"So, you knew him."

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Reasonably."

"And was he everything people said he was?"

"… He was more."

---------

---------

---------

"You fainted, Potter? You actually fainted?"

The firm set of Potter's mouth answers all, even if Weasley does prevent him from answering. Draco grins, all undeniable glee and wickedness. Potter fainted. He gives a snort of amusement to himself as he sweeps away from the new professor and Potter.

It is the first piece of news, in a long time, which Draco finds he can manipulate to torment Potter in everyway possible. There was, of course, that incident in their first year where Potter refused his friendship (but that doesn't look too good on Draco so he refrains from mentioning it), and there was that delightful romp they had in the forest a few months later, after Potter had been stupid enough to get caught with a dragon (but Draco had run away screaming like a girl as soon as they'd seen him crouched over that dead unicorn, reminding Draco that sometimes, it's not wise to boast of your femininity in a dormitory of three other Slytherin boys who will never let you live the memory down.

Then there was that whole situation in their second year when they met in the bookshop. In Draco's mind it seemed in correlation to the February of that year, when that idiotic female Weasel sent Potter a valentine. (Draco would like to bring these two situations up more often but both seem to make his gut twist unpleasantly as he thinks of Potter doing everything to stand up for the silly, little girl.) He leaves those things alone to concentrate on matters such as Quidditch matches and the like. He finds these have more rewarding memories (but most of them aren't really any use to humiliate Potter - Draco just likes them because, if he were a reminiscent sort of person, they would be perfect memories for stereotyping his days at Hogwarts.)

This is why Draco begins to mould the dementor attacks into something that can be used to provoke Potter into retaliation (but Draco wants to omit any thoughts of this, for as far as he's concerned, he merely taunts Potter to do his bit for the cause, whatever that is.)

And then something else happens. Something far more interesting. Something that could really make Potter look ridiculous…

"But if it was me, I'd want revenge. I'd hunt him down myself…"

Potter looks at Draco with all the confusion (and fear) of a lost Englishman in a foreign country (a lost Englishman in a foreign country, in a conference for foreign languages, where nobody else speaks English, Draco revises,) and Draco realises that he has no idea what Black did. Well, that will teach him to think Draco is stupid. Perhaps he'll go out and try to find Black? Perhaps he'll get himself killed? Draco pauses at this thought. He shouldn't let himself get too hopeful.

Draco cannot help but notice the irony as he feels his world caves in at the brink of his wish coming true.

Hovering by Snape, Draco waits for any news that Potter is alright. He has to be alright because who else would Draco taunt? Who else would Draco embarrass or fight with or stalk? Scratch that last one, he thinks angrily as his eyes narrow, searching for any sign of movement below them, through the lashing rain. His hair hangs limply in his eyes, water rivulets running easily over smooth skin. His grey, piercing eyes seek out Dumbledore in the darkness and he can tell, just by the headmaster's pose, that Potter is safe.

When he hears that all Potter damaged was his broom (Ha! Draco thinks with a flare of adolescent humour,) Draco can't help but realise that maybe, just maybe, he needs Potter.

Draco celebrates with the removal of his bandages, from that mad hippogriff's of Hagrid's, attack. Doing many impressions of Potter falling off his broom, no one will ever know that these are more victory dances of Potter's recovery than his defeat (although Draco would be stupid if he didn't admit that the Gryffindor team's defeat was also a large part of his celebrations.) Even a crocodile heart in the face, from Weasley, doesn't smother his celebrations entirely.

Nothing will for the rest of that year. It will all change soon, though he doesn't realise it yet.

-----

-----

------

"You were in school with him. That's right, isn't it?"

 "Yes."

 "Was he clever?"

 A quiet scoff of laughter.

 "He had his moments."

 "He must've been clever to achieve so much."

 Shrug. A scratch of a long nose.

 "I suppose so."

 "He knew an awful lot; more than most wizards his age."

 "He had to."

 Said lightly but with a hint of hostility; a challenge to say anything against him who they spoke of.

 "That's right. He did a lot, didn't he?"

 "Too much."

 A brief, yet weary sigh.

 Too much.

--------

---------

----------

"A Hungarian Horntail."

The whisper sweeps around the stadium as the final dragon is brought into the enclosure and Draco's blood runs cold.

Seeing Potter at the Quidditch World Cup had been an unexpected and not entirely disagreeable incident. The same thought passed through Draco's head as he saw him in the forest after the Death Eater raid. He had been frightened for his father - his mother had fled, presuming that her son was with her. She had been so worried about him but he didn't care; he couldn't have resisted seeing Potter alone and defenceless in the light of that ghostly scene.

And when Potter had been announced as the second, Hogwarts tri-wizard tournament contestant; now that wasn't an embarrassment even Draco could've contrived. And of course he had jumped at the chance of spreading the animosity that the school had begun to harbour against Potter. The badges had been a nice touch. Perhaps the colour scheme was a little too masculine but the overall idea was something of a success, Draco felt.

Now, as he stands in the crowd of onlookers, choked Hufflepuffs staring worriedly over to the spot where Cedric had received that impressive burn to the face, Draco can't help but feel a little vexed about what Potter has to face next. He's the same age as him; fourteen for goodness' sake. He shouldn't have to—

"And our youngest contestant is fastest to get the golden egg!"

A thrill of relief travels up Draco's spine, bringing with it the realisation that Potter might actually be something of a talented individual. Draco doesn't know whether he's annoyed at the never ceasing abilities of Harry, or whether he's proud. He agrees, with himself, to be both; annoyed in public, and proud in the quiet place when he is all alone.

Pansy Parkinson is a girl of ambition; if she wasn't, she wouldn't be in Slytherin. For as long as Draco had known her, she had always been able to get what she wanted. Therefore, it's no surprise when Slytherin's hottest couple arrive, chic and prestigious, in their finest attire, to the Yule Ball. Draco has no doubt that they will be the talk of the evening and is thrilled when he sees Potter by his date, doing little more than stare resentfully at the dancing couples and occasionally talking at Weasley who seems to have a death wish as he eyes the Granger girl.

Draco dances, and dances, until the exercise has muddled his mind and the alcohol has gone to his brain. Fumbled groping in the dark and sloppy kisses end the evening; Pansy is lost to his charm and Draco is too vain to put an end to the beginning of breaking the poor girl's heart. He cannot stop thinking of how pathetic Potter looked on his own, in the great hall.

He sleeps well and dreams good dreams.

Shattered are those that dwell in his thoughts, as he meets the second task with frustration and anger.

"An hour long you'll have to look,

And to recover what we took."

Weasley. Bloody Weasley is the most precious thing that Harry has? Draco scoffs and begins to spread rumours that run like wildfire through the Slytherin dormitories. It's disgusting. Draco doubts whether any of his male friends, let alone female ones, would be his most precious thing.

No; It would probably be Potter, thinks a traitorous voice in his head.

He doesn't know why he cares; he only knows that when Potter emerges from the water, gulping breath like the first sigh and wiping his hair out of his eyes as he swims back to shore, he is inexplicably angry that Potter is being congratulated by that pompous git, Cedric and that idiot Weasley.

That should be me. I should be there, embracing him in triumph and dripping wet because I would've been his most important--

Draco makes a mental note, to never speak to himself again.

The jealousy (Draco fists the table in anger; anything but that, anything) that he has for Potter and Weasley's relationship intensifies; it grows worse as the Daily Prophet articles on the mud-blood and Potter's relationship unravel. It seems that the whole Wizarding world knows that Potter is shagging Granger, apart from them, of course.

Draco doesn't speak to Potter much before the third task. His energy goes into making sure that the remaining (although now surprisingly few) "Potter Stinks" badges are worn with pride and presented to Potter at every possible moment. He also sets up that newspaper interview; "Harry Potter: Dangerous and Delusional". Everything, to smudge Potter's name, he does. He hates him, even more than in the last three years, because he's worried that Potter is beginning to forget his rivalries, and with them, Draco.

Every step of the way, Draco has followed Potter's progress, and as he stands at the entrance to the maze, it is no different. Draco regards him through narrow eyes as the first, shrill blast of a whistle sounds and Potter hurtles into the maze, pretty-boy Diggory close behind him.

He waits with the rest of the school, with bated breath and eager, searching eyes. When a blast of red light pierces the sky above the maze, Draco's heart jumps painfully in his chest and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should've been a little more supportive of Potter. When Fleur emerges from the maze, cut cheek bleeding profusely, Draco has the sudden realisation that Potter may have not actually entered his name into the goblet. For the rest of the task, Draco's eyes never leave the entrance to the maze, even when the sun begins to fade and the darkness around him makes his eyes strain and water.

When Potter appears suddenly, at the edge of the maze, it takes a second for Draco to realise that something is very, very wrong. In his surprise at his own feelings of relief, the unusualness of the way Potter's clever fingers are so desperately tangled in Cedric's robes does not sink in. Draco watches Potter pull Cedric to him, tears staining the older boy's face as they fall from Potter's eyes, as though it should be expected. Perhaps they are tears of joy? A Hogwarts victory for both of them.

And then a scream pierces the night, Draco's not sure whose, and with a sickening thud, he is brought harshly back down to earth. The wide, lifeless gaze of Diggory seems clearer than anything else as Draco stares down, from the stand, at the bruised couple. The way Potter is holding him, the way he's weeping over him, it's ridiculous. It can't be true… he was too young, too vulnerable… things like this don't happen in real life…

Cedric's death doesn't seem real. Draco convinces himself that that's why everyone else in the school grieves, and he doesn't. It's like that hazy stage of life, in between childhood and adolescence, when you're not old enough to dictate what you want because even you're not that sure. The emptiness is reminiscent of winter; of the silence pierced only by the faintest roar of the wind or distant traffic, where no creature dares disturb the silence, and the only thing that convinces you that you're not alone, is the beat of your own heart.

Draco doesn't toast to Cedric's death, at the end of term, along with everyone else. He watches Potter with a malice that he notices and returns, full fold. Draco feels like he's trying to prove something, though what, he's not sure of. Perhaps he's trying to prove that he's above human emotion. Nothing can touch him; nothing. Not even the death of an innocent seventeen year old boy, who obviously captured Potter's attentions along with everyone else in the school.

He leaves that year and for the first time, he thinks that maybe this is what growing up is like.

He hates it, because nothing's ever felt so real.

----------

-------------

---------------

"Did he ever show any signs of being… different?"

"He had one or two transformations in character."

"And they were normal?"

"Fairly."

"Fairly? What about his family?"

"… That was a delicate matter."

"They weren't around for him."

"Exactly."

"Do you think this changed who he was?"

"… I don't think he would've been much different, to be honest."

"Were they proud of him?"

"If they were, it would've been difficult to tell him, given the circumstances."

"Yes, yes… of course… Did he ever complain about it?"

"…"

Like ghosts in the head, they echo.

You don't understand, you'll never fucking understand. You had people there for you; I had no one, no one! You'll never--

A hand rubs over a weary face.

"Never."

-------- 

---------

-----------

Fifth year blows in with an unexpected certainty that, yes, they've grown up and yes, Draco finally has the power to do something about Potter's infuriating ways. It's all spelt out with one, little word.

Prefect.

Power; the ability or capacity to do something: the control and influence over other people and their actions: the authority to act or do something according to a law or rule.

Draco wonders only on how long it will take for him to disrespect the responsibility and yet… Dumbledore must've been really stupid to give Draco such a position. Draco frowns to himself as day by day this thought gets dimmer. Without even intentionally doing so, he finds that the trust placed by Dumbledore, in him, seems to forbid him from abusing his power. It's the first ever position of authority that he's been given.

He almost believes life is going well, until Cho Chang steps into the picture.

The old mistress envy slowly slips back into his veins, as silently as poison in a laced drink.

She's all over him and by Christmas, Draco actually believes that they may be dating. Potter! Dating! It's not allowed. If he thought that growing up would divert Potter's attentions from childish bickering, he dreaded finding out what love would do. They're together almost everywhere, longing glances that every bloody student in the school can see except for them.

When Draco manages to trip Potter over in the hall after his little losers meeting (the fall is done as spectacularly as Draco can make it; Potter's body hits the floor with a sickening slap,) Draco feels a shiver of something similar to sensual pleasure run through his body. He doesn't feel remorse, not one bit, as he hands Potter over to Umbridge and they walk away briskly.

Draco's smiling triumphantly until his eyes flicker over Potter's hand and he does a double take.

I will not tell lies, the lines of tattered skin read.

The smile vanishes and Draco wonders, not for the first time in five years, if he's done the right thing.

Ginny Weasley steps into the picture then; perhaps it's a premonition of things to come. As he holds her in Umbridge's office, (the old bat has gone to torment Potter again,) he suddenly has the misfortune of finding the true extent of Ginny Weasley's power. He can't believe it when she turns and hits him with a painful hex. Slim legs disappear from his vision as she hurtles through the door leaving Draco on his side, clutching his nose in fear and shouting nonsensical demands at Crabbe and Goyle.

He hates all of them.

The goodbye he receives from Potter is not expected. Another hex to the face (quite a few actually… well, it wasn't like he expected the whole Defence Against the Dark Arts club to appear from thin air, was it?) and Draco finds himself flat on his back, not for reasons that he would like to associate with Potter.

Oh, the secrets he finds out when he goes home that summer.

Sirius Black, you know the man, Draco? He was killed by your aunt last month.

Draco's mother's voice echoes in his head and with it the realisation that Potter put his father in jail. The realisation that his father helped kill Potter's only family.

He hates all of them.

---------- 

-------------

 ------------

"Did you ever have any fights?"

A reminiscent exhale of laughter.

"A few."

"Serious?"

Blood everywhere. Shaking hands. Ripped flesh; a curse of the unknown. Deadly? Eyes stare into one another's. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Fuck. Please. I didn't...

Lean back into chair. Fix that fake smile, well practised, onto face. "Not really."

"Six years and--"

"Seven years; I've known… I knew him for seven years."

"But you were infamous as enemies! How could you not have one serious--?"

"Rivals. Not enemies. We always sorted out our problems. Things always had a way of working themselves out."

Always working themselves out.

Lower head: don't show the tears.

----------- 

-------------

 ----------

A brief flash of that one trainer is all it takes for Draco to know who sits in the luggage rack in the Slytherin's compartment. Milking the opportunity for all it is worth, Draco leans into Pansy and all but purrs as she fusses over him. He knows Potter is watching him, green eyes on the unravelling scene below him. When the train stops and everyone finally leaves, Draco can feel the anticipation flowing through him; the spell hits Potter before he even has a chance to realise that Draco knows that he is there.

A kick for good measure and the term starts. It's doubtless that Potter will find some way to get back to Hogwarts but Draco enjoys the Potter-free environment for a few, precious minutes. He's right; within half an hour Potter is roaming around like the git of a Gryffindor lion that he is. Draco smirks to himself. At least some things never change. Still, the kick felt good. Potter's nose cracking under his knuckles, the trickle of blood running through the gaps between fingers; the scene replays and Draco finds that it soothes the anger that has been building up over the last year.

They set themselves to it, resigned to their old ways again. Potter becomes Quidditch captain, Draco his opponent. They're rivals again.

A breath of pent up frustration escapes.

Yes.

Chang's out of the picture. Potter is back to finding out what Draco is doing. Draco is back to finding out what Potter is doing. It's all perfect.

Things are changing, though. The world is becoming darker and clearer at the same time. Draco finds his nights punctuated by Voldemorts requests.

Ah yes.

Those.

Draco never imagined himself as a death eater, only a death eater's son. When he got the mark, he had felt more powerful then ever before. But now… he was making wrong decisions all over again, and somehow he could still find ways of blaming Potter. If it weren't for Potter, his father wouldn't be sending him out on missions, Voldemort wouldn't be sending him out on missions, and the world would be a more peaceful place.

No.

A world without Potter would be dull.

He spends his nights tossing and turning, either from fear that Voldemort's plans won't be fulfilled, else because Potter remains in the forefront of his dreams. It's during these days that Draco realises how very grown up he really has become. The first time he has that particular dream he becomes fearful, and wonders what it means. Something involving naked skin, slick tongues. At first he thinks that he dreams of Pansy; those dreams are not uncommon. But then a low voice moans, certainly not Pansy's, and he can almost touch the hard length that he imagines pushing into him.

Fuck. It's Potter.

Draco awakes, drenched in a cold sweat, cock hard, pressing against his boxers. He's terrified; his body feels so close to the edge and his breath comes quick and painfully.

It's all because of Potter.

They don't talk much after that; Draco makes sure of it. They pass each other after Quidditch matches (Potter looks so put out that Draco is draped around two women and is missing a match - the sight makes him feel breathless again,) and in corridors, but it's the least they've spoken in months.

And then…

Blood everywhere. Shaking hands. Ripped flesh; a curse of the unknown. Deadly? Eyes stare into one another's. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Fuck. Please. I didn't...

You've killed me, Draco thinks. He feels like laughing. He never thought Potter would kill him like this, though he always knew that it would be via a blow to the heart. His vision is hazy as Potter slides across the floor and crouches down over Draco. Draco can feel himself shaking as he closes his eyes, listens to his own breathing.

I'm going to die with nothing but the feel of Potter against me, he thinks again and a surge of emotion wells up inside him. Hysterical laughter threatens to spill out of him, along with the blood. Good show, Potter. I never thought you could do it…

The screams of a female ghost are lost in Draco's mind as he falls asleep, Potter's knees still nudging his side. When Draco awakes, he finds himself still in the bathroom, being helped into a standing position by Snape who is saying something to Potter who is as white as a sheet, his robes soaked with water and Draco's own blood. Draco finds his old smirk creep silently back onto his face.

Pansy visits him within half an hour and ensures that the whole school hears of how evil Potter is. Draco almost has the chance to feel smug until she returns, several days later, with a large, spiteful smile on her face and the news that, Draco, you won't believe it. Potter is actually dating that Weasley girl! Isn't it a riot?

I'll kill him. I'll fucking--

Draco smiles placidly. "What so you know? Miracles really do happen."

It hurts even more than the curse, though he doesn't realise it until it's too late.

--------------

--------------

 -------------

"Did he have good friends?"

"I suppose he thought so."

"Did you like them?"

"No."

"Did they effect what happened--?"

"No. I doubt it. I think he knew that he had to do it on his own and… that's what he did.".

--------------------- 

-----------------------

 ----------------------

Before he knows what is happening, Draco is grabbed by the scruff of the neck and shoved down the tower steps. There's screaming everywhere; from aurors, from death eaters, he doesn't know who's who any more. He's shaking, (oh, so badly he's shaking,) the disbelief piecing his skin like pins all over. His legs can barely move as he arrives awkwardly at the end of the stairs, (is that Longbottom crumpled in a heap?) and continues to be dragged along the corridor.

Footsteps echo behind them as Draco continues to run; he doesn't dare look back until they're near the front door and then he chances a glance.

It can't be him.

It is.

That ridiculously scruffy hair sweeps wildly over his sweaty face as he lands heavily on the floor at the bottom of the large, open staircase in the entrance hall. Draco twists his head, ignoring the pain in his wrist where Snape has a tight hold on him, and watches, with wide, fearful eyes, as Potter tears after them. Did he see what Snape did? Does he know? How can Draco tell him, just in case Dumbledore isn't dead and is just lying injured at the bottom of the tower?

A jet of red light narrowly misses both Draco and Snape as they run, full pelt, across the lawn toward the front gate. Fenrir's in the school, with people he knows; with Longbottom and Weasley. Who knows how many have already been killed? Thoughts jumble, tossing in his head as though being shaken by the erratic movements of his running.

He doesn't even register the feeling of apparation as he instinctively casts the spell to get him away from all of this. Potter's form, faced by Snape, is distant in the shadows of night, swims in his vision before he's staggering forward, struggling to regain balance as his mother walks forward and clasps him tightly.

"He's dead," says Snape with no trace of remorse as he appears in the room (please, don't have hurt him, please,) minutes later, and Narcissa lets out a small gasp of surprise or relief, (Draco can't tell which,) before she hugs him tighter.

Draco bites back a sob. He's never wanted Potter more.

------------------ 

-----------------

 ---------------------

"He got in too deep."

A brief nod. An awkward twitch of the face. Turn to look away.

"Yeah…"

"And you didn't think to--"

"Me? He wouldn't have listened to me."

"… So there's nothing you could've done."

A shake of the head.

If it could've been done, it wouldn't have anyway.

---------------- 

-----------------

 --------------------------

When he's sees him again, he knows it's a shock to Potter as much as him. He also knows that Potter did in fact see him on the tower that night. He can see it in his eyes; that unquenchable hatred has been washed away, and with its departure comes concern.

"Malfoy?"

Draco steers Potter over to a dark, secluded table; they're in a suspicious looking pub in Knockturn Alley. Draco doesn't ask Potter why he's here. He only sits, fidgeting whilst still looking elegant, waiting for Potter to do something other than stare at him. After a few, long moments, Potter purses his lips and says;

"Where's Snape?"

"I don't know, Potter." His tone is spiteful and dares Potter to pick a fight.

Potter responds in kind, his voice picking up tempo but dropping to a low hiss. "You must, you were with him. You must know where he is."

"And you think I'm going to tell you so you can just go and kill him?"

Silence. Draco sighs, his air of arrogance falling away with his breath, crumbling like a mask made of clay.

"I don't know."

Potter nods; he believes him instantly, though he has no true reason to. Instead he asks the unthinkable.

"Are you alright?"

Gaping for a few seconds, Draco finds his typical, calm, cool exterior and fixes it back in place. He nods automatically before stopping and answering, instead, in the negative.

"My mother… her and father have gone into hiding. I couldn't… I had too much…"

"Ah yes. You're capable of more things than we gave you credit for, aren't you?"

"Oh, shut up, Potter. You pretend you're better than the rest of us when really—"

"Malfoy. Be quiet. Just, for once in your life, stop talking."

Draco goes to walk out of the door when he feels Potter hand on his wrist. "Come with me. The Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's people, can look after you."

Draco feels himself blush. He knows he must look worse than he feels. He hasn't eaten properly in weeks, sleep is sparse, and his usually milk-white skin is a dull, dirty shade that feels stretched over the bones.

"Come with you?" he says quietly, after a while. "But you hate me."

"I don't hate you," replies Potter, and Draco is stunned by the speed at which the answer is given. "I've never hated you. I just think… It would be better for all of us if you were somewhere where we could look after—"

"You mean somewhere that you could keep an eye on me; somewhere to make sure that I wasn't doing anything naughty; is that it?"

"Malfoy—"

"Forget it, Potter. I should've known the only reason you'd want me is to be a spy; to be the next Snape."

"Snape was never working for us," hisses Potter, abruptly.

"And what makes you think I'd be different?"

"The fear in your eyes when Dumbledore challenged you to take sides."

It's said so quietly, so simply, that Draco doesn't think to argue. He seems to deflate in his chair as Potter's grip tightens comfortingly on his wrist.

"You're not like them; you're not like Voldemort, or the death eaters, or even your father." Draco flinches but doesn't push Potter away. "You want what's best and I know you don't think the way to do that is to kill and torture every non-pure blood out there.

Draco ends up going home with Potter, that night. They arrive at a large, grim and dank looking house; empty of life, full of despair, and so perfectly Potter.

"12 Grimmauld Place," says Potter with a casual shrug, before pushing the door open (it grazes the floor where the wood has swollen in the wet, the scrape piercingly shrill) and stepping inside. Draco follows with apprehension. Shadows play on the walls as Potter leaves Draco in the hall to lock the door. He returns and together they enter the living room.

More darkness fills this place, the sweet smell of rot and mildew heavy in the air. The scent wants to make Draco retch. Draco's bony hands trace the swirls of the wall paper, as Potter goes to make a cup of tea, fumbling over the embossed, grand designs until the texture under his finger changes. It feels like cloth, softer than Hessian but still retaining that stiffness.

Lighting his wand, Draco's eyes can just make out the silver of thread as they adjust to the new light source. Swirls sweep over and into one another, embroidered patterns leading into names that are surprisingly familiar. When he sees his own name there, glinting magnificently in the wand-light, Draco feels his chest give a small flutter of surprise. A tapestry; the most beautiful tapestry in the world, Draco thinks.

His hand lingers on his name until the exposed fingers grow numb with cold. He lets his eyes trace the stitching then, delight inexpressible until he reaches one name that he certainly did not expect to see there.

He drops his wand, curses as the light goes out, then curses again at the new information.

"I'm related to bloody Weasley?!"

Potter chooses this inelegant time to enter the room once more, his fingers curled around two mugs of hot tea. His lips twitch into a smile as he sets the cups down on a small, oval table.

"I always wondered how you'd react to finding that out," he murmurs softly.

"Cast a memory charm on me; make me forget," pleads Draco but Potter only laughs.

"Be thankful you have family like the Weasleys. You could do worse."

"True, I could be related to you."

Potter scowls for a second before a smile breaks out on his lips and he chuckles, low and smoothly. Draco smirks too; he can't help it. He's surprised how, in making Potter smile, he can lift his own burdens slightly. I'm glad we're still rivals, he thinks with satisfaction as he settles in the chair next to Potter and reaches for his tea. Potter looks as though he's trying his best to contain a grin but Draco doesn't even try.

Sometimes even hatred is better than nothing at all.

----------- 

-------------

 --------------

"You said you knew him well. How close were you?"

Inseparable.

"We became good... friends."

"Friends? From adversaries?"

"Well, it was more like comrades. I would've… we both… we would have done anything for the other, by the end. I couldn't have done everything without him."

-------------- 

-----------------

 ----------------------

"It could be anywhere, Ron!"

"So we have to find out who R.A.B is? It can't be that hard!"

"Ron's right, Harry. How many people do you think actively spoke out against Voldemort—oh, don't flinch Ron! -- in his prime? I can bet it wasn't many."

Draco watches the trio through a gap in the door. A chink of light illuminates the tired, greys of his irises, making them gleam gold. They've been arguing for hours and Draco hasn't been invited into the conversation once. Since coming to stay in 12 Grimmauld Place, Draco has found this to be the case in most things. Few in the order trust him; only Potter and his cousin, Tonks, whom he had never properly been introduced to. His old teacher, Lupin, seems to want to trust him also, but Draco can see the belief in his eyes that he will be another Snape. He does nothing to change this suspicion. Weasley and Granger should be obvious opponents to the move but it seems that Potter has been alone since the end of their sixth year. Any company is good company, in their eyes; even if it is Malfoy.

Draco shifts, his legs feeling sore in their forced, crouched position. He's nearly knocked off his haunches as Granger suddenly appears at the door. "Eavesdropping isn't an attractive characteristic, Malfoy," she remarks dryly (I haven't been dropping any eaves, thinks Draco,) before walking passed him in obvious disgust. Weasley follows soon after, like a lamb to the slaughter.

Silently Draco slips through the door, as easily as his house's namesake.

"Don't suppose you've ever heard of the initials R.A.B, have you?"

Draco pauses, watching Potter steadily as he rubs the palms of his hands into tired eyes. He looks tired, unnaturally so, the bags under his eyes making him look five years older. Draco has; he actually does recognise the letters, but he doubts whether Potter would believe him if he told him so. But where? he thinks, angry with himself for having such a forgetful mind. And then…

"Regulus Alfard Black."

"I'm sorry?"

"Regulus Alfard Black," Draco repeats in the same, cool tones. "I knew I recognised the initials." Without explaining, Draco walks over to the large, Black family tapestry on the wall. He'd spent so long looking at it, since coming to live here; no wonder he could remember the small letters that were so delicately inscribed into the fabric.

"Regulus," Potter says in a hushed whisper and then again, more forcefully as if in staggering realisation, "Regulus." He stands and walks over to Draco, his fingers finding the burn mark where Sirius' name once dwelt, and then moving over to the silver embroidery that now reads his godfather's brother's name. "R.A.B… it was you."

Potter stares at Draco, as though he's only now clearly seeing him. "You're a fucking genius," he says under his breath, before embracing him quickly, (it's barely more than a swift nudge of body against body but Draco would like to think of it as an embrace in the future and so that is what he names it now,) and Draco is too staggered to think of any reply as he watches Potter dash out of the room to find Weasley and Granger.

They treat him differently after that, still reserved, of course, but with warmer attitudes. Draco finds that he enjoys the good attention almost as much as the bad.

And, of course, there's Potter.

He treats him differently too. He looks at Draco differently, or perhaps for too long, and these hidden things make Draco feel so right, so perfect, that he almost forgets that death eaters are looking for him and that the world is under attack. He doesn't think it will all change; he doesn't really want it to, because he's settled into this new pattern so well. But then it does.

The sounds of his footsteps are hidden in the dusty, threadbare carpet, as Draco walks up to his bedroom one night and discovers Potter's bedroom door slightly ajar. He thinks nothing of visiting Potter (it's almost a regular ritual before he goes to bed) and tonight is no different. He strides into the room confidently, not thinking to knock, before looking over to Potter's bed.

His stomach feels as though it's been punched, his breath short and hard to catch. Potter lies on the bed, fully naked, blissfully unaware to the world. His hair is sweaty, damp stands plastered across red cheeks and every now and again he lets out a low, sharp moan as he moves his hand just so.

Fucking hell, I've walked in on Potter wanking.

It really doesn't compare to any of the dreams that Draco has had, no matter how arousing they've been.

When Potter arches into his own touch, searching for that last bit of pressure to push him over the edge, Draco finds his hand creep into his pocket and stroke the edge of his own erection with the flats of his fingers, through the fabric. It's nearly enough; Draco is so close to his orgasm. His cock strains against his boxer shorts, his heart beating erratically in his chest as he wills himself to leave.

Go now; he'll never know you were here and you can go and forget about it.

But it's too late. As Draco steps backward, Potter chooses that second to let his eyes flutter open. They stare at each other, the sensation that overtakes them similar to what Draco imagines the ceasing of time to be like, before Potter hisses a curse and arches his neck back. He comes silently, although the way his face is arranged, anyone would think that he'd been put under a silencing spell, because he should be screaming. It looks almost painful, that pleasure that rinses his body, as though every nerve has been clenched at the same time.

"Don't you ever think to knock?" breathes Potter, minutes later. Draco still stands in the doorway, hands in pockets, looking surprisingly relaxed seeing as his internal organs feel as though they're all trying to find new places to rest.

"You know me, Potter. I'm not one for making a grand entrance."

"You could've bloody well fooled me."

It's almost funny, the way Potter struggles to cover himself with his sheets, as though Draco hasn't just seen him wanking. Draco smirks to himself and walks over to Potter who flinches as he sits on the end of his bed. Draco feels so much older than his seventeen years. He looks it too; so does Potter.

"Don't worry, Potter," Draco mutters with a grim smile. "I won't tell."

Potter rolls his eyes before pulling up one, long leg. He wraps his arms around it, placing his chin on his knee. Draco can just see a sliver of pale flesh where his other leg has been revealed under the bed sheets. He swallows hard (thoughts of running his hand along that smooth plane of skin come to the forefront of his mind) and edges closer.

The kiss is unexpected, but in this relationship it wasn't going to be anything other than startling, for them both. It's so slow that Draco isn't sure kiss is the proper word; it's more like an accidental brush of the lips that happens to last quite a few seconds and that is really, well, rather, you know, quite pleasant: and involves just a little bit of tongue, on his part at least.

"Draco," mutters Potter, and then the second Draco thinks he's going to accio his broomstick and flee, Potter puts a hand on the base of his neck and brings his head in for another kiss. Draco notices little things as their mouths move together. Potter's lips are slightly swollen, where he has bitten them in the excitement of his orgasm. His eyes are dilated, so that even the remaining splinters of green seem black. His cheeks are still flushed, though out of embarrassment or arousal, Draco can't decide; they burn under his touch as he lifts his hands to cup Potter's face.

"What about everyone?"

"What about them?" asks Potter, leaning out of Draco's touch as if he's unsure of what he's doing. "They don't need to know this happened."

"Is it going to happen again?" Draco practically straddles Potter now, his eyes roaming over his face as he stares wolfishly down at him. Potter swallows once before taking Draco's wrist in his hand.

"I think so."

Draco smirks and kisses Potter's jaw with a softness and clarity that makes them both whimper softly.

"I won't tell if you don't," he growls, before losing himself to the flood.

----------- 

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 -------------

"So you helped each other out?"

"Yes."

"Did you find it hard, you know, being there for him?"

"Not once."

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 ---------------

"You don't understand, you'll never fucking understand. You had people there for you; I had no one, no one! You'll never understand because you haven't been going it alone, these past two years." Draco runs his hands through his greasy, shoulder-length hair, and lets out a shaky sigh. He sits, naked, on the side of Potter's bed, bare legs cold, half covered by a sheet that he's dragged off Potter to warm himself.

It's beyond the honeymoon period now. The few, glorious weeks at the start of their relationship (or whatever people would call the charade that they play) were the best of Draco's life. Days filled with trying to prove his worth to Potter by finding helpful answers to problems and night, filled with doing exactly the same thing in completely different ways. It's all he's ever wanted, and if he watches Potter closely, in the day when he's hard pressed to find a solution to whatever it is he searches for, or after they make love, Draco can almost make himself believe that this is exactly what Potter's always wanted too.

Now they bicker and argue and Draco actually begins to wish that he and Potter didn't live together. He wants to hurt him as much as give him pleasure every time they have sex. Yet through it all, Draco thinks that he knows why the will to hurt is there, why the will to antagonise reveals itself at every available opportunity. It's because he's falling for Potter and Potter isn't returning this in kind.

And now they're back on the same old conversation. It's like a play, so structured are the lines that they repeat every time. Potter asks; "Why didn't you come to us sooner?". Draco replies; "My father wanted me to make him proud." "So you decided to work for Voldemort?"

And then Draco launches into his diatribe of how Potter had people around him and didn't have to work for their love.

But in a turn of events, Potter doesn't lean back into the pillows and fall asleep; he doesn't ignore Draco as the silent tears fall. He leans over, places his chin on Draco's shoulder and wraps his arms tight around him. Draco chokes back he tears as Potter shushes him and tells him, "Everything's different now. You have me."

They clutch each other as though there's nothing left in the world, as though all they have is each other. Draco promises never to let go and Potter doesn't, but he knows that he can't make that promise like Draco can.

They have a lot to learn about deception and the ways in which you can deceive without meaning to.

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"It feels like the end. I mean, we know everything from here on out, don't we?"

Nod.

"It seems everyone does."

"Did you decide to help him through it all? Did you decide to particularly stand by him in the last battle?"

Close of eyes. Breath of what? Failure? Resignation? Helplessness?

"He couldn't have done it without me."

Smile; hide the insecurities and pain under that façade.

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"I'll do it, with or without you."

Potter sits on the chair, his eyes narrowed with annoyance and worry. Draco is pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Potter's going to find Voldemort after tonight. It's a decision that is irreversible and that has been predestined since his birth. Draco, on the other hand, is free to go. It's not his duty, it's not an obligation, it's not expected; for the last two hours, Potter has been trying to convince him of the fact, but Draco refuses to listen.

"What if my being there means the difference between success and failure? What if it determines whether you live or die? I couldn't live with that, Harry." Draco looks over to Potter; it's with a more serious gaze than he would've thought possible. For once in his life he feels as though he's doing the right thing. He won't let Potter down, no matter how pleading Potter's gaze is.

"I don't want to lose you," says Potter, very quietly. "It's been nice… you know, having you around."

Draco smiles briefly before standing in front of Potter and cupping his cheek in his hand. They make love for the last time that night, though they don't realise it until it never happens again. Draco stumbles backward as Potter stands and pushes him fiercely against the wall, crushing their bodies together. A broken yes hisses from red lips before Potter chooses his next move, in the form of a kiss, more a savage punch as he ducks his head forward and presses his mouth against Draco's.

He rips his own lips away again after only a second then repeats the gesture several times, the spray of bullet-like kisses bruising the pale skin of Draco's lips. Firm hands, quick fingers, (both born for catching snitches, and therefore gloriously nimble and swift) search out skin that has become familiar ground over the short months they've spent doing this. Every inch of skin is pressed against the other's as they mould themselves to each other's form. It's warm and soft and so precious that Draco can't believe he's not merely in a dream.

As Draco enters Potter, (too rough but Potter keens anyway and laced his fingers with Draco's,) he feels a stab of painful realisation hits him; this is home, he thinks. I've found where I'm meant to be. I've found you.

"I'm coming with you, Harry," murmurs Draco and Potter lets out a strangled cry.

"No, no, no," he repeats before being overtaken by the feeling of sensation. Draco ignores him and tells himself to remember this moment because somehow, he knows that he could be the end.

It hurts, but then again it's never felt this good.

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"It was something he had to do. He had to prove to everyone that… well, I think you understand."

"He thought it would make people like him more?"

"Enough people liked him, sure enough. I think he just needed to prove to himself that he was… able, worthy… you know?"

Sigh.

I wish I could believe that.

Spite. Hatred. Jealousy.

You got to go on without me.

Pain. Pining. Love.

"Do you miss him?"

Sigh.

"Every day."

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The death eaters' wands point to both Potter and Draco; Voldemort stands proud, in the middle. Draco wonders if his father hides behind one of those masks. That hurts; he doesn't think about that again. They've come so far, and now here they are. The final showdown: the battle which the whole world has been waiting for. Draco wants to behave with indifference but he's fighting a battle inside him not to cower. He's certain that he's winning, for once.

Potter looks white, not the pigment invented in story tales, but an actual, deathly sallow hue that reminds Draco of the ghosts of Hogwarts. He hardly seems alive anymore, let alone the boy he has known for seven years. Something in his green eyes burns softly, as though he knows he's already won. It's like a secret. It's like he's just playing out the ending of a play when he has already read the finale.

But Draco doesn't know how this will turn out; he doesn't know whether the tale is a drama or a comedy. Looks exchange between the Gryffindor and the Slytherin.

I'll go that way if you—

No, no. It's too obvious.

Yes, but if you cast a spell to your—

Look, trust me. If you go—

Will you just listen!?

All he can do is be Potter's partner, as his lover creates a tale that will bide their time. Voldemort eagerly listens and Draco wonders if he has been given the same script, only his name has replaced Potter's as the victor.

I don't want you to go, thinks Draco with crystal clarity. I don't want to be without you. It startles him. It really is the end. Within an hour they could know their whole futures. Just one hour.

Potter says his speech to Voldemort who returns the gesture in kind; all the while Draco watches and wills Potter to look at him. If they can just move over there… If they can just reach that point… If they can just…

What if it goes wrong? Draco turns to face Potter one last time, his eyes willing Potter to know how much…

I never told you, not once.

And then it's all over. A few reckless moves, chance and consequence, and they bring him down. It wasn't meant to be like this. Then a blast of light, so unexpected that it doesn't even seem real. Draco doesn't want to believe whose face he sees behind the mask of the man that caused it. There's blood everywhere. It comes from him.

It doesn't even hurt.

Much.

At least they've won.

---------- 

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 -----------------

"Well, thank you very much, Mr Potter."

Harry nodded. A brief smile of thanks crossed his lips before he reached across the table to take the interviewers hand. "You're welcome."

"This should be a good little article. I wanted to give an accurate impression of the late Mr. Malfoy seeing as this weekend with be the tenth anniversary of Voldemort's fall. The rumours are rife, as I'm sure you're aware. Perhaps we can put the ghosts to rest, eh?"

Repressing a snort, Harry turned to grab the leather jacket that he had placed carelessly over a stand in the corner. The late Mr. Malfoy. It happened ten years ago; ten fucking years. That was pretty late, in Harry's opinion.

"You know, the Daily Prophet always strives to maintain a fair balance of views. I doubt anyone ever thought they'd see an article, like this, about a Malfoy."

"They're not all bad," replied Harry, scratching his nose absently.

"Well, no of course—I didn't mean—"

"Is that all?"

Harry walked over to the door and reached for the door handle. He was about to leave as a voice called out behind him.

"One more question, Mr. Potter?"

Harry turned, his eyebrows drawn together in a curious frown.

"Go on."

"Did you ever have any regrets?"

Harry smiled softly, not a smile of joy but one of great longing and remorse.

"Only one."

His tone was final; Harry made it quite clear to the reporter that he would be receiving no more answers. The man laughed in resignation.

"Fine, fair enough. Have it your way. Thanks again."

Harry stepped out into the empty hallway and headed for the lift, his mind replaying memories long pushed away. In front of them all was a ghost of a young man who smiled wistfully. In Harry's mind, the figure turned and placed a gentle hand on his arm.

Did you ever have any regrets? the voice asked in a tone Harry hadn't heard in ten years. Harry smiled, the tears that were burning his eyes forgotten as he forced himself to answer.

Only one, he thought and the ghost smiled.

Tell me.

"I wish you'd known," said Harry to the empty space around him before finally letting the image of that face drift away after ten years.

The ghost watched him lovingly before looking away. "I knew," it replied before ceasing to haunt his memories any more.

I knew, with or without you.

End