Draco spends most of Saturday avoiding Potter. He hides in the library, working on various sketches, or reading books, while he can hear Potter watching television on the floor above him. He hears Potter go downstairs to make lunch and purposefully waits until Potter's left the kitchen again before he goes down to make a sandwich for himself.

He eats it sitting at the kitchen table, staring idly around the kitchen. One of the cabinets near the sink is slightly open, and Draco frowns at it. It's ajar at the top, as if it were a drawer. But it's not a drawer. He stands up, sandwich in hand and walks over to inspect it. When he pulls it open, he's greeted by the shiny, silver interior of a dishwasher.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," he says to nobody. "I've been washing stuff up by hand when this has been here the entire time?" He sighs heavily and makes his way back to his chair, where he slumps down at the table and sulks. He wants to go confront Potter about this, but he's not sure he's quite ready to see him yet.

When he closes his eyes, he can still feel how Potter wrapped him in his arms and held him. And all he can think about is how he wants it to happen again. Why he wants this, he's not entirely sure. He thinks it's probably just physical. Potter's good looking — Draco's always thought so. That's why he'd sought his face out in the Great Hall, across classrooms, on the Quidditch pitch, and in that courtroom. But he'd always been a distant crush. A safe crush, because of course nothing could happen between them.

Draco had been a Slytherin while Potter'd been the golden boy of Gryffindor. They were oil and water. No, more like lithium and water: reactive when mixed together, often with explosive results. Though they've mainly kept a lid on their tempers thus far during Draco's stay, he's worried that it's only a matter of time before they get under each others' skin again.

But maybe they've grown past it. Maybe they've both matured, and changed enough that they can tolerate each other. Maybe they can even like each other if given time. Draco has to admit that he's had some genuinely enjoyable moments in his stay thus far. Their impromptu dance party from the night before, for example, had been the most fun Draco's had in a while. And he very much enjoys their banter. They've always had that kind of repartee, he thinks, though it's much nicer when it's not filled with insults.

Though he's certainly going to give Potter a piece of his mind for not mentioning the dishwasher. Once he gets up the courage to face Potter again. Or, maybe, once he gets a handle on his emotions enough that he can face Potter without immediately blushing.

Perhaps once he stops simply replaying the feeling of Potter's arms around him.

…

Once it reaches five o'clock, Draco realizes that he can't avoid Potter all day. If just because Potter usually makes dinner. So he summons his inner Pansy 'I don't give a fuck' Parkinson, and charges upstairs. He finds Potter sprawled on the sofa, in front of the television.

"Potter," he says quite firmly. Potter's eyes slide from the television to him.

"Yes?"

"I have a bone to pick with you."

"Oh?"

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me you had a goddamn dishwasher?" Draco stands with his hands on his hips and glares at the offending man and watches as Potter struggles not to laugh.

"I—" he starts to say, but then the words are swallowed by a giggle. "I didn't think you would know what it was."

"I design muggle interiors, along with wizarding ones, for a living. Of course I fucking know what a dishwasher is." As he's speaking, he walks up to the sofa, until he's towering over Potter. Not that Potter notices. He's still too busy laughing. "It's not funny."

"It bloody well is," Potter says. Draco glares down at him before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room. "Malfoy wait," Potter calls behind him, but Draco ignores him. He makes his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He can hear Potter scrambling behind him, which makes it all the better when Potter walks in and finds that Draco's made them cocktails.

"Oh," Potter says.

"It's five o'clock."

"So, we're drinking?"

"It's a way to pass time."

"Correction," Potter says, reaching for one of the two tumblers of dark liquor. "It's a fun way to pass time." Draco forces himself to smile. He's still nervous, or— nervous is the wrong word, but he's not at ease around Potter, and having the liquid courage of alcohol in his system helps with this. It gives him a false sense of intimacy, even if they aren't strictly friends when they're sober. Though, the way they're going, they might be by the time their two weeks are up.

"Cheers," Draco says, picking up the remaining glass. He holds it towards Potter and Potter clinks his drink against Draco's.

"To having a nice evening," Potter says.

"In which we don't kill each other," Draco adds. Potter lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip.

"I rather think we're past that," he says after he's swallowed.

"Do you?"

"I don't dance with my enemies."

"But it's such a great battle technique," Draco deadpans. "It really gets under your enemies' skin."

"Is that so?" There's a smile playing about Potter's face and it worries Draco.

"Yes," he says.

"You'll have to show me later." The way he says it, makes it sound like a promise and it's all Draco can do to nod and take a large sip of his drink.

…

"So I have nightmares too," Draco says conversationally over dinner, as though they're discussing the fact that they like the same quidditch team, or book, or ice cream flavor. He takes a deep breath. This isn't something he likes to talk about it. But he's brought it up now, so he might as well. "Mine are usually about him in the Manor; that godawful period when he stayed with us. Sometimes it's the fiendfyre…" He trails off. He gnaws on his lower lip for a moment before saying, "Last night, I was dreaming about the night I killed Professor Dumbledore."

"But you didn't kill Dumbledore," Potter says immediately. "Snape did." Draco stares at him. The official line had been that Draco had done it. Snape had forced the Carrows and Fenrir into repeating it for Draco's protection. The only people who know any differently are dead or in Azkaban now.

"But how—?"

"—I was there."

"You were there?" Draco's eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack and he stares at Potter. "But how? Where?"

"I was under my invisibility cloak."

"Why didn't you do anything?"

"Dumbledore immobilized me."

"Fuck." Draco can't believe someone else had been there to witness his shame. He feels no shame over the fact that he failed, but he is ashamed that he had even tried. And worse than that, that he'd led the Death Eaters right to Dumbledore.

He's thought about that night a lot, has talked through it with multiple therapists, and he's still not sure how he feels about it. Aside from ashamed.

So for the most part, unless he gets a nightmare, he puts it out of his mind. But now he can't, can he? Because he's living in the house of someone who'd been there. Oh fuck, why had Potter been there?

Draco doesn't know how to feel about this. He doesn't know what to say. His insides feel cold and also empty. Someone else has seen one of the worst moments of his life. Someone who is still alive.

"I don't blame you," Potter says, breaking into Draco's thoughts.

"What?"

"For Dumbledore's death. I don't blame you."

"But I'm the reason he died," Draco protests. Potter shakes his head.

"You're not a killer, Draco." Draco's head jerks up at this. Because those are almost verbatim the words that Dumbledore had used.

"What do you know of it?" he asks when really he should be agreeing, because he's not.

"Why else do you think I vouched for you at your trial?"

"Oh."

"He was already dying when you found us on the tower. Snape did him a mercy."

"What?" Everything Draco thought he had known about that night feels like it's turning upside down. He also doesn't feel sober enough for this conversation. He's already had an old fashioned and a glass and a half of wine. He reaches for his glass of water and drinks down several large gulps. It doesn't necessarily sober him up, but it makes him feel better all the same. He listens as Potter tells him a fantastical and terrifying tale of the trip he'd taken with Dumbledore before they'd met Draco on the astronomy tower.

"Well," Draco says once he's done. "That puts things in perspective a bit." Potter gives him a humorless smile. "I'll probably still have nightmares about it though."

"Fair," Potter says. He chews his lower lip for a moment. "I also have nightmares about that night. And about the inferi. Sometimes my nightmares are of that time in the graveyard, and Cedric." He doesn't elaborate and Draco doesn't push him on it. "And sometimes my nightmares are of you, bleeding out in that bathroom," he adds quietly. "And I can't save you. And then you die and it's awful. " Draco stares at Potter, trying to catch his eye but Potter is staring into his wine, his eyes obscured by the fall of his hair.

"But you don't like me," Draco says. His voice comes out more forcefully than he wants it to. Potter presses his lips together, but he still doesn't look up. "You hate me." At this, Potter's head does jerk up.

"I don't hate you," he says.

"But you don't like me." Of this, Draco is certain.

"You might be," Potter twists his mouth to the side for a moment. He catches Draco's eye for a moment before looking quickly away. "Growing on me." Draco's eyebrows shoot up. An unexpected feeling of warmth blooms in his chest and he looks away. He stares into his wine for a long moment. Takes a sip. When he looks up again, Potter is staring at him.

"And you might not be as terrible as I thought you were," Draco says, with a small shrug of his shoulders. "But, don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain, you know." Draco forces a smirk onto his face, trying to steer the conversation back to something that's lighter, and less to do with nightmares and trauma.

"Malfoy," Potter says, raising one eyebrow. "Who would I tell? We're trapped in this house together."

"You have a phone," Draco points out. "You could text people."

"Speaking of which, I still can't believe you didn't tell me that you had a phone," Potter says.

"When and why would I have told you about my mobile?"

"You could have mentioned it in one of your letters, so that we could communicate about the house more easily."

"OK. But how was I to know that you had a phone? You weren't even being honest with me about who you were. I wish you had though — it would have made everything much easier." Potter looks thoughtful for a moment before a sly grin crosses his face.

"Is this your round about way of asking me for my number?"

"No," Draco protests. Then he pauses. He narrows his eyes at Potter. "Well, actually, if you're offering." Potter's mouth curls to the side again and Draco's stomach does a strange lurch. Oh no. Not that again. He does not have time for that.

"Yeah alright." Potter reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

"Nice brick," Draco says before he can stop himself. Potter looks up from where he's scrolling through it.

"And yours isn't?"

"'Course not. Mine's elegant." Draco pulls out his Pebl and places it on the table. "See. Elegant."

"Of course. You had to get the fancy new phone as soon as it came out, didn't you?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Draco stares at Potter with challenge in his eyes but Potter just lifts the corner of his mouth and shrugs.

"I like my phone," he says. "I gave it a Gryffindor case." Potter holds out the phone to show Draco that it is indeed red with a golden Gryffindor lion on it.

"Of course you did."

"They didn't have a lion at the store, so I had to transfigure it." Potter looks proud of himself at this, so Draco doesn't tease him further. Instead, he picks up his Pebl, pulls the lid down and then watches as top springs up.

"Well," he says. "Go on then. Give me your number." He hands the phone over and watches as Potter keys the number in. When he hands the phone back, Draco saves it under the contact Arrogant Gryffindork.

"What's yours?" Potter asks, but Draco's already texting him.

Hi, it's your secret admirer xoxo he sends, then watches as Potter's phone vibrates and he reads the message. Potter's eyebrows go up and he looks amused, which is exactly what Draco had been going for. The fact that it's got a ring of truth in it, is hopefully lost on Potter.

You know you can flirt out loud too comes the response text and Draco doesn't know what to do with his face. He stares at the text for a long moment before looking up to see Potter staring at him.

"What did you save my number as?" he asks, not addressing the words on his phone.

"Pureblood scumbag."

"Charming. You're currently Arrogant Gryffindork, but I might need to change it. I'm not sure it quite captures your essence."

"As long as it's not the Boy-Who-Lived, I don't really care."

"Good point. I'll change it to Savior of the Wizarding World."

"Please no." Potter looks physically pained, which just makes Draco grin.

"Doing it right now," he says, tapping away at his phone. "There's nothing you can do to stop me." Potter says nothing, but a moment later, Draco gets a text from "Boy Wonder" that just reads,

Dickhead.