Potter came over to his house after work. It was strange to see him in Draco's space like this. The afternoon sun streamed in the kitchen window, sending soft shadows dancing on the walls as the trees outside moved and swayed. Potter leant against Draco's kitchen counter, a mug of steaming tea in his hand, and he seemed to be assessing Draco's ceiling with the intense focus of a grand war master.

"I don't understand how they're getting through the wards," he said finally, turning his piercing stare onto Draco.

It was like a bucket of ice water had been poured over Draco's head, shattering the moment. He forced himself to pay attention again.

"Yes, well." He waved a hand airily. "I might be letting the wards down once or twice to let them."

Potter's eyes crinkled in amusement. "You're letting them egg your house?"

"I'm controlling how and when they egg my house, and thereby teaching them the value of consequences."

"You egg them back, don't you?"

"Yes."

Potter laughed—head thrown back, eyes bright, fill-the-room-with-sunshine kind of laughter. Draco had never seen that in his house before, and certainly not from Potter. He was caught by the tiny crinkles of happiness around Potter's mouth, the warmth of his eyes.

"So, this was entirely a ruse to make them think we're bonding," Potter said, taking a large gulp of tea and sighing with satisfaction.

"You already knew that, though." Draco smiled over his mug.

"At first. But then I saw the broken egg shells beneath the window and figured it was fifty-fifty."

"Adds to the charm."

"You're mental."

Something warm and soft curled in Draco's chest at the way Potter was looking at him—gentle, almost affectionate.

"What's the next step for our relationship, then?" Potter asked. "The security charms are a great excuse for me to spend time here, if we can drag this out. How about I install the same protections that Barkley ended up with?"

"Does that take time?"

"We'll have to get some ingredients. You know, go out in public, be seen together—bonding." Potter waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"How scandalous." Draco couldn't help but smile.

Potter leaned back against the bench and looked thoughtful. "What do we want people to think when they look at us?"

"I don't follow."

"You know, what look are we going for? Are we secretly pining for each other? Is it a slow transformation from friends to lovers?" Potter winked. "Angry sex?"

Images of Potter spread out on Draco's silk bedsheets, his hands tied above him with slender white ropes, hit Draco full force out of nowhere. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

"We need it to be believable," Draco said slowly. "We've only just started attempting to be respectful around each other; we can't jump straight into amorous behavior. People will just think we're under a love potion."

"See, that's why angry sex is an option."

The Potter in his mind writhed against the ropes, arching away from the bed and begging Draco for more even as his eyes flashed in defiance.

Draco's cheeks flushed, and he looked away. "I don't think that will work for what we want." He cleared his throat. "Even if we do ignite rumors that we're... together—"

"Fucking, Malfoy. You can say it."

If Draco didn't know any better, he'd say Potter was teasing him. There was a heavy amusement in his tone, and he was lounging against the counter like some kind of visiting royal. It was distracting. But he'd never backed down from a challenge from Potter yet.

He turned and met Potter's gaze. "Even if we do ignite rumors that we're fucking—" Potter's eyes darkened, "—that's not what will win us the bet. Hate sex is hardly a mature relationship, and Pansy would never pay out on that."

"You have a point."

Was it Draco's imagination, or had Potter's voice dropped half an octave?

"So we need to keep this natural," Draco reiterated, thankful that his rapidly beating heart was somehow remaining inaudible. "Believable. We need to convince the world that we somehow fit together so perfectly, so inexplicably, that they can't believe they never saw it before."

The room felt warmer than before. Potter's eyes were so steady on him, so unwavering, that Draco was having trouble breathing.

"If we can do that," Draco finished. "Then Pansy will buy it."

Potter regarded him with an unreadable expression. "You don't think we should try something a little simpler first? Something more casual?"

At that, Draco laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside him with a hint of hysteria. "Potter, we could never be casual."

They fell into silence, something between them shifting and changing under the fading afternoon sun, though Draco couldn't be certain what it was. Eventually, they finished their tea and Potter went back to examining the wards and making a list of everything they would need to install the complex new protection spells.

Draco felt like his skin was humming, burning with something unnamed and unknown. He allowed himself to fall into a quiet space that he rarely indulged in for fear of ambush—watching, listening, waiting. There was something comforting about Potter's presence in his kitchen, making notes and humming to himself out of tune.

All too soon, Potter's list was complete and they were ready to join the public.

*

Draco had been seen in public with Potter before, but there was something different about this. Usually when they were seen together it was in a group. They would stand on either end of their strange collection of friends and shoot insults at each other over everyone's heads. It was safe, normal, expected.

Even the most casual observer could tell that today was different. He and Potter strolled through Diagon Alley together, and while they still traded insults, they also held a conversation.

It was difficult at first, a little stilted and uneven, until Draco realised that talking with Potter was very similar to arguing with him, once you found the right topic, and everything fell into place from there.

"I can't believe you thought Professor Snape was a bad Potions Master," Draco muttered, leaning in and smiling so that it looked as though they were discussing something secretive and amusing. "Do you know how many awards he won?"

"I never said he was a bad Potions Master," Potter said quietly, winking at him.

Even though it was fake, it still made Draco shiver. It just looked so real.

"I said he was a bad teacher," Potter continued, unaware. "Did you know how well he could have taught us? I had his annotated textbook, for Merlin's sake. He deliberately taught us badly just so he could make sure he still held the power."

Draco reeled from the new information. Still, Potter's opinion didn't sit entirely well with him.

"You don't know that for sure," he whispered, holding the door to the shop open for Potter.

He intended for the act to look as respectful and courteous as possible—it was the whole purpose of the exercise—but he was too distracted by the conversation. He ended up holding the door open but glaring at Potter as he went through.

Potter side-stepped out of the way and spun around so that he was walking backwards into the store, just so that he could keep looking at Draco while they argued.

"Why don't I?"

"Because the man was completely socially ignorant," Draco snapped, pasting on a saccharine smile when the shopkeeper turned their way. "How do you know that he wasn't teaching to the best of his ability? Perhaps the true extent of his knowledge couldn't be revealed in any way other than his own annotated textbook."

Potter paused, looking faintly impressed. "I suppose." Then, he lifted a finger. "But what if he wasn't? Half the lesson was just copying his notes off the board; why couldn't he just write the same notes on the board as he wrote in his textbook?"

"Maybe because you'd stolen it. Which, by the way, you still haven't explained."

The quiet sound of someone clearing their throat made Draco spin around. The shopkeeper was staring at the two of them, eyes wide, and he realised with slowly dawning horror that he knew her.

"Hannah Abbott, right?" He slid his eyes to Potter briefly, warning him to drop the argument before it ruined any chance of their fake relationship taking root in people's mind. Then, he turned back to Hannah. "It's been a while."

"It has," she agreed, looking from Draco to Potter and back again. "You two have... changed."

"Changed?" Draco asked, forcing a smile onto his face. "How have we changed?"

He knew they hadn't exactly come across like they were falling in love with each other; the ruse was off to a terrible start.

"Well, it's more how you haven't changed," she continued slowly.

A terrible, terrible start.

"But I suppose you no longer look like you're out to kill each other."

A faintly terrible start.

"Now, you're just arguing like an old, married couple actually," she finished with a snort, the perplexed expression disappearing from her face as she said the words. "Yeah, that's it."

He heard a choking sound from beside him, and when he looked over, Potter's eyes were wide. Draco even felt a little stunned, himself.

Well, he could work with that.

He gave Potter a secret smile, making sure that Hannah saw. Potter's cheeks flushed in a way that made Draco's chest tighten, but he had no time to examine it further.

"I've no idea what you mean," he said airily. "We were after some potion ingredients; would you be able to help us?"

"Of course," Hannah reached a hand out for the list Potter was holding and scanned the items. "I'll just be a few minutes. You can take a seat if you like."

Draco led the way to the artfully arranged seating in the corner and settled back to survey the room. Something about Hannah's reaction was bothering Draco, but he couldn't put his finger on what the issue was. In lieu of an answer, he propped his chin on his hand and studied Potter, taking in the harsh lines of his face—how they seemed so much starker than they had in his youth—and the way his eyes skittered between the door and windows and back again.

So many things were a mystery to Draco these days, when only last week, his life had been blissfully dull and ordinary. Perhaps it had been a mistake to embark on this ruse with Potter. It had seemed such a laugh at the time—make people think they were in love, collect on the debt, throw it in Pansy's face. What could go wrong?

But now... now, Draco felt several layers deep in a deception that was quickly becoming so convoluted, he was no longer entirely sure what was a lie and what was truth.

That was when it hit him—the thing that was bothering him about Hannah's reaction. She had certainly responded as he'd wished, but she hadn't been responding to the game. They hadn't even been playing at that point. They had been so deep in their argument that they'd entirely forgotten to act out any believable chemistry. Which meant that Hannah had thought they acted like a couple simply because... they acted like a couple.

Pansy's words echoed back through his mind: you're attracted to arseholes, Draco.

Maybe there was some truth there. There'd always been something about Potter that drew Draco in... maybe spending this time together trying to fake an outward relationship was messing with his brain. Maybe his pretend flirting was becoming real... it certainly seemed as though Hannah thought so.

A sinking feeling began in his chest and dropped straight down into his stomach. This couldn't go on. If there was even the faintest chance that this was real for Draco, then... well, he owed himself more self-respect than that. He'd fought hard to get to a place where self-respect was a hill he'd die on, but he was here now, and he wasn't backing down that easily.

He held his tongue all through the rest of the exchange with Hannah, playing along when Potter smiled at him, letting Potter get the door and take his elbow to Apparate them home.

When they finally arrived in Draco's foyer, he took a deep breath and stepped backwards.

"I think we should stop."

"Stop?" Potter looked at him, confused. "Stop what?"

"This charade." Draco waved a hand vaguely through the air.

Potter stilled. "You don't want to win the bet anymore?"

"I just—" Draco broke off, ran a hand through his hair, searched for some way to explain what he meant without giving himself away. "Don't you think it's a bit ridiculous? We should just... I don't know. Go back to our ordinary lives and pretend it never happened."

The look on Potter's face froze him solid. In the span of an instant, the cheerful, jovial expression melted away to leave something unrecognisable in its place.

"Our ordinary lives," Potter repeated, his voice slow and thick. "Right."

Something wasn't right.

"Yes." Draco felt like he was treading on broken glass. "Things will just return to how they were before. It was a silly idea, after all, really. We'd need to be married before Pansy would believe it, and even then, she wouldn't trust me."

Potter leaned back against the wall, and his eyes seemed suddenly dull. It was as if all the life had been drained away from them.

"Yeah, you're probably right." His brow furrowed, like he was trying to comprehend something that was just out of reach.

"Is... is something the matter, Potter?" Draco lowered his voice.

Without even meaning to, he was reaching towards Potter, some part of him aching to console the broken man before him. What had happened in the last few minutes to lead to this?

"I just... I don't know. I was having fun, I guess." Potter shrugged.

It wasn't that Potter was in love with him; Draco wasn't so deluded as to believe that. There'd be signs. Draco wasn't blind. The change had come over Potter when Draco had said they would go back to their old lives... like that was something to fear.

Flashes of memory burst into Draco's mind, contrasting his image of Potter as he used to be and the Potter he'd come to know in the last week. It was true that Potter had always been a little reserved, a little less likely to lose himself in drink and laughter on their pub nights and more likely to watch the door and Apparate them home. It was equally true that Potter had seemed... different, this last week. He'd been quick to smile with Draco, full of wit that Draco had never seen before.

Draco frowned. He was trying to put together the pieces, but he was certain he didn't have them all yet. All he knew was that Potter had been different when he was with Draco, when they were playing this ridiculous game. He'd been more like the Potter that Draco remembered seeing across the Great Hall at lunch time, laughing with his friends. It wasn't until now that Draco realised how long it had been since he'd seen that person at all.

"Well, I guess we could focus our efforts," Draco said slowly.

Some of the spark returned to Potter's eyes, and Draco felt a weight lift away from his chest.

"Perhaps I'm giving her a little too much credit." He twisted his expression into something like wry amusement, when in reality, his heart was beating so fast he thought he was going to be sick. Something wasn't right here, and he just couldn't figure out what it was. "I'm sure if we play it carefully, we might have a shot at winning."

"I think Hannah might have gone home with a bit of gossip, tonight," Potter said with a grin, and it was like the previous conversation had never happened.

His face transformed, the shadows fading away and leaving laughter in their wake. Draco's knees felt weak, and he steadied himself by leaning casually against the wall to avoid making it obvious.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I caught her whispering to the other attendant when we were leaving, pointing our way. Might even get something in the Prophet."

Draco tilted his head back and laughed. "That'll be a sight."

With only the barest hint of trepidation, he made his decision.

"All right then, Potter. Let's go plan our first date."

They talked well into the night. Before long, they weren't even discussing the bet anymore—they were just talking. Part of Draco was singing in delight, reveling in finally having the attention of the famous Harry Potter. The other part of him—the part that was older and less eager for validation—was just enjoying himself.

It was nice to spend time with someone just for the sake of their company, not because of some overdue obligation. Not that Draco only saw his friends out of obligation, but it was different. There was an unspoken list of items to update each other on, past conversations to relay and gossip about, mutual enemies to diss. Conversation with Potter was more honest, freer.

He found himself ruminating on what Potter had said earlier today, what he'd been afraid of. Perhaps Potter's 'ordinary life' lacked this level of friendship as well. Maybe this was his awkward way of saying that he enjoyed Draco's company and wanted to have more of it.

But Draco wasn't sold on that.

"Why do you want to win this bet?" he asked suddenly, when they were reclined back in their armchairs and half asleep. "I know you want to get one up over the other three, but it's getting a bit complicated, don't you think? Don't get me wrong—I'd love to get Pansy back with a prank as much as the next person, but I think it's going to take a lot more effort than we initially thought."

Potter glanced over at him, eyes already bleary with weariness. It was well past midnight.

"I dunno," he said finally, sounding a bit surprised. "I mean, I thought it'd be funny, yeah. And I guess the thought of how much work it's going to take doesn't bother me?"

Draco snorted. "So it's just a lark to you, then."

"Yeah, pretty much."

The answer was so free of duplicity, so honest and simple, that Draco couldn't help the smile that spread over his face. After a few seconds, Potter returned it—sleepy and soft around the edges.

Draco's chest filled with warmth that had nothing to do with the crackling fire in front of them. The thought that Potter enjoyed his company enough to waste hours of time together made his inner eleven-year-old dance with glee.

"I guess I'm all right with that," he said, closing his eyes and letting drowsiness overtake him.

Potter was content to waste his time on a silly lark with Draco.

Draco was more than all right with that.

*

They fell asleep in their arm chairs that night, and when morning came, they barely had the chance to say two words to each other as they raced to get ready and run out the door. But they promised to meet again on Saturday, ready for their first date.

It was both practicality and believability that led them to choose the library as the location for their first date. They were able to continue the charade of Potter helping Draco with his security charms by doing research in a public space, but also give the carefully cultivated impression that there was chemistry between them.

The fact that Rita Skeeter had just published a riveting exposé on their escapades into Diagon Alley the other day only served to fuel their enthusiasm for the charade.

"Seriously though," Potter said, shoving a large tome aside and glaring at Draco. "I think we really do need to improve your wards."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "That's precisely what we're doing, dear."

Merlin, the man may as well have told all of Diagon Alley that they were just faking it. A librarian passing by looked at them oddly but continued on without stopping, her trolley squeaking into the distance. This place wasn't quite as hushed as the Hogwarts library, but Potter's voice still travelled.

Potter rolled his eyes. "Sure. Fine. So I've been looking into the wards we want to use, and I highly recommend this one." He pushed a smaller book across the table.

Draco drew it close and began to read. He shook his head a little, blinked to refocus, and read the paragraph again. Then he began to laugh.

"Have you read this?" He looked up at Potter incredulously.

A hint of a smile appeared in the corner of Potter's mouth. "What?" he asked innocently.

"It's a mirror ward. Whatever is cast upon it reflects back on the caster. You know what that means?"

"Eggs," Potter said, still with that faint smile.

"Eggs," Draco agreed, laughing again. "And toilet paper, and whatever else they levitate up to my second-story window. This is ingenious. I can just hide behind the curtain and watch."

"Who said Gryffindors can't be crafty?"

The atmosphere had changed, somehow. Even the imposing brick walls of the old library didn't feel quite so looming. The air was lighter, and Draco was smiling with an ease and general sense of contentment that he hadn't felt in quite some time.

Potter's smiled faded, replaced with a more sombre expression that Draco usually associated with Auror work and late-night cases that went south. His stomach flipped.

"The wards are designed to keep unwanted people out, though," he said quietly. "Their spells get reflected back before they ever reach your internal wards, and since they're essentially impervious to magic, it makes the wards doubly hard to disentangle if you don't know where the entry point is. You won't have to worry about the pranks getting worse or becoming something more than just what kids do on a Friday night."

"I'm not worried," Draco insisted. "It's harmless."

"Maybe now, but why are they even doing it at all?"

Because I'm the crotchety old man in the haunted house on the corner, Draco thought to himself.

"It's what kids do," he said aloud, keeping his voice light and distant.

"Still," Potter said. His voice was surprisingly firm, the unexpected authority in it sending shivers down Draco's spine. "I'd be more comfortable if you had some kind of additional security in place."

It almost sounded as if Potter cared, and that sent a rush of something dangerous coursing through Draco's entire body. He changed the subject before he did something stupid, like acknowledge out loud the horrible realisation that was slowly dawning on him.

"Shall we go and get some lunch? I'm starving."

It was the cue for them to transition their study date into something more serious for the watchful eye, but Potter regarded him for several moments more before he finally nodded and began to pack away their books. Draco tried to ignore the curious faces that turned their way as they cleared away the mess they'd made over the last couple of hours. He knew the other patrons would gossip as soon as the door was shut behind them. He knew they were paying attention to every little detail—noting how close Potter was standing to him, watching the way Potter held out Draco's coat to him, helped him juggle his books and scarf.

The problem was that none of those things were an act. Potter simply lived and breathed chivalry, even to someone like Draco. It didn't mean anything, but he could see on the watchful, curious faces how much they thought it did. He was sure his own face revealed far too much of how much he wished it was.

As the heavy wooden doors fell shut behind them, finally hiding the whispering couples and curious faces, Draco didn't feel triumphant that their ruse was taking shape; he felt exposed.

There was a little soup café tucked behind the library, and they made their way through the bustling crowd of Diagon Alley to its narrow entrance. The second they stepped through, the cold of the frosty weather faded away and they were hit by the warmth of a roaring fire.

"Huh," Draco murmured, looking around. "I didn't expect this."

"It's a surprise, yeah," Potter said, shrugging off his coat and holding out his hand to take Draco's. "I've only been here once, but it made me think of the Gryffindor common room."

Draco rolled his eyes. "So, naturally, you take me here for our first date. Typical. I feel like a werewolf who's been unwillingly scent-marked."

Potter threw back his head and laughed—a rich, open sound that made several heads turn their way. Draco tried to bite down on the smile that came in response, but it was like trying to hold back the tide.

"Table for two?" The waitress smiled at them, smoothing down the checkered apron she wore over her black trousers and shirt. It wasn't quite the homely Muggle look Draco was used to, but it was strangely endearing.

"Yes, thanks," Potter replied.

He sent their coats sailing toward the coat room with a flick of his wand, and they followed the waitress to their table in the corner. The café was full of couples huddled together over their steaming bowls of every kind of soup imaginable. Barely anyone looked up as they crossed the room, and Draco finally began to relax. He wasn't sure why he was so tense except that the falseness of their entire act was starting to get to him. He just wanted to enjoy lunch with Potter, get to know him a little. If someone looked through the window, made an assumption, and snapped a pic, great; but he didn't want to deal with pretending something was happening when it really wasn't.

Particularly when it really was.

They took their seats and ordered two bowls of the daily special, which arrived before Draco had even settled properly into his chair.

He raised his eyebrows. "Good service."

Potter grinned. "Yeah, it's pretty great."

Draco took a sip and closed his eyes in bliss at the first taste. It was a rich vegetable soup, full of flavour and a sharp tang of spice that he couldn't name. He arranged his napkin and set to it, trying not to look like he was as starving as he suddenly felt.

"How is work?" he asked after the silence began to stretch too long.

He realised that he had never asked that question before.

Potter looked up in surprise. "It's all right," he began, the words rolling off his tongue like a rote response. Then he sighed and set down his spoon. "It sucks."

Draco blinked.

"Do you know how hard it is to get anything approved by these people?" Potter kept speaking, unaware of Draco's reaction. "They care more about money than they do about helping others."

"Well, I could have told you that."

Potter snorted. "Just last week we had a case where a half-blood shopkeeper was targeted. His whole shop was destroyed, horrible messages painted on the walls, family threatened... the works. Do you know what the Ministry did?"

A sinking feeling settled deep in Draco's gut. "No?"

"Filed it as a minor misdemeanor."

The sinking feeling grew, spreading cold fingers through Draco's veins. He couldn't say he was surprised, but Potter obviously wasn't taking it with the same jaded dismissal that Draco had. Was this part of everything that was going on with Potter right now?

"Disgusting," Draco said, surprised to hear the venom in his own voice. "What came of them?"

Potter shrugged. "Community service is as much as they get for that. Meanwhile, the shopkeeper is terrified for his life and thinking of closing up. It's not right."

Draco made a vaguely committal noise and ate some more of his soup. Potter was right; it wasn't fair. But when was anything fair?

"We won the war but nothing changed," Potter continued.

For a moment it felt like the walls were closing in. There was something in Potter's voice, something that was all twisted in upon itself until there seemed no clear way free of the darkness. Was that really how Potter felt? Was that really how the saviour of Wizarding kind felt?

Draco set down his spoon. "Some things changed," he said carefully.

"Nah. Nothing that mattered."

There was no change in Potter's features, no flash of emotion anywhere to be seen. His face had closed off, the walls creeping up brick by brick until there was nothing of the man Draco knew left on the surface. Potter was meant to be fire, fury, and justice. Only a moment ago, he had been just that, but now... There was no sign of it.

"Surely the small matter of people's lives being saved is considered a net gain," Draco said injecting as much cynicism into his voice as possible despite how dry his mouth was.

For a moment, Potter didn't respond. His eyes were strangely glassy and distant. Draco's heart leapt into his mouth and he was a hair's breadth from reaching across the table to shake Potter when he suddenly blinked back into focus.

"Of course," Potter said, still with that strangely distant expression. "Sorry, I think it's just been a long day."

The words were too light, too distant. Draco had the strangest feeling that Potter wasn't even in the room with him.

The conversation moved on and Draco let it. They had several glorious minutes of Quidditch chat while Draco's heart rate returned to normal, but just as he was really relaxing, everything came crashing down.

The monkey Patronus scurried into the room and clambered onto the table between them.

"There's been a Sev One, Potter," an unfamiliar voice said urgently. "We need you immediately."

Draco's stomach turned at the sight of all the colour draining away from Potter's face.

"A Sev One?" he asked as the Patronus faded.

Potter was already standing, Accioing his coat from the coat room. "Severity one," he said shortly. "If it's one of my cases, it'll be an open security breach with threat to kill."

"Merlin," Draco breathed, standing and Accioing his own coat as well. "Can I help? Do you need me to get anyone?"

Potter shook his head, throwing a few Galleons down on the table. He shook his head distractedly. "No. No, I'll catch up with you later, yeah?"

"All right," Draco said, but he was talking to an empty chair; Potter had already gone.

*

Draco didn't mean to hunt down Granger; he was only heading to an appointment in the Ministry. Though, if he was forced to be honest with himself, he could admit he'd taken a small detour on his way there. Several small detours. Early.

He found himself outside her office, and then before he knew it he was knocking on the closed door and entering before he'd had the chance to be refused.

Granger looked up with an indignant frown, but the moment she laid eyes on Draco her expression softened. She put down her parchment and smiled at him.

"I don't often see you on this floor!"

"No, I was just passing through," Draco said, shutting the door and coming to sit opposite her.

He felt suddenly awkward, uncertain about his welcome. Uncertain, too, about whether he should be doing this at all.

"I wanted to ask you about Potter," he blurted out abruptly.

Granger's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she waited patiently. He stared at the ornate cornice above her desk, searching for the words as if he might find them hidden in sixteenth century ornamental detailing.

"You and Weasley said that he's better than he was," he continued slowly.

"You can call us by our first names you know," she interjected.

Draco smirked. "Doesn't feel right. So, you said he's better than he was, but I just wondered whether you were sure about that?"

Granger frowned and leant forward on the desk. Her long, bushy hair fell into her face, but she didn't seem to even notice. Draco had no question that he'd already had her full attention, but he suddenly felt like he now had her scrutiny.

"What do you mean, are we sure? We're as sure as we can be. I mean, you've seen him at his worst. It still happens, but it's never as often as it was."

Draco chewed on his lip. "But the other signs..."

"Other signs?"

"The agitation, the vacant staring—surely you've noticed."

Granger shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Well, to a certain extent, those are just Harry. He's an emotional person."

Draco fought back the surge of anger that threatened to overwhelm him and struggled to view things from Granger's perspective. He knew she meant well and wasn't an idiot; he just had to remind himself that they viewed things a little differently.

"But when those behaviours overlap so much with the signs of something more serious," he hedged, watching closely for her reaction. "How do you know where one ends and the other begins?"

"I don't suppose you ever really do," she admitted. "But we've spent a lot of time together. I think I'd know if something was wrong or if something had changed." She leaned forward suddenly. "Draco, are you up to something?"

Draco blinked in surprise. "What?"

"It's just a bit strange." She tilted her head to the side. "I'd think you were trying to convince me you cared about Harry so you could win that bet, but this would just be such a strange way to do it. I'm puzzled."

Draco fought to keep his expression neutral. "This has nothing to do with the bet," he said carefully.

Granger's brows furrowed together, her face transforming from faintly confused to concerned in less than a second. "Then why are you so worried? I didn't think the two of you were that close. Is there something you're not telling me?"

Her expression and her words left Draco feeling raw, stripped bare. What was he supposed to tell her? That something was wrong with Potter and he couldn't stop thinking about it? That he felt an overwhelming urge to help Potter because he didn't think anyone else was going to?

"I'm just curious," he said finally. "Potter seemed so... off-kilter the other day, after our argument. I thought there might be something more serious brewing." He forced himself to smile. "But you know best."

He said his goodbyes, ignoring the way Granger studied him, the shrewdness to her gaze. He didn't have time to dissect it, didn't even have the energy to begin. He had a meeting to get to, and then, tonight, he had a party.

*

Draco only managed to pay attention to half his meetings that afternoon; the rest of his mental energy was spent on the mystery of Potter.

He wondered if Potter was having flashbacks to the war. It wouldn't be a surprise. With everything Potter had gone through, it would be shocking if he didn't have some form of intrusive memory of his trauma.

But the more Draco watched him, the more he wasn't sure it was that simple. There were signs that it could be war flashbacks, but there also seemed to be something more—something that simmered below the surface in a way that the harsh, jolting reminders of a war didn't tend to do.

And there was the conversation with Granger. She'd said he hadn't changed. Granger was smart; surely, she'd know if Potter carried this much damage from the war. So, if that was the case, what did it all mean?

He finished styling his hair, deliberately ignored the worn expression that stared back at him from the bathroom mirror, and left for Pansy's party.

It was a Friday night affair, which meant no expense had been spared. The entry was lined with tasteful garlands, and waiters emerged from every corner with a tray of drinks the moment you felt the slightest bit thirsty.

It was the kind of party that used to have all the Gryffindors shuffling their feet and staring awkwardly at the artwork on the walls. But then Pansy had bridged the gap between them all and apologised for letting a moment of fear and weakness overwhelm her that night in the Great Hall. Potter, of course, forgave her immediately, and they'd all learned that night—after several drinks—that he truly had gone into the forest to die. Had died, in fact.

Which, as Potter had said, sort of made Pansy's suggestion to hand him over to Voldemort the smartest. But everyone had been crying too much by then to give that thought much response.

Draco scanned the crowd, feeling at an odd remove from the world around him. His small circle of friends weren't here yet, and his only two choices were to mingle or to remain lost in his own thoughts. It was hardly a competition. This crowd looked about as entertaining as an evening with Binns. The only person he wanted to speak to—Blaise—was trapped in conversation with three adoring witches and had only managed a brief wave to Draco over the tops of their heads.

He remembered that night strongly now—the way Potter had looked as he'd recounted the events of the forest, the way their friends had one by one broken down at the memory. Most of all, Draco remembered the way he'd needed to excuse himself from the room because he couldn't fucking breathe. The way the walls had seemed to close in every time he'd tried to move.

Music filtered around him, emitting from the walls thanks to one of Pansy's clever entertainment charms. He thought it might be one of the songs that had played that night, which explained his little trip down memory lane. Though, if he was honest with himself, he had known tonight was going to be a mess no matter what he did. His thoughts were too full of Potter, too full of the increasing unease that something was building beneath their feet—an explosion waiting to happen.

He didn't think it was only flashbacks. He'd seen Potter that night, seen how he reacted to the memory of the most traumatic events of his life. Draco didn't pretend to be an expert, but his gut was telling him something else was happening too.

Someone was waving at him. He forced himself back to the present enough to realise that Potter, Granger, and Weasley were waving at him from the other side of the room. He made his way through the crowd, nodding politely and smiling to make it seem like he hadn't just elbowed roughly eighteen people in the ribs just to clear a path. When he made it to the others, Weasley was in hysterics.

"Have you even seen you when you do that?"

"Pardon?" Draco tried to look indignant and failed, mostly on account of the fact that Potter was staring at him like he was a particularly decadent appetizer.

"They're so confused." He clapped Draco on the back and shook his head. "It's unreal. If they only looked down, they'd see you practically punching them, mate. But they fall for it every time just because you smile at them. Disgusting really. How is it that you have a winning smile? Seems unfair, mate."

"Of course I have a winning smile," Draco protested, displaying it to full effect. "I am my father's son."

Weasley shuddered. "A fact I try to forget. Come on, let's grab a drink."

Three waiters appeared at their side, offering champagne and scotch in crystal tumblers. Soon enough, they found themselves settled on a chaise off to the side, and Draco found himself relaxing.

"How did that sev one go?" he asked Potter. "Did you deal with it?"

Potter frowned. "It's down to a sev four now, but it's not pretty." He lowered his voice. "I think they're taking bribes."

"Bribes?" Granger hissed. "Who? Why?"

"Of course they're taking bribes," Draco muttered, more to Granger than Potter who seemed to at least understand how the world worked. "Even if you stop one, another will take their place. You can only ever manage that sort of system; you never stop it."

"It's wrong," Granger protested, brow furrowed.

"Then please, by all means, make it stop," Draco replied. "But until then... all you can do is stamp on it when it rears its ugly head."

Potter laughed humorlessly while Granger got that far-off look in her eye that suggested she was making Plans. "The stamping isn't going so well. The incident was a series of attacks on some shops in that little Wizarding shopping district in Bath. They used illegal potions, which means they were smuggled in, and given how hard the Ministry has been focusing on that it means there's a high likelihood officials were paid off."

"How can you stand it?" Weasley sat forward on the chaise, elbows propped on his knees and a deep frown on his face.

Draco was surprised for a moment by his seriousness, though when he thought about it there was no reason to be. Weasley had always had a vicious honorable streak.

Potter shrugged, staring down into his tumbler of scotch. "Can't, really. Just trying to stop it where I can."

Draco let the conversation filter over him as he tried to think of something he could say to make Potter feel better, or to allay his fears in some way. But there was nothing. Potter worked for the Ministry; the Ministry was corrupt. There was nothing Draco could say or do to make that go away.

He leaned back into the softness of the chaise and studied the party. It seemed to be going well, but Pansy's parties always did. He would see her for perhaps a collective five minutes at one of these things—otherwise she was too busy mingling with people she didn't get a chance to see for months at a time. He thought he'd spotted her by the salad table at one point, but by the time he'd looked back she was already gone.

"Oh shit!" Potter's frantic voice broke through his melancholy. "It's Barb. Time to go."

Draco turned in time to see Potter racing off to another corner of the room. He looked back to Granger and Weasley, but they were deep in conversation, so he had no choice but to jump to his feet and race after him.

"Who's Barb?" He hissed when he'd caught up to Potter hiding behind an ornamental pillar.

"Remember that stalker I had?" Potter answered distantly, peeking around the pillar and apparently deciding it was the perfect opportunity to run to the next one.

Draco followed. "The one who kept sending love potions?"

"Yeah, that one. Well, I might have dated her a bit."

"What? You dated your stalker?"

"I didn't know she was the stalker at the time!"

They crouched behind a group of partygoers making their way to the garden and followed them outside.

"How could you not know she was the stalker?"

"In my defence, she was very good at it."

"Oh, good. Everyone needs a talent."

Potter ducked behind the garden doors and stood in the shadow. Draco rather thought this was getting a bit ridiculous, but he followed all the same. Apparently, it was not a moment too soon, as a tall, blonde woman immediately emerged and looked around the garden, eyes piercing. She eventually decided on the far corner and set off down the path.

Potter visibly relaxed, then shot Draco a sheepish smile.

"Sorry. She just gives me the creeps. I met her at the bar, and it wasn't until she kept dropping strange hints about potions in the mail that I realised it was all her—the letters, the lockets of hair, all of it. I didn't know Pansy knew her."

"I'll get her taken off the guest list," Draco said firmly, staring down the path to where the blonde had disappeared.

"Really?"

Draco looked over to see such relief on Potter's face that he couldn't help laughing. "I should just leave you to it since you dragged me over half the party like a mad-man," he said pointedly.

Potter grinned at him. "You didn't have to follow. I was happy looking like an idiot on my own."

"Oh well in that case, you should have just said." Draco smiled warmly back.

It was such a strange moment of calm between the two of them. Unlike any they'd had before, and yet so normal it seemed like this must be how they always were together. Why had he never taken the time to get to know Potter?

"Do I want to know why two of my favourite men are hiding in a dark corner together?"

The two of them jumped before realising it was only Pansy. She glared at Draco suspiciously, but for once he was confident they had no need to worry about being caught out. After all, this time their closeness had nothing to do with their charade.

That thought made Draco's stomach flip in a pleasant sort of way.

"See that blonde woman at the end of the path?" Potter asked, pointing as casually as he could manage. "That's Barb."

"Barb," Pansy repeated slowly. "Is that meant to mean something to me?"

"Remember the love potions?" Draco said happily. "And the letters in pink ink? And the hair?"

"Merlin's saggy—" Pansy breathed. "You're not serious."

"'Fraid so," Potter said with a laugh.

Pansy looked at the two of them shrewdly. "Well, that doesn't explain why you're both hiding in a darkened corner. I had this corner prepared for couples, you know. There's a spot right behind you that's just perfect to use as a prop to push someone against while you ravish them."

Draco knew her well enough to know she was only half-joking.

Potter tipped his head back and laughed. "No no, nothing like that. Draco just wanted to know why I was making a right tit of myself running at a crouch over half the party."

It was utterly convincing, since it was the truth. Even Pansy looked momentarily taken aback before she shot Draco one last suspicious look. He had a sinking feeling that final look was for a different reason entirely.

"Right then," she said, twisting her expression into something fierce and slightly terrifying. "Time to go deal with the stalker."

She marched off down the garden path, stilettos clicking loudly against the stone.

"She's a bit scary sometimes," Potter breathed.

"So's Granger."

"Yeah, but we always knew that."

Draco laughed, remembering the punch from third year with no small amount of discomfort. "Well, shall we return to the party?"

Potter grinned at him. "Are you sure? I hear there's a really good wall just behind me."

A rush of heat flooded Draco's body. He was sure it was tinting his cheeks pink. Hopefully he could just blame the cold. "Quite sure," he replied, only a little breathlessly.

They slipped back inside, into the warmth and comfort of the party. The guests were well and truly relaxed now, Pansy's excellent catering and open bar doing their job well. By the time they'd made it back to Granger and Weasley, they each had a drink in their hands and several cocktail delicacies in their stomach.

Potter filled them in on the Barb situation, leaving them in equal parts horror and incredulity.

"You get some odd ones, Harry," Weasley mumbled around a mouthful of pastry. "What about that wizard who went to Durmstrang? The one who kept hinting he had a sex dungeon."

Draco spat out his drink. "He what?"

Potter waggled his eyebrows at him. "Should've checked that one out, I reckon."

Draco didn't have to fake the jealousy that he knew was creeping into his expression. Granger did a double take when she saw his face but didn't say anything.

"Why do you always get the creeps, though?" Weasley mused, his tone serious for once. "I mean, look at you. You're a bloody catch. Smart, fit, saviour of the wizarding world; is it too much to ask that someone decent asks you out?"

The four of them fell silent. Draco didn't quite know what to say to that, and from the look on Granger's face she felt equally uncomfortable. After a moment, Potter just laughed.

"It's not that bad," he said. "I mean, you've got kind of a biased view, Ron, you gotta admit."

"Huh?"

Potter shrugged, looking at the three of them like it should be obvious. "You're my best mate. Of course you think I'm—" he waved his hand vaguely, "all that. It doesn't mean other people do."

"Harry!" Granger interjected. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

"What?!" Potter held his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying the truth. It's not a bad thing; it's just a fact."

The words ran through Draco's mind long after the conversation had moved on. The party faded around him—the noise, sights, smells all paling in comparison to the direction his thoughts had taken. There was something in those words, some key, if he just knew how to look.

He watched Potter for the remainder of the evening, watched him in a way he'd never thought to before. It was there, in every movement, every subtle shift to his expression. Potter was never calm, never just there. He'd catch sight of something out of the corner of his eye and his whole demeanor would change, or someone would say something and he'd just freeze up.

Draco had no idea how he'd never seen it before, except that he mustn't have been looking; none of them were. But now, he was, and he couldn't escape it. It was everywhere.

Draco just didn't know what it was yet.

*

After the party, he and Potter made sure to keep their distance for a few days. They wanted to give people time to speculate, to guess what might be happening between the two of them. Someone had obviously gone to the press, since articles in the Prophet soon emerged, complete with blurry images of the two of them huddled in the shadows at Pansy's party.

Potter owled him after the first article was published.

We look good together.

Draco had tried not to let the obvious teasing get to him, but his body had other ideas. Just thinking about the words and their casually flirtatious tone made his heart race, his skin tingle with anticipation. He told himself he was just starved for affection, but he knew it was a lie. He knew something was building inside him, as much as he tried to pretend it wasn't.

He sent an owl back with a letter he'd written and rewritten a thousand times. Finally, playing it cool, he'd said only:

I always look good.

He'd thought he'd won the exchange, except Potter sent back:

I know.

What the hell was Draco meant to do with that?

He shoved the conversation from his mind and tried to focus on other things. On Sunday, he met with Pansy for lunch. As a last minute decision, he decided to host at the Manor so that Pansy and his mother had the opportunity to catch up on old gossip. The second he walked through the double doors of the drawing room, he wondered why he'd waited so long to do so.

The windows had been opened, filling the room not only with sunlight but with the sweet, heady scent of the honeysuckle that was planted in the bed below. His mother and Pansy were deep in discussion and only waved at him absently before turning back to their conversation. Draco caught a few words along the lines of fabric and swatches, and promptly tuned the rest out.

The house-elves had brought in several tea trays overflowing with sweet cakes and pastries, and the pot of tea seated between the two of them was already half empty. He tried to contain his smile as he wandered over to join them.

"Shall I come back later?" he asked, his voice full of genuine warmth as he smiled at the two of them.

"Sorry, darling." Narcissa rose and swept him into a hug. "It's just been so long. Did you know that Pansy has an exhibition opening in New York next year?"

Draco raised his eyebrows and turned to his friend. "I did not know that."

Pansy's fashion lines were renowned, not just on the catwalk but as pieces of art displayed across the world. She had investors lining up every other week for a piece of her pie, and Draco couldn't be prouder of her.

Pansy waved a hand dismissively, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement. "It was only confirmed this morning," she gushed. "I'm hoping to Portkey everyone over to see it, but we'll have to arrange the details closer to the time."

"Congratulations," Draco said, bending forward to hug her. "I can only imagine how much work that took to arrange."

"It's been marvelous hearing about it," Narcissa said reaching out to take Pansy's hand and squeeze it briefly. "But I do have to run now. Be sure to keep me informed as to how it goes. You don't have to wait for Draco to invite you." She smirked at her son and then waved her goodbyes, leaving the two of them alone.

Draco eyed off the food, but found he wasn't really in the mood for something so decadent. "Shall we go for a walk through the gardens?"

Pansy raised her eyebrows in surprise but agreed, and the two of them left through the garden door and set off down the path to the orchard.

"Are you all right, Draco?" Pansy asked when several minutes had passed in silence.

Draco looked up at her, but instead of the suspicion he expected, he saw only concern. "Fine, fine," he said, waving a hand. "Work has just taken off lately. You know how it goes."

Pansy snorted, the rude noise at odds with her perfect composure. Draco had never known another person to wear heels with such grace. "Yes, I know how it goes. But you seem like something more is on your mind. You just look so tired lately."

The sun shining down on them warmed Draco's shoulders, taking the edge off the chill that suddenly suffused him. Pansy was never one to let things go, and yet she wasn't latching onto the drunken bet like he'd thought she would. If anything, she seemed to have forgotten about it.

No, she was latching onto something else instead. Something disturbingly closer to home.

"I am tired," he admitted. "But it's nothing to worry about. I think I just need a holiday."

Pansy continued to watch him, her expression giving nothing away. "We could arrange for a holiday," she said thoughtfully, "if you think it might make a difference. Or would you still be unable to let it go?"

"Let what go?"

"Potter, I assume."

Draco stopped and stared at her, but there was no shrewdness in her gaze, no strategic calculation. Her expression was uncharacteristically open.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, the note of unease obvious even to his own ears.

Pansy sighed and continued to walk ahead. Draco raced to catch up with her.

"Don't think I haven't noticed how you look at him lately," she said finally. "It's like you've never seen him before, even in the six years we've all been friends."

Sometimes, it felt like Draco hadn't seen him before. He didn't say that out loud.

"I don't know think you even know you're doing it," she continued, her voice growing soft with concern. "I've seen that look on you before. I know that look. It's the look I worried about for years after we left Hogwarts and started becoming friends with all the Gryffindors." She cast him a wry glance. "It's the look I'd finally stopped worrying about."

"You think I'm falling for him." The words sounded oddly distant, like they were said by someone else.

"I think you're vulnerable." The words were quiet, barely above a whisper. "I think you've seen something you can't look away from. And when you latch onto an idea, you're like a dog with a bone, Draco. Honestly, sometimes I think you should have sorted Gryffindor; you think entirely too much with your heart sometimes, not your head." She paused, and then shot a shrewd glance at his thighs. "Your heart and other things."

Draco flushed. "Pansy."

"I'm only telling you what I see. I might be wrong, I might be right. I'm only telling you because I wouldn't be any kind of friend if I didn't."

"You're the best friend I've ever had," Draco said earnestly.

She smiled at him—one of her rare, genuine smiles that lit up her entire face.

"I know," she said. "That's why I'm telling you, isn't it?"

They linked arms and walked toward the orchard gate. The peacocks had flown over the fence again and were busy hunting for the insects that liked to congregate near the fruit. Pansy pointed out a particularly ferocious hunter with a giggle, and the seriousness of their conversation faded away.

Still, the idea lingered with Draco long after Pansy had gone home and he was left in the quiet of the Manor. He remembered lonely nights of walking these halls, unable to sleep even in the years before the Dark Lord had taken over everything. He remembered wicked dreams and forbidden fantasies.

He remembered them, and then he shoved them far away.

*

Draco froze in the doorway, unable to think or move when faced with the sight in front of him.

Everyone else had gone back to the dorms, but Potter was still in the showers, water sluicing over his shoulders and tracing a delicious line down the centre of his thighs. Draco stared at him, part of his brain wondering why the hell Potter was using the Slytherin change rooms, and part of him not caring in the slightest.

He cleared his throat, but Potter didn't jump or turn around in alarm. He merely glanced over his shoulder, registered Draco standing awkwardly at the entrance with his broomstick slung over his shoulder, and turned away.

Draco gaped at him. Where was the fire? The bite? Gryffindor had just thrashed Slytherin two hundred and fifty to forty; why wasn't Potter laughing at him? Surely that was why he was here—as some sort of dominance tactic against the Slytherins. Against Draco.

"Are you just going to stand there all day, or are you coming in?" Potter didn't even bother to turn around.

Draco's broomstick clattered to the floor. He only took three seconds of panicked second-guessing before he stripped off his leathers in record time and walked under the showerhead next to Potter's.

His face flushed with warmth as he waited for Potter to say something about his choice of location, but Potter only looked over at him and smirked. Draco's cock stirred at the sight.

Everything shifted—strange and unreal—and then Draco was in Potter's arms, the water cascading over them as they kissed each other with an urgency that left Draco breathless and weak. They fought for control, wrestling each other against the slippery walls. Potter won, pinning Draco beneath the shower head by his wrists. Draco might have let him win.

"God, Malfoy," Potter murmured against his mouth. "Do you know how long I've wanted this?"

Draco couldn't find the words to reply, couldn't think beyond the overwhelming sense of want that was consuming him.

"Stay there," Potter commanded.

Then, he dropped to his knees.

Draco moaned, covering his mouth with his fist and biting down in an attempt not to give them away. He didn't know if anyone still lingered after the match. But soon enough, he gave up his attempts for control and just let the sensation consume him, every touch and caress driving him closer to the edge.

"Potter," he moaned, reaching down and gripping Potter by the hair. "Harry. Please."

Potter twisted, running a finger gently along Draco's arse, down the cleft of his cheeks, and it was too much.

Draco came down Potter's throat, and the dream faded away.

He sat bolt upright in bed and stared at his bedroom walls in horror.

"What the fuck," he breathed quietly before reaching down and double checking that he hadn't done something incredibly embarrassing.

"Thank Merlin," he groaned, dropping back against the pillows as his fingers confirmed dry bedsheets.

Dry bedsheets and an achingly hard cock.

It had been a while since he'd had a dream like that. Years. He'd almost forgotten about them; he'd had dreams like that starring roughly half of their year level after all.

Slowly, he let his hand drift down beneath the sheets, gripping himself through his pajamas. It felt amazing, but was he really going to do this? Was he really going to wank over Potter?

The memory of those lips over his cock flooded his mind, and he stopped caring. He slid inside his pajamas, palmed himself, and began to stroke.

The quiet sounds of the night faded away, overtaken by the memory of Potter's voice moaning his name. It was over in minutes, his legs tangling in over-heated bedsheets as his soft whimpers filled the room.

"Fuck," he breathed, staring up at the ceiling for several seconds before Vanishing the mess.

It must have been a by-product of visiting the Manor—his childhood home—that was all. He'd been lost in his memories once already today; his body had just decided to take that one step further.

Part of him hoped it wasn't a sign that his body was getting confused from all this contact with Potter. They were spending so much time together, pretending to fall in love, and it wasn't as though Draco needed much prompting to find the man fit. He'd already acknowledged his reservations about this whole thing—acknowledged and dismissed them. He didn't need his body betraying him after all the work he'd put in to move forward in the best way possible.

As his rapid breathing faded, giving way once more to the silence of the night, he allowed himself one small moment to acknowledge that part of him wanted Potter to ask him out for real. It wasn't a big deal, just a passing thought, but still... it would be nice.

A different memory popped into his mind—one from the party the other day.

"I'm just saying the truth."

He frowned, staring at the shadows from his ceiling lamp and trying to latch onto the thought that kept eluding him. What was it about those words that bothered Draco so much? Potter had just seemed so certain. Not even concerned or upset—just matter-of-fact. He attracted creeps; that was that.

No. That wasn't what Potter had said. He'd said that Weasley had a biased view—that Weasley would view him in a way that was different to how the rest of the world saw him. Kinder. Rose-tinted.

How did Potter see himself?

It hit Draco then, in that way that only nighttime epiphanies could. He didn't quite have the words yet, but the feeling was there, rising like an inexorable tide in his chest. A horrible nausea began in his stomach, coursing up through his throat until he thought he might vomit. Potter didn't see himself how other people saw him. He thought he deserved the stalkers, the weirdos.

"It's just a fact."

He shook his head, clearing away the maudlin thoughts before they overwhelmed him. It would do no good to stew on it tonight, or any night. But maybe... maybe he'd reached a point where he needed to talk to someone. He was in too deep already, and he badly wanted a second opinion.

Vowing to take action in the morning, he pulled the covers over his head and shut his eyes.

His last thought before he fell asleep was that there was no use hiding from himself any longer. Pansy had tried to get him to admit to it, but he'd only run away like the coward he was. But he couldn't run anymore; even his own body was betraying him. It was time to accept what he had tried to deny, perhaps for years.

He felt something for Potter, felt something for a man who was deeply, undeniably, troubled. A man who was pretending to love him, and who desperately needed love himself—whether he knew it or not.

Merlin. It had all become so very screwed up.