More than twenty minutes had passed since Draco had sent his letter. Enthir had invited him to his living quarters, which were quaint and cluttered with magazines about owls and some that Draco thought were probably not made by wizard journalists.

"What is National Geographic?" Draco asked as he looked at one of the many piles of magazines that littered the floor. Enthir crossed the room from the kitchenette and handed him a cup of steaming tea.

"It's a muggle magazine from the United States, all about nature from the muggle perspective. It's an interesting read," Enthir said as he sat in his worn wooden chair across from Draco. He thought that sounded incredibly boring, but didn't say so aloud. "Are you sure your friend is going to reply?"

"I hope so." Draco frowned. If Potter didn't reply, he was going to feel like a fool. He'd been wondering if he should have sent it in the first place, almost immediately after sending it.

"I'm sure he will. I'm wondering if Cosmos will follow through with the delivery, though," Enthir said thoughtfully. "He did seem eager at the start, but who knows? He's a strange bird, that one."

"I like him. I think he's sweet." Enthir laughed heartily at Draco's comment.

"Well you're the only one, then. I've still got my suspicions about him."

Just then Cosmos flew swiftly into the room and perched on Draco's shoulder, dropping a note in his lap. Relief flooded Draco's mind as he quickly opened the note. Irritation quickly replaced his relief. Did Potter think he was being funny? Draco nearly leapt up to scribble another note back before catching himself. Potter would probably think him obsessed if he were to write two letters in one day. Besides, he wasn't going to allow Potter to toy with his emotions that way. He placed the note aside and focused on the owl in front of him.

"Well, I suppose he did a good job, then," Draco noted.

"Certainly better than I expected," Enthir agreed. Something in his smile made Draco uncomfortable. He seemed to be suppressing a laugh. "I guess he's all yours, then."

"What's funny?" Draco asked defensively.

"Oh, nothing," Enthir said before sipping his tea. "Only, I take it you didn't get the response you had hoped for?"

"It was just fine, thank you," Draco fired back, incensed. The man still had a glint in his eye, but Draco ignored it. He didn't need Enthir poking fun at him as well. Enthir, fortunately, dropped the subject.

"Well, I suppose that's all, now that we know that Cosmos can deliver," he said with a cheery air. "You'll have much more pressing things to do than sit and converse with an old man like myself." Draco's sneer fell from his face at Enthir's incorrect assumption.

"I don't, actually," he sulked. He hadn't meant to say that, but it was already out.

"Oh? You seem troubled by something." He wasn't too fond of Enthir's attentiveness.

Draco wondered whether or not he should explain his circumstances to Enthir. It wasn't really any of the man's business that he was technically homeless, nor was there any real reason for Draco to want to tell him. But then, Enthir did live in town and was likely, therefore, to be connected with the local business owners. Something particularly old and Slytherin-esque peaked its head out inside of him. If he could just convince Enthir to talk to the barman at the Leaky Cauldron… No, he didn't need any help from Enthir, or anyone else for that matter. Draco could take care of himself.

"Not at all," He replied, smoothing the front of his trousers and standing. "Perhaps you're right. I should be going. Thank you for the owl and the company." Draco turned to leave, thinking that this conversation was slowly going further down hill. He wrestled Cosmos back into his cage and snatched up the cover cloth.

"Well, I wish you nothing but luck in your endeavors, Draco," Enthir said with a sigh. "If you need anything, feel free to inquire." This was enough to make Draco pause, but a second later he turned and stepped out onto the bright street again. Darkness was starting to fall, even though it was still relatively early for the evening. Autumn would soon be on its way. He began to wander aimlessly, unsure of where he would go from here. None of the inns would accept him and he didn't have it in him to look for a muggle inn. Draco didn't know the first thing about muggle money. It was sad, really, how little Draco knew about being on his own in general.

Looking around, he found himself in a wooded park. There was a small alcove near the tree line to his right and he thought that maybe he could camp there for the night. Transfiguration was one of his best talents, he told himself as he shed his jacket and made it into a reasonably sized tent. He pulled his shrunken trunk of clothes from his back pocket and brought it back to its previous size. Pulling out a few other articles of clothing, he turned them into a small mattress, a pillow, and a blanket. It would have to do, he decided, and after slipping on his pyjamas, he crawled under the thin covers. The bed was rather uncomfortable; a large hump in the mattress was poking in the small of his back, and the blanket was not quite thick enough to keep the evening chill from seeping in. Back before the war and his trial, Draco would have had a book or his cello to distract him from his discomfort, but now he had nothing but his thoughts. This left him rather disgruntled and lonely. Not that he hadn't felt lonely as a child, but he at least had his mother and father. Now his mother was gone at his Aunt Andromeda's, where he wasn't wanted, his father was in Azkaban, and everyone else had treated him like something disgusting and impure, something they might find in a public toilet or on the bottom of their shoe. After being kicked out of place after place earlier that day, he realised just how unwanted he was these days. Not only had he lost the respect he'd once had, but he'd lost his place in wizarding society. The strangest part was that the closest thing he had to a friend aside from Cosmos was Potter. Of all things, Potter would be the one to stand up for him, the one to bother giving him a chance when nearly everyone else was determined to see him as a dangerous man, someone forever branded by the damned mark he wore on his arm. He wished there was a way he could rid his arm of the ugly blemish, but as far as he knew there wasn't one. There were times he had even contemplated mutilating the skin there in order to not have to carry that symbol wherever he went. He still got the burning sensation, every once in awhile, and it would send him into a horrible panic attack. It had been happening less and less since the end of the war, but every time he remembered his mark he worried it would come at any moment.

Shivering, Draco cast a warming charm on his blanket and tried to forget about all of that. It wasn't him. He wasn't a Death Eater. He was a different man now, or he was trying to be at least. Change didn't come easily, but as long as he kept at it, he felt he could be someone who would make his mother proud, finally.

Draco fell asleep thinking of all the ways he would make his mother proud, if only just one time. He slept fitfully, waking at the slightest noise outside his tent. Cosmos didn't help, with his constant pecking at the cage. When Draco felt the heat of the sun baking him from within his tent, his eyes opened slowly. For a moment he couldn't recall where he was, but as it dawned on him he also realised that there were whispers coming from outside of the tent. Confused, he sprang up, his ears pricked for the source of the voices. There seemed to be a cluster of people gathered just outside. Draco's heart rate increased as he thought about the people who had accosted him the previous day. Were more people back to attack him? Stupidly, another image came briefly to his mind; that of all of the Voldemort supporters whom he had betrayed. A second later, however, a camera flash sounded, and Draco slumped back into the dent his body had in his mattress. Reporters.

"You reckon it's really him in there, then?"

"Someone said they saw him set up last night in this spot."

"Keep the camera going, Bob."

Draco listened to the mutters, his glare focused on the peak of the tent roof. He wondered if this is how Potter felt, constantly bombarded by unwanted attention, and something in his chest gave way for an odd feeling. Did he just feel. . . sorry for Potter?

"What's taking him so long?" one of the reporters whispered, breaking Draco's train of thought.

"Maybe he's still asleep?" came the reply.

"Nah, seems too late in the day. Unless he's had a late night, probably spent some time down on Knockturn with one of those gutter slags who're always wearing their robes low and their cleavage high," a man said, causing the group to laugh. Draco snapped. Ripping the tent flap open, he was instantly taken aback by a flash of white light.

Stumbling forward blindly, he shouted, "What in Agrippa's name do you people think you're doing? Fucking preying on people just trying to get some rest!" As soon as the words left his mouth he knew he'd made a painfully huge mistake. These were reporters he was talking to, not just some group of juveniles. This was sure to end up on the front of the Daily Prophet. Instantly, the group bombarded him, snapping pictures and shouting over each other to ask questions.

"Draco Malfoy, is it true that your father forced you to crossdress as a child?" one reporter asked enthusiastically.

"What━no, why would he━"

"How does it feel to be trapped out of your own home?"

"Passersby claim to have seen you brawling with Harry Potter yesterday. What sparked this scuffle? Does this have anything to do with a lingering connection to the legacy of You-Know-Who within the Malfoy family?"

"I didn't— I never—" The noise and flashes were beginning to give him a headache. He just wanted to get away from them all.

"Is your mother in hiding? Is she, perhaps, too ashamed to show her face?" Draco roared, slamming through the gathering to try and escape and magicking his things to follow. One more word about his mother and things were bound to get out of hand. The last thing he needed was another go at Azkaban. He ran for a while, and when he turned around the reporters were gone. Out of breath, he searched for a secluded area where he could change out of his pyjamas. He wondered if anyone had seen him running past wearing only pants and a slipover. He thought again of all his goals to make his mother proud and his stomach turned. Merlin, she was going to have a fit when she saw the papers.

Harry wrinkled his nose as he opened the desk drawer. Something, presumably the remains a once-living something, had found its way into the small box, leaving behind the putrid, sickly sweet reek of death.

"I think I've identified, the source, Kreacher," he called to the elf, who was busy digging under the bed. Kreacher popped his tiny head up and approached Harry, his fingers holding his long nose shut.

"Leave it to Kreacher, Master Harry. He will remove it so that it will not bother young Master anymore." Part of Harry wanted to protest, mainly because he didn't think anyone deserved to be subjected to the smell for long enough to remove it, but his eyes were beginning to water and Kreacher was insistent. He gave a short nod and ducked out of the room, taking deep gulps of air once he had reached the floor below. Harry hadn't intended on starting Sirius's room just yet, but the smell emanating from it had begun to seep into the rest of the house.

Looking around, he had to admire their progress on the place so far. Where there had once been thick layers of dust, cobwebs, and general signs of disruption, shining wood floors and freshly polished lamps now winked at him. Since he was so efficient, Kreacher had done most of the cleaning, leaving Harry to try and redecorate. He couldn't very well leave Grimmauld Place the way it had looked before if he was planning on staying there long-term. Not only was the decor rather ugly, what with the overly decadent fixtures and snake-themed everything, but it also brought back painful memories of Sirius.

Harry wouldn't have wanted it to go if Sirius had enjoyed it here. What really pained Harry was the thought that Sirius was forced to live out the end of his life in the childhood home that he loathed. To Harry, all the previous decoration had an air of death, lingering like the odor still clinging to the inside of his nostrils. Of course, Sirius had been freed from the confines of Grimmauld Place for a short moment, but Harry almost felt like his godfather's happiness had died here long ago. For that, Harry loathed it, too.

Harry didn't have the decorative touch. Although much improved from the gaudy Slytherin style that Grimmauld Place so proudly wore, his style was rather bland in comparison. All the walls wore the same intricately designed paper that they had before, but now the repaired paper carried a pleasant cream color that complimented the lighter, less prominent shade of green that Harry chose quite nicely. He had contemplated changing the color to a smooth mauve, but upon applying the change in one room, was strongly reminded of both his Aunt Petunia's style and Umbridge's kitten covered walls all at once. Overall, just a good scrubbing of the paper and the repairs he had done had made a significant dent in the gloomy air of neglect that the house held. The fresh, yet similar appearance had given Harry a new appreciation for how the house must have looked in its prime; even in rooms where Harry hadn't changed the colors, the emerald and gold paper gave a sense of regality, and the renewed fixtures stood proudly against their background. He had repaired the cracks in the ceiling and fixed the carpet the best that he could. He supposed that it would need replacing after he had access to his money, but for now he focused on other, more pressing issues. After a failed attempt at transfiguring the faucets and candlesticks to not look like snakes, he had given up on that project. The resulting faucet shape had the appearance of a deformed silver lizard. Maybe he would ask Hermione for help with it sometime.

"Master Harry," Kreacher said as he entered the hallway. "Paper has come for you." Harry thanked Kreacher and took the Prophet in the elf's hands. As Kreacher sauntered off in search of a new cleaning project, Harry flipped the paper over to the front and nearly gasped in his alarm. There, on the cover, Malfoy was bursting from a shabby looking tent, a wild look on his face. In his summer pyjamas. Harry quickly began reading the article that had been written about Malfoy.

A very interesting sight was seen in Ellington Park this morning, where a young Draco Malfoy, known Death Eater and blood supremacist, was found camping illegally in a ramshackle tent. When reporters came to the scene to request comment from Malfoy on his actions, the man violently attacked them and shouted various obscenities, revealing his Dark Mark in an attempt to intimidate our reporters.

At first he wanted to laugh, but as he kept on reading he started to feel terrible about the situation. How many times had he been in the news, his actions grossly exaggerated? Shaking his head in disapproval, but still curious, he continued on:

The Malfoy home, as of May 6th, has been under temporary Ministry ownership, and we can only assume that, desperate for a place to stay, Malfoy went to desperate measures. Surely no one would allow the likes of him to stay in their establishment. There have been reports of his mother being spotted at the home of Andromeda Tonks, however, and it begs the question of just how isolated the young Malfoy truly is, if his own mother and aunt have refused to give him sanctuary.

When asked about Malfoy's denial of housing, Madam Rosmerta, owner of The Three Broomsticks, says, "I wouldn't give him a room if it meant I could own his family's Gringotts vaults, not after what he did! It isn't surprising to me in the slightest that he can't find a place to stay, the murdering pig." Rosmerta's stance is an understandable one: after spending nearly a year under the influence of Malfoy's imperius curse, used to bring about the death of Albus Dumbledore in 1997, Rosmerta is feeling a little stingy in regards to the Malfoy family, to say the least. But it isn't just her; even those who haven't faced the wrath of Draco Malfoy face-to-face are feeling a bit wary.

"He came in here looking for a room to stay in for the night, but I thought he looked a little dodgy," says a local barman, who wishes to remain anonymous, probably due to fear of any backlash from Malfoy, as he appeared to be rather violent this morning. "I considered offering him the old attic room, but I don't feel comfortable having him around my other patrons."

One thing is rather clear: despite his ministry clearance, the public is still feeling rather fraught and threatened by the presence of the young Malfoy in society.

As he reached the bottom of the page, he snorted in disgust. Absolutely despicable, this was. He couldn't possibly believe half of what was written, having had personal experience with the Prophet's lies. He quickly scanned the bottom of the paper until he found what he was looking for and his suspicions were confirmed. Of course Rita Skeeter would write such a thing. Why she hadn't been fired yet, Harry had no idea. He felt a weight at the bottom of his stomach as he scanned the article again and stared at the photograph. There was a large crowd surrounding Malfoy, and he looked worse than when Harry had seen him the day before. As the photograph-Malfoy pushed his way past the reporters, the camera focused on his left forearm. The sight of his mark made Harry feel ill, but he also felt a sudden, strong wave of empathy for Malfoy. He couldn't quite place his finger on it. Maybe it was because he also bore an irremovable mark of his past. Neither one of them had a choice in what it meant to the general public. To them, Harry was nothing more than a saviour and Malfoy a villain. No matter what, they would both always struggle to fight an identity that was pinned on them. There was a difference, of course: Malfoy had had a choice. But had he? Harry thought not. Malfoy had been branded at sixteen, after his father had failed to retrieve the prophecy in Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts. Sure, Malfoy had indirectly boasted about his position at the time, but when he'd truly realised what that position meant, Harry had seen a big difference in the Slytherin.

Harry could think of one thing only; he needed to find Malfoy. The only problem was, he didn't know where he could be. Thinking quickly, he cast his Patronus and sent a message along with it, asking, or rather telling, Malfoy to meet him outside of Flourish and Blotts as soon as he could. If no one else would give him a place to stay, Harry would. As much as he disliked the idea of living with Malfoy, he couldn't feel right with himself if he let the man go homeless. After all, Grimmauld place had so many bedrooms that Harry simply didn't know what to do with them.

"Kreacher!" Harry called, jumping when the elf popped his head from round the corner of one of the doors nearby. "I'm going out, I'll be back soon, I think. If you could, have a meal for two ready by the time I return."

"Kreacher can do this," the elf agreed. Harry flew down the stairs and to the ground floor, where he tossed the front door open, casting a simple ward before Apparating to the bookstore. He hoped Malfoy would put his awful stubbornness aside and meet him there, but as Harry looked around he worried that this wouldn't be the case. He could be thankful, though, that there weren't many people out and about to gawk at him. That made being in public a bit easier.

Just as Harry was about to give up and return home he heard a hushed voice say, "Oi," from behind him. He turned and spotted Malfoy peering at him from just inside the bookstore.

"I thought you weren't coming," Harry admitted, and he felt relieved, though he wasn't sure why that was. "Can we talk?" Malfoy looked here and there outside of the shop, probably trying to see if any reporters had followed Harry there. "Somewhere more private," Harry explained.

"If you're so insistent," Malfoy said as he cautiously stepped outside of the shop, carrying an owl cage that held the same, very disgruntled looking owl that Harry had seen the day before. Harry offered his arm, which the blond took with little hesitation. They side-along Apparated back to Grimmauld Place and Harry removed the ward before opened the door to let Malfoy in ahead of him. He placed the caged owl down near the umbrella stand and gently placed a nice looking black cloth over it before turning to Harry and asking, "Where are we?"

"Number 12, Grimmauld Place," Harry said as he shut the door and walked past his guest. Malfoy followed him through the double doors which led to the dining area. "It's where I live. Used to be Sirius' house, but… I've inherited it. It's not much, I know, but it's all I've got." Malfoy looked confused, but sat across from Harry at the very long table. Two plates of hot food appeared before them.

"Wow, Potter. I'm impressed. I didn't know the Mudblood allowed you to have house elves."

"Hermione," Potter emphasized with a glare, "Doesn't mind Kreacher, and he's all I've got anymore… And she's not here to know that I've got him working for me again," Harry said softly. He wondered if he should bring up the article on Malfoy, whether or not it would cause an argument. It needed to be discussed if Harry was going to follow through with inviting Malfoy to live with him, though, so he decided the best way to approach the topic was to delve right in. "I saw what the Prophet said about you this morning."

"Wait," Malfoy sputtered. "They've already published━no, it hasn't even been five hours since… Fuck." It was obvious that Malfoy was upset, but he didn't appear to be so with Harry, which he took as a good start.

"What they said was horrible, and I want you to know that I don't believe a word of it." Harry couldn't understand why he felt the need to say this, but it was true nonetheless. Malfoy stared at Harry with embarrassment plain on his pale face. "But… You never mentioned you had no place to stay."

"I didn't think it was any of your business, to be frank," Malfoy said with a sneer. No, this was not going to play out just like the last time. Harry wouldn't let it.

"Cut the shite, Malfoy," he said, sounding as exhausted as he suddenly felt. "We're not in school anymore, and I know you're not the same person you used to be. At least, I'm hoping. So you can drop the tough-guy persona and be real with me, alright?" Malfoy's jaw dropped a bit at Harry's words, but he didn't look angry and didn't spit a harsh response. Harry continued, seeing this as his only chance. "I know the Ministry's seized the Manor. I know you probably aren't welcome with Andromeda. I know that no businesses want you there. I know that you've got nowhere to go."

"Yes, Potter, please keep telling me all the ways I've failed as a human being. It gives me that warm, fuzzy feeling inside that tells me just how loved I really am." His snarky response lacked its usual luster, and Harry knew he'd struck a real nerve with the man across from him. He ignored Malfoy's dramatics and got to the point.

"This house, it's got a lot of extra rooms. I know it's not grand and posh like what you're used to, but it'd certainly be better than sleeping in that ugly tent. And it would offer you more privacy than a tent would."

"Are you asking me to━no, absolutely fucking not."

"I'm not asking you anything," Harry said more forcefully than he intended. "All I'm saying is that if you need somewhere to stay, you can stay here, but only if you can prevent yourself from being the git that you usually are. I understand that you hate me, but I'd stay out of your hair. It's a big enough house that we probably wouldn't even have to see each other, if we tried hard enough. If you decided to stay here I would try my best not to bother you." Harry felt strange saying all of this to Malfoy, but he felt a lot better having said it. At least this way he could sleep at night knowing that he'd tried to help him out, even if he refused, which Harry thought he was sure to do.

Malfoy was quiet for a moment, staring at the untouched food in front of him. When he lifted his gaze to meet Harry's, finally, he spoke. "I don't hate you," he said quietly. Harry was surprised that this was what Malfoy had said when he'd decided to speak. He'd been expecting a flat refusal, and for the man to leave him there with two unfinished meals, but instead he was given this piece of information, which he hadn't predicted, and now didn't know what to do with.

"You sure about that?" Harry asked with furrowed brows. "If that's the case you were far from convincing yesterday."

"Shove off, Potter" Malfoy said in irritation, reverting right back to the person Harry had hoped he wouldn't have to deal with today. "I'm not going to stay in this filthy sty of a house. I'm not a damsel in distress, and you're not my prince in bloody shining armor. If I was so desperate to sleep in a rubbish bin I'm sure I could've found one behind some dank Knockturn Alley━"

"Enough!" Harry shouted, slamming his fists on the table and standing. "There's no way you're actually this big of a tosser! There's got to be some bit of you, somewhere inside you, that isn't an arsehole. I mean really. You were harassed by reporters this morning, you have no-fucking-where to go, and when I offer you my house you act like I'm the one who's in the wrong. I don't get you, Malfoy. I really don't." Malfoy stared at him, and Harry could see a bit of fear in his eyes.

"Fine," Malfoy said, seemingly put in his place. "If you're so intent on having a tosser like me for company, I'll stay. Not for long, only until the Manor is back in Malfoy possession. And I'll be paying you for my stay," he said firmly.

Harry stared at Malfoy with a blank expression. He'd actually accepted the offer. He blinked several times, sat back down, then heard himself saying, "I don't hate you, either." It was a pointless thing to say, really. Obviously, if he was willing to share his home with Malfoy, he didn't hate him. "I suppose, erm…" He realised he hadn't even considered charging Malfoy rent, and wasn't sure what would be a reasonable price. "Would twenty galleons per month be too much?"

Malfoy's eyes widened, and Harry almost dropped the price when he said, "Are you kidding me? I mean, if you really think this place is that much of a dump. Do you even know how much a galleon is worth? I was honestly expecting closer to seventy." Shaking his head, he repeated, "Twenty galleons…"

"Well, sure. Seventy, then." Harry didn't want to seem like he didn't know what he was talking about, but really he had no idea what renting a room here was worth.

"I keep forgetting you were raised by muggles," Malfoy said, still looking as though Harry were the biggest berk he'd met. "Fine, seventy then." He reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew the proper amount, then set the pile of gold onto the table.

The two stared at each other for a long minute, when Malfoy suddenly started laughing, loud and guttural. Harry found himself smiling in a slightly confused way at the sight of the normally catty Slytherin showing such an intense display of happiness━at least, Harry assumed it was happiness. He had to say, Malfoy looked a lot better smiling.

"What's funny?" Harry asked with a chuckle. Draco tried to keep himself from laughing and wiped a tear from his cheek that had escaped in his mirth.

"This is just too weird, isn't it?" Malfoy said with a sigh, shoulders still bouncing a bit. "The two of us, sworn enemies, living in the same house. Oh, when the reporters catch on…"

"Let's just hope they don't," Harry said with a roll of his eyes. "But you're right, this is a bit strange, now that I think about it."

"Not kicking me out already, are you, Potter?" Malfoy joked, picking up his fork for the first time. Harry grinned. Malfoy was looking in much higher spirits that he had the day before, and especially in comparison to the photograph in the paper. "Not yet, but we'll see how things go." Malfoy's grin slipped a little, and both parties ate in silence for a short while.

"Do you still have the paper?" Malfoy finally asked, picking the conversation back up. "I… haven't seen it yet."

"Oh, uh. . ." Harry was nervous about showing Malfoy the article, but he was bound to see it eventually. "Yeah, I do, hang on." He left the table and fumbled around upstairs for a bit, searching for where he had left it.

Upon returning empty handed to the dining room, Malfoy asked, "Thought you had a house elf, Potter." There was that usual witty sneer hovering in his tone. Harry frowned and thought of calling for Kreacher to find it, but Malfoy lifted his wand and summoned it before Harry could open his mouth.

"Accio paper," He called, and the newspaper came gliding toward his outstretched hand. Malfoy's smirk reached his face as he opened the paper, irking Harry. Why did he have to be like that? A moment later, though, Malfoy's expression changed to indignation.

"I didn't—" He continued to read, his demeanor turning more and more sour with every passing second. When he had finally finished, he slammed the paper shut and tossed it on the table. He folded his arms in disgust, apparently at a loss for words. There was a violent storm raging in the depths of his sterling eyes.

"I told you it was bad," Harry stated, attempting to sound comforting. "And again, I don't believe a word of it." Malfoy gave him a look that Harry couldn't interpret.

"Some of it's true," he said, returning to his glower as he looked away from Harry. "I did swear at them and I wouldn't be surprised if Rosmerta said all those things about me. I didn't show them my— my mark, though. Not on purpose." His scowl deepened. Harry didn't really know how to respond. He supposed Malfoy was right about Rosmerta.

"Leave it to Rita Skeeter to skew the facts, though," Harry finally replied. "I don't think camping in Ellington Park is illegal, and from what I can see, you weren't acting particularly violent. At least, not for someone who had been awakened by a load of reporters surrounding them." Once again, that odd look crossed Malfoy's features, making Harry a little uncomfortable.

"Why are you so eager to defend me, Potter?" He questioned snottily, looking Harry dead in the eye this time. Harry gulped and averted his gaze.

"I—" In truth, Harry didn't really know why. There was something in Malfoy that made Harry think that maybe he was different, that maybe he deserved a helping hand. "I guess. . . I guess it's because I know what it's like to have nobody on your side. You forget, I had to face this sort of stuff for most of our fifth year."

"I'm not only talking about this instance," Malfoy said, pointing at the paper on the table. "What about my hearing? You defended me at every chance you were given. You even told them that I've never used an Unforgivable curse." He didn't sound upset, but genuinely confused. "I've never done anything in my life to earn that."

"Well, it wasn't lying. I've never seen you use an Unforgivable."

"But what about that time in the bathroom? I was going to—"

"You never used it. You didn't finish." Harry smirked at the dumbfounded look on Malfoy's face.

"You— you bent the truth until it snapped! That's basically lying!" Malfoy spluttered. "I would have never thought it of you."

"Well, believe it," he said, crossing his arms.

"But why?" Malfoy shook his head. He clearly didn't get it. Harry wasn't totally sure he understood it.

"Because— because sometimes when I look at you, I see a little of myself." Harry wasn't certain he wanted to tell Malfoy this, but continued anyway. "I see someone who was stuck playing the pawn for something way bigger than himself, something he didn't understand until it was too late. I see someone who was taught all the wrong things in life, and is still trapped in this image that the media wants to make him out to be, someone who isn't that person anymore, but nobody believes him. Maybe it's stupid of me, but I couldn't stand by and watch them throw you in prison for something you'd been forced to do━as practically a child, no less." Malfoy looked stunned. His mouth hung open stupidly and he froze, blinked a few times, then looked away.

Harry felt supremely awkward. He hadn't really intended to tell Malfoy that, and his words hung in the air between them, making the room suddenly stifling and altogether much too small for Harry's liking. He didn't look at Malfoy, instead focusing on a brown oil stain on the wall next to the fireplace. Harry wished Malfoy would say something to break the silence, but Malfoy seemed just as uncomfortable, shifting his weight in his rickety wooden chair.

"Enough with the poetic bullshit Potter." There it was. Malfoy was back to his usual prideful, sarcastic manner. "Besides, you have no idea how I am, so stop pretending you do. I know why you really said all those things at the hearing; you saw me as someone to pity, just another person you couldn't pass up saving." Harry shrugged nonchalantly, even though his insides burned. He was determined not to let Malfoy work him up this time.

"Believe what you want, Malfoy," Harry sighed. "I'm not sure why you asked in the first place if you're so confident you know the answer." Malfoy looked as though his steam had run out, appearing a bit more calm than he had at the start of his outburst. "If you're done eating I'll show you to your room," Harry said, hoping the change of subject wouldn't be disregarded.

"Fine," Malfoy said, sliding his chair back and standing stiffly, not looking at him. Harry stood as well and led Malfoy upstairs, pausing before he began up the flight to the second floor. His room was on the second floor, and he didn't think Malfoy would want to have a room right next to his, but he also figured Malfoy wouldn't want to stay too far up, being the priss that he was and being required to walk up and down several flights all day. Harry backtracked and decided that Malfoy's room could be on the first floor.

Harry opened the door to the room Hermione and Ginny had stayed in when the Order had been living here. It was a small room, and was most definitely not as grandeur as what Malfoy was used to, but it would have to do. At least Harry had already done the repairs. He had a feeling that if he were to put Malfoy on any of the higher floors he would complain about it, and Harry did not feel like dealing with that in the slightest.

"Here's your room," Harry said, ushering Malfoy in with his hand on his shoulder. Malfoy stiffened at his touch, but didn't say anything about it as he entered what was now his bedroom. He began to unpack the suitcase he'd been keeping in his back pocket and Harry summoned the owl and cage, then left Malfoy alone to settle in.

A/N: A belated happy Valentine's day to you all! Although we meant to post this chapter yesterday, we had a few difficulties and ended up posting today. However, here is our Valentine's Day gift to you!

TR: Bigblueboxat221b, Thank you so much for your review! I'm happy you like the dual perspective writing style. It's really fun to write that way and I feel like it gives better insight into the characters' minds. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectation.

RR:Bigblueboxat221b, I'm so glad you're enjoying the depth of the story! We have worked SO hard on this one and it is really nice to hear that our work is paying off. Feel free to continue guessing at what will happen next; I'd love to know whether you can guess the plot as it continues!

To everyone else, thank you so much for reading and reviewing! We love to hear feedback from our audience. It really helps us to stay motivated so if you have something to say about the story, tell us and we might just give a response back!