All the Ghosts are Screaming

2

Draco

That first night, he didn't sleep at all, just laid under the stiff sheets and counted the cracks crossing the ceiling, listening to the creaking of the house and trying to convince himself that there were no monsters sleeping in the closet. He hadn't slept easy in ages, not since he was in Hogwarts with the sound of other people's breathing beside him, and in this new, strange place he was sharing with a boy (man, really, they're adults now) that should by all rights hate him.

He doesn't hate him, though.

Draco thinks it would be easier to deal with, if they could fall back into their pattern of mutual dislike. That would have been solid ground, a familiar pattern to fall back into and draw strength from. He does not know how to deal with this Harry, the one who shows him how to work the shower faucet (because they're tricky in new places, trust me, I know) and asks if there was a particular brand of orange juice he would prefer, who offers to clear out a space on the bookshelf for anything that Draco might want to read because he remembered from school that Draco liked books and most of them are ones that Hermione brought over to clear space in her flat, anyways.

He's hearing a lot of tidbits about Harry's school friends, about the Weasel and Weaselette (who Harry is not dating, but Luna from the basement certainly is), about Dean and Seamus and Neville, about George and Oliver Wood's performance in the last quidditch game. Draco wishes that he could return the favor, but he doesn't talk to any of his old school friends anymore.

He doubts Harry would want to hear about it anyways.

The silence in this house is stifling, Draco thinks, much like he does every morning, when he finally gives up on his scraps of shattered sleep and gets to his feet. The house is too dark and sullen to really be a home, even though Harry has tried. There are afhgans with crooked stitches thrown over the arms of the couch (Granger's work) and customized mugs piling up on the counter, chipped china stacked in the cupboards and photos stuck haphazardly to the walls. Harry isn't much for the domestic sort of things, having it just be him in here, so on the nights where Draco gives up on sleep entirely, he often finds himself puttering around the kitchen and putting things in order.

Kreacher had tried to shoo him out the first time, but he's not as capable as he once was, and after the third time Draco ignored him, the old house elf left him in peace. Now he spends the time between late at night and early morning with his arms soaking in suds as he washes dishes the muggle way, mopping the floor, dusting the picture frames. The scent of pine and lemon is constantly staining his hands, but the sharp scent doesn't bother him, just seems to bring him more into himself. And when the sun finally starts to peak in through the window, he starts to cook breakfast, whatever he thinks will work depending on his mood- scrambled eggs and toast, cinnamon rolls, bacon, omelets, fresh baked banana bread. Its waiting for Harry whenever he comes down the steps, ready to face a day full of whatever he does (auror training, Draco reminds himself), like a small piece of repayment for everything he has done for him.

"You don't have to do this every day, you know." Harry's voice startles him into dropping the pot of tea down into the sink. It cracks down the side and the liquid spreads over the counter. Draco stares down at it, dismayed, and it never occurs to him to use his wand to clean it up, not even when the heat of it soaks through the towel he was using and burns his hand. It's only when Harry crosses the room to help him, mending the mess back together in seconds, that Draco calms.

"Maybe I wanted some quality cooking. Merlin knows it wasn't coming from you." If they were younger, stupider, and had not been forced to grow up so fast, this could have quickly turned to blows. It had always happened like that back in school, where in the beginning Harry would take offense at something that Draco had only meant as a joke, and he would not be able to find his way back from this latest fumble. Now, though, Harry only smiles over the rim of his cup of tea, looking a cross between pleased and confused.