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The corridor outside the courtroom was cold, dark and devoid of life. The green and black tiles adorning the walls and floor seemed determined to suck any warmth or remaining body heat from their occupants, leaving them with nothing but the shivering anticipation for what awaited them on the other side of the heavy wooden doors. Even the candles in their sconces flickered and waned, trying desperately to stay alight. Breaths hung in clouds of white, bloodless lips clamped tightly shut, every tiny whimper and moan magnified and echoed off the walls. Resignation and desolation settled like a pall upon slightly shaking shoulders, a cloak weaved together with strands of guilt and anger and self-loathing.

There was nobody else in the corridor, not even any guards. Prisoners awaiting their trials had their wands confiscated, and there was nowhere for them to go except in. There was nobody to wait with him; everyone he knew had already been sentenced.

Draco Malfoy looked at the doors, and he waited. It had been so long since he had seen the sun.

Malfoy, D. Wizengamot hearing for charges of Crimes Against Wizardkind.

The defendant is charged with the following crimes...

The courtroom was circular, the ceiling so high that it could barely be seen, the walls made of stone. Benches surrounded the centre of the room like Quidditch stands, filled with a crowd, waiting to be entertained. The tall, high backed chair stood on a raised dais in the centre, facing the lines of benches holding a sea of formally dressed witches and wizards; his judges, jury, and executioners. Although The Kiss had recently been removed as a form of punishment, so maybe executioners wasn’t quite right.

...with the following crimes:

That he did knowingly take the Dark Mark, signifying himself as a member of the self-named Death Eaters, aligning himself with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named against the Wizarding population...

That he did knowingly. Was it really knowingly, if he had never been taught anything different? Although, Draco supposed, that wasn’t exactly true, either. He’d been taught differently, he’d just chosen not to pay any attention to it.

That he did knowingly allow entry to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to a group of Death Eaters (addendum 2, attached below), resulting in the following: destruction of school property, injury and permanent disfiguration and affliction to several Ministry workers, and the death of Albus Dumbledore...

Dumbledore. Did it still count if Draco lowered his wand? Of course it did, because he was still the reason they were all there, on top of that tower.

That he did knowingly allude with his family to keep several members of the Wizarding public as prisoners in his home, including two underage Hogwarts students, Mr Ollivander and a Gringotts goblin...

A gringotts goblin. He had to smother a slightly hysterical laugh, because yes, he’d certainly done that. He’d helped drag the Lovegood girl from the Hogwarts train and locked her up in his family’s freezing basement, barely giving her enough to eat while she was there, but sure, let them focus on the old Wandmaker and the goblin.

That he did knowingly enter Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts with the intention of fighting with those against the Ministry, hoping to aid the Dark Lord in his rise to power...

Battle of Hogwarts. That’s what they were calling it now? He’d missed a lot while he’d been locked up in Azkaban.

In the case of the first crime, how does the defendant plead?

He’d never really understood, when he was truly young, the way things really were, the way the rest of the world worked. He’d grown up in his huge manor house, the best of everything at his fingertips. His own rooms, filled with the latest toys, his own owl and crup to torment. An entire contingent of house elves ordered to do his bidding, whether it be running his bath or playing hide and seek with him again and again until he was worn out. He hardly saw his parents, but that didn’t matter. It was just the way things were; Father would be out all day doing Very Important Things, and Mother would spend her time in the parlour, looking resplendent in all her finery, and Draco would have the house elves to keep him occupied. It was the way things were done.

The few friends he had were the same, too. Only children, because their parents never needed more than one; perfect genes were in their blood. His father’s friends would bring their families to the manor, and the men would retire to the drawing room to talk about Grown Up Things. The women would ensconce themselves in the parlour to talk about the latest fashions in Paris and what they would be wearing to the next Ministry ball. And Draco and the other children would be left to amuse themselves. They all understood how it was done, that they weren’t to run about the garden like those filthy muggle children, soiling their clothes and skin with dirt. No, they were to be perfect at all times, take gentle strolls through the rose beds so as not to get grass stains on their knees. It was more than a little boring at times, but it was the way things were done.

It wasn’t always like that, of course. There were times when Draco would be allowed to play on his broom outside, dressed in the finest imitation quidditch leathers his father’s money could buy. Some sacrifices had to be made in order to fully prosper, so the occasional mud stain received during those times were forgiven far more easily than at any other. It was still frowned upon, because brooms were supposed to keep you away from the ground, so if you landed hard enough to muddy up your clothes, then you weren’t doing it right. Things should always be done right, it was the way things were done.

The only glimpse that Draco got that made him think that this wasn’t the way things were for everybody, was when he became old enough to receive lessons from governesses. The first, a strict old man who had been a friend of his grandfather Abraxas, had only lasted a week, slamming the front door behind him as he insisted to Draco’s father that he couldn’t possibly teach a child that liked to hang onto his mother’s skirts as much as Draco did. Draco had thought this quite unfair, because he hardly ever saw his mother’s skirts, much less get close enough to put his hands on them. He’d quite enjoyed watching the spectacle that had been his father hissing indignantly at the old goat, because good riddance to smelly rubbish, but then his father had turned cold grey eyes on Draco and informed him that if he didn’t grow a spine soon that he would no longer be welcome within the Malfoy home. His tone had brooked no argument, and so all Draco could do was nod his acquiescence, even though he hadn’t understood what he had done wrong. He’d behaved exactly as his father did, so how could that be wrong?

His second tutor had lasted almost half a year, before his father had come across an afternoon lesson of theirs. Maria had decided to teach Draco out in the garden, telling him about the earth and the sun, and the plants that grow. She’d made up a song for him to learn, to help him remember the things that help flowers grow - the sun comes up, the rain comes down, flowers growing all around - and Draco was laughing his way through the second verse, his hands held up high above him as he did the actions. It made Maria laugh, and Draco did it over and over; she looked so pretty when she laughed, even more so when it was him that had made her do it. And then Lucius had come home from the Ministry early, enraged to find his son having a break instead of learning like he should be doing. Maria had left in a swirl of pretty pink robes and tear-stained cheeks, and Draco had been severely reprimanded for not taking his lessons seriously.

His third tutor had lasted all the way up until Draco had received his letter from Hogwarts. Miss Appletree had been a mix of his two previous teachers; older than Maria, and more severe; she never laughed, not once in all the years that Draco had sat with her in the study, reading dry books and answering questions that she posed after he finished each chapter. But she was nicer than his first tutor had been, praising him when he got full marks, and not muttering under her breath when he didn’t, instead just directing his attention to where he had gone wrong. It wasn’t a lot of fun, but his other friends, like Pansy and Gregory and Vincent, they all had tutors too. It was the way things were done.

But it was the lessons he had with his father that confused him slightly, not that he ever let it show. By the time Lucius deemed him old enough to begin receiving instruction from him, Draco was also old enough to begin travelling to Diagon Alley with his mother, on the days she felt like going out and buying herself and her son new robes. His father taught him on the proper conduct of pureblood wizards, but what little Draco saw of the world outside of his manor seemed to contradict his firmly spoken words. He'd been told that magical creatures were nothing but savages, below even the notice of a true wizard, and yet goblins looked after their money. Pureblood wizards need only one child, because perfection was already guaranteed, and yet Draco saw many children running around the shops with their siblings. Muggles were filthy, dirty, unlearned things that should be avoided at all costs, and yet Draco could see their beautifully built buildings as they towered over Diagon Alley. Mudbloods were nothing but criminals, intent on stealing magic for themselves and forcing purebloods to bow down before them, and yet Draco had seen them, coming in through the pub from the city surrounding them, fresh faced and wide eyed, and not a single one of them had looked anything other than happy to be there.

He’d tried, once, to explain his thoughts to his father, to wonder if maybe this wasn’t the way things were done after all, not everywhere, but it had done nothing but anger Lucius. He’d hissed furiously at Draco, told him in no uncertain terms exactly what was expected of him. He was a Pureblood, and he had a duty to uphold their way of life, and the ways of the Malfoys that had come before him. Lucius’s word was law, and if Draco ever got any more such silly notions in his head, Lucius would make sure they would be the last, did he understand?

Draco hadn’t, not really, not when he remembered being told to grow a spine and think for himself. How could he think for himself if he was only allowed to think what his father thought? But he’d apologised and nodded anyway, and decided that it didn’t really matter. What mattered was what his father wanted, and so Draco would give it to him, because that’s the way things were done.

“But they were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.”

Draco hadn’t really understood the boy’s coldness in his reply, because surely that was a question that all purebloods asked potential new friends, wasn’t it? He’d thought himself rather clever for having worked out his father’s lessons; he could stand on his own two feet and make his own friends, instead of just the ones his father deemed worthy, but he had to make sure to follow the rules Lucius had laid out for him. No half-bloods - unless their wizarding ancestry was very strong - and definitely no mudbloods.

”You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.”

Draco hadn’t understood it. Because now he knew who the boy had been, knew that even though he was only a half-blood, his father had been a Potter, one of the oldest wizarding families there was. He’d even heard the name before, whispered in his own home by his father and his friends, on the odd occasion that Draco had lingered outside his study during their Grown Up meetings. Surely Potter should want nothing more than to be friends with Draco, especially with his own father dead. Draco would be able to help him, would be able to teach him in all the proper wizarding ways, just as Lucius had taught him.

It wasn’t until he’d spent his first week at Hogwarts that Draco realised that his father had painted a rather one-sided view of how their world worked. But by then, it was too late.

That he did knowingly take the Dark Mark.

Because he was. He’d known what taking the Mark had meant, he’d had it drilled into his head from the time he could understand words. It was the highest honour a wizard could accept, and so what if other people didn’t feel that way, people like Potter and his friends, or the teachers at school. What did any of them know, compared to Lucius Malfoy? What did it matter if Draco had started to doubt the word of his father, once he’d seen exactly what being part of the Dark Lord’s service meant?

Nothing. It had meant nothing then, because he wasn’t supposed to doubt, he was supposed to follow, because that’s the way it was done. And it meant nothing now, because the question was, had Draco knowingly taken the Dark Mark, and he had. That’s all there was to it.

He swallowed. “Guilty.”

In the case of the second crime, how does the defendant plead?

They’d laughed at him, they all had. Sitting in a circle around the dining room he had once used to run across in his bare little feet, causing the house elves to groan in horror at all the scuff marks they’d have to get rid of before his mother could see. It was an impossible task, and they all knew it, and they knew the Dark Lord had given it to Draco not because he thought he might succeed but because it would be amusing to watch him fail. It was a punishment for Draco’s family, for his father losing Potter in the Ministry of Magic and getting caught, and the only one not laughing was his mother, who sat next to him with her face a frozen mask. She had looked at him out of the corner of her eye when he had accepted the mission, as though she thought he might have declined. But what else could Draco have done? It was either take the Dark mark or die, and then it was take the mission or watch his mother die. It wasn’t a choice, not for Draco. He’d ignored the jeering and laughter as best he could, his jaw clamped rigidly shut against the anger that threatened to leak out, the retorts he wanted to scream at these people hiding inside his own home. He had been so angry he might have been able to get out more than a terrified whimper, and so he held onto it, letting his rage give him strength. They wanted to watch him fail at his task? Draco would make sure they were all choking on their own tongues by the time the year was through.

The school year started before his father had been released from Azkaban, and Draco let the anger at that fuel him as much as possible. He tried to act normally, but it was impossible; he was different now, separated from his friends by a constantly aching arm and a mission weighing on his mind. He never really stopped to think about what completing his task would mean, he was too caught up with the urge to make them all pay for laughing at his family, with wanting to show them exactly what a Malfoy was capable of.

He’d thought of the Vanishing Cabinet almost straight away, while he was still pacing sleeplessly in his rooms before he left for school. But he’d known it was a longshot; breaking things, Draco could manage, but he’d never tried to fix something before. He’d bought the necklace on a whim, because the sooner he could wipe the grins off their faces the better as far as he was concerned. There had also been a large part of him that hoped he could complete his task from a distance; he couldn’t think too much about having to get up close to his target. But even as he found ways to send the cursed objects towards his headmaster, Draco spent his days in the Room of Requirement, running his hands over the stained and acid burned wood, looking for the damage and thinking up ways to mend it. As much as he loathed to think so, he would need help if he was going to keep his mother safe.

The anger he held onto kept him going for as long as he could, but he felt time begin to unravel it and dread begin to grow in its wake. He stopped sleeping, every spare moment consumed with fixing the stupid cabinet. He stopped caring that Crabbe and Goyle kept arguing with him and complaining about the tasks he set for them. He might have yelled at them, told them how polyjuicing themselves and standing around in a corridor for a few hours was nothing compared to the weight that was on his shoulders, but he was too tired, too distracted, too fucking terrified, to try and dredge up the usual Malfoy confidence and authority. He retreated whenever he saw Severus coming his way, pleading with him to let him help. Because how could Draco stop them from laughing at him and his family if he did? He could already hear his Aunt Bella’s grating laugh, Aww, poor ickle Draco, needed help from his teacher, did he? No, Draco had to do this alone or die trying, otherwise he and his family would never be anything more than punching bags for the rest of them. His family had been some of the most loyal, and this is how they were rewarded for that?

It had been almost too easy, in the end. Just a couple of loose boards at the back of the cabinet, that had disrupted the flow of the materialising magic, keeping its occupant in a state of continual travel, buffeted from one doorway to the other. A couple of hits with his wand, and the panels had realigned themselves and the magic began flowing uninterrupted once more. Less than an hour later and his pocket had burned hot, and he’d known it was time. He hadn’t let himself think about it, because if he had, that would have been the moment when he had balked, broken the cabinet again and run away, down to his dorm room to cower underneath his sheets like the snivelling child they all thought he was. Except that he wasn’t, he had come this far, and now all he had to do was send the message to prove it.

But he’d had to do a lot more than that, hadn’t he? He’d had to climb the steps to the top of the Astronomy Tower and cast the Morsmordre. And then he’d had to wait for his moment, because getting them all here hadn’t been his mission, had it? Killing Dumbledore had been.

And then there had been people there that Draco didn’t know, and before he’d known what was happening he was stumbling over a body and climbing the stairs once more, and then he was face to face with his headmaster with his wand raised....

And he couldn’t do it.

He’d wanted to, at first, when he’d seen the serene look on Dumbledore’s face, leaning back against the wall as though he had nowhere better to be. His calm deductions and reasoning out of all Draco had done throughout the year had infuriated Draco almost as much as the laughter and jeering of those he’d brought into the school. For a moment, Draco had been proud to share his story, to show this stupid old man just as he’d shown the rest of the Dark Lord’s followers: He was a Malfoy, and he was fucking brilliant. He’d worked out what the Vanishing Cabinet was, he’d worked out what was wrong and fixed it so that it worked properly again, he’d found a way to know where Dumbledore was, and he’d managed to sneak people into the one place in the wizarding world that everyone had thought impenetrable. He had done that, Draco Malfoy, with a Mark on his arm and so much terror in his throat that he could barely speak, his wand hand trembling and dipping, because he’d done all of that, and yet he couldn’t do the one thing he had been tasked with, and Dumbledore - that crazy old bastard - knew it.

Everything that he had done didn’t matter then, and that he hadn’t been the one to complete the task didn’t matter now. That he did knowingly allow entry to Hogwarts, resulting in the death of Albus Dumbledore. That was what Draco had done, and the Veritaserum coursing through his veins could only give one answer:

“Guilty.”

In the case of the third crime, how does the defendant plead?

For the first time in years, Draco had boarded the Hogwarts Express feeling indifferent. He’d always looked forward to going home, especially for Christmas, where he got to spend a few weeks not having to think about rules or keep his mouth shut in case the wrong person overheard/ He looked forward to spending Christmas morning with his mother, and the afternoon in his rooms, looking through the latest haul of gifts he had been given. He would take long walks out in the frosty grounds, content in the knowledge that he wouldn’t accidentally come across Potter and his cronies, or anyone else for whom he had to wear a mask. Christmas was a time of change at the Ministry, and so Lucius was around even less during those holidays than during any other, and so for a while Draco could just be. It used to be his favourite time of year.

But then last year had happened, and now his home was probably the most dangerous place he could be, where the mask he wore for so many people wasn’t just proper form, but necessary for his survival.

But Hogwarts was different too now, after last year. Severus was now headmaster, and the Carrows had taken over the school, terrorising the students and other teachers alike. Dumbledore was dead, the memories of him creating shadows of where he used to be, in the halls that he used to walk down, in the closed off headmaster’s office. The Astronomy Tower was always cold.

And Potter wasn’t there either, and his absence made Draco unsettled. Potter had always been at the centre of Draco’s world when they were at school. He sat down to eat according to wherever Potter was already sitting, he walked down corridors he knew Potter would use to get to his next class, he sat just close enough in lessons that he knew Potter couldn’t ignore him, would always find Draco in the corner of his eye. Without Potter there to orient him, Draco felt lost, adrift, like a sailor on a windless and cloudy night. Hogwarts felt all wrong without Potter.

So Draco had boarded the train, wishing it was headed anywhere other than towards home. He’d known straight away that something was wrong; he knew intrinsically just how long the journey from Hogwarts to London was, and knew that they still had at least another hour left to go before they reached their destination. But still, the train slowed down to a sudden stop, the wheels lurching beneath the cars, the luggage rattling in their overhead racks. The door to his carriage was forced open, and Draco was unsurprised to see two Death Eaters standing there, masks on and wands raised. They seemed to realise they were looking in on a carriage packed with Slytherin students, because they lowered their wands and slowly removed their masks.

One of them was Thorfin Rowle, and Draco’s heart sank. Rowle had been waiting for his chance to get back at Draco ever since he had let Potter and his friends escape in London, and Draco had been forced to punish him. Draco swallowed, hard. He knew he would have to do whatever was asked of him, if he was to avoid Rowles’ wrath; he would be lucky if he survived the encounter.

“Where’s the Lovegood girl?” Rowle’s partner, Dolohov, asked the occupants of the carriage.

Draco looked down. He knew exactly where she was; he had witnessed her climbing onto the train back at Hogsmeade station, a pair of strange glasses and a serene smile on her face. Whatever they wanted with her, it couldn’t be good, and Draco didn’t want to tell them what they wanted to know. Lovegood, it seemed, had the most extraordinary ability to take everything in her stride. While the rest of the students moved about the school in timid little groups, wary of speaking too loud lest they gain unwanted attention, Lovegood skipped down the corridors as she usually did, nattering on about creatures only she could see and smiling distractedly at everyone she came into contact with. Even Draco. She was the one thing in school that hadn’t changed, and Draco had been grateful for her presence so far.

“What makes you think we would know where Loony is?” Pansy answered with a sneer.

“Maybe we should just Crucio the lot of ‘em till one of ‘em talks,” Dolohov muttered.

“Excuse me? Just who do you think you’re talking to? I’ll be telling my father about this.”

“Oh yeah? Tell the Dark Lord as well, will ya, Missy?”

“She’s in the carriage with the Gryffindors.” Draco spoke quietly, but still, the rest of the carriage stopped talking to listen to him. Draco had seen Rowle gearing himself up behind Dolohov, his eyes fixed maliciously on Draco and his wand hand twitching. He wouldn’t have taken much more before Pansy’s big mouth had goaded him into firing spells at the lot of them. It would have been easy enough for him to explain away afterwards, and Draco would likely not be in a position to refute his story.

“Which one is that, then?”

Draco swallowed, and then stood up. He was marked now, he was one of them, and the only way to keep his skin was to act like it. He squared his shoulders and looked Rowle in the eye. “I’ll show you.”

He led them down the hallway towards the carriage he had seen Lovegood stepping into earlier on. He knew who would be in there; all of Potter’s friends who weren’t on the run with him had taken to sheltering their strange Ravenclaw friend, probably seeing her as truly innocent as Draco thought her to be. Sure enough, when he rounded the corner the first person he saw was the female Weasley, her red hair swinging over her shoulder. In her hands was a copy of the rag Lovegood’s father printed. Longbottom was sitting next to her, his face a mottled blue and purple from the punishments he had received from the Carrows earlier that week. He was still sporting a huge grin, and Draco didn’t understand it. He felt as though he hadn’t genuinely smiled in years. The collection of Gryffindors all looked up as Dolohov yanked the door open, their faces darkening when they saw who was there.

“What do you want?” Longbottom asked loudly, standing up and using his body to block the rest of his friends.

“We’re collecting the Lovegood girl,” Dolohov replied with a sneer, shoving his way further into the carriage.

“By whose order?”

“The Ministry’s, boy. You got a problem with that?”

“You’re damn right I have! You can’t just take her off the train!”

Dolohov laughed in Longbottom’s face. “Take a seat and write a letter then, boy, and get out of our way.”

Rowle guffawed in amusement, but Draco was too busy watching Lovegood. She had looked up curiously at the mention of her name, and had watched the exchange with a calm expression on her face. She pulled off her glasses and stood up, despite the fact that the Weasley girl was pulling frantically at her sleeve.

“Where are we going?” She asked, smiling a little at Dolohov. Draco had a sudden urge to grab onto her arm and Apparate away with her, to take her somewhere nobody would ever find her. He did nothing.

“You’ll soon see, girl.” Dolohov grabbed her arm, yanking her roughly from the carriage and into the corridor, away from her friends.

“Okay.” She followed him along serenely, looking out of the window with wide eyes, as though she’d never seen fields of wheat before. She squinted up at Dolohov. “You’ve got quite a few wrackspurts, you know. You should get those seen to.”

Draco was stopped from following them by a rough hand to the shoulder. “You disgust me,” Longbottom hissed into his ear.

Draco didn’t reply. He had nothing to say.

Two underage Hogwarts students. Draco hadn’t had anything to do with the capture of either Ollivander or the goblin, and he’d been at school when Dean Thomas had been caught. But yes, once they had been placed in his family’s basement, Draco hadn’t done anything to rectify the situation, because there was nothing he could have done. Any attempt to free them would have just ended in his own incarceration. If he had been lucky enough to have survived. But he could have done something to save Luna Lovegood, if he’d been thinking quicker on his feet. If Rowle hadn’t been there, just waiting for any excuse to exact his revenge on Draco. It was Luna Lovegood’s calm smile that had haunted Draco ever since that train ride, and it was what happened to Luna Lovegood that had solidified Draco guilt in this crime, and yet she wasn’t even mentioned by name.

He felt irrationally angry by that, and he had to grit his teeth before replying, “Guilty.”

In the case of the fourth and final crime, how does the defendant plead?

He hadn’t entered Hogwarts that final night in order to do anything; he’d already been there. He hadn’t been able to sleep since he had returned to the school after Easter, and he’d taken to spending much of the night prowling up and down the dungeon corridors, his mother’s wand rolling ceaselessly between his fingers. It felt wrong in his hands, his magic sluggish and unwilling to answer when he called to it. It worked better than any of the other wands his mother had made him try; wands that they had taken from victims of the Death Eaters. He supposed it was due to the fact that his mother had offered it to him, but still, it didn’t work for him at all as well as he was used to. And there was a part of his magic, perhaps the part that was connected to his wand, that kept feeling a subtle tug, as though it wanted to be somewhere else. The feeling was always vague, a little like wondering if he had left a potion on the boil too long, until that night.

That night, he’d felt it stronger, an almost insistent tug at the very core of him, almost urging him to be somewhere else. Somewhere else inside the castle. It was as though a part of him had known, had felt his wand being used and was desperate to reunite them. And then the rest of the castle had awoken, and Draco had known that this was it: One way or another, it would all end that night.

He hadn’t bothered to follow the summons to the Great hall, choosing instead to grab Goyle and Crabbe as they followed the rest of the Slytherins up towards the first floor. They’d had to stop and hold their heads, leaning against the walls as the Dark Lord’s amplified voice washed over them, and Draco knew he had been right. Potter had finally returned, and with his arrival he had brought death down upon them all. McGonagall and the other teachers would never allow anyone to hand Potter over, and nobody would be spared in the Dark Lord’s determination to rid the world of his enemy once and for all. The teachers would fight back, and people would die.

Draco’s parents could die. His mother, wandless and unable to defend herself, would die. Unless someone handed over Potter.

It was Draco’s only choice. If he could hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, then his family might have a chance. The Dark Lord would surely celebrate the death of his rival, and in the aftermath Draco and his parents could slip away. Could find themselves somewhere out of the way, somewhere where the Dark Lord wouldn’t bother them, and they could be free of the mess they’d made for themselves.

So Draco had directed Crabbe and Goyle up the steps, past the students running around as they packed their things and prepared to leave in a hurry, dodging the teachers as they made efforts to shore up the castle’s defences, all the way up to the seventh floor. Potter was looking for something hidden, and Draco knew where that search would eventually lead him.

With the intention of fighting with those against the Ministry. Draco’s intention had not been to fight at all. He’d only wanted to give himself and his family a chance to escape, at the very least regain the Malfoy’s favour with the Dark Lord. Hoping to aid the Dark Lord in his rise to power. By that time, Draco had thought the Dark Lord’s rise was all but assured. The two previous years had opened his eyes to how the new world would be, and he did not want it. No, he hadn’t gone into the Room of Requirement thinking of the Dark Lord, save how to free his family from his tyranny.

The Veritaserum loosened his tongue, and he spoke before truly thinking, “Not guilty.”

The small man in charge of the proceedings dropped his stack of parchment to the desk. “I beg your pardon? Not guilty?”

A witch sitting behind and to the left leaned forward. “Could the Veritaserum be wearing off?”

The small man gave Draco a suspicious look, and canceled the Sonorus charm on his voice. Then he turned, beginning a whispered conversation with the witches and wizards closest to him. Behind him, the rest of the members of the Wizengamot slid further into their seats, many of them pulling back their robes to check watches, yawning into their fists, letting their heads roll back onto their shoulders. They were weary of the proceedings, of the trials that had been going on all month and as of yet showed no signs of stopping. Draco knew that many of them had been inclined to pass the trial stage of the sentencing process; there was too much evidence to prove the guilt of the accused, so what would be the point?

The people in the gallery had likely been the reason for the continuance of the trials; desperate to see the people who had hurt them be given their sentences, they hung over the balustrade and shouted down at Draco, their eyes alight with anticipation and barely contained glee. Draco ignored them all, staring down at his knees, feeling the restriction of the chains binding him to the chair beneath him. At least it would be over soon, and he would be back in his cell, away from the people who revelled in the deliverance of his punishment.

The small man coughed loudly, and Draco looked up, waiting to hear what would befall him. “The Wizengamot agrees that the last crime shall be stricken from Mr Malfoy’s record, and the sentencing shall take that in consideration.” He coughed again, puffing out his chest, and Draco wanted to roll his eyes at the pageantry. “However, before we deliberate, there is a letter here, written in defence of your actions, Mr Malfoy.”

The gallery fell silent, and even the drowsier members of the Wizengamot perked up a little. Draco stared at the wizard, uncomprehending. Who would write in defence of him? The small man adjusted his robe importantly, confusing Draco even more. Then he opened his mouth, and read:

“To the members of the Wizengamot,

“I am writing this in defence for Mr Draco Malfoy, a fellow student at Hogwarts. While I do not wish to lessen the seriousness of the crimes charged against him, and nor do I wish to lessen the pain inflicted by these crimes, I feel I have a duty to shed some light on the reasoning behind these actions.

“Mr Malfoy was underage when most of these crimes took place, and in the instances when he was not, he was placed in an extremely dangerous position, having been forced to share his ancestral home with Voldemort himself. I was there when Dumbledore died, and I can personally vouch for the fact that Malfoy was terrified of what he had been forced to try to accomplish, and was ready to give himself up before Dumbledore’s untimely death. While Malfoy did indeed let Death Eaters into the school, I sincerely doubt he understood the true ramifications of this act, as they were primarily there for the use of back up as he tried to accomplish his given task.

“I was also there at the Manor with the other prisoners for a short time, and I know that Malfoy did not participate in any of the torture, nor did he mistreat them in any way. He also refused to give up my true identity, even when pressed, something that gave us time to find a way to escape for all of the prisoners.

“I hope you will take these reasonings into consideration when deciding upon Mr Malfoy’s sentence, and to remember that he was underage, forced into a war by upbringing and circumstance, rather than true choice.

“Yours, Harry Potter.”

The small man’s voice trailed off, and Draco sat on the hard wooden chair, stunned. He had been there during his mother’s trial, had listened to the testimony given by letter to the Wizengamot, describing the events that had occurred in the Forbidden Forest. He knew by now that his mother’s actions had saved Potter, had even contributed to the death of the Dark Lord. He hadn’t dared hope that Potter would do something similar for himself; the enmity between them was simply too great. Potter hadn’t written a letter for his father, whose sentence had been handed out swiftly - twenty years in Azkaban, four times longer than that of his mother’s. Draco had assumed he would be sharing a cell next to his father for the foreseeable future. But now, with the letter, maybe he would be treated with the same leniency his mother had been?

“I’m sure this is all very interesting,” a voice from the back rows of stone benches said loudly, “But the boy has admitted his guilt. Why should the reasoning matter?”

“Because I say so.”

A collective gasp sounded up through the room, the continuous low whispering stuttering out before surging back again louder than before. Draco turned in his seat as much as the chains would allow, his heart beating wildly at the familiar voice. A man stood up in the centre of the crowd of spectators, wearing a heavy robe with a hood so large it hid most of his face. A tanned hand reached up and pulled the fabric backwards, and Draco found himself looking into the deep green eyes of his once sworn enemy.

Potter blinked at him once, and then turned his gaze to the members of the Wizengamot. He looked every bit the conquering hero, from his robes to his newly styled hair, his signature round glasses reflecting the torchlight as he stared determinedly at the ranks of wizards waiting to hand out judgment to Draco. But instead of the usual hot ball of jealousy, anger and hatred that Draco expected to feel coiling in his belly at the sight of his nemesis, all he felt instead was a cool trickling through his veins, that he abstractly recognised as something like relief. He watched Potter straighten his shoulders and take a deep breath.

“There were people who were Imperiused during the war, weren’t there?” Potter asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “They were forced to do things against their will, and so they were let off any punishment for their crimes while under the influence. Malfoy was also forced to do things against his will, only the force was in the form of threats and fear, rather than a spell. While I can appreciate the difference between those two examples, I can also see the difference between willing and unwilling. Malfoy may have chosen to do the things he did by his own free will, but I have no doubt he would have chosen differently had the circumstances surrounding him been different.”

Draco had to repress a sudden urge to laugh at the stilted words, far too formal for how Draco knew Potter usually spoke. He had always been all stumbling pauses and stammered consonants, Draco suspected that someone else - probably Granger - had written him some form of response to use in front of the Wizengamot. She had probably also dictated his letter to him. Draco expected to feel some resentment over the idea of the girl actually helping him, but he was far too distracted thinking about Potter’s last statement. Would he have chosen differently, if the last two years hadn’t been so filled with terror? Draco liked to think so, but he wasn’t stupid. However much he liked to boast about his more admirable traits, courage wasn’t one of them. Would he have taken Dumbledore’s offer of protection if Snape and the other Death Eaters hadn’t turned up when they had? Could he have freed the prisoners from his cellar and helped them escape? Would he have joined in with the defence of Hogwarts if he hadn’t been so consumed with fear for his parents? Draco truly didn’t know, so how on earth could Potter be so damned sure?

“Mr Potter,” the small man said, his voice a little breathless over getting to address the Chosen One personally. Draco rolled his eyes and for a second, he almost thought he saw Potter do the same. “I didn’t know that you’d- not that I’m not pleased- I mean, it’s an honour to have you here.”

Potter’s eyes closed briefly. “I wanted to be certain that Malfoy got a fair trial, and a fair sentence,” he said, almost pointedly, although his expression was mild.

“Y-yes, well,” the man in charge shuffled around the parchment some more, giving himself time to think. “What would you suggest?”

Potter didn’t even seem to think about it. “Community service. On whatever project the Wizengamot deems fit.”

The members of the Wizengamot turned in to each other, muttering between themselves. Draco watched Potter out of the corner of his eye, the way he shuffled from foot to foot, his hands clenched in front of him, as though to stop himself from fiddling. He could feel Potter’s eyes on him, but Draco didn’t look up. He didn’t know what Potter would see in his expression if he did.

“Very well.” The small man amplified his voice once more, and the noise from the crowd died down. Draco kept his eyes on the floor in front of him. “The Wizengamot agrees, in light of the evidence shown and the defence put forth, that Mr Malfoy is to be sentenced with community service. He shall help with the reparations of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, until such time as the castle and surrounding area is once again safe and habitable, upon which Mr Malfoy’s sentence shall be deemed complete.”

The sentence was met with cries of outrage and yelled demands of retribution from the gallery, but Draco heard none of it. His sight narrowed down to where the chains were slowly removing themselves from his arms, legs, and chest. His heartbeat filled his ears and his breath kept getting caught in his suddenly too tight throat. His hands were shaking as he usesd them to push himself to standing, and he turned on the spot to face the crowd. He found Potter easily amongst the sea of faces, just as he has always been able to do. Potter was already looking back down at him. He blinked at Draco once, and then disappeared through the doors behind him.

And just like that, Draco's trial was over. He was free.

Standing around in the ruins of the school was one of the strangest things Draco had ever experienced. The Great Hall had suffered surprisingly little, seeing as it had been the place of the Dark Lord’s final demise. There were scorch marks on the walls from spells gone awry, stains on the flagstones that Draco didn’t want to think too hard about. A few of the tables were just piles of splinters, and the tapestries on the walls were burned and ragged. But the house elves had done their usual best to make the room habitable, and the chandeliers high in the ceiling sparkled and shone, the floor was swept and cleaned as much as possible, and the remaining tables had been polished to a high sheen. Just as the Hall had been made the base of operations for the final battle, so it was now the base for the reparations crew.

Professor McGonagall was in charge of the proceedings, handing out assignments in the mornings while everyone ate the simple breakfast that the house elves cooked for them all. All the food was simple fare; the elves too busy elsewhere in the school to spend much of their time cooking. The kitchen had been spared of any damage, and so they rushed about the castle, fixing and cleaning whatever their own magic could penetrate. With the exception of the teachers - and Draco - the rest of the reparation team was made up of volunteers, mainly coming from either the Hogsmeade villagers and a few older students who weren’t busy trying to rebuild the Ministry from the inside out. The volunteers switched often, each person coming and spending a few days, before going back to their lives and their place being taken up by someone new.

McGonagall’s reparation plan was simple, and a good one: half of the team would busy themselves repairing the surface damage in the areas of the school that hadn’t been hit too badly, while the other half got on with rebuilding the sections that had been all but ripped apart down to their foundations. The entire west wall had been demolished, the classrooms and corridors, even the Ravenclaw dormitories, reduced to nothing but still smoking rubble. The bottom of the North Tower had received a large hit - most likely from a giant - that had left the entire column balanced precariously on just a few stones. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick could be seen outside day after day, directing their wands and moving the brick inch by careful inch, and while they worked, the entire north side of the castle was kept closed off.

Much of the grounds had been trampled down to churned mud instead of grass, Hagrid’s hut and small garden a patch of smouldering ashes. The Quidditch pitch had been burned down too; three sections of the stands turned into piles of broken wood, and the remaining section listing dangerously to the side. The greenhouses had all been smashed to pieces, the flagstones ripped up and the plants and flowers torn up by their roots. The Whomping Willow lashed out angrily at anyone who came anywhere close, its limbs wrapped up in slings and bandages from where Professor Sprout had tried to tend to the worst of its wounds.

McGonagall had commandeered Draco’s service for the dungeons, as soon as he had arrived. They were some of the less damaged areas, and Draco’s main job was cleaning. There was some water damage, from where the integrity of the walls had suffered due to the magic blasts and giant intervention, lake water trickling in through cracked windows and the shaken mortar between the stones. The Slytherin dormitory had sealed itself, the wall surrounding the entrance unstable, and nearly all of the potions stores had been ruined beyond repair. Draco spent most of his time sweeping up broken glass and mopping up spilled potions, repairing splintered doors and desks, scrubbing stains from the floor and sealing off the walls. He figured that McGonagall’s plan had been twofold; keep him busy with menial tasks while at the same time keeping him away from everyone else. Draco might have been upset by this, except he was too glad of the peace and quiet he got while down in the dark dungeon hallways on his own.

Because for some unfathomable reason, one of the volunteers to show up most often was bloody Potter. He was seemingly not content with just knowing that Draco owed his freedom - not to mention his life - to him, because every few days Potter would turn up on the grounds, offering his services to a - ridiculously, in Draco’s opinion - grateful McGonagall. He would spend up to a week at a time staying at the school, helping Longbottom repair the greenhouses, or Hagrid rebuild his cabin, or talking to Flitwick about the structural damage to the North Tower. One by one, his friends would show up after him, and then they would leave again, only for Potter to return again on his own. It was all rather strange, and Draco was annoyed by it. Out of all the places Potter could go and show his perfect self off, why did he have to choose the one place he knew Draco would be?

It was especially annoying on the odd occasion that they found themselves in adjoining rooms in the teachers’ quarters. Being at the centre of the school, the teachers’ area had received the least damage; only a few broken windows and one section of the roof caved in. It had been quickly fixed and magically expanded to accommodate all of the volunteers, as well as Draco. His room was the furthest away from the staff room, the place that had been turned into an impromptu common room for all the volunteers, and so it was only when they were at full capacity that anyone was placed in the room next to Draco’s. For some reason, it was assigned to Potter more often than anybody else. It meant that on these occasions, Draco and Potter sometimes exited their rooms at the same time, and had to walk awkwardly towards the Great Hall together, each looking anywhere but at the other.

“Great speech,” Draco said, the first time this happened, the first time he and Potter had been within spitting distance since his trial. It was sarcastic, because he wanted to annoy Potter. Because he was annoyed at Potter for being here, because wasn’t it enough that Draco had had to rely on Potter to get him out of Azkaban? Must he come here and rub it in Draco’s face as well?

But Potter just blinked at him and asked, “Which one?”

Draco just rolled his eyes and looked away, because of course Potter had been out soliloquising as loudly and as often as he could. He probably gave a speech every time he entered a shop.

“How’s the reparations coming along in the dungeons?” Potter asked, either completely missing or completely ignoring Draco’s obvious wish for him to fuck off somewhere else. “I think McGonagall is going to send a few of us down there today, to try and open up the Slytherin dorm. Slughorn told her it’s locked itself.”

Draco muttered under his breath about the sheer arrogance of Gryffindors. “No one will be able to open it except for a Slytherin,” he mumbled.

“Maybe.”

Draco came to a halt just outside the Great Hall. “Why are you here, Potter?”

Potter frowned at him. “Er, to get some toast?”

Draco sneered at him. “No, why are you here, in the castle? Don’t you have anywhere better to be?”

Potter looked around the entrance hall, at the smashed hourglasses and the ripped canvases on the wall. “There’s loads of places I could be, Malfoy,” he said quietly. “But anywhere better? Not that I’ve found so far.” And then he walked into the hall to get himself some breakfast.

Draco stared after him, uncomprehending.

Potter had been right, but then so had Draco, so he didn’t feel too bad about the situation. After spending the morning cleaning out one of the potions storerooms, Draco had stepped back in the hallway to find a group of people staring at a section of blank wall. A witch - Draco thought she might have been in Ravenclaw at some point - was running her hands over the stones, frowning and biting her lip in frustration. They were looking for the entrance to Slytherin, and yet none of them had thought to bring someone from that house with them. Although to be fair to them, there was only himself and Professor Slughorn to choose from, and Slughorn had left for the day to procure some potions ingredients to replenish their severely depleted supply, and everybody ignored Draco as much as they possibly could. Everyone except Potter, for some reason.

Draco decided against joining them, instead leaning against the wall a bit further down and watching as they all took turns and failed at making the entrance reveal itself. It wasn’t all that much fun, but his life was sorely lacking in the idle amusement area at the moment, so he took what he could get. It was another half hour before the group gave up and turned away, walking up the stairs towards the rest of the castle without so much as a glance in Draco’s direction. Which was absolutely fine by him.

He waited until the sounds of their footsteps faded away before approaching the section of wall, running his fingertips lightly over where he knew the door would be. “Are you keeping something inside?” He murmured to himself, tracing the invisible and intangible outline of the door. “Or are you keeping the wall up?”

He pulled out his wand, that Professor McGonagall had handed to him when he had first arrived in her office. Potter had obviously left it there for her to pass on to Draco. He carefully traced the seam where the wall met the ceiling, feeling for breaks in the magical energy. He smiled when he came across a small fissure in the rock, just above where the door would materialise, and he quietly whispered the firming spell. The gap closed and Draco could feel the wall give a sigh of relief as the burden of holding up all the floors above it was lifted from its shoulders. Then he leaned in close to the wall and whispered the base password that he knew the door would respond to: “Pureblood.”

An outline appeared in the flagstones and a section of the wall moved, just as it had the first time Draco had stood in that spot and whispered the password. The wall moved back and then slid to the side, revealing the room that Draco had called home for the last seven years. Water spilled around his feet, and looking up, he saw that more than a few windows had been cracked, the eerie green light fragmented and broken. The rugs were all waterlogged, chairs and tables were flipped over, tapestries and paintings fallen to the floor. But still it looked and felt like it always had. It was still the same place, just with everything upturned and rearranged into chaos, but a chaos that could be sorted out. It reminded Draco of himself, and he smiled at the thought. If only it would be as easy to sort out his own chaos.

Draco spent the rest of the day cleaning the Slytherin common room. The rugs and broken tables he Vanished, not bothering to try and repair them. He cleaned the drapes and fixed the windows, Vanished the water and scrubbed the flagstones. He tried to salvage what he could of the fallen paintings and tapestries, but eventually he had to put them aside. They needed house elf magic in order to get them back to their former glory.

He arrived in the Great Hall still in the Muggle clothing he liked to wear these days, his trainers damp and his t shirt dusty. He thought there was probably dust in his hair too, but he was too tired and hungry to give a shit about his appearance. The broken tables hadn’t yet been replaced in the Great Hall, and instead the remaining ones had been expanded to provide enough room for everyone working to sit down for a meal. Draco had the feeling that McGonagall had done it on purpose, to encourage inter-house mingling, but it hadn’t really had the desired effect. The teachers all congregated down the end closest to where they usually sat during term time, their robe sleeves dangling into their bowls of stew as they discussed the reparation plans for the following day. The Ravenclaw helpers sat clumped together, their heads invariably bent over one book or another. There were also a few Hufflepuffs that evening, and they sat close to each other, chatting quietly. And over on the side of the table closest to the wall, were the Gryffindors. Apparently, Potter’s most recent return to the school had precipitated a large number of his friends to turn up, and they all sat gathered around him. Their group was easily the loudest, with Weasley and one of his brothers obviously locked in a battle to come up with the crudest joke they could. Finnigan was actually sat on the table, his hand drifting over to steal chips off of the Patil twin’s plate whenever she wasn’t looking. The girl Weasley was sat so close to Potter she might as well be straddling him, and Granger looked torn between joining in with the laughter and reprimanding them all on proper school behaviour. And in the middle of them all, Potter sat quietly, smiling whenever someone looked specifically at him, but otherwise looking quite uncomfortable.

Draco sighed and sat as far from the group as possible, gratefully grabbing a bowl of stew and a hunk of warm bread. He kept watching Potter out of the corner of his eye as he ate, intrigued. Something was different about Potter recently, and Draco couldn’t put his finger on what it was. From what Draco had been able to tell in previous years, Potter had always enjoyed being the centre of his group of ragtag friends. He’d always been laughing and joking, rolling his eyes and sharing a look with Weasley while Granger stuck her head in a book, banging his fist against the table in mirth as Finnigan regaled them all with stories in his Irish brogue, smiling gratefully at Hermione when she passed him the pumpkin juice. And as Draco watched, Potter was still doing those things now, except that it all seemed a little too perfect somehow, as though Potter was putting on a show for his friends, while wishing he could be anywhere else. Draco couldn’t work out if Potter had always been like this, or if something about Potter himself had changed since the last time Draco had had the opportunity to observe him from across the Great Hall. he also couldn’t work out why he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Draco had just finished the last of his meal and was contemplating getting up, when the crowd surrounding Potter all rose from the table, like one entity. Potter caught Draco’s eye as he was corralled towards the doors, and one side of his face pulled up in an apologetic grimace. Draco sighed. Obviously the Gryffindor reunion was going to continue its revelry in the staff room-turned-common room, and the entire hallway would be able to hear their raucous party. There was no way Draco was going to sit in his small room and listen to them all night.

Decision made, he got up and left the hall, taking the stairs back down to the dungeons instead of up to the teachers’ quarters. Draco let himself back into the Slytherin common room, smiling to himself when he saw that the pile of tapestries and paintings had been removed for repair by the elves, and made his way up to his old seventh year dorm room.

He wasn’t surprised to see that much of what he and his fellow dorm mates had left behind were right where they had left them. His own school trunk still lay open at the foot of his old bed, robes and school clothes spilling out onto the floor. The beds were all unmade, hangings ripped open where they had fled in the middle of the night. One Italian leather loafer sat by itself near the heater.

Of course it would all still be here. Blaise and Nott had both left with the rest of the Slytherins that night, and had not returned. Draco had left his bed sometime before the attack had begun, and once the wall at the entrance had become compromised, the entire Slytherin house had been sealed off to everyone. All of their things had just been left where they had been dropped, like a ghost town waiting for its occupants to return. Only none of them did. And one of them never would again.

Draco forced his eyes over to where Crabbe had slept for seven years. Ice Mice wrappers and Chocolate Frog cards littered the floor around his bed, evidence of his penchant for midnight snacks. Dirty socks and potions stained shirts peeked out from under the lid of his trunk, his Slytherin tie hanging on the bedpost next to the pillow he’d always brought from home, because he said it reminded him of his mother. Draco closed his eyes and turned away. He’d tackle Crabbe’s bed last, and send his things home to his mother. maybe she would appreciate them.

Draco lit the boiler and some candles and set to work. He stripped all of the beds and levitated them, sweeping and then scrubbing the floors beneath. Then he checked all the windows and repaired the damages, stopping for a moment to have a face pulling contest with a curious Grindylow. He scrubbed the walls and polished the wardrobes and bedsteads, and removed all of the drapes and hangings to be cleaned. When he was finally done, he sat down on his bare mattress and pulled the school trunks towards him, one by one, and packed everything up. Blaise’s stuff, Draco threw away. He knew Blaise would already have replaced anything left here with a newer model, and wouldn’t be interested in any keepsakes. He packed everything of Nott’s that he could find, and Conjured a label so that the entire trunk could be sent back to him; Nott’s family had never had much money, and would consider throwing stuff away a huge waste. Goyle’s he packed and put a label on it to be sent to the Ministry. He was more careful with Crabbe’s stuff; he didn’t just want to send a load of dirty laundry back to Vince’s mother, but there wasn’t a lot of other stuff that a seventeen year old boy left behind. In the end, the trunk was filled with the few leftover sweets Draco had managed to find, two Quidditch posters and a working model of the solar system. He couldn’t be certain that it had belonged to Vince, but he could remember seeing him bent over the slowly spinning orbs, a look of deep concentration - and not a little confusion - on his face, so he figured he might as well include it. And when all that was done, he finally turned to his own things.

Unlike the end of all the other school years, Draco hadn’t had an awful lot to leave behind him during his last time there. Usually, he would find half eaten boxes of the expensive chocolates his mother used to send to him on an almost weekly basis. There would be Quidditch posters and magazines extolling the latest Parisien fashions. He’d have the full set of the latest style of Gobstones rolling around beneath his bed, despite that he didn’t play the game. His ebony and ivory chess set would have missing pieces, the pawns having run off at some point during the year in an attempt to avoid his sacrificing game technique. He would find a bundle of letters that his mother had sent him throughout the year, that he would scoff at over the breakfast table when he received them but would then tie together and keep under his pillow; they were the only things he had that suggested she thought of him. But last year had been very different, and there was none of that there now. His mother had barely written to him all year, too afraid to write anything down lest the Dark Lord find it. It was easier to pretend that they didn’t have emotions, such as missing each other, rather than have it used against them. There had been no sweets sent from the expensive Chocolatier in Belgium, no French magazines. All the Quidditch posters were ones leftover from Fifth year. Draco hadn’t played a game of chess in years; he’d found he could no longer stomach the barbarity of it. Apart from his school clothes and books, the only personal item he found was his diary.

It was an old one, spanning the end of Fourth Year and the beginning of Fifth. It must have fallen down the back of the bed at some point and been overlooked by the house elves coming in to clean at the end of the year; usually, any personal items found were sent on home to their owner. Draco pulled himself into the middle of his mattress and sat cross legged, the diary balanced on his ankles. It was amusing in a sadistic sort of way, to see the things his fifteen year old self complained about. And he had apparently complained a lot: His mother hadn’t sent the correct hair care potions to him; Pansy had laughed at him over his Potter obsession; the food was never anywhere near as good as the meals the house elves at the manor served them; Potter hadn’t glanced his way even once during dinner; Blaise had used up the last of Draco’s skin cream; he couldn’t work out where Potter was disappearing to with his friends, no matter how hard Draco tried to follow him...

There was a lot about Potter written in the book, and Draco couldn’t help but notice that the entries about him went on for pages and pages, Draco’s younger self scribbling down every little thing about Potter that he had noticed during the day. His cheeks burned, because he had completely forgotten. All the terror and bad choices throughout the last two years had taken over him so completely that Draco had forgotten the huge raging crush he’d had on the Gryffindor, that had started on the night of the Yule Ball. Those bloody bottle green robes, Draco had had daydreams about running his hands under those things for weeks afterwards, and Pansy and Blaise hadn’t let up the teasing for months once they’d noticed.

Draco groaned and covered his eyes with his hands, because now that he had remembered, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He reached out blindly and slammed the diary closed, then fell to the side and buried his head in the scratchy pillow. The absolute last thing he needed right now was for that crush to come back.

Draco woke up shivering the next day, realising that he’d slept hunched up on his bare mattress all night. He had a crick in his neck and a bruise on his thigh from where he had rolled over onto the diary at some point in the night. He sat up and gave it a disgusted look, and shoved it in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. He noticed that there was a pile of clean Slytherin coloured sheets at the bottom of his bed, and that the rest of the beds had been made up. The elves must have snuck in while he’d been asleep. He rummaged around in his trunk and came up triumphantly with a towel and some clean clothes, and he used the Slytherin showers to clean himself up before starting the rest of the day. Now that he’d opened up the Slytherin dorms, the elves would be able to tackle the rest of the rooms, and he’d already finished most of the dungeons. He supposed he would have to report to McGonagall for a new assignment at breakfast.

Indeed, by the time Draco arrived in the Great Hall, the headmistress was looking straight at him, as though she had been waiting for him. But before he could walk up to her to find out where she wanted him to start working next, Potter stepped in front of him.

“Fancy helping me out with the west wall today?”

Draco desperately tried to keep the heat from his cheeks as he remembered his late night reading. He glanced over at the group of Potter’s friends. Weasley was busy stuffing his face with sausages, and Finnigan looked like he’d fallen back to sleep on the table. Longbottom was in an intense looking conversation with Professor Sprout, and Weasley’s brother was laughing loudly at something Hagrid was telling him. None of them were paying any attention to Potter, except for Granger and the girl Weasley, who were looking at both Potter and Draco with something approaching concern.

Draco realised that he hadn’t replied to Potter’s question, and he struggled to come up with something to say. “Wouldn’t you prefer to work with one of your friends?”

Potter smiled slightly. “McGonagall and Flitwick think they’re ready to start repairing the North Tower, they’re all going to be helping with that. So I offered to make a start on the west wall, and McGonagall suggested I ask for your help.” He leaned in slightly, and Draco caught a whiff of his scent; grass and leather and something sugary, like toffee or treacle. He found himself swaying forward to catch more of it, and had to stop himself. “Apparently you’re better at Transfiguration than I am.”

He smiled self deprecatingly, and Draco tried not to get lost in it. He wished he’d never found that stupid diary.

“So?”

Draco tried to come up with an excuse to be as far away from Potter as possible - surely the east wall had suffered some damage too? - but then he caught McGonagall staring at them both, no doubt waiting for them to begin another of their legendary fights. He sighed and nodded at her.

“Fine. Let me have some breakfast, and I suppose I’ll meet you there.”

“Brilliant.” Potter offered him another smile as he walked away, and Draco suppressed a groan. Why was Potter even here?

He ate quickly, facing away from Potter and his gaggle of hangers-on, trying desperately to wipe his mind of the revelatory memories he’d got lost in the night before. It was embarrassing enough that Potter had come to his rescue during his trial, he didn’t need to add ridiculous unrequited crush to his list of mortifying things to happen to him, as well. He needed to do the job and get as far away from Potter as possible, so that he could begin to forget the way Potter’s eyes sparkled when he smiled all over again. He waited until the last possible minute, watching as the rest of the volunteers and teachers rose and began to make their way towards their jobs for the day. Then he forced himself up, giving himself a stern talking to as he made his way to the first floor of the west wing.

Potter was already there, looking out of the massive crater in the wall that spanned the height of all six floors above them. The sun was still on the opposite side of the castle, so it was still cool where they stood, facing the Forbidden Forest. Potter had a rather pensive look on his face, and he held one hand close to his chest, clenched into a tight fist. Draco almost didn’t want to disturb him, but then he remembered what had transpired in that forest, and realised that Potter was probably remembering it too.

“Shall we get started, then?”

Potter jumped back from the hole, then gave Draco a small, grateful smile. “Yes. I’m thinking, we should move all of the rubble outside first, and then work our way up floor by floor?”

Draco looked up at the sky far above him and nodded. “It would be easier than trying to hold up an entire wall while we do each floor support.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Potter picked his way over a few piles of stone. “How is some of this stuff still smoking?”

“It’s not.” Draco pointed his wand at a smaller pile of rubble and levitated it. Another plume of what looked like smoke rose up in its wake. “It’s dust. The stones keep shifting, sending up constant puffs of dust, which makes it look like it’s smoking.”

“Huh.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Potter waved his hand. “It’s just, I always knew you were smart, I just never realised you were Hermione levels of smart.”

“That wasn’t clever, Potter, that was common sense.”

“Maybe, but when you explained it, you sounded just like her. Informative, with just a touch of condescension.” His smile turned fond.

Draco stared at him. Potter just wasn’t making any sense. He hated Draco, always had, from the moment they had met, and suddenly he was comparing him favourably with one of his best friends? Draco directed his wand, sending the pile of stone through the hole in the wall with more force than he intended. The Whomping Willow waved its limbs threateningly as they landed by its base.

Potter watched them go and then took out his own wand. “I take it that means we’re starting, then.”

Together they moved the piles of rubble, chunks of stone mixed with broken pieces of wood and shards of glass. They tackled the smaller piles on their own first, each taking turns to direct them out through the hole in the wall. Then they began to move the larger pieces, Potter holding the weight of them while Draco manoeuvred them outside. They worked surprisingly well together, Potter’s magical strength aligning itself perfectly with Draco’s finer ability. They worked mostly in silence, communicating mainly through pointing and nodding, which suited Draco just fine; he wasn’t sure how well his voice would work, being so close to a sweating a fiercely concentrating Potter. That is, until Potter lifted a particularly large piece of stone, and Draco screamed.

“What? What is it?”

Potter looked around wildly, still holding the lump of rock a few inches above the ground. All Draco could do was point a shaking finger at the very large, very hairy, black leg poking out from under the rubble.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, not you, too.” Potter pushed the stone out through the hole, chipping off more of the wall in his haste to let it go. “It’s dead, Draco, it’s not going to hurt you.”

Draco felt light headed. “It’s so... I can’t...” He swallowed convulsively, only able to speak once he’d taken a few big steps backwards. “I don’t like spiders.”

“I gathered.”

Potter kept levitating more bits of stone, revealing more of the crushed creature to Draco’s horrified gaze. The legs twitched each time Potter removed more of the rubble covering it, and Draco twitched with it, caught between the need to keep his eyes on the thing in case it started moving on its own and running screaming away as far as he could.

“Ron’s the same, although he’s not so bad when they’re dead.” Potter looked at Draco curiously. “How did you manage in Potions then, when we used them as ingredients?”

“I got other people to do them for me.”

“Right. Of course you did.”

“Oh, like you never had your friends do anything for you,” Draco sneered, feeling a little more comfortable now that his back was right up against the opposite wall. “Wrote all your own History of Magic notes in your sleep, did you?”

Potter cocked his head. “Point taken.” He looked down at the massive body by his feet. “I’ll deal with this then, shall I?”

He levitated the dead acromantula and directed it outside. It’s bent and broken limbs flopped around as it hovered, making it look to Draco as though it was still alive and wriggling around. He couldn’t help the whimpered Oh, Gods, as he watched it drop in a pile of black and hairy legs next to the rubble they’d already removed.

“It’s gone now,” Potter said quietly, looking at Draco with a soft expression on his face. “There shouldn’t be any more, either, the Ministry made sure to remove them all, before the castle became overrun with people trying to grab some free venom for potions. That one was just stuck under all the rubble and got missed.”

Draco nodded, his eyes still on the huge black mass sitting out on the lawn. He’d never been able to look away from spiders, not until his mother had come along and Vanished them for him. At school, he had paid Goyle to pick them up and flush them down the toilet without asking questions.

“Maybe now would be a good time to break for lunch?” Potter asked.

“Ugh, I don’t think I could ever eat again,” Draco groaned, but he followed Potter out of the corridor and down to the Great Hall anyway.

It was only once they were halfway there and Finnigan dropped in next to Potter that Draco realised Potter had called him Draco.

It was hot outside, too hot to really enjoy it, but Draco didn’t care. He sat in the stone courtyard, cheese sandwich balanced on his knee, and turned his face up towards the sky. Maybe, if he could just sit there long enough, the sun might find a way to chase the chill from his bones, and he could stop the shaking from that stupid spider. Yet another thing to add to his ever growing list of embarrassments: Potter now knew that Draco screamed like a girl when confronted with spiders.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had just sat outside, soaking up the sun. It had probably been around the time Maria had still been tutoring him. She used to say that he was far too pale, her mouth open around a pretty smile as she sat him down on a blanket in the warm afternoon sun, pinching his cheeks and telling him how beautiful he was with a bit of colour in his skin.

He slowly became aware of another presence, sat beside him on the bench. They were to his left, and Draco felt his breathing speed up when he remembered that he’d rolled his shirt sleeves up when he’d come outside to find the empty courtyard. His Dark Mark was on full display. He kept his eyes closed, trying to ignore the feeling of uneasiness that fell over him.

“You know, I came out here to be alone.”

“Me too.” Potter’s voice was quiet, reflective. “But it’s okay. We can be alone with each other.”

“That’s not really how being alone works.”

Potter hummed. “I think you’re confusing alone with being lonely.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s you who’s mixed up.”

A quiet laugh. “Maybe I just have different definitions, then.”

Draco mulled over the thought of asking Potter what he meant, but decided against it. Continuing the conversation would only suggest that he didn’t want to be left alone, and he did. It was better that way. The less he and Potter interacted, the better for Draco’s sanity.

Surprisingly though, Potter didn’t speak again, and when Draco cracked an eye open to look at him, he found him sitting much the same way he was, eyes closed and face tilted up towards the sun. He looked restful, in a way that Draco hadn’t seen on him in a long time. Years, perhaps. It was strange, seeing Potter out here with him, when Draco knew that all of his friends were currently inside the Great Hall. It was the main reason why Draco had come out here in the first place, once he’d walked through the doors and seen the way their eyes all travelled proprietarily over Potter, as though trying to see if Draco had thrown any hexes at him while they’d been working. A couple of years ago, and Draco might have been concerned for himself for missing just such an opportunity, so he supposed he couldn’t blame them for thinking it. He wondered what they would think if they knew Draco might like to be alone with Potter for entirely different reasons, and his cheeks had warmed at the thought. He’d grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water and bolted out into the fresh air, before anyone could look at him and see the truth written all over his face.

It wasn’t the first time Draco had had such thoughts, as his old diary would attest to. It had been obvious enough for his friends to pick up on it, on the way he couldn’t stop himself from staring at Potter at various times throughout the day, not glaring or sneering, but staring. He’d watch the way Potter moved, the easy lope of his legs as he walked down the halls between classes, the way he moved his hands when he spoke, the way his teeth would push into his bottom lip as he concentrated, the hand running through his hair when he was distracted, the little frown that creased his forehead whenever his glasses began to slip down his nose. Draco catalogued all of that and more, and his friends would poke fun at him for it until he threatened to hex them all into slugs and stomped away. It was so noticeable to them that even when he and Blaise had begun experimenting towards the end of Fifth Year, Blaise would ask him if he was thinking of Potter instead of him. Draco would scowl and threaten to leave the bed, and Blaise would give in easily enough, but Draco could tell by the smug smirk that neither of them missed the fact that he hadn’t answered the question.

“Fix the wall and the ceiling, then on to the second floor, you think?” Potter asked quietly, standing up and brushing the crumbs from his chest.

Draco shoved the last of his dry sandwich into his mouth and nodded. He needed to stop thinking about this. Preferably before it became just as obvious as it used to be before.

They worked together throughout the rest of the afternoon, as easily as they had when they’d been clearing the rubble. Potter would Conjure the stones and put it in its place, and Draco would weave the magic to hold them all together while Potter concentrated on the next section. Then, when the wall was high enough, Potter would hold the wall up with his magic as Draco created the ceiling, pulling them together until one supported the other, and a brand new hallway was created. When they walked down the new stairs they’d made at dinner time, it was to find that the house elves had been busily scurrying along in their wake, placing freshly cleaned rugs on the floor and hanging up paintings in their new frames.

Potter’s friends met up with them in the entrance hall, dragging him away with tales of how Finnigan had almost been crushed by a section of the North Tower giving way. Potter sent a look behind him that Draco interpreted as being apologetic, seeing as his gaggle of friends had acted as though Draco hadn’t been right there, walking next to Potter. With the exception of Longbottom that is, who had given Draco a hard stare, as though he was trying to figure something out.

But Draco didn’t mind; he was grateful for a bit of space after spending an entire day with Potter, to be able to just sit and observe without having to worry over being too obvious about it. He sat down at the table, far enough away that he wouldn’t attract attention, but close enough that he could watch Potter and his friends, could listen in to their conversations. Back during school, Draco had always wished he could be close enough to listen in to whatever tale was being told over at the Gryffindor table. A large part of his desire had been wanting to know what Potter and his friends were up to, so that he could thwart their plans the way he had been raised to do. But there had always been another, smaller, part of him that just wanted to feel included. Eating at the Slytherin table was always fraught with tension, games being played and masks being worn; it was how his House interacted with each other. It was instinctive to Draco too, and he’d had no problems keeping up with the politics of his House, playing the games well enough to come out on top even when half of his attention was kept for the raucous table on the other side of the room. But sometimes he wondered, when he was sneaking peeks at the cluster of Gryffindors, his eyes on black hair and the glint of glasses, what it would be like to be able to join them, because the Gryffindor table always seemed like they were having fun.

Although, now that Draco was actually sitting as close as he’d always desired, Potter himself didn’t seem to be having all that much fun.

He smiled at everyone, talked to as many people as he could that were close enough to hear him without shouting. He laughed at Finnigan’s story in all the right places, slapped him on the back and grinned at Weasley. He leaned his head against Granger’s shoulder and smiled warmly at the girl Weasley. He did all of the things that he’d always used to do, back when Draco was only able to observe him from across the room, but something felt off, to Draco. Potter’s smile would dip slightly between conversations, his laugh would die down too quickly. His shoulders kept slumping under a weight that Draco couldn’t see, and his eyes kept sliding away from his friends, looking towards the door. It was as though Potter was wearing a mask, putting on a show for his friends, while underneath it all he was feeling something different, something he couldn’t show even the people he cared about the most. It felt familiar to Draco, and as he watched, he thought he understood Potter’s comment in the courtyard earlier that day. Here Potter was surrounded by the people he called his family, he’d never been less alone. And yet he looked lonely.

Draco didn’t think he was the only one who had noticed, either. Granger kept shooting Potter concerned looks, her eyes raking over him critically whenever he was preoccupied with someone else. The girl Weasley, too, looked at Potter with something like sad longing in her eyes. She was less tactile with him as she’d been on her previous trips to the school; no longer sitting almost in his lap, no tentative touches to his shoulder or his hand. There was disappointment in her eyes but a resolved clench to her jaw, as though she was forcing herself to move on from something she’d wanted for a long time. Draco could guess at what it was; he too had experienced similar feelings, over a lot of things. Wishing to be closer to Potter was just one in a long line of things he had given up, either by force or by hopelessness.

Draco’s chest began to feel light and his eyes began to burn. He stood up abruptly and left the hall without eating more than half his dinner. It had been a mistake to sit so close to Potter; it had done nothing but remind him of things he’d rather forget, things he had to forget. Potter was quickly becoming the only tangible thing in Draco’s life after the war, and it was unsettling him. Potter had always been untouchable to Draco, an abstract that was compelling but always just out of reach. Draco didn’t know what to do with a touchable and understandable Potter.

The next day, Professor McGonagall caught Draco at breakfast, and asked him for his help in mending the greenhouses. Potter was needed on the North Tower, and Draco couldn’t continue their work on the west wall by himself. Draco nodded his acquiescence and sat down to his toast and tea, grateful that McGonagall always phrased her orders as requests. She was in charge of his community service while he was here, and she could have him scrubbing the toilets without magic if she so desired, but instead she treated him as she treated all the volunteers who turned up; thanking them for their help and directing them to where they were needed most. It was better than being ignored, as the rest of the congregation seemed to prefer, and it made Draco’s situation just a little more bearable.

Not much had been done with the greenhouses so far; both Longbottom and Professor Sprout had been more concerned with tending to the plants and flowers than with structural issues. A temporary shed had been built in the far corner to provide shelter for some seedlings, and piles of newly conjured plant pots created a meandering path where flowerbeds used to be. Professor Sprout kept rushing from one end of the area to the other, piling soft earth onto Mandrakes threatening to outgrow their pots and trying to soothe the Venomous Tentacula that kept lashing out at everyone who came too close. The entire Herbology section had been so demolished that Draco couldn’t even find the foundations for the separate greenhouses. They would have to start completely from scratch. Draco looked around, wondering where to start, and saw Longbottom standing a few feet away. His arms were crossed over his chest, rips in his t shirt from where the Tentacula had lashed out in fear. He stared unwaveringly at Draco.

“Do you have a particular place you’d like me to start?” Draco thought he may as well try and be polite. He wasn’t stupid; he knew that the Herbology side of the restoration had become just as much Longbottom’s job as it was Professor Sprout’s. Out of all of Potter’s friends, Longbottom was the only one who had been here the entire time.

“We need to get Greenhouse One rebuilt first,” Longbottom said, pointing out a vague area filled with smashed glass and broken wood. “We’ve got a lot of seedlings that need more shelter than we can give them at the moment, so that’s priority.”

Draco nodded, mentally going through the list of spells he would need. Longbottom looked like he had something to say, and Draco wondered when he was going to get around to it. “If you can demarcate the irrigation needed, I’ll get started on the foundations.”

Without another word said between them, they began to rebuild the greenhouse. Longbottom dug out new rows for flowerbeds, creating sprinklers and setting them to timers according to where he knew the various seedlings would be planted. Draco walked around him, placing stone foundations in the earth and slowly building upwards with a mixture of glass and wood, to get the best light at all times of the day. It wasn’t until all of the walls were nearly complete, and Draco was contemplating how best to go about laying the roof, that Longbottom finally spoke.

“So, you’ve been spending time with Harry recently.”

Draco stared up at the open sky, frowning. That hadn’t been what he had thought Longbottom wanted to talk about. “He’s been spending time with me,” he replied, unsure where the conversation was going. “I just go where I’m told.” To his surprise, Longbottom laughed.

“Yeah, that’s our Harry, always going places he shouldn’t.”

Draco put a stasis charm on the walls and dropped his wand. “Is there a point to all of this?”

Longbottom stood up from where he’d had his arms buried elbow deep in soil and brushed off his hands. “Harry told me, you know. The things he saw, what Voldemort made you do.” Draco winced, not at the name, but of the things that Potter might have seen. “I reckon it makes some of the things you did a bit more understandable.” He glared at Draco. “You could have warned us, we could have got Luna off the train before they found her.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yeah, you did, you just chose wrong.” Longbottom stepped closer. “What I’m saying is, maybe I get that your options weren’t great ones, so maybe I understand why you did what you did. I’m not going to forgive you, not yet, because none of us had the luxury of easy decisions, so it’s not like you were the only one.” He waited until Draco lifted his head, and looked him in the eye. “But none of us were in your position either. I had my Gran supporting me, and my friends. You were on your own. So maybe forgiveness can be a thing I can work towards.”

Draco stared at him incredulously. Of course he wasn’t forgiven, had Longbottom forgotten who he was talking to? Draco wasn’t just some idiot who had stayed silent just to save his own skin, like Zacharias Smith. Draco was a marked Death Eater. He’d hurt people, he’d helped lock people up, he’d facilitated the death of Hogwarts’ beloved headmaster. There could be no forgiveness for those things. Did Longbottom really think Draco was stupid enough to need that spelled out to him?

“What does any of that have to do with Potter?”

Longbottom looked startled for a moment, as though he’d forgotten how he’d started the conversation. “Right. The thing is, Harry’s not as great an actor as he’d like to think. None of us are as oblivious as he seems to think, either.” He paused, cocking his head to one side. “Well, Ron can be, but only when there’s food around to distract him. But my point is, trusting Harry has never steered us wrong so far, so we’re willing to let whatever this is play out. For as long as he needs us to.”

Draco didn’t understand. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Longbottom drew himself up to his full and considerable height. He really had transformed from the pudgy little boy Draco had met in First Year; now he was tall and strong, and not a little intimidating. “I’m saying, whatever this thing is between you and Harry, we’re not going to interfere. But if you hurt him, I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, this is the one thing we won’t forgive.”

Draco looked away. Of course they were all worried about what the Death Eater would do to Potter. “Longbottom, I’m on probation from the Ministry, currently fulfilling my community service sentence in a place filled with skilled witches and wizards, all of whom have been instructed by the Wizengamot to keep an eye on me at all times. I’m not stupid; attacking Potter is the very last thing I would be thinking of doing.”

“Not even remotely what I meant.” Longbottom leaned closer, gaze searching Draco’s face. “You don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you?” He laughed lightly. “Looks like Ron isn’t the only one who has problems seeing things that are right in front of his face.” He clapped his hand onto Draco’s shoulder, making him jump. “Just, when you figure it out, remember what I said, okay?”

Draco nodded slowly, not having a clue as to what to say in reply.

By the time Draco made it up to the castle that night, dinner was already half over. He’d managed to set up two brand new greenhouses, and had assisted Longbottom and Professor Sprout in repotting Mandrakes and spreading the seedlings across their new home. The Venomous Tentacula had taken a liking to him, for reasons Draco could not determine, and so Sprout and Longbottom had left him to settle the plant in its corner of greenhouse two, putting up with the wandering fronds as he talked the plant out of its state of anxiety. He’d only managed to escape by promising to visit again the next day, and the grounds were growing dark around him as he ran back inside. He managed to grab a bowl of soup and some bread before the table was cleared, and sat in his usual seat. It wasn’t until he was halfway through his meal when he noticed that things over on the Gryffindor section of the table didn’t look too happy.

Potter was frowning. Not the kind of frown he got when he was angry or upset, but the one that said he’d made a decision about something and was determined to stick to it, no matter what anyone said. Granger seemed to be pleading with him about something, with Weasley nodding his head in agreement between massive bites of his sandwich. The girl Weasley looked unhappy, but she wasn’t saying anything, just sitting there picking at her food. Potter listened to something Granger was saying, and then shook his head, said something terse back to her. His eyes lifted from the table for a moment, and locked unerringly onto Draco, who quickly looked away. When he looked back up, Longbottom was speaking, and Granger sat back in her seat, obviously not entirely happy.

“So, one last party, before we all head off tomorrow?”

Draco heard Finnigan ask the question loudly, and the group around him nodded and rose from the table, Potter in the middle. Finnigan and Weasley, apparently having decided that it was their job to lift the mood of the group, began singing loudly and off key as they led the rest out of the hall, Granger and the girl Weasley following on behind, both of them watching Potter with concern. Potter himself stayed in the middle of the group, but just as he reached the doors, he turned his head and gave Draco a long, searching look. Draco didn’t know what he was looking for, or if he found it, because between one blink and the next, Potter and his friends had disappeared around the corner.

That settled it for Draco. If there was going to be yet another raucous Gryffindor led party down in the teachers’ quarters, then he was going to pack all of his things and move permanently into the Slytherin dorms. He felt better down there anyway, locked away from the people he’d hurt, the looks that he got whenever he was forced into their space by necessity. He couldn’t be a part of this world any more, and standing on the sidelines looking in hurt too damn much.

It didn’t take long for him to pack his stuff up from around the small room he’d been given when he’d arrived. He had few clothes; hardly anyone working on the castle wore wizarding robes, with the exception of the staff and the occasional ministry employee who turned up to help, and Draco owned a limited amount of Muggle clothing. He’d brought few things from his home when he’d come here, knowing he would have little time for recreation. If he could even find someone who would willingly spend their free time with him, which had seemed unlikely. Just a few books and some clothes, and some other necessities, all of which went into one shrunken box, and then Draco was ready to move into his old room once more.

The party was already well underway as Draco left his little room and walked past the staff room. He could hear someone shouting out a dare for someone else to skinny dip in the lake and commune with the squid, and he hastened his stride, wanting to be out of the hallway before anyone decided to burst out of the room. There was no password set to the Slytherin common room now that it had been opened, and all Draco had to do was place his hand against the stretch of wall for the entrance to appear for him. And then he was alone, in the dark and the quiet of the underground rooms.

It was better this way, he told himself repeatedly, as he walked up the stairs and into his old dorm room. He didn’t want to be up there with everyone else, he thought to himself, as he put his things away. Peace and quiet, and familiar surroundings, that was all he needed, he thought, settling himself on his newly made bed. It was also probably all he would ever get, so he may as well start getting used to it now. He picked up a book - One Hundred Magical Creatures Time Forgot. Luna Lovegood had sent to him when he’d first arrived here, for some unknown reason - and forced himself to get lost in it. And then he realised that the door had been pushed open.

Draco looked up, startled. “What are you doing in here?”

Potter looked back at him, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I could ask the same of you.”

Draco shook his head. “Actually, never mind that, how did you get in here?”

“It’s not term time, Malfoy, none of the passwords are in effect yet.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Draco frowned, gesturing with his arm at the Slytherin colours surrounding them. “You’re not even supposed to know where the entrance to Slytherin even is.”

Potter tilted his head to one side. “Why not? You know where the Gryffindor dormitories are.”

“Because you’re Gryffindors!” Draco spluttered. “You’re all about bravery, and not giving a shit what other people think, and all that rot.”

“Whereas all Slytherins care about is keeping their secrets?”

A snarky response was forming on Draco’s lips as the tone of Potter’s voice hit him. It wasn’t condescending or disgusted, merely questioning, as though he really wanted to know the answer. He turned the disparaging remark into a snort instead. “Fine, don’t tell me. How about you answer my first question instead?”

Potter walked further into the room, sitting himself down on the bed opposite Draco’s. Blaise’s bed. The bed where he and Draco had... Draco flushed and turned his face away.

“Like I said, I could ask the same of you. You moved out of the room over in the teachers’ quarters.”

Draco shrugged. “I wanted somewhere I could be alone.”

“Ditto.”

“You came all the way down to the Slytherin dorms, the one place you knew I would be, to be alone?”

Potter grinned. “Now you’re getting it.”

Draco scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration. “Not that you were ever entirely coherent, Potter, but I swear there were times when you used to make just a little bit of sense.”

Potter kicked off his dusty trainers, pulling himself further onto Blaise’s old bed. He tucked his feet underneath him. “I don’t like being on my own, I guess.” he began picking at a hole in his sock, frowning down at it. “I was left alone a lot as a kid, and when I’m on my own now it feels like I’m back there, shut up in that cupboard, all over again. But out there,” he waved a hand around vaguely, indicating the rest of the castle above them, “Things are expected, I’m meant to act a certain way. I’m meant to be happy, glad that it’s all over, looking forward to the rest of my life. I’m Harry Potter,” he crooked his fingers in the air, “And I’m supposed to know what I’m doing.”

“And you don’t.” It wasn’t a question, and Draco didn’t need an answer to know that he was correct. He’d already seen the way Potter kept trying to hold himself slightly apart from his friends, the way his shoulders tightened with tension whenever he was surrounded by them.

“I never have. I’ve known what I was supposed to be doing, and I did it, because it was all I could do, but now it’s over, and I’m just kind of...”

Draco finished for him, “Lost?”

Potter nodded. “Everyone thinks I should be grateful that it’s all over, and I am, but they also think I should know what to do next. I got a second chance, but I don’t have a clue what to do with it.”

“So you come down here to avoid all that expectation, while still not having to be lonely.”

“Yep.”

“But why me?” Draco stared intently at the top of Potter’s messy head, trying to understand him. “Out of all the people you could be alone with, why me?”

Potter looked up then, a simple smile on his face. “Because you don’t know what to do with your second chance either.”

Draco didn’t have anything to say to that, so he kept quiet.

Potter sighed. “All my friends, they mean well, but they just want to tell me what to do. Ron wants me to go with him to sign up for Auror training, just like we’d always planned. Hermione wants me to just do something, and she has a list of things that I could be doing.” He raised an eyebrow at Draco. “And I mean an actual list; she’s bullet pointed it and everything.” He shook his head with a fond smile.

“And I take it helping rebuild Hogwarts isn’t on that list?” Draco asked, thinking back to what he had seen at dinner.

Potter shook his head. “She thinks I’m hiding, that I’m using this as an excuse to keep from moving on.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe, I don’t really know.” Potter shrugged, leaning back on his hands. “I know I’m comfortable here, in a way I’ve never been anywhere else. And so what if I am, really? Maybe I just need some time to figure out what I want to do next. Maybe it’s okay that I don’t have it all planned out.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” It bothered Draco. He’d had his entire life planned out by his father long ago. He was going to act the proper Pureblood, marry a nice Pureblood girl and produce the perfect Pureblood Malfoy heir, and he would continue in his father’s footsteps as he sought ways of keeping magic within Pureblood lines. Even if he’d never wanted any of that, even if he’d doubted that it was the right and truly proper thing to do, even if he’d realised halfway through that his father had tied their family to the robes of a madman all in his pursuit of power and blood purity, Draco’s life had still been planned. Now, it was nothing but chaos and a wide, yawning chasm of nothingness stretching on forever in front of him, and that bothered Draco. It terrified him.

“I think it’s about time I made some decisions for myself, don’t you? Even if they’re not the right ones,” Potter said quietly.

Draco was suddenly very annoyed at the conversation. What would Potter know about making bad decisions? He was a Gryffindor, doing the right thing was ingrained upon his psyche. He couldn’t make a bad decision if he tried. Draco had had very few choices in his short life so far, and each one had led him further and further into darkness. “My life might not have been governed by a prophecy, Potter, but you’re not the only one who had everything planned out for them.”

“Maybe we should both start making our own decisions, then?”

“Speak for yourself,” Draco replied shortly. “The only choices I’ve ever made have been awfully bad ones.”

Potter sat up straight. “So does that mean you’re giving up now? Hide yourself away down here, keep yourself locked away from life?”

“You seem to be doing the exact same thing, Potter.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s for the same reasons.”

Draco felt like their conversation was going in circles. It was making his head hurt. And his chest, every time he looked up to find Potter looking back at him. “Go back to your party of Gryffindors, Potter.” He turned away, picking his book back up.

Potter sighed. “Okay, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll see you in the Great Hall for breakfast before we start working on the west wall again.”

Draco ignored him, pointedly turning a page. The air around them crackled with tension for a long moment, and then he heard the door softly open and close. When he finally looked back up, Potter was long gone.

The Great Hall was quieter the following morning, most of the Gryffindors having already left. The only ones left were Longbottom, already on his way to the greenhouses for yet another day of replanting, and Granger, who was sitting next to Potter. Draco helped himself to some cereal and tea, watching them surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. Granger’s bushy head was bent close to Potter’s as they talked quietly. Some of the tension from the night before seemed to have gone; Granger was smiling a bit more freely, and Potter’s shoulders were loose. As Draco looked on, they both rose from the table and embraced tightly. Granger kissed Potter’s cheek, and Potter brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. Draco looked away from the display of affection, a tight feeling in his stomach. He concentrated on forcing himself to eat the remains of his breakfast, even though he’d lost his appetite. When he’d finished, he looked up to find Potter leaning against the wall next to the doors, looking at him. He was waiting for Draco.

Draco sighed and got up to join him. “Come on, then. The quicker we get to work the quicker we can move on to other projects.”

“Something tells me you don’t want to work with me, Malfoy,” Potter said lightly, as they began to make their way towards the third corridor in the west wing.

Draco wanted to agree, to say that yes, that was exactly right, now why don’t you fuck off and leave me alone, Potter? But the truth tripped out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Maybe I want it too much.” He felt his face flush, and he turned away from Potter, striding ahead so that he wouldn’t have to look at him.

“Me too,” he thought he heard Potter mumble from behind him, but then they reached the corridor, and it was time to start working.

They worked in silence for most of the morning, each doing the same thing they had done on the two hallways beneath them. The sun shone down on them as they worked, and Draco was grateful that it was the middle of summer and they didn’t have to worry about weather charms on top of all the heavy lifting they were doing. They didn’t speak, unless it was to direct each other, and Draco was relieved that Potter didn’t seem to want to bring up their conversation from the night before while they worked. He didn’t think he’d be able to concentrate on holding the wall up if he had to listen to Potter so determinedly. Draco found it distracting enough just watching Potter work, the way he bit into his lower lip and stared with wide fixed eyes at the ceiling above him, the collar of his t shirt slipping to show a hint of collarbone, the long line of his bared neck, showing a hint of dark stubble. Draco kept swallowing hard and had to remind himself constantly to look away.

They managed to finish the fifth floor hallway by the time the dinner bell sounded, and they both lowered their wands with relief. They walked back down to the Great Hall together, and Draco wondered to himself why it no longer felt strange to be walking side by side with Potter. They were so close that their shoulders brushed together, the backs of their hands skimming against each other as they moved. Draco had to concentrate on not sucking in a sharp breath every time it happened.

Longbottom hailed Potter as soon as they arrived, and Draco prepared himself for Potter leaving him to eat alone, as he always did. It annoyed Draco, this feeling of dependency that was growing within him. He liked being alone, it was exactly what he wanted, but then Potter had come in and suddenly Draco’s world had begun to revolve around the Gryffindor all over again. He didn’t want to feel that way; only bad decisions lay down that path.

But instead of leaving Draco to go sit with his friend, Potter hooked a hand around Draco’s elbow and pulled him around to the other side of the table, forcing him down into the seat between himself and Longbottom. Draco tensed, but all Longbottom did was give Potter a long look, before sighing to himself and smiling perfunctorily at Draco.

“Harry, Draco. How’s the west wing coming along?”

Potter helped himself to a steaming bowl of Shepherd’s Pie, then pushed the crock pot closer to Draco. “Good,” he replied, taking a massive bite and breathing steam out around it. “I think we’ll have it finished by tomorrow, what do you think, Draco?”

Draco glared at him, seeing the question for what it was. But Potter just looked mildly back at him, and when Draco saw that Longbottom was also waiting for him to reply, he sighed. “Yes, we should be, if we can integrate the roof with the rest of the castle easily enough.”

“Shit, yeah. I didn’t think of that.” Potter frowned into his Shepherd’s Pie.

“McGonagall and Flitwick finally managed to stabilise the north tower today, so I’m sure they’ll be able to help you out if it looks like it’s going to be a problem,” Longbottom said. He offered Draco the pitcher of pumpkin juice, and Draco stared at him in surprise. Longbottom just tilted his head towards Potter, staring back meaningfully at Draco. He took the pitcher from Longbottom and filled his goblet, then offered it to Potter.

“Thanks, I think I burnt my tongue.”

“Well if you will insist on shovelling it into your mouth like that, it’s bound to happen,” Draco replied with a roll of his eyes. Next to him, Longbottom started choking on his mouthful of mashed potatoes.

“Speaking of McGonagall, where is she?” Potter looked up and scanned the hall. “I wanted to ask her a favour.”

“I think she had a firecall with Kingsley, she’s up in her office,” Longbottom answered.

Potter shoved three more huge forkfuls into his mouth and chewed rapidly. “I’m going to see if I can catch them both, see you two in a bit.” He got up and walked quickly out of the hall, still chewing his food.

Draco watched him go, wondering what that was about. Then he realised that he’d been left sitting next to Longbottom. He turned his head, and found Longbottom already looking back at him, appraising. “Do you know what he’s doing?”

Longbottom shrugged. “Nope, but I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. It’s probably something to do with you, anyway.”

Draco frowned. “Why would it be to do with me?”

Longbottom snorted. “It’s always about you when it comes to Harry.” He pushed away his empty plate and stood up. “It’s the one thing about him that hasn’t changed since the war.”

Draco watched him go, disconcerted.

He’d just finished his food and was about to go back to the Slytherin dorms when Potter arrived back in the hall, looking slightly out of breath. He slumped down onto the bench and picked up Draco’s goblet, draining the last of his pumpkin juice. His mouth was placed directly where Draco’s had just been.

“Good, you’re still here.” Potter banged the goblet back onto the table, and a few seconds later it disappeared down to the kitchens to be washed. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“You couldn’t have asked me before you went tearing out of here earlier?”

Draco got up and began walking out of the Great Hall, Potter close on his heels. “I had to ask McGonagall if it was okay first.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“Well, I was thinking.” Potter quickened his pace, coming up to walk alongside Draco. He looked nervous; Draco could see him flexing his fingers when he looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “I’m leaving the castle tomorrow, to see Teddy, and I wondered if you wanted to come with me.”

Draco stopped dead, watching Potter skid to a halt as he realised. “You want me to go with you, to meet my aunt and second cousin, neither of whom I’ve ever met,” he said, flatly.

Potter looked down to where he was fiddling with the sleeve of his robes. “I asked Andromeda, and she said it would be okay.” He shrugged. “I think she’s quite interested in you, actually. And Teddy doesn’t have a lot of family, so I think she’d like you to get to know them both.”

Draco glared at him. “So, let me get this straight: You talked about me to my estranged family members, and then you go and talk to McGonagall about it, without even mentioning this plan of yours to me?”

“I wanted to make sure it was something that could happen, before I told you.”

Draco sneered. “And what about finding out if it’s something that I want to happen first?”

“Do you?” Potter had stopped looking nervous, his head tilted to one side curiously. “Do you want it to happen?”

“Well that doesn’t matter now, does it? Now that everyone knows about it.” Draco snorted sharply, feeling angry and also a little betrayed. “Now that everyone else but me has been busy discussing it, if I go I’m just the little Death Eater trying to worm his way back into society, and if I don’t, then I’m still the Pureblood elitist snob my parents raised me to be.”

“Draco, that’s not true,” Potter said firmly, frowning at him. “It’s just Andy and McGonagall, and neither of them will think any less of you no matter what you choose.”

“Andy,” Draco scoffed under his breath. He glared hard at Potter. “What is this, Potter?”

“What do you mean?”

Draco gestured sharply between them, not noticing until he almost hit Potter in the chest just how close they were standing. “This. You volunteering to work with me, making me eat dinner with your friends, trying to get me an in with my own family members who hate me, calling me Draco. What is this?”

“It’s...” Potter trailed off, shoving a hand into his unruly hair and pulling on it slightly. “I don’t know, I thought you might like it, that’s all.”

Draco scoffed meanly. “Yes, just what every Slytherin wants, to be a project for the Chosen One. I’m absolutely ecstatic.”

“Don’t call me that,” Potter scowled. “And you’re not a project.”

“In that case, leave me the fuck alone.” Draco stalked forward, banging his shoulder hard into Potter as he passed him.

“So about tomorrow, is that a no?” Potter called out behind him.

Draco let the slamming of the dungeon door be his answer.

Potter wasn’t in the Great Hall when Draco turned up for breakfast, and Draco assumed he’d already left for the day. Which was a good thing, he kept reminding himself, when he couldn’t seem to stop looking up every time someone walked in through the door. He hadn’t wanted to go, and it had been stupid of Potter to even think he would.

Except, that wasn’t quite true, because all Draco could think about for the entire day was what might be happening there without him. Would Aunt Andromeda be disappointed that he hadn’t turned up? Would she and Potter talk about Draco over tea and biscuits? The child, how old would he be now? Was he a werewolf like his father? A metamorphmagi like his mother? Why was Potter visiting them in the first place?

All of these questions and more revolved around Draco’s head as he worked on the greenhouses in the hot sun. He was so distracted that he forgot to put up the barrier charm and his neck burnt a bright red. He forgot to warn everyone around him when he began repotting the Mandrakes, and two Hufflepuffs passed out on the floor of greenhouse three. He nodded quietly as Professor Sprout lectured him on proper Herbology safety, his mind still on the day he could have been having. He was so busy thinking that he didn’t notice Longbottom coming up to him until the other boy was standing right in front of him, face covered in dirt and a scowl.

“Listen, mate. I had to deal with a pissed off Harry last night and this morning, and if you think I’m putting up with the same from you all day, you can think again.” Longbottom glared at him. “Whatever it is that’s got both your knickers in a twist, sort it out, or I’ll do it for you.” He stalked away, leaving Draco staring helplessly after him.

Draco had been so angry the night before, both at Potter and himself. Potter had gone behind his back, leaving Draco with a choice between two terrible options, and he was pissed off that it had happened yet again. He’d had enough of everyone around him never giving him a good option: Be a proper Pureblood or be a bad son; become a Death Eater or watch his mother die; kill Dumbledore or be killed himself; torture Rowle or be tortured himself, the list went on and on, and Draco was sick of it. If Potter had just come to him with his idea first, then it could have been avoided, Draco could have made the decision and nobody else would have known. But oh no, Potter had to do the responsible thing, had to include everyone else before even asking Draco what he wanted.

And the really ridiculous thing was, Draco thought he actually might have liked to go and meet them both. He’d always been intrigued on the odd occasion his Aunt Andromeda was mentioned at home. His father and Aunt Bella had always spoken of her derisively, because of whom she had married, but his mother had been less so. Draco thought that, in an ideal world, Andromeda might have been his mother’s favourite sister, had they not ended up on opposite sides of a war. He’d come across a few pictures of the three sisters, in a box up in the loft once. He’d been surprised by how much Bella and Andromeda had looked alike, while his mother had been so pale she looked as though she glowed, standing smiling between them. The only difference had been their eyes; Bella’s were full of hatred and a touch of madness even back when they’d been young. But Andromeda’s eyes had sparkled with life and happiness, and Draco had always wondered if that look would still be there, should he ever meet her. She had been so beautiful.

The boy too, Draco was interested in meeting. He’d heard of the boy’s birth through the Dark Lord, sitting at the head of the Malfoy table and poking fun at his family for sharing a bloodline with a half-breed. He’d wondered then what the child would be like. He remembered Lupin, and he remembered that, as much as he might have railed against the man and made fun of him at the time, he’d been a very good professor. He’d been mild mannered, calm and fair, so very unlike Greyback in every single way, that it was hard to imagine him turning into a beast on a full moon. Greyback had been as much of a beast in human form, if not more so, because as a human he’d had a choice over his actions. But Lupin had been... nice, actually. He wondered if the boy, his second cousin, would be the same as his father, in every respect.

So while he was angry with Potter, he was also angry at himself, for not taking up Potter’s offer. But he didn’t want to be like his father any more, didn’t want to look as though he was trying to curry favours, as Lucius did when he’d greased the palms of ministry workers before the Dark Lord had returned. And that’s what he would have looked like, to McGonagall and whoever else she had told about the idea. he’d never bothered to get in touch before, so how else would anyone interpret his going to see them now? He’d been stuck between that and looking like he always has, a Pureblood elitist sticking up his nose at anything he’d been taught to dislike. It had been a choice between being noticed for doing something different, and staying the way he was, so he’d had no choice but to take the lesser option.

And that should have been enough, he should have said no and then left it at that. He shouldn’t have spent half the night pacing his dorm room, half terrified and half waiting for Potter to come down and find him. He shouldn’t have spent the entire day thinking about what he was missing out on, and he definitely shouldn’t have been looking around for Potter every two minutes, looking up whenever someone came along and being disappointed when it wasn’t a certain self-righteous, messy-haired, idiot Gryffindor.

But there he was, sitting down to dinner and looking up every time the door opened, hardly able to eat his chicken stroganoff because his stomach was all tied up in knots with the waiting. And there he was, breathing a huge sigh of relief and feeling the tension drain from his shoulders when that familiar messy head finally, finally, came into view.

Potter didn’t even look in his direction, just sat down next to Longbottom and began talking to him animatedly. Draco scowled down into his bowl of mushroom sauce. What the hell was he doing? He was angry with Potter, he hadn’t missed him. But he couldn’t help it, he had to look up again and see what Potter was doing, if he was looking back. He wasn’t; he was busy explaining something to Longbottom, using his hands expansively and grinning like a loon. Longbottom was smiling back indulgently, nodding his head and asking questions. But then he lifted his head and saw Draco watching. Draco dropped his gaze quickly, but not before he’d seen Longbottom roll his eyes and elbow Potter. Draco dropped his spoon into his half eaten dinner and stood up. He needed to get out of there.

He walked out of the hall as fast as he could without it seeming like he was running, and then gave up the pretence as soon as he hit the entrance. He slammed his way into the Slytherin dorms and almost skidded to a halt in the middle of the room, breathing hard. He hated this, hated feeling like he was depending on Potter for something. He already owed the Gryffindor his freedom, not to mention his life, wasn’t that enough? Did he really have to add being able to breathe to that very long list too? He put a hand to his chest, feeling his pounding heartbeat. It was utterly ridiculous; he’d spent the entire day almost completely useless, feeling like something was missing, right up until the moment Potter had walked through those doors. Even now, knowing Potter was here but not with him, was making tension grow in Draco’s stomach all over again. Potter didn’t even have to do anything; if Draco could even just see him, then it was enough to calm him.

“Okay, so, Neville says we need to talk.”

Draco jumped at the voice behind him, even as the tight ball in his chest started to ease. He grimaced at himself before turning around.

Potter was leaning against the open doorway. “According to Neville, you’ve been a right pain in the arse all day.”

“Probably because last night you reminded me just how much I hate you.”

“Really?” Potter raised an eyebrow. “Hating me always seemed to make you a lot happier than this, when we were at school.”

Draco shrugged. “Yes, well. Back then, it was funny.”

“And it’s not funny now?”

Draco shook his head but didn’t answer. He sat down on the end of his bed, looking anywhere but at Potter. He heard Potter sigh, and then the soft closing of the door.

“Did you know, I was almost sorted into Slytherin?” He asked, almost conversationally.

Draco was confused. “What?”

“Yeah. I spent a good couple of years wondering what that said about me.” Potter looked around at the green and silver hangings, the Slytherin tapestries on the walls.

“Because all Slytherins are evil, right?”

Potter shrugged. “It’s what I thought at the time.” He smiled slightly. “Give me a break, I was eleven. But anyway, remember the thing with the Chamber of Secrets, and everyone was talking about me being Slytherin’s Heir?” Draco nodded; he hadn’t forgotten the way Potter had so calmly spoken to his own conjured snake at the duel. “That’s when I started to really worry about it, so I told Dumbledore.”

“What did he say?” Draco didn’t really know where Potter was going with this, but he was interested. He found himself briefly wondering just how different things might have been if the Sorting Hat had yelled out Slytherin instead of Gryffindor their first night at the castle.

“He asked me why I thought the Sorting hat put me in Gryffindor instead.” Potter smiled again, but this time it was distant, as though he was remembering something pleasant, just a hint of pain at the edges. “I told him it was because I asked it to.”

Draco was amazed. “The Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor just because you asked it to?”

Potter waggled a hand in front of him. “Well, I actually asked to be put anywhere but Slytherin, and the Hat chose Gryffindor instead, but yeah, basically.”

Draco said nothing; he was too shocked.

“At the time, what with me being able to speak Parceltongue and everything, I thought it was something bad, that I’d fucked up by asking and I should have been in Slytherin. But Dumbledore told me... what was it?” He frowned slightly, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh yeah, ’It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities’. He meant that me choosing to not be a Slytherin is what makes me a Gryffindor, not just the things I can do.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “This is all very interesting, but-”

“He talked a lot about choices,” Potter interrupted. “He said that it didn’t matter what someone was born, but what they grow to be. He talked about choosing between what is right and what is easy.” He walked forward and leaned against the bedpost. His jeans brushed Draco’s hand. “And then he died, and left me with the biggest choice of all.” He looked down, waiting for Draco to catch his eyes. “Hallows or Horcruxes? Power, or destruction? That’s the choice he left me with.”

Draco looked at him, really looked. Potter looked sad, defeated, resigned.

“There was a big part of me that wanted to choose power. It might have been easier to do, in the end. There were only three of them, and I already had one, my Invisibility Cloak. Dumbledore left me the Resurrection Stone in his will. All I would have had to do was find the Elder Wand, and I would have been Master of Death.”

“But you chose the Horcruxes instead.” Draco knew enough of the story to know that.

Potter nodded. “What I’m trying to say is, I know what it’s like, to have only bad choices staring at you, and having to pick one.”

Draco stood up, shaking his head. “It’s not the same.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Because you chose right!” Draco was angry all over again, because Potter didn’t get it, he didn’t understand at all. “You defeated the Dark Lord, you saved the entire wizarding world! You chose what was right over what was easy, but I never have! I don’t know how!”

Potter was shaking his head. “That’s not true, Draco. I was there on top of that tower, I saw you lower your wand.”

“Because it was easier!”

“How?” Potter asked, advancing on Draco. “You were given an order, you knew what would happen to you if you failed, you knew that the other Death Eaters had been told to make sure you did it. How was that easier than one spell that you must have been taught to do in your sleep?”

“I only did it because I didn’t want to kill anyone!”

“Exactly. You chose what was right over what was easy. You do know how, you’re just letting everything else that has happened stop you from realising it.”

Potter’s green eyes flared with triumphant fire, and Draco almost wanted to cry. “You don’t understand, that doesn’t matter! He still died! It was still my actions that led to his death, because I brought the Death Eaters here, and Severus was up on that tower looking for me!”

“And shutting yourself up in this bloody dorm room isn’t going to change that, Draco!”

Draco closed his eyes. “No, but it might stop me from doing something else that ends with more people getting killed.”

He heard Potter heave a big sigh. “That’s no way to live, Draco. Yeah, you made some really bad choices, but so has everyone else.”

Draco laughed, a high, thin sound. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. We couldn’t be more different if we tried. You always choose the right thing.”

“Do you think that means I don’t have regrets?” Potter was closer now; Draco could feel the warmth of his breath against his face. “I chose to go hunting for Horcruxes, and that led me to doing something fucked up things, Draco. I used Unforgivables, I nearly got Ron Splinched. Hermione was nearly killed. Fred, Tonks, Remus, Colin Creevey, and Gods, so many others, they all died just to give me time to run around the castle looking for a fucking tiara.”

Draco opened his eyes to find Potter standing almost nose to nose with him, his chest heaving and his eyes bright.

“I destroyed all of those Horcruxes, and every single one held a piece of a person’s soul. And yeah, maybe he deserved it, but that doesn’t change what I did, what I turned into in order to do it. You want to know the biggest difference between us, Draco? I’m a murderer, and you’re not.”

He was so close to Draco, and everything about him was so bright, it was like looking directly into the sun. Draco couldn’t understand it, how someone who had done so much, could be so stupid. And he was moving before he knew it, swaying forward into Potter, hands catching at his shoulders before tangling into thick, ridiculously messy hair, mouth pressing clumsily against stubble and soft lips.

He pulled himself away abruptly, horrified at what he had just done. He stared at Potter, watched as he slowly lifted a hand to his lips. Anger coursed through him in an attempt to eclipse the terror, and he took a stumbling step back.

“There, you see? Yet another bad choice! Stop telling me to make decisions for myself, Potter, because it's quite clear that I'm terrible at it.”

“What makes you think that was a bad thing to do?” Potter sounded dazed, and Draco wondered hysterically if he had broken him. A Dark Lord and an entire army of Death Eaters hadn’t fazed him, but one kiss from Draco Malfoy and the Chosen One was defeated.

Draco stared at him in disbelief. “Are you mad? I just kissed you!”

“Yes, I know, I was there.” Potter licked his lips, pulling his fingers away from his mouth. “Did it feel like a bad thing when you did it?”

It was very odd; it was as though the kiss had somehow reset Potter, turning him back into the calm, curious boy he’d been when he’d first walked into the room. “N-no, but... I... What does that matter?” Draco stuttered out, feeling his face turn red. “You're Harry fucking Potter, and I just kissed you, and there's no universe in which you would ever want such a thing, so obviously it was a stupid thing to do!”

Potter straightened up and took a step forwards. Draco took a step back. “No, you think I wouldn't want it, but you can't know for sure, which is exactly what I was talking about.”

Draco couldn't stop staring at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You want to kiss me?” Potter held his arms out to the side. “Here I am. If you want to kiss me, make a decision and do it. But just sitting there not doing anything about getting what you want isn't going to change anything, Draco.” He leaned forward, closer into Draco's personal space. “What's the worst that could happen?”

Draco swallowed. “You could say no,” he whispered.

“Try it and find out,” Potter whispered back.

Draco looked at him, trying to find the lie, the trap that might be waiting for him. It had always been that way; his father would give him a choice, and Draco would have to pick the right one. The Dark Lord would ask for something innocuous, but there’d be a warning hidden in there somewhere, and it would be Draco’s job to find it. But Potter’s face was open and honest, waiting calmly for Draco to do something. He took a deep breath and stepped closer, feeling a thrill course through him when Potter didn’t move back, when his gaze dropped to Draco’s lips. Draco leaned in, stopping a hair’s breadth from Potter to whisper to him.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

So Draco did. It was strange at first, awkward, just a dry press of lips on lips, Draco still waiting for the trap to fall. But nothing happened, except Draco feeling the quick exhale of Potter’s breath against his cheek. The tension shifted, became something more charged. It was strangely exhilarating, standing so close to Potter but not touching, all of Draco’s desire curled into a single point where his lips pressed against Potter’s. He could feel the heat emanating from Potter’s body, making his skin tingle and his heartbeat pound erratically in his chest. He wanted more.

He broke the kiss, licking his lips to taste, feeling the tingling burn of Potter’s stubble on his lower lip. “Can I kiss you again?”

Potter stared at Draco’s bottom lip, nodded his head. “Yes.”

It was better this time, softer and more insistent, less tentative and unsure. Potter pressed in just as much as Draco, leaning in closer. Draco felt a thrill of power course through him when he licked across Potter’s bottom lip and Potter opened easily for him, letting him in to taste. Their tongues slid languidly together, feeling each other out. Draco flicked the tip over the back of Potter’s teeth, breath catching in his throat as he felt Potter moan. He raised his hand, and then stopped again, pulling back.

“Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” Potter whispered against his lips.

Draco let his hand fall on Potter’s shoulder as he kissed him again, sliding his fingers up to cup his neck. He felt hands at his waist and his fingers shook, gripping tighter than he meant to. Potter didn’t seem to care. His mouth opened wider beneath Draco’s, his fingers clenching into Draco’s T-shirt, finding bare skin and digging in. Draco lifted his other hand to pull him closer, their chests bumping together, and he could feel Potter’s heartbeat mimicking the frantic pace of his own. Their knees collided awkwardly together and Potter stumbled back, taking Draco with him until he was pressing Potter back against the bedpost.

“I want,” Draco mumbled against Potter’s lips, “Can I touch you more?”

“Yes.”

Draco slid his mouth down, feeling the prickly-soft stubble against his lips and tongue as he mouthed at the bolt of Potter’s jaw. His hands found smooth back muscles and a trim waist, jeans sagging low on Potter’s hips. He eased one knee slowly between Potter’s, swallowing the gasp it elicited. He couldn’t contain the gentle roll of his hips, and he pressed his smile into Potter’s lips at the answering hardness there.

“Can we get on the bed?”

“Yes.”

They inched past the bedpost, separating for a moment as Potter slid himself to the middle of the bed. Draco followed him, a hand on his chest to push him down. Draco straddled him, leaning down to skim his tongue across Potter’s Adam’s apple, sucking a mark into the pale skin he found there. He let his hands explore the planes and contours of Potter’s chest, working their way down to the hem. His fingers clenched in the material and he pulled back, looking Potter in the eye.

“Can I take it off?”

Potter nodded, pulling at Draco’s own t shirt in response. “Yes.”

Draco sat up, removed his own shirt first, heart skipping when he caught Potter looking. Potter raised himself up, letting Draco pull his shirt over his head. His hair became even messier, his glasses crooked on his nose. Draco dropped both of them over the side of the bed and reached up, resettling the glasses. Potter smiled slightly and lay back down, his eyes fixed on Draco’s chest.

Draco took a long moment to look, to catalogue the differences between what he had always assumed Potter had looked like under those baggy clothes of his, and what he’d just been presented with. His ribs were lightly shadowed, as though Potter had gone through a period of not having quite enough to eat, and was only recently beginning to fill back out. Draco supposed that was obvious enough; food was likely to be a scarce commodity when you’re on the run for your life. His shoulders were broad, broader than Draco’s, soft lines denoting the muscles brought about from playing Quidditch. His nipples were a dusky pink, already stiffening into peaks. There was a burn scar in between them, half hidden by a scattering of soft dark hair. His stomach was soft and heaving, and below it a thick dark happy trail led down to the waistband of his jeans. He was beautiful, and Draco wanted to trail his tongue over every inch.

He looked up at Potter, who was watching him steadily back. “Can I touch you more?”

He got a soft smile in answer. “Yes.”

Draco leaned down, pressing his mouth to Potter’s left shoulder. He licked the lines of muscles, following them down to the hollow of Potter’s collarbone, sucking a bruise into the fragile skin and nipping at it with his teeth. With a moan, Potter shifted beneath him, and Draco moved on, over to the right shoulder, down his arm. He found another scar on the back of Potter’s hand, that looked like words, and he ran his tongue over the thin white lines. Potter’s fingers briefly tangled with his own. Draco let his lips trail back up, his fingers finding the grooves of Potter’s ribs and pressing in and down, holding him there. His tongue flicked over the peak of Potter’s right nipple and he bit down gently, relishing the soft gasp it earned him. His thumb slid upwards to tease at Potter’s other nipple as he continued to suck and kiss and bite, until Potter was a writhing mass beneath him.

Draco had never felt so powerful, or so terrified.

With a last biting kiss, Draco left Potter’s nipples and travelled inwards, feeling the oddly smooth skin of the oval shaped burn mark. He kissed it, feeling Potter hiss quietly beneath him, and moved downwards. His tongue found the indents between Potter’s ribs as his hands slid lower, feeling the sharp points of Potter’s hipbones. He cradled them in his palms as he laved kisses over Potter’s stomach, feeling the minute tremors as Potter rolled against his grasp. He dipped his tongue into Potter’s belly button, tasting the faint trace of sweat and musk that was pure Potter. He followed the trail of dark hair, slid his teeth along the waistband of Potter’s jeans until he could nibble at a hipbone. Then he looked up.

Potter was looking down at him, hands clenching and unclenching in the sheet beneath him, the green of his eyes almost completely swallowed up in black. Draco felt light headed. He tugged lightly on the heavy fabric.

“Can I?”

“Yes,” Potter said, breathlessly.

Heart in his throat, Draco flicked open the button on Potter’s jeans. He slid down the zip with shaky fingers and began pulling the fabric down over Potter’s hips. Potter helped, toeing off his trainers and letting them thunk to the floor, lifting his hips and wriggling in place. Draco eased them down, exposing muscular thighs covered in soft dark hair, slightly too knobbly knees, stocky calves. He let them fall to the floor and pushed his fingers into Potter’s socks, revealing broad pale feet with quickly trimmed nails. He ran the tip of one finger over the arch of Potter’s left foot, smiling when his leg jumped and his toes clenched. Potter was ticklish; Draco would have to remember that.

He set about cataloguing the scars and burns littering Potter’s lower legs, committing them to memory with a kiss and a lick for each one he came across. When he reached Potter’s knobbly knees he let his feet drop, and Potter’s legs feel easily to Draco’s sides, bracketing him in. Draco slid his hands up the outside of Potter’s thighs, brushing the hairs there the wrong way. He laved kisses into the softer skin on the insides, licking a path up and then blowing lightly, watching goosebumps appear in his wake. When he finally reached his destination, Draco was unsurprised and yet completely unprepared for the large tent in the boxers that awaited him. If a small part of him had still been thinking that this was all too good to be true, it disappeared in the evidence of Potter’s obvious arousal. Draco’s own cock twitched in the confines of his jeans, and his mouth watered.

He looked up at Potter. “Can I suck you?”

Potter’s head fell back onto the pillows with a soft thud, a groan slipping through his lips. “Yes,” he whispered, chest heaving. His hands fluttered wildly above Draco’s bent head for a moment, and then they lifted, fingers shoving into his dark hair, pulling at the messy strands.

Draco’s cock throbbed painfully, and he leaned down the last inch, pressing his nose to the crease where hip met thigh. The plain blue fabric was soft against his skin, filled with the scent of Potter. Draco mouthed his way slowly from thigh to hipbone and then back down, ignoring Potter’s frustrated moan and concentrated on doing the same to the other side. His teeth found the elastic waistband and he nipped at it, pulling it away from the skin and then letting it snap back into place. Potter’s hips jumped against his hands where Draco held him down. He opened his mouth and pressed it lightly to the underside of Potter’s cock, still trapped beneath the cotton boxers. He felt it twitch against his lips and he grinned, letting his tongue peek out to touch against the damp spot that was rapidly growing. Above him, Potter moaned, his hips shuddering in Draco’s grasp.

Part of Draco wanted to tease Potter more, to see how far he could push before he came apart beneath him. Everyone had a breaking point, and Draco wanted to know Potter’s. But he was too high on adrenaline and terror, too close to breaking himself from how much he wanted this, how long he’d thought about exactly this, Potter giving him permission to do whatever he wanted to him. Draco’s fingers curled into the waistband of Potter’s boxers, pulling them down to reveal sharp hipbones and pale skin, happy trail turning into dark pubic hair and his hard, flushed cock. Draco’s mouth watered and his fingers let go of their hold. The elastic snapped just under Potter’s balls and he flinched, his cock bouncing on his stomach. Potter was uncut, the head peeking out from his foreskin, already flushed a dark red and leaking drops of pearly liquid onto his belly. Draco reached up with a hand and used a finger to rub it into the soft hair. Potter’s hips jumped again, and Draco knew what he wanted. Draco had never wanted to give something to someone so much in his life.

He leaned in and ran his tongue up the underside of Potter’s cock from root to tip, watching from under his lashes as Potter’s back arched at the contact. He was warm on Draco’s tongue, smooth silk over hard steel, and as Draco sucked the tip of him into his mouth, he tasted salty and sweet and something else that was intrinsically Potter. He slid his lips down further, until the spongy head was pushing against the back of his throat, and he wrapped his fingers around the rest and began to stroke. He sucked lightly, getting used to the taste and the feel - it had been so long since Draco had done this, and it had never been Potter - as Potter’s hips kept shuddering beneath him.

He pulled off to wet his lips. “I want to touch you more.”

“Yes.”

Draco sank back down as far as he could, his watering mouth making it sloppy and wet, spit and precome dripping down over his fingers where they were wrapped around the base. His other hand reached out blindly, grabbing at Potter’s boxers and pulling them down further, past his thighs and over his knees, until they were trapped beneath Draco’s chest. He pulled away and he heard Potter give a frustrated groan. Draco fought with the fabric until he could rip them from Potter’s ankles. He had to press the heel of his palm against his own aching cock at the sight, because Harry Potter was suddenly spread out beneath him, and Draco was struggling to work out how this had happened. And then Potter’s hip gave an involuntary little jump, and all of Draco’s thoughts were burned away by need.

He whispered the spell all Hogwarts boys learn during their time at school, and his palm grew slick with conjured oil. Potter hissed out a breath as Draco’s fingers wrapped around him once more. Draco leaned down again and sucked one of Potter’s balls into his mouth. He trailed his slick fingers down further and further, until the tip of his index finger found Potter’s entrance. He pressed against it lightly, spreading the oil around, feeling the way Potter’s body clenched and relaxed rhythmically against him. Above him, Potter let out a sound crossed between a whimper and a growl. Draco pressed harder with his finger, watching in awe as Potter opened up to let him in to the first knuckle. Draco’s brain short-circuited at the image.

“I want-” Draco choked on his own spit, and he looked up at Potter. He had to ask, he had to, and he honestly didn’t know what he would do if his request was turned down. “C-can I fuck you? Harry, please, let me.”

Potter trembled slightly beneath him, and his head was nodding before he opened his mouth. “Yes. Please yes.” His hands finally left his hair to grab at Draco’s shoulders, hauling him up and over and pressing a slack-mouthed kiss to Draco’s lips. His hands reached down between them , yanking at Draco’s trousers. When he couldn’t work out how to undo them without taking his tongue from Draco’s mouth, he let out a frustrated sound and flicked his hand to the side. Draco jumped as the rest of his clothes were vanished, and he bit down hard on Potter’s lip as he realised that Potter had removed them with just a thought and a twist of his wrist. He moaned into Potter’s mouth and began moving his hand again, his arm bent at an awkward angle between them but unwilling to stop kissing Potter.

One finger became two became three, sweat breaking out on both of them as Draco worked Potter open. Draco couldn’t stop kissing Potter, moving his lips from his mouth and down over his jaw only when he needed space to breathe, before coming back up to tangle their tongues together again. His wrist ached, his elbow burned where it was holding his weight, his lips raw from Potter’s stubble, and his cock, free from the confines of his trousers, rubbed against Potter’s with every jolt of his arm, sliding through their mixed precome gathered on Potter’s belly.

Potter’s forehead was creased and sweaty, his eyes clenched shut behind his glasses, and his breaths were coming in short gasps. They were pressed so close together that Draco could feel every thump of his heart, echoing his own frantic beat. Potter mouthed words into the skin of Draco’s neck, and a moment later his hand was snaking in between their stomachs to wrap lightly around Draco’s cock. Draco swore and had to bite down on his lip to keep from coming as Potter’s magically slick hand coated his prick, getting him ready.

“Now. Draco now,” Potter gasped, and Draco was relieved to know that he sounded just as affected as Draco did.

Draco removed his fingers and wrapped his hand around Potter’s left thigh, pulling it up and out. Potter moved with him, hooking his foot over Draco’s hip and opening himself up wider. His face was flushed and damp with sweat, hair stuck to his forehead and sticking up in clumps where he’d had his hands clenched in it for so long. His lips were wet and bitten red, and his eyes were just a sliver of green around glazed and blown pupils. He was so fucking beautiful that Draco couldn’t move for a long moment, transfixed by the sight. And then Potter’s other foot slid over the back of his thigh, and Draco remembered what he was supposed to be doing, and he maneuvered himself into position.

The head of his cock brushed against Potter’s entrance and they both gasped at the hot, sticky slide. Draco reached a hand down to steady himself, all of his muscles tensed as he looked down at Potter, waiting once more for permission. Potter just smiled up at him, glasses slipping down his sweaty nose, and whispered, “yes.”

With a low groan, Draco thrust his hips forward, feeling Potter’s muscles clench tightly around him. Potter’s head pushed down into the pillows, his neck arched, and he let out a thin, keening sound from between his teeth as he concentrated on relaxing. Draco felt it when it happened; the slight fluttering around his cock as the muscles tensed and then relaxed, allowing him to slide further inside. He pulled out and then pushed back in again, this time all the way, his elbows trembling where they held him up. Potter was so tight, so hot, so right there beneath him, and Draco didn’t think he was going to last long. He bit back a frustrated whimper at the realisation; he never wanted this to stop.

Potter’s hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling Draco down on top of him, trapping his own cock between their stomachs. They moaned into each other’s mouths as Draco set up a rhythm, hips moving just shy of too fast. It was happening too quick, he could already feel it, the tightening of his balls and the heat curling low down in his belly, and Draco wanted to cry at the thought that this would all be over far too soon. And then Potter tilted his hips up, heels pressing into Draco’s arse and he slipped in deeper, and Draco couldn’t hold back a second longer.

“Ah, fuck, Harry, I’m-”

His orgasm hit him like a punch to the gut, locking his muscles into place as he drove hard into Potter and stilled, vision blurring and his pulse roaring in his ears. As though from far away, he felt Potter jerk against him, heard his moan as he felt Draco’s release spilling inside of him. Draco’s hips ached from where he was clenching so hard, shoved so deep inside Potter that he couldn’t tell where he ended and Potter began.

His face was buried in Potter’s neck, breath painting the sweaty skin there in heaving gusts as he waited for his body to release control to him again. It was only when Potter wriggled beneath him that he realised that it still wasn’t over. “Sorry,” he whispered into Potter’s skin, holding himself still long enough to press an open mouthed kiss onto his shoulder. “Let me just...”

He slithered down Potter’s body, cock slipping from inside him with a small rush of oil and come. His prick gave a painful lurch at the sight of his own release leaking out of Potter’s hole, and without thinking about it his hand reached out, fingers gathering up the mess as he slid them back inside the hot press of Potter’s body. His cock looked painfully red, pearly fluid leaking steadily onto Potter’s stomach. Draco bent down and licked up the small puddle, before closing his mouth over the head and sinking down.

“Fuck!” Potter cried out and his hips bucked, almost choking Draco. He braced his arm across Potter’s belly to hold him down and began moving his fingers, crooking them and pressing against the small bundle of nerves as he bobbed his head up and down, sucking hard. Potter’s hand came down on his head, fingers threading through his hair and pulling, but Draco refused to move away. He pumped his fingers faster and sucked harder, until finally Potter let out a hoarse shout and flooded Draco’s mouth with his release.

“Wow, that was... Wow,” Potter mumbled, staring unseeingly up at the ceiling. Draco swallowed and slowly removed his fingers.

“Yes. It was.”

Draco stayed crouched between Potter’s splayed knees as he watched him bask in the afterglow. He was suddenly filled with anxiety, the moment already becoming tainted with the feeling of loss. This had been a huge mistake, and Draco had no idea how they had got here. He wondered what the hell he was playing at. He wondered what Potter was playing at. He wondered if he would get the opportunity to do it again. He wondered what Potter was thinking right now.

As if in answer, Potter peeked open one eye and looked at him. “Sleep now,” he said, grabbing at Draco’s arm and pulling and pushing at him until they were laying side by side together on the bed. “You can start over-thinking tomorrow.” He wriggled closer and pulled Draco to him, until Draco’s cheek was pressed against his shoulder, nose buried in Potter’s neck.

Draco wanted to protest, wanted to ask Potter what the fuck had just happened, what the fuck they were thinking to let it happen. He wanted to rise up and kiss Potter breathless all over again. But instead, he let the soft sound of Potter’s breathing evening out lull him off to sleep.

Draco sat cross legged on the dock over the lake, his head bowed and the early morning sun warm on the back of his neck. He’d gone down there as dawn broke, slipping quietly from the Slytherin dorm to try and find somewhere he could think. Waking up to Potter laying next to him had been a revelation in a not entirely pleasant way. As much as he had liked it, had wanted to stay curled around him and watch him as he slept, the part of him that had known he wouldn’t get another chance to do so had soured the feeling of comfort and warmth and rightness that had curled through him. He knew he had to leave, to get out before Potter woke up and Draco saw the dismay and regret in those green eyes, but he’d lingered anyway, taking in the gentle rise and fall of Potter’s chest, the way his lashes left shadows on his cheekbones, the soft breaths slipping out through his barely parted lips. Draco had found himself wanting to lean in, to kiss the sleepy warmth and see just what Potter looked like as he awoke. And that’s when he realised he needed to get out of there before it happened, and had slipped from the bed, pulling on his clothes and sliding out of the room as quietly as he could. Nowhere inside the castle had felt safe, entirely too close to the dorm room and Potter and the possibility of getting back under the sheets and just waiting to see what would happen, and Draco had almost tripped in his haste to get out of the school. He’d practically run down to the water’s edge and it still hadn’t been far enough, and so he’d climbed up onto the dock and walked right down to the end. And then he’d stayed there, sat on the very edge and looking down into the still dark water, until he felt a touch to his knee.

He turned and watched as Potter balanced the stack of buttered toast and then slid down to sit next to him. “At least I managed to get you out of the dungeons,” he said lightly, biting into one of the pieces of toast.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said on a sigh.

“For what?”

Draco frowned; did Potter really want to make him say it? “For... last night. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Potter nodded thoughtfully, taking another bite of toast, chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “Are you sorry because you regret it?”

Draco tilted his head, thinking. Did he regret it? There was a part of him that did, that was screaming at him over his own stupidity, because now that he’d had a taste of what it would be like to be with Potter, he wanted it more than he ever had before. But the much larger part of him was still tingling over the memory of Potter’s skin against his, the heat and scent of him, the small sounds he made and the beautiful way his mouth fell open as he came. It didn’t matter how much it hurt that it wouldn’t happen again, Draco wouldn’t give up that memory for anything.

“No.”

Potter smiled at him. “Then there’s nothing to be sorry about. Eat your toast.”

Draco picked up a slice and stared at it. “Does that mean that you don’t regret it?” He was shocked, confused, by the calm in Potter’s voice, as though it cost him nothing to be sitting there with Draco, close enough that their shoulders brushed with every inhale. As though last night had been something he’d actually wanted.

“I don’t know about you, Draco, but I don’t go around sleeping with people if I know I’m going to hate myself for it in the morning.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and threw his crust into the lake. Draco watched as a tentacle slowly peeked out and dragged the treat under the surface. “I knew what I was doing, and I wanted it.”

Draco closed his eyes. “So did I.”

“Just another thing we have in common, then.”

Draco turned his head to look at him. “We have things in common?”

“We’re both here, aren’t we?” Potter shrugged, picking up another slice of toast and beginning to shred it between his fingers. “Trying to make up for the mistakes we’ve made in the past.”

Draco snorted. “I’m only here because the Wizengamot forced me to, as my sentence.”

“And what would you be doing otherwise? I’m willing to bet you’d have locked yourself away as surely as if you were in a cell in Azkaban.”

“What would you know about it?”

Potter smiled sadly. “Because it’s what I would be doing if I weren’t here. Hidden myself away so I wouldn’t have to face all the damage I caused.”

Draco stared at him incredulously. “None of that was your fault, though.”

“Doesn’t stop me from blaming myself, just as you can’t.”

Draco rolled his eyes, because it was as though Potter was stubbornly refusing to see the difference. “I could have chosen differently.”

“Yeah, you could. So could I,” Potter replied simply. “But could you have lived with the consequences?”

Draco stilled. “I... don’t know.”

“Exactly.” Potter leaned in, cupping a hand around Draco’s neck and pulling him into a kiss that Draco fell into willingly. “Maybe we can both choose to not forgive ourselves together.”

Draco stared at him, wondering. Maybe he and Potter weren’t so different after all. Maybe it could work between them, if only because Potter was too busy feeling his own guilt to look at Draco with blame in his eyes. Maybe together, the guilt they felt wouldn’t seem so insurmountable.

Potter kissed him again, a dry press of lips on lips, and then stood up. “McGonagall wants the roof in the west wing finished today.” He started walking backwards up the dock. “Are you gonna stay hiding out here, or are you gonna come with me?”

Draco let his head tilt back and stared up at the cloudless blue sky. The sun was hot on his face, warming him down to his bones. He took a deep breath of fresh morning air and made a decision.

“I’m coming.”

Potter waited for him at the other end of the dock, and Draco slowly linked his fingers through Potter’s, heart becoming lighter in his chest when he got a smile in return. Together they walked back towards the castle, the sun following as it continued to rise behind them.