Archive of Our Own ^beta

Draco supposes he shouldn't be surprised when Potter shows up on his doorstep. Even so, he can't help but stand there in dull shock for a moment.

Potter looks uncomfortable and, more than anything, young. "Er, I'd expected a house-elf," he says to cover his awkwardness.

Draco simply stares at him blankly, his fingers stiff as they curl too tightly around the dark wood of the doorframe. Sometimes Draco's left wondering if his odd tendencies are an attempt to affirm that the world around him is real. He's still not quite sure he's convinced.

Potter swallows. "Right, then. I was sorry to hear about your father."

Draco blinks and it takes a moment for the grinding gears in his brain to process the words. Azkaban is a temporary stop on his father's whirlwind tour of shady politics and secret payoffs and Draco finds himself too bogged down in everything else to be all that fussed with this temporary stop off.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the Norway maple trees that line the drive swaying in a weak breeze, the leaves like individual fingers wriggling as the branches wave. He sees the trunk of the one closest begin to bow like it's made of rubber until the tops of its branches are brushing the walk in an odd sort of bow. Draco cuts his eyes away quickly. He hasn't slept since the war's end, five weeks to the day, and it's obviously causing him to go a bit… wrong.

"Malfoy!" Potter says loudly as though this isn't the first time he's said the name. Potter'd been growing steadily more uncomfortable as he watched all animation bleed away from Draco's face and now the Gryffindor's got a rather pronounced frown bending his mouth.

"What?" Draco snaps, feeling defensive after being caught in one of his bouts of less than rational thought.

The Gryffindor finally shoves his hand into his robe pocket and thrusts a hawthorn stick out at him, all but brandishing it in front of his face. "Here, have it," he says, his shoulders hunching up. The lightning bolt scar is visible on his forehead until the wind ruffles his messy hair. He shifts on his feet and his trainers squeak slightly. "I know you weren't allowed it under house arrest so I thought—Well, better to have it now when you can actually use it, yeah?"

Exactly the opposite of what Draco would have expected of him. Taunting him with it should have been Potter's first move. But then, Potter's never done what Draco's expected. His skin itches unpleasantly as he reaches out for the wand Potter still has shoved up under his nose. There's a great disconnect between them and Draco doesn't think he's the only one who senses it as his wand slides into his palm without the slightest hint of recognition. They might as well be strangers, really.

And then Draco thinks, perhaps Potter is taunting him after all. This line of thought causes him to bite out nastily, "Is that all?"

Potter's expression sours and he says testily, "I've also come to see your mother if she's in?"

She is but Draco's almost certain she'd have no desire to put on a brave face for Potter. "She's—" he pauses, trying to find the most diplomatic way to wave him off—because, like it or not, Potter is a war hero, "not receiving visitors at the moment."

"I understand." And, strangely, he seems to. "If you get the chance, I wonder if you could tell her thanks from me?"

Draco raises a skeptical brow, his rebellious wand quivering in his hand almost as if it's trying to get away. "And what on earth would you have to thank my mother for?"

Potter sighs tiredly. He doesn't seem annoyed, more like wearied. "Listen, if you expect me to tell you the whole of it, then I'd ask for a cuppa and a place to kick up first. I've been on my feet all morning and I'm dead knackered."

Draco frowns and stands in the door uncertainly, biting his lip. He doesn't particularly want to spend the afternoon with Potter, or any company really, and he doesn't think he's that curious besides. "I'd rather—"

"Malfoy, don't be a git and invite me in already," Potter cuts him off hotly.

Draco scowls but throws the door wide, saying snidely, "Make yourself at home, Potter." The sarcasm of which seems to be lost entirely on Potter as he walks inside, kicks up his feet and reclines in the largest chair in the study, the one that happens to be Draco's father's. Draco hides a smile as he imagines the choice words Lucius Malfoy would have if he knew Harry Potter was settling into his seat.

"So, where shall I start?" Potter says, grabbing a cup of tea off the sideboard and leaning back once again, shifting about to find the position of optimum comfort.

Draco raises his lip in consternation as he realizes he is having tea with Potter. "I find the beginning is generally best," he retorts with a half-hearted sneer, absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on the upholstered arm of his chair.

Potter snorts and sets off. It's just beginning to get dark when he winds down.

"For me?" Draco questions much later in disbelief and he can't say how much time has passed, only that it feels like ages.

"For you, Malfoy," Potter confirms. His tea is gone and he's eaten nearly all the biscuits, crumbs all down his front. His eyelids are growing heavy and Draco knows he has to usher him out soon, lest Potter curl up right here.

Draco leans into the spine of his chair, stunned into silent contemplation. He'd never known and, more than that, never would have guessed it. On a very real level, he knows that his mother cares for him but on a much deeper one the stray thought had always crossed his mind at the oddest times that perhaps this love is only because he is an extension of her and the Malfoy line. It's unbelievably freeing for him to know that he's wrong, especially considering recent discoveries.

"Huh," Draco grunts blankly and Potter startles a bit as he's been quiet so long now.

"Surprised, are you?" He sounds genuinely curious.

Draco looks up and realizes, all at once, that he is sharing far too much with Potter. He stands and glares at Potter until the other boy begins to struggle upright as well and says, "I think that's all the audience I can bare for one day, Potter." He spits the name the way he did in school out of nothing more than habit, though he's hardly apologetic for it.

Potter doesn't seem to mind and shrugs. "Was a bit more amiable than I'd expected, all around."

"I suppose so," Draco agrees cautiously.

He walks Potter to the door as his upbringing demands and the exasperating man turns before he steps through it. "It was... nice seeing you, Malfoy." He actually sounds as if he means it.

Draco will never understand Gryffindors.

He holds out his hand and there's a long moment in which Draco stares at it as though he's never seen anything like it before. "Er," Potter begins with a self-conscious grin. The hand starts to waver and Potter's just begun to pull it back when Draco decides, as easy and comforting as it would be to pretend, that he's not eleven anymore and he reaches out for it. It's a brief, loose handshake and Potter grins widely at him and, looking relieved, says, "Maybe I'll see you around then."

Draco breathes a sigh of relief when he finally passes the gates and Apparates away.

Pansy's still the indomitable bitch he's always known her to be and the confirmation puts him immediately more at ease. "It's racist," she says scrunching her nose. "And they look down on us for it! Well, what do they call making me work under that bloody wandmaker?" She leans forward and adds conspiratorially, "Oh and he's so old and there's crust at the corners of his mouth constantly, if only I had a wand that could do more than light up..." Her eyes narrow and Draco finds himself very glad for Ollivander's sake that she doesn't have a non-restricted wand. "It'd be different if he were something to look at! And what have you drawn then?"

"Scut work at Mungo's," Draco says sourly and Pansy has the decency to shut her gob for a moment. He's due to start in only a few days' time and, honestly, he couldn't care less where he ended up. Anything that gets his mind off his mind these days is more than welcome.

"Well," she says, floundering, "at least you haven't got to work with a three hundred and seventeen-year-old man who spends half the day bent over looking for boxes!"

Draco manages a snort at the image and concedes, "There is that, I suppose." He looks around and says as though he's only just noticed, "I thought Blaise was meant to meet us?"

"Oh, he was." Pansy rolls her eyes. "But he's far too fascinated with Gabrielle's cunt to spend any time with his oldest and dearest friends."

"You're a vulgar slut, Pans," Draco says with a half-hearted smile.

Pansy looks offended and corrects, "I'm an honest slut. Honestly, Draco." She sizes him up and adds, "Speaking of, darling, you've a face like a bag of spanners."

"Lovely," Draco comments dryly, leaning back in his seat.

"You'd deny it if you could," she points out. "Really now, what have you been doing? Not eating or sleeping from the looks of it."

"You're a judgmental cow, Parkinson," Draco retorts.

Pansy's smirk is amused and she puts in, "Well, at least your sterling personality is intact." Oddly, she does sound relieved.

Draco sniffs. "I've enough nagging from my mother besides." Which is not an exaggeration.

Pansy considers this and eventually concludes, "Yes, I do suppose Narcissa would be doing a more than adequate job of it. I'll leave it to the experts then, shall I?"

Draco scowls at her but she doesn't seem in the least bit chastised and is still in high spirits when she bounds off a half hour later, squeezing his hand and saying, "It's good to see you doing better, Draco."

Draco arrives at St. Mungo's two minutes before his first shift is to begin and the woman at the front desk gives him the same look that the girl who'd given him the assignment there had. It's a look that says he is less than dung and if he had any decency at all he'd find a nice quiet corner to go curl up and die in. She directs him up to the Spell Damage ward with condescension and it takes all of Draco's self-control not to call her a cellulite-riddled cow. He can't afford those kinds of comments nowadays.

His shift supervisor is a tall man with a slight gut. He has dark hair that's a bit thin on the top and lightweight glasses perched down near the end of his nose. Oddly, he's not an unattractive man. He looks harried and likely a few years older than he actually is. Draco thinks maybe he's in his early fifties and it's extremely obvious that he dislikes Draco on sight. "You're not to leave the floor while you're on duty," he tells him, as though he's just caught Draco sneaking towards the lifts. "There's a break room at the end of the hall and you can bring a lunch for yourself if you like, though in all likelihood you won't be eating much these first few weeks. Spell Damage can get a bit nasty. If you do decide to employ your break, then you've twenty minutes to eat before I'll expect you back on the floor.

"I don't want you interacting with the patients if you can avoid it," he says as though he expects Draco might poison them if he turns his back for more than a minute. "You can bring them a pillow or something of the like but beyond that, I expect you to be neither seen nor heard. Your main duties will be to clean out bedpans, curry to the Healers and their staff and keep the floor as clean as possible."

Draco wants to point out that he can hardly be expected to accomplish all this in a nine-hour day but instead he just nods while Head Healer Stenwick, according to his badge, leads him to the janitor's closet. "We don't allow any unnecessary spells on this floor and therefore you will be doing all this by hand. I trust you have no objections," he challenges.

Draco clenches his jaw. "No, sir."

Stenwick gives him a sly smile. "Good lad."

When Draco flops into bed that night, all his joints ache and his back is horrendously sore from bending over bedpans all day. The work is far from rewarding and it seems tailor-made to exhaust him in both body and mind, as though if he's this godawful tired he won't be able to formulate any Death Eater schemes. Stenwick had kept him there fourteen hours, claiming it had 'slipped his mind' that Draco had meant to be clocked off nearly five hours earlier.

Draco rolls over and stares up at the ceiling, knowing as weary as he is in body, he still won't be able to find any rest tonight. He doesn't know how long it's been since he truly slept but he knows it was before the whole bloody war had ripped everything that had ever meant anything away from him.

"How's the work, Draco?" his mother asks from across the breakfast table the next morning.

"It's fine, Mummy," he outright lies.

She stares at him as though sensing the falsehood and Draco hopes his Glamour hasn't given way under the scrutiny. "You've always seemed as if you would have an aptitude for Healing. And there is a whole side of it that's Potions-oriented."

The piece of scone Draco's just popped in his mouth is sharp and scrapes his throat on the way down. He coughs, unsettled, and reminds her, "I'm not exactly there to learn the craft, Mummy."

She frowns. "And what about the Healer in charge, he hasn't taken to you?"

"It's a bit too soon to tell," Draco says before taking a large sip of juice to cover the face he makes after he fibs.

"You could ask him to teach you a few things on the side if he's able." She gazes at him seriously and Draco notices her eyes are a bit glossier than usual. "I know it's meant to be a punishment but that doesn't mean it has to be miserable. I hope you can find something out of all this, Draco."

"I will, Mummy, I will," Draco promises, knowing there's no way in Hades he can keep to it.

Stenwick seems to get some sort of vindictive pleasure out of ordering Draco up and down the wing to fetch things he just 'suddenly remembers' and, by the end of the day, he's got the rest of the staff on the floor doing it as well. When it's finally time to break for lunch, Draco's body is aching and protesting and dying for the sleep his mind won't give. He steals away to one of the emptier patient halls. He's found that if he breaks in the break room, people entirely ignore the food spread out in front of him and send him about on errands.

He's been more ravenous than usual as of late due to his constant, back-breaking schedule and his lack of opportunities to eat at the hospital and, just as he's about to dig in to his shepherd's pie, he hears a bright voice say as though only just solving a puzzle, "You've snuck in for an autograph, haven't you?" Draco turns to see Gilderoy Lockhart standing behind him in the hospital's white patient robes, chuckling. "No need to be shy, my boy. My fame precedes me, you see?" he says the last bit as though this is a great, personal burden to him.

"I'd wondered what you were doing, sneaking in here the way you did, but it seems so obvious now! Of course you'd want to see me," he says proudly as he's figured it out all by himself.

And Draco can't help himself, it's simply so ridiculous that it hardly seems real—he laughs harder than he has done in ages.

Lockhart frowns a moment but quickly regains his enthusiasm. "Don't worry, I can do the bunched up writing now! Have you a pen, I'm afraid they've taken all mine away."

Draco's not getting any better at controlling himself as Lockhart continues prattling on in his arrogant fashion.

"Is that pie?" he pipes up suddenly, and there's something sly in his voice. He shuffles closer to Draco and his eyes are round and focused on his plate. "Who gave you that? We don't get anything quite like that."

Draco settles himself and clears his throat. "It's from home, I work here."

Lockhart seems to consider this. "I'll trade you an autograph for half that pie," he barters, licking his lips. "And why shouldn't you want to give it to me," he adds with a brilliant smile, "celebrities need such exemplary sustenance in order to continue charming and entertaining all you normal folk!"

Draco shakes his head, still amused. "I don't want your autograph, Lockhart. I had you as a professor at school for a year."

"Ah, so you'll already have it then, won't you?" he says knowingly, looking crushed as he stares wistfully at Draco's pie. He brightens suddenly as he realizes, "I was a grand professor then, was I?"

Draco grins. "Utterly grand. You were a right swot. Knew all of the course books by heart, you did," Draco humors him. In fact, Draco wouldn't be surprised if Lockhart hadn't read a single one of the books he'd not only assigned but written himself.

"To be expected, really." Lockhart grins widely and sniffs. "I excel at everything I attempt!"

In the end, Draco shares half his pie with Lockhart as he finds the obnoxious man somehow cheering while Lockhart points out happily, "Your hair's too blond. You should work on getting it more my shade, golden, see?"

Draco snorts and promises, "I'll work on that."

The more weeks that pass without an eruption from Draco about his duties or the way Stenwick treats him, the more the man's attitude towards him begins to cool. It is hardly an amiable one but it is no longer venomous either. He is still a bit nasty in some of his comments but, more often than not, he just treats Draco as if he is entirely inconsequential.

And all of it is about to be ruined, Draco thinks as he leans his hot cheek against the edge of the toilet's rim. He'd woken up only moments ago, covered in sweat and with Vince's face looming out of the Fiendfyre at him, his skin half-melted off. He'd scuttled to the loo and managed to make it to the toilet before he'd lost his dinner but not by much.

It isn't a dream he's had recently, but until this week, he hadn't been asleep long enough to dream either. He feels like he's been trampled in his sleep, all of his muscles still sore from carrying box after box from the storeroom on the ground floor up to the fourth yesterday, and he honestly doesn't see how he's going to be able to drag himself into work.

He tells himself to take it slow after the morning he's had but when he realizes he has exactly three minutes to be on the wing and ready to receive his day's duties from Stenwick, he can't help but rush into the Floo without brushing his teeth or buttoning up his robe.

He's out of breath when he reaches the corridor that leads to Stenwick's office but he's on time. The man gives Draco's appearance a once over and says sneeringly, "Having a bit of a lie-in this morning, were we, Malfoy?"

Draco admirably doesn't rise to the bait and only replies, "I'm ready to work, sir."

"Good then," Stenwick says snidely. "And work you will, Malfoy," he adds in a murmur.

Stenwick sets him to cleaning out the experimental lab's cauldrons, a task that takes up the rest of his day. And "clean" is really the wrong word as it's more like "scraping out entrails." When it comes time for his break, he can't even look at his pudding without feeling nauseous and he hands it off to Lockhart, who accepts it eagerly, without a word.

It's a sad truth when Draco realizes that for the past few days, the only bright spot he's had during the time he's spent at Mungo's are expressly those moments he's spent with the spell-damaged, conceited prig.

There's a roiling in his stomach when he sets off the next morning as he imagines spending another day up to his elbows in slimy animal guts. Remembering the odd look his mother had given him that morning as she'd slid a pudding into his lunch and he'd raced off toward the loo in record time, he can't help but be glad he's made the fuss. An apple is much less likely to send his appetite fleeing after all. In fact, only Lockhart seems disappointed when he announces that he's switched it out.

Draco rolls his eyes. "I've brought a pastie for you, you opportunistic bastard."

Lockhart brightens instantly and flashes his Witch Weekly award-winning smile at him, something which Draco should be infinitely grateful for he's been told (now many times over). "Well, I suppose that's all right then," Lockhart gives over, obviously thinking this is very big of him. He chews on the pastie thoughtfully before his eyes light up. "I've got something, you know!"

Draco eyes him skeptically. "Have you now?"

Lockhart notices Draco's tone, which is new. Before, he would simply refuse to acknowledge Draco's sarcasm or any sort of nay-saying towards him, not when he was so brilliant at twisting anything and everything into praise for him. "Yes, I have. You needn't look at me as if I'm mad, I know what I'm talking about," he scolds.

"Forgive me, Lockhart," Draco says teasingly, "but you've yet to let me in on it."

Lockhart blushes slightly, pretends he doesn't, and blusters, "Well, you weren't ready to know quite then. I had to let the suspense build a little bit, didn't I?"

"Certainly," Draco agrees, even though he doesn't really.

"That lovely assistant Healer, Dolores—"

"Rowena," Draco corrects with ease.

"Yes, her," Lockhart agrees with hardly a pause, "she brought me this fantastic set of Gobstones and even taught me how to play!"

He sounds absolutely childish in his excitement. Draco snorts and can't help but point out, "It's amazing to me that you have no idea of the woman's name and yet you know for certain that she's an assistant Healer."

"Don't go looking for things to quibble about, Draco," Lockhart warns him without any real bite, and he's grinning as he always is. "Will you play with me or not?"

Draco sets down his sandwich with a sigh and shrugs. "Only one game."

Three games later and Draco is certain that Lockhart is cheating. He is simply not this feeble at this game, if anything it's Lockhart that's feeble, a feeble-minded wanker. And Draco tells him as much as Lockhart makes yet another expert play. Lockhart laughs in a very charming manner and Draco feels even more violent towards him. "Oh and you are a poor loser," Lockhart says happily as Draco makes the entire pile explode.

Draco is about to tell him exactly what he thinks of the cheating git when he notices that someone is staring at him from his periphery. When he looks up, he truly wishes he hadn't. Longbottom doesn't seem to have any better reaction to him and, while Draco knew his parents were on this hallway, he had honestly never expected to run into him.

Longbottom's a hero and Draco's a villain and they are really never meant to be in the same place again, him or any other Gryffindor. Eventually Longbottom gets his feet working again and shuffles out of the ward without a second glance and Lockhart leans close and says in a voice full of intrigue, "Do you know that boy?"

Draco gets him off the subject by challenging, "I wouldn't think you'd care, it does have so very little to do with you."

Lockhart leans back at once and says studiously, "Well, yes, yes, that is quite true, isn't it?"

And Draco thinks maybe he likes the man even better after that answer.

It's only after quite a bit of prodding on Greg's part that Draco finally agrees to visit him out in the Shetlands. His mother had ferried him away there almost as soon as his trial had been done and Greg had been on him ever since. He only has the weekend but it's been nearly three months since he's set eyes on Greg and he doesn't know when he'll have the chance to meet him again. He stops in Diagon an hour or so before his Portkey is set to leave, window-shopping for some knickknack Greg might enjoy.

He doesn't dare risk looking inside unless he's sure he means to buy something. He hasn't been to Diagon since right after his own trial and it had been an unpleasant enough experience that he had hoped to never have to repeat it.

He's hoping people's opinions on him have calmed somewhat since his last visit. He's standing outside Quality Quidditch, wondering if Greg wouldn't like a Falmouth Falcons calendar when he hears a friendly voice call out to him.

Draco turns in surprise to find Potter making his way through the thoroughfare towards him. "I thought that was you," he says when he finally breaks out the other side. "Bit hard to mistake that hair." He frowns and adds unnecessarily, "Well, I suppose it could've been your dad."

They both seem to be wondering why in the hell Potter would ever voluntarily mention his father.

"Er, so, how is he then?" Potter says, the epitome of discomfort.

"Potter. You don't want to talk about my father, do you?" Potter shakes his head fitfully, looking grateful. "Good, because I don't want to talk about my father with you." Azkaban had turned out to be much less intimidating without the Dementors and it hadn't taken his father long to gain back his usual swagger once he'd bought his way out of his cell, which Draco had missed dearly in the past few years. The only thing that had significantly changed was his father's attitude towards him, which was much more paternal and much less as a means to an end.

"What are you up to then?" Potter changes the subject smoothly. "Eyeing the new brooms?"

Either Potter is extremely dense or he doesn't have a full grasp of exactly how much had been taken from his family in 'reparations.' "Hardly," Draco replies stoutly, "I was looking for something for Greg."

"It's great you two still keep in touch," Potter puts in, looking so damn earnest.

Draco nods. "It hasn't been easy. His mother shuttled him off to the Shetlands but it'll be nice to see him."

"I'll bet. How long are you leaving for?" Potter asks politely and it takes a moment for Draco to realize they've fallen into step with one another as though they walk down the street together daily.

"Just the weekend," Draco answers benignly. "I have to be back at Mungo's bright and early Monday morning."

"I'd heard you were working there," Potter says, and he makes it sound as if Draco's picked it rather than been forced into it. Draco finds himself oddly grateful to him for it. "Neville said he saw you there talking to Lockhart."

Draco's somewhat embarrassed that Longbottom felt the need to put in whom he was with. "He's barmy, he is, but entertaining."

"I'm not judging, Draco," Potter says with a smile. "Nev said it looked as if you were both enjoying yourselves."

It takes a minute for Draco to note the use of his first name and, when he does, he wonders what the hell Potter is playing at. "I've still got to find a gift for Greg," Draco says, trying to shake Potter.

But Potter won't have it. "I'm not great at the whole gift-giving bit but maybe I could help?" he throws out hopefully.

"It'll be dreadfully boring," Draco tries with unease.

Potter snorts. "I doubt that."

And Draco's temper flares as he realizes exactly what Potter's up to, he's escorting him around Diagon! He's probably afraid that someone will try something and due to his damn savior complex, he sees it as his own personal duty to stop it from happening. Draco's fuming as he sets off towards the secondhand shop towards the far end of Diagon, Potter falling happily in tow, yapping away in a genial tone.

"I've been thinking about going into something like Auror training but you need N.E.W.T.s for that and we never sat 'em, did we? I can't imagine revising now anyway, not after all that's happened. Besides I'm sure I've had more than my share of catching bad guys already but nothing's ever really got my blood pumping quite like it. Well, except maybe Quidditch. Of course, that was only in the games I played with you." Potter swallows and casts a shrewd glance Draco's way as though he means to gauge Draco's reaction to the declaration. Draco manages to miss this entirely as he's barely listening.

Draco nods mindlessly and hopes that it's enough of an indication that he's paying some attention. He's distracted completely however as he passes Slug & Jiggers and an aroma of such magnitude literally knocks him back. It's all he can do to keep from retching and he's feeling a bit woozy. Potter's kept walking but, as soon as he realizes he's alone, he doubles back in a rush. "Malfoy, are you all right?" he asks, his face scrunched up in a surprisingly genuine expression of concern.

"Flabberghasted leeches," Draco manages.

Potter looks painfully confused. "Um... what?"

"The smell," Draco clarifies, "it's flabberghasted leeches." Or better yet, it's precisely the scent that's lingered around Draco the past week as he's been scraping their insides out of cauldrons. It's always been a particularly rancid smell, in fact, he'd constantly wondered how Severus could even—he jerks his mind away. "I've had a recent and prolonged run-in with it," Draco tells Potter with a grimace, adding, "they're used in a lot of medicinal potions," when Potter continues to look at him blankly.

"Ugh, that's vile, Malfoy," Potter commiserates but he sounds amused now that he knows there's no real danger. Draco just nods and Potter chimes in, "We could stop in at the Leaky for a pint or maybe Fortescue's for the same. I'm betting either one would do away with the odor quick-like."

The offer's tempting, to Draco's great surprise, but he shakes his head. "I really ought to go, my Portkey out is scheduled in a quarter hour or so." His tone is somewhat regretful and Potter seems to understand.

"Maybe some other time?" Potter asks blithely and locks on Draco until he answers uncertainly, "Perhaps."

When Draco returns, he's practically bullied into an early dinner by Pansy, who wants to hear all about his trip and how Greg is faring out in the Shitlands. "I cannot believe his mother would go there of all places. It's just so common." Draco's still amazed she can maintain her snobbish attitude and she grins at him as though she knows it too.

He taps a finger on the tabletop and sighs. "No Blaise again then?"

Pansy's nose wrinkles. "He's still drooling after that Veela girl and I imagine it will be quite some time before we see him again. Either she'll finally move on or he'll be arrested for statutory and we can visit him in Azkaban." She grins wickedly and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it effortlessly. "I'm trying to schedule some time to care about that." She pauses and stares at him thoughtfully as though weighing her next words. "It is entirely reminiscent of how you were these last two years, you know."

"Stuff it, Parkinson," Draco warns, jaw clenched so hard it feels as though it might snap off completely. He's carefully constructed walls around those memories and he despises when people put chinks in them.

"You know it's true, Draco," she says, her voice soft. "You haven't gotten over it and you won't until you—"

Draco thrusts his chin forward and challenges, "Do I seem miserable to you?" Pansy's mouth drops open but Draco interrupts before she can speak. "No, I'm fine, so just leave off, all right?" He spends a lot of time pretending he's fine, at least. Enough that he can pull it off when he likes and he finds it a bit offensive that she's not acknowledging all the effort he's put into acting okay.

Pansy ashes her cigarette thoughtfully. "I imagine this is how Blaise is about his Veela wench, though likely much less articulate."

Pansy grins and Draco smirks at her utter bitchiness, knowing the moment has passed. He clears his throat, wolfishly pleased when his next comment nearly causes her to swallow her tongue. "I've forgotten to tell you, I ran into Potter just before I was due to leave. He invited me for drinks."

Pansy appears to have been struck dumb.

"I couldn't manage it, of course, what with my Portkey scheduled to leave so soon," he says nonchalantly, picking at the grime under his fingernails. Scut work has absolutely ruined them. "But apparently he's seen fit to re-extend the offer." He pulls a letter out of his breast pocket and hands it over to her smoothly.

She snatches at it and her eyes rove over it greedily. By the end, she has a wild look in her gaze and she's practically giddy. "Why, he almost sounds smitten!"

Draco starts out of his smooth, uncaring pose with a squawk. "He most certainly does not. He wants us to be friendly, that's all, and likely for his own gain somehow," he defends hotly.

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Read the letter. Honestly, Draco, how obtuse could you be?"

Draco snatches the letter out of her hand and reads it over once again.

Draco,

"What, it hardly seems risqué," Draco points out with a pronounced frown.

Pansy snorts. "I imagine for a Gryffindor, it is."

"What utter nonsense." Draco waves her off. "You're just looking for a bit of scandal seeing as all you've got for entertainment is an antique and his wands."

And that's got her off this insane theory about Potter and onto a tirade about Ollivander's most recent flaws, which include wearing plaid pants and referring to her as Violax.

When Draco arrives the next day, Stenwick seems to have worn himself out on the leeches and sends him off on his regular duties. Draco waits until the other man's at the opposite end of the hall to breathe his sigh of relief.

"I have read a few of them, you know," Lockhart tells him when he breaks for lunch that day, referring to "Gadding with Ghouls", "Voyages with Vampires" and the like.

"Have you?" Draco says with a polite interest that would be much more convincing if he wasn't still staring at the Gobstones and trying to figure a way to cheat without Lockhart noticing.

Lockhart wrinkles his nose and leans closer. "I wouldn't believe a lick of it were I you," he advises lowly. "I either have a death wish or it was all a lot of tosh." He raises his eyebrows and says with a slight grin, "And I'm far too pretty to have a death wish."

Draco laughs out loud, making his hand slip and the pile explode. Lockhart looks as if Christmas has come early as Draco hands over his Cauldron Cake.

Draco's not sure what's compelled him to respond to Potter's owl with a time for drinks, but he supposes that he's curious about Potter and this sudden desire he seems to have for them to spend time together. Within a few seconds of him entering the Leaky, he hears Potter's distinct voice yodeling out, "Oi, Malfoy!"

Draco turns and sees Potter in the back of the pub, waving to him with an arm that's so stretched it almost looks painful. "Hello, Potter," Draco greets as he slides into the booth. Potter's already ordered for him, which Draco finds a bit presumptuous, but his only outward disapproval is a perked eyebrow that Potter pretends not to notice.

He raises his glass and says, "Hello to you too, Malfoy." His cheeks are a bit rosy and Draco wonders if Potter's been drinking without him. How late is he exactly? "Didn't know if you'd actually show. Wasn't really sure if I wanted you to either."

Well. That stings. Draco scowls, wishing he hadn't shown and demands coolly, "So, why the call for this little get together then?"

Potter frowns. "I didn't mean it like—I've put my foot in it already," this last bit is muttered more to himself than to Draco. He looks angry with himself for a moment before he offers Draco a contrite smile. "I'm glad you're here. I thought maybe the war could be over for us too."

Draco defrosts a bit and raises his drink to his lips with a conceding, "Fair enough." It's lager and Draco is far from pleased. Once they get going in earnest, he pushes the bottle halfway across the table. Potter doesn't notice.

On their third drink—Draco's moved onto some smart Ogden's whisky—Draco interrupts Potter's spiel on how he should finally 'bite the bullet' (which is apparently "a Muggle expression, you sheltered git!") and get another owl so he can ask, "Did you decide on a future yet?"

Potter takes the subject change in stride and shakes his head. "Not quite," he admits, adding cheekily, "but I'm leaning toward the one with the new car smell."

Draco's caught entirely off guard—because who would have thought Potter could be funny?—and whisky comes out his nose, rather painfully.

Potter looks like he might wet himself in glee. "I didn't expect you'd get that," he adds finally.

Draco grabs up Potter's napkin in addition to his own and wipes his nose. "I'm apparently not as oblivious as you'd like to paint me," he says in a stuffy voice.

Potter immediately backtracks, seeming crushed that he's lost Draco's favor so quickly. "It's not like that. I don't think you're—"

"Untwist your knickers, Potter." Draco waves his hand, hoping to put him more at ease. "I'm not so fragile that I'm going to storm out over some perceived slight, I've learned when to feel insulted at the very least."

Rather than accepting the explanation, Potter takes on the 'bigger picture' bit of that and his face grows serious. "I'm sorry," he puts in honestly.

Draco rolls his eyes. Trust a savior to know how to do nothing else. "Oh, let's not. I don't want to be saved from it and that's all you know how to do so let's leave it, yeah?"

Potter looks like he might argue for a moment but then he slumps back down in his seat and shrugs with an agreeable, "All right."

Draco points the mouth of his bottle at Potter and steers them back on track. "So, career."

"Right." Potter nods. He picks at the label on his lager and hunches his shoulders. "Everything just seems so tiny, I guess, compared to, you know, killing Voldemort."

Draco snorts. "I can't wrap my head around all this dithering. I know what you're going to do because everyone knows what you're going to do." And he's not being pompous really. Everyone but Potter does seem to know.

"Oh," Potter seems surprised, his eyes wide. He sweeps his hand across week-old peanut shells and entreats, "Enlighten me then."

Draco eyes him skeptically, wondering if he is just taking the piss before remembering that he's dealing with a Gryffindor. "You're going to be an Auror without taking N.E.W.T.s because they'll let you do anything you'd like, you realize? You'll probably burn out on it by your mid-to-late thirties, I expect—but that's just my two knuts there. You'll marry Ginevra Weasley and have a gaggle of sprogs that you'll name truly vomit-worthy sentimental names and live out the rest of your life in the glow of faded celebrity and hero worship."

Potter doesn't react for a long moment. He finally raises his beer to his lips and takes a noisy swig. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says blankly, "Well, that's… one plan certainly."

Draco doesn't think Potter can really deny that it's the most likely scenario for him. "It's all plausible, I'll admit, except for that bit about me being queer." Potter immediately covers his face as well as he can by taking a long drink again but Draco can see that he is blushing intensely.

Unless of course he's gay.

"You – what?" Draco manages to rebut intelligently.

"I fancy blokes," Potter clarifies with a defiant tilt to his chin, though he still looks about uneasily. "And I'm not saying it any louder than that as I'm not exactly keen on the Prophet getting wind of it."

Draco sits there stupidly, unable to believe that Potter actually trusts him with that sort of information already and he opens his mouth to say as much when Potter heads him off by asking about work. He seems desperate for the subject change so Draco gives into it without a fuss. Without much of a hiccup, they're onto him and his daily devaluation at Mungo's.

Draco's been talking so long that he's lost track of when he started when Potter interrupts. "You like it," is Potter's genius insight.

Draco has to take a second to make that sentence make sense. When he does, his only comment is: "What?"

"Scut work at Mungo's," Potter clarifies. "They tried to humiliate you and break you but you like it." And he sounds so bloody pleased with the fact that Draco hasn't been broken that he isn't quite sure what to make of it.

"I don't know I'd go that far…" he hedges after the silence has sat long enough to begin to stink.

"Oh, come on, I hear the way you talk about it," Potter rallies. "You're enjoying yourself."

Draco offers him a slight smile, realizing he's been caught out, and admits, "It's not the worst thing that's ever happened to me, I'll concede that much."

"It's the best you've ever seen, isn't it?" Lockhart is leaning towards him, a look of childish glee on his face.

Draco stares down at the paper again. "Naturally. A triumph of written word," he says pompously, handing the parchment back to Lockhart.

Lockhart sniffs as though he's expected nothing less, though Draco catches the way the line of his shoulders becomes less tense in relief. "I've been practicing. My fans deserve the best after all!"

Draco refrains from rolling his eyes and chirps, "Well, considering they've such expert taste."

Lockhart brightens insanely and booms out, "Just what I was thinking, Mr. Malfoy!"

Draco knows this and only put it out there to head off just a bit of Lockhart's pomposity. He wonders when exactly he's become so in tune with Lockhart's personality.

Lockhart is still signing his large stack of glossy Gilderoys when Draco hears footsteps pause in front of the man's cot. He looks up to see Longbottom staring at him uneasily. "Malfoy," he acknowledges with a nod.

Draco blinks but eventually manages to return the greeting. "Longbottom," he responds, slightly uptight.

That seems to be a successful enough interaction for Longbottom and he continues out of the ward without pausing for another awkward moment. Lockhart looks put out as he whines, "You're friendly now?" He seems genuinely disappointed over this. "Only the other week you looked as edgy as if a time-release hex was about to set off."

"Your outright nosiness is astonishing," Draco says, barely paying him any mind.

Lockhart nods with an equally distracted, "Thank you." He's back to his much more important bunched up writing while Draco's reliving the grislier bits of the War.

Halfway through the week, Potter owls him.

Draco hardly hesitates before agreeing to go. He thinks the fresh air might do him good as he's been stupidly dizzy recently thanks to getting stuck down in the Potions lab and being forced to breathe in Death-Cap fumes for the better part of an hour. The aftereffects had turned out to be quite a bit nastier than even he'd expected.

When the day of the game arrives and Draco meets Potter in their box, Potter's look of relief is priceless. Did he not expect Draco would come?

"I'm glad you made it, Malfoy." And he more than sounds it. Apparently Potter really did think Draco would ditch him.

"Of course," Draco replies politely. "Thank you for the invite."

"Any time." He's grinning now and says, "I've got a feeling the Cannons are going to pull it out this time."

"What a nice little world of delusion you're living in, Potter," Draco banters. He's missed this, Quidditch and easy conversation. Who would have thought he could enjoy either with Potter? But this truly was a good idea and he can't help but think better of Potter for it. "You do realize the Cannons haven't won the league since the 1892 match against the Arrows and that was only because Appleby had to put in their third rotation Seeker?"

"You agree then, they're long overdue," Potter says cheekily, knocking him with his shoulder.

The game starts off quickly, the Snitch spotted within the first thirty seconds and the Cannons taking off into a surprising lead, which has Potter gloating obnoxiously. When the Quaffle goes up on the Arrows end for the eighth time, Gorgovitch weaving through Voung—Iverson—Timmons—Voung again—to make the score seventy-twenty to the Cannons, Potter leaps up and throws his arms around him.

There's an awkward moment as they disentangle but the whole time Potter's smiling so wide it looks like his cheeks hurt. And Draco decides it's good that they celebrated the moment so thoroughly, as it's the last bit of excitement for hours.

The Snitch remains elusive and the Arrows's Keeper finally seems to have remembered how to play his position, meaning the two teams are locked in a rather dull standoff. Potter takes this opportunity to talk to Draco. About everything. And Draco finds himself talking back, much to his surprise.

"You're looking a bit peaky, Malfoy," Potter points out as they slide into the second hour of stagnant play. In fact, they've both nearly forgotten the match entirely.

Draco blusters and puts in defensively, "Manual labor doesn't agree with me. I should hardly think that's a surprise."

Potter chuckles. They miss the end of the match, Arrows narrowly victorious as Wyden catches the Snitch, because Potter's deep into an anecdote about Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday party and Draco's laughing too hysterically to hear the crowd cheering below them.

He's stretched out on Lockhart's cot, trying to crack his back when Lockhart announces with a sniff, "I don't think this is in its prime."

Lockhart's sitting cross-legged by his side and Draco barely spares him a glance as he states simply, "Tarts do not go bad," easily invalidating Lockhart's thick comment.

Lockhart shoves the tart in question under his nose, challenging, "Prove it."

"If I eat it then you can't eat it." Draco's fairly certain this logic is infallible.

Lockhart considers this before dropping the strawberry tart into the rubbish bin next to his bedside table. "Better safe than sorry," he offers in explanation when Draco glares at him.

Draco rolls his eyes and sits up. "Please, Lockhart, your gratitude is overwhelming," he says in toneless sarcasm.

Lockhart waves him off effortlessly and changes the subject to something that suits him better than being reprimanded – however subtly. "We've a new nurse on the floor, did you know?"

"I did," Draco confirms with a nod. He glances at Lockhart with a sly smile and asks with amusement, "What do you think her name is?"

Lockhart scowls at him. "She doesn't fluff the pillows correctly," he says forcefully, steering Draco back to the topic at hand.

"There's a correct way to do that?" Draco asks without much interest.

"As if you don't know," Lockhart retorts and Draco hates that he knows that about him. Of course there's a correct way to fluff pillows. When you're a Malfoy, there's a correct way to do everything. "I'll need to have a word with her," he determines.

Draco smirks and needles him. "I hope she spits on the cover."

Lockhart looks torn between being appalled and amused. "Don't be grotesque," he chastises but he's grinning toothily at Draco. He catches sight of the nurse in question and hops off the mattress as though something is after him, calling, "Oh, you, Bridget!" And Bridget is quite obviously a name he has come up with on the spot. Draco really does hope she spits on Lockhart's pillow.

He's leaning back against the wall with his arms behind his head, staring at the pinpricks in the ceiling when he feels the mattress sink down again. That certainly didn't take long. Perhaps Bridget will last on the Thickey ward.

An unfamiliar voice inquires in an amicable tone, "How've you been then, Malfoy?"

Draco shoots up to find Longbottom sitting on the edge of the bed. His brain stutters and he hears himself say ever so intelligently, "You sliced the head off the Dark Lord's snake."

Longbottom barks out a laugh before hushing it up and tugging at his sleeve. "Er, yeah."

What on earth compelled him to blurt that out? Granted, it is about the only thing he knows about Longbottom, besides the fact that his parents' brains are Swiss cheese and if he has to choose between which random fact to spit out, he definitely picks the snake bit. "That was – ah, you did good." Merlin, why doesn't he add a thumbs up while he's at it? "I wouldn't have thought you had it in you, Longbottom," he appends truthfully.

"You were real good at underestimating me if I remember correctly." And it's not said coolly but neither is it a tone that's trying for friendly anymore.

Draco just shrugs and nods evenly. "I did seem to have a special skill for that where Gryffindors were concerned."

Surprisingly, Longbottom chortles at that and he actually sounds pleased when he says, "See you around, Malfoy."

"You too, Longbottom," Draco returns, feeling a bit dazed.

Draco's hiding downstairs in the Experimental Potions lab due to the smell of noxious Bubotuber pus that's lingering up on the Spell Damage ward and threatening to make him sick up every time he catches it anew, a worn book on ingredients propped up in his lap. He takes the last bite of his apple, making sure to mark his page with his non-sticky hand.

He's stretched his lunch break to the last possible second and is making his way back up to his pus-infested floor when he hears someone cursing just ahead of him.

He peers into the next room and sees a young man in the standard lime green Healer robes practically spitting at a cauldron that is bubbling over nonstop. Draco watches him toss in two more ingredients without ceremony to no avail, as it's overflowing even worse than before.

"Billywig stings will stop it fizzing up like that," Draco offers unassumingly.

The man is practically huffing in irritation and he swings his scowl around on Draco. He grabs a tin box off the shelf without looking at it and dumps half its contents over the open mouth of the cauldron. The potion immediately settles to a low simmer. The man's only response is a single blink and a stumped, "Oh."

Draco starts to leave when he's called back by the question, "How did you know it wouldn't interfere adversely with the other ingredients?"

The man pushes square-rimmed glasses up his nose and Draco notices for the first time that he's quite attractive, fit but not too muscular. He has chestnut brown hair, a bit of scruff from a few days without a shave and golden eyes that invite a second look. His face is in the shape of a heart. It's nice.

Draco shrugs back into himself. "You're making an Alihotsy Draught, notoriously un-tetchy ingredients."

The man raises a skeptical brow. Draco can't see his nametag; he's too far away. "You got all that from—what?—three ingredients?"

"Two," Draco corrects without sounding like he's bragging. He's never been able to do that before. He offers another shrug. "I like Potions."

The man finally grins at him. "So I gathered."

When he tells Potter later that night as they meet for drinks, the Gryffindor does not seem too pleased with the anecdote. "He actually listened to me, Potter," Draco reiterates, fearing he might have missed the point. He points at his own chest. "Me. A Healer listened to me."

Potter glares at him. "Yeah, I heard you the first time. The attractive Healer listened to you, huzzah." He digs into his beer label with his thumbnail as though he's trying to cause it serious pain.

Draco rolls his eyes. "Trust you to focus on the most insignificant detail of the whole story. If you're worried I'm going to steal away this newly discovered fuckable male specimen, you can have him. I'm not interested in dating at the moment."

Potter instantly perks up and pounces on the new information. "You're not?" bounds out of his mouth happily. He beams at him but only a moment later it's as though some horrible fact has just sunk in and he's back to looking morose.

Potter's mood swings are utterly incomprehensible, Draco decides, and he gives up trying to decipher them.

Potter tries for a smile but it dies about halfway through. He tips his bottle towards Draco and says, "You still look like death warmed up, but at least you're finally starting to put on weight again. You were looking a bit too much like a skeleton for my tastes."

Draco leans back in his seat and pouts. "I didn't realize there was any bit of me that was to your tastes."

Potter chokes on his drink and sputters but Draco's not paying attention as he's trying to catch Tom's eye so he can order their next round.

Draco's innocently emptying the trash bins in the Bonham ward when Kent grabs him by his shirt and hauls him around. "Malfoy, grab me the Chelidonium. Quickly," he says in his snotty, know-it-all voice. He's a trainee, though—and he'll tell anyone who'll listen long enough—that's simply a formality at this point.

Draco thinks he hates Kent with such passion because the Healer reminds him so much of himself only a few years ago. Kent doesn't even notice when Draco hands him a potion that's purple instead of the golden color he's asked for. Observant berk, he is.

He shoves the potion down Adrian's throat and the afflicted man swallows obediently, calming instantly.

Unfortunately for Kent, Stenwick has overheard them and he does not look pleased. His voice is tight and controlled as though he's speaking with his jaw clenched. "Did I hear you order Chelidonium Miniscula for this patient, Healer Kent?"

Kent puffs out his chest proudly, making sure to catch the nurses' eyes to confirm that they are watching what's bound to be unbridled praise for him before he answers, "You did, sir."

Stenwick's face grows redder. "And if you'd gotten it, you would have managed to kill said patient. Truly, well done. If you took the few seconds it would take to check…" he grabs up Adrian's papers and confirms the name before continuing on his tirade, "Mr. Adrain Vaisey's chart here, you'd see that he's allergic to poppies." His gaze cuts to Draco without warning. "What did you hand him then, Malfoy?"

"Bitterroot, sir," Draco says after a hardly noticeable hesitation. He hastens to add, trying to soften the blow for Kent, "I was here when the form was completed—"

Stenwick holds up a hand to stop him and Draco falls silent. "The help can do your job better than you, Kent." He eyes Kent sharply. "Perhaps I should have him take your spot in the program then?"

Kent's head is hung low and his face is red in embarrassment as he's dressed down in front of the rest of them. His mouth tightens and he bites out, "It won't happen again, sir."

"It had better not," Stenwick warns. He pauses on his way out and drops a hand on Draco's shoulder with an uncertain, "Good work, Malfoy."

Kent knocks into him painfully as he follows Stenwick out, saying low enough that only Draco can hear, "Watch your back, Death Eater."

Draco manages to steady himself after shaking his head clear and sighs to himself. So ends his peaceful week, only two days in.

As he clocks out that night, Stenwick stops him with a soft, "Malfoy." He doesn't even look up from the charts he's reading through.

Draco pauses uncertainly. "Sir?"

"How did you know about the Bitterroot?" he asks tersely.

"I've been reading up, sir," Draco answers truthfully. This not sleeping thing he's been doing has led to him having quite a bit of time on his hands and he finds his hand-me-down Potions ingredient tome is the most interesting book he has. Which is quite depressing, now he thinks of it.

Stenwick nods as though this does not surprise him. "Interested in Healing then?" he inquires in that same disconnected tone.

Draco considers before answering, "The Potions aspect of it, at least, yes."

Stenwick leans back heavily in his chair and says deeply, "You can go."

So Draco does.

"You look ill," Lockhart mentions offhandedly after Longbottom has left. He and Draco had been discussing the possibility of returning to Hogwarts for their N.E.W.T.s. Longbottom's considering it, Draco's not. He carefully extracts a stone from the pile. "It's reflecting poorly on me, I'm almost certain." He eyes Draco speculatively. "You were much more attractive when we first met."

Draco pushes down on Lockhart's hand angrily as he holds the successfully extracted stone and the whole stack explodes. Draco whoops with joy. "I win! And you are a horrid man."

Lockhart ruffles. "That does not count, you cheated."

"I'm fairly certain there's nothing in the rulebooks about that," Draco crows victoriously.

"Well, of course there is!" Lockhart argues, puffing himself up. "What you did goes against the rules, therefore it constitutes cheating, you-you cheat!"

Draco tuts, disappointed. "And I expected you'd be a much better loser, Gilderoy. You are so skilled at everything else," he says in an exaggerated fashion.

Lockhart looks torn. He is inherently good at everything but he is also not a loser. "I—" he lets out a frustrated harrumph and crosses his arms petulantly. "Oh, you are just the worst kind of person, you are."

He's helping Stenwick in the supply room when it happens. The man has his callused palm outstretched towards him and he's saying in his gruff and impatient voice, "Malfoy, if you could grab the Bloodroot," when Draco's vision goes wonky.

He's standing on the ladder and his hands instinctively clamp down on the top wrung but the next thing he knows, Stenwick is shouting, "Malfoy!" and his cheek is stinging from smacking into the shelf as he falls.

Stenwick checks on him twice before he leaves for the night and insists, again, that Draco does indeed have to stay overnight for observation. He's been shouting he's fine since he woke up on the storeroom floor, just a momentary vertigo, he's adamant about that, but he might as well be yelling at Flobberworms for all the recognition he's got.

Ida, the night nurse, tells him as she fluffs his pillows that Stenwick even cornered Kent as a suspect right after it happened. Draco will have to tell Lockhart that Ida is quite skilled at pillow-fluffing. Perhaps she can switch wards?

He doesn't really understand all the attention, from not only Stenwick, but from a few of the other nurses too. He could have sworn no one was overly fond of him here. For once, he's glad to be proven wrong.

The next morning, he's cleared for work but Stenwick still sends him home for a day of bed rest. They've run a multitude of tests on him overnight and he'll have the results in a few days' time, which he intends to rub in everyone else's faces, knowing it's only exhaustion that's caused it.

Though it's not as if they're privy to what he is: the fact that he hasn't had a full night's sleep in… he honestly can't remember how long now.

"You weren't concerned then?" Draco demands skeptically, eyeing Lockhart with an unblinking stare. Lockhart shakes his head stoutly and Draco gives an overwrought shrug of his shoulders, sighing, "Rowena must've been mistaken after all, it must've been some other devastatingly handsome bloke hanging about outside my room."

Lockhart chances a sideways glance at him and admits grudgingly, "Perhaps I was a bit concerned as Marlene doesn't fluff my pillows correctly, or marvel at my wit."

Draco snorts. "Perhaps that's because you call her Marlene when her name is Gerda?"

Lockhart rears back in disgust. "What kind of a horrid name is Gerda? I've far improved upon it, you see?"

Draco nods agreeably. He's missed this conceited prick of a man. "You are ever the forward thinker, Gilderoy."

"Too true," Lockhart says happily. He frowns and leans over the edge of his bed suddenly, pulling out a torn off sheet of parchment and thrusting it at Draco. "Here. It's the best of all of them."

Draco eyes him curiously before looking down at the makeshift letter.

Despite himself, he's touched. Lockhart has adamantly refused to learn to write any other words but his own name ("Why would I ever need anything else?") since he's arrived in the Thickey ward. Draco sniffs stupidly and says, "You're right. That's the best signature I've seen so far."

Lockhart smiles, pleased when Draco doesn't draw attention to the moment.

When Draco gets the results from Mungo's, it's a cruel fate that has him having lunch with Pansy and Blaise in only a few minutes time. He brings the letter with him, knowing he won't be able to say the words, possibly ever.

Blaise has actually made an appearance this time around and they make pleasant small talk for all of a moment:

"Glad to see you've surfaced from Gabrielle's muff long enough to see your oldest and best friends."

"As am I. Though I remember the two of you as being quite a bit more attractive."

"You're hardly top shelf yourself, Zabini," Draco says acidly and he can't stand it any longer and thrusts the parchment out between the two of them.

Blaise latches onto it first and jokes, "Am I formally being kicked out of the club then," before he actually reads it. His face is drawn as he finishes and he wordlessly hands it off to Pansy, who is gazing between the two of them curiously.

It's a long time before anyone speaks again.

Predictably, it's Pansy who breaks the silence. She heaves out a breath with her whole body, settles, and almost encourages, "You're joking."

Draco wishes he had a smoke. Christ, he hasn't had a smoke since sixth year. "Jokes tend to be funny, Parkinson," he points out flatly. "You'll notice not a one of us is laughing."

"This is—" Pansy starts, deflates, starts again, "This is just. Well," she finishes lamely.

"My thoughts precisely," Draco commends.

Zabini's just opening his mouth, still half in shock, when a cheerful voice breaks into their somber circle with a bright, "Oi, Draco!" Potter approaches the table and greets cordially, "Parkinson. Zabini."

The latter two can only offer blank nods while Draco gives a valiant, "Hello, Potter." It sounds bleak even to his own ears.

"Harry," Potter corrects. He's been on this like a dog with a bone for the past week or so.

Draco can't really ingratiate the word into their conversation, his brain as fried as it is. He still intrepidly tries to finish the sentence for him. "—was a bear, Harry had no hair, Harry wasn't very fuzzy, was he?" He frowns. "Now that doesn't sound right."

Potter snorts. "Call me Harry, you prat."

Draco blinks and demands, "Why should I? Everyone else does and I'm hardly so common."

Potter rolls his eyes, though the look he gives Draco is nothing but fond. "You're impossible."

Draco gives a feeble smile. "Thank you." He's beginning to worry about how often he sounds like Lockhart now.

Potter insinuates himself into their awkward little triangle, making them more of a misshapen rhombus, but Draco finds he doesn't mind much. There was really nothing more to say about it anyway.

The moment Draco has studiously avoided can no longer be put off and he finds himself standing outside the Headmistress' office far before he's ready for it. "Draco," she greets, spotting him in the process of closing the door of her office behind her, obviously on her way out. She pushes it back before it can latch as Draco sent a letter ahead and she knows precisely why he's there. Well, not precisely why.

"Headmistress," he returns and she bristles a bit as she's been shouting at anyone who will listen—"Interim!" Surprisingly, there's not much of an audience for it.

Draco closes the door behind him once she's set off, and dithers in the doorway for an apprehensive moment. Steeling himself with a deep breath, fists clenched at his sides, he sets off toward the wall of Headmasters and Headmistresses.

He's staring at one of the gilt edges of a frame when he's noticed. "Draco." The name is said softly, cautiously as though the voice doesn't quite believe it's him and Draco nearly groans aloud at the sound of it. He thinks he shouldn't have waited so long, he thinks he never should have come, he thinks he should have done the last few years completely different.

The voice keeps on, firm now and prying. "I didn't expect you'd come."

Draco doesn't look at the owner but his eyes are hard anyway and he clenches his jaw as he grates out, "Can we speak privately?"

"I hardly know where would be a private place. My view's a bit limited at present," Snape says condescendingly, though there's curiosity about the request underlying his tone.

Draco begins to think it was a very, very bad idea to come here.

"Fine," Draco spits out. His fists clench tighter and he tells himself to just do it already. So he does. "Just—I'm pregnant."

Stunned silence comes from not just Snape's portrait but all the others as well. It becomes increasingly clear that Severus is not going to speak any time soon either. After five minutes of utter quiet, Dumbledore shifts in his frame, straightens his half-moon spectacles and smiles benignly at him. "Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy." He turns to look at Severus with a new glint to his ice blue eyes. "And you, Severus."

Snape doesn't acknowledge him.

Dumbledore sighs and looks up at the top of his frame. "I believe these two could use a bit of privacy." The portraits, after a moment of uncertainty and grumbling all the while, begin to leave their cushioned seats in order to migrate to other settings. "Alphicus," Dumbledore directs towards a pudgy man who's just pretending to sleep and the man grudgingly upsets himself from his corduroy ottoman and stomps out of sight.

Dumbledore casts a balanced glance in Snape's direction before addressing Draco. "They won't stay gone for good so I suggest you get him talking, Mr. Malfoy," he advises before he, too, walks out of frame.

"Severus—"

"How far?" he croaks instantly. He has slumped into his own seat entirely and he looks like a beaten man.

Draco can't believe how much he still wants him. He clears his throat. "Nearly four months."

Snape nods, though it seems mostly involuntary. "And how did you—"

"I fainted at work," Draco says evenly.

Snape seems to snap back to himself and his sharp gaze cuts to Draco instantly. "You went to hospital?" he demands.

Draco rolls his eyes at the man's contrived concern. "I work in one." He knows where he stood with Snape at the end of it and no amount of false care now that he's up the duff with Snape's bastard is going to change that.

"Good," he comments dryly but it's distant and half-incomprehensible as Severus loses himself in his thoughts once again.

Draco pulls out a chair from the Headmistress' desk and plants it in front of Snape's portrait while the man pours himself a glass of whisky. Draco wonders if portraits are at all affected by spirits as Snape tips back the contents of his tumbler. He watches the long fingers unstopper the bottle a second time and remembers them inside of him with a blinding clarity.

He scowls and clamps down on the thought with a squirm. That was then and this is now and Severus isn't his and never was when it comes right down to it.

He doesn't quite meet Draco's eye as he says, "You've stayed away."

Draco's fingers twist around the arms of his chair, the edges of the wood biting into his palms uncomfortably. "Let's not pretend I was ever anything more than a way to pass the time."

Snape's mobile mouth twists into a frown. He leans forward hesitantly. "Meaning?"

Draco sneers. "I wasn't her. Lily Potter, your great love. I was nothing after her. I couldn't have compared, could I?"

The anger in Severus' gaze is carefully concealed but Draco can see it darkening his eyes. "Because I loved before you, I had nothing left for you. That's your reasoning?"

"Because you never stopped. Everything was for her." The rage and hurt he's never really dealt with after Severus' death comes roaring out and spills over unrestrainedly. "You must be pleased you got such a convenient death date after all. You didn't even have to deal with the nasty end of us when you finally finished with me and now you don't have to deal with your bastard sprog. You get Lily Evans and an out when your preggers fling comes to call. You didn't even have to say it to my face, that I was nothing to you—Voldemort did that for you. That was the first I heard of your precious Lily. Definitely the preferred method."

He's only really just got started but the look on Severus' face ends the tirade just as it's gaining its legs. He hardly looks in control of himself and his voice is deadly calm. "I suggest you leave now, Draco."

But Draco's angry too and Severus doesn't get to run him out just because he's finally pointed out the truth of them. "What are you going to do, Severus? Menace me in watercolor?" he taunts, but he's feeling much calmer than he did a moment ago.

Severus' mouth is tight and he's rubbing his thumb so hard against the upholstery of his chair that he's going to wear a permanent groove in it.

Draco deflates. "I'm keeping it." It sounds whining and Draco cringes at the sound of it.

Snape pauses. "I expected you would," he says carefully, as though he really hadn't considered an alternative to it.

Draco turns in his chair so he's sitting with his back against one arm and his legs thrown over the other. He shrugs. "I don't know why really." His eyes cut to Snape's quickly. "I suspect it might have to do with keeping a bit of you alive somehow." He picks at his jumper and fancies he can see a bit of a convex bump already. "I loved you, you know."

Severus nods. "I know." He gives Draco a long look. "You weren't the only one who felt—no matter what you've convinced yourself. I wasn't 'passing time'." He watches Draco's face without blinking and snorts. "You don't believe it."

"No," Draco admits easily. "It's too far ingrained. Your words are like waves against a cliff face," he shrugs, "maybe one day it'll wear the rest away."

They stare at each other for a long moment and Severus says, "You'll keep me informed," and it's almost a plea.

"Yes." He means it.

He stands to leave when Severus says coolly, "Draco?" His nostrils flare. "You can do better than dwelling on this. You're still alive and far too young to spend all your time lingering in the past."

When he tells Lockhart—and why he tells Lockhart is beyond him, all he knows is that it feels like the most natural thing in the world when the words come out of his mouth—the man is less than sympathetic. He ponders it for all of a moment before he points out, "You'll lose your figure, you realize. It'll never go back either."

Draco groans. "That is hardly what I need to hear."

"It's good to go into this with all the information," Lockhart says diplomatically before he leans closer and whispers conspiratorially, "I hear some incubators get acne or grow moles, look forward to that."

"I hate you," Draco announces wholeheartedly but he's grinning too wide to make it truly convincing.

Lockhart sniffs. "That's no way to treat the messenger, however horrid the news is."

Draco sobers and admits, "I'm not ready to be a father."

"No," Lockhart agrees, tacking on, "you probably won't be any good at it either."

Draco snorts and catches Lockhart's laughing blue eyes as he tells him seriously, "I'm glad you're here, Lockhart."

Lockhart freezes before regaining himself and saying with a shaky nonchalance, "Of course you are."

Potter owls for the third time, wanting to know where he's disappeared to after their awkward brunch. Draco stacks the letter up on his writing desk neatly with all the others and then promptly pretends as if it doesn't exist.

Aside from Stenwick and Lockhart, Draco doesn't think anyone else in the hospital is privy to his... condition. Stenwick has been offering him lighter days and easier work in the least obvious fashion he can manage and Lockhart has been informing him second by second exactly how fat he's set to become. Draco's managed not to murder him yet but it's been a close call and he's glad when he can go home for the day so he can escape the temptation.

He's so lost in thought over exactly how he would orchestrate Lockhart's demise that he doesn't notice Potter's popped up in front of him until he's nearly walked right into him.

Potter doesn't seem to have time for his surprise as he sets in angrily, "You've been avoiding me."

"Have I?" Draco opts to play dumb.

"You know you have," Potter accuses. He switches from righteous to crushed and his voice nearly cracks as he begs, "Why, what's changed? I thought we were finally getting along, I thought maybe we could be—" His eyes widen and he cuts himself off quickly.

Draco latches onto it. "Could be what?"

Potter stares at him for a moment as if sizing him up before he decides, "Mates. Real mates."

"We are mates, Potter," Draco placates easily.

Potter scowls at this and challenges, "Then talk to me, Malfoy."

Draco has no better response than to say, "Pass."

"Fatty, fatty, fat, fat," Lockhart chants while chomping down on the pastie Draco can no longer stomach.

Draco tries to suffocate him with his inferiorly fluffed pillow.

It's been nearly two weeks since he's last seen Potter—in which he's amassed eight owls—and Draco knows he can stall no longer. Potter's hardly the type to sit around for long so Draco owls him before the idiot can come up with some harebrained scheme to surprise him somewhere. Again.

Potter's already there when he walks into the pub, and he's fifteen minutes early.

Draco's barely sat down before the other man begins glowering at him and exaggerating the syllables of: "Will you talk to me now?"

Draco turns to the barmaid and orders with a quirk to his lips, "Pumpkin juice for me, thanks." He turns back to Potter and teases with cheek, "Is that my only option?"

But Potter's far from in the mood and he only grits out, "Draco."

Draco swallows. "All right," he mutters, not meeting Potter's eyes. He huffs at how stupid he's being—so Potter may judge him, it's hardly the worst thing that's ever happened. "I—I'm pregnant then."

Potter looks as if he's been struck in the face, hard, and all he manages is the sound, "Whugh?"

Draco taps his fingertips on the table nervously, they make a dull thunking noise. "I'm pregnant, with sprog, up the duff, gestating a teeny human," he rattles off, feeling harassed.

Potter's face has gone utterly blank at the list. "Yes. Right." He blinks. "Well, congratulations. You and-and the other father must be pleased." Potter doesn't look good, he has a lump in his throat and he seems paler than he did when Draco first sat.

Draco fidgets uncertainly. "I don't really know how he feels about it. Still." Realizing that for the first time.

"Hmm," Potter acknowledges and if Draco didn't know any better he might say Potter looked devastated. Maybe Potter wants a family of his own and he feels Draco is rubbing it in his face somehow? That isn't his intention at all. Potter's eyes are half-lidded and he puts in glumly, "Maybe it hasn't really sunk in yet."

"Maybe," Draco agrees, hoping to keep Potter's spirits up.

He gives a cringing smile. "You know, I've just remembered I've an early day tomorrow. I should—I'm going to leave off."

"Oh." And Draco can't quite hide his surprise at his sudden departure. "All right then."

This time it's Draco who's forced to hunt down Potter as the man ignores his owls and Floo calls. He has a real understanding of exactly how annoying that is now. He finally catches up with Potter outside of Gringotts by chance. "Now who's avoiding whom?" he challenges as he comes up behind the man.

Potter starts violently and turns to blink at Draco. "I'm not avoiding you, Malfoy," he lies, "I'm just busy. With work. At the Ministry. I work at the Ministry now." If nothing else, Lockhart has taught him how to spot a fabrication that's been developed on the spot.

"Since when?" Draco queries knowingly.

Potter falters uncertainly. "It's recent," he finally declares.

Draco allows himself to nod agreeably for a moment. He purses his lips and squints his eyes as he looks up at Potter. "Lying to avoid speaking to me. I didn't think you Gryffindors had it in you." It stings but it has also given him back the moral high ground, because at least he never did that.

Potter grimaces. "I'm not lying."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Of course you are. You're clearly amateur at it so it's not hard to detect." He stuides Potter for a moment. "The question is why are you, an unpracticed liar, attempting to pull one over on me, a much practiced liar? You were the one who was pushing this 'friend' agenda in the first place."

Potter scowls at him and says coldly, "Yeah, well, maybe I've changed my mind about all that. Have a nice life, Malfoy."

Draco hadn't known how badly Potter could hurt him until this moment. It turns out to be quite a lot. He's betting it's more than either of them suspected and he has no success in keeping it off his face. "Oh. I see," he manages blankly, wondering what in the hell he's done to make Potter look at him with such raw hatred.

There's a knock on his door a month and a half later, which is a surprise in itself because he's only just moved out of the Manor and hardly anyone knows the address. Blaise is still buried between Gabrielle's legs, Pansy's in Greece and his parents would hardly visit so late. They were still adjusting to the preggo son bit besides, as well as reeling over the part where the other father was Severus, his father's schoolmate and friend. He imagined Severus' portrait was in for a right talking to once his father got his head on straight. What he wouldn't give to be a fly on that wall.

He opens the door to find Potter staring back at him. He has his palms on either side of the doorframe and he's out of breath as though he's run all the way to Draco's flat.

Draco tries to close the door on him but Potter smacks his hand against it and presses back to stop him. "Do you really not know?" he pants desperately.

"What an arse you are?" Draco sneers with vitriol. He has no desire to do this right now. His hormones are stupidly out of whack and he's just as likely to start screaming as he is to start bawling. He's as big as a hippogriff and he's not handling it all that well even without the chemical imbalance. Not to mention the hallucinations that have been happening with increasing frequency the longer he goes without sleep. He crosses his arms over his chest and they rest easily on his protruding stomach. He fights down a sob. "No," he adds angrily, tears in his eyes, "but I've recently been apprised of it so no need to remind."

Potter fights his way inside and the struggle exhausts Draco completely, he glares at Potter from where he's collapsed on the couch. Potter runs a hand through his hair and starts pacing. "I thought you were just playing hard to get but Ron was right," Potter says with a snort, "there's a first," he mutters to himself before he looks up at Draco and declares simply, "You're just dense."

"Playing what?" Draco is sure he hasn't heard correctly and he hates being confused. He feels tears start to well up under the surface again.

Potter stops his frantic movement and stares straight at him. "I'm mad about you," he bursts out. "I haven't been able to stop bloody thinking about you since the day I returned your wand—up to and including these past weeks we've spent apart."

Draco blinks. "That makes no sense," he feels compelled to point out.

Potter huffs. "You don't have to tell me, Malfoy," he agrees heartily. "Even though you barely seemed interested, I couldn't stop myself from chasing after you like a fucking puppy. I don't know how much clearer you could've made it after—" He scrubs at his hair, looking slightly unhinged. "I all but stalked you to find a place I could just 'run into' you and I practically had to sell my soul to get those Cannons tickets in that private box and even when you'd ignore my owls, I couldn't stop myself from sending more. I couldn't get you out of my head. You put up some bloody thick walls and you made it damn near impossible to get close to you but I thought, finally, I was getting somewhere. And then you show up and tell me you're pregnant. I guess now I know why you're so impossible to reach, don't I?"

He gives a weak sort of laugh and Draco asks blankly, unable to process almost all of what Potter is saying, "Why?" He's beginning to think he might be hallucinating this besides.

Potter looks frustrated beyond belief and he explodes, "Well you've got someone else, haven't you!" A feral look glints in his frighteningly green eyes. "God help him if he mistreats you, Malfoy, because nothing you say will be able to stop me coming after him."

Draco believes him.

He sinks down on the coffee table with his head in his hands, close enough for Draco to reach out and touch him. He's not sure he wants to yet, as if this is a hallucination then he doesn't want it to end so soon, while admittedly slightly unstable, it's hardly the worst one he's experienced. Potter shakes his head, pressing his palms hard against his eyes under his glasses. "I've just been—Well, I should've known you wouldn't be on your own, looking like you do."

Draco starts. "What?"

Potter snorts. "You're gorgeous and you know it, Malfoy," he mutters impatiently. He looks up at him and continues on seriously, "More than that, you say things I don't have the guts to or things that I'm a bit too noble for and they make me laugh, really laugh, harder than I have done in ages. And you have this unnerving ability to save yourself and you inspire insane loyalty in your friends—based off Pansy's and Blaise's death threats should I hurt you and I think, I think I'm in love with you but that's-that's not your problem." He wallows for a moment before shooting upright and saying, as though it's only just dawned on him, "I shouldn't even be here, he's probably with you right now, but I just—I had to explain myself after – after how things fell apart between us. I couldn't stand the way you looked at me that day, like I'd disappointed you somehow." He frowns apologetically. "I just didn't think I could go on being your mate when I want so much more than that."

Draco's caught onto a bit of that, snagged it in his teeth and he chews it up and spits it back out, "Who's with me?"

Potter stares at him like he's dense. "The father—other father," he says slowly.

"He's dead."

Potter's whole body pauses. "What?" he asks softly, as though if he speaks too loudly he'll undo the words.

"He died in the War," Draco explains half-heartedly.

"Oh," Potter says and he looks frozen except for the deep breaths he's taking. "Oh," he repeats with a bit more clarity. He meets Draco's gaze and manages a feeble, "I-I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Draco says graciously before he admits, "Well, no, it's not. But that's what you say, isn't it?"

"I never did figure out what was proper for that," Potter tells him and then, because he can't seem to hold it in even a second longer, he bursts out with, "You're really not… I mean, there's no one else?"

Draco shakes his head and, looking at Potter—this man who is so painfully in love with him that he can hardly hold his sanity together, he decides, "Just you apparently."

"Draco—" Potter begs and he's shifting closer and rolling a strand of blond hair between his rough fingertips. He presses his mouth to Draco's temple and he can't seem to decide where his hands should be as 'everywhere at once' is not a viable option. He strokes the shell of Draco's ear while Draco trembles at the attention.

Potter leans in to kiss him and Draco decides that's too much. "I'm not—" He shakes his head and says weakly, "He just died."

Potter nods and whispers against his neck, "I can wait."

Draco believes that too.

Draco pokes at his large belly for the fifteenth time that day. It's not as squishy as it should be. He contemplates the mondo bump thoughtfully and decides, "I want to make Gilderoy the godfather."

Potter's beat the exasperation back from his voice but he can't quite hide the amusement that says that he half-hopes Draco is kidding. Potter's fingers tap against Draco's stomach in a staccato rhythm. "So he can use the baby as a media prop?"

Draco grins. "Precisely."

Potter seems resigned as his fingers slip down to play with the hem of Draco's jumper. "It's your decision." He smiles over the top of Draco's head. "I vehemently oppose it, but it's your decision."

Draco pulls Potter's fingers away. That's not—it's too soon for all that. He twists his own digits through Potter's and adds casually, "I think you might get a bit of a say."

Potter starts and since Draco's half laying on him, it jolts him a bit as well. He eases back into position and responds just as casually, "So it's… our decision?" His act of nonchalance is ruined by his megawatt grin but Draco pretends like he's pulled it off brilliantly.

Draco nods stoutly. "Well, you have a third of the vote at least," he clarifies. He pauses a moment, frowns, and elaborates, "But my third is the biggest and therefore counts for the most."

Potter perks a dark brow. "You don't really understand fractions, do you?"

"I contend I understand them better than most," Draco retorts haughtily, feeling himself beginning to get huffy.

Potter must sense it too because he uses their entwined fingers to tilt Draco's chin up and cover his mouth with his own. It's disconcerting after so long and the shock of Potter's tongue against Draco's closed mouth is almost enough to convince him to pull away. Potter's insistent however and he breaks through Draco's weak defenses, brushing the tip of his tongue against Draco's.

He pulls back, leaving Draco's lips tingling and presses soft kisses to them until it stops. He's still kissing him intermittently when he whispers brokenly, "I – love – you," against Draco's mouth.

Draco smiles and thinks maybe Severus is onto something with this living in the now thing.