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It might have started with yellow roses, but it didn’t stop there.
The trouble was that Harry had started noticing and now it seemed he couldn’t stop. Everywhere he looked, there was Malfoy. (Well, not everywhere. Sometimes he had to go a little bit out of his way, but then, bam, there he was.) Malfoy at breakfast; Malfoy in Potions; Malfoy in the library; Malfoy at dinner. Never Malfoy on the Quidditch Pitch but Harry didn’t think he could blame him. It was many months before Harry himself had been able to face a broomstick. Still, there was a lot of Malfoy it what had previously seemed to Harry to be a fairly Malfoy-free existence.
Harry tried to ignore it but the noticing kept getting worse. What Malfoy was doing: how neatly he ate, how quietly he sat behind his Potions cauldron, never drawing attention to himself (except Harry’s, of course. This noticing was starting to get out of control). How the blue jumper Malfoy wore last Saturday made his eyes look almost like the winter sky- No. It wasn’t that kind of noticing, Harry reassured himself. Just general noticing.
Malfoy spent more time alone, Harry noticed. He didn’t stalk through the school surrounded by groupies as he had in previous years. Goyle hadn’t come back and Crabbe-. Well, perhaps it wasn’t surprising that Malfoy preferred to be on his own. Only Zabini and Nott had come back with Malfoy. Nott spent every spare moment in the library and Zabini was followed everywhere he went by a swooning pack of girls of all houses. In Potions Malfoy sat by himself, even in the lessons where they were supposed to pair up. Slughorn turned a blind eye and Malfoy seemed happy enough that way. Harry thought Malfoy was probably right to prefer solitude to the prospect of pairing up with the rest of the class. Apart from Hermione, Malfoy seemed the most competent potioneer in the room.
With all the noticing, Harry couldn’t help but be aware that he was not the only member of the school watching Malfoy. (No, not watching, just noticing). Zacharias Smith in particular seemed to be in Malfoy’s vicinity more than could be accounted for by chance. As did a sixth-year Slytherin girl. And the fifth-year boy (he was dreaming if he thought Malfoy would have time for him.) Not to mention the portion of the student body for whom the anger and despair of the war were still fresh. All in all, Harry thought that Malfoy could do with a bit of disinterested noticing. For his own safety.
Harry didn’t mention the noticing to Ron and Hermione. After sixth year he thought he had a pretty good idea what they would say. But they would be wrong: this was different. This was safety noticing; it was almost the same as community policing. In fact, it was probably good practice for being an Auror. Really, who could argue with that? Harry was just looking out for his school peers.
* * * * * * * *
In hindsight, Harry thought, ‘looking out for his school peers’ might have been a more useful instruction in the literal than the figurative sense. For his next interaction with Malfoy came with full body contact.
Harry hurried through the corridors on his way to the Great Hall. Dinner had already started and Harry was starving. As he rounded the corner, he broke into a run. And collided abruptly with Draco Malfoy.
Harry’s momentum carried him through impact and, after an undignified struggle, he stayed on his feet. Malfoy, taken by surprise, was not so fortunate. Scrolls, books and boy went flying in front of a mortified Harry. Firmly squashing the desire to sink through the floor, Harry pulled himself together and offered a hand to his victim.
“Sorry, Malfoy. Let me give you a hand.”
Astonished grey eyes stared up at him. Malfoy made no attempt to take Harry’s outstretched hand, but rather sprawled inelegantly across the cold floor, staring blankly at Harry. Harry wiggled his hand a little, trying to catch Malfoy’s attention, to no avail.
“Malfoy?” he asked.
There was no response. Malfoy could have been a statue, called ‘Prone Angel’ or possibly ‘Boy meets Floor’, thought Harry irrelevantly. People would come from miles around, Harry’s train of thought continued, circle Malfoy like an exhibit, pronounce him to be “critical, hugely critical, darling. Just a seminal piece of work” before heading to the latest trendy restaurant to eat a tiny meal on a huge plate while sitting on chairs that had last been used in a penitentiary in the 1950’s.
Harry dragged himself back to the matter at hand, or rather, ignoring hand. Malfoy’s stillness was starting to become worrying.
“Malfoy?” he asked, crouching down. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head when you fell?” He reached out to push Malfoy’s fringe off his face so he could better examine his face.
As Harry’s hand neared his face, Malfoy scrambled back out of reach, still staring. Harry shied back, startled by the movement, and fell on his arse.
With the huff of air involuntarily expelled from Harry’s lungs, Malfoy finally seemed to come to himself. He blinked, pushed his fringe back and cleared his throat.
“Ah, no,” he said awkwardly. “Thank you for your concern, but I am fine.”
He stood gracefully and looked around at the wreckage of his school supplies while Harry scrambled to his feet. Harry winced.
“Sorry,” he offered again. “I’ll help you grab your stuff.”
“Thank you, Potter, but there’s no need. You seemed to be in a hurry.”
Harry flushed. To avoid answering, he bent down and picked up the item closest to him; a paperback book. He caught the movement out of Malfoy’s wand out of the corner of his eye and he looked down at the book in his hand. He felt the book fly out of his hand as he looked up.
“Wuthering Heights?” he asked in surprise.
But his only answer was the sight of Malfoy disappearing around a corner.
* * * * * * * *
The question nagged at Harry for days. Why was Malfoy reading Wuthering Heights? Harry’s experience with classic literature was limited to the occasional BBC mini-series and Dudley’s ranting about stupid school work in the holidays, but even he was aware the Wuthering Heights was a Muggle story, set squarely in the Muggle world, and an old-fashioned one at that. What was Malfoy, of all people, doing carrying it around with him?
Wuthering Heights disappeared from the pile in Malfoy’s arms after a few days, only to be replaced by The Collected Works of Lord Byron. Unable to ask Hermione who on earth Lord Byron was, Harry was forced to resort to peeking over Malfoy’s shoulder in the library while ostensibly looking to a book. The result was even more shocking than he had expected. Malfoy was now reading poetry. With concentration writ large across his body.
Harry pinched the back of his hand as he sidled quickly off into the library stacks then suppressed a yelp. He did appear to be awake but perhaps he had fallen into some kind of parallel universe. In which Draco Malfoy read Muggle poetry. In a magical castle. Harry shook his head as he made his way back to his own books. Where had Malfoy even found Muggle poetry?
Twenty-five seconds later, Harry looked up and had his answer. The library had a Muggle literature section. And sitting right in front of him was Wuthering Heights.
Harry managed to borrow the book and get it back to his dorm room without anyone noticing. In this he was helped immensely, though unknowingly, by Ron, who had procured a small bunch of roses for Hermione and was happily reaping the benefits. What was it about this book that Malfoy was interested in? Harry had really been suspecting him of anything before but his behaviour was just so odd. Did it hold some vital piece of information? Was it a code? Harry flicked through the book quickly, looking to see if any pieces of paper fell out. Sadly, nothing did.
Perhaps there was some kind of code written into the book. Harry looked through the first few chapters but found no underlined words or faintly circled letters. This exhausted Harry’s knowledge of codes, culled exclusively from a dilapidated Hardy Boys book that had belonged to Uncle Vernon as a boy and abandoned by Dudley in favour of his new BMX bike. Harry turned the book around, as if a code might magically appear. It did not.
With a resigned sigh, Harry settled himself on his bed and began to read. Maybe he could figure out what Malfoy was doing and make this whole situation go away.
* * * * * * * *
It took a week but Harry was determined to finish the book. Sadly, he was no better informed when he finished than when he started reading. The girl was silly and self-centred, the man was a melodramatic moron and as for the house-keeper, a more incompetent meddler, Harry had never encountered. What was it about this book that Malfoy liked?
The sense of irritated annoyance was only increased when he noticed that while he had been struggling through Wuthering Heights, Malfoy had moved on from poetry to Pride and Prejudice. Harry had a clear, and unexpected, mental vision of a man on the television wearing a frilly white shirt, dripping wet, prancing around the countryside with a riding crop while Aunt Petunia watched obsessively from the couch and Uncle Vernon dozed over his post-prandial brandy. But he failed to make the connection with 19th century Yorkshire.
He stewed on the problem for several more days, ignoring Ron’s suspicious glances and Hermione’s speculative looks. Shortly before the beginning of the school year, just after he had broken up with Ginny, Hermione had informed Harry and Ron that this year she intended to focus intensely on her studies and that they could no longer rely on her to “fix everything”, as she termed it. While her focus had not been solely on her studies, if Harry was any judge of Ron’s moods, she had so far stuck to her policy of non-interference. Harry, who would rather have stripped naked in the middle of the Gryffindor common room than admit he was starting to obsess over Malfoy again, was left to figure out the problem by himself.
Two weeks and three days after the collision near the Great Hall, Harry finally snapped. The noticing, temporarily dulled in the course puzzling his way through classic literature, had now attained hitherto unbreached heights. He was aware of every page Malfoy turned in his seat across the library. Even the presence of Hermione next to him wasn’t enough to restrain him as he stared across the room, eyes narrowed.
Malfoy stood and turned toward the stacks. Harry could see him moving towards the area where the Muggle literature was stored. He was on his feet before he realised quite what he was doing.
“Just going to get a book,” he muttered to Hermione before he dashed off. She waved a vague hand at him, not even looking up from the book she was reading.
Harry swiftly moved towards the stacks, trying not to make too much sound. He peeked around the end of the stack at his prey. Malfoy was holding a scrap of parchment in one hand and peering at the faded titles of the books in front of him. Harry sauntered along the row.
“Doing a little light reading, Malfoy?” he asked.
Malfoy startled, then regained his composure. “I’m not sure it’s really any of your concern, Potter,” he replied coolly.
“It just seems a little...odd,” said Harry a little louder, as Malfoy began to turn away. Malfoy shot a look over Harry’s shoulder and winced. Turning to follow his gaze, Harry could see Madam Pince scowling at them from her desk.
“This is a library, Potter. Reading books is perfectly acceptable. Even encouraged,” Malfoy replied in a lowered voice. “Now, if you’ll excuse me–“
“But why these books?” asked Harry, his now unbridled curiosity causing him to speak louder than he had intended. A vicious “shhhh” sounded from the vicinity of Madam Pince’s desk. Heads at the study desks were starting to turn.
“I can assure you, Potter, I have no nefarious purposes. I am simply trying to study.” Malfoy reached out and selected a book.
“You need Muggle books to study?” Harry asked, incredulity drawing his voice louder. Harry heard a chair move back as Madam Pince rose from her desk. Heads were now starting to crane in their direction.
“Fine. Have it your way, Potter,” snapped Malfoy, sotto voce. “I’m using Muggle secrets to take over the castle for my own evil. Now please let me pass.”
“Malfoy–“ started Harry.
Malfoy let out an exasperated grunt. “Potter–“ he started, before closeing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Follow me,” he said, opening his eyes.
Harry hurried back to his table to grab his things, muttering a quick “See you back in the dorm,” to Ron, before following Malfoy out of the library. Silently Malfoy made his way up a set of stairs and through several corridors before stopping at door.
“In here,” he said abruptly, gesturing for Harry to enter.
Harry opened the door to find an empty classroom. It was mostly covered in a light layer of dust, except for the teacher’s desk on the platform at the front. Malfoy moved towards this and dumped his armful of stuff on the top. Harry found a nearby desk and did the same.
“What’s all this about, Malfoy?” asked Harry, waving a hand around.
“This is where I study sometimes,” answered Malfoy.
Harry looked around him quizzically.
“It can’t have escaped your notice that I am not the most popular person in the school,” said Malfoy impatiently. “This place is quiet and I like that.”
Harry nodded. “And the books?” he asked.
“It’s not really any of your business, Potter,” Malfoy said.
“Not really,” agreed Harry. And waited.
Malfoy sighed. “But you’ll harass me until I tell you. I’m sure you’ve heard that the returning Slytherins this year were forced to take some extra classes.”
Harry nodded. The price the Ministry had extracted for allowing Malfoy and his dorm mates to return to Hogwarts had been Remedial Muggle Studies classes for them all. Harry had heard McGonagall remark that it was a small price to pay to have them safely back at Hogwarts for a year.
“As part of the Muggle Studies class, I am required to submit an essay at the end of the year. A thesis, Professor McGonagall called it. My topic was “Heroes in Muggle Literature”. The idea is that by looking at their world through Muggle eyes, we will come to understand it.”
“Is it working?” Harry couldn’t help asking.
“Not appreciably,” Draco admitted with the ghost of a smile. “So now you know my dastardly secret, Potter. Do you think you could go away and leave me alone now?”
“Umm, sure,” said Harry,. He moved towards his books, then stopped.
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon,” Draco said disbelievingly. Harry didn’t blame him. He was having trouble believing it himself. Nevertheless, he repeated his offer.
“Would you like any help?”
“Do you know anything about Muggle literature?” Malfoy asked.
“Well, no,” Harry admitted, feeling deflated. He moved towards his books then stopped again.
“I could be a sounding board,” he offered.
“A what?” asked Malfoy.
“A sounding board,” said Harry. “You could discuss things with me. I don’t know much about literature but I was raised as a Muggle. I can probably explain things you don’t understand.”
Malfoy was silent for a moment. “Why are you doing this, Potter?” he asked eventually. “You don’t like me. We just finished a war we were on opposite sides of. Why would you offer to help?”
Truthfully Harry didn’t know himself. He shrugged his shoulders. “I thought maybe we could try again. Not start from scratch, just... have another go. All that school boy enemies stuff seems a bit pointless now.”
Malfoy looked at him. The tiniest smile graced the sides of his lips. “It does,” he agreed. He stood a little straighter.
“Very well, Potter,” he said, holding out his hand.”I accept your offer.”
Harry looked at the proffered hand and this time he shook it.
* * * * * * *
They met in the disused classroom after dinner. They had agreed to meet couple of times a week but Harry found himself gravitating to the classroom on other days until it became habit to pack up his books and head to the classroom every evening (and some Sunday afternoons). It was quiet and Malfoy was a surprisingly soothing study companion. There were certainly less colour-coded study schedules brandished than Harry was accustomed to.
At first, they were scrupulously polite to each other. This survived only until the day Harry called Malfoy a pompous prat and Malfoy retaliated by calling Harry an unrefined philistine. Then it was casual insults and mock offence until they were just Harry and Draco.
* * * * * * *
“Draco, has it occurred to you that all of your ‘heroes’ are from books that are two hundred years old?”
Draco looked puzzled. “Does that make a difference?”
Harry laughed. “The world has changed a bit since then. There are cars and telephones now. And a lot less chaperones and bonnets.”
Draco looked confused. In a flash of unaccustomed insight, Harry realised that the world of Georgian England was closer to the Wizarding world today than the Muggle world was.
“Does it make a difference?”
“I think it does,” said Harry reflectively. “A lot of things happened in those two hundred years. The Industrial Revolution for one,” he mused out aloud, drawing on hazy memories from his primary school years. “When cars were invented, people could travel more. Same with planes. Film and television let people see places and things they had only read about. So the world got a lot bigger than it had been. And, of course, there were the World Wars. Perhaps what people thought they wanted in hero changed. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe how it looked changed but the basic characteristics of the hero stayed the same. I don’t know.”
“What are the characteristics of a modern hero?” asked Draco, seemingly intrigued.
“Umm, being tall, dark and American, I think,” said Harry, rapidly running a catalogue through his head. “Having big muscles helps too.”
“There aren’t any British heroes?”
“I can’t think of— oh yes! James Bond.”
“Bond?”
“James Bond.” Harry grinned before he realised Draco wouldn’t get the joke. “He’s a secret agent for the British government. He shoots bad guys and drinks martinis, I think.”
“And that is considered heroic?”
“I think he does it with a great deal of flair.”
“And who are the bad guys?”
“Depends on the decade,” said Harry. “It was the Russians for a long time, but now I think it’s the Chinese.”
“Badness is based on nationality rather than personality in Muggle literature?”
“I’m not sure James Bond counts as literature, but yeah, basically.”
Draco shook his head. “I fear I shall never understand Muggles.”
“If you think that’s bad, you should see—,” Harry stopped. No, that was too hard to explain. Far better that Draco should see it for himself. He got to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to send an Owl. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
* * * * * * *
Draco stared after him as Harry hurried out of the classroom. He had a favour to ask.
Mr Weasley came through like a champion. A large parcel was delivered to Harry at breakfast several days later. Harry was happy to see that a post Owl and not Errol had been asked to deliver the package. By the size of it, the weight of the parcel would have half-killed Errol. There was a long letter from Mr Weasley about his adventures in the Muggle news agency that made Harry grin appreciatively.
He took his bundle along to the disused classroom that evening to show Draco. The reaction was everything he’d expected.
“What are these?” asked Draco, eyeing the parcel warily.
“Stories about modern-day Muggle heroes,” answered Harry, opening the wrapping to show him.
Draco’s face was a picture of confusion. “But, they’re pictures!” he protested.
Harry grinned. “They’re called comic books. They are like a kind of serial story. Every comic strip is a section of a long-running story. ”
“How long?”
“Pardon?”
“How long are the stories?”
Harry held up a comic. “This one has been going since the 1940s,” he said.
Draco took the comic Harry was holding up. “This appears to be a story about a giant bat,” he commented after a moment on intense scrutiny.
“A man dressed as a giant bat,” Harry corrected. “His name is Batman.”
“Of course it is,” muttered Draco. “What in Merlin’s name compelled him to dress as a bat?”
“His parents were murdered when he was young,” Harry explained.
Draco’s face was frankly sceptical. “Your parents were murdered when you were young,” he pointed out. “I don’t see you dressing up like an aerial rodent.”
“That you know of,” Harry retorted.
Draco ignored the sally. “I fear I shall regret this,” he said, “but what happened to...err... Spiderman?”
“He got bitten by a radioactive spider and developed super powers.”
Draco frowned at him. “I only understood the verbs in that sentence,” he said.
Harry sniggered.
Draco looked down at the collection of comics in his hand. “And this one?” he asked.
Harry glanced down. “Ah, Superman. He is an alien from the planet Krypton. He was sent to Earth by his parents because their planet was about to explode. He has super powers too.”
Draco looked askance at him. “What kind of super powers?”
“Umm, he can fly. And run very fast. And jump over tall things.”
Draco was frankly unimpressed. “That’s it? I can fly.”
Harry grinned again. “He can fly without a broomstick, Draco.”
“So, let me get this straight.” Draco looked at the comics again. “These are picture books about people who seem to be wearing very form-fitting attire, who like to get dressed up as animals. What do Muggles find heroic about this?”
Harry took the question at face value. "Well, these superheroes save people's lives. They don't get paid, or mostly thanked, they just swoop in, save the day, and leave." He turned the thoughts further over in his head. "I suppose Muggles think it's exciting. If you lead a boring life then the idea of rescuing others, or even being rescued, might be attractive."
Draco looked at him soberly. "Did you find it exciting?" he asked.
Harry shook his head. "No," he said.
"Me either," said Draco. He looked down at the comic in his hand before taking a deep breath.
“Do you read these things?” Draco asked, his tone deliberately lighter.
“Not any more,” Harry admitted. “I did as a kid. My cousin wasn’t much of a reader so my aunt bought them to convince him to do more reading. I used to read them when he left them lying around, which was most of the time. Dudley wasn’t very tidy. The films were good too.”
“Films?” asked Draco, starting to flip the Batman comic again.
“Yeah, you know, at the cinema. Well, I didn’t see them at the cinema, but they were good on TV. ”
Draco looked at him blankly and Harry was forcibly reminded of the vast disparity of their childhoods.
“Umm, it’s like watching a play on a really big screen. A bit like a Wizarding portrait that says the same thing every time. But you can’t talk to. Or more like a pensieve actually, but instead of being in the memory, it on a screen in front of you.”
Draco was still staring at him blankly. Harry sighed. “I guess it’s better experienced than explained. I’ll have to take you to one sometime.”
To his surprise, Draco flushed lightly and turned back to the comics. “What is this thing?”
Harry looked over his shoulder. “Ah, that’s the Batcopter–“
* * * * * * * *
As the exams got closer, and the stress levels in the 7th and 8th years rose, so too did the discussion about future careers. Students poured over brochures in between frantically finishing essays and, for the more excitable, visits to Madam Pomfrey for a Calming Draught.
“Are you still planning to join the Aurors after school?” asked Draco as they worked in the disused classroom one evening, apropos of nothing.
Harry was surprised. “How did you know about that?” he asked.
Draco smiled faintly. “We all knew; Slytherin, I mean. Umbridge told us. She was quite shrill about it as I recall.”
“Bloody Umbridge,” Harry muttered.
Draco looked back down at his scroll. “I thought perhaps, after last year, you might have changed your mind.”
“I did, for a while,” Harry admitted. “That’s why I came back to Hogwarts. Kingsley offered me early entry into the program, even though I didn’t have my NEWTs, but I just wasn’t sure. Hermione was coming back to finish her studies, and where Hermione goes, Ron goes, so I thought I might as well come to.”
“And now?”
“Now I think I’m going to apply for the Aurors. Even after everything that happened, it’s still what I want to do. Not just catch the baddies but protect people, you know.” He ducked his head and ran an embarrassed hand over the back of his neck. “Hermione says I have a saving people thing.”
“Always the hero, Potter,” said Draco, his smile twisting ever so slightly.
“What about you?” asked Harry, keen to move the conversation away from himself. “Have you got any plans?”
“A few,” admitted Draco. “I’m not sure that anyone will want to have me though.”
“Of course they would,” said Harry supportively. “You’re smart, well-spoken and well-educated.”
“And a Death Eater,” Draco reminded him.
“Ex-Death Eater,” corrected Harry. “If I can get over that, I’m sure everyone else can too!”
Draco smiled shyly at him and Harry’s stomach did a strange flip.
“So what is it you actually want to do?” asked Harry.
“Don’t laugh,” warned Draco.
Harry cocked an inquisitive eyebrow and gestured for more.
“Potions researcher,” said Draco.
“Really?” asked Harry. “I always pictured you doing something—”
“Flashier?” suggested Draco.
“No,” said Harry, “Well, yes, actually. I thought you’d go for something like Healing.”
“My mother would like that,” admitted Draco. “Bring the family name back into good repute. But I can’t spend my life atoning for my father’s mistakes. I have too many of my own.”
“You don’t need to atone, Draco,” said Harry gently. “You were just a kid. We all were.”
Draco shook his head, so Harry changed tack.
“What is it you like about potions research?”
Draco tensed. “It sounds strange but it’s because of the war actually.”
Harry tilted his head inquiringly.
“When my aunt came to live with us, she taught me Occlumency.”
“I know,” Harry interrupted. “”I heard you talking to Snape about it once.”
“I think she did it just to piss off Snape, actually. Anyway, she taught me that an easy way to clear your mind was to think about something unrelated, something that had no emotional content. Anything that I had rote learned worked, but the best thing was potions. Ingredients or instructions, it didn’t matter. And as I did it more often, I started to find it soothing. Listing the ingredients, then working through the steps in my head.” He looked away. “On the bad days, it was sometimes the only thing that kept me sane and calm.” Draco flushed as he looked back. “I told you it was strange.”
Harry smiled at him. “It doesn’t sound strange at all,” he said gently.
Draco just looked at him for long seconds before deliberately turning back to his scroll. “Well, it’s all moot unless I finish this paper. What did you say the name of the person with the cave under his mansion was again?”
* * * * * * * *
In retrospect, Harry felt that he should have known it was too good to last. Things had been going too well. With Draco as a study partner, Harry found that he was better prepared for exams than he had ever been, even accounting for the time spent on the Hero Project. Ron and Hermione had come around to the idea of friendship with Malfoy surprisingly well; Ron had even gone so far as to invite Draco to join them for lunch.
So it came as something of a surprise when, shortly before exams began, Harry entered the disused classroom he had started thinking of as “our room” to have a newspaper thrown at his face.
“Draco? What on earth-?” he spluttered, fighting his way clear of the pages.
“Read it,” spat Draco furiously.
“Which part?” asked Harry, looking down at the mess of paper on the floor around him.
“The front page, Potter. Of course it’s the front page.”
Frowning at the use of his surname, Harry bent down and sorted through the pages until he found the front page. His heart dropped when he saw it.
Potter saves arch enemy!!
The Boy-Who-Lived is at it again. Not content with risking his life to save his worst enemy during the war, Harry Potter has reportedly befriended that same boy in an attempt to bring him back to the right side. Sources report that Potter, 18, who reportedly staged a daring rescue during the war, has been seen working with Draco Malfoy, son of convicted Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, and allegedly a Death Eater himself.
Friends of Potter are unsurprised but unhopeful. “Harry always thinks the best of everyone, but we think this time he has gone too far,” said one. “He’s working hard with Malfoy but anyone can see that it’s not working. Malfoy is just using him to restore the family name, so he can be seen in public again.”
“It’s kind of a pet project for Harry,” another agreed. “But it’s too late. Malfoy can’t be saved.”
Will the Chosen One be able to vanquish this foe? Turn to page 2 for an in detail history of the Malfoy family’s long history of alliances with villainy.
Harry stared at Draco, speechless with horror.
“So, that’s what this was all about. You needed another project. It’s not enough that you’re the ‘Savour of the Wizarding World’. You have to be seen to be magnanimous in victory as well.” Draco through the words like darts, pacing up and down the classroom in his fury. “ I’m to be rehabilitated so everyone can see the greatness of Harry Potter.”
“Draco, no–“ Harry tried.
“It’s what you do, isn’t it Potter? You rescue people. It’s your ‘thing’. Always the hero,” said Draco bitterly. “And I’m the lucky beneficiary of your largesse. The reflected radiance of your sheer goodness will rub off on me and magically cure me of my disgusting family. Soon I’ll even be able to show my face in public. Because Merlin knows there’s no other reason someone like you would want to spend time with someone like me. “
He stopped pacing and headed for the pile of books and paper sitting on the desk near the door. “Well, your project is over, Potter. I’m not interested in being another tick on your hero’s to do list. I don’t need to be rescued and I don’t need you.”
He grabbed the pile and turned towards the door. Harry tried to find something to say but his shocked mind was empty.
“ Draco, wait!” he finally forced past the lump that had appeared in his throat. Draco stopped in the doorway of the classroom but didn’t turn.
“What about your essay?” was all he could think of to say.
Draco’s voice was cold and clear. “I’ll finish it myself. Your services are no longer required, Potter. Go and be a hero somewhere else. ”
* * * * * * *
Harry forced himself to concentrate through the exams. The NEWTs were well-named; he found himself falling into bed exhausted every night. Harry welcomed the tiredness. It kept his mind off the fight with Draco.
The entire student body had read the stupid newspaper article, as had a sizable portion of the adult Wizarding population, if Harry’s daily mail was any indication. After two days of watching helplessly across the Great Hall as Draco was buried in hate mail every morning, Harry had asked Professor McGonagall if it was possible to divert all mail except that from family members. He had phrased it in relation to his own pile of letters, but Harry didn’t think McGonagall was fooled. He didn’t care. He just wanted to do anything to ease the burden he could so clearly see in the blank mask that now covered Draco’s face.
Harry couldn’t do much about the rest of the student population. It seemed to him that he was the only person who could see Draco’s stress. Everyone else had gone back to talking loudly about his arrogance. Hermione and Ron weren’t being much help either. Hermione huffed loudly when she caught him watching Draco across the room but was so far sticking to her vow of not interfering. Even Ron’s quiet “why don’t you go and talk to him, mate?” didn’t help. Because how could Harry talk to Draco when he disappeared as soon as Harry got close? He forced himself not to think about the two little pieces of paper securely hidden at the bottom of his trunk . They represented a fragile hope that he could no longer believe.
Harry sat on the grassy bank near the lake. Dotted all over the lawn 7th and 8th year students sat in groups chatting and laughing. Indistinguishable shouts from a pick-up game of Quidditch drifted across from the Quidditch pitch. Harry had been accosted by the cheery group as they had headed towards the pitch but had demurred. He thought it best not to inflict his mood on others.
He didn’t look up as a shadow passed over the ground in front of him. He knew who was there. Hermione had struggled mightily but he thought he had seen signs that morning at breakfast that she was going to crack. Harry didn’t need the lecture he could see coming his way. Hermione couldn’t say anything that he hadn’t already said to himself.
He turned his head away as he felt the figure sit down next to him.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he said.
“Do you?” said an unexpected voice.
Harry whipped his head around to see Draco smiling tentatively at him.
“I thought you were Hermione,” he managed finally.
“I can see how you might think that,” said Draco, his smile firming.
“She’s– actually, never mind,” said Harry. “It doesn’t matter. Draco, I’m so sorry about that stupid article. I didn’t have anything to do with it. The press... Skeeter... they just like writing about me. They make things up all the time. I never thought of you as a project. I swear.”
Draco held up a hand. “I know,” he said. “I just–. It never really made sense for us to be friends.”
Harry’s heart sank.
“I couldn’t understand what you were doing. After all those years of fighting, why would you pick now to try and help me, with a stupid Muggle Studies essay of all things. So when I saw the article it just confirmed everything I had been thinking.”
Harry picked at the grass beside him, avoiding Draco’s gaze. “I did want to be friends,” he offered shyly.
“So I’m told,” said Draco. Harry looked up, a dreadful suspicion seizing him. “Hermione came to have a chat,” Draco said. Harry groaned. It appeared Hermione had finally snapped.
Draco chuckled. “It wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” he said. “But she was very clear.”
“She usually is,” said Harry, memories of lectures past colouring his tone.
“I’m hoping she might have been right too,” said Draco.
Harry’s heart beat a little faster. “About what?” he asked.
“She said that she thought it wasn’t too late. That we could be friends again.” Draco peered into Harry’s face. “I know I said some terrible things and I’m very sorry, Harry. Could you forgive me? I’d like to try again, if you’ll let me.”
Harry stared into Draco’s sincere eyes. After a few moments of silence, the grey eyes moved towards worry.
“Harry?” he asked.
Harry pulled himself together. “I’d like that,” he said.
Draco’s face lit up his face. Harry felt his own face lifting in an answering smile.
“Oh,” he said, suddenly remembering. “I have something for you.”
“For me?” asked Draco, surprised.
Harry reached into his pocket to bring out the envelope he had place there this morning. “A graduation present,” he said.
Draco opened the envelope and drew out two rectangular pieces of thin cardboard. “Admit one,” he read in a puzzled voice. He looked up at Harry. “What is it?” he asked.
“Er, they are cinema vouchers,” said Harry. “You seemed interested so I thought you might like to see one.” He cleared his throat. “There are two vouchers in there. I thought that...maybe... I could...go with you. And we could have some dinner afterwards. If you liked. Or you could invite someone else if you would prefer,” he added hurriedly. “ Up to you.”
“I’d love to go to the cinema with you, Harry,” said Draco, smiling at him. Harry felt a gentle hand settle over his as he smiled back.
It was a good start. And perhaps that was the best thing a hero could hope for.
The End