Chapter 4
The Astronomy Tower was quiet, the evening air crisp and still around them.
“Come on, Malfoy.”
Malfoy’s reply was curt. “No.”
“But you said you wanted a camera.”
“Yes, but Hogsmeade don’t have any shops that sell them,” Malfoy argued, his tone edged with exasperation.
“Well, it’s depressing here. Let’s have some fresh air,” Harry replied, his voice light despite the chill.
“It’s freezing out there, Potter. And we’re not friends,” Malfoy snapped.
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Harry murmured with a wry smile.
Sighing, Malfoy cast a quick Hominem Revelio. Then, with a deft flick of his wand, he chanted a Disguise Charm. In an instant, his usual platinum-blond hair darkened to a warm brown, and his sharp features softened until he looked plain—ordinary, even. Not to be outdone, Harry too murmured his own charm. He felt his hair lengthen and curl at the ends. When he caught sight of his reflection in a nearby window, a stranger with hazel eyes and a dusting of freckles returned his gaze.
“Now, let’s go before I change my mind,” Malfoy said, his voice low and measured.
That evening, Hogsmeade lay nearly deserted; the usual throng of students had all gone home for the holidays. Seeking refuge from the biting cold, the pair ducked into a snug little café and ordered hot chocolate. They sipped in silence, the sweet, steamy drink thawing the chill from their bones, and Harry found himself savouring the rare, uncomplicated pleasure of the moment.
When they eventually stepped back out into the frosty night, Harry’s mind turned to Zonko’s Joke Shop. “Let’s go to Zonko’s,” he suggested, a conspiratorial glint in his eye.
"No, Potter," Malfoy deadpanned.
Despite Malfoy’s protest, they soon found themselves inside the chaotic little shop. The air buzzed with the scent of old parchment, sweets, and lingering prank magic. Shelves were crammed with ridiculous contraptions—nose-biting teacups, self-throwing dungbombs, and enchanted whoopee cushions.
Harry wandered through the aisles, grinning at the nonsense. Then, something caught his eye—atiny, yellow camera sitting on a dusty shelf. It looked far too ordinary to belong in a joke shop.
Curious, he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Could it even work? He decided to test it. Scanning the shop, he spotted Malfoy a little ways away, flipping through a box of enchanted playing cards. Without thinking, Harry raised the camera and snapped a picture.
A thick, plain frame slid out with a soft whirr. Harry flicked it, expecting nothing to happen. But slowly, the image came to life. Disguised Malfoy’s face appeared, and around him, golden flowers bloomed, swaying gently as if caught in a summer breeze. The picture had altered reality in a way that made it to look almost ethereal. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off it.
"Malfoy," Harry called, crossing the shop. He held the picture up.
Malfoy’s brows furrowed as he examined it. "Oh," he said, voice oddly soft.
Harry grinned. "Told you we’d find one."
Malfoy smirked. "No, you didn’t."
"Close enough."
Harry turned the camera over in his hands, still mesmerised by the photo. "So… let’s buy it."
Malfoy hesitated for half a second before nodding. And together, they made their way to the counter, the tiny, peculiar camera now theirs.
_____
They returned to the castle just before dinner, the warmth of the Great Hall a stark contrast to the cold night air still clinging to their robes. Harry felt giddy—an unfamiliar sort of excitement bubbling under his skin. The camera wasn’t his, yet he felt strangely attached to it, as if they’d stolen something magical from the world outside and smuggled it back in.
Throughout dinner, he found himself grinning at nothing, barely touching his food. The warmth in his chest wasn’t just from the lingering effects of the potion anymore.
When the meal ended, Harry hesitated as they left the hall, wanting to follow Malfoy but unsure if he should. He turned slightly, ready to bid him goodnight, but before he could speak, Malfoy did.
"Let’s go to the Astronomy Tower."
It wasn’t a question, just a simple statement, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And that alone made Harry’s stomach twist in an unfamiliar way. When had this become easy? When had he become someone Malfoy could say things like that to, without hesitation? Harry knew it was partially because of the the potion but also he knew it was because Malfoy chose to do things.
Harry only nodded, smiling to himself as he followed Malfoy through the quiet corridors.
When they reached the tower, Harry sat cross-legged on the stone floor, watching as Malfoy turned the tiny yellow camera over in his hands. He examined it like it was a puzzle, something to be understood rather than just used.
"It’s tiny," Malfoy muttered.
"You’ve already said that," Harry pointed out, smirking. Lately, smiling had become second nature to him, something that happened without thought.
Malfoy chuckled, shaking his head as he lifted the camera and pointed it towards the window. He took a picture of the sky. The thick frame slid out, blank at first, and they waited.
Harry, impatient as ever, drummed his fingers against the stone while Malfoy watched the picture develop. Slowly, the sky unfolded on the frame—stars blinking softly against a stretch of midnight blue.
No golden flowers this time. Just the sky as it was.
And then, to Harry’s complete surprise, Malfoy turned the camera on him.
Before Harry could react, there was a soft click.
His eyes widened as the picture slid out. He barely breathed as Malfoy watched it develop, a slow smirk growing on his lips.
The image came to life—Harry’s own face, frozen in wide-eyed shock, looping in an endless motion. But that wasn’t what made his breath catch.
Lilies surrounded him.
Soft white petals bloomed around him, one brushing his cheek, another caught in his mess of hair, swaying gently like they’d always belonged there.
Harry swallowed, something tightening in his chest. He didn’t know what to say.
Malfoy smirked, handing him the photo. "Seems like even the camera knows you, Potter." His voice was teasing, but his eyes were warm.
Harry stared at the picture for a long moment. Then, before he could stop himself, he laughed.
________
Hogwarts was dressed for Christmas, just as it always was—garlands twisting along the staircases, enchanted snowflakes drifting lazily from the ceiling of the Great Hall, the warmth of candlelight flickering against frost-kissed windows. It was familiar, comforting.
Harry helped with the decorations, stringing up tinsel, charming baubles to float mid-air. He ate his meals at the Slytherin table now—not that anyone was around to notice. It was just him and Malfoy, sitting side by side, their conversations sometimes effortless, sometimes silent. When he wasn’t eating or decorating, he spent his time alone in his dormitory, writing letters to Ron and Hermione, always hesitating before sealing them.
But after dinner, as though by some unspoken rule, he and Malfoy would always find themselves at the Astronomy Tower.
Malfoy often read, absorbed in whatever book he’d chosen that night, while Harry sprawled out on the stone floor, his quill scratching against parchment. Sometimes, neither of them spoke for ages. Sometimes, they talked about nothing at all. And always, without fail, they took pictures.
Pictures of the sky, of the deep black night, of the castle glowing softly in the distance. Pictures of each other, sometimes catching a flicker of something unguarded in their expressions. The camera always added its own touch—golden flowers curling around their feet, twinkling stars caught in their hair, something unexpected in every frame. And sometimes, just sometimes, it showed nothing at all.
Tonight, Harry lay stretched out on the cold stone, arms behind his head, staring at the sky while Malfoy read beside him. The air was crisp, but not unbearable.
"There’s no Christmas decorations up here," Harry mused, his breath curling in the air like smoke.
Malfoy didn’t respond, just turned a page, the quiet sound of paper shifting filling the silence.
With a flick of his wand, Harry conjured a small Christmas tree beside them, its branches dark and bare. Malfoy glanced up briefly before returning to his book, unimpressed.
Harry huffed, sitting up. He plucked decorations from his pockets—tiny baubles, bits of tinsel—and began to dress the little tree, his fingers careful, his mind oddly at peace.
Minutes passed.
Then, without a word, Malfoy set his book aside and joined him.
They worked in silence, hanging ornaments, twisting lights around the branches until the tree glowed softly in the darkness. Malfoy picked up the camera and took a picture, watching as the film slid out, waiting for the image to appear.
But then, Harry felt it.
The shift.
The potion was fading.
His stomach turned, a creeping unease crawling up his spine. The cold suddenly felt sharper, the night darker.
"Malfoy." His voice was quiet, but urgent.
Malfoy didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. He simply reached into his robes, pulled out the familiar glass vial, and pressed it into Harry’s palm. And that should have been unsettling—because Malfoy never gave it up so easily. He always made Harry wait, always told him to fight it, to hold on for just a little longer.
Not tonight.
Harry didn’t question it. He couldn’t. His hands were already moving, tipping the drops onto his tongue. The warmth spread instantly, washing over him, smoothing out the jagged edges of whatever had been clawing its way in.
Without a word, Malfoy took his own.
And just like that, everything was fine again.
Harry grinned, shaking off the unease, and Malfoy smirked back, lifting the camera once more.
"Alright, Potter," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Smile."
And Harry smiled.
—
The holiday passed in a strange, quiet sort of peace. Sometimes, Harry missed his friends. He thought about the Burrow, about Ron’s terrible Christmas jumpers and Hermione’s exasperated sighs when the twins set off enchanted snowballs indoors. Guilt would creep in then, cold and unwelcome, but he’d shake it off before it could settle. The potion helped. The potion made sure he never lingered on it for too long.
But there were other times—most times—when Harry simply enjoyed himself. He enjoyed the stillness of the empty castle, the rare solitude that came with it. He enjoyed the late nights at the Astronomy Tower, the quiet companionship, the strange, fragile rhythm he and Malfoy had found. And though Harry knew it was the effects of the potion that had brought them here, that had stripped away their usual conflict, he couldn’t deny the way it felt—undisturbed, unforced, something almost like peace.
He sent his gifts to the Weasleys and received theirs in return—a knitted jumper from Mrs. Weasley, a box of sweets from Ron, an Enchanted Cloak Pin from Hermione. Malfoy received a package from his mother, wrapped in elegant silver paper. Inside was a camera—sleek, polished, expensive. Nothing like the tiny, ridiculous yellow one they’d found in Zonko’s.
For reasons he couldn’t quite place, Harry felt uneasy as Malfoy turned it over in his hands, inspecting it with quiet curiosity. But then, Malfoy reached for the yellow one again, slinging its strap over his shoulder like it was second nature.
Harry relaxed.
The holidays ended, and life resumed its usual pace. Classes, homework, about N.E.W.T. preparations—things Harry had once found mundane now felt oddly foreign. But the biggest change was the absence of those nightly meetings.
After dinner, Harry didn’t go to the Astronomy Tower anymore. Instead, he returned to the common room, where Ron and Hermione welcomed him back like nothing had changed. He laughed with them, played chess with Ron, listened as Hermione ranted about N.E.W.T. preparations. It was normal. It was easy.
But it wasn’t quite the same.
He and Malfoy still met at the Astronomy Tower, but not like before. Not every night. Not with the same ease.
Now, their meetings were brief, stripped of the quiet moments and lingering conversations. They no longer sat together, no longer read in silence or took ridiculous pictures of the sky. Instead, Harry would arrive, sometimes finding Malfoy already there, sometimes the other way around. A silent exchange—Malfoy handing over the vial, taking his own dose without a word. A few minutes, no more. Then, they’d leave.
It wasn’t the same. The unspoken rule that had drawn them here night after night had frayed at the edges, unravelled into something else. Something colder. Something that made Harry hesitate at the bottom of the tower steps, some nights, before turning away.
But the potion did its job. Because Harry didn't want to feel this way. So it dulled the ache, made sure Harry didn’t dwell on the loss of something he hadn’t even realised he’d grown to like.