Three nights after agreeing to meet with Potter's friends, and feeling more and more foolish about doing so, Draco Apparated onto the footpath outside of the Weasel's home. There was a small, surprisingly ornate fence around the property, and he opened the gate. There was no sensation of a ward yet, which only served to make him more wary. He approached the doorstep and raised his hand to the doorbell, but stopped as he heard voices inside.

"He's not going to come, Hermione, and even if he does, he's not going to help us."

"You don't know that, Ron, you really don't." Came the reply.

"Well okay, let's just say he's gone barmy and actually agrees to it? What can he do?"

Draco rolled his eyes and pushed the doorbell before GrangerWeasley could reply. There was a pregnant pause, and then the sound of footsteps that moved with a loud, thumping gait that could only be the Weasel's.

"As incompetent as you believe me to be, Weasley, I would appreciate a little more faith in my abilities." He drawled as the door opened.

"Uh, Malfoy, what-…uh…come…in?" the Weasel managed to stammer, ever the eloquent speaker.

Draco looked at him suspiciously, and then followed him into a small, but oddly cosy living room.

"Good evening, Malfoy. Please excuse me." GrangerWeasley said apologetically. Draco's eyes flicked to her, and then quickly returned to anything else in the room that was not the sight of her nursing an infant.

"I can't really choose when to feed him," she explained further. A toddler sidled into the room and clung to her father.

He raised an eyebrow at her, then stiffened as the toddler made her way over to him and proceeded to prod at his very expensive shoes. He cleared his throat, and Weasley hastily went over to snatch the thing into his arms.

"Uh, our daughter, Rose," he tried awkwardly, "and that's Hugo," he added, indicating the baby with GrangerWeasley.

Hugo? Draco's eyebrow rose more, and Weasley coughed.

"Lost...lost a bet with George." He muttered.

"Indeed." Draco replied dryly.

"Won't you sit down, please?" GrangerWeasley offered as her husband sat next to her. Draco took a seat in the armchair opposite them. Casting his eyes around – dear God, anywhere but the chair she was sitting in - he found that the living room was quite well-furnished.

Hermione seemed to read his mind, for she excused herself from the room, leaving the two men to descend into an extremely awkward silence whilst Rose began chewing on her father's pants. To Draco's relief she returned shortly, sans baby.

Sitting back down, she opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "I suppose you're wondering why we've contacted you out of the blue."

"Don't be absurd. I always receive cryptic correspondences from old Gryffindor classmates." It was an automatic response, but curiosity took the barbs away and it came off almost jokingly. He sighed inwardly as GrangerWeasley cleared her throat, hiding a small smile. The thought came back about referring to them by first names in his head. It was beginning to hurt from all of the Weasels and Weasleys and GrangerWeasleys.

Her face darked again quickly. "It's...it's about Harry."

"Oh?"

"I...I haven't a clue where to begin. Would you...just join us for dinner now? We can get right down to business there so that everyone else can...discuss...it."

Draco twitched visibly. A childhood grudge seemed petty now, but it was common knowledge that even after the war Draco had distanced himself from anything that reminded him of Hogwarts. The idea of seeing the Weasley family, no matter how tolerable they'd become during the months leading up to the war, was not on his list of favourite things to do. However, he was here now, he was curious, and he was a trifle annoyed at how she kept dancing around the subject.

"I suppose the great hero needs minions?" Draco asked sarcastically. He stood, noting the winces the other two gave, and sighed. "I might as well, but don't think I'm happy about it."

He glided after them into the dining room. He commented aloud that their home seemed an odd place to discuss a problem concerning Potter. While Draco was seated at the table, and between bringing out plates and food, Hermione explained that Potter had inherited the Black family Manor, but it was in quite a secure location. She left 'and we don't trust you yet' unsaid.

The Weasellete – Ginny – entered the room a while later and gave him a curt nod. Rose and a child he assumed to be the son of his cousin Nymphadora were seated away from the 'adult table'. He watched as the boy's hair shifted from green to purple to pink at Rose's garbled, toddler-talk requests. An older Weasley, the one that had been bitten by a werewolf, if his memory was correct, also walked in, but Draco could not remember his name.

"Um, yes. So, as you can see, Malfoy's...here." Ron finished lamely. "You remember Ginny, and my brother, Bill?"

Draco simply nodded in response. Ginny and Hermione exchanged a look and then left the room. Draco's eyebrows rose, but all of a sudden Bill and Ron were looking at everything but him. Draco listened intently, and then heard the approach of three sets of footsteps. Draco needed no guesses as to whom the final dinner guest was, and turned around to say something along the lines of 'Ah, the great saviour has decided to grace this humble dinner table with his presence', but the words died in his throat and his jaw slackened slightly.

Potter was being half-supported by both girls, making his way uncertainly to the table. He looked gaunt, as though his skin was all that separated the air and his bones, and his eyes were grey, not green, a dull colour that made Draco's own light-grey eyes look almost bright silver.

"Now, sit here, Harry." Ginny was saying gently. He blinked, apparently not seeing her, and sat down awkwardly and roughly, hard enough that Draco was afraid he might break himself. The table was still silent, looking at him nervously.

How on earth did they get him over to their house in the first place?

This was far from the ex-Gryffindor that Draco remembered. This was a shell of a person, a ghost in flesh. The old Potter would have been talking and laughing and stuffing his face in a highly undignified manner, all the while sending Draco glares or snarky remarks, though without venom, given their standing after the war.

"So...thanks for saving my neck out there."

"I would thank you for the same but I can't bring myself to do it."

Potter's face flushed, and he glared, but it was in good humour.

"Where do we stand now?"

"Grow up, Potter. We're not in school anymore."

Potter had stared at him, those too-bright eyes full of naive confusion, and Draco had sighed in spite of himself. Reaching forward hesitantly, he clasped Potter's shoulder, ignoring the way his long-time rival looked dishevelled, reminding himself it was because of the fighting, nothing else.

"We're not quite friends, Potter." He had stated simply, and Potter had nodded, understanding.

"But we could be."

Draco had been rather taken aback by Potter's statement, but he had let it slide. Nothing remained of that boy in the figure sitting across the table from him.

"What happened?" he asked finally, the words filling the room. Potter looked up, starting at an unfamiliar voice. Upon seeing Draco, he froze momentarily, mumbling under his breath to himself. His voice was cracked, barely more than a whisper. He then stopped abruptly and returned to his silent, expressionless state.

The table, as one, looked shocked.

"That's the first time he's said anything in a year, Malfoy." Hermione whispered.

A year?

He met her gaze coolly. "It seems we have much more to discuss than you let on."