May

Every Tuesday, Friday and Sunday, some time after Draco had finished working at the office, he would Apparate near the Black Manor and make his way over to Potter's bedroom. Part of the agreement for Draco's miserable task of Pottersitter was that he show up several times a week. He had attempted to reduce it to one or two, but even he had to admit that at least Potter was able to sleep more often because of him. Unfortunately, in order for Potter to get do so, Draco had to force-feed him a vial of the Dreamcatcher Draught and relive his goddamn memories over and over again. Hermione, Ron, Ginny and even Bill had tried – it only worked for Draco.

"Lucky me," he had drawled when Bill came back downstairs, shaking his head and holding a towel to his bleeding wrist.

"You think we like this any more than you do?" Ginny had snapped at him, tired and stressed.

Draco sneered. "You, at least, are friends with the imbecile currently trying to destroy unseen enemies of the past upstairs in his room. May I remind you that even at the best of our relationship, Potter and I were no more than civil acquaintances with the occasional need to work together?"

Surprisingly, that had shut her up, and he was sure he had heard a mumbled apology. He had turned on his heel and marched upstairs, and that had been the end of that.

One Friday afternoon, while Potter was re-enacting his war day, Draco, fed up with repeating himself over and over, remained silent. Potter's eyes, which normally faded in and out of their normal colouring during this time, remained their usual grey and to Draco's chagrin, Potter had then sunk to the floor, whispering to himself. He even began rocking back and forth like some kind of demented madman, and Draco, having resigned himself to the unlikely role of Potter's sitter, was by his side without really thinking about what he was doing.

Potter, to his horror, had seized his sleeve and buried his head into the crook of Draco's arm - having read through several reports in the massive book Hermione had flung at him, he understood this to be quite a normal reaction in the face of uncertainty.

Draco had therefore allowed Potter to mutter into his rather expensive cloak, all the while trying not to think about how close Potter actually was. It wasn't difficult to pretend he wasn't attracted in any way to Potter, considering that the snivelling freak he had attached to his arm was certainly not the person he had developed feelings for during the last year of school and the months leading up to the war. And he had most certainly not just admitted to himself that he had feelings. For Potter. At all.

When Potter had finally stopped shaking, Draco stood up brusquely and left without a word. He stormed back to his house, cursing and muttering the entire way there, pretending that he was acting in a perfectly dignified manner. After pacing back and forth in his living room for a few minutes, he sank into his armchair and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking deep breaths. He summoned a book from upstairs, opened it up and peered at its contents. During his work hours – and of course, during his hours at the lab for his own enjoyment – he made notes regularly and meticulously. He had a notebook that was full of notes, recipes and improvements on said recipes. He was even working on a few of his own already, something which had Stratton cursing himself for not transferring Draco sooner. The admission had stroked Draco's ego.

"I do not care about Harry Fucking Potter." He said aloud. He meant it too, but for the sake of being correct, he amended his sentence. Later on he would wonder why he did, for there was no one else to hear him.

"I do not care about the Harry Potter I am currently dealing with."

He stood, resolutely snapping the book shut and spoke again.

"He is a raving lunatic and should be locked away for the good of us all."

He stormed upstairs, and threw the book at the wall.

"I have better things to do with my life," he told his desk.

He was almost yelling now.

"And I am not attracted to him anymore!"

A tapping at his window almost made him fall over from shock. He cleared his throat and adjusted his robes, smoothing them off, the picture of cold, noble pride, and then bit his lip when he repeated his last outburst to himself.

Anymore…

He turned to look at the window when there was another tap. That bloody tiny owl again. His own owl, Arden, hooted suspiciously at the small flying dustball when Draco let it inside.

Malfoy,

I know your birthday is coming up, and if you'd be amenable to attending, we'll be throwing you a birthday party at our place. If you don't come, we'll just have to let all the food, alcohol and presents go to waste.

Our place, 7pm, on the 5th.

Hermione

This was nothing compared to the horn-growing, tap-dancing letter she had first sent him. By comparison, this letter was a goddamn albatross playing a violin whilst it stood on its own head. Draco stared at it for long moments, and then set it on his desk. He picked up his notebook and started writing in it. Behind him, Pigwidgeon investigated Arden's cage, perched atop it and started hooting in an attempt to start a conversation. After a moment's hesitation, Arden joined in, until the noise became so irritating that Draco stirred and made a shooing motion. The night descended into silence once more, and Draco picked up a piece of parchment.

Dear moron.

No, that probably wouldn't do. He crumpled up the piece of parchment, tossed it into the bin, and pulled a new one towards him.

Dear idiot GrangerWeasel.

That was worse. That one went into the bin as well.

Weasley

Contrary to popular belief, I do in fact have friends and a life outside of fraternising with you people.

Draco stared at that sentence. It was true that he had friends, but Pansy and Blaise had already sent over their birthday present from their holiday home in Paris – a book on advanced potions - and Theo was hardly a party animal.

He threw the parchment at the fire this time, and it burst into flame, turning into ash almost instantly.

Weasley

Perhaps.

D. Malfoy

He snatched up the tiny owl, tied the piece of parchment onto his foot and sent him on his way, this time with a smaller, more sizeable treat.

In her home miles away, Hermione smiled softly to herself and placed the reply on the desk before her.