The next few days in the Potter-Granger-Malfoy abode were very, very uncomfortable.
Some days Draco tried really hard to not hate the situation he found himself in, intellectually understanding it was better than the alternative but emotionally handling it like a toddler.
Hermione dealt with him best in his moody, depressive, rage filled episodes. She would never admit it to anyone but Harry had given her more than enough practice growing up, so she was patient and usually prepared. When she couldn't deal, she gave Draco space and tried again when she could.
It wasn't so bad when less than 48 hours after leaving the wizards prison that Harry said Draco's hair looked like his fathers.
Draco internalized his rage and rather than taking scissors to Harry's face, he took them to his less-than-luscious Lucius-esque locks. His hair was cut shorter than he'd ever had it in his life, and he planned to have it cut shorter yet whenever he got around to facing the outside world and visiting a barber.
They even survived when Draco make a snide remark about the Weasley's, which bothered Harry so much more than it did Hermione because while she and Ron had made up and their friendship survived, he and Ginny were still very much avoiding each other and the whole thing made visits to the Burrow very uncomfortable.
Harry Potter wasn't the one recovering from untold horrors though, and he was never given guidelines. He really should have been.
It didn't help that neither he nor Draco could manage to talk to each other without Hermione's help for more than the amount of time it took for tea to steep. Eye contact was minimal and often turned to glares because Draco felt more comfortable in the old default.
Harry, equally prone to sullen glares and uncomfortable silences, had a disproportionate amount of power though in this weird dynamic they found themselves in and neither knew how to handle that.
Which made sitting together at the breakfast nook after Hermione left for an appointment half way through the meal rather tense.
Draco nibbled at his toast quietly, happy that whatever the pink concoction the healer had him take before had made solid foods manageable. It also made it so he could enjoy a hot tea in the morning and a cold strawberry sorbet after dinner, so he made a small note to himself to send an overdue thank you to the healer – his mother would kill him otherwise – and perhaps an update on his condition like a reasonable adult.
"I'm going to see your mother today. Do you want to send a note along or something?" Harry asked, his face buried in the Daily Prophet to avoid making contact with Draco.
It was probably wasn't the worst thing he could have asked, but saying it in a tone equating such a complex issue with grabbing milk on the way home made up for it.
Draco's magic reacted before he did, flaring out and whipping the air around the pair of them. Harry lowered his paper and looked at the usually morose blond to see his pale face flushed red, his jaw dropped and his normally ice like grey eyes burning with hatred.
"No mother of your own so you cling to mine like a drowning child? Pathetic."
For a moment, Harry was stunned but his face flushed and he snapped back almost immediately.
"Don't be such a petulant fucking child, I was offering to bring a note along – something you haven't bothered to write to her yet, I've noticed – but I can see you're too fucked up to put quill to parchment."
"I must definitely be too fucked up if she's turned to an orphaned half-blood whose greatest achievement was not dying twice for good company," sneered Draco, emphasizing each word even as they cut him up more than he would have expected before saying them.
"Explains why she's still in France then and not here."
Draco couldn't breathe. The room was eerily silent, and then Draco snapped.
His magic whipped forward and in an instant the nook they had been eating breakfast off of was no more; not splintered it into several chunks, but shattered like glass. Where a small table once stood was now pile of wood shards and dust. Draco wasn't sure magic could ever put it back quite right, but he wasn't thinking that at the time.
He was terrified, and he was ashamed.
Without a word he turned and fled to his room. Having not yet replaced his wand, all he could do was slam his door and hope Potter could take a hint. Barricading himself in the washroom, he collapsed against the door and hung his head against his knees, unable to control his breathing.
His knees were drenched with tears he couldn't stop before he was able to catch his breath, hiccupping as his body shook and beads of sweat collected at the nape of his neck. He pulled at his badly chopped hair, tugging some of it out at the roots, shaking violently.
They're going to send me back. They're going to send me back to rot and it's all my fault. Stupid fucking Potter…
Harry may have triggered Draco's collapse but he didn't blow up the table. Accidental magic was embarrassing enough but volatile, violent magic?
May as well have pissed myself to make my point.
Harry didn't follow Draco immediately, stilled by the aftermath of their argument. He sure didn't blame Draco for what happened, wincing over what he said as he replayed the encounter in his mind.
Walking on eggshells for days was bound to blow up in their faces.
Hermione's gonna kill me when she sees this. Then bring me back and kill me again when she figures out how it happened.
Hesitantly, Harry climbed the staircase and approached Draco's room. He couldn't force himself to walk in and engage Draco in conversation the way Hermione did. She was so worried he would shrink into himself to replace the prison walls with some in his head that she refused to give him the time to do so.
Harry had more or less put the cage together for him.
Ashamed, Harry knocked. He couldn't hear movement but he had no doubt Draco was on the other side, listening, refusing to give him entry. After the horrible things he said, Harry didn't blame him. He hated himself a little too.
Inside the bathroom, Draco waited with baited breath. He didn't know if he could pretend to keep it together in front of Potter and losing it again was not an option. His eyes were clamped tightly, a steady stream of tears sliding down his cheeks as he waited for his absolution.
None came.
Potter stopped knocking and left, Draco counting his steps as they faded down the hallway. Silence. Then a loud crack erupted, and Draco guessed that Potter was off to see his mother, like he originally planned, while Draco couldn't even mop himself up off of the bathroom floor.
No wonder she's still in France and not here.