( Acquaintance )

Crouching by the hearth, Harry laid another log of wood onto the fire. He watched the tiny flames lap at the wood and climb up it, growing as they went. He didn't like fire, but its warmth was something he now depended on in these winter days. He could never really get too close, or he would find himself remembering the black smoke that had risen into the sky, giant and monstrous as it fled the smouldering ruins of the Burrow. Or how human flesh looked and smelled like as it burned under his wand.

He sat down on the cold floorboards, his hands outstretched before him in an effort to warm them. His whole body ached from the cold, the scars that littered his body held ghosts of their old pain and his hands, they shook and quivered like leaves in the wind. Around him, the house in Godric's Hollow moaned and creaked with the howling winds. He could hear the branches of trees knocking, scraping and thrashing against windows and the roof.

The house seemed old in a way that Grimmauld Place could never match. Laughter rose up in his chest till he felt like he was almost choking on it. It was bitter in its aftertaste. An old man in and old house, he thought grimly to himself.

Harry didn't feel young. He didn't know how people could, after facing war. No-one could ever be the same again. They could never look at things in the same light. They would never stop wanting those yesterdays. . .

Or at least, that was how he was.

The wind lulled outside, a brief calm, and that was when Harry heard the knocking. It echoed through the dark hallways, ringing slightly in his ears. For a moment, he stayed completely still, suddenly terrified of what that noise could mean. But then he took in a shaky breath, and scrambled up to his feet, leaving the blankets by the fire. Each footstep sounded incredibly loud to him as he walked to the entrance hall.

He came up to the door, unlocked a series of locks and chains, and reached for the handle. His hand shook and with wide eyes he faltered. He snatched back his hand and clutched at his jacket. He didn't want to see anyone. He didn't want people to see him like this.

So weak . . .

The second bout of knocking jerked him out of his thoughts and he took a step back, hating the panic thrumming through his body. For a moment, Harry listened to the whistling roar of the wind beyond the walls. It was cold outside, and the person hadn't left. And that person was cold like Harry always was. A surge of simple pity rose forth and the courage came with it – he grabbed the door-handle and tugged it down. He cracked the door open and peered out.

His breath caught in his throat.

It was Draco Malfoy.

A part of Harry wanted to close the door again, while another lonely part didn't. He stood frozen and torn, till he heard a voice say, 'Harry? Is that you?'

Harry gulped, feeling slightly faint, but he opened the door wide nevertheless. His eyes found Draco's and they stared at one another. Against the grey sky and rows of bare trees, it was almost like Draco was the subject of an old black and white photograph. His hair was short, windswept, and his pale face flushed from the cold. The traces of the boy Harry had known were gone and in its place, stood a man with a hard, weathered face. Harry could see the line and small hollows by his cheekbones. His eyes were deep-set, and dark rings lay under them. He had grown taller, his shoulders broader, but yet he did not seem bigger or towering. He had a thick scarf wrapped around his neck and was bundled up in layers upon layers of clothes that seemed worn, and not his own.

'Can I come in?' Draco asked quietly. His eyes were guarded, but there was hopeful glint to them that shocked Harry more than anything else.

'Yeah,' Harry dumbly said, then moved out of the way for him. He watched the blond-haired man walk in, as he looked around with not even a sniff of disdain, or even indifference at the neglected state of the house. Harry closed the door, locking it up once more and added, 'I have a fire going.'

Draco nodded, then followed him to the other room. He didn't say anything when Harry covered himself with his blankets and huddled closer to the fire. He just silently sat on the chair closest to the fire and looked into it. Harry blamed it on the shock, but he couldn't stop looking at Draco. Time flowed strangely in this house, sometimes disappearing so quickly that it was hard to catch up, but at others, it moved slowly and ponderously. He could hardly believe it . . . but it had been three years since Harry had seen Draco, since the war had ended.

Three long years.

Fate had not been kind to Draco Malfoy. He looked far older than he really was. Harry guessed that's what a year in Azkaban did to a man, even if there were no Dementors left. He had heard bits of news here and there, of how Malfoy Manor had been ransacked till there had been nothing left. Of how the Ministry had commandeered the Malfoy fortune, leaving but a pittance. And he had seen the graves of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Harry had tried, too little effect, to stop the sudden want of the populace for 'justice' and revenge against the remaining Death Eaters after Voldemort had fallen. But it had been too strong, there had been too much hatred, for even the Boy-Who-Lived to control. It had angered Harry at one stage, as he couldn't believe how foolish the masses were to do exactly what their enemies had done to them. It was just asking for retribution in turn, an excuse that those bastards could fall back on if they would ever rise up again. But now, after these many years of change, most thought Harry Potter dead. He had no power left, even if he had wanted to use it.

Harry waited for Draco to speak. In the height of the war, they had been forced to become partners. Indeed, petty schoolboy rivalries have no place there. Instead, they had no choice but to trust each other. They had fought and killed together. They saved each other's lives beyond count. They had cried and laughed together. They had smiled at one another when they were certain they would die, just because they wanted to one last time. They had been weapons, pawns, servants, soldiers and wizards together, side by side.

In the war, they had been friends.

Harry didn't know where he stood. But he waited, as he had done before, for he knew that Draco wouldn't speak before he had sorted out all he would say in his head.

'How have you been?' Draco asked after a little while.

Harry looked at him, frowning, before he cleared his face of expression. 'I've been remembering,' he answered quietly.

'It seems like you're hiding,' Draco countered dryly.

Under the blankets, Harry's hands rolled into fists. He pointedly looked into the fire. 'I'm not,' he said shortly.

'It took me quite a while to find out where you were,' Draco carried on, a touch airily. 'Some even told me you were dead. Your friends, your fellow war heroes - ' he almost sneered the words, ' - haven't seen you in months apparently.'

Harry felt a pang of loneliness at his words. They were true, all true. He curled into himself and didn't say anything, because he didn't want to. He didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to deal with it.

'Why did you choose here? Of all places?' Draco asked. He didn't sound arrogant, as he once would have. He merely sounded curious. Tired and curious.

'I don't know.'

Draco stared at him, blinked, then shook his head. 'I guess we've all changed.'

Harry nodded, feeling a sadness drift through him. Change. A thing he had wanted once, but never knew the cost of it.

Draco straightened slightly, rubbing his hands together. 'Can I stay here for a while?'

What felt like a cold hand seemed to grip his heart. Harry blinked, then began to be afraid of the coming of tears. 'I-I . . .' he stuttered, then looked down. 'I d-don't know.' He felt so guilty, so utterly wretched for what he was about to say. 'I'm sorry. I-you c-can't. Every time I look at you – I remember. . . and it hurts.'

When Harry looked up again, Draco was still looking at him. His face was unreadable. A part of Harry wondered when he had become so good at hiding things. He never had been before. Draco had been so easy to rile up or offend.

'I have nowhere else to stay.'

They way he said it made Harry stop and look - really look at him. He saw a man who was tired – tired of all the things life had thrown at him. A man who had lost nearly everything, left only to worry about finding a safe place to sleep at night and whether he'd get food at the end of the day or not. This man had not lived the life he had envisioned, had dreamed of, been promised all his youth. This was a man who knew rock-bottom.

'Okay,' Harry breathed, looking away. 'You can stay.'