"Will you marry me?" he asked. Ginny looked pained.

"I already told you, Draco. You don't want to marry me."

Draco lay back on the sofa.

"Will anyone ever love me back?" he asked. Ginny curled up in his arms.

"I love you," she said.

"I know," said Draco, after a pause. "I love you, too."

They had sex that night, and it made Draco feel both better and worse. Better, because it was reassuring to have it confirmed that he was really and truly over her, and it was somehow marvellous to have a friend he could sleep with without it feeling complicated. They loved each other in the same ways, in the same amounts.

But it was worse, because she was not Harry. Worse, because he would never get Harry again. Worse, because someone else would get Harry. Someone who deserved him.

"I'm sorry," whispered Ginny, as he cried. "We shouldn't have-"

"No," he said, clutching her soft, naked body close. "No. It helped."

"I'm not sure this is healthy," said Ginny, kissing him.

"I'm a healer," said Draco. "I know what's healthy."

Ginny laughed.

"You can move in with me, if you want," she said.

"That's a mad idea. I'll find a flat," said Draco.

"Near me," said Ginny.

"Okay."

"I love you," said Ginny. "As a friend, but it still counts."

"It does," said Draco.

***
Harry had not intended to move into Malfoy's's house. (He couldn't think of it as his own old house.) He had been so sure that he wouldn't move in, in fact, that he had met up with the real estate agent Malfoy had hired to sell it.

"Just want to check everything's in order," said Harry, because no matter how much Ron and Hermione told him that Malfoy had changed, Harry couldn't shake the idea that Malfoy was probably trying to scam him out of money.

So the real estate agent took him round the cottage, and Harry fell in love.

The moment he walked in, he felt as if he had come home. It was an overwhelming feeling; like scent memory. The curtains were the right colour. The light streamed serenely through the diamond-paned windows.

"Of course, you'll to find out how Mr. Malfoy wishes to split the sale of the furnishings," said the real estate agent, and Harry was visited by an oppressive sense of loss. Of course Malfoy would want to dismantle the decor, sell off the furniture. But the furniture was perfect. Everything look clean, comfortable, lived in. It looked as if Harry could start living there that instant, as if it had been waiting. Home.

Harry bought Malfoy's share of the house, and asked Hermione to ask Malfoy what he wanted to do about the furniture. He had no idea where Malfoy was staying.

"He says everything in the house is yours," said Hermione. Which made sense, actually. There had probably been a bunch of wanky, pretentious furniture before, that Malfoy had moved out. Although Harry wasn't sure where there would have been space for Malfoy's stuff, because everything seemed as if it was in its perfect place.

Harry moved in that night. The pantry was fully stocked with all of his favourite food.

There were two wardrobes in the bedroom. One was empty except for an old cardboard box, which Harry made a mental note to return to Malfoy sometime. The other was full of the most beautiful clothes Harry had seen. Crisp shirts with permanent ironing charms. Soft cashmere jumpers in shades of bottle green, completely free of piles. A thick brown coat with toggles and a hood that Harry had the disorienting feeling he had once seen someone wear-Malfoy? And been envious of. All the trousers fit him perfectly. They made him seem taller, somehow. The shoes were Italian leather.

"I had good taste," he told Hermione, when he showed up at their flat in his new clothes. Hermione gave him a pitying look.

"Draco has good-" she stopped herself.

Oh, thought Harry. Of course Malfoy had bought all those clothes. Probably he had given them to Harry with plenty of snide remarks about his mudblood mother. For a few days, Harry avoided wearing them, but then he went to a pub night where Ginny was going, and he wanted to look his best. He put on the clothes and felt instantly like his favourite version of himself.

After that, he didn't resist the clothes anymore. They were his, after all.

Malfoy sent the divorce papers back in good time. He didn't argue a single point in the settlement, despite the fact that Harry's lawyer had been rather aggressive and insisted on Harry demanding a large fraction of Malfoy's fortune. Harry had let his lawyer put in the demand because he was so sure Malfoy would refuse, but Malfoy seemed to have signed all the papers without reading them. He hadn't even hired a lawyer.

The Canons had taken Harry back, but he was badly out of practice.

He spent all day on the quidditch pitch, trying to get to know his fellow team members. He was conscious that they kept comparing him unfavourably to Old Harry, who had apparently been some kind of saint of patience and compassion, and also clearly a gullible idiot who
had married Draco Malfoy. They were surprised whenever he snapped at them, wounded when he made caustic remarks.

"He's so angry," he overheard one of them say. Of course he was angry. Who wouldn't be angry?

He spent the rest of his time with Ron and Hermione, usually at his cottage, because he loved being there. It soothed him. The flower garden, in particular, seemed to drain his anger. He went there in the evenings, read one of the books from his cosy library, and let the thick smell of lilies lull him to sleepiness.

He had been there a week when he noticed that the lilies were looking brown and droopy. He invited Neville over to take a look.

"Oh, God," said Neville. "What have you done to them?"

"Nothing! I mean, I watered them," said Harry.

Neville ran his fingers over the damaged petals of a nearby lily.

"They look terrible. I've never seen them look like this."

"Can you help?"

"Yeah," said Neville, and taught him how to take care of the garden. But no matter how hard Harry worked on it, it never looked as it had the day he had served Malfoy divorce papers. He could not shake that memory, and it came back to him often, filling him with vague dissatisfaction. The garden had been luminously white, and the wind had blown the floating scent of lilies through the air. Malfoy's pale hair had caught the sunlight in a way that had made Harry feel strangely miserable. Malfoy had moved so slowly, so deliberately, as if everything about the garden was sacred.

Harry felt, childishly, as if the lilies were sulking.

It took him almost a month to realise that all of his friends were meeting up with Malfoy behind his back. He was at Sunday lunch at the Burrow, and as George left, Hermione said,

"See you Tuesday!"

"What's Tuesday?" asked Harry. Hermione flushed red.

just-Draco's house warming."

Harry looked around at the collected Weasleys, who all avoided his eye.

"Are you all going?" he asked in astonishment.

"I'm sure Draco wouldn't mind if you came along," said Hermione.

"No," said Ron. "No way. I'm sorry, mate, but you absolutely cannot come."

"I don't want to come," said Harry.

"I don't want Harry to feel left out," said Hermione, in an undertone.

"You know how Draco is right now," said Ron.

Hermione sighed and nodded.

"I don't want to come," said Harry again. "I can't believe you're all going. Even you?" he asked Mrs. Weasley.

"Draco's had a hard time, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley, and that made sense, to a degree; that Mrs. Weasley would pity Malfoy enough to overcome her repugnance.

"Ginny?" asked Harry. "I mean, he's your ex."

"Draco's my best friend," said Ginny coldly. "It's my flat that he's moving out of."

Harry shook his head, because it was all too crazy to understand.

"I feel as if you guys are the ones with amnesia," he said. "It's Malfoy.

I know he turned out not to be fully evil, but he's still a prick."

"Don't talk about him like that," said Ron.

"Literally, what the fuck," said Harry.

"You've broken his heart," said Ginny. "Have the grace not to cruel about it."

"I didn't want his heart in the first place!"

"Percy, how's the cauldron metallurgy legislation going?" asked Hermione. All the Weasleys turned to look at Percy with forceful interest, and the conversation veered away from Malfoy.

"How often do you see him?" he asked Hermione, later, as they sat around the fire.

"Oh- not too often. Twice a week, probably."

"Twice a week??"

"He's been helping me with my dissertation," said Hermione, sheepishly. "He must have read every chapter at least a dozen times."

"What about Ron?"

"Harry... you were so in love with him. And we already liked him, because we'd got to know him through Ginny."

"That's another question," said Harry. "How the hell did he and Ginny end up dating?"

"Well, he specialises in quidditch injuries, so when she tore a ligament, they ended up spending a lot of time together," said Hermione.

It was just like sixth year. Harry was the only one who could see through Malfoy. Everyone else had gone mad. It made Harry feel strangely hunted, as if Malfoy was an invasive species who had penetrated his life and was killing it off, changing it.

***

"I'll ask Draco," said Neville.

"I don't know," said Harry.

"He won't mind," said Neville. "He loves this garden."

The next week, Neville arrived with a bottle of a pale gold potion.

"Draco's secret!" he said triumphantly. "He used a resilience potion on them. He brewed some for me. We just need to put this on the soil once a month."

The effect of the potion was immediate and remarkable. Within the hour, the lilies were back to their former, resplendent glory.

Three weeks later, a package arrived at the cottage, addressed to Harry in dark blue slanted writing that Harry somehow knew was Draco's.

Dear Harry,

More resilience potion. It's an old family recipe. Let me know if it doesn't work.

Draco

The package, it transpired, was recurring. Every three weeks, Malfoy sent him a bottle of potion, with a short note asking Harry to let him know if he had any questions.

Harry's friends continued not to mention Draco around him. Harry felt as if he was paddling as hard as he could just to stay afloat. He drank too much.

He was hungover the day he fell off his broom and injured his shoulder. Harry had had a lot of injuries, so he knew instantly that this was a bad one.

"St. Mungo's," he gasped.

In retrospect, he should have known what would happen next.

The door to his hospital room opened, and Malfoy walked in, wearing pale grey healer's robes and carrying a clipboard.

"Good afternoon," he said, his eyes fixed on the clipboard.

"You," said Harry.

"We can find you another healer, if you prefer. But I think I can fix your shoulder quicker than anyone else; I've just taken a class on wrenched joints."

Harry groaned and turned over on the bed, so that he lay on his stomach.

"No, fine," he said. "Have at it."

Malfoy asked a few technical questions, then asked if he could touch Harry.

"Whatever you need to do," said Harry. The next moment there was a pair of cool, steady hands on his shoulder blade. Malfoy felt the muscles with his finger tips, his touch light and delicate.

"All right," he said. "I think I might be able to heal it with an internal growth spell, so that you can avoid physical therapy."

"Great," said Harry. Malfoy touched his shoulder gently with his wand, murmured something in a low voice, and all of Harry's pain vanished.

"Fuck," said Harry.

"Better?"

"Yeah," said Harry, turning over and sitting up so that he could windmill his arms. "Wow."

Malfoy stepped away from the hospital bed and bent his pale head over the clipboard.

"Good," he said. "We'll schedule you in for a check up in three weeks."

"Malfoy," said Harry, and Malfoy looked up, his face expressionless. Harry realised for the first time that Malfoy was... proportionate. Symmetrical. His skin was really clear. His posture was great.

Harry cleared his throat.

"Can you give me the instructions for that potion you send for the lilies?" he asked. "So I can brew it myself?"

Malfoy frowned.

"You can't," he said. "It needs one of my hairs."

"What?"

Malfoy coloured pink.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't think. I should have told you, I just didn't... you don't have to use it. There are other resilience potions on the market, I just like my one gives a certain radiance-"

"No, it's great," said Harry. "It works really well. I just don't really want you to have to send me a every month."

"Right, of course," said Malfoy, looking back at the clipboard. "I'll experiment. I'm a bit busy with work at the moment, but I can push back some plans this weekend and do it then.'

"No, obviously don't do that," said Harry. "Merlin. Don't cancel your plans. Just, you know, it would be good if I could brew it myself."

Malfoy nodded. Then he looked up, holding Harry's gaze. His eyes were ambiguously grey, which struck Harry as symbolic.

"How are you?" asked Harry, before he could stop himself. He wasn't sure why he had asked. It had just erupted in him, the abrupt desire to find out if Draco was okay.

"How am I?" repeated Malfoy.

"Er. How's your health?"

"Oh," said Malfoy, and he smiled, although it looked uncomfortable. "My health. It's good. I'm very healthy. How is your health, other than your shoulder?"

"Good," said Harry.

"Good," said Malfoy. He licked his lips. "Well. If that's all."

He turned and went to the door, but paused when he got there.

"Connemara," he said.

"Sorry?"

"You should go to Connemara," said Malfoy. "You went before, after the war."

"I know," said Harry, annoyed. He didn't like to be informed of things he knew he had done, just as he didn't like people to act as if he remembered things he didn't. He was aware that this wasn't reasonable, but that didn't change his feelings.

"It helped you," said Malfoy. "You said it made everything easier. Cleared your head. I don't know, I just thought... it might help."

"I don't need help," said Harry, wondering if this lie was as transparent as it felt..

"Right," said Malfoy. "Of course. Sorry." He turned to go.

"Thanks," said Harry.

Malfoy froze with his hand on the door.

"For the potion. And the house. And for fixing my shoulder," said Harry.

"Just my job," murmured Malfoy, and slipped quietly out of the room. But the potion and the house hadn't been part of Malfoy's job. It occurred to Harry that Malfoy had actually behaved with extraordinary grace since the divorce. For the first time, Harry wondered whether he hadn't maybe been a little inconsiderate of Malfoy's feelings.

The evening after he healed Harry's shoulder, Draco ran into Clarence in the supermarket.

"Draco," said Clarence. He looked as if he didn't quite know what to say. Draco's divorce had been in the papers, so everyone knew about it.

"Clarence," said Draco. "Shopping for... artichokes?"

"I like to cook," said Clarence.

"Me too," said Draco.

"Hermione mentioned," said Clarence. "That's one of the many good things I had heard about you."

"Oh," said Draco. He still felt as if he could feel Harry's shoulder on his finger tips. Harry's body had been so warm, so devastatingly familiar.

"I was sorry to hear about your divorce," said Clarence. If Draco was younger, he would have assumed that Clarence was just being nosy and interfering. But he had learnt a lot from his time with Ginny,
with Harry.

"Thank you," he said, and he was just about to make his excuses and leave, when instead, he did something completely different. "Do you want to go get a drink?"

"Now?" asked Clarence, looking at his shopping basket.

"Yeah."

Clarence smiled. His teeth were American white.

"Okay," said Clarence. "Yeah."

They went to a nearby bar and Clarence ordered for Draco without asking. Draco considered minding, but the drink, when it arrived, was delicious.

"Hermione said you had a bad break up recently," said Draco, and Clarence began to talk.

In the month after his trial, when he was still reeling from the fact that it was all over and he was really free, Draco had made a list of all the things he hated about himself.

It had been long.

Depressed by the length of his failings, he had gone to the library to find a book to read. It was there that he first came across the Ship of Theseus thought experiment.

What if every rotten part of him could be replaced?

He had gone back to his list of flaws, and decided that if it could be done, if a new Draco could be built amid the wreckage of the old one, he would do it. From then on, he worked consciously to strip out all the parts of himself that he hated, and to replace them, to improve them.

The first word on the list was "arrogant". From then on, every time he thought he was better than someone, he caught and berated himself.

There was nothing he was too good for now, he decided.

Another word on the list was "insecure", and he knew that in chipping away his arrogance, he only increased his insecurity. There was probably a middle way, but Draco couldn't find it.

The result was that, whereas he once would have shown off to Clarence, he now became quiet and questioning. It was a funny thing, how the easiest way to seem clever and fascinating was to make other people feel clever and Draco asked a thousand questions, and Clarence ask a single one back. Draco fixed an interested expression on his face and wondered if Clarence had idea how bored he was.

They finished their drinks.

"Dinner?" asked Clarence. Draco longed to go home to his cottage, to tell Harry in barbed terms about his terrible date.

"I'd like that," he said.

Harry had never let Draco get very far into his retreats. When Draco got nervous and stopped talking, Harry would dig in, ask more and more questions, until Draco was sure that by answering he wasn't being boorish. (That had been another word on the list; boorish, self-absorbed, and in his paranoia, he had a rule that he wouldn't talk about himself unless he was certain the other person wanted to know. There were only a few people he felt sure of, in that respect: Pansy, Ginny. Harry, before the change.)

So Draco waited, as Clarence took him to an incredibly expensive restaurant, for Clarence to ask him about himself. He never did. He was complimentary about Draco; he ordered for him, he paid. But he didn't seem to have any interest in finding out more.

In many ways, this set Draco at ease. It was simpler to be quiet and to listen than it was to figure out how to be a good person.

To be continued...