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Chapter Text

At the beginning of the year, if anyone told Harry that by April he would be helping Draco Malfoy move into the groundskeepers hut, he would have ushered them swiftly to Pomfrey, however, that’s exactly what he spent his weekend doing.

Early Saturday morning he trudged out of the castle and through the muddy grounds, his dragon-hide boots squelching through the wet path as rain slid off the charm he’d placed over himself. 

When he was close enough to see the hut he noted that the door was already open, and just as Harry was about to call out, Draco appeared in the doorway. His white-hair and pale face stood out starkly against the backdrop of the dark hut. 

Harry waved, and then quickly righted himself as he almost slid over. Though Draco was far more tolerable than he had been in school, they weren’t close enough yet for Harry to slide over on his arse in front of him.

Draco noticed him approaching, and hesitantly raised his arm back, having not noticed Harry stumble. He disappeared back inside again as Harry got closer. 

“Hi,” Harry called from the steps, not stepping inside, aware that his boots were coated in wet mud. He peered into the hut.

It wasn’t much different to when Hagrid had lived there; it had been untouched since he’d retired. There were thick cobwebs spanning across the corners, the fireplace hadn’t been swept and there was a layer of ash at the bottom; the hut smelled of smoke. The ash had been there since the last time Harry came here, which was on the day Hagrid had left. They had gotten drunk and reminisced about all the times they had spent there, not just Harry but Hermione and Ron too.

Harry glanced at the battered table and chairs where he’d drank tea and attempted to eat Hagrid’s hard rock cakes. It was the same table he’d sat around numerous times with Ron and Hermione. Like in first year when they had Norbert the dragon, and Harry had looked up to see Draco spying on them through the murky window, or like when Ron was coughing up slugs in between explaining to Hermione and himself what ‘mudblood’ meant, after Draco had first called Hermione one in second year. Or in third year, where the three of them were comforting Hagrid after learning that Buckbeak was to be executed, after attacking Draco. 

Harry turned his head and glanced at Draco, who was staring at the table and chairs too, his expression inscrutable. Harry wondered what he was thinking about, if it was similar to Harry’s own thoughts. 

Harry cleared his throat from the doorway. “What do you want doing, then?” 

Draco tore his gaze away from the battered table and chairs and looked around the hut. His pointy face was pinched. Harry thought he might be beginning to regret McGonagall’s offer.

“Hmph, well… ” Draco waved his arms about in a vague manner. Harry, who had generally been good at reading him back in school, took this to mean that Draco himself didn’t have a clue.

Harry stepped inside to get a proper look at the hut, standing on the mud-stained doormat. Thick cobwebs adorned the rafters all the way down to the floor, which still had muddy footprints stamped across it.

“Have you ever done anything up before?” asked Harry. He himself didn’t have much experience in that regard - he never had gotten round to doing up Grimmauld Place, and he doubted Draco had much more.

Draco turned back to him, wearing an expression that would not have been out of place if Harry had grown another head. “Harry, I’ve never so much as swept a floor.”

Harry gaped at him in genuine shock, though, given how spoiled he knew Draco was, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. “Seriously?” Draco shook his head. “Not even once?”

“When have I needed to? We always had elves to do that work. Even during and after the war they still stayed with us - Merlin knows why. I think they felt bad for us, as pathetic as we were then.”

Harry couldn’t help but recall the way he’d been treated as the Dursley’s servant growing up - a childhood like Draco’s, being the spoiled only child of the wealthiest family this side of the Atlantic, was unimaginable to him. Never having to sweep a floor or wash a dish? Unfathomable. Who would Harry be, if he’d been raised like Draco? And who would Draco be, if he’d been raised like Harry? Would they still have been obsessed with each other in school, would Draco have pulled Harry’s pigtails or vice versa? Would Draco still have done what he did? Would Harry ? It was something Harry was certain he would lay in bed that night thinking about.

“Not even chores as punishment?”

“Of course not - Father would never have me dirty my hands in that way. Mother said I inherited the delicate skin of the Flints, so I couldn’t possibly be punished in such a way.” Draco smiled ironically with his white teeth on show. “And as you’ll recollect, I was a positively delightful child, so there was rarely any need to punish me.”

Harry snorted, and stepped off the rug. He decided that a few more muddy footprints wouldn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. 

“Too bad. Maybe mowing the lawn would’ve been the catalyst for character development for you.” 

“Perhaps it would’ve been. What’s ‘mowing’, is that muggle?” Draco asked, with a note of genuine curiosity in his voice, his pale eyes following Harry around the hut.

Harry swiped a finger over the dust on the empty mantelpiece, then wiped it on his jeans. It left a clear mark in the wood. “It’s a muggle invention that cuts grass. You push it over the grass you want cut, hence ‘mowing’.”

Draco cocked his head. “Perhaps I could use one to tend to the grounds. McGonagall is going to get me started on Monday.”

Harry pictured Draco trying to mow the entire Hogwarts grounds with the same lawn mower that Vernon had used for their small patch of grass, and had to suppress a smirk. 

“Maybe,” Harry lied. “Are you looking forward to it, actually doing something?” 

Draco sighed, and folded his arms around his middle - Harry noted that Draco was still slightly taller than him. “I suppose. I’m just -” He cut himself off abruptly, and stood silently as if he hadn’t been saying anything at all. 

“You’re just?” 

Draco glanced at him sideways and looked away just as quickly. “I’m merely…concerned, that’s all,” he paused. “That I won’t be particularly good at it.”

Harry was a little surprised that Draco confided in him so readily, however he decided not to point out that groundskeeping would be far easier if Draco had a wand. “You’ll be fine,” He aimed for cheer, but wasn’t quite sure if he got there. 

“Besides, no one’s good at anything on the first try,” Harry added.

Draco responded sharply: “ You always seemed to be.”

Harry wiped his hands on his jeans, and then turned to take in the whole of the dark, dusty hut in its entirety, looking at it as it was for the very last time. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t the chosen one for nothing, you know.” He said snarkily. 

Draco said nothing more. He turned away from Harry and stepped towards the bed, which had a single teal blanket pulled over the mattress. Pulled from the hospital wing, Harry thought. Did he still have nothing else from home? Harry could see nothing in the hut that wasn’t already there, or looked posh enough to be from the manor. He wondered how, in time, the hut would look with Draco’s belongings.  Was Draco really committed to living as a rugged groundskeeper? Harry was legitimately curious to see how long this would last. He wanted it to last, for a while at least, because he, for some strange and inexplicable reason, liked having Draco around. He gave Harry something to think about - like his rabid obsession in sixth year but without all the horrifying parts. 

Mercifully, Harry was saved from further awkwardness by the arrival of Flitwick. 

The morning passed swiftly after that, the three of them working as the sun rose behind the clouds. The rain stopped, a pleasant breeze swept through the hut, and they propped open the door as they worked. At one point Harry really did have to teach Draco how to sweep a floor. Harry’s fingers brushed against his around the handle and Draco was pink to the tips of his ears. He hadn’t been joking about never doing it before. There were many things, Harry thought, swallowing down a lump of something that had become lodged in his throat, that Draco had never done before.

What a life that must have been, Harry pondered to himself throughout the morning, being raised with such wealth and privilege. It wasn’t the first time Harry had had that thought about Draco; but it was the first time he had thought it without even the smallest tinge of jealousy. Back in their schooldays Harry had often been jealous of Draco - but not for the obvious reason. Many people had been jealous of Draco and his family’s money, and while at times Ron had been practically green with envy about Draco’s wealth, Harry had been jealous of the easy affection and obvious love he received from his parents, and the fact that his life was so utterly uneventful that he often had nothing better to do than attempt to taunt Harry. It wasn’t that he’d been jealous of Draco himself - despite his fixation for Draco, Harry had never wanted to be him - but certainly of his circumstances. 

But then Harry found himself surprisingly feeling a tinge of pity for him - all the wealth in the world and such basic knowledge was foreign to him. As children it clearly hadn’t mattered to Draco, but now it was something that obviously bothered him, so Harry refrained from commenting on it.

By midday the hut was mostly clean, or as clean as Harry thought it could get, and both Harry and Draco were covered in a layer of grime and sweat, despite the chill breeze outside. Both of them preferred to use their hands, Harry due to his upbringing and Draco due to his self-imposed sentence, while Flitwick much preferred the use of magic.

They stopped for lunch, and a familiar elf named Bipsy, who was clad in a neat Hogwarts uniform, popped into the hut and delivered a floating plate of sandwiches before disappearing back to the kitchens (Harry presumed). Flitwick took one and then looked between the two of them, lingering on Draco for a few moments longer.

“I’ve got a lot of lesson-planning to catch up on boys, so I think I’ll have to take my leave now. Do try not to go back to your old ways!” He said cheerfully, before ambling out of the hut, heading for the castle before they could say anything - not that he was likely to listen if they had.

Flitwick had acted as a sort-of barrier between them, a veil over their eyes that had stopped them from looking at each other too hard, and now Harry felt some of the awkwardness return with his departure. However, Harry was determined to not be the one to make the situation weird. Or, weirder than it already was. 

Harry, without hesitation, wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, which were stained with cobwebs and mud and god knows what else, grabbed a sandwich from the floating plate and shoved as much of it as he could into his mouth in one motion. The bread was white and still warm from the oven, covered with a thick layer of butter with a chunky slice of honeyed ham, and, despite his urge to savour it, he chewed quickly to prevent himself from choking. Why had he shoved it all in one go? Nerves? No - Harry didn’t get nervous - defeating a dark lord had made him immune to nerves. It couldn’t be that.

It was delicious, but Draco clearly thought otherwise, because he was looking at Harry with open disgust.

“What?” Harry said through his mouthful, and tried not to smirk as Draco’s disgust grew.

“You didn’t even wash your hands! Honestly, were you raised in a barn?” Draco snapped, and went through the hut to the small bathroom that had been added on after the war. 

He came back a few moments later, and normally Harry would wash his hands too but he didn’t, purely to irritate Draco - which he was an expert in doing. Draco, for his part, looked satisfyingly repulsed, even more so when Harry began tearing off strips of ham and dropping them in his mouth the way a mother bird did so for her chick. He grinned at Draco with a full mouth as Draco glared at him.

“Wa yo you fin-” Harry hastened to swallow his last mouthful. “What do you think of it, then?” He gestured around with his last piece of bread, “The groundskeepers hut.”

Draco swallowed his mouthful far more elegantly than Harry, and dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin that he had produced from his pocket. Did he always carry those around with him? It seemed like a habit someone raised in the upper echelons of society would pick up.

“It’s what I expected.” Draco said laconically, and did not elaborate. Harry didn’t try further, sensing that Draco wouldn’t be forthcoming. He lingered in the hut while Draco finished his lunch; wandering aimlessly around and dragging his fingertips across dusty surfaces. 

It didn’t take long for Draco to finish, and afterwards they settled into a only marginally uncomfortable silence whilst they finished. Perhaps uncomfortable was the wrong word - the silence that existed between them felt easily breakable, like only a thin piece of delicately blown glass separated them, but Harry couldn’t think of a thing to say now. Draco kept glancing at him when he thought Harry wasn’t looking back, and then kept snapping his gaze away. His ears were pink again. Clearly, Draco couldn’t think of a thing to say either - how very uncharacteristic of him. 

There wasn’t that much left to do; almost all of the cleaning had been done earlier, and what was left was a bit of dusting and mostly rearranging furniture. It took longer than Harry thought it would. Whenever he thought that was it, one of them would find something else that needed doing.

By the time they finished the sun was beginning to drop out of the sky. Harry’s muscles were aching, and he could smell his own sweat mixed in with the scent of stale ash. 

Draco was looking just as tired as he. His white hair was ruffled in a way that Harry could only remember seeing after he was forcibly turned back, and his skin was still a shade of pink. His shirtsleeves were rolled up just enough to expose the slightest part of the dark mark scar. The ink was gone now, had faded away with Voldemort’s defeat, and now it was a stark red mark upon his arm, a brand that would never fade. 

Draco noticed Harry looking, and tugged his sleeve back down.

Neither of them said anything for a further few minutes. Harry pretended to be looking around at the progress they’d made, but really he was lingering for the sake of it. 

It felt strange all of a sudden, the idea of Draco being in the grounds and not the hospital wing. As if he was too far away, when in reality he was a short walk down from the castle - not that it mattered. It wasn’t that Harry needed him to be close - it was just that… Something. It was something unidentifiable, something in him that wanted to know what Draco was doing, where he was. 

Draco cleared his throat first, and stood with his hands on his hips. “Well, Pot - Harry, ” He said forcibly, through gritted teeth, as if what he was about to say was causing him physical pain. “Thank. You. Foryourhelp .”  He forced out the first half and then whizzed out the second as if desperate to get it over with. Harry felt his lips twitch.

“You’re welcome, Draco.” He said sweetly, enjoying the way Draco’s skin was still flushed. Back in school Harry had never seen anyone else make him turn that colour; it was always only Harry. He hadn’t even gone that red when Hermione had slapped him in third year.

A breeze rippled through the open door, and although the rain had stopped hours ago Harry could taste the damp mud on the wind. He should be getting back to the castle; the sun was setting under the horizon and if not he’d have to slip around in the dark. But even knowing this, something still made him linger. 

“Fancy a drink?” He said, not even because he particularly felt like having one, but mostly because at that moment he could think of no other excuse to keep Draco close to him. Merlin, Ron and Hermione best be back soon, or Harry really would go insane.

“A drink?” Draco questioned, as if the offer was an exceptionally peculiar one. He screwed up his nose in a way that was familiar enough to give Harry a pang, and when Harry didn’t take back the offer he said: “I,” he hesitated here for a moment, “have not left the castle yet. I don’t believe it’s a good idea to get drunk before everyone knows I’m back.”

Harry wasn’t surprised, and he responded light-heartedly with: “I’ve got some here if you want. Firewhisky from Christmas. You don’t have to, but the offer’s open.

Harry thought he was going to say no. Draco’s face twitched again, and his lips formed the syllable for no , and Harry could almost see his brain working inside his skull, racing to come up with an excuse. 

Then Draco stopped, and looked around the darkening hut again. Harry didn’t think he was ready to use the fire yet, so it would be lamps, since he refused his wand, and Harry knew all about the shadows they could create. 

“It’s been a long day,” Draco said neutrally. “I need to wash first; I can meet you back at the castle when you’re done?” 

Harry thought he hid his surprise well. He gave Draco a two-fingered salute on his way out, which if by the way Draco frowned wasn’t understood at all, and left the hut with enough self-restraint to only glance back once.

Harry would vehemently deny it if asked, but he did find himself watching the map for Draco. ‘Watch’ was a strong word; Harry decided that ‘glance at many times for several minutes’ was far more accurate. It was roughly an hour before Draco left the hut, and Harry imagined him in the small shower for much of that time, naked and - probably shivering under the spray, the hut had running water, but did it have warm water? Harry wasn’t sure. If Draco had just accepted his damn wand, then it wouldn’t have been a problem either way.

But Draco was stubborn, and Harry knew he wouldn’t give in yet, the irritating bastard that he was. He would see this out for as long as he needed, however long that was, just to prove that he could.

Of course, Harry didn’t just watch the map to wait for his arrival like some kind of lovesick princess. He also tidied up his rooms - which mostly consisted of kicking his dirty clothes under the bed and shoving papers in his desk drawers. Not that it mattered - Lucky might have chewed on anything he’d left out, but Harry was fairly certain that Draco wasn’t about to start chewing through his socks. 

There were three crisp knocks on the door roughly an hour after Harry had left the hut. When Harry opened it (and he certainly hadn’t rushed to), there was an awkward moment where Draco lingered on the threshold, looking almost as if he was about to turn back into Lucky and skitter away, before he stepped inside. The door slowly clicked shut behind him. 

Harry, wondering with every passing second if this was a mistake, twisted the top off the Firewhiskey and poured a hearty amount into two mugs. One of them was a novelty union jack ‘ Keep Calm and Teach’ mug that Hermione had gifted him when he’d taken up his post at Hogwarts, and the other was shaped like a slightly misshapen pumpkin, but was made obvious by the colouring. Luna had made it for him the autumn after the war. 

His back was turned to Draco, but he could feel Draco looking at him.

“No glasses up here,” He explained without turning around.

Draco made a noncommittal noise. Harry heard him creep around the room, as light on his feet as he had been as a rabbit, silently looking in all his old hiding places. When Harry turned around with the mugs, Draco was lingering by Harry’s favourite armchair. 

“You can sit.” Harry pressed the pumpkin mug into his waiting hand. Draco immediately brought it to his pink lips and took a swig, and promptly looked as if he regretted it. He pressed his lips together and looked to force himself to swallow. Harry knew the Firewhiskey was burning all the way down to his stomach. Harry didn’t bother suppressing a smirk. 

“That’s your favourite,” Draco rasped, his throat moving as if he was struggling hard to prevent a coughing fit. How long had it been since he drank? A long, long time, Harry realised. “I remember.”

Harry waved his mug at the pouffe and took a more conservative sip; even that caused his tongue to burn, a pleasant tingle however, rather than something unbearable. After the war he could down a bottle of firewhisky easily, wanting to feel the harsh burn as it slid down his throat, wanting to feel anything while he was an Auror; now he preferred to be more sensible with his drinking - it wouldn’t be good to be too drunk around his students. And, well, Harry generally liked being able to think straight.

He sank down into his favourite tattered armchair at the same time as Draco perched on the pouffe that he had loved so much as a rabbit. 

The thought inside Harry’s head that this had been a mistake grew wings as they sipped their firewhisky in silence, with the only interruption being Draco coughing. Clearly, he hadn’t had as much experience at being a pisshead as Harry had. 

Harry deliberately hadn’t lit the fire that night, and the sun had long since disappeared. The black sky was hidden still by a layer of cloud, so there was no moonlight shining through the glass windows. The only light was from the lamps Harry had turned up to their full brightness, and as Draco stared blankly into the unlit fireplace Harry watched as the light danced across his pointed features. 

Harry’s mug was halfway empty when Draco finally breached the silence. “Thanks. For today.” He said hoarsely, running the tip of a slender finger over the rim of the pumpkin mug. He was still staring into the fireplace. Harry wondered if he would ever regain the fire he used to be filled with whenever they fought. 

Harry shrugged in his armchair. “What friends are for, innit.”

Draco’s pale eyes snapped to him, as Harry predicted they would. His lips quirked upwards, not quite a smile but something close to it. “Friends, is that what we are?” 

“Only took us a decade,” Harry quipped. Draco huffed a laugh into his mug, and took another swig of firewhisky. His cringe this time was minimal, clearly anticipating the burn.

“Ah, if only I’d known that being utterly pathetic enchanted you. I would’ve…” Draco trailed off, and looked back at the cold fireplace.  “I suppose I always was a bit pathetic when it came to you.”

“I don’t think you’re pathetic,” said Harry quickly, and truthfully. “Not now. Not since sixth year. I think you’re different. I meant what I said in the kitchens - we’re working together, and you’re rather tolerable now.” 

Draco went on as if Harry hadn’t spoken. “I used to need your attention like I needed air. I used to come up with all those nasty plans just to get at you. You never seemed that bothered. It was stupid, all of it; it wasn’t like I ever came out on top! But I was addicted to pissing you off. I used to get the other Slytherins in on it - remember the dementor costume in third year, and the song in fifth? I made them stay up and work on it with me. They did it, but even they thought it was fucking weird. I was weird. About you.”

Harry took a sip of his firewhisky, so small that he barely tasted it, and turned Draco’s strange confession over in his mind. “Was it because of the train?”

Draco half-shrugged. “It was - sort of. You see, I’d heard all about Harry Potter - what a great wizard he was supposed to be. Of course, when we met in Madam Malkins I had no idea it was you. And then on the train - you picked Weasley over me. Our fathers hated each other, you see, so I hated him, because I wanted to be my father. Oh - and because he was poor and a blood traitor, but that was secondary then. 

It was such an insult, a stab at my pride, that you picked him over me. I understand why now, but I was, as you can likely imagine, not used to not getting my own way as a child.”

“I can,” Harry said wryly.

The firewhisky must have loosened Draco’s tongue considerably, because he carried on without a care.

“You don’t know the half of it! When I was eight I started throwing myself down the staircase next to my rooms,”

Harry’s eyebrows disappeared behind his messy hair.  “You what ?!”

Draco laughed openly. “Down the stairs, yes. You see, my father had a very active hand in raising me - many traditionalists believe it is a witch’s job to raise the children, but my father always disagreed. His one progressive belief, who would’ve thought! Of course, mother was there all the time, but it was him I truly idolised. Mother was the stricter parent, I knew not to try it with her, she had the strong willed blood from the Blacks and wouldn’t hesitate to deny me a treat if she thought I was undeserving. Father however - spoiled me rotten. He gave me everything I wanted the moment I wanted - and even things I didn’t know that I wanted.

Until one time when I was eight, he denied me. I wanted a new broomstick - I can’t remember why, likely my old one was fine but I fancied spending his money. He said no - a few days before I embarrassed my mother at a party - I argued with one of the Greengrass girls, and I pulled her hair so she threw a glass of pumpkin juice at me. I got away with a lot, but fighting in public - with a girl especially - was a cardinal sin in her eyes. Evidently, my father thought so too. So, he said no.”

“So you threw yourself down the stairs?” Harry interrupted incredulously.

“Not straight away, of course. Firstly I threw myself on the floor of my father's study like a toddler and kicked and screamed. He didn’t even admonish me for it - just stared at me until I felt chagrined enough to stop.”

“ Then you threw yourself down the stairs?” Interrupted Harry again.

“I waited until he was out of the study and passing by - he had just passed when I did it, close enough to see but not quick enough to get out his wand and cushion my fall. I was a very calculating child. I was afraid, but I wanted my own way more. I still remember the feeling of falling - terrible weightlessness and then the hard floor thumping me in the stomach.”

“You were face-first?!” 

Draco smirked. “Yep. Father was horrified, of course, he hadn’t known I had done it deliberately yet. I was actually fine - much to my displeasure. I wanted to at least break a bone. Nott had broken one the year before, and though it took only a moment to fix, I wanted an injury to brag about.”

Harry took another small sip of his firewhisky. “Did you get the broom?”

“Nope,” Draco said, popping the ‘p’ the same way Harry did. “Father hadn’t believed it was deliberate - but the moment I asked about a new broom mother suspected it was. She forbade father from getting me one. He used to slip me treats, but when she put her foot down even he obeyed.” Draco laughed a little, quiet and sad, and swirled the remaining firewhisky around his mug.

“I did it a few more times, and obviously he caught on. One time, the last time, I legitimately fractured my wrist - I heard it crack and mother watched me do it and I know she heard it too - but she was sick of my antics and told me I would have to wait until father was home for him to heal it. By that point my father was sick of it too - because he told me I’d have to sleep with it as it was and he would heal it in the morning. I couldn’t even throw a fit about it.”

“Did he? Heal it in the morning?” Harry asked.

“No, of course not. He secretly came into my bedroom and healed it that evening.” 

Harry had a lot of thoughts about Lucius Malfoy - and although he’d known the man was a loving father to Draco, imagining him actually being one was another challenge entirely. 

“I’m never going to see him again.” Draco mumbled mournfully, and downed the last of his firewhisky. He started coughing, and at some point Harry realised he was crying. Draco hastily scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, uncharacteristic of him. Harry wondered if he still had a handkerchief on him.

“I’m sorry about Lucius.” Harry lied, and covered it with another sip. He was sorry only for Draco’s sake - Harry couldn’t bring himself to care a lick about him personally. However, Draco was as good at reading Harry as he was him, and knew Harry was lying.

“You’re not. I wouldn’t be, if I was you,” Draco said thickly.

“He was your father,” Harry said, not even sure why. It was hardly like he wanted to discuss Lucius Malfoy when he’d invited Draco up to his rooms - why had he invited him? Oh yeah, because Harry actually liked him now. But of all the subjects of discussion, Harry did just have to encourage that one.

“He was.” Draco said quietly to his empty mug. “Perhaps, if he had loved me less I wouldn’t have done what I did.”

“You did it for him,” said Harry knowingly. He’d known ever since he’d listened in on the train back at the start of sixth year, naïve Draco bragging to his friends, stamping on Harry’s face, breaking his nose but not handing him straight to Voldemort - so assured at the beginning of the year, no idea that he had made the worst mistake of his life. 

“I did everything for him.” 

Harry let it linger, and Draco carried on.

“Though, I’m not… I’m not saying it to justify what I did. I did what I did, and I know what I did. I mostly didn’t care who I hurt. And I was so awful that I didn’t want to confront it. Ever. I learned - after the trials, before my mother was murdered - about muggles. I learned about the things they’ve done - they’ve been to the moon and back, did you know?”

Harry nodded, suddenly enraptured by where Draco was going with his speech and by how animated he’d become, though Draco himself carried on as if he hadn’t noticed. He waved his empty mug around as he spoke, looking more like the dramatic schoolboy Harry used to know him as. 

“I read about it, and saw it in their picture books. They recorded it for their picture films - I couldn’t find a way to get one to the manor, though. I read up on all the history I had missed - did you know the Malfoys did regular dealings with muggles until the Statute of Secrecy? I don’t think my father’s issue was just blood status, it was also money. If there had been a rich muggleborn in my year, say the child of royalty, I wager he would’ve wanted us to become friendly, for the purpose of connections. I learned about their wars. Some of them, at least - they fight even more than wizards do. I mostly stuck to the recent ones: the Great War, and the Russian Revolution, and then the second Great War,”

Harry’s ears pricked at the mention of the Great Wars. He knew from primary school they were simply referred to as world war one and world war two by muggles - he was particularly interested to know if Draco would make the connection between the Death Eaters and the Nazis. Though, Harry’s knowledge of muggle history was also admittedly spotty, there was a link there that he thought certainly could be made, and Hermione had thought so too.

Draco went on, “- and about the - Nazis.” He hesitated here, and Harry knew then that he’d made the same connection, that in his head the same thread had been tied between them. “And I - you know what I’m about to say, I know you do, and I saw the similarities between them. They’re not exactly the same, I think now, the Death Eaters were more of a cult, but the things they did… It was something that haunted me. So I…” Draco stared into his empty mug, his voice quiet. “I ran. From what I did. From who I was. I still can’t remember what my intention even was. Was I to be a rabbit forever, until the day I died?” 

Draco stopped, and Harry recognised the way he clenched his jaw and stared unblinking into the fireplace - and it reminded him painfully of meeting his eyes in the cracked mirror. Only, they weren’t boys on opposite sides of a war anymore. The war was won, and this was picking up the pieces.

“I’m glad you didn’t die.” Harry gulped down the last of his Firewhiskey, and, sensing that the uncomfortable air of awkwardness that had returned wasn’t about to vanish seamlessly, stood and grabbed the bottle off the desk, filling both their mugs before settling back into his armchair.

“And I’m glad it was me who found you. I had wondered where you’d been. After I found you, I kept having these dreams about you. All horrible nightmares, and it made me wonder even more what had happened to you. I thought that you had gone abroad after Narcissa’s murder. That was one of the reasons I quit the Aurors, you know.”

Draco’s watery pale eyes snapped up to meet Harry’s, and Harry went on. “It just felt pointless. We won the war, and while I know your mother was a blood purist she still helped us, to the point that if she hadn’t lied to Voldemort’s face then I would be dead.” Draco flinched at the name, and then swallowed a mouthful of firewhisky. 

“They never did find who it was. But you must know that.” 

“I do.”

“I asked Pomfrey; it was one of the first things I asked after I could speak again. She wouldn’t speak of it, and I knew then that nothing had changed. At least McGonagall told me to my face. Her murder will remain unsolved. No one will ever know.”

Harry, slightly tipsy, stretched out his leg and nudged Draco’s foot with his own. “You don’t know that. They might.”

Draco looked down at their touching feet, back up at Harry falling down the armchair, and then rolled his eyes and gave Harry a wobbly, wet smile. “If the great Harry Potter gives up…”

Harry nudged his foot again, sliding further down the armchair. “Don’t. Don’t do that. I’m not the great Harry Potter. I’m just Harry.” 

Draco, who had been taking a swig, choked and coughed, but was laughing wetly too. “See, that’s what I was saying for the first five years of school. Everyone thought you were sooo great, but I always knew you were just a specky git.” 

Harry snorted, and Draco started to sing quietly, his voice slightly raw. “His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair as dark as a blackboard. I wish he was mine, he’s really divine, the hero who conquered the Dark Lord!”

Harry gaped at him from his position halfway down his armchair, instantly recognising the rhyme from second year - over ten years ago now. “You remember that?”

Draco stared back, looking equally surprised. “Harry, I wrote that.” His face was pink again, and he took another swig from his mug in an attempt to hide it.

Harry blinked at him. “Ginny wrote that.”

“Nuh-uh,” Draco shook his head. “It was me. It took me all night to come up with that.”

“But - That - that was Ginny’s valentine - unless you made it look like it was Ginny so she’d be embarrassed.” Another part of that memory came back to Harry then, Draco's voice: ‘ I don’t think Potter liked your valentine very much!’  

“You were there when I opened it, I remember now.”

Draco looked properly embarrassed now. “Hm, I was. You see, I told you I obsessed over you.”

“You have a strange way of showing it.”

Draco huffed. “I’m aware of that now. Back then, I just wanted you to look at me. Who cared if you were looking at me with hatred, as long as you were looking.”

Harry reached his leg out again to nudge Draco, and this time slid all the way down in his chair and landed with a light thud on the floor. 

“I didn’t hate you. Thought you were a pain in the arse, but you were my archnemesis. I think I was as obsessed with you as you were me. It’s weird looking back, what eleven year olds have arch nemesis - nemesisies? Nemisi? You get my point.” Harry added when Draco smirked down at him. Harry was looking up at him from the floor, and Draco’s grey eyes were much like Lucky’s as they looked down at him. From this angle, his white-blond hair reflected the lamp-light and formed a halo around his head, and it was so like Lucky’s fur that Harry wondered how he’d ever missed it.

“How many eleven year olds will end up on opposite sides of a war?” Draco said, and took another sip, not even cringing as it burned down his throat. He placed his mug down on the hearth and continued to stare down at Harry, who boldly stared back. 

The air in the room seemed to have suddenly gotten thinner. It seemed suddenly hotter too, and Harry could feel a bead of sweat slowly sliding down his back. Harry didn’t feel nervous, the seven years he’d spent terrorised by Voldemort had meant that as an adult nerves rarely got to him - what’s to be nervous about when you’ve survived dying? - but a relative of nervousness danced in his stomach, and when Draco, who was looking at Harry so intensely that Harry thought he might spontaneously combust, slid off the pouffe, drunkenly but with more grace than Harry, and settled on Harry’s lap, his knees on either side of Harry’s hips, the relative of nerves pirouetted up from his stomach and into his throat. 

Harry’s lips were wet - he had licked them as Draco settled over his crotch. Draco was warm and solid in his lap, not like the wispy phantom of his nightmares. Warm and solid, but the light dancing on the side of his face made Harry feel as if he was dreaming. 

Harry didn’t know what he was doing - did ‘he’ refer to him or Draco? But - did the two of them ever know what they were doing around each other? 

Draco shifted, and the small smirk that appeared on his lips told Harry that it was deliberate. Harry, helplessly hardening inside his dirty jeans - the same jeans he’d worn while helping Draco with the hut, because unlike Draco he hadn’t showered after, slid his hands up Draco’s cotton trouser-clad thighs until they settled on his hips. Draco’s hand pressed against Harry’s ribcage, his sharp fingernails digging in around his heart. Feeling for his heartbeat, Harry realised. It was pounding so hard that Harry was surprised the whole school couldn’t hear it - he could feel it in his head and his toes and throbbing through his cock. Harry wondered idly if Draco would feel it thump underneath him.

Harry cleared his throat, the relative of nerves sliding ungracefully back down his oesophagus. He pressed his fingers into Draco’s hips, and then slid them under his shirt, and squeezed his warm, pale skin hard enough to leave a mark. Did Draco own robes anymore? Harry had only seen him in muggle clothing recently. Robes were far more finicky, all fiddly buttons and layers of fabric.

The zip on Draco’s trousers would be so easy to open. A simple fumble with the metal zipper and Draco would be entirely in Harry’s hands. 

He fingered the zipper with one hand, the other sliding across the expanse of baby-soft skin of Draco’s stomach, more filled out than he’d been at school, certainly pudgier than he’d been in sixth year. A man now, no longer just a boy. 

Harry’s fingers met a nasty raised scar when they reached his chest; it slashed through his nipple and continued up to the base of his throat - narrowly missing slicing open an artery, he knew. He ran his fingertips across it, featherlight, and wondered if it still hurt.

Draco pressed his hand over Harry’s, separated by the thin material of his shirt. His fingers were hot, even through the shirt Harry could feel them. 

“Let’s not,” Draco whispered. Or shouted. Harry was underwater; he couldn’t be sure. 

Let’s not go there, so, Harry slid his fingers away from the reminder of the ugliest parts of their history, until his hand crept up his shirt and settled at the base of Draco’s pale neck, his thumb pressing down slightly, feeling Draco’s heart beat in time with his own. 

Draco’s hand was still pressed against his thudding heart. Harry didn’t ask for permission. He knew, somehow, impossibly, that he would never need to ask.

He unzipped Draco’s trousers - Draco graciously lifted his hips and allowed Harry to pull his trousers, along with his underwear, around his thighs. He sat back after, face stained bubblegum-pink, trousers shoved around his milk-white thighs, cock jutting out from a thatch of golden hairs. 

It was, perhaps, the most attractive sight Harry had ever laid eyes on. So much so that for a few moments he just stared, wondering if this was a dream, if there was a way to have the same dream every night for the rest of his life, replaying over and over in his head until he’d studied every pore of Draco’s skin, every thread on his shirt, every hair on his crotch.

Draco’s other hand, which had been bruising Harry’s hip, cupped his crotch, and even through the thick fabric of his jeans Draco sent sparks through him. Harry fumbled with his own zipper, the angle awkward, until Draco lightly slapped his hand away and undid the zipper himself. Pulling down Harry’s trousers, lifting his hips again to pull Harry’s jeans around his knees, his cock bobbing deliciously with every movement, Harry fingered the tip of Draco’s cock, making him freeze, hips raised, Harry’s own hard cock freed beneath him. 

“Take it off,” Harry said, his voice thick with desire. “Go on -” Harry didn’t need to tell him twice. Draco was pushing down his trousers before he’d even finished, Harry was too, but Draco was quicker; still in competition. As Draco fumbled with his shoes and kicked them off, Harry felt that same triumph as when he snatched the snitch from under him . Harry didn’t have any shoes on in the first place, and so shucked his jeans off easily. 

Draco’s legs were milk-white with a dusting of pale hairs, and he hovered over Harry’s lap, his chest still covered by the shirt. Harry wanted to see all of him, he wanted to taste him, feel him on his tongue. 

“What -” Draco’s pink tongue darted out and ran across his white teeth, “are we doing?” He whispered, and threaded his fingers into Harry’s hair, pulling, not enough to hurt but enough to pull Harry’s head back.

“I-” Harry hissed back, pulling Draco down on him and groaning as their cocks brushed against each other. “-have no idea. But -”

Harry made a loose circle with his thumb forefinger, and lightly trapped their cocks together within it. Any thought, any knowledge on how to coherently speak, flew out of his head, and if by the way Draco threw his head back was any indication, he felt the same way. Harry watched his throat bob, watched him swallow heavily, watched his mouth fall open slightly as Harry tugged faster, almost to the point of pain but not quite. 

Harry stopped suddenly, pulling his hands away and gripping Draco’s thrusting hips. Draco’s eyes snapped open and jerked to his face, and he stared, wordlessly, down at Harry.

“Scared, Draco?”

Draco’s face twitched, his nose wrinkled for a moment before he pulled his features into a familiar smirk, cheeks still tinged pink, his smirk wobblier than usual, intensely boring into Harry. 

“You wish.”