself internally. He did not want to touch Draco Malfoy's hair.

The Slytherin simply sat and stared at him, as if he had forgotten whatever it was he had been intending to say. Harry remained silent as well. All the questions he had been wondering all term about the blond seemed to melt from his brain now that he was actually near him. Malfoy bit his lip nervously and the action drew Harry's eye, instantly snapping him back into reality.

"Is it okay?" he blurted. Malfoy stared at him in surprised confusion. "I mean…well…does it, you know…work…okay?" The confusion on the other boy's face grew more pronounced. "Your wand, I mean." Harry ducked his head and flushed. What was wrong with him, how fucking hard was it to speak like a normal person?

At the explanation, Malfoy's expression cleared. "Oh, it's fine." For some reason he also dropped his gaze and colored, drawing Harry's notice to the delicate pink of his blush, not to mention the unknown reason behind it.

"It works the same as before, then?"

Malfoy nodded before glancing around and leaning toward Harry, who instinctively leaned closer as well. "I just…um…look, Potter…" He paused and combed a hand lightly through his hair, the silky locks falling perfectly back into place as his fingers raked through them. "I just wanted to say…" He took a deep breath, "Thank you."

Harry blinked in surprise. Out of everything he had expected to come out of the blond's mouth, gratitude had not been on the list. "Thank you?" he echoed.

Malfoy took another deep breath. "Yes. Thank you. Thank you for returning my wand to me. And thank you for speaking at my trial." The last statement was delivered in a rush as though it was difficult to force the words past his lips.

Harry knew he should say something, should accept the thanks, but he could only stare in shock. Never before had he heard Malfoy utter anything even remotely resembling a thank you, and he stared until Malfoy began to fidget slightly. "No problem, Malfoy," he finally shrugged. "You know, no big deal, or whatever."

Grey eyes flashed and Malfoy opened his mouth as if to argue that yes, it was a very big deal, actually, but just then Harry's name echoed through the corridor.

"Harry! Oi! There you are." Ron's familiar freckled visage appeared around a corner, followed by a mass of brown curls that was Hermione. They both stopped suddenly and stared at the two boys, sitting only inches apart and looking, for once, to not be on the verge of coming to blows.

"Granger. Weasley." Malfoy nodded curtly to the both of them before standing and retrieving his bookbag. "I suppose I'll see you in there, Potter," he murmured softly as he drifted up the hallway and into the classroom.

"What did the Ferret want?" Just the barest hint of suspicion laced Ron's tone.

"He, uh…" Harry had to clear his throat and start again. "He wanted to thank me. For his wand. And for speaking at his trial."

Ron's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair. "What? You liar, you're having me on—he's never thanked anyone in his life." His blue eyes searched Harry's in challenge, as though certain he would find the jest, but Harry simply shrugged, looking to Hermione. She appeared thoughtful.

"Come on, Ron, you must have noticed that he's different this year. He hasn't called me a Mudblood once. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I've actually heard him speak this term." Ron rolled his eyes, but she continued, "He hasn't caused any trouble at all or bullied a single person as far as I've seen. He's not the same Malfoy he used to be."

Harry thought Ron might hurt himself with how hard he rolled his eyes at that. The redhead turned to Harry again, as if expecting him to argue with Hermione for them both. Harry just shrugged.

"Well, whatever. I still personally think he's a git, but if the two of you want to be all 'mature' about the whole thing, I won't stop you," Ron sniffed. Harry felt his lips twitch and Ron grinned back at him. "Come on then, you, into the classroom. The sooner we're done with this shit, the sooner we can actually be done with this shit." One hand was flung out and used to pull Harry to his feet.

They filed into the classroom and headed for their usual seats, but Harry couldn't help but glance back toward the far corner of the room where the Slytherins normally sat, only to find Malfoy already staring at him with a strange expression on his face, morphing into surprise as their gazes locked. Harry attempted to give him a smile but was afraid it came out as more of a grimace and quickly turned back around. Ignoring the eyes he could feel on the back of his head, he began unpacking his books as slowly as he could.

The rest of the day passed Harry by in a colorless blur of resigned indifference, the only moment worth remembering occurring in Potions. He had somehow found himself standing in the supply closet next to Malfoy—dutifully collecting ingredients and decidedly not sneaking glances at the blond out of the corner of his eye—when both he and the Slytherin had reached for a jar of earwigs at the same time and it happened. Their fingers brushed. A small jolt of electricity passed through Harry's body at the point of contact, spreading tingling vibrations out through his digits to the rest of his arm. Malfoy's hand twitched, knocking the entire jar off the shelf. But before it could smash to pieces against the stone floor, Harry's wand was out and pointed and the jar had been safely summoned to his hand before he even had time to blink.

"Whoa. Impressive reflexes there, Potter." Malfoy sounded amused. With a shrug, Harry offered him the jar. "And such a gentleman." The Slytherin's tone turned teasing but he reached out to accept the insects, pale fingers wrapping around Harry's own and trapping his hand against the glass of the jar. Malfoy's palm was warm against his skin and Harry couldn't help but stare at those long, pale fingers; fingers that represented the rest of Malfoy well. Everything about him was long and slender and pale— his hair, his throat, his torso, his legs—all in startling contrast to the black that Malfoy always wore.

Harry's gaze finally drifted back up to meet the other boy's and would have dropped the jar if not for Malfoy's fingers still gripped tightly over his own. The expression on Malfoy's face was the same as it had been earlier—unreadable but acute, his gaze sharp and searching. Harry could feel his skin burning under such intensity and took a step back but could not stop the flush from reddening his cheeks.

The barest ghost of a smirk crossed Malfoy's face for the briefest of seconds before he hefted the jar from Harry's clenched grasp. "This step isn't until later; you can come get the jar from me in a moment," he drawled, turning away from Harry and heading back to the table he shared with Zabini and Parkinson.

There was a tingling in Harry's fingers and he flexed them several times, trying to ignore both the memory of Malfoy's hand on his own and the pounding of his heart. Collecting the rest of his ingredients in a stupor, Harry shuffled back to his table and began brewing the assigned potion in a trance, hardly paying any attention to what ingredients he was adding.

"NOT bulbadox juice, Harry, for goodness' sake!" Hermione sighed in exasperation, her grip iron around his wrist to prevent him from pouring the dark liquid into his cauldron. "Honestly, this potion doesn't even call for bulbadox juice!"

With a shrug, Harry set the bottle down and lowered his flame to a simmer, not bothering to skim the instructions before stepping away from his table and over to the Slytherins. Zabini watched with wide eyes as the Gryffindor neared and he heard Pansy swallow before burying herself in the potions text. Malfoy was bent over his cauldron in concentration, adding what appeared to be dried leaves of a plant that Harry didn't recognize between anti-clockwise stirs. Harry apparently hadn't gotten that far yet. Or maybe he had just skipped that step. He mentally shrugged as his eyes scanned the table for the squat jar of earwigs.

Spying them, he leaned over Malfoy and picked it up before turning to face the man himself, who had finished counting stirs and was now staring at Harry, having turned on his stool to face the Gryffindor directly. Malfoy's hair was slightly damp—from both the steam of the cauldrons and sweat from concentration. The strands had darkened to a light gold and clung delicately to his forehead and cheekbones. His eyes, only inches away, really, were a dark grey; they reminded Harry of early morning thunderstorms and the swooping feeling he got in his midsection when he took an especially steep dive on a broomstick.

Still staring in utter silence, Harry willed his mouth to open and speak, to say something—anything—willing his stupid numb brain to wake up and fill his mouth with words, something cool. Something one normal person might say to another person that they might possibly want to try being friends with. Could he be friends with Draco Malfoy? Was that something that was actually possible? Not too long ago, Harry would have said fuck no. Now, he wasn't sure what he would say. All he knew was that he wanted to try.

Since the age of one, his life had been filled with hatred and unhealthy competition; the Dursleys had spewed malice at him every chance they got, loathing him with a fierce delight the very instant he crossed their doorstep as an infant and never missing an opportunity to remind him of his unworthiness. Both his aunt and uncle had taken an almost perverse pleasure in comparing him to Dudley and finding Harry consistently lacking in everything, no matter what it was being discussed; Malfoy had simply continued the acrimonious behavior at Hogwarts. They had been rivals since the very first day of Harry's introduction to the wizarding world. Between the gossip and the whispers and the Daily Prophet articles, Harry had quickly grown tired of the speculation constantly surrounding him wherever he turned in his life. And then Malfoy would show his pointy git face and make it about a hundred times worse.

Although, if Harry was being honest with himself, the pointed features of the other boy now appeared much softer—both by age and the disarming effect of his new hairstyle.

Malfoy raised one silver eyebrow and Harry realized that he had been silently staring for too long. That he had been staring at Draco Malfoy for too long. Flushing, he cleared his throat and turned away, starting slightly when he noticed Blaise Zabini gaping at them. He glanced over at Parkinson, but she was adamantly refusing to look up from her book. Malfoy coughed a laugh and turned his attention back to his potion—a clear dismissal. Earwigs gripped tightly in one fist, Harry spun around to leave.

"Are you upset about it?" The posh voice stopped him, and he swiveled back to face it in confusion.

"Upset about what?" Zabini and Parkinson acting strangely? Malfoy's potion turning out far better than his own? Discovering that he wanted to befriend Draco Malfoy and was maybe currently thinking that the blond looked quite good with damp hair falling in his eyes?

"Quidditch," Malfoy responded simply.

Oh. For the second time, Harry had to ask himself: was he upset? "Not really," he shrugged.

Malfoy tilted his head and studied Harry at an angle. "Why not?" he asked finally, and Harry shrugged again.

"It's just Quidditch, isn't it? No big deal." And it really wasn't. A big deal, that was. Harry had dealt with worse; he had survived far worse than a Quidditch restriction. Malfoy's head tilted even further and Harry was beginning to grow uncomfortable under the fierce stare.

"Are you upset about it?" He felt desperate to shatter the intensity of that gaze. "You're off the team too, after all."

Malfoy blinked, and his lips twitched upwards in a small smile. "No," he admitted. "I wouldn't have been allowed back on the team regardless."

"Why not?" Harry wondered and the corners of the Slytherin's smile turned bitter.

"Nobody wants an ex-Death Eater representing their House."

Harry didn't know what to say. He wanted to wrap his arms around the slender blond and comfort him until the tautness had fled from his mouth, but he could see the walls in the other boy's grey eyes and the defensive straightening of his back and wisely kept his arms to himself, deciding he wanted to continue living with both limbs still attached to his body. "Shame," he said instead. "You were good competition."

At the compliment, Malfoy's eyes widened, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, well, both teams will be fucked without us, won't they? I'm sure McGonagall will regret it the most when Hufflepuff wins."

That brought the slightest of grins to Harry's face and Malfoy smiled in return. At the sight of that smile—that smile!—Harry's palms prickled with sweat and he was suddenly aware of how big his hands were and how slouching his posture was. "Erm, well, I better get back," he said awkwardly. "To my potion. I mean, it's probably shit and useless because I'm dead certain I fucked it up in at least a dozen different ways, but I better get back before it, you know, blows up or something," he finished lamely, stumbling backward with a mental cringe. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Malfoy's smile widened as he nodded. "See that it doesn't, Potter."

Face burning red, Harry turned and hastily made his way back to the Gryffindor table, where he found his potion a sickly green and crackling alarmingly. Stepping back to his station, he quickly scanned the instructions before dropping two horse hairs into it and stirring seventeen times. It hissed and turned a delicate orange, which was pretty, but far from the cerulean color that Hermione's was.

Not that it even mattered.

Slughorn didn't even glance into Harry's cauldron before awarding him an O and clapping him on the back in an overly friendly manner, at which Harry shook his head and sighed. He was sick of the special treatment Slughorn bestowed upon his favorites, Harry being number one amongst them. It only made him even more indifferent towards the subject. Why bother if the result was the same regardless? Why actually try if he was going to be rewarded just the same?

It was in those moments that Harry found himself missing Snape.

Strange as it was, Harry often found himself wishing for Slughorn to deduct House points, assign detention for no reason, make snide comments to the Slytherins at his own enraged expense; Snape would have humiliated him mercilessly for the shit concoction he had just handed in. The greasy git would have mocked him, the Slytherins would have laughed, and Harry would have been furious—an emotion he could hardly recall the feeling of, barely the smallest whisper of the fire that once used to rush through his veins until he was nearly seeing red.

When was the last time Harry had felt properly angry? Was it before or after he had spotted Fred's body lying unmoving amongst the rubble, George's grief heavy in the back of his throat all the way across the room? Before or after he had seen Neville and Oliver carrying Colin's stiff body back inside the castle? It had been so hard not to think about what Dennis's reaction would have been.

Harry knew for certain that the feeling had been before he had marched into the Forbidden Forest all alone, only to be carried out by a sobbing Hagrid who had believed him dead. By the time Harry faced off with Voldemort, all the anger had drained from his body and all he felt was a cold sort of determination. He hadn't hated Tom in that moment, but he had been determined to see him finished.

After that, Harry hadn't felt much of anything—not the victory or his own survival or the congratulations and heartfelt gratitude, not the hugs or celebrations, even the grief felt numbed. Now that Voldemort was vanquished, he wasn't quite sure who he was without the madman's influence over his life. What did he live for now that he actually had the chance to live? What did he want to do with his life now that he knew for certain it would extend into adulthood? Did he still want to be an Auror? Everybody seemed to expect it. He had too, for a time, at least. Ron still talked about it constantly and Harry knew full well that the redhead intended to join the instant the school year was over.

Despite being a recognized and—to his delight every time—celebrated war hero, Ron still had a deep-seated thirst to prove himself, most likely originating from being the youngest of six boys. Career path seemed to constantly be on the forefront of his mind given the way he was always talking about it—what it would be like when they were both training to be Aurors, and then later, when they were famous crime-fighting partners; how many bad guys they would catch and what pubs they would frequent after a long day of thwarting evil. And Harry hadn't the heart to crush his best friend's dreams by informing him that that was no longer a road he sought.

But if not that, then what? Auror had been the only career path he had ever truly considered, other than passing fantasies about playing professional Quidditch, another road that had also long lost its appeal. Since the age of eleven, the only two things he had known he was any good at were Quidditch and escaping death from Voldemort. With the absence of both those things from his life, what was he any good for?

Ron and Hermione had plans. They had dreams and goals and aspirations, and they had each other. Harry had been the third wheel for a while now; had had to watch in envy as the two of them sat closely in whispered conversations, holding hands and sneaking kisses. Oftentimes he felt lonelier in their company than when he was by himself. Yes, they argued more than most couples he knew, and they could both be astoundingly stubborn, but there was real affection and genuine love between them and for that he was envious.

Oftentimes he wondered if he had been in love with Ginny. At the time he thought he had been; she was brave, smart, funny, and beautiful; she could look after herself and was far from what Harry would call a damsel. She was excellent at Quidditch and had always loved him and had nice skin and a warm body and there had been a time when Harry's heart would beat faster at her touch and her smile would turn his bones to jelly. He recalled when he would clutch her tightly to himself and everything would seem okay, the world would appear brighter.

Those memories now seemed so long ago.

That night at dinner she sat across from him, grinning and telling stories, drawing laughter from all the Gryffindors within a six-foot range. Harry caught himself smiling several times and once he almost laughed at one of her jokes. That had been when he had glanced across the Hall and locked eyes with Malfoy, the timid smile on his face stretching fractionally wider. Malfoy's answering smile was just as hesitant, but it faltered as the grey eyes flashed between Harry and Ginny.

The gaze dropped, and Harry wondered what that meant.

After that, he didn't speak to Malfoy for seventeen days.

Their eyes would occasionally lock across the Great Hall or in class, but neither made any attempt to approach the other and Harry was beginning to wonder if he had dreamt everything that had happened with the blond.

In fact, Harry had dreamt of him several times. They were vague sorts of dreams that he could scarcely remember, but ones that left him with an odd feeling of contentment and unease.

He wasn't sure what to say to the other boy or when the best time to approach him would be. The blond never seemed to be out of the company of Zabini and Parkinson; in fact, the three were rarely, if at all, ever parted from one another. They traveled together in a tight triangle—Malfoy always at the front—holding hushed conversations that were never audible to the other students.

Harry often wondered what they talked about; sometimes Malfoy looked irritated, like he was arguing with one of them; other times he looked as if he was holding back laughter, much to Harry's annoyance. The sound was so rare he couldn't help but wonder what the Slytherin sounded like when he laughed. Harry had only ever heard his laugh tainted with malice and derision, he had yet to hear a genuine laugh from him. He also had yet to see him out of the company of his two housemates.

But as much time as Malfoy spent with the other Slytherins, Harry spent just as much by himself, roaming the lesser used sections of the castle or traversing the grounds and forest alone. He avoided Ginny on her own and disappeared from her presence the instant the crowd around them began to thin. And just as much as he avoided his ex-girlfriend, he dodged the company of Ron and Hermione, as well.

Ron either refused or could not see how much Harry had changed since the war. They no longer stayed awake late into the night, whispering and laughing in the quiet darkness of the dorm, only to be shushed by their other three housemates. Harry no longer felt the same kind of enthusiasm for familiar things like Ron did. The redhead still expected Harry to care about Quidditch and House teams and future careers—he expected Harry to be the same as he had always been. To Ron, the war had been fought, people had been killed, and Voldemort had been defeated; bad things had happened, but it was now all over. He was still dealing with the loss of Fred, but he had the uncanny ability to channel his focus entirely into whatever was currently on his mind.

At the moment, it was once again Quidditch.

"Hermione! I mean honestly! Have you even fucking seen them?" Ron's deep voice was bordering on desperate as he—ignoring Hermione's eye roll—turned to Ginny as she sat and grasped her shoulders tightly. "Ginny! Your team! You're the fucking captain! What the bloody hell?"

She grimaced and glared hotly. "I fucking know, all right? Now untwist your knickers, darling." She uncurled his fingers from her arms and shoved them back at him. "It's not my fault. This one isn't allowed on the pitch anymore," she stabbed a finger in Harry's direction, "and we lost most of our team to graduation or the fucking ban, as well as our subs."

Ron cursed, and Hermione swatted his arm from behind her book. Pleading blue eyes turned to Harry. "Harry, help her! Come on, mate. It's our last year and if Gryffindor loses the House Cup to Hufflepuff, that's what I'll have to remember my school years by for the rest of my life!"

Harry poked at his food with a shrug. "Ginny's doing fine as captain, they don't need me. Besides, Ron, it's only Quidditch." Both Ron and Ginny turned wide, horrified eyes on the brunet as Hermione gazed at him speculatively over the top of her book.

"Only Quidditch?" Ron whispered in alarm. "Only Quidditch? Are you sure you're feeling okay, mate?"

Shoving his mostly untouched plate away from himself, Harry shrugged and nodded before rising. "I'm going to go. I'll see you guys later." He made his way from the Great Hall, still loud and full of students eating dinner, the sounds of laughter and cutlery scraping against dishes fading as Harry ducked down a side corridor that led him to the second floor. Shrugging off his bookbag, he tucked it behind an oddly positioned suit of armor after pulling the Marauder's Map from it and folding it into a pocket of his trousers. The buckle on his robes was unclasped and he slid the fabric from his narrow shoulders before shoving the bundle on top of his bag and casting a Disillusionment Charm over it all. As an afterthought, he tugged his tie loose and shoved it beneath the pile as well. Straightening calmly, he began to drift forward aimlessly, not paying attention to where he was heading or where his feet were leading him. All he was aware of was that he didn't run into anybody and knew that he preferred it that way, sticking to the lesser-used corridors and colder parts of the castle rarely ventured into by others.

Dusk had long fallen, casting the shadowed corridors of the old castle into flickering torchlight, when Harry glanced up with a start as he recognized the familiar blank stretch of wall opposite the familiar tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy. Reaching out one hand, he trailed it lightly over the dry stone, wondering if the Room of Requirement would still work or if it would even appear at all. Maybe it was still on fire, or maybe it was dead—just as dead as the ashes of Vincent Crabbe still trapped within, his only remains lost forever, along with the Prince's book.

Shame.

When he had first learned the Prince's identity, Harry had felt weird and upset about having owned and relied so heavily on a book once belonging to Severus Snape, but now that fact no longer bothered him. The memory of the man had long since lost the sharp spike of hatred Harry had once felt toward him.

His curiosity finally won and he began to pace mechanically, focusing on bringing a door into existence. After three turns he stopped and glanced up at the wall, only to find a bare stretch of stone staring back. No door, no knob. The room did not work anymore. One more thing Harry had once relied on so earnestly was now gone.

It was probably just as well the door didn't appear. What if the room really was still on fire?

At the thought, Harry's eyes slid shut as his skin grew hot; he could taste the heavy smoke hanging thick in the air and hear the leaping crackle of the flames; he could recall the panicked feeling in the pit of his stomach as he swooped toward a desk and pulled a familiar blond onto the back of his broom, could remember the feel of those arms wrapped so securely around him, like iron in their terror. Nobody had ever clung to him like that before and he could almost feel the hot breath Draco had panted against his neck, hitching and rasped.

His eyes snapped open and he fumbled with his pocket for a moment before freeing the map and unfolding it. Malfoy, Malfoy…not in the dungeons. Zabini's dot was perfectly still in the Slytherin dorm; sleeping, no doubt. But it was the only one in the room.

Lighting his wand, Harry held it high and peered closely at the map, willing the dot to reveal itself. It finally did, but not where the brunet would have guessed at all.

Draco Malfoy was in the Astronomy Tower.

Every time Harry saw the blond, he was surprised. Malfoy was barefoot and perched on the wide ledge of the windowsill, dressed in black silk pajama bottoms and a soft-looking grey t-shirt—one that clung snugly to his lean frame. His back was curved as he bent over something cradled in his lap; Harry crept closer to get a better look, moving slowly and keeping his steps light in the hopes he wouldn't accidentally startle the other teen and cause him to possibly flee. As Harry snuck closer, he could see Malfoy hunched over a thin book, what looked to be a journal, and that the blond was clutching what appeared to be a Muggle pencil in his right hand as he scribbled almost furiously across the page.

A Muggle pencil? Draco Malfoy? What? Harry had no idea that Malfoy even kept a journal, although he did seem the type to want to give any voice he could to his thoughts.

Startled by some noise that Harry had not heard, Malfoy suddenly glanced up and sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of him. His eyes darted wildly around, as though expecting others to spring out of hiding and grab him. "W-what are you doing here, Potter?" He was obviously trying for cool, but his voice shook slightly and Harry ignored the question.

"What are you writing?" he asked, nodding toward the journal in Malfoy's lap as he continued his quiet stride forward.

"Nothing," Malfoy snapped defensively, slamming the book shut and drawing his knees up to his chest, tucking the journal securely out of sight between his thighs and upper-body.

Harry shrugged. "Sorry. I know it's not any of my business or anything, I was just curious." His steps halted as he finally reached the windowsill, folding his arms atop it and leaning against them as he stared out at the dark grounds. It was beautiful. The moon was just beginning to wax, a tiny silver crescent peeking out behind a single wispy cloud in the surrounding navy of the night sky, and he glanced up to find eyes just as silver watching him from only inches away.

Pale arms were wrapped around silk-clad legs protectively, but Malfoy's fingers would twitch slightly every so often as if it was an effort to keep them there, and with a jolt, Harry realized that he was once again studying Malfoy's fingers. They really were beautiful—long and delicate and impossibly pale; pretty and yet somehow sharp, quick-looking. They were the fingers he would expect to belong to a master pianist—slim and agile as they danced fluidly over ivory keys. Or else maybe a painter, fingers gently gripping a brush, hands ghosting above heavy canvas in sweeping strokes of paint, creating beautiful masterpieces and priceless works of art. But no matter how pretty they were, Harry knew how dangerous those hands could be, especially when attached to the rest of Malfoy's body.

At Harry's words, Malfoy fell silent, staring at the top of his knee and tracing idle patterns across his shin. "What are you doing here, Potter?" The question this time was much less harsh and much more curious and Harry once again was not sure how to answer.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy? I wouldn't have expected you to come here willingly." The words caused an almost imperceptible flinch in Malfoy and Harry immediately wished he had worded it differently. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, it's all right," Malfoy's voice was brisk and Harry cursed his lack of tact. "I suppose nobody would expect me to, would they? Maybe that's why I come. Maybe I don't want their assumptions to win. I don't want to become what they all expect me to be. What they all see when they look at me." His finger stilled against his leg.

"And what's that?" Harry asked softly.

"A Death Eater. The next Dark Lord. My father," his voice trailed off into a whisper and he adamantly refused to look up, but Harry remained silent until grey eyes gradually raised to meet his own.

"You're not your father, Draco." Harry's tone was gentle but firm. The other boy's name felt unfamiliar on his lips but pleasant somehow. It's a nice name, he decided.

Malfoy shuddered and closed his eyes. "Doesn't matter much now, he's gone forever, isn't he?"

Without thinking, Harry reached out and covered one pale hand with his own, causing Malfoy's eyes to snap open in amazement.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, a tiny part of his brain wondering how he was able to say those two words to Draco Malfoy and mean them so sincerely.

"Why…?" Malfoy swallowed and tried again. "Why are you here, Potter?"

Harry kept his hand over Malfoy's as he pondered how best to answer the question, finally settling on the truth. "I'm not sure."

"It's not…it's not just to keep an eye on me, is it? You're not still thinking I'm up to anything nefarious, are you?" The laugh Malfoy attempted was shaky and Harry could hear the real concern behind it.

"No," he answered immediately. "No, I don't think you're up to anything shady. I just…I dunno why I'm here. I guess I just thought…" Malfoy's fingers twitched underneath his palm.

"You just thought what?" the blond breathed, not even blinking in the intensity of his stare.

But Harry didn't know how to finish the statement. There was no longer anything he was sure about: his thoughts, his desires, the direction he was headed in. All he knew was that he had wanted to find Draco Malfoy and he had. Beyond that, he had no idea.

His hand fell away from Malfoy's and he felt unexplainably bereft at the loss of contact. "Well, it's just—I haven't seen you on your own really at all this year. I wasn't sure any of you lot went off by yourselves anymore."

Malfoy hummed as he stared at the part of himself that Harry's hand had covered. "And I am quite accustomed to seeing you in the company of Granger and her Weasel. Yet, these days you appear to be without them more often than in their presence. Grown tired of listening to wedding plans?"

"Something like that," Harry snorted softly. Silence fell like a curtain behind his words and he found himself taking half a step backward.

"Why are you?" The words burst from Malfoy the instant Harry stepped away, as though his body had somehow been tethered to the question where it sat in Malfoy's throat and stepping away had tugged it free and torn the words from his mouth.

"Why am I what?" Harry asked in bewilderment. What was he anymore?

"Always alone," Malfoy clarified. "I remember years where I would never see one of you without the other two. It was incredibly annoying."

Even as Harry's lips twitched, his heart clenched. There had been years where the three of them had indeed been inseparable; they had done everything together, told each other everything. When had it stopped being the three of them? The Golden Trio? When had Hermione and Ron become Hermione and Ron and where had Harry been?

When he realized that Malfoy was awaiting a response, he shrugged. A strange expression twisted across the other teen's face before it was quickly smoothed away, gone too quickly for Harry to recognize the emotion behind it.

"Why do Zabini and Parkinson stare at me like that?" Harry wondered if Malfoy could tell how desperate he was to change the subject from his tone of voice. He suspected he might.

Malfoy grinned ruefully. "They're both expecting you to wreak vengeance upon the House of Slytherin for past sins. Especially Pansy. She's terrified of you and is convinced that it's only a matter of time before you claim retribution for her attempt to offer you up to the Dark Lord."

Harry's grin was out of practice and really rather pathetic, but Malfoy seemed pleased enough with it. "Well, it ended up not mattering much, didn't it? I offered myself up to Voldemort." A delicate shudder shook Malfoy's frame lightly as Harry continued speaking, "I s'pose you should tell the both of them that I seek no retribution, towards her or any Slytherin."

The intense gaze was back—their eyes were locked and neither was blinking. Malfoy's eyes were so intriguing; they seemed to pierce straight through Harry, stabbing right through his paper-thin flesh and defenseless glass bones and making him feel as though he was drowning in dark pools of molten silver. It felt odd to remember how cold and flat he had once thought them to be.

"I'll tell them the Chosen One says so," Malfoy promised in a low voice, and this time it was Harry who fought back the shiver.

"Right. Well. I should go." As Harry spoke, he took a much larger step back. "To bed. And you. Should go, too. To bed. Your own bed, I mean," he blushed and clamped his mouth shut. Why did the stupidest fucking shit insist on coming out of his mouth around Malfoy?

Malfoy looked amused but hopped down from the sill, gesturing for Harry to lead the way. The walk back was mostly quiet, excepting the occasional hushed comment passed between them. He walked the Slytherin as far as the second floor, parting company at the suit of armor shielding his belongings.

"Well, goodnight, Malfoy," he offered awkwardly, slinging his bag over his shoulder and—wanting to smack himself on the forehead—waited for Malfoy to laugh at him or mock his misplaced Gryffindor courtesies. But the derisive laughter never came.

Instead, the silver gaze seemed to glow in the darkness, luminescent and mysterious, pinning Harry into place; eyes so big and close and silver that they appeared to be two tiny moons staring at him from just beyond the torchlight. Moons that stared into his own green eyes for long moments until, for just a fraction of a second, flicked down to Harry's mouth and back up.

"Goodnight, Potter," Malfoy murmured finally before turning and striding away.

As the darkness swallowed the retreating figure of the strange mysterious Slytherin, Harry watched, silent and unmoving, and it was several minutes before he too turned and headed back to Gryffindor Tower.