“Eating well-rounded meals in regular intervals in a day isn’t going to make you fat. But I do hope that the childhood stories are working.”
“It is. Do tell me more about this cousin of yours.”
And it’s just like before. Time spent together in easy company and conversation. It becomes a nightly thing, Harry quietly slipping in after dinner and slipping out just before midnight. Draco asks him to come back, every time, which doesn’t really make a difference because Harry’s still going to come back anyway. He thinks Draco just likes the assurance.
By now, he had fully taken over Goyle’s bed as his. It’s as messy as his own bed back in Gryffindor Tower, sheets rumpled and pillows skewed sideways. Sometimes, he forgets some of his things, a quill here and a Merlin card gotten from a chocolate frog box there, and these are the things that occupy the bed when he’s gone.
Back in the summer, it had been breakfasts, and now it’s late night snacks.
He swipes whatever he can from the kitchens—scones, chicken pot pie, sandwiches. His friends had been very supportive, as well. Ron continues his supply of chocolate frogs, Ginny gives some Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans once in a while, and Hermione provides him a weekly task list, because “I fully support whatever’s making you happy, Harry, but I do hope the two of you aren’t forgetting your homework?”
He thinks he should be embarrassed that his friends know what’s going on between him and Draco. Or that they know that nothing’s going on, but they’re helping anyway. And he is embarrassed, but also, he’s just very, very grateful.
Draco accepts the chocolate frogs every time, and even tries some of Ginny’s Beans. He looks at Hermione’s task list, and never fails to make totally unnecessary comments. “You haven’t done your Potions essay yet? Potter, I’ve finished that days ago.”
The late night snacking works. Draco doesn’t look like an emaciated corpse now. Astoria tells him with a cheerful smile, when they pass each other by in the halls, that Draco has also been having a good appetite in the Great Hall lately. Personally, he thinks Draco’s starting to become too addicted to the frogs.
They talk about classes, their lessons, and the occasional gossip.
(“What’s this I hear about you and Astoria getting it on in the boathouse?”
“Oh my god, Malfoy, I didn’t do anything!”
“That’s not what the Hufflepuffs said.”
“I…We…We just talked!”
“Relax. I was joking. If you really had done something to her, I would have hexed you. She’s like a little sister to me.”
Well, you’re not an older brother to her, Harry had wanted to say, but he had been happy, so shamelessly happy to hear it clearly said that Draco doesn’t like her that way.)
Sometimes, Harry talks about himself.
It was uncomfortable, at first. He isn’t used to talking about himself. But Draco’s a good listener, all eyes and ears, nodding at the right times, and asking questions, but never too much. He doesn’t pry, but Harry tells him anyway, because he likes the way Draco looks when he’s really curious and invested.
And sometimes, Draco talks about himself, and sometimes they’re nice stories about his childhood, his family, his friends, and sometimes they’re not so nice, and more than once, Draco had ended up disappearing on him for a few minutes.
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