Author's Note: We will start at the beginning now, at which point both boys have already graduated from Hogwarts, Voldemort was defeated by Harry and the wizarding world is on its merry way. There will obviously be some AU things going on considering this is not a canon pairing, but most of it will unravel as the story proceeds.

Many thanks to all who reviewed. I am ever grateful. Here, a Drarry-shaped gingerbread cookie for each.

Disclaimer: Don't own, otherwise millions of HP fans would massacre me with this oh so controversial pair.

"Are you really sure this is what you want to do Harry?"

"Of course he is! And blimey, Hermione, it's just camp."

"Yes, but Auror training starts next September. This camp could end up being a major distraction."

"It's just one year!"

"A year gone wasted!"

"Only because you don't understand the first thing about it!"

Harry, Hermione, and Ron all stood around a seemingly lifeless waste-basket lying on the floor. To anyone else it appeared to be only that, a faded yellow piece of metal, worn and bent with years of wear. But to Harry—

"Just because you can't fly doesn't mean—"

—it was his ticket to a place where he could finally be free of all the mayhem that seemed to be his life these seventeen years. They were few, and he was still young, but not even the trash can had enough dents to parallel his own. And to be perfectly honest, Harry was exhausted.

"Ronald, I can fly perfectly well, I'll have you know—"

He took a deep breath, relishing in the light breeze. Despite there being hardly any trees within the vicinity, a few leaves swirled around their heads, weaving an intricate pattern that seemed to have no beginning or end. One caught in Hermione's braid; she didn't notice.

"And besides, if it weren't for me—"

It was over. The war. Voldemort. Hogwarts. Dumbledore gone. Snape dead, a hero …

"I graduated didn't I? So what—"

And yet, for Harry, it never would be. He needed some kind of outlet. Somewhere plaguing thoughts of him could not disturb him. Somewhere he could just be …

Who? Myself? Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived? Savior of the Wizarding World? The Chosen One?

A particularly strong gust blew past them, whipping Ron's travelling cloak around and into Hermione's face.

"Ron!"

"That was the wind, not me!"

The exclamation brought him back to the present, and he was barely aware of Ron and Hermione's constant bickering. What he saw instead were his two best friends.

"Stop it, you're pulling my hair—"

They had been through so much together and for the first time in a long time, he would be leaving them. It was ... strange.

"I'm just trying to help!"

The thought caused an involuntary lump in his throat. No matter how used to each other they already were, he knew life must move forward. And besides, they needed a break as well.

"Actually," Harry cut in, successfully halting the squabbling duo before him, "I think this is exactly what I need."

"But Harry—"

"No, Hermione. Really. I'll be ok. Besides, I think I've had my share of Dark wizards for a good while. And Quidditch has always been the one thing where I can just be … myself."

"See? Told you." Ron smirked. He pulled a Butterbeer pastry from his travel bag and began to chew on it whilst simultaneously adding: "Harry needs to relax. Maybe you should too Herm—hey ow!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "If you'd just stop stuffing your face for one second." She turned a sad smile towards her best friend. "Well, if it's what you really want, Harry, then just remember to owl, ok?" She didn't even let him finish; she was already crushing him in a bone-squeezing hug. "I'll miss you."

Harry embraced her whilst trying to breathe, catching Ron's eye with a wispy grin. "Don't worry, I'll write."

Strange. Everything was annoyingly strange these days.

"Now, don't forget to owl at least once a week. Tell us everything. And if you ever feel the need to speak with me or your father personally, don't think twice on it! Your cabin should be Floo equipped and—"

"Narcissa, you're smothering the boy. Just let him be already."

Draco didn't react to either of them. Instead he resisted rolling his eyes, a gesture that, in the past, would have earned him a whipping. Or at least a mild curse. Nowadays his father responded with a mere look in the other direction. Like the coward he turned out to be.

"Draco."

Speaking of said coward—"What?" he bit out impatiently. Seriously, they were going to make him be late.

"Draco, I am still your father and you will address me as so. Look at me."

Draco turned around to face the older man, his steely gaze taking in the wizard that once upon a time could make babies cry with a sheer blink.

After their retreat from the war, things had changed him to a person Draco would have never recognized had he not witnessed the transformation himself. Lucius Malfoy looked eons older, a mere fragment of the powerful aristocrat he used to be. His hair lay sullen and thin down his back, wrinkles lined various portions of his face, and every few seconds silver eyes dashed from left to right, like the antennas of a cockroach. Even his hands, the long slender, pale fingers of a Malfoy, were now knobbed and dry.

Remember, he did it for our survival ….

Sure, Draco was glad they'd shed their darker habits, but this, this scrambling around with anxious glances and floor-directed gazes, was beyond unacceptable. It was pitiful. "Yes, father?"

Lucius' eye seemed to twitch slightly.

See? Can't even take a bit of bite. Pathetic.

For a moment it seemed as if he wanted to offer him some sort of fatherly advice. Draco mentally snorted. Yeah, right. Sorry dad, your 'loving father' card went out the door along with your balls. Not to mention you might chip a nail.

Instead he settled for a brief pat on the shoulder. "I hope you find what you're looking for, son."

This time Draco did roll his eyes. It was bloody Quidditch camp. Not some 'path of self-discovery'. The only reason he'd agreed on going was to get away from the two sacks of 'Useless' and 'Hopeless' that were now his parents. It hadn't been enough that the press was constantly on his case, inquiring what it was like to have betrayed the Dark Lord. No, his parents had to one-up him and turn into fucking Hufflepuffs.

But Draco knew the real reason behind his parents' most recent donations, their public appearances, their insufferable brown-nosing: they were scared. Scared some of the old gang might seek revenge on them. Scared any wrong move might send them to Azkaban. Scared for their miserable lives. And so they had turned a complete three-sixty.

And it was appalling.

For the love of God, Draco was scared too! But unlike them he refused to lose his dignity, refused to become another spoil of war. He was proud of being a Malfoy, dammit!

"Have fun, Draco. Remember that—that we love you." Narcissa murmured quietly as she wrapped him in an awkward embrace.

Draco tentatively put his arms around his mother. He didn't mind the hugs so much from her—she'd always been one for protecting him, after all—but her words were still odd. And bloody hell, was she crying? He wasn't going on another mission of the Dark Lord's, for pete's sake.

He mumbled something in return, though even he wasn't sure if 'I love you too' could be deciphered from the incoherent jumble. Verbal affection had been almost nonexistent before him. Glancing warily at his father, Lucius merely nodded and motioned towards the portkey.

Well at least he didn't try to hug me. That would have just been wrong.

Draco gave them both one more nod before reaching for the portkey. The last image he saw was another strange one: his father hugging his now sobbing mother against his chest, an inexplicable emotion on his face.

Emotions. Pfft.

He really hoped Quidditch camp resembled something normal.

Portkey had never been his ideal way to travel, but the camp's whereabouts were Unplottable. Harry had no idea why a mere Quidditch camp would need to be hidden; Voldemort was dead after all. Nonetheless, he felt a deep sense of relief knowing the media would be hard-pressed to find him here.

Fame. Glory. Power. Money. None of it was for him. Not by choice anyway.

"Harry!"

Harry whirled around. And his jaw dropped. "Wood?"

There he was. Oliver Wood, his old Quidditch captain, as muscled and dashing as anyone who'd known him would expect him to be.

"Harry! Been expecting you all morning!" He jogged towards the shorter teen with a bright smile.

And as much as Harry envied those pearly whites, he grinned back and stuck out his hand. "Wood. Good to see you again—"

"Ah come on now, that's no way to greet your old Captain."

And in one fluid gesture Harry was swept into a very manly one armed hug. Wood was laughing. "Got some more beef on you now, good, good. Even the best Seekers need to be well-chiseled."

Harry laughed warily. The only reason he was slightly more than just bones was due to the war. But he wouldn't say it aloud. Instead he opted for something safer. "So you're coming to camp too then?"

Wood chuckled, amused. "Me? A camper? Are you out of your mind?"

Harry looked confused. "Then what—"

"I'm one of your senior counselors, of course! Which is why I was waiting for you. See, I've put you into the best cabin we have around here."

Harry began to protest immediately. "Look, Wood, that's really not necessary. I just want—"

"Nonsense!" He clapped him on the back, causing Harry to wince slightly. "Only the best for a future fellow teammate." He winked knowingly at the younger and then leaned in closer to whisper in a rushed tone. "Just keep it on the down low, wouldn't want anyone thinking you're a favorite or anything."

Harry offered a weak smile. A favorite? Him? Harry freaking Potter? No, of course not.

Oliver continued talking as they made their way over to where Harry would be staying for the next twelve months. He pointed out a few other cabins on the way, though Harry was hardly paying attention. Instead, he looked around on his own account, recognizing a few other familiar faces and nodding in acknowledgement. Terry Boot, Dean Thomas, Katie Bell, just to name a few.

Too bad Ginny didn't come … the thought of the fiery girl caused a fluttery feeling to erupt in his stomach. Don't. Don't—not right now. There'll be time for that later.

"And here we are."

Harry followed the other into what was quite visibly, the largest camper's cabin in the entire vicinity. This time he did sigh.

"What's the matter? I thought—"

"No, it's great, Wood, thanks," Harry interrupted quickly, giving what he hoped resembled a grateful smile. Truth be told, he really didn't want any special treatment. The fact that Oliver Wood, one of the few people at Hogwarts who never held back in treating him normally at school—sans the various lectures—had decided to give him the best cabin was unsettling. Just how many more people were going to treat him like some bloody saint? He'd come to Quidditch camp to get away from it all. Not to—

"Potter!"

Harry came out of his musings when the older teen was suddenly inches from his face, an irritated expression on his handsome features.

"Is there a problem, Potter?"

"No, I just—"

"Do you not like the cabin?"

"It's great, I just thought—"

"Would you prefer the cabin next to the crapper?"

Harry blinked, unsure of how to respond when his old captain now stood mere centimeters from his face, nostrils flared and eyes narrowed. "Well n—"

And then Wood laughed and took a step back, his face morphing back to his just minutes ago grin. "I'm only joking. Just keeping you on your toes, that's all. Don't think I'm going to take it easy on you just because of your name sake, Harry Potter. Now hurry up, get settled in. We meet at the pitch at dusk."

Harry stared as the senior counselor turned and walked away.

Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.

He smiled and made his way inside cabin eleven.

He landed with a graceful thud and began to immediately assess his surroundings. Draco scoffed.

Cabins. Cabins with uneven wooden signs that read things such as 'Perky's Potions' and 'Thrifty Broomish'. And numbers. Lots of numbered cabins. He could see the Quidditch pitch several hundred yards away, but it was too far for him to properly evaluate. Judging from the looks of things so far, though, his doubts were evident. Perhaps the place had been founded by a Weasley.

He hoped his cabin wasn't this shabby. He just might have to kill himself.

"Let's see." He pulled out his rooming key and looked at the number. He frowned when it began to change sporadically. "What the fu—"

"Hello there. You must be Draco Malfoy."

Draco looked up. His frown grew heavier when he immediately recognized the speaker. "I am."

The handsome-looking man walked towards him, a smug expression on his face. "I'm sure you remember me so no need for introductions, Malfoy. Now, unfortunately since you arrived so late we only have cabin three lef—"

"I already have a cabin. Only, my key seems to be going haywire."

Wood frowned. "Key? No one has a k—"

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy, you've arrived. I was told to personally escort you to your cabin. Right this way—"

"Just a second, Krum. I'm escorting all new campers. And besides, that cabin is already—"

Viktor Krum and Oliver Wood began to get into a heated discussion, which Draco tuned out. He was slightly miffed that his parents had found a way to annoy him even in their absence. Viktor Krum? Really? This is who his parents thought would prove a convenient acquaintance at this bloody camp? Because he was sure it was his parents' doing. Leave it to them to get the one professional Quidditch player that he absolutely despised. So what if he was famous? The bloke was an utter moron.

"—fine then!"

Draco raised an eyebrow. It seemed the oaf had won the argument at least. He turned an inquiring glance towards the ridiculously beefed up Bulgarian whilst the other stormed off in another direction.

"Right. So, there has been a slight change of plans. Do not worry, you will still stay in the cabin you were assigned to. However, another camper was already placed there so—"

"A roommate? In my cabin? Just a second, beefcakes, but I'm positive my parents gave an exceptional amount—"

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, they did. But every cabin is situated for two or more campers. Even yours. This is why your key began to malfunction. Quidditch is all about teamwork, after all, and that begins with getting along with others. As it stands, your roommate is already situated and thus there is nothing we can do about it."

Draco didn't reply at first, still mulling over the fact that Viktor Krum actually used the word 'malfunction' in a sentence.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

Oh. Right, he's still talking. This sharing of a cabin could be annoying. An idea occurred to him. "Well, as it so happens, Wood said that cabin three was available—"

"Wood was wrong. Cabin three was just moved into."

Draco scowled but immediately masked his face into an emotionless blank. It was just a roommate, no need to get all hissy about it, right?

"And anyway," Krum continued to speak, as he hoisted Draco's trunk onto his shoulder—Draco scoffed at that, now the muscle-head was just showing off—"the cabin is quite spacious so I'm sure you will have all the room you need."

Draco didn't reply, just followed the older man as they made their way to his cabin.

Wood hadn't been lying. This cabin was pretty awesome. Mahogany floor boards, plush comfortable beds and sofas, a miniature kitchen and dining area, their own bathroom. It was a spacious room that was easily twice the size of the dorms back at Hogwarts. There was even a small nook attached at one end that resembled a miniature owlery. Six to eight campers would fit quite comfortably and yet the room was fashioned with only two bunks, each on opposite ends of the room.

But best of all: the fireplace, complete with Floo powder.

Despite knowing the separation was inevitable—and to an extent, necessary—Harry couldn't fool himself. A year without his friends was going to be tough. Or would have been. And so he definitely needed to thank Wood for this.

He was already settled in, having finished by placing his Firebolt against the corner of his four poster. Genevieve, his new owl, chirped happily in the adjoining nook and Harry flopped onto his bed.

Perhaps this year would be better than he imagined.

"Is there nothing you can do, sir? I'm telling you, this arrangement is—"

"Oliver, I already told you no. And besides, here at Camp Q we like to inspire more than simply throwing a few balls around. Haha! Get it? Balls? Hmmm?"

Wood rolled his eyes with his superior's lame—not to mention inappropriate—joke. "Haha. Very funny. But sir—"

"Funny? I thought it was hilarious! Heard that one from Bigby the other day. Curious woman, she is. Anyway, Camp Q. A place where young men and woman can learn the importance of—"

"Yes, yes, embrace your teammates, work well together, yada, yada, yada. I get it. But you don't seem to understand the severity of this particular case. At Hogwarts—"

"Hogwarts is in the past, Mr. Wood, and most of these campers are of age."

"But—"

"Given that," the older man continued, "I would think they know how to set aside their differences and deal with their situation like adults. Unless you are implying them unfit for this camp, I see no problem with any arrangements. So, what will it be, hmmm?

Oliver Wood set his mouth in a grim line. It was a lose-lose situation if he ever saw one. And man did he hate losing. But not as much as he pitied his younger future teammate. "Nothing, sir."

He strode towards the door, but just as he was about to exit—

"Oh and Oliver?"

"Yes, director?"

"Since you seem to be so concerned for Mr. Potter, perhaps you should keep an extra eye on him, hmmm?"

"I planned on it." And he left.

The camp director chuckled to himself. Not get along? What a bunch of pish-posh. Rivalry was part of Quidditch, after all. Things would work out just fine.

Once Krum had left him alone—and thank goodness he wasn't rooming with that guy—Draco made a beeline for the empty bed. Gods but he was suddenly exhausted. It must be the absurd surrounding of idiots.

He flopped on the bed much the same as had his roommate before. Well at least the bed is comfortable. Refusing to get up, he peered through his peripherals and inspected the hellhole that was to be his living space for the next year.

Hard floors, faded upholstery, a dingy hole for his eagle owl, a door leading to an undoubtedly small bathroom in one corner, and a decaying fireplace.

Great …

A loud yawn emitted from across the room. Oh yes, mustn't forget that particular detail. The closed-in four poster at the other end of the room.

Particular detail aside, it wasn't too different from the Slytherin dorms, and Draco could always order in any material object that needed refurbishing, but then again—

"Ugh, maybe I should have just stayed home …" Draco glanced at the other occupant's side of the room. Thankfully, the four posters held drapes, thus ensuring their bearers at least a bit of privacy. Good, I can jerk off in peace then. Nonetheless, for the moment those drapes were a bit annoying. His roommate was either not here right now, or behind those musty old rags. Draco was betting on the latter. His curiosity fought with his laziness, and in the end he pulled himself off the bed with a loud huff.

In a few strides he was on the other side of the room, eyeing his unknown roommate's belongings. Black luggage, black broomstick—a Firebolt at that—black socks he'd apparently kicked off, and—

"Hoo! Hoo!"

—a black owl.

Draco smirked. Well, at least the bloke had decent taste in color. Black was much better than red or gold, after all. Or gods forbid, yellow. Yikes.

Now to see who his year-long roomy was. He figured the guy was just waking up, having made quite a ruckus as he'd entered the cabin. And so, using only the tips of his fingers to pull back one corner of the hanging drapes, Draco whipped it back, peering in at the same time.

Only, said occupant had decided to swing his legs out at precisely that exact second and—

"Ow!

"Oof!

Both boys fell onto the floor. Hard. Right on top of each other.

But the pain was nothing compared to what silver and green eyes perceived upon opening up.

"You!"

"You!"

And tangled on the floor, limbs splayed in areas they would never place into contact with each other, and faces so close to another they might almost be snogging, were—

"Get the fuck off me!"

—Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

Still hoping for some more feedback, see if this is going anywhere. Review please :)