Unsurprisingly, Harry didn't sleep well the night following Scrimgeour's death. Narcissa left a potion in his room to soothe his swollen neck, but the reprieve from the pain did little for his mental state. Neither Malfoy had much to say to him, though he gathered when they collected him from the drawing room, their silence was down to shock. The sight of a murdered Minister of Magic in their home wasn't likely one they expected. Harry spent the long hours of the early morning fantasising about escape. Insomnia at least gave him more time to plot and scheme.

After he did eventually drift off into a restless sleep, he woke up to the soft pop of a house elf appearing. He blinked sleepily, hand patting blindly to his side for his glasses.

"Here, young sir," a squeaky voice said as the metal frame of his glasses rested on his searching hand. Harry restored the glasses to his face, finding a small figure peering up at him from the edge of the bed, standing on tip-toes so they could see him.

"I didn't mean to wake you, young sir. I have brought your breakfast and clothes for the day."

Harry was so startled, he didn't react, not until the large brown eyes vanished. He cleared his throat, wincing at the discomfort, as he struggled to sit himself up. The house elf was thankfully still in his room having gone over to the table where there was a tray set with his morning meal.

"Um… excuse me?" Harry ventured, his voice still hoarse. The house elf started at being addressed politely. "Sorry… um… what's your name?"

The house elf stared at him suspiciously. "I cannot be telling you my name, sir. I know what you did to Dobby, sir."

"Huh?" Harry was so surprised, he sat bolt upright. "Wait… you know Dobby? Did you work with him?"

She turned sharply, placing her hands on her hips as she levelled him with a stern look.

"He was a good elf before he heard stories about you. You put ideas in his head, you did, Harry Potter. You won't be turning any more elves here."

The elf strongly reminded Harry of the Hogwarts matron, Madame Pomfrey. She huffed in disapproval, turning back to her business (which was folding a napkin for Harry to use). Harry gawped at her, taking in the clean tea towel toga that was more akin to what Hogwarts elves wore compared to the state Dobby had been in when he first met. The thought set off a wave of indignation. Harry swung his lungs from under the weight of his sheets and velvet quilt.

"H-hang on, a moment."

Just as he managed to extract himself, the elf disapparated. He groaned, arms dropping at his sides. He glanced over to the window, seeing that the elf had drawn back his drapes for him. Despite her clear dislike towards him, she appeared to be diligent in her care. Harry ran a hand around his neck, wincing at the soreness. He plodded his way over to the table at the window, squinting at the morning sunlight. Waiting for him was a full English, the sort that Vernon and Dudley would demand on their plates every weekend.

Harry glared at the plate. If the Malfoys kept feeding him like they were, he'd end up like Vernon and Dudley, the size of a walrus. He sat down to eat, not bothering to change of his pyjamas. Frustratingly, the food was exceptional and he wolfed down every bit, even mopping up the egg yolk with his toast. He lounged in the sun for a while, content to think about nothing at all. Sleep caught up with him and he drifted off. Choking on a snore, he woke himself up, dazed to find himself half-off his seat. He picked himself up, throwing the napkin that had rested on his chest while he slept. He paused, staring at the napkin that now was on the floor, thinking of how the elf folded it. His thoughts then went on how the elf left… disapparating. She didn't use the door.

"Argh, why is that important?" Harry snapped at himself, wishing desperately that he had Hermione's brain to help. He smacked himself in the forehead, closing his eyes. In his head, he pictured how Dobby could appear all over the place without notice. He even showed up at Privet Drive, doing magic that Harry got blamed for. Both Dobby and Kreacher popped around Hogwarts, following Draco Malfoy at his behest.

"Oh my God," Harry breathed out. "K-Kreacher?"

A heartbeat… another…

Seconds passed.

Nothing.

Harry glanced around, then cursed loudly. He tried again.

"Kreacher? It's… your master. I need you." He winced, feeling bad for addressing himself as much. Still, there was nothing. "Dobby?" He then tried.

When he was left still standing alone in his magical lockbox, Harry cursed again. He hoped that something hadn't happened to either elf. Kreacher wasn't exactly high up on his concerns, since the Malfoys had already sunk their hooks into the elf when they got him to betray Sirius. Dobby, however…

There was still something to his theory. Harry snatched the napkin up and dropped himself back in the seat. He couldn't reach out to the elves, but that didn't mean they couldn't help. He was in a magical prison of Voldemort's design, but when he was out of it…

Harry stilled as he thought. He had to be careful, very careful. If he was right and Kreacher or Dobby could help him, he had to pick his moment. Wasting his only chance out of desperation was beyond foolish. He needed to think like a Slytherin and not a Gryffindor. The way out wasn't through force. He had to exploit the system. More importantly, he needed outside help. Harry drummed his fingers on his thighs, thinking hard. Slipping a message to anyone outside the manor was impossible. No, he was on his own. If he did escape, he would need to flag down allies immediately. With the Ministry under Voldemort's control, that meant the Order… if they were even still around.

How could he signal for help? Even if he did get his hands on a wand, he didn't know where anyone was. If Ron and Hermione were around, hopefully in hiding, how would he reach them? He never learned how to create a patronus that could send a message.

He had to try something. Voldemort appeared to be willing to leave him to his own devices. As bored as he was, he could still think and scheme. For the moment, he needed to conserve his health. He headed into the bathroom, tending to his needs and having a shower. He caught sight of the state of his back, seeing the vivid scars that littered the plain of skin. Bruises still mottled the skin but weren't as painful as they had been. Once clean, he dressed in the clothes provided. It felt odd to be dressed smartly when all he was doing was lounging around. Boredom swiftly became a problem as Harry paced around.

He perched himself at the window when there was finally a knock at the door. His scar hadn't pained him all morning, but he was still wary of Voldemort's impromptu appearance. Out of the other two possibilities, Harry gathered that his visitor was Draco. He sighed, calling out just as he did the previous time.

"Still here," he said, suppressing the rise of bitterness. Harry didn't watch the door make its reappearance, resting his head against the cool glass as the door clicked open. He glanced at the shimmer of movement that he caught in the glass, seeing enough of the reflection to see that his guess was right. Draco entered the room quietly, closing the door behind him.

"Mother asked me to check on you," Draco said, his tone strangely subdued. Harry lifted his head at the sound, turning to acknowledge him. He wore similar attire to Harry's own, though Harry knew his own outfit was Malfoy's. He gave his white shirt and dark grey trousers a grim look before pushing himself off the window sill. "She has business outside the Manor."

"Oh," Harry said, not sure what else to say as Draco tentatively approached. "Well, as you can see, I haven't done anything reckless. Not that I could do a thing if I tried."

"There are a few antiques in here that you could damage, I suppose," Draco drawled as he tried to maintain his former arrogance, hiding his discomfort. Despite their uneasy truce, it was clear that Draco was as wary of Harry as he was of him. Harry let out a mirthless huff of a laugh, dragging his arms around himself in a protective fashion. Draco then stopped, choosing to put his hand on the chest of drawers that Harry gathered was one of the antiques at risk.

"It's… going to be quiet here over the next few days," Draco said hesitantly, not meeting Harry's eyes, "No… awkward dinners with the Dark Lord."

Harry laughed softly again, "that's a welcome relief."

"It is," Draco agreed and their eyes met, sharing the moment of reluctant camaraderie. Uncertainty then flickered in Draco's pale grey eyes. He sighed, crossing his arms. "Potter, you must realise by now that once the Dark Lord has consolidated his power, he's going to parade you like a trophy. He may be willing to give you some leeway, but you're being kept on a very short leash."

Harry bit back his reflexive retort, his pride rankling at being referred to as nothing more than a dog. Showing a little self-control, he realised that Malfoy wasn't actually trying to insult him. He was pointing out the facts.

"Honestly, I have no idea what he wants to do with me. He's brought up a few times that I'm being rehabilitated, but there's just no way he thinks I'll ever accept his world view."

Draco scowled at him.

"What?" Harry asked. "Look, we're never going to agree on this. You've been told your whole life that you and other purebloods like you are the superior race. It's been drilled into you, so much so that now you think that muggles are like vermin that need to be wiped out in order for wizards to rule."

"And why do you even care what happens to muggles?" Draco asked scathingly, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "The way you reacted yesterday… as if you love them…"

"I don't love them," Harry argued hotly, "and you don't know a damn thing, Malfoy." He stepped up to him, frowning. "Tell me, have you even met a muggle? Spoken to one? No, of course not, that would be beneath you."

Malfoy's face flushed, his eyes narrowed in a familiar look of anger.

"Why would I waste my time consorting with such filth?"

Harry shook his head, his own anger dwindling as he knew it was a lost cause.

"I guess if you did, you would be in danger of seeing them as people."

"And why don't you hate them, Potter?" Malfoy countered, pushing himself from the drawers to square up to Harry like they were back in the corridors of Hogwarts. "I heard what the Dark Lord said about your muggle family and how they treated you. Why would you stand up for scum like that?"

A hollow laugh rolled out of Harry at the sheer nerve that Malfoy had to play that card. But then he stared at Malfoy, realising then that he genuinely didn't understand why Harry didn't hate muggles.

"I don't stand up for my relatives. I don't like them, but I don't wish them to die. They aren't horrible people because they're muggles . Yeah, I hate how they'll never get to pay for treating me like dirt all my life or that I'll never get any remorse from them… but wicked people get away with doing wicked things to me. Story of my fucking life."

Harry gave Malfoy a lingering look, making sure that he knew that he considered him within the category of 'wicked people'. He then turned his back on his captor, stalking back to the window before he did something that he would later regret – such as punching Malfoy in the face. He reached the window sill, resting his hand on the lacquered wood. Malfoy had fallen silent where Harry left him, stewing in his wake. After the silence grew to be unbearably awkward, Malfoy broke it.

"My life as well."

His voice had lost its indignance, turning low and strangely mellow. It still unnerved Harry to hear him speaking to him in a civil manner. His words startled Harry and he looked over his shoulder in disbelief.

"Don't look so surprised, Potter. I may have had a pampered life within these halls, but it has been far from perfect."

Draco took a slow step towards him, putting his hands into his pockets as he looked away from Harry, gazing out the window.

"Failure simply is not an option. My father never tolerated it… never showed me any leniency. He has always been cold and distant, not one for signs of any affection or care. He's a hard man, cruel, and… well… he isn't cruel just to his enemies, let's just say that."

Harry stared at Draco, utterly taken back that he would say something so personal to him. Draco joined him at the window.

"Mother did her best to shield me from his tempers, but father has high expectations. After meeting the Dark Lord for the first time, I… understood then why he had been so hard on me. He was preparing me for service, teaching me to respect my superiors and to understand my place. My mother… can't shield me from the Dark Lord's wrath. A lesson I learnt the hard way."

"He used you to punish your father for his failures," Harry said quietly, catching Draco's eye then. "Your father was safely in Azkaban and outside his reach, so he took it out on you. Made you take the mark and an impossible mission, setting you up for failure."

"Merlin, you really aren't stupid, are you?"

"I didn't last this long on luck alone, you know," Harry said, offering a wry smile, "I'm pretty observant."

"Then you probably have 'observed' that the balance of power within the Death Eaters is fickle. You currently have more influence with the Dark Lord than my father does and he served him loyally for decades. You, his great enemy… suddenly have a position at the table."

Harry let out a long breath through his nostrils, staring through the glass out to the grounds. One of the albino peacocks was basking in the sun on the lawn below.

"I'm nothing more than one of those peacocks down there. A pet. I'm just around because it amuses him. The second I stop being interesting…"

Harry drew a finger across his throat. Draco laughed dryly, surprising Harry when he saw a slight smile curving up his mouth. Up close, Harry suddenly noticed a small beauty mark on Malfoy's cheek. His gaze jumped back up to his eyes, framed with pale lashes.

"Well, luckily for you, you are many things, Potter, but dull isn't one of them."

Harry's mouth dropped open in mock shock. "Right, I'm definitely going mad in here because that sounded a lot like a compliment."

"Don't let it get to your scarred head, Potter."

"Ah, that's better," Harry said, his face aching a little. He wondered what was the cause of the discomfort before catching his reflection in the window.

He was smiling.

He glanced back at Draco, noticing that his pale gaze had dipped to Harry's mouth, just as surprised at the smile. He then lifted his gaze. Harry became very aware of how close they were standing. He could even hear Draco's breathing.

"You are, though."

"What?" Harry blinked, confused.

"Interesting," Draco said slowly, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. "Don't tell me that you thought people only notice you because you're you ."

Harry stared at Draco as if he had grown a second head, then his own face began to warm up. He'd received the odd compliment here and there in his life, but not one from a bloke and not from his school rival. He wasn't sure how to react. He couldn't be further from his comfort zone.

"The Dark Lord won't be half as intrigued about you if you were ugly, Potter. Let's just put it like that."

" What ?" Harry spluttered, his face feeling suddenly like a furnace.

"Do I seriously have to spell this out to you? You're… good-looking." Draco muttered, then cleared his throat. "Someone must have told you this before. You're attractive, Potter. Handsome, even. Do you need a thesaurus?"

"No, I don't," Harry mumbled, intensely embarrassed and strangely giddy. "I can't believe we're talking about this."

"It's a better topic than how I helped dispose of the Minister's body last night after you witnessed his murder," Draco said in a deadpan, "or how my father is likely to die any day now… or me, for that matter."

Harry peered across at Draco, his stomach bunching. He hadn't given Scrimgeour a thought since finishing his breakfast. He looked Draco up and down, noticing then that his face was just as pale and withdrawn as it had been throughout the school year, stress taking its toll. A pang of sympathy went through him.

"I guess… better than talking about how my friends are likely being rounded up or hunted down… how I'm unlikely to see them again. How I failed each and every one of them…"

The words tumbled out of him. Draco lifted his gaze, finding Harry's. They both just looked at each other for a moment.

"Potter…" Draco then closed his eyes briefly, twitching his head to the side. "You haven't failed anyone. If anyone thinks you're a traitor or a coward, then… they aren't in a place to judge. They don't know what went on down in that chamber." He opened his eyes, looking right at Harry. "They don't know what it takes to survive."

Very suddenly, Harry had a bizarre sensation akin to vertigo. It was as if he found himself looking in a mirror, his world inverted and reflected back at him. All the horrors Harry had faced at Malfoy Manor and even before… he realised then that Draco Malfoy could understand somewhat of what he had experienced. He'd understand what it felt like to feel true fear for his life and the lives of his loved ones. He knew pain and suffering, how to live under the shadow of a mad man and how to live with the weight of an impossible burden. A kinship that Harry never expected to feel towards his hated rival stirred into life. It confused him, bewildered him even, but it grounded him at the same time. As Draco's eyes flicked between Harry's, he had the strong suspicion that he had seen Harry properly for the first time as well.

"I… er… lied earlier," Draco then said, uncertain as he stared at Harry, his eyes a little wide. "My mother didn't tell me to check on you. I… I just needed company. After last night."

The admission touched Harry. He had a strong urge to put his hand on Draco, just a touch to communicate how he understood. Because then, in that moment, he knew what he had seen in his former foe. He'd seen his own loneliness staring back at him.

"You don't need an excuse. I understand." Harry said and he meant it. "You might be an arrogant prick, but you're human. I can see that."

Rather than bristle at the insult, Draco smiled again. The sight of it ignited a strong feeling inside Harry, almost taking his breath away. It gave him hope.

Despite murder that had occurred the night before, the hallways of Malfoy Manor carried a tranquil calm in the Dark Lord's absence. It was all a pretence, yet a welcome one as it helped Draco to calm his turbulent thoughts. He could find a moment to himself, walking for leisure just to get some peace and quiet, rather than urgently rushing to serve the Dark Lord's demands. The knowledge that he was the only member of his family at residence filled him with a sense of peace that he hadn't known in some time. It gave him the courage to visit Potter without anyone knowing.

In truth, he wasn't sure what drew him to the guest rooms. There was little need for him to check on Potter when he was very unable to escape his prison. Yet, he started to feel an almost desperate need to stand in the presence of someone who wasn't his father, his aunt or the Dark Lord. His mother had left early to assist with matters at the Ministry, leaving him alone in the Manor with Wormtail for company. As he'd rather drink his own vomit than spend any time with the simpering excuse of a wizard, he found himself taking the journey to the aquila suite.

The night before, when Potter had been returned to the dining room, he'd been completely vacant. His mother had urgently suggested that he retire, ushering Potter off herself. Draco suspected the cause of Potter's visible trauma and his suspicions were confirmed when he helped Rodolphus and Wormtail with moving the corpse of the Minister from the house. His mother had been angry that their house had been marked with death once more, setting off arguments that lasted long into the night between her, Lucius and her sister.

He hadn't been sure what state Potter would be in following Scrimgeour's murder. To his surprise, Potter had been in neutral spirits. Evidently tired and prickly, but not weighed with trauma as before.

Then Draco engaged with him… and his heart started to race when Potter locked his furious eyes upon his. He found himself swept up by something so caustic and yet safe because arguing with Potter was a normal thing. Fighting with him. Clashing his will against the indomitable force that was Harry Potter. What he never expected was the thrill and how he felt more alive than he had in days, maybe even weeks. He'd never felt more exposed before, more vulnerable, and it left him exhilarated.

Details started to demand his attention. A scar on Potter's chin, the shape of his eyes behind his glasses, the peppering of stubble starting to form around his expressive mouth. Then he commented on Potter's physical appeal. The reaction took him away. Potter actually blushed, blinking almost owlishly at him in disbelief. The shyness that he betrayed in that moment was all real. Potter was painfully modest because he didn't realise just how striking he was.

Draco started to feel flustered himself. He spoke of things that he never shared with a single soul, not even his mother. The difficulties he had with his father, the pressures he dealt with, and to his surprise, Potter listened and didn't judge.

He knew that something had changed between them. They had made a truce, but something more transpired as they opened up. When they fell silent, standing side by side, Draco felt at ease. His magic wasn't humming faint warnings of danger, instead calm and at rest. He watched the peacocks mulling around on the lawn with a silent Harry Potter. Feeling almost shy, he risked a glance up to Potter's face. He appeared lost in thought, brow furrowed as he stared upwards towards the sky. The sunlight cast shadows on his face from his long lashes.

The image lodged in Draco's mind. He carried it with him when he left Potter's rooms. As he settled down in the library, confronted with the accounts, he allowed himself a moment to dwell. He couldn't keep his mind off what he'd seen. The vulnerability and the camaraderie… worse… just how soft Potter's lips looked against the angles of his jaw.

Quill in hand, Draco felt himself stiffening. Records weren't going to write themselves without his direction. He didn't need an erection to distract. The numbers and notes in front of him were so inconsequential compared to how Draco felt Potter's bicep under his hand. He could see the way Potter's irises caught the sunlight, appearing like the colour of leaves bathed in the summer sun. So green, so beautiful.

The quill dropped from his hand.

His mind was a traitor, providing unhelpful images of Potter. All of them, his eyes were that same burning green. As Draco picked up his dropped quill, he mused that he owed Blaise a pay-out. Blaise had made it clear that Potter was the pick of the season. He wasn't wrong as Draco knew that the Greengrasses had plans to proposition Potter with a contract the moment he turned seventeen.

Draco cringed at the thought. Potter with Greengrass? She'd kill him and steal his fortune the moment she could. Blaise would too, like mother like son.

He didn't get far with tallying up the expenses on their wine reserves before an interruption came from behind him. His neck prickled, listening as he heard the shuffle of footsteps in the library with him. Turning sharply, he expected to see Nocket or another elf. Instead, he was confronted with the crumpled appearance of Peter Pettigrew.

Though all called him Wormtail, Draco knew who he truly was. Presumed dead for years while Sirius Black languished in Azkaban, framed for Pettigrew's misdeeds, the rat had evaded notice for years. That was until his treachery was exposed and he was forced to seek out the Dark Lord out of fear of retribution. Not a single Death Eater treated Pettigrew with anything but disdain. His cowardice and servile nature disgusted all. Draco swallowed his own disgust, turning in his seat to look at the weak man.

"What is it?" He demanded impatiently. He glanced down at the man's hands, one flesh-coloured and the other made from living silver.

"Have you seen… him today?"

Pettigrew took a few shuffling steps forwards, moving into the light so Draco could see his trembling face clearly. Frowning with confusion and irritation, Draco considered the man with narrowed eyes.

"You are going to have to narrow that down, Wormtail," he snapped, not wanting to talk to the man much less breathe the same air.

"Potter… Harry. Have you seen him?"

Suspicious, Draco lifted his chin, considering him more carefully.

"Yes, though why should that be a concern of yours?"

"I… I take it he is confined to his quarters?" Pettigrew asked, avoiding Draco's question, his eyes darting around fearfully. "He is secure?"

"He is. Granted, he's a lot more comfortable than he was previously, but he isn't going anywhere. I will ask you again, however. Why is Potter a concern of yours? The Dark Lord expects you to tend to Ollivander… certainly not Harry Potter."

Pettigrew wrung his hands again for a moment, staring at him. He blinked quickly, clearly weighing his words.

"I knew his parents. His mother and father. I… knew him too, as a baby."

"Yes, you betrayed them," Draco said coldly and unsympathetically. "I expect you were hoping for the Dark Lord to kill him so he'd be unable to take his vengeance out on you."

Pettigrew winced and cast his gaze downwards, shaking his head. "No, no… I have never wished for his death. I knew… that James and Lily were unlikely to survive when I gave their location, but… I did not know he would try to kill Harry as well. He… he was just a little boy."

Draco pushed himself up from his seat, aghast as he looked over to the open door. He rounded on Pettigrew, seething.

"Are you mad? If anyone heard you say that, your life would be forfeit."

"My… my life?" Pettigrew let out a wild, high laugh. "What even is my life at this point?"

"It's all you have," Draco spat in disgust. "You may as well take the coward's way out… or do so before Potter takes his due. If he asks the Dark Lord for your life, do you think he'll be denied?"

Appearing wretched then, Pettigrew advanced, reaching for him. Draco moved back before he could touch him, outraged. He drew his wand then.

"You don't understand!" Pettigrew exclaimed. "You don't know how it weighs on your conscience, Draco. You are young, too young to have stained your hands in blood. You don't know how guilt eats you up inside like a gnawing hunger that you can never satisfy."

"Everyone has regrets," Draco said, though he was very unsettled with the madness shining from Pettigrew's desperate eyes. "And if you can't live with yours, I don't know what you expect me to say. As for Potter? I expect he'll be glad that you suffer."

Sucking in a derisive breath through his teeth, Draco turned away. He stalked back over to the table where he left the accounts. He waved a dismissive hand back at Pettigrew over his shoulder.

"Leave me. If you want to condemn yourself with this sort of talk, be my guest. I actually have something to live for."

Do I ?

Draco didn't hear Pettigrew leave. He settled back at his seat, feeling the warm sun on the back of his neck. Before picking up his quill and returning to the books, he looked up to the window. The green lawns stretched out, inviting and verdant. An image sprung to his mind of a pair of green eyes, catching the sun's light in a way that made them gleam with life. He saw how they warmed, a smile blooming, setting off a strange longing within him as if he wanted to catch that smile like a seeker after a snitch.

He was thinking of Potter again. Not in the usual way which had preoccupied his thoughts, wrenched with dread of seeing his pitifully beaten body and hearing his pained gasps as he drank the water he offered. Instead, he dwelled on the curve of his mouth and the pallor of his complexion. The sharp intellect that he displayed when not spitting with rage, the clearness of his gaze and the gentle warmth of his smile.

I'm just lonely… just stuck in this hell, looking for any comfort. It doesn't mean anything.

His thoughts were wild, turbulent, far from the disciplined fortress his mind was meant to be. His emotions were in disarray, confusing him with conflicting opinions that terrified him and thrilled him all at the same time. It felt a lot like diving on a broom, the freefall where the thrill of danger made him feel so alive. He didn't understand where the feelings were coming from, but he knew Potter was the source. He'd always thought Potter to be frustratingly handsome, but he never felt any semblance of attraction. He couldn't see past his hate.

Now that the hate was gone and he saw Potter as a person, everything felt different. Like he was looking at the world through new eyes. He thought of his father's reaction if he knew his traitorous feelings… his aunt's … yet the fear didn't chase them away. Instead, he thought of his mother, of her advice to help Potter find his way. Was this all part of it? Seeing Potter in a friendly light?

Would the Dark Lord approve?

Draco shook his head, huffing out a dark laugh. He must have wanted them to form some sort of understanding, why else would he have them interact? He let Draco get close, far closer than any of his other trusted Death Eaters. He clearly wanted Potter to form a bond with him, just something to use to ensure his complete control. He let his mother get in close as well, aware that Potter would seek out any comfort offered his way. He then recalled what his mother said about manipulation and exploitation. The Dark Lord knew how to use people and Potter had his undivided attention. He'd been clear in his intention to recondition Potter… and it appeared to be working.

His mother didn't return to the Manor until the late afternoon. By then, Draco had managed to finish the accounts and spent the rest of the afternoon taking inventory of their cellars and larder. It was tiresome work, but he had taken on important responsibilities as the heir of the House. His father appeared content to drink his way through their cellar. He'd been on his way up to the kitchen when he saw his mother arriving in the entrance hall, accompanied by some of her peers who she used to take tea with.

Draco curiously watched, not revealing himself too soon as he wasn't entirely sure what his social status was. He had been a fugitive for most of the summer, though with the Ministry now under the Dark Lord's rule, he expected his arrest warrant would disappear along with Snape's… and everyone else's. He made his way to the sun room where he expected his mother to head once she had made her farewells. Sure enough, he just finished preparing his own tea when she entered. He looked over, taking in her mint green robes and white silk gloves.

"Draco, is all well?"

Not entirely sure how to answer, he just nodded. It appeared to be acceptable enough.

"It will be just us and Harry for dinner tonight so I thought we should dine in here. Much less… foreboding, wouldn't you say?"

"Not father?"

"No… he's indisposed," She sighed, approaching with a tense smile in place. "I think it is unwise to have him and Harry in close proximity."

"And Aunt Bella?"

"She has been set loose on the hunt for traitors."

Draco read from her what she truly meant. Bellatrix had gone after their estranged sister, Andromeda, and her daughter. He grimaced. Though he had never met his cousin, he didn't exactly wish her death. From what little he knew, she was an Auror and a little eccentric, even marrying a werewolf. He looked up at his mother, seeing her guarded smile as she hovered close. The subject of her elder sister rarely came up.

"I am going to run a bath. Will you send word to the kitchen and let the elves know that we will dine here tonight?"

"Yes, mother."

He watched her go, sipping his tea. He winced at the thought of what Bellatrix was capable of in her wrath. The Longbottoms never regained their sanity after she was through with them. He heard stories from her own lips about how she'd learned to master the Dark Arts, each tale as gruesome as the next. He had no idea how she ended up so damaged and demented while his mother could be kind and gentle. He wondered what his other aunt was like. It had been a bold move indeed to run off with a mudblood and forsake her family. Now, her husband would likely be killed and her daughter shipped off to Azkaban. As for her… he didn't want to think.

Before long, the sky outside started to darken. Draco made the necessary preparations for dinner, standing by as the elves lit the candles and set the places, crystal and china floating around in an organised dance. He held a glass himself, sipping at the wine as his thoughts danced in his head just as wildly as the tableware. Hearing a sound behind him, Draco turned. He caught a hint of movement, then a flash of silver. His jaw set. Wormtail. He hadn't spared him a thought since their talk in the library.

Not much longer afterwards, he wondered if he was meant to fetch Potter from his chambers. Just as he turned to leave, he saw his mother descending from the stairs through the doorway, joined by a tall, dark-haired man. Draco started in surprise before recognising Potter from afar. He stood at his mother's side, speaking to her. His hands weren't bound, instead moving a little as he gestured as he spoke. It was so strange to see him, casually engaging with his mother as if he wasn't there against his will. As if sensing his stare, Potter looked up. His mother followed his gaze and rested her hand on his elbow, guiding him towards the sun room.

Entering the room, Potter took in the new surroundings with an appreciative look. He even smiled, his cheek dimpling where it was dappled in the candlelight. Draco couldn't help but feel a rise of pride at the sight of Potter being impressed with his home. He moved automatically to join his mother.

"Uh uh! Just because you wear the Malfoy ring does not mean you can imbibe before a meal," his mother admonished at once. "Put it down at your place."

Flushing at once, Draco flustered with embarrassment, but didn't argue as he stomped over to the table and set the glass down. When he turned back, he noticed Potter hiding a smile behind his hand. Ego smarting at being chastised in front of Potter, he didn't head back over, instead waiting for them to join.

If sitting at the main dining room table with Potter and the Dark Lord was uncomfortable, Draco had been mad to think that things would be less awkward with just him and his mother. Potter appeared to be of the same mind, his face still pink as he took his seat at the small round table. Thankfully, at least, Wormtail wasn't serving them. Instead, Nocket hovered behind, orchestrating the decanters to pour drinks and the napkins to fold on their naps. His mother appeared unfazed as she calmly looked between them both. As one well versed in surviving unpleasant formalities, she took their awkwardness in her stride.

Starters appeared with soft pops – one of Draco's favourites, scallops. Potter appeared mildly puzzled as he cut into the dish, but the gleam in his eye gave away his enjoyment. Draco couldn't stop glancing, taking in his careful table manners and measured movements. It was as if someone very strict had taught him how to behave at the table. He barely made a sound.

"I was saying to Harry on the way down that I don't think it should be a problem for you to show him some more of the Manor tomorrow," his mother said after a few awkward moments passed once she finished her portion. "Perhaps you can both study together in the Library."

Draco nearly choked on his last mouthful, grasping his wine to clear his throat.

"Attendance at Hogwarts will be compulsory for you both," she said pointedly, glancing at Potter. He didn't react, telling Draco that his mother must have told him what the Dark Lord expected. "You must have assignments for the summer?"

"Er… well… I didn't expect to go back for my last year," Potter said carefully, placing his cutlery down. He reached for his own wine glass, flushing a little as he drank.

"The Dark Lord places a high value on education. He will not want your keen mind to stay idle, not even in captivity," she said lightly, not glossing over Potter's incarceration. His nostrils flared a little, but he didn't bite back. He drank some wine, putting down his glass.

"I wouldn't say no to a bit of freedom," he said quietly, his voice eerily subdued. "This is really good, by the way." He added, offhandedly, gesturing down to the plate. "I don't think I've eaten food this nice before."

He appeared to be flushing even more. Draco finished his portion, catching his mother's eye. Her brow lifted pointedly. He sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Alright, I'll take you to the library tomorrow, Potter."

He shook his head at his mother, seeing the small uplift in the corners of her mouth. She very clearly wanted him to keep 'helping' Potter.

Potter then suddenly slammed his hands on the table. The crash was so sudden, Draco jumped in alarm. Potter, however, was trying to speak… and couldn't. His face had turned shockingly red. Just as red as it had gone the night before while the Dark Lord throttled him. Sweat slicked over his face as he strained to breathe. He brought one hand up to his throat, then pointed at his wine glass.

Draco understood at once. He kicked his chair back in alarm, standing just as Potter toppled out of his seat, choking. His mother mirrored him, immediately working out what was going on. He strode around Potter where he was starting to seize on the floor. Draco snatched up the glass, sniffing at it. Sure enough, there was a faint trace of sweetness. Honey… used to disguise the taste of the poison. Potter must have realised at much just as he felt the effects.

His mother already had Potter rolled on his back, ripping open his shirt. She looked urgently up at Draco.

"Call him. Draco, call Voldemort right now. He's dying."

The use of his name shocked him into action and he ripped back his sleeve, exposing his Dark Mark. He slapped his hand on the brand, his palm searing hot as he activated the magic that linked him to the Dark Lord who placed it. Black flooded the mark, turning it into a tattoo. All the while, Potter was fighting for his life, clawing at his neck. Draco placed the image in his mind, protecting it down the bond to the Dark Lord. He felt the scratch against his mental barriers, pain flaring through him briefly.

On the floor, Potter's lips were turning blue. His struggles were visibly weakening. Draco's mother held his face, her hair hanging over him.

"Hold on, Harry. Don't give up. Keeping fighting..."

His hand was clutching hers. Tears were streaking down Potter's face as his eyes started to roll back.

The sheer violence of the Dark Lord's apparation sent a shockwave through the room. Over the shocked scream, there was a roar of rage. Draco staggered back at the force of the magic that blasted into him. There he was, the Dark Lord, standing over Potter where he had just ripped through all their enchantments in his haste to get to Potter.

Draco watched as his mother clambered back, her breast heaving, tears streaked down her own face. The Dark Lord pushed his hand under Potter's neck and lifted him like he was stuffed with feathers. Potter drifted upwards, still, his arms limp.

The Dark Lord started chanting, his words sibilant, hissing in parseltongue. Potter's chest bucked, his back arching. A hoarse gasp burst out of Potter's gaping mouth, followed by a stream of pale blue liquid. The Dark Lord waved his wand over Potter's mouth, causing the liquid to raise up in a glistening ribbon. His red eyes were transfixed on the liquid and he drew his hand away from Potter, leaving him suspended in the air.

"It was in the wine, my lord," Draco said, stepping forwards. He reached for the glass that he inspected. "It smells of honey."

"Well done, Draco. Well done indeed." The Dark Lord said, leaving Potter as he paced towards Draco, carrying the poison with him. He deposited the tendril into the wine glass. "Narcissa, place Harry on one of the day-beds? Keep him stable. A second longer and he would have been beyond my grasp."

"O-of course, my lord," she breathed out. With care, she gathered Potter in her own levitation charm. Potter's head lolled to the side where he had passed out. She looked back at Draco as she took Potter with her, but he couldn't share in her shock, not while they were in serious danger.

Someone had poisoned Potter. It hadn't been him. It hadn't been his mother.

As he watched the Dark Lord swirling the glass, his face a picture of cold fury, Draco knew who had been the culprit. From the dark anger thrumming around the room, making the windows shake, the Dark Lord knew as well.