Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author: Penguin

Title: LIKE GLASS

Part 8

Draco Malfoy came to visit almost every day; short visits, usually no more than five minutes. He never really sat down, only half-sat on the desk corner, underlining the brevity of his stay.

Harry looked forward to the visits so much he was embarrassed, ashamed to admit it to himself. They were the best part of his day. He thought of them when he woke up in the mornings, hoping Malfoy wouldn't come until the afternoon or evening, giving Harry something to look forward to all day.

He thought of the visits so much it made him nervous, looking forward to them before they happened and thinking about every word and every gesture when they were over. His nerves sometimes made him edgy and jittery when Malfoy arrived, because it was so important, too important. But paradoxically, these were the only times he ever really relaxed. Talking to Malfoy was so different from talking to a healer or former teacher – Malfoy was a peer, and he never probed or tried to pry information out of Hary; he just came round for a chat. And as time went on, Harry began to believe, dared to believe, that Malfoy came to see him not only from politeness but because he enjoyed it as much as Harry did.

xxx

For once, Draco allowed himself to sit down. He was very tired, and irritable for some reason he didn't know. Conversation was slow; unusually, they couldn't seem to find anything to talk about. After a long silence, when Draco thought he should just get up and leave, Potter caught his gaze and held it.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes," said Draco before he'd had time to think, and regretted it immediately. He knew from the look in Potter's eyes that it wasn't going to be a nice little question about his day, or about the weather.

"In London, I told you my story," Potter said. "I'd like to hear yours."

Draco blanched. This definitely wasn't in the bargain. He hadn't even been aware there was a bargain.

"You know everything about me, and I hardly know anything at all about you," Potter went on. "I have no idea what happened to you after Voldemort died."

Draco winced at the name, still winced, and hated himself for it.

"Nothing much," he said curtly. "There was a lot of cleaning up to do. I helped with that."

His voice was firm, making it clear that he wished no further discussion on this topic. He could feel Potter's eyes on him but he didn't look back.

"I'd like to say something, Malfoy."

Draco shrugged. "I'm sure you'll say it even without my permission. Go ahead."

"In London, I told you about some of the worst things… the most painful, horrible, humiliating things that have ever happened to me. I wasn't happy about telling you. I hated doing it, and perhaps especially because it was you – I mean, we never liked each other much and all that. But after… after I'd told you… I felt better. It was good to tell someone. And I…" He hesitated, and Draco glanced at him. He looked embarrassed and was rubbing at the fabric of the bedspread with a finger. "I found I don't dislike you any more. I don't. At all. I'm even glad it was you." He paused. "I'd expected you to… well, laugh at me, or despise me, or something, and instead you were thoroughly decent. Now you're here, you're coming to see me almost every day, and I understand that you're doing a lot of work on my part. I just thought I could…"

A blush was creeping up his neck. He looked up and met Draco's eyes, and his face showed a strange mix of emotions – defiance, embarrassment, genuine concern… and perhaps relief. There was a waterfall inside Draco's head; it roared so loudly he couldn't hear much else. His exhaustion was gone. This was the strangest thing ever – this whole thing with Potter. Here was Harry Potter, telling him he liked him, Draco Malfoy, and was glad he had confided in him…? It was too absurd to be happening. Draco suddenly wanted to laugh but was afraid he was going to cry if he did.

"I don't mean you have to tell me something just because I told you," Potter said hastily. "What I meant was… I felt so much better having told you, so much better when someone knew, and… I'm sorry, Malfoy, but it seems to me you need to talk to someone, too."

"Really? And I assume that someone would be you?" Draco said, his voice holding a coldness and hostility he didn't feel. He just needed to defend himself. It wasn't the kind of attack he was used to and he wasn't sure how to deal with it.

Potter was blushing and looked down at his fingertip that was still aimlessly rubbing at the bedspread. "No, it doesn't have to be me," he mumbled. "I just… well, now I've said it."

Draco took a deep breath. The time after the final defeat of Voldemort had been so filled with horror that he had tried to forget it, push it far down into the dungeons of memory and never allow it to reach daylight again. He hadn't even considered wanting to talk to anyone about it, ever – talking would inevitably mean having to relive the events, and there was nothing he wanted less. He realised that one of the reasons why he felt so relaxed with Lupin, and so close to him, was the fact that Lupin had seen the same things he had seen, seen the horrors and lived through them just the same as he. They were familiar with an important part of each other's history, one that had changed their lives, and the shared memories made explanations superfluous and unnecessary.

But there was also a certain appeal in telling Potter. If Draco scrutinised his own motives, part of him was flattered that Potter had been observing him, was interested in him and willing to try to help. Draco was far from convinced that talking in general would do any good, but talking to Potter might. He had reached a certain level of intimacy with Potter, and it was addictive. He would like to deepen it if he could.

"What is it you want to know," he said in a low voice, frightened now.

Potter looked up again, his face alight with interest.

"Anything. Everything." He blushed again at his own eagerness. "Anything you want to tell me."

Draco sat down on the chair by the desk, took another deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he braced himself and opened the door to the dungeons, where horrible memories dwelled in the dark like unspeakable monsters.

xxx

Draco's stay at St Mungo's was short, only a few days, for some less serious physical injuries from the battle. When he was released, he didn't lose any time. He joined the rest of the Order, and anyone else who was reliable and strong enough, and began the cleaning up, the reconstruction. Buildings, systems, infrastructure, people's minds – everything had to be healed, cleaned, restored. They waded through the debris and had to use both magic and manpower to get their work done.

The Order and the remaining Aurors hunted down a few Death Eaters, holed up like the miserable rats they were, and put them in Azkaban. There were few left – many had been killed or caught, and many had committed suicide after Voldemort's death, when they had realised it was all over and their dream had finally, irrevocably dissolved.

Then the Aurors began to find dead bodies of Death Eaters who definitely hadn't taken their own lives. It seemed that someone, or several people, wanted their own, private revenge on the Death Eaters, and had now systematically begun to kill off everyone left. The Aurors and members of the Order had to redirect their search.

It had eventually taken them to Malfoy Manor, as one place among many others. Draco had meant to go back there at some point anyway, to see what was left for him and if he could find any traces of his parents' whereabouts. They hadn't been seen or heard of for several months.

It was a misty, sunless morning with bleak, grey light, and dew was thick in the grass. Draco had arrived early; no one else was at the meeting spot yet. He decided not to wait and headed towards the manor house. The stern, austere building lay grey and square in its lush surroundings, and Draco approached it with dread.

Even as he reached out to open the back door, he knew something horrible had happened. The door creaked ominously. It never used to. Perhaps the house-elves had deserted the place; perhaps they had followed Draco's parents to wherever they were staying.

An unfamiliar, unpleasant smell met Draco's nostrils as he entered the hallway; not strong but thick and repulsive. He nearly stumbled over something dark and round, and had to bite his tongue to stifle a scream: it was a human head.

A few steps away, apparently caught as he was about to escape, lay Walden Macnair. His head had been severed from his body and rolled all the way to the door, where Draco had nearly tripped over it. Perhaps it was meant as a message from the killers: scum. Die the way you have lived. Sick and trembling, Draco left the scene for the Auror squad and cautiously moved further into the dark bowels of the house. He had no wish to see what else there was to find, but he couldn't not go on.

Whereever Lucius and Narcissa had been for the past few months, they had obviously decided at some point to return to Malfoy Manor. When they left this time, it would be for good, and they would never go anywhere again.

If the murderers wanted to make a point with their methods of killing, Draco wondered what they had meant to say about his parents. He found their bodies in the small sitting room, the Blue Room, next to their vulgarly luxurious bedroom. The bedroom itself had had been viciously ripped apart in what looked like an almost lustful frenzy. The bed was demolished, downy feathers from pillows and eiderdowns strewn and blown about into soft white heaps like fresh snow; the silk-panelled walls were slashed and crudely painted with large black figures and letters. The naked bodies in the Blue Room were sprawling obscenely, draped over furniture; dead white skin reflecting the blue colour of walls and brocade-clad chairs to somehow look more than dead, like grotesque wax dolls in a horror cabinet. One was on the couch and one on the thick Chinese rug on the floor. They had been stabbed and beaten, dry dull eyes staring at the ceiling with a ludicrous expression of surprise. There was blood everywhere. Floor, walls and paintings were spattered with it, rugs and cushions soaked.

Draco stood frozen, staring at his parents. The killer could simply have used a clean, efficient Avada Kedavra instead of killing them in this crude, horrible way, but it seemed he had wanted to take their dignity as well as their lives. If Draco hadn't known the colour of Lucius' hair, if he hadn't known it to be sleek and smooth and silvery blond like his own, he wouldn't have been able to make it out; it was too caked and matted with dried blood. Without a doubt, Lucius and Narcissa had deserved to die, but they were his parents and he had never wished this fate for them.

He jumped violently as Snape Apparated into the room with a loud crack. Snape took in the whole scene with a quick glance around.

"Well," he said thickly.

That was all. His face contorted briefly into a grimace, but Draco wasn't sure whether of grief, horror or disgust, or whether the disgust was aimed at the blood, the killers or the dead couple. Perhaps all of it. Perhaps it didn't matter. Maybe nothing did.

Draco left Snape in charge, staggered outside and vomited into a bush by the kitchen wall.

Later, Lupin found him there, still holding on to the wall and retching, cold and shocked and unable to speak coherently. Draco would never forget the look on Lupin's face – sympathy and compassion so profound that the warmth of it had leaked through to Draco's numb, dull core. His admiration for Lupin had begun much earlier, but his genuine love for the man dated from this moment.

xxx

Draco was looking down at his feet, trying to return to the present, to this pleasant room where the windows were intact, the furniture unbroken and the stoneflagged floor had no bloodstains. There was a short silence before Potter spoke.

"I had no idea…" He had to clear his throat. "Malfoy, I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I thought I had a rough deal."

Draco shrugged.

"You had," he said. "But there was a war, and most people had a rough deal. They found the killers shortly after. Teenagers, brother and sister; their parents had been tortured and killed by the Death Eaters. I went back to the Manor to clean it out, and then I sold it – I didn't want any of it; I didn't want to see it again. Then, I concentrated on helping to rebuild Hogwarts. It felt like the best thing I could do. Like I was rebuilding my own life." He stopped and shrugged. "Pathetic or pretentious, or both. Like I tried to save something that couldn't be saved, perhaps. But it felt good to do something constructive."

"You did that with the Order during the war, too," Potter said in a low voice.

"Yes… I suppose. But planning new buildings and getting procedures back in place at this old school… it was more productive. More rewarding, less abstract. Immediate results."

"And what about me?" Potter asked unexpectedly.

Draco stalled. "What about you?"

"Am I a project too?" When Draco remained silent, he said: "Is that what you're doing with me, too – trying to save something that can't be saved?"

Draco was shaken by a compassion so strong it made him furious. "Don't be a bloody idiot, Potter!" he said. "I would be an idiot if I made a project out of you. You've always been a hopeless case."

They began to laugh the same time. Still laughing, Potter reached out and touched Draco's shoulder, squeezed it briefly and removed his hand again. Warmth tingled down Draco's arm and into his fingers. He didn't dare look up.

"Thanks, Malfoy," Potter said quietly, and his voice was warm. "Of all the surprises I've had lately, you're definitely the biggest one."

Draco looked up and met the green eyes. "Do you like surprises?" he said.

"If they're good, yeah. Then I like them a lot."

It wasn't necessary to ask the obvious counter-question. The smile and the steady gaze told Draco that Potter regarded him as a very pleasant surprise.

He smiled back. It was shaky, but it was a smile.