The morning brought a large breakfast tray piled high with muffins and sliced fruits with generous dollops of sweet cream heaped on top. The house elf bearing the food noisily set it down upon the only table large enough to hold it in Draco's room, placing a large jug of orange juice next to it. The scent of the freshly baked bread wafted over to Draco, who was now feigning sleep until the elf left. He had immediately noticed the intrusion of his private quarters and had been shocked awake by his senses, alerting him to the potential threat. Feeling foolish, but not daring to let his guard down, Draco remained tense until he heard the barely audible noise that signaled the elf had Disapparated.

Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, Draco stood slowly and shuffled over to the tray, stomach grumbling loudly. How long had he been asleep for? The sun was high in the sky, shining its rays through the lone window in the room. The bright glare stung Draco's eyes as if berating him for sleeping so late, but he had been so tired. He couldn't recall a time after the war where he had ever slept so well before.

It was with an uncharacteristic spring in his step that Draco Malfoy took to the corridors that morning, determined to find someone to harass. His usual victim, Potter, was nowhere to be found, but Draco was determined that he would pick a quarrel with someone today. This dream led him down to the greenhouses – he thought he'd heard someone in the hallway utter the words "Professor Longbottom" in passing, and the thought made him positively giddy. In fact, he hadn't even given a thought to the severity of his Death Eater loyalties during the war until he was passing through the first greenhouse. Yes, perhaps his history would prevent Draco from having his fun – it was all well and good when they were children, but that was before Draco and his friends had committed serious war crimes. But then again, Potter had been game for playful argument thus far, and how much different could Longbottom be from Potter?

His search for Longbottom took him all the way to the third greenhouse, where he could see people milling about amongst some truly enormous flora and what looked like dark fog. Draco knocked at the door briskly before swinging it open. In the greenhouse stood a class of about thirty some seventh years, all equipped with shears that glowed oddly, casting an eerie purple haze about the room. Longbottom turned immediately from where he was poking at the roots of one of the large, fichus-looking plants to stare at him. His eyes were unfocused for a moment before realization slid them into sharp focus. But, to Draco's great surprise, he smiled cheerfully at him.

"Malfoy, just in time! We were just doing some pruning of these Vanishing Vine trees; think you could pitch in?" Longbottom asked good-naturedly, waving his own pair of shears out in front of him. "Students, this is Mr. Malfoy."

Draco quirked an eyebrow first at Longbottom and second at the Vanishing Vine he was standing next to while the class all murmured their hellos, clearly not making too much of this unassuming stranger. The name Malfoy roused interest in a few of them, but most were too focused on attempting to trim the straggly branches of the tricky plants, which were doing an excellent job of evading the pruners by making their branches disappear and reappear in different locations, sometimes even on plants on the other side of the greenhouse just for laughs.

"Vanishing Vines, Longbottom?" Draco asked, strolling up to his old classmate and snatching the shears from his dirt-coated hands, "Bit edgy for Hogwarts, isn't it?"

"Haven't you heard, Malfoy?" Longbottom prodded him in the side with his elbow, a jovial smirk on his face, "The curriculum is including some edgy new branches of magic. Speaking of," he broke off, reaching out with his wand hand and effectively halting a nearby branch that was attempting to elude capture from one of the students. Draco deftly snipped it off, the branch clattering to the floor, suddenly quite solid.

"Potter had mentioned, yes," Draco replied, reaching down and picking up the clipping. He balanced it on his palm, surveying it with a critical eye. "They seem well taken care of."

At this, Longbottom's face fell slightly. "Thanks, but I can't seem to do much for the roots at the moment. All of our maintenance is so speculative right now, and something's gone wrong with them. Come have a look." He beckoned Draco over to the roots of the Vanishing Vine he had initially been inspecting. "See how they're all twisted like that? I just can't figure it out, but it's preventing them from flowering. Know anything about it?"

"A bit," Draco said, racking his brain for his knowledge of Dark plants. Aunt Bella had been particularly fond of the Vanishing Vines in her garden, prizing them for their ability to stab an intruder from a distance with startling efficiency and accuracy, so long as they were taught properly. But when their roots got twisted like this, it meant that… "They need water."

"Sorry?"

Draco hadn't quite realized he had spoken aloud. "You've not giving them nearly enough water. Vanishing Vines grow in swamps and rainforests, so however much water you're giving them, it isn't enough."

"Really?" It wasn't so much of a question directed at Draco, as Longbottom had said it as he stared in fascination down at the roots. "They've already been given quite a lot of water, though. We took samples from the rainforest we took them from and measured how much they need when we were at the sight… but of course, we haven't been very thorough in what quality water we give to them. It doesn't really matter with most other magical flora I've seen besides the more finicky desert-dwellers."

"Right," Draco supplied, "You need to make sure that it's getting all the same minerals like it had in its original habitat."

"Merlin, of course that's got to be it, though. Lucky you stopped by to pitch in, innit?" Longbottom looked up at him curiously. "You know a lot about Vanishing Vines, Malfoy."

Draco shrugged, slightly uncomfortable with Longbottom's stare. Was it wrong to know about them? "Well, au- … a relative of mine used to keep them, you see." Probably unwise to associate himself with Aunt Bella in front of the child whose parents she tortured into insanity.

"Dreadfully useful, Vanishing Vines," Longbottom supplied quickly, clearly sensing Draco's trepidation, "Bit scary, but once you earn their trust, they're really playful and funny."

Draco nodded, but he was almost positive no one else in the room thought there was anything amusing about pruning the pesky vines. It looked horribly frustrating, what with the way they kept dodging the students' every attempt to clip away the smaller branches.

He and Longbottom discussed the various properties of the Vanishing Vines and their properties until one of the students irately told them that class ought to be dismissed for lunch. Longbottom embarrassedly waved them off, admitting to Draco that he had quite lost track of time while they were talking. Draco found himself agreeing; he hadn't noticed how quickly the time had passed. He'd just been so happy to be discussing something that reminded him even ever so remotely of the life he'd known before things had gotten complicated.

As a child and early into his teenage years, his Aunt Bella would take him into her garden – really, her pride and joy – and tell him all about the various magical plants that she cultivated. Though she would never be remembered as one, Bellatrix Lestrange was something of a green thumb when she wasn't busy licking mud off of the Dark Lord's robe hem. It had disturbed Draco to see her act so twisted, so unlike her usual, haughty self when she was groveling at the Dark Lord's feet. She had been his favorite aunt, after all, though he would never be able to admit that to anyone ever again.

Bellatrix Lestrange had taught Draco every spell, every counter curse, and every trick that had ever meant anything to him in his entire life. Where Lucius had become frustrated with his son, Bellatrix was resolute in her belief in him. His father had been a firm believer in strict lessons, using shame as a teaching tool in order to impart his knowledge of the Dark Arts. If you cannot master this spell, you are a disgrace to the Malfoy line, you will never succeed me, and you can forget about your generous allowances, ad nauseum. Whereas Aunt Bella, on the other hand, never used the word "can't" with Draco. She always told him that he would be able to master everything any teacher ever threw at him and never stopped encouraging him and his ambitions. That's what made the difference in Draco's childhood education. Sure, he came away a little pompous for it, but also an incredibly bright student, second in his class only to the child prodigy and notorious walking Encyclopedia Hermione Granger. The world would only ever see her as Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort's right hand and faithful pawn, killing at his every command and at her every whim. The wizarding community would forever put their black mark upon her for all of her wicked deeds. But Draco would forever be grateful to his Auntie Bella, who taught him to believe in himself.

Of course, he couldn't breathe a word of that particular train of thought to anyone at Hogwarts currently, let alone Neville Longbottom. As much as he grudgingly enjoyed his conversation with Longbottom, there were pieces of himself that he naturally kept to himself. Pleased, nonetheless, that he had made a new ally at Hogwarts, he bid Longbottom farewell and began trudging up to the castle for lunch. He had just crossed the threshold of the Entrance Hall and had poised his fingers to snap for a Castle Elf when Potter came jogging down the grand staircase towards him, cloak in hand. "Hold it, Malfoy!" he called cheerily, "What would you say to going into Hogsmeade with me?"

Draco certainly hadn't expected that. He realized that Potter was, in fact, carrying two cloaks right as he was handed one. "It'll probably get chilly when the sun goes behind the clouds," he said by way of explanation. Draco shrugged, falling into step beside Potter as they strode back out into the sunshine and down the path to town.

"How was your morning?" Potter asked him, attentive as always. Draco didn't feel particularly bitter about Potter's coddling today, however. He recalled to mind their conversation the previous night and a dusting of pink appeared on his cheeks and nose as he remembered how he'd dismissed Potter unceremoniously from his chambers.

"Just fine, thanks," he replied, staring forward resolutely though he could feel Potter's eyes on him. He wished he could force his face to stop from flushing as he admitted, "I spent it helping Longbottom with his Vanishing Vines." Before Potter could comment on his choice in company – he could practically smell the smug comments – he plowed on ahead. "Really, though, Vanishing Vines are sort of a dangerous plant to keep around the grounds, aren't they? If someone whom the plants aren't used to stumbled along and provoked them, things could get awfully messy. Obviously, it's not really any of my concern, and I hardly care what happens to anyone stupid enough to provoke a Vanishing Vine, but shouldn't that be something you Gryffindors concern yourselves with?"

When he didn't receive an immediate reply, Draco whipped his head around to stare at Potter, who was smiling at him so innocently and so happily that Draco's flush spread all the way up to his hairline. "What on Earth are you smiling about like that, Potter?"

"You," he replied simply, "Neville's a great guy. I'm just happy you two got the chance to become friends."

Draco grumbled bashfully and stared down at his feet. "Dunno if I'd call us friends, Potter."

"Right, right," Potter corrected himself, though Draco highly suspected he wasn't being sincere. "Of course, it's too soon to call you friends."

The Three Broomsticks wasn't too terribly crowded, something Draco was immensely grateful for. Though the terrorist group that was after him could hardly make a public move, it still made him incredibly nervous to walk about in public. He'd kept perhaps a step too close to Potter as they had weaved their way in and out of the crowds of shoppers bustling about the streets of Hogsmeade, their shoulders knocking together every few seconds. Potter had kept up a stream of easy, casual conversation the entire time, which Draco replied to with clipped responses, eyes darting left and right constantly up until the moment they had slipped into their booth in the pub.

Now, mug of mead clasped between his thin, brittle fingers, Draco allowed himself to relax slightly, shoulders rounding as he dipped his head to sip at his drink. The taste of the liquid – heady, thick, and tasting strongly of honey – seemed to have an instant effect on his mood. He watched Potter as he came back from ordering their food at the bar. He then removed his glasses, place them on the table, and rub at the bridge of his nose with one index finger, staring at Draco with an odd little smile on his face. Draco stared back, eyebrow quirked as he skimmed the pad of his little finger along the rim of his glass. "You seem to be in good spirits today, Potter. Something good happen?" he asked.

"That depends, I suppose," Potter replied vaguely, still smiling that troublesome smile of his.

Draco took Potter's bait. "Depends on what?"

"Depends entirely on you, Draco."

"Depends entirely on me wha-… hold on. Draco?"

Potter's upgraded his smile for a grin. "I feel like we're at that point, aren't we?"

Draco mulled this over, taking overly large gulps of his mead to buy himself some reaction time. The only people who'd ever used his Christian name were his relatives, and those who were like family to him, like Severus and Pansy and Blaise. A lump rose in his throat. All of them dead. "I feel like you may be right about that, Potter."

"Now, now," he chastised, green eyes sparkling with delight, apparently at Draco's agreement, "You're to call me Harry if I'm to call you Draco."

Draco stared hard at the other man for a moment, their eyes meeting. They kept the contact up, and Draco marveled at the way Potter could maintain a stare so unafraid and open for so long. It was a bit draining, all this familiarity, if Draco were allowing himself to entertain any thoughts of fatigue in relation to himself, which he most certainly wasn't. "Harry, then."

"Good." And he slumped in his seat, shoulders relaxing, and Draco couldn't help but crack a smile at Potter's – Harry, he corrected himself – at the way Harry so blatantly dropped his guard. He was purposefully over exaggerating his comfort level in some sort of ploy to get Draco to relax as well. Or perhaps it was to prove to him that there was trust between them. Either way, Draco mirrored the action almost without thinking about it, allowing himself to place his elbows on the tabletop and rest his chin on top of his hands.

"So, Harry," Draco drawled, trying out his name as if he was tasting a fine wine, letting the syllables roll over his tongue and past his lips slowly. He found that the word didn't feel as strange as he expected it to. "Now that I am calling you Harry, will you tell me what has you so cheerful today?"

Harry smirked at him, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards to allow just a little bit of his teeth to show. Draco felt a slight shudder run through him. Potter smirking was definitely an attractive look for the man. It made him look devilish, like he was up to something wicked. Now, there was a thought that Draco definitely would be keeping to himself. He watched with an odd fascination as Potter's lips spread, still looking incredibly smug, and his tongue darted out to form his words. "See, I bet you can answer that for me now, though, can't you?"

Draco shot him a disapproving frown. "Now, if I knew the answer, would I be asking you? Don't make me go back to calling you Potter." When Potter's delicious expression fell slightly at the threat, Draco became confused. "You can't mean that my calling you Harry is what has you skipping about like a first year?"

Potter – or Harry – simply looked a bit sheepish. "Well, er, yeah."

Draco didn't quite know how to react to that information. His first instinct was to tell Potter that he was being silly. Another gulp of mead gave him a moment to mull it over. A thousand conflicting thoughts flashed through his mind at once. Was he being too open, to free, with Potter? By using first names with each other, were they taking this new friendship to a more intimate level than Draco was ready for? Oh, but he was so very desperate, and Harry was always being so attentive, so there for him. He could not keep reverting back to his old self every time he was faced with a situation he would normally have considered unsavory. Old Draco would have scoffed at Potter's offered friendship, laughed at Longbottom's bumbling about with the Vanishing Vines, and would never have stooped so low as to confide in the likes of either of them.

Old Draco's friends and family were all dead. That was an important consideration. Perhaps the person known as Malfoy had died right along with them. Perhaps it was time to be just Draco, the Draco that he had always sort of wanted to be, secretly and very deep down in the cockles of his heart. Making friends with whomever he wanted without regard for what society would say. Hell, these days society was people like Longbottom and Potter. If he were to be truly accurate, then it would be considered a wise social move to get "in" with the old Gryffindor crew - the Golden and Silver trios as it were – to elevate his status.

Call him old fashioned, but he could not help but weigh everything in terms of status.

He realized he had left Harry hanging a bit too long to be considered comfortable for either party. "I'm flattered," he replied simply, but Draco allowed himself to try out that small little smile Harry had worn earlier.

If it was possible for Harry to get any more relaxed, he accomplished it after hearing that. He picked up his own mug of mead and took a healthy swig of it. "You look good when you smile like that, Draco," Harry told him matter-of-factly, his light blush the only indication that he had just said something embarrassing.

Draco quirked an eyebrow, determined to play along but not wanting to overstep any boundaries he couldn't see. "You think I look good, Harry?" he questioned with mock incredulity. Shifting his expression to be a little – okay, a hell of a lot – more suggestive, he altered his tone so that he was nearly purring, he murmured, "Or, should I ask, you think I look good, Harry?"

Harry's blush was now a very dark scarlet, giving him the appearance of a vaguely hassled, very ripe tomato. "Merlin, Draco, it was an innocent compliment."

Now it was Draco's turn to blush. "Sorry, I got a bit carried away with that comment."

Harry looked up at him in surprise, like he almost didn't expect sincerity. "It's fine, Draco, really. It's just that… I mean, you're so…," he trailed off, looking all the world like he was lost for words as he stared at Draco, eyes moving all over him like the words he was looking for were somewhere on Draco's body, "Well, you're a good looking bloke, you know?"

Before he quite knew what he was doing, Draco was shaking his head furiously and speaking in a rush. "You don't need to console me, Potter, I know what I've been reduced to all too well." He needed to leave, oh Merlin, what had he just said? Eyes wild, they darted from Potter's face to the door and back.

"Hey." His voice was soothing and a warm hand touched his knuckles hesitantly. "It's Harry, remember? And I'm not trying to pander to you, Draco, you know I wouldn't." He paused, waiting for Draco's eyes to settle on his own. "You haven't been reduced to anything. Sure, you look like you could stand to have a few extra helpings at dinner, but it doesn't make you any less. You're a survivor, and you ought to be proud of yourself."

"Proud?" he asked, attempting to sound disdainful, but it just came out hollow, "Proud that I somehow managed not to die?"

"S'what I did," Harry offered.

"Fair point," Draco conceded. He couldn't help noticing that Harry was still touching his hand, his fingertips rubbing his bony knuckles in small circle patterns. "Doesn't change the fact that I'm a shadow of my former self. You have to have noticed when we were flying how the wind kept tossing me around like I was eleven again."

"Sure," Harry agreed immediately. For some reason, this encouraged Draco, who leaned in slightly to listen to what Harry was saying. "You've been through hell. Of course you're affected. But you'll come back from it. You're resilient like that. And I'm not lying to you when I say you're good looking." Draco's expression must have betrayed his skepticism, because Harry's voice grew a bit louder when he said, "You really are!"

"If you insist," Draco said dismissively, eyes sliding to the window rather than keep looking at Harry. What he said next, though, snapped Draco's attention immediately back.

"Am I going to have to prove it to you for you to believe that I find you attractive?"

He'd said it sort of exasperatedly, but that didn't matter. Draco's mind went straight to places it hadn't been since fifth year, places that he had placed a mental barricade over to prevent himself from ever going there again due to the sheer impossibility of the thing. But there it was, and Draco couldn't process what Harry might be suggesting.

"This escalated somewhat," he breathed out, mouth suddenly dry.

Harry, to his credit, seemed a bit shocked himself at what had come tumbling out of his mouth. "Yeah, any chance I can just reel that one back in?"

Draco sighed, but inwardly he was relieved. "If you must." Too much had already been said between them for Draco to be able to go back, but he was glad for one less thing to think about for the moment.

"Right, well." Harry seemed like he had no idea what he had been attempting to say before his conversational faux pas, but he quickly regained his verbal footing. "If you like, I think it would be a good idea if you started training with me in the mornings. I think you're up to it now that you've started to develop a regular sleep schedule and have been eating better." He ran a hand through his hair, doing an excellent job of mussing it up more so than it already had been. "I understand that you're probably concerned about gaining some weight back as soon as you can. It's hard when you've been so underfed, but it's a good idea to start as soon as possible."

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience here."

Harry nodded absently, his eyes focused on a spot of the wall next to Draco's head. "Yeah, a bit. I was always scrawny all through school until I got serious about Quidditch."

"I meant experience being underfed," Draco pointed out, suddenly immensely curious. In spite of himself, he was very interested in the home life of the Boy Who Lived. The only stories anyone had ever heard were of when Harry had been a baby and then when he started Hogwarts. Bit of a gap in between there.

Harry sighed deeply. "You honestly want to know about my less-than-magical childhood?" When Draco merely nodded sternly, he sighed again. "There isn't much to tell. I lived with my Muggle aunt and uncle, who hated anything even remotely out of the ordinary. You can imagine that having a wizard for a nephew wasn't exactly their largest point of pride." Harry snorted at his own joke. "Yeah, they generally kept me locked up in a cupboard and pushed my food through a little flap in the door. That is, when they remembered to feed me."

"Harry, that is absolutely the worst thing I've ever heard," Draco protested, fury burning white hot in his heart, "Merlin, I used to think I had it bad when I wasn't allowed seconds of dessert."

"It wasn't all completely awful," Harry attempted, spinning his mead mug around between his hands as he spoke, "I mean, sometimes when they left the house, I would get to come out and have a popsicle or some leftover pudding from the kitchen." He seemed to realize as he was saying it that he wasn't making his situation seem better in any sense because by the time his voice trailed off, he was grimacing. "Okay, it was completely awful. I never wanted to leave Hogwarts."

"I see why."

The pair sat in silence for a moment, each staring down into their drinks. Draco mulled over this new information he had presented with. No, it would be more accurate to describe it as the things he now knew about Harry because he had confided in him. The thought made Draco feel warm. If he'd had that kind of a childhood, he would never have told any of his school friends about it. It would've made them pity him, and Draco would never allow himself to be pitied. Perhaps that's why Harry had told him, though. He knew that Draco would not pity him for it.

Rosemarta came by their table bearing a tray and placed their lunches down in front of them, walking away with a backwards wave. Draco had always sort of liked the barmaid, though he knew her to be a horrible gossip. No doubt everyone in Great Britain would know by nightfall that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had been out on a lunch date. He picked up a chip, greasy with salt and vinegar, and popped it into his mouth.

Harry, however, was visibly uncomfortable. Draco stared at him as he used one of his chips to prod at the others, mouth twisted as if he was struggling internally with something. "Harry," he started in what he hoped was a comforting tone, "Trust me when I say that nothing you tell me about your past could ever hurt my opinion of you."

Harry looked up, startled for a moment. "You mean that?"

"Sure," Draco nodded, "I mean, I've never exactly held you in high regard until a short while ago. Nowhere to go but up, as they say. And being brought up by Muggles against your will is certainly no fault of yours, therefore I could not possibly hold it against you."

"I… thanks, I guess?" Harry really didn't seem too sure how to receive Draco's attempt at pacifying the other man's clearly tumultuous thoughts.

"Tell me about the Weasleys," Draco tried instead, "I am under the impression that they were more of a family to you than the Muggles you lived with?"

At once, like the flicking of a switch, Harry's whole demeanor reversed. His face practically radiated pleasure as he nodded his agreement. "The Weasleys sort of took me in once I started at Hogwarts. Without them, I dunno what I would be like." Realization visibly dawned on him, and for a moment he simply looked at Draco with his mouth half-open and his hand halfway raised to put a chip in. "Actually, if I hadn't met Ron on the train on my first day, I would've probably ended up being friends with you. Would've been sorted into Slytherin, too, no doubt."

Draco stared. "You have to be joking." When Harry merely remained silent, Draco plowed on. "You mean to tell me that a chance meeting with Weasley on the Express is what made you act like such a ponce to me before the Sorting? I tried to befriend you, Harry! We could've been best mates, not you and Weasley!" Harry sort of looked like he wanted to interject, but Draco was laughing his loud, honest laugh at this point. "Oh, what a riot! I can't even imagine, you in Slytherin and coming round the Manor for holidays!" He wiped moisture from his eyes and sighed in delight as he ate another handful of chips.

"I didn't realize you'd find it so funny, but it's really strange to imagine being with you and not Ron," Harry admitted with a noncommittal shrug, "Still, I guess it could've happened if you hadn't acted like such a twat to Hagrid when I met you in Diagon Alley. When we got our robes, remember?"

Draco shot his plate of food a dark look. "Yes, well, I certainly am my parents' child, aren't I?"

"There's good and bad in everyone," was Harry's quick retort, easy and said with a smile, "Did your mother ever tell you how she saved my life during the Battle of Hogwarts?"

Draco's mouth fell open, and he didn't even care how uncouth he must have looked. "She what?"

"Saved my life, yeah," Harry informed him, leaning back in the booth seat, "Covered for me when I was pretending to be dead. Straight lied to Voldemort's face. You wanna know why? Because I'd told her that you were still alive, up at the castle. Pretty much all she cared about at that point was you, I reckon."

Draco frowned at the piece of fish he'd peeled off with his fingers and had held up, poised to put it in his mouth. Anything to not look at Harry and betray himself. That certainly sounded like something his mother would've done. At that point in time, all his mother and father had cared about was saving their family, Dark Lord be damned. They'd only joined up with the Death Eaters for the power and status it afforded within the Pureblood circles. Cast their lot with the winners, if you will. He snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yes, well, I imagine if they'd known all that the Death Eaters were on about, they wouldn't have been so keen to join up in the first place. Thought they were acting in the family's best interests when they aligned with Voldemort." At Harry's quizzical expression, Draco elaborated hesitantly. "Well, you have to understand, the Muggleborns were threatening Pureblood superiority. Your little friend Granger was proof of that, at the time. Spreading the belief that they were inferior was only ever an attempt to remain on top for most Pureblood families. Only those Death Eaters who had nothing to lose – or were completely out of their minds – believed the Dark Lord's whole 'tainting the bloodlines' bit to the letter."

Harry was looking at him oddly. "I'm sorry, it's just so strange to hear you say that. You, of all people, telling me that blood purity isn't important."

Draco shrugged casually. "What can I say? A lot's changed. And, truth be told, I never much believed in the extinction of Muggleborns when I was old enough to realize how batty that idea was." He hit his stride as he built up to his point, beginning to grow more excited as he spoke. "I mean, imagine for me, Harry, a world where Purebloods only procreated with other Purebloods. A few generations worth of inbreeding, and everyone's genes would be too similar to produce healthy children anymore. It just isn't feasible, when you think about it."

Harry was nodding along as Draco spoke. "That makes a lot of sense."

"Of course it does," Draco replied haughtily, "I said it."

Harry laughed, and Draco got the feeling that Harry thought he'd made some sort of funny joke. They finished their lunch slowly, chatting amiably once they'd moved on from the heavier topics. Harry spoke of his time as a professional Quidditch player, which Draco positively loved listening to. Every bloke dreams of playing professional Quidditch, and Draco was no exception. He was envious of Harry, but not maliciously so. Perhaps it was a mark of how far their relationship had come – and Draco's mental state as well – that he could be jealous of Harry Potter in a way that didn't come with anger or hate attached to it.

When it was time for them to get going back up to the castle, Draco found himself disappointed that he would have to relinquish Harry to his teaching duties. As they stood up to leave, Harry took the cloak he'd brought for his companion and draped it over his shoulders carefully. "Looks a bit breezy out there," he said by way of an excuse, but Draco didn't miss the way Harry's fingers lingered on his neck as he fastened the clip. Draco told himself he was only allowing the help because of his fingers, which, though healed, still hurt like mad when he attempted any small, intricate movements, like writing or fastening his own cloak. He was definitely not allowing the help because he was growing to like having Harry dote and fuss over him.

The two made their way back to the castle together, and Draco was grateful for Harry's forethought. It was windy out now, which gave the air a slight chill that went straight through him and made his shoulder ache. The pain was lessened significantly because of the thick cloak, and Draco found himself smiling cheerily as he listened to Harry bitch and moan about the sorry state of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

That night, Draco lay awake in his room, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. He'd always been prone to bouts of insomnia, but lately he'd always been drugged up to the point where he was sleeping all night and during portions of the day. However, his insomnia had finally caught up with him, and in spite of the Sleeping Potion he'd taken, his body had somehow fought it off, allowing his mind to keep him up with racing, incessant thoughts.

He kept replaying the Three Broomsticks over and over in his mind. Harry Potter had been coming on to him, whether or not the man himself had been completely aware of it. There was no question in his mind. One bloke simply did not just call another bloke attractive and then threaten – Draco remembered with a pleasant shiver – to prove his affection. As sorry as it sounded, Draco could not find this revelation completely unwelcome. In fifth year, he'd had an odd sort of crush on Potter, born out of their intense rivalry and constant one-upmanship. Years of trying to get the best of his rival by picking on him, teasing him, and generally always thinking about him in one way or the other gave his hormones – weak from puberty – the perfect object to direct his teenage lust towards. It had been impossible not to notice – after years and years of always noticing Potter – how drastically the boy had changed going into fifth year. He'd become a man, and a handsome one at that.

Potter had always sort of looked like a puppy who had yet to grow into his paws. Even fifth year, he'd still been sort of gangly, and his hair was always a complete mess. His glasses had been too big for his face, and he'd walked the halls with an awkward gait and a complete lack of confidence. He'd looked like that first year, and he'd looked like that sixth year. It was only when Draco got to see him in the Room of Requirement during seventh year when he'd caught a glimpse of the man the war had turned Harry Potter into, but Draco hadn't exactly been in the right place or time to admire the change.

Now, though, after all that had happened, Draco could not believe what luck he had struck upon. When it seemed like he had nothing, it turned out that he had Potter. And Potter had really filled out. He was still tall, but he had filled out rather impressively, to put it eloquently. In short, Potter was fucking jacked. His arms bulged with power even when he had simply been resting them on the table in the pub. When they had walked together, his stride had been strong and confident, the way a truly capable man walked. When Draco had knocked to bid him good night a few hours ago, his pectorals were perfectly visible beneath the thin white shirt Potter had been wearing. Draco had a sort of weak spot for Quidditch blokes, but he'd never in his entire life thought that Harry Potter could ever look as tempting as he did now.

This was not helping him fall asleep even remotely. Draco cursed softly, flipping himself over in frustration. There was nothing he could do but wait it out, and it wasn't as if he could just make the sleep up. After all, he had no reason to get out of bed in the morning other than he didn't want Potter to think he was lazy. Stupid Potter and his stupid glib flirting.

A shout pierced the silence in Draco's chamber. It was muffled, coming from the outer room. Draco sprung up out of his bed; the screaming continued. He bolted out, flinging open the door to Potter's common area. The screaming got louder and more frantic, and fear pierced Draco's heart like a hot knife. Wand in hand – slipped out of the pocket of his pajama pants in a flash – he cast a nonverbal spell to unlock Potter's bedroom door but was surprised to find it already open.

In the room, Harry was thrashing around, tangled in his sheets and screaming his head off as if he was dying. Draco hesitated a split second before casting another nonverbal directly at Harry. All at once, every muscle in his body seemed to relax, but the yelling didn't stop. Only now that he was sure he wasn't going to get hit, Draco quickly approached Harry, taking his hand and using his other to touch his face and hair in a soothing gesture. Harry's eyes shot open and he gasped as if coming up for air.

"You're alright," Draco murmured almost melodically, continuing his stroking motion through Harry's sweat-matted hair, "You're alright, the nightmare's over. I'm here, Harry, I'm here with you."

Harry looked up at him helplessly, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position so he could be at eye level with Draco. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Draco shushed him, thumb now rubbing Harry's knuckles. "Sod off. We've all been there. You're there when I need you. Let me be here when you need me."

He was encouraged when Harry didn't immediately protest that he didn't need Draco. In fact, he leaned in, allowing Draco to keep massaging the crown of his head. "The Room of Requirement," he said wearily, so quiet that it was barely above a whisper. Taking a deep, measured breath, he continued, "You fell."

Draco cocked his head to the side, but he didn't protest. Harry didn't need him to give him the third degree. Just to listen. His hands moved to the back of Harry's neck, fingers gently pressing into the tense muscles.

Harry took a deep breath, but it didn't seem to do him any good. "I don't want to talk," he said finally, shaking his head. When he looked back at Draco, his eyes were shining in the dim light. "Thanks for checking on me, Draco."

Draco smiled a bit sadly. "Course I'm gonna check on you, Harry." He stood up, pulling away his hands and making for the door. "Come get me if you need anything."

He'd made it halfway to the door when Harry called him back, voice hesitant and small. "Could you-? I mean, if you wouldn't mind? Staying here, that is."

Draco turned around at once, heading straight back to Harry's bedside.