Malfoy is laughing, and Harry cannot help but be annoyed by it, but he fakes a laugh with the Slytherins, holding out his hands and ignoring, for the time being, the upset looks on the faces of the Gryffindors. Hermione looks ready to strangle him with her bare hands as he says, “Ha, pass it here, Draco!”

He catches the Remembrall with ease, and then the laughter drops abruptly from his face. He holds the little curiosity out to Hermione with a stony expression on his face, and her outrage is gone in a heartbeat as she meets his eyes. She's starting to really trust him now, after a few weeks together, and she neatly drops the Remembrall inside her robes. Draco’s expression of shock would be comedic if Harry wasn’t trying to rub it in.

“Don’t be a pillock, Draco. Longbottom’s a nervous wreck, you don’t need to bully him further.”

Draco’s cheeks go pink, but the Gryffindors don’t jeer at him: they seem too shocked, in truth, by the fact that a snake stood up for one of their own housemates.

“What are you standing up for Longbottom for, Potter?” Oh, so it's like that?

“What are you bullying him for, Malfoy?” Harry just doesn’t want anyone to be victimized, if truth be told, and he’s not going to let Malfoy be so horrible just because the victim isn’t a Slytherin. Malfoy’s mouth opens, and then it closes as he considers his answer,

“Because he’s pathetic, Potter.”

“What’s more pathetic, Malfoy? Being a bit of a nervous kid, or being a sadist?”

Malfoy's eyes widen and he scowls, crossing his arms over his chest, but then, as if only just realizing the Gryffindors are watching him raptly, he holds out his hand to shake. Draco's palm is cold against Harry's own, and they stare into each other's eyes as they shake hands.

“What’s a sadist?”

“Someone who likes hurting other people.”

Harry ignores the late titter of Lavender Brown after his comment is explained for her, and he shakes Malfoy’s hand: it’s best, after all, to present a united front to the lions, even though their disagreement is far from over. He’d read in the Slytherin handbook that stuff like this is usually continued in the common room with a prefect present as a sort of “judge”, so that won’t be fun, but it’ll be better than if one of the prefects yells at them for showing such weakness in front of another house.

“That was so brave of you, Harry.” Hermione speaks quietly to him as they walk up to the hospital wing, and Harry offers her a little grin. “I’d be careful saying things like that to me, Hermione. You might get me discharged.”

She laughs at that, and she takes the Remembrall out of her robes as they come in.

“What are you two here for?” asks Madam Pomfrey in a brisk tone.

“We’re just here to see Neville, Ma’am,” Harry says, and he sees Madam Pomfrey’s gaze flicker from Harry’s scar to his crest and then back to his face again; to his surprise, her slightly irritable expression fades to a smile.

“And you too?” Her gaze goes between their differing uniforms, and her smile widens a little: she’s in favour of mixing houses, then. Harry files this for future reference – most people just seem distrustful.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Hermione nods, and the matron bustles away. She's quite a skinny woman, but she bustles very well. They both move forwards, then, and Neville is washing his mouth out with a glass of water, apparently gargling away the taste of the intimidating potion on the dresser beside him: SKELE-GRO, as it’s appellated by the skeleton-shaped bottle.

“We brought you your Remembrall, Neville.”

“Oh, thank you, Her-” Neville stops short, and Harry says nothing as she holds out the glass sphere to her house mate, trying not to be upset by the slight alarm on the other boy’s face as he looks at Harry’s own.

“I got it back from Draco for you. I just wanted to let you know we’re not all the same.” Neville's eyes look like they're about to drop out of his eye sockets.

“Oh. Um- um thanks, er-”

“Harry.” He speaks before Neville can call him Potter, and to his surprise, a small smile breaks out on the other boy’s chubby face.

“Oh. Thanks, Harry.” Hermione is beaming, and she’s so pretty when she smiles like that – she doesn’t often, Harry has noticed, as she she seems to be a bit self-conscious about her teeth, but it's nice to see her smile.

“How’s your arm, Neville?” Hermione asks, sitting down on the edge of his bed as Harry drops into the chair beside it, and Neville fingers the glowing sphere in his good hand as he answers.

“Oh, it’s, um, it’s okay--”

--

Harry writes AUGUSTA LONGBOTTOM with chalk on the top of the list on his blackboard, and Draco hovers in the doorway.

“What is that?”

“Neville’s grandmother,” Harry answers in a disconcerted tone, slightly perplexed by the referring to an old lady called “Augusta” as a that. Draco huffs and rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“No, not Longbottom’s gran – that.”

With a vehement jab of one alabaster, slender finger, he points at the blackboard.

“Professor McGonagall let me have it from one of the spare classrooms. It’s on my side of the room.” Harry says reasonably, and he points to the invisible line the both of them had drawn through the centre of their shared room. Draco puts one hand to his face, and he looks so exasperated for a second that Harry feels like laughing. Draco's so old, for a boy of eleven.

“I know it’s a blackboard, Potter. What I’m asking is why?”

“You didn’t ask why, Draco.”

“Potter.”

“I’m writing letters.”

Draco is quiet for a second, grey gaze flickering appraisingly over the board, and then he says, “I don’t think that snowy owl can carry a blackboard, Potter.” Harry laughs, and he doesn’t miss the way Draco’s lips twitch with a sort of pride at having made his room mate guffaw so loudly.

“I’m just writing names on it.I’m gonna send a lot.”

Draco’s ice-coloured eyes look at to the blackboard, scanning over each name written in white chalk:

AUGUSTA LONGBOTTOM
LUCIUS MALFOY
AMELIA BONES
ANDROMEDA TONKS
FLOREAN FORTESCUE
DEDALUS DIGGLE
AMOS DIGGORY...

“What are you writing Diggle for? The man’s a loon.” Draco’s question comes, presumably, as a preface to asking why Harry’s writing to his father. Harry is guessing he’s reading the worry on Draco’s face right, anyway.

“I met him when I was 9. Thought I’d ask him where he buys his top hats.” Draco Malfoy stares at him, his expression a mix of confusion and slight disgust.

“His top hats?”

“Yeah. He wears a red one.”

“I know he- but why?” Harry taps the side of his nose, and he remembers after a second of Draco’s mildly concerned facial expression that Draco is a Pureblood, and that he’s not familiar with the meaning of that particular Muggle mannerism.

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

“Hmph.” comes Draco’s huffed, slightly irritated response, and he begins to undress for bed as Harry sets the chalk aside.