yway. And he is embarrassed, but also, he’s just very, very grateful.

Draco epts the chocolate frogs every time, and even tries some of Ginny’s Beans. He looks at Hermione’s task list, and never fails to make totally unnecessaryments. “You haven’t done your Potions essay yet? Potter, I’ve finished that days ago.”

The late night snacking works. Draco doesn’t look like an emaciated corpse now. Astoria tells him with a cheerful smile, when they pass each other by in the halls, that Draco has also been having a good appetite in the Great Hall lately. Personally, he thinks Draco’s starting to be too addicted to the frogs.

They talk about classes, their lessons, and the asional gossip.

(“What’s this I hear about you and Astoria getting it on in the boathouse?”

“Oh my god, Malfoy, I didn’t do anything!”

“That’s not what the Hufflepuffs said.”

“I…We…We just talked!”

“Relax. I was joking. If you really had done something to her, I would have hexed you. She’s like a little sister to me.”

Well, you’re not an older brother to her, Harry had wanted to say, but he had been happy, so shamelessly happy to hear it clearly said that Draco doesn’t like her that way.)

Sometimes, Harry talks about himself.

It was ufortable, at first. He isn’t used to talking about himself. But Draco’s a good listener, all eyes and ears, nodding at the right times, and asking questions, but never too much. He doesn’t pry, but Harry tells him anyway, because he likes the way Draco looks when he’s really curious and invested.

And sometimes, Draco talks about himself, and sometimes they’re nice stories about his childhood, his family, his friends, and sometimes they’re not so nice, and more than once, Draco had ended up disappearing on him for a few minutes.

But those are the moments that Harry looks forward to the most, humbled by the trust he’s being given.

Draco tells him about Goyle once.

Harry tells him a story about the Marauders.

(He cries during that one. He talks and talks and talks, until he realizes he’s crying and his voice isn’ting out anymore, and he doesn’t get to finish, but Draco already knows the ending anyway.)

On the night that November ends, Harry is lounging on his—it hasn’t been ‘Goyle’s’ for a while now—bed, staring at the green curtains falling from the bed’s canopy. The colour is starting to grow on him. He likes it best on pale skin.

“Something that Astoria said disturbs me. She said she thought I might not have wanted to talk to her, just because she’s a Slytherin,” he starts, re-imagining that particular memory.

Draco looks up from his textbook, and tilts his head at the sudden topic. He is lying down on his bed, his chest on the mattress, in only his regular uniform after having thrown his robes over the chair. His hair is tousled from rolling over on the bed so much, and Harry’s been trying not to look (or stare) at him.

“We’re not exactly well-liked, Potter. You know that best.”

Harry smiles wryly, recalling the utter dislike he used to have for anybody wearing green. Then, he recalls Draco in the Manor, Narcissa in the Forest, and Snape in the Shrieking Shack. “I also know best, now, that not everything is as simple as black and white.” He glances at Draco. “I’m still alive because of a lot of Slytherins, you know.”

One edge of Draco’s lips quirk up into a small smile, as if he’s still amused that Harry’s still glorifying them. “There needs to be a villain in a narrative. That’s what we’re here for,” he murmurs, eyes traveling to his clothed arm. “That’s how the balance works.”

Harry follows his eyes with his own and takes a deep breath. “The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin.”

Immediately, Draco’s head shoot up. He’s staring at Harry in disbelief. “What?”

Harry grins at him. “I told him I didn’t want to be put here.”

“You can choose?”

“Well, it is our choices that make us who we are.”

“Don’t pretend to be wise, Potter. It’s unbing.”

Harry bursts into laughter.

Draco shakes his head. “I can’t imagine you as a Slytherin.”

“Really? We would have been roommates.”

“Yeah. We would have.”

“We might not have made it through first year. You were an insufferable git back then.”

“I…” Draco starts, and then pauses. He huffs. “Am I not anymore?”

And Harry hears the hidden question and smiles at him. “Less.”

Draco’s cheeks are pink. He stands up, takes his robes from the back of his chair, and unfolds it. “Try on my clothes.”

It’s amand, not a request, and Harry stands up eagerly. If he’s being honest with himself, he just likes the thought of them trying on each other’s clothes. He shrugs off his own robes, and puts on the offered one slowly.

It smells like Draco. Like hand cream and peppermint.

He swallows thickly, and looks up toment that they’re a bit tight, but Draco is staring at him, stunned and speechless.

Harry feels his own face heating up.

“It looks…nice on you.”

“Be careful, Malfoy. I might just consider that apliment.”

He’s flirting, he knows, but Draco seems to realize what he had just said and his cheeks go red and Harry can’t resist.

He grabs his own robes from the bed, crosses the room, pulls at Draco’s shoulder to turn him around, and can’t help the big smile that slides its way to his lips when Draco simply lets him.

“Try mine.”

Draco makes a face. “I absolutely can’t imagine myself in Gryffindor,” he says, but he’s raising his arms, letting Harry slip the sleeves onto them.

“Me neither.”

“I can’t imagine you in Slytherin, either.”

“Really? I’m pretty cunning.” And he’s turning Draco around again,pletely aware that Draco can put the robes on his own, but he’s letting him, and so Harry takes what he’s being given.

“Cunning is the last word I’ll think to describe you with.”

Harry steps in close, as close as he dares, to clasp the robes together. He feels just a little bit guilty at his ulterior motives. “You have no idea, Malfoy.”

Finally, he steps back, peruses his handiwork, and chuckles. “Red doesn’t suit you at all.”

Draco gives him a distasteful look. “It’s a garish colour,” he says, walking towards his wardrobe mirror to look at himself. He scrunches his nose up, and then sighs. He glances back at Harry through the mirror, studies him again from head to toe, and murmurs thoughtfully. “Green suits you. It matches your eyes.”

Harry grins at him. “See? I would have been a great Slytherin.”

“You don’t belong here,” Draco replies, rolling his eyes. “You’re too nice. We have a reputation to uphold.”

“Hmm, that’s true. And Snape wouldn’t have known whether to dock House points from me or give me more.”

He watches Draco laugh, lets the warmth and happiness of the moment sink in, and lets that propel him into telling another story.

The story of Severus Snape.

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