He runs with the wind, wishes his broom was there, but it's not. It's not there and it never will be, not again, because it would remind him – would remind him of the dreadful fire, the fire that ate all, spat out the skeleton of his friend – not really, really it ate his friend too, ate his soul, too.

He runs faster, tries to forget, tries to think about – think about anything else, honestly.

It's been a year and the fire still follows him, follows his dreams, follows him everywhere, and it hurts and it burns and his lungs feel like they're still filled with smoke.

He stops. He's at the lake and he wonders, for the umpteenth time, why he was allowed to return to Hogwarts even after all he did, everything that he did under that madman, did to save himself, his family but nevertheless did, and he knows that Potter – he wishes he could still spit the name out as he used to but alas, that is in vain – Potter must be a reason for why he was invited – no, told to come back, to finish his education.

Some stare at him openly when he sits at classes, sits in the Great Hall and can they be blamed when he almost killed some of them, he caused such harm to them, he almost destroyed everything – and he wishes, like he had before, like he would still – he wishes that he could have died, could have been left to rot. He almost, almost chose Azkaban over return but his mother, his dear, darling mother told him that he would do no such thing and of course he would return to Hogwarts and that's why he is here, now.

It has nothing to do with Potter.

Nothing to do with those green eyes that told him everything about pity, about knowledge, when there was the wand, wand that needed to be returned. Nothing to do with Potter's words, Potter saying he knew what happened with Dumbledore, Potter understanding. Nothing.

Nothing to do with the way Potter sits with him at classes where he might otherwise be alone, even though a few of his friends returned, even though he still has Pansy and Blaise.

Nothing to do with the way his insides do somersaults nowadays when Potter joins him, when Potter talks to him, and it absolutely did not begin before term, begin with Potter beginning this weird friendship sort of thing with him.

(Draco has noticed that letting his mind go in circles like these he's most likely to forget about the fire, forget about the madman who lived under their roof, forget about how his father is rotting in Azkaban, forget about everything that has anything to do with the war, about all the things he has done and said and done in his life prior, even if he doesn't want to admit all that these thoughts drive into him, remind him of.)

He's still standing still near the lake and he wonders, wonders at life, wonders at himself.

How was it he who was saved when so many that should have been weren't? How is it he that Potter tries to make friends with, has even forgiven Pansy – forgiven the girl who was willing to give Potter to the madman – is Potter a madman now too?

There's noise to his right, or to his left, or in front of him and he's not really sure because how could he be sure when his mind is whirring, so fast and so fast, and he has to take a deep breath before he can lift his head up to see who it is that is nearing him.

Of course it's Potter.

Alone.

Potter is speaking but Draco holds a hand up, wait a moment, catches his breath and lets all thoughts flow out.

Potter smiles.

Draco blinks, blinks again, looks at Potter's mouth and he really, really has to start thinking again, about circles or was it in circles, because Potter's mouth, that mouth, seems so delicious and he wants to think about something else, not the fact that his stomach is somersaulting again.

And there must be something on his face because Potter's suddenly serious and if Potter's serious, Draco doesn't want this moment, even though he does, he admits to himself.

"Running doesn't help. You should talk to someone."

Potter's words make weird sense to him. Even though they really don't.

"Of course it helps, in a way, as does thinking and letting your mind wander towards safer subjects like why am I even allowed to be alive," Draco replies and he doesn't even question his own words.

"You were a child. I was a child. We were young and we were stupid and now – now is the time when we're actually allowed to be that, without a war behind our backs, without a war chasing us like we're the ones who started it."

Potter has gone all philosophical in the months after the war, Draco has noted this before, when Potter started giving speeches and Draco started hearing them. Instead of thinking too much on what Potter's trying to say, between the lines, Draco answers to the first words.

"Who would listen to me?"

Potter shrugs. "I would. Your friends would. Even if they're scared, still, and for good reason, that someone will come after them and even if they wish they could pretend it never happened – we're never going to be the same we were."

"Right. They didn't feel it quite the way you did. They forget, but they don't, although I think Blaise's mind has found a way to shut it all out until – until someone shouts at us." Draco stops, blinks, stares at Potter's eyebrows because they're safe to stare at – or are they? "Why would you listen to me? Why did you give me back my wand? Why did you insist – insist I come back?"

Potter stays silent for a while and Draco almost starts running again before there's anything more said. Before he accidentally admits something he doesn't want to.

"I consider us." Potter's beginning is a beginning that says nothing. "I don't think we're friends, not as such, but I think something completely different from what we used to be, wouldn't you say? I started seeing you differently after – after Dumbledore and after the Fiendfyre and when I returned your wand I talked with your mother and she begged me – and this is not the reason I swear – she begged me to talk to you, and I owed her my life so I did, and I found out you were just a child. You were just scared. We were all so scared. And I thought – I thought it would be wrong if we started prejudicing those who had been on the wrong side for the wrong reasons, for not their own choices."

Draco feels his heart sink even though there are the words 'not the reason I swear'.

"What's another reason, save my mother begging?"

Potter licks his lips and Draco's attention is pulled back to them from his eyebrows – so much for a safer point for staring at. "I had decided earlier – I knew it would be difficult in a world so new and so fragile – I had decided that we should try to get along because how else would I show an example of forgiving those – those who had done wrong but for reasons they thought right? You wanted to save your family and who can blame you? You wanted to save yourself and really, didn't we all just want to survive? So I thought, I thought your mother was completely right at having me talk with you. And you were interesting, you kept the topic light but I could see through-"

"It hurt."

There's nothing that could prompt his reply and Potter stops and stares.

"When you came to talk to me I had to keep it light because all I could think about was the fire and the death and the soul eating. Because all I could think was that the rooms couldn't be good for you, even though we'd pulled the place inside out, had help from the Aurors, we'd tried to change everything."

Draco's mind is whirring and turning and twisting and he's everywhere at once, he's in the Room of Requirement, he's not identifying Potter, he's – he's seeing Burbage being eaten. He shudders.

"That's what I want to hear. You talk. Tell me."

And Draco decides he wants to. Somewhere else. At another time. Now he wants to – he wants. And he sees the moment Potter sees it and Potter's eyes go all wide.

"Maybe," Potter says and takes a deep breath, a step back. "No, not maybe but sure, of course." Draco wonders what the question is. "If we talk – you talk to me, stop running, I mean run if you want to but stop – stop thinking it's the only solution because in the long run -" Potter sighs at his choice of words but repeats it to continue, to catch his thought, "in the long run you're going to regret not talking, your mind is going to keep on turning on itself."

"What do you know about that?"

Potter tries a smile, and it's nothing like the smile before. Tries a smile that doesn't fit his face. "I dreamt of you dying, dreamt it again and again until I talked with Hermione, told her – told her that I couldn't have lived with myself, that I still feel like we failed, you know, and she told me it's normal, survivor's guilt or something she called it. She told me that talking would help, would make me realise that it was alright, I was alright to have survived. That I can't save everyone." Potter chuckles and Draco rolls his eyes.

"Alright. Alright. Can we talk some other time?"

"Of course. Just. Yeah, just talk. Tell me when you want to talk."

Draco nods, and he feels like turning around, like continuing his run, because there's nothing to it and Potter will need time to adjust, to realise what has happened.

"And you know," Potter says, not letting Draco enough time to leave. "You know I insisted you come back because it would be boring without you and you can't have the Saviour being all bored out of his mind, now can you, and you've – you're not boring at all, are you? No, you want to make it all interesting."

Draco turns and stares and closes his eyes. "I always want to make sure the Saviour is well entertained," he says, he says and he means it, really he does. He opens his eyes and Potter is grinning.

"Just – you know – I won't take you up on all the things on your mind – don't think I haven't caught you staring nor that Hermione hasn't told me – hasn't told me what she thinks you have in mind. I won't take you up on it until I'm sure that your mind is healing and you're talking," Potter is saying and it takes Draco a while, or maybe it will take him longer, even after Potter's gone, to really knit together what's being said.

Draco frowns, says, begins: "We should have a picnic tomorrow so I can start – so you'll listen to me, not be distracted by the fact that you might be hungry."

Potter's still grinning and Draco feels somewhat faint. "Yeah. That sounds – that sounds great." He takes a step closer, another, enough so he can reach over and touch Draco's arm before pulling back and turning around. "If you're going to continue running – think about the circles about me. Stop – stop going back into the fire because I can't save you from your head if you don't tell me what is going on."

And Draco thinks, he thinks it might turn out right, for a while at least when he watches Potter walk away, whistling something that Draco doesn't think he's ever heard. He starts running again, and now he's more honest with himself, and he wonders if maybe – if maybe he could get Pansy and Blaise talk with him too. If they might be able to heal themselves at some point.

If they'll get their heads out of the gutter they're likely to go swimming when he tells them he's going to have a picnic with Potter.