A/N: This is my entry for Round 5 of the QLFC! If you're here for this slightly depressing tale, continue along! Otherwise, here's all my relevant QLFC information:

Team: Tutshill Tornados

Position: Beater 1

Round 5 prompt: Petunia (as inspired by Petunia Dursley): Write about a character holding anger and resentment towards someone they love.

Optional prompts:

7.(dialogue) "It was like kissing a troll, only wetter."

10. (song) Amnesia - 5 Seconds of Summer

15. (dialogue) "Never use my name and his name in the same sentence. Ever."

Word count: 2714

Thanks for reading! :)

"Malfoy?" Harry blinked hazily. "What're you doing here? This is a Muggle pub."

Draco snorted and fell gracelessly into the seat next to Harry. "Did you think I'd be welcome in a Wizarding pub? Everyone's celebrating my father's sentencing. Besides—I think the Muggle stuff's stronger. Next round's on me."

Harry stared uncomprehendingly at the blond's thin, angular face. Malfoy had only gotten more attractive with age, really. But possibly more senile as well.

"Sorry about that. I tried to help him, you know. But… you're in a Muggle pub," Harry repeated thickly. "Are you lost?"

"Bugger off, Potter. What're you even doing here?"

Harry shrugged. "Ginny's gone. Left a week ago. Isn't this what bachelors do? I don't think I'm very good at it."

Malfoy stared at him for so long that Harry began to wonder if it was simply a hallucination. Finally, Malfoy raised a glass. "I think this is exactly what they do. Cheers, Potter."

Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, was an adult now. He had defeated Voldemort, graduated from Hogwarts, and immediately jumped into Auror training. He had dated his best friend's sister, convinced himself he loved her, and been dumped. He had cried, wallowed in self-pity, and then drank so much Firewhiskey that he'd kissed Draco Malfoy in a pub—that had led him to seek refuge in his one-bedroom apartment for two weeks.

Harry Potter was also lonely. Merlin, if he hadn't already known it before, he certainly recognized it now as he walked along Hogwarts' lake shore, with Dumbledore's white tomb beckoning him. He had completed his last session of Auror training two days ago; tomorrow he would officially begin his career as an Auror. He'd thrown himself into his training, rarely finding the time to speak to Hermione or Ron—or even the energy to bathe and feed himself. Outside of his two best friends, he could scarcely remember his last social outing. It was worth it, though, to make up for the friends that he would never see again.

Harry grimaced, sitting down to lean against Dumbledore's cold tomb. Had it been worth it? Remus, Tonks, Fred—they were all gone. Dumbledore was gone. Even ruddy sodding Snape was gone! And who survived the war? The Malfoys, of all people!

That wasn't fair though—simply old school prejudice showing through. Narcissa Malfoy had helped him against Voldemort, even if it had been mostly out of concern for her son. And Harry'd tried to save Lucius Malfoy from a long stint in Azkaban—how else could he repay Narcissa's act?—but not even Malfoy's money and Harry's status as Golden Boy could sway the Wizengamot's sentence. Harry wished he could have comforted the younger Malfoy; he knew Draco'd been devastated by his father's incarceration.

Really, Harry was quite rubbish at saving people. He couldn't protect Remus, Fred or Dumbledore, or Cedric and Sirius and Dobby, so how had he expected to help the Malfoys at all? Worse, what if he was partnered with Ron for field assignments? What if he lost his best friend as well? Auror training was simple—he'd focused on improving his own abilities, never having to worry about real life consequences in their practice simulations.

For his whole life, he'd been forced to save the world from Voldemort. And he'd tried. He'd tried so hard. Voldemort was gone now, sure, but who had Harry truly saved? So many had been lost. Yet, no one blamed him for their deaths—loss was a part of war, after all. They didn't see. They didn't understand. Harry had caused their deaths—not war. And when the same thing happened out in the field, they'd finally realize it was—All. His. Fault.

He'd worked himself to the ground to prove that he was capable and competent enough for the Auror program. But now? Harry wasn't ready. He couldn't be an Auror, couldn't go through with his missions. He'd lose someone else. But he knew that becoming an Auror was what was expected of him. He needed a plan—some way to avoid fieldwork, at least for the time being.

At the base of Dumbledore's tomb, Harry shivered and wrapped his arms around his curled up knees.

"Well—" Kingsley cleared his throat and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk. "This is, ah, rather unexpected, Harry." He held up Harry's temporary leave form and waved it in front of his face.

Harry mustered up a fake smile. "Just for a season or two, Kingsley. It's just the right time, you know—Oliver Wood mentioned that try outs for Puddlemere start next week. He's their captain now, too. Brilliant fella. And I've always loved Quidditch."

The Minister for Magic chuckled. "Well, I can't much fault you for that. You've always been a talented Seeker, and you've certainly worked hard enough to warrant a break. Just come back to us, alright? You'll always have a spot among the Aurors."

"Thanks, Kingsley." Harry smiled more genuinely at the personable man.

The Minister grinned cheekily. "Good luck, kid. I'll be sure to put a few bets on you."

"Good to have ya, Harry!" Oliver Wood exclaimed jovially as he clapped Harry on the back and led him through the spacious Puddlemere training ground. "Sorry you have to go through this—we all know you're a great Seeker. Unfortunately, since you haven't played professional Quidditch before, you'll have to do a few tests and drills just as formalities, yeah?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Harry agreed, eyes fixed on the rest of the players walking out on the pitch.

"I'll be training with the others while you're doing that," Oliver continued, noticing Harry's gaze. "Since it's preseason, the first team and reserve team'll be training together. Come find us once you're done, okay? Look—that's the manager, Philbert Deverill. He'll take you through it all."

"Ah, Harry Potter. Call me Phil—or Coach," Philbert Deverill's booming voice announced his approach, his large hands clasped together in anticipation. "Let's get you started then, eh?"

Puddlemere's manager reminded Harry vaguely of a sporty, more Quidditch-inclined version of Slughorn. The covetous gleam in the portly man's eyes made Harry's hand twitch uncomfortably even as he diligently followed through the drills. Somehow, flying didn't feel as exhilarating when a strange man's greedy gaze constantly made Harry want to shrug his shoulders uneasily.

Still, Harry knew he performed exceptionally for each trial, and he landed back on the pitch with a satisfied air.

"Well done, Harry, well done!" Deverill cheered, his jowls wobbling as he clapped. "I believe the team's already finished up for today, but if you hurry you'll be able to catch them for lunch in our cafeteria—just get the bag boy to take your dirty equipment. Good to have you with us! I'll see you at tomorrow's training session."

Harry rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly as he watched Deverill walk away. That was it? Oh well, he'd better hurry to meet the other team members. But first—where was he supposed to find the bag boy?

Before Harry could contemplate which direction to even begin looking—not that he truly required someone to clean his own stuff—he caught a flash of white blond hair walking towards him.

"Potter," Malfoy greeted him stoically, extending an arm in expectation.

"Malfoy," Harry replied slowly. "It's, ah, been a while. You look… good?" He winced, realizing how idiotic he sounded. But it was true—Malfoy did look good. He also looked completely different to the polished Pureblood that Harry was used to. He doubted he'd have even recognized his former schoolmate if it hadn't been for his distinctive white hair and sharp features.

Harry subtly attempted to examine the uncharacteristically ripped black trousers and overlarge white t-shirt that Malfoy was wearing, ignoring the erratic rhythm of his heart. The last time he'd seen Malfoy was… Merlin, in that Muggle pub after Ginny'd broken up with him. Had he ever apologized for kissing him? Bugger.

Malfoy rolled his eyes impatiently. "Yeah, whatever. Look—are you gonna hand me your stuff or not?"

"What?"

"Your equipment? Gloves, guards, cape? Have you ever played Quidditch before?"

Harry scowled. Gods, Malfoy might be attractive but he was still a prat. "I know what you're talking about. Are you the bag boy Deverill told me to find?"

Malfoy scoffed. "Assistant equipment manager, actually—too difficult for Deverill to remember, clearly."

Assistant equipment manager? Was this what had happened to the Malfoys after Lucius' incarceration? Well, that explained the ragged clothes. Harry blinked, regret filling his stomach. He'd always ignored the urge to write Draco, assuming that his correspondence would be unwelcome. Perhaps he should have reached out earlier, instead of meeting drunkenly at a bar. Clearly, the Malfoys needed more help than he'd originally thought.

"Okay, alright, here—" Harry bent down to remove his shin guards, desperately trying to hide his shaking hands. He'd failed Malfoy even more. Brilliant.

"What's wrong with you?" Draco stood arrogantly above Harry's hunched form, but his voice came out quiet.

"Nothing. I'm fine," Harry muttered, handing one guard up to the blond and moving to untie the other one. "Look, Draco, sorry about that one time in the pub. It was, ah, a good talk though, yeah? Therapeutic."

Draco raised an eyebrow disbelievingly. "Stop pitying me."

"What? No, listen—I've never really kissed a bloke before, to be honest, but it was alright, you know? If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm always available." Harry hadn't been there before, and he'd be damned if he didn't offer help this time. "Not that that's related to kissing blokes or anything. But it was good for me to talk to someone too."

Draco grimaced but didn't speak. He tugged at the hem of his oversized t-shirt. "Thanks, I guess. Talking was alright."

"Right." Harry drew his hand through his windswept hair. "So, we good?"

"Sure. It doesn't matter much, either way."

"Why not?" Harry asked indignantly. "I figure we got along pretty well, didn't we?"

"Don't get your hopes up." Malfoy snorted to himself. "It was like kissing a troll, only wetter."

Stunned, Harry sucked in a breath, the dangling shin guard slipping between his frozen fingers.

"Put your stuff in the equipment closet when you're finally done," Malfoy called over his shoulder, his retreating figure as stiff as Harry's expression.

The next few training sessions, Harry avoided Malfoy as best he could—which, thankfully, was fairly easy to do. In fact, Harry didn't interact with Malfoy for another week. He was relieved, mostly, but couldn't help the small rush of disappointment that hit him every time Malfoy would duck out of sight. Still, he worked as hard as ever on the Quidditch pitch, returning to the change room tired and sweaty.

Harry showered efficiently and put on a new set of clean clothes, gathering his used equipment to return to the closet and be cleaned. Most of the players left their dirty clothes on the floor for Draco to pick up after them, but Harry still didn't feel comfortable doing that. He'd even seen some of the players treating Draco like a house elf, causing Harry's vision to blur in anger at the blond's mistreatment. It wasn't fair! Sure, the memory of Malfoy's words still caused his chest to tighten painfully, but he didn't deserve that. Harry hated that Malfoy didn't even try to defend himself.

"Oi, Malfoy, clean my boots while you're at it, will you?" Cormac McLaggen called from the other corner of the change room. Harry grimaced at the sound of the new reserve keeper's voice.

Draco walked over obediently, adding McLaggen's boots to the pile of dirty uniforms levitating behind him.

"I could get used to this," Cormac continued smugly. "Hey, Potter, why don't you get Malfoy to take those clothes off your hands too?"

Harry bit his tongue in alarm. "Ah, no, that's alright, thanks. I've got to pick something up from the equipment closet anyway." With that, he hurried out the door.

No one else seemed to have a problem with ordering Draco around, so why did Harry have to care so bloody much? He moodily shoved his clothes in the laundry pile. Based on the last conversation they'd had, it didn't seem likely that Draco would have a change of heart, either—the blond clearly disliked Harry.

"You're an arse, Potter," Malfoy said as he shouldered his way between Harry and the laundry.

"What'd I do now?" Harry asked angrily, scowling at Malfoy's back.

"Just—stop looking at me like that, alright? It's bleeding annoying."

"Like what?" Harry threw his hands up in exasperation. "You don't make any sense, you know that? I'm just trying to be nice, since I'm pretty sure it takes a lot of energy being a prat all the time."

"I'm not a basket case, okay?"

"I know that! But you're not a house elf, either." Harry crossed his arms stubbornly, glaring at the blond as he set cleaning charms on each uniform.

Draco's lip curled up derisively.

Harry forced himself not to stare at his mouth. "I just want to help."

"Why do you care?"

"Gods, I don't know! You make it hard to care—you're a right ferret."

"I knew you didn't actually care," Draco muttered bitterly.

"What?!" Harry flexed his knuckles. Malfoy was infuriating. "You're the one pushing me away!"

Draco took a deep breath, his elegant shoulders slumping slightly. Harry frowned uncertainly and took a step toward the blond.

"Malfoy?" he asked softly, reaching forward to gently grasp Draco's shoulder.

"Draco… It's Draco," the blond gritted out through his teeth. "I don't want to be called Malfoy anymore."

"Yeah, okay, Draco," Harry agreed quietly, wrapping his arms around the other man.

"You'll help me?" Draco breathed, voice hitching at the end.

"Yeah, I will."

"I'm an arse."

Yeah, you are. Harry bit back the hurt and resentment that burned through his veins. He owed it to Draco to help him. He couldn't fail another person. "I'll still save you."

One year later, Harry sipped casually at his glass of water as he waited for Ron and Hermione to arrive at his apartment, toying with the official Auror badge in his hand. The Floo burned brightly from the living room, and his best friends greeted him with warm hugs and cheery faces. He breathed an inaudible sigh of relief that nothing had changed since their talk the night before.

"So, you ready for tomorrow, then?" Ron asked, grinning from ear to ear.

Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Honestly, he's been reciting the case files in his sleep."

Harry laughed, and his chest felt lighter. "Oh, really? I bet I've looked them over more than you."

"Merlin, please don't get him started," Hermione begged.

They all laughed this time, and Ron shrugged unapologetically.

"It's been a while since I've dueled, though," Harry admitted uncertainly. "Do you think I should've practiced some more combat?"

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other.

"No, mate," Ron said confidently. "I think you're ready."

"So, Harry, just to be clear," Hermione began hesitantly, her brown eyes soft and sincere, "since you weren't entirely coherent last night…"

Harry braced himself.

"You and Draco—"

He flinched. It still stung. "Never use my name and his name in the same sentence. Ever." Harry winced at Hermione's hurt expression, and he reached across to hold her hand. "Sorry—please. I can't save everyone. I know that now. He needs to—needs to want to change. I can't do that for him. It hurts, and I hate that he doesn't care enough to help himself, but I can't save him. I can't. Maybe one day, when he's ready, I'll be there to support him. But I can't cure his problems, and I can't be his scapegoat any longer. I can't live like that anymore."

She blinked rapidly, then nodded. "Of course, Harry. Sorry."

They sat in silence, with only the crackling of the fireplace in the background.

"So," Ron spoke up suddenly. "If the suspect's been switching wands but only using birch cores, d'you think—"

"Gods, Ron, no. No more," Hermione groaned.

Harry smiled. "Actually, the second wand was made of aspen—didn't you read the files?"

Ron's mouth hung open. "No way! I could've sworn—."

Hermione sighed loudly and rested her forehead against the kitchen table.

Harry grinned. "I'm just having you on. I think we're ready, don't you?"