Chapter Text
It's a tough thing to admit, if only to himself, but sometimes Harry misses the old Malfoy, the one that used to taunt him at every turn.
The Malfoy who reappeared at Hogwarts to finish his schooling is very different, like a phantom or a shadow of his former self.
The boy looks even more wretched than he did in their sixth year. He barely speaks to anyone, and he rarely eats, just picks at his food as he sits next to Goyle at the Slytherin table.
Crabbe's seat remains empty. Always.
Harry supposes it's a sign of respect. No one ever sits in the chair that used to be Colin's, either.
Hermione has a theory, as she generally does. She claims Malfoy probably wants to get through the next few months without any incidents, be just another face in the crowd. Perhaps he hopes that if he keeps his head down and pretends to be invisible, no one will bother him.
Harry doesn't know whether she’s right—she might be; she so often is and she understands people far better than he does— but he can't stop wondering; worrying.
He misses the banter, even the endless fights he and Malfoy used to have before their unspoken truce. Everything is so quiet now; too quiet. This just doesn’t feel right.
***
Late one night, a good hour past curfew, Harry’s curiosity and concern get the better of him.
He stealthily follows Malfoy all the way up to the Astronomy Tower.
He peeps through a crack in the door, hoping to discover whom the boy is meeting. Why else would he go up there, if not for some secret rendezvous?
To Harry’s surprise, no one shows up, nor does it look as though Malfoy is expecting anyone. He just stands there wordlessly like a statue, gazing through one of the windows, occasionally letting out a deep, solemn sigh that resounds around the room.
Harry’s heart clenches at the desolate scene in front of him. He can’t bring himself to keep watching without saying or doing something—anything.
"Malfoy?" he ventures carefully, making his presence known as he steps closer. He doesn’t want a repeat of what happened in sixth year, so he thinks it best not to creep up on the boy.
Malfoy turns around. To Harry’s relief, he doesn’t look like he feels threatened, merely resigned and exhausted. The moonlight emphasises the paleness of his pointy face and the deep, dark circles under his eyes seem even bigger here.
"Potter," he says, his tone flat.
"Are you all right?" Harry blurts out. “You look knackered.”
He knows he should probably keep up some sort of pretence, mention that it’s after curfew and Malfoy should be on his merry way—or something along those lines—but he can’t. That blank look in those tired eyes knocks the fight right out of him.
Malfoy blinks in obvious surprise. "What do you care?" There is nothing unusual about the words themselves, but their tone lacks bite, malice and everything else that was there before in what now feels like a previous lifetime.
Harry shrugs. He decides to keep the mood light, or at least as pleasant as he can, given the circumstances. "It's my job to, isn't it? Or my affliction? Hero complex and all that rot, remember?"
Malfoy gives a small smile. Harry supposes it’s a start. "I'm fine, Potter. Now run along and worry about a wayward Weasley instead, won’t you?"
Harry can’t tell whether that alliteration was intentional, but it makes him grin regardless. “None of those around here these days,” he replies. “Ron's happy with Hermione. Ginny finally asked Neville out… You’re the only one left to worry about, I'm afraid.”
“Yes. Well,”— Malfoy’s face turns serious again—“perhaps you should be."
Harry frowns. "I should be what?"
"Afraid."
"Why?"
"Word has it,” Draco replies, sounding more bitter than sarcastic, “Malfoys are dangerous, lethal even, and not to be trusted under any circumstances. You have seen The Prophet lately, haven’t you? All that nonsense about Mother and…” He trails off, shaking his head sadly.
Harry shrugs. "Can’t say I pay much attention to that rag anymore. I doubt anyone with half a brain still does. Besides, I know you're not dangerous. You never were. You were just young and daft; following in your father’s footsteps because that’s what you were expected to do. I have to say, he’s a real berk, though.”
Draco snorts in a decidedly non-Malfoy fashion. “I was daft and my father is a berk. Thank you kindly, Potter. I feel so much better for knowing that!”
Harry grits his teeth. So there will be a fight here after all. Was he really expecting anything else anyway? Old habits die hard and besides, the war is over. Malfoy no longer has any logical reasons to be civil to Harry. He no longer requires any help, so he can go back to being proud and condescending.
Harry suppresses a sigh. Some things clearly haven’t changed, and it’s a real shame, too.
Harry gears himself up for a brawl of the verbal or physical variety, or maybe even a magical duel—he should have never given the bastard his wand back—but then stops in his tracks the moment he notices the look on Malfoy’s face.
The boy is smiling; a genuine smile that lights up his eyes.
It occurs to Harry that the only other time Malfoy ever smiled at him like that was on the day Harry rescued him from the Fiendfyre.
Flames soared all around them, the whole room ablaze as they flew to safety. Afterwards, Draco gave him a grateful smile; despite Ron’s hostility, despite Crabbe’s death, despite everything. It was a smile Harry would never forget.
Here and now, that day feels like an eternity ago. So much is different now, including the animosity that once raged between them. They’re nowhere near being friends yet, but too much has happened for them to still remain enemies.
Perhaps Harry was a little hasty in assuming there would be a fight here tonight. They don’t have much left to fight over and besides, Malfoy hasn’t tried to aggravate him in ages.
Harry takes a deep breath. "What are you doing up here anyway?" he asks, careful not to sound suspicious.
Malfoy shrugs. "Nothing in particular. Enjoying the peace and quiet. They allow me to think and get some rest, mentally at least. I haven't been sleeping terribly well since—" He abruptly stops talking, like he caught himself saying too much. He probably did.
"I don’t sleep much either," Harry says softly. “I thought it would get better after the war, the nightmares, but… It’ll take time, I suppose.”
Draco directs his gaze back outside. “A lot of time,” he mumbles, mostly to himself.
Not another word is spoken. Harry knows he should probably leave, give Malfoy the space and solitude he so obviously requires.
Still, something has to be said about this silence. The longer he stays here, the better he understands why Malfoy likes this place so much. It's quiet and the air is clear. It’s not as good as flying—few things are—but at least up here, a person can breathe.
Harry sinks down to the floor, slumps back against the wall and closes his eyes.
As long as he doesn’t make another sound, Malfoy probably won’t mind him being here. Perhaps he won’t even notice.
***
The next morning, Harry wakes up at the crack of dawn. His back is sore and his neck stiff, but he hasn’t felt this rested in months.
He readjusts his glasses and glances around to discover he’s in a large room in the Astronomy Tower.
After an instant, he remembers.
Malfoy.
Shivering from the morning chill, he wraps his blanket a little tighter around himself.
Then he blinks.
A blanket?
Harry looks down and sees a thick cloak has been draped over him. It’s black with green lining, and has a Slytherin patch sewn onto its front.
Some things have definitely changed.
Harry smiles.