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Chapter Text

- Seven Days Ago -

The summer had started unlike any other Draco Lucius Malfoy had experienced.

He hadn’t come home to a Manor bustling with house elves and one warm with the smell of a warm, roasted pig awaiting him, as was the Malfoy family tradition. He had not come home to his mother standing at the door, a sympathetic smile on her face, and an embrace that told him all he needed to know about her life since Christmas. The curtains were not drawn, and smoke did not slip from the doors of the drawing room as he overheard his father speaking to one of his many… business partners.

Rather, Draco had entered the doors of the Manor and found it dark. There wasn’t a house elf in sight, and there was no food prepared and already steaming in the dining hall. The Manor was cold - colder than it had ever been. The Manor was so unlike its usual self that the young boy had to pause at the door, looking around to make sure he had entered the right house. Goosebumps had crawled up his skin, evil lurking somewhere deep within the household.

So close. And yet so far. 

He’d arrived home by carriage, alone, as he always did, sent from Malfoy Manor as a formality. Malfoys don’t collect their sons and daughters from something as common as a train station. So, he’d sat in silence in the carriage, invisible to muggles, and awaited the shift from pavement to cobbled driveway that told him to train his face and straighten his back. 

Narcissa had greeted him at the door, but without that smile he’d come to recognize as don’t worry about me, just stay out of trouble . Matter of fact, her face was devoid of any emotion. It wasn’t a sight Draco had ever seen before. And it definitely wasn’t one that was welcome. Something was wrong, though he knew better than to ask. He had a feeling he already knew what was wrong, but he’d also come to learn that sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

She had hugged him, her arms loose and her body stiff - also something that he’d never seen from her before - and placed a hand on his back. “Straight to your room, Dragon. Don’t dally. Stay there until summoned.”

Draco simply nodded.

On his way up to his room, he couldn’t help but pause at the drawing room, the doors shut and no voices carrying from the other side of the black varnished wood. It was quiet. Malfoy Manor was almost never quiet. There were always whispers, always some conspiring or chatting, or screaming. It was never quiet.

He ducked his head, and ascended the stairs, traveling to his room in silence.

He had seen the papers. It was all over The Daily Prophet:

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Returns!

Harry Potter: The Boy Who Hadn’t Lied?

Chairman Malfoy arrested and sent to Azkaban: Conspiring with the Dark Lord once more?

It was sickening. Draco had been bombarded with questions the moment he stepped foot off the train, reporters from the Prophet demanding to know if he had known that his father was in Azkaban. Of course he knew! This was his father they were interrogating him about, for crying out loud! In his trunk, he still had the letter his mother had sent her the day after the Death Eater’s attack and raid of the Ministry! He’d kept every newspaper clipping, every letter, committed every question to memory when it came to the Malfoy’s latest scandal.

There was no doubt that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater. Not a single one. Draco knew that. He had known that ever since he was little, when they’d shopped in this muggle facility as a mall, and Lucius had made a point to sneer at every muggle they walked past. He knew this when his father sat him down on his eleventh birthday to explain - once more - the concept of blood purity and how he needed to stay far, far away from that Mudblood filth that Dumbledore insisted on letting penetrate the sanctuary that is Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

He had known when he had come home last summer to find the Dark Lord on his doorstep, awaiting his arrival, a snake-like smile curving his lips, revealing the fang-like teeth that hid behind almost nonexistent lips.

At least then, there had still been an ounce of normalcy in his return. That warm meal. His mother’s firm embrace. His father present, but nowhere to be found.

At least now, he wouldn’t spend the summer walking on eggshells. Not really, anyway.

- Five Days Ago -

Malfoys don’t dream.

There was a certain kind of magic that came with dreaming that seemed too pure for the Malfoy mind to obtain, and therefore, they did not dream. No one who was born - or married - into the Malfoy line dreamed while they slept. As far as any Malfoy was concerned, it was not possible.

Lucius had told his son once that many centuries ago, when Mudbloods first started to make their appearance in the Wizarding World, one had cursed his entire family line to be rid of the purity of dreaming. Something about the family having killed a muggle-born’s children and then laughed at the sight of the witch’s burning home. Genetic curses, although difficult, were not impossible. From then on, no Malfoy or Malfoy descendant could dream.

All the way down the line, until Draco Malfoy came into the picture. He had always been able to dream. Simultaneously, he was the only Malfoy to know this.

His dreams weren’t vivid. They weren’t visions of his greatest fantasies, or people he knew. They weren’t obscure pieces of memories, strung together to make some odd story that he would document in his journal when he woke (yes, he kept a journal). They were never anything of note.

They were flashes of light or color, more than anything. Dull shapes that floated behind his eyelids, occasionally shifting into something more, though he wasn’t sure why they shifted to have this more-ness or what this more-ness even meant.

He’d thought taking Divination in his third year would help clarify something. He’d even come up with the excuse to tell his father when he asked about it that he was placed in the class against his will, but there would be no point in trying to change it because of how stupidly stubborn Dumbledore was. But it was fruitless. Divination was as useless as he’d thought it would be.

That morning, he had woken from a recurring dream that always left his head spinning. He’d been home for a week, and had been having the dream since his father went to Azkaban - so, for roughly a month by now. In the dream, the darkness behind his eyelids filled with a troubled emerald, one that seemed trustworthy, but still held its own secrets, with a deep, black circle that seemed never ending. Occasionally, there would be flecks of brown in the emerald plain, just outside the darkness of the center. And it would stay that shade of emerald for hours, it seemed, the same sight, until Draco got used to it. Until he got comfortable with it.

Then, and only then, would the colors shift. The center of darkness stayed the same, always. But the green transformed into this sort of evergreen fog, terrifying in every aspect. All life that had thrived in the emerald disappeared instantaneously, leaving Draco with a dead, horrible, color that he wanted desperately to shake away. Without fail, he wanted the emerald back, every damn time. His mind would race to try to fix the color, change it back to the way it was, before it all disappeared, plunging him into darkness once more.

The darkness never lasted long, always interrupted by the sunlight’s welcoming of the morning. It always, always left his head spinning, left his mind reeling. At first, he’d brushed the dream off as if it was nothing. But when it happened the next night, then the night after that, then the night after then, so on and so forth, he began to speculate. Still, he had no answer. He had taken apart every last piece of the dream, and had come up with nothing. Honestly, it was starting to get irritating.

That morning, Draco resorted to just laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Surely, he had better things to do. He could’ve been doing his summer reading or marching around the Manor, demanding breakfast. But it was not the morning for that. It wasn’t the morning for anything.

Since arriving home, he’d had this itching on the back of his neck and hands. It was a little less distracting than Peeves on a good day; all he could think about on a bad one. He woke up with the itching, the turning of his stomach and the heaviness in his chest, and went back to sleep with it. It was constant.

It felt wrong in every sense. Then again, everything about this summer had felt wrong. So, here Draco was, laying in his king-sized bed, silk comforter thrust to the side of his body, staring up at the ceiling, tossing the dream over in his head once more. He was coming up with nothing, no explanation for the green and the gray. And he certainly wasn’t coming up with an excuse to get up for the day.

That is, until the bell rang in his room, summoning him to the drawing room.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight he would come across when he entered the drawing room. 

His mother was sitting in the armchair his father usually situated himself in, staring down at her clasped hands in her lap. She was dressed in an all black dress, traditional and elegant as she always was. To her left, and with his back to him, stood a man in black robes, his dark, greasy hair pulled into one of the rare buns he kept it in when he wasn't working, which, if Draco was entirely honest, never suited him. Severus Snape: Howgwarts' potion master and his godfather.

Then to Severus’s left, stood the… anomaly. Tall, with oddly straightened posture for his age, a long beard cascading down his front. He was dressed in horrendously galaxy-patterned silver robes, his half moon glasses perched on his nose as he turned his head to the opening drawing room door. Album. Dumbledore.

Fantastic. It was exactly what Draco needed. A personal, At home visit from the headmaster of Hogwarts himself. The very man he's made a valiant point to avoid this past year. 

And, of course, the first thing he does is smile at Draco.

“Draco, ah,” Dumbledore started, clasping his hands in front of him. He seemed to have some sort of frostbite on his left ring finger. “Exactly the boy I wanted to see. Please, sit. We need to talk.”

Draco stared at Dumbledore's hand for a moment (try as he might not to), the other two adults looking up at him. Narcissa sniffled, clearing her throat. “Come, Draco. We won't take up too much of his time.”

Draco's eyes flicked between the three adults, before they landed on his mother. He hadn't seen her face so blotchy in what must have been years, so as much as he hated it, he obliged. He came to sit on the sofa next to Narcisssa, crossing his legs. “What is it?”

Severus turned to him, his face calmer than Draco had expected. “You're being relocated.”

“Severus!” Narcissa and Dumbledore both exclaimed, clearly astonished by his bluntness.

Draco felt his brows raise, and he had to shake his head. “Excuse me?”

Narcissa spoke before Severus could get the chance, “Dumbledore and Severus here have… thought it might be best for you to spend the summer elsewhere.” She put a hand on his, but Draco snatched it away. He only really liked her hugs, and that was all. Any other kind of physical contact made his skin crawl.

“And what makes either of you think that I want to be relocated?”

Dumbledore shrugged, his expression nonchalant. “Frankly, Malfoy Manor is not a place best fit for a child such as yourself. Ah, please let me finish,” Dumbledore held up a finger at Draco’s protesting expression, displeased in his attempt to interrupt him. “With your father in Azkaban and Lord Voldemort practically residing in your home, I have a moral obligation to have you spend the summer somewhere I know it’ll be safe.”

Draco stared at him. He considered just storming out right there and then, the heaviness in his chest returning. He didn't like this idea one bit. There was absolutely zero reason why the headmaster should care for his safety, and yet here they were. How humorous.

Despite his own disinterest, however, he ultimately decided he would humor the idea, given the stare his mother is currently giving him. “And if I were to be relocated,” Draco said blandly, “where would I go? I hardly have any living relatives where their house would be any safer.”

“We considered many options,” Dumbledore said. “There were some criteria, of course. The residence needed to be some sort of family, of course. We’re not just going to make you stay at the Leaky Cauldron.” Draco suppressed a ‘Thank Merlin’ at that. “And there needed to be at least one magical individual in the household, but it simultaneously be primarily Muggle.”

That’s when Draco grimaced. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“Afraid not,” Severus said, crossing his arms. He looked at Dumbledore. “I tried to protest otherwise, but someone didn't listen to me.”

“Oh, come off it, Severus,” Dumbledore gave a laugh, interrupting his otherwise serious demeanor. “You and I both know it’s for the best.” He turned back to Draco. “And, of course, the family we situated you with would be affiliated with The Order of the Phoenix in some way or another.”

“Those are the people who stopped the Ministry raid last month,” Draco had recalled, more to himself than anyone else. He felt his skin pale and his stomach lurch. This was bad. 

“Precisely,” Dumbledore nodded, proud that the boy was able to put two and two together. “This way, they’ll know how to properly protect you should trouble arise. Unfortunately, this means we had very few options to run through.”

Draco tried very hard not to groan. The more Dumbledore spoke, the harder it was to listen. Draco knew how to keep himself safe. What kind of useless wizard does the headmaster think he was? Instead of verbalizing this, though, he simply said, “What options?”

No one spoke. Narcissa even cringed at the question. Honestly, they should've been expecting it. How can they bring this up and not expect him to want to know where he'd be going in the incredibly hypothetical situation that he'd allow them to relocate him? Sometimes, Draco wondered how adults could be such nincompoops.

“What options?” Draco repeated. “Don't tell me you're putting me with the Granger girl’s family.” He didn't know if Granger was, in any way, affiliated with the Order. But she’s friends with Potter, and if he knows anything about Potter and his friends, it's that they're noble enough to join something as ludicrous as the Order.

“Well, we had considered the Weasley’s,” Dumbledore said, and Draco quickly stood.

“Absolutely not. I'm not staying in some cramped room in the middle of the gutter. I refuse-”

“Sit down, Draco,” His mother cut through, her voice like ice. Startled, Draco paused, before sitting. He crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I'm not staying with the Weasley's.”

“You're not,” Dumbledore affirmed. “Surely, that would cause too many issues.”

Draco stared at him, irritation bubbling in the back of his throat. “So where would I be going?”

“Unfortunately,” Severus drawled, “there is really only one suitable family that fits all the criteria of the situation.”

Draco couldn't help but snort at the statement. “What? How could there only be one suitable family? It's not like you're making me live with Potter or anything.”

The silence spoke louder than words ever could. Draco stopped laughing, looking between his godfather, the headmaster, and his mother. When realization set in, his shoulders slumped, and his face twisted into something like disgust. “You've got to be kidding me.”

Once more, the silence spoke louder than words. Draco’s eyes widened while he uncrossed his arms, standing. “You've got to be kidding me!”

“Now, Draco-” Dumbledore started, but Draco stood again.

“Absolutely not. I'd rather die than spend another unnecessary moment with Scar Face,” Draco snapped, his hands forming fists at his sides.

“Sit down, Draco,” Narcissa said again, but he waved her off. 

“No. I decline any so-called ‘help’,” He made air quotes with his fingers, storming out of the drawing room. He muttered to himself, “Ridiculous! The nerve of some people!”

He made it as far as the kitchen, plucking an apple off a tray on the counter and taking a crisp bite out of the side, before Narcissa caught up with him. She clasped her hand around his wrist, twirling him around to face her. He snatched his Wrist away from her, giving her a glare. “I am not going to live with Potter, Mother. My mind is made up.”

“Draco, please,” she pleaded, “give it a moment's more thought. You're not safe here, I know you know that-”

“I do,” Draco snapped. But he stopped, surprised at the sight of Narcissa so desperate to listen. “I do know that. But he's the last person I want to spend my summer with. End of story. He's so egotistical and he waltzes around Hogwarts like he knows everything and he's just so-”

“Frustratingly Potter?” Narcissa finished for him, giving him an unimpressed look.

“Exactly!” Draco threw his hands up in the air, then brought his apple back to his mouth for another bite.

Narcissa sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Fine. But look at it from my perspective, will you?” 

Draco paused again, before rolling his eyes. “Fine. What?”

“I already lost your father,” Narcissa said, a little too quick. It was almost like she'd already performed and practiced what she would say. “I mean… not really. He's not dead, but… he could be. He could get out of Azkaban and…” she looked away.

Draco’s shoulders slumped again, and he had to look away, too. 

Narcissa breathed, crossing her arms. “Draco, I don't ask much of you. Just that you stay safe.” She stepped closer, taking her son’s face in her hands. “You're not safe at home anymore. And Hogwarts isn't safe anymore, either, according to Dumbledore, otherwise you'd be going there. I know you don't like it - I don't like it. But I…” she let out a breath, collecting herself once more. “I can't lose you, too. Severus is going directly against the Dark Lord’s wishes by doing this for me-”

“For you?” Draco asked, raising his brows.

Narcissa nodded. “Yes. I asked them to find a place for you to stay where you'd be out of the Dark Lord’s grasp. And if Potter’s place is the only suitable place for you to stay, then…” She brushed some blonde hair from his face. “Then that's that. Please. It's just for two months.”

Two months in Hell , Draco thought, but didn't say that. Instead, he sighed, taking his face from Narcissa’s grip and taking another bite of his apple. He chewed, then swallowed, considering the situation. 

His mother personally asked for Draco’s relocation, because she was scared of losing Draco. She went out of her way to go to Severus for help, which is something she would hardly ever do unless she was desperate.

And that was when it hit him. Narcissa Malfoy was desperate to get her son somewhere safe. Somewhere where the Dark Lord wouldn't find him, because she knew it's where he'd be safest. Draco sighed again, looking his mother over.

“Fine,” Draco relented. “I won't like it, though.”

For a moment, Narcissa looked beyond relieved. “You don't have to. You don't have to like it one bit. But really, it's for the best.” 

Draco nodded, and that was that. 

Chapter Text

The morning Dumbledore And Severus came to retrieve Draco discreetly from Malfoy Manor, it poured.

He was advised to bring only a single bag of supplies, and that this household would have the rest. So, naturally, he had packed one of the many bags that Narcissa had put an Undetectable Extension Charm on when she’d given it to him. Inside were several sets of robes and pajamas, along with the several newspaper clippings he’d been collecting, a few empty journals, and the picture of himself and his mother he keeps on his nightstand. 

He and Narcissa only had a few moments to say goodbye in the early morning. Draco awoke at just five past three in the morning to make sure he had everything, and it’s safe to say he was exhausted. He could hardly process being awake at seven in the morning for classes. What in Salazar’s name made Dumbledore think that the young man could handle being up this early, Draco had no clue. When he was sure he had everything, he slung the bag over his shoulder, and sneaked out of his room, down to the foyer. There, he found his mother and Dumbledore standing tall, Narcissa not even out of her sleep robes yet.

Instantly, she was at his side, wrapping her arms tightly around him. “I love you, Draco.” Her voice was hardly even a whisper, and Draco had to strain his ears to hear it. He hugged her, burying his face in her shoulder, although briefly.

“I love you, too, Mother,” Draco whispered back, eyeing Dumbledore from where they stood.

Narcissa’s arms tightened around him. “Be sure to not get too hot headed with Potter. I understand you two don’t get along, but you are his guest. And I expect you to show some etiquette. Please respect his house and his family.”

Draco cringed at the tightening in pressure, letting go of her. “Mother! You’re crushing me!”

Narcissa laughed weakly, letting go of him and stepping back. “Apologies…” She looked up at him, wiping her cheeks free of tears. “I’m going to miss you. Have a good summer, alright?”

Draco didn’t scoff. He knew she’s just looking out for him, but the concept of him having a good summer while spending it with the bloody Golden Boy sounds like an impossible feat. So he just nodded. “I will definitely try.”

“Ahem,” Dumbledore cleared his throat by the door, his fist to his lips. Both Malfoys turned to him, Draco giving him a scowl for interrupting his last moments with his mother. “I’d prefer we go before daybreak. Which would mean we should probably go now.”

Draco sighed, trying not to roll his eyes. “Yes, yes. I’m coming. In such a hurry to leave.”

Narcissa smacked his arm, though Draco ignored it. He stepped forward. “Where’s Severus?”

“Already at the Leaky Cauldron,” Dumbledore said.

Draco could feel the disgust rumbling his stomach. The Leaky Cauldron, by his standards, was a filthy dunghole only suitable for those of the lowest standing. “I thought you said I wouldn’t have to stay at the Leaky Cauldron.”

“You don’t,” Dumbledore said, crossing his arms behind his back. “We’re only going to stay there for a few hours. The Dursleys requested that you arrive around breakfast time. So I assume Eight would suffice.”

Draco raised a brow. “Why are you picking me up at three-thirty in the morning, then?”

“Because I don’t want to risk being spotted leaving the Manor,” Dumbledore shrugged passively. “And if that means being up with twilight’s blanket still upon us, then that is what we must do.”

Merlin, why did he ever agree to this? Dumbledore held out his arm, expecting Draco to take it, and when he did, he looked back to his mother.

“Write to me when you’re settled, okay? I presume you have some parchment and a quill?” She asked, wringing the flowing sleeve of her robe.

“I will, Mother. And I do,” Draco promised, looking her over one more time. This was the last time he’ll see her, likely until Christmas. It felt like ages away, and he’s almost terrified of being separated from her for that long. He wasn’t one to typically believe in fate , but he sent a request up anyway, asking the stars to protect Narcissa and keep her out of harm's way.

Narcissa noticed his hesitation, seeing it in the way his eyes lingered on the walls of the foyer before landing back on her, and stepped forward. Her hand braced against his cheeks, and he ignored the way his skin itches, the way weight seems to settle on his chest. How he hated that feeling . “Don’t worry about me, Dragon. I’ll be safe. I promise.”

Draco swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. There was something about the way she said it all that made him worry even more. She didn’t even sound confident that she would be okay. Her priority was keeping Draco safe, that much was clear. As much as he hated to admit it, now wasn’t the time to fret. 

“Are you done saying your goodbyes?” Dumbledore looked between the mother and son, who both nodded. 

Then Narcissa stepped away from them, giving them plenty of room. “Be safe.”

Draco could hardly get a final nod in before his body is twisting into the silent apparition that Dumbledore thrust them into, Malfoy Manor disappearing into darkness around them.

Harry Potter had been cleaning since Vernon had gotten the letter a week ago that a companion of Harry’s would be staying with them for the remainder of the summer. Petunia wanted the house spotless, as she always did when guests were to be present. How he was going to keep up with keeping the house in such a state all summer, he isn’t sure. But he’ll figure it out sooner or later. 

The real issue was that the letter hadn’t actually said who was going to be over for the rest of the summer. He’d guessed Ron, but there was no reason for him to be staying due to his ‘unsafe housing’. The Weasleys were the safest place Harry knew of, aside from Hogwarts, of course. Then he’d pondered if it was Hermione, but that thought dissipated once he came to terms with the fact that the only real danger she was in is the fact that she’s muggle born. Her family, as far as he knew, was safe.

He went down the list. Neville, maybe, but his Gran was stern enough to make even the scariest man curdle. Seamus, he considered for a moment, before remembering him and his family were up in Ireland visiting some family. Luna, Ginny, Dean, every single person he knows that Harry would consider companions. Not a single one of them made sense. They were all safe. So he was at a loss.

Harry had just gotten done cleaning up from breakfast, stacking the pan from the bacon on the drying rack, when the doorbell rang. Petunia stood quickly, dusting off her floral pencil skirt and tutting her tongue in disapproval at him. “Have you nothing else to wear?”

Harry looked down at himself, considering his clothes. He’d grown into many of his shirts, though some of them still didn't fit exactly right. His clothes were still hand-me-downs from Dudley, and today’s selection was a gray t-shirt that was a little loose on him and some blue jeans. His feet were bare, though he had socks in his pocket to put on once he was finished cleaning. “No, not really.”

Petunia sighed, looking him over once more. “At least put some shoes on. You shouldn’t look entirely like a slob for whoever it is we’re having over.”

“You’re honest you don’t know who it is coming over?” Vernon questioned, not taking his eyes from the morning’s paper.

Harry just shook his head. “You’re honest it didn’t say in the letter?”

“Watch your tone, Potter, or you’ll be spending the summer locked up again,” Vernon growled, and Petunia smacked his pudgy arm to get him to be quiet. A chime rang through the house, short and sweet.

“Go get the door,” Petunia ordered, honeying her voice in case she’s heard through the thick walls of 4 Privet Drive. 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said. He fished in his pockets for his socks, unfolding them and hopping to the door as he pulled them on mid-stride. He straightened, glancing at the red converse he’d put on once his guests were inside the house, and taking a stealing breath, preparing himself. It’s only a month and a half, how much could go wrong?

Except everything could go wrong, and he recognizes that in an instant. Especially once he opened the door to find the tall blonde boy standing outside, flanked by Snape and Dumbledore, his face just as pointed as Harry remembered from school. Harry’s mind raced with every single thing that could go wrong as he took in Draco’s disgusted, yet curious, expression, his black suit and judgemental eyes. Suddenly, foolishly, Harry felt incredibly under dressed, and it irritated him that that was something he could feel in the first place.

“This is a joke,” Harry said in an ineloquent rush, meeting Dumbledore’s eyes. But it wasn’t. There was no way this was a joke. Because Albus Dumbledore, as unserious as he may seem, hardly ever joked about anything.

Petunia pushed Harry aside, clasping her hands together over her chest. “It’s so nice to meet one of Harry’s friends at last. We were starting to think he was a lonely boy, he won’t tell us anything about school.” She stepped out of the way, motioning grandly to her home while Harry sat on the stairs for a moment to pull on the converse. “Please, come in.”

The three wizards entered, all three of them examining the pristine home. Harry steps unconsciously out of the way, though no one seems to notice. Malfoy’s gaze drifts to the pictures lining the walls of the Dursley family, Dumbledore and Snape moving to the living room. “I quite enjoy your variety in wallpaper,” he comments, looking around at the floral wallpaper that lines the living room.

Petunia gives a bow, bringing her hand to her mouth to politely giggle. “Why, thank you. I pride myself in keeping up with the latest housing trends. Floral is absolutely in.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flit from picture to picture that covered the walls, “And the variety in portrait, too. Really gives the walls a pop.”

Snape followed Dumbledore’s gaze, visible confusion momentarily crossing his features. “What are you talking about-”

“It was sarcasm, Severus.”

Snape looked around, unimpressed. He leaned into Dumbledore’s ear, whispering something before he leaves the house, going to wait in the cab that awaits him and the Headmaster outside. Harry eyed Draco for a moment, watching him scan his new surroundings, before there’s a sharp tug on his wrist. He bit his tongue, stifling a grunt as he stumbled into the kitchen, coming face to face with Vernon. “You listen, and you listen well,” Vernon demanded in a low voice, holding up a finger.

“Listening.”

“You will do well to keep that boy quiet and out of the way,” Vernon commanded. “He will not be heard or seen any more than necessary. The rules that apply to you, apply to him. But don’t let him know that.”

Petunia laughed at her own joke in the living room, a light titter of a sound, followed by Dumbledore’s deeper, unamused hum. Harry pulled his brows together. “What do you mean, don’t let him know that ?”

“I mean exactly that,” Vernon said. “He’s a guest. He mustn’t know he’s under restriction.”

Every moment that passed seemed to be more and more like an awfully played prank. Not very well planned, but decently executed, enough to make him believe that this was actually happening. That Draco Malfoy was really standing in the hall just ten feet away, examining family portraits, not actually talking to anyone yet. Great. Fantastic. This is going to be just… perfect.

So Harry nodded again, and Vernon made a gesture that looks like it‘s supposed to be a nod, but was really just a movement that made his neck poof a little farther out from the collar of his sweater then go back in again. He released Harry’s wrist, pushing past him to the living room. Harry huffed, rolling his wrist to loosen it up and following his uncle. He didn’t acknowledge Malfoy as he walked past him, keeping his gaze on Vernon’s wide back, forcing it not to drift to the other boy.

A million adjectives ran through Harry’s head, each one some synonym for great , even though every part of this scenario was not, in fact, great .

Dumbledore stood by the window, hands folded behind his back, calm as ever. “Now, I hope this request didn’t come on too suddenly-”

“Oh, please,” Petunia interrupted. She took up a seat next to Vernon on the loveseat, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knee. “It is nothing. We hold guests all the time. Albeit, never for an entire summer, but it’ll be just fine.”

Dumbledore examined the couple for a moment, Harry cringing in the corner where he stands. No one ever interrupted Dumbledore, not really, anyway. “Well, I just have one other request,” Dumbledore said. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Of course,” Vernon said, making that same nodding motion from earlier. “What is it?”

“It’s mostly basic level,” said Dumbledore. “Nothing too troublesome. All I ask is that he’s kept away from densley magical-populated areas, such as Diagon Alley. We cannot afford to have Mr. Malfoy spotted by anyone who could be of the wrong affiliation at the moment.”

The Dursleys both nodded, exchanging a glance. Considering that all of Harry’s magical equipment was locked up in the cupboard that used to be his bedroom, he’s sure that this request would be a piece of cake. They had probably already decided to keep from letting Malfoy out of the house to avoid him being spotted by their neighbors.

Which means that Harry was stuck cooped up in the same house as Malfoy. Great. Great. Great.

Malfoy wandered into the living room, raising a brow at the decor. Even from this distance, it was clear as day that he was appalled, and Harry figured that 4 Privet Drive was probably the most middle-class thing the young Malfoy had ever been exposed to. It was almost funny. Almost.

Vernon turned to Harry then, twisting poorly in his seat. “Harry. Why don’t you show Mr… er…” he turned back to Malfoy. “What do we call you?”

“Malfoy is fine,” the blonde said, giving a curt nod. It’s the first thing he’d said since arriving, and was quite possibly the most polite thing Harry had ever heard him say. There was no sneer, no lilt to his voice that said this muggle family should know very well who he is.

“Yes,” Vernon said, squinting at him. He twisted back in Harry’s direction. “Show Mr. Malfoy to his room, why don’t you? Attaboy.”

Harry stared at the back of Vernon’s head for a moment. “Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

He stepped into the hall, and trekked up the stairs, not bothering to check if Malfoy was following him. Two sets of footsteps made their way up the stairs, Malfoy analyzing every piece of decoration. The lack of moving portraits shocked him - he had always assumed that moving decoration was a universal household item. Moreover, he was utterly disappointed by the plain sconces that lined the stairs; the ones at Malfoy Manor were shaped to look like peacocks, their tail feathers spreading out to give the hallway light. These were just gold and… simple. Everything about the house was simple, not a single hint of eccentrism anywhere. How boring.

The floor leveled out from hardwood into soft, recently conditioned white carpet, the hall lined with even more pictures. Almost all of them were of a boy Malfoy had yet to see yet, and maybe that’s for the best. While yes, Dudley had steered clear of Harry since the dementor incident last year, but that doesn’t mean he’d steer clear of Malfoy.

Five doors lined the hall, two on opposite ends of each other, two on the wall directly across where the stairs let off, and one across from those. Harry moved past the door on the closest end of the hall, then the door across from the stairs. He pointed to the door on the left wall, saying in a clipped manner, “Bathroom.” He opened it to show Draco the simple vanity, toilet, shower combination that he’ll be using. He then turned to the second door on the right wall, opening it. But Malfoy didn’t follow.

Rather, his eyes stayed on the door on the farthest end of the hall, eyeing the deadbolts on the door frame. It wasn’t the deadbolts themselves that interested him, not entirely. Rather, it was the sheer amount of them, five or six lining the edge of the door frame. He gestured to that door with his head. “Where does that lead? You got a troll chained up in there or something?”

“What are you- oh,” Harry glanced at the door, trying to keep from freezing up. “That’s my room.”

Malfoy raised a brow in blatant disbelief. “You have your room bolted shut?”

Harry searched for a quick excuse, not expecting the question. “It's for nighttime. I sleepwalk.” He let the words out before he even really thought about them, attempting not to sound like he’s also trying to convince himself that that’s the truth. From the look on Malfoy’s face, it was quite evident he wanted more than that. “They lock up my door so I don’t get out and fall down the stairs. It’s happened more times than I’d care to mention.”

Malfoy grinned almost wickedly. Wait, did he actually believe it? “The Golden Boy has his imperfections after all…”

Harry rolled his eyes, opening the guest bedroom further for Malfoy. “This is where you’ll be staying.”

Malfoy adjusted his pack on his shoulder, stepping inside. Instantly, his eyes widened. “This is it?”

Harry can’t hide his shock in enough time, stunned into a momentary silence by the arrogant words. There’s a full-sized bed, a large wardrobe and a dresser. The room even had its own television set, complete with a bountiful collection of VHS tapes. On several occasions, whenever all of the Dursleys were out,  Harry had snuck in here during the day, to watch some of the films and enjoy the quiet. “Pardon?” Harry asked, absolutely confunded.

“How is this where I’m staying?” Malfoy demanded, opening his arms in reference to the room around them. “This can’t be it. I’m not sure you understand who you’re hosting right now, but let me get something straight: I am a Malfoy, and Malfoys don’t stay in rooms that could be found in somewhere as simple as a Bed & Breakfast. This,” he crosses his arms over his chest, “is all that is. It’s so small! I can’t live like this!”

Harry glared at him. Raking a hand through his hair, he couldn’t help but mumble “It’s a little less than twice the size of my bedroom.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, Malfoy,” Harry said, waving him off. 

“No, please, do share with the crowd. If you’ve got the courage to say it to yourself, then you have the courage to say it to my face.”

“Would you be quiet.” It isn’t a question.

Malfoy scoffs. “Why should I?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Malfoy, walking past him and peeping his head into the hall. He watches the stairs for a moment, waiting for the heavyset footsteps that would single Vernon’s furious arrival. When none came, he let out a breath, turning back to Malfoy. For a moment, he wanted to tell Malfoy that here, he couldn’t use his name or privileged father against them. It wouldn’t do him any good, and would only make him look like a fool. He left that lesson to be learned by Malfoy himself. Why should he bother? “Look. I’ll make you a deal.”

Malfoy raised a brow. “A deal?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “an exchange of sorts. I’ll stay out of your way and leave you alone for the rest of the summer, so long as you stay quiet and leave both me and my family alone. No talking to them when you’re not asked to, no unnecessary interaction. None of that. Don’t even look at them.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It’s not. It’s honestly for the best, believe me. I wouldn’t lie about this. Just… stay out of their way.”

Malfoy opens his mouth to say something, probably something snarky, when a voice shakes through the house. Vernon’s stern and angry cry, “ POTTER!”

Harry’s shoulders hunch, and he swears under his breath. “Just, do that and we’ll get on pleasantly this summer. Yeah?”

Without another word, Harry turns on his heel and pulls the door shut behind him. He takes a moment to breathe, to decompress, but when Vernon’s voice shakes the house once more, he knows he has to head downstairs. He pushes off the door, and doesn’t look behind him.

Chapter Text

Mother,

I have finally arrived at the muggle home. Let me tell you, the welcome I received was half welcome, half not. Certainly, Potter’s guardians are interesting individuals. The woman definitely sugar coats her words, though, and does everything to impress, and the man is man… certainly a man. I don’t know what to make of him just yet. He’s definitely the man of the house, though, I can say that.

Potter was as frustrating as usual. He wants me to make a sort of deal that is going to end in my being locked up all summer in this tiny room with only a single window to let sunlight in. I might as well be a prisoner! He’s cruel, Mother, beyond vile! Unfortunate as it is, I’m really only relaying this information to you because father is all locked away. Otherwise, as you know, he’d be hearing about it. Surely, he would fix it within a moment.

Anyway. The aforementioned room. It’s small, at least a quarter the size of my room at the Manor, but I suppose it does come with the necessities. It has a bed that’s comfortable enough (despite the cotton sheets), a wardrobe, and a dresser. It also has this large box that sits in this even larger cabinet, as if the house is ashamed for it to be out in the open. It’s made of metal and glass and has buttons along the bottom - I even clicked one, and light illuminated from it, followed by this absolutely diabolical hissing noise that was also sort of crunchy. I turned it off immediately afterwards, startled out of my robes. Muggles and their contraptions…

Nevertheless, I will prevail. I will return home this Christmas and you will hear of all the horrendous things that I experience here, as I’m sure there will be too many to document within these short writings. I’m afraid this is the only letter I am permitted to send.

This restriction was not made by the muggle family, of course. They wouldn’t dare chain me down and isolate me like that. Rather, it came from Dumbledore himself. He called it ‘the best for my safety’. The nerve of him. Although, I do suppose he’s correct. If I am to be in this small muggle home for the rest of my summer for my safety, the last thing I need - not so much want - is for Death Eaters to track down my whereabouts through owls.

I’m doing this for you, Mother. I don’t think I would for anyone else.

A response is not necessary, but I hope you are well this summer. Stay safe.

Your son,
D.L.M.

Chapter Text

The dream was stronger here, at 4 Privet Drive.

The emerald sea seemed to grow restless, shockwaves running through it, the dark circle in the center even deeper. The dream was awake, and for some reason, Draco felt it wanted his attention. It wanted to drag him down and whisper into his ear all the things he was missing about its meaning. It demanded something from him he couldn’t give, so when he awoke, he shot upwards, gasping for air, a hand pressed to his chest.

It was driving him insane, this stupid dream. A month later, and he still hadn’t figured out why he’s having it. Why it was so insistent, why it decided to fill his mind every night despite knowing he couldn’t solve it. It wanted to be solved and Draco had no idea how to solve it. Now, it seemed to be urgent.

Draco groaned, pulling his knees up to his chest. There was a storm in the dream. Well. Sort of. Somewhere in that deep pool of emerald, there was a storm of something. Maybe hunger, or, if he wished to be more poetic - which he more often did not - emotion. It was sickening, doing nothing but to irritate him beyond anything that has gotten under his skin before. He didn’t like being taunted, not even by his own mind. That’s final.

He raked his hand through his hair, strands of blonde falling into his eyes. He hadn’t used any product to do his hair since he arrived at this stupid house, which would be less than a week. Three days, as of midnight. Why would he bother? It’s not like he’s allowed to leave his room much. Back at the Manor, he would do his hair every day regardless of whether or not he thought he was going to leave his room. He needed to be prepared just in case he did, should his father have important people roaming the halls. Presentation was everything.

But the Dursleys were no one of importance, and he really only leaves his room to go to the bathroom (they send Potter up with meals for him, breakfast, lunch and dinner so he can eat in his room). So he simply doesn’t bother.

Moonlight poured into the room from the lace curtain, the cheap fabric hardly filtering anything out. His window was open, letting in the soft wind of the summertime. For a house not located in the countryside, it was blissfully peaceful at night, birds chirping somewhere in the distance and leaves rattling in their trees. Maybe there would be some peace in his time here. Maybe it won’t be all bickering and solitary confinement. That’s better than nothing… right?

Draco shoved off the comforter, cotton fabric brushing against silk pajamas, his legs swinging over the edge of the bed. He slipped on his slippers, making the short trek to the window, moving lace out of the way to lean on the windowsill. The air was calm, cool compared to the sticky summer they had had so far. 

He looked up at the stars, testing to see which constellations he could find from here, but soon gave up after realizing how tired he was. So he closed his eyes, let himself just feel the wind against his cheeks and focus on the sounds of the neighborhood. And then, he let his mind wander back to the dream.

Malfoys aren’t supposed to dream. They, as the witch who cursed them put it, are not pure enough. So why could he? Why could he close his eyes and see the half-made visions that people always talk so vividly about? Why could he go against the Malfoy name, when his mother or his father or grandparents on his father’s side couldn't?

He dared ask his Grandfather about dreams once when he was a child, wanting his take on the spiteful tale his father had once told him about the Mudblood who cursed their lineage. Instead, he’d gone on a tangent about how dangerous dreams are; how they can give away even the smallest details about a person’s soul and their innermost self. They were dangerous, because they were “the wrong sort of magic.” A magic no Malfoy should ever really entertain.

Draco knew then that he mustn’t tell anyone about the fact that he dreams. He mustn’t tell anyone about the fact that his dreams were so vivid, and yet so murky.

Most importantly, he couldn’t tell anyone how this particular dream was the reason he was losing sleep at night. How he knew that dreams were supposed to have meaning, but he couldn’t decipher the meaning of this one. What did it mean to him? What did it mean about his soul, compared to his fathers or his mothers?

Malfoys don’t do a lot of things. Failing is one of them. Yet here he was, failing to decipher what should be a simple little puzzle. Draco was sure that once he figured out what the meaning behind the emerald and the evergreen fog was, he would be rid of the nuisance. But tonight would not be that night. Nor, he was sure, would tomorrow night be. He was stuck with it, for now.

He opened his eyes, tilting his face up to the moon. Not even it could give him answers. 

After a moment's pause, Draco left the window, leaving the curtain fluttering behind him as he walked to the door. He didn’t have a goal in mind, exactly, as he pulled the wood open and crossed the threshold into the hall. Really, he just wanted a chance to get out of the same room he’d been stuck in since he arrived here. Cabin fever was starting to hit him hard.

He stopped by the bathroom first, wanting to splash some cool water on his face to wash away the airy feeling behind his eyes. It worked, then he dried his face, and made his way downstairs. He was sure that none of the steps creaked as he went, not wanting to accidentally wake anyone, especially not Potter. That’s the last thing he needed right now, honestly. Another interaction with The Boy Who Lived.

Tch .

Even thinking about him made his stomach gurgle with irritation, something in his chest flicking with spite. How he hated that these were his circumstances, trapped under the same rough with that arrogant, agitating man. At least he didn’t have to deal with Granger and the Weasel, too. It’s even worse then, whenever Harry is with those two. It’s not even the fact that they band together when the three of them are in each other’s presence, really. It’s the fact that Potter would rather choose to spend his days wandering Hogwarts with two people who clearly did not deserve him. Draco could go on for hours about how awful it was, watching Potter walk by with Weasley at his side, laughing about some joke that probably wasn’t even that funny.

At least then he had an excuse to approach Potter about it. To ask what was so funny and then make fun of whatever it was that was funny because it really wasn’t. Now, he didn’t have any excuse to talk to Potter, even though they were practically living together. It was torturous, being able to see him three times a day and only being able to get a single jab in. The least Potter could do was entertain his efforts for just a moment more. But no! All he got was a glare and maybe, just maybe, Potter would sweep his hand through his thick mop of untamed curls, and leave the poor blonde all alone again.

It’s nothing short of cruel. He hated him for it.

Finally, he reached the bottom step of the stairs. His eyes traveled along the darkened hall, falling once more to the portraits. He had observed them when he first arrived, thinking they’d all be of Potter and being the first exhibit to how pampered he likely was. Upon further inspection, however, they were quite a different sight, indeed.

Not a single portrait along the hallway was of Potter. No, they all featured a rather pudgy boy who smiled greedily up at the viewer, always dressed in the most hideous sweater vests. There were few that featured the adults of the house, including one of them standing just before the back door, the boy dressed in a red uniform with a walking stick clutched in his sausage-like fingers. He certainly wasn’t Potter, if that wasn’t obvious enough. This boy was four sizes larger and about six shades lighter than Potter was. A family friend, perhaps?

Draco hadn’t seen him since he’d gotten here; then again, he hadn’t seen much of anyone. Save for Potter. But if he were a family friend, why would there be so many pictures of him growing up? Perhaps he was Potter’s cousin, then, the offspring of the two adults of the house?

He moved to the living room, examining more of the pictures. Here, there was a little bit more variety. One wall was covered in fake china plates that were strictly for decoration purposes, the other had a spread of wedding pictures: cake cutting, the first kiss, some pictures of the Dursleys on the dance floor. The next wall were family portraits, and once more, almost all of them were excluding Potter. Save for one.

In this single picture, everyone is well dressed, all in suits, ties, and dresses. The mother (Draco had yet to bother learning any of their names) sat on a throne-like chair, pearls decorating the base of her long, slender neck. In her lap sat the round boy, perhaps six or seven years old, looking rather angry that he was forced to sit for a photo, and behind them, stood the father, who was looking down at the boy in his wife’s lap. Potter was found off to the side, in clothes that were far too big for him, standing nearly a foot away from everyone else. He had a horrendous haircut, his hair buzzed down to nearly the scalp, leaving only his bangs to cover his forehead. His glasses were too big, and he looked absolutely humiliated.

It was the only picture, out of the dozens that litter 4 Privet Drive’s walls, that featured him. Draco looked at the rest of the portraits again, an odd pang going through his chest. Harry Potter was a miracle in the Wizarding World. A national treasure, to some, a hero to most. And yet…

Why wasn’t he in any of these other pictures? Could it have anything to do with how adamant he was about Draco staying away from his family? Why-

There was a rustling behind him, so soft it would’ve gone unnoticed by most. But Draco had been acquainted with quiet rustlings long enough to know when he heard one.

He whips around, facing the dining room. Nothing. There wasn’t anyone there. Slowly, he crept into the dining room, reaching for his wand out of habit, only to realize he didn’t have his wand and drop his hand. Much to his shock, when he turned the corner into the dining room and faced the kitchen, there was someone there.

He was stretched out, a hand stuck in a tin of biscuits next to a vase of petunia flowers. He grumbled restlessly to himself, face set in determination. Draco instantly recognized him from the pictures, and he cautiously stepped forward.

The floorboard beneath him creaked, causing the boy’s head to jerk up. He startled, eyes wide as he drops the biscuit tin and nearly knocks over the vase. Draco’s eyes widened, and his hands shot out to catch the porcelain thing, even though he’s too far away for him to succeed. Luckily, the boy catches it, and after a brief moment of silence, he looked up at Draco sourly. He remained in that position, vase loosely clutched in his hands as the stare down continues.

The boy was the first to speak. “What are you doing here?”

The question almost startled Draco, but he grounded himself. “I’m staying with you for the summer. I’m sure you heard.”

“Oh,” The boy said, squinting his eyes at him. “Your Potter’s friend.”

“I am not his friend,” Draco spat, his voice laced with frustration at the assumption. “He hates me. I hate him.”

The boy studied him for a moment, not believing it for a second. “What are you doing up?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“What’s your name?”

“I could ask you the same.”

The boy seethed at him, his back teeth clenching in frustration. “Why should I tell you my name?”

“Well,” Draco started, pushing his hands into his silk pajama’s pockets, “we are living under the same roof for the next two months. Might as well get comfortable.”

For a moment, the silence was thick enough that not even Merlin himself could thin it, could put it back into the shape it was supposed to be. The two boys stared the other down, frustration seeping off of the round boy’s frame. It was clear that he wasn’t used to being talked back to like this.

“You don’t belong here,” he hissed, eyes flashing with anger. “My Mum and Dad didn’t even want to let you stay. We don’t need any more freaks polluting our life.”

Freaks? “Excuse me?” Draco asked, his voice low. His hands balled up into fists at his sides. 

“You heard me,” The boy sneered. “I’m not repeating myself. You’re not welcome here, and neither is he. What makes you think you have any right to come into my house and talk back like that to me ? You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

Draco scoffed. “Really? I don’t know who I’m dealing with?”

“Clearly,” The boy snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be talking to me like this. You’re not going to last a week here. Why are you even staying with us in the first place?”

Draco takes a breath. Merlin, it takes a great effort not to lose his temper on him. “I’m here because my mother asked me to be. Nothing else.”

“Ooh, a mummy’s boy, are we?” The boy gave out a rich, cruel laugh. "Kinda pathetic."

Welp. Draco tried. He took two strides forward, hands balled at his sides. “You watch what your bloody saying, or else I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” The boy challenges. “Curse me? I’ve heard that one before. You can’t. Not legally allowed, trust me. Harry nearly got expelled for it once.”

“I’m well aware of what the law is.”

“Then don’t push it.”

The boy stares at Draco for a long moment, silence thick. But then he straightens, looking over the porcelain vase in his hands. “I could make your time here miserable, y’know? I could convince my parents to kick you out, it won’t be hard. I could make it so bad, you even consider running away.” He turns the vase in his hands.

Is he seriously threatening me right now?

“You have no idea how much miserable-ness I can tolerate,” Draco seethed through his teeth.

“Is that so?” The boy asked, raising a brow and looking up at him again. “I’d like to see what your tolerance is, then.”

The sound of glass shattering rips through the kitchen, the boy raising the vase above his head and slamming it down to the ground. He smirks, a door slamming open upstairs, and he mouths an “oops.”

Footsteps stormed down the stairs, a herd of elephants rushing down and into the kitchen. Draco stood there, staring at him with a stunned look on his face. Did he just-

The boy schools his face into one of shock, leaning back against the counter and clutching it, as if he was more shocked by the dropped vase than Draco was.

“Dudley!” The woman shrieked, at her son’s side in an instant. She brushed the hair from his face, taking it in his hands. “My sweet boy! Are you okay?”

Two thoughts cross Draco’s mind then. The first being who names their kid Dudley ? The second, He really did just do what I thought he did .

“Tell us what happened, sweetie,” The woman cooed to Dudley, who lifted a shaking finger.

“He just threw the vase at me,” Dudley exclaimed, putting an over-the-top shake to his words. “He- He threw it for no reason!”

Draco’s mouth fell open, and it takes him a moment to recollect himself. “I did not! The vase was over by him, he threw it onto the ground!”

The man, who had been looking at the vase and the flowers now strewn across the floor, met Draco’s gaze. “Are you lying to me?”

“What? No!” Draco huffed, astounded they believe this clearly fake act. Dudley’s mother cooed more in Dudley’s ear, taking him from the room and towards the stairs, leaving Draco alone with the father. "Why would I lie? He's clearly the one lying, he's got alligator tears and everythi-"

The man stormed up to Draco suddenly, taking him by the collar with a firm shake. Draco could feel the way his heart stops, plummeting to his feet, his eyes dropping down to the other man’s hand. “Let me go!” He pulls against the man's hold, panic seeping into the edges of his mind. This wasn't a feeling Draco has experienced in a long time.

“No,” The man snapped, shaking him again. “Who do you think you are?! You are a guest in my house! You do not get to come in here, try to hurt my son, and then lie to my face !” He snatched up Draco’s wrist, his grip firm and almost painful.

Draco tried to pull his wrist back, he really did, dread sinking into his chest, sitting there with a heavy weight. But the man’s grasp was steadfast, unyielding under any pressure. He pulled Draco through the puddle of flowers and the broken vase towards the stairs.

Nononono .

Draco pulled on his wrist again, to no avail. “You’re hurting me! Let go of me!” He slammed his fist against the man’s wrist, but it did nothing at all. Nothing was working, no matter how hard he pulled or worked against him. Nails were digging into the flesh of his wrist, and it was really starting to hurt.

“Petunia!” The man bellowed through the house. “Keys!”

The woman - Petunia - clattered through something in the bedroom closest to the stairs, the man dragging Draco until they reached the final door in the hall. Petunia pushed through them, clucking her tongue at Draco’s useless fighting as she quickly worked down the locks, then pulled the door open.

In the next moment, Draco was thrown inside, surrounded by half-darkness and cold. He scrambled to his feet, opening his mouth to protest, but the door slammed in his face before he could.

Chapter Text

There were so many ways to express Draco’s demand to be freed from this room, and despite his attempts - which really only included pounding on the door, shouting and threats he knew would go nowhere - the stupid Dursley people simply did not get the message. He couldn’t believe the nerve of them! Clearly, they had no idea who they were dealing with. Clearly, they didn’t know that one cry to his mother and these damn muggles won’t stand a chance. Clearly–

“Are you quite finished?” A voice cut through Draco’s fury, only to glaze over it with ice. He knew that voice. For Merlin’s sake, he knew that goddamn voice.

Draco whipped around, his hands balling into fists. Propped on a small bed sat Potter, his back against a wall and his feet flat against the bed. A book rested behind his knees, lit with a torch he had previously been holding between his teeth.

The mere sight of him made Draco’s urge to strangle someone increase tenfold. Specifically that pudgy boy, Dudley, though he wasn’t sure he could even fit his hands around his neck. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The phrase seemed to be defining Draco’s life more recently than it ever had before, even at Hogwarts. Every event that occurred seemed impossible and yet so very probable, and each and every one of them convinced Draco that he was going to have gray hairs and wrinkles before the summer finished.

Harry sighed, entirely unimpressed by Draco’s dramatics. “Already lost the guest bedroom, hm?”

Draco scoffed, folding his arms firmly over his chest. “Lost? Psh. I didn’t lose anything.”

“Clearly you did,” Harry countered, taking off his glasses to scratch the bridge of his nose. “Seeing as you’re in here and not in the guest bedroom.”

There was something almost odd about Potter without his glasses. Perhaps Draco was just so used to seeing him with them on, but they almost seemed to be more of a focus without them on. A vibrant emerald that reflected the moonlight that spills into his room from a small window across the room from his bed, a small fleck of hazel here, maybe something deeper there. There was nothing normal about them, and Draco felt the hairs on his arms rise at the familiarity of such a sight. He’d never seen an emerald so… well. Emerald.

So long he had focused on the lighting bolt scar that sprawled across Potter’s forehead and dipped under the rim of Potter’s glasses, just past dark brown brows, that he had never realized what hid just beneath it. A serene emerald green. A green that had been passed to him through his mother, that was so Harry Potter that if he hadn’t had his scar (though he wouldn’t be Harry Potter without it), they would be his defining feature. There’s no arguing that fact. Everyone knows it, especially Draco. How could he not? How many times had he held Potter’s eyes while arguing, while sparring, while challenging the boy. They were brilliant, of course. He can still remember the first time he’d met those eyes, the secrets that he knew were swimming behind them, the tiredness that no eleven-year-old should carry, one that Draco knew far too well.

That green. The familiarity of it. He’d seen it before, though it felt like some time more recently than getting out of school, or even when he’d seen him earlier this evening when he brought Draco his dinner. There was an allure, a pull-

Draco shook his head, tilting his nose upwards. Enough about his eyes. Why did he care about Potter’s eyes? They’re just green. Nothing special.

“I didn’t lose anything,” Draco said again, though Potter doesn’t seem at all moved by his insistence. Malfoys don’t lose.

“If you say so,” Potter said, slipping the glasses back onto his nose, and the moment was over.

Draco rolled his eyes, turning back to the door, hand wrapping around the knob-

“No use,” Potter cut in again, his voice bored. Draco hated it.

“Why not?” Draco asked, turning the knob and giving the door a good tug. The door doesn’t give even the slightest.

“They lock it immediately after they shut it.”

Draco groaned, giving the door a final, more hopeless, tug, before giving in. He dropped his hand to his sides, his forehead falling against the door. Silence envelopes him, far too easy and far too comfortable in his personal space, only occasionally interrupted by the flip of a page. It was near suffocating, adding more weight to the itch in his chest. A night in with Potter would sound fantastic to anyone who’s name wasn’t Draco Malfoy.

He couldn’t take it anymore. So Draco was the one to break the silence, “What did you mean?”

There was a pause. Then, from the bed behind him, Potter said, “Mean what?”

Draco straightened, turning back around. His hands remained at his thighs, and he just looked… tired . “What did you mean when you said I lost the guest bedroom?”

Potter opened his mouth to answer, but stopped shut. His eyes dragged over Malfoy's form, an odd sort of grin pulled at his lips - not quite a smirk, and almost lopsided. "Are you wearing silk pajamas?" He asked, sounding rather bemused.

"Don't change the subject, Potter!" Draco sputtered, taken off gaurd by the sight and the question. "I asked you something. Answer me."

Potter exhaled, stuffing a bookmark between his pages and shutting the cover. He left it resting on his knees, eyes meeting Draco’s. From here, the young Malfoy could see the bags under the other boy’s eyes. From here, Draco could see the way Potter’s shoulders were slouched, and the way he sort of hunched as he sat against the wall.

“Having the guest bedroom is a privilege. Only those who respect the house get respect in return, and the guest bedroom is included in that package deal. So, clearly, you’ve done something at,” Potter checked his wristwatch, his words curling with anger as he continued, “two in the morning to upset my uncle enough to have the privilege of respect taken away. That’s what I mean by that. That’s why you’re now in my room.”

“That’s preposterous,” Draco exclaimed, frustration returning. “They don’t know who they’re dealing with-”

“I told you when you first got here,” Harry interrupted, “they don’t care about status. Whatever witchy thing we’ve got going on in our strange world - including your status as Slytherin’s token rich asshole and your father’s former position as one of the most powerful men in the Ministry - doesn’t matter to them. They only care about what’s happening in the muggle world, and only if it affects them. If it doesn’t, then oh well. They don’t care; never have, never will. If they did, I can assure you, the dynamic in this house would be incredibly different.”

As in, if they had, Potter would be put above them. Which, if Draco was inferring properly, he wasn’t. He let the words process for a few moments, his fists tightening and untightening, a ritual that only soothes him partially. He lets the whole ‘Slytherin’s token asshole’ comment slide just this once, as he had greater things to worry about. “How do I get my room back?”

“You want me to be honest?” Potter asked dryly. “Or do you want the answer someone who is even partially hopeful would give you?”

“Honesty would be great, thanks,” Draco snarked. Prick .

Potter studied Draco for a moment, emeralds dragging over his form, taking in the silk pajamas that were far too luxurious for a place like 4 Privet Drive. “You’re likely not going to be getting it back,” Potter said. “Unless you can be in tip-top shape within the next… I’d give it forty-eight-hours.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Forty-eight-”

“My Uncle has a temper that can last quite a while,” Potter said unnervingly nonchalantly. “Although, Dudley’s the one you want to look out for.”

Draco stiffened. “Dudley?”

Potter nodded. “Yeah. My cousin. He gets what he wants, when he wants it. Bonus points if it’s literally given on a silver platter.”

Draco scoffed. “That’s the boy who-”

“Caused this?” Potter finished for him. “Figured. He hasn’t really messed with me since the whole dementor attack that put me on trial last year, but that doesn’t mean anything for you, I think. I think.”

Safe to say, Draco was appalled. “ You think?”

“I think,” Potter repeated. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t consider anything a redemption, not really. He’s always been the golden child, really, so whatever trouble he gets into at school or with his friends has always blown over the moment they got back home.”

“You didn’t think to tell me any of this when I got here?!”

Potter shrugged. “I wouldn’t have had to if you would have been able to just leave my family alone. I warned you.”

“You didn’t warn me of anything!”

Potter stood, rolling his eyes. He walked to the small wardrobe next to his door and pulled it open. He was irritated, and his words reflected that. “I warned you enough. You had your chance. You just didn’t listen.” 

Draco couldn’t tell who he was angrier at: Draco, or his family. Only adding salt to the wound, Draco couldn’t tell which sounded worse at the moment. He watched as Potter threw a mostly flat pillow, a sheet, and a blanket onto his floor.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to bed.”

Draco glanced at the bed, then at the nest of sheets and pillows now crowding Potter’s floor. He huffed, annoyance resurfacing. “You’re seriously going to make me sleep on the floor?”

Potter shook his head, shutting his wardrobe and fluffing out the bedding. “No. I’m going to sleep on the floor. You can have the bed.”

“And what makes you think I’m going to sleep in your bed?” Draco demanded.

“Are you just gonna sleep standing, then?!” Potter snapped, sending him a foul look. “Because you’re still a guest. And, unlike someone, I have some respect for that. So you can sleep on the bed while I sleep on the floor. This is not up for discussion.”

Oh, that’s how this is going to be? “Listen here, Potter-”

“No, I will not be listening,” Potter said firmly. He stood, walking over to Draco and promptly pushing him onto the bed. Without another word, he flicked the light of his lamp off, plunging them into darkness. Receding footsteps. The shuffle of bed sheets against hardwood flooring. “Goodnight, Malfoy. Do be kind and just be quiet .”

Draco sat there on the bed, astounded by Potter’s nerve. But rather than arguing, he simply pulled himself up to lay down properly, fiercely pulling the sheets over his shoulders. Goodnight, his ass. He was going to sleep in spite of Potter, just he wait and see. And it would be the best bloody night of sleep he’d ever had. That would show him for being so rude . Stupid Potter with his stupid attitude and his stupid scar that gave him too much entitlement and his arrogant attitude-

“Malfoy,” Potter snapped. It wasn’t a friendly sound, and it quickly pulled Draco from his thoughts.

Draco snapped up in the bed, looking in the direction where Potter’s back was facing him. “What?!”

“Stop. Muttering. And go to sleep.”

Draco’s mouth fell agape quicker than he could say Quidditch. He’d been muttering that entire line of thought. Potter had likely heard everything-

As Draco laid back down, a huff escaping his chest, he’d never been more grateful for the dark that would hide his embarrassment-heated cheeks.

Neither boy slept well that night. Potter’s bed was nothing more than a stiff mattress that was five years in need of being thrown out, and they smelt too much like him. It kept him up, but made him sleepy at the same time, and because his mind was torn between the two, he turned and tossed to no avail. And he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Potter slept just on the other side of the room. Far too close, really. Separate rooms are always preferable. No one actually wanted to spend time with the Golden Boy, least of all Draco. But still, he couldn’t not think about the fact that Potter was such a mere distance away, and it made something inside him even more jittery. How irritating .

When Draco woke three hours later, Potter was still asleep, back facing Draco. His breaths shuddered slightly, and he was curled in on himself. Once Draco stood to examine him, he noticed that Potter’s eyes were slightly puffy, hands cradling the sides of his neck. And set open beside him was the torch from the night before, and a photo album, opened to a moving picture of a group of five people laughing and raising a cup, one dressed in a gown of white, the rest - all men - dressed in some variety of suit, although the one the farthest on the left looked to be wearing some sort of skirt over his pants. They all looked happier than Draco had ever seen anyone, a sense of family evident between the five as two of them men - one with long black hair and the other with square glasses - lightly shoved each other while another two - a man leaning on a cane and the woman in the white gown - shook their heads in disapproval as the first pair tackled each other out of the frame. The last man tipped his head back in a belly laugh. It was almost unbearable to witness, their clearly unbreakable bond found within such a small group.

Draco closed the photo album for Potter, shook out the odd squeezing feeling in his chest, and laid back in the bed. For another two hours, he slept much, much more soundly.

Chapter Text

That night, Harry dreamt of Sirius. It wasn’t a very long dream, godfather and godson sitting in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place after Christmas Dinner, away from the noise and bustle happening just a room over. Even in dream, it ached to see Sirius’s face, the glisten in his eyes that was never fully there. Harry had spent these dreams (which had started four days after Sirius’s death, and become an occasional appearance in Harry’s nightlife) just sitting, neither of them talking. Seeing him was terrible and everything Harry needed all at once. Each night, Harry laid his head on his pillow, secretly hoping that when he opened them, he’d be sitting next to his godfather once more.

That night was just like any other. Harry blinked open his eyes, finding Sirius sitting three seats down from where Harry sat at the head of the table. His legs were kicked up onto the table, a half-finished glass of virgin Firewhiskey cradled in his left hand, pinky habitually lifted. He was grinning in the way he always did as an exclamation came from the next room, a voice that sounded like Molly’s ringing through to lecture what was likely one of the twins. All Harry could do was observe. 

Sirius looked so relaxed, as if he truly didn’t have a clue where fate would take him a little less than six months later. Fate was easy to blame for all of this; Sirius’s early… departure . 

Harry still couldn’t bring himself to say the D - word . It felt so wrong. Most days, he couldn’t even bring himself to accept that he was actually, really, truly gone, let alone-

“You know,” Sirius said, cutting through the thin veil of Harry’s thoughts easily. They never spoke in these dreams. “You may find him tolerable if you gave it a shot.”

Harry sat up straighter, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. Sirius’s voice sounded off. Was it higher than it was supposed to be? Lower? It was wrong, but Harry couldn’t place how or why. He took a breath trying not to focus on the way that simple fallacy seemed to taunt him.

He didn’t want to admit he was forgetting already .

“Sirius?”

Sirius set his glass onto the table, swinging his legs off the surface while narrowly missing the glass and turning to him. He leaned his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. “I mean it.”

Harry processed for a moment, trying to figure out who on Earth Sirius was talking about. The gears churned, until, “Malfoy?”

Sirius nodded.

Harry huffed, falling back against his chair and pushing his glasses back onto his nose. “Please. Why should I bother? He’s a prejudiced little prick.”

“Might make your summer easier,” Sirius offered.

“Yeah, right,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “There’s no point in trying to shift whatever dynamic is going on there. I hate him.”

“You don’t have to.”

“And why not?” Harry retorted. “It’s not like you’ve had to just… tolerate someone to make some portion of your life easier.”

Sirius sighed, before straightening. He took a sip of his drink, contemplating how to respond. “That’s not true.”

“Who?” Harry asked, his voice a bit more demanding than he’d have liked it. “Snape?”

Sirius scoffed. “I’d rather die than have to tolerate Snape.”

The wording stung, and it took a moment to recover before he could respond. Harry pushed the ache to the side for now. “Who, then?”

Sirius’s grin, which had already gotten smaller throughout the conversation, faded completely. He shifted again, taking another sip of his drink, and setting his glass down once more. When he spoke, his words were almost forced. 

“My brother.”

“Oh.”

Sirius never spoke of his brother. Harry didn’t ask about him. It was a line he knew not to cross, as it often brought up memories that caused Sirius to separate himself from a group setting to spend hours locked away in his room. 

Sirius nodded again.

The silence that ensued was heavy, despite there being background noise. It sat on their shoulders, a burden for both of them to carry until the other dared to speak. Neither of them did. Rather, they sat in the quiet, knowing that Sirius had an element of truth to his words and knowing that Harry could very be too stubborn to accept them. Then again, Harry was too stubborn to accept many things.

When Harry looked away, looking around at 12 Grimmauld Place’s kitchen-dining room, everything was the same as he remembered. Maybe a color here or there was off by a shade or two, but not nearly enough to bother him. The enthusiastic chatter faded into soft murmurs until those fell quiet, and when they did, the silence got even thicker. Sirius was leaving him alone with his thoughts again, even though he was sitting just three seats away, staring at him. He watches as his godfather’s smile returns - a much smaller, more reassuring grin this time - and Harry wanted to believe that he was right. That maybe this could be bearable and maybe, just maybe , he could make it through this summer without tearing his hair out or committing various magical atrocities that he shouldn’t be committing in the first place since he’s under the age of seventeen or that his morals say are wrong, but he’d do anyway because what’s the point of even having morals when they’re proven to do nothing but put challenge after challenge in your way-

“Harry,” Sirius cut through his thoughts again. Harry’s shoulder tightened, breath catching in his throat as he noticed how wet his cheeks suddenly were. Sirius finished his drink, standing and coming over to put his hand on his shoulder. It was rougher than Harry remembered it ever being. Was he remembering it right? 

“Change may be unbearable in the moment,” Sirius said, voice just hardly over a whisper. “But it’s livable. Don’t let it pull you under, because then, you may never come back up. Take it from me . You’ll miss the better things if you drown in misery of it.”

When Harry met his gray eyes, all he could see was the flash of green, how Sirius’s skin paled instantly and the way his body stiffened as death pulled at every cell in his body, hair falling slightly into his eyes as he tumbled, stumbled back into the thin veil of white. 

He blinked.

And Sirius was gone. 12 Grimmauld Place was gone.

Now, all he saw was his bedroom at 4 Privet Drive, his heart pounding in his chest. He was still on the floor. He was still Harry Potter, even as his body shook with the tears that fell down his cheeks, even as he fought them. His chest was heaving, panic clawing at his scalp, his cheeks, his ribs. And Sirius was still…

He lifted himself onto his knees, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and taking up the photo album. He pushed aside blankets and sheets and a rug until he was able to lift up the small floorboard that hid all of his personal belongings - the things he wanted no one to see or touch but himself. Inside lay letters and small gifts he’d acquired of the years, along with a small bag of sweets Mrs. Weasley had baked for him and he greedily hid away in fear of Dudley finding them. On top of it all, the photo album. He replaced the board, before mustering the strength to push himself to his feet.

Draco Malfoy was still in his bed, facing the wall, the thin cotton blanket pulled up over his shoulders. Perhaps this was a good thing, the fact that Malfoy was positioned away from him. Harry didn’t want to know what Malfoy looked like in his sleep. Knowing him, he probably had some oddly peaceful look on his face just so he could snatch the attention from their five-, nearly six-year long feud. It made sense, considering all the so-called “good genes” he irritatingly sported. Why do cruel people have to be built so well? It’s as if whatever manufacturer designed them decided that what they couldn’t give them in personality, they had to give them in looks. The result of this are people like Malfoy, with well-kept blonde hair and porcelain skin, high cheekbones and just the right degree of curvature on the corner of his jaw. 

Harry moved to his wardrobe, not daring to look in Malfoy’s direction. He pulled out his outfit for the day.

He was in his room. Five feet away, at most. Harry’s mind buzzed, split on two separate things: his dream, and Draco Malfoy. He ignored the former, not having time for his grief. 

Harry often found himself wasting time through thoughts of the stupid ferret, though the topics of said thoughts fluctuated. Once, while pruning Aunt Petunia’s hydrangea bushes, he wondered if Malfoy was fond of flowers. Another time, while smearing peanut butter on a piece of toast, he wondered if Malfoy had any food allergies. Another time, Harry had been walking from Divination to Transfiguration, and he wondered if Malfoy was too gracious to trip over the steps of the ever changing staircases as many of the other students did. (He figured the answer for that one was probably yes.)

Recently, though, the question has mostly been, I wonder if he asks himself questions about me, too . It was such a stupid thought, but it made things seem lighter. The idea that Malfoy thought of him on a whim, that he spent time thinking about the small details of his life… It was a soothing thought, though Harry would never admit it. He didn’t want to, anyway. The only way anyone would be getting that particular confession out of him is if they forced veritaserum down his throat, which is a happening he doubted would be happening anytime soon.

He wondered - although, hoped may be a more accurate term - that if he just kept his mouth shut and his distance plentiful, those particular set of emotions would disappear. He had enough to worry about, and feelings did not need to become another he faced.

So, Harry let out a breath, slowly opened the door to keep it from creaking, and sneaked to the bathroom to get dressed before he started his day.

Draco didn’t initially panic when he awoke in an unfamiliar space. But when it registered that he was no longer in the guest bedroom of 4 Privet Drive, he bolted upright, eyes widening and hands clutching the cotton comforter of the bed that hadn’t been his, that wasn’t his. He gulped in breaths of air that felt stale in his lungs, eyes searching for a form of familiarity, flicking from the wardrobe to the dresser to the desk and the bed and-

The pile of bedding on the floor, now folded and pushed into the corner. Draco released a breath, the previous night coming back to him like a flood of chills, snow on an autumn day. Shoulders slumping, he carefully pulled back the comforter, his feet meeting the cool wood paneling of Potter’s room. The light of morning opened the room a little more than the moonlight had, making it cozier.

Actually, now that Draco came to think of it, Potter’s room was really the only room in this Merlin forsaken place that could be described as cozy. The walls seemed warmer, drawings and Gryffindor paraphernalia decorating the floral wallpaper. It was simple, but not in the way the rest of the house was. At least Potter’s room actually had personality.

Draco left the room, venturing to the guest room, only to find it locked tight. Fantastic . Now, not only did he not have his own room, he had no way to access his own clothing. Naturally, he’d never been more furious. They had no right to lock away his personal belongings! They were his , not theirs! He walked down the stairs, careful not to stomp, fully prepared to have a very, very strong word with the adults of this household. He wanted to approach this firmly, put his foot down and show he deserved some damn respect!

His foot just barely touched the bottom step when a feud of footsteps against the wood, a soft thud vibrating through the wall. Draco stopped short, alert, staying back as he listened to the growling voice. He knew that tone, the one of warning. The one that said he’d lost one chance, and he only had so many left. Usually, it was only two or three.

“I told you to keep him quiet,” The voice growled. It was the uncle, what was his name… Vernon? That seemed right.

Harry’s voice came next, strained to the slightest degree. “It was night, my door was locked. How am I supposed to keep an eye on him at all hours of the night if I can’t even leave the room?”

Vernon scoffed. “Don’t test me, Potter.” Silence settled for a moment, thicker than cream.

Carefully, Draco peaked his head around the counter, and the sight nearly made him nauseous. Vernon had Potter held against the wall by his hair, his grip unyielding and white-knuckled. His face was nearly purple with anger, eyes squinted at the boy who just stared up at him, jaw tight with discomfort. Draco looked away, hiding back behind the wall. What on Earth…?

Vernon let out a huff of breath. “I want all of his things out of the guest room by the time I get home tonight.”

“But-”

“No. ‘But’s,” Vernon’s voice cut through, not leaving any room for argument. 

“I don’t have any room for his stuff,” Harry said, a hint of irritation to his words.

“Then make room,” Vernon spat. Footsteps came again, and Draco watched as Vernon passed by the stairs. He pulled the front door open, blocking Draco’s view of the hall. “You have a grocery list on the table; there should be enough money attached to it. Make yourself useful for once and stop by the market at some point today, why don’t you?” With that, the door shut, and Vernon was gone. 

Once more, silence filled the hall. Draco stood there for a moment, unsure if he should reveal himself or if he should stay put. But as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, so he stepped forward, entering the sun-lit hall to find Potter still standing there, slumped against the wall.

Potter ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath and collecting himself.

“What in Merlin’s name-” Draco couldn’t stop himself. But Potter could.

“Don’t,” He said, the single word more sharp than Draco had ever heard from him.

“Don’t?” Draco repeated, astounded.

Potter straightened, walking to the dining room and completely ignoring Draco. He snatched up the list, checking the clock before reading off it in soft mutters. Draco just stared from across the table. The audacity!

“Helloooo? Earth to Potter! Are you going to answer me?”

“It’s none of your business, Malfoy,” Potter spat. This was clearly something he didn’t want to discuss, a sore spot that Draco wasn’t even sure he should prod at. Potter continued, “Just nod off and go get dressed, will ya? We have errands to run.”

“Why don’t you just have house elves to just go run it for you?”

Potter’s gaze slowly dragged up to meet Draco’s, slipping from the list to the blonde’s face. “You’re… are you seriously asking me that?”

Draco nodded.

“Malfoy,” Potter deadpanned, before sighing. He gestured to the room around him, as if something should be obvious. “Muggle household, remember? They don’t do magical things.”

“Oh.” Draco could feel his cheeks heat a little. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Still, he didn’t let his embarrassment show. “But do you really have to run your errands yourself?”

“Yes. We do. We don’t have the money to pay someone to run errands for us.”

“I see…” Draco trailed off, looking away from Potter. Eye contact with him was almost overwhelming. “Well, how am I supposed to get dressed if I can’t get my stuff?”

Potter sighed. “I have the key to the guest room. I can just go upstairs and unlock the door, that way you can get your fancy robes or whatever it is you wear in the summer-” His sentence died, eyes dragging over Draco again. 

Draco’s brows pulled together. “What? What is that face for?”

“What kind of clothes do you have?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Just answer the question, Malfoy. What type of clothes did you bring for this summer, because I haven’t seen you in anything other than suits and robes.”

Draco bristled. “Do you have an issue with suits and robes?”

“I- what? No.” Potter gave him a bored look.

“Well, for your information, that happens to be all the styles of clothing I have.”

“Of course…”

Draco crossed his arms, attempting to not seem offended. “Do you have an issue with this?”

Potter rolled his eyes. “I already said I didn’t. I don’t care, to each their own. But my aunt and uncle will.”

Draco’s arms dropped back to his sides. “Why would they care? They seem like the type of people to enjoy tidiness and a neat appearance.”

“Don’t get me wrong, they are,” Potter acknowledged with a tip of his head. “But you’ll be with me. And being seen with me in some strange or overly-formal outfit, and it’ll be too abnormal. They cherish normality, so you’ll have to appear…” Potter gestured again with his hand.

“Appear?”

“Muggle,” Potter finished.

Draco felt his stomach droop, but before he could say anything, Potter spoke, “It won’t be for long. You’ll survive.”

“But they dress so informally!”

“Comfort at its finest,” Potter shrugged.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Draco blew out a frustrated breath, fluttering his lips. “Well, I don’t own any muggle clothes.”

Once more, Potter shrugged. “You can borrow some of mine.”

At that, Draco felt his stomach lurch again. But it wasn’t the same as before; lighter and less unpleasant. “I will do no such thing!”

“It won’t kill you, Malfoy.”

“It might!” Draco exclaimed, hands flying up into the air. “You never know. They could be cursed!”

“With what magic? I can’t use magic until next year, and, once more, muggle household. No magic anywhere to be seen.”

“No. Not happening.”

“Yes. Yes happening.” By now, Potter was grinning that irritating grin, the one that made Draco’s skin buzz with frustration.

“No!”

“Yes!”

Draco glared at him. This was getting him nowhere. He didn’t entirely hate the idea of wearing Potter’s clothes, since they did look comfortable. But what would his family say? What would his companions say? Draco has to remind himself that the possibility of them actually running into any of them was minimal. “I’m not wearing your clothes.”

That damned grin.

Chapter Text

Okay, so maybe muggle attire wasn’t entirely horrible. For example, Draco could move in it without feeling like his joints are unnecessarily stiff. He could never experience that with the sleeves of his suits. And, Draco bitterly had to give it to Potter, the clothes were comfortable, breathable.

Potter had lent him a pair of blue jeans and plain t-shirt, which had fit Draco surprisingly well, given height differences. As much as he admired the comfortability of the simple pieces of clothing, Draco felt rather… bare . He was lacking a layer or two, and his arms were exposed, the sleeves of the shirt stopping mid-bicep. It was strange and uncomfortable how aware he was that anyone could just look and see his arms, though he tried not to let Potter have the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort. Maybe, he thought, if he just stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept his forearms turned inward, people wouldn’t have the chance to see. Potter wouldn’t have the chance to see.

That’s all that mattered in the moment. He didn’t want or need people to see that weakness scarred his body.

Much to Potter’s surprise, it took Draco an additional half-hour to get ready once he was dressed. After much pushing, he’d unlocked the guest room door for Draco, allowing him to collect his things. He cleansed his face, always keeping up with the care he put into having flawless skin. It was one of the few things he had maintained throughout his life, not letting anything get in the way of that. Then, for the first time since being here, Draco took the time to style his hair properly, so he didn’t look like a fool as Potter always did. It was a tedious process, and by the half-way point, Potter finally came in to complain about how long it was taking him.

“It’s not my fault you don’t take care of that mop,” Draco had shot at him, which quickly quieted Potter, who walked off with a hand brushing through his tight curls. Draco took that success to heart.

By the time they left, it was nearly ten in the morning, the sun already hot and the humidity nearly unbearable. They walked about five minutes to the market, both of them carrying bags while Potter read off the list once more, tapping an odd stick to his lip.

“What is that?” Draco asked after a moment, tired of staring at it and not figuring it out. 

Potter looked around, looking from the sidewalk to a fence to even a butterfly. “What is what?”

“That thing.” Draco pointed to it, the thin black stick resting between Potter’s fingers. “In your hand.”

“This?” Potter held it up. “It’s… uh… It’s a ballpoint pen.”

“A ballpoint pen?” Draco repeated, plucking it from Potter’s palm when it’s offered. He held it up in the sunlight, and in a moment, it was gone from between Draco’s fingers and between Potter’s.

“Yeah. You write with it. It's like a quill, but not as fancy.”

“Do you live under a rock?” Draco crossed his arms as they turned a corner, the sun starting to beat down and the air starting to get stickier. “Quills are hardly fancy; not unless you get one of those ones that never need to be dipped or that writes in pure gold.”

“Muggles don’t use quills,” Potter explained. “And this doesn’t need to be dipped more than once. It comes with ink in it, less messy that way. Unless it explodes, but that doesn’t happen very often.”

Draco paused entirely. He snatched the pen up, then the lined paper Potter was carrying, dragging a line with the pen across the bottom. Much to his surprise (though he tried not to show it), it truly did write without needing to be dipped. His lips part as he does it again, looking up to find Potter already staring.

“Muggles use this?” His voice was astonished.

“Every day,” Potter nodded. “I mean, they’re made in bulk. You can buy them at the store. Not that special.”

“But…” Draco grumbled. He couldn’t believe it, but he could actually accredit a muggle for this. “It’s so convenient.”

Harry shrugged. “Wizards don’t have everything right. Just wait until you all find out about television and telephones.”

“Tell-a-vision?” Draco repeated, his face scrunching. “Divination is such an ineffectual subject, honestly. It’s no surprise muggles believe in it. It doesn’t actually do anythi... What are you laughing for? What about this is funny? I’m telling the truth!”

“You are!” Potter agreed, stifling a laugh with his hand. “Divination is awful. I’ve never been more grateful to get out of a class. But that’s not what television is for.”

“It’s not?”

“No! It’s for entertainment.”

Draco gave him a stale look, unimpressed and unbelieving.

Potter then sighed, waving a hand as if that could prove his point better. “It’s like… I don’t know… Watching a play at home. With special effects and stuff like that.”

Draco still didn’t look like he believed him. So Harry just said, “One of these days, I’ll show you.”

Draco groaned. “Haven’t you exposed me to enough muggle things?” He picked at his short sleeve, grimacing. “These clothes are already more than enough muggle than I can take. They’re atrocious.”

“No, they’re not. You’re just stubborn.”

“I’ll have you know, Potter , that if either of us are stubborn here, it’s you. You are the reason-”

But Potter had turned the corner then, and before them sprawled a green park buzzing with activity. Tented booths stand proud, all different colors and sizes, vendors smiling at the people passing by. There were stands of flowers (bees buzzed around these stalls, though customers didn’t seem to mind), embroidery, fresh fruits and vegetables. It looked like something out of a fable, which simultaneously meant it is the exact kind of place Lucius Malfoy would warn his son to stay away from. Draco stood, aghast as he took everything in at the edge of the sidewalk, just behind the low fence.

“What in Merlin’s name…”

“It’s a market,” Potter said, as if it’s obvious.

"I can see that,” Draco snapped in response. "I have eyes, y'know. And unlike someone, they work perfectly fine without assistance."

“You’ll get used to it,” Potter said, stepping over the low fence and onto the grass, ignoring Draco's comment entirely. “C’mon. The quicker we get everything we need, the quicker we can head back to the Dursley’s.”

They only ended up spending half an hour at the outdoor market, and Draco couldn’t help but be amazed. It wasn’t all that big, but there were so many different things there. Aside from the flowers and embroidery and garden-grown foods, there were people selling heaps of sweets - one man was even selling paintings! Draco would compare it to Diagon Alley, but there wasn’t enough magic, and not nearly enough too-crowded, oddly-shaped shops for it to compare. Diagon Alley and this outdoor market were two separate entities, but Draco found himself more entertained by the latter. 

Throughout his life, the Malfoys had ever stepped foot in shops if their presence was absolutely required, like whenever they were going to be fitted for new robes or going shopping for school. The only exception to this is that Draco has, since Second Year, refused to enter Flourish & Blotts, since he still carried the embarrassment of his father losing a fight to Arthur Weasley to bear it. He made the house-elves go for him. Now, walking around this small market, he couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t gone on more shopping expeditions. If he had known there’d be this much activity…

Draco shook his head every time this thought crossed his mind. He didn’t like thinking that the muggles do things like this, not when they entertain him, too. But… he gave them a small amount of credit. 

Potter walked with a full bag slung over his shoulder, the list of groceries completed as they just continued wandering. Occasionally, he would stop and talk to someone briefly, but never for long, and the conversation was always drier than the Sahara.

Finally, the sun had grown too hot for either of them to want to be outside, and the agreement to head back to the Dursley’s was civil and instantaneous. Draco still looked around as they navigated their way through the grassy aisle between the vendor booths, not quite paying attention to Potter and his driftings from booth to booth. It wasn’t until Draco actually turned to look at Potter for directions back to the house that he found that he wasn’t actually there anymore. Draco stood for a moment, staring at the spot Potter had been - where he was supposed to be - before whipping around, looking left and right along the aisle to find him. He scanned person after person: several children, a woman with a scarf around her head, a balding man who looked oddly like Cornelius Fudge, and- there .

Potter stood several booths back, speaking to a girl with frilly hair pulled back into a half-up bun and an inquisitive stare, her arms crossed over her chest and hip cocked to the side. Granger. He was talking to Granger, and had left Draco to get lost in this unfamiliar muggle town without so much as a warning! Well, actually, Draco could recall Potter saying something several minutes ago, but he hadn’t been listening to him. Okay, whatever, maybe Potter had said something, but that doesn’t matter now. Draco just wanted to get out of the sun before he burned, but it seemed that wasn’t going to happen. He could already feel his skin sizzling.

Draco ducked under one of the tents, setting his bag of groceries at his feet and waiting impatiently. He wasn’t going to just walk over to them. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Granger and her know-it-all attitude. How Potter could stand to be around her was beyond Draco. So he just stood there, waiting for Potter with great annoyance. The woman who owned the tent offered him a chilled bottle of water, of which he accepted, snatching it from her. He didn’t apologize for his rudeness. 

He took two sips of his water when he finally felt a presence at his side. He turned away from the aisle to look at whoever it was, huffing, “It’s about time, Potter. Merlin, must you always-”

But it wasn’t Potter.

Rather, it was Dudley, standing less than half a meter from him, eyes trailing over him. “Harry’s here?” Dudley asked, the group of boys behind him chuckling.

Draco scanned each boy. They all looked similar, blond or brunette hair, pointy, judgmental faces, and all weaker than Dudley. Draco couldn’t help but cringe and hope that this mess isn’t what he looks like in school whenever he’s walking with Crabbe and Goyle. “Yes, he’s here.” Once more, Draco didn’t apologize for the rudeness of his tone.

“Watch it, Melboy,” Dudley huffed, clenching his fist. 

“Malfoy,” Draco corrected, his irritation growing. “Piss off. I don’t want to see you.”

“What?” Dudley mused, poorly raising a brow. “Do we have issues now? Be civil, mate. I haven’t done anything.”

“Oh, believe me, we have plenty of issues now.” Draco figured he wouldn’t be forgiving Dudley for last night any time soon. He didn’t have a room now, not really. And it was all Dudley’s fault. “Go away. I don't want to be around you.”

“Are all you… special folk this rude?” Dudley asked, avoiding saying the word Wizard outright in front of his friends. “You’re worse than Harry, and that’s saying something.”

Draco huffed, beyond annoyed at this point. “Leave me alone, Dudders . I have every reason to be rude to you. You’re just some- some self-absorbed twat who can’t take no for an answer. Now piss off. I mean it.”

There came a series of ‘ ooo’ s from Dudley’s crew, and Dudley’s fists tightened. Draco could see the way his knuckles went white, though he ignored it and kept looking at Dudley head on. He wasn’t afraid of him. What was some muggle going to do to him that Draco couldn’t one-up?

Dudley took a step forward, nearly closing the gap between them. “You listen here, you scumbag,” He growled in Draco’s face, “You have no right to be this rude. Remember, I have the most influence. I can get you kicked out with just a simple please . Just because you’re friends with that fag doesn’t mean you’re safe from being kicked to the curb.”

Draco was stunned. Something in him churned at the term, something more venomous than anger and more bitter than hatred. For a good moment, he didn’t know what to say, or what to do. “Excuse me? What did you call him?”

“I mean it,” Dudley continued. “What? Didn’t know? Don’t act like you’re surprised. I mean, look at him! It’s a shock people even want to be around him.”

Draco could feel his blood boil. He hated that word. Time and time again, he’d heard his family use it at those stupid Death Eater meetings they'd host in their dining room and force him to sit in on, grouping them in with the muggle-borns of the world. It got under his skin, made his head spin with a disgust he could only describe as anger-fueled discomfort that rose the hairs on his arms. He hated it, and hated the way it always felt like an attack. He couldn't say anything about it when he was at the Manor. But he wasn't at Malfoy Manor now.

“Shut up, Dudley.”

“Whatever,” Dudley rolled his eyes. “Listen, all I’m saying is-”

“Do we have an issue?”

The voice came from behind Draco, smooth and tired. Potter came to stand at Draco’s side, looking utterly unimpressed and unbothered by interaction. There was silence, aside from a few snickers from behind Dudley. The two stared at each other for a moment, before Dudley scoffed, turning away and gesturing for his crew of apes to follow him. They do, like a flock of baby ducks and their mother. 

They watched them leave, and Potter sighed, turning to Draco. Now, the irritation was turned to him.

“He approached me,” Draco said quickly, immediately in defense of himself.

Potter rolled his eyes, moving away from him. “Let's go. We’ve had enough social interaction for the day.”

For whatever reason, Draco knew it would probably be just better to follow. Not like he knew the way back to 4 Privet Drive, anyway.

Chapter Text

[...]

Honestly, there’s been nothing remarkable to note. I’ve been here at 4 Privet Drive for at least a week, and nothing seems too notable. Not really.

The most shocking - although more like disturbing - thing to really happen is the fact that Potter has been civil. For the most part. Really, he just avoids me, which, if i’m being honest, is nothing short of irritating. He acknowledges me, yeah. But most of the time he just stays away from me. He does it here, but not at school.

Maybe the whole deal he has with his uncle. From what (albeit limited) interaction I’ve observed of them, Potter always seems to want to stay on the positive side of things. And the effort is so - what’s a suitable word for it… tense? Strained, maybe. Like he knows how to get onto the positive side of things, but the actual effort of doing so is more difficult than it should or needs to be. Or maybe it’s just a yearning for approval?

I hate to say it, but whatever it is, I sympathize with him. The seemingly fruitless quest to appease a guardian? Don’t even get me started.

Other than that? Things are normal.

The cousin (Dudley, name confirmed in the “vase incident”), on the other hand, could give Divination a run for its money for how much of a pain he is. He’s not even around that often. He’s just plain irritating, with his snide remarks and trailing crew whenever they are around. I’ve been praying to Merlin the past day and a half in hopes that he isn’t what I look like at Hogwarts, when I finally have Blaise and Pansy and Crabbe and Goyle at my side. That may actually be my nightmare. Though, at least our snide remarks are actually clever.

But let’s not focus on that oaf. I want to focus on what’s important here: what on Earth is Potter’s deal?

Okay, yes. He avoids me. Whatever. Rude, but whatever. He says it’s because he doesn’t want to get into trouble, whatever that means. Surely, he won’t get in trouble for talking to a fellow wizard. That’s what I am, am I not? 

I digress. I’ve already gone over that.

That aside, I have to admit, he’s almost hospitable. I never knew he could be such a thing, speaking to me without bite and with some level of respect. But ever since I was kicked to the curb of the guest bedroom and forced to share the same quarters with Potter, things haven’t been as miserable as I may have thought they’d be. 

He tends to keep a respectable distance between us when we’re in the same room, likely in attempts to prevent any fisticuffs. He’s given me his bed, sleeping on a pile of blankets on the floor, completely without complaint. If I were in his position, I would’ve fought tooth and nail to keep my bed to myself. It’s my bed, after all. But… he doesn’t.

What’s worse, he’s not a total prat about anything! I didn’t know he was capable of that, honestly. He acts like he isn’t Harry-freakin-Potter, and like he’s just… some guy. I half wonder if he preserves his infamous attitude he carries at school over the summer so it can come out in a full bang, pizazz and all. I almost miss the rudeness of it all.

On top of that, as if to make it even more abysmal, I caught myself wondering the other day if he enjoys being in my presence. The thought is utterly absurd. Don’t get me wrong, everyone should enjoy being in my presence. Being blessed with the aura and status that comes with the Malfoy name is no minor thing. But Potter? Enjoying being around me? Outrageous. There’s not a chance in the world. I don’t even think Merlin himself could manage that.

I don’t know what’s happening. I think it could just be him trying to not get on his uncle’s nerves. I will say, though, the family is uneven. The distribution of everything is heavily weighed on one side of a scale I didn’t know even existed. It’s almost as if Potter and the rest of his family are two separate entities. Anyone could see that, no matter how minimal interaction they have with the family as a whole.

I think I might do a little more poking around. See if I can find anything else out.

[...]

Chapter Text

Draco could tell whenever Vernon got home for the day when the house rattled slightly. Growing up, he gained the talent of being able to detect and determine what person was approaching at any given time through their footsteps. He was always able to know which house elf was trailing him without looking, always able to know when either of his parents entered the room. It was harder at Hogwarts, since there were so many pairs of feet moving about at once. But when he was in the common room, playing cards with Blaise or debating with Theo, he could tell.

For example: Crabbe, much like Vernon, also had a heavy step. He sort of stomped around, as if he’s compensating for his lack of intimidation by being a stomper. Pansy, on the other hand, had the feet of a ballerina, quieter, but not entirely undetectable. Potter’s footsteps were cautious, but not concerned about their presence.

See? Useful. He never worried about being startled by someone’s approach because of this skill.

Vernon’s footsteps could be heard throughout the house. Maybe that was influenced by his size - because that does add to the pressure he puts on his feet when he steps. But Draco figured it was because of his demeanor. He made himself a bigger presence than he actually was.

Safe to say, he took the whole ‘Head of the House’ thing seriously. Even Lucius Malfoy would be shocked. 

Draco lay on Potter’s bed, staring at the picture of his mother when he felt the first of them vibrate through the house. He’d been feeling a little homesick when he’d woken this morning and hadn’t been able to pull himself out of it, yearning to write to his mother and make sure she was okay. He knew it wasn’t the smart thing to do. She’d be furious for risking giving away his location just to write to her. So he didn’t. Doesn’t mean it changed anything.

Draco sighed, resting the frame on his chest as Vernon’s voice rang through the walls, frustrated as always. It seemed that Vernon often forgot Draco was there. He doubted he would act so irritable if he hadn’t.

Today, the commotion of it all was unbearable. Draco wasn’t in the mood to listen to Vernon shout.

At least Father didn’t shout…

Draco shook away that thought. He didn’t want to think about his father right now.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, replacing the photograph in his bag and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He might as well go see what the shouting was about today. Perhaps the drama would be entertaining for once.

He didn’t sneak out of the bedroom, not really. Yes, he made an effort not to step on any of the creaky boards (just because he reaps the benefits of being able to detect others footsteps doesn’t mean others should get to hear his), but he didn’t take any further efforts to mask his presence. 

The hall was crowded, Petunia poised at the end by the kitchen, Vernon stationed just beyond the stairs and blocking much of Draco’s view of the former. Dudley stood off to the side, looking between his parents as Vernon spoke in a vexed tone,

“What do you mean he’s out?”

Petunia sighed, voice sweetened for her husband. “I don’t want to repeat myself. He’s out running an errand for me. If you wished to catch him, you should’ve gotten home earlier.” 

“I have things I need him to do,” Vernon grumbled, pushing past Dudley into the kitchen. He pulled a glass from the cupboard, going to the liquor cabinet on the other wall. He shook his head as he poured himself a glass, “I asked him to do the lawn today, and guess what didn’t get done? Same for the half bath. He should know better than to disregard his duties.”

Dudley perked up. “And- And my room wasn’t cleaned.”

Draco bristled with that, eyes moving from Vernon to the son. Adding salt to a wound he had no business in? Seriously? So Draco spoke up. He wasn’t sure why he came to Potter’s defense, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Why does Potter need to clean your room?”

Silence fell. Not nearly as suffocating as it could have been, but still uncomfortable. Draco didn’t shift or let his sudden nerves show, but his attention spread out between Vernon and Dudley and Petunia as they all turned to him. Vernon rolled his shoulders back, raising a brow.

“Eavesdropping, were we?” Vernon said.

Draco saw no point in lying. He shrugged, “I wouldn’t say eavesdropping. You speak rather loudly. In public areas.”

Vernon’s eyes formed little slits. “Har, har. How clever.”

Draco nodded. “I thought so. However, I don’t understand the point in having Potter clean Dudley’s room. Isn’t it Dudley’s room and, therefore, Dudley’s responsibility?”

Draco knew he had absolutely zero room to speak here, since he had house elves keeping his rooms tidy at Malfoy Manor. He has always been a bit of a hypocrite. This time, though, he could see why it was odd. At least when he was at the Manor, he kept his room tidy enough that it didn’t actually require the Houseleves to clean it that often. All they really had to do was some light dusting every week or so. It wasn’t that hard on either side.

So, yes, in Draco’s opinion, his saying something was rather necessary.

“Didn’t you mummy ever teach you not to meddle in things that aren’t your business?” Dudley asked, completely unamused.

Vernon didn’t give Draco a chance to respond. “What are you doing down here?”

Draco had never been more grateful to be able to think quickly on his feet. “I was going outside. The weather seems lovely.”

“In those wretched clothes?” Petunia sounded disgusted, a hand on her pearl necklace. “You look so… unusual. You can’t have seriously thought it’d be acceptable to show yourself in public dressed like… that .”

Draco looked down at himself. His clothes definitely weren’t the nicest he owned, a soft, cotton robe that was colored emerald green, layered over his usual button up and slacks. He even did his hair today, brushed and oiled and styled as he usually would. He looked good, as he always did, even if he wasn’t wearing the primmest clothes. 

Draco grit his teeth. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes. My mother hand stitched this for me last year.” He gestured to his robes.

Petunia tutter her tongue, shaking her head. “Oh, dear… perhaps we should offer her some classes. She may need them if she thinks that is what looks good. The fabric is all uneven.”

Draco could feel an anger swell in his chest. No one spoke of his mother in a negative light. “Watch your mouth. You have no idea who you’re speaking of right now. My mother is a very talented woman.”

“Clearly not,” Petunia countered, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “You look anything but normal. If it was given to my Dudders, it would have been in the rubbish bin as soon as we got home.” She rushed to her son’s side, petting her head and cooing at him when he slapped her manicured hand away.

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but stopped himself short when the front door opened behind him. The air was tense as Harry entered, and it became more so when he looked from person to person, his gaze instantly suspicious. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Vernon snapped quickly. He treaded over to them. “You two go up to your rooms. I refuse to tolerate this level of disrespect.”

Potter’s face scrunched, “What disrespect-”

“Disrespect?!” Draco snapped over Potter’s voice. Color drained from the latter boy’s face, but Draco continued. “I merely asked a question! She is the one being disrespectful, out of any of us, making comments about my mother.”

Vernon’s gaze snapped to him. “You watch your tone with me, boy-”

“Don’t you dare call me that. You are not my father, you don’t get to dislike my tone when you keep one up with me.”

“You don’t understand the situation you’ve put us in,” Petunia wailed, clutching Dudley by his shoulders.

Draco was vaguely aware of Potter saying his name through gritted teeth, and he almost paused to reconsider his actions when he felt his hand on his wrist, trying to capture his attention. The touch sent a momentary chill up Draco’s arm, spreading from his shoulder, up his neck and into his chest. But the anger there devoured Potter’s touch, pushing it to the corners of Draco’s mind to be forgotten. “What situation? You elected to take me in! I haven’t done anything, and I’ve been nothing but punished for my presence!”

“Elected?!” Vernon boomed. “You think we’d willingly take in another freak?! Do you know how much trouble we go through trying to appear normal?! Yet here you are, charading around in your nonsense clothes and your magical worlds as if you're just another person!”

“Excuse me?!” Draco barked back. “I don’t charade around in anything nonsense! Are you really so thick headed that you must find shame in something that doesn’t even involve you?! How selfish do you have to be-”

Two things came at once: Potter’s voice, much more demanding this time, tugging him back, and Vernon’s hand. Draco heard both of them before he felt either. The sting on his cheek came in bits and pieces, first in the realization that he’d been struck, and second in a glimmering, pink ache that stretched from his cheek to his temple. The blow wasn’t all that hard; Draco had definitely experienced far worse pains. But it was enough to send him back into Potter’s chest, who stumbled in his effort to both catch and steady him. 

Worst of all, it was effective. It shut Draco up instantly, all words shocked out of his system. Had he cried out? He was sure he did. He had to have. And now, moments later, he was barely standing against Potter’s chest, cheek stinging and eyes burning with the threat of tears. He wasn’t going to let himself cry, no chance in Hell. But the ache lingered. 

There was one major difference Draco had acquainted himself with between pain caused by magic and pain caused by a physical hit: Magical pain didn’t last much longer than it was cast. With the exception of the Cruciatus Curse, it was gone as quickly as it came as if it were never there in the first place. Physical hits, on the other hand, lingered, pain ebbing at the edges of a frayed throb. He knew it too well.

Only thought crossed his mind. That was that Vernon had just hit him.

Vernon Dursley, one of the people supposedly protecting him from the current horrors of the Wizarding World this summer, had hit him, and looked completely unremorseful.

He knew that look in Vernon’s eyes.

How many times had he seen it in his father’s?

Potter sagged against the door, holding up Draco’s body weight so he didn’t fall any further than he had to. Draco could hear Potter’s heart beating against the back of his head, rapid and unyielding. He could feel the vibration of it - thunkthunkthunkthunk - against his skull. Potter helped Draco to his feet, but he didn’t look away from him.

Vernon blew out a breath, as if it would calm him down. The sound of it, a single brush of anger in one breath, was so horribly familiar, Draco could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Vernon shook out his hand.

“Don’t talk back to me,” he said, voice low. “You’re a brat. We have done nothing but given you kindness since you got here. This is how you repay us?” He turned to Potter. “Take him up to his room.”

Draco met Potter’s eyes, and his mouth went dry at something swimming in that familiar, emerald green. It wasn’t hatred, like Draco may have thought it would be. But more, disappointment.

Something twisted inside Draco’s gut, and it was almost staggering. Harry Potter was disappointed in him. The mere idea, the prospect that this was even a possibility, made something in Draco hurt.

Why did it hurt?

When Potter spoke, his voice was desolate, twinged with something along the lines of regret. “Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

Potter took Draco by the wrist, his hands rough against the small patch of porcelain skin, and once more, that chill ran up Draco’s arm. He let it settle, letting Potter drag him towards the stairs, his mind now more focused on the ache in his chest than the anger that had been there no more than five minutes before. 

They hadn’t even reached the fourth step before Vernon spoke again, “And Harry?”

Potter didn’t even turn his head to look at his uncle. He just stopped in his place.

“When you’re done,” Vernon said, his voice an angered drawl, “come back downstairs, will you?”

Potter’s grip on Draco’s wrist tightened, and it took everything in him not to comment on it.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

Chapter Text

Potter didn’t say a word as they ascended the stairs. His gaze was trained on the floor, eyes hardened with something Draco had never seen before. His hand was still wrapped around Draco’s wrist, and Draco was currently doing everything he could to not think about how dizzy the sensation made him. Any other time, sure, he may have dwelled and analyzed all the ways he did or did not like the touch. But now didn't seem like the time, A, and, B, it was simple enough to just… enjoy? Was that the right word?

It wasn’t too tight. Wasn’t too loose. Potter’s hand fully enclosed Draco’s wrist, simple and demanding and…

Draco shook his head.

Time and place , he reminded himself, though he wasn’t sure what for. But the phrase seemed to fit. Time and place .

By the time they reached Potter’s room, his heart was racing. Something had to be wrong with him. Maybe he should get his heart checked. There was no way these palpitations were normal.

That ended the moment Potter shoved him into his room. He shoved him, making him stumble over some blankets as Potter shut the door behind him and ran two very, very frustrated hands through his mop of curls. He groaned, before slamming the toe of his shoe into his dresser.

Draco stood, stunned. “What exactly is the problem here?”

“You!” Potter exclaimed, gesticulating wildly in Draco’s direction. “ You are my issue here. Why do you always have to go and make things difficult?!” Potter blew out a breath, pacing in front of his door.

Draco was stunned. The other boy was angrier than Draco had ever heard him - ever seen him. He practically had steam billowing out of his ears with how worked up he was. His hands were shaking as they pushed through his hair, his eyes were frustrated. His jaw was tight and his shoulders tense.

Suddenly, Potter turned to him, and in a commanding tone said, “You’re going to stay in here and be quiet. Do not leave this room unless absolutely necessary. Do you understand?”

Draco’s face screwed up. “What in Merlin’s name is your issue?”

“What’s my issue?!” Potter boomed, his eyes glittering with tears. Draco felt an odd sort of pang in his chest at the sight, an urge to wipe the tears away and fix this. Potter continued, “Quick question, Malfoy. What part of ‘leave my family alone, don’t interact with them at all’ do you not understand? Because that seemed pretty straightforward to me. Still does!”

“What are you on abou- oh.”

“That’s all you have to say?! ‘Oh.’ Are you serious right now?!”

Draco stood sort of awkwardly, folding his arms over his chest. “Listen, I didn’t think he’d react like that-”

“Of course you didn’t, you don’t know him,” Potter snapped. “But I figured once someone started yelling like that, you’d be able to gauge when to stop. When to walk away. But apparently, you can’t even do that!”

Draco recoiled at that. “Potter, there isn’t a need to get hostile over this-”

Potter cut him off before he could finish, again, his voice coming in a teary, furious shout. “I have every right to be angry!”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Potter let out an irritated laugh, the sound sending chills down Draco’s spine.

“I had one job,” Potter muttered, resuming his pacing by his door.

This was bewildering. “What are you talking about?”

“All I had to do was keep you out of trouble this summer,” Potter said, and Draco wasn’t even sure he was aware of what he was saying at all. “But you’re so-” he swore under his breath, “-so unbelievably difficult that I can’t even do that right.”

Potter spun on his heel, tearing the door open. “I hope you’re happy, Malfoy. For once in your life, listen to me and just stay put. It’ll be better for both of us.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

It’ll be better for both of us .

The familiarity of the words stung, something clawing at the back of his mind with how sharp they were.

Harry Potter was angry.

And not only was he angry - furious, even. He was angry at Draco. Which, for some reason, was so, so much worse.

How many times had Potter been angry at him before? How many times had he spent hours trying to perfect ways to anger Potter in this way? The number had to be astronomical, in all honesty. Countless hours of Draco fantasizing about ways to get this sort of visceral reaction out of him, countless hours of boasting and poking a seemingly un-frustrate-able bear. And hours considering that his over-the-top stoicness was the worst reaction he’d ever get.

Now that he had it… now that he had it , even if it wasn’t his intention…

Draco slumped onto the bed, pulling the picture of his mother out. He ran his thumb over her face, wishing the sight of it would give him the grand relief of revelation; an understanding of what was going on with him. There had to be something wrong with him, hadn’t there?

He’d gotten someone in trouble. Usually, he’d boast about this. Usually, he wouldn’t care nearly this much. Was this care? Concern? The way his heart was still pounding in his chest and the way his head was heavy with regret and the way that small, but undeniably there, piece of his mind was still on Potter’s hand on his wrist -

No. Stop. No! He wasn’t doing this to himself. Was he?

Draco groaned, falling back against the bed, legs still folded over the edge. He jammed the butts of his palms into his eyes,  taking a breath. He can’t do this to himself. Was he spiraling? No. No, he couldn’t be. Malfoys don’t spiral. Malfoys don’t break.

Wasn’t that what his father had said when he’d found his scars? What had he said…

Malfoys don’t ruin themselves with emotion .

Yes. That’d been it.

But here Draco was, doing exactly that. Ruining himself with emotions he never had a chance of understanding. Here he was, laying on his rival’s bed, regretting everything. When was the last time he’d felt regret this… powerful? He assumed never, always unabashed by his actions, never blinking an eye to how they might affect others.

But this time, this time , it was so horribly different. He hated it, he wanted the swimming in his head to stop and he wanted his heart to stop pounding. He wanted that look in Harry’s eyes to not be the only thing he saw burnt into the backs of his own eyelids.

What was that muggle saying? Think before you act? It made so much sense now, in this moment. More sense than it had ever.

He could hear voices rising downstairs. He could hear Vernon’s and even the high-pitched shriek that Petunia seemed incapable of not producing. Potter’s was not one of them.

Something wetted his palms. He wouldn’t admit to himself they were tears.

Draco took another breath, trying to calm himself. Trying to find some semblance of a distraction. He folded his arms around himself, mind trailing… trailing… trailing to…

Harry.

...

For the first time in his entire life, Draco Malfoy wanted to apologize.

Chapter Text

When Draco opened his eyes, it was dark out. The sun had set and the moon was at its crest, shining fully upon the world below. Crickets chirped outside the window, calling to their mates in the otherwise silent world, reminding him sorely of the fields behind Malfoy Manor. At night, they would be alight with fireflies and crickets and such, insects relishing the safety of darkness. 

He’d fallen asleep. He’d slept through the screaming. By now, the only sound in the house was the distant snore coming from the master bedroom. 

Draco never considered himself a light sleeper. Or a heavy one, for that matter. It more just… depended where he was. At Hogwarts, he slept like a rock, taking in all the beauty sleep he could. At the Manor, he slept lighter, ready to wake at any possible alert. Especially after the last year with him regularly making an appearance at his house. Here, at 4 Privet Drive, it was much the same. It was as if he just… knew .

He closed his eyes again, gritting his teeth. He’d had the dream again.

But… at least he understood it now. He understood the first half, at least. The constant, vibrant shade of emerald just staring at him through his dreams. He knew that shade of emerald, that exact one. He understood.

They weren’t just colors. They were irises. Potter’s irises. That’s why, when you examined them, you could see so many shades of green jammed into one to make one overall color. Why, if you looked close enough, you could just make out the small specks of brown that surrounded the black hole-like pupils. And that’s why they were constantly showing some kind of pleading emotion.

He’d seen that look tonight. Tonight? Last night?

Draco groaned. He had no idea what time it was. Potter didn’t have a clock in his room. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his face heavy and puffy as he looked around. Potter still wasn’t back, his pile of linens completely unperturbed since he’d reorganized them this morning. Yesterday morning? Whatever.

Where could he be, if not in his nest of linens? Draco couldn’t imagine him anywhere else at night, now so used to waking up to hear the soft shift of fabric being folded into a tidy pile, out of the way. Not now, when he’d grown used to listening to Potter’s footsteps in the morning when Potter thought he was sneakily leaving the room. It was a routine. They both went to bed around the same time, Potter woke before him and Draco lay in bed for a while before getting up himself. It was a comfortable routine.

But Potter wasn’t here.

And Draco didn’t think before he acted. He never had, trusting his gut instinct more than his mind. He stood, treading over to the door and carefully pulling it open. For a moment, yes, he had considered what could become of him if he was caught wandering the house at night again, especially by Dudley. He wouldn’t be shocked if the next step would be being kicked out entirely, not just his bedroom. Or maybe they had some sort of basement to confine him in - something small and confined. Something out of sight, out of mind. 

His feet carried him downstairs, careful to not make any noise. Last thing he wanted was to wake the sleeping beast just a handful of feet away.

The house was so different at night, so quiet and at a relieving peace. It was unfamiliar to Draco. Something told him that it was likely unfamiliar to Potter, too.

He didn’t stop in the den, nor did he in the dining area. He paused for a moment in the kitchen, eyes drifting to where the vase had shattered, before shuddering, and traveling to where he hadn’t before.

Before one entered the backyard, there was a small, glass walkway - almost like a greenhouse. Ivies hung from the ceiling, small white flowers abloom in the summer season. Their soft scent was calming, not too overwhelming like the strong scent of the gardenias out front. There was such a simple beauty to them; nothing as extravagant as he was used to, but still beautiful.

Draco pushed past the door, stopping on the small concrete patch of the outdoors. The flowers were not what held his attention.

Just past the greenhouse entrance, a handful of feet out, Potter sat in the grass, knees pulled to his chest and head angled up past the trees to the stars. The slightest breeze ran through his unruly curls, flitting like leaves in the springtime. His glasses were on the ground beside him. The moonlight paled his brown skin just a little, giving him a soft glow that was almost-

“It’s rude to stare, Malfoy.”

His cheeks most definitely did not heat at getting caught. Maybe he wouldn’t call it staring, though. More just… observing. Yeah. Observing. That’s right.

Potter twisted to look at him, picking at the hem of his long sleeve shirt. “Well? Are you just going to stand there or what?”

That knocked Draco back to his senses. He didn’t shy away, taking the steps forward that he could to stand next to Potter, careful not to step on his glasses.

He took a seat next to him, folding his legs beneath him, his hands out behind him to hold him up. And while Potter turned his gaze back up to the stars, Draco looked him over, checking for any ailments or blemishes. He just had a feeling-

There it was. Just barely visible, hidden by the sleeve. The darkened skin coming in long and thick strips, only able to be seen when the wind picked up beneath the fabric.

Draco couldn’t help himself. He felt his tongue go dry, his heart rate pick up. His eyes didn’t leave Potter’s sleeve when he said, “Where’d you get that?”

He felt stupid asking, because he knew. It felt rhetorical, but he just wanted to be wrong.

Of all things to have in common with Harry Potter, he didn’t want this to be it. He wanted to be wrong.

Potter looked down at his sleeve, before his eyes widened and he slapped his hand to his wrist, enclosing his wrist. “Piss off, Malfoy. I tripped and landed on my wrist.”

“Please,” Draco drawled, slitting his eyes up to Potter’s face. He was speaking without planning his words beforehand. “Do you know how many times I’ve used that excuse? Doesn’t work on me. Don’t bullshit me.”

Potter met his eyes, something in his jaw ticking. His Adam’s apple bobbed, swallowing down what Draco assumed to be nerves. There was that silence. The silence of after, where there was a spinning in your head and a ringing in your ears that you couldn’t explain. You could hear your own heart beating, slow, tired. Now Draco understood that look in Potter’s eyes.

He knew.

“You’re uncle,” Draco assumed, earning a hesitant nod from Potter. Draco’s stomach plummeted. “Figured.”

Potter looked back up to the stars, picking at his sleeve again. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“Don’t do that,” Draco said.

“Do what?”

“Apologize.” Draco didn’t look away from Potter. He couldn’t bring himself to. There was something about him in this lighting… “What happens here is out of your control. Don’t apologize for a mess you didn’t make.”

There was the slightest moment of silence before Draco continued, “If anyone should be apologizing, it should be me.”

Potter’s eyes widened again, head snapping to Draco once more. Draco found that he liked it when Potter looked at him. He liked that shade of emerald. It could’ve possibly been his favorite.

And then, Potter grinned. “What? Draco Malfoy, considering giving me an apology? Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Draco couldn’t help but grin in response, though he was sure it looked more like a smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

Potter chuckled. “I won’t.” He shifted, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t need to apologize, either.”

Draco raised a brow. “No?”

“No,” Potter said, shaking his head. “You didn’t know.”

“You were right, though.” Draco shrugged. “Could’ve… should’ve listened better.”

Potter grimaced. “Let’s… let’s not focus on it. I don’t want to think about it.”

“Okay.”

Draco chewed on the inside of his lip, before his fingers brushed against the arms of Potter’s glasses. He picked them up tentatively, nimble fingers just barely holding the frames. Carefully, he placed them on Potter’s nose, pushing them up onto his face. Potter let him.

“No use stargazing if you can’t actually see,” Draco said, attempting to keep his voice steady. He was only half certain he succeeded.

Potter’s face seemed to soften, but only slightly. “Thanks…”

“Yeah.”

They both turned back to the stars. The silence wasn’t nearly as nervous as it was before, and Draco was grateful for that.

“When I was younger,” He started, unsure why he was telling Potter this, “my father and I used to walk out onto the small field behind the manor onto the tallest hill we could find, on clear nights. On my fourth birthday, he’d purchased this magical telescope that told you the names of what you were looking at and shifted to tell you what astrological sign was up. Anyway, he’d wake me up at one in the morning, just so we could take it out and look at all the stars and the planets.

“Honestly, they were some of my favorite times.” He smiled - a real, true smile. Not the smirk he’d had earlier. “We’d go back in right before the sun rose, and my mother would scold us for being out so late. But Father would always use the excuse that it was educational, so Mother let it pass.”

“Sounds like good times,” Potter muttered.

“They were,” Draco confessed. “They were. I miss them. He stopped when I entered school, not seeing the point in those late nights, since I was taking astronomy anyway.”

“Oh…” Potter sighed. “I wish I had memories like that.”

“You don’t?”

“Nah. The Dursleys don’t exactly enjoy being associated with people like me.”

“People like you?”

“Like us,” Potter clarified. “The magical.”

Draco nodded. He sighed again, wanting to move away from the topic. So he pointed up to the sky. “There’s Ophiuchus.”

“Pardon?”

“Ophiuchus,” Draco repeated, tracing the star pattern with his forefinger. “The serpent-bearer. In it, you can see the Greek god Asclepius. He… he was a god of healing. Regeneration. He was so good at it, that he could raise the dead.”

“Raise the dead?” Potter deadpanned.

“Ridiculous, I know,” Draco agreed. “But Zues was scared he’d make all humans immortal, so he killed him. But when Apollo found out, he was furious, so Zues immortalized him as a star.”

Potter hummed in response, his eyes shutting. “Immortalization by star…” He muttered.

After a moment, he lay back onto the grass. He folded his arms under his head. He let out a breath, gaze finding Draco’s again. “You wanna know something?”

“Depends,” Draco said slowly. He also laid back, finding the grass comfortable. But he laid on his side to face Potter. He didn’t want to look anywhere else.

“I think it’s stupid.”

“Stupid?” Draco repeated, confused. “Your uncle? Astronomy?”

“No,” Potter said, before letting out a huff. “This feud. Between us.”

“... How do you mean?”

“I mean that it’s so immature,” Potter explained. “I mean that we have way bigger problems now, with this new war on the rise. And we’re just taking it out on each other. Ron and Hermione may disagree, yeah, because you’ve been a downright git to them the entire time you’ve known them.”

Draco grimaced at that, but Potter continued, “I just don’t care for it. We just hate each other because, what? I didn’t shake your hand when we were eleven? We’re sixteen now. Why’s it matter?”

Draco opened his mouth, about to argue but… Potter had a point. Why were they still fighting? Perhaps it was Draco’s unmatchable ability to hold absurd grudges for any amount of time until it benefitted him to stop holding them. But all Draco did was think about the ways he could get Potter’s attention, and find ways to disturb his day-to-day life. It was often the highlight of his school year, the singular thing he looked forward to while he was at home and dreaming of returning to school.

But, at the end of the day, Potter was right. By now, they had very little reason to actually keep fighting.

“So… what? Are you calling like… a truce, or something?”

Potter shrugged. “Or something. I mean, so long as you can manage to not be a racist, classist prick to my friends. We don’t really have that many issues, so… maybe it could work.”

Draco didn’t know how to respond. On one hand, if he agreed to this, he would be losing one of his favorite hobbies. On the other, being able to call Harry Potter his friend… it had a certain ring to it. And not just because it’d be cool to have companionship with the only person ever known to have survived the final Unforgivable. But… because it would be nice to not have to fight anymore. Potter was right. They had other things to worry about. Bigger things.

As for the hobby thing… there were always other ways to get Potter’s attention, weren’t there? Granger and the Weasley mutts certainly found their ways to get it. So why couldn’t he? For crying out loud, he’s Draco Malfoy! He can get anything he sets his eyes on, and that includes Potter's attention.

Draco stuck out his hand. “A truce, then?”

Potter huffed, smiling. He rolled onto his hand, clasping Draco’s hand in his own. It was right, there was no other way to describe that. “A truce.”

“Potter?”

“Yeah, Malfoy?"

“If that’s the case,” Draco blew out a breath. What was wrong with his heart? Was he about to have a heart attack? Doesn’t matter. Not important right now. “Call me by my first name.”

“Draco?”

The sound of his first name on Potter’s tongue sent a shiver down his spine. Draco nodded.

“Then call me by my first,” Potter said.

There was this small part in the back of Draco’s mind that was quite literally screeching. He kept asking himself if this was real; if Potter’s… Harry’s? If Harry’s hand was really in his hand. If he was really asking for a truce. One step forward… Now where’s the two steps back? He asked himself. There has to be steps back somewhere soon .

Draco pushed those thoughts aside. Not now. Time and place. He certainly hoped there wouldn’t be a time or a place for him to actually have to worry about that.

“Harry.”

“Draco.”

Another shiver. This… this he could get used to.

The white flowers of the ivies were reflected against the glass, just barely visible behind the reflection of the deep green leaves. From a distance, there was no way the interaction was normal, two boys laying less than a foot apart, holding each other’s hands. It was disgusting.

But he couldn’t take his eyes away. Was he really going to allow this? In his home? 

No. He won’t. He could use this. Couldn’t he? Maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Nonetheless, it wasn’t acceptable.

How could they just lie there like they were normal. Those two were anything but.

He scoffed foully under his breath, turning away and grabbing a  snack from the cupboard and trudging back up the stairs. He didn’t care if he stomped. He was in an irritable enough mood as it is.

Disgusting.

Rolling his eyes, he pushed open his bedroom door, slamming it shut.

At least the blonde was relatively attractive. Maybe Potter didn’t have horrible taste. If he were a girl, he’d definitely understand. That blonde boy would make a wonderful girl, he was sure of it. What was his name again? Psh, when has that ever mattered? Certainly hadn’t in years passed.

Maybe… if he could just talk to him…

Chapter Text

To Severus,

Yes, yes. I know I'm technically not supposed to be writing to you and whatever. And I assure you, I wouldn't be writing to you if it weren't of any actual importance. Surely, you know that, don't you? You have my word as a Malfoy.

I have found myself sharing a room with Potter. Now, now, I will admit, it was rather tragic at first. However, I say it has become less and less of an issue. It seems I actually enjoy Potter's company. An odd turn of events, indeed! The issue, however, is that there is only one bed, and the Dursleys don't own any kind of spare to use. And it seems I've grown rather sorry for Potter that he has to sleep on the floor while I occupy his bed during the nighttime hours. 

I know it seems like a silly request, but if there's any possibility of you, or someone else, being able to deliver something bed-like so Potter no longer has to sleep on a pile of musty old sheets, I think I'd appreciate it.

No response is necessary.

D.L.M.

P.S.: If you could please tell Mother that all is well, I'd appreciate that too. Tell her I miss her, and that I promise to see her at Christmas, or at least write when school starts. When it's safe.

Chapter Text

A week and a half had passed. And in that week, everything seemed… better. Better was an odd way to say it. Because yes, there wasn’t that awkward tension whenever the two of them were in the same room. The conversation came easier and Draco found he was less likely to snap at the slightest, off-hand comment. But at the same time, it was interesting to call Potter (Harry? Harry) his friend. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

How on Earth was he going to break this news to Pansy or Blaise? It seemed impossible, the idea of telling them that ‘Hey, I spent the summer at Potter’s house. Y’know, the full-of-himself golden boy of Gryffindor that we can’t stand. Yeah, his house. And guess what! Now we’re pals, as if it never happened!’

Yeah. Not a conversation he was looking forward to. One he would have nonetheless, but the point stands. 

He was sure they’d be okay with it. He could let them adjust to the idea as much as they want or need. But… he wasn’t going to not be Potter’s… Harry’s friend. He could feel his eleven year old self inside him squealing with excitement and pride. How could he not? He finally had companionship with the one person that he’d spent countless hours trying to impress and bring to his side. Now he had it.

Draco wasn’t going to give this up. No chance in hell.

Funny to think. If someone had told Draco just five weeks ago that he’d finally be friends with Harry Potter, he would have recommended them a visit St. Mungos to see if they'd been obliviated into stupidity.

Five years, ten months, and three weeks later from that fateful day on the train. It almost seemed like a miracle.

Today was like most days since that night under the stars. The house was full of warm sunlight, and Harry was bustling around the kitchen, trying to tidy up. Draco wasn’t sure if he did this as a pass time, because he was left home alone so often (as they were today), or if because he had to, but he had a feeling it wasn’t the former. So Harry finished up some of the dishes that had been left in the sink from breakfast - a pot, a pan, some cups, silverware - and Draco sat at the table in the dining area, scratching a ballpoint pen against a scrap of parchment he’d found in his bag. There wasn’t much being said, the only noise being the occasional scrape of a dish, the running water, and the quiet sound of music from a record-player in the den.

Turns out, much to Draco’s shock, muggle music wasn’t nearly as awful as he’d thought. He’d always figured it was probably just noise, since muggles didn’t have the magical understanding of music theory that wizards had. But this was smooth, upbeat and just nice to listen to.

“Rock’n’roll,” Harry had called it as he put the shiny black disk under the needle. “My godfather gave this one to me. He called it glam rock, which… is surprisingly fitting for something he’d listen to. Anyway, this is a muggle band. They’re called Queen. And they’re pretty popular in the muggle world.”

Draco could see why. They were, as he was sure Pansy may say, snazzy.

Draco’s attention would occasionally go up to Potter, watching him clean silently, watching the way his shoulders moved and the way he tipped his head to the side every now and then. It was a soothing sight. He found it interesting the way the sun shone off Harry’s skin, or the way it caught his eyes just enough for Draco to see from the angle he was sitting at. It made them almost fluorescent. Brighter, if that was even possible. He seemed so natural under the sunlight, stronger. Softer.

Draco shook his head, returning to the letter he was writing. He hadn’t written to anyone since arriving here, other than that first letter to his mother just to tell her he arrived and was safe. He figured it can’t be that big of a deal, since he wasn’t contacting his family directly. Just his godfather. That wouldn’t cause too many issues, would it?

The water stopped running, and Harry shook off the last plate in the sink before putting it in the strainer to dry. He wiped his hands on a fresh dishtowel he’d pulled out before starting the dishes, draping it over his arm as he turned around. The tendrilled bruise on his arm had faded most of the way by now, mostly thanks to Draco’s reminders to ice it. They didn’t talk about it, and Harry was grateful for that. Draco could tell. He let it be.

“Whatcha doing?” Harry asked, pulling Draco from his concentrated state. He looked up to find Harry leaning against the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area, eyes on Draco.

Draco put a hand over the parchment. “Writing a letter to my godfather.”

“You have a godfather?” Harry asked, his face surprised.

Draco nodded. “Yeah. Snape.” He laughed at Harry’s stunned expression. “He and my father used to be real close back in the day, before Severus was hired to work at Hogwarts. So he was made my godfather.”

“Wow,” Harry said, grinning. “That’s really shocking. I… I’m gonna be honest, I didn’t think he had any kind of familial relationship with anyone.”

Draco shrugged. “Yeah, well…”

Harry considered this for a moment. He had this quirk whenever he thought something over, chewing on his bottom lip. Draco always noticed it.

Harry said, “I guess that explains the favoritism. I always just chalked it up to you being in his House.”

“Ah, that too.”

Harry chuckled, and the sound of it felt like an award. Something along the lines of, ‘Score! Point: Draco Malfoy’.

Harry came around the counter to the table, spying at Draco’s hand. “So… what’re you writing to him about? I thought you agreed to not have any correspondence this summer.”

“We did,” Draco confirmed. “And I’m just asking for a favor.”

Harry raised a brow, looking Draco over. “A favor? What favor?”

Draco could hear the caution in Harry’s voice, and it made his skin crawl. “Nothing of importance.” He was lying, of course, and he immediately wanted to take it back. Why was he lying to Harry? He had no reason to. Why was he even worried about lying to Harry?

Harry looked him over again, before snatching the letter out from under Draco’s hand. It was a swift movement, agility that came with years of practice in Quidditch as a seeker. Draco barely saw it coming, but felt the parchment slide and understood what had happened. 

“Hey! You-” Draco sputtered, snapped out of his very important thoughts. He never sputtered. “Give that back! Don’t you know what privacy is?! What is wrong with you?!”

Harry ignored him, reading the letter anyway. His face grew stern, and after reading it, tore the letter in half. Then again. Then again.

Draco’s eyes widened. “Hey! What in Merlin’s name- Stop that!”

“No,” Harry said, voice stern. He walked over to the kitchen to throw the scraps of paper away. “No. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Draco demanded, watching as the scraps of paper fell into the bin.

“Don’t go asking for stuff,” Harry said. “I have enough. It’s fine. There’s risk in that, and that’s not something we can risk.”

“Oh, please, it can be magical,” Draco huffed, crossing his arms. “Something that can expand with some kind of incantation.”

“Do you forget about the underage wizard policy?” Harry asked. “I certainly haven’t. Nearly got my wand snapped for that last year. No way in hell I’m risking that again for a magical bed. Besides, Vernon won’t like the… the charity work.”

“Charity work,” Draco deadpanned. “Really, it can’t be that big of a deal. It’s just a bed.”

“Draco,” Harry warned. Draco was really starting to regret allowing Harry to calm him that. It sent a serpent of energy slithering down his spine nearly every time he heard it in Harry’s voice.

“Harry,” Draco returned, sounding a little more exasperated than he’d meant to.

Harry sighed. “No. Final answer. It's not like you're supposed to be sending letters to anyone connected to your family, anyway.”

“Well, I certainly can’t now,” Draco retorted. “Since you tore it up and threw it away.”

“No, I suppose you can’t.”

Harry stared at Draco for a moment more, before looking at his watch. It really was a dingy old thing, another hand-me-down, Draco assumed. Harry straightened, then went to grab his shoes from where they sat in one of the chairs at the table. He sat down, pulling on the red converse.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked, crossing his arms.

“I’m going out.”

“Out?”

“Out,” Harry repeated. “I managed to get into contact with Hermione the other day by telephone, since I’m not allowed to use my owl during the summer. So I’m going to meet up with her for a few hours.”

“Am I coming with you?” Draco asked, and when Harry shook his head, he almost felt… disappointed.

“No,” Harry said. “I think it might be a bit too much at once. She doesn’t even know you’re spending the summer here, let alone that we’ve decided to cut the deal with the rivalry stuff. She’ll know by the end of the day. Felt that was a conversation to have in person rather than over the phone.”

“What on Earth is a phone?” Draco asked.

Harry sighed, tying up his laces. “Long distance muggle communication device.”

Draco nodded, but still let out a breath. “So… I’m just going to be alone here? For how long?”

“An hour?” Harry said. “Maybe two. I’m not sure. But I’ll be home by 2 PM. Have to be, before Petunia gets home.”

Draco looked at the clock. It was only eleven. He wanted to groan and complain, but figured he probably shouldn’t. He doubted Harry wanted to hear that. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, standing. He went down the hall grabbing his coat. “Don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone!” He shouted down the hall, before the door shut, leaving Draco alone.

Draco sent the letter anyway.

Not the exact letter, but something like it. Something similar. It was much shorter than the first one, but it got the job done. It passed the same message.

He didn’t understand what harm could be done by sending a letter. No, that wasn’t true. He understood plenty. He just…

Did Vernon really have to know? Magic made so many things discreet and easy to hide. Come on! The Knight Bus was able to speed along the streets of London without a single muggle sighting it. How hard could it be? And he was sure Severus would be smart enough to be able to understand that, to send a large parcel in a small way. It’s common sense, honestly. Or, at least, it should be.

On the means of sending it…

He’d taken the trick straight from Newt Scammander’s book, with his infamous briefcase that housed all of his beasts in the environments they needed. It took a little practice to perfect, but was honestly simple once Draco got the hang of it. So he made his eagle owl a small alcove in the never-ending bag he’d brought all his necessities in this summer. Extracting the owl wasn’t nearly as difficult as putting it in the bag. It was more than happy to be freed of its fabric prison, even if it had more than enough food and water to last a year, along with several magical objects Narcissa had helped craft to maintain the bird’s feathers to perfection. They were the same tools Lucius kept to ensure his peacocks looked perfect year round.

The owl stretched its wings and snapped its beak agitatedly at him. He supposed he couldn’t blame it. He too didn’t like being locked up in small spaces for extended periods of time, either. But still.

“Alright,” Draco said, walking over to the window in Potter’s room. He pushed it open, shocked to find small chunks of the brick missing in large patches. He didn’t question it. It’s Harry, anything could’ve happened. He set the owl on the ledge of the window, holding a small piece of folded parchment in front of its beak. “Send this to Severus Snape. He should either be at Hogwarts or Malfoy Manor. Most likely the latter. Got it?”

The owl hissed at him, looking rather perturbed. It plucked the letter out of his hand anyway. Draco nodded, standing back so the owl could launch.

He leaned against the window sill, watching the bird fly off. His stomach turned, sincerely hoping he wasn’t making the wrong decision. 

Hoping that maybe this time, his judgement would be correct. Maybe it would be worth the risk? Maybe then he could prove himself to Harry, as he so long wished to. He could prove his judgement could be good. Couldn’t he?

Chapter Text

Here’s the not-so-interesting and not-so-surprising fact about the Dursley household: when you have no one to speak to, and no interest in busying yourself with chores (For the sake of Merlin’s frequently cursed upon beard, you’re a freaking guest! They should be catering to you, shouldn’t they? Bastards, the lot of ‘em!), is that there is not a single thing you can do to keep yourself busy and distracted from the terrors of the outside world.

The summer heat was seeping into the house by now, so Draco had resorted himself to laying on the floor of Harry’s bedroom with the window open, hoping to cool the room off. Safe to say, it was doing absolutely nothing. The Manor was always cool, with its wide-open spaces and magical cooling systems. Oh how he missed being able to lay on his floor to cool off and it actually worked. It didn’t work here. Here, he only sweltered, growing more and more disgusting with each passing moment.

He would go shower in some nice cold water. But what’s the point if he’s going to get dressed, step into the hall of the house and once more be greeted by humidity and heat and sticky air. At least his hair would look better after this. Less frazzled.

Distantly, Draco wondered if Harry’s hair would react differently to the heat, it being a finer, curlier texture than Draco’s. And he had a decent amount of it, Harry did. Did it get overly hot? Did it frizz, like those magazines in that one salon he went to forever ago had said curly hair textures might?

On the forefront of his mind, however, was the heat. He groaned. Even the floor was hot, barely padded by the braided cloth rug that smelled like an old people home. Potter truly had awful taste in decoration, from the small notes and the gryffindor banners sprawled across the walls, a harsh contrast to the floral wallpaper. These people were hopeless. Would a little less bold pattern kill them?

With a frustrated huff, Draco moved off the rug. He wanted the bare floor, wood cooler than fabric, and subsequently lifted the rug up, throwing it half over the large pile of linens in the corner. He stood to drag the rug further out of the way, tugging as it got stuck in something and nearly crashing out the window as it released. The rug fell at his feet, loose strands and soft cloth as a thud vibrated through the floor. Draco cringed. That couldn’t be good.

Initially, he was sure it wasn’t. At the looks of it, he’d just torn a floorboard from where it lay nice and secure against the other floorboards, and he quickly moved to replace it. But upon closer inspection, he found a cavity in the ground, and inside were dozens of sheets of paper, torn envelopes and a small basket in the deepest corner filled with all sorts of sweets that had a preservation spell put on them that would help them stay good for years. Draco lifted his head to the door, listening for footsteps. He was still alone. Just as he had been for however long it’d been since Harry had left. He had time before he got home, he was sure.

He lifted the envelope on the top of the pile, turning it over. It, unsurprisingly, was addressed to Harry in a swirly, rich font that reminded Draco much of his mother’s handwriting. It had no return address, but rather the stain of a dog’s paw print in the corner, as if it signified some sort of identity. Harry likely knew what it meant.

The next piece of paper was a folded letter with handwriting so messy Draco didn’t even attempt to decipher, but he recognized the letter that made up the initials on the bottom. Or, at least, he thought he did. He couldn’t tell. There was a boxy letter that looked like an R of some sort, the next he thought was a J, and the last letter, an L looked almost exactly like the center letter, just backwards. Draco set that letter aside.

Just because Potter is low enough to read other people’s mail didn’t mean he was. Or, at least, he wasn’t in that exact moment. 

He found birthday cards and many, many letters signed by Granger. In her letters, she sent him news clippings and several pictures of her cat. She would often leave little plans for meet-ups at the bottom of her letters, though he wasn’t sure how many Harry actually took up. He didn’t think it was very many.

There were less than ten letters from that Weasley boy Harry is so adamant about hanging out with. His best friend, and he barely wrote him anything? Malarky. One would think they’d talk all the time, considering the fact that the two have been Hogwarts’s iconic Gryffindor duo since first year. Nonetheless, there were some letters. Most were post-second year, discussing the Weasley’s trip to Egypt and requests for Harry’s attendance at the Quidditch World Cup game before 4th Year. 

There were five letters from Hogwarts, starting with Harry’s acceptance letter and so forth. There were a handful of chocolate frog cards, three of which were of Bathilda Bagshot’s greying face. And at the bottom of it all-

A photo album.

Draco had seen it once before, when he’d first been forced to sleep in the same room as Harry. Harry had been curled around it when he woke the next morning, the book open to a picture of someone’s wedding. The book was leather bound and well maintained, though it had a slight air of age to it. He opened the first pages, finding dates sprawled in a gentle, easy-to-look-at handwriting.

1978 - 1980 .

It spanned over two years. That’s it.

It wasn’t hard to find the wedding picture, the four boys alongside a woman in white. Two still shoved each other around, all of them seeming to enjoy the scene. All five of the figures looked happy, young, like there wasn’t a war just outside whatever building that picture was taken in. Like all four of them knew that, to some degree, they were safe around each other.

A family of choice is what Draco would call it.

Draco didn’t hear the bedroom door open, too distracted by the papers around him and the photo album that now sat open in his lap on one single picture.

It was a voice that broke him out of his trance, and it was a shocked one at that. “What are you doing?”

Draco lifted his head to look up at the door, finding Harry standing there. Draco could feel his cheeks heat, embarrassed by being caught in the act of whatever you’d call this, looking up at Harry like a toddler being caught with candy. 

“How did you find that?” Harry asked, looking just as stunned as Draco felt at being caught.

“I… er…” Draco sighed, closing the photo album. “I went to move the rug because it was too hot on your floor, and it got caught on the board. It pulled up once I got it loose.”

“So…” Harry trailed, nodding conclusively. “You… decided to go through my letters…”

“You read my letter to Severus,” Draco deadpanned. “You’ve invaded my sense of privacy just as much as I have yours.”

Harry considered this, and Draco really hoped he’d fall for it. Harry wasn’t entirely dimwitted, he knew that. But when Harry cringed and nodded in agreement, Draco felt an overwhelming relief flood his chest.

Harry came over to him, Draco’s heart raced. He was one-hundred-percent positive it was going to give out on him one of these days. Harry crouched down next to him, carefully lifting the album from his hands, their fingertips brushing. The Adam's apple in Harry’s throat bobbed, and Draco pretended not to notice. The photo album was set on the bed while Harry collected the letters and the envelopes from the ground. Draco helped, the silence between them growing less and less suffocating with each day they surrounded themselves in it. 

Every day, there came a moment where Harry and Draco just happened to be in the same room, and silence was the only sound other than the noise of whatever Harry busied himself with. It was awkward at first, those first few days. But as time progressed, that silence became comfortable. It became easy.

And curse him, Draco was starting to think it might just be one of his favorite sounds. It was in his top five, he figured. Maybe top three.

The letters cleared from the floor and neatly placed in a pile inside the cavity in the floor, Draco reached for the photo album to replace it. But Harry got to it first.

“Scoot,” He said, patting Draco’s arm.

Draco didn’t allow his cheeks to heat. What in Merlin’s name is wrong with me ? He scooted over, giving room for Harry to step over the hole in the floor and sit next to him, their shoulders pressed together, static electricity crawling down Draco’s arm and making the hairs stand on the back of his neck. Harry crossed his legs, Draco crossed one of his over the other where they sprawled out over the floor.

Harry broke the silence, and Draco was okay with that. He liked the way Harry’s voice had gone gentle and reminiscent. “Hagrid gave this to me at the end of our first year,” he explained, running a hand over the leather cover. He opened it, turning to the first picture dated Friday, June 30th, 1978. In the picture, a large group of people posed, all with the traditional Hogwarts graduation robes and cap. “Said it was only right that it was in my hands.”

“Do you know those people?” Draco asked, gaze moving between the photograph and the glint in Harry’s eyes caused by the reflection of sunlight through his glasses.

“Not all of them,” Harry said. “I haven’t been able to figure them all out. But I know these five.” He pointed to the five center most people, first a man with square glasses, a man with long hair, a girl with a floral bandana headband, a pudgier man, and a man with scars torn across his face. He named them respectively, “My dad, Sirius Black, my mum, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus Lupin.”

Draco’s brows went up. “As in our old professor? Wait, your parents knew Sirius Black? And Peter Pettigrew?”

Harry laughed, his head tipping back slightly. “Yeah. They were best friends in school, the lot of them. They were until my parents died.”

“Jeez…” Draco huffed. He ran a hand through his hair, making a mental note to cut it later. “I didn’t know. That’s weird to think of.”

“I could possibly blow your mind even more,” Harry shrugged, meeting Draco’s gaze.

I’m sure you could , Draco thought, before realizing he actually had to say something aloud. He shook his head. “Try me.”

“Sirius Black was my godfather.”

Draco opened his mouth, but he had to admit. That was shocking. “I… wow.”

“Wow?”

Draco nodded, trying to make it seem as matter-of-fact as he could. “Wow.”

“That’s it?” Harry grinned, shaking his head. “Wow? No exclamation of deep shock?”

“Why would I make an exclamation of deep shock?”

“Because most of the time,” Harry gesticulated as he spoke, “when I tell someone that, they’re very shocked to find that I have a familial connection with a mass murderer.”

“Well, I know he’s not a mass murderer,” Draco said, succeeding in making that sound matter-of-fact. 

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“How-”

“My parents are Death Eaters, Harry.”

Harry’s mouth fell open - not in shock, but rather in remembrance of some fact that pretty much everyone knew well, especially him. “Oh.”

“Peter Pettigrew practically lives with me,” Draco continued, finding the grimace on Harry’s face amusing. 

“ Oh .” Harry repeated. He averted his gaze, and Draco could see the golden skin of his cheeks darken just the slightest degree. Yet again: Score! Point: Draco Malfoy!

Harry let out a breath, running his hand over the picture again. “Anyway… that’s all this is… Figured you should know, since you found it.”

“Can… we look at the rest of the pictures?” Draco asked. He couldn’t recall a single time he ever had interest looking at pictures of someone’s family. 

“I-” Harry stopped, and his grin softened into a smile. “Sure.”

That damned smile.

Draco had known peace very few times in his life. But as the day carried on, Draco was glad that he could finally add a moment of peace with Harry to his list.

They spoke until dinner, when Harry had to get up and go help cook something or clean something up. And when he was done, after dinner, they snuck downstairs, stealing a piece of store-bought cherry pie for them to take up to Harry’s room and split. Draco complained about how poor of a quality it was, and Harry just laughed it off, taking a triumphant bite of it anyway. So Draco ripped open a chocolate frog, which he nearly lost in the nest of blankets Harry kept in the corner for himself to sleep on, and when he caught it, he shoved it in his mouth in a rather un-Malfoy-like way. Just to get Harry to laugh again. 

Harry took the plate of pie downstairs once they’d finished (Draco had caved and ate it, not able to resist a sweet treat, which is why it was gone much faster than if Harry had eaten it alone). And when he returned, they descended into that silence again. Draco picked up a book, Harry curled up on his linens as was out in moments.

When it hit midnight, Draco decided it was time for himself to sleep. He leaned over to click off the lamp, pausing to look at Harry. His glasses were haphazardly laid off to the side, and Draco knew that if Harry wasn’t careful, he’d roll over onto them and crush them. Then what would Harry do?

So Draco stood. He walked over quietly, picking up the glasses and folding them, placing them on the window sill so they wouldn’t break. He didn’t allow himself to look at Harry’s face. First of all, he always thought it was weird for someone to watch someone else sleep. And Draco Malfoy was a man of class. He’d only stare at someone if they were awake, so at least they’d know he’d been staring at them. Second of all, he didn’t want to have another one of those heart attacks he’d been having lately. Maybe he should go to St. Mungo's or something.

Draco crawled into bed, content, and was quickly lulled to sleep by the sound of Harry’s soft snores, and by the clean scent of the pillow beneath his head.

Chapter Text

Harry has me doing chores.

I had been describing the state of my boredom, as I always do when such an issue arises, and Harry said he had just the trick to keep me busy. The trick in question? Cleaning. He’d said that I’d been living here for a month, I might as well put some work in. Turns out, cleaning is a lot more time consuming than I’d thought. It’s something that can be done for hours and hours in a day and still not be complete. There’s always more.

I don’t understand how he does it, all day, almost every day. How he maintains it all, both inside the house and outside. How he does it again and again until the counters shine and the garden is properly pruned and the bathrooms are sanitized, et cetera. 

But I’ve come to learn that he doesn’t do it by choice, not really. He confessed to me one night that he hated cleaning - that he wasn’t just some freak of nature that enjoyed getting his hands dirty for the sake of a clean house. And while he acknowledges the importance of cleanliness, he knows that a good majority of the household’s chores are placed onto him to keep him busy and out of their way.

Dudley doesn’t have chores at all. He has all the freedom in the world, actually, which is why he is almost never home during the summer (to which Harry is undeniably grateful. He hadn’t said it forthright, but I could tell. I think I’m starting to be able to read him better.) Petunia does some housework when she’s home, but it’s usually limited to cooking and decorating. Vernon, as the one who brings in the money, also doesn’t have any chores.

So the rest of it is sort of just dumped onto Harry. All of the chores and errands and everything in betweens. He maintains it.

It makes me wonder how long he’s been doing this. How much longer he’ll be able to hold this up before some sort of crack weasels its way into the dome of pressure placed over his head. It can’t be much longer.

So when he handed me a broom that first day, not to fly on or play a riveting game of Quidditch but to sweep, I took it up without complaint. 

This house is doing something to me. I can’t explain it, but I know it is. Because just twenty minutes ago, before I sat down to write, I looked down to my hand. There was dirt under my nails, and the lightest beginning of callus growth. Calluses! It’s not obvious - for now - and definitely nowhere near what Harry’s hands look like. But they were there, just barely peeking up at me as if it was nothing.

During the Quidditch season at school, I’m appalled by the first sight of them. I take great pride in the health of my skin, as you must know. While yes, I understand that calluses are just protective layers under the skin, but I prefer my hands to be smooth in compensation for the blemishes along the rest of my arms. It makes sense in my head.

But when I saw these, I didn’t mind them. I didn’t mind them at all.

Because I had gotten them with Harry.

To take it one step further, I think I don’t mind them because I’d been helping someone when I had started to gain them.

This is how I know this house has changed me. It has to be something in the air or something I’ve eaten or come in contact with.

I don’t usually care for helping others. Other people’s problems are their problems, not mine. Why should I care? Why should I help, when I get nothing in return? Assisting others has always been seen as a waste of my time. I don’t ask for help, and I don’t give it out, either. Yet here I am, cleaning (which I have never done in my life), all because Harry asked for my help. Or - well, not really. It was more of a command. A solution to my dire issue of boredom.

I could tell there was something more to it, though. The way he looked at me was a question of help. He didn’t say it aloud. I don’t think Harry asks for help, either. But I understood. I didn’t mind it, either. Because I could see the way Harry’s shoulders relaxed as he divided up chores between us, claiming we’ll be done twice as fast with the two of us working together. He’d seemed hopeful about it.

And it felt good, knowing that Harry could relax just a little bit more because of my help. So I’ve offered a few times since, and I know I’ll keep doing it. Just to take some weight off his back.

It feels good, knowing what I’ve done has made someone else feel better, even if it’s just for a moment.

I’ve never cared to know what it might be like to help someone. My parents never made a point to explain the importance of sharing or being compassionate to those who may need it. It’s for the weak, my father would say if he caught a glimpse of this entry.

But… I am not my parents. Right?

I can be compassionate, can’t I? If I take the right steps.

Harry had said he’d only be my friend if I learned to get out of my ‘racist, classist ways,’ as he’d put it. If I learned to be better. To be good.

I know I am not good. I know I’ve done terrible things to those around me, especially at school, where I can safely take out my spite on those below me. It’s the practice I’d come to perfect.

Harry thinks I can be good. I don’t know if that’s possible for someone like me, with a family like mine. Then I look to Harry, who has issues I’m not sure anyone knows about. Issues that run deeper than skin, through his home.  I know how it is to fear a father-figure. Yet, despite it all, he is good. He is a hero, as so many people call him. Not for what he did fifteen years ago against the Dark Lord. But for what he does every day, simply being kind to others. He is good.

And he thinks I can be good, too.

I know I am not my father. I know I can lead a different life. But this is all I’ve known, this cruelty that lives within me, born from the rage of my parents and their cruelty to those who they think do have half a right to exist compared to them. To those beneath them.

I thought of this as I picked the broom up again this morning. The sun was just an hour away from peaking, the kitchen warm with orange light. Harry was in the living room, vacuuming.

I wondered if this - me, helping Harry with his chores - was me being good. If it meant I really had a chance.

Chapter Text

The summer was half way over at last.

How mundane it had been so far, in the same setting and the same routine, day in and day out. It had gone by so awfully slow, each day dragging by as the next slowly drew closer. At last, September was only a month away. It was odd how much time had passed. By now, Draco would be checking the calendar daily, just to count how many days he had left at home before he could return to Hogwarts. But… he was content here, oddly enough.

No. Not here . Here was just as bad as the Manor.

With Harry.

Yeah.

With Harry .

The morning was slow on the first of August, warm sunlight drifting into Harry’s bedroom, over the unmade bed Draco was sprawled on, a book draped over his slack-clad legs. Today, Draco had decided when he first awoke, was a day he was going to get ready for no particular reason. So he was dressed properly, in a basil turtleneck (his favorite one, since he could wear it year round thanks to its magical temperature regulation abilities) and the gray slacks he wore any chance he could get. His hair was properly styled, not just brushed and straightened. He’d even included a few extra steps in his skin-care, just because he could. Just because he wanted to feel good. He wanted to look good for… no particular reason.

Harry was out again this morning, meeting up with Granger. Again. So here Draco was, reading a muggle book and just sitting there on Harry’s bed - looking bloody fantastic, might I add. Once again, he was bored out of his mind. C’mon, this fantasy novel Harry recommended didn’t even get the magical beings half right! How was he to tolerate this… this slander of wizardkind! Honestly, the author made his witch character seem battier than most witches Draco had ever met. Worse than Auntie Bella, and that’s saying something astounding!

Honestly, Draco needs to give Harry a good talking to about this. Really, they just need to have a sit down conversation about everything Harry could just shift. Starting with his taste in literature, because this was just abominable! Even so, he was just over a hundred pages through, and it wasn’t interesting. And don’t even get Draco started on the writing! It was so simplistic, entirely lacking in intricate detail! No wonder it was so short.

 Yeah, he really needed to show Harry some real books.

Giving up, Draco carefully placed his bookmark inside and set it on the nightstand. He groaned, dragging a smooth hand down his face as he contemplated what he could do while he waited—

The front door opened downstairs, and Draco knew Harry was back instantly. He sat up straighter, a sickly sweet relief slipping onto his tongue as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and marched out of the room. Down the stairs.

“You and I seriously need to discuss what you think is good personally and what is good enough for recommendation, Harry, because I cannot-” Draco stopped himself short, just three steps from the base of the stairs.

He found Harry peeling off his left shoe, the right already discarded to the side, chewing on his bottom, brows pulled together and glasses settled on the tip of his nose. He had a piece of heavily-lettered parchment tucked under his arm. Harry lifted his head to look up at him, and Draco could’ve sworn for a moment he froze.

Harry cleared his throat. “Ah- Draco. Hey. Decided to come back early.”

Draco looked him over again, taking the last few steps down the stairs so he was at Harry’s level. Well, sort of. He was just a few inches taller than Harry, something some small part of him took pride in. He gestured to the folded piece of parchment. “What’s that?”

“Ah,” Harry said again, looking down at it. He folded it again and tucked it away in the back pocket of jeans, out of sight from Draco. “I asked Hermione to save the crossword section of her Daily Prophets and give them to me. Just in case I get bored of anything else. They’re quite entertaining.”

Draco had never heard a more ludicrous thing in his life. Harry? Harry Potter, playing crossword puzzles ? Merlin knew 4 Privet Drive was boring beyond description, but there was no way it was that boring. Not enough for Harry to need crossword puzzles, of all things, to keep him entertained.

Really, the only entertainment Harry should need is Draco’s presence. But that wasn’t a conversation Draco was absolutely not going to have with him. 

Draco’s eyes followed him as Harry walked into the kitchen, opening the cupboard to grab a pair of glasses, setting them down on the counter before going to get some apple juice to pour into both of the cups.

Harry cleared his throat once more. “So… what were you saying?”

“What was I saying when?” Draco asked, raising a brow as he took a glass from Harry.

“As you were coming down the stairs.”

“Oh,” Draco said, nodding. “Yes. You and I need to discuss what you think is good for recommendation. Because if that is what you think is memorable reading material, then I’m afraid you’re a lost cause.”

Harry’s brows pulled back together, forming a small crease where his nose flattened into forehead. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“The book you said I should read if I got bored,” Draco sighed, taking a drink. He swallowed, continuing. “It’s bloody awful. It’s so… simple.”

“What book?”

“I don’t remember the title,” Draco said, waving a hand dismissively. “The one about the girl. And the giant.”

For a moment, Harry looked beyond confused. He stared at Draco, as if searching for an answer he wouldn’t receive, before his bright eyes widened with understanding.

“ The BFG ?” Harry asked, looking astounded. “Roald Dahl’s The BF- you take that back!”

“Take what back?!”

“You called it awful!”

“It is!”

Harry scoffed. “Is not!”

Draco straightened where he stood, crossing his arms over his chest. “It is! It’s so simple and lacks depth-”

“Well,” Harry interrupted, “it is a children’s book.”

Draco was silent for a moment, considering Harry and all his audacity. “You’re telling me,” Draco started, nice and slow for emphasis, “That you recommended I read a children’s book ? Who do you take me as?!”

“Technically,” Harry held up his hands in defense, “I didn’t recommend that one to you. I just said - don’t interrupt me - I just said that it’s a childhood classic and that if time travel was practical, I would go back in time to read it again for the first time.”

“That is pretty much the same as a recommendation.”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

“Is not!” Harry had this exasperated not to his voice. “It’s me saying I loved it.”

“Loved it so profoundly that you would risk insanity to experience it for the first time again?” Draco pressed. “Right.”

“It was your decision to interpret that as a recommendation for you to read a book most people read in grade school.”

Draco glared at him. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t proclaim your deep and profound love for something that might cause it to be misinterpreted as something else!”

Harry crossed his arms, too, poorly raising a brow. “Do you have some sort of issue with me loving things deeply and profoundly?”

Now it was Draco’s turn to sound exasperated. “What- No! Don’t be ridiculous-”

The conversation ended as quickly as it started, the front door opening. Dudley came inside, making his first appearance for the first time in a few days. Harry and Draco both straightened, finishing their glasses and placing them by the sink. Neither of them wanted to be around Dudley anymore than they had to. 

Draco let Harry lead him upstairs by the wrist.

The house remained peaceful until Petunia got home. When she did, she called Harry down to complain about all the things he hadn’t accomplished (something along the lines of a singular undusted bookshelf) before he was permitted to return upstairs. The house was otherwise quiet, aside from the shrill, occasional sound of Petunia’s laughter. She was on the phone with one of her tea-party girl friends, gossiping about one of the neighbors. Harry and Draco only caught bits, trying to piece together the chunks and form the whole story.

It ended up becoming that the neighbor, a fifty-four-year-old man with the worst carpal tunnel Harry had ever heard of, was secretly an American cowboy-time traveler, and his poorly-kept yard - the item of Petunia’s cavilling - was the result of the invisible horse he kept hidden in behind his house.

They may have gotten carried away, but with the way they were laughing, neither cared. They eventually relented their crying, and Harry took Draco downstairs as Petunia put them both to work in 4 Privet Drive’s own backyard, much to Draco’s chagrin. Music flows from the television in the living room, the volume unnecessarily loud given the fact that Dudley sat on the sofa less than a yard away and not even paying attention. They knelt by the edge of the garden, Draco watching as Harry went back into thought.

All day since he returned, he’s drifted away into the corners of his own mind. Nervousness edged the whites of his eyes, his glasses falling back down the tip of his nose as he ripped at the weeds from the ground, weeds tearing from the roots. It was so unlike him, being so lost in his thoughts.

But then again, maybe it wasn’t. Draco could count on his hands the number of times he’d seen Harry laying on the floor, photo album opened over his chest and hands folded over his stomach. Maybe it wasn’t an unfamiliar behavior. Maybe this time, it just looked different.

Vernon arrived home at some point, and Draco was diligent to avert his eyes from the haze in the emerald to the bushes before him. Vernon was speaking indoors with Petunia, going on and on and on about his days and everything he had sold and the man he’d had to fire because of “company disloyalty” or something like that. It was all just background noise: Vernon’s drawl, Petunia’s tutting, the television, the occasional car going by and an airplane’s engine sent soundwaves down to their ears. The rip of weed roots that cling to the earth to survive.

The doorbell rang, and Harry only lifted his head long enough to hear Vernon call that he’d get it. He went back to his work.

Something was wrong. Something had to have happened or come up when he was with Granger that was causing this drift into another universe. But how could Draco bring it up? Things go unsaid between them, whatever wrong being absorbed by their equal present-ness, like that night beneath the stars. They hadn’t said much about what had happened when they had talked of the stars, but they both understood the weight of it. There was a weight on Harry’s shoulders, more so than he usually had.

Draco tore a dandelion hidden under the brush, observing its white fuzzies. He sighed. Did he ask? Was that what a friend did? He certainly didn’t do those things with Pansy or Blaise. Pansy just talked about her feelings when she wanted to, and Blaise often just shrugged it all off. That’s how they were. But…

Harry wasn’t Pansy or Blaise. He wasn’t like them. Where they were cool, he was the summer sun. He was golden in every sense of the word, from his skin to that small glint in his eyes to the way he viewed the world. He faced evil head on, time and time again. And yet he still fought for this planet that did nothing but hurt its inhabitants. He was passionate, protective of those he cared about and those who faced injustice without a second thought.

Harry Potter: Golden Boy. Draco Malfoy: mercury and crystal.

Vernon’s voice pulsed through the backyard, drawing both boy’s attention from their work.

“Potter,” He called. His eyes drifted over Draco’s form in acknowledgment, calling him to attention without saying his name. “Come inside, would you?” There was a familiar smoothness to Vernon’s tone.

Harry hesitated for just the briefest moment before he stood. Draco followed wordlessly, feeling he should be with Harry for this. Just in case.

Vernon spoke when Harry entered, before Draco could see what he was talking about.

“Who did it?” It was a demand.

And if Draco could tell anything from the way Harry's back went rigid, he knew. He knew-

An entirely put together bed frame sat in the hall before the door, complete with a bed set and mattress. It was simple, something anyone would go about thinking “yeah, normal. Just take it upstairs and that’s that.”

But from the way Vernon’s face was slightly purple, the way Harry’s fist was clenched at his sides, Draco knew it wasn’t the case.

Here it was, laid out before him. Strike three. The two steps back.

A weight descended on Draco’s chest, an itch tingling at his fingertips.

“How…?” Harry started, his eyes remaining on the out-of-place furniture.

“That greasy man that dropped him off earlier this summer stopped by,” Vernon gritted out, jerking his head in Draco’s direction. “Said he was in a rush to get somewhere, before waving one of those stupid sticks over his head and assembling it in my  entryway. Completely unprompted.”

Draco’s mouth went dry, his tongue heavy in his mouth. Vernon continued, “see, what I think is interesting, is that there’s no need for all… this.” He waved to the piece of furniture. “You boys have everything you need. But you just had to be greedy. Just had to ask for more, didn’t you? So. I’ll ask one more time. Who did it?”

Draco’s initial reaction was to demand why he would assume they were ones to do this when Dudley was sitting right there. But as he opened his mouth, he heard Harry’s voice come out instead. He hadn’t spoken at all. Harry stepped in, and it made Draco’s stomach fall through the floor.

“I did,” Harry had said, his voice firm. His face was pale, eyes on his uncle. He repeated, shaking out the tremble in his voice, “I did.”

Vernon straightened, crossing his arms over his chest, puffing it out slightly. His face went purpler. “Excuse me?”

“Malfoy takes up too much space,” Harry said, stumbling over the first sound as if he had to force himself to say it. “With all of his clothes and his products and everything else. He’s messy and- and I’m sick of it.” He shot a theatrical glare at Draco. “He’s an invasive species, and I’m sick of him taking up my space. I’m sick of him using my bed while I have to sleep on a pile of crappy sheets on the floor. So I got in contact with one of my professors to get me a bed so I can boot him off of mine.”

Vernon raised a brow. “Is that so?”

Draco thinks he’s saying Harry’s name, but it’s distant. Far off. All he can think about is Harry’s words. He’s angled himself between Draco and Vernon, standing straighter than he had ever stood. Draco couldn’t see Harry’s face, but he knew the look that’d be on there. Faux defiance.

What was he thinking?

It hit Draco like a ton of bricks. He was protecting him from his own actions. Merlin, he was far too selfless-

“Yes,” Harry said, rolling his shoulders. “Yes. It is so. I can’t stand that you’ve roomed him with me. I can’t even stand to be around him.”

Uncle and nephew stared at each other, the silence long and thick with unfulfilled rage. There was a vein bulging above Vernon’s brow. “Petunia,” Vernon spoke suddenly, not taking his eyes off his nephew. “Take that one up to his room. Potter and I need to have a talk.”

Chapter Text

The door was bolted.

It wasn’t just locked from the outside, it was deadbolted shut, making it so Draco had no way of getting out. Last time, they just locked it. This time, they really didn’t want interference. Well, if they’d been truly genius, they should've locked the window as well. But even Draco wasn’t stupid enough to try to make a wacko escape through a two story drop into a section of rose bushes. Only a maniac would attempt something like that, and Draco definitely wasn’t that.

The room felt smaller now, despite it just being him. He was pacing, running his hands through his carefully placed strands of hair and messing it up. This was ridiculous! It was a bed. A small favor, that’s all. Surely, Lucius wouldn’t have reacted like this. He was unreasonable whenever he was angry, sure. But he wouldn’t have reacted-

Draco slumped onto the bed, head falling into his hands.

He kept catching himself comparing Vernon and Lucius, as if it matters. He’d always had this habit, comparing his parents to his peers’. He could remember in first year, wondering why the other parents were sending their children off with hugs rather than just a wordless nod. Countless times, he compared Lucius to other fathers. Hell, he even compared Lucius to himself during the limited amount of times he dared wonder what he’d be like as a father. He never let that train of thought get far.

Here he was, doing it again. He had spent years wondering what Potter’s guardians were like. No here he was. And once more, he was putting the two male-figureheads against each other in a venn diagram he had no business creating. Great. Perfect. 

At least, if he stressed himself out, the gray hairs wouldn’t be all that noticeable in his platinum blonde.

Draco raked a hand through his hair again.

Draco had lost any liking he’d had for his father years ago. Did he respect him? Yes. But respecting someone and enjoying being around them are two separate things - a distinction Draco swore upon. He often saw that respect for Vernon in Harry. He respected his uncle, but at his very core, Harry hated him. At the end of the day, Draco considered to himself, his back hitting the mattress, eyes on the popcorn of the ceiling…

At the end of the day, Vernon was just a fatter - much uglier - version of Lucius Malfoy.

It made Draco sick to think about.

His hands itched to pound on that door and demand to be let free, despite knowing it was fruitless. He wanted… no. He needed to show Vernon who pushed who around, no matter how many underage wizarding laws it broke. He wanted to rip the door open and to go to Harry, to stand before him and prove that he’s not a coward. That he, too, could protect those he cared about without a second thought.

He needed to show Harry that with Draco around, he needn’t fear anything.

Warmth rolled down Draco’s cheek, his eyelashes moistened with regret. Why did he keep doing this? Why did he keep screwing things over time and time again? Harry hadn’t even given Draco a passing glance as he’d been dragged upstairs and thrown into Harry’s room. Draco had simply gone, too. There was a feeling in his stomach that told him it’d be better if he just did as he was told for once instead of screwing everything up.

And yet… here he was, imagining Harry wiping away the tears that rolled down cheekbones into blonde hair, brushing against the tips of his ears. Here he was, imagining Harry’s smile whenever Draco did something stupid. Not stupid like this but… like when he asked Harry how a feather duster worked. Yeah. Like that. Or- or the way Harry laughed, the way he sang in this whiny, totally off-pitched tone whenever he was cleaning. Here he was. Imagining.

Imagining Harry.

Draco wiped his own tears, before folding his hands over his stomach. It didn’t stop them from coming. 

This wasn’t pity, was it? This burning in his chest, the uneasiness in his head, the swimming in his stomach? The need to go to Harry and fix everything he’s broken? To hold an umbrella under a typhoon for him, because really, that was all he could do.

It couldn’t have been. No, Draco had felt this before. Just at a different frequency. The way his skin cells came alight whenever Harry spoke to him. The way he suddenly became dizzy whenever their fingers brushed when Harry handed him something. The need to prove himself in a way that gives Harry the proof he needs to be affirmed that Draco deserves a spot in his life. That he wants it, too.

His time here was ruining him, tearing him apart bit by bit and leaving newer, more vulnerable parts that, two months ago, he would’ve pinched out like a candle wick.  He was constantly thinking, though the thoughts didn’t cloud his head like they had. And they only really held one object. No, Draco corrected himself, wiping another tear away. Not an object. One person. His favorite subject since… when did that happen?

When did thinking of a person so different from Draco - yet so unbearably similar - become his favorite pastime? Since when did Draco care for others' approval?

“Then call me by my first.”

That was it, wasn’t it? No, it had happened before that. It was before the time Draco yelled at Vernon for his hypocrisies, because he’d been protecting Harry then, too. Before the guest room incident, because he hadn’t really minded having to share a room with him. It was just a minor inconvenience, really. Two nearly-adult boys barely fit into this cramped space. Though, he never found himself minding the proximity.

Maybe, then, it was before this summer. He searched his memory, trying to find the moment his idea of Harry had changed. Trying to find the instant in which Harry became less his nemesis and more so… this . It was unthinkable - such a shift in perspective-

But there it was. The memory: Draco looking up at Harry from the lower levels of the World Cup Arena, on his way to the Minister's box. He could remember the bite of Lucius’s cane against his stomach, his father snapping at him to not speak. He could remember glancing back up at Harry and not seeing judgement for the reprimand, the physical blow that left more of a mark than it may have appeared it would. No, Draco understood what he had seen in those fields of emerald that day.

Recognition.

Draco’s chest contracted.

Maybe this is what those awful, cliche story books meant when one fell for another after just a glance. But was Draco falling? It didn’t feel like a fall. Or maybe he’d been too afloat to notice that it actually was; too notice that all of those times he'd been too busy trying to capture Harry’s attention with crude remarks and vague comments was just him wanting his eyes on him. He knew now what that fall had been like.

By now, he’d hit rock bottom. But at this rocky bottom was a pool of emerald, soft and warm to the touch. It was dangerous and socially forbidden and improbable and exciting and everything Draco didn’t know he needed. He wouldn't have known that there was a lightning bolt-shaped cavity somewhere deep within his chest if he hadn’t stayed this last month. He knew - he could feel it in the way his throat constricted with the weight of his tears - that he was drowning.

But was drowning so bad when you could finally take a deep breath and feel peace?

Chapter Text

Draco heard the moment the door unlocked, but no one came inside. He pushed himself up, his hands behind him as he stared at the door. Footsteps receded, and he kept his own quiet as he approached the door. Pressing his ear to it, he listened to Vernon’s distant grumbles and Petunia’s call for him to come to bed. A door slammed shut somewhere down the hall, then a second, and Draco let out a breath.

Tentatively, he reached for the knob, clenching his teeth as he twisted it open and prayed to Merlin and whatever deities would listen that the door wouldn’t creak. Thankfully, it didn’t, and Suddenly he was alone in the dark hall. It wasn’t late, not really. It was only nine P.M., the people of the household getting ready to tuck themselves in for the night. All except two, one of which were terrified of what he might find when he descended those stairs. He did, anyway. He was desperate to get to Harry, though he took it one step at a time.

One foot in front of the other, Draco.

He was careful not to let the stairs creak, understanding the consequences should he alert the Dursleys of his presence. He braved walking, taking a step down the stairs, stabilizing his words as he spoke Harry’s name once in a whisper.

What he saw tore him in a million pieces.

Harry stood, one hand braced against the back of the couch, his other hand wrapped around his center. His face was battered, lip split and purple bruising along the side of his nose. He looked moments away from doubling over, his breathing jagged and uneven. His entire form was trembling where he stood, as if he did have a fourth of the energy needed to simply stand there, let alone move around. His glasses were missing.

But his eyes lifted in Draco’s direction, and he stumbled forward, a noise that sounded like a sob tearing past his lips. “ Draco- ”

Arms outstretched, Draco met him halfway. He caught him, and they tumbled gracelessly to the ground, Draco gathering him in his arms. Harry was sobbing into his chest, weak hands wrapped in Draco’s shirt as cry after cry broke through his body. Draco had never seen someone cry like this, with their entire body. He couldn’t imagine what it was doing to Harry’s lungs.

“I’m here,” Draco found himself saying, his nose pressed to Harry’s hair as he cradled his head, rocking him. “I’m here. It’s going to be okay, I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, this whole mess is my fault.” He pressed his lips to Harry’s scalp, though he couldn’t explain why he did it. It just felt like the right thing to do. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here.”

“Draco-”

Draco hushed him. “Your aunt and uncle will hear, just…”

It was all he needed to say. Harry silenced his sobs, burying his face in Draco’s chest and wetting the soft fabric of Draco’s shirt. This was tearing him apart, knowing it was all his fault and there this was all he could do to help him. He could only hold Harry as the sobs tore through his body, torturing his already broken body. He ran his fingers through wry curls, finding that Harry actually took a breath when he did this. So he repeated the motion, over and over and over until Harry was finally breathing normally. His sobs hadn’t broken, but… He was breathing. He wasn’t hyperventilating anymore, and that was good.

Draco didn’t still his hand. “Can you stand?” He whispered, but Harry’s body had slumped against him.

He was entirely still suddenly, head lulled to the side and hands falling into his lap. Draco swallowed, carefully stealing himself as he stood with Harry in his arms. These muggles are lucky I don't feel like getting my wand snapped, Draco thought, gritting his teeth at the anger that swooned in his gut.

Harry came back to himself, tumbling a little as his half-awake body resurrected. He looked up at Draco, eyes beyond exhausted, and Draco was glad that he could finally be here. “What…?”

“I need to get you up to your room,” Draco whispered. “Do you think you can help me with that?”

Harry’s eyes flickered to the stairs, and he hesitated a moment, as if he was taking a scan over his entire body before nodding. It took nearly ten minutes to just get up the stairs, Harry’s exhaustion getting the better of him with every step. But Draco continued to hold him upright, protecting his head whenever it lolled so he wouldn’t slam it against a wall or a railing. He was as careful as he could be, guiding Harry up each step, not worrying as much about noise. He just needed to get Harry to safety. Then he could deal with the muggles, should issues arrive.

This time, the door creaked open, and the two boys practically fell into the room. Luckily Draco was able to catch them in time and support the rest of Harry’s weight over to the bed, where he discarded him gracelessly. Harry fell into a boneless heap while Draco busied himself with taking off Harry’s shoes. His clothes still had dirt on them from earlier, and while it would have bothered him any other time, Draco didn’t want to push Harry into exhausting any more energy than he already had. He pushed his feet up onto the bed. Harry laid on his side.

Draco moved to the foot of the bed, grabbing his bag and pulling it open, digging through it. It was quiet, save for the occasional clatter from the magical bag. Finally, he pulled out a small pink and white jar, setting the bag aside as he returned to Harry’s bedside.

He kneeled, bringing his hands to Harry’s head and carefully tilting it side to side.

Harry grimaced. “What’re you doing…?” He asked, voice rough with the need for rest.

Draco was scanning his face, and didn’t answer for a moment. When he was satisfied, he reached for the jar, unscrewing the cap and dipping his fingers in the cool cream. “I was checking for other bruises.”

Harry paled. “Bruises?”

Draco nodded, lifting his eyes back to Harry’s face. He set the jar aside, gently dabbing the cream along Harry’s nose. He watched as his eyes fluttered shut, caught somewhere between a wince and relief. Draco swallowed thickly, “I’ve… I’ve used this product before. It’s meant to treat blemishes, but… it works on bruises too.”

Harry let out a soft breath, air brushing against Draco’s wrist. “It’ll go away?”

It was such a childish question, it made Draco’s heart ache. “It’ll help. It is magical, anyway. So… it’ll help. Should be gone by the time you wake up.”

Harry cracked open his eyes, just barely. Draco froze at the sight of them.

“I’m tired, Draco,” Harry whispered, his body slinking down in itself. Draco had no idea if he was hurt elsewhere, but if he was, Harry was clearly too exhausted to care. 

“I know,” Draco whispered back, brushing some curls from Harry’s face. “You should rest.”

“I should.”

“You should.”

Harry’s shaking hand came to cover Draco’s where it rested against his head. “Will you rest with me?”

Draco couldn’t breathe. The question was too much, and he couldn’t stand the way his heart was pounding but seemed to be standing still at the same damn time. “I…” Draco got out, before shaking his head. “You need proper rest. In- in your bed where you can properly rest your body. I can’t imagine sleeping on the floor has been comfortable.”

Harry laughed weakly, his hand falling from Draco’s. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

Draco didn’t want to know. But still, he found himself asking, “What do you mean?”

“I…” Harry’s face screwed up, as if deep in concentration. It was like he wasn't sure why he was about to say whatever it was he going to say. “For the first eleven years of my life, I slept in this cupboard under our stairs. I didn’t actually get a room until I got my first letter from Hogwarts.”

Draco could’ve sworn the world stopped. He wanted it to start spinning again. He wanted that to have never happened in the first place. “You’re thinking too hard,” he said, his thumb resting against Harry’s cheekbone. It had a sort of youthful roundness to it, Harry's cheek. Draco couldn't help but appreciate the way it felt against his palm. “You’ll hurt yourself. You need to rest.”

Harry huffed a breath, the fragile smile on his face disappearing again. “You’ll stay? Right here. With me?”

Draco swallowed. “I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else, Harry.”

Harry kept Draco’s eyes for just a handful of seconds longer before he shut them again. Draco pulled his hand away from his hair, and just… observed.

Harry fell into sleep quickly, his body slumping back against the mattress, lips parting. He had this habit of exhaling deeply just before he slept. That’s how Draco knew he was gone to the world. Draco left for only a moment to go find Harry’s glasses, only to return and put them on the nightstand. Harry would want them when he woke up in the morning. He needed to be able to see, after all. The glasses were banged up, and Draco couldn’t help but look through them as he ascended the stairs.

Did he nearly miss his step and almost collapse back down half a flight of stairs? Yes. But no one needed to know that. It’s not like anyone was awake, anyhow. He could keep that fact to himself.

When he returned, Harry was still fast asleep. Except now, his eyelids were fluttering, eyes flicking beneath thin pieces of skin, eyelashes pressed peacefully to his cheeks. He looked so much softer.

Draco wondered, silently, as he knelt beside the bed, what he was dreaming about. He folded his arms under his chin, continent to just sit there. He hoped it was a good dream, something that finally gave him the peace he deserved. Something like a dream of the future, where everything works out. Where everyone makes it out of this war, and where his godfather was still by side. Something where he never had to worry about the hand the universe decided to give him.

Maybe I’m there, too.

The thought threw him off guard. Though, It wasn't unpleasant. Draco swallowed, carefully reaching a hand out and gently putting it on top of Harry’s.

Of course he wanted a place in Harry’s future. He’d take whatever Harry was willing to give him, no matter how much he didn’t deserve it. That was the thing, wasn’t it? He didn’t deserve a place. Not with all the ways he’s tormented him; the ways he’s tormented his friends; the way he’s been the cause of so much pain for Harry in just the past month.

What has he done to deserve Harry?

Absolutely.

Nothing.

But the idea of not having Harry in his life - after so long of not having him? Okay, he didn’t really have him… that was an odd way to put it. But his presence was a miracle in and of itself. Wasn’t it? Twelve-year-old Draco Malfoy would be astounded by this feat. By now, he couldn’t bring himself to hate Harry again. He didn’t want to go back to whatever the hell they had going on at school. But had he ever hated Harry?

Let’s face it, he’s annoying and blind to what was right in front of and irritatingly righteous, but… he was Harry.

He was the same boy who’d jump to defend his friends, even at the expense of himself. To fight for what he thought was right.

Sunshine incarnate , Draco thought absently, brushing his fingers through Harry’s curls. They were shockingly soft, given how messy and tangled they always seemed to be. 

Was it possible for a knight to admire a dragon as a dragon admired him, privately claiming his armor as one of his many treasures as he dismantled it piece by piece?

Was a dragon capable of admiration, with its claws and fiery breath and fangs?

Draco would like to think so.

Because for what could’ve been hours, he stayed in that position, kneeled before the bed, one arm folded under his chin and a hand absently running through the sleeping boy’s hair, he watched over him in the personal guise of keeping him safe. When in reality, he just wanted an excuse to admire Harry in all his… Harry-ness.

What had he said before? It was weird to watch someone sleep? This was different. So long as he stayed close and didn’t take his eyes off him, Harry would be safe. They would be safe.

Eventually, though, his knees started to really hurt. So he grabbed the pile of blankets folded in the corner and spread them out next to the side of the bed, trying to layer them in a way he could be comfortable. He laid down, staring up at the ceiling, sleep ebbing at the edges of his mind. But as his eyes drifted shut and the bliss of rest washed over him, a silent vow was made. He wasn’t sure when exactly he made it before he fell asleep, but it sparked a determination in him Draco didn’t know he was capable of.

It didn’t matter how long it took, or how hard it was. Draco was going to get Harry out of here.

Chapter Text

Usually, by this point in the morning, Harry would be up and about. He would already be dressed and downstairs, finding something to do. Draco would sleep until about eight, then get up himself to go join Harry downstairs, who would then give him some instructions of a task to complete somewhere in the same area. Always in the same room, either to help Draco when he needed it or just to keep him company.

Instead, Draco was sitting up against the bed, back against the side of the mattress, with his journal opened in his lap, a blue ballpoint pen between his fingers as it dashed against the page. His writing was messier than usual, the cursive taking an uncharacteristic italic - a product of his unsteady hands. They weren’t shaking, per se. Just… weak.

He was exhausted. He wanted the muddiness in his head to break, for the ache in his chest to just dissipate. And for the first time, journaling wasn’t working. Because no matter how much he wrote, the feelings stayed smashed into the crevices of his mind like plaster. And despite how heavy his eyelids felt, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep.

For the hour and a half that Draco had been awake, he’d sat here writing in his journal and occasionally twisting himself around to balance his finger atop Harry’s lip to check that he was still breathing properly. He was every time, but it still was nice to check.

Draco knew he couldn’t sit there all day. He grew too antsy for that sort of thing. So when the clock hit about nine-thirty, he stood, straightening out his clothes. Still in his clothes from yesterday, he fished in his bag for something fresh and popped into the bathroom to change.  He brushed his hair and teeth then washed his face, feeling a degree better once he had taken care of himself. That done, he checked on Harry one last time before he headed downstairs. It was quiet.

Vernon and Petunia were out for the day, thankfully, which left Draco to… what?

He surveyed the living room first, making a mental note of everything that could be done (dusting the bookshelves, cleaning the windows, tidying up the sofas), then did the same to the kitchen and dining room. The kitchen was relatively clean, the counters just needing to be wiped. So he started with that, figuring it would be easy to remove the jam smears from the counter. 

News flash: it was… surprisingly difficult.

The red goop just didn’t seem to want to let up, holding its grip on the counter steadfast. Sighing with frustration, he scrubbed harder.

He heard footsteps coming down the stairs, but they weren’t Harry’s. He ignored them. Apparently, though, people don’t know how to leave others alone. So when Dudley - why did it always have to be Dudley - spoke, it took everything in Draco not to turn around and throw his rag across the room at his face. Not because of what he said. Simply because his voice was just so damn… he couldn’t describe it.

“Potter leave you to the work today?” Dudley said, taking a seat at the table. He kicked his feet up onto the table, something that would’ve gotten Draco hexed at the Manor. “Typical of him.”

Draco ignored him, finally getting the glob to let go of the counter. He could feel Dudley’s eyes on him, and he hated the way the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up. Not once had he ever enjoyed being in the presence of this boy. There was something about Dudley’s gaze that put him off, unnatural and curious in a way he shouldn’t be. But the last thing Draco wanted to do right now was spark a fight with Harry’s cousin. Harry had already gone through enough because of him.

“I know you’re not deaf,” Dudley said, crossing his arms. “Nor are you mute. And it’s rude to ignore a host.”

Draco sighed internally, lifting his head and momentarily halting the scrubbing circles he was making with his rug. “Why must you insist on bothering me?”

Dudley smirked. “Ah, so you haven’t lost your ability to speak. That’s nice to know.” Dudley looked Draco over from behind the counter. “Why must you insist on causing problems?”

Oh, if Draco could do magic…

“Listen,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I don’t want to cause issues, because whenever I do, the fallout is on Harry. Which isn’t fair to him. So if you’d please-”

“First name basis now?” Dudley interrupted, attempting to raise a brow when he really raised both. “When did that happen? Thought you said you hated each other.”

Draco didn’t respond to this. It was bait, he was sure, and he wasn’t going to divulge a moment he considered private. Special. Especially not to Dudley Dursley. So he dropped his eyes back to the counter to continue working, moving to a different section.

“Y’know,” Dudley spoke again, “I don’t get it. Maybe you could explain it to me.”

“Explain what?” Draco said, focused more on the chore at hand than at what Dudley was saying. He turned to the sink, rinsing out his rag and moved to wipe down the counter by the stove. His back was to Dudley.

“I don’t get what Harry sees in you.” The statement was blunt, making Draco’s heart stop and restart again, breath getting caught halfway up his throat. His hand froze as Dudley continued, “Okay, correction. I just don’t get what he sees in… males . And you seem to know something about it.”

Draco whipped around. Dudley was in the kitchen now, standing by the counter Draco had just gotten done cleaning. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Draco demanded, crossing his arms in his defensiveness.

“I mean you have some of the… qualities,” Dudley said, so vague it made Draco want to slam something. “Y’know… of homosexuals.”

The bottom of Draco’s stomach dissolved instantly. He had never heard someone use that word to describe him before, despite his friends already knowing he’d never touch a woman willingly. He’d never even called himself that. Putting a label there meant it was easier for the Death Eaters to find out, which meant it would be easier for his father to find out, and if his father found out-

“I’m just curious if you could help me understand,” Dudley said, leaning his hip against the counter. “Because clearly, you see something in him, too.”

Draco’s mouth felt dry. “How would you know that?”

“Please,” Dudley said, drawing out the vowels. “I have eyes. I’m not blind. And I’m not nearly as dense as you may think.”

Draco scoffed, trying to glue himself back together. “I don’t see why this is any of your business, Dudley. It isn’t for you to understand, if you don’t already.”

Dudley looked him over, and a sudden, terrifying chill snaked then constricted around Draco’s spine, his shoulders straightening. He didn’t like that look, or the silence that ensued. He didn’t like it one bit. It made his stomach roil as if he’d eaten something expired, sickening and… his hands were suddenly itchy again. Every alarm in his head was blaring.

Dudley spoke in an almost relenting tone, “Maybe I could see what he sees, if you were a girl.”

Three words:

What the fuck?

Who the hell says something like that?

Draco’s grip on the rag tightened. “This conversation is over,” He said, voice firm and note giving any - any - leeway for argument. “I don’t know what the hell is going through your head right now-”

Dudley interrupted, “I’m just saying. If your hair was long. You have the right facial structure for it, just the right amount of roundness. I want you to help me understand?”

“Understand what ?” Draco snapped, knuckles going white. “Nothing here is for you to understand. And you’re insane if you think I’m helping you with anything. I’m not letting you ruin my summer more than you already have. So, thank you, good day, good bye. Never speak to me again.”

Draco turned back to his counter, blowing out a breath. His heart was racing; not in the way it does when he’s around Harry. The way it does when he used to sit in Death Eater meetings, knowing the impending danger had he not stopped it. He’s safe here-

A beefy hand enclosed around his wrist, spinning him back around. Dudley was now only a foot away, his face red with frustration. Draco’s heart plummeted. “What the-”

“Why must you be so difficult?” Dudley snapped, spit flying onto Draco’s face. Disgust curled in every cell of his body. 

“What are you talking about?!”

“Every damn time I’ve tried to have a civil conversation with you,” Dudley says. “Every time my mum or dad try to speak to you, you always get defensive and fight with us. What kind of spoiled brat do you have to be-”

“What makes you so entitled for me to just take your mistreatme-”

Dudley slapped his free hand to Draco’s mouth, getting in his face. “Don’t interrupt me. You get defensive and fight with us. We have been nothing but welcoming,” Draco tried to protest behind his palm, but it came out muffled, “Meanwhile you have done nothing but cause issue after issue. Here I am, right now, asking you to do a simple thing. And you can’t even do that without putting up a fight!”

Draco couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe and panic was starting to make his eyes blur. He bit at Dudley’s palm, and luckily enough, it was beefy enough that he actually caught skin. Dudley whipped his hand back wincing.

“Let go of me.”

“Make me understand.” Dudley’s hand went to Draco’s chin once he recovered, which didn’t take long. “I’m not asking for much. Just a kiss or something. Convince me that someone like you could possibly be of interest to anyone.”

“Let go of me!”

Dudley was too close, his face was too close, his hands were too tight. Draco took a breath, preparing himself-

But before anything, Draco brought the wet rag down on Dudley’s shoulder. The slap was loud, thick, harmonizing with Dudley’s startled shout. He had shuffled back half a step.

“You little-”

Draco brought his hand up again, going for another strike, but Dudley caught his wrist. And while he was distracted with fighting Draco’s hand, Draco was able to bring his knee up fast-

Right into Dudley’s groin.

Dudley groaned, collapsing to the ground as he fell into a meaty, gasping pile of flesh. Draco took this as his opportunity to get back upstairs, dashing out of the kitchen and stumbling up three steps as he clambered up the stairs. Normally, Malfoys don’t stumble or clamber. But this felt excusable. 

The moment he was in Harry’s room again, he slammed the door shut and slumped against it. He pressed a hand to his chest, taking breath after breath.

He was okay. He wasn’t going to vomit. He was okay. He’s fine. He’s safe. He had nothing to worry about, not really. Did he? No, no. He’s fine. Everything was going to be fine and in five years, Draco will laugh over Dudley’s audacity over a glass of wine with Ha- Pansy. Yeah. This will be funny.

Draco leaned his head back against the door, running a hand through his hair. He kept telling himself that he was okay, but his skin was still crawling.

Why did this summer have to be one disaster after another? Granted, a majority of them, he had a fault in. But this?

Outrageous.

Draco straightened himself, eyes scanning the room. Harry had slept through it. He didn’t have to know. He won’t have to know. Draco walked over to the loose floorboard, needing something to calm his nerves. So he pushed back the pile of linens and pulled up the board, expecting to see a pile of sweets - chocolate would be amazing right now. Rather, he paused upon seeing a publication of the Daily Prophet, folded and thrown precariously over everything else. It was dated August 9th, 1996. That was yesterday. Harry had come home from visiting with Hermione with papers folded under his arm yesterday. This was… yesterday’s publication. But only a section of it.

Why would Harry feel the need to hide a newspaper article?

Draco felt a familiar sense of terror as he read the first word of the title for the cover-page article. In big bold letters was his name. From how it was folded, Draco could read,

MALFOY MAT…

That’s it. This could be about his father, he realized, and rapidly unfolded the article. Did his father break free? Was he, along with all the other Death Eaters that were imprisoned after the ministry raid, on the run from the dementors? There was no way. Let’s be honest, Lucius Malfoy didn’t have half enough guts to complete such a feat-

Okay. He was going to vomit. Everything stood on a single point in time, and that point of time was the moment he read the full title. Shock and terror and dread and suddenly he couldn’t breathe again. This wasn’t real. This. Was. Not. Real. No way, no-fucking-how. This was some sort of Zonko's product. This wasn’t a real article. It was fake it was fake it was fake.

Harry groaned, eyes blinking open, but Draco didn’t see or hear it. All he could hear- see was the article before him and the sudden ringing in his ears that was starting to get way way way too loud.

MALFOY MATRIARCH FOUND DEAD IN KNOCKTURN ALLEY

Chapter Text

Draco felt like he might vomit, and choking back the bile that threatened to rise up his throat burned.

He had no air, no lungs, no mind, no body. He was not Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune, as he stared at those big block letters, proclaiming his mother’s death. The rest of the day was forgotten

His

mother’s 

death

He was Draco. Dragon .

He was a promise to stay safe.

He was his mother’s child.

He was a hope for a better future, crushed into a pulp by war and his father and

His

Mother’s

death

Right there, screamed to the world on a piece of paper that gave his mother no mercy. He read through it. He knew how to read, of course, but the words jumbled and collapsed and rebuilt themselves in a messy collage of fact and assumption. Journalism at its finest, ladies and gents! It made him want to scream, reading each word of the article that someone wrote just to sell a story.

His

Mother’s

death

Former Death Eater, Narcissa Malfoy… left for dead in Knockturn Alley… witness states that she was simply left there by a man in a dark cloak… searches for this man have thus far been fruitless…

His. Mother.

His. Mother.

Draco wanted to scream. He wanted to tear up the sheets and throw them to the wind; but he feared that if he did, they’d just return down the fireplace perfectly patched up and ready to remind him of a truth that he never wanted to face. To remind him of his situation.

He didn’t want to actually think about what this meant.

The picture beneath the headline was a family portrait, Narcissa sitting in a chair as old as her while she held baby Draco to her chest. Lucius stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Neither of them smiled. Dated? Yes. But his mother had always been beautiful. She would remain that way, forever and ever, in this article that Draco swore bordered on libel. Was this libel? Was his mother cruel?

Was she really gone?

Harry had kept this from him.

He had kept this hidden, tucked away until what? Until she had been dead long enough for Draco to know? Who was he to keep this from him? His. Mother .

Draco could hear his name distantly, tired at first. Then there came to be a panicky lilt to that voice-

That voice .

Draco felt his feet fall out from under him, but didn’t register it until his back slammed against something hard. He didn’t realize he had fallen until his head throbbed after hitting a corner, as something heavy fell from the surface of whatever he’d hit and snapped upon contact with the ground. His ears were ringing, heart racing, and he wanted-

There were hands on his arms, thin but strong, shaking him. Trying to snap him out of his trance. When that failed, they tore the article from Draco’s fingers, paper ripping where Draco had gripped it. Only then did he look up.

Harry was kneeling in front of him, asking him something. His mouth was moving, but the words just weren’t processing. Anger surged through Draco, dangerously violent and so hot it seared through every nerve ending. Harry had kept this from him. He had hidden such a major thing from him and here he was, kneeling in front of him like it was nothing. Here he was, asking if he was alright when he just found out-

When he had been the one to-

When he hadn’t just-

Draco lunged, a great sob of fury ripping through his chest and tearing past his lips. He didn’t care that Harry was already hurt, his face bruised from whatever or whenever. He didn’t care about the instantaneous look of fear and worry that struck through Harry’s glasses-less eyes. 

Harry gasped when his back hit the floor, Draco suddenly straddling him, fists clenched in his shirt as he lifted him up and slammed him back down. Draco was blinded by a rage so thick molasses would be jealous. A rage so toxic, Draco could practically hear the Geiger counters shrieking against his eardrums. His cheeks were wet, tears he didn’t know he even had anymore slipping down his cheeks.

Malfoys don’t cry .

But at this moment, he wasn’t Malfoy. He was just Draco.

And Draco was livid at the Boy Who Lived for keeping this from him.

“You coward!” He was shouting through his teeth, gums aching from how tight his jaw was clenched. He couldn’t see past the tears in his eyes. “How could you?! You complete and utter slime bag-”

Harry’s eyes had widened further, despite the swelling. Draco had expected fear there, but there was none. It only made his fury worse. 

“Draco-”

“ No! ” Draco cried over him, lifting him back up by the shirt. Their faces were inches apart, and Draco could see every aspect of Harry’s face. The pores of his golden brown skin. The slight stubble on the curve of his jaw. The curls that folded into his eyes, the soft flecks of gold in those seas of emerald. He wanted to hate all of it, right then and there. He wanted to forget any of the foolish gentleness he’d held in regards to the slope of Harry’s nose, the slight crookedness of his teeth, the vividness of him. But he couldn’t. No matter how hard he willed it, hatred did not swell within him as he wanted it to.

No, he couldn’t hate Harry. Not anymore.

This fact made his fury flicker, doubt creeping into the vague, far-off corners of his selfish mind.

Worst of all, there was that look in Harry’s eyes. The look that said he knew. He knew this fury, this hurt. That he had been acquainted with it himself. That he wasn’t afraid of what Draco could do to him now, at his worst, when he was ready to tear the world apart until it was a million pieces of dirt and rock and whatever else Earth is made of. The mere sight of it was a wash of ice cold water being poured over the blonde’s head, dousing out his flame entirely.

A sob loosed out of Draco, his throat tightening like a noose, and all he could bring himself to do was tuck his head against Harry’s shoulder. It didn’t take long for his tears to soak through the thin cotton of Harry’s shirt, just as it didn’t take long for Harry’s arms to find their place around him, for his hand to tangle in the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck, the other spreading across the center of his back.

Harry didn’t speak, his silent presence an anchor Draco desperately clung to. Wind whistled against the window, whispering a symphony of sympathy that was out played by cries so harsh they made every part of Draco shake as they came and went, only to be replaced  by more. 

Harry didn’t hush him. He didn’t try to talk him down. He just held him, and perhaps that was the most bittersweet thing he could’ve done.

“You’re cruel,” Draco choked out. His hands were still tangled in Harry’s shirt, and they wouldn’t move unless Draco wanted to deal with their trembling. “How dare you?”

Harry didn’t respond, and when he didn’t, Draco pulled back to look at him. His face was splotchy, eyes puffy and nose red.

“Nothing?” He demanded. “You have no explanation for yourself?! You- You have no excuse for hiding this from me?!”

Harry grit his teeth to keep himself from sighing. The last thing Draco needed was any form of attitude. “It wasn’t my intention-”

“Then what was your intention?! Explain to me how you could ever think it was a good idea to just-” Draco was stuttering, tripping over his words. He couldn’t bring himself to care. “You find out about my mother dying ,” he choked at the word, feeling like a weight he never wanted on his tongue, “and you decide to keep it from me?! What kind of beast-”

“I was going to tell you, Draco, I just-”

“Of course you were. Or are you just trying to cover your ass for making the gravest mistake of your life?! Merlin, I could hex you for this-”

“I didn’t know how to tell you! I’ve never-”

“Oh, you didn’t?” Draco demanded, dropping Harry’s shirt and pushing him back slightly. “You didn’t know how to have a conversation about-”

Harry snapped, his voice coming out sharp enough that it thrust Draco back into his senses, that it let him speak. “Every single person in my life who has died has died in front of me .”

The silence they were thrown into was instant, but it didn’t last long. Harry spoke again, “So no, Draco. I didn’t know how to tell you. Because I have never had anyone tell me that someone was dead, so I had no idea where to even start!”

Draco’s shoulders slackened, slumping. His mouth was dry. Tremors shook his body. When the corners of Harry’s brows pointed up, he knew he was telling the truth. A dull throb of an ache squeezed at Draco’s chest, worsening the already existing whirlwind of emotion clawing at his ribs.

Harry finally let go of that sigh, looking away from Draco. His thumb traced circles in the Slytherin's back, soothing and gentle.

“You’re right,” Harry said, voice quiet. “I should’ve told you when I found out. Day of. I shouldn’t have put it off or tried to figure out the perfect way to tell you. You have every right to be angry with me.”

Draco was stunned into silence. Merlin, this was sickening. Why couldn’t he just hate Harry? It was simpler when he did. When he was able to spend every moment around him sneering and turning up his nose as if he were scum under his shoe.

But now Harry was apologizing to him. Now, Harry was holding him and letting him cry and scream at him. Draco wanted to smack him. He wanted to knock some sense into that head that seemed to be constantly lacking actual, useful thought. And despite all of that, Draco was still comforted by Harry’s arms, by his voice, by his eyes and skin and hair. He was comforted by Harry. 

There were no greater evils in the world. This might have just been the cruelest twist of fate yet.

Draco wiped his own tears, sniffling. He hated crying, and he hated it even more when he cried around other people. There was something so vulnerable about it, like cutting out a piece of your mind and laying it bare in front of those who witnessed your tears. He held a bitter hatred for the empty sympathies and the blatant discomfort crying obviously caused other people.

Around Harry, however, Draco felt he could cry. He felt that he could let go and slide down the slope of emotions he’d kept tucked away in the securest Gringotts vault he had in the deepest parts of his mind for sixteen years. Harry let him loose, and pulled him back to shore before he went too deep.

Draco sat slumped against Harry, his lips parted as he focused on drawing in breaths. He had his ear pressed to Harry’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. It helped, that steady rhythm. Draco counted each beat, bringing his mind a focal point that was easily distilled by the memory of his mother.

Draco had always been a ‘Mama’s boy’, as Pansy often put it. He was told that as a toddler, he would follow Narcissa from room to room of the Manor, his fist clenched in the trail of her dress to keep up. He’d cry whenever she wasn’t around and cling to her when his father was. He knew even then that it was, subjectively, wrong to favor one parent to another. It caused many fights between his parents as he grew - at one point, when Draco was six, Lucius sent Narcissa to France for the second half of the year to get their son to forget his favor to his mother. It hadn’t worked, but he’d learned to hide it better.

He wouldn’t look to his mother unless she spoke to him directly when his father was in the room. He avoided trailing her around, instead taking to spend the days in his room under the guise of studying. He didn’t sit beside her at dinner. He didn’t beg her to sing songs with him or tell him magical stories from her childhood. But he knew that he would always favor his mother over his father when Lucius would raise a fist in his fury; when he would use his power - his standing as the Malfoy patriarch - against them for unavoidable annoyances or inconveniences. Lucius Malfoy may have been his father, yes. But he was never, and would never be, his dad.

Even though he never called her such, Narcissa was his mom. Through and through.

He could remember nights of black and blue, Narcissa crouching by Draco’s bed and running her fingers through his hair as she hummed lullabies that would ease him into sleep.

He could remember many times when Lucius was away on business trips, Narcissa would color a strip of Draco’s hair some vibrant color just for the laugh it got from him.

He could remember the joy and pride in her eyes when he opened his first Hogwarts letter.

He could remember her. Narcissa Black. Perhaps not a perfect woman. But one that had made his life just a little better.

Draco told Harry all of this. He wasn’t sure why. If you traveled five years into the future, when Draco had finally begun to find peace with the man he loved and happiness with his life, he still wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Maybe it was because Harry was solid: unwavering in his presence and present-ness. Or maybe it was just because it was Harry. Nonetheless, words fell from Draco’s lips and waltzed into Harry’s ears.

Saying it all felt like a relief to a weight Draco didn’t know he held. Tears had long since stopped shedding, even if he still felt the immense emptiness of everything swelling in his chest. With each word, he felt like he was giving away a private piece of himself. It was almost laughable, how vulnerable he felt. How… intimate … it felt to simply just talk.

He already cried in front of him. What more did he have to lose?

Harry took every piece, and he took them delicately. He held them in his open palm, waiting for permission to take them as his own, to fuse them with the parts of himself that were also broken.

Individually, they were both damaged. Burdened by the boulders of their own griefs and betrayals and the hurts they’d collected from those they were closest to. Draco was shattered; jagged edges that cut into others without meaning to. With his trained cruelty, he was a vase others throw away at their first opportunity. Or, at least, he would be if he gave others the chance to get that close. It was how he dealt with everything.

Harry, on the other hand…

Harry was golden lacquer, unafraid of the danger. He put others together, even if it cost him a fortune. He acted as if it was simple, as if it was just his duty. It could be to those who didn’t know him, who didn’t relate to him in a way Harry kept hidden. But his golden lacquer was just a distraction from his own barbed edges, keeping them hidden from those who didn’t look carefully enough. It was how he dealt with everything.

Maybe there was a beauty in it somewhere, they way they seemed to come together as one. There was a warmth when Harry’s golden lacquer pressed against Draco’s breaks and pieced them together again like no other, and Draco wanted all of it. He wanted their broken pieces to make something beautiful, just to make it out of the hurt together. For isn’t that what they’d done all summer?

Hardship brought them to the same place, sandwiched them together in a small room with hideous wallpaper and one bed and a pile of linens on the floor. Those linens would soon find an end to their use. They’d be washed and put away properly.

They were never intended to stay in use for the entire summer, after all.

That night, Draco fell asleep in Harry’s arms, all snuffy nose and swollen lips and honeyed with a comfort he hadn’t known he craved his entire life. Harry had insisted upon it, and Draco had relented when he realized how much better that would make him feel. Harry knew grief, too. How many times had he grieved and not gotten the chance to be held?

That night, he dreamt of Harry, imagining a scenario where they make it out of this war alive. Not whole, of course. No one was surviving the war without at least a scuff on the shoe. But alive. Surviving. Building a life together where they were simply just them.

For once, Draco could settle with the fact that maybe… just maybe… things would be okay.

Chapter Text

The bed was too small for two almost fully grown boys to share. The mattress was too thin, making not much room to toss and turn without tossing and turning into the other. Although, neither of them were truly restless sleepers that night. 

Draco woke to warmth, spread around him like a blanket left out in the summer sun for a few hours. It wasn’t an unwelcome feeling at all, the soft rising sun brushing against his cheeks, making his platinum hair glow with orange. He was comfortable, sated in this sleep routine that had only lasted - and probably would only last - one night. Birds sang their romantic songs, calling to one another in the morning’s careful morning light, while the breeze danced through lace curtains. Cars drove past the house, one notably playing music loud enough that Draco could feel it vibrate the house just a little bit.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Harry. For a moment, it meant nothing. It was just him, blinking his eyes open to the familiar sight of Harry asleep. But it didn’t take long for him to freeze, realizing not only how close they were but also that Harry’s arm was still slung around his waist, securing him there. Okay, yeah, it felt nice to be held last night. That’s reasonable, yeah? But-

Did Harry hold him all night ?

Draco felt heat rise to his cheeks, creeping up his neck with fingers that tickled his skin.

Oh Merlin…

Okay. No. This- this could be fine. It definitely wasn’t absurd, the way something fluttered in his chest because of the way their legs were tangled on top of the comforter or the way Harry looked softer, somehow, this close and lost in sleep’s void or the way Draco found himself just wanting to snuggle closer. Which, for the record, he did not end up doing. He’s Draco bloody Malfoy! He doesn’t snuggle with the Boy Who Lived, his greatest rival who wasn’t really his rival anymore and more of a friend, but a friend that Draco could just be around and still feel safe and content. I mean, now that would be crazy. Absolutely and utterly insane. And trust him to know, Draco bloody Malfoy was not crazy. Right?

Wrong.

Okay, truly, he really wasn’t crazy. But…

He did scoot closer, his forehead resting against Harry’s shoulder, and closed his eyes once he found himself comfortable once again. He took several deep, long breaths, attempting to calm his racing heart. (It didn’t work, by the way). His palm was pressed against Harry’s chest, a rhythmic thump thunk thump thunk tapping against his ribs.

So Draco focused on that.

Harry’s heart beat was real, evidence that this was actually happening. Draco wasn’t sure why he had to convince himself that, yes, you did sleep in such close proximity to Harry Potter all last night and - oh, don’t deny it, it was the best night of sleep you’ve had in years . Long story short, Harry was here. He hadn’t disappeared with the night. He was alive, well. Alive. Well. Solid. Warm. 

Here.

The dream was back again last night, but for the first time, the sea of emerald hadn’t roiled. It was calm, content spreading through its edges. He understood it now, what exactly he was dreaming of. It meant the boy sleeping next to him, against him, holding him close. And there he lay, mind racing with what this could mean for Draco. He felt like the stereotypical teenager, fretting over some boy who, a, was probably straight, and, b, he didn’t know all that well. Sure, he knew Harry on an intimate, vulnerable level that was more about the trauma they shared than anything else.

Draco nearly groaned.

What he needed was some time to think. He needed time to figure out what the hell was wrong with him and how he should go forth. But… for now…

This was fine. He just… wanted to lay here. With Harry. In peace for once.

Oh, Harry.

He’d become a topic of much interest in Draco’s mind this past summer, regardless of whether or not he was a hot topic beforehand. Which, as everyone knew, he was. What was Draco to do with himself? He didn’t even want to label whatever this feeling was as what he knew it was, too terrified of what would happen should he do?

Would he become obsessed?

(He already was).

Would he seek out Harry an unreasonable amount of time?

(Again, he already did).

So… maybe these feelings had been around for longer than this summer, and he’d just labeled it as rivalry. Right… perfect .

Pansy was right. He was infatuated. And now that he thought about it, Draco was almost positive she hadn’t meant it in the rivalry way. Not once had Draco ever yearned to go back in time and remain in his own blissful self awareness, or lack thereof.

Harry roused under Draco’s palm, taking a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes slit open. The blonde sat back, lifting his head to watch the show, his mind remembering the dream. Yes, he understood the sea of emerald. But what he still didn’t understand was the end, when the emerald would shift to that evergreen fog. He had the first half of the puzzle, now all he needed was the second piece. Then…

Harry lifted a hand, the arm that had been around his waist leaving for just a moment so he could brush some hair from Draco’s eyes, puffy from all the crying he was doing last night, then returned to its original spot. With its return, Draco felt an immediate and not-so-unwelcome tingling spread along his side.

Merlin, why was he still even bothering with lying to himself…

Pansy was one-hundred-percent correct. But maybe infatuated wasn’t the word he wanted to use. That word seemed crude, like it was almost a bad thing. Besotted may have been better, if it weren’t so formal. Besotted sounded like something Lucius would say to describe his relationship with Narcissa; it was nothing of the sort. Bewitched was a little too punny for his taste. Devoted was too religious. Passionate was too… well, passionate.

Captivated.

That worked.

Draco was captivated. Eros had struck him through the gaping part of his heart that had convinced the boy he’d never truly be capable of loving someone and showed him otherwise. He was captivated by the way Harry’s hair was perpetually messy, getting even more so in the wind; the way he was so quick to try to get someone to receive the justice they deserve, good or bad.

Most of all, the way Harry looked at him. Like there was something familiar there, like he knew him. Yes, they had a lot to learn about each other. But… Harry understood Draco. In a way that even Pansy had failed.

“Good morning,” Draco whispered, not wanting to break the bubble they had protecting them from the rest of the outside world with too much noise.

“G' morning,” Harry whispered back, fingers gently scraping at the base of Draco's spine through his shirt. “Sleep well?”

Draco nodded. The right corner of his lip curled up into a soft smile without his permission. “Better than I have in a long while.”

“Good.” Harry’s eyes shut again, and Draco was sorely disappointed to see them go.

He stared at him for another moment, then caught himself, cheeks heating again. He cleared his throat. “Did you sleep well?” The words came out a lot more hesitantly than he’d meant them to.

Harry smiled at Draco, and nodded. “Better than I have in a long while.”

One heartbeat, then two, then three, all right beneath Draco’s palm. It was odd to think that their hearts were separated by just a few layers. Fabric, skin, muscle and bone.

Harry was examining Draco, and Draco didn’t notice for the first few moments. But when he did, he felt himself shrink back inside the tiny cracks of his mind. He knew that look. The question of whether or not he was okay in Harry’s eyes, not verbal but still there nonetheless. 

“Don’t,” Draco said, shaking his head. He didn’t want to think about whether he was okay or not. Yesterday was a disaster. But that was yesterday.

“Draco,” Harry said.

Draco shook his head again. “No. I’m not talking about this right now. Please.” He bowed his head against Harry’s chest, curling his hand into his shirt. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Don’t make me talk about this.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to freeze.

But then his hand spread out across the middle of Draco’s back, as if in an effort to comfort him wordlessly. That was it. Harry nodded, and pressed his nose into blonde hair. The action made Draco sigh, and suddenly, he was talking.

“Why her…?” Draco whispered, chewing on his lip.

Harry didn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t know. If I knew how Voldemort-”

“ Don’t ,” Draco spat, then took a breath. “Don’t say his name.”

Again, Harry was silent. For once, Draco hated the silence. “If I knew how Voldemort chose his victims, I…”

Harry sighed, because they both knew. It wasn’t just Voldemort who chose who lived and who died. It was his Death Eaters, too, who picked life as if they were cherries and fed off the power they felt from the death and destruction. It was people like Draco’s father. It was the Order, too - Dumbledore, more specifically - who chose which lives are expendable and which are not for the sake of victory. There was no method to the madness. Just madness.

“I wish I could go back,” Draco whispered. He hated how weak and frail he sounded. He knew that Harry wouldn’t care. But there was always that voice in the back of his mind reminding him of what name he carried. “My mother, she-”

“No,” Harry said, firm, leaving no room for interruption. He held Draco tighter. “Don’t do that to yourself. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

Draco raised his head, meeting Harry’s eyes. “But-”

“No,” Harry said again, shaking his head. “I’ve done that too. It’s awful. You can’t blame yourself for something that was entirely out of your control.”

Draco frowned, and suddenly his eyes stung again. “I think I could’ve saved her,” he blurted out, despite the Gryphindor’s words. “I could still, if I knew where she was-”

“Draco-”

“No, Harry, listen to me,” Draco pleaded. It was fruitless.

Harry grit his teeth and shifted, moving them from on their sides until Draco was on his back and-

Oh merlin.

Harry loomed over him in an attempt to get Draco to listen, and focus, his elbows on either side of Draco’s shoulders as he framed his face with his chore-roughened hands. There was that softness in his eyes again, tired himself.

“You are not Aclepus,” Harry whispered. “You can’t fix death. No one can.”

For the next several moments, Draco simply stared at Harry, confused. His brows pulled together, lips parting, entirely lost about who on Earth Harry could possibly be talking about. Aclepus? Who on Earth?

A previous conversation came to mind, one held over a month ago under the stars, just the two of them. A conversation on astronomy and childhood. With that, Draco burst into laughter, a few of the tears that had previously welled in his eyes slipping down his cheeks. The laugh was watery.

“Do you mean Asclepius?” Draco asked, his laughter waning into chuckles. Merlin, it felt nice to smile, all things considered.

Harry looked confused now, a lost look glazing over his eyes. “That’s what I said.”

“No, you said Aclepus. Not even close to Asclepius.”

Harry frowned. “It was pretty close.”

“Not even a little bit,” Draco said, chuckling now.

Harry rolled off of his elbows, sitting up next to Draco. “Shut up, you prick. I’m trying to comfort you.”

“And you’d be doing so well, dear,” Draco said, turning on his side to look at him, “if you got the names of what you’re trying to reference right.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Harry grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring at Draco.

“Absolutely,” the blonde agreed, humming. “Carry on with your comforting, if you must. Do get the names right.”

Harry’s glare transformed into a glower, and he opened his mouth, likely to snap back. But before he could, Vernon’s voice broke through the walls, tearing down the temple of peace they had built brick by brick in the last twelve and however many minutes since last night. Harry cringed, looking at his door, before sighing. This was it. Time to face the music of his life.

So Harry stood, Draco sitting up to watch him, and stretched his arms out over his head. He ignored the ache at the base of his ribs.

When his hand dropped, Draco took the opportunity, snatching up his wrist and stumbling to his own feet. Harry’s name caught in his mouth, a grunt as he tripped and Harry had to turn to catch him. Which meant that once more, Draco was pulled into him. He decided right then and there that he could simply die in these arms, for what a way to go. 

He chuckled nervously, straightening and muttering an apology as he pretended to dust himself off. He needed just a foot of distance between them, though he didn’t drop Harry’s wrist.

For the briefest moment, there was a certain revulsion in being in that position with Harry, a reminder of the day before forcing its way to the top of Draco’s head before he pushed it down. He wouldn’t let Dudley , the beast, ruin anything he may have with Harry. No chance in hell.

“I’m going to get you out of here.” Draco’s voice didn’t waver like he thought it might be. It was bold. Firm. like he meant every word. And he did.

Harry’s eyes widened. “You- what?”

“I mean it.” Draco sighed. “Truly, I do. I never had the courage to leave my own disaster, not without my mother. But… right now, I want to finally do something good.”

“There’s no way you’ll actually be able to actually do this.” Harry ran his free hand through his hair. “I can’t just leave .”

“Nor can I,” Draco countered, “but we can’t stay here. It’s hurting you. And I can’t just stand back and watch. Not when I know I can do something.”

Harry stared at Draco as if he were an anomaly, an alien from the farthest parts of the universe. “Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?”

Draco huffed, tugging on his wrist. “I mean it. I’m going to right all the wrong I’ve done here and get you out of here. Believe me.”

There was a determination in his tone that made Harry want to believe him. But he knew this place. He’d tried to run away once, when he was thirteen, and where had that landed him? He was back the next summer, wasn’t he? It would be the same story all over again. But he so desperately wanted to believe he could be free again.

So he nodded.

“Alright,” Harry said. “Get us out of here.”

Chapter Text

Draco realized he was gay when he was young. He was terrified at first, knowing his mother’s and father’s views on that sort of thing. He felt as if he’d failed, that he’d sullied the Malfoy name. He vowed to never tell anyone - and, at the time, that truly meant anyone and everyone - about what he was, knowing without a doubt that he’d be rejected and possibly cast aside. He’d lose everything, Draco was sure of it.

That vow didn’t last long.

Two weeks after realizing this, his family had gone over to the Parkinson’s so the two patriarchs could discuss business or something like that. It had been winter, just two days after the Malfoy’s annual Christmas ball. As soon as Draco and Pansy were permitted to leave the dining room, as soon as they were inside Pansy’s room, the beans spilled. Draco was crying, he could remember, terrified of everything and begging Pansy for a way to fix it. To make his queerness go away and never come back. There had to be some magical fix, some potion they could make. 

He was eleven at the time, and it was both a shock and a relief when, in turn, Pansy also started to cry and came out to him as lesbian. Draco had been stunned, his blubbering halting for two whole minutes before he threw himself towards Pansy, embracing her. It was a strange solace, being best friends with someone just as unwelcome as he. They vowed to not tell anyone each other’s secrets.

That has been a vow long since kept.

Draco told one other person about what he was, when he was fourteen. Narcissa had asked, once more, what girl he’d gone to the Yule Ball with. (He’d gone with Pansy just not as a date; he had said so, but his mother simply didn’t believe him). Frustrated and stressed with Lucius’s impending arrival from a business trip later that day, he’d snapped. He’d given her his answer - that he didn’t even like girls, so why in Salazar’s name would he ask a girl out to the Yule Ball?! - and the silence that had followed made Draco regret it instantly. 

He took it back, for he could see the sudden revulsion that crossed her features, begging her to understand that it was just a joke. He hadn’t meant it like that, of course! Why would he?

He watched as Narcissa closed her eyes, taking a controlled breath, before opening them again. That was it. This was the end of him. He was a Malfoy no longer. His entire inheritance? Gone! His rich status? Kaput! Everything he’d ever known and done? Ruined!

So it shocked him more so when Narcissa hugged him, told him that she loved him, and to keep his mouth shut. They never spoke of it again.

Draco pushed the thought of his mother away. He didn’t want to think about the truth of her existence.

He found ways to distract himself, for the most part. Were those ways just spending time with Harry? Yes. Was he going to deny that he enjoyed every second of it? Absolutely not. Draco had learned that shame is not something a Draco can afford. Sure, it can help a ruthless Malfoy who wants to do nothing but things that benefit themselves and those of similar social standings. But this was something he’d learned for himself. Not for the sake of his family name.

Harry had finally introduced him to television. When they were sure everyone was out of the house, they found their way into the guest room. Harry pulled out a box looking object and pressed it into another box, and within a few button presses later, the larger, metal box lit up and displayed the bright colors cartoons are so often known for. Alice In Wonderland, Harry had called it. A classic. And by the end, Draco was bewildered that muggles could create such beautiful and absurd pieces of moving artwork just to distribute it throughout the world.

They’d spoken of it for the next several hours, even while they’d cleaned. 

At night, Draco slipped into bed beside Harry, curling into him. He cried when he needed to, though it wasn’t often. They talked about their respective guardians, the effects they had on their lives. Spitefully, Draco found another thing they had in common. For some reason, it always seemed to be the worst of them. Or, at least, that was what seemed to hold the greatest weight.

Harry was always there to hold him. Always. Draco knew he’d do the same in a heartbeat if Harry needed him to.

 On the third day after The Furniture Scandal - as Harry had taken to calling it to make light of a situation, even though it always made his Slytherin companion cringe - Harry sat on the bed of their room, his shirt off as Draco inspected his torso. The cream he’d applied the first night had worked. For the most part, anyway. There were some bruises that were still there (the one on Harry’s ribs, namely), but the others had faded. Draco liked to check on them, to make sure that Harry was healing okay.

He couldn’t count how many times Narcissa had done the same for him.

Draco sat back on his heels from where he kneeled on the floor, Harry’s arm dropping back to his side. He capped the cream, tossing it back into his bag as if it were simply a discardable bottle and not some pricey, home-made balm. “It’ll be gone by tonight,” He said, lifting his eyes to Harry’s.

Harry sighed, looking back at the bruise. “Where did you get that stuff, anyway?”

Draco looked back at his bag, considering it. “Just a random potion shop in France. I can’t remember what it was called.”

“France?” Harry repeated, pulling his shirt back on. Draco hated to see the sight go. “What is in France to go visit?”

“Paris, first of all,” Draco said after a scoff. “Only the country’s largest tourist attraction, arguably. And my mother’s family is largely French. We were visiting my grandparents.”

Harry made a noncommittal nod, accepting that answer, then laying back on the bed. He, much like Draco, was exhausted. They had stayed up all night again talking about family until drifting off at four in the morning, an hour before Harry had been called down by his uncle. Vernon had gone into work early today, and needed to inform his nephew that he’d be babysitting a child during a dinner Vernon was hosting with some business partners. Luckily for Harry, though, Petunia had stayed home to cook, so he’d get the chance to nap at some point today. 

Draco, on the other hand, was stressed out of his mind. He was tired as well, which didn’t help. But he’d stayed awake a bit longer than Harry, sneaking downstairs and out the back door where he’d whistled for his owl. It glared at him, settling after some pets and a stolen piece of ham from dinner, before taking the letters and flying off. At last, the heist afoot. Sort of. He hoped he’d hear at least one response by tonight, when he was hiding in Harry’s room to avoid any trouble. He didn’t want to say anything to Harry now. The last thing he wanted to do was give him hope; that’d be cruel, even for a Malfoy.

So when Harry went downstairs for the evening, dressed as nice as he could be with the clothes he had, Draco sat by the desk and toyed with a pen. The plan, so far, was simple. The Dursley’s would be a sort of rendezvous point, where they’d get more or less picked up and they’d walk the rest of the way. It felt like a plot to run away, which, in the simplest terms, it was. They’d make a break for it and get far away from this place.

But there were flaws. Of course there were flaws. That’s why he needed-

Scraping came from the window, and Draco was lifted from his thoughts. His owl, large and proud and dark, flapped against the pane, trying to get its owner’s attention and be let in. Draco didn’t wait, pushing the pane open. It perched, two pieces of parchment clamped in its beak. One was folded like an envelope, neat and well written. The other was rolled, sealed with a singular piece of twine and made from possible the cheapest paper Draco had ever seen.

Draco stared at each response as his heart beat wildly in his chest, a galloping unicorn on chase towards paradise. He had thought, last night when he had sent the letters, that he had nothing to lose. But he’d been lying to himself. Even with his mother gone, he still had one thing. One person. And if this went wrong, then, and only then, would he have nothing to lose. And Merlin curse him, but he couldn’t lose anyone else; not this summer, or the next, or the rest of his life. These past sixteen years had been enough for him.

The first letter had one name signed.

The other had three.

Hermione Ganger.

Then Ronald, Fred, and George Weasley.

The next day, they took the tram for roughly twenty minutes to get to this small cafe. Harry had no idea, and Draco, once more, was too nervous to tell him. He had no idea why. Harry knew these people better than he did, that’s for sure. Maybe it was the fact that he’d even gotten their help in the first place that was the root of this issue. He’d spent the greater part of five years tormenting this trio and now he was severely in over his head about Harry and asking for genuine help. They had no reason to help him, he was sure that Harry was their motivating factor. The hard part would be convincing them to listen.

Simultaneously, Draco was worried that a cafe would be far too public. He knew that Death Eaters hated muggles and muggle-born magicals alike, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t lurk in their spaces. They had to keep an eye out for traitors. Targets. But it was true, a muggle space would be safer than a wizard space.

The cafe really was small, enough to fit a coffee bar and a handful of tables. Harry recognized it, and went to sit at a table in the back corner as he said he usually did, dragging Draco along by the wrist. As he usually did. They didn’t order anything, Harry being broke and Draco only having wizard currency being unable to pay for anything. Instead, Harry sat and shook his head to get some hair out of his eyes. They were two of four people in the shop, not including the barista.

“This is a nice date spot, don’t you think?” He said offhandedly, as if he hadn’t even thought before he spoke.

Draco paused halfway to his seat, heat threatening to claw up his neck. Oh, absolutely not. He was not doing this right now. He had business to take care of and while that business did involve Harry, it wasn’t… all of that. Draco sat, looking out the window and shifting awkwardly. Whatever happened to ‘Malfoys are confident at all times?’

Turns out, that entire sentiment washes away when a pretty guy says something like that .

Harry seemed to realize what he said at Draco’s rare awkwardness, and he quickly went to correct himself. “Not that I’m saying- I mean. I’ve been here once or twice and I always thought it’d be cool to take someone I’m close to here, I guess. Because it’s,” he cleared his throat, “cozy.”

Draco steeled himself before looking at Harry. This idiot! You’d think someone would learn after sixteen years of life to think before speaking. Although… Draco did find it mildly endearing. Though, he'd never admit that aloud.

“Cozy.”

Harry nodded, clearing his throat again. “Yeah. Cozy. With the indoor vines and… stuff.”

Draco looked over their heads where, indeed, a vine wrapped around one of the beams supporting the ceiling.

Harry continued, rambling like he could possibly save himself. Draco let him try. “And, I mean, c’mon! Imagine taking a girl you like here and having some coffee and a little treat. Like those cakes over there. Strawberry flavored, right? They’re adorable.”

And just like that, Draco’s hopeful mood was violently crushed. A girl . Yeah right. Of course that’d be Harry’s first though. Because he was normal.

Like a fool, Draco found himself confiding in Harry once more. “Harry, I don’t really…” Draco swore under his breath. He was utterly mental. What ever happened to keeping his mouth shut when it came to the things about him that weren’t perfect? He spoke on despite everything in his being telling him to stop, because Harry was looking at him like he’d listen to him recite War and Peace. “I don’t think of girls in such a way.”

Harry looked at him for a moment, eyes wandering Draco’s ashamed expression. He looked confused for one, two… there it was . His lips parted and he sat up a little straighter, understanding dawning on him like a dreadful eclipse. This was it. This was where Harry decided to hate him forever.

“Oh,” was all Harry muttered.

“Oh?” Draco repeated. That’s it? That’s all he had to say. He almost opened his mouth to demand what ‘ oh ’ was supposed to mean when Harry also shifted awkwardly. He didn’t look away.

“Me too,” Harry said, before correcting himself. “I mean, I do. Think about girls. But… not just them.”

Curse him, there was that hope again. The bell at the door rang before Draco could get his own word of shock and surprise in, and Harry instantly perked up when his eyes fell on the entrance. Hermione Granger entered, looking studious even outside of Hogwarts, followed but, one, two, three, four , heads of fiery orange. Fred and George, then Ron, and lastly… Ginny Weasley. Harry stood at such a speed the chair beneath his feet knocked over and he ran to his best friend, clutching Ron in his arms with the most authentic grin Draco had ever seen. When he pulled away, Fred and his twin brother clapped his shoulders and gave loud, obnoxious greetings. The three of them jumped into lively conversation, catching each other up on everything. Ginny was quick to join.

Draco could tell the moment Harry told them he’d spent the summer with him, as all four of them looked at the blonde - Ginny and Ron much more incredulously than their older brothers.

Hermione, on the other hand, simply nodded at Harry and gave him a smile before walking over to Draco’s table, sitting where Harry had been moments before. 

She looked like the day she’d punched him, and it made Draco want to curl in on himself. “Malfoy.”

“Granger.”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, raising a brow. “You’re being honest? About wanting to get him out of that house.”

Draco knew this would come, the automatic assumption that he had underlying causes for doing this. And he didn’t blame her whatsoever for thinking so. But it still ached. “I am.”

She squinted at him. Ron pulled up a chair next to her, leaning back and crossing his ankles as he watched Draco carefully, as if assessing him for his next move.

Draco didn’t sigh, though he wanted to. “Look… I know what it’s like to live like that. And I understand that my behavior in the past is quite contradictory to this-”

“ Quite might be an understatement,” Ron cut in, and Hermione elbowed him in the side. “What? I’m not wrong! He’s been an asshole our entire time at Hogwarts, flaunting around his rich, pure-blood status.” He turned back to Draco. “We have absolutely no reason to trust you to not have ulterior motives with this.”

Draco didn’t like where this was going at all. He grit his teeth, pushing through this. He could do this, for Harry’s sake. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Ron’s face hardened and he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “How do we know you’re not a Death Eater?”

Draco felt like he’d been thrown across the room. Maybe he should have seen this coming, all things considered. Merlin, it was his aunt who had murdered Sirius Black, wasn’t it? His father had surely helped, too, given that he was the one that led the Ministry Raid until Voldemort himself showed up. Not to mention that Lucius had been a loyal follower the first war and his mother-

She had been just as awful about the cause for the rest of them.

Draco Malfoy was born and raised into a family that would’ve killed Ganger the moment she’d stepped into the shop less than twenty years ago. And they’d taken every lie they could to avoid the consequences of their beliefs. 

Draco swallowed, his hands clammy now and his tongue heavy in his mouth.

“What’s that?” Ron prompted, leaning a little closer. “Couldn’t hear you, since you were muttering like that.”

Draco clenched his fists over the table, looking down at the hardwood surface. “ I am not my father .”

Hermione looked rather uncomfortable at that, and Ron looked as stunned as he did irritated. It was a bold claim. Draco had done nothing but spew his family’s racist and classist ideas. He’d run to his father to cause the misfortune of those Lucius would think were below them, simply for causing minor problems. He fought and teased and bullied those for simply existing in a world that wasn’t willing to adapt for them and just as worse - he’d done the same thing to himself. Not only in looks but in attitude, for his entire life Draco Malfoy had always been the spitting image of his sire. 

But he knew now that it was all in attempts to get him to go easier on him.

After watching Harry go through everything he’s been through, learning that Harry had endured just as much, Draco wanted to be better. He wanted to be human, just as Ron and Hermione and Harry were. Not only that, but a good human. One of the ones on the right side of things. Not just for his conscience. But because he wanted to prove that at the end of the day, he wasn’t his father. And he never will be. 

Hermione swallowed, awkward now. “Do you understand,” she started carefully, eyeing Ron, “why this could be your only chance to prove that?”

Draco nodded.

It was Ron’s turn to speak. “Prove to us you don’t have the mark.”

“Ronald!”

“Hermione!”

“No, it’s fine,” Draco said, waving his hand. He cleared his throat. “Weasle- he has every right to be cautious. I don’t blame you.”

With that, he rolled up his left sleeve, exposing pale skin, neat scars. He didn’t look at their faces, he couldn’t take it, for the thirty seconds he had his sleeve up before pushing it back down. Neither of them mentioned it except for a satisfied nod from Ron, who looked uncomfortably away.

“I want to help,” Draco said, his voice much steadier than he’d expected. “I can’t stand by and watch his family continue to torment him. They treat him like a house elf. I can’t stand it.”

Hermione softened, giving  a nod.

Ron shook his head. “So your heart finally thawed.”

Draco shrugged, glancing over at Harry. “I’ve always had a heart. Just locked away to protect myself.”

Ron grinned despite himself, nudging Hermione’s side. “He almost sounds romantic.”

Hermione gave Ron a look, and he shrunk, muttering a rushed “Sorry, ‘Mione.” Hermione looked pleased at that.

“Then we’ll help,” Hermione said, a fierce finality in her words. “We’ve been plotting for forever how to get him out of there, anyway. Maybe,” She nodded to Ron, “we just needed someone on the inside.”

Ron agreed.

This time, Draco let himself hope. 

They called the others over, crowding around the table, Harry’s side pressed to Draco’s. They glanced at each other, sharing smiles before getting to the thick of it.

The plan they settled on was this:

Fred and George would apparate Hermione and Ron from the Burrow to the park that wasn’t too far from 4 Privet Drive. It still had much of the market set up, stalls being left over night, so it would be perfect for hiding spots. After that, the two youngers would run to the Dursley’s to pick up Draco and Harry, who would climb through Harry’s window and somehow manage to not break anything (they’d figure out the fine details of that on their own).  Harry suggested that on the way back to the park, they used his invisibility cloak to avoid being seen on the off chance there were Death Eaters. Ron had shook his head, arguing that the four of them under that thing would hardly be feasible, given that Draco was already freakishly tall. He’d ignored this comment, but agreed when Hermione did. Harry promised to bring it just in case.

Once back at the park, Fred and George would apparate them back to the Burrow, where Draco and Harry would stay the remaining two-and-a-half weeks of summer. Ginny would stay at the Burrow to assure everyone got home safe and to aid to any injuries that may occur. The plan would follow through this Friday.

Draco thought it over as they walked back from the tram to the Dursley’s, finding every possible hole, every possible step in which this could go wrong. Which… was pretty much all of them. And that terrified him.

Out of nowhere, Harry stopped, a block away from the house. Their arms were looped together, so it tugged Draco back a half step.

Harry spoke, sweat clinging to his forehead from the summer heat. “Thank you.”

Draco tilted his head to the side, confused. “What for?”

“For doing this,” Harry said, gesturing between them. He sighed, starting to walk again. “For keeping civility between Ron and Hermione.”

“I don’t mind,” Draco found himself saying. A year ago he absolutely would’ve minded. But now… “If I’m going to be friends with you, I have to pull my act together. Which includes getting along with them, I suppose.”

Harry chuckled, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. Friends.” He swallowed, wiping his hand over the sweat that beaded above his lip. There was something in the way he said it…

Draco brought himself to smile. “Wild, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“You trust me to do this then?” Draco asked, looking at the house as they dropped their hands.

Harry thought for a moment, then turned to him. “Draco… I think I’d trust you with just about anything right now.”

Draco was stunned, shocked to his core. “You would?”

“I don’t know why. But… I know that you won’t let me down.”

Draco didn’t know what to say or what to do. He felt like a deer in headlights, gaping at Harry the way he was. Merlin, it wasn’t like he professed his love for him or something. It was just a confirmation of trust. Why did that get his heart racing so fast?

“This whole summer I’ve done nothing but make mistakes. I’ve been the bitter cause of pain for you and you still trust me? You're a fool, Potter.”

Harry shrugged, a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Maybe. But you’re just as human as I am. You make mistakes, and you're trying to make up for them.” Harry grinned. “Perhaps we can be fools together.”

Draco felt himself smiling too, finding peace in Harry’s eyes. “I think I’d like that.”

Harry beamed for a moment, pulling Draco into a tight embrace. It wasn’t the same as the one he’d given Ron earlier, Draco could tell without looking at it. Harry pressed himself closer, cradling the back of Draco’s head in his palm. Even if he wanted to, Draco wasn’t able to stop himself from relaxing, letting out the extra breath he’d kept tucked away in case of emergencies. This had to be what home felt like.

“Me too,” Harry whispered, holding him for a few moments more, before letting go and opening the door to let Draco inside.