Harry was a wreck. He'd nearly Apparated to Malfoy's flat six or seven times in the first 24 hours after going home from the Weasleys, nothing stopping him but his own misery and doubts over what Malfoy really wanted. Was the kiss really what Harry had imagined it to be? Or was it the same sort of kiss they'd always had, just made a bit more awkward by everything they'd learned about one another the night before?

Harry didn't know. In the end, he didn't do anything at all. He closed off his Floo in case of any errant Weasley visitors, and settled down with a pot of tea to work on his Auror assignment. The documentation took him through weeks of December stakeouts and and the tailing of a suspected Death Eater, ending with a dangerous intervention that had resulted in three Aurors being taken to St. Mungo's, and the suspected—now confirmed—Death Eater having escaped.

Just going through the documents left him with nightmares that kept him tossing and turning all night long. Harry laid in bed for hours the next morning, staring at the ceiling and wondering how everything had gone so bloody wrong in every facet of his life.

"Fuck it," he muttered, and reached for a sheaf of parchment and a quill. He wrote six or seven versions of a letter to Malfoy, but in the end, settled on what he hoped was a mixture of apologetic and casual, something Malfoy could respond to however he liked.

Draco,

Sorry about what happened the other day. Dinner on Friday?

-Harry

He watched the sky eagerly for his owl's return, but when she flew through his open window an hour later, there was no reply in her beak, and nothing came in the days that followed, either. Was this how Charlie had felt when Harry didn't respond to his letter? Harry felt a burning sense of worry mixed with remorse. If communication wasn't Harry's strong suit and it wasn't Malfoy's either, this might never work.

Despite his lack of optimism, he Apparated to the Muggle bar on the Friday before he was due to return to training. He scanned the crowd and even checked the bathroom, but Malfoy wasn't there.

"Looking for your blonde friend?" the bartender asked, as Harry sighed and settled onto a bar stool. "You gonna snog him or kill him this time?"

"Snog, hopefully," Harry said miserably. "But I'd settle for a talk."

"Well, I haven't seen him," the man replied, looked sympathetically at Harry. "I think you're well rid of him, personally—unpleasant bloke, isn't he?—but good luck to you, mate."

"Thanks," Harry said with a sigh. He drained his drink and left.

The only good thing to come out of the Christmas break was that Ron and Hermione now knew a bit more of what was going on in his life, and he had somebody to talk to about it—well, most of it, anyway. He couldn't tell Ron how much he dreaded Auror training, but he could tell him about Malfoy, and as miserable as Harry was about the whole thing, it was a nice change.

"So have you seen him?" Ron asked eagerly when he and Harry first arrived back at work after the New Year. "Heard back, at least?"

"No," said Harry glumly. "I dunno. Maybe nothing's changed, you know? Maybe I've built up everything that happened over Christmas in my head, and Malfoy thought nothing of it. It's like, either things are going to go back to the way they were—"

"Hate sex," Ron said, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Harry said, flushing. "Which seems unlikely, now. Or Malfoy's angry about the whole thing and it's all over."

There didn't seem room for anything in between. And Harry knew now that he didn't want anything in between. He wanted Malfoy. No, not Malfoy, he thought with a sigh. He wanted Draco -the Draco he'd played Quidditch with and who had read books to Teddy and who he'd stayed up talking to all night long. He wanted the Draco he'd kissed in the Weasley's living room on the day after Christmas. He couldn't pretend otherwise any longer.

"I dunno, mate," Ron said sympathetically. "It's all a bit out of my league. You need Hermione for this sort of thing."

"Maybe," said Harry with a sigh.

But the first week back at Auror training after Christmas kept them on their toes, and he had very little time to talk to relationship strategies with either Hermione or Ron. There was paperwork to catch up on, stakeouts to sit through, and endless drilling of curses and defensive maneuvers to practice. With so many other things going on, he was reminded how small the thing with Malfoy had been back before Christmas. It really had been just a Friday night fling and nothing more. No wonder they'd continually been able to convince themselves that it might never happen again.

"Harry, you've got to get your head in the game!" Ron hissed one afternoon at training after he'd disarmed Harry for the fifth time in an hour. "Seriously, you're gonna get held back if this keeps up. I can't keep going easy on you every time Robards is watching."

"Sorry, sorry," Harry said, blinking rapidly to try and clear his head. "I haven't been sleeping well lately." It was true, but it wasn't the whole truth, and they both knew it. He wasn't surprised when Hermione stepped through his Floo later that night.

"Ron says you're having nightmares again," she announced, climbing out of the fire. Harry jumped up to greet her; he'd been sitting on the couch, nodding off while unsuccessfully studying his copy of Advanced Defensive Tactics.

"Hello, Hermione," Harry said with a frown, helping Hermione to her feet. "Talking about me, were you?"

"We're married, you know," she said apologetically. "Besides, someone's got to look after you if you're not going to do it for yourself. Ron says you're distracted, your curses are missing their marks, and he told me that Malfoy still hasn't answered your letter." Hermione wandered into Harry's kitchen and began opening cupboards and running the tap. She put on a pot of tea and turned to Harry expectantly, waiting for answers.

"It wasn't really a letter, what I sent him," he said, embarrassed. "It was just...an invitation to have dinner. If he wants."

Hermione sighed. "Maybe he needs a little more time, Harry. Or more than an invitation. He might be worried that the Weasleys will tell people what they saw—"

"They wouldn't," Harry said quickly.

"You and I know that, Harry, but does Malfoy?" Hermione asked patiently.

"Oh." Harry frowned. "I guess not." He felt a swoop of dismay in his stomach; of course Malfoy would be concerned that the Weasleys might not be discreet. He pictured Malfoy at home alone, pacing his flat and checking the papers every day for some miserable headline about the youngest of the Death Eaters snogging the Boy Who Lived.

"Shit," he said, his stomach sinking even further. "I should've said something to reassure him, I guess. I thought that he might be angry, but I didn't even think that he might be worried about that ."

"Well, it's not too late," Hermione said consolingly. She set a steaming mug of hot tea down in front of Harry. "I don't know what to tell you about the nightmares, though. I don't suppose you can ask for some time away from training?"

"We just had Christmas break," Harry pointed out. "And I can't very well be taking off any time I'm not sleeping well. I'd be off all the time."

Besides, it wasn't just the nightmares, he thought glumly. He hated even being at Auror training; it was in turns incredibly boring or incredibly stressful, and everyone expected him to do well just because he was the Boy Who Lived. He'd been fantasizing more and more about quitting ever since Christmas. But it wasn't as though there was anything else he could do.

"Sorry," Hermione said with a sigh. "But I think you should try Malfoy again. It might make you feel a bit better, at least. Why don't you do it now? Write him another letter."

"All right," he agreed. Hermione put a piece of parchment and a quill in front of him, and he began to write.

Draco-

I told myself I'd leave it be, but I can't stop thinking about the way we left things at Christmas. I'm sorry. I know this isn't how we usually do things, but I liked talking to you at Christmas, and I'd like to see you again, and not just at the bar. I understand if that's not what you want, but I had to tell you anyway.

If you're worried about the Weasleys, please don't be. They aren't angry, and they won't tell anyone anything. I'm sorry, again.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Harry

"It's perfect, Harry," Hermione said encouragingly. "If he doesn't respond, well, you've done all you could. The ball's in his court."

"The Quaffle's in his hand," Harry corrected, forcing a smile. And he had to admit that he did feel a bit lighter as they watched the little owl fly off into the night.

He didn't expect a reply, at least not one that evening, so he was surprised when his owl returned shortly after Hermione had left, a letter in her beak. Harry opened it eagerly, ran his fingers over Draco's perfect penmanship, and began to read.

Dear Harry-

Thank you for your letter. I'm sorry I didn't respond to your first one. Things have changed so much that at first, I didn't know what to say. But now I think I do.

Despite everything, I did have a good time with you at Christmas, but after the Weasleys saw us, I realized that I've made a mistake. There's a reason I spend my time in Muggle London and avoid Diagon Alley, you see. I've spent the last few years trying to keep a low profile, and being with, well, you —in any capacity—could undo everything I've worked for, no matter how much I enjoy it. I hope you can understand that.

I'm sorry to say this—I really am—but please don't write to me or come to my flat. I need to work through some things with my mother, and I need some time to think it all through.

-Draco

Harry read the letter three times. Then, swallowing down his disappointment, he flipped the parchment over and wrote two words in return.

All right. -H