Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to the incomparable J. K. Rowling. No money is being made from this. Some dialogue is taken directly from HBP.

Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition – Season Seven – Round Eleven

Beater 2 for the Tutshill Tornados

Round Eleven: Love Them or Hate Them

Cliches: love them or hate them, you can't deny that when they work, they work.

This round, you've been given a Harry Potter cliche to revamp and make your own. Do the cliche-gods proud!

BEATER 2: A character defects from the dark side to join the light (Restriction: not Snape or Regulus)

Additional Prompts:

(colour) emerald green

(dialogue) "I don't go looking for trouble, but I do enjoy befriending it."

Thanks to the Tutshill Tornados for betaing!

Surrender

Words: 1151

Looking between the Marauders Map and the door in front of him, Harry almost leaves. But he can't help himself, he's never been able to help himself. He pushes open the bathroom door.

"Don't." After his adventures in the Prefect's Bathroom and the girls' toilets on the second floor, he'd know Moaning Myrtle's voice anywhere. "Don't… tell me what's wrong… I can help you…"

"No one can help me." Malfoy's body is shaking as he leans over the sink. "I can't do it… I can't… It won't work… and unless I do it soon… he says he'll kill me…" Sobs are choking his words, his voice thick with snot.

Malfoy looks upwards, his eyes meeting Harry's green ones in the cracked and grimy mirror. With reflexes befitting a Seeker, Mafloy spins to face Harry and raises his wand. Harry's fingers twitch towards his own wand, but he stills them. He raises his hands instead, showing his empty palms to Malfoy.

"Do you really expect me to fall for that, Potter?" Malfoy's grey eyes narrow, his knuckles white as he clutches his wand.

Harry ignores the question. "Who will kill you?"

Malfoy huffs. "If you don't know, I'm not about to tell you. I'd have thought you'd learnt more after stalking me for months."

"I haven't been—" Harry cuts himself off. Malfoy's right. "Voldemort will kill you?"

Malfoy flinches at the name, his wand wavering. "Who else, Potter?"

"What does he want you to do?"

"Why don't you just keep your nose out of other people's business for once in your pathetic life?" Malfoy puts Harry in mind of a hissing cat backed into a corner.

"But what if someone could help you?"

Malfoy's grey eyes widen. "No one can help me, Potter."

"I doubt that. There's a whole group of people willing to help you. Willing to help your family."

"The Order?" Malfoy's voice is a whisper, the words sticking in his throat. His eyes narrow once more. "Why would they help me? After everything I've done. After Bell and Weasley." Harry schools his face, trying not to react to Malfoy's unintentional confession—he'll save an I told you so for Ron and Hermione later. "Weren't you ever taught not to go looking for trouble? That's all I am."

"I don't go looking for trouble, but I do enjoy befriending it." Harry grins, stepping forward and offering Draco a hand. "What do you say?"

Draco can't quite believe what's happening. He stares into Harry's eyes, their emerald green sparkling at him through his ridiculous spectacles. Can he trust him? He's exhausted. He's lonely. He's desperate for help. But his father taught him that trusting Dumbledore, and by extension Harry, is a mistake. A grave mistake.

But it was his father that got him into this mess.

He wants to trust those emerald green eyes—eyes that have haunted him since his first trip on the Hogwarts Express, eyes that refused his friendship so long ago. But they are offering him friendship now.

The hand grasping his wand is shaking. Is this a trick? He reminds himself that he is the one that starts fights, pulls pranks, and throws insults. Harry only ever retaliates. It's why Draco does it. Any attention is better than none.

It can't be a trick, not from Harry.

Oh so slowly, he lowers his wand. A smile spreads across Harry's face, his emerald green eyes shining all the brighter.

Draco steps towards him and Harry doesn't flinch. He simply keeps his hand out-stretched, the smile still on his face.

Draco slips his cold hand into Harry's warm one. His lungs shudder, the relief palpable, and he's crying again. Burning tears carving tracks down his cheeks. He tries to take a deep breath, to stop, but his lungs aren't cooperating. Instead of laughing or standing there awkwardly, Harry pulls Draco to his chest. Their hands are crushed together, and Harry's other arm wraps around Draco's shoulder.

Unable to stop himself—unable to resist the comfort of human touch, of Harry's touch—Draco buries his face in the crook of Harry's neck, his tears growing into sobs. A warm hand strokes his back in soothing circles. Harry is talking to him, his voice low, but Draco can't hear him over the blood thumping in his ears. Instead, he feels the vibrations of Harry's voice washing through his head and chest. He focuses on his breathing. In. And out. In. And out.

He doesn't know how long it's been when his tears stop. All he knows is that Harry's still holding him. They are both sat on the floor, Draco practically in Harry's lap. When did that happen?

Embarrassed, he tries to move, but Harry holds him tighter.

"It's okay. You can stay. I've got you."

Draco relaxes into Harry's warmth once more.

"Myrtle?" Harry asks.

"Oh, noticed I'm still here have you?" Draco rolls his eyes at her whining.

"I always notice you, Myrtle." Harry's voice is sickly sweet—the voice he used with Umbridge last year. "Would you do me a huuuuuge favour?"

"I suppose," Myrtle says.

"Will you ask Professor Dumbledore to come? Tell him that it's urgent."

"Fine. But you'd better come and visit me next year. You too, Draco."

"Of course we will!"

Myrtle floats through the wall and Draco has to admit that he's impressed. Harry played Myrtle like a flute.

And then it hits him that Dumbledore will soon be on his way. Panic sets in. Bile rises in his throat, and his stomach is pulsating like an over-ripe Snargaluff pod. He tries to wriggle from Harry's lap, and this time the other boy lets him.

But he doesn't let go of Draco's hand.

"What if he doesn't care?" Draco asks.

"He will. He'll help you." Certainty fills every fleck and whorl of Harry's eyes. "Dumbledore is all about second chances."

Harry climbs to his feet, pulling Draco up with him.

"Let's get you cleaned up." Harry's hand brushes across Draco's cheek tracing the tear stains scored across his face.

Draco splashes water across his face, and Harry wipes it away with the corner of his robe. Draco can't help but smile—naturally, the Boy-Who-Lived wouldn't think of using a drying spell. Not that Draco minds.

Quick footsteps echo from the hallway outside and Draco finds himself grasping Harry's hand once again.

Albus Dumbledore, out of breath and wearing ridiculous purple robes spangled with silver stars, appears in the open doorway.

"What's going on here, boys? Something you'd like to tell me?" His tone is stern but Draco is almost certain that Dumbledore's eyes are twinkling.

Draco looks to Harry, meeting those beautiful eyes. Harry smiles at him and nods.

And so instead of trusting in the green of Slytherin, Draco puts his faith in the emerald green eyes of Harry Potter and begins to tell his story.

THE END