Whoa. New fandom.

This is actually a cooperative effort on the part of myself and my friend Brouc. We're really more active on fictionpress, but we both have a sekrit!passion for Harry/Draco. So. Have some.

For Draco, the lake was everything. From the peace it brought an awe-struck first year to the balm that soothed the anxiety of a tired seventh year, the lake had always been a place of peace and calm. He dangled his feet into the water, eyeing the water carefully for any sign of movement that would prompt him to yank his legs back.

"Malfoy."

The quiet, feminine voice startled him enough that he was on his feet, his wand loosely in his hand, in a couple of seconds.

Luna Lovegood peered up at him through strands of pale hair. "It's almost dinner time," she said. "You've been out here a while."

Draco had to consciously avert his eyes from the long, thin scar that marred the left side of the girl's face. He chose instead to focus on the disturbing clarity in her eyes and voice that he attributed to the war. There were few signs left of 'Loony' Lovegood.

"I'll be there in a minute," he mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else. His hand remained clasped around his wand, however, and his eyes darted from side to side.

Luna ambled calmly back in the direction of the castle.

Draco wasn't sure exactly when he'd started listening to what other people —especially people like that ditz Luna— asked of him. He only became aware of it a few days ago, when he'd returned to Hogwarts to finish the rest of his schooling.

He'd become docile.

The thought made him cringe. The thought of what his father would think brought about tendrils of nausea that curled around his stomach and squeezed.

Luna glanced over her shoulder. "Are you coming?" she inquired. "You're dawdling."

He refused to meet her eyes. "I'm coming," he said quickly. "Sorry."

Apologising, Draco? Tut tut. What have they done to you?

Luna traipsed across the lawn, down the corridors, to the Great Hall. She'd glance back every so often to make sure he was following. Her white-blonde hair glowed in the dimness, making it easy to follow her, even though Malfoy knew the way by heart.

He knew a lot of things by heart. If you twist this way, precise and careful, they'll never walk again...

"Stop it," he begged quietly. "Please."

Begging now? What sort of Malfoy are you?

He squeezed his eyes shut and stopped walking, fighting the urge to just curl up in the middle of the corridor.

Luna fell back to walk beside him. "Are you all right?" she asked, tilting her head to one side, arching one pale eyebrow so high it seemed to disappear off her face. "You're being awfully quiet. It isn't like you."

Thankfully, Draco didn't have to answer, as they then walked into the Great Hall, and any further conversation would have been drowned out by the thrum of conversations.

The two separated at their respective tables. Draco was almost positive Luna patted his shoulder, but by the time he turned around, she was already halfway down the table, sliding into a spot between Anthony and Padma.

The Slytherin table was mostly empty. In fact, most of the Great Hall was empty: while each house had once filled the tables, now only half the seats were taken. Ravenclaw —the largest house— was only three quarters full.

Draco quashed another swell of nausea. He couldn't glance up at the staff table, even as he slipped into a seat, nodding quickly at Blaise.

Blaise nodded back, distracted. His dark eyes were unfocused, staring off into space. In fact, many of the students —'Especially the Slytherins,' Draco thought coldly— were staring off into space. Like shell shock.

It wasn't really surprising. One of Draco's nannies when he was younger had a passion for Muggle psychology. She'd spoken about shell-shock, a synonym for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Draco figured easily half their year was suffering it to some degree.

"Can you..." Pansy trailed off, pale hand groping for the pumpkin juice. "I...want that..." She blinked, then leaned over and grabbed it herself. "Thanks for all your help," she sneered, glowering at Goyle.

Goyle grunted in his typical manner, his mouth stuffed with something dripping with grease as per usual.

Draco fussed for a moment, dishing food onto his plate. He wasn't sure what he put on there.

Minerva McGonagall took her place behind the podium. "Welcome back, returning students," she said, in her usual, crisp voice. Draco didn't look up at her: he was sure she had grown older over the summer, shriveled and small, and he was content to pretend that none of the past six months had happened.

Seeing her —objective and concrete— would make it all real.

Draco's sole purpose was to keep it not real. He didn't think he was strong enough to face the reality that the last six months had happened.

He wasn't ready to, not yet, anyway.

"All students will report to their dorms immediately," the headmistress said. Draco's eyes still traced the edge of his plate. "Your lessons will begin tomorrow."

Draco stood quickly, eager to beat the rush. As he rose, his eyes flickered over the Gryffindor table.

Granger was slipping into her customary spot between Potter and Weasley. Potter looked on edge, but Draco supposed that was understandable. He hesitated a little, trying to avoid having to walk past them. Finally, he wrapped his arms around his skinny body and stomped towards the doors.

"Bye Draco!" chirped Luna as he passed. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her waving enthusiastically.

He didn't wave back.

Luna didn't look at all discouraged.

Back in the dormitory, Draco took care to make it to his bed and draw the hangings as quickly as possible.

A shower could be taken care of in the morning. Less people. Not that there were all that many to begin with, but showering was best taken care of alone.

All around him, voices chattered in a flurry of excitement. Bed springs squeaked as people sat down on them. Trunks flipped open with a series of clunks.

Draco didn't feel like talking, squeaking, or unpacking. He curled up on his neatly-made bed and stared at the drapery.

It was familiar and should have been comforting. Draco knew it was him rather than anything the room might have done or had done to it.

That didn't make it any better.

Goyle poked his head through the drapes. "You should come down to the common room," he said. "Just staying up here alone...gonna kill you, mate."

Draco didn't particularly feel like even mustering the effort to reply, but he offered a curt nod. "I'll be down in a few minutes, Goyle. Let me settle."

Shrugging, Goyle left Malfoy to his solitude.

Potions with the Gryffindors proved very taxing for Draco Malfoy. Sardonically, he commended the school for "fostering house unity," even though this was a blatant lie: there weren't enough students to fill all the classrooms, so almost every class was mixed.

At least it wasn't as bad as Transfiguration with the Hufflepuffs. It seemed that only the intolerably annoying ones managed to survive the war.

"We will be brewing a more complicated version of calming droughts today," announced the new potions teacher in a hefty Maltese accent. She had a pointed nose and a rat's nest of green hair on her head. "We're starting off the year easy, so that you might become reaccustomed to being in an educational environment."

Draco had a sneaking suspicion that there was just a considerable demand for calming droughts.

"Don't work with someone from your own house," the professor said. She clapped her hands a few times, trying to garner the attention of the more spaced-out students. "We're trying to encourage inter-house communication."

No one moved.

"Now."

Awkwardly, the students began to shuffle around the room, rearranging themselves in mixed pairs. A few of the Slytherins had acquaintances in Gryffindor and showed obvious relief in having someone they knew to sit with. Malfoy, having no such luck, was resigned to wandering around, trying to find someone somewhat friendly to sit with.

He defined friendly as not giving him a look designed to peel off his flesh.

"You'll have to work with me," the professor grumbled. "Which is effectively working alone. Perhaps you can help me demonstrate to the class?"

"I'm capable of working alone," Draco replied shortly.

The woman's shoulder slumped. "Okay, but only until—"

At that exact moment, the doors flew open, and in stumbled a very disoriented Harry Potter. "I apologize," he said quickly, smoothing down his hair. "I got lost. Potions is usually in the dungeons."

"You can work with him!" the teacher exclaimed, pointing, upon seeing Potter's Gryffindor robes. Draco wanted to hit her. "There. You have a partner now."

From the back of the room, snickers.

"I don't know that that is a good idea, Professor," Potter began, but the professor in question cut him off with a sharp glance. The Boy Wonder slumped and trudged over to stand in the same vicinity as Draco, apparently still the same self righteous twat, assuming himself above the rules, that he had been last year. Just a little older. And a little more attractive.

Draco shifted awkwardly away.

Potter didn't meet his eyes, just slung his bag under the bench and glanced up at the board, taking note of the potion they were supposed to be making.

"Remember everyone," crowed the teacher, adjusting the mess of hair on her head until it stopped tilting to one side, "we want a nice coriander colour. I know a lot of you end up with puce and we do not want puce in this classroom."

Draco was satisfied with the way Potter flinched.

"She's batty," he muttered, setting his book to the side of the bench. "I'll go get the ingredients."

Draco watched as the other boy shuffled off. He refused to refer to it as ogling.

Harry came back with an armful of roots and powders. He sat down —back straight and eyes trained on the cauldron— and began chopping what looked like a dried out ginger root.

"You could help you know," Potter growled. "For someone who's so good at potions, you can be kind of useless."

That biting tone was new. Draco wondered if it was just another side effect of war. He did it well considering how new it was.

Draco didn't even remember to reply, just reached for the lavender flowers and started crushing them.

The potions mistress wandered around, critiquing them with her sharp eyes. She descended on Draco and Potter. "You are doing such a lovely job, Mr. Potter," she crowed, petting Potter's shoulder with three spindly fingers. He looked pained, and Draco wondered if it was a deep suffering, or just the sort of pain anyone would feel at being touched by the pointy-nosed witch.

Then he realized just how much wondering Potter was making him do, and he returned to crushing lavender flowers.

"Not so hard," the professor scolded. "You're murdering them."

"They're already dead," Draco murmured to himself as she glared at him with beady eyes and then moved on to the next table.

Potter made an amused sound, clearly having heard him.

Draco stamped down the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks. "Get on with it, Potter," he snapped.

Rolling his eyes, Potter dumped the unidentified root into the cauldron and began to stir as per the directions: six times clockwise, once anti-clockwise, repeat. Even if the batty Maltese woman had claimed the potion as a calming draught, it didn't look like any calming draught Draco had ever brewed.

And Potter was staring again.

Draco could feel his hands start to itch like they always did when he got worked up, and concentrated on finishing the lavender flowers, shoving them to the side and measuring out some powdered garlic. What the hell garlic was going to do in a calming draught, he didn't know.

"Do you think you could work a little faster, Malfoy?" Potter sneered sarcastically. He scooped the lavender flowers into the cauldron, and the potion turned an appropriate yellow-grey.

The flush rose a little and Draco gritted his teeth. "Of course, Potter," he drawled. "Wouldn't want to keep his highness waiting, would I?" He tipped the powdered garlic into the cauldron with a sarcastic smile.

"Do you always give inanimate objects formal titles, or is this cauldron special?"

Draco gritted his teeth harder. "Get on with the potion, Potter." He sliced another unidentified root into thin rings.

A few students nearby snickered.

Potter picked up a ring, looked at it disdainfully, and dropped it into the cauldron.

"I've seen Muggleborn first years cut better than this."

Draco seethed quietly, despite the urge to take the knife and cut that smug smile right off Potter's face. He began to crush the scarab beetles methodically. Each one wore Potter's face.

Potter tapped his foot impatiently, his eyes tracing the movements of Draco's hands has he smashed the iridescent shells of the insects. The potion, the colour of fresh mint leaves, bubbled along tranquilly.

"Growing old here, Malfoy. Got a bit of arthiritis there, have you?"

Draco pursed his lips and looked back down at the fractured beetle wings. He said nothing, just brushed them into his hands and dumped them unceremoniously into the cauldron.

Potter stirred the potion, six counter clockwise, two clockwise, another two counter clockwise and then six more clockwise.

Draco had no idea what kind of potion they were making anymore.

"Excellent work!" cried the professor. And then something in Maltese. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, if you could just follow Harry's glistening example..." She trotted away, swishing her hips back and forth.

Potter looked up from the potion. It had turned the appropriate colour, and he had stopped stirring. "You look a little green. Not going to pass out, are you?"

"No," Draco snapped. He stepped towards the cauldron, ladled some into two vials and slapped one into Potter's hand. "Go preen under your newest admirer's adoring gaze," he spat, turning to clean up.

Potter peered at the vial and set it down before helping Draco tidy up the station. Not so much help, rather, but attempt the same task at the same time. "She's wicked mad," he said. "And I don't want to do anything under her, preen or otherwise."

Draco shuddered at the sudden mental image he got. He was disturbed by it as a whole, but also disturbed at the small flutter his stomach gave at the idea of a naked Potter.

He told himself he felt ill. That's all.

Potter stood. "I'll go give this to Professor Spiteri." He shuffled towards the front of the room, catching up to the witch halfway there.

Draco couldn't hear the words exchanged, but she looked inordinately pleased.

"Class!" she called, clapping her hands. "We have a perfect example!"

As if a dozen spotlights had been trained on him, Potter shrunk.

Draco took a vindictive pleasure in the other boy's discomfort. It made that fluttery feeling in his belly go away and anything that did that was fine by him.

Spiteri beamed at Potter. "Mr. Potter here has just handed up a perfect example. Note the perfect shade of coriander. No puce." She held up the vial for the class to see.

Upon receiving only murmurs in response, she wrinkled her nose and stamped her foot hard on the classroom floor.

"I said, no puce."

This time, the Gryffindors managed some weak applause.

Potter slunk back to his seat, head down.

Draco was flabbergasted. "She's nuts."

"You don't say." Potter almost whimpered, sliding down as far as he could.

The rest of the class scowled and returned to their potions.

Draco shifted uncomfortably. Damn Potter, for being both attractive and despicable.

Damn him to Hell.

This story? Going to be epic. No idea how long it'll be, but it's going to be epic. 100k+ epic. And with this comes good news and bad news.

Bad news: We're college students. And college students tend to be distracted.
Good news: We're in different hemispheres. So our summers don't coincide. Yay for no dry spell.

To be completely honest, there's going to be a lot of explicit sex in this. And soon. Simply because we're not the sort who are like, 'oooh, let's have happily ever after and tentative kisses and gentle...anything.' Nope. Smut and sex and borderline kink before love. Probably not any explicit non-con though.

All for the purpose of plot, of course.

We want your delicious reviews.