Authours note: Thanks a tonne, to all who tolerated my demands for a quick read through! You all have been wonderful.

Chapter Five

Flashback
*a few months after the war*

The small Irish shack was in a dire state of disrepair, even for a structure that could be described as a "shack." That day, Harry and Draco were taking care of some field training. The shack was the current residence of a known Death Eater, and their task for the day was to capture them and return them alive and in one piece to the headquarters for further questioning and punishment. A trace had been placed on them to track their progress, and surrounding them, hidden from view or knowledge, were several rookie–but well-trained–Aurors, prepared to assist if necessary.

Based on Harry and Draco's record, it wouldn't be. And if anyone had bothered to ask the Auror in charge of monitoring the trainees back at the Ministry, he would have vehemently denied wholly ignoring their trace. That particular Auror was known for a long and petty history of fibs.

The duo entered the shack quietly, silent as shadows. It was dark, giving Harry the impression that no one was home. But they'd been stalking the Death Eater's movements for hours, so he knew that the shack was well-inhabited. Harry's spine shuddered as he felt himself pass over a ward. He could tell by the way Draco's neck twitched that he felt it too.

It was deathly quiet for all of six seconds.

Then the front door slammed shut, and suddenly, there was a spell flying at them.

Harry reacted quickly, casting a Protego wandlessly to deflect the oncoming stunner from the Death Eater. The spell rebounded and collided into a cabinet, successfully shattering all the glass in it and knocking everything else over. Draco's wand was out within a heartbeat, his cold gray eyes locked onto the Death Eater.

"Expelliarmus!" he cast, and Harry caught their adversary's wand mid-air.

The Death Eater turned to run, but he couldn't get more than two steps in such a small space. Poor planning on his part, Harry thought. Draco cast an Incarcerous, and the next thing they knew, the Death Eater was bound in ropes. He lost his balance and fell to the floor. Harry couldn't help but grin. It was almost comical, watching the Death Eater squirm on the floor. Like a fish out of water.

"That was easy, I suppose," Draco said at length, wand still aimed at their target.

He grinned when he said this, and Harry smirked back accordingly. Draco walked over and used his foot to push the Death Eater onto his back. The Death Eater's eyes were wide and blue and mad and bore holes into Draco.

The Death Eater spat, then laughed bitterly. He spoke next with unbridled vehemence. "You are no better."

Harry watched from the corner of his eye, not liking the way Draco tensed at those words. For a split second, he was afraid Draco was going to stomp on their adversary. But the blond controlled himself, so Harry deemed it safe to devote his full attention to dismantling the Death Eater's wards.

They returned to the Ministry of Magic victorious. It had been their most successful capture to date. Harry had gone to their office/record room to take care of the extensive paperwork which generally came along as a tedious part of any on-field mission. It was a room he shared with Draco and another pair of Auror trainees, but at the time, it was empty. Empty, that is, save for the desks, file cabinets, and all the Merlin-damned parchment.

After hours of leafing through the file cabinets, Harry's "people skills" finally manifested, and he noticed how conspicuous Draco's continued absence was. Normally, his partner at least hung around long enough to gloat about it being Harry's turn with paperwork. Harry shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it up far more than usual. He was done with his obligations here, and he didn't feel like waiting around for Draco when he could be procrastinating in the comfort of his own flat.

Maybe he would have liked to see Draco, but Harry told himself sternly that the blond was a grown-ass man. Also, he longed for the comfort of his own flat, so he began making his way to the loo. Harry's commute home was hardly the longest in the history of mankind, but he'd learned the hard way that it was a very foolish thing to try apparating with a full bladder.

Harry whistled loudly on his way there, as the building was practically empty at this time of night, but he ceased abruptly when he entered the washroom. He froze, dumbfounded by what he saw.

There, sitting against the sinks with his sleeves rolled up and red staining his clothes and arms, was Draco Malfoy. Dark, ugly marks marred his forearms, from whence blood oozed profusely. Crisscrossed cuts bit into his pale skin, not deep enough to kill him quickly but certainly deep enough to kill him eventually. His eyes were vacant, focused on something far away–oblivion, maybe–and his lips twitched as he mumbled incoherently at nothing and no one.

Harry's first reaction was panic. "What the-?" started Harry, but he suddenly regained the use of his legs. Before he knew it, he was at Draco's side. Close as he was, he could finally make out Draco's words:

"I am no better."

Harry's second reaction kicked in: battle instincts. He grabbed Draco by the arm, the one which had sustained fewer cuts, and wasted no time disapparating to his flat–may his bladder be damned.

Harry offered a silent thanks to whomever had legalized disapparation of registered Ministry officials from within their departments.

Harry appeared in his flat, and instantly began ushering Draco to the sofa. Simultaneously, he accio'd a vial of dittany. He caught it without looking and crouched by Draco, who now was slumped over, still bleeding, on the sofa.

Wordlessly, Harry applied the dittany to his friend's wounds. The only sound was Draco's shallow, laboured breaths, between which the murmured phrase could be made out: I am no better, I am no better. These words tumbled from his mouth with a fixation. Dittany done, he summoned a blood-replenishing potion and interrupted Draco's obsessive mumbling by forcing him to drink. Draco resisted, but Harry forced it down his throat.

Then Harry slapped him. Hard.

Draco flinched upon contact, eyes wide now in surprise rather than desolation. In a barely-audible whisper, he demanded to know, "Why the fuck did you save me? You have no right to save me, Potter."

Harry's back straightened, and he stood to his full, underwhelming height, arms folded over his chest. "I saved you because it isn't true: you're nothing like him. Any of them," answered Harry in a voice that brooked no argument. Draco looked up at him as if he were seeing Harry for the first time, and Harry looked back with steely eyes. A moment passed.

Harry continued in a softer tone, "You can stay the night. Ron and Hermione are at the Burrow for the weekend, so you should be able to get some rest. I'll get you a duvet."

When Harry awoke the next morning, Draco was gone without so much as a note. The only signs he'd ever been there were the neatly-folded duvet on the arm of the sofa and the small, splotchy stains of rusty-red on a throw pillow that onlookers would likely attribute to a nosebleed.

For some inexplicable reason, Harry had a gnawing feeling in his gut, worry, he realized, for the well-being of his partner. It wasn't as if Harry didn't have a long and colorful history of fussing over Draco, but it was usually out of suspicion. Not, like this time, out of pure concern. The revelation came as a bit of a shock to Harry, and to a certain extent it disturbed him. He told himself that it oughtn't.

After all, Draco was his partner. Of course he should be worried about his partner. It just would be so annoying and pointless to be assigned another random partner, anew, who he didn't already know how to work with. Right?

By the time Harry got to the Auror Office, he was precisely twelve minutes and forty-nine seconds behind schedule. Normally, he'd stop by his cubicle or the record room before class, but there was no time today. He rushed to class, eyes peeled for the white-blond hair of the pain-in-the-ass he called his colleague.

Harry got to class and heaved a physical sigh of relief when he saw that Draco was there, jaw set and attention focused fully–almost forcefully–on what the professor was saying. Harry situated himself in the back of the hall and tried to focus as intently upon the Observations professor as Draco.

"That was real mature of you, Malfoy," drawled Harry in his best impression of Malfoy as he caught up to him on the commute to dueling practice. "Running away like it was some one-night stand, real mature. I mean, it's not like you owe me your life or anything."

Draco snarled. "I don't want to talk about it, Potter," he said in a low voice, a bit of red rushing to his face. His posture was hunched, defensive, with his arms folded and his fists clenched.

"Like hell you don't want to." Harry said this a tad louder than he meant to, but no one else in the hall spared them a glance. They could recognize the duo from halfway to Morocco by their banter alone, and their fellow trainees were well used to them being, well, combative.

"Not here," pleaded Draco, forehead creasing. "I am really not in the mood to do this."

They walked in silence until they reached the door to the dueling grounds. The arched doorway was wide and open, and sunlight spilled in, sharply contrasting the mood. The two stood wordlessly for a moment before Draco finally took a deep breath and said, "You can't help me. Nobody can. I should have died."

Then, for the second time in under twenty-four hours, Draco received another slap to the face. He barely had time to bulge his eyes in shock before Harry had him hoisted into the air by his collar.

"Potter-" Draco began to object shrilly, but that was all he got out before Harry interrupted him.

"Don't you dare say that ever again; you are nothing like them," spat Harry, throwing his words forcefully at Draco. His eyes burned bright. He spoke not with the sternness and confidence he had the night before but as if the very notion that Draco was anything less than the definition of morality offended him.

To Harry, he was correcting a blasphemer for contradicting something that was known to be universally true.

He dropped Draco on the floor, and the blond watched with his mouth gaping as Harry Potter stormed off. Angry heels walked away without another word.

Lunch was an affair that Harry usually enjoyed with Draco and two other teams, but today he was alone. Unlike himself and Draco, the two pairs of trainees they usually ate with hadn't taken down their minor-league Death Eater as dexterously as they had. The four of them were presently lying in metal-frame beds at St Mungo's, one in particular being fed medication and nutrition paste through a tube in his anus while his oesophagus was magically reconstructed.

So Harry was eating alone at the typicallyshared table. He would have felt awkward if he hadn't spent the first ten years of his life in a cupboard without a friend in a world, but as it was, he was completely comfortable.

Draco came around and sat beside Harry without speaking. They ate in silence, and Draco stood up, looking a bit unsure. He dropped a small note on the table and left without saying goodbye. Harry watched him, discreetly but intensely. When he was out of sight, Harry scooped up the note and unfolded it.

Draco's moderately girly, loopy handwriting covered the paper:

It's just easier to write this than own up to it aloud. I need help. I need help really badly. And I know this is hard to believe, but I am sorry. Thank you for yesterday. Meet me in front of the Ministry after work, if you want to. I'll talk.

I know you are wondering whether this is me, Draco Malfoy, who hated you at school, or a polyjuiced somebody. It's me. Anyway. To lighten things, this wasn't supposed to be this sappy.

Thanks.

Harry refolded it carefully and put the note in his pocket.

Draco looked up as Harry approached, silhouetted against the setting sun.

Harry nodded to him once he was near. "Malfoy," he greeted simply.

Draco looked away and seemed to flinch as if the very sound of Harry's voice was harmful. Maybe he was just afraid he was going to get slapped in the face again. Whatever it was, he seemed to ignore it. "Potter," he responded. Awkwardly, he gestured down the road. "Would you like to walk?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't have a problem."

"Well then, let's go." Draco started off, and Harry followed, matching his pace.

Soon they were walking the streets of Muggle London, the back alleys and winding streets that were rarely used for anything other than drug deals and pissing on the wall. The gloom sympathized with their moods. After a while, Harry felt inclined to ask, "How's your arm?"

Draco rolled his eyes as if it were the stupidest question in the world. "Potter, you applied dittany. It's exactly how you left it last night. Don't worry–I didn't cut it again."

Harry raised one eyebrow at Draco as they rounded a corner out of an alley and onto a street that was dimly illuminated by streetlights. The orange light seemed to fend off the gloom, if only a little. "Did you want to?" asked Harry.

A bitter laugh sounded, and Draco tried to stifle it with his hand. "Yes, most certainly. When I found myself on your couch this morning–Merlin!" He gave Harry a shit-eating grin, but it was devoid of humour. "The cushions were insufferable."

The smile slipped off of Draco's face when he saw Harry's unimpressed expression. "I see what you're trying to do," Harry began, "but it's not helping. I'm positively pissed." He couldn't help but admire the irony of the situation: his distraught, suicidal partner was the one trying to lighten the mood.

"Thanks," Draco said quietly, with a little sigh. They meandered on in silence, feeling strangely comforted by one another's company. Harry found himself repeatedly glancing at Draco. He wasn't sure why–no explanation he came up with in his head made sense. Harry sort of just... wanted to make sure Draco was still there.

Or something.

They had gone quite a distance when Harry finally broke the silence. "I meant what I said earlier," began Harry, causing Draco to look him in the face. "You really are nothing like him, Malfoy. Nothing like him at all."

The resounding scoff echoed through the alley. "You think so?" The sarcasm and mockery in Draco's voice was unmistakable.

"I believe so," was Harry's simple reply.

Draco turned away abruptly, plunging his fists into his pockets and hunching over, dejected, pouting almost. It would have come off as childish if Harry hadn't known how important this was to Draco. And its importance to Draco made it important to Harry.

"That's easy for you to say. You're the Golden Boy of the war. Everybody loves you," Draco said darkly, borderline disgustedly. "I'm an abomination. Everybody hates my guts. Nobody ever believes me." He was bitter.

"I do. I believe you, Malfoy. It's those guts of yours that make you different."

Draco very obviously rolled his eyes and stopped walking so he could face Harry properly. The words flew from his mouth as if he'd been sitting on them for years. "We've been hating each other with a vengeance for the last seven years, and you believe me? That itself is a bit hard to believe. But even if I give you the benefit of the doubt, you're just a single person. Everyone else hates me." Here, Draco's voice cracked a bit, and he was nearly overcome with emotion.

But he pressed on. "Everyone else thinks I'm a hypocrite, and most of them want me dead. And all the whispers that follow me–all the calculated, evaluating looks... Merlin, I'm so tired of that," he rambled fervently. "What I can't tell them is that I wasn't given another option. I could have become the most cruel and absolute worst example of a wizard to save my mother. I would do anything for her. You don't know how difficult it was to shield my feelings." Draco paced and spoke with his hands as if he wasn't sure what to do with his body. "Occlumency of the most advanced kind was useless before the Dark Lord. You don't know how hard it was, Potter. You have no idea. The nightmares, the life that I live now, it just makes me so tired."

And he sounded tired. Draco had reached the end of his spiel, and it had left him empty and exhausted. Harry chewed his lower lip, wondering what he could possibly say to console his partner.

He decided to go with the truth. "I have nightmares, too," admitted Harry, unsure of whether it would actually help Draco in any way. Even if it didn't, it would help Harry certainly.

The blond cocked an eyebrow. "You?"

Harry smiled a little smile, noticing the self-loathing ease out of Draco's features, if only a bit. "Yes. It's a wonder how any of us catch any sleep at all. Ron has woken me up from nightmares countless times, and me him," Harry ventured on. "And then there's the guilt and the regret. So many people died. So many souls, most of whom I didn't even know. So many people who didn't deserve to die. And the guilt of laughing, of enjoying myself every once in a while..." Harry shook his head. "Half the people I've ever cared about are dead because we couldn't be faster. They call me the saviour, and look at the death toll. It mocks me, taunts me, and wrecks me with regret."

Harry's voice grew heavy, and his shoulders slumped as if dwelling upon this made gravity single him out.

A beat passed and Draco said, "Merlin, I never imagined being a hero could be so hard." His sarcasm was evident, and Harry could tell that Draco was trying to lighten the mood again. They both smiled a little despite themselves.

Harry gave a humourless chortle and continued, "I'm no hero. I would be nothing without the help that I got from my friends. Nothing. And that's the hardest part: pretending to be someone I'm not." At Draco's curious expression, Harry added, "Putting up a facade every day, so that those who died could at least die for a more noble cause, instead of a nobody. There were so many that I couldn't save."

"But you saved so many more."

"And you saved me, Malfoy," Harry said with a content kind of certainty. A beat passed. Then another. And then Harry realized he'd said that aloud, and his face turned tomato-red. He chided himself ruthlessly and told himself–quite sternly–to shut up.

Yet Draco didn't seem to mind the comment, and they kept on walking down the gloomy alleys of London in a comfortable silence, each aware of the fact that this was going to last.

Innumerable walks, fourteen assignments, four months, three proposals, and a lot of indecision later, they were finally in a relationship.