Chapter 2
“Stars bloom in the warm summer night
They have a clear view
Without the bedroom light
They don't wanna name you
They don't want a name”
-dragon eyes
“Get me that bag, will you?” Malfoy asked as soon as Harry put him on his bed. Harry looked around, frantically looking for it, “The white one, there.” Malfoy pointed.
Harry reached for it and brought it back, giving it to the boy. Malfoy quickly rummaged through the bag, pulling out a small container. He took his robes off, then his shirt, and Harry almost gasped at the bruise on the boy’s stomach.
By the looks of it, they must have kicked him.
“Fuck them. I’m telling McGonagall right now.” Harry exclaimed, fuming.
Malfoy was rubbing the cream on the bruises, “You’ll do no such thing.” He snapped, “Stay out of it, Potter.”
“What?” He almost shouted, “You want me to sit and watch you get beaten up and not do anything about it?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. You understood it quite quickly, I must say.”
“You’re mad!”
“I’m realistic!”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means that I brought this on myself and I should deal with the fucking consequences!”
Silence.
A hair pin drop could be fucking heard.
“What, you’re collecting bruises like they’re proof you’re paying for your sins?”
Malfoy closed his eyes and sighed, putting his hand on his head and said, quietly, “Look, I know you must be shivering with the prospect of continuing with your Savior duties, but truly, there’s no need for your heroics. I’m handling it.”
“Oh, really?” Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes, “This is your way of handling it?”
“It’s worked so far.”
“Is this why you’re skipping meals? Because you’re too busy healing yourself?”
Malfoy laughed, and Harry could see he hadn’t meant to and had immediately regretted it, “I thought you had left your stalking dispositions in the past, Potter.”
Harry rolled his eyes again, “I wasn’t stalking you! You’re my roommate, Malfoy! It’s normal to know these kind of things about your fucking roommate!” Harry exclaimed, “And thank Merlin I cared enough to go and find you, otherwise I don’t even know what they’d have done to you!”
Malfoy got up from the bed and stomped his way to Harry, “I didn’t ask for your help! What else do you want from me? You want me to be in your fucking debt my whole life, is that it? Are you going to keep giving me more and more reasons to be beholden to you?” Malfoy wasn’t shouting, but he could tell the boy was restraining himself to not to.
“No!” Harry responded, lowering his voice, “That’s the last thing I want!”
“Then why do you keep doing this?”
“I don’t know!” Harry said, truthfully. “Maybe it’s like you said. Maybe it’s a thing I have. Always ending up playing the bloody hero.”
“Maybe it’s pathological.” Malfoy offered, almost smiling. Almost. Just a little turn on his lips.
Harry almost smiled too, “Yeah, maybe.”
“Like a Savior Complex. Or something.”
“Or something.” Harry said, “But you’re no better than me, that’s some fucked up shit you’re doing. Letting them do this to you.”
He rolled his eyes, “It’s not like I’m chasing after them.”
“Still.” Harry argued, “Sounds pretty pathological. Or something.”
“Or something.”
Malfoy’s eye wasn’t swollen anymore, he suddenly noticed. Whatever that cream was, it worked perfectly. Harry lowered his eyes, and looked at Malfoy’s stomach. The bruises were almost entirely gone, a faint red tint in its place. “How did—” He stopped at once, a cold shiver running through his body once he saw them. Scars. A lot of them.
Harry backed away, “Oh, Merlin.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes again, “Don’t start, Potter.”
“Is that—”
Deep white lines covered Malfoy’s chest, slashes and slashes of it, like he had been split open by a sword. And he had been. He fucking had been. He didn’t even think about the spell leaving scars. He thought that, once Snape healed him, it was like nothing had even happened. Seeing the scars was like a slap on the face, and someone was saying, a voice deep inside of him, See? This is what you’re capable of! Be ashamed!
“We’ve had enough for today, Potter.” Malfoy put his shirt back on, “I’m taking a shower, and when I come back, I don’t want to hear about it.”
Malfoy gathered his things and left, leaving Harry standing there, reeling.
They were back to being quiet again.
Harry was pretending to be asleep, counting his breaths as though counting sheep. He was facing the wall, but he could hear Malfoy turning the pages of his book, like he had been for the past twenty minutes.
Guilt was eating him away. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The whole thing. Not just the scars.
Everything.
It was all just so fucking unfair, and Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to pour the tsunami inside of him somewhere, or he felt like he could drown at any moment now. Maybe Hermione was right. He should be seeing a Mind Healer, or something.
He just felt so helpless, constantly. He felt he had no control whatsoever over anything about his life, like he was being guided everywhere. A walking stick made of people who know what’s best for him, that tells him what to do, where to go.
He’s sick of it.
“Potter, stop tossing and turning. It’s horribly distracting.”
He sat on his bed, facing Malfoy. The bruise on his face was completely gone, in a matter of hours. “What did you use on your bruises?”
Malfoy sighed, annoyed by the interruption of his reading, “A healing cream. A potion, of some sorts.”
The light from Malfoy’s lamp made him yellow, like a buttery sunrise, too bright for an orangey sunset. His hair had grown a bit since the trial, now bits of it falling in his eyes, but the back was still quite short. Harry noticed he didn’t use gel anymore, but a cream thing he didn’t know the name of — maybe Malfoy even made the cream thing, who knows anymore.
But, in short, his hair didn’t seem sticky like before. If Harry were to touch it, he thought for a second, he thinks it’d be quite smooth, like the feathers of a bird or the fur of a puppy. Not that it matters. It doesn’t. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking that, anyway.
“I’ve never seen it before. It works really well.” Harry replied, snapping out of his thoughts.
Malfoy smirked, “I’d hope so. I made it.”
Harry widened his eyes, “You made it?”
“What? Like it’s hard?”
Harry threw a pillow at him, “Shut it, Malfoy.”
He went back to his book, the little smirk still hiding in the corner of his mouth.
“Did you really?” Harry asked, squinting his eyes in suspicion.
“It’s fairly simple, honestly.” Malfoy shrugged his shoulders, “If you have the faintest knowledge of Potions and Healing, that is.” He glanced at Harry, “Which, of course, you wouldn’t know about.”
Harry smirked at him, “I’d have you know I was top of the class back in Sixth Year in Potions!”
Malfoy shut his book and tossed it aside, “Well, of course! You cheated your way to the top!”
Harry opened his mouth, gaping, “It wasn’t technically cheating!” He protested, “It was me following different instructions!”
“If you say so.” Malfoy scoffed, rolling his eyes.
Harry threw himself on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He heard Malfoy picking up his book and turning the pages, probably trying to find the one where he left off. After a few minutes of silence, Harry asked, “Why are we not talking properly, since we’ve been back?”
Malfoy didn’t answer at once. In fact, Harry thought the other boy hadn’t even heard him. But, then, after a few seconds that felt like minutes, Malfoy supplied, “When have we, ever?”
When you put it like that.
Harry continued to stare at the ceiling, “We could, you know. Talk.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Malfoy chuckled, “Many reasons.”
“Name them.”
Malfoy sighed, shut his book again, and Harry stole a glance at the boy. He was now looking at the ceiling, like him. “Well, for starters,” Malfoy began, “We hate each other.”
“I don’t hate you.” Harry protested, “Not anymore, at least.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“You were a right prick, and you know it.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
Silence again. Harry started counting his breaths again.
One...two…three…four…
“Well, do you hate me?” He blurted.
Silence.
Malfoy was scratching the cover of his book, ever so lightly. Harry held his breath.
One...two…three…
“Can’t say I do.” Malfoy admitted, “Not anymore, at least.” It was like Harry could hear Malfoy grinning, smugly.
There, in the almost completely dark room — apart from Malfoy’s little lamp — Harry could hear the other boy’s expressions. He could picture his face, saying those words. One side of his mouth lifting upwards, attempting to be turned into a full on smile, but being shunned out by the owner of the lips, and how, because of that, the tone of his voice would change.
“We don’t hate each other, then. That’s settled.”
“Is it that simple?”
“If we want it to be, yes.”
Malfoy paused, “Alright, then. We don’t hate each other.”
“So can we talk like real people now?”
“Why are you so adamant about it?” He groaned, “Did you think that, maybe, I’m just empty of words after speaking incessantly my whole life?”
Harry scoffed, “Are you?”
“Well, no.” He replied, grinning again. Harry could tell. “But I could be.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. You already said you aren’t.”
“Maybe I’m saving them.”
“What for?”
“Something.”
“…Something.”
“Yes. Something.”
“Like what?”
“Like when it’s worth saying them.”
Silence again.
One…two…three…
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Malfoy supplied.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s not worth talking to you.”
“Oh.”
“I meant it as —”
“I know.” Harry interrupted, carefully turning to face Malfoy. He had turned his lamp off at some point and Harry hadn’t realized. Now, there was no yellow light making Malfoy’s skin and hair look like butter.
The only light now was the moon, and it cast its silver light on the boy making his hair even whiter, if that was even possible.
He looked one color, all of him. His skin, his hair, his eyes. And, right there, in the middle of darkness, it seemed like he was shining. Floating. His body was absorbing the moon’s light, and taking it and taking it and taking it, until they were one.
“It’s just —” Malfoy continued, quietly, “For a while now, I’ve been thinking that if nobody speaks to me, I’ll never speak again.”
“That’s rather depressing.”
“I’m a rather depressing person these days.” Malfoy said, his tone way less heavy, almost as if he was joking entirely. Harry knew he wasn’t.
“I want to hear them. Your words.” Harry said, “I think they’re worth saying. And hearing.”
“Do you, now?” Malfoy shot a quick glance at Harry, sounding unconvinced, “Why?”
“Because it’s different now. We’re different.”
“Are we?”
“I’d hope so.” Harry started, chuckling quietly, “We’re not those kids anymore, right?”
“Thank Salazar for that.” Malfoy murmured.
Harry sat on his bed and extended his hand to Malfoy. The boy sat up too, looking at his hand like it was something foreign. “What is this?”
“Let’s do it again.”
“What?”
“The whole friendship thing.” Harry explained, “We started on the wrong foot. Let’s redo it.”
Malfoy looked unconvinced, squinting at Harry like he’d start laughing and saying it was a joke all along, “Why?” He asked, crossing his arms.
“Why do you keep asking why all the time?” Harry said, amused, “Maybe there’s no obscure reason, maybe I just genuinely want to be your friend!”
“Are you hearing yourself?”
Harry rolled his eyes, smirking, “You’re infuriating! Has anyone ever said that to you?”
“Countless times, yes.”
Harry extended his hand again, “So? Friends?”
Now Malfoy was the one to roll his eyes and smirk, “Honestly, Potter,” He started, finally taking his hand, “Didn’t know you were so desperate for friendship. Aren’t Granger and the Weasel good enough for you?”
“They’re plenty enough, thank you very much. But there’s always space for more.”
They shook it.
“Friends.” Harry said, smiling.
“Friends.” Malfoy said, pretending not to smile, but failing miserably at it.
“Are you going to the library today?” Harry asked the next morning. It was Saturday, which meant Malfoy was either going to spend it doing his homework or hanging out with his friends.
Malfoy was tidying up his bed, as meticulously as always. At first, Harry had found it weird — the fact that Malfoy was the one to make his own bed — since the boy was probably raised being served and cared for by countless house elves, as Harry would imagine.
But, as time passed, it made more sense. Harry had soon realized that Malfoy needed some control over himself, just like Harry did. Malfoy, too, seeked independence — even with such small feats, like simply making his own bed in the morning.
“I don’t need a bodyguard.” He answered, folding his blanket perfectly.
“Didn’t say you did.” Harry started, “I’m just late on some assignments. Wanted to catch up on them.”
Okay, yes. He wanted to go with Malfoy to look out for him, but what’s wrong with that? Actually, Harry thinks it’s a perfectly normal thing to do for someone who’s been receiving threats and getting hexed and beaten on practically a daily basis. What would Malfoy expect him to do other than try to help him?
It’s reasonable. Understandable. Even Hermione would agree with him. Probably. Ron would say he’s being obsessive again. Certainly.
Malfoy looked at him suspiciously, “When have you ever been to the library to do your homework?”
“Plenty of times!” He exclaimed.
“And by your own free will, not because Granger told you to?” Malfoy asked smugly.
Harry rolled his eyes, defeated, “Okay, I get it. It’s not really my…scene.”
“Definitely not.” Malfoy scoffed, still smiling smugly.
“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be!“ He tried to reason. “I really do need to start on that Potions thing.”
Malfoy quickly turned to him, “Start?” He asked, shocked, “It’s for Tuesday!”
Harry shrugged his shoulders, “That’s three whole days.”
Malfoy looked dumbfounded, “Potter, that’s —”, He put his fingers on his temple, “It's rather extensive research, what did you think—”, He shook his head, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re coming with me.”
Harry smiled, “Yeah, thanks.” He tried to pass for nonchalant, but Malfoy’s smarter than that.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.” The boy informed, “I still don’t need a bodyguard.”
It’s been almost two hours and Harry couldn’t take it anymore.
Malfoy’s been helping him with his Potions assignment, which had been very helpful, surprisingly. “I won’t do anything for you,” The boy had said, “I’ll guide you to the right direction, but that’s it.”
And Harry tried, he did. But he just really hated Potions. “No, that's not it.” Malfoy would say about something he had written, “Give it here, I’ll rewrite it.”
Malfoy would help Harry for a few minutes and then focus on his own assignments for a few other minutes, and in the moments his focus wasn’t on Harry, he would catch himself studying the other boy. He couldn’t help it, really.
Harry was aware of the fact that he had watched the boy before, especially during Sixth Year — yes, he can admit that, even if Ron says otherwise — but he realized he had watched him to find specific things. He had always been looking for something, during that time.
What? He didn't know, exactly. Prove, maybe, that the boy had been a Death Eater. Signs, clues, something, anything.
He had been looking for signs of distress, for a slip of expression, slip of action. He had been looking for dark circles under the boy’s eyes, dark marks under his robes. He had been tracing Malfoy’s steps in order to finally find the thing that would incriminate him, that would give Harry reason, give Harry the satisfaction of being right.
See, Hermione? He is a Death Eater! Like I said! See, Ron? I didn’t miss quidditch for nothing!
He had never looked at Malfoy just for the sake of it. Just because he wanted to.
But, now, here in the library, sitting at this table, after everything that had happened, it was different.
Malfoy was still the same person, technically. Just like Harry was. They hadn’t changed bodies or lives. They still lived in the same world they have always lived in, the roof over their heads was still the same as it always had been, the light pouring over them was coming from the same Sun and the books they were reading had been here for longer than Harry had been alive. Technically, it was all the same.
But it wasn’t.
They weren’t.
Just like he had said to Malfoy the other night. They changed. A war happened. People died. How could this library still be considered the same, after everything? How could the books? The Sun? This damn table?
How could anything?
Not after everything.
They grew up. They did. He’s seen it. Hermione was different, Ron was different. He was. And Malfoy was. They are adults now, they are supposed to live their own lives, make up their own rules. Choose their own paths.
Now, after everything, how could Harry still watch Malfoy like he had before? Watch him to look for something bad? Look for faults and defects? He wasn’t able to, not anymore.
Now, after everything, Harry realized things he hadn’t before. Little things, really. Like the little freckle under Malfoy’s lower lip. And the little white scar right next to his eyebrows. Harry noticed the thing he did with his nose — when he was really concentrated, he’d wiggle it slightly, the faintest thing, really — he noticed the hands on his temples when he was confused, the scratch of the neck when he was frustrated.
His eyes. They weren’t blue. Not really. You’d think so, if you were to look at them quickly, without any mind. But, upon further inspection, you would realize they were grey. Harry thought it had been the moon’s fault, yesterday, a trick of its silver light, but no. They really were grey.
It was like magic, Harry thought, like a Fairy’s eyes. He almost shrugged the thought away, appointing it as a crazy one, but he quickly remembered that magic did exist and he had forgotten, somehow.
For a moment, fairies and magic had become as monumental as Malfoy’s grey eyes. And it was like both those things couldn’t exist at the same time, or that maybe his eyes could only exist because magic and fairies existed.
Also, his hands. They were slender, like the rest of him. Elegant, if hands could be called that. Harry tried to think of another person who had hands like that, the closest he could think of was Cedric, but the boy’s hands hadn’t been as elegant as Malfoy’s.
Harry thought that a girl would find Malfoy’s hands very beautiful. She’d want to hold them, maybe admire them while holding it.
“What are you smiling about?” Malfoy asked, making Harry jump slightly.
“I’m not smiling.” Harry replied, going back to his assignment and pretending to write.
Malfoy took his parchment, “Let me see how you’re doing.” He quickly skimmed it, “Potter, you’ve written nothing since I last helped you, ten minutes ago.”
Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands, “I hate Potions!”
“Well, you need it to become an Auror.”
He looked at Malfoy, “I don’t even know if I want that.”
The boy looked confused, “I thought you—” he stopped himself.
“What?”
Malfoy shook his head, “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
Malfoy set his eyes on him, “I thought you had it all figured out.”
Harry scoffed, “I don’t.”
The other boy lowered his eyes, smiling softly, “People are expecting you to continue with your heroic antics, I’m sure. Doesn’t that make things easier?”
Harry could tell the boy was being sarcastic, “The opposite, really.”
“For what it’s worth,” Malfoy continued, serious now, “I think you’ve done enough for them.”
He considered the boy for a second, watching him slowly go a bit red on the face, the faintest thing. The boy looked down, embarrassed. “Do you, now?”
After a few seconds, Malfoy looked out the window, “Yes, I do.” He started, his eyes alternating between Harry and the view of the courtyard outside, “I think you’ve done more than anyone would’ve been able to, given the circumstances, and you always gave far more than what had been asked.” His eyes settled on Harry, “Now, I think they should let you live the rest of your life in peace, without taking more of what was never theirs to take in the first place.”
Harry’s eyes were fixed on Malfoy’s, his eyebrows furrowed in stagger. He didn’t know what to say, not really. He just kept looking at him until Malfoy looked down, and started writing again.
Because, yes, when he put it like that. Malfoy was right. Why should Harry dedicate the rest of his life to doing exactly what he had been doing for the first eighteen years of it?
“What do you want to do?” Harry asked, eager to get the focus off of him.
Malfoy didn’t look up. “That doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” He looked at Harry, “Who would want to hire a Death Eater?”
“You’ve been pardoned.” Harry tried to reason, “And you’re not a Death Eater. Not anymore.”
“Not everyone thinks like you.”
There were things that words couldn’t measure up to reason. Far too big things. Far too big feelings. What could he say to Malfoy that would make him understand that, for whatever reason, Harry was selfishly thinking that his opinion on the boy was the only one that really mattered, because he was the one who really knew him?
Even thinking about it, it sounded unhinged.
He wanted to tell Malfoy that he thinks he’s smart and quite brilliant. That, even back then, when he had hated him, Harry had envied him the same amount. He wanted Malfoy to know that he thinks he’s capable of great things, and that his opinion should be enough to convince Malfoy of it.
“But tell me, anyway.” He settled for.
Malfoy was the one considering him now, maybe thinking if he really wanted to share that information with Harry. After a few seconds, he said, “A Healer.”
This would’ve been surprising a few years before, but not now. Now, Harry could see how this could work for Malfoy, how it suited him. “That’s brilliant.” He said, smiling.
Malfoy pretended he didn’t say anything, “I can’t picture you as an Auror, come to think of it.”
“Me neither, though it pains Ron to hear me say.”
“The uniform is quite fit, though.”
Harry raised his eyebrows, “Is it?”
Malfoy just laughed, amused, “Never noticed?”
Harry shook his head. Well, not intentionally, he hadn’t.
The boy continued, “I mean, they could wear larger trousers. I’m sure they’re purposely wearing it tight to distract us from the corruption and abuse of power.”
He doesn’t even know where to start unpacking. Firstly, was Malfoy talking about the women or the men? He wouldn’t know, not really. One of the many consequences of spending his entire adolescence trying to not get killed is that he didn’t really know a lot about the dating scene at Hogwarts — that is, who liked who, who dated who, and so on.
He knew the basics, sure. But only about the people from his inner circle, or the Gryffindors in general. He didn’t have a clue about the dating life of the Ravenclaws, for example, since he only knew Luna, really, and they never talked about that before. Same thing goes for the Hufflepuffs, and specially the Slytherins.
The only evidence coming to Harry’s mind was the image of Malfoy with his head on Pansy’s lap, her hands stroking his hair, back in Sixth Year. Was that enough to believe Malfoy was talking about female aurors?
They also went together to the Yule Ball, Harry’s fairly certain.
Secondly, the corruption, was it from the loser or the winning side?
Either way, Harry agreed with him. The Ministry was extremely corrupt and unjust, as Hermione would often say. The war ended, Voldemort was dead, but what changed structurally, really?
“Um—” Harry stuttered, “Well, um—”
Malfoy just kept looking at him, amused, “What?”
“I just— never really noticed, that’s all.” Harry was able to say, at last.
“Really?”
“Women don’t really like when you stare at them like that.” Harry tried, fishing for clarification.
Malfoy chuckled, “Oh, I’m not talking about the women.” He replied in the most casual tone Harry’s ever heard coming from the boy.
“Oh,” Harry tried not to sound surprised, only to realize he wasn’t. Not really. He wasn’t surprised and he didn’t even know why. Did he know, subconsciously, somehow, that Malfoy liked boys? “Oh.”
Why did it make so much sense? Why did it feel like another piece fitting perfectly on the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy?
“Are you saying, then,” Harry smiled, joking, “that you can’t imagine me wearing the Auror’s fit uniform?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, smirking, “I wasn’t talking about the uniform when I said that.”
“Harry!” A book slammed on the table, making Harry jump back. He didn’t even realize how close he had been to the other boy, now with the sudden distance between them.
They both turned to look at Hermione, “I was looking everywhere for you!”
“Sorry, forgot to let you know I’d be in the library.” He said, apologetically.
She smiled at him, “It’s okay.” Then her eyes settled on his roommate, “Malfoy.”
Malfoy nodded, greeting, “Granger.”
Silence, then.
It had been far from ideal, but things were much better than they were before. And that’s something, at least. Hermione said Malfoy had sent her a letter over the summer, though she didn’t let him read it. But, from what he knew of it, it had been quite extensive, and had made Hermione declare to Harry and Ron that things would be different from then on regarding Draco Malfoy, whether they liked it or not.
He suspected Ron had also received one, but if he did, he hadn’t said anything about it. But Harry remembers one sunny day at the Burrow, a fancy looking owl tapping on the window, and Ron opening it. He remembers the look on his friend’s face, his eyes widening and his eyebrows raising, “I’ll be right back.” He had said.
He didn’t know if other people had also received a letter from Malfoy, and when he thought of it, he felt a bit left out. Why didn’t Malfoy send him one? Didn’t he have anything to say to Harry? Was Harry not worth his time to sit down and write an extensive apology for all the years of bullying and being an annoying git?
“Where’s Ron?” He asked Hermione, breaking the silence.
“Common room.” She replied, sitting down next to him, “Playing chess with Dean.”
“Wouldn’t want to interrupt that.” Harry joked.
“What are you boys doing?”
“Malfoy’s helping me with the Potions’ assignment.”
“You’re not done with it already?” She exclaimed, “It’s for Tuesday!”
“That’s what I said.” Malfoy supplied, smirking.
Harry just rolled his eyes, “That’s three whole days. You’re both too dramatic.”
Hermione shrugged her shoulders, “You have it your way. This year, I’m not interfering in your studies.”
Harry and Malfoy exchanged quick glances at that, “Really?” He asked, not believing it for a second.
“Yes, really.” She replied, decidedly. “You’re old enough to be responsible, aren’t you?”
Malfoy scoffed and Harry sent him a dirty look, “Yes, I am.”
“Good, then.” Hermione turned to Malfoy, “So, have you done the research for Herbology?”
Malfoy looked taken aback, for a second. Like he was still computing that the question was for him, “I have, yes.” He rummaged through some papers and picked a few of them, extending it to Hermione, “Here.”
“Oh, thanks, can I have a look, then?” She asked, already taking a look at it, “It’s been impossible to find A Horticultural History of the Blackwood Maze. Madam Pince said it’s been checked for two weeks now, and it was the only copy.” She sighed, “How do they expect me to do the assignment without that book?”
Malfoy reached for his bag, took a book out of it, and gave it to Hermione, an apologetic look on his face.
“You have it!”
“Sorry. Didn't mean to monopolize it.”
“No, it’s okay.” She was smiling while turning the pages of the book, like it was a cave full of gold.
“Have it, please.”
She looked at him, “Thanks, Malfoy.”
The other boy only nodded, his face slightly red.
“Well,” Harry got up from his seat, “This,” he said, pointing at both of them, “has been fun. I’ll go bother Ron with his chess and leave you guys to your nerdy activities.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, “You don’t have to, Harry.”
“I’m tired of studying, really. Malfoy’s making me do it for two hours already.”
“You wanted to come!” Malfoy stated, almost offended.
“There’s only so much studying I can do in a day, Malfoy.” He replied, “Bye now, you both.”
“See you later!” Hermione said, and as Harry was leaving she continued, to Malfoy, “So, what are your thoughts on Blackwood’s Mazes?”
“Well, he was married to a Black, you see, so I think— ” He heard Malfoy begin to answer, faintly.
Harry left the library with a smile on his face.