After the war, Harry stops playing quidditch. He lets people assume it's because of injuries, because he can't bear playing without half of his friends, can't bear seeing Ginny. In reality, the Golden Snitch has become one of his worst nightmares.
He sees it in his dreams. He remembers the strange feeling that went through him as he whispered the words. I am about to die. He remembers the rushing in his ears, the absolute terror stronger than anything he'd ever felt, just before the spell hit him. He remembers Narcissa Malfoy whispering Is Draco alive? He dreams he'd answered no, and wakes violently. He doesn't know if he screams, because no one is there to wake him.
It's at that point he stops sleeping.
He wanders the castle without his invisibility cloak. He can't bear the sight of it. It doesn't matter; people have been avoiding him ever since the start of term. There are rumors, rumors that his powers have increased ten-fold, and not necessarily for the better. Harry doesn't mind the rumors—they keep people away.
"Potter."
Harry pulls his wand and turns, pointing it at the other boy's throat before he can stop himself. The fear in Draco's eyes is anything but comforting. Slowly, Harry lowers his wand. "Don't call me that, Draco."
That's all they'd called him. The Potter Boy. Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. He knows surnames are used between acquaintances, but all he wants to be is Harry. He doesn't want to be Potter any more than Draco wants to be Malfoy.
"Harry, then. You shouldn't be wandering this time of night."
"Neither should you."
They aren't quite sure where they stand. On one hand, Draco's mother had saved him; on the other, Harry had gotten her killed. He'd gotten a lot of people killed.
"I couldn't sleep," Draco responds quietly. "I was going to the kitchens for some cocoa. My mother used to—care to join me?"
And that night, Harry refuses.
The four houses of Hogwarts have changed, for the Eighth Years. Only a few of them have returned, so there was no need to separate them by house. They each have their own room, but their common room is shared and usually empty. There's too much tension between the four Gryffindors, Ernie Macmillan, and Draco for them to enjoy each other's company. Draco, the lone Slytherin, identifiable by the crest on his robes and the stripes on his tie.
Harry sits atop the Astronomy Tower and just stares. He stares out over the grounds and tries not to remember. If he closes his eyes, he can see Snape pointing his wand and whispering, on Dumbledore's orders, Avada Kedavra. Harry does everything he can not to close his eyes.
"I bloody hate it up here."
"Then why did you follow me, Draco?" Harry sighs. When he inhales, he smells chocolate. He turns to see Draco Malfoy, of all people, levitating two large mugs in front of him.
"I promise, it helps," is all Draco says as he carefully sits beside Harry and lowers the cups to the floor. "I didn't know if you wanted marshmallow or not, so I brought up a few." And from his robes, he pulls out a small packet. "You don't have to look so bewildered, Pot—Harry."
So Harry adds a few marshmallows and drinks. They don't talk, but for the first time in a while, Harry feels kind of alright.
To everyone's surprise but their own, Draco and Harry seem to gravitate toward each other after that night. They're not friends, exactly, but they aren't enemies; they'd had enough of that to last three lifetimes. They sit together at meals and during class; help with some of the repairs that had been forgotten over the summer. When they study together in the common room, no one says anything when Harry falls asleep with his head on Draco's shoulder and a book in his lap. No one says anything when he awakes almost peacefully.
Hogwarts has become a place of painful memories. Harry knows he's being selfish when he freezes up outside of Defense Against the Dark Arts, because that's where he'd spent the most time with Remus; when he refuses to go to the library, because all he can see is Hermione and that triumphant look she always got when studying; refuses to play quidditch or even to glance at Ginny because all he can see is Ron and Fred and Molly's pain. He's used to pain, used to having the people he loves and needs torn away from him. Sometimes, he thinks he sees a flash out of the corner of his eye, and turns to reprimand Colin, only to remember that Colin and his camera are gone.
And then, one day, he just snaps. In the middle of Defense Against the Dark Arts, he feels a pressure building in his ears. There's just so much energy. Draco casts him a worried look. And then Harry just explodes. His magic bursts from him, uprooting tables and parchment like they are little more than leaves in the wind.
"Harry," murmurs Draco, the only one brave enough to rest his hand on Harry's arm, "calm down."
And the energy leaves, for the most part. The parchment stops tearing through the air. Harry turns and runs. Draco grabs their things and follows, not entirely sure where Harry had gone.
The Room of Requirement holds memories for both of them. Harry is pacing when Draco finally shows up. There are scorched practice dummies scattered around the room, and Draco has to pretend he's not terrified of Harry in that moment. He just closes the door and waits quietly.
"Did I hurt anybody?"
"You gave Longbottom quite a scare, but I'm sure he'll recover. Are you alright?"
Harry feels like he did during fifth year, like he did every time Dumbledore ignored him, or someone accused him of being a liar. And then more power tears through him as he remembers how he felt after the fiasco at the Ministry. After Sirius had fallen through the veil and Dumbledore just sat at his desk looking sadder and older than Harry had ever seen him. Draco throws up a shield as the dummies explode and the room creates more to be destroyed.
"Harry." And Harry's power dies down enough for Draco to approach him without the shield. When Draco reaches him, Harry just collapses into the other boy's arms.
"I'm so tired."
And then Harry just cries, and Draco isn't sure what to do, so he just holds him. He doesn't say anything, even as Harry's tears ruin one of his few nice shirts. There's energy thrumming through and around Harry's body, through Draco. It's warm, and it's making his head ache, but he doesn't let go until it's clear that's what Harry wants.
Harry can remember, after Voldemort was gone at last, seeing Draco in the Great Hall. He'd been seated beside his mother's body, alone. His father had fled when it became obvious the battle was lost. Draco had cried silently in his corner, so unlike the sobs of Molly Weasley when she'd found out she'd lost two sons instead of one. Harry knew he should have comforted Ginny, but instead he went over and sat beside Draco. They didn't say anything, didn't really need to, but it was enough.
"I don't blame you, Harry."
Harry doesn't move his eyes from the fireplace, doesn't say a word as Draco moves closer.
"My mother…she made her choice, she knew what could happen when the Dark Lord figured out she'd lied. None of us blame you. We all made our choices."
Harry just gets up and goes to bed. He doesn't mean to sleep, but when he awakes screaming to the image of Hermione's werewolf mangled body, he doesn't allow himself to sleep for three days.
He stays at Hogwarts for Christmas. Ginny had, for the first time in months, spoken to him to invite him to the Burrow. Harry hadn't looked at her, hadn't looked up until she'd sighed softly and left. Draco stays behind as well, unsure if it's because he doesn't want to go to the manor, or if he's doing it to look after Harry.
On Christmas morning, Harry looks absolutely miserable. Not because he'd expected more (or any) presents—he's never done that, even after attending Hogwarts—but because there a few there. One of them, the largest, has Mrs. Weasley's handwriting on it.
Draco watches as Harry mechanically opens his gifts. He watches the grief cross Harry's face when he holds up a soft-looking green sweater, then gently sets it aside. He watches the confusion when he opens Draco's gift to him and finds a generous amount of Dreamless Sleep Potion.
"I didn't think to get you anything…" he says a bit awkwardly. Draco waves him off and tells him to get ready for lunch.
Three days after Christmas, Harry wakes screaming. This time, he's not alone. Draco's sitting on the end of Harry's bed, looking more concerned than Harry feels he has any right to be.
"Guess the Dreamless Sleep doesn't work."
"How'd you get in here? I have wards—"
Draco shrugs. "Do you want me to leave?" Harry surprises both of them when he answers no.
And when Harry sleeps through the rest of the night, curled beside Draco, it occurs to them to try it again. For the rest of the holidays, they share a bed so Harry can sleep, and Draco realizes that he sleeps better as well.
When their classmates return, Draco resumes sleeping in his own bed. Two nights into the start of term, he feels restless, and wakes to the headache he's learned to associate with Harry. Without stopping to slip on his dressing gown, he bolts from his room. Neville, Dean, Seamus, and Ernie are standing outside of Harry's door, looking worried.
"What's going on?" Draco asks, even though he can feel the heat pouring from the room. In that moment, he doesn't care what's going on; getting to Harry is the only thing on his mind as he pushes open the door.
The bed is on fire. It's burning hotter than any fire Draco's ever felt, and for a second he feels afraid. The fear dissipates quickly, but he's sweating and having trouble breathing. The fire doesn't hurt when he touches it. It doesn't burn as he climbs through the flames, into the bed, and pulls a surprisingly—terrifyingly—cold Harry to his chest. And the flames stop.
"I dreamed about the snitch," Harry says shakily some time later. Draco hasn't slept, but he was getting there before Harry spoke.
"The snitch? A dream about quidditch made you—"
"It wasn't quidditch. It's—never mind."
It's not the I don't want to talk about it never mind. It's the I want so badly to talk about it, but I don't want to think about it never mind. Draco can hear the plea in Harry's voice, so he rearranges them so they're sitting against the headboard. "Tell me. Please."
And Harry does.
He goes over the pensive, briefly—it's not his story to tell—then how he donned his invisibility cloak and went to the forest. He tells Draco about the snitch and those horrible words I am about to die and how he saw his family. How he saw his parents, Remus, and Sirius. Tells him about how he'd allowed himself to be a child for one moment as he'd asked does it hurt?
As he speaks, it occurs to him that he probably wouldn't have told Ron and Hermione. He wouldn't have been able to deal with their concern, their sadness. Draco has gone from hating Harry to protecting him. He's asked to hear the story. He wants to know. Ron and Hermione wouldn't have asked. They wouldn't have wanted to know.
He hesitates after he gets through his death. What happened at Kings Cross was kind of private, but so was the snitch. He leaves out the fact he was naked because, while it wasn't particularly strange at the time, it's downright mortifying now. Draco inhales sharply when Harry tells him what his mother had done. If Harry focuses, he can remember the feel of her fingers on his face, on his chest as she'd checked his pulse. He can hear the longing in her voice as she asks of her son.
"Thank you," is all Draco says when Harry finishes. There's no Harry! That's terrible. No Harry, perhaps you should talk to someone. He just says thank you, and then rearranges them so they can sleep.