Draco was somewhat familiar with the notion of what Potter had casually referred to as "the telly".

At least, as familiar as one could be after Lupin's three-days drilling on Muggle technology. This particular sort was something he had admittedly heard about in the past, snippets of conversations drifting over from the Ravenclaw table, where Muggleborns and Halfbloods had been mourning the so called commodities of their home lives, as if Magic was lacking something. Not that Draco had ever been interested in learning about Muggles rudimental forms of entertainment, or that he would have understood them after all, but moving images were not a foreign concept and he never really thought it so clever as those Ravenclaws had made it out to be.

Technically, he could even claim to have seen telly before, as his longest flight provided a small, black frame lodged at the back of every seat, where tiny Muggles moved around soundlessly, completely unconcerned about his existence. He had barely paid them any mind in return, before slipping into his potion induced slumber. Really, he didn't see what the fuss was about.

Potter's "telly" was about ten time the size of the ones on the airplane, bulky and rather ugly. The boy himself was crouched down in front of it, pulling several rectangular boxes that, at first glance, Draco had thought to be books, out from the wooden cabinet that doubled as a stand. His blue t-shirt rode up, revealing two dimples at the base of his back and a small birthmark the colour of a coffee stain.

Draco sat down at the edge of the sofa, determined to fight his curiosity and the urge to snoop around the room. It was surprisingly comfortable, a charcoal grey three seater, well-loved and, against all odds, to Draco's taste.

From his new position he could discern the idents of Potter's spine as he sprawled gracelessly on the floor, half bent inside the cabinet.

Draco's mouth was uncomfortably dry in the heat of the day; despite the soothing breeze coming from the open windows, he was still overdressed. He was about to ask for a glass of water, or to demand to know what the hell was Potter doing with all those boxes, when the other boy suddenly hummed in triumph, emerging from the cabinet, one of said boxes in his grasp.

He tossed it to Draco, who couldn't help but catch it, before turning to tidy the mess he had made all over the floor.

It was a container of some sort, probably hard plastic; it was honestly baffling the obsession Muggles seemed to have with the cheap material. On the front, it depicted a drawing of a blond boy with a ridiculous hairstyle and a pointy chin that definitely didn't remind him of himself, holding onto the hilt of a sword. Draco observed the cover for a little longer, before turning it to read the synopsis, as he would have done with a book.

His breath caught in his throat, and he stared in disbelief at the little printed lines in front of him, where the words "magical" and "wizard" stood out starkly against the others. Faintly registering the loud thumping of his heart, Draco was about to wipe out his wand and demand Potter if this was all a joke, if it was a ruse that he had concocted with the help of Lupin to make a fool out of him. But when he looked up the other boy was regarding him with an easy smile, no sign of malice or recognition.

Draco glanced back a couple of times between the Gryffindor and the box in his hands, and Potter started to look embarrassed.

"Sorry. They are mostly disney. I- uhm - didn't have a. . . conventional childhood". He sighed, running a hand through his hair. The bird nest, Draco noted with a strange relief, was mostly unchanged from the familiar mess he was used to. Potter had let the front grow slightly longer, and the curls fell over his eyebrows, hiding his famous scar completely. "My friends declared I had a lot to catch up on, and I guess nine months do make for quite the collection."

Draco stared wordlessly, lost.

The other boy must have read into his silence, because he hastily added "Not that we have to, if you rather not. We could discuss the living arrangements further, or if you want to have a walk, go to the beach. . . I don't know. Or leave on your own and come back later this afternoon. Up to you, but I thought that, since you are jet lagged, we could just chill and watch something. It's not my personal favourite, but it's still quite good. . ."

Draco interrupted him, unsettled by having Potter addressing him with anything other than hostility. "It's perfectly fine". He wasn't sure what he was agreeing to, but he deemed it safer to play along.

Potter nodded, handing him a smaller black object covered in buttons that Draco took with feigned nonchalance, when all he wanted was to turn it around and inspect it as he had done with the other one.

"Great, if you want to put the vhs on, the player is just in there."

The what? Draco wanted to ask, his gaze following the other boy's finger to where it pointed to the cabinet. The cabinet stared back, offering no help whatsoever.

"I'm just gonna grab us something to drink. We have coke, oj, sparkling water… Maybe root beer, it's actually alright!"

Draco swallowed, wondering if that was how Muggleborns felt when they first arrived at Hogwarts. It was overwhelming. "Er, tap water."

Potter gave him a funny look, then just shrugged in acquiescence, rising to his feet. Conscious that under no circumstances he could be left alone to do whatever the fuck the other boy had asked him to do, without giving away how suspiciously clueless he actually was, Draco panicked, scrambling to follow.

"Wait I- I'll help you!"

Potter grabbed two mugs, filling one up from the tap. "Sorry, we never actually got around to buying glasses. Are you sure you are okay with just water?"

Draco drained his mug in two gulps and nodded, watching as the other boy filled his own with a dark liquid he had taken from the fridge. He couldn't help raising an amused eyebrow when he noticed the "Pizza Slut" printed in bold letters across the white ceramic.

Potter, who had clearly grabbed blindly for the first available one, flushed, his freckles darkening dangerously close to Weasel's levels.

"Well, I'll bring the Coke just in case."

He cleared his throat, cheeks still pink, and Draco felt a thrill at having made him flustered, surprised that it lacked the old malice.

"Is it too early for popcorn?"

Encouraged by the mention of something he finally recognized, Draco relaxed into this new effortless banter.

"Definitely not. Do Americans have them with ketchup?"

The Sword In The Stone was ridiculous. Draco scraped the remaining popcorn from the bottom of the bowl, grimacing as the stray kernel he hadn't noticed crunched under his teeth, and pondered how to convey his opinion without giving away what he really thought of such inaccurate portrayal of human transfiguration.

He had, despite himself, been impressed by the animation, as Potter had called it. Moving images was a fourth year charm, and not an extremely easy one at that, so achieving it without the help of magic was something even he couldn't discount.

Potter, the heathen, was sucking the salt from the popcorn off his fingertips and, when their eyes met, he quirked an expectant eyebrow.

Unable to actually talk about Merlin and whatever twisted interpretation Muggles had on magic, Draco ventured on the other aspect of the Animation that had bothered him.

"Pretty unbelievable, if you asked me. Arthur was what, 9? 10? Who in their right mind would give a child that young all those chores!" He scoffed, but something in Potter's demeanour stopped him.

The prat looked uncomfortable, eyes fixed dully on his hands, where nails were scraping nervously at the cuticles in a manner that must have been painful. After a couple of minutes in which Draco had been left wondering what he had said wrong, the other boy finally mumbled.

"It's not really that surprising."

"Are you saying you had to do the dishes at 9?" He asked, aware of how rudely skeptical he sounded.

"The dishes, cooking, tending the garden… among others." Potter counted off his fingers, sounding bitter and almost angry.

At Draco's look of disbelief, he seemed to brace himself and sighed. "When I said I didn't exactly have a conventional childhood, I meant it. I've actually spent years specifically not talking about this, but the last year has actually helped me come to terms with the fact that my experience wasn't normal nor dismissable."

He had actually scratched the skin around his nails raw, and the sight of blood tempted Draco to assure him that he didn't need to continue, despite curiosity eating him up. But Potter had always been determined, even when facing a challenge against his own discomfort. Maybe even more so.

"I guess I've never actually considered it like that, but I have a lot in common with Arthur. My parents died when I was too young to actually remember any different, and I was given to my mother's sister. She - they… They never actually wanted me, and I was raised pretty much as a nuisance. I think that, for some reason, they literally hated me. So I had to learn pretty young to do my part and keep my head down or… Anyway, they are probably the main reason why I came here, and at least I can cook."

It was the self deprecating tone that compelled Draco to blurt out "My father's in prison."

He wanted to dismiss what Potter had said as a fabrication of Lupin's new identity. He remembered, though, how the Professor had told him that nothing Potter knew was exactly a lie, but more like what his life would have been if he had never received his letter to Hogwarts.

All the years he had spent hating the Gryffindor for being a privileged, unwarranted celebrity melted when faced with the fact that he didn't really know the other boy at all. The things he had always accused Potter of being were born from his own assumptions and, admittedly, jealousy. Maybe it was the need to share something equally hard about himself, the desperation to return on common grounds and assure that no, his life wasn't perfect either. Maybe it was the last, fading effects of the Felix Felicis that were telling him it was the right thing to say, but talking about his father was oddly relieving.

Potter startled, letting out an unintentional chuckle that sounded more like an hiccup. When he spoke, there was an almost teasing smile dancing on his lips.

"What? No perfect family life with a butler and a couple of maids?"

Draco smirked "Well, yes, all that too. But… he brought it on himself." For a long time, he had blamed the other wizard for his father's imprisonment, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he realised how much he actually meant them.

"Is that why you are clueless about how to properly work a vhs player? Did you have someone else doing it for you?" Potter joked.

Draco recognised it for what it was, an offer to reestablish the comfortable levity they had settled in during the film and a way out of talking about his father.

It was pleasantly thoughtful and he found that he really appreciated it.

"Something like that. We could say that I, too, had an unconventional childhood."

The smile that the other boy gave him was as delighted as the one he used to reserve for his beloved golden friends. "I really think this is going to work out."

Potter, as it turned out, really knew how to cook.

They sorted a quick lunch during which Draco tried to stand inconspicuously around the Muggle appliances he had no clue how to use, while still giving the impression that he was helping.

After the third time Potter had to reach around him for something he needed, he was shooed out of the kitchen, pleased to notice that the brunet looked more amused than irritated by his incompetence. He wasn't sure if he would have been so understanding, if the roles were reversed. He had actually proven not to be more than once in the past, when presented with the opportunity to mock Muggleborns and such.

After a perfectly pleasant potato and courgette frittata, sadly with no ketchup, the unexpected chef asked if he would like to have a walk around the city.

"I'll have to lend you some clothes, though. You are going to be boiling in that, mate."

It was Draco's turn to flush, but he accepted a plain white t-shirt without complaints. Even if it was a bit too big on the shoulders, he couldn't deny his shirt was way too stuffy for the weather. He wondered if wearing Potter's clothes was going to become a habit, but drew the line at the bright orange swimming shorts the prat had offered with a smirk.

The Gryffindork switched his pj bottoms for his own pair of purple trunks, which Draco's mother would have deemed inappropriately short. On top of everything else, California seemed to have changed the idiot's preference towards baggy clothes.

Draco was starting to feel loose and relaxed, almost convinced that things were truly going to work out.

It wasn't until they had made their way downstairs and Potted had asked "Do you want to take one of the skateboards, or I am sure you could borrow Scott's bike?", that he remembered how utterly fucked he actually was.