The Lion, the Witch, and the Serpent

by livingforfomas

"I was weak, Potter. I don't make a habit of it." The words are terse and do a fine impression of venom. "And you're one to talk- saving others because you can't save yourself. That's weakness. Too afraid to leave yourself in the care of others. You're no

The Lion, the Witch, and the Serpent

Nothing was beautiful and everything hurt.

He braces himself against cool marble, wondering momentarily about the choice in material for this public restroom. The edges are rough- unlike the imitation stone he's so accustomed to working with. It's expensive and tasteful under normal circumstances, but perhaps it's better suited for a country club or Ministry's extravagant décor. Though, they may have created a less museum equivalent appearance since he's last been privy to an inner circle's event. It's been years, after all. Nearing a decade.

And here he is, dry heaving in front of a mirror against a marble sink for the second time in his life. This time, though, he isn't in cohorts to murder a headmaster or the key to unlocking Hogwarts' gates for Death Eaters. This time, he's stomaching the news brought on by some Muggle in stained, green scrubs of his mother's definite tumor.

And this time, there is no Harry Potter to come slice his insides to bits.

Small miracles happen every day.

Get it together, Draco. Your mother's conscious and she'll want to speak to you regardless of that lump in her brain. Your stoic training will all be for naught if you can't play this part accordingly.

Tucking his rumpled shirt back into the belt hanging low about his waist, Draco inhales a shallow breath and exits the beyond sterile restroom. Scanning the hallway, his eyes fall to his mother's room: 423. Cautiously, he peers through the window and forces a smile as Narcissa catches his eye. The handle turns too smoothly for his liking- he'd much rather have had a moment longer to distance himself.

"Draco," she welcomes just as listlessly as he feels. "They've told you, I take it?"

She's calm and collected- just as Draco expects her upbringing to have taught her. Just as his upbringing has taught him. He sits by her bedside in a posture wound so tightly his back is likely to snap. With one nod, the woman before him settles her penetrating gaze to her twining hands. Draco can sense the discomfort and tension. She's frightened with every reason to be.

Hoping not to insult her dignity, he lays a hand against hers. They shake, stiffen, and relax.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

And again, Draco nods.

---

Harry detests giving blood and if it weren't for Hermione, his blood would stay precisely where it was made. Unfortunately, the witch is relentless and more of a martyr than the Chosen One will ever be.

So, the Boy Who Lived lies in a daze against the Muggle hospital bed he's recovering on. Seemingly every other donation leaves him unconscious. However, if a Dark Lord is incapable of finishing this man off, surely a few extra pints of blood are trivial in comparison.

His head swims with the aftermath of nausea and loss of oxygen. He hears a man and woman behind the curtain to his left and he hopes at least one member of the party is a nurse capable of assisting him to some restroom before he embarrasses himself further by having his first accident in twenty years all over the plastic bed sheets.

"Hello?" he croaks, his voice marred with forced sleep. "I don't think I can stand properly on my own and I need to piss."

Harry reaches for the curtain shielding him from vaguely familiar voices and nearly tumbles over the edge and onto the floor. Finally, he collects enough material in his tingling hand to toss the barrier aside.

His eyes take a moment to readjust to the new spectrum of fluorescent lights. The room blurs all too recognizably as Harry blindly searches for his discarded spectacles. He swears a hiss echoes around the now dangerously silent hospital room. Glasses finally find the bridge of his nose and he blinks rapidly.

Turning about just as rapidly as his eyes, the Savior of the Wizarding World meets a sight he hasn't witnessed in what feels like a lifetime's passing.

"Malfoy?"

---

"Mr. Potter," his mother addresses quickly and politely. "A surprising pleasure to see you."

Draco isn't certain if the world has ceased to turn, but he assumes in moments such as these it must. How else could the world seriously enjoy the punch line of his life if it found itself distracted with the dull exercise of turning?

"Y-you too, Mrs. Malfoy." The younger blond smirks at the man's stutter and realizes all too suddenly that he hasn't come so close to a smile in years. The thought quickly morphs his humor into a scowl and he's more than aware of Potter's noticing. "W-what are you both doing here, if you don't mind me asking."

Narcissa looks to her son as if to ascertain permission. Under other circumstances, she'd never consider anything other than her own advice. But, this is Harry Potter.

And he's always been the exception.

Draco shakes his head at the witch and she nods in understanding. "I believe Muggles call it a 'check-up,' Mr. Potter." Still grasping her hand, the younger Malfoy squeezes a bit tighter in thanks.

Potter relaxes slightly into his pillows with an audible sigh and small smile. Draco nearly believes he's still terribly drawn to the sight behind his shoulder. The former Slytherin can understand this- and can respect suspicion, even if it's harbored towards an obviously ill woman in a paper dress.

"And what are you doing here, Potter? Surely Mungo's would admit the Chosen One." A warning glare is felt more than seen as nails dig into the palm of his hand. Draco fights the need to retract his injuring appendage and maintain eye contact with this hero.

Strangely enough, Potter smirks at Draco's animosity and rolls his eyes. "I'm donating blood, Malfoy. Just got a bit ahead of myself this time and passed out. Hermione's idea to donate. Says my blood's pretty rare. O or something."

"Is there anything about you that isn't special?"

The man shrugs and glances at his feet before tapping his bare toes together. "I can't hold my bladder longer than anyone else."

Despite himself, Draco snorts. "I'm sure you piss excellence, Potter."

The Boy Who Lived laughs- the sound full and rich. His eyes are closed and his head lulls backwards while his arms come to clutch at his stomach.

"Don't make me laugh, I'll ruin the sheets," he warns, still very much laughing regardless of his efforts to do otherwise. Draco, on the other hand, controls and retains whatever misplaced and oddly timed moment he and the Boy Who Lived seem to be having. "Would you mind terribly getting me a nurse? I don't trust my legs."

"I'm sure Draco wouldn't mind assisting you to the restroom. Would you, dear?"

"Mother, I'm sure a nurse would be better qualified to-." The remainder of his sentence goes unheard as Narcissa's hand rises in contempt. "Of course, Mother. Come along, Potter. We'll get you to a toilet before you make this place anymore ghastly than it already is."

Draco paces to the Savior's bed and none-too-gently pulls him to his feet. Potter is nearly dead weight before he begins to catch his stride and the blond would laugh at his ridiculous fortune if the gaping black hole in his chest permitted him.

It doesn't. And Potter leaning carefully against his side for support only serves as a reminder of his past mistakes.

Of his mother's condition.

Of his life debts to Potter.

"Mr. Malfoy, y'know we can always add another bed to your mum's room. No need to make camp in the loo," a nurse teases a bit too giddily for Draco's current mood. The corners of his mouth lift to assure her he's heard the one-sided conversation well.

Able to carry himself, Potter staggers into an empty stall with a gasp of relief. Draco avoids the mirrors this time, not wanting the very real events of his past to repeat themselves.

More scars weren't necessary.

"So, Malfoy. Why aren't you at Mungo's?"

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose and feels his jaw tighten. It'd be no good to finish this man off after the abuse his family has already suffered.

The nosey prat did make it a tempting consideration, though.

"Not many Healers willing to aid Death Eaters," he answers in short. The response is plausible and he needn't go into detail about a disease normally suffered exclusively by Muggles.

Mother wouldn't want that. Neither would I.

Potter opens the stall and stands at the sink. This time, Draco chances a glance in the mirror from the opposite of their original position.

It's strange to be in the Chosen One's place. Strange enough to send a tingle through to his toes. He ignores the tremor, and Potter doesn't seem to notice either act.

"Well, thanks, Malfoy. I s'pose I should get going before they request another pint."

Draco's lips purse and pout against his better judgment. Even if the wizard happens to be Potter, it's refreshing to see a face of the world that's forgotten him. Never mind the fact that it's the face. The face that saved his sorry arse on countless occasions. The face that welcomed death. The face that forever haunts his dreams and inflicts the kind of self-loathing only felt by the severely disturbed.

The face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium…

Potter is his past, present, and if he can't learn to control it- his future. Somehow, they always manage to find each other. Never consciously, mind you.

Not anymore at least.

Draco hopes this chance meeting means nothing of significance. His mother's current state is enough to fill a buffet, let alone a plate. And Potter's never come without strings attached. He bids the man a stiff goodbye and the Boy Who Lived clears his throat before making an uncomfortable exit.

---

Harry treads cautiously towards the automatic doors of the hospital. It wouldn't do him well to Disapparate in the presence of Muggles, and he can do with a walk after such an odd encounter.

"Thanks again for coming to donate, Mr. Potter," says an orderly at the front desk with a practiced smile. "We have our donation schedule if you'd like to pencil us in."

Reluctantly, Harry decides it's best if he begins to take some sort of control over his blood instead of Hermione. He glances quickly at the list of stamped dates on shiny, photo ready paper and contemplates six months from now.

The time frame should allow for an excuse to be cultivated well before then.

"A shame about Mrs. Malfoy," he hears. His ears perk at the conversation only feet away. "Goodness knows how long she has left. Dr. Wright's set on two months."

"Will she be here for that time?" Harry asks before he can stop his curiosity. "I'm a friend of the family."

Somehow, he doesn't notice a lie in that statement. Surely their history has warranted good graces from both sides- at least in regards to the Malfoy mother and himself.

"I believe they're moving her to intensive care tonight- to monitor and whatnot. Her son lives a few blocks from here. He owns the health foods shop across the street. Sweetest young man. Says he's been nursing her at home for a few years now. A downright shame. Say, can I ask you something? Seeing as you know the family?" The woman's eyes dart from left to right to evaluate their privacy- more than likely from Malfoy.

Harry gestures for her to continue and she looks to her fellow employee for reassurance. "The tattoo on his arm seems a bit frightening for a man like himself. Any idea what it means?"

Damn Muggle ignorance… It's not their fault. If given the opportunity, I'd have kept my nose out of the war…

"There was a… club his family was a part of. Not the nicest group, but they're not affiliated with them anymore. Haven't been for quite some time now, if I'm not mistaken."

"Like the mafia?" a younger nurse chimes with far too much interest than acceptable in these matters. "He seemed dangerous! I told you, Mary. There was something… haunted about that one!" She sighs dreamily and rests her chin against a readily positioned fist.

Is this the sort of rubbage women are attracted to?

"Goodness, dear. He's nearly ten years older than you!"

She doesn't desist her dreaming, though- instead, the young woman continues to stare into empty space with a smile on her lips open just wide enough for drool to escape.

"Last time I heard, he was engaged to a girl we went to school with." Harry breaks gently. "Sorry to disappoint you."

Mary chuckles warmly. "She's already with someone, Mr. Potter. She just enjoys looking."

"And he sure is something to look at…"

If Harry were a lesser man, he would gag openly or vomit on their nice, sterile desk.

He's grown up a bit since Hogwarts, and for that, he settles- just barely- for rolling his eyes.

"It's been nice talking to you both. Perhaps I'll see you soon."

Harry observes his surroundings once outside and his eyes focus on the café just across the street apparently owned by Draco Malfoy.

I'm due for an interesting lunch.

And with this thought in mind, the Boy Who Lived trails onward towards the other side of town.

---

It rains well into the afternoon. Light droplets splash against the café window's glass in a chorus of pings and pangs.

My mother will die in a Muggle hospital. My mother will die in a world she was never supposed to live in.

A stab of guilt strikes Draco deep enough to leave permanent damage. He should have been stronger. He should have resisted the Dark Lord. He should have challenged his father for the good of his mother.

He wants to break. To cower into the crook of his mother's neck and sob until every ounce of evil coursing through his system leaks away in a stream of sorrow. Until he's completely cleansed of impurity.

Until he can forgive himself.

This hole in the wall is busy for a Wednesday. And the business has become routine enough not to serve as much of a distraction from his current situation. He writes orders for the week to come, checks inventory, criticizes Stephen's carrot soufflé, and counts potion enhanced raisins.

All in all, a rather average hump-day.

"Boss, someone's out front for you," Stephen sounds and interrupts the calculated motion of organizing raisins by size and shade of purple.

"I'm busy," Draco resolves, waving him off. "Tell them I've died."

"He says you're school friends. And it was urgent."

Who the bloody fuck? "I'll be there in a minute. Did you fix that soufflé?"

Stephen shakes his head and flips Draco the bird. "It was perfect." A grand departure if he's ever had the pleasure of seeing one.

I'd fire him if he weren't so brilliant a cook.

The dining area smells of cinnamon and mint, along with some magical undertones unnoticed by this audience.

Harry Potter sits casually at the bar, stirring what looks to be coffee both clockwise and counterclockwise in a pattern Draco instantly remembers from their classes. Already he can taste the bitter liquid on his tongue and he wonders how any creature- Muggle or Magic- can stomach the vile, liquid chalk.

Conscious or no, Potter is activating the 'health' ingredient within the wellness sugar with an expert's precision.

It may have been a remarkable sight if Draco weren't already stunned by his presence.

"Potter?"

"Malfoy," he greets with practiced certainty. "Quite an establishment you've got here. Any of them catch on to your secret ingredient yet?"

Ignoring the quip completely, Draco self-consciously fiddles with the knot of his apron. His eyes harden in a defensive glare. "What are you doing here?"

"Just grabbing some lunch. Any recommendations?"

Potter's too bloody relaxed for his liking and the tension that has been building readies to boil over.

Instead of lashing out in a public area without a wand to erase memories, Draco raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "We've got a great batch of: what the fuck could you possibly want, that just came out of the oven if you're interested. Or perhaps the ever popular: you have no business here. Goes great with a tall glass of: tell me what you're doing here before I have my dishwasher beat you to a bloody pulp." Potter's mouth gapes in what might be shock and Draco congratulates himself for his efforts. "Any of those choices sound appealing?"

"Is there any reason you're so hostile? I don't remember being particularly foul to you as of late." A pregnant pause ensues. Draco isn't used to unmotivated kindness or the sort of friendly relationship that warrants unannounced visits. He's fairly certain this isn't one of those instances, however, he'll take the bait for the time being. "I heard about your mother."

Ah, the other shoe.

"You can leave, Potter. Hopefully the coffee helps your upset stomach with the turns you've been giving it."

Before Draco can gracefully take leave, Potter grunts and mumbles something at his cup. A brief fizzle shakes the liquid and stills. The man sips as though the beverage will slap him for disorderly conduct.

"You can't detect magic in it. Taste or spell."

The Malfoy heir wishes to move on, but the topic is never discussed. Something in him- pride, most likely- wills him to boast a bit about his useless achievements. Useless in the sense that they never met their original goal.

And as time will prove to be the strongest monster, perhaps these achievements never can.

"That's because there's no magic, Potter." I must stop hissing his name like a curse. Wouldn't do for my sterling image. "They're Muggle herbs and potion reactions. It's touch and go seeing as I can't tell my customers how to drink or eat. That fifteen chews can solve headaches while thirteen can help with constipation."

The Chosen One considers this, and were it not for his status in the Wizarding society, Draco most certainly would continue with his day.

Certainly.

"How do you get potions?"

"I brew them," he answers simply. "It isn't very difficult for someone who paid an ounce of attention during school. And putting them into foods is nothing more than assessing chemical responses. These fine folk are rather lovely guinea pigs."

"Is that legal?"

"Plan on tattling?" For a moment he worries. Though, that anxiety is fleeting as Potter's mouth turns upwards and his shoulders shrug. "It's been a stimulating conversation, but I must be going. Prior engagements. Order what you want. Stephen's a talented chef- though he can be a right prick."

Draco can hear an angered 'I heard that' from the kitchens. He really should fire the man.

The questions never leave his company's face. And true to form, as their history will tell, Draco has no desire to consciously invite Potter into his current affairs.

"Will you be in tomorrow?" he wonders as innocently as an old friend. Draco's taken aback. They've never wanted more than blood from the other and this civility makes his head spin.

"I stock up on ingredients most Thursdays. It's a lot of traveling and busy work in the kitchens."

"Would you mind if I sat in on the process?"

Draco judges his sincerity. It seems genuine and that irks him far more than ill intent ever could. "Why would you want to do something like that?" Immediately, his defenses rise.

And Potter just smiles the infuriating smile that won him a war. "Because I can."

---

His mother undergoes testing during the daylight hours and visitors are only permitted to visit within that span of time.

So, for the first day in seven years, Draco is without contact with his mother. His mood teeters on the very edge of a knife and that tension is evident in the number of mistakes he's already made whilst brewing.

They would have phoned if anything happened. She's quite all right and you'll see her in the morning. You can bring that biscotti she loves so much. She loves everything you bring her.

Because she loves you. No matter what.

Throughout the solid chunk of time Draco's been outside of the technical magical realm, his mother hasn't let him feel without. They are all each other needs. They are a family built of survival. They are all each other has.

And it is because of Narcissa that this man has persevered. Regardless of where they end, being together is what matters- what has always mattered and what will continue to matter.

Death may be an issue. Not the easiest path to follow.

A knock against the thick glass door of his café startles Draco severely. It's nearly midnight and this potion would suffer from the commotion.

"We're closed," he shouts. The knocking persists and he gives up on correcting this batch of tension relieving spanakopita. "I'll be right there."

The dining area is dark and the streetlights have retired for the evening. Draco's first assumption is an Auror finally coming to off him. His second falls to some drunken teenager on a dare.

The blond's fears and annoyances have changed drastically over the years.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on when the question is proposed, Harry Potter stands on the opposite side of the glass barrier with a lopsided smile and his hands hidden within his zip-up's pockets.

"Gonna let me in, Malfoy? It's a bit nippy out here," he observes with a visible shiver.

"We're closed, Potter. You can read, surely." Just in case, Draco points to the very clearly written sign. "We open at ten. Though, I'd advise you to take your patronage elsewhere."

And leave me in peace.

"C'mon, I came all this way! I told you I was coming and, Malfoy, it's fucking cold out here."

I hate you, he thinks and unlocks the door- not bothering to open and actively invite the Boy Who Lived inside.

Footsteps follow to his makeshift lab and he bites his tongue as a distraction. If he hurries, he can still make his quota by dawn- leaving an hour or so open to toss and turn in some pathetic attempt at sleeping.

"So, what are you making?" Potter breaks the silence and Draco's concentration. For a moment, he's forgotten his audience. "Can I help?"

You could leave. However, the extra hands can serve a purpose… and a wand.

"You can enrich the flour." Draco jerks his head to the left at oversized sacks of wheat flour. "There's a bowl of powdered Dreamless Sleep in the refrigerator. Mix in a tablespoon per half pound."

Potter collects the ingredients quietly and efficiently, separating the cups and tablespoons accordingly. Draco, though he will never admit outright, doesn't mind the company. Sort-of the equivalent to a tangible ghost.

The reasoning still escapes any and all logistics- and that fact alone keeps the visit uneasy.

"I'm so used to seeing it as a liquid, how've you managed to make it into a powder? And why bother? Isn't the liquid more potent?"

Exactly the point when your mother can detect nearly any magical substance.

"It's blended with herbs. Jasmine, lavender, a bit of mint. It does dilute the potion a bit, yes. But, it's meant to assist with disturbing bad dreams and not rid them all together. The plants dull the potion to relax the dreamer rather than hinder the process."

"But, it's a powder- I don't understand how that works."

Without acknowledging Potter physically, Draco grunts, hoping he understands that the question has an answer and will be answered after this draught receives the proper attention. "It's melted into a honey-like substance, then I let it harden before pulverizing it."

"And what do you use the flour for?"

Draco peeks over his caldron at a busy Boy Wonder and fights valiantly against a smile. "Biscotti. They're my mother's favorite."

"Seems like a lot of work for burnt cookies."

"A right pain in the arse without a wand," he agrees.

"You haven't a wand?"

Draco opens his empty fists and gasps exaggeratedly. "Well, wouldn't you know it? I don't. Brilliant deduction, Potter."

"I always assumed they'd have given it back to you after the trials."

The response is free of prior knowledge. Potter doesn't know that he's been without his own magic since the war- since Potter's disarmed him. And Draco isn't looking for pity or to give this man anything reminiscent of guilt for the actions necessary to survive.

They all have skeletons- demons lurking behind each repressed memory.

None more so than Draco.

"Most likely firewood by now." It's meant to be a joke, but concealing bitterness never seemed a skill worth honing.

"The Elder Wand was yours for a time, did you know that?"

Of course he didn't. The wand was a fairytale told to children in order to warn them away from the desire for power and lead them on a path of virtuous enlightenment. "Guess that would mean the Deathly Hallows are real. Imagine that."

"You're not as excited as I'm used to."

"I thought you, of all people, would understand my lack of enthusiasm pertaining to anything from the war. Even a childhood fairytale my mother used to read to me turn reality. Excuse me if I'm having a difficult time exhibiting the kind of reaction the Chosen One is accustomed to. Shall I weep at your very presence?"

Potter's face contorts in sympathetic guilt- an apology etched across his eyes. Draco berates himself fiercely for managing the exact accomplishment he set out to avoid.

"I didn't mean that the way it came out. I just thought you should know you had more of a hand in my defeating Voldemort than you already knew. If you hadn't disarmed Dumbledore that night, things may have happened much differently."

Perhaps I wouldn't be here. Having this conversation. With the Boy Who Lived. In the kitchen of a Muggle funded establishment that just barely pays medical bills let alone rent.

"And I'm sorry you haven't been recognized for your efforts. All because of that silly mark on your arm. Your father's actions shouldn't have dictated your fate. They were his mistakes, not yours."

Draco doesn't speak. His voice will waver and he never appears weak if the option is presented. Instead, his jaw hardens and he pays mind solely to a chip in the counter. It could very well be new, as he's never found particular interest in it before.

The blond can clearly visualize each of Potter's features without breaking contact with the chip- impressive, if he must admit, after all the time that's passed between their last meaningful encounter. Draco can't describe it, but it's more of a feeling. He can sense the regret. The lightly masked resentment and self-righteousness. Potter's face is scrunched in mock concentration. To the untrained eye, he seems to be focusing. To Draco, he's in the middle of unwarranted self-loathing. Blaming himself for a life he couldn't save completely. His nostrils flare in misdirected anger while teeth grind. Potter's never been known for maintaining emotional stability.

Maybe that's better than remaining a bitter statue.

"I could have been better, Potter. I'm not innocent. Nor do I wish to appear as such. I'm surviving the best I can."

Potter fumbles in measurement as though he's been assaulted and insulted in some way. Flour falls onto the floor and continues to spill until he acquires the good senses to spell the mess back into its original bag.

"You shouldn't have to be surviving." The last word is hissed, like it is physically burning Potter to say. And Draco isn't certain where the passion's come from, but he ignores that question in the best interest of his sanity. "You're just as much a hero as anyone else in that war."

"Lovely sentiment, but I can't compete with the Boy Who Lived. I'll bet my stunning disposition that your fan base is a bit larger than my own."

"I wouldn't be here without you," he whispers. "I never thanked you for that."

"Please, Potter," it trips over his lips more needy than he will ever consciously admit to. "You don't owe me anything. So, unless you're here to learn about enchanted teas, I suggest you take your leave and we can both forget your lapse of judgment and get on with our lives before someone gets the wrong idea that lands me in Azkaban."

"I'm not here because I owe you anything."

"And you don't owe my mother anything either," Draco clarifies. "You did more than enough for both of us and we wouldn't hold you to a life debt."

"I'm not here to pay any life debt," Potter insists. "I don't know why I'm here, really."

"Surely your band of gingers and Granger are missing you. You have a home, Potter. Why don't you go back to it?"

"Would you stop saying my name like that?"

The blond ceases his incessant stirring and finally retracts his gaze from the minuscule chip to quirk a sincere eyebrow in confusion. "Like what?"

"Like I'm some sort of insect you're just missing the mark on. Aren't we past all of this tiptoeing around each other? We can be friends."

"And why the bloody hell should we be?" The question's worthy of being asked since its answer is absurd. The noble lion and the poisonous snake living in the same area of an invested swamp in mutual harmony…

Impossible.

Potter stands as if he means to leave. "I don't know about you, but I'm tired of having enemies." He holds his hand outwards. Draco shakes it and denotes the curiously strange feel of the hero's hand in his. It's hardened by years of labor, yet softer than he's imagined. It's firm with a touch of hesitation. For once in their history, Draco is the keeper of Potter's pride- and unlike their early encounters, the former Slytherin has no desire to shame this man. He smiles warmly and releases Draco's hand. "I should be going. Thank-you for letting me help a bit."

"You're welcome."

"If you'd like, I tend to frequent this little pub on my end of town called The Womping Willow. More magically inclined folk. I'll be there tomorrow evening around nine or so if you'd care to join me."

Not allowing a moment for a proper response, Potter turns on his heal with a wave and departs- leaving Draco in a state of both uncomfortable awe and mind-numbing uncertainty.

Fortunately, he's too far behind in his work to analyze anything outside of measuring cups.

---

"Heard anything about Draco Malfoy lately?"

Hermione sets Hugo inside a large, golden crib and sighs as her hair tags along with him. The baby babbles excitedly before the witch mutters a calming charm with soft musical accompaniment.

"I haven't thought about him in ages," she answers gently, backing slowly away towards the door in some feeble attempt to escape without her son's knowing. Hugo sniffles dejectedly and is immediately wrapped in his mother's arms. "Not since they auctioned off some of the larger possessions at his Manor a few years back. Death Eater relics. It's amazing what people will buy." She bounces the bundle carefully against her chest. He's grown significantly in this last year and Hermione can hardly find a suitable position for him anymore. "Why do you ask?"

Harry shrugs. "I ran into him at the hospital. His mother's ill. Terminally."

"How dreadful," she thinks, unconsciously holding Hugo a bit tighter. "That's a shame after what she did for you during the war. Lovely woman when it's all said and done. She even thanked me personally. Apologized for Lucius and for his part with Draco. For her sister. Though, she did pay quite a hefty price."

The Chosen One looks to the branded scar of his best friend's arm and winces with a pain he'll never know.

"Molly's never to be trifled with when it's one of her own."

"Molly's never to be trifled with."

Hermione laughs lightly, realizing Hugo's finally fallen asleep, and taking extra care to lead him safely to his mattress. She tucks a blanket beneath his chubby sides and beams when he kicks the offensive bit of cloth away.

"Stubborn like his father," the witch muses and presses a kiss to her son's forehead. "And Godfather."

"And mother," Harry teases with a wink.

The pair shuffles out of Hugo's presence and down towards Hermione's study where she collapses gracefully atop an oversized, plush recliner. "I love the boy, honestly. But, he knows when Ronald's away and he knows that's his time to drive me insane."

"I never thought you'd be the permissive parent."

Hermione's laugh feels empty in the company of a silent room. "I never thought I'd be a parent."

True to his martyr form, Harry's stomach drops through to the floor. If the witch never experienced parenthood, the fault would be entirely his own. His face pales, and were the woman not suffocating herself by use of the inside of her elbow, she would notice.

She notices everything.

"If you haven't figured it out, I can read your silences by now. And you know you couldn't have stopped me from helping you even if you actually used that ridiculous amount of magic you ignore."

The brightest witch of our age, indeed.

"I am curious about Malfoy, though- to casually change the subject."

The Boy Who Lived smiles at her efforts and recounts his earlier and partially planned run-ins with the ever-elusive Malfoy heir. Hermione finds incredible peculiarity in the notion of a Muggle café. She finds the idea of Harry's own curiosity to be quite predictable, as he's always managed to stalk the young man rather obsessively.

"I wouldn't call it stalking," he defends. "More of a polite, keeping in touch without his permission sort of relationship."

Hermione rolls her eyes and adjusts herself to a more comfortable position. "Why exactly do you want to see him tonight? I mean, what would Ginny say?"

Harry shrugs. He really hasn't the slightest idea of what his wife would say.

---

The pub smells a combination of vomit and gin and if sounds were smells, they would hardly rank as pleasant odors either.

Harry lingers later than he likes for the weekend crowd. He's waited hours now- completely sober in an environment advocating otherwise.

Suddenly, the Boy Who Lived is with company and he needn't turn to know it's the man he swears hasn't kept him firmly in place.

"Malfoy," he welcomes curtly and ushers the tender over. "What're you drinking?"

"As much alcohol as the law allows, Potter." Malfoy winces as whatever's been poured in a shot glass drowns the lining of his throat. "Three weeks. It's spread to her blood and they're giving her three weeks."

Because it's the only comfort he's certain of, he calls for another round, allowing the distressed man his share. An abrupt urge to pat Malfoy's back or hold onto his trembling hands worries Harry deeply. He's had an inordinate amount of practice in repression and seals the traitorous thoughts away.

It's only your guilt passing.

"She's going to die amongst Muggles, Potter. My own mother- dying in a Muggle hospital bed." He laughs, the sound hysterical and exhausted. "Cheers, eh?"

Again, with a harsh echo, a shot glass smashes against the stained, wooded countertop. Malfoy's eyes already begin to redden and Harry contemplates slowing him down. Judging by the rapid continuation, though, he's sure his efforts will be futile, and opts to remain sober for the both of them.

A wonderful choice as Draco will drink them both out of house and home within the smallest amount of time Harry's ever witnessed such a substantial amount of alcohol disappear.

"Maybe if she were the Chosen One's mum they'd invent a miracle."

"My mum's already dead, Malfoy," Harry reminds with little bite. He's through with bitterness and it's quite obvious the former Death Eater needs to direct his anger somewhere.

"That's right. Almost forgot the hero's an orphan, too. Well, we'll have that in common soon!" The Boy Who Lived doesn't rise to the occasion- he won't be baited like a child. And he's survived this long without the luxury of a childhood, so why begin the antics now? "I'm sorry," Malfoy slurs. "S'not your fault. Just wish I could do something. Magic wouldn't even help."

And again, Harry fights past the ridiculous urge to physically comfort- the exertion causing a visible shudder to wrack his frame.

"That's why I opened the shop, y'know? So I could test things to make her feel better. I just wanted her to feel happy, Potter. Good and happy, Potter. Like the way she makes me feel. I'm gonna be lonely without her. She loves me more than the whole world, Potter."

The former Gryffindor requests a check and cringes as Malfoy drains one last mixed drink he cannot remember ordering. He stumbles away from his stool and knocks a few pool players into each other. Harry tries to collect the flailing man in his arms before he can harm himself or the Muggle group forming to observe his highly inebriated state, but Malfoy's already at the door to the pub and into the fortunately empty streets.

He looks to be smelling the night and his breath colors the cool air around him. An innocence Harry doesn't recognize momentarily masks the hopelessness once worn on the youngest Malfoy.

"The stars," he yells. "They're everywhere! And they're always twinkling. My mum wasn't named after the stars like I was."

"Let's get you home, Malfoy. It's not very safe to Apparate, but I can walk you back to your shop."

"Ickle Potty's taking me home? How chivalrous of you! It's past the savior's bedtime! Stop, World- Potty needs a nap!" Malfoy's chuckle is dark and rumbles from the pits of his stomach outward. He trips over himself and onto the soiled ground beneath his feet. With the wind knocked from his lungs, the former Slytherin quiets and stills from the shocking blow. "Take me home, please."

Hoisting the man from lying to swaying upright, Harry huffs and wraps a secure arm about his waist- nearly carrying, or at least dragging, the corpse against his side.

"You look much lighter than the deadweight you are, Malfoy." He mutters something unintelligible and Harry apprehends the git is falling asleep. "Wake the hell up! I can't carry you for two miles. Try talking to me. Stay awake and keep moving your feet. We'll walk at your pace."

"Why do you go drinking every night?"

"I haven't much tonight. You've had enough for the both of us."

Malfoy slumps- clearly sober enough to still manage annoyance. "Why're you usually out drinking, git face."

If we were friends, I would love reminding him of his impressive vocabulary.

"Same reason you are, more than likely."

"Your mum's dying of cancer?"

Feeling nostalgic, Harry loosens his grip, which causes the blond to fumble in step and nearly crash into some embarrassing heap atop the sidewalk. "We've been over this, Malfoy. She's already dead. One more crack and I'm paying you back for that broken nose."

"M'sorry. Please tell me why you go to that foul smelling place so often."

"Helps me forget to blame myself."

"How'd you know I do that? You're no legi-legili-legimemenems. You weren't even a proper octopus."

Perhaps we needn't be friends to hold this over his head.

"You're quite right on the octopus part." Malfoy positively beams with pride and even picks up his pace a tad faster than a dying snail. Harry's eyes roll on their own account and he snorts at the amusing turn his life has made. "Maybe we've both got more in common than you realize."

"Is your mum dy-."

"Malfoy," he growls in warning while a chuckle is felt tickling his ribs from the outside.

"Teasing, Potter. What do you do anyway? You've got all sorts of free time to come stalk me even to a deathbed. What sort of job gives a man luxury like that? Unless that is your job and they've finally found a way to lock me up for good."

The former Gryffindor shakes his head. "I was an Auror with Ron for a while. Quit two years ago."

"Too many bad guys? Not enough good people to save, eh?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Not the right people I was saving's more like it…

"And how about you, Malfoy? Weren't you engaged since birth? How come Greengrass isn't around to comfort you?"

The blond actually laughs genuinely- the sound permeating the otherwise clear, early morning air. "She may be in labor with Blaise Zabini's second or third by now. He always wanted a big family. So did she. I get a card on Christmas, though. All our love."

"Sounds like the Weasley's card."

They walk a bit further, Malfoy's café only a few blocks away. "This is me, Potter," the former Slytherin stops and glances upwards towards a ratty looking apartment complex. "I've got the top one so I don't have to hear all the ruckus my neighbors make." He pats his clothing, releasing another prideful grin as his keys are located. "Wanna come up for a bit?"

"I think I should head home. It's late and I've got some errands tomorrow."

"Suit yourself, Potter. You're missing out on a great view of the back alley, though."

Another time, Harry thinks and smiles as he turns to leave.

"Potter!" Malfoy hollers too loudly considering their close distance and time of day. The Boy Who Lived revolves carefully, stuffing his hands into his denims and raising a brow in confusion. "Ever end up marrying that smaller Weasel?"

His face becomes solemn and amused all at once. "I did." The answer is as simple as an explanation would be complicated.

Malfoy purses his lips for a breath and scrunches his nose in distaste. "Lucky little bint, she is."

And for an array of reasons, Harry cannot bring himself to agree.

---

Draco rouses from a deadly serious slumber to a light far too bright not to be dangerous. He's well past late to open the shop and heaves a sigh of relief as Stephen manages to open without burning the place to the ground. Not out of lacking finesse, but out of spite and possible insurance claims.

Sneaky bastard.

On cue, the snarky, temporary manager mouths, 'you're welcome,' through the window. Draco refuses to acknowledge the man and continues towards the hospital. He's greeted warmly by the front desk and almost seductively by the youngest nurse.

The sight is disconcerting to say the least.

"Mr. Malfoy, what brings you back?"

Confused, he imitates what he believes sounds like a chuckle. "My mother's surely awake by now."

"Your mother was removed from the facility about three hours ago. A man came by with all the right paper work. Said he had a personal caretaker lined up."

"And he left a note!" the oldest orderly recollects and reveals a small, folded piece of parchment from her scrub pockets.

Malfoy, I know you're panicking, but if you'll just head to the Manor, everything will make sense. –HP

Potter hasn't made an appearance in just over a week and Draco's become very satisfied with the idea that it's all been a nightmare. There's a certain comfort in disturbed meta-reality.

They should look into security here before someone's actually kidnapped.

Fucking Potter.

His apartment luckily shelters a fireplace capable of travel in the unlikely event the Malfoy heir should ever be invited back to the world he's counted himself apart from.

A pang of hesitation rises before the initial shock of courage tosses Draco through the floo and onto the floor of Malfoy Manor. He's surprised his blood still commands entrance to the home, but doesn't question luck if it mistakenly falls in his court.

"Potter! Wherever you are in this bloody house, come out this instance! I'm not legally supposed to be five miles of this place and I'm in the very middle of it!"

He lands on the bottom floor and climbs a dust-filmed staircase towards the bedrooms. Potter emerges with timid steps and arms held in peaceful surrender.

Draco, in a sudden, blind rage, tackles the Chosen One none-too-gently into the nearest wall. With or without a wand, the former Slytherin would never consider revoking his right to break another facial bone of Potter's face.

"Tell me where the fuck you've put my mother, Potter," he spits with a beastly snarl. "She may have a fucking week and you remove her from the hospital? I don't care if you're some immaculate savior to the Wizarding World! You're nothing but a self-entitled bastard, you-."

"Keep. It. Down!" a woman shrills. "Narcissa will wake if you two don't mind your bickering. A dull roar or leave."

"Madame Pomfrey? What are you doing here?"

The witch brushes past the wizards still wrapped in something less than a friendly embrace and paces with a stuttered quickness remembered from Hogwarts.

"I've been retired and working privately since the war, Mr. Malfoy. Your friend caught me at a good time. I'm usually booked one appointment to the next. But, for Harry Potter, there's not much room for debate, is there?" She's teasing- as much as the bitter old thing can tease with two boys who left her quite busy for most of their schooling. "Now, do be quiet or I'll have you both removed. Understood?" Potter nods while Draco stumbles gaping- still stunned in shocked awe. "Good to see you, Mr. Malfoy."

"Draco?"

The blond turns fiercely enough to tumble over himself and yet manages to follow the weak voice into the master bedroom once shared by both Narcissa and Lucius.

"Mother," he breathes a sigh of heavy relief. "Are you all right? I'm so sorry. You should know I had nothing to do with having you moved and I'll get us away from here as soon as I can before anyone shows up and-."

She shushes him with a tired smile and ushers him to her bedside. He falls to a knee immediately and takes hold of his mother's terribly delicate hand.

"I know you didn't. Mr. Potter stopped by to visit me last week. Illegally after hours, of course. But, he wanted to know if I'd prefer living at home."

"You never said anything about Potter coming to see you. Why wouldn't you tell me?"

Before Narcissa can speak, the Chosen One interrupts, "I asked her not to. I wasn't entirely sure if I could pull it off and I didn't want to get your hopes up."

"Just my mother's?" Potter doesn't argue, he shrugs once and makes for departure. "Stay in the hallway. I want a word with you." The Boy Who Lived halts by the door, his head hanging in resemblance to a scorned puppy before nodding once.

Draco's stomach turns strangely at the sight- not in disgust or anxiousness, but something akin to unwarranted dominance. Guilt-ridden and ashamed.

Narcissa clears her throat as her son seemingly loses himself in thought. "You're happy here?"

Her smile brightens in a healthy glow and she leans forward with a strength Draco had forgotten, kisses his forehead, and squeezes the hands in hers.

"I'm going to take a nap, call Poppy, would you?"

"Of course, Mother."

The heir readies to call for Madame, though trained- he's certain- to know when needed before necessary, she appears and shoos Draco away.

Potter waits, his face still torn from chastising. His shoulders slump forward pitifully and he looks nothing like the confidant hero Draco recalls from school- no false bravado in sight.

"Come out to the garden with me. Mother's trying to rest and I can't promise I won't yell at some point. I don't trust your temper, either."

The Chosen One follows obediently in silence close behind, too close for Draco's comfort, but he makes no comment otherwise.

It's one sensation to assume presence behind you and another sensation entirely to know presence lurks behind you.

They reach a garden untended for years, yet just as lush and vibrant as it's ever been. Draco admires the beauty magic can preserve and inhales a deep breath of vaguely familiar scents.

"What's your angle, Potter? What is it that you want from my mother and I?"

The former Gryffindor shuffles from left to right, bouncing nervously. "I want nothing from either of you. The Manor's yours- after the darker magical relics were removed, it should have been given back to you. Since your father, well, you know-."

"Died?"

Potter's mouth rises gratefully. "You're the owner of this residency, now. The Ministry's always known that. They're just made of bitter old men scared away by a couple of mangled tattoos."

"Easy for the Savior of the Wizarding World to say. For one, you don't own one of these lovely pieces of art, and two, you killed You Know Who without a killing curse."

Potter waves his hands in protest. "Regardless of my past, it wasn't fair for them to keep what wasn't theirs. It's yours now, and so is this." Potter fiddles around his back pocket for something hardly larger than a needle and mumbles at it. The needle grows and Draco easily recognizes the bit of wood as his wand. "It's done some remarkable things," he says offhandedly. "Take care of it, yeah?"

"It probably won't work for me." Still, though, he eyes his old friend with nostalgic longing.

"You'd be surprised. They're a sentimental lot- I have a feeling it would come quite easily to a person who's never rejected or abandoned it."

Before he can chase away his repressed dream of regaining his magic, Draco rips the wand from Potter's hand and feels a tingle tickle through his palm.

"It's not quite right."

"Give something a try. Something simple."

He ignores the accidental condescension and concentrates intensely. "Lumos."

A dim light glows momentarily at the tip- flickering twice before brightening to its full potential. Draco smiles disbelievingly at the sight and releases a staggered breath.

"Still got it, eh?"

"Potter, I don't know- I mean, you've just-." He's stuttering and fumbling over himself in a way most undignified to the Malfoy's legendary collectedness. He's embarrassed, but Draco never thought to prepare for this moment. Dozens of other scenarios entered his mind along with dozens of rehearsed reactions.

Nothing like this.

The Boy Who Lived shrugs in that infuriating way meant to show his understanding without threatening the receiving end of his graciousness. "It's yours. And so is the Manor."

"Do you always have to do the right thing?"

"I'm a Gryffindor- it's all we know how to do," he answers cheekily.

"Even for the wrong sort?"

Potter's face hardens instantaneously. His fists open and close tightly as his jaw clenches and teeth grind.

"You're not the wrong sort." The words are hissed and have an acidic feel to them. Draco knows this side of Potter well. He can nearly envision their school selves beginning a tussle in this tone. "You never were."

There's such a conviction in his voice. And if Draco weren't so irritated with his goodness, he'd admire that sort of confidence. However, Potter's still very much the hero of this story and Draco must physically restrain himself from choking the bastard.

"Thanks, I think. Coming from you, that should mean something."

"And it doesn't mean anything to you?" It's part question and part statement. The certainty once coloring his role in this dialogue disappears. Draco returns his own shrug of indifference and Potter smirks. "Good. I'd like it if you chose to stay that way."

And I'd like it if you took a flying fuck at the moon.

"Wouldn't dream otherwise."

He's fidgeting again, though not from nerves- perhaps a tick or he means to be elsewhere. Either, or, it's contagious and the blond can feel his palms begin to sweat.

"I should be-."

"Right, yeah. I'll see you around, Potter."

His exit seems too mechanical for comfort, but Draco hasn't the mind to dissect such strange activity from the Boy Who Lived.

"I'll be around, y'know. If you ever need someone to talk to," Potter shouts and continues his leave. Draco stares after him and pinches his arm to discern dreaming. The pain's a good enough indicator, but a poor distraction from the very real encounter that's just passed.

For now, in the hero's wake and the sudden onslaught of loneliness, Draco glances at the wand in his hand and decides he can grow accustomed to the foreign extension.

---

The doctor's haven't lied. Narcissa's time has been scheduled to the very last scrap of time available to her. Poppy, as Madame insists on being called, does everything she can to make the journey comfortable.

"Sometimes," she says to Draco in confidence, "all one needs is a hand to hold when they're going home. An ear to listen. A voice to help ignore the one in their head. Your mother's very strong. And you'd do well to drop this distant pureblood teaching and be with her the way you need to be."

Draco nibbles at his bottom lip and glances over Poppy's shoulder towards his mother's room. A dim light escapes the crack separating the door from the wall and he wants nothing more than to weep at her bedside until far after she's left that vessel.

"How long did they say?"

He knows this answer, but hearing it again- outside of the voice in his head- helps to lessen the load. Like this thought is no longer his own, but a shared entity. A shared reality.

"She may not last the night, my dear." Her smile is sad with a touch of comfort and weariness. Poppy's never left death or discomfort. Draco can only imagine what that's like and his heart breaks when he realizes he's well acquainted with the idea.

Cautiously, as though sound may trigger a faster soul's release, Draco walks the tips of his toes across eggshells to his mother's bedside. He kneels and rests a stiffened chin against the mattress beneath Narcissa.

His eyes close and open rapidly- he won't cry if he can manage the feat.

"You never told me," she rasps, "about Moody making you do all those funny things."

It wasn't Moody… he wants to say. Instead, he chuckles and loses himself in the sound of his mother's voice- clinging hopelessly. "Did Potter tell you that?"

Narcissa doesn't answer, but her expression tells all. "He's a lovely boy- excuse me- man. I must remember you're not boys anymore. You're both such lovely young men."

More like a pain in my-

"You shouldn't shut yourself away, Draco. There are people out there who miss you- people who will love you as I do."

Leave it to his mother to lie dying and still manage to make Draco the victim. "I'm not worth it, Mother."

"Of course you are. And I'm not the only one to see it."

"Father doesn't count."

"I wasn't referring to Lucius, though he did love you. He saw a potential in you, Draco."

Tears threaten to fall, and to humor Poppy- at least that's how he would remember the moment- Draco allows one after the other to spill. "And I let him down. I couldn't be the man he wanted me to be."

She opens her eyes- and it's clear her vision is blurred from tears and weakened concentration. "That's why he was so proud of you. You were so brave and confident and loving. Nothing like the man he grew to be. He admired you, Draco. He always regarded you as more than he ever was."

"Really?" he croaks, his voice broken in disbelief.

"Really. People respect you, dear. And they could love you if you'd allow them the opportunity."

"I don't care about them. I love you."

"And I love you, Draco. A little thing like death can't change that. You're a gift and I was selfish not to share you."

He breaks entirely. Every molecule holding him together separates and the repressed fear and disgust he's held for himself and the world seeps through to the very top- boiling over in a chaos of emotion he's not quite ready to stomach.

His mother's still here, though, and with that in mind, he crumbles completely.

"Shh, Love. Shh," she coos gently. "It's all right. Everything will be fine. You'll see."

"But, Mum-."

"I'm glad you're with me." The witch is drifting and her breathing comes in smaller, shallower breaths. "Don't be afraid, Draco. I'm always here."

With her last efforts, she lifts a hand to her son's face, brushing away the hair from his dampened skin and clearing the path tears have created.

"I love you, Mum. Always." Draco kisses the palm at his cheek lightly only a moment before the hand falls.

And like a gust of air against a flame, she's gone.

---

The night's cooler than he expects. His pullover only deters the chill momentarily and Harry forces his legs to move twice as fast in order to reach the heated pub before his toes freeze.

He can hear the bar before he sees it- something he again doesn't expect on a Thursday evening. There's shouting and the sound of glass breaking.

Old Auror instinct emerges as Harry ducks out of the way of a mug that crashes outside of the pub rather than the side of his face.

"Malfoy?"

"You know this guy?" someone shouts behind him. It's the regular tender, chair in hand, and a look he believes will tame whatever beast Malfoy's unleashed. "He's breaking everything! He punched four of my regulars and we've got an ambulance on the way for two of them."

He'll hate me for this.

Time stops. Objects hover and people pose lifelessly as the wordless charm sets.

This includes Malfoy. A simple line of spells reorganize the room and disrupt recent memories. Fortunately, the heir isn't the heaviest man Harry's had to maneuver, and his complete lack of struggle doesn't hurt.

The spell will wear off in the bar, and if not, the sight will surely stun an onlooker. Harry decides to leave the scene in Apparation, convinced the whole ordeal will work itself out better with Malfoy not in attendance.

Malfoy's flat is exactly as Harry's left it- not that he ever expected it to change. Inhaling perhaps his last breath, he releases the blond and prepares for some sort of physical blow.

"Come on now! Potter? Where the piss have I- What're you doin' here? What'm I doin'ere? Why're we at my house?"

"You were destroying the pub, and beat a few people senseless, I'm told. Couldn't very well have that."

Harry's calm and maintaining a volume he hopes doesn't trigger something violent in the blond.

"Limey twat called my chin pointy!" Malfoy accuses, spinning haphazardly and pointing at a man nonexistent.

"It is pointy, and even if it weren't, how does that justify taking on an entire pub?"

Malfoy's eyes are wild and unfocussed, Harry knows that predatory gleam and the makings of a snarl solidify his uneasiness. Suddenly, the inebriated man pounces, and out of confusion, the Boy Who Lived receives the blow with little fight.

Something's not quite right about this anger.

It isn't meant for Harry- or the man from the pub. It's a blind rage capable of destroying all in its path.

Back against the soiled ground and catching the wind lost to his lungs, Harry allows fingers to claw and fists to pound his chest. The effort is weak. Pitiful. If anything, a bruise may form in the morning.

As soon as the abuse begins, it finishes. Malfoy's heaving, his face red from exertion and drink. Normally icy grey eyes are nearly black and holding back something akin to desperation. The hands clenched in the fabric of his shirt loosen slightly. He's disoriented and searching Harry's face hopelessly for answers unasked.

He's so broken. Like me…

But, beautiful.

Slowly, the Chosen One allows the latter thought to sink back into its depth before extending a hand towards Malfoy's cheek and ushering the man forward. The former Slytherin collapses against Harry's chest and begins to sob instantly. The same guiding hand snakes into blond hair and cards through golden strands.

"Shh," Harry breathes. "I've got you." He wants to say things will be all right, but they never will be. Not with this sort of pain. This is something you learn to live with. Something that dulls only to return tenfold. "I've got you."

Despite the mild discomfort provided by the sidewalk, Harry remains in position and only stills as he feels Malfoy freeze beneath his touch.

The former Slytherin jerks backwards, crawling on his palms until he's an arm's length from the Boy Who Lived. Harry doesn't follow. Instead, he stares upwards and squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could disappear into the pavement for intruding on another's despair.

A throat clears in the midst of his turmoil and Harry defeats his cowardice only through curiosity to find a hand offered to assist his stance.

He eyes the appendage warily. Malfoy sighs and raises his brows, "I'm helping you up, idiot."

Concerned more by the prospect of refusing a challenge from this man, Harry accepts the assistance and rises to his feet- dusting the dirt from his backside.

"Come up if you'd like, Potter."

He nods his assent and Malfoy makes to unlock the lobby's front and trail the stairs to the third floor. A few false starts brought on by drunken fumbling at the door ensue in prelude to Malfoy finally opening the dingy chunk of wood separating the pair from his flat.

Harry isn't surprised at the sight greeting him. Every last inch of the studio is too clean. Like a museum Harry's afraid he may disturb if he looks too hard.

A bit like Draco.

Draco…

His throat dries.

"Would you like some tea or can we move past the formalities and get straight to the point?"

"Huh?" Harry mutters intelligibly.

Draco- Malfoy- rolls his eyes and sifts through cupboards for two identical mugs. An automatic teakettle is activated. Harry watches with a keen interest this man in his natural habitat. The motions are so smooth and practiced. He can hardly believe this is the same person throwing blows at strangers nearly an hour ago.

"She passed, Potter. My mother. She's dead."

Of course he's figured this out. Despite what Hermione believes, he can read people on occasion when he's familiar enough with the scenario.

But Draco needs to say this- to solidify this moment.

He turns as the water boils to look at his company. His eyes have begun to water.

"She died. She's gone."

Again, Harry nods. Draco blinks as if this reality might change. The bewilderment evident across his face tells the Chosen One he's disappointed in his discovery.

"What do I do now?"

"There's nothing to do."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "There's always something." Harry shakes his head and Draco strides towards him in response. His gaze scrutinizes each pore of Harry's face- as though some hidden secret will reveal itself. "I can't feel anything, Potter."

"What do you want me to do?" The rush of emotion startles the Boy Who Lived. He shouldn't be so involved. He shouldn't be so wrapped up in a life so distant from his own.

And yet, his only desire falls in line with removing the dread from Draco's face. A futile desire as he's unable to bring back the dead.

"You save everyone all the time," he gulps, his hands moving to the hem of his shirt and removing the article. "You have to save me from myself tonight."

"Draco, I-." He doesn't mean to say his given name and he's absolutely certain the blond's heard if the sudden intake of breath is anything to go off of.

"Please?" he begs weakly and fiddles shyly with the buttons near Harry's neck. "I need to feel something other than this. I'll never ask you to save me again. Please."

It's the former Gryffindor's turn to gulp. He's never been with a man and as far as he knows, neither has Draco.

"You don't even like me," Harry tries to reason, as he can't say he hasn't developed an ironic sort of fondness for the blond.

"Harry," Draco pleads once more.

He surrenders.

---

It's well into the early morning when the blond finally sleeps. Harry gathers his discarded clothing and can't flee the scene quickly enough. His stomach churns and head pounds with an intensity he's never felt prior to this. His body aches. His mind races.

He's exhausted.

What would Ginny say?

---

Draco hears the door ease into its mechanisms. He's alone again with his thoughts.

What have I done?

---

The service is short and the number of mourners is slim. His mother rests six feet below the surface of the earth beneath a stone reading, In Loving Memory, Always: Narcissa Malfoy.

Aunt Andromeda's idea.

"I love you, Mum," he whispers to the poor representation.

"Malfoy?"

Draco head snaps over his shoulder at the disturbance. Granger and Potter stand unexpectedly with a child in tow. He wonders momentarily if the boy is shared between them and quickly dismisses the idea, as it possesses every trait of a Weasley.

"What are you doing here?"

"Andromeda said her and Teddy would be here. We're just here to offer our sympathies."

Granger- probably Weasley, now- walks confidently forward and kneels at the gravestone to place a bundle of white roses at its base. "Thank-you," she says, kisses the tips of her fingers and presses them onto the chilled surface. "If you ever need anything, Draco, never hesitate to ask."

The child at her side fusses furiously and yanks the witch's arms none too gently.

"Excuse me, boys. Harry, I'll be over with Teddy. Perhaps he can occupy Hugo for a time."

Tense silence encompasses the wizards. Potter won't cease his silly habit of ruffling his already chaotic mop of hair and Draco wants to shout obscenities at the man. He stifles the urge just barely- managing only to showcase his utter embarrassment and shame for his previous actions.

"Look, Potter, about the other night."

"I understand."

Understand? "Let me explain."

"I understand."

Draco purses his lips in aggravated thought. "No, really. Let me explain."

"You were in a vulnerable position and I shouldn't have handled the situation so irresponsibly. It was my fault. I hope you can forgive me."

Fucking martyr. "Nothing to forgive, Potter. I shouldn't have taken advantage of your hero complex. I'd say we're even."

Potter's smile is uncertain, but at least in existence. Perhaps he hasn't decided Draco's the scum of the earth.

"Good. I'm going to see what Teddy's been up to if you'd like to come with me."

The heir takes one long, lingering look at his mother's final resting place and stalks ahead of Potter towards the small group at the gates of the graveyard. The former Gryffindor immediately finds his Godson, becoming engrossed in his company.

"He's so good with Teddy and Hugo. Would be lovely if he had a son of his own," Granger-Weasley remarks sadly.

"Is Ginevra against the idea? Too many freckles?"

"Oh, Draco, I thought you would have known." Her tone is one of moderate mortification at revealing something seemingly kept secret. "Ginny died a few years ago."

"He never mentioned it."

Hermione- he tries- nods knowingly. "I suppose he wouldn't. He's never been one to offer up his problems to the public."

"How did she…"

"Cancer," the witch supplies. "Harry quit everything to stay with her until the end of it."

Somehow, Draco feels a tinge of betrayal then readily remembers he and Potter aren't friends.

They aren't anything.

They're finally even.

Grey eyes connect hesitantly with green. The attention serves as little to no reassurance.

How could he allow others to love him if no one had the desire to do so?

---

Months pass. Spring blooms in full- its colors drowning winter's grey. Teddy's birthday nears and Andromeda requests Draco's attendance. Not so much for the good nature of his company, but to appraise his well-being.

More than likely a sister's unspoken agreement.

If ever I should die, look after him.

A lovely conversation between a family of strangers.

Until now, he's managed to dismiss his aunt completely. However, due to the event at hand- Teddy's eleventh birthday- Draco succumbs to the woman's wishes.

He lives in the Manor once again. Though, he's convinced he'll leave it once he's sifted through enough forgotten possessions. His mother's have been particularly grueling and daunting- taking much longer than he previously anticipated.

It's absolutely not her memory prolonging the process.

Absolutely not.

In the midst of his unbiased search, Draco stumbles upon a photo album including some photos of Teddy's late mother. Carefully, he removes each from its original placement and pastes it into a new collection.

Hopefully this boy's the type for quality over quantity.

Knowing the general lineage, Draco reckons it can fare either way.

---

Teddy looks so much like Lupin, Harry thinks. When he isn't shifting into something else, he adds quickly as he watches the boy morph for the amusement of his friends.

"Remember when we were that young?" Hermione asks.

"I didn't know anything about magic yet."

"Think he'll be in Gryffindor?"

He's got the attitude of a Slytherin and the heart of a Gryffindor.

Harry shrugs.

Houses didn't matter much since the war. And, truth be told, the Hat could be swayed when necessary.

"Think we should help Ron?" The witch points towards the wizard in question currently buried beneath at least six children.

"He can handle them," Harry remarks calmly. What he's not certain of, in terms of manageability, is Draco Malfoy appearing out of seemingly nothingness at his Godson's birthday party.

"Harry," Hermione gasps as though he hasn't noticed their new guest.

"I know." Like moths to a flame, they've found each other. Harry's through with denying his obsession.

It's always been Draco.

"Will you go to him?" Harry shakes his head. "Will you do nothing?"

"There's nothing to do. He doesn't want saved."

"Is that all you're good for?" He despises her bluntness and admires it equally. She knows his insecurities and shortcomings. They're far beyond tiptoeing around each other. "Give him an ounce of credit, Harry. Not everyone wants a hero and that's not all you are."

"What does it matter?"

Hermione's head tilts to the side in her all knowing way. Years ago, he would have found the look condescending. Now it's routine and expected.

"It was a moment of weakness, Hermione. Nothing more."

"She wouldn't be disappointed, you know, if someone saved you for a change."

Andromeda pulls Teddy from a pile of reckless children in order to welcome Draco. Nervously, the man shifts from left to right foot. His gift is thrust into the child's outreached hands and Teddy immediately unfolds the wrapping to reveal its contents.

From such a distance away, Harry is rendered incapable of deciphering the gift himself, but judging by the reaction, he's convinced it has his broom beat.

Teddy grabs hold of Draco's arm and drags the reluctant man towards both Harry and Hermione. He's positively beaming while the former Slytherin looks none too pleased by this turn of events.

"Harry!" the boy shouts excitedly. "Look at what cousin Draco brought me for my birthday! It's just like the one you have of your mum and dad!"

Harry retracts his gaze from the blond in order to admire the book in his hands. Glancing at each page, he recognizes moving images of Tonks throughout her life.

Teddy has her smile.

"Isn't it cool? Now I'll always have my mum with me. Just like you, Harry."

The former Gryffindor gulps and offers a watery smile along with a nod. He closes and returns the book, ruffles Teddy's hair, and stares curiously at Draco. "It's perfect."

Teddy's grin reaches his ears as though the compliment is his. "I'm gonna go play with Ron now, okay?"

"Give'm hell," Harry encourages with a wink before Hermione slaps his arm and chases after the young Metamorphmagus.

"Ron, don't get your blood on that shirt! Molly will have a fit!"

Both Harry and Draco make poor attempts to conceal a chuckle. Their eyes no longer find each other interesting, but instead their feet seem to be in need of some extreme attention.

Harry's mouth flaps open and shut- constantly beginning and ending a conversation he hasn't yet invited.

"You look like a fish, Potter," Draco drawls bemused. "I'd hate to interrupt your inner monologue."

"Where'd you find the pictures?" Harry asks and ignores.

"Found them in some of Mother's old things." He shrugs. This gift will one day mean the world to Teddy and Draco can only shrug. Though, a brief glimmer of dismay passes and Harry wonders if perhaps the display is all pretense. "It's amazing the amount of junk accumulated in such a large space. In a few months, it should be ready to sell."

"You don't mean to stay?"

Again with the shrugging. "It's too big for one person. And it- it just feels emptier than it used to. A lot of upkeep, too," he quickly adds to evade his momentary lapse of speech control.

"How are you?"

Draco laughs- the sound hollow. "Surviving, Potter. How're you?"

Deciding his shoes have had enough appreciation, he focuses abruptly on the former Slytherin. "Surviving," he repeats with a wry smile.

A silence follows, though not as stressed as previously experienced. It would be comfortable were it not for the lingering questions pestering the air between them.

"Why didn't you tell me about your wife, Potter?"

Harry exhales a breath he doesn't have and suddenly finds himself choking. "I didn't think it would have made any difference."

"It would have at least given me some answers- some motive for your sudden reappearance."

"I didn't have a motive," he nearly scoffs- offended by the accusation.

"You thought if you could save me, perhaps the hurt would heal. A displacement of sorts. You can't forgive yourself that way. You can't forgive what can't be forgiven. And you can't save someone who never asked to be saved."

The Boy Who Lived smirks. He's got him. "But, you did."

And the subject is breeched that easily. Draco's façade falters and face tightens into a pursed scowl. "I was weak, Potter. I don't make a habit of it." The words are terse and do a fine impression of venom. "And you're one to talk- saving others because you can't save yourself. That's weakness. Too afraid to leave yourself in the care of others. You're not a God- stop acting like the world is your burden."

Harry's left speechless in Draco's wake.

---

Maybe he's right.

It isn't long before those words hold more weight than Harry anticipates. He's spent his life playing a hero he never meant to be- filling a position the general public set him in.

A life already written yields no surprises.

His story's finished- the published work anyway. And now, when the hand holding the pen has finally become his own, he hasn't the slightest idea what to write.

Control's a funny thing when you realize you've never really possessed it at all.

He considers writing Draco, seeing how he gets on without an author. He wants to know how the wizard can sense so much about Harry without having to ask.

He's curious to know if Draco's been unconsciously observing him- as he's observed Draco.

Making up his mind, he journeys towards the flat he normally avoids on his trips into town. If the blond isn't home, he'll turn back, and if he's available, well…

He doesn't think that far ahead. Anything further than his feet seems too anxiety inducing to contemplate.

The sky is painted black and only now does Harry realize the time of night. Too late as he now faces the lobby door. Too long he lingers with his finger a hair's breath away from pressing into the alarm for the third floor. Too ashamed to act and too desperate for answers.

Harry's hand twitches reflexively and the buzzer sounds. He waits apprehensively in the confines of a pregnant pause.

"Hello?" a tired voice startles followed by a yawn. "Can I help you?"

"Y-yes!" he stutters an octave and decibel higher than necessary. "I-I mean, yes. It's Harry Potter."

Without further explanation, another buzz sounds and the locks retread from their resting place with a snap.

The former Gryffindor treads quickly, nervous that his courage will diminish. Draco is posed with an aggravated casualness against his doorframe, clad in some Muggle band's t-shirt and a pair of worn pajama bottoms. His hair is wildly disheveled from sleep. His face looks exhausted, but much like Harry, his curiosity gets the better of him. He can't seem to decide whether or not to invite the man inside or push him down the stairs.

Either way, the night is bound to end in bloodshed and broken bones.

"What're you doing here, Potter?"

"You're through with the Manor?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, something Harry's noticing to be a means of composing himself from rage. "I don't care for sleeping there."

"How are you?"

"Potter, I don't want saved. I don't need saved. I'm fine. I will get along just fine." Draco takes a step back and grasps the door's edge as though he means to end this conversation. Harry stumbles forward and braces a hand against the door. "What do you want?" he almost whines. The tone has far too much bite to be considered a pure whine.

"I want saved," Harry whispers.

Draco sighs and rolls his eyes. "Come in. I'll make tea."

---

"So, that's why you're not working with Ronald anymore. Don't want to have anyone's life on your hands again?"

Well into the early morning, Draco listens to the afterlife of the Chosen One. Ginevra passed much faster than Narcissa and the shock left Potter nearly paralyzed. He doesn't dwell on the past with the family he's grown into. They've suffered enough loss.

"What made you stop for me?"

"I know how this kind of hurt feels," he answers simply. "It's terrifying- being able to do nothing."

"But, you did everything for my mother." For me- he wants to add, but bites his tongue.

"It didn't make a difference."

"Damn-it, Potter! It made all the difference to us! My mother and I lost everything after Father died and you gave it back to us without asking anything in return."

He's fuming. Potter's never moved forward from his wife's death- from the war- from the cupboard under the stairs. He's carried the weight of the world for most of his life and Draco would slap the man if their history didn't assure displaced limbs along with mild violence.

"I don't think I loved her. Ginny, I mean. She loved me and I cared for her as my family… As I cared for Ron or Hermione, but I didn't love her in the same way she loved me. It wasn't fair. I lied to her. She never knew."

And it makes sense… The pieces finally fit. The other shoe falls.

Potter's guilt is justified.

"Would've been selfish if you told her."

"Pardon?"

"You're not a selfish person. You wouldn't have someone else sacrifice their happiness for yours when you would easily do the same without a second thought. Leaving her would have meant you were doing something for yourself. And that's not what the great Harry Potter does."

He's teasing in a sense, though the effort is tainted with truth.

"I don't know how to do things for myself," Potter confesses honestly.

"Well, what do you want?"

He thinks and finds a new position that allows him the ability to admire the ceiling. "I don't know."

"There's your problem. Stop troubling yourself with what everyone else wants."

"Is that what you do?"

Draco laughs. Never did he think the Boy Who Lived would be in his flat asking for advice on life choices.

There's certainly no other track record supporting the former Death Eater's decisions.

"It's what I've always done."

"That's not true," he counters. "I don't think you're selfish."

"Then why would you ask?"

"Because I wanted to know what you thought of yourself. You're just as twisted as I am. Just as broken. You're just better at it."

Try as he may, Draco cannot suppress the sneer that follows Potter's unintentional insult. "I didn't realize one could be better at being broken, you insensitive prick." He snatches his tea from the coffee table and nearly breaks the cheap glass with a careless toss to the sink. Draco grips the sharp edges of the countertop lining the sink and holds his breath, closes his eyes, and counts to ten.

Ready to see again, Potter's moved from the floor and has taken to standing unbearably close to Draco's person. He looks concerned, gnawing absently on his bottom lip and playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Draco's furious.

Not for rational reasons. Not for insulting him. Not for turning his world around yet again without his permission. Not for burdening him with problems unrelated to his own misfortune.

No. Not for any of those things.

He's furious because this man is temptation personified. He's remarkably oblivious of the effect he has on those around him. He's entirely good and that goodness is the most attractive quality he possesses. Draco wants to ease the worry lining his brow, carry some of the weight he burdens himself with.

Draco wants someone else to care for- the opportunity to save someone.

Slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, Draco turns fully towards Harry and cups his chin, brushing the pad of his thumb over Harry's worried lip. An unconscious tongue darts out and follows the thumb's path before disappearing.

"Let me take care of you," Draco murmurs and seals the offer with a brief kiss followed by another and another until the action is reciprocated. Harry doesn't delay, doesn't test the water before diving in. He takes and drowns himself in Draco like a man gone without water. He clings frightfully to the man's shirt and forgets to breathe- tearing the pair apart too quickly.

Draco rests his forehead against Harry's and strokes his jaw. His broken hero releases the now wrinkled garment in his hands and smoothes the fabric down to the hem, toying with what's exposed of his abdomen. The light touch sends excited chills through his entirety and forces a visible shiver.

"You're sure?" Harry whispers, lifting Draco's t-shirt past his navel and skimming over each new patch of skin.

Of course I'm fucking sure he wants to scream. Instead, Draco nods, gulps and finishes the task of removing his shirt and tossing it haphazardly to the side. Harry's eyes rake over Draco's scarred flesh and he's reminded of a foggy memory denoting the same repenting stare- the same regret.

"I'm sure you apologized last time. Try not to ruin it. I probably didn't care then and I sure as hell don't care now."

Suddenly, Harry falls to his knees, eyes still glued to raised skin.

"Potter, it's not- oh." All protests are stifled as Harry's tongue comes to lap at the crisscrosses marring Draco's otherwise perfect, creamy chest. "Harry," he gasps and the man freezes. Their gazes meet- lust clouding and disturbing normally brilliant irises. Without warning, Draco's sleeping pants are yanked to his ankles and he's engulfed in a heat unlike anything he's ever experienced. He stumbles back towards the counter and his head lulls to the side in abandon. Harry works quickly and expertly, something surprising to the blond.

He's the Chosen One. Of course he'd be brilliant at everything.

Harry pulls back with an audible pop and Draco nearly screams in frustration.

"Potter, you get back down there before I-." A hand muffles the remainder of his sentence and he takes this moment of silence to admire the man's swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Harry leans closer and locates the shell of Draco's ear with his tongue, teasing playfully before taking the lobe between his teeth and biting.

"Before you what?" the former Gryffindor instigates and saunters away. "Come along now- don't dilly-dally!" he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into Draco's bedroom.

The blond truly hates this wizard. With every fiber of his being. And yet, he follows- stepping out of his pants and finding merely a tinge of embarrassment in parading around his flat naked.

It's my flat. I'll do as I please.

Or as Potter pleases…

Do hush up, brain.

Upon entry, Draco ceases his inner debate to appreciate the sight of Harry Potter strewn across his less than satisfactory bed, checking for imaginary dirt beneath his nails- the perfect picture of boredom minus the smug smirk plastered to his lips.

Completely starkers.

"Merlin…" Draco breathes. He doesn't remember this body. He doesn't remember their first encounter. A brief tinge of longing for a memory unaccounted for strikes the former Slytherin and he greedily fills the gaps.

Starting with the soles of his feet, Draco marvels at strong, muscular limbs and taught, chiseled abdomen. Regardless of his absence in the field, Harry's retained his Auror's form. He's physically powerful and this fact seems to excite Draco more than his magical capabilities.

Harry glances away from his nails and a glimmer of insecurity flashes.

He's worried I'll change my mind.

And perhaps he will. For now, though, Draco's content to play the savior's role.

Feeling like a stranger in his own room, he approaches Harry as a thief may approach an opened window or unlocked door- alert to any sudden movements or changes, stealthy and silent as a shadow.

Harry's nerves seem to dissipate at Draco's advancement and his body loosens significantly. The blond climbs on hands and knees to position himself next to Harry. He's trying to remember and failing miserably.

"I don't know what to do," he confesses and turns his face towards the window overlooking an alleyway he can remember droning about.

Tips of fingers brush his jaw line and coax him away from the aesthetic view of another brick wall. Draco's met with clear, honest eyes and a sympathetic smile.

"Neither do I."

"But, we-."

"Never went further than this," Harry assures with a light kiss to his cheek.

Draco's relieved. He releases a genuinely giddy laugh and rolls overtop of the Boy Who Lived, running his hands over the former Auror's arms and snaking his fingers into Harry's hair to anchor himself to the man's face. The man tastes of cinnamon and oranges with just a hint of something unidentifiable.

He hopes, though, that he will have the opportunity to decipher the mystery- even if the answer only ever amounts to something uniquely Harry.

The idea isn't all too repulsive. Especially for an heir who has never considered the possibility of being intimate with a man.

Then again, Potter's always been the exception, hasn't he?

Draco trails kisses from Harry's lips to the hollow at his throat, lapping at the space and smirking as the Chosen One squirms beneath him. Moving lower still, he nibbles lightly before biting down on his collarbone and leaving a deep, red mark to tend to. Harry yelps in surprise and the sound deters Draco from his journey.

He glances away from the chest he intends to ravish and catches Harry with deeply flushed cheeks and hands fisted into sheets.

"Don't hold back," Draco whispers and blows cool air over a peaked nipple, making a path with his tongue towards the dip in Harry's navel. Eyeing the Chosen One's length and wondering idly if his throat can manage, he takes the wizard as deeply as he can without gagging.

A strangled cry sounds and Draco hums in appreciation, holding Harry's hips firmly to keep his thrusts at bay. Still maintaining his rhythm, he presses fingers towards Harry's lips. Fortunately, the Boy Who Lived needn't be told and his fingers are soon encompassed by a familiar heat and he can do very little to resist the groan ripped from his lungs that sends a sharp vibration through Harry's cock. The former Gryffindor releases the digits in a moan as Draco begins preparing him, one agonizingly slow finger at a time.

One after another disappearing. Draco searches blindly, still distracting Harry from the intrusion before locating that bundle of nerves he's been hunting.

"Draco, fuck!" Harry curses and the blond is certain he's found what he's looking for. "I'm ready. Please…"

The desperation in his voice nearly does Draco in, but he remains composed- reigning in the pureblood teachings he's scoffed at.

Harry's member slips from the former Slytherin's mouth. His jaw is sore, but by the wide, glassy-eyed stare of his counter, the sight mustn't be too disturbing.

Hoping to ease the eventual tension, Draco places a pillow beneath his counter's bottom and helps position Harry's legs accordingly. Slowly, gently, Draco breeches that tight ring of muscles, holding his breath for what feels like an eternity before he's fully sheathed. The ache to move builds rapidly, but he waits, hissing to quell his rabid desire.

Harry arches carefully, taking Draco deeper and the pair begin to move together. Their sigh of relief sounds in unison and the blond moves forward, crashing his hips and lips into Harry. They kiss sloppily and nip at bruised lips, touching each and every inch of skin available.

The former Gryffindor's eyes open and take Draco in with a mixed combination of adoration and awe. He looks younger, like the pain he's suffered may in fact be etching away after each thrust, each kiss.

Draco's stunned by this power and offers as much as Harry is willing to take.

And that, as he's coming to find, is quite a bit.

He understands now that Harry's spent his whole life giving without being given to or taking in return.

So, Draco gives everything he has in this moment- both punishing and forgiving himself and Harry. They were allowed to be broken.

And they were welcome to heal.

"I'm close," Harry whispers. "Touch me, Draco."

He takes the man in his hand and pumps in time with his own approaching orgasm.

They climax together, and at the height of his pleasure, Draco shouts, "I love you!" and collapses heavily atop the Boy Who Lived.

His post coital bliss is only shortly celebrated as he recollects his rather recently uncovered confession. Draco's body stiffens and Harry wraps a stern arm around the man's waist, silently asking him to calm.

"It's okay," he soothes gently and presses a soft kiss to the top of Draco's dampened hair. "We'll talk later."

Draco nods and focuses on the even breaths and constant heartbeat of the man still beneath him.

In moments, whether from sheer exhaustion or unconscious lulling, the blond falls into dream.

---

The bed feels cold when Harry wakes. No body rests beside or above him. He blinks to clear the sleep from his eyes and decides regardless of his attempt, he's alone.

A trembling hand cards through dried hair. His heart falls helplessly into his stomach.

He said he loved me…

People say crazy things in the throws of passion. And what could be crazier than Draco Malfoy falling in love with Harry Potter?

Suddenly, the door to this increasingly less foreign bedroom opens to reveal a dressed Draco and what looks to be two large, steaming cups of coffee by the smell of it.

"G'morning," he mutters in the company of a small smile.

Harry nods and accepts the coffee when presented. He wonders after tasting how Draco could possibly know how he took his drink, but decides to save that question for a more appropriate time.

"Feeling all right?" Draco asks and climbs into bed to sit beside a still very nude Harry. "I didn't want to wake you. It was getting late and all the good coffee shops close early around here."

Again, Harry nods. "Yeah, I'm all right. A little sore, but I'll manage."

"Look, about what I said," Draco blurts. "I didn't mean-."

There's my stomach again. "It's okay. I understand."

"No. Let me explain," the blond insists.

"I understand."

The former Slytherin removes the cup from Harry's hand and places both drinks on the bedside table. "You really don't get it, Potter. So, let me explain."

His curiosity, as history will often repeat, gets the better of him and he gestures for Draco to continue.

"I didn't mean for it to come out that way. It was far too soon to say it considering we've nothing to do with each other. Doesn't make it any less true, but I wasn't ready to believe it, let alone say it."

Harry doesn't dare say a word, hoping the wizard will explain further.

"Mother asked me, before she died, to let others know me. I think I want you to know me, Harry."

Draco doesn't look at him while he justifies himself. He toys with his hands and fidgets uncomfortably. Harry feels the corners of his mouth lift and he places a sure hand atop the fingers Draco knots together. He peaks from beneath long, blond lashes and answers with his own smile- eyes placid and full of vulnerable hope.

"I want to know you."

Harry squeezes the hands beneath his. Draco sighs contentedly before adjusting himself to rest against the Chosen One's chest.

Perhaps being broken was tolerable with company. Perhaps Hermione had it right all along.

There was no shame in being saved.

In fact, it may be just as brave to ask for help as it is to walk into battle. To admit when the load was too much.

Draco wanted to share his burdens. And Harry, in turn, would share as well.

They needn't suffer alone.

For the first time in ages, everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

All Was Well.

Author's Note:

This took a turn I don't understand. I think it started as a songfic of sorts to What Sarah Said, but then 15,000 words happened and I just… I can't even…

Anyway, I'm sure there are a number of errors in the work, but I have to get this out of my hands before I go absolutely bonkers.

Thank-you for reading!

Love Always.