The almost-scalding water had made his hands and feet red before he gave up and pulled himself out of the bath. The relaxation and serenity that had before been so easily attained was not coming now. But what was washing off the aches and pains of a lost Quidditch game to repairing his destroyed existence?
When the choice had come to return to Hogwarts to complete his final year he had found himself yearning to be back, as he never thought he would. All the years that he had wanted something more than school, now all he wanted was to go back to simple routine and thick stone walls. The home of his childhood had been raped, perverted, and he couldn't walk down the hall without remembering screams of pain and the stench of death. But the castle itself had been intruded upon as well. The final battle had left its marks, and the brass plate engraved with the names of those who had died on either side stood prominently in the great hall, drawing all eyes, unavoidable.
The simplicity of childhood seemed unrecoverable. A large part of this was the mutual ceasefire between the remaining Slytherin pureblood families and Gryffondor Dumbledore loyalists. There were people in both groups who had gone to either side and were now forced to live alongside people they had betrayed. But all had lost, no one had come out of the war intact and whole. Draco Malfoy was only one among the many, but for the faded tattoo on his arm. The Seventh Year was a small one, quiet, and far too tired of war to go so far as even friendly competition. Formerly the first to challenge Harry Potter and his band of supporters, he was now the first to withdraw if a conflict seemed imminent, hiding his shattered pride and self-worth under the veneer of apathy and unfailing etiquette.
Harry Potter, the boy who lived twice. Oh, how he had loathed him. Hated his existence. No matter how smart, how talented, how popular, how handsome he was, he would always be second best. Never enough. Inadequate. His envy went to his bones, and had forced him into movements he never would have made with pure Slytherin logic. It would be far, far too easy to blame his father. Because then he would have to blame his grandfather, and his grandfather's father. No, as much as the conquering heroes would like to blame individuals for their choices, Draco knew that their entire culture was to blame. He had spent a long time thinking about it. Perhaps people hundreds of years down the line would look back on these years and see them as products of their time, the entire situation inevitable, but that lofty perspective was not achievable in this lifetime.
They had achieved an understanding. A nod in passing, even, once, copied notes for a missed class. War had brought the truth of who they were to the surface, and they each found empathy rather than resentment a more productive route to take. This did not involve any crying on shoulders.
"I want to be left alone," Draco Malfoy said once, and only once, and that was the only time that it needed to be said. They had faced each other in the hallway in silence on the first night back, curfew not even worth a thought after all these years. Harry Potter had nodded, looking old in the dark, and Draco had a disconnected realization that it was likely that he looked much the same. They were no longer children in any sense of the word. Harry's reply had been, "Me too."
Back in the bathroom, Draco Malfoy gathered up his things and moved silently through the corridors of the Dungeons back to his room. Nothing seemed to stop the unwanted thoughts from bubbling to the surface, nothing was enough to distract. He knew with months of experience that sleep would be hard-won and scarcely worth it. Tonight, he did not have the energy to sleep.
With that in mind, he pulled on his thickest jumper, a pair of heat-charmed silk pyjama pants, and a pair of thick socks. He spent a long moment looking at himself in the mirror, not to preen as he may have in previous years, but marking how well the Malfoy and Black genes suited despair. As his body travelled a well-worn path so too did his mind. Malfoy derived from male foi or midæval French for "bad faith". Twisting and turning, no matter where you looked. Was it destiny, breeding, upbringing, or choice? Which he chose depended on his mood. Today, it was upbringing. He resolved this as he reached the appropriate statue and passed into the Hogwarts kitchen, as always busy and full of house elves ready and more than willing to serve. Not as always, there was an immediately recognizable figure sitting at a small round table in an out-of-the-way corner getting sidelong glances from anxious elves as they had obviously been told not to disturb him.
Harry Potter looked up when the doorway opened, wary to the point of paranoia, but when he saw who it was he only paused for a minute before looking back down at his plate of cake and small glass of firewhiskey. An interesting choice, and because he had had nothing particular in mind when coming down here he demanded the same from the elf waiting expectantly in front of him. He was ready to take his carefully boxed cake back to his room to eat alone when his name rose above the general hubbub and his head turned automatically. Harry was half-risen out of his seat, as if he had been ready to get up and catch him if he left, but had the grace to look a little embarrassed and sit down again as Draco turned back and stood in front of his table. He was taller than Potter standing, so it required a little leaning back and craning of neck for them to see eye to eye with him sitting. It was only natural that Draco would therefore sit down opposite him and save the Boy Who Lived from cricking his neck. Immediately a plate and silverware appeared in front of him as well as a glass and the cake was unpacked again and sliced. They both waited patiently while this was done, Harry with a palpable discomfort at being served and Draco with an even lack of concern. It wasn't until the house elves moved away that Harry cleared his throat and nodded to Draco's glass. Draco tilted his head graciously in return, and a few fingers was poured. Lifting the tumbler's comfortable weight he felt a ghost of an old smirk drift over his lips like the shadow of a cloud and toasted silently in Harry's direction before taking a long drink. It burned, as it was supposed to, but he didn't choke. If you could swallow a mouthful of blood, whiskey was not an issue. Harry looked a little surprised and a little gratified.
There was a silence as Draco attacked his cake, more mechanical than enthusiastic, but it gave him something to do and it went a certain distance towards soothing his soul. Richness, a matter of texture, depth, and quality, was something to be cherished and comforted by. Harry sipped his Ogden's, looking into the fire like – well, like an old, tired warrior returned from battle. When Draco had cleared his plate and carefully aligned his utensils to one side as if they were eating at a fancy restaurant Harry looked back to him and then slid away again, but this time from a lack of focus rather than an interest elsewhere. Draco, for his part, waited patiently, so far beyond tired that every moment stretched out into eternity. He had taken to leaving his pocketwatch in his room for that very reason.
"I grew up in a muggle house, my mother's sister's family, living in the cupboard under the stairs, wearing my cousin's handmedowns, doing most of the housework, and usually getting a slap and no meals if I did anything wrong. My cousin and his friends beat me up most weeks at school and I had no friends."
So he started, something halfway between a grimace and a nostalgic smile pulling at his lips. Draco poured them both some more firewiskey and tried not to look too interested. By the time they had reached up to present day, Draco had drank enough that he was almost anxious to tell his half of the story.
"I grew up in a large mansion – you've been in it, of course – going to France for holidays, being tutored in rudimentary magic and etiquette and occasionally going for play dates with other members of our social circle. From an early age, we all knew our places in the world. It seemed to me, at the time, that the only person who could possibly be more important than my father would be the Boy Who Lived. My life was planned out every moment from birth to death and I was determined to be the best possible son by following that plan to the letter."
It must have been very late when he finished, eyes blurring around the edges and hand shaking a little as it was his turn to pour. Breakfast was on the stoves and in the ovens, filling the arched rooms with fantastic smells. Through a mutual silent agreement, Harry took up the bottle and what remained of its contents and they moved towards the exit. Outside in the dark, cool hallway, it was only natural that when Draco stumbled he could catch himself on Harry's hardly more sober shoulder. It was the first physical contact they had had in years, and moreover perhaps the first that didn't involve violence. Harry didn't seem to notice at the time, but Draco felt it keenly. That was the way it had always been.
They walked back in the direction of the Slytherin dormitories, perhaps weaving into walls a little despite their best efforts, and they paused and lingered in the doorway.
"It's not an excuse," Draco commented, running his hand through his white-blond hair, still slightly damp and hanging long past his ears.
"For either of us," Harry agreed, looking dark once more.
"Do you think." Draco spoke abruptly, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He was aware that he had too much to drink on too little sleep, but there was no stopping it now. "About what could have been?"
He thinks about Madame Malkin's. Harry thinks about the Sorting Hat. Neither of them have ever shared the experiences up until now.
"Of course," he replied, eyes closing and he rubs as one eye furiously. Draco felt his own eyes itch in sympathy. "But we can't change the past."
Something flickers on and despite the bone-weariness that goes beyond sleep he felt a little of his old teasing snark rise to the surface again. "No, we can only change the future" he finishes in a sarcastic tone.
Draco knows that as poorly as he has ever been in hiding his emotions, at least he has always been painfully aware of this failure. Harry doesn't even try. Surprise and then anger and then grudging humour gave way to a laugh that sounded equal parts despair and fondness. Draco shifted on his feet and found a small, thin smile on his lips.
"Goodnight, Draco Malfoy," Harry Potter said with an exaggerated pompousness and a hand held out promising who knows what. Draco hesitated only for a moment before clasping it, firm and sure. "Goodnight, Harry Potter."