Chapter Text
“The problem with you, Malfoy, is that you’ve got a silver spoon shoved up your arse,” Harry said, relaxing back into the recliner. Overhead, a strangely lethargic firework coiled in the air and then exploded with distinct reluctance. Harry could see it quite clearly, all sparkles and no smoke, despite the fact that it was the middle of the day. All around them came the noises of the camp: shouts of revelry, laughing children, loud choruses of spontaneous singing.
Draco frowned at him, then directed a pointed look at the entrance of the lavish Malfoy tent behind them. He said, “I’m sure Weasley would lend you a sleeping bag if you dislike your current accommodation, but then you might have to share.”
Lucius and Narcissa had not brought their best — Draco had insisted this with a tone of derision, as if the notion of bringing their best travelling tent for something as middling as the Quidditch World Cup was laughable — but their second best came with six bedrooms (all of which had ensuites), two living rooms, a sizeable kitchen and pantry, a spa, a study with an enchanted bookshelf that could summon books from the Manor’s library, and most notably a balcony which opened onto, Harry had been informed, the southern New Zealand seaside, so it was really quite enough already.
“What I mean,” Harry went on, ignoring the jab about Ron, who was a perfectly nice boy, “is that I’m hungry, and I think I can smell muffins, and I want one.”
“Who’s stopping you?” Draco asked, eyebrows raised. He was in a recliner of his own, his fingers twined loosely in the pages of a book. The book’s title was in French. Draco had been reading it, lying horizontal on a large sofa in the first living room, when Harry had finally arrived via a late morning Portkey two days ago, and he had barely parted with it since. Knowing him, it was probably a book of foreign curses.
“You said Soddy was preparing breakfast!” Harry exclaimed in exasperation.
“She is.”
“It’s past two.”
“Are you on a schedule? Relax.”
It was Harry’s stomach that was on a schedule, but as they had both heard it growling over the past hour he didn’t feel a need to elaborate on this any further. Instead he said, “I just don’t see why we have to eat fancy food that takes ages to prepare every meal —”
“Calamari is not fancy,” Draco said, turning a page. “Patience, Potter. Soddy would have gone to serve my parents first.”
The Quidditch match between Ireland and Bulgaria had been running for some forty-six hours or so. Apparently, Viktor Krum had caught pixiepox, the wizarding equivalent of a Muggle cold. As the match stretched on both teams had resorted first to regulation doses of Siezefyre’s Stay Up potions, and then inevitably to reserve members. Then the swap had happened again, and then again, so that the current fielded players were mostly all reserves. The rumour was that Bulgaria had called in a team of Healers to monitor Krum’s condition, and were waiting for the right moment to field him again and end the match quickly. The score was 2370 to 1950 to Ireland, as displayed by the enchanted banners that flew over the camp and flashed whenever there was an update. When Ireland’s reserve Chasers and Keeper were on Bulgaria’s score rose quickly, but the gap was still steadily widening.
Harry and Draco had watched the match from their box well into the second night before deciding to take a break. Lucius and Narcissa, on the other hand, had returned to the tent to sleep both nights, but otherwise spent their time in the stadium.
Fifteen minutes after Harry had given up hope on sustenance and had begun woefully contemplating his demise, Soddy popped into being beside them, spreading her makeshift toga-like garment that might’ve once been a tartan picnic blanket, and announced, “Brunch is being ready on the balcony, Master Draco.”
Harry snorted. Brunch at nearly three. But, well: they had woken at noon, and Draco had stayed in his bed until half past one, eating Chocolate Frogs and reading his book, impervious to Harry’s attempts to rouse him.
It was chilly in New Zealand; Harry grabbed Draco’s discarded cloak as they passed through the second living room, wrapping it around himself. Draco tutted at him and cast a Warming Charm over them both.
“Do try to remember that magic is real, Potter,” he drawled in his typical way, pulling out his seat next to the round wooden table.
Harry could hardly forget it, considering the current view from the southern hemisphere. He pulled the borrowed cloak tighter around himself stubbornly, then smiled at the full plates in front of them, and at his glass of pumpkin juice, which was slowly filling up on its own.
The calamari was good. After a few bites Harry abandoned the knife and fork in favour of using his fingers. It was — however beautifully displayed — actually just fish and chips.
They ate mostly in silence, staring at the rolling waves and a distant storm out at sea. Meal times were the only time Draco could be parted from his book; even during their day and a half at the match he had kept it in his robe pocket.
Finishing first, Harry could not help but glance at Draco’s plate, on which the chips were still piled high. Draco nudged the plate toward him slightly without a word.
“Thanks,” Harry said, grinning.
Draco wiped at his mouth with a napkin, pushing his chair back to better gaze at the view. It never seemed to be night time on the balcony, even though there was the issue of timezones. It was always the early morning, or perhaps the late evening: the sun skimmed the horizon, lazy and intimate.
Harry was just finishing off the last chip when Draco cleared his throat and confessed, “Father said.”
There had been a time, during all of first year and through a good chunk of second year, when Harry had learnt to hear that phrase and partially tune out whatever followed. He turned to Draco and waited.
“Father said,” Draco continued with apparent difficulty, “that there was — is — to be a display.”
“A display,” Harry echoed blandly. “Of what?”
“He isn’t the one responsible!” Draco protested, as though they were already arguing. Then he added sullenly, “He said not to tell you.”
Harry strongly doubted that Lucius ‘I have the ear of the Minister’ Malfoy had merely gone along with someone else’s plan — whatever it was — and was not in any way responsible. But saying so would be a waste of time. Instead he asked, “And when will this — display — take place?”
Draco twitched, making a motion that might have been an aborted attempt to look over his shoulder. Harry did it for him. There was no one there. Draco said, his voiced strained, “After the match.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “So whenever Viktor Krum gets over his cold, then?”
“Harry,” Draco said intently, not laughing, “this is serious.”
“Is your dad participating?” Harry asked, and as Draco — frowning irritably — drew in breath to answer, headed him off with, “If it’s serious, you should tell him not to.”
They both knew very well that Lucius was not the sort of person who took direction from his son. Draco shut his mouth and looked away. The stiff line of his shoulder said that he was upset.
“I’m sure it’s,” Harry tried, hearing quite clearly the lack of conviction in his own voice, “not as bad as —”
“Don’t be stupid,” Draco snapped. “You said Pettigrew got away.”
“So did Sirius Black.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He sent me a birthday card,” Harry said defensively.
Draco looked at him like he was crazy. “So?”
“So it wasn’t all bad news.”
“I never implied the contrary.”
Harry leaned back from the table. “If this is about Buckbeak again —“
“It’s not about that stupid hippogriff.” Draco put the thumb and forefinger of one hand to his temples briefly, closing his eyes. Harry wondered if he knew that he had picked up the gesture from Narcissa. “I meant that — you can’t just go rushing off like you do, Potter. It’s dangerous. If Pettigrew is what he is, then — it’s not good. And that dream you had … Promise me you won’t be a Gryffindor.”
Drinking the last of his pumpkin juice, Harry considered. He said, “I’m staying at the Malfoy tent, aren’t I? That’s safe, considering.”
Draco stared at him suspiciously. After a moment he seemed to realise that Harry was being sincere, unspoken words about Lucius aside, and marginally relaxed. “Right. If anything happens, we’ll come here.”
Just then there came a distant roar from outside the tent, not completely unlike the roar of the ocean before them. They both jumped slightly in alarm, and then glanced at each other. Harry smiled sheepishly.
“Must be Krum,” Draco deduced a beat later, and together they left the balcony and rushed for the stadium.
On the way there they bumped into Hermione Granger. Literally bumped — she was carrying a stack of books, and the collision sent them all tumbling.
“Sorry,” Harry gasped, helping her to her feet. “Sorry, sorry. Are you all right?”
“Harry,” she said, somewhat crossly, then waved her wand, floating the books back into her arms. “No, it’s my fault. I couldn’t see where I was going, and then everyone started rushing around.” She turned and noticed Draco, who had stood off to the side as soon as the books went flying. “Malfoy.”
Draco gave no indication that he had heard her speak.
“You’re, er, getting ready for school?” Harry asked, spotting Hogwarts: A History.
“I’m trying to,” Hermione said. “Term starts in four days! There’s so much material I haven’t revised, and this silly game won’t end.” She huffed disapprovingly. “Honestly, it was interesting to begin with, you know, the logistics of large wizarding gatherings, and so on, but I don’t know why it couldn’t finish sensibly at a set time.” Then, eyeing Draco carefully, she leaned in and whispered, “Have you heard from…?”
“Oh,” Harry said, and grinned at her. “Yeah, I have. He’s — he’s doing well, I think. Listen, Hermione, thanks again for your help with the Time Turner. I know we didn’t get much of a chance to —“
“Potter,” interrupted Draco loudly, “are you going to the match, or shall I proceed to our seats alone?”
“Yeah, calm down Malfoy, I’m coming,” Harry told him, then turned back to Hermione, who was now looking at Draco with an odd expression on her face. “What about you? They’re fielding Krum again, and he might catch the Snitch.”
“Oh, well,” Hermione said, shifting the books. “I need to put these away, actually, but maybe I’ll head back after if this is finally going to be over.”
“All right then,” Harry said amicably. “I’ll see you later?”
“Sure,” Hermione replied easily.
“If you could choose a less inconvenient time to woo your girlfriend,” Draco began testily as they went on their way again.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Harry said, shoving at Draco’s shoulder. Draco shoved back twice as hard. “She’s helped me a lot over the years, that’s all, it wouldn’t kill you to be polite to her as well.”
“I’ve helped you too!”
“Uh huh.”
“Don’t forget I practically went into the sewers for you, Potter.”
And then complained about it copiously for weeks after, Harry remembered, but he also remembered Draco’s ashen face when Harry had emerged from fighting the basilisk, and Draco’s terrified grip on his hand when he had been lying in the hospital wing. Harry said, “Yeah, yeah.”
Draco muttered something. Harry caught the words ‘full of herself.’
“Oh yes,” he said teasingly, “full of herself, bossy, thinks she knows best, likes to read, top of the class, snores at night, whines nonstop, has a terrible sweet tooth, sings off-key … who are we talking about again?”
“I don’t,” Draco said in a dangerous voice, “snore at night.”
“Fine,” Harry conceded, noting that none of the rest of it had been denied. “Anyway, you just don’t like her because she has better marks than you in half the classes, and she’s Muggleborn.”
Draco made an unhappy shape with his mouth, but didn’t reply.
That evening, Krum performed a flawless Sesdan Rise and caught the Snitch, ending the match 2510 against 2240 to Ireland. The Veelas and the Leprechauns — whose animosity towards each other had waxed and waned over the course of the match — began posturing threateningly across the pitch again as Bagman announced the final score, and there was considerable commotion in the stadium as efforts were made to quell the impending brawl. Harry and Draco watched from afar using their Omnioculars, laughing and commenting on the play-by-play.
They kept talking about it afterward, sitting up in their beds in Draco’s room in the tent (the Malfoys had supplied Harry with his own room, but Draco’s had an extra bed, and they were used to sleeping in the same dormitory, so it only seemed to make sense). They dissected the entire match exhaustively; Draco, who had been relentlessly enthusiastic about Quidditch right up until the moment when Harry had made the Seeker position for Slytherin’s team and he hadn’t, was rarely so willing to engage on talk about strategy and flight manoeuvres. Usually, he was careful to feign a level of disinterest, always acting as though he were doing Harry a huge favour whenever Harry invited him to a game of one-on-one Catch-the-Snitch.
But Lucius had issued a warning, and tonight Draco was nervous.
Harry saw it and didn’t comment on it. The conversation crept on well into the small hours of the night, the two of them getting sleepier and sleepier. When the screams started, it was almost a relief. Almost.
Draco sat up from where he had fallen onto his pillow. “Stay here,” he hissed at Harry.
Harry sat up as well, pushing his hair back from his face. “Tempus,” he cast. It was twenty past three.
Draco was looking at him warily. “Stay here, Potter,” he repeated.
“I’m not moving, am I?” Harry said irritably.
“You’re putting on your shoes,” Draco observed with resignation.
Harry paused in the middle of tying his laces, trying to think of an excuse, and then he heard a voice that sounded like Hermione’s.
Draco had heard it, too. “Shit,” he said.
Harry shot to his feet and was through the door before Draco had finished cursing.
***
They didn’t see each other again until Draco grumpily shoved his way into Harry’s compartment on the Hogwarts Express.
Draco had followed him out of the tent immediately, but in the crush of panicking bodies they had been separated, and then Harry had, miraculously, found Hermione, who had been alone and was missing her wand. And after that there had been that business with the Dark Mark, and Harry hadn’t been able to leave Hermione by herself until she had her wand back, and by then Arthur Weasley had arrived, and Hermione was staying with his family, so Harry had been relieved, until Mr Weasley had shown him a missive from Professor Dumbledore, which advised — commanded — that Harry stay at the Burrow until term began, if he would not return to the Dursleys.
The Weasleys were good people, and Hermione was certainly friendly enough with them, and Harry liked Ron, but they were — too kind to him. Mrs Weasley fluttered around him for a morning and a half, all smiles and welcome, and by the end of the second day he was longingly counting the hours till Platform 9¾. The Burrow was noisy, all the time. It was the sound of family, of people who had lived their entire lives together in close quarters and who loved and were comfortable with each other. Harry was an outsider and they treated him accordingly: as though he were delicate china that might explode in a very Slytherin manner all over them unless they handled him carefully. Only Fred and George acted towards him the way they usually did at Hogwarts, with assessing looks and whispers behind his back. Their unchanged behaviour had been deeply reassuring.
In any case, it was with no small sense of homecoming that Harry greeted the sight of Draco sliding the compartment door closed and sitting down.
“Potter,” Draco said icily.
“Draco,” Harry said. “Er. How are you?”
Draco just gave him a look. He took out his book and made a big show of removing the bookmark — which momentarily glowed a bright silver before sliding itself to nestle in some earlier pages — and ostensibly began to read.
“Look,” Harry started to say, but was interrupted by the door opening.
It was Pansy. She smiled sweetly at the two of them and said, “Hey Harry, Draco, mind if I —“
“Leave, Parkinson,” Draco snapped.
“Wow,” said Pansy. “Who hexed a Kneazle up your arse?”
“Sorry, Pans,” Harry said, wincing. “Greg and Vincent are two carriages down with Millie, I think. Try there?”
“Blaise is in there with them,” Pansy replied with an air of supreme martyrdom. But she shrugged and left, adding only, “I’d lock the door if you two want to hog the whole place to yourselves, and Draco, whatever it is, remember that if you want to commit murder you should prepare an alibi beforehand.”
As soon as she was gone Draco had his wand out and trained on the door. “Colloportus.”
“Okay,” Harry said, willing to try again. “Draco, look.”
Draco sighed. He looked tired: there were no dark circles under his eyes — Narcissa would have charmed them away — but there was a set to his mouth that made him appear older than he was. He said, “Let’s just leave it. I don’t want to argue.”
Harry waited, but evidently Draco was telling the truth. He sat back and smoothed out the pages of his book, saying nothing further. After a little while he stretched out to rest his feet atop the opposite seat, on Harry’s side, and Harry copied him; their postures mirrored one another’s.
As they drew closer to Hogwarts, it began to rain. The day grew dim very rapidly, and soon condensation had formed so thickly on their side of the glass that it was impossible to see clearly outside. There was only the impression of raindrops, and every so often a distant, flashing light.
When the food trolley arrived Harry bought his usual amount. Draco didn’t look up from his book, but once Harry placed some sandwiches and Chocolate Frogs next to him, he reached for them absently and ate.
“What is that book about?” Harry asked, finally giving in to his curiosity as the train pulled into the station in the wet and the dark.
“Hm?” Draco hummed, looking up and blinking as though waking from sleep.
Harry nodded at the cover. “Your book. What’ve you been reading?”
“Oh, it’s a novel,” Draco said, as Harry stood up and stretched. “Mother recommended it to me.” He unlocked the door and went into the corridor.
Following behind him, Harry asked, raising his voice, “A novel? About?”
“It was written by a witch in the 15th century,” Draco answered obliquely, sounding as though he could go on about irrelevant details for some time, but there were already too many people in the corridor, too many conversations around them at once for their own to continue undisturbed.
The rain was coming down in sheets outside. Just before they disembarked Draco reached back and tapped Harry on the head with his wand, enunciating the spell crisply: “Impervius.”
It wasn’t enough to block the downpour completely, but it held out long enough for them to weave through the crowd and run swiftly towards the carriages relatively dry. Harry, who couldn’t see the Thestrals, didn’t even have time to curiously pat at the air as he normally liked to; Draco, who had apparently been in the room when his Great Aunt Walburga Black had passed away, directed at them his usual nod of acknowledgement. (They had puzzled over the mystery of Harry’s inability to see Thestrals last year, when the Dementors had revealed Harry’s memory of his mother’s death. Draco had suggested that maybe it didn’t count because Harry had no real memory of his parents alive, and then he had seen the look on Harry’s face and stopped talking.)
They had kept the train compartment to themselves; they could not do so for the carriage. Everyone was rushing for a spot, eager to get to the castle and dry ground. Even as Harry climbed onto his seat, two more people got in hurriedly, laughing at each other.
It was Hermione and Ron.
“Harry! How come you’re so dry?” Ron demanded, shoving his hair out of his face, rubbing at his cheeks.
“We would be too,” Hermione told him, as the carriage began to move, “except you dragged me out too quickly before I could cast Impervius. Honestly, Ron.”
Ron shrugged at her, looking so pathetically sodden Hermione laughed again.
Draco, who was sitting opposite Harry, had shifted as far away from Ron as possible.
“Oh, ugh,” said Ron as he noticed. “Malfoy. I thought something stank.”
“Yes, Weasley, it’s the smell of the filth you were born in,” Draco returned venomously.
“Hi, Malfoy,” Hermione said politely.
“Harry, mate,” Ron said, “you know you could have sat with us on the train, instead of running off to go be with this git.”
Eyes flashing, Draco said, “I imagine he was eager to get away from your unwashed self, after being forced to spend —“
Harry reached across and put a hand on Draco’s knee. Draco stopped and glared, affronted.
“Ron,” Harry said lightly, keeping his gaze trained on Draco, “thanks again for having me over. I really appreciated it. But if you start something with Malfoy I may have to punch you in the face. I just want to be clear.” He turned and looked at Ron.
For a moment it seemed like Ron was tempted to test this declaration, but to Harry’s relief he backed down, saying, mildly enough, “All right, Harry. We’re clear.”
Hermione took the chance and began to speak about her desired curriculum for the year. Harry nodded at her to show that he was listening, but he and Draco were once again silent for the rest of the ride.
***
At the feast, the Triwizard Tournament was announced, and Mad-Eye Moody made his grand appearance.
Harry had of course known about the Tournament already through Draco, who had heard it from Lucius. He hadn’t known about Moody, and as the rolling eye flicked its regard across the Slytherin table, he felt a trickling unease run down his spine.
“Relax,” said Draco, voice low and sarcastic. “It’s not like you’ve had a bad track record or anything with the Defence professors, no?”
“I liked Lupin,” Harry told him.
“Yes well,” Draco allowed grudgingly, “he wasn’t completely terrible, even if he was a werewolf.”
On the other side of the table, Pansy whispered, “I heard his eye can see through walls.”
“D’you think it can see through clothes?” asked Blaise, with a wink.
There was a dreadful silence as everyone within earshot contemplated this horrible prospect.
“Don’t think that’s legal,” grunted Greg.
Blaise winked again.
“Stop that,” Pansy commanded.
“Make me,” Blaise said, growing a winsome smile.
While this scintillating conversation continued in front of them, Harry said to Draco, “I heard something about Moody, while I was staying at Ron’s. Something to do with the Improper Use of Magic department at the Ministry.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Draco said. “Father says Mad-Eye’s like a rabid dog.”
The obvious implication was to not get bitten. Harry frowned at his dinner.
“Cheer up, Potter,” Draco said. “Look: treacle tart.”