Fic: Trust in Hope (1/2)

[omi_ohmy]

Author: omi_ohmy
Prompt Number: 49
Gift for: tariana
Title: Trust in Hope
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, Ginny/Dean
Summary: It's Eighth year, and Draco is broken, ostracised. One person prefers him the way he was, full of life – Draco just needs to learn to trust in hope.
Rating: R Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): None, really.
Epilogue compliant? Nope.
Word Count: 20,002
Author's Notes: This was written for the 2012 hd_smoochfest. Thanks to birdsofshore for pre-reading and evilgiraff for betaing. 

​Trust in Hope (1/2)

Draco's world had been reduced down to single words by the time he'd found himself clinging to Potter on the back of a broom, fleeing Fiendfyre, leaving behind Vincent's stupid legacy of destruction, paid for with his own life. Fire, hot, fear, death, he said to himself. Potter.

At the trials he'd watched as the Wizengamot and Aurors, grim-faced and high on the power of victory, stripped his father of his pride and his liberty. He'd listened to tale after tale of cruelty and hatred, and he felt sick with it, with his part in it. After it was all over he returned to the Manor with his mother, tired, defeated, yet finally free. If it had been up to Draco, he would have torched the whole place. He had seen the hungry, avenging flame, and he thought it was the only way to remove the taint of that mad man, of the year of terror they had lived through. They hid in the Manor, the world treating them like murdering torturers. Which they were, of course. And what had it been worth, that sacrifice? Nothing, nothing at all.

Draco himself went through his choices, over and over again. Could he have acted differently? Would it have made any difference? He was ashamed of the cowardice he'd displayed on many occasions, but could not see how anything could have been different. No matter what he might have done, he would still have had the same parents, the same fear of the Dark Lord. He couldn't have saved the Muggles he'd seen tortured and killed, not without dying himself. And death had scared him more than anything else, there was no getting away from that.

In his sleep he saw flames, heat, fear, death. Potter.

oOo

"Draco, my love, I want to you to stop. Stop!" Narcissa held onto Draco's arm as he stood, wand in hand, ready to incendio his school books and robes. Her fingers dug into his flesh, painfully. Her hold on him was strong and it focused his wild anger for a moment.

"What's the point? I don't need them anymore, I'm never going back," he shouted, his voice hoarse. He winced though as she flinched, and immediately lowered his voice. "I'm sorry, Mother," he whispered, and he bowed his head, ashamed. She had been through enough, she didn't need to be scared by her own son too.

Narcissa's grip loosened a little, and she drew him closer. She moved him to face her, and pinned him with her eyes. They were a pale blue, and flashed with emotion as she spoke in an even, low voice.

"Draco, you are going back. You are going to do it for me, if not for you," her eyes never leaving his face. "You are going to salvage what you can of your life, however hard that may be. Do you understand?" Draco fought back tears of anger. He felt trapped, but he knew there was no way out. He nodded, mutely, afraid to speak in case he hurt his mother again. Narcissa stepped back and released him. "Good, now go pack your things for school," she paused, and quickly gave him a small kiss on the cheek, then walked off, returning to her task of magically marking up the furniture in the Blue room, ready for sale. Draco was left standing alone, the warm wet trace of his mother's rare kiss drying on his cheek. He went to pack, his desire to fight all gone. All that was left was simmering resentment and a good pinch of self-hatred. Nothing new, in other words.

When his trunk was packed, Draco went to sit outside in his mother's rose garden. She had started planting it when she married and became a Malfoy, and he had many memories of running free and happy, up and down wide gravel paths as a child, while she pruned and tended to her thorny plants. Now it was full of blooms, pink and white, red and blush, the air sweet with their scent, rich and heavy. He would miss this place, and sense of peace. The day was warm and still, although for Draco life felt more like a series of cold and empty rooms. He shivered, despite the sun. It was strange to think that they would never return here, but the Manor was being handed over as part of the family reparations, and whilst he still had good memories of the grounds and gardens, Draco had enough he would rather forget about the rooms and spaces inside. As he watched fat bees make their ways from flower to flower, he thought over his mother's words. He would try, for her. And perhaps, for him too.

oOo

Draco never actually heard any whispering. He didn't need to though, to know it was happening. He could tell, from the way that Pansy now turned away from him if he sat next to her at breakfast. Or the way that Blaise didn't talk to him if they were partnered for Potions. It wasn't just his year, either. Third-years and fifth-years and all the rest of the Slytherins avoided him too, giving him a wide berth at the dinner table or in the common room. At first, he had tried to talk to his friends. Or more accurately, the people who used to be his friends. He was upset, frustrated; rejected. Now he... well he didn't exactly not care, it was more... resignation. They were just being wise, avoiding the taint of association with a known Death Eater. He always kept his arm covered, but in a shared room it was inevitable that they would see the Mark, and of course, of all the students in the school, most of his house knew already. The worst thing was, he knew that he would have done the same if their positions were reversed. That knowledge had a bitter taste, merely reinforcing how worthless a person he was.

The first time he'd seen Pansy, after he got off the train, she'd looked straight through him. Draco had hoped she was merely distracted, but the next few days proved him wrong. Every now and then hope would rise up in him, as he caught sight of the pain in her eyes as she looked everywhere but at him. But whatever she felt, she still didn't talk to him. Finally, he'd managed to corner her and pull her into a dark corner near the dungeons.

He stood close to her, holding her gaze until she turned away. In a quiet, strained voice, Pansy finally spoke.

"I can't, Draco, I can't. This is killing me, but I've got to make up for trying to throw Potter to the Dark Lord. I can't be seen with you."

"What about when you're not seen with me? Can't we be friends, secretly?" Draco had asked, desperate. Pansy shook her head.

"No, no we can't. If I was close to you, I couldn't keep up the pretence," she looked up and reached out to touch his cheek. "I care about you, but not enough to jeopardise my future," her tone had hardened and she withdrew her hand. "I'm afraid it's all or nothing, with me. I know I could never be more than your friend, so there isn't really the... motivation to risk myself to be with you. I'm afraid, Draco, that you're going to get nothing from me." Draco pulled back from her, understanding finally that this was the consequence of his rejecting her advances the year before. She paused for a moment, then spoke firmly, emphasising each word. "You have to stop trying to talk to me and just leave me alone," and pulling her robes around her, Pansy swooped off.

After that, Draco kept to the quiet and hidden corners of Hogwarts. The only time he spoke to anyone was in class, or if a first-year, ignorant of his history, asked for directions. Even these queries lessened as the newest pupils did a bit of whispering of their own, and worked out who he was. There were first-years everywhere, tiny little things in their new robes or worn hand-me-downs, either perpetually lost and wide-eyed, or full of bluff and bravado. He could not imagine that he had ever been that young, although he certainly knew in which category he had belonged.

oOo

He made his way up to the main entrance of the castle, and slipped out for a walk. The trees in the Forest all looked dead, their branches black against the white winter snow. There was a feeling of emptiness around the newly-restored school, both inside and out. Draco had become adept at hunting out the loneliest of spots, in his search for solitude. It was a cold day. He wrapped his thick cloak around him, grateful for the heavy wool. He skirted the edge of the trees until his cheeks hurt and his fingers were numb. He got to Herbology just in time.

The greenhouses were warm enough inside. Draco was not actually late, he'd merely missed the awkward wait before they were allowed in. Draco was never late. He never had points detracted, and he worked hard. He was miserable but he was here for a reason. "Open one door and more will open for you," his mother had said. Well, he was wedging this one open with his foot, and he wasn't going to let it shut on him, not for anything. He sat on his stool, humble and obedient (not broken, his mind whispered, in a vain attempt at reassurance, not broken), while Professor Sprout talked about their extended project, success in which would contribute towards their final NEWT marks. The aim of the project was to extend some aspect of Herbology beyond plants, beyond the classroom. Draco took notes, not wanting to miss anything out. The project would take four months to complete – they would finish in the Spring, just before the Easter break – and would be partnered. Draco's heart sank. Partnered? Who would choose to partner him? Sprout must have seen the look of panic on his face as she quickly added "Partners have already been assigned, by me," and she held up a parchment and started to read out names. The names were being listed alphabetically. That meant—

"Longbottom and Malfoy,"

Draco looked over at Longbottom, who was now scowling at him. He had changed almost beyond recognition in the past year or two. His hair had grown and he'd lost his baby fat. And of course, he was a hero now. Draco was almost bitter about it. He'd spent years cultivating friends and admirers, and it was all gone now. Whilst Longbottom the former buffoon was now the centre of an awful lot of attention, of the kind often accompanied by giggles. Longbottom would just blush, like the innocent he was, but it was still... irritating. Reining in his resigned sigh (humble, obedient; not broken) Draco picked up his things and went to sit next to his new partner, who sat, arms folded and stony faced, as everyone moved into their new pairings. He got jostled once or twice as he moved across the room, and saw other Slytherins meet the angry shoulders of their fellow students too. Such was the world, after the war.

As Professor Sprout kept talking, Longbottom turned to regard him, briefly. He was scowling, distrust written all over his face. He wouldn't meet Draco's gaze, and turned to glare into the distance. Draco's sigh threatened to escape, but instead he decided to say something.

"Longbottom, we're going to have to find a way of working together. I don't know about you, but I need these marks," Draco spoke quietly but he was all too aware that Sprout was frowning at them. "Can we talk, after class?" Longbottom sat absolutely still for a second, then nodded. Draco dutifully took notes for the rest of the lesson, trying very hard not to think about his upcoming conversation with his new partner. At the end of the class they both hung around until all the other students had left. Fixing them with a particularly wary look, in the end Sprout too had left them – once Longbottom had nodded to reassure her.

There was an uncomfortable silence and the greenhouse felt close, over-hot.

"My Herbology marks matter a lot to me, too," said Longbottom in the end. "But I don't know how I can work with you. Maybe we can request to work by ourselves on this one." Draco knew that somehow, this was a pivotal moment in his life. It was strange enough just to be talking to another person, whoever he was. But Draco also knew he had a choice to make, about what he said next. It was no choice really, in the end. He looked down at his quill, running it through his fingers until he forced himself to stop and look at Longbottom.

"Before you do that, I've got something I'd like to say," he paused, trying to find the courage to continue with what he had to say. "I'd like to apologise for... everything, I suppose. For being such a pompous idiot for so many years. For calling you and your friends names. For following my father without once ever thinking about what he stood for." He was whispering by the end of his list of failings, but he had more to add. "For how I was under the Carrows last year," he looked at Longbottom, sorrow on his face, "I'm sorry."

Longbottom chewed his lip and stood, silent. Eventually he let out a long huff of breath.

He nodded his head once, quickly. "Alright. We'll give it a go and see how it goes."

"Thank you," whispered Draco. He couldn't believe that his chances for the future now hinged on the Gryffindor he'd always thought the least of, but then he had been so wrong about who he had valued before.

They left the greenhouses and walked back to the castle through the snow together, in silence. But something had changed, and it took Draco a few days to work out what. As he went about his daily routine, waking and eating, learning and hiding, he realised he felt a new emotion, something pushing his eyes up from the ground, something making him struggle against the confinement of his life. It was, he eventually understood, the beginnings of hope.

oOo

Two weeks into the project, and he and Longbottom had met several times already. Each time it got a little easier. Longbottom had hardly spoken to him the first few times they'd met, but slowly his need to ask questions about the project, and his own encyclopaedic knowledge of growing processes had fused into the two of them talking. Longbottom seemed to be beginning to trust Draco with his work, if nothing else.

They had chosen to cross Fluxweed with peppermint, to see if they could make a plant which could be used as a more robust Potions ingredient. Fluxweed was rare and difficult to get hold of. It was also notorious for being a tricky plant to work with, even when you did have some: it had to be harvested just right, and half the time no matter how you prepared it, the leaves would turn to an unusable green slime before they reached the cauldron. They were hoping to use a combination of spells and potions, to aid cross-fertilisation and to speed the growing process. Despite himself, Draco was quite excited about the challenge the project offered.

Draco looked up from the large book on the desk. They were sitting in the library, researching how they were going to approach their assignment.

"So we can cross Fluxweed – let's call it A – with the peppermint – let's call it B –and grow several plants, to see how consistent the result are. Then try crossing an AB with and A, and an AB with a B, to see which characteristics are the most dominant," Longbottom was nodding, and taking notes. Draco pushed the book aside and started to draw up a timetable and list of what they would need. Longbottom watched him with approval.

"How will we determine those characteristics?" he asked. Draco thought for a minute before answering.

"Well, we can make observations of the plants - see if we've made the Fluxweed a bit more stable, for one. But how about try make a Sleeping Draught with each example? See how it changes the process? We could test it on those horrid little Pygmy Puffs, I bet Hagrid still has more than he can cope with."

"Yes!" said Longbottom. A happy look crossed his face. "We're bound to get extra marks if we do that." Then his face fell and he frowned. "But we'll need to use the Potions room. I don't even do Potions anymore! And it really wasn't my strongest area."

"Don't worry about that," said Draco, "Slughorn might not like me, but I can't see him refusing a request from you." Draco spoke matter-of-factly, with no personal resentment. It was just the truth, that any of the heroes of the war would get preferential treatment. And that he... well, that he would get the opposite. "And I know my way round a cauldron, remember?" Draco's eyes were gleaming. This was going to be fun. He became aware that Longbottom was looking at him strangely, his head tilted and his eyes narrowed.

"You know, you're nothing like I thought you were. You really love all this stuff, don't you?" Longbottom said, his hand sweeping at the open books and scribbled-on parchment. He hesitated before continuing. "Every time you call me Longbottom though, it feels like we're in class. Do you... do you think you could call me Neville?"

Draco put down his quill. His voice faltered as he answered. "Ok then, Neville," he looked at his hands, and felt his face heat.

"Good, Draco," said Neville. Draco felt a thrill at being called his name again. No one had said it for months, he realised. He shook himself and tried to concentrate on what... Neville was saying. "Now how do we take into account the effects of the full moon on the growing phases of Fluxweed? Should we consider that as a factor with the hybrids, too?" Draco turned his attention to the question, and soon they were chatting away and getting their plans finalised.

oOo

After another month of planning and preparation, which had included a lonely Christmas in the greenhouses for Draco, they had a row of seedlings under a range of charms. Neville smiled triumphantly at Draco.

"This calls for a drink," he announced. "We've wasted a whole Saturday—" he paused and laughed when he saw Draco's stricken face, "–well ok, not wasted, exactly. But I haven't seen any of my friends, and it's the weekend." He shrugged his coat on. Draco stayed by the seedlings, his heart sinking. Of course he wasn't one of Neville's friends. And actually, this was one of the best Saturdays he'd had in a long time. He hadn't had to hide once. He watched forlornly as Neville headed towards the greenhouse door. He should never have allowed himself to think that he was being tolerated for any other reason than to complete the project. He scowled and fought the urge to kick something.

As Neville reached the door he turned round. "Come on then, get your stuff: I said, this calls for a drink," and Draco quickly gathered up his cloak and made his way to the door. He felt confused and overwhelmed; he didn't understand how or why Neville would invite him. But there was no way he was turning this down, either. He had a chance to go out, to talk to another person, one who for some reason seemed able to tolerate him. He quickly joined Neville at the door, and they made their way down to Hogsmeade at a leisurely pace.

Draco paled when they got to the Three Broomsticks. He stopped by the door. Neville turned, a look of confusion on his face. Then discomfort and understanding broke through.

"Oh, er, yes. Madam Rosmerta isn't here anymore, she–" Neville glanced nervously at Draco for a second, and swallowed, his voice much quieter as he continued, "–she never really recovered and went to live with family..." he trailed off. Draco was silent. His shoulders dropped.

"Will I even be welcome here? If you don't want me to come, I can just head back to school," he looked down at his shoes, certain that this was the end of his evening out.

"No, I asked you to join me and that still stands. Draco, I don't think you're that person, not anymore. C'mon, come inside," and he reached forward and pulled the door open. As they stepped into the pub, the loud chatter inside turned to a chilled silence. Draco began to back away, but Neville caught hold of his arm and kept him there. He dragged him over to the table which was, of course, full of his friends, Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs all together, red-faced and merry. Any Slytherins in the room were scattered in smaller groups at the edges, younger students who had escaped the Death Eater taint. None of the older Slytherins were there.

For some reason Draco had forgotten that Neville's friends would all be at the pub. Thankfully the golden trio were absent, but he still squirmed. Neville cleared his throat, then addressed the room.

"Draco's here with me. We're working together on a project and I promised him a drink," and he looked round, challenging all those who stared. He was such a Gryffindor. Draco suddenly discovered a new-found admiration for the house. Reluctantly, he lifted his head up. Might as well act like a Gryffindor, myself. When he spoke his voice was quiet, a little shaky, but clear enough to be heard.

"I've already apologised to Neville. I'll say it again though, I'm sorry for how I've behaved in the past, and for everything I've done to hurt people. And for making such bad choices."

His words didn't seem to have done much to shift the mistrust evident on everyone's faces. Regardless, Neville dragged him to sit down at the table. The sound of others talking slowly rose in the background, as it became an issue for that particular group, rather than the whole pub. No one at the table spoke though.

"Look, I–" Neville was pale now, the words escaping him slowly. He held everyone's attention though. "Do you know when my parents– when they were attacked? After Voldemort had disappeared. I... I don't think lingering hatred helps. Draco has kept out of trouble and I promised to have a drink with him."

Dean Thomas and Hannah Abbott were nodding, but Seamus Finnigan was frowning, his face pinched in tight lines. Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley were sat together, both looking unhappy. Draco turned to Luna first. Before he could say anything though, she spoke.

"I don't have good memories of my time at the Manor," she started, her voice slow but lilting, and Draco winced, "but I don't think you do, either. We could hear them sometimes... with you," she whispered. She looked up at him, and then at Neville. "I'll get your drinks," she announced, and wandered off towards the bar. Ginny watched her go, then turned her back to Draco. He sighed.

Draco sat silently for most of the evening, cradling that first pint Luna had bought for him. It tasted horrible, but Draco persevered with it, grateful for the gesture and nervous about drinking anything else in front of this noisy group. Neville spoke to him quietly, a little, but soon became distracted by his friends. Even on the edge of the group like this, being deliberately ignored by most of them, was more social contact than he had experienced since starting back at Hogwarts. He sat back, stiff and upright amongst the flailing arms and merry faces, and listened, learning more about Dean's not-so-secret crush on Ginny, and Luna's theories about wrackspurts, then he ever wanted to. After a while they seemed to forget he was there, and began to talk more freely. He enjoyed watching their to-and-fro. He walked back to the castle with a slightly merry Neville, and went to bed feeling like a stranger in his own skin. He had just sat in a pub with people who hated him, and no one had hexed him. He had almost enjoyed it. Deep inside, he hoped that he could do it again.

That night though, the dreams came anyway. He woke up shaking, the images still strong in his mind: flames, heat, fear, death. Potter.

oOo

Professor Slughorn looked none to happy to be disturbed in his rooms. He looked between Neville and Draco, his reluctance clear to see.

"Much as I would like to help, my dear Longbottom, I feel that if you will be using the Potions classroom and equipment, you should have some suitable supervision. Personally, I can't spare the time and I don't wish to leave a non-NEWT standard student and someone of questionable... well, er, the two of you alone," he paused and frowned in thought. "Perhaps if you could find someone suitable to supervise?"

"How about Harry?" Neville instantly offered. Draco tried hard to hide the horror he felt. This would never work. Potter hated him, and he felt... complicated about Potter. He dreamed about him almost every night, for Merlin's sake, saving his life.

"Yes... Potter would be a most suitable candidate. If he agrees, then yes, you can use the classroom, equipment and some basic supplies," he coughed and began to pull the door shut. "And now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen," and the door closed with a loud thud.

Draco turned to Neville. "Are you mad?" he asked. "There is no way Potter will help me," Neville looked at him sadly and nodded.

"I know. But he'll help me. Look, leave it to me, I'll go ask him now. Maybe... maybe we can meet in the library in about an hour? Bring all our notes, and I'll see if I can get him to come so we can explain the project to him."

An hour later, Draco had spread out their plans and their research across his favourite desk in the library. He spent much of his time hiding here. It was near a window and Draco always felt comforted by the wide space outside. Snow was falling, the sky grey and white. Although he was nervous, he had got a little lost in making sure all the details flowed well. Neville was right, he did love this kind of work. He felt free when his mind could work through a problem, when he could think through a set of tests. He was neatly underlining a word when he heard a slight cough from behind him. He turned to find Hermione Granger, looking over his shoulder, reading his notes.

"Interesting," she said. "Have you taken into account the changing phases of the moon?" Draco was startled, but answered immediately. He was especially proud of how they were ensuring they replicated the optimal growing conditions for one out of each pair of identical plants, through the use of stasis spells. Granger nodded and asked him a few more questions.

They both looked up, startled, when Potter appeared with Neville, telling him in a whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, "I don't see why I should help that git too." Draco sighed at the insult. It was no more than he expected – in fact, it was pretty tame. Perhaps because he had relaxed after getting so involved in his work, or maybe because he felt closer, somehow, to Potter due to the dreams, old reflexes made him answer before he was even aware of what he was saying.

"Is that the best you can do, Potter? 'Git'?" He immediately clamped his mouth shut. Merlin! What was wrong with him? Spending time with a Gryffindor, even one of the meeker ones like Neville, was obviously having an effect. What had happened to being humble? What if he had just ruined his chance to get a good mark? This whole thing would fall apart without Potter's help. Draco felt fear gnaw at him and he held his breath.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Traitorous Death Eater. Is that better?" Potter snapped back, and Draco shrank into himself, hurt. It wasn't like it used to be: he had nothing now, there were no comebacks. This was why he usually said nothing at all.

Draco spent the next few minutes working out how quickly he could escape this encounter, whatever the outcome, even as Granger, then Neville, reassured Potter about the project and told him that the potions bit really was necessary, and really would help Neville get a better mark. He noticed, bitterly, that he was nothing more than an obstacle in the way of Neville's success. For a moment he didn't care about the project, or marks, or anything. He just felt the burning shame of his position. His breath caught painfully in his chest. Draco forced himself to put his resentments aside though: he knew that school work was the only thing he had. He needed Potter to agree.

"Please," Neville said. Potter looked at him for a long moment, before glancing over at Draco and frowning. He turned back to his friend and sighed, then nodded his head. His body though, slumped in annoyance, or perhaps frustration. Draco started breathing a little easier.

As soon as they'd fixed a time for meeting in the potions classroom the next day, Draco gathered up his things and ran back to his room. It was early yet, and everyone ignored him as he walked through the common room. The squid swam past the window, an eye fixed on him for a moment, before it disappeared into the gloom of the lake. Draco stashed his things, put locking charms on his trunk, then got into bed. He pulled his curtains closed and went to sleep. There was nothing else to stay up for.

That night he cried when Potter reached out his hand, but he still took it. Behind him lay fire, flames, death.

oOo

At the time allotted, Draco was stood outside of the Potions classroom. The hallway was dimly lit and empty: classes were over for the day, and natural light never found its way down here. He was neither early nor late. Either would have worried him too much. He hated to wait around or be made to wait. He paused at the door, and heard voices from within. From force of habit, he listened.

"...you're just going to have to behave yourself, Harry. He's been fine, you know."

"I don't know, Neville. I just don't think that you should be so quick to... trust him," Draco sighed. Who could blame him for being so suspicious, after everything?

"I don't have to trust him, Harry. I just have to work with him. And he's good at all this. There's no way I could have set this up so well. For one thing, I wouldn't be making these potions–"

"I don't think someone can just change like that, overnight," Potter interrupted, his voice harsh and flat. This time, Draco heard Neville sigh.

"Actually, he has changed, I do think he has. He apologised. And he's just so... sad all the time. I don't think anyone talks to him, ever," Draco winced at this. He hated that his isolation was so obvious to others. But his slowly-growing sense of hope held on to the fact that Neville had defended him.

"Well, I'd keep an eye on him if I were you," said Harry quietly.

"You keep an eye on him, if you want. It's what you always did, isn't it? But I'm ok with him," and Draco could hear anger begin to rise in Neville's voice.

Draco swallowed down his bitterness at how much Potter disliked and distrusted nhim. He didn't know why it mattered, but it did. He decided he'd heard enough, and twisted the door handle noisily. When he walked in, Neville looked up and smiled, and Potter eyed him warily. Draco gave Neville a small, guarded smile back, but avoided Potter's eye, hating how small Potter was making him feel. He could feel himself moving as awkwardly and self-consciously as he had when he had first started working with Neville. He had fought so hard to keep what he could of himself – with Potter, he felt like he really was completely worthless.

Draco walked up to the bench and held out a list of potions ingredients. Harry sat with his arms folded and looked the other way. Draco suppressed a roll of the eye and handed it to an embarrassed-looking Neville. He pretended not to notice Harry's childish behaviour.

"This is what we'll need. And here's the schedule we drew up of what needs to be made when. Let's just get on with it, shall we?" It was the most he'd said in front of Potter since the trials. Potter scowled, but took the list from Neville and went off to collect the ingredients.

"I'm sorry about Harry," whispered Neville.

"It's fine. At least he's here," Draco replied, sighing heavily. Really, he hadn't expected anything less.

After that, the three of them worked quietly, with Neville slicing and preparing ingredients with Potter, under the watchful eye of Draco, who really didn't want to mess this up. The potions or the fledgling trust. The atmosphere was tense, and Draco tried to just focus on the work. He found Potter's presence distracting. He always had, but this time there was no way he could sidestep it with insults. There was only his very real awareness of Potter, who seemed to take up more physical space than the room could offer. It felt like there was no air left for Draco to breathe. He was suffocating in his presence. The more time they spent in the same room, the more Real Potter, full of distrust, converged in his mind with Dream Potter, wild and strong and coming to save him from the flames, and the Potter of his memories, who he had watched for so many years. He found he couldn't look at, or talk to the one standing in the room with him.

His dreams became a tangle of flames and insults, being saved and being scorned. Fear gave way to confusion.

oOo

Somehow, and Draco never really understood how or why, but he was invited, more than once, to the Three Broomsticks with Neville's friends. It was almost becoming a regular occurrence. First, Neville asked him along after their long work session the next Saturday, but then he helped Luna with her Potions homework and she asked him along, and one day Hermione had dropped into the greenhouses to ask them both about the project, and before Neville could ask, she'd told him they would have to continue their conversation on the way to the pub. Mostly he would sit quietly at the sidelines, watching and listening, and even though he hated to admit it to himself, he was starting to like them all. They slowly asked him to call him by their given names — all but Potter and Weasley, who still watched him with distrust. Still, since spending time with them, Draco hated to admit it, but he was starting to think of them as Harry and Ron too. He would watch Potter the most, wary of the glances he received in return, long and speculative, or short and scowling. He rarely spoke to him, too scared of how he might react. The times they did speak it was through necessity, stilted and awkward, a quiet 'excuse me' or 'thank you'.

"So when are you going to make a move on her, Dean?" asked Seamus, weaving slightly from side-to-side. Dean glanced over at Potter, a look of horror on his face.

"I don't know what you're t–t–talking about," he stuttered. Seamus threw his head back and laughed loudly. Once he recovered, he paused to wipe his eyes.

"Oh, Harry doesn't mind, do you, Harry?" Seamus asked, blustering on.

"Er, no, I don't mind. Up to her who she sees," muttered Potter, clearly embarrassed.

"I'm her brother, I should get a say," interrupted Ron.

"No, no you don't!" said Hermione laughing. At that moment, Ginny returned from the bar, carrying several drinks.

"No you don't, what, Ron?" she asked, pointedly. He blushed and shook his head.

Draco watched them all with amusement. This was a recurring theme of these nights out – Dean's obvious mooning after Ginny, and his reluctance to do anything. They all handled things so differently from his Slytherin friends. It had all been most entertaining, this way, but now it was becoming a little tiresome.

"He doesn't get a say in who you go out with," Draco said in a quiet low voice, just wanting them to get on with it. He wasn't doing anything anyone else round the table didn't want to do.

"Shut up, Malfoy, it's none of your business," snapped Potter. Draco flushed and bit his lip and the from what I can see it isn't yours either, response he wanted to make. Ginny however, leapt to his defence.

"Oi, leave him alone. He's right, anyway. You," and she pointed at Ron, "can't decide who I go out with," and here, her eyes bright and the courage of a couple of pints in her voice, she turned to Dean. "And maybe, I know who I'd like to see, and I don't need my brother to tell me or approve my choices," and she fairly leapt onto Dean's lap and kissed him. Ron recoiled in horror. Others whooped and whistled, and Seamus broke the kiss by slamming his hand on Dean's back in congratulations. Dean smiled sheepishly, then grabbed Ginny for another kiss.

Draco looked back at Potter, who watched the couple for a second, a wistful expression on his face, then turned away and sighed. As if he knew he was being watched, Potter turned to glare at him.

"What are you staring at?" and Draco immediately cast his eyes down. "Stupid ferret," added Potter, and Draco ground his teeth. Stupid speccy scarhead, he thought, but he kept his mouth clamped firmly shut. Potter sighed loudly. Draco heard him mutter "Don't know why he's here, anyway," as he turned back to Ron. Draco counted to ten in his head, even as he felt the sting at the back of his eyes. This was pathetic. He could see he was slowly becoming something, even just at the edge, of this group of friends, but Potter would never want to be his friend, or even a civil acquaintance. He of course, had coveted Potter's friendship since he was eleven. Trying hard to hide how hurt he felt, Draco returned to his watching and listening; the quiet man in the corner.

There was a full moon and the slightly unsteady bunch of young people had their route marked out by the sharp divisions between moonlight and the dark of the shadows, as they made their way home from Hogsmeade. The scene was eerily quiet and bright, snow covering everything as far as they could see. Even so, they were still stumbling and giggling loudly as they did so. Dean and Ginny walked hand in hand.

Draco never drank much, not happy at the thought of losing control: what small bits of control he had over his life, he held onto tightly. He stayed at the edge of the group, nearer those who tolerated him the best, Luna and Hermione. He kept walking ahead of the group, and forced himself to slow to match the more leisurely pace of the others. Draco heard the rumble before anyone else, a deep growling noise. The ground shook slightly, and then dipped in front of them. Draco immediately knew what it was: a giant collapsing gnome hole. Hermione was dangerously close to the fast-appearing dip in the middle of the road. Without thinking, Draco lunged sideways and grabbed her, pulling her up with one arm, just as she began to slip down into the hole opening up beneath her feet. By the time she had righted herself, a wide deep gap was visible, black in the midst of the compacted snow of the path. Luna stood at its edge, her feet stopping just before the ground gave way. She was staring down into the hole, and Neville made his way to her and pulled her back, gently. Ron had rushed to Hermione's side and held her close. He looked up at Draco.

"Thank you," he said, his voice shaking. "You were so quick. I– I wouldn't have reached her in time," he took in a great, shuddering breath before continuing. "I haven't seen a gnome hole this big for years." Draco shrugged in acknowledgment of the thanks. His air of nonchalance though, was rather ruined by the breathless quality to his voice as he explained to some of the more puzzled-looking in the group.

"Collapsing gnome-holes. I've seen it at home. They burrow and join them together until there is just a big void under the ground. The sound is a dead give away," he turned to Hermione. "Are you ok? Sorry I pulled you away so hard." She looked up, her eyes wide and face pale, and nodded.

"No, it's fine. Thanks," and the group edged round the hole and made their way back to Hogwarts, somewhat more subdued than before. Draco slunk to the back, uncomfortable with the attention. He had become used to being on the periphery, being ignored. Ron kept his arm around Hermione all the way back. They weren't an overtly demonstrative couple, but this seemed to be the exception.

Draco was startled when Potter fell into step with him.

"I– thank you," he started. Draco forced himself to look at Potter. He could already feel adrenaline rushing through his veins after grabbing at Hermione like that, but turning to talk to Potter pushed him into a shallow-breathing state of nervous anxiety. The moonlight was bright; Potter's face a sharp contrast between white skin and black hair. It was so far from the memory of flames that he calmed a little. Potter sighed, a cloud of white in front of his face.

"I– I might have been... wrong about you. I haven't heard you insult Neville or Hermione or anyone else. I haven't really heard you speak except about work. I— I'm still not entirely sure about you, but I don't think I've got the energy for hate anymore." Draco looked at Potter with suspicion. Was this really the same person who had called him names only an hour or two earlier? Harry returned his look, calmly, then held out his hand. "Truce?" he asked. Draco regarded the hand in front of him, the look of earnest effort on Potter's face. The knot of self-hatred deep inside of him relaxed, slightly, despite his misgivings. He nodded and shook Potter's hand. Even through his gloves, Draco could feel that it was cold but solid. They looked at each other for a moment, then started walking back up to the others.

When Draco went to sleep that night, the flames were cool and far away. Potter though was close, and Draco felt him, solid beneath his arms, as he held on tight, the flames and death receding fast behind them.

oOo

Early on Sunday morning, Draco went down to the greenhouses to find Neville. They had only a few more leaves to harvest and potions to make, and then they could start testing and write up their project. He knew Neville would be there: Neville was always in the greenhouses. If Draco hadn't seen him out with his friends himself, it would have been easy to believe that Neville's only friends grew in pots under glass.

He was surprised when he got there though, to find that Neville was not alone. Potter was with him. He watched Potter for a moment. Merlin, but Potter had so much energy. He fairly fizzed with it. He hummed and half sang snatches of song to himself as he moved. Neville had set him to work, repotting giant Flutterby and Screechsnap plants. Although it was still chilly and misty outside, the greenhouses were warm and slightly humid. Potter had stripped to his t-shirt, and Draco could see he was beginning to sweat from the exertion of digging and lifting. There were smears of dirt across his t-shirt, arms and face. His skin had the pallor of winter about it, and to Draco, it looked wrong. Potter was always tanned, his skin should look like he spent all his time outdoors. But it didn't. Draco blinked and looked away. He shouldn't be staring at anyone like that, least of all Potter. He turned to Neville and flushed, sure that he'd noticed how long Draco had stared at Potter, and feeling he'd been caught out somehow.

"I, er, I came to see how the plants are doing. And to see if you were around too. I didn't realise you'd have company," explained Draco in a rush, eager to turn Neville's attention back to something else.

Potter stopped what he was doing, and looked up. He wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving behind a dusting of fine soil, a wide streak across his face. Draco swallowed. He looked so... And why did every room he find himself with Potter in have to be so airless?

Draco forced his eyes back to Neville, again.

Neville though, had noticed where he had been looking and nodded over to Potter. "He comes in on a Sunday, sometimes. Helps me with some of the more back-breaking tasks. Don't you, Harry?" Potter shrugged and returned to his task. Draco tried hard not to become distracted by the strong, confident movements of Potter's body.

"I just wanted to chat about how we can divide up the report and essay portion of our project. I've jotted down some headings we could work from. I was thinking..." Draco trailed off when he saw the look of annoyance on Neville's face, and the way his eyes flicked to Harry as if to say what an annoying idiot Draco is. Harry avoided Neville's eye and kept digging.

"Oh, I didn't think... are you free now, or later?" said Draco. Neville grimaced slightly.

"You know, Draco, I do have other work to do too."

"Oh, yes, yes, I know. I just had nothing else to do this morning," or the rest of the day, as usual, "so I thought I'd come find you... but I can see I've been taking up too much of your time. I– I shouldn't have come here." He finished almost on a whisper, and bowed his head, defeated.

"No, no you shouldn't. I know we're working together, but I'm not just here for your convenience! We already spent all of yesterday together. Anyway, I do have something else to do now: Professor Sprout is going to show me a particularly tricky patch of Devil's Snare in the Forest, she needs a hand with it. I'm sorry, Draco, but now really isn't the best time." Looking up, Draco noticed the professor, pacing up and down outside the greenhouse. Neville was flustered now, his cheeks reddened and visibly annoyed. There was a silence as Draco looked at the floor and bit back a defence.

Relenting slightly, Neville sighed and added "Look, we can still meet – how about the library, about three?" Draco nodded mutely and Neville left to join Professor Sprout. They were soon involved in animated conversation, as they walked towards the Forbidden Forest. Draco watched them as they shrank into the distance. He hated himself for getting caught up in his desire for acceptance and believing they were friends outside of this project. He hated how pathetic he felt.

After a moment Draco remembered that Potter was in the room. Great, a moment of weakness witnessed by Harry Potter: it really didn't get any worse than that. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the pair of eyes he could already feel burning into his back. Potter was standing there, his hands tight on his spade, knuckles white.

"What happened to you?" asked Potter, his voice holding an edge of anger. "Where's your fight gone?"

Draco sighed. "What use is fight, to me?" Potter just looked at him, his face screwed up, his incomprehension and frustration clear to see. "You of all people know how I used to... strut around. If I want to be anything, do anything in my life, I have to get away from that." For some reason, Draco felt he was pleading. He wanted Potter to understand. "I can't be who I was. I can't," he whispered. Potter took a step closer to him.

"But you're not being you. This isn't you. I–", he stopped and ran a hand through his hair. "My friends are ok, but everyone else calls me a hero, a saviour, and–", he looked up, his mouth looking like he wanted to speak, almost moving, but no words coming out. Eventually though, he managed to finish what he wanted to say, "–the only person who ever challenged me was you. And Snape. But he's gone and you... you're this empty version of yourself." He shook his head. "Nev's a mate, but I never thought I'd see the day when he talked down to you like that."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better somehow?

"No," said Potter through teeth clenched together, "you can have changed but still have some life left in you, you know. You're infuriating." Draco's pulse was loud and fast in his ears. He had spent years wanting to get this kind of a reaction, a confession of his importance, from Potter, and now he had it, what could he do? He stared at Potter.

"You're right, but I'm– it's not easy, acting this way, keeping my thoughts to myself."

"Then why don't you just let go sometimes?"

"Because what would happen to me then? I'm just going to keep my head down and get through this year, then I'm going to try to make something of my life," Draco shrugged. "That's my plan."

Potter gave him a long look. "Ok, I can understand that. Just... just don't feel you have to be that way around me. Honestly, I'd prefer if you never do that whole humble bowing thing with me," he shuddered.

"Oh, I'm sure that will go down well, me mouthing off to the Chosen One. It will do my reputation no end of good," Draco began to feel his anger rising. "Actually, you really have no idea, at all, what it's like for me," he took a deep breath. "No one talks to me. The teachers despise me. I have seen death and torture and I have no choice but to be here, humbled and repenting, to show I am not the person I was." His hands were clenched at his sides in fists by the time he had finished. Potter just looked at him sadly. "Honestly, Potter, I can see the cogs whirring as you think! Say something."

Slowly, deliberately, Potter spoke. He had a strange light in his eye. "OK, I guess I hadn't thought it through properly. But... I wish that you could be yourself. In the end, you know, it will be easier if you can be who you really are. Living a half-life just doesn't suit you. But I'll leave you alone."

Draco was reminded of Pansy, oddly, for a moment. But then Potter was gone, and Draco was alone in the greenhouse, the smell of earth and sweat in the air.

He went for a long walk, Potter's words echoing round his head. It was the first time in so long that anyone had wanted to talk to him, the real him, and for it to be Potter was a little confusing, but mostly filled him with rage. It was too late now. The futility of the situation struck him hard. He stomped his feet, each jolt against the ground helping to calm him a little. By the time he had got to the lake, he was feeling a little calmer. But Potter's words still whirled through his mind, unsettling him. How could he reclaim a bit of who he was? Now the words had been said, he knew they were true. He sat by the cold water and thought. The water looked deep and black, but it did reflect the sky through the ripples of its gentle waves. Draco was stiff and cold by the time he stood up, but he knew what he wanted to do.

oOo

The door to the Quidditch store was stiff in the damp air. Draco pushed it open with his shoulder, and five minutes later was kitted out with a broom, gloves, flying cap and goggles. Everything smelled musty and a year ago he would never have touched any of these things, judging them inferior and disgusted at the thought of second-hand sweat. Actually, that still disgusted him a little. He hadn't been on a broom since Potter had saved him, and he needed to do this. He needed to get back in the air, just for himself. He had always loved flying. He would have come out the day before, but he had been busy with Neville. Who had offered him a half-apology, bundled up with a half-smile. It was enough for Draco.

No one else was around: it was a cold and miserable day. Most of the snow had melted, grey and slushy patches all that remained, here and there. Clouds hung, dark and heavy in the sky. Draco stood, ready to move up into the sky but stuck firmly on the ground. He closed his eyes, and saw flames. But then he focused on Potter's words. "No more half-life," he whispered to himself. Draco felt fear compete with excitement as he pushed off from the ground. And then he was flying, up higher and higher, and he felt everything drop away beneath him. The wind was loud in his ears, and he aimed the old broom straight ahead and flew it as fast as he could. He flew into the wind shouting, he flew with it at his back, pushing him to higher speeds. He felt gusts of it threaten to unseat him, and he didn't care. He flew until his fingers, even in the cracked leather of old gloves, felt carved of ice, and reluctantly he made his way back to the ground.

Draco stood panting, his whole body shaking with the exertion of his flight. He felt like himself. He took off his goggles and undid the straps of his flying cap and pulled it off his head, letting the wind catch his hair, whipping it about his head. It was long enough now that it reached far past his collar. He wanted to just feel the wind. He turned slightly, so it blew through his hair and kept it off his face, and closed his eyes. He felt the sweat on his scalp cool, and shivered slightly. The wind was strong, and he felt the flush of his cheeks as a rawness as the cold air moved across his face; the occasional tendril of hair a whip across his sensitive skin. He faced into the wind and laughed with pure joy.

It looked as if it was going to get dark soon. Reluctantly, he turned to put back the things he'd borrowed. He jumped back in shock: there, watching him, was Potter. He was leant up against the Quidditch shack, his eyes dark, fixed on Draco. Draco walked towards him, ready to tell him to just leave him alone. But as he got closer he became unnerved by Potter's unwavering attention. He slowed his stride, then stopped. Potter was still staring at him. The words he had meant to say fell away. They stood like that for a moment.

"You look... different," said Potter, quietly. "I er, I was out for a walk, and I saw you flying. You were fantastic. And just now, standing there, you looked... free. Your hair..." and here Harry trailed off, flushing and looking embarrassed. He finally broke his gaze as his eyes moved back in the direction of the school. "We should be getting back now," he said, and pushed himself away from the rough wood of the large shed. "I'll just let you put your things away," he muttered, and he walked away a short distance, facing away from Draco.

Draco's breathing was fast and shallow as he put the broom and the rest of the things back onto the dusty shelves. He took a deep breath and stepped out. Potter still had his back to him. He jumped when Draco joined him.

"Sorry," said Draco. Potter shook his head.

"It doesn't matter, I'm just a bit distracted today," and Draco nodded. They walked for a while, saying nothing. Their strides were evenly matched, and they set quite a fast pace. Draco got the impression that it was Potter's energy again, pulling them forward.

Draco was unsure why Potter was there. He glanced over at him. Potter's eyes were fixed forward, focused far in the distance. His jaw was set in firm lines. Draco looked away before Potter noticed him looking again. Their feet made little noise on the damp grass, and the day – what was left of it – still felt invigorating.

"I hadn't been on a broom before today, not since..." said Draco. Potter turned his attention back on him, and once again Draco felt himself floundering under its intensity. There was a silence.

"Sometimes I dream about it–" said Potter.

"The flames," Draco finished for him. "Me too."

"So why today?" asked Potter. Draco stopped walking and looked at him.

"You know why," he sighed, "it was what you said to me. I wanted to do something that was just... me."

Potter looked at him, his eyes green and fiery. Draco suddenly realised how close they were standing. He could feel his heart beating all of a sudden; it felt as if it wanted to escape his chest. They were so close and it was what he had always wanted at some level, just to be close. The nearest he got was when he dreamed at night. He watched the way the wind tugged Potter's hair, and he wanted to touch it. He remembered Potter staring as the wind blew through his own hair.

"It suits you... just being you," whispered Potter. This felt different to their previous conversations: it felt more raw. Draco looked away. Potter put a hand on his arm, "Malfoy, look at me," but Draco couldn't bring himself to. Hope rose and mingled with fear and bitterness. "Draco," said Potter, and Draco finally looked at him. "You have to be you again. Every time I look at you and you shrink away, from everyone else, from life, all I can see is a reminder of the war. We have to move beyond it, all of us."

Draco felt disappointment wash through him. He had hoped to hear different words from Potter. Yet again he had been stupid to trust in hope. He shrugged it off and tried to respond.

"You called me Draco," he said. Potter cocked his head.

"I wanted to get your attention. It worked," he smiled. Draco smiled back, shyly.

"Do you think we could? Call each other by our names, I mean?" he asked. Potter's smile broadened.

"Yes, I think I'd like that, Draco."

"Ok then, Harry," the name felt strange on his tongue. It was just as raw and intimate as everything else. At that moment, he couldn't think about life plans or what his mother would say; it was just the two of them, Draco and Harry, standing on some grass with a darkening sky above them. After a minute or two, Draco nodded back in the direction of the school, and they started walking again.

"You know," said Harry, "you were pretty good up there today, but I can see that you've got a bit rusty. Your turns looked a bit... sluggish."

"Sluggish! I'd like to see you do better, Pot– Harry," said Draco. Harry flashed a smile at him.

"See, you really are getting back to yourself," and the mood was lightened. They carried on walking, chatting a bit about flying, even batting a few mild insults between the two of them, until they reached the castle. At the main entrance Harry looked down and shuffled his feet.

"I guess Ron and Hermione might be looking for me by now. I'd better go. But... keep being yourself, ok?"

"Ok, but you're going to have to stop going on about it. It could get irritating after a while," Draco smiled. Harry's eyes were warm as he smiled for a moment, then turned away. He looked back once, then disappeared through the doors.

Draco went down to the Slytherin common room. It was quite busy, in that time between lessons and dinner when friends catch up and the students in general found ways to unwind a little from their day. He felt the familiar pang as he saw Blaise and Pansy, heads bent together, on the sofa by the fire. Most people didn't even bother looking up as he came in, but those who did sneered at his sweaty, windswept appearance. For once, he didn't care, buoyed by the knowledge that he was becoming, perhaps, friends with Harry Potter. Pansy gave him a long look, which he couldn't quite read. Draco snuck into the showers, which were blissfully empty at this time of day. As the hot water pounded down onto his shoulders and neck, he let out a long, shuddering sigh. It had been almost too much, being watched by Potter – Harry, being close to him. Draco closed his eyes.

Friendship was good. Friendship was what he'd wanted, for years. But now, remembering Harry's face lit by the fading light of the day, remembering his hair moving in the wind, remembering the intense gaze he'd fixed Draco with, Draco wanted more. His mind flashed to the memory of Harry, solid under his arms, and it mingled with his dream-memories. He moaned. He wanted to feel that solidity again. He wanted to touch that restless energy which sparked around Harry. It wasn't going to happen, it couldn't happen. But just the thought of it, as the water ran down his body, was forcing his body to react. His body felt alive, from his scalp to his toes. Blood coursed through him, and seemed to pool in a tight focus of want in his dick. Too far gone to care if anyone walked in, he leant one hand against the wall, resting his head against the tiles, and let the images swarm in his mind. He snaked his hand down and with fevered, long strokes, thought of Harry: black hair, green eyes, a smear of dirt across his face. His heart was squeezing almost painfully, and then he was coming, long spurts hitting the tiles before being washed away. The relief of orgasm eased his heart. He rested, panting, until he got his breath back. Some of the frustration he felt had left his body.

Unexpectedly, when Draco got dressed, he still felt good, despite the impossibility of the situation. He went down to dinner, feeling lighter than he had done in ages. As he sat at the end of the table, separated by only a short distance from chattering first years, he was only aware of Harry at the Gryffindor table. It was reflex, after so many years, to glance over at the spot usually occupied by Harry and his friends, but this time felt different.

The hall was filled with loud chatter and Draco couldn't hear what Ron and Hermione were saying to Harry, but he could see that Harry was distracted and that they were trying to get his attention. At that moment, Harry looked up and straight at Draco. Their eyes met for a second, and Harry immediately flushed and looked away. He threw himself into conversation at the Gryffindor table, and Draco did not see him looking again.

Lying in bed that night, he thought about Harry before he went to sleep. Hope was creeping back, pulling its way up into his soul. Maybe, maybe, this time it could stay. When he fell asleep, there were no flames. Just the broom moving through the air, his arms clasped tight round Harry, his head pressed to his back.

>> PART TWO