Author: 142978

Rating: NC-17

Summary: After Harry finds Malfoy abandoned in the muggle world, his life takes a turn for the bizarre. Hogwarts is not what it used to be, his friendships are unstable at best, and there's something strange about the way Malfoy has been acting...

:: :: ::

The moment Harry Potter landed back at number 4 Privet Drive, he knew there was something funny about the place. He stood on the opposite curb, studying the house from under a Disillusionment charm. Normally he would have used his invisibility cloak; but with the late August sun beating down on him like it was, he would have smothered himself under the heavy fabric, whispery though it may have been.

Harry wasn't sure what he expected to find here, but he did know that it wasn't to see the house in immaculate condition, the hedges trimmed into perfect cubes and the rosebushes freshly mulched. The windows all sparkled in their panes, and both the empty driveway and the front walk were clear of any fallen leaves or branches. A sprinkler sat in the middle of the lawn spitting a pitifully thin stream of water across the precisely cut, impossibly green grass. The other yards on the block had all wilted and yellowed in the stifling sun, but as usual, number 4 looked lush enough to win a prize.

The house looked so good, in fact, that Harry could not have mistaken its inhabitants for anything other than his contemptible aunt and uncle. Any fool Death Eaters trying to lay a trap for Harry would probably not be observant enough to realize how meticulously Petunia Dursley kept her garden. And Harry had considered the possibility of a trap, at great length.

As he crossed the street, Harry idly wondered where his family had taken the car. Another of their precious lawn conventions, no doubt; Harry let himself smirk at the memory of the trick the Order had played to distract the Dursleys from Harry's escape from their awful house.

Harry bypassed the handful of locks on the front door with a flick of his wand to find himself facing an empty house, silent except for the buzzing of the refrigerator and a radio broadcasting quietly somewhere upstairs. He brandished his wand, ready for an attacker to spring forth from the shadows, until he saw the dishes soaking in the sink. Then he tucked the want into the front pocket of his jeans, now completely satisfied that he had not inadvertently stumbled upon some rogue Death Eaters. One glance at the collection of photographs on the fridge confirmed that the Dursleys hadn't moved since Harry last saw them. Not even Death Eaters would be able to suffer looking at Dudley's fat pink face every day.

He'd worried about them, of course. Only a little more than a year had passed since he'd left Privet Drive and his awful family, but so much had happened in that year that Harry wouldn't have been surprised to find the Dursleys had fled to some distant locale where Harry would never, ever come looking for him, intent on taking a permanent vacation after the strain of bringing Harry up among them.

Then again, he reconsidered, the Dursleys had no real reason to think that Harry would ever have come looking for him. The last they had heard, Harry was in grave danger and might not survive to see his eighteenth birthday.

Smugly, Harry recalled the joint birthday and end-of-war party at the Burrow several weeks earlier. Not only had he survived, he'd saved the entire wizarding world from mortal peril. Not bad for an orphaned teenager.

The Dursleys would love to hear of his success, he mused. They'd probably never believe half of what Harry had seen in the past year, let alone the seven he'd spent using their spare bedroom over summer holidays. As far as they were concerned, Harry's being alive was bad enough. Hearing that he'd performed what could only be described as miracles would certainly ruin their day, their week – maybe even their entire year.

Much as Harry would have loved to see the looks on their faces when they saw him alive, he was relieved, and even glad, that the Dursleys were gone today. He had only come back now to claim a few personal items he had forgotten in his haste to leave the previous summer. Mostly he was looking for letters and notes, and a few odd souvenirs of his years at Hogwarts like the golden snitch from his third year, when Gryffindor had won the House Cup in Quidditch, and a drawing his old housemate Dean Thomas had done of Harry and his owl, Hedwig. Though it was almost painfully sentimental of him, Harry longed for reminders like these that his life among wizards had seemed exciting and magical, before he'd had to spend every hour of his days plotting against the Dark Lord and his followers, before he'd feared for his life, before he'd lost friends.

Harry trudged upstairs to the bedroom he had occupied when he lived with the Dursleys. The walls had been repapered with a dull ecru stripe (apparently Petunia's excuse for good decorating sense), and several picture frames hung in a line along the far wall.

Harry ignored them, assuming they held portraits of Dudley, like every single wall of the living room and halls of the house. His old bed still stood in the corner, with a nice maroon duvet smoothed over the narrow mattress. Apparently they'd been using it as a guest room since Harry left.

He was only vaguely surprised that they hadn't loaded all of Dudley's old toys into the second bedroom, but then, Dudley was much too old to keep most of those around the house anymore. Harry suspected that any toys that were left had been kept by Petunia as mementoes of a time when Dudley had not yet gained such impossible girth.

He was just crossing to the wardrobe to look for his own mementoes when he heard a car door slam outside, followed by several other car doors slamming, and the murmur of voices from the driveway.

Harry glanced at the window, frantically trying to decide what to do. He could stay where he was, gather his things, and only face his family if they discovered him. Or he could go downstairs to meet them, hopefully surprising the lot of them into heart attacks. Or he could just disapparate and try again tomorrow, when he knew Vernon would be working, Petunia would be gossiping at the neighbor's, and Dudley would be roaming the neighborhood with his band of bully friends.

Harry quickly crossed the room again and closed the door, settling on an answer. He would risk being caught and stay until he'd found what he came for – chances were, they never came into his old room, anyway, unless they were laying out guest towels for Aunt Marge. This time of year, Marge was sure to be sunbathing in Majorca, if not further abroad.

Keeping an ear out for the Dursleys below, Harry opened the wardrobe as quietly as he could and dropped to his knees to search the bottom. He thought he remembered leaving a couple of Quidditch books there.

He was so intent on finding his books that almost missed the clothes hanging there, a few worn pairs of jeans and old t-shirts that were roughly his size.

That was strange, he thought. He didn't remember leaving any clothing behind. None of the shirts looked familiar, and they looked like they actually might fit him, unlike the various articles of voluminous clothing he had inherited from his cousin over the years. He got to his feet, pushing the hangers back and forth, trying to understand what it meant.

Looking around the room, he realized that despite its being very clean, someone had obviously been living here. A spare pair of trainers stood at the foot of the bed, crumbly dirt from the garden lingering on the rubber toes. The pillow held a clear imprint of a head, as though the same person had slept on it many nights in a row. The bedding was rumpled and slightly crooked, a state that Petunia never would have left it were she preparing for a guest. There were pens scattered on the desktop beside a couple of used notebooks and a crumpled magazine.

Harry went to the desk, turning the magazine over in his hands. It was a celebrity gossip rag, a new but well-read issue. Someone had circled or starred several of the men throughout the magazine in a bold black marker.

Baffled, Harry looked at the pictures on the wall, then sucked in his breath sharply when he recognized the faces within the frames. None of them were Dudley. In fact, it was exactly the opposite: they were portraits of a family he never thought he'd see in the Muggle world, one that he loathed perhaps as much as the Dursleys.

Harry was so utterly shocked that he barely heard the footsteps ascending the stairs, and he only thought to turn to face the door when it swung open, creaking on its hinges.

"I thought I heard someone up here," said Draco Malfoy in a low tone, looking over Harry as though he were studying the stains on the sole of his shoe.

"Petrificus totalus," Harry said automatically. Malfoy froze with one hand on the doorknob and the other tucked gracefully in his pocket. He looked like some sort of statue, or one of the photographs in the magazine Harry had found, like someone had intended him to stand that way forever.

For a moment, Harry couldn't figure out why Malfoy looked so odd. Then it hit him: he was wearing Muggle clothing, a faded t-shirt with a hole near the hem and a pair of jeans that had seen better days. He was also wearing shabby leather sandals, and his skin had an all-over golden tone to it. He had always looked so pale at school, like he was permanently recovering from a particularly bad case of the flu, especially against the usually dark tones of his expensive, tailored robes.

Anyone who had undergone the same transformation might have seemed more elegant, as Malfoy did now, but somehow the fact that it was Malfoy added to the odd feeling of being back at Privet Drive, and seeing him there. Harry felt a bit as though his center of gravity had been knocked askew; Malfoy wasn't supposed to be here, and he certainly wasn't supposed to look like some sort of model.

"I'm going to let you out of that body bind, Malfoy," Harry warned, coming back around, his wand pointed directly at Malfoy's heart, "but if you try anything, so help me, I'll curse you back to that first arranged Malfoy marriage so you can see firsthand where all that inbreeding began."

Malfoy, of course, didn't reply. He didn't move.

"Finite incantatum," Harry announced impatiently. He kept his wand up, ready to hex Malfoy the minute he did anything remotely suspicious.

Instead, Malfoy rolled his eyes and stretched his shoulders before crossing his tan arms over his ratty t-shirt. "Potter, you stupid, insufferable twat. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Harry retorted.

"I asked first," Malfoy replied, his voice sticky with the smug, bored drawl that had always driven Harry over the edge when they'd fought at school. At least it made him seem a little more like the Malfoy that Harry knew and loathed.

"I came to collect some things."

Harry paused. He had no idea why he had answered Malfoy's question so easily. It was Malfoy who needed to explain himself, not Harry. Harry owed Malfoy nothing. Malfoy, on the other hand…

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Just answer the question, you git, or I'll – "

"Hex me into the distant past, I get it," Malfoy interrupted. He eyed Harry's wand coolly. "Petunia put your things into a box long before I got here. They're in the cupboard under the stairs."

Appropriate, Harry thought with a twinge. He said sharply, "Why are you here, anyway?"

"Yes, you've already asked me that one," said Malfoy. "If I wanted to answer it, I'd have done so already. You bore me. Now, please get out of my bedroom."

"Your bedroom?" Harry scoffed. He lowered his wand just an inch, incredulous. "I lived here six years, and you're calling it yours?"

"Where on earth did you live for the first eleven?" Malfoy dodged the question, sneering. Then his expression flickered minutely and he said, "The rumors were true, then?"

Harry felt the rush of heat on the back of his neck. "Depends. What were the rumors?"

"They said you lived in a closet, that you were made to eat cold food from a tin like some sort of animal," Malfoy replied. "I never believed them, the way you acted. You had the attitude of pure privilege. I especially discounted them when I came here and saw your room. Quite spacious for a closet, I thought. But that does explain it, even if it doesn't explain your attitude. The one in the hall?"

"Under the stairs," Harry said curtly.

"Ah," said Malfoy. He sounded vaguely impressed. "Appropriate, then, isn't it – "

"Shut up, would you?" Harry said irritably. "Why are you here?"

"This is your grand questioning technique? Badgering the enemy to death with stupid questions? Good lord, Potter, heaven help us all if you ever decide to become a spy. You'll never get anything done, save perhaps win an award for the Most Useless Member of the Ministry, ten years running."

Now Harry rolled his eyes. "I don't have time for this. I came to get my things."

"No one's stopping you." Malfoy noticed the open wardrobe door, his expression creasing with unhappiness. "You've gone rifling through my things? Good god, Potter, you've no manners at all! No wonder they kept you under lock and key. You really are an animal, like that godforsaken uncle of yours – "

Harry assumed he meant Sirius. That was alright, as far as Harry was concerned; he doubted that Malfoy knew half as much about his familial connections to Sirius as Harry did. The irony of Malfoy insulting his own blood relatives struck Harry rather fully; he had to suppress a chuckle.

Meanwhile Malfoy hurried over to inspect his pitiful few articles of clothing, Harry assumed to make sure nothing was missing.

"I didn't take anything from you," Harry informed him pertly. "Like I'd want any of your things."

Malfoy shot him a dark look. "Just take your letters and go, would you? You know where they are."

"Fine," said Harry. He pushed past Malfoy with slightly more force than was strictly necessary, satisfied by the grunt Malfoy produced when his shoulder connected with Harry's own.

Harry was careful to descend the stairs as quietly as possible. Despite his unfortunate run-in with Malfoy, Harry still wanted to avoid his relatives at all costs.

He could hear the television blaring, and he assumed the Dursleys were all crouched in front of it with cold drinks and enough snack food to stuff a whale or perhaps a small dragon, but as he crept down the hall toward the cupboard, Malfoy came crashing down the stairs behind him, whistling. Apparently he was determined to make as much noise as humanly possible.

Glaring daggers, Harry hissed, "What are you doing?"

Malfoy smiled smugly and disappeared into the living room, moving as casually through the space as though he'd lived there for years. Harry heard him say, "Petunia? There's a visitor here to see you."

Petunia's voice drifted past the television blare, "Visitor? Why, I didn't even hear the doorbell ring. Whatever would we do without you, Draco…"

Moments later, Malfoy reappeared in the doorway with Petunia at her side and Vernon bringing up the rear. Dudley had apparently decided that the television was more important than whatever surprise guest Malfoy had dug up.

"Harry?"

To her credit, Petunia sounded more surprised than offended by his presence. Harry could not say the same for Vernon; he was beginning to puff up and turn a blotchy shade of purple beneath his quivering mustache.

"I found him upstairs," said Malfoy lightly, "rooting through my things."

For just a moment, no one said anything. Vernon made a few strangled noises, and Malfoy looked impossibly smug, but Harry suspected it was just the quiet before the storm. Before long he would be barraged with accusations and insults until he himself turned purple or apparated out of the house, possibly alarming the Dursleys even more than he already had by merely standing in their hall.

Then Petunia acted on an unexpected impulse and flung her arms around Harry's shoulders, clutching him into a tight and awkward hug. Her collarbone jabbed painfully into the bony part of Harry's shoulder.

Once he had recovered from the shock of this gesture – Petunia had always avoided touching him at all, let alone ever hugging him – he patted her on the shoulder, glancing as he did at Malfoy. He looked as surprised as Harry felt. Vernon, meanwhile, had gone no less purple, but remained speechless, apparently also baffled.

Petunia pulled herself away suddenly, her face flushed red with embarrassment that she had just shown any emotion toward Harry, let alone compassion or caring. She wrung her hands, saying, "We're just so surprised to see you – "

Alive, Harry added silently when Petunia's speech dropped off suddenly, her hand flitting to her pursed mouth.

"But," Vernon choked through his apparent rage and disbelief, "why've you come back? We thought you'd gone for good!"

"I left some things behind," Harry said, hearing the defensive edge on his voice.

And he had a right to be defensive, he thought. He had planned on sneaking into the house, taking his things, and leaving. Looking around at his relatives and Malfoy, he realized he'd just stumbled into a set of problems entirely different than a lost handful of old letters, or even confronting the Dursleys again, starting with the question of what Malfoy was doing there in the first place.

He didn't have time to think it through now. Petunia was nodding, pushing past them to get to the cupboard under the stairs. After a moment of rummaging, she produced a rather crumpled looking, unmarked cardboard box.

"I thought you might come back for them," she said, sounding almost apologetic, though Harry couldn't imagine why. He was surprised that she'd thought to keep anything of his, rather than using it to ignite a bonfire the day he'd left. "There were letters, and a few – um, other things."

Harry thought of the Snitch, and suddenly he was impressed by his aunt's courage. She, who had always openly reviled anything magical, had touched a Snitch? For all she knew, the tiny ball of gold might have been some sort of time bomb, or a shiny practical joke. Well, he thought with a smirk, at least he'd left behind harmless "other things," and not his Monster Book of Monsters or one of Fred and George's pranks, or he might have traumatized her even further when it came to magic.

"Thanks," Harry managed, though his mind was still reeling from these few gestures of kindness from his aunt.

"Well," Vernon announced pointedly, "now you've found your things, you can go. Right?"

Though he wanted little more than to sit down right then and sort through his box, Harry caught himself on the verge of agreeing with Vernon. He could look over his things just as easily at the Burrow, or even the park two blocks over. But something in Petunia's expression, both fearful and hopeful, stopped him.

"You will stay for supper?" she asked suddenly. Vernon balked. Malfoy's frown twitched slightly, but otherwise he showed no reaction. Petunia's eyebrows had lifted so hopefully that Harry felt himself caving under some undefined guilt even as every other fiber of his being cried out to him, Leave! Get out while you still can…!

He thought briefly of Ron and Hermione eating with the bereft Mrs. Weasley, the three of them crowded around one end of the table while the rest of it shot out away from them in the other direction, vast and empty. With the end of the war, most of her children had been reassigned to their previous lives in far-away countries, and Mr. Weasley had been kept late at the Ministry almost every night Harry had stayed at the Burrow that summer.

The image of a forlorn Mrs. Weasley was crowded out of his mind by the thought of his mother beaming hopefully at him through the Mirror of Erised seven years ago, and how alike she and Petunia would have looked in this moment, searching his face for – something, after he'd spent so long away.

His friends would understand, he thought defeatedly. Regardless of her motives, Petunia was showing Harry kindness for the first time in his life. He would only be a few hours late.

"Yeah," Harry said, all the breath running out of him in that one word.

"Oh, good," said Petunia, sounding imminently relieved, stepping toward the kitchen. "I'll just – get things started – "

Vernon and Malfoy both stood blocking the hall, each the physical antithesis of the other: Malfoy, thin and elegant even in his frayed Muggle jeans; and Vernon, his blotchiness having faded to a dull red color, a squat, solid mass of flesh beneath a crumpled, garishly yellow shirt with palm trees on it. Still, the two of them glowered at Harry with the same expression of open disdain as he shifted his box from one arm to the other. Neither said anything.

Harry could only assume that Vernon was allowing him to stay even a few more hours because Petunia's behavior had been so strange. His uncle had always catered to his wife and child's odd whims; apparently being nice to Harry was now included. That did not make it any more reasonable or natural for Harry, though.

"Excuse me," said Harry, "but I'd like to use the bathroom. All this excitement. You understand."

They stepped aside, but barely; Harry still had to squeeze between them, Vernon's lumpy stomach at his back and Malfoy's hot breath and cool gaze at his front. For a moment, Harry thought Malfoy might try to grab him, or his wand – but Malfoy seemed content just to glare and shove him hard with one shoulder. Harry slipped past him without any real trouble.

Harry stepped onto the puce carpet at the top of the stairs before he realized he'd been holding his breath.

In the bathroom, Harry set his box carefully on the counter, then splashed several handfuls of cold water onto his face. He hadn't considered how odd it would feel to come back.

It was so surreal, all of it – seeing this house, seeing the Dursleys again. Petunia's actually being nice, for once in eighteen years. It was unnerving, much more stressful than Harry had expected that morning when he'd closed his eyes to apparate here.

And seeing Draco Malfoy, of all people, living with them in a Muggle neighborhood, wearing those clothes like he'd always dressed like that, like he didn't care that the closest thing he had to a wizard friend on Privet Drive was Mrs. Figg, an elderly squib obsessed with her feline menagerie across the street. Assuming he even knew about Mrs. Figg.

Harry stared hard at his reflection in the mirror, still half expecting it to make some snide remark about his hair, like the mirror at the Burrow was apt to do. But this mirror, predictably, said nothing. He stared at the pale cut of his jaw, dusted with stubble; his hair a mess, as always, but cropped short enough that it almost looked as though he'd done it on purpose. The scar on his forehead had been fading rapidly in the past weeks, and had gone from a deep, blistering red to a soft, pearly pink color that blended nicely with the shadows of his fringe. It was almost as though it didn't exist.

Admittedly, Harry found the fading scar a mixed blessing. It had proven a nice change of pace when he ventured into the public domains of the wizarding world, such as the previous week when he, Ron, and Hermione had trouped into Diagon Alley for their school supplies for the coming term. Fewer nosy wizards and witches came up to tell him how glad they were that he'd saved them all from certain death.

But without the scar, Harry felt a little lost. Much as he'd loathed it, he had also relied on its story to fill a major portion of his identity. Before, he'd never had to find hobbies or interests: he was Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Chosen One. He'd loved Quidditch, all nine Weasleys, treacle tarts, and fighting forces of evil. Anything that couldn't fit onto his chocolate frog card wasn't really worth knowing, unless it could help him defeat Voldemort.

Recently he'd found himself at a loss when Hermione had observed that he was free to be his own man. It was more than a little overwhelming, and not what he'd expected after defeating Voldemort. Truth be told, he hadn't really considered what might happen after. There had been no real after: only death or survival. And in his case, it had been both.

When Harry emerged from the bathroom, he found Malfoy skulking in the hall.

"What are you doing out here?" Harry accused, though he found himself too tired now even to muster much actual irritation. "Hoping to hex me into oblivion when I wasn't paying attention?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Malfoy replied smoothly, "but no."

"What, then?"

Malfoy studied Harry's face for a moment, and something in Harry's stomach went cold. He had never really gotten used to people looking at him, expecting something from him because of his scar or his mother's green eyes, but something about Malfoy made it worse, like Malfoy could see right through him. Harry was strongly reminded of Dumbledore's twinkling gaze, which had always given him the same naked feeling. It suggested that Malfoy wanted something from Harry that Harry wouldn't quite understand.

"Why are you really here, Potter?"

Harry pats the side of his box. "I came to get my things. Remember?"

"Oh, of course, your precious box," Malfoy scoffs. "I've been through that box a dozen times. None of it's worth anything. Not worth coming back here for, anyway. Some old school letters, so what?"

Harry shook his head, not really wanting to explain to Malfoy why he wanted the letters from Dumbledore, or that first letter from Hogwarts. It would be like trying to explain to a bird what it felt like to learn you could fly. Malfoy had always known about magic, and about what he would eventually be able to do with it. He'd never had the experience of hearing for the first time that he was a wizard, that all the unexplainable moments in his life actually made perfect sense, that he wasn't the freak he'd almost convinced himself that he was.

He tried sidestepping Malfoy, wanting to return to the kitchen where he could investigate Petunia's bizarre change of heart, but Malfoy stepped closer, blocking Harry's path. They were so close on the landing now that Harry could smell the earthy, organic smell of Malfoy's skin, like he'd been outside all day in the sun. Malfoy's eyes glittered in the dim artificial light of the hall.

"You came back for something bigger," he intoned. He was close enough that Harry could almost feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest. "You came for something to help you – to beat him."

At first, Harry had no idea what Malfoy was talking about. Clearly Malfoy had gone mental after hearing that his father had been killed in the final battle and his mother had gone missing.

Malfoy hissed, "Tell me," and suddenly Harry realized with a horrible sinking feeling that Malfoy had absolutely no idea what had been happening in the wizarding world. He had been closed up with the Dursleys for so long that he didn't know that Voldemort was dead, that the war was over, that he was virtually an orphan. Harry bit down on the urge to feel sorry for Malfoy for being abandoned here.

Something must have shifted on Harry's face, because Malfoy's eyes flickered left and right as he watched Harry.

"What?" he snapped, but the aggression in his voice was half-hearted, like he knew without Harry having to say anything. His eyes flickered, and Harry knew he had to tell Malfoy.

"It's just – it's over," Harry said quietly.

"What is?"

"The war. Voldemort. Everything. It's all over."

"No," said Malfoy quickly, his eyes searching Harry's face for something. "Someone would have told me. Someone would have come for me."

He stepped away, and Harry felt oddly bereft of the heat rolling off Malfoy's body in the artificially chilly air. Pity for Malfoy swelled under his ribcage. All the times he had thought he, too, would be left here with the Dursleys, and every time the Weasleys or Dumbledore or the Order had come for him, after all. Every time, he'd been saved. But Malfoy hadn't.

"It's been over for months," Harry said, attempting a gentle tone. "There was a battle at Hogwarts – the Death Eaters had taken over classes. A few kids hid out in the Room of Requirement, but, um, a lot of people died, in the end."

Malfoy had gone pale under the sunny glow of his skin, and he leaned against the wall, staring blankly at the carpet. Harry felt vaguely alarmed that he wanted to make Malfoy stop looking so utterly lost, that he wanted to produce a truth that wouldn't hurt him.

Harry blurted, "I died to kill him."

Malfoy looked up sharply, and Harry was surprised to see the corner of his mouth twitching upward, despite how wide his eyes were. He studied Harry's figure suspiciously, as though to ask why Harry was still standing there if he'd died.

"You aren't serious," said Malfoy.

Harry nodded helplessly. "Since I died willingly to save everybody, I got to come back."

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, now looking like he might burst out laughing at any moment. "That's so typical. Leave it to the Gryffindors to make some ridiculously noble and epically stupid Christ-like sacrifice."

He sighed, then shot Harry a wary look, asking, "He's dead, then?"

"Voldemort?" Harry asked, causing Malfoy to flinch. "Sorry. Your mother helped, you know. To beat him. She thought she'd have a better chance of saving you if she weren't – "

He stopped suddenly, shrugging. He didn't know how to explain what had happened that night, when Mrs. Malfoy had kept his still-beating heart a secret from Voldemort. She had bent low over his body and asked, "Is he safe?" Harry hadn't seen Malfoy since the night on the tower, when he'd disappeared with Snape into the Forbidden Forest. But by then he'd known more of Snape's story, and despite his personal loathing for the man, he knew that Snape would have done all he could to help Malfoy, if that's what Dumbledore had wanted. So Harry had whispered, "Yes, he's alive," to Mrs. Malfoy, thereby saving his life. And everyone else's. Harry thought briefly of his near-sorting into Slytherin and forced back a smile. Maybe the hat hadn't been so far off, after all.

"She got out in one piece," Harry finished. "I saw her with the healers after the battle. A few scrapes, but she's fine."

Unless she's dead, he thought, and shuddered, thinking of an article he'd read about Mrs. Malfoy's disappearance and the Ministry's seizure of their accounts at Gringott's and the manor.

When had Harry started lying to spare Malfoy's feelings? It was like his mouth and his brain were totally disconnected, he thought, trying to shake off that feeling, as well as the pity still rising in his throat. Apparently the shock of coming back had weakened his ability to be outright mean to Malfoy. He was even starting to wonder why he had always been so blindly mean to Malfoy – except that Malfoy had always been so aggressive toward Harry first.

Malfoy seemed to absorb the information with little trouble. He nodded vaguely. "And my father?"

"Um," said Harry. He thought of the Fiendfyre, and of the screams that had been lodged in Harry's nightmares for weeks after the battle, the ones his subconscious had only just replaced with the eerie grin on Fred's face when he'd gotten hit. He looked at Malfoy's surprisingly placid expression, and panic welled in his stomach. He had never been very good at lying, even to Malfoy.

On second thought, maybe the sorting hat had been totally wrong about Harry. He was much better at being blunt and accidentally heroic. Secrets didn't suit him.

Luckily, Petunia chose that moment to call up the stairs, "I've got supper on!"

Malfoy held Harry's gaze for another moment before he shook his head. "Never mind."

Relief flooded Harry's body. If he had ever predicted this moment, Harry figured he would have been justified in wanting to be the one to tell Malfoy that his father had died, after all the petty taunts and arguments they'd had over Harry's dead parents. Malfoy would have deserved it, after all the stupid and mean things he'd done and said to Harry and his friends. It would have put them on a level playing field.

But now that he was in the position, he felt sick at the thought of telling Malfoy anything. Harry had never known his parents, and he'd been suffering Dudley's taunts for years before Malfoy had arrived on the scene. Knowing he was an orphan hadn't been pleasant, but he'd known for a long time that all the sympathy in the world wouldn't have brought his parents back. But Malfoy had known his parents. To bear the news felt to Harry like he had been the one who had killed Lucius, not Crabbe's stupidity and ignorance of the spells he was casting in the Room of Requirement that night.

Another pang of guilt washed over Harry as he looked at Malfoy, who had tipped his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. Harry had been as bad as Crabbe, once, in that bathroom their sixth year, casting spells without any idea of what the results might have been. Even now he could see the jagged end of a thick scar at the dip in Malfoy's collarbone, just visible over the collar of his shirt. If anything, it looked even more prominent against the darker tone of Malfoy's now sunny glow.

Malfoy opened his eyes, watching Harry closely as Harry flushed at having been caught staring.

"Like what you see, Potter?" The old drawl had returned to Malfoy's voice, and Harry flushed further, even though he knew Malfoy was just trying to get under his skin. "I suppose you deserve a little something for rescuing me from this Muggle hell. Isn't that how they do it in the fairy tales? A kiss from the tower window, when the princess is saved? Of course, that theory assumes you are here to rescue me, and that Gryffindors like yourself have no qualms about kissing… Slytherins."

Harry didn't quite know how to respond. Assuming Malfoy had gone a little stir-crazy at Privet Drive, and was therefore not making very much sense, Harry rolled his eyes and stuck out a hand to help Malfoy up.

"We should probably get downstairs for supper," he offered lamely.

Malfoy watched him for another moment, then sighed and took Harry's hand, pulling himself to his feet. His hand was surprisingly warm and strong against Harry's, his fingers rougher than Harry would have imagined.

"Snape's dead, then?" Malfoy asked conversationally, and Harry nearly tripped in his surprise.

"Yeah," Harry said apologetically. He never thought he would be sorry to say that Snape had died, but in the aftermath of the battle, Harry had time enough on his hands to see the ways that Snape had been a slimy bastard, and the ways he had genuinely tried to help Harry despite his history with Harry's parents. Grudgingly, he could now admit that he'd been wrong about Snape in some ways.

He raised an eyebrow at Malfoy, though, wondering whether he and Snape had been that much closer than Harry had ever been to his own head of house. He supposed it might have been different if his parents had been alive, and Professor McGonagall stopped by their house on a regular basis to discuss things like the Dark Lord, or how to get rid of Dumbledore.

By way of explanation, Malfoy said, "Only two people knew I was here. Snape and McGonagall. I guess she's dead, too, since you don't seem to have come on her orders."

"McGonagall's been in St. Mungo's," Harry said, another pang of guilt washing over him, "mostly unconscious. She got hit pretty badly during the battle at Hogwarts."

Malfoy nodded briefly. "That explains that, then."

"I'm sure they didn't forget about you," Harry said, figuring that's how Malfoy must have felt.

Malfoy shot him a baleful look, one that said, As if anyone could forget about me.

:: :: ::


Harry suggested it on a whim.

They'd been eating with the Dursleys, talking, even laughing at times, a total reversal from the way meals had always been when Harry had lived at Privet Drive.

Vernon had been predictably mutinous about the situation, and stubbornly silent throughout the meal. Dudley, too, had been silent, his beady eyes locked onto the nearest television screen.

But Malfoy had kept looking at Harry with this curious, guarded expression, like he was trying to sort out something about Harry, though Harry couldn't imagine what had confused Malfoy about him. Harry wasn't the one who had changed; he had come back to the Dursleys with the same crooked scar, the same too-big jeans and stained Chudley Cannons t-shirt he'd always worn, the same vague confusion about what he was supposed to do with himself. Malfoy was the one wearing Muggle clothes in a Muggle house, and even his smug superiority had faded, somewhat, only really emerging when Harry caught him off guard.

Meanwhile Petunia had continued to act strangely hesitant, almost kind, offering Harry seconds as soon as he'd cleared his plate. He had accepted out of surprise more than hunger. It was only when she had mentioned Harry's mother in passing that he began to understand why she'd experienced such a change of heart – though mention of Harry's mother had never sent Petunia into this kind of fit of kindness before.

Harry had insisted on taking the task of washing the dishes from Petunia after they'd eaten, and now Malfoy hovered with him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms braced on the edge, his elbows bent at funny angles behind him. Somehow he still managed to look graceful.

"You could come with me," Harry said. He had cast around in his mind for something to break the silence, and somehow landed on that, surprising even himself. After he'd said it, though, it seemed the least he could do for anyone stranded with the Dursleys so long – even if that person happened to be Malfoy. "To Hogwarts, I mean. There's a new term starting next week, you could finish your N.E.W.T. exams. They have about a dozen of us coming back, I reckon."

"Why," Malfoy replied stiffly, "would I want to go back to that awful place?"

This gave Harry pause. Hogwarts had always been his home, but it dawned on him now that maybe it hadn't been for everyone. Malfoy must have spent most of his time there feeling as isolated and desperately curious about his family as Harry always had at the Dursleys, curious about the wizarding world, especially as the years had passed, and there had been more at stake for both of them.

Harry shut off the water and turned to face Malfoy, realizing that most of the other Slytherins in their year would be dead, or locked up, or hiding somewhere until they could safely attempt normal lives, even if they were Marked. Harry's eyes flicked to Malfoy's forearm then, involuntarily.

Malfoy laughed, turning his arm so that Harry could see more clearly.

"What were you expecting?" he asked, and Harry felt incredibly stupid in that moment. The Dark Mark leered at him from Malfoy's skin, though the ink had appeared to fade somewhat against Malfoy's tan, the same way Harry's scar had been slowly fading since Voldemort's death.

"They've offered us independent studies, whatever subjects we like," Harry pressed, locking eyes with Malfoy to avoid staring at the Mark. He wasn't about to apologize to Malfoy, so pretending his gaffe hadn't happened would have to do.

Harry did suffer a moment of doubt, now that he'd seen the Dark Mark; he had always doubted how strong Malfoy's loyalties to Voldemort had really been, considering his young age. Since Voldemort had only enlisted Malfoy that he might kill him, Harry had suspected that Voldemort had never fully incorporated Malfoy into his ranks as a Death Eater. Maybe Harry had assumed that Malfoy would have been Marked after successfully killing Dumbledore, or some equally disturbing task.

But then, Harry did know that Malfoy had been trying to protect his family – and if he had only been trying to protect his family's pureblood ideals, wouldn't he have been able to kill Dumbledore? Harry could remember very clearly the moment Dumbledore offered Malfoy protection, the same protection that Voldemort had offered, but without the necessity of murder. There had been a glimmer in Malfoy's eyes, a moment of doubt in everything Voldemort had to offer him, or even hope. Dumbledore had not struck him a deal; he had merely offered to help. Harry still wondered whether anyone had ever done that for Malfoy before.

Presently Harry glanced at Malfoy, at the worn Muggle clothing, at the way Malfoy ran a calloused hand through his long, blond hair. Malfoy had never been the kind of boy to sport calluses, yet here he was. Defying Harry's expectations.

Something about this new Malfoy made Harry all the more determined to have him back at Hogwarts. In a split-second of consideration, Harry knew that the school wouldn't be the same without Malfoy's taunts and petty hexes. Even the broken nose he'd suffered on the train now stood a testament to the normality of his rivalry with Malfoy. The stakes had surely been higher than most schoolyard rivalries, but then, everything in Harry's life had been more desperate, more dire, than most boys his age.

He and Malfoy been kids together, grown up together. Harry couldn't really imagine what Hogwarts would have been like without him, and now, facing that possibility, he didn't want to risk it.

Especially having seen Dumbledore offer Malfoy mercy without question. Despite all the rotten things Malfoy had done over the years, Dumbledore had seen the potential for good in Malfoy. And Harry knew now that Dumbledore would have wanted Malfoy to return to Hogwarts now, and complete his education.

Catching sight of Malfoy's blank expression, Harry realized that he'd been drifting through his thoughts, but he stubbornly rambled on, "And there'll be tutoring sessions with the younger students, since there's been a lot of turnover within the staff. Any subject you like. They've stricken the normal requirements for seventh-year studies, since so many of our year didn't make it back last September, and the ones who did didn't really get much practical learning done."

In retrospect, Harry wasn't sure why Malfoy agreed to it so readily, except that Harry then cast a cleaning charm on the rest of the dishes, which eagerly crowded the drainer after running themselves under the water and sponge. Malfoy watched the spell with a kind of hunger in his eyes that startled Harry. He hadn't seen Malfoy look at anything like that for a long time.

"You could come stay with the Weasleys," Harry offered. "Or we could arrange for a room at the Leaky Cauldron. Whatever you need."

At the look on Malfoy's face, Harry suddenly wondered whether Malfoy had any money of his own at this point. Since the Ministry had seized his assets, he wouldn't have an account left at Gringott's. Harry wondered how much Malfoy had gleaned from Harry's earlier silence when he'd asked about his father.

But Malfoy shrugged and said, "What are a few more days here? Might as well make it an even thirteen months."

"Alright," Harry agreed. He didn't want to think of Ron's response to his having invited Malfoy back to the Burrow.

:: :: ::

On the platform, Harry saw Malfoy long before Malfoy saw Harry. Malfoy came through the barrier from King's Cross at a run, carrying only a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Compared to the other students crowding the platform, Malfoy stood out like a sore thumb, both because his pale hair shone like a beacon against all the black uniform robes, and because he stood a head taller than almost everyone else around him. The younger students seemed so small by comparison.

Harry never thought he would be relieved to see Malfoy, but there it was. After returning to the Burrow, Harry had sent an owl with a letter and his own ticket to the Hogwarts Express. With Mr. Weasley's help, Harry had charmed the ticket into a port key to bring Malfoy to King's Cross just before the train arrived. The accompanying note had been brief, and Harry had worried that it could have been misconstrued as rude. He had hoped to make their transition back to Hogwarts more – well, normal – but Harry had considered the possibility that Malfoy might decide to take his chances with the Dursleys after all.

Presently Harry peered through the smudged compartment window at him, watching as Malfoy made his way through the swarm of students toward the train. He looked lost and more than a little overwhelmed. Every time one of the younger students brandished a wand near him, Malfoy flinched and took a step away. The constant stopping made his progress toward the train particularly slow.

When he came near enough to the train, Malfoy began searching the windows; when he saw Harry, he first smiled, then seemed to think better of it, and his expression went blank. Malfoy gave a half-hearted wave instead, and Harry gestured for him to join them in the compartment.

"Who are you waving to, Harry?" asked Hermione from beside him, sounding a little concerned. She and Ron had been avidly discussing the subjects they each wanted to tutor; Hermione insisted that potions was vital to each student's education, but Ron adamantly argued that he had always gained the most valuable lessons from his Defense against the Dark Arts lessons.

Neither had said anything about Harry's nervous watch of the platform, probably because they assumed Harry was still nervous about being seen in such a public place when there were still so many Death Eaters at large., or that he was looking for Ginny in the crowd. She had come to the station separately, escorted by George and Percy from their flat in Diagon Alley. At first, he had been nervous about seeing her again. But once they'd arrived, he'd had other concerns flooding his thoughts.

Harry hadn't told Ron or Hermione about seeing Malfoy at the Dursleys, offering them instead some story about how Vernon had gone ballistic at the sight of him. He knew Ron would not receive the news of Malfoy's return well, no matter how he explained the situation. He suspected that Hermione might be a little more understanding, especially since she had followed the Daily Prophet religiously since the final battle and knew as well as Harry did that Narcissa Malfoy was still missing.

Now he knew he had no choice but to tell them. Having seen Harry in the window, Malfoy would come looking for his compartment, and it would be difficult for Harry to convincingly tell his friends that he had no idea what Malfoy was doing there. Malfoy might not appreciate it, either, and would certainly uncover any lies Harry tried to tell.

"Well?" Ron prompted, crossing his arms over his chest.

Despite Mr. Weasley's recent promotion at the Ministry and their having so few children still at Hogwarts, Mrs. Weasley had insisted that both Ron and Ginny still buy their robes second-hand. Her explanation had involved something about building character, and Harry knew better than to offer Ron financial help, even when Harry saw him eyeing the mannequins in the secondhand shop window in Diagon Alley with a fair amount of disdain. The entire ordeal had made Ron particularly sour about returning to Hogwarts at all.

Harry now looked from Ron to Hermione and back again. How to begin explaining the freak show that had recently become his life?

"The reason I was later than expected at Privet Drive the other night," he said, deciding that a short, honest explanation was probably best, "was that Malfoy has been staying with the Dursleys."

Hermione gasped. Ron's mouth settled into a thin line.

"That's not funny, mate," he said gravely.

Studying Harry's helpless expression, Hermione touched Ron's arm. "I don't think he's joking."

Harry shrugged, explaining, "I guess McGonagall and Snape left him there after – after the tower. He didn't know anything that had happened after he got to the Dursleys last fall, anything with Voldemort or his parents. He's been completely cut off from the wizarding world."

Ron snorted, "So what? All the easier to have left him there."

"Imagine the shock he must be going through," Hermione said pityingly. "You did tell him everything, didn't you, Harry?"

"Of course," said Harry. He glanced out the window, but Malfoy had already disappeared from the platform. "Um, I also might have invited him to come back to Hogwarts."

"What?" Ron asked, clearly alarmed.

Sounding incredibly proud and satisfied, Hermione said, "Good on you, Harry. It must have been hard for him to hear those things about his parents. I should think staying at Hogwarts would do him some good, after having to live with your horrible aunt and uncle."

"I can't imagine how he and Dudley got on," Harry admitted. "Petunia seemed to dote on him, though."

"I suppose he made the best of a hard situation," Hermione said. "He is a Slytherin, after all. He would try to make life as easy as possible, although I can't imagine how living as a Muggle must have sounded to him. Like traveling back to live with Neanderthals."

Harry was relieved to note the sarcasm in Hermione's tone. Being Muggleborn, she had more to hold against Malfoy than either Harry or Ron, yet she was striving to be diplomatic. She seemed to see Harry's reasoning for bringing Malfoy back, even if her look of concern lingered whenever she glanced at Harry.

"I can't believe you did this," Ron fumed. "This was supposed to be our year, Harry! The best year! No Dark Lords, no Snape – "

"Ronald," Hermione warned in a hushed tone.

"And definitely no Malfoy," Ron finished fiercely. His face had gone entirely red from his collarbone to his hairline.

"Sorry to ruin your plans," came a pleasant voice from the doorway.

Harry was relieved to see Malfoy still looking as he had at the Dursleys, wearing his Muggle clothes and a tan. He'd been half afraid that the whole thing had been some sort of dream, or a set-up, or that Malfoy would come back looking as pale and drawn with nerves as he had most of their sixth year, and cursed Harry into oblivion for everything he represented.

Harry glanced at Ron to make sure he wouldn't do anything too terrible. Fortunately, Hermione had laid a hand on Ron's forearm, which was straining as he clenched his wand.

"Harry was just telling us he'd run into you," Hermione said politely. "I'm so glad you decided to come back to school. Education is so important, especially considering we're the ones who are going to have to rebuild things."

She flushed slightly, apparently nervous about having said more than Malfoy might feel comfortable hearing regarding the war, but Malfoy's expression barely changed.

Ron mumbled something, which Malfoy dutifully ignored, dropping into the seat beside Harry, saying, "Thank you, Granger. Living with the Dursleys was certainly – informative. But it should be nice to be around wizards again."

Harry wondered briefly about the edge in Malfoy's tone, but Malfoy was looking at Hermione with a quiet smile that Harry couldn't remember ever seeing Malfoy wear before. He filed it away to think about later.

"Are you going to hang around us all year?" Ron asked pointedly, and Malfoy regarded him with a cool, appraising look.

"I suppose so," he replied eventually. "Not many Slytherins can be coming back, can they? So I suppose it's either throw in with you lot, or hang around Hufflepuffs all year."

At first Ron looked pinched, like he might launch himself across the compartment at Malfoy at any moment and rip his face off with his bare hands. Then Harry noticed Hermione's hand clenched white around Ron's arm, and Ron seemed to settle somewhat, exhaling loudly through his nose.

"Alright," said Ron.

Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He caught the glance Hermione shot him then, one that said, You're going to explain this all to me later. He gave her a subtle nod, and she seemed satisfied enough to turn her attention back to Malfoy.

"So," she said, perhaps a little too brightly. "We were just debating which subjects we wanted to tutor this year. Harry did tell you – "

"That we'd get the chance to teach the younger students, yes," Malfoy finished. "He did mention something along those lines."

"I think potions is one of the most important subjects a witch can learn," Hermione said, "next to all the everyday charms, of course. Just think of all the practical applications, the salves and medicines alone! But Ron thinks that Defense is a better use of time."

"There are some useful spells to be learned," Ron defended himself hastily. Then, with more of a biting edge, "Like Ginny's bat-bogey hex."

"You're going to encourage students to play out their petty rivalries in the halls?" he asked coolly, though to his credit he didn't so much as blink. Ron had the decency to look abashed, and Malfoy said boldly, "I think I'm going to do Muggle Studies."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Harry didn't know how to respond to that one. If someone had told him a year ago – hell, even a week ago – that Malfoy would ever be interested in Muggle Studies, he would have laughed and sent them on their way.

But now, looking at Malfoy's perfectly serious expression, he thought about how Malfoy must have spent the past year, and how he must have had to start from scratch with the basic elements of his life: working a shower, cooking, dressing, cleaning. A new money system, an entirely new system for traveling. Harry knew how jarring that kind of transition could be – he remembered how awed he had been by the simplest forms of magic: Hagrid's pink umbrella, the concept of a sport played entirely on brooms. Only instead of some wonderful new addition to life, Malfoy had probably found himself feeling exactly the opposite, lost and overwhelmed. Especially since he had only had the Dursleys for support in the transition.

"Me too," Harry blurted out. Hermione and Ron gave him identical looks of surprise. They knew as well as he did that he'd never taken a Muggle Studies course in his life, and how desperate he'd been when he was younger to put as much distance between himself and his life at the Dursleys as possible.

Malfoy raised one slim eyebrow at Harry's outburst, but then explained, "The Sorting Hat used to preach about how the houses should band together. I think that means a strong foundation in Muggle Studies. Wizards already know how wizards live. They should know how Muggles live, too. The Muggleborns have to learn about wizards, after all."

"Oh, that's exactly what I've been trying to tell the professors for years," Hermione beamed.

"Ignorance and misunderstanding only breeds fear and hate," Malfoy said simply. He shrugged, the bones of his shoulders jutting against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "More should be done to cater to the diversity of Hogwarts' students."

Hermione looked inordinately pleased with this turn of events. Ron merely looked unsettled, as though Malfoy were a pod person, replaced by aliens.

For his part, Harry was relieved to see Hermione taking over much of the conversation. He had felt a kind of familiar embarrassment at his outburst that he'd come to associate only with pretty girls – and with Malfoy. It was a feeling that alarmed and intrigued Harry, and so he filed it away for later thought.

:: :: ::

The castle loomed both familiar and strange over Hogsmeade when the train pulled into the station. The sky still clung to the last dredges of sinking sunlight in the west, and the air had the sharp, burnt-smelling chill of autumn, despite the heat still rising off the pavement.

Harry stood for a few moments on the platform, taking it all in, until Hermione touched his arm gently.

"The carriages are leaving," she said, and together the four of them walked along the short gravel path to the line of thestral-drawn carriages.

"Christ," Malfoy breathed, and Harry realized that he would be able to see the eerie dragon-horses now, too, after the night on the tower. Though neither of them had seen Dumbledore die, they had both witnessed the fall. Apparently that was enough for the thestrals.

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione, who stared at them with identical grim expressions. The shock was not as severe for them, since they had at least known about the thestrals, even if they hadn't seen them.

"We've touched those things?" asked Ron, looking a little green.

Harry nodded, but Ron wasn't looking. He merely shook his head in disbelief and helped Hermione into the carriage. Malfoy was the last to climb in after Harry, and he searched the other carriages around them for other post-seventh years like them, but most of the other students in sight were much younger, chatting and laughing and pretending to throw one another onto the road.

"What others like us are there?" He directed this question at Hermione, having apparently decided that she knew everything, and would always answer his questions in a more direct, logical manner than either Harry or Ron. "From our year, I mean."

"A few from Ravenclaw," she replied. "Morag McDougal. A Hufflepuff or two. Most of the students whose parents kept them away hired private tutors, so they wouldn't need to come back. Others who stayed, like Neville, already took their N.E.W.T. exams and got passable marks, since they'd studied in hiding. Surprising as it might seem, the battle never interrupted their studies much, although they were given the option to return like anyone else."

Malfoy gave her a blank look, and Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly, explaining, "Death Eaters took over the school. Most of the classes continued as usual, though they tended to be biased. Defense and Muggle Studies were especially affected, as you might imagine. Some students were pulled altogether, most of them Muggleborns whose parents didn't have the means necessary to hire magical tutors for them last year."

"Which means they'll need more study to catch up," Ron pointed out smugly.

"Come off it, Ron," Harry said. "When have we ever finished a year of Defense lessons? We've never pushed ourselves harder to catch up for the next term."

Ron scowled when Hermione said reasonably, "He has a point, you know. This should be an opportunity for us to gather as much knowledge as we can before taking our N.E.W.T.s, not pressure ourselves to catch up on everything we missed."

Malfoy smiled smugly, but said nothing. He watched the trees as they passed by them, looking as though he was seeing them for the first time.

Harry realized he'd been staring when he caught the flash of Hermione's elbow jabbing into Ron's side. When he looked at them, Ron averted his eyes, but Hermione put on a dumb smile for him. Harry smiled back, swallowing his annoyance with their reactions to Malfoy's presence. Especially considering how polite Malfoy had been to both of them, compared to the way he'd always treated them at school.

The carriages carried them to the large front doors of the castle, where a harassed looking young witch stood on the wide steps, making sure the younger students all went directly into the Great Hall while the older students waited in the entrance hall. Harry felt a pang when he realized that McGonagall wouldn't be greeting the first-year students this year, nor orchestrating the sorting, like she always had.

"Welcome back, then," said the young witch. "Go on into the Great Hall. Sit anywhere."

Crossing his arms, Malfoy asked skeptically, "What about the houses?"

The witch brushed him off with a vague gesture. "They've been abolished. Sorting Hat's orders. Go on, then. Sooner you get in there, the sooner we can eat."

"Woman after my own heart," Ron said, sounding satisfied, but Harry noticed the troubled expressions that both Hermione and Malfoy wore.

When they stepped into the Great Hall, Malfoy hesitated in the doorway, but when Harry followed Ron and Hermione to what had always been the Gryffindor table, Malfoy came with them, sitting quietly beside Harry as he had all day. Privately Harry wondered if this would be an ongoing trend. He was surprised to find that the idea didn't bother him as much as he would have expected.

Sitting at the table, Harry realized that he hadn't seen Ginny yet. Even on the platform, the three of them had bounded through the barrier and climbed immediately onto the train. Ron had assured them that she would find her own way, but combing the crowd now for the familiar copper glint of her ponytail, Harry still couldn't find her.

"Oi," Harry said, interrupting Ron's eager study of the empty platters in front of them. "Where's your sister?"

Ron gave a half-hearted glance down the table, then shrugged. "With the prefects, I expect. She's been made Quidditch captain, though without houses I don't know what teams we're meant to play as."

"What about you two?" Harry asked. "You aren't prefects anymore?"

Malfoy cleared his throat pointedly, and Hermione said diplomatically, "The three of us used to be prefects, but since there are so few of us left in our year, the older students have all been given prefect privileges. Really, Harry, didn't you read your Hogwarts letter? We can all give or take house points, and we're all to help enforce school rules – "

"And use the bathrooms?" Harry asked, almost on impulse. He still dreamed sometimes of the many-fauceted bath tub on the fourth floor, of the colored bubbles and painting of the mermaid.

"Yeah," said Ron, "but I still don't get what your obsession is with that bathroom."

"I like the bubbles," Harry answered lamely, ignoring Malfoy's subsequent thinly masked snicker. Harry felt his neck go red, and he avoided Malfoy's eyes after that.

"Anyway," Hermione went on, and Harry made a mental note to get her something really nice for her birthday that year, "we don't have the same specific duties as the prefects, but we do have much of the same power."

"Wicked," said Ron. "All the fun without any of the responsibility."

"We're still expected to help the first years," Hermione reminded him firmly, "and keep a close watch on contraband items, including your brothers' creations."

An awkward pause ensued, as the three of them were instantly thrown back to the final battle, when Ron's brother Fred had been hit. It had been a bittersweet moment of reconciliation with Percy, but Harry knew Ron resented Percy deeply for the fact that his reconciliation with the family had cost them one of the twins.

Malfoy regarded this silence with interest, glancing at Harry for some sort of cue, but Harry could only think of the grim attitude George had adopted since Harry had seen him at the battle. Though the rest of the family had offered their help in the shop, only Percy had managed to break through George's obvious despair. He had moved into the apartment above the twins' shop in Diagon Alley, and had been helping to run the business since they had reopened shortly after Fred's funeral. Though the shop was thriving, George's formerly lighthearted personality seemed to have been lopped in half.

"I wonder how they'll divide the rooms, now that they've done away with houses," Hermione mused, breaking their reverie. She looked intently toward the front of the room, where the Sorting Hat sat atop the tall stool it always had at the start of term feasts. Harry didn't have an answer for her.

"I wonder who they could've found to replace McGonagall," said Ron, staring at the head table. Most of the chairs stood empty, except for the comical placement of Hagrid's bulky frame next to Professor Flitwick's impossibly small one.

"I wonder who they've named Headmaster," Harry said. "I suppose it'll just be a temporary appointment, anyway, until they've got Hogwarts back in order."

Hermione shook her head. "Honestly, haven't you read Hogwarts, A History?" She huffed at the sheepish looks she received from both Harry and Ron, explaining, "Staff appointments may be temporary, and often are, especially considering the difficulties this school has had filling certain positions on a permanent basis – just look at the line of Defense teachers we've had. But the Headmaster position is permanent, for all practical purposes. Once appointed, a Headmaster may remain at Hogwarts as long as he wishes, or until he dies."

"Don't you mean 'he or she'?" Ron prompted. "I think you've started to go soft, Hermione."

"There's never been a female Headmaster," Hermione replied shortly. "I should think the Sorting Hat would be a bit more progressive, but Dumbledore was Headmaster for over fifty years. Maybe it hasn't heard about women's rights movements – "

"Oh, please," Malfoy scoffed. "You pretend to know so much about wizarding history, but apparently you've never put two and two together."

Hermione looked deeply offended, but said nothing.

"Women have always played a major role in the wizarding world. How else would Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw have been in a position to found a school like Hogwarts hundreds of years ago? These weren't Muggles, you know. How many ancient wizards have you heard of? Merlin, I'd wager, but what others? But I'll bet even you grew up hearing about Medusa and Circe, and Lady Morgana, and the Weird Sisters."

"The band?" Harry asked dumbly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "No, Potter. I mean the three witches that tormented a certain Scottish king. Your Muggle Shakespeare wrote about them."

Hermione flushed. "I suppose I hadn't thought of it that way."

Satisfied, Malfoy said, "Well, now you have. The Sorting Hat chooses the Headmaster based on ability, willingness, and leadership among the staff. Apparently that's meant men, so far. It has nothing to do with sex."

Inwardly cursing himself, Harry felt himself go red when Malfoy said "sex" (what was the matter with him lately, anyway, staring at Malfoy, blushing when he spoke?), but he was enormously grateful to see that Hermione was entirely focused on Malfoy's explanation. Malfoy hadn't said more than a few short sentences to them since his arrival on the train, and Harry knew that even Hermione had never seen Malfoy as a great intellectual. They had always assumed he earned his grades through his father's bribery, and Snape's special treatment and influence.

"So you're saying that no women have ever been worthy of being Headmaster?" Ron asked.

"Not at all," Malfoy replied. "But it does mean that no women have ever wanted it enough, even if they were worthy."

"Men are more ambitious," Hermione scoffed, but Harry could see the hint of humor in her eyes. His heart went out to her; he knew she would do her best to get along with Malfoy while they were at Hogwarts, as long as Malfoy continued to indulge her in intellectual debates.

"Are there fewer girls in Slytherin?" Malfoy pointed out. "Not really. It's more likely that there are fewer female professors who are suited for it when the sorting hat needs to choose a headmaster."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. She looked about to say something, but their conversation was interrupted by a voice from the front of the room.

It was the same witch from the entrance, though now in the better light Harry could see that she was not quite as young as he'd thought, and looked incredibly harassed.

"Welcome, all of you, back to school," she said. "My name is Bethelzda Spitz. I'll be teaching Muggle Studies this year. As most of you know, Professor McGonagall would normally be giving this speech, having been named Headmistress after the position opened up. However, due to the nature of her condition, she'll need to remain at St. Mungo's for at least another few months, until she is well enough to assume the duties."

"I thought you said they'd be naming a new Headmaster," Ron whispered.

"I thought they would," Hermione said quietly. "I didn't know they'd named McGonagall anything."

Professor Spitz continued, "The Sorting Hat has insisted that Professor McGonagall remain in the position despite concerns over her health, having already been chosen. Until she returns, our Deputy Headmaster will be taking over most of her responsibilities, and the rest of the staff will be helping out where they can."

Malfoy leaned close to Harry, an expression akin to dread spreading over his face as he asked, "Who's Deputy Headmaster now?"

Harry shrugged just as Hagrid got awkwardly to his feet. Malfoy groaned and dropped his face into his hands. Ron let out a shout of laughter.

"Is this the hell that I've come back to?" Malfoy hissed.

"I think it's brilliant," said Ron firmly, and Hermione nodded, looking so proud of Hagrid she might burst.

"That hat's getting senile," Malfoy muttered.

Harry had to stifle a laugh, though he felt his own pride swelling under his ribs as Hagrid got awkwardly to his feet at the head table, holding up one of his enormous hands in greeting to the students. The entire hall reacted with a mixture of boisterous applause and unsure whispers.

Malfoy groaned again beside Harry, and Harry glanced from him to Ron and Hermione, who were trying to hide the fact that they were holding hands under the table.

It was going to be an interesting year, of that Harry was sure.

:: :: ::

After the feast, the post-seventh year students were taken aside by Professor Spitz in the entrance hall. Even Harry hadn't expected there to be so few of them; but even then, as he looked around at the assembled group, he was surprised to see that he could name only a handful beyond his own friends. The others he could remember seeing, but to his embarrassment, he realized he'd never bothered to learn their names, despite having been in classes with them for the better part of a decade.

Harry tried desperately to focus on Professor Spitz's explanation of their schedules, that they would each select independent studies and meet with the professors once a week. Tutoring sessions would be run much the same way, only they would be meeting with the younger students twice a week in study periods divided by interest, rather than age or possible house affiliation. Meetings with study partners were also required several times a week.

"You may of course choose to study as many studies as you wish, so long as you have at least three courses," Professor Spitz said firmly. "You may of course choose multiple tutoring sessions. Once we have a better idea of how many tutors we have, we'll be able to divide up the grade levels more easily. Please bear in mind that you are supposed to be helping the younger students. Try not to take on more than you can handle, or it will affect everyone negatively."

This last remark seemed to be directed at Hermione, who flushed scarlet; apparently Spitz had been warned by the other professors of Hermione's tendency to overextend herself academically.

"This first week, professors will be available for individual conferences and would love to answer any of your questions about this new system," Spitz went on. "Now, unless there are any questions – "

Malfoy raised his hand quietly, accidentally nudging Harry's shoulder as he did. Harry glanced at him, but Malfoy didn't show any sign of standing beside Harry, let alone having touched him. He had been talkative during supper, but now Harry looked at the familiar faces around him and realized that Malfoy was, as he'd predicted, the only Slytherin among them.

"Yes, Mr. – ?"

"Malfoy."

Spitz put on a valiant effort in not reacting to the name, but her mouth seemed a bit pinched as she said, "Mr. Malfoy, of course."

"You said we were to have study groups in our own year," he said. "Will we be able to choose our own?"

Spitz smiled slyly. "After all of these choices we're allowing you, we've decided that you could do with a bit of structure. Your study partners will be chosen for you, after you've signed up for your independent studies. That way you might be matched with someone who has the closest work load to your own, and similar study habits."

"Figures," muttered Ron.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Hermione chided. "You and Harry might as well choose each other, everyone knows you'll choose all the same studies, anyway."

Pretending not to have heard this exchange, Spitz said, "We'll have you fill out a questionnaire about that a little later. Now, if there are no more questions, I'll take you to see your dormitory for the year."

Malfoy cleared his throat, and Spitz sighed, turning back. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"

He had stepped in front of Harry, now, and Harry was appalled to feel – what, jealous? Hurt that he'd captured Malfoy's full attention at the Dursleys, even on the train, and probably in the Great Hall, only to be snubbed now for schoolwork?

He squashed the feeling as far down as he could, trying to replace it with something more pleasant. In the end he succeeded only in feeling more uncomfortable for having realized that he cared what Malfoy paid attention to, angry and vaguely horrified for feeling it in the first place, and panicked at the thought that Ron would be able to read this terrible interest in Malfoy on his face. Or worse, if Hermione could see it. She would want to talk it over with him, which was the very last thing Harry wanted to do.

Malfoy's voice rang clear and strong in the high-ceilinged entrance hall. "Will we be permitted to tutor students in subjects we haven't pursued at Hogwarts, if we've spent time outside of school studying them?"

Spitz looked at him with equal parts curiosity and concern. "I suppose you'd have to take it up with the professor of that subject, Mr. Malfoy. It would probably depend on what experience you have outside of your previous lessons at Hogwarts. Anything else you'd like to ask before we get on our way?"

Malfoy shook his head, feigning an innocent expression.

"In that case," said Spitz, looking earnestly relieved, "let's be on our way."

:: :: ::

The dormitory turned out to be little more than a spacious suite of rooms in a fifth-floor wing of the castle, near the Charms classrooms but still far enough that they wouldn't suffer the noise of the entire student body on their way to and from classes. Harry supposed this was a small blessing, since he hadn't been around anyone much younger than his friends in over a year. The feast had been noisy and chaotic in ways that Harry had forgotten children could be. He wondered if he would get used to it, or it their excited voices and laughter would always seem so foreign and, at times, alarming.

There were a couple large bedrooms lined with beds (not the decrepit four-posters Harry was used to, but sleeker looking frames without the privacy afforded to them by the four-posters' curtains), a common room with a fair number of squashy-looking armchairs as well as sturdy tables for studying, and a pair of standard dorm-issue bathrooms.

Professor Spitz had stayed long enough to show them which room had been set aside for the girls, and which was the boys', then informed them that they were required to attend a meeting with the Deputy Headmaster in the Great Hall the following morning just after breakfast. Harry was grateful for the time he would get to spend with Hagrid, even if there were a dozen other students around, but he noticed the subtle clenching of Malfoy's jaw that indicated he was biting back some scathing remark about Hagrid and his new position at the school.

Harry smiled; he might have been trying to stay on Malfoy's good side, but he had to admit that there was still something so satisfying in seeing Malfoy's discomfort, especially over something like Hagrid's new appointment. Even if he lacked experience, Hagrid would still always put the students' best interest at heart.

Once Spitz had gone, Malfoy dropped onto the farthest bed from the doors and lay out across the bedspread, which was a safe, abstract patchwork design featuring the colors of all four houses. The tapestries followed the same bland design, but they were still better than plain stone walls.

"I don't see how you lot have managed to survive all this time above ground," Malfoy remarked, staring at the impossibly blue sky through the window above his bed. Every bed in the room seemed to feature a window right above it, which pleased Harry enormously, especially since he thought he caught a glimpse of the lake through one as he passed.

"No wonder they act the way they do," Ron replied, picking out a bed on the opposite end of the room. Harry felt obligated to choose the bed beside Ron's, but something made him hesitate just long enough for Ron to give him a funny look. When Harry finally slumped onto the end of the bed beside his, Ron went on cheerfully, "Must be some sort of mold allergy from spending so much time in a cellar. Or a vitamin deficiency from lack of sunlight."

"Funny," said Malfoy, but he didn't laugh. Instead he let his eyes drift shut, one of his hands propped behind his head and the other draped casually over his heart.

It took all of Harry's inner strength to tear his gaze away when Ron said, "D'you suppose Hermione's right? That we'll get all the same studies and tutoring groups?"

Harry had to think about this. How long ago it seemed he would have just agreed, and then signed up for all the same things as Ron! But now he thought about Malfoy, a Slytherin lost in a sea of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. It hardly seemed fair. And Harry had known his share of isolation at Hogwarts, even if some of that was caused by Malfoy himself.

"Sure," he said eventually. This lying thing was really getting out of hand.

Ron didn't seem to notice his pause; he was folding socks into the trunk at the foot of his bed. Harry couldn't remember when Ron had started folding his socks. He suspected it had something to do with Hermione having come to stay with them a few weeks ago.

"When's curfew?" Harry asked, hoping to distract himself from thinking any more about Malfoy. He was deeply annoyed with himself, and privately he suspected that Malfoy had cast some sort of absurd charm on him to make him think he was losing his mind.

"A couple of hours," said Ron, glancing at his watch. "Why?"

"I was just thinking," Harry replied. Ron surfaced from his trunk to grace Harry with a look that spoke miles for the amount of faith Ron had in Harry's thoughts. Harry covered quickly, "I was just thinking we could fly a little. You want to?"

"Yeah," Ron replied, shrugging.

"What about you, Malfoy?" Harry asked.

Malfoy opened one eye, looking both bored and curious. "Can't. I've got a meeting with Slughorn in a few minutes."

"Slughorn's back for Potions?" asked Harry.

"Honestly, Potter," Malfoy huffed. "You didn't see him at the feast? He was at the head table, right next to your oafish – next to the Deputy Headmaster. Stuffing his face full of caramelized garlic soup."

"Oh," said Harry. "Right."

Malfoy glanced at the clock on his nightstand. "Speaking of, I've got to go."

Hermione ambled into the dorm, answering one of Harry's lingering questions about what potential charms might have been cast over their new rooms, just as Malfoy was shrugging a heavily stained maroon sweatshirt over his shoulders, another Muggle remnant from his time at Privet Drive. Harry wondered if he would ever get used to seeing Malfoy in Muggle clothes.

Malfoy and Hermione shared a polite but incredibly wary look in the doorway, but Hermione soon recovered her usual poised look as she came to the foot of Harry's bed.

"Can you believe we don't have any homework yet?" she asked brightly.

On second thought, Harry realized, she did look a little twitchy.

"It's the first night of the term," said Ron, incredulously looking up from his socks.

"I know," Hermione said. "But it seems strange to be here without anything to do."

Ron raised his eyebrows, and Hermione flushed pink. Harry felt suddenly uncomfortable.

"On second thought," he said hastily, "we should save Quidditch for another night, yeah? I think I'll just take a walk, I need some air."

Hermione cast a stern look in his direction, glancing at the other post-seventh years settling into their respective areas. "Harry, don't wander for too long. I'd like some answers about all of this Malfoy business."

"C'mon, Hermione," Ron said, "there's an entire school year for talking."

Harry chose that moment to duck out of the dorms, as Ron tugged at the hem of Hermione's uniform sweater. Neither of them seemed too disappointed with Harry's offer to leave them alone together, despite the unanswered questions Harry had left them with.

He smiled to himself as he left the dorm. A year ago, he might have been vastly uncomfortable with the turn of events that had left Ron and Hermione increasingly secretive about how they spent their time when Harry wasn't around. After the time they'd spent hunting horcruxes, though, he'd come to realize just how well they worked together. He used to think that it was the three of them that worked like fractions of a whole, but he had started to realize that it had little to do with Harry. Three halves never made a whole.

Harry didn't feel left out, per se; he'd never had the time to think about things like relationships. Not really, anyway. His friendships had always survived because of the other people in his life, never Harry, so that he could focus on saving the world. His few romances had been short-lived and had either begun or ended with the fact that he was Harry Potter.

These thoughts didn't bother Harry too much; they were just the underlying structure of relationships in his life. As he left the dorm, he wondered whether he would ever be able to sustain a normal relationship, or if who he was would always get in the way – and furthermore, whether the few relationships he still had would fizzle now that he was supposed to be living a normal life. Whatever that was.

:: :: ::

For a long, quiet time, Harry wandered the upper halls of the castle, finding the lack of noise there unsettling. The last time he had been at Hogwarts, it had been quiet in an entirely different, curse-enforced way, then bristling with defensive magic and sounds of death and fire and battle, entire portions of the castle burning or collapsing.

Now he paused in front of big, charred patches on the wall, studying them as if they were art pieces hanging in some ancient gallery.

The restoration team, comprised mostly of surviving Hogwarts professors and a few aurors, had managed to rebuild most of the damaged portions of the castle. The stones in those hallways were a bit rougher, too new to have been smoothed down by so many students' small hands. But the castle had managed to maintain its usual aura of ancient wisdom, and that feeling that it would survive whatever time would throw at its thick walls.

Harry almost didn't hear Malfoy approaching, except that Malfoy tripped over a loose stone in the floor, the flat rubber undersides of his sneakers slapping against the tiles as he recovered his balance. Harry spun around, breathing with relief when he saw that it was only Malfoy.

"Long way off from the dorm, aren't we?" Malfoy drawled, regaining his composure almost immediately after straightening.

"I could say the same for you," Harry replied, feeling more at home than he had since returning to the castle. The present confrontation with Malfoy seemed terribly benign after all the violence they'd inflicted on each other over the years, but it was still a familiar dance for them.

How bizarre, thought Harry, to discover that Malfoy was key to the magic Hogwarts had always held for him. But then, he'd understood schoolyard fights long before Hogwarts or Malfoy. He'd just never stood a fighting chance against Dudley, except for the luck of finding himself on the roof. Having Malfoy at Hogwarts just made it all seem more – well, normal. Nothing was perfect in life, Harry had known that nearly his whole life, and Malfoy provided that thorn in his side that made being a wizard seem perfectly real.

Not to mention the fact that he could never really feel the magic rippling through him like he did when he and Malfoy faced off. Even against Voldemort, he still felt like a scared kid who lucked into victory, like he could win by sneezing if the circumstances were right. Malfoy made him feel challenged like a normal kid was supposed to, like he actually had a shot at winning because he was just a boy who had learned an effective jinx, not because he was Harry Potter.

Harry squared his shoulders, a thin ripple of magic raising goose bumps over his arms.

Malfoy seemed to sense Harry's eagerness to spar. He studied Harry for a moment, then shook his head, looking very tired.

"Not tonight," he said simply.

"What, too afraid?" Harry retorted lamely. There was no aggression behind his taunts, but Malfoy's thin mouth quirked slightly in a smile. He understood.

"Maybe some other time, when we're both late for class," Malfoy allowed.

Harry nodded, but when Malfoy started to walk past him, he felt a vague sense of panic. He didn't want to admit that he was nervous for that sense of normalcy to disappear as soon as Malfoy turned the next corner.

"Maybe we could fly some time." The disconnect between brain and mouth betrayed Harry again, if not in his words then definitely in the hope that flooded his tone.

At first Malfoy looked puzzled. Then Harry flushed, thinking of what Hermione and Ron might be doing, feeling ashamed for an outburst that was probably only cause by the sudden worry that he would lose the only friends he knew he could count on, Harry Potter or not. Thankfully, Malfoy seemed to understand that, too.

"Maybe," he replied tentatively. He didn't start walking again until Harry nodded briefly.

Once Malfoy had left, Harry felt a little foolish for pretending he could rely on Malfoy for something that resembled friendship. Stranger things had happened, he supposed, but then there was the matter of Malfoy blowing him off. Even with that cool Malfoy courtesy, it was still a blow-off.

And after another full minute, Harry considered the fact that Malfoy hadn't exactly blown him off, either.

:: :: ::

It wasn't until he'd stared for an unreasonable amount of time at the glass-paned double doors in front of him that he realized that he was nowhere near the Potions office that Malfoy had used as an excuse earlier.

A year ago, he might have bristled at the fact that Malfoy had so blatantly lied when Harry was trying his best to manage some sort of truce between them. That sort of thing was exactly the difference between Slytherins and Gryffindors.

Then it fully occurred to Harry that he was the one who had been totally oblivious to where they were, which he couldn't reasonably blame on Malfoy. Moreover, he was staring at the entrance to the Hospital Wing.

His resentment began to melt away as he tried to sort this new clue to the mystery that was Malfoy. When had Malfoy become mysterious, anyway? Annoying, certainly, and sometimes up to no good, but mysterious? Even their sixth year, Malfoy hadn't been mysterious by any stretch of the imagination.

Harry might have been annoyed with that turn of events, but he was too interested in trying to figure out Malfoy.

As he headed back for the dorm, Harry was aware that Malfoy had sparked this kind of obsession in him before, but that thought was swallowed soon enough by questions about Malfoy and the time he'd spent at the Dursleys'.

:: :: ::

Despite the slightly more modern look to their new common room than the old Gryffindor tower, the warm, sparking fire in the grate that night cast an inviting glow around the room. Harry found Hermione curled up with one of her new textbooks next to Ron, who was puzzling over a chess board.

"Need an opponent?" Harry asked, dropping into a nearby chair.

"In a minute," Ron said, sounding distracted.

"He's just trying to sort out how Percy managed to beat him," Hermione explained, setting aside her book for a moment. Harry remembered Ron and Percy playing a series of matches over the course of the summer, but Ron had always won. Hermione continued, "The night you went to the Dursleys, Percy stopped by for supper. Somehow he managed to win a match, and Ron still hasn't figured out how it was possible."

"My defense should have been impenetrable," Ron muttered.

Hermione clucked her tongue gently. "It's just a game, Ron."

"No, it's not," Ron said adamantly. "It was a loss that should not have happened."

After watching him toy with his pawns for a few more minutes, Hermione looked at Harry. "So. Are you going to tell us why you decided to let Malfoy follow you home?"

Harry shrugged. "It seemed like the right thing to do."

"But you and Malfoy have always loathed each other to the very core," Hermione objected. "None of us have ever gotten along with him. He's done nothing but insult us from the moment we came to Hogwarts. He's an abrasive, spoiled boy whose parents are known Death Eaters."

"Yeah, well, his parents are dead now," Harry said brusquely.

This gave Hermione pause. Concern flooded her expression, just as it had on the train earlier.

"I see," she said eventually. "Harry, just because he's suffered a loss – it doesn't mean he's going to have changed overnight. It's true that he looks different, taller, tanner, wearing different clothes, but he's still Malfoy. Everything that he was before, he is now. The same childhood, the same values – "

"The same scars?" Harry finishes shrewdly. Hermione clamps her mouth shut. "I know that it's Malfoy, okay? But I also know that Dumbledore wanted to give him a chance. Even when Malfoy was supposed to kill him, when he had Malfoy's wand pointed at his heart, Dumbledore still offered him a second chance."

"Dumbledore had been wrong before, mate," Ron observed, still studying his chessboard closely, as though to distance himself from the bulk of their conversation, and from Malfoy.

"Not when it mattered," Harry said stubbornly.

"He's Marked, Harry," Hermione said helplessly. "That's not a joke."

"Neither is losing your parents," Harry replied. "Neither is having to choose between murdering someone and losing your family. You think he really would have hesitated to kill Dumbledore if he was really evil?"

"I just – I don't know," said Hermione eventually. She sounded disquieted now, humbled. "There's a lot I don't know."

"I'm not saying we should spend every moment with him," Harry said. "I'm not even saying you guys have to trust him."

"Good," Ron said bluntly.

Ignoring him, Harry went on, "I'm not even sure I trust him. But I can see that he needs help. Snape and McGonagall had a reason for leaving him with the Dursleys. We might never know what that was. But I couldn't just leave him there when no one else might ever have come back for him."

"Alright," Hermione agreed reluctantly. "He can hang around. But, Harry, I want you to be careful. If anything were to happen – "

"Nothing's going to happen," Harry said firmly. Hermione looked appeased, but even as Harry said it, he hoped he was right.

:: :: ::

The next morning at breakfast, the post-seventh years were given their tentative schedules. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, but Harry intercepted the slip of parchment with his name and studies, comparing it to the rest of theirs. As predicted, Ron and Harry had the same courses and study sessions, but Ron had been assigned to tutor the Defense students, and Harry had somehow been given Potions. Worse, he'd been assigned to tutor with Malfoy.

"How did this happen?" Harry asked no one in particular.

"Still riding the coattails of your supposed success with Slughorn, are we?" Hermione asked, raising one of her eyebrows in a gesture that reminded Harry strongly of Malfoy. He wondered whether the Sorting Hat had given her the same option it had given Harry, but shook the thought when Hermione eyed him with no amount of hidden suspicion.

"This is unacceptable," Ron announced, plucking Harry's schedule from his hands. "I'm going to have a word with that Spitz woman right this moment."

Hermione rolled her eyes as Ron stormed the head table, but Harry took the opportunity to poke his fork through his egg yolks and talk to Hermione about something he'd been thinking about constantly for the past twelve hours.

"I think there's something wrong with Malfoy," Harry said.

Hermione didn't bat an eyelash as she buttered her toast. "Oh?"

Harry pushed aside his eggs and leaned over the table. "I found him outside the Hospital Wing last night, when he said he had a meeting with Slughorn. But Slughorn's office is nowhere near the – "

"Here we go again," Hermione murmured through a sigh.

Harry stopped. "What?"

"Look, Harry," she said, using the kind of exaggerated patience she used when explaining something incredibly simple to Ron. "How do you know he was doing anything in the Hospital Wing?"

Harry stared at her blankly. "He was right there, right outside the doors. Hermione, he told us he had a meeting – "

"I hate to do this to you again," she said, soundly truly sorry, "especially after you were right the last time, and after the doubts I cast last night. But think, Harry. What were you doing outside the Hospital Wing last night?"

"Wandering around so you and Ron could – " Harry stopped short under Hermione's withering glare. "Well, I think we both agree that this has nothing to do with what I was doing outside those doors. I didn't lie about where I was last night."

"Okay," said Hermione, pushing her plate away. She leaned over the table toward him. "If you can find some sort of concrete proof that he was actually in the Hospital Wing last night, then I'll help you figure out what's going on."

Harry dropped his fork into his broken egg yolks and stuck out his hand. "Deal."

:: :: ::

He still hadn't seen Malfoy when he knocked on the moldy wooden doors of Slughorn's office. Somewhere within, a stack of heavy-sounding books crashes to the floor, and Slughorn swears before blustering, "Confound it all – come in!"

The office seemed much the same as Harry had remembered it, stacked with books and fancy-looking boxes on every surface, cluttered with letters and the odd box of candied pineapple or mint schnapps – and of course the obligatory photographs of Slughorn waving enthusiastically with a number of famous witches and wizards.

"Oh, Harry, dear lad," Slughorn wheezed from under a stack of books. "I'm just getting organized. Do help an old man tidy up a bit before our – little meeting."

Harry dropped his bag on the floor and hurried to the professor's side, taking the enormous, wobbly stack of books from the older man and grunting a little under the weight.

"Thanks are in order," said Slughorn, disappearing behind a chair. "Care for a drink?"

"Er," said Harry, still clutching the books like they were a protective barrier. The last time he had been offered a drink by Slughorn, Ron had ended up poisoned. But, Harry had to remind himself, the last time, Malfoy had been slipping poisons and curses into everything around Hogwarts in hopes of maybe knocking off the Headmaster.

He frowned into the decomposed binding under his chin. He had almost forgotten about the incident with the poisoned mead. Trusting Malfoy would certainly take some getting used to.

"You're pathetic," came a drawling voice from the office door, though the barb lacked any real aggression. "We learned the levitation charm first year. Remember?"

Harry turned to see Malfoy leaning lazily against the door frame, arms crossed over one of his old t-shirts. Harry felt suddenly overheated in his prickly school-issue jumper.

Slughorn resurfaced with a sealed bottle of elf-made wine, looking flustered. "Well, Mr. Malfoy, good of you to join us. That levitation charm – let's see – wingardium leviosa – "

Harry's load lightened significantly as Slughorn finally brandished his wand, setting the wine bottle to pour three servings and sending the stack of books to a less cluttered table across the room.

"Don't know where my mind is these days," Slughorn said carefully, sending two of the glasses into two waiting hands, and plucking the third for himself.

Harry avoided sticking him with any kind of stare, and in doing so he found himself meeting Malfoy's eye for a brief moment.

"So," Slughorn continued, settling into the puffiest of the chairs in the room, "I understand that neither of you signed on for Potions as your top choice for tutoring sessions."

For a moment, neither of them answered. Harry felt stuck; of course he hadn't signed on for Potions. He'd cheated through most of his sixth year by using that stupid Half-Blood Prince's book. Snape's old book. Though Harry had to admit, it had helped him a lot. Maybe he could get his hands on that ink-stained copy of the book if he scoured the Room of Requirement in its "please help me hide something" mode.

Thinking about the book made him glance nervously at the knot of scar tissue at Malfoy's throat. He was relieved when Malfoy replied, "Well, sir, I had signed on for Muggle Studies, in light of my recent experiences."

Slughorn looked abashed, and that impressed Harry. The only other people he'd seen make Slughorn look so remorseful were Dumbledore and Harry himself. Apparently the whole staff had been debriefed about Malfoy's stint as a Muggle.

Malfoy continued, sounding almost apologetic, "But apparently they want someone who has been through the program at Hogwarts."

Sounding equally apologetic, Slughorn said, "Understandable, son, of course it's understandable. The reason for having you older students helping the younger years is as much for their benefit on their wizarding levels as it is for your continuing education. Those exams are mostly comprised of information from the texts."

"Naturally," agreed Malfoy. "And I couldn't be happier to have been placed with you, sir. Potions has always been a keen interest of mine."

Slughorn nodded amiably, which struck Harry as rather odd. He tried valiantly to think of a reason why the professor would change his mind about Malfoy. He had been so quick to brush Malfoy off before the war, when the Slug Club had been recruiting full-swing. The only difference between the two years that Harry could think of was the death of Lucius Malfoy.

A thought occurred to Harry then: Had Slughorn been so afraid of Death Eaters that he had discounted Malfoy automatically for his paternal association? Or had something changed so definitely in Malfoy himself that Slughorn now took notice?

Harry remembered how impressed Slughorn had been with Ginny's bat-bogey hex, and her courage in standing up to older students, but that only reminded him that he still hadn't seen her at Hogwarts. He felt guilty he hadn't spent more effort trying to seek her out.

"Er, Harry?"

Harry started, realizing that both Slughorn's watery blue eyes and Malfoy's cool grey ones were pinning him to his chair. "I'm sorry, what was that? I was – just thinking."

Malfoy's tight expression seemed skeptical, but Slughorn waved off Harry's distraction with one fat pink hand, taking a generous sip of his wine.

"Of course, of course," said the professor. "We were just discussing the best way to hold these sessions. Mr. Malfoy suggested the two of you split your students, but I thought you might be able to teach more effectively by combining your strengths for all the students. What do you think?"

Harry let his eyes linger on Malfoy for a moment longer than necessary. His instinct screamed that they divide their students and split the workload evenly. He'd been spending too much time thinking about Malfoy as it was, and he certainly didn't need to spend more time with him than necessary when it came to their lessons. New friendship be damned, Harry was not ready for them to actually enjoy spending time together.

But for some reason Hermione's voice popped into his head, lecturing him on the importance of providing the younger students with the best possible education. He squashed that lecture as quickly as he could, but the idea itself wasn't entirely a bad one.

The normal level of animosity between him and Malfoy had been sorely lacking this year, even if they'd only been at school for a grand total of two days. Harry was itching for a good fight, the kind he and Malfoy used to have when they were eleven and made each other's noses bleed all over their uniform robes. And the only way to let the tension build would be to spend time together.

Silently, he thanked Hermione as he addressed Slughorn aloud. "Sir, I think it would be best for the younger students if we held larger sessions with both of us. So that everyone receives consistent lessons."

"This is absurd," Malfoy muttered.

Slughorn didn't seem to hear it. He beamed at Harry through his great mustache. "Wonderful! Now, you'll know, of course, that your sessions will be divided into smaller groups for you, to keep students with their ability level. You won't have all the students together at once."

"Spitz mentioned something along those lines," Malfoy said.

"I'll have copies of my syllabus for all years, of course," Slughorn went on. "And a few suggestions of topics that might provide especially tricky for the younger students. But of course you'll have dealt with those same issues, won't you? And so you'll know all about the challenges of concocting a fine potion."

"Of course, sir," Harry said. He was trying not to seem so gleeful at the sour look on Malfoy's face. If Harry hadn't known him so long, he wouldn't have noticed it; but there, the tiny dent at the corner of his mouth, the tightening of his brow. Malfoy was irritated, and Harry was thoroughly enjoying it.

It was a beautiful thing, really.

And under normal circumstances, Harry would have wanted to push it as far as he possibly could from the moment they left Slughorn's office until the moment they set foot in the dorm again, and Hermione's reproachful gaze.

But when Slughorn graciously said, "Expect my owls, boys, with those syllabi and class lists," both Harry and Malfoy left the dungeons in matched subdued moods.

For the first few seconds of their walk back to the dorms, Harry pushed aside thoughts of Malfoy's puzzling behavior in favor of lamenting the loss of their rivalry. Even after he'd deliberately agreed with Slughorn to irritate Malfoy, both because Malfoy's preference had been ignored and because Slughorn seemed to take the gesture as a sign of Harry's loyalty – maybe Slughorn's desire to collect celebrities hadn't changed – still Malfoy strolled coolly down the hall as though he were some sort of fashion model, seemingly unconcerned with Harry altogether. It was maddening.

Then Slughorn's office door clicked shut, and Malfoy lifted a hand to flick away a few imaginary flecks of dust on his shirt, frowning.

"What the hell was that?"

Oh, thank god, Harry thought. As cool as Malfoy seemed, their rivalry still existed, despite the surreality of being back at Hogwarts, of having thus far avoided seeing Ginny, of Ron and Hermione actually acting like a couple, of the missing faces among the faculty and staff. Relief overwhelmed Harry's bloodstream, spurring his pulse forward at an abnormally high rate.

"What was what?" Harry replied, attempting to mimic Malfoy's unaffected grace. "Slughorn asked my opinion, and I gave it."

"Don't flatter yourself so noble, you know you did it to get under my skin," Malfoy grit out.

They came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the staircase, which had abandoned them for some other, busier floor.

"Great," Malfoy muttered. "I'll bet you got the stairs to turn against me today, too."

Only when Malfoy's voice betrayed frustration, rather than irritation, did Harry dare glance at him. His cheeks were flushed pink under his tan, the muscles in his forearms drawn tight under his skin as he crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes glittered with something that transcended mere anger or annoyance.

Harry couldn't help but look at him, only marginally aware that he should feel embarrassed by that. Malfoy was far from irresistible, so why couldn't Harry look away? Stare at the floor, instead, or even close his eyes?

"Whatever you're doing, Potter, just stop," Malfoy said after a few minutes of silence. He sounded much more collected than he had before, but his face was still tinged with pink. "You know, when you came to Privet Drive, I thought – I thought – "

"What'd you think?" Harry prompted, simultaneously dreading the answer and hoping for something he couldn't quite articulate.

"I thought maybe we'd put all this stupid, petty arguing behind us."

Harry clamped his teeth together hard, trying not to blurt anything stupid or embarrassing about how normal it was to have an enemy his own age, for once, or anything else he'd been thinking about Malfoy since finding him. Harry tried to put himself in Malfoy's shoes, spending all that time apparently learning to get along with the Dursleys. Harry had always lumped Malfoy in with his family, under the heading of "people who are mean to me," but now he could see how challenging it would be to live among Muggles after you'd lived in a world of magic. Especially if those Muggles carried traces of their relationship with Harry, someone Malfoy had always antagonized and hated. Someone who had put Malfoy's father in prison when they were just fifteen.

When he thought about it like that, Harry realized how difficult and awful it must have been. Yet somehow Malfoy had survived in one piece, and he was trying to put the past behind them when Harry just wanted to tread the old, comfortable waters.

Malfoy was still pink, and Harry could see flecks of spit fly from his mouth when he spoke. "When we were twelve we could justify it with our houses, or Weasley's stupid blind biases, or my dad's – "

Malfoy stopped abruptly, and Harry watched his Adam's apple bob in the pale dips of his throat, feeling vaguely ashamed of himself. Malfoy was actually trying.

"Anyway, all of that's over now. I know you didn't get on with Snape, but you trusted McGonagall. And I trusted her, too. That's got to count for something with your lot. Bloody loyal Gryffindors."

Malfoy sighed, his breath hitching. Harry felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Look, could you just," he said quietly. "Couldn't you just – just stop."

"Stop?" repeated Harry. He had expected himself to sound strangled and strained, not aggressive. Maybe he imagined Malfoy's flinching at the unexpected volume of Harry's voice.

Malfoy's focus seemed to sharpen on nothing as he stared at the drifting staircases. His entire expression stiffened and cooled.

"The world is safe, Potter," Malfoy said. "The Dark Lord's gone, and my father with him. I'm just like everyone else now. And so are you. So just stop being Harry Potter, would you?"

The grating thunk of the staircase settling against the landing startled Harry out of his study of Malfoy's sharp features. As though he had never been talking to Harry, Malfoy stepped gracefully onto the stairs and began to ascend even as the stairs floated away from Harry, who was still standing on the landing and feeling oddly bereft.

"I don't know what else to be," Harry said.

If Malfoy heard him, he didn't acknowledge it.

:: :: ::

Harry was looking over Slughorn's syllabus in the post-seventh common room when Hermione dropped approximately forty-seven pounds of textbooks onto the table in front of him.

"Finding ways to torture your kids already?" he asked dryly.

Hermione flicked her hair away from her face huffily. "I happen to think that challenging my students will help them improve more than letting them slack off during their study sessions."

She cast a pointed look at Ron, who was slouched in a nearby armchair with his own syllabus open over his face and snoring softly.

"Besides, they're mostly Ravenclaws. Unlike you two, they appreciate being challenged once and a while."

Harry had to laugh at that. Hermione smirked behind the textbook she had just opened, and Harry caught the embossed title as it flashed briefly in the firelight.

"Transfigurations?" he asked. "But I thought you were tutoring the Arithmancy students."

"Well," Hermione shrugged, her face flushing a little, "I am. And Care of Magical Creatures, as well. I'm also doing all three as independent studies."

"And Potions, and Herbology," Ron added sleepily from his chair.

"Five subjects, Hermione?" Harry said pointedly. "That's a full course load, on top of your tutoring."

"Six," Hermione replied quietly.

"What?"

"Six courses," she said, setting down her book. "I'm also doing Ancient Runes."

"Hermione, do I have to remind you what happened third year?" Harry asked. "Even with a time turner you couldn't keep up with everything you wanted – "

"All of my professors know I'm taking so many courses. They've all agreed to adjust their coursework accordingly for me," Hermione explained. "They're going to give me slightly different work than the other students, harder prompts, but fewer of them, so I'll only be writing a few longer papers, and not as many of the smaller assignments."

"Not that it'll stop her from doing all the work anyway," Ron snorted.

"Ronald," Hermione warned, but her face flushed a deep pink color that reminded Harry of the fire-breathing roses that Professor Sprout had always kept in Greenhouse Seven.

Well, Harry thought contentedly, he may have been a third wheel, and Malfoy might have been behaving weirdly, even for him – but it was reassuring to know that some things never changed.

:: :: ::

After several weeks of their strange new roles at school, and their schedules, everyone seemed to have settled into a comfortable new routine.

Hermione had set up a permanent study area in one corner of their common room, where her books remained untouched by her peers under penalty of a frazzled but expert hexing. The sheer volume of books amassed on her table warned them all that she knew what she was doing.

She and Ron would disappear sometimes in the evenings, if he could convince her to leave her studies for a walk around the lake, or some other, more private, activity that did not bear thinking.

At first Harry had smiled to see them go, Ron's fingers drifting to the hem of her uniform skirt as they walked, a subtle reassurance for him that she was really going along with him. But after a time, he began to feel lonely. They had once been his closest friends, and now they barely had time to play a round of exploding snap before dinner most nights, or go over notes together.

Once, when Ron had doubled back to find Hermione her sweater, she had placed a warm hand on Harry's shoulder. "I know this is probably very strange for you," she had said quietly.

Harry had meant to respond with something encouraging and friendly, but Ron had returned, oblivious. As he helped Hermione into her sweater, she shot Harry an apologetic look, and that had been that. Harry knew he didn't have much say in it, anyway. But it had helped a little to know that she had considered his reaction to it all.

Still, the one blessing in Hermione and Ron's tendency to wander away for hours at a time was that Harry was free to continue his pursuit of answers when it came to Malfoy.

Malfoy was still acting strangely subdued and unwilling to fight with Harry, even a friendly argument, though he had lead their small study group at Potions with the ferocity of a war general. He left the younger students with glassy looks when he spoke about the subtly necessary for the craft. He even left Harry a little awed, sometimes. It might have reminded Harry of Snape, if they hadn't been following Slughorn's syllabus, which involved fewer poisons and more useful potions that they might actually use in daily adult wizarding life.

Combined, the forces of Malfoy's enthusiasm for the subject and Slughorn's collection of recipes seemed to render potions an immensely necessary skill for adult wizarding life. Cleaning charms were all well and good, but the potion Malfoy had altered from Slughorn's recipe left the damp wooden worktables gleaming like glass. Harry looked forward to a day when he could spray an apartment with the stuff, and never have to touch a broom again.

"I never knew you had such a knack for this stuff," Harry remarked casually one afternoon, as the younger students gathered their books and quills into their already overstuffed bags.

Malfoy shrugged, not looking up from the bubotuber pus he was straining. "It's something to do."

Harry had ignored the subtle brush-off Malfoy had surely intended in the comment. He had never thought of Malfoy as a dedicated student, but now that they were working so closely together, he could see how highly organized Malfoy was. He took notes during their sessions on each of the students, their behavior and progress. Not all of it went to Slughorn, unless the student was doing incredibly poorly; more often, Malfoy used these notes to tailor his lessons to that student until his grades were up again.

That was another thing. Harry had never considered Malfoy the sort of person who would actually care about his students, especially the smaller Hufflepuffs who knocked over urns of giant squid ink, or sliced open their fingertips and bled over boomslang skin, wasting valuable ingredients from the school stores and injuring themselves. Malfoy was infinitely patient with them, reassuring them that they would get it right one day, pressing gauze to their cuts and teaching them the charm to heal a small wound.

It confused and awed Harry almost as much as Malfoy's apparently thorough understanding of all of the potions theory. Harry found himself learning as much as their first-years were supposed to.

Presently, Harry glanced at Malfoy again over his apparently consuming task of straining the pus, remarking, "I never knew there was so much to this."

Malfoy looked up at that, one eyebrow drifting upward incredulously. "So much to potions? Little wonder you did so poorly, Potter. You never paid any attention to Snape's lectures."

"Never helped that he was always breathing down my neck, waiting for me to screw up, though, did it?"

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth again quickly, then seemed to think for a moment, his gloved hands hovering over the strainer. Then he straightened a little and said, "Snape had a lot on his mind during those lessons, I'm sure."

Harry started to say something about how unfairly he'd always been treated, but Malfoy waved a hand and said, "I'm not saying he was entirely professional, or fair to all of his students. But he did have a certain knack for this stuff, and even you can't deny that. He might not have even been a very good teacher – though some of us would beg to differ – but the man certainly knew what he was doing."

Grudgingly, Harry nodded. Even in hiding, Snape had managed to supply the Order with medical potions that probably helped save dozens of lives. He was still hesitant to talk about the war with Malfoy, though. He kept that bit of information to himself.

"Besides," said Malfoy casually, tipping the strained pus into a clear glass vial, "he probably needed an outlet, all the pressure he was under in every other aspect of his life."

The nudge of guilt Harry felt was almost instant, and persisted as Malfoy went on, "I imagine he had to accommodate Dumbledore's mad plans with little explanation, just like you did. He had to constantly ward off potential mind-readers on both sides. He had to play Death Eater convincingly, despite whatever he might have felt about the situation. He had to pretend to like Voldemort."

"Probably not as easy for a spy as it would be for some other Death Eaters," Harry retorted. "Liking Voldemort."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Nobody liked Voldemort."

"What?"

"Well, it wasn't about liking him, was it? It wasn't a bloody popularity contest. It was about ideals. It was about preserving a way of life that some wizards had upheld for generations and centuries." Malfoy's forehead creased then, between his eyebrows. "I mean, if it was about liking your leader, I doubt Dumbledore would have gotten very far, now would he? Sending people back into hell time and again, expecting them never to crack despite highly demanding psychological games, and curses, and torture."

"But Snape chose to do those things," Harry insisted. "Dumbledore didn't make him do anything."

"Maybe I wasn't talking about Snape," Malfoy said, seeming to break out of his far-away look. "Didn't he send Professor Werewolf back into the fray, as well?"

Harry didn't know what to say to that. He fiddled with a stray thread on the sleeve of his school robes.

"Lupin probably knew exactly what he was signing up for," Malfoy continued, "but that doesn't mean Dumbledore wasn't insane to ask it of him. Of both of them."

A part of Harry was annoyed that Malfoy would put Lupin and Snape into the same category, lumped together like – well, Harry was too annoyed to come up with a proper comparison. Like they had been friends when they'd both been alive, both working for the Order. But another part, a larger part, felt cowed that Malfoy had a point.

When had Malfoy become a thoughtful person? This irritated Harry probably more than anything else about him at this point, more than his overeager study habits, or the way he'd been avoiding fights. When had Malfoy gone from being a petty, selfish clone of his father to a respectful, respectable human being? How could the Dursleys have changed him for the better?

"Anyway," Malfoy said suddenly, "you're actually proving to be better at this stuff than I thought you might be. Even without that cheating book you had last year."

"How did you know – "

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Oh, come off it. Nobody goes from nearly failing to teacher's pet overnight without some sort of cheat. Very Slytherin of you, you know."

Harry clamped down on the urge to wallop Malfoy for being such a smug git, but something in Malfoy's new brand of smirk stopped him. It wasn't the kind of superior, smug look that he'd always carried when they were younger. It reminded Harry of the smirk Ron wore when he won at chess, not because he thought Harry was bad at the game, but because he knew how good he really was at it. Just as Malfoy knew how right he was about Harry.

"Yeah, well. The hat almost sorted me differently," Harry admitted. He was surprised at how easily the information left him, after so many years of clamping down on everything that could possibly connect him to Voldemort. "I practically had to beg it to put me in Gryffindor. Did you know that?"

Malfoy had the good grace to look surprised. "Really?"

"Really."

"We might have been friends," Malfoy said. Harry couldn't tell whether he meant it as some sort of reverse threat, or whether he sounded wistful.

"Funny thing, life," he added, corking his vial of pus and stepped away from the table.

:: :: ::

When it happened (and Harry later supposes, if he were going to be completely honest with himself, that it had been entirely inevitable), they were in the library after-hours with a dozen Potions textbooks that Hermione had pulled for them, tagging pages on the recipes their students were covering that week. Harry had been grateful for her help, but Hermione had set aside and cross-referenced so many recipes, and spells with similar uses and effects, that Harry felt as though he were drowning in all the scraps of parchment and books and lists.

"This is impossible," Harry muttered, squeezing his fingertips into the corners of his eyes.

"What is," drawled Malfoy wearily, "your incompetence, or the students'?"

"Ha, ha," said Harry, lifting his head from his hands. He felt around the table for a quill. "I'll have to write that down to tell Ron later."

"Save your ink, he wouldn't read it even if he charmed it to read itself aloud to him," Malfoy retorted.

Harry laughed, then stopped himself, choking down the remnants of his laughter with a hearty clearing of his throat. Ron might not have been a big reader, but Harry suspected that having a laugh at his expense with Malfoy, whatever else they were made to do together, would not do. Even Hermione would have words with him about that kind of betrayal.

He studied Malfoy, whose pale head was still bent over a pair of open books and a ledger. As Malfoy copied down ingredients and study questions, his hand caught on the loose corners of a few students' essays they'd asked Malfoy to look over before handing in. The papers crumpled loudly in the quiet library; they were alone, and even Madam Pince had left for the night. Some perks of being a remedial seventh year were not as exciting as others, like having free reign of the Quidditch pitch.

Malfoy crumpled the edge of his papers again, and Harry felt an unwarranted pang of jealousy; none of the students had ever asked him to proof their papers. But then, wasn't that what he'd pitched to Slughorn as their strength? He and Malfoy were so different, they could bring more to their students together than apart? Malfoy would edit their essays, check their spelling and grammar, answer their questions about the material and suggest further readings, and Harry would – well, Harry would do what, exactly?

That creeping, useless feeling had been one Harry was quickly becoming familiar with, after facing Voldemort. He'd thought coming back to school would relieve some of the restlessness, the drifting feeling, but now he was beginning to think that he had served his purpose last summer, and he was just taking up space at Hogwarts that another student might have put to better use.

Malfoy seemed to sense a change in Harry's mood, because he looked up then, his eyes flickering from Harry's face to his still hands and quill and back to Harry's eyes. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd say Malfoy looked concerned, but that's what friends were supposed to do. Harry felt another pang of guilt about laughing at Ron.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "What is it? You look like you just realized what a right mess you look most of the time."

"I'm only here because of that stupid book," Harry offered lamely, realizing just how he sounded only as he spoke. "And Slughorn thinks I know what I'm doing, but I don't, and honestly, where has that boo