The Rewards of Being Loved

Friday, 5 May 2006

Draco thought he should get an award for this. His gut churned as he sat at the plain, wooden table across from two Aurors, telling them everything he’d endured in the Department of Mysteries, while they stared at him with matching stony expressions, unfeeling and cold.

He knew it wasn’t an interrogation. He was doing most of the talking, he was doing them a favour, giving his statement like this. It didn’t stop the flashbacks from his incarceration, or his restless, shaking hands.

At the very least, an Order of Merlin, Third Class.

He wished they’d at least allowed him to do this with Harry, instead, or Ron, but Ron had insisted it be with an unbiased witness. Because he was fair and objective, or whatever.

“Let me get this straight: your own father cursed Auror Potter in order to come after you, ...in order to go after Potter?” one of the Aurors furrowed his brows. He looked vaguely familiar.

Draco had been perfectly clear. He couldn’t stop an exasperated sigh from escaping his lips.

“My father drugged Potter with a potion that gave him complete control of Potter’s body and mind. He ordered Potter to hide his own voice inside his mind, until a Healer Legilimens followed a trail of his most formative memories, thus knowing more about him than probably anyone. Lucius thought I would use the information to triumph over him, or something, according to the prophecy he’d heard from the child Seer he was holding captive with the Unspeakables, did you write that part down?”

The Auror with the quill pressed his lips together, annoyed, and nodded. Draco shouldn’t have let his anxiety get the better of him, but his patience was wearing thin. He hated being in the DMLE. He really didn’t like Aurors. Except for one. Maybe two.

“My father wanted that information for himself; he interpreted the prophecy in such a way that the knowledge I gained of Harry was a weapon Lucius could use against him. When Harry was healed, Lucius took that as his cue to act. He showed up at my mother’s home, Imperiused her, and made her send him through the floo to mine.”

“He couldn’t just apparate?”

Draco took another deep breath. “My wards are impenetrable, intention-based. Floo access to my home is limited to a select few.”

The quill stopped scratching on the parchment for a moment as the Auror looked up at him, a little impressed. The other Auror—Jeffries, Draco recognized him now from Harry’s memories—crossed his arms and continued his questions.

“So Lucius shows up in your house. How’d he get you back to the DoM?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not? Did he knock you out?”

“Not himself, no.”

“What does that mean?” Jeffries’ brows drew down in confusion.

“He didn’t need to knock me out himself. The bonds I was subject to attacked me for trying to defend myself.” Draco’s fingers were drumming restlessly on the table.

“And why were you bound?”

“Ask the fucking Minister, how is that relevant?” Draco’s tone was scathing, dripping with impatience. Jeffries held his hands up in supplication.

“Alright, alright. So you don’t know how you got to the DoM, you just woke up there.”

“Yes. In a cell, with the child Seer, Boran. Boran told me Lucius had already given me a potion, I knew it was the same one he’d used on Harry. He had complete control of my body, he could order me to do anything, tell him anything, he could suffocate me with barely a thought.”

“Right, yeah, that’s fucked,” Jeffries mumbled, frowning. Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise—that was the most emotion he’d shown since Draco had met him. And the most casually sympathetic he’d ever seen of an Auror, ever.

“Did Lucius say anything about how he escaped, any info at all on the Unspeakables?” Jeffries asked, moving on.

“I know he’d been out for at least six months by the time he attacked me. He said they needed him, for his money and knowledge, that they were helping him rise to power again and take his rightful place in society. He’d been investing in them for years, before his incarceration.”

“That’s it? They broke him out of prison, confunded the Warden and the guards repeatedly for six months, just for that?”

Draco shrugged. “That’s what he said. He was quite confident.”

“Huh,” Jeffries grunted, frowning, his brow creased in deep thought. Draco tried not to squirm.

The fact that the rest of the Unspeakables were still at large weighed heavily on Draco’s mind. The people who thought themselves above the law, who kidnapped and imprisoned at least one child, who had worked undetected in the shadows of the Ministry for decades, maybe centuries. What if they tried to go after Boran again? Or Harry? Or his mother? How was he supposed to protect himself and those he cared for against an invisible, unknowable enemy?

He had a vague idea of the rooms that existed down in the Department, but no idea what they got up to down there, other than creating a nightmarish potion and capturing child Seers. He wished he’d been able to get more information on them out of Lucius, but he’d been a little preoccupied, at the time.

The only Unspeakable he’d ever actually seen was in Harry’s memory. Did Lucius even count as an Unspeakable? And why did Lucius bother to hide his face with that weird glamour, instead of Polyjuice like he had when simply watching Harry in that pub? Just showing off, maybe—

“So at that point—” Jeffries continued, closing his eyes and scrubbing his hands through his cropped dark hair as he pieced it together. “—at that point, Mrs. Malfoy had already gone to your home looking for you, and your house elf—”

“Timsy,” Draco corrected.

“Timsy, right, came home and found her there, they both went to Parkinson’s, and Ms. Parkinson deduced that Auror Potter and Head Auror Weasley were involved, because Weasley’s name was on the note you had dropped, and she knew Potter was your patient.”

Draco nodded slowly, unsure of what he was supposed to say. He couldn’t confirm it, since he hadn’t actually been there. This was the first he was hearing of the full story.

“How did Parkinson know you’d been treating Potter?” Jeffries asked.

“She guessed.”

“‘She guessed?’” Jeffries raised an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t hard. She knew I was only seeing one patient for weeks, Potter had been out of work with a mysterious curse for weeks. She’s quite clever.”

“Indeed,” Jeffries murmured, smirking a little. Draco would bet his whole inheritance he already had a crush on her, the poor sod. “So Timsy side-alonged them to the Head Auror’s home, breaking through his wards, where they found Potter as well. Then, instead of going to the DMLE, Potter and company went straight to the Minister’s office. Why?”

Draco shrugged again. “You should ask him.”

Draco wasn’t about to air out Harry’s business to the entire DMLE. If Harry wanted to tell them why he’d scolded the Minister, he could do it himself. Draco wasn’t even entirely sure what went on in that office.

“Fine. They then brought the Minister down to the Licensing Office, and performed a dangerous bond severance with only one Licenser present. Sound right?”

“How should I know?” Draco glared at him. “I was locked in a cell, in the bowels of the Ministry, remember?”

“But the bonds you were under were severed, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“What do you mean, how do I know?” Draco snapped. “I lived with them for years, I know what they felt like. If they weren’t severed, I wouldn’t be able to talk to you about Harry right now. I wouldn’t be able to say his name without feeling like a hippogriff was gorging itself on my magical core.”

Both Aurors’ eyes widened, and they stared at him in shock for a moment, before Jeffries cleared his throat. The other Auror blinked a few times, returning his gaze to the parchment and continuing his scribing.

“Right,” Jeffries said flatly. “Okay. Bonds were severed by Licenser Smith, Pansy Parkinson, Minister Shacklebolt, and Auror Potter.”

Draco suppressed a shudder. Fucking Zacharias Smith.

“The whole crew, sans Smith, then went down to Level Nine, to find the prophecy you mentioned in your note.”

Draco said nothing, and waited.

“What did the prophecy say, exactly?”

Draco sighed and closed his eyes. “With true knowledge of the Saviour, the one who rejects his name shall rise higher than those before him, taking what his father never had, and rendering the Voice of the Saviour unnecessary at last.”

“Yep, that checks out. D’you ever figure out what it means?” Jeffries leaned forward, apparently intrigued. Draco’s jaw tensed, the memory of his desperate shouts at his father filling his head—

“I have taken the second chance you never took, I have taken the opportunities to be better than what you thought I should be, I am the only Malfoy that has ever placed family and love above status and power, and that is where I rise above you, Lucius…”

“No. I assume it’s much more figurative than Lucius originally thought,” Draco muttered, his face carefully blank. “I plan to forget about it. Prophecies aren’t to be messed with.”

“Too right,” Jeffries nodded. “I can sort of see where half of it came to fruition, but rendering Potter’s voice unnecessary? What the hell is that about?”

“As I said, I’ve no idea. I don’t want to know.”

“Fine. Do you know how Pansy Parkinson, a divorce lawyer and a civilian, was able to insert herself and your house elf into a classified Auror raid?”

Jeffries tried to look annoyed, but Draco could see the admiration gleaming in his eyes. You poor, poor sod.

“I don’t, but it doesn’t surprise me. She cares for me very much,” Draco smirked, simply to watch the flash of wild jealousy cross Jeffries’ face. Merlin, he was petty, but he thought Pansy would probably approve. She wasn’t a fan of Aurors, either, and would probably never have a romantic interest in anyone.

“Clearly,” Jeffries drawled. The scribing Auror looked up briefly in confusion at his tone. Draco was finally having a little fun. Just a little.

“Tell me what happened when Auror Potter found you.” Oh, the fun was over, then.

“I saw the Fidelius charm cover the room—”

“I’m sorry, you saw the Fidelius?”

“Yes, I saw it. I’m trained to see magic. If I may continue?”

Jeffries held his hands up again, waved them in a vague motion.

“Lucius made me tell him what it was. He started panicking, realizing that someone was coming for me, and that he was defenseless without the Department,” Draco continued. Jeffries held his hand up again.

“Can you elaborate on what you mean when you say Lucius made you tell him?” Jeffries asked. Draco pressed his lips together. Hadn’t he just explained this?

“I mean he aimed his wand at me, activated the potion in my bloodstream, and made me.”

“Like, he just told you to?”

“Sure, he told me to. And my body obeyed, without my input at all. Are you sure you fully grasp how horrific this potion is, that the Unspeakables had been developing for years? I had no control over my own body, nor the words that came from my mouth—”

“Alright, I get it. We just need all the details, every little thing matters.”

Draco glowered at him for a moment, his leg jumping beneath the table, but continued. “He unchained me and made me walk to the center of the room.”

“You were chained? To what?”

“A chair.”

“Describe the chair.”

“I’m sure you’ll find one just like it if you stop by Courtroom Ten later. Middle of the floor, can’t miss it,” Draco grumbled. Jeffries raised his eyebrows.

“Why did he need to chain you if he had complete control of your actions?”

“To be quite honest, I think he just liked the effect. He’s very dramatic.”

Jeffries huffed, trying not to laugh, probably thinking something along the lines of runs in the family. Which was indeed true.

“He Disillusioned himself and stood in the corner,” Draco continued. “He ordered me silent, he threatened the boy’s mother to keep him quiet. I heard noises outside, and a door slamming, before Harry entered the room.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“But he went in with Parkinson and Timsy.”

“I’m just telling you what happened,” Draco said, exasperated. “He was alone. He approached me and checked for injuries.”

“He didn’t do any revealing spells?” Jeffries frowned.

“No.” Draco closed his eyes. Sorry, Harry.

“Why did you strangle him?”

Draco’s eyes flew open. “You think I strangled him? What the fuck did I just tell you? Lucius had his wand aimed at me the entire time!”

“Right, sorry. How were you able to stop choking him?”

Draco looked down at his hands. His finger traced the grain of wood on the table.

“I was able to tell him what was happening with Legilimency.”

“You had no wand, though.”

“I’m aware.”

Jeffries stared at him, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. “You did Legilimency wandlessly?”

“Yes.”

Jeffries gaped foolishly, reminding Draco of a fish. Draco rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that uncommon. The Dark Lord had been proficient in wandless Legilimency. Snape, too.

“I told Harry what was happening, with Legilimency, and he was able to purge the potion from my blood before running out of oxygen completely.”

“What do you mean, purge the potion—”

“I mean exactly what I said, Jeffries. He cleared my bloodstream, Pansy and Timsy came in, I pointed to the shroud of magic that hid my abhorrent father, and the child in the cell was able to throw a metal stool at him with wild magic, knocking him unconscious. Are we done here?”

Both Aurors’ jaws hung open, the quill held limp and useless in the scribe Auror’s hand.

“Right. Good day, Aurors.”

Draco stood from his chair and buttoned his suit jacket, giving each of them a perfunctory nod before striding out of the room.

He barely avoided a full-on collision with Harry, who had apparently been waiting for him just outside the door.

“Hey,” Harry said, grabbing his arms to steady him. His face was tense with worry, but he smiled at Draco anyway. “How’d it go?”

“As well as one could hope for, I suppose,” Draco sighed, unconsciously leaning towards him, before remembering himself and pulling back, standing up tall, schooling his face. Harry’s concerned expression only worsened as he watched.

“What did they do? Did they hurt you? I swear I’ll—”

“They didn’t hurt me, Harry,” Draco cut him off, the corners of his lips turning up in a reluctant grin. “No need to storm the castle, you righteous, Gryffindor brute.”

Harry huffed at him, releasing his arms and leading the way out of the Auror Offices. Although they should have been called the Maze of Auror Cubicles, Draco mused. Almost every desk they passed contained a hard-faced Auror, frowning in thought at their case files or photographs of victims and criminals on the walls of their cubicles. Their faces turned to watch Draco and Harry pass by.

“An Auror escort and everything? I’ll never say the DMLE wasn’t hospitable,” Draco quipped. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Not an Auror escort,” Harry mumbled, smirking. “Just me.”

“Oh, my word, an escort from the Saviour himself,” Draco swooned dramatically, his hand on his forehead. Harry shook his head, laughing at him.

“Fuck off.”

“I’m trying to,” Draco retorted, grinning. “I can’t trust that the Ministry’s Golden Boy isn’t taking me on the scenic route through the DMLE, however.”

Harry slapped his arm playfully as they approached the lifts. “You’re such a git,” he groused, his smile giving him away. Draco suddenly forgot he was in one of his least favourite places, and he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to poke and tease that smile out of Harry for hours.

“We’re still on for tonight?” Harry asked quietly, as if Draco could ever forget.

“Of course,” Draco smirked. “I said yes, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Harry replied, his eyes darting to Draco’s lips. “I’ll see you at seven, then.” Draco stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from touching him.

The grille opened to the lift, and Draco stepped in, winking at him, just to see him blush.

“Seven it is.”

***

“Are you comfortable?” Harry asked, sitting back in the hard folding chair outside of the cell.

Lucius only continued staring at him in silence, from where he sat on his cot, supercilious and stone-faced.

“You’ll be in there for a long time, so I felt I should probably ask.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest, raising his eyebrows at Malfoy Sr.

An unnatural chill blew down the corridor, raising the hair on Harry’s arms under his leather jacket. It shouldn’t be this cold in May, but it seemed to be permanently uncomfortable on this island in the North Sea. His voice echoed off the stone in the long, empty, high security corridor, emphasizing the absence of warmth.

Harry hated visiting Azkaban—even with the dementors evicted, it was a horrible place to be. He knew the prisoners were treated humanely, now, thanks to Hermione’s reform efforts and Kingsley’s supervision. It was still the last place he’d choose to spend his time.

However, he felt the need to check in on this particular prisoner. He’d be doing so regularly, from now on. With the Unspeakables still unaccounted for, he didn’t want to risk Lucius slipping out again.

Lucius had only been back in Azkaban for a little over a week, and he still had that air of confidence around him. His prisoner’s robes were clean and his cell was immaculate, as if it was simply an office he was using for the time being. Harry continued watching him as Lucius reached up to the nape of his neck and took hold of his long, white ponytail, pulling it over his shoulder and smoothing it against his chest.

“What do you want, Potter?” Lucius asked, and Harry concealed his surprise behind a blank face. Lucius hadn’t really spoken to anyone, yet—the Unspeakables had somehow prevented him from giving away information on them, even with Veritaserum, and Harry had guessed he wasn’t exactly eager to make conversation with the Aurors, either. Until now, apparently.

“Many things,” Harry replied. “First and foremost, though, I want to ensure Draco’s safety. So you and I will be seeing each other regularly, from now on. I’m going to learn everything I can about the people who helped you escape and cause Draco harm. Your security has been tripled, to prevent another mishap—but I’ve trusted someone else with Draco’s safety before, and look how well that turned out.”

Harry leaned forward in his chair, scrubbing his hand over his jaw. He’d spent the day at the office slogging through paperwork and worrying about Draco, and had barely stopped back at Grimmauld to change before the Portkey activated for Azkaban. He felt like the stone of the miserable prison was sucking the energy out of him. He propped his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in front of him.

“I’ve got to do things myself, if I want them to be done right. That’s how it’s always been, since I was a kid. It’s exhausting, if I’m honest, but some things are too important to entrust to anyone else.” Harry glared at him, wondering if he was revealing too much—but Lucius should have known that about Harry by now. He’d seen Harry take matters into his own hands since Harry was a child, foiling his plans over and over.

Lucius sighed and leaned back a bit on his cot. Harry knew he was trying to look confident and unmoved, but he could still see the tension in Lucius’ posture, spine straighter than a wand.

“How generous, the Saviour of the Wizarding World taking time out of his busy schedule to pay visits to a lowly Azkaban prisoner,” Lucius sneered quietly.

“I’m sure you think you’re many things, Lucius, but I know you don’t think of yourself as ‘lowly’.”

Lucius huffed, barely, a derisive smirk adorning his pale, aged face. It reminded Harry of Flourish and Blotts, when he was twelve: of Lucius and Draco taunting him and the Weasleys. Then he remembered Arthur punching Lucius in the face, and his lips quirked up at the memory. Oh, to be in Arthur’s shoes, just for that moment. Or at least, to be in Pansy Parkinson’s shoes, giving Lucius’ unconscious body a swift kick in the ribs during a rescue mission, just because. She didn’t have an Auror Code of Conduct to uphold.

“I want to know,” Harry began, “did you really think you were outsmarting a prophecy, that whole time?”

“I was,” Lucius snarled suddenly, sitting up straight again. “I would have—”

“So yes, then, you honestly thought you were outsmarting a prophecy,” Harry cut him off. Lucius drew his pale brows down in another glare.

Harry shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. “Merlin. Even after the War? After everything?”

“I had everything where I wanted it—”

“Did you know,” Harry interrupted loudly, “that I didn’t have to be the Chosen One, according to the prophecy?”

Lucius' jaw snapped shut, returning to his usual moue.

“The prophecy spoke of a boy, born at the end of July, to parents who had defied Voldemort three times,” Harry said, hearing Dumbledore’s voice in his head. Lucius flinched minutely at the name, which Harry simultaneously enjoyed and rolled his eyes at. “There were two boys who fit that description: myself, and Neville Longbottom.”

Lucius’ lip curled in distaste, probably thinking about the Neville he remembered from the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. Had he even seen Neville slicing off Nagini’s head with a sword, during the final battle at Hogwarts? The Malfoys had been pretty focused on Draco, at that point.

“How is this relevant, Potter?” Lucius spat.

“Voldemort had a choice, Lucius, same as you did. You honestly think I’d have grown up to defeat him if he hadn’t made it so?”

“Perhaps not,” Lucius said, sitting up in his cot. “He certainly would have survived if he’d chosen Longbottom instead.”

“You think so?” Harry asked, tilting his head to the side. “You agree with him, then, that the half-blood infant was more dangerous to him than the pureblood?”

Lucius pressed his thin lips together in a hard line. He would obviously never admit such a thing. Harry tried to suppress a smirk, unsuccessfully.

“When Voldemort decided to act on that prophecy and attack me, Lucius, he gave me everything I needed to defeat him. I had my mother’s protection, in my blood—he could not touch me. I had a connection to his mind, so I could see what he was thinking, and feel what he felt. He gave me Parseltongue, something he thought was purely his own. And because of the grief he caused me, I had Love, which he could not withstand.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes at him. He probably thought he was gathering intel on how to defeat Harry, this whole time. Harry tried not to roll his eyes again.

“He even used my blood to rebuild his living body, Lucius. My mother’s protection, inside both of us. I only defeated him because he decided to take a prophecy seriously, and therefore ensured that it was fulfilled.”

Harry met Lucius’ eyes, the same exact shade as Draco’s, but somehow so much colder—flatter, darker. They made him feel on edge.

“Sound familiar?” Harry asked, stretching his arms lazily over his head, feeling joints pop in his spine. This chair was horribly uncomfortable.

Lucius ignored him and kept up his imperious glare, his hands poised elegantly atop his knees, a king on his barren, iron throne.

“Do you not have more important things to be doing than yammering nonsense at me, Potter?”

“What could possibly be more important than keeping Draco safe?” Harry frowned. “You must remember what it was like, caring for him. I know you did. You must have, at some point in your life.”

“You know nothing about me,” Lucius growled.

“I know a few things,” Harry replied calmly. “We’ve known each other a while, Lucius. We don’t know each other as well as you’d like to, apparently, since you made your son learn everything there is to know about me, only to try to gain the knowledge for yourself. Which was honestly redundant—you were there for some of my more formative memories. Was that not enough?”

“I do not know exactly what I saw,” Lucius grumbled. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“You saw me defeat Voldemort, time and again, as a child. You saw him throw multiple Killing Curses at me, you watched me survive them. You don’t understand how I did. Probably never will, if you don’t by now. I’m sure you made Draco tell you exactly how I did it, and you’re still clueless.”

Lucius’ mouth hardened again, but after a moment, the corners of his lips turned up in a cruel sneer.

“Draco told me many things,” he mused.

“You forced Draco to tell you many things, you mean,” Harry corrected him. “All of which is useless information if you can’t understand it. You can read a whole book in a different language, but it’ll mean nothing to you if you don’t speak the fucking language.”

“I do not need to sit here arguing with you—”

“No, you don’t, but you will be sitting there, anyway. May as well liven it up a little. As I said, you’ll be sitting there for a very long time.”

“This is not over, Potter,” Lucius said confidently, ignoring him again, apparently still unwilling to admit that Harry was right. “You cannot keep me in here. I have never been successfully kept in Azkaban, before. This will be no different.”

Harry briefly wondered what it must feel like to have that much confidence in one’s own importance. How hard did Lucius have to work to keep it up? Did it just come naturally to him? Born personality trait, or learned behaviour?

“Oh, you think the Unspeakables are willing to help you out again, considering your impulsiveness and greed caused them to lose all of their research and access to the Department? You think they’re still champing at the bit to come to your aid?”

Lucius' jaw tensed, a muscle jumping in his cheek, and Harry swore he saw a flicker of fear in his eyes.

“No, I reckon you’re safer in here, when you think about it,” Harry muttered. “We could just do away with all this extra security and let them have you. No one knows where they are, at the moment, but I’m sure they know exactly where you are.”

Harry stood up, zipping his jacket and folding the chair.

“This has been lovely, Lucius, but I’ve got to run,” Harry said, picking up the chair and turning to him with a satisfied smirk. “I’ve got a date with your son.”

Lucius’ lip curled in disgust, but a warm feeling was filling Harry’s chest at the thought of Draco. He chuckled as he walked away.

“I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Malfoy!” Harry called behind him, as he closed the heavy metal door of the corridor.

Friday, 5 May (cont.)

This is stupid, Draco thought, throwing yet another rejected outfit to the floor. It’s just a date.

But it was bloody rude, that Harry hadn’t even told him what the dress code would be. He said he’d wanted to buy Draco dinner—was Harry going to take him somewhere formal? That didn’t seem like something Harry would enjoy, but would he feel odd taking Draco somewhere common? Draco wouldn’t mind, of course, Harry was much more comfortable around muggles than he was, and definitely didn’t have Draco’s expensive taste.

Maybe they weren’t going out to dinner at all. Maybe Harry just wanted to lounge about with him at Grimmauld Place and eat that mysterious cake batter ice cream. That honestly sounded like a pretty good time, to Draco—it would be closer to Harry’s bed, after all.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. No use getting ahead of himself. It was thirty minutes to seven. He really needed to get it together and just pick something.

“Timsy!” he called, and the faithful, crotchety house elf apparated instantly into the room. He surveyed the mess Draco had made and sighed heavily, giving Draco his signature exasperated glare.

“I know, I’m sorry, Timsy,” Draco said, holding his hands up in supplication, “but I need your help. Harry’s picking me up soon, and all I know is that it’s a date, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear.”

Timsy rolled his huge, round eyes. Draco would normally beg Pansy for help with this kind of thing, but she was spending time with Camila tonight. He also wasn’t entirely sure if she approved of him dating Harry, and wouldn’t put it past her to dress him in the ugliest clothes he had. He didn’t want to risk it.

So, Timsy was the next best thing. After all, he knew Draco’s wardrobe better than Draco did.

“Harry Potter is not being likely to wear formal robes,” Timsy croaked, waving his hands carefully to pick up the mess of clothes from the floor. Draco nodded, rubbing his chin.

“That’s true, he does hate formalwear.”

“Harry Potter is probably wanting to take Master Draco somewhere private,” Timsy continued, narrowing his eyes distrustfully. Draco hummed, nodding again. Harry probably wouldn’t want to go anywhere he’d be recognized and interrupted. That’s why he liked going to that muggle pub so much.

Sweet Merlin, Draco hoped they weren’t going to that blasted pub. He’d seen enough of it in Harry’s memories to last a lifetime.

So, it was likely they would either be around muggles, or alone. All that told Draco was no robes.

He huffed and grabbed a pair of dark, snug jeans that Pansy had made him buy ages ago. He hadn’t actually had the gall to wear them yet, but Pansy had said they made his arse look fantastic. The muggle who’d sold them had slipped him what Pansy called a “telephone number”. She’d gotten quite a collection of her own telephone numbers from muggle men, apparently. Draco obviously had no fucking idea what to do with a telephone number, but he surmised these must be very good trousers.

He slid them on over his silk boxer briefs and turned around, examining his back in the full-length mirror. They were tight, but he had to admit, they did look amazing on him. Timsy continued cleaning up after him, muttering under his breath.

As he slid a belt through the loops, Draco caught sight of the scars on his chest in the mirror, and faced the next problem: a sodding shirt.

It might not be a formal outing, but he still had to look upscale. He wouldn’t be Draco Malfoy if he didn’t. So he grabbed an ivory shirt, slipped it on and buttoned it up all the way. He tucked it into the tight, dark jeans, and pulled out a silvery grey jumper, a light, easy cashmere. Casual, he could be casual.

As he adjusted his collar under the jumper, examining the final product in the mirror, he couldn’t help but think it needed something else. It still looked too casual. Almost boring. He wished he could just put on a jaw-dropping suit and be done with it.

He opened up a small, ornately carved wooden box on the top of his bureau, and pulled out a couple of silver rings, throwing them haphazardly on his fingers. They were purely decorative: he certainly wasn’t going to put on his Malfoy signet any time soon. But one of them held a simple onyx signet, which did the job nicely.

He went back to the mirror. Much better.

Maybe Pansy’s idea of piercing his ears had some merit. Something shiny did have quite an effect.

He didn’t have time to ponder it, though, because the wards wobbled alarmingly, and he heard a low, loud rumbling sound approaching his home. He jolted in panic, grabbing his wand from his bed and running toward the front door to see what must be a violent beast, maybe an escaped dragon, or a manticore, that didn’t have ill intentions toward him yet—

He swung the front door open and froze at the sight of Harry, grinning at him in his leather jacket and jeans, climbing off of a muggle motorcycle and running a hand through wild, windswept hair.

His heart skipped, but Draco was too shocked to do anything but stare, open mouthed, as Harry approached him, brimming with joy and confidence.

“You will need shoes, I’m afraid,” Harry remarked, smirking at him. Draco blinked, looking down at his socked feet. Damn it.

“Right,” Draco replied, still stunned, still reeling from the adrenaline rush. His brain was slowly coming back to him as he looked past Harry’s broad shoulders at the loud muggle contraption, which had thankfully quieted. He frowned at it.

“There’s no road,” Draco said lamely. His home was in the middle of a forest, in Devon, only accessible by floo or apparition. He would know if someone had built a bloody road nearby. Had Harry honestly driven that thing through the forest? Didn’t he live in London? Maybe he’d used a Portkey—

“I’m aware,” Harry replied vaguely, and Draco was thoroughly distracted by that wicked grin on his face, those familiar green eyes full of mischief. He couldn’t help himself: he reached out and grabbed the front of Harry’s jacket, yanking him forward and kissing him square on the mouth. How he had been able to control himself in all the weeks prior, he had no idea.

Harry chuckled against his lips, returning his kiss fervently, as if he’d been waiting to do it all day. His strong, rough hands found Draco’s sides, running slowly from his hips to his ribs over the cashmere. Unreal.

“Shoes, Draco,” Harry reminded him, bringing Draco back down from the clouds, giving him one more swift kiss before stepping back. “And wear that shirt jacket thing you like, you’ll probably want it.”

Draco huffed a weak laugh, his stomach fluttering, berating himself for getting so flustered and caught off guard. He turned away from Harry, shaking his head.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he muttered under his breath as he regained some measure of composure. Harry heard it anyway, and laughed, waiting patiently in the doorway.

Draco stepped back into the master suite, where Timsy had finished cleaning, and took some deep breaths, shaking out his hands. This is fine. This was just a date, with his former enemy, who somehow didn’t hate him anymore. His former patient, whom he’d healed. The man who’d attacked him and left, and returned to rescue him yet again. The boy he knew so well, the man he desperately wanted to know. Everything is fine.

He pulled a pair of brown leather boots from his wardrobe, and his beloved navy shirt jacket, per Harry’s request. He laced up the boots quickly and slid on the jacket, enjoying the warmth of its wool lining. He checked himself one last time in the mirror: still fantastic, though there was an embarrassing blush on his cheeks. Nothing to be done about that, though, when Harry was waiting in his front garden, ready to make him blush again.

Harry grinned at him as Draco closed the door to his house and sent a quick locking spell at it. Draco could feel himself blushing again as Harry looked him over appreciatively.

“Will you tell me where we’re going, now?” Draco asked impatiently. Harry shook his head, chuckling.

“Nope,” he replied, making his way towards the muggle machine. Draco stopped in his tracks.

“Surely you’re not expecting me to get on that thing? Being bounced around on a loud muggle contraption while you careen through a forest is not my idea of a fun date, Harry,” Draco fussed.

Harry laughed at him again, turning to face him, walking backwards slowly. Draco was struck by how amazing it felt to hear his voice; to hear Harry talking and laughing with him, instead of fighting or sneering at him, instead of watching him silently in Draco’s study.

Draco had been hoping for this for weeks—not the dating and the kissing, that’d seemed pretty far-fetched. He’d hoped for the talking. He hadn’t truly expected it, no matter how badly he’d wanted it, but spending all those weeks with Harry, going through his mind and his memories… He’d really hoped he’d get to talk to Harry, by the end of it. To figure out who they were, together, once they’d stripped away the antagonism.

It took a bit of an ordeal to get there, but they got there.

“Yes, you’re getting on it, and no, we’re not going through the forest,” Harry said firmly, and Draco thought his cheeks must hurt from that permanent grin on his face.

Harry threw a leg over the bike, grabbing hold of the handlebars and kicking something on the side to make the loud rumbling start up again. He turned to Draco, an expectant look on his face, still lit up with that troublemaking grin that made Draco’s heart race. Draco gave an exaggerated sigh.

“If I die, I’m blaming you, Potter,” he muttered, loud enough to be heard over the obnoxious motorcycle.

“Understood,” Harry said seriously, lips twitching in amusement. Draco approached the contraption nervously, but climbed on anyway, settling into the leather seat right behind Harry. He kept a few inches distance, reluctantly, because snuggling up to him now would just feel rude, no matter how much he wanted to. But he felt awkward—was he supposed to just sit like this the whole time, legs splayed, fighting the incline of the seat that kept sliding him closer to Harry?

“Put your feet on those footholds, there,” Harry said, pointing with one hand to little metal platforms on both sides, a perfect place for Draco’s feet. His legs bent comfortably, but he’d felt it when he lifted his feet off the ground: Harry was the only thing keeping this beast upright. How on earth could this possibly work?

“Where am I supposed to put my hands?” Draco asked. It didn’t feel very secure, his hands just resting uselessly on his legs. Harry reached back with his free hand, grabbed one of Draco’s hands from his denim-clad thigh and slowly pulled it forward, around his waist, bringing Draco’s chest flush against his back.

“Here,” Harry answered in that low, rough voice, and Draco’s other arm wrapped around him, joining the first. Harry’s neck was barely inches from Draco’s lips, making his mouth water. He buried his nose in Harry’s hair instead, breathing in the spicy, woody scent of his shampoo.

“Alright, I see the appeal,” Draco grumbled, feeling Harry’s firm stomach tensing with amused laughter under the smooth leather of the jacket. Draco pulled himself even closer, nestling his crotch against Harry’s arse. “For now.”

Harry turned his face a little, raising an eyebrow at Draco, who hooked his chin over Harry’s shoulder.

“You’ll love it,” Harry said wryly. “It’ll be much more fun than the fiendfyre, I promise.” He started flicking a couple switches and twisting the handlebars, making the thing rumble louder.

Draco frowned. “What do you mean? That was—”

His voice was cut off with a gasp as the motorcycle jerked forward, accelerating across Draco’s garden, gaining speed, heading straight for the trees. Draco’s arms tightened ferociously around Harry’s waist, his thighs squeezed Harry from behind, adrenaline surging through him.

Harry’d said they weren’t going through the forest, though, “Harry, what the fuck—”

Another gasp as the contraption suddenly lifted off the ground, “Oh, Merlin—”

And then they were soaring above the trees, on a muggle motorcycle. Draco tried to suppress a manic giggle as he buried his face in Harry’s shoulder, his arms like a vice around Harry’s waist.

“Of fucking course, of course you have a flying motorcycle, you ludicrous man, I shouldn’t have expected anything less, completely outrageous, I bet this is the same one you crashed in, too, isn’t it, I should have known, bloody git…” Draco continued his giddy muttering, thoroughly enjoying the sound and feel of Harry’s delighted laughter as they sailed over Draco’s forest towards the setting sun.

Draco soon determined they were heading somewhere southwest. He knew there were a few towns this way, including Ottery St. Catchpole, a half-wizarding village that was home to The Burrow. He really hoped Harry wasn’t taking him to meet the fucking family on their first date. He didn’t even know if this was legal—the muggles could surely see them like this, with the sky so clear.

But they only kept flying, higher than Draco had ever been on a broom, and after a while, Draco gave up his theorizing and worrying. He relaxed his body into Harry’s warm back, relishing the cool spring air whipping past his face, the darkening purple sky above him, the dense green forest dotted with little towns and roadways below. It felt so freeing, like flying barefoot on a broom over the Tyrrhenian Sea, and yet so very different. Maybe because he wasn’t alone, this time.

Draco didn’t know how long they were in the air. It could have been minutes, or hours—either way, he didn’t want it to end. But eventually he saw they were decreasing in altitude, quickly approaching the southern coastline. Draco wouldn’t have been surprised if Harry landed the thing in the Channel and claimed it could sail, too.

“Hold on tight,” Harry called, as they drew nearer to the cliffside and turned to fly parallel to it. Draco tightened his arms around Harry’s middle. Over the rumble of the motorcycle and the wind in his ears, he could hear the waves crashing against the rocks below. He felt the salty sea air against his face, and breathed it in indulgently.

Harry landed on a flat expanse of cliff, far away from any towns or roads. Draco buried his face in Harry’s shoulder as the motorcycle slowed to a roll over the ground. Gravity returned, very foreign and unwelcome, indeed. He didn’t want to let go, he wanted to stay in the air with his arms around Harry, even though his legs were cramped and his arse was numb from sitting like this.

Harry flicked more switches and did more things to the motorcycle that Draco didn’t catch, buried as he was in his neck. He felt Harry’s leg come up and kick something down as the rumbling finally ceased. The skin on Draco’s legs tingled with the sudden stillness, his ears ringing a little with the abrupt silence.

Harry took a deep breath and leaned back into his chest, dropping his head back onto Draco’s shoulder and sighing in satisfaction.

“Told you,” Harry mumbled, and Draco scoffed weakly at him, indulging himself and putting his lips on Harry’s exposed neck, dropping gentle kisses up the side towards his ear. He felt Harry shiver against him.

“Prat,” Draco grumbled against his warm skin, unable to string together a more intelligent retort. Harry chuckled at him.

“You hungry?” Harry asked. Draco lifted his head to look down at him, frowning.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to make me go muggle fishing, too,” he said imperiously, grimacing as he looked around at the empty cliff. It was either grass, or fish. Maybe rocks, for afters.

“We’re wizards, Draco,” Harry laughed, sitting forward on the seat. “I’m much more prepared than that.”

Draco rolled his eyes, standing reluctantly on legs that felt like they’d been hit with a jelly-legs curse and clambering off of the motorcycle.

Harry swung effortlessly off of the seat, unzipping his jacket, and the sight made Draco’s pulse skyrocket again. Seeing Harry do anything gracefully, confidently, did dangerous things to Draco’s blood pressure. That, however, wasn’t new. Draco stuffed his hands in his pockets, waiting to see what he had planned next.

“Salvio Hexia. Protego Totalum.” Harry was walking in a wide circle, near the edge of the cliff, around Draco and the motorcycle, casting numerous protective spells. It seemed a bit much, for a simple date, when they were already clearly in the middle of nowhere. “Repello Muggletum. Muffliato.”

He turned to find Draco watching him with a raised eyebrow, and he gave a small, embarrassed smile.

“Sorry. Habit,” Harry mumbled.

Harry beckoned to him as he started walking toward the edge, and Draco followed, shaking his head at him again.

The view took Draco’s breath away. The waves of the Channel crashed relentlessly on the rocks below, the water a deep blue beneath the darkening sky. The setting sun painted the wide horizon in streaks of pinks and golds, deepening with every passing minute.

“Not bad, Harry,” he remarked, stunned. Harry turned to him with a shy, pleased smile. The excitement in his brilliant green eyes reflected the fading sun, and that was twice as dazzling as the scenery.

“Conjure a blanket, would you?” Harry asked, and Draco blinked at him, confused.

“And why can’t you do it?”

“I can,” Harry scoffed, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks. “But yours is better.”

Draco gave an exaggerated, put-out sigh, pulling his wand from his pocket. “I suppose.” He gave it a swish, and the conjured blanket spread over the grass, just a few feet from the edge of the cliff.

“Thanks,” Harry said, looking suddenly nervous as he reached into his pockets and pulled out several miniature items, laying them on the blanket.

Draco watched him remove his jacket and toss it onto the ground, savouring the sight of his well-muscled arms in another simple black t-shirt. Harry pulled his wand out of the pocket of his jeans and waved it at the tiny items on the blanket, watching them grow back to their apparently normal size.

Several cozy looking velvet cushions, a bottle of wine, and a worn picnic basket. Harry turned that shy smile on Draco again, who grinned back at him.

“Full of surprises, Harry,” he said. Harry rolled his eyes at him as he moved to sit on the blanket, opening up the basket and removing dishes and containers of warm food.

Draco sat next to him, facing the cliff’s edge, and picked up the bottle of wine to examine it. It looked somewhat familiar, and he frowned at it, trying to place it in his memories somewhere.

“Is this…?”

“From your mother’s wine cellar? Yes, it is.” Harry laughed sheepishly, that endearing blush gracing his cheeks again. Draco stared at him in disbelief.

“You went to the Manor?”

“I did,” Harry said, eyes darting around, clearly embarrassed. “Not for fun, mind you. It’s technically a crime scene, we had to go investigate for the reports, and I wanted to check on Narcissa, anyway. I told her you’d agreed to go on a date with me and that I wasn’t sure what you liked, so she went down to the cellar—she didn’t make me go with her, thank Merlin—and came back with this bottle, said it was one of your favourites.”

Draco’s jaw dangled foolishly. What?

“My mother knows that we’re on a date… and gave you a bottle of wine for it?” Draco asked, incredulous. Harry smirked and nodded at him.

“Yep. I wasn’t about to bring you cheap wine, Draco, even if it all tastes the same to me.”

“Because you’re a heathen, of course, you can’t help it,” Draco sniffed haughtily, making Harry laugh again. “And she didn’t explode, or guilt trip you, or lecture you or anything?”

Harry’s eyes flitted back to him as he started serving a pasta dish onto two plates. It smelled amazing.

“She had a few days to come to terms with the shock of it, before I showed up on her doorstep.”

“Harry, you’re being vague,” Draco said, exasperated. Harry huffed at him.

“Well, I’m sure I would have gotten a scolding when she learned that I kissed her son. At least, if the situation were less dire, and she wasn’t under a very strong Calming Draught,” Harry said quickly. “Pansy did the scolding for her, as did Ron and Hermione, not to mention a murderous glare from Timsy, worth a thousand words, that one—”

Draco was dumbfounded. He interrupted Harry before he could spout any more nonsense.

“Harry, do me a favour and start from the beginning, because Jeffries hardly covered this and I feel extremely out of the loop,” Draco said, shaking his head again and pulling out his wand to uncork the wine. Harry gave an embarrassed chuckle, rolling his eyes faintly as he handed Draco his plate and fork, and held out his glass for wine.

“I was at Ron and Hermione’s,” he began, as Draco poured. “Pansy, Timsy, and Narcissa apparated directly into the kitchen. Narcissa was quite distraught, so I gave her a Calming Draught.”

Draco hummed his comprehension. He twirled the pasta around his fork and took a bite, groaning in satisfaction. “Fuck, that’s good,” he muttered, distracted by the bursts of flavour on his tongue. “Where’s this from?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, where did you get this pasta? Is this bolognese?” Draco pointed at it with his fork, something his mother would definitely frown at. His mother, who’d knocked back a Calming Draught in Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger’s kitchen, apparently.

“Yes, it’s spaghetti bolognese. I made it.”

Draco almost dropped his fork. “You made this?”

“I know, I said I’d buy you dinner, but I did buy the ingredients, right?” Harry chuckled, taking a sip of his wine.

“You can cook?”

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. “You know I can cook, Draco.”

Ah, right. Draco shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. He grimaced, remembering Harry’s memories of being forced to cook as a child, not even getting to eat what he made.

“I’m surprised you want to cook, I think,” Draco said. Harry shrugged.

“I don’t do it often, only for special occasions. But when I do, it’s much different, from… you know. From what it used to be.”

“How do you mean?” Draco asked, taking another bite of the ridiculously good pasta. He felt like he was asking too many questions, but he couldn’t help it. He’d been wanting this for so long, he wanted to know everything about Harry, and Harry could finally tell him.

“Well, it’s much noisier, for one,” Harry said hesitantly. Draco furrowed his brows at him.

“I had to be silent, as a kid,” Harry explained, eyes on his plate as he picked up more spaghetti with his fork. “So I play music, now, when I cook, and I usually hum or sing along to it. I’m not careful with the cookware, anymore, I’m always banging it around. It’s quite a racket, good thing I don’t have any flatmates.”

“You can make as much noise as you want, if this is the result,” Draco chuckled, motioning to the perfectly twirled pasta on his fork. Harry frowned at it.

“How’d you do that?” Harry asked.

“Do what?”

“Get it all neat on your fork, like that,” Harry said, motioning with the mess of spaghetti on his own fork. Draco was taken aback—he’d forgotten that table etiquette was not hammered into the skull of everyone he knew. He’d been twirling spaghetti perfectly since he was five. He was usually given a spoon for the sole purpose of twirling his pasta on it, but he was making do with the side of his plate, currently.

Draco reached over and gently took Harry’s fork from his hand. He gathered a small amount of pasta on the tines, pulled it aside, and twirled it delicately against the side of Harry’s plate. Harry watched carefully, brow creased in concentration, as Draco then scooped it up, and held a forkful of delicious, neatly wrapped spaghetti in front of Harry’s lips.

Harry rolled his eyes, but opened his mouth and accepted it, anyway. Draco grinned and resisted the urge to kiss him. There was food in his mouth, after all.

“So you gave my poor mother a Calming Draught,” Draco said, returning Harry’s fork and steering them back to their original conversation. “That doesn’t explain how she learned that you kissed me.”

“Pansy and I were arguing… it, erm, slipped out.”

“And my mother said nothing?”

“It was a very strong Calming Draught. Like I said, Pansy was angry enough for three people anyway.”

Draco chuckled. He, too, had borne Pansy’s wrath. He hadn’t realized that she didn’t know it was a kiss that had caused so much trouble. She must have thrown a real strop.

“So my mother sat there calmly while you argued with Pansy over kissing me,” Draco summarised, and Harry nodded, concentrating on his fork as he tried twirling his pasta.

“Then Pansy somehow inserted herself into an Auror raid?” Draco asked, raising his eyebrow. Harry laughed quietly and shook his head.

“You know I wouldn’t have been able to stop her and Timsy, anyway. Ron did try.”

“I’ll never know how she packs so much force and authority into that tiny frame,” Draco mumbled, shaking his head fondly. Harry laughed softly again.

“We went straight to Kingsley’s office so I could tear him a new one, after learning he wasn’t even holding up his end of our deal,” Harry continued.

“What?” Draco knit his brows again. That’s what Harry had scolded him about? Not the shady criminals that had been flourishing under his laissez faire leadership?

Harry looked up at him. “I asked him to keep you safe, and to make sure the Ministry didn’t keep you under their boot. He did the exact fucking opposite.”

Draco watched him for a long moment. “The bonds weren’t a big deal, you know,” he said hesitantly.

“Yes, they were, Draco. That is exactly what I wanted to prevent by sending Kingsley to you, and all he did was put his stamp of approval on it. Hermione had only just told me about it.” Harry set his empty plate down on the blanket and leaned back onto his elbow, taking another sip of wine, watching the sun slip below the horizon.

“I’m still confused as to why it was so important to you,” Draco muttered, watching him intently, trying to figure him out. Even after he was healed, Harry Potter was still a puzzle, a mystery he might never fully solve.

Harry looked up at him again, his green eyes searching Draco’s face. “As am I,” he said. “All I know is I didn’t save you from fiendfyre or testify for you so that you could go from Voldemort’s chains straight to the Ministry’s. I wanted to see what you could do, when you were free, unrestrained.” He waved his hand vaguely, apparently struggling with the words. “Bonds like that are cruel and inhumane, Draco. No one deserves that kind of treatment.”

Draco’s frown deepened. The bonds had been inconvenient, and horribly painful, at times, but his first patients probably wouldn’t have trusted him without them. They only became more unnecessary once people saw what he could do, when they began trusting his skill and expertise. No one else had seemed to care about what the bonds did to him, so he had stopped caring about it, too. Until Harry—and Ron, and Hermione.

But Harry still wasn’t making any bloody sense. He hadn’t seen what Draco could do, he hadn’t spoken to him in years, he hadn’t even known what kind of Healer he became.

“Harry, you were furious when I walked into that hospital room,” Draco pointed out, shaking his head.

Harry took a deep breath, and Draco tried not to be distracted by the way his shirt stretched over his chest.

“I was also angry when Cedric Diggory whispered in my ear, as you’ll remember,” Harry muttered, raising an eyebrow at Draco, who could feel himself blushing. Harry had been confused and resentful about being attracted to Diggory, in that memory—had Harry been upset by his attraction to Draco?

“But just because I was curious about you, and attracted to you, didn’t mean I had any reason to trust you, Draco. We’d only ever interacted by hurting each other—why should I have expected anything different?”

Draco sighed. That was fair. It still wasn’t fun to hear.

Harry watched him closely as he set down his plate next to Harry’s and sent swift cleaning charms at them both. The sun had set completely below the horizon, it was getting darker by the minute. Draco could see the stars making themselves known in the darkest parts of the sky.

Harry sat up and pulled an empty glass jar out of the basket. He unscrewed the lid and pointed his wand inside, his brow creased in concentration until a little ball of gold flame burst to life inside the glass, sending gentle streaks of light across his bronze skin, accentuating the shadow of stubble on his face. He set the jar down in the middle of the blanket, lighting up their little corner of the earth.

“Hermione’s are always blue. I’ve no idea how she does it,” Harry mumbled, mostly to himself.

“So you scolded the Minister,” Draco said quietly, leading them back again, pushing his own thoughts out of his mind.

“I did,” Harry replied, putting the dishes and leftover food away in the basket. “And I made him come help me get rid of those bonds. The only Licenser in that day was Zacharias Smith. Sweet fucking Merlin, I was about to murder that prick,” he grumbled, and Draco raised his eyebrows at the sudden shift in tone.

He was a little impressed—and disappointed—that Harry hadn’t murdered Smith. He’d been annoying as hell as a student, and had only gotten worse with a little licensing power. Smith had been a low-level employee, not important enough to participate when Draco was licensed and bound, but he had observed the entire process with vicious glee. He’d reminded Draco of himself, when he was younger—that had been a really, really shitty day.

Harry laid back down on the blanket, propping himself up on his elbow to see Draco better, grabbing two of the velvet cushions and putting one behind Draco in subtle invitation.

“The bonds looked fucking awful, if I’m honest,” Harry shuddered. Draco took the unspoken invitation and leaned down on the cushion, propping his head in his hand, facing Harry fully, listening attentively. “Pansy, Kingsley, and Smith had to untangle them, I had to cut them. I tried a few times to just cut them with a Diffindo. Ron and I tried at the same time, but they, erm… They could only be severed by Dark Magic, apparently…”

Harry trailed off, grimacing, and Draco understood immediately: he’d had to use Sectumsempra, instead. It had apparently affected Harry quite a bit, according to his expression—even though he’d used it for Draco this time, instead of against him.

“Did that surprise you?” Draco asked, eyebrow raised again.

“It shouldn’t have,” Harry sighed, “but it did.”

Draco kept his mouth shut. Dark Magic wasn’t new to the Ministry of Magic, and it baffled him that people still thought of the Ministry as some saintly conglomerate of public servants with good intentions. But he reminded himself that not everyone had grown up closely following and emulating Lucius Malfoy, seeing what the Ministry looked like in its shadowed corners to ambitious witches and wizards who liked the sound of galleons in their pockets. No one had experienced the Ministry like Draco had, from behind his father’s robes, and watched them roll out the red carpet for the Dark Lord, comfortable in their ignorance and their greed.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Harry said. Draco blinked himself out of his grim thoughts to find Harry watching him with eyes full of guilt. “I know it must’ve hurt like hell.”

Draco reached out and found his hand, seeing the scars on the back faintly lit by the dancing flame in the jar. It had indeed been horribly painful, but worth it. The bonds weren’t a huge deal to him, but he was so glad they were gone. He held onto Harry’s fingers gently, remembering how his bonds had attacked him for this kind of touch; how that one perfect kiss had doubled him over in agony. He still felt like he was getting away with something.

They said nothing for a long moment, Draco watching Harry, Harry watching Draco’s hand in his own, running his fingers gently over Draco’s skin.

“I have to ask you something, Harry,” Draco began hesitantly. Harry’s eyes snapped up to his, his face suddenly wary. Draco took a deep breath.

“Would you have honestly spoken to me after you were healed, if I hadn’t needed saving?”

Harry’s jaw tensed, and he looked away, back to Draco’s hand. He took a deep breath of his own before answering.

“Yes,” he murmured. “It’d probably have taken me a bit longer, though. Ron and Hermione were in the middle of a legendary dressing-down, before we were interrupted.”

He finally looked back up at Draco, and Draco was startled by the fervour in his eyes.

“I had to admit some things, first,” Harry said, “but I wouldn’t have been able to stay away from you, Draco. That memory you gave me was great, I spent way too much time in it. But it’s not the same as the real you. Not even close.”

Draco chewed on his lip. He wanted to believe it so badly, but this Harry was so new. This Harry had still walked away from him, eight years ago, handing him back his wand without a word. This Harry had hated the fact that Draco knew him so well, had walked away from him again rather than face uncomfortable truths. He didn’t really have a reason to believe that this wasn’t Harry’s hero complex at work, again, that he wouldn’t lose interest once he saw that Draco didn’t need saving anymore. That he wouldn’t walk away again, if and when things got uncomfortable.

But he’d give it a shot. Draco would never forgive himself if he didn’t.

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand briefly. “Besides, I think my most recent flirting attempts have been much more effective than the previous ones,” Harry added, the corner of his lips twitching up in an uncertain, lopsided grin. “Turns out, if you want to know how someone is doing, you should just ask, instead of trading political favours for the promise of their well-being. The more you know.”

Draco couldn’t hold back his snort, which made Harry smile again. Draco was glad for it.

“How are you, Draco?” Harry asked with theatrical earnestness, his smile widening when Draco laughed at him.

“I’m quite well, thank you,” Draco drawled haughtily, giving him a regal nod.

“How was your day, then? What do you even do all day when you’re not working, or giving statements to surly Aurors?”

Draco laughed again, pleased to not be the only inquisitive one. “Lounge about like a proper heir, usually,” he answered. “Make my mother proud. I read, or listen to records, or help Timsy around the house, or take care of the brooms. Most of the time I just do research on whatever case I’m working on, if there is any, or I work on case studies for journals.”

“Are you on a case now?” Harry probed, now clearly curious.

“No,” Draco shook his head. “I’ve been taking some time off. It’s rare that I don’t have any patients at all. See, I had to transfer them all to other Healers when I was recruited to take on Wizarding Britain’s Golden Boy.”

“He sounds like a real prick,” Harry muttered, smirking.

“Like you would not believe,” Draco replied, through another put-out sigh.

“So you’re going back to work, soon?”

“Yes, soon. It’s bloody boring, being on holiday in my own house for weeks,” Draco explained. “I’d much rather just go somewhere.”

“Where would you go, then?”

Draco met his eyes. “Somewhere I’ve never been, probably,” he replied.

Harry hummed, apparently thinking hard.

“Where would you go?” Draco asked, curiosity taking over. Harry huffed a weak laugh.

“Dunno,” Harry answered. “Haven’t really been anywhere. I’ll take your recommendations, though.”

Draco frowned. “Ever?”

Harry shrugged. “Haven’t really had the time for it,” he said.

“You just had a holiday, before you were attacked,” Draco prodded, bewildered.

“Technically, it was a holiday, but it was more of a desperate attempt to make Grimmauld Place habitable,” Harry grumbled. “I hardly have time to keep it up while I’m working, I thought taking the time off would help. I’m starting to think it’s just the fucking house though, we’re always fighting each other.”

Draco was still stuck on the fact that Harry had never actually been on a holiday.

“You’ve really never traveled anywhere, just to get away?”

“Really,” Harry said, a bit exasperated, then paused. “Does being on the run count?”

“Definitely not.”

“What about the memory holidays you gave me? Do those count? They were nice.”

“No.”

Harry shrugged again, a little uncomfortable. “Never thought about it before. Where would I go? What would I even do?”

“You’re just trying to get me to take you on holiday, Harry,” Draco said with mild disbelief, staring pointedly at Harry as if he could pull one, tiny vacation out of him with sheer force of will.

“That’s not my intention, but do what you must,” Harry smirked, rolling his eyes faintly. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat, and he watched Harry’s eyes widen as he realized what he’d said, that incredible, flaming blush tinting his coppery skin again.

Draco cleared his throat quietly, changing the subject. “Are we still playing at polite conversation? Am I supposed to ask how your day was, now, since I left the Ministry?”

“Ugh, please don’t,” Harry laughed through a grimace, looking down, stoking Draco’s insatiable curiosity.

“Well, now I must, since you told me not to,” Draco declared, grabbing his hand and pulling him closer. Harry laughed nervously, but obliged, rolling his body closer to Draco on the blanket. “Tell me, Harry. What did you do today?”

Harry sighed deeply, watching Draco’s eyes warily. “I went to Azkaban,” he answered.

Draco’s smile fell instantly. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“To keep tabs on your father, of course.”

“I thought Kingsley was making sure he was secure, in there,” Draco frowned, trying not to react too harshly at the idea of Harry anywhere near Lucius.

“You honestly think I trust Kingsley with anything important, after that? I’m making sure he’s not getting out, Draco. I won’t risk it, I won’t risk you again.”

Draco continued staring at him, Harry’s face only inches from his own as they lay on their velvet cushions on the blanket. He really should have seen this coming. When had Harry ever been able to rely on an authority figure? Of course he’d be taking it on himself, he always had. It was who Harry was, or who he thought he had to be.

“And what did you do, when you kept tabs on him?” Draco asked. Harry lifted his shoulder in a shrug.

“Sat outside his cell and talked at him, mostly,” Harry said. “He did talk back, some, today. He hasn’t spoken to the other Aurors all week. But your father and I are quite familiar, you know. We had a nice chat.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Draco replied, unable to stop his eye roll, meeting Harry’s surprising sarcasm and nonchalance with his own. “He’s quite the conversationalist.”

“Mhm,” Harry‘s lips twitched, watching his own hand run slowly up Draco’s arm, thumb skating over the Dark Mark, hidden under the sleeve of the soft jumper. Draco watched as well, transfixed, astonished that Harry could touch the worst part of him so affectionately.

“How did we end up talking about my parents on the first date? Such a faux pas,” Draco mumbled.

Harry shrugged again. “You asked.”

Draco clicked his tongue and yanked Harry’s arm again, pulling Harry on top of him, reveling in the sound of his surprised, delighted laugh.

“Taking me out to the middle of fucking nowhere on a flying muggle machine, cooking my favourite dish, getting my favourite wine from my mother, and asking for my father’s blessing? I take back anything I ever said about you being an uncouth, uncivilised brute, Harry Potter,” Draco said, luxuriating in the solidity of Harry’s back under his hands, the weight of him on Draco’s chest.

“I did not ask,” Harry said, eyes twinkling with mirth in the dim light of the captive little flame.

“Oh, you just told my father you were going to court me, did you?”

“Not in those words, but yes, I did, and I’d do it again, for the look on his face,” Harry said, giggling. Draco smacked his arm in playful reprimand.

“And it’s your second favourite dish, according to Pansy. I’m sorry, but I’m shit at French cooking,” Harry added, stunning Draco speechless.

He’d gone to Pansy, too? The woman who had tried to hand him over to Voldemort in front of the entire school? To find out what Draco liked?

Draco grabbed Harry by the waist and rolled him over, throwing a leg over his hips and straddling him, holding himself up with his arms on either side of Harry’s head. He relished the sound of that laugh again, as Harry’s hands found his sides automatically.

“You’re unbelievable,” Draco said, trying to control his lust for this outrageous man. “She made you bargain for it, didn’t she? What did you promise her?”

Harry’s smile was nearly blinding, even in the darkness. “A ride on the motorbike,” he answered simply.

“She’ll have to duel me for it,” Draco said, to make Harry laugh again. He was quickly becoming addicted to it. He leaned down and kissed him, as if he could drink that wonderful sound straight from his mouth.

Harry returned the kiss eagerly, still grinning against Draco’s lips. His hands gripped Draco’s sides briefly, before sliding up to his chest. Draco felt the fingers on one hand tap themselves lightly against his jumper, one, two, three, four, five, before continuing up to his neck, burying themselves in Draco’s hair. He didn’t question it, too preoccupied with the rush of sparks in his veins as Harry’s tongue slid into his mouth.

Harry’s strong hands held Draco’s head firmly, his fingers occasionally brushing back a piece of hair that had fallen into his face, still pulling him closer. Draco felt him arch his back, reaching for more contact, and he obligingly lowered himself down, settling his weight on top of him, pinning him against the earth. This freed one of Draco’s hands to wander, exploring Harry’s shoulders, his chest, his side, and back up his arm to return to that soft, lawless hair.

Harry’s kisses were passionate and urgent, as if they’d been bottled up inside him all this time. Harry kissed him like he was finally getting to kiss him, and it made Draco lightheaded with desire. His hips ground down in an instinctive rhythm, and he hissed faintly with the jolt of pleasure as the growing bulge in Harry’s jeans rubbed against his own. Harry thrust up against him, his breathing speeding up, and far too soon, Draco’s legs started tensing in anticipation, too close to losing control.

“Wait, wait…” Draco panted, hating himself, but knowing he wouldn’t last two minutes if they continued. Harry pulled away, holding Draco’s face with a worried look.

“What is it?”

“Not here,” Draco said, breathing hard. “I’m not riding all the way back home on that thing with come in my pants.”

Harry’s lips twitched, unable to hold back a teasing grin. “It doesn’t have to be in your pants, Draco.”

Draco smacked his arm again, causing another bout of Harry’s quiet giggles.

“I am not fucking you outside on the first date, Potter, I’m a gentleman.” Draco really was worryingly addicted to this laugh.

“It doesn’t have to be in my arse, either,” Harry smirked, and Draco drew in a sharp breath at all the images that conjured. It certainly didn’t help the situation in his trousers. “What, you’ve never gotten a blowie under the stars?”

“I take it all back, you are an uncivilised brute,” Draco rolled his eyes, sliding off of Harry, but pulling him against his side. Harry chuckled and wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling himself closer, resting his head on Draco’s chest. His hair tickled Draco’s face, and Draco couldn’t help but turn his head, burying his nose in it again, as one hand came up to run his fingers through it lazily. Harry shivered slightly, sighing in satisfaction, and Draco stored that information away for later.

“How did you find this place, anyway?” Draco asked, staring up at the stars, listening to the sounds of the waves and Harry’s gentle breathing.

“Came here on the run, once,” Harry replied softly. “I liked it. I was lucky that your home is close. Closer than London, anyway.”

“So you didn’t fly here from London?”

Harry shook his head against Draco’s chest. “Isn’t really room for the bike, at Grimmauld. I keep it at the Burrow.”

Draco hummed, indulging in Harry’s soft hair between his fingers, running his nails lightly along Harry’s scalp, cataloguing Harry’s satisfied reactions. When was the last time Harry was touched like this? Ever?

They laid there for several long moments, listening to the waves and the crickets. Eventually, Harry lifted his head and rested his chin on his hands, on top of Draco’s chest, looking him in the eye.

“How’d I do, then?” he asked.

“On what?”

“On our first date, of course,” Harry scoffed lightly.

“Hmm,” Draco hummed again, bringing his hand back to Harry’s hair, watching Harry’s eyelids flutter closed at the feeling. “Inconclusive. I’ll need a few more dates for a proper analysis,” he said, smirking. Harry huffed at him, failing to keep down a grin of his own.

“Is that a challenge, Malfoy?”

Draco couldn’t help it, he lifted his head off the ground and kissed Harry again, feeling on top of the world. Harry moved further on top of him, pressing him back into the earth, kissing him like his life depended on it. So much for controlling yourself, Draco.

Draco buried one hand in his hair, while the other ran down his back, opening his mouth immediately, still wildly on edge, still in mild disbelief that this was really happening, and not just him getting lost in a very detailed fantasy.

Harry ran his tongue over Draco’s top lip, then closed his teeth gently around the bottom one, and Draco’s hand fisted in his t-shirt, self-control and nerves slipping away rapidly.

“Harry,” he breathed, trying not to whine pathetically. “Take me home.”

***

Flying on a motorcycle, Draco learned, was not conducive to subduing one’s lust. It was, in fact, impossible to keep himself from burying his face in Harry’s warm neck, pressing his erection against Harry’s arse, running his hands along Harry’s torso and thighs and chest. The vibrations of the machine certainly weren’t helping, either.

“Draco,” Harry groaned, just loud enough to hear over the infernal rumbling. “You’re going to make me crash.”

“Then go faster,” Draco mumbled against his ear, thrilled by the shiver it produced.

As eager as Draco was to get home, he also wanted to freeze this perfect moment in time, and relive it over and over. Nighttime was his favourite time to fly, when it felt like the sky full of stars was wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. It was a break from reality, where he could pretend that the earth wasn’t spinning for a moment. Where he could exist in the blank slate of now for as long as he needed to.

He was extremely torn between the desire to stay here in this liminal space, on a flying motorcycle in the sky, with Harry’s warm, solid body pulled flush against his own—and the desire to get home and get his mouth on Harry, right now.

Thankfully, his internal debate didn’t have to continue much longer, as he spotted the clearing in the dark forest that held his home. Golden points of light came from the lanterns Timsy had left on for them.

They didn’t crash, thankfully, but Harry’s landing was definitely clumsier than the first. Draco’s hands dug into Harry's chest briefly, his fingertips gripping his jacket before releasing him. He clambered as steadily as he could off of the bike, his legs once again feeling like jelly. The straining erection uncomfortably trapped in those blasted tight jeans was more than distracting. He tried desperately to maintain his composure, but his hand still shook as he held it out to Harry.

Harry took it as he climbed off of the seat, sending him another one of those lopsided grins, his bright eyes filled with a blazing heat that made Draco’s breath hitch. Draco practically dragged him to the door, Harry chuckling softly behind him. The door flew open as Draco hurriedly waved his wand at it, his body thrumming with lust and nerves.

He’d planned to haul Harry straight to the bedroom, but a sharp tug on his hand had him almost falling backwards, protected only by Harry’s hand behind him. Draco gasped as that hand joined the other one suddenly on his chest, pushing him against the closed door. Harry’s mouth urgently claimed his, those hands smoothly sliding the shirt jacket off of his shoulders. It fell off Draco’s arms to the floor, immediately forgotten.

Draco had never before been manhandled by anyone shorter than him, but Harry’s strength made him feel so wanted. Like Draco would disappear if Harry’s hands left his body for even a second—hands that explored Draco feverishly; up his chest, down his sides, around his back, finally gripping his arse.

Harry pulled Draco’s hips firmly against his own and let out a low, gravelly moan from his throat. Draco wanted to bottle that sound, along with the desperate slide of Harry’s lips against his own, and the slow, instinctive grinding of Draco’s hips in Harry’s hands. He could fill a whole shelf in his Pensieve cabinet, he thought, as his hands fumbled at the zipper of Harry’s jacket, pushing it off of Harry’s shoulders and letting it fall carelessly to the floor next to Draco’s. Sorry, Timsy.

“What do you want, Harry?” Draco breathed, catching his breath by moving his lips and tongue to the soft skin of Harry’s neck, under his ear, instead, revelling in Harry’s sharp intake of breath, the way he tipped his head to the side to give Draco better access.

Harry didn’t answer him, but grabbed the hem of his jumper and pulled it up viciously. Draco slapped his hands away and tsked at him, taking the hem in his own hands and carefully pulling it off himself.

“That’s cashmere, Harry,” Draco said, trying to sound composed, failing miserably with his wavering voice. Harry rolled his eyes at him, kiss-swollen lips turned up in a wicked smirk as he pressed Draco into the door again and put his mouth on Draco’s neck.

“I don’t care if it’s made of fucking diamonds, Draco. You teased me on that bike for an hour—”

“Sweet Merlin, Harry, if you find such a jumper—”

“I’ll buy it for you, yes, obviously, what the fuck else am I supposed to spend my money on?”

Harry was laughing softly as he mouthed Draco’s jaw, finally meeting his lips again in another devouring kiss. His tongue explored Draco’s mouth, and Draco heard a soft, embarrassing sound come from his own throat. It couldn’t be helped. He’d never been more turned on in his life.

Draco’s hands ran along the warm skin and hard muscle under the back of Harry’s shirt, pulling him closer, kissing him harder. He shoved his thigh between Harry’s legs, making Harry gasp and grind against him. Draco wanted to have him right here in the doorway, but he also desperately wanted Harry spread out on his big, luxurious bed, so he rallied the two brain cells not focused on his cock and pushed Harry gently, walking him backwards towards the hallway, and shit, when did he drop his cashmere jumper on the floor?

Harry’s pupils were blown with lust, hair windswept and disheveled, lips rosy and wet. The neck of his t-shirt had stretched to expose his collarbone, and Draco’s mouth watered at the sight, knowing he himself must look a right mess.

Draco pulled his wand and waved it at their feet, and Harry jumped, nearly tripping as their boots vanished to line up near the door. Harry swore under his breath, his flushed face a mixture of lust, disbelief and indignation that Draco found both endearing and very arousing.

Draco flicked his wand behind him, locking the front door. Harry seemed to get the idea, grabbing Draco’s wrist and pulling him down the hall toward Draco’s bedroom. He knew where it was, after all.

Those two remaining brain cells were working overtime as Draco flicked his wand to open the door, swished it to light his candles, then again multiple times to cast privacy and silencing spells on the room, you’re welcome, Timsy. Then Draco was pushed back against the wall again, and his wand fell out of his hand onto the floor, all logical thought cleared out of his head as his existence narrowed to the sweet, red wine taste of Harry’s mouth.

“Answer me, Harry,” Draco said breathlessly, barely able to pull his lips away. “What do you want?”

Harry’s hands were fumbling at the buttons on Draco’s shirt, as if he couldn’t concentrate on any one task, either. He grinned against Draco’s lips.

“I’ll show you.” Harry opened his eyes, and dropped to his knees.

“Shit,” Draco breathed. “That’s what you want?”

“Mhm,” Harry hummed, smirking up at him with those piercing green eyes, pinning Draco with his stare, immobilizing him like a butterfly against cork. “Very much.”

His hands slid up Draco’s thighs, running the flat of his palm over the bulge in Draco’s tight jeans before hooking his fingers into the belt, pausing and raising his eyebrow.

“Yes, Harry, if you must,” Draco answered his silent question, his voice higher than normal, his heart racing as he stared down at Harry in disbelief. Harry grinned up at him and slipped the leather belt quickly out of its buckle, fumbling at the button and zipper on Draco’s jeans with shaky fingers. If this was a dream, Draco thought, it was definitely his new favourite.

Harry yanked his jeans down to his thighs and immediately brought his face to the straining outline in Draco’s silk briefs, causing Draco to choke a bit with the surge of pleasure and relief. Draco’s hand came up automatically to Harry’s hair as he slid his mouth along the length of Draco’s hard cock through the soft fabric, and Draco had honestly forgotten how fucking great this was, but it was already ten times more intense with Harry’s bright eyes looking up at him, gauging his reactions. His focus was entirely on Draco, drawing as much pleasure from him as he could, as if this was the most important thing he could possibly be doing. Which, in Draco’s lust-addled mind, it was.

Harry curled his fingers into the waistband of Draco’s briefs and pulled them down, sliding over his cock unbearably slow, making Draco’s breath quicken with anticipation. This was really, truly happening.

Draco’s cock finally sprang free from its confines, and Harry gazed at it, taking it in one hand and giving it a long, slow stroke, darting his tongue out to lick a drop of precome from the head. Draco groaned, ashamed at how much he was already shaking.

“Fuck, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast, Harry,” he warned.

“Good,” Harry replied, causing Draco to frown briefly before letting his head fall back against the wall as Harry licked a long stripe up the underside. “Means you’ll last longer for the next one.” Draco snapped his head up again, just in time to see Harry part his lips and take the head into his mouth, pressing his tongue to the sensitive slit.

Draco let out another accidental groan and bucked his hips automatically, chasing that wet heat and suction. “Sorry,” he mumbled, but it came out more like a whine as Harry moved with him, taking hold of his hips, apparently anticipating his reaction.

Harry moved his mouth down another inch, then back up to swirl his tongue around the head, watching Draco slowly fall apart under his ministrations. This was already the best blowjob Draco had ever had, and it had barely even started.

Harry took him in even deeper, groaning in satisfaction before sucking his way back up, the vibration making Draco whimper. His fist closed tightly in Harry’s hair, causing another groan from them both. In any other situation, Draco would be mortified by the wanton sounds coming out of his throat, but he was too overwhelmed by pleasure to care.

Draco was once again torn between wanting to exist forever in this moment, with Harry’s hot mouth sucking on his cock, the flat of his tongue licking the underside with perfect friction on every pass—and the undeniable need for release, as he could feel his orgasm building, making his legs shake.

“Fuck, Harry, that’s so good,” he said in a heavy exhale, which only spurred Harry on as he bobbed faster, sucked harder. Harry’s eyes were closed, as if he was savouring this, too. He hummed softly around Draco’s shaft, making Draco moan as sparks shot through him every time.

Draco noticed one hand had moved from Draco’s hips to Harry’s own jeans, palming and rubbing his own erection through the fabric. It hit Draco, then, that Harry was loving this, Harry really wanted this, Harry was actually getting off on sucking him off. Draco’s muscles tensed as his orgasm approached even faster, building with such intensity he felt like he might actually just spontaneously combust. He pulled gently on Harry’s hair in warning.

“Harry, I’m going to—”

Harry only took Draco’s other hand and placed it with the one on the back of his head, sinking down deeper on Draco’s cock. Draco’s hands grabbed on instinctively, tangling themselves in those soft, chaotic curls.

“Fucking hell, is that what you want?”

Harry’s hum dissolved into a shameless moan, eyes full of heat and hunger. Draco thrust into his eager mouth, letting out a shaky groan as he held Harry’s head steady by his hair. Harry locked his lips tight around the shaft, licking and sucking like it was his favourite thing in the world, and it was by far the hottest thing Draco had ever seen.

“Oh, fuck, you’re so good, fuck, Harry—”

Draco’s cock hit the back of Harry’s throat, and he couldn’t stop the choked sob of utter bliss as Harry simply let him thrust deeper, swallowing around him. His orgasm hit him like a freight train, and he cried out as he spilled down Harry’s throat, his hands gripping Harry’s hair viciously. Harry tensed and whimpered as he swallowed, over and over, then relaxed, licking lazily at Draco’s spent cock. Draco pulled out of his mouth, putting all of his effort into remaining standing, staring down at Harry’s flushed face, which was simply gazing back at him in awe.

Draco was completely ensnared, utterly hopeless. He would do anything for this man.

The room was filled with the sound of their heavy, ragged breaths, and Draco’s hands released Harry’s hair, falling down to his face, feeling that irresistible stubble under his fingers. A bit of come was dripping from the corner of Harry’s parted lips, and Draco wiped it absently with his thumb. Harry turned his face slightly, his eye contact unrelenting as he took Draco’s thumb between his swollen lips and sucked it clean. Draco drew in a sharp breath, and his softening cock gave a valiant twitch as he pressed the pad of his thumb down on Harry’s tongue.

“Come here,” Draco rasped, pulling his thumb from Harry’s mouth to hold his face again as Harry obeyed, standing fully on shaky legs.

Draco claimed his mouth immediately, tasting himself on Harry’s tongue. Harry let out a hoarse whimper, and now that was Draco’s new favourite sound. He delved his tongue deeper, determined to hear it again. Harry’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist, as if he couldn’t possibly get close enough. One of Draco’s hands slid eagerly down to Harry’s crotch, and his eyes flew open as he encountered an obvious wet spot on the denim. Harry hissed faintly at the contact.

“Did you…?”

Harry grinned sheepishly as he nodded, and suddenly Draco’s lust was fully renewed.

“Sweet fucking Salazar, Harry, that’s so hot,” Draco muttered incredulously, putting a hand on that firm chest and walking him backwards again toward the bed. Harry chuckled breathlessly as his legs hit the bed and Draco pushed him back, climbing on top of him.

“Off, off,” Draco mumbled, to the clothes Harry was still wearing somehow. Harry sat up as Draco straddled his thighs, Draco’s own softened cock laying uncomfortably atop the waistband of his pants, he’d forgotten to take his own jeans off first. He felt awkward and clumsy as he pulled Harry’s t-shirt off carelessly, knocking his glasses askew. But his nerves were wiped out again at the sight it provided, and suddenly he didn’t care how Harry’s clothes came off, only that they came off right now.

Harry giggled again as Draco pushed him back down, climbing off the bed and hurriedly undoing the button and fly on Harry’s jeans with trembling fingers. Harry obligingly lifted his hips as Draco yanked down boxers and jeans in one movement, pulling them off of Harry’s thick, muscled legs, peeling off his socks. Draco growled low in his throat as Harry’s cock was finally revealed, Harry was finally naked in his bed, propped up on his elbows, watching Draco with an expectant gaze.

Draco stepped out of his pants and froze, simply struck by the sight before him, taking in every inch of Harry’s smooth, brown skin, dotted with scars of all shapes and sizes—most of which Draco knew the origins of. He was all muscle, all coiled power and charged air, a wicked smile and luminous green eyes, and that mess of dark, wild, perfect hair. He was breathtaking.

“Like what you see?”

Draco flicked his roaming eyes back up to Harry’s, his own hands frozen on a button of his shirt. Harry’s eyebrow was raised, and as he bit his lip, Draco was hit with the abrupt realization that Harry looked nervous.

He felt stunned, speechless. He abandoned the buttons and climbed back onto the bed, sliding his hands up Harry’s powerful legs to his hips, barely grazing his cock before continuing on to his stomach, feeling the muscles tense under his touch. He ran his fingers lightly through the dusting of coarse, dark hair on Harry’s chest, brushing a thumb over his nipple, squeezing his strong shoulders.

“You’re beautiful, Harry,” Draco whispered in awe, feeling like a fucking sap, but he couldn’t help it. The candlelight danced on Harry’s skin, and that endearing blush and shy smile adorned his face again. Draco felt drunk with the strength of his adoration. He leaned down and kissed him reverently, trying to convey what he couldn’t put into words yet.

Harry’s rough hands felt absolutely incredible on his skin, and Draco wondered if Harry was doing some sort of accidental magic again or if he was just that sensitive to Harry’s touch. Harry ran his hands up Draco’s thighs, gripping his arse indulgently before sliding up his back under his shirt. The strength of his arms as they tightened around him again, pulling him down against Harry’s body, sent another rush of heat through him. He gasped as his cock slid against Harry’s thigh, both of them already half hard again.

In a swift, fluid move that Harry must have learned from the Aurors, Draco was flipped over with an undignified yelp, making Harry laugh on top of him as he knelt between Draco’s legs. Draco was once again struck silent by the brightness of that smile, aimed solely at him, the heart-stopping beauty of this impossible man.

Harry leaned down and kissed him once before sitting up and focusing on undoing the many buttons of Draco’s ivory shirt, the simple task neither of them had been able to complete without getting distracted. He parted the fabric over Draco’s chest, taking it all in—Draco knew what he was expecting to see.

A handful of long, pale, raised scars divided Draco’s torso, crisscrossing over his chest and abdomen. Harry’s eyes filled with guilt as he gently traced the longest one, from his left hip to his right collarbone, and this was the opposite of how Draco wanted Harry to look at him naked. Draco sighed softly, feeling terribly exposed, and waited.

Harry took his time, tracing some of the scars, running his rough hands along Draco’s chest.

“You said they’re a part of you,” Harry mumbled.

“They are,” Draco replied quietly, helplessly arching his back into Harry’s touch as he grazed Draco’s nipples with his fingers.

“That you wouldn’t be who you are without them,” Harry added.

“I wouldn’t,” Draco breathed, feeling his cock fill despite the unwanted conversation and uncomfortable gaze, with Harry’s warm, calloused hands caressing him.

Harry’s eyes and hands roamed Draco freely, mapping the lines of his body, making Draco squirm with mixed discomfort and arousal. He certainly didn’t want Harry to stop, but Harry wasn’t looking at him like he had when he was clothed, with that hunger that made Draco’s heart skip.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this?” Harry asked, his voice tight, his fingers lightly tracing the line of thin, blond hair leading down from his navel.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Draco huffed. His stomach jumped under the delicate touch. Harry wrapped his fingers around Draco’s hardening cock, leaning down again, barely brushing his lips against Draco’s.

“Too fucking long, Draco.” Harry’s voice was low and hoarse.

Draco gently pushed him and sat up, meeting Harry’s eyes. He unbuttoned the cuffs on his shirt, swiftly peeling it off of his arms and tossing it onto the floor. He knew his Mark was exposed, but Harry didn’t look, apparently distracted by Draco’s face.

Harry’s eyes never left his, consuming and intense. His hands ran down Draco’s arms, instead, following the curves of his biceps, the jut of his elbows, and finally he found the Mark with his fingers, tracing the raised scar on his left forearm.

“A part of you,” Harry repeated softly, before a hand came up to Draco’s chest and pushed him back down to the bed.

Harry stayed kneeling above him, and there, that carnal look in his eyes had returned, sending a shiver down Draco’s spine. He stared greedily down at Draco’s body, that strong hand sliding over the scars on his sternum. The fingers tapped softly against his pale skin, one at a time. One, two, three, four, five.

“You look like a dream,” Harry murmured, shaking his head slightly, as if he wasn’t certain he was speaking aloud. “You’re stunning, Draco, I can’t even think—“

Draco reached up, grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling him down into the kiss he was waiting for. Harry let out a groan of relief, like he’d been waiting for it, too, sinking into Draco’s lips as if they were a hot bath at the end of a long day. Draco arched his back to feel Harry’s chest against his own, reaching for him with every part of his body, hooking his legs around him and pulling Harry’s hips down. He felt Harry's muscles tense and relax under his wandering hands, sliding down his back, gripping that perfect arse.

Harry’s hips lay against his, hard length heavy against Draco’s own. Draco’s hand moved back up to Harry’s face, and he separated their lips for a moment as he held the flat of his palm in front of Harry’s mouth. Harry’s eyes, flickering with reflections of candlelight, bore into Draco’s as he licked it thoroughly, making Draco’s breath stutter.

The long, pale fingers of Draco’s hand wrapped around both of them, slick with Harry’s spit and the precome Draco was gathering on each stroke. The delicious feeling of Harry’s cock against his drew a shocked, throaty sound from Draco’s lips, making Harry growl and thrust his tongue deeper into his mouth.

Their faces only parted to catch their breath, and from this close, Draco could actually watch Harry’s mouth parting with gasping breaths, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips moved of their own accord. His hair tickled Draco’s forehead, his warm breath passed over Draco’s lips. His powerful arms and shoulders braced with the effort of holding himself up like this, and Draco felt completely surrounded by him, wrapped up in him and their shared desire.

Like a dream, Harry had said.

Draco hadn’t even noticed his own orgasm approaching until a ragged whine left his lips involuntarily, and then he couldn’t stop the noises that followed, nearly babbling against Harry’s face. Harry thrust harder into Draco’s hand, grinding against his cock. He kissed Draco again and again, licking into his mouth without pattern or finesse, but with the desperation of a man losing himself in pleasure, drowning in the person he wanted the most.

“That’s it, Harry, so beautiful, please, I want you to come, wanted you for so fucking long—”

Harry’s whole body tensed and shook as he came, coating Draco’s hand and stomach with white streaks. Draco’s name spilled from his lips in a choked cry, and that was enough to send Draco over the edge with him, his body jerking as Harry’s face fell into his neck, teeth grazing his throat.

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d come twice in one night, but he thought it should definitely become a regular occurrence.

Harry was panting against his neck, coming down from his high, and Draco continued stroking until they both hissed from overstimulation. Because he wanted to, he swiped a bit of Harry’s come off his chest and sucked it off his finger, tasting the bitterness on his tongue. He didn’t want this night to end without knowing what Harry tasted like.

Harry ran his mouth along Draco’s jaw, lazily flicking his wrist, wandlessly vanishing the mess between them.

“Showoff,” Draco grumbled against his cheek. Harry chuckled breathlessly, and started to push himself off.

“Wait,” Draco said suddenly, hands flying to Harry’s waist. Harry stilled, looking down at him inquisitively.

Draco opened his mouth, but hesitated. His eyes searched Harry’s face, feeling a little pathetic, hoping he wouldn’t have to say it. But he eventually huffed, remembering Harry’s conditions:

“Know that if you say yes, you’re agreeing to spelling out the obvious for the densest Gryffindor you know, for as long as you can.”

“Stay,” Draco said, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt. Harry’s lips twitched up in a bashful grin.

“Was planning on it,” Harry mumbled, his tiny smile growing. “Would’ve crashed on your sofa if you tried to kick me out.”

Draco gave another irritated huff, biting his lip to conceal his elation and triumph.

“But I need the loo, and we need water,” Harry added.

Draco rolled his eyes, but allowed Harry to climb off of him, turning his head to enjoy the view as he walked into the master bathroom.

He stared up at his ceiling for a moment after Harry disappeared, loosely tethered to reality as the events of the past few hours replayed in his head. His finger lightly traced the tip of the long scar on his collarbone, before moving up to brush his hair out of his face. He’d really just let Harry Potter take him on a date, then home to suck him off before they even reached the bed.

Harry gave him the best date he’d ever had: took Draco flying in a thrilling new way, cooked Draco’s second favourite dish with his best friend’s input, brought Draco’s favourite wine with his mother’s help. Kissed Draco for ages, like it was a luxury he couldn’t get enough of, like he’d been waiting for it forever. Laid Draco bare, reveled in his pleasure, told him he looked stunning.

Told him he couldn’t stay away from him, told him he’d follow him anywhere.

Best not to overthink it.

Draco summoned his wand from wherever he’d dropped it on the floor. It drifted to him lazily, as if his magic could barely muster the energy for it, which was true. If Draco laid there any longer, he’d fall asleep sideways on top of the duvet, with the thin sheen of sweat cooling uncomfortably on his skin.

He sat up and conjured two glasses of the lemon water Harry liked, setting one on the nightstand he didn’t really use. The candlelight caught on the rings on his fingers, and he pulled them off carefully, berating himself—it was probably rude to wear so much metal when wanking someone. At least Harry hadn’t seemed to mind.

He gave himself a lazy teeth cleaning charm and slid under the covers, trying not to immediately fall asleep, curious if Harry would actually stay.

Draco felt warm, shimmery air caressing him before the other side of the bed dipped as Harry climbed in. Draco reached for him, too tired to turn off his perception again, craving that warm honey feeling of Harry’s magic. It settled languidly around them, reflecting Harry’s own fatigue.

He felt a quiet charge in the air, and smelled candlesmoke among the scents of treacle and warm rain—Harry had just snuffed all of the candles. Harry’s arms reached out as Draco rolled towards him, entwining their bodies and settling into their exhaustion. Had he even drunk his water? Draco had forgotten about it already.

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, savouring the feel of Harry’s strong arms around him, the rise and fall of his chest under Draco’s face, the steady beat of his heart against his ear. One of Harry’s hands came up tentatively to his head, calloused fingers combing through Draco’s hair hesitantly, delicately, as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed, or wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. Draco sighed in satisfaction and tightened his arm around Harry’s waist, kissing his warm chest just once before settling into him again.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Harry whispered, fingers still sliding gently along his scalp.

“Goodnight, Harry,” he replied, as easily as breathing, as that perfect shroud of warm, powerful magic wrapped around him, shielding him from the world.

Saturday, 6 May

Draco woke slowly, stretching his body languorously under the covers. He could tell it was early, too early, and settled into his pillow to return to sleep.

But it didn’t come, because something warm and gentle and a little rough was sliding up his side, caressing his sleep-warm skin. Draco’s heart sped up as the events of the previous night came back to him. Harry.

“Too bloody early,” Draco mumbled against his pillowcase.

Harry chuckled softly and pulled himself closer, pressing his chest against Draco’s back, wrapping his arm around his waist. He found Draco’s hand with his own, intertwining their fingers like age-old lovers. Draco could feel the soft puffs of Harry’s laugh in his hair. He felt like his chest was glowing, bright enough to light up the whole room. He kept his eyes closed.

“Is it?” Harry’s voice was rough with sleep against his ear, making him shiver. Merlin, that voice.

“I do not leave my bed before nine on Saturdays, not even for the Boy Who Lived,” he grumbled halfheartedly.

“I never said anything about leaving the bed, Draco.” Harry tightened his arm around him, pulling Draco’s body flush against his, and Draco’s breath hitched, feeling the hot erection against his arse. He pushed back into it, and alright, maybe he would wake up for the stupid Chosen One. Just this once. He’d certainly never woken up this happy, before.

He froze, then, eyes flying open. He looked back over his shoulder. “Harry, are you just trying to enact my fantasy? The one I use for a Patronus?”

Harry’s eyes widened in realization, and a grin spread across his face. He propped himself up on one arm, looking down at Draco’s suspicious expression.

“No,” he replied, a bit bashful. “I was fulfilling one of my own fantasies, to be honest. But you’re right, it’s yours, too. All the better, then.” He leaned down and kissed Draco’s shoulder lightly, and Draco couldn’t look away from him. Harry had really stayed, had woken up the next day and wanted to do it all over again. Harry was here, naked and warm in his bed, and quite happy to be there. Draco’s stomach was doing backflips.

“How convenient,” Draco tried for snark, but it only came out a bit breathy. His arse was grinding in small circles against Harry, he could feel his own cock filling rapidly. Harry smiled brightly at him, elated and evidently very aroused, all because of Draco.

Draco wanted to drown in it.

Harry leaned in and kissed him, and Draco could taste something like sweet cinnamon on his lips. He pulled back and frowned.

“That’s not fair, you had plenty of time to do a mouth cleaning charm—” the words were wiped from Draco’s lips when a sudden, shocking wave of something fresh and cinnamony ran through his mouth.

“You prat,” he said, into Harry’s mischievous grin. “Such a bloody showoff—”

Harry kissed him again, effectively shutting him up, washing all other useless thoughts from his mind. He released Draco’s hand to run his slowly down Draco’s chest, teasing his nipples briefly before continuing down his stomach. It lifted from his skin for a moment, just a moment, and returned to wrap around Draco’s fully hard cock, covered in warm lube, making Draco gasp softly.

“Wandless lube, I should hex you—” It was a weak threat, and they both knew it, because Draco slipped his tongue into Harry’s mouth instead of finishing it. Harry stroked him slow and firm, and Draco instinctively pushed his hips forward, fucking into his fist, then back into Harry’s cock, which was nestled perfectly between his cheeks. Harry was thrusting against him in a steady, compulsive rhythm, and was that lube there too?

Harry started letting out soft, involuntary groans, and Draco swallowed each one, savoured the way it sounded in his mouth, the way Harry was coming apart around him, because of him.

Draco’s hand reached up and threaded itself in Harry’s hair as Harry’s hand sped up, and these weren’t even proper kisses anymore, his neck was aching from the odd angle, but he pulled Harry’s head down anyway, tugging gently on his tangled hair. He kissed Harry simply to feel Harry’s lips, to taste his sweet breath, to be as close to him as he possibly could.

Draco whispered Harry’s name into his mouth as his hips began to stutter, his hard length sliding against Draco’s arse. He opened his eyes just in time to see Harry’s eyes roll back, his mouth drop open in ecstasy, his low voice breaking as he came in a hot rush over Draco’s skin.

Harry’s hand tightened around him, speeding up again, and Draco let out a soft whimper, he was so close—

“Yes, Draco, you’re fucking perfect,” Harry whispered, breathing hard, biting down gently on the curve of flesh where Draco’s neck met his shoulder. The waves finally crested and broke, crashing over him, consuming him.

“Fuck, Harry…” Draco whined through his orgasm, gasping and shuddering. Harry stroked him through it, quietly moaning in satisfaction, mouthing at his neck.

Another wandless cleaning charm swept over them, and Harry’s hand returned to wandering Draco’s body aimlessly, both of them catching their breath against the sheets.

After a dazed, idyllic moment, Draco came down from his high, coherent thoughts invading his post-orgasmic bliss.

Draco rolled and pushed Harry back against the bed, leaning over him. Harry simply let him, smiling up at him with sleepy, satisfied eyes. Draco imprinted the sight in his mind, memorizing every detail of his flushed face, his sleep-mussed hair, the early morning light on his radiant bronze skin.

Could he really have this? Could he keep this?

He stared down at Harry, brows creased, thoughts swirling turbulently in his head. He needed to spell it out, he needed to say something, but what could he say that would convey how conflicted he was, overwhelmed with joy and fear?

This just wasn’t something that could happen to Draco—he’d been perfectly fine with his fantasies and his interesting job and his army of plants to keep the loneliness at bay. He wanted to retreat, to crawl back to safety, in the fortress he’d made of his life; he wanted to lean in, to crawl inside Harry’s ribs instead and make himself at home. All it took was a painfully familiar tightening in his chest, that inevitable pull, and here he was: raw and vulnerable, tethered in a ceaseless orbit around one Harry James Potter, as he’d always been.

Harry’s hand landed gently on his cheek, pulling him out of his thoughts. Draco blinked a few times, taking in Harry’s fond, concerned expression.

“You’re looking at me like you look at your chalkboard,” Harry murmured, studying Draco’s face. “What are you thinking?”

You are safe, here, Harry had written, all those weeks ago. Had he really meant it? Was it still true, now? Was this even real?

Draco tried to collect his thoughts into something witty and intelligent, unsuccessfully.

“You’d better not think I’m easy, or something, Potter,” Draco fumbled, irritation and confusion weakly masking the fear in his voice. Harry’s lips twitched.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, clearly suppressing his grin. His calloused hands slid over Draco’s shoulders, warm and strong. “I think I’d know better than anyone how difficult you are.”

Draco groaned in annoyance and tried to push himself away, but Harry captured him in his arms and laughed, pulling him closer. The sound of it was like a balm on Draco’s nerves, and he couldn’t help but lean in, settling against Harry’s bare chest with a put-out sigh.

“Bloody git,” Draco grumbled. Harry’s chest vibrated with his soft, carefree laughter. Draco closed his eyes and allowed it to enthrall him, tipping forward, falling, falling, falling.

***

Monday, 8 May

As Draco apparated into the unfamiliar property on Monday, he felt an odd, uncomfortable assessment of sorts—an evaluation of his intentions. He was impressed, these wards were probably as strong as his own. He wondered if the Aurors had helped, or if Boran’s mother had done it all herself.

The front garden of the Clarke house was simple and pleasant, Draco observed, as he strode tentatively up the path. There weren’t many plants to tend—it was the garden of someone who had much bigger priorities than pulling weeds. Finding their missing son, for instance.

Draco pulled out the card with the apparition coordinates and glanced at the names, double checking that he was at the right place.

Agatha Clarke

And underneath that, in a child’s scrawl that made him grin:

Boran Clarke

He slipped the card back into his pocket and approached the front door, adjusting the plastic bag in his hand.

The door opened before he could knock, revealing Boran’s mother, wearing a tired smile.

Draco realized suddenly he had no idea how to address her. They’d barely spoken at the hospital, only enough to exchange information and for her to extend this invitation. He panicked a little, eyes subtly searching her left hand for a wedding ring. He found none. Better safe than sorry.

“Ms. Clarke,” Draco nodded politely.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she nodded back, looking slightly amused. “Glad you could come.” She opened the door wider and stepped aside to let him in.

“Call me Draco, please,” he insisted as he stepped over the threshold, hoping she hadn’t caught his flinch. He hated being called Mr. Malfoy—especially since his last reunion with the real Mr. Malfoy. It was either Healer Malfoy, or just Draco, and he certainly wasn’t going to enforce his title around this woman.

She seemed pleased by this, and smiled at him. Draco noticed she looked just as tired as she had at St. Mungo’s, with faint shadows under her eyes. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, with a few flyaway strands escaping to frame her face.

“Alright. Then call me Agatha.”

Draco returned her smile, then lifted the bag in his hand.

“I’ve brought something for him.”

“I can see that,” she noted wryly, leading the way through the house to the kitchen. “Tea?”

“That’d be lovely, thank you,” Draco replied, setting the obnoxious, crinkly bag down on the countertop.

“How is he?” he asked hesitantly, his eyes darting around the room in their usual sweep. He backed up against one of the cupboards, where he could see the whole room. The kitchen was warm and comforting, with yellow cupboards covered in a child’s drawings. It reminded him of Pansy’s kitchen, the morning sunlight streaming through the window over the sink, the dishes clinking softly in the basin as they scrubbed themselves.

Agatha started the kettle and added a scoop of tea leaves to the pot. “As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she sighed, her expression pained. “The nightmares are awful, especially when he can’t talk about them.”

Draco frowned. “What do you—”

“Draco!” a young voice interrupted suddenly. Boran barged into the kitchen with a small book dangling open in one hand. “You’re here?”

Draco chuckled at him and nodded. “Good morning to you too, little storm.”

Boran gave an exaggerated eye roll and groaned at the nickname, but he couldn’t hide his small smile. Draco thought this was the most alive he had ever seen him. It had only been a couple of weeks since they were rescued, and already the boy was a far cry from the shivering child in the cell they had shared.

“How old are you, Boran?” Draco asked, realizing he didn’t actually know.

“Seven. And a half,” he answered tentatively, looking to his mother, who nodded in agreement. Sudden realization knocked the breath out of Draco’s lungs.

Boran had been held prisoner long enough to no longer be sure of how old he was. He’d needed his mother to remind him. Draco coughed gently into his hand to hide his discomposure, and forced a smile back onto his face.

“I see. Not so little, then. But ‘big storm’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it, you know,” he teased. Boran narrowed his eyes at him.

“Then I’m going to keep calling you ‘little dragon,’” Boran said threateningly, making Draco laugh softly.

“Fine by me. Fair’s fair.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Oh, nothing, just a little something I picked up from a muggle games shop, you know, probably very boring—“ Draco grinned mischievously as Boran’s dark eyes lit up. He reached into the bag and pulled out the box of LEGOs, sliding it onto the counter.

Agatha's face lit up with surprise and delight. “LEGOs! I haven’t seen these since I was a kid… You went to a muggle shop for this?”

Draco could feel a faint blush on his cheeks. “Yes, well, my goddaughter loves that particular shop, and the shopkeep recommended this for a boy his age. And then chastised me for not knowing what any of it was, but I trust it’ll still be fun.”

Agatha laughed at him, and Boran looked adorably frustrated.

“What? What is it? What’s that thing on the front?” Boran demanded.

“They’re called LEGOs, dear. They’re like building blocks, but you can make really cool things with them—this one looks like it’s meant to be a spaceship. It comes with all the pieces, so you can build it and play with it. My brother and I used to play with these when I was a girl. They weren’t this detailed, though.” The two of them scanned the front of the box eagerly.

“Alright,” Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, feeling like an idiot. “What on earth is a spaceship?”

Their laughter echoed brightly around the kitchen, filling Draco’s chest with warmth.

***

“You’re not serious,” Draco scoffed lightly, putting his assigned LEGOs together. “There’s no way they actually went to the moon.”

“They did,” Agatha laughed. “The Americans did, anyway. I should say there’s some conspiracy theories on whether or not it was staged, but they’ve got it all on video. People watched it happen on the telly. Consensus is that they did, in fact, land on the moon.”

Draco was bewildered. The three of them were sat on the floor in the sitting room, assembling the tiny LEGOs as a team. He set down his pieces to take a bolstering sip of tea.

“But why? Just to say they did it?” Boran piped up, frowning as he locked two pieces together.

“Sort of,” Agatha said, furrowing her brows. “When I was in school, they taught us it was called ‘the Space Race,’ it was basically Russia and the US trying to outdo each other. But they did it for science, too. They wanted to learn more about space and the moon, so up they went.”

Draco closed his eyes and shook his head. The steam from the tea fogged up his reading glasses, which he’d put on in order to read the detailed instructions and blueprints. The LEGOs were quite satisfying, he would definitely be getting more of them from that shop. For Boran, of course.

“You know a lot about muggle history,” Draco remarked, impressed. Agatha lifted her head.

“I’m muggleborn,” she said, and Draco knew she was watching his face for a reaction. “I went to a muggle primary school until I got my Hogwarts letter.”

Draco nodded, looking down into his mug. “I’m a little envious,” he mumbled. “I’ve heard so much about the schools. They teach nearly everything, don’t they? So much knowledge, so many things to learn.”

“You didn’t go to school?” Boran looked up, wrinkling his nose. Draco chuckled.

“I had private tutors until I went to Hogwarts,” he said, “but they certainly didn’t teach me any muggle history. I learned etiquette, dance, some potions, and the history of my entire family. Politics, too. What a bore.”

“Wow,” Boran breathed, eyes wide. “You needed a tutor to learn how to dance?”

Draco snorted. “I did, but it was all for naught, as I’ve no society balls to attend. I know all these dances, but they’re not dances one can do alone. I only dance with my house elf, sometimes, and my mother—and Harry, once.”

“You dance with your house elf?” Agatha asked, lips twitching in amusement.

“Timsy is an excellent dancer, I’ll have you know. The best dance partner anyone could ask for, even if he is a little short,” he said haughtily, making them laugh.

“And you danced with Harry? Harry Potter?” Boran giggled.

Draco’s cheeks burned, and the corners of his lips turned up reluctantly. “Yes, once.”

Agatha stared at Draco shrewdly. Draco searched frantically for a subject change.

“He’s alright, I guess,” Boran sighed, laughter fading. “For an Auror.”

“I agree,” Draco muttered, setting down his mug and leaning forward to focus on his LEGOs. “He’s one of the good ones.”

“Head Auror Weasley’s a good one, too,” Boran added. “Even if he is huge and scary looking. He’s very nice. I got a chocolate frog card of him, and he signed it for me.”

“That was very nice of him,” Draco smirked, resolving to tease Ron mercilessly about that later.

“But the rest of them are just so angry all the time, and they look mean,” Boran continued absently, still focused on his pieces. A lock of wavy brown hair fell into his eyes. “Especially when I can’t talk. Except for the lady Aurors, I haven’t seen one of them angry yet—aha.” He fit two finished parts together, tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration.

Draco frowned, turning towards him. “You can’t talk? Do they make you afraid to talk?”

“No, I just can’t,” Boran shrugged. “It makes them mad.”

That shrug reminded Draco so strongly of the Boran he met in the cell. His heart ached, his brain whirred.

“Is it because someone told you not to talk?”

“Not really. They—” Boran choked a little, and coughed lightly. Draco instantly sat up straight, eyes wide with comprehension. He’d recognize that reaction anywhere.

“The Unspeakables made you unable to talk about it,” Draco breathed, weathering a surge of fury in his veins. A child.

Boran nodded, watching him warily. Draco took a deep, calming breath, remembering what he’d said about the Aurors getting angry. He turned his gaze to Agatha instead, who met his eyes with the same amount of carefully hidden, simmering rage.

“That’s horrible,” he said softly, after a moment of tense silence. “Do the Healers or the Aurors know how to fix it?”

“Nope,” Boran gave another little shrug. “They said I’m fine, and that it’s all in my head.”

Draco closed his eyes, clenched his fists, took another breath, trying not to explode. He opened his eyes again to face Agatha.

“They didn’t recommend another Healer?” he asked tentatively.

Agatha frowned, and shook her head slowly. Draco brought his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, knocking them askew. His thoughts were moving a mile a minute.

The Healers and the Aurors all knew that Boran’s mind had been affected by the Unspeakables, and not one fucking person had called him. Hadn’t even mentioned him, apparently. Why?

Maybe because he’d been a victim of the same case. Maybe the Healers at St. Mungo’s suddenly had a problem with him and refused to recommend him any longer. Maybe Boran was wrong, maybe it was his magical core they’d affected, like Draco’s bonds—

“I’ve a question for you, Boran, erm… when you try to talk about it, does it hurt, in your belly?” Draco tapped his own stomach lightly. “Like a weird, twisting feeling?”

Boran furrowed his brows, thinking. “No,” he replied. “Just can’t.”

Not his magical core, then. All in his head. This was legitimately something Draco could help with, and no one had said a word.

He needed to talk to Harry.

“Do you know what I do, for a living?” he asked Agatha quietly, LEGOs forgotten on the floor around his legs.

“I’ve heard you’re a Healer,” she said, picking up Draco’s abandoned pieces and fitting them together.

“I’m actually—I’m a Healer Legilimens,” he corrected. Her head snapped up, her face paling with shock and fear. Her eyes met his for a split second before she turned them away, carefully avoiding his gaze.

“‘Specialist in Mind Curses and Afflictions,’ is the full title,” he muttered. “Normally, I would have been called in, for something like this.”

“Why haven’t they, then?” she asked darkly.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Draco replied, frowning. “I’ll have to talk to Harry to see if there’s a legitimate reason for keeping me out of it. And if there is, I’m going to fight it anyway. I’m the only Healer Legilimens in England, and I’m very good at it, to be honest.”

Agatha continued watching him cautiously, avoiding his eyes.

“I don’t want anyone using Legilimency on my son,” she said in a low, threatening voice. Draco nodded gently.

“Understandable, that’s a common reaction. Unfortunately, there’s no other way to fix the problem, if it is entirely inside his mind.”

Her mouth hardened in a thin line, and she exhaled heavily through her nose, nostrils flaring. Draco knew that she knew he was right.

“It’s not a painful process—”

“Like hell it’s not,” she interrupted, eyes blazing. Draco searched her face for a moment, recognizing the terror underneath the anger.

“Who was it?” he murmured.

An unreadable emotion flickered across her face, and she darted her eyes to her son, who was now watching them uneasily. She sighed again, apparently coming to a decision in her head.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” she said, as quietly as she could, though Boran could obviously hear her. Draco closed his eyes briefly, fighting back the sudden wave of nausea.

“Me too,” he said, matching her tone, watching her eyes widen in disbelief.

“But you’re—”

“I know,” he stopped her firmly. “I know what I am. I’m her nephew, as well. She lived in my house for two years. Do you think any of that stopped her?”

He clenched his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking. Agatha watched them anyway, lips parting in shock.

“Legilimency is only painful if the intention of the caster is to cause pain. Believe me when I say my patients experience it very differently than we did.”

Agatha stared at him, processing, while Boran’s eyes darted frantically between them, trying to catch up.

“Who’s Bellatrix Lestrange?” he asked timidly. Through the anxiety and flashbacks, a small glow of hope sparked in Draco’s chest, reminding him that the War was long over, that many children today were living peaceful lives, not knowing who Bellatrix Lestrange was. Although one could hardly call Boran’s life thus far peaceful.

“An evil woman,” Agatha answered him, “who we thankfully don’t have to worry about any longer. She died before you were born.”

“Huh.” Boran frowned, digesting this information, before he turned his gaze to Draco again. “Are you gonna legolimancy me?”

“I don’t know yet,” Draco replied, smirking gently at the mangled word. “I have to talk to Harry, first.”

“Hmmm,” the boy hummed suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. “Well let me know if you do, I don’t like to be surprised.”

“Of course,” Draco assured. “I don’t like to be surprised, either.”

Conversation gradually shifted back to their LEGOs, now that the spaceship was finally coming together. Draco couldn’t see how such a thing could ever fly, but he knew better than to underestimate the muggles.

***

Draco returned home, his face still stuck in a frown of deep thought. His brain was already buzzing with ideas of how to help Boran, none of which were helpful to him if he couldn’t see the problem in the first place. He glanced at his watch—only half noon. He’d spent the whole morning with the Clarkes. It was only a Monday, too: Harry would probably be at work right now.

Well, this involved his work, Draco supposed, and he didn’t want to waste another minute. He stood abruptly and made his way to the master suite to put on a good suit.

Cobalt blue suit donned, hair fixed and smoothed, Healer’s emblem pin glowing faintly on his lapel—he took out his wand to apparate and landed, once again, in the dank London alleyway, next to overflowing dumpsters and a dinky red telephone booth, gagging at the stench and the smog.

He stepped into the booth, and dialed 6-2-4-4-2.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. State your name and purpose.”

Why did he never think this through?

“Healer Draco Malfoy, to… to see the Head Auror.” There. He wasn’t intending on seeing the Head Auror, technically, but now nobody would bother to arrest him, seeing as he was already on his way there.

Probably.

The booth lurched and started descending, and a nametag was spat out of the coin return. Draco picked it up and examined it:

HR. DRACO MALFOY
Auror Business

Close enough. He actually should have thought of that, that sounded much more important than whatever he’d said.

He stepped out of the booth and made his way across the bustling Atrium, enjoying the resounding tap of his Oxfords on the marble floor. He kept his gaze averted from the fountain, fending off Harry’s memories, as well as his own.

“Wand, please.” The same young, sleepy wizard held his hand out at the registration desk, not looking up from his newspaper. Draco handed over his wand, ignoring the unease of making himself defenseless. It was only for a moment. The surly wizard—Collins, Draco remembered—put the wand on the little scale and propped his head in his hand, completely bored and unaware.

“Silver lime wood, unicorn hair, eleven…” Collins trailed off, apparently recognizing the wand description. His eyes widened as he finally raised his head to look at Draco. Draco smirked, watching him blush again.

“Yes, that is my wand,” Draco prodded gently. Collins shook himself, fumbling with the wand as he handed it back.

“Enjoy your time at the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy—”

“Healer,” Draco corrected him, throwing him a charming smile as he took his wand back. “Healer Malfoy. We both know I’m not the real Mr. Malfoy.” He raised an eyebrow, pocketing his wand.

“Definitely not,” Collins mumbled, dumbfounded. “Good day, Healer Malfoy.”

“Good day, Mr. Collins,” Draco replied, giving him a casual wave as he turned away.

There seemed to be more staring than usual, this time. As he stepped into a lift and pressed the button for Level Two, he could feel all eyes on him, and he couldn’t determine whether it was hostile or not. Had word gotten around about what happened in the Department of Mysteries? It didn’t seem like the kind of thing Shacklebolt would want to broadcast.

"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services." Draco stepped out and strode purposefully down the corridor toward the Auror Headquarters.

Every face turned to him as he passed, and his confidence gradually slipped. He hated this place, hated that he’d been here more times against his will than of his own volition. Was this really something he had to talk to Harry about right now, should he have owled instead? Were they going to arrest him anyway on some made-up charge? Something that Harry couldn’t refute? They could throw him in a cell right now and no one would know—

“Can I help you?” a young witch mumbled, gawking at him with wide eyes from behind the receptionist’s desk that guarded the Auror offices. Draco subtly glanced down at his chest, but his suit was immaculate. Was there something on his face? Was this just how people stared at ex-Death-Eaters, nowadays?

“I’m here to see Auror Potter,” he said casually, trying to inject confidence into his voice, smoothing his expression into carefully honed aristocratic indifference.

“You got an appointment?” she asked, blinking a couple times and flipping through pages of a schedule.

“No, but he’ll see me.” Draco looked down his nose at her, daring her to object. She swallowed and stood carefully from her chair.

“Just a moment.”

She walked over to the rows of cubicles, standing on her tiptoes to see over the dividers, probably looking for that wild head of hair. She didn’t find it, apparently, and frowned as she turned her gaze to another receptionist, guarding the Head Auror office, and raised her eyebrow in question.

The Head Auror receptionist raised her eyebrow in turn, and jerked her head minutely toward the door to the large office. The front desk witch nodded and made her way back to him, smoothing down her summery robes.

“He’s in with the Head Auror, right now,” she said delicately, sitting back down in her chair and rearranging her parchments.

“Excellent, I intended to speak with them both.”

“You need to make—” she tried, but Draco was already past her, en route to the Head Auror office.

The next receptionist eyed him intently, her gaze raking over him as he approached. She then shrugged, deciding he wasn’t worth her time. Draco gave the heavy door two perfunctory knocks and opened it without waiting for an answer, closing it quickly behind him and letting out a breath of relief. He turned around to face the room.

Ron sat at a huge desk, which was covered in parchments, an absolute mess. Harry sat in a hard wooden chair in front of it, his hand frozen in the air, where he’d apparently been in the middle of a sentence. Both of them wore expressions of utter shock, almost identical, except for the blush creeping up Harry’s neck.

Draco waited for them to say something, but they remained speechless. Harry’s eyes roved his body, his lips still parted in shock. Draco could feel his own face heating, and he was anxious and annoyed as hell. He clicked his tongue at them, and sat himself down in the available chair, next to Harry.

“Hello,” Draco said irritably, since no one else would. “We need to talk.”

“Hello, Draco,” Ron finally said, raising his eyebrow at him. Harry shook himself and cleared his throat, turning his head up to stare at the ceiling instead. “Nice of you to stop in.”

“I’m not here for pleasure, I assure you,” Draco drawled. “I’ve just spent the morning visiting the Clarkes, Ron.” Draco glared pointedly at him, then at Harry, who was impervious to it, avoiding Draco’s gaze. Why?

“Where I learned that the Unspeakables have placed a mind curse on Boran to keep their secrets,” Draco continued, watching them both carefully for reactions. Ron sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“And?”

“And why the hell wasn’t I called? This is what I do—”

“Look, sorry, Draco. It’s a conflict of interest, and his mum was really against the idea of Legilimency. We thought about calling in a foreign specialist, but that’s an international relations nightmare, and would take way too long. We’re just trying to find ways around it, instead.”

“‘Conflict of interest’ is a luxury you don’t have, Ron, since I am, quite literally, your only option.”

“His mum was still really against the idea,” Harry chimed in.

“So were you, as I recall,” Draco retorted. Harry turned away from him.

“Agatha was against it because she was tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange,” Draco continued gravely, glaring at them as their faces paled. “And no one told her that a Healer Legilimens existed, who could fix this. One her son already trusted. What I’m hearing is that you vaguely mentioned Legilimency, she said fuck no, and you gave up. Meanwhile, a child cannot speak about his nightmares or the horrors he endured, and the Unspeakables are running amok.”

Harry scrubbed his face with his hand and tipped his head back again, and Draco was briefly distracted by his smooth, exposed throat, even more visible with the top few buttons of his uniform undone. Why doesn’t he ever button those fucking buttons?

“Alright,” Ron said, vexed, running his hand through his hair. “Alright. You’re right. We don’t have the time to wait around and make Boran tell us riddles instead.”

Harry’s head snapped up to glare at his friend.

“You know he’s right, Harry.” Ron matched his look, and Draco turned to Harry, brows furrowed in confusion. Harry had kept this from him?

Draco could feel indignation building within him, and his hands clamped down on the armrests of the chair, trying to rein it in.

“Start with Boran whenever you can, Draco, and let us know what you need. We need as much help as we can get.” Ron pulled out his wand and waved it at his desk, sending the parchments to their assigned folders, leaving it clean. “I’m going to the canteen. You two have a nice lunch.”

“What—”

But Ron was already out the door, and the office was thrown into a tense silence, apart from the soft click of the door closing behind him. Draco turned to face Harry, his teeth clenched in anger.

“What the fuck, Harry—”

“You were healing, Draco, you’d just been bloody abducted and tortured—”

“Oh, I see, you did it to protect me, did you, like I haven’t been protecting myself just fine all these bloody years?”

“It was a conflict of interest!”

“Conflict of interest? I healed you, Harry!”

“I didn’t want to get you involved! I didn’t want to make you relive all this shit—”

“That’s not up to you!” Draco exclaimed, standing from his chair and pacing the room. He was hit with a memory of Lucius, pacing and muttering to himself, and forced himself to stop. He really needed to kick that habit. Harry paused, glowering.

“I asked you if you’d ever speak to me again if I didn’t need saving, and you said you would, Harry. This isn’t it. You’re still trying to save me.” Draco’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, the energy he’d usually put into pacing spilling out through his hands. Harry closed his eyes and sighed.

“I meant it, Draco.”

“Then prove it. I told you I wanted to stand with you, not behind you. I don’t care that you’re the sodding Saviour, Harry, I am your equal. I am not some damsel you need to shield. You cannot keep me from helping where I’m needed. How am I supposed to believe that you actually want me, want this—how am I supposed to trust you at all?”

Like a hot knife in his chest, Draco felt the anger for what it really was: hurt. He’d been so worried that he was just another project, just another way for Harry to exercise his hero complex, despite Harry’s reassurances. In truth, Draco would never actually know if Harry would have spoken to him again. He had to take Harry’s word for it, and Harry’s word looked like bullshit right now.

Harry stood as he watched the emotions fly over Draco’s face, and crossed the floor slowly to approach him. He tentatively brought his hands up to Draco’s arms, stepping close enough that Draco could smell his shampoo: something woody and spicy, sweet and warm, distinctly Harry. Draco closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, “Merlin, I am so shit at this. How is it I keep hurting you, when I’m trying so desperately to keep you from getting hurt?”

Draco huffed, unable to stop himself as he leaned into the heat of Harry’s body. His hands came up to Harry’s chest, gripping his uniform lightly. He was so, so doomed. He would never be able to give this up, now that he finally had it, even though Harry was a meddlesome, self-righteous idiot.

“Have you considered that maybe, your methods are shit?”

Harry snorted softly, his broad hands moving from Draco’s arms to his waist. “A theory worth considering.”

“More than theory, I think,” Draco mumbled, giving in to that small smile, resting his forehead against Harry’s. “You’re supposed to save the fights for after the third date, you know.”

“I haven’t dated anyone since I was a teenager, how should I know?”

“Well, neither have I, not really, but I’m sure I read that in a manual somewhere.”

Harry pulled his head back, brows furrowed in confusion. “What? No one?”

“I mean, I’ve been on a couple dates, with blokes on the Continent, I’m not celibate,” Draco muttered, a little defensive. “I’ve just… been busy.”

Harry only looked more bewildered. “But you’re—” he paused, waving his hand vaguely around Draco, “—y’know.”

Draco raised his eyebrow. “I’m… What?”

That perfect blush was gracing Harry’s cheeks again. Draco was dying to kiss him.

“You’re you,” Harry said, after some sort of internal struggle. Draco’s eyebrows drew down again.

“I’m aware,” he grumbled irritably. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I don’t mean that, I mean, you’re…” Harry huffed and waved his hands around again. “A good looking bloke.”

Draco’s lips twitched. Oh.

“‘A good looking bloke,’” Draco repeated flatly, taking a step towards him. Harry automatically took a step back. He remembers how to dance, Draco thought wryly.

Harry let out a nervous laugh, and his hands found Draco’s sides again, as Draco continued walking him backward. “Er, yes. Very handsome.”

“Is that the best you can do? Honestly?” Draco teased, as the back of Harry’s legs hit the side of the desk, making him gasp softly.

“Alright, you’re beautiful Draco, the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen—” another sharp intake of breath as Draco shoved his knee between Harry’s legs, leaning into him.

“Your wooing attempts are abysmal,” Draco mumbled through a grin, bringing his mouth to Harry’s neck, feeling the racing pulse under his lips.

“But effective,” Harry added, and Draco could hear the smirk in his low, husky voice. He pulled back to look at him again, taking in his bright green eyes, his shy smile, his blushing cheeks, his shadowed jaw. Damn it, Harry.

“Promise me something, Harry,” Draco said quietly, waiting for Harry’s nod. “Promise you’ll stop trying to save me all the fucking time. And that when you get the urge, when your insufferable hero complex demands such a thing, you’ll talk to me about it, instead.”

Harry took a deep breath, his eyes searching Draco’s intently, reminding Draco of how he had looked at him when he was silent—when he could only communicate like this, like he was trying to force the words out through his face. Eventually, he nodded.

“I promise.”

The tension fell out of Draco’s shoulders, and with a breath of relief, he tipped his head down and finally, finally kissed him. Had it really only been two days?

Draco pulled him in by the grip on his uniform, and Harry’s hand found the back of his neck, holding him there.

“Then you may take me on another date, you arsehole,” Draco murmured, pulling away, smoothing out Harry’s uniform. Harry blinked, refocusing his eyes, adjusting his glasses.

“Oh? You’ll allow it, then?” Harry smirked.

“I’m feeling generous.” Draco took out his wand and performed a few quick freshening charms that smoothed out any wrinkles in his suit, and fixed any unkempt locks of his hair. He tried to do the same on Harry, but Harry’s hair didn’t change in the slightest.

Harry laughed at him. “Don’t bother, Draco. Trust me.”

Draco frowned, stepping forward and attempting to smooth it down by hand, only to prove a point—he could admit to himself, now, that he loved Harry’s wild, dark curls. They defied his efforts, but Harry let him try anyway.

“You like fish n’ chips?” Harry asked, when Draco finally gave up.

“Of course,” Draco frowned. “I’m English, aren’t I?”

“Let me rephrase,” Harry said, a small grin on his face. “Have you ever eaten fish n’ chips off of anything other than fine china?”

Draco opened his mouth to retort yes, of course he had, but paused, trying to remember it, and coming up blank. Harry’s grin was widening.

“Well, what does that matter? Fish and chips is fish and chips, even when it’s a pan-fried swordfish and roasted potatoes in truffle oil, alright?” Draco scoffed, irritated when Harry started laughing at him again.

“Wrong,” Harry said, shaking his head fondly, standing up straight and making his way towards the door. “Come on, then.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Where are we going?”

“On our second date, of course,” Harry looked back at him with a wicked grin, sending him a wink that made Draco’s stomach flutter. He opened the door and stepped out leisurely, without another word.

Prat.

Draco caught up with him by the reception desk, and they left the Auror office together, causing multiple double-takes from passers by. Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, and Draco clicked his tongue, annoyed.

“Is it just me, or does it seem worse than usual today?” Draco asked under his breath.

“Is what worse?”

“The bloody staring,” Draco growled quietly. “It’s not like it usually is. They all look… I don’t know, different.”

Harry snorted. “I’ll bet.”

“Do you know something I don’t, Harry?” Draco asked, growing agitated as they approached the lifts. “Is it because I’m with you?”

“Nope, they’re quite used to me here by now.”

“Then what?” Draco closed the grille to the lift, baffled that no one had chosen to get in with them. There were lines at every other lift, each person staring at them with stunned expressions.

“They’re staring because of how you look, Draco,” Harry said, leaning back against the wall of the lift as it started ascending.

Draco rolled his eyes at him. “Pull the other one. This suit is good, but it’s not that good.”

“No, the suit is great,” Harry said, a slow smile spreading as he gave him an appreciative once over. “You, however, you’re, erm…” that blush was on his cheeks again, and Draco was unfairly attracted to the deviousness in that smile. “Exceedingly pretty.”

“Don’t be daft,” Draco scoffed, his cheeks heating. “Sure, I’m attractive enough to unsettle the poor bloke at the registration desk, but this is excessive.”

Harry snickered, leading the way out of the lift. “What have you done to Collins?”

“Nothing, he just gets very flustered when I show up. It’s quite entertaining.”

“Collins doesn’t—oh. Of course,” Harry paused, his face dawning with comprehension, letting out a sudden bark of laughter. “Of course, we’d have just missed each other, I bet you gave him one of those smiles you do—”

“Are you ill? You’re not making any sense, Harry.”

“You don’t get out much, do you?” Harry asked, smirking and walking a little closer to him as they passed the registration desk. Collins stared on, with the rest of them.

“I get out plenty, thank you very much,” Draco retorted, bewildered, eyeing the astonished expressions as they strode quickly across the Atrium toward the apparition point.

“Oh yeah? When was the last time you went out in public wearing that suit, Draco?”

“I—“ He paused, thinking. “I took Pansy out for her birthday. She wanted to go to this upscale muggle restaurant, in Central London.”

“And how many phone numbers did you get?”

Harry turned to face him, and Draco frowned, simultaneously irritated and aroused by the smug look on Harry’s face.

“I don’t know, between me and Pansy, about six or seven, but we didn’t really know which one of us they were meant for,” Draco explained, exasperated. Harry’s shoulders were shaking with laughter. Draco knew he looked good, and would normally be arguing for his looks, but he didn’t want Harry to be right. It was the principle of the thing.

Harry held out his arm, and Draco gripped it a bit harder than necessary. The awful squeezing sensation of apparition was much more intense than it needed to be, and Draco gasped for air as they landed in another shady alleyway.

“Merlin’s fucking balls, Harry, tone it down!”

“Sorry,” Harry chuckled. “I forget, when it’s not just me.”

“Where did you take me, bloody Wales?”

“Nope, just Islington,” Harry muttered through his laughter, leading the way out of the alley. He quickly unpinned his badge from his breast and slipped it into his pocket.

“What about your wand holster?” Draco asked, darting his eyes around fearfully.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. You coming?”

Another challenge. Harry looked back at him over his shoulder, eyes glinting in a dare.

I’ll follow you anywhere, Draco wanted to say. He didn’t, because he wasn’t nearly as impulsive as Harry.

Draco strode up to him, returning his mischievous grin as they walked out of the cool alleyway and into the bright sun of muggle London.

They walked a few blocks in comfortable silence, and even the muggles stared at them as they passed. One girl even paused in her yammering on her mobile phone to whisper, “holy shit,” eyes widening as she turned to watch them walk away. Draco hid his nerves carefully behind a mask of cool indifference. Were they staring because Draco looked good, like Harry said? Or were they staring because they were so obviously wizards and Harry’s wand holster was still strapped openly on his thigh?

“You’re sure we’re not breaking the Statute right now? This isn’t some elaborate ruse to arrest me?”

“I’m sure, Draco. Trust me. Just watch,” Harry said, giving his arm a comforting squeeze as they approached a run down, hole in the wall fish n’ chips shop. Harry opened the door, causing an obnoxious little bell to ring.

It was barely large enough to seat three people, lit dimly by one fluorescent lamp overhead. The muggle man behind the counter glared at them, but Draco thought that might just be a permanent state. Draco stuffed his hands in his pockets to avoid touching anything, and worked very hard to keep the grimace off his face.

“Hey, Jerry,” Harry said cordially, shocking Draco yet again. The surly muggle behind the counter—Jerry—grunted at them in return.

“You lads doing some sort of cosplay or wot?”

Harry nodded at him. “We are, there’s a con today. How’s business?”

“Shite,” Jerry grunted again. “Two, then?”

“Yes, please,” Harry said, grinning, for some unfathomable reason. Jerry turned and walked back into what Draco pretended was a pristine, perfectly clean kitchen, leaving them alone in the front of the shop.

“What in Merlin’s name…” Draco muttered under his breath, completely out of his depth. “What is a cosplay?”

“A costume,” Harry answered. “This is probably close to some old military uniform, and you… well, you’re dressed like a muggle, but they don’t dress like that except for special occasions, unless they’re really rich. Which, I guess, you are.”

“So you tell muggles we’re going to a costume party?”

“Either that or a convention. Works every time.” Harry crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the faded countertop, watching Draco with a pleased expression. He looked so relaxed, carefree. Draco wondered if he’d feel that way around muggles, too, after spending enough time with Harry.

Jerry eventually hobbled back up to the counter with their food, which was, incomprehensibly, wrapped in newspaper. But sweet Merlin, did it smell amazing.

Harry paid the man easily with muggle money, and Draco tried to watch and learn, but he was quite distracted by the newspaper food. Was he supposed to just lick at it like an ice cream cone? He tried to smile at Jerry as they left through the noisy door, but it probably came off as more of a grimace.

“Harry,” Draco said, his tone light and nonchalant, “why is our food wrapped in newsprint?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. But I promise you, the best fish n’ chips you’ll ever have will always come from a newspaper cone.” Harry handed him one of the cones, and Draco took it gingerly, examining it. It was warm, and spots of grease were darkening the paper.

“You’re sure? This isn’t some prank? I swear, Harry, if this is—”

“I’m sure,” Harry laughed. “Not a prank. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going now?”

“To sit down and eat it,” Harry answered casually, a lopsided smile on his face. Now, Draco was pretty sure the muggles were staring at them because they were obvious wizards holding hot, greasy newspaper food.

After two blocks, Harry turned into a small park, more like a courtyard, in the middle of a run-down square of townhouses. He made his way to a bench in the middle of the park, under a tree, and sat down, patting the seat next to him. Draco joined him, still staring at his food, perplexed.

“It won’t hurt you,” Harry said, bemused.

“I don’t know about that,” Draco retorted quietly. Harry discreetly pulled out his wand, casting several privacy charms. Draco decided to be brave, since he was on a date with a Gryffindor, and plucked one of the chips with his fingers, popping it into his mouth.

Fuck, that is good. Still hot, the perfect amount of salt—

“Verdict?” Harry asked, picking up some chips.

“Alright, it’s good,” Draco grumbled, “but how am I supposed to eat the fish?”

Harry happily tore off a piece of his own fried fish, raising it in front of Draco’s mouth. Draco wanted to kiss the smirk off his face.

He opened his mouth and took the food instead, wrapping his lips around Harry’s fingers, watching Harry’s pupils dilate, delighting in the sharp intake of breath. The smirk fell, replaced by parted lips, Harry’s tongue darting out to wet them.

Draco groaned in satisfaction, partly for the heated look on Harry’s face, partly because the fish was delicious.

“You swear they didn’t use magic on this?” Draco asked, grinning, as he tentatively tore off a piece of his own fish, trying not to wince at the grease on his fingers. Harry cleared his throat.

“I swear, Draco.”

“Then why is it so good?”

“Beats me. Hermione would say it tastes good because of the cheap ingredients and unhealthy GMOs and trans fats or whatever.” Harry popped another chip in his mouth, subtly sliding closer to Draco on the bench.

“I’ve no idea what you’ve just said, Harry,” Draco mumbled, after swallowing another delectable mouthful.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said, chuckling. “How’s Boran today? Aside from the obvious.”

Draco smiled. “He’s a cheerful boy. He laughed quite hard when he learned that I danced with you, once.”

“You told him that?”

“I did. He said you’re ‘alright, for an Auror.’” Draco nudged him gently with his elbow. Harry huffed.

“Well, that’s kind of him.”

“You, Ron, and the ‘lady Aurors’ are his favourites. He said the rest seem angry and mean all the time, to which I could not help but agree.”

Harry hummed. “Yeah, they’ve been quite frustrated with the whole situation.”

Draco sat up straight as he remembered something. “Harry, you know a lot about muggles,” he said, stating a fact. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“I do,” he said warily.

“Did they really land on the moon?” Draco asked, watching his face carefully for a reaction, but Harry only laughed, loud and joyful. “I knew it, Agatha played me for a fool—”

“No, it’s true, Draco,” Harry giggled. “There’s some debate, some conspiracy theories, but most people believe it.”

“So did it or did it not happen? This isn’t a difficult question!”

Harry shrugged, laughter subsiding. “The Americans did a few missions to the moon in ‘69, I think. They’ve got photographic and video evidence. But they only did it a few times, and no one’s been back since. So some people have been wondering whether or not they staged it to make themselves look more powerful. Hermione knows more about it than I do, but Ron had the same reaction as you.”

“Wow,” Draco breathed. “That’s impressive, either way, I suppose. They either landed on the fucking moon, or they managed to convince the world that they did.”

“Yes, very impressive,” Harry said, watching him, his face lit up with such fondness it made Draco blush.

“I had a dream about flying my broom to the moon, once, when I was a child,” Draco said, composing himself. Harry chuckled again.

“Did you really?”

“I did. It was marvelous. I woke up and ran to my father and told him all about it.”

“And what did he say to that?” Harry probed, eyebrow raised, taking another mouthful of fish with chips.

Draco paused to chew his food and swallow it. “He said such flights of fancy were unbefitting a Malfoy heir, of course—no pun intended—and that no one could actually set foot on the moon.”

“Of course he did,” Harry muttered. “Little did he know, the muggles were doing exactly that while he was working on Charms homework.”

Draco laughed softly. “I would like to believe that they really did go to the moon. What a wonderful thing.”

They finished their food in silence, shoulders brushing gently.

“Where are we?” Draco asked, taking out his wand and vanishing their discarded newspaper cones.

“Grimmauld Place,” Harry answered, gesturing vaguely to the row of townhouses across the street. Draco snapped his head around to stare at him, surprised.

“This is Grimmauld Place? Home to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?”

Harry chuckled again. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Draco looked around. The square of grim muggle townhouses looked like the last place his ancestors would have chosen to base their pureblood wizarding line. He squinted his eyes to read the numbers on the buildings, nine, ten, eleven, thirteen…

Draco frowned, looking over them again. Had he missed something?

“I don’t see Number Twelve,” he mumbled. “Have I gone mad?”

“No,” Harry laughed warmly. “You haven’t.” Draco turned back to see Harry’s face mere inches from him, his bright green eyes gazing intently into his own. He froze.

“The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place,” Harry said quietly, eyes darting down to Draco’s lips and back. Draco’s eyes widened in comprehension.

“Still under a Fidelius,” Draco murmured, mostly to himself. He tore his gaze away from Harry, unable to staunch his curiosity as he watched Number Twelve grow into being, pushing its way between eleven and thirteen. Draco was appalled that the muggles had never noticed this.

He realized, then, that Harry had just granted him full access to his home. Draco faced him once more, finding his eyes filled with a slight nervousness.

“Thank you,” Draco said, a slow smile growing, widening when it was mirrored on Harry’s face. Harry’s full lips were shiny from the grease, his eyes were crinkled at the corners. Draco leaned in and kissed him, trying to convey his gratitude, trying to tell him he knew how much this meant. Harry’s hand came up to his face, and Draco held it there, savouring the sweet, warm feeling of Harry’s lips against his, still a little salty from the chips.

“You’re welcome,” Harry murmured against his lips. “Come over anytime.”

Draco huffed at him. “Careful what you wish for.”

Harry laughed softly and pulled away, stroking Draco’s cheek with his thumb one last time.

“It’s not a headquarters anymore, though,” Draco said, his brain catching up with him. Harry shook his head.

“No, it’s not. It’s just a house.”

“It’s your home, though, isn’t it?”

Harry’s eyes darted up to him, then down to his hands. “I suppose.”

Draco frowned. “Then it isn’t,” he said. “You don’t think of it as your home?”

Harry grimaced, and sighed. “No, I don’t, unfortunately. It’s just the house where I live.”

“Why is that?”

Harry clicked his tongue and shrugged, uncomfortable. “I think you’d have to be in there to understand. The house and I don’t get along. Sirius hated it, too, but he left it to me, and I just… can’t give it up.”

Draco hummed and decided to indulge himself a little, since they were alone anyway, and Harry’s privacy spells were still holding. He leaned closer and draped his arm behind Harry’s shoulders on the bench. Harry’s lips twitched in a smile, and he rested his hand on Draco’s thigh, leaning into him. But his eyes were dark, staring grimly at Number Twelve.

“Where is home, then?” Draco asked. Harry turned his face toward him, and Draco watched several different emotions flicker over his eyes. He tried in vain to keep track of them all: confusion, contemplation, comprehension, trepidation—

“I don’t know,” Harry answered finally, his eyes darting away. Draco knew immediately it was a lie, because Harry was a terrible liar, but he wasn’t going to push it if Harry didn’t want to talk about it. Harry had that choice, now.

“You speak of it like the house is sentient,” Draco sidestepped.

“I’d wager it is, honestly,” Harry replied. “Another thing you’d have to experience for yourself. Not today, though, I’ve got to get back to work soon.” He paused, furrowing his brows. “Although, the house would probably fawn over you, being a pureblood Black and all. Kreacher adored you.”

“Kreacher?”

“The house elf,” Harry answered absently, still lost in thought, staring at his house.

“I’ve never met Kreacher,” Draco muttered, completely confused. Harry seemed to snap out of his thoughts, his eyes widening and darting towards Draco nervously, as if he hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud.

“Erm, no, you wouldn’t have met him,” Harry said quietly, shifting slightly on the bench. Draco’s hand landed on his shoulder, trapping him there.

“And yet, this elf has met me?” Draco prodded, now very suspicious.

“Sort of.”

“Harry, what—”

“He erm,...” Harry interrupted him, hands waving vaguely, searching for the right words. “I told him to work at Hogwarts, when I inherited the house, sixth year—”

“Oh. You had the elf following me, in school, then?” Draco’s mouth was desperately holding back a grin, thoroughly enjoying Harry’s flustered, embarrassed state.

“Alright, yes, I did, but it was useless, anyway. I swear he followed you simply because he wanted to, nevermind that I ordered him to. He was always going on about how beautiful you were, how your air was befitting of someone from the noble line of Black, a perfect fucking pureblood.”

Harry’s voice dropped to a rasping croak, imitating an ancient house elf. “‘Oh, how Kreacher wishes Master Draco Malfoy was Kreacher’s master, not the half-blood filth Harry Potter…’” It was too similar to Timsy, and Draco couldn’t help himself anymore.

Draco threw his head back and laughed heartily, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. He could just imagine a suspicious teenage Harry throwing his hands up in vexation, while an old house elf waxed poetic about Draco’s pureblood characteristics.

“Laugh it up,” Harry scoffed, unsuccessfully suppressing his smile, rolling his eyes. Draco did. Tears were leaking out of his eyes, a cramp was starting in his side.

“You sent an elf to stalk me… and he loved me…” Draco wiped a tear from his eye, laughter finally fading. “Great Merlin and Morgana, Harry, that’s fucking hilarious…”

Harry tried to look annoyed, but Draco could clearly see the fondness in his eyes, the pleasure he got from making Draco laugh. It lit him up from the inside, and Draco was startled by the realization that Harry Potter truly enjoyed making him happy. What a wonderful twist of fate.

Draco leaned over and kissed Harry’s cheek, just because.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t join him in his poetry, Harry, I bet the two of you wrote a collective anthology about what a pretty pureblood I am,” Draco teased. Harry blushed and rolled his eyes.

“You wish.”

Draco laughed again, kissed him again, over and over. He felt like he was flying.

He reeled himself in, standing from the bench and pulling Harry up with him.

“I know you have to get back to work, and I have to write a letter to the Clarkes.”

“I know,” Harry sighed, stepping in close, watching Draco’s face intently. “I am sorry, Draco. I was only—”

“I know, you were being an insufferable Gryffindor. Know that I will go straight to Ron if you try to pull it again, though.” Draco gripped his upper arms and pulled him closer. Harry’s hands landed on his chest, leaning into him.

Draco took a deep breath and brought his hands to the loose buttons at Harry’s throat, fastening them meticulously. Harry’s lips quirked in amusement. Draco looked around briefly to make sure the privacy charms were holding, just in case.

“I gave you floo access weeks ago,” Draco murmured, focusing on the buttons again, smoothing out the uniform. “But I realize how pointless that is if you don’t know the name of the house.”

He lifted his eyes to meet Harry’s.

“It’s called the Silver Hawthorn Residence, if you ever—if you want to—”

Draco’s fumbling was interrupted by Harry, taking hold of his face and kissing him soundly, insistently, stealing his breath away.

Thursday, 11 May

“Surely not,” Lucius sneered, as Harry set up the chess board outside the bars of his cell.

“I can play by myself, if it’s so beneath you. But you should know I’m shit at chess. You’ll have a real chance at beating me, for once in your life.”

“All of those stories about your mental instability in the Prophet had some merit, after all?” Lucius’ lip curled derisively, his nose in the air. “Some of those stories came from Draco himself, as I recall.”

“The Prophet’s been saying very different things about me, lately,” Harry said, his tone light, his lips twitching into a smirk as he set up the last few pieces. “So has Draco, for that matter.”

Lucius’ thin lips pursed in distaste, causing Harry a sweet, petty satisfaction.

“You playing or not?” Harry probed. “Neither of us wants to be here, may as well make it interesting.”

Lucius glared at the chess board for a moment, before standing from his cot and walking up to the bars. He remained standing, stick-straight and just as tall as Draco, staring down his nose at Harry and the board. Harry tried not to roll his eyes, sat leisurely in his folding chair. Though standing for so long might be uncomfortable for Lucius, he would never sit on the floor or rearrange the meager furniture of his cell to play chess with a half-blood. Being able to look down on Harry was probably a plus.

“White moves first, then,” Harry said, waving his hand at the board. Lucius took a deep breath, composing himself into a marble statue.

“Pawn to E4.” The pawn snapped out of its nap and hobbled forward, and the game began.

“Pawn to E5,” Harry countered. The black pawn moved forward. “Have a nice weekend?”

“Merlin, is this a new method of Auror torture?” Lucius nearly groaned with annoyance. Nearly. Harry snorted at him.

“Tetchy,” Harry mumbled. “Did you know they locked the child’s speech, too?”

Lucius opened his mouth to reply, but no words came forth. Of course. “Knight to F3,” he said instead.

“It’s weird, isn’t it? That they locked yours as well,” Harry said, frowning at the board. “As if you had the same status and liability as their child prisoner. Pawn to F6.”

Lucius scoffed lightly and shook his head, crossing his arms. “If you say so, Potter. I cannot keep you from your foolish abstractions. Knight to E5.”

Harry’s pawn made a rude gesture at him as the white knight attacked. Oh, well. Harry did say he was shit at chess.

“It just seems like they knew you’d end up in a situation like this, one day,” Harry muttered. “Pawn to E5. You really trusted them to protect you, over themselves? You really think they had your interests in mind?”

Harry’s pawn took Lucius’ knight simply by slapping the horse’s behind and watching it gallop off the board. Lucius frowned at it, stroking his ponytail again.

“Queen to H5, check,” Lucius said, either ignoring Harry’s question or unable to answer it.

“Was it you that heard that prophecy from Boran?” Harry asked, rubbing his hands together. “King to E7.”

“No.” Lucius raised a condescending eyebrow as Harry’s king moved forward, shaking its little head in resignation. “You are terrible, Potter. This is embarrassing. Queen to E5, check.”

Harry shrugged as another pawn was kicked off the board. “I told you I was. So what, then, someone relayed the prophecy to you, and told you it was about you and Draco?”

Lucius didn’t answer, but his eyes flashed briefly, giving him away, before slipping beneath that mask of stone cold apathy. Harry raised his eyebrows, thinking hard, absently playing the only available move at the moment.

“King to F7.”

It wasn’t Lucius, then, who had decided to act on the prophecy. Someone else had made the decision, and sent Lucius on a warpath towards Harry and Draco.

“Bishop to C4,” Lucius said coolly. Harry ignored the board, staring wide-eyed at the man in the cell.

“Merlin,” Harry breathed, thinking out loud. “They told you exactly what to do, didn’t they? They gave you the potion to use, told you how to curse me in such a way that Draco would have to use Legilimency on me and find out as much about me as possible. Boran definitely made the prophecy, but it probably fell into their hands like gold, giving you an ultimate goal, playing on your pride and your greed. Since we both know you don’t give a single shit for the pursuit of knowledge, or whatever they think is man’s highest aspiration.”

Lucius’ apathetic expression was falling into a silent glare. “I had complete control.” It was probably all he could say through the lock on his speech.

“I’m sure they made you believe you did. Everyone knows Lucius Malfoy has only ever taken orders from one man, and no mere Unspeakable could measure up to that. They made you believe they were devoted to you, busting you out of prison, spinning pretty lies about your worth to the Department. If they were devoted enough to ‘save you’ from Azkaban, Lucius, why didn’t they take you with them when they scarpered off to Merlin knows where, leaving you alone and defenseless inside the Department?”

A muscle was twitching in Lucius’ jaw. Harry frowned and glanced at the board.

“Pawn to D5,” Harry mumbled. He wasn’t really paying attention, his brain whirring with activity. “They took you before Boran made the prophecy though, Draco said so…”

“Bishop to D5, check.” The words flew quick and sharp from Lucius’ mouth.

“That means they wanted you for something else, first,” Harry said. “King to G6.”

“Pawn to H4.”

“Must have been something big, to be worth breaking someone out of Azkaban and harboring them for months. Pawn to H5.”

“Bishop to B7.”

“Even though it appears they knew it could or would be temporary, seeing as they locked your speech. Bishop to B7.”

Lucius’ bishop limped off the board, allowing Harry’s to take its place. Lucius clicked his tongue faintly.

“Queen to F5, check.”

Harry frowned at the board again. “But what could they get from you, that no one else has? I’m sure they know plenty about Dark Magic and pureblood fanaticism all on their own. King to H6.”

“Pawn to D4, check.”

“Pawn to G5. There are a few other Death Eaters in Azkaban, they could have used one of them if that were the case, why you?”

“Queen to F7.”

“They did make you go through all that to learn about me, though, telling you that if you didn’t, your only son would become more powerful than you ever were. Queen to E7.”

“H pawn to G5, check.” Lucius stood rigidly behind the bars, face unreadable other than an annoyed glare.

“Queen to G5. Was it because you were the only Death Eater who actually knew me? Better than the other Death Eaters, that is. You’d fought me more than any of them. You laughed while Voldemort tortured me, you saw every duel, you watched me survive. You even watched me die.”

“Rook to H5.” Lucius lowered his arms from their crossed position in front of his chest. His right hand twitched, and Harry knew he wanted nothing more than to whip out his wand. “Checkmate.”

Harry stared at him for a moment, processing this knowledge, carefully constructing his theory. Lucius frowned back at him, apparently deep in thought.

“Congratulations,” Harry muttered. “I’m sure it feels good to beat me at something.”

“Did you play poorly on purpose?”

“No, honestly, I told you the truth when I said I was shit at it. I’m not good at thinking ahead.”

Lucius glowered at him a second more before turning slowly and walking back to sit on his cot. Harry didn’t bother with his wand, waving his hands at the board to collect the pieces and shrink it back down. Lucius’ eyes were fixed on his hands, an ounce of greed shining through from behind the glare.

“You did not die,” Lucius mused aloud, his gaze snapping back up to Harry’s face. Harry sighed, standing and folding his rickety chair.

“I did,” he replied. “I came back. I had a job to finish, you see.”

Lucius’ eyes widened, his pale hand smoothed down the white ponytail again.

“No wonder,” was all he said. Harry furrowed his brows, stepping away from the cell.

“Until next time, Lucius.”

***

“Alright, Boran, has… has anyone ever done Legilimency on you, before?” Draco cringed a little as he finished the question. You don’t just ask a kid how he was tortured, Draco.

Boran shook his head, eyeing Draco’s wand warily. They were sat on the sofa in the Clarkes’ sitting room, both with their socked feet tucked under them, facing each other. Agatha watched like a hawk from the armchair by the fire. It made Draco a little uneasy, but he understood her motivations.

“I won’t hurt you,” Draco reminded him. “I promised, remember?”

Boran’s mouth twisted a little, but he nodded. Draco slowly took hold of his wand, careful not to spook him, reminded of how afraid Harry was the first time Draco pointed the silver lime wood wand at him.

“I’m only going to do a little bit, at first, alright? It’ll feel odd, like someone else is in your head with you, watching from just over your shoulder,” Draco explained. “You might smell something like candlesmoke, or broom polish, that’s just my magic.”

Boran frowned, digesting the information, eyes still fixed on Draco’s wand. Draco raised it carefully, aiming at his head. Boran’s eyes filled with fear, leaning away from him. Draco lowered his wand a fraction.

“Would you like to hold your mum’s hand, while I do this?” Draco asked quietly, exchanging a look with Agatha. Boran nodded eagerly.

Agatha stood and walked to the sofa, kneeling down on the floor next to them, taking Boran’s hand in her own and holding it tightly. She gave her son a reassuring smile, but Draco could see the tension in her shoulders. He raised his wand.

“Ready?”

Boran nodded, his little face firming with resolve.

“Look into my eyes, alright?” Draco murmured, and Boran’s dark eyes flicked up to meet his. “Three, two, one, Legilimens.”

Draco is grinning at him, putting together LEGOs on the floor.

His mother is reading to him before bed, he doesn’t want her to leave.

An Auror swears under his breath, eyes squeezed shut in frustration.

“You’re doing wonderfully, little storm. I’m going to make it a little stronger, so tell me if you’re uncomfortable. Or squeeze your mum’s hand really hard if you need me to stop.”

His teacher smiles at him as he writes on the chalkboard.

He tugs on his mother’s sleeve, pointing excitedly to a toy broom in a Quidditch shop.

Ron Weasley kneels in front of him and signs his chocolate frog card, a kind smile on his face.

There was nothing Draco could see of the Unspeakables or Boran’s imprisonment. He had a feeling that wherever or however they locked his speech, they also barred access to the memories from outside influences. Draco pushed a little harder, searching farther, the simple and vibrant memories of a carefree child flying past him, until he saw something odd—like a small cloud of fragmented memories. “I’ve got something,” he mumbled, following it.

“Let go!” a little Boran yells at a goat, whose teeth are clamped on his trouser leg.

His mother is singing softly in the kitchen, “Don’t let go, ohh oh oh…”, Boran sings along, the only words of this song he knows.

He lets go of his mother’s hand and takes his teacher’s, looking back at her once nervously as he enters the classroom.

The memories swirled around him suddenly, turbulently, forcing him out of focus, settling into completely different scenes. A different cloud. Draco swayed with disorientation, but stilled himself, concentrating on the memories unfolding.

“Who’s ready for ice cream?” “I am! I am!”

“Whoa… you’re a Seer?!” His classmate’s eyes bulge out of his head.
“I am,” Boran replies uneasily.

“I am cleaning my room, Mum,” Boran calls down the hall, knowing full well he is doing no such thing.

Another disconcerting swirl, Draco swayed again, and he felt Agatha’s warm hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

“This might be your size, love, try it on, would you?” his mother hands him a starched shirt with buttons, and he groans.

“Mum! My belly is huge! I might be pregnant!” he yells, stuffed from a delicious meal, and his mother bursts into laughter.

“Looks like this might be the only available colour, they don’t have it in orange,” his mother says, examining a child size coat in a shop.

The cloud dispersed, then, returning Draco to Boran’s normal memories. He looked around for barely a moment longer, trying to find it again, to no avail. He gently withdrew from Boran’s head, and carefully watched him come out of his daze. Draco set down his wand, rubbing the tops of his thighs.

“You did great, Boran, do you feel alright?”

Boran shook himself a little, and nodded. “That was weird.”

Draco chuckled a little, and Agatha released the breath she’d been holding, her body sagging with relief. She looked up at Draco gratefully. Draco nodded and pulled out his notebook and pen, writing down everything he’d seen.

Boran rambled on about how weird it was to his mother while Draco wrote, and she smiled and asked him questions, still holding tight to his hand.

Draco circled all of the common words and phrases in the three clouds of memories. Let go. I am. Might be. Interesting. Were they supposed to come together, somehow? Could they be rearranged to make a key—

“And he was right, it did smell like smoke a little, and something else, I don’t think I’ve ever smelled broom polish, maybe that was it, but maybe also a little lemony? He was in my head, Mum! It was like we were flying in my brain, mum, there was so much to see and remember! I didn’t even know Draco could do that, I only ever saw—” Boran choked a little again, and Draco winced.

Boran coughed slightly in surprise, apparently having forgotten he couldn’t speak of whatever he’d seen of Draco previously. Probably that he’d only ever seen someone aiming a wand at Draco, instead of the other way around.

“They’ve left a sort of puzzle, or riddle, in your head, Boran,” Draco began, addressing both the boy and his mother. “I’ve got as much as I could for today, and now I’ve got to go figure it out. I’ll be back as soon as I do, alright?”

Boran nodded seriously.

“Alright. Now we’ve got to make sure we’re us again, so close your eyes,” Draco said, placing his notebook in his lap. Boran looked confused, but closed his eyes anyway, and followed along with Draco’s guided meditation.

Boran scrunched his face to think of things he knew about himself. When Draco asked him to touch things he knew about his body that were definitely his own, he drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, patiently waiting for more instructions, inadvertently breaking Draco’s heart.

Draco had only ever seen him sitting like that in the cell, terrified, making himself as small as possible. Apparently, he knew himself best, sitting like this.

He had Boran think of happier memories, then, and made it more fun by telling Boran to pinch his own nose and try to talk, and pull his own ears and blow raspberries at Draco, until the boy was giggling helplessly, rolling around on the sofa.

As Draco stood to leave, buttoning his waistcoat, Boran tugged on his sleeve.

“Draco, will you see Auror Potter soon?”

“It’s very likely.”

“Will you tell him—” Boran wrinkled his nose, thinking hard about something, “—tell him be careful. He’ll need his shields.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. He knelt down in front of the boy.

“Did you see something?”

Boran shrugged, still holding onto Draco’s sleeve, as if he’d forgotten he was doing it. “Just feel it. Someone wants what he has. Someones.” His eyes went a little unfocused, staring at something over Draco’s shoulders. His hand tightened minutely on Draco’s sleeve, and his little brows furrowed in concentration. “Something he got from you, I think.”

He didn’t say anything else, staring off into the space above Draco’s shoulder. Draco gently put a hand on his arm, and he blinked, seeing Draco again.

“Thank you, Boran. I’ll tell him.”

Boran nodded, apparently pleased, a shocking expression after the frowning concentration and upsetting divination. Draco stood and shook Agatha’s hand, promising to return once he’d solved Boran’s curse, or at least figured out where to begin.

He left the house and apparated home in a hurry, anxiety swimming in his veins.

***

Draco threw the powder into his fireplace, watching the green flames rise from the grate, stepping inside and calling out, for the first time in his life:

“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!”

He was sucked through the floo instantly, rushing past hundreds of fireplaces, trying to beat back his nerves and etiquette telling him he should have owled first, or at least sent his Patronus, instead of showing up unannounced so late in the evening—

He landed gracefully and stepped out into a dim, ornately furnished reception room. The sconces on the wall brightened as he entered. They must have been charmed to welcome guests.

“Harry?” Draco called, and he heard faint footsteps jogging down the hall, treading lightly.

Harry appeared in the open doorway, and his whole face lit up upon seeing Draco standing there like an idiot, uninvited. He was wearing a pair of threadbare cotton joggers and a faded Holyhead Harpies t-shirt, and his feet were bare. He was also holding a small silver spoon, for some reason. Draco’s heart stuttered in his chest. Pathetic, Draco.

“I should have owled—”

“Shh,” Harry hushed him, holding his finger in front of his own mouth, the spoon-wielding hand raised in front of him. He darted a wary glance at a set of dark, heavy curtains hanging in the corridor behind him, before walking carefully over to Draco, making as little noise as possible.

Draco expected some sort of explanation, but Harry only smiled when he reached him, standing up on his tiptoes and giving him a kiss. It was… sweet. Literally. Draco held his face and kissed him deeper, darting his tongue between Harry’s full lips, already feeling his nerves settle. Sugary.

Harry settled back down on his heels, grinning, his eyes bright in the dim room. The smile fell as he looked around and scowled at the sconces, shaking his head. He took Draco’s hand, gave him another silent shh, and led him out of the room, down a dark hallway to what appeared to be a sitting room.

The room was the strangest combination of oppressive pureblood and Harry Potter that Draco had ever seen. He could tell half of the furniture was original to the house, and the other half, Harry must have just… found somewhere. The leather sofa was faded and large, draped with numerous hand-knit throws. An intricately carved mahogany coffee table sat in front of it, with a few round water stains on the top. On the other side of the table were two mismatched armchairs, in different shades of red.

One section of shelves on the wall was covered in what Draco assumed was music, since he recognized a boombox, next to a few other small muggle machines. The rest of the shelves were covered in old tomes: dusty, leatherbound texts that probably contained pureblood genealogies, that Draco knew Harry would never, ever read. There was a pile of Quidditch magazines growing on the floor next to the armchair, and an open carton of ice cream on the coffee table.

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have cleaned up a bit,” Harry muttered. Draco turned to see him leaning in the doorway, anxiously watching Draco assess the room. “It’s not normally this bright.” He waved his hand vaguely at the sconces on the wall, which had brightened when they entered. There was a small fire going in the hearth, fighting off the unseasonable chill of the room.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked,” Draco said, his shoulders sagging a little. Harry chuckled softly and pushed himself off of the door frame, approaching him. He was still holding the spoon.

“I don’t mind. I’m glad you’re here. I’m just sorry you have to see it like this.” He waved the spoon around, grimacing. “I’m sorry you have to see it at all, honestly, but it seems to like you, regardless.”

Draco frowned. “What, the house?”

Harry nodded, looking around the room. “I told you, it’s never this bright.”

“Harry, why on earth are you holding a spoon?” Draco asked, unable to help himself any longer. Harry laughed.

“I was eating ice cream, before I was interrupted,” Harry nodded to the carton on the table, already making another ring stain with its condensation. “Can I get you anything? Tea, water, something stronger?”

“Is that the cake batter ice cream?” Draco demanded, squinting to read the label from where he stood. Harry nodded again, looking pleased that Draco had remembered.

“Then firewhiskey, please, if you have it,” Draco said. “And another spoon. I want to try this combination you’re so attached to.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” Harry chuckled, leaving the room. Draco watched him walk away, hearing his quietened footsteps making their way through the hall, down a small set of creaking stairs.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, surveying the room again, wandering leisurely over to Harry’s music shelves.

Harry’s records were much smaller, and shinier, and made of plastic. Draco had seen records like this a few times before, but he didn’t know how they worked. Pansy would probably know. He glanced briefly at the titles, and moved on to the cassette tapes. Those, he knew how to work, now. He tilted his head to the side to read the spines. He didn’t recognize any of them.

Harry appeared behind him with a hand on Draco’s shoulder, startling him.

“Circe’s sagging tits, Harry, is there a reason you’re practicing stealth in your own house?”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, grinning shyly at him and handing over a glass of firewhiskey and a silver spoon. “Trying not to wake your bloody great aunt.”

“A portrait, I assume?”

“A fucking nightmare of a portrait, Draco, I hope you never have to meet her. You afraid of the CDs or something?”

“The what?”

“The CDs,” Harry repeated, smirking, motioning to the small, shiny plastic records.

“Is that what they’re called?” Draco mumbled, eyeing them curiously. Harry stepped over to them, running his finger along the plastic spines of the sleeves, carefully pulling one of them out. He handed it over to Draco, who took it gingerly.

“OK Computer,” Draco read aloud, opening the case and examining the reflective plastic disc inside. “Are you going to show me how to listen to it, or just stand there and watch me fail?”

Harry laughed, taking it back from him, setting his drink on the shelf. He popped the disc out of its case and inserted it into a slot on the boombox. Draco jumped a little when the machine sucked it in unexpectedly, and Harry snickered at him, leading him over to the sofa as guitar riffs filled the room.

“What is this, then?” Draco asked, settling in at Harry’s side, taking a sip of firewhiskey.

“It’s my favourite album for eating ice cream alone in my house,” Harry replied simply.

“Oh, do you need me to leave?” Draco deadpanned. Harry laughed again.

“Definitely not. Maybe it’ll sound even better with someone else.”

Harry picked up the carton of ice cream, holding his spoon in his mouth while he situated it on top of his thigh. The condensation left a dark ring on his grey joggers.

Draco took the spoon from Harry’s mouth and leaned over to kiss him, because he could, because seeing Harry so… at home, even though it wasn’t home, was causing that tight feeling in his chest, and he could actually do something about it now. He kissed Harry slowly, lazily, reflecting the feeling of this barefoot Harry in joggers, eating ice cream out of the carton. Draco knew he himself would be mortified to be seen like this, but Harry made it look like something worth aspiring to—a kind of ease Draco had never really known.

“In an interstellar burst
I am back to save the universe…”

He pulled back gently, opening his eyes to take in Harry’s dazed face, eyes still closed in contentment. The carton of ice cream was tilting dangerously on his leg, his dark hair was a complete mess, and Draco savoured the perfect moment of requiescence, while he could.

Harry opened his eyes, eventually, to find Draco still watching him.

“Hello,” he slurred, coming back down from the clouds. Draco grinned at him, and Harry’s face mirrored it slowly. “Was there a reason for your visit? There doesn’t need to be, I’m happy you’re here, but you looked a bit upset coming in.”

“There is,” Draco replied, smile falling, returning Harry’s spoon. “I started with Boran today.”

“How’d that go?” Harry adjusted the ice cream on his lap, sticking his spoon in it and taking a sip of firewhiskey.

“It went alright, I have enough to start with. But he saw something, or—or felt something, afterward.”

“Like a prediction?”

“Sort of,” Draco furrowed his brows. “He told me to tell you to be careful, and that you’ll need your shields.”

Harry frowned, setting down his glass on the table and turning to face Draco.

“My shields?”

“That’s what he said. He said…” Draco closed his eyes to remember it. “Someone, someones, want what you have. Something you got from me.”

Which was frustrating, and vague, but at least more direct than Boran’s last prophecy. It made Draco uneasy, that he didn’t know who or where or when someone would try to get something from Harry, only that they would, and Draco could only hope that Harry would be shielded in time. Or that he would shield himself.

Draco opened his eyes again to see Harry’s brows drawn together, distressed and confused, deep in thought. Draco did something he’d been wanting to do for ages: he reached up and gently smoothed the crease between Harry’s brows with his thumb. Harry snapped out of it, a small, surprised smile adorning his lips.

“You’re safe, here, right?” Draco asked. Harry nodded, green eyes locked onto Draco’s. “Then let’s not worry about it for tonight. I already feel better, just being—” he stopped himself, pressing his lips together, because sweet Merlin, would that sound pathetic. Judging by the amused, knowing look on Harry’s face, he knew what he was about to say, anyway. Just being with you.

Harry leaned in and kissed him, once. An acknowledgement, a reciprocation.

“Now, eat this ice cream, or I’ll eat it all myself,” Harry ordered. Draco happily obliged, and was not disappointed by the delectable combination, as promised.

The firewhiskey burned delightfully down his throat, soothed immediately by the cold sweetness of the ice cream, which tasted like the batter Draco would swipe from the Manor kitchens as a child when the elves weren’t looking. It made him feel warm and nostalgic.

They sat together on the squashy sofa for a while, Harry listening to Draco tell stories about the mischief he got into as a child, laughing with him, bright and simple and easy. Draco’s Oxfords lay discarded on the floor, his legs folded comfortably underneath him on the sofa. The fire was dying slowly, the already dim room darkening further, and Draco kept talking, reveling in Harry’s full attention.

“Karma police, I’ve given all I can, it’s not enough…”

When Draco finally ran out of things to say, he set his spoon and empty glass down on the table, sighing in satisfaction.

“Draco,” Harry began tentatively, and Draco lifted his head up to meet his eyes, a little nervous at his tone.

“When you said…” Harry looked down and set the ice cream on the table, leaving his spoon in the carton. He cleared his throat. “In the forest, you said you wanted to stand with me, you said you wanted to, erm—to be mine.”

Draco nodded slowly, watching Harry’s hands fidget in his lap. “I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Every word,” Draco replied instantly. “What’s this about, Harry?”

A blush was growing on Harry’s cheeks. He tucked his leg under him and turned his body to face Draco fully, his expression apprehensive, but determined.

“There’s a, erm… One of Hermione’s charities… I told her I’d go, help her with publicity or whatever…”

Draco could vaguely see where this was going, and he raised his eyebrow, waiting for Harry to say it.

“It’s next week, some formal thing, probably boring as all hell, a lot of fundraising and whatnot…”

Spit it out, Harry.

“If you wanted to, it’d probably be more fun if you were there, you know, with me.”

Close enough. Draco waited for more, but nothing came. Harry watched him expectantly, his eyes full of trepidation.

“You’re asking me to attend a charity ball with you?” Draco clarified, sitting up straight, his feet on the floor again. “As your date? In public, for all the world to see?”

“Yeah, well, I completely understand if you don’t want to, the Prophet is a bloody nightmare around me—”

“They’re a nightmare around me as well, you know,” Draco said, his lips twitching. “They’re going to lose their minds, Harry.”

“I know, I get it, it’s a lot to ask—“

“It’s not,” Draco interrupted him softly, lips spreading in a small, amused grin, before falling again, furrowing his brows. “You’re really serious about this, then?”

Harry nodded. He still looked so bashful. Did he really think Draco would say no? To Harry wanting him enough to tell all of Wizarding Britain?

“Of course I’ll go with you, Harry. As long as you’re prepared for the backlash.”

“I’m more worried about you, to be honest. I know how nasty the public can be,” Harry said quietly. “It feels selfish, asking you to do this.”

“Good,” Draco grinned widely, ridiculously pleased. “I want you to be selfish, for me.”

Harry’s smile was shy, his fingers worrying the inseam of his joggers. Adorable. Draco couldn’t help but lean in and kiss him again.

“You really want everyone to know you’re dating a Death Eater Legilimens? And a man to boot?” Draco asked quietly, brushing his lips, still stunned despite himself.

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed, throwing a leg over Draco’s thighs and straddling his lap. He placed his hands on the back of the couch above Draco’s shoulders, boxing him in.

“I want everyone to know you’re mine,” he murmured, blushing furiously at his admission. Draco’s eyes widened as a thrill swept through him, and he skimmed his hands up Harry’s sides. This, he hadn’t seen coming.

“Who knew the good and virtuous Saint Potter had a possessive streak?”

“Whatever,” Harry rolled his eyes again, scoffing, obviously embarrassed. He was so damn easy to tease. Draco’s hands slid to his stomach, exploring the landscape of muscle beneath the faded t-shirt. Harry’s hands fell to Draco’s shoulders, down his chest.

“Do you own any clothes without buttons?” Harry asked, feeling the sleek fabric of Draco’s dark blue waistcoat between his fingertips, his tone half-complaining and half-curious. Still so tactile.

“Undershirts and jumpers, Harry.”

“Undershirts?”

“You would just call them shirts, I think.”

“Prat,” Harry grumbled, carefully undoing the many mother-of-pearl buttons, leaning in and brushing his lips against the corner of Draco’s jaw. Draco’s breath hitched faintly, closing his eyes with the frisson of sparks that ran down his spine.

“Harry,” he said breathily, “if you’re going to be seen with me in public, you’d better not wear those ghastly formal robes you’ve been wearing for years.”

Harry pulled back with an incredulous look on his face.

“Oh? My robes not good enough for you, your highness?”

“They’re awful and you know it,” Draco smirked, pushing his t-shirt up. “You can keep calling me that, though.”

“You are such a ponce,” Harry groused through a reluctant grin, taking the hem of his shirt in his hands and pulling it off swiftly. “Fine, I’ll get new bloody clothes, so that I might be worthy of your attention, your highness.”

Draco wrapped an arm around his waist and twisted abruptly, throwing Harry off his lap to the sofa, eliciting a joyful, surprised laugh from his mouth. Draco crawled over him, sliding his waistcoat off, dropping it on the floor next to Harry’s shirt.

“You’ve always held my attention, you complete idiot,” Draco mumbled against his chest, kissing his way over the warm skin to Harry’s throat, hiding his own blush.

“That so?” Harry’s breath caught, his fingers fumbling on his next obstacle: Draco’s silk tie. Draco didn’t bother to answer. He’d long since reached his quota of pitiful sentimentality for the evening. He kissed Harry passionately instead, shutting him up.

“Pull me out of the air crash
Pull me out of the lake
'Cause I'm your superhero…”

Harry tasted like cinnamon and sweet cream, like a decadent indulgence. It made Draco feel hedonistic, as he ran his tongue over Harry’s warm, full lips, spoiling himself rotten. Harry finally got his tie loose and slipped it out of Draco’s collar, facing yet another hurdle: more buttons.

Draco’s hand wandered freely while Harry worked, tugging on his hair, thumbing his lips, grazing his nipple. Harry’s hips jerked up, the joggers doing nothing to hide his growing arousal. He growled quietly in frustration, gripping Draco’s shirt, his strong, calloused fingers no longer effective on the intricate buttons. Draco tsked and sat up, kneeling between his legs.

“Just because you’ve no respect for your own clothes, Harry, doesn’t mean you can destroy mine,” Draco quipped, his voice huskier than he’d meant it to be. He started deftly undoing the buttons himself as Harry huffed at him, raising his arms over his head in repose.

“Fine. Less work for me,” Harry retorted, smirking. Draco’s hands started to shake at the sight he made, spread confidently beneath him on the sofa, his joggers tenting as he watched Draco undress. Draco’s cheeks burned under his heated gaze, flushing all the way down to his chest, and it definitely wasn’t from the firewhiskey.

“Sometimes I get overcharged
That's when you see sparks…”

Draco finally got his shirt open and quickly unfastened the cuffs, shrugging it off his shoulders.

“What do you want, Harry?” he asked in a low voice, leaning over him again. Harry shook his head, a wicked grin adorning his face.

“I’ve already been selfish tonight. Tell me what you want, Draco.”

Draco paused, staring at him, trying to read his thoughts from his expression alone. What did Draco want?

Everything, Harry.

He watched his own slender hand move slowly over Harry’s skin. His fingers skimmed with a faint, barely-there touch, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Harry’s breath quickened, and Draco met his eyes, captivating and brilliant, greener than Draco’s overgrown garden.

“I want you,” Draco murmured. “I want to be yours. I want you to show me what that means.”

Draco already knew what it meant. He felt like he’d been Harry’s for an embarrassingly long time. He didn’t know what Harry meant by it.

Harry’s hands came up to hold Draco’s face, and he was giving him that look again, like he didn’t have the words to properly convey his meaning, like he was trying desperately to tell Draco something with only his eyes. He was intense and enthralling and so, so beautiful, and Draco barely resisted the urge to tumble wandlessly into his head again. It would be so easy.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, a word that sounded as natural to him as breathing. An automatic function he didn’t need to be aware of, but performed reverently all the same. Draco’s hand contracted against his chest, his fingers pressing into Harry’s sternum. He felt speared by Harry’s piercing gaze, by his name embodied in a breath of air from Harry’s lungs.

“Feel me,” Harry implored, biting his lip. “See me.”

Draco didn’t have to ask what he meant. He swallowed, somehow nervous, and called on his training, engaging the hard-earned magical perceptivity he kept locked away in his mind.

He gasped as it crashed over him like a wave, and his arms buckled, failing to hold him up under the rush of lightheadedness. Harry’s magic, wild and fierce, billowed around him in transparent currents that shimmered when they caught the sparse light. Draco felt like he was submerged suddenly in a pool of warm syrup, thick and sweet and silent—floating, or carried, wrapped up in the charged humidity of a summer storm, the indulgent taste of treacle on his tongue.

Harry.

He felt Harry’s chest against his own, Harry’s powerful arms surrounding him, pulling him tight against his body. In the back of his mind, Draco realized this was entirely intentional, Harry was moving his magic on his own, surrounding him with it, cradling him with it, and Draco had never felt so small, or so safe. He heard an involuntary whimper leave his throat, his fingers dug into Harry’s skin. He was short of breath, pressing himself as close as he could to Harry, touching him with every part of his body, drawn to him and his extraordinary power like a moth to flame. Here. Yours.

Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck and tightened the arms around him. “Hold on.”

He didn’t need to tell Draco twice.

A building tension in the surrounding air, a shiver of goosebumps over Draco’s skin, a sharp, charged crack like lightning in the room and a suffocating, squeezing sensation and Draco was suddenly in a bed, on top of Harry.

“Fucking hell,” Draco wheezed, “did you just tear through your own wards to take me to bed?” His voice was breathy and indignant, but his cock had never been harder, and he was grinding instinctively against Harry’s thick, muscled thigh, his hands running greedily over his body.

“I did,” Harry replied, rolling them over. The air around him still oscillated like a heat wave, incandescent green and red and gold refracting the candlelight, and when had Harry even lit those candles?

Harry settled his weight on top of him and rolled his hips, and Draco closed his eyes, bucking up against him, his mouth falling open with the surge of pleasure. Harry took advantage of it, slipping his tongue between Draco’s teeth, and Draco groaned and let him, intoxicated by Harry’s blatant desire for him. He sunk his fingers in Harry’s riotous hair, letting out more involuntary sounds as he pulled him closer, kissed him deeper, drowning himself in the sweet slide of Harry’s tongue against his own, the insistent, synchronous grind of their hips.

“Harry,” he breathed, as Harry’s lips moved to his throat, his collarbone, his chest. His rough hands held Draco’s waist, his tongue licked firmly over his nipple, causing a sharp intake of breath in Draco’s lungs. Draco arched into him and tipped his head back, and he could already feel a prominent wet spot in his trousers. How the hell was he still wearing trousers?

Harry seemed to realize the same thing, making quick work of Draco’s belt and fly, slipping his hand beneath the waistband, groaning in satisfaction as Draco bucked into him again. He gave him a few slow strokes, lavishing more attention on Draco’s nipple, and pulled his hand back out.

Harry sat up and stripped off the rest of Draco’s clothes, once again taking in the view before him, cupping his own erection over his joggers, as if he couldn’t help but touch himself at the sight. Draco felt simultaneously exposed and desired, vulnerable and adored. Harry’s free hand slid down Draco’s thigh as his awestruck eyes roved his body, until he was watching the path of his own fingers, tapping them against Draco’s skin one at a time, one, two, three, four, five.

“Harry,” Draco repeated softly, partly to get Harry’s attention, partly just for the way it felt in his mouth. Harry’s eyes snapped back up to him, the corners of his lips turned up in a small smile that felt like dawn in Draco’s chest.

“Unreal,” Harry mumbled, his fingers gliding over Draco’s legs. He leaned down and kissed his way up Draco’s thigh, licking over the crease of his hip. Draco’s hips jerked again, chasing his touch. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

Draco’s hand found his cheek, and Harry turned his face into it, kissing his palm, sucking lightly on his finger, feeling the pulse on his wrist against his lips. He held onto Draco’s arm and continued further, and Draco inhaled sharply, realizing where he was going. Harry paused and eyed his face carefully, waiting.

Draco stared at him for a moment, witnessing the conviction in his shining eyes, before he let out the shaky breath he was holding. He relaxed his left arm into Harry’s hold, sliding his fingers into Harry’s hair. Harry returned his attention to Draco’s forearm, pressing his lips to the scarred, discoloured skin, leaving behind a brand of his own.

His broad hands moved intently over Draco’s stomach, and his mouth followed, starting at the dark blond curls just above the base of Draco’s cock, dipping his tongue into the navel, brushing his lips over the long, thin scars. Draco’s heart was galloping, his body vibrating. He tipped his head back into the mattress as Harry’s mouth approached his throat, his tongue darting out just to taste his skin.

“You’re stunning, Draco,” he said, one strong hand sliding up to grasp Draco’s chin lightly, forcing him to meet Harry’s eyes again, his gaze stripping him barer than his hands ever could. “And you’re mine.”

Draco’s hands shook as they dug into Harry’s back, the words echoing around his head, mingling with the heady currents of green grass and warm rain.

“Yours,” Draco repeated, his legs encircling Harry’s hips. “And you’re mine.”

He caught a glimpse of Harry’s smile before it met Draco’s lips, sweet like treacle, warm like firewhiskey, heavy like cream. Draco relished in it, in Harry finally taking what was his.

“Fuck me, Harry,” he purred against Harry’s cheek. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

Harry let out a shuddering breath, and Draco felt the violent shiver run through his body. He couldn’t believe he was the one who could make Harry tremble like this.

He heard a drawer opening, felt another charge in the air, and opened his eyes to see a small bottle fly into Harry’s waiting hand.

“Such a bloody showoff,” Draco muttered. Harry’s smile was radiant, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He watched Draco’s face as he waved his hand again, and Draco gasped at the protection and cleaning charms that swept through his arse without warning. He growled indignantly at Harry’s amused expression.

“I could swear you do it just to drive me mad,” he grumbled. Harry laughed softly, kissing him again, his lips, his jaw, his ear.

“You’d be right,” Harry replied, in that rough, familiar voice. Draco could feel the smirk against his ear, traveling down his throat, nipping once at his collarbone, finding his nipple. He closed his lips over the sensitive skin and sucked, and Draco whimpered, bucking his hips.

Harry continued further south, his hands caressing every part of Draco he could reach, until he lay between Draco’s legs, his warm breath ghosting over Draco’s leaking cock. Draco’s body shook with anticipation, his breaths quick and heavy through his mouth, making him lightheaded. Every muscle tensed with his eagerness and nervousness, volatile and unstable, desperate for relief, for anything Harry would give him.

“Draco,” Harry murmured, stroking his thighs. “Relax.”

Harry watched him try to control his breathing, loosen his limbs. Draco didn’t look away from him.

He must have seen something in Draco’s expression, because his face softened further, his large hands rubbed soothingly over the skin of Draco’s hips.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, and somehow, Draco believed him.

He wrapped his hand around Draco’s shaft, guiding it to his mouth. He swiped the precome from the tip with his tongue, watching Draco’s eyelids flutter, his breath catch in his throat. He kissed and licked and experimented, cataloguing Draco’s reactions, taking his sweet time, driving Draco insane.

“Harry…” Draco’s voice was ragged, desperate. His hips were moving of their own accord, tightly secured by Harry’s hands. Harry finally wrapped his lips around the head and lowered himself down as much as he could, encasing Draco’s cock in sweet, wet heat, sucking his way back up. Draco groaned shamelessly, his toes curled. His hands found Harry’s hair automatically, tangling his fingers in the disheveled curls.

Harry pulled off for only a moment, grabbing the tiny bottle and fumbling with the cork, coating two fingers with shiny lube. Draco saw him frown at his hand for a second, and a faint heat wave came off of his palm. Draco growled softly, and even he couldn’t tell if it was with annoyance or arousal. Harry looked up at him again, another smug grin on his face.

He stroked Draco’s cock once, brushed the dark blonde curls at the base, rolled Draco’s balls in his hand, rubbed the perineum with his knuckle. Draco spread his legs further, pulling up one knee with his hand. Harry turned his face and kissed his ankle, just once, like an impulse, and returned his perfect mouth to Draco’s cock.

Harry’s warm, slick finger reached his entrance, lightly circling the rim. Draco’s sharp intake of breath accompanied the realization that he was actually, truly nervous. Why the hell was he nervous? He was no blushing virgin, he’d fucked and been fucked before, so what if it had been… Merlin, had it really been a few years?

This wasn’t new, but it was. Harry was new, but he wasn’t. Everything Draco felt for him had been buried so deep within him that the familiarity of it tangled messily with the shock of allowing it. He never thought he’d end up here, and yet somehow it felt inevitable.

“Draco,” Harry’s rasping voice pulled him from his head. He was watching Draco carefully again, his finger still rubbing light circles. “We don’t have to.”

Draco shook his head quickly. “I want to,” he assured, his hand on Harry’s cheek. “Merlin, I want to so badly. It’s just, erm… It’s been a while.”

Harry smiled softly, kissing Draco’s palm. “I’ll go slow,” he said. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

Draco believed him. He really did. He was still thrumming with nerves.

Until Harry licked up the side of his cock, wrapped his lips around the head and sucked, and gently pressed the tip of his finger inside on Draco’s heavy exhale, thoroughly and efficiently distracting him with a surge of pleasure.

Harry pushed in further as his mouth sank lower, pulled back out as he sucked his way back up. Draco tried not to think about how he got so good at this, nor how he hadn’t seen any of it in Harry’s memories. It didn’t matter, now—Harry was his, Harry was here, his attention focused entirely on Draco alone.

Draco felt Harry’s knuckles against his skin, Harry’s finger buried inside him, and his body jerked with a sudden burst of white-hot pleasure. Harry moaned with his success, hearing Draco gasp, and brushed the tip of his finger over Draco’s prostate again. A throaty whimper left Draco’s lips.

Harry gently pulled out, lifting his mouth from Draco’s cock. Draco opened his eyes and saw him adding more lube to his fingers. He could see the dark spot of moisture where Harry’s cock leaked against his joggers, he could still see the ring of condensation left by the carton of ice cream on his thigh.

He put his hand under Draco’s other leg and lifted it, kissing the inside of his thigh tenderly, his lips marking a path up to his groin. Draco rested his heel on Harry’s back as Harry draped him over his shoulder, settling back down between his legs.

Harry licked his cock again, buried his face in the crease of his hip, sucked gently on one of his balls, then the other. Draco whimpered, taking a deep breath in, then out, and Harry pressed back in with two thick, oiled fingers.

Draco arched his hips, his eyes squeezing shut and his body tensing at the sudden stretch. Harry waited, returning his attention to Draco’s cock, his green eyes bright and watchful on Draco’s face. Under Harry’s talented ministrations and acute attention, his body relaxed, distracted by the waves of pleasure Harry was causing with his delectable mouth. Harry’s fingers moved steadily, grazing his prostate on the way in, scissoring and stretching him gently as he pulled out.

Draco ran his fingers indulgently through Harry’s hair as he worked, imprinting the sight of him with Draco’s leg on his shoulder in his mind. For a rainy day.

Harry’s fingers hit his prostate again, when his cock hit the back of Harry’s throat, and it was rapidly becoming too much, too fast.

“Harry,” he whined, tugging on his hair. Harry got the message, and lifted his mouth off, to Draco’s relief and dismay. He pulled his fingers out, added more lube, and started slowly pressing in with three, kissing and nipping at his inner thigh. The coiling tension at the base of his spine receded slowly, replaced by the burn and sudden fullness.

“Oh, hell,” Draco groaned, his head falling back as his body accommodated the intrusion. His breathing was shallow, his fingers grabbing onto Harry’s hair, his other fist clenched in the duvet. He could still feel Harry’s eyes on him, his fingers moving in small, slow pushes, stretching him further as they pressed deeper, his mouth on Draco’s skin, anywhere it could reach.

He curled his fingers inside Draco again, and Draco cried out softly as the discomfort was gradually replaced by waves of breathlessness, his hips steadily pushing back against Harry’s fingers. Draco’s leg started to shake on his shoulder, his toes curling on Harry’s back.

Harry slowly pulled his fingers out and stripped off his joggers. Draco watched him hungrily, the sight of his hard, heavy cock making his mouth water. Harry grabbed a pillow and tapped Draco’s hip gently, and Draco lifted up, allowing Harry to situate it under him.

He poured a generous amount of lube over his cock, groaning softly as he stroked himself. He lifted Draco’s legs, spreading him wide as he leaned over him. Draco’s hands ran hungrily over his chest, his shoulders, his neck.

“Do you want this?” Harry asked quietly, the tension in his body and his dilated pupils giving away just how much he wanted this.

“Yes,” Draco replied instantly, pulling his head down to kiss him hard. Harry groaned again, moving his own hand down and guiding his cock, rubbing the head over the stretched, swollen rim. Draco’s mouth dropped open, and Harry slipped his tongue inside, just as he pushed in. Draco gasped again as he held Harry’s face against his own, adjusting once more—even after three fingers, Harry felt huge.

He could feel Harry’s body shaking with the effort of keeping himself still, breathing hard against Draco’s neck, his grip brutal on Draco’s leg. Draco’s hand slid to the back of his neck, up into his hair.

“Harry, yes,” Draco breathed, and Harry pushed in a little further, pulled back slowly, pushed in even more. Harry mouthed absently at his jaw, his stubble grazing over Draco’s cheek. Draco could feel the sweat building on his hairline.

Draco finally felt Harry’s balls against his skin, Harry’s full length buried inside him. Draco pulled his face up to kiss him again, whispering into his mouth, yes, Harry, perfect, mine. Harry’s hand came up and gently pushed Draco’s hair off of his sweaty forehead, stroking his face, and braced himself. He pulled out almost all the way, and thrust back in, knocking the breath out of Draco’s lungs.

He lifted Draco’s leg over his shoulder again, hooking the other around his waist, thrusting in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Fuck, Draco, the way you feel…”

Draco felt completely immersed in him, his warm, sweaty skin, his firm grip, the effervescent currents of magic around him, the delicious pressure and slide of his cock inside him.

“That’s perfect, Harry, yes…”

Harry’s breath caught slightly, his hips stuttered. Draco’s hands found his face again, held it close to his own.

“You feel so good, don’t stop, fuck, Harry,” Draco whined, drawing in a sharp breath as Harry groaned, his hips speeding up. He pushed Draco’s knee to his chest, settling his weight over him, angling his thrusts until Draco cried out, his cock leaking copiously between their stomachs.

“Yes! Right there, so good, oh please…”

Harry’s free hand found his own, intertwining their fingers, pinning them against the bed next to Draco’s head. His other hand left Draco’s leg to find his cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts, making Draco writhe and whine beneath him.

“I’ve got you,” Harry repeated, watching Draco come apart. “You’re mine.”

A wild thrill ran through Draco’s limbs, filling his veins with feverish sparks, carrying him in a wave of mounting pleasure.

“Yes, Harry, yours, I’m yours—”

His eyes rolled back as he came, his back arching, his body keening and shuddering in Harry’s arms. Harry’s thrusts were relentless, and he stroked every last ounce of pleasure from him, while Draco panted and twitched, until Draco squeezed his hand and found his face with the other, taking hold of his hair.

“Inside me, come on, I want to watch you, Harry, you’re so beautiful,” Draco slurred, making Harry’s hips speed up again, his face tense and breaths ragged. He watched Draco with eyes full of ecstasy and awe. “Look at you, Merlin, you amaze me, I can’t believe you're mine.”

Harry released his grip on Draco’s hand and held onto his hips instead, pulling them up, slamming into him as he unwound, control slipping as he lost himself to his pleasure. Draco watched and whimpered and whispered praises at him, completely entranced, until Harry’s whole body tensed, his hips faltering and burying himself deep, his mouth dropping open with a rough, euphoric cry. Draco’s arse filled suddenly with warmth, making him groan in satisfaction.

Harry gave a few more slow thrusts, moaning as he prolonged his pleasure as long as he could. Draco’s leg fell from his shoulder, and wrapped around his hips instead, holding him there. Harry collapsed carefully on top of him, mouthing at his throat, his chest slippery against Draco’s own. Draco wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in his neck, breathing in the heady scent of sweat and sex and Harry.

Harry pulled out his softening cock slowly, and Draco hissed as his arse clenched around nothing, warm come leaking out onto his skin. He didn’t let go, and Harry didn’t try to move otherwise, though Draco’s come was drying uncomfortably between them. He simply wrapped himself around Draco, his nose in Draco’s sweaty hair.

“Stay,” Harry mumbled against his neck. Draco smiled as widely as he wanted, knowing Harry wouldn’t see it.

“‘Would’ve crashed on your sofa if you tried to kick me out,’” he replied, quoting him. Harry lifted his head to look at him, smirking, eyes half-closed in post-orgasm lethargy.

“Look at that, you’re stealing my words, for once,” Harry said, his voice quiet and hoarse.

“Don’t get used to it,” Draco grinned up at him. “It’s a very rare occurrence indeed, you saying anything worth repeating.”

Harry pinched his side, shaking his head fondly. Draco jerked and laughed, feeling like he was floating, content and carefree in a pool of warm honey.

Harry waved his hand, sending a hefty cleaning charm over them both, and Draco spluttered as another of Harry’s cinnamony mouth cleaning charms swept through his mouth. Harry smiled at his petty revenge and rolled off of him, standing from the bed to pull back the duvet. He tapped Draco’s bum to make him move out of the way, and Draco scoffed, but obliged, tucking himself back into the covers as soon as he could, pulling it up to his chin.

Harry chuckled at him, eyes gleaming with warmth. He set his glasses and wand on the nightstand and slipped into the bed next to Draco, laying on his side to face him, one arm tucked under the pillow. Draco mirrored him, and slid his fingers into Harry’s free hand. Harry’s soft smile seemed a permanent fixture on his face, and Draco knew he himself was wearing one as well. They lay there watching each other, Draco studying every inch of Harry’s blissful expression, for a long time, until Draco broke the silence, as he was used to doing.

“You’ve done that before,” he muttered, thinking out loud.

“Done what?”

“Fucked.”

Harry snorted softly. “You think we just fucked?” he said, not quite a question, one eyebrow raising slowly.

No, Draco thought, shaking his head gently, we didn’t. That wasn’t fucking.

“Yes, Draco, I have fucked before, and so have you, I’d wager,” Harry continued. “But I’ve never done that before.”

Made love, Draco filled in the blank. He wasn’t going to say it, either. But Harry had just made love to him.

“I’ve never seen it,” Draco mumbled. “I saw so many memories of you at those muggle clubs, but I never saw you leave with anyone.”

Harry’s lips quirked, his eyes flicked down to their hands. “Because I didn’t want you to. They’re not really worth seeing.”

“I knew it,” Draco said, eyes widening as he propped himself up on his arm, staring down at him in accusation. “You are an Occlumens, you bloody liar—”

“I’m not! I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing, I certainly never learned how to discipline my mind or whatever,” Harry interrupted, grinning sheepishly. “I just sort of… I don’t know. Steered you, a little.”

“A little?” Draco repeated, aghast. “But I could feel you when you shoved me past those breadcrumbs—”

“Well, you knew they were there, and tried very hard to get to them. I had to work a bit harder for those.”

“You played me.”

“I did not. Unless you wanted to see them?” Harry raised his eyebrow, the corner of his lips pulling up in a teasing smirk.

“Merlin, no,” Draco grimaced. “What I did see was bad enough.”

“Then that’s settled,” Harry said, his tone light. He grabbed Draco around the waist and pulled him down on top of him, making Draco huff indignantly.

“Just when I thought I knew you,” Draco muttered, shaking his head, resting his chin on his hands, on Harry’s chest.

“You do know me, Draco.” Harry brought his hand to Draco’s face, gently brushing the sleek hair off of Draco’s forehead, running his fingers through it. Draco shook his head again.

“Not as well as I’d like to.”

“Well, we’ve plenty of time,” Harry said, Draco’s favourite little smile on his face. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Draco sighed and laid his face down on Harry’s chest, hearing his miraculous heartbeat beneath his ear.

“Everything.”

“That’ll take a while,” Harry chuckled. Draco smiled against his skin.

“As you said, we’ve plenty of time.”

Harry kissed the top of his head and tightened his arms around him.

“Twice in one night, who knew I could be so well-spoken?”

“Certainly not me,” Draco answered wryly, lifting his face to kiss the quiet laughter from Harry’s mouth.

Friday, 12 May

Draco’s slim fingers skimmed lightly over Harry’s skin, mesmerized by the predawn light falling over the contours of muscle. The sheets had fallen down to Harry’s hips, and Draco thought he might be cold, but he slept on, content and unaware.

Harry’s hair was splayed over the dark green pillowcase, a curly, tangled mess. His arm curled over his head, while the other rested on his stomach. Draco was hypnotized by the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his firm chest, the sound of the quiet breaths passing through his nose.

It still felt like such a privilege, to see Harry like this, peaceful and defenseless. It still made his chest tighten, it still pulled him inexorably closer. He couldn’t help but touch him, watch over him, let his body lean toward Harry’s warmth.

It was a rare thing for Draco to be awake this early, but it usually happened in unfamiliar beds. Therefore, it hadn’t happened in years.

It would be around this time that a young, hungover Draco would slip out of a nameless wizard’s bed, leaving an apologetic note in Turkish or French or Italian or whatever, but not this time. He was completely sober, he felt well-rested, and the dull ache in his arse brought him no shame—only a giddy, fluttering feeling in his stomach, an irrepressible grin.

He was also hopelessly, unavoidably in love with the man he’d woken up with. That was definitely a new experience.

But Harry didn’t need to know that just yet. Only two people in the world knew the depth of Draco’s feelings for him, and one of them had quite literally forced it out of him.

Draco’s finger froze on Harry’s unmoving arm. That person, the worst living man Draco knew, Harry apparently saw regularly, and would definitely enjoy ruining Draco’s happiness.

Please, let him keep his mouth shut, he prayed, to whoever was listening. Please let me keep this.

Would Harry run, if he knew? Did he already know? He wanted the world to know Draco was his, was that the same thing? Or was that just a kink—

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Harry said suddenly, his voice quiet and rough with sleep. His eyes were still closed, his mouth curved in a tiny, tired smile. Draco huffed lightly, his fingers resuming their wandering journey.

Harry opened his eyes to watch him, and Draco’s breath caught at the rapture in them, all because he’d woken up with Draco in his bed.

“You’re up early,” Harry noted, brushing a piece of Draco’s hair behind his ear.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” Harry replied, smirking. “But I will enjoy it while it lasts.”

Draco’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. His fingers ran through the dusting of dark hair on Harry’s chest, stopping at the oval-shaped scar where a pendant would land.

“Locket,” Draco whispered. Harry nodded. Draco’s fingers moved to Harry’s shoulder, down his bicep, stopping at a large puncture scar.

“Basilisk.”

His hand continued gradually down past Harry’s elbow, reaching a long, thin line on his forearm.

“Graveyard.”

His fingers skimmed over the back of Harry’s hand, feeling the raised words beneath his fingertips.

“Blood Quill.”

He returned his hand to Harry’s stomach, finding a small lightning bolt on his sternum. He stared at it for a moment, tracing the pale, jagged lines.

“Killing Curse.”

Harry watched the path of his hand, entranced. Draco climbed on top of him and kissed the scar tenderly, hands skating over his sides. Harry ran his fingers delicately through Draco’s sleep-mussed hair.

Draco kissed his way over Harry’s stomach, stopping at a long, crooked scar on his hip. He looked up at Harry with a question in his eyes.

“A neo-Death Eater, in 2003,” Harry answered quietly. “Blasting curse hit the wall next to me.”

Draco pulled back the covers to reveal Harry’s nude body, radiant and strong, and ran his hands down Harry’s thighs, pointing at a messy scar just above his knee. Harry laughed softly.

“Fell off Teddy’s tricycle, in 2001,” he said. “Thing practically impaled me.” Draco smiled, leaning down to kiss the disfigured skin. He moved to Harry’s other thigh, brushing his lips over another long, mottled scar.

“Skin-melting potion, spilled during a raid,” Harry supplied. “Looks worse than it was.”

Draco lifted Harry’s leg, kissed his way down his calf to an older scar on his ankle. He felt the ridges of it beneath his thumb, looking up at Harry again.

“One of Marge’s dogs,” Harry grimaced. Draco kissed his ankle again, making his way back up his powerful legs, acquainting himself further with Harry’s body. How had he not made the time to do this yet?

He could hear Harry’s breath hitch slightly as he kissed and nipped at Harry’s thighs and hips, could feel his cock hardening beneath Draco’s chest. Perfect. He ran his mouth up Harry’s abdomen, finding his nipple, circling it with his tongue, watching Harry’s face.

Harry’s eyes widened. He seemed rooted to the spot, his breathing quick and shallow. Draco sucked gently, rolled the peak between his teeth, ever so lightly. Harry groaned, one broad hand finding the back of Draco’s neck. Draco nibbled a little harder, just to see, and Harry bucked his hips, gasping softly, hand tightening slightly to hold him there, sending a wave of arousal down his spine.

Interesting.

Draco wanted to try everything. He wanted to know every single thing Harry liked, every little way to rile him up. He wanted to be the only one who could ever satisfy him, everything Harry could ever want or need.

He scratched his nails up the inside of Harry’s thigh, making Harry shiver. He pinched Harry’s nipples, and Harry hissed, arching into it. He pulled on Harry’s soft, wild hair, tilting his head to the side to graze his teeth over the tendons in his neck, and Harry whined, exposing his neck further.

“Oh, Merlin, Harry, I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

Harry looked up at him, pupils blown, face flushed, his cock hard against Draco’s thigh. His lips curled into a mischievous grin, his eyes darting to Draco’s smirking mouth.

“You going to demonstrate? Or just keep talking about it?”

Draco growled softly, biting gently at his bottom lip. “Both.”

The hand on the back of Draco’s neck pulled him down into a hard, slow kiss, all nibbling teeth and driving tongue. Draco brushed his lips over his stubbled jaw, kissing his way down his chest and stomach, settling himself between Harry’s legs.

He wrapped a hand around Harry’s shaft, gazing at it hungrily. Salazar, he’d wanted to do this for so fucking long.

“Then do it,” Harry said, his breathy voice giving away his nerves and eager anticipation. Draco’s eyes widened, realizing he’d said that out loud. He leaned down and licked the bead of precome from the tip, closing his eyes at the salty bitterness, his own cock hardening rapidly against the mattress. He’d never enjoyed the taste of a man’s precome before, but of course, everything was always different with Harry.

He ran his tongue up the underside, slow and firm, watching Harry’s head fall back onto the pillow. Harry sat up suddenly and put two more pillows behind him, propping himself up, wandlessly summoning his glasses. Apparently, he wanted to watch, pinning Draco with a heated, hungry stare that made Draco blush all the way down his chest. Draco grinned and did it again, grey eyes fixed on Harry’s green, delighted when Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

Draco braced his arm over Harry’s hips to hold him down, covered his teeth with his lips, and closed his mouth over Harry’s cock. Harry groaned, fists tightening in the bedsheets.

Oh, fucking finally. Harry was hot and heavy on his tongue, filling his mouth perfectly. Draco sank down as much as he could—which wasn’t much, it had been a while—and tightened his lips, sucking back up, sliding his tongue along the vein. Harry moaned shamelessly, breathing hard. The sound sent a jolt of heat through Draco’s veins, making his hips buck against the mattress.

“Oh, holy fucking shit, Draco,” Harry breathed as Draco sank down again, a little deeper. Draco didn’t think he’d ever heard that particular combination of swears before. He liked it. Harry’s hands twitched, clenching and unclenching in the sheets as Draco bobbed and sucked. Draco knew he was itching to grab hold of Draco’s hair and shove him down.

Draco would let him, but not just yet.

He slid his hand up Harry’s stomach, instead, further up his chest. Harry picked it up immediately, leaning forward and wrapping his full lips around Draco’s middle and index fingers and sucking, hard. Draco groaned around his cock, breathing through his nose and relaxing his throat as Harry bucked slightly, no longer restrained by Draco’s arm.

Harry slid Draco’s fingers in and out of his mouth, licking between them, shooting currents of wild pleasure straight to Draco’s cock. Draco was frotting against the bed, which only served to wind him up tighter, but he couldn’t help it. He focused on Harry instead, on sucking more of his length into his mouth, on drawing as much pleasure out of him as he could.

He pulled his fingers out of Harry’s mouth and brought them down between Harry’s legs, gently rolling his balls in his hand, tugging lightly, just to see what sound Harry would make. He wasn’t disappointed by the low moan, or Harry’s gently rolling hips. He pushed his wet fingers back further, watching Harry’s face, another question in his eyes as he paused his mouth.

“Yes,” Harry said, nodding vigorously. Draco pulled off of Harry’s cock with a wet pop, his fingers rubbing circles over Harry’s entrance.

“Yes, what?”

Harry’s eyes flashed, returning Draco’s wicked grin. He spread his legs wider, running his hand through his own hair to keep from grabbing Draco’s.

“Yes, Draco, please—”

He gasped as Draco gently pushed a finger inside, following it with another delicious moan as Draco returned his mouth to his cock.

Perfect, Harry, you’re perfect.

Draco kept his finger moving steadily, in and out, crooking it slightly, trying not to get distracted by the thought of having his own cock in there instead, surrounded by tight, wet heat. He searched until Harry cried out softly, panting.

“Yes, there, oh, fucking hell…”

Draco reached with his free hand and grabbed Harry’s own, placing it on the back of his head. Harry’s fingers threaded into his hair, holding on tight.

“You’re sure?” Harry breathed, and Draco only groaned, relaxing his throat as much as he could, sinking down deep. He grazed Harry’s prostate again with his finger, rubbing the perineum with his thumb, and Harry let out a choked sob, his head falling back onto his pillows, then snapping back up to watch his cock disappear into Draco’s throat.

“Fuck, Draco, yes, please…”

Harry pushed his head down, pulled him back up by his hair, pushed him down further. Draco let him, focusing on his fingers, on hitting Harry’s prostate, on the beautiful sounds coming out of Harry’s mouth, the tensing and shaking of his thighs next to Draco’s head.

Within seconds, Harry’s moans rose in pitch, his hands tightened in Draco’s hair, his hips stuttered.

“Oh fuck, Draco, Draco…!”

Draco pressed hard with his fingers as Harry’s head rolled back, his fists in Draco’s hair shoving him down. His low voice broke as he cried out Draco’s name, over and over, thrusting deep and coming hard down Draco’s throat. Draco swallowed as much as he could, but he still spluttered, come trickling out of his mouth as Harry slowly released him.

Harry was panting, his lips wet and rosy, watching Draco with that awestruck look again. Draco stared back, wiping the come off his chin with the back of his hand.

Harry growled, grabbing his hand suddenly and pulling him up, shoving him further up his body. He kept pulling, until Draco was straddling his chest, staring down at him in disbelief.

“Bloody hell, Harry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, shaking his head incredulously. He wrapped a hand around himself, gripping tight at the base to prevent himself from coming immediately. Harry looked up at him, his eyes shiny and brilliantly green, grabbed hold of Draco’s arse and pushed his hips closer to his face.

“Come on, Draco.” Another challenge. Draco gave in with a whimper and leaned forward, his hands on the headboard, sliding his cock between Harry’s lips.

“Fuck.” Draco sighed with the rush of relief, pulled out and thrust back in gently, guided by Harry’s strong hands. He reached down with one hand to run shaky fingers through Harry’s hair. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed briefly, before opening again to watch Draco unravel above him.

Draco had been riding the edge of his orgasm for so long, so completely wound up by the feel of Harry’s cock in his mouth, the incredible sounds he was making under Draco’s attentions. Harry’s hot mouth easily pushed him over the edge with a long, slow pull, and Draco came with a heavy groan between Harry’s lips, Harry licking and swallowing him down eagerly.

Draco leaned his head against the headboard, catching his breath, his body still shuddering faintly with aftershocks. Harry’s hands rubbed soothingly over his thighs, his hips, his sides. Draco continued running his hand through Harry’s curls, while Harry watched him attentively.

“Good morning,” Harry said casually, drawing a surprised laugh out of Draco. Harry beamed up at him.

“Idiot,” Draco replied, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. He climbed off of Harry’s chest and settled in next to him. Harry rolled onto his side and pulled Draco close, throwing out another cleaning charm over them both.

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, brushing his lips against his ear. It didn’t feel quite like morning, yet, with the dawn barely breaking, the soft light illuminating Harry’s body. It felt like a space between realities, where Draco could allow himself to exist completely, to be as close to Harry as he wanted. Harry’s arm wrapped around his back and held him tight, his face pressed into Draco’s neck. He wandlessly summoned the covers from the foot of the bed, enveloping them in warmth once again.

Draco didn’t know how long they laid there, legs tangled and bodies pressed tightly together, breathing the other in. He savoured every second, took note of every place Harry’s body touched him, memorizing the feel of his warm skin, his soft hair, his sweet, spicy scent.

“It’s Friday,” Harry said quietly, breaking the silence.

“Well observed,” Draco mumbled into his hair. Harry’s arm tightened around him. Draco thought it must be numb by now, but he didn’t want to move.

“I have to go into work, in a bit.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m afraid I do,” Harry chuckled, rolling on top of him, pressing him into the bed, smothering his face with kisses. Draco tried not to laugh, unsuccessfully, his chest overflowing with contentment.

“I’ve time to make you breakfast, if you’d like,” Harry offered, giving him one last kiss before sitting up. Draco stretched leisurely, and Harry’s eyes roved his body again, his hand following their path over his skin.

“I certainly won’t say no to that,” Draco replied. Harry tapped his arse playfully and stood, searching around for clothes. Draco lifted his head to watch him move around the room, quietly admiring.

Harry slipped on a pair of black boxer briefs and maroon plaid pyjama trousers that looked at least a decade old, the threadbare fabric straining over his brawny thighs and hips. He picked up Draco’s trousers from the floor and tossed them onto the bed.

“I’m sorry Kreacher isn’t around to clean your clothes while you sleep,” he said, a teasing grin on his face, and Draco grimaced at the dirty trousers. There was no way that was coming out with a simple tergeo. “You’re welcome to borrow anything of mine.”

Draco groaned, his head falling back onto the bed in dismay.

“I know, you poor thing,” Harry mocked him, smacking his blanket-covered legs with the filthy trousers.

“It’s your fault my trousers are stiff, you arsehole.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Such a git,” Draco grumbled, shaking his head, hiding his grin in the pillow. Harry laughed at him, joyful and topless and beautiful.

“I’d offer you coffee, but it’d be embarrassing compared to Timsy’s. Is tea alright?”

“Of course,” Draco replied, rolling over to watch him in the doorway.

“Do you still take it with one sugar and a dash of milk, then?”

Draco opened his mouth to respond in the affirmative, but paused, trying to remember a single time he’d had tea in front of Harry. Once, during a session—but Timsy always prepared his for him. Harry wouldn’t have seen it. Then how…?

“I saw you every morning in the Great Hall for six years, you know,” Harry said quietly, answering the unspoken question with a raised eyebrow, as if he hadn’t just turned the world upside down. “I know how you used to take your tea. Has it changed?”

Draco stared at him a moment more, watching his cheeks redden, before slowly shaking his head. Harry smiled shyly at him.

“See you downstairs, then.”

Draco listened to his footsteps treading lightly down the stairs, immobilized with shock.

Harry Potter knew how he took his tea. Just… knew. Knew, because he paid attention. Not in order to please him, or even to implicate him in any sort of crime. Draco might have been up to terrible things in sixth year, and Harry had been determined to catch him out, but the way he took his tea could never be used as incriminating evidence. It was just a simple, benign fact about Draco, that Harry had learned just from watching him, and had remembered, after all this time.

Why did it feel so earthshaking?

Draco shook himself and slipped out of the warm bed, taking in the details of Harry’s room. It was another odd mixture of fussy old pureblood and Harry, with ornate, ebony furniture, spilling with t-shirts and mismatched socks and frayed jeans.

There were some framed photographs on the bureau, next to Harry’s leather wand holster: one of the full Weasley family, including Harry and Hermione, with both twins smiling and laughing, which looked like it was taken on Harry’s seventeenth birthday. One of Harry’s parents at their wedding, dancing. One of baby Teddy, giving the camera a gummy smile. A very old one of young Sirius and Remus, their arms over each other’s shoulders. Sirius threw his head back and laughed, and Remus watched him fondly with tired eyes.

Draco watched the photographs loop a few times, feeling his chest grow warm, familiarizing himself with the little details of Harry’s life.

He made his way to the wardrobe and flung open the doors. A few Auror uniforms, several different jumpers, some plain button down shirts and slacks, one grey suit, and the formal robes Draco was so sick of seeing in Harry’s memories. He thought about vanishing them right then and there, before he realized he’d left his wand downstairs in the sitting room last night. Damn.

What on earth was he supposed to wear? He wasn’t going to take Harry’s pants, that seemed a bit much so soon. He’d have to go commando, and he wasn’t going to wear Harry’s jeans or slacks flying free like that.

He walked over to the bureau and started opening the drawers, until he found more of Harry’s joggers.

Merlin, he’d never worn anything like this in his life.

But it was so soft in his hands, a faded black, with a drawstring waist. It seemed like the perfect thing to wear when one didn’t want to wear anything.

He stepped into it and tied the drawstring. They were a little short on him, but he let them sit low on his hips, which looked less ridiculous.

Harry might have been enough of a human furnace to walk around this cold, grim house shirtless, but Draco was definitely not. He rubbed his arms to calm the goosebumps on his skin and walked back to the wardrobe to find something warm.

There were a number of hand-knit jumpers with things like “H” or a golden snitch emblazoned on the front that made Draco smile, but he passed over them. He eventually found a familiar thin, plain green one. It looked several years old and well-loved, some sort of cotton blend. He pulled it out, holding it up in front of him.

Draco recognized it as the same jumper Harry had worn the day he kissed Draco in the sunroom, the day Draco had confronted him about his past and present, the day Harry had exploded and healed and fled in a rage.

“You know you were a pawn your entire childhood, just like I was—you think just because they’ve promoted you to a knight, this time, that you’re anything more than a puppet?” Draco shouts, the fire roaring in the grate.

Draco slipped his arms into the sleeves, breathing in Harry’s scent from the fabric.

“You don’t know me.” The holly wand singes Draco’s skin.

He slid the hem down his torso, smoothing it over his chest. It was big on him, but comfortable. He didn’t bother examining his reflection, knowing he probably looked ridiculous anyway, and wouldn’t have the wherewithal to leave the room if he did. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to comb out the tangles, and left the room, not looking back.

He made his way down the stairs, treading as lightly as he could to not wake the mysterious nightmare portrait, though the wood creaked ominously beneath his bare feet. He stopped in the sitting room to grab his wand, sighing at himself for dropping his nice shirt and waistcoat on the floor like that. He flicked his wand to fold them, placing them on the coffee table for him to pick up later. The empty ice cream carton was still there.

He stuck the wand in the waistband of the joggers and continued down the dark hallway, down a small set of stairs, from where he could see light through a doorway.

Noise erupted around him as soon as he crossed into the room. Draco spotted the source as a small muggle machine on the long wooden table, playing music, as well as Harry himself, who was standing at the hob, singing along quietly in that low, rough voice as he scrambled eggs and flipped bacon.

“Say the first thing that comes into your head when you see me
If it looks like it works and it feels like it works then it works…”

Two mugs of tea sat steaming on the island between them, one made exactly how Draco liked it, one made with too much sugar, too much milk, the way he knew Harry drank his. All the air left Draco’s lungs in a heavy whoosh, hit with a wave of affection and adoration strong enough to bowl him over. It amazed him, it terrified him, causing more of Harry’s words to echo around his skull. Draco’s hand moved subconsciously to his chest.

“You already knew me, Draco… You knew me better than I did.”

“I want to be around you, all the bloody time.”

“I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

Harry turned at the soft noise, his eyes widening with a possessive, appreciative gleam as he looked Draco over.

“You should wear my clothes more often,” he said in a low voice, smirking as he met Draco’s eyes. Draco struggled to breathe, completely stunned, frozen in fear and fondness, staring at his greatest weakness.

Harry’s brows drew together as he studied his expression, watching the blood leave Draco’s face, twirling the spatula in his hand.

“You’re thinking again.”

Draco snapped his mouth shut, rooted to the spot.

Harry turned off the hob and set down the spatula, waving a lazy wandless stasis charm at the food. He flicked his finger to the side, “tempus,” checked the time, shrugged to himself.

He walked around the island, approaching Draco carefully, placing his hands on Draco’s arms. His eyes lingered on the jumper, and Draco wondered if he was thinking about that day, too—the rain on the glass, the back of the jumper in Draco’s fists.

“‘...if you just stopped thinking about it, and let your body do what is natural to it,’” Harry mumbled, smoothing his hands over Draco’s chest, eyes fixed on the green fabric.

“What?”

Harry looked up at him, a sad smile on his face. “Your words, not mine.”

Draco remembered, then.

“The same way you duel, or fly, how your body simply moves, without thinking about it…”

Had Harry always paid this close attention to him?

Harry watched his face for a moment, thinking hard about something, before coming to a decision, walking away from Draco towards the music player on the table. He pressed a button a couple of times, changing the song, until he nodded once, reaching the one he was looking for.

“Come on, then,” he said, returning to take Draco’s hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to make you stop thinking so hard,” Harry replied, grinning mischievously. He placed Draco’s hand on his bare waist, his own hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco’s lips twitched in a hesitant grin.

“This song is too fast for you to dance to.”

“Only if I’m thinking about it,” Harry retorted, stepping in close. “Is my kitchen too difficult for you to dance in, your highness?”

“Don’t underestimate me, Potter,” Draco murmured, his grin widening as he pulled Harry flush against him, taking his hand. Harry chuckled, waiting for him to lead.

“This could be the very minute
I'm aware I'm alive
All these places feel like home…”

Draco stepped forward, Harry stepped back, closing his eyes to feel Draco’s movements better. Draco watched his face, watched his lips curve into small smiles, as if this was the best thing he could possibly be doing right now.

“With a name I'd never chosen
I can make my first steps
As a child of twenty-five…”

Draco spun him around the kitchen, drawing more bright laughter from him, making him step on Draco’s feet just so he could tease him about it.

“You're the only thing that I love
Scares me more every day
On my knees I think clearer…”

Draco slowed slightly, spinning him in easy circles, stepping in the box step Harry was familiar with. He indulged himself and turned his face into Harry’s hair. Harry leaned his face closer to Draco’s shoulder, and Draco could hear him humming softly under his breath.

“Goodness knows I saw it coming
Or at least I'll claim I did
But in truth I'm lost for words…”

Draco closed his eyes, no longer making any significant journey around the kitchen, and noticed that he had indeed stopped thinking. His focus was entirely on the man in his arms, warm against his chest, humming quietly in his ear.

“What have I done? It's too late for that
What have I become? Truth is nothing yet…”

He relished in it, this perfect moment outside of time, letting himself do what he felt he was made to do and press his lips to Harry’s temple. Harry leaned into it, neither of them stepping anymore, simply swaying to the music and Harry’s low voice.

“A simple mistake starts the hardest time
I promise I'll do anything you ask, this time…”

Draco took a deep breath against Harry’s hair. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Harry mumbled, taking Draco’s chin in his hand and kissing him tenderly. “Ready for breakfast?”

“Yes, I’m ready for your noisy, plebeian breakfast.”

Harry laughed again, handing Draco his mug of tea from the island. His bright smile lit up the room, and as Draco sipped his perfectly made tea, he let it fill him up, too, taking up the space where his worries would be.

***

Sunday, 14 May

“Draco!”

Teddy’s exuberant voice called to him from the sitting room, and he heard excited footsteps and the hum of Andromeda’s gently chastising voice following them. Draco stepped out of his study just in time for Teddy to collide with his leg. He let out an exaggerated oof, which made Teddy giggle.

“Hello, Teddy.”

Teddy smiled up at him, and his eyes changed from a warm brown to a cool grey. He leaned into Draco, then frowned, sniffing the hem of Draco’s green jumper.

“This smells like—”

“Sorry, Draco,” Andromeda said softly, appearing in the hallway, much to Draco’s relief. “He was excited to see you and your house.”

“As I am excited to see him here,” Draco chuckled, ruffling Teddy’s turquoise hair. Teddy, thankfully distracted, rolled his eyes and huffed, not pleased about being spoken of in third person.

“It’s time, Draco. It’s time for our Seeker’s Game.”

“Lunch, first, I’m afraid,” Narcissa said, appearing behind them. Teddy gave a dramatic, put-out sigh, and released Draco’s leg. Draco stepped over to kiss his aunt’s cheek, then his mother’s.

“I’m sorry I didn’t welcome you properly, I must have lost track of time,” Draco said.

“Nonsense, if you’d been right there at the hearth, Teddy would have had nowhere to sprint to,” Andromeda replied, smirking at her grandson. To demonstrate, Teddy shot back down the hallway toward the sitting room.

Draco laughed, leading them out of the tight hallway and into the back garden. He’d enlarged his little wrought iron table and transfigured more chairs for them—he should probably invest in more seating, since his family had nearly doubled in recent weeks.

Timsy served them tea and sandwiches under the magnolia tree, seeming delighted at the prospect of serving a group for once. Narcissa gratefully took her tea—Timsy remembered how she preferred it, but he looked a little guilty handing it over.

Narcissa took a sip and raised her eyebrows at Draco.

“Goodness, Draco, that’s quite strong,” she said. Draco grinned, and Andromeda’s eyes lit up.

“That’s intentional,” he replied, turning to his aunt. “Is that not how you prefer your tea?”

Andromeda’s lips twitched as she lowered her cup. “It is,” she answered, causing Narcissa to raise her eyebrows in surprise again. “How did you know? Did Harry tell you that?” She eyed the green jumper knowingly. Draco rubbed the heel of his palm over his chest, his cheeks heating.

“No.”

“Well, go on, tell us your hosting secrets,” Andromeda said, her eyes crinkling in the corners, full of warmth and amusement. She took another sip of her tea, sighing in satisfaction.

Draco paused. How could he answer that without sounding like a nutter?

“Your magic,” he tried, deciding to leave it at that. Andromeda’s eyebrows furrowed.

“My magic told you how I like my tea?”

“Sort of.”

“He’s trained to perceive magic,” Narcissa said quietly, watching him with an expression of deep thought. “You told me that once, correct?”

Draco nodded slowly, surprised that his mother thought it worth remembering.

“Cool,” Teddy said, eyes wide in awe. “So you can see magic? Does Gran’s look like a cup of tea?”

Draco chuckled, sipping his own strong tea. “See it, feel it, and erm—smell it.”

“So Gran smells like tea!” Teddy laughed, and Draco nodded again.

“Like very strong tea, and snow.”

“Fascinating,” Andromeda breathed, eyes bright with intrigue. Narcissa looked almost proud, which made Draco feel warm and accomplished. Maybe she would accept his life choices one day, after all. She’d already basically given Harry her blessing, giving him a bottle of wine for a date. A three hundred galleon bottle of wine, no less. Not that Harry needed to know that.

“What does mine smell like?” Teddy asked excitedly. Draco grinned fondly, concentrating on the turquoise hair.

“Clay, I think,” he answered, furrowing his brow as he tried to work out that peculiar scent. “Clay, but sweeter. And fresh oranges.”

“Wow,” Teddy replied, “you hear that, Gran? My magic smells like Play-Doh!”

“Play-Doh?” Draco repeated, confused.

“It’s a modeling clay, for kids,” Andromeda explained, smiling at her grandson. “He loves it. Makes sense to me.” Her eyes turned mournful. “And he loves oranges as much as his mother did.”

Narcissa’s hand found hers on the table, and Andromeda blinked, sending her a grateful smile. It was the most affectionate Draco had ever seen his mother act towards someone other than him. Or Lucius.

“What about Aunt Cissy, then?” Teddy asked, still basking in the glow of this newfound knowledge. Draco grinned softly, meeting his mother’s eyes.

“Do you want to know, Mother?” he asked her, because she had never asked before, had never shown interest in his training or in him working at all. She smiled sadly, seeming to realize the same thing, and nodded.

“Roses,” Draco said, without hesitation. He’d known that for years, and it was only stronger outside of the stifling, Dark-Magic-ridden Manor. “And something I’ve only ever been able to describe as sunshine.”

Narcissa’s brown eyes grew wet as she smiled back at him. Andromeda squeezed her hand.

“That’s lovely,” Andromeda murmured. “I had no idea such a thing was possible.”

“It was a lot of work, and it’s quite overwhelming,” Draco explained, excited to finally be able to share this with his family. “I keep it locked up most of the time.”

“Locked up where?” Teddy asked, frowning.

“In my head,” Draco answered.

“Occlumency?” Andromeda clarified, and Draco nodded. Teddy looked near to bursting with more questions, unable to decide which to ask first.

“Okay,” he said, coming to a decision. “What’s ock-loo-mancy?”

Draco chuckled. “Occlumency is the art of magically protecting your mind,” he explained, tapping his skull with his finger. “I use it to build barriers, inside my mind, to lock away things that might be overwhelming to endure all the time, and to keep my own thoughts and emotions out of my patients’ heads.”

“Whoa,” Teddy said. “You go into people’s heads?”

“With their permission, yes, to heal curses or other problems.”

“Oh, you healed Uncle Harry, then? You made him able to talk again.”

Draco paused before remembering he could actually answer. “Yes.”

“Are you in the middle of a case, now?” Narcissa asked.

Draco nearly didn’t reply, out of habit. It would take some getting used to, being able to talk about his work without enduring agonizing pain. By the knowing gleam in Narcissa’s eye, he could tell she was thinking the same thing, and probably very excited for their conversations to no longer be so one-sided.

“I am,” Draco replied, grinning with his triumph. “It’s a perplexing case. The puzzle seems quite simple, but I’m at a loss, so far.”

“Perhaps we can help?” Andromeda leaned forward, sipping her tea, warm brown eyes full of curiosity. She pushed up the sleeves of her jumper—it was a warm day, the sun shining down on them through the leathery leaves and full blooms of the magnolia tree.

Draco hummed, eyeing the two women, thinking. He could, now, couldn’t he? He wasn’t bound. He wasn’t breaking confidentiality. He was simply getting input from two people older and wiser than him, on a puzzle he was having trouble solving.

Had he ever asked for help before?

He couldn’t think of an instance. He’d been so determined to make his own way, and then destined to, once the Ministry prevented him from consulting with anyone about his patients. Whenever he’d collaborated with his mentors and other Healers at St. Mungo’s, it had always been him doing his own job, and then handing it over.

“I suppose,” he began hesitantly. Narcissa, Andromeda, and even Teddy leaned forward, listening intently. Teddy watched him with Draco’s silver eyes, both unsettling and endearing. He looked like a little grown-up, eager to help solve a problem, when one ignored the cheeks full of sandwich.

“Something has been locked away in the patient’s mind, against their will,” Draco said. “When I went in to look, I found three clouds of fragmented memories, that each contained instances of a single phrase: ‘let go,’ ‘I am,’ and ‘might be.’ They might need to be rearranged or connected to create a key, to unlock what has been hidden. It is the only out of place thing I found in their mind.”

The table was silent as they processed the information, except for the chirping of the birds and the gentle breeze through the long grass and wildflowers. Teddy was frowning hard at his sandwich, and Draco wanted to hug him for trying so hard to help.

“‘When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be,’” Narcissa said quietly, delicate brows creased in concentration. Draco stared at her, stunned.

“What?”

“Lao Tzu, right?” Andromeda asked, and Narcissa smiled, nodding. Draco’s jaw dropped.

“When I—what?”

“‘When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be,’” Narcissa repeated. “A quote from a Chinese philosopher, Lao Tzu. Of course, there’s some debate—”

“Right, might not have actually been him, doesn’t really fit with his ideals,” Andromeda muttered, nodding sagely.

“He’d probably think that what ‘I am’ was the only way to exist, and that what ‘I might be’ was the mind simply fooling itself,” Narcissa added. Draco closed his eyes, trying to digest the fact that his mother was discussing Chinese philosophy with her estranged sister over tea in his garden.

And the fact that that sounded exactly like something an Unspeakable would say—someone who gave up their identity to become something more.

“It sounds like me,” Teddy chimed in suddenly.

“What do you mean, Teddy?” Draco frowned. Teddy looked down at his tea, suddenly shy.

“Well, you know, I don’t have to look like what I look like all the time. If I let go of it, I can become anything I want. Except for a dragon. I’ve tried.”

“Wow,” Draco said, raising his eyebrows. “I want to hear that story.”

“No, you don’t,” Andromeda mumbled, shuddering. Draco laughed.

“Well, I’ve made more progress on this case in five minutes over tea than I have in almost a week, so, thank you all.” Draco grinned. Narcissa nodded, quietly proud. Teddy beamed at him.

Draco’s brain worked hard for the rest of their lunch, putting the quote into different scenarios with the clouds in Boran’s head, fitting the pieces together. His mind whirred until he was up in the air with Teddy, who sat smothered in cushioning charms on Draco’s old Nimbus 2001, while they swooped and darted for the snitch over Draco’s garden.

He sat with his mother at the table, afterward, winded and content, watching Andromeda and Teddy search for gnomes in the garden.

“How are you, Mother?” he asked, knowing she would hear the whole question beneath the spoken words: How are you holding up, since your husband escaped from prison, Imperiused you, and attacked your son?

She searched his face for a moment, probably deciding how much she actually wanted to share.

“I’m alright, Draco.”

“I know you’re alright,” Draco replied, watching her expression. “You’re an incredibly strong woman. That’s not what I asked, however.”

Her lips twitched in what could have been a smile, in any other situation. Draco cradled his tea, and waited.

“There’s not much I can do,” she began tentatively. “If I… if I divorce him, the magic of the Manor will know I’m no longer a Malfoy.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. He’d never given much thought to the sentience of ancient wizarding homes, but after listening to Harry and now his mother, he thought he should probably look into it.

And if Malfoy Manor only responded to Malfoys, like Grimmauld Place only responded to Blacks, he could imagine the sort of rejections it would instil if his mother were to separate herself from the Malfoy name. She would become as miserable as Harry was in Grimmauld.

So she had to remain married to a monster, to keep her home and her current way of life. Draco’s fingers clenched around his teacup, trying to keep his blood from boiling. Fucking rubbish Manor.

“You could stay with me, until we find you another home,” he offered. Narcissa smiled sadly, and shook her head.

“I wouldn’t want to, Draco. I like that this place is your own, though it took me some time to realize it. What would be the point, anyway? I am not looking to find someone else, I gave my heart away a long time ago.”

She turned to face him, eyes hardening with a sad determination.

“Therefore, I’m alright.”

Draco pressed his lips together, studying her face, watching her retreat into ethereal, untouchable composure after her perceived overshare. He sighed heavily, and draped his arm over her shoulder, squeezing her against his side. He didn’t think he’d ever done this before, but who were they trying to impress anymore?

Narcissa’s shoulders shook faintly, caught off guard by the gesture. Draco could see her desperately trying to hold it together.

“You’ll be more than alright, someday,” he murmured. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Her shoulders shook harder, her hands clenched in her lap. Slowly, she relaxed against him, gradually leaning her head onto his shoulder, smiling faintly as Teddy’s dirty hands shot in the air, triumphantly holding a very disgruntled garden gnome.

***

“You’re simply fading away!” Molly clucked over Harry as he entered the Burrow, as she always did. Ron rolled his eyes as he walked in after him, ducking his head slightly under the doorframe.

“He’s practically bursting the seams of his shirt, Mum,” he grumbled half-heartedly. Harry punched him in the arm, behind Molly’s back.

“Pay a lot of attention to the seams of Harry’s shirts, Ron?” George jibed from the table, swiping a finger full of mashed potatoes and grinning as Rose ran up to him.

“He’s going to drain the Department dry if he keeps requesting new uniforms because he ‘keeps ripping them, I don’t know what it is, Ron, it fit perfectly six months ago—’” Ron did a very odd impersonation of a simpering Harry, earning himself another punch to the arm.

Sunday Lunch was boisterous and warm as usual, with everyone talking over each other and laughing. Teddy, Rose and Victoire ate as quickly as they could so they could go run around in the garden, leaving the adults at the table. Harry gathered his nerve and cleared his throat.

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you all, before you hear about it in the papers,” he said confidently, garnering the attention of everyone at the table. Hermione gave him an encouraging nod from the other end, while Ron’s lips turned up in a mischievous grin, eyes gleaming with entertainment. Harry took a deep breath, and ripped off the plaster.

“I’m dating Draco Malfoy.”

The room was thrown into a stunned silence as they stared at him, mouths dropped open in shock. Molly’s serving spoon ceased its movements, hovering over the bowl of mashed potatoes. Harry squirmed in his seat, and waited.

George, who sat to his left, closed his eyes and started muttering under his breath. “Oh, Freddie, I will be collecting that twenty galleons, I will find where you hid that shoebox of ‘savings’ when we were five, so help me—”

“I suppose I should have seen that one coming,” Ginny mumbled, sighing and shaking her head. Harry sent her a half-hearted glare.

“As in, Lucius Malfoy’s son, Draco Malfoy?” Arthur asked, apparently not willing to believe the obvious answer.

“The same boy who made all the ‘Potter Stinks’ badges, during the Tournament, Draco Malfoy?” Fleur asked, bewildered, wiping a bit of baby food mush off of little Dominique’s face in the high chair.

Harry sighed, closing his eyes. “Yes—”

“He did what?” Andromeda asked, appalled. Harry was reminded that she might be the only person at the table—since the other children were elsewhere—who didn’t really know what Draco used to be like.

“Oh, he was a huge bully, Andy,” Ron piped up, his mouth full of chicken.

“Not helping, Ron,” Harry mumbled.

“And a Death Eater,” Bill added, his knuckles white around his fork. He glared at Harry, his scars stark against his face, and Harry tried not to flinch.

“He’s different,” Harry said simply, fiddling with the napkin in his lap. “You all know I wouldn’t be dating anybody unless I was truly serious about it. Yes, we tormented each other in school—”

“He made the whole school sing a song about how shit I was at Quidditch, once,” Ron interrupted, and Andromeda whipped her head around, eyes wide in surprise. Molly was too shocked to scold him for his language.

“Ron, you’re making this a lot harder than it needs to be,” Harry said, glowering at him. Ron put down his chicken leg and raised his greasy hands in supplication.

“Alright, alright. Draco is a much different person, now, I can attest, I recruited him to heal Harry myself. Hermione likes him, too, and he called her slurs for years. She even punched him, once, it was amazing. Rose liked him within two minutes of meeting him, you know she’s an excellent judge of character.”

“Didn’t he almost kill you, once, with poisoned mead?” Bill demanded. Ron rolled his eyes.

“That was an accident,” Ron replied. “Sort of.” Harry put his face in his hands.

“Listen up,” Hermione said suddenly, “Draco was a real arsehole as a kid, and a teenage Death Eater, but it was Harry who fought with him the most, and who was the primary target of his bullying. After him, it was me and Ron. Don’t you think it’s up to us, then, whether or not we forgive him, and accept who he is now?” Hermione’s face was fierce, holding her fork up as if she would smack someone with it, glaring at everyone except George. No one had a retort for her, because she was right, as usual, and because they had all heard Hermione swear only twice before.

“‘There’s absolutely no sexual tension there, Georgie, what are you on about,’ well look now, Freddie, what did I fucking tell you…” George continued under his breath, his head in his hands, but Harry saw him grinning to himself.

“Well, Harry dear,” Molly began tentatively, clearing her throat. “Are you happy?” Her face looked pained, and Harry knew that his answer would crush her dreams of him getting back together with Ginny once and for all.

“Yes,” he replied instantly. “Very.”

George lifted his head from his hands and sent Harry a mischievous, knowing smirk. Harry blushed and ignored him. Ginny’s lips twitched in a suppressed smile, probably as relieved as Harry was.

“Then we’re happy for you, dear,” Molly said, making the serving spoon continue its job with the potatoes. “Why don’t you bring him over for Sunday lunch, sometime?”

“Who’s coming over for lunch?” Rose asked, curly, ginger hair bouncing as she flitted into the kitchen.

“Draco,” Hermione replied, wiping her mouth delicately with her napkin. Rose’s eyes lit up.

“Really? That’s wonderful! Draco is great, he bought me Oscar the Grouch slippers, even though he’d just got out of hospital—”

“Buying favour, I see,” Arthur grumbled. Molly cuffed him on the shoulder.

“—he has his own pair, too, they’re much bigger than mine but that’s because he’s bigger than me, of course, and he’s Camila’s uncle! She says he’s an awesome uncle—wait! Does that mean Camila can come over for lunch too? And her mum, since of course it’d be weird to invite Camila and Camila’s godfather but not her mum—”

“Sure, let’s make it a big Slytherin bash,” George said excitedly, clapping his hands together. “While we’re at it, let’s invite that girl who tried to hand Harry over to—”

“That… was Camila’s mum,” Harry interrupted him quietly. George’s eyes widened, and his wicked smile grew, until he finally threw his head back and laughed uproariously, like Harry knew he’d wanted to since Harry’s first confession. Ron giggled until he was joining in, and slowly, everyone at the table was infected with their laughter. George laughing like this, especially, was a treat they would not deny.

“Sure, dearest,” Molly said finally to an eager Rose, unable to keep the grin off of her face. “We’ll invite Draco, and your friend Camila, and Camila’s mother…”

“Pansy Parkinson,” Hermione supplied, and Molly nodded gratefully at her.

“Right, just pick a date, Harry, and let me know.”

“Erm, probably won’t be for a couple weeks,” Harry said awkwardly.

“Smart, Harry,” George stage whispered to him, shoulders shaking, “giving them plenty of time to get used to the idea before bringing him over, eh? Gives Bill time to sharpen his knives, though—”

“I don’t need knives,” Bill grumbled, the corners of his mouth twitching as he returned his attention to his plate.

“Cut it out,” Harry muttered, grinning as he kicked George under the table.

Conversation returned to normal, after that, for which Harry was grateful. He’d really done it. One obstacle down.

“Is Draco part Veela?” Fleur asked him abruptly, drawing the attention of the entire table again. Baby Dominique babbled happily in her lap, pulling on Fleur’s long, blonde hair. Harry furrowed his brows in confusion.

“No,” he replied, then paused, thinking about how flustered he got around Draco, how he drew the eyes of everyone in a room. “Well, I don’t know for sure—”

Bill, George, and Ron all snorted, giggling at each other.

“Good one, Fleur,” George snickered. Fleur was smirking triumphantly at him. Harry frowned again.

“What?”

“You just admitted you think Draco is so pretty, he might even be part Veela,” Fleur replied, and Harry blushed wildly, thoroughly embarrassed, knowing he’d been had. The table erupted with laughter once more.

Ron sent him a knowing look, shaking his head fondly. Harry sighed and returned to his lunch, feeling hopeful, if a little humiliated.

***

Monday, 15 May

Harry unfolded the small parchment in his hands, leaning against the bike, rereading the short note.

Potter,

Fine. But you owe me, again. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the motorbike. Meet me at this address on Monday at 7.

P.P.

He looked up at the shiny, pretentious storefront in front of him and sighed. He was definitely at the right place, he shouldn’t have expected anything less. What was he thinking, asking Pansy Parkinson for wardrobe assistance?

He was thinking of how to impress her best friend, enough that he might not regret going out in public with Harry, and enduring the backlash from Harry’s legions of “admirers.”

Of course, Harry didn’t think there was a way he could look good enough to be worth getting cursed hate mail, but he thought Draco might appreciate the effort, regardless. He wanted Draco to know he was serious about it. About him. God, he was pathetic.

“Oh, you poor sod.”

Harry turned his head to see Pansy standing a few feet from him, her arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head with an annoying look of pity on her face. Harry sighed, buckling in for a full evening of this.

“You’re so gone, look at your face, you’re just trying to impress him, aren’t you?”

“Hello, Pansy.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to call you Harry. It feels dirty.” She grimaced, a bad taste in her mouth.

“Merlin, no. Sounds weird, coming from you,” Harry chuckled, pushing himself off the bike. Pansy gazed at it, stepping forward to feel the handlebars. She looked up at him suspiciously.

“Does it really fly?” she asked, skeptical. Harry grinned and nodded.

“And you really got Draco on it?”

Harry nodded again. Her smile turned wicked, watching his amused expression.

“You didn’t tell him it flew, did you?”

Harry pressed his lips together, holding back his laughter, shaking his head. Pansy threw her head back and laughed brightly. It was the first time Harry had ever heard her laugh without any real cruelty in it. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

That dream was swiftly crushed as Pansy ushered him into the high-end menswear shop.

“Pansy, a vision, as always.” An immaculately dressed man approached them, smiling widely, his eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Pansy. “Where’s your friend, the gorgeous blond?”

Harry bristled, while Pansy laughed, seemingly at the both of them. The muggle man raised his eyebrow at Harry’s fierce glare, and Harry tried to rein it in.

“He’s set for a while, Pascal. I’m here for a much more deserving case,” she replied, gesturing to Harry, who stuffed his hands in his pockets and tried his very best to look friendly.

“And where did you find this dashing rogue?” Pascal asked, raking his appreciative gaze over Harry. Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Mer—ugh. You’re insatiable,” she teased, distracting from her almost-slip. “Mr. Potter here’s an old friend of mine. He’s got a charity gala coming up, and I need you to make him look rich, important, and powerful.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at her. That sounded like a bit much. What had he gotten himself into?

“He looks powerful enough on his own,” Pascal purred, eyeing Harry’s arms and thighs. “The tailor is going to love this. Come on, then.”

He led them to the back of the shop, past a heavy velvet curtain, into a room that looked like the largest, most expensive changing room Harry had ever seen. More velvet curtains draped the walls, around a circular platform, which stood in front of brightly lit mirrors at every angle.

“Christ,” Harry muttered, not even for the muggle effect.

“Oh, come on, don’t be scared, I don’t bite,” Pascal said, making Harry jump as he appeared behind him to pull off his leather jacket. “Unless you ask me to, of course.”

“Careful, Pascal,” Pansy smirked. “He’s claimed. We’re dressing to impress, tonight.”

Pascal let out a dramatic sigh. “Typical. It’s your blond friend, isn’t it?” He hung Harry’s jacket on a hook on the wall, and led him to the dais in front of the mirrors. Harry avoided the reflections, for now. “That’s why he tried to kill me with his eyes a minute ago? Nearly did, too, god, what is with your eyes?”

Harry tried not to look too smug. Yes, that gorgeous blond was his.

He turned to face Pascal and Pansy instead of the intimidating mirrors, staring down at them from the platform, while they stood together, studying Harry with expressions of deep thought, murmuring to each other.

“What was he wearing to events before this?”

“Let’s just say the same thing he’s been wearing since he was fourteen.”

“You said he’s got to look rich, important, and powerful, but, like… is he?”

“Yes. He doesn’t look it now, but yes, all of the above.”

Pascal raised his eyebrows, turning to give her an incredulous look, before scrutinizing Harry again.

“Dinner? Dancing?”

“Likely.”

“I’m tempted to go all black.”

“Could do. He’s not one for accessories, though.”

“Obviously.”

Harry sighed again and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, waiting it out.

“Alright, think, Pascal. This man, for reasons I’ll never understand, has held Draco’s attention for years. He’s a fan of… whatever’s going on here.”

“That’s his name, I knew it was something peculiar—”

“So you need to take this—” she interrupted, gesturing widely at Harry’s frayed jeans, faded t-shirt, and dirty boots, “—and make it expensive. Trust me, he can afford it. We can’t change him too much, unfortunately.”

Pascal took a deep breath, his hand on his chin, drawing his meticulously-shaped brows together. He circled the platform slowly, making Harry squirm.

“No, we don’t need to change him. I can see how he caught Draco’s eye, all this… power, that’s what it is…”

Harry’s eyes darted to Pansy, who looked equally nervous.

“Something about you, sir, is like a predator waiting to strike. Like you’re charged, or something. Maybe that’s just ‘cause you’re on edge, you don’t like it when I’m behind you. Are you a veteran? You act like a soldier.”

Harry stared at him, shocked at being addressed directly, and reminded himself to never, ever underestimate a muggle. Pascal watched him curiously, head tilted to the side, the product in his dark, coiffed hair making it shine in the mirror lights.

“Yes,” Harry replied, testing out his voice. Pascal could know that much. He already did, apparently. Pascal nodded slowly, turning back to Pansy, who looked slightly incredulous.

“I think I’ve got it. Let me get some measurements,” Pascal said, whipping a measuring tape out of his collar and approaching Harry again. This time, he made eye contact with Harry, and waited for permission to manhandle him. Harry nodded quickly, grateful.

Pascal got his measurements and left the room, leaving him alone with Pansy, who sat herself comfortably on the leather sofa, watching him. Harry took his wand out of the pocket of his jeans and handed it to her, hilt first.

“Hold on to that, would you?”

Pansy’s eyes widened, hand slowly reaching out for the wand, stunned by the gesture of trust. She slipped it into her purse, and cleared her throat quietly.

“I hope you don’t expect me to apologize, because I’m not going to,” she muttered.

“For what?”

“You know what.” She met his eyes defiantly, daring him to object. Harry searched her face for a moment, hesitating. He hadn’t forgotten, but it felt odd to connect the woman in front of him to the girl who once wanted him dead. Had she really thought he’d expect such a thing?

“I don’t,” he said finally. “I know why you did it.”

“I would do it again.”

“And I’d take you up on it,” Harry replied grimly. “I only postponed the inevitable, anyway.”

She pressed her lips together, watching him carefully, the challenging look in her eyes slowly receding, melting into a sort of fear and sadness Harry recognized too well.

“I hear them,” she said, voice just above a whisper, as if she hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “All of them. Behind the Veil.”

Harry knew what she meant. She heard everyone who’d died during the Battle, everyone she used to go to school with. She heard childhood, dead and gone, calling to her from just beyond the Veil in the Death Chamber, deep in the Department of Mysteries.

“I do, too,” Harry murmured, fending off flashbacks, closing his eyes against the memories, trying to focus on Draco’s voice, as he used to, you’re a bloody marvel, Harry…

Draco’s voice in his head quickly morphed to yes, Harry, yours, I’m yours, and he shook his head quickly to dispel it, the image of Draco gasping and keening beneath him—

“Alright, let’s get started,” Pascal said suddenly from the doorway, carrying two armfuls of expensive looking suits, and Harry devoted his mind to an unfortunate image of Argus Filch.

After three different suits, Harry was annoyed, and after six, Harry never wanted to try on another article of clothing in his life. After ten, he began seriously considering just wearing a bedsheet over his head, his sheets were (unfortunately) Black family dark green, very high thread count, no one could say they weren’t nice and expensive, he’d probably start a trend, honestly—

“I think we’ve found it,” Pascal said, finally, as Harry buttoned the jacket of a black suit he could have sworn he’d tried on three suits ago. Pascal rushed in and adjusted the buttons anyway, Harry shouldn’t have bothered. Pansy approached the platform, inspecting him.

“You were right, the double-breasted is the way to go, look at his shoulders—”

“When have I ever been wrong?”

“I’ll never underestimate you again, I know.”

Pascal stepped up onto the platform with him, shockingly close. Harry was hit with a heavy wave of his cologne, as his manicured hands adjusted the lapels, patted the corners of the shoulders, made him lift his arms, lower them, stand straighter. He frowned down at Harry’s collar, his pale cheeks turning slightly pink, and unbuttoned the top few buttons of the starched black shirt.

“I’ve a feeling you’re not going to stand being buttoned up that long.”

He stepped down again and kneeled next to the platform, pulling a small box of pins out of his pocket and pinning the hem of the trousers, above a pair of shiny Oxfords he’d made Harry put on. Harry took a deep breath, weathering the storm, while Pansy circled him, scrutinizing. If he’d known it’d be this much work to buy one fucking suit—

“Turn around, Potter,” Pansy said, as Pascal finally stood. Harry sent her a wary look, but did as she asked, and faced his reflection.

He hardly recognized himself, but then—he did. The suit accentuated his broad shoulders, tapered his waist, mapped out his body in crisp, black lines. The lapel had a slight sheen to it, but there were no other adornments, no wild patterns or slippery fabrics. Harry’s cheeks heated as he realized he looked good. He looked really good.

He looked like himself, but elegant. He looked powerful, he looked strong, he looked like he’d dressed this way effortlessly, naturally. The suit fit him like a glove, like it was made just for him. Was this what Draco felt like, every time he wore one of his suits?

He met Pansy’s eyes in the mirror, stunned, watching her smirk proudly and elbow Pascal.

“I know he’s quiet, but I think this time, he’s speechless,” she muttered. Pascal hummed in agreement, his chest puffed out proudly.

“I wish I could pierce his ear or something, oh, just one little diamond—”

“Me too, trust me, me too,” Pansy replied. “I’ll work on it, it’s on Friday, we’ve got time.”

“I’m not piercing my ears,” Harry mumbled, amused. They both sighed in dismay.

“I’ll get you to wear something shiny, Potter, mark my words,” Pansy said.

“Oh, you’re finally proposing, knew it was only a matter of time,” Harry quipped. Pansy smacked his arm.

“You fucking wish, you oaf,” she laughed, shaking her head.

Harry paid for the suit, trying not to flinch at the price. He didn’t think he’d ever spent so much money on one thing, for himself, ever. Pascal said they would tailor it and have it delivered to him, to which Harry hesitated, looking to Pansy for help.

Pansy rolled her eyes at him and sighed. “No need, Pascal, I’ll come pick it up. Just call me when it’s done.”

Pascal raised his eyebrows, but nodded.

“Would you like a ride home?” Harry asked as they left the shop, hoping to scratch one off the growing list of favours he owed Pansy Parkinson.

“Of fucking course I would, are you kidding?”

“Climb on, then,” Harry laughed, throwing a leg over the bike and starting it up. She clambered on behind him.

“Footholds are there,” he said, pointing to the little metal platforms. She tentatively lifted her feet onto them, throwing her hands out to the side when the bike swayed a little.

“Where am I supposed to put my hands?”

Harry laughed again, tapping his waist. Purebloods.

“Oh, Merlin, Draco’s going to murder me,” she said, hesitantly taking hold of his waist. Her voice held a small amount of glee at the prospect.

“He said he’ll only duel you, actually, so you’ll probably be okay.”

“I don’t know, you haven’t dueled with him in a while, have you?”

Harry revved the engine instead of answering, pulling out onto the road and accelerating. Pansy gripped his waist harder, he could hear her giddy laughter behind him. Once they cleared the city, Harry flicked a switch for flight and disillusionment, and took off into the darkening night sky. Pansy yelped in surprise, followed by more delighted laughter.

It almost felt like friendship, or something near it, instead of trading favours with a cunning Slytherin. Maybe that was how all Slytherins made friends: losing track of their debts to each other, and deciding to spend time together anyway.

“You’ll have to tell me where to go,” he called behind him.

“Not far,” she said, leaning forward. “Somerset.”

“‘Not far,’ right,” Harry scoffed. It would take at least an hour to get to Somerset from here, not including wherever Pansy’s home was in Somerset. “Do you trust me?”

“Loaded question, Potter.”

“Let me rephrase: do you trust me to get you home in one piece?”

“Bare minimum,” she replied. Harry decided to take that as a yes.

“Hold on tight, then.”

Harry angled the bike due west and increased the disillusionment charm, holding his thumb over the button he and Arthur had worked on fixing for weeks.

“Ready?” he asked.

“For what?” She tightened her hands in his jacket.

Harry pressed the button, and Pansy shrieked as dragonfire shot from the exhaust pipes, sending them rocketing across the sky.

It cut their trip down to fifteen minutes, but those minutes were filled with Pansy shouting a litany of swears in his ear, through exhilarated laughter, occasionally pointing out where to turn as she recognized landmarks.

He turned off the dragonfire and slowed, landing smoothly on her street, a long stretch of road dotted sparsely with small houses. He pulled carefully into the gravel driveway, slowing to a stop in front of the door.

Pansy took a deep, bracing breath and stood, climbing off the seat, wobbling a little on shaky legs.

“Wait here,” she said, holding her hand out in front of her before turning and entering the house. Harry shrugged. He wasn’t planning on staying, but he turned off the bike, kicked down the stand, and swung his leg over the seat to sit normally, stretching his legs out to the side of the bike.

Within seconds, the door opened again, and Draco stepped out, his whole face lighting up upon seeing Harry. Harry felt the grin on his face before he realized he was moving, striding over to him and pulling him down into a greedy kiss.

“What are you—”

Draco was interrupted by Pansy clearing her throat pointedly. She shook her head at them, reached into her small purse—it definitely had extension charms—and pulled out Harry’s wand, handing it over.

Harry’s eyes widened—he’d forgotten she had it.

“Thank you, Pansy,” Harry said, hoping that he was conveying just how grateful he really was. For everything.

“It was for a good cause,” she said haughtily, flipping her windswept hair.

“What in Merlin’s name have you two been up to?” Draco asked, darting bewildered eyes between the two of them. Pansy sent him an excited, devious smirk.

“Oh, you’ll see.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, looking quite worried. Harry laughed softly.

“Draco,” he said, taking his hand to get his attention. “Are you heading home?”

“Yes, he is, and yes, he wants a ride home. Now get off of my property,” Pansy teased, flapping her hands at them. Draco leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, making her roll her eyes fondly.

“I dare you to use the fire, Potter,” she said, as Harry threw his leg over the bike and kicked it on.

“Fire?” Draco furrowed his brows, looking back at her as he approached the bike.

“I think I’ve used it all up for one night,” Harry replied, grinning. Draco climbed on behind him, pulling himself flush against Harry’s back, wrapping his arms around his waist. Harry smiled wider, enjoying the rush of contentment, the joy of having Draco’s arms around him. “We’ll have to take the long way home.”

“I don’t know if I like this, you speaking in code with my best friend,” Draco grumbled, hopefully ignoring the fact that Harry had just called his house home. Harry revved the engine and rolled out of the driveway, accelerating onto the long stretch of empty road, lifting off into the night sky.

“Where is home, then?” Draco had asked, days ago, his arm over Harry’s shoulders, his lips shiny and pink from fish n’ chips. And Harry had applauded his own impulse control, barely stopping the words with you from tumbling out of his mouth.

Because that was home. He felt safer and more at peace in Draco’s home than anywhere else, even when he was just a patient. He didn’t know if it was the house, or just Draco himself. Either way, it was his haven, his refuge. Draco was his sanctuary.

But Draco didn’t need to know that just yet.

So Harry kept his mouth shut and flew them home, Draco’s chest warm and solid against his back, his strong arms tight around Harry’s waist, his head resting easily on Harry’s shoulder.

Friday, 19 May

“Alright, little storm,” Draco began, sitting cross-legged on the sofa facing Boran. “I’ve got something to try. Are you ready?”

He pulled out his wand slowly, and Boran nodded, little face firming with resolve.

“Do you want your mum’s hand, again?”

Boran’s mouth twisted, deciding. “No,” he said eventually, “but she can sit here, next to me. Just in case.”

Agatha’s lips twitched, and she obliged, rising from the armchair and settling in next to Boran on the sofa. Draco raised his wand.

“Look at my eyes, remember? Three, two, one, Legilimens.”

He stares at the LEGO spaceship on his windowsill, afraid to go back to sleep.

He sits in the garden, face upturned toward the sun, until his mother casts a sun-protection charm on him.

“Someone wants what he has… someones. Something he got from you, I think.”

Draco waded through the memories, until he encountered the first cloud once more. He decided to start with the obvious, and cleared his throat. “When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve just got to try a few things,” he reassured. The quote spoken aloud had no effect. Probably had to be done mentally, then. What if…

He focused on each word in the quote and gave a little push, finding Boran’s memories with those words, linking them together.

“When I—”
“Let go of—”
“What—”
“I am! I—”
“Become—”
“What—”
“I might be—”

“Whoa,” Boran breathed. Draco waited, looking around, but nothing happened. He clicked his tongue. What was he missing? It wouldn’t accept words spoken verbally, with Legilimency involved. It wouldn’t accept the words strung together in Boran’s own memories. Draco frowned.

“I’m going to try one more thing, Boran, and then we’ll be done for today,” he said, limiting only a fraction of power through his wand. “It might feel a little intense, like there’s a lot more of me there than you’re used to. But it won’t hurt.” Hopefully.

“‘Kay.”

Draco took a deep breath, maintained the Legilimency, and slowly brought down his Occlumency barriers. Boran gasped softly, as Draco’s entire mental state, emotions and thoughts alike, his essence, spilled into his head. Draco focused all of himself on one single thought.

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be. When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.

The clouds shifted, connected with an almost audible click, and dispersed into the rest of Boran’s memories. Draco began the process of retreating, gathering every scrap of himself scattered in Boran’s head, pulling it all back, like dragging a great load of tied scarves through a small hole in a wall.

He collected the last of it, shoved it behind his Occlumency walls, and retreated from Boran’s mind, quickly lowering his wand. He stuck his finger inside the open collar of his shirt, tracing the tip of the scar there, then brought it up to run through his hair, idly twirling a lock of it between his fingers.

“Well done, well done, now, remember what we did last time? The things that make you you?”

Boran blinked rapidly, coming out of his daze, giving a slow nod and pulling his knees to his chest.

“Great, show me some of your favourite freckles. Tell me about your happiest memory.”

Draco kept him going for at least fifteen minutes, terrified that he’d blurred the lines too much, until Boran became annoyed with him, huffing and rolling his eyes.

“I know who I am, Draco,” he said, exasperated. Draco smiled faintly, and cleared his throat again.

“Alright, I believe you. One last question,” he met Boran’s eyes again, hoping against hope. “Who took you, and where did they take you?”

Boran’s smile fell, his eyes darkened, his knees returned to his chest. Draco held his breath.

“Your dad, with the ponytail, and people without faces. They took me to the Ministry, down nine floors, a long corridor with a black door at the end, a round room with too many doors and blue candles.” He paused, staring at his knees. “There was no sunshine.”

Draco released the breath he’d been holding, his shoulders sagging with a mixture of relief and painful sympathy. Agatha flung her arms around her son, pressing his face into her shoulder, squeezing him tightly.

“I’ll make sure the Aurors give you some time to get used to it, alright? And when you have to talk to them, I can come with you, and make sure you don’t get any of the mean ones,” Draco said softly, trying his best to give Boran a reassuring smile. It must have worked, because Boran smiled weakly back at him, leaning on his mother’s shoulder and nodding.

***

Draco slipped a silver pocketwatch into the pocket of his brocade waistcoat, fastening the onyx buttons, sighing heavily. His mind was swimming with anxiety: over Boran, over Harry, over the bloody Unspeakables still at large, over how this evening would go.

It was alarming, to say the least, that an anonymous conspiracy of morally reprehensible swots continued to evade justice. An unknown quantity of nameless, faceless wix who imprisoned children and answered to his father, who created body- and mind-controlling potions, who could be literally anybody. Who had been working without attracting an ounce of notice for Merlin knew how long, and who probably still wanted something from Harry—if Boran’s warning had indeed been about them, which Draco couldn’t know for sure.

The thought of what Boran might have endured as the Unspeakables’ captive made Draco nauseous, but he hoped that they’d finally be able to get some answers, now. He wanted to see every single Unspeakable answer for what they’d done. He wanted it to be over.

Harry had been very understanding that Boran needed time, and had successfully prevented the Aurors from rushing the Clarke house. But what was Boran doing, now? Was he alright, was he telling his mother everything, was he struggling, having to relive it, put it into words?

Draco shook himself, redoing his tie again. Boran was healed, no longer his patient.

But he was a friend, of sorts. Draco felt extremely protective of him. He felt protective of all of his patients, even after they were healed. He could guide someone through countering an Unstoppable Nightmare Curse, but once the curse was gone, did the nightmares really go away? Did the witch with the False Tongue Curse ever feel like she was being truly understood again?

Did Harry feel like he could be heard, now? Like he was worth listening to, worth knowing completely, worth fighting for, living for?

Though that wasn’t part of Draco’s job as his Healer. It wasn’t even his job as his… lover? What were they?

He could make Harry feel adored, precious even, but he couldn’t give Harry self-worth. And wasn’t that just terrifying, that Draco couldn’t fix everything himself? That Harry might still feel the way he was raised to, like he was solely responsible for the well-being of the Wizarding World, completely expendable towards that end, and there was nothing Draco could do about it?

Would Harry really be able to handle the backlash, after tonight? The Wizarding World turning on him yet again? Was Draco actually worth the trouble?

Draco gave up on the tie, his fingers shaking too badly. He leaned his forehead on the cool wooden top of the bureau, staring at his brogues, focusing on his breathing.

After a moment, there was movement on his chest, and Draco nearly choked as his black silk tie knotted itself into a perfect Windsor, tucking itself neatly into the shiny burgundy and silver waistcoat. He stood up fully, turning to face Timsy.

“Thank you,” Draco muttered, and the elf huffed.

“Master Draco is being upset,” Timsy croaked.

“You’re very observant, Timsy.” Draco approached the mirror and sighed again. There was no way this could end well, no matter how good he looked. And he looked good, but he certainly didn’t look forget I was ever a teenage Death Eater and be happy that I’m claiming your hero as mine good. Or forget I’m your hero’s first public male companion good, or forget who my father was, forget my family’s legacy—

Timsy appeared next to his leg, waving his little hands to smooth out Draco’s sleek black trousers.

“Master Draco should not be fretting.”

“How can I not?”

“Easily.”

Draco blinked down at him. That was the shortest, most direct sentence Timsy had ever spoken.

“Master Draco is not looking fondly on his upbringing,” Timsy began, summoning the desk chair and standing on it to adjust Draco’s tie. “But this is being what Master Draco is raised to do, and is knowing it well.”

Timsy’s gaze was piercing, directly in front of Draco’s face, daring him to object. Draco swallowed, and conceded the point, as Timsy fastened a garnet tie bar to his white collar with deft, wrinkly fingers.

He was right. This is what Draco knew, what he’d learned from his parents: how to command the eyes of everyone in a room, how to charm even the most resistant, how to earn respect, and how to exist among the upper echelons of society. So what if it had been… a decade? At least? That kind of training didn’t just disappear. Take away his father’s inclinations towards bribery, and that’s who Draco was, until the War.

Timsy knew that, had watched Draco grow up, had been there the whole time. And as always, Timsy had known just what Draco needed to hear.

Draco stood still and compliant, allowing Timsy to work his magic.

“I don’t know where I’d be without you, Timsy,” he mumbled.

“Timsy knows,” the elf answered, his face expressionless, as if this was just another chore, using his magic to style Draco’s hair effortlessly. “Master Draco would be withering, being laying in a nest of his own dirty laundry, being surrounded by half-empty mugs.”

That startled a surprised laugh out of Draco, which he was sure was Timsy’s intent. Timsy’s long nose twitched, perhaps with triumph, and he spun Draco around, summoning the black suit jacket and slipping it on Draco’s arms.

Draco smirked at himself in the mirror. Yes, that was much better, Timsy was a genius. An artist. He felt around his pockets, searching for something.

“Timsy, you wouldn’t happen to have the—”

Timsy reached into the pocket of his little trousers and pulled out a small, dark object, like a stone. A stone Draco knew was a rare catch-all antidote to most poisons—from experience. Sort of.

“Master Draco is not being worrying,” Timsy said quietly, slipping the bezoar into the chest pocket of Draco’s jacket. “Master Draco is being prepared.”

He gave Draco a meaningful look, and Draco nodded, managing a smile. He’d been carrying the same bezoar for six years, and Pansy always teased him about it when they went out together. But she didn’t get chased by an angry mob as a teenager, or sent cursed hate mail. Often.

“Thank you, Timsy.”

Timsy reached into his jumper and pulled out a thick piece of expensive parchment, handing it to him.

“Master Draco’s invitation,” he supplied.

“Right, I was invited, wasn’t I?” Draco mumbled, frowning at the parchment. Technically.

He heard a sudden whoosh from the floo in the sitting room, followed by a couple of heavy, stumbling steps. He rolled his eyes as his stomach fluttered. They were definitely apparating to this stupid event, there was no way he was taking Harry through a floo.

“Draco?” Harry called, and Timsy sighed, stepping down from the chair and walking out of the room, grumbling under his breath about “wizards is always needing Timsy to clean off their clothes, Harry Potter is never learning to avoid the soot.” Draco chuckled softly, turning back to the mirror for one last check.

Who was he kidding, he looked fucking fantastic. No one could call anyone wearing a muggle suit this nice a Death Eater. Even though he was one. Formerly. Oh, fuck this.

He turned on his heel and left the room, grabbing his wand from his bed on the way out. He strode towards the sitting room, where he could hear Harry’s low voice conversing quietly with Timsy. Draco entered confidently, buttoning his jacket.

“Will you ever learn to floo like a proper—”

The words were wiped from his mouth, his heart stuttering at the sight of Harry Potter in a perfectly tailored, crisp black, exceedingly sharp double-breasted suit, the collar of the starched black shirt left open, exposing the dip of his throat, all that deep black just made his coppery skin glow, and his fucking eyes—

“Good enough for you, your highness?” Harry said, watching Draco’s floundering, his cheeks growing rosy. His smirk was confident, but his eyes were nervous, and Draco was thunderstruck, rooted to the spot, wildly aroused and stupidly in love.

“Fucking hell, Harry, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” His voice squeaked pathetically, and he winced. Harry chuckled and rolled his eyes, approaching him slowly, tentatively.

“What have I done now?”

“What have you—what are you—fuck, Harry, just look at you.”

Draco was dying to touch him. Sweet fucking Salazar, he wanted to touch him so badly, wanted to feel the strength of his shoulders beneath the sleek fabric, wanted to slip his hand inside that open collar—

“It’s good, then?” Harry asked, holding his hands out to the side, putting himself on display, and now Draco wanted to shake him.

“It’s good? It’s good?”

“Pansy and Pascal said it was good—”

“Harry, I am seconds away from dropping to my knees, you beautiful, infuriating idiot.”

“Oh. It is good, then,” Harry mumbled, eyes lighting up as Draco’s cheeks heated. Had he really just blurted that out loud?

“Tell me we’re not going, tell me the whole thing is cancelled and we’ll have to spend all night here instead, with you in varying states of undress.”

Harry laughed lightly, finally closing the distance between them. His hair was even tamed a fraction, the dark curls falling over each other in some sort of intentional movement. Draco wanted to run his hands through it and mess it up, to tug on it and tip Harry’s head back, to put his mouth on his tantalizing, exposed throat—

“‘Fraid I can’t,” Harry replied, pouting. Draco clenched his fists at his sides to keep from grabbing him. “Hermione would murder me. And you, probably.”

“Merlin, Harry, how am I supposed to keep my hands off you all night?”

“Who says you have to?” Harry’s smile was devious, inching closer to Draco’s lips.

Draco growled softly and gave in, kissing him insistently, his hands finding that tapered waist, running up the firm chest, trying his best not to grab the material in his fists and tug him closer. Harry melted against him, his hands gripping Draco’s sides. Draco pulled back before he could be further tempted.

“Alright,” he said, mostly to himself, eyes closed, taking Harry by the arms and pushing him away gently. “Alright. We’re going. We’re leaving.”

He opened his eyes to see Harry’s amused, blushing face. He checked him over, smoothing out the fabric, frowning slightly.

“Needs something shiny,” Draco muttered. Harry let out an exasperated groan.

“I’m not piercing my ears,” he grumbled.

“Merlin, no, we don’t have that kind of time,” Draco chuckled. Pansy must have had the same thought. “Wait here.”

He walked back to his bedroom, rummaging through the wooden box on the bureau. Something simple, subtle—Harry probably wouldn’t wear rings or bracelets.

Unless… he picked up the Malfoy signet, sparkling with emeralds, thankfully half the size of his father’s. Maybe… But would Harry want to associate himself with the Malfoy name in that way? Draco certainly didn’t.

Draco hadn’t worn it in years, because he wasn’t a proper heir, a real Mr. Malfoy; he wasn’t anything like Lucius—anymore. Wearing the ring was an act of claiming that name, showing it off to the world, which Draco hadn’t wanted to do since he was a teenager.

But some deep, animalistic part of him really wanted Harry to claim it, claim him.

He glanced down at his own hands, at the simple rings he was wearing, and pulled them off, making a small, glittering pile of options in his palm. He grabbed a long, silver chain from the box, closed it carefully, and left the room.

Harry was casually leaning against the back of the sofa, his hands clasped in front of him. He was the picture of confidence and ease, radiating a kind of power Lucius could never achieve, even after decades of trying. He turned his head when Draco reentered, raising his eyebrow in curiosity.

“Pick one,” Draco ordered, holding out the small pile of rings in his palm. Harry rolled his eyes again, looking warily at the shiny things.

“You know those won’t fit me, Draco,” he said, waving his broad hands and thick fingers in emphasis.

“First of all, magic exists. Second of all, it’s not going on your finger.” Draco held up the silver chain in his other hand. Harry huffed a surprised laugh, shaking his head, perusing the rings in Draco’s hand.

He furrowed his brows, picking up the onyx signet Draco liked to wear these days, examining the face.

“I’m surprised you’d let someone borrow this one, Draco.”

“Why?” Draco frowned. It was one of his more simple rings. He didn’t even know where he’d gotten it—it was just something he’d always had.

“This is a Black family ring,” Harry said, meeting his eyes. Draco raised his eyebrows.

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Harry said, “didn’t you know? This sigil is all over Grimmauld Place. Even on the fucking silverware,” he laughed softly.

The sigil was vague, three small black birds carved into the onyx, surrounded by a shield. He hadn’t given it much thought, but now he could recognize the image from some of his mother’s heirlooms.

Harry put it back in his palm, and picked up the Malfoy ring; the same size, but covered in emeralds, faced with a carved “M” surrounded by two twisting serpents. Harry looked up at him, a knowing gleam in his eye.

“I haven’t seen you wear this in a long time,” he muttered, shocking Draco once again with the knowledge that Harry recognized it, and knew Draco had worn it every day, before the War. Maybe even recognized it from a fist that had punched him in the face.

“Doesn’t feel right,” Draco replied, as nonchalantly as he could. “I’m not really a proper Malfoy, am I?”

“‘Course you are,” Harry frowned at him, still holding the ring between his fingers. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

Draco tsked at him, a little annoyed. “I’m working, I’m no longer a pureblood fanatic, I’ve no concern for continuing the line, or gaining power for the family, I’m not anything like the Malfoys who wore this sigil before me—“

“Definitely not,” Harry interrupted, his eyes intent on Draco’s. “Doesn’t mean you’re not a Malfoy. Everything you are is what a Malfoy is, now.”

Draco faltered. Oh.

He teased Harry a lot, but no one could ever say Harry wasn’t a smart man. He had intelligence of his own. Which was often overlooked.

Harry smiled softly, closing his hand around the Malfoy ring, watching comprehension dawn over Draco’s face. Draco was the head of the Malfoy family, with Lucius disgraced and incarcerated. It was Draco who decided what being a Malfoy meant, now.

Harry held out his free hand for the chain.

Draco blinked, absently undoing the delicate fastening, holding out one end for Harry to slip the ring onto.

“Turn around,” Draco said, still a little stunned. Harry obeyed, and Draco lifted the chain over his head, letting the ring fall to his chest, fastening it carefully at the back of his neck.

Harry turned to face him again, the silver ring gleaming against the crisp black shirt on his chest.

“Shiny enough?”

Draco stared for a moment, his brain slowly processing the sight of Harry Potter with a Malfoy ring hanging from his neck. Mine.

Harry wore it like a trophy, a badge of honour. Something a warrior would collect from a fallen opponent—a souvenir of something conquered, claimed. Yes, Harry, I’m yours.

“Yes,” Draco answered lamely, taking the dangling ring in his hand and giving the chain a gentle tug. Harry came forward, grinning, planting a perfect, victorious kiss on his lips. Draco reluctantly tucked the ring inside Harry’s open collar, so only the chain was visible.

Harry pulled back, looking down at his chest, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. The expression was so familiar.

“Small steps,” Draco murmured, patting the ring hidden under the fabric. “They’re already going to think I’ve Imperiused you, give it time.”

“But I can throw off an Imperius,” Harry retorted.

“I never said they were logical.”

“Who is this ‘they’?”

Draco let out a short, mirthless laugh. “You’ll see. Now, are we going, or have you changed your mind?”

“Right, yeah, we’re already late,” Harry laughed.

“I doubt any party starts without the bloody Saviour,” Draco muttered, lips lifting in a grin as he led the way to the front door and into the garden to apparate.

“Oh, er, here,” Harry said, reaching for something in his chest pocket. He pulled out a piece of thick, expensive parchment. “Your plus one invite.”

Draco chuckled, pulling out an identical parchment from his own pocket. “No need, Harry.”

“You were invited?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I was invited. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Harry looked amused, tucking the invitation back into his pocket.

“They didn’t actually know who they were inviting. They invited an anonymous donor. I wasn’t planning on going, I never do. Until you invited me yourself, of course.”

Harry’s eyes widened comically. “That’s you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Muggleborn Integration Alliance has only one anonymous donor, I’ve seen those numbers. I’m on the stupid board.”

“Yes, well—”

“You’re their biggest donor, Draco, your money is nearly a third of their budget. Has been for years.”

“What do you want me to say?” Draco asked abruptly, a little uncomfortable, was he being chastised? The Malfoy money was just sitting around, kept well above water by diverse investments, it might as well go to good use, right?

Harry didn’t answer. He shook his head incredulously and rushed forward, kissing him square on the mouth.

“‘Not a proper Malfoy,’ my arse,” Harry grumbled through a grin, grabbing hold of Draco’s arm and apparating forcefully, squeezing the air out of Draco’s lungs. Draco wheezed as they landed, and decided there was actually no good or easy way to travel with Harry Potter. Except maybe walking.

“Damn it, Harry,” he chided, straightening himself. Harry laughed and shook his head, taking his hand.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Draco replied grimly, squeezing his hand, steeling himself with a glance at the silver chain visible through Harry’s open collar. Harry pulled him around the corner of the long shrub they’d landed in front of, and led him up a long, meticulously kept garden path towards an impressive manor house glittering with lights. Surprisingly, one Draco had never seen before. Nouveau riche, then.

“Who is the host?” Draco asked.

“I thought you said you were invited?” Harry side-eyed him, smirking.

“That doesn’t mean I read the bloody invitation. I told you, I never go.”

Harry laughed. The gravel crunched beneath their polished shoes, the house growing larger as they approached.

“Marcus Belby.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. Apparently inherited this house from his uncle. He only uses it to throw massive parties, and lends it to the MIA for the charity galas. Considers it his ‘donation.’”

“Merlin,” Draco sighed, shaking his head.

They scaled the wide, marble steps and entered through the open front doors. A staff member waited there in formal robes, levitating a long scroll of parchment and a quill.

She nodded at Harry, smiling as she checked off his name on the list. She raked her gaze over him, and Draco watched her face transform as she landed on their joined hands, following the arm up to Draco’s face.

Her face paled, the scroll and quill fell to the ground. Draco tried very hard not to roll his eyes. Whether her reaction was because he was a man holding Harry’s hand or a Malfoy holding Harry’s hand, this was not a promising start to the evening.

He handed her his invitation, which she took absently, wide eyes fixed on Draco’s face. Harry pulled him forward. Draco tried not to think about how he’d just revealed himself as an apparently famous anonymous donor.

“One down,” Draco mumbled. Harry snorted again.

People were milling about in the corridors, dressed to the nines, and Draco’s face hardened with each double take, each hushed whisper. They heard classical music playing, and followed the sound to a massive ballroom.

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand again and released it, probably feeling how sweaty Draco’s palm was getting, holding out his arm for Draco to take instead. Draco smirked, and decided it would be better to let Harry lead this time. He slipped his hand under Harry’s arm and squeezed his bicep once, just for fun, before sliding down to his waiting forearm. Harry winked at him, a proud, amused smile on his face, and led him into the ballroom.

Harry’s eyes darted around the room, cataloguing the exits and potential threats. Draco knew, because he was doing the same thing. How nice, we have paranoias in common, what a lovely couple we make, he thought dryly.

The hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stood up as all faces turned to them, a low murmur running through the room as their presence was noticed. Draco heard a violin hit a dissonant note.

Thankfully, he saw Ron Weasley’s offensively ginger head over the top of the crowd and started pulling Harry in his direction. The crowd parted before them, all eyes trained on Draco’s infamous face and claiming hand.

“‘Bout time you two showed up,” Ron said loudly as they approached, smiling widely and clapping Draco on the shoulder in a shocking gesture of camaraderie. He looked carefree and happy to see the pair of them, dressed in complete Head Auror regalia, adorned with medals. His blue eyes widened once, slightly, a barely there movement only for Draco to catch, and Draco realized suddenly that Ron Weasley was acting, and he was very good at it.

Draco smiled back at him, genuinely impressed and grateful. He shook his hand cordially, playing along.

“Who knew Harry could spend so long in front of a mirror?”

The tension in their immediate surroundings dispersed, as people went back to their conversations, occasionally looking back at them while they gossiped. A Malfoy was less of a threat if he was that chummy with the Head Auror.

Draco turned to greet Hermione, but she was staring at her husband in admiration, so he let her be.

“Did they let you in alright, Draco? No problems with the plus one?” she asked, clearing her throat, subtly inching closer to Ron.

“He was invited, ‘Mione. He had an invitation of his own,” Harry answered for Draco, giving her a meaningful look.

“What? No, he didn’t. I went over that whole list myself…” she trailed off, frowning, and Draco could see her legendary brain working through her expression, thoughts coalescing and combining, comprehension dawning, then shock, disbelief. You couldn’t just keep your mouth shut, Harry?

“You’re not,” she said, apparently expecting Draco to agree. Harry dropped his arm suddenly and stepped to the side, his face smug. Draco snapped his gaze to him, eyes wide with fear and confusion, now facing the Golden Trio alone.

“He is,” Harry replied, exchanging a look with Ron. He looked back at Draco proudly, which made Draco’s chest feel warm, but not enough to calm his current nerves, what was Harry doing?

“The whole time?” Hermione asked, and Draco didn’t know to whom she was speaking, or really what she was asking, though her eyes hadn’t left Draco’s face.

“Yep,” Harry said, grinning. Ron let out a low whistle, and suddenly Draco had a facefull of bushy brown hair and Hermione Granger’s surprisingly strong arms around his neck.

He took a second to get over his shock, then patted Hermione’s upper back politely, because it wouldn’t do to seem unfriendly towards the president of the damn charity, at the charity’s own gala. He didn’t know where to put his hands—Hermione’s glittering mauve gown had a low, open back, he didn’t want to seem handsy—

“Oh my god, really? Really? That was you, this whole time? Merlin’s pants, Draco, I don’t even know how to thank you, you were quite literally our only significant donor when we got started, I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this without you, you should see all the kids we get to meet and introduce to our world, oh, it’s so much better than just a professor showing up on my parents’ doorstep and telling them to send me to magic school, you have no idea—” Hermione’s voice was running a mile a minute in Draco’s ear, ecstatic and a little incoherent. He gave up on the polite pats and hugged her properly, glaring at a proud Harry over her cloud of hair, sensing this would take a while.

“—oh my god, I can’t believe it, it was Draco fucking Malfoy, the whole time.” She let out a slightly manic giggle, and Draco was still unsure of who she was talking to, and quite shocked, because he’d never heard Hermione Granger swear before. Go figure, it had to be with his own name.

“But I never knew, I mean, no one knew, we kept sending those invitations anyway, I was tempted to hop on a broom and just follow the owl, once, but I didn’t—I mean, why didn’t you say anything? Why did you have to do it anonymously?”

She released him finally, pulling back to frown at him in confusion, her hands on his shoulders. Draco tried not to squirm under the scrutiny. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You wouldn’t have taken it,” he answered quietly.

Hermione opened her mouth to object, but Draco raised an eyebrow, and she paused, thinking.

He knew she knew he was right, though she probably didn’t want to admit it. He had started his donations as soon as he heard about the initiative in the Prophet, a portrait of a fierce Hermione Granger addressing the Wizengamot on the front page, Harry and Ron standing supportively behind her. Not even a year after the War ended. She’d gotten right to work.

It was the only thing Draco could do to help, but no one wanted help from a Malfoy. Especially not someone who’d been tortured in his house, while he’d stood stoically off to the side, barely keeping himself upright.

Hermione shut her mouth, her face full of understanding and a little regret. She released his shoulders, and Draco winced slightly as he caught a glimpse of the scars on her bare forearm: mudblood.

“I will now,” she said firmly, leaving no room for argument. Her resolved expression gradually melted into one of gleeful mischief, another look he’d never before seen on Hermione Granger. “Come tomorrow morning, everyone will know what a sneaky little blood traitor you are.”

A loud, surprised laugh burst from Draco’s mouth, startling the people around them. He covered his mouth to stifle it, but Hermione had already joined in, snorting, followed by loud guffaws from both Harry and Ron. The mingling crowd around them looked on in shock and amusement, whispering their confusion to one another.

The voice of a compère sounded through a sonorus, clearing the dance floor, and the string quintet started playing again. Several couples Draco could recognize as old purebloods glided onto the floor, basking in the social currency they were gaining by showing up for post-War muggleborns, yet still flaunting their own perceived nobility. Draco smirked, turning to Harry.

“Come on, let’s show the old biddies what you’ve learned,” Draco said, holding out his hand. Harry’s cheeks heated rapidly, eyes darting around for help.

“Draco—”

“You brought me out here, Harry, you’re going to dance with me, or I’m going to have to call Timsy, and tomorrow’s headline will call you a cruel, unfeeling man who stood up his date and forced him to dance with his house elf, instead.”

Harry huffed, unable to suppress his laughter. He rolled his eyes, shifting on his feet. Draco waited, hand outstretched. Well, this is familiar.

Harry sighed, sent him a half-hearted glare, and stepped forward, taking his hand. Draco grinned triumphantly.

“You’re just dying to embarrass me, aren’t you?” Harry muttered under his breath, as Draco led him to the middle of the dance floor, weaving between dancing couples.

“You don’t need my help for that,” Draco retorted, yanking his arm gently and pulling him close. Harry tried to glare, but his fond smile gave him away. He put his hand on Draco’s shoulder, the other in Draco’s palm.

Draco stepped forward, and Harry stumbled a little, his eyes darting around at the swirling dancers. Draco tsked at him softly, continuing the steps.

“You’re thinking,” he whispered. “Look at me, Harry.”

Green eyes found grey, and the steps smoothed a little. Draco tightened the hand on his waist, pulled him a little closer.

“Let me worry about where we’re going. Just move with me, trust me,” Draco implored, and Harry’s lips twitched with his irrepressible smile. He searched Draco’s face for a moment, held his hand a little tighter. He took a deep breath, and to Draco’s complete surprise, closed his eyes, following his movements.

Draco tried not to let too much shock show on his face. He was blown away by this gesture of absolute faith—Harry Potter, the man who could barely sit still in the middle of an unfamiliar room, who lived his life waiting for an attack, had just closed his eyes in the middle of a moving crowd, trusting Draco to keep him safe, following him blindly.

Draco briefly wondered if there would ever be a day he wasn’t completely awestruck by this man. But now, Draco could focus on their surroundings.

Ballroom dancing was fun, and it was by far Draco’s favourite subject before Hogwarts, but his tutors had also hammered in the fact that at high society gatherings, most dance floors were actually just viper pits. Never anything truly dangerous, usually, just devious dancers spinning a little too close, an outstretched foot going unnoticed under a fluttering skirt. Draco knew it well, because he and Pansy had been cruel, malicious children, who had thoroughly enjoyed these spiteful playgrounds.

From the bitter, disapproving looks on some of the faces spinning around them, Draco could tell this was one of those petty battlefields. But Harry wasn’t Pansy, and couldn’t be thrown around like she could, couldn’t dance more than a box step like she could. Draco’s vantage point was limited, unable to swerve and weave his way through the crowd like he knew how to do.

The first attack came from a middle aged witch in bright pink, sparkling formal robes, dancing with what looked like a bored, exasperated husband. The colour and sparkles did not provide her stealth, and Draco saw her coming. He could feel her eyes on him.

The bored husband flung her out in a spin, probably at her request, and Draco pulled Harry flush against him and twisted on his heel, swinging him out of the way, making him gasp softly. Draco thought he would give in and open his eyes, but he only squeezed them shut harder, his hand tightening on Draco’s shoulder as he stepped back again, to the side, forward, to the side.

“Well done,” Draco murmured in his ear. Harry’s breath hitched slightly.

“I’m getting dizzy, you know,” Harry said, his cheeks turning that lovely rosy colour again. He gave another faint gasp as Draco pulled and twisted them gracefully, nearly lifting Harry off the ground as he avoided another bitter old witch—not an easy feat.

“Then open your eyes and look at my tie. Isn’t it nice?” Another outstretched ankle under a long gown. Draco turned them and stepped far back, pulling Harry with him, righting him when he nearly stumbled. “Timsy tied it himself, he’s quite talented.”

Harry’s eyes flew open, surprised, entertained, and more than a little miffed. He narrowed them at Draco.

“Are you trying to make me fall?”

“Excuse you, I’ve kept you upright this entire time.” Draco grinned mischievously, some of the wicked glee he remembered from his youth returning at last as he thwarted each attempt at sabotage. He saw pink sparkles in his periphery, and his eyes darted to the side. Harry’s followed, and he stepped on Draco’s foot accidentally.

“My tie, Harry, trust me,” Draco urged, and Harry’s eyes snapped forward, fixed on his throat. Pull, twist, swing. Harry growled softly, glaring at his tie, squeezing his hand hard.

“What are you doing?”

“Dancing, Harry.”

“This is not—”

“—a dance that you’re used to,” Draco finished for him, amused, on the lookout for the next attack. It was clear they found him entertaining prey. Well, he found them entertaining predators.

“Draco,” Harry prodded, clearly frustrated.

“Oh, alright. Maybe you will enjoy this kind of dancing, I know you’re an excellent dueller. How do you feel with ten against one?”

“What the—” Harry was cut off as Draco pushed them forward, feeling quick movement directly behind him. He pulled Harry back to keep him from stumbling.

“It seems the other dancers get a little clumsy around us, don’t they?”

“I don’t know,” Harry frowned. Draco spun. He was starting to get a little winded.

“It’s intentional, Harry.”

“How do you know?” Harry’s eyes darted around warily, making him trip again. Draco tsked at him, and he returned his confused glare to Draco’s face.

“Because I know. This was my world, once. Petty pureblood dance floors, subtle machinations.” Draco stepped back again, pulling Harry with him. Harry’s face transformed with indignation, and Draco stopped him before he could speak.

“Oh, no need for the righteous Gryffindor, Harry. I assure you, I have it well in hand.” Pink sparkles came around again, Draco pushed forward. She would be getting used to his twists by now. “Besides, it can be quite fun. Especially when you can bite back. Pansy, for example, excels at this, though she hasn’t done it in just as long.”

“And are you? ‘Biting back?’” Harry asked, eyes darting to Draco’s throat.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s your job, as the follower. You’re the wand, and I’m the arm that wields you.”

“I don’t know how I feel about being wielded,” Harry grumbled.

“Hence, no retaliating.”

“Why are they doing this in the first place? We’re just dancing.”

“Any number of reasons,” Draco smirked, spinning him again. “Because I’m me, because you’re you. Because they’ve never seen you on a dance floor, and assumed we were easy prey. Because we’re two men, because they’re envious, because they’re bored. Maybe even because we’re wearing muggle clothes. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I, quite literally, don’t let them get to us.”

The song finally slowed and ended, and the crowd applauded politely. Draco grinned victoriously, stepped back from Harry, and bowed, as did every other man to his partner. Harry laughed reluctantly and blushed again, and Draco joined him, high on the rush of his triumph, having carried Harry Potter safely through a battle of sorts all on his own.

Harry dragged him off of the dance floor, clearly relieved, his hair slowly disheveling from the effort.

Their path was obstructed suddenly by a rat-faced witch with a greedy gaze, holding a notebook and pen.

“A word for the Daily Prophet, Mr. Potter? Is it true you’re romantically involved with a Death Eater—”

“Former Death Eater, sweet Merlin, I’m right here,” Draco huffed, annoyed that his victory was so short-lived. Harry sent him an amused look, and the witch turned to Draco instead, pen scratching frantically across the tiny page.

“How are you addressing the rumours surrounding your absence for the past eight years, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Healer Malfoy,” Draco corrected, raising his eyebrows at her until she looked down and wrote his correct title in her notes. “I’ve not been absent. I’ve been in England the whole time, save for some time apprenticing on the Continent.”

“Apprenticing in what?”

“That information is publicly available in Ministry archives. Excuse us.” He led Harry around her with a hand on the small of his back. He could feel Harry shaking with suppressed laughter.

“They’re going to twist the hell out of that, you know,” Harry said.

“Nothing they weren’t already planning on writing. Salazar, I almost forgot how pushy they are.”

Harry hummed in agreement as they rejoined Ron and Hermione, who were now in the company of Minister Shacklebolt.

“Harry, Healer Malfoy,” Shacklebolt said jovially, shaking their hands with a wide smile. He must have really felt badly about what had happened to Draco, if his over-excited smile was anything to go by. Draco was more concerned over whether Kingsley’s remorse extended to Harry.

“Minister,” Draco greeted, as warmly as he could.

“The vultures descending already?” Shacklebolt asked quietly, eyeing the abandoned reporter.

“She wanted to know my skincare routine. Apparently the public is just itching for it.”

Shacklebolt snorted, and Harry leaned into Draco’s side, shaking his head fondly. Draco left his arm on Harry’s back, curling slightly around his waist. He subtly maneuvered them to the other side of the group, on the pretense of talking with Hermione, so they could keep their backs to the wall. Harry leaned into him again, and Draco took it as gratitude.

The compère eventually cleared the floor again and filled it with round tables, meticulously set with fine china. Draco didn’t know how much it cost to attend this fundraiser, since he donated the same amount every year without looking at the proposed “benefits,” but he was starting to realize it must have been quite expensive, especially if most of the price went to fundraising. Almost everyone in attendance was there to show off that they could afford it and then some, while pretending it was all for the benefit of the underserved.

Draco really wished he could have remained anonymous. If only he’d known he was the only anonymous donor—he should have, considering the crowd.

He and Harry were sat at a table with Hermione, Ron, Shacklebolt, and a few other people Draco assumed were in leadership of the MIA with Hermione. Harry sat to his left, with the Minister to his right. What a way to step back into society.

“Everything going smoothly, at the Ministry?” Draco asked Shacklebolt, to make conversation. Waitstaff were circling their tables, delivering wine and appetizers by hand, which Draco thought was odd, but not so much for an event promoting muggleborns.

“Of course not,” Shacklebolt laughed wryly. “It’s a shitshow, but I’m doing my best.”

“I can imagine,” Draco replied, unsure of what else to say.

“What about you? Is it true you’re the mysterious anonymous donor they’ve been fawning over for years?” Kingsley asked, taking the glass of wine from the waiter and thanking him quietly. Draco took his own, doing the same.

“Apparently so. I didn’t realize I was the only anonymous donor,” Draco answered, setting down his glass. He’d check it with his wand under the table, when he could be subtle enough. Kingsley nodded with interest, and took a hearty sip of his wine—

And abruptly dropped his glass, shattering it on the floor between their chairs.

Draco jumped, hands outstretched towards the Minister, whose face was transforming with shock and fear. Kingsley’s hands started to shake. Every head in the room turned toward the noise, every eye on Draco and the Minister.

“Kingsley? What is it?” Draco asked hurriedly, his Healer instincts kicking in, grabbing Kingsley’s arm, his face, checking his pulse, his dilated pupils. Kingsley met his eyes for just a second, desperate and afraid, before his eyes rolled back in his head and his body jerked forcefully, tipping over.

“Shit, Harry!” Draco called, as shocked murmurs and gasps ran through the crowd. Harry ran and knelt at Kingsley’s other side, holding him up, asking rushed questions that Draco ignored. Foam was starting to gather at Kingsley’s lips, his body twitching violently in the chair. Without a second thought, Draco held his hand over his chest pocket, “Accio bezoar.”

The small stone flew into his hand, and he quickly opened Kingsley’s mouth and shoved it as far down his throat as he could.

“No one touch their wine,” he yelled absently, closing Kingsley’s mouth and massaging his throat to make him swallow it.

There was movement around them, the tables shaking and chairs scraping as people stood suddenly, worried whispers turning to shouts. Draco ignored them all, hoping against hope that it would be enough.

After a tense moment, Kingsley’s convulsing slowed and stilled, his head dropping forward as he passed out. Draco pulled his wand, ignoring the way the strangers around him gasped and shrank back, and checked his vitals—stabilized, for now.

Draco let out the breath he’d been holding. He looked up, then, and saw the crowd of onlookers. Their faces were a mixture of fear, suspicion, and shock, and Draco realized abruptly what this looked like: a former Death Eater had been sitting right next to the Minister for Magic at dinner, the perfect place to poison him from, and he’d just conveniently pulled a rare poison antidote out of his pocket and shoved it down the man’s throat. Oh, fuck me.

“He needs St. Mungo’s,” Draco said, finally looking at Harry, who stared back at him with wide green eyes full of determined fury. Draco really hoped it wasn’t meant for him. It had been, once upon a time.

Ron came around the table, pulling his wand. Please don’t arrest me, please don’t arrest me—

“Mobilicorpus,” Ron cast on Kingsley, “Harry, set up anti-apparitions, block the exits. No one leaves until they’re cleared. Draco, with me.”

Harry shook himself and stood, swinging his wand over his head. Draco heard the doors snap shut, causing more worried murmuring in the crowd. Harry pointed his wand at the ceiling and started muttering in Latin.

Draco stood, adding his own wand to Ron’s spell, helping to levitate Kingsley’s unconscious body. Ron took a pin from his robes and tapped it with his wand, placing it on Kingsley’s chest. He put a finger on it as it started to glow blue.

“Draco,” Ron said, and Draco blinked, touching the portkey just in time. A hook feeling behind his navel, and he was pulled through time and space to St. Mungo’s, his fingertip glued to the portkey on Kingsley’s chest.

***

Draco paced the waiting room, drawing nervous glances from patients and staff alike as they passed in the corridor. He was sure their anxiety couldn’t rival his own.

He hadn’t been back here in a while, and he wasn’t wearing his Healer’s Emblem, so he couldn’t do anything as a Healer. He wasn’t family or an Auror, either, so he was barred access to Kingsley’s room. There were probably a few other reasons they wouldn’t allow him in there. All he could do was wait, in this grim, sterile room, pacing the tiled floor, the floating lights above him flickering intermittently.

It had to be Kingsley Shacklebolt they’d attack next, the Secret Keeper of the Department of Mysteries. Why didn’t Kingsley check his wine for poisons? Wasn’t he trained by Mad-Eye Moody? Didn’t he know what a clear, easy target he made, sitting at a dinner with food and drink he didn’t prepare himself? He’d even said that the Ministry was a shitshow.

And of course, of course, it was Draco who had been assigned to sit next to him. Typical. Was that intentional, too? Was he supposed to take the fall for this? It did look terribly convenient…

He heard Ron’s voice in the corridor, and snapped his head up, just as the Head Auror approached him, a look of resignation on his face.

“He’s going to be fine,” Ron muttered, pausing and sighing heavily. “Why is it always you?”

“Good fucking question,” Draco grumbled.

“I’m not accusing you, Draco, but—”

“Save it. I know how it looks,” he interrupted, waving his hand once before returning to his pacing. He knew it was a habit he should stop, he’d promised himself he would, after seeing Lucius pacing like this in the Department of Mysteries. But he couldn’t stay still, he was vibrating with anger and worry.

Ron pressed his lips together, studying him.

“Do you always carry a bezoar?”

“When I go out in public, yes, especially to eat.”

“I do, too,” Ron said, pulling one out of his pocket, holding it up between his fingers.

“Shame he wasn’t assigned to sit next to you, then,” Draco replied shortly, trying not to glare, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It was the same kind, you know,” Ron muttered, pocketing the bezoar again.

“The same what?”

“The same poison that nearly killed me.”

Draco closed his eyes, sagging. Fuck. He sat, finally, on a hard wooden chair against the wall, and put his head in his hands.

“So the Minister was poisoned with something I have a history of using, and saved the same way as my last victim,” Draco’s mouth twisted over the words, fear and regret bubbling in his stomach. “And I happened to be the only person who saw him take and drink the wine, and knew exactly what to do to save him, even carried the rare antidote in my pocket.”

He couldn’t see Ron’s face, and didn’t really want to. He didn’t want to see the suspicion, anger, disappointment, just when he’d started thinking of Ron as some sort of acquaintance. Maybe even a potential friend.

Of course, it was hard to make friends with someone you’d almost killed, once.

But Ron only sat heavily in the wooden chair next to Draco’s, sighing deeply.

“I know you didn’t do it, mate,” he said, and Draco lifted his head to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not me you’ll have to convince,” Ron continued, and Draco understood. The papers were going to have a field day. Not only would there be chaos over him dating the fucking Chosen One, now they’d be fluffing that up with theories of how he poisoned the Minister just to save him, and make himself look like a hero to gain public favour. Right after revealing himself as the largest longtime donor of a popular muggleborn charity.

It was the kind of thing Lucius would do, if he were willing to get his hands dirty.

“Fine,” Draco grunted. “I certainly don’t regret it. Have your Aurors question me under Veritaserum, if that’ll make them happy. I don’t think there’ll ever be a day I heal a public figure where no one thinks it wasn’t me who hurt them in the first place. Which, unfortunately, is fair.”

They heard jogging footsteps in the corridor, and Harry burst into the waiting room, surveying the pair of them with wide, distressed eyes.

“He didn’t do it,” he said urgently, probably to Ron.

“I know, Harry.”

“Then why—”

“Is the ballroom cleared?” Ron cut him off, standing from the chair.

“Yes, we got them all out, everyone has an alibi, but—”

“Then I’m going home. Keep an eye on this one, tonight,” Ron said, clapping Harry on the shoulder and giving Draco a solemn nod before leaving the room. This was becoming a pattern of his.

Draco put his head in his hands again.

He heard Harry approaching him, kneeling in front of him, his hands on Draco’s knees.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, and Draco’s head snapped up to look at him, startled by the guilt in his eyes.

“What on earth are you sorry for?”

“Bringing you into my spotlight, making you go through all this.”

“You think people are calling for my arrest because of you? Oh, Merlin, Harry,” Draco said, with a mirthless laugh. He flicked Harry gently on the forehead. So intelligent, and so fucking dense.

“This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t—”

“It would, Harry, and they’d be after me even if we weren’t together. If I went to that gala alone, I’d still have brought a bezoar, I’d still have saved him without hesitation. It still would have looked way too convenient, a Death-Eater-turned-Healer showing up just in time with just the right antidote, right after revealing himself as the largest longtime donor of a charity. It has nothing to do with you. In fact, if that was the first time you’d seen me since the trial, you’d have arrested me yourself.”

“I would not—”

“Yes, you would! The only reason you didn’t pull your wand on me in that hospital room was because Hermione brought me in herself. This is what people expect from me, Harry.”

Harry winced slightly, hands tightening on Draco’s knees. Draco took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, scrubbing his face with his hands. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing.

“Stay with me tonight?” Harry asked quietly, and Draco opened his eyes again, facing his earnest green gaze. His hand unconsciously found Harry’s on his knee, and Harry gripped his fingers tightly. Draco nodded once.

Harry reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a silvery, slippery looking fabric. He flicked his wrist and let it unfold down to the floor, revealing the infamous Invisibility Cloak.

“Do you carry that thing with you everywhere?”

“Do you carry a bezoar with you everywhere?” Harry retorted, raising his eyebrows and standing. Draco huffed at him.

“Point,” he grumbled.

Harry smiled weakly. “Do you mind a bit of walking? I could use the fresh air.”

“Do I have to be under that the whole time?” Draco asked, eyeing the Cloak warily. Harry chuckled, taking his hand and pulling him up.

“No. Just til we’re out of here.” He flung the Cloak over Draco’s shoulders, and Draco looked down, watching his body disappear beneath it. He could still see his feet. Harry pulled him forward and gave him a quick kiss, then flipped up the hood.

“I have to crouch while I walk, Merlin,” Draco complained, making Harry laugh again. Harry led him out of the waiting room and down the corridor, looking around every corner to avoid lingering reporters, following the familiar path to the apparition point.

Draco was once again struck by Harry’s unwavering trust in him. He was completely invisible, carrying one of Harry’s most prized possessions. He could run right now, take it somewhere Harry would never find it. But he wouldn’t, and Harry trusted him enough to know that. Trusted him enough to know that he didn’t poison the Minister, even though it really looked like he did. Even trusted Draco to stay right behind him, close to him, as they walked through the aseptic white corridors. Harry didn’t look back once, didn’t even reach out to feel if Draco was there. Just knew that he would be.

Did Harry trust everyone that easily?

Draco didn’t wheeze from the powerful apparition this time, and he wondered if that was because he was getting used to it, or because Harry had used more control. When they landed on the sidewalk outside of the fish ‘n chips shop, Harry kept hold of his arm, looking cautiously up and down the empty sidewalk before pulling down the hood of the Cloak.

“You hungry?” he mumbled, as Draco stood up fully again and pulled off the Cloak, handing it back to him. Draco gazed longingly into the shop, where Jerry leaned on the linoleum counter, reading a yellowed paperback with his permanent moue.

“Yes, but I don’t think I could keep that down, at the moment.”

“Fair,” Harry nodded, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers, leading him down the barren sidewalk. “I’m sure I have some toast at the house.”

Draco smiled softly, squeezing his hand. Now that they were outside of the hospital, away from the crowds, Draco was crashing, his exhaustion catching up with him. Too tired to keep up any pretense, to keep his mind so carefully locked up, to pretend that next to Harry wasn’t literally the only place he wanted to be, right now.

They walked in comfortable silence to Grimmauld Place, and Draco stopped just outside Number Twelve, looking up at the sky and frowning.

“Can hardly see the stars, here,” he muttered, and Harry stepped in close, laying his hands on Draco’s chest and sighing.

“No, you can’t. Too much light pollution.”

Draco hummed, straining his eyes at the dark, flat sky, his hands on Harry’s sides, enjoying the brief moment of closeness and quietude.

“Come on, then, let’s get you some food,” Harry urged, leading him towards the door. Draco sighed and obliged.

Once inside, Draco unceremoniously kicked off his shoes, trying to be quiet, eyeing the dark curtains warily. Harry closed the door behind them and pulled out his wand.

“I’m going to strengthen the wards, to keep out tomorrow’s mail,” he muttered. “Then, I’ll get us some toast. I need to make a report for the Aurors, though, do you mind grabbing me a piece of parchment? There’s tons in the desk, in the study upstairs.”

Draco nodded, grateful for the clear direction, for the opportunity to stop thinking, and made his way up the creaking stairs. He heard Harry murmuring incantations behind him, his wand skimming over the door frame.

The study was dark and grim, but the sconces lit up when he walked in, shedding light on a thin layer of dust on the ornate wood furniture. He strode absentmindedly over to the desk, reaching for the handle to the widest drawer.

If he’d been more awake, had even an ounce more awareness, he’d have noticed the little shake the drawer gave as he neared it. But his mind was elsewhere, so he grabbed the handle and pulled, and was immediately engulfed in a cloud of cold black smoke.

He squeezed his eyes shut, coughing and wheezing, his wand already in his hand. Stupid, Draco. He steeled himself as the smoke coalesced, and opened his eyes to face the boggart.

A seventeen-year-old Harry Potter stared back at him, too-thin and exhausted, his green eyes dull on his grave face.

What the fuck?

Draco’s eyes dropped to his right hand, but it was empty—no hawthorn wand in sight. He looked exactly as Draco remembered him: the faded zip-up and jeans singed and soot-covered from fiendfyre, wild hair overgrown down to his shoulders, his square, gaunt jawline bearing at least a week’s worth of sparse, boyish stubble.

Potter, the day he had saved them; Harry, the day he had died.

Draco opened his mouth to cast, his wand still aimed at Harry’s chest, but the riddikulus wouldn’t leave his lips. Harry’s eyes bore into him, and Draco couldn’t look away. He was so confused. This was hard to see, but it wasn’t terrifying.

Until Harry’s breath hitched, and his chin tipped up slightly. A small, airless cough left his throat.

No.

Draco froze, the blood rapidly draining from his face. Harry tried to take in air through chapped, parted lips, but he couldn’t. The quiet clicks of his straining, strangled throat echoed around Draco’s skull, filling his veins with ice, wiping all logical thought from his mind.

“Stop,” Draco whispered, his voice coming to him from a memory. “Stop me.”

But Harry only stood there, expressionless, eyes locked onto Draco’s own, hands useless and limp at his sides as he choked under an invisible, strangling grip.

“Fight back,” Draco whimpered, pleading, his wand shaking in his hand. Harry’s face was turning red, then purple, his eyelids closing slowly as he faded. “Please, Harry—”

Harry’s legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees with a loud thud. Draco felt a sharp pain in his own knees, and realized he’d crumbled with him, helpless and paralyzed with terror as the boggart feasted on his fear. His wand fell to the floor, rolling across the wood.

“Harry, don’t—” the words fell uselessly and soundlessly from his lips. Draco’s chest tightened viciously, his body curling in on itself, wracked with tremors. It felt like his own throat was closing, he could hardly breathe. He could see the bruising already on Harry’s skin, the memory of the impressions of Draco’s own fingers around his neck. “Harry, please…”

Harry’s eyes rolled back, his hands twitching intermittently, giving himself up, giving his life away yet again—this time, at Draco’s hands. Draco felt like his blood was turning to stone, he could already hear the echoes of Lucius’ voice in his head:

“He will not harm you… No, I dare say he will protect you at all costs…”

Distantly, he heard quick footsteps behind him, a swear muttered under someone’s breath. The footsteps hurried forward, and a strong arm wrapped around Draco’s shoulders, a dark wand flung out in front of him.

Crack.

Draco saw a blurry glimpse of a wet, white shirt, slashed and covered in blood, before his face was pressed into a warm chest.

“Riddikulus!” Harry shouted, panting, his arm trembling as he squeezed Draco against him. Draco gave a shuddering gasp as reality returned, and dissolved into muffled, broken sobs, his shaking hands scrabbling at Harry’s warm, living body, pressing closer to the beating heart beneath his shirt. Harry dropped his wand and wrapped his other arm over Draco’s shoulders, his fingers combing through Draco’s hair, his low, rough voice murmuring a string of words in Draco’s ear.

“It’s alright, it was just a boggart. I’m here, I’m so sorry, Draco. I’ve got you, I’m sorry…”

They might have sat there for hours, on their knees on the floor, with Harry’s arms tight around Draco’s shoulders, holding him together. Draco wanted to scream, wanted to hit him, wanted to kiss him, wanted to hold him close, lock him up, never let him go. He felt scraped raw, flayed, terrified, out of his mind, yet overcome with relief.

Harry held him there, weathering the storm, until Draco’s breaths evened out, his body relaxing slowly into Harry’s hold. And then he held him longer, breathing deeply for Draco to emulate, rocking gently, running his fingers through Draco’s sweaty hair. What a fucking mess.

“I’ll be the first to say that this has been my least favourite date, so far,” Harry muttered, and Draco snorted weakly, thankfully managing to not expel any more snot onto his nice shirt.

“Seconded,” Draco said, his voice coming out as more of a croak. He was too exhausted to be embarrassed about it.

“It’s definitely put me off my dinner.”

“Agreed.”

“Bed, then?” Harry asked, and Draco gave a small nod against his shoulder.

Harry pulled him up and led him to the master bathroom first, to Draco’s surprise. He let Harry remove his jacket and waistcoat, and didn’t complain when he draped them carelessly on the counter instead of hanging them up. His arms hung limp at his sides, and he watched Harry’s face, silently, watched his brow crease in concentration on Draco’s tie bar and buttons, watched his wayward curls fall over his forehead, no longer kept at bay by whatever charm or product he’d used. Draco was still shaking slightly, and now it was his own words echoing painfully in his head.

“You’d better believe it was intentional, every last moment of your life was curated to create the boy who would die for the greater good…”

Harry finally got his shirt undone and pushed it off of Draco’s shoulders, adding it to the pile of clothes on the marble countertop next to the sink. Draco stared at him, his stomach roiling with grief and fear. The light caught on the silver chain around his neck, and Draco’s eyes followed it to where it disappeared beneath his shirt.

“They don’t tell pigs how wonderful and cherished they are before they slaughter them, do they?”

Draco’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. Harry opened a small drawer beneath the sink and pulled out a flannel, wetting it with warm water from the tap, wringing it out over the basin. Draco’s throat burned, his vision blurred as he tried to memorize every inch of Harry he could see.

“...because apparently I’m a vulnerability to you, and you’re continuing to give your life away to them, piece by piece, like none of it is anything worth holding on to…”

He hadn’t realized, until now, just how terrified that had made him. Watching Harry give himself up to a Killing Curse, like it was nothing. Watching him give up his well-being to Kingsley’s politics in an effort to ensure Draco’s, watching the panic tear him to pieces in broom cupboards, stamping out his happiness. Watching him choke under Draco’s hands, and knowing he would have allowed Draco to kill him.

He felt cold with the budding comprehension of his greatest fear: losing Harry, simply because Harry didn’t feel he was worthy of keeping. Because Harry was raised to be expendable.

Harry raised the flannel and gently wiped the sticky tear tracks from Draco’s face, the cold sweat from his neck and chest.

“You didn’t fight back,” Draco mumbled, unsure if he was really speaking out loud. Harry’s eyes glanced up to his, so he must have. From the guilt Draco saw there, he knew Harry knew what he was talking about—Lucius’ wand at Draco’s head, Draco’s hands on Harry’s neck, Harry’s eyes on Draco’s own, complacent.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You’ve hurt me plenty, before, and I turned out just fine,” Draco retorted, and Harry grimaced. He ran the warm flannel over Draco’s arms, as if clearing the remains of the awful evening physically from his skin.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, anymore.”

“I’d have killed you.”

“It wasn’t you, Draco.”

“You’d have let me kill you,” Draco pressed, gripping Harry’s arms hard, weathering another surge of anger and grief and panic. Harry pressed his lips together, meeting his eyes again, the flannel pausing in its sweep.

“It wasn’t you,” Harry repeated, and Draco shook his head, more tears threatening in the corners of his eyes.

“I would not have survived it,” Draco rasped, “knowing it was by my hand.”

Harry’s expression turned pained, his fist clenched briefly in the flannel on Draco’s chest. Had he only just now understood, placed himself in Draco’s shoes?

Even if he did, he would never understand just how serious Draco was. He probably thought Draco just didn’t want to be a killer, didn’t want that on his conscience. But Draco meant it: he would not have survived it, being forced to kill the man he loved, minutes after being forced to admit that he loved him. He’d have become a shell of a person, unrecognizable—his soul would not have been able to withstand it. That part, Harry might not fully grasp, yet.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly, wiping Draco’s face again as more annoying tears fell. He took Draco’s head in both of his hands, pulled it down to bring their foreheads together. “I’m sorry.”

Draco closed his eyes and let out a shuddering exhale, pulling Harry closer, until his chest was pressed against Draco’s own. Draco could feel the Malfoy ring against his sternum, beneath the expensive fabric. Their breaths mingled, and Draco could feel the conviction of his apology in his strong hands, in the soothing, sweet scent of treacle, the gentle waves of magic that pooled at their feet. As if Draco needed or wanted an apology.

Safe, alive, here.

He didn’t know how to convey what it was he was really afraid of.

After a moment, Harry pulled back, and turned Draco around. Draco sighed as the warm flannel slid over his shoulders, between his shoulderblades, down his spine. This seemed superfluous; they could have done this with magic, Draco could have showered, he could have washed his own face. But it seemed important to Harry to do this himself—to care for Draco like this, by hand, as if he himself was responsible for how terribly the evening had gone.

It wasn’t the first time Harry had taken care of him, had pulled him gently and carefully out of a breakdown. And just like the first time, Harry was able to clear it away, delicately purging the hurt and fear from his body with tender, calloused hands—this time, with a damp flannel over his skin, instead of heady magic in his blood.

Harry led him to the bed, placed both of his hands on the mattress, and warmed it wandlessly. Draco clicked his tongue faintly, shaking his head. Harry gave him a small smile, and unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off of his shoulders, revealing the Malfoy ring gleaming against his chest. Draco couldn’t help feeling a rush of satisfaction at the sight of it—a sweet, possessive warmth.

Draco stripped off the rest of his own clothes and climbed into the warm bed. He thought Harry would take off the necklace to sleep, but he left it on, slipping under the covers and pulling Draco close.

Draco sighed deeply, releasing the last of his tension, pillowing his head on Harry’s chest, above his heart, his favourite place to be. Harry pulled the blankets up over Draco’s shoulders and wrapped his arms tightly around him, letting out a sigh of his own. Draco found the ring on his chest with his hand, and spun it between his fingers, watching the candlelight catch on the emeralds.

“We’ll be alright,” Harry murmured. Draco wasn’t sure if it was for him, or Harry himself. He wondered if Harry was quoting him again—he remembered saying that to him, once, before viewing the memory of the Sectumsempra fight. A broad, gentle hand slid up his back, combing through his hair again.

Draco raised his head to meet Harry’s eyes, earnest and luminous and green, green, green. He leaned in and kissed him softly, his lips lingering for just a moment, one second more.

Could Harry feel it, how much he overflowed when he was near? How grateful he was that Harry was simply alive, safe, here?

“Shit,” Harry mumbled suddenly, and Draco pulled back, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“I didn’t even get to tell you how good you looked in that damn suit,” Harry frowned, and Draco stared at him in disbelief, before a giggle bubbled up out of his throat, a sudden, shocking jolt of glee after such a harrowing night.

Harry’s soft smile warmed him up faster than his magic ever could, and Draco shook his head fondly, settling his head into the crook of Harry’s neck, clutching the chained ring in his fingers. Harry’s hand settled on Draco’s arse, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Sleep came easily, thanks to his exhaustion, and just before he slipped into it, he heard Harry whisper, “Expecto Patronum.” A small burst of silvery light lit up Draco’s eyelids, and its warm familiarity mingled with the low, soothing murmur of Harry’s voice relaying his messages, abandoning the pretense of written reports.

It felt like home.

The light disappeared, the room descending into darkness once more, and Harry curled himself around Draco, following him into sleep with his deep, even breaths and steadily beating heart.

Saturday, 20 May

Draco’s arm twitched, a faint touch grazing down his forearm, pulling him gently from sleep. He wrinkled his nose and buried his face in the warmth in front of him, pressing his lips to the skin between Harry’s shoulder blades and sighing. He tightened his arm around Harry’s waist, pulling himself flush against his back, nestling his crotch against Harry’s firm arse.

He’d never say it out loud, but Harry made the perfect little spoon.

Harry’s fingers continued to skim slowly down his arm, tracing the outline of Draco’s hand on his chest, feeling the pulse on his wrist. Draco could tell from the angle of his neck that Harry was watching his own hand move, layering the maps of his touch with his sight. The calloused fingers paused, just over the back of Draco’s hand, and tapped against his skin one at a time, one, two, three, four, five.

Draco captured his hand and intertwined their fingers.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Draco mumbled against his hair.

“Doing what?”

“The tapping, with your fingers.”

Harry huffed a short, embarrassed laugh. “Just making sure.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, lifting his head to look down at the side of Harry’s face. He wore a small, contented smile, turning to witness Draco’s confusion.

“‘Making sure’?” Draco parroted. Harry’s smile grew slowly, his eyes roving over Draco’s face, as if he couldn’t decide which part he wanted to look at the most: his eyes, his lips, his cheeks, which probably had pillow lines on them, his sleep-tangled hair.

“Making sure I’m awake.”

Draco stared blankly at him, slowly putting it together.

“You’re counting your fingers,” he muttered. Harry nodded, his eyes crinkled at the corners, blissful and warm. Draco rolled him onto his back. “You think you’re dreaming?”

“Sometimes,” Harry replied, smirking up at him. Draco climbed lazily on top of him.

“Are you calling me a nightmare, Harry?”

Harry laughed, his sleepy smile nearly glowing. “Quite the opposite.”

Draco felt rough hands on the small of his back, sliding down to grip his arse, massaging his cheeks. He grinned, watching Harry’s smirk grow mischievous. He leaned down, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Harry’s.

“I don’t want to get up.”

“We don’t have to,” Harry replied.

“Of course we do,” Draco said, frowning. Harry tilted his head and brushed their noses.

“Then let’s pretend we don’t. Let’s stay right here.”

“You want the world to think I’ve killed you, next?”

Harry clicked his tongue and rolled them over. The Malfoy ring dangled from his neck, landing on Draco’s chest. Draco couldn’t suppress his grin upon seeing it.

“Just for a bit.” Harry leaned down and kissed Draco’s neck, mouthing at his jaw. Draco hummed, tipping his head back.

“The Aurors will need to talk to me,” he muttered.

“I’m an Auror,” Harry retorted, nipping at his ear. “I need you right where you are.”

Draco chuckled, despite himself—he was anxious about what this day would bring, but he loved when Harry wanted him like this, when he couldn’t keep his hands or his mouth to himself. Perhaps he could put off being framed and smeared. For a bit.

“Oh, you’re clever,” Draco grumbled, voice dripping with sarcasm, his caressing hands on Harry’s chest giving him away.

“What, you think they call me the Saviour for my good looks?”

“Merlin, why did I heal you, I almost miss your silence,” he said, annoyed and endeared, pulling Harry’s face up to his own. “Almost.”

Harry’s bright, teasing smile made his heart skip. Salazar, he was such a goner. Harry had him wrapped around his finger. The Aurors would have to drag him from this bed, kicking and screaming.

Harry rolled his hips slightly, drawing attention to his hardening cock on Draco’s thigh. Draco’s eyes widened.

“What the—how are you so fucking virile in the morning?”

“Virile, Draco?” Harry laughed. “Who says that?”

“Someone with an impressive command of the English language, faced with a surprisingly enthusiastic man,” Draco replied simply, grabbing Harry’s arse to grind his hips down again. Harry drew in a sharp breath.

“Can’t help it, I like you in the morning,” Harry said, smirking.

“What’s wrong with me the rest of the time?”

“Nothing. In the morning, you’re just so… messed up,” Harry fumbled, hiding his blush in the crook of Draco’s neck, brushing his lips against the skin. “No buttons.”

“You’re driven wild with lust because I’m not wearing clothes with buttons, and I’m… what did you say? Messed up?” Draco frowned, pinching his side harshly. Harry hissed, laughing again.

“Yes, Draco. Your hair’s a mess,” he pulled back, running his fingers through Draco’s bedhead. “There’s creases from the pillow on your face, even a bit of drool on your cheek,” he teased, rubbing it away with his thumb. Draco was about to hit him.

“Do you woo all your men this way, you complete prat?” he scoffed indignantly.

“Nope, just you,” Harry said. “You’re all loose and messy, and a little grouchy—it ‘drives me wild with lust,’ as you say.”

Draco was so confused. “But why?”

Harry’s lips twitched, his teasing expression softening. His hand smoothed down Draco’s hair again.

“Because I’m the only one that gets to see you like this,” he answered quietly. “You’re buttoned up for everyone else, all pristine and untouchable, to everyone but me.”

Draco stared at him, disbelieving, his stomach fluttering wildly. He could feel his cheeks heating.

Harry apparently thought it was a privilege, seeing Draco looking like the disaster he was in the mornings. Unbelievable. He was right, too: Harry was the only person who saw him like this. This version of Draco was Harry’s alone.

Maybe that’s why Draco liked watching Harry sleep so much—because he got to see what no one else was allowed to see. Not that he’d ever tell him that.

“Well, I am yours, Harry,” Draco replied, just for the thrill of saying it, for the satisfaction of watching the flames ignite behind Harry’s eyes. He chuckled softly. “And I thought I was the saccharine one.”

“Oh, no,” Harry laughed, “just the wordy one. Saccharine, honestly...”

Harry’s hips rolled again, and Draco bucked up against him, his cock filling rapidly against Harry’s abdomen. Harry groaned softly, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Do you have a problem with my vocabulary?” Draco asked breathily, tangling his free hand in Harry’s wild curls, pulling him closer. He felt powerful, watching the effects he had on Harry with simple words and touches, by just laying there.

“You know I’m a fan of your vocabulary.”

“Is that it? Pretty words get you all hot and bothered?”

“No, Draco,” Harry grinned, lining up their cocks and grinding against him, making Draco gasp. “It’s your voice, saying those pretty words.”

Draco finally pulled Harry’s face to his, sighing in satisfaction as their lips met. If Harry kept talking like that, Draco would probably say something pathetic. It wasn’t a chore to keep Harry’s mouth otherwise occupied, anyway.

Harry parted his lips and Draco deepened their kiss, thrusting up against Harry, his breaths growing quicker, soft moans leaving his throat. He fisted his hand in Harry’s hair, pushing Harry’s mouth to his neck. Harry kissed at the sensitive skin above his pulse point, sucking lightly, his breaths heavy in Draco’s ear. Draco brought his lips to Harry’s cheek, gathering his nerve.

“You’re exquisite, Harry,” he purred in his ear, and Harry’s breath hitched, turning into a breathy, surprised laugh, then a groan as his hips sped up. Draco took that as a good sign. Harry wanted his voice, his “pretty words,” so Draco rallied any remaining brain power, swimming in a pool of deep pleasure, to give it to him.

“I love kissing you,” he continued, and this was actually a bad idea, too close. “I love touching you. Your mouth is fucking ambrosial.” He couldn’t even stick to pretty words, thoroughly distracted by Harry’s mouth licking and sucking on his collarbone, the sound of his groans in Draco’s ear, the beginning tendrils of exciting, coiling tension at the base of his spine. But he couldn’t stop, either, now that he’d started.

Harry’s hand slid to the back of his neck, his fingers in Draco’s hair, his thumb on Draco’s jawbone. Another quiet moan left Draco’s lips, higher in pitch, the thrill of speaking aloud what he’d never before allowed himself only fueling his desire, transforming it into something desperate.

“Merlin, I can’t believe I get to have this, I can’t believe you’re mine,” Draco whispered, kissing along his stubbled jaw. Harry pressed him into the bed with his weight; the Malfoy ring dug into his sternum. Draco spread his legs wider. “Just the sight of you, Harry, you enrapture me.”

Harry let out an involuntary whimper against his throat. Draco didn’t know if it was from the praise, or the voice, or the words, or their frotting like teenagers while Draco had pillow lines on his face, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to make Harry make that sound again, wanted to see it leave his lips.

He pulled Harry’s head up, pushed his shoulder, rolled him over. He threw a leg over Harry’s thighs, rolling on top of him, leaning down for a devouring kiss and taking both of them in hand. Harry moaned shamelessly into his mouth, bucking his hips. Draco had never tasted anything sweeter.

He placed a hand on Harry’s chest, grazing his thumb over a dark nipple. The silver chain felt like a priceless treasure, pressed securely between his palm and Harry’s pectoral. Draco pushed himself up a little to look at him, stroking them steadily, luxuriating in the feel of Harry’s hot, hard length against his own, the weight of it in his hand.

Harry’s eyes were bright and heated, so fucking green, locked intently with Draco’s own. His shaky breaths passed through pink, parted lips. Draco’s chest tightened, a shiver running down his spine. He let out another involuntary sound, somewhere deep in his chest, and he couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or this unshakeable adoration.

“Fuck, look at you,” Draco breathed, “you’re breathtaking, Harry, I’ll never get enough of this, the incomparable man that you are, the way you make me feel—” Harry’s hips bucked again and Draco gasped, feeling his cock slide against his own. Harry grabbed a handful of Draco’s hair and pulled gently; Draco’s mouth dropped open with a whine as a rush of sparks shot through his veins, from his tingling scalp to his toes. Harry held Draco’s head firmly in place above him, forcing him to meet Harry’s eyes. As if Draco needed convincing—he couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to.

His hand squeezed around the heads on every pass, growing slicker with precome. His thighs started to shake, and Harry’s free hand slid up his leg, feeling the tremors under his palm.

“Draco,” Harry murmured, his eyes wide with awe. His hips started jerking between Draco’s thighs. “Draco.” Draco’s hand sped up as his body wound tighter, the waves of heat taking control of the words that came out of his mouth.

“You’re the only one who can make me feel like this, the only one who sees me like this, Harry, I’m so completely yours, I have been—” he gasped again as Harry’s cock twitched in his hand, his fist tightened in Draco’s hair. Harry’s lip curled, his brows creased, his back arched beneath Draco as he came, a low, broken moan of ecstasy bursting from his chest.

Fuck, that was beautiful.

He pulled Draco’s face to his own, capturing his mouth in a sloppy, consuming kiss, nibbling gently on his lip. Draco released Harry’s cock, his come-slick hand now entirely focused on his own, breathing hard against Harry’s lips.

“Yours, Draco, I don’t know how, but it’s always been you,” Harry slurred.

The heat and tension came to a head, and Draco held his breath, no longer hearing the words Harry whispered into his mouth, before he finally tipped, relinquishing himself to the overpowering, euphoric undertow of his orgasm. He spilled over Harry’s stomach and chest in a hot rush, groaning and shuddering.

He blinked his way back to the present, panting, a little surprised. He’d never come so hard from a simple handjob before. With his own hand, no less.

He’d also never been so pathetically revealing during sex, why couldn’t he keep his stupid mouth shut? He kept his eyes closed, not quite ready to face Harry’s expression.

Until Harry released his hair, and held Draco’s face tenderly with both of his hands, calloused palms brushing against Draco’s cheek. Draco leaned into it helplessly.

“Not yet,” Harry mumbled, kissing him softly. “Don’t think yet.”

Draco decided he had a good point, and kissed him back, as much as he wanted, his hand curling around the silver chain on Harry’s chest. He groaned softly, feeling a twisted satisfaction at finding the Malfoy ring smeared with come.

He could have stayed in this moment forever. The grey morning light peeked through the curtains, illuminating Harry’s sleepy face: his long, dark eyelashes against his cheek, eyes closed in contentment as he held Draco and kissed him, over and over. Draco felt warm with indulgence, floating in post-orgasmic bliss and deep, deep love that he wasn’t going to think about.

“Yours, Draco, I don’t know how, but it’s always been you.”

Alright, he was thinking about it a little.

“If you don’t feed me soon, Harry, I might perish,” he murmured, pulling himself away from his thoughts, away from Harry’s lips.

“We can’t have that,” Harry chuckled as Draco’s stomach rumbled loudly. He hummed in thought, opening his eyes, the corners of his lips lifting in a soft smile. Draco stilled, hoping time would freeze with him.

“There’s a bakery nearby,” Harry continued, waving his hand to clean the mess between them. “They’ve good coffee. French pastries.”

“Ooh, a pâtisserie,” Draco said, eyes widening in excitement at the idea of dessert for breakfast. Harry laughed at his accent.

“Yes, that.”

“Come on, say it. Pâtisserie.”

“I will not,” Harry laughed again, poking his side, and Draco joined him, caught up in this simple moment of easy, carefree affection.

“Afraid of a little French? T’as peur, Potter? De quoi?”

“Bloody showoff,” Harry grumbled through his laughter, throwing him off, rolling them over and burying his face in Draco’s neck.

“Et c'est ainsi que le Survivant a finalement été vaincu par un petit peu de langue étrangère,” Draco teased dramatically, “who knew all it would take to bring him down was asking him to speak a bit of French.”

“No one tell Voldemort,” Harry said, raising his head to look down at Draco’s smiling face. “My greatest weakness.” He leaned down and kissed Draco’s forehead, pulled back and winked, before rolling off the bed with a triumphant grin.

Draco blinked, taken aback, unsure of how Harry was always able to turn the tables on him with the smallest of gestures, the fewest words. The git.

Harry started dressing, and Draco realized once again he didn’t have anything to wear except his fucking suit, but Harry was putting on his Auror uniform. Right… They were going to the Ministry. Damn it. Suit it is.

He got up and stretched languidly, enjoying the way it caught Harry’s eye, his keen gaze raking over Draco’s nude form desirously, heating Draco’s cheeks.

“See something you like?” Draco teased, slipping into his briefs and walking to Harry’s wardrobe.

“Yes,” Harry answered without hesitation. He grabbed Draco’s wrist as he passed and pulled him in for another kiss, his own trousers left unbuttoned and forgotten, hanging dangerously low on his hips. Draco groaned quietly against his lips, squeezing Harry’s hip in his hand, trying to rein in his lust at the sight Harry made.

Draco stole another one of his jumpers, a simple maroon. It looked a bit worn, but he was determined not to be seen in the same outfit twice. He wore it over his white collared shirt and frowned at himself in the mirror as he fixed his hair with his wand. Harry came up behind him, grinning at him in the reflection, far too many gold buttons left undone on the shirt of his uniform.

“I look like a muggle professor,” Draco grumbled.

“One whose class I would definitely fail,” Harry replied, smirking lasciviously. Draco rolled his eyes, blushing despite himself. He smacked Harry’s arse as he left the bathroom, making him laugh with a mouth full of toothpaste.

It all felt so domestic.

Draco shook his head, and focused on tying his shoes.

They made their way down the creaking stairs, but Draco stopped just before the front door, struck with a sudden fear of facing the world. He couldn’t even pinpoint exactly what it was he was afraid of—the papers? The crowds? The Aurors? The fact that he was likely being framed by an Unspeakable for poisoning the Minister?

He didn’t know. All he knew was that he really didn’t want to go out there.

Harry looked back at him as he grabbed the doorknob, giving him a knowing, reassuring smile. It soothed Draco a little, so he took Harry’s outstretched hand, and allowed himself to be led out of the house.

Draco waited at the bottom of the steps, just outside the barely tangible barrier of the Fidelius charm, while Harry locked the door and reset the wards. The foreboding feeling wouldn’t go away, and Draco fidgeted, fingering his wand in his pocket, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

Harry stepped down next to him, rolling his wand in his hand, frowning at the square of grim townhouses. Draco knew he was feeling the same way. The same wrong.

The hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stood up, the faintest hint of unfamiliar magic and a watchful gaze, and he snapped his head forward, eyes darting around, pulling out his wand on instinct.

“What is it?” Harry demanded, looking around with him.

“Get back in the house, Harry,” Draco mumbled, because his gut told him to, because he could feel it, something was wrong, wrong, wrong, and it wasn’t just the expected publicity. Harry ignored the order, of course, and raised his wand. Draco gripped his arm, trying to drag him back toward the door, unsuccessfully.

He let down his Occlumency barriers, looking around frantically for any hint of magic.

“Draco, tell me—”

Draco saw it, then, a translucent, shimmering cloud on the other side of the park: a disillusionment charm, the magic charging up again, making the hairs on Draco’s arm stand on end, wrong, wrong, wrong—

Adrenaline flooded his veins, and he grabbed Harry’s waist with one arm, pulled him close, grip, twist. He turned forcefully on his heel to fling Harry onto the doorstep with a heavy grunt, shielding him with his body, just as a jet of red light shot toward them from across the square—

It hit Draco between his shoulder blades, and he gasped, expecting pain, but it only sent his wand flying from his hand.

A disarming charm.

Harry growled low in his throat, and Draco’s knees weakened under the heaviness of his rage, the sudden, violent storm of his magic.

Harry’s wand arm flung out over Draco’s shoulder, and Draco simply held on, his arm locked around Harry’s waist. This is a terrible way to duel. He was pretty sure some of the curses Harry cast, each hitting the air like lightning around them, were actually illegal. Not to mention they were in a muggle neighbourhood, in broad daylight. Draco hoped that some of those spells at least included shield charms, as he still had his back to their attacker, and was now wandless, on the edge of the Fidelius, relying entirely on Harry to cover him.

He heard the crack of apparition, and Harry snarled, trying to push Draco away to give fruitless chase. Draco held on tighter.

“Stop, Harry. They’re gone. I can feel it.”

Harry froze, panting against Draco’s hair—taller than him, for once, on the doorstep.

“Summon my wand, please,” Draco said, cringing at the way his voice shook, his forehead breaking out in a cold sweat.

Harry pulled away as Draco finally released him, sticking out his hand and summoning Draco’s wand from wherever it had landed. He handed it back to Draco with a glare, his eyes still wild from the fight.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Draco decided to ignore that, gently pushing him toward the door. Harry finally acquiesced, clicking his tongue in frustration.

Once within the safety of the house, Draco allowed himself to think. Harry flicked his wand to lock the door again, all thoughts of pâtisseries forgotten.

“Tell him he’ll need his shields.”

A disarming charm, though?

“Someone wants what he has… someones. Something he got from you, I think.”

Draco, Draco himself had shielded him. But what could they possibly get from Harry with a disarming charm? Other than his wand, of course—

Oh, fuck.

“Harry…” Draco mumbled, staring at the wall as he pieced it together. “Harry, where is the Elder Wand?”

Harry lowered his wand and turned to him.

“Why?”

“They waited outside your house just to try to hit you with an expelliarmus, Harry, where is that wand?”

Harry paused before answering. “I put it back in Dumbledore’s tomb.”

“And who knows that?”

“Ron, Hermione. McGonagall. The portraits in the Headmaster’s Office, probably.”

“Fuck, Harry, don’t some of those portraits have frames at the Ministry?”

Harry’s eyes widened as the gravity of it dawned on him. If that spell had landed, Harry would have lost mastery of the Elder Wand—likely, to a fugitive Unspeakable.

And Lucius had been very interested in how Harry had survived Voldemort. Had that intel really been just for him? Draco hadn’t told him anything about the Deathly Hallows, and Lucius hadn’t asked, hadn’t once mentioned the Master of Death.

“You dropped the Stone in the forest,” Draco muttered, mostly to himself, and Harry nodded.

“The Cloak is with you, apparently all the time.” Another nod.

“I’ll go to Hogwarts and check on the Wand,” Harry said, face firming with resolve. “I’ll have Ron put Auror security on the Clarkes, too, just in case.” He took a deep breath, running a hand through his messy hair, looking up at Draco with a guilty expression.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Draco frowned.

“Putting you in harm’s way, again.”

Draco sighed at him, shook his head, and stepped in close, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders. Harry locked his arms around Draco’s waist, pressing his nose into Draco’s neck. Draco could still feel him vibrating with energy, his magic still charged and eager for his command.

“You’re an idiot,” Draco murmured. “If you can’t tell by now, you’re not responsible for the awful shit that happens to you. Or me.”

“You shouldn’t have shielded me.”

“I don’t regret it.”

“I could have—”

“Shut up, Harry,” Draco cut him off, pressing Harry’s face further into his neck. Harry’s arms tightened around him. Safe, alive. “I won’t apologize for it. I would do it again.”

Harry’s shoulders stiffened, then relaxed, melting into Draco’s embrace. Draco could imagine his inner conflict: Harry hated it when people got hurt fighting for him, protecting him. Draco knew he still had nightmares about it, the people who’d died simply because battle followed him everywhere.

But he also knew Harry would feel the same way; he was just as protective. He would understand. He just wouldn’t like it.

“I know what I’m getting into,” Draco whispered into his hair. “I’ve always known. You really think I’d have said yes if I didn’t think it was worth it?” He breathed in, closing his eyes as the scent of Harry filled him with warmth and relief. “You really think I’d have kissed you, in the sunroom, if I didn’t think you were worth it?”

“You shouldn’t have done that, either,” Harry grumbled, but Draco could feel him grinning faintly against his neck.

“You’re the one who kissed your Healer,” Draco retorted. Harry huffed. “You can’t blame me for liking it.”

Harry pulled back, frowning.

“There’s no way you liked that, you were in so much pain—”

“I wouldn’t have continued if the reward wasn’t far greater,” Draco smirked, shaking his head. He took Harry’s face in his hands, rapping his knuckles gently against his thick skull. “You utter berk.”

He leaned in and kissed him, and Harry exhaled softly against his lips, returning it fervently. He could feel the remnants of Harry’s tension, his fear, his guilt, in the grip of his hands on Draco’s—Harry’s—jumper, in the brush of his nose against Draco’s cheek.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to take a rain check on the bakery,” Harry mumbled regretfully as he pulled away, adjusting his glasses.

“Pâtisserie,” Draco corrected. Harry rolled his eyes. “And yes, I think today’s a good day to use the floo.”

***

Harry grimaced sympathetically as he watched Draco take a sip of the coffee from the Ministry canteen. Draco’s face twisted in disgust, but he schooled it quickly, powering through it. Harry knew the feeling—it was the same way he drank the Ministry coffee, now, every morning. It tasted like petrol, compared to Timsy’s.

It was odd seeing Draco at his desk, but he was definitely nicer to look at than anything else in Harry’s cubicle.

He wished he could have bought Draco a stupid French pastry and a latte or something. Maybe Draco would have teased him in French again. Harry hadn’t gotten him dinner last night, and couldn’t even buy him breakfast without being attacked. He’d gotten Draco some stale muffins from the canteen, instead, which Draco had taken with no complaints other than a raised eyebrow.

Harry felt like the worst… boyfriend? Lover? Were they serious enough to be partners, yet? Whatever he was, he was sure he was the absolute worst one.

He’d wanted to take Draco out, show him off, give him a good time. The charity galas were usually just boring, never violent, and he’d been so sure it would be fun if Draco was with him. Even though Draco very rarely went out in public, without a glamour, Draco was fun, and theatrical, and gorgeous. Harry knew he’d been the popular Prince of Slytherin back in school, he’d always had a small adoring crowd around him, laughing with him.

He’d probably been making cruel jokes at other peoples’ expense, but that was beside the point. The point was that Draco was fun, and Harry knew he would do well in extravagant social situations. He’d been excited to see that part of Draco come to life again.

And it did, for a bit. Standing tall and confident and beautiful in his black suit and shiny burgundy waistcoat, adorned with silver and garnets. Talking and laughing with Harry’s friends and the Minister, fearlessly facing a greedy reporter with biting wit. Twirling Harry effortlessly around the dance floor, delighted by the vicious little game the dancers played, thwarting every attempt at sabotage.

And then saving the Minister’s life, without hesitation, using his own bezoar—a bezoar he carried almost everywhere, apparently, just like Ron did.

Draco crossed his ankle over his knee in the hard, wooden chair in Harry’s cubicle, staring at the coffee cup, pale brows knit in a pensive frown. A lock of his sleek hair fell into his face, and he ignored it, lost in thought. Harry couldn’t focus on his reports.

Harry’s maroon jumper was a little too big on Draco, but Harry loved seeing Draco in his clothes; he made them look expensive, Harry had no idea how. He was pretty sure the jumper was a hand-me-down from Ron. But it was Harry’s, and he felt a warm, possessive satisfaction every time he looked up from his desk.

It was part of the reason he hadn’t offered to take Draco home to change, before bringing him back to Grimmauld last night. Not that Harry would ever admit it.

The consequence, of course, of being so eager to get Draco back to Grimmauld Place, was that he’d thoughtlessly, stupidly, accidentally sent Draco to face a fucking boggart.

A boggart that had confused Harry to no end. He felt like he should understand it, like it was something he already knew, but was just out of his reach. Draco had been so wrecked, so shaken. It only reminded Harry there was so much to Draco he didn’t yet know, or fully comprehend.

Harry had tried to make it better, to put him back together the only way he could think of: by hand, with closeness and touch. It was still new to him, but he thought he did alright. He’d made Draco laugh, just a little, before he fell asleep, which Harry counted as a small victory.

He’d made sure Draco was asleep, on his chest, before conjuring his Patronus to give Ron a verbal report, putting off the written one—a Patronus which, to Harry’s embarrassment and the wicked glee of his fellow Aurors, had undergone a bit of a change, recently. Harry now sorely regretted ever suggesting they communicate primarily using Patronuses.

When Ron had first seen it, several days ago, he had raised his eyebrows in a shocked, slightly disapproving look that was very reminiscent of Hermione (“Two dates, Harry. You’ve been on two dates.”). The Aurors’ teasing was relentless (“Could have sworn you were into blokes instead of birds, Potter!” “Your love life’s really taking off, isn’t it?” “Looks like your Patronus is singing a different tune, these days, eh?”), but Harry had threatened them all with one of Hermione’s infamous “sneak” curses. She had all their signatures, and he threatened that the first person to blab about it outside of the DMLE was going to break out in painful hives, in the most inconvenient places.

It wasn’t true, but no one wanted to test it. They knew what she was capable of.

Besides, he secretly liked the nightingale. It was… well, it was cute. It was a carefree and confident little bird, endearing and playful, and sometimes, a little grouchy. It danced around in the air, glittering and showing off, and Harry knew that if it had eyebrows, it would raise them imperiously and look down its little beak at everybody.

It was like Draco in the morning, ruffled and relaxed, hiding his sweetness behind a flimsy layer of sardonic wit.

Harry had really thought he could give Draco a better morning than the evening had turned out to be. He should have known—violence followed him everywhere. Of course, because Harry Potter couldn’t have anything nice.

Ron probably would have smacked both of them, for that fight. Draco’s body as a shield, Harry casting illegal curses over his shoulder, in broad daylight.

It wasn’t the first time Draco had shielded him with his body, nor was it the first time Draco had lifted him off his feet—Harry had known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Draco was strong enough to do such a thing, from kissing him in the sunroom, from dancing with him on a battlefield of a dance floor. But Harry often forgot, because he didn’t look it: Draco was tall and lean, graceful and ethereal. He wasn’t bulky like Harry was, he didn’t need to be physically strong, like Harry did, and Harry had no problem manhandling him like the brute he was.

He was starting to think that Draco allowed him to, more than he let on, which somehow tasted sweeter than simply overpowering him—something Harry had lived for, as an idiot teenager, getting into fights with him on the regular. It tasted just as sweet as knowing Draco could handle Harry physically, he could take control, anytime he wanted, and Harry would give it to him, eagerly.

Draco sighed, his posture perfect even in the awful chair, and looked up, catching Harry staring again. He smirked, his grey eyes heated and amused.

“You don’t look like you’re thinking about work, Auror Potter,” he murmured quietly, barely loud enough for Harry to hear. Harry inhaled sharply, fighting back a wave of feral lust, berating himself. Merlin, what was wrong with him? They’d just been bloody attacked—

“Is Draco here?” A child’s voice sounded from somewhere down the row of cubicles. Draco’s head snapped forward. “He said he’d come with me, you know.”

Draco’s face lit up, and Harry watched, transfixed, as he stood from his chair and stepped outside of the cubicle, his smile growing as he saw who was asking for him.

“Draco!”

Little feet hurried down the aisle, and Draco knelt on one knee, arms open wide, as Boran threw himself at him with a giggle.

“Hey, little storm.”

Oh, fucking hell. Harry felt warm all the way down to his toes. He thought he might combust, right there in his dingy cubicle. God, he was absolutely obsessed with this man, just like Ron and Hermione had always told him. Seeing how soft Draco became around children did dangerous things to Harry’s heart rate, and he was so pathetic, already picturing the scene with a child that looked just like a miniature Harry, or a miniature Draco—

“Auror Potter.”

Harry nearly jumped, and he looked up to find Ms. Clarke’s face, adorned with a teasing, knowing grin. He cleared his throat awkwardly and stood. Draco and Boran were embroiled in a debate over the lyrical merits of “little storm” versus “big storm,” and “little dragon” versus “big dragon.” Harry forced himself to look away, his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Ms. Clarke,” Harry returned her greeting hoarsely, shaking her hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“I’ve heard he’s an excellent dancer, too,” she muttered under her breath, ignoring his pleasantries, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. Harry blushed up to his ears, and he scolded himself inwardly for being so bloody obvious. Thank fucking Merlin the Aurors were keeping his Patronus a secret.

Harry cleared his throat again, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “He is.”

“Hey, Draco, Boran. They’re ready for you in interview room three,” Ron said, appearing next to Harry’s cubicle. He held out his palm, and Boran gave him a powerful high five, giggling. Draco stood and shook his hand.

“How come Boran got a signed chocolate frog card, and I didn’t, Head Auror?” Draco asked, dropping Ron’s hand with faux indignation, making Boran laugh. Ron chuckled at him.

“Just say the word, Draco. I had thought you’d want one of Harry’s, instead.”

They both turned to look at Harry. Draco grinned widely, seeing Harry’s flaming blush, and Ron raised his eyebrows, glanced at Draco, then down at Boran. Harry watched Ron’s face sag with comprehension, then exasperation, giving an exaggerated eye roll behind Draco’s back. Harry glared at him.

“Of course, you would have one,” Draco teased, turning back to Ron, who schooled his face quickly. “Let me guess. Harry looks a bit surly, like he didn’t realize someone was making a portrait of him at all.”

Ron and Boran both laughed heartily. “That’s exactly what it looks like,” Ron managed through his giggles. “Don’t worry, Draco, I’ll make sure you get your autograph. Now come on, Harry, McGonagall’s expecting us.”

Harry nodded lamely, still very flustered, and left the cubicle, ruffling Boran’s hair on the way out.

“See you, Boran.”

“Bye, Auror Potter,” Boran replied, a shy grin on his face. Harry smiled back at him.

“You’ve got Aurors Susan Bones and Jennifer Stanley, as requested,” Ron said to Draco, who nodded gratefully. “They’ll question the both of you, about everything, but they’re very nice, they even brought LEGOs.”

Harry realized this was mostly for Boran, who didn’t like being around the ‘mean, angry Aurors.’ Ron took the Portkey pin from his robes and tapped it with his wand, holding it out to Harry. In a lower voice, out of Boran’s range of hearing, Ron muttered, “I told them no Veritaserum. They know what you went through, they just need to know every detail.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Draco replied quietly, and Ron blinked, probably feeling the same small shock Harry had felt the first time Draco had ever thanked him. Harry knew his ears would probably be turning red, right about now, currently hidden by his long hair.

“Right,” Ron said, turning to Harry. “Draco, send us a Patronus if you need anything, yeah?” He smirked, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Harry heard a snicker from a nearby cubicle, and glared viciously at Ron. Draco raised his eyebrows, but nodded.

The Portkey glowed blue, and Harry met Draco’s eyes, biting his lip to keep from saying anything stupid. Draco smiled at him—a small, private thing meant just for Harry—as he took Boran’s hand and walked away towards the interview rooms. Harry’s stomach flipped, blending seamlessly with the hook and jerk of the Portkey, which yanked him and Ron through space, flinging them to Hogsmeade.

“Git,” Harry grumbled as they landed on the high street, releasing the Portkey. Ron finally let out his laughter, and Harry finally allowed himself to kick him.

“Merlin, Harry, your face,” he giggled again. “It is honestly impressive that someone with your skin tone can blush so hard.”

“Are you quite finished? We have a tomb to raid.” Harry turned away, walking up the street towards Hogwarts. Ron followed him, still laughing.

“Hell no, what was it this time? Did Draco make unexpected eye contact at your desk? I saw those reports, they were blank, Harry,” he let out another bark of laughter. Harry rolled his eyes. “Or was it seeing him with a kid? Did that get your domestic little heart pumping?”

Harry glared at the path in front of him, well aware of the fact that he was blushing again. Stupid face.

“Remember that time Viktor Krum walked into the Great Hall, and your spoon missed your mouth, dumping porridge all over your cheek? I remember. I think I even have it bottled for the Pensieve,” Harry said lightly.

“Oh, I remember. And amazingly enough, you’re worse,” Ron laughed again. “You’ll notice my Patronus didn’t change into a… a raven, or whatever his is.”

“Think about the animal manifestation of Victor Krum’s happiness often, do you?”

“Oh, give it up. You’re like a bloody schoolboy.”

“So what? I like him.”

“Sure, you like him. Great mates, you are. Don’t think I didn’t notice a new piece of jewelry around your neck, which I know is the only reason you’ve buttoned your collar, for once.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Harry groaned in exasperation.

“Only to eat,” Ron replied with a grin, but he finally, mercifully, shut his mouth. Harry didn’t bother to retort that eating had not ever stopped Ron from talking.

They approached the gates of the school, which opened easily at their touch, as they always did these days. Harry didn’t know if that was McGonagall’s doing, or if the school simply knew them well enough by now. He wouldn’t put it past this ancient castle to have more sentience than Grimmauld Place.

They walked on in silence for a few minutes. Harry was grateful for the reprieve.

“He found a boggart,” Harry mumbled, barely loud enough to be heard over the highland wind. “At Grimmauld.”

Ron let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a boner killer, if I ever heard one.” Harry shoved him weakly.

“Alright, alright,” Ron said, holding up his hands with a chuckle. “He seems just as smitten with you today as he was yesterday, so I think you’ll be fine.”

Harry frowned at the path as he walked, stuffing his hands in his pockets again. “He couldn’t banish it.”

“Oh,” Ron breathed, “a bad one, was it? What was it, Old Voldy? Bellatrix? Lucius himself?”

Harry pressed his lips together, shaking his head. He hesitated, unsure if he should answer, but knowing he’d started this conversation for a reason.

“It was me,” he muttered, “at seventeen, erm… dying.”

Ron was shocked into silence, and for once, Harry wished he would just say something, because it was too much to comprehend on his own. He saw smoke coming from the chimney of Hagrid’s hut, and thought about visiting him before they left.

“His worst fear is something that’s already happened? That’s a bit rare, they usually morph into something to fear in the now, sort of,” Ron said finally, brows furrowed in confusion. Harry shook his head again.

“No, not really. The boggart was… choking.”

“Aha. What was choking it?”

“Erm… hands, I think? Invisible ones.”

Ron hummed, nodding slowly. “Getting closer. What was the boggart-Harry doing about it?”

Harry closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Nothing.”

Ron was quiet again, nodding as if he’d been expecting that answer. Harry scowled at him, a little annoyed. If he’d figured out the puzzle, Harry would love to be let in on it.

“Out with it,” Harry grumbled.

“His worst fear is you sacrificing yourself,” Ron answered with a heavy sigh, “giving yourself up, again. You didn’t even try to stop him in the Department of Mysteries, did you? He was forced to strangle you, and you probably just stood there and let him.”

Harry sagged, fighting back a wave of nausea, hearing Draco’s desperate, terrified words in his head.

“You’d have let me kill you… I wouldn’t have survived it, knowing it was by my hand.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“I’m sure he’d rather break every bone in his body than have you not even fight for your own life, and die at his hands.” Ron’s face was grave, staring at the approaching castle. “I know I would.”

Harry’s stomach was roiling with guilt as they scaled the grey front steps, feet moving with muscle memory on the old, familiar stone. The castle looked just as big and imposing as it had the first time he set foot here, too-small and wide-eyed, at the tender age of eleven. He swung open the heavy oak door, following Ron inside.

The school was teeming with students, enjoying their Saturday, excited for their impending summer break. The stone walls echoed with their laughter and chatter.

Harry wondered briefly what it was like, being excited for summer hols. He’d only ever known dread, when June rolled around at Hogwarts. Summer for him had only meant having to return to Privet Drive—long, hot months of backbreaking chores and loneliness.

Fuck—it was almost June. Draco’s birthday was coming up, soon, on the fifth… Harry remembered the presents the owls delivered to the Great Hall, remembered glaring bitterly as he watched Malfoy lavished with attention on his birthday.

Typical, that Harry would be the one craving the honour of lavishing him with attention, now. He rolled his eyes at himself.

What did one even get their new-lover-former-Healer-former-rival for their birthday? Especially when said lover had enough money to buy anything they wanted, themselves?

They made their way up the stairs, following the route to the Headmistress’ Office, one they knew by heart. Harry, probably more than Ron. The students gawked at them as they passed, whispering and pointing excitedly. Even the portraits on the walls announced his presence, waving and following him through the frames. Harry kept his eyes down.

“The boggart changed for me, when I walked in,” Harry said, continuing their conversation, once they’d reached a deserted enough corridor. He didn’t know if Ron knew what his boggart looked like, these days. He hadn’t seen Ron’s lately, either—it was probably still a big, nasty acromantula.

“I’ll bet it did.” Ron still hadn’t looked at him. “Same as last time?”

Harry frowned again, confused. “Last time?”

“When we came over to help clean out the rooms you were avoiding, in Grimmauld Place, last year,” Ron said, eyes finally darting to Harry. “I heard a noise, I thought you’d fallen or something.”

Harry remembered, now: begrudgingly cleaning out the rooms of a house that hated him, thoughtlessly opening a shaking trunk, being engulfed in cold, black smoke. He hadn’t known Ron had seen it, though—

“Imagine my surprise,“ Ron said, “when I appeared in the doorway, to find Draco Malfoy’s corpse, slashed and bloody on the floor, and your wand pointed at his chest.”

Harry had banished it quickly. Boggarts always manifested that way for him, after sixth year. He was used to it.

“You didn’t say anything,” Harry mumbled, diverting his eyes as they passed the Room of Requirement. His fists were clenched in his pockets.

“What the fuck was I supposed to say? ‘Harry, mate, mind explaining why your worst fear is a dead and bloody Draco Malfoy?’”

Harry silently conceded the point. He would never have opened that conversation. Until now, that is.

“It’s still the same,” Harry sighed.

“I used to think it was just your fear of manslaughter or whatever, unintentionally killing someone, like you almost did. Causing grievous harm because you aren’t aware of what you’re capable of.”

Harry’s jaw tensed. The fact that Ron was using official terminology meant that he’d talked extensively with Hermione about this.

“But I guess it really was about hurting Draco, in particular.” Ron looked exhausted all of a sudden, scrubbing a hand over his face as they stopped in front of the gargoyle that guarded the Headmistress’ Office. “No wonder you didn’t fight back. Merlin, what a mess you two are. ‘Calico.’”

The gargoyle jumped aside, revealing the spiral staircase, grumbling about “not even a ‘good morning’ or a ‘please.’”

They scaled the staircase, which seemed much narrower than it did when Harry was young. Had it gotten smaller? Or had Harry just gotten that much bigger?

Ron knocked twice, waiting for McGonagall’s voice to call them in, and opened the door.

The office looked much like it used to, with hundreds of books and those high windows looking out onto the Quidditch pitch. But it was now very much McGonagall’s, filled with red and green tartan and photographs and Quidditch memorabilia, instead of Dumbledore’s odd little instruments and bowls of candy.

McGonagall stood from her wide desk chair, smiling at them. Dumbledore slept on in his portrait behind her. Harry averted his eyes from that, too.

“Look at the two of you, every time I see you I feel like you’ve hit another growth spurt, though I know full well those stopped by your sixth year,” she said, rounding the desk and gently shaking Ron’s outstretched hand.

“Hello, Headmistress,” Ron greeted with a charming smile. Harry tried his best to mimic it as he took her hand next. It was easier once she looked at him, and smiled at him, reminding him that she’d always felt like some sort of family, she’d always looked out for him, had even fought Umbridge for him. She was very maternal—she’d probably fought Dumbledore as much as Molly did, trying to keep Harry and his friends out of the War.

“Minerva,” she corrected both of them, before Harry could open his mouth. Harry nodded, not quite brave enough to call her by her first name, though she’d told him to for years. He knew Ron felt the same way.

“Sit, please,” Minerva waved her hand at the tartan chairs in front of the desk. She pushed a tin of biscuits towards them as they settled, and Harry smiled at the familiarity of it. “Have a biscuit. Now, what is it that brings you here so urgently, Aurors?” She spoke the last word with pride, and Harry couldn’t help the warmth in his chest at her subtle praise. She rarely gave it.

But now, Harry and Ron were faced with answering her question as delicately as they could. Harry clasped his hands in his lap and turned to Ron, who rolled his eyes at Harry’s cowardice.

“We need to get into Dumbledore’s tomb,” Ron said simply. Ripping off the plaster, then. Minerva’s eyes widened, her smile falling abruptly.

“And why in Circe’s name would you need to do that?”

“Harry was attacked this morning, outside his home,” Ron explained, and Harry tried not to contend with the word home. “Someone tried to disarm him. We believe they—a group of fugitives, actually—are after the Elder Wand.”

Minerva gripped the edge of the desk. Ron took a biscuit and glared at Harry, which was code for your turn, arsehole. Harry took a deep breath.

“It’ll be very quick,” Harry said quietly. “We just need to make sure the Wand is still in there, and if it is, we’re going to move it to a safer location. The only people who know where it is are in this room, and, erm…” he looked up at the many portraits, who all quickly pretended to be sleeping instead of eavesdropping. “I’ve realized the listeners in this room have a few other access points.”

Minerva looked up at the walls, her mouth pressed in a thin line that was far too familiar for Harry’s liking. He felt like he was about to get detention.

“Well, alright,” she said shortly. “Don’t let any students see you doing it, you’ll start a grave-robbing trend.”

Ron snorted. “Understood, ma’am. Shouldn’t take more than a half hour. We’ll pop by before we leave to give you an update.” Ron stood from his chair and dusted biscuit crumbs from his chest. Harry rose with him and nodded once at the Headmistress, making his way towards the door.

“Do be careful, gentlemen,” she said as they opened the door, and Harry nodded again, unsure if she wanted them to be careful for their own sake, or for the sake of Dumbledore’s corpse. It was an odd thing to say, anyway—this wasn’t a dangerous mission, and Hogwarts was the safest place in all of—

Harry froze on the stairs, realizing quite abruptly that Hogwarts had never actually been safe. It had been home, for a time—but it had never been safe.

Ron tapped him on the shoulder, clearing his throat, and Harry shook himself and continued his descent. They walked through the corridors in silence, back to the huge oak front doors, and out into the sunny spring day.

“Did that expelliarmus today actually hit you?” Ron asked, as they trod the familiar path down to the lake, seeing the white tomb in the distance.

“No.”

Ron paused. “Just ‘no?’”

Harry frowned. “Would you rather I say ‘yes?’”

“Any other time, you’d have scoffed and answered with ‘of course not,’ Mr. Wandless Shield Charms. If it wasn’t a shield charm, what stopped it?”

Harry looked out over the lake, cursing the fact that his best friend was so observant.

“Draco,” Harry mumbled. “He threw himself in front of me, the idiot.” He paused, thinking. “Threw me, actually. He felt it coming.”

“He what? He threw you?”

Harry nodded, biting his lip. “Grabbed me and lifted me onto the doorstep.”

“Into the Fidelius,” Ron observed. “Smart.”

“It was not smart,” Harry growled. “It hit him in the back. It could have been anything. He could have been killed.”

“Oh, please.” Ron rolled his eyes. “I seriously doubt the Unspeakables are out to kill you. That would be stupid, it wouldn’t gain them anything, considering how badly they wanted to know about you. If they’re going to kill anyone, it’s Kingsley, obviously. He’s the Secret Keeper for the Department of Mysteries, and if he dies, everyone with the Secret becomes a Secret Keeper. Which doesn’t really help them, since the Secret has to be given willingly, but it certainly increases their chances.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, it’s not. The point is you’re now feeling what it’s like to see someone you love act like a bloody martyr,” Ron said, giving Harry a pointed look. He felt like he was being chastised. He probably was.

It was true, however. Harry would have done the same thing, without hesitation. He knew, now, how frustrating that was—it was just hard to believe that anyone felt for him the way he felt for Draco.

It wasn’t until they reached the tomb and cast the Notice-Me-Nots that Harry realized Ron had said love, and Harry hadn’t corrected him.

Oh, whatever. He was too bloody obvious anyway, there was no point in denying it. It didn’t mean he had to think about it, though.

Ron pointed his wand at the gleaming white marble and split the stone carefully down the middle, levitating the pieces to the side, revealing the too-well-preserved corpse of the fallen Headmaster. The sight made Harry’s stomach curdle.

Dumbledore looked merely asleep, half-moon spectacles still perched on his nose, long white beard draped down his chest. Clad in his typical purple robes with sparkling gold stars and moons, he might have just chosen this convenient stone bed for a quick kip during a walk about the grounds.

Harry stared, speechless, his gut twisting. He didn’t know what to feel. By the look on Ron’s face, he didn’t either.

“He made you into a boy who would never rely on anyone else, who would always take matters into his own hands, whose own life was secondary to those around him.” Draco is furious, Harry feels like he might explode with rage.

“What, Harry, you honestly think Albus Dumbledore was incapable of keeping you safe, or making sure your foster family didn’t starve you and keep you locked in a cupboard?” Ron shouts at Harry over the kitchen table.

Harry’s eyes dropped to Dumbledore’s bony hands, one of them still blackened from the curse on the Horcrux ring. He felt cold dread fill his veins.

The Elder Wand was gone.

“I guess that answers that, then,” Ron grumbled, his jaw set as he covered the body with stone. Harry pulled out his wand and helped with hefty Reparo charms, sealing the tomb once more. Not that the stone was any significant barrier, apparently, if the grave had already been robbed twice.

“I should have destroyed it when I had the chance,” Harry muttered, trudging back up the hill toward the castle.

“Too late now,” Ron replied. “We’ll find it. They can’t hide forever. They’ll try again—there’s no way the Wand is working properly for them, if you’re still its master.”

He paused for a moment, turning his head to look at Harry, his forehead creased in stress.

“You know, mate, if… if it turns out that Boran had a lot of important things locked up in his head, we’re going to need… We need every piece of intel we can get, from any source we can get our hands on. Especially if what they’re after is the most powerful wand in the world, and possibly the other two Hallows.”

“It’s just a wand.”

“Not my point.”

“I’m ignoring your point.”

“I’m not asking your permission, Harry. I’m just… giving you a heads up. I won’t keep you out of the loop, but you know you can’t keep Draco out of this, either. He was pretty hacked off, last time, wasn’t he?”

Harry glared at the ground, and didn’t answer.

“We’ll see what Boran says today.” Ron’s tone was final, ending the conversation. Harry’s jaw tensed, somehow hoping that Boran would prove useless, wishing that all of it would just go away, would just leave him and Draco alone.

It wasn’t likely, because they were both unlucky bastards. But Harry didn’t have to think about it, yet. Boran’s information might not even be useful, and Draco’s work would be done, and he wouldn’t have to heal anyone else with Unspeakable-locked minds, and he might miraculously let Harry try to take him out on another date. Everything would maybe be fine.

The thought helped him hold on to his sanity, and ignore the riotous clanging of the “insufferable hero complex” in his head. For now.

The rest of the walk was quiet, filled with only the sounds of the birds, the breeze, their footsteps in the fresh grass, and the occasional bright laughter of a student.

They finally made it back to the Headmistress’ Office, to find McGonagall—Minerva—sitting behind her desk, exactly as they left her. She stood as they entered.

“Well?”

“It’s gone,” Ron said grimly. “You might want to check the wards for weak spots.”

Minerva’s face hardened with barely concealed fury, and Harry knew it was at the threat on her students. “I certainly will. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Ron nodded. “We’ll be going. Thank you for your help, Headmistress, it was good to see you.”

“And you as well, Ronald.”

Ron turned to leave, but Harry paused, his eye catching on a small glass bottle of familiar green ink on the desk, holding an osprey quill, rooting him to the spot.

“Harry?” Ron paused by the door, raising an eyebrow. Harry’s eyes were fixed on the bottle, that particular shade of green, something painful squeezing his heart, turning his stomach. He suddenly felt a bit dizzy.

“Your letter, Harry…” Draco grips the armrests of the wingback chair, his furious accidental magic making the glass artifacts clatter on the shelves.

“Professor,” Harry began.

“Minerva.”

“They knew, and they did nothing, and I’m so fucking angry.” The books fly off the shelves, the glass shatters, the fire roars in the grate.

Harry hesitated. “Minerva,” he restarted, swallowing with a suddenly dry mouth. “Do you, erm… do you address all the first years’ letters, yourself?”

Her face paled, eyes widening in surprise, and Harry held his breath as her expression transformed with sadness, with shame. She clearly knew what he was really asking, and Harry hated that he already knew the answer.

“Yes, Harry. Every one,” she answered, the quietest he’d ever heard her speak. She paused, before delivering the final blow. “Including yours.”

The knife twisted in Harry’s chest, the air was kicked out of his lungs. Minerva’s eyes bore into him, guilty and angry and grieving, telling him everything he needed to know: that she’d known, she’d known he had lived in a cupboard under the stairs, she’d known he’d been starved and beaten and neglected, and she’d done nothing—on somebody else’s orders.

As always, Draco had been right.

Harry’s hands shook, and he shoved them in his pockets to hide them. His eyes darted behind her and caught painted blue ones, watching him sadly over half-moon spectacles. He looked down at his feet instead and cleared his throat, steeling himself.

“Good day, Minerva.”

“Good day, Harry,” she replied, and Harry’s heart ached as her voice broke faintly on the last word. He turned and left the room quickly, Ron closing the door behind them. The trip back to London was completely silent.

He forgot to visit Hagrid.

***

Sunday, 21 May

Draco tapped the spines of the novels restlessly, tracing down his bookshelves. He’d spent the entire day alone, and he was bored.

Harry hadn’t said much when he’d gotten back from Hogwarts the day before, and neither had Ron—they’d both seemed quite preoccupied. Draco hadn’t had much to tell Harry, either, completely worn out emotionally from the questioning with Boran. Who, unsurprisingly, had had a lot to reveal to the Aurors.

Boran didn’t know how long he’d been held prisoner. He had been kept inside the Department, fed regularly, but they hadn’t let him use the loo—apparently the cells had built-in vanishing charms, which was utterly barbaric, Draco nearly lost the stale muffin he’d eaten for breakfast. Boran didn’t know how many Unspeakables there were, total, because none of them wore faces, and they all looked the same except for Lucius. No one spoke to him directly, except to try to force prophecies from him, or punish him for disrupting or impeding what he called the “quest.”

Boran had no idea what the “quest” was for. Draco had an inkling.

Boran said they’d experimented on him with potions and weird charms, and locked his speech up in his head so he couldn’t reveal their secrets to anyone. He didn’t know when they’d planned on releasing him, but they’d acted like it was inevitable. He said that after he made the prophecy about true knowledge of the Saviour, Lucius had taken up the role of his “keeper,” pestering him with questions and punishing him when he could not provide an answer. Boran saw Lucius every day, after that.

Draco wasn’t even reading the titles of the novels on his shelf anymore, lost in his thoughts, fighting back his emotions.

Boran had told the Aurors about how Lucius had dumped Draco in the cell, with him, how Draco had been given a potion that made him do things he didn’t want to do. Boran told them how Draco had sat right in front of him, in the cell, for most of his time there, “like a wall or something. It was like nothing could hurt me if he was there.”

He told them how Draco had had a fit on the floor at one point, that looked really painful and scary, though Draco had only giggled weirdly afterwards and said “Harry” a lot. He told them Draco was the only person to ask his name, down there, the first person outside of Boran’s family to understand that it meant “thunderstorm” in Turkish, the only person who’d told him everything was going to be okay.

The Aurors looked at Draco a little differently, after that. A little less wary, a little more curious.

Boran had finally revealed that the Unspeakables had other places, and more prisoners, though he didn’t know why. He’d only gotten a glimpse of them, but he remembered enough tiny details, scents and sounds and sights, that the Aurors were confident they knew where to look. And everyone had taken a breath, controlling their rage on behalf of the traumatized child, filled with determination now that the investigation was finally getting somewhere.

And then they’d turned to Draco.

His questioning was much shorter. The Aurors apparently believed him, one hundred percent, that he did not poison the Minister, that the Minister took his wine from an unfamiliar hand without checking for poisons, and that Draco carried a bezoar always, just in case, like Ron did. To Draco’s complete surprise, the Aurors were on his side, for once.

He hoped Ron hadn’t told them exactly why Ron carried that bezoar.

Aurors Bones and Stanley had said that they’d been expecting an attempt on the Minister by an Unspeakable, since he was the Secret Keeper, and it only made sense they’d try to make it look like Draco did it, since that’s what they did with Harry’s curse. They’d told Draco that poisoning the Minister just to save him would be a stupid way to try to gain public favour, anyway, which he didn’t really need—according to Bones and Stanley. Hufflepuffs.

Draco was rather skeptical, especially once they’d shown him the headlines. They were as sensational as expected: a photo of Draco on Harry’s arm, Harry smiling up at him, another photo of Draco levitating an unconscious Kingsley Shacklebolt and conferring with the Head Auror before disappearing with a Portkey. Draco caught the words “Imperius” and “love potion” and “Rita Skeeter” and “notorious Marked Death Eater” and promptly threw the rag away. There wasn’t a lot he could do about it, and he had enough to deal with as it was.

He wondered if Harry had seen the papers. Maybe that was why he hadn’t invited Draco anywhere, before Draco left the Ministry, hadn’t even spoken more than a few words to him. Harry had only sat at his desk and stared at blank report forms, which Draco had taken as his cue to leave. He hadn’t protested when Draco leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, but he’d given Draco an odd look; something surprised, sad, and too easy to overthink.

He hadn’t kissed him back, he hadn’t squeezed his hand. He hadn’t said, “I’ll see you later,” like Draco had hoped he would.

Which was fine. This was still a new relationship, they obviously didn’t need to be around each other all the time. But though they had only slept together three times, Draco’s luxurious, beloved bed had felt cold and far too big without Harry there to fill it. He’d slept fitfully, and had woken this morning dreading another day of finding ways to fill his time. Alone.

As if he wasn’t familiar with being alone. He’d been alone for years, before Harry. He’d been perfectly content with his solitude.

But he couldn’t listen to his records without wondering if Harry would like them, too. He couldn’t walk in the forest without getting disapproving looks from Hera and Bubo, who wanted Harry there, too. Maybe Harry gave better ear scratches.

He couldn’t concentrate on studying or updating case files, couldn’t read more than a page of anything without getting restless. But he was determined to make himself do it, and prove to himself he wasn’t as pathetic as he seemed.

Through the open window, Draco saw Timsy dousing the fire of another burning pile of Howlers in the back garden—the muffled shrieks of the outraged public finally dying away—and heading to bed, wiping his wrinkled brow. He resolved to ask Harry sometime how he did those mail-filtering wards.

He took a sip of his tea and pulled out a novel at random, barely glancing at the cover. Something about sexy pirates and princes, he’d read this before. He shrugged and flopped down onto the sofa, setting his mug carefully on the coffee table as he slid his reading glasses onto his nose.

His long legs stretched over the armrest, toeing off his Grouch slippers, the small fire in the hearth warming his bare feet. It was a little chilly for a late spring night, but he loved the sound of it, and kept the windows open whenever possible during this season. The crickets, the breeze, the owls—it made him want to fly.

I could…

No, he was going to sit down and read a fucking book and—

The flames in the hearth flared suddenly, bright green and loud, making Draco jump.

Harry stepped out of the grate and quickly swept the room with his eyes, meeting Draco’s gaze. He looked… furious. Terrified. Draco sat up, lowering his feet to the floor.

“Harry…? Is everything—”

Harry ignored him, climbing onto Draco’s lap, taking his face in his hands and kissing him hard. Draco’s book fell limply from his hand. He was completely thrown, unable to stop himself from returning the clamant kiss, squeezing Harry’s denim-clad thighs, letting him plunder Draco’s mouth.

“Harry—”

Harry cut him off with another frenzied kiss, ripping Draco’s reading glasses off of his face, throwing them carelessly on the coffee table.

“Harry—”

Harry’s urgency was quickly overtaking Draco’s logic, as his hips started to move, grinding down insistently on Draco’s lap. But Draco knew, in the back of his mind, this was a cover, a way for Harry to avoid whatever was upsetting him so much.

“Darling,” Draco panted, grasping Harry’s wrists. Harry froze.

Draco hadn’t exactly intended to say that. But he’d said it, and it had the desired effect, calling Harry back to him and out of his head. He’d definitely meant it—he just didn't think he’d ever say it out loud.

He released Harry’s wrists to hold his face instead. Harry’s eyes were closed, his forehead creased in distress. Shaky breaths escaped his full, parted lips, reddened from the onslaught. Draco could feel his body vibrating with tension.

“Tell me,” Draco said, in a low, quiet voice.

Harry took a deep breath through his nose, resting his forehead against Draco’s.

“I need to talk to you,” Harry mumbled. “I promised I would.”

“Then talk, Harry,” Draco replied. “I’m here.”

Harry got up abruptly and started pacing, wringing his hands.

“Fuck,” he said. “Can’t I just…” he waved his hands in agitation. Draco ran a hand through his own hair and waited, watching him warily.

“Ron needs...” Harry paused, growling in frustration. “Fuck it. The Aurors want you to heal Lucius, like you did with Boran.”

Draco’s stomach dropped through the floor. Harry kept talking.

“I told them fuck no, but Ron told me it wasn’t up to me, pulled the I’m your superior card, the fucking prick…”

Draco's brain had stilled, scratching static like the end of a record. He felt a trickle of fear at the top of his spine—he should have known this was coming, it shouldn’t have shocked him. He never could escape his father.

“And now I’m telling you, because I promised, even though it’s driving me insane to even give you the option when all I want to do is fly to Azkaban right now and cut off his fucking head, problem solved—”

“Harry.”

Harry faltered, his expression pained, pleading, his hands clenched at his sides.

Draco sighed. “I’ll be on Polyjuice, you understand.”

“No, I don’t, I don’t understand why you have to do it at all!” Harry’s voice was rising, and he threw his hands up in aggravation. Draco scowled at him.

“I’m a Healer. I’ll help where I’m needed, it’ll help your investigation. You know I’m the only option—”

“Just because you’re the only one who can doesn’t mean you have to—”

“Are you hearing yourself, right now?”

“You think I want you to live the way I do, Draco? A bloody sacrifice? No. I want you to stay out of this.” Harry’s brows were drawing down, the direction of his anger swinging slowly towards Draco. Draco rolled his eyes, annoyed at Harry’s lack of faith in him, annoyed at his own childish fear.

“Come off it, Harry. I can handle this, I’m already a part of the investigation—”

“And I didn’t want you to be, I don’t want you near any of this! Just the thought of you having to be near him again—”

“You’ve been visiting him regularly, Harry. You think that doesn’t make my blood boil?” Draco stood from the sofa, indignation and festering bitterness clouding his fear. It was easier than fear, it always was. “You think I’m living an idyllic, carefree life knowing you are out there spending quality time with my war criminal father?”

“That’s different—”

“How the hell is that different? I don’t keep you from helping where you’re needed. I don’t hold you back from what you feel you have to do, even though it makes me crazy—”

“This is the man who used you as collateral with Voldemort, who escaped prison twice, he fucking tortured you, Draco!” The hearth fire sparked and spat, the books started vibrating on the shelves, filling the room with a low, crackling hum.

“And he tried to kill you when you were twelve. You’re still doing your job, probably more than—”

“We’re not talking about my job!” The glass coffee table shook, the reading glasses and half empty mug of tea clattering on its surface. Draco didn’t know which one of them was losing control of his magic, and he didn’t care.

“No, we’re talking about my job!” Draco suddenly stood face to face with Harry, teeth bared, their faces flushed and fuming. “A job you apparently don’t trust me to do!”

“Of course I trust you to do your job! I just don’t want you to do your job with him, having to be in his head—” Harry growled through an involuntary shudder, his jaw clenched tight.

“The man fucking raised me, Harry, I’m no stranger to his mind.”

“You’re being a bloody masochist—”

“And you’re being a bloody hypocrite.”

“Oh, piss off, Draco, I shouldn’t have said a fucking word, I won’t let you do this to yourself—” Harry’s body was visibly shaking with rage.

“Let me? Let me?” Draco felt inflamed, the cold fire of lividity mixing with dread, he couldn’t tell which was which. Anger was easier, so he latched on to it. Harry tried to turn away, but Draco grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back, infuriated by the sheer audacity—

“You don’t control me, Harry,” he snarled, “I’ve been doing this for years while you never spared me a fucking glance—”

“I spared a lot more than a glance, you arsehole—”

“I was fine! I didn’t need you, you never even saw me, Harry, I was successful enough without your stupid martyring—”

“So you’re only prone to self-sabotage when I’m around, is that it?”

“You’re accusing me of self-sabotage? After all the bullshit I had to watch in your fucking head—”

Harry let out a pained, furious snarl, his body seemed to move without his input, instinct tangling Harry’s fists in Draco’s shirt and shoving him back into the wall. Draco grunted with the heavy impact, and snapped.

With one arm on Harry’s shoulder, one on his waist, he pulled hard, spun, and flung Harry into the wall instead, holding him there with his forearm at the bottom of Harry’s throat—all in a forceful, split-second blur. The vibrating thud of Harry’s hard body hitting the plaster echoed through Draco’s skull, rattling his teeth.

Harry’s eyes blazed with rage and fear and hurt, his white teeth bared, his quick, seething breaths hitting Draco’s chin as Draco leaned over him, practically spitting adrenaline, a taste like venom in his mouth. Harry was radiant, and Draco was livid, he felt like he was staring at the sun and he hated it, he hated how much he loved this fucking maddening, impossible man, he loved him so much it hurt—

He crashed his mouth down onto Harry’s. It couldn’t even be called a kiss—a violent clash of teeth and tongue, shoving hips and scratching nails. He tasted blood and he didn’t care, he needed it, needed skin and control and release and from the way Harry was giving as good as he got, Harry needed it, too.

Fighting, they were far too familiar with, taking out the unfairness of it all on each other. Just like they used to.

Draco felt like he was boiling, vibrating; he felt volatile, like a bubbling cauldron over a too-high flame. He released his distress on Harry’s body, pulling off his t-shirt quickly and biting down on his neck, licking over it, devouring him. Harry growled and slipped his hands between the buttons of Draco’s silk shirt, tearing it open viciously. Tiny discs of mother-of-pearl buttons bounced off the hardwood floor with little clicks.

Draco shoved his hand forcibly into Harry’s jeans, feeling the hot erection against his palm. Harry hissed, bucking into his grip.

“Damn it, Draco,” Harry snarled through clenched teeth. “Just fuck me.”

A powerful rush of heat flooded Draco’s veins, and he somehow managed to keep his knees from buckling. He made quick work of Harry’s belt and fly, and turned him around, pushing him into the wall again. He yanked Harry’s jeans and pants down, brutally gripping one of those perfect arse cheeks.

“That’s what you want?” Harry shivered with Draco’s low voice in his ear.

“Yes, Draco, come on.” He pushed his hips back, grinding on the bulge in Draco’s trousers. Draco dropped to his knees, pulling his wand out of his pocket and throwing a few quick cleaning spells at Harry’s arse. Harry gasped at the sudden, invasive charms.

“What’re you—”

Harry didn’t finish, crying out in surprise as Draco pulled apart his cheeks and licked a long stripe over his hole. He pushed back into Draco’s face, reaching for him with his hand.

“Hands on the wall, Harry,” Draco ordered, and Harry quickly obeyed.

“Fucking hell,” Harry moaned, “Draco—”

Draco alternated between long, firm licks and short, quick circles around the furled rim. Every noise Harry made spurred him on, lighting him up from the inside, adrenaline and lust racing through him. He pressed his palm against his trapped erection, trying to ease some of the pressure.

“Draco,” Harry groaned, his voice desperate and ragged. Draco slipped his finger into his mouth, coating it thoroughly with saliva, then brought it back to Harry’s entrance.

“Draco, please,” and that’s what Draco was waiting for. He pushed the tip of his finger inside, and Harry expelled all the air from his lungs in one heavy breath.

Draco pulled his finger back a little, then pushed in further, in and out, delving deeper each time. When Harry felt loose enough, he pulled out, picking up his wand and lubricating his fingers. Conjured lube wasn’t nearly as good as the real thing, but it would have to do. He certainly couldn’t be bothered to stop and run to his nightstand right now.

He pressed two fingers into Harry’s arse, twisting once, and Harry groaned again, clenching around him. Draco licked eagerly at the rim around his fingers, and crooked them gently inside Harry, searching, until he finally brushed against his prostate. Harry bit back a moan as his body jerked, his thighs shaking, rising up on his toes.

“Draco, now,” Harry growled, panting.

“It’ll hurt,” Draco warned, hitting his prostate again.

“I don’t care, come on, come on,” Harry urged. Draco removed his fingers and stood slowly, picking up his wand. He kissed and licked his way up Harry’s spine, tasting salt on his heated skin. He unfastened his belt and shoved down his trousers and briefs, freeing his aching cock, sighing in relief as he wrapped a hand around it. He performed another lubrication charm on both Harry and himself, dropped his wand, and stepped closer.

“This is what you want?” Draco asked again, lining himself up, one hand gripping Harry’s hip. He kicked Harry’s legs further apart with his foot. Harry whimpered as Draco pressed the tip to his rim.

“Yes,” Harry breathed.

“Say it, Harry.”

“Please, Draco, I want—” he gasped as Draco pushed through the tight ring of muscle.

Fuck, he’s tight. Draco breathed deeply through his nose, trying not to come immediately, giving Harry a moment to adjust. It had been a long time since Draco had done this, and he faced the realization that this was his first time fucking Harry, and it wasn’t nearly as tender and romantic as Harry fucking him.

But Draco wasn’t always tender. He loved differently, they both did—sometimes with softness, curled in front of a fire; sometimes with the fire itself.

A bead of sweat fell slowly down his temple. His hands shook as he fought the instinctual urge to move.

Harry’s breathing was harsh and heavy, his hands shaking against the wall. The light from the fire hit the sheen of sweat across his back, making his skin glow, highlighting the landscape of solid muscle dotted with scars. Draco was mesmerized, ensnared, determined to give Harry just what he needed. Wanted.

Draco held his hip with one hand, and placed the other in the middle of his spine, pushing his chest into the plaster, arching his back. Harry pressed back minutely, and Draco took that as a sign to continue, groaning with satisfaction as he pushed deeper, enveloping his cock in tight, wet, perfect heat.

Draco pulled Harry’s hips toward him, gripping hard enough to bruise, until he was buried to the hilt inside him.

“Oh, fuck, Draco, yes…”

Draco pulled out slowly, and thrust back in, hard. Harry gasped, fingers curling against the wall. Draco did it again, and again, hips snapping against Harry’s arse in a persistent, punishing rhythm, until Harry was whimpering, his knees shaking from holding himself up, his cock leaking between his legs.

“Yes, Draco, please, please…”

Draco drove deeper, faster, harder, anything to make Harry make those sounds, taking him apart, claiming him. He reached around to Harry’s chest and found his nipple, pinching it hard between his fingers, making Harry moan again. His other hand slid up Harry’s chest to his throat, his fingers catching the silver chain, holding Harry’s jaw in a firm grip. Harry whined, his head tipping back obediently as Draco maneuvered him to mouth at his neck, his thrusts unrelenting.

“You’re mine, Harry,” Draco said into his ear, his voice the only soft thing about him. Harry whimpered again, his nails scratching the wall, where Draco knew he was fighting the desire to reach back, to touch, on Draco’s orders.

“Yours,” Harry breathed. “And you’re mine.”

The hand on Harry’s nipple moved to embrace him, pulling their bodies flush together. Draco switched to shallow, rapid thrusts, angling his hips until Harry cried out again.

“Yes, Harry.” I love you. “I’m yours.”

His grip on Harry’s jaw tightened, pulling his head back against Draco’s shoulder. Harry’s panting, whimpering breaths whistled through his teeth. The Malfoy ring bounced against his collarbone.

“Now touch yourself, Harry, that’s it,” I love you, “you’re doing so well, you’re so beautiful like this, you’re mine, Harry, you’re all mine—” I love you, I love you, I love you.

A few quick strokes of Harry’s hand and Draco’s teeth on his neck and Harry was coming, painting the wall with it, choked sobs forcing themselves from his throat. Harry’s body tensed and shuddered in Draco’s arms, his arse clenched around his cock, making Draco gasp and groan and drive himself deeper. Harry’s knees started to buckle, but he was held up by Draco’s arm locked around his waist, his hand on his jaw.

It only took a few more deep thrusts to send Draco over the edge, spurred on by Harry’s broken moans. It hit him suddenly—he hadn’t even noticed it building, entirely focused on Harry. Draco let out a shaky whine as his thrusts slowed, made even more slick by his own come.

Draco’s grip loosened on Harry’s jaw, stroking gently down his throat. Harry’s chest rose with laboured breaths beneath Draco’s hands, his warm skin slippery with sweat. Draco kissed his shoulder softly, catching his breath, holding him close, just a moment more.

He wanted to say it so badly. The words were already thrumming in his veins.

He pulled out, instead, slowly. Harry hissed faintly at the loss. The room was still, finally, silent except for the sounds of their heavy breaths.

Draco bent down and picked up his wand, casting gentle cleaning spells on them both. He unlaced Harry’s boots, pulled them off his feet, stripped off Harry’s jeans. He pulled up Harry’s boxer briefs, as well as his own, and stepped out of his trousers. His hand lightly held Harry’s arm, leading him to the sofa and sitting him down carefully, knowing he was likely to be sore. He grabbed the blanket from the top of the cushions and wrapped it around Harry’s shoulders, studying his face.

Harry looked a little dazed, like he wasn’t all there, like he hadn’t fully come down yet. Regret was building in Draco’s stomach, and he knelt on the floor in front of him, touching Harry’s face, his hair, his thighs.

“Darling,” Draco murmured, and like the first time, it brought Harry back to the present. He blinked a few times, refocusing his eyes—Draco couldn’t even remember when his glasses had come off.

“Are you alright?”

Harry blinked again, his green eyes shiny in the firelight, staring down into Draco’s. To Draco’s dismay, a tear fell down his cheek.

“Fuck, we should not have done that,” Draco whispered, holding his face, wiping the tear with his thumb. “I’m so sorry, Harry.” Harry closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly.

“No, don’t, I wanted that, all of it, I told you I did,” Harry said quietly. Another tear fell on his face, he wiped at it impatiently. “I loved it.”

Draco grabbed his wand and conjured a glass, filling it with the lemon aguamenti Harry liked. Harry took it with a quick smile, that wasn’t really a smile at all.

“Tell me what you need,” Draco said. Harry took another sip, wiped another tear.

“Just you,” he replied. “Here.” Draco’s chest tightened as his voice broke.

Draco climbed onto the sofa and laid back against the armrest, holding out his arms. Harry took the invitation without hesitation, setting down his glass and draping himself over Draco’s chest, sliding his arm around his waist under the fabric of the ruined shirt. They stretched themselves out on the cushions, and Draco kicked the blanket to cover their feet, pulling it up over Harry’s shoulders.

Harry’s head settled into the curve of Draco’s neck, and Draco turned his face, burying his nose in his hair, breathing in his favourite scent. Harry’s finger faintly traced the longest scar on his chest, over his collarbone. Draco’s arm slid over his shoulders, his other hand coming up to run through Harry’s sweaty, chaotic, perfect hair. He could feel more tears hitting his shoulder, but Harry didn’t make a sound.

“I’m here,” Draco murmured.

Harry’s arm tightened around him; he hid his face in Draco’s neck.

“I don’t want you to do it,” Harry said, his voice muffled against Draco’s skin.

“I know,” Draco sighed. “But I’m going to.”

“He’ll hurt you.”

“He can’t hurt me anymore. More than he already has, anyway. He won’t even know it's me.”

“I still hate it.”

“I know.” Draco secured his arm over Harry’s shoulders, hooked his ankle over Harry’s calf. The small fire crackled quietly in the hearth, and he noticed some books had fallen from the shelves in the storm of accidental magic. Through the open windows, Draco could hear the sound of crickets singing in the night air—a cool, damp stillness that promised fog at dawn. He grazed his fingernails lightly over Harry’s scalp, feeling his body relax further on top of him.

“We’ll be alright,” Draco reminded him, as he had when they’d sat in those wingback chairs in his study, their faces too close. As Harry had, when he’d banished the boggart, holding Draco together. Harry sighed deeply, blowing warm air over his skin, still absently tracing Draco’s scars.

Even through his sadness and fear and guilt, Draco felt full and warm, overflowing. He wondered if Harry could feel it, pouring out of Draco’s caressing hands, spilling from the lips kissing his head.

As Harry slipped gradually into sleep, Draco thought he might not need to say it, after all.

(Monday, 22 May, 2:00AM)

Draco has never seen so many people in one place in all his five years. He pulls on the itchy high collar of his robes, gazing around in fear and awe. He hears a loud hum of echoing chatter and somewhere, splashing water. He can’t see anything through the forest of legs and robes.

“Close your mouth, dearest, and don’t pull on that, you’ll stretch it,” his mother says, and Draco groans quietly.

“Come now, Cissy, we can always repair the collar,” his father chimes in, giving her a smile and taking Draco’s hand. “What is important today is that he sees what his future holds. Then, he might understand the importance of his appearance.”

Draco turns his awed gaze to him, instead. His mother clicks her tongue.

They start to walk across the Ministry Atrium, and Draco holds tightly to his father’s hand, sticking close to his legs, afraid of all of the people hurrying by. Everyone is so close and big and fast, they might run him right over, he feels too small. His father notices his flinching, and stops in his tracks.

“Draco, they will not hurt you,” he says calmly. “You do not have to move for them. You are a Malfoy, and they will move for you.”

Draco isn’t so sure about that. He grips his father’s large hand, pressing closer to his leg, looking around warily. His father sighs, and bends down a little.

“Let me show you, son.”

He turns Draco around, puts his hands under Draco’s arms and lifts him up. Draco gasps softly—his father never picks him up. A giggle bubbles out of his throat, shocked and overjoyed.

He lifts Draco over his head, and places him on his shoulders. Once Draco is settled, he pulls his ponytail out from under Draco’s legs, and lays it against his chest. Draco is still giggling with glee, looking at his mother in surprise. Her hand is covering her mouth, but Draco can tell she is smiling. Her eyes are shiny, staring at the two of them in admiration.

“Now, pay attention, Draco,” Lucius says quietly. Draco doesn’t know where to put his hands. He doesn’t want to mess up his father’s important appearance, which he’s going to learn about today. There are so many people, but they can’t hurt him up here. He can see where the splashing noise is coming from, a huge fountain in the middle of the floor, with a centaur and a house elf and a wizard and more. There is so much to see.

Lucius begins to walk.

The crowd of fast, busy people parts before him. All eyes turn to him, some quickly darting away, some smiling up at Draco. People tip their hats at him and bow their heads politely, and Lucius nods back at them. Lucius doesn’t smile, but he might not need to.

Lucius never alters his path or his speed, moving in one straight line toward his destination, and Draco watches as every person moves out of his way, like the minnows in the pond at home move for Draco’s feet. He is untouchable.

When they finally reach the registration desk, Lucius hands over his wand without waiting for the sleepy, surly security wizard to ask for it. The wizard takes it without looking, and places it on an odd little scale. It spits out a piece of parchment, and the man reads from it.

“Elm, dragon heartstring, ten inches…” he looks up finally, like he knows who it will be. Because people know Draco’s father. He’s important, and parts the sea of people like minnows at his feet.

The wizard’s brown eyes widen, landing on Lucius’ face, traveling up to Draco’s, then back down to Lucius.

“Yes, that is my wand,” Lucius says. Draco can’t see his father’s face, but he definitely makes the man’s cheeks turn pink.

“Right,” the wizard hurriedly fumbles with the wand as he hands it back to Lucius. “Enjoy your time at the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy.” He stands up straight, giving them a firm nod.

Lucius returns his nod. “Good day, Mr. Carver.” Draco tries a nod, too.

He turns and walks away from the desk. Draco looks back, and sees Mr. Carver sag against the desk, propping his head in his hand as he stares after them, looking dazed.

The people move out of his father’s way, because he is important and great, and they smile up at Draco, because he will be important and great, too. People will call him ‘Mr. Malfoy’ and move out of his way, because he’ll be big like his father, someday.

When they reach the lifts, Lucius lowers him back to the ground. Draco misses being on top of the world with his father.

“Did you see?” his father asks quietly, standing up straight again. Draco stands up straight, too.

“Yes, Father.”

Lucius sends him a small, quick smile, before taking his hand and leading him into the lift. His mother places her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it gently. Draco thinks this is the best outing he’s ever had.

Draco rose from the Pensieve, shaking, his jaw clenched painfully. He squeezed his eyes shut. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

He hated that he’d once thought this was a good memory. He hated that this was one of the happiest moments of his childhood. This was so much harder than he’d thought it would be.

His hand reached for the next vial, but paused halfway there.

How much more would it hurt? Was it worth it to even try, or would this make his job that much harder?

He was a Healer. A Healer, who needed to heal his father. But it was so very difficult to heal someone when all one wanted to do was hurt them, and it was far too easy to hurt someone with Legilimency. All he’d have to do was want to—and he really wanted to.

He couldn’t.

So while Harry slept on, warm and peaceful on Draco’s sofa in the dark, liminal hours before dawn, Draco had gone to his study, and pulled out his Pensieve.

There were three memories, gathering dust in tiny glass vials among the others on his shelf, that Draco had hoped would give him some perspective: his three favourite memories of Lucius, the only three times he could recall Lucius showing some sort of affection.

So far, they’d only served to enrage Draco further.

He leaned his head against the cool, wooden shelf. He wanted to scream, he wanted to hit something. But he needed to do this, he needed to figure this out. He needed to make himself believe that Lucius was just a man, who needed healing, who deserved it.

He scoffed weakly at himself. Some Healer you are.

“Draco.”

Draco’s head snapped up, and he inwardly cursed Harry’s stealth.

Harry was leaning against the door, clad in nothing but his briefs and the blanket from the sofa on his shoulders. Draco couldn’t decide if he wanted to take that blanket off, or wrap it tighter around him.

He had a worried look on his face, his hair more disheveled than usual from sex and sleep, his eyes still tired and half-closed. Or maybe just narrowed—he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

He approached Draco slowly, wrapping the blanket tighter around his shoulders, freeing Draco of having to make that decision. Draco saw bite marks and bruises forming on his exposed neck and shoulder, and his face twisted with guilt, reaching out and running his finger over them delicately.

Harry huffed, giving him a tired, lopsided smile, stepping close enough to see Draco clearly without his glasses.

“Don’t you dare heal them,” Harry muttered.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Were you listening? I loved it, Draco. I wanted it. You had my full, enthusiastic consent, the whole time.” Harry took Draco’s hand, pulling it away from his neck, bringing it to his lips. “I think I needed it, to be honest.”

Draco sighed as Harry kissed his knuckles, trying to hold himself together.

“What a mess we are,” Draco mumbled. Harry laughed softly.

“Ron said the same thing, yesterday.”

“Do I want to know why?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Harry replied, with another sad, tired grin. “I need to apologize, Draco.”

“For?”

“I acted like a real prick,” he said quietly. “I said awful things. I hurt you, again. I don’t want to keep you from helping where you’re needed, I know you don’t need protecting all the time. You’re an incredibly powerful man, on your own.”

Draco gripped his hand tighter. Harry kissed his fingers, watching his thumb move over Draco’s knuckles.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have lost control like that. I should know better than to try to hold you back,” Harry continued, his breath ghosting over Draco’s hand. “I don’t ever want you to think I don’t… I don’t know, that I don’t support you, or that I’m going to fight you on things you want or need to do. I can’t promise I won’t try to protect you all the time, but I can promise to have your back, and stand with you, no matter what.”

Harry was blushing again, and he finally looked back up at Draco, meeting his eyes. Draco felt like he might fall apart, like he was held together with Spellotape; a fragile, crumbling mess.

He hated being so… messy. He hated that he fell apart around Harry so much, he hated how vulnerable it made him feel, he hated that he couldn’t be strong for Harry all the time. He wanted to be strong for Harry, because Harry was strong around him. Harry was the rescuer, the protector.

While Draco just felt like a disaster—a soft smile with sharp teeth, elegant fingers that left bruises behind, too full of love and too easily gripped by fear. His seams were worn and frayed; he couldn’t hold all of himself in anymore, like he used to. Harry had been subtly, insistently plucking at the threads, silent and unaware, coaxing Draco out from every corner, since the day Draco had laid eyes on him again. But Draco had relied on those seams, those corners he could tuck himself away in, for so long. He didn’t feel strong enough to carry all of it, on his own.

“Was that too much to admit, after the worst third date in history?” Harry’s whisper pulled him out of his thoughts, and Draco blinked, seeing wide green eyes looking up at him with worry. Harry’s lips quirked, trying and failing to smile. He held tightly onto Draco’s hand, as if Draco would tear it away any second.

Oh, Merlin. Did he really think Draco would run? After everything? Did he feel as messy and raw as Draco did?

“I wish I could be strong, like you are,” Draco whispered back. Maybe, if he was whispering, he wouldn’t actually be admitting it out loud.

“You can’t,” Harry smiled weakly, continuing their whispers. He released Draco’s hand. “Because you’re strong, like you are. You’re the strongest man I know.”

“Bollocks.”

“You know I’m a shit liar,” Harry said. His hands ran slowly up Draco’s exposed chest. “I mean it. You’re the only person strong enough to handle me.”

Draco snorted weakly, and Harry grinned at his own success.

“The Chosen One needs a heavy-handed wrangler, does he?” Draco smirked.

“Sometimes,” Harry replied. “Obviously.” His hands held Draco’s face, and he bit his lip, searching Draco’s eyes. Waiting for something.

Draco held his wrists and kissed the heel of his palm, his stomach fluttering.

“I’m yours, Harry,” he whispered. “However you’ll have me.”

Harry let out a breath of relief, and Draco pulled him close, kissing his face, like he’d loved him forever. It felt like he had.

“I’m sorry, too,” he murmured against Harry’s cheek. “And thank you for keeping your promise.”

Harry didn’t reply, just closed his eyes and pressed himself closer, breathing in Draco’s air, running calloused fingers over Draco’s chest. Draco held him there, relishing in his warmth, in the miracle of his affection.

Loving Harry was hard, and it hurt, sometimes. It felt dangerous. It would certainly make Draco lose his hair early, and probably drive him absolutely mad. Loving Harry would pull him apart at the seams, make him feel it all, and hopefully stitch him up again, with much more room to move.

Loving Harry was also the easiest, most natural thing he’d ever done, now that he finally allowed himself to do it. Loving Harry was just existing, at his most alive, the breath that moved in and out of his lungs without him needing to direct it. It had always been there.

Harry’s arms wrapped around his waist under the destroyed silk shirt, his broad hands caressing Draco’s back, soothing and safe.

“Do you want to tell me what memory’s got you so worked up?” Harry asked. Draco sighed, squeezed him briefly, and stepped back. He studied Harry’s expression: guilty, eager, his eyes even brighter without the glasses. He was biting his lip again. Draco wanted to bite it for him, and forget all about the Pensieve.

But this room was made for honesty; this sanctuary was meant for vulnerability.

It felt strange, seeing Harry in it again.

Draco jerked his head toward the Pensieve. “See for yourself, if you like.”

Harry’s eyebrows raised, disbelief and undisguised curiosity written on his face. The blanket had fallen off one shoulder, though he still held it together over his chest. He looked just as vulnerable as Draco felt.

Harry padded over to the Pensieve on quiet, bare feet. He looked back at Draco once for confirmation, and at Draco’s nod, he lowered his face into the basin.

Draco took another deep breath and walked away to sit in his usual wingback chair by the fire. He stared at the gentle firelight that danced on his own bare thighs, rubbing the seams of the leather armrests with his thumb, trying to control the restless nervousness in his stomach.

He didn’t want Harry to get upset again. But Harry had offered his support, and Draco felt ashamed that he needed it. He didn’t think he’d be able to face this problem without help—which was a foreign feeling, indeed. Draco had never asked for help, before Harry. He’d always been able to make it on his own.

But he’d never had to use Legilimency on Lucius fucking Malfoy, before, either.

He brushed his toes over the small, singed spot on the carpet in front of the grate, and waited.

Harry eventually rose from the Pensieve and stared blankly at the shelf in front of him for a few seconds, before turning to Draco with an unreadable expression. He cleared his throat softly and walked over to his chair, sitting across from Draco, a too-close proximity that used to make Draco squirm. The blanket fell from his shoulder again as he released his hold on it, pooling around his thick, bronze thighs, revealing the sparkling Malfoy ring on the thin chain around his neck.

Harry watched his own hands run slowly over the leather armrests, reacquainting himself with the familiar chair. Draco tried to rein in a sudden burst of lust at the sight, but his cock twitched in his briefs. Harry Potter, mostly nude, all skin and muscle and wild black hair, sitting in the wingback chair that faced the door—Harry’s chair—with all of the confidence and subtle authority Draco had seen when he was fully clothed. This felt like a fantasy Draco had never allowed himself to have.

He looked up at Draco, spearing him again with that intense, familiar gaze, studying him.

“You won’t hurt him, Draco,” he murmured. Draco closed his eyes, amazed that Harry needed no explanation—was it that obvious, what Draco was trying to convince himself of?

“It’s very likely that I will.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But I want to,” Draco pressed, opening his eyes again, trying not to glare. “That’s all it takes, Harry. The second I want him to hurt, he will hurt. I swore not to hurt anyone intentionally when I became a Healer—”

“Then you won’t,” Harry cut him off, holding Draco’s eye contact. “You may want to, but you don’t intend to. You’re not Bellatrix or Voldemort. You don’t take pleasure in torture.”

Draco pressed his lips together, unsure of what to believe. He knew he was capable of torture—he’d cast plenty of successful Cruciatus curses during the war. Harry knew that, too. He’d seen it himself.

He wanted Lucius to hurt. He’d wanted to kill Lucius, when he was chained to a chair in the Department of Mysteries. He would have done it, if it’d have gotten him and Boran out of there safely.

But he knew Harry wanted Lucius to hurt, too, and still managed to keep himself from harming him, in his “visits.” As far as Draco knew, anyway.

“He deserves it,” Draco muttered.

“I know.”

Harry inched his foot forward on the carpet, landing on top of Draco’s, his lips twitching in a hesitant grin, probably remembering Draco doing the same thing during their sessions. Draco huffed softly, taking comfort in the simple touch.

“The Polyjuice is just a formality,” Draco said, looking away toward the small fire. “I can find the puzzle easily, if it’s like Boran’s, but I, erm… the nature of it requires…” he huffed again, shaking his head, wondering how to explain this. He looked back at Harry, who was furrowing his brows, waiting patiently.

“I can’t use Occlumency, when I finally fix it. It requires… all of me.”

Harry’s eyes widened, his eyebrows rising on his forehead. “So, he’ll know it’s you, by the end, regardless,” he said. Draco nodded slowly. “But he won’t let you in if he knows it’s you.”

“Hence the Polyjuice, but he’s not a very good Occlumens, anyway, last I knew,” Draco sighed. “Nothing a good petrificus can’t solve.”

Harry snorted. “Very true,” he replied. “Yours packs quite a punch, I can attest.”

Draco chuckled, surprising himself. He hadn’t laughed at that memory in a long time: sixth year, catching Harry spying in his train compartment, petrifying him, breaking his nose, leaving him there under the Cloak. Harry somehow always made the worst memories seem more lighthearted.

He guessed that was a skill someone like Harry would need, after enduring so much. It was a lot to carry.

Harry was smiling that tiny, contented smile that Draco loved, that he could see in Harry’s eyes more than his lips. His fingers were still caressing the armrests, and he watched Draco silently, a thousand thoughts running behind his eyes. It was so familiar—minus the nudity.

“Do you miss it?” Draco asked.

“Miss what?”

“The silence,” Draco clarified, pausing. “I know it was more comfortable for you, at times.”

“Sometimes,” Harry replied, with a small grin. “It was nice, it was just… I don’t know. Existing.”

Draco nodded sagely. “Well, you’re welcome to shut up any time you like.”

Harry laughed, and Draco smiled with the warm rush of accomplishment.

“I miss this more, I think,” Harry said, his laughter fading.

“What, me digging around in your head twice a week?”

“I suppose, yeah,” Harry replied. “You feel—nice. In my head.”

“‘Nice?’” Draco raised an eyebrow. Harry nodded, amused and a little embarrassed.

“I liked it. It was a lot of work, though, keeping you where I wanted you.”

“I still can’t believe you were Occluding me that whole fucking time,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes. “How much did I miss?”

Harry huffed a weak laugh. His eyes moved slowly over Draco’s entire body, following a map of lines he was now familiar with.

“Nothing important,” Harry answered, smirking. Draco narrowed his eyes, seeing his cheeks heat as he made his way back to Draco’s face.

“Were you having inappropriate thoughts about your Healer, you bloody pervert?”

Harry laughed again, bright and gleeful, his cheeks turning a lovely dark pink. That, combined with the sight of his gorgeous body in Draco’s leather chair, the warm firelight flickering on his brown skin, and the Malfoy ring hanging possessively from his neck, was the sexiest thing Draco had ever seen. His new favourite image. His heart sped up, and he laid his arms in his lap to hide his growing arousal.

“How could I not, when my Healer looks like that?” Harry waved his hand up and down Draco’s body in emphasis. Now it was Draco’s turn to blush.

“Saint Potter, the deviant,” Draco teased.

“Now that was torture,” Harry said, “having to sit this close to you for hours, and keep myself from touching you, pouring all of my energy into thinking pure thoughts.”

Draco laughed, flustered, covering his mouth with his hand. His cheeks were traitorously warm. Harry smiled, apparently enjoying this effect.

“It’s a miracle I managed to heal you, then,” Draco muttered, composing himself.

“It’s a miracle I didn’t drop to my knees in front of your chair, Draco. Not even once.”

“Yes, one hundred points to Gryffindor, you must be very proud,” Draco replied smoothly, growing hotter by the second.

“I am,” Harry said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s a relief to be able to fantasize about you whenever I like.”

Draco’s eyebrows raised, his blood rushing to his groin. “You really thought about me that much?”

Harry’s grin widened, his eyes roving Draco’s body again. Draco’s flush only deepened under his intense perusal; he knew he’d be an embarrassing shade of pink by now, from his cheeks to his chest.

“I had to watch you practically caress yourself, Draco, every time you lowered your wand,” Harry said. “I wanted to be that touch, in your hair, on your thighs, your collarbone, your arm. You had me wrapped around your finger.” Harry smiled incredulously, and he shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying this out loud. “You still do.”

Draco’s breath quickened, his heart pounding against constricting ribs. He worried, for a split second, that his Legilimency may have actually addled Harry’s brains, that Harry felt this strongly because Draco had accidentally planted something in there. But Harry wouldn’t be able to say something so… eloquent, if that was true. He wouldn’t be able to pinpoint his desire so specifically.

His eyes dropped to Harry’s crotch, his mouth watering at the sight of the rising outline in Harry’s black boxer briefs. At least he wasn’t the only one—Draco removed his arms from his lap, resting them on the armrests and spreading his legs a little. Harry’s gaze lowered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Come here,” Draco muttered hoarsely, surprising himself. He hadn’t particularly intended it to sound like a command, but it did. Harry’s eyes flashed, quite pleased with this turn of events. He dropped the blanket off of his other shoulder and leaned forward.

“Stand up,” Draco said, his blush creeping down his neck as Harry grinned and happily obeyed. He rose smoothly from the chair and stood between Draco’s legs, looking down at him with heated, admiring eyes. Waiting.

“Touch me,” Draco whispered, holding his gaze to watch Harry’s eyes light up.

Harry’s hand raised towards Draco’s face, landing gently on his cheek. Draco leaned into it, brushing his lips over Harry’s palm. His hands twitched on the armrests, wanting to touch, with Harry standing so close, radiating warmth. But he wanted this more, to feel Harry’s touch on him, all of his attention on where Harry’s fingers met his skin.

Harry’s hand followed a familiar path into Draco’s hair, running his fingers slowly through soft, white blond strands, then down his neck, onto the tip of the scar on his collarbone. He traced it delicately, feeling the raised skin under his fingertip.

He slid both of his hands over Draco’s shoulders, pushing off the silk shirt. Draco helped, watching Harry grin as he pulled it off his arms, goosebumps trailing in the wake of Harry’s touch. Harry’s fingers traveled down his arms, pressing his thumb gently over the ugly Mark on Draco’s forearm. He bent forward to reach Draco’s thighs, bringing his face tantalizingly close to Draco’s own, his green eyes intent on Draco’s lips. His broad hands covered the tops of Draco’s thighs, and rubbed indulgently up to his hips, down to his knees.

“Draco,” he whispered, his breath hot on Draco’s lips.

Draco felt claimed, the phantom touch of Harry’s strong hands tingling on the most distinctly Draco parts of Draco’s body. They now felt much more like Harry’s. And that felt incredible, and a little terrifying. He was Harry’s, he was ruined for anyone else—he was Harry’s, for as long as Harry would have him.

But Harry was also his.

Draco’s ring swung from Harry’s neck, and Draco grabbed it in his fist and tugged him forward, taking the kiss Harry teased him with. Harry leaned into it, his tongue darting between Draco’s teeth. A soft whimper left Draco’s throat, frissons of intense arousal dancing up his spine. Harry squeezed his thighs, deepening their kiss.

Draco’s hands quickly found Harry's hips, pulling him closer, and Harry straightened up to allow Draco access to his skin. Draco breathed warm air against his stomach, finally letting himself touch. He felt Harry shiver as his fingers traced over the faint purple marks they had left on Harry’s hips, only a few hours ago.

He looked up at Harry, who stared right back, his face alight with lust and affection. Draco’s hands roamed freely, over the scattered scars on his skin, the bit of dark hair on his chest. One of Harry’s hands came up to run through Draco’s hair again, like he couldn’t get enough. Draco gave Harry’s firm, round arse a gratifying squeeze, kissing him softly just above his navel, feeling the Malfoy ring hit his forehead.

“Beautiful,” Draco whispered, surprising himself again, why did his filter always fly out the window the second his cock was hard?

Harry’s breath hitched, his hand tightened once in Draco’s hair. Oh, that’s why. Because Harry loved it. Only Harry got to see Draco like this—both in control, and out of it. Only Harry got praise like this from him.

He scraped his nails up Harry’s powerful thighs, slipping his finger under the hem of his briefs, hearing Harry’s breaths turn shallow. Draco could have done this for ages. He leaned his head down and barely brushed his lips over the length of Harry’s hard cock through the cotton, pulling back when Harry groaned faintly and jerked his hips forward, chasing the heat and touch.

He turned Harry around, satiating a craving and lifting the hem of the briefs to bite his arse cheek, slipping his hands under the cotton and massaging the muscle. Harry hissed faintly before letting out another quiet groan, and he was not nearly close enough for Draco’s liking. So Draco grabbed his hips and pulled Harry down onto his lap, sighing in satisfaction as skin met skin; thighs against thighs, chest against back, arms around Harry’s waist. His erection pressed against Harry’s perfect arse, still trapped in his own silk briefs.

He ghosted his breath over the marks he’d made on Harry’s neck and shoulders, feeling the shiver run through Harry’s whole body. From here, Draco could watch his hands move over Harry’s chest and thighs—he felt like every inch of him was touching Harry. He could feel every movement of Harry’s body, every quick breath, the vibration of every sound he made.

“According to the bond formerly attached to my magical core,” Draco said lightly next to Harry’s ear, feeling him shiver again, “in the time you were my patient, I thought about you unethically at least once per session.”

Harry leaned his head back next to Draco’s, closing his eyes—the better to focus on Draco’s voice, his touch. Harry’s hands clung onto the armrests as he began gently grinding down on Draco’s lap, smiling faintly when Draco drew in a sharp, shaky breath against his neck.

“I couldn’t help it,” Draco continued, one hand skating slowly down Harry’s stomach. “All I wanted to do was touch you. Watch you. I couldn’t look away from you.”

He slid his hand beneath the black waistband, groaning in satisfaction as he finally wrapped his fingers around Harry’s cock, causing Harry to buck and grind a little faster. Draco was rolling his hips up into Harry, frotting shamelessly against his arse.

“Draco…” Harry moaned, as Draco nibbled on his earlobe. “Please.”

“Please, what?” Draco stroked him steadily beneath the fabric, mouthing at Harry’s neck, teasing his nipple with his free hand.

Harry turned his face into Draco’s cheek, his breaths growing heavier, his skin hotter. “Fuck me, Draco. Please.”

Draco turned towards him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. Harry took the opportunity to capture his lips in a kiss, then another.

“Harry, I know you’re sore,” Draco managed, unable to pull away for long, even at the awkward angle.

“Not too sore, come on,” Harry urged, grinning against Draco’s lips. His hand reached up to the back of Draco’s head, threading itself in his hair, pulling his face closer to kiss him more. Draco was barely keeping it together, listening to Harry beg for his cock and grind insistently on his lap, but he had to ask again.

“Harry, are you sure?”

Harry’s hips slowed and he opened his eyes, taking in Draco’s worried and highly aroused expression with a fond smile. Draco’s hand didn’t falter, his thumb swiping over the head, spreading around beads of precome.

“Draco,” he said seriously, failing to suppress that smile, “I want you to fuck me, right now.”

A shudder ran through Draco’s body, his hand sped up. He opened his mouth to respond, and found himself speechless, with a thrilling, swooping sensation in his belly. Harry’s hips started moving again.

“I want to ride your cock, right here in this chair,” Harry continued, watching Draco’s reaction with flushed cheeks. Draco couldn’t help the faint, rasping growl in his throat. “I’ve wanted to for weeks.”

Draco realized, to his embarrassment, that he was nearly panting with want, already wound up with anticipation from the frotting that was great but not nearly enough, he wanted to be inside Harry again so badly. He’d never heard Harry talk like this before, and great Merlin and Morgana, Harry was making him sweat.

He removed his hand from Harry’s pants and hooked his thumbs into the waistband. Harry grinned victoriously, lifting his hips so Draco could shove them down. Draco didn’t take his eyes off Harry’s face as he slid his finger down Harry’s crease, gently tracing the swollen rim, still a little loose from earlier, watching for any sign of pain.

Harry only widened his eyes, pushing back against his finger. “Yes,” he breathed, waving his hand lazily and coating Draco’s fingers wandlessly with lube. Draco tsked at him, more out of habit than anything else, and easily pushed two fingers inside him.

Harry let out a shaky, satisfied moan, stilling his hips to allow Draco to work. His entire body was tense with the effort of holding himself aloft. Draco found his prostate quickly, and pressed. Harry jerked above him, gasping, so Draco did it again and again, captivated by the quaking of his shoulders and thighs.

“Draco…” Harry whined, and Draco removed his fingers, scooting down in the chair, pulling his hard cock out of his briefs. Harry waved his hand again, and Draco gasped softly as warm lube spread over his shaft. Harry kicked his pants off his legs and raised one foot onto the leather seat next to Draco’s thigh, spreading himself wide. Draco lined himself up, holding Harry’s hip. Waiting.

He heard more than saw Harry’s grin as he realized what Draco was waiting for.

“Please, Draco,” he obliged, “I want it, I want you so badly, please…”

Fuck, Draco loved that. Harry bloody Potter, begging for him. It was music to his ears.

He pulled gently on Harry’s hip, and Harry sighed in satisfaction as he finally sank down. Draco’s mouth dropped open with a groan of pleasure as that sublime heat enveloped him, and he found his voice again, his hands coming around Harry’s chest, his mouth on Harry’s shoulder.

“Yes, Harry,” he said, his voice huskier than he’d thought it’d be. Harry gave his muscles a break, relaxing into Draco’s body, breathing heavily. “Merlin, you feel so fucking good, you’re perfect, and you’re all mine.”

Harry turned his face toward him, breathing him in, wiggling his hips experimentally. Draco tightened his arms around him and thrust gently, shallow and slow, just a taste. He licked a long, indulgent stripe up the side of Harry’s neck, making Harry whine.

“That’s it, darling,” he murmured in Harry’s ear, and Harry whimpered and pressed his face closer. Draco would berate himself later for the endearment slip, but not now. “Take what you want. Be selfish for me.”

Harry smiled and sat up. Draco’s hands rested lightly on his hips as Harry positioned himself, adjusting the foot on the floor, the hands on the armrests. He looked back at Draco and pushed down on the armrests, lifting his body a couple inches. Draco’s lips parted as Harry slid up, and he fought the urge to thrust back in immediately, waiting to see what Harry would do. He couldn’t decide what to watch: Harry’s confident smirk, the tensed muscles of his shoulders, Draco’s cock disappearing into his arse. He’d be impressed if Harry did this using only his arms, but it didn’t seem like it’d be comfortable.

Then, Harry moved.

There was no other way to describe it. Like an ocean wave down Harry’s spine, a gentle, rolling movement that started in his chest and ended at his knees, small and slow at first. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, his smirk falling into a quiet moan.

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Draco breathed hoarsely in disbelief, feeling the hypnotizing, fluid movement of Harry’s hips in his hands. The muscles of Harry’s back and shoulders rippled under his skin; Draco reached up and felt the quivering strain of his arms with his fingers.

Harry looked like something people wrote poetry about. He looked like a Greek god, a force of nature, something to name a constellation after. He looked like he was using every muscle in his body to move like this, to ride Draco’s cock, and Draco was honoured.

The only thing proving to Draco that Harry was real, right now, was the undeniably tangible pressure and slide of his arse, hot and wet and exquisite, sending torrents of sparks through Draco’s veins. He moved like a breeze over long grass, or a heat wave off hot earth. Serpentine currents rolled down his back and hips like warm honey, grinding him back and forth in the most divine, circular rhythm.

Draco quickly updated his favourites: this was by far the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

He fought hard to make himself last, when he felt like he could come any second. Harry was letting out more soft moans, his face turned just enough that Draco could see his eyes closed and face tensed in concentration, lost in his pleasure. Taking what he wanted. Blowing Draco’s fucking mind.

Draco ran his hands up Harry’s back, scratched his nails back down. Harry groaned and sped up, swirling his hips relentlessly, his body undulating over Draco’s thighs. Draco couldn’t understand how Harry had ever thought he couldn’t dance. He shook his head incredulously, not bothering to suppress the surprised moans of pure lust that left his lips, vocalizing his appreciation.

Draco reluctantly squeezed his eyes shut as sweet tension coiled tighter in his hips, his thighs shaking, his body begging him for release. Not yet. Not yet.

“Fuck, Harry,” he groaned, “oh, fucking Salazar, the way you move, you’re going to be the death of me…”

Harry let out a heavy, wavering breath, and Draco opened his eyes to see a bead of sweat fall from the back of his neck, the sheen of his tired shoulders, his trembling arms. Draco braced his feet on the floor and grabbed Harry’s sides, gently pulling Harry towards him.

“Come here.”

Harry lowered himself shakily, leaning back into Draco again, panting.

“Fucking magnificent, you are,” Draco purred. He ducked his head under Harry’s arm, and Harry held tightly to his shoulder, breathing hard against Draco's hair. “That was amazing, I could watch you ride me like that forever. Other foot up,” he tapped Harry’s leg, and Harry lifted it, bracing both feet on either side of Draco’s thighs on the seat. “Let me take care of you, now.”

With both hands tight on Harry’s hips, Draco lifted him slightly, and started raising his own, thrusting up into him. Harry whimpered, tightening his arm around Draco’s shoulders. He pushed his upper body back against Draco and the chair to hold himself up, and Draco grinned as he watched, luxuriating in the weight and solidity of him. Perfect.

Draco thrust a little faster, a little harder, taking direction from the incredible, involuntary sounds falling from Harry’s lips. His abs and glutes started to burn with the effort, but he couldn’t stop, not when Harry’s brow creased like that, his mouth dropping open slightly, squeezing Draco’s shoulder with a slurred “yeah, Draco, oh god, yes, please…”

Harry’s hand left the armrest to wrap around his own cock, and Draco watched carefully, studying the subtle twist of his wrist, the strength of his grip—cataloguing the way Harry touched himself, so he could touch Harry like that, too. His hips snapped harder against Harry’s arse, and Harry’s moans rose in pitch, his rasping voice desperate in Draco’s ear. Draco felt the muscles in Harry’s sides quaking under his fingers. The urgency of his impending orgasm was making his breath shake, and he squeezed Harry’s hips, shutting his eyes again to hold it back. Just a little longer.

He couldn’t help the faint grunts that started leaving his mouth, his muscles burning, giving Harry everything he could. He was torn between watching Harry’s hand on himself and watching Harry’s beautiful face contort with pleasure as he climbed higher, wound tighter. Harry’s dark hair was sticking to his forehead and neck with sweat, and he watched himself, watched his own hand flying over the head of his cock, just before throwing his head back, his hips sinking down deep, losing himself in it.

Draco felt the first shudder roll through Harry’s body as Harry sobbed Draco’s name, his cock spilling white streaks over his hand and stomach. Draco’s name had never sounded more beautiful, bursting rapturously from Harry’s throat over and over, his soft, solid body jerking in Draco’s hands. It sounded like a name the stars had given themselves.

The muscles of Harry’s arse clenched around Draco, and Draco keened with relief as he finally let himself go, succumbing to the euphoria, his entire body shaking with the force of it.

Harry collapsed, burying Draco’s pulsing cock inside him, his heavy breaths loud in his throat. He laid his head back, groaning softly in satisfaction, pulling every last drop from Draco with subtle swirls of his hips. Draco bit down gently on his shoulder, his body warm and languid under Harry’s weight, his hips twitching with little aftershocks.

“Beautiful,” Draco whispered again. Harry hummed, brushing his lips against Draco’s cheek.

“Perfect,” Harry whispered back. Draco met his lips for a soft, exhausted kiss, lingering in this moment as long as he could.

“Merlin,” Harry breathed, wincing as he lifted slightly, Draco’s softening cock falling out of him, come leaking out onto Draco’s thighs. “I don’t think I’ll need to work out for the next week.”

“I am more than happy to become your new exercise routine, Harry.”

Harry chuckled and waved a wandless cleaning charm over them. He stood carefully on shaky legs, glancing once at the Pensieve before turning back to Draco, holding out his hand.

“Bed,” Harry said, that lovely, soft smile adorning his face. “And I’m keeping you there, this time.”

Draco took his hand and followed him gladly to Draco’s bed, where Harry belonged.

Monday, 22 May

Sweet fucking Christ, Harry had missed Timsy’s coffee. It really was unparalleled.

Dressed in last night’s jeans and t-shirt, Harry sat at Draco’s kitchen table and closed his eyes, breathing in the rich aroma wafting from the warm mug in his hands. He shifted in his chair, grinning faintly at the ache permeating his muscles, the pleasant reminder of last night’s activities. He could hear Timsy puttering around in the kitchen, making breakfast. Draco sat across from him, grouchy and disheveled in a black silk dressing gown—playing footsie with Harry under the table, in his fuzzy green slippers, though Harry knew he’d never admit it.

Harry could see faint purple smudges under Draco’s tired eyes. Draco leaned heavily onto the table, his spine curved and shoulders slumped in poor posture, for once, frowning into his mug. Harry alternated between watching him fondly, and closing his eyes to appreciate the complex flavour profile of Timsy’s coffee, so he could compliment him on it later.

He heard several small objects hit the glass door to the garden, and turned to see a pile of post growing outside. Draco groaned dramatically and dropped his head onto the table, nearly upending his mug. Harry fought the urge to ruffle his hair further.

“I need those mail-filtering wards you use, Harry,” Draco said, his voice muffled against his own arms and the polished wooden table. Harry hummed, watching more post hit the glass.

“I just need Hermione’s help to install them, I don’t exactly know how she did it,” he replied, furrowing his brows. “That bad, is it? I don’t see any Howlers.”

“Timsy burned them all yesterday, and on Saturday, too, fuck, those buggers are annoying,” Draco groused, but he lifted his head slightly, glaring at the influx of mail. “You’re right, though, looks like they take Mondays off from their ear-splitting social commentary.”

Harry quickly covered his mouth, turning his face to hide his laughter. Early-Morning-Draco really was something else. He stood and walked to the door, opening it and rummaging through the pile until he felt the cylindrical roll that was the Daily Prophet.

He closed the door and untied the twine, unrolling the paper and glancing at the headlines as he returned to the table—Kingsley had been released from St. Mungo’s with a clean bill of health, thanking Healer Malfoy for his quick intervention. Quality Quidditch Supplies was having a sale, huh, the Muggleborn Integration Association had surpassed its fundraising goal despite the scandal, nice, and—Harry froze midstep, the block letters grabbing his attention:

FORMER DEATH EATER’S PATIENTS TELL ALL!

Lee Jordan, Special Correspondent

Harry held his breath, his heart pounding in his ribs. Holy fucking—

I have come to some shocking conclusions since the scandal of the Muggleborn Integration Association’s Annual Charity Gala on Friday night, where former Death Eater Draco Malfoy made his grand reentry into society, apparently as a renowned Healer Legilimens—and on Harry Potter’s arm, no less. Bad luck for Healer Malfoy, being seated right next to the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, but very good luck indeed for the Minister, who was mysteriously poisoned just before dinner was served. Healer Malfoy acted quickly, conveniently pulling a bezoar from his pocket, saving the Minister’s life without hesitation, unfortunately causing a whirlwind of speculation and rumours.

Harry cleared his throat and returned to his chair as calmly as he could, where Timsy was serving eggs benedict. He opened the paper to continue reading with his best attempt at nonchalance. He didn’t want to alarm Draco, especially if this article ended badly.

He suspected George had something to do with this. Lee was well-known for his witty commentary and intelligent journalism, but Harry knew he hated writing for the Prophet. He preferred radio, but people weren’t turning to his broadcasts for the news. If he had something important to say, that needed to be heard by as many people as possible, Lee swallowed his pride and submitted to the Prophet. They always published him. The people loved him.

And Harry had no idea how receptive Lee would be to Harry dating Malfoy.

All of these rumours were as sensational as they were a decade ago. I implore you, dear readers, to think, and see that you’ve done exactly what the real perpetrator wanted you to do. What better time to make an attempt on the Minister’s life, than when he’s sitting right next to society’s easiest scapegoat? A man who has remained elusive for eight years, likely due to the inability to walk down Diagon Alley without being attacked or spat on, and who had probably been about to check his own wine for poisons at the time, just in case. Of course someone like that carries a bezoar. Wouldn’t you, in his place?

Whether or not the Minister survived the attempt, the blame would fall on the former teenage Death Eater, and fit as easily as a glove.

As for his paramour—do people honestly believe Auror Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, is susceptible to an Imperius Curse, or a love potion? I can assure you, as someone who knows Auror Potter too well: Harry’s skull is much too thick for such trivial malice to take effect. He could throw off an Imperius by the age of fourteen, and people have been trying to slip him love potions since the age of sixteen. There is no way anyone with a Dark Mark will ever land a curse on him, because he casts wandless disarming charms every time he sneezes. He can’t even help it, bless him.

I can certainly understand the surprise of seeing Harry smiling doe-eyed at a Malfoy, especially for those of you who’ve never seen them interact before, as angsty youths committed to an overzealous rivalry throughout their entire school career. Yes, I nearly choked on my tea, seeing Saturday morning’s headlines. But only because I lost a bet with a dear friend of mine, who, instead of taking his twenty galleons like a good man, insisted I go find out who Draco Malfoy is today, from those who have actually seen him in the past eight years.

Harry pressed his lips together to hold back his laughter, hiding his face behind the paper. He could hear the echoes of all of the swears and biting insults Lee was probably forced to edit out. At least he got to call Harry thickheaded—in a strange, backhanded, complimentary way.

According to Ministry Archives, Draco Malfoy is a Licensed and fully certified Healer Legilimens, and Specialist in Mind Curses and Afflictions—an impressive feat, considering he is merely twenty-five years old. He is the only Healer Legilimens in England, and spent half of the last eight years in rigorous training and apprenticeships with the few other Healer Legilimens in Europe. He is fluent in English, French, Italian, Spanish, and Turkish, with some working knowledge of American Sign Language, Yiddish, Russian, and Mandarin—as far as I know. He’s published several contributions to different medical journals in the groundbreaking practices of Healing Legilimency.

He returned to England with plentiful commendations and accomplishments, and immediately applied for his Healer License. The Licensing Office apparently wasn’t too happy to see him, seeing as they forced him to make his oaths magically binding. Malfoy accepted the cruel and inhumane bonds without complaint, and got right to work.

“It was called the Unstoppable Nightmare Curse,” says Jared Paul, age 22, of Brighton. “It was exactly what it sounds like. I couldn’t even tell you how long that curse was on me, because I lost track of time. I couldn’t tell day from night, past from future. My mum was frantic, brought me to endless Healers, who all said the same thing: that it was all in my head. Which was the problem.”

“When Draco showed up in my mind, it felt like a breath of fresh air. He was a grounding presence in my nightmares, protective and gentle. The curse was apparently like a maze, and he guided me through each nightmare to find the pieces of the countercurse. Since the nightmares were constant, he stayed up for seventy-two hours straight with me, traversing a labyrinth of terrors in my head, until we could finally reverse the curse. After that, I had the best sleep of my life.”

“He saved my life,” says Theresa Cavendish, age 54, of Derbyshire. “I don’t know how I’d have lived if I hadn’t found Healer Malfoy. My ex-husband thought I was cheating, and cursed me to only speak in languages people couldn’t understand—something he found in an old Dark Arts book. He said if I was going to be a liar, he didn’t want anyone to listen to me. No one listens when they can’t even understand what you’re saying.”

“I left him, of course, but I lived like that for years. It was so unbearably lonely. Eventually, one of my many Healers recommended Draco to me. I didn’t even know Healer Legilimens existed, and I was worried about his history, but I was desperate. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Draco was honest, patient, and empathetic—and incredibly good at his job. I’ve never felt safer in such a vulnerable position, and he made sure the entire process was comfortable for me. He worked with me tirelessly for weeks, unraveling the curse in my head. I would trust him with my life.”

While we have all maintained the same image of the son of Lucius Malfoy in our heads for eight years, Draco Malfoy has apparently been quite busy. Letters have been pouring in from Healers and former patients alike, waxing poetic about this exciting new Slytherin Prince Charming and the lives that he’s changed so far, without attracting an ounce of attention or praise for it.

I know we all know it now, but I should remind you: Draco Malfoy has been the largest financial backer of the Muggleborn Integration Association since its inception in 1998, and he has been doing it anonymously. If you’re doing the math correctly, you’ll realize that Draco Malfoy—of the notoriously blood purist Malfoy family—was eighteen years old, and on probation, when he began silently helping to make our world better for muggleborn children.

It might be time, dear readers, for most of you to admit that you saw this headline and hungrily consumed this article, eagerly awaiting another scathing dissection of Healer Malfoy’s history and faults. Not because you think this mysterious, attractive, intelligent former teenage Death Eater is a threat to public safety, but because our dashing, roguish hunk of a Man Who Lived is happily off the market, and we’ll have to find another Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelor to swoon over.

Tune into my show on your Wizarding Wireless, Wednesday nights at eight, to hear my extensive list of nominations. Yes—I am at the top of the list.

Lee Jordan, Special Correspondent

Harry couldn’t hold it in anymore. He threw his head back and released his laughter, making Draco and Timsy both jump. He stood quickly from his chair and rounded the table, tossing the paper onto the wooden surface, taking Draco’s shocked face in his hands. There was a drop of hollandaise sauce on his lip, his bright hair was a tangled mess, and Harry knew he wasn’t wearing anything under that flimsy, posh dressing gown except for his obnoxious, fuzzy green slippers. Harry felt like he might burst, like his love and joy could explode from his chest and fill the forest around them.

He leaned in and kissed Draco soundly, before he could say anything stupid, licking off the hollandaise and chuckling against Draco’s pink lips. Draco, confused and somewhat pleased, couldn’t suppress his own smile.

“Is this it? Have you finally lost the plot?” Draco asked, kissing him anyway. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”

“I have, I think,” Harry replied. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He bit his lip, watching Draco’s cheekbones blush bright pink, his fatigued grey eyes sparkle with fondness. He gave him one more lingering kiss, and returned to his seat, pushing the face-down newspaper across the table. Draco glowered warily at it.

“Do I actually want to read this drivel, Potter?”

“Yes, Malfoy, you really, really do.” Harry was still grinning like an idiot, finally starting in on his delicious breakfast, groaning softly with pleasure as flavour danced on his tongue. He felt so spoiled here. And he owed Lee Jordan something really nice. A new broom, or a Mercedes Benz or something.

Draco reluctantly summoned his stylish, tortoiseshell reading glasses from wherever they were in the house, slipping them onto his nose. He picked up the newspaper with a heavy sigh, flipping it over. His eyes widened as they found the headline in question, his eyebrows rising higher as he read on.

Harry forgot about his breakfast again, too focused on watching the colour deepen in Draco’s cheeks as he read. Draco snorted occasionally, his lips twitching with hesitant smiles. He finally looked back up at Harry, his lips parted in shock and surprise, his shadowed eyes now lit up with tentative glee. Harry found it difficult to breathe.

“Is this real?” Draco asked. Harry honestly wasn’t sure anymore. He reached over and took Draco’s hand, tapped each of his pale, slender fingers one at a time. One, two, three, four, five.

“Yes,” Harry answered.

“Did you do this, Harry?”

“No,” Harry laughed. “I reckon George had something to do with it, though.”

“George Weasley?” Draco clarified, and Harry nodded. “But why…?”

“Ask him yourself,” Harry said, grinning, “they’re all waiting for me to bring you over for Sunday lunch.”

“Sunday lunch…” Draco’s mouth moved, but the words barely left it, completely stunned. “The Weasley family expects me at Sunday lunch. With you.”

“Yep.”

“And George, the prankster, the ultimate mischief-maker, somehow convinced his well-known Gryffindor journalist friend to get my patients involved in the press, and write an article about my underappreciated greatness…?”

“Most likely.”

“Well…” Draco cleared his throat, his eyes on their tangled hands. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, before finally mumbling, “That’s… good, then.”

“Yes,” Harry laughed softly, “it’s good.”

They sat in silence for a prolonged moment, while Harry watched the stampede of thoughts behind Draco’s eyes, his brows occasionally drawing down, rising back up, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Wait a minute,” Draco said suddenly, picking up the paper again and pushing his glasses up on his nose, his eyes narrowed suspiciously at the fine print. “Lee Jordan thinks I’m attractive?”

Harry let out another bark of laughter as he stood from the table, walking over to give his lover another kiss, tasting luxurious coffee on his tongue.

“Of course he does,” Harry replied, feeling smug and far too proud. “He’s got eyes, hasn’t he?”

“You think you’re smooth, Potter, but you’re still a brute,” Draco grumbled, but Harry could feel his grin against his lips. He chuckled warmly.

“I’ve got to go,” Harry said, one more kiss, just one more. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, yes, go be a bloody hero or whatever,” Draco flapped his hands at him, returning his eyes to the newspaper, his cheeks still deliciously pink. Harry laughed and made his way to the hearth, thanking Timsy for breakfast on the way, flooing straight to the Ministry to “go be a bloody hero or whatever.”

***

Draco hadn’t used Polyjuice Potion much in his lifetime, thankfully. It tasted absolutely revolting, and was horribly uncomfortable. He grimaced as his flesh bubbled and morphed into that of a shorter, mediocre, middle aged man. He made a quiet sound of disgust, and Ron chuckled softly from outside the bathroom stall in the Aurors’ locker room.

“Hurry up, mate, that stuff only lasts an hour.”

Draco would never get used to Ronald Weasley calling him mate.

“Tastes like fucking dung bombs,” Draco grumbled in an unfamiliar voice. Ron laughed again.

“A familiar taste for you?”

“Oh, stuff it.” Draco walked out of the stall, glaring at the foreign reflection. His discomfort was only exacerbated by the anxiety thrumming in his veins, the fear of what he was about to do. He glared harder as he realized Ron seemed even bigger from this vantage point.

“No Harry?” Draco asked nonchalantly.

“Hell no,” Ron scoffed. “The man can’t act for shit. He’s leading a raid, today, instead, on the place Boran was able to tell us about. He did try to come along, but he’d blow your cover in less than a minute, you know he would.”

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed, conceding the point.

“My name is Guérriseur Pelletier,” Draco said. “I speak little English and it frustrates you, but you’ve finally managed to pull me through the international relations red tape and bring me onto the case. I don’t really care about your case, I’m just here to do a job. Healer Malfoy refused to work with Lucius, and this is Lucius’ only shot at getting full control of his mind back. If you need to lie and tell him you won’t use Veritaserum, once I’m finished with him, then do so.”

Ron raised his eyebrows, but nodded, pulling the portkey pin from his robes.

“You’ll really have to make Lucius believe that he wants this,” Draco continued, transfiguring his French Healer’s robes to fit his new frame better. “He won’t let some stranger in his head just because an Auror—a Weasley, at that—thinks he should.”

“I know, Draco. This isn’t my first dance with a Malfoy,” Ron smirked. Draco rolled his eyes again, slicking back his mousy brown hair stiffly with his wand. He still had to look like a proper pureblood to Malfoy standards, in order to gain any ounce of respect from Lucius—while still beneath him, non-threatening. His stomach roiled with nausea and nerves.

“One more thing,” Draco said, looking up at Ron’s imposing frame. “I should be able to do this in under an hour, if I can figure out the key, but I’ll have to petrify him, just before I heal him.”

Ron frowned down at him. “I certainly won’t stop you, but don’t you think that’s a bit much? You didn’t use a petrificus on Boran, did you?”

“Merlin, no. But Boran’s no Occlumens, and knew who I was the entire time. Lucius will know, by the end—there’s no way he won’t try to push me out. I can handle it, but it’ll take serious effort. I’ll need him frozen, I can’t let him close his eyes or look away.”

“Oof,” Ron said. “Alright, mate.” He tapped the portkey with his wand, holding it out to Draco, who pinched part of it between his fingers.

“Remember,” Ron mumbled, his brows furrowed, as if this was difficult to say out loud. “I’ll be right there, the whole time. I won’t let him hurt you or anything. Harry would murder me.”

Draco snorted weakly. He would never admit how warm that made him feel. Bloody Gryffindors.

“I’m more worried about hurting him, Ron.”

Ron shrugged, and the portkey yanked them through space, hurling them to the cold, wet, windy island of Azkaban in the North Sea.

Draco couldn’t suppress a shudder as they landed, the chilly sea spray hitting his face, his French Healer robes billowing in the salty wind. He tried to fight back the flashbacks, the familiar feeling of hopelessness and despair sinking into his bones as he stared up at the foreboding fortress.

His incarceration here after the War hadn’t been long, by any means—he’d been able to count the days, in his cold, stone cell, by tracing tally marks into the dust on the floor. Three weeks, he’d been here, eight years ago, awaiting trial. Hungry and dirty and incessantly cold, forced into Veritaserum overdoses by bored, corrupt Aurors, whenever they stopped by for “questioning.” It was the worst place he knew of.

He startled at the warmth of a strong grip on his shoulder, pulled out of his dark memories by a freckled hand. He didn’t look up at Ron, he didn’t want to see pity or annoyance on his face. Draco marched forward towards the entrance with steely determination, beginning the process of numbing himself, closing off his mind, building his Occlumency walls as strong as those of this Merlin-forsaken building—stronger, since the impenetrable walls of Azkaban still struggled to hold back his father.

By the time they reached the high security corridor, Draco was thinking in French. He hardly felt anything except the boredom and resignation of an important French Healer who was pulled from his busy life to aid the agaçants English Aurors. Terribly inconvenient.

“Mr. Malfoy, how do you do?” Ron asked in a bored voice, pulling out two rickety folding chairs and setting them up in front of the bars. Draco grimaced at them in distaste and sat down with a put-out sigh, finally forcing himself to look at the man in the cell.

It felt strange, distantly, seeing his father in anything other than thousand-galleon robes. His prisoner’s robes hung limp and plain on his shoulders, and though his long white hair looked well-kept and smooth, it was dull and flat against his chest, the unstoppable grit of Azkaban permeating his appearance. He sat as straight and proud as ever, a king on his threadbare, uncomfortable cot. His grey eyes pierced Draco, fiercely suspicious behind the cool, aristocratic façade.

Draco’s face remained carefully blank, though familiar rage was brewing in his gut. He kept his hands still, holding his wand in his lap. Even his wand was disguised, glamoured to look like cherry wood. Draco’s pale silver-lime-wood wand was far too distinctive, and he knew Lucius was familiar with it—Lucius had taken it from him, when he stole Draco to the Department of Mysteries. Pansy had retrieved it for him.

Draco hadn’t seen his father since that horrible day. He’d hoped he’d never have to see him again. Nothing good happened when Lucius was near.

Lucius ignored Ron’s greeting, not taking his eyes off of Polyjuiced Draco, his thin lips pressed together in a thinner line. Ron sighed in exasperation. Draco raised an eyebrow, tapping his finger against his knee.

“Right,” Ron said. “Lucius Malfoy, meet Healer Pelletier.”

Draco rolled his eyes as a too-proud, snobbish Frenchman would at being addressed with an English title. Ron even butchered the French name into “pelluh-teer.” Lucius’ lips quirked as he watched.

“It is nice to meet you, Monsieur Malfoy,” Draco said, in a heavy Parisian accent.

“Indeed,” Lucius drawled. Draco tried not to snort. What an arsehole.

“Pelletier is a Healer Legilimens, very good at his job, and the only one in Europe willing to work with you, Malfoy,” Ron explained. Lucius turned a fierce glare on him.

“I did not ask for—”

“No, you didn’t. I did,” Ron cut him off. “It’s come to our attention that the Unspeakables have used you, Malfoy, and have taken away your control over your own mind. They played you, and we need to figure out why.”

“They did not use me, Weasley. I used them.”

“Ah, but you are in prison with half your mind locked up, while they run free,” Draco cut in, his accent thick. “Or so it seems.”

Lucius shut his mouth, his imperious glare darting between Ron and the mysterious French Healer. Draco tried to keep his agitation at bay, but he was getting worried—they were on a time limit, wasting precious minutes with petty arguments.

He hadn’t thought about it, before, but now the theory that Lucius had actually been a pawn in this horrific game was starting to make more and more sense. The fact that Lucius hadn’t mentioned the Hallows could have meant that the Unspeakables hadn’t shared with him their true goal—or that he was forbidden to speak of it. Either way, that lowered him severely in rank.

After a moment of tense silence, Lucius turned his head towards Draco.

“Pourquoi devrais-je vous faire confiance?” Lucius asked. Why should I trust you?

Draco couldn’t suppress the snort this time. “Je m’en fiche si vous me faites confiance, monsieur.” I don’t care if you trust me, sir. “Je suis là seulement pour vous aider, à la demande de ces Aurors pénibles.” I’m only here to help you, at the request of these tiresome Aurors.

Lucius’ lips twitched again. Ron looked perfectly annoyed at their exclusion of him. Draco leaned forward, rolling his wand in his hand.

“C’est une procédure très rapide,” Draco said. It’s a very quick procedure. “Pouvons-nous en finir?” Shall we get it over with?

Lucius’ face hardened, holding his body as stiff as stone. Draco watched the internal debate in the miniscule ticks only he and Narcissa knew—the twitch of a finger, the wrinkle of his forehead, the way his eyes grew a little colder, a little darker. Lucius tipped his head forward minutely, not in assent, but in a way that would shadow his eyes, hide them from his audience.

Boran’s voice started echoing in Draco’s head behind his Occlumency walls, and Draco fought hard to beat back the rage, the feeling of betrayal he never could shake. He hated Lucius, he hated him so much—a painful, familiar hatred that remained inseparable from the sharp, shattered-glass edge of what used to be love.

“I won’t hurt you,” Draco slurs. “Promise.”
“He said that, too,” Boran retorts quietly, tucking his knees into his chest.

Draco’s free hand started to shake; he subtly pressed it into his thigh to still it. He breathed deeply through his nose, numbing himself again, relaxing his shoulders, until he was only a Frenchman’s shell, the rest of him tucked away somewhere deep and dark.

He used to numb himself like this during the War, whenever he had to torture someone. Occlude himself away into a tight, dark little box until he could cast a Cruciatus and mean it; unfeeling, empty and cold. It was the only way he knew how to be brave. Do what he had to do, keep himself and his mother safe, get it over with, even if he couldn’t face his own reflection afterwards—for months.

He hated it. But he had a job to do, and he couldn’t hurt Lucius. He’d taken an oath to do no intentional harm. He was a Healer.

Of course, other Healers didn’t have to swear they wouldn’t ever want to hurt someone. Just that they wouldn’t.

Lucius nodded slightly, finally, but didn’t move. Of course, he wouldn’t move for an Auror. Or a Weasley. Or a French stranger. He was a Malfoy, and people moved for him. Draco sighed and stood from the chair, looking at Ron and waving a hand at the bars.

Ron was sprawled out in his folding chair, the picture of boredom and annoyance. He raised his eyebrows at Draco, and Draco saw the flash of uncertainty in his blue eyes before he sat up, raised his wand, and unlocked the cell. Draco picked up his chair, opened the cell, and walked inside.

Lucius watched him, sitting stiller than death itself on his cot, his cold, grey eyes following the Frenchman like a portrait. Draco sat down in the chair barely a foot from Lucius’ knees, and Lucius raised his pale eyebrows at the proximity, but didn’t move, didn’t say a word. If Lucius saw his hands shake, he could assume it was because this stranger was afraid, sitting a foot away from a notorious war criminal.

Draco didn’t meet his eyes until he absolutely had to. He took a deep breath, while Lucius watched him idly, as a lion would watch a rodent at its feet, wondering if it was worth his time to kill. Draco lifted his gaze, strengthened his walls again, and aimed his wand at Lucius’ forehead.

Lucius didn’t even flinch.

“Mes yeux, s’il vous plaît,” Draco said, even though Lucius was already staring directly into his eyes, threatening and disdainful. “Un, deux, trois, Legilimens.”

“I love him,” Draco blurts out involuntarily from where he’s chained in the chair. He winces harshly, and Lucius smiles, feeling imminent victory.

“Lucius, my love, won’t you stay for a moment? I’m sure we can send for Draco—” Narcissa is cut off by Lucius’ wand at her head.
“Imperio.”

“He looks just like his father,” Narcissa says proudly, gazing lovingly at the sleeping, white-haired infant in the ebony crib. Lucius wraps his arm around her and nods.
“A proper Malfoy,” he says.

“You, boy,” Lucius growls. Boran flinches in the filthy cell.

“Avada Kedavra!” A jet of green light flies from the Dark Lord’s wand, and a defenseless Harry Potter falls to the forest floor. Finally, Lucius thinks.

Draco knew he was shaking, but Lucius wouldn’t be able to see it, now, carried along by Draco’s Legilimency. At least Draco wasn’t hurting him, with his rage so carefully tucked away. He searched quickly, but the clouds seemed a little more elusive than Boran’s. Maybe because they were older?

“It is not my fault your son did not join me with the rest of the Slytherins, Lucius,” the Dark Lord says lightly. “Maybe he has decided to befriend Harry Potter?”
“No,” Lucius whispers. “Never.”

“I had the most amazing dream, Father! I had a real broom, the new Cleansweep I told you about, and I flew all the way to the moon—” little Draco is waving his hands around in excitement.
“Such flights of fancy are unbefitting a Malfoy heir, Draco,” Lucius interrupts him, scowling. “Besides, no one has ever been to the moon. It is impossible. You would do well to put it out of your mind.”

A fourteen-year-old Harry Potter screams and writhes on the ground under the Dark Lord’s wand. Lucius laughs.

A tiny Draco is wading through the pond alone in the Manor gardens, the legs of his trousers rolled up to his thighs. Lucius watches indifferently from the window in his study.

Finally, fucking finally, Draco saw it, a familiar cloud-like pile of fragmented memories. He latched on quickly. This needed to end now.

“There is nothing more important than the purity of Wizarding blood, Draco,” Lucius says. “Why else would we work so hard to preserve it?”

“Purity above all else,” the Dark Lord says, to the table of loyal Death Eaters. They all nod silently back at him.

“I assure you, she has maintained her purity, she will make an excellent wife…” Narcissa’s father explains to Abraxas Malfoy, who nods in approval.

The cloud swirled around him, disorienting him, morphing into another.

“The muggles are no threat once they are conquered, my friends. I have seen it myself,” a younger Dark Lord says, a cruel smile on his marred face.

“If you have made an enemy, Draco, it is your responsibility to conquer him,” Lucius says, to a petulant, eleven-year-old Draco.

“We will make history, Draco. We will conquer the muggles and come out of hiding, we will take our magic back from the thieving mudbloods, and you will soon have the burden of leadership on your shoulders—at my right hand.”

The clouds retreated, and Draco quickly pulled out of his head, lowering his wand.

Of fucking course. If they’d told Lucius they were going to lock up his voice with a vocal key, there was only one phrase Lucius would have allowed them to use. They’d have let him choose his own shackles, giving him the illusion of freedom and authority.

Purity will always conquer, indeed. If it weren’t for the sickening weight of betrayal and white-hot fury in Draco’s stomach, he might have laughed.

Lucius blinked a couple times, his face still smooth as marble. His hands twitched on his knees as he watched Draco’s shoulders shake, the flimsy French façade slowly crumbling under the onslaught of his reactions. Draco would never admit it, but deep down, he’d been hoping he might find a better memory of his own childhood—a single hint that his father had ever loved him, as he had loved Lucius.

He never learned.

Draco stood from the decrepit chair and turned away, walking to the opposite wall of the cell, scrubbing his unfamiliar face with his hand. His instincts screamed at him for turning his back on an enemy, and he nearly screamed back at them for knowing his own father was the enemy. He had thought that Lucius couldn’t hurt him anymore than he already had. How wrong he’d been—Lucius could always decimate him without even trying, without even being aware of it. It was his specialty.

Hurt boiled with rage in his veins, and his trembling hand gripped his wand as he spun around and aimed it directly at his father.

“Petrificus Totalus,” Draco growled, and Lucius froze. It was almost impossible to tell that the spell had worked, considering how still he was already holding himself. But Draco saw the widening of his eyes, heard the quiet gasp. He marched back to the chair and sat down, staring into the paralyzed, indignant eyes of his father, the same colour as his own. He could feel his skin tingling and bubbling, his frame starting to change. Their hour was nearly up.

“Allons-y,” Draco said grimly, raising his wand, which had dropped its glamour. He took a deep, shaky breath, his Occlumency walls tumbling down in his own head, his gut churning with hatred and hurt. “Legilimens.”

Draco launched his entire self into his father’s head, and nearly screamed as he was engulfed in pure, excruciating, soul-deep pain. He should have known. Nothing about this could possibly be easy.

Draco pushed himself through it, feeling his father’s shock and agony as well as his own, as Draco’s whole, unguarded self, his very soul collided with him, rummaging through his mind. He wasn’t quite intending to hurt Lucius, he didn’t know why this was so bloody painful—for both of them. He watched Lucius feebly try to concentrate on Occlumency through the pain, in weak attempts at pushing Draco out. He found the clouds again as pieces of himself spread out inside Lucius’ mind, and poured everything he could into the ringing call of the Malfoy family maxim.

Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.

The clouds stilled and unlocked, dissipating into the rest of Lucius’ consciousness. Panting through the sensation of fiendfyre in his core, his essence, Draco started to gather himself, pulling all of him back to retreat.

But something was wrong—through the burning haze, the weakened connection to himself, Draco felt himself slowed, an opposing pull. He snarled audibly with the sudden realization that Lucius was fighting him, hurting him in the only way he could: holding him back, a last ditch effort at trapping him. Lucius was somehow grabbing onto the wandering pieces of Draco’s consciousness, refusing to let him leave. Why should he? Lucius had nothing left to lose, he’d been tricked and humiliated, he wanted revenge, even if he had to endure this excruciating fusion to get it.

However, Draco was the one with a wand, this time. And now, he was furious.

So Lucius hurt—as Draco intended.

Draco wanted him to hurt, more than anything. He fully intended to hurt him, now, so Lucius hurt, so much more than he already did, and Draco felt numb, seeing Lucius’ hold on him loosen as he succumbed to the torture. He could nearly hear the screams Lucius’ statuesque body would be releasing, if it could. Lucius’ mind was blurring, vibrating, hazy-red and unstable as Draco forced more magic through his wand. He pushed Lucius harder, all of his intentions now narrowed down to pain and fight and I loved you, once, and now you will hurt as much as you hurt me.

He felt numb as he pulled all of himself away like an unwieldy load of tied scarves. He felt numb as his vision returned to his father’s flushed and sweating face, enduring his torture in a frozen body, with a freshly unlocked mind. He felt numb as he stood from the chair on wobbly knees to see Ron standing by the door of the cell, wand in hand, his freckled face pale with worry. He felt numb as he walked silently away, in his own body once more, clad in too-short robes, out of the corridor, out of the prison, to the rocky cliffline coast of the island.

All he felt was the cold, salty spray on his face as the waves crashed noisily on the rocks below.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring unseeing over the dark, churning waters of the North Sea. He couldn’t see the sun through the thick, grey clouds, he didn’t know what time it was, he wasn’t even entirely sure who he was.

There was something he was supposed to do, a routine he was supposed to complete. He couldn’t concentrate on anything long enough to remember it. It was bothering him. Something was unfinished.

A large, warm hand landed on his shoulder, and he jumped a little, blinking slowly as he turned his head and focused on the myriad of rust-coloured freckles. The hand squeezed him, and he followed it up to Ron’s concerned face. The sea winds were whipping his long, offensively orange hair around his head, and distantly, Draco felt bad for him, because those tangles would hurt to brush out, later. Draco knew that, from experience.

“Draco,” Ron said, furrowing his brows, and Draco felt himself return a little. “Alright?”

Draco didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t, staring blankly back at Ron. Ron sighed heavily, and to Draco’s complete shock, put both his hands on Draco’s shoulders, looking him square in the eye. Draco’s breath hitched faintly, and oh fuck, he could not cry right now, no no no—

“It’s okay, mate,” Ron said. “It’s over. You’ll never have to see him again.”

Draco’s eyes burned with unshed tears, his breath loud and quick as it was forced past the lump in his throat. He tried to compose himself, but it was getting harder, as the rest of him came crashing back, the painful ordeal of the past hour. His father never loved him, his father tried to trap Draco inside his monstrous, smoldering mind with him, and Draco had done exactly what Harry had believed he wouldn’t do: he hurt him, and he relished in it, and he would do it again.

“Ah, shit, mate,” Ron muttered, clicking his tongue, and suddenly Draco was wrapped in brawny Weasley arms, held tight against Ron’s stupidly big body, strands of ginger hair getting caught in his mouth, filling his nose with the scent of sea salt and something floral. Draco didn’t move to return this bizarre embrace, but he was pathetic, and he needed it.

“Harry’s gonna kill me,” Ron mumbled, maybe to himself. Draco took the offered comfort silently, with a subtle lean, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to control his breathing. He was such a fucking disaster, being held together by a sodding Weasley, he would never live this down.

“Let’s get you home, yeah?” Ron said, pulling away, holding onto Draco’s shoulders.

“Grimmauld,” Draco replied without thinking. He knew Harry wasn’t there, at the moment, but he just wanted Harry, wanted to be surrounded by as much of him as he could find. Ron nodded and pulled out the portkey, whispering a spell at it.

He held it out to Draco as it started to glow blue, and Draco grabbed onto it as it sucked them away from that horrible fucking island, throwing them clumsily onto the doorstep of Number Twelve. Draco nearly fell over on the precarious landing; Ron’s hand shot out to keep him upright.

“Sorry,” Ron said, releasing him. “I’m a bit more used to it, I guess.” He looked up at the ominous door of the grim townhouse, frowning at the silver knocker: three black birds, whose heads turned to inspect him.

“I suppose we should have flooed, I don’t think Harry leaves it open for—” Ron stopped talking as Draco raised his hand and touched the door, running his fingers over the chipped, dark paint. They heard the clicking sounds of many mechanisms unlocking inside the door frame, just before the door swung open.

Ron shook his head. “If the house let you in just because you’re a Black, I’m going to be having words with Harry,” he muttered as Draco stepped over the threshold. Draco huffed with a feeble laugh, turning back when Ron didn’t follow him inside.

“I’ve got Unspeakables to catch,” Ron said with a faint grin. “Send a Patronus if you need anything, yeah?”

Draco nodded shortly.

“Get some chocolate, mate,” Ron added. “And thanks for today. I mean it, you were a big help.”

Draco nodded again, his voice stuck somewhere in his throat. Ron turned on the spot and apparated away, and Draco closed the door behind him. As soon as the latch clicked shut, he was thrown into an eerie silence, and he looked up at the creaky stairs, the dark, heavy curtains, the weird troll leg umbrella stand.

Alone.

Was this what Harry felt, every time he came back here?

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath, which felt louder than it should in the empty foyer. He made his way upstairs to Harry’s room as quietly as he could, his body still unstable and shaky.

It looked exactly as it had the last time Draco had been here—clothes strewn haphazardly on the furniture and floor, the bed still unmade, the photographs waving cheerily at him from the bureau.

He started unbuttoning his robes, stripping them from his body, until he was left in only his socks, underwear and undershirt. He padded over to the wardrobe and pulled out a jumper at random: an obnoxious hand-knit thing, scarlet with a gold “H” emblazoned on the front. Very Gryffindor. He chuckled softly at it, surprising himself with his own voice, and slipped it on without hesitation.

He breathed in Harry’s scent from the fabric, letting it warm him up, soothe him. He found a pair of Harry’s joggers on the floor and pulled those on, too. Harry wasn’t here to see it, anyway. Although he was pretty sure Harry liked seeing Draco in his clothes, just as Draco loved seeing the Malfoy ring hanging from Harry’s neck.

Maybe Harry just liked seeing him in peasant couture.

Warm and comfortable in Harry’s clothes, he made his way down the many stairs to the kitchen, determined to find some chocolate, as Ron had suggested. He opened every cupboard and drawer, familiarizing himself with Harry’s kitchen.

Would Harry mind, that he was here without him? Digging around for chocolate to steal, and probably wine?

Draco shrugged to himself. If Harry minded, he’d have to kick Draco out later. This was the only place Draco wanted to be, right now. Draco could always replace the stolen goods.

A drawer opened a few feet away from him, on its own, making Draco jump. When he leaned over to peer into it, he saw it held a massive bar of Honeyduke’s Finest, and a bottle of 1981 Merlot.

He frowned up at the cupboards. Yes, there was something seriously weird and sentient about this house.

“Do you provide Harry with his every whim, too, you ruddy old house?” he muttered, taking the chocolate and wine anyway with a scowl. “Doubt it, you’re only after my pretty, pure blood, aren’t you?”

He turned to place the bar of chocolate on the island and break it up, but paused again at the sight of a bowl of fresh, dark cherries, that definitely was not there a second ago. He glared at it. Those cherries looked really good.

“Give it a rest, will you? I’m perfectly capable,” Draco grumbled. He set the chocolate and wine on the island and leaned on it, holding his face in his hands and sighing. Perfectly capable. What a joke.

He slid his hands up into his hair; familiar, sleek, bright, definitely his own. He stilled as something clicked into place in his mind.

Oh.

He’d forgotten to return to himself, after Legilimency. After his father tried to trap him in his head. No wonder he felt so disconnected. Unfinished.

He straightened up, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath. He twirled a lock of his soft hair around his finger, then slid his hand down his neck, into the collar of the thick jumper, onto the scar Harry had left on him all those years ago. On Draco, and no one else.

Draco. Harry’s hand had followed this same path, last night, with tender admiration. Draco. Down the knitted sleeve to his left forearm, over the Dark Mark beneath the jumper. Draco. His hands fell to his thighs, the shape and feel of them so familiar, under the cotton of Harry’s joggers. Harry’s.

His next breath came a little easier, safe and whole in his own body once more. He opened his eyes slowly, and tsked at the crystal wine glass that had appeared next to the bottle on the counter.

“You couldn’t have been this good to Harry, could you? You just had to be a sodding bigot.”

He poured himself a heavy glass of wine regardless, well aware of his own hypocrisy. He broke off a few large pieces of chocolate and added them to the bowl of cherries, then grabbed the bowl and his wine glass and stomped up the kitchen stairs into the foyer, fuming at this gloomy, meddlesome, blood purist house—

And tripped spectacularly over the troll leg umbrella stand, sending cherries and chocolate and wine flying, glass shattering on the hardwood floor, swearing up a storm as his foot throbbed—

“FILTH! MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD TRAITORS, BEFOULING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS—”

“Merlin’s fucking balls,” Draco growled, hopping on one foot, trying to avoid the broken glass. The dark, heavy curtains had flown open to reveal a life size, much-too-realistic, hideous portrait of a terrifying woman, her face twisted in spitting rage, and Draco understood very quickly why Harry was so bloody quiet in this house. He huffed and took out his wand to clean the mess.

“SCUM AND HALF-BREEDS, MUTANTS AND FREAKS! BY-PRODUCTS OF DIRT AND VILENESS, BEGONE—Draco?”

Draco looked up to find the portrait staring down at him curiously. Fuck. Seriously?

“You’re Narcissa’s boy, aren’t you? Draco? I remember, your hair, just like your father’s, my dear, you were so small the last time I saw you…”

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco groaned, rolling his eyes as she cooed over him. The cherries and chocolate were salvageable, but definitely not the wine. At least it was easy to vanish. He turned to return to the kitchen for the bottle.

“Draco, wait! Don’t leave, my disgraceful son has left ownership of this noble house to a disgusting half-blood—”

“I’m going to need a lot more wine for this, Mrs. Black,” he called back at her. Fuck a glass, he’d drink it straight from the bottle.

***

Harry should have just flooed.

But he always felt he needed a walk in fresh air after a shitty day, and it had been a shitty day. So he’d apparated to Islington, and walked to Grimmauld Place, hoping the cool night air would help clear his head.

It didn’t.

The raid was successful, they’d caught quite a few Unspeakables. They’d ripped off their glamours and identified them and made some alarming discoveries. The investigation was finally moving, justice was in the process of being served.

It was the children that had Harry feeling like this, heavier than lead, twitchy with the urge to just burn it all down, reduce every last Unspeakable to ash.

Children they’d pulled out of cells just like Boran’s, children who flinched at sudden movements and flashes of spellfire, children who cried with relief once they breathed fresh air. Maybe ten of them, between the ages of four and twelve. All huddling around each other, dirty and cold and scared out of their minds.

So small; too small. Children.

Harry’s entire body was sore, covered in dirt and soot and blood from the fights. His clothes smelled like ozone and dust and the metallic tang of Dark Magic, and were ripped in some places. Ron had tried to make him go to St. Mungo’s, but Harry had only wanted to leave, once he’d finally finished his reports. He really wanted to go to Draco’s, but Ron had managed to convince him to go back to Grimmauld. So Harry had slipped away, not bothering to change his appearance in the slightest, determined to just get out of there and go to bed.

His body hurt. Everything hurt, and he’d been slower than usual with his reflexes, today, due to the soreness and stiffness from last night’s incredible sex. He’d been tired, from losing sleep over the incredible sex. So he’d gotten hit more than usual, something he would never tell Draco about.

Of course, it was worth it for the incredible sex, but now he might just cave and drink one of those pain potions that always knocked him out—

He silently swung open the front door of Number Twelve and froze at the sound of Draco’s familiar drawl, chatting loudly with what sounded like a disgruntled older woman. Who the hell…?

He stepped into the foyer to find Draco sitting on the floor in front of Walburga’s portrait, wearing one of Harry’s own Weasley jumpers and a pair of his faded joggers, gesturing wildly with an open bottle of wine.

“I’m telling you, my dear Aunt, I worshipped the man, I wanted to be just like him! Until I realized how fucked up his ideals were—”

“Language, Draco!”

“Oh, fuck it, Walburga, I had to go into that man’s head, today, and I searched high and low, but what do you know? He never loved me, Aunt, his one and only son. Not a single happy memory, not an ounce of fondness in that shithole of his mind. Who lives like that, Walburga? How can you have a child, of your very own, and not love him with everything you have?” Draco slurred his words, and spat a cherry pit into the bowl at his feet with a little clink sound. He took a long swig from the bottle.

“Some things are more important than love, Draco, your father knew it—”

“Harry!” Draco had suddenly realized he was standing there, and looked up at Harry with the happiest smile, his cheeks flushed from drink, his lips purple from wine and cherries. Harry managed to smile back at him, recovering from his shock, terribly endeared. Draco closed his eyes and held his hand over his stomach, tipping his head back and chuckling.

“Butterflies,” Draco giggled. Oh, Merlin.

Harry closed the door behind him and walked over to Draco, smiling down at him and running his fingers through soft, blond hair. Draco hummed, pleased.

“See you’ve met your great aunt,” Harry said.

“Draco, there he is! I told you, this filthy mongrel—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Aunt,” Draco swerved his gaze back to the portrait, swaying a little. “Only I am allowed to call him a filthy mongrel. Don’t you know who this man is?”

“A half-blood impostor—”

“This gorgeous half-blood saved the bloody world, you daft bint,” Draco laughed incredulously at himself. Harry simply stood there and watched, amused. Walburga gasped indignantly, but Draco wasn’t finished.

“You’ve no idea how many houses wish this man lived inside them—” at this, Draco spread out his arms, seeming to address the house at large. “Ha! Inside them, Harry—ha ha—can I be your house, instead, Harry? This one is very ungrateful. You can live inside me, I’ll be an excellent house.” Draco threw his head back and laughed some more at his own joke. The bottle of wine tipped dangerously in his hand.

Harry couldn’t suppress his own giggles. This was too good. What an amazing sight to come home to.

Right—home. Draco was here.

“Draco!” Walburga gasped again, clutching her pearls. Harry had never actually seen someone do that, even in a portrait. “I have never been so disrespected, someone of your status should never be so crude. I don’t care if the mudblood—”

“That’s enough,” Draco growled suddenly, cutting her off. “You insufferable old cow, you’re just like my abhorrent father, no wonder Sirius high-tailed it out of here as soon as he could. I’m sure if my father’s voice was as shrill as yours, I might have done a lot sooner. I wish I had, every day I wish I’d known better than to follow him and kiss the Dark Lord’s nasty feet. Can you imagine, Harry? If I’d just left, like Sirius did, at sixteen…” Draco’s eyes were growing darker, his body sagging further on the floor. ”...Sirius had the Potters, though. He had the Order.”

Harry’s heart ached. He’d never seen Draco look so sad.

“Where could I have gone?” Draco asked, looking up at him, as if Harry knew the answer.

Harry knew Walburga would start shrieking again soon, now that he was here, so he quickly walked over to pull the curtains shut in front of her, cutting off her protests. He turned and knelt on the floor in front of Draco’s long, folded legs, taking Draco’s miserable face in his hands and kissing his wine-stained lips.

He tasted like chocolate and cherries, like a decadent dessert. Home.

“Bad day?” Harry asked, and Draco sighed, setting the almost-empty bottle on the floor and leaning his forehead against Harry’s.

“Bloody awful day.” Draco’s hands slid up Harry’s dirty, uniform-covered chest, and he grimaced, pulling away and inspecting the grime and drying blood on his fingers. “Merlin’s left nut, Harry, looks like you had one, too.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. Drunk Draco was a real treat.

Draco continued frowning at his dirty hands, then began patting Harry’s chest and shoulders, checking for injuries with an adorable wrinkle between his furrowed brows.

“You’re a mess, Potter,” he grumbled, shaking his head in exasperation, as if Harry had done this to himself. Harry chuckled and stood, taking Draco’s hands and slowly pulling him to his feet. Draco still swayed a little, but continued his inspection, checking the spots of dried blood to see if any of it was Harry’s, or still bleeding.

“Come on,” Draco said, pulling Harry toward the stairs. “I know just what to do.”

Harry moved awkwardly, his sore, exhausted muscles not responding as well as they normally would, and he winced as Draco pulled. Draco unfortunately noticed, pausing and frowning again.

“What on earth have you been up to?”

“‘Being a bloody hero or whatever,’” Harry replied, forcing his grimace into a grin. And getting well and thoroughly fucked, by you. Draco tsked faintly at him, stepping in close.

“Sobering charm, please,” Draco said.

“Do I have to? I’m quite entertained.” Harry brought his face closer. “I already feel loads better.”

“I’m afraid I must insist, I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day.”

Harry pouted, but pulled out his wand and swished a powerful sobering charm over Draco. Draco groaned and gripped his stomach as the alcohol was burned from his blood, which Harry knew caused terrible nausea. It forced an entire hangover into a span of ten seconds.

Draco’s face twisted in disgust, his eyes squeezed shut. He straightened up slowly, swallowing hard.

“Right,” Draco croaked, scowling at Harry’s look of pity. “Now, I can fix this.” He started pulling Harry up the stairs again, toward Harry’s bedroom.

“Fix what?”

“You, idiot.”

“I don’t need fixing, Draco,” Harry grumbled through a reluctant grin.

“Perhaps not, but you need something, that’s for sure.” They reached the landing, and Harry was dragged into his own master bathroom. He nearly stumbled over a pile of unfamiliar robes on the floor.

Draco finally released him and walked over to the massive tub that Harry never used, pursing his lips as he traced a line with his finger in the thin layer of dust on the porcelain. He took out his wand and cleaned it quickly.

“This huge, gorgeous bathtub not good enough for our exalted Saviour?” Draco groused. Harry huffed, rolling his eyes.

“Why would I use it? The shower’s right there.”

“Not the point, Harry. You’ve honestly never taken a bath here?” He looked back at Harry, frowning in confusion.

“Again, for what purpose? Haven’t been looking for a swim.”

“The purpose is a bath,” Draco said, his tired face full of incredulity. He turned back to the tub, shaking his head in disbelief, muttering under his breath about “‘for what purpose,’ he says, what am I going to do with you, honestly…”

Harry was forcefully reminded of Timsy. He grinned as Draco turned on the tap.

Draco held his fingers under the stream of water, checking the temperature, nodding to himself. Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking on, as Draco then straightened up and glared at the cupboard by the tub.

“I, Draco bloody Malfoy, of the noble line of Black, need a load of muscle relaxant and aromatic bath potions,” Draco told the cupboard, and Harry snorted, pulling out his wand to give him another sobering charm, since the first one obviously didn’t take—

Draco opened the cupboard and pulled out a handful of small, colourful glass bottles that were definitely not in there before. Harry’s jaw dropped as Draco slammed the cupboard shut, muttering under his breath again, “that’s right, you bigoted old pile, I’m going to use these on a fucking half-blood, and you can’t stop me.”

What the…

Draco dumped each potion into the bath unceremoniously. Small mounds of glistening white bubbles started forming on the water’s surface, filling the room with swirls of lavender-scented steam.

Draco stepped over to him, pulling Harry out of his incredulous daze, and began unbuttoning Harry’s shirt, slender fingers moving carefully over each grimy gold button. Harry looked down and watched his hands work, still stunned.

“Tell me about it,” Draco said quietly.

“About what?”

“Your shitty, very bloody day.” Draco pulled the hem of the shirt out of Harry’s waistband, pushing it off his shoulders. Harry huffed at him.

“Not much to tell.”

“I highly doubt that,” Draco said, the corner of his lip twitching. “Judging by the state of you.” He folded the filthy shirt and placed it on the counter, then knelt down at Harry’s feet to unlace his boots. Harry felt very warm. He cleared his throat softly, feeling a thrilling swoop in his gut, with Draco Malfoy on his knees, looking up at him with wine-stained lips.

“Erm…” he couldn’t find the words. Draco smirked as he removed Harry’s boots and started unbuckling the leather wand holster on Harry’s thigh.

“Come on, then,” Draco said, “I want to know.”

Harry swallowed, looking up at the ornate, hammered tin ceiling tiles instead. He still had trouble concentrating, with Draco’s hands on him like this, stripping him bare. But he let the events of the day replay in his head: the flashes of spellfire, screams of children, bursts of violence.

“Kids,” Harry said, unable to articulate much else. “There were kids, Draco.”

Draco’s hands paused on Harry’s belt. Harry took a deep breath before looking down at him, finding his grey eyes filled with a determined fury, a deep, simmering rage.

“Kids,” Draco repeated coldly. Harry nodded once, his mouth pressed in a grim line. “Any Unspeakables?”

Harry nodded again, closing his eyes. “Caught a load of ‘em,” he mumbled.

“Good,” Draco said. Harry sighed, shaking his head faintly.

“We stripped their glamours,” Harry added, the images coming back to him, their expressions of shock as they looked upon each other’s real faces for the first time. That wasn’t what bothered him about them, though.

“And?” Draco prodded. He pulled Harry’s pants and trousers off his legs and stood, and Harry felt truly bare, vulnerable yet safe, standing naked in front of him.

“They’ve…” Harry huffed, closing his eyes again. “They’ve all got Dark Marks, on their arms. Fuck if I know why.”

He opened his eyes, and saw the blood draining quickly from Draco’s face.

“All of them…?”

Harry nodded, his face pained. Draco’s brows furrowed, his eyes boring into Harry’s as his brain worked, already trying to solve this puzzle. He ran his hands over Harry’s shoulders, perhaps just for the touch. He shook himself, took out his wand and started checking him for injuries again, healing every little scratch, every bruise—except for the ones Draco himself had made.

“If that was Voldemort’s doing, he certainly kept it well-hidden from the rest of the Death Eaters,” Draco muttered.

“I don’t think it was,” Harry said. “He only had a couple Unspeakables as Death Eaters, he wouldn’t want anyone he knew nothing about. The ones he did have, he made them use their real identity—you remember Rookwood.”

Draco hummed in agreement, taking Harry’s hand and leading him to the tub. Harry looked at the glittering bubbles curiously, reminded of his one foray into the prefect’s bathroom in fourth year. That was the last time he’d been in a bath like this, and he certainly hadn’t been in there for the purpose of a bath. Even then, he’d been trying to solve a problem, to figure out how to survive the next task in the TriWizard Tournament.

“Get in, Harry,” Draco ordered as Harry hesitated, and Harry looked up at him warily, his chest warm at the sight of Draco’s soft smile. He didn’t really know why Draco was doing this, but he was too tired to argue. He didn’t mind letting Draco have his way, he’d just never been in a situation like this before, naked and filthy and bruised, letting someone else take over the aftermath. He wasn’t exactly sure how to act.

Draco pushed up the sleeves of the scarlet jumper and sat on a short wooden stool next to the bath, pulling more mysteriously-appearing potions out of the cupboard. Harry stepped into the deep tub, lowering himself gingerly into the hot water.

But once he was in it, he felt his entire body relax, every sore muscle soothed by the heat and potions. He sank deeper, closing his eyes and sighing as tension started leaving his body.

When he finally opened his eyes, he saw Draco’s beautiful face, gazing down at him with poorly concealed smugness.

“‘For what purpose,’ indeed,” Draco muttered, shaking his head. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Alright, I can see the appeal.”

“Of course you can,” Draco smirked. He ran his hand through Harry’s hair; Harry felt a shiver of pleasure run down his spine. “Head back.”

Harry obediently tipped his head back into the water, closing his eyes as his ears were submerged—a still and calming quiet broken only by the gentle scrape of Draco’s nails on his scalp, wetting his hair.

This was absolutely bizarre. He felt so relaxed, but so strange. Small, and safe. He had no idea what to do with himself. He never wanted it to end.

Draco lifted his head back up, and Harry simply sat there in the hot, soothing water and allowed Draco to maneuver him. Draco poured a dollop of sweet-smelling potion into his palm, lathered it between his hands, and raised them towards Harry’s hair. Harry’s eyes widened incredulously.

“Are you washing my hair?”

“Yes, Harry. Sit up,” Draco said quietly. Harry did, and he couldn’t help the soft moan that left his throat when Draco’s fingers started massaging his scalp.

But his eyes were wet, for some reason—he didn’t know what he was feeling. It was just so much. His shoulders were curling inward, his head growing heavy on his neck, something tight squeezing his chest.

“Has anyone ever done this for you, before?” Draco murmured. Harry took a wavering breath, leaning into Draco’s hands.

“No.”

Draco hummed, as if he’d figured something out. He continued massaging the foamy potion into Harry’s scalp, behind his ears and down the nape of his neck, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Why are you…” Harry started, unsure how to finish, unsure of what he was really asking. Why are you washing my hair? Why are you bothering? Why are you insisting on this? Why am I suddenly addicted to it?

Draco huffed a weak laugh, guiding his head back to the water, washing the potion out with careful fingers. Harry couldn’t help but stare up at his flushed face, watching his hair curl ever so slightly from the fragrant steam.

“Why did you wipe me down with a flannel, after I found a boggart?” Draco asked, instead of answering.

Because I wanted to fix it, Harry thought. I wanted to care for you. I wanted to make it better, make you feel safe and loved and adored.

“I didn’t do it expecting anything in return, you know,” Harry said, his voice brittle. “You don’t have to do this.”

Draco’s lips twitched again as he met Harry’s eyes, shaking his head, his fingers still running through Harry’s hair under the warm water. The sleeve of the jumper was falling back down his arm, covering up the faded Mark, accidentally dipping into the wet bubbles. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Not what I meant, Harry.”

Draco’s hands cradled him, caressed him—gentle enough to carry an armful of delicate flowers, strong enough to pin him against a wall and make him stop thinking.

No one had ever cared for him like this.

“You’re accusing me of self-sabotage? After all the bullshit I had to watch in your fucking head—” Draco is seething, and Harry breaks.

“You didn’t grow up knowing you were loved, Harry, because if you had, you wouldn’t have been so freely willing to die!” Ron shouts over the table.

Was this what it would have felt like? If he’d known this feeling, before, would he still have been able to do what needed to be done, and walk calmly to his death?

Harry knew what love felt like, he loved loads of people, both living and dead. He knew, objectively, that some people loved him, too. But no one had ever loved him like this before. No one had ever been so focused on what he wanted or needed. No one had ever thrown him bodily out of the path of spellfire, or stood up to him for the way he lived, as one sacrifice after another, expendable. No one had ever draped him over their chest and covered him with blankets and called him darling, no one had ever held him tight while he slept, or made sure he didn’t have to stand with his back to a door, or washed his hair or called him beautiful. Exquisite. Ambrosial. Magnificent. You’re a bloody marvel, Harry.

No, Death would have to fight him for it, drag him away kicking and screaming. He would never be able to give this up, if this was love. To hell with the greater good.

Harry’s eyes burned and he closed them tight, fighting it back, a painful lump in his throat. He felt so pathetic, dissolving into a puddle over a stupid bath, and he’d already cried in front of Draco last night, after sex, too, Christ, he must have thought Harry such a pitiful mess, fucking embarrassing—

Draco lifted his head gently from the water, sitting him up in the bath. Harry hung his head, letting the water drip down his face, hopefully disguising any tears. The room was silent but for the droplets of water echoing off the marble tile, as Harry tried to control his shaky breaths.

Draco stood from the stool and pulled Harry’s clothes off his own body, discarding them on the countertop by the sink with Harry’s dirty uniform. Harry let himself watch, lifting his head a little. A nude Draco was always a sight worth indulging in: all smooth, creamy skin, lean muscle and long, graceful limbs.

Without a word, Draco stepped into the bath and sat down between Harry’s legs, sighing in satisfaction as he leaned back into Harry’s chest. Harry laughed thickly and sniffled, wrapping his arms around him, breathing him in, smelling the salty North Sea in his hair. He frowned, remembering where Draco had been today. His day had been just as shitty, if not more so, and yet here he was, entirely focused on Harry.

Draco silently slid down until his hair was submerged in the hot, aromatic water, looking up at Harry upside-down. Harry smiled down at him, his heart overflowing and overwhelmed, running his fingers through Draco’s white blond hair under the water. It felt even softer, somehow. It reminded him of the haunting Mermish song in the Black Lake, of the white, misty peace of the King’s Cross Station he’d seen when he died. It splayed and flowed around Draco’s head in the water; liquid, ethereal grace. He looked otherworldly, piercing Harry with warm, silver eyes.

“You look like an angel,” Harry whispered, his eyes still wet with tears, chuckling to himself at his own lovesickness. Draco lifted his head just enough to bring his ears out of the water.

“Come again?”

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, failing to suppress the self-deprecating laughter. Draco rolled his eyes and sat up, grabbing the bottle of hair potion from the stool and handing it to Harry. Harry took it with an amused grin as Draco settled himself between Harry’s legs again, looking back at him over his shoulder expectantly.

“I’ve no idea what I’m doing, Draco,” Harry mumbled, dumping out a glob of it into his palm, filling his nose with a sweet vanilla fragrance.

“Of course you don’t,” Draco said haughtily, “but you’re a tactile learner, and I’m a patient man.”

Harry laughed quietly, raising his hands to Draco’s head, smearing the stuff onto his wet hair. He saw Draco’s cheeks twitch with amusement, but he said nothing, letting Harry gently lather it into his hair with absolutely no finesse, but plenty of enthusiasm. Draco still hummed softly, pleased with Harry’s attempts, though Harry knew it couldn’t possibly feel as good as Draco’s own hands did.

“It’s your turn,” Harry said after a moment.

“For what?”

“To tell me about your shitty day.”

Draco’s shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. He fiddled with his own hands in his lap, under the water.

“I hurt him,” Draco admitted, barely loud enough for Harry to hear. Harry’s fingers didn’t falter, now rubbing gently at the base of Draco’s skull, making him tip his head forward. He waited.

“I didn’t mean to, at first,” Draco finally continued, just loud enough for Harry to hear. “It was… strange. I saw… nothing good, in his head. I’d wondered if I would, but I didn’t—he never loved me, Harry.”

Harry’s heart ached fiercely. He slid his hands down Draco’s neck, onto his shoulders, and back up—Harry’s own neck was usually sore, there, he wondered if it might feel good for him. Draco’s shoulders sagged, his head falling forward more, so Harry took that as a yes. He remained silent, waiting. He knew, from experience, that if he was quiet enough, Draco would fill the silence, and spill out everything he needed to say.

“I didn’t mean to. But when I gave up the Occlumency and launched myself into his head—” Draco shuddered, “—it hurt, Merlin, it hurt terribly. I don’t know why, I’ve never experienced anything like it. And I could feel it was hurting him, too, it was agony, so I shouted the key in his head and tried to retreat, but the arsehole tried to trap me—”

Harry may have accidentally squeezed his shoulders a little too hard, so he forced his body to relax, running his hands soothingly over Draco’s neck and shoulders, which were now covered in slippery, foamy hair potion.

“—then, well, then I did mean to. I hurt him, until he let me go.”

“Good,” Harry said finally.

“What do you mean, ‘good’? I caused him intentional harm—”

“No, you defended yourself the only way you were able to at the time. You fought back. It’s not the same as what you were worried about, Draco.”

“I tortured him, Harry,” Draco retorted. “I relished in his pain. I would do it again.”

“And I’d support you in doing so.”

“I took an oath—”

“It’s not the same, Draco,” Harry interrupted quietly, squeezing his shoulders. “No one expects you to lie back and take it. You know it’s not the same as the oath you swore.”

Draco sagged again, leaning back into Harry’s hands. He slid his body down into the water, submerging his hair, looking at Harry upside-down again. Harry gently scrubbed the potion out of his hair with his fingers.

“I haven’t hurt anyone,” Draco mumbled, “I haven’t caused intentional harm since the War. I wanted to be different from what I was, I wanted to help.”

Harry held his head, lightly rubbing Draco’s temples with his thumbs.

“You succeeded, Draco.” Harry wiped a bit of foam off Draco’s forehead. “You helped. You’ve changed people’s lives for the better. You defended yourself today, and I’m glad you did.” He leaned down and kissed his forehead, before sitting him up, pulling his body flush against Harry’s own.

“Besides,” Harry added, “no one’s allowed to trap you but me.” He locked his arms and legs around Draco and squeezed, and Draco wheezed with choked, surprised laughter as Harry squished the breath out of him.

“Bloody hell, you Neanderthal,” Draco giggled, catching his breath as Harry released him, “you could crush marble with those thighs, Harry, wield them responsibly.”

Harry laughed, giving Draco’s neck a playful bite. His arms remained wrapped around Draco’s chest, and Draco laid his hands on top of Harry’s, sinking back into Harry’s full-body embrace despite his complaints.

They fell into a comfortable quiet, releasing the last of their tension in the hot, soothing water, synchronizing their breaths.

“I still don’t get why it hurt me, though,” Draco mumbled eventually, leaning his head back on Harry’s shoulder. “It didn’t hurt when I healed Boran, and Lucius didn’t have the time or skill to coordinate any sort of attack. Going in without Occlumency is dangerous, but I’ve never heard of it being painful.”

Harry hummed in thought, his lips pressed to Draco’s wet hair. He had a theory, but Draco might not like it very much.

“You didn’t find any… love, in his head? At all?” Harry asked tentatively. Draco sighed.

“Not a whit,” he replied. “It was awful.”

Harry hummed again, squeezing him gently. He’d only known one other person who’d never known love. Who had, in fact, detested it.

“Spit it out, Harry.”

Harry hesitated. Lucius was no Voldemort, but he couldn’t think of another explanation. He also had no idea how to say this gently.

“Erm… Love can be pretty excruciating, for someone who’s never had it,” Harry muttered, “or for someone who… scorns it.”

Draco said nothing, his body still and quiet in Harry’s arms. Harry could almost hear his brain whirring, putting it together, and he pressed his lips to the side of Draco’s head again, waiting.

“‘He could not bear to reside in a body full of the force he detests,’” Draco said finally. “That’s what Dumbledore said, why Voldemort couldn’t possess you. Why he had to use Occlumency against you.”

Harry nodded slowly against Draco’s head.

“It hurt the both of you, terribly, when he tried. When he felt Love secondhand, coming into contact with your soul,” Draco continued, his hands tightening on Harry’s wrists on his chest, his shoulders stiffening. Harry nodded again.

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco breathed, his voice tight, his body tense. “He’s never known love, not even for my mother and I, he scorns the very idea of it, he told me my love was a pathetic weakness in the Department of Mysteries—well, it kind of was, at the time, he did use it against me…”

Harry frowned, wondering why the hell Lucius was discussing love with Draco while practically torturing him. How on earth would Lucius be able to use it against him?

“So his soul is… it’s hopeless, isn’t it? It can’t withstand love, it’s irreparable—” Draco rambled, but Harry interrupted him again.

“Not irreparable,” Harry said.

“How the fuck could someone fix that?”

“Remorse,” Harry answered, hesitating again. “I’ve heard it’s very painful.”

Draco went quiet. Harry wondered if he was remembering that final duel, at the end of the Battle. Harry had offered Voldemort a single chance, that he would never take—

“Try, Tom. Try for remorse.”
“Avada Kedavra!” “Expelliarmus!”

“How did I ever love such a man?” Draco asked in a small voice. “My mother… she loved him with everything she had. I’d wager she still does.”

Harry held him tighter, squeezing him gently with his thighs.

“Love doesn’t require reciprocation,” Harry answered. “You can love someone for a long time, without them ever knowing or feeling it. You can love the dead, too.”

He kissed the corner of Draco’s jaw, as tenderly as he could. He didn’t know how to fix this, or make it better. He couldn’t imagine the grief Draco was experiencing. All he knew how to do was hold him—he felt like he was made for it, curling himself around Draco’s body like a shield, or a blanket, or a home.

Draco took a deep, shaky breath, tipping his head to the side, swallowing hard.

“I know.”

Tuesday, 23 May

“Hhhhhsshhhsasethhhh…”

Draco shot up from the bed, yanked out of peaceful sleep and into war, wand already in hand. He looked around frantically for the source, panicking, ready to fight, whether that was real or a nightmare, he wasn’t taking any chances—

Harry stared at him, shocked and a little guilty, laying casually in the bed, propped up on several pillows. He was holding the Malfoy ring in front of his face.

Draco lowered his wand, closed his eyes and breathed deep, wiping the cold sweat off his forehead.

“What the fuck, Harry?”

“Er, sorry. I didn’t really think that through.”

“No shit. I haven’t heard that sound since—” Draco closed his mouth, focused on his breathing again, his hands still shaking with adrenaline. Behind his eyelids, the Dark Lord was hissing praises at his monstrous pet snake as she feasted on the body of Draco’s Muggle Studies professor. He opened his eyes again. “I forgot that you could do it, too.”

“I forget all the time. It just sounds like English, to me,” Harry said quietly. Hesitant and sheepish, he slowly reached out his hand towards Draco. “I’m sorry, love. Come back to bed.”

Draco’s heart missed a beat. Maybe leftover panic, maybe Harry Potter had just called him love. Maybe he was actually dreaming.

But Harry’s cheeks were flaming, likely from embarrassment, his hand still outstretched and waiting. Draco counted Harry’s fingers easily, splayed against the dark green sheets. Yes, Harry had just called him love. His whole body felt warm.

He rubbed his face again, setting his wand on the nightstand, tentatively approaching the bed. He placed his fingers in Harry’s palm, and Harry held on gently. Draco let himself be pulled back onto the bed, let himself relax into Harry’s side, let Harry’s arm wrap tight around his shoulders.

“You sound a lot different from when you were twelve,” Draco mumbled, draping an arm and leg over him.

“Thank Merlin for that,” Harry chuckled weakly. Draco pinched his side.

“Not what I meant.”

“I know,” Harry said, kissing his hair. He was still rolling the Malfoy ring in his hand. “What does it sound like?”

“It sounds like a big bloody snake, obviously.” Draco frowned a little, turning his head to look at Harry’s face. “What were you even talking to? Is there a snake in here?”

Harry’s lips quirked. “I was just trying something.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

A huff of embarrassed laughter left Harry’s mouth. Draco wanted to kiss him, he looked so contrite. Harry reluctantly held up the ring in his hand, attached to the chain around his neck, gleaming with emeralds. Draco stared at it, at the carved “M” on the face of the signet, twined with two silver serpents.

“You were talking to a ring, Harry?” Draco turned his gaze back to him, unimpressed. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I was talking to them,” Harry said, pointing at the face of the ring. “I wanted to see if they could hear me.”

“Erm… Harry?” Draco laid a hand on his stubbled cheek, giving him a serious look. “It’s a ring. Very inanimate.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Malfoy,” Harry smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief, emeralds of their own. “I had to talk to a faucet to get into the Chamber of Secrets.”

Draco snorted, unable to suppress the laughter. “You know, I believe that. Sounds like something you would do, fucking faucet-whispering.” He laid his head back on Harry’s shoulder, feeling Harry’s quiet laughter under his cheek. “Well, go on then. Wake up the little buggers.”

Harry looked down at him warily. “Are you sure?”

Draco nodded. “I’m very much awake now, and almost completely sure Nagini and her master are dead, so carry on.”

“I can confirm, Nagini is really dead, thanks to Neville, and I took care of her master myself. Very, very dead. And if these little ones wake up, they can’t hurt anyone.”

Draco glanced up at him, tightening his arm around Harry’s waist. Harry grinned, and brought the ring closer to their faces. He stared intently at the carved “M,” his eyebrows furrowing in concentration.

“Hhhhhsshhhsasethhhhashh…”

Draco couldn’t help the shudder, but Harry only held him tighter. He knew he was safe, in Harry’s arms, but his body was taking a while to catch up with this knowledge. He kept his eyes on the ring, waiting for this little experiment to be over—

A twitch, a flicker of green.

“No fucking way,” Draco breathed, his eyes widening as the silver relief came to life, just because Harry told it to, in snake language.

Four tiny two-dimensional eyes opened to reveal miniscule emeralds, as the little carvings slithered their way up the legs of the “M.” Once Harry was quiet, Draco could hear, just barely, faint little hissing sounds coming from the ring itself. Harry giggled. Draco was stunned.

“What—Harry, are they talking back?”

“Yeah, they’re happy to see you.”

Draco laughed incredulously. “Pull the other one.”

“I’m serious,” Harry said, holding the ring closer to hear their little hisses. “They’re happy the ring is being worn again, they’re happy to see a Malfoy—oh, they think I’m a Malfoy.” He chuckled as he hissed at them again, sending a shiver down Draco’s spine. The little serpents hissed something back, and Harry nearly choked with surprised laughter. Draco watched the interaction in disbelief.

“They assumed I’m a Malfoy, since I am ‘nesting in a marriage bed with the heir.’” Harry was blushing again, laughing quietly in conversation with two-dimensional snakes, and Draco’s heart was pounding. Harry kept glancing at him mid-hiss, running his fingers soothingly up Draco’s arm, over his neck, into his hair.

It was one of the most bizarre things Draco had ever experienced, but he should have expected that, being with Harry. His hands still shook faintly with leftover fear, prolonged by the sound that caused it. But he could also hear the tone of Harry’s weird snake-voice, now that he was really listening to it. He could hear Harry’s happiness in it, somehow. It came out of Harry’s mouth through full, grinning lips; Draco could feel the warmth in it, the light-heartedness of it.

Absolutely nothing like Voldemort’s.

“How much time do we have before you have to go to work?” Draco asked, his eyes fixed on Harry’s mouth.

“Oh, I forgot, they’ll want you in today, too, if you’re available. The Unspeakables all have that same lock on their minds. Only if you want to, though.”

Draco blinked, forcing his brain to think of something other than Harry’s lips for a second. “Right. Okay. How much time do we have before we have to go to work?”

“Hour and a half, give or take,” Harry answered, his grin widening, catching on.

“Put your new little friends away, Harry,” Draco said, his hand skating down Harry’s stomach. Harry laughed and hissed at the ring, sending the snakes back to their inanimate state.

“Bossy,” Harry mumbled, smirking, his fingers skimming over Draco’s skin. “And rude, I was in the middle of a conversation, you know.”

“I have other plans for your mouth, I’m afraid.”

“Listen to that, his highness making demands of me, let me just drop everything—”

Harry’s teasing was cut off with a sharp intake of breath as Draco’s hand slid lower, cupping him gently—Merlin, he loved when Harry slept in the nude.

“You were saying?”

Harry let out a breathy laugh. “Is that all it takes to get you going, now? A bit of Parseltongue in the morning?”

“Eurgh, no, don’t you dare, Harry—”

“Hhhssh—”

Another muffled laugh as Draco covered Harry’s mouth with his free hand, climbing on top of him. Draco still couldn’t help giggling at him. “You complete prat.”

Harry’s eyes were crinkled in the corners, his body shaking with laughter. His hands spread over Draco’s thighs, gliding up to his hips, strong and gentle and safe, here.

Draco tilted Harry’s head to the side and leaned down to kiss his neck, reluctantly releasing his mouth to hear the sounds he might make. “So ungrateful. Here I am, trying to do something nice for my early-rising lover—”

“Oh, what a benevolent prince he is, so selfless and generous,” Harry kept teasing, and Draco had never seen him so happy. He felt like he was flying, just goofing off in Harry’s bed, with Harry smiling at him brighter than the sun. He wasn’t even fully hard yet, but with Harry’s hands gripping him like that, rolling his hips faintly underneath him, it was only a matter of seconds. Draco sat up with a theatrical eye roll, grinding his arse down on Harry’s hardening cock.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t bother, after all, if this is the thanks I get,” Draco sighed dramatically, starting to lift himself off. Harry sat up immediately, wrapping a strong arm around his waist, his breath hitting Draco’s smug grin.

“Not a chance,” Harry said, his eyes filled with heat, darting to Draco’s lips. His expression mirrored the mischief in Draco’s face, the hot desire in his blood. The way Harry was holding onto him, his arm locked tight around him, Draco might have been in danger of floating away. It certainly felt possible.

Draco’s fingers came up to run through Harry’s lawless hair. Harry bloody Potter, miracle worker, the only being alive who could turn Draco into a morning person.

“You’re the most ludicrous man I know,” Draco mumbled, still grinning with his victory.

“Know a lot of ludicrous men, do you?”

“And the most insufferable, I should add.” Draco rolled his eyes, and Harry chuckled at him.

“And yet, you let me call you mine,” Harry shot back, brushing his lips over Draco’s jaw. “Merlin knows why.”

Draco hummed, tipping his head to the side, giving Harry access to his neck. “I know why.”

Harry pulled his head back, raising an eyebrow at him. “If you say my cock—”

“Not your cock, you barbarian,” Draco smacked him on the arm, trying to glare—unsuccessfully, thanks to the irrepressible smile, tweaking with stifled giggles. “Your arse, obviously—”

Draco’s teasing ended with a bright peal of laughter as Harry twisted and threw him down onto the bed, climbing over him.

Harry teased and provoked him until Draco rolled them over and took matters into his own hands, sheathing Harry’s cock in his arse, pinning Harry down. He took his time, ignoring their impending responsibilities, riding Harry long and slow, until Harry begged for release—his permanent grin and playful gaze interrupted only for pleasured, desperate moans.

Draco marveled once again at the fact that he was regularly getting morning sex; he’d never been so happy to wake up in his life.

He didn’t know what time it was, and he didn’t care. Harry held him and kissed him long after they’d both come, as if he didn’t care about the time, either, though he was obviously the one on a schedule. It was hard for Draco to think of anything other than the satisfaction in his bones, the tingling, effervescent feeling Harry’s stubble caused in his lips—the way they still moved with each other, while they kissed, an instinctual ebb and flow. Don’t think yet.

After long, languorous minutes, Draco pulled away, grabbed his wand, and flicked an idle tempus charm. Harry groaned, apparently unhappy with the time.

“We’re going to be late,” Harry mumbled, but his soft grin gave him away—it was an excellent reason to be late to work.

“Oh, fuck it, we’ve earned ourselves a bit of a lie-in. It’s not even nine,” Draco groused, climbing off of him and rolling off the bed on wobbly legs. “Come on. We’re stopping by mine, first—I’m not wearing your clothes to the Ministry again—and then we’re going to that pâtisserie you promised me.”

Harry laughed fondly at him as he sat up, his eyes nearly glowing against his face. He caught Draco’s wrist and yanked him back, kissing him softly on the mouth, his fingers lightly touching Draco’s cheek—as if he were something precious, a delicate treasure, cherished. The hand on his wrist moved to intertwine their fingers, and Draco felt himself blush, slightly taken aback.

“Morning sex makes you sentimental, doesn’t it,” Draco mumbled.

“I think it’s just you, actually,” Harry replied, an inch away from his face, his green eyes gleaming with affection and intimacy.

Maybe…

It was possible—Harry might love him, too. Eventually, someday. If he kept Draco around long enough.

Maybe.

He seemed fond of Draco even without the sex, which was new—Draco had never been in a relationship that wasn’t just for sex. He’d never been in a real relationship, before, period. He’d been with men for convenience, always temporary, to scratch an itch. He usually didn’t even bother to learn their names, because they didn’t bother to learn his, either, and he didn’t even want them to. His name was not a part of him anyone wanted.

Men had just wanted him, sometimes, but only the surface of him, only if they didn’t know him. Only for a night or a weekend, only to use him as much as he used them. Only as a beautiful thing to play with and admire for a moment, a rose to smell once and then move on, before encountering any thorns.

Harry wanted him differently. Harry seemed to want all of him, petals and thorns and roots. He wanted Draco and only Draco, exactly how he was, with all the atrocious baggage that came with him. Harry wanted to talk with him, dance with him, care for him, wake up next to him. Kiss him until their lips were numb, make him feel safe. Wanted Draco so badly he would beg to touch him, feel him.

It was new, to Draco. No one had ever wanted him like this, before.

“I want to be around you, all the bloody time.”

Draco’s life of peaceful solitude would never be as comfortable as it used to be—it would, in fact, be painful to try to slip back into it, if he had to. This was so bloody dangerous, and if Harry changed his mind, if this all came crashing down on him, Draco would have no one but himself to blame.

He wondered if Harry even knew how much power he held.

***

Walking into the Ministry with Draco Malfoy, holding identical takeaway coffee cups, was something Harry might not ever get used to.

The stares, he was accustomed to. But the Draco Malfoy of the public eye was something else entirely.

Untouchable.

He seemed taller than usual. Much more distant, just as strikingly beautiful. His Oxfords made an authoritative tap on the marble floor with each confident stride. Harry looked over at him frequently, watching his expression: all coolness and poise, dressed in one of his snugly tailored suits, his face smooth and indifferent. He held his head high, but Harry saw his eyes dart around nervously, saw the flicker of unease on his face as the crowd of people parted before him, moving out of his way.

Like minnows at his feet.

And they were definitely moving for Draco. The folks here saw Harry every day, and Harry mostly swerved and wound his way through the Atrium crowd, trying to avoid notice, trying to get to work. He was well-versed in taking up as little space as possible, staying under the radar.

Draco, however, was noticeable, eye-catching, six feet tall in a luxurious camel-coloured suit, his distinct platinum hair sleek and shiny, with gleaming silver rings on his fingers. He drew the attention of everyone in the room, and Harry knew it had not always been good attention. Hence Draco’s current, well-concealed discomfort.

Was he worried they were deferring to him out of fear, like they had for Lucius? Harry could tell, from the awed, curious expressions on their faces, that was definitely not the case. They’d been staring at Draco like this before the gala, and though it had become more hostile for a brief moment, they’d gone right back to awe, especially after Lee’s article in the Prophet.

Even grumpy Collins at registration was staring, pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, looking disappointed that Draco didn’t need to register his wand today, what with being personally escorted by Harry Potter. That slight frown may have been permanent, though, Harry mused. Collins was always surly. Everyone who worked at that desk was.

Apparently, it never stopped them from staring at a Malfoy. The morning crowd of Ministry workers had no qualms about it, either.

They weren’t afraid of Draco, necessarily, nor were they out to enact revenge on the nearest Death Eater. Their eyes were wide, and they truly stared; they didn’t turn away or hide from him like they had for Lucius in Draco’s memory. They were captivated by him, and Harry could hardly blame them.

They watched because Draco was radiant and intriguing. He exuded power, style and grace. They moved because he was entirely out of their league, and they stared because he was a sight to behold.

And he was Harry’s. Untouchable, to everyone but Harry.

Every now and then, Draco would catch him looking, and the corner of his lip would twitch up, just barely. It made Harry smile every time, ruining his careful discretion.

Draco took a sip of his fancy latte from the… pâtisserie, and his eyes closed briefly, the smallest of satisfied sighs escaping his lips. Harry catalogued every miniscule movement, every tiny peek of the Draco he was used to. This one was fun to watch, but seeing him so rigid and buttoned up only made Harry want to peel away the layers, take him apart, reveal the Draco that danced with him alone, that drooled on the pillow, that befriended wild animals in the forest behind his home. The Draco who was equal parts prickly and sweet, conceited and insecure, protective and vulnerable.

Harry had the wild urge to reach over and take his hand. He didn’t, only because they were now entering the DMLE, and Draco’s face was more closed off than ever—he probably wouldn’t appreciate that, right now.

Harry walked him straight into the Head Auror’s office, closing the door gently behind them.

“Morning,” Ron said, yawning. He frowned at their coffee cups. “What’s this? Where’s mine?”

Harry snorted as they sat in the chairs in front of Ron’s huge desk. “I know you’re already on your third cuppa by now.” He threw Ron the pastry bag, filled with two conciliatory croissants, which Ron caught easily.

“Fourth, Harry, you seen the time?”

“I have.”

“And…?” Ron raised his eyebrow, trying to be firm even though the croissants were obviously fulfilling their purpose, and Harry attempted to hide his grin, turning his head away from Draco to examine the wall. He tried to remember a time he’d actually been late to work—he couldn’t think of one. Draco was clearly a terrible influence.

But they did deserve a bit of a lie-in, didn’t they? Although Harry had done the majority of the laying—

“Head Auror Weasley, I can explain,” Draco cut in, leaning forward in his chair, a serious look on his face. Ron’s other eyebrow rose. “It is completely, one hundred percent Harry’s fault—”

Harry’s hand flew out to smack him, but Draco dodged, his serious expression morphing as he failed to suppress his mischievous laughter. Ron groaned and rolled his eyes, picking up his fourth cuppa from the colourful clay coaster Rose made him and setting the pastry bag down.

“Whatever, you know, don’t make a habit, et cetera, Harry,” Ron flapped his hand, and Harry nodded seriously. Can’t promise that mindblowing morning sex and overpriced lattes won’t become a habit, though—

“Alright, Draco, Kingsley sends his gratitude, and thanks for coming in on short notice,” Ron said, the authority in his Head Auror voice making itself known.

“Anything for our brave law enforcement,” Draco mumbled dryly. Ron pressed his lips together, trying to stifle the amusement Harry could see in his eyes.

“We’ve got sixteen Unspeakables in custody, from yesterday’s raid, and we know there’s more out there,” Ron explained, handing over a heavy file of parchments. Draco took it and started leafing through it carefully, and Harry tried not to get distracted by his elegant fingers, flipping page after page. “They’ve been stripped of their wands and their glamours, but they must be low rank, since their minds are locked up, same as Boran and Lucius—they can’t say a word about the Department, even on Veritaserum.” He sighed heavily. “And yeah, they all have Dark Marks. We’ve no idea why.”

Draco took a deep breath, raising his gaze back to Ron.

“Four, per day. I think that’s the most I can do.”

“Four, Draco? You sure? Seems a lot for one day, I saw how you were after—”

“Four, Ron,” Draco interrupted firmly. “I’ll have them fixed up by the end of the week.”

Harry pressed his lips together, keeping himself quiet, though he was dying to tell Draco hell no, and stay away from them. He couldn’t hold Draco back. He could only stand with him, be there for him, support him. Next to him, not in front of him.

Ron raised his eyebrows again and shrugged, taking another sip of his tea. “Alright, then. We’ll set you up in interview room three, and bring them to you one by one. I’m keeping Bones with you, though,” he said, darting an exasperated look at Harry. Draco nodded.

Harry fought very hard not to argue—he wanted to remain with Draco, today. But he couldn’t be trusted not to overreact with Draco around, and he would definitely sound like a petulant child, if he were to stamp his foot and whinge about it. Not a good look.

“Harry and I will be watching, from the one-way mirror. Bones’ defense skills are first-rate. You’re perfectly safe.” Ron sat back in his chair, crossing his legs, pulling a croissant out of the bag. Draco rolled his eyes.

“I know.”

Once Draco and Susan were settled in the interview room, sat next to each other in the hard wooden chairs at the table, Harry and Ron made their way to the observation room. They brought all of their case files, spreading everything out on the table, pinning things up on the wall—the faces of the children they’d rescued yesterday stared back at them, wide-eyed and afraid.

Harry’s stomach roiled. This was his least favourite part of his job: seeing the worst of humanity, the cruelty and heartlessness people were capable of. It never got any easier. In fact, it was harder, now, watching Draco make polite conversation with Susan through the one-way mirror, knowing Draco would soon be launching himself into the heads of unconscionable criminals, so that they could find more unconscionable criminals.

It probably wasn’t what Draco had planned on using his skills for, when he’d decided to become a Healer. And yet, here he was, because someone had used him to try to get to Harry, and now he was in too deep.

Harry once again felt that hopeless, sinking feeling, the familiar ache of loneliness, the one that smothered him with the knowledge that violence followed him everywhere. That the people he loved would always be caught in the crossfire, no matter how hard he tried to shield them from it.

He was so selfish, for dragging Draco down with him. For barging in and upending Draco’s peaceful, successful life, simply because he wanted to be around him. It was so hard to believe that was what Draco wanted.

“I want to be the one thing you’re selfish for.”

Through the one-way window, Harry watched Draco laugh softly at something Susan said—they both looked a little surprised by it. That hesitant, hopeful smile on Draco’s face triggered one on Harry, as well, making him bite his lip in an attempt to hide it.

The door opened to the interview room, and two Aurors brought in the first Unspeakable, effectively wiping the smiles off of everyone’s faces.

The woman looked to be in her mid-forties, her brown hair greying and limp, hanging down to her shoulders. Her prisoners’ robes were clean, brand new. Her sleeves were rolled up, and the Dark Mark stood out on her forearm, a stark contrast against her pale skin, giving Harry chills—he hadn’t seen one that dark since Voldemort was alive. This one was definitely active, somehow. Her round face remained unbothered and indifferent, her blue eyes cold and unafraid, even with the Aurors’ wands trained on her on all sides.

Ron stepped up to the window next to Harry, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Hello,” Draco said lightly, pulling out his wand. The woman’s eyes followed it, but her expression did not change. “My name is Draco Malfoy, I’m a Healer Legilimens.”

At this, the corner of the woman’s lips lifted in the faintest hint of a smirk. “I know.”

Draco’s eyebrow raised. “Will you tell me your name?”

“I don’t need a name.”

Draco sighed. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what they told you, down there. It just seems rude, for me to barge into your head and fix you up without even knowing your name.”

“I don’t need fixing,” the woman replied.

“A statement that requires the acceptance of a standard,” Draco retorted calmly. “If you do not need fixing, then you accept the self you inhabit. If your identity is irrelevant, so is what happens to you. You know who you are.”

The woman glared at him, and said nothing. Harry felt a tiny glow of pride in his chest. Even the Aurors in the interview room looked impressed, if a bit confused.

Draco raised his wand, aiming it at the woman’s head. Her glare intensified.

“You won’t get in,” she growled. Harry frowned—of course, they were all probably trained in Occlumency.

Draco sighed again. “Yes, I will. Legilimens.”

The woman gasped softly, her eyes widened. Harry realized he had never actually seen Draco perform Legilimency before, from the outside. He looked calm and determined, while the woman looked trapped and indignant. Her face was starting to tense up, a muscle jumping in her cheek. Draco’s brows were drawing down, his grip tightening on his wand.

It was a fight, clearly, one Harry could not see or interfere in, which made him feel sickeningly helpless. Snippets of conversation were coming back to him, of Draco in a hospital room, standing next to Harry’s bed:

“You’re going to have to trust me. The Legilimency will be an utter nightmare without a basic semblance of trust.”

“... or else it will feel like a brawl the whole time.”

It only dawned on Harry then how hard this would be on Draco. They hadn’t just asked him to heal these criminals, they’d asked him to fight them, alone, in a way only he could.

Harry’s fists clenched as he crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to explode. He could even see a flicker of guilt on Ron’s face, his expression tense.

It went on too long. Harry kept glancing at Ron’s watch, watching the minutes pass by, five, then ten. Draco’s shoulders were bunched, his face strained, the fist of his free hand clenched tight on top of the table. There was a flush of exertion on the woman’s face, sweat forming on her brow, occasional shaky grunts of frustration forcing themselves through clenched teeth.

Finally, finally, Draco’s wand lowered, and the woman sagged heavily in her chair as he stood and left the room. She looked exhausted, defeated.

In the next second, Draco burst into the observation room, breathing hard, his wand still held carefully at his side.

“I need Hermione,” he said simply, before pausing, furrowing his brows. “And my mother, and Andromeda. Anyone who knows anything about philosophy or ancient texts, muggle or magical.”

Ron blinked a few times before remembering he was supposed to answer. “Right. Okay. I’ll get Hermione.”

“I’ll go to Narcissa and Andy,” Harry chimed in. Draco nodded at them both gratefully.

“We’ll set them up in the conference room,” Ron added.

“Ron, tell Hermione to bring the laptop,” Harry muttered. Ron nodded once and left the room.

“The what?” Draco wrinkled his nose. Harry couldn’t help but grin at him.

“You’ll see.”

Harry squeezed his hand as he walked past, giving him a small smile, following Ron en route to the floos.

He grinned again to himself as he reached the Atrium and wove his way through the crowd, just another face, knowing his theory was correct: they moved for Draco, not Harry. Harry as he was right now, anyway. He threw down some powder into the nearest grate and stepped in.

“Malfoy Manor.”

After being sucked through the nauseating floo network, he stumbled clumsily out of a hearth into a now familiar reception room, where he was greeted by an unimpressed house elf wearing a floral print sundress. He straightened himself up, attempting to dust himself off.

“Hello, Bitsy,” he greeted politely. This was the same elf who’d greeted him the last time he was here, getting a bottle of wine for a date with the Malfoy heir.

Bitsy remained impassive. “Greetings, Harry Potter. Bitsy is informing the mistress of your arrival.” She snapped her fingers, effectively clearing the soot from his uniform, and apparated out of the room.

Harry took a deep breath, backing up to the fireplace and looking around. It looked a little brighter than he remembered, but no less extravagant: all lush velvet and gold gilt, huge magical paintings adorning the walls, depicting places he’d rather be than here. It was… exhausting.

“Auror Potter,” Narcissa said suddenly from the doorway, startling him. “This is a surprise.”

“Harry,” he corrected, and her lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile. He was becoming more and more familiar with these minute Malfoy mannerisms. “If you still insist on me calling you Narcissa.”

Her shoulders relaxed, just a little. She nodded as she stepped further into the room. “What can I do for you, Harry?”

“Draco’s requested your help, on a case he’s working for the DMLE,” Harry explained. “Several cases, actually. He’s asked for you and Andromeda.”

Narcissa lifted her chin a little higher, with what Harry could only assume was pride.

“It must be similar to the previous case, then,” she mused. “Philosophy?”

Harry nodded, a little confused. How did she know?

“Andromeda is here, visiting in the conservatory,” Narcissa said. “I’ll gather some literature, and we can all reconvene here.” She paused, likely noticing the slight grimace on his face at the thought of wandering the Manor alone. “Bitsy will take you.”

Bitsy reappeared, gesturing for Harry to follow. He did, gratefully. It was too easy to get lost in this elaborate, comfortless building. Narcissa left in the opposite direction, presumably to gather her books.

As he was led through labyrinthine corridors, he tried to imagine Draco growing up in this place—tiny Draco, with impeccable posture and expensive robes. It didn’t seem like the kind of home fit for a child… but it was also clearly a treasure trove of secrets and corners to explore. Whom had he interacted with, besides his parents, tutors, and house elves? Did he have any secret hiding spots, favourite portraits to talk to?

He could ask Draco, himself, later. He loved hearing about the fun parts of Draco’s childhood.

Bitsy pushed open the doors to the conservatory, and Harry couldn’t help but gape: the domed glass room was massive, a vibrant, tropical paradise in an otherwise oppressive fortress of stone. He could definitely see why Draco had added one to his own home, though his was a fraction of the size. His certainly didn’t have a bloody fountain, or full-size citrus trees, and were those birds fluttering about? Was that a fucking fairy—

“Harry!” Andy’s voice pulled him back, and he looked down to see her rising from her chair at a small, ornate tea table, a wide, surprised grin on her face. “What are you doing here?”

Blinking himself out of his shock, he made his way to her, taking her offered embrace and kissing her on the cheek.

“Hullo, Andy,” he said, smiling at her affectionate, bemused expression. “Draco’s asked for your help on a case. You and your sister.”

“Oh, how exciting,” she replied with a proud smile, and Harry’s grin fell. “Not exciting?”

“He’s healing… criminals,” Harry muttered. Andy’s eyebrows raised.

“And they’re all like the one before?”

“I don’t know what the one before was like,” Harry admitted.

“It was a phrase, that we had to figure out through three word clues. He told us the three words, and Cissy connected it to a quote from a Chinese philosopher.”

“Do you know a lot of philosophy, then?” Harry asked, leading her out of the fantastical conservatory, following Bitsy back to the reception room.

“I’ve dabbled,” Andy replied with a smirk. “When you grow up like I did, Harry, other people’s ideas of morality and existence become very fascinating. Cissy and I used to sit around for hours, comparing thoughts and texts—in secret, of course—before I was disowned.”

Harry stared at her incredulously—what a formidable woman. She was always surprising him. Simply because he was filled with fondness, and because he wanted her to know it, he held out his arm for her to take.

She did, with a surprised chuckle, letting him walk her down the cold stone corridors behind Bitsy.

“Spending time with Draco is turning you into quite the gentleman, Harry,” she teased.

“Was I not a gentleman before?”

“No. You were a boorish Gryffindor ruffian.”

Harry laughed. “Now you just sound like Draco,” he said, taking a deep breath as his laughter faded, diverting his eyes from the nosy, haughty portraits of generations of Malfoys on the walls. It felt like Bitsy was taking them on a longer route this time.

“Who would have thought we’d be here?” Andy mused quietly. Harry put his hand on top of hers, feeling that warm, comforting sensation he was starting to recognize as family.

“I’m glad we are,” he replied.

***

If Harry thought entering the Ministry with Draco was weird, entering it with a Black sister on each arm was fucking bizarre.

It seemed to be a silent understanding among the three of them that Harry would offer his arm to Narcissa, instead, leaving Andromeda free to walk beside him. Narcissa was the one with a difficult reputation to carry, but no one would bother her on the Chosen One’s arm.

Narcissa took it gratefully, giving him a miniscule, private smile, the same way Draco did in public. He remembered, then, that this was Draco’s mother, and he was responsible for seeing her safely to the DMLE, and she rarely went out in public anymore, if ever. She must have been quite nervous.

Although, she didn’t look it: she stood straight and proud, her face smoothing out into a familiar aristocratic aloofness. He reminded himself that this was the woman who’d lived with Voldemort as a houseguest for nearly two years, who’d lied to Voldemort’s face to get back to her son.

It was likely that not much could scare her, after that—except her son being in mortal peril, again.

He still had to make a good impression, though. This was Draco’s mother, after all. So he straightened up, pushed his shoulders back a little, embodied his own authority. With a few subtle changes, he became the war hero.

Harry wasn’t exactly sure what it was he did, but he could stand a certain way, a little taller, walk a certain way, a little smoother. He could stare intensely at the air straight ahead of him, unseeing of the people around him, and suddenly people moved, gawked, deferred. They kept their respectful distance, collectively maintaining a circle of reverential space around him, clearing his path.

Like minnows at his feet.

Ron called it “putting on his Saviour pants.” Because Ron was a git. Harry didn’t like this sort of attention, but he had his boyfriend’s mother to protect. And maybe impress, a little.

Boyfriend, right? Sounds so adolescent…

Andy raised her eyebrow at him as they passed the fountain, brown eyes twinkling with amusement. She knew him too well, by now, and could see straight through him. But they made it to the lifts in record time, though they turned every head in the room, so she kept quiet.

Until the grille closed behind them, isolating the three of them in an empty lift, and then she burst into laughter. Harry couldn’t help joining in, though he tried to stifle it, for appearance’s sake.

“What on earth…?” Narcissa watched them, eyes wide in shock and bemusement, as the lift descended.

“First time?” Harry mumbled at a giggling Andromeda, trying to control himself.

“Oh, Merlin,” Andy breathed, “I thought Ron was exaggerating, but you actually did it, you put on your Saviour pants—”

“Andy!” Narcissa chided, though she was suppressing her own laughter.

“Yeah, Andy,” Harry added to her gentle scolding.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that in real life, Harry,” Andy continued, wiping a tear from her eye. “You must be very special, Cissy, if this brute is putting on his Saviour pants for you.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s only for special occasions.”

“Neither of you are making any sense,” Narcissa chastised softly, shaking her head. The grille opened once more to Level Two, and they exited the lift.

Purely for the entertainment of the Black sisters, he put on the Saviour again, suppressing his grin at hearing Andy’s stifled laughter next to him, maintaining that surly, dark-wizard-slayer, don’t-fuck-with-me expression. The corners of Narcissa’s lips ticked upwards slightly, the apathetic pureblood façade cracking, making her cheeks turn pink. She lifted a dainty hand to her lips, as if she were clearing her throat, to hide the inevitable amusement.

Harry’s coworkers stared at him in a way they hadn’t in years, in awe and trepidation. They swerved out of his way, clutching their parchments and scrolls, heads whipping around in double takes.

The three of them turned into the Auror offices to see Draco in hushed conversation with Ron. He looked up as they approached, his eyes landing first on Harry, then his mother, then Narcissa’s hand on Harry’s arm, back up to Harry. Draco blushed all the way up to his ears, his grey eyes widening in surprise, his voice trailing off mid-sentence.

Harry realized, then, that Draco had never actually seen Harry and Narcissa interact, before. Harry had told him he was friendly with his mother, that he trusted her and even checked up on her after the ordeal with Lucius, but Draco had never actually seen it.

Harry tried to imagine it through his eyes. It was hard, because he had never known what having a mother was like. But if he did have a mother, whom he loved dearly, seeing his significant other being respectful and protective of her would probably make his heart burst.

Probably. Obviously, he would never actually know.

“You’ll catch flies, dearest,” Narcissa murmured, and Draco’s jaw clicked shut, finally tearing his gaze away from Harry.

“Mother,” Draco greeted, clearing his throat. “Aunt. Thank you for coming.” He took Narcissa’s hand in his and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and did the same to his aunt. To everyone’s surprise, Harry got one as well, making it his turn to blush. Ron snickered at him.

Andromeda stepped up to give Ron a hug, and Harry heard her mutter “Saviour pants” before Ron chuckled again, giving her shoulders a squeeze, “I told you, didn’t I?”

They set the two women up in the conference room, where Hermione was already pulling her laptop out of a fingerpainted canvas tote bag. Narcissa eyed it warily, unshrinking the many books she’d brought as she exchanged polite greetings. Andy looked excited.

“Oh, good, I love this thing,” Andy breathed, stepping up next to Hermione and gazing at the glowing screen in awe. “How'd you get it to work underground, with all this magic around, Hermione?”

Hermione excitedly explained her very complicated process of connecting to nearby WiFi using fabricated magical pathways, that Harry had never fully understood. Draco was writing random words on the chalkboard, occasionally looking back at Hermione, incredulous and impressed.

“I’ve got three, so far,” Draco said loudly, drawing them back to the task at hand. He circled three groups of words on the board. “I’ve got one more to get through, and then I need to go back in and heal them once we’ve figured out the keys.”

Now that Harry really let himself look, he could see the sweat at Draco’s hairline, darkening his bright hair into a softer blond. His eyes looked exhausted and shadowed, grim and fatigued from the mental wrestling they were making him do. Harry’s mind raced, running through any and all possible ways to fix it, make it better.

He had to try something. He was the reason Draco was in this position in the first place. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and hoped that this would work:

“Timsy,” he called under his breath, the chances were slim, Timsy was not beholden to him at all—

Timsy popped into the conference room, eyeing him with huge, annoyed eyes, his long, curved nose twitching, probably at the audacity of Harry calling for him and making him bust through the Ministry wards. Harry grinned with his success and knelt down in front of him.

“Hello, Timsy.”

Draco stared on, his jaw hanging open in shock again. Timsy’s gaze raked over him, assessing his current state.

“Harry Potter is not summoning Timsy for his own whims,” the elf muttered grumpily, turning his face back to Harry. Harry knew that actually meant Harry Potter had better not be summoning Timsy for his own whims, or else there will be hell to pay. Harry smiled, shaking his head.

“Draco’s working too hard, as usual,” Harry said, ignoring Draco’s scoff behind him. “He could really use one of those delicious mochas you make.”

Timsy grimaced, and Harry knew that if he wasn’t so high-class, he would be groaning in exasperation. He could practically hear the grumbling already, Harry Potter is ruining Timsy’s perfect coffee, Timsy is working so hard for its complex flavours…

“But I have been craving your coffee all day, Timsy, in its perfect, original state. I had to settle for one from a French bakery this morning, and I was so unsatisfied. I would love one of your coffees, if you’re willing, I would be forever grateful.”

Timsy’s nose twitched again, and he narrowed his eyes at Harry, eyeing him suspiciously for a moment before giving a quiet grunt and apparating out of the room.

“Arse-kisser,” Draco muttered under his breath, shaking his head and turning back to the board. Harry snorted. The rest of the room slowly recovered from their shock and amusement, returning to their work.

Timsy popped back in barely ten seconds later with a mocha and a full coffee service with biscuits, to the delight of the entire room. They oohed and aahed and gave Timsy all the praise he deserved, until the elf finally flapped his hands dismissively at them and left.

Harry handed Draco his mocha, which he took with a knowing smirk, brushing Harry’s fingers with his. Draco opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it, and closed it again.

“What is it?” Harry prodded.

Draco huffed a little, hesitating. “Come over, tonight?”

Harry grinned so widely he thought his face might fall off. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Draco gave a short, quiet laugh, blushing again. He cleared his throat, and returned his attention to the board.

“‘Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet,’” Narcissa spoke up, pouring herself a coffee. Draco looked to the first circle: patience, sweet. He clicked his tongue.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Mother,” he said wryly, writing the quote under the circle.

“Come on, Draco,” Andy rolled her eyes, sipping her own coffee. Harry moved to grab some for himself before it was gone. “Aristotle, that’s an easy one.”

“‘It's possible, you can never know, that the universe exists only for me.’” Hermione looked up from her laptop, shaking her head in disapproval. Draco moved to the next circle: possible, know, universe. “Bill Gates.”

“Who?” Andy wrinkled her nose.

“American Muggle businessman. He’s pretty much responsible for the Internet,” Hermione answered.

“The what?” Draco and Narcissa frowned simultaneously. Harry tried not to laugh, taking a sip of his coffee and sighing in satisfaction. Hermione turned the screen towards Narcissa and began the long-winded explanation of the Internet. Draco listened in for a moment, before looking up at Harry with another incredulous expression.

“I want one of those,” he mumbled, and this time, Harry did laugh.

“Go get the next one, Draco, we’ll keep at it,” Hermione said, and Draco nodded, his face turning grim once more.

Harry followed him out, their elbows brushing as they made their way back to the interview room. He grabbed Draco's wrist, just before he reached the door. Draco looked at him expectantly.

Harry hesitated. He wasn’t good at this stuff.

“I’m impressed by you, you know,” he said quietly. Draco’s face lit up, though he clearly tried to hide it. He squeezed Harry’s hand once.

“Of course you are.”

Harry chuckled fondly at him, shaking his head. Draco released his hand and pushed open the door, disappearing into the interview room, where Susan waited patiently, raising her eyebrow at Harry just before the door clicked shut.

***

Friday, 26 May

Harry was feeling petty when he arrived at Azkaban.

He was forbidden to cause Lucius harm, by Ron and Draco and the Auror Code of Conduct, which was fine. He didn’t need to hurt Lucius. He just needed to question him, run him around in circles until something slipped.

And if Harry royally pissed him off in the process? Well, that was just part of the game, right? There were so many ways to get answers out of someone. Some happened to be much more satisfying than others.

The high security corridor felt as cold and damp as ever, even with the late May sun shining outside. He could already feel the fortress’ inherent despair sinking into his bones. He hated being here, he hated that Draco had had to come back here to deal with this monster.

Draco, who had been working nonstop for days, would be finishing the last of the captured Unspeakables today, as promised. They were so close to getting answers, to finding the rest of them, to being done with this shit. Draco was completely exhausted, and a fresh wave of guilt rolled over Harry every time he saw the shadows under his eyes, the graveness of his expression after every session.

Harry had stayed with him every night, laying with him on the sofa while they listened to music, making sure he ate enough, falling asleep curled around his warm body in Draco’s massive bed. But Draco was clearly overworked and crashing, and there was only so much Harry could do. Some things, he didn’t know how to fix.

And it was his fault Draco was in this mess, in the first place. Top notch boyfriend material.

“Good afternoon, Lucius,” Harry said lightly, pulling out the rickety folding chair and plopping himself down in front of the cell.

“Back again, Potter.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t missed me.”

“I have no time to miss you, when you refuse to leave me alone. I do hope Draco is not jealous, he never did like sharing his toys.” Lucius sat as stiff and straight as he usually did, in his typical seat on the cot, his hands poised on his knees, eyeing Harry fiercely beneath the Malfoy mask.

Harry smirked. He was up for the challenge, and Lucius rarely met it.

“I can assure you, your son is quite satisfied, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry shot back, thoroughly enjoying the flicker of disgust on Lucius’ face. “Though I am jealous that you got to spend quality time with him recently. I hear we had very different experiences of his Legilimency.”

Lucius glared, and said nothing, his hands squeezing his own knees. Harry huffed.

“Well, I’m not here for pleasure, Lucius,” Harry said, leaning forward in the chair. “It’s time for you to talk.”

Lucius raised a pale eyebrow. “And what makes you think I will talk, Potter?”

“The simple fact that you want to.”

“You seem quite sure of yourself.”

“I am,” Harry replied. “You’re furious.”

“Am I?” Lucius raised the other eyebrow.

“Of course you are,” Harry said. “You’ve been taken advantage of, lied to, played, and humiliated. You placed your faith and trust in an organization that would not give the same to you.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes. His jaw tensed. Harry sighed.

“I’m quite familiar with the feeling, Lucius. For someone as proud as you, I imagine it must be twice as agonizing. I’m impressed that you’re not throwing fists at the stone, right now.”

“I would never throw fists, Potter,” Lucius grumbled.

“No, you’re right, that’s much too muggle for you. Not much else you can do in there, though, without a wand. How the hell are you staying sane?” Harry clasped his hands in front of him, leaning his elbows on his knees, watching the man intently.

Lucius went quiet again, his murderous glare the only indication that he was listening. But his shoulders were tense, a muscle was jumping in his cheek. Any second now. Harry was almost disappointed; this wasn’t going to take nearly as long as he’d thought. Lucius was apparently on edge, today.

“Merlin, to be promised freedom and power like that, to have it so close, only to have it snatched out of your hands as they abandoned you to the mercy of the Aurors. And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, you were tricked, humiliated, and tortured by your own son—”

Lucius stood abruptly, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “I have more knowledge than you could ever dream of having, Potter,” he snarled, his voice rising. “I have everything I need, I could ruin you without ever leaving this cell. I know exactly what it is they want, and I know that you have no idea what you are up against. You could not possibly comprehend the scope of their aims with your vapid, worthless mind.”

Here we go.

“You’re right, I probably won’t comprehend it. Immortality is not something I ever wanted to comprehend.”

Lucius faltered, his eyes widening, proving Harry’s hunch correct.

“They’ve stolen the Elder Wand, did you know that?” Harry shook his head slowly, leaning back in the chair. “I doubt it, they didn’t deem you important enough for that detail. More than that, they knew you would try to take it for yourself, if you knew. But stealing a Deathly Hallow’s a bit of a dead giveaway, pun intended. Especially that one—people only seek it for one reason, the Unbeatable Wand.”

“It will not work for them,” Lucius frowned.

“No, it won’t. It will only work for the person who disarms or otherwise conquers me.”

“It is a children’s story.”

“It sure is,” Harry agreed. “And yet, they spend all of their energy and resources on it. You never wondered why they wanted information on me so badly?”

“I wanted information on you, Potter. They wanted information on the mythical Master of Death.”

At this, Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “One and the same, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, please,” Lucius scoffed, shockingly informal, excellent. “That cloak of yours was no Hallow, and the Resurrection Stone is a myth. It is a fable.”

“How hard are you working to convince yourself of this?”

“You are no god, Potter, as I have tried to tell them, you are but an insolent boy, you are a pain in the arse, you are only alive thanks to a stroke of luck, a defective wand—”

“All true things. They didn’t listen to you, did they?” Harry crossed his arms over his chest, looking up at the indignant, incredulous expression he could now see clearly on Lucius’ face.

“No.” Lucius’ shoulders fell slowly as he tried to control himself again. “They were quite attached to their fantasies.” He sat back down on his cot, watching Harry like a cat.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand why someone would want to live forever,” Harry mumbled, disguising his interrogation as intellectual discussion. “Sounds exhausting. Nicholas Flamel made it to what, seven hundred something? Wasn’t he tired?”

“The Philosopher’s Stone never intrigued them,” Lucius said absently, turning his gaze to the stone wall of the cell. “The Life was too reliant on an outside source. Horcruxes disgusted them.”

Harry winced slightly at the word, and Lucius unfortunately caught it, his steely eyes flashing as he sensed a weakness.

“Yes, Horcruxes did not work for the Dark Lord, either, since you were stubborn enough to find and destroy them all. Again, too precarious, and they did not want to weaken the soul.”

He went quiet again, watching Harry’s face for any change in expression. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“So they want the Hallows,” Harry summarized, ignoring his subtle prodding. “A few problems with that, though: only one person can be the Master of all three Hallows, the Cloak has been in my family for centuries, and I left the Stone where no one will find it.”

Lucius’ eyes widened.

“Fascinating,” Lucius said. “I would not be so sure, however, that they will not find the Stone—if it does exist. They are quite determined, with endless resources at their disposal.”

“Including you, you mean,” Harry added. “A valued addition to their ‘endless resources.’”

“They did not need me for the quest, Potter.”

“Not only for their ‘quest.’ They needed you for the Dark Mark, too.”

Lucius pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Giving himself away again. Perhaps, even realizing that he had nothing left to lose.

“Theirs is modified,” Lucius muttered.

“I’d assumed so, since Draco hasn’t complained of a single burn in his, and we haven’t received reports about any Death Eaters panicking in their cells.” Harry paused. “What does it do?”

Lucius stayed quiet for a moment, thinking, debating with himself.

“It allows them to find and call upon their Master, and vice versa.”

“Just like yours, then,” Harry mumbled, his mind racing. A Master? They had a leader?

Lucius shook his head faintly. “Stronger.”

Harry hummed, furrowing his brows, thinking hard. “You said it allows them to find their Master. Does the Master need to summon them, first?”

Lucius shook his head again, giving Harry an odd look. Harry’s eyes darted to the faded, inactive Mark on Lucius’ arm.

“So, theoretically, anyone with a Dark Mark could call this Master, and be able to apparate directly to them, as long as they held a wand?”

Lucius refused to answer, his face carefully blank, which was answer enough in itself.

“That’s not going to happen,” Harry sighed. Lucius relaxed, apparently no longer worried they would use him.

There was no way in hell he was giving Lucius a wand. And Draco could help with the case, but Harry had to draw the line somewhere. That line was apparating to an unknown location to face a criminal mastermind.

“Not a fucking chance,” Harry grumbled.

Lucius said nothing, as expected.

“Why kids, Lucius?” Harry asked, moving on.

“Youth,” Lucius answered simply, without any hesitation. Harry tried not to growl.

“They were studying youth, trying to preserve it,” Harry gathered, scrubbing his face with his hand. He suddenly felt exhausted.

“They thought themselves noble,” Lucius muttered. “Discovering the secrets of Life, to be distributed among Wizardkind, preserving our race.”

“Perhaps, but you know better,” Harry replied, the faces of those children filling his head, morphing into Teddy’s, into his own. He felt his blood heating with familiar righteous anger. “You have no illusions about the greater good, do you?”

Lucius smirked. “Good and evil are illusions in themselves,” he said silkily. “‘There is only power, and those too weak to seek it.’”

Harry stared at him incredulously, that sounded way too familiar—

“Did you just quote Voldemort at me?”

Lucius’ smirk widened into a cruel, smug grin. It reminded Harry too much of a young Draco, the Draco that taunted and sneered at him, and now Harry really wanted to hit him.

“How you can still be so obsessed with that monster, I’ll never know, Lucius,” Harry growled, rising from his chair. “He wasn’t even human, by the end, his soul torn to worthless bits. He had never known Love in his entire life, not once, and apparently you’re headed that way, too, you felt how much Love hurt you—”

“Love is a weakness, effortlessly manipulated,” Lucius cut him off, still grinning like he was winning something, watching Harry’s temper rise.

“Love is what makes Draco a better man than you could ever be. Love is the only reason I’m alive.”

“Love was the reason you were nearly killed, and Draco’s soul nearly destroyed.”

Harry froze, his blood boiling. He stared in shock at Lucius’ arrogant face, split by a triumphant smirk.

“What did you just say?”

“Has he not told you, yet?” Lucius leaned back a little, comfortable now that he finally had the upper hand. “Prudent of him, I suppose. After all, it was easily used against him.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Lucius,” Harry snarled. “What did you do to him?”

“I thoroughly enjoyed forcing the truth from his mouth,” Lucius drawled, as if Harry hadn’t said a word. “My predominant competition, my one obstacle, spilling his worst secrets under my wand. He told me all about how you nobly ensured his well-being, whoring yourself as a political instrument,” Lucius stood from his cot, moving closer to the bars, now that Harry was ensnared and shaking with distress. “He told me he loved you.”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

“You didn’t fight back,” Draco says feebly.

“And just like that, his destruction fell right into my hands,” Lucius continued, a malicious glee in his eyes, watching the effects he was having on Harry. “It was so easy, Potter.”

“You’d have let me kill you.”

“Two birds with one stone, as the muggles say,” Lucius purred. “Make him kill the man he loves, because that insufferable man is too noble to fight him, anymore. The Saviour would be no more, and Draco would become simply a shell of a man, a threat to no one, powerless and empty. Quicker and easier than a Dementor’s Kiss.”

“I would not have survived it, knowing it was by my hand.”

Harry could slowly feel the blood returning to his limbs, fury replacing shock.

“It was quite surprising, considering Draco spent every moment of his adolescence complaining about how much he hated you,” Lucius went on, hitting everywhere it would hurt. “He could not stand the very sight of you. He told me once that all he had to do to cast a proper Cruciatus was imagine the sound of your voice.”

Don’t listen. Harry couldn’t tune it out. He’s just riling you up. He felt the words like brands on the inside of his skull, searing into his thoughts.

“I imagine your silence must have been quite the redeeming quality, to turn such loathing around so quickly. At long last, a nonviolent Harry Potter, who could keep his brat mouth shut. How long did it take, once you were healed, for your true, destructive nature to return?”

Harry had never seen a crueler smile, even on Voldemort. His heart was sinking so fast it made him dizzy, the words hitting him like shards of glass. He could barely breathe.

“Draco must have loved the reprieve, while it lasted, enough to attempt this.” Lucius waved his hand vaguely at Harry’s body, a sneer on his lips. “I would not know, I have never experienced the peace of the Saviour’s silence—until now, that is, and I admit I am enjoying it much more than your usual mindless prattling.”

There. Something clicked, kickstarted in Harry’s brain. Latched on, because something was off, that wasn’t right, and Lucius had just admitted that—

“You didn’t curse me,” Harry mumbled, sensation returning to numb lips. Lucius’ smile fell suddenly. “You would have experienced my silence, in the pub, if you did. You’d have relished in it, like they did. That wasn’t you. You just took credit for it, doing what Voldemort never could, finally laying Harry Potter low… since the real caster didn’t have a face or a name to claim it.”

A spark of intention and willpower, a flick of Harry’s wrist, and Lucius’ knees buckled, sending the man to the floor with a harsh grunt of pain. Sorry, Ron.

Harry reached into his own collar and pulled out the silver chain, laying the Malfoy ring against his chest. Serpents and emeralds gleamed in the dim torchlights of the corridor, the hint of sun from the sliver of a window. Lucius looked up at him, teeth clenched in pain, and his face reddened with rage at the sight of it.

“You still lost, Lucius.” Harry’s magic crackled around him, swirling violently with his anger, finally unfrozen. “Thanks for the chat.”

***

Harry hardly spoke for the rest of the day. Thankfully, Draco had been too tired to notice.

That, or Harry’s silence was nothing new.

Draco had fallen asleep almost immediately when they’d returned home that evening—fuck, home—warm and peaceful on Harry’s chest, his slow, even breaths the only audible sound in his bedroom. Harry’s fingers continued to comb through his sleek hair as he slept. He really was obsessed with Draco’s hair.

A single candle flickered on the nightstand, next to his glasses and wand, throwing patterns of soft light and shadow over Draco’s serene face. Harry couldn’t help but watch, kept wide awake by his racing thoughts.

His stomach twisted with guilt and fear, worry and sadness, and what he knew was love—it felt like an irrefutable fact, when he admitted it to himself, something he should have always known. Of course he loved Draco, of course the breaths moving in and out of his lungs kept him alive. He’d never needed to be aware of it before. He had no idea what to do about any of it.

No matter how hard he tried to clear his mind, Lucius’ poisonous words wouldn’t leave his head, infecting his every thought.

“It was fun, forcing the truth from his mouth… he told me he loved you.”

“And just like that, his destruction fell right into my hands.”

This was so bloody dangerous. Though Harry basked in the warm, deep happiness in his chest at the thought of Draco loving him, it was too easily overwritten by the fear of losing him, of knowing how Love had been used against him. Love had been used against Harry, as well, too many times. It was the source of his strength, and it was also the source of his deepest pain. He hated the thought of causing Draco that much pain.

But was it actually love Draco felt for Harry?

“Draco spent every moment of his adolescence complaining about how much he hated you…”

“...all he had to do to cast a proper Cruciatus was imagine the sound of your voice.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, pulling Draco tighter against him, inhaling his clean scent, just let me have this. Draco snored a little, unconsciously tightening his arm around Harry’s waist.

“...your silence must have been quite the redeeming quality…”

“At long last, a nonviolent Harry Potter…”

“How long did it take, after you were healed, for your true, destructive nature to return?”

Harry wandlessly doused the candle, and breathed in the smoke, retreating into the hush.

Saturday, 27 May

Draco pretended to be asleep, only because he didn’t ever want to move.

He didn’t know how late it was, but judging by the brightness of the sun through his massive, poorly-placed bedroom windows, it was close to late morning, and the fact that Harry was still in bed with him was astonishing.

Harry wasn’t asleep, either. Draco could tell, because occasionally he’d take a deeper breath, adjust his hand on Draco’s waist, stretch his legs or wiggle his feet. His head rested on Draco’s chest, blowing warm air across his skin. Harry’s arm must have been numb, the way he was laying on it. Draco knew he’d be getting restless; he’d never known Harry to sleep in this late.

And still, neither of them moved.

Draco had awoken with his nose in Harry’s hair, his arm draped over Harry’s back, and he tried to keep his hand still, when all it wanted to do was touch, but it was a losing battle. His fingers skimmed up Harry’s spine, drawing a deep sigh from Harry’s lips.

Harry had been unnervingly quiet yesterday, and Draco could already feel that it was bleeding over into today, as well. He let Harry have his silence, Harry had said he’d missed it, sometimes—

“It was nice, it was just… I don’t know. Existing.”

Draco figured he would talk when he was ready, but the quiet made him a little uneasy, because Harry didn’t look like he was simply existing. It didn’t feel like the quiet of their midday breaks between Legilimency sessions, when Harry would sit with him or fly with him, listening or making Draco laugh, the quiet of elbows brushing in the forest. It didn’t feel like an unburdened silence.

He knew his father was to blame. Harry had gone to Azkaban, and had returned quiet, but with the Malfoy ring dangling outside of his shirt, for all the world to see. He’d looked angry, and troubled; Draco could see it even through his own exhaustion. He’d watched Harry for far too long, he was too familiar with his nonverbal expressions.

Draco’s nails scraped lightly up his back, and Harry practically melted. Draco grinned, kissing the top of his head. Harry sighed contentedly as Draco scratched his back again, giving Harry yet another sweet indulgence. He loved being the one to give Harry this, these little luxuries, like back scratches and baths and cold lemon water.

He wondered how many more he could find, little things he didn’t think twice about, that Harry might never have thought about at all.

After a long, lazy moment, Harry turned his head, propping his chin on Draco’s chest. Draco tried not to let too much concern show on his face—Harry looked utterly exhausted. His green eyes were dull, shadowed over dark smudges. Had he slept at all?

Draco’s hand came up to his hair, combing through the sleep-tangled curls. It was getting long, it’d probably reach his shoulders in a couple of weeks.

“Nightmares?” Draco asked, holding up one finger of his free hand, “or insomnia?” two fingers.

Harry closed his eyes, his face looked so pained, Draco was going to murder his father—

“You’re invited to Sunday lunch, tomorrow, at the Burrow,” Harry said, ignoring his question. “Would you like to go?”

He opened his eyes again, and Draco searched them frantically, trying to figure out what the fuck he was thinking, maybe he could do just a little Legilimency like this—

“Draco?” Harry prodded, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

Draco brushed his curls back from his forehead, studying his face. “Do you want me to go, Harry?”

Harry hesitated, but eventually his lips curled into a tiny, reluctant grin. He nodded once.

“Then of course, I’ll go,” Draco said. “But I’m holding you responsible if the lions tear me limb from limb, you know.”

Harry huffed, a spark of life returning to his eyes with a weak laugh.

“Pansy’s invited, too,” Harry added quietly. Draco’s eyes widened.

“What the…?”

“Rose wants her and Camila there,” Harry answered, as if that explained everything.

“I’m sure that’s what they want you to think, Harry, but the real reason she’s invited is because the recipe for Slytherin Stew requires at least two bodies,” Draco said gravely, delighted when it made Harry laugh a little again. “It’s an old pureblood recipe, you wouldn’t have heard of it—”

Harry reached up and kissed him, gentle but direct, intense, like every fiber of his being was focused on this one kiss. Like it was the only one he might get, like it could be taken away from him at any second, and he had to make it count.

Draco’s gut twisted with worry.

“I have to get back to Grimmauld,” Harry mumbled, reluctantly pulling away, his eyes still closed. “I’ve got some work to do.”

Draco somehow managed not to whinge that he wasn’t getting any morning sex, mostly because it looked like sex was the last thing on Harry’s mind.

He had no idea what was wrong, nor how to fix it. He took Harry’s hand from his waist, pulling it up to his lips and kissing his fingers.

“Alright, darling.”

He heard a faint intake of breath, and looked up to find Harry trying to conceal another pained expression with a fragile grin, his cheeks a little pink. He was such an open book, so painfully honest; he couldn’t hide like Draco could, and yet Draco felt clueless, useless, like he’d missed an entire chapter.

Was that what Harry was doing, with his self-imposed silence? Hiding?

“I’ll pick you up ‘round one tomorrow, with the girls,” Harry said tightly, turning away and rolling off the bed. He dressed in silence, avoiding Draco’s eyes. He stopped by Draco’s side of the bed to give him one last kiss, before walking out the door.

Draco stared at the ceiling until he heard the whoosh of the floo. And then he stared at it some more, brainstorming slow, painful methods of patricide.

***

Sunday, 28 May

“You promise Rose is in there?” Camila’s quiet voice sounded from between Draco and Pansy, where she was holding both of their hands. She was looking up at the tall, lopsided Burrow with awe and a not insignificant amount of fear, as Draco knew he himself was.

The garden was untended and overgrown, covered in wildflowers, very similar to Draco’s. It was a small comfort, a familiar sight before his impending demise.

“Promise,” Harry replied from Draco’s other side, just as muted. “Would you like me to bring you to her?”

Camila looked up at Harry through half a curtain of straight, dark hair, her gaze moving slowly up and down, appraising him. Draco stifled a laugh.

She finally gave a short nod, letting go of Draco and Pansy and taking Harry’s hand, probably thinking that Harry Potter himself, the sodding Saviour, Auror extraordinaire, would never let anything bad happen to her—which was, of course, very true. And if he didn’t fulfill his duty, she would tell her mother, who would destroy him.

Harry smiled at the girl, leading her to the door, and Draco’s heart swelled.

“It was nice knowing you, Draco,” Pansy muttered as they followed close behind.

“You as well, my dear. My only comfort is knowing we’ll be together in the afterlife.”

Harry snorted faintly in front of them.

“I’ll admit being drawn and quartered wasn’t how I wanted to go, but it is a bit more romantic, isn’t it?” Pansy took Draco’s arm, sighing dramatically. He patted her hand.

“I tried to warn him about the Slytherin Stew, but he didn’t believe me,” Draco mumbled.

“So naïve, of course he wouldn’t, that’s an ancient pureblood recipe, passed on through generations…”

Harry shook his head as he pushed open the door to a house full of noise.

Draco heard a loud chorus of “Harry!”s and “oh, you must be Camila, hello!”s and even a “the Slytherins have arrived, thank Merlin, the stew needs three more legs” followed by a “George!”

Draco took a deep, fortifying breath, ignoring Pansy’s muttering of “my last day on earth, and I have to spend it with Weasleys, this is all your fault, Draco,” and stepped through the door.

He’d seen quite a few wizarding homes in his life, but he’d never seen one like this.

Everything about this place screamed magic. Magic, and family. The walls were crammed with photographs and children’s artworks and knickknacks and what looked like random muggle objects: a rubber duck, a telephone with a dangling curly cord, a cover of Time magazine with a man and a laptop.

And this house was full. There were gingers everywhere. There was barely room to move; they’d entered right into the kitchen, and Molly Weasley was abandoning her many self-stirring pots and pans and hurrying over to them with a wide, warm smile, dusting off her hands on her apron. Harry gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as she cooed over him and Camila, and then made his escape with a murmur about Rose, because Camila was clinging to his leg, completely overwhelmed. Molly pointed him in Rose’s direction, and he walked off with a wide-eyed Camila in tow.

Leaving Draco and Pansy alone, in the lion’s den. Shit.

Molly approached them with that same smile, dusting off her hands again.

“Draco,” she said tentatively, as if she were testing out the name, “look at you, you’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you.”

At the fucking Battle of Hogwarts…?

“Mrs. Weasley,” he tried, forcing a smile, remembering his manners. He stuck out his hand. “You have a lovely home. Thank you for the invitation.”

Her lips quirked as she took his hand and shook it gently. “Thank you, dear, we’re so glad you could come. Harry’s been very excited for us to meet you, properly.”

Draco controlled the surprise on his face, clearing his throat. She seemed so warm, so welcoming, even though she was clearly a little unsure about them. It was hard to believe this was the same woman who’d killed Bellatrix Lestrange in a fierce duel.

But he knew it was, because he’d seen it himself.

He motioned to the frozen woman attached to his arm.

“Pansy Parkinson, a dear friend of mine,” he said lightly, which snapped her out of her fearful daze. She released his arm and straightened up to her full height, which wasn’t much, but it felt like much, the way she could command the space around her. It was always fun watching Pansy turn into a pureblood queen.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Weasley,” she said coolly, with a charming smile. She held out a dainty hand, which Mrs. Weasley took quickly. “I’m honoured to be invited.”

“Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Weasley chuckled, blushing a little, “you’re both so polite!”

The Weasley Draco recognized as George stepped up eagerly, stealing Pansy’s hand and shaking it with a wicked grin.

“George Weasley, as I’m sure you already know, so pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Parkinson, just chuffed, really, come in, come in,” George started pulling her further into the kitchen, and she followed, reluctantly amused. Draco heard him say something about the stew needing an arm, flavour’s not quite right, to which Pansy nodded apathetically and offered one of the bodies she’d been secretly storing in the Weasleys’ shed.

George threw his head back and laughed uproariously, turning every head in the room. The Weasleys stared at this cackling George like he was a miracle, and even Pansy couldn’t suppress her amused, accomplished grin. Draco felt terribly proud, and already shown up.

Thankfully, Harry chose that moment to return to him. Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out a shrunken case of butterbeer.

“Oh, what’s this?” Mrs. Weasley asked, eyeing the miniature bottles curiously. Harry stepped up next to him.

“Butterbeer, for the hosts,” Draco answered politely. He’d agonized for hours over what to bring, because he couldn’t show up empty-handed, but it felt strange to bring wine to lunch, and if he did bring wine it would be good wine, very expensive, which would just feel like a boast in this sort of setting, but bringing liquor was out of the question, bringing butterbeer was utterly plebeian—but the most appropriate offering, for this very specific situation.

“Harry, do you mind…?” Draco motioned to the tiny case in his hand. Harry’s lips twitched, his eyes amused as he looked up at Draco.

“You can’t unshrink it yourself?” he practically whispered, still so strangely quiet.

Draco’s eyes widened, shaking his head gently, because fuck no, I’m not pulling my wand in a house full of war heroes who aren’t sure if I’m a threat or not.

“I’d rather not.”

Harry obliged him. Draco took a few steps away and set the full-sized, chilled butterbeers on the table.

“Good thinking,” a deep voice sounded behind him, and he turned to find himself staring directly into hard blue eyes in a threatening, scarred face.

Scars that Draco knew were his own bloody fault. Fuck.

Why the hell am I here?

Draco made sure both of his hands were visible. Bill looked dangerous, he looked like he was having the same thoughts as Draco: why are you here? His hands were hidden in his pockets, probably holding his wand, unafraid and standing awfully close, sizing Draco up.

Draco didn’t know what to say, so he waited, forcing himself to meet his eyes, to not squirm under the intimidating inspection.

Even through the twist of guilt and anxiety, he couldn’t help but admire this particular Weasley. He’d never actually seen Bill up close, and he was… cooler than Draco had thought he’d be. He wore his long, red hair in a ponytail, he had an earring of a fang dangling from one ear. He looked like something out of one of Draco’s novels: his dark waistcoat left open, the collar of his plum shirt unbuttoned, providing a glimpse of numerous amulets and necklaces. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms, and was that a tattoo?

He looked like a character from a fairytale, a typical dashing rogue with a wand like a whip, the curse breaker. Draco would have secretly played make-believe as someone like Bill, as a child, pretending he was a pirate or a tomb raider or a hitwizard, someone dangerous and cool.

“Bill Weasley,” Bill finally muttered, and Draco blinked, looking down to find a hand waiting for him, the wrist covered in more runic tattoos and amulets on leather bands. Draco cleared his throat and shook the man’s hand.

“Draco Malfoy,” he replied. Bill smirked; the movement pulled at one of his scars.

“Oh, I know.”

Draco tried to smile.

Fleur Delacour stepped up next to her husband, eyeing Draco in the exact same way, amused and wary and appraising.

“I can see why you thought so, Harry,” she said loudly, making no sense at all. Harry turned his head from his conversation with Mrs. Weasley, his eyes widening as he took in the three of them.

“Fleur,” he said, like a warning. Fleur grinned at him.

“Relax, Harry. It is nice to see you, Draco.”

Draco felt like he was missing something. “And you as well.” He had no idea what to call her. Had she changed her name? It’d be insulting to call her Mrs. Weasley if she hadn’t, and ignorant to call her Mrs. Delacour if she had, and they’d never properly spoken before—

Ron emerged from somewhere in the house, clad in a white t-shirt and muggle jeans. He grinned when he saw Draco.

“Thought I smelled fear,” he said, clapping Draco on the shoulder. Draco rolled his eyes. “Alright? Fleur’s not cursing you in French or anything? Parkinson’s still alive, looks like,” he nodded at Pansy, who gave him a dismissive wave, returning to her George-Weasley-banter at the hob.

“Je peux parfaitement le maudire en anglais,” Fleur muttered. I can curse him perfectly well in English. Bill snorted.

“Je n’en doute pas,” Draco muttered back. I don’t doubt it. Bill and Fleur both chuckled at him, the fragile, hostile tension cracking a little.

Harry came to his rescue, taking his hand and pulling him away into the next room. Draco breathed a sigh of relief.

Harry smiled at him, silent once again, leading him through the cozy, colourful, chaotic house. Draco didn’t know where they were going, but he was grateful for the reprieve.

He was pulled through an inviting sitting room, out another door into the garden, where four children were playing, supervised by Ginny Weasley, who was holding a blonde infant.

“Draco!” Rose and Teddy both abandoned their game and charged him, and he laughed with glee as he released Harry and knelt down to receive their giggling hugs. Both children started chattering excitedly at the same time. Draco couldn’t follow a word of it, and he loved it, loved these wonderful children who weren’t afraid of him or threatened by him or disgusted by him. Who were so happy to see him.

Camila and another child, a blonde girl about Teddy’s age whom Draco assumed came from Fleur, looked on in shock and amusement. As did the youngest Weasley sibling, holding the infant.

“Bloody bizarre,” Ginny breathed, shaking her head.

“Ginny!” Harry chided, motioning to the children.

“What are you, my mother?” Ginny laughed, standing and approaching them. Draco reluctantly stood as well, bracing himself for another threatening assessment. The children returned to their raucous tumbling.

“Weasley,” he greeted hesitantly. Ginny snorted, bouncing the baby on her hip. Her fiery hair was shorn close to her head—it looked good, accentuating a sharp jaw and toned shoulders. She looked like a bloody athlete, and Draco felt like his whole life was a lie, now that he was accepting the fact that Weasleys were unfortunately good-looking.

“You can’t call me Weasley here, Malfoy, there’s too fucking many.”

Harry tsked at her, taking the baby, as if she couldn’t be trusted with one with that kind of language. Draco could feel himself blushing, seeing Harry holding a baby in the corner of his eye, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He kept his gaze on Ginny, and failed to suppress a smirk.

“Alright,” Draco said, his voice low. “Ginevra.”

Ginny’s face twisted in disgust. “Eurgh, nevermind, call me Weasley. Please.”

Draco gave her a genuine smile, because somehow that felt like a victory. Ginny’s eyes widened.

“Merlin,” she breathed, and Draco raised his eyebrows, confused. She turned to Harry with an incredulous expression. Harry looked smug. “I didn’t know he could look like that.”

“Like what?” Draco frowned, was there something on his face…?

“I don’t know. Friendly. Charming,” she answered, examining him again. Draco rolled his eyes, his tension and nerves snapping.

“Well, I didn’t know you could look like a hot jock, but here we are,” he muttered, then screamed internally because what the fuck just came out of your mouth, Draco—

Harry cackled, quickly stifling it when he scared the baby. Draco’s chest glowed with Harry’s sudden happiness, the sound of his irrepressible laughter breaking his quiet. Ginny’s jaw dropped, her cheeks turning pink.

“Did he just…?” She turned to Harry again, who was still shaking with laughter, his face red from suppressing it for the baby. “It sounded like an insult, but I’m pretty sure it was a compliment,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. Draco’s lips twitched.

“It was. Congratulations on last week’s win, by the way.”

“Bloody hell, another compliment?”

“Collect them while you can, I have a very limited supply.”

Ginny laughed, and Draco took another victory.

“Wait a minute,” Ginny said, laughter fading. “If you’re here, and Camila is here, that means Pansy fucking Parkinson is here.”

“She is,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow. Ginny’s smile turned devilish. She turned back to Harry and lowered her voice, as if Draco wouldn’t hear her that way.

“Do you think she’ll duel me? I’ve always wanted to take on that mean, posh, pureblood princess—”

“Weasley, I really wouldn’t—”

“Anytime,” Pansy said from behind them, and Draco laughed, because of course she would make an entrance like that. Classic. Ginny’s eyes flashed with malicious excitement as she looked past Draco to see her leaning against the doorway, in her tight jeans and black silk blouse, cool as anything. Draco was so damn fond, Pansy was the coolest person he knew. And she would crush Ginny Weasley in a duel, hot jock or not.

“Teddy!” Andromeda’s voice called from around the corner, and she appeared with a dish towel over her shoulder, how many fucking people can fit in this house? “Oh! Draco! I’d heard you were here,” she said, smiling as she reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Draco embraced her, uncharacteristically, simply because he was that grateful for a familiar face and her unequivocal kindness.

“Teddy, come wash up, it’s time to eat,” she called as she pulled away, and Draco sighed, knowing he’d have to return to the room full of suspicious Weasleys. At least the children would also be there.

He felt movement around his leg and looked down to see the unknown blonde child standing there, looking up at him dubiously, expectantly. He smiled and knelt down to face her.

“You’re Teddy’s cousin?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And that girl’s godfather?”

“Camila, yes,” he replied, amused. The girl hummed, narrowing her eyes at him, still unsure.

“My name is Draco,” he said quietly, holding out his hand. “What’s yours?”

“Victoire,” she said confidently, shaking his hand with conviction. He smiled brightly at her, connecting her age to her name. Victory.

“Tu parles français aussi, comme ta mère?” You also speak French, like your mother?

Victoire grinned, enjoying the shared secret of speaking what the other adults couldn’t understand.

“Quelquefois.” Sometimes.

“Come on, then, you lordly little francophonies,” Ginny groaned, herding them all inside. “We have a lunch to devour, and I have a long-awaited duel to schedule,” she said, smirking at Pansy, who smirked right back.

This is so fucking weird.

***

Draco learned very quickly that meals at the Burrow were loud, rowdy, entertaining, and every man for himself.

He served himself as he was told, but Mrs. Weasley clucked at him and piled more food on his plate anyway, telling him he needed it, that he was much too thin, that he clearly wasn’t eating enough. He had a feeling she’d be doing that regardless of his size, and it made him feel warm inside.

Arthur Weasley had arrived at some point, shaking Draco’s hand with mistrustful, narrowed eyes, as expected. He was currently immersed in a conversation about mobile phones with Pansy, but Draco could feel the frequent side-eye.

Ron and George laughed and played jokes on Ginny. Hermione looked exasperated every time Ron spoke with food in his mouth, but conversed excitedly with Victoire over books they’d read. Bill fed the baby in a wooden high chair—Dominique, Draco learned—while Fleur and Andromeda gave Teddy metamorphmagus prompts, laughing with Camila and Rose when he could make a pig’s nose, or make his blue hair braid itself.

It was… lovely, and homely, when Draco ignored how completely overwhelmed he was. He’d never sat a meal like this in his entire life. He wondered if this was what meals were like at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

Harry remained quiet, speaking when spoken to, laughing when it was expected of him, apparently lost in his own thoughts. Draco really hoped he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He had a feeling Harry wouldn’t even tell him if he was.

But he missed Harry’s easy banter, his loud laughter. Draco resolved to try to make him laugh more today.

Draco’s gaze kept returning to an odd clock on the wall, with nine hands made of spoons. Each spoon carried the name of a Weasley, and instead of numbers, they pointed to places or statuses. Most of the spoons were currently pointing to “Home”—even Fred’s. But two of them pointed to “Work”: Charlie and Percy.

He felt bad that he was grateful to not have to encounter every Weasley, today, there were already so many. And he wasn’t particularly eager to talk to Percy, he’d loved riling up Prefect Percy in school, he was so easy to antagonize. He racked his overstimulated brain, trying to remember what the other Weasley did, he’d thought it was something cool—

Charlie’s spoon suddenly turned from “Work” to “Traveling”, and Draco lowered his fork, staring at it in disbelief as it moved closer and closer to “Home”, are you fucking kidding me—

Draco caught a glimpse of a blue glow outside, and the door to the kitchen burst open, inciting more cheerful, boisterous noise as yet another Weasley entered, greeting his family excitedly, taking his mother’s offered embrace. Draco’s jaw dropped, and he could feel Harry’s amused eyes on him, chuckling softly as he watched Draco take in the sight that was Charlie Weasley, oh, right, the bloody dragon keeper.

Charlie was built like Harry, about Harry’s height, his strong arms covered in freckles and tattoos and old burns, his thighs straining his threadbare jeans. His long, red hair fell around his face in waves, and he rolled his light blue eyes at his mother, who was telling him to cut it, that it looked a mess. Which it did, but it looked a very intentional mess, it looked a mess because this burly, bubbly ginger was a bloody dragon keeper.

His clothes looked like they didn’t fit, like they wouldn’t last very long anyway, shabby and fraying because he was a dragon keeper and of course he couldn’t invest in proper clothes if he played with fire for a living. He was close to having a proper beard, thick auburn hair accentuating his cheekbone and jaw, but Draco thought even that was a risk when a bloody dragon could singe his hair off at any time.

Draco shot Harry a look of wild disbelief, which Harry laughed softly at, squeezing his thigh.

“I know,” Harry whispered, sending him a wink that made Draco’s stomach flutter, his green eyes full of fond amusement. Draco wanted to kiss him.

Instead, he placed his hand on top of Harry’s on his thigh, and turned back to observe the interactions of the merry, strapping, fucking dragon keeper Weasley.

Charlie was feebly fighting off his mother’s clucking, and Draco could tell by the endurance of the coddling that Charlie was very rarely home. Why did he have to be home now, of all days?

Charlie’s gaze raked over the entire table, greeting everyone over his mother’s head, until he finally landed on a stunned Draco. His eyes widened, piercing him with a bright blue stare, fuck, why is he so bloody intense?

“Whoa,” Charlie breathed, gaping at him as if he were a brand new broom in a shop window. He turned to his siblings, who were giggling mischievously at him. “I thought you were having me on!”

Sweet Merlin, why is this happening. Draco’s face was beet red. Harry kept snickering at him, and Draco wanted to pinch him, though he was still so happy to hear him laughing, even at his own expense.

Charlie escaped his mother and rounded the table, offering his hand to Draco. He had a charming, lopsided grin on his face, he was even more intense up close, probably because he was an honest-to-Merlin, real life dragon keeper, and Draco was speechless and flustered and annoyed. He shook the man’s hand anyway.

“Charlie Weasley, a pleasure, Draco, really,” Charlie said, relieving Draco of the obligation of speech. “I’ve heard a lot about you, though I guess I didn’t believe any of it until just now. Listen, mate, I gotta know, are you a bloody Veela?”

Draco’s eyebrows raised, staring silently at the beautiful man in disbelief, as the entire table burst into raucous, exuberant laughter, making his ears ring. What. The. Fuck.

“Charlie!” Mrs. Weasley scolded him, but her lips were twitching with poorly suppressed giggles. George was howling, nearly falling out of his chair, even Bill was doubled over. Ginny was cackling loudly with Fleur, and Andromeda had her face turned away from Draco, her shoulders shaking with laughter. Pansy was wiping a tear from her eye. Charlie released Draco’s hand, raising his own appeasingly, but he didn’t look away.

“It’s a reasonable question, innit?! I mean, look at him!”

“Is this really happening, right now?” Draco mumbled, turning to Harry, who, inexplicably, had his face hidden in his hands, his ears bright red under his chaotic hair. “Did he really just ask me if I’m a Veela?”

“Well, it was a very direct question, Draco, go on,” Pansy said, still laughing hysterically at the other end of the table. Ron was banging his fist on the wood, trying not to spray a mouthful of butterbeer. Hermione was trying and failing to stifle her laughter with her hand over her mouth. Harry slowly lifted his head, but kept one hand covering his face, as if that would hide his flaming blush.

“Erm…” Draco turned back to Charlie, clearing his throat awkwardly. “No, I am not a Veela.”

“Not even part-Veela?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Well…” fuck. Do we have to do this? “I can never be sure about the accuracy of my recorded genealogy.”

“Oh. Right, yeah. The purebloodiness of it all,” Charlie said, waggling his scarred fingers at the made up word. Draco nodded hesitantly. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised, mate, if you were, and I would kindly ask you to quit using whatever allure you’ve got on me—”

“Charlie…” Harry groaned in exasperation, and Charlie laughed, and Draco was stunned yet again, because was this Weasley flirting with him right now?

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Charlie teased, ruffling Harry’s hair. “I know who he belongs to, clearly, if he’s here.” He squeezed Harry’s shoulders with broad hands, leaning down and murmuring “good fuckin’ catch, mate,” in Harry’s ear, barely loud enough for Draco to hear. Harry chuckled and swatted him away, his face still rosy with embarrassment.

What in Merlin’s name…

Charlie took a seat among his tittering siblings. Draco had no idea how they’d managed to fit another chair in here. He leaned in close to Harry.

“Did George slip me a hallucinogenic, or did that actually happen?”

Harry snorted, and Draco still felt warm with accomplishment, even through his endless confusion. He slid his foot over to Harry’s, squeezing his thigh under the table.

***

“Draco, I have a proposition,” Rose announced, bouncing up to Draco and standing in front of him. He was sat next to a quiet Harry on the end of the massive, cozy sofa, his stomach much too full from Mrs. Weasley’s forced third helpings, cradling a cup of tea. The sun outside was slipping into late afternoon gold, beaming through the open windows.

Harry suppressed a giggle next to him. Draco raised his eyebrows. “Pray tell, dear Rose.”

“I want you to be my uncle,” she declared. The room burst into muted, repressed laughter around them. Draco’s lips twitched, despite himself.

What a wonderful child. She had no idea who she was trying to adopt.

“Why is everyone laughing?” she asked, looking a little hurt. Draco cleared his throat softly. Ah, shit.

“Because it’s very surprising that you’d want someone like me to be your uncle, Rose,” he explained.

“Why?” Rose frowned. “Camila says you’re a cool uncle.”

Because I almost killed your father, once. Because I tormented him and the people he loved for years. Because I relished in their pain. Because I was his enemy, in a War. Because never, in the history of the world, has a Weasley ever wanted a Malfoy as a part of their family. The list went on and on.

“Because I used to be a very mean person,” is what Draco decided to say instead. Rose’s eyes widened in indignation.

“You’re not mean!”

“Not to you,” Ginny muttered under her breath. Pansy snorted.

“Not anymore, I hope,” Draco said, keeping his attention on the girl.

“But you gave me slippers!” she shot back, appalled.

“That means I’m rich, Rose, not that I’m kind. Don’t assume that everyone who buys you things is kind. Though I am so glad they make you happy.”

“See? You’re kind!” Rose waved a little freckled hand towards Draco in emphasis. Draco had apparently proven her point, though he didn’t know how.

He furrowed his brows. “What?”

Rose rolled her eyes, as if Draco were being intentionally dense. “You did it to make me happy. Mum says being kind is—” she scrunched up her face, remembering something important, “—’being friendly, generous, and considerate of others.’ And that means making people happy. That means you’re kind.”

The entire room had quieted, eavesdropping attentively. Harry leaned subtly into him. Draco stared at the girl in shock, rendered speechless. A lump was forming in his throat.

Had anyone ever called him kind before?

“Oh,” he eventually said, incapable of anything more intelligent. Rose watched him pointedly, probably still waiting for him to agree to her proposition. He turned to Hermione.

“Hermione, was that the dictionary definition of kindness?” he asked quietly, eyes narrowed in accusation. Hermione rolled her eyes, but nodded.

“Alright, Rose,” Draco said seriously, swallowing hard, shaking off his depressing thoughts. He faced her fully and leaned forward, handing off his cup of tea to Harry. “You said it’s a proposition, so what’s in it for me?”

Rose wrinkled her nose again. “What do you mean?”

“A proposition is a two-way deal, Rose. I could be your first Slytherin uncle, which means you’ll have to learn how to bargain. Being an uncle is a tough job, you know—it’ll have to be an equal exchange. What can you offer?”

Rose knit her brows and hummed in thought, one hand coming up to tap her finger against her chin. The sitting room full of countless Weasleys was now completely silent, waiting with bated breath. Harry looked on, quietly entertained. He probably knew that Draco would take the deal even if Rose only offered him a flobberworm.

Rose’s face brightened as an idea came to her. “I can teach you more about kindness! I know lots about kindness, my friends say I’m really nice. Oh! And I can make you feel better when you’re sad. Mum and Dad say I always make them feel better when they’re sad. I help my Uncle George test out new inventions, do you invent things too? I can also help prank the other uncles, I’m good at that. But that’s mostly with Uncle George. Uncle Harry and I sing when we cook together, he says it makes cooking more fun. Uncle Bill says I’m a big help with baby Dominique sometimes, and Uncle Charlie lets me colour in his tattoos, he says it makes them look cooler. Uncle Percy relies on me to tell him when his glasses are crooked or smudged, so I only tell him, of course, I don’t tell Uncle Harry or Grandpa when their glasses are crooked or smudged—”

“I’m sold, Rose,” Draco interrupted, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re obviously a very valuable niece, I’d be a fool to turn down the offer.” He held out his hand, and Rose took it, shaking it with a surprisingly firm grip for a six-year-old.

“Excellent. Now that that’s settled, you’re required to pick me up and throw me around. Camila says you do that to her and it’s really fun, and that you do it because you’re her uncle. It’s only fair.”

Draco couldn’t suppress his laughter any longer. This was clearly Hermione’s child.

“She said that, did she? Of course, it’s only fair,” Draco agreed, standing suddenly and throwing Rose over his shoulder, making her squeal with surprise and delight. He ran a few laps around the house, bouncing her around and nearly dropping her several times, as was his duty. He dropped her off in the kitchen, where Camila waited at the huge table, drawing. She looked up as they entered.

“Did he make you bargain for it?” Camila asked coolly, sounding way too much like her mother.

“Yep, but I got him in the end,” Rose replied triumphantly, still winded. Draco ruffled her hair and left the room, completely bewildered. How was this the same child who had hidden behind her hair when she met him?

He returned to the sitting room, still dazed with shock, and was met with Pansy’s knowing gaze. She shook her head at him fondly, sat between Ginny and George on the floor.

He sat himself heavily on the sofa next to Harry once more, fixing his hair. The position allowed him to drape an arm nonchalantly over Harry’s shoulders, as if he wasn’t in a room full of Weasleys, as if a six-year-old Weasley hadn’t just adopted him as an uncle without anyone else’s permission. Harry smirked and leaned into his side.

“Congratulations on your new niece,” Harry muttered, placing a hand casually on Draco’s knee. Draco practically rejoiced at the unprompted dialogue.

“I hope you don’t mind sharing uncle duties,” Draco replied, blushing furiously.

***

“Dominique hardly speaks English, there’s no need to attempt conversation in French, Draco.” Ron shook his head at him from Harry’s other side. Draco ignored him, focused on the baby, who was bouncing and jumping on his legs as he held her upright.

“Ne l’écoute pas, ma chérie,” Draco cooed at her. Don’t listen to him, chérie. Bill and Fleur laughed as they watched. “Il ne comprend rien. Toi et moi, petit chou, on se comprend.” He doesn’t know anything. You and me, sweetheart, we understand each other.

Dominique giggled, kicking her legs to jump again, half her chubby little fist in her mouth. Draco smiled brightly at her, and she tried to grab his hair with her slobbered hand. Draco didn’t even mind. Harry was beaming at him, Draco could feel it on the side of his face like sunshine.

Ron gave a put out sigh at Draco’s exclusion of them in his very important conversation. Draco paid him no mind, this baby was precious, though she’d already covered the shoulder of Draco’s casual cashmere jumper in saliva. It had been a while since he’d handled an infant, but Camila had taught him well.

This day was turning out to be much more pleasant than he’d expected. He was still completely overwhelmed, but he no longer felt like anyone would draw a wand on him if he moved too quickly. He’d had civil conversations with almost everyone—his Quidditch arguments with Ginny had gotten a little heated. But she was out of her mind if she honestly believed Puddlemere stood any chance against the Falcons, regardless of the Falcons’ current chaser issues—

“Get anything good from Azkaban?” Ron muttered to Harry, stretching his arms above his head. Draco felt the clouds roll in, that ray of sunshine leaving his face as Harry’s smile fell instantly, turning to look at his friend.

“‘Course not,” Harry mumbled, a lie, Draco could hear that without even looking at him. “The usual.”

Draco glanced over, seeing Ron’s eyebrow raised in disbelief, Harry was such a shit liar. Harry pressed his lips together and darted his eyes towards Draco, real subtle, Harry, and Ron sighed again in exasperation.

Dominique yelled in frustration at Draco’s sudden shift in attention, so Draco smiled at her again, “Je suis vraiment désolé, chérie, que puis-je faire pour toi?" I’m so sorry, chérie, what can I do for you?

His mind raced as Dominique babbled at him. Harry had obviously lied about “the usual,” but what even was the usual? All Harry had ever told him about those visits was that he sat outside Lucius’ cell and talked at him, and occasionally, Lucius talked back. But now that Lucius’ full mind was unlocked, and he was likely infuriated by the personal slight of being tricked and tortured by Draco—Lucius would have a lot to say, eager for revenge, slipping into any crack of weakness and pushing until something broke.

He’d taught Draco how to do it, himself. Draco had needled Harry like that for years, thrilled by the visceral reactions he could cause, the attention and rage he could draw from him. It was annoy, taunt, spit venom until something stuck and Harry would stiffen, his shoulders would tense, his green eyes would widen, his intense gaze would narrow down to only Draco. He was fire, and Draco would poke and prod the burning embers, stoking the flames until Harry snapped. It was exhilarating. It was like tickling a sleeping dragon.

Lucius had probably found it just as thrilling. Though for very, very different reasons than Draco did.

“Tea,” Ron said after a tense, prolonged moment. “I’ll make us some more tea.”

Draco was starting to think Ron believed tea was the only cure for uncomfortable situations. In a family like this, it was probably habit.

“I’ll help,” Harry mumbled, standing with him. Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. Probably another product of this family—no one needed help making tea, but it was easier to get someone alone that way.

Draco wouldn’t tolerate this for much longer. But for now, he had a baby in his lap. Charlie took Harry’s empty seat, starting up a conversation by asking about how he’d healed Harry, to which Draco smirked and muttered about patient confidentiality, smoothly switching the topic to dragons. Charlie acquiesced easily, launching into an exciting recount of a Horntail that had just returned to the air with a freshly repaired wing, which somehow still made Draco blush.

***

“Ron,” Harry began tentatively, now that they were away from the noisy group, isolated in the kitchen. Ron looked up at him warily, setting the kettle to boil.

“Oh boy,” he sighed, “what is it now?”

“What’s that for?” Harry scoffed. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“You only look and sound like that if you’re going to make me talk feelings, which, I’ll admit, is a rare occurrence,” Ron replied, smirking. He leaned his hip on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest.

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s not—I mean, not really, it’s technically about spellwork—”

“Get it over with, mate.”

“Fine,” Harry huffed. “I know you love Hermione more than life itself.”

“... yes? Harry what—”

“She’s like a part of your soul, your sun and stars or whatever.”

“Er, mate—”

“But I’ve never seen your Patronus change,” Harry finally managed, then quickly darted his eyes around the doorway to make sure they were still alone. When he looked back, Ron’s face was a mixture of exasperation and amusement, his lips pressed together and eyebrows raised. Harry frowned at him.

“It’s a fair question,” Harry grumbled. Ron snorted, and pulled out his wand.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his freckled face smoothing out into something serene, rolling his wand in his hand. The corners of his lips ticked upwards in a faint smile, like he couldn’t even help it.

“Expecto Patronum.”

A dazzling silver otter burst from the end of his wand, gamboling around the kitchen playfully. It stopped in front of Ron to nuzzle against his cheek, making him chuckle, before dissipating into the air. Ron smiled at the place where it had vanished, lost in his reverie.

Harry was baffled. “Care to explain?”

Ron blinked, grinning widely at him. “It depends on whose happiness you're using.”

Harry furrowed his brows, staring at his own hands where they leaned against the counter. The dishes were cleaning themselves in the sink, making soft clinking and splashing noises, and he could hear the children laughing in the garden through the open window.

“But it only works if your memory is really happy,” Harry muttered, still confused. Ron nodded, watching him, waiting for him to figure it out.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Ron said. “The memory I used for that was of the first time I made Hermione laugh so hard that she snorted. Third year.” He chuckled again at the thought, and Harry smiled softly, slowly understanding.

“Right,” Harry replied. “Her happiness.”

Ron nodded sagely. “Her happiness became my happiness. That’s why Patronuses sometimes change, for people in love.”

“But you can still use your own?”

“Yep,” Ron nodded again, “if I use my own, completely independent happiness. I usually use winning the Quidditch cup, being paraded around by Gryffindors singing the altered version of ‘Weasley Is Our King.’”

Harry hummed in thought. He pulled his wand out of his pocket, and concentrated hard on the memory of Ron, Fred, and George stealing him away from Privet Drive in a flying Ford Anglia.

“Expecto Patronum.”

The familiar glowing stag appeared, trotting lazily around the kitchen, bowing its antlered head at Harry before leaping out the window in a swirl of silvery mist. Ron held his hand out towards where it had disappeared, giving Harry a look that said, see?

“You could have told me that a while ago,” Harry mumbled, sending him a half-hearted glare.

“Oh, please. You’d better find happier independent memories to use, mate. That stag was fine, but it’s certainly not as powerful as your nightingale is now. I’m not letting you use weak Patronuses on the job just to get out of a bit of teasing.”

Harry couldn’t help but grin. He did love that little bird. He closed his eyes, the memory of Draco’s radiant smile and joyful laugh beneath the magnolia tree easily filling his head. Harry had just told him he was skipping the Ministry War Memorial just to spend time with him—

“Expecto Patronum,” Harry cast again, his face alight with happiness as the nightingale appeared in a dazzling burst of shimmering mist, fluttering excitedly around Harry’s head before landing on his shoulder.

“That’s more like it,” Ron said, chuckling as he was slowly infected with Harry’s joy. “It’s a bloody miracle you’ve managed to keep that quiet this long, that bird’s such a showoff. Draco really doesn’t know?”

The nightingale dissipated slowly as Harry was dragged back to the present, his smile falling.

Draco really doesn’t know? Had Harry ever told him?

No, of course he hadn’t. He’d kept his love and his Patronus a secret, because it felt dangerous, in a way he wasn’t used to, and Harry was apparently a coward. Draco already held Harry’s heart in his hands, but Harry didn’t want him to know it. If Draco didn’t know it was there, he couldn’t drop it. And Harry could prolong this ignorant bliss as long as possible.

He looked over at Ron, and whatever Ron saw on his face must have been quite concerning, since his brows furrowed, his face transforming with worry.

“Mate,” he probed gently, but Harry only cleared his throat, and looked away. He left the room without another word, forgetting all about the tea.

***

The process of leaving Sunday lunch seemed to take as long as the lunch itself. There were so many people Draco had to force himself to thank and say goodbye to, but at least they seemed less hostile than when he had arrived.

Harry stayed by his side through every interaction, and Draco was grateful for it, feeling the heat of Harry’s body next to him, borrowing a little bit of Harry’s strength and bravery. Which wasn’t a new feeling, but it was new to do so in person.

Draco somehow managed to prevent himself from ugly sobbing when Rose hugged his leg and said, “Bye, Uncle Draco.” Camila watched the interaction with a smug expression.

As they finally spilled out into the vibrant garden under a violet sky, Draco took Harry’s arm without warning and apparated him home, landing smoothly in front of Draco’s black front door.

Harry gasped a little, his eyes wide and alarmed. Draco felt a little bad for startling him with an unexpected apparition, but they were finally alone, and Draco was going to end this tense silence, this uneasy quietude, if he had to wait all night. He didn’t spend all those weeks healing Harry for Harry to impose this quiescent silence on himself.

He wasn’t going to give Lucius his revenge.

Harry looked up at Draco, then over to the black front door and back, and Draco couldn’t read his expression at all. He hated that.

“Come in?” Draco asked softly. He hadn’t yet released Harry’s arm, and Harry hadn’t tried to free himself.

Harry searched his face for a moment—for what, Draco didn’t know—and nodded hesitantly. Draco took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Sunday, 28 May (cont.)

Harry missed the time when his silence had felt comfortable.

He felt foolish, with the words of Lucius Malfoy still echoing in his head, replacing his own thoughts. He also felt like an idiot, for not realizing it sooner, for only seeing it once a heartless criminal explained it to him.

He’d been so happy, so naïve, so excited that Draco wanted to spend time with him, kiss him, touch him. Claim him, and let Harry claim him back, in front of the world. He’d felt so fortunate to finally have Draco. He’d felt so lucky that Draco wanted him.

But Draco had never said outright how he felt about Harry, nor when that had changed from loathing to something else. Only that it had. Harry knew that Draco had hated him for so long, he’d felt it, from the moment Harry had turned him down on the train.

It had changed, somewhere along the line, but Harry didn’t know where, and he didn’t know how. Harry had no idea what Draco actually felt, he’d never spelled it out. He’d only told Harry what he wanted.

“I want to know everything about you, Harry. I want to stand with you, I want to be yours, I want to be what you choose over anything you feel you owe the world. I want to be the one thing you’re selfish for, and I want to kiss you so badly.”

Any other verbal assertions only came in the middle of sex, and Harry had eaten it up every time, like the lovesick fool he was, manipulating it to fit his own ideal—

I love kissing you. I love touching you. I love looking at you.

But Harry loved him. He loved Draco, probably too much, for someone only a few weeks into a relationship. He apparently loved Draco so much that Draco’s happiness became his own, he lived to make Draco happy, to make it better. He’d fallen in love with all of Draco—but Draco had developed this desire while only half of Harry was available.

The unattainable, unsustainable half. The quiet half. The nonviolent, conflict-free, much-easier-to-fall-in-love-with half.

The other half hadn’t been very good to Draco, so far. The first words Harry had spoken to him, when he finally could, after all these years, were hostile. This half had fought with him, attacked him, gotten him into violent situations. This half, Draco had been enduring, since the moment Harry spoke.

Draco, whose elegant hands were currently combing through Harry’s messy hair, while Harry’s head rested in his lap, the two of them sprawled on Draco’s sofa. He had insisted Harry come home with him, after spending most of the day with the Weasleys, and Harry had obliged, simply because he had asked. However Draco wanted him, Harry would take what he could get. Which was pathetic.

And of course, he was impossibly more in love, because by the end of the day, Draco Malfoy had won over every single Weasley. Even Arthur now looked at him with wary curiosity, instead of hostile suspicion.

Draco had been delightful and respectful the entire time, thanking George for getting Lee to write the article, arguing over Quidditch with Ginny, and discussing differences in curse breaking methods with Bill, since Draco was technically some sort of curse breaker, himself. He’d compared de-Obliviation notes with Hermione, asked Molly about her recipes and cooking charms, and mentioned to Arthur that he’d just figured out how to work a muggle boombox. Harry had no idea what Draco spoke to Fleur and Victoire about, because it was entirely in French. He’d even managed smooth, snarky conversation with Charlie, though he did it with an endearingly red face. Which was understandable; Charlie took some getting used to.

He was perfect, he’d made Harry so proud.

It was quiet, in Draco’s sitting room, even with the crackling of the small fire, the buzzing of insects in the garden under the darkening sky. Even with the record Draco had put on playing softly, so much softer than usual, as if to emphasize the absence of their voices.

“Now, when you work it out I'm worse than you
Yeah, when you work it out I wanted to…”

The atmosphere was still, hushed. Draco was quiet, leaning his own head in his hand, his elbow propped on the armrest. Harry could feel his eyes on him, but he refused to open his own. He was taking what he could get, even when he didn’t know how to suppress half of himself. He wasn’t a peaceful man, he never had been. How much longer would Draco tolerate the whole of him?

Draco’s silence seemed expectant, the same way Harry’s was when he wanted Draco to fill it. Harry could feel the pressure of it. Draco knew something was going on, he was waiting for something to give. Harry didn’t want to move.

“Tell me your secrets, and ask me your questions
Oh, let's go back to the start…”

Harry didn’t want to explode, but of course he was going to, because he was a human bloody volcano. It was in his nature, he couldn’t hold things in like this for long.

He felt like he was standing on pillars of sand, like everything he loved so dearly would come crashing down on him at any moment, when only a few days ago it had felt so real, so strong. He didn’t want to move an inch, it was too precarious. If he moved, if he spoke, Draco would stop touching him, and Harry would have to stop indulging himself, taking what he wanted.

But it was building—a restless, terrified uncertainty filling his veins.

“Home, home, where I wanted to go…”

“Darling,” Draco murmured, a crack in the silence. Harry winced involuntarily, and Draco’s hand stilled in his hair.

Harry loved hearing Draco call him that. Because he loved Draco—people called each other “love” and “darling” when they loved each other—but now it only hurt, when it felt like Draco was only speaking to half of him. Calling upon the docile Harry, the half of Harry he apparently fell in love with, according to the truth Lucius had forced from his mouth.

“Tell me,” Draco said, low and quiet and so easy to acquiesce to, but Harry didn’t want to, he wanted to stay here, he wanted Draco’s hand to continue running through his hair. He didn’t want to know if his worst fears were true.

Harry shook his head slowly. “Let me have this.”

“You do have this, Harry,” Draco replied softly, removing his hand, no longer tethering Harry to this artificial calm. Harry felt the spotlight on him hotter than ever; he could practically hear the confused furrow in Draco’s brow, his piercing gaze on Harry’s tense face. “I’m yours.”

Fuck. He wanted it to be true so badly. He shook his head again, squeezing his eyes shut. Let me have this. Let me have this.

“Oh,” Draco said lightly. Harry felt him nod, once, as if he should have expected this. “You don’t believe me?”

Harry said nothing, and his heart sank as Draco sighed, clearly vexed, fed up, as Harry had known he would be. Harry felt him lean back, away from him, and he felt like a fragile, wretched thing, breaking apart at the seams.

“Why should I?” Harry sat up, hating the distance he was creating even as he needed it. “Why can’t I just have this, while I can?”

“Why should you?” Draco sounded incredulous, indignant, a little hurt. Harry hated it. Why couldn’t he have stayed quiet? “Harry, what part of the last few weeks has given you the slightest impression that I don’t want this?”

Harry couldn’t look at him. “No, I know you want this. You’ve said so, I don’t need to rely on the impressions of it.” He stood up, feeling that inevitable restless energy in his limbs, that constant, familiar promise of no peace, not for you, never for you. How could Draco ever want a promise like that?

“Then what?”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t make any sense, I don’t even know if it’s real, why would it be?”

“How is this not real, Harry? This is the most real thing I’ve ever endured—”

“Endured, Draco,” Harry interrupted, the word hitting him like a lance in his side, making him flinch. Draco had been enduring Harry in his entirety, the violent, inept, exhausting Harry, perhaps in hopes of finding that peaceful, easy one again, the one he loved.

“Green eyes, you're the one that I wanted to find
And anyone who tried to deny you must be out of their minds…”

Draco stood from the sofa, turning to face him. “Alright, scratch that, poor word choice—”

“All I know for sure are your words, Draco, you’re the most eloquent man I know, you don’t ever have a poor word choice.”

“That’s the only thing you’re sure of? My words, not my bloody actions?”

“I can interpret your actions any way I want, that’s the problem, I don’t know how much of this is real and how much of it I’m putting there because I want it to be there.”

Draco closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Merlin, Harry, you are so fucking dense, it drives me mad—”

Damn it, why did people keep saying that? “I am not stupid, Draco, it’s not my fault no one says what they actually mean!”

“Not stupid. Thickheaded. ‘You’re only an idiot about things you don’t try to know,’” Draco lilted his voice, quoting something only he knew, which Harry didn’t understand, probably because he was so stupid.

“I’m trying to know this, whatever this is, but all I have is what’s right in front of me, and what’s right in front of me makes me look insane.”

“Go on, then, tell me what’s right in front of you.” Draco crossed his arms over his chest, raising a pale, imperious eyebrow, making Harry feel like a petulant child, like a clueless, hot-headed teenager—

“You hated me, Draco,” finally tore itself from Harry’s mouth, painfully clawing its way out of a tight throat. Draco’s eyes widened. “You loathed me. You made it your life’s work to insult and sabotage and attack me whenever you could. You sneered automatically any moment you saw me, you couldn’t even help it, you couldn’t stand the mere sight of me. You cast successful Cruciatus Curses just by imagining the sound of my voice.”

Draco’s face blanched, he looked like he’d been slapped. Harry’s gut twisted with fear, his ribs felt too tight, squeezing the breath from his lungs, hurling more painful words from his lips.

“And then you had to spend time with me for weeks, you had to dig around in my head, you had to be close enough to touch, and somehow all that changed. Over a few weeks, Draco, you decided I was worth spending time with, you decided you loved me, during the only time we’d ever spent together in which I wasn’t surrounded by violence, in which I couldn’t fucking speak. You changed your mind when I was silent, and passive.”

Draco’s eyes closed, and he let out a slow breath, shaking his head. Harry’s vision blurred. He felt like a pot boiling over, volatile and afraid and in love and too much.

“That’s what’s right in front of me, and I feel crazy, Draco, I want you so much. But I want all of you, I want to be around you, I want to call you mine. I want to come home to you. I’m obviously insane, because of course I love you, I don’t even know how long I’ve loved you, when the fuck did that happen? Was it sixth year, when I nearly killed you? Or maybe during the War, when you recognized me by my eyes, and lied to a room full of people who’d kill you for it? Was it feeling your body clinging to mine as we flew out of fiendfyre, or telling your mother you were safe but not that I made sure of it, or confessing to my own crimes so they wouldn’t throw you in Azkaban? Did I love you when I made sure the Minister would help you because I didn’t know how to, and threw away every stupid Daily Prophet the second I didn’t see your name in it?”

A tear fell down Draco’s cheek. Harry loved him so much, and he hated himself for making him cry, but of course he was making him cry, he didn’t know how to not hurt Draco.

“Maybe it was when you walked into that hospital room, a beautiful man in a muggle suit, with a bloody songbird Patronus, that now flies from my fucking wand. I probably loved you when I couldn’t wait to come back to this house every week because it felt like home, because it meant being around you, close to you, safe…”

Harry trailed off, feeling exhausted and despaired and flayed, unable to see anything through the moisture in his eyes. He ripped off his glasses, impatiently rubbing it away with his sleeve.

“I’ve lost it, Draco. I must be out of my mind, one person should not be able to feel so much. I’m just taking everything I can get before it’s taken away from me, if you only want half of me—and I can’t even blame you, look at what the other half has done to your life—”

He felt a sudden, firm grip on his shoulders, startling him a little; he hadn’t even noticed Draco moving. Harry took a deep breath, with an embarrassing sniffle, and lowered his arm, replacing his glasses on his nose.

“So I crawl back into your open arms
Yes, I crawl back into your open arms…”

Draco was only a few inches taller than him, but sometimes he seemed so much taller, like he did now—standing close enough that Harry could feel the heat off his body, looking down at Harry with eyes like liquid mercury, intense and warm and safe, home, Harry felt so fucking stupid, so pathetic—

“I have my father to blame for this, don’t I,” Draco mumbled. Harry looked away, hearing Draco huff softly as he understood the unspoken answer.

“I mostly have myself to blame, though,” Draco said, and Harry’s eyes tentatively returned to his, wary and hurting and feeling too much. “I did not do as you asked. I’ll admit I’m a bloody coward, but you knew that already.”

Harry furrowed his brows slightly, closing his eyes in frustration. “You’re doing it again.” Say what you mean.

“I know. I agreed to spell out the obvious for the densest Gryffindor I know, for as long as I could, and I barely lasted a week before I got too fucking scared. I’m not practiced in candour, Harry. I’ve never been forthright a day in my life.”

Harry’s lip twitched, just barely, because what a Slytherin. He kept his eyes closed, he felt too raw to speak; he could at least understand why Draco would avoid this kind of nonsense. Why the hell did he agree to date someone like Harry?

“Except when it’s asked for,” Draco murmured absently. “Only when someone else is as vulnerable as I am.”

Draco’s hands slid up to his face, soft, slender fingers over his jaw. Harry leaned into the touch helplessly, a fresh wave of hurt rolling over him at the precariousness of it, the danger of imagining this as love, how easy it was to do so. It was too late for Harry, anyway, he was in too deep, he’d already confessed his love like a bumbling idiot, to a man that used to hate him.

He was hopeless. Taking what he could get.

Draco’s hands shook as his thumb rubbed lightly over Harry's cheek, wiping away another annoying tear track. Harry could hear Draco’s quick breaths through his nose, inches from Harry’s face.

“Okay.”

Harry reluctantly opened his eyes. “...Okay?”

“Okay. Alright, I’ll spell it out, all of it, because once was obviously not enough, both in quantity and quality, and for that I’m sorry. Although, you should know better than to listen to the maniacal waffling of a prisoner who wouldn’t know Love if it kicked him in the head, who probably thoroughly enjoyed getting you riled up. Can’t blame him there, though, I certainly used to, albeit for very different reasons—”

“Draco—”

“Right, sorry. Fuck, Harry, you scare the shit out of me, you know that?” Draco shook his head, a bit of panic in his eyes. “Salazar, this is horrible, how do you do this?”

Draco’s palm was getting sweaty on his face, and Harry said nothing, wondering what kind of manic episode he’d induced with his breakdown.

Draco growled faintly with frustration… at himself, maybe? He lowered his hands and started shaking them out at his sides, his face strained. He turned and took a couple steps away from Harry.

“Alright. Alright. Shield charm, Harry.”

“Er, what—”

Draco turned suddenly and raised his wand, aiming it at Harry’s head. Harry quickly summoned his own wand, a little panicked. “Legilimens.”

Harry flicked a nonverbal Protego with barely a thought, and tumbled clumsily into Draco’s head.

It wasn’t at all what he remembered, or expected.

He was in Draco’s garden, standing alone under the magnolia tree, staring into the thick forest. It felt like a summer evening, after a fresh rain, the setting sun already pulling the moisture back into the air, promising a cool night and midnight fog. He could feel the soft, uninhibited grass under his bare feet, warm and wet. He could hear life all around him, buzzing and chirping and breathing and alive, safe, alive, here…

He wasn’t sure if those were his own thoughts or not.

They’re mine.

Draco’s voice surrounded him like a cool breeze, and Harry sighed contentedly.

Pay attention, Harry. I’ll only do this once.

Harry couldn’t not pay attention, he was completely immersed in Draco. He felt like he was floating there in Draco’s imaginary garden, weightless in the humidity, warm and content with veins full of honey, safe, alive, here…

I never decided to love you.

The garden disappeared in a flash, and suddenly Harry was on a stool in Draco’s shed, a half-polished broom in his lap. Alicia Keys was playing on the boombox, currently drowned out by Pansy’s furious voice.

“Just admit it, you complete fool, so we can move on!”
Draco feels like he might explode. “I can’t,” he forces out. “Please.”

The shed dissolved, and then he was in a bed, surrounded by green curtains—the Slytherin dormitory.

Harry, I tried so fucking hard not to love you.

Sixteen-year-old Draco was in his monogrammed, silk pyjamas, meditating in the dark. Harry couldn’t see much, but he knew that, at least.

Draco has been practicing Occlumency for hours—he’d woken up from another blasted dream of Potter. He needs to protect himself.
In this dream, Potter finally caught him.
Dawn is breaking, and Draco hides it away, away, away.

The bed disappeared, and now he was in Madam Malkin’s, a little boy of eleven, wide, excited grey eyes looking around, standing on a small platform in half-pinned school robes.

Another boy, Draco’s age, is herded to the other platform. He is small, his muggle clothes are tatty and too big, his glasses are broken, his dark hair looks like he’s been out in a windstorm.
Draco thinks he looks interesting. His father wouldn’t approve, but his father isn’t here, and this is Draco’s first chance at befriending someone his age whom his parents haven’t picked out for him. The boy gazes around the shop as if he’s never seen a robe shop before. He looks up at Draco curiously, and Draco catches himself staring—he’s never seen eyes that green before.
He knows just what to do to impress him. This bright-eyed boy with stormy hair will be an amazing ally. His father taught him well, and his father knows everything.

Harry was starting to catch on to what Draco was doing, and suddenly he felt terrible, awash with fresh guilt. He had to throw a bloody insecurity strop—

“Focus, Harry.”

“Draco, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up, and pay attention.”

Draco flees to the back of the train. He berates himself for crying a little, for already being homesick, for not acting like a proper Malfoy heir, for being not good enough for Harry Potter. His father will be so disappointed in him for messing up this opportunity.
But Draco knows what he must do, now. He’ll earn Potter’s respect and regard, one way or another. Potter will regret ever turning him down, and making an enemy of a Malfoy.

Twelve-year-old Draco stands across from Potter on a dueling platform. Potter’s intense green eyes are trained entirely on him, and him alone. Draco feels the thrill of his undivided attention, and thinks, finally. He’s going to bring Perfect Potter to his knees.

Draco is watching thirteen-year-old Potter bow to a great beast, a massive, majestic hippogriff. Potter looks at the creature with awe and respect and trepidation, and Draco nearly jumps when he realizes he is looking at Potter the same exact way. He’s enraged at himself.

Harry felt like a monster. This was so invasive, this was too much, why couldn’t he have kept his stupid mouth shut—

“I’m spelling it out, Harry.”

“Draco, not like this.”

“Why not? This is how I got to know you, after all.”

Potter has one hand on the TriWizard Cup, one hand on Diggory’s shirt. Diggory isn’t moving.
Potter breaks down and cries openly into Diggory’s chest. Draco is too shocked to move. He feels something horrible, something squeezing in his ribs, something pulling, pulling, he’s shaking with the urge to go to him, to do something, he doesn’t know what. The professors rush in, and now Draco is livid, because how could they let this happen? Why did they let Potter in the Tournament if he clearly didn’t enter? Why can’t they ever manage to keep him safe?

Lucius is ranting about how Potter spoiled the Dark Lord’s plans, escaping death with a stroke of luck, and Draco listens carefully, wondering why Potter would even bother to duel someone like the Dark Lord.
Then again, Potter would never die on his knees. Of course he would fight.
But why did the Dark Lord kill Diggory, too?
Lucius’ billowing sleeve falls to his elbow, and Draco stares at the deep black snake and skull on his forearm. Father isn’t upset about Diggory’s death. Perhaps the Dark Lord had his reasons. He’s a very powerful wizard, with an important cause.
It still makes Draco uneasy.

Draco’s hands are buried in soft, riotous dark hair, intense green eyes locked onto his own, he’s pressed between a stone wall and a firm chest.
Draco shoots up in bed, terrified, furious, harder than he’s ever been.

Fuck. Harry felt so bloody intrusive. He didn’t know how to get out of this, how to give Draco back his privacy.

“I know. And that wasn’t even the first, but it was the first one I actually let myself wank to, afterwards.” Draco’s humourless chuckle surrounded him, inside and outside his head.

“I’m sorry, Draco. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Fuck that, Harry. I’m so bloody tired of your silence. To think you honestly believed I fell in love with the quiet part of you—”

“—Or perhaps,” Draco is spitting, leering, his face white with fury, “you can remember what your mother’s house stank like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it—”
Potter is whirling around, sprinting at him, and Draco is filled with adrenaline. Potter’s face is twisted in rage, his wicked green eyes fiery with determination, fixed ferociously on Draco, finally.
Hurt me, I don’t care, Draco thinks as Potter swings his fist. Just fucking touch me, I hate you, I hate you.

“Pans, I need your help,” Draco mutters, getting her alone in a corridor. She looks like she’s bracing herself for an obligatory snog. She raises an eyebrow at him.
“Potter’s cursed me,” he says, “or poisoned me, or something. He’s done something, Pansy. My pulse speeds up erratically around him, and it’s—it’s hard to breathe, when I look at him. My palms sweat, I’m sure he’s trying to make me drop my wand. And I keep having these bloody dreams—”
“You’re joking, right? You’re taking the piss, right now.” Pansy looks somewhere between annoyed and amused.
“I am not!” Draco quiets himself, eyes darting around nervously. “Pans, something is wrong with me, and I know Potter’s behind it—”
“Oh, Draco,” she sighs, giving him a look full of pity. “Nothing is wrong with you.”

Harry’s fist clenched at his side. He didn’t know what to think, what to feel. It was clear that Draco wasn’t letting him out of this anytime soon.

Draco kneels before the Dark Lord, feeling numb, except for the burning pain searing the skin on his left forearm. All he thinks is that nothing sets him irrevocably against Potter quite like this. This makes him Potter’s enemy, not just his rival. There’s a hopelessness in this feeling, one he wasn’t expecting.
The Dark Lord forces Draco to meet his red, snakelike eyes, and Draco thinks about how awed he is, how excited he is to serve.
The Dark Lord cannot know his real thoughts. He makes these real instead, and numbs himself away.

Draco’s head is in Pansy’s lap. She’s combing through his hair with her fingers. It would be soothing, if he wasn’t completely aware of Potter hiding in the luggage rack, watching him under his Invisibility Cloak. He can feel Potter’s gaze. He knows why Potter is here.
“Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t something that you need to be qualified for,” he says quietly. His friends gape at him. He wonders what face Potter is making, what Potter will do with this information.
Nothing helpful, probably. What could he possibly do? Maybe land Draco in Azkaban, as well as his father… which would leave his mother completely alone.
He hates that he still hopes. He hates himself. He hates everything.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Harry repeated hoarsely. He could feel everything Draco felt. Was this what it was like, for Draco, digging through Harry’s head? Did he have to feel it all, too?

“Yes, Harry, I did. So now it’s your turn to deal with my memories, for a bit, it’s only fair. Not as peaceful as you thought?”

Draco is crying in a bathroom, his hands gripping either side of the sink, his tears falling into the grimy basin. Moaning Myrtle is cooing at him, but Draco hardly hears it.
“I can’t do it… I can’t… he says he’ll kill me…”

Oh, no. No, no, no, “Draco, please—”

“I told you, I’m spelling it out. All of it.”

Draco hears a noise, and looks up to see Potter behind him in the mirror—it is also the first time he’s looked at his own reflection in months. He hates it, he hates it all, he’s going to die, he’s going to fail his mother, he’s so tired, he can’t fucking stand it… and of course, Potter has to be here to witness him at his lowest.
He wheels around, drawing his wand. He throws hexes and curses furiously, clumsily. Potter’s Leg-Locker curse deflects, smashing a cistern and pouring water everywhere. Potter slips, and Draco stands over him, enraged and terrified, and cries “Cruci—”
“SECTUMSEMPRA!” Potter bellows from the floor, waving his wand wildly.
Pain, unlike anything he’s felt before. Tearing, ripping, slicing; blood spurts from Draco’s chest and abdomen as though he’s been slashed with an invisible sword. It feels like he has. He staggers backward and collapses onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand.
“No—” Potter gasps.
Slipping and staggering, Potter gets to his feet and plunges toward Draco.
“No—I didn’t—”
Potter falls to his knees beside Draco, who is shaking uncontrollably in a pool of warm blood and cold water. Draco is still pierced by those green eyes even through the red haze of pain, still so bright even with his vision blurring and darkening, and he stares, his own hands scrabbling at his blood soaked chest, which feels all wrong, his heart is pounding frantically against constricting ribs, pulling, pulling, even as it counts out its last beats.
He wants to say it, he’s never gotten to, “Harry.” He wants to say “finally,” it’s over, and “I’m sorry,” his poor mother, the people he’s hurt. He wants to say “thank you, Potter, Harry, I would so much rather die by your hand than his.” He wants to tell him he’s beautiful, that he’s a divine final sight to see. But his mouth is filling with blood, he can’t speak. It’s more peaceful than he thought it would be.
Moaning Myrtle is screaming.

Harry could feel his body curling in on itself, enduring the secondhand ripping, tearing of his own curse, tasting the metallic tang of blood and Dark Magic in his mouth. It hurt so much, Draco was in so much pain, and Harry had to feel it now, too, all of it. A sob escaped his lips as he was engulfed in the hopelessness, the fear, the sorrow, the regret, even the relief, combined with his own grief and guilt, and Harry could barely stand. His whole body shook.

“I’m sorry, Harry. Don’t worry, I don’t feel much for a while after this.”

“That’s not a comfort.”

Draco hummed sadly. “No, I suppose not.”

Draco dreams; he is laying in wet, warm grass. His shirt is open, his chest is smooth and bare, pale under the shining sun.
A bronze-skinned hand reaches over him, careful and tender and strong. It finds Draco’s collarbone, with one finger, a faint, delicate touch, and moves, tracing a straight line down his chest, all the way to his hip. A thin, raised scar appears in its wake, marking its path. The hand lifts and does it again, and again, carving a web of crisscrossing lines over his torso.

“I see you have finally managed to cast a proper Cruciatus, Draco,” Lucius leers quietly. Draco looks up from his still-full plate, and feels nothing. “However did you do it?”
“It was easy, Father,” Draco says mechanically. “All I had to do was imagine the sound of Potter’s infuriating voice.”
It is true—but only because Potter’s voice is what bravery sounds like, and Draco selfishly holds it close to his chest, borrowing just a little, before tucking it away with the rest of himself, in a tiny, locked box, deep inside the dark void of his own head. Only then can he cast that curse, and mean it, and do what he has to do to survive.

Harry barely heard the “oh” that left his mouth in a shaky exhale. His brain was forcing the pieces together, pieces Harry wasn’t sure he believed would fit, but it was all being laid out before him, impossible to ignore.

“Draco… give Rowle another taste of our displeasure. Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!” The Dark Lord’s red eyes pierce him, Draco knows how to avoid the gaze. Draco looks terrified, because the Dark Lord takes enjoyment from his fear. He feels nothing, and tortures the wizard mercilessly. He does what he must, to keep himself and his mother alive.

Draco is harshly herding two first years into “detention,” which will never be called what it really is: a torture chamber, the playground of the Carrows.
He makes sure they’re alone, then locks the door and kneels down to face the children. They flinch and back away from him, their faces pale with terror.
He thinks of the dwindling members of Dumbledore’s Army, always fighting, beaten and bruised. He thinks of the grim, yet hopeful voices on Potterwatch. He thinks of Potter, of what he would do if he were here.
“It’s alright,” Draco whispers. “I won’t hurt you. But you need to scream, like you’ve never screamed before. Murtlap tea will help your throat, later. I’m going to cast a warming charm that will make you sweat, and a very light Jelly-Legs to make you a little wobbly. You’ll tell no one, and I mean no one, ever, do you understand me?”
They gape at him for a moment, before nodding quickly.

Harry’s face was wet. He had no idea how he was still holding the shield charm. He could barely breathe, his knees were close to buckling. Distantly, he could hear Draco’s laboured breaths.

Draco is in his bed in the Manor. No one will find him here except his mother—Timsy has somehow hidden his bedroom from everyone except Draco and Narcissa.
He pulls out a small wireless radio from beneath his pillow and starts turning the dials, tapping it gently with his wand. He murmurs as many possibly relevant words as he can think of, until finally, miraculously, the dial turns on its own, after “Mad-Eye.”
He can’t feel much anymore, but still, he greedily steals any scrap of hope he can get, even when it is not intended for him. This was easier to do at school, when he could Disillusion himself and eavesdrop on Gryffindors in the library.
“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?” Lee Jordan’s voice sounds from the wireless.
“I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” Professor Lupin’s voice replies, “and I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”
Draco sets the wireless next to his head on the pillow, and thinks of him. Just for a moment.

Harry knew the pulling sensation, he was familiar with the tightness in his chest, and it felt so much stronger, doubled when combined with Draco’s. He wanted to go to him, to touch him, I’m sorry, Draco, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.

“Of course you didn’t. That was intentional, Harry.”

Potter is kneeling before him, his face swollen and disfigured, and Draco thinks it is not as satisfying as his twelve-year-old self had thought it would be. In fact, it is bloody terrifying, and absolutely wrong.
And it is Potter, without a doubt. He’d know those eyes anywhere, that hair like a tempest.
“I can’t—I can’t be sure,” Draco stammers.
“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!” Lucius looks seconds away from a victory, inches away from a mountain of gold. “Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiven…”
“I don’t know,” Draco says. He crouches down in front of Potter, to look at him, for the first time in so many months, of course it’s him. Potter stares back at him, like he can see every thought in Draco’s head.
Draco is so scared. Potter is his only hope, and beneath the terror, there is guilt, that all of it rests on Potter’s shoulders, that there’s nothing Draco can do but this, because he’s such a fucking coward.

Draco is frantically climbing a mountain of abandoned furniture, dragging an unconscious Greg, cursed flames licking at his heels. He is not nearly strong enough for this, and this is such a shitty way to die, but at least there won’t be anything left for Narcissa to have to bury—
“IF WE DIE FOR THEM, HARRY, I’LL KILL YOU!”
Draco’s head snaps up as he reaches the summit, nearly buckling under Greg’s weight, wondering if he’s already dead or if that really is Potter flying towards him with an outstretched hand—
Draco reaches and his hand is too sweaty, it slips, but Potter is making a wide turn to try again—Draco helps Weasley and Granger lift Greg onto their broom, Potter’s getting closer, eyes reflecting fiendfyre, burning with determination, reaching—
He grabs Draco’s wrist and hauls him up, Draco swings naturally onto the broom, locking his arms around Potter’s waist, his terror spilling over, sweet fucking Merlin, they’re alive. He realizes he is screaming into Potter’s shoulder blades, but Potter feels like life, like hope, and Draco clings to him for all he’s worth. Of course this would be the only way Draco would ever feel him in his arms: on the brink of death, flying through hell on a broom.

“Harry Potter is dead!” The Dark Lord shouts, and Draco feels it like an iron fist to his chest, knocking the breath out of him. He slaps his hand over his mouth. He's hiding in an alcove, his knees are buckling, he can’t breathe, and his own involuntary sounds of grief are drowned in the chorus of agonized cries from the people who deserve to mourn Harry Potter. Draco crumbles to the stone floor.

“Draco,” Harry pleaded, shaking violently under secondhand grief, paralyzed in his shock. He didn’t know what he was pleading for anymore. “Draco.”

Potter and the Dark Lord are circling each other in the middle of the Great Hall, Potter is alive, alive, here, talking to the Dark Lord like he’s just another dueling partner. Draco has never felt so much relief and admiration in his entire life, he’s completely full of it. He can barely tear his eyes away, but he glances sideways at his mother—she looks panic-stricken, she looks so bloody worried, gripping Draco’s sleeve like a lifeline. She looks at Potter the same way she’d looked at Draco when he’d gone to receive his Dark Mark.

“Convict both of us, or neither of us. There is no good reason one pawn should be free while the other has to pay for their crimes.”
The Courtroom is stunned into complete silence, Potter’s last words echoing against the cold stone. Draco’s breaths are shaky and shallow, loud in the suddenly silent room, his eyes locked with Potter’s own. The chill of the chains seeps through his flimsy prisoner’s robes. He feels that familiar pulling, tightening sensation in his chest; Potter, you remarkable, impossible wizard, why are you doing this? How long have you been able to see me, like this?

Potter’s face is grave and cold as he hands back Draco’s wand. He turns and walks away without a word, before Draco can muster enough nerve for a measly “thank you.” Draco stares after him, knowing this is likely the last chance he’ll get to do so.

“Draco, please. Let me out. Let me touch you.”

Another echo of Draco’s soft, sad chuckle. “Oh, I’m not done.”

“I get it, Draco. I see you.”

“Not yet, you don’t.”

Harry had no idea how he was still standing. He was helpless, carried along in the overpowering current of Draco, Draco, Draco, surrounded by the scent of candlesmoke and broom polish, the weight of heavy grief and unimaginable guilt, belonging to both of them. It was too much for one person, even for two.

A twenty-year-old Draco is walking through a field of French lavender, an irrepressible smile on his sun-warmed face.
He reaches into his pocket, rubbing his thumb over the folded parchment note inside, before pulling it out and unfolding the two touch-worn sheets. He rereads Pansy’s excited pregnancy announcement, touching the words, “you’ll have to be godfather, obviously, I can’t trust any other prick with that job,” and snickering to himself at her snarky, scathing postscript:
“Attached is another valuable addition to your sad, trash-man wank bank. I know those pretty, polite French beaus aren’t doing it for you, you poor thing.”
He slides the note under the next sheet: a newspaper clipping of Potter in his Auror regalia, laughing with Weasley as they leave an award ceremony. Draco shakes his head at his best friend’s gall, but stares at it anyway. He rubs his chest idly, watching Potter’s laugh loop over and over.

Twenty-one-year old Draco is leaving the Wizarding Bazaar in Istanbul, excitement in his veins as he feels the weight of the shrunken brand new broom in his pocket. All he can think is this is the broom he would have been able to finally beat Potter in, if he’d ever had the chance, it’s so bloody fast. He thinks Potter would love the challenge.

Twenty-two-year old Draco is lounging on a beach on the Amalfi Coast, intending to catch up on case studies, but he keeps getting distracted by the scenery. He finally makes himself open the book, sticking his finger in the page with the worn parchment bookmark, and he snorts softly when he remembers what it is.
Potter’s face looks back at him from the Prophet clipping, another “donation” from Pansy. He always complains about them in his return letters; he’d never admit that he actually keeps them. Draco absently rubs his hand over his chest as he stares at it, just for a moment.
Potter is in his Auror uniform, covered in his medals, a proud smile on his face as he watches Weasley accept the Head Auror robes and pins. His best friend is now the youngest Head Auror in a century.
The photograph moves, Potter’s broad hands applauding with the rest of the spectators. The flash goes off, and Potter’s eyes find the camera, staring directly into the lens. The proud smile remains for a split second until his face falls with annoyance, and that one split second is why Draco has kept this one this long.

This was so much more than Harry could have imagined, even in his wildest dreams.

“Don’t worry, we’re almost done,” Draco said lightly, his voice shaking. Harry wanted to move, to go to him, but he didn’t know how, he was trapped. The memories suddenly sped past him in quick flashes; Draco was skipping forward to something—

Draco is chained to a chair, his body stiff and trembling, no longer in control, face to face with Lucius Malfoy.
“How does Potter feel about you?”
“I don’t know.”

How could he not know?

“Know what, Harry?” Draco answered aloud. “You enjoyed my presence for a few weeks while I provided you a service, and it was wonderful, and then you left, exactly as I always knew you would. I’ve had over ten years of practice in knowing I could never have you.”

“Then how do you feel about him, Draco?”
“I love him.” The truth flies out of Draco’s mouth, beyond his own agency, and he flinches with the abruptness of it, feeling like he’s been slapped. All those years of hard work and precious denial, gone in an instant. He loves Harry, of course he does, he’s loved him for way too long.
Lucius looks positively gleeful.

Draco finally, mercifully released him, and they both crumbled to their knees, panting and shaking from the magical effort, from the maelstrom of emotion. The sitting room was quiet again, but a different quiet—their breaths filled the empty spaces, in rhythm with the buzzing and chirping in the dark garden, the soft static of the finished, spinning record.

Harry looked up and saw Draco on all fours with his head bowed, his shoulders trembling as he fought to catch his breath. His sleek hair was darkened with sweat, his face glistening with drying tears. He opened his eyes and met Harry’s, shiny and flickering with firelight, the warm silver of the sun on morning dew.

Harry had never seen anything more beautiful. Christ, he was such a bloody fool. Draco knew Harry too well to ever believe he was peaceful or easy. He knew it better than anyone.

Harry’s chest tightened, again, a thick rope around his ribs, pulling, pulling, he never could stay away from him. Always caught in Draco’s inevitable orbit, always colliding like magnets when they got too close. He let himself be pulled, crawling toward Draco across the hard wooden floor.

Draco watched him with eyes full of grief and fear, awe and disbelief, sitting back on his heels, trying to compose himself and failing miserably. Harry came close enough that their knees touched, staring at him—Draco was so lovely, he was the most incredible man Harry knew, he was Harry’s, and Harry had nearly fucked it all up with his stupid fears.

He felt horrible, a familiar combination of awestruck and so fucking guilty, he did not deserve something so good. He was too much, too fucked up, no one would ever be able to handle it, or understand it—the nightmares, the trauma, the inevitable violence, the invasive publicity.

But Draco knew him, understood him, inside and out, and Harry was so lucky to know him in return. Loving Draco was easy, it was as natural as breathing, as flying, it was better than he’d ever dreamed even when it was difficult and painful. Which was terrifying, because Harry Potter had never been allowed to keep things this good, things he wanted.

“I’m so selfish,” Harry mumbled, shaking his head as his hands rose to hold Draco’s face, taking what he wanted more than anything, even when he shouldn’t.

“Good,” Draco replied. His voice cracked.

“I don’t deserve this,” Harry said, because it was too loud to stay in his head. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve to be loved, you complete idiot,” Draco muttered, frowning. “You deserve to be cherished, and cared for, and it might be selfish of me to claim that role, but I’m a selfish man, and an arrogant one, because no one has ever loved you like I love you—” he cringed, apparently unused to admitting it out loud. Harry held onto him tighter. “—I don’t care, I finally have you, all of you, to myself, I could never let this go, I’m fucking ruined and I hate you for it—”

Harry kissed him, halting his spiral. Draco’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him forward and kissing him harder, still shaking, volatile and defensive in his vulnerability.

“You prat,” Draco growled, pulling back, “you believed my fucking father instead of just asking, Harry, I told you I’d give you full honesty, with anything you asked, you never ask—”

“I’m sorry, Draco, I was terrified—”

“You were terrified, the brave, reckless Gryffindor, you arsehole, you don’t get to be scared, you’re not the monstrous Death Eater who’s been in love with the stupid fucking Saviour since he was a child—”

Harry couldn’t help a soft chuckle, his thumbs brushing over Draco’s sharp cheekbones, overcome with fondness. This perfect, sweet, brave, prickly man, who couldn’t even help lashing out when he felt too exposed, whose insults felt like endearments; Harry had never held a softer cactus.

“Why are you laughing, you utter git?” Draco’s indignant scowl was adorable, smushed between Harry’s hands.

“Because I love you, Draco,” Harry answered, his smile widening, another laugh escaping his lips. It felt so good to say it aloud, sheer bliss drowning out some of his fear and guilt. “I love you so fucking much, and everyone knows it but you.”

Draco’s face was warring with itself, rankled but overjoyed, completely confused.

“What are you talking about, Potter?”

“The whole world has seen the way I look at you. You’re the only person I’ve ever shown off. You’re the only person I’ve ever brought to the Burrow. And sweet Merlin, Draco, I am teased relentlessly for my lovesickness, right in front of you, all the fucking time.” Harry laughed again, his joy spilling forth. Draco tried to suppress his grin with grumpy, furrowed brows. “Fleur tricked me weeks ago into admitting that I thought you might be part-Veela, because you’re just that beautiful, I’ll never hear the end of it. You’ve no idea the lengths I’ve gone to to keep the Aurors quiet about my bloody Patronus. My feelings for you are so pathetically obvious, apparently to everyone but you.”

Draco gaped at him in disbelief, frantically searching his eyes. “You were serious about that?”

“About what? The Patronus?” Harry laughed again. “You know I can’t lie. Your happiness is my happiness, Draco, and the nightingale is fucking brilliant.”

Draco’s cheeks were hot beneath Harry’s palms, his face slowly mirroring Harry’s joy, though he tried to keep himself collected. He simply watched Harry for a moment, his expression transforming as he realized that Harry was serious, that he wasn’t in danger, that Harry wasn’t going anywhere.

“What a mess we are,” Draco muttered, again. Harry bit his lip, nodding carefully.

“You sure you’re up for it?”

Draco smirked, a feeble flash of mischief in his eyes. “I never back down from a challenge, Potter.”

Harry laughed thickly, pulling him closer, brushing their noses.

“Then say it, Malfoy.”

His lips hovered over Draco’s, waiting. Draco’s jaw clenched, his fists tightened in Harry’s shirt with a weak impact against Harry’s chest, as if he wanted to hit him, but couldn’t manage it.

Harry knew it, now, but he wanted to hear it—without any other complaints or caveats or proofs, without it being forced out of him. He didn’t think Draco had ever said it like that, of his own free will, without any strings attached.

Draco let out a shaky exhale. “I love you, Harry.”

Harry kissed him immediately, feeling revived, like he’d only just now come back from the dead with a second chance at life. Draco kissed him back desperately, the dam finally breaking, all those years of locking it all away finally bursting forth.

“I love you,” Draco repeated between feverish kisses. “I love you, I love you, of course I do, Harry, you bloody imbecile, I’ve always loved you.”

Harry laughed again, it was hard to kiss him when he was smiling so hard, but he was brimming with it, he felt like he was glowing; he might have been. Draco only pulled him closer and kissed him again and again, and Harry could feel the relief in it, the passion, the possession. He felt like he could cast the world’s most impressive songbird Patronus at that moment.

On second thought, it might even be a stag.

Draco pushed forward more and toppled him, sending him giggling to the floor, crawling over him with his own uncontainable grin. The stream of love fell steadily from his lips as he settled between Harry’s legs and mouthed at Harry’s neck, his hands greedily exploring what was his.

“Damn it, Harry, I love that. I love making you laugh, I love your voice, I’m never letting you stay silent again, do you understand? Never, I worked too hard to heal you, I won’t allow it—“

“Understood,” Harry interrupted, wrapping his arms around him, pressing their bodies together. He grinned when he felt a growing hardness in Draco’s trousers—that meant he’d keep talking like this, Draco always lost his filter the moment he was turned on. Harry found it endlessly endearing and very arousing.

Draco’s lips traveled up Harry’s jaw, slowing and gentling. He pulled back to look down at Harry, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat—Draco looked reverent, his whole face lit up with it, open and awed.

“You love me,” Harry breathed. Draco beamed; Harry could stare at that forever.

“I know. Funny way I had of showing it,” Draco replied, shaking his head. He stroked Harry’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. He loves me.

“Well, I can’t imagine you sending me flowers,” Harry quipped, smirking up at him. Draco huffed softly.

“No, you just can’t imagine receiving flowers from me, Harry.” He grinned mischievously, contrasting with the softness of his eyes, his touch. “But I’m taking that as permission to do so.”

“You’ve never needed my permission for anything,” Harry chuckled.

“That’s what you think.”

“What on earth could you possibly need my permission for? I just spilled my soul to you—” Harry was cut off by Draco’s kiss, soft and direct. Harry sighed against his lips. Draco could get him to do anything with kisses like that.

“I’d like your permission to make love to you,” Draco whispered against his cheek, as if that would make it sound less sentimental. Harry’s stomach swooped. Wow.

“Permission fully granted,” Harry mumbled in disbelief. He could feel himself blushing.

Draco pushed himself up, grabbing his wand and standing to his full height, holding out his hand. Harry indulged in just watching him from the floor for a moment, the heat of the fire in his grey eyes, the coolness of his smirk overpowered by the warmth of his gaze, the colour in his cheeks. He took Draco’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled up from the floor.

Draco smiled at him, making him feel warm all over. “I’m going to do it properly this time.”

“How were the other times not proper? I promise you, I thoroughly enjoyed myself—”

“As did I,” Draco said, leading him down the hall toward his bedroom. “Loved every second of it. But I haven’t properly made love to you, yet, Harry.”

“I’m not sure I know the difference,” Harry laughed nervously.

“Exactly.”

Draco closed the bedroom door behind him, pulled out his wand and locked it, putting up silencing charms and lighting his many candles. Harry didn’t know why he felt nervous, he’d had plenty of sex with Draco, he loved it every time—

Draco finally turned back to him, spearing him with his gaze, and Harry realized that this was already nothing like the other times. Draco loved him, and Harry knew it now. Harry had given Draco permission to make love to him without holding any of it back, like he had been. Harry was going to feel it.

That was a little scary. Harry wanted it so badly, but he was afraid of what it would do to him, anxious about how much of him Draco held in his hands.

Draco stepped up to him, careful hands landing on Harry’s arms, gliding up his shoulders to his hair. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed at the feeling.

He felt Draco move closer, the space between them shrinking, growing warmer. He opened his eyes to see Draco inches away from him, his sharp, pale face filled with astonishment and a little apprehension, which Harry could wholly relate to. The corners of Harry’s lips twitched as he tried to smile, but he was already overwhelmed, his heart pounding against his ribs.

He ran his hands up Draco’s chest, feeling the warmth and strength under the soft cashmere jumper—Draco couldn’t dress down to save his life. Harry could feel Draco’s heart racing under his palm, and he finally managed the smile, knowing he wasn’t the only one feeling like this.

“I’ll make this so good for you,” Draco mumbled, eyes darting to Harry’s lips. Harry nodded, biting his lip, a little too jittery for words. He wasn’t sure which one of them Draco was reassuring. Draco carefully pulled Harry’s glasses off his face and tucked them into his own collar. His hand returned to Harry’s jaw, with a gentle grip on his chin, his thumb rubbing over Harry’s chewed bottom lip.

“Beautiful,” Draco breathed. “So beautiful, Harry.”

It was quiet again, the spaces between their breaths filled with silent anticipation, tentative fear, intense affection. Draco’s heart continued to beat furiously against Harry’s hand; the pulse felt like his own.

Draco’s hand guided Harry’s chin, the other resting on his side. Harry lost count of the breaths Draco took, the puffs of air he could taste on his tongue, the insistent beats under his palm. The moment stretched and dragged on. His body tensed with it, the fierce wanting of what was already so close, getting stronger with every passing second, but he was in Draco’s hands, now. His hands contracted impatiently in Draco’s jumper, pulling him closer, trying to push against the hold on his chin—

“Draco,” Harry whispered.

Finally, finally, Draco tipped his chin down and met Harry’s lips with a satisfied sigh, his thumb stroking over Harry’s stubbled jaw. Harry let out a whimper of relief, his hands sliding up Draco’s chest, wrapping his arms around Draco’s neck. He opened his mouth eagerly for Draco’s tongue, warm and sweet, his lips soft and full against Harry’s own.

Draco’s hand left his chin to wrap around his waist, pulling Harry’s body flush against his. Harry was nearly on his tiptoes—Draco was not that tall, but he made Harry feel small, protected, with those lean, strong arms locked around him. Arms that could throw him out of the path of spellfire, that could whirl him around a dancefloor with his eyes closed; that clung to him on a broom while flames licked at their heels, and on a flying motorcycle as the setting sun made way for the stars. Arms that were strong enough to fight him, love him, and hold all of him, that would never let him go. Harry knew that, now.

Draco’s hands slipped under the hem of Harry’s shirt, sliding up his back as he lifted the material. Harry obligingly raised his arms, their faces parting just long enough for Draco to pull the shirt off and toss it in the clothes basket. Harry started lifting the hem of Draco’s jumper roughly, untucking the buttoned shirt beneath, knowing he had much more work to do if he wanted to get Draco naked. Draco chuckled softly and swatted his hands away, removing the jumper himself—even better.

“That’s cashmere, Harry.”

“It’s your casual cashmere, though.”

Draco laughed again, a beautiful, breathy sound. He tossed the jumper into the basket and returned to Harry, pale hands moving greedily over his skin as he brought his mouth to Harry’s neck. His fingers tugged gently on the silver chain, catching the signet that dangled from it, his. Harry couldn’t help the soft moan, grabbing Draco’s hips and pulling them against his, so Draco could feel just how much he wanted this.

Draco walked Harry backward to the bed, unbuttoning Harry’s jeans. Harry hit the side of the bed, and Draco leaned into him, his thigh between Harry’s legs. Harry ground down against it indulgently, his fingers fumbling on the delicate buttons of Draco’s collared shirt. He pulled his glasses out of the collar and floated them to the nightstand, smirking when Draco tsked at him.

“Wait, wait,” Harry paused, hovering his fingers over Draco’s collar. Draco raised an eyebrow at him as Harry focused intently on the infuriating buttons, don’t vanish them, don’t vanish them—

“Potter, I swear to Merlin—”

Harry shushed him as the first button slipped out of its loop on its own, then the next, and the next, so much quicker than anything his thick, clumsy fingers would have achieved manually, he should have done this a long time ago. Draco started grinding involuntarily on Harry’s hip, his breath quickening—Draco always fussed, but Harry knew the wandless magic turned him on more than anything.

“You’re just trying to rile me up,” Draco muttered as the shirt fell open. Harry pushed it off his shoulders, stroking down his arms. Draco let it fall onto the floor.

“Is it working?” Harry teased, because according to the insistent hardness pressing into Harry’s hip, it most definitely was. Draco took Harry’s face in his hands and kissed him hard, licking into his mouth, making Harry moan again.

“You make it very difficult to take my time, Harry,” Draco said between kisses. Harry managed to get Draco’s belt undone the muggle way, and got to work on the button and fly.

“Who said anything about taking your time?”

Draco grabbed his wrists, halting him, pulling back a little with a weak smile on his face.

“Do I have your permission,” Draco said slowly, low and enticing, “to take my time with you?”

Harry stared at him, searching his face, seeing the conviction in his eyes. This was important to him—he wanted to make love to Harry, he wanted to do it “properly,” whatever that meant, he didn’t want to rush this.

Harry didn’t know if he could keep himself together that long, under Draco’s full attention. He’d nearly fallen apart just from Draco washing his hair. He wasn’t used to feeling this kind of love, so acutely, all at once.

But he was safe. He was always safe, here.

Harry swallowed hard, nodding once. Draco’s smile widened a fraction. He slowly pushed Harry’s wrists behind him, twisting his arms gently and trapping Harry’s hands behind his back. Draco’s arms wrapped around him and held him there, in the strangest, most comforting, surrendering embrace Harry had ever experienced. Draco’s lips brushed against his ear, and he squeezed Harry’s wrists a little, pressing him into the side of the bed.

A violent shiver ran down Harry’s spine. The vulnerable position arched his back and stretched Harry’s chest and shoulders, and he already felt more exposed than he ever had. He wasn’t even naked yet, his hard cock strained against his briefs, the open fly of his jeans providing next to no relief.

But he also felt held, protected, loved. He wanted to touch, but the restraint only heightened his awareness of Draco’s mouth, his firm thigh, his bare, scarred chest against Harry’s own. He was touching Draco in so many ways, blanketed in Draco’s stop thinking and let me hold you, in you’re mine and I’m yours.

“I’ll take such good care of you,” Draco murmured, making Harry shiver again. “I’ll make you feel so good, Harry.”

Harry turned his face, his nose brushing Draco’s cheek, Draco’s hair tickling his forehead.

“I know.”

Draco smiled against his ear. He released Harry’s wrists as he kissed his way down Harry’s neck, his fingers curling into the waistband of his jeans and pushing them down. Harry kept his hands behind him, holding onto his own forearms instead, tipping his head back to bare his throat. Draco didn’t disappoint, kissing gently over his Adam’s apple, tasting the heated skin under Harry’s jaw. Harry’s pants and jeans fell to his ankles, his wand falling from his pocket and rolling across the floor.

Draco paused at the noise, looking down at the holly wand on the floor. He bent to pick it up, and placed it on the nightstand, right next to Harry’s glasses.

“I’ll take such good care of you.”

Harry’s heart swelled—he often forgot about his wand, these days, but he never went to sleep without it in easy reach. Draco knew that, Draco knew him.

It was… respectful, to honour Harry’s sense of security like that. They both knew Harry could summon it wandlessly without issue, but he always reached for the nightstand first.

Draco bent down again, holding Harry’s jeans as he stepped out of them, Harry’s cock bobbing awfully close to his face. He smirked up at Harry, taking it in hand and giving it a slow, teasing stroke. Harry’s breaths sped up, his hands gripping tightly to his forearms, letting Draco have his way.

He couldn’t stop his hips from moving, though, pushing into Draco’s fist. Draco only teased him more, his grip loosening, his breath ghosting over the tip, driving Harry insane. Draco released him, grabbing Harry’s clothes and throwing them in the basket in the corner.

As if this were Harry’s room, too, and Harry’s dirty clothes belonged in Draco’s laundry.

Draco stood up, squeezing Harry’s arms to make him let go of his own. He leaned in and kissed him, slow and passionate, before pushing him gently onto the bed.

Harry scooted backwards, sprawling himself out on Draco’s luxurious bed, sighing at the softness of it. He looked up to find Draco watching him, his edges a little blurred without his glasses. He was shaking his head in disbelief.

“You’ve no idea how long I wanted you in my bed, like this,” Draco muttered, stroking his hands down Harry’s calves, over the tops of his feet.

“I have a bit of an idea, now,” Harry replied. Draco grinned, pulling out his wand and sending a gentle cleaning and protection charm through Harry’s arse. Harry gasped, but didn’t complain, as Draco flicked the wand again, summoning things.

A small glass bottle flew to him from the nightstand, another vial sailed out of the bathroom. Harry had no idea what was in that one, but he kept his mouth shut, curious about what Draco planned to do to him.

“Turn over,” Draco said. Harry smirked—skipping right to it, then. He did as he was told, laying his head on his hands and wiggling his bum a little.

“Cheeky,” Draco mumbled, giving his arse a tap as he climbed onto the bed, straddling him.

“Bit hard to carry on like this if you’re still wearing trousers, Draco.”

Draco leaned down, kissing the back of Harry’s neck, grinding his trapped erection against his arse, just a tease. Harry shivered again.

“All in good time, darling. We have the whole night ahead of us.”

Harry pushed back into him, raising his head, chasing his irresistible voice, his heavenly touch. Darling—Draco meant it, he called Harry that because he loved him. Darling.

Draco indulged him, just for a moment, lowering his chest to Harry’s back, kissing his neck, nibbling at his ear. Harry groaned and wiggled his hips again, making Draco bite down gently on his shoulder. He tried to grind against the bed, for barely-there relief. He could already feel a small wet spot forming on the sheets.

Draco sat up, settling himself on the backs of Harry’s thighs. Harry pressed his face into his hands, trying to be patient. He heard a bottle being uncorked, and tried not to wonder which one it might be.

The scent of lavender and vanilla wafted over him, similar to the shampoo Draco had used on Harry last week, and Harry furrowed his brows—he wasn’t going to try to wash his hair right here, was he?

His shoulders jumped a little as a cool liquid was drizzled over his back, from the top of his spine down, pooling near the base, a single drop falling down the side of his neck.

“Draco, what—” he cut off with a groan as Draco’s hands landed on the small of his back, his thumbs pressing and gliding up Harry’s spine, spreading the smooth, sweet-smelling liquid—oil—over his skin. Harry let out a heavy exhale as Draco pushed what felt like a thick layer of tension out of him.

“What’re you doing?” Harry slurred, confused, but definitely not wanting him to stop.

“You’ve never had a massage before?”

“I guess not,” Harry moaned as Draco’s thumbs pressed into the tight muscles, rubbing over every inch of his back in small circles. It felt amazing, every single muscle relaxing under Draco’s touch.

“Lucky me, then,” Draco murmured, his warm, deft fingers dragging over Harry’s shoulders, squeezing and pressing and probably doing magic, there was no way anything felt this good naturally. He rubbed down Harry’s neck, his arms, and Harry felt like he was melting, he was definitely drooling on his own hands.

“Why?” Harry asked. Maybe he’d get a better answer this time than during the bath. Draco’s hands paused, and Harry pouted, but managed to keep quiet.

“Because I get to be the one to give you this,” Draco answered quietly. “I get to touch you, like this.” Harry could hear the satisfied smirk in his voice. “And since it’s your first, you won’t be able to tell if it’s not a good massage.”

“How can this not be good?”

Draco only chuckled softly. He shifted until he was kneeling between Harry’s legs, spreading him out. His hands returned to Harry’s back, sliding down to knead the muscles in his cheeks; Harry hadn’t known one could get a massage there. He let out another satisfied groan, spreading Harry’s knees wider.

“Fuck, Harry, look at you,” Draco said hoarsely, spreading his cheeks. Harry felt it again, that nervous exposure, the overwhelming sensation of Draco’s acute attention. His toes curled, his shoulders tensed, but Draco wasn’t finished.

“Gorgeous, Harry, I could stare at you for ages, spread out like this for me.” Harry whimpered with the praise, he was so pathetic; he couldn’t see Draco, but he was pinned by his stare regardless. He felt Draco lean down as his hands resumed their kneading, kissing the middle of his spine.

“All mine,” Draco murmured against his skin, Harry’s breaths quickening as his oil-slick hand moved to the base of Harry’s spine, trailing one finger down the crease. “All for me.”

“Yes,” Harry breathed, his hands clenching in the sheets. Draco’s finger gently skimmed over his entrance, making Harry whine and squirm, not enough, more. Draco continued kissing his back, his breath warm, then cool on his oiled skin.

Draco slid further down until he was laying between Harry’s legs, biting his cheeks, kissing his thighs. Harry was nearly panting with anticipation, grinding against the sheets.

Draco shushed him softly, slowing his movements. Harry breathed deep, the air obstructed by the sheets in his fists. He heard Draco uncork a bottle again, and a wet sound as he rubbed slick palms together, warming the liquid.

Draco’s strong hands returned to Harry’s legs, rubbing firmly down the backs of his thighs, back up to his hips, and it felt so bloody good, Harry hadn’t known those muscles needed this, but evidently, they did. He melted once again into the bed, until Draco’s face returned to his arse, oh my god—

Draco’s tongue flicked lightly over his hole, and Harry inhaled sharply, more, more, but Draco kept it so delicate, faint licks that might have just been breaths, not nearly as strong as the hands that gripped his thighs and arse, massaging away the tension and stress.

“Please,” Harry whined faintly. The sound was muffled in the sheets. Draco lifted his head.

“Hmm?”

Harry picked up his head and looked back at him over his shoulder, seeing the smug grin he was expecting, the grey eyes full of heat as his hands continued down Harry’s legs, over his calves.

“Draco, please,” Harry begged, like he knew Draco wanted. He caught barely a glimpse of the wicked, victorious smile before Draco obliged. Harry cried out softly as Draco buried his face between his cheeks, alternating between long, firm licks and gentle probes against his hole, “fuck, Draco, yes.”

Draco’s hands didn’t cease their movements, even with his focus clearly on Harry’s arse. They skimmed up to Harry’s shoulder blades, applying pressure with slim fingertips, dragging back down, pulling every ounce of tension from his body. It warred with the exhilarating stimulation of Draco’s talented tongue, working him up and soothing him back down, his limbs shaking with need and his head falling limply onto the mattress, that drool spot widening next to his face.

One of those skilled fingers appeared alongside the tongue, and Harry was no longer responsible for the sounds that came out of his mouth. Harry had never been with anyone who could make him feel like this, like his blood was on fire but his brain was filled with syrup; bright, white-hot sparks and sweet, bone-deep pleasure.

Three fingers deep, and Draco no longer needed the oil, thanks to the thin sheen of sweat mingling with it on Harry’s heated skin. Harry panted into the mattress as Draco’s other hand slipped underneath him and pulled his cock down. Draco slid his hot, wet mouth along the underside, licking up and over his sack, his perineum, the stretched rim around his fingers, again and again.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry moaned, pushing his forearms into the bed, arching his hips further to give Draco more room. He cried out again as Draco found his prostate and pressed, making his thighs quiver, his body tensing once more—

And then Draco slowed, pulled his fingers out gradually, switched to kisses instead of licks. His hands soothed over Harry’s body again, up his sides, over his arse, down his legs. Harry’s shaky breaths evened out, his whole face hot as the sweat cooled on his hairline. Draco retreated from the bed, and Harry sighed as he heard the rustle of fabric, Draco finally removing his clothes and tossing them in the basket.

“Turn over,” Draco repeated, and Harry obeyed, propping himself up on his elbows, spreading his legs. Draco was stroking himself, staring at him hungrily, that much Harry could see. But not clearly enough.

“Come here,” Harry mumbled. “I want to see you.”

“You’re not seeing me now?” Draco teased, climbing onto the bed anyway, the easy, affectionate smile on his face causing that familiar swooping sensation in Harry’s stomach.

“You took off my glasses, you prat,” Harry retorted. Draco snickered as he crawled over him, beautiful and naked and landing softer than a shaft of moonlight on Harry’s body. Harry smiled back at him, feeling Draco’s conspicuous erection dragging against his thigh. His hand came up to Draco’s face, perceiving him in any way he could: eyes mapping his features, fingers caressing his jawbone, breathing in the scent of vanilla and sex with the faintest hint of candlesmoke.

Draco inched forward and kissed him gently, leisurely, like they had all the time in the world. Harry loved all of Draco’s kisses, but he thought this kind might be his favourite—unhurried, sensual. All-consuming. Draco could stop the earth from spinning with kisses like these. Time bent to his will, the entire world narrowed down to his soft lips, his warm, wet tongue.

Draco’s hand came up to Harry’s chest and pushed him back down to the bed. Harry chuckled, unable to stop his hands from touching Draco’s arms, his chest, anything he could reach. Draco knelt between his legs, uncorking the bottle of oil again. Harry’s eyebrows raised. More?

Draco warmed the liquid in his palms, then brought his hands to Harry’s thighs, rubbing over the thick muscle gently at first, gradually adding pressure. Harry’s eyes wanted to close, but he wanted to watch Draco more, now that he could—there was a slight crease of concentration between his pale brows, his lips pressed together as he watched his hands move over Harry’s skin. A lock of his hair fell into his face as he worked, and he ignored it, moving further down Harry’s calves, circling his ankles, lifting his feet one at a time. He pressed into the arch with the heel of his palm, covering every inch of him in sweet oil. There wouldn’t be a single place on Harry’s body that Draco hadn’t touched, soothed, claimed.

How Draco knew just how and where to apply pressure to turn him into putty, Harry didn’t know. It felt like Draco was reaching in and untangling him, unwinding every tight coil, every piece Harry held taut without even thinking about it—always at attention, always ready for something. Harry could feel it pouring from his careful, pressing fingertips, filling him with warmth: you are safe, here.

Draco’s hands slid over Harry’s hips to his abdomen, found and exploited a ticklish spot just below his ribs, which would have resulted in a giggling wrestling match if he hadn’t moved on to Harry’s chest, massaging the pectorals, teasing and pinching his nipples. He circled Harry’s upper arm with both hands, squeezed and pulled all the way down to his fingers, rubbing circles into Harry’s palm with his thumbs. He lifted his focused gaze, then, to Harry’s eyes, his face softening at whatever he saw there, those full, rosy lips curling in a gentle smile. Fuck, he was so beautiful.

He raised Harry’s hand to his lips, kissing the palm, each fingertip, sucking the thumb into his mouth. Harry’s breath hitched, his fingers curling around Draco’s hand. Draco released him to complete his task with the other arm, sucking indulgently on his fingers, making Harry’s cock twitch.

This was also the quietest Draco had ever been during sex. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence; it was concentration, dedication, the energy he’d normally put into words instead moving through his hands, devoted entirely to Harry’s body.

He finished with several slow, oiled strokes of Harry’s leaking cock, his fingers brushing through the dark curls at the base, watching Harry’s face intently. His lips spread into a satisfied smile, making Harry reach for him all over again.

“Well done,” Draco said quietly. Harry’s heart skipped a pathetic beat, why was he like this with Draco’s praise, Harry had just laid there— “you’re perfect, Harry. Merlin, you’re magnificent.”

Harry whimpered faintly, his eyes fluttering closed, god, he loved it, he loved him so much, he loved that Draco loved him like this—

“Look at me, darling,” Harry’s eyes flew open, Draco was leaning down, settling between Harry’s legs, a pale hand sliding up his chest, his neck, two slender fingers slipping into Harry’s mouth. Harry closed his lips around them and sucked, floral vanilla and skin.

“That’s so good, yes,” Draco lined up their cocks and started slowly grinding against him. Harry’s hands grabbed his arse, pulled him closer. “I love doing this for you, I love being the only one who can, I’m yours, Harry.”

Harry moaned around his fingers, sucking them deeper, ignoring the gag reflex. Any time he tried to close his eyes, Draco would pull his fingers away, so he kept them open, his hips bucking up against him. His breaths were quick and shallow through his nose, his heart racing, Draco was rolling his body on top of him like an ocean wave—

“Beautiful,” Harry slurred, pulling Draco’s fingers out of his mouth, kissing his palm. “You’re mine.”

Draco leaned down and claimed his lips with a hard, deep kiss. Harry opened his mouth easily, letting him take whatever he wanted, frissons of sparks shooting through him with every pass of Draco’s tongue against his own. Harry could taste himself, with that sweet lavender-vanilla, mixed with the distinct flavour of Draco; he felt the vibrations of Draco’s every moan, Draco, strong arms braced on either side of Harry’s head, perfect fingers in his hair. Harry locked his arms around him and squeezed, closer, more, Draco.

“Draco, please, I want you so much,” Harry whined as Draco’s mouth moved to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. He had no idea how to articulate anything other than that, he was so wound up, his whole body loose from the massage now tensing back up with the fierce yes, this, more coiling tighter in his hips. “Please, please—” it should have brought him shame to beg like this, but it didn’t. He squirmed and writhed beneath Draco, he craved, he was safe, here and he could want, absolutely nothing else mattered.

Draco pulled back and lifted Harry’s legs, bending his knees up to his chest.

“Hold,” he said, and Harry held his own calves, his hands behind sweaty, oily knees. His cock leaked onto his stomach as he watched Draco lube himself up, he was panting, he wanted Draco so badly, his hands shaking where they held his own legs.

Draco leaned over him with an awestruck look, making Harry whine again as Draco’s slick cock dragged over his rim, teasing him. A stream of slurred pleas tumbled from Harry’s mouth in a heavy exhale, his eyes half closed as he trembled with impatience.

He focused on the grip of Draco’s hand on his chin, forcing him to meet Draco’s eyes again. Draco guided his cock with his other hand, the head poised at Harry’s entrance. His breaths were heavy, his eyes bright and focused entirely on Harry; nothing would go unnoticed. His lips were a gorgeous, kiss-swollen pink, his hair disheveled and uneven, his pupils blown with lust. Even in candlelight, Harry could make out the flush of colour on his cheeks that spread all the way to his chest. He looked debauched, because of Harry, just from Harry letting him touch however he wanted.

“This is what you want?”

“Yes—” Harry gasped as Draco pushed in, the head gently popping past the tight ring of muscle, “yes, Draco.” Harry watched his face as he fought to go slow, giving Harry time to adjust. Harry didn’t want slow anymore, though, he wanted Draco, now. He pushed his hips up, and Draco finally bottomed out, his hips warm against Harry’s arse.

“Fuck, Harry, you feel so fucking good,” Draco’s low, ragged voice surrounded him, blanketed him like his body did. Draco pulled out a bit and thrust back in, yes, Harry loved this feeling, this fullness, the way Draco moved, the way Draco moved him. “You’re breathtaking, I’ll never get enough, you’re finally mine, you’re—”

“Yours,” Harry moaned, “I’m yours, I’m yours—” another gasp as Draco found his prostate, the exhale riddled with “yes, there, yes.”

Draco kept a hard, steady rhythm, the impact of his thrusts making Harry shake. He leaned forward, pushing Harry’s legs further into his chest, locking his hands behind Harry’s neck. The leverage made him thrust even harder, pulling Harry into each one. Harry had never felt so small, so held, so safe. He could feel his eyes starting to roll back, no longer able to articulate anything other than incoherent yeses and pleases, overwhelmed by the thrill in his veins, letting himself go, giving it all up to Draco.

“Oh, Merlin, Harry, look at you, you amaze me,” Draco continued his praise between heavy breaths, pulling a whimper from Harry’s lips. He pulled Harry even closer, his forearms tense on either side of Harry’s face, his fingers locked behind his neck. He covered Harry with his body, his thrusts unrelenting, feeling closer than they’d ever been, like he was tucking Harry inside his ribs. Like he was shielding him from the world, containing him. Harry didn’t have to hold himself together at all, when Draco could hold him like this.

Draco let out a noise between a groan and a growl, that Harry could feel in his bones. His hips sped up, his angle changed just enough to hit Harry’s prostate on every other thrust, and Harry was barely tethered to reality, carried helplessly in a strong current of heady pleasure.

“Perfect, Harry, I’ve got you, I love you,” Draco’s voice was just loud enough for Harry to hear, ragged and tight, and a choked sob fell from Harry’s mouth, “I love all of you, Harry, everything,” Harry’s hands slipped and dropped his legs, scrabbling for a hold on something, but Draco only leaned harder, curled him up tighter, pressing him into the bed with his weight, “I’ve got you, I promise, darling, let go, come for me.”

That was all it took, the waves of lightheaded, overpowering pleasure rolling and cresting and falling, Harry’s body keening and shuddering in Draco’s arms, his untouched cock pulsing between them. Every brush against his prostate dragged it out impossibly longer, spilling more come on his stomach with each push. Harry’s ears were ringing, he didn’t know what sounds he was making, he didn’t care, his arse was filling with Draco's hot come and he felt like he was floating, flying, weightless, every single burden tumbling off his shoulders, replaced by dizzy, euphoric bliss and deep, deep love.

He felt only half-aware of a few things at a time: the jelly-like feeling of his muscles, completely relaxed and exhausted. The sound of Draco’s voice, murmuring to him. The dizziness, his own difficulty to catch his breath, Draco pulling out slowly, the emptiness he left behind. A gentle cleaning charm and then maybe he was floating, but then he was in the bed again, the blankets covering him, his head pillowed on Draco’s chest, his hands shaking as they feebly grasped at him.

And then his eyes were wet, his throat burned, and he felt like it was all spilling over, overflowing, too much for his body to hold.

“It’s alright, Harry. I’m here, I’m yours.”

Fuck, he really was crying after sex again. He shoved his face into Draco’s neck, and Draco’s arm tightened around him, his free hand running through Harry’s hair, safe, home. He couldn’t stop the tears from falling, and he couldn’t hide them from Draco, either, as Draco could only feel them now, cold drops hitting his neck and shoulder. At least he didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m sorry,” Harry muttered into his neck. Draco chuckled softly.

“I’m certainly not. In fact, I’m rather proud.” Draco turned his face into Harry’s sweaty hair, taking a deep breath. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” Harry answered immediately, sniffling. “Too much.”

“No such thing,” Draco said. “I’ve got you.”

Harry curled further into his chest, his shoulders shaking. Draco locked his arms around him, holding him there, keeping him together. He whispered soothing words into Harry’s hair, only half of which Harry caught, too overwhelmed and exhausted to do much other than cling to him.

He felt himself slipping, his heart rate slowing and his breaths evening out as he melted into the security of Draco’s embrace. He was so, so tired, his body molding against Draco’s, every muscle relaxing into him. But he didn’t want to sleep yet, there was something he needed to say, something he had to do, wanted to do—

“Love you,” Harry mumbled, “I love you, Draco. Stay, let me stay.”

He felt Draco’s lips on his forehead, right over the scar—that integral part of him, the part of him Draco knew differently than anyone else. He matched Draco’s breathing, a slow, circular rhythm, safe, alive, here, safe, alive, here…

Draco whispered something in return, soft lips moving against Harry’s skin, but Harry didn’t register it, letting Draco carry him over the threshold of sleep.

Monday, 29 May

Draco woke to the sound of his bedroom door quietly clicking shut, and bare feet padding stealthily across the hardwood floor. He only opened his eyes, though, when he heard an odd, muted crunch.

His eyes found the source of the noise and focused, and once his mind comprehended the sight, his blood rushed eagerly to his cock.

Sweet fucking Merlin.

Harry had frozen mid-step, halfway across the floor, watching Draco wake, a sheepish look on his face. His hand held a half eaten piece of toast, which Draco deduced had caused the crunching noise. That wasn’t what was making his heart race, though.

In his hankering for toast, Harry had apparently decided to throw on Draco’s black silk dressing gown, to keep himself decent while he wandered through Draco’s kitchen.

Draco wasn’t sure how to tell him he looked even more provocative right now than he did when he was fully nude.

And now Harry stood near Draco’s bed, caught red-handed and red-faced, the flimsy gown tied loosely enough that it was nearly falling off one shoulder, barely held together in front of his groin. The deep black of the shiny silk accentuated every curve, every shadow, every highlight of his radiant bronze skin in the early morning light. The gleaming Malfoy ring still dangled from his neck. Draco felt a little dizzy.

“Morning,” Harry mumbled, swallowing his mouthful of toast. He still looked guilty, for some reason. Draco sat up slowly, utterly entranced, surprisingly aroused for so early in the morning, but how could he not be, with a vision like this in front of him?

Harry seemed to be studying Draco’s face, searching for something, his brows starting to furrow in worry. Draco began the process of extricating himself from the bed, never once taking his eyes off of him.

“Draco…?”

Harry’s eyes widened as Draco slid out of the bed, naked, walking purposefully towards him. Harry took a subconscious step back, and Draco paused, forcing a few brain cells to think, first, just for a moment.

Because there was the faintest flicker of unease in those bright green eyes, watching him intently from a sheepish, anxious face. Think. Harry was wearing Draco’s dressing gown, sex on legs, holding a single piece of plain toast, boring snack, at least add some honey. But he looked like a cornered animal, tense and wary, his stealthy path to the bed obstructed by a nude Draco with a pretty obvious semi. Draco blinked, trying to imagine what his own face looked like right now. It must not have been very inviting, to make Harry look like that.

“Can I touch you?” Draco asked softly, his voice hoarse from sleep and poorly controlled arousal. Harry’s eyes searched his face again.

“You’re not upset?”

“Why on earth would I be upset?” Draco frowned.

Harry didn’t answer, but his eyes darted to the toast. Why the fuck would I be upset over—

“Oh. Darling,” Draco breathed, simultaneously relieved and horrified, “I want you to eat, in my house. Oh, Merlin.” He took a tentative step closer. “I want you to eat my food, drink my tea, nap on my sofa and fly in my garden.” Another step. “I want this place to be your sanctuary and your refuge. I want you here as much as you want to be, I want here to feel like home.”

He finally reached Harry, his hands raising slowly, hovering just next to his arms. He felt like a bit of a monster, if he’d made Harry feel like this, like he needed to sneak food if it wasn’t offered. Maybe Harry felt like that all the time, unless he was in his own house. Draco resolved to offer him food as much as possible, from now on, and encourage him to take it himself—this place would be the absolute opposite of Number Four, Privet Drive. He’d make sure of it.

“And Harry,” he continued, “I will never be upset with you for taking food, ever, ever, ever.”

Harry’s shoulders relaxed slowly, his expression gradually transforming from apprehension to embarrassment. Draco finally let his hands land on Harry’s arms, feeling the warm skin and firm muscle beneath the silk, and he tried very hard to stay cool, but the blush creeping down his neck was sure to give him away, if his erection hadn’t already. He cleared his throat softly.

“Now, don’t let me interrupt your snack. But I need to confess that you look outrageously hot, right now.”

Harry let out a quiet, nervous laugh. “That so?”

“Look at me, Harry,” Draco urged, motioning to his own furiously blushing face, his now fully hard cock. “Look what you’ve done to me, and you haven’t even touched me. Not to mention, I’ve no idea what time it is, and I don’t care. You are officially the only thing I have ever willingly gotten out of bed early for.”

Another quiet laugh, a little more sure. The smile reached Harry’s eyes this time. Draco’s hands drifted down his arms to his sides, slipping his finger beneath the silk belt. He bit his lip, and Harry raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of his toast.

Seriously? How does he make eating toast erotic?

Other than that, Harry hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word. Draco held himself back, his eyes roaming everywhere his hands desperately wanted to, up the line of the gown on Harry’s chest, following the curve where it fell even further down one shoulder. Harry took another bite of toast, watching him, monitoring the effects he was having.

“You like seeing me in your dressing gown, then,” Harry observed nonchalantly, before sticking the last piece of toast in his mouth. Draco was so turned on he could only nod, biting his bottom lip almost hard enough to bleed. Harry hummed in thought, and swallowed the toast. Draco’s eyes were drawn to the movement of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple. He wanted to put his mouth there.

“Are you going to do something about it?” Harry asked, the corner of his lips turning up in a smirk.

“If you’ll let me,” Draco answered immediately. Harry hummed again, and turned to walk around him, away from him. Draco might’ve cried, if he hadn’t then seen Harry approaching the bed.

Harry turned around to face him and leaned casually onto the side of the bed, his hands propping him up on the mattress, the picture of coolness and confidence. He gave Draco a look full of mischief and challenge, and Draco thought he might die of lust, he might go up in flames, right there in the middle of his bedroom floor. Images flashed through his mind, of Harry climbing off a motorcycle in a leather jacket, of sixteen-year-old Harry gracefully dismounting a broom, of a picture of twenty-two-year-old Harry in his full Auror uniform, a proud smile on his face. Merlin, how many times had he shamefully wanked to that one?

Harry spread his legs a little, and Draco saw the outline of his barely covered, hardening cock under the black silk, and his mind went blank.

“Do something about it, Draco.”

Draco did, without hesitation. Harry’s confident grin widened as Draco dropped to his knees in front of him, pulled the tie of the belt loose, pushed the soft fabric aside, and licked a long, indulgent stripe up the length of his gorgeous cock, feeling it fill in his hand.

Harry’s mouth fell open with a groan, the sound mixed with a breathy laugh, fucking hell, that’s hot. He was always so amused by Draco in the morning, and Draco should have been offended, but it had never been malicious, not once. Harry loved him in the morning, loved him all the time, apparently—Draco’s heart raced as the events of the previous night returned to him, of touching Harry everywhere, giving him everything he could.

“I love you so fucking much, and everyone knows it but you.”

Harry ran a hand through Draco’s hair, grabbing a small handful in his fist. Draco’s cock twitched with the sting, and he drew in a sharp breath, meeting Harry’s wicked green eyes.

“Yes, Harry, anything you want, take what you want,” the now-expected litany of verbal arousal started tumbling from his lips, his nails scraped down Harry’s thighs. Harry’s lips twitched in another soft smile, something carnal and terribly fond.

“Good morning to you, too, love,” he teased, before gently pushing Draco’s head forward. Draco wrapped his lips around the flushed head, tasting something musky and a little bitter and completely Harry, and gave him everything he wanted, licking and sucking like it was his favourite thing in the world to do. Right now, of course, it was.

Harry watched him with a slight crease between his brows, his full lips parted for his shallow breaths, letting out the occasional, delicious moan. He steered Draco by the grip in his hair, his eyes widening when Draco pushed himself further down, relaxing his throat to take as much of him as possible. Draco’s nose brushed the dark, wiry curls at the base, and Harry’s hand tightened in his hair, holding him there.

“Christ, Draco, oh, fuck…”

Draco realized it was more than just the provocative black silk that had pulled him out of bed; Harry looked like a Renaissance painting, like a king, in this dressing gown. He was always powerful, but the gown added luxury to his power. He wore it thoughtlessly, tied loose and lopsided and falling off one shoulder, like a four-hundred-galleon dressing gown with Draco’s name embroidered inside the collar was a convenient scrap of fabric to use to cover himself.

This beautiful, powerful man loved Draco, woke up with Draco, wore Draco’s dressing gown to eat boring toast. Harry loved him, Harry was his.

Harry’s hips started to move, thrusting into Draco’s mouth. Draco rolled Harry’s balls in his hand, rubbing the perineum with his knuckle as Harry spread his legs a little more. Harry’s harsh breaths turned vocal, releasing a soft moan with each exhale that rose in pitch when Draco swirled his tongue around the head. Draco hummed around him, watching Harry’s face, his eyes watering.

“Draco, your mouth…” Harry groaned again, his voice starting to shake, his muscles tensing. Draco finally put a hand on himself, with quick, firm strokes—he wouldn’t last much longer, either.

“Draco, I’m going to—”

Draco pulled off with a wet pop, and Harry whined at the loss, quickly replacing Draco’s mouth with his own hand. Draco looked up at him with his best challenging smirk, knowing he looked much more debauched than seductive, panting through wet, swollen lips.

“C’mon, then,” Draco said, letting out a satisfied moan when Harry’s hand tightened again in his hair, tipping his head back. Harry’s hand flew over his cock, his gaze fierce and intent on Draco’s face. Draco’s mouth fell open as his own orgasm approached rapidly, his breaths turning into desperate whines, his hand speeding up as he chased his own pleasure.

“Shit… Harry…!” Draco’s eyes squeezed shut and he gasped as the first wave rolled through him, shooting white streaks onto his hardwood floor. He let out another soft cry of Harry’s name, his head held steady as his body shuddered, euphoric and naked and kneeling in front of the man he loved.

“Oh, god, Draco, you’re gorgeous,” Harry groaned as Draco came down, looking back up at him in adoration, his hand slowing. “Fuck, yes, you’re all mine—”

Draco could only hum in return, opening his mouth as Harry pulled his head closer. He saw the familiar curl of Harry’s lip, the tensing of his thighs and abdomen, the bucking of his hips. He heard the catch in Harry’s breath, another tight “Draco—”

Draco closed his eyes just before the first pulse hit his cheek, humming in satisfaction as Harry came on his face, tasting him on his lips. Harry gave a shuddering groan that Draco felt in his core, panting as he rode out his orgasm. The hand in Draco’s hair loosened and released, combing out the tangles it had created.

Draco opened his eyes as Harry ran his thumb over Draco’s cheek, swiping a bit of his own come. Draco grabbed his wrist and sucked his thumb into his mouth, licking it off. Harry.

“Looks good on you,” Harry chuckled, still catching his breath. Draco released his hand, allowing him to wandlessly clean up both of their mess.

“Of course it does.”

Harry laughed again as he slid down the side of the bed onto the floor, his face flushed and alight with blissful affection. Draco immediately leaned forward, his hands climbing Harry’s chest, craving his closeness. Harry continued to touch Draco’s face, his warm, calloused fingers gliding over his skin.

“Enjoy your breakfast?” Harry teased. Draco clicked his tongue.

“It was certainly more enjoyable than yours. Plain toast, not even a drop of butter or honey. Honestly.”

“The bread was the most available item, I wasn’t about to go rifling through Timsy’s kitchen.”

“Well, you should, because it’s not worth sacrificing good taste. What’s in there is for you to use, as well, to your heart’s delight.” Draco sighed, meeting his lips for a lazy kiss, which was mostly teeth, since Harry couldn’t stop smiling. He rested his forehead against Harry’s and took another deep, fortifying breath.

“Alright,” Draco said seriously, his eyes closed against the impending painful truth, “you may now tell me what time it is.”

Harry’s shoulders started shaking with poorly suppressed laughter. “Almost six.”

“It’s not even six o’ clock?” Draco reared back, his morning indignation returning in full force. Harry burst into a fit of giggles. “Harry! Why are you in such desperate need of boring toast before the sun’s even risen?!”

“I was hungry!”

“Were you not asleep?”

“I was,” Harry laughed, pulling Draco in by his wrists. “But I get hungry, sometimes, before dawn.” He brought Draco’s wrists to his lips, kissing each one. “Especially after being so thoroughly fucked.”

“Noted,” Draco replied, unable to stifle his smug grin. “I’ll start keeping pumpkin pasties in your nightstand under stasis charms. Then, you won’t even have to leave the bed.”

“Ah, but then you’d never get to see me in your dressing gown.”

“You weren’t even going to let me see you in it, Potter,” Draco retorted, standing up on creaky knees, pulling Harry up with him. “I just got lucky, today.”

Harry only chuckled again, slipping the silk off his arms and hanging it up on the bedpost. Draco climbed back into the bed, settling himself among the many pillows, holding up the blankets in front of him in invitation.

Harry smiled and climbed in next to him, scooting in close as Draco draped the covers on top of them. The sun was rising, but Draco buried his face in Harry’s hair, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him flush against Draco’s body, his crotch against Harry’s lovely arse.

Harry didn’t have to be at work—or even think about the bloody Unspeakables—for at least two hours, and Draco planned to make the most of every second.

“Maybe I should get one of those for myself,” Harry sighed. “It’s very soft. It feels nice.”

“Don’t you dare,” Draco grumbled into his wild hair.

Harry scoffed. “And why not?”

“Then you’d never wear mine.”

Draco felt Harry’s soft laughter in his whole body, and held him tighter, tucking his knees to the backs of Harry’s. He matched Harry’s breathing, his body relaxing against Harry’s warmth.

“Draco.”

“Hmm.”

“Go on another date with me.”

He still said it like a dare. As if Draco would ever turn him down. Draco grinned, hidden in the mess of curls, though he knew Harry would probably feel it.

“You know, Harry,” he replied loftily, “I think it’s high time you let me take you out.”

“Oh, really?” Harry chuckled.

“Mhm.”

“Big plans?”

“Perhaps.”

“Care to share?”

“No.” Draco pressed his nose into Harry’s neck. “Scared?”

Another quiet, content laugh as Harry’s fingers interlaced with the hand climbing up his chest.

“You wish.”

Draco kissed the side of his neck, just behind his ear, squeezing his hand. “Then I’ll pick you up later. Wear whatever you want.”

“Even your dressing gown?”

“Especially my dressing gown,” Draco purred lasciviously, wiggling his hips, just to hear that laugh again.

***

Harry felt so spoiled, so domestic, walking into the DMLE with a travel mug full of Timsy’s perfect coffee, which Draco had insisted he take. Apparently, it would have offended Timsy if he didn’t—though Harry suspected Timsy didn’t have anything to do with it.

He smiled at Ron as he entered the Head Auror office, and Ron raised an eyebrow at him, pausing his parchment-shuffling.

“No, I don’t want to know,” Ron mumbled, shaking his head and turning back to his files. Harry chuckled at him.

“What’s on the docket, today, boss?”

“More interrogations, of course,” Ron answered, looking up from his parchments again. “And submitting that report of what actually happened in Azkaban on Friday, you prat.”

Harry rolled his eyes, turning to leave for his cubicle. “Yes, sir.”

“Harry?” Ron stopped him, and Harry paused, looking back at him. “You fixed it, whatever it was?”

Harry smiled widely, lifted his coffee in a mock toast, and left for his desk. He heard Ron huff as he closed the door behind him.

The report didn’t seem nearly as daunting as it did on Friday. Perhaps it was the coffee. And now that he could revisit everything he’d learned from Lucius, he could better prepare himself for the interrogations ahead of him.

Unfortunately, that meant thinking about Lucius. Harry took a fortifying gulp of his perfect coffee.

The Unspeakables had definitely used Lucius as a blueprint for their modified Dark Mark, and conveniently tried to pry information on Harry out of him. They studied and experimented on children to try to separate and prolong the phenomenon of youth. Perhaps they had taken Boran for that, first, before they’d learned he was a Seer.

Lucius had confirmed they were trying for immortality—regardless of what had happened to the last Dark Wizard to try it.

Power-hungry bastards never learned.

He handed off his report to Ron, and headed to the interview rooms. There were enough Unspeakables to question that most senior Aurors were pulled into interrogation, almost every room occupied. He caught up with Susan outside interview room three, giving her the latest updates on the case as they waited for the junior Aurors to deliver their first convict of the day.

“We’re gonna be out of here by five, Susan, mark my words,” Harry said. “I’ve got plans.”

“Ooh, plans.” Susan rolled her eyes with a knowing smirk. “Is that why you seem so chipper this morning?”

Harry returned the grin. “I had good coffee.”

“Is that it?” she laughed. “Nothing to do with the jewelry dangling from your neck?”

Harry looked down; he hadn’t even noticed he’d left it outside of his shirt today. He shrugged, chuckling to himself.

“Where do you think I got the good coffee?”

Susan punched him playfully in the arm. “Good for you, Harry, I’m so glad you’ve finally learned to spread your wings—” she cackled again and dodged as Harry lunged to poke her in the side.

Their tussling stopped abruptly, laughter fading as their first prisoner rounded the corner, herded by two bored junior Aurors. Nothing killed a good mood quite like criminal interrogations.

At least he still had his coffee.

Harry held open the door for three Aurors and one magically cuffed detainee, then settled in with Susan at the table, placing his mug on the wooden surface next to the file he’d brought. He wondered if Ron would be watching this one from the one-way window.

This Unspeakable looked much younger than the rest, younger even than Harry. His sandy blond hair fell over his forehead in soft waves, a swathe of light freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. His narrow shoulders were curled inward, hunched in on himself in the wooden chair. His hazel eyes darted around nervously, avoiding the Aurors’ shrewd gazes.

Harry looked down at the file in his hands, reading Draco’s notes, written in his precise, elegant hand. According to him, this particular wizard submitted to his Legilimency without complaint. And according to the thoughts this wizard could not hide, his name was Timothy, and he was twenty years old.

“Hello, Timothy,” Harry said, and Timothy’s eyes snapped up to his. This was the first Unspeakable Harry had seen openly showing their emotions: Timothy looked terrified, mistrustful, defensive. Whether or not it was an act, he was certainly not like the others.

“My name is Auror Potter, and this is Auror Bones,” Harry continued, motioning to Susan, who nodded, her finger tapping impatiently on the table.

“Obviously,” Timothy muttered, surprising Harry once again.

“Familiar with us, are you?” Susan raised a doubtful eyebrow.

“‘Course,” Timothy replied quietly, “but you wouldn’t have paid much attention to a first year, in the small window of time we went to school together.”

Harry hummed, and shrugged. “No, I wouldn’t’ve.”

“Ravenclaw?” Susan probed. Timothy nodded once.

“Right then,” Harry said, taking a deep breath, “so, Timothy, we’re legally required to inform you it would be extremely helpful to your case if you agreed to submit to Veritaserum for this questioning—”

“Yes.”

“—what?” Harry furrowed his brows.

“Yes, I want Veritaserum,” Timothy clarified, to the surprise of the entire room.

“Alright, then.” Susan cleared her throat after a pause. “Auror Wilder, would you mind?”

The Junior Auror nodded and left the room. Harry turned back to the young, nervy Unspeakable.

“Can I ask why you’re so eager for it?”

Timothy hesitated, his eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Susan.

“Don’t tell them I asked for it,” he said, his eyes turning from wary to pleading. “Tell them you forced it on me. Please.”

Harry frowned. “We don’t discuss cases with other convicts.”

“They’ll know. Please, write it in my file,” he begged, nodding to the parchments, since he couldn’t point. Harry and Susan looked at each other, concerned.

“Are you saying you know how they’d get access to a file like this?” Harry asked.

“No, I wasn’t in surveillance. But I know there is surveillance. I know they heard you planning your attack on the Department, and sent enough trichloromethane gas through the air vents to knock out three dragons.” Timothy’s voice descended gradually into a whisper, eyeing the corners of the room nervously. “Fuck it, they can probably hear me right now, anyway, fuck, I’m dead—”

“Timothy,” Susan held up her hand to halt his spiral. Harry pulled out his wand and cast several strong silencing and privacy charms on the room. “You’re under extremely high security, no one is getting near you with ill intent.”

“This is their playground, Bones,” Timothy retorted, fear translating easily to resentment. “They’ve been here for centuries, they’re everywhere. You can throw me in Azkaban, call it safe—even that didn’t stop them from taking what they wanted, did it?”

Auror Wilder returned with a vial of Veritaserum and a small glass of water. Harry reset the charms, and flicked his wand at Timothy to release his magical handcuffs.

Timothy let out a short breath of relief, holding his wrists to his chest and rubbing away the soreness. The loose sleeve of his prisoner’s robe fell to his elbow, and he flinched, seeing the stark black ink of the Dark Mark on his own arm.

Wilder set the glass of water on the table, broke the wax seal of the vial, uncorked it, and carefully added two drops. He pulled a slip of parchment out of his pocket and handed it to Harry, who slipped it into Timothy’s file—the waiver of permission to use Veritaserum, which Harry knew would be signed by Ron himself. It was protocol. ...These days.

He slid the glass over to Timothy, who quickly knocked back the whole thing.

Susan held out her hand for the file, and Harry handed it over. She pulled out blank parchments and a quill to take notes. Harry waited a moment for her to be ready, and for the potion to settle in. She eventually gave him a quick nod, and they both turned their attention back to the former Unspeakable.

“What is your name?” Susan asked mechanically, quill poised over the file.

“Timothy Andrew Bentley.”

“What is your date of birth?”

“The eleventh of October, 1985.”

“Do you know why you’re under arrest?”

“Yes. I am an Unspeakable, arrested on charges of kidnapping, false imprisonment of children, resisting arrest, conspiracy, and accessory of attempted murder as part of a legally-defined crime syndicate.”

“Good,” Harry nodded, waiting for Susan to finish writing. “Let’s start at the beginning. How did you become involved with the Unspeakables?”

“I went to the Department of Mysteries after I graduated school and asked for a job. Two years ago.”

“Why there?”

“I’d always wanted to join them, though I knew nothing about them. I just wanted to learn about anything and everything. I admired their commitment to the pursuit of knowledge.”

“And how did you go from being an excited young academic to… this?” Harry waved his hand vaguely across the table. Timothy raised his eyebrows, but the truth spilled from his mouth anyway.

“I ignored too many warning signs. I gave up my agency and identity. I was simply a cog in the machine, a soulless brain devoted entirely to the Mysteries. By the time I realized how messed up it all was, I was in too deep. I didn’t have close family or friends who would have helped me, and I knew too much to believe I’d be safe if I just left. I was nothing unless I was a part of the Department.”

Harry waited for Susan to finish writing again. She looked up at Harry when she was done, a thoughtful look on her face.

“Sounds like a cult,” she muttered. Harry nodded grimly.

It sounded like Death Eaters, actually. He thought of the young Draco he’d witnessed last night, excited to be just like his father one day, unwilling or too naïve to heed the warning signs. He thought of the very drunk adult Draco, on the floor in front of Walburga’s portrait—

“I wish I had, every day I wish I’d known better than to follow him and kiss the Dark Lord’s nasty feet. Can you imagine, Harry? If I’d just left, like Sirius did, at sixteen… Sirius had the Potters, though. He had the Order. …Where could I have gone?”

Draco hadn’t had friends who weren’t also in Death Eater families, or Death Eater sympathizers. Defecting would have put his mother at risk, and he had no reason to believe anyone in the Order wouldn’t AK him on the spot, anyway.

One didn’t just get out of being a Death Eater, once that Mark was on their arm. Apparently, one didn’t just get out of being an Unspeakable, either.

“Who is the Master?” Harry asked, moving on.

“I don’t know,” Timothy replied, with an expression of unease.

“What do you know about the Master?”

“They are everyone and no one. No one has ever seen them, none of us have identities or features that differ from one another, except our locations and assignments. Those are given to us by a written memo, signed with the initials of the Department itself. We only know, vaguely, that there is a Master looking out for us, who is the ideal Unspeakable, who guides us along the path of knowledge acquisition. We follow their orders without question.”

“How are they ‘the ideal Unspeakable?’”

“They have ascended beyond the ego, beyond the frivolity and limiting mindset of individualism. They are everyone and no one, and therefore privy to all manner of knowledge, without the constraints of identity and bias.” Timothy sounded like he was reciting something. Harry sighed. The Master sounded like a prat, in his opinion, a pretentious wanker Harry would definitely avoid at parties.

And they definitely sounded like a leader of a cult, with the deferential way Timothy spoke of them.

“Has anyone ever successfully summoned the Master using the modified Mark, or sent themselves to the Master?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know. I certainly haven’t. I haven’t tried. I didn’t want the Mark, but I had to get it.”

“Why?”

“Because I had to,” Timothy replied simply. “We have to be available if we’re required by the Master. They shouldn’t have to come to us.”

“But how can the Master require you if none of you have identities?”

“They wouldn’t require me,” Timothy shook his head slowly, as if Harry were being dense. “They would require us.”

“So, what, they’d summon all of you?”

Timothy shrugged. “As far as I know, they haven’t yet tried.”

Harry pulled his coffee mug close, holding the sides to feel the subtle warmth against his palms. He took a sip as he waited for Susan to finish writing.

“What was your role in the Department?” Harry asked, when Susan gave him another nod.

“I was assigned to Analysis in the Study of Youth, with several others.”

Harry’s hand clenched on the mug. “And what did that entail?”

“Theorizing arithmantic equations to transmute the lifeforce of Youth into something more sustainable and accessible to the Wizarding race.”

Harry’s face twisted in disgust, he couldn’t help it. What utter horseshit.

“We’ll come back to that. What do you know about the Deathly Hallows?”

Timothy’s eyes widened as his voice answered without his input. “They are three very powerful and legitimate magical objects: The Elder Wand, The Resurrection Stone, and The Cloak of Invisibility. When one person masters all three, they become the Master of Death. The only known Master of Death so far is Harry James Potter.”

Susan snapped her head around to stare at Harry in confusion and shock. Harry sighed again. He hadn’t really explained that part to her yet.

“Yeah, I really don’t like that one,” Harry mumbled, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “Why are the Unspeakables after them?”

“To create and study a new Master of Death, one who embraces the potential for prolonged if not eternal life.”

Harry snorted. No, he wasn’t a very committed Master of Death, and the Unspeakables apparently knew that. He also had no idea why they assumed the objects led to immortality. They were just things. They hadn’t kept him alive.

“Who was it that cursed me?”

“I don’t know,” Timothy replied.

“Why did the Unspeakables need Draco Malfoy to get my life’s story from me?” Harry asked, with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know for sure. I think they wanted access to more Death Eaters, and they needed to know everything about you, everything you would never share willingly, because you so obviously do not support the Quest, nor anyone who undertakes it. They already had Lucius, it was easy enough to task him with retrieving that information, even though he was clumsy about it, it got him out of their hair. But now they’re taking more direct approaches.” Timothy’s voice was still emotionless from the Veritaserum, and though this sounded more like musing than anything else, Harry could tell it was a theory he’d given a lot of thought to, and considered truthful.

“Like trying to poison the Minister, and trying to disarm me outside of my home?”

“Yes. I know they planned more, but I don’t know what. They were waiting for the right moment.” Timothy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “They’re very fixated on you, Potter. The Boy Who Lived. If they’re focused on you, collectively, it is because the Master is focused on you.”

Harry hummed and checked the time on the small clock on the wall while Susan scribbled frantically on the parchment. They had about half an hour left on Timothy’s current dose of Veritaserum, and if they didn’t hurry up, they’d be here all day. Harry knew he had a whole queue of convicts with freshly-unlocked minds waiting to be questioned today, and Harry had plans this evening.

He waited for Susan’s nod, and moved on to more efficient questions.

***

Draco had never worked harder for a date. He was rather proud of himself.

I’ll follow you anywhere, Harry had said, on their very first date. Now was the perfect time to see if he’d really meant it.

That bloke at the International Portkey Office could probably go on a holiday, with the amount of bribe money Draco had shelled out to get these Portkeys today. He pulled them out of his pocket and set them on his bureau as he dressed: an American muggle coin, and a plastic thimble.

The American coin would take them directly to a private beach on the Amalfi coast, at six o’ clock sharp. One of his better ideas, honestly. The plastic thimble would take them directly home, at ten.

Because while beach sex sounded fun, Draco didn’t particularly fancy the thought of all that sand in so many crevices, and he loved having Harry spread out on his bed.

Harry had work, tomorrow, anyway. What kind of person planned a date like this on a Monday?

Draco shook himself. Harry had asked, first. Technically. Draco certainly had no problems with it.

He eyed his many suits longingly—he wanted to dress up, to impress, but they were going to a beach, they would be completely alone. It was likely his clothes would come off regardless, at least partially.

Suits were just easier. Safer. Like armour.

He didn’t need armour around Harry.

So he pulled on a white linen shirt with loose, light trousers. Easy. Casual. Relax, Draco, it’s just a fucking date, with the man you love.

But it was his first time in charge of a date. It was his first time taking Harry out and showing him a good time. He wanted everything to go perfectly.

Which, of course, was unlikely, but hopefully everything would at least go well, and Harry would still love him by the end, and be willing to let Draco take him out again. Hopefully.

He made his way to the kitchen to beg Timsy to make treacle tart.

***

Harry sat at his desk, staring longingly into the empty coffee mug.

He was exhausted. The interrogations had gone on too long, as expected. Most of the Unspeakables were much more zealous than Timothy, especially the older ones, and had required a lot more prying. It was now five o’ clock, and he still had a report to finish, and correspondence to sort through.

Draco hadn’t mentioned a time, but Harry hoped he wasn’t making him wait. Draco had only said he’d pick him up later tonight. He had no idea what Draco had planned, which would have been nerve-wracking if it was anyone else, but it was Draco, who loved him, who wouldn’t make him do anything he was uncomfortable with. Probably.

Harry sighed and set the mug aside, picking up a pen to finish that damned report.

He was interrupted by a fluttering noise and a sharp tap of parchment against his forehead. He swatted at the annoying memo—why did they always have to assault him like that—and snatched it roughly out of the air.

Crisp and clean ivory, a standard Ministry memo. He thought about throwing it into the pile of correspondence he was putting off, but decided it was a welcome distraction from the boring report. He unfolded it carelessly, flattening it against his desk, to find apparition coordinates scrawled in a familiar, elegant script.

+51.5, -0.12, London
5:30p

DM

The corners of Harry’s lips twitched into a shy, excited grin. So dramatic.

He looked around at his desk; that report needed only a couple more notes, he could definitely put off the rest of his memos, it was only Monday, anyway…

He quickly scribbled the rest of the report and sent it off to Ron’s desk. He grabbed the note and hurried down to the floos, unable to keep the silly grin off his face. He had barely enough time to stop at Grimmauld and change his shirt, the trousers were clean, they’d have to do—

“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

He was sucked through the floo network and spat out in the reception room of Grimmauld. The sconces lit reluctantly upon his arrival, and he ignored them, jogging up the stairs to find a suitable shirt. Maybe even a button up. Wow, Harry. A button up. And off the clock, too.

Clean shirt donned, Malfoy signet dangling prominently outside of the open collar, he stopped in front of the mirror and tried to fix his hair—then scoffed at himself, what was he doing, there was no fixing that mess, only Timsy had ever managed it with mysterious and currently unavailable house elf magic. He glanced at the note he’d deposited on the top of his bureau, memorizing the coordinates.

He felt giddy. He felt like a schoolboy, with a crush who’d just passed him a flirty note in class. Typical, for Draco to make him feel like this. As if this was new, as if they hadn’t just explosively confessed their love for each other the night before, as if they weren’t already dating.

Pull it together, Harry.

He hustled back downstairs, as quietly as he could to not wake Walburga, and made his way out the door, quickly locking it behind him. He took a deep breath, shaking out his hands. He put his fingers on his wand, still in its holster. He concentrated on those coordinates, and apparated.

He landed smoothly in what looked like a high-class restaurant, and froze—his heart sank rapidly as he felt the distinct, menacing tingle of anti-apparition wards closing in all around him, turning his stomach.

Draco looked up, from a table for two in the middle of the room, and smiled.

***

Draco glanced at his watch: half past five. He needed to get over to Grimmauld—fuck, he hadn’t even told Harry what time he should be ready by, what if he was still at work? Then Draco would have to go snatch him from the Ministry, which meant he really needed to hurry.

Draco grabbed the portkeys, shoving the return journey thimble in his pocket and holding the American coin tight in his hand. He rushed to the floo, shrinking Timsy’s provided picnic basket on the way and stuffing that in his pocket, too, along with his wand. He pinched a small handful of floo powder and threw it into the grate, stepping in and calling out the name.

“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

The floo deposited him smoothly in the reception room of the gloomy, ornate house, the sconces lighting up excitedly upon his arrival.

Not particularly eager to wake his great aunt again, Draco slipped stealthily up the stairs to Harry’s room. The door was already half open.

“Harry…?”

Silence. Draco clicked his tongue, about to turn around and head for the Ministry, but his eyes caught on a glint of gold buttons on the floor.

He furrowed his brows, picking up Harry’s discarded, bundled uniform shirt. It still carried Harry’s scent, strongly enough that he might have just taken it off. Draco looked around, but the trousers were nowhere in sight, nor was the leather wand holster, he usually kept that on top of the bureau—

Draco picked up the crisp ivory parchment, examining the script. Why did this handwriting look familiar?

+51.5, -0.12, London
5:30p

DM

Draco stared at it a moment more, his brain whirring. That’s why it looked familiar—it looked like his own handwriting. It was signed with his own initials.

It was obviously not written by him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Draco growled, crumpling the paper in his fist, his heart rate accelerating. He stormed back down the stairs.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—

After everything. Merlin, they’d been so close to having a simple, easy night out. Draco had been so excited to sweep Harry off his feet to a place he knew he wanted to go, kiss him as much as he wanted, praise him until he blushed crimson and relax, get away from all of this. But of course, of course, Draco Malfoy would have to work much harder than that.

It was worth the work, obviously. And wherever Harry was, Draco knew he’d probably be feeling like an idiot, right about now, because Draco had told him, he would pick him up, why would he have bothered with a mysterious Ministry memo?

Well, he might have. For the effect, of course, a little spice. But still, he’d said… And whoever had wanted to get Harry alone had known exactly how to do it. It was easy enough to replicate handwriting with magic.

He flung open the front door and stood on the step, palming his wand. He concentrated hard on the coordinates, twisted on his heel, felt the start of the awful apparition squeeze—

And nearly fell over as he was shoved out of it and back onto the doorstep of Number Twelve.

Draco swore loudly, furious and disoriented, and stumbled back inside toward the floo.

He grabbed a handful of floo powder and threw it into the ostentatious fireplace, stepping into the green flames, his blood boiling with rage at the sorry fucker who dared try to take his happiness away from him, so soon after he finally grasped it.

“Minister Shacklebolt’s Office!”

Monday, 29 May (cont.)

Harry knew instantly that the beautiful man sitting alone at the table in the middle of this weird restaurant was not Draco.

Sure, he looked like Draco. He sat like Draco did, elegant and cool, long limbs and perfect posture. And when he saw Harry, he smiled widely, beaming at him, like seeing Harry was the best part of his day, like he’d been looking forward to this for so long.

But it wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t anything like the Draco Harry had experienced last night.

He stayed in his seat, watching Harry closely, confident and casual but holding tension in his hands and neck, ready for something. Harry saw the slim fingers twitch for a wand, the grey eyes flash with something predatory. The smile on his face fit like a mask: fulfilling a purpose, not expressing an emotion.

Had Harry always paid this much attention to Draco’s tiniest details?

Wrong-Draco wasn’t the only problem with this situation. It wasn’t even the obvious anti-apparition wards, making his skin crawl: there were too many doors in this room. Too many solid wood doors and no windows, dimly lit with candles and sconces. Perhaps typical for a bourgeois place like this, but not for anywhere Draco would want to go. And this Draco was sat at a table directly in the middle of the room—a table for two, the only available chair with its back to the main entrance.

Draco had never, and would never make him sit with his back to a door, in an unfamiliar place.

Harry’s hand fidgeted, fighting the urge to draw his wand, his mind racing. He didn’t know how many of the people in this room were in on this trap, but no one would try to take him on by themselves, like this, not without that horrific potion they’d slipped him last time, or Disillusionment charms and a safe distance. He knew the second he reached for his wand, spells would fly—most likely dozens of disarming charms or killing curses, whichever came to their minds first. If this was the work of Unspeakables, which was the most likely scenario, the wand was what they were after.

If they disarmed him of his holly wand, the Elder Wand was theirs—they already had it, of course, but Harry doubted it was working for them. The only reason Voldemort hadn’t mastered it was because Harry had faced him defenselessly, sacrificing himself. He’d let Voldemort kill him, nothing was taken from him. He couldn’t be disarmed if he wasn’t armed.

Fuck, Draco was going to murder him for this.

But wards had definitely gone up upon his arrival—no one could get in or out. The sharp-dressed man at the table was definitely not Draco, and this high-class underground dining room was full of either innocent civilians or belligerent Unspeakables. He couldn’t fight his way out of this, he couldn’t run. He’d walked right into a trap, like an idiot, and he had only one option, now: stall.

He slowly, carefully, reached for his wand holster. At least twenty heads snapped towards him, all of the room's occupants halting their conversations. Damn.

At least there weren’t any civilians.

He unbuckled the holster from his waist, then his thigh, as too many threatening eyes pierced him. Wand and leather fell to the floor, loud in the suddenly silent room.

Harry took a deep breath, hyper-aware of the eyes and probably wands trained on him, and started walking toward the empty seat, across from Not-Draco.

Not-Draco’s eyes never left him, that excited smile still plastered on his face as Harry pulled out the chair and sat down, squashing the panic building in his gut. He couldn’t panic. He knew where his enemies were, what they were doing, and what they wanted. It was much easier to face them, when he knew they were there.

Not-Draco cocked his head to the side, leaning forward in his seat, folding his hands as he studied Harry curiously.

“I wondered if you’d come,” he said, in a perversion of Draco’s low, smooth voice. Harry cringed a little. “You must have been very excited, I heard you telling your fellow Auror about your plans this evening. I’m sorry to disappoint. Is this not good enough?” He motioned over his body, over a suit that looked like Draco’s, white-blond hair artfully swept like Draco’s, with graceful hands that moved like Draco’s.

“No,” Harry replied, ready to keep this arrogant prat chatting away all night, until someone realized he was missing, and would hopefully see that note on the bureau, and then send loads and loads of backup. “I have much more exacting tastes.”

“Indeed,” Not-Draco nodded, lifting Draco’s lips in a knowing smirk. “Well, no matter. I’d thought you might like this one, but it’s all the same to me.”

Not-Draco closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and Harry watched with barely concealed horror as his skin darkened to a sepia colour, black bleeding into his platinum hair and twisting it with wide, chaotic curls. His jaw and nose widened and squared, sprouting dark stubble along the jawbone, and a jagged, distinct scar trailed down his forehead, cutting through his right eyebrow.

That was horrific enough, but then Not-Harry’s shoulders became more broad, the muscles growing beneath the slim cut suit, straining the snugly-tailored fabric. Then his clothes morphed, too, into exactly what Harry was wearing at the moment. A silver chain snaked around his neck, carrying a signet ring, gleaming with emeralds.

This was, already, so much worse than Harry had imagined.

Not-Harry shook out his new hair, smiling at the feel of it, his eyes still closed as he adjusted to his new body. He rested his hands on top of the table; Harry saw the words, I must not tell lies, writing themselves on the back of the right hand. Harry lifted his gaze back up, and met an identical, vibrant green one, glasses and all. Not-Harry smiled, and Harry hoped to Merlin he never actually looked that wrong when he smiled.

A metamorphmagus. It was the only explanation he could think of, because Polyjuice certainly didn’t work like that. He’d never before seen a metamorphmagus who could transform their clothes, though. Tonks had used costumes, and her son kept accidentally destroying his clothes by transforming into something they wouldn’t fit, or just something that would tear them up.

It was magic unlike anything Harry had ever seen. That, or it was the most impressive wandless transfiguration he’d ever seen.

“Are you tired of being Him all the time?” Not-Harry asked, in Harry’s voice, stirring something in Harry’s brain. “Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived.” His full lip curled in a condescending smile. “The hero,” he added, like prodding a dying fire.

“Ah,” Harry nodded with understanding, unsettled and annoyed. “You’re the one who cursed me. Congratulations on that, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Not-Harry said. “It took a great deal of time, knowledge, and coordination. I won’t apologize for it, either—you seemed to have enjoyed yourself well enough.”

“It’s not me you’d need to apologize to.”

“Oh, come on, I think I ended up doing Mr. Malfoy a favour—”

“Healer,” Harry corrected. “Healer Malfoy.”

“Of course, he’s very proud of that title,” Not-Harry murmured. His voice, exactly like Harry’s and yet so far from it, crawled over Harry’s skin like ants. “Unlike you. I’m pretty sure you loathe your titles.”

“I didn’t choose them.”

“Perhaps not, but you carry them anyway.”

Harry didn’t answer, his mind too busy brainstorming ways out of this, ways to stall.

“And what title should I use with you?” Harry asked. Not-Harry’s smile widened.

“Some refer to me as Master, though I confess I can’t truly claim it, yet. Being the Master of my Unspeakables is one thing, but becoming the Master of Death is something else entirely, as I’m sure you know.”

“Right,” Harry sighed, cursing up a storm inside his head. At least, one way or another, this would all end tonight. Small comfort.

He felt something settle inside him, a grim sort of resolve, as he promised himself he would make it out of this alive. He had a date to attend to.

He had a lot to attend to, actually.

Oh. Harry could feel the beginnings of anger, now, a familiar righteous indignation he was used to feeling toward the criminals he lived to bring down. It usually came hand in hand with what Draco dubbed the insufferable hero complex, it was the adrenaline that filled him when he needed to fight for someone.

He didn’t think he’d ever felt it on his own behalf, like this.

“Well, Lucius took credit for your handiwork, you know,” Harry muttered.

“Yes, I knew he would. He’s far too self-absorbed to take on the glamour of the Unspeakable. I had to do it myself, otherwise you would have just hunted Lucius. I needed much more than Auror Potter.” The Master sat back in their chair, rubbing their chin, Harry’s chin. Even the rasping sound of the calloused palm over stubble sounded familiar, and so wrong. “He was an interesting piece to play though, wasn’t he? What a character.”

“That’s one word for it,” Harry grumbled. Draco would have definitely tried to pick him up, by now… probably. Would he go to the Ministry? To Ron? Harry hadn’t really left anything behind, except that note on the bureau—

“I don’t get to play him often, but he’s easy enough. I’d even go so far as to say it is fun, slipping into the caricature that is Lucius Malfoy,” they said, and Harry couldn’t look away as they started to morph yet again, black curls lengthening and lightening, the brown skin turning paler, until green eyes melted back to grey, and Harry faced the sight of Lucius Malfoy, in his prime. He couldn’t help the grimace of distaste.

Lucius hadn’t looked like that, though, in at least twenty years. In fact, he didn’t look that much older than Harry.

He looked like Draco—if Draco had embraced his family’s pureblood mania, and given up his soul, and never laughed.

They reached up to the nape of their neck and collected Lucius’ long, white hair in their hand, bringing it over their shoulder and smoothing it on their chest, a stark contrast against dark, thousand-galleon robes.

“He does not use contractions, when he speaks,” Lucius’ voice sounded from their throat, and Harry suppressed a shudder. “Have you noticed? He is a Malfoy, and therefore must take up as much of the air around him as possible.”

Harry shook his head slowly, pressing his lips together. This was fucked up. The Master hummed softly, and started rolling up the sleeve on their left forearm.

“I am sure he would be willing to demonstrate it for you, himself, Mr. Potter,” they said. Harry’s eyes widened. “My friends here are quite eager to see him, anyway.” They motioned around the room, at the many wands now openly trained on Harry’s face, the hostile eyes that Harry knew did not belong to any of them.

“Wait,” Harry said quickly, holding up his hands. “I don’t need a demonstration.”

“No? Not too fond of him, are you?”

“He’s tedious,” Harry remarked, as idly as he could. “He requires too much attention, and I’m not done with our conversation.”

Not-Lucius grinned mischievously, as if Harry had finally agreed to play their game.

“I suppose that is fair,” they said, leaving their sleeve half rolled up, resting their arm on the table, a threatening reveal of half a Dark Mark. “Have it your way, Potter. It is the least I can do, considering. Who would you prefer to have this conversation with?”

“You,” Harry answered, his brows furrowed.

“You cannot converse with everyone and no one simultaneously.”

“Bring out just you, then. When was the last time you wore your own face?”

“1985, I believe,” they mused. Harry raised his eyebrows. This arsehole was a walking contradiction. Everyone and no one, but only one person can answer a question like that.

“What happened?”

“I let go of it,” they answered matter-of-factly. “I outgrew it, I became much more and much less. It is an ongoing process.”

Their face morphed again, too quickly, through too many people, Harry couldn’t keep track of them all—a familiar-looking mediwitch from St. Mungo’s, a rat-faced reporter, Collins from registration, Cornelius Fudge, shuffling through faces like a deck of cards. It made Harry’s head spin.

“You’re irritating,” Harry grumbled. “We’ll work our way backwards from there to find out who you are. Irritating.”

They snickered at him, settling back into Lucius’ face, drumming Lucius’ long, pale fingers on the table. “My identity is not your priority.”

“Isn’t it? I’ll need a name to put on all that paperwork, after I put you away.”

“Oh, you won’t have to worry about paperwork, after this, Potter.”

“Overconfident, another piece to your identity.”

“Not any more than you are, I’m afraid.” They curved Lucius’ thin lips in a derisive, disdainful grin.

“Why are you doing this?” Harry pressed, his patience cracking. “Why on earth would you want immortality? Why do you think I can give it to you?”

“You are the one holding the knowledge, of course.”

“But why—”

“Because it is right,” they cut him off. “Because it is the next natural step in our evolution. Because it will preserve our race and increase our numbers. ‘The last enemy to be destroyed is Death.’”

Harry groaned and rubbed his face in frustration. Quoting his parents’ graves, honestly. What a prick.

The Master, still in Lucius’ form, scrutinized him from across the table, slim fingers still tapping absently on the tablecloth. Harry could see the Mark peeking out from beneath the sleeve of the imitation robes. The pale brows knit together in concentration, watching him.

“You’re not afraid of Death, are you?”

“No,” Harry scoffed, shaking his head. “Old friends, he and I.”

“Hmmm,” they tilted their head to the side, like they were trying to solve a riddle. “We have that in common.”

“For someone who isn’t afraid of Death, you sure are working hard to avoid him,” Harry retorted, leaning forward. Keep talking.

“I do not fear my enemy.”

“Then why won’t you face him?”

The Master wavered, grey eyes flashing brown so fleetingly Harry would have missed it if he hadn’t been staring. Harry couldn’t read the emotions that came over their face, they were too quickly suppressed—a very Lucius trait. The expression smoothed once more into eager curiosity, smug confidence.

“One would think that out of everyone, Potter, you would be Death’s greatest foe,” they murmured. “After all, Death seems to have taken more from you than most.”

Harry pressed his lips together. He didn’t dignify that with an answer.

Their eyes shifted into a viridian green. “Do you not wish to have it all back? Do you not dream of saving them?” The white hair was swirling into red, the body shrinking, the face softening. When they spoke again, it was with a voice Harry had only heard in dreams, and nightmares.

“What a brave man you’ve become, Harry,” Not-Lily-Potter said, smiling. Harry felt he might be sick, not real, not real— “I’m so proud of you.”

“Stop it,” Harry said weakly. Not-Lily laughed, her hair darkening again, her shoulders widening, the jaw squaring and sprouting dark hair, neatly trimmed. Tattoos inked themselves into a peek of flat chest behind an open shirt collar.

“You wouldn’t even give me a chance, Harry?” Not-Sirius-Black pouted, and Harry couldn’t breathe. “We hardly had any time to be a family, before Death stole me from you. Why don’t I deserve eternal life?”

“Enough,” Harry growled, his hands shaking. Not real, not real, but it still hurt so fucking much, this was so unbelievably twisted.

Blue-grey eyes widened, sparkling with triumph.

“Oh, this one hurts.” They tucked a lock of long, dark hair behind the ear and leaned forward. Harry wished he’d never seen this, that he could scrub the sight of Sirius looking so wrong from his brain.

And at the same time, through the nausea and the heartache, he couldn’t make himself look away. How they managed to imitate every miniscule detail of a dead man, Harry would probably never know: the greying hair at the temples and chin, the perpetual tiredness of his eyes, the lopsided, roguish grin. Harry fought viciously with himself, because it was not real, but Harry had forgotten about the tattoos on his hands, they had blurred in his memory over time, and why couldn’t he indulge? Just for a moment, just to look—

“No,” Harry said. It was the same as Not-Draco: Sirius may have had a smile like that, but he looked at Harry differently. Not-Sirius’ smile was fabricated, emotionless; he didn’t love Harry. Harry at least remembered the way Sirius had looked at him, and this wasn’t it, wasn’t even close. “Enough. What do you want?”

“You know what I want, Harry,” Not-Sirius replied silkily. “If you won’t give it to me, I’ll have to climb into your head and take it. For the greater good, you understand.”

“I can’t give you immortality, and you already have loads of power. Why am I here?” Harry gripped the edge of the table to still his hands.

“You’re here because I grew tired of the chase, Harry.” They leaned in even more, and Harry tried not to recoil. “You have something I want, something I need: knowledge, which you are selfishly withholding from the Wizarding race.”

“I am not immortal! Those bloody Hallows did not keep me alive!”

“No?” They folded their hands under their chin, those wrong eyes gleaming with excitement, watching Harry’s temper rise. “Then what did?”

“Nothing, you bastard. I died.”

“Obviously, something went wrong,” they argued idly.

“And that had nothing to do with magical artifacts or knowledge, and everything to do with the ignorance of a power-hungry Dark Wizard who tried to make himself immortal.”

“Oh? Then what did you do with the Stone? I know you used it.”

“I summoned an escort,” Harry said. His eyes were burning, his throat too tight. “They escorted me to my death. I did not grant anyone life, I did not resurrect the dead.”

“Fascinating,” they breathed. “If you were not so self-obsessed, you would make a wonderful Unspeakable.”

Harry rolled his eyes, fighting back tears, a piercing ache in his heart. He’d never imagined having to fight with someone wearing his godfather’s face.

“Are you sure you know the difference between self-obsession and self-worth?” Harry countered.

“I know that both are to be avoided at all costs,” they said lightly, pulling out a very familiar wand. Harry stiffened. “Just look at what a combination of both in excess has created.”

Without warning, they yanked up their sleeve, and pressed the tip of the Elder Wand to the mouth of the skull, on a Dark Mark that should not have been on Sirius Black’s arm.

“Veni ad me, Lucius.”

Harry held his breath. There was no way. Lucius’ Mark wasn’t active, Harry’d seen it himself. This place was smothered in anti-apparition wards. There was no fucking way—

A loud, tearing crack rent the air, followed by an agonized cry, and Harry snapped his head around to see Lucius Malfoy—the real one, dulled by incarceration and age, in gritty prisoner’s robes—appearing on the floor, screaming with pain and clutching his arm.

Harry knew what would happen before it did. The wands already trained on them, held by heartless Unspeakables feeling personally slighted by Lucius’ blundering mistakes in the Department of Mysteries, lit up the room with spellfire. Harry couldn’t decipher all the curses, but it didn’t matter, his hand was already reaching—

“Protego.” Magic poured down the veins of Harry’s arm, shooting through his fingertips.

The spells hit the dome-like shield around Lucius and quelled. Harry didn’t even have time to ponder the outrageousness of protecting someone like Lucius Malfoy. Threatening eyes quickly returned to him; Harry felt the hairs on his arms stand up as wands were redirected back to him. His arm remained outstretched, holding the wandless shield charm over Lucius’ quaking, whimpering form, huddled in on himself on the floor.

“Impressive,” the Master noted, with Sirius’ rough, painfully familiar voice. They removed the Elder Wand from their arm. “How long do you think you can hold it up?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. The answer was not much longer. Stalling was no longer an option—which meant he was completely out of options.

“Disappointing, isn’t he?” they muttered, glaring down at Lucius. “He’d been so promising, back then. Inspiring, even.”

“I’m sure,” Harry growled. Not-Sirius looked back up at him and smiled, watching the muscles quake in Harry’s arm.

“It would be easier with your wand, no?” Their eyes glinted with anticipation.

“It’s all the same to me,” Harry lied. They let out a condescending chuckle.

“Why are you afraid of me, O Master of Death? You’ve never lost a duel before.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Harry said calmly, his hand shaking with the effort of holding the wandless shield, steadily ignoring the part of him that screamed let go, let them have him, he deserves it—

“Then why won’t you face me?” Not-Sirius countered, rolling the Elder Wand between their palms, making clicking noises against Sirius’ usual assortment of rings. Harry wondered if it would still answer to him, if it would remain loyal even when wielded against him, like it had when he was seventeen.

In the corner of Harry’s eye, Lucius was watching him, his face white with fear and awe. Harry wasn’t even fully convinced that was actually Lucius—he’d never seen Lucius cower like this. One would have thought he’d be at least a little excited, having just been busted out of prison for the third time.

He pondered how much magical power it would require to apparate through these wards, perhaps if he shoved the table into Not-Sirius and dove for his wand, but then he’d have to drop the Protego, he’d have to side-along Lucius, that required even more power, he’d likely be splinched—

The Master’s eyebrows raised in surprise, transforming Sirius’ stolen face with an unsettling glee. They looked down at the Mark on their arm, where the inky snake was twisting and thrashing, tiny wisps of smoke rising from singeing skin. They didn’t seem to notice the pain at all.

“Oh, wonderful,” they said, blatant excitement in their tone. They aimed the Elder Wand directly at Harry’s head, almost absentmindedly. “I have been looking forward to seeing him again.”

***

Draco stepped smoothly out of the Minister’s fireplace, not a speck of soot on his clothes. He spared a half-second to take in the scene he’d interrupted—a boring meeting with Wizengamot members, it looked like, with Kingsley himself frozen mid-sentence—and strode out of the office without a word.

He heard Kingsley call his name as he closed the door behind him, but he didn’t stop, storming his way through the corridors and into a lift, down to the dreaded DMLE.

The corridors were emptier than they were during the day, but people still swerved out of his way, eyes wide with awe. He wasn’t even wearing a suit. In fact, he’d never gone out in anything more casual in his life. His mother would be so disappointed. Probably.

He marched past the reception desk and into the Auror Headquarters, fuming and terrified, and made a beeline for the Head Auror’s office. The stony secretary looked mildly alarmed, but didn’t impede him. He didn’t bother to knock before swinging the door open.

“—need to do something! I told you, he shouldn’t be there, he can’t forget—Draco!” Boran turned away from a shocked and confused Ron Weasley and ran over to a shocked and confused Draco instead. Agatha watched with anxious eyes, biting her thumbnail. With both hands, Boran grabbed Draco’s fist, which was still clenched around an American coin and a crumpled parchment.

“Draco, something’s wrong with Harry, I saw it—”

“I know, love,” Draco cut him off, removing his hand from the doorknob to squeeze the boy’s shoulder. He looked back up at Ron, whose face fell at whatever he saw in Draco’s expression.

“So that’s real, then,” Ron mumbled. Draco glared at him.

“Of course it is. Boran’s not a liar, Ron.”

“Not what I meant, Draco. I literally just saw Harry, what, half an hour ago? How much trouble could he have gotten into in half an hour?”

Draco raised an eyebrow, and Ron groaned, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Yeah, you’re right. Stupid question.”

Draco removed his fist from Boran’s hold, patting his small hands reassuringly. He walked over to the desk and deposited the ivory parchment in front of Ron, then frowned at the warm coin in his hand.

“Ron, what time is it?”

Ron glanced at a clock on the wall. “Just six, why?”

Draco inhaled sharply as the coin started to glow blue, dropping it quickly, just in time for it to flash and disappear to Italy. He sighed, staring woefully at the place it had vanished.

“What was that?” Ron asked.

“What should have been a lovely evening,” Draco answered grimly. Ron gave him a pitying look, and flattened the crumpled parchment on his desk, reading it over a few times. Boran stepped up and grabbed Draco’s hand again, looking worried.

“You didn’t send him this,” Ron deduced, and Draco shook his head. Ron shuffled through some loose files on his desk, pulling one out and flipping through its contents. Draco recognized his own notes from Legilimency sessions, though not which individual they were for.

Ron held the mysterious note next to the file.

“They mimicked your handwriting,” he muttered, frowning. “Signed your initials.” He chewed on his lip for a second, then started pulling out more notes from the file.

“Damn it, Harry,” Ron grumbled to himself, taking a deep breath, holding up a page. “He told you exactly how they were assigned locations, you couldn’t take a moment to think—”

Draco snatched the page out of his hands to inspect it.

HP: What do you know about the Master?

TB:“They are everyone and no one. No one has ever seen them, none of us have identities or features that differ from one another, except our locations and assignments. Those are given to us by a written memo, signed with the initials of the Department itself…”

Yes, that was exactly what Harry had been sent. He tossed the page carelessly onto the desk.

“Boran,” Draco said, kneeling down to face him. The kid looked so distressed, but Draco’s presence seemed to have halted the hysteria for now. “What did you see?”

“Auror Potter went somewhere he wasn’t supposed to,” Boran replied immediately. Draco nodded slowly.

“Anything else?” Draco asked, as calmly as he could. “Do you know what the place is, or who he’s with?”

Boran’s face scrunched up, little brows furrowed in concentration as he closed his eyes to remember. “There’s lots of tables. Like a restaurant. You’re in the middle, but it’s not really you.” He paused, the corner of his mouth turning down. “I think he knows that, though. He wasn’t happy to see you, like he usually is.”

Draco found it hard to breathe, a heavy hand wrapping around his heart and squeezing.

“There’s lots of people, and none of them are happy, and none of them are real.”

“‘None of them are real?’” Draco parroted. His voice cracked.

“People without faces.” Boran’s face was tensing with fear, so Draco squeezed his shoulder again, making him open his eyes.

“Thank you, Boran,” Draco said, glancing at a terrified-looking Agatha. “That’s very helpful.”

“Have you tried these coordinates, Draco?” Ron piped up, his face grim and cold. Draco nodded.

“Wards.”

Ron clicked his tongue in irritation. “‘Course. Guess we’ll just have to break our way in.” He took a galleon out of his pocket and pointed his wand at it, frowning as he concentrated on a message. “Right. Boran, thank you. You and your mum should probably stay here till we have them all rounded up, okay? Patricia will show you where.”

Boran nodded quickly, leaving Draco’s side to take his mother’s hand. Ron started shuffling around in a hurry; Draco heard the sounds of Aurors rushing back and forth outside the door, calling orders to each other.

Draco felt cold. It was all starting to catch up with him, now that his anger was tipping over into fear. Harry was alone with the Master of Unspeakables, who Draco knew was capable of many horrors, and apparently on Polyjuice or something. He was surrounded by enemies on all sides. He was alone. Outnumbered. Trapped. Unsafe.

Draco stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking, but then got too restless, so he picked up a random file from Ron’s desk to busy himself. The shaking only worsened when he saw the name at the top:

Lucius Malfoy, Azkaban Prisoner #356, Security Level: 10

Of all the files to pick up. He pursed his lips, his eyes scanning down a recent report, clearly written in Harry’s handwriting—he recognized the messy scrawl from the notebook he still kept locked in his desk drawer at home.

Unspeakables trying for immortality — using Hallows? Lucius had info on “Master of Death,” but didn’t believe in their Quest
Used Lucius as blueprint for modified Dark Mark
“Theirs is stronger”
“allows them to find and call upon their Master”
anyone with Dark Mark can call the Master, and apparate directly to them, as long as they hold a wand

This was absolutely not helping Draco stay calm. How convenient of Harry to keep that little detail from him.

“Ron.”

“Yeah—wait, no, Draco, you’re not coming—”

“Ron.” Draco held up the page. “I can get in.”

Ron’s blue eyes widened as he turned to face him. “Draco, no.”

“Have you got a better idea? He’s alone, trapped, and outnumbered. How long do you want to bet on them chatting while you hurry and raise a little army?”

“And, what, you think going in by yourself, trapping yourself in there with him, is going to be of any help?”

“I can at least stall, Ron. Get me a Portkey location pin to activate once I’m in, then no one has to waste time breaking down wards—”

“That still takes time, Draco, time in which you will be just as trapped and outnumbered as he is, and he’ll have to worry about protecting you instead of himself.”

“I’m perfectly capable—”

The office door burst open again, revealing one Minister Shacklebolt, wide-eyed with a sheen of sweat on his bald head, as if he’d run here. Ron huffed in frustration, muttering something about getting a new secretary.

“Lucius,” Kingsley panted, rushing in with an official-looking sheet of parchment and handing it off to a bewildered, exasperated Ron. Ron scanned it quickly, his mouth falling open. He looked back up at Kingsley, having some sort of silent conversation.

“Lucius what?” Draco pressed, disgruntled. Kingsley blinked at him, a flicker of guilt quickly suppressed.

“He’s escaped.”

“Again?!” Draco nearly roared. Kingsley almost flinched.

“This says he just vanished from his cell, Kingsley,” Ron said, frowning, holding up his hand to halt Draco’s tantrum.

“Apparently, he did. Right in front of a guard. They don’t think it was intentional. He was—screaming, clutching his arm.” Kingsley looked somewhere between chastised and furious. It was he who had promised this wouldn’t happen again, after all.

“So he was stolen from Azkaban, somehow, even with all that extra security, eh?”

“He was stolen every time, Ron,” Draco said, trying to control his temper. Ron rolled his eyes.

An Auror appeared in the doorway. “Ready when you are, boss.”

Ron took a slow, deep breath. He straightened up to his full height and started gathering his hair, pulling an elastic off his wrist and tying it into a bun at the back of his head.

“Draco,” he said softly, “Harry will murder me for this.”

“Not if I murder him first,” Draco grumbled, rolling up his left sleeve, trying not to pay attention to the reactions of the people around him. At least Boran didn’t care what he used to be.

Ron dug around in his desk and pulled out a brass pin with the Ministry logo on it. He pointed his wand at it, muttering more spells under his breath.

“This will activate in ten minutes,” Ron said, handing Draco the pin. “On its own. Try to drop it somewhere there’s enough room for twenty Aurors to appear, where we also won’t immediately be killed.”

No pressure, Draco thought to himself, tucking it into his pocket. He pulled out his wand, but paused, eyeing the sleek silver lime wood.

“Timsy,” Draco called, and the disgruntled elf popped into the office, glaring about being made to break through Ministry wards again. He twitched his nose at Draco.

“Can you please bring me my hawthorn wand?” Draco asked, as politely as he could. Timsy glared harder.

“Master Draco is intending to fight,” he grumbled, because he knew Draco too well—Draco had given up that wand because it had been used too often to hurt. The silver lime wand was meant for healing. Draco didn’t want to taint it with his anger, the cruelty he planned to inflict on those currently hurting Harry.

“Yes,” Draco replied simply. Timsy sighed and popped out of the room, returning a few seconds later with the legendary hawthorn wand.

“Thank you, Timsy,” Draco mumbled, slipping the silver lime wand back into his pocket—just in case.

“Timsy is being unhappy about it.”

“I know.” There wasn’t much Draco could do to soothe him. He had to go. He pushed his sleeve up the rest of the way, trying not to grimace at the ugly, faded brand of his past.

Timsy grumbled again and disappeared. Ron spoke up once more.

“You’ve got to be ready to fight, as soon as you land—”

“I know.”

“Shields before anything, take in the scene—”

“Ron, I survived a war, too,” Draco cut him off, trying to control the shaking in his hands. Ron’s mouth clicked shut, his expression strained. Draco shouldn’t have lashed out at a bloody war hero, especially as someone from the wrong fucking side. But he hated seeing that Mark on his arm, hated being reminded of his mistakes, hated that people assumed he’d had a safe, cushy life, as a member of Voldemort’s inner circle. With Voldemort as a houseguest.

He’d chosen the wrong side, and he hadn’t been any safer for it.

The tendons pulled and tensed under his pale, marred skin. Activating this meant it would become just as dark as it used to be—this would outcast him from society all over again.

He pressed the tip of his hawthorn wand to the mouth of the faded skull. He felt a hum of recognition within the wood—the wand recognizing either him, or the Dark, latent magic inside the brand on his skin.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

His teeth clenched, the tip of the wand dug into his flesh. He’d never done it before, not even during the War, he’d avoided this arm like the plague, hidden it away. He’d only acknowledged this Mark to remind himself of who he was, now, everything he was trying not to be, mistakes to not repeat.

He’d been Harry’s enemy, when this Mark was active.

“Draco,” Ron’s gentle voice sounded from his left side, and he blinked, his lip curling in frustration at himself. Ron didn’t touch him, but moved a little closer.

“S’alright, mate. We’ve got your back, you know we do.”

Draco let out a heavy breath, and imagined Harry’s voice, pulling an ounce of bravery from that bright, loud laugh. Just a little.

“Morsmordre.”

Black ink bled from the mouth of the skull into the surrounding lines, filling the snake with darkness, an inch at a time. The searing, burning sensation threatened to pull him down into flashbacks, but he fought it back, focusing on the sickening magic flowing through his wand, contrasting with the echo of Harry’s laugh in his head.

There hadn’t been an incantation to call Voldemort, back then. He knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t need one for this “stronger, modified” version, either. He only had to focus on his destination—the Master of Unspeakables—and apparate.

***

Another loud crack split the air, and Harry’s stomach dropped as the real Draco landed next to him, immediately removing a familiar wand from his arm and aiming it at Not-Sirius-Black.

“Draco, no,” Harry snarled. Why is he here?! Harry couldn’t protect Lucius and Draco, but both were threatened, both had wands trained on them on all sides, this was too much—he’d obviously choose Draco, if it came down to it, but Draco was currently the only one with a wand—

“Don’t bother, Harry,” Draco said grimly. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes hadn’t moved from his target, determined and furious. Harry’s heart sank as he caught sight of the bold, active Dark Mark on Draco’s exposed left arm.

This was officially his worst nightmare.

“I’m so pleased to finally meet you, cousin.” Not-Sirius made a welcoming gesture, the Elder Wand still trained resolutely on Harry. Harry saw Lucius shudder in his peripheral, and strengthened the shield as much as he could.

“My cousin is dead. And you will be, too, no matter how hard you try to avoid it.” Draco’s hawthorn wand was hardly a foot from their face. Harry could feel the waves of tension rolling off of everyone in the room. Not-Sirius smiled cruelly. Harry frowned as he watched a blush creep onto their cheeks.

“Is that a threat?”

“A fact.”

They both continued their petty intellectual sparring—Harry recognized stalling when he saw it. Harry’s eyes scanned over Draco, cataloguing every inch of him while maintaining the shield. He’d dressed casually, in a loose linen shirt and light trousers. Had he meant to take Harry somewhere warm? His bright hair was a bit tousled and unkempt, as if he’d been running his hand through it too much—he probably had. Where had he come from? Had he come here on his own?

“I could get it from you, I suppose,” Not-Sirius was saying, eyes glinting, “but I’ve come to realize knowledge is more potent from the original source.”

“Knowledge is worthless without understanding,” Draco retorted. “You could spend days in his head, but you will never know him like I do.”

No, Harry hadn’t told Draco about the uses of the new Dark Mark, only that it existed. Perhaps he’d found out in somebody’s mind, but even then, Draco was too smart to barge in here without backup. He’d aimed his wand immediately, he’d known what he was getting into. He was not at all surprised to see Lucius, either, which meant he’d known he would be here, which probably meant the Ministry had gotten wind of his escape.

“I had wondered if this would be the outcome of my interference,” Not-Sirius mused. “Typical of individuals like you to waste precious time, getting sidetracked by their own selfish desires.”

“I didn’t find it a waste of time at all,” Draco muttered, his voice low and flat, his body rigid. “I suppose I ought to thank you, shouldn’t I? He’d never have known me like this if it wasn’t for you.”

Harry really hoped he had backup. There was only one way to find out, at the moment. He slowly opened his free hand, adrenaline filling his veins.

Shit would hit the fan, for certain, if his hunch was correct. Harry was ready for it, he always was. He gave himself a mental countdown in breaths, three, two, one—

He dropped the shield. Accio Portkey pin. It flew out of Draco’s pocket. Harry caught it deftly and flung it into the emptiest corner of the room, as his foot came up and kicked the table forward as hard as he could.

Not-Sirius yelled and lost hold of Sirius’ image as they were thrown backward. Draco dropped to the floor with a protego as spellfire lit up the room. Harry summoned his holly wand as he fell out of his seat, into Draco’s shield, casting another one over a panicked, defenseless Lucius.

A Cruciatus immediately broke through Harry’s shield, and Lucius screamed. Harry grabbed the back of Draco’s shirt to keep track of him, and sent a bombarda in the direction of the Unforgivable. Two tables exploded, three Unspeakables went flying, Lucius’ screams broke into defeated whimpers as he curled into a pitiful ball on the floor.

Draco summoned the table Harry had kicked, off of the groaning, shifting body of the Master, and used it to shield a blind spot. It wouldn’t hold against much—a curse ricocheted off the corner, splintering the wood. Harry held onto him harder than ever.

He peeked over the table, ducked to avoid a hex, and threw a Leg-Locker jinx towards the Master. They rolled just in time to avoid it, their appearance shifting rapidly, making Harry feel ill. He growled and tried again, but they threw themself to the side, and were lost among the sea of frenzied Unspeakables, unrecognizable.

Harry felt more than saw the tip of a wand pointed at him from across the room, on Draco’s other side, and managed to pull Draco down to evade a colourless curse. It hit an Unspeakable on the other side of the room, who screamed as blood spurted from their side in a long slash. Draco huffed and put up another shield. Harry sent another one over Lucius, just in time for a curse to deflect off of it and hit a wall sconce, which exploded, shattering the glass and dousing its light.

“This is officially—” Draco dropped the shield to send out two stunners, one of them hit its target, he quickly put the shield back up, “—my least favourite date—” a hefty jinx cracked the shield and fizzled, Draco reinstalled it, “—so far.”

Harry wholeheartedly agreed, but he had no words to reply, too busy gripping the back of Draco’s shirt, too busy casting and recasting that shield over Lucius, too busy regretting almost every decision he’d ever made.

He caught a glimpse of a reducto headed their way. He dropped Lucius’ shield and threw himself on top of Draco, just as the table exploded, sending shards of heavy wood and metal flying in every direction. Draco grunted under Harry’s sudden weight, and Harry winced as a sharp shred of mahogany sliced open his back, but it was superficial. He could deal.

“With you, Harry,” Draco growled. Not behind you, not beneath you, but Harry couldn’t help it. This was what he knew. His body was moving on instinct alone.

He heard the sharp, whipping sounds of Portkey arrivals, and nearly sobbed with relief, as the occupants of the room doubled, Aurors pouring in next to the brass pin and shooting spells at every corner of the room.

Chaos reigned. The noise was almost deafening. Bodies leapt and fell all around them. Harry accioed Lucius, instead of shielding him again, just in time for Ron to reach them. Ron slapped a Portkey onto Lucius’ chest, jabbed it with his wand, and Lucius barely had time to glance at them in shock before he was sucked away, probably to Azkaban’s hospital wing. Ron gave Harry a quick once over before running back into the fray.

Finally free to fight, Harry rolled off of Draco and sat up on his knees. Draco immediately sat up with him, bracing himself against Harry, back to back.

“With you,” Harry repeated, before launching a nearby table into a group of Unspeakables. He felt Draco reach back and grab his hip, just for the touch, then let loose with the hawthorn wand.

Magic sparked and crackled in the air around them, heating the stifling room. Unspeakables and Aurors dashed in and out of the many doors, interrupting each others’ duels. Harry searched frantically for his real target, the Master, but he didn’t see any sign of Not-Sirius, and he had no idea what else he’d be looking for. He realized they might even appear as an Auror, right now, and felt like he was losing his mind, his wand taking turns aiming at every single person in the room.

A jet of red light flew at him from his left, and deflected off of a shield that Harry hadn’t put there. He reached back and touched Draco’s thigh in silent thanks. He focused on hitting as many Unspeakables as he could with his most powerful stunners, sweat dripping down his back, mingling with blood from his stinging wound.

He could feel Draco’s muscles tensing against his back, and he never thought he’d find both comfort and purpose in the middle of battle, but he sure was glad for it. He’d never actually thought about what it would be like to fight alongside Draco, instead of against or for him, and couldn’t help but wonder, for a split second, what it would have been like to have Draco at his side during the War. But another jet of red light shot from his right, and he quickly ended that train of thought to protego, stupefy, incarcerous. Protego, stupefy, protego, petrificus totalus, incarcerous.

Behind him, Harry heard Draco incanting dozens of creative hexes between shields, thwarting every assault, even as they knelt like sitting ducks in the middle of the room. Draco cast a quick serpensortia and sent the conjured snake behind him—Harry would have laughed, if he wasn’t preoccupied with hissing orders at the gift python and sending it off to bite some ankles.

It might have been minutes, or seconds, or an hour, but Harry still breathed a sigh of relief when Ron sent the final incarcerous after the last fleeing Unspeakable, who fell to the ground with a strangled yelp.

He looked over at Draco as they stood—his wide grey eyes still carried that fire and fury of battle, glancing around at everyone left standing. Harry stiffened immediately. The Master.

Ron stood up straight, his wand still held aloft, watching Draco.

“Draco,” Ron muttered, breathing hard, locks of orange hair falling out of his bun, “there another?”

“Metamorphmagus,” Draco answered quickly, eyes still suspiciously scanning the Aurors, whose wands were all coming up simultaneously, checking each others’ faces and badges. The room was completely silent, except for heavy breaths, and the occasional groan of a captured or injured Unspeakable.

“Accio Elder Wand,” Harry mumbled. He heard a gasp and a faint grunt, and all eyes and wands turned to face a plain, unfamiliar Auror, who must have been under a Notice-Me-Not. Both of her small hands were clasped tight around the Elder Wand.

The Master snarled wildly, knowing they were caught. They clung to the Wand like it was the only thing they had left, which it was.

“Drop it,” Ron ordered, in his scariest Head Auror voice.

“You think you can command the Master of Death?” Their lips twisted in a derisive sneer, their brown eyes frenzied.

“You’re not the Master of Death.” Ron was too professional to roll his eyes, but Harry could hear it in his voice.

“He doesn’t deserve it!” they shouted, losing any scrap of composure they had left.

“Expelliarmus,” Jeffries mumbled lazily, and they snarled again as they flicked up a quick shield to deflect it.

“It is just a wand,” Harry urged, lowering his own. Draco gripped his arm in warning, but Harry dropped the holly wand anyway, making Draco growl faintly and squeeze his arm harder. “You can’t disarm me if I’m not armed. That’s why Voldemort never mastered that wand. It will never give you its full potential.”

“I don’t need to disarm you!” they shot back. “I only need knowledge. I only need what you know, Potter.”

“Enough,” Ron cut in firmly. “It’s over. Drop the wand.”

The Elder Wand swiveled to point at Ron instead.

The cruel leer on the Master’s face started morphing again, into something playful, mischievous.

Their frame lengthened, shoulders widened. The navy Auror uniform transfigured into a faded, hand-me-down t-shirt, followed by a pair of jeans, a little too short. Scuffed trainers replaced dragonhide boots, lanky arms lightened and covered themselves in rust-coloured freckles.

The nearest Aurors took an unconscious step back. Ron was frozen where he stood, the blood draining from his face.

Mousy brown hair shortened and ruffled and brightened into a vibrant orange, brown eyes melting into bright blue and glittering with whimsy and wicked glee.

“Oh, ickle Ronniekins,” Not-Fred-Weasley simpered, paralyzing Ron and Harry both with the sound of Fred’s voice—they’d both forgotten the small, subtle differences in tone from George’s, the hints of fiery defiance and boldness that had distinguished Fred from his slightly-more-diplomatic twin. Harry’s blood ran cold. “The fat lady ain’t singing just yet, is she?”

In his aching, grieving daze, Harry did not have the wherewithal to move, to do anything, in the fraction of a second that Not-Fred-Weasley spun on his heel, teeth bared in the most awful smile he’d ever seen on Fred, and aimed the Elder Wand directly at Harry’s face.

“Obliviate!”

Harry’s body jerked with instinct that his mind couldn’t catch up with, he heard shouts and saw blurs of movement, but they were incomprehensible through the heat-wave haze in his eyes, the sudden disorientation knocking him off balance. He tipped backward and felt himself falling, but strong arms took over for gravity, lowering him carefully to the ground.

Harry blinked as Draco—Draco, Draco—gathered him up in his arms, holding his face close, staring into his eyes with a wild, burning panic.

Let me have this.

Draco was saying something, he was speaking so fast, he looked so upset. Harry was starting to feel confused, but Draco’s gaze was so intense, this was important, he couldn’t look away.

Draco.

Those bright, grey eyes were getting shinier, wetter, a tear was falling down his reddened cheek. Arms were shaking Harry’s shoulders, someone was perhaps calling his name. Was he dying, or something? Again?

That’d be unfortunate.

Everything was so weird, and too much, and he’d had no idea that Malfoy looked that pretty when he cried. Fuck, Malfoy was pretty.

According to Malfoy’s face, something was terribly wrong. Harry had never imagined that Malfoy would ever be this gentle, that he could look at Harry like this, like Harry was the sun, setting too soon. Harry didn’t think anyone had ever looked at him like this.

As far as dreams or hallucinations went, it wasn’t so bad. He could sit through it, see where this went. As long as he didn’t have to stand up, or anything. He was way too dizzy, but that was alright, because he was currently wrapped tight in the arms of a crying Draco Malfoy, for some reason.

“You’re very beautiful, you know,” Harry mumbled, unsure if he was actually speaking aloud. Malfoy let out a sob, so he must have. Harry felt bad. He hadn’t meant to make him cry.

He hadn’t seen him cry since sixth year, in that bathroom—

“I’m sorry,” Harry slurred, from under a nauseating wave of guilt. Malfoy was here, so he might as well say it, he’d never actually said it. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. I didn’t know what that curse did. It was horrible.”

Malfoy was sobbing in earnest, now, and pulling out a wand—when did Malfoy get a new wand? This one looked fancy. Harry saw a flash of red hair appear on his other side, and though his vision was hazy, he knew it was Ron, probably come to save him from Malfoy, but he didn’t really want to be saved. He held his hand up to stop him, feeling a bit drunk.

“Don’t hurt him, Ron,” Harry tried, but got distracted, “Ron, did you know Malfoy was this pretty?”

“Yeah, mate, I know,” Ron answered softly. “If he was a famous Quidditch player, I’d be drooling, wouldn’t I?”

Harry snorted weakly. He hadn’t once looked away from Malfoy’s pretty, blotchy face. “S’true. I think I’ll call dibs, though. If this is real. If he is a Quidditch player, or whatever.”

Malfoy lifted his wand and aimed it at Harry’s forehead. He took a deep, shaky breath, squeezing Harry with his arm. Harry’s eyes widened, but he was too disoriented to do anything about it. His body seemed to think that Malfoy aiming a wand at him was absolutely fine. Perhaps it was. What a novel feeling.

“It’s alright, Harry, I’m going to fix it,” Malfoy said quietly. When did the room get so quiet? It was so noisy, before…

“I like that,” Harry mumbled absently. “Say it again.”

“Harry,” Malfoy obliged, with a feeble grin. More tears were streaming down his cheeks. Harry felt horrible for making him so sad. He was used to making Malfoy generally upset, but never sad. “Darling.”

Whoa. Talk about butterflies.

“It’s alright, you’re safe, darling, I promise,” Malfoy whispered. Somehow, Harry believed him. Could he call him Draco? If he could call Harry darling?

“Liceat mihi ingressum.”

Harry felt something soft and quiet enter his head. Was this Legilimency? It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. This felt like someone had just stepped inside his head and was standing in the foyer, taking a look around. Not fully inside his head, but definitely not outside, either.

He thought he smelled something a little smoky, but not like the scent of a fire—like the smoke of a candle, blown out just before crawling into bed.

It was the most soothing scent he’d ever experienced. He wanted more of it. Was this—Amortentia? He thought he’d smelled something like this, during that raid of the potions dealer—

He felt a sharp, mental tug, and he gasped a little, his arms coming up to brace himself—against what? Against Malfoy? That would be rude—as if politeness had ever mattered around Malfoy—

Another yank, and he hissed, his hands unconsciously grabbing hold of Malfoy’s linen shirt, fuck, I’m wrinkling his nice shirt. Am I bleeding?

Another harsh pull, more painful this time, and he couldn’t stifle the whimper that fell from his lips, that’s embarrassing. I don’t like this dream anymore.

The nice, smoky smell went away, and Harry blinked, Malfoy’s pained face coming into focus once more. Malfoy’s hand rested on Harry’s chest, on top of his new, fancy wand. He looked like he was barely holding himself together. Harry had never seen him look so discomposed.

Malfoy looked up at Ron, which made Harry look at Ron, too. Ron’s face was bloodless and distressed, his blue eyes rounded with fear and guilt. Harry furrowed his brows, confused, a little worried, his grip loosening on Malfoy’s nice shirt.

“I need Hermione,” Malfoy declared. His voice broke, making Harry’s grip tighten all over again.

Monday, 29 May (cont.)

Obliviated. What a bummer. This was certainly the least painful curse Harry had ever been hit with, but it seemed to be the most painful for everyone around him.

Whatever he’d forgotten, must’ve been really important. Especially if he wasn’t even allowed to go back to Grimmauld.

That wasn’t so bad, it turned out. It wasn’t like he’d been looking forward to returning to that gloomy old pile. But according to apparently everyone, he needed to go home with Draco Malfoy, instead. In fact, Malfoy had insisted that Harry not be let out of his sight, the entire evening, from that weird restaurant, to St. Mungo’s, to the DMLE—even though he didn’t look happy to see Harry at all.

Harry couldn’t figure him out, and no one would give him answers. He wasn’t even sure which questions to ask.

He peeked into the picnic basket Malfoy had unceremoniously deposited on Ron’s desk, his mouth watering at the sight of a treacle tart. He closed the wicker lid before he could be tempted to steal Malfoy’s food.

Malfoy hadn’t lost that pinched look on his face all evening. Harry often caught him staring, because he was staring just as much, but Malfoy wouldn’t meet his eyes. Harry had the feeling that this was his own fault, that he’d made everyone upset like this. He’d probably done something reckless and stupid. Again.

“We’ll fix him, Draco,” Harry heard Hermione murmur gently, just outside the door of the Head Auror office. She squeezed his arm in reassurance. Weird. “It won’t be nearly as bad as what I had to do with my parents, you know it won’t. He’s only forgotten a couple of months. You know how to fix this, and together, we’ll be twice as efficient.”

A couple of months.

How much could have happened in a couple of months? As far as Harry knew, his life had been more or less the same, for years.

He sighed heavily. This meant he couldn’t work. What was he supposed to do with his time?

He walked over to Kingsley, who was in the middle of a hushed, grim-sounding conversation with Ron over Ron’s desk.

“—to keep knocking him out, otherwise he just morphs into something that can easily escape. It’s messed up, but it’ll have to do, until we can get him under magic suppressants or dampening wards,” Ron muttered.

“Well, he certainly deserves it,” Kingsley replied in his deep voice, a tinge of fury. “To think, I’ve seen him almost every day, since the first time I stepped into the Ministry back in ‘79. Right under our noses, this whole fucking time—”

“Kingsley,” Harry interrupted. Both of them turned to look at him expectantly, a little wary. “I’m really sorry, but I won’t be able to help you out for a little while. I’m apparently supposed to be kept under lock and key until I remember everything.”

Kingsley hung his head, letting out a long breath through his nose. He put a tentative hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t expect you to do a single thing for me, Harry.”

Harry raised the other eyebrow, full of disbelief. His eyes darted to Malfoy’s figure outside the door. Kingsley caught the movement, and his face flickered with something like guilt.

“Draco is perfectly safe, Harry,” Kingsley said. “Thanks to you, not me.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. Okay, so quite a lot has happened in the last couple of months.

Kingsley nodded once at Ron before sweeping out of the room. He clapped Malfoy absently on the shoulder as he walked away.

Malfoy and Hermione looked back into the office. Malfoy’s face closed off upon meeting his gaze, and Hermione’s got that strained look it usually got when she was too invested in someone else’s problem.

Harry felt like a child. Especially when Malfoy took a deep, fortifying breath, and approached him with that stony, exhausted expression, holding up a plastic thimble.

At least he was no longer covered in Harry’s blood.

“Ready?” Malfoy asked, emotionless. Harry didn’t know what he was talking about, which was not a new feeling, today, so he just nodded, folding his arms over his chest in unconscious defense.

“Portkey,” Malfoy said, motioning with the thimble. He still wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes. Harry nodded again, embarrassed and clueless and out of his depth. He quickly gripped the open side of the thimble between two fingers, marveling at the fact that their fingers were touching, and no one was getting hurt by it.

The thimble glowed blue, and Malfoy closed his eyes, so Harry did, too. He felt the familiar hook and jerk of the Portkey activating, launching them both through space. He realized he didn’t even know where this Portkey was taking them. He really hoped it wasn’t Malfoy Manor.

He landed clumsily, as he always did, but was kept upright by a firm grip on his upper arm, which quickly retreated as Harry steadied himself.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled sheepishly. Malfoy stared at him for a moment, and Harry used the time to take in his new location.

The sound of crickets, the deep darkness of somewhere far, far away from any city. Wild, uninhibited grasses and wildflowers growing around his feet. Harry took a deep, cleansing breath, and felt the cool, night air flow through him, the scent of a dense forest and soft, rich earth, something floral and fresh.

He nearly groaned with the feeling of bliss that swept through him. Was this Malfoy’s house?

“Why do you smell so good?” Harry whispered in his exhale, before remembering that he was indeed speaking aloud, and this was not a dream, and Malfoy was standing right in front of him. How many times could he embarrass himself in one fucking day?

Small lanterns from the front door cast a faint yellow glow over Malfoy’s sharp face, illuminating pale, raised eyebrows.

“We’re outside, Potter,” Malfoy said, because Harry was an idiot. Harry didn’t think he’d ever felt like more of an idiot. There was no way he could explain that this is outside, but I know it is you, in my bones, and your magic in my head smells like the feeling of falling asleep after sex, even though I can’t think of a single time I have felt that good after sex.

He was apparently enough of an idiot that Malfoy didn’t want to call him Harry anymore, so Harry kept his mouth shut.

Malfoy watched him for another moment, probably waiting for him to put his foot in his mouth again. Harry looked away.

“Come along,” Malfoy said lightly, clearing his throat. “I’ve a guestroom you can use.”

Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed his old nemesis into the modest house.

Malfoy closed the door behind him, tossing the plastic thimble onto a small table. He walked past Harry without a word, leading the way further into the house. Harry followed him silently.

Malfoy pointed out the rooms they passed in a monotone voice. A large sitting room, both stylish and cozy. An open kitchen, with a simple, wooden table, a butcher block island, and marble countertops. Two glass French doors led to the back garden, which was too dark to see clearly. Malfoy paused in the doorway, watching Harry move around the space.

“Anything in this kitchen is for you to use and eat, Harry,” Malfoy said, meeting Harry’s eyes, for once. “This place is… well.” He ran a hand through his hair and huffed. “Eat whatever you want. Tea’s in that cabinet, there.” He turned to continue the tour.

“Draco,” Harry said, just to try it—it felt nice, curling naturally around his tongue. Draco froze midstep.

“Yes?”

“Can I call you Draco?”

Draco swallowed, turning to face him again. “Yes.”

Harry paused, chewing his lip. “Do I call you Draco?”

“Yes,” Draco replied, barely above a whisper. Harry watched a thousand emotions flash across his pale face, too many to count, too many to decipher.

“Do I call you anything else?”

Draco hesitated, but Harry thought he recognized fondness, the barest flicker of it, in the twitch of the corner of his lip, the darting down of his eyes, the shift of his feet on the hardwood floor.

“Sometimes,” he answered vaguely, before turning away again, continuing on his automatic tour. Harry’s heart raced. What else would I call him?

He removed his hands from his pockets, unable to resist the urge to touch things, to feel his way around this new space. He skimmed his fingers over the cool plaster walls, through the soft foliage of dozens of plants, over wooden chairs and cold marble counters.

He was shown to the study, where his body took him to a luxurious leather wingback chair, one of two in front of a small fireplace. He ran his hands over the smooth leather, and across the spines of many thick books on dark wood shelves. He traced the line of the stone around the fireplace, frowning at a small blackened spot on the carpet in front of the grate.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked softly, watching him with furrowed brows. Harry shrugged.

“I suppose,” Harry said. “Other than feeling like a total idiot, I feel okay.”

Draco snorted weakly. “You must be confused.”

“An understatement.”

“I, erm…” Draco huffed, shifting on his feet again. “You’re going to be fine. It’ll take a few days to fix, but it’ll be a lot faster with Hermione’s help. In the meantime, you’re—you’ll stay here, which may seem absolutely mad to you, right now, but you have my word, Harry. You are safe, here.”

It seemed Draco was forcing himself to keep this eye contact, that this was important to him. He was right: it did seem a little insane, logically, to trust his safety to Draco Malfoy, to become his live-in patient and let him point his wand at Harry all day and do whatever special niche healing he was apparently known for.

It had taken Hermione months to de-Obliviate her parents, alone. The fact that they were teaming up to fix Harry in a matter of days was impressive, if a little daunting.

But Harry somehow believed him. He hadn’t felt the need to scan every corner of the room, his body wasn’t tense and ready for every potential threat. His body knew this place, it seemed, and knew that he was definitely safe, here.

Harry nodded slowly, watching Draco consider more words.

“You’re going to feel very vulnerable, during this process,” Draco said carefully, almost as if he was reciting something, “so to keep the balance, I make myself vulnerable in return. Even as your Healer. Any question you ask of me will be answered without judgement and with complete honesty. Nothing is off limits.” Harry caught that faint glimpse of fondness again. “But you do have to ask.”

“Is that what you are?” Harry asked immediately. “My Healer?”

Draco’s hand clenched and unclenched at his side, like a nervous gesture. “I was. Then I wasn’t. Now I am, once again.”

“I sound like a troublesome patient,” Harry muttered.

“You were,” Draco replied with a tired smirk. “Then you weren’t, and now you are, once again.” His smirk fell slowly, and he jerked his head, motioning for Harry to follow.

“My bedroom is there,” Draco said, halfway down the hall, halting so suddenly that Harry nearly ran into him. “Guestroom is here.” He crossed the hall and opened a door into a stylish bedroom, and Harry felt an abrupt pang of disappointment at the impersonality of it—it was clearly a room that Draco never used, never stepped into. There was nothing in here to say this was Draco’s home. It looked like it was plucked from a magazine.

“Thank you,” Harry mumbled as he stepped in.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Draco said, with another pause, unsure of his words. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Draco.”

Draco nodded and closed the door with a soft snick, leaving Harry alone in the neutral guestroom.

Harry sighed to break the silence he’d found himself in, and walked over to the window, levering it open to let in the night air, that surprisingly comforting scent of Draco Malfoy's garden.

He breathed it in, like a secret indulgence, and walked back to the bed, removing his shirt as he went. Something small and hard bounced against his chest, and he looked down, shocked to find he was wearing jewelry.

He picked up the silver ring in his fingers, turning it this way and that, examining the gleaming emeralds, the carved “M” twined with serpents.

Why the fuck am I wearing Draco Malfoy’s ring around my neck?

He felt stuck, paralyzed where he stood, his mind racing. Draco had promised him honesty, but this didn’t feel like something he could, or should ask about. This felt like something he was supposed to know, innately.

He stared intently at the little snakes, wondering if this would even work.

“Can you hear me, serpents?”

Harry held his breath as the silver relief began to move, tiny eyes opening to reveal tinier emeralds, two little carved snakes blinking at him as they wound their way up the initial.

“Hello again, almost-Malfoy.”

Harry scrubbed his face with his hand. Oh, bloody hell.

“Why do you call me almost-Malfoy?”

“If you continue nesting in a marriage bed with the heir, you will soon become a Malfoy.”

“What the fuck,” Harry groaned to himself.

So he was apparently fucking Draco Malfoy, seriously enough to wear Draco’s family signet around his neck, and often enough to feel safe and content in Draco’s house.

He suddenly understood why everyone, especially Draco, had been so upset by this turn of events.

If he could call it a turn of events. He didn’t remember the events before the turn. As far as he knew, he’d been working, or something, and then he was falling into the arms of his former rival, whom he hadn’t seen since he was a teenager.

He realized he didn’t even know what day it was. What month.

Harry crawled into the luxurious, sterile-feeling bed, and tried his best to sleep.

***

Tuesday, 30 May, early morning

Harry never slept well in new places. He wondered if he slept well next to Draco.

His mind was consumed with images, trying to visualize how they were together. They came too easily, memories of fights and duels twisting just so, fists opening and sneers softening. Dreams he’d had that he’d never tell a soul about. It felt like something he should have seen coming.

He already knew how Draco’s body felt against his, though it had never been tender—he could almost feel the heat of him against his back, arms locked around Harry’s waist, fiendfyre licking at their ankles. He was familiar with the intensity of Draco’s gaze, the stirring in his gut he’d always confused for resentment, the tightening in his chest he’d associated with guilt. The way his eyes always found the flash of white-blond, the way his hands always reached, even when the only touch he knew how to make was hurt.

It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling, like he’d been shoved into an alternate dimension and messed up the life of a very happy Harry Potter. Even so, he wasn’t particularly eager to leave it.

He had no idea who this Draco really was, hardly knew anything about him, but the way he looked at Harry, said his name—

Harry threw the covers off himself and slid out of the bed. According to the little clock on the nightstand, it was half past four in the morning. He was wide awake, though obviously still exhausted, and he was hungry, and Draco had said he could eat.

He slid on his trousers from yesterday, since he didn’t have any other clothes. Hopefully, Hermione would bring some later.

He opened the door as quietly as he could, padding silently down the hallway toward the kitchen. He slowed when he saw a faint light coming from the doorway.

Draco was leaning his hands against the marble countertop, his head hanging heavily between hunched shoulders. He was wearing striped pyjamas and a posh, black silk dressing gown. Harry’s gaze roamed over his lean form, from the mussed, distinctive blond hair, down a slim torso and long legs, pausing to stare at outrageous, bright green, fuzzy slippers, with a cartoonish face on the front.

“Oscar the Grouch…?” Harry forgot yet again that this was real life, and remembered very suddenly when Draco nearly jumped.

“Merlin, Harry, I ought to put a bell on your ankle, if you’re going to keep up this ridiculous stealth,” Draco grumbled, running a hand through his hair as he straightened up. Harry snorted weakly.

“Sorry,” he said. “Do that often, do I?”

Draco composed himself to face Harry, and didn’t answer, his eyes lingering on the ring dangling on Harry’s bare chest. And now, Harry remembered he was walking around shirtless in his Healer’s house.

Which was also, apparently, his lover’s house. Perhaps walking around shirtless wasn’t so out of order.

Draco closed his mouth and swallowed, his hand doing that clenching thing again, coming up to rub absently at his own chest.

“What are you thinking?” Draco asked, his voice raspy with exhaustion, his eyes glued to the ring. Harry could hear the real question beneath the simple words: how are you handling the revelation that you’re that close with your former enemy?

“Aren’t you a Legilimens?” Harry replied wryly. Draco’s lips quirked, his face softened.

“Not without your consent, d—Harry.” Draco tried to smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to just tell me.”

Harry didn’t really know what to say. But he knew where the tea was, and that was always a good way to start a difficult conversation, so he slowly strode forward, inching his way past Draco toward the tea cupboard. He inhaled deeply as he passed, and marveled at the fact that even Draco in pyjamas smelled good. Harry hadn’t heard a shower running, but Draco smelled clean, and warm. He smelled like the feeling of crawling into bed with fresh, clean sheets.

Harry opened the tea cupboard, and sighed when he saw this was a high-class tea cupboard. Who had the patience for loose-leaf at a time like this?

The air warmed at his back as Draco approached and reached over Harry’s shoulder, pulling out a canister of ceylon, a ceramic mug, and a little steeping contraption. Harry’s breath quickened at the proximity. He fought to keep his body from leaning backward, drawn to that warmth, oddly comfortable and secure with Draco practically surrounding him.

He couldn’t let himself, because this Draco wasn’t his, though he was. And Harry had just been dropped into the middle of a relationship he hadn’t put in an ounce of effort for, though he had. Apparently. And it was weird and uncomfortable because it was lovely and right, and he knew that if he wasn’t so used to bizarre shit happening to him all the fucking time, he’d be panicking, throwing hexes, demanding solutions.

But the mysterious Obliviation had given him something good, albeit very strange, even though it had evidently taken away all the rest of the good. It felt like something he wasn’t allowed to have, or to keep. It was dangerous, in that he already felt so attached to this, when it still felt like he might wake up tomorrow to find it had all been a tantalizing dream, and how was he supposed to go on with his lonely, ordinary life, knowing something like this had been possible?

Draco retreated, and a wave of goosebumps covered Harry’s skin in the absence of his warmth. Harry closed the cupboard, still speechless, and leaned his hip on the counter to watch Draco take over his tea.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Draco murmured, igniting the flame on the hob under the kettle.

“Hmm?” Harry blinked, realizing he’d been staring at Draco’s hands. How had Harry never noticed how hypnotizing and elegant they were? How was Draco able to move with such fluid grace, even when he was just making tea?

“Harry,” Draco snapped his fingers, effectively pulling Harry out of his daze. “Tell me.”

“I’m thinking I never thought I’d be envious of myself,” Harry mumbled, forcing himself to look away. Draco’s tea-making noises stopped abruptly; Harry could feel his questioning gaze on the side of his face.

“What on earth does that mean?”

“Am I happy?”

He turned to look at Draco again, watching him flounder. Draco’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he turned back to his tea-making.

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“No, I—” Draco huffed in frustration. The kettle started whistling; he took it off the hob and poured it carefully into the mug. “You are,” he tried again, clearing his throat. “You’re the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”

“And you’ve seen enough of me to compare it to…? In the last couple of months?” Harry crossed his arms over his chest.

Draco’s eyes darted up to him, then back down to the steeping tea. “Yes.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Are you happy?” he asked tentatively. “I can’t imagine being with me is a walk in the park. I mean, look at this.” He gestured vaguely.

Draco couldn’t seem to suppress the chuckle, and Harry was mesmerized by that fondness in his eyes again. He wanted to know how to make it happen, he wanted to know everything the man he was calling “Real Harry” in his head did to make Draco smile like that.

Harry watched him add four heaping spoons of sugar to the tea, enough to make any normal person grimace. Draco pulled a small carton of milk out of the fridge, and poured a hefty amount into the mug.

“It’s no walk in the park,” Draco agreed quietly. “But I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

He handed Harry his tea, spearing him with intense, affectionate eye contact. Harry’s stomach fluttered wildly.

“You know how I take my tea,” Harry croaked. The corner of Draco’s lips lifted in a wry grin.

“You know how I take mine,” he replied. Harry felt his cheeks heating, and knew his blush would be shamefully obvious. He’d watched Draco for years, of course he knew how he took his tea. He’d watched him make it every morning, across the Great Hall. How or why Harry remembered, or how he ever justified paying that close attention to his greatest rival in school, he would never know. Or admit.

“One sugar and a dash of milk.”

Draco smiled, and it was a sunrise, slow and bright, a blush of his own appearing high on his cheekbones. Harry stilled, as if the slightest movement would shatter this illusion, this fond and smiling Draco Malfoy he’d never before seen and might never see again.

Christ, had it really been a crush? This whole fucking time? Had it all just been an excuse to watch Draco, interact with him, even touch him?

“Why—” Harry’s voice came out too hoarse, and he coughed and took a sip of his perfectly-made tea. “Why did this happen? Why was I Obliviated, of all things?”

Harry mourned as Draco’s smile fell, his eyes dropping to Harry’s chest, then the wall opposite him. Draco pushed himself off the counter and walked over to the bread box.

“I don’t know for sure, but I have a theory,” he answered, pulling out a slice of bread and toasting it carefully with his wand.

“I’m all ears.”

Draco set the toast onto a plate and started slathering it in butter. “They were at the end of their rope. They were desperate and angry, they knew they had lost, but the only power they could reclaim was their ability to hit where it would hurt the most.”

“So…” Harry’s brain worked to catch up. “This—person, thought making me forget the last couple of months would hurt me the most?”

“Hurt you,” Draco said, “and hurt me.” He walked back to Harry and handed him the plate. “Two in one.”

Harry took it, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Eat,” Draco ordered quietly. “I know you came out here because you were hungry.”

Harry huffed a feeble laugh, his throat tight, and did as he was told. Fuck, even his bread is good.

“I don’t feel hurt,” Harry said eventually, dusting off his fingers.

“No, I don’t suppose you would,” Draco replied. “I don’t think they counted on that. They’d probably hoped you would try to hex me on sight, like last time.”

“I feel lucky,” Harry added, storing that morsel of information away for later. Draco’s head shot up.

“Lucky?” he repeated, his face full of disbelief. “To wake up to find you’ve forgotten the last couple months and you’re dating a Death Eater?”

Harry rolled his eyes, surprised at his own rush of fondness. “You always were dramatic.”

“They must have really addled your brains—”

“You know the last time I went on a date?” Harry interrupted. “That I can remember?”

Draco’s mouth snapped shut. He didn’t answer.

“1999,” Harry supplied. “Couple months after Ginny and I ended it. Hermione tried to set me up with a bloke she worked with. Mark, I think his name was.”

“Alright,” Draco drawled, obviously unsure where this was going.

“He was great, we had a lovely dinner. He was a few years older, he was kind, passionate about his work, a good listener. Fit, too.”

“Your point, Harry?”

“But there came a point in the conversation when we started talking about school,” Harry continued, ignoring him. “He told me stories of the mischief he and his friends got up to when they were kids. Jokes they pulled on Filch, games they played in their common room, losing and winning points for their house, et cetera. And then he asked me what kinds of things I got up to in fourth year.”

Draco raised his eyebrow. “Bit insensitive. Everyone knows what you were up to that year.”

“I guess he’d been out of the country at the time,” Harry shrugged. “But how was I supposed to explain that instead of playing truth or dare in the common room, I’d been competing in a dangerous tournament I didn’t enter, which was manipulated entirely to orchestrate my win, because the Darkest wizard of our time needed my blood to rebuild his living body?”

Draco remained silent, watching Harry intently.

“There was no way I could explain myself to him in a way that he would ever understand me. A relationship with him would have been fun, maybe, but it would have been superficial, because if I did manage to convey the events of my fucked up past, what would he have to say? He’d walk on eggshells around me for the rest of our days, he’d say ‘that’s horrible’ or ‘I’m sorry,’ he’d probably let me walk all over him. He’d either venerate me or pity me.”

“Sounds like you didn’t give him a chance to do either,” Draco mumbled. Harry shook his head, and took another sip of tea.

“I resigned myself to the idea that I’d never have anyone who knew me as well as Ron and Hermione did, and it would be impossible to find someone who would neither pity me nor idolize me. Love can’t grow from either of those things.” The tea warmed his chest from the inside out. He wrapped his hands around the heated ceramic. “If I’m here, it means you somehow know me better than anyone else, and you’ve never pitied me for my trauma, you’ve never thanked me for my heroics. I already know you’d never let me walk all over you.”

Draco smirked weakly, shaking his head. Harry returned the grin.

“Plus, you’re fit,” Harry said, lifting his shoulder in another shrug. “So, I’m extremely jealous of myself.”

That made Draco laugh a little, and Harry delighted at the return of the blush on his cheeks. He felt the rim of the mug under his finger, tracing his way around the edge.

“Will we be alright?” he asked hesitantly. Draco met his eyes again.

“As long as you still want to be with me, when you remember what we’ve been through,” Draco answered seriously. “We’ll be alright.”

“I want to be with you right now, when I hardly know anything about you except the way you look at me, and the shit we went through as teenagers.” Harry grinned sheepishly, feeling his own face heat again. He shook his head at himself, looking down at his tea, the silver ring between his pectorals. When did he get so bloody sappy?

“You’re always so sentimental in the mornings,” Draco muttered dryly. Harry dared to look up at him, and his breath caught at the open, easy fondness on his face, coated in tenderness and amusement.

“Are you cold?” Draco asked, eyeing Harry’s bare chest, the arms held in close, the tight grip on the warm mug. Harry shrugged again. Draco interpreted that as a yes, and held up one finger as he pushed himself off the counter and swept out of the room.

He came back a moment later holding a familiar, thin green jumper. Harry laughed softly, recognizing it as his own.

Draco approached him and handed it over, and since he was close enough, Harry gave in to his curiosity and reached out, taking the sleek fabric of the sleeve of the dressing gown between his fingers. Draco stilled, raising his eyebrow again.

Harry hummed shortly, feeling the soft, slippery silk between his fingertips. Something about it just begged to be touched.

“Soft,” Harry mumbled. “I like it.”

“Looks better on you, if I’m honest,” Draco murmured, and winked. Harry blushed furiously and laughed, slipping on his own sweater, letting Draco’s scent surround him.

***

“Alright, Harry, we’re going to knock you out for this,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, and Harry was surprised that he wasn’t more surprised by this. “We’ll be diving into your unconscious mind, which, believe it or not, is easier when you’re unconscious.”

“Right,” Harry grunted. Hermione raised her wand, aimed at Harry’s chest. Harry glanced at Draco, whose silver gaze pierced him, fearful and determined, watching from a few steps away in his own study.

“Count down, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes glinting. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Three—”

***

Harry blinked, his eyes stinging with dryness. He groaned as consciousness returned to him.

“You kept my eyes open?”

“Had to, Harry,” Hermione said, and Harry forced himself to blink and focus on the source of that tired voice.

Hermione looked exhausted.

Harry quickly scanned the room—there was no sign of Draco.

“He went for a nap,” Hermione answered his unspoken question.