Draco rises before dawn and moves with practised silence in the darkness, finding the clothes he set out for himself last night and dressing without the need for light. He has always been an early riser, and his dorm-mates have always not. Theo's grumbling for the rest of the day isn't worth the wand-light, and Blaise is even worse.

Besides, Draco prefers to have the world to himself for a few sweet hours. He is not, nor has ever been, an extrovert. Much to his father's frustration. People over-complicate things, it's just the nature of the thing. Draco struggles enough to work out his own thoughts without having endless, unwarranted opinion shoved into his ears. Sometimes it's just nice to be quiet.

It's a character flaw, he knows this. Knows also that he's going to have to get over it sooner than later. The Malfoy legacy is built upon the shoulders of others. It isn't appropriate to do it all himself. It isn't possible. There are connections to make and maintain, and relationships to build to ensure the endurance of the family, and it's all other people other people other people, and the more Draco thinks of it, the harder it is to breathe.

He sits on the edge of his bed and stoops to tie his laces.

Flying will help.

Flying always helps.

Draco wakes slowly and strangely, but good strange, in a bed that's comfier than the hospital one and warmer than the one at the Manor. He slept well, and that's a strange, nice feeling. He clings to it in the darkness, surrounded by the soft sounds of the others — Harry and Ron, and Neville who he's not sure about yet — and it stays, curled up like a cat around his body. Draco smiles.

This is where he's meant to be. He's never felt like that before. He's always felt a little like he's supposed to apologize for existing, as though he hasn't earned the space he takes up, as though anyone who has anything to do with him is sincerely regretting it but are too polite to say anything.

Not here.

It's like there was a him-shaped space waiting for him to fill it.

He wiggles out a toe from beneath the heavy duvet and touches cool air. Not cold, just cool. It'll be cold outside though, in the air.

A thrill thrums through him when he thinks about flying, and he wants to go now. Before now!

Holding on tight to the duvet, Draco wriggles to sit p, forcing his eyes to adjust to the low light enough to see into the bed next to his. Harry Potter is snoring deeply. He looks like he's not going to wake for too many hours. Draco wonders what time it is.

He slips silently out of bed and across the circular room to the window. There's light on the horizon, the first flicker of day on the other side of the lake. He's usually up by now, preferring to have a little time for himself before Father takes control of the day. It's the best time of morning, when the house is at peace, and all the moves are the house-elves focused on their work without their master bearing down on them. Everyone is happiest before Lucius and Narcissa rise, and Draco has learnt to love that time too.

And he's itching to get up and make the most of the day and being here and flying.

"Harry?" He doesn't really want to wake Harry up, it isn't really fair, but he needs to get up and be up now.

Harry groans and turns over, not waking up but frowning hard.

Draco tries harder. "Harry?"

"Wassit?"

"I'm going to get up, okay?"

"Okay," Harry mumbles, and Draco isn't a hundred percent sure if it's real talking or sleep talking, but he'll take it anyway.

Draco dresses in the dark, the woolen jumper filling his hair with prickling static, and slips out of the Gryffindor dormitory, into Hogwarts.

He assumes he'll meet Potter and the boy on the pitch, though the plans they made were intangible at best. Draco finds himself lingering in the entrance hall, not quite sure of himself and hating it. It's early enough that he could get some decent practise in before the others even wake up, and even though there are only a handful of matches left in his Quidditch career, he knows he needs to keep his hand in and make the most of his time. His father had been on the Slytherin team back in the day. Draco has never seen his father so much as touch a broomstick. It's funny, really, as dedicated as he is to Draco's performance and the insistence that Slytherin always win, to the extent of buying a whole fleet of broomsticks, in private, in reality, Quidditch is nothing but a childish hobby. Worthless. A waste of time and energy.

it's the discrepancy that frustrates Draco the most. The years of focused persistence, following his father's orders to be the best and do better better better, only to have the whole construction collapse on top of him, to be told 'there's no use in any of it'. Not potions, not arithmancy, certainly not Quidditch. The real education starts the moment he sheds his school-tie in favor of the signet ring waiting for him on his father's desk.

Make the most of it now.

Draco starts purposefully towards the double doors leading out into the dawn, but the softest sound makes him pause, makes him turn.

His nine-year-old self stops half-way down the staircase, one hand gripping the bannister, staring right back at him, wanting and doubting, lips parted around words he isn't sure about.

Draco knows that feeling.

The boys hair is a wild, static disaster, clashing enormously with the brightest orange jumper Draco has ever seen. He didn't look any better yesterday, but it's still a shock. To see him — him — standing there, looking like that. The strangest mirror.

Because it is him, no matter how hard and desperately he has tried to deny it.

Draco faces himself.

"Good morning."

"Hello," the boy whispers.

"Are you alone?"

He nods. "Harry's still asleep."

Draco scoffs. "Potter has always—" And he's about to make a derisive comment about laziness and lack of dedication, but this time he doesn't. Can't. Something makes him swallow the remark, and it isn't just the look on the boy's face. You get out what you put in, Potter said. That's it.

As simple as that.

Draco clears his throat. "I have never met anyone who rises as early as we do. It isn't a bad thing."

A flick of a smile catches the boy's mouth. "I couldn't wait anymore."

"I remember feeling that way when I first arrived. I suppose I still do. A little."

The boy nods vigorously. "It's like… it's like a dream. I'm afraid of waking. Of wasting it." A flush creeps into his pale face, and grey eyes drop to the stair he stands on.

"You'll come back," Draco finds himself saying, finds himself taking one step closer, than another. "It isn't too long now. Only a couple of years."

It's the old platitude he knows he stopped believing long before he was nine years old. The boy's lip disappears between his teeth and his forehead bunches in a frown.

"Would you like to walk with me?" Draco asks. "Potter can meet us there. Though, of course, if you'd prefer to wait—"

"No," says the boy. "Please. I'd like it."

His older self doesn't offer a hand when Draco approaches as Harry would, or slip a warm arm around his shoulders, but they walk side by side into the outside, the same gait, the same motion of their arms, the same slight stiffness in their shoulders. Draco notices them all. Down the smallest degree of awkwardness between them. It feels unbroachable.

He winces as they step into the outside air, so sharp it stings the tip of his noses and he buries his chin deep down into the collar of the jumper that had been too warm three seconds ago.

Something soft loops around his neck. A scarf, warm and worn.

The movement is so quick they're back to normal like it'd never happened before Draco can catch his own eye.

"Thank you."

"Yes," says the other one. And, "It's much colder here than at home."

"Outside."

The laugh puffs like a dragon's breath. "Yes. Outside."

"How'd you…" Draco licks his frozen lips. "How'd you get to be here? How'd you get Father to—" He stops at an expression he knows so well he can feel it on his own face and something settles hard and heavy in the pit of his stomach. But he wants it, so badly it's an ache through his body sharper than the cold, and to get it, he has to know how.

But— "It wasn't worth it." And— "Don't… Don't do what I did."

Draco withdraws into himself. "I-I don't understand. You're here, you're—"

"He has never forgiven me. Not in seven years. And when I go home this summer—" The breath shudders like it hurts. Draco feels it in himself. "You can— You should make it easy for yourself."

"Don't you like it here?"

"I do. Of course I do. But it's as you said — it's just a dream. Just temporary. Time to wake up soon. Better to…to not have it to miss in the first place."

Draco isn't sure about that. "I'd rather be here than not."

"That's because you don't know the cost," the other one snaps, sounding like Father so much that Draco's whole body freezes up hard. His vision blurs and his throat stoppers up, and he can feel the older one coming back to where he's stopped in the snow and his hands are trying to go up to protect his face even though he knows they'll just be slapped down and—

"I'm sorry." They are little words, nearly lost in the wind, as trembling as a breeze but just as true. "I'm sorry."

It's an effort to look up. He can only just about manage it with his eyes, head dipped down.

"I'm not trying to be cruel," the other Draco says stiltedly. "I do not want to hurt you. I just…I know. I know what's going to happen. And I know what it'll do to you. And I…I-I don't…Nothing can stop Father. Not Hogwarts, not Harry Potter. They cannot save you. Father always gets his way, at one point or another. The best you can do is to not incur his temper. Protect yourself. As best as you can."

As little as it is.

"Please."

He can't help or stop the tears that catch him off guard. They slam through him like a wave, and he stumbles where he stands. It feels like grieving. Like death. His own. And he can't even shut his mouth or hide his face. Just stands there and cries.

"What did you do?" Potter snaps, striding through the snow towards them as though summoned. Draco steps back from the crying boy, feeling the same choking stickiness in his throat and the burning in his own eyes, like the two of them are inexplicably linked. Maybe not so inexplicably.

Potter goes to his knees in the snow besides the boy whose hands are covering his face and doing a worthless job of muffling the tears, and glares up at Draco to repeat, "What did you do?"

"Nothing. I didn't do anything. We were having a…conversation."

"What about?"

Draco's face flushes hot in the chill. About how pointless it all his, he cannot find the words to admit, and he's left faltering as Potter pulls the boy to him, and the boy lets him, looping his arms around Potter's neck as though the instinct to do so was always there. And it isn't quite jealousy. Not quite. More of a…a hole inside him that Draco had no idea existed until this moment.

Because everything the boy feels, he feels too. They are one and the same. But the warmth and the reassurance granted to the child is not available to him. He missed his chance, if he ever had it at all.

Potter's gaze catches his, and Draco looks quickly away, arms dipping tight around himself. It's freezing out here. Flying was a terrible suggestion. He should go back inside and find a place by the fire and catch up with his reading and—

"Malfoy."

A touch to his wrist startles him, and the embrace comes too quickly to resist it.

He doesn't want to resist it.

It's brief and awkward, but warm and enough to fill the hole, and when it's broken, it lingers.

Potter steps back, watching him carefully as though checking for something, waiting for something. Behind him, the boy watches too, grey eyes flicking from Draco to Harry and back again. Draco doesn't know what either of them are expecting from him.

"It's shit," says Potter, earnest as though he means it, as though he understands. Draco knows he does. "And it isn't fair. Give yourself a chance, Malfoy. There is still hope."

Draco's laugh is a visible breath, but it isn't sardonic. It doesn't feel bitter. It feels like…like it might be…true?

Is this the magic of Harry Potter?

Creating truth out of impossible things for impossible people?

No wonder everyone loves him.

Do it again, he wants to say, thinking of the hug. Prove to me it's real and not a dream. Make it tangible and touchable, and prove it.

But, instead, Draco says, "Let's fly."

Harry kicks off and they take to the air. He feels the boy squeak with excitement, locked between his arms, soft blonde hair tickling his nose. Harry grins. Though little Draco has been flying for most of his nine years, Harry recalls his own younger days on a broom and the rush in his stomach and the heady mix of excitement and adrenaline and just the right amount of fear, and by the feel of him, the hands a death-grip on the broom handle beneath Harry's own, that is exactly what the boy is feeling.

Harry takes them faster and higher, climbing climbing above the castle, higher and higher until they touch the clouds. And there, Harry pauses, letting them float suspended in the sky, letting the boy catch his breath.

Draco's grip doesn't give a fraction, but he does lean out to peer down below.

"Oh," he breathes, and Harry laughs again.

"Bit high?"

"A bit."

"Too high?"

The blonde head shakes no.

The clouds part and Malfoy joins them, sitting tall and easy on the sleek, black broom. There's a new wariness, Harry notices, when their eyes catch. Not friendly, not yet, but with none of the old hostility either. Something has shifted.

"You got it?" Harry calls over the wind, and Malfoy holds up something that flashes gold.

Little Draco wriggles, excitement spilling.

How can anyone want to be cruel to this kid?

It hurts Harry's heart.

"Ready, Potter?"

A hundred snarks present themselves on the tip of Harry's tongue, but before he can pick between them, Draco yells, "Go!"

They go.

Malfoy throws the Snitch up high and the wind catches its wings and brings it to life.

And the chase is on.

It is a dance they have done together for years, but it's better this time without a crowd or the pressure of the team, and the boy in his arms loving every second, every moment, as they plummet down and streak across the empty pitch, weaving through the stands like thread through a loom, so fast that all the reds and greens and yellows and blues blur into an impossible rainbow, and all that matters is that little flash of gold in front of them.

"Faster," Draco whispers, and Harry obliges.

A hair behind, Malfoy grits his teeth and urges his Nimbus on.

It is the simple fact of design that a Firebolt will out-pace a Nimbus when their riders are as equally matched as Malfoy and Harry. It's a testament to Malfoy's skill that he can keep up as well as he can. It's a strange feeling, to be suddenly struck by that thought. Malfoy has been flying his whole life, rising before dawn most days for solo practise, drilling his team hard and constantly. Drilling himself harder, longer.

And it's never made a bit of difference,

"Harry!" The shout comes high-pitched with terror, and it's a close swerve to avoid crashing headlong into the stands.

Malfoy takes the advantage, lying flat on his broom, stream-lining with needle-point precision, fingers sharp and reaching; every bit of him focused with perfect precision. His form is crafted to perfection. Harry can't believe it's taken this long to notice, to be impressed by it.

"Faster!" the boy shrieks against the wind, grabbing for Harry's focus. "We're going to lose!"

Harry grits his teeth, holds tighter and flies.

Through the stadium and across the pitch, faster faster, "Faster, Harry!"

Screw Oliver Wood and Gryffindor reputation, this is the most pressure Harry has ever flown under and dammit he wants to win!

So does Malfoy.

Little Draco gives a yell of dismay just as Malfoy gives a shout of triumph, snatching the Snitch out of the air.

"Yes!" He leaps off the Nimbus before it even stops, holding the flash of gold aloft.

Harry has seen Malfoy catch a Snitch before, has witnessed him winning games for Slytherin single-handedly against Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, but he's never seen such heady elation in the Slytherin. And it is only joyous. There is no snug satisfaction, no snide boasting, just joy as he grins, eyes bright, face flushed, hair a mussed disaster, and turns back to Harry and Draco.

Harry stills his broom to a steady hover, holding the boy tight, feeling the hammering heart beneath his palm, aware — strangely — of his own feelings though uncertain what they mean.

They sit high in the deserted stands and watch the boy whiz around the pitch after the Snitch on his own. It is a strange thing, to be in such close proximity with each other and for the air to feel so peaceful.

"I can't believe it took seven years," says Malfoy, shaking his head with a laugh, pushing his hair back from his face. "I can't believe no-one was around to see it. They'll never believe me, you know. Shit." But there's no anger there, just breathless exhilaration. He glances sideways and catches Harry's stare, pink tinging his cheeks. "Why're you looking at me like that, Potter?"

"I wish we had done this sooner." The admittance falls before Harry can catch it, and he flushes too. But it's too late to do anything about it now. It hangs in the air between them, thick in the sudden silence. "I wish it'd been like this from the beginning," Harry pushes on when the quiet is too much. "This is so much more fun than…whatever we were before."

"Mmm."

"You're talented, Malfoy."

"Not as talented as you."

"I don't think that's true."

"Don't patronize me, Potter."

"I'm not," Harry insists. "I'm serious. You're better than me."

"Then why is this the first time I've been able to beat you?"

"Because you weren't panicking."

Malfoy's eyes go wild, and the new ease stiffens into old rigidity. "I don't panic."

"It's okay to care—"

"Caring isn't the same as panicking."

"Sometimes it is. When the stakes are set too high."

Malfoy says nothing, just watches the boy on the broom.

"Have you ever thought about flying professionally?" Harry asks. He expects Malfoy to laugh and tell him that Malfoys don't fly.

But instead, Malfoy says, softly, "Yes."

"Really?"

"There's a programme in Italy. World-renowned. I applied on a whim near the start of the year. They sent someone to watch me play. Thankfully not against you. I, ah, I got the acceptance letter a month ago."

"Holy fuck."

"I haven't accepted," says Malfoy quickly. "No-one knows. But it's…some sort of validation, even if I do nothing with it. I'll always know I could've. If I wanted to."

"You don't?"

Malfoy shifts, pulling one leg on top of the other. "I don't know. It would be a…statement. To say the least. I don't know I have the energy. And it's no guarantee of success. It's a year of intensive training, and at the end I'll be left just as I would be if I didn't do it, only with more bridges burned and fewer prospects." He inspects his hands, folded in his lap. "I don't know if it's worth it. I doubt it is."

"I thought your dad was obsessed with your Quidditch stuff? Isn't that why he bought you all those brooms?"

"Father is obsessed with anything that brings glory to the Malfoy name," Malfoy responds thinly. "It is the same reason he is obsessed with me obtaining the highest marks in my exams despite the fact he is pressuring me to leave before my N.E. . Father lives by his own logic. Being the Malfoy heir is the only acceptable career, and qualifying credentials are very firmly set in place. Being the best is one of them. Being good enough to play Quidditch professionally is not. It's a…fine line. Difficult to navigate, even when you're used to it. Like the rules keep shifting just as you learn them."

"Sounds like shitty rules," says Harry bluntly. "Sounds like you'd be better off playing by your own instead of chasing whatever bull-shit games your father throws out." He bumps shoulders, almost forgetting who he is talking to. "Like Quidditch. Do it. Go to Italy. You deserve it. You earned it."

Grey eyes go huge, and there's a little twitch of a smile before Malfoy's head drops once more. "I can't afford it."

Harry laughs before he can stop himself. "You can't afford it? How expensive is it?"

"You think my parents would pay for me to waste another year of their precious time? I don't have an income, Potter. Anything I have, it was given to me by my father on the condition that I behave. He is just as quick to remove as he is to give."

"Have you looked into scholarships?"

"As if I'd qualify for a scholarship," Malfoy mutters. "As soon as they see my name, they'll know who I am and where I come from. No-one would read 'Malfoy' and think, oh yes, he needs financial aid. It doesn't matter, anyhow. I didn't apply to go. I applied to see if I could. I and I did. That's it. I wasn't intending anything to come of it. I just…wanted something of my own. Or, at least, to dream a little that it might be possible to have something on my own. Dreams are very sustaining, you know."

Jesus fucking christ, Harry thinks, blowing into his hands, cold despite the thick, Quidditch gloves. "You could be anything you wanted to be. Even I can see that. All it would take is a little bravery."

"I don't do brave," Malfoy snaps. "I'm not a Gryffindor."

Harry laughs. "There are different kinds of brave. You owe it to yourself—"

"Enough." It is softly spoken, but a command nevertheless, and Harry finds himself willing to obey. Malfoy sighs, tucking his hair back behind his ear. "I meant what I said to him," he murmurs. "The best we can do is protect ourselves."

"Surviving isn't living—"

"You can't save me, Potter."

The simple statement of fact sparks Harry's blood, the call to a challenge so strong it's physical. Let me try, he wants to beg. Let me prove you wrong.

Instead, Harry says nothing, just holds out his hand, palm upwards.

Malfoy looks at it in absolute horror, then quirks an eyebrow at Harry. "What?"

Harry continues to hold out his hand in silence.

Malfoy gives a little huff that could possibly mistaken for a laugh, then places his own hand carefully upon Harry's. It's warmer than Harry expected, the skin soft and the bones beneath fine. He closes his fingers, pressing against Malfoy's sharp knuckles, squeezing just slightly.

The boy zips by, twisting sharply to reach and grab and catch the Snitch with a whoop of triumph, and Malfoy's fingers curl around his hand.

A/N: Hey friends! Sorry for the absence but EXCITING NEW! I have a literary agent now! I'm working hard on revisions for my middle grade novel, so that's priority, but fic is my chill time and I am not giving it up in the slightest. I even checked with my agent on the call to make sure I could keep writing my fic ^^

Hope you enjoyed this chapter 3