Chapter 1

Draco leaned back against the couch, exhaustion weighing him down. He was dirty, cut, scraped, and tired and wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a soft bed. His eyes slid to the person sitting next to him, and he knew that however he felt, Harry had to feel one hundred times worse.

Or better, perhaps? Draco didn't know.

The bespectacled boy was staring into the fire, just as dirty and worn looking as Draco felt. He couldn't see Harry's eyes with the firelight reflecting in his glasses, but he imagined that the green depths would be intense.

"Hey," Draco said, swinging his feet up from the floor and plopping them in Harry's lap. "Are you still alive over there? Only I would hate to have to go tell everyone that you'd died after all. It would put a damper on the celebrating."

Harry snorted, pushing half-heartedly at Draco's feet. "That really isn't funny, you insensitive sod," he said, though his lips quirked in a smile.

"Did the trick, though, didn't it?"

"Shut up."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Come on, Potter. Stop looking so melancholy. It's over."

"Not really. There's still rebuilding, and hunting down the last of the Death Eaters. No one can account for McNair, or Rabastan Lestrange, or-"

"My father, yes, I know."

"Draco..."

Draco held up a hand. "I know , Potter."

Harry sighed, shoving Draco's feet from his lap and punching him lightly in the shoulder. "You'll be alright. We'll look after you."

"I do not need looking after," Draco replied, voice derisive, but eyes bright. "I am not a child."

Harry smiled.

"Auror Malfoy! Auror Malfoy, are you in there?"

Draco Malfoy's head shot up from where it had been resting on his desk. He blinked and looked around, rolling his eyes when he realized that yes, he had fallen asleep at his desk. Again. It took him a moment to focus and realize that the banging noise had not been a part of his dream, but was someone knocking rather forcefully on his office door.

"What?" he barked, rubbing at his face.

A young woman, new to the Auror Corps, whose name Draco couldn't begin to remember, opened the door and poked her head in. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but Auror Weasley sent me to tell you to go home. Er...right now."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I imagine his language was somewhat more colorful than that, but yes, fine. You can tell him the message has been received."

The girl nodded, withdrawing and shutting the door.

Draco sat back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair with a sigh. He knew he was working too bloody hard if he was dreaming about Potter again. Those dreams only came when he was at his most exhausted. When he felt nearly as bone weary as he had back in those days. He tried to keep that from happening, but when one was practically the right hand of the Head Auror, it wasn't always easy.

Eight years had passed since the war, and they had been anything but quiet. The rebuilding alone had taken nearly a full year, simply because there was so much to be rebuilt. Hogwarts, parts of the Ministry, houses, lives.

None of it was easy. Especially for Draco.

Even though he had changed sides in the middle of the war, escaping from the Manor with the help of Professor Snape the summer after sixth year and offering all the information he had to the Order of the Phoenix, people still saw him as the enemy.

He was Marked, of course, and that, coupled with his last name, did a lot to keep Wizarding society from seeing all of the things Draco had done to help them.

It had been months after the war before Draco could leave Grimmauld Place without having to duck hexes and jeers thrown his way.

The self imposed exile hadn't been so bad. Potter was hiding out too, although he was ducking adoration and marriage proposals.

The two of them had already struck up a tentative friendship while Draco was assisting the Order, and being cooped up in a musty old house together for six months only solidified their camaraderie. Or so Draco had thought.

Another loud knock on his door, jarred Draco from thoughts of the past, making him jump and glare irritably at the wood. "Weasley, I know fifteen different ways to eviscerate a man without going for my wand," he snapped. "I will not hesitate to try them all out on you if you do not stop that infernal banging."

The door opened and Ron walked in, not looking the least bit afraid. "Is that any way to speak to the Head Auror?"

"Probably not, but as you always insist, you don't care for all of that title rubbish," Draco replied, beginning to shove files into his bag.

"What are you still doing here?" Ron asked, leaning against the wall. "It's after nine, and I told you to clear out at six."

"I was reading up on the Dewit case, and I lost track of time."

Ron snorted. "You mean you fell asleep."

"I did no such thing."

Ron arched one ginger eyebrow, doing a very good impression of Draco himself. "Try that with someone who hasn't known you for so long. Go home, Malfoy, and don't come back until Monday."

Draco grumbled, continuing to pack his bag before standing and slinging the bag over his shoulder. "And what do you propose I do all weekend?"

"I don't know. Go out. Get pissed. Get laid."

"You sound like my mother."

"I don't believe Narcissa Malfoy ever said anything like that to you."

Draco smirked. "You'd be surprised. And anyway, why are you still here? Didn't Hermione threaten to hex your bollocks off if you weren't home before Rose went to bed?"

"She did," Ron agreed, wincing at the thought. "But I fire called her. We're getting more information about those magical spikes in America, and it's still early over there."

"Should I not be around for that?" Draco asked with a frown.

"No, you should not," Ron replied, putting a mocking note of refinery in his voice. "It's just the Heads right now. And the Ministers, or whatever they call their version of Kingsley over there. I'll fill you in on Monday. You know, when you're allowed to come back."

"Fair enough, I suppose."

Ron walked over and clapped him on the back. "Forget the getting pissed and getting laid. Just get some sleep, yeah? You look like you need it, and I don't need you falling asleep in the field or something."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Seven years, Weasley, and I have never once fallen asleep in the field." He held up his hand to stem the arguement about to burst from Ron. "But I take your point."

"Good. Then get out," Ron said, flapping his hands at Draco.

Shaking his head, the blond left his office, heading down to the Atrium so he could floo home. "You're acting like your wife," he called over his shoulder, walking to the lift.

"Watch it, Malfoy!" Ron shouted back. "I have the power to sack you."

"Then who would do all the work around here?" Draco called just as the doors of the lift closed, cutting off any reply Ron might have made. Draco smirked. He loved having the last word.

Draco's flat was empty, as he knew it would be. His mother and Hermione fussed over him, saying that he needed someone to come home to, but truly Draco liked it better this way. The discrimination he had faced in the aftermath of the war, the distrust from people that he had risked his life to help, cut him deeply and made him reluctant to let people in.

He was on friendly terms with Ron and Hermione, mostly because they were among the few people who knew that he wasn't a miniature version of his father. Most of the Weasley family liked him since he had saved Ron's arse a fair few times when they were pursuing some criminal or other. He still got a few dirty looks from people when he was in Diagon Alley, but Draco didn't think he could change that.

He had worked his arse off to get to where he was, and he was proud of that. Everyone else could just sod right off. He had seven years of being a successful Auror under his belt, and he was the unofficial second in command of the Auror Corps. He'd put away nutters who acted like aspiring neo-Death Eaters, thieves, smugglers, and even the occasional murderer. He was even on a fucking first name basis with the Minister for Magic. If that wasn't good enough for society, then Draco didn't know what else he could do.

"And I don't care, either," he murmured to himself as he dropped his bag on the couch and flicked his wand to light up his kitchen. He put the kettle on, and in the silence of his flat, he couldn't help but think about the dream he'd had.

Potter had believed in him.

After it had become clear that Draco was serious about helping the Order, it hadn't mattered about the Mark on his arm or the fact that he was Lucius Malfoy's son. Or even that Draco had spent the better part of their time at Hogwarts being an arse. Potter trusted him and believed in him.

The whistling of the kettle caught his attention, and Draco spared a moment to be disgusted with himself. Potter was gone. And to where, no one knew. It didn't make sense to sit around thinking about the bloody git if he was never coming back.

And chances were he wasn't coming back. Even Ron and Hermione didn't know where he was, and if you asked them about it, they got upset. You could tell because Ron stared at the floor, and Hermione pressed her lips together into a tight, thin line.

Eventually people stopped asking.

The point was, that it didn't make any sense for Draco to sit around thinking about someone who may as well have been dead for all the good he was doing.

He made himself a cup of tea and went to sit on his couch.

When he got tired of pretending to relax, he hauled his bag over and opened one of the files. No one said he couldn't work at home.