This is a romance between boys. That doesn't mean I have to rate it M. (I have rated it T because of the language. There is also death and violence, but if I went that way, I'd have to rate most fairy-tales M, so it's still T. Should anyone have problems with the rating, I will of course change it immediately)

Have fun reading!


Of Noises, Surviving and Living Well


After the Battle of Hogwarts, 3rd to 6th day - Rebuilding the Grounds

Chapter I: Crunch, Crack, Splutter - Get your mind out of the gutter

Crack

It really wasn't much of a noise to wake up from, but a man/boy/whatever, who survived madness itself living in his home for more than a year, is allowed to be terrified.
Draco Malfoy yanks himself up, his great-aunt's wand in hand, ready to fight and protect himself, but not awake just yet.

He sees: Spiders playing chase all over his eyes.
Feels fire burning his flesh;
Things shouting, things rotting, things blowing up with a bang–
Green flashing lights, red fire bolts, snakes, crystal balls; all coming down to haunt thee, murderer of many.

And the smell! Smell of despair and death, of anguish and evil, of strife and struggle, but most of all an underlying awareness of a pure, desperate will to survive.
Draco chokes.


Then, Draco is awake, truly awake, yet not much saner.

He knows – he is safe in Hogwarts, after the Battle of Hogwarts two days ago. However, knowing and feeling are two different matters.
What he feels is all the regret, guilt, and terror from the two years past. He would like to forget them completely, but the dreams haunt him, just like his conscience does; because although he is a coward and a villain, he does not think himself evil.
Obnoxious, yes, and certainly a nuisance to Potter, but he has not even thought of fleeing like his dad currently does.

So why– Potter is standing in front off him in the Slytherin bedrooms, all of his Saviour-self, staring at a point right over Draco's shoulder.
And there is no point in running away from a hero.

Both of them are at Hogwarts because the castle is in desperate need of a rebuilding. There's only so much wards can take. So while they clear the grounds of dark magic and make the other dorms available for living again, they are staying in the only sleeping quarters not the least bit scathed. Slytherins are all at home, so it's those bedrooms the guests stay.
What Potter does in the room where his bed is located, however, is a mystery to the rather preoccupied Slytherin.

Potter looks terrible – not the usual sort of terrible, which made one want to burn all his clothes and take him along to a shopping binge (or just yell at him, because that is way easier), but in a drained, sleep-deprived viridescence (this word being his mother's fault who just loved to copy random words from Professor Snape) wholly unbecoming of a saviour.

And Draco Malfoy, son of bloody purists, death-eater himself, chronically snobbish bastard and worst possible person to get particularly this idea, wants to hug the hero who, although technically an enemy, had slain the being that put Draco through the most pain he had to endure in his whole life; Draco Malfoy wants to hug him and tell him everything is going to be all right even though he swore allegiances to the wrong sort of people and generally didn't come out of the war very innocent looking.
Who, after all, could hold any hope, if even the Chosen One had lost all of his?

But instead he does like he has always done: He sneers, because that is what he is supposed to do, and that is what would calm Draco down, and that is what brings the world back into it's joints.

"Potter.", he says, a bit awkward. It is not everyday you want to insult someone who had saved your life. "What (he doesn't say fuck, well, that's a relief) are you doing in front of my bed at-", Draco's eyes stray to the clock over Crabbe's bed, "-eleven in the evening?" But Crabbe does not live there any more, in fact, he does not live at all any more, so that makes calling it Crabbe's bed all the more morbid.

"Be nice, Draco.", his mum admonishes him.

He looks over to the voice. There is standing his mother, behind Zabini's bed, who is still alive because Zabini's mother had the gall to declare herself neutral.
Narcissa Malfoy has slept there yesterday and the day before, but today he had not noticed her presence yet. She had been supervising the left-over kids somewhere.
She has a teapot in her hand and Draco smells something similar to jasmine. With another crack she opens it and steam ascends from the pot. So this noise had woken him.

"I am nice.", Draco defends himself, "I am extraordinarily nice. I haven't even hexed him yet. If I were even nicer, he would have to faint in wonder."

His mother stares at him accusingly. There was an old rule in the Malfoy manner codex. Do not insult possible allies and betters of yourself – but he just doesn't give a... whatever.

Narcissa Malfoy is probably one of the saner people in pure-blood society. Okay, she may have been a racist, and a supremacist, but she never took the dark mark, nor has she ever been extremely cruel, but if she stares at you accusingly, all blond and blue-eyed, you see the resemblance between her and her stupid insane witch of sister.
Draco shudders internally thinking of being related to such an insane calamity, and looks at Potter. What wouldn't you give to be equally poised.

That git dares to have a twinkle in his eyes.

Now Draco has the very stupid urge to hit him. Physical violence wasn't his, make that all sorts of violence nowadays, and because he doesn't know what else to do, he does what he is told.

He is being nice to Potter. Oh, my god, shoot me.
He is so going round the bend.
He is about to apologise.

"I am sorry, Potter.", he says quickly before anyone can stop him. Not as if there is anyone present who would. Except the sane parts of his brain who obviously can't be awake. "For everything you had to endure because of me. It was probably my mistake all along.", he adds for good measure, but notices in the last minute how unbelievable it is, Draco Malfoy apologizing to any treatment of Potter. Well. We all know war does this thing to people.

Potter gapes at him. Draco knew this would happen. Next minute, stupid git would faint. You are going to catch flies if you keep that up any longer.

"Besides those Potter stinks!-Badges. They were great. A grand invention. Excellent spell-work, too, if I say so myself. Except for that, I apologise profoundly.", in an attempt to sound more convincing – which he does not by the by (in case it was not obvious), he starts babbling. And bows.

At least Potter now does not look like fainting, but rather twitching between laughing and crying. Probably Draco himself looks like that.

"Now that I have been nice, can I go back to sleep?", he asks his mother.

Potter begins laughing. It sounds good, after the strain of digging up graves for the fallen, for a few days Draco even suspected the only thing he would see for the rest of his life were going to be mourning faces and graveyards, splattered mud across the lawn. A few days back, he has also suspected he would be murdered at the first arriving opportunity, so maybe his suspicion isn't all that it was.
Then Potter says: "I'm sorry, too." And Draco really does not know what to do any more.

Is he seriously apologising?

If he thinks closer about it, what exactly had Potter done wrong, besides using Expelliarmus in a duel to death? "Especially for not saving Crabbe."

Oh, that too. Draco sighs.
"He had it coming.", Draco says, frowning. "He wanted you dead. I mean, why did he even start that fire? And– I thought it a wonder you saved me and Goyle, but we weren't actually Avada Kedavra-ing you, were we? Only you– You hero." The last word is an insult, and Potter knows it. "Anyway,", he adds after a pause. "Do you mind? I like to go to bed and sleep. I don't sleep that well."

Potter hops from one foot to the other. Then he says grumpily: "Oh, please. It's not like you to suddenly develop a conscience."

Draco arches his eyebrow: "Living next to batty aunt Bella and rotting ol' Voldy can do that to you, you know?"

He sees a tiny little smile displaying in Potter's face and is satisfied.

"This whole conversation is not happening.", No more pity from the saviour, thank Merlin/someone.

Draco yawns, climbs back into bed and closes his eyes.

The voice of Potter fades out as he says: "I am really glad you'll live to annoy me.", a short pause, then: "Goodnight, Malfoy."


Splash.

"Oh shit."

Draco almost jumps out of his bed.

Cold pale bodies are lining in on him. Inferi, crawling out of their graves and hiding places, bringing along their soulless little mates, grave robbers, all of them. Spreading fear, anguish and more fear all over the world.
Gruesome little creatures, and fog, lots and loads of fog spreading slowly, making everything look pale and sinister; just like him, but so unlike him.
Closing in on him, closer and closer, crowding him, making him break out in cold sweat and making him pant.

"Malfoy?", the voice of Potter says worryingly, but the words betray that, "Are you hyperventilating because I'm here or is that normal?"

Eyes open, he is wide-awake now. Unconsciously Draco has grabbed his wand – or rather his great-aunt's, for it was made of maple wood, entirely unbecoming of him – what had happened to him?
Oh, yeah. Draco's aunt had happened.

Draco breaths a sigh of relief. She was dead, and hopefully stayed that way for a long time. "It's eleven in the evening and you are here again.", he states after his breath is regular and a quick check to the clock. "Another date with my dear mother? Should I be worried?" For good measure he adds a sneer worthy of every ounce Malfoy he possesses.

"Draco.", his mum says. "I told you to be nice."

"I like the way he is, thank you very much.", Potter tells her, and Draco chokes. Almost. Always the dignified pure-blood. What is like-able about his prickly, damaged self? The charm?

"I really don't want to do things I don't like any more.", Draco states. "Look how well that ended."

His mother sighs.

He looks at Potter, who seems uncomfortable somehow, and then at his mother who pours tea instead of looking at him. Then the guest catches his attention.

Why was Aunt Bella sitting there, drinking tea with his mum and Potter?
Wasn't that just hilarious? All three bane of his existence together at a tea party. Professor Snape would have just loved the irony.

"You must be Aunt Andromeda.", he says nervously and searches frantically for a way to greet her without going near her. She looks too much like aunt Bella.

"And you must be the fraidy-cat my sister calls her son.", sounds too much like dear Bella, too.

He sneers – his automatic response to insults of any kind. But that probably wasn't mainly an insult.
"Yes. I am."

"He is no coward.", Potter defends him, and Draco thinks, how could he ever live that down, Potter defending him. And then his mother adds: "He lived next-door to Bella for a year."

Andromeda Tonks raises her eyebrows like his mother does sometimes. And he says without thinking: "That was no courage, that was plain fear."

Then he just wants to hug his pillow and cry, or go outside and scare some left-over Hufflepuffs – because those damn Gryffindors – they are actually not Gryffindors, but still fucking heroes – make him feel even more inferior because he never fought and still survived both the Battle and the Dark Lord. And then there's the itty-bitty tiny little detail of being a Death-Eater. Stupid name for a group of supremacists. Eating death, my arse.

"I am going to sleep.", he announces and lays down again.

But instead of sleeping – which he desperately needs to look more healthy than Potter – he listens in on their conversations. Rattling on about rebuilding Hogwarts – or rather filling it up with magic so it repaired itself, and on couples and kisses, of donations and stuff he doesn't want to think about, he listens to friendly voices and feels calmness creeping over him. He feels safe for a first time since the War.

"May I ask what you are still doing in Hogwarts, Mrs. Malfoy?", he hears Potter ask.

Oh, he knows the answer to that one: The Manor is still being rebuilt, to clear out the dark stench and the frightening memories. Hogwarts is the most safe place to stay at, and the one where future allegiances are built. It also won't hurt if former death-eaters help rebuilding it, and there is the additional detail of her dear husband on the run. And Narcissa, clever, talented witch that she is, fears for her life and fortune. Again.
That's what you get for being on the wrong side of a war, he thinks bitterly. But there is Potter, bright and shining star of the right side, and even though the right side did nasty stuff, too and rampaged and killed people from the other side, Potter actually stayed innocent.
Which was most unfortunate, because he really couldn't hate Potter, if he had used Expelliarmus in a duel with Voldemort. It simply wasn't done. It was stupid, and dumb and such a hero-like thing to do, he just wasn't able to hate the git.

"May I ask what you are still doing here, Mr. Potter?", he mumbles into his pillow, but still isn't quiet enough.

"Malfoy, would you mind your own business?"

"Yea, right."


The third and last noise to disturb the posh Slytherin into remembering is a most devious plan of Peeves. In midst the dungeons a cupboard full of kettles is emptied on the head of one very disturbed Draco Malfoy, who – lacking alternatives – hexed a glass vial up in the nose of the poltergeist.

Clatter, Thunk, Crash.

A long silvery hand appears in front of his face, equally long wiry fingers stretch out and cling to his nose. Not many people would know how scary, how utterly terrifying a hand could be, he and Wormtail were probably the only ones.
The hand dances and glitters, plays with its victim and suddenly he is back at the manor, hoping for his dear life that Granger's spell would last more than three hours, more than four, more than five.
The fear, the terror of having Potter in the cellars was utterly numbing. And then Bella tortured Granger, and the screams and more screams, and the feeling of doom, because you just know how it feels, and you don't want them to experience the same, and please, please, does she have to play with her food before she kills it?
And you know you are doomed, and you are terrified, because either Voldemort was going to kill Potter and everything would go to hell, or Potter and Weasley would come and kill him and everything would – well, go to hell.

Now Weasley is in front of Draco and latter is almost pleased to see those freckles, although former is angrily growling. After all, Draco is just standing there doing nothing and Weasley is not exactly Draco's fan. He normally feels the same, not right now though. He would love anyone who wakes him out of memories of Voldy and the War.
Which is why he right now is really close to hug that bloody Weasel and whimpering and begging for forgiveness, but that just is not done.

Weasley probably sees Draco's devastated expression, because he asks grumbling, nevertheless friendly: "Are you all right?"

Draco nods and the daily headaches come. Hmm. Wonder why I feel so terrible all day. May not have to do something with Potter, eh?

Weasley takes a look at the cupboard, then a look at Draco, and then looks at the ceiling.
"I hope that hex you fired at Peeves was chosen well.", he states.

Draco is impressed. He had always thought Weasley as dense as Potter. Now it seemed more as if he actually paid attention.
"Shoved a glass vial of calming draught up his nose.", Draco confesses. "I really hope it works magically as well. I don't want to be here when he gets the bugger out."

Weasley grins, even chuckles, which is weird because Twin 1 of the Weasley's is dead, and levitates all the cauldrons back onto the cupboard and affixes them to a shelf with a sticking charm.

"Oh just look at that.", Finnegan has entered the room, is now frowning and the room temperature drops a few degrees. "Collaboration with the enemy, Ron? And from you of all people?"

He sneers at Weasley, but Finnegan's sneer is nothing compared with his own, so Draco does not bother to wipe the grin of his face. Weasley darts his eyes to Draco and starts grinning, too.
Finnegan always was sort of a wanker, and same enemies make friends.

"Harry drinks tea with ferret's mother.", Weasley dead-pans, and Draco adds: "And doesn't even test for poison."

"Ferret!", cries the Weasel, and they are on the floor laughing their asses off and it is happy time, they cannot stop laughing, and Finnegan leaves, completely ignored and peeved.

"Did you see his face? That is so going in the record! Can somebody go into my memories and take a picture of that?"
Why are we suddenly best friends?


By dinnertime they have bonded. So far they agree on Quidditch, stupid ol' Voldy and the annoying habits of Filch. They have played wizard's chess (Draco got a trashing) while collecting all of the former students stuff, packing it and stashing it for two other guys to send, and neither has made the other upset.
Coming together into the Great Hall, everyone turns silent at the sight of Draco and Ron all dusty and ragged chatting away happily. They go to the open seats besides Potter and Granger, because the great united table seems in an uproar.

Potter's eyes trail all over the two.
"Glad to see you up and walking.", he smiles. And Draco wonders, how he came to be best friends with Potter, who he tried to kill (well, he did not try hard) last week.

An astonished look from Granger/Hermione: "You have grown up, boys! No one is hexed, and nobody has been insulted! I am so proud of you..."

Ron snorts and puts a stash of food on his plate before he digs in.
Draco scrutinizes the contents of the plates, then goes for Plum Pudding and eats the crust very carefully. Potter is looking at him, then smiles at his plate and leans back.

Luna Lovegood walks past the table, subsequently as he remembers the dreams of her strong, almost haughty figure, looking like a god damn motherfucking martyr, but not trying to, just being one, sent for torture, so his aunt would be pleased. Draco has apologised before, and wonders how come the girl can be so calm in the crowds, because he, he can only tremble and hope nobody notices.

But don't we all have ugly dreams of dreadfulness? Aren't we allowed to weep and cry?

He really has started to like her, especially all the times she comes to check on him and looks for Nargles. Both the ridiculousness of it and the care she attaches to such inconceivable things like Nargles make him feel happy and bemused. Still somehow he fears the loneliness and Nargles are probably a metaphor for something else entirely anyway. Luna, after all, is a Ravenclaw.
All of the sudden there is a cup of coffee in front of him. With sugar and just the right amount of cream. Draco remembers the one house elf they had long ago, who was dead now, yet had saved Potter in his dying breath. All roads lead back to Potter, it seemed.

"Sorry.", he murmurs again, and feels sick attached to the inanity of Gryffindors, yet again it makes the dreadfulness better.

He hears a snort. But that just might be Ron again.

"You know.", says Hermione abruptly and lifts her head from the enormous letter she has in her hands, folds it and lays it on the stash of paper she receives every morning. "After-war trials are starting next month."

Nobody, least Draco wants to think about that, so they ignore her. The war is too near to be over. Clever witch she is, she drops the subject.

Somehow Luna sits down next to him and Longbottom takes a seat, too. "Hi, Draco.", she says dreamily like she has always done and probably will always do.

"Looking good.", she compliments him and he feels so guilty and blameworthy.

She looks at him with wide-open eyes. "What has happened to all the Nargles?", she asks. "I was wondering whether I should scare them away with forks, but now they are completely gone!"

He almost splutters out the sip of coffee he has taken, and everyone looks at Luna.

"Betcha that was Peeves.", Ron breaks the silence and sniggers, "Peeves, the famous Nargle Eliminator. "