Hi everyone! I know it's been ages, but I've been so busy lately, hardly having the time to write. I got stuck in this story, but I figured I'd start posting it anyway. Perhaps the pressure will get me writing again ^_^

So, a quick warning, the first chapter is rather heavy, describing the whole situation. It's a start folks, don't resent me! The next chapters will be better.

Please let me know what you think! Oh, and I'll probably update once a week... We'll see how it goes from there :p

Chapter 1
A Knocking Stranger

It had been six months since the War had ended. Six long, terrifying months. A lot had changed since. The destruction was enormous. Every single Wizard had been wronged. The strongest were able to rebuild their homes, fighting through their misery. Others were lost souls, having no one to return to and nowhere to go. Ron and Hermione both died in the war, and Harry was part of those lost souls.

The first two months, The Boy Who Lived and Survived had been hospitalized in St. Mungo's to try and get him over his loss. They tried to fix him. However, once a heart is broken, there is nothing one can do to make it okay. It can't be replaced. It can't be mended. You never can fix a heart. Harry had dragged himself through those horrible two months, hardly getting any sleep. He was tormented by nightmares, seeing the vicious red eyes in his dreams. Regardless of the amount of dreamless potion he got, he eventually relived the long days of War, over and over again.

Since there had been nothing they could do to help and Harry wasn't exactly classified as 'insane', they had let him go. The hospital was too full to try and heal a broken heart. Even though Harry knew that wasn't the only thing going on with him, he'd been happy to leave the white building. It was filled with sorrow and misery. It was one of the places where you could see the damage of the war to its fullest.

The war had taken its price on the Weasleys as well. They lost three sons: Ronald, Bill and Fred. Molly and Arthur would never be the same welcoming human beings again. They were broken for life. But who could resent them for that? Everyone gave them their space to grieve. The family tried to keep their heads up, binding their forces to remain strong. The remaining children stayed home, even though Charlie had business abroad. As difficult as it was for Harry to believe, Percy Weasley was the one who held the family together, and everyone counted on him. They were still hanging in there. Somewhere.

Harry, having no one left, had been on his own. Since he had been released from St. Mungo's Harry had taken his belongings and gone to the Grimmauld Place. Why would he go to the Weasleys, to only increase their pain? If they would see him, they would be reminded that Ron had given his life to protect Harry. Their heart would be cut open again, and since Harry was still bleeding himself, he could not bring up the courage to show his face.

There was nothing Harry could do to change that. He could never replace their son, and being there would only increased his own heartache. Seeing the Weasleys meant that Harry would be reminded of all those beautiful years spent with the family. And Ron. He was alone. Even Ginny couldn't muster the strength to face him. Harry knew he was the reason Ron had died. Why did he have to fight for love? Voldemort had been right all along. Only foolish people fought for love. Dumbledore hadn't been able to save himself with love. He'd sacrificed himself, causing an intense feeling of heartache, solitude and despair. Voldemort fed off those feelings. He'd known it would tear Harry up if his friends got killed. Merciless.

He had taken off to the Grimmauld Place, the only place that belonged to him. Having lost his two best friends - the two people that were the closest to him - the courageous flame had died inside Harry. He didn't feel like facing the world anymore. His fighting spirit had faded away. After all, what was worth fighting for? He had told Voldemort that the dark wizard would lose because he had nothing worth fighting for. And in return, the old fool had taken everything dear to Harry away. Everything Harry loved.

Harry still couldn't entail what had exactly happened to him. He could remember the war very clearly, but the quick succession of moments always made his head spin. He didn't know how he had managed to kill the Dark Lord. All he knew that he had sacrificed a lot. Not only his friends. Not only entire wizard families. He'd sacrificed a part of himself. He'd sacrificed his humanity.

Although everybody knew he lived there, he wasn't scared to be disturbed. Nobody would come. Nobody had come in the past six months. At first, Harry had been a bit scared that he would be overloaded by letters and journalists, asking what he would do now the war was over. But no such things. They probably didn't have the guts to come and smear the truth in his face.

As a matter of fact, they didn't have any right at all to come and ask him questions. Even though Harry knew they were talking about it, he didn't care. Not like he used to. If people wanted to talk, then they should. They hadn't lost what Harry had lost. Not in the same way. Not as ruthless. Voldemort had torn Harry apart, and he had tried to puzzle himself back together ever since. But the pieces didn't fit like they did before. His soul was damaged forever.

Dented. Shredded.

Harry made nothing off his life, nothing at all. He just sat home, remembering all the happy moments he had had with Ron and Hermione. Their very first moment, when he met Ron in the train. Harry was baffled by Ron's life, wanting to be just like him. Then, Hermione trotted in, all bossy. It wasn't until they defeated the Troll at Halloween that they managed to get along. After all, fighting a troll five times your size was one of the few things that could create an everlasting friendship.

Or what about the time when Harry had visited his parent's grave with Hermione. She was so comforting, knowing exactly how it felt. She had to erase her parent's memories to be able to come with him. The Grangers didn't even know they ever had a daughter. They didn't remember she was the brightest student of Hogwarts. They didn't even know she died. They'd forgotten what a wonderful person she was and they would never get their memories back.

Harry thought a lot about his fourth year as well, when he'd been fighting with Ron. He feared they would never get along again, until Harry faced the Hungarian Horntail. Without words, they just made up, and that was what Harry liked about Ron. Everything was simple with him. Even though Ron had never felt of enough value because he was the sixth Weasley, and though the Redhead felt like Harry deserved a better friend, there was no one who could ever replace him.

Harry drank the reality away. He didn't have a purpose anymore. Who needed The Boy Who Lived now the war was over? He had solved all their problems, so it was done. Besides, he had killed so many wizards and witches indirectly that Harry completely understood people were angry. Or that people wanted to forget about him.

All that was left was debris. Memories of what used to be. The Wizarding world was broken, just the way Voldemort would have liked it.

Harry was still circling through the same stream of thoughts when something made him look up. A knock. He didn't expect someone to knock on his door, especially not this late in the evening. Harry had been drinking all day and the alcohol was about to take over the last sane part of his mind. He considered not opening the door, but the ringing got on his nerves rather quickly. He would have a headache if it didn't stop.

He stood up to get it. He marched to the Hallway, passing by the veiled portrait of Mrs. Black. Even though all the Death Eaters were put away, the woman still had enough energy to scold. Every now and then, Harry opened the portrait, sitting down in front of it. He would listen to the mad woman, ranting on about Mudbloods and scum, spoiling her house. After a while, she seemed to tire out, and Harry would say goodnight before going upstairs. Even though he didn't put back the curtain, she was usually silent all night. Another urgent knock pulled Harry out of his second reverie. He made his way to the door, a dissatisfied pull around his mouth.

"What?" Harry asked unfriendly, opening the door. Right in front of him stood none other than Draco Malfoy. Harry's eyebrow disappeared in his hairline. To be honest, it was the first living person he'd seen in about three months. Three months ago, Molly had stopped by with some homemade cakes. She'd entered through the fireplace, startling Harry to no end.

She was very sad, a mother's heart unable to be healed. Nevertheless, Harry found it very courageous of her to stop by and ask how he was doing. Harry told her he was holding up quite alright, because it he'd been unable to increase the woman's heartache. She'd done so much for Harry since he'd first met her in his second year at Hogwarts. He couldn't damage her more than she already was.

However, he'd been able to sense Molly's unease. She knew he wasn't doing well. She'd seen it from the moment she'd entered the place. Still, Harry had tried to have a nice conversation before she left again. And now, Malfoy was standing in his front door. His face was pale, panic reflecting in the grey eyes. At the moment, Harry was too drunk to come up with reasons why the former Death Eater would be panicking, so he just brought out the only sentence that could muster.

"Malfoy? What brings you here?" Harry asked sarcastically. What the hell was he doing here? Harry didn't know about the present, but four or five months ago, the Ministry wanted him and his family – dead or alive. Not that Harry had been looking out for news like that, but it had occasionally jumped in his eye. Malfoy looked around him quickly, before replying in an urgent tone.

"Potter, please let me in. I – I don't have anywhere else to go." Harry's other eyebrow disappeared too. This was unbelievable. A Malfoy was begging to come into the house of the person who'd killed their Leader.

"Why? Did they burn down the manor or what?" Harry was getting more drunk because of the large amount of oxygen he breathed in and didn't feel like being interrupted, especially not by a former Death Eater, former followers of Voldemort. The man who had torn his soul apart.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your life Potter, I didn't know where to go." Malfoy seemed extremely desperate, hopping from one leg on the other and constantly looking around nervously. Harry sighed. He could at least let him in to tell his story. Besides, after spending so much time alone, Harry looked forward to being around someone, who didn't look at him with pity. Even if it was for only a short time. Even if it was Malfoy.

"Alright. Come in. You have five minutes. If I don't like it, I'll kick your Death-Eater-ass straight out again." He gestured the blonde to come in. Relief was written all over the pointy features, and Malfoy politely followed Harry into the house. They sat down in the kitchen and Harry made some tea.

The house was a dump, Harry didn't even know if he had tea, but he wanted to do the effort. He felt slightly ashamed from the amount of empty bottles around the kitchen, but then again Harry was a grown man, allowed to do whatever he pleased. Malfoy wouldn't have to ask questions. If he did, all Harry needed to do was kick him out.

"Tell me, what happened to the manor?" Harry asked to drown out the noise of his rumbling through the closets.

"The Aurors had barged in to arrest my father. He didn't volunteer to go along, so they started to fight. Father killed one of the Aurors, and another one killed my father. They captured my mother." Harry tried to process the large amount of information as quick as possible in his drunken brain. He was gradually becoming sober, the adrenalin of the situation making his body and his brain functioning again.

"Where were you?" Harry found the tea and heated some water with his wand. That was the only purpose of the magical stick now. Making food and opening beer bottles.

"I was in the dining room, I heard them talking and ran upstairs. No one saw me going. I left the house, taking the most important stuff and I fled. I can't go back there. They'll capture me too, when they find me." Harry finished the tea and put two steaming cups on the kitchen table, throwing some empty bottles on the floor. It surprised Harry Malfoy hadn't said anything about it yet.

Harry sat down and remained silent for a while to let the rest of the story sink in. "You're homeless," Harry said, matter of factly. "But what makes you think I can do anything to fix that?"

"It's all over the papers that you're locking yourself away. I figured no one would be here except you." Hearing that from Malfoy hit a raw nerve. How dare he put it like that? It wasn't his fault!

"Well, no one can be here because all of my friends were killed in the war, right?" Harry spat. It was all very touching that the former Slytherin had lost his precious family, but so had Harry. But he didn't go crying at someone else's door. He didn't go beg for help to anyone else.

"I'm sorry, I know I did the wrong thing by chickening out and staying in the shadow of the dark side, but what's done is done. There's no use crying over spilt milk." It surprised Harry that Malfoy could remain so cool about this. Harry sighed. Why did Malfoy come here? To torture him? To relive the past? Not that Malfoy's presence had anything to do with reliving the past, he could remember all of it anyway.

"I can help out here, you know. Since Dobby was fired, I took care of the food, so I'm pretty good at it." Now the git was already inviting himself in to stay. Way to go, Harry! He just wanted to be alone again, but he couldn't muster the strength to kick the man out. He'd witnessed how his father got killed. Seeing someone getting killed – someone you love – is very painful, even for Draco Malfoy. Harry couldn't kick him out even if he wanted to.

"Why are you like this Malfoy? Buying your way into my house, acting like you've changed for the better?" Harry's tone was firm, but Malfoy could probably see through Harry's play. He sucked at lying. That tiny little fact fitted with the written scar on the back of his left hand perfectly.

"I've got no one left, Potter. Don't you see? What was I supposed to do? You were honestly the only person I could think of that would consider letting me in." Even though Harry was flattered by the words, his gut told him not to buy it. It was Draco Malfoy he was dealing with. Someone who had taken part in defending the man who'd killed his two best friends. The blood was on his hands as well.

"You're wrong. I'm not letting you stay here. You're still the same person to me." Harry looked at Malfoy, but the latter looked away. He sipped his tea, letting the sugary drink warm up his inside. It had been ages since he'd had a non-alcoholic drink. He cheered up a little, gesturing at Malfoy to take a sip from his drink as well. Malfoy looked up again, desperation written all over his face.

Harry avoided his gaze again, trying to encompass everything that had happened so far. Malfoy showing up at his door, begging to let him in. To give him a place to stay. The Grimmauld Place was big enough to fit ten people, and if Harry wanted, he could give Malfoy five rooms all to himself. But something didn't make sense. Something confused Harry. Why was the blonde an open book now? Why was he asking for his hand after all this time?

Harry remembered the last time he'd seen that look of despair in the man's eyes. At that moment, the Room of Requirement was burning up, flames consuming everything inside those walls. Harry had reached out his hand, utter surprise written over the pale face. Malfoy's hand had felt cold and clammy, unlike the scorching heat surrounding them. The adrenalin rushing through Harry's body had enabled him to pull up the man with one hand, and rush to safety.

Harry had replayed the sight of Malfoy's desperation a hundred times in his mind when lying in his bed. It had affected him in a way he couldn't quite figure out. Malfoy pulled Harry back to the present when he spoke again.

"We both have no one left, so why not keep each other company?" It was a simple thing to say, yet it unleashed several emotions in Harry's body. He could feel his hero-complex rising and tried to ignore it. At the same time, irritation boiled up in his stomach, because Malfoy even had the nerve to mention they both had no one left. He didn't like it when the subject was mentioned, let alone it coming from the bloody Death Eater sitting in front of him. If he hadn't been drunk, he would have kicked the pale boy out straight away. But right now, Harry was still too intoxicated to do anything spectacular. Even though a lot was fading away already, Harry knew he would have reacted completely different when he wouldn't have been drunk.

"I'm not jumping to help you; but I'm not kicking you out either," Harry then replied. Making his mind up about the man was way too difficult right now. However, this was a fair deal. He would decide what happened tomorrow. Right now, Harry needed a beer. He abandoned his mug of tea, and the blonde sitting at the other side of the table and walked back to the living room.

Draco leaned back in his seat, while looking around at the mess. There were dirty dishes in the sink and the floor was covered with bottles. While Potter had been leading the way to the kitchen, he couldn't help but notice that the living room wasn't in a better state either. Draco realized the Survivor had big issues, but then he remembered his own trouble. The course of events slowly trickled through his brain and fell into place like a puzzle. Realization came in like a sledge hammer. In almost four hours he had lost his family, been on the edge of sanity and been adopted by Harry Potter.

It was strange putting it that way, but he lived with Potter now. Admitted, he didn't actually live with Potter, the Survivor had just allowed him to stay there for the night. Either way, there wasn't a hair on Draco's head that thought about leaving. He didn't want to go out there again, and face – whatever needed to be faced. Draco didn't know what was happening to him, when those Aurors barged into their house. The war had already taken its toll on his family. They could hardly be called a family, only weakened bonds held them together. Neither he, his father or his mother had any place else to go. They had avoided the Manor when the war had ended, knowing that when they would go there, the Aurors would lock them up in Azkaban. Draco as well, since he was an adult – and had the characteristic dark mark on his left forearm.

Eventually, they stopped running. Being fugitive wasn't something that fitted the Malfoy's profile, so they quickly gave up on it. They returned to the Manor and restored it in all its glory. Draco didn't know why it had taken the Aurors so long to see that they had returned. But in the end, they showed up. Draco was terrified. He'd heard stories from Azkaban that made the hairs in his neck rise, and he would rather die than go to those soul-sucking beasts.

He had vivid memories of his third year at Hogwarts when the Dementors had been all over the place. Of course, he'd teased Potter, because he was so vulnerable to them, but Draco knew what their function was. They sucked all the happiness out of you, until the only thing that's left was misery. Back in his third year, there wasn't much the Dementors could feed on when it came to Draco. He knew how to conceal his fears very well at that time. But when he was seventeen, Death Eater, and had the task to kill a man, he knew the Dementors would call that a feast.

Anyway, Draco was panic-stricken when his family's luck finally turned. Two massive gentlemen asked for his father, as his mother let them in. Draco didn't recognize the men, but he assumed they were Aurors. Narcissa offered the two men a seat in the sitting area and then went to find Lucius in his study. Draco could overhear their conversation. Narcissa told him the Aurors were there, and that she had gotten no choice but to let them in. His father was furious, raising his voice followed by a slap.

Draco heard his father descend the stairs and entering the sitting area. Lucius put on a mask as he offered the men something to drink. The Aurors weren't there to chit-chat. They came for business. They weren't friendly. Imprisoning him was the only reason they travelled to the Manor. Draco noticed the fear in his father's voice when he told them it must be a misunderstanding. He refused to come along, and the Aurors quickly got up, arming themselves. Lucius was as quick as a flash, countering the first arresting spell and firing one of his own. Narcissi stood in the doorway, watching in terror. The spell hit one of the Aurors – the one who'd unleashed the first spell. A green light lit the room. The other Auror reacted instantly, firing an Avada Kedavra himself. Lucius had a surprised expression on his face when he fell. If his eyes had been closed, you would believe he was asleep. But Draco knew better.

His father was dead. Draco didn't feel much. He was paralyzed, not really understanding that he had just lost his father. He couldn't grasp the fast pace of events taking place, and he was still trying to process the information while the Auror took his mother. Draco didn't protest. He didn't run downstairs, didn't try to release her from the Auror's grip. He just watched as Narcissa cried her heart out, not even trying to struggle.

Draco suspected the Auror to search the rest of the Manor for him, but instead the Auror left. Draco assumed he would first have to bring in his mother and report the death of his father and the other Auror. However, Draco knew the man wasn't smart to do that. It was Draco's chance to get away. Even though part of Draco wanted to stay, wanted to fight for his parents and the family's dignity, his heart knew better. They would return for him. They would be as merciless as they were with his father.

Draco got scared and ran. He ran away from all he knew, all he had ever known. He only grabbed the most important stuff, to make sure the Aurors wouldn't notice he'd taken off. If they didn't know he'd witness the captivity of his parents, they wouldn't know he'd fled. Of course, they would eventually find out, but it could give Draco a head start. He left on foot, not wanting to leave any trail of magic behind. He hoped that would be enough to hold them back, at least for a little while.

Being blinded by fear, all he could to think about was that moment in the room of requirement. During that moment he had feared for his life. It was a kind of fear he'd never felt before. The fear of nothingness. Not knowing what would come next. His state of mind resembled that emotion right now. Draco was positive that he was going to die that night in the room. The burning fire made it difficult to breathe. He tried to find a way out of it, desperation taking the better part of him. Out of nowhere, Potter came along and saved his guts. He brought back the sanity in Draco's head, made sure that even though the war was still raging, Draco wouldn't be burned to death. He appeared on that broomstick, looking like a guardian angel. He'd helped him without a word.

That was the reason why Draco decided to find Potter. He knew if he would want to find a place to stay – for a short while – Potter would be his only option. Where else could he go? Who else would save him? If Potter refused, nobody would be so generous to help him. The former Gryffindor was his only hope. That tiny little light had lead him to where he was sitting now.

At the kitchen table, in Potter's dump. The Survivor was pissed, probably having another beer in the room next to him. However, at this very moment it didn't matter, he had a place to stay. He had a new home, a refuge - even though it was just temporary. Although the reality was still out there, Draco could hide from it for a while. It felt like a sanctuary.

Draco looked around the kitchen again. He wondered when the last time was Potter had actually done the dishes, or cleaned up for that matter. He was shocked by the state of Potter's home. It was disgusting. Potter clearly had a drinking problem. What had caused the man to feel so low? Was it because he'd lost both of his friends in the war. Admitted, Draco would feel very depressed after that too.

Even though Potter had offered him one night, Draco felt like he was intruding Potter's home and Potter's feelings. The papers speculated about Potter's fate, describing him as a hero in one edition, then calling him insane in the other. Draco was thrown back and forth between his own problems and Potters. His body coped with conflicting emotions, from desperation to relief and from anxiety to safety. He could explode any moment.

But apart from all this, Draco could say he was happy. For the first moment ever since that damn war had started, he felt proud of something he'd achieved and had acted independently. Nobody had told him what to do. No one had told him where to go. He smiled at the empty room, knowing he'd done the right thing.

To be continued…

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