Thank you to 88problems for the lovely comment on the previous chapter. This is the next - and last! - update on this story so, if you have enjoyed it (or even if you haven't!) please let me know, I appreciate any feedback. :)

The next two weeks were filled with more trials, more testimonies. Each was as horrific as the last, from those who Malfoy spoke against raging from silent distaste to outright rage, taunting him for being a traitor, spitting at his feet and threatening his life. Harry watched each trail; his fingers curling into fists, biting down so hard on his lip he often drew blood.

Each time he wanted to call out, he held himself back. He thought of the look on Malfoy's face as he had whispered, please, the night after the first trial and he thought of how he nodded in return. He watched how Malfoy weathered each insult with his head held high. More importantly he watched how the Wizengamot stopped glaring, stopped sneering every time he spoke and began to listen. He watched as Malfoy's testimonies helped put Dark witches and wizards in Azkaban.

Each night continued the same way. They would come home, drink gin until Kreacher insisted they eat, then retire to bed. Harry made sure Malfoy's bedside always held a vial of dreamless sleep.

One night Harry found himself with nothing left.

Of course the nightmares came to him.

Of course the faces of the dead haunted him.

Of course he awoke, covered in cold sweat and screaming.

What surprised him was Malfoy, standing in the door way, the vial Harry had given him in hand.

He padded into the room, sank down onto the bed beside Harry, and uncorked the vial before he offered it forward. There was only enough for one more drink.

"Sorry." Harry muttered, feeling embarrassment heat his cheeks. "I forgot to go shopping. I haven't anymore left."

"Drink it." Malfoy murmured, pushing the vial into Harry's clammy hands. As soon as the cool glass was in his palm Harry clenched his fingers around it. As the vial exchanged hands their fingertips brushed and Harry's skin sparked at the contact, sending flames running straight up to his heart. The feeling unsettled Harry more than anything else; if he had thought of resisting the potion, insisting Malfoy kept the last dose in case he needed it, his mind was definitely changed now. He didn't want to analyse why a simple brush of fingers made his heart leap in such a way. He certainly didn't want to risk dreaming about it.

He gulped back every last drop of the potion greedily before settling the empty vial on his bedside table. "Thank you." He whispered.

"No need for thanks, Potter." Malfoy murmured in return. As he spoke he looked genuinely concerned, a small, gentle smile tugging at his lips at odds with an almost warm look in his eyes…. Then again, the room was only dimly lit from the corridor outside and Harry wasn't wearing his glasses. He was probably seeing things. "It was your potion, after all."

Harry nodded the affirmative and pulled himself up a little in bed. Moments of silence passed between them. Malfoy shifted slightly and Harry was sure he was about to leave.

Instead, he spoke.

"It sounded like you need it as much as I do. More, perhaps…" His voice was soft, so quiet Harry had to strain to hear it even in the silence of the room. "When I said I wanted to know what it's like to be you… Maybe now I'm not so sure."

Harry couldn't help the low, gentle chuckle which escaped him. "Maybe now you do know. Well, a little more than some people do… Maybe we have more in common than we thought." Harry reached for his glasses, sliding them over his nose. They made his view of Malfoy a little clearer, but the dark of the room still didn't help. Or, maybe, it did. Maybe it was darkness allowing this conversation, allowing their words to flow more easily. Whatever it was, Harry took the opportunity. "When you said that, that you wanted to know what it was like to be me… Why?"

The silence Harry was met with made his stomach drop, made him want to scramble to take back the question, apologise, change the subject, anything…. Until;

"When I was younger, I thought it was your fame, your power. It's still your power, I suppose. You think any other wizard could storm up to the Minister and get a marked Death Eater released to his home?" Malfoy paused to laugh but the sound was dark and humourless. "You know what's right – you didn't follow a madman, you don't have a father to obey." Harry winced, thinking of just how much he'd consider having a father to obey a privilege. Then he thought of Lucius Malfoy, his cold face and willingness to throw his son to be Voldemort's torturer…

Maybe Malfoy had a point after all.

Maybe he had a point, but Harry didn't want to consider it.

"Tell me, do you ever dream of the fire?"

The words spilled from him before he could stop them, and Harry didn't need his glasses to feel the way Malfoy stiffened at his words. Harry could have apologised, could have taken back his words or blabbered over them with something else entirely. But last time, Malfoy had responded. Somehiw Harry knew this time would be just the same so, instead, he waited.

"All the time." Malfoy whispered eventually. The admission was enough for Harry, yet Malfoy continued. "Sometimes you don't make it in time and I fall with Crabbe. Sometimes it's not Crabbe. Sometimes it's my mother, or…" He stopped, as if suddenly realising he were speaking to Harry.

"I dream of it too." Harry whispered back, eager to put Malfoy at ease for reasons he couldn't explain. "Much like you do… Sometimes I never reach you. Sometimes it's not you, but Ron or Hermione or… Someone else. Someone else who died, who I couldn't save. It's like the dreams giving me a chance to save them, taunting me, because I didn't save them when I could, and I can't save them now…" The words tumbling from his lips were freer, more forthcoming than they had been with any healer. Maybe it was the darkness. Maybe it was the fact that Malfoy had the dreams too. Maybe it was the fact that Malfoy could understand – at least more than anyone in St Mungo's robes could.

"You couldn't be expected to save everyone."

Malfoy's reply was one he'd heard countless times before. From the Prophet who worshipped him, from the families of those who'd fallen when he visited with the plan of asking for forgiveness, only finding they felt he had done nothing to forgive. From the Healers who were paid to care for him after the war, from his friends who cared for him because they genuinely did. None of their words had worked.

Strange, then, how Malfoy's tugged at his heart; a soft, dull sensation, but there all the same.

So strange Harry had to push past it; "Well, I didn't." He stated simply.

"I think your right, Potter. Maybe we do have more in common than we thought." Malfoy murmured, the bed creaking as he shifted. "The dead won't leave us. We both think we could have done… More. We think we should have saved them." He paused to swallow and Harry held himself back from interrupting – just who had Malfoy thought he could save? He knew, from the visions, how reluctant he had been to do Voldemort's torture, but who had he wanted to save? Just Crabbe? Or more….

Before Harry could ask such questions the bed creaked, more loudly as Malfoy pushed himself to stand. "And now, we're both hiding away from the world, sleeping through all our memories." He took a pointed glance at the empty bottle of dreamless sleep, leaving Harry staring after him in silence as he left.

-O-

The next morning both awoke and continued as if their conversation had never happened; attending trials, eating meals and – as Malfoy had so eloquently put it – sleeping through their memories.

Yet although nothing was spoke aloud, the air seemed to shift between them. When Harry spent some of his evenings restoring the old rooms of Grimmuald Place Malfoy stopped by to watch, often sliding into work silently beside Harry, rather than retreating to his room alone.

One evening in particular Harry was bent over 'Home Improvements for Every Witch: Make Your Home a Haven', smiling broadly as he basked in his own glory after successfully performing the charm to change the colour of the painted walls, when Malfoy's drawl echoed through the hallway.

"Please don't tell me you're seriously considering lemon yellow for the hallway Potter. Are you certifiably insane? Should I page St Mungo's?" His voice was a in a familiar sneer; familiar now, but very different from that of his Hogwarts years. It was lighter, almost… Friendly?

"What would you suggest? What would you do so much better?" Harry snapped back, his pride at performing the charm diminished.

Malfoy spun on his heel slowly as if seeing the room for the first time. He frowned, ever so slightly, as if in thought. "I'd paint it forest green, just like the outdoors…" His words tapered off as his brow darkened, a sudden – clearly negative – thought intruding "Of course, it's not my place. No magic for the likes of ex-Death Eaters, of course not."

In a billow of the one pair of formal robes he'd retained to wear to the trials each day, Malfoy was gone. Harry sighed, staring after his retreating form as he heard the door of his bedroom slam floors above.

He didn't know what to say to make things any better.

He doubted that words would work if he tried.

But he could flip back to the page where he found the colour changing charms and he could cloak the hallway in a vibrant, life-filled green.

So he did.

-o-

A week later – four weeks after the first Death Eater trial, four weeks after Malfoy's first testimony – the pair arrived home after the final trial requiring Malfoy's evidence. There was just one name left to consider, one fate left to decide – that of Draco Malfoy.

Harry dished up bowls of thick, steaming chicken and leek soup. He pushed his spoon around the bowl, barely eating himself as he watched Malfoy do the same.

"You need to eat," he encouraged, despite neglecting his own advice. "You need your strength."

"Strength isn't a lot of use in Azkaban." Malfoy muttered darkly, his face downcast into the steam of his bowl.

"You're not going to Azkaban." Harry said firmly. He spoke so firmly his voice almost shook with reverence taking him aback with the surprise of his conviction. "I won't let you."

Malfoy looked up, his grey eyes flashing for a fleeting moment through a series of emotions. No matter how Harry tried to work each out it was always gone a second before he could read it, leaving the next behind. "No." His voice was weak, almost defeated.

"No?"

"No." Malfoy repeated, a little firmer this time. "You won't do anything. You've done enough."

Harry opened his mouth to protest but before he could utter a single word Malfoy had cut him short. "I mean it. This is…. You made these trails possible. You gave me a place to stay. You've…" His gaze wavered for a moment, flickering away almost shamefully before returning to meet Harry's, his eyes suddenly ablaze with determination. "You've taught me my nightmares aren't week… You gave me the opportunity to save myself, to do something of worth… It's up to me now. Please… It's…" He trailed off, his gaze almost pleading with the words he was clearly struggling to say. Somehow, suddenly, Harry could read the words he didn't speak with the utmost clarity; it's a matter of pride.

He should have, he reckoned, been a lot more surprised about how easy he found it to read Malfoy in that moment. Then again, deep down he knew, that the month they had spent together had shown him a lot he didn't know. It had shown him another side to Malfoy; a side that allowed him to see that, now, it wasn't the same pride out of bigoted love for his family name or Pureblood lifestyles that had ruled his younger days, but a matter of earning back pride for himself. A need to restore his own name, his own place in the wizarding world.

So, he nodded.

Malfoy let out a low, whistling breath that Harry could only describe as relief. His shoulders dropped some of the tension they'd been carrying and a few of the deep lines of worry around his eyes seemed to lift. Yet his eyes themselves were still tortured and his full bowl of soup still lay untouched.

"Look," Harry began, rising to his feet. Malfoy watched on with a slightly quizzical gaze as Harry murmured a low, quiet Accio and a slender, polished box made its way steadily into the room and into Harry's awaiting palm. "I kept this, after the war. I fixed mine, but I kept it because I knew you'd be needing it…" He offered the box to Malfoy, watching as he took it uncertainly, his tremoring hands betraying his emotion. "I know they've said you aren't allowed – not now, anyway – but after you'll need it. I'll have it here for you, waiting."

The hinges on the box opened soundlessly as Malfoy opened up the polished wood and looked inside. Nestled safely in the velvet lining was, Harry knew, Malfoy's wand. Malfoy's eyes widened as they took in the sight, rounding with surprise and – for the first time in a long time, perhaps ever – genuine delight.

"It'll be here, waiting." He repeated, stretching out his hand to the lid of the box. He snapped it closed before he spoke again, forcing Malfoy's eyes to his. "You'll come back for it, won't you?"

He didn't know why he added the final words. He didn't know why he turned his reassurances into questions. But he did and, to his relief, Malfoy nodded.

He slipped the box from his hands, watching as without anything to hold, the long, pale fingers dropped to the tables surface lifelessly.

He used his free hand to pick up Malfoy's long forgotten spoon and pressed it into his hand, wrapping the cool white fingers around it. He steadfastly ignored the way his own palms tingled as they ghosted over Malfoy's.

"Eat." He instructed, withdrawing his hand to take his own spoon. Half of him was relieved as the tingling in his palms ebbed away, the other longing for more. He shut that half of his subconscious up by feeding it a heavy spoonful of soup.

"Eat." He repeated for a second time once he had swallowed through his own first serving with difficulty – it tasted delicious, as it always did, but the tension in the room was far too heavy to enjoy the meal before him. "Or no Gin."

He hadn't expected the threat to work, but as a ghost of a smile fanned across Malfoy's lips and his spoon dipped into the bowl, bringing a softly steaming gulp of soup to his thin, pale lips, Harry was glad he had made it.

-o-

The next morning a Ministry escort had arrived early, poking at the tightly-guarded wards of Harry's Floo. He and Malfoy were long ready, in fact they'd been both sat fully dressed and staring at the old grandfather clock for forty minutes when Harry first felt the signs on intrusion.

"What..?" He had murmured aloud, his brow furrowing as he leapt toward the Floo. A quick wave of his wand told him the identity of the wizard pressing at his wards – an official from Magical Law Enforcement – causing the creases of confusion on his forehead to deepen. What were they doing calling at his door? Malfoy wasn't due in the Ministry for his trial for – he checked the clock behind him briefly, despite the fact he'd done nothing but stare at it for almost an hour – another 35 minutes at least. They had plenty of time. Maybe… Had something gone wrong? Had they cancelled the trial and made a decision? After all the effort Malfoy had put into his testimonies, the resolve he'd shown under such blatant hatred from all sides… Or… - for some reason, Harry's breath causght in his chest - had something gone right? Had they decided not to bother with the trial and simply announce Malfoy a free man thanks to his contributions? As he murmured the incantation to permit the wards to allow this visitor, Harry tried to tell himself he was being foolish – yes, Malfoy's testimonies had indeed supported the incarceration of several highly dangerous wizards and witches and, in a few cases, had provided the key evidence in finding them guilty of Dark crimes – but he knew deep down that the Ministry would never overlook Malfoy's own part in the war so easily. He moved back, both to allow the wizard room to enter and to ensure he was on his feet rather than sprawling over the floor in a rather undignified manor. He didn't have time to answer Malfoys questioning eyebrow – the only expression on his waxy, colourless face – so simply shrugged as the flames flared brightly and a tall, burly wizard stepped into the room.

"Good morning Mr Potter, sir, terribly sorry for the inconvenience," he had greeted, his tone formal as if he were reading a scripted line; which, of course, he probably was. His words only fogged around Harry's brain; however, as they didn't actually give in any clue as to what the wizard was doing in his house.

"Perhaps if you could tell me what you were doing here, I'd be more open to accepting it." He retorted, as much for his own assurance as Malfoy's – who, the moment the wizard had spoken, had shot Harry a stare so accusing in nature it made his stomach drop like a stone.

"To escort Mr Malfoy to his trial, of course." The wizard had replied, looking genuinely confused for a moment. "All wizards under house arrest suspected of crimes related to Dark magic must be escorted to their trials by a Ministry official." His explanation was almost tarty, as if Harry were an idiot for not seeing the response the wizard so clearly understood.

"I'm taking him." Harry had said, pressing on when the wizards eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What? I've taken him to all of his other trials. I'll be taking him to this one."

The skin around the wizard's eyes had crinkled for a moment and in the same moment he tightened his lips as if suppressing laughter. "You escorted Mr Malfoy to his testimonies while he was under house arrest at your property. Today is Mr Malfoy's own criminal trial and, as decreed by the Wizengamot in 1745, any witch or wizard suspected of Dark crimes should have direct restraint from a Law Enforcement official. Not that I am putting you down in any way of course, Mr Potter, but situations such as this require professional enforcement." The wizard puffed his chest out in a way Harry thought he had probably believed made him look proud but, in fact, had made him look like a rather bloated toad.

"He's hardly a dangerous criminal! He's helped fill half the cells in Azkaban, for Merlin's sake!" Harry had raged, his common curtesy escaping him as his emotions flew to the forefront.

"Mr Malfoy's contribution to the securing and detaining of Dark criminals has been highly appreciated by the Ministry and all its employees." The wizards gaze had flickered to Malfoy as he spoke, casting him a sneer that showed Harry all he needed to see to know the wizards words were a pile of Crup dung. "However, during today's events where the Ministry must ask questions of his connections with Dark magic, procedure must be followed. Any witch or wizard presenting a threat of Dark magic to the Ministry must be properly restrained."

"Threat? Restrained?" Harry had repeated, his voice raising incredulously with every word. "He hasn't even got a wand!"

"Stop it." A tiny voice had called from the corner. Harry stopped, allowed his jaw to drop in the most undignified gape, and turned to Malfoy as if only just remembering he was there. "If it's what the Ministry requires, of course I will comply." Malfoy stood, brushing imaginary dust from his formal robes. To anyone else – especially to the wizard beside Harry, who let out a low growl of annoyance – it would look like a self-absorbed, egotistic action. To Harry – who had become quite the expert on Malfoy without realising it – he saw it for what it was; a gesture to outwardly show pride, whilst hiding the nervous trembling of his hands.

"Malfoy-" Harry had begun, reaching out his hand to do something – he wasn't quite sure what – before Malfoy silenced him with a single, pleading look, which made the words die on his lips and his arm fall limply to his side.

"Thank you for everything, Harry." Malfoy had nodded, his voice strangled, as he stepped past Harry with a single, penetrating glance which rooted Harry to the spot. His face, pale and narrow, was a mask of calm that his father would have been proud of. His eyes, however, the grey doors to the soul Harry had begun to know, were swirling with a single, endless emotion – fear. He yearned to reach out, to touch him, take his hand, assure him that everything would be alright… But the blonde was gone from his grasp and Harry's empty palm flexed uselessly by his side. Instead he watched as Malfoy nodded again to the wizard who had come to collect him and allowed his arm to be taken and his body to be manhandled into the fireplace.

It was only after the flames had faded away that Harry had realised Malfoy had called him by his first name.

-o-

Harry did a number of things while he waited for Malfoy – or should it be Draco, now that he had called him Harry? Musing over the sound of his first name on the blonde's lips and how it would feel to say his given name in return was one of the things that took up most of Harry's time as the hours stretched before of him.

He did other things, of course, such as clearing out the pantry and cleaning the bathroom.

He paced the living room floor endlessly, and testing out how Draco sounded on his lips.

He finished redecorating the hallway, he had gone with Malf- Draco's choice in colour after all, and read his latest issue of Quidditch Quarterly.

He stared into the flames willing the now familiar figure to appear, and watched the clock as it seemed to drag each second by.

He seriously considered changing the batteries (because surely the time wasn't passing that slowly?) before he realised that in an old Wizarding home such as this, everything would be run on magic.

He prepared a meal, setting out food on two plates out of habit, although both were left untouched.

Gin provided a good alternative to good, the clear liquid slipping down his throat like an old friend.

He watched as the clock struck 6. Ministry closing time. He had been gone for almost 9 hours. Harry had known the trial would likely be a long one – the deliberation over his past and present actions toward the wizard world would certainly bring cause for debate – but, whatever the outcome, it should have been reached by now. The witches and wizards of the Ministry would be streaming through the Floo's home, Draco's fate decided.

The beat of Harry's heart seemed to drag as slowly as the clock as its hand ticked by, the open bottle and glass on the low table before him – he quickly summoned another for when Draco arrived back - each second dragging as if an eternity.

Seconds that became minutes.

Minutes that became an hour.

An hour that became several.

Until the grandfather clock he stared at struck a deep, low sound, striking the heart of night.

Midnight.

It was midnight, and Draco wasn't back.

His palms were sweaty and his mouth bone dry. Surely… Surely they hadn't kept him? Yes, he'd made mistakes. Yes, he had been a massive git. But he wasn't dangerous… He was….

With a promise to investigate in the morning Harry took himself to bed, stumbling more than once thanks to the glasses of gin that had supported his wait. Apparently with no-one around to fill the second glass for Harry had felt as if he should drink for two. As he slipped beneath the sheets and noxed out the lights it took him several more hours to find sleep as his mind tried to finish his earlier sentence and, furthermore, tried to figure out why he cared.

-o-

After a few short hours of fitful sleep Harry threw on a clean pair of robes and, with a vial of hangover potion downed but without stopping for breakfast, disappeared through his Floo to the Ministry Atrium. His woozy head thankfully began to lift as he made his way along the shiny, tiled floors toward the sign-in point. He glared impatiently at the witches and wizards before him as they wandered through to the visitor's desk without urgency. Thankfully his status as The-Boy-Who-Saved-Us-All came in useful as each before him turned to recognise him, shuffling aside to allow him to take their place in the line.

"Oh, Mr Potter, what an honour…"

"Here, Mr Potter, take my spot, I'm only here to visit my cousin – not that you need to know, of course, I mean – I mean I'm sure you're here on much more important business…"

"Merlin… It's Harry Potter! Come right through, sir…"

Ordinarily Harry would have cringed at the special attention but at the moment in time he wanted nothing but to move through the crowd, his desire to find out what had happened to Draco burning like Fiendfyre.

"Good morning and welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your nam-" The welcome witch began to greet politely before blinking in recognition. "Mr Potter! Of course you don't need to state your name." She laughed, as if it were a joke Harry would find hilarious. He attempted his best smile, though he remained tight-lipped, burning with the anticipation of finding Draco. "Everyone knows who you are, of course." She continued, dropping her voice now to what she probably hoped was a seductive tone – at least judging by the way she fluttered her eyelashes at him.

"Er… Yeah." Harry managed lamely; he'd always been a useless flirt even in the cases where he'd been most inclined to do it. The welcome witch before him was pretty; he supposed – with wide blue eyes and dark, shiny hair that fell in soft curls down her robes which curved in the most womanly of places… But, if he was honest with himself about one thing at least, it was those womanly curves which were the reason he had found himself reluctant to return to Ginny.

"So, Mr Potter, what is your reason for visiting the Ministry today?" She asked, apparently not disturbed by Harry's less than enthusiastic response, her lashes still fluttering as she offered him a coy smile.

"I'm… Er…" Harry trailed off, thrown. He doubted that 'here to locate a Death-Eater-turned-informant after his own trial, for reasons I haven't fully considered myself yet', although true, would not be an appropriate answer to the question. "I'm here to see…" He really should have thought this through before barrelling straight into the Ministry, he supposed. If Kingsley hurried up and found his way to being Minister…

If Harry were in a muggle cartoon, a light bulb would have no doubt appeared above his head at that moment. "I'm here to see Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"Do you have an appointment?" The witch asked, still batting her eyelashes. The effect was beginning to make Harry feel rather dizzy – and not in the way the witch undoubtedly hoped.

"Er… No." Harry said. "But he told me I should drop by whenever I could. He has a… Well, he's got a job offer for me." This much was true – or, at least, it had been. Kinglsey had told him to drop by whenever to discuss the opportunity to fast-track onto the Auror programme; he didn't need to mention that he'd already done that, spoken to Head Auror Robard's at length and declined their offer of special treatment in order to consider his options a little while longer. But, of course, the welcome witch didn't need to know that.

"Well were only supposed to let Mr Shacklebolt see those who have an appointment, what with him being preparing for the elections and all." She said, sighing dramatically as if she were doing Harry an enormous favour. "But, of course, I'm sure he would be able to make time for Harry Potter. I'm sure he'll be glad for us all to see your on his side in the elections?"

"Er… Yeah." Harry said. He wasn't sure if he should have aired his opinions on the election so clearly – but then again it would only be a matter of time before The Prophet moved away from its grim coverage of the trials to the election and then Harry's relationship with Kingsley was bound to be discovered.

"In that case, I'm sure he'll see you now." A single wave of her wand gave way to a visitor's pass which read 'Harry Potter visiting Kingsley Shacklebolt. Private meeting.' She then stood, tossing her hair over her shoulder flirtily and leant forward, pressing the badge to Harry's chest with hands that lingered across his muscles a little longer than they should. Longer than they needed to at all, Harry realised, when he saw how the welcome witch beside his used a simple spell to charm the pass onto the visitor's robes.

"Thank you. Err… Have a nice day." Harry said, dropping his head in embarrassment and scuttling away as quickly as possible.

Thankfully his different appearances at the Ministry in recent weeks, from discussing his own career options with the Auror's to attending the many different trials Draco spoke at, Harry now felt confident enough to navigate the twisting corridors to Kingsley's office. When he arrived at the department he was met with another desk and a second welcome witch behind it.

"Name." She announced abruptly as he stood before her.

"Harry Potter." He said, inwardly preparing himself to cringe when the recognition passed across the witches features.

Instead she simply continued in the same, monotone voice; "to see?" She asked.

"Um… Kingsley Shacklebolt." He replied. Harry was slightly thrown by the welcome witches… less than welcome nature but was relieved to be around someone who didn't feel the need to change their personality for The Boy Who Lived.

"I have no appointments here for a Harry Potter to see Mr Shacklebolt."

"That's because… Well, I don't have one. But, you see, he said I could drop by anytime, he has a jo-"

The witch cut in mid-word, reducing Harry to silence. "To see Mr Shacklebolt you require an appointment. Appointments can be made with myself but Mr Shacklebolts schedule is full until next Tuesday."

"He already told me it's fine to drop by. If you'd just let me see him, he can tell you himse-"

"Mr Shacklebolt sees visitors by appointment only." The witch cut in once again. Crazily, Harry found himself longing for the flirty witch at the visitors welcome desk. "You may make an appointment –"

A door behind the witch a little to the left at the head of the corridor, opened with a very slight creak. "It's ok, let Mr Potter in."

The witch huffed, looking very dismayed at the fact she had been overruled – even by Kingsley himself. Harry suppressed a grin and slipped past the witches desk and through the door Kingsley had left ajar. He closed it behind him and, seeing that Kingsley had already sunk back into his office chair, took a seat in front of his desk.

"I think I already know what this is about." Kingsley said, his tone already appearing weary. "Draco Malfoy?"

Harry nodded, licking his lips nervously. His heart was beating a little faster than it should, as if the erratic thud of it against his chest was asking him the questions he feared Kingsley would 'Why? Why are you here? Why do you care?'

"I'm afraid I can tell you very little Harry." At Harry's opened mouth – he was about to protest that Kingsley, one of the key wizards in charge of arranging the deal for Draco to give testimony against other Death Eaters and a potential future Minister for Magic, would surely know the outcome - Kingsley held up a silencing hand. "I do know. That doesn't mean I'm permitted to tell you."

Harry deflated instantly. He should have known, really, that the outcome around the trial would be hushed. If it had been public knowledge there would have no doubt been a late-evening edition of the Prophet with all the gruesome details. "At least tell me… He's not…" Harry couldn't bring himself to say it.

"In Azkaban?" Kinglsey asked.

Harry nodded. 'Don't ask me why' his brain attempted to add, although the words didn't quite make it past his lips. He hoped his face could convey the message appropriately.

"No, he's not." Kingsley said. Harry found his shoulders sagging entirely, his emotions ripping him in two. Half of him was relieved, beyond relieved, that Draco hadn't been sent there. The other half… If Draco was free, and he hadn't contacted Harry… Harry swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He didn't know what it meant and he wasn't in a rush to confront his feelings.

"Look, Harry… I'll only say this. I don't know why your so invested in Draco Malfoy – don't worry, I'm not going to ask. You look as if you don't quite know yourself." At that Kingsley chuckled, a low sound vibrating in his throat as if his body wasn't used to laughter anymore. "You're a brilliant wizard and you're an even better man. You did the right thing, fighting for him, helping him be free... But if you've done all this for him and he hasn't sought you out… Perhaps it would be better for you if you left him. Move on with your life. You know the offer of the Auror's always stands."

Harry nodded mutely, Kingsley's words echoing pointlessly in his ears. His mind was already racing, thinking of the places Draco could be. He hadn't come back to Grimmuald Place, the only place Harry could think of was The Manor. Then again, surely the Malfoy's had other property? A rich, pureblood family was sure to have more than one home…

"Harry." Kingsley said, snapping him from his thoughts. "Go home. Forget about Draco Malfoy. Consider my offer."

Harry nodded wearily, shook hands with Kingsley and assured him he would do ask he was asked – he wouldn't of course. He'd already made his mind up about the Auror's, at least for now. As for Malfoy…

He'd always been a little bit obsessed, hadn't he?

-o-

The next day, an owl to Malfoy had gone without reply.

The next week, another owl met the same fate.

One evening, three weeks since he stormed in on Kingsley, Harry screwed up the parchment he had been writing on and threw it into the fireplace. It had been the start of a third letter but, after starting with 'Dear Malfoy', Harry had been unable to find any words to say. He had been able to convince himself – despite the fact his owl returned safe and well – that something might have happened to the first letter so writing the second had been easy. When the owl returned without response the second time Harry had spent a week brooding, unable to do anything but accept his messages were being ignored.

As what would have been his third letter burnt away in the flames of his hearth Harry watched, his eyes fixated on the parchment until it resembled nothing but char. With a heaving sigh he stood and headed for the cupboard; a good glass of gin (or several) would be the key to easing his mind and welcoming sleep.

"Shit." He muttered, seeing the empty space where the last bottle had been. He'd meant to go shopping today, but then he'd got caught up with a visit from Hermione and looking into what in Merlin's name he wanted to do with his life…

At the moment in time, the answer to that question was simple;

Have a bloody drink.

He gazed down at his general attire; his jeans were a dark denim – no holes in this pair, thankfully – and his t-shirt was a simple dark green – luckily without any evidence of the lasagne he'd eaten with Hermione. It would do, he was sure, as he headed out into the hallway and grabbed a jacket and toed on one of his more acceptable pairs of shoes. He could easily go to the muggle corner shop and buy some more, but there was something about the thought going out for the sole purpose of buying alcohol to drink alone that made Harry feel depressed. He hadn't been out in a while and – probably because of the amount of time he spent friendless in his younger years – never felt awkward about being out alone. He left the house and descended the stairs into the street, enjoying the cool breeze of the air against his cheeks. It would do him good, he thought, to get out into the world. To spend a night watching the muggle world go by rather than sitting and brooding of Draco Malfoy.

He walked for some time, enjoying the fresh feeling of the outside – well, as fresh as London got, anyway – before turning onto a road he knew held a few muggle bars that he had seen but never visited. Eventually he chose one at random and slipped inside. The interior didn't disappoint; it was clean, modern and bright but at the same time seemed to have a familiar, welcoming atmosphere. He slid over to the bar, taking his jacket off and throwing it over his arm, lifting his gaze to the bar to order before he stopped in his tracks.

Three weeks. Three weeks it had been since he last saw him with his pale, narrow face carefully arranged into an exterior of calm but with deep, grey eyes which had – at least, to Harry – no bottom in the depth of the fear the showed.

"Malfoy?" The name was a question, even though it had no need to be. Three weeks, of course, had been nowhere near enough to forget his face.

The figure behind the bar jumped, clearly surprised by the name – or, perhaps, the speaker? Could it be Draco knew his voice, had memorised his tone without seeing his face? As the shock covering his features gave way and he recovered his demeanour a slow, easy smirk – which, in all honesty, was rather more of a smile – spread across his face. "Well, of all the gin joints." He joked as Harry reached the bar.

His humour fell on deaf ears. Harry's mind was raging, swirling with half-formed, unanswered questions. How did Draco-? Why was he-? Why had he not-?

"What are you doing?" Harry's question was blunt and, he hoped, carried – albeit unintelligently – the weight of all of the questions his scrambled brain wanted to ask.

Draco's easy smile faltered, wobbling for a moment before it dropped completely with a long, steady sigh. "I finish at 12." He said, his eyes flickering to a clock behind him atop of the bar – it was ten minutes to, just how long had Harry been wandering? "They'll stay open until one. Take a seat and I'll come over."

Numbly, Harry nodded, turning his back to the bar and to Draco and making steps to move away.

"Potter." The familiar voice called, bringing him back. He turned on his heel to see Draco offering out a glass of clear liquid in – or was Harry imagining this part? – a nervously wavering hand. "You can't sit without a drink."

Again, Harry nodded, taking the glass and ignoring the sparks which flew through him as their fingers brushed. Drink in hand he sloped toward a free table in the corner, bringing the glass to his lips and allowing the familiar, welcome taste of gin to wash over his lips.

The minutes seemed to drag by, and with each moment that passed his questions took root, twisting and gnawing at his stomach. What was Draco Malfoy doing behind a bar in muggle London? How did he end up there? What had happened at his trial? Those questions, however important, fleeted pointlessly around his mind. The only question that mattered to Harry, as he resolutely attempted to keep his eyes away from the man behind the bar was; why didn't he come to me?

The clink of glass against the wooden table startled Harry from his thoughts and he looked up to see Draco, two glasses now deposited on the table, as he slipped onto the stool opposite Harry. "Thought you could use a refill."

"You didn't call me Harry."

"What?"

Harry shook himself for a moment at Draco's startled expression and had to take a moment to realise what he had actually said to the man before him. Of all the questions he'd thought of, all the answered he wanted, apparently this was the one his subconscious felt most appropriate to start with.

Oh well, he thought, no point backing down now. "Just now when you called me back.. You called me Potter. But, before, well…. Last time… When…" Harry trailed off pointlessly, trying and failing to think of how to phrase 'the day you left' without sounding completely pathetic, "You called me Harry then. You didn't now."

Draco was looking at Harry with disbelief, his jaw slightly open and his eyes widened. Harry felt the heat flare in his cheeks – clearly the effort his brain had put into making him not sound pathetic had horrendously backfired – and fought the urge to bury his head in his hands. "You called me Malfoy." He responded after a moment. "I assumed the gesture wasn't welcomed."

Had he? Harry thought back, but honestly couldn't remember what he said when he first saw the man in front of him again. He had been calling Draco, well – Draco, for so long in his mind now he had just figured his lips would follow suit. "Sorry. Well, it is." Harry said, hoping to move past the awkwardness with minimal damage. "So, what happened to you?"

Draco sighed, pulling one of the glasses toward him and cradling it. He didn't drink, just stared into the clear depths of the glass, and Harry allowed him the moment to gather his thoughts – he selfishly needed the same. "Probation."Draco said, rather simply, when he finally spoke. "I'm on probation for one year. No magic. No spells, no house elves, no apparating, nothing."

As the words settled over Harry he tried to think of what to say – despite living the first eleven years of his life as a muggle, he couldn't imagine having his right to perform magic taken away from him. For Draco, whom had spent his entire life raised around wizardry, he knew it must be heart-breaking. Still, his most important question was left unanswered. "Why didn't you come back? Why didn't you tell me?"

"You… You had my wand. You'd said I could have it back. I wanted to wait… I…" The glass that had become the focus of Draco's gaze for so long was now titled to his lips and drained completely before he slammed it back to the table. When he did he lifted his gaze to Harry; his eyes were watering, ever so slightly, with unshed tears. Harry's gut twisted at the sight. "I didn't want to disappoint you." He breathed, so quietly Harry barely heard him.

As it often did with Harry, the twist of pain in his stomach became a fire of rage, designed to protect those he…. Harry's mind flew past the final word of that thought and his mouth flared into action. "You should have told me. I would have done something!"

"You'd done enough already." Draco smiled, the expression at odds with the water pooling in his eyes. The sight was so strange, so raw, that it stunned Harry into silence. His rage quelled, the fire burning away as he sat, staring.

"I don't care." He whispered eventually. "You should have told me. I would have done something. I'll still do something. You can't just – You have to – You shouldn't be –" With each false start, Harry pushed away words he didn't have the courage to speak. You can't just leave me. You have to come back. You shouldn't be alone.

"You've done more than enough for me, Harry." Draco murmured, and Harry didn't miss the sound of his name of the other man's lips again. "Before you came… In the war, under The Dark Lord, before you saved my life… In the Ministry cells before you took me away…" A faraway look crossed Draco's face, but not one that would normally be seen, full of light and daydream. This one was dark, painful, twisted… But, Harry sensed, important. He let Draco relive the memories he needed to, allowing him the time to speak. "I used to dream of being alive. That was all. Just of breathing, of staying alive, of seeing the next day. Not of actually living." Harry nodded – a poor response to some, but between them, with the histories they shared, he knew it would count. "Now I don't. Now... Now I only waste it dreaming of you."

"Draco." Harry said. It was all he could say. The first time it had left his lips, the first time he had said it aloud and it felt so right, as if he had been saying it all his life. It seemed a pitiful reply to the way Draco had bared his soul so openly, but from the shiver that passed down the blonde's spine, Harry knew it was enough.

In that moment, Harry also knew a lot more. He leant forward, closing the small distance the table put between them and covered Draco's lips with his own. The kiss was strange; it was broken, bitter, and full of the pain that had passed between them yet at the same time it was soft, gentle and full of revelation. It was, Harry felt, a kiss that let go of the past and embraced the future. Harry felt one of the tears that had filled Draco's eyes slip into the kiss and, as he parted his lips to beg for entrance to Draco's mouth, tasted the bitter saltiness of his tears alongside the warm flavouring of gin.

When their kiss finally ended Harry stood, extended his hand, and smiled as long, thin fingers slipped into his.

"Harry." Draco said, as if answering Harry's words before the kiss.

"Draco." He repeated, the name rolling over his tongue with a sweet pleasure that not even the finest gin could match.