Author Notes: This will probably be a two parter. I may make it a series if I decide to write any smut...

Friends?

He practically skidded to a stop in front of the boys' bathroom. Mrs. Norris was on his trail—there was a noise to his right and he hesitated, brow furrowing. He could keep moving. He should keep moving. She would likely be drawn to the noise and he'd be back to the Dungeons before his trail was rediscovered. His night pass had expired seventeen minutes ago—he doubted it physically possible for Filch to care less.

There was another noise from the bathroom beside him, loud and echoing, as a sob tore itself from someone's throat.

A flash of sympathy cut through him, an unusual feeling in and of itself, but Draco was more acquainted with the sound of despair than he liked.

His feet moved on their own accord.

There was a curved silhouette over the right-most basin in front of him; their hands clutched either side of the sink and there was something akin to a retching sound as their head bowed further down and closer to the drain. He moved quietly, shifting onto his left foot to try peering into the mirror and catching a glimpse of identifying features. It was but a flicker of movement and Harry Potter spun around, wand drawn, face red and puffy, mouth sloppy.

Draco's wand was in his grasp almost instantaneously, and he balked at the irony of it.

But as green eyes met gray, neither shouted a curse.

Instead they surveyed each other and in a moment of weakness, Draco lowered his wand. His stomach flipped and he thought of the sharp heat across his chest and the way his blood swirled through the water.

Potter lifted his other arm to wipe at his mouth with the sleeve of his cloak.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he greeted, lowering his wand as well.

The corner of Draco's mouth twitched.

"Tower felt too crowded," Potter added, a glimmer of an explanation Draco knew better than to ask for.

He nodded once, still studying Potter cautiously.

"Late night Quidditch drills—" a jerk of his head toward the doorway behind him, "and Mrs. Norris."

"Fuck." Potter slipped his wand back into his robes and rubbed at his eyes with the palms of either hand.

Draco raised his eyebrows at the curse but tucked his wand away as well. Things had been... complicated since the end of the war. The Ministry of Magic had been heavily understaffed and desperate to recruit those experienced in the Dark Arts and their defense. With a hefty financial incentive and the promise of glory in rebuilding their world many students chose to join their ranks instead of returning to Hogwarts hallowed halls. Naturally Potter was one of their most sought after recruits but for reasons the Prophet could only speculate, he refused. He instead chose to volunteer his time and body to rebuilding through labor, only breaking to testify in the occasional trial on another's behalf. Like Draco's. The trial had been over the summer and before the start of term and somehow Draco knew it wasn't luck that had made him easy to avoid. When school started Potter avoided him too.

"I really don't want the Prophet writing about my detention," he muttered. It was a half-joke at best, half-heartedly said, and sounded more sad than teasing. Potter bent down and grabbed his glasses from the floor. He withdrew his wand to spell them clean before shoving them back onto his face. Draco watched each movement silently, echoes of Potter's impassioned testament running through his mind. He had gone on about childhood trauma—a line he suspected Granger had fed him—and refused to let the Wizarding World punish children for the paths their parents had cut them. They didn't have a choice, Potter had yelled. We were all kids. They just wanted to live.

Draco blinked and Potter was staring at him.

There was a jerk of his head and Draco heard repetition: "Shall we?"

"Oh." It was more of a breath than a reply and Draco nodded. Potter turned to the right and chose the stall in the right hand corner, carefully closing the door and hopping up onto the toilet seat. Draco's nose wrinkled as his feet disappeared but soon he found himself doing the same, quietly choosing the stall beside him. He drew his feet up and stepped up and onto the toilet, turning to crouch and shut the doors quietly behind himself. He steadied himself by propping himself upright with his elbows pressed to either wall. He could see the headlines now—Harry Potter and the son of infamous Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, found hiding in Hogwarts' loo afterhours.

Minutes passed, dragged on with a surreal, dream-like sort of quality, and who knew Potter was capable of being so quiet?

Draco had never understood why Potter testified on his behalf. Draco had the mark. He had been ordered to do unspeakable things. There was another glimmer of a memory, the sight of a dark silhouette sweeping in front of him and raising their arm, a shot of light and another silhouette falling. Draco had killed people. Not there, no, not then, but the unforgivable had touched his lips nonetheless. Blood was still on his hands and despite the court ruling in his favor, the public rioted.

The other boy stirred beside him and Draco could hear more than see him straighten and place his feet to the floor. The stall itself jostled as his hands dropped from their home and there was another, smaller movement as the door beside his opened. He searched the flat gray metal in front of him, listening intently. Potter was moving forward and then to the right, walking through the bathroom and into the adjoining corridor. His shoes almost squeaked against the floor. He wasn't properly distributing his weight in his legs, Draco knew.

There were returning footsteps then, even louder than those retreating moments before, and Potter's voice was a near-whisper when he called out, "I reckon she's gone."

Relieved, Draco stepped down and dropped his elbows in a single, fluid movement that let him fall to the floor. He had shifted mid-air, compensating for gravity, and the drop was practically soundless.

He opened the stall door and emerged, eyes quickly catching on Potter at the sinks again. He was no longer hunched over, instead standing straight and staring vacantly at his reflection.

Draco moved closer but stopped two basins away from Potter's sink.

He stared at Potter's reflection as he started to habitually wash his hands.

Potter was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and the hollows of them were dark, large bags dipping down to touch the high-spots of his cheeks. His skin was splotchy and his hair stuck to his forehead in messy, uneven clumps. His lips looked chapped, mouth parted to let out the occasional ragged exhale. Draco continued to watch Potter stare at himself; he was willing himself down from that ledge, settling into himself, and while the changes in his person were jerking but somehow subtle, Draco was fascinated. There was a despair around him Draco recognized, a sense of utter hopelessness that called to his own.

Potter's eyes finally found Draco's in his reflection.

"You..." he hesitated, not really meaning to speak, his own voice startling him. Then, quietly, with little more consideration, Draco let the final word slip out: "Okay?"

Potter dropped his gaze and scoffed, mouth turning up into a twisted sort of grimace.

"No."

The reply was far more honest than even Potter expected—Draco could see the regret dance along the lines of his forehead. Potter's eyes closed, drawing himself away, and he swallowed thickly, licking his lips. His voice cracked: "How... How is anyone?"

Draco shrugged, turning off the faucet. His hands quickly dried, his skin tingling pleasantly as the self-drying charm skittered over his skin. Draco turned toward Potter and the other boy opened his eyes at the sound of movement.

They met each other's eyes.

"They're eager to move on," Draco replied.

Potter looked back to his reflection. He swallowed, drawing the shadows down his throat, and Draco forced his eyes to return to that of his mirrored image instead of letting them dance further up and linger on his mouth.

The dark haired boy leaned forward, his hands balancing against the edge of the basin again.

"I'm sorry," Potter said abruptly, breaking the slow-falling silence. Draco looked at him instead of his reflection. Potter lifted his left hand and made a sharp diagonal cut through the air in his general direction, "...about, well, you know."

His hand fell.

Draco chortled, "Well... you saved my life once, so I imagine we're even."

A sharp exhale, more amused than steadying.

"Great."

Potter turned toward him, almost mirroring his stance.

Draco searched his eyes and swallowed hard, throat dry; warmth spread over his chest and blanketed each lung, drawing up steam.

"Potter—" he stopped himself.

I'm sorry too.

He didn't need to finish though, it seemed, because Potter's reply was quick, almost interrupting: "I know."

Silence stretched between them and Draco found himself trying to memorize the exact hue Potter's irises were, the deep emerald brighter than he remembered.

Abruptly, Potter moved away from the sink and turned, walking toward the corridor. He stopped before reaching the exit and half-turned, looking at Draco over his shoulder.

"Do you..." his body angled itself toward Draco's and he was staring at him with an intensity that sent Draco's stomach tailspinning into oblivion. "Do you reckon we could have gotten along?"

A pause, Potter's brow furrowed.

"I mean... if things were different."

He didn't need to clarify.

Draco understood.

"No," he lied.

Potter's expression twisted. It wasn't the answer he was hoping for then.

"Why not?"

"You'd still be an arrogant git. I'd still be insufferable."

Before he could analyse his own reply, Potter shook his head.

"You're not insufferable."

Potter tensed and Draco could see the evening color of his face, his skin flushing.

An exhale of a laugh lined his voice: "Do my ears deceive me, Potter, or was that a compliment?"

It was more teasing than barbed and condensation collected along his ribcage, the steam in his lungs growing thicker.

Potter shook his head quickly, trying to avert the crashing train with a rushed: "I think we would have. Gotten on, I mean. Maybe even been friends."

Draco feigned a look of hurt.

"Oh, so you're telling me we're not now?" he teased, pressing his hand dramatically to his chest. "I'm wounded, Potter."

Potter's expression softened and he laughed, embarrassment fading as he shrugged out, "You know what? Sure. We can be friends. Now." His eyes searched Draco's. "Why not? Everyone else wants to move on. Maybe we can too," he reasoned.

Draco gave him a small, sad smile.

"Moving on isn't for people like us," he half-chastised. He was cutting down his own hopes more than Potter's. The world would never let that be. They could never be friends. It was an impossibility and Draco had learned to keep his distance from those. The fire of hope spread quickly and was honestly quite devastating.

The smile against Potter's mouth faded and there was a slight crease at the center of his brow.

"That's... depressing," he replied.

"The truth often is."

Draco could feel Potter withdrawing again. Good.

And fuck.

Despite himself, Draco didn't want Potter to withdraw. He didn't want him to go. He didn't want to keep avoiding him and denying his curiosity. He didn't want to stay there, anchored to the dead and feet planted firmly in the past... but he couldn't shake those shackles. He had failed his family. He should have been stronger, less inept. He should have thought of something, made a different choice.

They didn't have a choice, Potter had yelled. We were all kids. They just wanted to live.

Draco could feel his resolve crumbling around him and his expression must have faltered, body betraying him.

Potter looked almost worried as he asked, "Do you... want to talk about it?"

Draco quickly shook his head, setting his jaw. But then, as his eyes lingered on Potter's, he found himself saying, "Do you?"

Potter's reply sounded almost wistful.

"Someday."

Draco tried to ignore the wish underlining those two syllables.

Potter stepped backward.

"Night," he muttered. Draco nodded a goodnight in reply and watched him leave with a sinking stomach and deflating lungs.