Confrontation

Only a single candle, balanced precariously at the edge of the table, lit the darkened common room. The roaring fires had long since burned out, and the only student left in the chill was a bespectacled boy, huddled up on the couch. He was concentrating on a bit of parchment in his lap, and the tip of his quill was being sucked thoughtfully into his mouth, occasionally pulled out to strike off a few words or to add in new ones. After a few moments of silent chewing, when it seemed that the boy was finally satisfied with his message, he signed off at the bottom of the parchment, before rolling it up and tying it haphazardly onto the leg of the owl waiting patiently beside him.

"Bring it down to Malfoy during breakfast at the Great Hall," he instructed as he stretched, briefly, rubbing against the soft velvet of the couch. "You can nap at the Owlery till then."

The snowy owl gave a resentful hoot - as if indignant at the suggestion that she would sleep when the letter hadn't been safely delivered - before nipping affectionately at his fingers and flying silently out the open window.

Finished with his self-assigned task, the boy stood up and rubbed wearily at his eyes, sleepiness overtaking the grim countenance that had been set on his face. He stole a glance out the window; the sky was beginning to lighten ever so slightly, and he thought he could see the first watery sunbeams marking the arriving dawn. Wincing as his eyes avoided the light, he grabbed irritably at his quill and ink before treading up the stairs for his last few minutes of sleep.

* * *

Harry sat tensely at the Gryffindor table, fingers twitching compulsively between his knees. Beside him, Ron and Hermione were oblivious to his condition as they rehashed the events of the past month, telling Lavender about their shared holidays. Or rather, Ron was embellishing all the details of the Weasley-Granger trip to Naples, and Hermione was attempting to correct his exaggerations as inconspicuously as possible. Aside from the occasional glance from Hermione (when he failed to laugh as they described the particularly funny pranks), Harry was ignored as he sat facing the Slytherin table, fixing their occupants with an intense gaze.

Draco, at the other end of the Great Hall, was similarly uninvolved in the chatters of his housemates. He was staring at the ceiling, waiting for the usual morning post, and smirking when he saw the first owls arrive. A few exceptionally large birds landed in front of him, laden down with bulging parcels from his mother that contained everything he'd been unable to pack, from galleons to new robes to Firewhiskey (carefully disguised, of course). Unlike his father, his mother had always believed in indulging in his every whim, and this year seemed no different.

Absorbed in the various packages he'd received, Draco hadn't noticed the white owl that had stopped in front of him. It took a particularly harsh jab from Crabbe before he looked up, and saw the bird perched irritably on his goblet of pumpkin juice, leg held out in an impatient pose. Draco frowned momentarily - the blasted owl was terribly familiar, not to mention incredibly rude - before he accepted the piece of parchment and sourly waved the bird off.

Pulling the twine off the letter, he unfurled it and laid it across his knees.

Malfoy,

There's something urgent that I have to say to you, face-to-face, concerning your father. Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at midnight.

Potter

Draco hesitated, mind racing. He couldn't think of what Potter would want to speak to him about, unless Potter wanted to gloat about his father in Azakaban. Which was rather pointless, really, since Malfoy senior would be out very soon. His mother already had a top team of WizLawyers on the case, and they were only the backup plan, to be put into action in case his father couldn't plan a clean escape. Besides, "Perfect" Potter wasn't the type to gloat. Even if he had been the one who put Draco's father in prison.

Draco's eyes narrowed, and his left fist clenched almost involuntarily. His eyelids flickered for a moment, before he seemed to reach a decision about the matter. Looking around belatedly to check that no one was reading the note over his shoulder, he hastily rolled it up and tucked it between his schoolbooks. As he stood up with his bag, he signalled for Goyle to bring his parcels back to his bedroom, and practically ran out of the Hall. In his hurry, he didn't notice Harry at the Gryffindor table, eyes fixed directly on him.

* * *

At fifteen minutes before midnight, Harry attempted to slip out of the Gryffindor common room with his invisibility cloak thrown over his head. He managed to make the journey to the Astronomy tower rather successfully - tripping over his shoelaces and waking the owls while beneath the West Tower, but cleverly avoiding both Filch and Mrs Norris at the base of the North Tower - and ended up at his destination five minutes early.

The Tower was deserted, but it wasn't surprising, considering that hardly anyone had time for any illicit liaisons. Come the next week, when most of the students had settled down into the usual routine, the place would be filled with snogging couples. As it was, he thanked whatever omnipotent benefactor he had for leaving the place bare and empty, and perfect for his confrontation with Malfoy.

He shrugged off his cloak as he heard soft footsteps, and cast a quick Lumos. Malfoy entered in the next moment, eyes wide and pupils enlarged in the darkness. He acknowledged Harry's presence with a curt nod, and exhaled impatiently.

"What do you have to say?"

"Your father was one of those at the Department of Mysteries." Harry's words were chosen deliberately to provoke. The Daily Prophet had been explicit in stating the Department of Mysteries as the place where the Death Eaters had congregated; the insult was blatant.

"So?" Malfoy gave a nonchalant shrug, expression empty and impassive. Like a porcelain doll, his face was cold china precisely moulded into flesh. "Is it any business of yours?"

"He was...involved...in the death of Sirius Black." An emotionless statement.

A sneer was apparent in the curled lips. "And here I thought you'd be happy about it. Wasn't Black the one who led Voldemort to your parents?"

"He was my godfather, you fucking bastard. And your father - with his bunch of self-important Death Eaters - they fucking murdered him."

And then Harry was running straight at Malfoy, wand forgotten in his rage, eyes wild and almost unrecognisable. Draco was bowled over; his skull hit the floor with a crack, and his neck was bent at - he winced - definitely an unusual angle. Potter had him pinned to the ground; his hand formed a ring of pressure around Draco's throat, slowly crushing his windpipe. But the pressure eased unexpectedly, and Draco's eyes flickered open, just in time to see Potter with his hand raised, clenched into a fist that was preparing to slam down with brutal force.

Surprisingly clearheaded after being so ferociously choked, Draco reached up and grabbed his wrist in midair. A knee aimed strategically upwards, a stifled cry of pain, and their positions were reversed. Potter was flat on the cold stone, head throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat, his arms and legs pinned down by the blonde boy lying on top of him.

"I think you have a little explaining to do, Potter," Draco hissed, trying to catch his breath, and watching as Harry's face contorted till it was almost frightening in its sheer hatred.

"I have nothing to say," Harry muttered fiercely, still struggling futilely against the dead weight on his limbs.

"Don't tell me you did all this just to get revenge for some petty criminal? You must have some secondary agenda...trying to kidnap me, perhaps? Trying to find out more about my father's crimes?"

Harry's eyes blazed, and he freed one of his hands enough to get a good swing at Malfoy. He smiled grimly when he heard a crunch - knuckles connecting solidly with cheekbones - and then he was scrambling back to his feet, launching himself towards Malfoy again. But the Slytherin had already maneuvered himself out of the way, and Harry knew he was going to crash painfully into the wall - until a pair of arms caught him in mid-stumble, and pulled him roughly down to the ground.

He let loose a racking cough as he felt himself being sat on once again, and mustered up his most intimidating stare for the boy leaning over him.

"What in hell do you think you're doing, Potter?" demanded an accented, annoyed voice. "You trying to kill me?"

"So what if I am?" Harry shot a defiant glare at his nemesis. But a pang of guilt assaulted him when he saw the purpling bruise high on Malfoy's cheekbone and the dark handprints on Malfoy's throat, and somehow, he didn't feel so righteously indignant as he did at the beginning. Harry released a wearied breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, and chuckled rather hopelessly. But the cold night air caught in his lungs, and he sensed, rather than saw, the tears making their slow trek down his cheeks, even as he found himself choking helplessly in the icy temperature.

Draco, straddled atop Potter, was horrified.

"What the hell," he cursed under his breath, panic at the ridiculousness of it all gripping him. "Stop crying like a baby, Potter." And he gave the boy a rough shake, attempting to stop the stream of moisture leaking from his eyes.

But the blasted sniffles just wouldn't stop, and awkwardly, he clambered off the Gryffindor. Sitting on the cold flagstones beside his rival, he watched in mild despondency as sobs wracked Potter's bony frame. He felt vaguely lost; he hated it when people cried, because he never knew what to do when someone broke down in front of him.

And the bloody idiot's tears weren't stopping. Feeling alarmed by now - he didn't want Potter telling on him to the teachers - he began racking his brain for remedies. And then he remembered, when he was little, how that house elf (Dobby, if he remembered correctly...and wasn't he at Hogwarts now?) used to comfort him when he'd had nightmares.

Tentatively, he reached out an arm and pulled Potter gently against him. Surprised - and encouraged - when Potter remained limp and pliant, he placed a cautious palm on the boy's back and rubbed in what he hoped were soothing circles. Slowly, surely, soft whimpers quieted, and harsh sniffs slowed to a regular rhythm.

And at one o'clock in the morning, Draco Malfoy sat on the cold stone floor in the darkness, with Harry Potter leaning into him, eyes closed and breathing even, releasing gentle snores into his shoulder.

As Draco leaned uncomfortably against the wall, staring into the dark, he heaved a mildly exasperated sigh. "Potter, you bloody git. One of these days, you're going to walk me to my grave."