As I didn't receive any feedback which disliked the Draco P.O.V, this chapter is a mix between both boy's views as the story builds up. I've almost written all the way to the end now (eeeek!) but will still post around once a week because chapters need editing, proof reading, etc and I may be tempted to completely change some parts!

As ever, thank you to everyone who has reviewed; LadyWhiteRose2015, Ern Estine 13624 (it's lovely to have such regular readers!) and PuppetPrince.

And, as ever, enjoy!

Chapter Five

Repaying Debts

As the desserts magically disappeared from before their eyes, McGonagall rose to speak again. "First years, you will follow your new house Prefects to your dormitories. Eighth year students, you will please remain in your seats." A murmur rose through the hall as people inevitably turned to look over at Harry. Of course, The Prophet had covered his return to Hogwarts which, annoying as it was, had provided Harry with the misplaced comfort that people wouldn't feel the need to stare at him quite as much. Apparently, he was wrong. Eventually the tables cleared and there were only the eighth year students remaining. Harry took this opportunity to take in his fellow classmates. He, Ron, Hermione, Neville and Dean were the only students sitting at the Gryffindor table. Seamus had both taken a magical apprentiship back home in Ireland – much more to please his mother than himself, Dean had told them… The Patil family had moved away from England shortly after the war, and Lavender… Harry did not allow himself to recall the memory of her funeral, forcing himself to continue his inventory of students. Only two Hufflepuffs and only one of whom Harry recognised, Ernie Macmillan. The Ravenclaws vastly outnumbered them all with 6 returning, hardly surprising, considering the Ravenclaw value on intelligence; of course, a free pass on N.E.W.T's would not be acceptable to them. Harry recognised Micheal Corner, Terry Boot, Mandy Brocklehurst and Lisa Turpin but the other two he did not. Luna had stayed with her father after the war, travelling and reporting for the Quibber which now received a significantly appraisable audience…

And of course, one Slytherin.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry once again allowed himself to take in Malfoy's appearance. Back in his Hogwarts robes – although they were in good condition, they were not brand new as they usually would be at the start of each year, Harry noted absently – and with his face arranged into a carefully neutral expression, he looked a lot more like himself. Except that he didn't. Harry could tell, after spending a considerable amount of time watching him in sixth year, the small differences which gave Malfoy away. His shoulders slumped a little and his chin didn't lift with the same arrogance it once had. Despite his growing height he seemed small without his cronies flanking him – and, of course, his eyes, the grey eyes that Harry had become able to read so well. The eyes that seemed to say, only to Harry, 'I'm not ok'. Before he had time to dwell on the thought, Professor McGonagall was speaking once again.

"As you are undoubtedly all aware, returning to Hogwarts for an eighth year is an extremely rare circumstance. Occasionally, a student may wish to retake a N.E.W.T but they do so on a part-time basis, returning only for classes which they share with seventh years. However, we have decided that, given the circumstances, such action would not be appropriate. You will continue with the N.E.W.T classes you selected although your classes will be merged, rather than separated by house, so that all eighth year students taking a particular subject are together." McGonagall paused, as if watching the reaction of her words before she spoke again. "Additionally, house dormitories are not built to sleep an additional year group. In any case, I am sure I do not need to impress upon any of you your status amongst the other students given each of your contributions to the battle." Another pause as Harry tried determinedly not to look at Malfoy after her final words. "As a result, it has been decided to house you together, as a year group, in the East Tower. You will find the wings as usual; boys on the left, girls on the right. Each wing has four sleeping quarters, where we have arranged you by your houses." Of course this pause in McGonagall's speech came with a ripple of surprise as the students took in her words, Harry absently noticing that this didn't seem to surprise Malfoy in the slightest. "I trust, given the gravity of recent events, that I can trust you all to conduct yourself appropriately in your new arrangements. Good evening to you all and… Welcome back." With her closing words McGonagall offered a smile across the hall, before waving her wand toward the Great Hall doors, opening them in a signal that the students were free to leave.

Their first night in their new common room had been thankfully uneventful. Ernie Macmillan had been the first – and only – student to approach Harry as soon as they all entered the common room. Offering his hand, he'd said "First, I just wanted to say thanks. But I also wanted to say, I won't be treating you any differently. I mean, I'm sure you don't want us to, so…" He'd paused awkwardly, before offering a smile of such a genuine nature that could only be mustered by a true Hufflepuff and dropping Harry's hand, taking up an armchair by the fire. After that, the common room had broken into conversations, stilted and polite at first, but growing more genuine and friendly as the flames warming the room had slowly turned to ash. Yet one person had been noticeably absent. Slipping into bed that night Harry took the Marauders Map from his bedside table opening it with a familiar murmuring of words.

It hadn't taken long for him to find his target, on the top floor of the eighth year boys dorm's, slowly pacing his quarters. He watched the dot pace, for how long he wasn't sure, until sleep claimed him.

-o-

Harry continued through the motions of life at Hogwarts, blending in with the students around him, not letting on to way he was so numbly pacing through life. Things continued that way for some time. Classes started and the eighth years kept themselves to themselves, taking their own classes and choosing to study in their common room rather than the library. From conversations grew friendships and it became almost common place to see Hermione head-to-head with Terry Boot discussing the pros and cons of Bewitched Sleep Charms, and even more common place to see Ron appearing to casually read Quidditch Quartely while in reality glaring at Boot and grinding his teeth until Hermione ended her studying each night and came to join him by the fire. Harry would have found his jealousy amusing – Hermione obviously had about as much interest in Terry Boot as a Flobberworm, being as taken with Ron as she was – if he didn't have other things on his mind.

Of course, other things didn't mean his studies, or the fact the Quidditch pitch still wasn't repaired, or girls, or anything remotely normal for an eighteen year old boy. Other things meant Draco Malfoy.

He was barely ever seen, sitting in classes alone and only speaking if he was called upon, studiously making notes and listening as lessons bore on. Harry saw most of him in Potions. Relatively few students reached N.E.W.T level Potions as it was, and with the small number of students returning for an eighth year, there were only four of them in the class. Malfoy, who Harry had to admit, had always done well in Potions, excelled without distraction which – after a lesson where Malfoy brew a perfect Draught of Living Death – led Harry to curse his decision to ever save him from Azkaban. A thought, of course, he had quickly cursed himself for, for being such a pig-headed idiot. Then Harry had reminded himself it was a good job he was doing all of this cursing in his own head which had caused him to laugh out loud over his cauldron which was rapidly resembling swamp sludge, leading all his classmates to believe he had truly gone mental.

In all honesty, they probably weren't far from the truth. He really had to do something about his obsession with Malfoy. It was no longer called for, he told himself. He'd done everything he needed to do; saved his life, saved him from Azkaban and returned his wand. Merlin, that was more than any right minded person would do for an ex-Death Eater (no matter the circumstances) who they were supposed to hate.

But he couldn't help thinking how, in the rare times he saw Malfoy in class and at meals, how he still looked so… Lost. He never smiled when the house elves served pumpkin pie, a food Harry had learnt during his obsessive sixth year stalk- necessary war observations - that could cheer even Malfoy up in his worse moods. When he brew the perfect Draught of Living Death he hadn't sneered, hadn't arrogantly announced his skills, hadn't even smiled when he'd been awarded 25 house points. Most disturbingly of all, he hadn't commented on Harry's clearly insane laughter, a slip up which in previous years would have earnt him a cutting insult, most likely peppered with a nickname such as 'Potty Potter'.

He wasn't Malfoy.

He was lost.

Lost like Harry.

Get a grip, Malfoy. He found that his thoughts would often tell him this throughout the day, most often when he was sharing a class with Potter. Potions was the easiest place to do so; Draco was good at the subject and furthermore he enjoyed it. He could truly loose himself in the art of brewing a particularly potent poison or especially exceptional elixir and forget about everything else for at least the two hours they were in the dungeons. It was a shame that the difficulty of squeezing their new eighth year classes into the already overflowing Hogwarts timetables meant no more opportunities for double Potions. By far his worst subject was Advanced Arithmancy, which was truly annoying as it had once been his second favourite subject, the only other that could truly hold his interest as Potions could. But as the timetables merged with the decreased eighth year numbers it had meant that Arithmancy, once a safe balance of Ravenclaws and Slytherins was now home to the only two students returning to Hogwarts. Himself and Granger.

Merlin, it was a special kind of torture. A torture that Draco was certain The Dark Lord would have bottled and unleashed in the rages of battle if he had known it was possible for such pain to exist. It was one thing owing a debt to Potter – a thing that had driven Draco to distraction, constantly watching Harry from afar, across the Great Hall at breakfast, or from… Shaking his head, Draco refused to allow himself to think of Potter. Not to think of the concern he could see in his eyes whenever he looked at Draco. He wouldn't think of that. Not again. Potter didn't care and Draco would soon find a way to repay the life debt and break this – not bond, Merlin no – whatever it was between them. But first, he had other matters to address. Indeed, as he had countless times thought – it was one thing owing Potter, but an entirely other thing owing debt to Granger a bloody Muggle-born. He was finding it hard enough presenting a personality which didn't sneer or mock her kind at every turn without having the added pressure of an owed debt. This was something he'd have to address and fast. The sooner he addressed it, the sooner he could get back to enjoying his second favourite class and the sooner he could figure out a way to repay Potter, break the hold he had and get through the rest of this year in peace.

It was just almost Halloween and the cold October air was just beginning to bite, a sign that winter would soon be upon them. It was almost Halloween and that was two whole months that Draco had not been able to enjoy his second favourite subject. Enough was enough, he told himself. He would not sit here, Draco Malfoy, and owe a debt to a Muggle-born. He was heading down the fifth floor corridor toward the class, steadfastly ignoring the whispers and stares which seemed to follow him without rest through the corridors. Maybe, if he got there quickly, he could grab Granger before it all started and he… Well, he didn't know what just yet, he'd figure that out, but he'd do it and he could go back to enjoying –

"Good afternoon, Mister Malfoy! Delighted to see your both early, we can crack on and hopefully solve the third trimester of the Warlock equation!"

Inwardly, Malfoy groaned at Professor Vector's cheer. No such luck on being early then he thought dejectedly as he settled into his seat and pulled out a roll of parchment, his quill and ink. If he were Potter, he thought, he would have sighed and flustered and slumped and sulked in his seat – which, of course, Malfoy certainly didn't think, because he didn't think about Potter and Malfoy's most certainly didn't slump. Neither did Malfoy's sulk. They knew what they wanted and using their natural Slytherin cunning they achieved their goals. So that was it, he would simply wait this lesson out and grab Granger on the way back to the eighth year common room. Potter and Weasley wouldn't be a problem, they had a free period whilst he and Hermione had Advanced Arithmancy; which was information anyone with half an active brain cell would know thanks to the eighth years close living quarters and their merged timetables. Or at least that's what he told himself.

"Mister Malfoy? Do you need a textbook?" Professor Vector asked, pulling Draco back to reality.

"No, no…" He muttered, snapping his attention back to the class and most definitely not thinking of Potter as he opened his book to the correct page.

The hour was long and mentally straining but it required little communication and a high amount of silent concentration, which Draco was thankful for. It barely seemed like any time had passed at all before the bell rung, signalling the end of classes. Startled by the sound Draco jumped, causing a big nasty spot of ink to pool across his page. Cursing himself for his lack of concentration, he pointed his wand toward the parchment and muttered 'Evanesco'. The stain disappeared in an instant but the accident had given Granger time to pack away her books and was already heading for the door. Slamming the lid onto his inkwell he threw his notes and book in his bag, trying not to cringe at the mess they would no doubt be making of the neatly ordered items inside. He didn't hurry after her – because Malfoy's didn't hurry, certainly not after Muggle-borns – but he did sweep from the classroom with less of his usual grace and more speed.

"Granger!" He called after her at he reached the door, his voice calling her name clearly enough to startle the bushy-haired witch into turning around. "I – I er… Can I just borrow you a minute?" He asked, this wasn't ideal; the corridors were already starting to fill with students and this was not a conversation he wanted to be witnessed. Still, Granger said nothing, merely stared at him like he'd just admitted he was in love with a Blast-ended Skrewt. He nodded his head back toward the classroom door and disappeared back inside hoping she would follow.

To his relief it didn't take her long at all to follow, at least Granger could always be relied upon to be curious for any type of information. For a moment he simply stared, trying to figure out what to say. Giving gratitude didn't come easy to Draco; it wasn't a trait required often in Slytherin. Things were not done, favours were not given, secrets were not kept out of loyalty or friendship but out of an understanding that the deed would soon be returned. Unfortunately, Gryffindors were so down-right bloody noble that this would not be the case with Granger.

"Is there something you wanted, Malfoy?" She asked and Draco took in her features carefully. There was something different about the way she looked at him; her eyes had always, even at her most defiant, been somewhat tinged with fear when she spoke to him, but no longer. All he could see was the curiosity that had brought her back into the classroom and just a hint of sadness… For him? Bloody Merlin, he would not be pitied by a Muggle-born Gryffindor of all people! It was time to gather what he could find of his pride, thank her and get on with his life.

"I just… I saw you at my trial. I saw you and…" Malfoy paused for a beat, taking in the way her features quickly changed to surprise; she obviously thought she'd been well-hidden at the back of the public gallery. "I ought to say thank you. For coming," the silence rolled on between them, the curiosity in Granger's eyes slowly fading to allow more room for her sadness, pitying him. He didn't want to be pitied. Not by anyone and certainly not by Granger. At first the realisation filled him with anger then he realised, a chance to take her pity and use it to his advantage. In for a knut, in for a sickle, he told himself before asking - or rather, stating; "Well, Potter sent you, didn't he? Because of his testimony?" The pity in Granger's eyes was awful and Draco found himself knowing in that moment that he would gladly relive several of his Aunt Bellatrix's Crucio's than accept her sympathy.

"Harry – He – He wanted to be there… He -" Granger eventually spoke, her excuse as thin as parchment. I'm sure he did, Draco thought to himself bitterly as he swept from the room, cutting her words to silence. That was enough, he'd given his thanks, found out what he needed to know – that he was simply a pity case for the great Harry Potter, such a pity case that he couldn't even be bothered to show up in person to watch the trial he'd given evidence toward.

Well no longer. He'd said thanks to Granger and that would be it. He didn't owe Potter anything, he didn't ask for him to take out a 'save a Death Eater' pet project in the run up to his N.E.W.T's and he certainly didn't have to repay him for it. Now it was over, he told himself, and he could focus on his studies and stop spending almost every damn moment thinking about Potter.

Before he knew it he had arrived at the top of the cool, grey stairs in the circular stone room at the top West Tower, listening to the soft hoots around him and taking a soft, shaky breath, feeling free.

"He what?!" Ron spluttered in disbelief, causing several of the common rooms residents to look over to the spot where the trio were gathered before the fire. Shushing him with a single look, Hermione waited until the students around them returned their attention to their own conversations.

"Calm down Ronald, it's not as if he tortured me. He was nice. He said thank you." Hermione repeated, faint surprise still etched on his features.

"Nice? Malfoy isn't nice Hermione. Yeah, ok – he might not have been evil and he certainly wasn't as dark as the rest of them, but he's still a git. Doesn't do nice. What do you think he wants?" Ron ranted, turning his final question to Harry.

"I – er…" Harry floundered for a moment. Not two minutes ago he and Ron had been spending their free period in front of the fire and Harry had been studying a particularly complicated potion during their free period wishing that anything would come along and rescue him from it. Now he recalled the popular muggle phrase 'be careful what you wish for'. "What did he say, exactly, Hermione?"

"He said he'd seen me, at the trial. He said he ought to thank me. Then he…" Hermione paused and pulled a pained face, the one she always wore when she delivered bad news. "He asked if you sent me. I'm sorry Harry, I didn't know what to say…"

"What did you say?"

"I said… I said you wanted to be there and he… He just stormed off." Hermione grimaced at the memory, a frown settling across her brow "He just – he looked so sad…"

"He's looked like that since the trial," Harry nodded glumly, a frown mirroring Hermione's "He's changed, not arrogant, doesn't draw attention to himself…"

"What is this, a lets feel sorry for an ex-Death Eater day?" Ron spluttered in disbelief, his eyes as wide as saucers. "I get it mate, he's not evil, I agree. So you saved his sorry arse from Azkaban and that's fine, I get it. But he bloody well deserves to pay for it, being miserable is getting off lightly if you ask me."

"He's more than miserable Ron, he's not even the same person." Harry muttered, sitting back in his chair and gazing into the flames, remembering with a flash the Room of Requirement, the way Malfoy's features had been full of completely unguarded fear. Turning back to see his best friend still clearly unconvinced, he sighed. "Look, Ron – I'm not complaining about some things. Yeah, it is great not to get called Scarhead or Potty or to be pulled into stupid fights and it is great that he's not such an arrogant git. But I didn't save his life so he could just mope around and waste it."

Ron looked as if he was about to challenge Harry again before Hermione placed a gentle hand on his forearm. At her touch he opened and closed his mouth soundlessly, looking a little like a cursed flobberworm before sighing, slumping back into his seat and resting his head on Hermione's shoulder. She stroked his arm softly before looking up, giving Harry a knowing, gentle smile. Despite his inner turmoil at the Malfoy news, Harry found himself returning the smile. Hermione was definitely a good influence on Ron he thought to himself, not for the first time.

-ooooo-

A week passed and nothing more happened. October gave way to November and Harry watched Malfoy avidly, beginning to border back into his sixth year obsession. Ron, calmed by Hermione, wisely said nothing as Harry spent many nights with the Marauders Map open before him, watching Malfoy in one of two places – pacing the floor of his quarters or in the owlery. Strange, at first, Harry had thought but then remembered; most of the Malfoy possessions had been taken as part of Narcissa's war reparations and would now likely rely on school owls to write to his mother. Harry reasoned it was also probably better for Malfoy to have an inconspicuous owl to deliver his mail rather than the large, proud Eagle owl they had previously owned, although the Ministry probably intercepted all of their communications anyway.

Harry had, for a long time, no longer tortured himself with the reasons behind his Malfoy watching. His previous realisation – that Draco was as lost as Harry was – had softened his nerves about the obsession. It was natural, he supposed, to cling to the one person he could see who seemed to be feeling as he did. If he could just spot something, anything to change how Malfoy was, if he could try and… Help in some way, then things would be better. If he could save Malfoy, surely he could save himself?

It was a particularly rainy day which had driven most students to the common room in their tower. Most were studying although there were soft splatters of conversation across the room and Ernie and his Hufflepuff companion who Harry know knew to be called Matthew were enjoying a game of wizard chess. Funny, Harry thought absently over the top of his potions text, wizard chess didn't seem like a typically Hufflepuff game, a little too.. What had Hermione called it in their first year? Barbaric.

"Hey guys! Guys!" An excited voice carried from through the portrait hole before the speaker – a borderline giddy Dean jumped out. "I just saw McGonagall, the Quidditch pitch is back! Houses haven't sorted their teams yet, obviously, and we can't really be in them since were here, so…" Dean blathered on, his excitement clearly overtaking his ability to get to the point "So she said we can go on first, now and have our own game!"

There was a clatter of excitement which spread through the room and a few excited whoops as most of the common room gathered into a circle in the centre of the room. Hermione simply rolled her eyes but smiled affectionately, bedding herself down deeper in the now completely free sofa and turning her attention back to her book. Neville appeared as if he hadn't heard at all, completely transfixed by the strangest looking creature Harry had ever seen in a glass tank he kept by the window.

"So, if we've got Macmillian, Dean, Brocklehurst and Turpin, that's four chasers, not your usual three but we can cope with smaller numbers… We'll have a boy and a girl on each team, so's to make it fair.." Ron who was in his element organising the game failed to register the scowl on Mandy and Lisa's faces as he said this which made Harry wonder for a moment how he'd ever managed to charm Hermione. "Then, I'll keep for a team and… Corner, you can keep can't you? So that's two keepers. Obviously Harry's a seeker… If we just have you two as beaters, Boot and Matthew… One a team instead of two we can cope with for a smaller game… Then we just need another seeker…"

Just then, the portrait hole opened and Malfoy stepped through. He did a double take as he glanced around the visible excitement in the common room but said nothing, sweeping through and past the group and toward the staircase. As if struck by a sudden charm from somewhere Harry leapt into action.

"Harry?" Ron called after his as he withdrew from the group.

"You want a seeker, don't you?" He called back over his shoulder, registering the nod of approval he gained from Hermione as he swept toward the stairs, summoning some of his Gryffindor courage.

"Quidditch pitch is back." Harry shouted after Malfoy's retreating back as he reached the foot of the spiral staircase. Mid step Malfoy paused and turned back to face Harry.

"And?" He asked, arranging his features into the perfectly neutral expression Harry saw so frequently these days.

"We want a game and we need another seeker." He told him, returning his gaze levelly.

Malfoy simply stared at Harry for a long, hard moment. A moment that seemed to stretch into eternity as grey eyes bore into green. Despite the guards that both boys held, feelings flashed in between them – their lost souls reaching out to each other, something in Malfoy's eyes was saying –

Suddenly Malfoy broke the connection and he turned again, sweeping up the staircase.

Watching him go Harry sighed before returning to the group and shrugging. Lost in conversation of how to solve their problem, their group didn't notice the pale figure stalking across the room toward them, broom in hand.

"Heard you needed another seeker," Malfoy announced as he approached, jutting his chin up as he spoke. It wasn't an act of arrogance at it would have been before, Harry noted, but a way of building himself up, bringing up his guard.

Ernie Macmillan was the first to break the silence that befell the group. "Excellent, we do. Let's go then, before this rain gets too bad to play in." The rest of the group seemed to accept Ernie's lead and headed toward the portrait hole, Harry carefully placing himself toward the back of the group.

"Typical bloody Hufflepuff" he heard Malfoy mutter as they reached the exit and despite himself, Harry smiled.