Even after three weeks of living with Draco, the novelty of the flat hadn't worn off. Each day, Harry woke and smiled as soon as his bare feet made contact with the smooth, cool hardwood floors.

This day was no different, and Harry treasured the new feeling (it was far from the splintery, rotting mess of floorboards he'd had previously) the whole way to the kitchen. Draco was already seated at the counter and having tea.

He gestured to a teapot a few feet away. "More of this in there, if you'd like it."

Harry nodded his thanks as he filled a mug. He and Draco still weren't the best of friends, but Harry had loosened the grip on the grudge he'd held for so long and, unbelievably, the two hadn't had a single disagreement.

"I've been thinking, Potter."

Harry leaned against the counter, facing Draco. "That can't be good."

The trace of a smile played on the edges of Draco's lips. "We should get to know each other a bit better. I'd hate to find out that you've outgrown that arrogant, immature little schoolboy you once were. Then again, seeing that little schoolboy in you makes me want to vomit a bit every day, so change would probably be a good thing for you."

"Getting to know Draco Malfoy... Don't I already know him? That was the prissy little bully I met in school!"

Draco cringed. "God, don't remind me. At least one of us has changed since then."

Harry shook his head, laughing softly. "Fine, fine. What are we doing?"

"I'm taking you to my favorite muggle restaurant. For now, I've got to go to work- and so do you- so we can meet back here at, say... Six?"

"It's a date."

--

As Harry scrubbed away at the dishes in the sink of the Leaky Cauldron all that day, he thought about Draco. Maybe Hermione was right, and he really was being immature, keeping this decade-old grudge. Then again, Draco literally had come from a line of murderous racists. It wasn't like Harry was jumping to conclusions.

And yet, this supposedly horrible person had made Harry's life so much better. Truth is, Harry had started hating every moment of his life. He hated coming to work and soaking his hands in near boiling water, scraping his nails against grime and wondering why they couldn't just use magic to do such menial work. He hated that his friends were successful, wonderful people and that he had barely changed since they'd graduated from Hogwarts. He hated having people treat him weirdly, never making eye contact, because everyone knew how "broken" he was, and exactly how much pity he deserved.

He'd hated his old flat. At least that had changed.

Harry couldn't help but wonder if Malfoy had come to change his whole life. Maybe now he'd get a better job. Maybe things would start to look up. God knows he was trying to change as a person, but maybe now he'd actually make some progress.

Draco had brought an element into Harry's life that he wasn't so familiar with: hope.

--

Draco was waiting on the couch, book in hand, when Harry arrived back at the flat. He looked gently rugged, wearing a nice black button up, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

The blond looked up and smirked as the door shut behind Harry. "You look dreadful."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Malfoy."

His eyes had already fallen back to his book. "Throw on something nice."

Harry thought of his closet. The clothes that hung there were hardly nice enough for someone who worked as a dishwasher at a shady restaurant. "I don't-"

"If you don't have anything nice, you can raid my wardrobe. You're about my size."

"...Thanks." Harry had begun to make his way down the hall, to the far bedroom. He hadn't spent much time in Draco's room, and even with the invitation he felt as though he was overstepping an unspoken rule as he opened the door.

The door to Draco's smooth black armoire opened without a creak, and Harry stared at the collection of clothes before him. Hung in the closet were blacks and greys, accompanied by countless flannels. Each fabric felt soft and clean under Harry's fingertips, and even with his face two feet from the clothing, the unmistakable coffee-and-smoke smell of Draco wafted up from the collection.

With a bit of digging, Harry found a clean white button-down in the depths of Draco's wardrobe. He slipped off his own shirt and replaced it with Malfoy's, buttoning the cool white buttons all the way up to his neck. The fabric was clean, cool against his chest as he stared at himself in the massive mirror on Draco's wall.

Despite only being 22, Harry looked old. He was worn, he was tired, he was a mess. His hair hadn't improved much since fourth year. It was shorter now on the sides, with a sloppy, half-assed quiff. A noticeable amount of scruff had spread across his cheeks but he couldn't be bothered to shave. He'd been wearing the same glasses for five years. Frankly, the man had let himself go.

"If you're done admiring yourself, we can go."

Harry turned around with a start to find Malfoy leaning against the doorframe, staring. It really wasn't fair to be a mess and have a flatmate who constantly looked like a god. He was moving into the room now, towards Harry. Draco undid the top button on Harry's shirt.

"There you go. Maybe now you won't look so damn pained all the time."

"I wasn't admiring myself."

"Sorry. Perhaps I should have said 'pitying.'"

The words hit Harry like a slap, but they rang out with truth. He really had been a bit mopey for the past decade or so. He accepted the criticism, but his face must have told a different story, as Malfoy, still inches away, grimaced.

"Apologies," said he, "I'm supposed to be nice now. I am trying, I swear."

Harry swallowed, shook his head. "No, no. You're doing well. You're right."

The tension built over a few seconds of awkward silence, until Draco took a step back. "Let's go eat, shall we?"

--

It was the type of restaurant that couples go to.

Of course, there wasn't any sign on the door that said "come on in for romance," but it was obvious enough anyways. There didn't seem to be a single pair in that restaurant that wasn't obviously a couple. Inconveniently enough, they all seemed to be straight, which made the two men stick out like a sore thumb.

Harry looked at Draco over the candle lit between them. "When you said 'it's a date,' you didn't actually mean that, right?"

The blond looked up from the menu with a furrowed brow. "What do you mean?"

"Look around you! It's like Valentine's Day in November!"

"Shit, you're right." Draco grimaced in realization. "I take my clients here. I wonder how many of them think I was hitting on them..."

The pair laughed. "You sell drugs here?" Harry asked.

"We're not all back alleys and midnight dealings, you know."

"Why, though? You have a whole world of... You know, magic. Why do this?"

Draco pondered a moment, eyes dropping to the bouncing flame of the candle before meeting Harry's once more. "Same reason you wash dishes: I don't have a choice."

Their waitress appeared then, cutting off the conversation. The men ordered politely, coolly, as though they hadn't just been talking about dealing drugs in the middle of a fancy restaurant.

As soon as they were alone again, Potter's eyes were directly back on Malfoy's. "Of course you have a choice; you have money."

"Money can't buy happiness, Harry."

Harry's voice softened. "But drugs can?"

Malfoy paused only a moment before rolling his eyes a little. "It's not like I'm the one who does them, Harry. I'm not a broken addict with coke and heroin as an outlet. I'm the guy who sells to the addicts. And, you know... Sometimes it's just nice to escape. To be somewhere else, someone else."

The boy who lived couldn't argue with that. After all, hadn't Hogwarts been just that for him? His escape, where he wasn't a broken-down ragamuffin stuffed under the stairs?

"Why do you still hate me?"

Harry, mid-water-sip sputtered a bit, nearly choking on his gulp. "What?"

"We graduated half a decade ago. Why do you still act like we're archenemies?" When he found Harry to be speechless, Draco continued. "I mean, I know I was kind of a major asshole when we were kids. And frankly, you weren't always the nicest to me either- but I guess I deserved that. Still though, we were children and - it's not like you're having old men turn me into ferrets every other day - but I still see that distrust and that little bit of hatred when you look at me and I... I don't understand." Draco did something unexpected then, reaching across the table and placing his pale, cool hands over both of Harry's. "You saved my life. I just don't want you to loathe me entirely. Sorry."

Harry stared, mouth agape, for a few seconds before he finally figured out how to stammer out a sentence. "I'm... I'm sorry too. For holding a grudge, and such. I swear I'm trying, but sometimes all I can see is that kid who belittled my genius best friend just because of her blood."

Draco lifted his hands off of Harry's and into the air, as though surrendering. "Guilty. And sorry."

The boy who lived nodded. "That's alright. We'll... We'll get better at this. Both of us. We have to."

Malfoy smiled slightly. "We will. I promise."

They sat silently for a few moments, each looking down at the elaborately folded napkin before him. It was awkward, it was tense, and if you'd told eleven-year-old Harry that he'd be there a matter of years later, he'd punch you in the face.

The weight of the silence was too heavy even for the boy who grew up with unmeasurable pressure. "So," said Draco, "I was thinking after this I could show you one of my favorite pubs down the street."

Harry scrunched up his nose. "A bar? Really, Draco?"

"Yeah, I know. You see plenty of alcohol every day in that old Leaky Cauldron. But this one is better."

"A bar's a bar, Malfoy."

"This one isn't crawling with witches and wizards and death. This one is human. Alive."

Harry allowed the tiniest of half-smiles to crawl onto his face. "You know, for someone who used to be so adamantly against them, you sure do love Muggles."

"Actually, yeah, once I learned how to stop being a racist prat, I've started enjoying their company."

"And their pubs."

Draco laughed. "Yeah, and their pubs."

--

The boys stumbled into the flat, giggling. Harry had liked the bar just as much as Draco, and they'd stayed there for an hour too long, paying generously for drink after drink.

As his thoughts swam drunkenly in a sea of consciousness, each fighting for a moment to surface, Draco struggled to coordinate his balance. His legs began to slide out from beneath him, and he nearly slipped to the ground- but Harry's arms steadied him.

Laughing, Harry half-carried Draco to the blond's room, only letting him go when Draco could safely flop onto the covers. Malfoy giggled slowly, softly, and began drifting off immediately.

Yawning, Harry stood over the drunk boy, who had curled up slightly. Draco looked small in his sleep. Innocent. How was this boy once so horrible? Anyone who looked so, well, angelic couldn't be so bad.

Giving up on any possibility of crawling to his own room, Harry lessened his grip on the waking world and fell into the bed beside his once-enemy.

--

The first thing Harry noticed upon waking was Draco's heavy body, partially draped across his own. The next was his pounding headache.

Harry groaned, pushing Draco off of himself. Draco rolled away easily and stirred, turning towards Harry and pulling the duvet over his shoulder.

"You're in my bed," the blond mumbled. His eyes widened. "Wait, we didn't-"

"No. No, God. We didn't."

Draco breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "So you're just... Hanging out here?"

Harry considered the pounding in his head and whether or not he'd be able to make it to his room without puking. Definitely not. "Yeah. At least until my head stops feeling like it weighs 80 pounds."

Draco shrugged. "Alright."

He rolled over, soon slipping back to sleep as Harry turned grabbed the remote for Draco's TV. Saturday morning's shit programs kept him entertained briefly, but with the warmth of the shared duvet and the blond snoring next to him, the boy who lived was soon pulled into a slumber of his own.

--

Harry's second waking of the morning was far more agreeable than the first. The television droned on, set to the news, and the smell of coffee wafted into the bedroom from the kitchen. Despite his dully aching head, Harry pulled himself from beneath the covers and wandered back into his room to change.

Having exchanged Draco's button down for sweats and a tee, Harry followed his nose to the kitchen-slash-living area. A steaming pot of coffee was set on the counter, and Draco was on his knees, fiddling with the fireplace.

He turned when Harry entered and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Morning, Potter."

Harry took in Draco's wet, combed hair and clean outfit. "Are you not hungover?"

Draco shrugged. "Don't really get hungover."

"But you're such a lightweight! You were drunker than me!"

Malfoy smiled, shrugged again, before stepping away from the now-functioning fireplace. "I've got a work thing in a half hour, so I'll be headed out."

"Work thing?"

The blond rolled his eyes, still smiling. "You know what I mean."

Harry spent most of the day nursing his still-pounding head and battling bouts of nausea as he watched rain stream across the glass wall, but by the time the front door opened, announcing Draco's return, Harry felt fine.

Draco flopped onto the couch next to Harry in an exhausted heap. "I don't know how I do it."

Harry muted the TV, attention fully on his flatmate. "Do what?"

"Every single one of my clients is insane. Probably clinically."

"What did you expect from the drug-dealing field?"

"No, at the record store."

Harry had fully forgotten about Draco's non-illegal job. After all, the whole drug dealing thing was just a side gig. The majority of Malfoy's time working was just in retail.

"Right," said Harry. "What happened there?"

Draco launched into a story, exasperated, about a woman who had pestered him to no avail that day: buying records, returning them hours later, rolling her eyes and shooting sarcastic comments at Draco at any given moment.

Harry couldn't help but feel bad for his friend. He looked exhausted after the eight hours he'd been gone; even if some of that time was at a little drug trade, it was far too long a shift for any reasonable person. Harry pulled out his phone, dialing a number.

Draco, who had begun to spread his legs out onto the couch, leaning against Harry, turned around. "Who are you calling?"

"What kind of pizza do you like?"

For the second night in a row, the childhood enemies dined together. However, this time they'd traded the fancy restaurant for sweats, delivery pizza, and whatever shitty movie was playing on the Hallmark channel.

By the time the credits rolled, listing names of people no one had heard of, the pizza box was empty and Draco Malfoy was spread across the couch, eyes closed. He leaned heavily against Harry, having slid from the boy's shoulder to his chest. He could feel the rise of Harry's chest, hear the thud of the boy's heart.

Harry laughed quietly. "You going to bed?"

"Mmph."

'I'm not dragging you to your room for the second night in a row."

"Then don't."

Harry considered this, tilted his head in a half-shrug. Draco drifted off, leaving Harry trapped beneath him, but the boy who lived didn't mind this. For some time, he watched the blond sleep. Eyes closed, mouth slightly open- how had this kid terrorized Harry's youth? He looked so innocent; and, as far as Harry could see, he was now.

"Good night, Draco," Harry murmured, mostly to himself.

Harry watched as the softest of smiles shifted onto Draco's slumbering face before closing his eyes and embracing the sleep that overtook him.