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Chapter Text

The shrill pitch of Pansy’s whinging is going to kill Draco.

Not directly, of course. It’s not strident enough for that, but it’s up there; a vicious and squeaky note, painful enough to give the Fat Lady a run for her galleons. Her voice echoes throughout their shared corner of the room, rebounding in the hollows of his skull with a vengeance.

Draco wouldn’t ever tell Pansy so — he values his life, thanks — but it’s truly atrocious. For the thirteenth time in the past hour, he considers gouging his ears out. He could pass from blood loss then, but in Draco’s experience, bleeding out in any capacity is excruciating. He’d rather avoid it, if he can.

Hell, he thinks. This is a special kind of hell.

Professor Flitwick hovers at the front of the classroom, droning on about spells Draco has known for years. It’s repetition, all of it, deemed necessary because of last year’s extenuating circumstances and the unsurprising lack of students who completed their N.E.W.T.s. Draco understands this, being one of them; but the lessons are exceedingly boring. Honestly.

At the very least, he supposes he’d rather study bloody expelliarmus than listen to Pansy any longer. She’s rubbish at pleasantries and even worse at charms. Draco has to listen to her, so he really is the victim here.

Help me, he pleads to no god in particular. Save me from this wretched room.

He’s run through a mental list of ways to end his life in this very classroom, each of them more dramatic than the last. He could have one of his friends curse him, sure, but Draco doesn’t want to get them sent to Azkaban — could he convince the Wizengamot that it was at his behest from beyond the grave? By that same token, if he dies in Hogwarts, will he be cursed to wander the halls for eternity with Nearly Headless Nick?

Oh, Merlin above. Draco shudders as he considers it. Perhaps there exists a fate worse than death.

It’s this thought process that has led him to the conclusion that the easiest way to expire is to listen to Pansy mewl. She’s an awful complainer, muttering and hissing in tandem as her spells fall flat. Draco loves her, but he wishes she’d sit in silence. Charms aren’t even that difficult, and Flitwick is — to Draco’s chagrin — a rather good teacher.

At his side, Pansy swishes her wand in frustration. She brings the wood down in a wild arc, stopping just before it smashes into the desk. The aborted movement is violent enough that Draco adds “death by errant wood chips” to his compendium of Efficient Ways to Die.

“Brilliant, Pans,” he says, inspecting her unchanged teacup. It’s supposed to be invisible, but then they wouldn’t be studying it if everyone had already completed the charm. “Really top notch.”

“Darling,” Pansy purrs the pet name in a cloying tone, so sickeningly sweet and unromantic. Her wand tip taps the porcelain with a gentle clink. “Keep being a tosser and you’ll be lucky to wake up tomorrow.”

“Right,” Draco snorts, because he no longer fears death. “Homicide won’t bring up your marks, love.”

Opposite her, Blaise releases an undignified snicker. Pansy’s wand meets the seam of her textbook, bouncing onto the tabletop with a clatter. She exhales through her nose. “Sod off.”

Gladly, Draco thinks, lips twitching as he refocuses on his own teacup. It trembles on its saucer, a solid color, still unmarked by his own charms. He could’ve done the spell six times over but for his mind’s relentless wandering. Besides, harassing Pansy is higher on his list of priorities.

It isn’t class itself Draco finds hard to endure. Honestly, he rather enjoys learning; the theoretical and practical application of his lessons have always been satisfying. When he was in school — er, well, before a complete mess had been made of it — studying at length and surpassing his peers had been among his favorite pastimes. He doesn’t mind polishing his skills for the inevitable moment where he must disappear off the face of the earth, forever hiding from his surname’s fallen legacy.

It’s something he’s considered in the long-term. Draco would like to know all he can, because the Malfoy name certainly will not open any doors for him in this life, if ever.

So no, class isn’t the problem. Pansy and Blaise aren’t either, obnoxious and self-serving as they may be. They’re his saving graces, if anything. His only hindrance is his presence in the school itself.

Draco wouldn’t be here if he had a choice. Hogwarts is a skeleton, made of quarried stone and glass and bone. The very foundation seems to ache with loss, tarnishing every lingering shard of Draco’s fond memories. He didn’t think it would bother him so much, coming back; but walking through these halls, where he’s partially responsible for the bloodshed and burned paintings, for the fallen bodies and flying curses — well. It does a number on one’s psyche. Draco can’t seem to readjust, and he doesn’t think he will, ever.

The castle was his home for a time. It was a safe place to grow and be until it wasn’t. He supposes he has no one but himself to thank for that — nobody but himself and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-But-Is-Definitely-Dead, So-Why-Does-It-Matter?

A home. Draco doesn’t feel like he has one, anymore.

Not the Manor, nor Hogwarts; each place is stained, charred beyond recognition even in his earliest memories. Pacing the corridors hasn’t gotten easier. It hasn’t dulled the well-deserved sting whenever students watch him with suspicion. And it could never erase the image of death tattooed on the inside of Draco’s eyelids, a matching brand to the skin of his forearm.

He blinks and he’s there, stone crumbling beneath his hands, curses soaring overhead. Potter’s there too, disarming Voldemort for good — 

He tries to pretend it doesn’t haunt him. He tries.

Draco shakes his head to clear it. He really should talk to his mother about seeing a mind healer or even a Muggle therapist, no matter how it hurts his pride. He can’t continue as he has for months; screaming into his pillow in the dark, gargling Dreamless Sleep like water. It’s unhealthy.

Draco blinks once, and then twice. He summons a wave of astronomical mental fortitude to remember where he is. Draco glances up, away from the abstract curves of his untouched teacup. The shadowy form of Flitwick wavers at the front of the class.

Light filters through the dusty windows, painting golden strips across the floor. Students mingle throughout the room, waving their wands and chattering. The rustle of parchment accompanies the hypnotic chanting of a spell, and Flitwick becomes less of a phantom and more of a person. He stands on his funny little stool, his mouth open mid-lecture.

Draco’s eyes stray, sifting through groups of people until he spots a familiar tuft of dark hair.

Potter himself sits with the Weasel and Granger, staring at his textbook. He’s hunched over, his brows scrunched like he’s troubled, or perhaps confused. A faint frown pulls his mouth downward.

Draco studies the slope of Potter’s chin, the curve of his glasses on his cheekbone. A flurry of emotions — ugly and strong and festering — bloom in his gut like an unholy garden. He knows them well; it’s always been this way, after all, the horrible twisting sensation nothing more than an old friend. The entire experience has filled him with an uncanny dread since the very first time he caught himself staring at the Chosen One.

Draco musters the strength to turn away. The roiling in his stomach worsens to an awful boil, and he feels as if he’s being cooked from the inside out.

Fucking absurd, he thinks. It’s been how many years, now?

Draco isn’t about to go sniffling after Potter like a kicked crup puppy. He’s hardly certain what to make of him, really. They were children until they weren’t, and there’s a significant line to be drawn between tugging each other’s hair and being on the opposite sides of a war.

Something needs to be said, Draco knows. Eventually. Probably.

He supposes he could be the bearer of the olive branch, or however the fuck that saying goes, but he isn’t inclined to getting himself punched in the nose. Draco rather likes his face, thank you, and would do well without pronounced amber knuckles colliding with it.

Over Potter’s head, his friends bicker amiably. Granger attempts to correct Weasley’s pronunciation of the disillusionment charm to no avail.

Draco sniffs. He’s not surprised Weasley hasn’t learned the spell yet, although it’s fifth year charms magic and from what he understands, their trio used it daily during the war. Draco suspects it wasn’t Weasley doing the casting back then, but by all rights, with a tutor like Granger, he should know it by now.

Dare he say it? She inspires a modicum of respect.

Draco is loath to admit it, but he’s been outfoxed by her far too many times to delude himself. She’s got a mind he fears treading upon, no matter the facade of civility he and Potter’s crew have upheld since his trial at the Wizengamot.

The sound of Weasley’s whine jerks Draco from his thoughts. He brushes his temples, but the soothing motion is ineffective in tuning them out. Their voices carry across the room, needling his eardrums. He does not understand how Potter settles comfortably in the center of their disagreement. He’s either focused on his work or, knowing Potter, completely zoned out.  

“Bloody hell, I’ve had enough.” Draco’s gaze darts to his side, where Pansy thrusts her wand onto their desk again. It rolls down the tabletop, coming to rest between their teacup saucers. “This is awful. I’ve known this charm since fourth year, at least.”

“Are you lying for sport, Pansy?” Blaise throws his arms over the back of his chair, his textbook askew in his lap. As he cants his head to the side, he wears the expression he’s cultivated so well: a facade of bland disinterest, like he’s been asked by wandering preachers to join their church. “Or do you just like the sound of your own voice?”

Pansy’s lip curls, her brows slanting into a dangerous curve. “Blaise — ”

“Now, now, children,” Draco admonishes. His interjection is even less well-received by Pansy, whose cheeks flush redder by the second. “We’re reviewing, aren’t we?” He rolls back his sleeves to grasp his own wand. “Surely you could use the practice, Pans?”

Her burning glare on the back of his neck is more felt than seen as he leans over his notes. Draco tries to keep his face neutral, tracing the shape of the spell in the air. His wand touches the rim of his cup, the incantation for the disillusionment charm tumbling off his tongue. The fabric of reality seems to ripple, and the teacup disappears from sight.

Draco pokes at it. The air seems to vibrate as it rattles on its saucer, almost wholly invisible. He hums, satisfied.

Pansy huffs at the sight of it. She reaches forward as if to grab and throw his hard work, and perhaps Draco shouldn’t have insulted her, but an indignant Parkinson makes for an amusing one.

The pads of her fingers trace its silken rim, wavering between visibility and camouflage. She feigns indifference, although her voice is colored with thinly veiled offense. “Are you suggesting my charms work is substandard?”

Draco does a poor job of hiding his smile. “I wasn’t suggesting anything,” he lifts his chin. Pansy’s snarl is enough to make the corners of his mouth twitch. “You’re twisting my words, darling. Presumptuous — ”

“Oh, you are such a bloody arse, Draco. We both know what you meant.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her seat, scowling. “I’m better than you at transfiguration, so you just have to needle me in charms, don’t you?”

“I do,” Draco acknowledges.

Blaise snorts, earning a nasty look from their friend.

“Whatever,” Pansy sighs. Her bob bounces around her shoulders, fluffed like a heckled cat. “Review your work, you insolent twit. You missed a spot.”

Draco drops his gaze downward, squinting at his handiwork. Pansy thrusts a single manicured finger towards the rim. “It’s bothering me, so fix it.”

His lips purse as he realizes she’s right — a fragment of the cup remains opaque. It’s nearly identical to its surroundings, just off by a shade. Draco repeats the spell from memory, and the incantation flows free. The rogue spot quivers, shifting to match the rest of it. Draco nods as the stream of magic leaves him. He glances up to catch Pansy’s stare.

“Show off.” She rolls her eyes and looks away, her expression sour as an underripe lemon.

“All right, that’s enough, class — wands down,” Flitwick claps his hands once. The students respond in a flurry of movement, wands clattering onto the well-worn desks. Idle chatter dies as their attention returns to the professor. 

Granger and Weasley fall blessedly quiet, which is something of a dream. The sea of faces turns to Flitwick. He clears his throat, and the makeshift stool beneath him quivers.

“Our next assignment is to use these charms in practice,” he clasps his hands over his waist, his gaze surveying each of his students. Draco hopes it doesn’t alight upon him. “It’s — Miss Granger, if you could save your question until after I explain, that would be greatly appreciated.”

Draco’s eyes shift to Granger, who lowers her hand with reluctance. Her dark skin flushes even deeper as Weasley elbows Potter, snickering.

“Brilliant,” he whispers rather loudly. Granger shoots him a venomous glare, and the redheaded nuisance swallows his laugh.

“Shut it, Ronald.”

Flitwick waits until Weasley’s shoulders have stopped trembling with mirth. “Yes, well,” his eyebrows sit near his hairline, and his mouth is pressed thin. “Now that I have your attention, it’s a two-part assignment: disillusionment and tracking.”

Pansy heaves a sigh. Draco almost doesn’t catch her mumble, “Of course it is.”

“Half of the class will be tasked with disillusioning themselves and taking up stations at various parts of the castle,” Flitwick turns to the notes on his desk. “The other half will search them out. Simple enough, no?”

No, Draco thinks.

“I will select a group of people to be sent out into the corridors — not onto the grounds, mind you, this project remains in the castle — and the rest will be paired with a partner.”

The Slytherin students nearest Draco release a collective groan, and Pansy drops her head onto the table. Blaise says nothing, but turns up his face to stare at the ceiling. 

Draco feels dread settle deep in his own gut. Working in tandem isn’t a favorite of his at the best of times, and Flitwick looks amused, which is even worse; his eyes are bright, which Draco perceives as a threat.

“Relax, it’s an easy activity.” Flitwick chuckles. “When each duo retrieves their assigned target, you’ll all return to the classroom, and the trackers will then be disillusioned. This assignment practices both identifying sources of magic and reviews our early charms’ work. It’s not a competition, but you will be timed.” He surveys the classroom, the blatantly diverted attention of his students, and nods once. “I’ll break you off into groups now.”

Merlin. Draco exhales. He shoves his nerves down, reaching for his family ring. It sits on his finger, a gift from his mother, and soothing at that; he habitually twists it, and it flashes in the dim light. Group work. What a brilliant bloody idea.

A simple enough activity, all right, but Flitwick’s reassurance does little to assuage his knot of nerves. Draco’s lucky because he’s good at charms, but whoever he ends up working with could prove to be more difficult than they’re worth. He need not be accused of attempted murder by some angry Ravenclaw in the middle of an assignment.

Draco has tried to stay away from trouble. He’s tried, and he’s succeeded. Since his return after his trial at the Wizengamot, he has been a disgustingly stand-up citizen. Offensively so. He’s even stooped to charity, because he can’t perceive his wealth as anything but undeserved and sometimes — only sometimes — he thinks its rightful place is in the hands of the less fortunate.

It feels fake even when he does that, like a plea, a desperate criminal striving for righteousness. He imagines The Prophet’s journalists would have a field day if he publicized it. 

Draco agreed to return to Hogwarts to finish his schooling, and he has endured every jab, jinx, and judgmental stare in the weeks since. Public humiliation. It’s a special torture to be subjected to, Draco thinks, but it’s nothing compared to the horrors that occurred within the walls of his own manor.

The other students either ignore him or want to hurt him; for retribution, for years of senseless bullying. They like to force Draco to remember what it’s like on the opposite side of a hostile wand, as if the mark forever tattooed on the inside of his arm isn’t enough.

He recalls. He’d faced the Dark Lord’s wrath more than once.

So Draco tolerates it — he might even deserve it, to a certain degree. He does his assignments with his head bowed, eager to escape to some seaside cottage after graduation to wallow in solitude and forget his family name.

He does not want to work in groups. The only way he’s emerging from this assignment with a passable grade is if he’s paired with Pansy or Blaise, and that’s unlikely. Flitwick looks far too keen on the project to not have ulterior motives; it’s probably some rubbish about inter-House unity, but Draco can’t shake an unyielding sense of foreboding. 

Several Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws are chosen to be disillusioned, and they gather at the front of the classroom. Flitwick stands on his tower of books, eye level with his students, and gives them a brief explanation of their duties. He passes each a piece of parchment, presumably inked with their designated hiding spots.

With a word, they’re dismissed, and the students cast their disillusionment charms. As their bodies shift to camouflage themselves, they disappear from view. A few disorienting outlines betray their presence, but barely. The door opens, seemingly on its own, and the patter of footsteps fade as they depart.

“Right, then.” Flitwick lifts his chin, and the remaining students cease their whispered conversations. Draco straightens in his chair. “Let’s pair the rest of you, shall we?”

Flitwick rattles off a list of names, and Draco obligingly stops paying attention. Alphabetically speaking, he has a way to go. Duos rise from their seats and approach their professor, receiving a slip of parchment and instructions for the tracking charm.

Tracking and disillusionment, how elementary.

Contrary to what Draco said to Pansy, they are doing fairly simple magic. Review in theory is fine, but he’s certain all the eighth year Hogwarts students have enough practical knowledge to warrant graduation, at least.

He glances at Pansy, who rests her head on her arms. Her eyes roll disdainfully as two Gryffindors are partnered. Draco wishes he could freely show derision the way he used to, because she’s right; the students who need this review should be held back a year or three. Appare vestigium. He could perform that spell in his sleep.

“Neville Longbottom will work with Blaise Zabini.”

The recitation of his friend’s name shakes Draco to attention. Not working alphabetically, then — all right. Fine.

He turns to gauge Blaise’s reaction, but his expression remains carefully blank save for a slight curl of his lip. He inclines his head at Draco and stands, wordless. Blaise joins the once-sniveling Longbottom and their professor with a few long strides.

“Can’t believe he grew up to look like that,” Pansy murmurs, almost too soft to hear.

Draco leans down to catch her words, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on their desk. “What?”

She shakes her head, hair bobbing as she moves. “Nothing.”

“No, you said something.” Draco’s mouth opens, parting like a fish. He takes a moment to process her earlier words. “You think Longbottom’s, what, good-looking?”

“Oh, shut up, Draco. He grew up nicely, that’s all I’m saying.” A pink flush tinges Pansy’s cheeks, but her eyes are sharp. Mean. “I don’t like him, tall or not. He’s pitiable, I — I haven’t forgotten the last seven years.” Her nose wrinkles. “Besides, he’s a bloody Gryffindor.”

“Mhm,” Draco hums, amused. This is priceless information. He’s not much of a stock broker, but he has always dealt in gossip. “Grew up nicely, you said?”

“Shove off.” Pansy’s brows draw together tighter. “Don’t even try to tease me. I’m certainly not on your level.”

The words are innocent enough, but their meaning isn’t lost on him. Draco’s skin warms awfully fast, a Remembrall shifting a telltale shade of red. He’s sure the answer is written all over his stupid, horrendously bright cheeks, whether it be from mortification or otherwise. Sodding Pansy. No couth whatsoever.

It’s like she wants him to die.

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” he says, his tongue lodged halfway in his throat.

Don’t say more, Draco mentally begs. He’d cast legilimens silently if he could. Imperio, even.

“Sure,” Pansy says, unrepentant. “We can pretend you’re not batty over him, if you’d like.”

“Pansy,” Draco mutters, pained. His hands twitch in his lap, his skin tingling wildly with nerves. “That’s a load of hippogriff dung.”

“But you’re really one to talk, prattling on as if you haven’t spent seven years pining after Mr. Chosen One — ”

“Pansy,” Draco chokes, her name like a vice, squeezing his jugular. He swallows his aborted retort, because it would really do no good. The volatile heat of rage rises within him, although whether it’s directed at Pansy or at Potter for existing, he knows not. “I’ve told you countless times, I don’t — ”

“Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley.”

The call of his name forces Draco to snap to attention. An uncomfortable silence falls over the room, as if conversation was sucked in with a collective intake of breath. Pansy has stopped spewing her vitriolic accusations in favor of staring at him. She looks, for all the world, like someone has just killed her cat in front of her.

“What luck you have,” she says blandly. “Sorry.”

Flitwick is holding out a piece of parchment, expectant, and the Weasel has turned around in his chair. His freckled face is struck with unabashed horror, his jaw hanging slack. It would amuse him if it weren’t directed at Draco himself.

“Bloody hell.” Weasley shakes his head. A mottled redness colors his cheeks, vibrant enough to match his hair. “Merlin, no.”

“What’s that, Mr. Weasley?” Flitwick asks, because apparently everyone is keen on prolonging Draco’s suffering to an impossible degree.

“Sorry, professor,” the Weasel sniffs, like a sniveling plague rat. “But no, absolutely not.”

He turns back around in his chair, but Granger seems to have traded with him. She glances over her shoulder, studying Draco with a look that might be pitying. Oh, the indignity of it all! He wishes someone would just strike him down. It’s his time. Really.

Flitwick cocks an eyebrow, but appears otherwise unfazed. “Oh?” His gaze flickers to meet Draco’s, who resolutely says nothing. He will not become the antagonist here, although he feels a bit like a bull before a red cape. “Why ever not?”

“Wh — why not?” Weasley gasps. He stumbles over his words, and Merlin, it would be hilarious if Draco could enjoy it. Unfortunately, this is just as hellish a punishment for him as it is for Potter’s lapdog, so his face remains plastered in a frown. “Because it’s Malfoy, that’s why — ”

Draco’s skin prickles at the way Weasley says his name. His pent-up frustration roils beneath the surface, and he wants so badly to hex him. Nothing permanent, just a slug or two in his mouth, maybe. Karmic justice and all that rubbish.

Draco snarls, shoving down the urge to lunge across the room, his wand aimed at his throat. “As if I’d want — ” 

“Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick admonishes, straightening to his full height of three and a half feet. Propped on his tower of books, he almost looks intimidating. “I ask that you hold your tongue. You are in no position to refuse. This is a prime example of why we need to practice these exercises in inter-House unity.”

Knew it, Draco thinks, dry. His hackles are still raised, and he eyes Weasley’s back with his sharpest glare.

“It couldn’t have been anyone else?” Weasley trembles in his seat. Granger rests a hand on his shoulders, leaning in to murmur something in his ear.

The remaining students are eyeing them all as if this is some sort of drama on the Wizarding Wireless Network. It’s not completely unlike the entirety of their school careers, burning under the spotlight’s searing gaze. Draco hadn’t missed this sort of attention as much as he thought he would.

Weasley shakes his head again, dislodging loose strands of red hair. It seems to vibrate with the sheer force of his anger, and well, Draco has no desire to work with him either, but the fact that he’s so unpleasant about it is enough to ruffle his feathers.

“Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick tries again. “I believe this is an opportunity to — ”

“I’ll do it.”

The bubble of quiet that encompasses the class pops. All the air seems to rush out of the room, and students lean across their desks, whispering.

The speaker’s voice is soft, but their words are confident and firm. Each of the remaining observers turn to face the source. It takes all of Draco’s restraint not to look, to sit and force his eyes to trace the wood grain in the mahogany desk.

He knows the voice better than any other, he realizes. He doesn’t need to check, even in this suspended state of incredulity.

Potter’s head is tilted in a mimicry of deep consideration. He blinks slowly, as if he’s just risen from a long nap. He adjusts his glasses on his nose.

Flitwick sucks in his lip. “You needn’t get involved, Mr. Potter. The divisions for this assignment are purposeful.”

Screw me, Draco thinks, because this would happen to him. It’s not the power move Flitwick thinks it to be, pairing up him and Weasley. Draco’s likely to die more than anything, although perhaps that was the intended goal.

“It’s really not a problem,” Potter speaks again, and if Draco didn’t know any better — if he hadn’t spent the last seven years learning the way Potter works, what makes him tick — he’d say he sounds almost eager. 

Knock it off, he mentally berates himself. Enough of that. 

Potter scrubs a hand through his unruly head of hair. He looks sheepish as he stands, turning immediately in Draco’s direction. He doesn’t have to scan the room — he knows where he sits, three rows behind him, like this was something of note. Draco shakes off the uneasy feeling of having been observed. 

“Um,” Potter passes him a weak smile. “Let’s move along, yeah?”

What the fuck.

In a rush, the absurdity of the situation catches up to him. Draco blinks, and Potter inches closer. What in Merlin’s name?

Potter is volunteering to work with him?

A series of emotions fly through his brain, each contending for the dominating spot. Draco can hardly parse them; his only overarching sensation is confusion, accompanied by surprise and trepidation. A little indignation, because he’s being handled like a social leper. He’s never been a charity case for the Chosen One to oblige.

Morgana above. What the fuck.

There can be no reason for this but some twisty little plot. It’s something clever, he’s sure, a plan devised by Granger to solidify his status as a criminal. Maybe. Draco can’t really focus, although he tries. The overwhelming bizarreness of the situation outweighs his logical train of thought. He half expects to look outside and see the sky has turned green.

Draco glances between Potter and Flitwick. He’s definitely not awake right now, because this is some strange, contorted dream in which Potter offers to do things for him, like save him from serious embarrassment and a horrible death-by-Weasel.

He supposes he could add that to his list of ways to die.

Flitwick hums, thoughtful, before he shrugs. “Very well. Come gather your notes.” He turns toward his desk. “And Mr. Weasley, don’t think I’ll forget about this outburst.”

Draco stands, lifting his chin. 

“Godspeed,” Pansy says, which he appreciates. She’s the only one who understands what this is doing to him.

He pockets his wand and strides forward, past tables of students who don’t even bother to whisper their insults. Draco avoids the desk where Weasley and Granger are speaking in an undertone, the former glaring daggers into his back.

Potter waits before Flitwick’s podium, his hands tucked into his robe. Draco stops several paces away and accepts the proffered slip of parchment from their professor. He listens as Flitwick gives them vague instructions, nodding mutely until they’re dismissed.

This is hell, he decides. This is the ninth circle of the deepest realm in hell.

Draco treads in Potter’s wake as they leave the classroom. He keeps his gaze on the ground, watching the hems of the Gryffindor’s robes billow with movement. The door swings as they emerge into the corridor, and Draco imagines a flurry of conversation erupting from the rest of the students as it closes behind them.

“Well,” Potter says as soon as they’re alone, “that was something.”

Draco’s silver eyes flick upward, narrowing. He’s still unsure if he should be angry or relieved about this turn of events. Draco doesn’t want to be saved by Potter, damn it. He owes him enough already. “Quite.”

Potter releases a breath. He reaches for his hair again, and Draco wonders if it’s a nervous tic. “Yeah. Sorry about Ron, he can be a little — ”

“You didn’t have to rescue me, you know.” Draco sweeps ahead of him, shoes tapping on stone. He needs to make up some lost ground here, because a metaphorical carpet has been torn out from under him. A tinge of bitterness seeps into his tone as he speaks. “Or save Weasley, whatever. I wouldn’t have killed him.”

There’s got to be a balance here, somehow. Draco can’t keep receiving kindness from his former enemies and be left reeling. It’s not good for his head.

Potter stumbles to catch up, arms swinging as he moves to match Draco’s pace. When he reaches his side, he leans forward to catch his eye. “I know.”

The shock of it makes Draco’s heart stutter. He curses it for the foolish, fickle thing it is. He’s so unused to kindness that his body can’t handle it — you’d think Potter had said something absurd, like invited him on a romantic flight around the Quidditch pitch.

Then why volunteer?

He asks as much, and Potter’s shoulders rise and fall.

“Don’t think either of you would’ve passed this assignment if you worked together, and I know you both need to,” he glances over, like Draco is really supposed to believe this is a friendly gesture. A sodding olive branch. “Er, well, I assumed. And Ron’s failing, so.”

A beat of silence passes, and Draco wants to say something. He could fling an insult, or drop a smarmy “how thoughtful of you,” to berate him. Classic Potter. Silly, thoughtless, genuinely kind-hearted Potter, who’s so utterly stupid that he cares about whether Draco completes his schooling. Or whether Weasley does. Semantics, whatever. 

He’s livid at the thought, but in truth, Potter is right. Draco needs to pass his classes, all of them, and a botched project with Weasley would do very little for his already poor standing amongst the students and staff.

Draco doesn’t offer his thanks, and he doesn’t think Potter expects him to.

They’re still walking, aimless, when Draco realizes he’s been angrily stomping them in no particular direction. He draws to an abrupt halt, giving no explanation, and Potter stops beside him. He blinks at Draco, then seems to remember what they were dismissed from class for.

Potter’s hands slip into the pockets of his robes. With a breath, he withdraws the parchment Flitwick gave them. “Here we are.”

“Well?” Draco neglects to find his own, assuming the same name and instructions are inked on both. He gestures with a flippant hand. “What’s it say, then?”

“Yeah, all right. Let’s see.” Potter clears his throat, unfolding the parchment with slow, deliberate motions. Draco wants to tear it out of his grip, but he supposes that wouldn’t be well-received. Instead he waits, impatient, as Potter readjusts his glasses and squints at the curling script. “We have to find, uh,” he looks up and blinks, owlish. “Susan Bones.”

Draco glances back down the corridor, as if Bones is hidden behind a suit of armor. For all they know, she might be. “The Hufflepuff?”

Potter wrinkles his nose. His brows scrunch together in a mask of confusion, and his scar seems to shrink with the movement. “Um, yes, I suppose. Does the distinction matter?”

“It — ” Draco begins, a scathing reply on the tip of his tongue, before he swallows it. The words recede like the tide. There’s no reason for him to shame Bones, other than that she wears yellow and he, green. “Just trying to put a face to the name. Let’s go.”

“We’ve studied with her for seven years,” Potter says, sounding vaguely amused. Draco refuses to look at him. He won’t. He has no desire to see that imbecilic grin.

He glances down. Potter is smiling in a confused sort of way, like he doesn’t understand how Draco functions. 

“I paid her no mind,” Draco says, although it’s obvious. He thinks it’s a kinder way of saying he didn’t care at all.

“Mhm,” Potter hums. He doesn’t comment on it, as Draco had expected he would. 

In the two years they’ve been apart, he’s changed. Perhaps.

What am I thinking? It’s not like Potter’s personal growth affects him in any way. Draco increases his stride, desperate for this entire ordeal to be over. It’s enough that he has to linger in his presence, reflecting on his own inadequacies and the brown slope of Potter’s cheekbones.

Enough.

“Wait, I’ve got — I was thinking — hang on,” he waves at Draco’s back, jogging to catch up.

Potter tucks Flitwick’s note away, shoving it haphazardly into one of his pockets. He rummages through the others, removing and replacing his hands. Each time his palms come up empty, he scowls. “I’ve got, er, a thing for this.” 

Draco stares. He wants to ask what he’s searching for, but opts for snark. “How many bloody pockets do you have?”

“The usual amount, I think,” Potter bites his lip as he reaches into his robes again, this time withdrawing his wand. “Could’ve sworn I had it…”

Draco means to tell him that dozens of pockets isn’t standard, but he’s interrupted as Potter sighs, lazily waving his wand in the air. “Whatever. Guess I’ll have to — Accio Marauder’s Map!”

There’s a tense moment, anticipation breaking across Draco’s skin in gooseflesh. He watches the flicker in Potter’s jaw, the furrowed concentration, before he fixes his gaze on his extended arm.

The spell is followed by a complete and utter nothingness. The halls are quiet as they were before, the portraits stoic and bored, the suits of armor presumably Bones-less.

“This is riveting,” Draco remarks, because he can’t help himself. “Really, Potter. Ten out of ten.”

“Hm,” Potter doesn’t move, but he worries his lip.

Draco knows he can cast a summoning spell; everyone saw it during the Triwizard Tournament, but this is Harry Potter, the world’s greatest Gryffindor. It’s possible he’s a blithering idiot and mucked it up. 

Then Draco hears the distant sound of rustling pages, like someone flipped open a textbook. It’s a weirdly peaceful noise, reminiscent of the library. Draco stares as a thick sheet of unmarked paper appears at the far end of the corridor and flutters into Potter’s hand like a giant butterfly.

He opens and closes his mouth. “That’s what you had us wait for? A blank page?”

Potter’s lips twist into a frown, so the disbelief must ring in Draco’s voice — good. He doesn’t understand why they’d spend ten minutes summoning a piece of paper when they could’ve tracked Bones’ magic already. “This is pointless.”

“It’s not,” Potter says. The paper crinkles in his grip, as if it heard Draco’s voice and took personal offense.

“A monumental waste of time,” Draco insists. If he can do anything right, it’s argue with a Gryffindor — with Potter. He’s never once failed at instigating a disagreement, which is both satisfying and pathetic, if he’s honest. “We’re being timed, Potter.”

“We are,” he agrees, like a pillock.

We are, Draco mimics privately, in the safety of his own head. Oh, woe is he, to linger about with a man that reeks of unpleasantness; really, Draco’s been repentant of late. What did he do to deserve this? Is he to be tortured forever in life, as well as death?

“This is rubbish,” he mutters, although he doesn’t fully intend for Potter to hear.

“Oi, Malfoy, shut it for a minute, would you?” Potter narrows his eyes. His lashes are long and pronounced, thick enough to obscure the green. Draco takes a moment to look at them before he sniffs and turns away.

A moment of silence stretches between them. It’s not cold but taut; this thread of theirs, a tightly wound string of patience, ever on the verge of snapping. Potter sighs.

“I’m not the best at tracking spells,” he says, returning his attention to the parchment. “And I thought this was far better than wandering through the halls.”

“Well,” Draco muses, because it’s not much of a surprise that Potter hardly knows more than expelliarmus. “You might not know how to cast basic charms, but I assure you we would have already been on her trail.”

Potter glances at him, unimpressed, before he taps the parchment with his wand. A shiver runs through the paper, and he mumbles something. Draco has to strain his ears to hear the words: “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

There is no moment of suspense; from the point where Potter’s wand touches the parchment, a puddle of ink erupts across the page, decorating it in shapes of deep brown and black. Draco stares, transfixed, as brush strokes paint themselves in dizzying swoops. They twist and shift until it reveals a map of Hogwarts in real time, flat in Potter’s hand.

Draco swallows his surprise. Well, all right. Suddenly the plethora of Gryffindor escapades makes sense.

Footprints move across the paper, petite and quick, accompanied only by the names of their owners. Draco nearly reaches forward to touch the parchment himself, but withdraws his fingers so they hover mere inches above. Beside Potter’s arm, his skin is distinctly pale. His throat bobs. “Where did you get this?”

Potter’s mouth twitches, pleased. “Secret.”

Draco’s eyes track across the map, switching between the moving blots of ink and the curve of Potter’s smile. “Should you be showing me this?”

The parchment rustles as Potter shrugs. “Maybe not. It only works for Hogwarts, though, so I don’t see the harm.” Potter looks down at their own shifting dots. On the paper, the little treads marking Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter stand unusually close. “Ron’ll be brassed, yeah, but it’s not like we’ll have need of it in a few months, so.”

Draco steps dutifully away, his cheeks warm. He coughs, just to fill the quiet. “So, what? You want to use this to find Susan Bones?”

“Yeah, why not?” Potter purses his lips, tilting his head to one side. His lashes flutter as his gaze switches between Draco and the map. “It’s an easy solution. Look, she’s right there.”

For once, Draco isn’t sure if he wants to combat him on this. What’s the point, if it preserves the peace?

“The tracking charm is easy too,” he says dryly, although the effort is half-hearted at best. He leans forward to see where Potter’s pointing anyway. 

Sure enough, Susan Bones’ footprints shuffle along the seventh floor corridor. She lurks close to the side of the wall, and Draco wonders how long she’s been waiting. He hums. “We could just do the exercise, as instructed.”

“As instructed? Who knew you were such a stickler?” Draco bristles at that — he isn’t second in their year for nothing — and Potter blows out a breath of air. It ruffles the longer locks that obscure his face, and he levels Draco with a flat stare. “Fine, then. Track her with appare vestigium. Fumble blindly along the walls, and we’ll be done with this. It’ll only take a year.”

“Something tells me you’re not quite adept at tracking charms, then?” Draco’s eyebrows rise. He feels a jolt of pleasure as Potter casts him a nasty look. “But if you’re so passionate about it, who am I to deprive you?”

“I told you so myself,” Potter mutters, but the twist falls from his lips. “All right, then?” He lifts the map again, and there’s a gleam in his eye that says he knows he’s won.

Draco hates it. It’s so distinctly Potter, the winning mark of a champion. The greenness of the gaze pierces him, sharp enough that Draco has to turn away. Perhaps he should make room for “death by stare down” in his compendium.

“Fine.”

Potter flashes a quick, satisfied smile. Draco finds it immensely uncomfortable to be on the receiving end, but he can’t find it in him to summon a rebuke.

Potter briefly checks to see if Bones moved, but her footprints are static, blipping where she was when they last looked. He glances up, his glasses sliding down his nose. Fool.

“Come on,” Potter adjusts them and gestures down the hall. “It’s this way.”

For reasons he cannot fathom, Draco follows without complaint.

Post-war, Draco expects change in almost every regard. The very basis of his values have been fundamentally challenged, so why wouldn’t the rest of the world follow suit?

Perhaps it’s because it doesn’t revolve around him, which in itself is a distressing realization.

It comes as a shock to him that Hogwarts is largely the same.

The stones of the foundation are the same cobbled granite. Each tower stands stubbornly tall, save for one. The castle has been under construction since the battle, but despite the additions, it’s still familiar.

Outside, the sun shines — having no alternative — on the utter lack of anything new. Dust motes dance in the streams of light, glaring behind the windows and illuminating the corridors. The halls have changed little, although Draco recognizes what’s been lost; there a tapestry once hung, long-burned; there, rubble dusted the floors and the hems of his robes, and there — Draco winces as the memory of fallen bodies shadow his thoughts.

There, a life was lost.

He shakes himself back to the present, his shoulders rising to his ears. He feels a bit like a turtle, trying to retreat into a shell he doesn’t have. Potter glances at him, curious, but thankfully doesn’t make a comment.

Hm. Changed, indeed.

Draco takes a moment to admire the unexpected display of couth. He doesn’t think he could stomach ridicule of his sanity from his longtime rival — or worse, pity.

Potter matches his stride as they march through the halls. It’s an unsettling experience; Draco is threatened by the proximity, because this is so much more than the carefully constructed civility they’ve maintained since their return in September. Standing by his side isn’t strained, exactly, but awkward. Draco wonders if he can lodge an official complaint with McGonagall, but he guesses he wouldn’t be taken seriously.

“It’s a left here.” Potter interrupts his torrent of thought. He looks back and forth down each corridor, then checks the map again. “She should be close.”

Draco stares down the length of the hallway. He sees nothing, though he supposes Bones is unmoving. Her job description is literally to stand still. He reaches out to Potter, palm up. “Give me the map.”

Potter freezes. His gaze flicks up to meet Draco’s, and he swallows once. Time moves slowly as he passes it over, the wrinkled edges of the pages crinkling in his grasp.

He pretends not to notice Potter’s hesitation. Draco’s fingers tingle as the parchment exchanges hands, and he flares it out with an inordinate amount of care. “All right,” he squints at the little blurbs that represent himself and his tagalong. “So this bloody thing says — ”

“Oho, what’s this?”

The voice emanates from above them, and Draco jumps at the sound. Its pitch is high and shrill, squealing like an unoiled door hinge. Potter startles beside him, his shoulders rising in a tense approximation of a shrug.

Oh, Draco thinks, because of course this would happen. He truly is living in his own personal hell. The sodding poltergeist.

“Potty and Malfoy, Peevsie sees!” The speaker grows louder, the treble of his voice reverberating through the air. “Student beasties, trying to kill each other again?”

Peeves. His tone is annoying and singsong, grating against Draco’s eardrums. It makes him yearn for Pansy’s whine.

“Merlin,” Potter swears, scrambling to tear the map out of Draco’s hand. “Now is really not the time — ”

Draco fumbles as Potter snatches the parchment, nearly tearing it. He hurries to shove it into his robes, but before he has it tucked away, Peeves materializes above them. “What’re you hiding, Potty wee lad? Sneaking about again, are we?”

“Go away, Peeves,” Potter warns, fingers tight around the map. “We’re in class right now.”

“Doesn’t look like class to me. Should call ickle Filchy on you, I should,” Peeves’ hat flops as he swoops through the air, becoming level with Draco’s shoulder. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Wait, Peeves — ” Potter shifts to shove the parchment deep into his robe, but Peeves moves at a speed that only comes with years of evading capture. He nabs the map with incredible precision, launching himself towards the ceiling with an unearthly cackle. “No!”

Potter’s aborted shout is followed by horrible laughter. Peeves disappears around the corner at the far end of the hall, stolen goods in hand.

Draco’s fingers curl into his palms. “Just our luck,” he spits. He turns to his partner, only to see Potter bolt down the corridor. “Wait, Potter!”

The Gryffindor doesn’t respond. He hurtles after the poltergeist, hair flopping like a godforsaken flag. Draco is left standing alone, the hem of his robes swirling in the breeze generated by Potter’s hasty departure.

Fuck. He wants to throw himself onto the floor. Merlin, fuck this. Everything is a colossal joke, and the world is conspiring against him. If Potter gets himself into trouble, Draco will be convicted of murder, or something equally embarrassing. He has no choice but to follow him.

Draco swears, kicking the stone inlay as he treads after him. His fists squeeze and unclench at his sides. He curses every single factor that played a part in landing him in this situation, starting with Harry Potter and ending with the Dark Lord himself.

There’s never a dull bloody moment, is there? Couldn’t conduct a simple incantation, no, that’s too much effort — Gryffindors and their horrid maps. Draco’s patience has worn spider silk-thin. Even outside of class he’s being tested, and frankly, he’s sick of it. If he’s going to end up in hell, he’d rather just be there already. He’s had his fill of awful poltergeists and homework assignments and Harry sodding Potter, thank you very much.

Draco’s shoes slap a rhythmic beat against the stone as he jogs, ignoring the portraits whispering on the walls. They watch the students race by with vague interest, and Draco knows by the end of the day, everyone in the castle will hear some demented story about the Malfoy heir chasing their precious Chosen One through the seventh floor corridor. He groans.

Potter’s already nearing the end of the hall by the time Draco reaches him, his robes billowing as if caught in a terrible storm. He reaches out to grasp Potter’s shoulder, only slightly out of breath, but the Gryffindor shrugs out of his grip. Draco’s hands drop to his sides.

“Potter, really — ”

“Don’t reprimand me,” Potter spits. He wheels around the corner as he speaks, all drama and performance. He skids to a halt, scowling when he sees the empty pathway. It’s sorely bereft of both Peeves and other students.

Potter glances back at him. He isn’t sheepish per se, but marinating in frustration. Distress would be the right word, Draco thinks. It’s an emotion he himself is very familiar with. 

“I need to get my map back,” Potter says, rubbing his arm. The movement is uncharacteristically hesitant.

His reluctance is almost enough to keep Draco from rolling his eyes. Almost. All this for a map? Really? He knows better than to say it’s just a slip of parchment, because even he has never seen a charmed map like it before; but in the grand scheme of things, it’s still a piece of paper. 

“You sodding moron,” Draco settles on, which is a kinder address than his initial thought. “We have an assignment to finish.”

“Who cares?” Potter throws his hands in the air. His eyes are bright and angry behind his glasses. His skin flushes with color, darkening his cheeks to a deep bronze. “To hell with Flitwick’s bloody assignment! That map belonged to — it’s — ”

He pauses, gasping for breath. Potter’s fiery gaze falls to the ground. “It’s,” he tries again. His shoulders tremble, although with fury or anguish, Draco can’t tell. “It’s important to me.”

Merlin. And people like to call Slytherins dramatic? All this for a map, indeed.

A retort creeps up on Draco’s tongue, sharp and lashing. It sits there, just on the edge, but he doesn’t open his mouth. Potter’s biting his lip, his hands bunching in his robes. There’s a desperation to him that doesn’t really fit his person, like it’s an oversized spirit trying to squeeze into his lanky frame.

He looks young, Draco realizes. It’s a childish tantrum borne of feelings nobody but Potter can parse. His skin is smooth and unmarked save for his scar, his eyes cast toward the floor. Draco often forgets they’re fresh out of childhood, both of them; although Harry Potter fought the Dark Lord and won, he’s only eighteen.

It’s important to me.

Draco wonders what it possibly could be. Something so precious that he whines about it, like a bloody plush toy. Something important. 

For the first time since Potter volunteered to work with him, he falters. His lungs swell behind his ribs, making it difficult to breathe.

They’re both just people. Children thrust into battles they shouldn’t have had to fight and learning spells they shouldn’t have needed to cast. There’s no love lost between the two of them, surely. Draco still has white scars marring his chest, and he’s certain Potter has no shortage of his own.

The revelation comes as less of a surprise than anticipated: the sight of his longtime rival downtrodden doesn’t elate him anymore.

Ugh. Well, let it never be said that Draco is a cruel person. There’s a difference between being a selfish prat and reigniting a war. He’s come to understand his own faults, thanks.

Draco clears his throat. “Well, all right.”

Potter’s gaze shoots up so violently that it surely gives the poor bloke whiplash. Draco ignores the stunned look that plasters itself across his face. Even he can’t believe what he’s saying, after all.

“I suppose we’ll never finish this assignment if you don’t get it back,” Draco concedes. In his burgeoning embarrassment, he focuses very hard on the other end of the hall. What lovely masonry it is. Really spectacular. “How about we find Bones, and explain to her we can’t escort her back to the classroom, but can she please tell Flitwick that we found her, and — ”

Potter makes a disagreeable noise. He shakes his head, his eyes still wide. “I can’t.” Panic colors his tone, a flavor like lemon zest and bitterness. “Who knows what Peeves will do with the map in that time? I need to get it back now.”

Draco’s patience dribbles out quickly, like water down a drain. Expecting him to deal with this is unreasonable. 

“What would you have us do, then?” He snaps, straightening to his full height. He has several inches on Potter, which still satisfies him to no end. “We can’t parade around the school all day, looking for your bloody map!”

“I never asked you to come with me,” Harry counters.

Then what? Leave Draco to face Flitwick himself? To drag a disillusioned Susan Bones back by the arm? He makes a face, lips curling with derision.

“You really expect to track down a sodding poltergeist?” Draco spits, brows drawn together at a sharp angle. “Are you a priest? An exorcist?”

Harry’s forehead furrows. “No — ”

“Don’t be stupid, Potter.” Draco isn’t sure how else to make him understand. Is he really this dense? “You’d have better luck killing the Dark Lord three times over.”

Harry levels him with a look, and the ice in his gaze freezes Draco’s veins. His voice is brittle, like wood chips and gravel. “Because you’d know anything about killing Voldemort.”

Oh. So that’s how it is.

The coldness of his tone makes the hair on Draco’s arms stand up. He summons his most venomous glare, pseudo-truces forgotten. Who gives a fuck?

“Fine,” Draco hisses. “Enjoy a failing grade and a shoddy piece of parchment, you idiotic — ”

Harry snarls, launching himself forward to grab Draco. “Listen, you — ” he cuts himself off as he stumbles, one hand braced on the windowsill, the other fisted in Slytherin robes.

“Let go of me,” Draco begins, but his words are lost as he feels an uncomfortable tug in his navel. It’s a disconcerting, vaguely familiar feeling. The insistent lurches make him ill. Brilliant! What a wonderful time to throw up.

An overwhelming surge of nausea sweeps him. His eyesight shifts and blurs, swirling into a kaleidoscope. Potter’s arm is the single anchor in a spiral of movement, and the seventh floor hallway fades around him.

Maybe Draco’s dead. In the process of dying? Who’s to say, really.

The room spins in a whirlpool of color. Draco’s feet are thrust out from under him, kicking into what feels like nothingness. There’s a sensation of falling, not unlike when he makes a mistake during Quidditch practice. The wild butterflies and sickening rush of air push through his body.

Draco catches a brief look at a cresting wave. He barely has time to process his thoughts — what is that — when it touches him. There’s a splash, and he’s enveloped in bitter cold.

Potter and Draco have been deposited into a frothy, spitting sea.

Water fills his mouth, striving to pull him down. It fills his throat, a burning, choking vice. The salt stings the insides of his cheeks, and it’s dark when he opens his eyes. Weak shafts of light penetrate the tossing ocean. It’s filtered green, like the Slytherin common room at dusk.

His first thought is of the lake.

Draco thrusts his legs, but his limbs are deadweights under the heaviness of his robes. He needs air or he will drown, he needs to get to the surface, to breathe — 

A shadow obscures his vision, and then a strong arm snakes around his midsection. Intense panic overtakes him. Kraken? Giant squid? How did they end up in the lake? Draco fights to remove himself, but the force drags them upward, kicking furiously.

They break the surface in unison. Draco coughs violently, and large globs of water spill from his lips. Potter — the owner of the arm — is in somewhat better condition, although his glasses are askew. 

Draco, Merlin help him, is greatly relieved he isn’t a sea monster. What the fuck.

Potter’s hair plasters his forehead, sticking to his lashes. He blinks through the water that dribbles from his brows. It speckles his glasses, giving the illusion of a fractured, spotted face. If they weren’t in immediate danger of death, Draco would call him a mockery of a Picasso.

“Bloody,” Potter croaks, shuddering at his side. He braces a hand on Draco’s bicep to keep them both afloat. “Hell.”

Draco sucks in several deep breaths, flinching at each shift in the tide. He sees nothing but Potter and the pointed caps of waves, bobbing them up and down like buoys. He frantically moves his arms and legs to tread water, heedless of Potter’s hand, but his robes are so heavy. It seems as though his pockets are laden with stones, when in reality they only hold his wand — 

His wand. Draco sputters and sinks below the surface again, rifling through his robes for the telltale touch of hawthorn wood. He’s jerked back above water before he makes any headway.

“Malfoy!” Potter pulls on his sleeve. It’s sticky and cold. “Do you want to fucking die?”

 Draco shoves him away with a string of expletives that would make even Weasley blush. “My — sodding — wand!”

“Hold still, you knob,” Harry coughs, grasping Draco’s wrist in a vice. “You have a death wish, I think.”

And it’s Draco’s turn to be stubborn, because he shakes his head and wonders how deep the water is, if it’s possible that it fell when they crashed into the sea. “I need my wand.”

“We need to get the fuck out of the water — ”

“Which we can do with a wand!” Draco sounds hysterical. His voice is hoarse in his aching throat, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I have a wand,” Potter counters, squeezing Draco’s arm as he tears at his own robes. “It’s in here somewhere, I just — Merlin, fine,” Potter detaches himself from Draco and squints at him. “Don’t go killing yourself. I’ll be right back.”

He dives before Draco can respond. The water swallows him in a greedy gulp, and a flurry of bubbles rises to the surface in his place. The abrupt quiet without stuns Draco, and amid the dark clouds and roiling sea, he suddenly feels very alone.

Potter.

The long moments drag into minutes, and Draco struggles to stay afloat. His skin prickles with anxiety. He becomes fairly certain Potter died, cast away in the freezing ocean. Merlin, this is not the Hogwarts lake — this is anything but. It’s a great, salty mess.

How can Draco get out of this one? It’s not like he wanted him to drown. He didn’t tell him to dive!

Draco’s visualizing how he’ll explain to the Wizengamot that he had nothing to do with it, how Potter was just being stupidly heroic, nothing new there — 

The surface of the water breaks and Potter appears, spluttering. After the initial shock, Draco nearly weeps with relief. Here he is, alive. He stubbornly rises from below with his stupid sea-slicked face and hair, all mangled beyond belief. Potter’s verdant eyes are still bright with life, and oh, Merlin and Morgana both.

Draco’s absolutely not thrilled about his wellbeing. Certainly not. He won’t go to Azkaban after all, what an improbable joy!

“Here,” Potter spits out salt, sounding groggy. He reaches out to grasp Draco, then extends his other hand. Draco’s wand is clutched in his fist, bent at an odd angle.

“It was like this when I found it,” Potter murmurs, downcast. The water sloshes around his neck. “Sorry.”

Draco doesn’t foist Potter off. He takes the splintered wood, and the hawthorn prods the skin of his palm. Light swirls of unicorn hair cling to the shaft, clearly broken out of its core.

It’s the second time Potter has returned his wand to Draco in as many years, although it’s the first time he’s been gifted something so broken. He wants to throw it, or bury it in a ritualistic fashion. Draco wants to scream.

He pockets it, mute.

Potter looks like he expects Draco to argue. Faced with silence, he blows out a breath, then tugs him forward.

“Listen,” he says, conspiratorial. “The water isn’t that deep.”

Another wave rolls over them, dousing their heads as if to oppose his point. Half of Potter’s face is covered by his soaked fringe, and Draco wonders if his own hair looks as terrible as he feels.

“Well,” Draco rasps. He sort of wishes he’d just drown already rather than endure this misery.

“It’s — it’s not deep,” Potter insists. “It’s twenty feet, tops. There’s a slight incline along the floor,” he points to the east, his finger trembling with cold. “The shoreline is that way.”

Draco follows the direction with his eyes. If he kicks his legs and squints, he rises just enough over the waves to see a beige crust of beach. It’s a small inlet, sandwiched between sheer cliffs, as if some god had taken a rock hammer and chipped off a single square of land.

Draco’s heart thuds in his chest. His body is numb, stricken with a deep, impenetrable cold. They need to get out.

“We can,” he gurgles, barely able to speak. He dips his head in a weak nod. “We can get there.” 

They’re both drained, sapped of energy by the unrelenting sea. Draco feels himself sink a little further down. Potter pulls him up, blinking slowly at his side. “Yeah.”

All right. We can do it.

Draco surges forward, tugging Potter along. He doesn’t think about how strange it is to think of himself and Potter as “we,” he only considers each stretch they traverse. His feet are clunky as he kicks, but he can’t lose his shoes — they’re dragon-leather, for Merlin’s sake — so he just keeps moving.

The tug of the tide grows weaker just a few short strokes toward land. They move in tandem, each picking up the slack wherever the other falters. Draco’s teeth chatter, rattling around his skull like Gobstones. He passes a glance at Potter, noting the sallow tinge to his cheeks. If he’s any example to go by, then Draco’s pale lips are probably blue.

Here’s your exercise in teamwork, Flitwick, he thinks sourly. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin drowning together.

The shore seems impossibly far, but after a few minutes of swimming, the tip of Draco’s shoe brushes the ocean floor. He gasps, pushing aside the water with his arms like an exuberant infant. Both of his feet press into the wet sand, and it feels like a lifeline. The water tickles his neck, swirling around his ears, but he’s standing.

For once, Draco has little to complain about.

Potter isn’t as tall as him, so he treads further forward. His eyes shutter and he fumbles in the waves, but he stands vertically. His head stays above water, so Draco assumes he can reach the floor.

They push through the last few yards of churning ocean. When Draco’s shoulders and waist break the surface, he whimpers. The ceaseless pull of the water retreats, pouring down his back in rivulets. It’s like stepping out of the shower, if the shower was vile and decorated with seaweed. 

Draco’ knees buckle as he emerges from the sea, a hideous, bedraggled Venus. He collapses in a sodden heap.

Ouch, he thinks, or says. He’s not sure he can control his thought to speech function.

Potter isn’t far behind him. He can’t reach Draco as he falls, but he rushes forward anyway. The attempt at rescue is nice, Draco muses, even as he hits the sand. An errant shell slices through his white cheek, and the redness of the blood looks almost fake in the dull light.

“Eugh,” Potter grunts, lifting Draco with his seemingly limitless strength. “Come on.”

“‘M not that heavy,” Draco says into the ground. Sand granules bury themselves into his lip and the rest of his poor, wretched face. “Don’t need to groan so much.”

“Pick your battles, Malfoy,” Potter intones, and drags him across the dirt.

He’s probably enjoying this, the tosser.

Draco’s legs carve crevices in the sand, shallow ruts like a carriage wheel. Potter drops him after they’ve retreated a safe distance from the ocean. The tides still reach for their feet, whispering past their ankles, but they pull no further.

The ground is loose and uneven, the furthest reaches crested with dunes. Sharp stalks of beachgrass ripple over the tallest of them. They wave in the breeze in a mockery of a greeting.

I’m alive, he realizes. The revelation makes him feel somewhat hysterical. 

The sensation of dry land has never been greater, and Draco’s aching body sinks into it. Salt stings the cut on his cheek, lingering in his lashes. He squeezes his eyes shut, both with pain and exhaustion. Behind his lids, a stark grey sky roils with the threat of rain. 

Potter flops down at his side. A puff of sand rises as he falls, and Draco shifts to squint at him. He’s hazy in the mist, blurred into the drab background. His robes cover him in a literal wet blanket, and his hands are encrusted with beach matter. Potter huffs a breath, meeting his gaze. The brightest thing on the beach, Draco thinks, are his eyes.

He immediately hates himself for it. Fuck that.

Draco struggles to distract himself with literally anything else, but their situation hasn’t improved much. With the immediate threat of drowning gone, he considers how in Merlin’s name they got here. He immediately suspects Potter, although he’s also soggy and half-dead, and that wouldn’t be Draco’s own modus operandi in an assassination attempt.

He could be giving Potter too much credit. Perhaps it was Weasley, or a fucked up twist on Flitwick’s exercise? The sand grates on Draco’s chin as he moves to look around. Then where is everyone else? 

He runs through the possibilities in his head, remembering the strange twinge in his stomach as the seventh floor corridor swirled away.

Potter had side-along Apparated him. He’d been planning to get him alone and murder him, to finally be rid of filthy Draco Malfoy — but no. That’s impossible. Not only because Potter is heroic to the point of stupidity, but because the wards at Hogwarts prevent Disapparition.

Then how?

A whisper prods at the back of Draco’s mind. His last lingering tendril of logic, pushing to make itself known, says Portkey.

“Portkey,” Potter gasps, echoing Draco’s thoughts. 

The sand beneath them crunches as Draco tenses. He glances at Potter with some difficulty, arching his neck at an awkward angle. The Boy Who Lived looks ready to pass out.

“I must’ve, erm,” Potter trembles, his fringe still sticking to his brow. Liquid beads his glasses and renders them difficult to see through. There seems to be a crack in his lens. “Must’ve touched a Portkey on the window ledge.”

It’s a surprisingly insightful analysis for a Gryffindor, Draco must say. He says as much, and it earns him a weak fistful of gritty mud to the face.

“I don’t understand it though,” Potter admits, flopping onto his back again. He lays there, chest heaving. “Why the stones on the sill are enchanted is beyond me.” 

“Mhm,” Draco agrees. Part of him feels distinctly homicidal, and he wants to reach over and strangle him. A Portkey, honestly. It’s so typical of stupid Potter to find one and drag Draco along. Of course they would be paired up and discover a rogue, forgotten teleportation device. Of course.

The other part of him — the greater part, maybe — is preoccupied with the fact that they’d almost just drowned, and it seems he owes Harry Potter for saving his life. Again.

“Brilliant,” Draco coughs. It summons up another barrage of water from his lungs, which he spits out in disgust. His lips twist, pulling the facial muscles so his cheek stings. Wholly, he’s fairly brassed. “I sort of hate you.”

Potter sighs. The sand beneath his head squelches as he nods in agreement. “Brilliant.”

For a moment, the only sounds that stretch between them are their breaths and the rumbling of the ocean. It would be peaceful if Draco were dreaming, perhaps. Not that he has or ever will dream about Harry Potter.

Not in a million years.

It isn’t all terrible. In the grand scheme of things, Draco supposes it could be worse. He could be marooned with Weasley, in which case he probably would’ve settled for drowning.

“My wand,” Potter recalls, sitting up with a sudden jerk. He sways as he moves, waving like a pennant. Draco almost wants to offer a hand in support, but he just declared his hatred of the man, and he isn’t maintaining complete control of his spastic muscles at the moment.

Stumbling to his feet, Potter palms his pockets. He digs through them, his face a mask of alarm. He removes two globs of seaweed and a rogue seashell from the folds of his robes before his expression changes. Draco knows exactly when he’s found it, because he relaxes, his eyes brightening.

Potter withdraws his wand with a flourish. A piece of kelp is draped across it, flopping around the grip. His lips curve into a soft smile. “Thank Merlin.”

“All right, yeah,” Draco waves a flippant hand. A flash of silver on his finger catches the sunlight, and he allows himself a moment of gratefulness that his ring didn’t fall into the sea. “Yours isn’t destroyed. Delightful.”

“I said I was sorry,” Potter’s expression sours. “It wasn’t even my fault.”

“Yeah, all right.” Draco says, moving his elbows to lean on them. “Now my oxfords and I would be much obliged if you’d get us off this terrible beach.”

“Don’t be such a toff,” Potter scowls, but obligingly raises his arm. He swishes his wand once, then twice.

A seagull calls in the distance, far over the water. The wind brushes clumps of Draco’s hair into his face. It’s all very poetic.

In the silence, Potter waves his wand again. He frowns as it does exactly nothing, sitting quiet and magicless in his palm.

“What are you waiting for?” Draco drawls. He swipes a hand through his tangled mane and only succeeds in decorating it with sand. “We haven’t got all day.” 

“I’m trying,” Potter snaps, tearing the seaweed away and throwing it to the ground. Draco wrinkles his nose at it.

Potter rubs his wand against his chest and lifts it again, his movements slow and deliberate. He traces the shape of a spell in the air, steady, and mutters something.

There’s the hush of magic in the air, thrumming beneath Potter’s skin. Draco can feel it from where he rests, that raw, incredible power of his; he easily recognizes it. He’s been around it for years, after all, the buzz and glow of a Chosen One powerful enough to defeat the Dark Lord. Harry Potter is unquestionably strong. 

When he waves his wand, there’s nothing. No shift in their coordinates, no disturbance in the air. The magic seems to move below the surface, like the sound of loud music blaring in another room. 

“That was anticlimactic,” Draco says, because it was. He can be as rude as he likes, as they’re still damp and stranded. Who will hear him here?

“It — ” Potter sucks in his lower lip, then glances at him. “It’s not responding.”

It isn’t the devastating blow Draco expects — not really. He’d suspected as much when Potter had failed his first attempt, but chalked it up to inadequacy. One can never be too hopeful, dealing with fools. Or Potter.

The revelation still fills him with worry, but it’s not a double-edged sword of both concern and shock, which is a bonus. He really can’t afford to sink into a state of unresponsiveness. 

I’m alive, he reminds himself. Existential dread is a sign that I’m alive.

“Well,” Draco means for his voice to come out barking, but he sounds afraid. “Isn’t that just wonderful?”

Potter taps the shaft of wood, his mouth pressed into a thin line. His brows have adopted the customary scrunch that’s becoming awfully familiar. “Maybe it’s waterlogged?”

“Waterlogged?” Draco repeats. “Waterlogged?”

He scoffs, because it’s his defense mechanism, damn it. He’s rapidly sinking into a state of panic, and if Draco isn’t poking fun at someone, how can he cope?

Potter shoots him a glare. “It could be,” he says, indignant.

“Please. It’s not a piece of Muggle technology.”

“I know that,” Potter’s chest puffs outward, presumably swollen with prideful rage. Typical. “I just — I don’t know why — ”

“Perhaps you cracked it when you snapped mine in two,” Draco says. It’s meant to be a joke, but it’s a real possibility. He’s still sensitive about the loss of his own, and the idea of damaging Potter’s fulfills some sick desire to make things even. As if Draco doesn’t already owe him enough.

Say something, he dares. He wishes Potter would rise to the bait; Draco’s itching for a fight, to show him exactly what he thinks of this shoddy situation, even if he can barely stand. Do something.

Potter narrows his eyes, but after a beat, he only sighs. “Stop being an arse, Malfoy.”

Potter turns away from him, leaving Draco to simmer in his pettiness. He stumbles a little further along the beach, swishing his wand the whole while. Draco can’t see his face, but he follows his movements; Potter traces their tracks, inelegant and sloping, as if someone had dragged a sled through the sand.

“We have a real problem on our hands,” he says. The proclamation is almost lost to the wind. 

It carries back to Draco, reaching his ears in a whisper. Potter’s words carry an undercurrent of anxiety, soft, but very much present. Draco snorts without humor. ‘Problem,’ doesn’t even begin to cover it; they’ve got a national sodding crisis to deal with. Harry Potter, missing with — with a former —

“Obviously,” Draco says. His voice comes out weaker than he’d like.

He can’t stop thinking about it. Harry Potter, and a former Death Eater. The rumors that spread will be incredible. Oh, they’ve really done it now.

It’s not like they’ve got many resources around them. Draco casts his gaze about: the crushed shells they’d obliterated as they’d crawled out of the sea; the prints of their shoes; the sopping wet piles of their discarded House robes. There’s a broken pincer of a crab resting unnervingly close to his fingertips. It’s vile. The whole beach smells like fish.

Potter has slumped forward, the tip of his wand pressed to his lips. He runs his fingers through his mess of hair. He’s tired — Draco can tell.

He fixes his attention on himself, studying his own sea-weathered body. Draco’s bespoke shirt sticks to him, nearly transparent. His trousers are little more than stockings, clinging to him. The cold pinches his skin — or perhaps it’s a crab.

They look, for all the world, like the first bloody creatures that flopped out of the oceans and made life on land. Draco wants to yell, or cry, or perhaps both. It would be so freeing. So wonderful to scream.

He restrains himself. “I don’t understand how we got here.”

Potter doesn’t look up from examining his wand, but he tilts his head. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“A rarity.”

“Hilarious, Malfoy, really.” Potter rolls his eyes, but his voice is quiet. “You’re a right jester.”

He appears contemplative, which is unsettling to watch. Draco knows he’s not actually daft; Potter just acts like it most of the time. In true Gryffindor fashion, he doesn’t think things through. He’s a real go-getter, that one. A go-getter, and an occasional fool. 

But Potter’s survived so long for a reason. He’s brave and smart enough, although the credit could be given to blind luck. 

Lottery winner, Draco thinks. 

Potter hums loudly. “I think,” he says, when his eyes widen. He pauses midsentence, and blinks. Once, and then twice. A realization.

When an explanation isn’t forthcoming, Draco loses his patience.

“What is it?” He demands, pushing himself upward. He can’t sit here and wait while Potter has strange beach epiphanies. What a waste of time! 

Potter shakes his head with a rueful laugh. “It was Fred and George.”

“The Weasley’s?” Draco cocks an eyebrow. He draws himself into a fully sitting position. “Is that it? They did something?”

Potter shakes his wand free of water. It still doesn’t respond, although the rush of magic curdles beneath his skin. 

“The twins,” Potter finally says, heaving a sigh. “They fought in the seventh floor corridor during the Battle of Hogwarts. They — ” he swallows, looking at Draco. It’s the most sheepish he’s ever seen him. “They told me about their defense mechanisms. I’d forgotten about the precautionary measures they’d taken, honestly.”

“‘Precautionary measures,’” Draco repeats, dubious. “‘Defense mechanisms’?”

Potter nods.

“A bloody — ” Draco sucks in a breath. “A bloody Portkey?”

“I’m afraid so,” Potter says, frowning. When he presses his lips together, they become a thin line. “They rigged a series of Portkeys around their position to warp some Death Eaters elsewhere.”

Ridiculous — so typical of them — Merlin’s beard!

His thoughts whisk by in a flash, and Draco exhales through his nose. All right, so that was a thing. It sounds like the foolhardy, useless strategy a Gryffindor would use. What are the odds that Bellatrix Lestrange would rest on a windowsill in the middle of a battle?

Draco braces his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose. When he speaks, his throat feels like he drank a gallon of seawater, which is probable. “Could’ve drowned us.”

At this, Potter grins. It’s a small, wry thing. “That was probably the point.”

Ah. Well, that’s true.

Draco hums, tilting his head back. The clouds above are ominous, congregating over their heads like spectators for some historic moment. It’s dim, without a sliver of distant blue to break the altostratus. It’s the sort of weather he’d love if he were at home, curled up with a cup of tea and his charms textbook. Alas — “Looks like rain.”

Potter casts his gaze to the sky. Meager shards of sunlight pierce the clouds, but it’s not enough to bring any warmth to their skin.

“Which brings us to the other problem,” Potter says. He looks back at Draco, offering him his hand. 

It’s a strange parallel. Draco finds himself thinking of their childhood, before they had Houses. Before they’d made friends. They’d both been on the train, both slinking into the Great Hall for the first time. There had been a handshake offered then, too.

Draco stares at it. This one feels like pity, and that’s never something he wanted. Never again.

He smacks Potter away, ignoring the sting of skin-on-skin. He shifts his center of balance to stand on his own. Draco’s legs tremble like the jelly he puts on his scones, and he digs his toes into the sand to steady himself.

“The weather,” he says, disregarding Potter’s frown. “It’s different.”

“It wasn’t raining at Hogwarts,” Potter agrees.

Wind rushes along the beach, drawing up salt in its streams. It stings the cut in Draco’s cheek and pulls at Potter’s drying curls, whipping errant strands into his eyes. The sheer cliffs frame them on each side, giving the illusion that their only escape is into the open air.

When he turns to Draco, Potter’s gaze reflects the color of the sea. “Where the hell are we?”

Chapter Text

They’re in Wales.

It’s discovered after a series of arguments leads Draco and Potter to a discreet trail between the cliffs. The way is marked by a sign that reads: Llwybr Arfordir Ceredigion — Ceredigion Coast Path. It also cheerfully directs them toward the towns of Parcllyn and Aberporth, a mere four and six miles away, respectively.

Draco is familiar enough with Welsh to read the sign without the translation. He had a brief stint with the language several years prior, which he eventually relinquished due to the unlikelihood of him ever spending extended amounts of time in Wales. And Welshmen speak English besides, so what’s it to him?

It begins like this:

The pair of them shamble toward the end of the beach, dragging their sodden robes like pheasants after a hunt. A rather imposing cliff side blocks them, its face sheer and crumbling. They’re blocked by a rather imposing cliff side. Loose pebbles clatter along the wall and dislodge larger rocks, as if to warn anyone stupid enough to try scaling it.

Potter is, predictably, stupid enough.

He grasps shallow holds in the stone, lifting himself onto a tiny ledge. There are too few perches to brace himself upon, so Potter stays clinging to his single handhold. He towers a staggering three inches off the ground.

“Wow,” Draco hums, and his surprise isn’t entirely feigned. It really is shocking; how little he’s climbed.

“Shut up,” Potter says without malice. “I’m working very hard.”

“I’m sure you are,” Draco sniffs. He’s not one to risk his life by trying for valor, no; instead, he passes the time industriously doodling in the sand. Draco depicts his own caricature succumbing to the throes of a violent ocean. It matches quite well with how he feels.

After his third attempt at scaling the cliff face fails, Potter steps down in a huff. He dusts his hands off on his trousers, already discolored and sodden. Sand lodges in the fabric like pilling on a jumper. Potter’s skin is red and raw; Draco imagines the gritty material exacerbates the irritation.

“Merlin,” Potter sighs, staring at his inflamed palms. He peeks through his fingers to see Draco sprawled out on the ground. “Great load of help you are.”

Draco says nothing. He assiduously completes his portrait in the sand, brushing off his index with a flourish. The artwork showcases him, posed theatrically underwater with little x’s marked in place of his eyes. Potter is a stick-figure of a bloke off to the side, the only evidence of who it’s meant to be indicated by a poorly drawn lightning bolt lancing across his forehead.

Draco thinks it’s a rather perfect rendition of their experience. He’d frame it if he could.

“Malfoy, if you don’t — ”

“If I don’t what, Potter?” Draco braces his hands on his knees, pushing himself to stand. “There’s nothing I can do! My wand is broken, and you’re not scaling that cliff,” his arms fly outward in a wild gesture that encompasses how savage he feels. “The way I see it, we’re stuck here.”

“You’re not even trying,” Potter scowls, which Draco supposes is a fair assessment. He’s not trying, because that would be stupid.

“You expect me to climb that horrid rock?” Draco nearly laughs. It’s a funny insinuation — gold, really. It would be funnier if they weren’t in immediate danger. “That heaping pile of petrified troll dung?”

Potter’s mouth twists. “It’s not impossible.”

He wants to believe him. Draco does, because if anyone is athletic enough to scale the bloody thing, it’s Harry sodding Potter. But the cliff is simply too tall, and without magic, they’re more likely to fall to their deaths. It’s just not plausible.

“Face the facts,” Draco says, a little softer. “This beach is abandoned, and we’re bloody fucked, so,” he casts his hand in the air, as if hefting a wine glass. “Cheers to drinking seawater for the rest of our sorry lives.”

A thoughtful moment stretches between them, thick with the joyous sense of imminent death.

“Our short sorry lives,” Potter suggests. He’s turned away from Draco, focusing his attention on a pebble that has detached itself from the cliff side. It clatters down the wall, embedding itself in the sand.

“Short sorry lives,” Draco repeats, allowing the amendment. “Delightful.”

Potter says nothing in return, although he kicks sourly at a shell. It hisses as it sails through the beachgrass, coming to a clattering halt against the rock face.

He supposes it’s for the best that he takes out his frustrations on the ground rather than Draco himself. As Potter romps with other inanimate objects in the sand, he turns away. There’s only so much Gryffindor foolishness he can handle in a short period, and to be frank, his patience has long been exhausted.

Draco shuffles to the opposite end of the beach, careful to avoid errant gravel tumbling down the cliff. He studies the tower of stone. It would be pretty if it weren’t so intimidating, all imposing and closed off. It’s laced with cracks, presumably from endless pounding sea spray. Little bits of green sprout from the top, a lasting farewell to summer as autumn rises.

“I cannot believe this is happening,” Draco sighs.

Potter, preoccupied with stomping on shells, doesn’t hear him.

Draco sweeps his gaze across the inlet again. It’s isolated. Cliffs bar three of its sides, and the ocean serves as an impregnable barrier itself. The tides tease the shoreline, murky, as the sea floor grows clouded with each sweeping wave. On either side of Draco, the rock faces slant downward at an oblique angle; he’s sure they could be scaled, but they appear to have fewer handholds than the sheer cliff.

There’s no shortage of sand and discarded beach matter surrounding him; the stretch of land is occupied only by sun-bleached debris, the tideline laced with bits of flotsam. If Draco were prone to optimism, he’d think it could be a lovely private vacation spot, aside from the fact that he will probably die here. 

Draco threads his fingers through his hair, squinting at the sloping cliff faces. It looks like there could be a gap in the rocks, maybe. It has a moderate enough incline that it could be climbed without risking life and limb, if luck is on their side. 

He moves closer, hopeful. It’s a slim break in the stone, hardly anything at all, but — “Potter!”

“We don’t have time for your grousing,” Draco calls, his stride growing longer in his excitement. He doesn’t turn to see if Potter’s following. “Get over here!”

The distant grumbling stops, replaced with shuffled footsteps coming up behind him. As Draco approaches the sloping cliff, he spies a small rise, not unlike a stair. His mouth quirks upward.

He was right. Of course he was — he’s Draco Malfoy. He’s found the path, and then it’s probably an easy walk to a beachside town, which will hopefully provide them with a fireplace to Floo.

As they get closer, the trail becomes more obvious. Draco’s embarrassed he didn’t see it sooner; it’s Potter’s fault for being distracting. If he hadn’t been defiling seashells and scaling walls, they’d have located it immediately, but no matter. The path is barely concealed, like the way one only has to squint for a moment to spot the Leaky Cauldron in all of its pathetic glory. 

The wind pushes him forward, and Draco allows himself a small smile. He’s found their escape.

The sign points them towards Parcllyn and Aberporth. They’re in the same direction.

“Parcllyn’s closer,” Potter observes, running his fingers along the smooth wood of the sign. He, like Draco, seems thrilled by the prospect of civilization. “We could get there before nightfall.”

“Do you know what time it is?” Draco asks, dry. 

“No, but I can hazard a guess.” Potter frowns, squinting at the cold, still-grey sky. The clouds seem about ready to break; it’s a miracle it hasn’t rained yet. “About three in the afternoon, I reckon.”

Draco’s lips become a firm line. Four miles isn’t much, but he’s not sure how far either of them can walk in their damp, bedraggled condition. They might collapse along the way. Or, well, Draco might collapse on the way – but they’re both former Quidditch players. They’ll manage.

Besides, the alternative is sleeping under that rotten cliff. Draco gets enough of people pelting things at him in the halls of Hogwarts; he doesn’t need pebbles from a rock face adding to those wounds. His pride won’t allow it.

“We should get going,” Draco says, eyeing the heavy overhang of grey. “I’ve suffered enough for one day; what’s four more miles?”

“Do you, erm,” Potter’s glasses fall down his nose. He rights them, casting a glance at Draco. “You don’t suppose they’ll have a public Floo somewhere?”

Draco’s face pinches. “If we’re lucky, which we haven’t been.”

Potter turns toward the road, or the rough approximation of one. It’s made of dirt, interspersed with gravel. A few rogue seashells scatter stylishly along the sides, showing the occasional presence of other humans.

“Well,” he pats the sign once more, tracing Parcllyn with his fingertip. “We’re about to find out.”

Four miles, as it turns out, is awful in waterlogged dragon-leather oxfords.

They’ve been walking for what feels like millennia, although Potter informs him it’s only been about an hour and a half. It doesn’t seem possible, not according to Draco’s blisters — the chafing against his ankles is bloody agonizing. 

Merlin’s beard, he swears, plodding along the road. His feet are about to fall off, and he doesn’t have any bandages or magic; his clothes are still sodden, his wand is broken, and he suspects he’ll be banishing sand from his body for the next year.

Draco’s never been more miserable in his life, and that’s saying something.

They trace their way through the winding countryside without so much as a breath from other people, Muggle or magic. The roads have been almost empty, but they encountered a lone vehicle once. The driver careened toward them so viciously Draco swears they were trying to murder him in cold blood. It all looked quite intentional, which only solidifies his theory that this is a great, evil plot. He’s lucky — or perhaps unlucky — to be alive.

Otherwise, the hills are quiet, rolling with autumnal colors. The landscape is barren, both of nature and of people. The dirt path has long since transformed into asphalt, hard-packed and black as pitch. It curves around the mounds like lava spill. The pregnant clouds on the horizon have receded somewhat, shifting from a grey to a half-blue sky. It’s the only blessing that’s been sent their way. If he strives to see beyond the grasses alongside the motorway, Draco can still see the sea.

He supposes it’s a safe enough area for him to sulk.

Potter is a few paces ahead of Draco, arms swinging. His sleeves flop, clinging to his robes. Potter’s gait is casual save for a slight limp; he probably cut himself on a seashell during his tantrum or something. Draco’s stumbling in his oxfords, though, and they both look like they were hit by a hurricane. He’s not in a position to judge.

“How much farther do you think it is?” Draco asks after a time. His voice pitches in a whine, but he doesn’t care either way. Any semblance of his dignity was lost the moment he fell into the sea.

“I don’t know,” Potter says, and Draco’s mood transitions from foul to abysmal. “Could be another half-mile,” he shrugs. “Could be more.”

“Brilliant,” Draco puffs, dragging his leaden legs forward. Years of Quidditch can only do so much for a person’s musculature, and most of his acquired skills require maneuvering in the air — not on foot.

“That’s assuming we’re already more than halfway,” Potter concedes. He chances a glance at Draco, whose expression is set in a deep frown. “Probably another two miles?”

I can’t take this. His feet hurt, his wand is broken, his shoes are ruined — Merlin. Draco’s been sentenced to a life of unending cruelty. He aches, and all of this is feeling very much like a large-scale prank. 

This is my karmic retribution, he thinks.

“This is horrific,” Draco stalks forward, matching Potter’s pace for the first time since they set out. “I’d appreciate it if you struck me down, right here.”

“Right here, right now?” Potter levels him with an exasperated look. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Absolutely,” Draco confirms, because anything is better than this misery.

“Sure,” Potter turns his gaze ahead once more. He gives a slight shake of his head, although his lips twitch, as if Draco’s trauma is amusing. “Has anyone ever told you you’re completely unbearable?”

Well, that’s a bit rude, but it’s not like Draco’s never heard it before; Pansy says it frequently.

“Yes, thank you.” he inclines his head, ever gracious. Denying it would be a lie, after all.

Potter releases a surprised bark of laughter. It’s big, echoing over the hills of yellow and green. “Insufferable,” his teeth flash. “The worst.”

The words needle Draco a bit, but he shoves his irritation down. Potter’s not wrong, exactly. He’s not right, either.

“Continue with your synonyms, please,” he sniffs. “I do love talking about myself.”

Potter grins. The brightness of it makes Draco wildly uncomfortable. “Terrible, Malfoy. You’re utterly punchable.”

“I dare you to try it,” Draco says, half-serious.

A wallop to the face would definitely bruise, but everyone knows the blame falls on whoever throws the first punch. A damaged cheekbone versus the ability to knock out Potter is something of a lose-win situation, really. Perhaps worth it, 60 percent of the time, and only when provoked.

If Draco’s going to fight, he doesn’t intend to start it. It would ruin both his shining reputation and his hair.

“Don’t tempt me,” Potter hums, shoving his hands into his many pockets. He kicks at a pebble on the roadside, and it tumbles off the asphalt and into grass. 

A surprisingly dismal reaction, Draco thinks, considering the invitation to knock out his lifelong rival. It had practically been presented to him on a platter!

“As much as I’d like to,” Potter continues, his tone tinged with vague amusement, “I probably shouldn’t.”

Good old Gryffindor. It would be funny if it weren’t so annoying. Perfect Potter.

“You can do no wrong, Golden Boy,” Draco counters. “Besides,” it slips out of him almost unintentionally, but the sentiment is undisputed. This is Potter he’s dealing with. “I’m fairly certain most people would think knocking me out is justified.”

Draco thinks that’s true, too.

Potter hums. It’s long and absent-minded, the familiar noise he makes when he’s thinking too hard for his tiny skull. Draco spares himself a moment of mortification for recognizing it.

“Well,” Potter intones. “I wouldn’t think so.”

I wouldn’t think so. High and mighty, ever flawless, absolute — 

“Pardon?” Draco coughs, his brows rising to his hairline. 

To his complete and utter surprise, Potter chuckles. Again.

“I don’t know what you think of me, Malfoy,” he glances over Draco. It’s a quick scan, his gaze switching from studying his face to the emblem on his robes. “But I’m not exactly how to get you.”

“I do not think that,” Draco says, half-offended at the insinuation. So what if he had automatically assumed this trip had been attempted murder? These circumstances are absurd. Could anyone blame him?

“Sure,” Potter says, unconvinced. He tosses his head back. The sky is still dim and bleak, but it frames him perfectly. Potter looks different in profile; less headstrong and more thoughtful, as if the clouds above fill his brain with fluff. 

Perhaps it’s only because Draco can’t see the sparks in both of his eyes, each one an individual flame to ignite something dangerous.

“I don’t,” Draco insists, content with clinging to his lie. There’s no way he’ll go about admitting it now, what with his pride on the line.

Potter makes an affirmative noise, like he doesn’t believe him but will let Draco take the win. It irks him supremely. He can almost hear the sarcasm rolling off Potter’s tongue, all smug and friendly and golden. 

Yeah, all right, Malfoy.

“I don’t think that,” Draco says again, mostly to himself. It’s a frustrated assertion, and therefore an unbelievable one. He’s sure Potter can hear him, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Anyway,” Potter says, offhand, “I don’t habitually… Beat people. I don’t think that would reflect well on me.”

Draco pauses. “‘Reflect well on you’?” How could anything not?

“The, er,” Potter tears his attention away from the sky. He rubs the back of his neck a little awkwardly, and his hair gets mussed at the contact. “The Wizengamot and the papers, you know.”

Ah. His fame. His flawless, never-ending hero record. Figures.

“Oh, do shut up,” Draco snorts. It’s ugly and humorless; he does little to conceal the tinge of bitterness that colors his voice. “Obsessed with being perfect, are you?”

Potter’s half-smile is replaced by something like a grimace. A cousin to one, maybe. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d — excuse me?” Draco’s gaze narrows, sharp. Pointed. “Are you denying the obvious? You’re Harry Potter, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Ah, er,”  Potter spares him a glance. It’s brief and hardly telling; Draco can’t discern the emotion obscuring his face. “I suppose. I don’t much like to think about it.”

Draco pauses his verbal assault, perplexed by his response.

He’s not daft — he’s not, no matter what his past suggests. Draco understands the situation Potter grew up in, and well. In fact, Harry Potter is one of the few people Draco thinks — or thought — he had a genuine grasp on. He watched him for years.

He’s seen Skeeter ambush him; he chortled and scorned the never-ending headlines of The Prophet at meals and in his dorm. Draco knows Potter flinches from cameras like they’re weapons. Entitled people shoving into his face, pleading wishes Potter could never give — of all wizards, Draco understands the discomfort of being the subject of national coverage.

It had simply never occurred to him that all the attention Potter receives is unwanted.

Draco wasn’t the only one who thought he’d rigged the Goblet of Fire fourth year, after all. Fame and fanfare is quite the addiction. He didn’t think one could tire of being an evangelical savior, but then, he wouldn’t know.

Strange, Draco thinks. His initial assumption was that post-war Potter is different, but perhaps he’d always been a little off about him. It’s not a revelation he welcomes.

Before Draco opens his mouth to make another jab, he catches a glint of something on the horizon. At the top of the hill, a light flashes. It’s almost like the glare from the sun. He squints until the object peaks in the distance.

“Fuck,” Draco says, both internally and externally. A Muggle vehicle comes barreling towards them at a breakneck pace, soaring down the hill with all the control of Longbottom’s spells. He throws himself away from the road in a panic.

Potter doesn’t join him. Instead, he sticks his hands into the air and waves them, heedless of his oncoming doom. As the machine — a car, Draco’s brain supplies — accelerates, Potter shambles closer to the divider between the asphalt and grass. Draco half-expects him to jump in front of the bloody thing, because why else would one willingly be near such a metal nightmare?

Upon seeing Potter’s frantic movements, the man behind the wheel slows. Draco heaves what he hopes is a quiet sigh of relief. No manslaughter today, then. 

He moves to join Potter as the automobile approaches them at a more agreeable pace. It coasts to a gentle crawl, the vehicle purring along the road like a pleased cat. When he reaches their side, the man in the window presses a button, and the glass slides down. It disappears into the door, revealing a burly, friendly looking face. He smiles at them from within, his mouth obscured by what is truly a regrettable beard, and Draco takes an unconscious step back.

The man says something in Welsh, but it’s entirely lost on Draco. His lips are impossible to read beneath the veritable carpet of hair. He wonders how he eats.

“Erm, sorry,” Potter, ever the brave, moves forward. He frowns apologetically. “Excuse me — sorry, could you direct us somewhere?” 

The man gives what appears to be a wide smile. Draco supposes it’s meant to be welcoming, but it does little besides scare him out of his wits. 

“Not a problem,” the man nods, presumably to himself. His voice lilts, carrying a slight accent. “D’you need help?”

Potter, the daft cretin, grins. “Um, yes. We’re looking for a town, or,” he stumbles over his words a bit, nervously pinching the hem of his robes. It occurs to Draco how strange they must look then, like bedraggled cultists who ditched a meeting. “Maybe a place to get an old car?”

“Yes,” the man continues to nod, dipping his chin deeply. Draco can’t imagine the strain on his neck, what with the weight of the beard. “You’re going the right way. Beddow Car Dismantlers is further up the hill.” He points to the direction he came from.

“Brilliant,” Potter says. He turns toward the road, shifting, as if standing on his tiptoes will reveal the junkyard. “How long of a trip?”

“Not too terrible,” the man’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “But longer on foot.”

“Afraid we’ve got to walk,” Potter says amiably, and he pats the car door as if it were an animal. “Thanks for your help.”

The man blinks, then gestures towards the backseat. “I can take you, if you’d like.”

Draco stares, then passes a quick glance at Potter. The same emotions Draco’s feeling flicker across his companion’s face before settling on faint surprise. His gaze remains trained on the man, who presses another button. The vehicle doors release with a click.

“Oh,” Potter says, clearly out of his depth. “Um.”

A strange mix of dread and hopefulness battle for dominance in Draco’s gut. On one hand, this is a strange man. He seems kind enough, but who’s to say what you can expect from Muggles? Nothing but a tragic lack of magic.

On the other hand, Draco’s oxfords have seen better days, and they have very little support for his arches.

Well, Draco thinks, a little nervously. He nudges Potter with his elbow. I’ll probably collapse soon, anyway.

“We haven’t got any money,” Potter finally says. A faint blush darkens his cheeks to a warm bronze.

Oh. That’s right. Muggles like their strange money just as much as his family does. Draco scuffs the toe of his shoe on the pavement. He should’ve considered their monetary situation before he catapulted headfirst into accepting help from bearded strangers; just because he has whiskers doesn’t make him Father Christmas.

“Don’t worry,” the man’s expression remains open. “I’ll take you; you don’t need to pay. Come on in,” he reaches for the backseat. “I’m Arthus.”

Potter pauses, passing a glance at Draco. They exchange a wordless conversation, something that Draco suspects goes a bit like, Do we trust him?

Draco says, No, but I also don’t trust you.

You’re a wanker, Potter replies. 

“Right, then.” Potter turns back to Arthus, pasting a genial smile on his face. His cheek dimples. “Thank you, Arthus. I’m Harry, and this is Draco. We appreciate your help.”

Draco stiffens at the casual use of his given name — when was the last time Potter said it? — but Arthus just inclines his head. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” he says. He seems harmless, if a bit sea-weathered. The edges of his mustache curve upward.

Potter sidles toward the door. He glances at Draco once, his gaze skittering over his soiled state. “What do we have to lose?” He murmurs. He climbs into the backseat of the car, locking himself in place with a strange belt.

“Just our lives,” Draco grouses, and this is the worst idea ever. He cannot believe he’s going along with it.

Potter is only marginally more sane than a Cornish pixie, and they may very well die. How many near-death experiences can a person have in a day? It’s all very Rapture-like. Draco hates this.

Whatever, he thinks. If we’re going to die on this road, it might as well be in a car.

Arthus grins at him, expectant. Draco steps into the car.

Despite Draco’s initial hesitation, Arthus does not murder them.

They enjoy what should have been a pleasant ride through hills, but Draco spends the entire time clinging to his seat. The rumbling of the vehicle sends tremors up and down his spine, and his stomach has taken up permanent residence in the lowest part of his abdomen.

Arthus makes the occasional remark about the coast, to which Potter responds in kind. A little box beside the steering wheel pumps out soft tunes from its speakers, and Draco is surprised to find he doesn’t hate it. Celestina Warbeck monopolizes every Wizarding Wireless station, and he’s had enough of her overflowing cauldron of love, or whatever.

Besides his discomfort, the drive is very underwhelming. It’s not nice, but it’s fine, and Draco wonders when his life became so fucked that he began expecting his imminent death.

Potter prods him about halfway through their ride. It hits the wrong spot in Draco’s side, exacerbating his motion sickness. He releases a small groan.

“Oh, sorry,” Potter leans forward, scanning the greenish pallor of Draco’s skin. He’s a little too close, all curious and well-meaning. The discomfort in Draco’s gut worsens. “Malfoy. Are you going to be sick?”

Draco wishes he didn’t have to answer. He feels so ill that he imagines he looks like a merman from the lake. “No,” he croaks, and immediately presses a palm to his lips. 

Potter blinks, then he leans over Draco’s lap, pushing a button on his side door. The window sails downward. It’s crisp, flavored with sea salt.

“Breathe,” Potter advises. 

Draco shoots him a glare that he hopes says ‘obviously,’ before he rests his head in front of the cool torrent of air. It buffets his face, and he inhales sharply. The rough wind is oddly calming for his roiling stomach.

Potter retreats to his own seat, his attention returning to the rolling countryside. The silence is broken by Arthus.

“So, you’re close friends?” As he speaks, he meets Draco’s glare in the rearview mirror. “A couple?” 

The question is posed far too casually for its magnitude. Draco nearly expels all of his internal organs in shock. His traitorous gaze slips to Potter, who has turned a violent shade of red. He shakes his head, quietly embarrassed. 

Um. The nerves surge beneath Draco’s skin, and oh, he’s definitely going to be sick now. He can’t take the awkwardness. It’s all he can do to not die on the spot. He thinks of his long-forgotten compendium and adds “Arthus” to the list.

A beat of silence passes, and Draco coughs up a word. “We’re not,” he forces, and neglects to elaborate. It doesn’t matter — the answer to both of Arthus’ questions is a resounding no. 

He refuses to look back at Potter, whose eyes seem to flare an even more vibrant green when he’s flushed. 

“Oh, I see,” Arthus laughs, and wow, rude. Draco considers throwing himself out of the car, but he isn’t sure if Potter would follow.

Actually, he doesn’t want Potter to join him. Why in Merlin’s name would he?

“Apologies,” Arthus smiles again as he studies them. The whole of his face is bright, even with half of it covered by his beard. His gaze is expressive, cornered by laugh lines and honest kindness. His curiosity is almost impish, as if he knows something they don’t. “My mistake.”

“Indeed,” Draco huffs. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the trip.

Arthus deposits them in Llandysul. He pulls up outside of a sad-looking parking lot cluttered with equally tragic vehicles. A sign slung over a chain-link fence reads: Beddow Car Dismantlers, along with a slew of other notices. A note in bold yellow shouts warnings about trespassing and CCTV, but Draco doesn’t know what that is, so he can’t be bothered.

According to the listed hours of operation, they’re closed. 

Potter gives Arthus profuse thanks before the man leaves, and the pair of them turn to the lot. The smile falls from Potter’s face. He doesn’t look at Draco as he asks, “I don’t suppose you know how to hot-wire a car?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what that means,” Draco says honestly. His face still feels warm after Arthus’ comment, and he has trouble meeting Potter’s eye. 

Potter sighs. He trudges forward, scanning the fence line. “It says they have CCTV, but there are no cameras,” he mutters. His commentary is like Welsh to Draco, which is to say he understands none of it. “What’s with the scare tactics? It’s a junkyard.”

“Strange, right?” Draco agrees blandly. He really feels quite clueless.

Potter studies the gate for a moment before he removes his wand from his robes. He tentatively reaches forward to touch the metal fence with it. It taps against the chain-link with a quiet tap.

Draco isn’t sure what Potter expected, but when nothing happens, he grins.

“Lucky,” he says. “Not electric.”

Draco begins to make a comment about how no one in their right mind would consider this situation to be lucky, but his words die in his mouth as Potter moves closer. He watches in mute horror as the Gryffindor grabs a full fist of the fence and hoists himself up.

It’s the cliff face all over again. Draco can’t do this.

Potter peers at him over his shoulder, breathless. “Come on, then.”

“Have you ever driven, erm,” Draco eyes the vehicle with distaste, “a thing like this before?”

The machine in question is parked before him, a striking, offensive red against the gravel. It’s faded and blotchy in places that suggest wear or, possibly, attacks from a large animal. Dents litter the boot, and the glass in the front is laced with a veritable latticework of cracks. It advertises itself as a Vauxhall Cavalier.

Draco thinks it looks more like a torture device.

“Dear Merlin,” he mumbles, rubbing his temples. He suddenly feels very faint. “I wish we had a bloody broom.”

Potter dismisses his skepticism with a wave of his hand. “I’ve driven once or twice,” he says, which doesn’t inspire a vote of confidence. Draco feels significantly worse. “The mechanics of it are simple enough.” He points at himself. “Muggle-raised, remember?”

“How could I forget,” Draco says. He means to come across as wry, but the echo of his own voice in his ears sounds uncomfortably like his pre-war self. A little too snarky, just tiptoeing over the line between sarcasm and bigotry. He snaps his mouth shut.

The path of morality is a yet unexplored route in Draco’s experience, but he’s working towards it. He doesn’t think of blood purity; not after people were torn down in front of him and beneath him. The color stains his memories. They all bleed the same.

Potter doesn’t seem bothered by the turn their conversation has taken. He shrugs, nonplussed, and swings himself into the Vauxhall. The door moans on its hinges, indignant at being manhandled. Potter clearly has no respect for the dead.

They’ve fiddled with several of the cars in the lot for the better part of the last two hours. Despite Potter having little to no experience with the machines, he’s gutted this one, toying with the wires on the underside of the dashboard.

We’re bound to become cannon fodder, Draco thinks. It’s quite the volatile way to go out.

They plan on taking the blasted thing. There’s no way to sugarcoat it — Potter says it’s unlikely this particular vehicle will be missed given its sorry state, and for once, Draco is inclined to agree. 

“You’ll get us both blown to smithereens once the bloody thing starts,” he issues the warning a third time, but the Gryffindor bastard steadfastly ignores him. 

Potter situates himself in the driver’s seat. “Even Ron drove a car,” he frowns. “Although that’s not an experience I’d like to relive.”

Draco’s mouth parts in surprise. “He has?”

Well, he’s not very keen on it, but if it’s something the Weasel could do, surely Draco can handle this Muggle contraption. He grasps the handle of the passenger door. It opens with a discomforting creak, and he slides onto the beaten leather.

“Yeah,” Potter dips his head, worrying his lip. He shifts around some metal stick in the middle of the console. Its shape is that of a turkey leg. “Second year.”

Second year?

“Second year?” Draco’s splutters, echoing his incredulous thoughts. His eyes trace the inner mechanisms of the car. It’s all plastic buttons and exposed wires and, frankly, nothing more than a glorified oil can. It screams fire hazard.

Weasley drove one of these? Merlin’s beard.

“You mean to tell me that Muggles learn to operate these death traps at — what, twelve years old?”

“Nah. These were, erm, extenuating circumstances.” Potter clicks his tongue. “We — yes!” He interrupts himself to celebrate as the vehicle responds to his fiddling. It elicits an unearthly groan, moving forward in a gut-wrenching lurch. There’s a clunking sound under the bonnet that’s frighteningly reminiscent of Exploding Snap.

Draco grips the edges of his seat, his fingers buried deep in the rotten foam as Potter slides in beside him. He kicks his feet around on the floor, stepping on a tile embedded in the carpet. The Vauxhall stops moving with a disconcerting lunge.

“Ah, um,” Potter passes Draco a sheepish glance. “We took the car illegally. Ended up causing a right mess of things, actually.”

“Do you,” Draco wills himself to breathe. This is already so much worse than Arthus’ automobile. His face has gone whiter than its usual paleness, and his hand flutters to his lips in case he expels his breakfast. “Do you commandeer every vehicle you come across?” 

Potter scowls. Draco supposes the memory of it isn’t exactly fond, but not too terrible, either. Weasley was involved, and Potter’s ever so loyal to the pillock. Draco takes a moment to think.

Second year. What does he remember from second year? A basilisk, dueling club, a devastating lack of expulsion for Weasley and Potter both — 

Draco’s eyebrows lift as Potter’s comment clicks in his brain. “The Whomping Willow?”

Potter nods, his expression pulled into a mockery of solemness. “The same.” Green eyes flick to meet silver, a hint of a smile. “You got a kick out of it, I recall.”

Draco swallows. He decides not to dignify the half-arsed jab with a response. Potter begins to maneuver the vehicle out of the lot in awful jerking movements, and Draco fears if he opens his mouth, he’ll decorate the interior with digested eggs and bacon.

The air reverberates between the roadside barrier and the shell of the Vauxhall, echoing like a cacophony of terrible angels. They hiss and spit, a mix of tone-deaf howling accompanied by the spin of rubber tires.

Draco, skin pulled taut and nearly transparent over his knuckles, sits in the passenger seat with the expression of a man who has resigned himself to his fate.

After the war, he always thought he’d be ready for death when it came. Evidently not.

It’s not that he wants to, but if he is going to die, he thinks perhaps the underbelly of a hippogriff would at least provide a more comfortable ride. Those accommodations would include down feathers and if he’s lucky, less metal shards that promise impalement. This Muggle death trap holds none of these luxuries. None. 

It only serves to further Draco’s former belief that non-magic folk are feckless cave dwellers with no regard for the sanctity of life. But then, he hails from a family of inbreeding bigots, so he is perhaps not the best judge of holiness in everyday practices.

He’s the worst judge, actually.

Lying to himself has done little for him thus far, so he should stop before he embarrasses himself more than he already has. Stupid Potter and this bloody awful machine. Draco wants to file a complaint with the heavens for cursing him with such poor luck.

Why am I here, he wonders, hapless. How in Morgana’s name did I get here?

Potter, oblivious to his inner monologue, passes him a curious glance. Draco studiously ignores it, favoring the passing visage of the motorway. He lifts his shoulders, a minute defense mechanism, and refuses to look back. Doesn’t Potter have better things to do, like watch the godforsaken road?

For a while, they travel in silence. The sound of the car coasting over pavement fills the quiet, broken up by the occasional flashing of headlights.

Potter’s green gaze remains trained forward, occasionally switching to bore into Draco. Each time it happens, he straightens his spine, feeling very much like a museum artifact.

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to stare, Potter — er.”

Draco regrets the words as soon as they fall from his mouth. He’s choking, wishing he’d held them back, desperate eyes flickering to the boy at his side.

Potter just shrugs, his expression inscrutable. To Draco’s mortification, he doesn’t look surprised at being harangued about his tragically dead family. Is he so used to it? Is Draco such a predictably shitty person?

The yellow street lights cast Potter’s warm skin in an amber glow, like the sun refracted through a monarch’s wings. When he speaks, his voice is low. “No,” his mouth twists into a moue. “They didn’t.”

Draco doesn’t know how to respond. He’s an embarrassment, a great big one, and it’s one thing to throw petty insults at school, but this — he can’t imagine his mother would be proud of him now. Shaming a boy with dead parents, mocking him for it, even if he is — was — their enemy. 

The Boy Who Lived, whose family did not.

“Of course,” Draco says, stumbling a little. His throat bobs. “P-pardon me.”

“It’s all right,” Potter hums, even though it isn’t. 

The hush that falls over the car is unbearable, the tension so thick it could be sliced with a butter knife. Draco turns away, striving to cast his attention literally anywhere else. His gaze snags on his oxfords, kicked off by his feet. He suddenly finds them incredibly interesting. Wow, what wonder! What grace! They’re damaged, but the richness still shines through. What do they do to make the dragon-leather that color —

“You don’t have to tiptoe around me, you know.”

Potter’s tone is gentle when it comes. It could even be called friendly, but Draco winces. This is embarrassing. He’s embarrassing.

“Um,” he says, the epitome of eloquence. Draco had hoped to avoid a conversation of personal nature. He’s rather awful at it when jabs aren't involved. 

Potter takes his uncertainty as encouragement to keep speaking. 

“What I’m saying is,” he sucks in a breath. “Don’t feel you’re walking on eggshells on my behalf. This is an awkward situation. I get it.” Potter’s lips curve upwards. Draco tries not to trace their shape. “I’m not made of porcelain.”

A moment passes, undisturbed by the strain of polite speech. More Muggle death traps speed by, lights flashing in short bursts like aborted lumos charms.

When he finds his voice, it isn’t as snappish as Draco had expected. It’s soft, and a bit scratchy. He tries to project confidence, assurance, but thinks he just sounds sad. “I’m fully aware, Potter.”

Potter smirks. Draco realizes, somewhat belatedly, that he’s still staring at his lips. He tears his gaze away. “I mean, I know.” He swallows. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

He’s sincere, which makes it worse. Draco doesn’t know whether he deserves sincerity of any sort from Potter and his ilk. He doesn’t think so, if he’s being honest.

How did I end up here, he wonders again. The odd hands of fate, ever twisting, ever capricious.

Draco deigns not to reply. Anything he says could deteriorate the surprising kindness in Potter’s tone, and he isn’t sure he wants that.

Silence floods the space between them. It’s not the comfortable kind, exactly; it’s heavy, sloshing in the great canyons that crop up at each pause in the conversation. There’s nothing and everything to say, starting with an apology; but Draco is certain this time the cliff side is insurmountable.

He scrubs his hand through his hair, fingers twisting in ringlets of white-blond. Stop thinking about it, he pleads. Draco himself doesn’t even know what it is.

Potter glances at him again, for perhaps the fiftieth time. Draco wishes he wouldn’t. His brows are pressed together, scrunching his forehead. He looks confused, or vaguely amused, though Draco can’t for the life of him fathom why.

He startles when Potter broaches the quiet again.

“Um, anyway. I’m glad,” Potter looks away. Draco watches the lane markings reflect in his glasses, flickering by in white flashes. He is not staring. “That you’re not afraid to be yourself around me.”

If I were to truly be myself, Draco thinks, I’d have a meltdown at your feet. Probably. 

“Good,” he repeats, faint. He attributes his lightheadedness to spending too much time meddling with Muggle technology.

Potter nods, but doesn’t reply. His fingers tighten on the wheel.

Draco settles into his seat. His own vice grip lost some of its intensity throughout the conversation. He turns to study the street lights as they stream by in a blur. The rest of their hellish ride passes in silence.

They park at a rest stop along the endless stretch of motorway. It’s a quaint little place, advertising fast food in the daytime and likely serves as a rendezvous point for drug deals at night. The lot is vacant except for one other vehicle. 

Draco is intensely dissatisfied with his sleeping arrangements.

“Why don’t we stop at an inn?” He asks hoarsely. He needs water, or something laced with Pepper-Up potion. Potter does too, from the look of it.

The other boy’s warm complexion does nothing to obscure the purple crescents beneath his eyes. Draco’s question only serves to make him exasperated, and Potter levels him with a piercing, if tired, gaze.

“Because I don’t have any Muggle money on hand,” he speaks clearly, but the slur of exhaustion chases the tail end of each word, threatening to overtake him. “Do you?”

Draco is undeterred by Potter’s logic. “Then what of a wizarding town? There’s a bloody hundred of them between here and Scotland.”

“Oh?” Potter raises a curious brow. The effect is diminished by his evident fatigue. “How d’you reckon we get there? Got a map, do you?”

Draco scowls, but the reality of their situation seeps into him, heavy as the ink in his skin. They’ve got little to no options. Potter is about to keel over, and Merlin knows he can’t drive this metal contraption. He must — oh, bloody hell — compromise. What a terrible thing.

“No,” Draco acquiesces. It pains him greatly. “I suppose not,” he throws a hesitant glance around the lot. “But are we meant to sleep here?”

Potter squints through thick eyelashes. The look somehow chastises him, and Draco suddenly feels like the most abominable idiot alive. Yes, they’re sleeping here; of course they are, where else? Potter has no sense of self-preservation. Get with the program, Malfoy.

“You could sleep on the ground outside, I don’t care,” Potter, ignorant of Draco’s inner turmoil, sweeps back a stubborn lock of dark hair. He blinks behind his glasses. “Bet the stars are nice out here.”

Draco sniffs. “I’m sure.”

“Where else do you suggest we rest?” A large yawn punctuates his words. Potter stretches in his seat lavishly, like a cat. “The Vauxhall is secure enough.”

Hmph. As if Draco would diminish himself to stargaze on sun-bleached asphalt while Potter sleeps in relative safety. He recognizes sarcasm when he hears it, but the very idea twists his mouth into a scowl.

The Vauxhall, safe? Please.

“Well?” Potter prods, and the grimace on Draco’s face deepens.

“At the bottom of a ravine, maybe?” He suggests innocently. Draco thinks he’d prefer it — animals in the wilderness are more or less predictable creatures, but Muggles are an entirely different sort.

Potter refuses to dignify the comment with a response. He huffs, punching the button on the side of the car that locks all the doors. It responds with a resounding click, and the sound is a little reassuring. Not that Draco would ever say so.

Potter sits up and somehow reclines his seat backward, creating a makeshift bed. It’s more of a stuffy little cot, really. ‘Bed,’ is far too generous a term.

Potter fidgets until he’s comfortable. He rests on his right side so he faces the window. His arms curl in front of him, his legs beneath him, and his hair tangles in a mess of ebony. It’s strangely cozy, all tucked into himself like a child. Potter’s breathing slows until he relaxes completely.

Out like a light. Well then, so much for moving to another location. Draco stares at the unmoving slope of Potter’s back. The sight infuriates him. How dare he?

The parking lot is quiet, the peace broken only by the rhythmic music of crickets and croaking frogs. Leather rustles as Potter twists in his sleep. Outside, the moon is unobscured by clouds, basking their car in a soft white glow.

The glare reflects on Potter’s glasses, hanging askew on his nose. His shirt is stretched out from their stint in the ocean, and a new hole decorates the hem. His school robes, still damp, are thrown over his body in a poor approximation of a blanket. From Draco’s vantage point, he can just barely see his face — his unruly mane conceals his scar. Potter’s lips are parted, pink and chapped.

He looks, for all the world, like the prettiest homeless man Draco has ever seen. Thanks to his recent escapades, he’s more acquainted with vagrancy that he’d ever be comfortable admitting, so the statement is meaningful.

A tiny part of Draco’s brain whispers that perhaps Potter is just pretty, sans the title of “vagrant.” It’s a niggling feeling, prodding at him, desperate for acknowledgement. He tells the traitorous train of thought to sod off.

Potter shifts again, and his head lolls to the side. In a ridiculous bout of immaturity, Draco hopes his lenses snap overnight, then remembers they’d have no way of fixing them.

Ugh. He can’t drive, and Potter needs them to see.

Without thinking much about it, Draco leans forward. He plucks the glasses from the pert tip of Potter’s nose. His fingers brush skin as he retreats, folding the spectacles. Draco props them on the dashboard beyond the steering wheel. 

Potter makes a soft sound that’s little more than a sigh. His eyes quiver behind his lids, moving in time with his dreams. Draco looks on for a moment longer, his mouth pressed into a firm line, before he turns to curl up in his own seat.

As his lashes flutter shut, the prickling in Draco’s fingertips — his nerves jumping, erratic as tongues of flame — does not fade.

Chapter Text

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” Potter braces his hands on the roof of the car. He leans against it, posing like a celebrity portrait in an old copy of Spellbound. His voice is muffled by the mouthful of sandwich he’s chewing.

“Calling you what?” Draco asks. He pinches his own meager share of food between his thumb and forefinger. This stale, cardboard thing can hardly be considered a snack. “A wanker?”

“‘Potter this, Potter that,’ honestly,” Potter waves the offending bread in the air. “You sound like such a prick. We’ve known each other long enough now. You should call me Harry.”

“Don’t be crass,” Draco scoffs, taking a bite of his moldy monstrosity. It doesn’t taste terrible, and it’s not actually rancid, but it could be far better. 

He’s seated on the damp grass beside the car. The dew doesn’t hesitate to familiarize itself with the backside of his trousers. 

They’d greeted the sunny morning in that godforsaken parking lot, kicking open the doors to extend their legs. Potter stretched beside the Vauxhall, and Draco whined about the state of his spine for hours.

By some bout of unexpected luck, Potter pilfered just enough change from the receptacles in their car to buy a pack of sandwiches from the rest stop. They split them and used the remaining coins to top off their tank with petrol. When Potter settled himself in the driver’s seat, he swore they’d break only to eat and relieve themselves.

They’re on their third hour, and it’s the worst stint of travel Draco’s ever had the misfortune of enduring. The twisting roads and backbreaking car seats are hellish, even if the company isn’t as miserable as expected. He would be hard-pressed to acknowledge Potter’s presence as nice, but it’s companionable. A bonus, to be sure. 

At least this area is pleasant , Draco thinks.

They’ve stopped along the coastline just outside of Llandudno. Potter parked along the road, leaving the Vauxhall perched just at the edge of a small hill. Their point overlooks a beautiful panorama of the Irish Sea, and the breeze cuts through Draco’s robes like a razor. It stings his skin in the way that cold bites, reddening his cheeks in wind-lashed strokes.

Albeit chilly, Draco can grudgingly admit it’s a fine place for an impromptu picnic.

His response is slow coming as he savors his morsel of food. “Afraid I can’t do that,” he continues, side-eyeing Potter. “If I called you by your first name, then you’d have to call me ‘Draco,’ and I have my dignity to maintain.”

“Your dignity,” Potter snorts, bemused.

“My dignity,” Draco insists, dropping his sandwich in his lap. “How would the rest of the wizarding world react if I just started calling you,” he wrinkles his nose. “‘Harry,’ like we’re friends?”

“Is that such an impossible thing?” Potter says, glancing at him. His brows rise above stuffed cheeks like a rodent. Draco can barely understand him. “I’ll call you Draco, for a start.”

The sound of his given name sends a thrill through him, which Draco steadfastly ignores. What the hell is he supposed to do with that? The feeling is uncomfortable, but he doesn’t dislike it — and oh, that’s a secret Draco will surely take with him to the grave.

“You won’t,” he frowns. “And we can’t be.”

Potter swallows his mouthful. “We can’t what?”

“We can’t be — ” he pauses, staring at his legs. “We’re not friends, Potter.”

Draco’s tone isn’t colored by old anger or frustration, but what he believes to be true. He hopes the admission doesn’t come across as jealous; if Potter were to assume things like that, Draco would have to bury himself right here on this grassy knoll.

He doesn’t miss the way Potter’s face falls at his words. A traitorous ache twinges in Draco’s chest at the sight, like it affects him, somehow. It doesn’t.

It shouldn’t.

He resigned himself to this years ago, when they were eleven; it isn’t as if either of them has a choice in the matter. They aren’t friends because of Draco’s current opinion of him, but simply because they cannot be. He hopes, against his better judgment, that Potter doesn’t think it’s a matter of purity, or that he wants to gentrify him; a history of bigotry isn’t so easily erased, and Draco is still working to improve.

I’m changing, he thinks. He covers his frown by taking another bite of his sandwich.

“Well, we’re not enemies,” Potter acquiesces, and Draco supposes he can let him have that, for now.

“Perhaps not,” he muses. Not anymore.

Water sloshes as Potter pulls out a bottle, downing several gulps. Draco can see him in his periphery, the curving slope of his neck as he tilts his head back. It’s a dizzying sight for reasons he can’t parse. 

Potter swallows, smacking his lips with satisfaction. He moves closer toward the edge, and for an absurd moment, Draco thinks Potter will shove him down the hill and into the frothy sea. He digs his heels into the hard-packed dirt, a pathetic excuse for a lifeline, but Potter just sidles over to sit beside him.

Draco’s shoulders release some of their tension. The wind tousles loose strands of platinum hair, tickling his face as if to say, silly little thing. Foolish boy.

Potter hums, not saying much of anything at all.

Draco shoves down the instinct to shift his body away. He forces himself to relax, sacrificing his posture for a full breath of air. It’s deep and cool, clearing his lungs, and he returns his attention to the waves far below. It’s beautiful and frightening all at once.

They crest and splatter against the rock face, over and over, an endless cycle of birth and death. It makes something within him ache, taking root deep behind his ribs. The vast expanse of sea has a way of eliciting a certain deference from him — its sense of freedom, and the danger. Draco feels small, nothing more than a child longing for his mother’s arms. It’s a reminder he’s insignificant in the grand scheme of things; the horizon stretches too far for him, a mere speck, to matter.

When he’s gone, the sun will still caress the curve of the earth. The tides will remain, yearning for what they may never reclaim. It’s a lonely sort of feeling. Where do I belong?

Draco’s wants are just as futile as the sea storming those ophiolite cliffs. He begs for a plethora of impossible desires: to go home; to flee; to be alone; to be surrounded by people who love him. Draco’s not actually sure there are enough of his family and friends in existence to flank each of his sides. It’s the most depressing thought he’s ever had. 

He wants to forget, to move forward, but the zephyrs swirling over the water prompt him to dwell on it. They sweep through the turf to whisper coldly in his ears.

“It’s nice here,” Potter murmurs, startling Draco. His lids shutter as he overlooks the panorama. His eyes are greener than the grass below, having not faded in early autumn.

Nice. Yeah, sure. For a hero, perhaps.

Draco tears his gaze away from the tumbling waves. The way the light splatters across Potter’s skin does not erase his melancholy. It’s more like a taunt, a reminder of who and what he is. Sun-kissed. Golden. Perfect.

Draco’s at the mercy of the entire world, and no one will save him. He can’t say what he thinks, so he only nods. 

“Makes you want to sit out forever, doesn’t it?” Potter casts his arms out behind him, throwing himself onto the ground as if it were a summer afternoon. He closes his eyes, and Draco can’t decide if the absence of that warm gaze is a good or bad thing. “Like a dream.”

“It’s frigid,” Draco clears his throat. He looks back to the sea, ever drawing him in. He could get lost staring into its depths. “And we can’t even cast a warming charm.”

It’s true. It’s icy, and the damp ground does little to improve their comfort.

“It’s tasteful,” Potter says.

Oh, tasteful. It’s tasteful, he said. What does Potter know about elegance, when he wears those wretched Weasley sweaters every Christmas?

“It’s like we’ve been thrust into hell,” Draco refutes. “And it’s beautiful, but we’re to be tortured with wintry ocean wind for a thousand lifetimes.” 

One of Potter’s lids cracks open. His mouth curves into an affable smirk. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I don’t think we discuss my suffering enough,” Draco lips twitch despite himself — they’ve been doing that lately, to his chagrin. It’s a tiny, tentative thing, and Potter flashes him a matching grin.

“Woe is you,” Potter chuckles, folding his arms beneath his head. The sound is clear and unbridled, reminiscent of a spring morning. It triggers a dangerous reaction in Draco’s stomach, all fluttery and bent out of shape.

He hopes it was just something he ate. That bloody sandwich.

Without saying more, Potter swings himself into a sitting position. He leans out toward the ocean, his face painted with pure contentment. It’s not an expression Draco has often seen him bear; a faint smile plays on his face, and his hands fist in the grass, plucking the dry straws. At peace.

Draco studiously ignores his handsome profile in favor of digging his toes into the dirt. The minutes pass in comfortable silence.

They’re preparing to leave when a roar echoes across the highlands. It’s the sort of sound that activates one’s most basic instincts; the trembling, gut-wrenching kind. It vibrates in Draco’s eardrums, shaking him down to his very core. 

The two of them freeze, because it’s built into their DNA to do so. Draco couldn’t move if he tried.

“What,” he begins to say, raspy with the sudden desert of his mouth.

They stare at the knolls beyond them before glancing at each other. Draco’s face has gone even whiter than usual, his gaze vibrant as steel. The clump of plastic he had gathered in his fist from his meager lunch falls to the ground.

“Dragon,” Potter whispers.

He struggles to stand, leaping off his feet. The incline is slick and steep, and he slips in his haste. His shoes have no traction, and Potter’s arms pinwheel as he begins his descent. 

Draco lunges forward to grab him without a second thought. Their fingers meet in the middle, just before Potter tumbles too far. He pulls him into his grasp, strong. Stable. 

Potter’s palm is amber in the sunshine, and surprisingly soft. It’s callused, as Draco knows athletes’ to be. He wonders what sort of lotion Potter uses, because he’d expected weathered scars, not whatever this is. 

Not that Draco has ever imagined what Potter’s hands feel like. He hasn’t. 

Potter strains to pull himself upward. His veins tremble in his wrists like the shivering grass on the hillside. He doesn’t ask for help but Draco obliges, tugging him in the direction of relative safety. He drags Potter back up the slope and steadies them both, relinquishing his grip with some reluctance. 

“Merlin’s fucking trousers, Harry,” Draco sneers, absently reaching to brush grass off Potter’s shoulder. He tries to spit the words, but the concern in his voice betrays him. “Try not to toss yourself off a cliff, will you?”

“Uh,” Potter says, his pupils blown wide. He takes a moment to stabilize himself, bracing himself on Draco’s arm. “I’ll — I’ll keep that in mind. Um, th-thank you.”

“Sure,” Draco murmurs. He levels Potter with his snarkiest glare, but he keeps his attention trained on his footing. They’re both safe, for now.

“Christ,” Potter says, because that’s what people like him say in situations like this. He runs his hand through his hair, then offers a weak grin. It dimples his bronze cheeks. “So it’s Harry now, is it?”

Ah, right. Draco had said that.

He prepares to give an excellent tongue-lashing, really top tier, when he notices that Potter’s flushed. It comes to Draco with a jolt of surprise. The redness is somewhat diminished by the blatant fear on his face, but what’s that turn of phrase? You win some, you lose some. 

Potter presses his free palm flat on his chest, rubbing in a circular motion. Belatedly, Draco realizes he’s still clasping Potter’s — Harry’s — bicep, and releases it.

He wonders if it’s too late to bury himself alive.

“Not on your life,” Draco says matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t just used his given name.

“Mhm,” Harry hums. He bends over to dust off his trousers. Bits of grass and dirt flutter to the ground.

Draco resists the urge to draw him closer, just for the sake of pulling him further from the ledge.

“All right there?” He asks, because it’s what a responsible, growing person would do. A kind person, which he’s trying to be. “No more gymnastics?”

“Prat,” Harry glances up, his lips twitching. “But yeah. I mean, I’ve had worse than this. Thanks, uh,” he blinks, a little dazed. “For catching me.”

A lump, quite distinguished and firm, solidifies itself in Draco’s throat. He tries to swallow past it. “Don’t mention it.” Seriously, I beg of you not to.

A beat passes between them. Draco forgets what had caused their panic in the first place, before he abruptly remembers there’s a dragon nearby. They need to go.

They gather their few worldly possessions, including their lunches. Draco retrieves his rubbish from where it was discarded on the ground. There are no dustbins to be found along stretches of roadway in rural Wales, so he pockets the waste with distaste.

Harry hastens to the car and unlocks it. As they get closer, another deep rumble rolls across the hills, echoing within the hollows of their chests. Harry and Draco exchange a look of ill-concealed terror.

It could be thunder, maybe. If thunder was an angry, vicious beast.

“Do you hear that?” Harry tilts his head. His palm is flat on the roof of the Vauxhall, and his long fingers tremble.

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” Draco gasps. His heart pounds an erratic beat against his ribs. “What the fuck kind of question is that? Even if I didn’t have ears, I’d have felt it — ”

“Don’t be a wanker,” Harry’s eyes flash, and he hurriedly slings the driver’s side open. He gestures at Draco as he clambers into the vehicle, slamming the door behind him. “Sounds like a Welsh Green. I didn’t realize that dragons spent much time near the coast — come on, get in!”

“They don’t,” Draco slides into the passenger’s seat. He hastens to buckle his uncomfortable seat belt, and for once feels like there’s more danger outside of the car.

“Great,” Harry mumbles.

“But dragons have attacked along the coast before, at Ilfracombe,” Draco tucks his hands beneath his thighs to conceal their shaking. “Dear Merlin, Pott — Harry, get on with it. I don’t fancy becoming some oversized beast’s lunch.”

“Ilfracombe is at least five hours south,” Harry frowns. His brows draw together as he prods the underside of the dashboard to start the engine.

For a sickening moment, the vehicle makes odd mechanical noises. It’s an awful grumble, loud enough that Draco swears it’ll draw the dragon to them. 

“Come on,” he groans, pleading as the ferocious sounds shake the earth beneath their tires.

If the Vauxhall expires in a grand explosion, now would be the time. With the threat of a Welsh Green, they’ll be roasted alive in the car regardless. Oh, Merlin, why is death such a neighborly companion throughout this entire bloody adventure? Is that what adventures are for? Heaven forbid.

Draco’s about to concede defeat when the engine coughs to life. The sputtering kicks into normal — or relatively normal, based on Draco’s limited vehicular experience — mechanical noises. Harry executes an impressive turn to edge them back onto the road, and they’re off, speeding towards civilization.

Behind them, the dragon’s roar resounds through the countryside. It’s gruff and long; the force of it shakes the dew from the grass, startling little moorland creatures. Harry drives.

Several minutes pass in pained silence. Their hands remain clutched on the wheel and their seats, respectively. Draco opens his mouth to speak once, then twice. He closes it both times.

When the rumbles come again, they’re quieter. Each growl echoes further away until they fade completely.

Another car beeps as it speeds past. The orange flash of their blinker cuts the Vauxhall off as the other driver slides into their lane. Their tires zigzag carelessly on the pavement. Harry only lifts a hand, a lazy acknowledgment of the idiocy he’d just witnessed.

They’re the third person in the last hour to pass them without an iota of courtesy. Draco watches with his lips pursed, resisting the urge to roll down his smudged window and scream profanities.

What the fuck is this?

He’s surprised to find he longs for the relative peace of the coastal roads they’ve long left behind. He’s still shaken from their near-encounter with the dragon, because that’s exactly what they needed on this bloody trip; but at least there were no Muggles. No rude, presumptuous Muggles, trying and failing to commit vehicular manslaughter.

As they cut through Manchester, Draco’s temper has worn thin.

If it were him behind the wheel, he’d sideswipe the offending vehicle, or perhaps run them off the road. Draco supposes that would be considered unsportsmanlike, but they started it. It’s deserved.

“How,” Draco sighs, then glances at Harry. “How are you not livid? Where’s that famous Gryffindor rage?”

“Eh,” Harry shrugs one shoulder. He cants his head to the side in a way that reminds Draco of an owl. “Can’t be bothered with all the shoddy drivers in Europe.”

“That was one of three shoddy drivers,” Draco counters. He gestures at the tail lights twinkling in the distance. “Hardly an unmanageable amount. Merlin, I wish I had my wand — you didn’t even swear. I want to hex them into another dimension.”

Harry grins. “You’ve kept track of everyone who’s cut us off?” His gaze flicks over to Draco. Even in his periphery, Harry’s eyes are so green.

Draco glances away, feeling a bit feverish.

“So what if I have?” He crosses his arms. It’s all an elementary defense mechanism. Harry can see right through it, which is disconcerting at best.

“So what indeed,” Harry says. The dimple in his cheek deepens.

Merlin. Draco swallows.

“I just,” he begins. “I don’t understand, Potter. Humor me, for a moment.”

“Sure.”

Draco takes a breath. “How is it you’re a temperamental duelist, but driving amongst incapable Muggles doesn’t upset you?”

A poster boy for reckless Gryffindor, too, he thinks, but doesn’t add.

“Uh,” Harry flicks their blinker to merge into another lane. He stretches his neck to peer at the rearview mirrors. “Dueling and driving are in completely different realms, I think.” His attention remains on the road, but his fingers tap the gear shift. “They’re not comparable.”

“They’re comparable in that they both brass me off.” It’s true. Draco thinks it’s possibly the most frustrating thing in the world, right alongside Divination. Stupid tea leaves, stupid motorway.

Harry doesn’t deign to respond, although he snorts good-naturedly. 

“Sod off, Potter,” Draco sticks his nose in the air. “Pathetic excuses for drivers, each one of them.”

“I should’ve known you’d be the type to have road rage.” Harry chuckles again, crystal bright. “Merlin, and I thought Ginny was the violent sort.”

Ginny.

“Ah.” Yes. Girl Weasley. Draco had forgotten about her, but upon remembering, something in him goes cold. His mood plummets so spectacularly he’s surprised the temperature doesn’t drop with it. 

“You’d bash heads, I think,” Harry says offhand, as if Draco wants to hear. As if he cares. “But get along rather fine, in the end.”

“Mhm,” Draco casts his attention to his nails, far more interested in his cuticles than any fast facts about the redheaded nightmare and her motley crew.

The silence passes unbroached for a short while. It’s broken only by the occasional blare of horns; impatient Muggles, all of them, smashing their fists on the center of their steering wheels with abandon. It’s frustrating to witness, but Draco keeps his mouth resolutely shut.

After several minutes pass without another motorway-induced outburst, Harry shoots Draco a quizzical side-eye.

“You’re quiet,” he observes, like the bloody investigator he is. True detective work. “All right, there?”

It takes a moment to process. The question rings in Draco’s ears, loud and unrelenting. All right? Harry’s concern, his gaze, worried and directed at him. All right, there?

No, he is not all right. Draco Malfoy is most definitely not all right. 

The thought of Girl Weasley sends roils through his gut, nervous and angry at once. It’s utterly nonsensical. Draco can’t quite fathom why — their families aren’t friends or even enemies, anymore. She has no connection to him whatsoever.

Just another Gryffindor with a greatness complex. The glorified Quidditch queen. The Weaselette. Girl Weasley.

Thinking about her makes his face pinched. It’s a shame Draco’s expression is so easy to read; he should invest in a mask to cover it. He fervently hopes Harry doesn’t see the blatant disgust on his face.

Draco clears his throat, trying to project Blaise’s classic vizard of indifference. “Still dating her, are you?” 

He doesn’t know why he asks it. It’s a slip of the tongue, if anything. A weird, spur-of-the-moment question, and one with an answer that’s none of his business. What does he care? The lives of the Weasley’s are of no consequence to him. The life of Harry Potter is of no consequence to him. Or rather, it shouldn’t be.

“Um,” Harry clearly can’t articulate his surprise at being asked. His brows rise, although fortunately for Draco, his eyes stay trained on the road. “Me and Ginny? Uh, I didn’t realize — ”

He cuts himself off, struggling to further his train of thought. Panic seeps into Draco’s chest at the words. I didn’t realize. Merlin above, Harry could end that sentence in a multitude of ways, all of which end painfully embarrassing for Draco. 

I didn’t realize you kept track. I didn’t realize you cared.

Or a reenactment of one of his worst nightmares, where Harry turns around and says Draco, I didn’t realize you’re — 

“I, um, didn’t know you knew,” Harry continues. “Er, about us.”

Oh. Not the worst of them, then.

Harry flounders some before speaking again. He’s totally out of his depth, and at the very least, Draco can derive pleasure from this. He shoves down his fear, the crushing terror of being known, and locks it away. 

Harry doesn’t understand the first thing about him. Of course he wouldn’t know that Draco’s — 

That he’s — 

It’s no matter. Draco straightens, engaging his smarmiest, most prattish sneer.

“Everyone bloody does, Potter,” he lifts a hand in what he hopes is a flippant gesture. “You’re the savior of the wizarding world, what do you expect?” 

“Some privacy, maybe,” Harry sighs.

“Ha! In your next life, maybe.” Draco glances out the window. The asphalt is a blur of black tar beneath them, rushing by mile by mile. Not close enough to Hogwarts, yet. “Everything you do is public knowledge. Keep that in mind next time you get sloshed.”

“Right.” A grimace has taken up residence on Harry’s face. “Duly noted. Invasive questions will follow me for the rest of my life, and also I can never take a piss outside again, for fear of being photographed.”

What a colorful visual.

“Do you habitually piss outside, even when the loo is a present and more appealing option?”

“No, you twat — ugh,” Harry’s expression morphs into something halfway between amused and annoyed. “You’re the worst. And not that it’s any of your business,” his lips twist, “or anyone’s, for that matter, but about me and Ginny; the answer is no.”

Draco’s attention snags on a road sign off the motorway. He fixates on it as they speed by, rather than turning to face Harry. The moment feels oddly heavy — personal, even. He can’t bear to disrupt it by turning his head. 

“Really?” He intones, gaze pointed distinctly away from The Boy Who Had a Break Up. 

“Split almost immediately after we got together,” Harry says. “Like dating my sister.”

Draco looks at him then. It’s a gradual shift; he’s curious, so curious, and the answers are plastered all over Harry’s face. His nose has scrunched up, and his voice adopts an odd pitch that Draco can’t place.

“Or, well. What I assume a sister to be like, anyway,” his shoulder lifts and falls in a lazy shrug. “We’re still good friends.”

Draco prays for the shroud of indifference to cover every emotion that flits across his face. The frustration in his gut lessens, some. How strange.

“Well, that’s nice,” he drawls. “Good to maintain a semblance of civility.”

“You could say that,” Harry replies, his mouth twitching around the words.

Quiet falls, and it’s awkward. It’s so incredibly awkward.

Draco grapples with the possibility of pursuing another topic of conversation. He grapples with saying nothing at all. What in Morgana’s name does someone do in this situation? What does one say?

A horn beeps outside, and because Draco doesn’t function well in silence with his longtime rival, he points at the culprit: another Muggle driver.

“Watch out for that one,” he warns. “They’re driving like they’ve had a bit to drink before getting behind the wheel.”

Harry scoffs, but the tension bleeds from his shoulders, which Draco counts as a win. He brushes stray chunks of dark fringe back, dutifully checking the car’s mirrors.

“Don’t be a backseat driver,” he hums. “Take it easy — I’ll get us there in one piece, all right?”

Draco doesn’t ask what a ‘backseat driver’ is. Perhaps Muggles make cars with multiple wheels to allow a more capable person to drive.

“Bit late for that,” Draco sniffs. “My skin got all cut up on that bloody beach, then part of me died in the ocean with my wand.”

A snort. Harry’s teeth flash in a small smile. “Only part?”

“The other half expired shortly after setting foot in this Muggle abomination.”

“Merlin, you are dramatic. Save the theatrics for McGonagall once we get back.”

Once we get back . So self-assured, convinced of their imminent success. So unwilling to listen to Draco’s complaints. How typical of a Gryffindor.

“I will,” Draco huffs, turning back to stare at the road.

The cityscape is more structured than the country, with far less green. It flies by in blurry bits of brown, exhibiting truly monstrous architecture. They somehow pass as the standard in Muggle areas, which is beyond him. The Vauxhall slows only as they approach a traffic light.

Crowds of people cross the street in front of them, bumbling through the haze of their own routines. It’s dizzying and strange to see so many people. People, Draco is learning, who live outside of his rather small sphere. They work, love, and exist in a realm so far beyond his, leading non-magical lives he’s unaware of. It’s difficult to comprehend.

Draco presses his forehead against the window. The glass is cool and firm, drawing him back down to earth. He does his best to disregard the smudges and fingerprints of unknown origin splattered across it.

Harry’s laughter is hushed beside him. He ignores it even as his pulse quickens at the sound.

Another day passes as such. 

They keep their bickering to a minimum, and travel only a few hours at a time. Harry is careful with their fuel gauge-what's-it as he tracks the most efficient route. They stop when he needs to rest or they’re overcome with inescapable bodily urges. There’s no loo on the side of the motorway, which Draco finds horrifying, but adjusts to out of necessity. 

Fuck this, he thinks, for probably the thousandth time.

They break at nightfall on their third day. Harry pulls into a rest stop not dissimilar from the previous; it’s situated along a long strip of motorway, just outside of Carlisle. The parking lot is only slightly more populated than the other. There are at least two more vehicles, which is a leg up from the shady van they’d been accompanied by the night before.

“Finally,” Draco says, jerking open his door to stretch his miserable limbs. He extends his whole body, pulling it loose like a string of putty.

Harry doesn’t move from the car. His gaze remains set on the dashboard, glowering at what he calls the speedometer. It’s a funny little thing, Draco finds, with its arrow trembling somewhere around the one-quarter mark. Harry taps it, as if that’ll do anything. His frown deepens.

“Oi, Potter,” Draco calls, because he’s apparently unable to leave anything Harry-related alone. He blames his body’s mulish tendencies. Force of habit, muscle memory, whatever. “What are you sulking about?”

“It’s just,” Harry sucks in his lip, rubbing his hand along an expanse of smooth neck. He’s stressed, but somehow makes it look good. Coping is now sexy, somehow.

What? Draco blinks at the direction his thoughts have taken. Scratch that line of thinking, you brainless imp. Honestly.

Draco keeps his attention centered on the middle console, thinking of vile things — hippogriff droppings. Muggle architecture. It does little to keep the butterflies in his stomach at bay. 

“Come on,” he hums, his gaze diverted. Draco’s voice is pitched higher than usual. “Out with it.”

“We’ll need to refuel soon,” Harry pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. The speedometer hasn’t changed in the last three seconds, from what Draco can tell. “It’s a miracle we’ve made it this far on one tank.”

“A miracle, hm,” Draco sighs. His arms hang akimbo as he scrambles back into the car, still stretching in the confined space. “Well, we haven’t got any money, and we’re practically starving. Doesn’t feel very miracle-like to me.”

Merlin knows if we did, I’d spend it on a luxurious bath. Draco will perish before he appears in public covered in the stench of body odor.

“I know,” Harry says, grimacing. 

“I’m becoming skin and bones, Potter. And we smell. You must have noticed.”

Harry gives Draco a disapproving look. It’s moments like these that Draco suspects are Granger’s influence — that disappointed expression — until Harry speaks and disproves him completely.

“You always smell foul. If snobbery had a scent,” his small smile is a teasing one. “It’s pungent, you snake, and could you please do us all a favor and maintain your daily hygiene?”

Draco’s impulse is to scowl. To make an unseemly choking noise and slap Harry’s arm, but he doesn’t. The latter laughs at what must appear to be an incredibly constipated expression plastered across his face. 

“Glad you think so,” Draco manages.

“And I’m glad your sense of humor has evolved past immediate hexing,” Harry’s amusement lessens as he turns back to the fuel. He lets out a whistle through his teeth. “I wish we could just duplicate the petrol and be done with it.”

Draco hums, casting his gaze to the ceiling. “Life could never be that easy.”

“I know.” Harry pats his pocket where his defunct wand lies, looking tragic. It’s pathetic, and Draco’s heart aches.

“If we could just duplicate it, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” he says dryly, instead of reaching across the metal drumstick and grasping Harry’s hand. Like a tosser.

The remembrance of their current situation is enough to sober him.

“Obviously,” Harry’s tone is mildly frustrated, but not, Draco thinks, directed at him. The knowledge of that is oddly satisfying, but it doesn’t resolve the issue at hand. Tension spreads between the cracks and silence consumes them.

Comforting Potter is a task Draco is entirely unprepared for. He could say something and risk formidable Gryffindor temper, or he could remain quiet. He could pretend to sleep, if he really needs to avoid confrontation. We’re fairly screwed, aren’t we?

Draco opens his mouth. This is already a mistake.

“Harry,” if he speaks softly, it’s only because he’s tired. It has nothing to do with Harry’s doleful expression, or the way his pointer finger runs in absent circles on his brow. 

Draco isn’t sure what the right thing to say is. “We’ll get through this”? “Someone will realize we’re gone”? “Sorry you had to be stuck with me”? There’s a million and one thoughts clattering through his skull, tipping off his tongue. He swallows them down.

Draco doesn’t know what comforts Harry Potter. He spent his whole life striving for the exact opposite, which makes him rather unqualified, he thinks; but if Draco were to make a wager, he’d assume it’s something ridiculous and brave, probably. Something heartwarming. Blegh.

Who do I think I am? Draco isn’t even qualified to try being helpful. He’s a villain and a wanker, little more than a speck in all of this. A living, breathing creature, until he’s dead and gone. He’s just a boy named after the stars.

It strikes him then, as he contemplates his smallness. The thought is poetic — foolish, even, but it means something to him.

When Draco begins, he expects the words to taste bitter and hesitant. They don’t. They tumble from his lips clumsily but with purpose, specific, like it’s what he’s meant to say. The sentiment emerges fully formed, as if it’s the one thing in the world that could make Harry feel a bit better. 

Draco cants his head to the side, peering out the window. The lot is dark, littered with sputtering street lights. The sky is huge and open. Boundless. He repeats a phrase said in jest two days earlier.

“Bet the stars are nice out here.”

Draco doesn’t stray from the evening clouds. The last tinge of sunset still brightens them, filters of violet chasing into shadow.

In the reflection of the glass, Draco can see Harry’s gaze flick upward. There’s a softness to them as recognition dawns. Harry’s lips twitch upward, only just, an acknowledgement of the effort. 

“Yeah?” He asks, humoring him.

Draco feels the ball of anxiety in his chest loosen, some. He nods.

“We could look,” he lifts his hand to the window. Draco traces the pattern of his constellation, starting with Eltanin — the brightest star. He wonders if Harry knows it. “Forget about everything else, for a bit.”

“Everything?” Harry blinks.

The way he says it is strange — “everything.” It’s heavy with questions Draco isn’t sure how to answer. He thinks he understands, but it’s a close thing; this conversation is layered, laden with feeling, confusion, and regret most of all.

Everything?

Their past, their present. To forget about all of it — the war, the light and the dark, Gryffindor and Slytherin. They’re something like perfect opposites, but Draco has always thought red and green complement each other. In certain shades, that is.

Forgetting is tempting. They wouldn’t be the Savior and a former Death Eater, locked in a beaten red Vauxhall. They’ll be just Harry and Draco, two boys making the best of their unfortunate circumstances.

Maybe, Draco thinks, they can pretend to be friends.

The glass is cold against his skin. Draco finishes drawing his namesake, leaving behind a smudged memory of it. He turns to Harry, dipping his chin. “Everything.”

There’s a pregnant pause. For a moment, Draco thinks Harry will take him up on it. He’ll nod and throw open the doors, raising his eyes to the sky. They’ll rest out on the asphalt, scratchy and cool against their backs, and regal each other with stories of the planets.

Or perhaps they’ll sit in silence.

Harry just shakes his head. His hair swishes with the movement, like grass atop a windy knoll. He exhales, “Thank you.”

Draco’s throat tightens. His nervous fingers find his family ring, twisting it in rounds. He casts his gaze down, trained on the way the silver glints in the dark.

“Listen, Potter,” Draco’s uncertain of how confident he sounds, but he tries to project every ounce of pompousness he carried for the first seventeen years of his life. It had all but vanished after the final battle, but — “tomorrow we’ll get to a bigger city, and we’ll figure it out there, all right?”

“Eh,” Harry’s brows rise, unconvinced but willing to be swayed. “Yeah, all right.”

There’s not much more Draco can do to placate him, but at least the sickening tension is gone. After a moment, he braces a tentative hand on Harry’s shoulder, expecting him to retreat. It’s an attempt at civility, if nothing else. 

There’s a beat of hesitance, but Harry doesn’t push him away. He relaxes into the touch, stupefying Draco to the point of dizziness. His stomach does an entire Olympic gymnastics routine. 

Well. Not the reaction I expected.

“Um,” Draco says intelligently. It takes him a scandalous ten seconds to gather his wits. “We’ll take some. Money, I mean.”

“You — what?” This time, Harry does move. Dramatically. “Take some?”

Draco is assaulted with a face full of hair as Harry turns toward him. The motion is so quick, he thinks he hears his neck snap. Ouch.

“That’s what I said,” Draco agrees.

Harry looks quizzical, as if he’s puzzled by Draco stooping to nick a bit of Muggle coin. It’s not the worst he’s ever done, to be frank. It’s nothing compared to anything that happened at Malfoy Manor; stealing money has nothing on cold-blooded murder.

Draco takes that horrible comparison and shoves it deep within the vestiges of his brain. He feels as if he’s gone mad.

“It’s a potential solution,” he withdraws his hand from Harry’s shoulder. “Er, anyway, we’ll nick it off some poor Muggle, and then — ”

“And here I thought you’d taken a turn for the moral,” Harry muses, but a half-smile blooms across his face. It’s so brilliant that Draco needs sunglasses.

“I’d never.”

Harry’s grin only grows. It physically hurts Draco to look.

The atmosphere in the car shifts, changing from palpable discontent on Harry’s end to something more lighthearted. Something warm.

It should be comfortable, and it is, but the peace of it all makes Draco feel anxious. He could say the wrong thing and send everything into a spiral. Then Harry will kill him, the world will be rid of another questionable wizard, and all of this weird road trip bonding would have been for naught.

“Well, then,” Harry sits up, rubbing his hand over his face. With a resigned sigh, his amusement slowly drains. He reaches for the door handle and swings it open, extending his cramped limbs. “I don’t love it, but it is a possible solution.”

“We’re in a real rut as it is,” Draco points out. He thinks it’s a valid deduction. Perhaps Harry wants to walk to Scotland, and wouldn’t that be fun?

“Mhm,” Harry hums, noncommittal. He drags his heels across the pavement. “Wouldn’t it be worse if we got caught? We can’t use memory charms.”

“Memory loss isn’t only caused by obliviate,” Draco mutters. He ignores the alarmed glance Harry shoots his way. “Blunt force trauma — ”

“For legal reasons, I didn’t hear that.”

He stretches his arms over his head, tugging his legs back into the car. He then begins his customary bedtime routine, which consists of making the Vauxhall as comfortable as possible. Harry reaches for his Gryffindor robe, long relegated to the backseat, and scrubs his cheeks with the coarse fabric. His glasses come off next, practically broken. He deposits them on them on the dashboard, as Draco had done the night before. 

“It’s an option,” Draco reasserts. With or without Harry, he doesn’t want to be stranded out here.

“I suppose,” Harry sighs. He looks different without his glasses — younger, maybe. It’s neither bad nor good, but a small change. “I’d rather not take money from some innocent bystander, but it’s the thought that counts.”

It’s not a direct shutdown. Draco will have to settle for that, then.

Harry nestles into his spot like an animal scrounging for warmth. He gazes at Draco from where he rests, his eyes scrunched without his spectacles. A single working street lamp glows outside, illuminating the side of his face in a sliver of gold.

Beautiful is the first word that comes to Draco’s mind. The second is fuck. 

What the fuck.

He’s beautiful, and this is obscene.

Watching Harry’s jaw move is more explicit than Goyle’s collection of illicit magazines. Draco will have to go and pitch himself off something very high before this situation worsens.

“What — ” Draco coughs, swallowing past the dryness. “What if they’re not an innocent bystander?”

Harry releases a quiet snort. He delves deeper into his seat. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

Draco gives a mute nod. If luck is on their side, which is unlikely, they won’t have to steal from a Muggle at all. They could happen across a wizarding town, or a Floo.

Dear Merlin, the notion alone is bizarre. Draco nearly laughs. He can’t believe his life has come to this — supposing over something as nondescript as a Floo.

“You’re a good person, Draco. You know that?” Harry yawns. He reaches out, his fingers fluttering over Draco’s hand. The contact lasts no longer than a second. “I didn’t realize for a long time. It’s buried underneath that posh exterior, but you’re kind enough.”

When Harry pulls back, Draco feels the loss like a phantom limb. His skin prickles, as if he dove into a briar patch and then threw himself into the sea.

Harry’s soft smile is a crescent in the dim light. “You’re good.”

Draco opens and closes his mouth, unable to form words. They bounce through his head without rhyme or reason, meshing and realigning themselves into nonsensical combinations. He supposes spending too much time around Gryffindors will do that to you, rob you of your faculties and such.

The alternative is he’s been cursed. It’s likely — he’s lost the ability to speak.

Harry doesn’t wait for a response, which is good, because none are forthcoming. He turns, his spine curving forward as he hugs himself. The soft arms of sleep embrace him shortly after, slackening his muscles and slowing his breath.

Draco watches him a moment longer, then collapses into his own seat. He knits his hands over his chest, staring at the ceiling of the car. It doesn’t hold the resolution to his inner turmoil — there are no messages from the heavens carved into it, but there is an ugly stain from Merlin-knows-what. A tear in the far corner separates itself from the roof. 

Draco squeezes his eyes shut. He summons every ounce of exhaustion he’s ever felt, but his earlier tiredness is gone. A strange exhilaration fits in its place, wedging itself deep in his chest. His palms tingle, and he draws them up to cover his face. They’re cool, clammy, and entirely unpleasant. 

“What the fuck,” he whispers. His voice sounds strange even to him; it’s garbled and low, ringing out in a tone very much unlike his own. How long has this feeling been here?

Draco can’t tell if it’s new or old. It could be a resurgence of epic proportions, come forth at last to wash him away. His heart pounds against his ribs. Its erratic beat does not cease as he clenches his fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

There’s one thing he’s certain of: Harry sodding Potter did this to him. And the worst part? Draco isn’t even upset about it.

Outside, the darkness deepens. Shadows ensconce the vehicle, creating a private world of their own. It covers the two of them in a cosmic blanket, Harry and Draco, rotating planets looped by each other’s gravitational pull.

Draco lies awake long into the blackest part of the night, thinking of his pale hands entwined with brown. 

When they stop the next day, it’s not by choice.

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding,” Draco throws his arms skyward. He really yearns for the sweet release of death, now — his life has been transfigured into some god’s approximation of a celestial joke, and everything is awful, all the time, forever. 

“Afraid not,” Harry says, muffled beside the car.

“This is it,” Draco says. “This is a sign from the heavens. I’m not meant to be alive,” he drops his hands as he whines, nearly sinking to his knees on the pathway. “I’d like to expire right here and then be tossed into a ravine. You can leave my body to be picked apart by scavengers.”

“That’s gruesome, mate,” Harry squats beside the source of Draco’s angst. He prods at the loose hubcap, then tries to remove it with brute force. His eyes flash quickly to Draco, then return to the task at hand. “I’d oblige, except I don’t think there are any ravines in the city.”

“Pity,” Draco groans. “Leave me on the pavement, then.”

To say the car is a state would trivialize the situation. The front tire on the driver’s side has relinquished its hold on life, having exploded in a not-so-fiery-but-still-traumatic burst a half mile back. After Draco had delivered a scream that could rival a banshee’s, the pair of them rolled off to a thin shoulder on the edge of the road.

Harry says it could be worse — that it’s fortuitous they’re stopped where they are. They could be parked on the motorway which would be far more dangerous, but also easier for Draco to make good on his threat of ending it all.

Instead, they’re stranded on a busy street in Glasgow, Harry steadfastly ignoring the blaring horns from passing cars. A few passersby have looked at the pair of them curiously, but none of them have offered their condolences. Draco is rather affronted by this in particular; Muggles have no regard for the misfortune of other human beings.

He supposes wizards are the same, given the last war, but it doesn’t do well to dwell on the past.

“We’ve got to pop open the boot,” Harry says, fiddling with the driver’s side door. He jerks a smallish lever and the back of the car clicks, opening a compartment. Draco presumes it’s for storage, or perhaps his corpse after he offs himself and Harry has to deliver him to the aforementioned ravine.

“If we’re lucky,” Harry pulls a face, looking pained. “And I mean really lucky, maybe we’ll find a spare doughnut in there.”

Draco blinks, certain he’s misheard. “I don’t think now’s the time to search for,” he squints, feeling rather pointy. “Pastries, you dolt. Are you really so hungry?” Muggles don’t typically leave discarded desserts in their vehicles to rot. It’s bloody unsanitary. Why would Harry want to eat it, anyway?

Harry inhales, clasping his hands at his front, and Draco knows he’s mucked something up. That’s humor twinkling in his eyes, and oh, horror — this journey has made Draco well-acquainted with humiliation. He can’t bite back a snide, “What?”

Harry tries to smother a grin. “A doughnut as in a spare wheel, Draco,” his composure slips, and a chuckle escapes. “A stepney.”

Ah, sure. Right. A stepney was the logical conclusion Draco was meant to draw from the term “doughnut.” Really logical, if you ask him. Draco skimped on Muggle Studies because he didn’t give one fig or another about their byzantine culture, but he’s realizing that was a mistake.

He sniffs in his customary deflection. “Hmph. Perhaps there’s treacle tart in there as well, and we can have a grand old party to make fun of me.”

Harry bites his lip, and Draco loathes the way his gaze tracks the movement. “Tempting, but I’d like to get moving again. We can celebrate back at school.”

Back at school. The words burrow beneath his skin, sending an odd assortment of emotions surging through Draco. Anticipation coalesces with a strange pang of regret, whirling around his head in a veritable tornado of confusion. Draco can’t make sense of it; he should want for nothing more than to return, but hesitance tugs at his navel.

For the past three days, their only solid objective has been to make their way back to the halls of Hogwarts safely. There’s been a few temporary goals in between, of course: find a parking lot to sleep in, shove mediocre bread down their throats, survive a wild dragon encounter.

There’s no reason for Draco to wish for anything more than to be back in his bed in the Slytherin dormitory. It’s been quite a traumatic series of events. He smells vile, his shoes are tarnished, and he hasn’t had a decent meal in seventy-two hours. Draco’s had enough asphalt to last a lifetime; this entire bloody experience has been terrible.

At the very least, he guesses, it’s made for an excellent exercise in character growth.

He can’t fathom why sorrow niggles at the back of his head, urging him to do moronic things like to stay on the road forever. Draco feels as though he’s handling something fragile, something precious — something that will invariably be lost upon their return.

His self-reflection is interrupted by a celebratory shout from Harry. Draco jolts, withdrawing from the shadowy recesses of his mind. Harry has pulled a spare wheel from the boot, hefting it above his head like a trophy. He grins wide as he looks at Draco, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Can you believe we got lucky for once?”

Draco is suddenly faint. All of this smiling and dimpling business should be made illegal, so Harry will be made to pay a fine. Draco braces his hand on the bonnet of the car, feigning indifference.

“No,” his heart may explode from his chest. “I cannot.”

Although they’ve dug a stepney from the depths of the Vauxhall’s rear, Harry can’t tear off the offending front tire with his bare hands. He tries, and it would be rather funny if Draco wasn’t suffering a crisis — but he is, so he misses out on a decent laugh.

Harry’s forced to abandon the spare wheel in the backseat and make his way onto the sidewalk, shambling among the passing foot traffic. He spews some nonsense about finding a shop that sells auto parts and disappears amongst the throng. Draco leans against the Vauxhall, feeling utterly useless. He shoots glares at passersby, and when some Muggle comes over to tell him the car is parked in a tow-away zone, Draco wants to hex him.

“I don’t know what you’re saying. I can’t move the bloody thing,” Draco thrusts an arm out, bracing it on the roof of the vehicle. “I don’t know how.”

“If you don’t know how, how did it get here?” The man challenges. He’s burly and has a heavy Scottish accent, which offends Draco’s ears.

Draco narrows his eyes. “My compatriot — ”

“Your ‘compatriot?’” The man snorts.

Draco’s glower intensifies, daring him to argue.

“Sir, you’ll pardon me for saying so, but I don’t have time for your whinging,” the Muggle imperiously lifts his chin, and oh, Draco hates him. “If you’d just come with me — ”

“Wait — e-excuse me, officer, wait!”

Draco and the man straighten as another voice interrupts them. He immediately recognizes it as Harry, and surreptitiously glances around to find him. “Potter?”

Harry emerges from the crowded walk, his chest heaving. “Obviously,” he huffs, leaning on his knees briefly before standing. Draco guesses he ran. 

“You look a fright.”

Harry scowls, but turns to the bear-like Muggle who’d been haranguing Draco. “You’ll excuse my prattish friend. He’s a bit of a toff, doesn’t know how to navigate this type of situation — you see, we’ve got a flat.”

The man — an officer, according to Harry, although he doesn’t seem to command much authority — faces him. He casts a critical eye over Harry, all unkempt dark hair and panting, and his expression hardens into one of distrust. This further cements his place on Draco’s mental list of People He Loathes, and also People Who’ve Wronged Him.

As Harry explains their circumstances with a series of vague hand gestures, another man trots up behind him, wielding a tool that looks like a weapon. He pats it in his palm, which doesn’t extinguish Draco’s visual of being beaten over the head with it.

“I told Draco to stay put, because we can’t move the car,” Harry brushes his fringe out of his lashes. His glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and he shoves them back unceremoniously. “But I’ve brought Gavin from Auto Cruisers, and he’ll fix the problem in just a moment, if that’s all right?”

Gavin brandishes his weapon from behind Harry with a friendly smile. The officer studies them, considering Harry’s statement like it’s a request and not a necessity. They aren’t asking permission, but he nods as if he’s given them a gift.

“Right, then,” his voice is gruff, and he raises his chin with an air of importance. “Fix it and be done with it, then move your car. Can’t have you clogging up the roadway.”

Draco wants to say that they’ve pulled off to the side, they’re not obstructing anything, but Harry catches his eye with a minute shake of his head. Draco’s mouth snaps shut, but he sneers at the officer as he meanders down the pavement, having reached his daily quota of harassing people. 

“All right,” Gavin hefts his metal baton with an awkward grin. “I’ll just get to it, shall I?”

Harry directs him to the punctured tire and opens the door for the stepney. He chatters amiably the whole while, leaning against the side as Gavin settles down in front of the wheel. He twists his tool in repetitive motions, fiddling about until the deflated one has been removed and replaced with the spare. It happens very fast, and Draco allows a moment of grudging respect for this Muggle who saved them from commandeering another vehicle.

“Any idea how we’ll pay him?” Draco murmurs to Harry, tracking Gavin’s movements as if he’ll beat them for skimping him while their backs are turned. 

A muscle flickers in Harry’s cheek, and he sets his jaw. “Uh — we’re not going to. I wish we could, but I told him that, um,” his face morphs into one of regret. “I told the blokes at the car parts place that someone broke into the Vauxhall and nicked our bags.”

The admission stuns Draco into silence. He blinks at Harry, owlish, before mirth tugs at the corners of lips. A bubble of laughter bursts out of him in a short, unexpected bark.

“And where do they think we’re going dressed like this?” Draco snickers. “Descending merrily into hell?”

“Ah,” Harry averts his gaze. “To our private boarding school. In London.”

“In London!” He exclaims. The statement strikes Draco as wonderfully amusing. London, truly. As if anybody in the city would be caught dead looking as bedraggled as they do.

“Sod off,” Harry complains, rubbing his arm. It’s an absent motion, distracted. Draco wonders if he does it when he’s nervous. “It was the best I had, and it’s not even a big lie.”

“No, no,” Draco shakes his head. The remnants of a smile still linger on his face. “It’s an excellent excuse, Potter, really.” He glances at Gavin, finishing up his work with astounding speed. “Good show.”

Harry glances back at Draco. His mouth parts and his brows crease. For a moment, Draco thinks he’s going to say something profound.

Harry just grins, shrugging. “They were very understanding.”

“I think that about does it, boys,” Gavin calls, standing. He brushes bits of gravel from his knees and nudges the stepney with his foot. “This should get you where you need to go, so long as you don’t drive recklessly. Watch out for hills, all right?”

Draco imagines them scouring the Scottish Highlands, following the tracks of the Hogwarts Express, and prays that the tire will last.

Harry faces Gavin and sticks out his hand. “Thanks for your help, mate.”

Gavin shakes it, smiling like they’re old friends. “Happy to help. Such a drive ahead, I admire your dedication — a private boarding school! Fantastic.” He claps once, then rests his palm on Harry’s shoulder. His expression shifts from joy to seriousness. “So sorry to hear about your bags. Rotten luck. Be careful on your way, all right?”

Harry nods, wordless, looking guilt-stricken as a crup caught digging in a dustbin. Draco covers a chuckle with his palm, and they wave Gavin off.

“Glad that’s over,” Harry sighs as he slides into the driver’s seat. His skin is drawn tight with dark smudges beneath his eyes. It seems as if he’s aged ten years in the past thirty minutes, although he’s still horribly handsome. “What a mess.”

“For once, I agree.” Draco slips in on his side, wrinkling his nose at a stain on the upholstery.

Harry peers at him then, frowning. “Why were you hassling that cop? What if I hadn’t made it back in time? He was about to make our lives far more difficult, just because he didn’t like you.”

Draco’s mouth falls open as he fumbles with his seatbelt. “I was harassing him? He came over to me demanding I move the bloody car or some rot, and I told him the truth.”

Harry pales, shooting Draco a startled look. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t break the Statute of Secrecy or anything, you dolt,” Draco exhales, propping his chin in his hand. It’s a long-suffering one; he has gone through too much in his young life, and he deserves a nice long break, possibly with wine. “I told him I didn’t know how to move the vehicle. He thought I was an idiot.”

“Yeah, erm,” Harry presses his lips together, starting the car. It coughs to life with its customary grumble, and then he maneuvers it onto the road with steady movements. “He’s not wrong.”

“You’re a wanker, and he was a prick,” Draco says, with little heat behind it. “I hope he gets hexed into the next millennium.”

Harry hums, scanning each side of the roadway like he’s looking for something. “Yeah, sure. All right. Keep an eye out for a pub or something, would you? I’ll need to park somewhere.”

Draco sits up straighter in his seat, lifting his head from where it rested. “Why?”

“Because we’re out of petrol, and I’m running dangerously low on optimism.” Harry squints as a pedestrian jogs across the street although the light’s green. He peeks at Draco, looking rather tragic. “Time to make good on that promise of burglary, if you’re up to it.”

"What — " the fuck. It sounds like a joke, sort of. Draco can't quite tell if it's meant to be one. Nothing about Harry's demeanor gives away a hidden prank, not even a well-placed chortle.

If someone had told Draco a mere week ago that the Chosen One would be asking for him to go and — what, rough up some Muggles? Sufficiently burgle them so he and Harry could munch on Cadbury eggs purchased from a petrol station? He'd have laughed in their face, and rightfully so, he thinks.

Time to make good on that promise.

Harry's eyes are clear, expectant, and — Merlin's trousers. It had to be a fucking promise, didn't it? Draco's sat here with Harry sodding Potter, vanquisher of dark wizards and guilt-tripper of the century, and if Draco said no, he'd accept it.

Of course he would, because he's Harry Potter, and little things like being stranded don't bother him. They'll make do another way, one longer and more uncomfortable than their current route; perhaps by hitchhiking to a wizarding village, or someplace where they can find a Floo.

If you're up to it. Draco is not. He is not up to it at all, and he will never be up to it, thank you very much. But those words sound like a challenge, and Harry is watching him. His expression is taut, his body a tightly-wound spring. Fraught with anxiousness, a tinge of desperation.

Draco won’t admit it, but he couldn’t say no if he tried.

They park in the far corner of a supermarket lot. The Vauxhall limps into the spot, coasting on the last of the fumes in their tank. Harry steps out of the car, frowning at it. The sunshine has diminished rapidly, sinking down the horizon in flashes of red and gold. Their vehicle is cast near-orange in the waning light. 

“There’s a petrol station close to here,” Harry says as Draco sidles up to him. “It’s a central area, so we won’t have a hard time finding a pub, either.”

Draco tucks his hands under his arms. His head swims, although whether it’s due to lack of nourishment or the mission he’s undertaken is hard to say.

“Wonderful,” he declares, feeling anything but. “Let’s get a move on then, shall we?”

Draco trudges forward, but Harry reaches out a hand to stop him. “You don’t have to do this, Draco, we can — ”

“No, I’m going to do it.” Draco doesn’t turn around. He isn’t overcome by guilt per se, but theft seems a low and dirty thing to do. He’s a Malfoy, and they’ve done worse, but Draco isn’t low and dirty. “Hurrah, I cannot wait to pick some poor Muggle’s pockets. I’ll mark this moment in my diary. It’ll be quite a historic moment.”

Harry hastens to catch up to him. His legs are shorter, but he manages the distance in a second. “Historic because you’re a Malfoy crying for spare change?”

“Don’t try to change my mind, Potter, you horrible prat.” Draco continues to move forward, but he peeks at his companion in his periphery. “You can assume if anyone hears about this, I’ll have no choice but to ship myself to a deserted island.”

Harry shakes his head, but he’s smiling, and that’s one thing Draco will never tire of. He grasps his arm, tugging him along. “Let’s go.”

They stand in front of a sleazy-looking pub, hands tucked into their pockets. There’s no bouncer guarding the door, but lights flash from inside, and music pours through open windows. Harry glances around as if someone will stop them, and pulls Draco inside.

The place isn’t hideous. It’s a little dingy, stylish-yet-careworn, but nothing like the small places in Hogsmeade. It’s adorned with colorful murals and low-hanging lamps, and the walls are lined with scuffed leather booths and wooden tables. Music blares louder than a sonorus, and the bass seems to pound through Draco’s body, replacing his heartbeat. The ground floor buzzes with activity already, the bar equally busy. A hassled-looking bartender hurries back and forth along its length, serving thirsty Muggles.

Harry tugs at the hem of his jumper. They’d elected against wearing their robes anywhere they’d stand out, but Draco wishes he had his now. His eyes smart and his skin tingles; the room isn’t filthy, but it isn’t clean either. 

They start toward the bar, moving with purpose as if they have drink orders prepared. Harry’s bracing his arm against it when a strange Muggle claps him on the shoulder. He startles, turning to the offender, and Draco reaches for his wand out of habit before he realizes it’s not there.

“Oi, Jeff! Thought you weren’t comin’ tonight! Whaddaya — ” the Muggle pauses, squinting at Harry as he blinks up at him. “Yer not Jeff.”

“Nope,” Harry says, shrugging out of the man’s grip. His hand falls and dangles, lifeless, by the Muggle’s side. “Definitely not Jeff.”

Jeff’s Friend smiles sheepishly, lifting a bottle in his hand in a weak salute. He’s older, with thinning hair at the peak of his scalp. His grin is a frightening yellow. “Sorry ‘bout that, thought it was him from behind. Same hair, y’know.”

Draco assumes Harry does not know, but he offers a genial smile anyway. He can see the strain in his expression, almost convincing but not quite. Harry fakes it well enough, but Draco supposes years in the spotlight will do that to a person.

“Sure, sure,” Harry brushes off his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Feel bad for fetterin’ ya,” Jeff’s Friend sticks out a hand, and sweet Merlin, he sounds like Hagrid. Draco wants to die. 

Harry shakes it, silent. Jeff’s Friend takes it as encouragement. “Can I buy yeh something for the trouble?”

Harry opens his mouth to decline, then glances at Draco. Draco raises his brows. He doesn’t know any Muggle drinks and suspects he won’t like them, but free alcohol is a privilege, magical or not.

Harry looks thoughtful for a moment before he nods. “Sure, we’ll take something. What’re you drinking?”

Jeff’s Friend grins, pulling a wallet out of his pocket. His fingers fumble through the stacks of paper, sticking to it, and he throws down two notes with a ‘50’ and the Muggle queen’s face on it. Based on Harry’s expression, Draco assumes that’s a decent amount. A thrill rushes beneath his skin. It can’t really be that easy, can it?

Jeff’s Friend shouts at the harried bartender. “A round o’ whiskey, filled to the brim!”

The bartender nods and pulls out the bottles, pouring them into three glasses. Jeff’s Friend turns back to Harry, still smiling. He edges closer, running an experimental finger down Harry’s arm.

All right. Now that’s a thing. 

Draco’s blood boils at the sight. He thinks he might commit homicide right there at the bar, before Harry makes a big show of shoving the hand away.

“Hope ya like,” Jeff’s Friend says, undeterred. “Least I can do for a fine bloke like yeh. How long yeh in town for?”

“Oh, just for tonight, and I’ll thank you to not touch me,” Harry scowls, covertly turning toward Draco. He steps further away from the man, and Draco resists the urge to tug him to his side. “I’m here with my friend.”

“A friend?” The awkwardness is exacerbated as Jeff’s Friend blinks, pausing over his beer. His gaze flickers to Draco, just for a moment, before it slides back to Harry.

The man begins to say something undoubtedly ignorant, but the bartender chooses that moment to shove their whiskey over the bar. The alcohol sloshes over the rims, wetting the tabletop. Opportune timing, indeed. Draco would tip him if he could.

The barman goes to help another customer without pausing for payment; Draco guesses Jeff’s Friend is a regular. He looks at their whiskey, then glances at them.

“A friend,” Jeff’s Friend repeats, dropping his bottle to reach for his glass. He lifts it in acknowledgment. “Sounds like a good time.”

“Yes, a grand old time,” Draco sneers, just as Harry says, with a little less heat, “Thanks for the drinks.”

“Sure, sure,” Jeff’s Friend tosses back his whiskey, chugging it in monstrous sips. It would almost be impressive if Draco hadn’t disliked him on sight. “Have fun in Glasgow, ya hear? If yer ever in town, swing on by. I’m always here. Hey, barman!”

The unfortunate bartender glances up from where he’s making a margarita. He tilts his head, looking annoyed. “Yes?”

“Open a tab for me, would’ja?” Jeff’s Friend slams his glass on the tabletop. Draco’s shocked when it doesn’t crack on impact. “Another whiskey!”

With a weary sigh, the bartender pulls out another bottle of bourbon, and Draco feels an odd kinship with him. Any hassled soul deserves some respect, in his book.

Harry’s scanning the room with tension locked in his shoulders, Jeff’s Friend is leaning across the bar, and the two fifty-pound notes still sit beside their drinks, untouched. They’re dampened by the sticky liquid on the bar. Draco’s fingers twitch.

The urge is bizarre. He’s never stolen, never needed to — but those soggy pieces of paper are their tickets out of here, and Draco submits to their demands.

He decides to throw caution to the wind. They’re knee-deep in this venture, and this man is making Harry — and frankly, Draco himself — uncomfortable, so one could say he was asking for it. Besides, they already stole a car, so really, how bad could it be?

Before anyone sees him move, Draco reaches out, brushing the cash. He pinches his thumb and index together, whipping his hand back into his pocket. The movement is quick; if anybody saw him, he guesses it would’ve looked like he slipped on the bar. Draco squeezes his fingers into a fist, cradling his bounty in a vice.

Harry’s gaze returns to their drinks. He picks up the remaining two glasses of whiskey, then turns to Draco with his brows furrowed. “Where’s the — ”

Draco grabs him by the arm, jerking him away from Jeff’s Friend and Weepy Barman before either of them notice the loss. They’ll blame the liquor for their carelessness.

It’s fine, Draco assures himself. No karmic retribution here, just two boys with wet Muggle money.

He pulls them toward a distant booth, situated behind a few clumps of raucous drinkers. Harry allows himself to be shoved into his seat. Their drinks slosh in his hands, dripping over his fingers as he stares at him in bewilderment. “Draco, what — ”

Draco removes his fist from his pocket, relinquishing his grip on the notes. The Muggle money falls onto the table in an unfortunate jumble, looking less like wealth and more like discarded napkins. It’s only sodden parchment to Draco, but Harry’s eyes widen at the sight. He pokes it, then sweeps it up to count it. Relief brightens his features, but he raises the question anyway.

“The Muggle at the bar?”

“I took it when Jeff’s Friend wasn’t looking,” Draco waves a hand as Harry mouths the words Jeff’s Friend incredulously. “He’s too sloshed to notice, don’t worry. Is it enough?”

Harry smiles. It’s white and vibrant in the pub's dimness, and Draco feels like he’s done a very good thing, if only because he was given such a grin. Dear Morgana, he’s becoming soft.

“Yes, it’s enough,” Harry says. Draco slumps with relief at the confirmation. “Oh, thank Merlin, thank you, Draco, I — ” he shakes his head. “I feel a little bad, but I was so worried about getting back — I don’t know where to find a Floo here, and — thanks.”

“He was a horrible creep, as well as profane,” the thought of the man’s hand on Harry makes Draco want to break things. “Don’t feel guilty on account of my behavior.”

Harry shuffles the notes in his hands, peeking from behind his fringe. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, I think.”

“I told you before not to be crass,” he deflects, but Draco’s lips quirk upward in satisfaction. Perhaps now they’ll eat more than a single granola bar a day, and Harry will stop frowning at the speedythingy, where the fuel what's-it sits. The boy will give himself worry lines before he hits twenty. “Besides, I told you I’d do it. Now you owe me for the next five meals, you’re welcome.”

Harry wrinkles his nose, but his eyes crinkle with mirth. “I owe you? I think we owe Jeff’s Friend for them.”

“Semantics,” Draco says, then pulls his drink towards him.

“Do you think we should trust this?” Harry asks, raising the cup to study it in the low light. Refracted amber flecks freckle his face behind the glass. “He was…”

“Trying to shag you?” Draco cocks his brow. He lifts his glass with a tight frown.

Harry nearly chokes. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Why?” Draco swishes the liquor in a circular movement. A tiny golden whirlpool forms in the center. “That was clearly his goal.”

A snort. Harry traces the condensation from the cups on the tabletop with the pad of his finger.

“He’s not my type, so,” he leans forward to clink his glass with Draco’s. A sly smile dimples his cheek. “To Jeff’s Friend’s wallet.”

Draco rolls his eyes, ignoring the way his heart hammers behind his ribs. Harry’s words make his skin warm, like he’s hinting at something, and — no. Enough of that.

So long as Draco has a hazy remnant of the Dark Mark on his arm, it’s entirely impossible. He can’t even entertain the thought.

“Huzzah,” Draco cheers, less than enthused. He tilts his head back to take the first sip.

The Muggle whiskey is abysmal. It’s completely, mind-numbingly awful, like poison laced with distilled piss. Draco coughs, thumping his chest, and takes another swig of it. The liquor burns all the way down his throat. It’s nothing like Ogden’s, but the scalding sting running through his body is familiar enough to be digestible.

Harry polishes off the whiskey across from him, slapping it onto the table’s surface with a clatter. He watches as Draco swallows the entirety of his own drink, then twists the Muggle money in his hand.

“I don’t suppose we can spare a few pounds for another round, do you?”

Draco eyes the paper critically. Perhaps it’s because he’s barely eaten for the past few days, but the alcohol sends tingles through his body, prickling with a pleasant hum. It’s been far too long since he’s had something to drink in earnest. He shrugs.

“If it’s enough to get us back, save the one,” he points at the Muggle queen’s face. “We can use the other.”

Harry nods, grasping one note and bending his knee to tuck it into his sock. Then he grabs the other and stands, planting both of his palms on the table. “What do you want to drink?”

Draco makes a face. “Whatever it is you’re having, so long as it’s not poisonous or foul.”

Harry laughs, “It’s all going to be foul, mate,” and fumbles his way through the crowd at the opposite end of the bar.

Draco watches him leave, his dark head bobbing around the throng of people. When he loses sight of Harry, he casts his gaze on the table. He toys with the rim of his glass, tracing runes in the water droplets. They dribble down his fingers in cool rivulets, a salve on his warm skin.

Only a few minutes pass by the time Harry returns, toting four drinks and a noticeably smaller note. He grins, somewhat sheepish, and deposits the alcohol on the table.

“Spent a bit avoiding the bloke from earlier.” Harry slips the rest of the Muggle money into his shoe, then pushes two of the glasses toward Draco. “Bottoms up.”

Draco obliges.

Halfway through his third glass, the lights of the pub begin to blur. They mesh together and spin like the cosmos, flickering in and out of existence. It’s bright and beautiful and dizzying; Draco can’t track the movement even when he rests his chin in his cupped palm. 

He blinks across the table, bleary. Harry’s head is thrown back, flushed with jaunty laughter, his hands curled around his drink. His whole body vibrates with the force of his joy; Harry is gorgeous and carefree, unaware of what the sight does to people.

Draco has known he likes boys for a while. It wasn’t some thunderstruck realization, or a tragic romantic tryst, no; it wasn’t anything in particular. He lives with Blaise Zabini, who has a nice arse, for one — not that it was Draco’s gay awakening or anything. He’s just smart enough to put together what his eyes catch, although perhaps not brave enough to admit it. 

It had never been an issue of consequence. Draco spent his earlier Hogwarts years being slimy and thought little about why snogging Astoria Greengrass after a rousing game of spin the bottle in the Slytherin common room did nothing for him.

Draco thinks of Potter — of Harry — with his dark, perpetual bedhead. He’s memorized the way he smiles when he laughs, freely, with his eyes screwed shut. He’s traced the pale curves in his scar millions of times. It lances his eyebrow, and by all rights should diminish his features but only serves to make Harry all the more devastating.

He’s pretty — bloody hell, he’s pretty — and Draco is eleven again. He’s always been nervous behind his mask, stiff-lipped and struggling to keep knobby knees from knocking beneath his robes. Little Draco; he was nothing but a spill of milk and carefully structured bird bones, and Harry was the sun.

Draco thinks, in a moment of poetic nostalgia, that maybe it’s always been him. Maybe it’s always been Harry, in a weird, twisted way that aches like fate. Maybe he was meant to be heartbroken.

At that moment, a Muggle nearby says something that makes Harry guffaw. He turns to Draco, his arm extended, his teeth white and flashing. Without thinking, Draco grins back. It comes to him so easily, now. When did that happen?

Draco struggles to stand, fumbling his way to Harry’s side of the booth. The Muggles around them are present but barely, invested in their own conversations in this shoddy little dive. They pay no mind to the two boys fitted together on cracked plastic seating, too close and yet not. There’s nothing for them to see.

Harry welcomes Draco with another winning smile, and it feels like soaring. His glass sweats in his hand, water droplets congregating under his fingertips. A small puddle leaks onto the tabletop, slipping under the drink. 

It has always been him. It’s always been you, hasn’t it, Harry? 

Draco is completely, royally fucked.

The revelation is more potent than the alcohol, although perhaps it shouldn’t be. Draco’s head is heavy, and he braces his hand beside his glass for balance. The bright neon adorning the walls reflects on his ring, shifting the dull metal to a veritable oil slick of color. The vibrancy absorbs Draco wholly. He may drown in the swirling light, and then he thinks, that’s okay.

Draco slumps to his side, but Harry catches his shoulder. With a firm grasp, he moves him into a sitting position. The heat of Harry’s palm through the fabric of Draco’s shirt is a brand; the warmth of it travels up to his cheeks, as if he’s been stricken by fever.

Merlin, this is all so ridiculously Victorian. If a simple touch makes him lose control, Draco fears an exposed neckline will force him into a lustful haze. Perhaps he’s contracted scrofungulus.

He parts his lips. Draco wants to force it out, to express everything that’s choking him, but the words do not come. He has too many things to say; each comment battles for the right to tumble from his tongue first. Draco flashes between I’m utterly sloshed and I’m sorry and there’s something about you, but I’ve been too afraid to say until now.

When Harry shifts, angling his body away, the moment is over.

Look at me . Draco screams, and still no one hears him. He can’t speak — he can barely breathe past the hollow misery in his chest. He ought to lie down for a very long time, until there is nothing left of him but a lonely skeleton. Look at me.

Harry is sitting beside him, but even that’s too far. It’s an insurmountable distance, the gap between him and the Chosen One. Mere inches separate their skin, and Draco will die if he doesn’t touch him. He sucks in a sharp inhale, reaching out his hand. It’s careless, clumsy, but he brushes against Harry’s arm.

Harry turns around. His eyes are bright and so, so green. He tilts his chin down, not unlike a curious owl. “All right there, Draco?” 

The gentleness in his voice hurts. Draco knows it’s just who Harry is — it’s who he’s always been. He’s strong and capable, a warrior worthy of the title; but he also has a warm heart, and it makes him good.

“I hate this,” Draco slurs, shaking his head. He’s not all right. He’s not, and he needs Harry to know. “I despise this.”

Harry draws closer, and despite going three days without bathing he still somehow smells glorious. It’s a combination of spice, gin, and something that Draco can’t place but is distinctly Harry. Oh, Merlin, Draco is so very fucked.

He whimpers, lifting his hands to cover his face. Harry stops him before he can. His fingers grasp pale, slender wrists, and the contact does horrible things to Draco.

“What?” Harry’s tone is unerringly tender, his mouth pursed in concern. That brilliant gazes bores into him, and Draco sparks like a match before a fuse. “You despise what, Draco?”

It’s too much. Draco assumes this is what they call sensory overload. “I can’t do this, Harry, really — I can’t.”

Harry’s grip tightens, but he lowers his prodding stare. He studies their hands, shades of milk and honey, and squeezes. The pressure is gentle, and he moves his thumb in slow, careful circles on Draco’s palm.

He likes it when Harry touches him, he thinks. Each brush is purposeful and electric. Grounding. It makes Draco feel real. 

“I,” Draco thinks he snivels, but the reality of that is far too embarrassing to consider. “Come here right now, please.”

Harry pauses. His hair flops into his lashes and he shakes it away. A soft, puzzled smile replaces his frown, and fuck, Draco really will have to invest in a pair of sunglasses after this blasted trip. He can’t keep looking at the sun and expect to not be blinded.

“I’m just surprised that you said please.”

“Merlin, Potter — Harry, sod off, would you,” Draco sniffs. “I was raised under a strict regime with regal etiquette, and your severe lack thereof is an assault upon everything I hold dear.”

“Is it now,” Harry says, nonplussed. His pupils are blown wide, his lips full and pink. He could kill Draco with those cheekbones, probably, and he would go happily.

The atmosphere shifts; the air more charged, heightened somewhere between when Harry grabbed Draco’s wrists and when he so ineloquently expressed himself. Far above, the lights of the pub are nothing but blurry approximations of stars. Alcohol flows freely through his bloodstream, deafening Draco to anything and everything but Harry.

Harry watches as he reels. It would be disconcerting if it wasn’t surreal. The world is distorted for Draco, because this moment is impossible; the way Harry traces the planes of his face, alighting on his aquiline features and following them like brush strokes before coming to a stuttering halt on Draco’s mouth.

Harry coughs, and it’s a poor disguise for the want in his gaze. He displays an overwhelming desire Draco knows is reflected in his own. 

He can’t believe he’s seeing this — it’s a chance. A possibility so long forbidden, Draco has forgotten why he banished any thoughts of it in the first place. Harry’s fingers skitter along Draco’s arms, gentle and callused. His nail beds are atrocious, each bitten to kingdom come, but Harry’s need for a manicure is a problem for later, sober Draco.

He feels a rush of something then, as if instead of whiskey he’d taken a shot of Felix Felicis. There rises a phoenix in his core, a flame, burning away his doubt and scattering the ashes. It’s a gamble, possibly the greatest he’s ever made, and Draco’s going to do it. He has to try.

In an uncharacteristic bout of Gryffindor bravery, he takes Harry’s hands. They’re closer now, their bodies magnetized. Harry’s face in such proximity is almost too much for him to bear. His attention, snagged on Draco, glazed over from the alcohol but endlessly lovely. His lips are reddish, parted and glossy in the light. 

“I’m going to die,” Draco professes, resting his forehead on Harry’s shoulder. He shivers as Harry’s hand travels to the back of his neck, fingering the ends of his hair.

“Yeah, I’m going to kill you,” he smiles against Draco’s cheek.

Right. If he was unsure before, Draco is certain he’s already passed and ascended into the heavens, because there’s no way this is happening.

“Yes, you are,” Draco groans, leaning back.

He studies Harry from his scar to his chin, and all he sees is kindness. A little bullheadedness, maybe, but compassion — it’s carved into the very fiber of his being, thrumming through his veins and burning in his heart.

When Draco kisses him, Harry makes a surprised noise. Their lips meld together before he can consider retreating.

Harry pulls him in, grasping his jumper in haphazard fists. His mouth quirks upward into a smile that makes Draco’s chest feel as if it’s about to implode. 

His hands rise to cup Harry’s face, hesitant. It’s near reverential, the touch, and Harry sighs. His lashes quiver along his cheekbones, his skin smooth. Draco’s thumb runs along the angular curves of his face. He bumps his glasses and the pad of his index finger brushes his scar, but Harry doesn’t flinch away. He tastes like liquor and sugar.

It’s thrilling. It’s also strange, the warmth of their lips moving in tandem. There’s an indescribable weight to it that Draco can’t parse. He never thought he deserved a soft epilogue, but the caress of Harry’s mouth makes him feel like he’s worthy of something.

Each brush of their skin blazes through him, and his nerves sing at the contact. Draco is an entire bloody idiot for not comprehending the complexity of his feelings for Harry until now.

When Harry’s lips part in invitation, his soul leaves his body, a little. Draco’s chest opens with such a raw outpouring of emotion, he’s shocked Harry isn’t singed by the heat of it through his jumper. It burns like lava flow just behind his rib cage, and he knows he’ll never feel like this again with anyone else.

He doesn’t deserve the euphoria after everything he’s done — after everything Harry has seen him do. No amount of apologizing and weak attempts at charity work will absolve him of his crimes; Draco knows this. His guilt haunts him, an ever-present specter, but for once, he decides that he doesn’t care.

Draco has cried, bled, and fought for too many years to punish himself anymore. He yearns for someone he can’t have, so he’ll take it now, before the opportunity dissipates in the wind. Draco kisses Harry sweetly while he strokes the ends of his unkempt hair, their drinks sweating and forgotten on the table. Harry makes a soft sound into his mouth, something like contentment, and Draco’s heart seizes. 

He clutches his hand. Their fingers weave seamlessly, as if they were always meant to. Draco pulls Harry impossibly closer and allows himself to be selfish, just for tonight.

Chapter Text

Draco wakes in the Vauxhall, his legs kicked up over the dashboard. One of his arms is asleep and unmovable. There’s a crick in his neck that symbolizes a night spent twisted at an odd angle, and his head pounds something awful. He shifts, grimacing.

Bloody hangovers.

He can’t imagine why people consume alcohol. It’s not worth it for the short buzz; whatever irresponsible drunkard fermented the first drink and tossed it back should’ve been thrown into Azkaban for their crimes. If Draco still held any reputable standing in the wizarding community, he’d seek out the descendants of Whomever-the-Drunk and have them arrested.

A spiking pain lances through his skull, and Draco hisses without opening his eyes. He no longer feels the desperate lust for a normal youth. The urgency from the night before has settled to a low, simmering hum, and his only determinable emotion is regret.

So what if there was a war that robbed him of the chaotic throes of teenagerdom? The adolescent fantasy is overrated, and Draco’s beginning to suspect that losing those years was in his best interest. The resurgence of his embarrassing prepubescent desires are clouding his judgment and making him do unspeakable things, like swallow six shots in rapid succession and snog Harry sodding Potter.

Harry. Draco flinches at the barrage of hazy memories from the night before. They rise to the surface, bobbing in his brain like an apple in water. He thinks of their fingers and their lips, warm and chaste under the neon lights; the giddiness flaring within him as they stumbled out of the pub, stinking of ale. He remembers them sleepily climbing into the car, followed by a broken recollection of holding hands until Harry fell asleep with his glasses askew.

Draco squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

It’s not that he laments it; Draco is desperate for Harry in a way that makes his chest hollow and his face hot. He yearns. It’s not just because of the snogging, but because it’s him, and for some silly reason that means something to Draco.

But he also grew up surrounded by politics; he knows what shakes a nation, and in his inebriated state, Draco thought nothing of the consequences.

He’s a former Death Eater, no matter whether he wanted to be or how his allegiances have shifted. Water under the bridge doesn’t apply when you have ties to a maniacal mass murderer, and the wizarding public couldn’t care less about Draco’s complicated feelings for the Chosen One. He can’t imagine a reality where Ron Weasley would accept an apology at face value, never mind one where he’d give his blessing for Draco to grab Harry in the corridor between classes and snog him senseless.

Harry deserves better, anyway.

Draco scowls despite himself. This is what road trips and men do to you — he’s hungover out of his mind, pondering the realism of receiving Weasley’s blessing. Absurd. He kisses Harry once and suddenly he’s browsing for promise rings! Draco has officially lost all his Gobstones. They’ve fallen into an abyss to never return.

He tugs on his half-dead arm, but it doesn’t move. Draco keeps his lids fastened shut — he can’t open them for fear of bright light or the sight of Harry in the early morning, which will undoubtedly be too devastating to behold. He ought to be smacked between the eyes with a very large mallet. Complex thoughts and emotions should be illegal. 

Draco’s body is sore, thoroughly beaten by the alcohol. The intensity of his feelings does little to help; a tightness constricts under his ribs, his traitorous heart primed to burst. His innards will decorate the interior of the Vauxhall, and it’ll be quite horrific for Harry to wake up to.

Draco has no one but himself and copious amounts of whiskey to thank.

He tries to sit up. His mouth tastes of cotton, coating his tongue with the tangy remnants of gin. Draco squints, swearing as the sun assaults his lenses. He lifts his free hand to cover it, pulling on his other arm, but the reason for its unresponsiveness lies in a tangled puddle of dark hair.

Harry’s fingers wrap around Draco’s, possessive in their grip. Their entwined hands are drawn tight to his chest, so Draco’s limb has spent all night bent over the console, which explains the numbness. Harry’s glasses are halfway off his face and lips are parted in sleep, drooling onto his seat. Draco doesn’t find the sight repulsive, which disturbs him on many levels.

He tries one last weak yank on his stolen arm, then gives up as Harry winds himself around him tighter.

A water bottle lies discarded on the floor, leftover from their last stop at the petrol mart. Draco chokes down a few gulps. It soothes his parched throat, somewhat. He’s still dirty and sweaty, although both worries are peerless compared to the sun: it filters through the windshield with a vengeance, blinding him at the slightest provocation. What Draco wouldn’t do for a hangover cure — being forced to live as a Muggle is well and truly vexing.

Through the windows, the parking lot of the supermarket is near-empty. The Vauxhall is sequestered in a barren corner, and there are no pedestrians or other vehicles. It’s still obscenely early, but the lot will fill soon, then he and Harry will have to leave.

They’re not too far from the Highlands now. The trip is three hours, give or take. It won’t be long until they’re chugging across rolling hills that are dull and muted compared to Harry’s eyes, though trying to find the Unplottable Hogwarts will be a quest in itself. After they stock up on petrol and unappetizing Muggle snacks, Draco hopes they can use their pilfered coin to buy a useful map. They’ve done extraordinarily well with guesswork thus far, and he doesn’t expect their luck to last.

If it does, though, they’ll be home. What a thought.

This evening, Draco will probably be sat at the Slytherin table, rehashing this very tale with embellishments fit for a king. He doesn’t really want to think about it.

Draco’s hated being on the road. They’ve encountered one too many strange Muggles, and he’s mourned the loss of his wand like a family member. Even so, the idea of returning to Hogwarts sends a plunging feeling through his gut. The implications of that are too abstract to comprehend in his sleep-addled state, so he refuses to try. 

Draco rests the crown of his skull against the headrest, his eyes half-shuttered in the brightness. Harry seems unbothered by the light, his sleeping face slack. He squeezes the captive arm, and Draco has to disentangle himself for the sake of his shoulder socket. He extricates his hand from Harry’s grip, flexing his fingers to assuage the numbness. Losing contact feels like a bucket of icy water; Draco tucks his palms under his legs for the illusion of warmth.

Harry slumbers on undisturbed. His shirt rumples, exposing a slim column of skin. Draco swallows past the lump in his throat. It never gets easier, seeing him so unguarded. It’s like Draco’s privy to a great secret, and he’s not sure he deserves the privilege.

Harry makes a soft noise in his sleep, halfway between a sigh and a groan. His glasses perch precariously, shifting down his nose. Draco doesn’t think as he moves. He reaches across the console to save the spectacles from potential demolition, but Harry chooses that moment to wake.

His lids flutter open, lashes quivering like a butterfly’s wings. He blinks blearily through the smudged lenses. They’re tilted, likely impossible to see through, but he watches Draco with a dazed expression. Draco freezes, pulling his hand away with the speed of a darting snake.

“S’matter, Draco?” Harry yawns. He forces himself upright, head bobbing lazily. His hair sticks up at all angles, more unkempt than usual. Draco wonders if it’s from his own fingers.

“Nothing,” Draco lies. His voice comes out hoarse.

Harry wobbles in his spot, pushing a rough hand to adjust his glasses. The innocence of the action is alarming — Harry looks a bit like a child when he wakes: clumsy and a little bewildered, as if he’d fallen asleep on the sofa only to wake up in his bed.

Harry stretches his lithe arms above his head, his elbows bent in the limited space. When he speaks, it’s groggy and dreamlike, not unlike how Luna Lovegood always sounds.

“D’you — ” another yawn. Harry’s mouth opens wide, exposing his molars. It reminds Draco of a cat. “D’you know what time it is?”

Draco clears his throat, averting his gaze. “Not the slightest idea,” he screws up his eyes as he looks toward the sun. Perhaps he’ll burn his retinas out. “Around eight?”

Harry hums in acknowledgment. He twists in his seat, grunting. Buttery morning light leaks across the dashboard, mocking them with empty promises of summer. If they open the doors, it’ll be chill and crisp, the short cusp of autumn and the incoming winter.

“It’s early,” Harry says, staring at the deceitful shards of sunshine. Dust motes glimmer beneath the windshield, dancing in the glow. “I thought for sure we’d, uh,” he glances at Draco, flushing. “That we’d sleep longer.”

Draco feels the tips of his ears redden. Normally he’d make a crack about the astuteness of Harry’s observation, but part of him had hoped that maybe, if he’s lucky — maybe they wouldn’t have to confront this today. Harry was too sloshed to remember, or he wouldn’t bring it up, or some other evasive rot.

Lady Luck has never been fond of Draco. He’s doomed forever, and it’s only a matter of time until he dies in a swirling inferno of emotions. Morgana help him, he isn’t a bloody Hufflepuff.

“Yeah,” Draco coughs into his fist. His mouth is a veritable desert. “Thought so, too.”

“Yeah,” Harry echoes, blinking at him.

Draco doesn’t deign to respond.

Harry watches him for a moment. The quiet encompassing them shrugs across their shoulders, a blanket of awkwardness. Draco struggles not to fidget under the heaviness. It carries a query, he knows; it’s one he can’t answer. What now?

The light stretches across the dashboard, and the first car of the morning pulls into the parking lot. It’s more than likely a cashier, or a keen customer. Draco observes wordlessly, his fingers drumming on his thighs.

Still, Harry stares; his eyes search as if Draco’s a puzzle, another mystery to solve. A pretty thought, but it’s a futile endeavor, Draco thinks. He has no secrets save for one.

Harry precedes his question with a soft rumble in his throat, then: “Are we going to talk about —”

“No,” Draco whispers. A rush of vertigo overtakes him, and he knows he doesn’t have the ability to face this head on. He’s spent too many years running away from it. “Sorry, I — No. We can’t.”

“Why not?” Harry leans forward, open and genuine; that brilliant gaze reflects his heart, and it hurts Draco to look. “We’ve waited long enough, unless you don’t —” he pauses. “Are you not interested?”

Not interested. If Draco weren’t reeling, he might laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here he is, waking up next to a boy he’s thought about for the better part of the last eight years, and the boy in question asks if he’s disinterested.

As if there was any point in Draco Malfoy’s life that he was indifferent toward Harry Potter.

“I — ” he isn’t sure how to parse this. We and waited and long enough clatter around his skull like loose Gobstones, and Harry’s hands edge across the console. They near Draco’s trembling ones, close, too close, and — “I can’t.”

“We can, together,” Harry insists, skittering just within reach, but not touching. His lips curve upward, and he speaks with a patience Draco didn’t know he possessed. “If that’s something you’d want. The war’s over, Draco.”

Draco is immensely grateful for the modicum of space, because he’s choking on air. It’s everything he fears and yearns for, everything he’s unworthy of; the desires are thick in his lungs, filling him with acrid smoke. He might die here, in this stolen car with the boy he can never have, and wouldn’t that make a fine Daily Prophet piece? Rita Skeeter would have a field day.

It’s easier for you, Draco nearly says, although he knows Harry would be loath to hear it. You’re you, but I’m me.

“We were drunk, Potter,” Draco says instead. His remembrance of the newspaper and the disastrous results it’ll bring affirm his deflection. He speaks with more force than necessary, and his voice sounds amplified in the compact space of the car. “You’re being presumptuous.”

Harry’s nose wrinkles. Something flashes across his face — confusion, frustration, a combination of both. “Am I?”

“Yes,” the oxygen in the car seems thin. It reminds Draco of when he flies too high on his broom, and the inevitable plummet to earth that awaits. “You are.”

Harry frowns. “I think —”

“No, Potter,” Draco doesn’t want to upset him, but it’s better he hurts for a short time than be ruined forever. Associating with Draco for — for what, recreational snogging? To date? He doesn’t even know what Harry was asking, but he knows whatever he’d propose isn’t a good idea. “It shouldn’t have happened. It was a mistake.”

Harry’s mouth snaps shut. His brows crease tightly, and Draco knows that expression. It’s one he’s made many times, whenever betrayal once again knocks on his door.

“Sure. Fine,” Harry withdraws his hands. Their absence on the console puts a hole in Draco’s chest. “I misread — a mistake. I see.”

“Yes.” Draco swallows. “You know it’s not plausible — ”

“No, Draco. I don’t know,” brittleness replaces the warmth in Harry’s tone. “Enlighten me.”

Enlighten me. Right.

Draco lifts his chin, looking down his pointed nose with all the authority he can muster. The gesture feels obnoxious and superior, which means it probably looks even more so.

“If you just stopped to think about the repercussions,” Draco bites his lip to keep it from trembling. It curls into a sneer. “For once in your life —”

“Don’t you dare lecture me!” Harry snaps. The tension breaks then, and he barrels through his words, fumbling in his haste to get them out. “Merlin, ‘a mistake.’ It’s fine if you don’t want to. It’s fine, you’re entitled to that. But don’t — don’t string me about like —”

Draco inhales sharply. String him about? Potter’s the one fucking around, with his green eyes and warm hands. He’s forgotten he’s not the only one suffering through a bizarre mental reevaluation of his longtime rival.

“I don’t — ” Harry’s voice cracks. He takes a moment to compose himself before he sighs. “I don’t know why I thought there was a change between us,” his smile has long crumbled, drifting away in fragments. “S’pose we can’t erase all our scars.”

Draco reflexively braces his fingers against his chest. They flutter along the marks that lie beneath the fabric; white lines still mar the skin above his heart, no longer puckered but impossible to forget. He feels no bitterness when he thinks of them, only disappointment with himself.

Harry follows the movement with his gaze. Draco hastens to tuck his hand away, but it’s too late. He watches, quiet, seeping despondence. Draco wants to scrub the sorrow off his face.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, soft. It’s layered with so many things left unsaid.

Draco shakes his head. He begins to speak, but Harry cuts him short. “And, um. I know it’s hard to forgive something like that.” He toys with the cuffs of his shirt, rolled up to his elbows. “I can’t tell if you’re afraid, or you just don’t care, but I do.”

I do, too, Draco thinks, but cannot say. And I owe you more apologies than you owe me.

He wants to tell Harry he forgave him long ago, even if he hadn’t realized at the time. Draco wishes he could reach across the console and grasp him again, or pull him close to inhale his scent; he wants to study the way his hair ruffles before a puff of breath. Draco wants so much more than this. It wasn’t your responsibility to save me.

He does none of these things. Draco only observes with a countenance of careful blankness, a sleek white mask.

Harry peers at him. There’s such obvious disappointment in his expression; it’s a beautiful and volatile sight, the leaping flames of a volcano, the pulsing light of a spell. It pins Draco, daring him to speak, but he’s incapacitated. Those eyes render him mute, trapped like an insect with body and wings tacked to a frame.

Draco once found Harry’s clear displays of emotion amusing, then unnerving; now it only saddens him to be the source of that hurt. 

When he says nothing, Harry braces his palm on the driver’s side door, fumbling for the handle. He opens it without another word. 

As the door to the Vauxhall slams closed, a cloud passes over the sun. The warmth seeping through the windows disappears, and Draco feels very cold.

After the third hour of unbroached quiet, Draco considers opening his mouth.

The whistle of tires echoes in his ears, hissing on sun-bleached asphalt. Outside, the world is tinted grey; rain has broken through the altostratus, spitting fat droplets that streak down the windows. It pitter-patters a solemn tattoo on the roof of the car. The wipers glide across the windshield, clicking against the bonnet with each swipe. It’s the only constant amidst the quiet. 

Puddled, dark streaks cover the pavement, leaving water tracks as the Vauxhall speeds past. Its metal shell shudders as it cuts through the wind, making sharp turns along the meandering roads. They trace a path through the now-muted vibrancy of the Highlands, and neither of them speak.

Draco studies Harry’s face in profile. He exercises quite poor subtlety, but remains unacknowledged; Harry stares at the road ahead of them. His expression is tight, and the rivulets on the windshield reflect in his glasses. He doesn’t pay much attention to Draco save for the occasional cool glance. No utterances leave his lips, neither acceptance nor argument.

Nothing but cold, unrelenting silence.

Draco’s teeth burrow deeper into his cheek. He’d chewed his skin raw by hour two, and will probably require reconstructive surgery. Part of it has swollen from incessant irritation.

Merlin, help me. The tension within the confined space of the Vauxhall is awful and thick, a heaping dollop of unappetizing cream. Under the tyrannical reign of silence, Draco wants to scream, but no words will come.

If he trusted himself to talk, he might try to explain. He might. Draco would wax poetic about the Muggle elecktricksity that prickles in his veins when they touch, or describe how the depths of green eyes drown him — but he can’t. He won’t take back what he said, because it’s better this way. Even if he’s tugged a loose thread and the fragile trust they’ve woven has unraveled; even if his voice sticks in the back of his throat. It isn’t about self-preservation this time, because for once, Draco wants to protect Harry instead of himself. 

No matter how the wizarding world loves the Potter name, in light of a scandal, the public is quick to bite the hand that feeds them. Draco Malfoy will not be responsible for Harry Potter’s fall from grace.

The car careens down the road, the hush between them still unbroached. Thunder rumbles high above. It shakes the ground like the footfalls of a giant, and Draco feels it in his bones. He wonders about the status of their spare tire, but given there hasn’t been another undue explosion, he puts it out of his mind.

His fingers twitch, retracting into fists. Manicured nails prick his palms and quarry crescents in his skin as he casts his gaze out the window. 

There are no gargantuan monsters wreaking havoc upon the earth. Undulating hills break along the horizon in waves, and Draco traces the lines of them with his eyes; each slope rises and falls until they fade into oblivion. His vision blurs and he ducks his head, feeling a little like his grip on sanity is slackening.

Please, Draco thinks. He’s not quite sure what he’s hoping for, but he hopes nonetheless.

Harry’s wrists flex on the steering wheel. They skid around another curve, the back tires of the Vauxhall fishtailing, and Draco resigns himself to the death this car will inevitably bring. He might as well speak now, or forever hold his peace.

“Do you know where you’re going?” His words rasp, as if his voice is a long-neglected instrument. It cracks the silence like a fallen wine glass at a dinner party. 

Harry has no visible reaction to the interruption. His fingers splay on the controls, nimble and sure in their movements.

It’s not until they round another corner do his lips part, speaking under a thin veneer of disinterest. “Not the slightest idea.”

No surprise there, Draco nearly says. He bites his tongue to restrain himself — snark is not needed here. The metallic taste of blood slips through his teeth, and he swallows past the unpleasant tang. “None?”

Harry sighs. It sounds worn out, as if he’s a father of ten who’s just been asked to adopt a crup for the tenth time that day, from all of his children.

“Hogsmeade, maybe,” another turn, fluid and quick on the rain slicked ground. “It’s Plottable, at least.”

“Hm,” Draco waits a moment before talking again. “Should we get away from the road? We’re not likely to find the school wandering about in Muggle areas.”

Harry’s nose twitches; Draco can’t tell if he’s annoyed or about to sneeze. 

“Oh, yeah? You reckon we should go off-roading?” Harry passes him an unimpressed look, his mouth flat. Annoyed, then. “Didn’t think you had a sense of adventure in you.”

A familiar wave of irritation rises within Draco. He scowls but forces it down, clogging his emotional drain. His hands twist in his lap. “Harry, listen — ”

“Done enough of that, I think,” Harry’s lips press together tighter, barring them from view.

“I didn’t mean — ”

“It doesn’t matter, Dra — Malfoy.”

Oh. The amendment of his name burns more than everything else they’ve said. Harry exhales, heavy. It seems to be a breath he’s withheld for a long time.

“You’re right,” he says. His eyes flicker to the rear view mirror, then back to the road. “It was a mistake.” 

The admission halts Draco’s protests in his throat. They scatter and die, pathetic excuses and pleas for forgiveness alike. It wasn’t, he thinks. It wasn’t a mistake.

“Consider it forgotten,” Harry continues. “We’ll get there soon, and you’ll never have to worry about it again.”

I don’t want to forget, part of Draco wants to scream, to release all he’s left unsaid. That’s not what I want at all.

Harry isn’t listening. He can’t hear him, and he doesn’t know what Draco can’t say. His attention doesn’t stray from the road, ever-focused on their goal — on getting them home. Hero.

Draco wants nothing more than for those eyes to look at him once more.

“Harry,” he tries again. Unjust frustration bristles to the surface, shoving aside his emotional blocks. Draco started this pissing contest, he knows, but he doesn’t want to reignite their bloody rivalry. It’s funny how a few short days can shift one’s perspective so monumentally. “Merlin and Morgana, it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends —”

His next words never come. Harry’s eyes widen at something in front of them, and his lips part in a yell. He swerves, tires skidding on the asphalt. The steering wheel jerks again, and the Vauxhall careens off the road.

Draco punctuates their descent with a shout, grasping for handholds along the edges of the car. He clutches his seat in a vice like their very first night, his knuckles taut and white. His other hand braces itself on the dashboard. In the driver’s spot, Harry’s palms stick to the wheel, gripping so hard his veins protrude. He shakes with the effort of maintaining control as the Vauxhall rumbles over grass and stone, vibrating along the unleveled ground.

They barrel downward, cresting a small hill that launches them in the air. They float for a moment, as if carried on a gust of wind, before they slam into the earth with a bone-shattering jolt. All signs of civilization disappear in the rear view as they dip below knolls, hurtling through saplings and underbrush. Ahead there’s a tree line, a solid barrier. Ancient trunks loom like sentinels, and Draco feels like a bird before the Whomping Willow.

For all he thought he might die on this trip, he isn’t prepared to face the reality of his mortality.

Draco fumbles blindly for the metal stick in the center of the console, but then Harry brakes, forcing both of them forward in a sickening lurch. 

The Vauxhall makes a terrible noise, a horrifying clunk that must be the last emission from a dying machine. It seems to sink into the soil, a final prayer. Foul-smelling fumes erupt from beneath the bonnet, rife with the acridity of smoke.

Draco sits up, slow. His head throbs where it made contact with the dashboard. His vision swims as he tries to focus, and he brushes his palm against his brow, alarmed to find it come away wet. A bead of blood trickles past his eye and down his cheekbone, a tear of red.

A groan sounds from beside him, and Draco blinks past the fuzziness to see Harry resting on the steering wheel. He forgets all his hesitation, his rightful caution. It fades to nothing in the face of Harry in danger, so Draco reaches for him unconsciously, hand fluttering along his shoulder blade. 

Something seems off as he moves. The prickling in his fingertips and the pounding against his brain makes Draco numb and detached; it’s an out-of-body experience, as if he’s astral projected and watches himself grasp Harry from above. The perspective of a toiling god, he imagines, with no regard for the fragility of mortals.

“Harry,” Draco slurs, running his hand along the other boy’s arm. He pries Harry’s fists from the wheel with deft motions and shoves him gently. Green eyes flutter open. “All right, Harry?”

Harry blinks, dazed. He pushes himself to sit up, too fast, and squints through his glasses; a shallow dent in the metal frames makes them sit askew.

“I,” Harry croaks when he speaks. “I think. Saw a — saw a Thestral.”

“A Thestral,” Draco’s brows rise to his hairline. If Harry isn’t hallucinating, then the Hogwarts herd might be close. “You’re sure?”

Harry’s forehead creases as he tries to focus. He gives a curt nod, weary with strain. “I saw one.”

Well. Draco exhales. Creepy fuckers, Thestrals, but if they’re nearby, they might not be monumentally fucked, after all. “That could be good news.”

“Could be,” Harry agrees. He screws up his eyes, searching for something in the distance. “Besides, er, crashing our car,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Not great.”

Eh. Draco was never particularly fond of the Vauxhall.

“Good to be rid of it,” he shrugs. “Saved us a trip to the scrap heap.”

Draco scans their surroundings, but the cracked windshield and disconcerting amount of smoke obscure his line of sight. From what he can tell, there’s nothing kneading the dirt, and no noises signaling the presence of another creature.

If there was a Thestral in their way, it’s gone now.

“You’re all right, though?” Harry says at last, like he’s only just remembered that Draco is also a victim of his reckless driving.

“Despite your best efforts, I’m fine,” Draco’s head is spinning, and he feels decidedly less than fine, but he’s not about to say so. His fingers twitch where they still rest on Harry’s forearm, and after a moment, he withdraws them.

Fuck. It really does hurt. A sharp pain lances between his temples, like he’s about to birth a war goddess from the depths of his skull. Draco feels thoroughly throttled. He yearns to sit back and rest, but every ounce of logic in him ascertains that falling asleep now would be a mistake.

The Vauxhall utters another unpleasant creak. Harry scowls, running his hand over his face. “Shit.”

Draco nods in mute agreement.

“Don’t know how far we are from wherever school is,” Harry mutters, staring uncomprehendingly at a red smear on his palm. His nose drips, a deeper crimson than his tie. Draco stifles the ridiculous urge to mop it with his own shirtsleeve, because that’s disgusting. He must be concussed to even consider such a thing. 

“Might have to —” Harry fumbles along the driver’s side door, fingers catching in the divots. He kicks it, and it swings open with a creak. “Might have to walk.”

In this state? Draco flashes back to their endless trek down the Welsh motorway. He releases an involuntary groan. Harry casts him a look, but he knows there’s a rapport between them — at least, in being injured and walking for extended periods of time.

“Walk where, exactly?” Draco flings open his door, his oxfords settling in the moist grass. He scowls at the discoloration of the hide; they’re completely ruined. This is just the worst.

Harry offers a noncommittal shrug, which would irritate Draco if they both weren’t bleeding profusely.

The clouds haven’t yet dispersed, but the rain dwindles to a drizzle. It falls in scattered droplets, yielding the same results as Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion; it dampens Harry’s unkempt mane into a wet, unkempt mane.

Draco stares up at the sky, blinking as rain splatters his cheeks. The water washes away his will to move; he wants to melt into the earth.

“I cannot believe we came this far to die in a sodding forest,” he remarks.

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” Harry says, humorless, which does absolutely nothing to bolster Draco’s mood.

The Vauxhall leaks fumes in earnest now, smoke billowing from beneath the bonnet in waves. Long, parallel ruts trail behind the car, harsh treads carved from the tires. The wheels are anchors, sunken deep, and dirt spills over rubber into the hubcaps. The stepney is obliterated; it streams after the now-empty tire, like a roll of toilet paper stuck to someone’s loafer.

Draco supposes that given how much it's seen, it should be in worse condition than it is. At least its basic shape is still recognizable.

Harry ignores the threat of immediate eruption and reaches in the back of the Vauxhall to retrieve their robes. He tosses a bundle over to Draco, who catches it with unsteady hands. Harry takes his own and drapes it over his head, as ignominious as those theatrical vampires Muggles seem to think pass for the real thing. He turns to face the trees, his palm resting on the cool surface of the Vauxhall’s roof.

Draco follows suit, throwing his robes over his shoulders. His hood gives him the illusion of safety, and the effect on his body temperature is immediate. He’s comforted by the slight warmth, but — “We should probably go before this thing bursts into flames.”

“Probably,” Harry’s head tilts toward the brush, thoughtful. His fingers tap a nervous rhythm in quick succession, and Draco’s eyes track the movement. The drumming sounds oppressive in the relative quiet of the wilderness.

They’re both dazed, and Draco feels like the world is a whirling top, so he waits thirty seconds for action from Potter. That’s reasonable, he thinks. A half a minute is a solid bit of time to move your arse away from the explosive vehicle.

When Harry doesn’t stop lounging against it, Draco scowls. “I hope you’re not thinking about diving into that forest.”

Harry stirs, tossing an innocent glance over his shoulder. His fingers still, pads pressed against the metal. “Of course not.”

Draco squints. His hood falls just above his brows. “Somehow, I doubt your sincerity.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Harry traces a line down the length of the windshield with his index. Water streaks follow the movement, sluicing down the glass. “I’m not so predictable.”

Draco scoffs, but Harry ignores him in favor of surveying their beaten little car. His lips flatten, somber, as he touches the headlight. It’s fogged and near-falling out. After their stint through the hills, the Vauxhall seems to have just given up: the front bumper is dilapidated, dented and hanging like a broken bauble. The windshield looks ready to shatter, the bonnet stripped of color, leaving dry rust in its place. 

It’s ghastly. The abomination is unsafe, not to mention an assault on all his senses. Draco braces his palm against the side, sighing. It’s no great loss — the bloody thing isn’t drivable — but the Vauxhall provided some semblance of comfort. A traveling home, and now it’s gone.

Harry pats the bonnet with a tender expression, as if it were a creature worthy of praise. He looks pensive, and Draco decides he’ll lose his mind if Harry thanks the goddamn car — but he says nothing. Harry only turns away, facing the trees with a solemn set to his jaw.

“Might as well follow the tree line,” Harry traces the branches, near-barren, and the dark depths between them. Fallen leaves scatter on the ground, reds and oranges like a brittle sunset. “This is probably connected to the Forbidden Forest, since the Thestral was so close.”

“If you actually saw one,” Draco supplies, tugging his cloak tighter around him. “Do you think the herd is nearby?”

Harry frowns, contemplative. “They usually are.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” Draco strides forward, studiously ignoring the pain in his head. Rain stings his injury and dribbles down his cheekbone, tinted pink. He lifts his sleeve to staunch the bleeding.

Harry trails after, squelching on the damp floor. He brushes Draco’s arm, and Draco knows this is a momentary lapse, a pause in the discussion they need to have at length. But for now, what matters is their safety.

Which isn’t looking too promising, anyway, so he supposes they can drop the act.

They walk shoulder to shoulder, slow and purposeful, as if their wounds aren’t hindering them. All of Draco hurts, but he presses on, following a path trodden only by animals. It’s small, interspersed with bare patches of dirt, and meanders beside the trees in imprecise curves. Bits of foliage crunch underfoot as they trod.

Noises of the forest accompany them. Chirping bounces through the branches, and a susurrus in the shrubbery tells them they’re not alone. Draco imagines a horde of gnomes bursting forth from the ground, or perhaps a hive of pixies, but there are no signs of any magical creatures — Thestrals or otherwise.

Draco tosses a final look at the skeleton of the Vauxhall; it glints red in the muted light, a drop of blood in a field of dull grassland. 

They descend the foot of another knoll, and it’s gone.

Harry hears the voices before Draco. He startles, thrusting out an arm to draw him to a halt. His palm hits his abdomen and Draco grunts, shooting him a glare. Harry pays him no mind — he leans forward, staring at the empty bushes with the maddened gleam of a starved man.

There’s nothing different from what Draco can tell. They haven’t been walking long. The forest is the same, undisturbed by man or animal. Crickets hum beyond the tree line, and rustling leaves sigh like parchment on the breeze. 

Draco parts his lips to speak, but Harry silences him with a swift shake of his head.

Draco frowns, but obligingly closes his mouth. He scans the undergrowth, straining his eyes to find something, but nothing moves. He looks to Harry, who cups a hand around his ear, and Draco understands. He dips his chin to listen.

At first he hears only the woodland, teeming with creatures. There’s a teasing echo in the whispers on the wind, and then — the shrill pitch of a girl’s voice.

Stars above. What she says is incomprehensible but unmistakably human, and Draco recoils in mute surprise. He and Harry exchange a glance.

The voice comes again, louder this time. It’s punctuated by a shout from someone else, then laughter. Harry peers at Draco, wide-eyed, then bolts forward without thinking. He’s lumbered a few feet ahead before Draco manages to grasp his bicep.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He hisses, tugging Harry’s robes. The other boy flails backward into his chest, looking properly irked. “Don’t be cross, arsehole. What if they’re Muggles?”

“What would Muggles be doing out in the bloody forest in the rain?” He speaks stridently, and Draco stifles the urge to clamp a hand over his mouth.

“I don’t fucking know, picnicking?” Pale lashes flutter as Draco closes his eyes. His head aches like something’s burrowed into it, and Harry is such a fucking moron, but the banter feels good — “Pardon me for thinking it’s a bad idea to spring from the woods looking like victims of attempted murder.”

Harry scowls and shakes off Draco’s hand, but he doesn’t run away.

“What would you have us do, then?” He crosses his arms. “Creep amongst the trees like the would-be murderers?”

Impossible. Harry’s impossible. Draco hasn’t the slightest idea why he tolerates him.

“Just,” he sighs through his teeth, bracing his index and thumb on the bridge of his nose. “At least until we know we won’t scare the life out of them.”

Harry makes a displeased noise but remains at his side, so Draco knows he’s won. “Fine.”

“Always such an unpleasant git,” Draco’s brows quirk, the movement burning his cut. He brushes his hand against a fresh wave of blood, and his fingers come away scarlet. It looks fake against the starkness of his skin.

Harry blinks, then moves forward as if to clean the wound. He withdraws at the last moment, lips pressed flat. 

“Um,” he gestures awkwardly toward the rabble. They’ve grown in volume, not distinct but loud enough. “I can go alone, so you can rest.”

The scrape stings, but Draco disregards it with a wave. Very brave of him, in his humble opinion. “Absolutely not. How would you have me defend myself without another human to use as a shield?”

Harry knows Draco’s kidding, he has to, but his face pinches anyway. “Right,” he nods, turning toward the thick trunks and low-hanging branches.

Harry toes the boundary between grassland and forest. He stops abruptly once the voices morph into coherent words. The people are just out of sight, obscured by a clump of knotgrass that grows tall at the edge of the trees. Harry’s fingers flutter along the bark of a fir, touching a whorl in the wood. Draco braces his own palm beside them and tries to ignore their proximity.

“How much longer?” A girl speaks, and Harry’s mouth falls open in surprise. “My bloody robes are sodden, and I want to go back.”

The inflection is oddly familiar to Draco. He’s heard it before, somewhere — or perhaps he’s delusional, and he’s imagining significance where there is none. All Muggles sound alike, so why in Salazar’s name would he recognize one?

Before he can inquire about it, Harry abandons their post. He bursts out of the trees in a flurry, bruises and bloody nose forgotten, Muggle picnickers be damned. Draco grasps for his sleeve, hissing warnings, but Harry is already out of reach.

That feckless, infuriating — Draco covers his face with a hand. Potter will break the Statute of Secrecy, then Draco will somehow be blamed for his idiocy, and they’ll all be merrily sent to Azkaban. It’ll be brilliant.

Harry strides forward, mindless of Draco's breakdown. He moves at a pace so brisk he nearly trips over a girl sitting in a patch of dirt. She shouts in surprise, kicking outward and upsetting the piles of knotgrass at her feet. They’re torn at the stem, and a textbook inked with a list of other ingredients sits beside her.

Harry almost topples to the ground. He stumbles on one foot before he rights himself, off-kilter with his hands dangling at his sides. Draco comes after him, emerging from the trees less animatedly. He enters the scene with smooth and silent steps, but his stealth only makes him feel like a derelict pervert.

The girl on the ground stares at them, open-mouthed. Robes that are unmistakably Hufflepuff puddle around her, covering a plethora of plants similarly harvested beside the knotgrass. A leather rucksack bulging with books on herbology rests against her knee.

She sits up, fixing her skirt with the air of someone sullied. “Am I hallucinating?”

Draco blinks once. His fingers flutter along his temple, unsure if he feels lightheaded from his injury or their bizarre circumstances.

“I think,” he begins, his mouth terribly dry, “I should be asking you the same question.”

Harry makes a noise from beside him. His voice is pitched high, slightly hysterical with relief and amusement. “Bloody hell,” he swears. “Draco, we found her.”

Susan Bones’ face is ashen. She gapes as if they’ve grown three heads between them, and Draco supposes they’re quite a sight — beaten and road-weary, their robes dirtied. Two former enemies gone missing, now inexplicably turned friends.

“You two!” She stands in a rush, throwing her gathered weeds to the ground. “Are you — are you really here? Are you all right? You’ve been missing for a week! There was a manhunt —”

“Couldn’t find us,” Draco openly gawks at her, uncaring of how unattractive he must look. His hand drops to his mouth, and he sounds faint to his own ears. “Couldn’t use magic, so there was no trace.”

“You just disappeared! It was ridiculous, do you know how long I waited in that bloody corridor? And —” Bones thrusts her arms upward. Her hands are scrubbed with dirt, and bits of grass cling to her clothes. She doesn’t seem to care. “There was a rumor that you were dead.”

“Not dead,” Harry says, unhelpfully. He sways where he stands, ruddy-cheeked and disoriented, which does little to drive his point home.

Bones whips around to look at him. A flint-like glimmer strikes in her eyes as she notices their injuries for the first time. “What did happen to you?” Her lips pull into a worried frown. “You look awful. We’ve got to get you to Pomfrey.”

She starts forward to grab them when an explosion rattles the air.

Bones jumps, and Harry and Draco both flinch. They share a frantic look, and Bones stares, wide-eyed, at the direction whence they came. “What in Merlin’s name was that?”

Harry spins to see. A pillar of smoke rises from just beyond the hill, wavering in the air. Little embers dance amongst the grey, gold filigree on a billowing dress.

“I believe,” Draco says, watching as a small group of other Hogwarts students bustle through the foliage to find the source of the blast. “It’s a Vauxhall Cavalier.”

Harry makes an aborted noise that sounds like laughter, and then he’s doubled over, clutching his stomach. Draco is inclined to join him, but he’s still blinking at Bones like she’s an illusion. He wouldn’t put it past his deeply-scarred mind to conjure it out of desperation; just as a starving man sees water in the desert, Draco hallucinates Susan Bones alone in the underbrush.

As he stares, movement rustles behind the clumps of knotgrass. Three figures come forth fully, reminding Draco of woodland nymphs melding from trees.

“Susan! What was that? Are you —” the speaker cuts off as she spots their company. She freezes, reddish hair trounced and messy around her freckled face.

Ginny Weasley.

It figures, Draco thinks. He implores the heavens to take pity on him, for once. 

“Harry?” Weasley halts in her tracks. Lovegood and Longbottom nearly crash into her, but she rushes forward, slipping in the grass. “You — Harry!”

Naturally, Draco and his bloody forehead are completely invisible to them, which is all well and good. If he’s lucky, he’ll pass out right here.

“Oh, Gin —” Harry raises his head, the remnants of a smile still on his lips. His words morph into a grunt as she barrels into him, squeezing his midsection with a strength that belies her size. “I — ouch, that hurts. Be careful, please. It’s good to — good to see you too.”

“Merlin, it’s really you! You complete tosser —” the Weaselette ignores his protests, trembling with the force of her hug. Her hair cascades down her back like liquid fire, and she burrows greedily into Harry’s neck. “We were so worried about you!”

He reciprocates, wrapping his arms around her with familiarity. She tugs him in tighter, and the sight makes Draco want to kick something. He bitterly remembers Harry’s words from days ago. Like a sister.

Girl Weasley murmurs something in Harry’s ear, and he responds with a harried shake of his head. 

On second thought, fuck it all. Draco huffs, lifting his chin. Sister or not, it hardly matters. He turns away, acknowledging the approaching newcomers with a stiff nod. Luna observes him dreamily, and Longbottom looks as though he’s seen a ghost — which is stupid, because they live with a veritable assembly of ghosts in the castle. He approaches with caution, as if Draco’s a wild animal.

“Malfoy?” he asks, foolishly. “That you?”

“Who else would it be?” Draco sniffs, his tone colored with disdain. The effect is somewhat diminished by his shabbiness, and another drop of blood traces down his cheek.

“What in Godric’s name happened to you?” Longbottom gets closer, brows furrowed with worry. Draco wants to duck and hide himself away, but he supposes that would be rude.

“Um,” Longbottom continues to study him, eyes round and full of genuine concern. When he blinks, he reminds Draco of a handsome cow. “Merlin, nevermind. You can tell us later.”

Can he, now? Sure, Draco will just go and tell the Golden Trio affiliates later, like they’re law enforcement. He forces his customary scowl off of his face, but the sentiment remains.

“Right,” Bones concurs, because of course she supports the notion. “We’ve got to get you back.” She leans down to tuck her collected stalks into her bag, blowing an errant strand of hair out of her lashes.

“Would be nice if we could Apparate onto Hogwarts grounds,” Girl Weasley says, raising her head from Harry’s shoulder.

“I’ll say,” Harry extricates himself from her vice with some difficulty. The Weaselette relinquishes her hold and steps away, lips curved in a relieved grin. “I want to sleep for a year.”

“Try a decade,” Draco says, despite the braids his intestines have twisted themselves in.

He’s on edge, his nerves frayed and twitching. It warns of an impending eruption. After a week of relative solitude, Draco can’t decide whether the sudden appearance of his classmates is a welcome surprise — he’d have preferred to arrive at school quietly, without a legion largely composed of Gryffindors towing him through the front gate.

“You’re all right then, Harry, Draco?” Lovegood wanders to his side, her fingers fluttering near Draco’s ears. He resists the urge to flinch at the proximity. “No wrackspurts?”

“None at all, Luna,” Harry assures her, and Lovegood nods sagely, as if this is her primary concern.

“Merlin’s sodding drawers, you prick,” now armed with the knowledge that Harry is relatively alive, Girl Weasley punches his bicep. He staggers sideways, and Draco braces a hand opposite to catch him. “You really had us scared, there.”

Harry rubs the point of contact. “Yeah, well —”

“I’m all right too, thanks,” Draco scowls at the Weaselette. She does little more than wrinkle her freckled nose in return.

“You’re all right,” Lovegood agrees amiably, touching Draco’s shoulder. “The wrackspurts would be flying all about if you weren’t.”

Draco says nothing. He only stares, feeling a little out of his depth. Perhaps it’s the blood loss — it could go either way, really.

“Real glad you’re in one piece, at any rate,” Longbottom steps forward, offering both him and Harry an arm to brace themselves upon. Neither of them accept. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I could say the same to you,” Harry smiles, but it’s dim in the grey light. Dark smudges bruise the undersides of his eyes, and Draco’s possessed by a horrible desire to rub them away with the pads of his thumbs.

“Harvesting knotgrass for Slughorn,” Girl Weasley studies them both, cataloguing their wounds. She then proceeds to prod Harry in the ribs, and he moves forward at her insistence. “Gives us extra credit if we gather for him, but everyone knows he’s just a lazy git. Now get a move on before I swing you over my shoulder, Harry.”

“Ah,” Harry blinks as Lovegood takes up his other side.

Bones scoops up her bursting rucksack, and she and Longbottom move to stand by Draco. They begin to parade them across the rolling fields, and he’s certain they must look like prisoners as they’re escorted. It’s claustrophobic and awful, but he takes the gesture for what it’s meant to be — simple kindness.

“How’d you get to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, of all places?” When Longbottom asks, it’s conversational, as if Harry and Draco weren’t missing in action for an entire week.

The truth is a bit much to explain in the midst of a debilitating migraine, so he won’t tell it. Draco clears his throat. “Possessed by flights of fancy?”

He’s rewarded with a huff of laughter from Harry, plodding along in front of him. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Thought we’d give hiking a shot.”

“Funny, Draco,” Lovegood tilts her head. It would sound condescending from anyone else, but she gives him a genial smile. “That sounds nice. You know a Crumple-Horned Snorkack has been sighted by wizards hiking in the Highlands?”

Draco opens his mouth but finds himself unable to formulate a response. Harry sneaks a glance over his shoulder, eyes crinkled with mirth. It’s tentative, but he chuckles outright at Draco’s expression.

His expression makes Draco’s heart constrict a little, but he can’t fault Harry for thinking his reaction amusing — Lovegood is pleasant enough, but she’s a loony bin and a half. Draco deserves some credit, he thinks, for taking everything in stride.

“That’s brilliant, Luna,” Girl Weasley encourages, leaning across Harry to grin at Lovegood. “Maybe we can look for it.”

“I think that would be lovely,” Lovegood says, serene.

“Right,” Draco says dumbly.

The smattering of laughter that follows makes him feel prickly.

“We were actually looking for you, Susan,” Harry amends after a moment, and Bones stiffens beside Draco. “Looks like we passed the assignment.”

“Me?” Bones glances back and forth between the two of them, incredulous. Her hair waves with the movement. “Assignment? You mean — charms?”

“Obviously.” Harry looks to her. Draco can’t see it, but he knows his face is blank with unfiltered stupidity. “We found you, after all, so — ”

“I’d hardly say you found me,” Bones places her hands on her hips, and Draco would snigger if he didn’t feel close to passing out. “More like you trampled over my body.”

“Semantics,” Harry insists, and Draco does snort at that.

They trod onward, following the incline of a hill that makes his calves burn. As they crest it, the towers of Hogwarts appear, spearing the horizon with their turrets. Draco nearly collapses with relief.

For all his misgivings, it is good to be home.

Draco remembers their return to Hogwarts in blurry snatches. Whispering students fill the halls, their soft voices clamoring over one another; Professor McGonagall’s furrowed brows; shouting from Harry’s side of the room, presumably Weasley in origin; Madam Pomfrey’s pinched mouth as she heals Draco’s wounds with a hasty episkey.

When he wakes, he’s ensconced in heat.

Harsh yellows burn through the thin skin of his eyelids, painting his vision pink. Draco flinches at the onslaught of brightness as he opens them. The obtrusive sun filters through paned glass, dipping the infirmary in liquid gold. It’s empty, but peaceful under the watchful eye of day; the barren beds are stark white in the midmorning light.

His sheets rustle as he moves, and a heavy duvet cocoons him. Although the fabric quality is sorely lacking, Draco’s cozy. Quiet encases the room in an undisturbed bubble, as if his shard of reality has broken off and been sequestered elsewhere.

The sensation is so foreign, so strangely comfortable, Draco thinks for a moment he must be dead.

He lifts his head from the pillow, reflexively reaching for the gash from the car accident. His finger brushes his brow bone, tracing the shape of the mark against smooth, unblemished skin. Draco prods the spot once, then twice, and exhales. The lack of tenderness fills him with relief.

Last night, he’d fallen asleep with exhaustion weighing his limbs. A dull throbbing was ever-present in his skull, loud, like the distant beating of a drum. Now for the first time in days, he feels less like a survivor of a spiked Bludger and more like a human being. All signs of the injury have been healed.

Draco straightens fully, jostling the nightstand with his elbow. A glass trembles on the tabletop, water sloshing along the rim. It dribbles down the side, puddling precariously near two Get Well cards. They stand neat and proud, and one of them slips off the stand as Draco rights himself. It flutters into his lap, a sweet malformed butterfly.

Draco picks it up. His lips quirk as he recognizes Pansy’s handwriting.

Prat, it reads.

Sort of  Glad you came back to us alive. We were worried about you. We missed you. Get out of bed already so we can scold you face-to-face.

P.S. This card is more tasteful than Blaise’s, don’t you think? He disagrees, so you should enlighten him.

Love always. xo

Draco tosses it aside with a snort, pleased with the gesture. It’s rare that Pansy expresses her concern so eloquently, so they must’ve been worried. He makes a mental note to buy her a nice Christmas gift.

Draco grabs the second card next, eyeing its twisting ivy design. Compared to Pansy’s gilded one, Blaise’s is more tasteful, but Draco will never tell her so. He likes his head on his shoulders, thanks.

Draco,

I know you’re prone to dramatics, but next time you decide to disappear for a week, take us with you, all right?

Glad to see you in one piece. Pansy is too, even though she’s rubbish at showing it. 

P.S. Kept Potter safe, hm?

Alertness courses through him, and Draco blinks at the last line. Salazar, he hasn’t even had the opportunity to rejoin his friends and they’re already making assumptions.

They’re right, but that’s beside the point.

Draco drops the card in his lap, tracing the flowing script with the pad of his index finger. His nail scratches along the paper. Potter. Draco’s gaze flicks up, scanning the room. Worry takes root like a sapling between his lungs, sharp and deep. Perhaps he should’ve thought of Harry earlier, but in Draco’s defense, he thought himself dead.

Where is he?

Across from him, the beds are pristine, untouched by gritty travelers. They lay parallel to one another, reminiscent of a row of teeth in the mouth of some great beast. A cabinet stuffed with potions occupies the far right, and the rest of the wing is obscured by Draco’s own privacy curtains.

Draco scowls. He moves to grasp one and fling it aside, Harry’s name on his lips, but pauses. His fingers twitch with the stifled urge. They linger a hair's breadth from the curtain for one beat, two, before he withdraws.

Harry might not be settled near him. For all Hogwarts’ staff knows, they’re mortal enemies. Besides, it would be poor form to just tear away someone’s semblance of privacy. Draco would hate it, and he doesn’t want to expose anyone in the event that they have company in the infirmary.

If Harry’s in the bloody hospital wing, that is — Merlin, if Draco’s the only incompetent fool who had to sleep in these horrible beds while Harry went off telling stories in the common room, he’ll incite a riot.

The thought spurs Draco to action. He leans forward, resting his weight on his bedside. “Potter?”

His voice is a murmur, but in the tranquility of the infirmary, it sounds like a shout. Draco winces at his own loudness. He reaches across his nightstand to rustle the curtains instead, trying and failing at subtlety.

“Harry sodding Potter,” Draco pokes the fabric and it ripples. “If you're here, wake up.”

First, he hears nothing; then a grunt, soft and sleep-addled. Draco’s woken to it every morning for the past week, and each time it twisted something in his chest. This morning is no exception.

Draco grasps the curtain roughly, and the rings rattle on the metal bar holding it aloft. It trembles as he sweeps it aside, the heavy cloth swishing. “Harry.”

In the bed beyond, Harry dozes. Illuminated like a beacon, the sun adores him; it wraps him in rays of buttery yellow, casting his skin in bronze. Dust motes glimmer in the haze, wreathing his crown. His cheek is buried deep in his pillow, and his eyes are cracked open, like shards of an emerald.

At Draco’s appearance, Harry blinks. He fumbles to sit up, reaching for his glasses on his nightstand. Thick, dark lashes brush the lenses as he dons them.

“Urgh, morning,” he croaks, not unlike a toad that’s been exempt from the Frog Choir. 

“You sound awful,” Draco says by way of greeting. “Sleep decent?”

“Not — not totally bad,” Harry punctuates the statement with a yawn, his maw as wide as a lion’s. Draco wonders at the improbability of a human being able to unhinge their jaw like that, then averts his gaze from Harry’s complete dental history.

“Hm,” Draco glances downward. A stray thread has unraveled from the frayed end of his blanket — wonderful, a welcome distraction. He tugs it, expecting it to tear loose, but the snag in the fabric only widens. “Better than the Vauxhall?”

“Maybe,” Harry’s voice catches as he stretches. His smile is fleeting but real, a flash of white in the light.

Draco’s stare is pointedly fixed on the loose string. “Just maybe?”

Harry shrugs. It’s incredible that he won a war when everything he does is so noncommittal. “I mean, I liked that car. It did us well.”

“‘Did us well,’” Draco repeats. Against his better judgment, he drops the thread and looks up, incredulous. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am!” Harry kicks his covers to loosen them. The movement shakes his bed, and the frame releases a foreboding creak. Draco imagines the mattress collapsing onto the floor. “You don’t even miss it a little? It got us back, didn’t it?”

“Do I miss — no! That death trap nearly killed us!”

“But it didn’t,” Harry argues, as if basic survival is an accomplishment.

“That’s not the point,” Draco sighs, steepling his fingers. With his hands nearly in prayer, the effect is that of a professor with a petulant student. “You know exactly how dangerous it was. The bloody thing caught fire, Harry, I —” he closes his eyes. “You couldn’t convince me to ever touch Muggle technology again.”

“Unfortunate,” Harry pauses, a frown softening his mouth. He stops harassing his footboard and reclines into his pillows. “But I guess I won’t have to,” every word sounds practiced, false, on his lips. “It’s over.”

The finality of the statement is jarring, and Draco recoils as if burned. He’d wondered how much of their friendliness had been temporary, how long it would take to descend into pettiness and discord; he hadn’t anticipated direct opposition before they even chanced another conversation.

Back to reality, then. It’s over. 

The suddenness leaves Draco hollow, like someone dug into his gut and ripped his sopping organs out. An urgency pumps through his veins and filters into an empty cavity, flooding him with regret.

“It’s all a bit of a blur, though, isn’t it?” Harry continues, oblivious to Draco’s total shutdown. He gestures vaguely at the ceiling, glances at Draco, then away. “Getting back, you know.”

Draco knows. It feels like myth, something tied between truth and not. Rampant with mysticism, all of it — kings and gods, Portkeys and rubbish Muggle cars. Anything involving Harry flourishes in surrealism. It’s part of what makes him so magnetic.

Who does Draco think he is, to play a role in a story like that?

“Dra — Malfoy?” Harry interrupts, peeking at him with round eyes. His unruly hair flounces against the pillow. “Did you hear me?”

Draco shakes his head to clear it. “Yeah,” he sighs, scratching against the coarseness of his sheets. “It’s all a bit blurry.”

Harry cocks a brow. It’s solitary and dark, rising like the gavel of judgment. “All right there?”

Not for the first time, Draco finds his perceptivity unnerving.

“Don’t be absurd,” he inhales, deep enough to carve a well within himself. As he releases it, a knot of tension unleashes in his belly. “Everything is brilliant. Brilliant. What’s that you plebeians say? ‘Brill?’”

A snort. Harry untucks himself from his covers and reaches for the water on the nightstand, gazing at Draco over his cup. “You are such a pretentious prat.”

“I’m not,” Draco glares as Harry’s lips brush the glass. They’re soft and pink, parting over the rim, and he averts his attention. “But since you brought it up, I’m rather missing silk. These sheets are bloody awful —”

Harry takes a long draught of his water. He swallows, slow, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each sip. When he drinks his full, he clears his throat and says, “Point made.”

“Well,” Draco flounders. “You’re just a horrible philistine.”

“Good thing I haven’t the slightest idea what that is,” Harry replaces the glass, offering Draco a cheeky grin. It’s almost forced — the smile doesn’t dimple his cheeks. “So joke’s on you.”

Draco groans. He has to resist the urge to brace his head in his hands. Since when did stupidity become charming to him? This is banter, this is safe. It’s always been safe to throw words at each other, ever since they met — but now, it’s different.

Draco has no idea how he’s made it this far without imploding. He changes the subject, palming his eyes. “How in Merlin’s name did we survive out there?”

Harry shrugs, allowing the shift in conversation. He takes another swallow of his drink. “A few things? I’d say it was a combination of skill and dumb luck.”

“Hm,” Draco considers that for a moment. In hindsight, the past week has been quite the harrowing affair. His oxfords will never be the same, and he’s been humbled by sleeping without a pillow, so even the infirmary beds feel exquisite. “Due in part to my expertise in Muggle Studies too, I think.”

Harry chokes mid-sip. He sputters through a series of undignified coughs before he stares in Draco’s direction. The lenses of his glasses are speckled with water, and Draco ignores the sliver of abdomen that appears as Harry lifts his shirt to dry them. “I hope you’re kidding.”

Draco leans back, feigning offense. He’s not so dense that he legitimately believes he understands the Muggle world in its entirety, but — “You seem to think I don’t have any social skills outside of the wizarding community.”

Harry replaces his spectacles, leveling him with an unimpressed squint. “I left you for five minutes and you almost fought a policeman.”

“Shut it,” Draco crosses his arms over his chest. “I would never do something as demeaning as get in a physical altercation on the street.”

“I — no comment,” Harry remarks dryly.

Well, it’s shameful, but what can Draco say to dispute that?

“Don’t act so high and mighty when you kicked Susan Bones,” he points an accusatory finger. “She was sitting on the ground minding her business —”

Harry’s lips part, falling open in befuddlement. The suspended look of incomprehension ignites a flare of satisfaction in Draco; at least this hasn’t changed. Riling Harry up has always been a talent of his.

“I tripped over her,” Harry’s teeth clack as his mouth snaps shut. He straightens quickly, bumping his nightstand again. “That’s not even remotely comparable.”

“Bloody Gryffindor just went and kicked her,” Draco chuckles. He’s so, so strung out, his emotions stretched raw from manhandling. There’s a pain in his abdomen, likely from lack of nourishment, and the hysteria he’s held off for so long bubbles within him. For a moment, Draco isn’t sure whether he’s going to laugh or cry. 

“You’re just looking for ways to distract me —” Harry begins. 

“Imagine The Prophet when they catch wind of it,” Draco wheezes, and the visualization is too much for him to handle. “Front page, ‘Golden Boy’s Kicking Spree’ —”

For ages Draco had wondered what it was like to be part of the Golden Trio. They’d waltz around Hogwarts, breaking rules and embarking upon life-threatening adventures. It seemed amazing at the time, but now he’s had his own. He’s here, alive, talking to Potter like they’re friends after being stranded together. It’s more unbelievable than amazing, and Draco thinks that perhaps these sorts of daring escapades are better left to the storybooks, after all.

The onslaught of delirium cascades over him. It bangs against Draco’s defenses until he bursts like a dam, throwing his head back. He guffaws, sudden and loud, ignoring the way Harry stares at him.

“Draco,” Harry says, alarmed. The concern in his voice is evident, which does little to ease the absurdity of the situation.

Harry Potter, worried for him, Malfoy Junior. The mania shakes Draco to his core.

Harry looks a bit like he wants to have him committed to the Janus Thickey Ward, but Draco doesn’t care. He’ll spend the rest of his days in an arseless hospital gown, wouldn’t that be nice? The thought makes Draco laugh harder.

“Merlin, Potter, come on. It’s funny,” Draco gasps, resting a palm on his stomach to calm himself. “I thought you had a sense of humor?”

“I do,” Harry blinks, sitting back against his pillows. His tone sounds odd, like he’s just seen one of Luna’s nonexistent creatures and is unsure how to parse the information. “I’m just surprised you do. Never thought you could laugh at yourself.”

“Don’t be stupid,” the last bit of hilarity shakes free of him, and a tear tracks its way beneath Draco’s lashes. He wipes the dampness above his cheekbones with a flick of his finger. “I’m laughing at you, and my sense of humor is optimal.” He dutifully ignores Harry as he rolls his eyes. “You’ve witnessed it countless times over the years.”

“‘Potter Stinks’ really isn’t that —”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Draco warns. “You’ll regret it.”

Harry tilts his head. “Will I?”

“You will. Your lack of respect is shocking, and I’ll have no choice but to soil your good name if you make fun of me.”

Harry’s lips twitch upward for the first time. He shakes his head and looks away. It’s only by the slight quake of his shoulders that Draco can see that he’s laughing. “Good luck, then.”

The echo of his amusement reverberates through the hospital wing, soft. It’s a nice sound, innocent, completely unlike the snide laughter that comes with malicious teasing. Draco’s reminded of playgrounds and summertime, the gentle tittering of birds, of good things. He thinks that’s what happiness sounds like.

Harry chuckles to himself. He pushes his glasses up, still crooked from the accident, and scrubs his palm across his face.

They stay there, breathless, until their mirth dwindles to silence. Hysteria’s harsh edge has faded, only just; the outburst seems to have removed pressure from Draco’s chest. The lack of expression was suffocating, and each exhale feels liberating.

“I can’t believe —” Harry rubs the bridge of his nose. His spectacles fall as he moves his hand. “All of this. I can’t believe we ran into Susan, of all people. Fuck.”

“Brutal irony,” Draco agrees, running fingers through his hair. The cornsilk has become greasy and lank, and he knots it with distaste.

He can’t wait to bathe. Draco wishes Pomfrey had had the foresight to perform a scourgify, but he supposes banishing the dirt from his person hadn’t been a priority.

“And Neville, and — Merlin, the luck.” Harry shakes his head and glances at Draco. “You kept saying we haven’t been lucky, but we totally were.”

“Well, the situation as a whole was —” Draco’s face pinches. “Potter, getting hit with a rogue Portkey in the first place isn’t my idea of lucky.”

“But we made it back.”

Draco hesitates, then nods once. It’s a quick, birdlike dip. “We did.” And they had.

Draco isn’t inclined to recall every aspect of their voyage fondly, but he admits it could’ve been much worse. He thinks of their return, of literally stumbling upon a group of people they not only know, but in Harry’s case, trust.

Draco thinks of Longbottom, pale in the face, and Lovegood, smiling at him. Infuriatingly kind, the both of them. He visualizes the waterfall of Weasley’s flaming hair, the movement of her lips as she whispers something in Harry’s ear, meant for no one but him. The remembrance makes Draco seize up.

Suppose they hadn’t found Bones, or Harry had crashed into the elusive Thestral. What then? Perhaps they’d be in the ravine Draco had so longed for, now. He thinks of his relief in seeing the castle after a week of so much uncertainty, and decides this is the better outcome, regardless of the company they keep in the meantime.

Draco’s lips part to say as much, but his whirling memories commandeer his words. The thoughts betray him, tumbling out as if they’d been waiting on the tip of his tongue. “What did Weasley say to you?”

A beat of silence passes. Draco snaps his mouth shut as soon as his words fall, but it’s too late. They’ve made ground, hiking into Harry’s brain as he pauses, head cocked in confusion.

Oh, well. He hasn’t got much to lose. Draco’s curiosity burns like a bonfire, and he’s never been the best at minding his own business, particularly when it comes to Harry Potter.

“You mean Ron?” Harry pushes himself up on one arm. “Did he come by again? ‘Cause I was passed out until —”

“No, not him,” Draco waves a hand through the air, scowling at the thought of that particular redhead. Might as well be straightforward. “No. Girl Weasley, when we were back by the forest. What did she say?”

Harry blinks, only once, and comprehension dawns on his face. Then his brows furrow, and Draco watches his neutral expression morph into a frown. “Her name is Ginny.”

As if Draco isn’t painfully aware of that. He bites back a disgruntled “Obviously,” and scrunches up his nose. “Yes, her.”

Harry doesn’t speak. He waits, tight-lipped, for Draco to amend himself. The revision is slow-coming, but after a moment of disconcerting quiet, Draco submits with a sigh. “What did Ginevra say, then?”

Harry slouches back into his pillows. His gaze leaves Draco’s and meanders skyward, where he seems to focus intently on the ceiling. “Why are you thinking of that now?”

A grimace tugs the corners of Draco’s mouth, and he tries to shove it away. He wishes he had a better answer than jealousy, which would be too humiliating to ever admit.

“Malfoy?” Harry looks at him, then back to the architecture above. “Why does it matter?”

Draco scowls, despite his best efforts not to. He knows he has no place demanding answers, but — “Curiosity’s a bitch?”

Harry presses his lips together. For a moment Draco thinks he won’t respond. Then: “She wanted to know if you had anything to do with our going missing.”

Draco’s mouth goes dry. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Well, it’s not exactly surprising, all things considered. Draco can’t fault her. He’d probably be rightfully suspicious himself, had their roles been reversed.

“I mean,” Harry voices his thoughts with a careless shrug. “No offense, but given our history, I can understand how she made that jump.” 

“None taken.” Draco lies.

It shouldn’t bother him. Really, it shouldn’t. There’s nothing he’s done to warrant trust from the Weasley’s, burgeoning friendship with Potter notwithstanding. He knows that.

Harry seems to sense his discomfort, and offers a weak smile. It does little to soften the blow, although this is exactly what Draco expected upon their return. He swallows the bitterness clogging his throat.

“You —” he coughs into his fist, awkward. The temptation to mask his face is strong. “You do know I’m not out to get you though, right?”

“Merlin, obviously,” Harry holds up his hands, as if to placate him. “You could’ve murdered me in cold blood at least five times during our trip. I know you’re not like that, Draco. I told her you had nothing to do with it.”

I know you’re not like that. His words wash over Draco, cooling as a salve. He exhales, releasing a knot of unexpected anxiety.

Draco doesn’t care much for what Girl Weasley thinks of him — or any Weasley, really — but he hadn’t realized just how much of a relief it is to hear Harry say that aloud.

You’re not like that, Draco. You’re good.

No matter how long he spends convincing himself of that very fact, Draco still feels the weight of ink on skin, as if the Mark was tattooed on his soul rather than his arm.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Harry continues in a rush. “Mine, actually, you know — and I wasn’t about to let Ginny set fire to something. These things tend to happen to me a lot —”

“Thanks.” Draco breathes the word like a secret. His hands twist in his sheets, and he focuses on the grain of the fabric. “Harry.”

You’re good.

Harry pauses mid-sentence. He leans forward with interest. “What?”

It’s hard to maintain eye contact when someone looks at you like what you’ve got to say matters — like it’s worth remembering. Draco isn’t especially familiar with being the subject of such a gaze in a positive way, but he lifts his chin, silver eyes catching green. He hopes Harry can read the softness in them.

“Thank you for standing up for me. You could’ve easily shaken the blame, and —” he swallows. “It’s not your fault, either. I expect my involvement will be suspicious to most, and it’s nice to not be on the receiving end of her hexes, for once.”

Draco’s words are honest and true. It is nice to not have to look over his shoulder for incoming Bat-Bogey Hexes or, worse, Aurors to escort him to Azkaban.

It’s also nice to have Harry defend him.

Remnants of their argument niggle in the back of his mind, and it hits Draco in full force. He drowns in the fears that reign him, that drove him to react and shove Harry away: returning to Hogwarts and losing whatever odd truce they’d found; returning and ruining Harry Potter’s life, all because he decided to pity a Death Eater.

Draco thinks of Crabbe, lost to Fiendfyre. He thinks of the other Hogwarts students whose bodies lined the halls. Deaths he probably could’ve prevented, if he’d lowered his wand and joined the other side.

Draco is tired of being the reason for other people’s downfall. He’s desperate to be good; he wants for it with every fiber of his being. It aches within him, a gaping hole. They’ve had wars, rivalries, and broken wands, but to be Harry Potter’s equal! The very thought buoys him. It’s what Draco’s yearned for since he was eleven, before either of them knew what the future held.

He wasn’t able to, then. Times change, shifting like the tides, and unlike before, Draco has a choice. Harry’s words from the previous day echo in his mind.

The war’s over, Draco.

It’s over. Draco forgets that, sometimes. With his family so embroiled in the thick of it, in politics and death and betrayal, it’s easy to get lost in memories. It’s easier still when every day is a battle within himself. The past seems impossible to leave behind, but it’s not. His Aunt Andromeda did it. His cousin Sirius, too.

They stand out to him, colorful landmarks in the unmoving landscape of Blacks. Draco’s unaware of the steps it will take, but he’s working towards that. Not for love, but for himself. He’ll become more than an unfortunate footnote in modern history books. Then one day, perhaps Harry will offer his hand, to shake or to hold. 

When that time comes, Draco will take it. But not now. Not yet.

In the honey glow of morning, Draco remembers: he’s safe. He’s drenched in light and nestled in blankets, even if this horrible duvet isn’t silk. He chances a glance at Harry, and Draco’s heart hurts, though not like before.

Harry smiles, fleeting, like the last dregs of sunshine before it dips below the horizon. “Don’t mention it.”

Chapter Text

The Headmaster’s Office looms before them, a gaping hole in the wall like a gargantuan yawn. Draco fists his hands in his robes as he traces the curve in the stone. It’s no less intimidating than it was when he was younger; the towering gargoyle at the entrance steps aside with a word, the staircase carries them up, and Draco feels he’s about to be issued detention.

Detention, ha. If only he could be so lucky. Writing lines as punishment are the least of his worries. The possibility of expulsion hangs above him, which would practically guarantee a walk to the guillotine. The Wizengamot will have Draco’s head for causing a ruckus in the relatively peaceful Hogwarts community, although the presence of the Chosen One more or less tips the scales in his favor, for once.

The stairs grind to a halt, and the two of them step into the room. Draco squints suspiciously as he surveys it. The office is both similar to and totally different from when it was Dumbledore’s; expansive and circular, it’s lined with curious silver instruments and bookshelves bursting with tomes. The walls are covered with paintings. Draco senses the press of eyes on his back and hears the telltale hush of whispering.

He stifles a groan. They’re not subtle; gossipy portraits will have the Hogwarts rumor mill spinning before he even crosses the threshold into his dormitory. Oil on canvas shouldn’t ever wield so much power. Draco squares his shoulders and stares straight ahead, ignoring them.

McGonagall herself rests at the large claw-footed desk, her fingers knit over mahogany. Two posh armchairs sit in front of it, twisted expectantly towards their visitors. An assortment of artifacts and paperwork litter the tables, and a vase of Scottish primroses shake petals off to the side — it’s right where Fawkes once rested atop his perch.

Behind her, the Sorting Hat lies on a shelf, more worse for wear than he remembers. It rustles, nothing more than an old rag, and gives Draco what seems to be a knowing look.

Piss off, Draco thinks, sneering at it.

“Boys,” McGonagall says by way of welcome. She stands to greet them, appearing a bit harried, but fine. “I’m rather relieved to find you alive and well.”

“Us, too,” Harry rubs the back of his neck, abashed. “Bit of a mess, but —” he pauses as McGonagall sweeps forward without preamble, enveloping him in a warm embrace. Harry freezes for a moment before lifting his arms to hug her back.

It’s sweet, if a little awkward. Draco supposes if anyone could make McGonagall love them beyond her exasperation, it’s Harry. He deserves some motherly concern, so Draco just coughs discreetly into the crook of his elbow. 

As McGonagall withdraws, Harry tucks his hands back into his pockets. A rueful grin has taken up residence on his face. “Professor, I swear this time was an accident.”

“As were the past several years, to be sure,” McGonagall clicks her tongue, and some of the tension bleeds from Draco’s frame. If she’s not going to scold Harry immediately, he doesn’t suppose expulsion is in the books for him.

“They were!” Harry argues.

McGonagall shakes her head, although the vague worry wrinkling her brow recedes, somewhat. She turns to Draco, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“And you, Mr. Malfoy,” she pats him gently. Draco doesn’t mind. It’s kind, but not too much — he’s not sure how he’d respond to a hug from his headmistress. “I trust you’re well after a day in the hospital wing?”

“Quite, Professor,” Draco says, summoning some modicum of a smile. He’s sure it comes across as a grimace.

“I’m glad,” McGonagall withdraws. She moves toward her desk, gesturing to the two plump chairs before them. “Please, have a seat.”

They do. Draco sits primly, just as his etiquette classes taught him, while Harry nestles into his like it’s a loveseat. He reclines fully into the cushions and snorts at Draco from deep within its recesses. Draco rolls his eyes and pointedly focuses on his cuticles.

“I must say I’m disappointed, but not surprised in the slightest,” McGonagall begins the way any rational adult would. It’s a bit unfair, Draco thinks, considering all of this is very much not his fault, but he’s in no position to say so. Her tone makes both of them shiver. “You two —”

“Are we in trouble?” Harry’s voice reminds Draco of a young child. His fingers drum a tattoo into the armrest, and he leans forward slightly. “It really wasn’t on purpose.”

“Of that I’ve no doubt,” McGonagall acknowledges him with a gracious dip of her chin. “And no, Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy. If I’m correct in assuming what happened was accidental, there’s no reason for punishment, is there?”

It’s phrased like a question, as if they’d have a choice in the matter either way; but the remaining fear evaporates from Draco like dew in the morning sun. He feels his shoulders slouch, and he draws himself up straighter. Thank Merlin. “No, Professor.”

“I do have half a mind to lock you on the premises with a permanent sticking charm,” she continues, “but that would be unethical.”

“Er,” Harry says, just as Draco recoils. “Please don’t.”

“Hm. It’s just as well,” McGonagall knits her hands over her books. The ghost of a smile dances across her mouth. “After a cursory magic check, we determined the reason for your… Shall we say, departure?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Draco mutters. ‘Departure’ isn’t the word he would’ve used. It makes their voyage seem far too casual an outing. ‘Impromptu kidnapping’ fits better, perhaps, or even ‘attempted murder.’

“A Portkey,” Harry supplies, to which McGonagall nods again. “We sort of figured that bit out.”

“A clever bit of spellwork,” she sighs. “The Weasley twins have never been a pair to underestimate.”

“You know it was them for sure, then?” Harry’s taken to squeezing his cushions, leaving prints in the velvety fabric. Draco wants to hiss at him to stop, but it seems an irrelevant matter to broach. “You know it wasn’t me or — or Malfoy?”

McGonagall studies him with interest. “Naturally not,” she hums. “Once our scan found residue of Portkey usage, it wasn’t difficult to narrow down the magical trace.”

Oh. A relief, then. Draco doesn’t have to worry about being jailed. That’s refreshing.

“Oh,” Harry blinks. “Brilliant.”

McGonagall exhales, and for the first time, Draco notices the smudges under her eyes. It’s hazy under a weakened glamour, but she looks as if she’s spent days culling rumors, which she likely has.

“That, and the creators in question came forward once the story leaked,” McGonagall splays a hand across the paperwork on her desk. It’s a veritable textbook stack, all covered in ink. With a twinge of guilt, Draco wonders how much stress she’d been under with both the Chosen One and infamous Malfoy Junior missing for a week straight. “News travels fast at Hogwarts, as you well know.”

Oh, we know. Both Harry and Draco scowl. They understand better than most, each having been the subject of a scandalous headline at least once. Draco hopes Rita Skeeter hasn’t gotten wind of the tale. The last thing he wants to read is The Prophet inundated with titles like “The Boy Who Eloped,” or “Grand Theft Malfoy: Portkey to Hell.”

“Ron would’ve told Fred and George that I disappeared,” Harry chances a glance at Draco, looking away quickly. “He wouldn’t have said it to get anyone in trouble, of course, but —”

“Mr. Weasley’s loyalty and concern is admirable,” McGonagall presses her lips into a flat line. “Although his discretion is a bit lacking.”

Draco’s nails dig into his own armrest, and Harry pales. “The Prophet —”

“Has not been notified,” McGonagall raises a hand. The sheer authoritativeness contained in the gesture is enough to silence him. Her gaze is sharp under the brim of her hat. “By no small miracle, I’ll say.”

A miracle, indeed. Harry releases a heavy breath, and Draco does the same. His fingers slacken their hold, leaving crescent-shaped imprints in the velvet of his chair.

McGonagall observes their reaction, long enough for the boys to squirm beneath her stare. Draco feels a bit undone by the intensity of it, as if she can read his secrets like they’re a label wrapped around his person.

“Goodness,” she says eventually. It’s resigned, coming from someone tired of being endlessly thwarted. “I can’t decide if you two are a pair of troublemakers or reluctant news-mongers.” She rubs her temples. “And together, no less — you do know everything each of you does is exploited by the press?”

“Very aware, thanks,” Harry frowns, and Draco wrinkles his nose.

“It’s all rubbish, anyway,” Draco waves a hand. His frustration with the press extends far beyond such flippancy, but if he starts swearing up and down McGonagall’s office, the portraits will spread it around the castle in no time.

McGonagall sighs. “Mr. Malfoy —”

“But he’s right,” Harry leans forward. He looks like he might fall out of his seat. “Whatever anyone in school is saying, too. It is rubbish, Professor. Nobody really knows what happened but us.”

“Well, I,” McGonagall pauses, as if reconsidering their presence.

When she parts her lips, her words are contemplative. “I suppose that’s fair,” McGonagall appraises them both for a moment, and Draco fidgets. “Is it too bold of me to ask what happened to stop you from tearing at each other's throats?”

Both Harry and Draco freeze. “Er, well —”

“Did you cause irreparable damage elsewhere?”

Draco’s mouth snaps shut. If they were to say no, that would be a lie; they did cause irreparable damage, and the evidence isn’t too far from the grounds. Rest easy, Vauxhall.

To be fair, the destruction of public property isn’t why they’re getting along. Draco flushes at the thought. “Um —”

Harry’s eyes flicker toward him. His expression flutters somewhere between worry and confusion, and Draco sympathizes. He isn’t sure how much they can share without getting into legal trouble, not to mention while maintaining his dignity.

They blew up a car, but that ranks rather low on the list of his criminal offenses. It’s not like they exposed themselves to Muggles, and Draco’s not keen on divulging their escapades with the Vauxhall or anything that happened in the pub, for that matter.

“We — I mean,” Harry swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Draco shoots him a glare before he compromises them. “We didn’t?”

McGonagall regards him with an uptick in her brow. Draco thinks unconvinced aptly describes her expression.

“I don’t think anything you ask would be considered ‘too bold,’ Headmistress,” Draco relents, folding his hands in his lap. “But we didn’t break the Statute of Secrecy, if that’s what you’re inquiring about.”

McGonagall reclines into her chair. The mention of her title carries more weight, Draco thinks, and if their illicit activities aren’t obvious in the use of the honorific — well. She’s a smart woman.

She blinks, long and thoughtful, like a waking owl. “I see.”

Draco remains quiet. Harry shifts in his seat, but also adopts a solemnity that seems credible enough, for now. Draco keeps his fingers knit over his thighs, his gaze trained on their headmistress. 

A hush settles amongst them, until McGonagall sighs. “Would you be so kind as to tell me where the Portkey warped to, then?”

Draco’s face pinches at the thought of the ocean. He can still taste the sand and sea salt in his mouth as it drowned him; he feels the weight of sopping robes, dragging down his frame. A bit unfortunate, given the actual beach was rather nice.

It wasn’t a bad eternal resting place, all things considered.

“Some beach in Wales,” Harry scrubs a hand through his hair, as if still shaking out granules of sand, which is possible. “Didn’t catch the name,” he squints through his glasses. “Cere — digging —”

“The Ceredigion Coast Path,” Draco corrects absently, watching with distaste as Harry continues to ruffle his mane. “Somewhere near Parcllyn.”

“That one, then.” McGonagall nods sagely, as if this means something to her. She brushes over her chin in thought. “The twins weren’t sure which of the Portkeys had escaped our notice, so they gave us the coordinates of each location.”

That means — Harry peers at him as they come to the same conclusion. Draco flushes with sudden mortification, a deep pink that makes him look like he’s suffering from scarlet fever.

“You,” Draco presses his mouth into a thin line. He struggles to articulate through his incredulity. “You mean to say —”

He’s clearly struggling. Harry passes him a glance, then speaks up past Draco’s strangled words.

“Are you saying,” his hands twist in his lap, thumbs fiddling in a circle like the arms on a clock face. His dark fringe hangs low, obscuring the glaze sheen in his eyes. “Are you saying that if we’d waited there, you would’ve been able to reach us?”

“Not right away,” McGonagall tilts her head. “There was an Anti-Apparition Charm at work. But eventually, yes.”

Harry leans back, blinking at the ceiling. Utter shock paints his features as he studies the arcing stone.

Draco exhales. “On the beach?”

The rim of McGonagall’s hat veils her face as she nods. 

“An Anti-Disapparition Jinx, too?”

“As I said before, the Weasley twins are not to be underestimated,” her eyes glint, though with pride or vexation, Draco knows not. “Although the spells were cast only on a small expanse of land, so off the beach —”

Merlin’s sodding trousers. Draco’s lashes flutter shut. He understands exactly what their headmistress is implying, and the wave of embarrassment threatens to overtake him completely. He braces a hand by his temple.

“You mean to say,” Draco pauses for effective delivery, but he only sounds gobsmacked, which is not an inaccurate description of his current state. “You mean to say we could’ve Apparated all the while?”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Harry protests, leaning forward in his seat again. His hand fumbles in his robes, searching for his wand. “I — we tried! I sat there muttering spells for ages.”

“But not after you left the beach, I presume?” McGonagall’s mouth is pulled into a tight moue, but a flicker of muscle in her cheek betrays her. A weary sort of amusement fights her frown.

The sheer stupidity of it comes at him all at once: Harry hadn’t even tried a single spell. Draco’s exempt from the issue of casting, given his wand is nothing but a broken stick, but — oh. Oh, Merlin and Morgana. Harry Potter is the greatest idiot the world has ever known.

Draco would enjoy parsing this for bullying fuel, if he wasn’t completely shaken by McGonagall’s revelation. He’d risked his life in the shoddy old Vauxhall, and for what?

“Harry,” Draco says slowly. His voice carries an edge. “You absolute, writhing, foolish prat.”

“I — ” Harry says. The defense is weak. He tears his attention away from the ceiling and almost falls out of his chair in dismay.

Draco considers throwing himself onto the floor as well. He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall’s hands come together. The pads of her fingers steeple imposingly. “Madame Pomfrey and I ran a diagnosis on your wand during your recovery in the hospital wing. It’s undamaged.”

Harry’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. He holds said wand in his grip — the one that had been broken once before, Draco remembers. The one that had been repaired.

“You were unable to return from the beach because of the charms they’d set. Terribly clever, both of them,” McGonagall says, thoughtful. She drifts off into a murmur, “It's a bit of a relief they’ve graduated.”

Little good that does them, Draco thinks. They still got caught up in the twins’ shenanigans, intentional or not. He struggles to bury the explosive desire to slander the entire Weasley clan. It’s tempting, but he doesn’t outwardly insult them, which is growth as far as he’s concerned.

“And,” Draco clears his throat. “What about the Portkey? Can’t it be used despite the spells?”

McGonagall’s gaze flicks toward him, but it’s Harry who speaks. He sounds faint. “I don’t even remember holding it. I reckon it’s at the bottom of the Irish Sea.”

The greatest idiot, indeed. Draco wants to suffocate himself in McGonagall’s posh seat cushions.

Harry, seeming to gain some self-awareness, looks done in. He’s still dazed and distant, like he’s still on that long-abandoned beach. The furrow between his brows is deep enough to house a colony of gnomes.

His astonishment temporarily stifles Draco’s affection. A conflict surges within him, two halves battling for dominance: fondness that makes him want to pity Harry, and dismay at having to ride in that awful car, all because of their collective foolishness. Merlin fuck. Merlin fuck. Bloody Gryffindors.

Draco should’ve expected an oversight. He should’ve taken Harry’s sodding wand and cast a spell himself. There are a lot of things he should have done, but hindsight is 20/20, or whatever it is they say. As it was, he’d been a bit distracted at the time.

Draco scowls. He reaches over, grasping Harry’s wrist to pull him over the arm of his chair. 

“Yeah?” Harry allows himself to be tugged, his consciousness somewhere in the aether. They level, nose to nose. He looks at Draco through impossibly dark lashes, curling over his cheeks.

Even blatant stupidity isn’t enough to dull his appeal. It’s horrible. The proximity makes Draco feel faint.

“I cannot believe you didn’t try to use any magic after we left that sodding beach.” Draco hisses under his breath, although McGonagall can probably hear. “Harry — we stole a car.”

“Permanently borrowed,” Harry amends, coming back to himself, some. His forehead scrunches in that infuriating way that Draco thinks is cute. “And I didn’t realize, okay? What would’ve been the point?”

Draco relinquishes his hold on Harry in favor of throwing his hands outward. “You could’ve — Merlin, I don’t know, tried to cast a drying spell after we nearly drowned? You probably used wandless magic to start the car itself!”

“I — maybe,” Harry looks down at his palms. “Probably. Does it matter?” His gaze flickers back to Draco, catching silver. “I thought my wand was just as broken as yours — er,” he halts.

Draco visualizes the tragic state of his own wand compared to Harry’s relatively undamaged one. He gives nothing but a flat stare, and Harry winces. “Maybe not as broken —”

“You’re an absolute pillock, and I cannot stand you,” Draco sighs, retreating into his seat. Perhaps he can meld into the velvet, or transfigure himself into a cushion. For that, he’d need a new wand.

Harry, the tosser, has the audacity to let out a weak laugh. “You’re a shite liar.”

Draco isn’t sure he wants to mince the implications of that.

McGonagall watches their exchange with bemusement, her gaze switching back and forth between their faces. Humor might dance across her features, but Draco doesn’t know her well enough to say. 

She clears her throat, resting on laced fingers. “Enough. You’ve returned safely, and that’s what matters,” McGonagall looks pointedly at them both, like she expects a better explanation at some point. Draco can’t be sure one is forthcoming. “You may return to your dormitories, and we’ll discuss the matter of getting you a new wand in the morning, Mr. Malfoy.”

It’s a clear dismissal, but for a moment, they both remain seated. The influx of information feels like a tsunami to Draco. He tries not to show it.

“Thank you, Professor,” he nods once, rising on unsteady legs. His damn foot has fallen asleep, and he’ll be shambling his way through the halls.

McGonagall inclines her head, cordial.

“Right,” Harry says, still unmoving. He nestles in his chair, staring forward. His lips are flattened to a thin slash across his face. “I just can’t believe —”

“Believe it,” Draco nudges his arm with more force than necessary. “Get up, you great lug. You’ve got admirers to entertain.”

“Shut it.” Harry scowls. He obliges, though, and struggles to his feet. As they turn towards the entrance, he dips his chin to McGonagall, who acknowledges them both with a faint smile.

“Have a good afternoon, Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy.”

It’s hard enough to walk with a limp leg, but exhaustion drags Draco’s body down further. His senses are eclipsed as he emits body odor from every pore. There’s only so much Pomfrey’s quick scourgify can do, no matter that it’s cast by one of the most capable members of the Hogwarts staff.

When they reach the corridor, it’s empty except for them. A small mercy, given Draco’s current state. He glances around, but doesn’t immediately run screaming for a shower.

“Potter.” He turns to Harry, who still looks vaguely harassed. 

“I’m bruised,” he rubs the spot Draco had shoved, frowning. “No need to be aggressive.”

“That’s more of a Gryffindor trait, I think,” Draco means it as a joke, but it comes out a little mean. His lips twitch, weak, to soften the blow. “I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“I wasn’t expecting one,” Harry says honestly.

An awkward silence envelops them. They stand still for several excruciating moments, and Harry’s hand drops to his side. 

“So,” Draco begins, just as Harry opens his mouth. He pauses and snaps it shut.

Perhaps he’d planned on saying something profound about the beauty of building new friendships; or perhaps Harry’s trying to think of a nice way to tell Draco he never wants to speak to him again.

He can’t say he’s done nothing to deserve it, however tragic that would be for Draco’s traitorous heart.

Harry doesn’t preach about love and trust. He doesn’t excommunicate Draco, either. He just blinks, then looks toward the far end of the corridor. Gryffindor Tower isn’t far, piercing upward into the sky. It’s a wistful expression, and Draco knows he has to let him go.

“Well,” Harry coughs gently, and it fractures the quiet. He peeks out of the corner of his eye. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

Draco wets his lips. There’s a seal on his tongue, holding back the barrage of words he knows he’ll never say. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Harry tilts his body away, and Draco thinks of the pub, of how the distance was excruciating. It’s a little like that now. “Bye, Malfoy.”

A dismissal, another opportunity lost.

Draco won’t act on his desires. He won’t, because he can’t; because Harry deserves better, but they can’t leave it like this. He won’t let them part on uncertain terms.

“Draco,” he corrects. The admission startles Harry enough so that he peers over his shoulder. It makes Draco self-conscious, and he shuffles his feet.

Harry studies him, like he’s a curious artifact, or perhaps a very interesting bug. He cocks his head in question, and Draco nods in a way that he hopes appears to be encouraging. He feels rather queasy.

“Uh,” Harry makes a humming sound in the back of his throat. “...All right.” The evenness of his voice belies the perplexity in his gaze, the confusion in his words. “I should probably, um, go. Bye, Mal — er, Draco.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. With a flourish, Harry turns and pads down the hall, his robes billowing behind him. The midafternoon sun casts shadows across his frame, encircling Harry like a cloak until he fades from sight.

The emptiness of the hallway closes in on him. Draco can’t help but feel as though he’s let something — something big, important, beautiful — slip through his fingers.

Harry has long vacated the premises by the time Draco stops choking on his farewell. “Goodbye, Harry.”

After his conversation with McGonagall, Draco departs for the dungeons.

Between their less-than-heroic return in the beaten Vauxhall and his newfound allegiance with Harry, he predicts he’ll spend the rest of the evening dodging questions and accusations alike. On the way to his dormitory, he has to skirt an aggressive trio of other eighth years and several clamoring underclassmen. A seventh year prefect stalks in his direction, utterly predatory, and Draco ducks into an alcove to avoid them.

He’s not afraid, he just doesn’t want to be hassled by anyone tonight. Draco briefly considers casting the disillusionment charm on himself, but that seems a bit extreme. He isn’t keen on running from things any longer.

Draco reaches the bare wall that conceals the Slytherin common room without too much trouble. The password slips from his lips, barely a whisper, and it slides soundlessly. The soft lull of conversation floats from within, cozy in the way an empty communal space is not.

Standing at the threshold, anxiety twists in Draco’s gut. It roars and muddles his insides, warring like battling snakes. He wonders if it’s normal to feel this way upon arriving “home.” Probably not.

He tries to banish the nerves with a deep breath. The air fills his lungs, cool and a little dank. It tastes musty on his tongue. As he exhales, Draco squares his shoulders and takes a step inside.

The depths of the Great Lake dance in the windows, washing the space in labradorite green. It casts the sofas and their occupants in an emerald glow. The occasional shadow flits behind the panes, a blur of darkness, there and gone. The familiarity of it strikes a chord in Draco’s chest. The closest thing to home he’s felt since he abandoned Malfoy Manor, he thinks. It was home before, and this — this is almost.

His nerves, still somewhat frayed and jumping, tweak at his innards. Almost home, but not quite.

A fire burns merrily in the grate. Its flames tremble, illuminating the hair of someone lounging in front of it. The person shifts, their bob bouncing in gentle curls. The blaze reflects off a sliver of their cheek.

“Pansy,” Draco breathes, halting in place.

His best friend sits cross-legged in a loveseat, a textbook resting on her lap. She turns the pages with a lazy flick of her finger, nothing but a twitch before the first knuckle. The tip of her wand rotates in absent circles, her lips pursed in a study-induced scowl.

Draco smiles at the sight. He steps forward to greet her and perhaps cause a scene, but before he utters so much as a word, another voice speaks up.

“If you keep making such an ugly face, it’ll freeze that way,” Blaise intones. The voice comes from the sofa nearest Pansy’s chair, his body out of Draco’s view. A hand appears from behind the cushions to point at her imperiously. “You don’t want to look like that forever.”

“I’ll hex you into the next millennium, Blaise,” Pansy looks up and glowers at the arm, leveling her wand with it. “You know I’m upset. Besides, you’re far uglier, and you don’t even have to try.”

There’s a bark of deep, smooth laughter. The hand doesn’t retreat, but it tugs at the rolled cuff of his jumper. “I know.”

Pansy wrinkles her pert nose. “Then don’t be an arse.”

“Must be your influence,” Blaise chuckles, and Pansy gives up the illusion of studying to bury her face in her hands.

“Merlin’s ball sack, Zabini. You really are the worst.”

“Am I?” Blaise sits up then, leaning on his forearms for support. The top of his head appears above the pillows, reminding Draco vaguely of a gnome.

“Yes!” Pansy snaps, glaring at him through the gaps between her manicured fingers. “I’m trying to mourn our best friend, and you just —”

“He’s not dead, Pans.”

Draco stifles his amusement in the crook of his arm. He may be prone to dramatics, but Pansy is just as expressive. He’d missed his Slytherins.

“He’s still hurt!”

Her voice strains as she says it, like her emotions are a hippogriff bound by a weak chain, and it’s strange to hear Pansy this way. In all the years Draco has known her, she’s cried exactly twice — once in indignation over a broken doll, and then another, darker time.

Not even pure-bloods were exempt from Voldemort’s tyranny; Draco will not soon forget.

He shakes his head, his thoughts churning. The gooseflesh tickling his arms retreats, only just, and Draco exhales. He doesn’t need to torture himself; his friends are right there, and they miss him. They fear for him. Draco doesn’t want to worry them unnecessarily, no matter how he may pretend.

“Now, children,” he drawls, stepping forth from the shade. The darkness slides off his body like a robe, and as he enters the fire’s light, Draco feels rather like a storybook villain. “Is that any way to behave in front of our impressionable underclassmen?”

His friends’ heads whip around to face him, reflecting expressions of cool surprise and murderous intent, respectively. Blaise blinks once before recovering from his daze, but Pansy drops her textbook. Her mouth falls open, then she’s standing, stomping toward Draco with the vengeance of a mother dragon scorned. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Pansy swears, spitting his middle name like it’s profane. She crosses the span between them in quick strides and grabs the front of his shirt in a white-knuckled grip. “You — motherfucker — you!”

“Language, Pans,” Draco says softly, which earns him a look so venomous he’s surprised he doesn’t keel over and die.

“What the hell happened?” She smacks her palm against his chest and shoves.

Draco stumbles back. The contact point of her slap smarts, and he rubs it. Brilliant, that’ll be the beginning of a bruise. “Pansy —”

Then her fingers grasp his robes again, and he’s tugged into a fierce hug. Draco allows himself to be manhandled, leaning against her frame with more weight than necessary. He wraps his arms around her middle and sighs into her hair. Being friends with Pansy is enough to induce whiplash.

“It’s a long story,” Draco says. She draws back, squinting at him through painted lashes.

“You — why were you lurking in the shadows like a vampire?”

“Oh, lay off him, Pans,” Blaise says from the sofa. He gives Draco a faint grin from where he lounges, his arm braced across the cushion. “Leave him to his vampiric tendencies. You know he loves his theatrics.”

Ah, it’s good to be known.

“Quite,” Draco lifts his hand to his jugular, imagining bite marks. The pads of his fingers skitter along the pale skin of his neck, and he thinks briefly of Harry. “Perhaps I was bitten while I was gone, and now I’m fighting newfound bloodsucking urges. Do you fancy a pet bat?”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Pansy scoffs, crossing her arms.

Draco laughs, teeth flashing in the dim light. It’s the most lighthearted he’s felt in awhile. He tucks his hands into his pockets as Blaise stands to join them, nudging Pansy bodily aside. She releases an indignant huff, but diverts her attention to straighten her blouse. 

Blaise claps Draco on the shoulder. “It sounds like an adventure,” through the fabric of his jumper, Blaise’s palm is heavy and warm. It’s not the same as Harry’s touch, not nearly, but it’s comfortable. Firm.

“We’re glad you’re all right.” Blaise smiles, and the edge of his ever-present mask slips.

Draco softens. “Thanks for the cards, by the way. They meant a lot.”

“Oh, mine was prettier, wasn’t it?” Pansy interjects, wardrobe malfunction forgotten. She wedges herself between them, and Blaise allows himself to be hip-checked. “They were just substitutes for the real thing,” she gestures to herself, “since Pomfrey wouldn’t let us stay in the hospital wing.”

Blaise dips his chin. “Apparently having an injured friend isn’t enough of an excuse to skip class.”

“It’s bullocks,” Pansy agrees.

“Ah,” Draco suppresses a wince. In the midst of everything, he’d forgotten there was the matter of actual coursework. He’ll be writing inches on his charms essay for weeks. “I suppose I’ve missed quite a bit.”

Blaise and Pansy exchange a glance. It’s one of their signature looks, sharp and wordless, a shared expression of dubious intent. Their brows quirk in silent, rapid-fire conversation. Blaise tilts his head, an invitation, and Pansy shakes hers minutely.

“‘A bit’ is an understatement,” Blaise relents, eyes flickering to Draco.

Draco has seen it plenty of times, but he can’t track it, the lightning speed at which they communicate — it’s all quiet, almost like Legilimency but far simpler. He knows he’s missing something, and it’s agonizing. 

Pansy and Blaise exchanged the look whenever he tailed Harry around Hogwarts like a sinister crup puppy; they’d exchanged the look after they’d found out his father was sentenced to life in Azkaban.

“I take it you’re not referring to schoolwork,” Draco scrubs his hand over his face. He loathes when they’re Delphic, because it means something embarrassing or devastating is in the works for him. His friends are arseholes.

Pansy worries her lip, fisting the pleats of her skirt. Her gaze is downcast, trained on Draco’s mutilated oxfords. He suppresses the irrational urge to sweep his robe in front of his feet.

“Merlin,” he bites out, already dreading their news. “What is it?”

Pansy doesn’t look up. Her uniform is beginning to wrinkle under her fretting hands. “You know how rubbish floats around Hogwarts whenever something happens —”

“If you’re going to talk about the rumor mill, spare me.”

“Isn’t it better to be prepared for what people are saying?” Blaise cocks his head, a placating gesture that does little to quell Draco’s frustration.

“Since when have I cared what the population of Hogwarts has to say about me?” He says it with a grimace. Draco knows the answer, of course, but that doesn’t mean he has to acknowledge it.

“Don’t be stupid,” Pansy admonishes. She finally tears her eyes from the floor, and they flash like dual blades unsheathed in the gloom. “We know you better than anyone. Your reputation used to be your lifeline, Draco, even if you don’t care anymore.”

Blaise nods. “We tried to stop it, but people will talk, no matter what we say,” his mouth flattens, and Draco watches the mask crack just a bit more. Something like pain flashes across Blaise’s face. “We don’t even know the truth of what happened, mind. All we know is you left charms with Potter, then you go missing —”

“We’d thought you died,” Pansy says emphatically.

Their concern douses Draco like a bucket of water. He blinks once, then twice, and exhales through his nose.

His friends aren’t trying to aggravate him — they’re right. Draco knew he’d have half the school up his arse, anxious about the fate of the Chosen One, but the reality of it is more unpleasant than anticipated. He still feels it in his chest, a firmly grounded irritation, and tries to swallow past the lump in his throat.

“Well,” Draco sniffs. “I didn’t.”

Pansy shoves him, gently. Her words are softer than before. “Obviously.”

“Everyone thought you killed Potter and offed yourself,” Blaise says matter-of-factly, like that’s a normal thing to say to someone. He meets Draco’s gaze, stoic and unwavering, and Merlin, how the fuck is any of this casual? “We knew you didn’t, of course, but one can never be too sure.”

Of course, there’s a comfort. His friends don’t think he’s a murderer, but they won’t discard the concept. It’s still on the table, in case Draco feels any homicidal stirrings. He shouldn’t take offense, but rather be soothed by their nonchalance.

“Brilliant,” Draco heaves a sigh. Without anger or adrenaline to fuel him, he feels a bit like a tattered old dish rag: wrung-out, filthy, and in serious need of retirement.

“It was all very grim,” Pansy agrees. She reaches forward to flick a stray dust bunny from Draco’s robes, scrunching up her nose at it. “Demented, what people think up. I started to believe it.”

“Funny, Pans,” Draco brushes off her hand. His earlier exhaustion seems to have doubled; the weight of the last week is heavy on his body, as if he carries the experiences like a second skin — or perhaps that’s the dirt. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

She gives him a cheeky smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Really, Draco,” her tone is anything but dulcet, but Draco hears the concern buried deep beneath. “I do hope you won’t keep us in the dark much longer.”

Draco tips his head back. He thinks of his adventure — he thinks of Harry — and a looping reel of memories replays automatically. He remembers choking on seawater, and the Vauxhall on the side of the road; he sees undulating hills and golden sunshine, illuminating Harry’s hair like some sort of rugged angel; he recalls the abysmal tang of whiskey and the taste of Harry on his tongue.

Draco’s voice, when it comes, is hardly discernible. 

“It — it’s not intentional,” he murmurs, honest. His mind is awash with too much. It’s all heat and confusion and fear — describing the last five days feels an impossible task. “I just — I don’t really know where to start.”

His friends say nothing, for a moment. They study Draco with that twin searching gaze, worry and bafflement battling for dominance — then Blaise gestures towards the hearth.

The fire crackles, casting the sitting area in a circle of golden warmth. The array of chairs is plunged into honey, and the cushions look sinfully comfortable. Orange light flickers over the sofa and collides with the murky green shadows beyond. Draco could melt into it and not have a care in the world. 

Blaise drops his palm on the back of a loveseat. “How about the beginning?”

Just minutes later, Draco rests his head on the armrest, his limbs akimbo. He was right about the cushions — his arse has sunken so deep into them that he may never emerge.

“Do you want the short version, or the long one?” He asks, lazily flicking his wrist. Draco’s voice slurs a little, though with exhaustion or boredom, he’s not sure. 

Perhaps he’s simply comfortable for the first time in weeks. Draco wouldn’t mind being one with the sofa. So long as people don’t sit on him, it would be a rather unchallenging existence.

Blaise takes an armchair, and Pansy squeezes opposite Draco, pushing his legs out of her way.

“Long version,” she settles into the pillows, drawing her knees up, “but keep it succinct.”

Blaise nods, “Don’t leave anything out, unless it’s about a public loo, or something.”

“Oh, they’re disgusting,” Draco says, and Pansy nudges his foot, insistent.

She watches him with round eyes. The firelight is reflected in them, bright in the dim. “Stop blathering and get on with it.”

Draco glances at her, then blows out a breath. He averts his gaze to the ceiling. There’s really no way to summarize everything without prattling on, and he knows they want to hear most of it. Draco will just have to dull down the entire experience; a win for his character growth, a loss for his affinity for grandiose tales. 

“Harr — er, Potter and I,” he amends, “we were working on our charms assignment and got turned around.”

Silence greets his words. Blaise blinks at him, then looks at Pansy. She sniffs, unimpressed.

“You think you could get away with stopping there?” Her hands knit around her legs. An expression of patience. Waiting.

No way out of it, then, Draco thinks.

“Mhm,” Blaise blinks, which is practically the Zabini equivalent of incredulity. “If you told me a week ago Draco would go missing and undersell the ordeal, I wouldn’t believe you.”

Pansy’s lips twitch, a mere flicker in her prim vizard. “I didn’t think it was possible for a Malfoy to be anything less than ostentatious.”

“Yeah? What would you have me say?” Draco scowls. He sits up to properly glare at them. “The Weasley twins commandeered the seventh floor during the Battle of Hogwarts. They charmed Portkeys to warp the Death Eaters, and lucky for me, one escaped the cleanup.”

“Wha —” Pansy’s forehead wrinkles as she considers his explanation. “That’s idiotic. What good would rigging Portkeys in the corridor do?”

Draco opens his mouth to say he doesn’t fucking know, it was irresponsible of the staff or anyone, for that matter, to allow it, but the point would be moot. Hogwarts’ education was irresponsible at best before the battle, so he figures anything he deems to be a war crime goes out the window.

Blaise interrupts Draco’s would-be tangent with a contemplative hum. 

“Actually, I heard about that,” his fingers skitter across his armrest, tapping a rhythm on the chair. “One of those Portkeys launched Augustus Rookwood into the wilderness during the fight. Saved Fred Weasley’s life, they said.”

Pansy shoots him a puzzled glance. “In light of Draco’s experiences, I’m going to ignore the fact that you randomly lodge the status of the Weasley’s in that strange brain of yours.”

Blaise shrugs, unperturbed. “It was inventive, you’ve got to give them that.”

“Yes,” Draco intones, tracking their conversation with a frown. “Nearly killed me too, if Harry — if, uh, Potter wasn’t there.”

They both turn to face him, then. He tries his best to ignore their furrowed brows.

“‘Harry,’” Pansy repeats dubiously. “Harry? What’s with this ‘Harry’ business? When did he become anything but ‘Potter’?”

Blaise leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He adopts a curious expression. “Did you call a truce beyond his vouching for you at the Wizengamot?”

“Er — not exactly,” Draco suppresses the urge to wince. Perhaps he should burrow deeper into his pillows. “We’re, uh, sort of — we’ve come to an unsteady agreement.”

Draco isn’t fond of the knowing look dawning on Blaise’s face. He sits back, the picture of thoughtfulness, as his hand brushes his chin. When he speaks, it’s just what Draco’s been dreading; a small part of his story and a large part of his heart, both of which he can’t seem to reconcile.

“Are you friends now?”

Draco’s cheeks are sunken, casting his fine bones into stark relief. He holds in all his breath and says nothing.

At his disconcerting quiet, Pansy begins to refute it, but halts before a word drops off her tongue. She watches Draco’s expression shift; his reaction is less mutinous than expected, but his lips still twist into a moue.

“‘Friends’ is a strong word.”

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy extricates her hand from her legs, resting it on Draco’s exposed ankle. “Darling, you —”

Pity. It’s pity coloring her voice, and of all things, Draco doesn’t yearn for that. He wants a hot shower, or to kiss Harry again, maybe. He wants to rescind the last seven years of his life and start anew, but he doesn’t want condolences and sorrowful looks.

“I fucked up a few times,” Draco admits. Pansy’s palm on his skin is soft, a gentle caress, and he uses it as an anchor. A reminder that he’s here, before he gets lost in his head. “It was mostly my fault, I suppose. Bloody Gryffindors and their — their need to talk about things.”

“You can’t expect to resolve years of tension in five days,” Blaise reasons. He passes Draco a sympathetic glance from across the circle.

“Tension and pining,” Pansy agrees, patting Draco’s leg. 

“You — Pans,” he sputters. “And pining?”

She nods, and Draco kicks her hand away. Mortification sinks into his bones. Evaporating into the cushions is his only option at this point; he sees no plausible alternative.

“What are you on about? I haven’t —”

Pansy scoffs, unoffended by his spastic retreat. She withdraws her arm, brushing her fingers along the assaulted hand. “Say what you will, Draco. We’re not blind.”

He swallows with some difficulty. The lump in Draco’s throat has grown exponentially, and it’s probably a tumor. Oh yes, he must be dying, and that’s fine. Anything would be preferable to this humiliation; the knowledge that Draco couldn’t conceal his darkest secret, even if it’s from his dearest friends. 

It feels a little like surrender, admitting the truth; Draco can’t say he’s fallen for the other side. There’s nothing more shameful, short of being interviewed by Rita Skeeter in his underwear. Headlines flashing horrible titles run through his head, and he can see it in his mind’s eye: The Fallen Tighty-Whities: Youngest Malfoy Brings Shame Upon His Family.

“I, er,” he shakes his head to disperse the nebulous thoughts. “I can’t say I know what you’re referring to.”

“Quit it. We ought to slip you some Veritaserum,” she tuts, still rubbing her knuckles. “I don’t think you’re quite that dense.”

He’s not, is the thing. Draco’s aware of his own terrible emotions. They’re blatantly present, bound to ruin him someday, he knows. His heart rabbits in his chest; it may very well escape its bony cage and depart through his mouth. 

“Pans,” Blaise says softly. At his call, she straightens, hard-eyed. There’s a stubborn set to her jaw, one few are able to dislodge.

Blaise gives her a look, the look. Pansy makes a face, wavering between frustration and acceptance. For a moment, it seems as if she’ll ignore him. Then she sighs, submissive.

“All right. Fine,” Pansy huffs, turning back to Draco. The sharpness in her gaze has blunted somewhat. “We won’t press you, you know. We — we just,” she pauses, struggling to articulate. “I just want you to know. We only want you to be happy.”

Blaise dips his chin. “It’s true. For both of us.”

Their comments bounce around Draco’s skull, clattering like Gobstones. He can’t make sense of it, of what his friends mean to imply. He can’t have been so obvious — if what they say is based on what he suspects, then they’ve known how he feels about Harry Potter much longer than Draco himself. The concept is too embarrassing to consider.

Draco releases a heavy exhale. He can trust Pansy and Blaise. He knows he can; they’ve been constants in the ever-changing landscape of his life, and he loves them. 

Still, it hardly makes his mortification easier to weather. Draco clears his throat, choking on the dryness of his tongue. “To be happy?”

“Mhm,” Blaise tilts his head sagely. “This is what you’ve wanted for ages, isn’t it?”

“Since we were children, at least,” Pansy wraps her arms around herself. She rests her chin on her knees, studying him through her lashes. “It was a long time coming.”

It’s no profound wisdom, but it’s true. 

Draco’s breath comes sharp between his lips. They refuse to part, clinging like melted butter, even as he tries to speak. He wants to describe the feeling himself, to ask his friends if they’re upset, but the words do not come.

“Draco,” behind Blaise, the fire looms, casting him in a silhouette. Highlights flicker across his cheeks as he leans forward. “You won’t lose us because of it, all right? So don’t worry about that.”

“Even though he’s… Potter,” Pansy slumps a little in her seat. Her hand finds his ankle again, and she holds Draco, firm. Her voice is gentler than he’s ever heard it. “We want what’s best for you, you silly prat.”

A flush of warmth rushes through Draco’s body. It floods his veins and stuttering heart with something like contentment; harsh and sweet, it’s a raw feeling, the sun’s heat on exposed skin. It’s not enough to wash away the doubt or the embarrassment, but a hesitant smile blooms on his face. Grateful.

Draco’s friends are unconventional. Crass, even, and a little mean at times, but he loves them. Their unflagging support dislodges a burden he didn’t even know he carried, and Draco’s grin becomes more than a fleeting twitch of his mouth.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it.

Pansy pats his leg once before pushing it away.

“Don’t get too sappy on us,” she sniffs daintily. “Just so you know, if I have to see you and Potter do any disgusting things, I will launch myself from the astronomy tower.”

Her revelation is so startling that Draco jerks, inhaling too sharply. He chokes up, and it’s quite uncivilized, suffocating on his own saliva. All this time asking for a tragic and untimely death, just for it to end like this.

A surprised chuckle bursts out of Blaise. “Pansy!” His eyes crinkle with delight. “Leave the man be!”

“It’s not a threat,” she shoots him a glance, keen and bright. “It’s a promise. If I have to see any public displays of —”

“I’m begging you to stop,” Draco wheezes. He braces his palm against his chest, heaving for breath. “Pansy, please. Harry and I aren’t —”

“Mhm,” Pansy hums. She picks at her cuticles with an air of disinterest, but her eyes slide to him. “I said what I said.”

“I have words for you, Pans —”

“Oh?” She tears her attention away from her hands. “Pray tell.”

Draco bites his lip, swallowing a retort. Pansy’s just… she’s just Pansy. If Draco knows anyone, he knows her. She’s reached her emotional quota for the day, and that’s fine; he can read between her subtle jabs and understand she’s just teasing. It’s a coping mechanism for dealing with worry. To her, a little bullying goes a long way — but she doesn’t have to be so annoying about it.

“Sod off,” he decides, slouching into his spot. He kicks his socked feet against the plushness of the seat cushions. “I’ve had enough.”

“And I’ve had enough of you!” Pansy glares at him. It’s not entirely serious, but Draco suppresses a shiver. “We’ve been through hell for you, Draco — and I’m telling you, I’m not fond of PDA.” Her mouth twists, like she’s taken a bite out of something bitter. “It’s a warning.”

Draco suddenly feels very small. He hasn’t even done anything worth another scolding — Pansy didn’t have to see the first time he kissed Harry. She certainly won’t be around if ever there’s a second, so Draco thinks he’s hardly at fault, here.

“You’re predicting ludicrous things,” Draco lifts his gaze so it’s level with Pansy’s, and tips his chin in defiance. “You just want to humiliate me.” 

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation. “It’s funny, but it’s not completely —” she quirks a brow. “Ludicrous, as you so elegantly put it.”

Draco snorts, “You’re terrible.”

“Maybe,” Pansy dismisses. “But it’s — it shouldn’t be your biggest concern right now.”

Blaise makes a thoughtful noise, which means he agrees. “You’ve been missing in action,” he says, like Draco could’ve possibly forgotten.

“You look awful,” Pansy adds, unnecessarily. “And I’m sure you haven’t bathed —” 

“Thank you both for those colorful and kind reminders.”

Pansy shakes her head. The movement swishes her bob, the cut dancing above her shoulders in gentle waves.

“Merlin, Draco,” her tone suggests she’s disappointed, not by Draco’s crush, but by his hygiene. “Have you seen your hair, darling? Get out of here. You’re attracting flies.”

He reaches up to touch his head self-consciously, and his mouth pulls into a frown. Draco’s fingers feel painted with gloss, oil twisting through the lank blond strands.

“You ambushed me!” He argues. It’s useless to fight with her, but he abandoned any semblance of maturity the moment he crossed the threshold. 

“Actually,” Blaise pipes up, still smirking. The horrible sod. “You snuck up on us.”

“Slid out of the shadows like a creature of the night,” Pansy inches herself away, as if Draco really was transformed into a vampire. Perhaps it’s the smell of his rank clothes.

“You’re both terrible,” Draco amends his earlier statement.

“Thank you,” they speak in unison. It would be frightening if it weren’t so irritating.

Draco sighs, feeling suitably harassed. It hurts; his earlier coughing fit abused his throat, leaving it stinging and tender. It aches like he’s taken a shot of firewhiskey, but off-brand — some of that cheap rubbish lower grade students guzzle to get piss-drunk. 

“I’ll have you know Pomfrey used a scourgify when we were discharged from the hospital wing.”

“And?” Pansy wrinkles her nose. “You’ve a week’s worth of grime on you. I refuse to be seen in your vicinity until you do something about it.”

“Bully that. You’re already in my vicinity,” Draco scowls, glancing at Blaise. The other boy merely shrugs, sinking deeper into his chair.

Pansy declines to respond, studying her nails in clear dismissal.

“Oh, Morgana,” Draco braces his hands on the armrest and stands, cutting his friends with a glare. “I loathe the both of you.” 

He turns on his heel, ignoring the smattering of their unruffled laughter behind him.

As he approaches his dormitory, Draco’s limbs grow heavier. He imagines the luxurious softness of his silk sheets, so much better than the infirmary. The sweet embrace of sleep is just out of reach, but he takes a detour towards the washroom.

“Piss off, Pansy,” he curses, slipping into the showers. “There’s no fucking flies.”

When he returns to his dorm, Draco collapses on his bed. The mattress dips beneath him as he settles, plunging his face into his pillow. He scrunches up his nose as he inhales through the fabric; it smells musty from disuse, the blankets still rumpled from the last time he slept in them.

He could probably stand to wash his sheets, but that’s a problem for later. He’ll handle it, preferably when he’s caffeinated. Tomorrow Draco can do the laundry.

Draco exhales, and his lashes flutter shut. Outside his curtains, night swallows the muted light filtering through the lake.

Under the watchful eye of the moon, Draco sleeps. He does not dream.

With special permission from McGonagall, Draco spends the morning in Diagon Alley.

In the post-war world, public spaces aren’t kind to him. He walks through the crowds, passing identical expressions of thinly-veiled distaste. People whisper as he slips by, remarking about the starkness of his hair, the prominence of his nose. It’s his father’s likeness, he knows, but he also resembles himself.

Draco did things he cannot atone for. He’s trying.

Years ago, Draco would color at the barest hint of offense. He’d hiss and curse back at them, daring any onlookers to challenge the Malfoy heir. Years ago, he’d do more than simply deflect stray hexes. But then, years ago, Draco was a different person.

He endures. He strides across the cobblestones with his eyes downcast, ignoring harsh glowers when he’s recognized. Browsing for a new wand isn’t ideal, but he’s rather fond of casting spells, so Draco buries the anxiety blooming in his gut. If he can survive a week in a Muggle vehicle, he can stomach an hour on the densely populated street.

Following an awkward encounter with Ollivander, Draco takes a public Floo back to school. He returns to Hogwarts with a new wand and a tightness in his chest.

It’s another day, in charms, when they meet again.

There’s an odd poeticism about it, Draco thinks. They’ve rotated back to the start. It’s silly, really, when he considers it like that; charms class, before the ocean, the kiss, the fire. Before their return. Draco feels as though he stands at the crux of it, this circular dance like the movement of the sun. He’s immersed in twilight, perched on the division between a beginning and an end.

Idiot, he scolds himself. Foolish, romantic idiot.

It’s a roll of the dice, now. Whether Harry decides to speak or acknowledge him at all is at his discretion. It’s a frightening amount of power for him to hold, but Draco supposes he’s already had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He’s spent the better half of his life thinking about Harry. Even now, in Flitwick’s classroom, his mind is awash with little else but their disagreement in the Vauxhall and the disappointment in his eyes. The lack of interaction since is agonizing, but if he considers it any longer, Draco will go mad.

It’s out of his hands, and the Bludger is on Harry’s side of the pitch.

Draco sits alone at his desk, staring blankly at his textbook. There isn’t much he doesn’t already know, and boredom drags him down in his seat. Charms, after all, are only as difficult as their incantation, and Draco’s clever and well-spoken indeed.

The pages flutter with each puff of his breath, flipping at random. They waffle back and forth between protection spells and jinxes. His new wand rolls in his palm — larch wood and unicorn hair, with meticulously carved grooves embellishing the handle. It’s still unfamiliar to the touch, smooth and cool under the pads of his fingers.

Draco arrived early, intent on talking to Harry before class, but both the Golden Trio and his own pair of friends have yet to arrive. He should’ve expected as much. There isn’t a day that passes with Harry being anything but unpunctual, but the fact Draco noticed is too embarrassing to admit.

He sweeps his hand across the textbook, which has flitted to a lesson he recognizes. There’s chunks of text, wordy descriptions that nobody ever reads, and boxes illustrated with detailed diagrams. They showcase the wand movements for the tracking spell, appare vestigium, and Draco snorts with genuine amusement.

It figures. He could cast it to locate a certain missing Gryffindor — but no, that would be creepy. He spent a week as a vagrant, but he hasn’t stooped to stalking. 

Draco turns the page, ignoring the very obvious glances other students pass him over their shoulders. They’ve stared at him since his emergence from the hospital wing two days prior, murmuring without subtlety in his presence.

All of the attention makes him self-conscious. He keeps thinking his hair is mussed or he’s stained his shirt, or something. Draco almost wishes they’d just fucking ask, but nobody has the gall to speak to him, for once.

He wonders if Harry said something. The thought is nice, but it also makes his heart swell in ways it shouldn’t. He shuts down the possibility almost as soon as it crosses his mind.

As he studies his work without making any real progress, the door to the classroom swings open. Draco turns in his chair in time to see the telltale spark of Weasley’s red hair, bobbing in motion as he enters. A bright smile sticks to his face as he slings his arm around some unfortunate man, dragging him into the room.

Most of the class stops stealing looks at Draco to gawk at Harry — because of course it’s Harry — as the Gryffindors make their way to their seats.

“All right, mate,” Weasley says, depositing Harry at their table like an old rucksack. He plops down beside him, then settles his hand onto his best friend’s shoulder. “I know you don’t want to, but come on — everyone’s dying to hear.”

On cue, their classmates stand, jostling each other as they crowd around Harry’s seat. Draco watches, unblinking, until the pair is nearly obscured by groups of shifting bodies. He suppresses a surge of something ugly in his gut.

It’s only natural it would be this way. Harry Potter’s back, ever the golden boy. Draco looks down and remains where he is, his nails carving trenches into the wood of the desk.

“Merlin, Ron, I told you yesterday,” Harry’s voice drifts over from the flock of students, and Draco’s ears perk up at the sound. “Malf — Draco and I found a Portkey. We warped to Wales. The end.”

The use of his given name floods Draco with profound relief, and he sacrifices his posture to slump against the back of his chair. It means — well, he doesn’t know. Not for certain, at least. But there’s a possibility there, the implication of something else.

Draco glances up at the crowd, but only a Hufflepuff or two are looking at him. They look away as his gaze locks onto theirs.

Weasley’s brows rise impossibly high, disrupting the follicles at his hairline. “Are you trying to make a very impressive feat sound unimpressive?”

“I don’t care about being impressive,” Harry flaps a hand. “I just wanted to survive, thanks.”

All right, then. He certainly kept their harrowing experience succinct. Give or take a few ordeals, Draco thinks Harry’s summed it up well, although it’s a pity he hasn’t a flair for dramatics.

Weasley frowns. It scrunches up his face, forcing all the freckles across his nose to congregate together. “Based on what you told me —”

“Ron.” Harry says again, and Draco recognizes that tone. He’s heard it a million times, long before Wales, when he couldn’t have cared to know what it meant. “Please.”

It’s a warning, and a request. The sound of it is familiar, painfully so, and something in Draco goes cold. He clenches his fist, squeezing his new wand. It doesn’t fit quite right in his hand, which somehow makes him feel worse.

Draco knows the Weasel and Harry are best mates. He’d have to be both deaf and blind to not be aware, but he can’t be sure how much they share. Harry could’ve told him about the night in the pub, or detail all of Draco’s mental breakdowns. Maybe they sat in a merry circle last night, regaling each other with stories of his ruined oxfords.

The pub. Draco’s stomach flips, as he’s taken a dive on a broomstick. It’s not that he’s embarrassed of what happened; even though he was sloshed, he’d wanted it for so long. He’d been grateful. Snogging Harry Potter is a gift from the heavens, and Draco would cut off a hand for the opportunity to do it again.

No, he’s not self-conscious of that.

Draco’s never been on the best of terms with the Weasley’s. He reckons at least one of them owes him a punch in the jaw, and the idea of baring his heart to any of them — Merlin, Draco hadn’t even been totally comfortable in the face of Pansy’s teasing. How can he go toe to toe with a Weasley? It would make a fine bit of drama, wouldn’t it, to have the son of Voldemort’s right-hand man be pathetically in love with the savior?

“Come on,” Weasley prods. His voice adopts a lilting whine, and Draco might’ve taken a turn for the moral, but he still bristles at the sound. “It’s wicked, Harry. Just tell them about the dragon, at least.”

“I thought I might die,” Harry says casually, like these are normal stakes. Draco doesn’t think he’s embellishing at all. “It was hellish at first, but it ended up fine. That’s it.”

“You’ve really got nothing else to say?” One of the Hufflepuffs crowding them speaks up, and Draco recognizes her as the nosy one whom he’d caught staring. She leans on their desk, her robes pooling around her hands. “What about the Slytherin?”

A line of tension straightens Draco’s back. It’s nothing he’s not used to — of course they’re going to talk about him like he’s not ten feet away. He lifts his chin, unspeaking. If only Pansy were here; he imagines her fierce gaze boring holes through their backs. 

Draco can’t see Harry’s face, but he notices the squareness of his shoulders. The knobby vertebrates of his spine submerge beneath his skin as he stiffens.

“You lot,” his voice begins as a slow mutter, growing in volume as he speaks. “I don’t know what you’re on about, thinking this is your entertainment,” Harry glances up, frowning. His eyes are chipped shards of emerald behind the lenses of his glasses.

The Hufflepuff’s face twists. “It’s not like —”

“It’s none of your business, but Draco and I are fine,” Harry continues. “He has a name, you know.”

She recoils, lifting her palms from the desktop. “You of all people should know he was a —”

“I really didn’t ask,” Harry interrupts, and Draco startles at the force of his declaration. “It doesn’t matter.”

The room falls silent. Half of the students turn to peer at him, but Draco pays them no mind. He blinks once as he digests Harry’s words. There’s nothing hidden or minced in his statement; he’s being honest, Draco thinks. To Harry, their former allegiances really don’t matter that much anymore. At least, not where it counts.

They’ve made mistakes, both of them. Draco was a coward, and it left him scarred across his chest. Harry was — is — a hero, and it took something from him. 

It’s in the past, and he’s begun the arduous process of moving on. The war’s over, Draco.

Draco swallows thickly, gaze trained on his lap. He holds his wand, fingers tightening and unclenching along its uncomfortable grip. It’s new to him, all new, and part of him craves the mundanity of the familiar; but he wants the strength to move forward, too.

Weasley shrugs. An awful grating sound pierces their ears as he slides his chair along the floor. “You heard the man,” he addresses the students still milling around, bracing his hand on Harry. “Be respectful, all right?”

The Hufflepuff gives a rude snort, crossing her arms in an attempt to look unfazed. Around her, the others exchange glances, as if debating whether to stage a revolt. 

Before they begin raising their voices like vultures squalling for carrion, Granger swings open the classroom door. All bouncing hair and sharp eyes, the smatter of conversation trickles into silence as the crowd recognizes her presence. 

“Oh, um,” she peers behind a swaying stack of library books. It’s balanced precariously in her arms, so unstable that it really could be a weapon, if utilized correctly. “Good morning, I suppose,” Granger strides forward, performing a veritable circus act as she somehow averts every obstacle, be it a discarded bag or a person. “Did I miss something?” 

“‘Mione,” Harry says, and Draco guesses his tone conveys enough. Granger squints from behind her tower once more as she nears their desk, lips twisting into a frown.

“Wha — oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

Fearless, she trudges over rucksack and first-year, forcing the intrusive students away. They part like butter under a hot knife, and she places her burdens on the table without having to excuse herself. She blows out a breath, dislodging a chunk of hair, and rests a gentle palm on Harry’s back. He looks up through his unkempt bangs and gives her a lopsided grin. 

Draco has never been happier to see her in his life.

“Hello Harry, Ron,” Granger smiles back, greeting Weasley with a kiss on the edge of his mouth. 

“Hey, Hermione,” they chorus, and Draco doesn’t know why he always thought Harry was in charge of their little trio. He was so obviously wrong.

Granger glances around, then, and glares at the host of scavengers knotting around their desk.

“Pardon me,” she says, shoving her books across the top. The students step back, as if she’ll launch her homework at them or something. Granger does nothing of the sort. She retrieves a chair from the throng and pushes it between Harry and her boyfriend. 

Their classmates slink back to their desks, chastised. Draco understands why; Granger has always represented the abstract concept of authority, but with a won war and a prefect’s badge under her belt, she wields intimidation like a cutlass.

“Did they —” Granger turns to ask Harry something, but her words fade to a whisper as he leans in to hear. 

Harry slouches as he listens, then gives a minute shrug. Granger tilts her head, contemplative.

“Are you certain?” She murmurs, brushing her fingers along his shoulder.

Harry dips his chin, and his spine curls inward like a wilted flower. The fine bones of his back form bumps under his jumper, and Draco thinks of how little they’d eaten over the course of the week. Harry has always been skinny, hasn’t he? A twig of a boy that could snap underfoot.

Harry turns to face him, and Draco’s train of thought derails.

He jolts in his seat, nearly dropping his wand. Draco grips it like a lifeline as Harry’s eyes catch his. They latch onto one another, and he realizes they’re Slytherin colors: silver and green. Energy thrums under Draco’s skin like a current, not unlike the magic in his veins. He wonders vaguely if he’s been hexed.

He hopes he doesn’t look like he was eavesdropping. The entire class had been so loud about it, so bully that. He’s minding his own business, and just happened to overhear everything being said.

Harry parts his lips as if to speak, and then closes them. He studies Draco, tracing the delicate structure of his nose, the curve of his brow. For a moment, there’s nothing; then a muscle flickers in his cheek as he offers Draco a tiny grin. It’s nothing, really. A tentative flash of white and pink, over before it’s even begun. 

Draco clings to it. He wants to launch himself toward it, because it’s an olive branch. A chance. Something more than this brittle whatever they’d left on the horizon, back at the pub. He’d be a fool to take it, but he’d also be a fool not to.

Draco won’t let the opportunity pass. He exhales through his teeth, and smiles hesitantly back.

Harry’s expression brightens. He inclines his head, before swiveling around in his chair to face Granger.

“Yeah,” he says, soft. It’s barely discernible in the din. “I’m sure.”

She surreptitiously glances at Draco. Subtlety has never been a Gryffindor trait, but Granger is a special case. He wouldn’t have noticed, he thinks, if he wasn’t already looking at her. 

“All right,” she says.

All right.

Draco rests his chin in his palm, textbook and new wand forgotten. He traces the lines of Harry’s figure, etching them onto his retinas. Draco memorizes the way his robes fall across his frame, the nervous twitch of fingers in dark hair.

He doesn’t hear his friends come in; Draco hardly notices as Flitwick crosses the room and climbs onto his footstool.

“You look happy about something,” Pansy comments, sliding into her place beside him. She drops her bag on the floor, and the clatter of fallen textbooks shakes Draco from his stupor.

“That can’t be good,” Blaise jokes, already lounging across his chair. He slings an arm over the back of it and tosses his papers onto the desktop. “Care to share?”

“Not particularly,” Draco says primly. He shifts his focus from Harry’s form to his open book, fixing his eyes on the page.

Ah, yes. Charms. Incredibly interesting, that. So fascinating. So much more fun to look at than the Chosen One’s arse. 

“Fine, don’t tell us,” Pansy frowns, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Insufferable.”

For the duration of the class, Draco struggles to remain stoic, the curve of his lips lancing upward like the swishing arc of a wand.

The pressure of fingers on Draco’s bicep startles him from his thoughts. He halts his stride, glancing over his assailant before he’s tugged sideways in a rough grip. Draco stumbles, gasping as his skin is pulled taut in a bruising anchor. His shoulder clicks as he’s pulled bodily from the corridor and through a side door.

Draco staggers into the dim room, shaken. It feels as though his arm was ripped from its socket, which is unfortunate, because he rather needs his limbs. He was on his way to potions, and Slughorn isn’t particularly fond of him on a normal day; Draco can’t imagine armlessness would go over well when he needs two hands to brew.

“What the fuck?” He spits, soured by the manhandling. If this person is planning an assassination or something, they could’ve just hexed him in the hallway.

“Erm — sorry,” the would-be murderer mutters, and Draco looks up for the first time. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon, had to — had to just reach out and grab.”

The voice is awfully familiar. Draco stares at them, blinking through his ruffled bangs. His stomach twists, tangled and ruined with anxiety. It’s possible he ate something poisonous by accident, and now he’s experiencing vivid hallucinations. Right? Either that or he’s having a nightmare, unless this is someone’s idea of a practical joke. He can’t possibly understand why else Ronald Weasley would’ve accosted him and dragged him into a broom closet.

“What,” bits of platinum blond get caught in Draco’s lashes, and he looks away, running his fingers through it. He inhales once, then turns back.

Before him, Boy Weasley fists his hands in his robes. He worries his lip between his teeth, probably in a vain attempt to hold back a barrage of insults. His gaze remains trained on the dusty floor.

What in the everloving fuck?

When Draco imagined going toe to toe with Weasley, he never suspected it would go like this: trapped with cleaning supplies like they’ve snuck out for a tryst from hell. He’d visualized a picturesque battleground, perhaps, with wands at the ready. There would be slugs seeping from his opponent’s mouth. Never this. What a terrible turn of events.

Draco bites down the urge to start flinging preemptive jinxes. He’d rather not die now that he’s here, but he generally isn’t a fan of enclosed spaces when accompanied by redheads.

“Merlin’s balls, Weasley,” Draco forces out the words, each one colored with disdain. “Is there something you need? Because if you’re planning to kill me, or if you need a tailor, there are better ways to ask.”

“Ugh,” Weasley lifts his head then, expression shifting from mild guilt into a scowl. “Shut it, Malfoy,” he steps backward in the limited space, bracing himself on a shelf lined with empty vials. “Forgot how annoying you are.”

Excuse me? Draco thinks, harassed. He repeats the sentiment aloud, because he’s a delight, thanks. It’s not his fault Weasley hasn’t got any taste.

Weasley appears to disagree with him. He wrinkles his nose, grimacing, “It’s not like I’m talking to you because I want to.”

“Care to enlighten me then?” Draco squints, rubbing his shoulder mechanically. Weasley seems nettled, but his face is bereft of true anger. It’s making Draco apprehensive. “Or you’ve just gone and tore my rotator cuff for sport?”

The beginning of a sneer curls Weasley’s lip, and ah, there it is. It’s subtle, the white flash of his teeth, but Draco wishes he’d say something. He’d love to see him lash out with that famed temper or sling swears, because despite it all, riling Weasley hasn’t lost its appeal. Anything would be better than this bizarre lack of genuine hostility, like they’re meeting on common ground.

Draco suspects the playing field will always be a bit uneven, here.

Weasley clenches his fist, and the small motion helps to release tension in his jaw. To Draco’s disappointment, he exhales without rising to the bait.

“Bloody hell, you really are irritating,” Weasley shakes his head, like he’s lost an argument with himself. “I don’t know how Harry does it.”

Harry. Draco wants to smack himself. Of course this has something to do with Harry. He must be daft. Weasley is here to tell him to sod off, and possibly beat him into the cobbled stone floor. He suppresses a shiver; brute force is an avenue which Draco himself is uncomfortable with, but Weasley never did know the right way around a wand.

Draco swallows his anxiety with a near-audible gulp, passing the redhead his hardest glare. It cries, I dare you to try.

“What does Potter have to do with this?”

Weasley looks at him like he’s mad, which, all right, perhaps dumb was the wrong card to play. There are several alcohol-related possibilities, and Draco can guess why Harry’s involved, although he’d never admit that to Weasley.

“Um,” he clears his throat, beginning again. “He set you and I up for a little bonding? A romantic getaway?”

“Harry didn’t ask me to do anything,” Weasley snorts. His revelation is actually surprising; Draco doesn’t comment on it, but curiosity furrows his brows.

“It was —” Weasley makes a face, like he can’t believe he’s responsible for his own actions. “I came to you myself, because I wanted to talk to you about — well, I didn’t want to, but —”

“Spit it out, Weaselbee,” Draco sighs. It’s listen to him stumble through his monologue, or speedrun this duel. He isn’t keen on it, but Draco’s sure he can muster a depulso if he must. “Just hit me with a Bat-Bogey Hex and be done with it.”

“What? No,” Weasley frowns. “Why would I —” he backtracks, as if violence is outside his realm of comprehension. “I’m not here to jinx you, for Merlin’s sake. Have you done something to deserve it?”

I can think of plenty of reasons, Draco thinks. Listing them would land him flat on his arse on the ground, so if Weasley is content with playing at civility, Draco’s quite all right with feigning innocence.

“No.”

“Right. Then what I wanted to say,” Weasley looks distinctly out of his depth. “Is that I don’t — I don’t understand this thing you and Harry have. Never did get it, to be honest —”

Ah. Draco withers, because Ronald Weasley knows. He knows, because of course he does. There isn’t a thing Harry Potter keeps exclusive from his best mates, twisted love life included. Draco had suspected before, but now he’s certain.

There was never a doubt whether Weasley knew. Draco has to remind himself that Harry had even dated Ron’s sister — isn’t that a best friend faux pas? If he’d been brave enough to do that, obviously Weasley’s aware of the Chosen One’s snogging session with a former Death Eater in a decrepit Muggle pub. Draco’s fairly certain at least one of those sleights is enough to warrant a stern talking to, if not a physical altercation.

“And you know I’m not the least bit fond of you, but I mean,” he gestures vaguely with his hands. “He’s — he’s brighter, Malfoy,” Weasley’s rambling, and Draco has to shake himself to attention. “He’s happy, or getting there.”

It’s a warning, Draco assumes. Don’t ruin it, Weasley will say, or back off, then.

“Good for him,” Draco sniffs. His skin prickles under the redhead’s watchful gaze, and he’s sure it’s exactly what Weasley wants to hear.

“Yeah,” he nods. “I want him to stay that way.”

“Naturally,” Draco meets Weasley’s stare. The significance of the moment isn’t lost on him.

This is it. Ronald will degrade or embarrass him, and all his fears — of rejection and heartbreak — bubble to the surface. The concoction is uglier than poorly-made Polyjuice. Draco lifts his chin, grappling to maintain the facade of indifference before he’s utterly pummeled.

“D’you,” Weasley blinks at him. “Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

I’m sure, Draco thinks. He wets his lips before he speaks. “I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

A long, breathless moment follows his rebuttal. The wooden shelf Weasley had so callously leaned on creaks, a peal in the silence.

“It has everything to do with you, you great pillock,” Weasley huffs, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. They knot in the strands, tousling them, until he drops his arms by his sides. “I — we’ve all been through a lot.”

That they can agree on, at least. Weasley glances downward, toeing the floor. His shoes are scuffed, awfully so, and Draco remembers his oxfords aren’t much better.

It’s a tiny observation. Hardly an improvement, and somewhat bigoted still; but baby steps towards acceptance are better than none at all.

“All of us,” Weasley says again, emphasis heavy on each word. They’re leaden with regret and something more meaningful. “It’ll take awhile to recover, each at our own pace.”

Each at our own pace.

It sounds as if he counts Draco in that equation, which is impossible. There’s no reason for Weasley to validate him, and certainly no love lost between their clans; the Malfoy’s owe their family far more than apologies. Yet his declaration rings in Draco’s ears, echoing in the hollows of his skull.

By all accounts, Weasley’s admission is unexpectedly warm, as if despite being sworn enemies, he’s granted Draco a pass on behalf of his best friend. It’s more than he deserves.

The realization hits Draco full force. He feels winded by it, like he’d dashed the barrier at Platform 9 ¾ and smacked into a brick wall. Inclusion is something he’d yearned for, even if that meant pushing others out. 

Draco’s not a good person, but he wants to be. Emotion burns through him, scorching his veins and clawing its way beneath his ribs. He hadn’t ever thought his own battles could be understood, let alone accepted. It’ll take awhile to recover. All of us.

“If — if ever,” Draco says, faint. He’s surprised when Weasley nods in agreement.

“If ever,” he repeats sagely, his gaze still downcast. “And that’s why I need — I need you to just — ” Weasley looks up then, blanching. “I don’t know how to say it. It’s bloody weird.”

“Er,” Draco coughs, resting his fist against his lip. He thought he knew where this conversation was going, but the dynamic shift is discomforting. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Shot in the dark, here: you need me to, what, back off?”

“No. Uh, the opposite, actually,” Weasley sighs. He rubs his knuckles against his eyes, and one of his lashes falls to decorate his cheekbone.

For the first time, Draco recognizes the exhaustion etched into his features. There are dark smudges like charcoal, deepened by his pale skin. He supposes Pansy and Blaise aren’t the only duo who suffered in his and Harry’s absence.

“I just —” Weasley blinks as he removes his fingers. “I want you to tread carefully when it comes to Harry, all right?”

The concession causes Draco’s heart to still, heavy breath withheld. It lilts and murmurs before lifting in a strange crescendo. He sails on the feeling like it’s music, rising and falling in succession until static fills his ears. He isn’t sure how to process his own body’s reaction.

Weasley hasn’t threatened him. No embarrassment and not rejection, but a request. Tread carefully.

“What does —” Draco opens his mouth to speak, but his tongue is impossibly dry. He struggles past it, choking on his words. “What does that mean?”

Silver catches blue, and Weasley levels him with a stern look. Draco flushes, consumed by self-consciousness. “You know what it means.”

Do I? It’s too much to register, the acceptance and kindness. If Draco were prone to optimism, he might think Weasley had just given him his blessing to pursue whatever with Harry sodding Potter.

“Weasel —” he’s more familiar with pessimism, actually. Draco’s nails bite into his palms, and the crescents burrow deep into his skin. “Why are you telling me this, Weasley?” 

“I thought I made that clear,” Weasley tilts his head. Messy strands of red bounce to the side, brushing his brow. “Because I care about Harry.”

Obviously, Draco thinks, but doesn’t say.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to dropping you off in the center of the Forbidden Forest,” which hits a little too close to home, given Draco’s recent endeavors, “but if —” Weasley’s forehead furrows, like he’s thinking very hard. He’s putting his whole back into thinking. “If Harry cares about you, this is as good of a truce as we’re going to get.”

An exhale. The muscles in Draco’s hands relax, only slightly. His palms sting.

“How sportsmanlike of you,” he admires, with just the appropriate amount of cheek. “A truce. Is that what this is?”

A white-flag waving truce. Draco, for some reason, shies from the concept. Something about it seems demoralizing; after all this time, he’s still braced for combat, fully prepared to be scraped across the floor under the Dark Lord’s shoe.

“Is that —” Weasley’s freckles bunch together as he smiles, like funneled sand splashed across his nose. “He didn’t say you were funny,” he steps forward, and their shoulders touch in the limited space. “If you care about Harry too, then yeah. That’s what this is.”

Draco doesn’t deign to respond. He swallows, thick and dry, and feels as though he’s devoured the entire Sahara. What an ordeal — he may pass out from dehydration, but at Weasley’s expectant expression, he musters a weak nod. 

For some bloody reason, I do.

“All right, then,” Weasley says agreeably. He shifts and sidles past Draco, bumbling toward the corridor. He throws a single glance behind him. “In that case, I’ll see you around, Malfoy.”

The interrogation is over quickly. Faster than Draco would’ve thought, with the trauma of it all, but it’s surreal — is that it? Weasley gets a half-arsed promise out of Draco and goes along his merry way, heedless of the chaos he’s left in his wake.

“I suppose,” Draco rasps, unable to raise an argument. The mental clocking he’s endured is worse than having his arm ripped off; after all this, going to potions class hardly seems an option.

“Try not to be an enormous arsehole in the meantime, would you?” He says, amicable. The door to their hideaway swings open, casting a square of brilliant golden light across the floor, and Ronald Weasley is gone.

The sudden quiet that suffuses the broom closet is stifling. It’s the heavy, uncomfortable sort of hush that leaves his ears ringing and his skin prickly, as if dusted in layers of filth.

In the silence, this shard of altered reality, Draco doesn’t move. A stray cobweb falls from the ceiling, settling itself comfortably in his hair. If it’s accompanied by a spider, they’ll soon build a small village, gently nestled in his platinum locks. Still, Draco doesn’t sweep it away. He’s miles away, tucked high up in Gryffindor Tower, where the rest of his wandering thoughts lie.

Each at our own pace. All of us. Draco’s not sure if he’s ready to move forward. The answer he searches for eludes him, evasive as a playful poltergeist carrying an old, wrinkled map.

He stares at the place where Weasley stood as the door slowly drifts shut. The latch clicks, distant as a whisper across a roaring ocean, and Draco is ensconced in the dim.

Chapter Text

The first time Pansy Parkinson accosts Hermione Granger, she compliments her hair.

“Your curls are lovely, Granger,” she sneers, tossing her own chopped bob over her shoulder. It’s imperious without intending to be; Pansy’s arms are crossed over her chest, her meticulously manicured nails resting on her biceps. “How do you get that alluring bounce?”

Hermione halts midstep, turning to stare widely at Harry and Ron. The two of them have stopped beside her, their robes billowing around their ankles. An unusual hush stretches between them as they goggle at Pansy, then trade looks of imminent doom. Their mouths press flat in a silent exchange. 

Hermione understands their moronic expressions without trying. In best mate talk, it’s something along the lines of oi, what’s this? and fuck? I don’t know what’s going on either.

“Er,” Harry looks back at Hermione. He throws up a hand, making a vague gesture down the corridor. “‘Mione — ”

Ah, he’s right. If they stop now, they’ll be late to class, and Hermione’s loath to miss Arithmancy — if only because it means losing long minutes of note-taking.

Harry continues flapping his arm in the general direction of their classroom. “We should — ”

“Probably,” Hermione sighs, hefting her rucksack over her arm. Her eyes slide over to Pansy, still standing with a quiet attitude, like a spiteful roadblock. She hasn’t said anything more, but — well, she might.

Hermione’s not certain she wants her friends to bear witness to what very well could be a catfight. She points her chin towards their destination, waving them on. “Go on ahead. I’ll follow in a minute or two.”

The boys study her, just for a moment. Then Ron nods decisively, bits of his red fringe falling over his forehead. He gives her wrist a quick squeeze and turns away, continuing down the hall. 

“Come on, mate,” he calls behind him. A tug on Harry’s sleeve draws him backward.

“Er, all right,” Harry’s brow furrows, digging deep trenches of confusion in his skin. A muscle flickers in his jaw, but he dutifully inclines his head. “Uh, see you. Hermione, Parkinson.”

He pivots in a swirl of robes. As he scurries after Ron, he doubles his stride, struggling to catch up on much shorter legs.

With them gone, Hermione shifts her attention to Pansy, puzzlement still scrunching up her features. A pretty frown stretches across her mouth, and she lifts an absent hand to touch her sprung curls. Should she have used Sleekeazy’s this morning? She hasn’t done anything special to them today, electing instead to let her mane explode around her head. The dark brown spray of it is not so much a halo as it is an untamed menace.

Hermione has grown to love it. It’s natural, and it’s her.

“Um, thank you?” She asks, twisting a finger in one of her thick strands. Is it really that chaotic that Parkinson took note? They’ve never been friendly, of course, but it’s been awhile since… since they’ve spoken to each other. She squeezes the lock around her index, and it’s comforting to the touch; a graze of something familiar in an otherwise unusual situation.

“They’re…” she clears her throat. “This is just my hair?”

Pansy cants her head to the side. The length of her lashes flutter along her brow bone, and she lifts a hand to flick a stray thread off her shoulder. Her nails are sharp, glittering with bright green varnish; they’re long enough to possibly disembowel someone, which does wonders for Hermione’s expectations of this conversation.

“Are you asking or telling, darling?”

The term of endearment rings out, loud and cloying, like a tolling bell. It sounds sarcastic in Parkinson’s voice: “Darling.” Hermione wrinkles her nose. 

This isn’t something she’d usually accept at face value. In truth, the phrase is more akin to an insult than anything else; Hermione would like nothing less than to be Pansy Parkinson’s darling. She really ought to recoil, to tell her to sod off and toil with someone else. She has far more interesting things to do, thank you very much — but her rebuttal deflates before it even graces her tongue. 

There’s a different light in Pansy’s eyes. Hermione can tell — that’s what years of harassment will do to you, after all — and isn’t that a funny thought? The way she looks at her is entreating, whereas before it was wholly maliciousness, a harsh glint of something dangerous. 

Now it’s simply not, which is baffling in itself. The brightness within is reflective of genuine interest, perhaps envy, and Hermione finds it satisfying in a way she can’t quite parse.

Isn’t this what they say about nearly every high school bully? The twisted gratification that comes with the opportunity to rebuff them? She can’t be sure, but some strange (and utterly adolescent) part of her wants to satisfy that curiosity.

How do I get that alluring bounce? Hermione thinks sardonically. Quite effortlessly.

“I’m telling, of course,” she answers Pansy’s question anyway. “They’re, um, natural.” 

“Pretty,” the other girl snarls, her lip curved into an approximation of a grin.

“Yes, I rather like them,” Hermione extricates her finger from the knotted curls. There’s a small, ringed divot left in her skin. “Thanks.”

“You should like them,” her voice drips, sweet as nectar, and for a moment, Hermione wonders if the intimidation tactics she used throughout the years were ever intentional. Perhaps Pansy Parkinson is just a frightening witch.

“I just can’t get mine like that,” she continues, heartened by Hermione’s response. Her words come faster, as if she’s in a rush to get them out. “Each time I try I look a bit like post-intercourse Medusa, and that’s unfortunate for all parties involved, you understand.”

“Wh—” a startled laugh punches itself from Hermione at the blunt wordage. She chokes on her tongue, caught halfway between astonishment and amusement. “I — I beg your pardon?”

“It’s true. Bully for me, really. Yours is effortless,” Pansy sniffs, bulldozing past her own erotic analogy. “I’ve always liked it this way, you know.”

Hermione blinks. The ground seems to have shifted beneath her, and she’s stumbled into an alternate universe where Parkinson not only compliments her once, but consistently. She takes a small step back to regain her balance. “Come again?”

“I said, I’ve always liked your hair this way,” Pansy clarifies, indicating Hermione’s curls with a flick of her fingers. She seems unbothered at having to repeat herself. “You looked brilliant at the Yule Ball, of course, but natural is always more beautiful. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I — er,” Hermione grips her satchel of books by her side, nails digging into the leather. It’s grounding, at least; she squeezes it tight, a lifeline, as she nods distractedly at her age-old enemy. “I suppose, yes.”

Pansy studies her with rapt attention, and the heaviness of that gaze burns like oil on Hermione’s skin. It’s not that she’s afraid — not at all. She’s spent years fighting someone far scarier than petty mean girls, but this confrontation with Parkinson is so random, so strangely nice, Hermione’s unsure how to respond.

Then she considers, between rapid-fire thoughts, how Harry disappeared and spent a week with Malfoy; she thinks of what he told her upon his return.

As a general rule, Hermione has always found Draco Malfoy to be a little more than irritating, if not outright awful. He is, she thinks, the personification of a menstrual cramp. To endure his presence is agonizing at first, and Hermione wants to dose herself up on over-the-counter drugs until he goes, blessedly, away.

After a day or so, he becomes more manageable, albeit something of a nuisance if you’re willing to deal with him. Fraternizing with Death Eaters is a bit of a stretch, even for her, but based on what Harry told her — well, people change.

Perhaps this encounter with Parkinson isn’t so random after all.

“Thank you,” Hermione nods again, because it seems the right thing to say. “I — that’s very kind.”

Pansy’s face softens, and the sharp lines of her cheekbones become more subdued. She dips her chin once, decisive as a gavel. “I wanted to tell you that. For awhile now, actually, but given our history — ”

“A bit awkward,” Hermione deadpans, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. She shifts her rucksack where the heavy strap bites into her shoulder. “I understand.”

“A bit,” Pansy admits, self-conscious. Her lips twist, and it’s less of a grimace than before. She knits her hands in her skirt. “Yeah. I’m, uh — I’m sorry, by the way.”

Hermione pauses. Her fingers still where they fiddle with her bag, and she releases her hold. Pansy Parkinson, Slytherin queen extraordinaire, tracking down Hermione Granger to say sorry? Well, isn’t this quite a development? If all the things she had expected to do today, accepting compliments and apologies from her childhood bully were never among them.

Oh, Merlin. Ginny will bust a lung once she hears about it.

The silence stretches another minute. It’s longer than Hermione intended, but as she’s cataloguing her newly acquired information and trying to form an appropriate response, Pansy has worried her skirt to wrinkle.

“I know that’s not enough,” she continues. “I — Merlin and Morgana, I was awful to you, wasn’t I? I figured, erm,” Pansy grips the fabric in her fists tighter, and it swishes. “Since we’re both something like mothers to quite a few stupid boys, we’re in the same boat, and — we don’t have to be friends. Shoddy apologies be damned.” She raises her gaze. “But I am, sincerely, sorry.”

Something like mothers, indeed.

A strange amalgamation of discomfort and bemusement battle within her, each striving to emerge on the forefront. Another moment, and mirth comes out on top as Hermione fights back the desire to snort, full-toothed and white. She doesn’t think Parkinson would appreciate laughter at her attempt at being a decent human being. And despite years of harassment on both ends, wouldn’t that be somewhat rude?

“It’s all right,” Hermione says, surprised to find it to be mostly true.

It is all right. Or, well, it’s not — there’s the not-so-small matter of her trying to turn Harry over to Voldemort, and years of manipulation and abuse that Hermione isn’t quick to forget. She’s many things, but she isn’t — has never been — a fool, Gryffindor stereotypes notwithstanding.

She and Pansy may not nor ever be friends, but still, they’ve grown — both of them. As a child who fought in a war, Hermione has tried to understand that they’ve each been victim to their own circumstances. They’re not immature, tugging pigtails and sabotaging brooms. Not anymore.

Hermione can move on. She’s not leaping wholeheartedly into hair-braiding and sleepovers, and she won’t trust, not at first. But Pansy is being genuine, she thinks. It’s all right, enough. 

“I’ll admit, you were a horrid bitch,” Hermione says kindly. She smiles at the look of astonishment that washes over Pansy’s face. “But I could be… Er, a goody-goody, sometimes. And that was then; this is now. Right?”

Sure, this is mostly about Harry and Draco, probably, but wouldn’t they be doing them a favor by getting along? Why prolong a half-arsed rivalry based on nothing but silly House prejudices?

“Uh, right,” Pansy says, distracted. She releases her hold on her skirt, smoothing it with her palms. “Wow. I, um — I didn’t expect this to go smoothly at all. I know I owe you more than just a few words, but — ”

Hermione cocks an eyebrow. “Would you prefer I jinx you?” She fingers her wand in her pocket, although she has no intention of removing it. “I mean, if you’re so keen on it — ”

“Not particularly,” Pansy adjusts the hem of her shirt so it covers the harassed bit of her ensemble. Her dresses are always immaculate — seeing her ruffled humanizes her, in a way.

“Then I think we’re quite all right,” Hermione’s cheek dimples. 

“All right indeed,” Pansy repeats dubiously. The words echo, hollow, within the space between them. She levels Hermione with a sharp look, as if she’s meeting her for the first time. “A horrid bitch, really, Granger? I didn’t realize you had it in you.”

“Hm,” Hermione shrugs. “I think a woman like you would recognize steel when you see it.”

This is true. She thinks of the power Pansy wields so easily, a rapier amongst clubs, even post-war. Before, it was a source of desperate frustration for her; now, Hermione can admire a girl with the world under her thumb.

If things had gone differently when they were younger, wizarding society wouldn’t have been prepared for a duo like them, she thinks.

Pansy issues an undignified snort. “I suppose,” a glimmer of appreciation replaces the suspicious glint in her eye. “It’s not like you’re wrong.”

Hermione allows herself another indulgent chuckle. And to think, countless hours were spent battling one another just for the sake of arguing, because of preconceived notions borne of their parents’ beliefs — well. It seems a waste now. 

Hermione has never been one to toss away logic, or disregard years of mistreatment. She’s not imprudent, or even helplessly altruistic.

But she is an optimist.

War is complicated, and burgeoning friendships even more so. In the wake of a new age, Hermione supposes a truce isn’t unreasonable. Baby steps or none at all, right?

Really, Granger? Pansy had said.

Yes, really, Hermione thinks.

“Hermione,” she corrects belatedly. After a moment of deliberation, she removes her hand from her wand pocket and extends it.

Pansy stills, her shoulders evening themselves into a square. She straightens to rigidity, as if stricken with a stray petrificus totalus.

Hermione’s hand stays, suspended in the open air. It’s an offering, or an olive branch, or whatever the hell these posh arseholes want to call it. Gooseflesh pimples along her arm, although whether it’s anticipation or chill, Hermione knows not.

“Hermione,” Pansy nods, and it’s the breaking of a dam.

Water sluices outward, pent-up anxiety exploding in a tsunami of freedom. Breath rushes from Hermione’s chest as Pansy accepts the movement, taking Hermione’s writer’s-callused palm in her dainty one.

She hadn’t realized the apprehension she’d harbored until now.

“Pansy,” Hermione says agreeably, shaking once, then twice.

“Brilliant,” Pansy sighs as they drop their hands, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She glances up through thick lashes, looking a bit like a doll. “You may not believe me, but I… Oh, Merlin. I can’t even say it, it’s embarrassing.”

Hermione adjusts her satchel again. The books are beginning to weigh on her, and Arithmancy will begin in a few minutes, but this is fragile — this truce — so she can spare a second. Can’t she?

“Sorry, what’s embarrassing?”

“Just, this,” Pansy makes a vague gesture in the air. “I’m — I don’t — ” her lips purse, and a frustrated noise escapes the back of her throat. “I’m not brilliant at self-expression, Grang — Hermione.” Her fingers curl into her palms. “I need a little time, and perhaps alcohol.”

Hermione tilts her head. A smile plays along her lips, like the beginning of a soft tune. “That can be arranged.”

Pansy appraises her with a sharp look, her blinking eyes like an owl’s. “You are full of surprises.”

Shrugging again nearly sends Hermione’s overstuffed bag careening to the floor, but she keeps a firm grip on her strap. “I try.”

Pansy stares for a moment longer. She seems to approve of what she sees, because she dips her chin, sharp, like the swing of an axe. There’s an air of finality to it, though not like a death warrant — it’s breezy, welcoming, like an open door.

“Does this mean we can gossip together?” As she cants her head, her bob swings sideways. “I have so much to tell you about Draco, but I’m sure you’ve heard some from Potter.”

Ah, there it is. Hermione does enjoy being right. “A little, I suppose — ”

“I mean, it’s absurd.” Pansy says, emphatic. Hermione gets the impression that this is a long-standing source of frustration for her. “Pining for years, makes me want to throw myself off something. Men are useless, don’t you think?”

She passes Hermione a tentative smile, quick and keen, and yes — Hogwarts wouldn’t have been able to handle two witches like them.

Maybe now that will change. 

“No fair,” Ron whines, batting Harry’s quill out of his hand. Ink dribbles across the parchment, rendering the final line of text illegible. “You don’t need extra credit in any sodding classes, Harry. What are they going to do? Fail you? You saved their sorry arses how many times?”

“Ronald,” Hermione scolds, picking up the feather where it drifted across the desk. “Harry would do well to get extra points regardless. In potions, he’s — ”

“Slughorn will pass him no matter what!” 

“Oi, watch it,” Harry snorts, smacking Ron’s quill in return. He looks between both of them, exasperation coloring his features. “And can you not discuss my academics like I’m somewhere else? I can hear you.”

“Well, I think I’d use any slight advantage,” Ron admits, reaching for his dropped feather. He scratches a line of nonsensical letters on his own essay. “Just saying.”

“I’m not a fan of nepotism,” Harry says dryly. He scans his assaulted parchment — the ink has obscured a letter or two, but he thinks it’s understandable with some imagination. “I thought you disliked it, too?”

“I mean,” Ron frowns, his cheeks reddening. He at least has the decency to look slightly abashed. “I guess.”

“You guess,” Harry jokes, and in a moment of complete plonkerism, bats aside Ron’s inkwell.

“Oh — ” Ron says, a bit delayed. The glass bottle topples, thumping the wood with a disconcerting clack. It rolls, drawing a line of swirly blackness like an oil slick.

As a general rule, Harry feels like an idiot at the best of times. He doesn’t often waver from this constant state, and this — this is fairly standard. Not even a new level of carelessness, if he’s being honest. 

“Oi, Harry,” Ron grunts, but it’s almost a chuckle, as if he expected nothing less. He doesn’t even bother to remove his essay as the dark ink slogs closer to the parchment, sinking into his chicken scratch. “Thanks, mate.”

Rons’s disgruntled amusement is nothing next to Hermione’s icy glare.

She smacks Harry’s arm, making a hissing noise behind her teeth. Her chair screeches across the floor as she stands, looking quite hassled, and tries to shove her stock of texts out of the way.

“Oops,” Harry says helpfully. He vanishes the oozing puddle, only regretting his behavior a little.

“Honestly, you two,” Hermione huffs, and Harry already feels properly chastised. “You’ll ruin the books!”

“And wouldn’t that be a travesty,” Ron says, shooting Harry a conspiratorial smile.

Harry sends a quick thank you to the heavens for best friends and their willingness to be dragged into shit together. At least when Hermione inevitably castrates him, Ron will be next.

Hermione tuts quietly in his ear, dropping back into her seat. She shuffles her papers about on the tabletop, pushing a stack of books aside to make room for more. The rustle is oppressively loud as it breaches the quietude. “For Merlin’s sake, shut it. Pince will have a fit.”

Ron lifts his head across the table, watching her with amusement and ill-concealed affection. He pokes at her assortment of thick, lined notes. “Your sodding files are more obnoxious than we are.”

“No, they aren’t. Don’t be a twit,” Hermione whispers, gathering her belongings into a neat pile. “This is a library. Talking is a problem; books are not.”

Off-the-cuff, Harry can think of several instances throughout his life in which books have been a problem. Significant pains in his arse, actually. It’s why he prefers Seeker Weekly to most other reading material.

Ron laughs, a deep, low rumble like an earthquake. “Yeah, but — ”

His voice cuts out like a snipped wire. It happens so quickly, Harry turns, anticipating a meager hex from Dean or Seamus, perhaps some second year with a death wish — but no Hogwarts students await them; instead, it’s Madam Pince who appears from behind a bookshelf, her finger raised to her lips. The click of her heels is the only signal of her appearance, light tapping on the floor, like nails on wood.

Hovering above them, she’s hawk-nosed, stern, and awfully intimidating. A hush falls over their table, and although Harry wasn’t speaking, his mouth snaps shut. 

“Silence, or you will be asked to leave,” she warns, lifting her imposing index level with their gazes.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron nod in unison, their eyes wide. Their lips press flat in the face of her glare, as if she’d cast a silencing spell on all of them. Pince glowers, sharp as a bird of prey, before she spins on her toe and returns to her desk.

Harry half-expects her to pause and stroke some of the books in the aisles, or perhaps place a kiss on their spines, but she doesn’t. The quiet is broken moments after she fades from sight.

“Merlin, she’s so scary,” Ron releases a heavy breath. “How is she still terrifying? We’re not eleven anymore.”

“She’s got this deeply threatening aura,” Harry agrees, lifting his hands as if to encapsulate Pince’s dark energy in a sphere. A Remembrall of Pince, filled with dense Pince essence. What a creepy thought. “It’s like she knows when and how, exactly, I’m going to fuck up, and plans to punish me accordingly before it even happens.”

“I’d argue that’s more of a McGonagall trait,” Ron remarks.

“You say that as if there’s always an inevitable screw up in your future,” Hermione comments, not looking up from her book. The personal library she’s built on the table leans uncomfortably close to Harry’s head. He shifts himself subtly away.

“It is inevitable,” he agrees.

Ron appraises him, curious. He presses himself into the wood, as if proximity to mahogany will make his voice more of a murmur. “Do you think she’s a seer?”

In the moment that Harry takes to consider this, Hermione drops her text. It hits the desk with a resounding thump, and Harry’s fairly certain the leather tome releases a cloud of dust.

“She is not a seer,” Hermione sighs. Her lids are shuttered, the way they are when she’s halfway done with tolerating the both of them. Dark smudges form crescents beneath her eyes.

“How do you know?” Ron puffs up defensively, an angry cat. 

“There would be records.”

“People go off the record all the time,” Harry counters, although it’s mostly to play devil’s advocate. He doesn’t want Hermione to give him the look. “There’s plenty of unregistered Animagi.”

Ron gestures toward him, brows raised, like this is a valid and completely relevant point.

Hermione’s gaze flicks between them. Her lashes flutter shut, and she drops her cheek into her palm. “I give up.”

“Hey, we’re just saying it’s a possibility,” Harry pats her on the arm. She peers up at him, and ah — there it is. The moue that puts all of them into their place: her disappointed face.

How sad. Harry dislikes it, if only because it makes him feel like a three-year-old caught coloring on the walls.

“Oi, mate,” Ron reaches across the desk to wrap his fingers around Hermione’s. She melts into the touch, but his eyes remain fixed on Harry. “If she is a seer — ”

“Then she should be the divination professor,” Harry continues, ignoring Hermione’s groan of protest.

“Well, I don’t know about that — ” Ron frowns, which is hilarious, because it seems like he’s really considering it. Harry tries to visualize Pince holding a crystal ball and fails miserably. “But if she was, do you think she could’ve seen your little foray into the wilderness with Malfoy?”

Little foray into — ah. That name gives Harry pause. Pretty spectacular of Ron to take the two things he’d like to avoid discussing most and bring them to the forefront, but he supposes it’s what he deserves after disappearing for a week.

Harry says nothing for a moment. His lips are hesitant to part, and it feels as though all dregs of humor have been sucked out of him. The image of Pince staring into cupfuls of tea leaves flees from his mind like a bat out of hell, replaced by the brightness of platinum blond hair, the sharpness of silver irises.

Harry had disclosed what happened on their impromptu road trip. Of course he had; this is Ron and Hermione, his best friends, after all — but it didn’t make reliving the sting of it any easier.

He and Malf — Draco — parted on good terms. They hadn’t much of an opportunity to interact since the brief staring contest in charms class, but still. They’re friends, Harry believes.

He’s not sure how to broach any other topic involving them. Involving that.

“I think,” Harry murmurs at last, “that’s what a seer does. See things.”

He tracks the whorling swirls in the wood grain, bitten nails tapping incessantly on the tabletop. When he lifts his gaze back to his friends, he finds them both looking at him. Hermione’s eyes are cloudy, a little sad, and Ron’s are as blue as the sea. Both sets are full of understanding.

It’s humiliating.

“What?” Harry frowns, hackles raised on the offensive. He’s not sure why he has the urge to lash out and fight, but something about being watched makes him feel like a museum artifact, or an unattended suitcase at an airport.

Like he’s dangerous, and needs to be dealt with carefully.

“Harry,” Hermione coos. All traces of exasperation have drained from her face, and her voice is like satin as she brushes her thumb against his hand. He hadn’t realized he was still drumming his fingers. 

“Harry,” she says again, taking his palm in her grip. “I think you should talk to him.”

“We — ” Harry coughs, clearing his throat. He turns his attention back to the wood grain, but he doesn’t take away his hand. “We were talking about Madam Pince.”

“You know what we’re getting at, mate,” Ron’s tone is softer than it usually is. He’s kind, but not always like this — like he’s treading on eggshells. If Ron grasps his other hand, Harry will definitely start to cry, and wouldn’t that be stupid?

He’s not going to agonize over a three-second romance with Malfoy. It’s pointless — Draco’s probably avoiding him, if he’s being honest. He had made it clear that he wasn’t invested, though be it because of fear or uncertainty, Harry doesn’t know. 

It doesn’t matter that it felt like more at the time. Regardless of whether the pang in his heart fades, the butterflies afloat in his abdomen, he wants to attempt friendship. He owes their one-off relationship that much, at least.

The fact that Harry can’t stop thinking about him is irrelevant.

His friends are waiting for him to speak. To say something first, so they don’t have to; so Harry will take the initiative in dealing with these twisted feelings, these ridiculous conflicting emotions that have haunted him since they were children.

When no words are forthcoming, Ron sighs. 

“I talked to him, you know,” he says. 

It’s a simple, harmless admission. Meaningless if it were nigh on anyone else, but the fact that Ron had done so shakes Harry to his core. He glances up, surprised to see even Hermione’s interest piqued; as she tilts her head, he has to wonder why Ron didn’t tell his girlfriend.

“To Mal — Draco?” Harry asks, leaning on his forearms. He could try to appear neutral, but that would be a farce, and his best mates know him better than that. “Why? What did you say?”

“Yeah,” Ron smiles at his curiosity, and Hermione nudges him with her arm.

“Don’t leave us hanging,” her gaze hardens, only just. “Get on with it, then.”

“Ouch, blimey, don’t do that — it was just a conversation,” Ron admits, rubbing the tender spot. His mouth twists sourly. “I told him that if this is — if this is something you’re going to try, then we have a truce.”

A truce. The implication surrounding it is almost too much to consider. Ron passes him a meaningful glance, carrying a heaviness that Harry knows is reflected in his own.

“As far as I’m concerned, we had a truce as soon as the war ended,” he muses.

“Eh,” Hermione makes a disagreeable noise. She becomes stoic when she’s contemplative, a sculpture poised eternally in thought. “Perhaps after the trials at the Wizengamot.”

Harry makes a face, but he nods. He probably wouldn’t have been able to have a casual conversation with Draco immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts, with everyone still in mourning. Or anytime when Voldemort’s presence was imminent, really; it’s difficult even now. There’s still grief to swallow and growth to be had — the dead haven’t risen anew just because Harry has learned to forgive his former enemies. 

“All right, fine,” he settles. “Perhaps then.” 

“Whatever,” Ron waves his hand, dismissive. “It doesn’t matter when or where. The point is, he agreed.”

Harry blinks, and Hermione fixes her ruminative expression on him. It’s frighteningly detached, like she’s organizing meticulous plans just beyond the depths of her brown eyes, which she probably is.

“Agreed to what?”

“Agreed,” Ron repeats, emphasizing the second half of the word. “That a truce is worth it. Because — drum roll, please — ”

“Ronald — ” Hermione begins.

“Because he cares,” Ron says, raising his arms with a flourish. Harry retreats, neck retracting backward like a snake striking in reverse. “He cares, and you care, and it’s stupid that you’re not saying anything about it, because it’s not like we’re fourteen anymore — ”

“What do you expect me to do?” Harry demands, flattening his palm on the desktop. His sleeve pools around his hand, swallowing his arm whole. He feels a little like that, too, like he’s swimming in deep water, an endless ocean off the coast of Wales — 

“Quiet, Harry,” Hermione warns, eyes darting past them to where Pince had appeared before. 

“I don’t care about the sodding — I don’t — ” Harry huffs, frustrated. He scrubs a hand through his hair, as silken and flyaway as always.

Thinking about Draco does intolerable things to him. Embarrassingly so, like lighting his cheeks aflame and sharpening his eyes to keen. Pale skin and a flashing gaze, long, slender fingers painted by an indulgent god — unbearable.

It’s completely ridiculous that Draco Malfoy has the audacity to look like that, and still have a biting sense of humor, a tongue on him so sharp that Harry’s on constant tiptoe. It’s ludicrous that Harry would ever enjoy his company, would even revel in it. Bickering with him is fun, in some corrupted way.

Oh, sod it all. It’s happened. Harry’s gone and done it: he has achieved Peak Pillock.

With Draco, Harry’s mind is as clear as sunlight; it’s so obvious how they fit together, seamless as interlocking pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. When he’s near, Harry feels like there’s a bubble ballooning in his chest, growing larger and firmer until it bursts within him in a graphic explosion.

This reminds him, oddly, of Aunt Marge in third year. He shivers, coming down from the demented high that thinking about Draco causes.

Harry scowls and slumps into his seat. His voice lowers as he sinks downward. “I can’t just go up to him and talk about our feelings.”

He thinks of charms class, when Hermione had asked him about his sincerity — about whether Draco’s worth it. He’d been prepared to talk about the complexity of his emotions, then.

Are you sure?

Harry, naturally, had said yes.

“Sure, you can,” Ron says, unusually confident for a bloke who spent seven years pining after a girl who liked him all along. “That’s what people are supposed to do.”

“It’s different,” Harry braces both of his arms on the table, burying his head into them. His groan is muffled by the copious amounts of fabric obstructing his mouth. “It’s so, so different.”

“Are you not a person?” Ron asks, the absolute sod. “Is Draco Malfoy not a person as well, albeit a royal pain in the arse?”

“Shut it,” Harry says to the desktop. His fringe obscures his eyes where they peek above his arms, and black hair tangles with his lashes. He squints through them. “These circumstances are so beyond normal.”

“‘Star-crossed,’ is the word you’re looking for, I believe,” Hermione pitches in. Ron sniggers beside her, and Merlin, Harry loathes them both. Can he catch a break? Can he breathe? “A good majority of the most distinguished love stories are similar, you know.”

“This is not a distinguished love story!”

“It could be,” she says, knitting her hands over her sea of papers. The patience in her tone belies the sheer absurdity of her words.

“You’re the worst,” Harry mutters, ignoring the cut of metal on his skin as his glasses are shoved further onto his face. “Both of you. The worst.”

The sound of their unruffled amusement fills his ears, and it’s almost enough to make Harry smile despite the knot in his chest.

Almost.

Him, Harry Potter, star-crossed with Draco Malfoy? It sounds like the punchline of a bad joke, designed specifically to embarrass him to death. Their story is a comedy or a tragedy, depending on how you look at it: the Savior falling for a Death Eater, a spark ignited years ago in a tiny dress shop in Diagon Alley. Magic and Muggle, pure-blood and not — a harrowing yarn full of love and hate, borne at the tender age of eleven. The world tries its hardest to tear them apart, and it succeeds.

It sounds to him like the premise for a proper Grimms fairy tale — one that lacks an age-appropriate Disney adaptation. Isn’t Harry’s life fun?

There are plenty of reasons why he can’t just stride up to Draco and spill his heart. For one, he isn’t certain how to compartmentalize his complicated feelings, and that seems like too important a first step to skip. 

It’s not because he’s a bloke — Harry has eyes, and he spends plenty of time around other male athletes with rippling triceps and what-have-you — but because he’s Draco. Even with approval from his dearest friends, the posh blond git changes things.

Harry feels as though he stands on a precipice, windmilling his arms in a desperate attempt to stay centered, and Draco is the arsehole who mucks around and pushes him off. One misstep, a flick of a finger, and Harry’s sailing into the great unknown — an abyss of significance he cannot fathom.

In his imagination, Draco still stands at the top of the cliffside, waving. Cheeky bastard.

He’s always riled a reaction out of Harry, bringing forth the most daring and ugliest parts of him. But when they’re not trying to kill each other, Harry’s alight. It’s tantalizing and new, and Draco makes a difference in his life, which is altogether terrifying.

Not that Harry’s afraid to face it. He meant what he said to Draco that day in the Vauxhall. The war’s over.

He is willing to overlook their past, because there comes a time to move on, and Draco Malfoy had never been evil, really. He was unkind for certain, and negligent in the gaps, in doing the right thing when it mattered. But he had also been courageous.

It showed itself in spurts, like glitches in a film reel: lowering his wand and refusing to kill Dumbledore, hiding Harry’s true identity from Bellatrix. He was always brave in hindsight, but not straightforward in his delivery. Draco had been a static figure, if anything, Harry thinks. Neither good nor bad, he waffled between the two, a neutral ghost.

On a battlefield that demanded black and white, Draco was very grey.

So Harry looks on. He has to, for his own sanity. Leaving the war in the past is a hard-won decision to keep himself from agonizing over it, although not to erase the pain. He’ll never forget, he knows, and that’s not something Harry wants to do.

In lieu of the breathless touch of death on his lips, the chill of the hard ground and wet leaves on his skin, Harry remembers the good parts: those brief fractals of light that span across acres of darkness. The memories that make him feel whole, like the curve of Sirius’ smile, and Hermione’s warmth and friendship in a cold, empty tent.

It helps, some.

As for him and Draco, well — the rest just seems a logical step. What better way to move forward than together, with someone to take your hand if you stumble? If you fall?

Perhaps Harry’s already fallen, for a long time now. The thought is too abstract to put into words.

“Seriously, though,” Ron’s chuckle startles Harry out of his reverie. The nebulous thoughts scatter as his best friend’s mirth echoes in his ears. “Talk to him, Harry.”

“I’m not going to force him into a conversation he doesn’t want to have.”

“Harry,” Ron’s gaze cuts sharp through his bangs. His voice comes in more of a hush than he anticipates. “It’s — it’s not unrequited.”

Harry hates the way those words slash through his every other musing, inducing a shiver that reaches down to his bones. Hope — silly, futile hope — strides foolishly into his heart and stays there. And isn’t that just brilliant, the final dusting of sugar on his treacle fucking tart?

There’s no way Ron could ever know that for certain. He doesn’t know Draco, not really; he can’t read the twist of his pout, or trace the variations of silver that strike his irises in the sunlight. He couldn’t recognize the subtle differences in his expression that distinguish indignation from embarrassment.

Ron tries, but he doesn’t understand. And in attempting to discuss this thing between them… Harry ignores the threat of spectacles digging into his cheek, burrowing deeper into his arms.

“It would be good for you, I think,” Hermione interrupts, and Harry feels the warmth of her hand on his bicep. It doesn’t burn through the fabric like Draco’s touch does, but it’s comforting. Gentle, familiar, and full of platonic affection. “If I can chat with Pansy Parkinson, you can have a conversation with Draco.”

“Those aren’t really comparable,” Harry argues, but he lifts his head anyway. His glasses sit askew on his nose, the metal arms bent akimbo. “You’re not — you and Parkinson aren’t — ”

The thought of approaching Draco to talk about this — Harry’s insides shift uncomfortably, as if he’d swallowed a sleeping flobberworm and it’s only just awoken. 

Hermione’s eyes soften. “Maybe not. But we are overcoming some past issues of our own.”

The boys quiet at this. Ron squeezes her fingers where they entangle with his, and the corners of her mouth curl upwards into a smile.

For a moment, all that exists are the ambient sounds of the library. The rustle of pages and the gentle thud of books on wood; students hastening to tables, flipping through diagrams and frustrated mutterings of spells; the scritch-scratch whisper of quills on parchment.

It’s tranquil, Harry thinks, contrary to the white noise in his head. 

He turns to Hermione and Ron. Even in a casual glance, he can see the blatant adoration between them. It doesn’t reduce their love for Harry any less, he knows; they’re the best of friends, connected deep in their souls. That type of love can’t be watered down by a relationship or a war.

Harry’s dear to them, but it’s different from what they share. They care for each other like a safe space, both a place and a person. A home. To experience that, what’s that like? Harry didn’t even know how it felt to have an actual house to call his own — not until recently, with the deed to Grimmauld Place in his fist — but a home?

He thinks he’s felt it before. Never with the Dursley’s, but with the Weasley’s, who are his family in all but blood and name. He had a taste of it with Ginny alone, who loved him as he loved her, though not in the way they thought.

A different type of love that Harry has never known; a home where the heart lies. Once, it was Hogwarts. But now? Where it is doesn’t matter. The physical location is moot.

Harry loves, and he will love anywhere: on a beach or in a forest, walking down a street or the cobblestone courtyard at school. He yearns to find a permanent place to call his, and eventually he will — but Harry’s never been the patient sort, preferring to charge headfirst than await advice or supervision. 

Love is different, he thinks. Unlike most things, for love, Harry’s always been willing to wait. But he’s been deprived of so much, and the emotion stirs him deeply. Is it wrong to want it just a little sooner?

The ambient sounds of the library have faded, and Harry finds himself elsewhere.

In the sea, standing on the sand. He climbs up, and up; the brittle touch of stone carves blisters into his hands.

In a shoddy red car, rumbling along a cliffside. The wind whistles through his hair, and a dragon roars.

In a pub, listening to upbeat music as the lights swirl above him in a whirlpool of neon. He feels the touch of full lips, the brush of fumbling fingers in cornsilk hair, and a seed of hope. It sinks into his mind, a sprig, tiny and hardly worthy of note, but present nevertheless.

After the war and the events at Malfoy Manor, Harry wonders: does Draco have a home, too?

Harry braces his palms on the desk and pushes his seat backwards. The legs of the chair scrape across the floor, releasing a horrid screech worse than the merpeople’s song above water. It startles Hermione and Ron out of their fond staring contest, and their attention, as well as everyone else’s, shifts to him.

“What is it?” Hermione asks.

Harry doesn’t reply. He sweeps up his small bundle of books before the threat of Madam Pince crosses his mind, tucking them into a bag that he slings over his shoulder. Hermione and Ron watch him, the former curiously, the latter with his lips parted in an aborted question, but Harry’s already hurrying away. He tosses a half-hearted wave behind him as he goes, dodging tables and huddles of diligent students.

“Go get him, savior!” Ron calls, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Harry scoffs, as if feigned indifference could fool them, but a menagerie of butterflies escapes their enclosure and erupts in his stomach. From across the room, he hears the bell-like chime of Hermione’s laughter. It falls silent just as the imperious click of Pince’s heels nears, echoing through the aisles like a death knell.

Harry picked a good time to leave.

He sidles past a crowd of first year Hufflepuffs, hefting his rucksack on his arm. It bounces against his leg as he shimmies through, and then the door to the corridor is in sight. It swings open, and Harry tries not to rush as he leaves the labyrinth of dusty tomes.

Sunlight assaults him as he slips into the hall, obscuring the lenses of his glasses with teasing glimmers. After the dimness of the library, it’s an explosion behind his retinas; Harry blinks, disoriented, as if shaken to wakefulness from a long nap.

Right. First step: leave friends to the wrath of Pince. That’s one box checked on his list. Harry’s doing swimmingly thus far.

Now I’ll — I’ll just — 

He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. The stone is uneven under his shoes, and he nearly stumbles. Just... what? Step two, come to terms with strange emotions and confront Draco, step three, prosper? A flare of embarrassment at his own inadequacy roars to life within him, and Harry snorts to himself. What is this, a five-year career builder?

He’d left in a hurry to be free of prying eyes and needling comments from Hermione and Ron, but he hasn’t the slightest idea of what to do next. After such a dramatic departure, he can’t go back. His pride won’t allow it, and Harry’s not the sort to retreat with his tail between his legs.

Ah, well. He didn’t quite think this one through, but to be fair, planning is Hermione’s field. Harry is definitely not going to have her confess to Draco for him, because he has a vague sense of self-preservation, regardless of what his Gryffindor heritage claims.

Somewhat, at least.

He braces more of his weight on his left leg, feeling like he’s become a permanent fixture in the floor. The strap of his satchel digs into his shoulder, biting red lines into his skin.

What do you want, Harry?

The words resound through his skull, sharper and louder than his rambling thoughts. They come unbidden, like they were given to him rather than formed, a letter slipped beneath the crack of a door. The voice sounds uncannily like Ron and Hermione — like Sirius, Remus, Molly and Arthur Weasley. It’s a shared inflection of everyone he’s ever loved, and who’s loved him in return.

What do you need?

Harry doesn’t have an answer for them. 

What does he want? He yearns for a lot of mostly unattainable things: to not be ogled everywhere he goes; to recover what the war stole from him. 

But he is a boy, still — hardly a young man. He wants for other, simpler things: an afternoon spent playing a wicked game of Quidditch; a massive pile of desserts; friendly banter; bruised petal lips to kiss.

What does he need? To kiss Draco? To know, understand, and hold him, as if the last seven years don’t matter at all?

He wonders why he took the Dark Mark. He wonders if it hurt. But he has a lifetime to ask those questions, doesn’t he?

Fuck planning. Harry wants to talk. He needs to know, definitively, if he was clear with his intentions in the Vauxhall; if the depth of his feelings are obvious. If Draco doesn’t return them, so be it. 

Harry takes a tentative step forward, then another. His strides lengthen until he’s hurrying towards the East Towers, nerves urging him forth like a racehorse struck by stinging whips.

This is a half-arsed scheme, at best. It’s hardly a concept at all — more like the vague suggestion of one. The X on a burned, illegible treasure map. Harry has never operated on anything more than that anyway, and he survived the war, so wouldn’t that make him a veritable expert on navigating blind?

Yes, he thinks, it does. So screw it.

He would never admit it, but he knows Draco’s schedule rather well; he spends most afternoons doing extra work in Flitwick’s classroom. Harry’s aware of this because watching the Slytherin table became second nature ages ago, which strikes him as a bit creepy, but it’s fine. 

He has the excuse of Parkinson and Hermione’s new, odd pseudo-friendship, which involves sharing telling glances and Draco’s daily routine, as if they expect Harry to accost him or something. He refuses to broach the subject, but appreciates the knowledge nonetheless. In case he needs it, for instances like this.

As he reaches the moving staircases, Harry touches the nearest one. The railing is smooth and cool under his fingertips, and his knuckles pale at the joint as he grips it. Harry stumbles onto the steps just as the marble quakes, detaching itself from the floor. It swings itself outward, adjusting its position with him aboard like a strange shuttle service.

The staircase deposits Harry in a chilled cobblestone corridor, several paces from Flitwick’s classroom. The door is closed and latched shut. Harry stares at the hardwood paneling, the great metal handle, and regrets every decision he’s ever made.

This is Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake. What in Morgana’s name is he doing?

Wind whistles through an open window, tugging half-heartedly on his errant fringe. Scattered locks fall into Harry’s eyes, and he wonders if a confession would be easier if he can’t see anything as he does so.

Steeling himself with a deep exhale, Harry strides forward. The knots in the wood grain burrow into his skin as he braces his palm against the door.

Draco’s valiant attempts at avoiding Harry Potter have, thus far, been successful.

It’s no credit to his actual skill at sneaking. Draco’s rather fond of himself and his many talents, but he’s no fool; espionage is not one of them. He’s crap at creeping about, as seen in everything he’s ever done, and he hasn’t honed any special abilities since the war.

No, Draco attributes his luck to the fact that Harry no longer has that sodding map, which apparently operates as a top-quality stalking device. Bloody useful, too — bully that Peeves spirited it away.

It’s not that Draco doesn’t want to see Harry, per se. He’s desperate for his attention, actually, and the implications of that are too difficult for him to parse. Is his life a fucking romantic comedy? Draco’s embarrassed at the prospect.

He’s not trying to make as little contact with Harry as possible, but he’s a bit heckled by his own emotions, and by Ronald Weasley, and — well, the idea of a truce is brilliant in theory, but in practice?

Oh, Merlin and Morgana both. Who is Draco kidding? It’s scary as hell.

Gallivanting with Harry in the countryside without the watchful eye of everyone they know is one thing. If Draco had known how good he had it then, stuck in the clattering shell of the Vauxhall, he wouldn’t have wanted to rush home so badly. Probably.

He doesn’t mind attention — the positive sort — but the amount of stares he’s gotten since their little scene before their last charms lesson is frankly mortifying.

Draco frowns as he crosses the floor, gaze tracking the divots in the stone. It’s grey and brown, hewn rough by magic and years of tramping feet. His rucksack is heavy with a veritable stack of papers that he has to catch up on, plus his haul of bonus charms assignments just because he’s an overachiever; Draco has no time to be thinking about black hair and warm, amber hands.

And yet he longs for it — anything and everything Harry. It’s difficult to focus on other rubbish when he’s preoccupied with coping, with feelings, and achieving worthiness or whatever the fuck — 

You’re good, Draco.

Oh, he misses him. It’s terrible, and Draco would like to sue. One galleon for every time his heart skips a beat, and he’d quadruple the size of his family vault.

Draco turns the corner, tracing the path to Flitwick’s classroom. His eyes catch on the door, and for one blissful, distracted moment, thoughts of Harry flee his mind. It’s slightly ajar, just enough to slip through. 

His steps falter. The steady tap of his footfalls on stone echo into silence, and Draco hovers outside like a frightened crup.

It’s quiet. Only light streams through the cracked doorway, illuminating dust motes in the afternoon sun. There’s altogether nothing suspicious about any of it — Flitwick has other students, after all — but Draco’s mouth presses into a firm line. A presence lingers on the other side of the wall, he knows. He senses in it the way that one can tell when they’re not alone, like when the darkness is too deep to be natural, or the air is thick with anticipation, the very earth holding its breath. 

Draco wrinkles his nose and leans against the entryway. It creaks, a disconcerting whine in the hush. Is Flitwick accompanying him during his free period? It wouldn’t be the first time, but Draco is loath to socialize right now. He’s a bit up in arms about everything Harry and Potter and symptoms of psychosis, so he’ll take a rain check on a study partner, thank you.

A low cough sounds on the opposite side of the door. Draco exhales, bracing his forehead on the wood. Corporeal company, then. Brilliant. He’d almost prefer the presence of a ghost — at least they wouldn’t try to engage him in meaningless talk about the weather.

Biting back a world-weary sigh, he nudges his way into the room. “Professor, I’d appreciate — ”

At his entrance, a hunched figure lifts their body from where it rests on the desk. Draco recognizes them in an instant — the slope of his shoulders, the wild mane of dark hair — and freezes midstep. 

Of course. Of fucking course.

Harry glances up from his usual seat, a few rows away from the front of the classroom. The leather band of his satchel is strung across his lap, wrapped around his fiddling fingers. His brow scrunches, and the lines run across his forehead, creasing his scar into miniature tributaries. Draco wants to tilt his head back and forth just to see the way the light strikes it, a curling vine of silver in the wan light.

It’s stupid, awful, and impossible to ignore. Draco’s chest clenches in a stuttering, rabbit-like lurch. Another Galleon in the vault. Merlin fuck.

Harry looks like his normal self, if a little tired: he’s unkempt, like he just rolled out of bed without sleeping. He shifts, and his fringe falls across his face, partially obscuring his scar. His eyes are a bright contrast to the shadows beneath them, and they widen as he registers Draco’s appearance.

Harry’s knee jerks in an aborted movement, as if to stand. He only succeeds in dragging his squeaking chair across the floor.

“Um — ” Harry greets, ever the wordsmith. He drops the strap of his bag in his lap. “Hey. Hi.”

There’s a beat of stilted silence. It weighs on their shoulders, a wet blanket of awkwardness.

“Er, Pott — Harry,” Draco returns, because he, too, is remarkably eloquent. His heart composes an entire fucking sonata behind his ribs, beating a riveting staccato that makes him feel as though he’s going to die. “Hello. Are you following me?”

“No,” Harry bites, then seems to regret it. His cheeks flush a warm bronze, and he brushes his fringe from his lashes. “As — as if I would.”

Draco swallows an indignant noise. He hasn’t the patience for this — what is Harry playing at? He absolutely would stalk him. He has a track record for it.

Draco says as much, opting for casual as he shuffles in place. Harry’s brows meet in an expression of profound dubiety. 

“That — I mean, that only happened once or twice,” he says it defensively, like not even he believes it, and Draco stifles a snort. At least Harry’s somewhat self-aware.

“Forgive my hesitance to trust in a blatant lie,” Draco heaves his weight from foot to foot, the corner of his mouth twitching. He hopes it comes off as tentative friendliness instead of a grimace, but he’s fairly certain the smile falls in the ‘gruesome’ category. It cuts through his cheek, some slasher thriller’s wet dream.

Harry looks suitably uncomfortable. The curve of his lip twists, like he can’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. “And if I said meeting you here was a lucky coincidence?”

“Right,” Draco sweeps forward, finally dislodging himself in an attempt at grace. “And I’m the Heir of Slytherin.”

He tries to express contempt, but it comes out fond. His robes swirl around his ankles as he moves forward, tangling as the fabric pulls taut across his knees. Draco trips and very nearly deposits himself face-first onto the desk.

An aborted noise that could be a laugh echoes in the rafters of the classroom. Draco studiously ignores the sound, stumbling as he barely manages to maintain his balance. His shoulders curl inward, half-hunched as if bracing himself, his feet squared on the floor. The pose is reminiscent of the pawns in Wizard’s Chess.

Harry, blessedly, shows little physical reaction to Draco’s falter. His weak scowl transforms into something brighter, a bit warmer. Humor, Draco thinks with imminent dread. Fuck, Harry will probably dredge it up later in the midst of an argument or something. Oh, Draco loathes this.

“If you’re going for sarcasm, use a less believable analogy,” Harry advises instead. His voice adopts a lighter tone, almost teasing. “I’d expect better material from you.”

The way he speaks is soft silk. It vibrates in a low hum, like a secret. The sheer intimacy of it is almost enough to make Draco turn and flee. It’s so much more convenient to ignore the strange pull toward him; it’s simple when they’re apart.

Draco can’t resist the draw when they’re together, the desperation, and — Merlin above, how did he stay away for so long? They’re falling back into this — whatever this is — so easily. The air buzzes between them like an upset beehive, and Draco is the poor sap about to get stung.

“And I’d expect you to not stalk me like your legion of rabid fans,” Draco says. It’s meant to be snappish, but sounds faint.

His legs have begun to cramp at the slight bend in his knees. Draco’s not quite finished impersonating a chess piece, and the fact that he stays rooted to his spot is a credit to his growth; it doesn’t matter that he’s stiff as a board.

“Such little faith,” Harry grins for real, then. A swooping feeling dislodges Draco’s stomach, and he feels as though he’s been kicked in the abdomen.

“You — ” Draco chokes. An ugly noise — too similar to a whimper — beats against the back of his teeth in a bid to escape his mouth. He sacrifices his tongue to silence it, and the metallic tang of blood coats his taste buds.

He has to physically prevent himself from asking Harry to stop fucking doing that. Smiling like the sun gave birth to him is patently illegal in at least thirty-nine countries, as of now.

“Your extracurricular activities beg to differ,” Draco tries, spluttering. The words are slow to come, goopy, like globs of his half-chewed tongue. His body remains stock-still, not moving from where he stands. He’s not sure he can; perhaps there’s a permanent sticking charm laced into the floor. 

“I don’t — ” the humor in Harry’s face evaporates, some. He levels Draco with his verdant gaze, and even grimacing, he looks — fucking hell — pretty. Draco is completely unable to handle this, at all. “You really like to push a joke too far, huh?”

“It’s what I do best,” Draco acknowledges, because it is. He still feels lightheaded, but the panic swimming in his skull is the least of his concerns at the moment.

Harry glances down, fisting his hands in his robes. The pinched fabric glides over his fingers, rumpled in waves. There’s something very childlike about the visual — it makes him seem small, bleeding with uncertainty. The air is heavy with an anxiety that Draco can taste.

Harry’s words, when they come, are quiet.

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

Oh, Merlin. No. He can’t go around saying things like that, all soft and open, like parted petal lips and sweetness. 

Harry acts like there are no consequences for his actions, perhaps because throughout half of his life, Draco thinks, there haven’t been. He can’t just go about being pretty and nice and hopeful. It’s absurdly unfair to use those divine gifts to bend Draco to his will.

“You’re doing so right now,” Draco swallows. With a stomach so overladen with butterflies, he fears he may take flight. The bag looped over his shoulder suddenly feels like an anchor — if he takes it off, he’ll ascend into the bloody atmosphere. Humiliating. 

He stands, clinging to the illusion of dry disinterest despite feeling moments away from sicking up over the desk. That’s the thing about Draco Malfoy, a lesson that most of his friends discover within weeks of knowing him: he has difficulty saying what he truly thinks. At least, when it comes to things that matter.

He wonders, for a moment, if Harry knows this; if he recognizes the strain in Draco’s posture, the lies he bites between his teeth — or if the constant exchange of unpleasantries is too much, too frustrating to work with.

“Please, shut up,” Harry says, not unkindly. He throws his arm over the back of his chair, dangling his fingers just above the edge of his seat. “Draco, relax. Can you sit? You’re making me nervous.”

It’s this movement, this casual display of whateverness, that makes Draco feel known.

He scowls, but the comment encourages him to finally drop his arse onto one of the many wooden desks. He collapses somewhat gratefully, the muscles in his thighs twitching, as if overexerted. Hovering like a constipated suit of armor has done a number on his knees.

Harry passes a meaningful glance in his direction. His eyes are a deeper green today, dappled with yellow. It reminds Draco of dried leaves on the surface of a pond.

“Uh, anyway,” Harry clears his throat, and Draco averts his gaze.

He hasn’t the slightest idea what Harry might say. His mind is a barren landscape: ideas, reasons, excuses — they crop up in his head like spring daisies, only to wither and die at Draco’s negligence. Whether Harry’s reasons for tracking him down are Weasley or Vauxhall-related is a non-issue; the fact remains that confrontation is imminent, and he can do nothing but face his impending doom.

Harry’s hatred. Harry’s love? Draco can’t be sure which option is more devastating.

“I, er, I wanted to — ” Harry squints, scrunching up his forehead. The movement digs trenches of thin lines into his skin, dislodging his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I’m here because — ”

Draco flounders for a moment or two, only half-listening to what he supposes is a big spiel. Should he pretend to be concerned, or play at total relaxation? Is there a specific reaction Harry’s looking for?

“You’re here because you’re an incurable stalker,” Draco offers, electing to be helpful. He is, after all, a kind and thoughtful individual with great regard for social cues.

“Because — what?” Harry frowns. His lips curl, plump and rosy as his voice lilts. It echoes around the classroom, strident with disbelief. “No, Draco. Merlin, do you ever stop?”

He, too, is in awe of Draco’s stellar management of confrontation. Success.

Draco straightens, feeling a bit more in control of his faculties. If he’s picking pointless fights, there’s no reason for Harry to go full Potter on him, now is there? What he’s doing is self-sacrificing, in fact; it’s far better this way, really, for both of them.

“I work strictly for my own self-interests and whims, so not usually, no.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow. He isn’t often good at hiding his thoughts — Draco should know, having been on the receiving end of many a scowl — but Harry’s gaze is inscrutable. The warring mix of emotions that flit across his face contains layers of indeterminable sentiments. 

Too much is buried in that expression, which alone is surprising. Draco didn’t think a Gryffindor capable of concealing anything.

“You’re ridiculous.” Harry threads his fingers through his fringe again. It’s fallen loose, cascading across his brow bone in a terrible heap. Some of the humor has returned to his countenance. Some. “A bit Gryffindor of you to operate based on flights of fancy, isn’t it?” 

Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?

“Don’t insult me,” Draco scoffs, chin jutting skyward. “At least I have a brain.”

The soft light in the room dances across the panes of Harry’s cheekbones. He looks stupidly handsome as he levels Draco with a stare. His next words hardly ruin the effect. “I think I may actually loathe you.”

For some reason, the obvious lie makes Draco feel better. Okay, all right, this isn’t so bad — maybe he can handle proximity to Harry, even whilst sorting out his personal issues.

“Brilliant,” he brings his palms together, and the single clap resounds in the far reaches of the high ceiling. “My life-long mission has been accomplished.”

“Congratulations,” Harry says dryly, and his teeth flash. The grin is weak, only just curving his lip, but his eyes crinkle at the corners.

At the sight, his heart seizes, and Draco changes his mind.

Absolutely fuck this. He’s feeling quite ambushed, which is unfair of Harry, good intentions or not. Draco is not mentally prepared, and this is not happening.

“Not to be discourteous, Harry,” he exhales, intending to be exactly that. Draco can’t be trusted to be truthful, thoroughly vexed as he is by the barrage of emotions beating him from within. “But may I ask what it is you wanted to speak about?”

It’s reasonably polite and well said, considering. He may not have exercised the skill in school, but Draco was raised in etiquette classes, goddammit, and no one will one up him. He privately gives himself a commendation, a little mental pat on the back. 

Harry regards Draco, unimpressed. He scans him up and down, staring like a purveyor of skin suits or the like. Humor still bleeds through his features, slight amusement and befuddlement with the world, Draco thinks. The hand dangling behind his chair swings, just a little, and the amber length of Harry’s fingers disrupt a cloud of dust motes in the light.

Draco dislikes uncomfortable silences as a general rule, given their propensity to carry more weight than warranted. His staredowns with Harry throughout school were heavy with it, too; that same unusual tension, always thick with something. It could be confusion, envy, or even those strong emotions Draco still hasn’t the ability to parse.

He longs to broach the quiet, but he won’t. Not first.

After an excruciating thirty seconds, Harry subsides like a pricked balloon. He releases a breath. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

It’s gentle, the calm utterance from his lips. Harry does not mean it as an insult, obviously. It carries some hesitance, genuine care and concern, that makes Draco’s chest clench. It can’t be healthy, all this squeezing his heart has been doing of late.

That makes two of us, Draco succumbs to a moment of poeticism. Fuck all.

Years of torment, of teasing, of painful, endless yearning — through it all, Draco has never known what to make of Harry Potter. The concept of someone so selfless and loved, a martyr for the greater good of the world at large, is completely outside his realm of comprehension. Draco’s spoiled, lonely childhood in Wiltshire seems to be sequestered away, a pristine little bubble in comparison.

Seven years, and there are depths to Harry that he still cannot fathom.

“It’s just, you do and — you say things, Draco, I — ” each sentence drops like lead from his mouth, as if it hurts him to say. Harry shakes his head, almost angrily. His hair bounces about his head in tufts, rising and falling like it’s caught in a gale. Draco’s unsure if it’s raw, unfiltered magic, or simply unruly. “I don’t know.”

The air is stale in Draco’s throat. It seems he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Harry’s bangs fall against his brows, tangling in his lashes. He blinks through them, lifting his gaze. It’s searching; he hardly refocuses as his pupils lock on Draco’s and dilate. Irises of verdant green meet flashing silver, like Christmas tinsel on a pine tree.

“There’s so much we need to talk about, and I don’t know how to.” Harry’s jaw tightens, teeth clacking in his mouth. The frustrated grit makes him appear older and sufficiently aggrieved. “I don’t know how to fucking say it, and you’re a git who won’t speak to me — ”

Well. All of that is true, but what is Draco supposed to fucking do about it? Agree, like an absolute pillock? He feels a telltale flush creeping up his neck, an embarrassing and shocking red. 

“It’s not — it’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. Harry,” Draco swallows. Merlin, this is it: the moment he’s dreaded and quite possibly hoped for, but he’s not going to think about that now.

“I think it is,” Harry intones.

“Rather unsporting of you to take several uncomfortable things and combine them in the worst possible conversation,” Draco closes his eyes briefly, and tries very hard not to expire on these cold cobblestones. His status could shift from alive to deceased at any given moment.

“Look at me, would you?”

He’s still simmering in a pan of his own mortification, so no, Draco thinks, he will not look. He shakes his head, a quick, trembling movement. It’s almost more embarrassing than the confessions that would spill from his lips, if he’d let them.

“Draco,” Harry says, soft.

Oh, he can’t do it anymore.

Draco cares for him so deeply that it hurts. It aches, and he doesn’t know why he tries to hide it. Why bother? For the sake of his own insecurity? For the sake of reputation? It’s obvious that he’s not hurting anyone but himself, and Harry by extension. His mother doesn’t give one fig or another about anything other than his happiness. She’s given up the pure-blood ideal in the wake of post-war aftershocks. Sod his father, what does it matter?

Stupid, all of it. Horrendously, irrevocably stupid.

The recognition is like a bucket of ice water to Draco’s senses. They wake, all fried nerves and sensations flaring to life at once, warring for attention. He wants to speak, to scream — he wants to be honest. Brutal honesty, the kind that ruins friendships and sparks them, the sort that starts wars and ends them.

Draco pries open his mouth, fighting past the fear. Once it’s slung, slack-jawed, he knows he won’t be able to stop. His words tumble from his tongue in an avalanche. 

“I know I haven’t exactly made it easy for you,” Draco begins, stammering a little. “I just... I don’t — you’re you, Harry, and I’m...”

He doesn’t need to complete the thought. They both know what he means: I’m me.

It’s all Draco has ever worried about, being worthy of something. Of someone. Finding a home and keeping it.

He spent his youth being the perfect child, the perfect heir to a kingdom he’s no longer certain he wants to inherit. The Malfoy family crest has spent a lifetime riding his shoulders, but Draco disappointed tradition the moment he realized he preferred blokes — preferred Harry — over anyone else. He’s only been worsening his status as a letdown since, and he hasn’t yet decided if he likes the path he’s on. 

Not that it matters, anymore. Draco’s done little to reconcile the shattered expectations of him, aside from agreeing to sit for his NEWTs. He doesn’t much plan on trying to achieve the perfect pure-blood aesthetic — not when there’s this waiting for him, something real that he could never find in a textbook arranged marriage.

Draco’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid.

Harry makes a disagreeable sound, like he’s going to interrupt to wax poetic about Draco’s virtues, or some rot.

No. Draco rebukes him with another aggressive shake of his head.

Any other day, he would be keen on hearing compliments about himself. But today, in this moment, he doesn’t want Harry to get his thoughts in edgewise. Not now, when he’s opened the floodgates. If Draco overflows with emotion and it kills him, so be it. There are worse ways to go, as he’s so dutifully noted.

Draco knows what he wants to say, and it’ll be the first thing he’s ever said that’s unequivocally true. The words sit in his throat, stuck lumped together like bricks and mortar. They slog slower than he could’ve ever imagined, dense, as they fill his mouth to the brim.

“You — you mean a lot to me,” Draco chokes, and wonders if he’ll die on the spot from asphyxiation.

Harry reaches toward him, although twenty feet and several desks separate them. “Listen,” he begins, but Draco’s not finished.

He makes a noise, a little like a scream muffled behind his teeth. It’s not an inaccurate exhibition of how he feels. “No, no — listen to me. I don’t really have an explanation, but I — ” Draco, to his great mortification, sniffs. His fists are wearing holes into the fabric of his robes from all of his aggressive gripping. “Harry, if you, er, don’t detest my presence, as I don’t think you do but am unsure about, we could probably be friends — ”

“Stop, Draco,” Harry breathes the words like a sigh.

Draco, despite his desire to continue blathering, stops.

In the sudden silence, Harry pauses, just for a moment. He waits for the expected protestation, an argument. When none are forthcoming, the quiet stretches. It’s peaceful, really, a shard of relative calm in the storm of Draco’s thoughts.

Harry allows the hush to go unbroached. One second passes, then two. A heavy breath punctuates the third, as if he’s met his quota for patience. Draco senses more than sees Harry’s exasperation — his own vision has begun to darken, going dotty around the edges. He should probably inhale.

“Just — relax. Please.”

His voice is softer now, accompanied by the rustle of fabric slides across wood. Draco hears the scrape of chair legs on cobblestone, and squeezes enough air into his lungs to pry his eyes open. He watches Harry rise from his seat for the first time since they began their impromptu confessional.

Harry straightens to his full height, chin tilted and strong. It’s not very much, but he has an aura about him — a golden one, like light and sunshine and canola fields in high summer. A blossoming garden.

The aura of life, Draco thinks.

Harry steps forward, and the shallow echo of his shoe on stone sounds like thunder. Draco’s stomach — already sunken to ankle level — drops even further, to the deepest depths of a very deep thing.

“You know that I,” Harry stumbles over his tongue, but his movements are sure. He crosses the distance between them in a few short strides. “You know I feel — ”

The toe of his trainers brush the wooden foot of Draco’s desk. When he stands before him, Harry doesn’t grasp Draco by the collar, or kill him, for that matter. He swallows thickly, his cheeks flaring to a rather endearing shade of bronze.

It’s piteous and charming.

“I,” he says dumbly.

Draco’s mouth is far too dry. “You,” he says, raspy. He hardly has the capability to tease — what has he become? Love is a travesty, and a farce.

Harry’s teeth prick his lower lip. He doesn’t try to speak, clear eloquence notwithstanding, but he reaches out, his palm face up and splayed.

It’s open. Welcoming. Something about the gesture is significant, heavy with importance Draco can’t parse, and he stares at the limb as if it’ll detach itself and dance a jig. The slender shapes of Harry’s fingers tremble slightly.

As he stares, memories flash through Draco’s brain unbidden, as if he’d submerged himself in a pensieve: an aborted handshake seven years ago; the scraped exterior of a mottled red car; the glittering lights of a Muggle pub; an empty corridor outside the Headmaster’s Office, where Draco stands alone.

It cycles back to one feature; the same nimble, five-fingered hand, held outstretched to Draco now. He feels overcome although he has no real reason as to why. His skin is hot enough to fry eggs, and he hopes with some desperation that he hasn’t begun steaming from the ears like a kettle.

Harry makes a sound halfway between a huff and a snort — which does wonders for Draco’s self-esteem, honestly — and leans forward. Draco doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe, as Harry reaches out, gentle, as if he’ll frighten him away.

As if Draco could ever leave again.

Harry presses their palms together, fingertips first, then down to the second knuckle. Draco feels a bit like a conduit, and maybe this is all an elaborate joke to hex him unawares or something, but he doesn’t move.

He waits, chest tight, as Harry matches their skin inch by inch like puzzle pieces. The whorls of his prints press into Draco’s, each curve and line unique to Harry. He pinches them between his index and thumb, the pressure an anchor. Draco feels their heartbeats through the contact.

It occurs to him that the world could end right this very moment, and it would be all right. He’d die with his palms to Harry’s, and of all things, it’s one of the better ways he could go.

He can’t react, not like a proper human being, but Harry’s grasp is everything Draco missed. Cozy and right, like there’s a home with a hearth to be found in the shallow divots between his knuckles. Draco lets himself be held with a detached sort of air, as if he’s observing the entire thing from a very high place. Harry’s sweet in his ministries, his index grazing the tendons that flex in Draco’s wrist. 

If he stretches, just a little further, Harry’s nails will crest along the tail of the Dark Mark. The tattoo curls along the pale length of his forearm, unmoving despite the squirm Draco feels in his gut. Its inky black shade is diluted, some, as if Harry’s touch is an unforeseen antidote.

Perhaps, Draco thinks, there’s less darkness when he’s around.

He squashes the urge to tear his hand away, to unroll his sleeves and cover himself like a prude. Draco knows Harry can see the Mark, could reach forward and try to gauge it out of his skin, if he so desired. 

Harry’s eyes glance over it in a flicker of green, but just in passing. An afterthought. He doesn’t ogle or prod as his gaze flicks back up to his face, and Draco thinks, Well, that was hardly a proper scan.

He opens his mouth to say as much, or possibly to change the subject from the source of his trauma forever, but halts as Harry’s grip on him strengthens.

“We don’t — we don’t have to know,” Harry says. His voice is loud as a bell toll in the quiet, a morning vigil, a call for Draco to wake up. “Not now. But I’ll wait, if that’s what it takes.”

Draco’s tugged closer, inch by inch, until they’re breathing the same air. Gooseflesh raises the hair on his arms, Harry’s lips a scant inch away from the curve of Draco’s nails. His breath ghosts over the thin skin, hot as a warming charm.

The brush of Harry’s mouth is soft against the pads of Draco’s fingers, a barely-there sensation. 

I’ll wait.

Draco does not whimper. If anyone heard anything, it was more than likely the wind, or perhaps a ghastly haunting.

His lips are as sweet as Draco remembers, slightly chapped and warm. The kiss tickles, too, sending a flush through his body, more efficient than the world’s greatest Pepper-Up potion. There’s something so tender about the gesture, so vulnerable and adoring, that tears threaten to flood Draco’s vision. He has to remind himself to exhale as Harry pulls away and replaces his hand.

“Draco,” Harry whispers, and Draco thinks he understands.

They stand palm-to-palm, marble statues outlasting space and time. They’re frozen for an hour, maybe, or a year, or a century — Draco knows not. There’s nothing outside this sphere; he’s made up of stone, nerves and tingling sensations, aware only of Harry’s touch.

The moment cracks, a little, as Harry shifts. Their fingers misalign, just for a second, and Draco becomes a person again. Harry doesn’t detach himself completely, but his palm turns away.

In the late afternoon glow, Draco sees little silver marks carved into the back of his hand. I must not tell lies. He mouths the words, slow, pausing to make the shape of each letter.

They’re engraved, an epitaph on a grave that came for a boy far too young. It feels like a secret, something told to Draco in confidence, no matter that Harry said nothing at all.

“You have a scar,” he whispers, gaze trained on the mark. He skims his thumb over the marred skin, tracing tiny ridges. He wants to rotate Harry’s wrist, just to see it bend, the way the slivers of white catch in the dim light.

Harry’s lashes flutter closed. He’s unmoving but for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. “I’m not the only one.”

Chapter Text

“Would you be interested in dropping dead?” Pansy flicks a strand of hair out of her face. She rests her chin in her hand, mouth curved in a cheshire smile. Her offensively cloying tone belies her words. “Just a little. It would do me a lot of good.”

The question is phrased like an offer. For the low price of ten Galleons, Draco’s sure, she would complete the job herself. And isn’t that excellent customer service?

The threat doesn’t do much to ruffle the source of her ire: Blaise, whose lips quirk at the suggestion, as if the idea of death amuses him. He cuts himself a slice of quiche and deposits it onto his plate.

“Tempting, Pans,” the vizard of apathy seems to have taken a vacation today, because Blaise’s teeth flash as he grins. “But I’ve already made plans to visit my summer villa with mother, and you know how she gets when I go and do things like get murdered.”

“But I’d arrange your funeral,” Pansy says, like this is a normal thing to discuss over breakfast. For Draco’s friends, he supposes, it is. “You’d look spiffing in a Muggle suit.”

“Don’t insult me,” Blaise drawls, straightening his robes. “Darling, you really think I’d let you dress me? Let you choose my final burial wear?”

Pansy’s smirk quickly falls, a scowl taking up its mantle. She lifts her head from her palm, because glowering requires all the muscles in her face, and forks a roasted potato. The skin makes a satisfying crunch as the tines pierce and subsequently release as Pansy catapults it across the table.

The offending spud bounces off Blaise’s tie. It hits the wood of the bench, leaking oil like an exposed drip well. Blaise doesn’t give Pansy the satisfaction of frowning; he barely glances down as he takes another bite of egg. “That’s going to stain.”

“Serves you right,” Pansy says, pert nose pointed towards the ceiling. She stabs at another piece of breakfast food, looking considerably murderous.

Merlin. It’s far too early for this shit.

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco huffs. He slides several inches down the bench, a precautionary measure, before Pansy launches another greasy morsel. “If you’re going to duel, do it elsewhere. Your aim is piss poor. I don’t want to be an unintended casualty.”

“Oh, not to worry,” she snorts without humor. “Everything I do is quite intentional.”

The vaguery of the statement somehow makes it more menacing. If Pansy’s been taking lessons in drollery, it bodes ill for all of them.

Draco scowls but says nothing. He likes his robes free of smears.

Blaise has no such qualms. “Your histrionics never cease to amaze,” he intones, chewing. The ruined silk of his tie is loosened around his neck.

“Histrionics?” Pansy squawks. “I know insufferable is your default state, Blaise, but do us all a favor and shove off, will you?”

Of all things holy and hellish. Can’t even get results when he asks nicely, can he? This sourness is giving Draco a migraine. He releases an audible groan.

“Do either of you ever shut it? Your whinging is disruptive,” he frowns into his breakfast. Maybe he’ll cast a muffliato around them, and then it’s not his problem anymore. “My ears are going to start bleeding and it will be very unpleasant.”

Pansy shoots Draco a look that suggests she thinks he’s unpleasant. Her expression is thunderous; he half-expects clouds to gather above her head and trap them in a torrential downpour.

It’s not that Draco’s exclusively pro-Blaise — sometimes the git deserves a potato to the chest. This time, however, he’s guilty only of gluttony. He struck like a snake, snagging the last bit of treacle tart before Pansy could reach it, which is apparently enough to be marked for murder. 

As far as Draco’s concerned, it shouldn’t sentence him to death, but then, his relationship with dying has been significantly altered since the war, so who is he to decide? 

Pansy tosses another potato at Blaise, and Draco supposes it doesn’t matter. Her reaction is overkill. By the way she’s behaving, you’d think Blaise had cast an Unforgivable and forced her to dance a jig.

“You’re wasting food,” he speaks again. With a prim scoop of his own potatoes, he avoids her eyes.

“Piss off,” Pansy lifts her silverware. Its resemblance to a pitchfork is uncanny.

Draco makes a mental note to squirrel this moment away. He’ll rehash it the next time she calls him dramatic.

“Bloodthirsty, aren’t you, Pans?” Blaise observes. Correctly, but still — it’s absolutely not worth it. Between all the drama and possible bloodshed, Draco will somehow be indicted, which is just swell.

“Blaise,” Draco begs. He hopes his tone is enough to convey his burgeoning anxiety. Merlin above, he’s interfering for Blaise’s sake! If he doesn’t cease the fighting here, his friend will end up hexed with his nose attached to his arse or something, and then Draco will have to deal with all the complaining.

At that point, death is just sweeter.

“Been awhile since I’ve slung a good curse,” Pansy’s knife-like smile is a thing of nightmares. She reaches into her sleeve, presumably fingering her wand. Draco thinks it’s about time he flees the premises. It would be in his best interest.

“Do you lot have something against normal conversation?” Ronald Weasley interrupts, grimacing into his veritable mountain of food. His skin has adopted a sickly pallor, which, while appropriate given their presence at the Slytherin table, cannot be good for his health. “Stop talking about dead people, or I’ll vomit into the quiche.”

It’s an empty threat, Draco thinks. Aside from the obvious greenness, he looks all right: perhaps a little uncomfortable, nestled between Granger and a first-year, who seems like they may faint from mere proximity. A stack of toast wavers in front of him, bravely protecting the Slytherins from his haughty glare.

Still, to be safe, they ought to move the quiche away from him. Blaise pulls the platter closer and tugs a forest green handkerchief from his pocket, bracing it across his lap.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t,” Blaise’s fork scrapes against his plate, scooping another piece. The thin crust is flaky pastry, and bits of it flutter onto the table as he takes a bite. “I’m quite fond of it.”

“Right,” Weasley makes a face, lines digging trenches in his brow. “Then stop talking about killing each other. Do it later — I don’t want blood in my eggs.”

A choked laugh comes from Draco’s opposite side, where Harry has spent the better part of the morning obliterating several different species of pancake. He grins down the table at his best friend, cheeks stuffed like a creature before hibernation. Harry’s clearly too busy to speak, preoccupied as he is with shoveling another stack onto his plate and snorting. 

“Ronald,” Granger chides, as if his innocuous statement crossed an invisible line, somewhere. Compared to Pansy and Blaise’s suggestions, Draco thinks, Weasley is downright tame. She gives her boyfriend a rough nudge, jostling his fork-wielding arm. The piece of meat on it jiggles.

“What,” Weasley forlornly shoves it down his gullet. A startling amount of food has already disappeared into the undoubtedly cavernous pit of his stomach, so he’s probably recovered from his nausea. He frowns past the bacon attempting to escape his mouth. “Don’t look at me like that, Hermione, they’re being — ” 

“Behave,” she hisses. Her lips twist, like Weasley’s a crup who’s just pissed on the carpet.

Draco is positively delighted to bear witness to it.

Weasley wrinkles his nose, going a bit ruddy-cheeked. “I’m not doing — ”

“Dinner and a show,” Pansy cuts in, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are we done with this? We were talking about me.”

“Were we, Pansy?” Hermione asks sweetly.

Pansy sniffs, a bit sullen, like she’s gearing up for a tantrum. Draco wants nothing to do with that.

“We weren’t,” Blaise says, the prat. “Just trying to eat.”

She levels him with a glare. “I don’t tolerate slander against my person or my style at any hour, breakfast notwithstanding.”

There’s a pause, as if Pansy expects it to be filled with apologies, or perhaps gifts for trying her bottomless well of patience. When neither of which are forthcoming, her scowl deepens.

Blaise’s silverware clinks against his plate as he finishes another slice of quiche. “Delicious,” he says, wiping his mouth with the kerchief. The fabric ripples, giving the illusion of other colors nestled in the sheen. It’s emblazoned with his initials, B.Z., in bold, flowing script. He dumps it onto the table carelessly.

Weasley’s gaze zeroes in on it, rumpled beside his arm. He struggles past his current morsel, glaring at the discarded thing like it had grown a mouth and called him a tosser. When he speaks, he chews like a cow, having relegated his meal to the back of his molars. “Is that an embroidered napkin?”

Blaise spares Weasley a passing glance. He forks another bite of something-or-other, pushing it past his lips with a satisfying smack. “Handkerchief,” he enunciates slowly, a patient rich-to-poor translator.

“Handkerchief,” Weasley repeats, dubious. He blinks at the thing, studying the sleekness, the undoubtedly high thread count. “What’s the point?”

It is, Draco admits, a bit unnecessary to use your personal stash of emblazoned kerchiefs for breakfast, but Blaise has money for miles. Draco’s own mother thrives on expensive embroidery. It would be hypocritical to say anything otherwise. He instead takes a sip of his juice.

“The point? To clean, I suppose,” Blaise’s voice is deceptively soft, the sort he uses when he thinks he’s dealing with a dolt. “I trust you’re familiar with the term?”

“F-familiar with — ” Weasley splutters, shoving the handkerchief away from him with an air of revulsion. “Yeah, Zabini, I know what it is. I’m not a bloody idiot.”

“Just checking,” Blaise smiles, nothing but a flash of teeth as he puts more eggs on his plate.

Arse, Draco thinks fondly. From Weasley’s side of the table, he hears quiet mutterings of sodding and embroidered fucking napkins, and he has to reign in his amusement. It wouldn’t do to laugh at him when they’re trying to get along.

“Best not to question it, Ron,” Harry intones, still slicing up his pancakes. “It’s not good for the psyche.”

“Yeah, but — initials, I swear. What, are they gonna lose it? Someone gonna nick it?” Weasley’s gaze darts up, then away. He mumbles into his pile of sausages. “Bloody Slytherins.”

This strikes Draco as a bit unfair. He, at least, has been perfectly civil thus far. It’s not his fault the Weasley’s prefer personalized jumpers, now is it? Handkerchiefs aren’t much different. It’s fairly brave — in the way that for Gryffindors, bravery is often synonymous with foolishness — that Weasley continues to make passive aggressive comments despite their so-called truce.

They haven’t gotten on poorly, to be fair. They’ve just gotten on, for several weeks, without any fluctuations into negatives or positives. Mostly, they ignore the Erumpent in the room and shoot cursory hexes back and forth when the friendly teasing verges into hateful territory. The groups, it seems, have come to an agreement — they tolerate each other, in light of a post-war world, and a star-crossed romance that still strikes Draco dumb.

Harry.

Draco would never admit to mooning after him — but of course, there’s the small matter of that being exactly the case. Harry, who cares for him; Harry, who sometimes squeezes his hand, and looks at him like he matters.

Harry, who hasn’t kissed Draco again — not since that night in the pub, with glaring lights and pumping music and eyes so open, Draco thinks he could’ve reached in and retrieved Harry’s soul.

He has the sick sort of feeling that Harry is waiting for him to make the next move, and well — here he is, doing exactly nothing about it. Draco huffs a world-weary sigh and wonders why he tries anything at all. He’s obviously doomed to failure.

“Come on, Ron,” Harry says, jerking Draco from his thoughts. “They’re just marking their territory.”

“Then piss on it instead,” Weasley remarks. “Don’t go sewing your fancy names into everything.”

“Your mother puts our initials into our jumpers each year,” Granger points out, gracefully tilting her chin.

Bless her. Draco never could reconcile himself with the gaudy collection of Weasley jumpers each redhead seemed to own.

Weasley looks indignant. “That’s completely different!”

Harry leans forward, smirking into his food as if it’s whispering private jokes. He looks altogether too smug for someone with syrup dripping down his chin. “Ron, sorry, but it’s almost the same.”

“Harry!” Ron turns to him, incredulous. “You ought to back me up here! It’s the sentiment of the — bloody hell, mate. You’ve got, er,” he points at his philtrum, haphazard. He scrunches up his nose. “Some… Merlin, it’s everywhere. You need one of those embroidered shits.”

Harry swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m all right.”

“Sure,” Weasley snorts. His face is equally as messy, smudged with something that might be ketchup. “I’ll ask mum to make you one for Christmas.”

“It’d be a napkin made of yarn,” Harry has the audacity to go and laugh. “I’ll take a pass on that one.”

“Suit yourself.”

“You’d do well to have your own kerchiefs. Neither of you have table manners,” Granger says, her brow furrowed. It’s the long-suffering comment of a woman at her limit. She sounds mournful, as if this is a diagnosis she has come to terms with but has weighed on her for ages. “I’d sign you up for etiquette classes, if I could.”

The admission startles a chuckle out of Draco, because he understands. After all, he watched — er, observed — Harry for years, and Weasley and Granger by extension. He’s been an unfortunate witness to their eating habits and more from afar and within touching distance; he can’t imagine having to make eye contact with them both as they ate so voraciously in tandem.

Draco feels a brief pang of pity for Granger’s appetite. How many meals has she skipped out of pure disgust?

Harry just grins, turning his attention back to his breakfast-ravishing. A tiny crumb clings to his upper lip. To Draco’s complete and utter mortification, it does nothing to decrease his handsomeness.

“You’re disgusting,” Draco blurts, caught somewhere between horror and reluctant adoration. There seems to be a thin line between the two. “How is it that — I think you’ve given me a complex.”

Harry gives him a sticky grin. His hands are probably covered in the stuff, too, and what the fuck is wrong with Draco? He still wants to hold them. Awful. “Thanks.”

Weasley makes obligatory retching noises, which does very little to improve Draco’s mental state. He casts his attention down to his plate, poking at his potatoes. They’ve gone cold, and he doesn’t much want to eat them.

“I’m glad we agree that this is revolting, Weasley,” Pansy speaks up, slightly less spiteful than before. She’s staring sadly at the empty platter of tart, and it’s a little jarring. Where are the house elves with refills? Honestly, Draco is beginning to worry. “I did tell him I’d pitch myself from the astronomy tower if made to deal with this.”

A snort. Weasley makes a sound that’s akin to someone being gagged, and he swallows with some difficulty. His next words are muffled by bacon. “What, our eating habits, or Harry and Malfoy?”

Beside him, Harry chokes. Draco pauses, tines half-stabbed through a spud. His brows lift a fraction, and he meets Weasley’s grin with a scowl.

“Shut it, Ron,” Harry swallows his bite, strangled. His face has flushed to a gentle bronze, and he glares at his friend with eyes like flint, as if to light him on fire. Draco hopes Harry does.

Pansy, momentarily distracted from the missing dessert, releases a delighted hoot. “Both, of course.”

“So sappy and gross,” Weasley smiles directly at her, perhaps for the first time. He directs his next words at the pair of them. “Gotta work on your communications skills, lads, almost sounds like you still hate — ”

“All right,” Draco’s voice is a pitch higher than normal. This conversation is making him itch. He squares his shoulders and curls his lip, trying to project murder the way Pansy does when he’s done something to offend her. “Let’s not. I am trying to enjoy my meal.”

“Sure you are, Draco,” Blaise cuts in. He doesn’t even glance up from his quiche, which is fairly rude. Draco is far more interesting than any egg concoction. “Really relishing that, it looks like.”

“Yes, well,” Draco sniffs, passing a glance at Harry’s syrup-flavored person. “The views aren’t exactly improving my appetite.”

“Wanker,” Harry turns his warm cheeks away from him, stifling what might be a chuckle. He runs his hand through his hair, and the ruffling forces some tufts to stand on end. The sun filtering through the Hall catches dust motes dancing about his head, shimmering like sparks. It gives the illusion of jumping embers.

Draco feels a sudden, desperate need for a glass of water. He opens his mouth — to deliver an adoring hex or insult, he hasn’t yet decided — when the skylight above crowds with shadows. They flit about, tracing shapes on the floors and tabletops. Loud, distinct rustling echoes in the rafters. A breath of wind carries scattered feathers, a flurry of grey and brown snow. 

Owls sweep through the Great Hall, diving and dropping their burdens in chaotic rhythm. Letters flutter towards the piles of food, snatched out of the air by nimble fingers before they touch the ground. Packages of all shapes and sizes fall faster, with more aim. Students grasp them with no little difficulty, some fumbling as they lean across their benches.

Draco has never understood Hogwarts’ mail delivery system, really. It seems like a great way to get concussed or for young people to start brawling over stolen gifts, which is the last thing the school needs.

An owl passes over their table, depositing a thick envelope in front of Harry. It drops with purpose, like it’s dense; Harry exercises his Quidditch skills and grabs it before it meets his pancakes head-on. 

Harry squints at the missive, pinching it between his thumb and index. The paper is wrapped in twine and sealed with blood red wax, unaccompanied by a signature of any kind. A glare glints off of his glasses as he looks up at the original bearer: the bird is dull and unremarkable, a common screech owl, recognizable as Hogwarts property only in its blandness. It flies in a loop around the room, completing a circle before it departs, quick as it came.

Draco glances around the table. Pansy hasn’t received any mail, but Blaise and Granger are each holding a copy of The Daily Prophet, and Weasley fiddles with a small box of chocolate. He pries at the ribbon, releasing it with a flourish. From across the table, Pansy’s doing an excellent job of concealing her frustration, her mouth pulled tight and fists clenched in her lap.

If she keeps pretending she doesn’t care about the sweets, she’ll likely give in to those homicidal tendencies, and then Draco will have to break her out of Azkaban. Merlin’s balls, he hopes Weasley has the decency to give her one. 

The sound of slipping twine draws Draco’s attention back to his opposite side, where Harry tugs on the string of his envelope. He’s pressed it flat against the wood next to his plate. It’s unmarked and crisp, save for his name in a looping script. The twine comes apart in his hands, and Harry passes him an inquisitive glance, eyebrow cocked and cheeks still faintly colored. What does he think — like Draco has any idea what it is?

“Who’d be sending me anonymous letters?”

“I don’t know,” Draco shrugs. On this rare occasion, he will admit that he doesn’t know a thing. “Sounds fairly suspicious, though.”

Harry blinks at the delivery. “I’m not supposed to receive — er, fan mail, or rubbish like that,” he wrinkles his nose, sheepish. “Not here. They should be blocked.”

Merlin, fan mail. Fan mail. Harry “fan mail” Potter, the boy who received post. This is who Draco’s dealing with right now. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but still — sodding fan mail. 

“Since when has Hogwarts been reliable in any way?” Draco rests his palm under his chin. How should he know what the letter is? He definitely hasn’t sent Harry any fan mail — although perhaps he should, for the sake of being difficult. “Maybe it’s Rita Skeeter asking for an interview.”

“You — eugh,” Harry’s curious look is immediately replaced by a grimace. His mouth pulls downward and his forehead knits together — he’ll definitely have wrinkles by age thirty, at this rate, Draco thinks. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“I wasn’t,” Draco says, but his lips twitch at the corners. Harry’s grip tightens on the envelope, leaving fingerprint stains on the paper. Draco gestures towards it. “What are you waiting for, our funeral marches? If it is her, you can just burn it.”

Harry shoots him another glower, but it isn’t quite scathing. He blows out a breath of air. The exhale ruffles his fringe, and dark hair flops into his face as his nail fits beneath the wax seal. He breaks it without hesitation, flicking the envelope open and peering inside. Draco prepares for the worst: a shout from a Howler, or an explosion, maybe.

Nothing happens.

The envelope sits, wax broken, empty and silent. The papers don’t burst into flame upon exposure to air, and it doesn’t leap up and begin to scream. It doesn’t tear itself to ribbons, or even release a substance cloud of questionable origin. It is, by all rights, a normal letter.

The single thing it lacks is a sender, which is forgivable, Draco supposes. For wizards, a return address isn’t strictly necessary; owl post isn’t often lost in transit, unless it’s intercepted by someone with ill intentions.

Harry withdraws a thick stack of parchment, unraveling it with the expression of someone expecting to hear bad news. His fingers are slow and careful, and only when Draco tries to read it does he shift himself away.

Draco frowns, settling back into his seat. “What is it?”

An avid admirer? Multiple admirers? Perhaps a request to duel? Harry is a legendary duelist, having beaten the Dark Lord and all.

Mm, well. Draco supposes that simplifies the situation a bit.

“I — ” Harry squints at the paper, gripping it with both hands. “I don’t know.”

“Can I?” Draco reaches forward, stopping just short of grasping the papers. His skin is a hair’s breadth from Harry’s. “You’ve got to scan it for — for curses, and all that rot.” As it were, Draco knows a thing or two about gifting cursed objects. His face grows rosy with latent embarrassment at the thought. “Let me see.”

“You’re a — a pain in the arse, is what you are,” Harry retorts, sliding himself a few inches from Draco. His eyes glance over the contents of the letter. “Leave it — wait — ”

“What’s that, mate?” Weasley interrupts, speaking through a mouthful of sweets. He reaches grubby hands down the table, leaning over his girlfriend.

“It’s — you’re going to get food all over it,” Harry protests, backing subtly away.

“Me?” Draco thinks crumbs fly out of Weasley’s mouth as he speaks. “You’re just as messy!”

Weasley pushes himself further down the bench, and Granger makes a frustrated noise behind her copy of The Prophet. She gives him a light shoulder-check, but it does little to put him off.

“Can you move,” Granger huffs, expression obscured by the newspaper. “Just — get up, Ron, I swear — ”

“Harry won’t show me what he’s got!”

“Honestly, Weasley,” Pansy smacks his palm out of her immediate vicinity, looking scandalized. Draco expects her to cast a cleansing charm on herself as she watches him with ill-concealed disgust. “Did you grow up in a barn?”

Weasley pauses in his incessant struggle. He turns toward Pansy, wrinkling his freckled nose. “No, but I’m willing to bet you did, Pugface — ”

“Ronald,” Granger’s finger bends the uppermost corner of The Prophet, revealing the stern furrow of her forehead. An errant strand of hair curls above her lashes, severe and sharp as a crooked eyebrow. “Enough.”

Weasley makes an affronted noise, ever a victim. He adopts a piteous look, but Granger does little more than clear her throat and turn the page of her reading material.

Pansy snorts, popping one of Weasley’s chocolates into her mouth. “Thank you, Hermione darling.”

The harsh rustle of old paper tears Draco’s attention away from the would-be brawl. The full contents of the envelope are stacked and folded; the pages shuffle together as Harry unravels it, inch by inch, like a toy on Christmas. It crinkles loudly, and his gaze flickers up and down the length of it. 

“Harry, if you’d just — ” Weasley grumbles. He pushes off the bench, standing with a grunt, like he hasn’t gotten in a decent workout in awhile. He sidles toward his best friend to peer over his shoulder. 

Harry responds by dropping it onto the table. The contents are moot — it’s an extensive stretch of blank, rumpled yellow paper. He flattens it with his palms, avoiding the syrupy mess of his breakfast plate.

Weasley pokes it, glancing back and forth between the parchment and Harry like he’s grown a second head. “Mate, I thought you said...”

“I did,” Harry intones. His lips are parted in surprise, curved with the gentle formation of words.

The parchment doesn’t seem like much. It’s just a tea-stained old thing, hardly worthy of note-taking. Not even a letter, or a book, or a — map.

A map?

Oh. Oh!

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Harry says, tentative. It’s a soft, barely-there whisper; like a wish beneath a falling star, something no one else is meant to hear.

A moment passes, thick with tension Draco can’t place. Harry’s gaze is trained on the parchment between his hands, cheeks sunken, like he’s holding his breath. 

Weasley touches the paper, brushing his fingertips over the blotches of ink that begin to appear. It swirls in shades of brown and black, curling into names and shapes. He whistles between his teeth, low and soft.

“The Marauder’s Map?” He asks, despite knowing the answer. “You got it back?”

“S’pose I did,” Harry murmurs, faint. A daze seems to have come over him, freezing his face into a stricken, wondrous mask. He’s stock-still as he pinches the paper, so stiff that a pleasant breeze could knock him over. 

It’s important to me, Draco remembers him saying. It belonged to — 

Belonged to whom, exactly? Someone as feckless and go-lucky as Harry, no doubt. Draco purses his lips, considering. That just leaves, oh, the entirety of Gryffindor House.

“What in Merlin’s name is that?” Pansy pushes her elbows onto the table, fitting in the narrow channels between plates and cutlery. She leans over her arms to get a closer look, shoving Draco — lovingly — in the process.

“Something I lost,” Harry traces the shapes moving along the map, like chasing raindrops down a windowpane. He follows the curving paths of the illustrated Hogwarts, each movement practiced, as if he’s done it a million times before. He likely has.

“A map?” Blaise asks, the picture of disinterest. He drops his copy of The Prophet, peering across the table. His brow lifts, a minute movement that belies his true curiosity. “Of Hogwarts?”

Harry hums the affirmative, and he glances at Draco, eyes alight. To Draco, he’s like the sun, illuminated from within. He glows with joy, relief, and — there’s something stronger present too, buried flecks of yellow in those emerald depths. It’s powerful, something full of meaning and emotion.

“Something you lost?”

Granger’s voice cuts through the haze, a hot knife through butter. She looks up from her newspaper, squinting. “You mean to tell us you lost the Marauder’s Map?”

“Well, er,” Harry flounders. He blinks once, hard, and exchanges an expression of mutual panic with Weasley. “Um, no. Found it again, clearly. We just, uh,” he points to the redhead, frantic. “Ron knew too.”

Weasley makes a strangled sound. He bumps Harry’s shoulder, hissing, “Why would you say that?”

Harry doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. His lashes flutter beneath his fringe and a weak smile twitches along his lips. “Secret-keeping is worth sharing the blame?”

The pale pallor of Weasley’s cheeks shifts to plum. His freckles stand out, stark, against the ruddiness. “Yeah, right,” he scoffs. He spins on his heel, returning to his seat like a crup with its tails between its legs. “I didn’t lose it. That one’s on you, mate.”

Granger glares between the two of them, not sure who to scold first. Her grip on the newspaper slackens, and it dips into her breakfast. “Neither of you are good for anything,” she sniffs.

How could Draco have ever thought Harry held indefinite power over his little trio? He’s always been well-aware of Granger’s intelligence, but to see intimidation flexed over two of the most celebrated wizards of the age — Hermione Granger is a terrifying witch indeed.

“You’re not wrong,” Harry drops the map on the tabletop, hands skittering across the drawn rendition of the Great Hall. He gives Granger an apologetic grin. “Sorry, Hermione.”

She makes an affirming noise, her lips pressed together. Harry turns his sheepish expression to the map.

Another piece of parchment sticks to the corner, adjacent to where they’re sitting in real-time. Harry’s fingers glance over it, stilling as he nudges the attachment.

“What’s that?” Draco angles himself closer to see, brushing against the sleeve of Harry’s arm.

“Er,” Harry leans into the touch, an unspoken reminder. The point of contact between them grows warm. “I don’t know.”

He tears the additional paper off, pressing down on the map beneath with the pad of his thumb. Harry’s glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and he brings it level with the lenses.

Mr. Potter, it reads. The scrawl is familiar — precise and swooping, twisting along the paper like paint strokes. I believe this belongs to you.

Mr. Filch took it from Peeves during his evening rounds, and it only just made its way to my office. You understand, I’m sure, that contraband such as this is not meant to be returned — but given the circumstances, I think we can make an exception.

I’d appreciate your discretion with this matter, and I’m sure you won’t use this map for any wanderings after hours.

We’re all quite happy that you and Mr. Malfoy are safe.

-M.

Harry reads it again, and then once more. He peeks over at Draco, vision partly obscured by his fringe. It clings to his skin and he sweeps it out of his face. He lifts the letter, but Draco pays the paper no mind — his gaze remains fixed, steadfast, on Harry.

“McGonagall,” Harry says, then grins. His cheeks dimple with the curve of his mouth, and Draco thinks he may go into cardiac arrest. “Can you believe it?”

“No,” Draco says honestly. His heart constricts, a horrible, rabbiting thing in his chest, and he smiles back. “Perhaps we have had a bit of luck.”

“A bit,” Harry repeats, shaking his head. “It’s ace. She’s brilliant. I have to thank her.” 

“Right, then,” he glances toward the front of the Great Hall, where their headmistress rests in her seat. “Go ahead. She’s waiting.”

The midmorning sun graces the brim of McGonagall’s hat, scattering shadows from the panes of her face. The goblet in her hand catches the light, reflecting a patchwork of gold across her cheekbones. She doesn’t look their way, but a contented smile upturns her lips as she oversees her students. McGonagall appears bold and eternal, cast in that ethereal glow.

Exactly the sort of person to lead Hogwarts into a better, brighter era, Draco thinks.

At the sight, he feels a pang within him; a deep-seated guilt, perhaps, the sort that can never really leave. But it could be gratefulness too, for her effort and care, and how she changed Hogwarts — how she’s still altering the way things are done, to usher in an age free of war.

Not to forget, but to allow a new generation to remember.

McGonagall is the best headmistress, and although she was never Draco’s Head of House, despite the fact he wasn’t someone she could save, at the very least, he knows: the school is in good hands.

“I will,” Harry says, pushing himself away from the bench. He stands, tucking the map into his pocket, and pats it with his palm. His eyes flick to Draco then, scanning his face, as if searching for something.

For what, Draco hasn’t the slightest idea. Perhaps there’s potato skin in his teeth. He taps the enamel, but a cursory run of his tongue over them reveals nothing.

“Do you,” Harry clears his throat, gaze dropping to the ground. He points toward the front of the Hall, and Draco tracks the movement of his fingers, how the muscles twitch with nerves. “Do you want to come up with me?”

It’s nothing, really. Hardly a shocking request in the grand scheme of things; the entirety of Hogwarts has witnessed their combined forces since his and Draco’s return over a month ago. There was no shortage of questions, to be sure, and claims of the Imperius Curse rebounded for a bit, which Harry fought tooth and nail to dismiss — but now there’s little dispute. Only the exchange of an odd look or two when Harry partners with Draco instead of Weasley for Defense.

It’s old news. The novelty has already faded, the front-page articles from The Prophet aged. There’s no reason why a paltry thing, like talking to the headmistress together, should matter. But it does.

To Harry, it does.

“I want to thank her,” he says, fumbling to explain. “I want to thank her, with you.”

Draco doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why Harry wants him there, and he can’t say what he thinks this means to him — but he can guess. McGonagall is the guiding figure Harry has wanted for, the pinnacle of motherly love and strictness in tandem. A parent, in a way, with passion just the same. Someone Harry deserves.

And for some reason, it’s important to him that she sees Draco, too. That she understands, or approves, if he dares to hope. The thought makes him buoyant. How could he say no?

Behind them, Pansy coos the way people do when they see a baby, or perhaps a kitten. A spike of irritation lances through him, and Draco wants to put a black hood over her head and take her to an undisclosed location. Her simpering smile is enough to twist his insides. What a — can she mind her business?

He sends a rude gesture in her direction, and the soft noises ripen into delighted laughter.

“How cute,” she says, nasally and awful. Draco does his best to relegate her to the background.

He watches Harry, the way the toe of his shoe grinds between the gaps in the cobblestone floor. His glasses cut a sharp shadow along his cheekbones, and his hair is mussed, like always. His hands are knotted in his robes, wound tight.

Draco’s heart surges with emotions so strong, he may expire right there from the sheer force of it. Oh, it’s unbearable. He’ll make him wait no longer.

Draco stands. “All right, Harry,” he nods, gesturing with a hand. “Lead the way. I’ll follow you — you know that.”

I’ll follow you anywhere.

And when Harry turns, steps echoing in the space between the tables, Draco does.

.   .   .

Six Months Later

This is all Hermione’s fault.

Draco is going to kill her, and then he’ll go to Azkaban, and he can’t say he’s very sorry about it. Granger. Sodding Granger. It’s thanks to her that Draco stands, exasperated, with Harry waggling a road map in his face. 

“We should take a car,” Harry says thoughtfully, and it takes every vestige of Draco’s self-control to not implode.

Granger, he thinks. Her fault, and he’s been known to hold grudges. He’ll never forgive her.

Draco studies his nail beds, trying and failing to put up a facade of disinterest. He’s vibrating with anxiety; it thrums in his veins, a constant undercurrent of swirling nerves. “Not a chance in hell.”

“But — ” Harry’s lips part, and a sigh slips past them. It’s heavy, that exhale, burdened with disappointment and quite a load of emotional manipulation. “I know you didn’t much like the Vauxhall, but it was fun last time, wasn’t it?”

Harry’s head swivels to face him, and he’s gearing up for an argument, Draco knows. It’s the beginning of one he fears he’ll lose.

He’s not wholly prepared for this — they’re in the middle of a corridor, for Merlin’s sake, and Harry has tactfully ambushed him outside of the Slytherin common room. They’re meant to be leaving today, and Draco has only just finished gathering his last few belongings from his dormitory, so he feels justifiably frazzled. The cool dankness of the hall and the darting glances of other students do little to make this conversation more pleasant.

“Fun,” Draco repeats dubiously. “Fun?”

“Don’t sound so skeptical. Yes, fun,” Harry bats at Draco’s arm with the road map, and his hand brushes over his bicep. The motion shoves him back — it doesn’t hurt, but Draco rubs the spot regardless.

“I think we have very different ideas of what constitutes,” Draco’s lips twist, fingers running an absent circle over his own skin. He scowls at the paper clutched between Harry’s fingers. “Fun. Honestly, Potter.”

It’s the third time they’ve had this discussion, and Harry has the audacity to think Draco’s mind has changed? That he’s willing to rent another sodding car and drive to the beach, when they could just Portkey or Apparate? Isn’t it enough that Draco agreed to go back to the horrid spot in the first place?

It’s almost laughable. Almost, because each time Harry asks, Draco is nearly convinced.

All because of Granger. All of it. 

“Why don’t you take a trip for graduation?” she’d asked. Her face was alight with an evangelical smile, her hair a puffed halo. “Go back to where you went before. Didn’t you say it was a beach?”

“Oh,” Harry’s eyes had widened. His head swung around, and the look he’d given Draco was painfully earnest. “That would be fun, I think. Draco?”

Draco thought back to the secluded and weather-beaten cliffside. The Welsh coastline is beautiful, sure, but it sounds to him more like revisiting past trauma. He’s not quite keen on that, thank you very much.

“Must we.” He’d said. It hadn’t been so much a question as it was vague acceptance of an inevitability. His voice was hollow. “Aren’t there other places?"

As it turns out, there aren’t that many. None that interest Harry, anyway — and Draco, to his chagrin, will follow him.

A road trip, Harry said before, knowing full well that Draco has trouble saying no to him. Another one. We’ll do it right this time.

What does it mean to “do it right”? What the fuck does that mean? Less car crashing and Thestral-chasing, Draco would hope.

Harry doesn’t know how to properly trek across the country, or have proper license and registration, for that matter. He might have a better understanding than Draco, but his criminally Muggle upbringing began to fade the moment he crossed the threshold of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Not that Draco is still prejudiced against non-magic folk — he’s just not overtly fond of their machinery.

“Draco,” Harry’s call summons him from his thoughts. Tufts of unruly dark hair bounce, falling above his lashes to tangle in his spectacles. Harry’s eyes flash a verdant green, and he’s looking at him as if Draco just asked him to disembowel a puppy. “You didn’t have a good time?”

And oh, that’s unfair. Didn’t have a good time, as if Draco’s personal feelings on vehicles have anything to do with his feelings for Harry. He should know it’s not the company Draco minded — just the mode of transportation. 

He makes a sound at the back of his throat, a garbled why. “Merlin and Morgana both, Potter. Don’t be a pillock,” Draco admonishes. “Another half-arsed road trip across the country? You’re being unreasonable.”

“I’m not being a pillock.” Harry’s hand twitches, as if eager to be raised in a crass two-fingered salute. “Or unreasonable. I’m giving us the opportunity to explore the Muggle world.” Harry scrunches up his nose, and the movement dislodges his glasses. A small wrinkle settles between his brows, and despite his stupidity, Draco wants to smooth it with the pad of his thumb.

“No, thank you.” Draco intones. It’s emotionless, but he says it rather politely, he thinks. “I’m quite all right with never seeing the inside of a car again.”

He doesn’t have to look at Harry to know he’s pouting. His arms are crossed, folding his robes over his chest. Their pile of bags lies at his feet, and he nudges them with his toe as he shifts his stance. 

“Those were extenuating circumstances,” Harry tries, and he’s rewarded with Draco’s withering expression. “We’ll see it differently, and on purpose, this time.”

On purpose. What a horrible idea.

“We are not driving to the Welsh coast,” Draco turns to busy himself with their bags. His is full of haphazardly packed knickknacks, and both Muggle and wizarding snacks: granola and fruits and pasties, interspersed with the occasional bottle of water. He tucks away another chocolate frog. “Sorry, but I’d sooner strangle myself with a coat hanger.”

Harry frowns again. He leans down to grab his own rucksack, shouldering it in one swift motion. “Why do you have so much rubbish in your bag, then?”

“Not for a road trip, that’s certain,” Draco shakes his head. If he budges an inch, Harry — the wanker — will take a mile. He pulls his own strap over his arm and stands. “In case we get hungry, or fucking stranded again, I don’t know.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow. He appears suitably unimpressed. “You need your Slytherin pennant for our trip to the beach?”

Draco shoots him a glower. “Don’t look at me like that. I forgot to put it in my trunk,” he sniffs, bumping his way past the other boy. The movement jostles Harry’s bag a bit more than necessary. “It’s just a quick trip. We’re Apparating, to and from.”

Harry huffs, but he moves to follow him, so it’s all right.

They’re Apparating, and that’s final.

They Apparate to Mwnt, appearing before the wooden sign advertising Parcllyn and Aberporth with a pop. Draco shoulders his rucksack, shifting the strap to his other arm. He looks to Harry, unblinking, and Harry looks back.

Draco wants to say something. Something innocent, scathing in the way that friends can be — happy now that we’re here, you tosser? — but he doesn’t. It’s because of the way the sun strikes Harry’s eyes, the turn of his mouth, the gentle tug of the breeze on his clothes; something about the place makes this seem more serious than before. It persuades Draco to hold his tongue. They begin their wordless descent.

The tide kisses the sand in a slow, languid caress. It reaches across the shoreline with fingers crested in white, and the waves lash the stone in a sapphire spray. Wind whistles in the hollow crevices of the cliffside, carrying secrets Draco can’t decode.

It is altogether the same as it was months ago, and completely different.

The air is heavy. Not changed, really — but he feels as though they stand on the precipice of a great something: a beginning and an end, two magnetized forces, an endless cycle of rebirth. A circle.

Draco overlooks the sea. It’s beautiful; the beach itself is far less intimidating when they have a predetermined method of getting home. He won’t thank Granger, if only out of pride, but he thinks, Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to come back.

Draco considers what he thought of them, once. Gryffindor and Slytherin, rivals and worse, the light and the dark. It’s taken him all this time to realize he’d been thinking about it the wrong way.

What is light, but brilliance? It can blind or it can guide, just as darkness can protect or obscure. It’s moot, because the light and dark just are, in the same way that he and Harry are only people, trying to live the facsimile of a normal life in a post-war world.

Something seems to shift within him. It’s an understanding, a long-forgotten puzzle piece clicking into place. The world is a little brighter, somehow. Draco wonders how he hadn’t seen it before.

“Have you ever thought about it?” Harry’s voice interrupts his revelation. It’s distant as the horizon — he could be speaking from the moon.

Draco isn’t sure what he’s asking. He thinks about a lot of things, though if the matter involves Harry, the answer to his question is undoubtedly. “About what?”

Harry’s gaze is trained on the cliffs, dashed dark grey from the water. His words come out uncertain, wobbly, like he’s still learning how to use them; how to be honest with Draco, maybe. “That it, uh — it started and ended with us?”

For a horrifying moment, Draco thinks he’s been summoned to this accursed beach to be rejected in the most oblique way possible. He hasn’t even gotten the chance to truly confess, for Merlin’s sake. How’s Harry going to break up with him without a title?

Draco opens his mouth to speak, but Harry continues. “Er, like — how it began with a sacrifice and ended with one?”

The open to a close, a complete cycle. Circles. Draco blinks. He’s talking about — “The war, you mean?”

There’s a pause. Harry doesn’t seem to have heard him. His words float along the wind, adrift like feathers, or paper, or a map carried away by a poltergeist.

“It’s circular, kind of,” Harry isn’t looking at Draco. He still watches the rock, sheer and barren. “Opening at the close. Coming back here is like that.”

A circle. Draco thinks of that day in charms class, months ago. He remembers coming here for the first time. He thinks of why he came back. The beginning and the end, the rising and falling of the sun.

Draco sucks in a breath, but his next words are hardly noteworthy. “I suppose.”

Harry looks to him, then. His expression is gentle, but his eyes reflect his soul. He’s elsewhere right now, to the place where he goes, sometimes. Somewhere Draco can’t reach him.

Open at the close.

“Yeah,” Harry says, hushed. He looks towards the sea. “My mother saved me, once. Yours did, too,” he scrapes the toe of his shoe in the sand, and slings his bag off his shoulder. It drops to the ground in a burst of pale brown grains. Dust. “I guess that’s why I wanted to come back here. The beginning of — of how things are now.”

The beginning of the two of them, he means. Draco and Harry as a unit, instead of two opposing sides of the same accursed coin. It’s a lot to think about.

Draco doesn’t respond for a time, allowing the moment to pass unmolested.

He isn’t sure Harry wants an answer. It seemed rhetorical, mostly — he can’t tell, not always, when he’s due for a response — but he gives one anyway. His voice is low, little more than a whisper over the waves. “I know.”

The wind tousles Harry’s hair, tugging the strands into knotted curls. His fists squeeze by his sides. “I never thanked her.”

“I don’t — ” Draco almost moves, to brace his fingers on his shoulder, to… Grasp his hand? He doesn’t know. Draco doesn’t know anything, as he hovers between touching Harry and hanging back. “I don’t think you had to.”

“I do,” Harry says, and it’s sincere. It’s the most energy that has filled his words since they arrived at the beach. He glances at Draco, and the sea spray mists his glasses, decorating them with small beads of water. “I’m alive because of her.”

Draco swallows a joke, his automatic “so am I” perched just behind his teeth. He knows it’s not what Harry wants to hear. He says something else instead, something he’s wondered for a long time.

“How did you do it? Weren’t you ever — ”

“Scared?” Harry interrupts. “Yeah. For my friends, and for my family,” his hands, curled in on themselves, tighten their grip. “But not of Voldemort. Not of him.”

At the sound of the Dark Lord’s name, Draco’s mouth still goes dry. Fear bubbles in his gut on instinct, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He’s not certain the impulse will ever fade.

“When you — when you duelled him,” his voice sounds faint, even to him. “Did you — did you expect — ”

“I didn't know what would happen,” Harry has turned away now, and the admission is soft. Quiet, like a secret. “But I didn’t want to die a second time.”

A second time.

Draco knew, of course. He knew Harry had gone once, because his mother had told him. It’s a different thing entirely, though, to hear it from Harry’s own mouth.

“Merlin,” Draco stumbles across a deposit of broken shells, washed into a dense pile by the tide. “Aren’t you afraid of anything?”

He thinks he means the question as something playful, jesting in that they both know that Harry is brave. Fear? Bullocks! He’s the epitome of Gryffindor courage and loyalty, and really, what is anxiety in the face of that? In contrast, it’s nothing but a silly, cowardly emotion, borne of shadow and doubt.

There isn’t much that could stand in the way of the great Harry Potter — for he is light. Brightness, but not the blinding sort. Draco wonders what it’s like to be that which darkness fears. Powerful, that’s certain, but also lonely.

He doesn’t expect Harry to answer the question, but he does.

“Yeah, I am,” Harry tilts his head, his gaze tracing their path on the beach. “Stupid things, like whether I’ll pass my classes, or if I said the wrong thing to someone.” 

Draco snorts, not unkindly. It’s quiet, and he lays a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Well, graduation is just around the corner. You don’t have to worry about classes anymore.”

Harry shrugs, although not to dislodge Draco. “S’pose not, but I worry,” he glances up, his eyes catching silver. They glint the color of sea glass, deep and bright, and Draco thinks he could drown in that gaze — tinted the same as the ocean and just as dangerous. “But my greatest fear is neither of those things.”

The intensity of Harry’s expression does horrible things to Draco’s heart. It stutters, threatening to violently expire, and Draco can think of nothing more embarrassing than dying on a Welsh beach because a boy looked at him. He shoves his hands into his pockets, eyes downcast. When he speaks, he tries to sound nonchalant, but it comes out off-pitch. “Oh?”

Harry doesn’t seem to notice Draco’s internal trauma. A small smile plays on his lips as he lifts his face to the clouds. “You know how they say there’s nothing in life to fear, but fear itself?”

A breath of wind sighs across the beach, tugging gently at their clothes. Draco’s lashes tremble over his cheekbones, fine as a butterfly’s wings. The scrape from the shell he sustained all those months ago on the same beach has faded on his skin, a white crescent moon in a pale expanse of sky.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I’m sure I’ve heard that before.”

“Poetic, isn’t it? But that’s what I’m most afraid of.” Harry clears his throat. “Fear.”

He turns to Draco then, his expression unguarded and open as the ocean before them. His gaze is alight, glowing, and if Draco dares to look, he might see something else in Harry’s face. Something quite different from fear.

But Draco’s attention is set solidly on the ground, on the rolled cuffs of his trousers and his pallid ankles. He doesn’t respond.

The sand crunches beneath their feet, firm and sun-baked. It cracks with each step like a plate of creme brûlé under a spoon, the ground cushioned and warm beneath the hard-packed layer. It sifts between their toes as they walk side by side. The experience is companionable — almost. The silence is a bit too heavy, pregnant with words left unsaid, and Draco wonders if Harry feels it too. It’s the burden of his desperate secret, his foolish heart, weighted like stones on their backs.

Draco doesn’t know how he’s allowed it to become a burden so great. If anything, it’s a gift.

Harry lopes ahead, sand-flecked feet sinking into the surf. He opens his arms, as if to embrace the sea, and Draco feels a twinge in his chest. This is his fate, his comeuppance: suffering in proximity for eternity, never close enough to touch. 

“What about you?” The sound of Harry’s voice shakes Draco from his reverie. The wind tears at his hair, tousling it into an even worse state than usual, and a gentle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What are you most afraid of?”

What is he — well, fuck. He should’ve expected that.

Draco is unprepared to give him a proper response — when caught unawares, he typically needs three to five business days to formulate one. He wonders if Harry will take a Muggle IOU note on this question, so he can resume sulking in silence.

What am I most afraid of?

Draco swallows. There’s a lump in his throat so large that he thinks he might be choking. He’s already lost the manor to ghosts best left unstirred, his pride, and a good portion of his money. So what is his greatest fear?

The answer to that is easy, but forming the words is not; a barb sits on the tip of his tongue, a scathing reply borne of habit that he knows Harry won’t take to heart.

He doesn’t want to hurt him anymore. Never again, if he can help it.

Draco, what are you most afraid of?

His mouth opens and closes. His mouth is incredibly dry, and he’s never been so desperate for a glass of water in his life.

Losing you, Draco thinks, but doesn’t say. 

Losing his home, again. Not a place, but a person.

The breeze dislodges his own stoic locks, bleached white in the sunshine. He brushes a hand through it, but the effort is futile. Chunks of wavy blond obscure his vision, ruffling around his face like the feathers of an agitated bird, a peacock.

Perhaps it’s time he lets go of some of his lingering, worthless pride.

Draco thinks of landing in the sea, waterlogged and scraggly, and being dragged out onto the sand. He thinks of Harry giving him the broken wand, his eyes speaking an apology that he didn’t need to give.

He remembers the lights flickering in the pub and the colors reflected in his ring, changing the hue from dull to vibrant. He remembers lips against his, pink and warm.

He recalls the day they arrived back at Hogwarts, beaten Vauxhall in tow, and the mirth that burst from within him as he and Harry met Susan Bones by chance, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Draco would relive the warm feeling that surged through his body when he saw his friends again in a heartbeat; how Pansy called him a prat and Blaise braced a hand on his shoulder, his mask slipping to reveal softness beneath. 

These emotions tumble through him, rough around the edges but full of sincerity. They’re not entirely beautiful, nor are they perfect, but they’re his, and Draco thinks he’s happy. He feels it now, too, a satisfying tug in his gut that leads him to the source of his contentment: a boy standing not far away, staring at the sea as if in search of something.

In search of someone.

I’m right here, Draco wants to say. It’s always been you. 

By now, Harry has turned away, unoffended by Draco’s silence. He fumbles forward some, tracing his way along the beach and moving in time with the tides. It sloshes around his ankles, wetting the cuffs of his trousers. He faces out towards the water, eyes aglow with the promise of tomorrow, of a future that no longer promises pain. 

For they both understand pain. Harry’s lost so much, and made such great sacrifices — is he looking for his home, too?

Watching from afar, Draco feels like he’s intruding, although it’s just the two of them. He licks his lips and swallows again. The brine coating his skin tastes of salt.

Since he was a child, Draco had always gotten what he wanted. A new toy, a pet, an individual dormitory at Hogwarts. The rare moments when he hadn’t — those he once remembered sourly, like lemon zest between bites of cake — stand out, dog-eared pages in the book of his life.

An aborted handshake; an offer of friendship, denied; the House cup revoked; the golden Snitch on a Quidditch pitch.

Harry Potter, oddly (or perhaps predictably), plays a role in all of them. If he laid out each disappointment like a merchant’s wares, all of Draco’s desires gone unfulfilled are unequivocally linked to Harry.

He knows he hasn’t redeemed himself. He’ll probably spend the rest of his life trying to, holding open doors and dropping donations into some vagrant’s empty cup — but Draco dares to wonder. Most of all, he dares to try.

He wonders if he could have the audacity to ask again for what he once yearned for, now that things have changed. He wonders if he could be granted a second chance.

Draco likes the feeling that being good brings, yes, more than he ever liked the power that comes with wielding fear. And he loves Harry Potter. He wonders if that’s growth enough, the beginning of becoming someone worth loving. Of being someone’s home.

After all, if one were to ask what Draco truly wants, more than anything else in the world —

Draco opens his mouth. The name comes unbidden, a hopeful smile playing on his lips as he calls out: “Harry!”