Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
SUMMARY: Harry's house guests begin to pack up as outside dangers rise. He is trapped in Grimmauld Place with a cranky, alcoholic Malfoy just in time for Harry's birthday. Begin the epic flirtation.

WARNINGS: painfully awkward teenaged boys flirting, Wizard Swears

CONSCIENCE:

SURPRISES

Hermione landed hard on her rump. Malfoy had arrived beside her with no less grace. She watched him pull a squashed shoe box out from under his skinny backside. Viktor towered between them, looking menacing as he drew his wand.

“Where are we?” she asked as he pulled her to her feet.

“My team's safe room,” Viktor replied. “No one can Apparate in or out except for us players and a few of zhe staff. You'll be safe here.”

“What do you mean? Won't you be safe here, too?”

“I have to go back out,” Viktor said simply. “I have to find a way to get us back to Potter's. I von't be gone long.” He kissed her forehead.

“Do you think it's wise to go alone? And can't we contact someone from in here?”

“I vill be fine. You two stay here.” Viktor gestured toward Malfoy, who had remained on the stone floor. The entire room was stone with no windows or doors. It reminded her of the dungeons at Hogwarts. “He doesn't look so good. Look after him?”

“Okay,” Hermione agreed. “Just hurry back.”

After Viktor Disapparated, Hermione bent down to examine Malfoy. He was white as a sheet and kneeding his arm. The scene reminded her forcibly of Harry when he was younger and his lightning bolt scar would hurt him. He would rub at it in the same absent way.

“Will you be alright?” she asked the blonde.

“Sure,” Malfoy brushed off her concern. He still looked about to pass out. “Surprised me, that's all. I'll be back to normal in a minute.”

“Goody,” Hermione huffed. That got a tiny chuckle from Malfoy, but nothing like the howling, honest laughter he shared with Harry. Malfoy backed against the stone wall and sat perfectly still. Eventually, he pulled Harry's cardigan sleeve over the Mark. They waited maybe half an hour in silence before Viktor returned.

“What's happening?” Hermione asked, getting to her feet.

“I found your Professor, McGonagall. She's opening zhe floo at Grimmauld Place,” Viktor explained rapidly. “Potter's floo knows mine, so ve should Apparate to my apartment and zhen floo.”

“Alright.” Hermione rubbed her hands together against the cold of the room. They were very likely deep underground. “Should we Apparate now or wait?”

“I think we should wait,” Malfoy piped up from the floor. “At least this place is secure. No offense, Krum,” Malfoy gestured furtively. “You haven't been to your flat in several days. It could be compromised.”

“You're very right,” Krum said, all business. “Ve shouldn't expose ourselves unnecessarily.” Krum dropped to a sitting position to wait. After a beat, he turned to Malfoy again. “You play Quidditch?”

“Not as well as I talk about it, but I play,” Malfoy conceded. Hearing anything resembling humility from Malfoy's lips gave Hermione a very hopeful feeling. Maybe Harry was a good influence on the Slytherin, after all.

“Once your government gives you asylum, you should come fly vith me. Bring Potter. Ve all like a good challenge.” Hermione found that to be a very astute observation of the three men.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said. “That sounds brilliant.” Krum waved a hand but Malfoy pressed on. “Really. I haven't flown in almost a year. And I know Potter's always keen for a game. I'll owl you.”

Viktor smiled. “Well, tactician, how should we proceed?”

Malfoy wore a lop-sided smile at Viktor's casual praise. Hermione had to admit that Viktor was right—as poorly as some of Malfoy's schoolboy schemes had worked out, he was an excellent planner. He could see the wide scope of possibilities and weigh his options with more skill than most. His problem lay in his decision making once in action.

“We're aiming for least exposure, so I'd suggest you shuttle us out of here individually. Take Granger first and get her to the floo. Come back for me then watch my back when I go through, as I seem to be their target.”

“That's remarkably good,” Hermione sighed. “I would have suggested the same thing.” She hoped this didn't turn out like Malfoy's old stunts. This time, her life was on the line and Crabbe and Goyle dressed as a Dementor just wasn't going to cut it. She wrung her hands.

- - -

Harry, Ron, Ginny and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley waited by the fire at Grimmauld Place. Professor McGonagall had opened the floo and Hermione, Krum and Malfoy should be returning through it at any moment. Harry watched Ron pacing a hole in the threadbare carpet. Harry wanted to know how this happened when the Aurors had their backs.

Hermione came through the fireplace first. Mrs. Weasley let loose a wail and threw her arms out, racing for Hermione. But it was Ron who made it to her first. He scooped her into a fierce hug, pressing kisses to her hair. “I was so worried,” Harry read on Ron's lips. Hermione allowed herself to be lifted three inches off the ground as Ron squeezed her. She held him tight.

Popping from the fireplace announced Malfoy. He emerged from the green flames with a whoosh, laden with shopping bags in all different colors. From the look of it, he'd never have to borrow Harry's things again. Then Harry saw the blonde's gaunt, drawn face. He was tired and in pain. He needed to rest.

To everyone's surprise, Mrs. Weasley gathered Malfoy up in her arms and pressed his white blonde head to her bosom. And Malfoy let her. She stroked his hair, encouraging him to leave the bags and she would see to them. She absently felt his forehead for fever, muttering, “You poor dear, let's get you up to bed.” Harry didn't have a chance to so much as establish eye contact with Malfoy before he was ushered away. Mr. Weasley looked confused as he watched his wife coddle the spoiled Malfoy brat but he knew better than to comment. His expression maintained lines of a serious nature as he watched the fire turn green for a third time.

Krum came through the floo just as Ron and Hermione were separating. The way their arms stretched—his at her waist and hers draped around his neck—it certainly appeared as though they'd been kissing. Harry felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably. Viktor might not be staying much longer.

Harry met with Professor McGonagall and Mr. Weasley on behalf of the Order that night. They wanted to let him know that the combination of the Order, Harry and Malfoy under a single roof was proving more of a security risk than they'd anticipated. Professor McGonagall thought it would be best if the Order began holding meetings elsewhere.

“Really, Potter,” she'd said. “I do think we've encroached upon your hospitality long enough. You're almost seventeen. I'm sure you have a personal life you'd like to get to.” She was referring, of course, to Ginny. That remained a sore spot for Harry—both the way their less-than-mutual break up lay between them like an oversized pink suede Hippogriff that nobody wanted to talk about and the way she and Malfoy turned one another into crazy people. Maybe, with the members of the Order no longer popping in and out and diverting his attention, he could finally sort out his problems with Ginny. He very desperately wanted things to go back to the way they'd been before the two of them had gotten together. Ginny was a beautiful person... but not when she was angry enough to spit fire at him.

Professor McGonagall was looking at him. He needed to say something.

“Er, thank you for considering my feelings,” he said awkwardly. “I know you have a lot on your plate right now, between the Order and Hogwarts. I appreciate your maintaining a channel of communication. And I'm sure there will be a lot more for us to talk about after my birthday,” he said meaningfully. “But for now, it'll be nice to have a little holiday at home with friends.”

- - -

The Order met for the last time in his parlor to discuss with Hermione and Viktor what had happened that day. They'd wanted Malfoy to join them but he was still asleep in his room when the meeting began and nobody had the heart to wake him; that, and he was insanely cranky when woken prematurely. Harry understood their holding the meeting sans Malfoy. Hermione and Ron filled Harry in after the Order had gone their separate ways—four of them staying in his house for the night.

It was a small contingency that attacked Hermione, Viktor and Malfoy. They had gotten past the Aurors using what Hermione called Public Apparition Points; essentially, places the Ministry maintained as secure and anonymous for witches and wizards traveling about the muggle world. There was a big debate in the legal system about requiring identification at Public Apparition Points but nothing had been decided yet. Hermione explained it would be an encroachment on magical people's right to Apparate wherever they wish so long as they're licensed; but at the same time, it might help prevent incidents like their harrowing afternoon, or at the Ministry of Magic last year.

Harry nodded, listened as she explained what had happened. The Death Eaters had come looking for Malfoy. What she said about Malfoy holding the Dark Mark when Rookwood cursed him made Harry worry down to his bones. It reminded him of when he felt the link to Lord Voldemort through his scar. He knew the instances were separate, yet something in his mind continuously drew a line connecting the two.

Harry ended up going to bed with a lot on his mind. The three witches in the painting above his bed, twittering to each other on their broomsticks, didn't help him get to sleep. He wound up tuning the radio to static and dragging the eiderdown over his head. He nearly baked to death, but he slept.

~ * ~

The next morning dawned bright and early. It turned out Harry wasn't the only one in a dark mood. Viktor Krum caught him in the hall.

“I know I planned to stay a little longer,” he began nervously. He wouldn't meet Harry's eyes. Harry knew what this was really about but was happy to take whatever lie Krum fed him. “But I feel zhere's a lot zhat needs to be done for zhe Order back in Bulgaria. Vhat happened yesterday really got me zhinking about zhe safety of my family and zhe team.”

“Of course,” Harry nodded, giving Krum's arm a hearty pat. “I understand. I'm responsible for people, too. It's been a real pleasure having you, though.”

“I mentioned to Malfoy—have you spoken?” Harry shook his head, so Krum went on. “I'd very much like it if you vould stop by for Quidditch sometime. Both of you,” he added intensely. “Zhat Malfoy's got somezhing. Maybe not pitch material, but he vould make one hell of a coach. I'd love to pick his brain.”

“I know the feeling,” Harry agreed. “Too bad he's so tight-lipped.”

“If anyone can get to him, my money is on you,” Krum smiled. “And zhat's a lot of money!” They both laughed. Harry couldn't help it—Krum was kind of a cheeky shit. Like Malfoy. Like himself.

“Um, why do you say that?” Harry pressed as they made their way to breakfast.

“He is getting to trust you,” Krum replied. His English was still a bit rough in places. “And he, uh, he...” Krum fumbled for words.

“I think he wants to trust me. He's come a long way,” Harry offered. “At least we're not at each others throats like we were at Hogwarts. We spent the better part of six years trying to hex each other's parts off. At least now we can have a conversation.” Harry was expecting to get another laugh out of Krum, maybe cheer the guy up. What he got was an odd look. Krum's brows rose so high they threatened to become one with his hairline.

“I don't know zhe English vord for it,” Krum replied slowly, making himself clear. “But I zhink Malfoy is more interested in somezhing else vith your parts.”

“Y—you think he's gay?” Harry spluttered.

“Is zhat vot you call it? Vhen a man prefers other men?”

“Er, that's what muggles call it.” Harry didn't know if wizards called it something different; hubberdy-buggery or some other cute-sounding nonsense. Maybe it was a terribly bad thing for a witch or wizard to be gay. Harry had no clue. He had no idea what to say next, either. Thanks for warning me that my former enemy might have the hots for me? He had to dismiss it before his face went red as a Gryffindor flag; instead, he focused on walking, putting one foot in front of the other.

He didn't have to focus long. Malfoy was seated at the breakfast table. His clothes were decidedly new. He wore a crisp black dress shirt with tailored trousers and loafers. The outfit looked expensive.... Harry prevented himself from going down that road. What was the point in having money if you couldn't help people with it?

Harry tucked into breakfast and tuned out the rest of the world like he'd tuned out the noisy witches above his bed. For a bloke who technically lived alone his house sure was noisy! Even though he was wholly focused on pouring his second cup of coffee, he still heard Malfoy's disappointed protests when Viktor announced he would be leaving that afternoon rather than staying through next week as planned.

Harry gathered some toast and his coffee before leaving the table. He needed to get away from people for a while. He needed some time alone. A moment later, he found himself sitting in a linen closet off the main hallway, looking for a place to set his coffee. Maybe growing up in a cupboard had done some damage—the cramped, tight space didn't make him feel any more peaceful (or comfortable, for that matter) but it certainly helped him think. So what if he sat in a cupboard every now and again? Everyone was entitled to a few vices.

- - -

Later that afternoon, Harry emerged to say his goodbyes to Viktor. To the man's eternal credit, he hugged Hermione and shook Ron's hand, saying only, “You watch out for her, now.” He and Malfoy shared a dignified hug. Malfoy looked distraught: he wanted to jump up and down because his idol had just declared him a personal friend and flying buddy. He wanted to go break something because he was losing an ally in the house when he had so few to begin with. It was disturbing to Harry to be able to read all these things from the little lines on Malfoy's forehead, the set of his jaw, and the way he shoved one hand casually in his pocket as Viktor stepped into the floo.

Malfoy offered everyone a drink before conjuring a generous glass of wine for himself and stepping into the hall. Drinking at tea time? After years of Hogwarts rivalry, Harry followed the blonde on instinct. Malfoy went straight for the piano, setting his glass atop the instrument before seating himself. Desperate to make a point, he played “Can't Help Falling In Love With You.” He even played heavy on the pedals, just like Viktor. Harry absently flipped through one of Hermione's books as he listened for the telltale squeak as Malfoy eased up on a pedal only to swish down on another. Harry doubted Hermione would be coming to join them any time soon. Nothing had actually been resolved between her and Ron. At least she'd made a choice.

After a few selections from Malfoy's impressive memory—and sipping heavily from his glass, which he refilled by magic—he turned his blazing silvery eyes on Harry, who had been watching him play from a nearby arm chair.

“Any requests?” he inquired, swirling the wine he had left. Malfoy was a show dog, for sure. He needed to be the center of someone's attention. Hermione's muggle book hadn't been that interesting, anyway. Harry closed it to focus solely on Malfoy.

“What's that one you play sometimes?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Which one?”

“Um, it's kind of quiet, I guess. And sweet.” Sweet wasn't the right word. When Malfoy played the melody was strong, passionate. The tune meant something to him. “You always close your eyes when you play it.”

“Oh. You mean this?” Malfoy started to play without looking at the keys; immediately, Harry knew it was the one. He really, really liked it... but Malfoy didn't play the song very often. Only when he thought no one was listening.

“Yeah, that one.” Harry sat back and listened. The song started out happy. Malfoy always fooled around with the volume of his playing. Harry thought it sounded very artistic, though he admittedly didn't know a thing about music beyond the basics he'd learned in state school as a kid. “It's really pretty. What's it called?”

“I don't think it has a name. At least, Mother never told me if it did,” Malfoy shrugged one shoulder. His fingers were walking down the keys. “I just learned from hearing her play.”

“She played a lot, then?” Harry asked.

Malfoy was in a strong section, so he just nodded. His head continued to bob with a few staccato notes. Harry listened to the rest of the song. It got quiet, pensive at the end. It slowed down, the joy sort of running out very softly, like giving up. Harry didn't like the way it ended—it wasn't enough compared with the strength and exuberance Malfoy put into the song itself.

“Why does the end have to sound so sad?” Harry asked after Malfoy's last note had rung out and he'd removed his hands from the keys to rest them in his lap. “It doesn't really fit the rest.”

“I don't know,” the blonde replied, shrugging. Harry watched him a minute as he massaged one hand and then the other. With his dark, fancy shirt and refined features, he looked like the sort of person who should practice at that beautiful piano and be the master of a house like Grimmauld Place. Not Harry. Harry had owl droppings on the bottoms of his trainers and didn't know how to open and close his own floo for visitors. Then Malfoy caught his gaze—and stuck his long tongue out. The side of Harry's mouth turned up against his will. “I suppose we'll have to track down the composer of this song we don't know the name of, pin him down and ask him, won't we?”

Malfoy was being facetious. Thank God. Harry needed someone to be in a mood with him.

“Do you know any other songs like that one?” he asked.

Malfoy shook his head.

“Ever try to write one? Maybe you could give that one a better ending.”

Malfoy kept shaking his head but he turned back to the keys. He plunked out a melancholy tune. It matched Harry's mood dead-on.

“I've tried composing—turns out I'm rubbish! I'd rather play someone else's song well than be dreadful playing my own.”

That's a loaded statement, Harry thought as Malfoy hummed. He probably had a nice singing voice, too. Harry couldn't ever recall hearing Malfoy sing. Sure, he hummed enough if he was playing, but he never sang. Maybe Malfoy preferred to do what people told him to because he was afraid of being on his own, standing out, being different, failing. Maybe he hummed because he was too afraid of singing poorly, never singing at all when—with a little practice and encouragement—he could have been brilliant. Harry spent half his life teased and beaten for being different so fearing it had never occurred to him; eventually, 'different' became good. 'Different' meant being a wizard, the ability to do amazing, previously unimaginable things. You just had to think outside the box.

“I think you'd be brilliant at it,” Harry said slowly. “But don't listen to me. You should only do it if you want to, not because some div like me tells you you aught. Creative stuff... you should always just have that for yourself; do it because you love it and Bob's your Uncle, you know?”

Harry looked up to catch Malfoy playing the instrument with one hand as he tossed off his wine with the other. With both hands free, he struck a dark and menacing chord.

“Forgive me for not taking your advice, Oh Great Chosen One,” he rebuked; strong, frustrated, almost discordant notes sounding lower and lower on the piano's impressive scale, “but you don't seem too happy yourself. I think I'll find my own way.” He played a little faster running back up the scale, a striking riff with something like quarter or eighth steps that seemed to slip and bleed into each other. Harry couldn't remember the term but the sound reminded him of an opera he'd watched in music class as a kid; it was called Porgy and Bess and his nine year old mind had registered it as the wildest, most amazing thing ever imagined into being. Malfoy's playing needed strings, winds and a tympani or two, maybe a jazz trumpet to play riffs off his own. As one hand reached for the melody a half step under where it had been before, his other tapped out a quick rhythm on the closed hood of the piano. Harry suspected Malfoy was on the piss—after all, he'd hardly eaten all day, he was a lean bloke at best and that had been a lot of wine—but the music sounded fucking amazing. Impulsive, rich, full of movement and imagination. It made Harry feel a bit lashed, himself—excited, built up for something—and he hadn't touched the stuff.

“What on Earth do you call that?” Ginny's voice sounded from the doorway. She held a tea tray with two cups and a pretty arrangement of biscuits. She had some of Harry's favorites there.

“It's The Founder's March, actually. The movement dedicated to Salazar Slytherin,” Malfoy said. His fingers had stilled against the keys. His hand no longer tapped at the polished wood beside his empty glass. Harry felt like his heart, his energy, had given out as the last echoes of Malfoy's exuberant playing died.

“Blagger,” Ginny shot in Malfoy's direction. She settled the tray on an end table at the other side of the room. There were two comfortable chairs in that corner beside the old radio.

“He's not lying,” Harry piped up. “I asked him to play it that way.” Now Harry was lying. To protect Malfoy's feelings. From Ginny. Unbelievable, but there it was. “Like an opera I saw as a kid.” If he was going to embellish, he thought he'd go all the way.

“I've never heard an opera that sounded like that,” Ginny muttered, fussing unnecessarily with the tea tray.

“It's a jazz opera. It's supposed to sound like the blues.”

“And Malfoy's seen a muggle jazz opera?” she was duly incredulous.

“No,” Harry wracked his brain for the most intelligent-sounding thing he could think of, “but the principles are the same if you know music: syncopation, phrasing, dissonance. Malfoy was just proving a point—that you can make a jazz riff out of anything.” He'd heard that exact phrase from a first form teacher, so it must be true.

Ginny's eyes darted to Malfoy. He gave her an unconcerned shrug, as though to say Harry was right and Malfoy had only been obliging his host.

“Well, you two take your jazz riffs elsewhere,” she said in a commanding tone. “Hermione and I are going to listen to The Week In Review.” She gestured toward the radio.

Malfoy let out an indignant snort. Harry could hear the man speak in that noise: Must you listen to that drivel in here? Harry was spurred to action.

“Ginny,” he cautioned. “There are maybe eight radios in the house. This is the only room with a piano as far as I'm aware. Malfoy was playing for me. Do you think you and Hermione could listen to your program in the kitchen, or maybe the parlor?” He gave her an imploring look.

“We like the light in here,” Ginny said stubbornly. “The parlor's too dark—you can hardly see your own hands. Would you really make us sit in there?”

Harry saw this was a battle he wouldn't win; besides, he could feel Malfoy's hackles rising. He cut the blonde off before he said something nasty. Harry didn't feel like breaking up a fight; he didn't have the energy or compassion left.

“Malfoy, come on. I'd like to show you something.” He grabbed Malfoy above the elbow and dragged him to his feet. He didn't want to abandon the piano and tried to put up a fight. One dark look from Harry silenced him. He allowed Harry to steer him from the room without another word; apparently, Malfoy was in a sour mood, too.

- - -

“You wanted to show me the parlor, Scar Head?” Draco drawled. “Very impressive. You do know I've been living in this house, don't you?” That bit of wine was getting to him—he was hardly drunk, but things seemed to fly out of his mouth unbidden, flip chief among them. He strode the length of the room, examining the old bookshelves and display cases closely. A lot of things were missing. Important things. Dark things. Draco spun around to stare incredulously at the Chosen One. “How much have you and your mudbloods thrown out?!” He exclaimed, gesturing grandly about the room. Potter rounded on him.

“What are the rules, Malfoy?” Potter ground out through clenched teeth, his patience used up after the encounter with the Weaselby chit. “Use that word again and I'll bring you to Voldemort myself!” Draco recognized an empty threat, even if Potter looked ready to throw his toys out the pram. Potter was a saint; he'd never actually harm anyone or anything, not even a fly. Draco tried to think of himself as a vastly oversized fly.

“Must you be so dreary, Potty?” he responded calmly; pulling out his wand, knowing full well that Potter did not carry his wand with him around the house. Wonder Boy was still technically underage and it wasn't like him to break rules.... Draco gave a mental snort as he casually twirled his wand with slender fingers. He liked the little clicking sound when his wand tapped against the ring on his finger. Their eyes locked for a moment and the spinning stopped. Potter cleared his throat pointedly. Draco turned away, muttering a spell to light the disused room.

“I thought you'd like to have a look at the tapestry, there,” Potter jutted his chin, indicating the moldy, burnt-out tapestry fixed to the wall. “As you can see—you're still there,” he added sarcastically. Draco couldn't help a haughty little laugh as he turned to face St. Potter.

“Tried to blast me off, did you?” he left a note of disdain in his voice that did not go unnoticed. Against his better judgment, his lip was beginning to curl, egging on one of their famous school rows. “Only a true member of the family can do that, Wonder Boy.” At this, the color began to rise in Potter's stubbled cheeks. Maybe Draco shouldn't have pushed it.

Standing across the room from Malfoy, there was very little Harry could do to stop himself from lunging at the man, fists flying until they made contact with pale, haughty, in-bred flesh. Frustration was building in him with no where to go but out his fist and into Malfoy's face. Malfoy could manipulate him like no other—he knew every one of Harry's buttons and precisely how to push them for maximum effect. But Harry was starting to figure Malfoy out as well. These extended vituperations would only book-end violence and bloodshed between them. There was a way to break through the cold, practiced exterior of his old adversary. Instead of lunging forward and beating the crap of him... Harry folded his arms across his chest and managed a self-satisfied smirk.

“Insult me again, Malfoy,” he said plainly, “and I'll cancel your credit card.”

Draco paled. Like it or not, he could feel the heated blood running from his face to pool somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. He felt light-headed and weak. Potter had found a weakness. Shit. How could he have let this happen?

“You wouldn't....”

Potter smiled broadly. “Try me,” he mocked.

From the distance at which they stood, Potter couldn't actually see him gulp: for this, Draco was thankful. He would have to have a go at civility.

“What did you want to say about the tree, Potter?” Draco buried his hands in his back pockets—something which Potter did when uneasy, he realized. He promptly removed this hands from the offending pockets just as Potter assumed the same pose. Draco commenced rearranging his hair. It had grown longer since his arrival; it was beginning to fall into his eyes, like Potter's. They both needed haircuts.

“I wanted to ask you something, actually.” Potter advanced, hands still firmly in his back pockets.

Draco gulped again at Potter's physical nearness. Like it or not, Wonder Boy was bigger, stronger and quite unfairly fit. He could throttle Draco if he really wanted to. A wand wouldn't save him if Potter hit him hard enough in the face or with the element of surprise. It wasn't that Potter had filled out—he was still a lean bloke. Being at less than his own peak of fitness, Draco was more aware of his disadvantage. His body wasn't what it used to be. The scars were only evidence of more lasting damage meted out with the Dark Arts. Dark injuries didn't always heal, even with magic. That's how people like Alistair Moody ended up with half a nose. Draco took a tiny step away, followed by three more for good measure. He pretended to examine one of the tree's many branches.

“Ask away,” he said cautiously.

Potter pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and pointed to a burnt place on the tapestry.

“Who was this?” he asked quietly, looking at the wall rather than Draco. The anger Draco saw earlier was cooling.

“Alphard Black,” Draco supplied.

“And this one here?”

“Cedrella Weasley.”

“Oh.” Potter was silent, stroking the tapestry's many scorches and burns as though saying goodby to a hundred loved ones all at once. Draco was struck by how very quiet and dark the room was. Perhaps this room was kept darkened for a reason. Draco suddenly felt compelled to speech.

“I could fix them.” The words came tumbling out of his mouth. A shiver took Potter the moment Draco broke their silence. Potter turned bodily to face him.

“You would?”

“It's my family, too,” Draco scoffed. Potter managed a chuckle and the room seemed to brighten a little. “Anyways, I'm in need of a project,” Draco continued. “With Krum gone and the women taking over the front room—how else am I to entertain myself?” Draco realized he was batting his eyes at Potter and could have slapped himself.

“Thanks, Malfoy.”

How did we get here, again? a voice questioned from the back of Draco's head. And then he remembered: fucking torture! After regaining his nerve—and taking another precautionary step away from Wonder Boy, Chosen One—he managed to speak.

“I doubt you know it,” he began, assuming a lecturing tone to put every sort of distance between himself and Potter. “But this tapestry actually has some incredible properties: namely, a sort of... 'domestic divination,' if you will.” He resisted the urge to chuckle at his turn of phrase and clasped his hands behind his back, wheeling around to face Potter's bemused expression with pride. “What I mean is that the tapestry can sense change within the family before those concerned may even be aware of such events.”

“How do you mean?” Potter still appeared confused.

“For example,” Draco trilled, fully enjoying Potter's lack of intelligence on the subject “How about my parents? Mother did not know she would be marrying my father when she first met him at Hogwarts; however, shortly after they began seeing one another, a thread of marriage extended itself from my mother's name on the tapestry, here,” he indicated with a finger. “At first it was just a line, but very quickly my father's name filled itself in—despite the fact that he had not yet proposed and she had not yet accepted. Now do you see what I mean?” He drawled.

“So this thing knows stuff is going to happen before we do?” Potter questioned, peering tentatively at the wall as thought the tree might jump out and bite him if he wasn't careful.

“In a very basic sense, yes,” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. “That is precisely how my great Aunt Walburga knew about my existence before my own mother did.” He smiled a little, remembering how mother loved to recite the tale at parties. He then physically shook himself before the happy memories led to less pleasant ones.

“I guess you must miss your family...” Potter said quietly, still looking pointedly away from the only other person in the room. There was still a great awkwardness between them. There were many confrontations that had yet to be resolved... just like his relationship with his family, Draco realized. In both cases, he was probably better off putting the past firmly behind him and living in the here and now.

“Not enough to be tortured in their cellar,” he replied at last.

Potter's head snapped up in Draco's direction. There was a heavy moment of understanding between them... before a horde of Weasley's came crashing into the room with clanging metal buckets and any number of poorly brewed cleaning potions. Draco nodded politely to Potter before scampering to the door in a very undignified fashion. If he managed to get out while he and Potter were on good terms he might not be forced into an afternoon of manual labor.

As he closed his bedroom door, he detected footsteps continuing up the stairs. A minute later, the door to Potter's room shut and locked with a dusty click.

~ * ~

Hermione thought she heard something in the parlor. But that was absurd! It was nearly four in the morning. She had woken from a strange dream and couldn't get back to sleep. Thinking a glass of milk might help, she'd gone to the kitchen.

She took another step toward the parlor door. It was agar, the room beyond illuminated by wand light. She peeked in just enough to see Malfoy sitting on the floor before the Black family tree. He had a complex web of magic balanced above his hand. The web appeared linked to the tapestry. He was prodding lines of the web with his wand and cursing softly.

“Oh, come on!” he whispered to himself in frustration. “Bollocks for brains, just take it!” He put pressure on a section of the glowing silvery web until it vibrated and hummed. “Almost, almost....” The little web of magic gave a shudder and extinguished. Malfoy threw his wand at the far wall with a muffled yell. He obviously didn't want to wake anyone with his fit. He fell back onto the carpet with a huff, pounding a hand on the floor in frustration. The other hand rubbed at his eyes. It looked as though he'd been up all night.

“Fucking hopeless,” he muttered. “Never going to finish.”

Hermione knew it was none of her business. She wanted to keep right on going to the the kitchen but years of conditioning herself to suspect the worst of Malfoy held her fast, spying on him.

Malfoy was staring at the ceiling, mocking himself in a high falsetto reminiscent of his own mother.

“'Do something nice for Potter! He's been so kind to you: rescuing you from certain death, protecting you from the big, bad, ginger barbarian horde, feeding you, clothing you in a manner befitting a Malfoy. He's your dearest friend in the world!'” Malfoy sat up sharply; apparently, that last bit had been a revelation. “Slytherin's balls, Draco,” he berated himself. “You truly have a single friend the world over. Just the one. And it's Scar Head The Blundering, Prince Potter, Gryffindor the Brave, Wonder Boy Chosen One.” The names rolled from his lips like breathing. “Veela buggering, cock sucking goblin son of a Polyjuiced banshee whore! How can this possibly be my life?!”

Malfoy began crawling across the floor to retrieve his wand. Hermione retreated into the shadows of the hall but stayed close enough to watch what came next. Malfoy picked up his wand and knelt. He let out a long, blustering breath before pointing the wand directly at his head.

“Avada Kedavra,” he said sarcastically. He must be barking mad, completely off it, Hermione decided. “There, 'pride.' That was you.” He lowered the wand to point at his chest, looking as though he were about to do it again. Hermione hoped he'd pretend to off his sparkling personality next. “Avada K—oh, 'dignity,' I almost forgot! You're already dead.” Malfoy laughed darkly to himself. “Mulciber choked the life out of you, didn't he? Then he made me eat you. How could I forget that?” He lowered his wand and got slowly to his feet.

“Just... fix the tapestry for St. Potter Day. He'll be duly overjoyed and keep protecting us from the second cousins not-far-enough removed. We'll beg the Ministry to hide us until the Dark Lord rips Potter into a thousand chosen, gory pieces. Then, suicide.” Malfoy gave a curt nod, rolled up his shirt sleeves and returned to the tapestry with zeal. Magic crackled around him as he worked.

Hermione backed towards the stairs. Malfoy was making a birthday present for Harry. And he'd gone completely round the bend. She had to wake Ron and tell him—he would just howl.

~ * ~

Very early the morning of his birthday, Harry found himself in the linen closet: it was the upstairs linen closet this time and thus a tad roomier, but it was still very much a cupboard. He rubbed his eyes. He'd slept in fits that provided no rest at all. Around six, he'd taken a stroll through the house. Walking past the linen closet, something in his scrambled brain said it was just the place to be. He'd probably been in there for close to an hour but his mind wouldn't stop churning in a rampant, sleep-deprived haze.

Someone opened the closet door. With his back to it, Harry only saw morning light from the hallway and the shadow of a leg. He must have looked like a crazy person, hiding in a cupboard. Maybe he could say he'd been sleepwalking.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Oh. It was Malfoy: Harry could be honest. There probably wasn't a soul on earth who thought less of him.

“Being odd,” Harry replied blandly. No need to dress it up. “Would you shut the door?” He didn't bother to turn around; instead, he imagined the smirk blooming on Malfoy's face.

Malfoy didn't shut the door and bugger off. Harry turned and started. Malfoy crouched in the doorway looking back at him, head cocked to the side and the ghost of that Malfoy smirk graced his features. He looked about to crawl in the cupboard, too.

“What are you doing?” Harry was forced to inquire.

“I thought I was getting a towel,” he said cheerfully, “but I guess I'm being odd with you. Budge up.” Malfoy put a hand to each of Harry's shoulders and squashed him further into the cupboard. “I don't know how you lot get on but in Slytherin we don't let people skulk and brood alone in cupboards on their birthday.” He heard Malfoy flop down and slide into the closet—he guessed Malfoy was doing so with grace and panache, as he did everything. Malfoy closed the door behind him. The cupboard hadn't exactly been spatially forgiving to begin with; now, it was a sardine tin. Malfoy's pajama-clad knees flanked Harry, his thighs brushing Harry's sides. They were so close he could hear the man breathing and smell a trace of what he suspected was yesterday's cologne.

“Oh?” Harry couldn't help being flippant. “You crawl in the closet to pester them?”

“Well, yes. No one really wants to be alone on their birthday. And you looked rather pathetic, sitting here all by yourself.”

“Gee, thanks.” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Bollocks, that's not what I meant,” Malfoy sighed. Harry felt breath on the back of his neck, Malfoy was that close. “You looked like you could use a friend. So here I am, in your cupboard.”

“You're saying you want to be friends?” Harry was stunned.

“Of course not! I'm just being friendly—no law against that.”

“Unbelievable,” Harry muttered.

“You can't have everything for your birthday, Potter. I won't be your friend—that would give you far too much satisfaction. I'm afraid you'll have to satisfy yourself with 'friendly.' Deal?”

“Deal,” Harry agreed. “So... what are you doing in here?”

“I thought we established this, ya cheeky git! I'm being friendly! You go back to brooding if you like. I'll be right here.”

“I don't get it,” Harry said, flustered. It wasn't every day someone joined him in the cupboard for a think; generally, he didn't like people knowing he still sat in cupboards on occasion. “Am I supposed to talk to you?”

“If you like. Or,” Malfoy rummaged about. Something poked Harry's arse. “I could just Legillimens you!”

“That had better be your wand, Malfoy,” Harry said thinly.

“It most certainly is!” Malfoy laughed his squirrel laugh, threading his arm around Harry's waist to show him the wand just for good measure. “Want me to spell you?” he asked, his mouth about two inches from Harry's ear due to the position of his arm.

“Er, I think I'll pass,” Harry managed. “It's a little early for magic if you ask me. And I thought we were done hexing each other.” It was a very mild accusation. He didn't have the energy for much else.

“This would be a mercy hex,” Malfoy pronounced playfully. Harry didn't laugh; instead, he pushed Malfoy's wand away. “That's a joke, Birthday Boy. Don't muggles have mercy fucks?”

“Yeah, they do. I guess I'm not in a joking mood, is all.”

“Right-o, I forgot. You're brooding. Don't let me keep you,” Malfoy set his wand aside and leaned back against the door, his knees bumping against either wall. Malfoy yawned comfortably, his breathing slow and deep.

Harry couldn't settle. He clenched and unclenched his hands, took off his glasses and toyed with them, and drew patterns with his finger on the dusty floor. He pushed hair off his forehead. The disorder of it threatened to cover his eyebrows and stuck out at all the typical odd angles.

“You're worried,” Malfoy said, arms folded peacefully across his chest.

“You think?” Harry quipped. Shortness of temper often accompanied his worried states.

“You're a book, Potter—a remarkably short one with gobs of pictures.”

“Insult me. That's real friendly, my non-friend.”

“If what you wanted was a friend, Potter, you'd be out there talking to Weaselbottom and Team Granger; instead, you're 'meditating' in a disused cupboard so no one will find you for the better part of the day—your own birthday. Sounds like a textbook non-friend scenario.” Malfoy's hands settled on Harry's shoulders and began to rub. His hands were strong for a skinny bloke. “And as your only non-friend, I command you not to tell me about your problems.”

“Okay, two points for being clever,” Harry conceded. “But don't think—oh!”

“Too much?”

“No, just... hurts.” He could sort-of speak. His mouth seemed to want to hang open wordlessly.

“Your back is a monument to tension and poor posture, Scar Head,” Malfoy announced. “Don't your real friends do this for you? I thought Gryffindors were touchy-feely, slumber parties with hair braiding and gossip every night.” Harry laughed. Then Malfoy found an angry nerve and the laugh became a low groan.

“Ginny did a few times,” Harry mumbled.

“And now she hates your guts. I see,” Malfoy said. When Harry thought the twist of pleasure and pain couldn't get any worse, Malfoy flipped his hand over and pushed with his knuckles instead. It was like discovering the wrack. “Breathe, Potter.”

“I think she just did it to be nice,” Harry gasped.

“You mean she did it to get you going?” Malfoy inferred. Damn perceptive bastard.

Embarrassed, Harry just nodded.

“Ah,” Malfoy said, prodding under Harry's shoulder blade. Harry had to breathe through clenched teeth. “You really ought to take better care of yourself, Potter. No one defeats the Dark Lord with a backache.” Malfoy had the most peculiar sense of humor. He wiggled a skinny finger and Harry gasped at the sharp pain it caused. “You have a knot the size of a Snitch. How do you function? I could fix it but... it'll hurt like Cruciatus. Are you game?”

“Why the fuck not?” Harry shrugged. His shoulders felt better already.

“Alright. Just don't scream. It's seven a.m.; your horde of house guests are still sleeping.” Harry snorted, nodded, and let Malfoy twist his arm behind him. The spot Malfoy had been poking knifed in pain. Malfoy braced his own arm across Harry's chest, securing Harry's forearm between them. The tiny closet made it that much easier for Malfoy to pin him down. He nearly screamed when Malfoy's fingers made contact with the angry ball of nerves, it hurt that much. He took to cursing under his breath until the pain eased to a dull throb. Malfoy's scrawny fingers were evil.

“Who does this for you?” Harry asked when he could speak. “Pansy?”

Malfoy actually snorted. “No. Blaise.”

“Zabini?”

“Yes.” The word died in a hiss as Malfoy seemed to remember he'd switched sides and Zabini might not be so keen to help him with his knots come start of term. He got very quiet. Harry wondered if Malfoy and Zabini had been non-friends who talked about nothing whilst sitting in cupboards. The confined space seemed to suit Malfoy just fine. He dug deep into Harry's tendons until the pain began to fade and everything felt great, if a little tingly. Malfoy leaned back, releasing Harry's arm. When Harry moved, it felt as if his range of motion had doubled.

“Thanks. It's loads better now.”

“Don't thank me yet,” Malfoy quipped. “You have another shoulder.”

“I can handle it,” Harry replied and Malfoy's hands set to work. He found a couple bad spots but nothing like the Snitch knot. His knuckles plied the juncture of Harry's neck and shoulder.

“I'm just glad you're not one of those tossers who can't take the pain,” Malfoy said all of a sudden, as though thinking out loud. “Like Vince. He won't let me or Blaise near him. Parkinson—sure—but that's like letting a Puffskein walk on you. It doesn't do any good if it doesn't hurt. Greg prefers Pansy too, come to think of it. Maybe something to do with a woman actually touching them: they're not the buffest pair, those two.” Malfoy was rambling. He clapped Harry on the arm. “You're set—unless you want me to do your neck, too.”

“Please.” It was out of Harry's mouth before he could blink. Sort of a no-brainer, though.

“Alright, since it's your stupid birthday and all,” Malfoy begrudged him. “You'll have to lie back. I can't if you're sitting.”

“Okay.” Malfoy helped Harry lean against him. He slouched down as instructed, the top of his head tucked neatly under Malfoy's chin. The pads of Malfoy's fingers dragged along either side of his spine, starting just under his tshirt and ending at the base of his skull. It was like nothing he'd ever felt.

“You get headaches?” Malfoy asked, pressing a spot under Harry's ear that made him gasp.

“Yeah.”

“It's your posture, ya twit! Even the way you read—crouched over the bloody book. It's murder on your neck. See?” He knuckled the spot, making Harry nauseous.

“So I should sit with my wand up my ass, like you?” Harry joked through the discomfort.

“I very rarely get headaches,” Malfoy replied primly. He moved to an even more painful spot—if that was possible—and pressed. “Then again, you grew up in a cupboard, yes? I suppose proper posture may feel somewhat unnatural after that.” Malfoy tucked two fingers under the base of Harry's skull and lifted. It felt bloody amazing.

“I suppose the Slytherins line up for this. I'll count myself very lucky.”

Malfoy shook his head. “I don't put it out there like Blaise; he's a touchy-feely slag. Should've been in Gryffindor.” Malfoy rotated Harry's head with one hand, prodding sensitive spots with the other. He worked very carefully. Harry got the impression that even if he didn't advertise, Malfoy knew what he was doing. Perhaps more so than Blaise.

“You're very good,” Harry mumbled.

“How would you know?” The words may have been short but Malfoy's tone was agreeable.

“I don't,” Harry admitted. Leave it to Malfoy to negate even the most innocuous compliment. “But I'd be bollocks at it, for sure. How'd you learn?”

“Oh, here and there,” Malfoy shrugged. With his head against the man's chest, Harry felt the motion more than saw it. “It's a good post-coital skill to have up one's sleeve.”

Harry remembered Krum's comment about Malfoy. Had he learned from Blaise after they'd.... Or was it some other bloke? Maybe one of Slytherin's burly Quidditch captains? Harry didn't want to think about it. He was comfortable with Malfoy—as new an idea as that was. Crushed together as they were, he'd have felt if Malfoy had a boner. No wood poking him: maybe Krum had been wrong. Harry let Malfoy's hands relax him. It was his birthday, for fuck's sake. He deserved to relax.

“How are your hands?” It was the first thing that occurred to him that held no hint of sexual connotation.

“I'm not made of glass, Potter,” Malfoy sniffed. “I'm quite capable.”

“Just being friendly, Malfoy. Don't throw a wobbly.” That made him laugh.

“Oh, make me feel like a defensive ponce, why don't you?” Malfoy chortled. He was a defensive ponce. “When I can do this.” He pressed Harry's temples, sending a little trickle of magic through his fingertips. The most marvelous sensations swirled through Harry's head; like flying upside down, the wind whipping through his hair—surprising, playful and light. As quickly as the feelings rose up, they faded.

“Cor, I won't tease you,” Harry said quickly. “How'd you do that?”

“You're such a muggle,” Malfoy sighed. He returned Harry's head to the hollow of his pale neck. It was definitely cologne Harry smelled—no one smelled that good naturally. When Malfoy rested his hands on his knees, Harry took one up in both his own and began massaging the palm. For once, Malfoy knew better than to argue. Harry suspected the man fancied this non-friendship business as much as he did.

Malfoy had effectively stopped his thinking about it—the fact that today was his seventeenth birthday, the day everything was going to change. He could join the Order now. No one could stop him doing magic as he pleased. He could do what he liked—he could drink! And he would lose the protection given him by his mother in her dying moments. Shouldn't he feel different? He had certainly thought he would. Now even the anxiety that plagued his sleep was dissipating. He wasn't precisely sure what non-friendship with Malfoy brought to his life but it was obviously something very important if it kept him from worrying so much.

He would have thought more on that but at that moment the closet door was wrenched open. He and Malfoy came tumbling out—Malfoy gripping Harry's hand in shock. Having landed on top, Harry scrambled to scoop Malfoy's wand from the floor and level it at the intruder.

Kreacher anatomized the pair of them with the oddest expression on his wrinkled face. You knew this was the last thing he expected to find in the upstairs linen cupboard. The house elf snatched a few extra towels and tottered off to restock the bathrooms, muttering something about his new master preferring fancy wand polish. Malfoy roared with laughter; apparently, Kreacher thought they were gay along with crazy. There were better places to shag than the second floor linen closet!

~ * ~

Harry's seventeenth birthday festivities were well under way by the time Malfoy approached him again.

“So, this is all very nice,” Malfoy said in an undertone, lifting the glass of mead from Harry's hand and polishing it off neatly. “But I was rather hoping to talk to you... privately. Would we be missed if we were to duck out for a moment?”

That was a very nice way of putting... whatever it was Malfoy wanted. Harry looked around—everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Mrs. Weasley had turned out quite the feast to match her surprise guest list.

“Sure. They won't miss us for a while,” Harry said. “Lead the way.”

They snuck out of the kitchen without anybody's notice.

Once in the dark hall, Malfoy turned to face Harry with an unreadable expression on his pointed face.

“Do you trust me?” he asked very suddenly.

“What?”

“Do you trust me, even a bit?” Malfoy asked again. He hadn't looked away but his voice was somehow weaker, somehow unsure due to Harry's less than warm response.

“Okay,” Harry said in a friendly-but-carefully-non-committal tone. “Sure. What's going on?”

“Um, close your eyes?” Malfoy's brows actually scrunched together as though he were nervous. Was Malfoy being coy with him? That was too much to think about. Harry just closed his eyes and refused to think about anything for the time being. “Thanks.” Malfoy sounded relieved. “Just follow me, alright?” Malfoy's hand wrapped around his left forearm and he felt a gentle tug. He took a tentative step forward and Malfoy pulled harder, insistent. Harry kept his mind blank. He didn't want to know what Malfoy was up to.

He was startled a few steps later when Malfoy took hold of his shoulders and started spinning him around.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Just keep your eyes shut, okay?” He thought he could hear a smile in Malfoy's voice, as odd as that felt while being spun around with his eyes closed tight. “I don't want you to know which way you're facing.” More spinning.

“I, uh,” Harry reached out to stop himself from falling and his hand connected with Malfoy's chest. “I'm really dizzy. Hold on.”

Harry's head was pounding and he had no idea why. He'd been spun around thousands of times on the Quidditch pitch—maybe he just wasn't used to spinning on the ground. That must have been it. That's why his head was swimming and the solid press of Malfoy's chest was the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground. He could feel the man's heart beating under his fancy shirt.

“Sorry. You alright?” They must have been very close because Harry could feel warm, wine scented breath on his cheek and Malfoy was almost whispering.

Harry whipped his hand away from the other man's heart and rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. He tried to straighten up and be an adult.

“I'm fine,” he said at normal volume. Better, far less intimate. Then, I did not just think the words 'intimate' and 'Malfoy' in the same sentence... did I?

“Who is there? What are you doing in my house?” a shrill voice called out. Harry couldn't quite place the speaker but she sounded familiar.

“Keep your voice down,” Malfoy hissed, pushing Harry off to the side and letting go of him all together. Harry stumbled a few paces. “It's just Draco, Aunt Walburga. Nothing to worry about,” Malfoy called to the portrait. She tittered a response that Harry couldn't quite make out. He felt as though he were in a soundproof bubble and the only person he could hear was ruddy Malfoy. Whichever direction he was facing, he leaned against the nearest wall in an attempt to regain his balance.

“C'mon,” Malfoy's voice said near his ear, clear as a bell. “Now that you've woken up the house and know exactly where we are...” Malfoy sounded highly annoyed—a more normal tone of voice for a Malfoy. He prodded Harry in the back with strong, bony fingers. Harry winced and walked forward. He felt Malfoy's hand ghost across his shoulders in a way that suggested he'd almost collided with something; either Malfoy had turned him around or he'd used magic to vanish the offending object. Harry couldn't tell with his eyes shut and it bothered him.

“How much longer?” he asked impatiently.

“Fine, just open your eyes. I'm sure you already know, anyways.” Malfoy actually snorted in frustration. It was an undignified sound, even when coming from him. That meant he was angry or frustrated or something. Harry stopped walking and tried something new: patience.

“No,” he said. He held his hands out in front of him. “Show me.”

After a moment's hesitation, Malfoy took his hands to lead him. Almost instantaneously, Harry tripped. Malfoy had to catch him round the waist. Harry was surprised: for a slender bloke, Malfoy was deceptively strong. He held Harry upright with one arm, though his muscles shook. Harry struggled to get his feet under him. Perhaps they would both be a little undignified before the night was out. Harry chuckled. “Not fair! No rough housing.”

“Sorry,” Malfoy's tone was natural but cool. “Didn't know you had such poor balance without your vision. I'll have to keep that in mind.” Malfoy's hand moved from Harry's waist up to his face, removing his glasses and settling them on top of his head. “They'll be safer there.”

Harry felt a sudden wave of awkwardness without his glasses. It was akin to being shirtless in front of Hermione: it wasn't rude or anything but it simply wasn't done. He felt worse than naked; he felt helpless. And his guide was sodding Malfoy with a chip on his shoulder.

Malfoy had gotten him to walk without his realizing it. Now he dug into Harry's shoulders to get him to stop.

“Wonder Boy, you're about to walk into a wall,” he joked. “Step back and put your glasses on.”

Malfoy let go of him as soon as he stepped back. There were little places on Harry's shoulder and side that felt the absence of Malfoy's warm hands. The sensation was maddening. Combined with the fact that he was still dizzy, sleep-deprived and walking around with his eyes closed, he had had quite enough exposure to Malfoy for one day. He opened his eyes.

“I can't see.” It was the first thing that came to mind. It garnered him another little laugh from Malfoy, who was still standing behind him by the sound of it

“Glasses are on your head.”

“Oh, right,” Harry reached for them, feeling like a true plonker now. “Thanks.” As he put them on, he heard Malfoy shift his weight from one foot to the other, back and forth. He was nervous again.

“Happy Birthday, Wonder Boy.”

Malfoy had fixed the family tapestry. Not only had he fixed it—he added to it. The tree was nearly twice as large as before. It stretched over the all the windows on one side of the room. The Weasleys were on it and so were the Longbottoms. Sirius, Tonks' mother and everyone else had been set to rights. Harry slowly traced the line linking Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour, seeing a line growing from Charlie's name as well. It was almost like seeing the past set to rights before your eyes. He now had a family full of people who loved him. It didn't really matter that they weren't family by blood; after all, family was just the people you loved no matter what.

“I tried to tell it you were your godfather's illegitimate son but it wouldn't believe me,” Malfoy said pleasantly, stepping up to stand at Harry's side. “I really tried. The blood magic is too strong to fool with. Just wanted you to know.”

“It's wonderful,” Harry may have mumbled. He wasn't sure whether or not his mouth was working properly at the time. “Thank you.”

“What?” Startled, Malfoy turned to him with an expression that read 'I don't speak blathering wanker. Please translate.'

“How did you...?”

“With magic, Potter.”

“And how long...?”

“Do you not see the bags under my eyes?” he pointed to his face, incredulous. “A long time. Longer than I had thought.”

“But... why?”

“Because it's your birthday, Wonder Boy, and I had to get on your good side somehow. Back rubs are too informal, so they don't count.”

Harry smiled. “Why do you call me 'Wonder Boy,' anyway?”

“Because that's who you are: Wonder Boy The Chosen One. You're supposed to rescue everyone, right? Even me, I suppose.” Harry turned to see something very human: Draco Malfoy staring at the floor and looking angry with himself. “I didn't ask you to save me, you know.” He was being defensive, as always.

“Don't worry about it. You can call me Wonder Boy if you have to,” he added in a last-ditch effort to dissuade Malfoy The Self-Loathing.

“And you would call me what? Death Eater? Traitor? Failure?” Malfoy's hands balled into fists as a vein in his pale neck throbbed. Harry hadn't seen Malfoy this upset in a long time.

“How about 'Malfoy?'” Harry offered calmly. “That's what I've always called you. Is that okay? Because I don't think I could get Ron or Ginny to call you by your first name.” Malfoy nodded at that. He raised his head. He did look tired around the eyes and Harry felt guilty for not having noticed before now.

“Even Wonder Boy can't do everything, huh? This is new.” A ghost of a smile passed over his pointed face as he thought out some calculated plot against Harry, knowing now that he is in fact human and imperfect. Harry smiled back.

Over the course of their increasingly easy conversation they managed to come together again. It wasn't like that morning when they were physically touching but it was a similar closeness—as though each was willing to let go of the past and attempt to get along. The Founders forbid they might actually like or even enjoy one another's company by now.

“You alright?” Malfoy asked, inclining his head in a very aristocratic fashion, the way one might behave toward a beloved little niece or nephew. It made Harry feel special in a non-friend way.

“Yeah,” Harry said quickly. “I was just thinking... did I say thank you?”

“No, I don't believe you did.” Malfoy was trying to be sarcastic, snarky, a cheeky little shit. Harry could appreciate that.

“Well, thank you. It means a lot to have the whole family together again.” He reached across the short distance between them and put a hand on Malfoy's shoulder, a sort of half-hug that Malfoy allowed with good grace. His family—like it or not—now included Draco Malfoy.
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