Harry resumes his breakfast routine with Narcissa. Most days he also joins her for lunch. The rest of his day is spent in his room or in the library wandering through various tomes, finger drifting until he comes across a title that catches his interest.
It's one such afternoon when Harry's curled up in a lounge chair, book open, fingers rubbing beneath his glasses. Many hours of reading have taken their toll on his eyes and he's using the break to look around the room. He's just back to it when the door opens. Draco stands there, dressed in his Auror robes. He clutches the edges of the door frame and assesses Harry.
"Potter. Get your cloak."
Harry is too stunned to move.
"Did I stutter?" he asks. "CLOAK," he draws the word out, followed by a short, "now."
Harry jolts in the chair. The book in his lap closes in on itself and he sets it aside. As he stands, his palms run down the jumper he's wearing and looks back to Draco, but he's disappeared. His sigh is heavy as he grabs a cloak from his room.
Draco practically runs him over as he opens his door.
"Took you long enough. Ready?"
He's no longer wearing his work robes. Instead, he's wearing sharp trousers, a grey jumper, midnight green robes that are of a stunning cut.
"Uh, where—"
Harry doesn't get to finish. Draco's hand is on his arm, a feral grin splayed across his face. Immediately, the lurch of disapparation turns low in his belly and he gulps in a deep breath.
When they land, they're in front of The Hog's Head. Harry looks around out of habit. Draco's already moving toward the door and Harry stumbles a bit to catch up.
"Two, Aberforth."
The barkeep sees Draco and sneers, grabs two grubby glasses and starts to pour. When Harry walks through the door, he looks confused—doubly so when he sits next to Draco.
"Why did you bring me here?" Harry's leaning in toward Draco, whispering the words harshly.
"Grab your drink." Draco takes a swig out of his and steps off the stool toward a table. Harry nods to Aberforth and follows.
"I'm serious, Draco. Why are we here?"
"I needed a drink. Why the fuck do you think I brought us to this grand establishment?" Draco gestures to the room and several patrons look him over. Not all are amused.
"Why me?"
"You need to get out, Potter. Mother dearest says so."
Harry blushes, but in the dingy light, he hopes it's difficult to tell. "So you brought me because your mother told you to."
"I don't do everything mummy tells me to, Potter." Draco takes another sip of his drink. "For Merlin's sake, Potter, it's only a Butterbeer. Drink it."
Harry continues staring into the foam, then takes a drink. It burns; there is more staring.
Draco swipes the glass. "Aberforth. A pumpkin juice." The grizzled man grunts and pulls out another glass. When he walks over to the table, he sets it before Harry.
Back turned to Draco, he asks, "Everything all right, Harry?"
"Oh. Um, yeah. I'm-I'm okay, Aberforth. Thank you." Aberforth waits until Harry looks him in the eye. Harry lifts the pumpkin juice, takes a deep gulp, shakes the glass, and gives him a weak smile. Aberforth doesn't buy it, but walks away anyway.
"I get that you needed to get out, but why me, and why not Theo or Dean?" Harry's thumb is making circles at the bottom of his glass. The jumping of his leg beneath the table is causing ripples in his drink; he watches the expanding rings instead of Draco's shifting eyes.
Draco's laugh is silky. Harry doesn't remember seeing him laugh much. He thinks it's a bit odd, but the smooth tones ring through the room and roll over his skin and he smiles without thinking about it.
"You're about the only person who can stand me, Potter," he pauses. "And that's on your good days."
Draco toasts himself. They sit in silence and listen to the hushed dealings around them for a while until Draco asks a hard question.
"What happened, Potter?" Harry's head tilts, his knee is still. "What happened that you went from bloody hero to," here he sweeps a hand at Harry, "this?"
Harry is astonished, but looks at the rosy tint of Draco's cheeks and the flow that's coming from him now. After several harder drinks, he's a bit drunk and relaxed.
"I don't know," Harry says quietly into his juice.
"Was it Weaselette?" Draco looks almost too interested now. "Did she take your balls and eat them? Have you got any left?" He laughs at himself.
Harry actually laughs back. "That's an appropriate description of Ginny, actually." He smiles, then sinks into the memories of what happened—what led him to staying at the Manor.
Draco wags his finger in Harry's face. "Unh-uh. No thinking of her. You're here with me." He points to himself, as if he were the most important man in England.
Harry isn't sure how to take that, so he doesn't say anything.
"I hate myself, Potter." Draco is now the one staring into a glass, though his is blessedly empty. "I don't know why I became an Auror. You hate me. Everyone hates me. Maybe… if I help enough people, they'll hate me less."
He's asking for another drink now and Aberforth raises an eyebrow at Harry. Harry shrugs. He's rambling and Harry lets him.
"We all did stupid shit. Even you—" Here, Draco sits up and drops his chin. "Don't say you didn't." Harry smiles in return, but Draco continues, "I nearly killed him. I had to do it. They would have—he would have—no one understood. But you understand." He leans back, his words softening. "You understand."
Draco's head starts dipping and his forehead hits the table. Harry sighs, taking the last sip of his juice before rounding the table to poke at Draco. He isn't moving, but he's breathing. He digs in Draco's pocket for some change and tosses it for the bill. Digging out a wand, Harry casts a lightening charm and hefts Draco partly on his shoulder. Crab-walking them to the Floo with Aberforth's watchful eye over them the entire time, he calls out the Manor's name and hurls them through.
They end up in a heap on the rug. Neither of them move for a while. When Harry's arm begins to fall asleep, he attempts to wriggle out. Though Harry has his wits about him, he doesn't say anything when a sleeping, drunk Draco grabs his jumper and holds him in place. He lay there with Draco's head cradled on his stomach until morning.