Draco

That first night, he didn’t sleep at all, just lay under the stiff sheets and counted the cracks crossing the ceiling, listening to the creaking of the house and trying to convince himself that there were no monsters sleeping in the closet. He hadn’t slept easy in ages, not since he was in Hogwarts with the sound of other people’s breathing beside him, and in this new, strange place he was sharing with a boy (man, really, they’re adults now) that should by all rights hate him.

He doesn’t hate him, though.

Draco thinks it would be easier to deal with, if they could fall back into their pattern of mutual dislike. That would have been solid ground, a familiar pattern to fall back into and draw strength from. He does not know how to deal with this Harry, the Harry who shows him how to work the shower faucet (because they’re tricky in new places, trust me, I know) and asks if there was a particular brand of orange juice he would prefer, who offers to clear out a space on the bookshelf for anything that Draco might want to read because he remembered from school that Draco liked books and most of them are ones that Hermione brought over to clear space in her flat, anyways.

He’s hearing a lot of tidbits about Harry’s school friends, about the Weasel and Weaselette (who Harry is not dating, but Luna from the basement certainly is), about Dean and Seamus and Neville, about Ge and Oliver Wood’s performance in the last Quidditch game. Draco wishes that he could return the favor, but he doesn’t talk to any of his old school friends anymore.

He doubts Harry would want to hear about it anyways.

The silence in this house is stifling, Draco thinks, much like he does every morning, where he finally gives up on his scraps of shattered sleep and gets to his feet. The house is too dark and sullen to really be a home, even though Harry has tried. There are afhgans with crooked stitches thrown over the arms of the couch (Granger’s work) and customized mugs piling up on the counter, chipped china stacked in the cupboards and photos stuck haphazardly to the walls. Harry isn’t much for the domestic sort of things, having it just be him in here, so on the nights where Draco gives up on sleep entirely, he often finds himself puttering around the kitchen and putting things in order.

Kreacher had tried to shoo him out the first time, but he’s not as capable as he once was, and after the third time Draco ignored him, the old house elf left him in peace. Now he spends the time between late at night and early morning with his arms soaking in suds as he washes dishes the muggle way, mopping the floor, dusting the picture frames. The scent of pine and lemon constantly staining his hands, but the sharp scent doesn’t bother him, just seems to bring him more into himself. And when the sun finally starts to peak in through the window, he starts to cook breakfast, whatever he thinks will work depending on his mood— scrambled eggs and toast, cinnamon rolls, bacon, omelets, fresh baked banana bread. It’s waiting for Harry whenever hees down the steps, ready to face a day full of whatever he does (auror training, Draco reminds himself), like a small piece of repayment for everything he has done for him.

“You don’t have to do this every day, you know.” Harry’s voice startles him into dropping the pot of tea down into the sink. It cracks down the side and the liquid spreads over the counter. Draco stares down at it, dismayed, and it never urs to him to use his wand to clean it up, not even when the heat of it soaks through the towel he was using and burns his hand. It’s only when Harry crosses the room to help him, mending the mess back together in seconds, that Draco calms.

“Maybe I wanted some quality cooking. Merlin knows it wasn’ting from you.” If they were younger, stupider, and had not been forced to grow up so fast, this could have quickly turned to blows. It had always happened like that back in school, where in the beginning Harry would take offense at something that Draco had only meant as a joke, and he would not be able to find his way back from this latest fumble. Now, though, Harry only smiles over the rim of his cup of tea, looking a cross between pleased and confused.

“I only meant that if you didn’t want to, you didn’t have to. I’m not expecting you to do this stuff.” This didn’t keep him from scraping a bunch of eggs onto his plate, though he did look concerned about it. “But I can’t hide that I’m glad you found a way to make Sirius’ mother leave that wall. Tired of being screeched at in my own home.”

Is this a home, Harry? Draco thought. Or is this just another piece of the war that you’re too scared to let go of?

“How’d you do it, anyways?” At this point in the conversation, Harry was normally already puffing out a thank you and heading out the door. He was always in a rush, Harry was.

“A potion.” It took him three tries, but he had finally found one that counteracted the sticking solution. He had scrubbed all night and scraped his knuckles raw, then repainted it the next night with Kreacher’s help, but he got it done.

“Potions. Always were good at those.” Harry stares at Draco, and Draco stares back, unsure of what to do or where to look. He’s not sure about anything, anymore. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Draco answers, but it only echoes back to him through the empty house. “Later.”

Harry

“So how is it, living with him?” Ron was talking to him through a mouthful of food, poring over the papers on their desks. Auror training was hard, but the homework was harder. Harry would have thought that this would havee naturally to him, after everything, though he was eager to learn. “Imagine it’s a downright nightmare.”

The Weasleys had been in an uproar when they heard what Harry had done. Apparently Ginny had ducked into someone’s office and made a firemessage as soon as she could, and by the time he got home, there were eight owls waiting in his bedroom.

They did have valid points, about death eaters and Hogwarts rivalries, about all the abuse Draco and his friends had put the Gryffindors through. But Harry couldn’t make himself regret it, not when he was still having flashbacks of how Draco looked when he was being forced to use an univable curse, or how small he seemed sitting in that chair.

“He’s not bad.” It wasn’t bad at all, really. Sometimes, there were moments where Draco would make a joke and Harry would laugh without wondering whether it was an insult, or Harry would collapse onto the sofa and Draco would bring him a butterbeer without asking if he wanted it, and Harry would be shocked at how easy it was between them. He hade down in the middle of the night sometimes to find Draco already up, scrubbing at the floors or the dishes or the tables, the whole house washed in the scent of lemons and lavender, and instead of feeling the anxiety thates from having a stranger in your home, all Harry felt was a strange sense offort, the feeling that he was not alone. “I barely even notice him most of the time.”

“Still.” They’re time in the cubicle was winding down, when they would be forced to hand in their reports without anything to show for it. It was times like these where Harry misses Hermione the most, when he has to do homework on his own. “I still think you’ve lost your mind. War’s finally made you crack, mate.”

It’s a joke, but it isn’t wrong. He’d caught Draco at his late night obsessions, but that’s only because Harry has his own routine, where he wanders through the house with his wand stretched out in front of him, poking into each room and corner, checking the locks on ever door and window. With Draco there, he sleeps a little easier, and the weight on his chest when he’s caught off guard by something that reminds him of the war is a little less. He thinks it is improvement, even if they barely seem to be able to talk to each other, and even if they were once considered to be mortal enemies to each other.

(It is a mark of growing up, he thinks, that the two of them can look back and see how pure what they had really was, can see the simplicity that came from that one dimensional hatred, where there were no consequences to the actions. If things were better, they would have grown up and gotten over it in their own time, been able to e a bond of friendship, but Voldemort washed the chance to that away.)

(Tom. Tom Riddle. That’s what he keeps trying to call him in his head, to remind him that he was only a man, after all of it. It’s not catching on.)

“I really don’t mind him. It’s kind of nice, actually.” He would not be telling Ron about those morning breakfasts, or the nights spent around the television, or how Draco manages to make the tea just how Harry likes it. He does not tell him how it is only a week but that Draco already has be a permanent fixture in his life, something that is not exactly good but also not bad, either, and he thinks he might be sad if the court would suddenly wave away his probation and turn Draco loose.

“Telling you, mate.” Ron has his opinions on this, everyone does, but he mostly keeps them quiet. “Bonkers.”

Draco

Friends.

That’s what he hears Harry call him, when he is on the phone with someone named Dudley. Actually, he calls them mates, as in, sorry Dudley, but I can’t talk to you for long tonight, my mate Malfoy hase over.

And Draco knows that that was probably just an excuse to hang up on someone who talks too much. He knows that it probably didn’t mean anything, a throw awayment that Harry used because he couldn’t think of anything to really explain this whole situation. He knows this, but then he thinks of how they worked together to cook dinner last night, and how Harry brought home a new DVD series called Sherlock just because he thought Draco would like it, and how he knows exactly how much milk to put in his tea. And suddenly it doesn’t seem too far-fetched to think that he was friends with the great Harry Potter.

(His father would be devastated.)

(What’s it matter? His father is rotting in a jail cell.)

(Shut up.)

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Harry hung the telephone back on its place on the wall. It had a curly wire that kept you standing right by it. Harry said that phones weren’t all like that, now, but that he decided to get an old fashioned one because he thought that he would lose it, otherwise. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No, it’s just…” He uses the word just a lot now, just and maybe and if you wouldn’t mind. He’s not sure when that started. “Maybe we should call each other by our first names. Since we’re living together and all.”

“Me call you by your first name? And you call me Harry?” For a moment, Draco thinks he has made a terrible mistake, that he miscalculated all of it. But then Harry’s face spits into a smile and he can feel the air being knocked back into his lungs. “Sure. Why not. Sounds like a plan, Draco.”

“Alright, Harry.” Draco smiles himself, and is surprised to

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