Molly Weasley flung her arms around him and pulled him into the least dignified hug Draco had ever experienced. She smelled of bacon and laundry soap and felt squishy in ways his own mother never did. He told himself it would be rude to extricate himself so he stood and endured the embrace until she put her hands on his shoulders, pushed him away, and ran her eyes over his thin frame. "Let me look at you," she said. "Honestly, did they even feed you in jail? George, look at this."

A lanky man who had to be George Weasley said, "I see him, Mum."

"Welcome," Molly said, and hustled him towards a café with outdoor seating. The part of Draco's mind that was still working admired her strategy. It would be easy enough for photographers to get what they wanted here, but the placement of the tables still allowed for private conversations. Whatever else she might be, the Weasley matriarch wasn't a fool.

Knowing what he did about her daughter, he should have anticipated that.

"I wanted to thank you for the soup," he said as they all sat down.

"Oh," she said beaming at him, "It was no problem. I knew Harry and Ginny wouldn't have the faintest idea what to feed you. It would have been all sweets and rich puddings and you would have been sick." She leaned over the table and patted him on the arm. "Ginny's a love, but she can be impulsive," she said. "Doesn't think things through. You'll be good for her, give her a streak of caution."

Draco could hear the snap of a camera going off and thought rather wryly of adages regarding pots and the names they called kettles. "I'll do my best," he said, "but I think you flatter me."

"I'm sure she does," Potter said.

"Harry Potter," Molly Weasley said. It was a clear warning and Draco watched Potter put on what might have passed for a smile if you didn't know him well. It was clear Molly wasn't fooled either but she held herself to a long, level look before picking up a menu and declaring everyone should order. Now.

Even if Ginny weren't a near mirror of her mother, her heritage would have been obvious. Draco looked over at Harry Potter. The man met his eyes and grimaced, surely the first moment of commiseration they'd ever shared. Draco looked down at the list of sandwich options. They all seemed equally dreadful so he picked one at random, said just water would be fine, and listened as everyone else ordered. Potter seemed equally indifferent to food. Ginny wanted the special. Molly dithered over side dishes until George said, "Just give her the chips." At her huff he said, "I'm sure the steamed broccoli is healthier but live a little, Mum."

"You can have my broccoli if you really want it," Draco offered.

"Isn't he the sweetest," Molly said. She glared at George and handed her menu back over but didn't tell the waitress not to bring her the chips.

"So," George said once they were left alone, "Malfoy. Does her snoring keep you up at night?"

"Snoring?" Draco made the mistake of asking.

"I do not snore," Ginny snapped.

"You do," Ron said right as George said, "I knew it. They aren't really sleeping together."

Molly Weasley made a hushing gesture with her hand and looked furiously over at the photographer leaning against a lamppost. "We talked about this," she said so quietly Draco had to strain to hear her. The low level of her volume didn't mask her anger. "Ginny and Harry wanted to keep him out of Azkaban, which is a good thing because he is a child."

Draco wasn't sure he liked being talked about as if he weren't there, especially since she seemed to consider him to be perhaps five.

"He's old enough to be legally married," George said dryly.

Draco had to fight the urge to say, "Thank you."

"Was a child," Molly corrected herself. "At the time everything happened."

"We were all children," Harry said. He reached his hand over and Draco watched him lace his fingers through Ginny's. "And she doesn't snore."

"You wouldn't know. You sleep like the dead," Ron Weasley said, then, as if he heard himself a moment too late, his skin turned a violent red. "Sorry."

Draco wondered how long it would take to get the food. Time seemed to drag on. Molly spoke too brightly, asking George how his business was going and Ron and Harry about Auror training. They all answered with the kind of too happy answers he recognized. These were people determined to be fine no matter what. No one asked him anything and he wasn't sure whether to be grateful he didn't have to feign delight with his recent imprisonment – oh, it was fine, everything was very humane, loved the company – or whether he felt left out of their easy comraderies.

Potter met his eye. Draco waited for the bastard to make some underhanded jab that would get them all laughing at his expense. He knew Potter was good at that sort of thing – they'd been rivals for so long he knew Potter could use words to spar and hurt and wound – and, if he were being honest, he knew he deserved it. Instead Potter had the misbegotten grace to look sympathetic, then relieved when lunch arrived. He ate with the fervor of a man who knew he chewed too quickly but couldn't quite help himself.

Ron Weasley ate the same way.

Ginny, at least, had sufficient manners to eat slowly. His mother would approve of her.

He wondered why Potter ate like a man who'd been starved.

He didn't want to wonder that so he forced his mind to stop caring, stop worrying, stop wondering and instead turned on the social training no son of a Malfoy and Black would ever be free of and asked Molly Weasley about her cooking and told her this lunch was lovely but couldn't compare with the meal she'd sent over to him for his first night of freedom. He twisted compliment after compliment into a bouquet he presented her and her smile went from too bright, too forced, too determined to do the right thing to genuine.

When she kissed him on the cheek to send them on their way, she meant it.

"That," Potter said as he looped an arm around Draco's shoulders as if they were old chums, "was impressive."

Potter's hand hit against an especially sore spot and Draco couldn't keep himself from sucking in. Potter noticed the quick gasp and asked, "It still hurts?"

Draco smiled for the cameras and said through gritted teeth, "I was kicked around by Death Eaters in prison for a rather long time. Yes, you fucking wanker, it still hurts."

Ginny picked that moment to side along apparate all of them back to the townhouse of doom. Draco glared at the curtained portrait he'd yet to see and glared at the worn carpet. Potter opened his mouth and Draco could almost see the way his mind was going and he could take his saving people thing and shove it. "You house is a dump, Potter," he said. Better to go on the attack than have to talk about ow, yes, it hurt. It hurt even with pain potions. It would hurt for years. He would wake up in ten years shaking because he remembered Voldemort. He would wake up vomiting because he remembered Dolohov.

Death Eaters were not nice people.

He shoved all those thoughts, all those memories, into a box and put it as far in the back of his mind as possible and sneered at Potter with as much contempt as he could muster. Untouched little hero with the perfect girlfriend. What did he know?

The sneer worked. Predictable, easy to rile up Harry Potter dropped any question of Draco Malfoy's pain and struck back.

"At least no one's ever been tortured here," Potter said. "More than you can say about your home."

"I thought this was my home these days," Draco said. He wanted to fight so badly. He wanted to hit and hit and hit until he could spit out the anger curdling in his throat. "Though it could use a bit of a redo."

Potter balled his fists up and Draco took a step closer. "Arsehole," Potter said.

"Or maybe you just like living in filth?" Draco said.

Potter swung first but it was a wild blow, flailing and furious but easy to avoid. Draco had learned to avoid far crueler strikes in prison. He'd never learned to hit back, though. Fighting back had just made it worse, so his own punch was just as wild and uncontrolled and childish as Potter's. He didn't care. Potter threw another punch and that one connected with his jaw, and then Draco just lunged at him and the pair of were rolling on the floor of the entrance hall of 12 Grimmauld Place. Ginny took a step back and Draco heard her say, "I'll just let you two work it out," but he wasn't listening. He didn't care. His world had reduced to a head of messy black hair and pair of green eyes and his burning desire to finally – finally – best Potter in something. In anything.

Potter landed a punch on his arm, right where one of the nastier bruises lay, and Draco retaliated with a solid hit to Potter's gut. He grunted out something that might have been, "You fucker," but it was hard to tell because Draco was grinding his head into the floor, then they had rolled over and Potter was doing the same to him, and then he had his hands around Potter's neck and for a brief moment he fantasized about choking the life out of perfect, perfect Harry Potter.

Then he didn't.

He let go and sat up, leaned so his back was against the wall, and said, "Your house is a disaster."

He was breathing so hard around the words he wasn't sure Potter could understand them. He wasn't sure the man wouldn't just start the fight up again. He braced himself against another onslaught only to hear his ongoing nemesis say, "Well, it was your family's townhouse. Not my fault if the Blacks let it turn into a shitehole."

Draco could feel his shoulder's sag and he closed his eyes and tipped his head back up against the wall. "Crazy fuckers," he said. "All of them."

"Not Sirius."

Draco let out a snort but decided to let that go. He'd defend his mother but anyone who lied to Voldemort was as crazy as they came. Aunt Bella had been missing so many bats her belfry had been downright empty. He was pretty sure Sirius had been as much of a loon as the rest of them. "Whatever you say, Potter."

"Your Aunt Bellatrix was a piece of work."

"On that we can agree."

Potter sighed. "If it hurts," he began.

"I don't want to talk about it," Draco said. He looked right at Potter and willed the thick-headed, pushy, righteous bastard to understand what he meant. "Not ever."

Potter met his eyes and his mouth twisted into something that looked too much like someone fighting off emotion. Draco braced himself for what horror might come but instead Harry Potter stuck out his hand. "Hi," he said. "I'm Harry Potter."

Draco took it. "I think I might have married your girlfriend," he said. "Seems not quite the done thing. Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it," Harry said. "I'm sure the three of us will find a way to make it work."

Draco exhaled. "Maybe we can start with you letting me help you buy some decent furniture for this place?"

He was afraid Potter – afraid Harry – would throw the offer back in his face, offended at the condescension. Instead, he grinned and said, "Good luck. Ginny has opinions."

"About furniture?"

"About everything."

. . . . . . . .

A/N - Because, damn it, it's fanfic, and if I want to write an entire self-indulgent chapter about shopping for furniture, I can do that. Also, the last time I tried to shop for furniture in real life, my husband told me life would be easier if I weren't so opinionated BUT IT WAS AN UGLY CHAIR. So I have authentic life experience to draw on for chapter 6. We didn't buy the chair.

Thank you for indulging me. Also, to answer the myriad reviews asking if this is going to be a triad fic, yes.