void the press, trying to avoid the Ministry, trying to avoid the Burrow and the Weasleys’ insistence that he’s family now, even though he’s not, not really, and he feels like an intruder to their grief when they see him and have to pretend that they’re not mourning a son, a brother.

He’s trying to avoid himself most of all, because he’s spent nights alone in Grimmauld Place and those nights were long nights, stretching impossibly further, as dark as a forest (dark as death), as quiet as the afterlife (like white noise) (the afterlife’s not that peaceful after all), with each tick of the clock echoing through the walls and counting all the people that he lost.

But seeing Draco Malfoy like that reminds him, forces him to see that avoiding the problem doesn’t really fix it, kind of makes it bigger and more daunting, and that yes, the war’s over, but that doesn’t mean that everything’s okay.

Everyone’s still suffering and he’s still suffering and maybe he’s not yet done losing people after all.

He manages to get himself off the floor and towards the fireplace in the master room, taking the liberty to Floo himself back to Grimmauld Place.

The night is still long and it is still dark and the house is still quiet, unbearably so, so he locks himself in his room and doesn’t emerge until Ron’s knocking on his door the next day.

A glance at the clock tells him it’s past lunch time.

During the night, exhausted and eyes swollen after crying so much, he had somehow fallen asleep, and for this, he is grateful. He doesn’t know how he could have survived that whole night awake.

“Harry,”es Ron’s voice from the other side of the door, and it’s soft and careful, and Harry knows at once that Ron knows something.

“I’m up,” Harry says, voice cracking. He swallows the dryness down his throat, and then tries again. “I’m up.”

“Mum sent you food. Have you eaten yet?”

He has a headache, but he forces himself out of bed anyway. He thinks he looks awful, his face feels sticky, but there’s no point hiding it. Not from Ron, anyway.

And he’s too tired to even summon the energy to look for his wand.

He opens the door, lets Ron see.

Ron’s sharp intake of breath confirms that he does look awful. “Mate.”

Harry rubs his face with his hands, rubs the stickiness of the dried tears off and onto his fingers. His eyes hurt. “That bad?”

“You look like Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Harry snorts. “That bad, then.”

He sighs, turning around and lying back down on his bed. His head’s throbbing. “How did you know?”

“Malfoy’s mum sent my mum an Owl. Said she’s worried about you.”

“That’s…awfully friendly.”

“I know. Mum couldn’t believe it at first yesterday, kept saying at the start that Mrs. Malfoy’s probably planning something, but Merlin, Harry, I think mum’s planning to bake a pie to send over. Blueberry pies. It sounds ridiculous, but I think worrying about you is making them closer.”

“That’s…Well, that’s good. I think.”

Ron glances down at Harry’s face, before sitting on the foot of the bed. “So. Malfoy’s back, huh?”

Harry recalls the image of Malfoy sobbing in his wheelchair and keeps his eyes firmly on the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“How is he?”

“Not good.”

“Mustn’t be, if you’re like this.”

Harry keeps quiet. Ron knows him best. Knows his obsession with Malfoy best, because he was the one who was so against it that he had to go through the process of trying to understand it. Harry doesn’t know what Ron concluded at the end of that process, but Ron must have concluded something for him to be so calm about it now.

Or maybe it’s because of the war.

The two of them are both quieter now, more introspective. It’s more obvious in Ron, who’s usually the first to blow up or give in to his more explosive emotions. They’ve fought over so many things during the war, that any of their remaining differences now just aren’t important enough to fight over anymore.

Ron looks at him. “He is the reason you’re like this, right?”

He takes Harry’s silence as a yes. He sighs, stares at the floor. “Man, I still don’t like him, but. I can’t say I’m happy about what happened to him.”

This time, Harry closes his eyes, and lets Malfoy’s trembling shoulders appear behind his eyelids. “Yeah.”

“D’you reckon he’lle back to Hogwarts?”

“I don’t know. I think it…it depends.”

Ron nods, understands what he doesn’t say. “Mrs. Malfoy wrote for us to tell you that you cane back.”

Harry nods, shame making his cheeks burn at how he just simply turned tail and ran from the Manor. “Thanks, Ron.”

“You’reing back, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” Ron looks like he still wants to say something, and he almost does. He’s still looking at the floor, eyebrows furrowed, teeth worrying his lower lip, and his hand in a loose fist, but Harry sees the exact moment when he decides not to. “Alright, Harry.

e on,” Ron says, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, because he still doesn’t agree about Harry’s obsession over Draco Malfoy, and Harry doesn’t like it himself either, but he’s still thankful that Ron’s trying.

Ron stands up, stretches, and gives him a little grin. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Harry isn’t, not really, but he goes and eats as if he is anyway.

Hermione’s in Australia, reacquainting her parents with the daughter they ot they had.

Harry and Ron are worried. Her letters talk about things that are okay (her parents are in good health, they know who she is now), but avoids talking about the things that are not (why they haven’te back to England yet, and how much do her parents know? How much of their memories were returned?). They know she’s purposefully keeping it from them, because they’re all going through something, and the last thing she wants to do is to add to that.

It has been three months since they last saw her, and it’s like something’s missing when she’s not here. They both want to see her, but Harry knows that Ron wants that in a way that’s different.

He knows that something happened during…well, during, and that’s what they talk about while eating Molly’s roast beef and mashed potatoes.

It’s been three months since the end of the war, since whatever happened between Ron and Hermione happened, but it’s the first time Harry has asked, mainly because it didn’t seem the right time then to talk about such things when Fred’s dead and Remus’ dead and they had to arrange all those funerals.

After, when Harry’s back in bed and Ron’s gone and Kreacher’s cleaned all the plates, Harry thinks to himself that maybe why Ron isn’t angry at him for busying himself with Malfoy so much is because he understands what it’s like for all your thoughts and attention to be consumed by one person.

Harry doesn’t know yet if he likes that parallel.

Ron and Hermione.

Him and…

He sumbs to sleep before he can finish verbalizing that thought.

Harry visits the next morning.

Malfoy’s gaze is blank again, and Harry expected that, but that still doesn’t stop the well of disappointment in the pit of his stomach.

“Hees and goes,” Narcissa says softly from beside him. Her gaze towards her son is sad. “It’s episodic. The healers say it’s a form of disassociation, his mind’s way of getting through the trauma of Azkaban and being so near the Dementors.”

Harry recalls what it feels like. The sinking feeling of dread and death, all the warmth seeping out from his fingertips, as if the blood in his veins is slowly turning to ice. He holds his breath, scared to ask. “Did they…”

Narcissa shakes her head firmly. “No, but I take it you’ve seen a Dementor before?”

Was almost Kissed by one, Harry thinks, but keeps it to himself. “Yes, I have.”

“Then you know what it feels like. And to go through it again and again, every day, for three months.”

Harry feels sick just thinking about it.

Letting out a soft sigh, Narcissa sits down on one chair and waves a hand for Harry to sit on the other.

He does, across from Draco, who’s awake, breathing, but his gaze is distant yet again. His white blond hair sways with the wind, and his hands are placed on top of each other on his lap. He looks almost…gentle.

Narcissa follows his gaze. “I apologize for the other night, Mr. Potter.”

“Harry,” Harry cuts in. Mister Potter is too formal, too reminiscent of their old relationship, especially in this house. “And no. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

Narcissa looks at him in surprise, and it’s clear that she did not expect that. But a smile slowly appears on her face, and it’s wistful. “Thank you, Harry.”

This time, she shifts in her seat so that her body is facing himpletely, as if she is giving him her full attention. Her gaze turns serious. “I can’t say I understand why you feel responsibility over my son. Rather, I’m actually worried about you.”

Harry sits up straight, startled at what she’s insinuating. The defence is immediately on his lips. “I don’t…I don’t mean any harm,” he says, hurt.

“No, you misunderstand me,” Narcissa rushes to assure him. She shakes her head. “Voldemort—” And the unflinching way that Narcissa says his name has Harry wondering just where did this woman hide all this courage. “—is gone, and so is his reign of terror, all because of you. You’re a hero, Harry. You can have everything you want and it will be given to you. You can choose to live however you want. Concerning yourself over Draco is, I understand, a…” Here, her lips press tightly against each other, and there is an expression of pain that flitters across her face. “A hindrance to that, perhaps?”

“No—” Harry is quick to cut her off, disturbed to even hear those words from her. “No. I—I wouldn’t be here. If I didn’t want to.”

And Narcissa looks at him, really looks, as if she’s trying to figure out if what he’s saying is true. And then, finally getting her answer, her shoulders relax and amusement tinges her smile. “Whatever did my son do to inspire such loyalty from you?”

“He saved my life. You saved my life. I…I want to…” Save him, too, Harry thinks, but that’s not quite right. Notpletely. Return the favour? That’s not it, too. Not really.

But Narcissa’s looking at him in a way that’s soft, and pitying, as if she understands. Harry has to look away from that.

“You saved us. Believe me, we would not be here if it weren’t for you. The Ministry would have had us all in Azkaban and then conveniently otten about us.”

Harry thinks that Kingsley wouldn’t have done that, but the Wizengamot is another issue.

“We made our choices. Now we are atoning for them. I am not proud of them. But given the chance to do it all again, to be given the choice to save the world or save my family, I…I don’t think I would have been any wiser.” This time, she glances back at her son, and says, slowly, “It just pains me, when I look back, to remember him having to make that choice as well.”

The day is peaceful. It is bright and quiet and invisible birds chirp softly from different edges of the garden. It’s a stark contrast from the heaviness of their conversation.

Narcissa sighs, soft and sad. “I hope you understand that I’m not trying to ju

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