Christ, I wrote this forever ago and never had the chance to update. Oops. I know its really too late now, but I still love the plot line I had planned for this and though the first chapter really is kind of shit I'm going to continue on from it. I probably won't be updating frequently - I'm in the middle of my A Levels and am applying to courses for next year so I simply don't have the time, sorry guys.. but you have my word I will try my hardest to churn chapters out for the people who added this to your story alerts. I love you all.
Also, I changed my author name so it matches all my other things now, like twitter and deviantart and tumblr. Find me on there if you'd like:)
Harry awoke, bleary eyed and sweaty, barking coughs tearing themselves from his aching lungs with a violence that made him cringe back into his pillows. As they abated Harry wiped tears from his eyes and saw his white bedspread dotted with pinpricks of red. He resolutely looked away and flung himself out of bed and towards the door, grabbing his glasses from his bedside table as he went. It was still dark outside.
Padding through the silent house, Harry allowed himself to be caught up in the house's memories as he was every time he walked the corridors; ghosts from his past laughed and hugged and spoke around him. He saw Sirius, dark eyes flickering with suppressed mirth as he baited Harry's greasy haired and hook nosed potions professor, he saw Ginny's warm smile and felt Lupin's phantom hand on his shoulder. Grimmauld Place was Harry's personal graveyard for those he lost in the war, their spectres chained forever to the groaning foundations through Harry's memory. Harry opened the door to the living room, eyes fixed on the embracing mirages of Lupin and Tonks, and was startled to see a blond head poking up over the arm of his sofa. The memories around him vanished and the house returned to silence, broken now only by the soft sound of breathing from the figure on the couch.
Harry relaxed as he remembered the previous day's events. For a moment, he'd forgotten his decision to take in the Malfoy heir. He quietly closed the door, not wanting to wake the boy from what was probably his first night's sleep that wasn't in a shop entrance or on the cobbles of Knockturn Alley in some time. He headed for the kitchen instead and pondered his decision; his memory of the conversation he and Malfoy had was still hazy, as though he was remembering a dream. He half wondered if Malfoy had cursed or imperiused him to force him into his decision, but remembered the fierce look in Malfoy's eyes as his pride battled with his desire for self preservation. No Malfoy would stoop so low as to beg for charity. And anyway, Harry tried to reassure himself, even in my weakened state I could resist the imperius curse. I'm not that ill.
...I hope.
Draco Malfoy jerked forcefully awake and immediately scanned his surroundings; the empty living room of the Black house (which should by rights have belonged to Draco anyway; therefore it was actually Potter's bloody fault he was homeless. Draco ignored the niggling voice in his head that said that if he'd owned the place, the ministry would have repossessed it for 'reparations' the same way they had the Manor and firmly placed his blame on the wizarding world's golden boy. Everyone else worshipped him, he had to be blamed for something). He heard soft sounds through the wall from the room next door, which, if he remembered correctly from Potter's 30 second whirlwind tour of the house the night before, was the kitchen. I guess Potter's up. He toyed with the edges of the ...thing he was sleeping in (Potter had called it a 'sleeping bag'; some strange muggle contraption that reminded Draco uncomfortably of a body bag) and debated whether or not to get up yet. He was hungry, and he knew Potter would feed him (bloody hero complex) but the question was if he'd allow him to stay past breakfast.
Draco was not stupid. He knew something funny was up with Potter's offer. What kind of nutcase offers his childhood rival and longtime enemy a place to stay in their home, especially over the Christmas season? The Boy-Who-Lived would be surrounded by loving friends and his surrogate family of Weasels (minus the Weaselette). Draco would be neither needed nor wanted. That was why he was anxiously awaiting Potter to realise what it was he'd committed to and kick him out the way he was expecting.
He was also afraid; Christmas on the streets would probably kill him. No warming charm was strong enough to counteract that kind of cold.
So Draco Malfoy sat indecisively on Harry Potter's couch and did nothing.
Harry hummed softly as the kettle boiled, and he poured the hot water into two waiting mugs complete with teabags. He stopped at the realisation he didn't know how Malfoy liked his tea, and charmed it to stay warm after the teabag was removed. Once Malfoy got up, he'd ask him. Adding a dash of milk and two sugars to his own brew, Harry slid into a seat at the long table that took up most of the room and picked up the day's Prophet, delivered earlier by an owl so flustered it had almost taken off without letting Harry remove his paper in it's haste to get home. He scanned over the first few pages, noting that there was a quidditch friendly between Ireland and Romania on Boxing Day. Thinking of watching the Irish team play brought back fond memories of the world cup, and he made a mental note to see if he could get tickets for himself and Mr Weasley; Ron and Hermione would still be on their honeymoon.
Since the defeat of Voldemort, the Prophet had run out of newsworthy items to print and was now mainly a gossip rag. Harry caught sight of an article on page 4, in the bottom left corner, proclaiming boldly 'BOY-WHO-LIVED SPOTTED CANOODLING WITH MYRON WAGTAIL OF WEIRD SISTERS FAME. COULD MAGIC BE WORKING BETWEEN THESE TWO?' He sighed and folded the paper neatly before placing it face down on the table. He'd never even met Myron Wagtail. And their pun on 'Magic Works', one of the band's popular hits, was simply awful. And why did everyone assume he was gay, anyway? He'd loved Ginny, and been prepared to marry her... the twinge of pain in his chest, for once not his illness, was familiar. Ginny was lost during the battle of Hogwarts. He'd never even had the chance to say goodbye.
His sudden brooding was interrupted by a muffled shout from the next room. Springing to his feet, Harry grabbed his wand from the table and sprinted to the living room, flinging open the door. His eyes scanned for intruders and he readied his wand, the curse already on the tip of his tongue when he noticed the room was empty except for a wriggling mass next to the sofa. As he lowered his wand, Malfoy's flushed face appeared from an opening in the mass off sleeping bag. As his eyes met Harry's he stopped struggling. "I... er... couldn't get out of this thing," he said awkwardly, "need to use the bathroom... didn't want to disturb you..."
Harry felt a laugh working its way through up through his chest from his stomach and bursting from his mouth in a deep rumble. Malfoy blinked as Harry laughed at him, expression slowly morphing from confusion to a stormy glare. "It's all very well for you to laugh, but could you get me out of this thing?"
Harry crossed the room and squatted beside the bundle that was Malfoy, slowly pulling the zip to open the sleeping bag. Malfoy blushed as he realised the simple solution. "Ah Malfoy, I'm going to like having you live here if you provide this kind of entertainment every day". Malfoy froze, and looked at Harry with wide eyes. Harry's own eyes were questioning, confused at the sudden tension in the room. Without another word, Malfoy stood suddenly and walked from the room. Harry heard the bathroom door lock on the other side of the hall. Well, he thought, that was certainly strange. He stood up, folded the sleeping bag over the arm of the couch and walked to the kitchen to resume his breakfast, wondering about Malfoy's skittish behaviour and how to call him up on it.