The fire sprung to life in Harry's office, the green flames licking the brick walls and illuminating the previously dark room with an otherworldly glow. Harry stood attentively before the flames, holding his breath with nervous anticipation. It had taken St. Mungo's two weeks to patch Malfoy up, but they had finally deemed him well enough for Floo travel. Now, Harry waited patiently, having cancelled all of his Quidditch lessons for the evening so that he could help Malfoy make the transition from the hospital to Hogwarts.

Once the initial shock had worn off – playing host to Draco Malfoy of all people! – Harry had to admit that he was a little excited at the prospect of seeing his childhood rival again. So much had changed in the decade preceding the war. Harry was curious to see what Malfoy was like now. He hoped that the man had softened a little around the edges, at least. Back at school, Harry had always had an odd fascination with Malfoy. Initially, it had been a mere childish dislike. After he had seen him fail to kill Dumbledore, his eyes had been opened up to a whole new aspect of Malfoy. He had been human after all, and he had protected Harry at Malfoy Manor. Then, there was the matter off the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement. It wasn't a lot, and it didn't forgive him of his many faults and crimes, but Harry could hope for change.

Kingsley appeared in the fireplace first. He stepped out onto the hearth with his shoulders squared, all business as he shook Harry's hand. Next came a Healer from St. Mungo's, dressed in a crisp, white uniform and carrying a black leather bag. And then the man himself. Malfoy stepped out of the fireplace, green flames kissing the hem of the thick, black robe he wore drawn tightly around him like admirers come to worship him. He held his tall, wiry frame carefully upright, hyperconscious of Harry's gaze upon him. Harry stared unabashedly. On first entrance, Malfoy appeared to be quite his usual self. His blond head was tilted upwards, chin out and proud face pinched in obvious discomfort. It was that little detail, the smallest of pained expressions shown by pursed lips that gave him away. He was gaunt, his face pallid and his hands shaking ever so slightly as he took the black bag from the Healer, who had been watching him like a hawk. His eyes, when he glanced at Harry, seemed hollow and unfocused. He turned to Kingsley with measured slowness, and when he spoke, his voice was so quiet that it startled Harry.

"Thank you for all of your help," Malfoy murmured, offering his trembling hand to Kingsley, "You'll keep in contact, I trust?"

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley agreed, taking Malfoy's hand, "If any new information comes to light, the Ministry will be in contact."

"Good."

For all of his fragility, that had actually sounded like a dismissal. Kingsley treated it as such and turned to Harry. "The Ministry would like to thank you again, Potter, for your compliance with this matter," he said very seriously, then cracked a smile, "Take care, alright? Don't bring the castle down."

Harry smiled back. "Alright, Kingsley."

Kingsley stepped into the fire and was whisked away, followed shortly by the Healer. Harry focused on Malfoy fully now, perturbed slightly to find that Malfoy was staring back intensely. "Er." Harry felt awkward. What was he supposed to say? "Hello, Malfoy."

"Hello, Potter," Malfoy returned, inclining his head in a graceful gesture, "I suppose this is the part where we start fighting, yes?"

Harry grinned at Malfoy's little joke. "They expect our legendary rivalry to bring the castle down, Malfoy. Wouldn't want to disappoint."

A slight upturn of his mouth was the only indication that Malfoy had found his remark funny. "Yes, well. If it's alright by you, I'd like to save that for another time. Tomorrow, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Harry repeated, at a loss. It was strange, making small talk with Malfoy. It felt surreal and just a little bit false. But here he was, standing in the middle of his office with the man who had once been his bitter enemy. And he had no idea how to act.

"Potter," Malfoy said, interrupting his thoughts, "I'd like to be shown to my room now."

"Oh, right." Harry mentally berated himself. Malfoy looked awful, and he'd no doubt had a long day. He moved to stand in front of the fireplace and focused his attention above it, where a great painting of an elderly woman hung. "Wildfire Whiz-bangs," he announced to it. The woman in the painting rolled her eyes at him, but the portrait opened up nonetheless. Harry turned and smiled sheepishly at Malfoy. "Sorry it's so high up."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, frowning. "I can manage."

One awkward moment later and Harry was boosting a thoroughly embarrassed Malfoy up through the portrait hole, pulling himself up afterwards. Malfoy continued walking through the passageway, having to bow his head a little to keep from bumping it on the ceiling. Harry followed him, moving more swiftly to close the distance between them as they stepped out into a little sitting room. It looked similar to the Gryffindor common room, with a few overstuffed velvet armchairs and a plush rug spread out in front of a grand fireplace, larger than the one in Harry's office. It was simpler, though, with large, roughly cut stones and a brick hearth. The fire in the grate was all ashes, as Harry hadn't been in this room all day. Great tapestries depicting various tales of famous Gryffindors adorned the walls. Malfoy surveyed this all with a slight curl of his lip, remaining silent.

Harry pointed to a door on the right. "Your room is through there. Do you need me to help you get settled?"

Malfoy turned sharply to face him. His face showed mild displeasure, but his voice held venom. "I am quite competent enough for the menial task of sorting my belongings, Potter."

Harry raised his hands in a placating gesture, eyebrows shooting up to disappear beneath his fringe. "Easy, Malfoy. I didn't mean to offend you. Just wanted to be a good host."

"Would you like to tuck me in as well?" Malfoy spat, eyes blazing anger, "No, thank you, Chosen One, but I do not need to be saved tonight."

With that, he marched over to the door and yanked it almost off of its hinges, banging it shut behind him. Harry stared after him incredulously. Well, that was certainly rude and spontaneous. He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, crossing the room to a door on the adjacent side, where his own bedroom was located. He would reserve his judgment of Malfoy for now, chalk his rudeness up to displaced emotions. Maybe if he gave the man time, Harry thought, things would get better. He really felt that Malfoy needed someone to talk to.

As soon as Draco stepped into the room that was to be his for the duration of his stay, all of his anger melted away. The walls had been decorated with ornate green and silver tapestries, the floors covered by thick rugs to keep the chill of the stone out of your feet. The fireplace in this room was smaller and made from precisely cut squares of dark stone, giving it a polished look. A large loveseat sat before it, made from what appeared to be a dark leather. Draco crossed the room, placing his bag down on the emerald green sheets of the enormous sleigh bed, sinking down next to it.

He felt like a scoundrel. Guilt crept into his heart and he sunk his head into his hands. Potter had done all of this for him. He could have outfitted the room in stalwart Gryffindor tackiness, in keeping with the theme of the common room. In fact, that was entirely what Draco had been expecting after the maroon and gold monstrosity that was the lounge. This, though. This was exactly to his tastes. Just like his old rooms in the dungeons of Hogwarts. Similar enough to his quarters at the Manor. He smoothed a wrinkle in the blanket with his hand. The material felt expensive. Why would Potter go to such lengths for him? He certainly had no motivation to. He was a traitor to both sides. He couldn't kill Dumbledore, he couldn't defy the Death Eaters, and he couldn't even manage to bleed out in a cellar properly. He had half expected the Healers at St. Mungo's to "accidentally" give him too much medicine and off him that way. For some reason, they hadn't, and now he was in the care of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Headmistress Minerva McGonagall once more. This time, though, he had no Crabbe, Goyle, or Parkinson. No friends to play Quidditch with. He had no family to write to and complain about muggle-loving teachers.

No family. Draco let himself fall back slowly onto the bed, his aching muscles sinking into the soft covers. Wasn't that dandy? The only thing he had ever put stock into as a child was lineage. Sure, he still had a bloodline, a past, ancestors, but he no longer had a family. No one to guide him, look out for him and have his back. Draco was on his own for the first time in his life, and he was perturbed. Not scared, exactly, because he had gone past the point of fear long, long ago. He had tortured people, had been tortured himself. No, Draco Malfoy was not afraid. He was, however, unnerved at the idea of essentially being the last surviving member of the Malfoy family. Hell, he was probably the last surviving Slytherin member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A black sheep.

But then, Harry Potter was a black sheep, too. He'd been ostracized for most of his school years. Most of the time, it was his celebrity that kept him apart from his classmates, but sometimes it was because of fear and prejudice that he was made to live as a social outcast. They'd called him insane during their fifth year, unhinged, the same way they'd called Albus Dumbledore a lunatic. Draco sighed. He was in an ideal position to befriend Potter, and he completely blew it. Potter was the first real possibility of an ally that had come along for Draco since he had been kidnapped, and he had thrown the offered olive branch straight back into the Chosen One's face. Of course, he had done so with perfectly good reason. Hating Harry Potter for so long had left scars in Draco's mind. He saw the man and immediately felt bitterness creep into his heart, saw red blur his vision, heard old arguments playing in his mind. It was no easy task, setting aside all of that. Potter had been Hogwarts' Golden Boy, and all of the teachers loved him. The teachers ought to have loved Draco – he was smarter. His classmates vied for Harry's friendship – they should have been begging for connections to the Malfoy family. All Malfoy had been groomed for had been snatched away by the very kind of person he was taught to loathe.

However, circumstances as they were presently left Draco with little choice than to suck it up and ally himself with Potter. Above all else, Malfoys had a keen sense of self-preservation. They take care of their own, take care of themselves first and foremost. And so, Draco decided with another heavy sigh, it would be in his best interests to befriend Potter. Best to let bygones be bygones and hopefully live through this ordeal with whatever dignity he could scrounge up amongst his ruined image.

A few hours later found Draco sitting squarely in the middle of enemy camp, situated on a plush armchair in front of the crackling fire with a mug of strong tea in his hands. He had wrapped a quilt from his bed around his shoulders to ward off the chill of the night. It was just a hunch, but Draco believed in the possibility that Potter still suffered from nightmares – who didn't, after the war? If that was correct, then Draco knew that Potter would seek him out. He would want human comfort, even if that comfort came from Draco Malfoy. Draco knew because he was the very same way when it came to troubled sleep.

Sure enough, his patience was rewarded a little later when Potter silently sat down in the armchair next to him. Draco leaned forward, taking the extra mug he had prepared and offering it to Potter, who took it without hesitation.

"Thank you," he mumbled, sipping delicately. His hands were trembling. "You, too?"

Draco merely nodded. He hadn't had a nightmare, no. He hadn't even gone to sleep, but it was a convenient enough reason to be up in the middle of the night.

They sat in silence for a few moments, drinking their tea and letting the fire melt away the tension between them. It was relaxing. Draco hadn't thought he would be so relaxed in Potter's company, but he supposed that experience could change a man.

"I am sorry for the way I acted earlier," Draco confessed quietly, "My quarters are perfectly to my liking. Thank you."

"No need," Potter replied, eyes fixed on him, "You deserve it. I'm sorry about the Manor."

"I suppose it was in the paper, then," Draco deduced, bowing his head slightly.

"Yes," he replied sympathetically, "If there's anything I can do for you, please just let me know. I couldn't bear to lose my home like that. It must be unspeakably awful."

Draco thought carefully for a moment before realizing that Potter was referring to Hogwarts. It occurred to Draco that he had no idea where else Potter had lived. Surely, he hadn't lived in the castle? "The Manor is a relic of an era gone-by. I suppose many think of it as a symbol of the Death Eaters and seek to destroy it. Symbol or not, it is my home. It's a thing I don't' believe many people realize."

Potter nodded, understanding what Draco was saying about him, as well. "Your hands are shaking. Want me to put another log on the fire?" he asked, startling Draco. That wasn't the question he had predicted Potter would ask next. He looked down at his hands. Sure enough, he was trembling violently.

"Ah, no thank you. It isn't the cold." The excuse came tumbling out of his mouth before he quite realized what kind of information he was giving away. "My hands were mangled, you see, and even Healers can only do so much." He looked at Potter quizzically – lips parted and eyebrows cocked - startled for a moment at his own words. "My apologies, Potter, I did not mean to tell you that."

Potter moved to kneel in front of him and gently took one of his hands. Draco was alarmed, to say the least. He wanted to jerk his hand away, but they were already beginning to cramp up and ache from the cold. A fact Potter felt the need to point it out. "Are you sure it isn't the cold?" he asked, rubbing Draco's knuckles and fingers with careful hands. His callouses felt rough on Draco's scars, and the sensation felt odd and slightly unpleasant. Draco allowed him to keep doing it. "I can fetch you some mittens, if you'd like," he continued on, face betraying his horror as he traced Draco's scars and felt the areas where his bones weren't connecting quite right.

Draco felt a twitch begin to form in his right eye. "Potter, I am not one of your swooning damsels." He kept his tone measured and free from most of his malice. Befriend Potter, his thoughts raged, even if he insists on treating you like one of Mother's doilies. "Perhaps if you let go of my hand, I could use my quilt to warm it."

Potter apologized and moved away to tend the fire. Draco rubbed his hand idly as he watched Potter throw another log into the blaze. The ghost of his touch still lingered, and it made Draco uneasy how he found himself missing it.

"So, tell me, Chosen One," Draco quipped as he drew the quilt around himself tighter, "What kind of glorious and noble activities did you get up to after the war?"

Potter turned to give him an amused smile. "Quidditch, Malfoy."

Malfoy was stunned for a moment. That hadn't been his prediction at all. "Quidditch Potter?"

"Quidditch, Malfoy," Harry repeated with a laugh. "After the war, I decided to take a break from fighting Dark Wizards. Let someone else have a turn, eh?"

"How unlike the Famous Harry Potter, so eager to fight the forces of darkness alone and martyr himself for his cause," Draco parried, smirking at his own joke.

"Well, I thought maybe I'd try being famous for a different reason," was Potter's glib reply, "And it was great. Playing pro Quidditch was the first time I'd had real fun in years. I met a lot of great people and I travelled a lot. 'Course, Ginny wasn't too happy about that." He grimaced, briefly captured by the memory. "Well, we're still friends, anyway. That was years ago."

"Who'd you play for?" Malfoy asked with a childlike gleam in his eyes. He'd always enjoyed Quidditch. He wasn't the best player out there – Potter had dashed his hopes of being a Quidditch star – but he knew every play in the book and was an excellent strategist. Watching game after game in box seats, giving Mother and Father a running commentary as he predicted plays and critiqued the coach's decisions… He realized that Potter was talking again and reigned in his runaway thoughts.

"Puddlemere United," Potter repeated. He didn't comment on Draco's inattentiveness. "They weren't the first to offer me a position, but I'd always liked the way they flew as a team. It seemed like the natural choice. I stayed with the team for a while, but I missed being at Hogwarts, as strange as it sounds, so I applied to teach here. Now, I'm coaching it. It's funny, Malfoy, I figured you'd know all of this about me already. Don't you follow Quidditch in the papers at all?"

Draco frowned, staring at the wall as he answered. He mustn't give too much away. "After the war, I was too busy for Quidditch." I had a household to run. "Father never cared for my interest in sports, anyway." Mother and I were too busy piecing our lives back together to worry about getting the post. "Father didn't really care for any aspect of living anymore." Who has time to read the Prophet, anyway? "We cancelled our Prophet subscription because of all the slander they were printing about our family." Shit. "The wards Mother and I had to put up were too strong for a radio signal to get through." Shit. Why was he telling Potter everything?! His eyes snapped back to Potter, who was standing by the fireplace still, mouth agape in shock.

"Malfoy, I-"

"You didn't need to know any of that. I am so sorry. Please excuse me," Draco enunciated clearly and quickly, shooting up from his seat.

Potter rushed over to him and grabbed his shoulders tightly. Draco cried out in pain and Potter released him like he had been electrocuted. "Malfoy, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you!" His voice sounded desperate. He brought his hands up to clasp the quilt Draco had wrapped around himself and held on tight. "I didn't mean it, please forgive me. I didn't mean to pry into your life like that."

Once the haze in his mind from the sudden jolt of pain cleared, Draco looked up at him. "Potter, I can't seem to stop confiding in you. There's no need for anyone but me to apologize."

"But I hurt you." Potter's eyes looked dewy in the weak light from the fire.

Draco couldn't believe the man was getting so worked up. It actually bothered him somewhat to see Potter so upset for his sake. "You startled me. I've been beaten and bruised on nearly every inch of my body. Pain is relative, anyway. I'm willing to forgive you if you'll forgive me for pouring out my life story all over your sitting room."

Potter cracked a smile at that. "You can tell me anything you'd like, Malfoy. Please, ruin my upholstery with your feelings."

Draco sighed deeply. "Well, I suppose if I am going to tell you one way or another, it might as well be on my own terms. Would you like to know what events transpired to land me back at Hogwarts?"

Potter's smile faded slowly, a grim look replacing it. "I would, if you don't mind telling." He let go of the quilt and sat back down in his own chair.

Draco shrugged off the quilt, piling it on his chair before moving to stand in front of the fireplace. He heard Potter's sharp intake of breath and knew what he was seeing. The light illuminating Draco's figure would hide nothing. His black pinstripe bedclothes were draped around his gaunt frame, thin far beyond health. "I suppose I'll start back at the Manor. We lived quietly in the years following the war. No one came calling, and we never left. Our house elves purchased all of our supplies for us, and even they were not wholly safe. At the very end, we were down to twelve from our original seventy. I suppose those twelve are gone now, also. The world was better than it had been under the Dark Lord's reign for the Muggleborns, but it had turned life around completely for Purebloods." He paused to shake his head, smiling wryly. "I used to think I hated Muggleborns during my childhood. Now that they've tried to burn down my home, I think even less of them.

"The trouble started when Father took his own life. Being a traitor was too much for him to handle. He did it for Mother and I, for we weren't safe even when allied with the Dark Lord. I won't go into detail on that – it's incredibly gruesome. When we defected during the Battle of Hogwarts, Father keenly felt the stigma of being a traitor from the very moment he Disapparated. Every day he grew worse and worse until he could no longer live with himself. Regardless of whether or not he made the right decision – Mother and I both assured him that he did – he just could not see past his own treachery.

"Almost immediately after he died, the Manor was under attack. Our enemies believed that once our patriarch was gone, we would be vulnerable to attack. Mother and I held wave after wave at bay for a long time, and we could have gone on, but Mother realized the fruitlessness of the situation. For every enemy we drove away, two more took his place. So, we sealed the Manor off with ancient blood wards and fled. They pursued us, killing Mother and capturing me. I was held in Bordeaux until your Ministry people arrived."

He finished his story, eyes gazing into the fireplace with a storm brewing behind his eyes. The memories washed over him, ripping open wounds that had barely begun to heal. His life, gone. His father, driven by shame to commit suicide. His mother, brutally murdered right in front of him. If his life hadn't already been steeped in misery and misfortune, he would have surely gone insane. He leaned back into the strong body he hadn't noticed sneaking up behind him, too far entrenched in the horrors of his recent past to be indignant. "You Gryffindors certainly are physically affectionate," he quipped, no emotion behind his voice. It was an observation stated plainly and simply by a man too touched by the cruelness of the world to be bothered with caring.

"You need it," Potter replied. "Malfoy, sorry can't even begin to cover how many apologies you deserve after all that."

"And none of them from you, thanks," Draco interrupted.

"I still feel obligated to. We'll get the Manor back, Malfoy. I'll help you get your home back," Potter vowed solemnly.

They both stared into the fire, Harry feeling determined and Draco feeling faint. Then, he actually did faint, and the moment was over.