Harry stormed out of the locker room and up to the seventh floor, sparing only a glance at his teammates, the majority of whom were running laps around the pitch. The ones who'd kept their mouths shut about Draco had been excused. There was no way that Harry would be able to run a practice today, especially with 2/3 of the team running laps. He'd cast a hex so that they could not stop running for another hour and a half, and by the time they were done, it would be the Hufflepuff's go at the pitch, anyways. He spent the whole time walking to the seventh floor keeping a tight rein on his magic; when he lost control of it in anger, bad things happened. He needed to be in a safe space before he let loose.

Walking into the Room of Requirement, Harry sighed. It had taken the Ministry months to put out the fiendfyre, but finally the Unspeakables had found some means to do so. Harry was glad for it. He needed a place to get away, one where no one could find him and this was the best option he had. The room he had come into this time was an off white color, with shelves and shelves of targets and dummies. There were sneakoscopes and defense books, and a tattered banner that read Dumbledore's Army.

Harry spent the majority of his Saturday blowing things up. It felt good to let go of his magic, far wilder since the battle of Hogwarts. It was as though the piece of Voldemort that had lived inside him had been sucking magic from him his whole life, or maybe his magic was protecting him from the horcux; either way, since it was destroyed, he had much more magic than he had before, and had not yet mastered his control of it. In situations where he was emotional, especially when e was mad, it was like he was stretching a rubber band around it and it felt so tight that it might snap at any given moment.

Back over the summer, during Harry's birthday celebration, he had lost control for the first time. Everyone was doing their best to put on a happy face. Mrs. Weasley had baked a cake for him, Andromeda was there with Teddy, and Dumbledore had even come to the house to give his well wishes. Harry was so frustrated. It had been mere months since the battle, and now he had to look at them. Had to see all the people he had failed. George, missing one ear and half his soul. Teddy, who's light blue hair and yellow eyes a living reminder of the parents Harry hadn't been able to save. It seemed callous, wrong, to celebrate his life when so many others had died. They had died protecting Harry and now that the war was won, what was left of him? A hollow shell of a man, purposeless, constantly hounded by reporters and well-wishers and friends alike, all wanting something from him that he couldn't give. He had looked at them and felt his magic spread through all of him, and then spill out into the room. It was only when Teddy started crying that Harry had snapped out of his reverie. He looked up to see all of the other guests staring at him with pained looks on their faces.

"Harry, mate, could you let up on the magic? It hurts a bit" Ron had gasped out.

Harry had immediately drawn his magic back into himself and held it in. He had never lost control of himself like that again. At least, not in front of anyone else. He had, on many occasions throughout the summer, excused himself to the woods surrounding the Burrow and let loose, blowing up trees and smashing rocks into bits. He had tried to go flying while keeping his magic unchecked before, but his wild magic reacted poorly with the charms allowing his Firebolt to fly.

Now, while at school, he left his friends every once in a while to visit this room, both a safe haven and a reminder of all that he had lost. He could still see Fred and George, heads bent together, undoubtedly planning some dastardly prank. He could hear the shout of "smile, Harry!" and the snap of Collin Creevey's camera. Now, he was alone here and ironically, he was better off that way. He could let loose, be as powerful as he wanted without fear of hurting those he loved.

Now, his magic rippling around him in palpable waves, Harry set up his targets and fired curses at them, blowing them up and body binding them and otherwise dismantling his imagined attackers. He only stopped when he couldn't stand anymore. This was how Harry lived now, waiting until he was full to the brim with magic, then releasing it all until his supply was nearly depleted and waiting until he was dangerous again.

Lying down on a newly appeared chaise lounge (thanks to the room), Harry mused on the events of the day thus far. He had stumbled out onto the pitch, Quidditch uniform rumpled and eyes bleary with sleep, to hear Ron and the other players on his team talking about the entitled Death Eater scum and how he was unwelcome on the pitch. It hadn't taken long to figure out to whom they were referring. Even now, Harry's jaw clenched in rage in response. Who were they to judge Draco? Had they been in his shoes, could they have done more? Would they have had the strength to go against their families, to go against Voldemort himself? It was so easy to judge him when they were born into the side who won. Harry felt for those like Ron, who had lost family to the Death Eaters, but it did not excuse prejudice. Hate for people based on things they couldn't help is what started the war in the first place and Harry would not stand for anything like that to happen on his team. So, in a show of spectacular self-control, he had sentenced the wrongdoers to running the length of the pitch for the next two hours and cast a hex on them for good measure. Then, he had gone to check on Draco, which had not gone at all the way he thought it would.

Harry had walked into the men's room intending to apologize to Draco for the actions of his teammates, but things never did seem to go right when it came to interactions between the two. Harry flushed at the memory of a wet, naked Draco leaning over and pulling on his pants. That pale skin that went on forever, covering firm thighs and a beautiful, round arse, dripping wet. He moved like a cat, all curves and secrets and promises of something more. It had made Harry feel a way that he really, really shouldn't be feeling about Draco Malfoy and he also felt very pervy just standing there watching Draco dressed , so he had made the Slytherin aware of his presence in case he hadn't been before. It had all gone downhill from there.

How could he think he was unworthy of redemption? He was no worse than those Imperio'd into doing Voldemort's bidding. Harry thought back to when he had asked Draco if he had wanted to kill Dumbledore. The look in his eyes had been…indescribable. Far off, and full of remembered pain. Completely raw, a nerve exposed to Harry, just Harry. If, a year ago, Harry had seen this look in the Malfoy's eyes, he would have assumed that it was a farce, but now, after everything that had transpired, he knew there was no deception. That, and the speed in which the vulnerability disappeared, washed away as easily as a smile. If it had been a ruse, Draco wouldn't have tried to mask the pain in his grey eyes, hide the torment in his furrowed brow. No, Harry knew that look, the look of a soldier forced to watch the brutality of war, the look of a child who has had their innocence ripped away from them with nails and teeth. Harry knew that look because, when no one was around, when there were no fans looking for a smile from their Savior, so family to put on a happy face for, that was the look he saw in the mirror.

Harry believed in fate, how could he not after everything that had occurred in his life? And now, fate seemed to have abandoned all pretense of coincidence in regards to his dealings with Draco. These days, it seemed like the blonde boy consumed his thoughts more often than not, not to mention the dreams. Since the first night, when he'd dreamed of the fiendfyre, Harry had dreamt of Draco almost every night. Quidditch matches between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Draco's eyes light and happy as he flew through the air. The incident in the bathroom, tears flowing down those alabaster cheeks. Memories, half real half conjured, gave him no reprieve from Draco.

It was like a door had been opened in his mind, and he could now see things in a way that he never had before. Maybe now that there were no sides, Harry could see the Malfoy for what he truly was. Not a Slytherin, not a death eater, but a young man with whom Harry shared a great deal in common. They were doubtlessly different, two sides of the same Galleon. Harry sighed again, rubbing his temples. There was no point in denying it, he had feelings for Draco, and, while he wasn't totally sure of the Pureblood opinion on homosexual relationships was, he was sure that Draco Malfoy didn't want one with him.