Archive of Our Own

The Manor was a bit gray. 

Draco Malfoy recognized it as an afterthought. Nowadays, most things were. It was how he allowed his mind to be—a necessity, otherwise he might have already gone crazy. If he thought too hard, it would be difficult to let the days pass by as he had been doing for the first half of his house arrest. That was—mindlessly; he’d been passing the days mindlessly with barely a thought spared for time. If he didn’t think about it, it would go by faster, was his logic. It worked before, so it should work now. 

This wasn’t new to him. He was a war veteran after all, he thought wryly. Although he had to admit, back then, it was a bit different. It was difficult to focus when you were overthinking; for example, thinking about your impending doom, or your family’s impending doom, or when the time let him, thinking about how his family screwed him in the ass from birth. It was his fault too, obviously, but he hadn’t really gotten around to thinking which part was his fault exactly because it was his defense mechanism, you see; to not think. And maybe the fear of guilt played a part in it too. 

If he didn’t think, the thoughts couldn’t hurt him. If he didn’t think, he could work on the Vanishing Cabinet with a clear mind, which was exactly what he needed because he wasn’t a good worker under pressure. If he didn’t think, Occlumency was easier and even though his pride ached that the Dark Lord simply thought he was so dumb that his mind was so empty, it kept him safe. It kept his family safe, and that was enough for him. If he didn’t think, there was nothing which could enable his neverending guilt and self-hatred to take a knife and slit his own throat with it. Or his arms. 

Sometimes it jarred him how much he was still a coward, even after all this time. 

Even if he knew there was nothing to lose, if he jumped. 

The world would have nothing to lose. 

So, the Manor was a bit gray. And his tea was always bitter no matter how much sugar and milk he poured into it. And sometimes he couldn’t tell where the wall ended and the door began, sometimes he felt like he could slip through them and suddenly he was on the other side. 

But these were afterthoughts. He had other things to worry about now because his house arrest was ending soon and Eighth Year was starting, so he dug a grave in the back of his mind and buried these thoughts there, like every single other thought that could hurt him, because he was a coward. It was too early for him to realize they weren’t actually dead, and they would later grow to become the most annoying Devil’s Snare, but that was future-him’s problem. 

Merlin. He didn’t even know how he was going to get through the school year. 

𖥸

Winter was fast approaching. 

They said time passed by faster when you were having fun. 

Eighth Year. It was November, all flowing winds and falling leaves, and Harry thought, no, he wasn’t happy at all. Why was it then, that he had no grasp over time anyways? The sun would rise, he would blink, and the moon would take its spot on the sky unapologetically, like it didn’t just vanish the last twelve hours of his life. Yet when he talked to his friends— Well. There weren’t many of them he could talk to without counting down the seconds nowadays. It made him feel a little guilty how he was glad that most of them didn’t come back, even Ron and Hermione, but nonetheless. 

Harry wondered what that made him. 

Unhappy, probably.

Maybe it should have unnerved him, but Harry found he didn’t care for much these days. 

McGonagall had been arranging these one-on-one meetings to discuss their job prospects. Harry thought it was a bit mad. Then, after seeing everyone else warm up to the idea like moths to a flame—like children chasing for a semblance of normalcy, like survivors —Harry thought, not for the first time, that he might be a bit mad. 

Hermione had persuaded him to return for that reason as well, to find his footing, but how was he supposed to do that when he didn’t even know what it looked like? He had no frame of reference, too used to the high maintenance lifestyle of being near-assassinated at every turn. It was a mix of everything—the sudden paranoia despite the constant reminder that Voldemort was gone for good, the departure of his closest friends to Australia for their own noble mission, and the lack of shits he could give to something as mundane as school work and ‘job prospects’—that made this year apparent to be heading downhill. 

Harry supposed he must be quite mad if the only thing he could bring himself to care about this year was Draco Malfoy. 

See, the Slytherins hadn’t been faring well this year. ‘To let them get a taste of their own medicine’ was the justification the other students had to bully them. It was hypocritical, Harry thought, since most of them hadn’t done much more than the Slytherins back in the War. However much he wanted to stop those bullies, it was as if they collectively knew that he wouldn’t condone their actions, so they all avoided him like the plague. 

As expected, Hermione was rightfully upset at this news when he wrote to her about it, telling him that he should talk to Professor McGonagall and Do the Right Thing, but truthfully, Harry was tired of playing the hero. Sure, he would stop them if he saw the act happening in front of him, but chasing them down one by one when he knew it was an impossible task? That was another matter entirely. Besides—and Harry had to admit he was making an excuse to justify himself here—he couldn’t predict how the Slytherins might react if he were to help them; they might think of it as a personal attack on their pride or something, to be defended by a Gryffindor. 

And, well… The one person he found he wouldn’t mind helping was Malfoy who, much like himself, had been in the middle of the War and bore the brunt of it. Maybe this unprompted urge to protect his ex-bully was the thing that made him pay attention to Malfoy more, but according to Hermione, he’d always been like this—utterly obsessed. It was just that now, his habit had turned into something different, something new that was based on—strangely enough—protectiveness rather than rivalry or enmity. Personally, Harry thought it was dumb, but he’d learnt the hard way that Hermione was usually right. 

Anyway, even if he were obsessed, it wasn’t like his obsession was unwarranted. The boy—man, now, though Harry himself didn’t feel that any of them was deserving of that title—had been acting odd since the beginning of the year. Unlike the other Slytherins, Malfoy hadn’t gotten jinxed even once. He was never late to class, always proper and kept to himself, which was a good thing, but therein laid the mystery. 

Malfoy was an actual Death Eater, the Mark stark in its appearance on his pale skin and everyone knew of its existence despite his valid insistence in hiding it; all logic would say that he was the one that would get the most consequences. He was completely alone, since none of his friends went back for the year. Not even Goyle or Parkinson, so how had he managed to avoid the bullying? 

One day, as if the universe was playing tricks on him, the man himself appeared in front of him after class one day. It was really strange to see him up close like this, considering the distance they’d maintained over the last months. Harry immediately noticed how different he was, physically at least. He was so thin that it almost seemed like his body could barely hold up his uniform. A Lightening Charm…?  

Malfoy waved his hand in front of his eyes, pulling him out of his stupor. 

Before Harry could ask what he wanted, Malfoy said without greeting, "Thank you." 

Well. That was really random. 

But maybe it wasn't apropos of nothing. After all, they'd exchanged a nod of greeting just now, as they usually did nowadays. Perhaps that was as good an opening as any for Draco Malfoy to thank someone very properly—and it was indeed very proper; he stood up straight and looked Harry in the eyes and had this hint of a smile in his lips and it was this demeanor and the words that made Harry feel very, very wrong-footed. 

Harry was also very speechless. Malfoy seemed to have taken it as a response on its own and started turning away. Not wanting him to leave without even getting a word out, Harry asked, "For the trial?" because it was the only thing that came to mind. 

Malfoy looked at him again, with the whole staring-him-in-the-eyes-and-smiling (this time openly enough to make Harry feel like the floor was about to consume him—and later he would come to know it wasn’t him, but maybe his soul) and said, "For winning the War." 

Not knowing what to say, he ended up replying with, "It was a team effort, really," along with a silly little shrug. Hermione had reminded him that he'd been doing too much of this—downplaying, was what she called it. Downplaying his achievements when it should matter, when it did matter. 

But Malfoy only smiled. And Harry didn’t understand why it made him a bit dizzy. "I know, Harry." 

𖥸

“I wrote a list,” Draco told McGonagall. 

It wasn’t out of any ambitious resolve. Rather, his logic was that since he got the chance, he’d try his best without exerting himself. McGonagall would understand. He’d be surprised if any institute would even accept him other than as someone who took out their trash. that was why he wrote ‘firefighter’ on the list; somewhere muggle had a higher chance of taking him in. He’d also prefer a job that didn’t have anything to do with the War and its remnants; that was decidedly not why he wrote ‘firefighter’ on the list. Truth to be told, if he got accepted as one and somehow managed to get through the training, he probably would freeze up on the job and end up burning himself alive. He wasn’t big on fire, after all. 

There were also things like Potion Master and Healer on the list. He wrote Wandmaker because he had the wish to traumatize Ollivander until his dying breath. That was a joke. 

Draco couldn’t be arsed to remember what else he wrote on the stupid list. He basically took one of the books McGonagall suggested, opened the table of contents and wrote down all the jobs that have even the smallest chance of accepting a Death Eater. Auror was definitely a big no, for which he was glad because he couldn’t handle violence anymore, probably. Another one of his untouched traumas—Draco would probably jump at the smallest sound and end up killing both himself and his partner by revealing their location. Or worse, having his partner die and getting blamed for it, which would land him in Azkaban, the one place he was supposed to be avoiding. 

It should worry him that most of his job-related predictions ended with him dying. It didn’t, because he didn’t think. Not in the way that mattered, anyway. 

McGonagall took the list and hummed in that way of hers. Draco found it annoying. She asked him, “What do you really want to be, Draco?” and he didn’t think she knew what it was like to not want anything. To be utterly unable to imagine oneself having a future, much less hoping for something. 

It suddenly occurred to him that she was one of the few people who called him that in this whole castle. It was grounding as much as it made him high. 

At this time, he didn’t realize he was doing this, as most people didn’t know their own tells, but he was rubbing his arm quite roughly and his gaze was planted on the table, away from McGonagall. He would realize it later in the bathroom when the hot water would hit where his skin was red and make him hiss in surprise. Such bad manners, his Mother would tut if she weren’t in Janus Thickey Ward. Look her in the eye, his Father would remind him if he were still alive, dead because of an accident—or so they said—in Azkaban. He had no one to remind him now, and his Headmistress didn’t seem to care. Or maybe she did; he wasn’t looking at her eyes after all. Merlin knew what expression her face was wearing right now. 

“I’d be fine with anything, really,” he said half-heartedly. He just needed a job. The Manor was all they had left. All he had left, for his parents only left him with an upbringing that didn’t help, along with an abundance of bad blood with just about everyone. Except Luna Lovegood. Luna Lovegood, who decided that having been held captive in Draco’s cellar made them two very good friends. She started bothering him with her presence every chance she felt like it, and he would never admit it out loud, but sometimes her sprinkle of insanity was the only thing that made him feel sane. 

“Draco,” she said in the way adults did when they wanted you to do something. 

Voldemort never did it that way. He knew whatever he said, went. His tone would always be a bit unhinged—Draco wondered how his Father took one look at Him and didn’t think to himself, that man is crazy, I shouldn’t welcome him to my house for he would endanger my family, but maybe his Father was just like him; maybe Lucius Malfoy just never thought. Or maybe he thought too much. Draco sure hadn’t been. Not even a bit. 

“It’s sorted,” Draco finally said, “from how much I would prefer it to how little, but I really wouldn’t mind. If you can recommend me for a job at some cinema’s cleaning service, I’d be eternally grateful to you, honest.” 

That was another thing. He’d spent his house arrest reading on muggle culture because it was one of his probation requirements. It had been eye-opening. If they ever let him get close to muggles again, he’d like to get a phone and visit the amusement park, hence him wanting to work there. Not much hope there, though. 

McGonagall hummed thoughtfully once again. He wondered if she was disappointed, but then again, with him being a Slytherin, he’d always felt like she was always a little disappointed in him. 

A beat of silence was all he could take before he asked, “May I be excused?” 

It was the first time he looked at her face during this whole conversation. She looked a bit sad and he didn’t know why, but she nodded, so he pushed it out of his mind. 

𖥸

So maybe Harry was a little bit obsessed, but he didn’t think that was his fault…mostly. 

One day, when he unfurled the Marauder’s Map with no intentions other than pure curiosity and definitely not to look for a specific name, he saw something odd. In his defense, it was impossible not to notice something that flickered, even if it had been on his periphery. Which, if he was being truthful, it wasn’t. 

‘Draco Malfoy’. The name was familiar on the Map, showing that the man was currently in his room. Harry knew where it was, had caught himself staring at the door for a second too long too many times, because the Eighth Years slept in one tower now, courtesy of the Headmistress. That was when he saw it: the name disappeared. 

Harry stood up so quickly that his chair fell behind him, heading to the door in long strides while his gaze was focused on the Map, as if staring at it would will the name to reappear. This had never happened before—what could cause something like this? Sudden death? But why? No one else was in the room—and then the name actually flickered back to life on the other side of the wall. 

Harry paused, his hand gripping the door knob so tightly that his fingertips had turned white, his heartbeat racing against the confines of his chest and his mind filled with too many questions. None that the Map could answer, but at least he found one answer amidst this confusion: so this was how Malfoy’d managed to avoid the bullying. And probably everybody else as well, but what was this exactly? 

"Malfoy thanked me," Harry told Neville during lunch the next day. That wasn’t what he’d meant to start the conversation with, but it was too late now. Hermione had always told him to think before he spoke, and it looked to be a never-ending journey of learning. 

"’That so? For the trial?" Neville asked, eating. As people did, during lunch. Harry’s stomach felt like lead, so he settled for playing with his food. Scrambling the already scrambled eggs and wondering if the chicken came before the egg. It was just as fun, if you ignored the depressing aspect of it. 

"See, that's what I thought of too, but he said it was for winning the War. Isn't it a bit weird?" he asked, trying to appear nonchalant while simultaneously channeling his inner Ron. 

He’d been sounding nonchalant every day, sounding so lifeless to the point that Hermione told Neville to keep an eye on him. It was supposed to be a secret, but Harry heard them talking over the fire-call yet when he spoke just now, Neville sent him a deadpan look that made him feel like a fool. 

"Which part is weird exactly? Is it because his family supported the Dark side? Because I have to tell you, Harry, he isn't the same–" 

That was a new development. Neville had grown somewhat friendly with Malfoy, as did almost every single Eighth Year in attendance. At first, everyone seemed keen on giving him space, but in the end they talked to him anyway. Apparently they received letters of apology from the man, which Harry evidently didn’t. He even tried digging through the fan mails in case he missed it to no avail. What he found strange was how quickly they seemed to warm up to him, a school bully. Not that he minded. Maybe they peeled the layers off of him, like an onion, and decided they liked what they saw inside. Harry figured if they were to do the same to him, they'd just find him empty—it's how he felt, nonetheless. 

Most of the Slytherins hadn't returned. Harry wondered if Malfoy felt lonely. Hermione and Ron didn’t return to Hogwarts and he thought this emptiness was loneliness at first, but he even grew to dislike their calls. 

"No! No, I mean, I just think that that isn't something someone would thank me for? I mean, I guess those crazy people outside would, but not…him. By that, I mean someone who was also in the War. We all did our parts, didn't we?" 

That was also a new development. Somewhat. Apparently his crazed ‘fans’ found out that their messages weren’t getting through, so they decided to send him Howlers at school. 

"Maybe you should ask him, Harry," Neville said. 

Maybe he would. 

𖥸

The wind was blowing, the sun was shining. 

As it turned out, the definition of fear could be reconstructed because here he stood in the Forbidden Forest with no fear at all. Somewhere down the line, it’d been destroyed; remade anew. Maybe it was when he saw a corpse being eaten on his dinner table, or maybe it was when that monster first stepped into his Manor. Slowly, it gained a new meaning, its new form getting more vivid with every threat to his family, every curse thrown at him, every mocking laugh he’d heard as he buried himself under his blanket, as if it was possible to hide when His Mark was forever tattooed into Draco’s skin. 

Nowadays, he liked going to places that he used to fear. Maybe a normal person would do it to prove to themselves that they’d grown—stronger, braver. To show to themselves how far they’d come, but Draco? Draco did it because the places he used to fear were places people feared. Places where he could be alone. Except today, apparently. 

The wind was blowing, the sun was shining—and these details didn’t quite matter because in the Forest, the trees barely allowed for the sunlight to filter through their leaves—as Harry Potter approached him. 

Draco had realized it a while ago, how Potter seemed to have reverted back to how he was in Sixth Year. Interested—obsessed, even, but let him save both of their dignities here—in him again, for whatever reason because Draco wasn’t up to anything, not anymore. He didn’t mind, though. It was actually rather amusing to see Potter stare at him so obviously—flattering, even, how it seemed like he couldn’t take his eyes off of Draco. Draco didn’t feel the need to hide from his gaze because it was just there. Open, exposed as if there was nothing to hide. 

Maybe he was just deluding himself with this semblance of normalcy, of a dive back into a time much better than this, but no. His Sixth Year was probably much worse than this; having a Dark Lord breathing down his neck during his formative years was a bad parenting move by his parents dearest. 

In any case, he wasn’t surprised when Potter walked up to him and sat down without an invite. 

“Stalking me again, Harry?” Draco asked, slipping in some humor into his voice because he didn’t want this to turn into a confrontation. Potter didn’t answer for a bit too long. He didn’t even make a sound, like he wasn’t breathing. When Draco finally turned his head to look at him, he was confused to see that Potter was looking at him, barely moving like a muggle painting. Draco couldn’t read his expression, but at least he didn’t look too upset at whatever he was seeing in Draco’s face. 

A bit late for Draco to realize how much he enjoyed having Potter’s eyes on him, but he really did. A bit giddy, even. 

Unsure of what he was trying to do here, Draco said, “You shouldn’t try to read my mind.” 

Potter blinked as if he’d just been shaken out of his stupor, looking away. That didn’t hide how his ears turned red. Adorable. “Why not? Is there something you don’t want me to see?” he asked jokingly, although the uncertain way he said it made it fall flat. 

Mercifully, Draco didn’t point it out. He also ignored how they apparently jumped a few steps and were suddenly being friendly enough to joke with one another. Counting his blessings and all. “That’s beside the point. It’s just that it’s impossible,” he said with a shrug. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The Dark Lord already tried his best and still couldn’t get past my wards.” 

At the mention of his worst enemy, Potter bristled. Over the months, Draco fancied thinking he’d gotten the hand of Luna Lovegood’s eerie smile, and seeing Potter squirm in his seat gave a nice, giant stroke to his ego. Perhaps realizing he had nothing to add to Draco’s statement—quite a conversation-killer, that one—Potter decided to abruptly change the subject instead: “I heard you sent the others letters.” 

Draco didn’t claim to know who ‘others’ specifically meant here, but it was true that he did. “I did,” he replied. “What about it?” 

Potter opened his mouth then paused, looking as if there was something he badly wanted to say but knowing he really shouldn’t. Character development, thought Draco. Normally he would talk without thinking. In any case, Draco wasn’t surprised; Potter probably had a reason to approach him today. Most of the time, he was happy enough to stare from afar like a creep. However, the internal battle visible on his face ended in him looking away and changing the subject again: “Your Patronus’ color—it’s black.” 

Draco lifted his gaze from Potter’s side profile to look at his Patronus. It was a cat, lazily lying under the one ray of sunlight that managed to pass through the thick foliage, and like any other Patronus in the world, the little thing was very shiny and very blue. Deadpan, he said, “What, like my heart?” 

Potter looked at him in confusion, as if what he said made sense and what Draco said didn’t. “No! Can’t you see it?” he said, gesturing in the general direction of Methe who was still very blue as she looked at them, uninterested. 

“Is this a good moment to tell you that you might be colorblind?” Draco asked cheerfully. 

Potter sighed, deciding to give up on pleading his insane case. Good for him. “I really didn’t mean anything by it.” 

“It’s all right. I don’t think you care much about the bad luck black cats supposedly bring, anyway,” he said with a shrug. 

“You’re right, I don’t.” 

After a while, Potter decided to finally break their mutual silence. “How can your Patronus stay for such a long period of time?” he asked. He was looking at Methe as if she was a mystery he couldn’t solve, and he even looked a bit offended. Draco wasn’t sure if he was supposed to take personal offense to that. 

“I guess being stuck in your home with a genocidal maniac with Dementors as pets forces you to become best friends with the magical manifestation of your happiness and hope,” replied Draco, intending to creep Potter out. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t produce the desired effect. Instead, Potter looked…well, Draco wouldn’t say excited because he still looked like Methe offended his delicate sensibilities, but his eyes were full of expectation for whatever reason. Expectation of Draco, apparently, because he asked, “Can you teach me?” 

Draco blinked, not quite believing his ears. “Teach you what?” 

“How to conjure up a Patronus,” replied Potter as if it should be obvious. 

“What? Potter, I’m sure you of all people—Savior of the Wizarding World, et cetera—would know how to conjure up a Patronus. You literally had a club where you taught this charm to others.” 

Biting his lower lip, he said, “Well…let’s just say I forgot how to do it.” 

Draco wasn’t having this. He was fine with Potter stalking him and staring at him—he found himself doing the same thing and he wasn’t a hypocrit—and he didn’t know what Potter wanted today but if it was this, he wasn’t having it. Furrowing his eyebrows, he asked, “Are you kidding me right now?” 

“I’m not. I’m really not.” 

“I am not teaching you, Potter.” 

“Why not?” Potter asked, as if Draco teaching him was a given. What an asshole. 

“Why would I? I have better things to do with my time”—he didn’t, but that was neither here nor there—”than teach someone something he obviously already knows.” 

Potter’s face cleared with understanding. “I really can’t, okay? I’m not lying or joking or whatever. Ever since the War ended, I’ve never been able to conjure one up. Not even a wisp. Hermione says it might be that my memories were tainted or something, and I don’t have any new ones that can be used to make it work.” 

The way Potter said it so seriously made Draco realize that he wasn’t lying at all, and the premise was so similar to his own…issue that he found himself believing him. After all, if the War could affect his Patronus, he supposed it would make sense to also affect others’. Just their luck that the Savior of the Wizarding World would be as fucked up as he was. “Wow. Talk about high maintenance. Not even winning a war can make you happy?” he joked weakly, just to have something to say. 

“The War in particular doesn’t spark joy in me, Malfoy,” Potter deadpanned, which. Draco deserved it, probably. 

After a pause, Draco asked, “Okay, so what do you want me to do? You obviously already have the basics down, being the founder of DA and all.” 

“Well, you know…” The rest of the sentence was muffled as Potter looked away. Draco noticed that the tips of his ears were red again, and he was reminded of how bad an idea this was. Even if the War had changed the two of them, that didn’t erase the years of history where he’d bullied Potter—and yet to properly apologize for it, Potter’s question about the letter reminded. 

“What?” 

“Just. You know, help me make new memories,” Potter replied defensively. 

Draco was struck speechless for several seconds, not quite believing his ears, before he joked, “Is this your way of asking me out on a date?” He didn’t expect his own  joke to make his own face warm up. 

“No!” Potter said, his voice cracking as if it was a lie. Oh, dear. Draco felt the second hand embarrassment coming like a flood. “I mean. No. It’s just, McGonagalls said you needed help finding a job in the muggle society, so I thought we could kill two birds with one stone—” 

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” Draco cut him off, wanting this conversation to end already. Merlin. 

𖥸 

Strangely, entering the amusement park was rather anticlimactic. Harry’d never been before, but compared to the posters and ads, the reality was rather underwhelming. It was hot and crowded, although he had to thank Merlin that the queue to enter wasn’t as long as he’d feared it would be. Everyone had brought their own umbrellas and sunglasses, which the park also sold at incredulous prices. When he saw it, Harry couldn’t hold back his flinch before awkwardly smiling and walking away from the vendor. He realized that Malfoy was struggling not to take his wand out, which at least brought a little amusement to the situation. 

They walked aimlessly, both mostly taking in the view of this very new place. Unlike the entry, each ride had a very long queue that would take what looked like an hour to get through, so they didn’t look very tempting. 

After a while, they came upon the merry-go-round, which surprisingly didn’t have a long waitlist despite being a popular ride. Harry looked over at his partner for the trip who had an expression of recognition on his face. Teasing, Harry asked, “You wanna ride that?” 

Malfoy looked away as if he’d been caught staring. “Seriously? Only kids ride that.” 

Harry shrugged. “Alright, then.” 

That was the moment when screams came from above their heads. They watched the roller coaster do a loop-the-loop, its passengers screaming in a mixture of joy and fear, before looking at each other and then wordlessly shuffling over to the merry-go-round queue. 

When it was their turn to get on, Malfoy asked, “You reckon we both can sit on one pony?” 

Around them, there were many parents sitting with their children. “Think so,” said Harry, but he really should’ve done the ‘think before you speak’ thing. He didn’t realize, despite the question, that he would be sitting with Malfoy. He knew the meaning behind the words, but didn’t realize the closeness it would entail. How warm Malfoy was behind him, how sweaty his own hands were as they held onto the little pony. 

Maybe Harry should’ve thought even more, but he was panicking a little and it slipped out of his mouth: “This reminds me of something.” 

The Room of Requirement. The Fiendfyre. Fuck. 

It was quiet for a few moments, and Harry wondered about the chances of Malfoy casting an Avada Kedavra from behind. It would be well deserved, he thought. 

“Seriously, Harry?” Malfoy said, a smile audible in his voice. “I thought we‘ve come to an understanding now to talk about traumatic experiences just now.” The roller coaster passengers screaming in the distance only served to prove his point. 

“Really? I don’t remember agreeing to that at all.” 

“Of course you would take amusement in reminiscing about the War, you masochist.” 

Harry laughed with him this time. “Only when you’re around to hear it.” 

“I feel so special.” He could imagine Malfoy rolling his eyes as he said it. Neither of them mentioned him holding onto Harry’s waist in a death grip when the ride started. For some reason, Harry couldn’t focus on the experience despite the loud cartoonish music playing and the people staring at them—two adult men on one pony. 

Dear Harry, 

I hope this letter finds you in the best of spirits. It's been a while since we last caught up. Some updates: Ron and I’ve been well. More than well, in fact. We finally managed to crack the code. My parents’ memories are back and I can’t wait to tell you all about it, but we’re currently staying with them and their residence doesn’t have a Firecall, of course, so I opted to send you a letter for now. 

How’ve you been, Harry? I heard from Neville that your grades are getting better. I do hope you’ve finally taken my advice to heart and stop cramming your studies the night before your exams. 

Do you remember the Mind Healer I told you about last time? The one I just started going to. She’s been very helpful, and Ron’s even started coming with me. He’s been sleeping better. I know you’ve been trying to deflect from this subject, but just in case, if you ever feel like you might need it, I attached her business card. And if you don’t need it, that’s okay too. 

I look forward to hearing from you, Harry. We’ve missed you a lot. 

Kind regards, 

Hermione 

Apparently Draco had made a list. Not out of his own volition, obviously. In fact, Harry had made his own similarly intended list courtesy of their Headmistress, but his looked very different from whatever Draco had going on. For one, Harry and probably most of the students their year didn’t have even a fifth the amount of Draco’s list. 

A little pause because it was still jarring to him how he was addressing Malfoy as Draco in his mind now, but it was only proper. Ever since Harry had the brilliant idea to goad Malfoy into helping him with his Patronus issue a few weeks ago, their stony, barely amicable relationship had slowly bloomed into a tentative friendship where they went to the muggle world while ticking Malfoy’s list like it was a to do list. There was also their weekly Patronus training that Harry somehow managed to rope Draco into. They both knew Harry already knew the basics—Draco’d even mentioned it when he first rejected the whole thing—so he wasn’t sure why Draco was agreeing to this now, but Harry wasn’t going to question it. 

He was starting to suspect the man didn’t have anything else to do with his free time, which he could relate to a bit too much. When asked, Draco said, “I’ve studied everything I need to study during my house arrest,” because he loved joking about his trauma a bit too much. 

In any case, it’d been a fun journey to tour Muggle London with his ex-rival. As expected, Draco wasn’t fond of the places they visited, but for once, Harry understood that it wasn’t because of his bigotry. Just—he disliked crowded, dark, loud places, so the concert and the cinema were a no-go. Harry found he didn’t like them much either. It was a shame since Draco was thinking those places were good to work in. He’d apparently gotten a newfound appreciation for art ever since he became friends with—and get this—Luna Lovegood. 

It surprised him at first to find out that Draco knew quite a lot about all things muggle now. He said it was part of his punishment during his house arrest, but Harry knew other Death Eaters wouldn't bother to do half of it no matter what. Besides, the more time they spent together, Harry saw how Draco was really interested in muggle culture and Harry could tell how he truly regretted everything he did during the War. Even his actions to Harry who’d yet to receive an apology letter of his own. 

Another new experience for him was seeing Draco dressed in muggle clothing. When he first saw him wearing a sweater and jeans, he hadn’t known how to react other than stupidly saying, “Well. That’s new.” It was a miracle Draco hadn’t taken offense to it. By all means, a sweater and jeans were perfectly normal attire to wear, but for some reason, seeing it on Draco made him feel…flustered. Fuck, his throat even got dry all of a sudden and he would never admit it to anybody, but looking back on it, maybe it was because his mouth was agape. 

Truth to be told, there was a part of him—the one not in denial—that could admit that it was completely out of his hands now. He liked to think that he still had control over the situation, but with every time that they interacted, he could feel his heart doing funny things to his stomach. 

This was now much worse than wanting to learn more about Draco. Sure, there was the unanswered mystery of Draco disappearing from one spot to another. And his strangely black cat Patronus whose name Draco told him in a moment of absurdity was Methe—which, did people really name their Patroni? Why had nobody told Harry about this before? Maybe that was why his poor unnamed stag left him. 

Now, there was also a desire to go to places with him, both muggle and wizarding—sod their reputations. A desire to see his face, that soft smile that had seemed uncharacteristic before he actually got to know him. Even a desire to simply be with him—and it was terrifying sometimes the way butterflies fluttered in his stomach whenever Draco was near. It wasn’t unfamiliar, not at all. Although it was shocking, it also felt like it was long overdue. Harry had felt more awake than he had in months, and maybe, maybe Harry was starting to admit that developing a little crush, but that was neither here nor there. 

So. Harry didn’t know what to make of Malfoy, but he found himself liking what he’d seen so far, and it appeared Neville was not at all surprised. 

In the midst of his defensive ramble, Neville cut him off with a long-suffering sigh. “Merlin, I thought you’d gotten it out of your system already.” 

They were in the greenhouse, watering Neville’s plants. Well, Neville was watering his plants; Harry was mostly talking his ears off. It was a good day to be watering and contemplating newfound crushes. There was even a butterfly nearby, being busy and doing whatever it was butterflies did, but when Harry first saw it, he thought it was a bit strange. Its gray color reminded him of something—or someone —and when he’d mentioned it to Neville, he’d said, “Merlin, Hermione was right. You’re obsessed, Harry. That butterfly’s blue.” And that was the reason he was defending himself to begin with, but he did start to wonder if he was colorblind. 

Back to the current subject: “What?” 

“We all know you’re going on your little dates with ‘Malfoy’, Harry,” Neville said in teasing, imitating Harry’s tone. It didn’t help because Harry was starting to wonder who ‘we all’ were, and if Draco’d heard of these rumors yet. 

“Those—those weren’t dates. They were just outings.” 

Neville snorted, focused on his plants and not caring for Harry’s panic over here. So much for a supportive friend. “Right. And does Draco think so?” 

And that was when Harry did his speaking before his thinking. Again. In an attempt to prove Neville was wrong, he explained everything. That he’d lied to Draco, using McGonagall as an excuse to get him to go to their outings and help Harry with his failing Patronus Charm. He didn’t think it was a big deal. All things considered—like the War, for instance—he felt like he’d done way worse things than lie for his innocent gains, but then again, he should’ve known his luck was bad enough that this would end up being heard by Draco. 

Of course, friendships weren’t without their kerfuffles, even more so when it came to Harry and Draco. In hindsight, he probably should’ve expected it to happen much sooner, but, well…Draco had changed a lot. Harry hadn’t expected him to explode when he once again failed at casting his Expecto Patronum. 

With an aggressive tone reminiscent of his bullying days, Draco asked, “Are you even taking this seriously, Potter?” 

Harry blinked in confusion, his wand hand slowly falling next to him. “Why are you angry all of a sudden?” 

“You lied to me,” Draco said without looking at him. 

“What?” 

“McGonagall never told you to accompany me. Why did you do it? Are you still suspicious of me? Still think I’m an irredeemable Death Eater, do you?” The words rang in his ears, and the way Draco looked— Angry and hurt as spat the accusations at Harry’s face. 

“Where the hell is this coming from?” 

“Oh, don’t change the subject. You’re an asshole, Potter,” was all he said before leaving. Harry knew best there was no way he would catch him—even with the Map—and besides, he had some thinking to do. 

𖥸

The wind was blowing, but the sun wasn’t shining. Not today. The rain went through his face, passing through his body straight to the grass where he was lying down. Around him was white light and he wondered if Harry was right. It was like his shadow had been replaced by gleaming white light, and it was getting a little disturbing. How had he never realized this before? Was Methe really black? Did Patroni all have colors humans were unable to see except for the darned Savior? 

There were Thestrals all around him, not hostile but definitely avoiding him. They were taking shelter under the trees and Draco didn’t want to approach them for fear that they’d leave. Oh, well. It wasn’t that cold anyway. 

He wondered if the Thestrals would accept him as their own if Lype was black. Or if they would be able to recognize that he was the odd one out even then. Maybe they could smell Draco and all the ways in which he was wrong, in which he didn’t fit. 

In the midst of his thoughts, a rustle from behind him made him lift his head. Speak of the devil and he doth appear. For some reason, Harry Potter himself was behind him, apparently having seen fit to take a walk in the rain. He looked quite worried, and Draco wondered if he shouldn’t be here. Should’ve hidden somewhere else. But then again, he quite liked the Thestrals. Even though they didn’t like him. 

“Hey, little one.” Like the kind Savior he was, Harry slowly approached him and covered Draco with his umbrella spell. Perhaps seeing Draco’s lack of reaction, Harry decided it was okay to reach out his hand and attempt to pet his head. He gasped when his hand went through Draco’s skin, lost his balance on the wet grass and completely fell face first into Draco, which apparently creeped him out so much that he let out an unmanly scream and quickly crawled away. 

Panting heavily, he looked back at Draco. Too bad. He was completely wet now, and his face—amongst other parts of his body—was muddy. “You’re a Patronus?” 

Well. There weren’t many Thestral Patroni, were there? Speaking of, why was that? 

Draco decided to show him some mercy and let the rain wash his magic away. He could see Harry’s expression clearly, despite the rain and mud. How he looked very confused and curious, and how his eyebrows creased as he thought very hard about something. Maybe he was deciding if he should ask about the whole Patronus thing, but no, instead, he said: 

“Draco. I’m really sorry, okay? I really, really am. I’m sorry that my…stalking or obsession caused you to be anxious. I’m sorry I did it at all, and I promise I won’t do it again. I’m very bad at apologies, but I really mean it.” 

“Okay,” Draco said, offering a hand to help him up. He put up another Umbrella Charm, along with a Quietening Charm since it looked like they were about to have a long conversation. 

Harry blinked in surprise as if he hadn’t expected it to be that easy, but he took Draco’s hand anyway. When he stood up, he paused. “All right, I don’t know you’re not supposed to give excuses when you’re apologizing but—Okay.” It was obvious how he was preparing himself to say something he’ll regret. He swallowed and Draco swore it was audible despite the rain. “I know this is fucked up to say, but I didn’t realize you minded it that much. I know it’s stupid, but—” 

It was an insane thing to say, but Draco understood because they were both obsessed with one another. Besides, he was stalking Harry too. Not that he needed to know. 

“I didn’t,” he cut off. “Mind. I didn’t mind. I don’t mind.” 

Harry blinked in confusion. “Wait…what? So what’s the matter? I mean, a lot’s the matter, but you know what I mean.” 

“I just—it’s dumb.” 

“Can’t be dumber than me. Come on.” 

“I was just being petty because I was upset. I thought you’d be able to make a Patronus out of it, but not even a wisp of silver appeared.” 

“Out of…what?” 

“Out of our…outings,” Draco said, spitting the word like it was bitter. 

Harry’s eyes cleared. “It was you! The butterfly in the greenhouse.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, scoffing. He just got it? “Yes, Harry. That was me.” 

“You have more than one Patronus?” 

“Are you trying to change the subject?” 

“N-no, of course not.” He rubbed the back of his head, eyes shifty. What a shitty liar. 

“Right. Out with it, Potter.” 

“Jesus, back to last names, are we?” Draco sent him another glare before he surrendered with a sigh. “My Patronus, it’s not your fault.” 

“I gathered.” 

“Yeah. It’s just, well, I probably need to go to therapy or something.” 

“Therapy?” 

“I mean, a Mind Healer.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, Harry, I know what therapy is. I just didn’t realize…” 

“Yeah. After the War, I was miserable. Everyone picked themselves up so quickly, but I didn’t know where to go. School feels so underwhelming after everything, but I don’t want to laze around all day, and I didn’t want to come with Hermione and Ron, so I’m just…here. Hermione’s been telling me to go to a Mind Healer, but I just think, what do they know? They didn’t go through the War the way we did. Or what if they treat me differently because I’m Harry Potter? And maybe, above all, well… I feel like I don’t have the right to move on.” 

“Harry…” 

“I know, it’s stupid. I mean, they would’ve wanted me to be happy, but why do they get to die while I get a second—third, even—chance at life? So I think I’ll have to go to therapy…to get my Patronus back. And for the record, Draco, during our ‘outings’ are the most alive I’ve felt in months. And I—I really like you.” 

Although it was a little bleak, Draco couldn’t hold back his smile. “Do you now?” he asked teasingly, enjoying the way Harry blushed. Draco had pretty much already confessed earlier. 

“Yes, very much,” Harry replied, much too genuinely for Draco’s liking. He could feel his own face flushing, but he didn’t move away when Harry approached him again. And when Harry reached out to hold his hands, Draco allowed him. Tightened their hold. “When I manage to cast the charm again, the first one will be of this memory of us.” 

Draco closed his eyes. “You’re such a sap, Potter. You’re lucky I like you.” 

𖥸 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten—how do you do that? Are you some kind of Shapeshifter? Wait, they can’t have more than one form either.” 

“Give me a little more time and I’ll tell you.” 

“Of course. All the time you need, Draco.” 

“You sap.”