Harry Potter pulled himself out of his muggy dreams only to wake up in his stuffy bedroom with a storm beating against his windowpane. Lightning briefly lit up the cramped space as he blinked groggily to glance around. Just a nightmare, he thought to himself. He swallowed to wet his sandpapery throat before falling back into his sweat-soaked pillows. But just as he curled onto his side, the loud pounding started up again.

Not a dream.

He bolted upright in bed while clutching his chest with one hand and snatching his wand from under the pillow with the other. Thunder rolled outside but the hammering at his front door was deafening. He struggled out of his twisted sheets and jammed his glasses against his face before stumbling out of the dark bedroom and into the dark corridor, down the dark stairs and towards the dark foyer. The door was rattling in its hinges in desperation. He brought his wand up at the ready. Taking a moment to compose himself, he twitched the wand, throwing the door open.

Just as lightning flashed ominously, a figure staggered in, drenched. It bumped into the coat stand and, in an attempt to right itself using the flimsy object, proceeded to fall instead, taking the coat stand with it. It fell to its knees before collapsing completely onto the floor. Motionless.

Harry slowly let out the breath he had been holding.

He shuffled forward slowly, still blinking away the sleep from his eyes. He sidled past the huddled figure to get to the open door where the storm raged outside. He gripped the door jamb and peered at the dimly lit street. Empty. The torrential downpour had caused rivulets to run beside and around the gutters. There seemed to be no sign of letting up either. He stepped back and shut the front door, muffling the pitter-patter of rain behind it.

Then he turned around to face the figure on the floor. Redoubling his hold on his wand, he approached it. A nagging thought in the back of his mind told him he was still dreaming. It must be a dream. He knelt down. With a gentle wave of his wand, he lit the foyer.

His heart dropped when he recognized the unconscious face.

Draco Malfoy stirred restlessly on the musty couch, looking very much worse for wear. His right eye was swollen shut, his lips were split in three places, a wrist broken, and a few ribs cracked.

Harry paced in front of the roaring fireplace, arms folded against his chest and mind racing.

What if Malfoy needed actual medical attention, not just a patch up job? Should he be at St. Mungo's? What if he died on the couch? Then Harry would have a real mess on his hands. He abruptly faced the fire. Hermione. But then he shook his head. Bad idea. One look at Malfoy and she would throw common sense out the window. A lot of people did that after one look at Malfoy. He glanced back at the man. He wouldn't be surprised if that was exactly what had happened that night. Some drunk mob wanting revenge. It didn't matter that the war had ended five years ago, or that justice should be left to the Magical Law Enforcement officers to deal out, or that all parties involved with the Dark Army had already been through Wizengamot, either ending up imprisoned or on probation. Harry ran a hand through his untamed hair as he continued to pace. He had tried his best to clean up Malfoy's injuries. At least his face was no longer blood covered.

Harry really wished he could call Hermione.

He tried to remember the last time he had seen Malfoy. It must have been right after the war ended. At the time, his bitterness was strong and palpable. He hadn't even acknowledged the teen's presence in court. That family deserved whatever was dealt to them, he had thought then. But now, seeing Malfoy stumble into his home in the middle of the night, he couldn't help but feel abject pity. How the mighty had fallen…

Draco was running.

He was always running.

Lost and blind, he ran through the unforgiving maze in his head. Blackness surrounded him as he struck wall after wall in an attempt to escape. Every inch of him ached but still he ran. Blood rushed against his ears, rendering him deaf to his own footsteps. If only he could-

He saw a flare of red before him.

He scrambled towards it.

His eyes fluttered open as he fell out of the maze.

Sunlight filtered through a crack in the thick curtain, striking him. He tried to blink against it, but it was difficult. He brought his hand up to his black eye, then to his painfully dry lips.

He struggled up off the couch in a flash, letting out a gasp when his ribs protested. His vision started to fade and a wave of nausea crashed into him. He crumpled back onto the couch while clutching his head. He had to remember. What had happened to him? How did he get here? He paused. Where was here? Frantically he swept his eyes around the empty room filled with bookcases, antique furniture and a dying fire in the ornate fireplace. Above the fireplace was an old portrait of two regal aristocrats dressed in ball gowns. They were blinking disdainfully down at him, painted lips pursed tight. Deep red velvet curtains hung down to the floor from windows lining one wall. A discoloured rug lay under his feet, spanning the expanse of the large room. A cobwebbed chandelier hung above him, unlit. And a flicker of motion at the corner of his eye made him glance at the doorway where Harry Potter stood, appearing slightly taken aback.

Memories flooded back into Draco's mind.

Harry slid his hands into his pockets when he saw horror wash over Malfoy's face. He had figured as much. He shrugged and said, "I'm just as surprised as you are."

Draco shuddered as another wave of nausea hit. Before he knew it, he was bee lining towards Potter. Harry didn't even have to think twice. "First door on the right," he said as Malfoy passed him. He cringed when he heard retching in the bathroom. He wandered into the drawing room, leaving Malfoy to his business. This was bound to be one interesting weekend.

Draco wiped his mouth and rested the back of his head against the cool tile behind him as he caught his breath. This was an unbelievable nightmare. He pressed a hand against his fevered forehead. Why had he run to Potter at the first sign of trouble? He cursed his instincts. Why was it always Potter? He screwed his eyes shut as humiliation crushed him from the inside. He just wanted to curl into an insignificant ball and disappear through a crack in the wall, never to be heard from again.

He frantically searched his pockets for his wand to do just that. Or at least do the next best thing, which would be to disapparate and forget this ever happened.

His wand wasn't on him.

Dejected, he sat on the bathroom floor, all hope lost. He inspected his broken-now-mended wrist. He touched his painful ribs. He poked at his swollen eye. He licked his split lips. "Pathetic," he muttered. He was a pathetic loser. And now Potter knew it too. Actually, he thought, Potter had known that almost all his life. He shook out of his self-pity after a minute of loathing every fiber of his being. He just couldn't catch a break, could he?

When he walked into the living room, he found the curtains had been drawn and Potter was standing in front of the fireplace, pretending to read a book. He also spotted his wand on the table beside the couch he had been laid up on. Relieved, he strode to it and slid it into his pocket. Then he hazarded a glance at Potter who quickly averted his eyes down to the brown pages in his hands. The stuffy silence was difficult to sustain. So Draco cleared his throat. "I-"

"Breakfast?"

He trailed off into incoherent mumbles.

Harry hesitantly looked at him, piquing a brow. "There's some in the kitchen," he added with a vague gesture towards the hallway.

Draco blinked once, then nodded.

Before long, the two men were seated on stools at a small table in the middle of an enormous kitchen, mugs of steaming tea and plates of toast with eggs in front of them. Draco kept his eyes on his cup as he clutched it between his hands, letting the heat warm him. Harry munched on his toast, occasionally spooning eggs into his mouth. Breakfast was a quiet affair. It was also a hurried affair. Draco stopped eating as soon as he figured he had eaten enough to appease his host. Harry ate very quickly to make sure he was finished before Malfoy.

He gulped his tea and then set his spoon down with a final clang, startling Draco. "What happened to you?"

Draco didn't say.

Harry examined him for a beat. All those years spent in Hogwarts with Malfoy and he had seen this expression on him once and only once. This defeated, depressed and embarrassed expression had been very apparent on Malfoy's face just before Ron knocked him out with a punch after calling him a 'two-faced bastard'. All those years ago, Harry had reveled in that expression. Malfoy had deserved every bit of humiliation for what he and his family had done. Back then, Harry didn't think twice of leaving the boy to fend for himself in the Battle of Hogwarts.

Five years later, though, things change…

Harry let out a loud sigh. "Do you think you should be seen at St. Mungo's?" he tried again. That was an innocuous enough question. Malfoy shook his head. Harry wanted to insist that he go because he was definitely not confident in his first-aid skills. But if Malfoy was feeling alright, who was he to argue? "Right then…" He drummed his fingers on the table. He had done everything he could do, he figured. "You can go home, if you want?"

Malfoy immediately got up from the table.

And hesitated.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Nothing," Draco answered a little too quickly while turning on his heel.

"Wait." Harry hurried after Malfoy who was striding through the corridor with purpose, heading straight for the front door. "Malfoy, wait." He grabbed Malfoy by the arm and forced him to stop. "Where were you last night?" He peered into the pale man's face, trying to make out an answer.

Draco wrenched his arm out of Potter's grip, anger bubbling up in him. Saviour Potter looking to fix things as always.

Harry tsked when he understood what had happened. Malfoy wasn't safe at home. That's where he had gotten hurt. "Do you have somewhere else you can go?"

"Yes," Draco snarled.

Harry knew that meant 'no'.

Draco knew Harry knew that meant 'no'.

So the two men stood in the foyer awkwardly.

After the war, the wizarding population had been fragmented more than ever before. Dark Army sympathizers were run out of town. Most went into hiding. The few that couldn't escape in time perished in the hands of vigilante justice. It seemed Malfoy's time had run out. With no family or friends to turn to, he was well and truly alone in a world that no longer had a place for him.

"You could stay here…?"

Draco scoffed incredulously.

Harry shrugged. "Just… until we figure things out, that is."

"No."

"You can't go back home."

"That doesn't mean I need to stay here."

Harry was trying to stop his big mouth from running off on him, but he failed. "You don't have anywhere else to go." He winced as soon as he said that.

Draco gritted his teeth. "Running a charity, Potter?" he bit out.

The things he put up with… Harry resisted rolling his eyes. "Yes. Hadn't you heard?" He waved his arms around him. "Benevolent Harry Potter opening up his home to Death Eaters. Everyone will be ecstatic." He scowled at Malfoy. "Look, this is between you and me. I don't want anyone to know either. God knows I don't need that kind of trouble…" He added, "Besides, you should stay away from your place until you know you won't be assaulted again." Logic and survival strategies should work on Malfoy. He was a Slytherin after all. "I don't want your untimely death on my conscience."

And that's how Draco Malfoy found himself alone in a large bedroom with a bundle of clothes in his arms.

He was asleep under the covers within seconds.