The only thing positive that Draco had to say about Harry’s room was that it had its own private bathroom.  It wasn’t very big, but it negated the need for him to traipse through McGonagall’s living room first thing in the morning in only a robe so that he could have a shower and get dressed.  Draco would have told Harry this, but the little sod seemed to be determined to sleep in.  The harder Draco pushed at him to wake up, the more deeply he burrowed under the covers, until not even the top of his dark, messy hair could be seen.

Having given that up, Draco plodded down the stairs to see about getting something to eat.  Professor McGonagall, it seemed, did not have the same trepidations about morning robes as he did.  He found her sitting at the table, in her nightgown, a robe, and a pair of slippers, eating a biscuit with jam on it and reading the Daily Prophet.

She looked up from the paper, “Good morning, Draco, I trust you slept well?”  He nodded.  “Have a seat, there’s plenty to eat.  I’m sure Harry will be down shortly.”

The informality of it all was shocking enough, but as if that wasn’t enough, he’d barely sat down when the sound of someone coming down the stairs told him that he’d succeeded in waking Harry up.  He revised that to ‘almost wake Harry up’ when the other boy came around the corner, because ‘up’ wasn’t exactly how he would describe him.

Harry was wearing his mismatched pyjamas and hadn’t even bothered to put a robe or slippers on.  His bare feet were half covered by the maroon fabric that he trodden on without noticing.  His eyes were only half open and his hair was flying around in all directions, even going so far as to defy gravity all together and stick straight up in places.

The dark haired boy sat at the table and stared at it, blinking at the food blearily.  Professor McGonagall smiled and pushed a glass of juice towards the boy, “Good morning, Harry.”

Harry mumbled back and picked up the glass, drinking a large gulp of it and putting it down.  “Time’s it?”

“Nine.”

Harry stood back up, lifting his shirt slightly to scratch at his abdomen.  “’M going back to bed.”

Draco scoffed, but McGonagall just nodded and watched him retreat.  She turned the Draco after the door had closed upstairs.  “He’ll be back down in about ten minutes.”

And ten minutes later Harry appeared, still in his nightclothes and bare feet, but looking much more awake.  Draco couldn’t help but think that if Harry had acted that way around Snape, he’d have been flogged.  Draco had already nearly finished his breakfast and was looking out the window while Harry shoved biscuits and sausages into his mouth, not bothering with order or etiquette.

“How are you boys feeling today?”

Draco looked at McGonagall, stunned slightly by having been spoken to at the table.  His father didn’t speak until after the table had been cleared and they were sipping warm, after-dinner tea.  “I’m well.”

Harry shrugged, mouth full and McGonagall smiled, “Professor Snape said that the two of you enjoyed flying with each other a great deal, so I’ve asked Professor Flitwick to take you out to the pitch as soon as you’re ready.”

Harry’s eyes lit up and he swallowed thickly, shoving the last of his biscuit into his mouth before bolting back up the stairs, presumably to get dressed.  He re-emerged only minutes later, hair wet and still tucking his shirt in.  “Can we go?”

“Go and let Professor Flitwick know you’re ready.”  McGonagall had barely finished when Harry grabbed Draco’s hand and rushed out the door.  She stuck her head out the door, “Be careful!”

It took Draco two hallways and a flight of stairs to shake himself free, but Harry didn’t slow down and he had to trot to catch up.  “What’s your big hurry?”

That stopped him.  Harry turned around, “Don’t you want to go flying?”

“Well, yes, but...”

“Then come on.  Who knows how long they’ll give us before we have to come back in.”

Draco had never seen Harry so excited, at least not during summer.  During the school year, when he was with his friends, Potter was always laughing and seemed interested enough with what was going on, but there was always an air of worry about him, like he expected something to jump out around every corner.  But there had been a few times when he’d been absolutely genuinely happy, like when he’d just won at Quidditch, or when he ate a chocolate treacle tart.  He faltered, since when had he known what Harry looked like when he ate... well, anything, let alone chocolate treacle tart?

Harry stopped outside a large door on the second floor landing and knocked firmly.  Professor Flitwick, their dwarf-sized Charm’s teacher, came out of his rooms, fully dressed and as bouncy as ever.  “Come on, boys, I’m sure you’re very eager to get on the pitch.”

Draco had never been overly fond of Professor Flitwick, but then he hadn’t actively disliked him.  That afternoon however, he decided that he would have to up Flitwick’s status to annoyance.  The Snitch had been set lose so that they could chase it and every time Draco tried to get the upper hand, Flitwick would call time out and lecture him on fair play.  They weren’t flying very high and it wasn’t as if Potter wouldn’t survive the fall.

Eventually, Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore had ventured onto the field and Harry had nose dived towards the ground, pulled up at the last minute and jumped off in a great show of what Draco assumed he thought was skill.  Draco, however, preferred the more dignified approach and simply lowered himself down before dismounting.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry proudly, “You are very good at that, Harry.”  Then looked up at Draco, “As are you.”  Draco shifted uncomfortably under the gaze.  “However, I am going to have cut this afternoon short, I’m afraid.  Professor Flitwick is needed.”

McGonagall, now dressed in long dark robes that befit her status as professor, looked down at them with a slight smile, “Harry, why don’t you take Draco down to visit with Hagrid for an hour or so before heading back to the castle?”

Harry nodded and started off in the direction of the broom shed.  The Professors left, talking among themselves.  “Potter.”

Harry turned around, his cheeks were still red with excursion.  “Yes?”

Draco shoved his broom into the shack and crossed his arms over his chest.  He wanted to ask why it was that Harry followed their instructions without question when he couldn’t stop himself from glaring at Snape long enough to listen, but he couldn’t really think of how to word it without seeming nosey.  “Are we really going to see that great oaf?”

“Professor, now,” Harry wasn’t at all taken aback by Draco having called Hagrid a ‘great oaf’, “and, yes, we are.  I’ve got to ask him what he’ll be teaching, after all.”

Draco followed, frowning at the back of Harry’s head.  He’d figure out Potter eventually, it was just going to be a little more complicated than he’d thought.

 

____________________

 

Hagrid, it turned out, was going to teach Care of Magical Creatures, which was a bloody shame because Draco had already signed up for it.  After choking down some of the worst tea that he had ever had, the two of them had spent the rest of the day in the bedroom, playing chess and cards.  Harry tried to teach him a muggle card game called Switch, but it was muggle and therefore hopelessly stupid.

The next morning it was McGonagall who had taken them out to the pitch and Draco had been forced to admit that he was impressed with her ability to handle a broom.  It wasn’t on the level of, say, himself, but it wasn’t bad.  The day after that it was Trelawney, who spent the entire time saying that she had foreseen disaster befall them and hiding under the stands.  The day after that it was Hagrid, who played fetch with Fang while they flew overhead.  Then it was back to Flitwick.  Snape, however, never made an appearance.

After every session of Quidditch, they were ushered back inside, where Potter would immediately go to their room and cosy up with a book or a game that Draco would eventually join him in.  Then, at night, there was the wanking.  Either Draco had succeeded in convincing Potter that not masturbating nightly would do irreparable damage, or Harry was enjoying it more than he let on.  Every night he had to be coaxed, though it took less each time.

The routine was both frightfully boring and exciting at the same time.  Two weeks flew by and Draco had to wonder when Potter had become such good company.  He refused to believe that it was simply because Snape wasn’t around, but it seemed that without the overbearing Potion’s Master breathing down his neck, Harry was more energetic, more willing to do what Draco wanted, and... well, happier.  He smiled all the time, even when Hagrid was the only one waiting for him in the kitchens on his birthday. Draco found that he resented Potter’s cheerfulness, though he wasn’t sure why.

Then their routine was broken by rain.  It wasn’t uncommon for it to rain during the summer and Potter didn’t particularly seem to mind, but Draco did.  What was he supposed to do with his day if he couldn’t try to beat Potter at Quidditch?

Harry seemed to think that talking was the solution.  He sat at his desk that morning, looking at Draco over the edge of his book for nearly ten minutes, before putting it down.  “So, what options are you taking next year?”

Draco frowned and looked up from the game of muggle solitaire he was trying to be interested in.  “Arithmancy, Runes and Care of Magical Creatures.  You?”

“Divination and Care of Magical Creatures.”

Draco scoffed, “Divination is rubbish.”

Harry picked the book back up, obviously bored with the conversation, “Hermione’s taking it, so it can’t be a complete waste of time.”

“Mark my words, Potter, that smart-arse little mudblood with drop that class faster than a...”

The next moment, he had a wand at his neck and Potter’s book was on the floor, forgotten.  “Don’t you ever call her that again.”

Reluctantly, Draco nodded, mostly because his own wand was sitting on the bedside table nearly five feet away.  He was very vividly reminded of a time, during the school year, when he had called the girl a mudblood and ended up on the wrong end of the Weasel’s wand.  Well, it would have been the wrong end if the thing had been working, thankfully it wasn’t.  But Potter hadn’t reacted at all that time.  Half the bloody Gryffindor team had been jumping at his throat, but perfect Potter had just stood there, looking very confused.

Ah. “Finally figured out what that means, Potter?”

Harry’s mouth opene, but Draco couldn’t be sure what he was going to say because at that moment, McGonagall’s voice rang up the stairs and into the room.  “It’s lunch time, boys, wash your hands and hurry down.”

Slowly, Harry put his wand down and Draco stood up with a huff, storming down the stairs to eat whatever atrocity the house elves had brought up this time.

 

____________________

 

Harry was refusing to speak to him again and none of the professors seemed willing to step in and make him.  McGonagall tried half-heartedly, during the first twelve hours, pulling Harry aside and asking what Draco had said to upset him so much.  To Draco’s relief, Harry wouldn’t tell her.  Looking around her living room, he got the feeling that Professor McGonagall would frown upon that particular word.

It had been two days since the fight and ‘Professor’ Hagrid was supervising them while Harry played fetch with Fang and Draco watched with disinterest.  Hagrid had stepped out of earshot and Draco pulled all of his nerve together to force himself to say it, because he didn’t really think he meant it, but he couldn’t stand the boredom and loneliness any longer.  At least when he was at home his mother was willing to talk to him.  “I’m sorry.”

Harry stopped in mid throw, his arm still bent behind his head.  “Say it again.”

Draco grit his teeth, “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”  Harry threw the stick and Fang went after it, tripping over his own overly large paws in his excitement.

“Why does it matter?”  Harry didn’t answer.  “Oh, fine, I’m sorry because it wasn’t a terribly polite thing to say.  I suppose I’ll have to stick to muggleborn from now on.”

Fang dropped the stick back at Harry’s feet and he picked it up again, studying a knot on the bark.   “You should be sorry because being muggleborn isn’t an insult and you’re making it one.  We’re all wizards, either way.”  Draco couldn’t think up a proper response to that.  In his opinion, it was very much an insult.  Harry, thank Merlin, didn’t need one.  With a hefty sigh, he held the stick out towards Draco, “Go on, it’s more fun than it looks.”

Draco took the stick, surprised by the weight of it and threw it as hard as he could, which turned out to be a great deal further than Harry.  Harry smiled at him ruefully, “You’re not too bad at that.  Have you ever played Frisbee?”

“What’s Frisbee and why would I play it?”

A belt of genuine laughter ripped through the slightly smaller boy and Harry stood up, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”  Fang dropped the stick at Draco’s feet and he sneered at the lumbering dog before picking the stick up again and throwing it, deciding as he watched the dog pant after the large piece of bark feverishly, that while he might never tell Harry, fetch wasn’t such a bad game after all.

-tbc-