They once exchanged a glance in the shadows of Diagon Alley and shared the same moon atop the Astronomy Tower, yet in the rift between light and darkness, they ultimately went their separate ways. When the smoke of war had cleared and the victor's medal burned against Harry's chest, he finally understood the truth in those three final words: the venomous taunts had been a disguise, the deliberate distance had been protection, and the figure who stood between him and danger at the end was a Slytherin heir's impossibly clumsy expression of tenderness.
The Gryffindor banner still flies, but no one will ever again smudge his textbook with cauldron soot in Potions class, or ask him in a cutting voice at the end of the corridor, “Potter, is your scar hurting again?”
The wind lifts Harry's wizarding robes, like an embrace that came too late.
Theme: It turns out all it takes for two people to hate each other is a few misunderstandings and some prejudice. Or maybe just one person.
