Draco slowly sifted through his trunk, pulling out clothes to arrange in the wardrobe and books to place on the bookcase. His wand was in his pocket and his broom in the corner. It didn’t take long and he pushed his now empty trunk under the bed. He sat on the bed, staring down at the singular photo he had of himself with his parents. He’d spotted the photos Potter had and noted the stark contrasts.

He and his parents were the embodiment of pureblood perfection and assumed superiority. They were in all black with tinges of deep green and shiny, expensive silver clasps. Not a single strand of hair was out of place, not a speck of dust seen. They had been photographed from a slight upward angle, causing their eyes to be down as though watching something—or someone—below them. There were no smiles. Narcissa and Lucius stood next to each other, eleven-year-old Draco in front. Narcissa was angled just slightly towards Lucius, her hands clasped in front of her with two large rings on display, each symbolizing her belonging to the Malfoy and Black lines. Lucius held his snake-head cane with one hand while his other rested heavily on Draco’s shoulder, his own Malfoy heirloom on display. Draco’s arms hung at his sides. At his throat was a silver brooch, a snake wound through an ‘M’, also a denotation of where he belonged.

He'd never seen a colder picture, a family less happy. He almost shivered as he stared into all the eyes that blinked slowly at the camera; the sharp, cool blue eyes of his mother, the angry hateful grey eyes of his father, and his own grey eyes, haunted and trapped.

He had an overwhelming rage toward them, a sadness for them, yet also an all-consuming guilt for leaving them. It was confusing, hating and fearing them so much, yet almost yearning to return.

He couldn’t decide if he wanted to keep the photo or not, so, instead, he just sat there staring at it with a deep frown. He was still there when, a few minutes later, Snape knocked on the door and stood in the doorway.

“Did I successfully retrieve all of your belongings?” Snape asked.

“Yes, sir,” Draco said. “You really didn’t have to, especially after a…meeting.”

“It was no issue, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said dismissively. “It is something I once did often. There was no danger.”

“No, but you still had to spend time with them,” Draco said, gesturing at the photo and looking at Snape.

“While not a favourite pastime, one I can tolerate when necessary,” Snape said and Draco thought he saw the man’s lips twitch as though he was amused.

There was no other indication, though, so Draco just looked away, back at the picture. “Did they…talk…about me?” he asked quietly.

“Incessantly,” Snape said lightly.

“Anything good?” Draco asked, somewhat bitterly.

“They are…distressed at your absence,” Snape said and Draco noticed how the professor chose his words carefully. He looked up at the man again, his face drawn.

“Because they want me or because Voldemort does?” Draco said, watching as Snape crossed his arms and just gazed at him. Draco could almost swear the professor’s dark eyes softened and he would’ve believed it had it been anyone but Snape. “What will happen to them? If I don’t go back?”

“They will be punished and lose some rank, but I do not believe they will be killed, if that is what you are worried about,” Snape said.

Draco snorted quietly. “Stupid, isn’t it? To worry about them?”

“They are still your parents. It is difficult to break such bonds,” Snape said and Draco sighed. “Come. It is time for brewing.”

Draco nodded and stood. He stared down at the photo yet again before placing it on his bedside table, but facing away. He followed Snape downstairs and towards the back door, but through a door to the right just before the back door. Behind the door was a short set of stairs that led into a large lab. Two long tables were set in the center of the room, each with two stations for brewing and prepping. One wall had a large set of glass cabinets with shelves on either side, all filled with a variety of ingredients. Another wall held different types and sizes of cauldrons as well as other tools and a couple of sinks, one obviously for cauldrons and the other for hands and smaller tools. Stools were at each station, Potter already sitting on one. He sat next to the Gryffindor upon Snape’s gesture as the professor stood on the other side of the table.

“As we cannot spend all our time on Occlumency, you will assist me in brewing,” Snape said. “While we will find a solution to Mr. Potter’s pain that accompanies his visions, I also typically brew restock supply for the Hogwarts infirmary.”

“Sir, I’m not sure what I can do. You know I’m terrible at Potions,” Potter pointed out and Draco silently agreed. The Gryffindor had always been hopeless at everything, but especially at Potions.

“This will be a perfect time for you to learn and practice as there will be no sabotage and a less stressful environment,” Snape said, giving both Draco and Potter stern looks.

Draco looked at Potter, pulling a sneer onto his face at Potter’s glare to mask his shame. He flushed when Snape raised an eyebrow at them.

“You say that, but you didn’t exactly stop it either,” Potter said, his tone bitter and annoyed. He huffed when Snape looked at him with hard eyes. “I’m not being rude, I’m telling the truth.”

Once again, Draco swore he saw a hint of amusement in Snape’s eyes, but it disappeared too fast to examine closely.

“Yes, I am aware. However, do not believe Slytherin perpetrators escaped without consequences,” Snape said and Potter snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, right,” the Gryffindor muttered.

“He’s serious, Potter,” Draco said. “No Slytherin ever got away with anything. We were just dealt with in private.”

It was obvious Potter wasn’t completely convinced, but they all silently agreed to just move on.

“I trust even you can successfully brew given time,” Snape said.

Potter just stared at him, clearly not agreeing but choosing, wisely, not to argue.

“Now, Potter, I want you to describe the pain you feel after your visions,” Snape said, flipping open a journal Draco hadn’t noticed before.

“Oh, uh, I…I don’t know. It’s, uh…” Potter stuttered, caught off guard.

“Is it your head or your scar that hurts?” Snape clarified.

“Uh, both. My head feels like it’s pulsing and pounding, and my scar feels like it’s on fire,” Potter explained.

Draco frowned, alarmed at such symptoms. What sort of connection could allow and cause such things? If Potter could see into Voldemort’s mind and through his eyes, even unintentionally, what could Voldemort do to Potter?

“The headache is likely from the vision itself, a strain on the mind as it stretches to where it’s not supposed to be,” Snape explained, scribbling in his journal. “The scar pain could be inflammation from the magical connection.”

“I can feel him,” Potter said quietly. “In the visions, I feel what he feels and then it translates into pain in my scar. It seems like the happier or more excited he is, the more it hurts.”

Draco’s frown deepened. What kind of connection was even capable of such a thing? He and Potter watched the professor scribble more in the journal.

“So, a stronger Pain Reliever and something to treat the scar itself,” Snape said, apparently thinking aloud.

“A salve, maybe?” Draco suggested, getting a raised eyebrow from Potter and a look of intrigue from Snape.

“A valid suggestion, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said, pleased. “I will make some plans and do some research. Then, I will enlist your assistance in creating some trials.”

Draco nodded, understanding and accepting of Snape’s request, and looked at Potter. The Gryffindor still looked drawn, something else clearly bothering him and he was sure the other boy was wondering if he should say anything.

“What about dreams?” Potter eventually said, albeit quietly.

Snape looked at the Gryffindor curiously. “Dreams?”

Potter nodded. “I started having a weird dream and my scar is usually hurting when I wake up.”

“What is the dream?” Snape asked.

“A corridor with a door at the end, that’s all, but it feels like there’s something I need on the other side,” Potter explained and Draco frowned, remembering his own strange dream. He didn’t have any pain attached to it, but he’d had similar feelings of there being something he needed to find.

“It is possible it is also from the Dark Lord. Perhaps he is aware of your connection to some degree and is sending you things to see,” Snape said and Draco watched Potter’s face morph into worry. “We will have to being your Occlumency as soon as possible.”

Potter just nodded, his eyebrows furrowed.

“For now, you will work together and brew a Fever Reducer, a potion you should both be familiar with,” Snape said, moving them on. He put a book on the table in front of Draco in the prep area of their station, open to the instructions for the potion. “Absolutely no foolish fighting. I will assist if you need.”

Once Draco and Potter nodded, Snape turned to his own station, leaving them to set themselves up. Draco didn’t particularly like the idea of pairing up with Potter and could see the Gryffindor felt the same. However, they had pushed Snape far enough as it was with their fighting and, while it seemed the man wouldn’t hit them, he could always send them away. It would be better to just try and get along when Snape asked and ignore each other the rest of the time.

“We should prepare the ingredients first,” Draco suggested.

“Sure,” Potter said, surprising Draco with his lack of argument.

They both walked to the cabinet and shelves to gather all the required ingredients, bringing them back to their station. Their cauldron had been filled with ice water by Snape ready for them to begin.

“Do you want to crush these or get the bowels?” Draco asked, gesturing at the willow bark, snake fangs, and whole, dead horned toad.

“I’ll get the bowels, I don’t mind,” Potter said, dragging the toad towards him.

“Really?” Draco said, grabbing a mortar and pestle to grind up the dried willow bark. He personally didn’t mind brewing, but he still didn’t like the gross ingredients. He was surprised Potter didn’t seem to care.

Potter shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve gutted fish a lot when my uncle and cousin would bring them home after fishing. This isn’t too different,” he said casually.

Draco hummed, dumping out the willow bark and crushing the snake fangs, trying to keep things casual. He hadn’t expected Potter to mention his Muggle relatives, he rarely did. It seemed to be an innocent enough comment, but Draco did note how Potter apparently had not been on these fishing trips and had apparently been the one to prepare the fish for cooking.

They fell quiet then as Potter put the horned toad bowels in the cauldron of ice water. Draco followed with the snake fangs and watched Potter being to stir counter clockwise, Draco timing the required seven minutes. At the seven minutes, Draco added the willow bark and Potter stirred clockwise five full times. Draco moved to Potter’s other side and turned on the fire. They watched the mixture come to a boil and Draco noted the time, needing it to boil for fifteen minutes. They sat back down on their stools to wait, Potter fiddling with the single porcupine quill that would be added at the end.

“So, are you secretly good at Potions?” Draco said to fill the silence, glancing over at Snape who seemed to be engrossed in his own complex potion and not paying them any attention. It was strange to be brewing and not have Snape hovering over them.

“Easier to be halfway decent when others aren’t trying to mess my potion up,” Potter said, looking at him with a pointed look.

Draco couldn’t help his light flush. “Right. Sorry.”

Potter gave him an odd look. “Not just you. I’ve messed with yours too.”

Draco hummed and nodded, acknowledging the truth of the statement. He glanced at his watch. Five more minutes. “So, we’re both terrible people?” he said lightly, hoping it would be taken as the joke he intended it to be.

Potter snorted and he smirked, indicating Draco had been successful. “Yeah, suppose we are. At least to each other.”

A few minutes later, they turned off the fire and Draco stirred clockwise for exactly seventy seconds. Potter tossed in the porcupine quill, Draco stirred clockwise five time, and they were done. They started cleaning up their mess, little though it was, in an oddly comfortable silence. It made Draco realize the entire process had been smooth, not marred by tension and awkwardness. They’d actually managed to do something together without issue, and had even spoken without snapping and fighting.

“Congratulations. You are capable of acting like civil human beings after all,” Snape said, though his tone held none of its usual heat, much like the mild glares Draco and Potter sent him in response. “Go, do what you like until dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said and left the lab, separating at the top to do their own thing.

Harry jerked awake, the cracking thunder echoing at the same time Cedric hit the ground. He covered his face with his hands and took a few deep, but shuddering breaths, trying to calm down. He sat up and put his glasses on, jumping when thunder boomed again and lightning lit up his room. He could hear the steady pounding of the rain on the roof and windows. The sound of the rain was calming, but the thunder made him anxious.

He flinched at yet another boom that he swore shook the manor and threw his legs over the side of the bed. Between the sight of Cedric dead sitting in his head and the storm outside, he knew he would not be falling back to sleep anytime soon. He contemplated where he wanted to go, too anxious to stay lying in bed. Eventually he stood and quietly left his room, glancing at the other closed doors as he padded downstairs. Normally he’d go to the library but, with the storm, he wanted a cup of tea instead. So, he headed to the kitchen which lit up with a soft light to allow him to see, but not blind him after the dark. He filled the old-style kettle with water and placed it on the stovetop, turning on the element. He leaned against the counter with his arms over his chest as he waited for the water to boil.

He was constantly surprised at how Muggle the manor was. Everything could be done with magic, but it could also be done the Muggle way. He supposed it was likely habits of Snape’s from growing up with a Muggle father, especially one that didn’t ‘appreciate magic’ as Snape had said.

He pulled a mug out of an overhead cupboard and took a teabag from the small ceramic container on the counter. He dropped the teabag in the mug and continued waiting. He stiffened as more thunder rang out though more muted this time, farther away. He stiffened more and glanced up at the doorway when he heard light footsteps. He knew Snape had given them leave to do and go where they wanted in the manor and the man had told Harry the manor was his home for the summer, but he couldn’t help but be nervous. He never would have been allowed to be up in the middle of the night making himself tea in Privet Drive. Unless called for, stepping out of his room of his own accord never went well for him. A part of him was beginning to believe that Snape wouldn’t hit him, but nothing had been said about getting rid of him. While making tea didn’t seem like much reason to be sent away, any number of small infractions used to set off Vernon; who’s to say Snape wouldn’t be the same? He was similar at Hogwarts, getting angry with Harry and others for all sorts of minor things.

He relaxed slightly when the footsteps belonged to Malfoy. The Slytherin paused in the doorway, startled to find he wouldn’t be alone in the kitchen. Meeting the grey eyes, Harry thought he could see a sadness, a pain, a haunted shadow. They both jumped violently when the thunder made a return directly above them and the kettle began to whistle. Harry turned to turn off the burner and remove the kettle.

He looked over his shoulder at Malfoy. “Tea?” he offered.

Malfoy hesitated, but then nodded. “Sure.”

Harry filled his mug before pulling out another, tossing a teabag in and also filling it with water. Malfoy had moved to stand on the other side of the connected island, near the dining table. In the corner sat the tea tray filled with all of the available additions. Harry brought both mugs over, standing across from Malfoy and sliding his mug to him. They both reached for various items on the tray, adding milk, honey, and preferred flavours. Harry added a touch of mint while Malfoy added cinnamon. After stirring and removing their teabags, they both walked over to the dining table, taking their normal seats across from each other.

They were silent, staring into and sipping their tea, lost in what had disturbed their sleep. Harry couldn’t pull himself out of the graveyard, his mind stuck on Cedric’s dead, empty eyes. He could hardly stand the guilt he felt over not saving the Hufflepuff, over convincing Cedric to take the cup with him in the first place. He could still hear the anguished cries of Cedric’s father as he held his dead son. If he had this secret, awesome power that kept bursting out with his emotions, why hadn’t it come out that night? Why did it—he—let Cedric die and Voldemort come back? It was drowning him, the guilt of what he’d caused and the loneliness of having no one that understood what it had been like in that graveyard.

He looked across at Malfoy. The Slytherin had his hands cupped around his mug as he stared down into the swirling liquid, steam rising up into his face. He wondered where Malfoy was trapped.

“Some more late-night wanderings?”

Malfoy’s head shot up and Harry spun, both with wide eyes, at Snape’s low voice. If he hadn’t been afraid of the trouble they were likely in for all the liberties they had taken, Harry would’ve been far more stunned at seeing the professor out of his teaching robes. The man had already been dressing more casually given that they were not at Hogwarts, but, now, he was just in pajamas. Not unexpected since it was three a.m., but still a startling sight. He was in solid dark green cotton pants and a long-sleeved grey shirt. Still a typical colour palette for the man.

“I…I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said, hoping to placate any anger.

“We’ll return to our rooms,” Malfoy added, abandoning his tea and making to get to his feet.

“Sit down, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said as he entered the kitchen and headed directly to the stove. He refilled the kettle and placed it back on the stove. “While I would certainly prefer you both to be asleep given how little you both get, I also do not fault you for being kept awake by the nightmares I know you both suffer.”

Malfoy sat back down slowly, he and Harry staring at Snape in confusion. They weren’t in trouble? The man quickly fixed himself a cup of black tea, and joined them at the table.

“Do stop gaping like morons,” Snape said. “You can leave your rooms and make yourselves tea whenever you like. I can imagine the restrictions you faced at home, but they do not apply here.”

Harry was still hesitant from a lifetime of being told otherwise and being beaten when he didn’t obey, and he could see a similar hesitation in Malfoy. He found himself becoming more and more curious about the truth of Malfoy’s home life, wondering how much of the Malfoy he’d come to know these last four years was a fabrication, a mask.

Before either of them could consider trying to relax with their tea again, thunder cracked and they jumped again, seriously startled. Harry ducked his head when he spotted Snape’s raised eyebrow.

“You do not like storms?” Snape said casually, clearly curious about their reactions.

Harry grasped his mug again, needing his hands to be occupied and to have something to focus on. He wished Snape would stop asking about the Dursleys, no matter how indirectly. He didn’t want to talk about it or think about it, and he didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t understand why Snape seemed to want to know. Whether he approved of the treatment or not, it didn’t seem like anything Snape would have interest in discussing. Yet, sitting there with Snape and Malfoy, something felt different. Maybe it was sleep deprivation, maybe it was emotional exhaustion, maybe it was the tea, but a small part of him was considering answering the man’s query.

“Just the thunder,” Harry said quietly, though, in their silence, his voice seemed to echo loudly. “It always echoed in my cupboard, shook the door.”

“Your cupboard being?” Snape said, his tone still very even.

“The cupboard under the stairs, my room for…a while,” Harry said, gripping his mug tighter and keeping his eyes on it. He couldn’t make himself look up. He didn’t want to see any kind of expressions on either Snape’s or Malfoy’s faces.

“I see.”

Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Snape lift his cup of tea for a moment and then return it. Across from his own mug, he could see Malfoy mirroring him, hands wrapped around his mug. He saw them tighten and the knuckles almost turn white when Malfoy was next addressed.

“And you, Mr. Malfoy?” Snape said, still just as calm. “Anything you’d like to share?”

There were several moments of silence, allowing them to hear the rapping rain.

“He said I had to be able to handle meetings in all weather,” Malfoy eventually said, his voice quiet and tight.

Harry peeked at the Slytherin at the vague admission. Malfoy’s face was hard and pale, his eyes far away as he remembered.

“How long would he have you stand in a storm?” Snape asked.

Malfoy shrugged a shoulder. “Until it was over or I collapsed.”

Harry watched as Malfoy moved a hand to his chest and he wondered again what was hidden there, what Malfoy was remembering. It reminded him of all the scars he had hidden on his back.

“Have either of you ever told anyone?” Snape asked, but he did so gently, not accusatory.

“No,” Harry admitted.

“There was nothing to tell,” Malfoy said and Harry nodded slightly, agreeing.

“Because you believe you deserved it?” Snape said.

Neither of them replied, but their silence was an answer in and of itself, a very clear one.

“Could you both look at me, please?” Snape said and, shocked by how gently he was speaking, Harry looked up, as did Malfoy. “I know you are unlikely to believe me, but you did not deserve it. There is absolutely no excuse for what you were put through. Your guardians were supposed to care for you and they failed to do so. They failed, not you.”

Like Snape had anticipated, Harry wasn’t sure he believed the man. It was in direct conflict with all he’d been told for fourteen years. Plus, if it wasn’t his fault, if he hadn’t caused it, why had it happened? If it wasn’t his fault, why did he have to go through it? Why had no one ever saved him if it wasn’t supposed to happen? He just turned back to his nearly empty tea, unwilling to even consider an alternate reality where his life with the Dursleys didn’t need to happen the way it did.

He heard Snape sigh and looked at the professor again.

“I believe it is time we returned to bed,” Snape said. “Do either of you require potions?”

Harry thought quickly and shook his head. He wasn’t as anxious anymore, though he wasn’t sure what had eased his distress. Now that he was a little more relaxed, he could feel himself growing tired again.

“No, sir,” Malfoy said.

“Very well, come along,” Snape said and ushered them back upstairs. Harry was startled at the very light touch he felt on his back, encouraging him to his room. “Get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” Malfoy said.

“Good night, Professor,” Harry said, opening his door.

“Good night, boys,” Snape said.

Harry watched as Snape disappeared into his own room, mouth slightly agape. He glanced at Malfoy to find the Slytherin had also watched the professor owlishly. Their eyes met briefly before they entered their rooms, minds heavy with their nighttime experience.