The Unwanted Bed

The Burrow had never felt this small.

Harry stood in the doorway of the room he'd shared with Ron every summer since second year, staring at the third bed squeezed between theirs. Narrow, thin mattress, lumpy, with faded floral sheets Molly had dug out from some forgotten cupboard. The pillowcase had a neat little patch near the corner.

He didn't feel sorry for Draco Malfoy. Not one bit.

"You've got to be kidding me." Ron's voice flat with disbelief. He pushed past Harry, stood in the middle of the room with arms crossed. "Mum actually expects us to share with *him*?"

"Arthur and I agreed." Molly appeared with a stack of towels. "The boy is under Order protection, and this is the safest place for him. You two will behave, or I'll have you sleeping in the garden shed."

"But Mum—"

"No buts, Ronald. He's had a difficult time of it."

Ron opened his mouth, closed it, shot Harry a look that said everything. *Difficult time. Right.*

Harry watched Molly bustle about, smoothing sheets, plumping pillows. Fierce determination mixed with something softer. She saw the worst in people and still reached for the best. He admired that.

The door creaked open. Harry turned.

Draco Malfoy stood in the threshold, hands shoved into the pockets of a neatly pressed coat, face pale and composed like armor. His eyes flickered across the room—mismatched furniture, Quidditch posters, worn rug—landed on Harry, slid away.

"Lovely," he said, dry as dust. "Home sweet home."

Ron snorted. "Don't get too comfortable. You're not staying long."

"I certainly hope not." Draco stepped inside, movements deliberate and precise. He set a small leather trunk at the foot of his bed and stood there, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

---

The first few days were unbearable.

Harry and Ron made no secret of their distrust. They talked over Draco at meals, cut him out of conversations, left the room whenever he entered. Snide comments under their breath about ferrets and Malfoys and the company one kept.

Draco responded with sneers and cutting remarks, but something hollow lived behind them. He ate in silence, kept to himself, spent hours staring out the window at the overgrown garden.

Molly was the only one who bothered with warmth. She made his favorite tea, left extra biscuits by his plate, asked how he was sleeping. Draco seemed startled by her kindness at first. By the third morning, Harry saw him accept a second helping of toast with a quiet, almost reluctant, "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."

---

The fourth morning changed everything.

Harry woke early, restless, couldn't sleep. A nightmare about Voldemort left him drenched in sweat, heart pounding in his ears. He lay still for a long time, listening to Ron's soft snoring, then gave up and slid out of bed.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar. A sliver of light spilled across the hallway floor.

He assumed it was Ron. Pushed the door open without thinking. Froze.

Draco stood at the small, cracked mirror above the sink, back to the door. Wearing a black silken bra, straps delicate and thin against his pale shoulders. Matching underwear rode high on his hips. Elegant, feminine, utterly unexpected.

In his hand, a small tube of lipstick. Deep rose.

Harry's breath caught. Draco's head whipped around—grey eyes wide with shock, then narrowing with cold fury.

"Get out." Low and sharp.

Harry didn't move. Couldn't. His brain still trying to process.

"Did you hear me, Potter? Get. Out."

"Sorry—I—" Harry stumbled backward, face burning. He pulled the door shut and stood in the hallway, heart hammering against his ribs.

He didn't tell Ron. Wasn't sure why.

But his eyes kept drifting to Draco throughout the day. The smooth line of his jaw. The slight flush on his cheeks—blush or carefully applied makeup. The way Draco held himself, careful posture, deliberate grace in his movements.

Harry noticed. Didn't know what to do with the noticing.

---

Ron found out anyway.

Two days later, he burst into the room while Draco was changing. The look on his face: pure, unadulterated bewilderment.

"What the hell is *that*?"

Draco yanked a shirt over his head, ears red. "Mind your own business, Weasley."

"Is that—are you wearing women's clothes?"

"Underthings," Draco said through gritted teeth. "And they're not women's clothes. They're *my* clothes. Now kindly sod off."

Ron looked at Harry, mouth hanging open. Harry shrugged, didn't meet his eyes.

---

It became the strange new pattern of their days.

Draco would wake early, before anyone else, take an hour in the bathroom. He'd emerge with his face done—highlights on his cheekbones, soft color on his lips, lashes darker and longer. He'd sit at the breakfast table looking composed and untouchable, and Ron would stare at him like he'd grown a second head.

"Does he really think he's fooling anyone?" Ron whispered one afternoon, peeling potatoes. "That's not exactly subtle."

"Don't you have better things to worry about?" Harry asked, sharper than he intended.

Ron blinked. "Mate, you're the one who's been staring at him all week."

Harry's jaw tightened. He hadn't realized he'd been so obvious.

It wasn't about the clothes, he told himself. Wasn't about the makeup. It was about the way Draco had looked in that mirror—vulnerable and defiant all at once. Like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

And somewhere along the line, Harry stopped seeing an enemy.

He saw a boy.

---

The Floo call happened on the sixth night.

Harry came down for water and heard Draco's voice, low and desperate, from the sitting room. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, stayed out of sight.

"I know what you said, but I can explain—"

Pause. Green light flickered from the fireplace.

"No, don't—please, just listen—"

Another pause. Longer. When Draco spoke again, his voice cracked.

"You're choosing *them* over me? After everything I've done to get out—"

The fire went silent.

Harry heard a small broken sound. Something between a sob and a gasp.

He stepped into the doorway.

Draco was kneeling on the hearth, face in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fire had died to embers, casting long shadows.

"Who was that?" Harry asked, voice soft.

Draco looked up. Makeup smeared, grey eyes rimmed red. Young and lost and furious all at once.

"Since when do you care, Potter?"

"I asked a question."

"It's none of your damn business." Draco scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, smearing mascara across his cheek. "Just—leave me alone."

Harry didn't leave. He crossed the room and sat on the worn armchair across from Draco. Waited.

For a long moment, Draco just stared at him. Then his shoulders slumped.

"Pansy," he said quietly. "We were together. Before—the Mark, the war. She said she couldn't—her parents wouldn't allow it. A Malfoy, after everything." He laughed, bitter and hollow. "Even the snakes are abandoning the sinking ship."

"I'm sorry," Harry said.

Draco looked at him sharply, searching for mockery. Didn't find any.

"I don't need your pity, Potter."

"I'm not offering pity. I'm offering—" Harry hesitated. "I don't know. Company, I guess."

Something flickered in Draco's eyes. He turned away.

They sat in silence until the embers died completely.

---

The late-night conversations began after that.

At first, they were accidental. Harry would come down for water; Draco would be in the kitchen, staring at a cold cup of tea. They'd exchange a handful of words—about the weather, about Molly's cooking, about nothing in particular.

Then they started seeking each other out.

Harry found himself waiting for the sounds of Draco moving about the house after midnight. He'd listen for the creak of the stairs, the soft pad of footsteps, slip out of bed to follow.

They talked about strange things. The way the Burrow's charms made the walls hum at night. The first Quidditch match they'd ever played against each other. The color of the sky over the Black Lake at sunrise.

They didn't talk about the war. Not at first.

But one night, Draco said, "I used to think my father was the strongest person in the world."

Harry didn't respond. Sat beside him on the back step, looking out at the dark garden.

"Now I know he's just scared," Draco continued, voice barely above a whisper. "They all are. That's what makes them dangerous. Not strength. Fear."

"My mum died because she was brave," Harry said quietly. "My dad too. They could have run. They stayed."

Draco was silent for a long time.

"I don't know if I'm brave," he finally said.

"Neither do I," Harry admitted. "But I think you have to choose it. Over and over again."

Draco turned to look at him. In the moonlight, his face was soft, the sharp edges blurred.

"Maybe you're right," he said.

---

The Order meeting was tense.

Harry sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by grim-faced witches and wizards. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks. They were pressing Draco for information about Death Eater movements, his father's whereabouts, the Dark Lord's plans.

Draco answered each question carefully, voice steady. But Harry could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled beneath the table.

"We need more than generalities, Malfoy," Moody growled. "If you're not going to be useful—"

"He's given you everything he knows," Harry interrupted. "He's been here for two weeks. You think they're going to hold meetings in his living room?"

Moody's magical eye swiveled to Harry. "The boy's father is one of the Dark Lord's inner circle. He might know more than he's saying."

"He might not," Harry said, jaw set.

Ron kicked him under the table. Harry ignored him.

Kingsley raised a hand. "We'll revisit this when we have more intelligence. For now, Mr. Malfoy, your continued cooperation is appreciated."

Draco nodded stiffly. Didn't look at Harry.

Afterward, Ron cornered Harry in the hallway.

"What was that?" he demanded. "You stood up for Malfoy in front of everyone."

"Someone had to."

"Since when is it your job to defend a Death Eater?"

"He's not—" Harry stopped, frustrated. "He's trying, Ron. He's not the same person he was."

Ron stared at him. "You've gone soft on him, haven't you? All those nights sneaking around—I'm not blind, Harry."

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?"

Harry didn't have an answer.

---

The owl came three days later.

A sleek black thing, feathers glossy and dark. It landed on Draco's windowsill at dawn, a letter tied to its leg with red ribbon.

Harry was awake. He watched Draco sit up, watched his face go pale as he read.

"What is it?"

Draco's hands were shaking. "It's from Pansy. She says—" He stopped. "She says if I go back, she'll make sure I'm forgiven. She says I can still come home."

"Are you going to?"

Draco looked at the letter. Then he looked at Harry.

Slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half.

"I'm not going back," he said. "I chose. I'm choosing."

Harry smiled.

---

The attack came on a Thursday.

Harry heard the explosion before he felt it—a deafening crack that shook the Burrow's foundations, raining plaster from the ceiling. He was on the third floor, ran without thinking. Down the stairs, through the kitchen, toward the garden where shield charms had buckled.

Death Eaters poured through the gap.

He saw Molly fling a curse, Arthur tackle another, Ron's wand arm steady as he cast Protego in front of Ginny.

And Draco.

Draco backing toward the house, wand raised. A masked figure advancing on him—Harry recognized the loping gait, the cruel tilt of the wand.

*Fenrir Greyback.*

Harry didn't think. Cast a Stunner that sent Greyback spinning into a hedge, grabbed Draco's arm, pulled him inside.

"We need to get everyone to higher ground—"

A curse flew past, close enough to singe Harry's hair. He spun, raised his shield, but another came from the side.

Draco stepped in front of him.

The spell hit his shoulder.

He crumpled with a sharp cry. Harry caught him before he hit the ground, heart seizing.

"Draco—stay with me—"

White face, glazed grey eyes. Blood soaking through his sleeve, dark and spreading.

"I'm fine," he muttered, but his voice was weak.

Harry pulled him behind the kitchen counter, pressed his hand over the wound. "You're not fine. You're an idiot."

"Saving your life. Some gratitude."

"Shut up. Just—let me help you."

The battle raged, but Harry barely noticed. Focused on Draco's face, on the way his breath came in shallow gasps.

"What were you thinking? You could have died."

"Couldn't