A/N: Aaaaaand, here we go. I once promised myself there would be no more Harry/Draco epics. Promise held for a while, but... oops.

Hogwarts was packed. Students, former students, parents, Ministry people, historians and tourists – all manner of witches and wizards wanted to be part of the big anniversary celebration. One year since the Battle of Hogwarts. One year since Voldemort was gone for good.

It was a milestone all right, and Harry did his best to behave himself during all the ceremonies and speeches and pictures and hugs. It wasn't easy – before long his dress robes were smothering him. The photographers were starting to make him insane. He hadn't thought he was one of those unlucky battle-scarred wizards who had panic attacks when cornered by flashbulbs, but now he was starting to wonder. The crowd was enormous and people kept jostling him, and ruffling his hair, and calling his name. His head was spinning and he didn't think it was just the champagne.

Eventually he reached the end of his endurance. The celebration was too much. He muttered to Ron and Hermione that he needed air and asked them for a distraction, and under cover of the sudden "torch malfunction" that set half the hall briefly on fire, he slipped away and ran for it.

Sprinting down the corridors with his heart in his mouth felt good; it reminded him of old times. He ran deeper and deeper into the school, further and further away from the noise. He needed people not to crowd him, and of course he knew where you had to go to get what you needed.

Harry dragged the door shut behind him with a satisfying echoing clang and leaned against it. The Room of Requirement was a godsend. Safe at last.

Or not. From behind a pile of stuff in the room came a noise – a gasp and then: "Hello?"

Harry winced. He recognized the voice. Draco Malfoy's. He'd had enough of admirers for one day, but on the other hand enemies were no picnic either.

"It's me – Harry. Potter," he called. "Relax, I won't bother you." Perhaps they could just forget their rocky history for today and peacefully ignore one another.

"Potter? What are you doing in here?" Malfoy sounded odd – thicker, less precise than usual.

Harry would have liked to think he'd outgrown the habit of seeking out trouble that was none of his business… but that tone was odd enough to investigate. "I just needed a breather from the crowds," he explained as he followed the voice down the path and off to the side. "How about you?"

Malfoy was sitting in a little clearing, on the floor, in the center of a mess of wizard photographs. Holding a bottle. "Nothing," he said, and up close Harry could really hear the slur. "Go away."

"Crabbe," Harry recognized from one of the photos that waved. "This is where Crabbe died."

"Yeah. Stupid wanker knew damn well he couldn't control fiendfyre." Malfoy let out a slow breath.

Harry wasn't normally one to speak ill of the dead, but he wasn't about to argue the stupid wanker thing either. "Everyone was out of their mind that night," he said quietly.

"Heh. Spose so. You even did a favor for me." Malfoy pushed some of the pile out of the way with his foot, and Harry took that as invitation to sit down.

"I'm sorry. About Crabbe." He could feel Malfoy stiffen next to him, so he added: "Not that I'm sorry helps. I lost people too – I know how you feel."

Malfoy was quiet for a moment, looking him over. Then: "Yeah, I suppose you do." He offered the bottle. "He was different, you know. When we were kids. Want some?"

Harry smelled it and thought very strongly that he didn't want some, but it seemed a peace gesture and he'd rather not say no. "What is it?"

"Dunno. There's all kinds of magical rotgut in here if you look for it. Vile, isn't it?"

Harry swallowed down a sip and choked on it. Malfoy snickered at him and so he tried again, hoping to take it more manfully the second time… but he only choked harder. He handed the bottle back.

Malfoy took a sip and got it down with hardly a face. "What do you mean you need a breather?" he said at last.

"Too many people. All trying to hug me, show me their brands." And then he added, although it should have been obvious to anybody with a brain: "I don't actually like being famous, you know."

"Brands?" Malfoy said, sipping at the awful liquor again.

Harry gestured to his sleeve. "You know, the… the mudblood thing." He winced. "Don't tell me you've got one too."

Malfoy's face froze and he shifted his body away.

"Malfoy?" Harry pressed after a moment. Now that he actually thought about it, the idea was revolting. "You don't, do you?" But Malfoy wasn't answering. His sleeves were loose though, and before Harry could stop himself he pounced and yanked one up.

"Get off – let go-" Malfoy struggled but it was too late; Harry had seen a bit of black print.

"You?" Harry sputtered. He could hardly breathe. "How- how dare you! You, as if you care, you watched Hermione getting carved up..."

"Fuck off, Potter – fuck off." It was a venomous hiss. "I know what happened – I was there, remember? – and does it look like I went and got this for fun? Hmm?" He pulled his sleeve up and turned his wrist, and Harry frowned at the mess. It said MUDBLOOD all right, but it was no tattoo. The letters were uneven, lumpy black scars.

He almost reached out to touch, and caught himself just in time. "What…?"

"I did it myself. That night." Malfoy tried for a smirk. "I guess that makes me the trendsetter then, and not you."

"You did that to yourself? Why?"

Malfoy shrugged and turned his back, hugging his knees. "Dunno. I was angry. Thought maybe I'd see how it feels."

Harry remembered Hermione shrieking and couldn't even begin to imagine a person deciding to inflict that torture on himself. Not to mention having the discipline to finish. He didn't know what to say.

"… Like crap," Malfoy declared after a while of silence. "In case you were wondering. It feels like crap."

Harry was surprised into laughter. Then he covered his mouth. "Sorry," he said through his fingers – which smelled like that awful alcohol. "Another sip?"

Malfoy held the bottle off to the side, with his unmarked arm, and Harry took it. After forcing down another miserable swallow he shifted to face away from Malfoy, so that they were sitting back to back… but with a few inches of space between them, as much space as befitted old enemies.

"I shouldn't have said that," Harry said after a moment. "It's not your fault what happened that night."

"But I didn't do anything about it either. That's mostly what I was so angry about, that I hadn't stopped them or joined in. Either way would've been fine."

Harry stiffened. "You don't think it's better to be cowardly than evil?"

Malfoy snorted and scooted backwards so that he could butt into Harry from behind. "Thanks for pulling your punches, Potter. I really appreciate it." But it was only weary, not venomous, and afterwards he groped for the bottle and drank some more. He leaned his head back to rest on Harry's shoulder.

It was quiet for a bit. Harry was still thinking of that awful scar, and then all of a sudden he noticed that the room felt a little unsteady and that Draco's head on his shoulder was sort of unbalancing him. The liquor – that stupid liquor. He shifted and leaned his own head back, onto Draco's shoulder, and just stayed there a while until the ceiling steadied. "Sorry," he said upwards.

"S'alright."

And it was. It was all right, to be sitting here resting against horrible Draco Malfoy, who despite all his sneer and bluster apparently punished himself like a house-elf when he failed to do the right thing.

Harry snorted – the image of Draco as a house-elf was just ridiculous. "Someone needs to buy you clothes," he said aloud.

"What?" Draco was startled into sitting upright. "What about my clothes?"

Without the support behind him Harry could no longer keep vertical; the floor came out of nowhere to hit him on the side and he realized he'd fallen over. He laughed against the ground.

"What was that about my clothes?" Draco insisted. He nudged Harry – not gently. "Hey. You drunk freak – I barely gave you anything. Get up. My clothes what?"

Still laughing, Harry rolled carefully onto his hands and knees, and then rose up until he was kneeling. "Nothing. It's just your-…" He gestured to his forearm, stroking over where his own tattoo was. "You're like a house-elf. That's all. Draco the house-elf."

Draco stared at him for a moment and then stuttered with laughter himself. "You drunk freak," he repeated, but now there was amusement, almost admiration in it.

Harry tried to sober up (figuratively. There was no way he was going to manage to be literally sober at this point and he knew it.). "Sorry."

"You need to stop drinking and go back out there." A moment of wicked snickers. "But I'd keep my mouth shut and stay away from reporters if I were you."

Harry passed a hand over his face. "I hate you." He got to his feet carefully. All the waving pictures of Crabbe on the floor disoriented him and he almost lost his balance again, but using Draco's head as an anchor to hold on to sort of helped. "There," he said once he was mostly steady. He walked towards the door, in as straight a line as he could.

He was almost there when Draco called after him: "Potter."

"Yeh?"

"Don't tell anyone – about my arm. You hear me?"

"Aright. See you." Then he hesitated, hand already on the doorknob. "Wait… Will I see you? Where are you?"

A giggle. "I'm in the Room of Requirement. Quite drunk at this point, if I do say so myself."

"No, I mean…" Harry had to pause to giggle himself. "I mean where are you living?"

A long pause. "My family's got an apartment in Knockturn Alley, I'm staying there." Another pause. "You can drop by sometime if you're ever knocking about." He snorted. "Yes, yes, that wasn't funny, I'm drunk," he anticipated. "I told you – go away."

Harry finally went. Still laughing.

TBC.

Let me know what you think. What I've got in mind at this point is going to end up pretty long and I'd really appreciate feedback along the way. What do you think so far?