arts to eat at him, quick and sharp.

“Sorry,” he says, an hour later, Potions book tucked carefully away in Draco’s trunk.

Draco looks at the trunk, and then at him in exasperation. “Well, don’t start getting shy on my things now, Potter. Go on. Merlin knows you need all the help you can get.”

“No, not just for that.”

“For what, then?”

“For what I said.”

“You say a lot of idiotic things.”

“Malfoy.”

Draco sighs, waving his hand. He looks tired today. Like it took more effort for him toe back. “For the record, I think it’s safe to say we expected the same thing to happen when I entered that godforsaken place.”

Harry relaxes, now that he’s iven. The guilt recedes into something less piercing. “Well, to be honest,” he replies, trying to look wistful. “I kinda expected you’d be nicer after you got out.”

Draco gives him a deadpan stare. “I went to Azkaban, Potter, not a daycare center.”

Harry shrugs, and the joke, surprisingly, makes him smile.

Draco looks away from it. He swallows. “I expected you to be swimming in your horde of fans, lording over everyone, giving out autographed posters of you holding You-Know- Who’s severed head. Not skulking around here in my room.”

“Would you like an autographed poster?”

That earns him a startled laugh.

Harry feels victorious.

And that’s how they spend their time together. Draco gets better in the mornings after that. It still takes him a while to really wake up and be present, but it doesn’t take him hours now.

The days are quiet. Peaceful. Undemanding.

Draco disappears in the middle of conversations, sometimes, but they pick it up as soon as hees back. Sometimes, it takes a while for him to remember, but Harry waits patiently, every time.

The days pass by in a haze of breakfast and small conversations.

Three weeks after Draco was released from Azkaban, Harry enters his room and peers at the food on the table. “What’s for breakfast today?”

“Banana pancakes.”

Harry beams at the towering stack on the serving plate. Beside it lie a bowl of thinly sliced bananas, another bowl of crushed cashew nuts, and another of butter cubes. “Oh, that’s a lot.”

“I had Binky make extra. You keep on eating mine.”

Harry laughs then, a sudden, surprised bark of laughter. There is warmth spreading in his belly at the thought of Draco thinking of him. “That’s because you don’t eat them. It’s a waste.”

“How am I supposed to eat them when you shove them in your mouth the first chance you get? Fucking manners, Potter.”

Another round of laughter. “Sorry. Sorry, I’ll ask next time.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but his lips are twitching and he’s looking livelier and he doesn’t look so sick anymore. Maybe it helps that he can move his arms and fingers better now. He’s been joining Harry eat for the past week, and that’s definitely nicer than Harry eating alone while Draco watched with a sneer of mock disgust. It’s also definitely nicer than eating alone in Grimmauld Place, on the long table with a lot of chairs but no more people to sit on them.

“Well? Sit down. I don’t think you came here just to watch me eat.”

Harry does as told. “No, I came for the pancakes.” He transfers two pancakes on his plate (After three weeks of eating in the Manor, he’s managed to divest himself of his bashfulness with the food), scoops as much slices of banana as he can with his fork, and sprinkles that on top along with the crushed cashews. He unstops the bottle of maple syrup.

“You alwayse for the pancakes,” Draco replies, getting his fork and reaching over the table towards the serving plate. His nose scrunches up at the sight of the puddle of syrup on Harry’s plate.

Harry ignores that. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m also here to ask how you’re doing.”

“What the hell for?”

“Did you have a good sleep?”

“Don’t be so polite around me. It’s disgusting.”

Harry shoves pancakes in his mouth. He’s learned that Draco tries to be difficult on purpose, and the best way to deal with him when he’s being a slimy sod is to ignore that he’s being a slimy sod. He thinks he should be awarded for his discovery and canonized for his patience. “Did you have a good fucking sleep?”

And then Draco laughs.

Just like that, any irritation that he might have felt gives way to a certain kind of wonder at seeing Draco Malfoy laugh so unguardedly. Harry realizes he’s staring.

“Yes, I did. Thanks for asking.”

Harry swallows the pancakes down, hard. “It shows.”

“Yeah. I might take a walk in the garden today,” Draco says, smiling slightly as he turns to look at the budding flowers.

It’s worrisome how the words are out before he can stop them. “Can Ie with you?”

Surprise paints Draco’s face, and it makes him look innocent, eyes wide open and eyebrows raised. After a while, Draco returns to his pancakes and says, without looking up, “Yeah, whatever, Potter. Do what you want.”

But by the time they’ve finished eating their breakfast, he is gone again.

Harry takes hold of his wheelchair and pushes him around the garden anyway.

The next day, Harryes and Draco’s already in the middle of the garden, his wheelchair otten a distance away among a shrub of pink carnations.

Harry stops, his greeting dying on his lips.

It’s a big garden, more spacious than Draco’s room. The flora is lush, rich, and neatly trimmed, and colour blooms in every corner. There are roses, and lilies, and et-me-nots. Carnations and lavender. In the middle of the garden stands a fountain, water dripping down the marble eyes of the woman standing proudly at the centre of it. The snakes on her head had told Harry who she is since day one.

And there, under the bright blue sky, stand Draco Malfoy, wearing plain trousers and a sweater, looking at the flowers with a small smile on his face.

Since the war ended, Harry’s had time to clearly think and understand the nature of why he’s so obsessed with Draco, really. He thinks Ron and Hermione understands, too, but are just waiting for him to figure it out for himself. He’s figured it a long time ago, actually, but figuring it out and epting it are two different matters.

But it’s such a blow to the chest every time hees across something like this, these moments that make his cheeks warm and makes it hard to breathe and even harder to look away.

Draco sees him, notices him staring, and turns an amused smirk in his direction.

“You can walk,” Harry blurts out instead, by way of greeting.

“Excellent observation skills, Potter. I do still have my two legs with me.”

Harry flushes at that. “But, I mean…Like your hand.”

“I don’t spend the rest of my days stuck in the wheelchair waiting for the next time Saint Potteres back to save me, you know.”

A flash of hurt lances through him with that. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Surprised I could do it without your help?”

“Malfoy.”

“Or sad that you couldn’t show off your heroplex and tell the world how you helped an ex-Death Eater walk again?”

“Malfoy.”

Draco opens his mouth for his next retort.

Harry cuts him off before he really starts to go at it. “I’m happy to see you up on your feet again.”

Draco’s mouth closes. His eyes widen and Harry watches, amazed as Draco turns away and the tips of his ears colour. “Don’t think so little of me.”

“I’m not,” Harry says, walking out of the balcony and into the garden. There are butterflies flying around. He doesn’t know if they’re real or magicked. “At least now I don’t have to push you around. You were getting heavy.”

Draco glares at him. “Are you saying I’m getting fat?!”

“Well, you haven’t really been exercising lately.”

Draco turns, one foot stepping in front of the other. “I’ll have you know —!” And then his knees crumple from underneath him, and Harry thanks whatever god is up there that he still has his reflexes from fighting in the war. He leaps in, catches Draco’s shoulders, but is knocked off balance by the sudden weight.

He ends up half on the bush of carnations and half on grass, Draco sprawled over his lap.

To his surprise, Draco starts laughing.

The small edges of the bush’s branches dig painfully into his skin, but Draco’s laughter is contagious, especially when he looks so open and relaxed like that.

“You’re gonna have to help me up, Potter. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

“Just a few minutes ago, you were talking so big about how you could do it on your own.”

“I can, but you’re already here, you might as well be of some use.”

Harry nudges him with his knee. “I ought to shove you in the fountain, Malfoy.”

“My mother will be livid with you.”

“I’ll explain that you were being an ass.”

“Potter, are you going to help me up or not? It’s rather difiting to be this close to your crotch.”

And Harry laughs again.

Draco’s smiling, and the sun is bright and his hair is bright, and there’s more colour to his face now than there has been for weeks.

So Harry helps him up and Draco can walk, but he can only hold himself up for a few minutes, before his knees start to buckle beneath him. Harry helps him back to his wheelchair by keeping an arm around Draco’s waist and a hand under his elbow, and Draco doesn’t get angry and Harry pretends this isn’t weird.

“What’s for breakfast today?” Harry asks as he pushes Draco’s wheelchair up the ramp that leads into the balcony.

“Is food the only thing upying your head?” Draco says exasperatedly. He waves towards the table, where two plates have appeared during their frolic in the garden. On each plate lay a generous slice of pie. “Blueberry pie.”

Harry immediately recognizes it, and his eyes brighten. “Oh. It’s from Molly.” He parks the wheelchair on Draco’s side of the table and then sits down on his chair.

Draco nonchalantly takes his napkin and lays it over his lap. “Yes, she sent it over yesterday. Mother likes it.”

Harry grins. “So? How is it?”

And Draco doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes resolutely on the napkin on his lap even though it’s already unfolded properly. He clears his throat. “I like it. It’s delicious.”

Harry can’t stop the soft smile forming on his face then. Molly Weasley baking a pie for the Malfoy family. Draco Malfoy saying that Molly Weasley’s blueberry pie is delicious. There is warmth in his chest and it’s threatening to spill out. He thinks he might visit the Burrow tomorrow.

“Molly would love to hear that.”

The next day, Harry arrives at the Burrow, unannounced, and the whole house grows silent for a few seconds after he lands through their Floo. It’s certainly been a while since Harry’s visited, despite the numerous invitations he’s had from all members of the family. But the Burrow is never silent for long, and all at once, cheers and greetings erupt from all sides.

“I told you he was going toe on a Tuesday! Give me five sickles!” Ge is howling, and Ron, grumbling, grudgingly shoves a hand down the pocket of his pants.

There is a flurry of red hair and he finds his arms filled with Ginny and his back roughly patted by Arthur.

At the back of the crowd, Molly wipes at her eyes surreptitiously using her apron, and Harry flashes her a shy

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