Potter has nightmares too. I don't know why I assumed he wouldn't.

Time had never been particularly on Harry's side, and it seemed the end of the war hadn't changed that fact. It continued regardless of how desperately Harry needed it to stop—to pause momentarily so he could recalibrate himself to the massive shifts his life tended to undergo. It was too fast, and it left little room to come to terms with much of anything.

He was dizzy with Malfoy's intentions, and he stumbled into the next day where everyone acted like the sky was the same color, and food tasted the same, and Malfoy didn't want to violently end his life. But Harry had seen it, and he couldn't unsee it, and he couldn't make any sense of it either.

The day after their confrontation, he watched Malfoy, his gaze lingering on his face long after he turned away, and tried to overlay the boy he was seeing with the one he had faced the night before. He couldn't understand it. There were similarities, of course, the sharp curve of his nose and the delicate overlap where blonde hair brushed his shoulders, but it hardly seemed like the same person. The spite in Malfoy's words had disappeared into a docile lilt, silent more often than not, and his face remained schooled into contented boredom.

It was much the same as he had been before, but now that Harry knew what was festering beneath the curated exterior, he couldn't force himself to believe it anymore.

They returned to classes on Monday, resuming the schedule they had grown used to in the first week, but Harry couldn't focus. He spent most of his day fixated on the tremor in Malfoy's hands. It wasn't constant, he realized after it disappeared for an hour in History of Magic, but it returned often and at varying intensities, and Harry couldn't seem to identify a trigger.

On Tuesday, he dreamed of Cedric. It wasn't the usual dream where he relived the conversation that brought him to his slaughter. It was after everything happened, after he fought Voldemort, and after he spoke to his parents. He was running, invisible hands holding him back from reaching Cedric's body until he was forced to take the cup, abandoning the corpse to the graveyard where it would rot, forgotten and alone. He woke up gasping, the crumpled form of his dead friend burned into his vision.

On Wednesday, Harry tried to talk to Malfoy. He prodded him with questions and leaned over to make comments when he had them, but Malfoy wasn't impressed and only responded occasionally to answer the more practical of the bunch. It was all the same, though. After all, the questions Harry desperately needed answered weren't the kind he thought Malfoy would entertain.

And then it was Friday, and Harry was no closer to solving the puzzle, and he had run out of ideas. There was no one to fight, no evil to defeat, and Harry already knew what was wrong. There was nothing he could do, yet every time he caught Malfoy drifting, his stare going blank and distant, he heard Malfoy's words: 'Not a single person would care,' and he couldn't drop it.

"Would you stop that?" Pansy asked, her face pinched. It was Friday evening, and classes were long over for the day. Malfoy was in the suite bathroom, and Pansy sat against his headboard, her uniform casual and untucked.

"Sorry," Harry said, consciously stilling his fingers where they had been tapping anxious rhythms into the wood of his desk.

"Don't apologize. Just stop being weird." She gave him an incredulous look and flipped through a few pages in her magazine. "I'll get a migraine just looking at you." Pansy was the newest addition to their dorm, treating Malfoy's bed like the Slytherin common room most days. Harry suspected Malfoy had asked her to do this to limit the time they spent alone together, but it seemed counterproductive to question it.

A door closed behind Harry, and he resolutely didn't look up from his textbook as Malfoy brushed past him to rejoin Pansy on the bed. They'd been reading for a while now, Pansy in her magazine and Malfoy in a novel (though Harry hadn't seen him turn the pages often enough for the reading to be believable.)

"Potter's being weird," Pansy said, adjusting to make room for Malfoy beside her. "Have you noticed?"

"My apologies, Pans. " Malfoy sighed. " Unfortunately, that's just how Gryffindors are. They have no sense of social awareness."

Harry frowned, feeling distinctly outnumbered in a conversation he was not a part of.

Malfoy curled into the space between her and the wall, his book abandoned at the foot of the bed. He rested his head in Pansy's lap, and as if it was something rehearsed between the two, he replaced her hand, holding the magazine open while she carded her fingers through his hair. Something twisted in Harry, and he looked away.

Malfoy was a touchy person when it came to his friends, constantly finding casual ways to drape himself over them, existing in the same space like there was nothing more natural. Seeing him lean into Blaise's side or hold Pansy's hand was an everyday occurrence, and Harry found himself perplexed each time Malfoy reached for them, unworried and easy. Harry had never gotten the hang of that kind of casual intimacy, despite how much effort he put into learning. He no longer let his body go rigid when someone hugged him, learning through trial and error to match the other person's pressure and where to put his hands. Still, he never knew when to initiate or how long they should last, and the thought of navigating these smaller gestures of affection left him hopelessly lost on where to begin.

Was that ease attainable to him if he worked hard enough? Or had he missed some invisible window while he was locked away in the cupboard, where affection became intertwined with relationships, and now this was just who he was: permanently isolated in his own body?

Pansy closed the magazine, looking towards Harry with a worrying gleam in her eye. "Tell me something, Potter." Malfoy rolled his eyes. "How much of what I read about you in the Prophet is true?"

Harry stared, taken aback by the question. Pansy rarely included him in conversation, preferring to pretend he was an unfortunate piece of decorative furniture intruding into their space.

"Well?" She prodded.

"Um, I'm not sure I could tell you," Harry said, trying not to look at Malfoy. "I haven't read the Prophet in months." Since the trials, his mind provided unhelpfully.

Pansy hummed, disappointed but not deterred, "Did you really go on Holiday this Summer with Viktor Krum? They said you went to Bulgaria."

Harry snorted a laugh, "What?"

"Hmm, I thought not."

"Potter would never go on Holiday," Malfoy said conspiratorially. "He'd much rather save abandoned crups from drowning in a river. It's a better photo op."

Pansy chuckled, "No, I imagine he volunteers at an orphanage for the blind." Harry had the distinct feeling of a door shutting, his presence in the conversation no longer necessary as they devolved into speculations of how the legendary Harry Potter spends his weekends, each suggestion more eccentric and bleeding-heart than the last. It was as if he wasn't even there, so he turned back to his textbook, checking that Malfoy's wand was where he had left it in a desk drawer, and tried very hard not to think of anything at all.

Harry had yet to figure out where to physically stand in relation to the group of Slytherins. In the dorm, he had his designated space that he kept himself to, but in the hall the rules were less intuitive. Walking with them felt intrusive, but the ten-foot buffer while they walked to dinner was uncomfortable and made him want to vanish into the brick walls around him. It was obvious he didn't belong there, and the whispered conversations that got quieter when he approached were just further reminders that he wasn't wanted. It was confusing because they weren't his friends, and he didn't necessarily want them to be, but still, the lonely part of him ached.

Pansy cackled at something Blaise said, and Harry looked up from the floor just in time to see Malfoy bent over, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Harry was stunned, his eyes snagging on the crinkles at the corner of Malfoy's eyes. He tried to remember the last he'd seen Malfoy laugh, but he couldn't. Maybe before sixth year?

"Draco, would you help me fix it?" Pansy laughed, her hands holding her hair flat against her scalp.

Malfoy breathlessly nodded, his grin lingering as they jogged into the girl's restroom.

Harry sighed, settling in against the wall. They were already late, but it hardly mattered, and Harry wasn't hungry anyway. Ron and Hermione would be secluded in the Library tonight, and Harry would have joined them if not for obvious obligations.

What was he doing here?

He asked himself the same thing almost daily, and his incompetence was probably evident to anyone who looked at him. Harry couldn't get Malfoy to talk, much less laugh. McGonagall had chosen him because she thought he was more capable than he was, and the inevitable disaster was just a matter of time.

"You alright there, Potter?" Blaise sidled up to him, his hands relaxed in his pockets.

Harry attempted a smile and shrugged. Blaise was the easiest of the trio to get along with. He was intelligent but reserved, and when he talked, it was because he had something to say.

"Wound a little tight, I suppose," Harry said.

Blaise nodded, leaning against the wall beside him. "If it means anything, we appreciate what you're doing. It's a relief to know someone else is looking out for him."

"Of course." Harry's smile turned sad, "I don't feel like I'm doing very much good, though."

Blaise bumped his shoulder, "Welcome to the club."

They stood in silence for a beat, and Harry wondered if the conversation was meant to be over. Blaise spoke again, "Do you think he's doing any better?"

Harry stared. If either of them knew that, it would be Blaise, not him. "He doesn't say much to me, so it's hard to tell."

"I worried that might be the case" Blaise, crossed his arms over his chest, letting out a long exhale as if he was disappointed in something Harry had done.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't mean to be rude, Harry, but sometimes you treat him more like a problem than a person, and it shows."

Harry swallowed, rubbing his thumb into his index finger. "I don't know how I'm supposed to fix that."

"You could start with his name, maybe." Blaise offered, his gaze trained on the bathroom door.

"I do use his name." Probably too much if he asked Ron.

Blaise raised his eyebrows skeptically. Oh, he meant Malfoy's first name: Draco. Harry turned it over in his head, feeling the ridges of the syllables like some foreign thing on his tongue.

"His friends call him Draco. I think you should, too." Blaise's tone was firm but gentle, and before Harry could reply, Pansy reappeared with Malfoy on her heels. Blaise grinned and pushed off the wall to join them, leaving Harry to drift behind them once again.

Friends. Was that the implication? That he should try harder to be Malfoy's—no, Draco's, he corrected experimentally—friend? It seemed impossible, but what part of this whole thing wasn't? He supposed it was at least actionable, something to work towards.

He frowned, shoving his hands into his pockets. He wished Ron wasn't being supportive. If anyone was going to talk him down from pursuing a friendship with Draco Malfoy, it would have been him. Could he be friend with someone like Malfoy? Someone who believed the things he did-not to mention the things he had actually done.

He was quiet through dinner, making idle conversation with Neville while the Slytherin's chatted amongst themselves. He picked at his food and smiled when he needed to, trying his best to keep up with Neville's Herbology discussion enough to make comments here and there. He was admittedly distracted, and after a while, Neville excused himself and it was just Harry left as the sole Gryffindor representative.

Harry was exhausted. He hadn't slept well again last night, and his eyelids drooped.

"Hey," he said to the back of Draco's head. "Hey," he said again somewhat louder. No response. He closed his eyes, mustering himself to let the decision be easy. "Hey, Draco."

Malfoy's head swiveled around, his face contorting quickly between confused and annoyed. Blaise grinned at Harry, winking past a bite of apple.

"Would you mind if we headed back early? I'm wiped." Harry said.

He had settled on confused, and his eyes scanned Harry for signs of ill-intent. "What did you say?" Draco asked.

"Can we head back-"

"No, not that." Draco sniped, "What did you call me?"

"Your name."

Malfoy shut his mouth, aghast. He glanced to Blaise for support and found none, Pansy showed no signs of outrage either. He turned back to Harry, cautious. "I suppose we can go now, if you'd like."

And it was the skittish look in Draco's eyes that told him maybe Harry wasn't the one that would need convincing. Friends, Harry thought, nodding goodbye to the others. It can't be that hard, right?