Chapter Text
Draco lets out a frustrated groan, his muggle studies homework is asking too damn much of him. Sure, he’s familiar with their televisions and their telephones, but–he looks down at his parchment–the Table Of Elements? Beyond him. He swipes a hand across his face and groans again, tipping his head back and stretching his spine out from the hunched position he’s been in for the better part of an hour.
Coming back to Hogwarts to finish his seventh year was… not something he had ever expected to do. How he’s even welcome in the first place is unbeknownst to him, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain. And, he can handle the teasing. He can handle the stinging hexes and hurried whispering when he walks by; he can deal with the wary looks and bitter insults from almost everyone in the school–but what he can’t deal with is sharing a common room with the rest of the eighth years, regardless of their respective houses.
He doesn’t know what exactly McGonagall was thinking when she shoved a dozen eighteen-year-olds who fought in a war into one room and told them to ‘sort out their differences’, and he also doesn’t know why they’ve actually started to do just that. Granted, it’s not smiles and laughs all the time, but they have worked themselves into a comfortable rhythm that at least helps their living situation stay tolerable. They were all given separate bedrooms–thankfully–and the only time they really have to interact is if they’re in the shared common room together.
Which, leads Draco to another issue: Potter. Or, lack thereof. Potter came back to school for the year with the rest of them, and despite it being early November Draco has only seen him once. He looked almost sickly: thin and pale and like he’d not slept in a long time–but to Draco’s horror–he also looked good. He’d shot up a few inches and his face had matured from boyish charm to something sharp and handsome.
Not having a wizarding war on your horizon can really help a man figure some things out about himself, and Draco is certainly not excluded from that. It turns out that when he’s not fighting for his and his family's lives and torturing innocent people, he has time to think about things. Things like the fact that he’s definitely gay and his rivalry with Potter was to him something more than passionate hate. He spent the summer on house arrest, and when your mother does nothing but cry and spell the manor to look unrecognizable, you have all the time in the world to think about just how wrong you were about yourself and everything you believed for your entire life.
He looks down at the colourful squares on his parchment and frowns. He moves it and sets it on the page of his textbook he's studying and snaps the book closed, letting his forehead fall onto the cold plastic cover. He briefly wonders what element the book is made of, before shaking his head against the cover and sighing.
“Malfoy,” Ron says hurriedly in greeting, bee-lining for the exit like he wants nothing less than to be roped into conversation.
Too bad. “Weasley,” Draco lifts his head. “Can I ask you something?”
The redhead falters and turns, looking physically pained to have to be civil. “Depends on what,” He says flatly. His flaming red hair had grown out a bit, similar to how it looked when they were in fourth year. He had also shot up some inches, and Draco would guess he’s around six feet tall. Prick. Draco himself is just barely five-ten.
“Is Potter alright?”
Weasley’s face contorts into something ugly for a second, before he looks around briefly–seemingly out of habit. “What?” He asks dumbly.
Draco frowns. “I asked you if Potter’s alright.” He speaks slowly, not breaking his eye contact.
“I heard what you said. Not sure why you’re asking, though.”
“Because I haven’t seen him all term, and seeing how you’re his best mate I figured you’d know.”
“But why are you asking? Like, you understand how weird that sounds from my end, right?” The redhead moves to stand closer to Draco, looking down at the small table tucked in the corner of the room. His eyes flick to the textbook and back up to Draco. “Muggle studies? Who are you?”
Draco covers the textbook with his arms and tries to give Weasley his best ‘I’m a Malfoy, don’t question me’ glare–but judging by the lack of reaction he assumes he’s lost it.
“I’m a concerned peer.”
Ron’s eyes spring open wide. “Have you gone bloody mad? I’m not–I’m not telling you anything about Harry, mate. Don’t take it personally but… well,” He waves his hand desperately between himself and Draco, leaving more than enough unsaid.
Draco feels his stomach turn with guilt, the reminder of how he’d hurt these people’s trust gnawing at his insides and spreading red-hot flames into his chest. He pushes down the hurt and stands up, back impossibly straight to give him any extra centimetres on the Weasel. He heaves a deep sigh, expelling all the air in his lungs and replacing it with fresh. “Okay,” he says, and moves to leave. “I’ll just ask Granger.”
Ron blanches for a moment before finding his composure again. “She won’t say anything either,” He says, but it’s obvious even he’s not convinced.
“Well,” Draco says cooly, “We’ll find out.” He turns on his heel like his own father used to, and leaves Ron standing by the table.
~~~
As Draco looks around the Great Hall, he can’t help but wonder where Potter eats, and how he’s getting food to begin with. He has to eat somehow, and Draco distantly wonders if he’s even still at Hogwarts. Though, he doubts anyone is going to let The Boy Who Lived Twice starve to death.
The eighth years share a small table off to the side of the hall, and they’re all chatting away boisterously. Blaise and Pansy are just to his right, but they’re deep into an argument about who deserved the better grade on their recent Potions homework. Draco thinks Blaise deserved it, but he’d never tell either of them that. His gaze lands on Granger, all wild brown hair with her nose deep into a book, and remembers his earlier conversation with Weasley. There’s a seat open next to her and the redhead is nowhere to be found, so he excuses himself from his friends' now heated argument and makes his way over.
“Draco,” She greets, immediately looking up from her book when Draco sits down next to her.
“Granger. May I have a word?”
“Of course,” She looks around, “Here?”
He follows her gaze and is met with more prying eyes than he’s comfortable with, so he shakes his head. “I suppose not. Just outside should be fine.”
She nods in agreement and the two of them exit the hall, both keeping their eyes focused on the large doors instead of acknowledging the many students looking at them. In their defense, it is a sight to be seen. Draco Malfoy, the ex-death eater who realized he was on the wrong side of a war way too late, and Hermione Granger, one of the best friends of Harry Potter, Draco’s long-standing enemy, walking next to each other casually. He briefly wonders if Potter still thinks of him as his enemy, or if he’s also sick of long-standing childish rivalries.
Once out in the hall, Draco speaks first. “Well, I suppose I’m just wondering if–” He pauses, biting back a cringe from having to say this aloud again, “If Potter’s okay. I haven’t seen him at all this year, and I… I don’t know.”
Hermione stares at him a beat, mouth opening then closing promptly.
Draco has a bad habit of filling awkward silences, so he blunders forward. “And I don’t mean to intrude, really, I know I’m probably the last person you’d ever talk to about Potter, and I don’t want you to think this is a set-up or a trick or–”
Hermione lifts her hand gently and Draco stops speaking immediately, grateful for the reprise from his word vomit. She smiles, but it’s sad and doesn’t reach her eyes. “I appreciate your concern. It’s funny, I was actually planning on talking to you about him, so don’t feel like you’re intruding.”
Draco just nods, not wanting to interrupt her.
Granger continues after a long sigh. “Harry is going through quite a difficult time. He recovered well from the war itself–he was used to fighting–but now that he doesn’t have to fight, and now that the only responsibility he has is his schoolwork… well, he’s not handling it well.” She pauses and frowns, her brow furrowing.
“Right,” Draco prompts.
“I think–I think he’s bored. And you know, we’re all adjusting. I’m sure it's been a hell of a time for you, it certainly has for me, and Harry’s no different. I’m not sure how much you know, but he spent his entire life having these terrible things thrown in front of him and he never even had a moment to breathe. I'm worried he doesn't know who he is now that there's nothing left for him to fight.
Ron and I have tried so hard to help him, but he won’t take it. He’s almost like a different person, Draco. He’s cold and standoffish and he doesn’t take anything seriously…it’s like he’s separated himself from the rest of us, and it doesn’t seem like he cares about anything. He’s just given up.”
Draco looks at her thoughtfully, letting the information sink in for a moment. “Has he seen a mind healer?” He asks, thinking back to his mandatory weekly sessions over the summer.
“We tried sending him to one over the summer, but he went once and refused to ever go again. We don’t know what happened, but judging by the way he was acting when he got back it couldn’t have been good. Honestly, there’s not much we haven't suggested or tried. He’s impossible.”
“What are you going to do?” He asks before he can stop himself, and he’s half expecting Hermione to berate him for overstepping, but she just chews her bottom lip contemplatively.
“That’s where you come in. The two of you have a history,” She says the last word pointedly, the weight of it palpable in the air between them, “But I think we can use it to our advantage.”
Draco blinks. “I’m not following.”
“Well,” She flushes so lightly Draco almost misses it, “Harry has always felt quite strongly when it came to anything involving you, so I was thinking maybe you could try to speak with him. It could be good for him, or at least ground him. His temper has been a bit wild, and I think you could bring something good out of him.”
Draco almost laughs outright, the absurdity of the information being told to him pounding in his ears and around the inside of his head. “You must really be out of options.”
Hermione smiles momentarily but wipes it away quickly. “Quite. I’ll be honest, this could completely backfire. However, I’m so tired of him being like this there's not much I’m unwilling to try. And,” She stops and shakes her head slightly. “Never mind.”
“No, do tell,” Draco says, and the words sound so posh that even he cringes internally.
“It works, doesn’t it? Harry was always quite obsessed with you and it seems like you care…” She trails off, pink staining her cheeks.
He clears his throat before pushing the embarrassment down and picking up the shovel to dig his grave deeper. “I would like to speak with him, I just… I don’t know where he is.”
At this Hermione’s face darkens to an impossible shade of red, and for a moment Draco thinks he’d said something really wrong.
“I don’t know where he is either. Draco, he–he hasn’t spoken to Ron or me in almost a month.”
“A month?!” He cries before he can think better of it, and clamps a hand over his mouth to shut himself up.
She smiles sheepishly, but it looks more like a cringe. “Yeah. Like I said, he doesn’t care about much. Ron and I are apparently included in that. I’ll let you know if we find him, but keep your eye out. If you do see him, please feel free to talk to him, and don’t worry about hurting his feelings. There aren’t many there to hurt anymore.” She casts a tempus next to them and her eyes widen. “Blimey. I’ve got to go, but thank you, Draco.” She locks eyes with him for a moment, conveying her sincerity, before turning and swiftly walking away.
He has absolutely no idea how to process any of the information he was just given.
During the walk to his next class, Draco’s mind is whirring. What started as a mild concern fueled by simple curiosity has quickly warped into a burning desire to find Potter. Granger’s description of him was unnerving, to say the least, and Draco desperately wants to see the man for himself. He thinks back to years prior, how driven and passionate Potter was, and feels himself scowling. Hogwarts failed him, Dumbledore especially, and his best friends were giving up on him. A feeling strangely similar to obligation tugs in Draco’s chest; He needs to find Potter. But, first, he needs to go to potions.
~~~
Draco stumbles into the common room and throws himself down onto the hideous red and gold sofa. The windows lining the walls of the room are quite lovely–large beams of moonlight shine in through them and whirl around the room in whisps of translucence. The small, last-minute room was hastily thrown together, a horrendous clash of all four house colors riddled throughout. He scrubs a hand over his face and lazily points his wand at the dying fireplace, the small white and black ashes roaring back to life and throwing a blanket of heat over his dungeon-frozen body. He looks around the room, noting its emptiness. In front of him, on the large, heavy oak table is a neglected game of wizard chess and a half-empty bottle of beer. The fireplace is a massive thing, a pointy black metal gate sits in front of the flame, and dark red brick stretches up to the wide expanse of ceiling. Hung on the mantle, right underneath the huge, albeit dirty, mirror, are four banners–one for each house.
“Look who it is,” Comes Blaise Zabini’s unmistakable drawl from the stairway leading to the dorms.
“Zabini,” He says lazily, not moving his gaze from the fire.
Blaise is across the room in a second and drops himself down next to Draco. He gasps softly, and swipes the beer off the table in front of them, tipping his head back and taking a long drink.
“Is that even yours?” Draco asks, grimacing.
“Nope,” Blaise says, popping the ‘p’. “But, no one seems to be offended I’ve taken it,” He looks around dramatically, “Oh wait, there’s fuck all people here anyway.”
Draco mimics his friend and looks around as well. He noticed the emptiness but assumed people were still in classes. “Yeah, where are they all?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. It’s late, they’re probably asleep already.” He makes a face.
Draco frowns. “Right, but–”
“But nothing! All I know is there’s no one here to bother me. Besides you, that is.”
“Ha-ha,” Draco says flatly, standing from where he was rudely sprawled out. “Suppose I’ll head to bed then, get out of your hair.” He honestly just wants to be alone with his thoughts to try and figure out where the hell Potter is, but Blaise is making it difficult.
A flicker of disappointment flashes across his friend's face, but it’s quickly wiped away and replaced with something smug. “Ah. Hard work stalking Potter, is it?”
Draco whips his head around to face Blaise. “What?”
He smirks. “Nothing, dear. Please, off to bed with you,” he waves his hand dismissively, “Big day tomorrow, I assume.”
Draco sits back down on the couch warily–if the look in Blaise’s eyes is anything to go by, he knows something.
“Ah,” He tuts, “Caught your interest, have I?”
Draco frowns and moves to stand up. “Forget it, if you’re going to be a prick about it,” He’s stopped by Blaise’s hand around his wrist. “What?” He asks impatiently, shrugging out of the man's grasp.
He sighs, and motions for Draco to retake his spot on the sofa. “You want me to be honest?”
Draco swallows nervously–it has never once been good for his ego when Blaise starts a sentence like that. He nods hesitantly.
“I know where Potter might be hiding.”
Draco’s eyes widen comically large and he leans forward in his seat, so close his knees almost knock against his friend’s. “Where?”
“Right, this is what I was afraid of,” Blaise sighs, giving him a pointed look, “You’re bloody obsessed with him again.”
“I’m not obsessed, I’m just…worried,” He defends, the shake in his voice betraying the words.
“Worried? About Potter? Mate,” His voice softens, “I think he–better than anyone–can take care of himself. Besides, he has the lovers to look after him.”
“He hasnt spoken to either of them in a month.”
Blaise looks genuinely taken aback at his. “A month? Really?”
Draco nods.
“Right, well,” Blaise starts, then stops. The way he’s looking at Draco makes him feel like he’s being openly contemplated. “That doesn’t diminish the fact that you’re a little too invested in his personal life.”
“I don’t think it’s a crime to wonder why no one’s seen him all term.”
“Of course not, but I don’t quite think you’ve thought amount much else, no?”
“I am not too invested.”
“You nearly passed out when I told you I might know where he is. Obsessed.”
“Right,” Draco says, ignoring the man’s insistence, “Where is that?”
Blaise sighs a long, drawn out breath. “Keep in mind I said ‘might’, but a little birdie told me there’s a room on the third floor that’s been out of use for a while.”
Draco stands abruptly. “The one with that bloody dog he had to fight, I bet,” He says, more to himself than Blaise.
Blaise stands as well. “The what? Draco, don’t go running off now, it’s nearly the middle of the night.”
Draco ignores him and winds out the portrait, the need to speak with Potter overpowering his need for…well, just about everything else.
Blaise’s insistence on his apparent obsession is not something he’s ignoring–it’s just something he already knows. Obsessing over where Potter is and what he’s doing is something that comes as easy to him as breathing, except this time, there’s no malice behind it. Just worry.
~~~
He knocks loudly on the heavy door, nerves shooting up his spine and out of the whites of his knuckles. He has absolutely no ides if Potter is actually in there, and he’s not sure if yelling through the door would be more or less embarrassing than just turning and leaving.
A beat of silence makes his mind up for him, and before he can even process it, “Potter! I know you’re in there!” He yells, knocking again.
Nothing. He huffs loudly, defeated, and leans his weight against the space of wall next to the door. It must have been a trick–Blaise was either so fed up with his…interest…or just felt like taking the piss out of him and led him to the wrong place just to embarrass him. His ears heat up slightly, he was definitely feeling embarrassed.
Just as he’s about to accept defeat and pout his way back to the common room, a loud click sounds from behind the door. He spins around, eyes wide, and is met with a very sleep-ridden Harry Potter. He’s clearly in his pyjamas, and his hair is an awful mess Draco would have taken a large amount of fun from teasing him for just years ago–but the idea falls from his mind when he notices the purple smudges underneath his bright green, squinting eyes (and Draco definitely doesn’t notice how much more green they look without being hidden behind his glasses). He also notices the beginning stubble of a beard lining his jaw.
The eyes widen, and the brows above them furrow. “Malfoy?”
“Er,” He says pathetically, “Potter.”
Harry stares at him, then looks around the area surrounding him in the halll–almost like he’s checking to see if anyone else is there.
Draco clears his throat awkwardly, figuring he has to explain himself sooner or later, and that he can’t just stand here like he’s been petrified. “I’ve come to check on you,” He says cooly, thankful his voice hasn’t betrayed him and conveyed his nerves.
“You’ve what?”
Draco frowns. “Come to check on you. You haven’t been in class.”
“Did Hermione make you do this?” He asks, and by the way his voice flattens Draco can assume he would prefer the answer of that question to be ‘no’.
“No,” he half-lies, and before he can continue his sentence Harry has grabbed his arm and yanked him into the room, closing the door tight.
Draco stares at him, bewilderment overtaking his face before he can stop it. His eyes flick around the room, taking in the state of it. There’s a large four-poster tucked in the corner, but instead of being red like Draco would have expected it to be–its a deep purple with silver embroidery lining the curtains of it beautifully. The moonlight shines in through the relatively small windows and coats the entire room with a film of peace; a round, ancient looking rug sits in the middle of the room and sat on top of it is a loveseat similar in color to the bed. There’s a tall wardrobe pushed against the other wall, and next to it is a desk scattered with papers. In fact, Draco notices, there’s loads of papers littering the floor and a few stuck to the walls as well.
Harry says nothing, and pads over to the short cabinet next to the bed that must be serving as a nightstand, and picks his glasses up off it it.
Draco clears his throat. “This could be considered kidnapping, you know.” He doesn’t know why he says it, but the urge to break the silence was overwhelming.
Harry turns back around to face him, and for some reason just stands there for a moment. He’s not sure if it’s just his imagination, but he swears he can see the green of his eyes moving about. “It could. Why are you here?”
“To check on you. I’ve already told you this twice.”
“Right. But, and don’t take this the wrong way, why you? If they were so worried about me they could have come themselves.”
“Potter, I already told you Granger didn’t send me. I came on my own accord.” He tries to dress the confession up in sarcasm, but he’s not sure how well it worked.
“‘On you own accord’,” Harry repeats in a whisper, now pacing between the bed and the wall. “Why the hell have you done that?”
Draco’s face almost flames, the real answer burning hot in the back of his throat. He tells a half-truth. “I was curious. As I said before, you’ve not been in class or at meals. I overheard someone mentioning you could be here, and I was passing by, so. You know.” He waves his hand dismissvely, feigning mock nonchalance.
“Passing by, right,” Harry steps closer, and Draco swallows thickly. “In any case, I’m just fine.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Draco says.
Harry blinks at him. “You know how weird this is, right? Considering.”
“Quite.”
For some reason, Harry grins at that. “Well, brilliant. Glad we’ve sorted out our differences. You’re forgiven, I’m forgiven, and all that rubbish.”
Draco blanches. “What?”
“You heard me! Now, I want to go back to bed.” He has the door open before Draco even realizes, and is looking at him pointedly.
“Right. Me too.”
Before the door shuts, Harry looks at him once more. “Thank you for your,” He pauses, and drags his eyes up the length of Draco’s body, an indistinguishable glint filling them, “Concern.”
He closes the door and latches it in Draco’s face.