One X:

Draco stood under the solitary streetlamp at the corner, wondering if it was gonna be one of those nights. Lately it had been; he'd be all alone with only his thoughts to fill his time – and lately, his thoughts were filled with Potter. He didn't know what was worse: actually having a customer, or thinking about Potter. Sure, the former was horrible, and he didn't like it, but the latter…the latter was almost heart wrenching. Even for the Ex-Ice Prince of Slytherin.

If the rumors were true, which they most likely were lately, then Potter was used and left alone after the War. The Wizarding world cast him aside when he did his job and forgot about him. Even his so-called friends left him – they got married and had a family which hardly included the man.

Draco almost felt that he could relate, although not entirely. Before the War ended, Draco defected to Potter's side – not for the hero or his cause, but merely because he didn't like the man his father had turned in to. He was effectively disinherited and all but left on the streets in Muggle London. When he tried to go to the Ministry, they ignored him completely – he wouldn't be getting any help from them. Draco soon found out that he couldn't get by on only his name, so he went into business – not a very reputable business, but at least it gave him a source of income so he could live.

The more he thought about it, the more he and Potter were alike. Both men had helped the Ministry defeat the Dark Lord, but they were both cast aside and left to deal with what had gone on alone. Neither had seen the rejection coming; they both thought that, due to their help, they would be given thanks or, at the very least, some sort of acknowledgment. No one provided any such thing.

Draco sighed and looked at his watch. It was quarter after one; no one had come all night, and no one was gonna show up. He left his station at the corner and walked a block to his flat. He went to bed, knowing that the night's thoughts would spur disturbing dreams that bordered on nightmares.

--

Sleepless and rather anxious, Draco found himself outside the last known residence of Harry Potter – no one really knew what happened with him, because no one had seen him in while. He knocked.

No one answered, so he knocked again.

He scowled at the door. He's lost sleep over the other man; there was no way he was going to be leaving after only a few knocks. Removing his wand from his sleeve, he cast a quick Alohamora on the door. It didn't do anything, so he tested the door knob. It opened. Of course, in a situation such as this, it only seemed rational that he should go inside.

The living room didn't look lived in; neither did the kitchen. Draco wandered through the small flat, opening doors with an audible creak. The entire place was empty, save for a few meagerly treated furnishings. When he arrived at the bedroom, however, he found that the occupant reduced his living space to said room.

Draco found Potter lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression on his face. Dishes containing food were placed precariously on any flat, horizontal surface. Clothes were scattered about the room, thought none looked to have been worn.

Draco's stomach dropped; so, the rumors were more than true.

With a sigh, he set about gathering the dishes and taking them to the kitchen. Potter didn't notice him – if he did, he didn't acknowledge it. When all of the dishes were removed from the room, Draco set about cleaning them in the barely used sink. A few years ago, he wouldn't have even thought about washing dishes for himself, let alone Potter, but time had changed the circumstances and thereby changed him. He was almost finished when he became aware of another presence.

"Well, hello, Potter," he greeted without even turning around. Silence answered him. "Fine, you don't have to talk. I'm used to quiet."

Still, he received no answer. Like he said, Draco was fine with that as he finished the dishes.

When he finally left the kitchen, Draco found Potter sitting on a damaged sofa, staring into the empty fireplace.

"Malfoy," said Potter, quietly. Long moments dragged by; Draco thought that the other man was merely acknowledging his presence, so he went about with a rag to dust the living room. The mantle was almost clean when Potter spoke again. "What are you doing here?"

Draco stopped his ministrations and looked at him. "Well, I'm cleaning your flat, since you don't think it worthy enough of your attention."

The other man didn't answer, so he went back to cleaning.

"Why?" Potter whispered after a few silent moments.

"Because I can't stand filth," Draco answered.

"You know what I meant, Malfoy." Potter was beginning to sound annoyed, which was already a step above what he did sound like.

Draco sighed. "Well, I've been thinking and…well, we've both been knocked down and quite frankly, I don't like it. I don't like how people have thrown me out – even though I can kind of see where they're coming from. What I don't like even more is that they threw you out – you saved them and they still treat you as bad as they do me and I'm the son of a Death Eater. I figured that if we tried and gave each other support, we may be able to pull ourselves back up." He looked around at Potter's living space and thought about his own occupation. "We are both better than this, Potter. We deserve better than this."

--

Four Years Later

"Draco!" Harry called from one end of a lavishly decorated hall.

"Harry!" Draco called back. "What is it!? I'm gonna be late!"

Harry scrunched up his face and shifted the bundle in his arms. "I think that the Wizenagemot will wait for a minute. I need some help with Cissa."

The ex-Gryffindor could hear his husband muttering under his breath as he made his way down the hall. Draco stepped into the doorway wearing his usual work attire. "Love, the Chief Warlock is never late."

"Well, he can be this one time," Harry retorted. "And if anyone complains, tell them that the Minister said so; I'm sure that's gotta count for something."

Draco sighed. "Fine, what do you need help with?"

"Apparently, Cissa's already gotten her father's fashions sense, and won't wear whatever I try to put on her. Help?" Harry pouted, looked up at Draco with the puppy-dog eyes that he knew the blonde couldn't ignore.

Draco sighed again and looked at his watch. He wouldn't be that late. And he had the permission of the Minister (which of course counted for something). With a smile on his face, Draco took the small girl from Harry's arms and went about getting an outfit together.

End.