Title: Of All the Gin Joints

Pairings: Harry/Draco

Summary: After the war, Harry learns he can use his influence to save people, no matter if those people want to be saved or not. "Sometimes," Malfoy began, in a low, honest whisper "I just want to know what it's like to be you." Harry/Draco. HPDM.

Warnings: Rated for swearing. Also some details of violence/torture may be suggested during testimonies – this isn't an action story, so no direct violence, but descriptions may likely feature during testimony's at the trials.

Authors note: I'm back with another song-related two-shot! This one is inspired by – as anyone who knows the band may have guess by now! – Fall Out Boy's song "Of all the gin joints in all the world". The story is set straight after the war, in the heat of the Death Eater trails so in that way could be considered epilogue compliment as technically these events could have happened – but all us Drarry fans much prefer to pretend that pesky epilogue was never written, don't we? ;)

Enjoy

Of All the Gin Joints

Part 1: Who I Really Am

"You've done what?" Harry growled, his voice low and his emerald eyes flashing as he surveyed the Auror's before him. One cowered completely in on himself, slinking back a step without looking as if he were retreating, keeping his eyes anywhere but Harry. The other – the one who had told Harry what they had done – straightened his back a little, drawing himself up to his full height. His eyes gave the suggestion he felt the same as his partner, but had the balls to act otherwise. Harry considered admiring him for his courage; then snorted. The man before him was taller than Harry, a qualified Auror, and a fully grown man. Harry was, despite his name and fame, still a seventeen year old boy who hadn't even completed his Hogwarts education.

But defeating a Dark Lord feared by the majority of the wizarding world had given Harry power that he had, after a wrestle with his conscience, realised he would be foolish not to wield when it mattered.

"We were simply following orders, Mr Potter." The auror said. His voice was slow and careful; to an outsider listening in Harry could see how he may appear to have the cool, authoritative persona he was clearly attempting to portray. Harry - who could see the way his adam's apple quivered in his throat, who could see the way he nervously licked his lips before he spoke, who could hear the very slight inflections of his tone, suggesting the tension that rippled through him - wasn't fooled. "We we're told if his testimonies are to be validated are to be held up to the Wizengamot to be used to buy his freedom as you suggested, that we would need to have substantial evidence."

"You cannot use veritaserum on a wizard against his will." Harry snarled. Yes, he had made such suggestions – he had never given anyone the idea that they should force feed veritaserum down innocent men's throats.

"We're at war, Mr Potter." The auror informed him with a grim, gritty tone with a glare to match. His words seemed firmer now, more assured in his reasoning, the strength in his belief giving him the power to draw himself up to Harry with more meaning.

Harry would soon put an end to that.

"We were at war. Or did you miss the part where I killed Voldemort?" He let the name leave his lips like the hiss of a rattlesnake and took great delight in seeing the shudder which ran down the spines of both aurors. He took the opportunity to elbow past both men and head for the small, metal door behind them. It was at the foot of the corridor, a sleek, polished door with no windows, bolted sturdily to its frame. It was closed with a simple, functional handle which looked as if it offered no defence. Harry, however, wasn't fooled.

He delivered the non-verbal charm he knew would permit him to unlock and open the door – of course the Ministry wouldn't house its most wanted, most dangerous, most high-profile prisoner's behind simple 'Alohomora's' – and turned back to offer the two wizards a smirk. They were staring, open mouthed in surprise at the fact that Harry knew how to gain entrance to their most secured cells.

Being friends with Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was certain to become the next Minister for Magic unless any opposition arose, definitely had its advantages.

As Harry stepped through the door he was greeted by the man himself. He stood, in robes of a magnificent glittering purple, looming down with a poker straight stare over the slender, pale wizard handcuffed to the chair he sat in.

"Potter."

The greeting came without emotion. None of the awe, none of the reverence, none of the worship Harry was now becoming used to hearing from the majority of the wizarding world. None of the malice, none of the hatred, none of the loathing he was used to hearing from the Death Eater's he saw as he helped the Ministry round up and imprison those who remained. None of the gentle care, none of the caution, none of the genuine love he was used to hearing from those who remained by his side; Ron, Hermione, the Weasley's.

Nothing.

"Malfoy." He greeted in return, keeping his tone just as neutral. He didn't spared a glance at the state of his former rival, who appeared lost and broken in every way, from the sallow of his skin, the lank state of his hair, to the way the bones in his wrist seemed to protrude more than was healthy. The war had been hard on Malfoy, Harry knew, as it had been on him. But there was no sign of mistreatment since and that was what he was interested in. When satisfied that Malfoy was as well as he could be, Harry turned his attention to Kingsley and asked; "Did you authorise them to use veritaserum without his consent?"

Kingsley took a deep breath, barely parting his lips as he hissed in the air. He looked 10 years older than he did since the day Voldemort fell. He knew times were hard for the Ministry, rounding up and trailing the Death Eaters, uncovering the traitors from their own ranks, issuing support and advice for the public in general. If the way Kingsley looked, however, was the price a wizard had to pay to be Minister, Harry wouldn't be in a rush to put himself forward. "You can't just come storming into interrogations, Harry, especially if you aren't accepting the request to join the Auror programme as I'm sure you've just informed Robard's." He held Harry's gaze for a moment until he nodded, confirming Kingsley's suspicions as true – he had just left the office of Robards, politely putting off his invitation to join the aurors until he'd had some more time to think about his life. Kingsley sighed, his chastise fading away as if he knew Harry wouldn't listen. "The Wizengamot demanded it. I told them of the bargain, I told them that you wanted to make it. Your name holds power, Harry, greater power than mine, yet we still can't overthrow one of the oldest, most respected heirachies of this Ministry – of the entire wizard world, not just Britain – I knew they would have a price."

Harry dropped the glare he hadn't realised he was still wearing, lowered his shoulders from their aggressive, battle-ready stance they had taken against the two aurors in the corridor, and looked at Kingsley as if he were the man he respected from the Order, not the soon-to-be Minister. "You should have told me." He murmured simply, because he couldn't let his discomfort at the situation go unregistered. "I could have spoken to them."

Kingsley shrugged as if considering the idea. "I could have, it could have worked, if you spoke directly to them. But that would have taken time. Time that we don't have in our current situation; I've got people on my back about why there aren't more wizards with the Dark Mark behind bars, especially when I've got one sitting in a Ministry cell. We needed to act."

"I understand." Harry admitted, raking a hand through his hair in a gesture he knew made him look every inch the seventeen year old boy that part of him still was, rather than the hardened, battle-worn hero most of the world admired him as. "I trust that they will accept the evidence he has given, then?"

Kingsley nodded, pulling three vials from his robes. Each was clouded with a silver, gas-like substance which Harry recognised immediately as memories. "Perkins, Broadfoot and I all extract out memories of our questioning. I'll send these to the Wizengamot to review but I'm more than confident they will agree them sufficient to bargain with, especially given the weight of your support. Of course, they will insist the evidence is repeated – again under veritaserum – at each of the Death Eater's trials-"

"Who says I want to make such a bargain?"

Harry almost jumped, startled by the harsh interjection. He was met with the glaring, hard face of Malfoy as he sneered over at them. The sneer, during their time at Hogwarts, had been an impressive show of Malfoy's arrogance, of his power. Now it looked sad and lost, a shadow of shattered pride on the face of a boy. He held his chin high, even when Harry levelled his stare toward him, in a way that made Harry rethink his previous assumptions; yes, the war had been hard on Malfoy, but clearly not hard enough to break his pride. Strangely, Harry was thankful for that.

"Because you would be extremely foolish not to," Kingsley responded before Harry could, levelling Malfoy with a stare as stern as any Harry could hope to achieve. "Our current problem lies elsewhere. Mr Malfoy refuses to take residence in a Ministry safe house, and we simply cannot contain him in these holding cells any longer. We need to keep them free for the arrests we are likely to be making and we can't free him until the Wizengamot declare his innocence, something they won't do until he has given testimony against everyone they wish him to."

"Why?" Harry asked, addressing his question to Kingsley rather than Malfoy. Therefore, it was Kingsley who began to answer; "He believes that-"

"I can speak for myself, thank you." Interrupted Malfoy's sneer once again, cold and as crisp as ice. "Tell me, Potter. If you're as concerned for my safety as your recent actions suggest, would you think a Ministry safe house truly safe for a wizard like me?"

"Ministry safe houses have the strongest wards possible. They're all unplottable. There's no way that anyone outside the Ministry would be abl-"

Yet again, Harry's words were cut off by the chill of Malfoy's tone. "And you don't think, Potter, that there would be no one in this Ministry who would gladly reveal my location to the wrong eyes? You think there is not a soul here who know of my mark-" Malfoy's eyes flickered to his left forearm with a look of disgust so strong he looked as if he would be sick, yet he masked the emotion so quickly Harry barely recognised it "- and wouldn't think what you're doing an injustice? Someone who would be glad to give Death Eaters my location and the instructions to bypass the wards? That wouldn't prefer me dead?"

Harry was stunned into silence. His own gaze travelled to the forearm that Malfoy had glowered at as he imagined the mark burning beneath his skin. It was probably faded now, twisted into a dark, ugly mass in the same way that every Dark Mark had when Harry's curse took the last of Voldemorts life. But it was still there, still recognisable, still a clear symbol of hatred for anyone who had lost someone. For any traitors the Ministry may still have undetected within its ranks. For anyone who was filled with grief and the desire for revenge. For anyone who would do anything for the right price.

He nodded to Malfoy and turned back to Kingsley. "I've got to say I agree with him." He admitted, already knowing what his response to be.

Indeed, Harry's assumptions were proved correct when Kingsley asked; "Well what do you propose? We can't keep him here any longer."

"He has Black blood." He said, although he knew that wouldn't actually explain anything to either of the wizards in the room. "Your mother was a Black before marriage, wasn't she?" He directed his question to Malfoy – although he didn't really need to ask it, after seeing the tapestry in Sirius's home – who nodded his head with a questioning look. "I've returned to Grimmauld Place. You know as well as I do the precautions we've taken there." Harry spoke directly to Kingsley now, who nodded. After the war had ended Harry returned with a few order members to check the property; he hadn't returned since he, Hermione and Ron had abandoned it after Yaxley followed them back there. There were no traces of Dark magic or traps, the house had clearly been ransacked, but clearly the Death Eaters had enough brains to know Harry wouldn't dare return. Since then they had helped Harry change the wards and secret keeper and, of course, the house itself was unplottable. Privacy, everyone agreed, that harry deserved after the war. "The ancient wards of the property that recognise any blood relatives will be more than enough to protect him and I'll be there to keep an eye on him."

Kingsley nodded, clearly accepting the idea Harry was proposing. He turned to Malfoy, who had fallen suspiciously silent. "I trust you have no objections this time? Or would you find a cell in Azkaban more accommodating until you're given your freedom?"

Malfoy gave two sharp, short jerks of his head that seemed to suggest acceptance and disagreement in all the right places. They were enough to please Kingsley who nodded and swept toward the door. "I'll need to send these memories away. I'll send Robards down to sort out the transfer. There was contracts to be sign, tracing charms to be placed, tag charms so he can't leave the house…" Kingsley trailed off and waved his hand dismissively as he reached the door. "I'll send him as a matter of urgency, then you can go home and I can have my cell back for someone who needs it. Goodbye, Harry."

"Bye." Harry replied, although he found himself addressing a closed door as Kingsley slipped away and out into the corridor. He turned his gaze back to Malfoy, suddenly aware that they were the only two in the room. Harry pulled out one of the chairs placed for interrogators and sank himself into it. He raked his hands through his hair again, slouching in his chair with a sigh. When he looked over to Malfoy, he found himself shifting uncomfortably under the force of his stare. Again, as his tone of greeting had been, it wasn't full of admiration or wonder that he had become used to seeing, nor was it full of the resentment or revulsion he had seen in the weeks gone by. His head was titled to the side, his eyes wide and firmly placed on Harry, his whole gaze quietly questioning as if Harry were a particularly bewildering Arithmancy problem he had been given to solve. Harry held the gaze for a while, challenging Malfoy to back down. After a silent battle of their eyes, it became clear Malfoy wasn't going to back down. The longer he stared, the more Harry felt as if the interrogation of his gaze was boring into his very soul. After another minute had passed he could bear it no longer and snapped; "What?"

A moments more silent passed and Harry scowled at Malfoy who, after what seemed like an eternity, finally shrugged as a soft expression which made him look startlingly younger than the seventeen years Harry knew him to be took over his face. "Sometimes," he began, in a whisper so low Harry had to strain to catch it. "I just want to know what it's like to be you."

Harry blinked, waiting for the sneer or the insult that he was certain would follow such a statement. Malfoy's gaze held with his grey eyes clear and unwavering as he stared back at Harry. No matter how Harry stared he could see no arrogance, no offense glittering beneath the surface. The only emotion he saw – briefly, as when it broke through Malfoy dropped his gaze to hide it – was raw honesty.

That realisation made Harry even more uncomfortable than the interrogation of his gaze had. He sat for a moment, letting the implications of Malfoy's statement wash over him. On the surface, the words were ones that Harry was confident most of the wizarding world would say with casual certainty right now; he was, whether he liked it or not, the most famous wizard in Britain at the moment. No doubt scores of wizards and witches would love to be him, to feel his power, his influence, his strength; they were all traits Harry knew Malfoy valued, yet Harry didn't think his statement was meant for those reasons. After a moment, he swallowed and decided the only way to respond to honesty was honesty. "You only hold me up like that, because you don't know who I really am."

Malfoy raised his eyebrow, but said nothing, and the pair sat in silence until Robards came to release them.

-o-

After forms had been signed, warnings had been given, shackles had been released Harry and Malfoy arrived back at Grimuald Place late that evening. Harry apparated them directly onto the top step and opened the door, ushering Malfoy inside. His guest sneered around at the empty walls, half-torn paper and creaking floorboards. Harry didn't know why, but he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment as he looked around, as if seeing his house for the first time. He felt the need to explain, so he said;

"I'm, uh… I'm renovating. It was left to me by my godfather, but it was… Well… It just seemed to reek of Dark magic, y'know?" Harry had meant the comment conversationally, but the way Malfoy's face blanched reminded Harry all to quickly that he did, in fact, know the feeling all too well. He cleared his throat, loudly and obviously, before pressing on. "So I'm doing it up... Making it a nice place to live… The place Sirius would have liked it to be." It was a lame finish and it made Harry's heart burn with the thought of Sirius, but at least they had moved past his misplaced comment.

He stepped forward, leading the way inside the house, stopping in the doorway to the longue when he realised Malfoy wasn't following him. He stood, as frozen as statue, staring blankly into mid-air.

Perhaps they hadn't moved past Harry's misplaced comment, Harry thought, as he started after Malfoy for a moment, waiting for him to move. Perhaps it wasn't so easy to forget Voldemort turning your childhood home into his home.

"Malfoy.."

The owner of the name looked up, blinked, and followed Harry into the lounge.

Kreacher provided plates of sandwiches and tea; it was simple, quick food that Harry was sure Malfoy would turn his nose up at, especially give his look in the hallway. But instead he grabbed at the slices hungrily, holding a beef sandwich in one hand as he ate a chicken and stuffing from the other. Harry tried not to watch, but the desperation with which Malfoy ate, keeping his gaze determinedly away from Harry, made him feel uncomfortable. Soon enough the plate had been cleared – Harry had purposely eaten slower, to ensure Malfoy got the fill he needed – and the teapot had been drained empty.

"I'll show you where you can stay." Harry said, when Kreacher had appeared and taken the empty plate and mugs from them, standing once again to allow Malfoy to follow. He lead him up the staircase and down the first, narrow corridor. He found himself inexplicably glad that he had renovated all three of the bedrooms on this floor as he paused outside one for Malfoy.

"You can stay in here." He said, pushing the door open and nodding inside. It wasn't the standard he was used to in the Manor, Harry knew, but it was clean and fresh and surely a lot more comfortable than the cell he had become accustomed to at the Ministry. "My rooms just down the hall, if you need anything." He added, nodding back over his shoulder to the room at the far end of the corridor.

Malfoy stopped in the door way, looked into the room Harry offered, then over his shoulder to where he had gestured. He caught Harry's gaze after that, held it for a moment – no more than a few seconds – before nodding, sweeping inside and closing the door behind him.

Harry sighed as the heavy oak swung in his face. That was, he knew, the closest he'd get to a polite thank you.

-o-

In the middle of the night, Harry awoke to screaming. First, the sound took him straight back to the midst of the war, he fumbled for his wand and then his glasses, rolling out of bed to search for the voice, the person the sound was coming from, to save them from the danger they were surely in –

Wait.

He rolled out of bed.

Harry drummed his toes against the thick carpet of his room and waved his wand to light it up. He was in his room, the war was over.

So was the screaming.

Surely he hadn't dreamt it? Harry hadn't had nightmares… He hadn't had nightmares since he started taking Dreamless sleep each night. He'd only been taking it for a week or two, surely he hadn't already become immune to its –

The scream sounded again, interrupting Harry's thoughts, and that's when he remembered.

"Malfoy."

Why he said the name aloud, he wasn't sure, but with wand in hand he tore from his room, raced down the corridor and flung open the door to the room he had given away. In the darkness he could make out Malfoy, writhing in the sheets of the double bed, his face twisted in pain, just visible in the shadows of the room. Silence resounded again, and Harry paused in the doorway, the adrenaline that had brought him here now gone.

"No… No… No, anything. No, don't do it… No…" Malfoy's screams had given way to pleading, so raw and painful Harry responded without thinking. He leapt toward the bed, throwing himself down onto the mattress and shaking the other man awake.

"Malfoy! Malfoy!" He called, firmly, loudly, but as calmly as he could. He didn't want to panic him more; he knew from experience how a being woken by someone wild could only prolong the terror. He took him solidly by the shoulders, lifting him from his pillows with the force of his shake. "Malf-"

He stopped as, even in the dark of the room, he saw the other man's eyes snap wide open. They were round, terrified orbs of white shining in the darkness until their owner remembered his surroundings, realised who was holding him, and shot back against the pillows.

"You were having a nightmare." Harry felt the need to explain as Malfoy slipped from beneath his fingers. He didn't know what else to say.

"I'm aware of that Potter." Malfoy sneered - well, Harry was certain he would want it to have been a sneer. He would have wanted Harry to think he was cool and aloof but his tone shook, his voice wavered with the residual fear of his mind, betraying his anxiety to Harry. "Come to gloat? Come to say I deserve it, after everything I did?"

"What – no – why? Who…" Harry trailed off as Malfoy recovered enough to give him a single, withering look. Harry thought back to the way some guards had sneered with clear contempt as Malfoy's chains were unshackled, the way he had attacked the sandwiches Harry gave as if it were Hogwarts finest end of year feast… It didn't take Harry long to work out why he might think he had come to mock him. "No. The opposite. I've had nightmares too. It's natural; we were all affected by the war. If you weren't, you aren't human." As he spoke Harry found he was repeating the words of the Healer he'd had to see to get an extended agreement for Dreamless sleep potion. At the time he had thought them useless; flowery, sympathetic talk to make him feel better. Of course it hadn't at the time – nothing had but the prescription in his hand.

Strange, that those words would soothe him now.

Clearly Malfoy was as sceptical as Harry had been, his brow had quirked in what Harry was certain was meant to be an intimidating gesture, but wobbled so furiously with his nerves any menace was lost. Harry held out his hand, and called;

"Accio Dreamless sleep."

The vial soared from Harry's room through Malfoy's open doorway and slapped into Harry's hand, the liquid sloshing gently against the glass at the sudden contact.

"I'm not weak, Potter." Malfoy sneered – or, at least, attempted too. His bottom lip curled and he lifted his chin with an air of defiance – or, at least, it would have been if his bottom lip hadn't trembled and his eyes had met Harry's.

"You think I'm weak?" Harry shot back. It wasn't meant as a challenge yet it came from his lips as one; after all, he had once suffered through the same self-hatred, refusing to take the Healers help. His words seemed to startle Malfoy who simply gaped at Harry in silence.

He took the opportunity to push forwards. "They prescribed it to me, after the war." He explained, as he sat the vial down on Malfoy's bedside table. "You can have what's left of this; I've got another in my room."

When it became clear Malfoy wasn't going to respond Harry sighed, pushed himself up off the bed, and headed for the door. As he closed the door he saw the other man hadn't moved; he sat stoically against his pillows, as frozen as he had been in Harry's hallway earlier that evening, the potion bottle untouched. When Harry returned the heavy oak to its frame he paused, waiting outside the door. After only a moment, he heard the faint uncorking of the bottle, the familiar sound of a glug of potion, and the clink as the glass was placed back down on the bedside table.

-o-

The next morning, Harry got the owl which informed them of Malfoy's first court date. He was to testify first against Amycus Carrow only two days from now. The letter than proceeded to lay out the other days Malfoy would testify.

Harry swallowed as his eyes scanned the list. Name after name, day after day. The parchment was a thick, unforgiving list of names Malfoy was expected to speak against. For the first time, Harry wondered if his idea had been so clever after all; would Malfoy have enough information? Would he have enough against each wizard to convince the Wizengamot he was a helpful witness, deserving of his own freedom? Would he even know all of these names?

Harry folded the parchment and put it away. He decided not to worry about that for now.

He knocked on Malfoy's door. When there was no response he entered anyway to find him sitting at the foot of the bed, staring unseeing through the open window. He told Malfoy he would be testifying against Carrow in two days' time. Malfoy nodded.

Neither of them mentioned the night before.

Harry slipped away.

-o-

The trial for Carrow was…

Malfoy's name was called and he was pulled out into the centre of the cold, stone room. He was treated no differently than Carrow himself. The Wizengamot's eyes narrowed with hatered, they shifted in their seats with distrust.

It had been…

Malfoy had answered the questions in a stoic, detached voice. He had given all the answers required of him, confirmed the Ministry's allegations against Carrow. Confirmed the names of the witches and wizards who had fallen to his hand, whilst the Wizengamot sneered down at him, some even daring to mutter through his testimony as if his words didn't matter…

The whole ordeal had been…

As Malfoy had finished he was dragged away once again. An Auror firm at his elbow, pulling him toward the holding chambers behind the courtroom from which Harry would collect him. As they passed the chair and chains that held down Carrow he lurched forward and spat in Malfoy's face. The Auror said nothing – in fact, Harry would be willing to bet his Gringott's vault that he smirked – and forced Malfoy's hands harder to his sides, leaving him unable to wipe away the spit that clung to his cheek as he disappeared behind the door…

Harry hadn't been under any illusions that Malfoy would be warmly accepted in the courtrooms, but he had at least thought his testimony would be afforded a listening ear. He at least thought that if a prisoner were to defile a witness in such a way that they be appropriately reprimanded.

So that was why, when they stepped out of the Floo and into Harry's living room, he went straight for the drinks cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Beefeater from the shelf and poured two tumblers without a second thought. He turned to find Malfoy still standing in the hearth; his face was waxy pale, his eyes wide and haunted. He hadn't even moved to brush the ash from his robes.

Harry stepped over, bringing himself directly in Malfoy's line of vision. Eventually, when face to face with Harry, the other man blinked and brought himself back to his senses. As he snapped from his thoughts Harry lifted a glass, and simply said; "Drink."

Malfoy eyed the glass with suspicion, watching as Harry tipped back both his head and the glass, sending the entire glass down his neck in a single, straight gulp. Harry shuttered, turned back to the cabinet again, and held the bottle out to Malfoy as he poured himself a second glass.

"It's gin. A muggle drink… My Aunt Petunia always kept it in these glass bottles she made me clean for hours –"

"A decanter." Malfoy interrupted, correcting him. Harry blinked for a moment, looking to Malfoy to find a trace of an all-knowing smirk on his face but there was none. His expression was harrowingly empty, as if his correction was nothing more than a reflex. "They're usually made of crystal."

"Yes, well…" Harry faltered, unsure how to respond. If it had been Malfoy's usual correction – well, the correction of the Malfoy he'd known before the war – full of self-importance and mockery, he would have been able to respond with a barb in return. But now his expression, his tone, held nothing. Harry tipped back a gulp of his second glass uneasily. "After hours cleaning them for her, watching her only take it out for their best guests… I always wanted to try it. After the war, I sort of developed an aversion to Firewhiskey… The burn against my throat…" He paused again, mentally kicking himself as Draco's eyes glazed over. Of course Draco would understand that, he'd been in the fire too, hadn't he? "That with the fact I can't go shopping in Diagon Alley without getting followed everywhere. I've turned to muggle drinks."

When silence met his words Harry sighed, bringing the bottle with him as he sank down into an armchair. He sat, determinedly staring anywhere but Malfoy until he heard the creak of a chair as the blonde took the chair beside him.

"Not bad," came the voice that belonged to the owner as he put the glass down on the table between them. "Perhaps muggles don't do too badly without magic."

Unsure of what else to say, Harry took the opportunity to refill both glasses.

"You did well today." He blurted out after he refilled his fifth glass and Malfoy finished his third. Why he had been keeping track, he didn't know. Why he chose to say that – of all things – he didn't know. He couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"Don't patronise me." Malfoy's reply was ice cold. Sharp, short and direct, his words hit Harry straight in the gut. He faltered uselessly, wondering what to say. He hadn't meant to, of course he hadn't – he meant it. He had been brave enough to stand; kept his head high in front of the open mutters, sneers and stares of the Wizengamot, kept his chin up as they all but ignored his testimony, kept his cool as Carrow spat in his face and the Auror – supposedly there for his protection – did nothing. Harry couldn't have remained so calm, so detached, so unaffected, in the face of all of that. He couldn't think of many people who would. He meant what he said. Malfoy had done well and Harry wanted him to know that.

As if he had willed him too, Malfoy's grey eyes snapped to his. Harry tried then to tell him without words. He tried to show him, through their gaze, that he thought him strong and brave. Braver than most Harry knew.

"Please…" Malfoy whispered. His cold tone was replaced with a broken plea that shook Harry to his bones. Although he maintained the contact of their eyes, still willing Malfoy to believe him, he nodded his assent. When Malfoy dropped his gaze and turned away, Harry didn't will it back.

"Well, tomorrow's an early day too. I suppose we should… You can shower first?" Harry raised his voice toward the end as if it were a question, although he had no idea if he really meant it as one. He was, however, relieved when Malfoy nodded and left the room.

Yet his departure did nothing to relieve the tension around Harry's shoulders. Neither did slugging back the glass of gin he'd poured. Neither did hurling the empty glass at the wall, watching the shards as they rained down.

Harry sighed, muttered a quiet Repairo and put the glass back on the side. When he padded down the corridor he and Malfoy slept in he could still hear the gush of water telling him the shower was still in use. The bathroom on the third floor, Harry knew, would work just as well.

But he didn't make it there. The door to Malfoy's room stood ajar. A peak inside showed a neatly made bed, a smartly hung set of robes against the outside of the wardrobe… And an empty potion vial on the bedside table. Harry cast two charms in quick succession; the first vanished the empty vial. The second replaced it with a brand new bottle, fresh from Harry's stores.

He paused, debating with himself until he heard the shower close off. When he did he jumped, cast the third charm he considered, and quickly disappeared into his room.

Beside the vial of potion now lay a small, square note, which simply said;

Sleep well.