A few weeks had passed since the Drinking Incident (as it had been dubbed, and would be remembered as in Hogwarts History.) The Slytherins had been rather quiet- as quiet as Slytherins get, anyways.

It was a normal day in the Great Hall, where the Slytherins were sat eating breakfast, trying to block out the noise of Draco (who had not learned his lesson in the slightest) droning on about Potter again. What even was he ON about at this time in the morning? "-ansy, look, he just got eggs again, that means he's getting ready to exercise, d'you think I could go for a run too? Maybe trip him up? Oh, now he's stealing from-" cue the sneer and unanimous groan from the Slytherins- "the Weaslette. She's terrible, Pansy, I don't know why he settles for her- I mean, just look at her hair! It's so wiry. It's probably really dry. Mine must be so much softer than hers, don't you think? And oh, her skin! It's so... blemished. So many freckles. Everywhere. I bet she has them on her feet, too. And she's, like, pasty pale. I, on the other hand, am creamy-skinned. Don't you think?"

Pansy thought that if Draco didn't shut up soon, he'd be Levicorpus'd over to his dear Potter so Pansy could eat her breakfast in peace. "But, really, I'm so much better than the Weaslette. And I'm gay. Pansy, is Potter gay? I bet he is. He practically stalked me all through sixth year, didn't he? I heard his friends say he never shuts up about me. Imagine that, Pans-" The Slytherin table, and Snape up at the teacher's table, as a whole, pushed their plates aside and hit their heads on the table.

The rest of the hall looked up at the loud bang, and saw the whole table, heads down, as Draco Malfoy continued to talk. "Come, now, Pans, let's go for that run now, shall we? Tut tut, up we go. Right, you are not running in those. C'mon, let's go." Every single Slytherin and most of the Gryffindors watched how Draco sashayed out of the Hall, and every single pair of those eyes watched how Harry Potter didn't take his eyes off of Draco until the doors slammed shut. Theodore Nott turned to Blaise. "I bet you 10 galleons you can't get Draco to confess his love for Potter before the week is out."

"He's going to do that by himself, Nott."

"What, scared you're gonna lose the bett, Zabini?"

"As if! You're on."

That evening, as Draco was walking down to the dungeons, he and Pansy passed a group of Slytherins, who had been waiting uncomfortably behind a pillar for half an hour for Draco and Pansy to pass them. The group followed them quietly down to the dungeons, not paying much attention to the quiet murmurs of conversation passing between Draco and Pansy.

Just as they neared the portrait for the Slytherin dungeons, Draco whirled around, wand bared and eyes glinting dangerously. The Slytherins were shoved up against a wall and constrained, ropes flying around them. At the same time, their wands all flew up out of their robes and into Draco's waiting hands. He caught one of them looking surprised, and asked, "Blaise?"

"Bloody hell, Draco! Merlin, I forgot how actually strong you are under that aristocratic, pompous persona. Yeah, it's me. Can you let us go?"

"Not yet. Why were you following us? Forgot how to get to the dungeons on your own?" "Nope. It's just... Well, you try to get in."

Draco strode up to the portrait, and said, confidently, "Pygmy Puffs." The portrait didn't move. Uh oh.

He tried again. "Pygmy Puffs. Pygmy Puffs! Fluffy little pygmy puffs! Pink pygmy puffs, purple pygmy puffs, blue pygmy puffs- oh, Salazar, we're stuck."

"We?"

"... aren't we? Oh. Zabini, tell me the password this very moment or I swear in the name of my father, I will-"

"Alright, alright. No use making empty threats. The password is, 'I'm in love with Harry Potter'." "Excuse me?!"

"You heard me. By the way, Theo, are you recording this?"

"Have been since they walked past us."

Draco's eyes took on a dangerous glint. "You... you want me to say-- that-- while you're recording me?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"No. You're delusional. As is I would say that on recording!"

"So you'd say it if we weren't recording?" Draco went suspiciously pinker. "No! Still no! You can't make me! I refuse. You know what? I'm going to do something else. I can pull an all-nighter tonight, it's Saturday. I'll sleep tomorrow. Goodbye, you lot. Good luck trying to get me to say- that!" And Draco turned and walked down the corridor, leaving the group giggling to themselves. "Theo, you any good at sticking charms?"

"No, he's terrible at them. I'm pretty good at them, though. What do you wanna do? Stick Draco and Potter together?"

"Pansy, that's a brilliant idea. Not right now, though. I was thinking we should put the camera here-" he walked over to the portrait and pointed to the spot on the wall, at eye-level, next to it- "where Draco can clearly see it whenever he decides to come back. And we leave it recording, we all go sleep comfortable in our dormitories, and tomorrow morning we come back and check the footage. Sound good?" The group nodded. "Cool. G'night, guys. Pansy, I entrust you the task of the sticking charm. Don't press this button here, or it'll stop recording. Right, night! Sleep tight!"

After he wandered off, Draco started to get angrier rather than more embarrassed. He'd made his way outside at some point, and decided he would blow off some steam with a game of midnight Quidditch, and hone in his seeker skills a little more. Yeah, that sounded good. And he hadn't flown properly on his own for ages- this would be nice.

Meanwhile, up in the Gryffindor dormitories, Harry awoke, gasping for breath, from another nightmare.

The war was over, long over, but he still awoke like this nearly every day. He'd gotten into the habit of placing silencing charms around his bed before he went to sleep every night, and to drawing the curtains closed around his bed to hide his nightly struggles from his dorm-mates, all of whom had come back to Hogwarts for their eighth year.

He sat up,, pulling on his glasses, and pulled aside his covers and the drapes around his bed. He wouldn't be getting back to sleep. He pulled out the map, too; Filch was roaming the castle tonight, which ruled out wandering the corridors- oh, for God's sake.

There was Malfoy. Leaving the castle? Was giving is whole house alcohol poisoning not enough? Had it been to quiet for him?

Well, whatever nefarious plan he was scheming now, Harry would stop him. He was careful not to wake Ron as he left, since Ron would only tell him about how the war was over and Malfoy had no reason to be doing this stuff anymore. Hermione was really rubbing off on him now they were together.

Harry shot one last look at the Map- oh, for the love of- Filch was sat right outside the Gryffindor portrait. If Harry left now, he was sure to be caught.

Ugh.

How else could he leave the Gryffindor tower without going through the Fat Lady's portrait? Really, Hogwarts should install fire escapes. This was terrible architecture. They should at least have those little hammer things you use to smash glass in case of emergency- wait.

Smash glass.

Glass.

Harry shot out of bed and down to the common room. Sure enough, the windows there stretched from floor to ceiling, providing a magnificent view of the grounds. Through them, he spotted a small shining pinprick of blonde hair. Malfoy! He was heading towards... the Quidditch pitches? Oh! He was going to ruin them so no one could play Quidditch! Yes, Harry needed to stop him. But how?

Oh.

Quidditch.

He raced back up the stairs, panting, and slid down to the side of his bed as quietly as he could. He reached under the bed, groping around for- there it was. He pulled out his Firebolt, still in good condition, and hurried back down to the common room. He was entirely unaware of the five pairs of eyes watching him, having been woken up by Hermione's alarms she'd set to notify them as to when Harry left bed.

She'd managed to sneak up while Harry stared, motionless, out the window at Malfoy, and sat on Ron's bed, observing. Harry dashed around the common room, looking for a latch on a window, or a handle or anything- on the last one, the furthest to the left, he found one. It split the window in half, and was very much big enough for a person. "Alohomora," Harry whispered. There was a click, and then the window swung open away from him.

Unbeknownst to him, this triggered another ward- this time, it was Professor McGonagall's. She shot up out of bed, readying her cushioning charms that lay, usually dormant, over the grounds of Hogwarts, waiting for something like this to happen. She watched through her window as a head of shaggy black hair popped out and looked around. The bright green eyes were distinguishable, even from this distance.

Immediately, she began to panic, as Harry clambered through the window. Surely he wouldn't jump? He was Harry Potter!

She was too far away to do anything to stop him... she watched helplessly as he hung off the window ledge with one hand, the other holding his wand. She paled as he looked down, carelessly, at the long, long fall he would have if he dropped.

He pointed his wand back inside, and out flew- is broom? He hopped on, and let go of the ledge.

McGonagall nearly collapsed in relief as she realised what he was doing. He'd looked so much like James, hanging from the ledge, doing something so stupid and risky.

As Harry soared away from Gryffindor tower, McGonagall was sure to shoot a charm in the general vicinity of the window to stop anyone from shutting it, and closing Harry's way back in. She didn't, however, deflate the cushioning charms; this was Harry James Potter, and with his luck, he'd do brilliantly and not fall off his broom once until he tried to climb back into the Tower, whereupon he would accidentally slip and fall.

McGonagall returned to bed with a self-indulgent smile on her lips.

Harry loved flying. He loved how the wind whistled through his hair, how it beat against his skin and whipped through his clothes, tearing away the sweat he worked up when flying. He loved how the broom seemed alive, responding to his slightest commands. So intuitive, like it was meant for him, like it was a part of him.

He loved the way that flying now, at night, the stars and the moon were the only light, bathing the world in an effervescent glow. He loved how his heart beat like a drum, pounding through his veins.

He loved how- oh, Merlin, there was Malfoy. His white-blonde hair was easily distinguishable from the rest of the dark night. He looked rather delicate, so pale and pretty on his broom, hovering above the Quidditch pitches. He looked so... relaxed. He hadn't seen Harry yet, then. And then Harry remembered why he was out here- it was a good stress reliever after a nightmare, but apart from that, Malfoy was up to something. That got harder and harder to believe, though, as Harry drifted closer.

Malfoy was lying down on his broom, legs dangling down and arms up under his head like a pillow. He looked so peaceful like that, like there hadn't been a war, like there hadn't been all that death and hatred. His Dark Mark was hidden under his shirt sleeves, Harry presumed, because he couldn't see it. He could only see his silky-looking hair and his soft, pale skin, stretching up his neck, and his high cheekbones and the silk of Malfoy's white shirt against his dark trousers and his black leather shoes, and - honestly hadn't he bothered to change? But then again, Harry was in his ratty old pyjamas from Dudley, finally fitting a little better but still not quite right around the waist and his newest jumper from Mrs. Weasley, a pretty burgundy with a golden H. Very, very Gryffindor, and very, very pretty. Really comfortable, too.

Harry was startled out of his thoughts when Malfoy suddenly sat up, leaned forward, and took off away from Harry at an alarming speed, all in one fluid motion. He reached the other end of the pitch from where he had previously been residing before he turned, flipping around his broom so the tail went out in a big arc to face Harry. His muscles were drawn and tight, and he had his wand in his hand- where did that come from? Harry, meanwhile, blinked, as Malfoy rounded on him- and groaned.

"For Merlin's sake, Potter! Must you?!" Draco asked, sounding rather exasperated. Harry blinked, confused. Malfoy muttered something about "useless" and "utter idiot" and "ruins everything". "I came out here because my friends are idiots and not very good friends and I'm locked out of the Dungeons, basically, and it's your fault, and I wanted to be alone and now YOU show up. Honestly, of all people!" Harry blinked again. That didn't sound like Malfoy scheming to- to blow up the Quidditch pitch.

"Well, er, I could go get a snitch or something and stay away from you? It's a good night for Quidditch, I don't really wanna waste it." Malfoy waved Harry away with a roll of his eyes. Harry sighed, but flew down to the Quidditch sheds, where all the Quidditch equipment was. He pulled out the case Oliver Wood had shown him, back in first year, and opened it to find the snitch's compartment empty.

Huh.

Maybe it hadn't been replaced since the last game? "Accio snitch!" He called. That was sure to work. Might take a while, though. He draped himself over his broom, sending the case of Quidditch balls back into the shed and shutting the door with a flick of his wand. Just as he turned around to take a lap of the pitch, a small golden ball flew up to his face. "Whoa!" he cried. The snitch hovered right in front of his nose.

It looked rather familiar, so close up.

In fact, it looked far, far too familiar. Harry was pretty sure he had spent countless hours staring at this very snitch. Just to be sure, he pressed his lips against it.

The cold metal was a shock, but has he pulled away the snitch unfurled its wings in his gloved hands, and the message displayed itself.

I open at the close.

Oh, Merlin, Harry was not ready to deal with this right now, not when he could feel Malfoy's gaze on him, not when his broom was underneath him and ready to go, not when he was itching for a game of Quidditch to chase away the nightmares of forests and curses and flashes of green and red, snake eyes and serpents and swords and a station, entirely white, empty of trains and devoid of life- Harry slipped off of his broom onto the grass, curling in on himself. He felt his breathing accelerating; distantly heard his own gasps for air. He could feel his blood, pounding through his body, could hear his heart in his ears.

He was only faintly aware of Malfoy calling his name, sounding almost worried.

He was entirely unaware of Ron accioing his broom, already heading to the window Harry had used to escape.

His world had focused down onto himself and this tiny, tiny ball of gold, thrumming under his fingertips, from a game of his youth, and from the very last moments of his life.

I open at the close.

"I am ready to die," Harry whispered.

He didn't hear Malfoy's sharp intake of breath next to him, didn't see how the hand he'd been reaching towards Harry jerked away.

He didn't see Ron and Hermione, soaring towards him on Ron's broom, calling his name, didn't hear Malfoy calling for them, didn't hear the panic in his voice as he told them what Harry had said.

Didn't notice as they settled, as a three, around him.

"I am ready to die," he said again, pulling the snitch closer to his lips, so that Hermione and Ron finally took notice of it.

He didn't see Malfoy's confusion as to why, when they saw the snitch, Hermione and Ron froze, then looked towards Harry to try and see what it was. All four of them watched as the snitch's surface turned and changed until it opened, revealing a small, open space where a stone once sat.

Harry smiled sadly. "I faced Death like an old friend," Harry told the snitch quietly. "I didn't want to die."

Confusion again from the group around him; Harry spoke over them. "I don't want to die." A sherbert lemon, small and round, appeared in the snitch. Harry looked down at it and smiled.

When, hours and hours later, Draco returned to the portrait hiding the Slytherins from him, he looked straight at the camera as he said, "I'm in love with Harry Potter." He didn't mean it, but after seeing how Potter had rebounded from what looked to have been a PTSD attack, gone from curled up in the foetal position on the grass to smiling to laughing and soaring through the sky after the snitch, he was pretty sure he didn't hate the boy.

Pretty sure.

He definitely didn't envy him and what he'd had to do- he's learned about all that while the Golden Trio attempted to piece Potter back together.

No, Draco Malfoy didn't love Harry Potter.

But he no longer despised him, either.