Harry Potter was not an average man. To the world he knew, he was the hero, the one who saved humanity from the darkest of evils. He was revered, worshipped, hounded for photographs and interviews and charity he refused to accept. So sick of the attention was Harry that he actually refused to complete his seventh year of Hogwarts with the rest of his year, instead resigning to a life of relative solitude at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Ron and Hermione visited occasionally, and he was always welcome at the Weasleys' residence for holidays, but the majority of him despised these social events. Harry felt tired – mentally and physically exhausted from the efforts he put forth in the war. Hermione lectured him that it wasn't good for him, and didn't he know how much he needed his friends?

But did anyone stop to think about what Harry needed?

Even himself?

Truth be told, Harry was lonely. Not company-wise, because he refused that right and left, much to his friends' dismay, but romantically. It'd been a long time since Harry'd been with anyone, the last being Ginny right before Bill and Fleur's wedding. At first he considered rekindling the romance between him and his ex-girlfriend, before realizing he couldn't even stomach the thought of being with her.

Or any girl, really.

It was one late May morning, the sky outside a dark, threatening gray, when this was confirmed for him. Harry dragged himself out of bed, stripping quickly and dousing himself with freezing water, scrubbing the grime out of his hair and skin from a few days without washing, toweling off quickly. Stepping out of the shower, Harry was faced with his own reflection – and if he was honest with himself, he didn't even recognize the person staring back at him. Harry's hair had grown out long, hanging in a shaggy fashion over his eyes and grazing the nape of his neck. His neck was scruffy, weeks old stubble covering his cheeks and chin. The lean muscles that once stretched under his tanned skin, formed from years of Quidditch practice, were gone, replaced by sharp bones and sinew. The most haunting part of his appearance, however, was his eyes – they were sunken-in, faded and dark when they had once been a brilliant emerald, the light in them completely gone. Harry shaved quickly with magic, knowing he had to look at least semi-presentable if he was venturing out into the public. After pulling a comb through his untamable hair, Harry dressed in casual Muggle clothing – a jumper and some loose jeans that no longer fit on his slim waist. It wasn't like this every morning. Usually he'd roll out of bed around three in the afternoon, make himself some tea, and explore the house. There were rooms he had left untouched even now – Sirius' parents' bedroom, the attic, and another mysterious room on the third floor. Usually Harry would bury himself in his late godfather's scarlet and gold bed covers, breathing in the scent which was mustier than anything, and clutch on to the last shreds of happiness he possessed. Most of the time, Kreacher was the only contact he had with another living being.

Yes, Harry Potter was living a very sad existence.

But today was different. He had errands to do, grocery shopping and the like, and decided he needed the exercise anyway. Kreacher could have easily gotten him what he needed, but something in Harry was pulling him outside on this gloomy day, into the bitter, biting wind. Gathering his belongings, consisting of his wand and wallet, Harry stepped into the outside world for the first time in a long time.

He debated taking the tube into town, to savor the normality and mundaneness of the act, before deciding he was too tired and made his way the three blocks to the closest apparition point. Harry fleetingly prayed he wouldn't Splinch himself from lack of practice, before he was being sucked into an airless vacuum, landing on his feet on a cobblestone path. Sure enough, as soon as he'd begun walking toward his destination, it started raining.

Except, it wasn't just raining. Of course, the one time Harry forgot an umbrella, it had to be downpouring. Within minutes, Harry was soaked to the bone. He considered ducking into a store to dry off, but realized it would be useless. These storms sometimes lasted hours. It was better to just keep going.

Many people were running in every direction, in an attempt to avoid the rain from ruining their expensive business suits and overcoats. One man in a dark cloak ran into Harry so hard in his haste, Harry saw stars. The man turned back briefly to apologize, and immediately Harry recognized the stormy gray eyes.

"Malfoy?"

Those slate gray eyes widened as he looked Harry full in the face for the first time since his trial, when Harry had vouched for him and his mother. He'd changed, grown taller and skinnier and impossibly even more handsome, his green eyes jaded from aging a great deal in a short time. His raven hair was plastered to his head, a fringe hanging over his eyes, curling slightly below his ear. It made him look boyish, the only part of him that wasn't already an adult. Draco had a hard time believing the man in front of him was really only nineteen.

"Potter," he replied coolly, arching one flaxen eyebrow. "You're wet."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, I noticed."

Harry made to move past him, but Draco reached out a hand to keep him in place. "Wait."

"Yes?"

Draco hesitated for a moment, unsure of exactly how to word it. "I . . . wanted to say, thank you. For everything. For, you know, my trial and . . ." he trailed off lamely.

"Sure." Harry's tone was curt, borderline rude. "Now if you'll excuse me . . ."

"Now wait just a minute, Potter!" Draco was growing exasperated. By that time he was also soaked through, his cotton cloak doing little to protect him from the torrential rain. "I'm trying to thank you, and the least I deserve is for you to look at me." Without a clear thought in his head, Draco laid a hand on the other boy's shoulder. "What is wrong with you?"

It wasn't spoken meanly. It was a genuine question of concern that left Harry scrabbling for words. He shook his head, water droplets flying in all directions. "I just, I—I don't really know."

Pity and something else Draco refused to name swelled in the Slytherin's heart. "Well, then, you'll just have to come with me."

Harry looked startled, a little like a lost puppy with huge saucers for eyes, as Draco began dragging him down the sidewalk. "W-Where?"

Draco smirked a little at the fact that Harry wasn't fighting him. "You're coming home with me. You need to get dry. And it looks like you haven't eaten in a week."

Four minutes later, Harry found himself in the dining room of Malfoy Manor, every bit as regal and pretentious as it was the first time Harry had been there, though in that moment the last thing he noticed was the décor. The table was massive, with enough room to easily seat twenty people, and it was set in front of a roaring ornate marble fireplace. The only other thing in the room beside Harry was a dominating crystal and glass chandelier. In the dead silence, Harry couldn't help feeling very awkward. What was he thinking, letting Malfoy take him home? He despised the prat, and the fact that he changed sides during the war didn't mean Harry thought they could be friends. They were Malfoy and Potter – arch nemeses.

That is, until one of Malfoy's many house elves came out of a door he guessed led to the kitchen, carrying a large tureen of butternut squash soup and a bowl. Harry's stomach growled despite himself, not realizing how hungry he'd been until that moment. Following the soup came a large tray of assorted bagels and pastries, finger sandwiches, and a large pitcher of butterbeer. Finally Draco appeared, cloakless and dry (as was Harry. There was "no way in hell, Potter" he was entering Malfoy Manor soaking wet), wearing just a white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows and slate gray slacks. Upon seeing the feast laid out before them, he grinned widely. "I hope you're hungry. I thought we could have a nice brunch."

"Starving," Harry replied without thinking. Draco just stared at him knowingly and took the seat opposite him.

"Well then dig in."

For ten flat minutes, there was silence in the room as Harry chowed down anything he could stuff into his mouth. He was past decorum, at that point, needing only food in his belly that wasn't leftover or stale. Draco observed him in companionable silence, chewing thoughtfully and wondering what exactly what he was doing with the Boy Savior in his dining room.

When Harry's stomach could literally not hold any more food, he looked sheepishly up at Malfoy. "Sorry I ate all your food," he said bashfully.

Draco waved it off with one long-fingered, pale hand. "No matter." Another flick of his wrist and the food disappeared from the table. "Now, talk to me."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked defensively.

"I mean," Draco replied with an exasperated sigh coloring his tone, "why are you starving yourself? Why are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding -,"

"Yes, you are. There's been no press about you in The Prophet for months. No photographs, no news . . . if you even step foot out of your house, usually there's something."

"Well, that's the problem then. Today was the first day I did step foot out of my house in months."

"But why?" Draco couldn't help but be extremely curious. What did The Boy Who Lived have to hide?

"Because I'm done."

"Done?"

"Yes, done. I don't want the attention. I don't want the cameras and interviewers in my faces, I don't want to answer questions about the war or Voldemort or my love life or anything. I just want to live a normal life and I can't even do that right. I'm an orphan. I lost my parents, my godfather, my friends . . . everyone I've ever cared about is lost or has left me. And no one seems to get that."

Draco watched with sadness welling in his eyes as he watched the Boy Wonder rip out his hair and spill his heart onto the table, and he was overcome with a sudden urge to walk around the table and wrap him in a warm embrace . . .

But Draco did no such thing. Such a thing would have been both preposterously out of character and also completely uncalled for. Harry didn't ask for his comfort or sympathy, and so it would have been out of place to offer it. "I know how you feel, Harry."

And for the first time, Harry acknowledged how much Malfoy lost coming out of the war. He lost an aunt and a friend, and his father and many of the people he grew to know as a Death Eater were in Azkaban. Even if he fought on the opposite side, he suffered just as many losses. "I'm sorry, you're completely right. I didn't realize. I—Did you call me Harry?"

"Well that is your name. And I didn't lose people I love, Harry, not like you did. I do miss my father, but he was an evil man, just as I was. I realized the error of his ways, but it was too late by then. I'd already followed in his footsteps." Draco watched as Harry's gaze drifted towards his left arm. His Dark Mark was clearly visible, black ink a startling contrast against the pale pallor of his skin. "It still hurts, sometimes. The Mark. Sometimes I'll wake up from nightmares of him and it will be burning, and for a couple moments I'll be terrified that he's come back and he's calling me, before I remember that it's over and now it's just a memory."

Harry ruefully rubbed his fingers against the scar on his forehead. "We've both been scarred by this war. In more ways than one."

And suddenly Harry didn't feel so much hate for Draco Malfoy. If anyone could be this honest with him, well, then he must not be that bad. Remembering his manners, Harry clears his throat and mutters, "Thank you for the food. Draco," he added."

Draco smiled at the use of his given name. Abruptly he stood, Harry quickly following suit.

"Well, I should go-,"

"Harry."

"What?"

"Stay."

Harry regarded him warily for a moment, before giving in. "Okay."

Harry took Draco's lower lip into his mouth, sucking wildly. His fingers were in the blonde's hair and under his shirt and there was fire everywhere and the friction felt so good. There were splayed out on Draco's bed, ripping at clothing and hair wildly, no concern for how they got there or what would become of this. Harry's main focus was unbuttoning Draco's dress shirt, the buttons seemingly too small for his clumsy hands. Draco, with no more composure than him, tore the shirt off with a frustrated noise, Harry muttering his approval into the other boy's mouth. Harry ran his hands over smooth muscles and down Draco's ticklish sides, stopping to thumb over his nipples. Draco let out a strangled moan that was quickly suppressed by Harry's tongue, delving deep into the cavern of Draco's mouth, tasting sweet butterbeer and toothpaste. Harry's shirt soon followed, lips leaving his only to clamp on to his neck, sucking and licking and Harry was mewling. A buck of Draco's hips into Harry's made him wail with need. Desire and heat rose up in Harry, an emotion surfacing for the first time that wasn't sadness or weariness. Hands trembled and belt buckles were undone, sloppily in their haste, and then both their pants were on the floor and the two boys were left in only their underwear. Suddenly Draco stopped, pulling away from Harry and sitting on his chest. Harry looked up at him, wondering why now of all times he would choose to stop.

"What is it?"

"It's just, I…" Draco's eyes were distant, worried. "It seems fast. I want to do this right."

Harry coughed and furrowed his eyebrows. "Right?"

"Yes." Draco sighed, leaning in to nuzzle the tanned boy. "I want to cook for you, spend time with you, take you out on dates. And then, when we're ready, make love to you."

"Malfoy—,"

"Oh shit." He abruptly rolled off of Harry and stood by the bed. "I just played the love card by accident. Harry, I'm-,"

"I should go." Harry went to gather his clothing, and began to slip his jeans back on his legs.

"Wait, Harry-,"

"No, look Draco. I'm done waiting. Okay?" He slipped his jumper over his head. "I appreciate your hospitality." Even to him, it sounded forced. "Goodbye."

Draco chased him down the stairs, not touching him but pleading with him to turn around. "Harry, just listen to me. What about three minutes ago, when we were kissing and touching? I know you liked it. Why won't you just look at me—,"

Harry whirled around to face the blond man, anger seeping into his tone. "There's nothing between us, Malfoy. That was a heat of the moment thing, and maybe I'm a little drunk off the butterbeer, but I don't like you. I don't want to date you. I don't want anything to do with you."

In an instant, Harry turned around and was gone.

******To Be Continued*******

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