Sometimes, Harry dreams a strange dream. It is never exactly the same, and it never comes at a specific moment. It'll always catch him by surprise and have him waking up feeling cold and empty and warm and full all at the same time. It'll have him throwing on his coat, grabbing the Floo powder and going to Malfoy Manor.

He dreams of a small boy of about eleven. With pale hair and a pointy face and a permanent sneer. Of him being laughed at, embarrassed. Of a fight in the compartment or a train, and a larger boy being bitten by a rat.

He dreams of the pale boy extending his hand. And he dreams of taking it.

He dreams of a soft friendship. One where there isn't any fighting or blows or curses or slurs. Only respect and sometimes, even love. He dreams and he dreams and he dreams and he wakes wanting more.

And on the morning after the dreams, Draco Malfoy finds himself intruded upon by Harry Potter. Who helps himself to tea and biscuits and forces him to sit down and have a chat. Sometimes, though he'll never admit it, he finds it enjoyable. Endearing, even. He starts to like these visits. He starts to like Harry.

But neither men have been the greatest at divulging feelings, no matter how obviously reciprocated. So they sit, basking in each other's company and drinking tea in the early hours of the day, aching for a past that only ever lives in a dream.