WC: 1052

~ Chapter 1 ~

Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?

Malfoy looked at Harry, his head tilting to the side.

Harry shook his head, shifting in his seat. He already knew his answer, but he wasn't about to give up something—anything—personal without Malfoy doing it first. "You can go first."

Wrinkling his nose slightly, Malfoy sat back in his chair, brow furrowed thoughtfully for a moment. "Probably my Grandfather, Abraxas."

Harry nodded. "Do you want to explain why, or not?"

With a heaving breath, Malfoy ran a hand through his hair. Harry took notice, for the first time, that his hair wasn't slicked back like it always had been in school. There didn't appear to be any products in it at all, and while it was still smooth, it looked softer and a little fluffier than Harry had ever seen it.

"My mother told me that my Grandfather Abraxas turned his back on the Dark Lord before he died. He tried to convince my father to do the same thing, but… well, you know he didn't. I'd want to ask him why he turned."

"Fair enough," Harry replied softly. "My turn?"

When Malfoy nodded, Harry said, "My godfather, Sirius."

"I thought you'd choose your parents."

"As much as I would love to see them, be able to sit around a table with them like any other family, I have more to say to Sirius. I'd want to tell him I'm sorry, and that I love him."

Malfoy frowned. "Sorry?"

Harry nodded. "I don't know how much you know about what happened in fifth year. I know you know your father got arrested but—"

"I don't know much about what happened."

"Voldemort"—Harry ignored the wince—"lured me to the Ministry with a vision of him torturing Sirius in the department of Mysteries. Sirius came to save me and Bellatrix killed him. If… if I'd managed to control the visions, or at least properly checked that he wasn't there, Sirius wouldn't have died."

Malfoy was silent for a long moment, and then he said,"I understand guilt, and I understand misplaced guilt. I don't think it was your fault, Potter, and I don't think Sirius would have either."

Harry looked away, but murmured a soft, "thanks," as he did.

"Do you, uh. Want to ask the next question or should we wait until tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Harry said, picking up his book. "I can only handle so much emotional stuff before I come out in hives."

Malfoy snorted but nodded, grabbing the book he'd been reading earlier in the day from the coffee table.

They each settled into silence, but it was the most comfortable they'd ever been in each other's presence.

…

Harry managed three hours sleep before he was up once more, padding down the stairs for the caffeine he so desperately needed. The nightmares were expected, but no less horrible for it.

He was so tired of seeing people die over and over in his dreams.

Flicking the kettle on, Harry leant against the kitchen cupboard and sighed. Three hours wasn't actually as bad as it could have been, he mused. He'd certainly had nights with less sleep.

A creak on the stairs caught his attention, and his wand slipped from the holster on his arm into his hand before he'd even realised it. When Malfoy stumbled into the kitchen, he froze when he found himself on the end of Harry's wand.

Harry muttered an apology and slid his wand back into place, his cheeks heating slightly.

"Do you want tea?" he asked, when Malfoy simply stared at him.

"Please," Malfoy croaked eventually, his voice rough with sleep.

Harry nodded and set about making two cups, glad he'd thought to fill the kettle to the top. He didn't need to ask why Malfoy was up; Harry wasn't stupid enough to think that he was the only one still dealing with the trauma of the war, and the haunted look in Malfoy's eyes was all too familiar.

He'd seen it looking back at him through a mirror, seen it in Ron, in Hermione, in Neville, in—the list was endless really. No matter what side they'd fought on, nobody had come out of it unscathed.

He set the two mugs down on the kitchen table, pushing one towards Malfoy, before he sat down, his hands cradling his own mug to generate some warmth.

"Want to talk about it?" he offered softly.

"There's nothing to talk about," Malfoy replied, pulling his mug closer.

"Okay."

Harry knew better than to push, knew his own reactions when people had tried to push him. Nightmares were such a sticky point, and they could only be spoken about when somebody wanted to.

"There's literally nothing," Malfoy added, looking up at Harry. "That's what I dream of. A life of darkness, of nothing. No happiness, no laughter, no accomplishments, no… anything."

Harry wasn't sure what to say. There was nothing he could say that would make Malfoy feel better, nothing he could say that would convince Malfoy that a future like that wouldn't happen.

"You can change that," he said instead. When Malfoy looked at him, Harry elaborated. "If you see a future of nothing, then work to change it. Only you can make a difference like that. Work for something better."

Malfoy was silent for a moment, and then he said, "It can't be much worse."

"Then the only way is up," Harry said, his lips tilting up slightly. Malfoy nodded, and Harry took a sip of his tea, pleased to see the haunted look clear a little.

"What about you? Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry swallowed, was about to shake his head, and then stopped. "I dream about the war mostly, about things that could have happened. Things that did happen. We all saw more than any one person should see."

"You just saw more than most," Draco agreed quietly. "What was it tonight? What was, or what could have been?"

"A bit of both," Harry admitted softly. "What's the second question on the list?"

Draco looked up from his tea and smiled, fishing the paper from his pocket. When he read the paper he snorted and glanced at Harry. "You're going to love this one."