Some Perfect World

Prologue: Metamorphosis

It started the Monday morning after the Slytherin-Griffindor Quidditch match, just after breakfast.

It started in the dungeons, outside the Potions classroom, when Ron and Hermione passed through the doorway a few steps ahead of Harry.

It started with a voice from the shadows, appearing suddenly in his ear: "This isn't over, Potter. I want a rematch, just you and me."

Harry didn't need to turn and look in order to identify the speaker, but he did. Even in the shadows of the torch-lit hallways, the white-blond hair glowed as if lit from within.

"What's the point, Malfoy? We won. I'll just win again."

"Your side beat my side, Potter. I'm talking about pure Seeker skill. Just you, me, and the Snitch. Who can spot it, and who can get there first." Despite his disadvantage in height, Draco Malfoy stepped closer to increase the pressure on his adversary.

"You're mad. I've beaten you in every match since Second Year -"

"- Except Fourth Year," interrupted the Slytherin, "when there was no Quidditch -"

Harry gave the other boy an exasperated look. "Well, it's Seventh Year now, and I've beaten you again. You can’t change the name on the Quidditch Cup. Leave it." Harry turned to enter the classroom, but Malfoy's hand on his shoulder brought him back.

The Slytherin narrowed his eyes. His lips curled into the signature smirk that always tempted Harry to sacrifice a large number of House points. A perfectly nasty hex had come to mind just now...

"Scared, Potter?" sneered the World's Biggest Prat.

It was Harry's turn to try on the smirk: "You wish."

***

"We'll need a referee, of course."

Malfoy turned away from some story Goyle was telling - sounded like something about a Surveillance Charm and a mirror in the sixth-year Hufflepuff girls' dormitory. Harry was met by a double wall of glares from the entire Slytherin table.

A faintly amused regard contrasted with the spiteful expressions that surrounded it. "Why Potter, I'm wounded," drawled the prefect extravagantly. "Are you saying you don't trust me to play fair?"

Malfoy slapped away Crabbe's hand, which had been trying to nick one of the sausages on his plate. Harry noticed that the two ogre-like bodyguards had learned something about stealth, and their very continued presence after O.W.L.s was a testament to brains that belied their brutish looks. Clearly, though, the minions were still no match for their master.

Harry let a sparkle of amusement touch his eyes. Coming from Malfoy, that response had almost been friendly. "We need a referee, Malfoy. Obviously, it can't be a Gryffindor or a Slytherin. And let's stick to students only. Come up with three names, and so will I, and we'll meet after lunch to see whether we can agree."

Pewter eyes examined Harry for a moment, considering the proposal. The blond head tilted lightly to one side, then moved fractionally, just once left and once right. Malfoy's economy of motion gave the impression that his opponent didn't merit any greater exertion.

"No, I don't think I'll jump to your command, little leader o'Gryffindor," teased the hated drawl. "We have a perfectly worthy Quidditch expert on staff, why not ask Madam Hooch?"

Harry sighed wearily. "Why should we bother Madam Hooch with your little challenge, Malfoy?" As much as he was trying not to let the other boy get to him, the 'little leader' comment rankled a bit.

Malfoy shrugged in mock-indifference. "You were the one who wanted a referee, Potter. I am merely the one who knows, all too well, whom the other two Houses support when the Lion meets the Snake." For effect, he drew out the sibilant consonant in the last word.

"And you," reminded Harry, "were the one who wanted this contest at all." He crossed his arms defiantly. "Make your list. No referee, no rematch." He turned to walk away.

As always, the drawl dragged him back. "Ah. So it is that you're scared." Malfoy's entire demeanor suggested a reclining Roman lord; the silver eyes, however, betrayed a hint of panic.

Harry huffed loudly. "I'm not scared, Malfoy. I simply already have my name on the Cup. I don't need to prove anything."

"Have it your way," said the Slytherin, in dismissive tones that fooled no one at the table. And for no reason at all, Harry found his heart contradicting his words: he did wish to prove himself against this spoiled brat, once and for all.

"Just make the list, Malfoy, okay?" Harry glared poison daggers at Malfoy. "Write your three names, and meet me after lunch."

"As I said, Potter," floated the obnoxiously unperturbed words, "have it your way. By which I meant -" He paused for effect. "I meant that I would make your silly list." He then turned back to Goyle without any further acknowledgment, leaving Harry with nothing to do but to return to his own table.

"How did it go?" inquired Hermione immediately upon Harry's return to the Gryffindor side of the Hall. Ron continued the silent scowl he had held since Harry had risen to go speak with his rival.

How indeed? Lacking the words to describe the wriggly feeling he always got around the junior Malfoy, Harry simply reported the final result of the conversation. "He's agreed." Looking between his two best friends, he continued, "Now who's a Ravenclaw or a Hufflepuff that we'd trust as a referee?"

As his friends' heads bent closer to his, Harry thought how grateful he was to have such strong allies. He was convinced there must be some hidden agenda in Malfoy's challenge, but with Hermione and Ron on his side, they would be sure to catch it in time.

***

"Is this a joke, Malfoy?"

"Not at all, Potter. You said three names, I gave you three names."

Harry rounded on Malfoy, staring at him incredulously. "Zacharias Smith."

Malfoy sniffed imperiously. "Smith is an excellent judge of character."

"Smith hates me," Harry muttered miserably.

"As I said. Excellent judge. I suppose you'd prefer -" Malfoy consulted Harry's list. "Padma Patil? Really," he snorted aristocratically. "Twin sister in Gryffindor. How do I know you wouldn't just switch them?"

Harry stopped short. He hadn't even thought of doing that. Good idea, though. Leave it to Malfoy to think up something so completely, brilliantly underhanded. Harry had no love for his adversary, but he had to admit that the Slytherin was unequaled in the fine art of cheating.

The Gryffindor stifled his grin of appreciation, and read the next name on his opponent's list. "Michael Corner? Now, really. He's been rather evil toward Gryffindor ever since the end of Fifth Year." Harry grit his teeth, determined to maintain the civil tone of the conversation. If Malfoy could pretend to be somewhat less of a prat than usual, Harry wasn't going to be the one to start a fight.

"Yes, he has," replied Malfoy with a content smirk. "Delightful chap."

"And I suppose it doesn't besmirch his character that he was dumped by Ginny," Harry commented in a manner that he hoped was airy.

Silver eyes snapped up to their malachite counterparts. "The Weasley dumped him? I always assumed your little failed conquest - what's-her-name, the Seeker - snatched him out of Little Weasel's paws."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Malfoy's comment on his pitiful romantic life, but shook his head.

Malfoy whipped a quill out of his schoolbag, grabbing his list back with the other hand. "In that case," he said, crossing out the name with an obvious flourish, "forget him." Malfoy grimaced, muttering under his breath, "Dumped by a Weasley. Really, it's beneath contempt."

He returned his list to Harry, who scowled at the commentary on his adopted family, but held his tongue. Malfoy looked again at the parchment he'd been examining. "And Justin Finch-Fletchley? You must be joking. Really, Potter, a Mu-"

"Don't say it, Malfoy!" snapped Harry.

"-ggle-born?" finished the blond boy obligingly, rolling his eyes. "Not if my very life depended on it!"

Ah, yes. Somewhat less of a prat than usual, but still sticking to his Pure-Blood Supremacist upbringing. Harry supposed he shouldn't have expected any better.

"Well, you chose Smith, and he's Muggle-born, too," retorted the Gryffindor defiantly.

"He's never!" burst the Slytherin. A beat passed while Malfoy stared searchingly at his adversary. "Ugh! Give me that list back!" Malfoy reclaimed his parchment for more flamboyant scratching-out.

Harry was definitely not even a teensy-weensy bit amused. Malfoy's racism was no laughing matter. It was disappointing, in fact: The Slytherin had been so civil, for Malfoy, ever since making the challenge, that Harry had hoped Malfoy's character might have improved. If Malfoy started acting decently, wasn't that like admitting that Harry's set of values had been the right one all along? Perhaps not, but Harry never passed up an opportunity to feel as though he'd bested the other boy in some way.

Harry almost had to laugh at himself, though: a little bit of dramatic flair, and suddenly he was enjoying this meeting?

He shook his head slightly, attempting to clear it. He and Malfoy were enemies. They hated each other. No matter how familiar each other's ploys may have become, they still only felt disdain and anger toward each other. Harry gave himself another brief shake, and returned to reading the list in his hand.

"Hmm, Malfoy, dare I even ask what made you include Terry Boot?" He cocked a sardonic eyebrow at the other boy.

Malfoy's polished veneer showed its first crack. "Now, hold on. I know for a fact that Boot is a Pure-Blood, and he has never so much as touched a Weasley -"

His indignation swelled comically, and it was right about then that Harry caught himself feeling vaguely affectionate toward the insufferable Slytherin. No, no! Hatred! Anger! Scorn! This whole joviality thing was just not on. Only, Harry knew Malfoy well enough by now to know how he would react to almost any stimulus, which made it sort of fun to goad him this way.

"Hmm..." Harry drew out the suspense for a moment, watching the other boy look fit to burst, and then took pity. "No, I suppose not," he remarked, as though commenting on the weather. "It's just that he's such an insufferable bore. Right up your alley, I see."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Well, I'm sure as hell not agreeing to Loony Lovegood! Barking mad, that's right up your alley, isn't it?" Really. Resorting to parroting Harry's jibes back at him. Harry had thought Malfoy had better material than that. "And anyway, she wore that big lion's head for our match in Fifth Year."

"Oh, she'd be completely nonpartisan," offered Harry with a smirk. "Absolutely, positively, objective in every way."

"I don't think," growled Malfoy.

The Slytherin eyed Harry for a moment longer, before he crumpled his parchment angrily into a ball, and turned to storm off toward the main doors.

"What -" stuttered Harry after him, too much in shock to keep from speaking. "Where are you going?"

"To see Hooch," replied Malfoy flatly over his shoulder. "We tried your way." His tone gave all the explanation necessary as to his opinion of Harry's plan. "Now we're doing mine."

Harry knew he was perfectly within his rights to stand still, to refuse to follow Malfoy or to bow to his wishes. But he was just so morbidly curious.

***

Harry stormed after Malfoy as they left Madam Hooch's office. "Nicely done, I don't think!" he railed. "Now what are we going to do for a referee?"

Malfoy marched briskly back toward the castle, apparently trying to pretend that he didn't hear the appalled Gryffindor. Harry was having none of it, however. This rematch wasn't even his idea, and it had eaten up half his day already, and now Malfoy had all but ensured that it wouldn't take place. A few jogged paces allowed him to catch the elbow of the other boy, who whirled to meet him. Two spots of high color on the Slytherin's pale cheekbones warned of his wrath, but Harry pushed on.

"You wanted this rematch, Malfoy!" barked Harry. "Why did you have to go and do that?"

"Do what, exactly, Potter?" hissed the Slytherin. Silver fire danced dangerously in his eyes.

Harry gave an exasperated sigh. "You can't treat people like that! Especially staff! It's no wonder Hooch refused to referee -"

"Oh, yes, it's always the Slytherin's fault, isn't it?" sneered Malfoy, with a wounded air that seemed surprisingly genuine.

Harry had reached the end of his patience. "No, you're right!" he spluttered in the other boy's face. "Madam Hooch seemed delighted to have you call her a 'cretin'! And she was positively blissful that you wanted her to referee for a rematch without actually adhering to any of the rules of standard Quidditch! Clearly, she was just being prejudiced against your poor, persecuted House!!"

"Oh, that isn't even what I meant! She just assumed that I didn't want to follow the rules, just like she always assumes that Slytherin is going to cheat in the matches -"

"You do always cheat!"

Malfoy reined in his temper, with some visible difficulty. He gave Harry a superior look, sort of the way a cat might regard an annoyingly rambunctious puppy. "I told you, Potter. I want a match of pure Seeker skill." He spoke slowly, as though addressing a small child. "I'm not looking to knock you off your broom ... unless, of course, you're between me and the Snitch."

By the end of this speech, Malfoy's voice had become quiet and resigned. Harry watched him for a moment, curious about the slow change in character he had witnessed over the past two years since Lucius Malfoy's arrest.

The senior Malfoy and his fellow Death Eaters had escaped Azkaban nearly as quickly as they had been sentenced, despite the vigilance of the Aurors who had taken over watching the prison after the Dementors had defected. There had been a noticeable change in the criminal's son, though, when he had returned for their Sixth Year. His air of entitlement had dimmed slightly, and a hint of quiet introspection tinged even the most obnoxious of his actions. Harry had to admit that he'd been curious about the changes.

And then... Last summer, the moment had come. The destiny of which Harry had learned only one year previously had been fulfilled. The Dark Lord was dead. The wizarding world was a better place. It still had its dark places, and there were deaths to mourn, but it was better.

Only, the improvement wasn't felt by many members of Slytherin House. A little-known effect of the Dark Mark had bound the souls of those who wore it to He who had made it; when Voldemort died, every last Death Eater was left as an empty shell, just as surely as if they had been Kissed by Dementors. Lucius and Narcissa were worse than dead.

Draco Malfoy was now, like Harry, an orphan of the War.

Harry hadn't really thought about it this way before this moment, but it was only fair. Neither of them had chosen his parents, and neither had chosen his parents' demise. Malfoy hadn't asked to be born to Death Eaters. He had seemed proud of it, true, but then again, he was what he’d been made to be: a rich brat who liked to lord his advantages over others. Lucius’s ties to Voldemort had given power to both the father and the son.

Since that power had been taken away, Malfoy had become much more tolerable. He hadn't lashed out, the way he had started to do at the end of Fifth Year. He hadn't acted vitriolic or vindictive. Mostly, except on days like today, he had started to fade away.

Harry had to recognize the possibility that he almost missed the prat. Maybe that was why he was expending so much energy on this whole rematch bollocks.

"Why do you want this rematch so badly, Malfoy?" asked Harry quietly.

Malfoy's unusual eyes darted toward Harry's, then away at the Lake. "I told you. I want to prove that I'm the better Seeker, when we eliminate the other players on each side."

Harry regarded the other boy appraisingly, sure there was a deeper reason, but not sure he cared enough to dig it out of him. "Well, I don't know how you're going to get your chance, now that you've alienated the last possible referee."

Malfoy sighed and squared his shoulders. He looked at Harry more steadily now. "No, there's one more possibility. Probably the only person who will be absolutely fair, no matter what."

"Who, Malfoy?" asked Harry tiredly. "Who is there possibly at this school who could honestly be impartial in this match?"

"I didn't say 'impartial,'" corrected the Slytherin quietly. "But I know someone who is guaranteed to be fair."

***

Harry met his friends in the common room before afternoon classes. The first to arrive, he chose a favourite squooshy armchair near the fireplace, and spent a few peaceful moments gazing into the flames before he heard the portrait creak open.

"So, mate, who's the lucky referee?" Ron bounded over the back of the couch facing Harry's chair, and sprawled himself out luxuriously.

"It's not official yet." Harry played for time, hardly believing that Malfoy's suggestion of a referee was in good faith.

Could he really be serious? Was this part of some great plot, or did Harry have to reconsider his assumptions about his enemy? Were they even still enemies? Harry's head was starting to ache just from thinking about it.

"But whom did you choose?" Hermione tumbled over the back of the couch onto Ron, giggling slightly before righting herself into a more dignified pose next to him.

She wasn't fooling anyone. Harry knew Hermione was still giddy over their relationship, even after nearly eight months as a couple, and that Ron felt the same. He couldn't help grinning at their brief display of silliness.

Harry sighed. "Well, every name on Malfoy's list was right out. And he didn't like any of mine, either."

"I told you he wouldn't, didn't I?" Hermione grimaced slightly. "We should have chosen people who were more sympathetic to Slytherin.

Ron looked as though he'd just bitten into a lemon. "Sympathetic to Slytherin?! Who could possibly be sympathetic toward that snake-pit?"

"And anyway, Hermione," added Harry, ignoring his spluttering best mate, "anyone Malfoy would have wanted would have to be someone who's been openly hostile toward me." Harry rolled his eyes. "He chose Smith, Corner, and Boot."

"Uggh," Ron's face puckered, if possible, even further.

Hermione simply nodded sagely. "That does explain why you couldn't agree." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "So what did you do?"

Harry closed his eyes, letting his shoulders slump. "Only thing I could do, short of backing out. We went to Hooch."

"Well, that's alright, isn't it?" Ron brightened noticeably. "Hooch has always been fair."

"Fair, yes," conceded Harry. "But she didn't take well to Malfoy's verbal abuse."

"He didn't!" exclaimed Hermione, incensed. "What did he say?"

Harry waved his hand. "The usual type of thing. You can imagine. But she refused, naturally, after that."

Ron and Hermione exchanged confused glances. "Well, whom does that leave?" asked the redhead.

"Surprisingly enough, Malfoy had a pretty good idea," replied Harry, clearly capturing his friends' interest. They leaned forward as he continued, "He said there was only one person at this school he could imagine being truly fair - not impartial, no one is, but fair. And I had to agree, he was right."

Incredulous stares met this pronouncement, but Harry knew his friends' expressions were nothing to what they were about to be.

He leveled his gaze at the Head Girl. "So, Hermione, what do you say?"

***

The match was set for Wednesday evening, after dinner. By the end of afternoon classes, Harry's nerves felt like steel spikes standing out from his body in every direction. He avoided his friends, sure he would cut anyone who came too close.

He should have known by now, of course, that avoiding his friends was impossible.

Climbing to Gryffindor Tower to drop off his books before the meal, Harry was startled by a hearty thump on his right shoulder. "Ready to clobber Malfoy again, Harry?" Ron's grin would have been contagious if Harry hadn't felt quite so nauseous.

I have got to develop better reflexes if I'm going to make it as an Auror, Harry thought as he nearly jumped out of his skin, and get better at sensing a sneak attack. If Ron can catch me off-guard like that, I must really be off my game!

"Yeah," coughed Harry, in a none-too-convincing manner. "Clobber him."

"Harry Potter!" Hermione blind-sided him now from the left, coming around in front of her friend and poking a scolding finger at his chest. "I don't even want to imagine that I'm hearing you doubt your ability to pound that git into a pulp!"

Harry and Ron both faltered in their steps, staring slack-jawed at Hermione. She had never been fond of Malfoy, had even slapped him solidly across the face in Third Year, but this was a bit - well, a bit more like something Ron would say.

"Um, Hermione?" ventured Harry. "You are still planning on being a fair referee, right? I wouldn't want anyone to think I'd won because of official bias!"

"As you said, Harry," she replied primly, "I can be fair while still having a favourite. And as your friend, I expect to see you knock Malfoy right out of the sky!" The glint in Hermione's eyes danced in the shadowy corridor. "Legally, of course," she added as an afterthought.

Her boyfriend's face rearranged itself into a very satisfied smile. "I think I'm having a good effect on her!"

All three friends burst out laughing as they reached the Fat Lady.

I don't know why I'm worried, Harry comforted himself. I've always beaten him before, it's just another match.

***

Stepping out of the Quidditch changing rooms that evening, wearing his House scarlet robes and carrying his Firebolt, Harry had shed any last vestiges of nerves. The dying sunshine of the May evening washed over him, polishing the world in a golden light that made the Seeker ache to soar into the air. He always experienced the same day-of-match nerves: waking early, low appetite, knots in his stomach. Once he set foot on the grass, however, there was only him, his Firebolt, and the Snitch.

Oh yes, and a certain viridian-clad Slytherin approaching from the opposite changing rooms.

Glaring daggers at each other, more out of habit and expectation than actual enmity, the two Seekers met their referee at the center of the pitch.

"The agreed rules of engagement are as follows:" Hermione had clearly cast an Amplification Charm on her voice. This was necessary for her voice to be heard in the stands, where approximately every last student was seated in electric anticipation.

Harry swept the crowds with his eyes, and noticed Malfoy doing the same. Harry spotted Ron in the front row opposite him, near the center line of the pitch. Ginny and Dean sat next to him, along with several other seventh-year Gryffindors.

Harry and Malfoy both returned their attention to the Head Girl as she began to read the rules which they had set, surprisingly easily, in a conference the previous evening:

"1. This is a match of pure Seeker skill, challenged by Slytherin Seeker Draco Malfoy and accepted by Gryffindor Seeker Harry Potter. The winner of this match will be the Seeker who successfully sights and catches the Snitch before his opponent.

"2. All regular Quidditch rules of conduct, including fouls, apply to this game. However, no players will participate other than the two Seekers, and no balls will be released other than the Snitch. Since there are no Chasers or Keepers and the Quaffle is not in use, a foul will result in the offending player being grounded for thirty seconds before being allowed to reengage. The referee has the discretion to impose longer groundings for especially egregious fouls."

At the announcement of this rule, Harry smirked at Malfoy, and was rewarded with a dismissive glance. Malfoy seemed genuinely disinterested in the penalties for foul play. Harry began to believe that his opponent may have been truthful about his intention to establish his superiority through pure skill, rather than the trademark Slytherin dirty Quidditch.

Harry's shoulder-blades released the last bits of tension he hadn't realized he was holding. If Malfoy didn't intend to cheat, this match was going to be simple. All Harry had to do was fly his best, and he would win.

"3. After the Seekers have shaken hands, I will release the Snitch. I will then wait two minutes before blowing the whistle. At that point, the Seekers may take to the air, and the match will begin. The match ends when the Snitch is caught."

When she had finished reading the rules, Hermione tapped her wand to her throat and said, "Quietus." She directed her regard to each of the two seventh-years in turn, saying, "Step up and shake hands."

"Good match, Potter," Malfoy surprised Harry with an unusually unguarded expression.

"Same to you, Malfoy," Harry responded, then chose to add: "May the best Seeker win."

"Well, yes." The smirk had returned. "That was the general idea."

The two boys stepped back and their palms separated. At almost the same instant, the referee unleashed the Snitch. She tapped her wand to her larynx and again spoke the word "Sonorus."

"Two minutes to whistle, starting now."

The crowd began to cheer. Harry felt impatient, impotent, frustrated. He wished to be in the air, and even two minutes was too long to wait. He saw Malfoy tensing next to him, similarly anxious.

"We never should have said two minutes," muttered Harry to himself. "The Snitch is already gone."

"Steady, Potter," came the unwelcome but not-unfriendly reply. "I want to be in the air just as much as you do. But these were the rules we set."

Harry stole a look at Malfoy, whose eyes were fixed on the sky. He nodded to no one in particular as his friend announced, "Thirty seconds. Gentleman, you may mount your brooms. Do not kick off until my whistle."

Hermione seemed to be enjoying her role a little too much, but Harry was grateful for her presence. He knew she would be fair. And obviously, Malfoy agreed.

Harry was still bewildered that Malfoy, with his recently confirmed prejudices, had suggested a referee who was Muggle-born. And one of Harry's closest friends, to boot! Malfoy's apparent lack of sneakiness in this whole affair was rather shocking, to be honest. Harry's instincts were telling him that it might be alright to start to trust the other Seeker, but how could he?

Having dueled against Malfoy during Second Year, Harry assumed the Slytherin would kick off early. He tensed his muscles as Hermione counted down from ten, ready to leave the ground the split second that his opponent did. He was therefore almost caught off-guard when the whistle sounded and Malfoy's feet were still on the ground.

Malfoy's feet were still on the ground for only a millisecond, though. He was in the air as soon as he could legally be, and Harry shot up immediately behind him.

Finally. They were flying.

As the two young wizards streaked upward into the evening sky, the roar of the crowd became deafening. Harry began to circle the pitch, looking everywhere for a glint of gold. For a change, Malfoy was not marking him, but was instead circling opposite, as if they were weights on either end of a giant fulcrum.

On his second pass, Harry again spotted Ron in the stands and Hermione on the pitch. Their smiles shone brightly in the golden light, and he was seized momentarily by an ecstatic love for his two best friends. They were here for him, of course, whether he won or lost, and they would be here for him through anything. They had already proven that to him countless times.

Harry glanced across at Malfoy, who wore a look of grim determination. He wondered again what had truly driven this challenge, this need to revisit the question of superiority between the two of them. Harry was realizing more and more that he knew very little about his Slytherin counterpart. Malfoy was a git, Ron would say, and that's all you need to know. But Harry wasn't so sure.

He snapped out of his thoughts to notice that the noise of the crowd had died down. Malfoy continued his circumferential route, exactly opposite Harry, and the Snitch was nowhere in sight. It amused the 'youngest Seeker in a century' to observe that a Quidditch match without Chasers, Keepers, a Quaffle, Beaters and Bludgers, became an extremely dull affair for those in the stands. He was content to follow his circuit, watching his opponent out of the corner of his eye and sweeping his gaze everywhere in search of a glint of gold; however, he could feel the spectators getting bored.

As that thought flitted across his mind, causing him to chuckle, he happened to lock eyes with his opponent. The Slytherin was also smiling - the first open, sparkling smile Harry had ever seen on the pale face - and clearly thinking the very same thought. Noticing Harry's attention, surprise and suspicion chased each other across the grey eyes (Harry could decipher these expressions even across the pitch), then disappeared. A genuinely pleased look remained in their wake.

Acting on impulse, Harry turned sharply and flew toward the centre of the pitch. Noticing his movement, Malfoy did the same. They met halfway, flickers of the old mistrust returning to their faces now that they were at such close quarters.

"All right, Malfoy?" Harry ventured.

Malfoy's expression relaxed almost undetectably. "All right, Potter." An appraising glance raked lightly over the Gryffindor, which Harry could almost feel on his skin. "Time one of us finds that thing, shall we?" Both boys turned to resume their path, now flying shoulder-to-shoulder.

Predictably, a low murmur rose up in the crowds. Harry smirked and glanced over at Malfoy, who shared his expression. He felt as though he could almost hear Ron's incredulity at the lack of animosity between the two competitors. The amiable manner which the two Seekers shared was, considering their mutual history, probably one of the biggest scandals Hogwarts had seen since Harry had uttered words of Parseltongue during the Dueling Club, Second Year. But now, the two young wizards had tacitly agreed to set aside their petty differences and to finish this contest in the most sportsmanlike manner possible.

They didn't have to wait long. Before they had completed one lap around the pitch, Harry spotted a glimmer of gold above one of the opposite stands. Malfoy was flying so close beside him that he felt the other boy's thigh muscles tense through his Quidditch robes as both Seekers swerved to follow the winged ball. As if sensing their approach, the Snitch rocketed downward. Intent on a common target, the boys flew even closer together. Shoulders bumping together, Harry and Malfoy arced into a tandem dive. They raced each other, Malfoy surprising Harry with a burst of speed that kept him right by the Gryffindor's side. The opponents were now so perfectly matched in skill, in fact, that they moved as one, fused together from elbow to knee.

As the pair overtook the Snitch, each reached out a hand to grasp the prize. Each trying to force his body between the other boy and the ball, they only succeeded in pressing more firmly against each other. They flew as if attached, wrist to wrist, arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder, ribcage to ribcage, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. Two hands simultaneously shot forward in a final attempt to edge out a victory.

Harry gasped as he felt the Snitch against his palm. He gasped at the thrill and relief of victory, but the sound quickly became one of dismay as he realized that it was not the Snitch over which his fingers had closed.

Harry's fingers were wrapped around the back of Malfoy's hand. And Malfoy's fingers were similarly wrapped around Harry's. The Snitch was trapped between their palms.

All pretense of cooperation vanished immediately.

"All right, Potter, you've had your fun, now give over!"

"Not a chance, Malfoy, I have my hand on the Snitch. You give over!"

"My hand is on the Snitch just as much as yours!"

A war of wriggling fingers broke out, in which each boy tried to manoeuvre his digits closer in to the tiny orb than his opponent. They only succeeded in interlacing their fingers.

Realizing the position in which he found himself - his entire body clinging to the side of Draco Malfoy's, their hands intertwined - Harry struggled to extricate himself. He didn't know how, though, without allowing Malfoy to take possession of the Snitch.

In all the confusion and frustration, Harry was suddenly appalled to feel something twitch in the vicinity of his broomstick. No. My body is currently attached to Draco Malfoy's. I can't be feeling -

But a piercing whistle brought him back from those disturbing thoughts. He turned his head to face Malfoy's, and the Slytherin did likewise. Two eyes as silver as Sickles caught his gaze and held it. Their faces were mere inches apart. Harry's breath hitched in his chest, and he tried to convince himself that it was only a result of the exertion of flying.

"Shall we see what she wants, Potter?"

Rather that, than dwell on what I apparently want at the moment, Harry tried to avoid hearing himself think. "By all means."

As neither Seeker quite trusted his counterpart enough to loosen his grip, the two boys descended from the skies each with one hand still locked around their common quarry.

A perplexed and uncomfortable silence developed in the stadium.

Upon seeing them arrive, Hermione cocked an eyebrow at the pair. "Where is the Snitch?"

Harry and Malfoy exchanged a questioning look. His body still prickling from the proximity of his former enemy, Harry felt grateful for the camouflage of his voluminous robes. The humiliation of his very observant friend noticing his current condition was simply unfathomable. He held his Firebolt across the front of his body, just to be safe.

Before Harry could speak, Malfoy raised their interlaced hands. "It's here. We both have it."

"Open your hands, please." Both boys hesitated, until the Head Girl placed her own hands around theirs and fixed both of them with the same look she'd been known to give Ron when he wanted to play chess rather than study.

Their hands separated - Harry pretending not to experience a vague sense of loss at the broken contact - to reveal the tiny, fluttering sphere.

The brunette witch stared for a few seconds, giving all three a chance to hear the crowd begin to mutter. At last she nodded her head slightly, obviously coming to a decision. Casting the Sonorus Charm once again, she spoke to the stadium as a whole.

"Challenger Malfoy and respondent Potter have both caught the Snitch. This match is a draw."

Hermione removed the charm from her voice, and turned to the stunned Seekers. Indignant exclamations began to erupt in the stands. "Congratulations Harry, Draco. You have both won this challenge." She offered a small, apologetic smile, and turned to walk off the pitch.

In her wake stood two very frustrated, very confused young wizards.