We Were Strangers

The Great Hall rang with the excited chatter that always accompanied a Quidditch match, and each student was decked in either the fiery colors of Gryffindor or the serpentine hues of Slytherin. It was the final match of the year, and inter-house tensions were running high as Harry entered with Ron and Hermione to grab some breakfast before the game began. He rubbed his eyes wearily, trying to rid himself of the effects the previous late night had left with him, and glanced up and down the Gryffindor table for free spots.

“Let’s just take these ones here,” Ron mumbled, his face paler than chalk. “I don’t think I’ll manage to keep anything down anyways…so you two go ahead…I’ll just…wait here.” He slumped onto the bench and stared blankly ahead, looking rather dejected, and Harry and Hermione exchanged knowing glances.

“Look…Ron, you’re going to be fine,” Hermione coaxed gently, reaching out to put her mug of hot tea in front of him. “Drink some of this. It’ll help you feel better.” Ron glanced at the tea for a moment, apparently very tempted, but after a glance at Hermione’s soothing expression (and a very quick, very subtle smile that told Harry he loved being crooned over, despite his outward reaction) turned his head away defiantly. Hermione shrugged hopelessly. “You try,” she mouthed silently.

“You’re a brilliant Keeper, Ron,” Harry said brightly, leaning forward so that Ron was forced to look at him. “You really are. You’ll do fine, mate. You just need to ha—you just need to…” At that moment, Harry had happened to look up as Draco Malfoy came striding in through the great doors, accompanied by Crabbe and Goyle, and wearing a haughty expression of mingled dislike and disdain that seemed intensified rather than subdued.

“He just needs to what, Harry?” Hermione asked pointedly, glaring at him and indicating Ron’s expectant expression.

“Oh…right…” Harry continued quietly, “He just needs to…” The blonde haired boy had gestured to his friends, and the group had made a detour towards Harry’s table.

“Oh, honestly!” Hermione snapped, catching site of Harry’s cause for distraction. “Can’t he leave you alone for two seconds? Why does he always have to start something?”

“Because he’s Malfoy,” Ron muttered wearily. “He’s been a git for so long that it’s habit now. Why McGonagall didn’t let him stay a ferret is beyond me. It improved his character loads.”

Hermione gave a hesitant smile, but Harry felt his chest constrict in an un-pleasant way. He had absolutely no idea what kind of confrontation to expect from Malfoy after their last meeting, and he had no idea how he would react to any conversation exchanged between them.

Malfoy strolled up to the table imperiously, his gray eyes fixed on Harry’s.

“Hey Potty, how’s Weasel King feeling today?” he drawled in his all-to-familiar sneer. “I hope he’s hungry, because he’s about to get a few bludgers in the mouth.” Crabbe and Goyle guffawed loudly. “And what about you, Scar-face? I’ll do you a favor and give you another one since you seem to love the one you have so much.”

Harry could feel his face growing hot, and his hands began to shake underneath the table. “So this is the way it’s going to be?” he thought tensely, looking at Malfoy’s eyes, which seemed closed and hardened, as though something was being shut out. Harry slowly stood up, glaring at Draco fiercely, and the other boy raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and rounded the end of the table so that the two of them were face to face.

“Leave it, Harry,” Hermione whispered urgently, but Harry could feel hot anger running through his veins.

“You’d better shut your mouth before I do it for you, Malfoy,” he spat, reaching instinctively towards his wand.

“What are you going to do, go cry to Dumbledore?” Draco sneered, also reaching for his wand.

“What are you going to do, go cry to Daddy?” Harry retorted, taking another step forward. Hermione jumped up from the table and grabbed Harry’s arm just as his fingers were about to close over his wand.

“I said leave it, Harry,” she said forcefully, glaring at Malfoy in disgust. “It’s not worth it.” Harry stared tensely at Draco for a few long seconds before relaxing his arm in Hermione’s grip and taking a step back. Malfoy laughed dryly and narrowed his eyes.

“See you on the field…Potter,” he hissed, and turned to walk arrogantly towards the Slytherin table. Harry watched the back of Draco’s head for a few moments before called loudly, “Yea, on the field Malfoy. We’ll see who’s crying then.”

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Harry barely felt the smooth wood of the broom as he mounted at Madam Hooch’s call, and he gripped the Firebolt so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Malfoy’s hair glinted in the sun, and Harry had difficulty prying his attention off of the Slytherin to focus on the other players as they readied for the beginning of the match.

“There’s no way that I’ll be the first to break down,” he thought in determination. “He has no power over me. He never has, and he never will.”

A shrill whistle indicated the start of the match, and fourteen boys pushed from the ground to soar over the stands and fall into position. Harry glanced over and saw Ron nervously assume his place in front of the central goal hoop. Malfoy sped towards a higher elevation, and Harry followed, determined to be the one to catch the Snitch and bring his team to victory. If he had to push Draco from his broom, he would not allow the boy to win for Slytherin.

For ten excruciatingly long minutes, the two Seekers scanned the air for any hint of gold, and Harry painfully watched Ron miss 1…then 2…then 3 goals in a row. The Slytherins cheered gleefully, and Harry searched even more frantically for the snitch.

“You won’t catch me, Potter,” Malfoy called from above, and Harry looked up to meet his eyes. They were clear and cold, and his sleek, green robes rustled in the breeze. “You won’t catch me,” he repeated. “You’ll never catch me. I won’t let you catch me.” The moment seemed frozen in time, as if once again they were the only two who existed, and Harry felt locked in place, as though he and Malfoy were suspended in the air while a never-ending, epic battle raged around them.

Suddenly, as if in slow motion, both boys turned to see the snitch hovering tantalizingly between them, beating its golden wings furiously. Harry’s heart sped up, and he felt every muscle in his body stand to attention. It seemed to him that he would surely die if he couldn’t get to the little ball before Malfoy.

There was a single second during which each boy watched the snitch, and then there was a rush of wind as they sped towards each other, consumed by sheer animosity, all pretenses abandoned with only one goal in mind.

Harry became aware of the dangerously close proximity of their brooms about one second too late, and before he could effectively turn, there was a sickening crunch, a sensation of falling, and he felt himself slip into unconsciousness.

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The first thing Harry became aware of was a dull throbbing in his head and chest. He was lying on something soft, and he thought that he could detect a hint of light through his closed eyelids. He listened for voices but heard nothing except his own slow breathing, and so he carefully opened his eyes and saw that he was looking up at the sterol white ceiling of the Hospital Wing. In a painful rush, the memory of the match came back, and he groaned loudly, wishing he could drift back into peaceful sleep.

“Woken up finally, have you?” spoke a voice from beside him, and he turned to see the one thing that could make the situation worse. Draco Malfoy was in the bed next to him.

He was propped up on his pillow flipping through the pages of the Daily Prophet, and he spoke without actually looking at Harry. “You really are a wuss, Potter,” he said casually. “I was up hours ago.” Harry sighed in frustration and chose to ignore this comment. He was too tired to be in yet another argument.

“What’s happening about the match?” he asked instead, pulling himself to a sitting position.

Malfoy flipped through a few more pages before answering.

“Cancelled. No Championship this year.” Harry fell back in his bed and swore loudly as pain seared through his chest.

“Language,” Malfoy warned mockingly, and Harry rolled his eyes.

“Yea, because you’re the Prince of anger management, Draco,” he scoffed. “We wouldn’t even be here if you’d been able to control your temper.”

Malfoy remained unfazed.

“I seem to remember the crash involving two people, Potter. If I lost my temper, then so did you.” Harry sighed again, feeling his level of irritation rising. Was it possible for him to have a moment in his life these days where anger wasn’t a significantly present emotion?

“The only reason I lost my temper was because you were being an arrogant little git in the Great Hall, Malfoy,” he said in annoyance. “What were you playing at?”

With no response at all from Malfoy’s bed, Harry continued. “I mean, I never expected you to become Mr. Chivalry, but I also didn’t expect you to go out of your way to insult me and try to curse me.”

Malfoy shifted, but continued to read indifferently as if he hadn’t heard Harry’s statement, and the two lapsed into an odd silence that left Harry wondering hopelessly whether his endeavors to communicate with Malfoy were in vain.

A few minutes later, when Harry had almost given up all hopes of a conversation, Malfoy folded up the paper and raised his eyes for the first time.

“Newsflash, Potter,” he said icily. “I am an arrogant git, and I do go out of my way to insult you. I would have thought you’d be used to it by now.”

Harry looked into his eyes and was startled to see how cold they were. Cold and clear…one of the last things he remembered seeing before their collision at the match.

He desperately wanted to continue the argument, to insult Malfoy, to blame Malfoy, but another part of him understood the pointlessness of it. One of them needed to be mature, and he couldn’t count on Malfoy to take that plunge.

“Maybe you are…all of those things…” he said quietly, holding Draco’s gaze in his own and praying that he could bring out the side of him that he had seen in the Trophy Room, “but…you’re also something else. I don’t know what…exactly…but Draco, you are something else.”

For a moment, Harry thought he saw the coldness in Malfoy’s eyes falter, but then the boy turned away sharply, and their gaze was broken. Harry understood that the conversation was over.

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With many objections to Madam Pomphrey’s vehement requests, Harry and Malfoy finally agreed to spend the night in the Hospital Wing. Harry personally felt that he would rather be doing anything else in the world other than lying in-actively in a bed beside a boy who wouldn’t say two words to him, but Madam Pomphrey insisted that they needed additional recovery time, away from other students.

Out of sheer boredom, Harry fell asleep at an early hour and lapsed into a very strange dream.

He was sitting by the lake alone, and there was a steady flow of eerie music coming from the Forbidden Forest that seemed to be somehow calling to him. He rose and walked slowly towards the trees, where he saw Draco half concealed in shadow, beckoning to him.

He moved forward until he could feel Draco’s breath mingling with his own, and then he carefully kissed the boy’s forehead, feeling hot skin beneath his lips. He tried to kiss him on the mouth, but he could never quite make contact, and suddenly Draco turned and sprinted into the night. Harry ran after him, stumbling blindly in the underbrush, but he was lost, and it was so dark that he couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face. He was crying and calling for Draco, but there was only blackness…

“Harry…HARRY. Wake up.” Harry gasped and opened his eyes to see Malfoy’s face hanging over his own, washed in moonlight. “You were having a bad dream…” Draco whispered, sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed. “You were…shaking…”

Harry took a long, shuddering breath and tried to bring himself back into reality.

“I’m fine,” he said unconvincingly. “It was just…it was nothing…” Malfoy didn’t move.

“You’re not fine,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands. His face looked so much less fierce in the glow of the moon that Harry couldn’t stop staring. “I’m not fine either…” Malfoy continued. “I dream about it too, you know. Every night…”

Harry looked questioningly at Draco, not wanting to say or do anything that would cause him to harden up again. This was the second time that he had shown tenderness under the cloak of shadows. It seemed to Harry that the darkness of night gave Malfoy the courage he needed to take off his angry mask and reveal something more vulnerable. “It’s as if he has two completely separate personalities,” Harry thought curiously, watching Draco’s features. “When it’s dark…when we’re alone…when he can hide in the shadows…is the only time he’s able to show me what he’s truly thinking…”

Malfoy was still looking down, his eyes half closed in the dark. When he raised his head, Harry was shocked to find that he could barely breathe from the clear beauty that radiated from the boy’s eyes.

“I have to say something that’s not going to be easy,” Malfoy whispered. “In fact, it might be one of the hardest things I’ll ever say, but it’s important that you know. I’m…I’m…sorry…for the way I am… I’m…sorry.”

Harry could only stare at Draco in utter amazement. “Draco Malfoy doesn’t apologize,” Harry thought in confusion. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say a million things all at the same time…but he could only sit there…in silence.

“I…my Father…would kill me…my friends…I can’t…” Malfoy continued. “I have a…there are…expectations. My life has always been planned out. You don’t understand…how it is…with my family…” Malfoy’s voice faltered and he stopped speaking, turning away from Harry’s gaze.

Harry felt stunned. The moment was so profound—so entirely out of character—that he wanted nothing more than to hold onto it and delay the moment when it would inevitably slip away.

Malfoy felt compelled to explain further, and he opened his mouth to speak.

Harry held a finger against Malfoy’s lips, and the two looked at each other. They saw each other as they had seen each other in the trophy room. They were no longer Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, but two boys together, in the moonlight.

“Don’t think about tomorrow,” Harry whispered, more for his own sake than for Malfoy’s. “Don’t think about yesterday, or this morning even. Don’t think about the plan. Think about tonight. Think about right now.”

Without waiting for a response, he gently held the fabric of Draco’s shirt and pulled him down into the bed. Their lips found each other, and together the fell into the rhythm of the moment, forgetting everything about the real world and entering a world entirely of their creation. Harry moved his hands up Draco’s legs, and Draco slowly lifted Harry’s shirt from his chest. Their tongues met, and in the darkness of the Hospital Wing, the two boys kissed until dawn, until the night shadows could no longer protect them, and until it was time to leave their secret place and step back into a cold, clear world of tomorrows, yesterdays and expectations.

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Please comment cause I wanna know that I'm not the only person who thinks this story is better then the actual Harry Potter!