Mild Harry/Draco at the end of this piece. Also, some cheesy but mild angst. The cheesiness isn't mild though. No, the cheese is dripping off this piece, seriously.
At one point, he didn't know when, he lost all his passion for life. Some time between caring for his comrades with torn guts and blocking the stream of their blood with his own cloak and crying for friends and acquaintances on end, he lost his will. It was a bittersweet sort of thing, like love that slips from your grasp, the way he lost his passion. It was the sort of thing you don't realize is missing, and when you do, you don't realize right away what it was.
When the war ended, he smiled mechanically for the flashing cameras and tried as hard as he could to keep out of the public eye, which of course, didn't work, but it was always worth a try. He rented a flat in Diagon Alley and charmed it specifically to repel nosy reporters, a useful spell Hermione had looked up for him. He didn't sing in the shower anymore, nor did he do silly things like buy huge milkshakes that he knew he could never finish, nor did he spontaneously drop in on his friends at the ungodly hour of three in the morning just because it amused him to see Ron's mock-outraged face.
Most days were spent curled up on his couch listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata or something of the like. He slept, he ate and he listened to classical music. If the reporters had gotten hold of him, they would have found little to satisfy their hungry public. Ron and Hermione worried, but they lived out in the country near the Burrow, and spent their days chasing triplets that had popped out of Hermione just two years ago, so they had next to no time to Apparate to Harry's and just talk.
He wasn't depressed, so to speak, not in the typical sense anyway. He was just rather listless and when people came to invite him out, he politely declined and did so often that the invitations stopped coming. It is an unconfirmed hypothesis that had someone not intervened, Harry Potter would have spent his life in seclusion and ultimately disappeared from the memories of everyone who knew him or knew of him. Someone did intervene however.
If Harry thought about it, he didn't remember the exact events that occurred the rainy evening that Draco Malfoy appeared on his doorstep, dripping water onto Harry's carpet. He remembered thinking of the last time he'd seen Draco Malfoy, standing in the back while Dumbledore's ashes were strewn across the lake at Hogwarts and thinking of Draco Malfoy as his equal. He remembered sitting on his couch and listening as Malfoy yelled at him and told him things like, "You utter idiot, how can you do this, how can you be so selfish? We need you to help rebuild, don't you understand, you're the symbol of strength for this world."
He remembered saying back, "Aren't I allowed to be selfish, aren't I allowed some peace?"
Eyes softening, Draco replied, "Yes, but we all want you to come back. You can find just as much peace and happiness with your friends -- more in fact -- than without." Harry remembered ushering a protesting Draco out the door, telling him that he needed room to think.
It wasn't easy, finding that lost will for life, which Draco privately called Harry's-Desire-To-Do-Stupid-Irrational-Things. Ron and Hermione made time, now that their children could be left with Mrs. Weasley, to Apparate over and visit. Harry smiled more often and more naturally.
And if Harry were asked to recall when it was that Draco started coming to Harry's flat more often and when it was that Draco's lips first somehow found their way onto Harry's, he wouldn't be able to tell you. Like everything that had happened in his life, Draco crept up on Harry and Harry didn't realize what'd happened until it was too late. But then, he didn't really mind all that much.
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