Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry was stood on the stoop of number twelve Grimmuald Place when Draco arrived home.

Draco spotted him the moment he stepped out into the darkness beyond the grass square, where the glow of the streetlights ended and all that was left was the orange glare of the nearly set Summer sun. Harry’s arms were crossed, a look of disapproval on his face. It was hard to take him seriously, dressed in his pyjamas as he was, with slippers on his feet and his hair pulled up into a loose, messy, lopsided bun. 

He was swaying slightly, his cheeks flushed.

Draco wasn’t the only one who’d been drinking that evening then.

The moment that Draco was close enough, Harry uncrossed his arms and planted his hands on his hips, “You’re late home. Again,” he said quietly. 

Draco struggled not to smile. Barely twenty-years-old and yet Harry hen pecked like the most experienced middle-aged woman. It would have been annoying if Draco wasn’t quite so fond of him.

Draco stumbled a little as he came to a stop, the tips of his toes peeking out over the curb; he rolled his eyes, “You’re not my mother,” he pointed out in a drawl that was more slurred than usual, “And I do have a key,”

Harry shushed him, glancing to the drawn curtains of the houses around them, “You promised to cook dinner tonight,” he said accusingly.

Draco threw his hands up in despair, and answered in a harsh whisper, “Can’t you cook dinner for yourself, Potter?”

Harry’s expression darkened, “I’m on lates this week,” Draco felt instantly guilty, “I cooked when you were last on lates!” Harry reminded him, though Draco could tell by the softness of his mouth that he wasn’t nearly as outraged as he was pretending to be - merely very annoyed.

“I forgot,” Draco admitted reluctantly, “I didn’t mean to be out this late but Blaise brought fire-whiskey and I… lost track of time. Sorry,” Harry huffed, “I can still cook,” Draco offered weakly, gesturing to the closed door at Harry’s back.

Harry scoffed, “I didn’t sit around waiting for you like your poor, neglected wife,” the word made something in Draco’s belly flutter, “I made my own dinner – no thanks to you. And then I helped myself to that bottle of Elf-wine you’ve been saving. I’m not sorry,”

Draco couldn’t help his slow grin, “You prick. Fine. I guess I deserve that,”

“Do you remember what I said would happen if you forgot it was your turn to make dinner again?” Harry said sharply.

Draco froze, then groaned, “Nooo!”

Harry hushed him harshly again, “Be quiet!”

Draco was too drunk for this; he tilted his face to the sky and continued to protest in petulant whines, “No - no, I’m too drunk for this,” he begged, but Harry was ignoring him, pulling his hair free and then retying it more tightly, “Potter- Harry- no. Come on!” Harry bent down to roll up his too-long pyjama bottoms to above his knees so the hems wouldn’t get caught about his heels, “Harry. Harry. Harry. No. Harry,”

“Harry yes,”

Draco all but wailed.

“Will you shut the fuck up?!”

“This is childish,” Draco protested miserably, but even so he started to roll up his sleeves.

“Should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you?” Harry nodded down at Draco’s feet, “Shoes,” he said, stumbling a little as he kicked off his slippers.

“We’re outside!”

“So?”

“And in public!!”

“If I’m not wearing shoes, then neither are you,”

“This is stupid,” Draco said petulantly, and hoping that no one was watching them, he began to remove his shoes, “This is ridiculous, I hope you know that?”

“I told you,” Harry said lightly, setting his glasses aside, “that if you were late again, I’d kick your arse,”

Draco scoffed, stumbling a little, “That’s not what you said,” he resisted the urge to throw his shoes at Harry’s face, and instead crossed the road gingerly, wincing at the occasional stone that dug into his foot.

“Don’t be pedantic,”

Hoping that Harry was secretly much drunker than he looked, Draco tried to pull a fast one by sidestepping him and reaching for the front door of Grimmuald Place, but it was his own level of intoxication that he had underestimated. 

Harry caught him easily, “I don’t think so,”

“Harry,” Draco whined, his fingertips brushing the door handle for a split second before he was being dragged away by arms around his waist.

“Shut up,” Harry spun him and pushed him forwards in the direction of the grass square, “You love this, and we both know it,”

Draco grumbled but couldn’t argue. The truth was, he did love it, but he’d rather cut out his own tongue than admit to that fact.

Draco grimaced unhappily as his feet met the prickly grass; it was a good job it had been dry recently, “You’re a child,” he snapped.

Across from him, settling into a loose sparring stance, Harry flashed him a drunken grin, “Remember: keep the noise down.”

Chapter Text

It started like this.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Draco flinched and for a brief moment cringed away before he caught himself and recovered. He scowled, “Training to be an Auror, same as you,” he snapped.

Gaping at him and wearing the same crimson Auror robes with white trainee epaulettes on his shoulders as Draco, was Ronald Weasley. At his back, was an equally bewildered Harry Potter.

“They let you in?!” Weasley spluttered.

Draco could feel a headache beginning to throb at his temples as the other trainees, who had all been doing an admirable job of ignoring Draco in his corner of the room up until that point, looked over. Draco gritted his teeth, and with a deep breath he drew in all the words and vitriol necessary to cut Weasley down to size without starting an actual fist fight.

In the end, he didn’t need them.

Weasley shook his head, “Oh. Oh, Merlin’s saggy left testicle,” and then he was taking Draco by his wrist and dragging him closer, “You need to stick with us,” he said very seriously, “We’ll make sure no one causes you any problems - don’t worry.”

“I can’t believe you joined the Aurors,” Weasley was saying, though he had so much mashed potato in his mouth that Draco could barely understand him, “Like - this is the total opposite of what I thought you’d end up doing,”

“What did you think I’d end up doing?” Draco asked warily as he mindlessly stirred his soup; it was difficult to pay attention to his own dinner when he had Weasley inhaling his plate like an animal. Potter was at least eating like a normal, civilised wizard. In between glancing up curiously at Draco. He’d yet to say anything about their new, unexpected arrangement. In fact, he’d yet to say anything at all.

Weasley shrugged and gulped down a mouthful of pumpkin juice, “Dunno. Sinister politician? Like your dad. What’s he doing nowadays anyway?” Weasley paused, his fork hovering midair, his eyes fixed on Draco.

Draco shrugged, his eyes flicking to Potter, then back to Weasley, “Drinking and moping about the Manor mostly I think,”

Weasley snorted and turned back to his dinner, “You’d think he’d be grateful not to be behind bars. No offence Malfoy, and don’t get me wrong, I don’t think you deserve prison - you were just a kid! But your dad?” Weasley hissed and grimaced, “Not a good guy,”

Draco winced and dropped his spoon with a clatter. He hoped lunch with Weasley wasn’t about to become a regular thing; he might never eat again.

“No,” Draco said dryly, “I suppose not,”

“What did he think of you joining the Aurors?” Weasley asked curiously.

Draco glanced to Potter once again, and found himself being watched through intense green eyes, “He was less than impressed,”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, Weasley,”

Weasley shrugged and set his cutlery down, “Ah well. Fuck him, I guess,” he drained the last of his pumpkin juice, then smacked his lips and set his cup down, “Right! I need the loo - I’ll see you back in there,” he clapped Potter on the back.

The legs of his chair scraped on the floor as he pushed himself up from the table, and then Weasley was gone, and their table was silent and, suddenly, painfully awkward. Draco reached delicately for his spoon, but he did little more than continue to mindlessly stir his soup. He could feel Potter’s eyes on him.

He lasted all of ten seconds before he gave in.

Potter looked good. The last time Draco had seen him, Potter had looked positively haggard - skinny with enormous bags beneath his eyes and long scraggly hair. His hair was still long (though it was tied up in a high bun now) and he was still skinny (but in the way he had always been skinny - lithe rather than skeletal) but the bags were gone. He looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Relaxed and open. Or he would have done were it not for the battle Draco could see plying out on his face.

“You don’t have to sit with us,” Potter finally blurted out; he back tracked, “I mean- I’m sorry about Ron. He’s- well-,” Potter managed an awkward smile, “He’s been very… uhm…,” he cleared his throat and grimaced faintly, “Hermione thinks he’s just very relieved that the war is over,” he shrugged, “He’s all about second chances and, uh, forgiveness and… and moving forwards and what not… yeah. Anyway. If he’s making you uncomfortable, you can just tell him to go away and I’ll get him to leave you alone,”

Draco blinked, “Am I not welcome?” He said flatly, his heart sinking in his chest even though not even five minutes ago he had been desperate to escape Weasley’s inane chatted and disgusting table manners.

“No!” Potter blurted, “I mean yes! Yeah! You can sit with us I guess - just- uh- yeah,” he cleared his throat, “Of course you can,”

Draco nodded slowly, “Right,” and like the coward that he was, “I need the toilet as well actually,” he ran, “See you in there,”

“Right,” he heard Potter say quietly to his back.

Draco didn’t turn around, and later he ignored how his stomach cramped and grumbled through the rest of their lectures.

Draco was cold and miserable and not bothering to hide it.

“Do you think they did this when we were at school?” He heard Longbottom mutter quietly further down the line of trainee Aurors, all of them stood in their full uniform and staring out at the swirling waters ahead of them.

“Probably,” answered Finnegan, “We’d have just all been in class,”

Part of the reason that Draco had joined the Aurors, was to avoid coming back to this damned castle and the memories of pain and fear and war that were now baked into its stone walls. And yet there he was, stood with the waters of the Black Lake practically lapping at the toes of his boots and Hogwarts school at his back.

According to their lecturer, this little excursion was meant to give them experience in swimming in their robes.

“Now,” Birch had said, walking back and forth in front of them with an amused twist to her mouth, “None of us are expecting swimming to feature heavily in your careers, but in this job, we expect the unexpected, and we prepare accordingly,” she had pointed threateningly at Abbott, “Those robes of yours are designed to repel water so you don’t get bogged down and drowned by your own equipment. They offer buoyancy enough that you can tread water and fight at the same time. It takes getting used to though, and so,” she gestured to the Black Lake, “We practice!”

“Couldn’t have done this in summer, could we?” Weasley muttered unhappily; he was sopping wet and shivering. Birch had used him to demonstrate their first lesson (treading water without the use of their hands) and had then promptly sent him back into the line of waiting trainees to try again just like everyone else.

Ahead of them, McLaggen leant forwards with a smirk, “Does this bring back happy memories, Weasley? No Potter to save you this time though,”

Weasley scowled and flipped him a two fingered salute before turning to speak quietly with Finnegan.

Potter. 

Draco had almost forgotten that he was stood next to him, the other had been so quiet the entire morning. Draco peered over at him discreetly. Potter was staring out at the water, his expression grim, his jaw tense. He was looking at the water as if he expected it to rear up and attack him.

“Alright?” Draco asked before he could think better of it.

Potter’s entire face relaxed in his surprise.

Draco had spent almost every single day of their first month of training wedged between Weasley and Potter, and yet he and the other had barely said a word to one another. Draco didn’t think it was lingering bad blood hanging between them, but rather that neither of them knew quite how to approach the other anymore. They weren’t friends, but they could hardly be called enemies. Was Potter afraid, the same way that Draco was, that if he spoiled the silence, he’d open a festering can of worms left over from seven years of animosity and resentment.

“Yeah,” Potter gathered himself, his expression shuttering again, “Just… just don’t like the water very much,”

Draco nodded slowly; for a long stretching moment he tried to suppress the curiosity bubbling up inside him, but inevitably he gave in, “From the Triwizard tournament?”

Potter shook his head. He opened his mouth, then shut it, then tried again, “From the war,” he said haltingly, “I… I almost drowned. Would have done too, if Ron hadn’t saved me,”

“Oh,” Draco said stupidly, turning to the water and seeing it now less through the lens of biting, miserable cold, and more with the vision of suffocating, claustrophobic pressure. He shuddered, “Could you ask to be excused?”

Potter shot him an incredulous look.

“I mean,” Draco continued, “Until you’ve… I don’t know… dealt with it?”

Potter snorted and shook his head, looking away.

“What if you have a panic attack in the water or something?!”

Potter turned back incredulously, “Yes. Thank you for putting that idea in my head. It’s just what I needed,”

“Sorry- sorry, I didn’t… I just…,” Draco trailed off weakly but Potter was already turning away from him, the line of his back tense and angry, “I’m afraid of fire,” he blurted out, desperate to have Potter’s eyes back on him.

He got his wish.

“Really?”

Draco nodded.

Potter bit his lip, “Me too,” he admitted, “And small spaces. And the dark sometimes. Shit,” he smirked, though Draco could see the very real fear in his eyes, “Maybe I’m a bit too fucked up now for this Auror business, huh?” He said it as a joke, but Draco knew that it wasn’t.

“Are you saying that you weren’t afraid?” Draco said very seriously, “When you were off running around freeing dragons and killing basilisks and breaking into banks?”

Potter paused, “Yeah. Yeah, I was afraid,”

Draco shrugged, “Never stopped you before, did it? Don’t let it stop you now. Not if this is what you really want. Is it what you really want?”

Potter swallowed, then glanced nervously towards Weasley before he answered, “Sometimes I’m not sure,”

“That’s okay too, I guess. You could probably do anything you wanted, so I wouldn’t worry about a few false starts,” Draco smirked, and tried to find the metaphorical needle that he’d once been so good at working into the parts of Potter that wound him up the most, “You’re the boy-who-lived, after all. The Chosen one,” Draco pressed a hand to his chest and pretended to swoon, “The destroyer of the Dark Lord. The upholder of all that’s good in the world. Oh Potter! You might have to catch me. I’m coming over all faint,”

Ignoring the very real risk that Potter actually would let him fall to the muddy ground in front of their entire cohort, Draco pretended to swoon, collapsing backwards and into him so that Potter had no choice but to catch him.

“Oh, fuck off, Malfoy,” Potter grunted, “Fuck - why are you so heavy?!”

Draco stumbled and righted himself when Potter ducked out from beneath him, “It’s called muscle. Not that you’d know anything about that,” he caught Potter’s wrist, “So skinny,”

Potter scowled, “Fuck you,”

A sudden, painfully sharp elbow in his gut had Draco yelping in alarm.

“POTTER! MALFOY!”

They straightened abruptly at their barked names. Birch was glaring at them unhappily as a sopping wet Goldstein and Abbott waded their way back out of the water behind her. She gestured sarcastically towards the water.

“Thank you for volunteering to go next,”

Potter glared at him.

Draco winced, “Sorry,”

Potter sighed, and muttered, “S’fine. Come on,”

Draco couldn’t help but push his luck as they came closer to the bank where Birch was waiting expectantly for them, “Don’t worry,” he muttered, leaning closer to Potter’s ear, “I won’t let anything happen to you, Potter,”

Potter snorted, “Oh yeah? You gonna’ wrestle the giant squid for me?”

Draco smirked, “What else are all these muscles for- ARGH!”

“POTTER!”

“Sorry!” Potter called, not sounding sorry in the slightest, his fears about the water seemingly completely forgotten.

Draco, meanwhile, was on the floor, covered in mud, and not quite sure how he had gotten there. Potter had swept his feet out from beneath him, that much was clear, but he couldn’t have said how Potter had managed it without even stumbling himself.

Birch was staring down at Draco looking embarrassed on his behalf, “Come on Malfoy. Get a move on,”

Draco scowled and scrambled to his feet. He could feel a familiar rage crawling up his back and down his arms, making his hands curl into tight, furious fists at his sides.

Then he spotted Potter’s face.

He was knee deep in the water, but he didn’t seem to care. He was peering over his shoulder in Draco’s direction, smirking. No. Not smirking. Grinning. He threw his head back in a laugh, no doubt at the sheer quantity of mud that Draco was now covered in, and turned back to the water.

And Draco thought:

Oh. Oh no.

It wasn’t until it was nearly Christmas that they started training to duel. Draco had expected magical combat to be the cornerstone of their education right from the word go, but their duelling instructor, a wizard called Wishbone, had snorted when Finnegan had asked why it had taken them so long to get to this point.

“Would you teach an eleven-year-old to play quidditch before they knew how to fly a broom? No, no you wouldn’t,”

Draco wasn’t quite sure what that meant exactly, but he didn’t bother questioning Wishbone and making himself look stupid. Not when he was certain that Potter was about to do that for him.

Why did it have to be Potter? With anyone else he might have at least have had a chance! Unfortunately, it was only when Draco was two turns away from his go, that he realised he was going to face Potter, and by that point there was no way he could reposition himself in the line with any kind of subtlety.

Better to have his arse handed him to by Potter than be caught out trying to run away from him.

Facing Potter in the centre of the duelling platform, Draco wondered if Potter was experiencing the same wave of nostalgia that he was.

Potter smirked, “Scared?”

Draco scowled, irritated down to his bones, “You wish, Scar-head,”

Potter let out a laugh that could only have been described as delighted, and the feeling receded.

The sound of it was still ringing in Draco’s ears when Wishbone began his count down.

Potter won, of course, but Draco couldn’t help but be quietly thrilled by his own performance. It ended with an expelliarmus that had somehow slipped through Draco’s guard, and with Draco wheezing and coughing, winded having just been slammed down to the ground, but up until that point he had been doing really rather well! Though that was difficult to appreciate from the flat of his back.

He groaned, squinting hazily up as green eyes suddenly appeared above him.

“Alright there, ferret?” Potter said brightly, poking him in the centre of his chest.

“Fuck you,” Draco groaned, batting his finger away.

“That was good!” Potter said encouragingly, “You just need to watch your overhead casting - you leave yourself too open,” he reached out a hand to help Draco up.

Draco sighed, and accepted the criticism and then the hand, “Okay. Thank you,”

“Good showing gentleman!” Called Wishbone, “Now stop flirting and get off the platform!”

To the surprise of absolutely no one, when it came to ‘Auror school’, Potter excelled. More surprising however, was that Draco did too. Potter was better of course, and Draco wasn’t even bitter about that fact - how could he be when the person besting him was literally the man who had vanquished the strongest Dark Lord their world had ever known?

Except for this part. 

This he was bitter about.

Potter was smirking at him from the other side of the training matt. He was dressed in their tight training uniform, and so was Draco. Convenient to stop their opponent from taking advantage of loose clothing, but Potter had muttered that it was unrealistic and that they should grapple in their robes, the way they’d fight in real life. Draco didn’t disagree with him, but he disliked their outfits for an entirely different reason.

Snug as they were, their sparring uniforms left nothing to the imagination, hugging their forms, practically clinging to them. There could be no doubt, therefore, of the difference in their physiques. Though they were alike in height, that was where their similarities ended.

Potter had the build of a dancer. Muscular but svelte. Perfect for darting about on a broom chasing a snitch at top speed. Light and streamlined but still imbued with strength.

Draco was heavier than Potter. Broader. He had more raw power, and that was obvious to anyone with eyes. But the same thing that had slowed him down on a broom, was what had Potter dancing about him now. Teasing and taunting with a smirk, as if he knew how infuriated Draco was becoming.

Draco was stronger, and Potter was faster, but no one could see the speed etched into the muscles of Potter’s body. No. Instead, all they could see was the obviously bulkier Draco having his arse handed to him time and time again.

“Maybe you need extra motivation?” Potter teased lightly, tightening his hair.

Draco scowled, and ignored the chuckles of their audience, the other trainee and qualified Aurors who had paused in their own training to enjoy the show from the benches around the room.

“Like what?” Draco snapped.

Potter hummed, “How about… if you put me on my back, I’ll owe you a drink?”

Draco shook his head in disbelief and rewound the tape around his hand.

“Okay, okay,” Potter tried, “How about this? I’ll declare for all here to hear,” he gestured grandly to their amused audience, “That you!” He pointed to Draco, “Are, in actual fact better than me,”

“I am better than you,” Draco snapped not because he believed it, but because it was in the character of the game they were playing together.

Potter shrugged, “Debatable, but my point is that I’ll say that you are,” he said enticingly.

Draco huffed, shaking his head, “Put your hands up Potter - I won’t apologise if I break your nose,”

Potter let out a bark of laughter.

It was a foot sweeping his legs out from under him that ended up taking Draco out. Groaning, more in frustration than in pain, Draco glared up at Potter’s amused green eyes.

“How’s the view from down there?” Potter joked.

Draco scowled, and feeling pre-emptively pleased with himself, caught Potter unawares and by his heels, tripping him. Potter let out a yelp of alarm and landed with an “Oof!”

“I don’t know,” Draco panted, smirking, “You tell me,”

“Oh you-!” Potter started, but this was where Draco excelled.

Now that Potter was on the floor, Draco’s strength, that being, his actual strength, came into play. Potter was faster than Draco, but that speed didn’t help when it came to grappling on the floor.

“Say it,” Draco gasped, with Potter’s wrists pinned to the matt above his head, “Say it!”

Potter let out a shout of frustration, his legs twisting and writhing helplessly as he tried to buck Draco off him. He managed to work a leg forwards (with an impressive level of flexibility) in front of Draco’s chest and tried to use its leverage to force Draco backwards. Draco grinned and used his large hands to hold both of Harry’s wrists together. With his free hand, he held Potter’s ankle and pressed his leg forwards and towards Potter’s chest.

Potter yelped, “Ouch!” He said pointedly, “I’m flexible but not that flexible!” He ground out.

“Say it,” Draco taunted in a sing song voice, “Just say it, Potter,” he leant on Potter’s leg until his knee was on his chest, “Say it…,”

Potter huffed, and puffed, his capacity to breathe hampered by the way Draco was currently folding him in half and very nearly forcing him into the splits, “You’re better than me,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Louder…,” Draco said pointedly.

Potter rolled his eyes and spoke as clearly as he could with the weight of Draco on his chest, “You’re better than me!”

Draco grinned, “Yes. Yes, I am,” then let Potter go.

As Draco expected, Potter instantly reverted to trying to overpower him, thinking his guard was down. He was wrong of course, and he was soon squirming and laughing on the floor trying desperately to escape Draco’s tickling fingers.

“That’s what you get!” Draco crowed gleefully, unable to look away from Potter’s face where tears of laughter were escaping from the corners of his eyes, “That’s what you get! I am the best!”

Finally, Draco let him go, his fists pumping triumphantly above his head.

Of course, that was the moment that Harry swiped his legs out from under him yet again.

“For fucks sake!”

Potter didn’t touch people, Draco had noticed. The reason that Draco had noticed, was because Potter did touch him. Admittedly, more often than not, it was a sharp elbow in his gut or fingers pinching his thigh under the table in the middle of a lecture (if anyone had told Draco how badly a pinch could bruise, he’d have never believed them before).

But still. It was touch.

Touch that was painfully deliberate, when Draco considered how Potter was very carefully not letting Cormac touch him right now. He was practically lying on the bar in his attempt to arch away from McLaggen’s lean into his space.

They were at the Three Broomsticks, all of the trainee Aurors. Technically they were celebrating the end of their ‘don’t embarrass yourself and drown’ training (as Weasley had dubbed it) by using it as an excuse to get drunk. They’d been joined by the eighth years from Hogwarts, who had blanket permission to leave the school as they pleased. No doubt that was why Weasley hadn’t noticed that Potter was being harassed by McLaggen - he was too busy canoodling with Granger in the corner.

Draco could intervene though. Should, probably. But he found himself paralysed by how unbelievably uncomfortable this whole affair was making him.

No one had suggested he wasn’t welcome - in fact there was a table in the corner mostly made up of the eighth year Slytherins who had come back to school (though if what Pansy said was true, houses had been mostly done away with for the eighth years, and with it seven years of division were very slowly peeling away).

Though perhaps that was what was making it worse. Draco didn’t know where he fit, if he fit anywhere at all.

He’d almost resolved to simply bury himself in his glass of beer in an attempt to drown out the merriment around him when he saw it. McLaggen touching Potter’s hip, and Potter freezing, something dark and furious descending over his expression.

Really, Draco was doing Cormac a favour by abandoning his spot in the corner.

“Potter,” Draco drawled loudly.

McLaggen scowled unhappily when he found Potter’s attention instantly diverted in Draco’s direction.

Potter scowled as well, though Draco thought it was more left-over rage at McLaggen than a genuine unhappiness at seeing Draco, “What?” He said flatly.

“What was it that you said during combat training the other day?” Draco leant against the bar, and positively leered, “That if I could get you flat on your back, you’d buy me a drink,” he spread his hands out as if presenting himself, “Well. Here I am to collect,”

Harry opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted.

“Buy yourself a drink, Malfoy,” McLaggen scoffed, “Surely Daddy has enough gold for you to afford a butterbeer? Can’t you see Harry and me were talking?”

Draco resisted the instinctive urge to bristle at the mention of his father’s gold, and instead smirked coldly, “Sorry McLaggen - I didn’t realise that you owned Potter. Perhaps he should have it tattooed on him somewhere, so no one else makes the mistake of trying to talk to him when you’re about,”

McLaggen sneered, “Well - we all know who owned you,”

Draco’s blood ran cold. He should have expected something like this sooner. His heart began to pound in his chest, near enough deafening him, but his spiral was interrupted before it could truly begin.

“Oh, fuck off, Cormac!” Potter barked, whirling on him, “Can’t you go and harass someone else for a bit? How about Ginny? She’s looking a bit lonely,” he said sarcastically; Ginny Weasley, who had been sat chatting happily with Lovegood, smiled with all her teeth and wiggled her fingers as if daring McLaggen to try and bother her.

McLaggen spluttered, “B-but- Harry-!”

“‘But Harry’ nothing!” Potter cried.

“I’m not wrong!”

“You don’t know shit, now fuck off until you can think of a worthwhile apology!” Potter jabbed his finger at the door.

McLaggen scowled, and slammed his drink down, sloshing its remaining contents everywhere, before he stormed out.

Draco swallowed heavily, and tried to pretend that the pub hadn’t gone quiet.

“What do you want?” Potter said harshly, turning to Draco now.

Draco blinked owlishly, “Uh-,”

“To drink,” Potter closed his eyes, and very deliberately softened himself, “Sorry. What do you want to drink?”

“Elf-wine?” Draco asked hesitantly, still jittery with the adrenalin pumping around his veins.

Harry nodded and ordered with the bartender - a wizard called Devon who had replaced Rosemerta much to Draco’s relief.

“Thank you,” Draco said quietly when there was a wine glass in his hand, “For this and for-,” he nodded to the door that Cormac had left by.

Potter scowled and sipped at his beer, “Ignore him. He doesn’t know anything,”

“Neither do you,” Draco pointed out softly, working his fingertip nervously around the edge of his glass.

“I know enough. I understand enough,” Potter said pointedly; he looked away when Draco nodded, “What did you want, by the way? Or did you actually come over here just to demand that I buy you a drink?”

Draco shrugged and took a large mouthful of wine, “Looked like you needed rescuing,”

“From Cormac?” Potter snorted, “More like he needed rescuing from me. I was a split second away from decking him. Man doesn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘no’,” he shook his head unhappily.

“What was he after?”

“We never quite got there, but I’m pretty sure he was trying to get me to go for a drink with him,”

Draco blinked, “What do you mean?”

“And dinner probably,” Potter added with a grimace.

Draco, feeling his world tip on its axis ever so slightly, said “I don’t understand,”

Potter looked at him as if he was being particularly slow, “You know? A date?”

“You’re not gay,” Draco said bluntly.

Potter scowled and looked instantly on guard, “Yes, I am,” he said firmly.

And because he was now spiralling for an entirely different reason, Draco, struggling to recover the conversation, resorted to what he knew best, “Not dressed like that you’re not,” insulting Potter.

Potter squawked and reeled back, “Fuck you! What’s wrong with the way I dress?!”

Draco grimaced, “You could try wearing something with a collar every once in a while, it wouldn’t kill you,” he gulped at his wine again.

“It might,” Potter muttered, “It’s not a problem, is it?” He said coldly, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall behind the bar.

“The way you dress. Yes. You being gay? No. Of course not. I’m bisexual myself,”

Potter looked at him curiously, “You are?”

Draco sipped at his wine and channelled every iota of the arrogant Malfoy breeding that had had Potter hating him once upon a time; he sniffed, “Don’t even think about it. I am way out of your league, and you are not my type,”

“What’s your type then?” Potter asked as if he couldn’t stop himself.

“Someone prettier than you,”

Potter scoffed and shook his head in disbelief, “You are such a prick,”

“I’m happy to be a wing man though,” Draco offered loftily, “You certainly need one and I don’t imagine that Weasley is much use,” he nodded meaningfully across the pub to where Weasley was currently gazing lovingly into his girlfriend’s eyes; Draco grimaced, “Disgusting. Anyway,” he turned back to Harry with a smirk, “I’m sure we can find you a pleasant enough young man - once we address your grooming habits that is,” he grimaced and reached for the baggy hem of Potter’s t-shirt.

He found his hand slapped away in one movement, and the tips of Potter’s fingers jabbed sharply into his side in the next. Not enough to really hurt, but enough to have Draco yelping and flinching away. Potter didn’t stop.

“You. Are. Such. A. Posh. Git!” Potter said with every jab of his fingertips.

“Would you stop!” Draco cried, shuffling back to try and escape him. He caught Potter’s wrist, and then the other, and then he was on his back, his feet swept out from under him. He coughed, winded for a moment, then blinked up at a smug Potter, “You have got to stop doing that to me,” he complained.

Potter grinned, “Stop falling for it then,” and he offered out a hand to help Draco back up.

In the end, later, McLaggen did apologise, and Draco was fairly certain it was sincere. He was also certain that McLaggen had done it in the hope that Draco would report his accepted apology back to Potter.

Draco, of course, did no such thing.

They were out drinking again, except this time they were at the Leaky Cauldron, and the guest list was far more exclusive.

It was Weasley’s birthday celebrations, and somehow Draco had made the cut. He should have stopped being surprised that he, Weasley, and Potter were now friends, but it gave him pause every time he acknowledged it.

Potter and Weasley, who were both extremely drunk, were hanging off one another and off the bar too as they engaged in something that Draco was sure Potter had called ‘karaoke’, but that was obviously a made-up word and so Draco must have heard him incorrectly.

Potter looked so happy. His cheeks were flushed, and his head was thrown back as he belted out the song that he and Weasley were currently butchering. Butchering only because they barely seemed to know the words. Potter actually had rather quite a nice voice when he managed to find the lyrics and the melody at the same time. Weasley was terrible though, of course.

Draco snorted when, as part of their grand finale, Weasley planted a great smacking kiss on a grinning Potter’s cheek.

“You’re not going to join in?” Bill Weasley said, pausing at Draco’s table with a friendly smile.

This always took Draco by surprise as well. That the Weasley family were so nice to him, despite everything.

“Absolutely not,” Draco said firmly, “Potter’s making enough of a fool of himself for the rest of us combined, I’m sure,”

The sound of the door opening, and an excited shriek distracted Bill from answering. Standing at the threshold was a new face, though Draco recognised him instantly as another Weasley by his red hair and freckles. Process of elimination combined with the way that Ginny threw herself into the man’s arms told Draco that this was Charlie Weasley.

Distracted as they all were, Draco thought he might have been the only person who saw the way Potter flinched at Ginny’s cry of enthusiasm. He recovered quickly though, smiling widely and calling out a greeting.

Draco watched feeling faintly jealous of the easy affection shared between the siblings in front of him as Charlie was instantly welcomed into the fold. And then Charlie reached Harry, pulling him into a hug as fierce as those he’d given to his brothers and sister, lifting Harry off the floor in his fervour, and the jealousy in Draco’s chest turned almost poisonous.

He looked away before the feeling could overtake him, and schooled his expression into a look of polite interest when Weasley introduced Charlie to him enthusiastically. If anyone noticed that Draco drank more heavily for the rest of the evening, no one said anything.

Later, when the party was drawing to a close and people were stumbling towards the fireplace to floo themselves home, a bleary eyed Weasley turned to Draco, “You flooing to the Manor then?” He asked, all but collapsing into a chair at Draco’s table.

Draco held in his grimace, “No. My flat doesn’t have a fireplace,”

“You’re walking home?” Potter seemed to appear from thin air, looming over Weasley’s shoulder and almost falling over him.

“Well, I’m not swimming,”

“Where?” Weasley all but demanded.

“Not far from Kings Cross,”

Weasley slapped the tabletop, “That’s not far from us. Come on. We’ll walk you back. Make sure- make sure you get home safe,” grinning and turning positively cross-eyed, Weasley stretched out a hand to boop Draco on the nose.

Draco sighed, “I’m capable of looking after myself you know,” he made to push himself to his feet but he managed to catch his pint glass and ended up knocking it over and soaking his hand and his sleeve.

Potter snorted, “Course you are. Come on. Time for bed!”

It was late enough, or early enough depending on how you looked at it, that the streets of London were almost empty, and so there was no one to see Weasley and Potter giggling to themselves like idiots on the way to Draco’s flat. Draco himself was mostly focussing on putting one foot in front of the other, determined not to fall and embarrass himself.

“You know,” Draco flinched and stumbled as Weasley suddenly appeared at his side, flinging an arm around his shoulders and leering down at him, “You’re alright Malfoy. Used- used to think- think you was a prick,” his hiccupped, “Well,” he allowed, “You’re still a prick most of the time, you know? But now? Now! You’re our prick!” He declared proudly, coming to a stop and putting his free hand on his hip as if his declaration were being made to an audience rather than a tired Draco and a giggling Potter.

“Yeah,” Potter agreed, abruptly appearing at Draco’s other side and leaning against him, “You’re one of us now. No escape. No returns. No- no refunds,”

“Would you please get off of me?” Draco said coldly, or he tried to, at least. His words mostly just came out petulant and annoyed.

Weasley made an exaggerated show of peeling his arm from around Draco’s shoulders and holding his hands up as if in surrender. Potter ignored him entirely however, and instead poked his fingers into Draco’s ribs until Draco was stumbling away and yelping to avoid his assault. Because, as Draco had noted before, he had height and weight on his side, and was still significantly less drunk than Potter, he brought Potter’s tirade to an end by catching his head in a headlock and holding Potter in place at his side.

“Let me gooo!” Potter complained, stumbling slightly as he was dragged along by Draco.

“Are you going to tickle me again?!” Draco demanded, accidentally reminding Potter that he still had free hands and they descended once again into a squabble of tickling fingers and childish slapping until Potter was finally appeased by Draco allowing him to climb up onto his back to carry him the rest of the way to Draco’s flat.

“I wish Mione’ was here to see this,” Weasley said with a dopey grin, watching a reluctant Draco give Potter a piggyback ride, “I wish I had a camera,” he added with a sad sigh, “Could preserve this forever,”

“Shut the fuck up Weasley,” Draco muttered petulantly, pausing to jump slightly to lift a lightly snoozing Potter higher up onto his back.

It was only when they were standing in front of the door to Draco’s flat, that he remembered precisely why he had never brought anyone here before.

Potter, who was fully awake now, slipped down from Draco’s back and stared up at his front door, “This is your place?” Potter said slowly.

“Not exactly what I was expecting,” Weasley admitted, blinking slowly with a small frown.

Draco sighed and tried to ignore the peeling paint on the front door and the old, mouldy sofa in his front garden, and the broken window in the basement flat, and the music blasting from the flat above his. 

He couldn’t bring himself to stop them when Potter and Weasley followed him inside.

He led the way up the creaking staircase, cringing at how his shoes stuck to the carpet and at the smell of stale cigarettes. 

Things weren’t that much better inside Draco’s flat if he was totally honest. Cold and cramped and damp, but clean at least. Clean and sparse. He had a tiny table in the kitchen, and a single armchair in the living room, but not much more. He was half tempted to show Potter and Weasley to his bedroom to prove to them that he didn’t sleep in the chair.

“This is where you’ve been living?” Potter asked quietly.

And as if it were a paid actor, a rat appeared from one side of Draco’s living room, paused in the middle of the floor to look up at them, then disappeared through a hole in the opposite wall.

“Why?” Potter turned to him with wide eyes that shined threateningly in the darkness, as if Potter were holding back drunken tears.

Draco shrugged; his answer came as a mutter, “Told you my family didn’t want me to join the Aurors. Father cut me off. And trainees don’t get paid much so,” he shrugged, “It’s just until we’re put in the field,” he tried to assure them, “Then I should be able to afford something better. So only a few more months. And it’s not that bad, I promise,”

On cue, the rat reappeared from the hole in the wall, and sprinted in the direction of Draco’s tiny bathroom.

“Right!” Weasley said loudly, “Well! That’s that decided then. I think you’re coming to live with us, mate,”

And that was how Draco ended up living at number twelve Grimmuald Place, and how Potter and Weasley, became Harry and Ron.

Chapter Text

“You know I thought this must have all been some drunken dream, because there was no way it could have been that bad… but yeah… wow… this is awful, and I used to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs,” Harry said frankly.

“You slept where?” Draco said incredulously, turning from where he was currently shoving all his worldly possessions into a trunk, to Harry who was lingering in the doorway of his bedroom. Harry, who was buried in an oversized hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head as he eyed Draco’s flat contemptuously. There were enormous great bags under his eyes, not unlike those that had been there at the battle of Hogwarts, but Draco soothed himself with the knowledge that they were as a result of Harry’s no doubt massive hangover, and not from being on the run for the better part of a year.

“Is the carpet made of… what is the carpet made of?” Harry said slowly, toeing the floor nervously, “It looks like hair. It’s not hair, is it?” He asked anxiously, looking suddenly queasy, “It can’t be,”

“It’s not hair,” Draco promised, though he honestly wasn’t sure. Logic told him it was simply the fibres of the rough carpet that had been worn down to threads, but it did look a lot like hair. To avoid looking at the carpet that was definitely, one hundred percent made of regular fibre and not human hair, Draco turned back to his trunk.

“Does he have a name?” Ron called curiously from the sitting room.

“Who?” Draco called back distractedly.

“The rat!”

Draco paused, “What?”

“Does he have a name?” Ron repeated, “Is he, a he? Or is he, a she? Does she- do they have a name?”

Draco closed his eyes and searched for patience, then turned abruptly from his trunk and stepped past Harry (who was staring fixedly at the carpet and looking increasingly disgusted) so that he could see Ron and- yup- there the ginger idiot was: staring down at the rat that was casually bathing itself in the middle of Draco’s sitting room.

“Why on Earth would I name the vermin claiming squatter’s rights in my flat?” Draco said impatiently.

Ron looked from the rat to Draco with a frown, “Isn’t it your pet?”

“No. No it’s not,”

Ron’s expression turned horrified, “Then why the hell is it in here?!”

The rat revealed its enormous yellow teeth as it opened its mouth wide into a yawn.

“It’s definitely a he,” Harry said, apparently having torn his eyes from the carpet in Draco’s bedroom.

“You think I invited it in?!” Draco cried, “It just keeps waltzing in here!”

“Look at the size of those balls,” Harry continued, sounding almost impressed.

Ron paused, “Maybe we should take him with us,”

“No,” Draco answered flatly, “Absolutely not. Part of the reason I’m leaving is to escape that thing!”

“He must be domesticated,” Ron carried on as if Draco hadn’t spoken, “Otherwise why else would he be so chill? Actually - why are you so chill?” He rounded on Draco, “There’s a dirty great rat in the middle of your living room and you’re not even bothered,”

Draco spoke through gritted teeth, “In the grand scheme of things he seemed to be the least of my concerns,”

“We should call him Fievel!” Harry interrupted.

Ron frowned, “Fievel?”

“We are not taking the rat!” Draco barked.

“Russian?” Ron questioned.

Harry nodded, leaning against the door frame, “It’s a film. You’ll love it. I’ve got the video. We’ll watch it when we’ve got Draco unpacked,”

Draco turned back to his bedroom and decided not to get involved in whether or not Ron and Harry were able to persuade the rat in his sitting room to come home with them as well. Overall, the shine of being so readily invited to live with Harry and Ron was being quickly worn away by the knowledge that a rat was being offered the same easy hospitality.

When he returned to the sitting room with his trunk packed to find Ron with a smug brown rat perched on his shoulder, Draco demanded, “Is this what my life is going to be like now? Living with you two? Bizarre shenanigans with absolutely no rhyme or reason?”

Harry shrugged, “Pretty much,”

Draco scoffed and led the way out of the flat.

“Does your dad not care at all about where you’ve been staying?” Ron asked distractedly as he fed the rat on his shoulder bits of a biscuit he had produced from his pocket.

Draco snorted, “Of course he cares,”

“But he won’t help?” Ron pressed.

Draco let out a bitter laugh, “Oh, if I was doing what he wanted me to do, he’d have all the time and money in the world to put me up in a flat I didn’t have to share with rats. But because he’s angry with me he won’t lift a finger. He’s hoping I’ll give up. That I won’t be able to stick it out. And my mother obviously doesn’t want me living here either, but she won’t help if she thinks it will drive me home faster,”

“Well, that’s shitty of them,” Ron said glumly, “At least you weren’t alone the whole time though!” He added brightly.

“I do not count vermin as company, Weasley,” Draco said coldly, refusing to acknowledge the rat on his shoulder.

“Don’t listen to him, Fievel,” Ron whispered loudly.

“Hey - Draco,” Harry said abruptly, “Did you carry me here last night?”

Draco rolled his eyes and didn’t answer.

Number twelve Grimmuald Place wasn’t what Draco had expected the old Black family house to look like, and he told Harry so.

“Oh yeah,” Harry said, looking pleased as he peered about the house that Draco could only describe as plain, “It was a right state before. Had to spend almost every knut of the gold in the Black vault paying professionals to sort it out for me. Purifying it and exorcising it. I could have probably redecorated it myself, but I knew there were going to be structural issues bigger than I could handle, so it was easier to just pay to get it done properly. I’ll decorate eventually,” Harry added with a small smile, “When I’ve got the time and can be bothered,”

“This is a lot of magnolia,” Draco said slowly.

“Trust us, it’s an improvement,” Ron said with a snort, “Even you’d have thought it was a bit much,”

Draco took a breath and deliberately didn’t look at where Ron was now scratching the rat’s belly, “Right. So where do I sleep?”

“Ron and I sleep on on the second floor - there’s a spare bedroom there that’s quite spacious,” Harry suggested, leaning forwards as if to take Draco’s trunk for him, “Or there’s the first-floor bedroom but it’s by the living room so it might be a bit loud if we’re watching telly and you’re trying to sleep. We don’t use the top floor,”

“I’ve got it,” Draco said batting Harry’s hand away, “The second floor is fine,”

Compared to the flat he’d called home since August, Grimmuald Place was a dream.

There were no holes in the walls of his bedroom, the hot water worked and ran clear rather than a sickly grey, the carpet didn’t stick to his feet and it definitely wasn’t made out of human hair, and though Draco had no proof yet, he was sure there would be no scratching in the walls in the middle of the night. 

There was, however, one thing he hadn’t truly considered, and that was what it would be like to have Harry and Ron as housemates.

With his trunk emptied, Draco stood in the middle of his new spacious bedroom and tried not to have an anxiety attack over it all. They were friends now, that much was true, but did he really know them well enough to live with them without them ending up at each other’s throats? Draco closed his eyes and rubbed his face. He was being ridiculous. They’d all managed to share rooms with other boys at school. It would be fine.

Finally, having worked up the courage necessary to venture out into the rest of the house, Draco followed the sound of talking, and found himself stood in the doorway of the living room. Ron was sat in an enormous armchair, his new pet snoozing in his lap, while Harry was stretched out on a three-seater sofa. Both of them were staring, transfixed at the corner of the room where an enormous black box currently had pictures dancing across it.

“Is that a television?” Draco said with reluctant interest, shuffling closer to watch as what looked like drawings of strange mice danced and sang in unison.

“Yup,” Harry said with a pop, “Come and sit,”

Approaching the sofa cautiously, Draco was half convinced that Harry had no intention of moving his feet so that he could sit down. Then Harry flashed him a grin and curled his legs closer to himself. When his foot accidentally brushed Draco’s thigh, he muttered, “Sorry,” and held it closer to himself.

Draco wanted to tell him he could stretch out if he wanted to. For a split second, Draco imagined it. Harry’s feet stretched over his lap. A hand on Harry’s ankle.

He shook the thought away.

Ridiculous.

Instead he tried to focus on the dancing illustrations on the screen in front of him. Soon, he found himself sucked in to what appeared to be a fever dream about Russian mice migrating to America to escape oppressive cats. It didn’t stop him from occasionally glancing over to Harry who was softly singing along under his breath.

“Her tail was all… he left of her….”

Harry’s hair was down.

It was as long as it had been the day that Draco had seen him at the Manor, his face swollen and twisted, but now the broken ends had been cut away so that it was thick and healthy. It was covering Harry’s face. Draco longed to tuck it behind his ear. To replace his one and only memory of Harry with his hair down with something less sickening than the one he had.

As if Harry could tell that Draco wanted to see his face, he casually swept his hair back, obliterating any suggestion of a parting and leaving it tumbling haphazardly left and right. He revealed long eyelashes and green eyes. Green eyes that were blinking dazedly in Draco’s direction.

Harry took a bite of his toast, “Mornin’,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and muffled by the toast in his mouth, “Sleep alright?”

Draco unstuck himself and stepped further into the kitchen, “Yes. Very well,”

Harry nodded, seemingly still half asleep, “That’s good. There’s bread for toast and cereal in the cupboard. Milk’s in the pantry. The kettle’s just boiled if you want a drink. Help yourself to whatever,”

Draco approached the kettle cautiously, “Thank you for this,” he said abruptly; Harry just blinked, “I really do appreciate it. I was managing but it was less than ideal. Just let me know what my portion of the rent- urgh- mortgage? Bills? Whatever it is, let me know,”

Harry was shaking his head though, “No rent or mortgage to worry about. Bills don’t come to much either so don’t stress about that either,”

“I want to contribute,” Draco interrupted firmly, “I won’t be a freeloader,”

Harry looked amused, “Alright. As you like. We’ll iron out some numbers but honestly, I’m more concerned with you doing your fair share of the cooking and cleaning more than anything else,”

“I’ll do both,” Draco promised.

Harry, still looking amused, hummed his assent, “Sounds good. I need to get dressed anyway. We normally leave about half eight but obviously you can do what you want,”

Draco took a breath to try and purge some of the nerves from his system, “Alright,”

There was a brief dance between them as Harry made to leave the kitchen, each of them trying to step past the other but only stepping into the other’s path again and again. Harry snorted, taking ahold of Draco’s shoulders to hold him still and slipping past him.

Moving around the unfamiliar kitchen, clumsily making his breakfast, Draco could have sworn he could still feel Harry’s hands on his skin.

Living with Harry and Ron was more… tolerable than Draco had expected.

What he’d expected had been more tolerable than living with loud neighbours and holes in his walls and rats (not that he’d escaped that element of things) but it had still involved Harry and Ron living like slobs while Draco tip toed around them trying not to get sticky feet while also avoiding scurvy from their diet that he was sure consisted of beige, beige, and maybe bananas (the most convenient of fruit).

To his great shock, however, he’d discovered that Harry and Ron were… tidy. And clean?! He was sure that Ron was only that way because he was permanently conscious that Granger was only five days at most away from coming over for the weekend (as she did almost every weekend) but Harry seemed to be fastidious just because he was. And yes, Ron’s meals weren’t the most exciting of fare, but they were tasty and filling and (mostly) nutritious. Harry though… Harry cooked as if he were preparing to feed an army with every meal - he easily cooked enough for all their lunches for the next day as well - and it was delicious.

Things didn’t add up. Things didn’t add up at all. There was no way that they’d been like this at school. Draco had vivd memories of untucked shirts and ties that were askew and messy hair and bags filled to the brim with nonsense.

In the end, Draco asked Harry about it.

“We spent a long time on the run,” Harry said looking a little embarrassed; he was currently peeling potatoes in preparation to make the fluffiest, crispiest, most flavourful roast potatoes that Draco had ever eaten in his life, “Not knowing where our next meal was coming from. Not knowing where we were staying that night or the night after that. The tent we were in,” he shook his head, “It did the job but- it just felt so chaotic all the time? You know? Things were just everywhere, and it never felt clean and tidy even when we’d just tried to clean up,” he shrugged, “I like… things to be where they should be. It makes me feel better,” he grimaced faintly.

“What’s that face for?” Draco asked curiously, frowning and leaning forwards and pointedly ignoring the rat that was patiently waiting on the draining board for the odd potato peeling that Harry handed to it.

Harry shrugged again, “Just sounds a bit mental I guess,”

Draco’s frown deepened, “Liking tidy things?”

“That having an untidy house makes me feel like I’m going to hyperventilate,” Harry admitted dryly, “It’s partly why I paid so much money to get this place sorted out as quickly as possible. I couldn’t stand to look at another patch of mould on the walls for a moment more,”

Draco paused, “I see what you mean. I don’t think it’s mental though,”

Harry raised a single eyebrow, dropping his freshly peeled potato into the pot of water and grabbing another, “You don’t?”

“No. I think it’s understandable to reach for order when you’ve spent so long embroiled in chaos,”

Harry looked at him closely, “Huh,” then he let out a loud hiss and snatched his hand to his chest.

Draco leapt to his feet, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” grimacing, Harry brought his hand forwards to reveal where blood was blooming from the end of his thumb, “Just caught myself,”

“Here,” Draco stepped around the table and took the potato and knife from Harry’s hand, setting them aside to peer at his thumb and the thin flap of skin that had been lifted away, “You’ll live,” he concluded mildly; he turned to reach for a cloth only to realise that the rat was perched on the edge of the sink, a flannel held between its tiny paws.

Draco felt Harry’s hand tense under his touch.

“Are we sure that’s a normal rat?” Harry said slowly.

Draco understood immediately; no one had ever explicitly told him about the connection between Ron’s pet rat and Wormtail, but he’d heard enough to put two and two together.

“It’s just a rat,” Draco promised him, taking the cloth gingerly from the rodent’s grip, “I’ve tested it myself,” he admitted, pressing the cloth to the end of Harry’s finger.

Harry winced but otherwise didn’t react, “You did?”

“He kept bringing me adverts for different flats,” Draco said defensively, “He’d bitten them out of newspapers and everything. What else was I meant to think?!”

Harry snorted shaking his head; together they turned and watched as Fievel peered over the edge of the pot full of water that Harry had been slowly filling with peeled potatoes. Draco raised his eyebrows at the sheer quantity of them.

“I think you’ve peeled enough potatoes, Potter,”

“You’re probably right.”

“Tell me your workout regime,” Ron demanded.

No please. No thank you.

Draco didn’t really expect either from him anymore, and it wasn’t because Ron was especially rude (though he could hardly be described as well-mannered either) but because (apparently) their friendship had been elevated to the point of presumption.

Of course, Draco would tell Ron the details of his fitness regime and prepare him a plan of his own in his very limited spare time. Why wouldn’t he? They were friends after all.

Then (because a reluctantly curious Harry was at Ron’s side) Draco made a show of relaxing casually back into his seat and posing subtly with a flick of his hair, “Why Weasley,” Draco drawled, “Have you grown jealous of my muscles?” He suddenly wished he’d worn a tank top so that his arms were on display (like Harry’s arms were on display), “Do you want tips as well, Potter?” Now Draco smirked, “Or have you come to simply observe? I don’t mind if you watch. Sometimes it’s nice to look at pretty things even when they’re out of your reach,” he peered disinterestedly at his nails.

Harry scoffed with a laugh, “Oh fuck you, you cocky bitch,” and to Draco’s deep displeasure, he turned away, shaking his head.

Draco watched him go, disappointment a bitter taste on his tongue. He wouldn’t have minded showing off for Harry - either his physicality or his detailed knowledge of diet and fitness (he’d needed something to do, after all, in the months before he’d started with the Aurors when he’d been all alone in that awful flat). He preferred it to showing off for Weasley at any rate.

“Like he needs your help anyway,” Ron muttered unhappily, eyeing Harry with a pout, “Tell me-,” he returned to topic at hand, “How do I get muscles like yours? I’m plenty strong,” he said quickly, before Draco could even open his mouth, “You know that I am. And yet I don’t look like-,” he gestured to Draco and then flexed his arm and peered at the muscle there with a pout, “Look? Why? Why don’t I look like you?!”

“It’s your diet Weasley,” Draco said bluntly as he tried and failed not to stare across the gym to where Harry was currently doing pull ups, “Yes, you’re strong. Stronger than me probably. But I’m leaner - there’s less fat between my muscles and my skin,” with a sigh, Draco reluctantly pushed himself to his feet and poked Ron’s still curled bicep, “There’s plenty of muscle there. If you want more of it on show then you need to eat more healthily,”

Ron gaped, “Are you calling me fat?!” he squawked.

Draco rolled his eyes, “You’re obviously not fat,”

Ron poked his own stomach, “I am not fat!” He wagged his finger at Draco, “If I was fat, Ginny would have told me so even if no one else would have!” he said triumphantly.

Draco huffed in frustration, “I didn’t say that you were fat!! You’re just not lean. You need more protein and less sugar in your diet. Just having one serving of dessert after dinner would probably go a long way too,” Draco added in a mutter.

Ron reeled back as if he’d been slapped, “No dessert?!”

Draco sighed, “That’s not what I said,” he said distractedly, watching Harry drop down from the apparatus he’d been climbing and then make his way to the bench press.

“Fuck that,” Ron snorted, “I’d rather be fat and happy if looking like you means cutting out the things that make life worth living!”

“Dessert makes life worth living?” Draco said flatly, “And I didn’t call you fat!” He called after him, but Ron wasn’t listening, shaking his head in disgust and abandoning Draco entirely.

Draco lingered in front of the machine he’d been sat at, his eyes finding Harry once again. He was flat on his back, a bar with weights attached being held above his chest.

Draco should leave him alone. Should go back to his own workout. He’d already pissed Harry off once today. But lifting without backup wasn’t the safest option. Draco was doing him a favour really. He was being responsible. Even if the bars were enchanted to levitate if the user bailed.

“Need a spotter?” Draco said casually, appearing at Harry’s head and peering down at him.

Harry’s eyes snapped to him. He looked like he wanted to argue for a moment, then he deflated and rolled his eyes.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Harry reached for the bar again and began his next set.

Draco was barely watching his progress, fixed as he was on examining how Harry’s brows furrowed with effort and focus. How his lips pursed. How a single bead of sweat trailed down his throat.

It was through pure instinct alone that Draco spotted the moment that Harry began to struggle. He caught the bar easily, lifting it back onto its rest. Harry groaned, clearly disappointed, his fingertips hanging lightly from the bar so that his arms were held above his head.

“Alright?” Draco squeezed his arm lightly and resisted the urge to either linger, or gloat.

He didn’t want to show Harry up; he wanted to impress him.

No one was impressed by a braggart, or so he’d been reliably informed by Pansy (and Ron and Granger and the She-Weasley and probably Harry at some point as well).

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, “Thanks. Should probably stop, I guess. Shall we get some lunch?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Draco offered a hand to help Harry up and held onto him for only as long as necessary, “Don’t bother Weasley though. He could probably benefit from losing a kilo or two,”

“I heard that!”

Weekends at Grimmuald Place brought a change of routine, and one that Draco didn’t especially like.

Weekends meant that Granger came over to stay, before heading back to school, and while Draco didn’t have any problem with her, and he didn’t begrudge her and Ron wanting to spend time together, he did find that her addition to their household left him feeling like the guest. It wasn’t even really her fault. She was nothing if not cautiously polite and then later reasonably friendly. It was all Draco.

Seven years of believing someone was worth less than the dirt beneath your shoe was enough to cripple any wizard who considered themselves a ‘good man’ with shame. If it weren’t for them - Harry, Ron, and Hermione - Hermione might be dead or enslaved or worse and that would have been as much Draco’s fault as any other Death Eater. With these thoughts in his head, it was difficult for Draco to be anything less than painfully awkward around her.

And so, he tried to stick to his room for the first few weeks whenever she was over, treating the rest of the house as enemy territory, only to be ventured out into in the direst of circumstances (for the loo and for snacks). It was isolating and lonely. He didn’t even have the stupid rat for company.

It took Harry knocking on his door, for him to realise he wasn’t the only one left at a loose end by Granger’s weekend visits.

“Do you want to go flying?” Harry asked, just a slither of hopefulness in his voice.

“I don’t have a broom,” Draco answered dumbly, “It’s at the Manor,”

Harry nodded in understanding, “That’s okay. We can take Ron’s. He won’t mind,”

“Are you sure?” Draco said hesitantly.

“Positive. You can ride mine though if you’re worried,”

If Draco had had reservations, the promise of getting to ride Potter’s firebolt would have been more than enough to burn them away.

Later, flying lazily side by side around a field surrounded by trees (a field that Harry had clearly used for such purposes before judging by the established wards he had activated before they’d kicked off), Draco said, “I’m surprised you’re not hanging out with them,”

Harry shrugged, “Nah. I know they wouldn’t mind but they’re a couple now, aren’t they? They should get to have private time together, and we all hang out in the evenings anyway. Just gets boring though - you know? And lonely,” Draco hummed his agreement, “You’d be welcome as well,” Harry added casually.

“Where?”

“With us. In the evenings I mean. We don’t do anything exciting - just sit and watch films or play card games. But you could join in if you wanted to,”

“Thanks,” Draco mumbled, not quite willing to commit to anything, “You’ve got a lot of them - those film things. They’re those black boxes, yes? In the colourful cases,”

Harry had entire bookcases of them in fact, lining the walls behind the television in the sitting room. Draco was reluctant to admit to anything, but he found them singularly engaging and quite addictive. More than once, he’d found himself in the sitting room, his finger hovering on the spine of a case, wondering if Harry would mind if he tried to watch one.

“Yeah. They’re all kids’ films but they’re things I wasn’t allowed to watch so,” Harry shrugged, “But there’s no one to stop me now,”

“Why weren’t you allowed to watch them?”

Harry grimaced momentarily, but soon smoothed his expression into something more peaceful, “My relatives wouldn’t let me,”

“Why?”

“Television wasn’t for freaks like me,” Harry said gently, as if he was softening the blow for Draco.

And it was a blow. A blow that obliterated any preconceived notions that Draco might have had about Harry’s childhood.

“You’re not a freak,”

Harry smiled, “I know,” Harry didn’t let them linger, “You want to race?”

Draco won of course, but they were closer than they should have been considering that Draco was riding the fastest broom in the world and Harry was on a bloody Cleansweep. He couldn’t decide if it was his weight that had kept Harry on his heels, or perhaps Harry’s technique was simply that good.

They flew around for hours, racing, then chasing one another, then playing chicken to see who could dive the lowest before pulling back up at the last possible second. Then Harry, with a smirk, produced a snitch from his pocket, and their playing became something fiercer and more competitive.

There was a moment when they were diving down, their hands stretched out desperately, reaching for the snitch fluttering just ahead of them, when Draco lost focus. Suddenly gold didn’t matter at all when next to him he had a jewel of a different kind; bright green and sparkling.

“DRACO LOOK OUT!”

And they were suddenly crashing down, tumbling over one another, wrapped up around each other and bouncing across the grass lawn. The first three bounces didn’t hurt at all; Draco recognised the cushioning charm that Harry had surrounded them with. Then the charm failed. They only bounced twice more but Draco could have sworn he heard his bones crunching.

They ended up panting on the floor, Draco flat on his back and a groaning Harry on top of him, wincing and hissing.

“What the fuck Draco?” Harry complained, his teeth gritted, “What’s wrong with you?! Did you not see the floor flying straight at your face?”

“Sorry,” Draco panted, his heart pounding in his chest, “Got distracted,”

“By what?!” Harry said incredulously, pushing himself up gingerly so that he was straddling Draco’s waist; he sighed, and didn’t wait for an answer, “Well. I doubt I’ll be getting that back,”

Draco looked up and understood what he meant immediately; the wards had fallen, and without them, the snitch had escaped, “Sorry,” then he remembered, “Your broom?!” He said urgently.

Harry waved him away, “It’s fine,” he gestured vaguely to where their brooms were laying together, mostly undamaged but for a few broken twigs, “I threw us off them. Last thing I wanted to do was explain to Ron that his broom was not only snapped in half, but also imbedded in my gut,” Harry grimaced and began to carefully clamber up and off Draco; Draco missed his weight immediately, “Come on,” Harry said with a sigh, holding out a hand, “You owe me lunch,”

Draco didn’t argue.

Draco and Harry were in the sitting room together. Granger was over again, and so where Harry had graciously accepted Ron replacing him with his girlfriend, Draco had with equal grace accepted his position as Harry’s second choice in friend.

It was something he was uncharacteristically unbitter about.

He’d never not been bitter about coming second in something in his entire life.

They were sat on the floor together; Harry had repositioned the armchair so that he could sit with his back against it while Draco leant against the sofa. They had their legs stretched out and spread, the soles of their feet pressed together, a diamond of floor space between them. Draco couldn’t have said exactly how they’d gotten into this position, but he wasn’t going to be the one to move first.

They were playing Blackjack.

(“It’s like Uno,”

“What’s Uno?”

“You know what, never mind, just- I’ll explain the rules, okay?”)

This Blackjack wasn’t the Blackjack that Draco was familiar with however, and he wasn’t sure if he would ever play it again.

He might actually kill someone.

“What do you think they do in there all day?” Draco asked distractedly, his brows furrowed as he re-ordered his cards into something more sensible, his eyes flicking down to the pile on the floor between them.

Harry grimaced, “I don’t want to know thanks,” at Harry’s shoulder, Fievel (who had left Ron’s room either by choice or by force) shivered, either in disgust or by pure coincidence.

Draco snorted, and set down the queen of hearts, “They can’t be having sex all day-,”

“La la la!!” Harry said urgently, “I don’t want to know!” he set down the ten of hearts.

Draco glanced critically between their hands; Harry had eight cards left, where Draco had only four. He could win this game, he was sure.

“What I mean is,” Draco clarified, “why don’t they go out? Me and you go out more than they do,” he placed down the ten of diamonds. Only three left. Draco tried not to sweat.

Harry grimaced and picked up a card, “I don’t know. Maybe they’re tired and just want to relax together?”

“Or Granger wants to do homework,”

Harry sighed, “Yeah, or that,”

Draco shook his head and placed down the six of diamonds.

Harry smirked a little, and shuffling his cards into order, he began to place them down one after the other: six of clubs, five of clubs, four, three, and finally the two of clubs and the two of spades, “Pick up four,”

Draco smirked, and lay down the two of hearts, “Pick up six,” and he knocked on the floor, only one card left in his hand.

But Harry’s smirk didn’t fall. If anything, it widened. From the cards remaining in his hand, he laid down the Jack of spades. He knocked the floor pointedly.

“Pick up eleven,”

“You motherfucker!”

Ron and Granger were attracted by the noise. When they opened the sitting room door, they found Draco with his arm twisted behind his back and a smug Harry perched on his back.

Chapter Text

Lying on his bed staring up at the ceiling, Draco resisted the urge to pout.

Two weeks earlier, he, Ron, and Harry had taken their first round of tests as Junior Aurors and had all passed them with flying colours. This meant three things.

One, more money (Draco would finally be able to buy a round at the pub without keeping careful track of every single knut and sickle). Two, they could go out into the field (accompanied by a fully trained Auror). And three, they were added to the regular roster of Aurors. This had the unfortunate side effect however of no more guaranteed weekends and evenings off, and this weekend Ron was working.

That hadn’t stopped Hermione from coming over that weekend though and instead of spending the entire day with Ron, she was spending it with Harry. Draco could tell that Harry was quietly please by the opportunity to spend time with friend but Draco - oh - Draco was painfully bitter. Weekends were their time and Draco was loathe to share.

Draco pointedly ignored the small internal voice that suggested that perhaps his Harry fixation had become a bit much and was stretching the boundaries of a healthy friendship.

Above his head, Fievel squeaked and nosed hesitantly at Draco’s forehead, his whiskers tickling Draco’s face.

“Go away,” Draco said mournfully, “I’m going to die alone. It’s fine. I’ve accepted it,” Fievel chattered above him, “No. Stop trying to make me feel better. It is what it is. I’ve come to terms with it,”

There was a firm knock on his bedroom door.

Draco took a deep breath and reluctantly called, “Come in!”

Harry appeared at the door; he frowned, “What are you doing?”

“Having an existential crisis,”

Harry paused, “Okay…,” he closed the door with a snap and moved to the end of Draco’s bed, “Well, is that like time sensitive or can it wait? Mione’ and me are making a cake. You wanna’ help?”

Draco sighed, “I don’t know how to make a cake. I don’t know what help I’d be,”

“Oh, for fucks sake,”

Draco yelped as a hand around his ankle yanked him firmly down the bed, “What are you doing?!”

Harry ignored him and continued to pull him off the bed, “Stop being a weirdo and come and hang out with us!” Harry grunted as Draco’s resistance suddenly made the job of pulling him off the bed ten times harder.

Draco scrambled to reach for the headboard, but it was already out of his reach, “But I don’t know how to bake!” He cried in protest, clinging to the duvet instead and only managing to drag it with him. Fievel had scrambled off the bed and was watching them curiously from the bedside table.

“You can make potions, can’t you?” Harry grunted, “It’s the same damn thing!”

Draco managed to take pretty much all his bedding with him in his effort to not be torn from his bed; it was handy for not slamming into the hard floor when he inevitably lost his battle.

Harry grinned in triumph at the sight of Draco scowling up at him from the floor, entangled in his bed sheets, “There. Come on. It’ll be fu- ARGH!”

Draco had swept his legs out from under him and sent him toppling to the ground as well. What followed next probably should have been a display of their grappling prowess - they had training after all and had practiced extensively - but instead it was more a childish play fight complete with tickling and slapping and trying desperately to overwhelm the other by simply being as irritating as possible.

Harry ended up pinned on his back, because game or not, Draco was better at this. He grinned up at Draco, panting, his face flushed and his glasses askew. Draco loomed over him, his own smile wide and amused on his face.

Harry licked his lip, “Feel better?”

Draco paused, still catching his own breath, and nodded, finding that his misery had been chased away and forgotten entirely.

“Good. Now let me up unless you want Mione’ to start experimenting with sugar substitutes and flour alternatives and bloody aquafaba,”

Draco frowned, “What’s that?”

“Something to do with chickpeas - I don’t know - but Hermione is insisting we can use it, but I’ll be really quite pissed off if we spend two hours baking and it tastes like shit at the end,”

Draco couldn’t help his fond smile. He suppressed the impulse to duck down and press his mouth to Harry’s, and instead nodded and began to clamber back to his feet, “Alright then.”

Oh God. Oh God. Harry was sitting in the kitchen shirtless. Oh God.

Harry glanced up from the book he was reading and spotted Draco in the doorway. He raised a single eyebrow, “What?”

“Why are you half naked?!” Draco spluttered, “Other people live in this house you know! It’s not right!”

Harry smirked slowly and nodded in the direction of the bubbling pot on the stove and the sink next to it where Harry’s discarded top was pinned between a washboard and a determined bar of soap, “I splashed the sauce over me. Probably won’t be able to get the stain out, but the longer you wait the worse it is. Why are you bothered anyway?” Harry leered closer, “Or do you like what you see?”

Draco scowled, “I’d rather not see it at all,” he barked.

He lied.

Harry sniggered to himself but said nothing. Draco shook his head in ‘disapproval’ and passed behind him in the direction of the kettle, resting a hand on the back of Harry’s chair as he always did when moving around the narrow kitchen. The edge of his hand brushed against the skin of Harry’s upper back.

Harry didn’t react and neither did Draco.

Standing and waiting for the kettle to boil, Draco noticed something else about Harry. Something about what he was wearing rather than what he wasn’t.

His pyjamas bottoms were a dark green with a silver bow tied at his hips, and because Harry was sat with a knee pulled up to his chest, Draco could see that the legs were too long for him. He and Harry might have been almost the same height, but Draco knew that where he had long legs, Harry had a longer torso.

Those weren’t Harry’s pyjamas.

“Are you wearing my clothes?!” Draco cried in ‘outrage’; Harry only grinned, “Right. No. That’s a boundary crossed right there,” he stepped forwards, “Take them off,”

Harry rolled his eyes, “Draco-,”

“Right now!”

Harry paused, then dropped his book and relaxed back in his seat, his new position clearly demonstrating the light musculature of his chest and planes of his flat stomach and smooth sides, “If you insist,” and he pushed his seat back, stood, and began fiddling with the knot tied in the silver ribbon.

Draco squawked and leapt back, “Pervert! Stop getting naked!”

“But you just told me to take them off!”

“I meant to go and get changed!”

“You told me right now,” Harry pointed out with a grin, pulling the thread free and settling his thumbs into the waist band of the trousers, preparing to pull them down.

Draco didn’t get to see whether Harry did actually take his trousers off as he practically ran from the room, his cup of tea forgotten.

He heard Harry’s loud laughter behind him as he fled up the stairs.

“So,” Pansy started, sipping delicately at her glass of wine, “How’s life treating you living with Potter and Weasley? It’s been what - two months now?”

“There abouts,” Draco confirmed.

Drinking with Pansy always started like this. Refined and moderate. Then two glasses in things started to… unravel. If he managed to make it back to Grimmuald Place from the Leaky Cauldron with both of the shoes he’d left with he’d count it as a win.

“I’m surprise you’ve last this long,” Blaise said with a snort, “That old flat of yours must have been truly awful for you to put up living with two Gryffindors,”

“I don’t know why you’d let them help you but not me,” Pansy said unhappily.

“Because it wouldn’t have been you helping me Pans - it would have been your father, and you can’t tell me that wouldn’t have been a favour he tried to cash in somewhere down the line,” Draco said pointedly.

“He probably would have,” Pansy admitted, “The Ministry’s been keeping a closer eye on his business ever since the war ended,”

“Exactly. I don’t want someone to have leverage over me,”

“And Potter and Weasley don’t have leverage over you?” Blaise said sharply.

Draco tried to respond the negative, but Pansy interrupted him, “Potter definitely does,” she said with a slow smirk.

Draco frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that I saw the way you were looking at him - at the Three Broomsticks that time. When McLaggen was all over him,”

“You and Potter,” Blaise muttered into his pint before he took a sip, “You should just fuck and get it over with,”

Draco practically shrieked, “Will you keep your damn voice down?!” He looked around frantically before leaning closer to hiss across the table, “I do not want to fuck Potter. We’re friends,”

“You can be friends and still want to fuck him,” Blaise responded dryly, “And I think you should. It would take all the mystery out of him, and then you could finally move on. Trust me: there’s nothing like finding out someone makes a weird face when they cum to have you losing interest in them,”

“I am not interested in him!!” Draco protested.

Blaise simply looked at him in incredulous disbelief.

“Okay, he’s very nice to look at,” Draco admitted reluctantly, “But that is it. We’re friends and he’s currently my landlord, in case you’ve forgotten,”

“Oh yeah, that is true,” Blaise said mildly.

“I’d rather not find myself out on the street because against my better judgement I decided to tumble Potter and he caught feelings, and I didn’t!”

“Because of course that would be the way of things,” Blaise continued evenly, “Him falling in love and you not returning his feelings. Not a chance at all that he might be the one just looking to get his rocks off, and you were the one wanting more. The way you’ve wanted more since you were eleven years old tormenting him at every single opportunity,”

Draco just scowled, “I am not interested in sleeping with Harry,”

“Oh, Harry is it,” Blaise said quickly, “You’re on first name basis now?”

“That didn’t take long,” Pansy added airily, twirling her hair around her finger.

“Shut up. Both of you,” Draco said firmly, “When you invited me out for my birthday, I didn’t realise I’d consented to you two harassing me about my love life,”

“What love life?” Pansy said with a snort, “I wasn’t aware there was one,”

“We can set you up with someone if you like,” Blaise smirked, “If, you know, you’re really not interested in Potter,”

“Well how about your love life?” Draco said hotly, “Neither of you are here with anything to talk about,”

“I snogged Luna Lovegood,” Pansy offered up, “It probably won’t happen again, but I did,”

Draco gaped.

“Goyle implied he wanted to suck my cock a few months back,” Blaise grimaced, “It was… off putting,”

Draco made to stand, “I think I might go home,”

Pansy caught his arm laughing, “Oh sit down. Don’t worry - we won’t tease you anymore about your enormous eternal crush on Harry Potter,”

“Or tell you anything else about Goyle sucking dick,” Blaise promised with a wince, “I’m slightly annoyed at myself for bringing it up, if I’m honest,”

Reluctantly, Draco settled back in his seat, and looked suspiciously between them.

“So - how’s Auror training?” Pansy asked, and Draco finally began to relax.

When he arrived home, after staggering his way through the streets of London and then nearly falling up the steps to number twelve and then struggling so much with his jacket that he ended up leaning forwards with his forehead resting against the door for balance, it was to find Harry and Ron both waiting for him in the kitchen.

“Fuck me, how much have you had to drink?!” Ron exclaimed, a laugh in his voice.

“Not enough to do that,” Draco said firmly, struggling to keep his eyes both open and uncrossed at the same time.

Ron shook his head in disbelief and amusement, “Well. Harry made you are birthday cake, you ungrateful arse. You gonna’ try any?”

“We,” Harry corrected quickly, “We made you a birthday cake,”

Ron smiled knowingly, but Draco was too drunk to be able to both register these details and then further extrapolate to what they might mean. Instead, they happened, he acknowledged them, and then he returned to trying to keep his balance.

“Thanks. Honestly. But I think I need to lie down for a bit before I even think about eating cake,”

Harry rushed forwards before Ron could say anything more, “Come on,” he held his hands out as if he expected Draco to topple over at any moment, “I’ll help you upstairs,”

On reflection, Draco thought as Harry stopped him from overbalancing and falling down the stairs, Harry hadn’t been wrong to be so prepared.

It was a weekend where the stars had aligned. Ron wasn’t working, and so Hermione was spending time with him, and neither were Draco or Harry, and so Draco was stood in front of Harry’s bookcase of television cassettes with his arms crossed over his chest.

“How am I meant to just pick one?” He grumbled, “There must be a hundred to choose from, at least,”

“I’ve got more in my room as well,” Harry added unhelpfully from where he was spreading his duvet out on the floor in front of the sofa. Draco wasn’t sure why, but Harry had insisted that they sit on the floor together for this. Fievel had joined them and was enjoying the free sofa, nestled in the middle where the two large cushions joined together.

Once again, it was the weekend, and Hermione was busy ‘occupying’ Ron in his room.

(“Don’t say it like that Draco,”

“Like what?”

“Like it has a double meaning,”

“It does have a double meaning,”

“I know. That’s the problem.”)

What with the gale that was currently blowing about the house, and the wind hammering on the window, Harry had announced that they were staying in today and watching films and eating popcorn. Draco had consented on two conditions: the popcorn was sweet, not salty, and he picked the film.

“Is there one you haven’t seen before?” Draco asked, trailing his finger along the cases’ spines as if they were books.

“Loads of them. Just pick one at random and I’ll tell you,”

It took three tries for Draco to find one that Harry hadn’t watched, “‘The Land Before Time’?” Draco read aloud.

“I think it’s about dinosaurs,” Harry said helpfully.

Draco rolled his eyes, “Yes. I can see that,”

The case was opened with a snap and the tape slotted into the VCR with a brief scraping and then a click. While Harry sorted out the popcorn, Draco struggled (as he always did) to find the channel that corresponded with the video player. He tutted loudly when he finally found success only to see that the film had been running the entire time he’d been struggling.

“I should get a DVD player really,” Harry admitted, settling next to him, “Hermione says they’re going to make videos obsolete eventually, but there are so many films here that I haven’t watched yet and I’d have to re-buy them and it just seems like such a waste,”

“What’s a DVD?” Draco asked dumbly.

Harry offered him a small smile and shook his head, “Don’t worry about it - just start the film,” and he picked up three large pieces of popcorn and set them in front of Fievel, who began munching away happily.

The film was sweet to begin with, as most of the films that Harry owned seemed to be, and clearly aimed at children. There was a ‘long necked’ baby dinosaur, and a ‘three-horned’ dinosaur (“That one’s called a triceratops,” Harry had explained, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth, “But I’m not sure what the long necked on is - brachiosaurus maybe?”), and what Draco was fairy sure was an allegory about racial division only shown in the kind of clean cut, innocent way that most serious things were portrayed when aimed at young children.

And then there was the ‘sharp tooth’.

Draco didn’t think much of it at first. The ‘sharp tooth’ attacking and Littlefoot’s mother coming to the rescue. The earth splitting apart and the herds of dinosaurs scattering and Littlefoot being separated from his mother. Then Littlefoot calling for her, searching for her, and receiving no answer. It wasn’t until he found her, slumped on the ground, her head dangling down weakly, that Draco realised that Harry had turned suddenly still beside him.

He didn’t initially realise anything was wrong as he glanced over casually. He did a double-take at the sight of Harry’s face though.

‘Mother? Mooother! Mother? Where are you?’

He was ashen, his skin almost grey. His eyes were wide and glassy and fixed on the screen.

“Harry?”

‘Mother! Mother? Please get up,’

‘I’m not sure I can, Littlefoot,’

‘Yes, you can,’

Draco wasn’t watching the screen now, but whatever happened made Harry let out the tiniest of gasps, no more than a soft inhalation that had his lips parting.

“Harry? Are you okay?”

‘Why do I have to know? You’re gonna’ be with me,’

‘I’ll be with you… even if you can’t see me…,’

Draco stretched out a hand, “Harry-,” but Harry was gone before Draco could make contact, up and on his feet and then out of the room in one smooth movement as if he’d never been there to begin with. The door closed quietly, and then Draco heard the staircase going upstairs creaking beneath Harry’s quick feet.

Draco sat frozen on the floor, his heart pounding in his chest and making a whooshing sound in his ears. He licked his suddenly dry lips, his eyes flicking to the television screen and then back to the living room door that Harry had left by. Harry had accidentally trodden on the remote and paused the film, freezing the screen on the image of Littlefoot standing in front of his mother’s face.

It didn’t take a genius to understand why Harry hadn’t been able to watch this.

Draco swallowed. He hesitated. What should he do? He wanted to run after Harry, but did Harry want running after? Even if he didn’t want Draco to follow him, Draco knew what it was to leave a room in distress and have no one care enough to make sure that you were okay.

And so, knowing that it was potentially the wrong thing to do, Draco stood, and moved slowly. He turned off the television and set the remote aside. He ejected the cassette, then put it in its case and slotted it back onto the shelf, then before he left the sitting room, he offered Fievel another piece of popcorn.

Draco climbed the stairs delicately until he was stood on the second-floor landing, his bedroom door to his left, Ron’s to his right, and Harry’s dead ahead. Draco spared Ron’s door a brief glance; he wished he could ask for help, but he didn’t know what Ron and Hermione were currently up to, and he didn’t imagine Harry wanted any more attention aimed in his direction.

And so instead, Draco took a deep breath, and knocked lightly on Harry’s door, “Harry?” He called softly, but there was no answer, “Harry? Are you okay?” He paused, but once again, nothing; Draco steeled himself, “Harry - I’m coming in,”

He found Harry perched on the edge of his bed, his back to the door, his head bowed. Draco shut the bedroom door behind him quietly, reluctant to attract Ron or Hermione’s attention now, and crossed the room.

Harry finally looked up while Draco was carefully perching himself on the end of his bed. His eyes were red. He wasn’t crying, but his hands were shaking slightly.

“Sorry,” Harry croaked out, “Sorry I- that… that took me by surprise,”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Draco said slowly; he couldn’t help but feel painfully uncomfortable. Not because of Harry’s unexpected reaction, but because he wasn’t sure what the rules of this were. He was confident that if Harry had to choose someone to be emotionally vulnerable in front of, it wasn’t him, and he didn’t know how to navigate this in a way that made Harry feel better without making him uncomfortable.

“It’s ridiculous really,” Harry smiled sadly, “I… it’s not like I knew her, did I? My mum. I don’t remember her. I didn’t grieve her. I shouldn’t have this reaction,”

Draco responded very carefully, “I’m not sure there’s any should, or shouldn’t when it comes to how you deal with loss. And even if you didn’t know her, you still lost something,”

Harry nodded, gulping and refusing to look Draco in the eye; he fought to get his words out, obviously struggling, “I know that I lost dad too and I should feel the same about both of them but I… I really wish that I’d gotten to have a mum,” he admitted, “You know? People always talk about a mother’s love, and I’ve never had that - not that I remember at least,”

“Mrs Weasley might disagree with you there,” Draco pointed out at once, “I’ve seen her with you. She certainly dotes on you more than she does Ronald. I think you could burn her whole house down and she’d forgive you,”

Harry chuckled, “Yeah… yeah, you’re probably right. I should be grateful for what I have,”

“You can be grateful and still be sad,” Draco disagreed, “Being sad you don’t have your mum doesn’t make you any less appreciative of Mrs Weasley,”

Harry smiled, finally looking at him, and shook his head, “Did you get lessons in Slytherin on emotional intelligence or something? Hermione would be very impressed,”

Draco smirked, and rested a heavy, meaningful hand on Harry’s leg, squeezing gently, “It’s called ‘not being a total fucking moron about feelings’. I know it doesn’t come naturally to you-,”

Harry laughed and smacked his hand away, “Oh fuck off you total dick head,”

Draco smiled, and reached out again to squeeze the back of Harry’s neck, “Are you okay?” He asked quietly.

Harry nodded, his smile turning faintly embarrassed now, “Yeah. I think so,”

“Want to watch a different film?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t waste the popcorn,”

Draco picked again, pointing out that his original choice had been vetoed after all. They decided on another film that Harry hadn’t seen - one that had been recommended as a classic by Hermione.

“Baby deer, huh?” Draco said, eyeing the cover and the doe-eyed fawn surrounded by flowers and rabbits, “Can’t be anything too traumatic, I’m sure,”

Harry had chuckled and grinned.

Oh, Draco had been wrong. He had been so wrong.

“Oh my God,” Draco gasped, scrambling to find the remote that had somehow disappeared while Bambi walked through the snow on his own, “Oh my God, no!!”

‘Your mother can’t be with you anymore,’

And then Harry burst into hysterical laughter while he sobbed uncontrollably at the same time, “It’s- t-to late now,” he choked out, his words catching as he cried and laughed, “M-might as well w-watch the r-rest,” he sniffed wetly, still chortling and still crying.

“I am so sorry,” Draco said, distraught, “I’m never picking a film again,”

Tears still pouring down his cheeks, Harry grinned and shook his head.

They watched the film to the end, sat with their sides pressed together from shoulder to thigh, and Draco couldn’t help but to be just ever so slightly pleased that he had accidentally caused Harry unnecessary emotional anguish.

But only slightly.

Draco had never been to the Burrow before today, but it was honestly just what he had expected it to be. A home of miss matched pieces all bound together with warmth, love and happiness, and charms that Draco wasn’t sure were strictly legal in that specific combination and on a domestic dwelling, but who was he to bring that to anyone’s attention? The sun was high, the barbecue had burgers and sausages sizzling away on it, and Draco was (to his great surprise) having a good time.

The celebration was three-fold: Hermione and Ginny both finishing with Hogwarts, Harry’s nineteenth birthday, and Ron and Hermione’s engagement. After the party, Ron wouldn’t be returning to Grimmuald Place with Harry and Draco but would instead be moving in with Hermione to a flat (much nicer than Draco’s had been) a little further out of London while they saved up for both a house and a wedding.

If anyone was going to marry young, Draco would never have thought it would be Hermione.

“I’m getting married because I love Ron, not because my goal is to become a wife,” Hermione had said firmly when Draco had asked her about it, “We could wait, I know, and I think my parents want me to but… after everything…,” she’d shaken her head, “Time is never guaranteed,”

Fievel would be staying with Harry and Draco at Grimmuald Place - apparently Ron didn’t trust Hermione’s cat not to eat him.

Harry and Draco at Grimmuald Place. Alone. Together.

The thought of it had Draco’s stomach tying itself in knots for reasons he couldn’t quite explain and that he wasn’t quite ready to address.

Harry was currently sat on the lawn, his hair down around his shoulders with Bill and Fleur’s three-month-old asleep in his arms while he watched the Weasley siblings plus a few other guests from school throw a quaffle around. Draco was torn between avoiding Harry while he unwound his stomach and spending every waking second at his side.

Well. Since he’d managed to barely see him for the entire day, he supposed sitting with him now put him somewhere in the middle.

“Alright,” Draco said casually as he approached with his hands in his pockets.

Harry squinted up at him, partially blinded by the sun; still, he smiled, “Alright,”

Draco dropped down to the ground beside him, crossing his legs, mirroring Harry’s position so that their knees knocked together; he nodded towards Victoire, “Was it your choice to get stuck with the baby?”

Harry nodded and smiled shyly, “I like babies. And kids in general to be honest. Don’t you?”

“I like babies,” Draco admitted, reaching out tentatively to stroke a single finger across Victoire’s soft head, “Not such a fan of kids. I’d like my own though, I’m sure,”

“Yeah? Do you want to hold her?” Harry offered, though he didn’t look overly willing to give her up.

Draco shook his head, his eyes catching on how the sun glowed through Harry’s hair, “And take her from you? Even I’m not that cruel,”

Harry’s responding smile was hesitant, “You’re not cruel at all,” he said quietly, “I used to think you were,”

A lump formed in Draco’s throat, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I think you were just… afraid,”

“Afraid of what?”

Harry shrugged, breaking eye-contact to look back towards the baby in his arms, “Of losing things - people, your pride, your standing. We do all kinds of terrible things when we’re afraid,”

Draco frowned; he was missing something, “Harry - what-?”

“I never did say sorry,” Harry said quickly, “For…,” green eyes turned to Draco’s bear arms, and it took Draco a moment to realise what Harry was looking at: one of the many thin, white scars that covered Draco’s body.

“Harry-,”

“I am sorry,” Harry continued before Draco could interrupt, “I was sorry then too, but I was… too ashamed to find you and tell you so. I didn’t even have fear as an excuse - I wasn’t afraid of you in that bathroom,”

“You were defending yourself,” Draco tried weakly, “I’d have done worse to you,”

“Because you were afraid,”

“That doesn’t excuse it-,”

“It does for me,” Harry cut him off, “You did lots of things because you were very, very young, and very, very afraid,”

Draco scoffed, “When you were very afraid and very young you were busy fighting the Dark Lord and saving the world. I became a Death Eater. We have to live with our choices, Harry,” he said bitterly.

“It’s not a choice when the alternative is death,” Harry reasoned, “Then it’s just survival,”

Draco couldn’t think of anything to say, and so instead he reached out again to stroke Victoire’s head.

“She’s cute, isn’t she?” Harry said softly.

“Very cute,” Draco agreed.

“It’s going to be strange living at Grimmuald Place when Ron’s gone,” Harry said with a melancholy twist to his mouth, “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,”

“Though I suppose it’s just part of growing up, isn’t it? Moving in with partners and not living with friends anymore,”

Draco stared at him, not quite sure if Harry was trying to tell him something or if they were just reminiscing together.

And then the baby began to fuss.

“I think it might be time for her bottle,” Harry said, checking his watch, “Yeah - I’ll go and find Bill and then I’ll be back. Save my spot,” and he was up and gone.

Draco watched him go and for a brief mildly insane moment he enjoyed the fantasy that it was his baby in Harry’s arms. And then he cut the fantasy short with a pang of guilt. This was going too far. He and Harry were friends and here Draco was fantasising about them being more. It felt wrong.

Maybe Blaise had been right - not about the fucking Harry thing but the moving on part.

Maybe it was time to find his own place.

For the rest of the day, Draco couldn’t get it out of his head, and by the time they returned home without Ron, the thought was practically bursting to get out of him.

“Draco?” Harry asked curiously when Draco found himself frozen in the kitchen while Harry put away the slices of cake that they’d been sent home with, “You okay?”

Draco blinked, then proceeded to bulldoze his way into the conversation, “I was thinking. Like. Maybe- maybe it’s time that I started looking for my own place? Maybe? I don’t know,”

Harry looked taken aback, “What? Why?”

Draco rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck, “It’s just- I was only meant to be here until we started getting paid more and that was ages ago now, and I feel like I’m taking advantage of you, paying so little to live here,”

“You pay your fair share,” Harry interrupted, “Which will be going up now that Ron’s gone,”

“It’s still hardly anything. And- and it’s like you said. We’re growing up. Are you honestly going to want me here when you’re dating and trying to bring people home?”

Harry threw his hands up in frustration, “Ron literally spent months having Hermione here for the weekends and, as you kept pointing out to me, most likely having sex with her!”

“And when you want to marry them?” Draco pressed.

Harry scowled, “We’re nineteen. I’m hardly ready to start building a nursery of my own to put a baby in or something insane. If I get a boyfriend, then I get a boyfriend - so what? It takes time for relationships to build to that point anyway. And if you got a girlfriend or a boyfriend, you’d be welcome to bring them over,” Harry said though the words looked as if they pained him; he turned suddenly unsure, “Unless that’s the problem. You wouldn’t want to bring them here?”

Draco ignored the question, “I just don’t want to overstay my welcome and us have to have some awkward conversation where you politely tell me to get out while reminding me that you mean it, you really do need me to leave,”

Harry pursed his lips and spoke through clenched teeth, “I- if I’ve given you some impression that I’m waiting for you to leave, then I’m sorry. That impression is incorrect. I don’t want you to leave. But if…,” he looked suddenly sad, “If you want to leave because you want your own space then I… I understand. I’ll even help you look if you want. But if…,” he trailed off, seeming to lose the words; he sniffed and for a horrifying moment Draco thought he was about to cry, “I don’t want you to go,” Harry rubbed at his face, “I’m too tired for this. I’m gonna’ have an early night I think,” it wasn’t even seven yet, “Let me know what you decide in the morning,”

Harry left, stepping past Draco and very carefully not touching him. Regret crept up Draco’s neck. He wished he’d been able to keep his thoughts to himself for just a little longer - so that he might have been able to start this conversation in a way that made it something that didn’t make Harry look like he was going upstairs to cry himself to sleep.

Still. At least it had answered a question for him. He wasn’t going anywhere, no matter what Blaise said.