After several long days alone at the Manor, Harry had had a splendid weekend. It was both remarkable and pitiful how great of an impact Draco’s mere presence had on lighting up the rooms, and how majorly he improved Harry’s sense of comfort in a house that was quite traumatic.<br/>Draco had been more willing to be distracted from work, and having spent the past few days without Draco slipping off to his study to add to an already massive amount of work he had done this week, it had struck Harry how normal this felt. It was subtly but decidedly different from the months Harry had spent locked in at the Manor; it had, in fact, felt like a proper weekend.<br/>Best when Harry thought he had put aside any feelings of doom that lingered from Friday night, it surged within him, flashes of anxiety peppered between lazy, comfortable moments. In any other case, Harry would have left, but before he ever had the chance, Draco had unknowingly reeled Harry back in, and Monday morning, Harry was still there, sitting at Draco’s dinette.<br/>“First thing, I think,” Harry said before taking a bite of toast; the question made him turn to glance over his shoulder, by now familiar enough with Draco’s kitchen to know where to look to find a clock. “To him that’s nine.”<br/>Reluctantly, Harry had Saturday admitted to Draco that people were taking notice of his spotty hours; Friday, a letter had arrived asking Harry to attend a sickness absence interview with Robards. Harry wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to explain this part year to Robards, who had so far only heard the basics.