Harry Potter is tired of fighting with Draco Malfoy. He's been tired of it for a long time now, but it has taken him this long to decide what to do about it. He still isn't quite sure how he's going to convince Draco that the bickering between them ought to stop, but he thinks this could be the day he does it. In any case, it's well past time to try.

It's a gorgeous early fall day, and the air is crackling with the energy of the first Quidditch match of the season: Slytherin versus Hufflepuff. For once Harry is glad to be on the ground; he needs this time to grab a hold of his courage. Standing just off the pitch, away from the main section of the stands, he watches Draco and the other Slytherins fly circles around the young and inexperienced Hufflepuffs, many of whom are playing in their first house game. Harry flinches as the Hufflepuff Seeker and Keeper nearly collide.

Next to this group of Hufflepuffs, the Slytherin squad appears almost World Cup caliber. Harry watches Draco skim low over the pitch, a puff of dust trailing him. He can hardly believe the grace that Draco seems to have finally grown into. Where he was sneering and cold and useless on the Quidditch pitch back in second year, the four years that have passed since then have actually served to make Draco into a decent Seeker.

Harry rarely thinks of Malfoy's prowess on the pitch, but on a day like this one where he has nothing else to do but watch Draco play, Harry can appreciate how much better Draco has become. Perhaps Draco has even learned a thing or two from playing against Harry. Harry chuckles to himself at the thought of Malfoy thanking him for teaching him to be a better Quidditch player. Harry is sure Draco would rather eat a plateful of Flobberworms than fess up to something like that, whether it smacked of truth or not.

Still cold, still conceited, Draco is the same irritating little boy at sixteen as he was at eleven. So why is Harry so eager to make up with him? Harry shakes his head. He's wondered this enough to be tired of asking himself.

He watches Draco execute a barrel roll to evade a Bludger, then turn and shake his fist at the Beater who failed to chase off the offending Bludger before it came into Draco's airspace. Harry is certain the gesture was accompanied by a few choice words as well, but, being out of earshot, he is spared the barrage of insults.

Blinking up into the sun, Harry shakes his head again. Why indeed?

Maybe because somewhere underneath the sneering, cold exterior there's a brilliant wizard? Not likely. But not unlikely, either, Harry muses. If only Draco would quit being such an arse so Harry could find out.

He can't quite put his finger on why he cares so much, but, when he lies awake at night thinking about Draco, Harry can't help but admit that there's something going on. Something is drawing him to Draco, something besides hate. It's true he doesn't want Malfoy for an enemy. He's tired of the sniping and the cheap shots and the general ill will. But it's something more than even the combined effects of all of this. Harry can feel it, even just standing outside in the late September sunshine. It's almost like a secret he's keeping from himself.

Harry sighs. The only thing he's sure of is that he's tired of fighting, and it's time to say something to Malfoy about it. Watching Draco close his fist over the glittering Snitch, Harry decides that this is the afternoon to say it.

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