I know this is ridiculously late and I am so sorry about that. I was busy writing and throwing a Harry Potter Murder Mystery party and that took ALL of my time. It was worth the effort though :)
If anyone is curious about it, please feel free to DM me. I'm trying to put together a share-able copy.


Harry is awoken by a loud pounding on his bedroom door. He groans as the sound manifests itself as a headache. He blinks slowly. His eyes feel like they have been glued together and his mouth is dry. He shuts his eyes again and rolls over to wrap an arm around Oliver.

And then the memories of the night before crash into his brain and he realizes that it's not Oliver that he is clutching at, but Draco Malfoy. He freezes as Malfoy shifts under his touch. Part of him can't quite believe that they slept together and the other part of him thinks that it has been coming since they both left Hogwarts. Maybe.

Either way, he has a naked Draco Malfoy in his bed and an unknown person banging on his door. No, he thinks, not unknown. That's Parkinson.

And suddenly he is heart-poundingly wide awake. If Parkinson opens the door and finds them like this, Harry won't hear the end of it. In fact, he could quite possibly lose his job.

He disentangles himself from Malfoy and covers the blond up. Then he grabs his bathrobe from behind the door and wraps it around himself before cracking open the door. As expected, Major Parkinson stands outside. She is tapping her foot in irritation.

"What?" he demands, keeping his voice to a whisper.

"It's nine thirty."

"And? It's a Sunday."

"And everyone is waiting on us to bring in the Reliquary." Harry's shoulders slump. What he would do for another couple of hours of sleep. Then he straightens and nods.

"Right," he says. "Yes. Give us about twenty minutes and we'll meet you downstairs." Parkinson raises an eyebrow at him and Harry wonders if all Slytherins have natural eyebrow raising abilities.

"If it's Draco, it's going to be at least an hour." She turns away. "In the meantime, I'm going to raid your kitchen for coffee," she says as she starts down the stairs.

"Sounds good," Harry says to her retreating back. She waves a hand of thanks at him and then turns the corner of the stairs. As she does, Harry wonders if he will ever understand her. He doubts it. Not that he necessarily needs to, them being on different teams and all. He shakes his head and then closes the bedroom door. He turns back to the bed and stares at the still naked Draco Malfoy who is asleep there. Fuck, but last night should not have happened.

He walks tentatively over to Malfoy's side of the bed and puts a hand on the blond's shoulder. He does not stir, so Harry begins to gently shake it. He gets a slap in the face for his efforts.

"Ow," he cries, leaping backward and putting a hand to his cheek.

"Fuck off, Greg," Malfoy mutters, not opening his eyes.

"I am not Greg," Harry says. Malfoy cracks one eye open. A frown crosses his face.

"Potter?" he croaks. Harry puts on what he hopes is a winning smile.

"Hi," he says.

"What the fuck are-" and then Malfoy pauses and Harry knows that he is now suddenly recalling last night too. Malfoy frowns, squeezing his eyes shut and then he opens both of them. He shifts around in the bed until he is half sitting, propped up on his elbows. He fixes Harry with an intense stare. "Did we fuck last night?"

"Yes," Harry says.

"Then that wasn't a dream."

"No, it wasn't."

"And we really…?"

"Yes," Harry says. "Yes, it was more than once." He can't keep a smile off of his face as he says this.

"And you're waking me up at this ungodly hour because?"

"Parkinson says we need to go into the Ministry." Malfoy groans and collapses back onto the pillow, shutting his eyes again. Harry reaches out and gently prods him. Malfoy feebly swats him away.

"Go away," he says, covering his eyes with his forearm.

"No," Harry says firmly. "You need to get up. Or do you want Parkinson walking in and finding you naked in my bed?" Malfoy lays still for a moment before he lowers his arm and shakes his head.

"She probably already has a pretty good idea of what went on. You're not exactly quiet, Potter."

"The room is quite well soundproofed I'll have you know."

"Oh, now you tell me," Malfoy snaps. He sits up, making sure to keep the sheets across his lap.

"That was you trying to be quiet?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow in amusement. Malfoy glares at him.

"Fuck you, Potter," he mutters.

"I believe you already did." As much as common sense would tell Harry to stop flirting at this point as nothing good can come of it, he finds he can't help himself. Last night was better than he would have thought possible. And the fact that Malfoy hasn't now cursed him from here to next Sunday seems like a good indication that he had enjoyed it too. If only Malfoy hadn't read that damn book, Harry could convince himself that perhaps they could have made this work. But there is no sense dwelling on that now.

"You know, you're not as funny as you think you are, Potter," Malfoy says, still glaring at him. Harry shrugs.

"I'm going to go shower," he says. "Don't go back to sleep in the meantime. I don't want to keep Parkinson waiting." Malfoy crosses his arms in front of his chest and keeps up his glare. It is effective, and Harry walks awkwardly over the bathroom, somehow feeling like a stranger in his own home.

He shuts the bathroom door behind him and releases the tension he had not realized he was carrying in his shoulders. He is not sure why Malfoy still makes him so nervous but he sure as hell does. He sighs and shrugs out of his bathrobe. He turns on the shower and brushes his teeth while he waits for the shower to warm up.

The water feels amazing as he steps under it. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth wash over him. He stands that way for a long moment, replaying memories from the night before in his minds eye. He can't believe he let himself get carried away like that. But at the same time, he doesn't regret it.

He hears the squeak of a door hinge and he hurriedly wipes water out of his eyes. Malfoy's face peers around the gap of the open door, and then he pushes it fully open. Harry instinctively grabs a washcloth to cover himself. He stares, bug eyed, as Malfoy walks into the bathroom as naked as the day he was born.

"What?" he splutters. "What are you doing?" Malfoy shrugs, opens the shower door and steps inside.

"I wanted to see what you were like when we weren't drunk," he says. He takes a step towards Harry and Harry's breath catches in his throat. Malfoy's hair is a disheveled halo, sticking up in all directions from his head. His grey eyes bore into Harry's as he takes another step towards him. The sensible part of Harry's brain is screaming that he should put a stop to this before it gets any further, but he ignores it. He knows he might regret this later, but right now he just doesn't care.

He stays under the shower stream, but he lets the washcloth drop and fact that he is excited to see Malfoy becomes abundantly clear. The corner of Malfoy's mouth quirks up into a smirk. He stands, just staring at Harry, for a long moment, before he steps even closer. He is within arm's reach now, but Harry is going to stand his ground and make the blond come to him. Malfoy, perhaps sensing this, finally closes the distance between them, reaching out and pulling Harry against himself.

"Hi," he says quietly, his nose inches from Harry's. He has water drops on his eyelashes from the spray of the shower. He looks vaguely angelic, save for the devilish smirk of his mouth.

"Hello," Harry replies. He leans forward and presses their noses together, still keeping eye contact.

"Mm, you're really going to make me work for this, aren't you?" Malfoy asks. Harry smiles mischievously and nods. In response, Malfoy wraps his arms tighter around Harry and pulls them more tightly together. When Harry's mouth falls open in surprise, Malfoy takes the opportunity to finally kiss him.

Finding Draco's clothes after they finish showering is a slight challenge, which is not helped by the fact that Draco is still a bit sex dazed after their shower activities. He finds his underwear under the bed and his socks tangled in the duvet. And everything is wrinkled from having been tossed distractedly to the floor.

However, this isn't Draco's first rodeo and he knows all the spells for wrinkle release and beyond. Within minutes, he looks put together, even if he feels like he should look a mess given his nighttime activities.

As he looks at himself in the mirror, he notices a bruise on the side of his neck. It's clearly Potter's handiwork. He scowls at his reflection, though a small part of him thrills at the sight. However, it won't do to go to the Ministry with Potter's mark on him, so he raises his wand and hides the blemish.

He nods to Potter as he walks back into the bedroom, a small smirk crossing his face as he catches Potter's eye. The brunet flushes and Draco's smile grows wider. He knows he is going to replay the memories from his time with for the next few months while he jerks himself off - once he's inevitably alone again.

The smell of coffee reaches his nose as Potter opens the door to the bedroom. Zombie-like, Draco follows his nose down two floors to the kitchen. There, he finds Pansy and a fresh pot of coffee. He watches as her eyes rake his body and he fights the urge to blush.

"Morning," he says, nodding at her.

"Hi," she says. "How'd you sleep?" Is it his imagination, or is there a small smirk on her face? He decides to act as if there isn't.

"Oh, fine," he replies. "Yourself?" She shrugs.

"As well as can be expected."

"In all fairness, I did offer you a bed," Potter says, following Draco down the stairs.

"I actually accepted said offer," Pansy says. She points to a door off of the dining room. "The sheets are in the wash."

"Oh good. I'm glad you found the spare room."

"I'm glad she found the coffee," Draco says. He crosses the room to the coffee pot and reaches for it before realizing he doesn't know where any of the glassware is. Potter notices his hesitation and raises his wand. A cupboard to Draco's right opens and two mugs fly out of it, landing with a soft clink on the counter next to the coffee. "Cheers." Draco pours two full mugs and carries one over to Potter who accepts it gratefully.

"Thanks." Potter takes a large sip of the steaming liquid, only grimacing slightly at the heat. He sighs. "That's better. Now, does anyone want breakfast?" Draco looks over at Pansy who checks her watch.

"I don't know if we have the time," she says. "I imagine Draco wants to change before we take him in."

"I think there's time for some toast," Potter protests. As Pansy opens her mouth to respond, he waves his wand again and six pieces of bread fly out from the breadbox and deposit themselves in the toaster oven, which dings to announce that it is on.

Pansy narrows her eyes at Potter but says nothing. Draco wants nothing to do with this strange power struggle and so quietly walks over to the dining room table and sits down. He puts his coffee down and leans over it, letting the scent wake him up as much as the coffee itself.

All things considered, he feels quite well rested. Or at the very least, he is not as tired as he was the day before, even though he didn't get all that much sleep. More than anything else, he feels hungover, although the shower did help with those feelings a bit. Potter must notice this, because a hangover potion lands in front of him a moment later. He looks up. Both Potter and Pansy are holding similar potions, which makes him feel a bit better, although he hadn't thought Pansy'd had that much to drink. Potter raises his potion in a toast. Draco picks his up, motions clinking in the air and then downs the liquid in one. Then he takes a quick sip of his coffee to get the bitter aftertaste out of his mouth. He shudders and makes a disgusted face.

"Circe," Pansy mutters, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth. "You'd have thought they would have been able to come up with a better flavor by now."

"Oh well," Draco says. He closes his eyes as the feeling of warmth starts in his chest and then spreads over his body. The faint feeling of nausea dissipates and his headache leaves him. He takes a deep breath and marvels at how much better he feels. It's been several years since Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes came out with the potions, and every time he has one, he is amazed at how well and how fast they work.

Just as he feels the warmth of the potion reach his fingertips, the toaster oven dings to indicate that the toast is done. He looks up to see Potter wave his wand again. Plates and cutlery fly around the kitchen. The fridge opens and the butter flies out, presumably to be applied to the toast, although Draco cannot see where it goes. A moment later, a plate with two pieces of toast lands in front of him. Pansy still looks a little annoyed that Potter has bothered with any sort of breakfast, but as a plate hovers in front of her, she accepts it with grace.

They join him at the table and start to discuss the logistics of bringing him into the Ministry. Draco has, of course, been in the Ministry of Magic before, so he's well aware of how to get there and thus tunes them out while he crunches on his toast. While he wouldn't have argued with Pansy about having breakfast, he is most definitely glad that he has it. The toast and the hangover potion are doing wonders on his mood. He feels positively happy, even while Pansy and Potter discuss what they think might happen to him in the Ministry. He knows part of is good mood is to do with all the sex they had last night and now that he has a bit less vertigo, he thinks back to the night before in earnest.

He is brought back to the present as his two breakfast companions turn to stare at him.

"What?" he asks through a mouthful of toast.

"Did you want to go home and change?" Pansy asks him, clearly annoyed at having to repeat herself. Draco swallows down the toast and nods.

"Please," he says.

"Right, then that decides it," Potter says. "I will escort Malfoy back to his house. Parkinson, we'll meet you at the external entrance to the ministry once you've showered and changed." Pansy nods once and then shoves altogether too much toast into her mouth before she shoves her chair back from the table and stands. She gives them both a small wave and then walks over to the fireplace behind Draco. She grabs a handful of Floo powder from where it sits on the mantlepiece and drops it into the grate. A green fire flares up, and she steps into it, saying her address so quietly that Draco can't catch it, even though he is only a few feet away.

And then they are alone again.

Potter seems to relax more once Pansy's spinning form has disappeared. He leans back in his chair and stretches, yawning as his arms reach high above his head.

"Mm," he says. "I could have done with a bit more sleep." He catches Draco's eye and grins.

"Sorry," Draco says.

"Don't be. You're not the reason I couldn't sleep in. Parkinson is. Who gets up at nine on a Sunday?" Draco does not want to point out that often he gets up at nine on a Sunday. He is worried it will make it sound like he has no social life. That is not the case, it's just that his body seems to wake him with the sun, whether or not he's done sleeping.

"Well, then I'm not sorry," he says instead.

"Good."

Silence falls as Draco turns his attention to his toast, not wanting to talk more about the night before. What would be the point? He finishes his toast and instead focuses on coffee. It is black, which is not how he prefers it, but he had not wanted to ask Potter where the milk and the sugar were and so has resigned himself to the bitterness.

Once Potter finishes his own toast, he waves his wand to send the plates to the sink. Then he turns to Draco.

"Ready?" he asks. Draco takes one last look around the kitchen and then nods.

"How are we getting there?" Draco asks. "Our Floo is set to Family Only." Potter has the nerve to look mockingly hurt.

"You mean, you didn't add me the moment I came over?" he asks, a smirk on his face.

"We don't really use the Floo," Draco snaps, more irritated by Potter's teasing than he should be. Perhaps because it reminds him that this was just one night (and a shower) and that it won't happen again. "But I've let you in the wards, so we can probably apparate. If you give me some paper, I'll write down the coordinates."

The house is quiet when they arrive. Greg is either asleep or out, and Draco can't tell which. It feels decidedly odd arriving on the landing with Potter. He had done it so many times with Oliver, that for half a second, his body expected to see his sandy blond hair when Draco turned his head towards the person beside him.

"Uh, welcome back to my house," he says. "This is my floor." And then he feels really stuck up saying it. Because while it's true that the entire floor is his, it shouldn't entirely count as a floor. Perhaps he should have said this tower was his, because that is more what it feels like. His little tower.

Potter doesn't say anything, just looks around, his hands clasped politely behind his back. Draco frowns at him and then gestures for him to go into the bedroom.

"Here," he says, gesturing to the armchair in the corner of the room. "Sit here while I get dressed." Potter nods and makes his way over to the armchair. But he does not sit. Instead, he turns and looks at Draco's bookshelves, turning his head slightly to read some of the titles. Draco watches him for a moment before walking back out into the landing where his closet is.

He pulls out a pair of jeans and a tee shirt before he stops himself. He looks at them and decides he should look more put together if he is going to be brought into the Ministry. So he stuffs the jeans back in their place and pulls out a pair of navy trousers and a white button down shirt. He starts to unbuckle his belt in the landing, the way he normally would, but again he stops himself. Instead, he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. He knows that Potter has seen him naked several times in the last twelve hours, but changing somehow feels different.

Once he is done, he stares at his reflection in the mirror. He has dark circles under his eyes from the past few nights of little sleep, and his hair is uncharacteristically unruly. The hair he can fix though. He rummages in his vanity and pulls out a comb and some hair gel. He fiddles with his hair until he is satisfied and then, as an afterthought, brushes his teeth. Then he nods once at his reflection and walks out of the bathroom, leaving yesterday's clothes a pile on the floor.

He finds Potter sitting in the armchair, flipping through a Muggle fiction book that Draco had picked up the last time he was in Chelsea. He stands awkwardly for a moment, willing Potter to look up of his own accord, before coughing quietly. Potter looks up. A smile crosses his face.

"Don't you clean up nicely," he says. He puts his hands on the chairs arms and pushes himself exuberantly into a standing position.

"Shall we?" he asks. His tone is the opposite of how Draco feels, bright and carefree, and not like he is potentially leading Draco to be interrogated and locked up.

"Sure," Draco says. He leads the way downstairs.

As they pass through the Leaky Cauldron, Harry looks around them. He almost stops walking as he sees a man reading the Daily Prophet. Oliver's face blinks serenely back at him from the front page, under a headline of "Reclusive Ex-Keeper Found Dead". Seeing it that way feels like a punch to the stomach. He takes a deep breath and then notices that Malfoy has stopped walking. He turns to look at the blond.

Malfoy looks like he has just been slapped. He blinks rapidly. Harry feels a shot of guilt as he sees pain flash through Malfoy's eyes. Not for the first time in the last twenty four hours, Harry wonders if Malfoy has seriously dated anyone since Oliver.

It feels unfair that he should find out this way. Harry had at least been able to deal with his shock in private. He had been able to spend most of that first night crying into Oliver's pillow, inhaling his scent and attempting to commit it to memory before it faded for good. He wonders if he should somehow have brought this up the night before. But then he thinks, should he have brought it up before or after they'd taken all their clothes off? He blushes as his traitorous mind goes straight to the memory of how Malfoy's mouth felt around his dick. But now is quite definitely not the time for these thoughts, so he pushes the memory quickly away.

He reaches out and puts a hand on Malfoy's arm. They have both stopped walking now and are just standing in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry looks up as the woman behind the bar hurries over to them. He realizes it is Hannah Abbott and starts to raise his hand in hello. But Hannah only has eyes for Malfoy.

"Draco," she says as she reaches them. She reaches out and takes Malfoy's hands in hers. "Oh, Draco, honey, are you okay?" Malfoy is still staring at the front page of the Prophet. Hannah looks behind her, over at the man who is holding the newspaper. She gently leads Malfoy to a table and makes him sit down.

"Let me get you some coffee," she says.

"With some firewhisky," Malfoy mutters. Hannah meets Harry's eyes at this point and he shrugs in acquiescence. She hurries away and Harry sits down opposite Malfoy.

"Tell me you didn't know," Malfoy says, his eyes boring into Harry's. Harry sighs and looks away.

"I can't."

"You fucking knew and you didn't tell me?" Malfoy's voice is an angry hiss.

"It was classified Ministry-"

"-Oh save me the sanctimonious bullshit, Potter. You didn't tell me because you were thinking with your dick." Harry says nothing, but presses his mouth into a thin line. Malfoy is right, of course, but Harry is not about to admit it. Malfoy glares at him again and then crosses his arms and slumps back into his chair, all the fight going out of him. Harry takes a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I should have told you. I should have found a way to bring it up." He takes another deep breath. "And I should have done it before we took our clothes off."

"You took your clothes off?" Hannah Abbott asks, interrupting them with both her question and a steaming mug of coffee. Harry can smell the firewhisky from where he is sitting.

Hannah sits down next to Malfoy and nudges him with her elbow.

"You and him, then?" she asks. She looks up briefly and catches Harry's eye, her lips pressed into a tight line, as if to say she's putting on a good show to try to make things a bit better for Malfoy. The blond gives a small nod. Hannah turns her head to look at Harry again, who feels himself blush crimson. "So what are you mooning over Wood for?"

"Hannah," Malfoy protests. "He was a big part of my life for almost a year, and now he's fucking dead."

"Sorry," she says. "I'm being terribly insensitive but I still haven't forgotten how he hurt you. And I haven't forgiven him for that." She reaches out an arm and wraps it around Malfoy's shoulder, squeezing him hard against her. Then she leans in and continues more quietly. "And in all fairness, you haven't seen Wood in years and Potter's a pretty great catch." Malfoy turns his head and frowns at her.

"Hannah," he whispers. "Potter can hear you."

"I can hear you too, Malfoy" Harry points out.

"And it's more complicated than that," Malfoy continues in a normal tone, ignoring Harry. Hannah gives Malfoy's shoulder a squeeze before she takes her arm back and shrugs. "There are things I haven't told you."

There is a ding from the bar behind them as a patron presses the small bell next to the register.

"I'm sure you'll tell me about it in time," Hannah says. "But I need to get back to work. It's not that I don't care, Draco. Because I do care, terribly. It's just that my job is calling." She glances over at the bar, where sure enough, a small line has now begun to form. "Take good care of him," she says to Harry. He nods dumbly back. And then she is gone again.

Malfoy reaches over and takes his coffee mug. Lifting it to his mouth, he takes a large sip. He watches Harry over the lip of the mug, eyes narrowed, before putting it down on the table again.

"How did he die?" Malfoy asks. "And don't you dare tell me it's classified. I have a bunch of classified shit in my head right now. One more thing can hardly hurt." Harry looks down at his thumbs and twiddles them. He was hoping this conversation would come later, preferably when someone else was around to explain it in Harry's stead.

"It happened while stealing The Reliquary," he says after a long moment. "He broke into a secure Ministry facility and died shortly after sending it to you. I don't actually know all the details. I didn't necessarily want to know." Harry breaks off, not wanting to continue. He is sure Malfoy knows why he doesn't want to know more. After all, he threw Oliver's towel at Harry last night. He knows Harry and Oliver were a couple, which, Harry realizes, might be more than anyone else knows. Malfoy's eyebrows shoot up and he lifts the coffee to his mouth again, hands shaking, to take another large gulp.

"No," he says once he's swallowed the mouthful. "No, that can't be right. Oliver wouldn't do something like that." Harry's lips are pursed again and he is frowning. Malfoy clearly understands from his expression that he's being serious because he slumps back down in his chair again. "Fuck," he says quietly. "Then why'd he send it to me?"

Harry's mouth twists in concern, but he stays quiet. He does not want to say anything more on this topic until they reach the Ministry, where someone else can handle all of the questions. He looks down at his watch as it vibrates softly against his wrist. He pulls out his wand and prods it gently. He has a message from Parkinson.

Where are you?

He prods the watch again, changing it back to its normal clock face and he groans when he sees the time. They had been scheduled to meet Pansy ten minutes ago. He looks up at Malfoy and sees that the blond is watching him.

"We're late," Harry says, pointing at his watch. "We should go." He stands up. Malfoy gives a small, resigned sigh. While the blond still seems upset, he appears to be at least less angry with Harry. He pushes his chair back, stands, then picks up the coffee for one last sip. Harry watches in amazement as the blond downs the rest of the liquid in one go before wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

"Fine," he says. "But this conversation is not over." He begins to stride purposefully towards the door of the Leaky Cauldon, forcing Harry to jog to catch up with him. When he does, Malfoy's face is set in the hard look that Harry remembers so well from Hogwarts. He reaches out and puts a hand on Malfoy's arm. Malfoy spins to face him.

"What?" he snaps.

"Are you okay?" Harry asks. Malfoy shrugs his hand away.

"I'm fine. Let's go." He turns back towards the door and in a moment is through it. Harry adjusts his jacket collar and then follows.

Pansy glares at her watch. She curses herself for letting the pair of them out of her sight again, but the idea of going home, showering and changing her clothes had been too nice to pass up. But now they are late. Not that there is a definitive time that Dempsey wants them to be there, but it's the principle of the thing. Pansy is never late to anything. In fact, she is usually scrupulously early.

She leans against the wall next to the Muggle telephone booth that is the visitor's entrance to the Ministry. As much as she would have preferred to use the employee entrance, or better yet, have just apparated in, Draco is a civilian and Potter wouldn't agree to bend the rules to take him in any other entrance than the public one.

She hears two soft pops, which are followed shortly by the sight of Potter walking around the nearest corner. A moment later, Draco follows. Even from this distance, Pansy can tell that Draco is upset. He is wearing his 'everything is fine, leave me the fuck alone' face, which generally means that things are not fine. She wonders what happened in the time that she left him alone with Potter.

"You're late," she says as they draw up next to her.

"I know," Potter says. "Unforeseen circumstances." They pile into the phone booth.

"Would these circumstances have anything to do with why Draco looks like he's either going to cry or hit something?"

"I do not look like that," Draco protests. He wriggles uncomfortably, wedged in between the two of them.

"Yes, you do," Pansy says. She reaches a hand out and picks up the telephone receiver. She punches in 62442 and waits until the floor beneath them begins to move before replacing the phone in its cradle. She turns to face Draco, freeing up a small amount of space between them. She pokes him in the rib.

"What's wrong?" she asks. Draco turns his head and scowls at her.

"Nothing," he says. She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Draco. I know I haven't seen you in a while, but if you'll recall, there was a time when I was the one person who knew you better than either Greg or Vince." She can tell by the way his scowl intensifies that she is right.

"He found out that Wood died," Potter says over Draco's shoulder. "And they had, ah, had a thing a few years ago."

"Ah." She'd seen the front page of the Prophet as she'd carried the paper into the kitchen while she had been briefly at home. She, too, had been startled by his serene face staring out at her. Because, even though Wood had been the one in the wrong - he had been stealing Ministry property - she still felt guilty that he had died. If she had just been a second faster when attempting to disarm him… She pushes the thought away. Instead, she puts a hand on Draco's arm and asks,

"Are you okay?" She watches as he takes a deep breath and slips his 'everything is fine' face back on.

"I'm fine," he says in a small voice that transports her back to their fifth year, when they had still been best friends and Draco and Narcissa had come for dinner, shortly after Lucius had been locked up in Azkaban. And just like all those years ago, she wants to wrap her arms around him and hug the pain away. But just as back then, she does not. Because while that is what she would want, Draco is different. Instead, she squeezes his arm and sees the ghost of smile lift the corners of his lips.