Disclaimer: I hate disclaimers. If I really was J.K. Rowling, would I be writing crappy fanfiction? I think not.
A/N: Pretty short, but you know, you get what you get and don't get upset.
Chapter 4
When Draco woke up, for a moment he didn't remember that everything had changed. He didn't remember that Harry bloody Potter was now a Slytherin, that Harry bloody Potter had seen his scars, that Harry bloody Potter was asleep in a bed two feet away from him.
Then reality came rushing back and he remembered. He opened his eyes and peered across the room at the boy in question. He was asleep on his side, knees curled up to his chest, looking perfectly innocent in slumber. One might even say he looked adorable, but Draco was not a Hufflepuff, thank you very much.
That's not to say that this thing (he refused to call it a crush), he had with Potter was not a persistent Hufflepuff emotion. He should have been able to just let go the irritating boy when he was just starting his education and his friendship had been turned down. But even at age eleven he had found those green eyes impossible to forget.
And now, after Potter was responsible for putting his father in jail, well, this thing had just gotten even stronger. Because Potter had done what Draco could not, and freed him from his father's harsh and tyrannical grip. And though Draco was loath to become just another number of the people the Golden Boy had saved, Potter really had saved him.
Potter rolled over in his bed, blinking quizzically up at the ceiling for a few moments, most likely trying to remember where he was.
"If it takes you this long to wake up, I'm surprised no Death Eaters have killed you yet," Draco said, though it was too early for him to work up the proper amount of bite in his voice to be insulting. Potter jerked, hastily pulling down the back of his shirt, which had hiked up in his sleep, and grabbed his glasses, shoving them roughly onto his face.
"Smooth," Draco snorted, curling around a pillow and facing him. Perhaps it was the early hour, or the fact that Draco was in his home, but the word was not as harsh as he wanted it to be and it was accompanied by a smile that Draco absolutely did not give permission for. But if a little voice inside his head was obsessing over how Potter looked with his hair even more mussed than usual, well, he wouldn't deny that voice the pleasure.
"Shut up Malfoy," Potter said, though his voice too was unheated, almost soft. Immediately Draco wondered if maybe they could be connecting, but then he remembered that Potter had seen his scars, and maybe all of his niceness was just coming from pity. If there was one thing that Draco hated the most, it was pity. So he reacted the only way he knew how.
"Don't," He warned, getting to his feet.
"Don't what?" Potter asked, his eyes widening.
"Don't pity me," Draco said, grabbing his robes and going to the lavatory so quickly that he missed Potter's last words.
"I don't pity you." He whispered. "I think you're stronger than we ever gave you credit for."